by Watson Davis
She whispered, closing her eyes. Her collar sparked, bolts of lightning striking out from her collar, hitting her throat. She jerked back, wincing, pulling at her collar. “Damned inhibitor.”
I almost laughed at her, glad to see someone else on the receiving end of those sparks for a change, but I only had strength for a weak smile.
“You’re not going to last long with that wound as it is.” She knelt closer to me, eyes serious. “You’re bleeding inside and I can’t stop it. You’re going to get infected. It’s not going to be pleasant.”
“I’m not going to live long anyway, and I promise you, it won’t be pleasant.”
She drew back, a concerned confusion on her face, making her appear so innocent, like a child.
“Work groups!” a voice called out.
Aissal turned to face the door, and I looked past her at Fi Cheen striding in, his monks flowing in behind him, gathering up kids for their duties around the monastery, but Fi Cheen swaggered toward me, Lyu-ra behind him, both smiling.
“You. Ah, and you, you, you, and you.” He pointed at me, Aissal, Cole, Lord Silmon, and Rucker. “You may take your leisure today. Enjoy yourselves. Tonight, you’re to be sacrificed. For the good of the empire. You should be proud.” Laughing, he turned and walked away.
Of course. I learn my mother’s alive and needs me just in time to die.
# # #
Old-style, non-magical candles flickered sending shadows dancing across the black marble walls, each tile engraved with symbols, glyphs, and runes in the ancient tongues of magic, each of the infernal realms represented along with a few of the harsher material ones. Chains attached my manacles and shackles to an undressed block of stone infused and charged with magic, the chains with enough slack for me to shift a hand’s breadth one way or another, but no more, the block at the top of a pentacle: the altar of the mind, the altar of the void, the altar of the ether connecting the realms.
Lord Silmon stood bound to the altar of the earth, Aissal to the wind, Cole the water, and Rucker the flames. The altars rested at the points of a pentacle etched into the floor, along with the runes and glyphs of the empress’ hellish domains declaring her position in the infernal hierarchy. The floor sparkled, having been meticulously cleaned to restore its mirror finish since the last sacrifice, cleaned by Rucker and myself, those etchings now filled with careful mixtures of stinky herbs, powders, and minerals specific to whatever god would be beseeched for favors tonight, specific to whatever hell we would be descending. A network of narrow channels carved into the marble lay beneath our feet to drain our precious blood to the center of the pentacle.
Around us, outside the circles, five rings of monks knelt, heads bowed, whispering their incantations at the threshold of audibility, four sets of four at the cardinal points ringing their bells at appointed times in the chant in an odd, jerky rhythm shifting around and obscuring the order and reason of it.
I stood, leaning against the stone of the altar, my breathing heavy, my wounds throbbing, my heart aching almost as bad as the wound in my gut.
I don’t want to die like this, as I’ve seen so many die before me. Let me die honestly, in battle, or better, in my bed of old age surrounded by my great-grandchildren in my own longhouse, a mug of ale in my hand, venison on my plate.
My collar crackled, pricking at my neck, the pain lost in all the aches and pains from my attempted escape.
Rucker slumped against his altar, hanging by his wrists, his legs not holding the weight of his body, his body jerking with his whimpering and sobbing, but I couldn’t hear him. I’d whimpered and sobbed on these altars enough times myself. Cole struggled, pulling at his chains, the cords of his muscles growing in his neck, along his shoulders. He fell back, panting, before trying once more. I’d done so a time or two myself. Lord Silmon waited, calm and unmoving, the sightless pits of his eyes sunken into his skull, his chest rising and falling slowly. Her eyes wide, imploring, Aissal screamed at me with her whole body, her mouth forming words, but I couldn’t hear her.
Archbishop Diyune floated in, levitating over the etched circles and runes, leaving the powder of the circles undisturbed and unbroken, his eyes closed, his lips moving in a whispered prayer, a prayer he’d chanted in my presence so many times that I whispered the prayer along with him. His robes shimmered not only in the candlelight but with their own radiance, golden rings on his fingers of snakes and dragons and wyrms biting their tails, a golden amulet suspended from his intertwined fingers, swinging and swaying, the ornate outlines of acantha leaves surrounding an inner globe with a mirror-like finish.
I hate that amulet.
His chant increasing in volume, from a whisper, to a murmur, to a shout, to a roar, Diyune raised the amulet in his left hand until his arm could reach no higher, a perfect seam appearing in the surface of the globe, the seam opening to reveal the iris of an eye, an eye of flames.
I hate the eye of flames.
My manacles dug into my wrists before I realized I strained against them, tightening all my muscles, gritting my teeth, a scream bubbling up in the back of my throat, preparing for what was to come, but still I chanted along with Diyune.
The whole of the altar room contained within the etched pentacle jerked, ripping away from our reality, dropping, plummeting downwards, plummeting upwards, plummeting inwards all the same time, moving away from the chanting monks in all directions at once.
# # #
My hair whipped around, flailing into my eyes like razor-tipped whiplashes. Brutal heat washed over me as towering flames rose around us, huge pillars of fire surging upwards and exploding, sending sparks and smoking shards spiraling downward, the heat finding each of my wounds, burrowing into them, into me, blossoming in my side, searing me as it never had before.
Beyond the confines of the pentacle, beyond the bubble of force shimmering around the pentacle, beyond the tongues of flames rising around us, enormous goat-headed, scarlet-skinned humanoids laughed, reaching down into the shadows at their cloven-hooved feet, and lifting up handfuls of squirming human shadows—the souls of the wicked—tossed these pitiful souls into their mouths, their biting and chewing resulting in a chorus of shrieks and cries of agony.
I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to block out the horror, the unrelenting despair, the uselessness of everything, the desperation soaking the air, screaming the words of the chant until my throat tore my voice apart into bloody strips. All the while, Diyune chanted, calling out his incantation until the end.
I stopped my screaming, my struggling, my energy spent, my body exhausted. I lay back against the altar, glaring at Diyune. I whispered, the words tangled in the wreckage of my voice, “Inare, save me.” My collar burned, searing into my flesh with an audible hiss. Something cold brushed my hand, I glanced down, seeing nothing.
Diyune raised his right hand, his fingers elongating, growing scales, no longer human hands but a dragon’s claws, moving his talons just so, outlining glyphs and runes that sprang to glowing life in the air until he spoke a word, and with that word, that same symbol etched itself into my skin, into Aissal, into Cole, into Silmon, into Rucker, burning itself into our souls, all of us wailing in unison, an unholy chorus of torment.
The minor devils appeared first after the sixth symbol, forming an outer ring floating in the thick air, their bat-like wings flapping, their voices whispering, echoing the chant of the monks above, drool dripping from their misshapen mouths and forked tongues in anticipation of the feast to come.
I began to chant another spell, the spell Diyune chanted at the end of each sacrifice, ignoring the burning at my neck, forcing each word past my lips regardless of the pain, feeding that pain back in, feeding all the magic in me, magic I could not reach or access, into those words.
Diyune flinched, his head twisting about, searching for something wrong, something out of place, but his recitation never faltered. He raised his taloned hand, drawing the next symbol, and the next, speaking the words, searing them in
to us, one after another, six more times. My vision blurred, seeming to peer down at myself, seeming to look several directions at once, my mind unable to make sense of it, a sickness growing inside me, waves of nausea. Cole and Rucker vomited, black tendrils flowing from their mouths, down the sides of their altars.
Twelve larger devils approached, waving their pitchforks, hissing, their forked tongues writhing, flying through the red roiling clouds to take their positions at the cardinal points, three deep.
I chanted, rocking with the rhythm of it, using that motion to give me strength, each word of the incantation harder than the last.
Diyune’s spell drew my magic out of me but this time, I did not reach out and find someone else’s soul to offer up before me. No. I pushed with every bit of heart and soul, with all my grief and despair, but something slipped ahead of me. Lord Silmon stood with his feet set wide, planting himself on the stone, a smile on his lips, his hands clenching into fists, and somehow he laid his soul over mine, shielding me, using my words, my incantation.
Above Archbishop Diyune, above his hand holding that damned amulet, a crack formed in the protective bubble. Diyune looked up, his voice falling silent, his taloned hand stilled mid-stroke.
A horde of minor devils tittering with delight appeared, descending on those cracks in a horde, tearing at them with their claws and their teeth, leaving streaks of black ichor of what passes for devil’s blood in the air where they tore their own flesh trying to find a way in.
I continued my chant, continuing to push each word out past numb lips and bloody teeth, feeling Silmon feeding his strength into me, directing his power to me.
“What are you doing, you idiot?” Diyune said, lowering his arm, striding toward me, the eye in the amulet fading, the golden globe closing. He summoned power from us, from our sacrifice.
Lord Silmon, weakened, drained from helping me, opened his mouth, the stump of his tongue wagging side to side like a disgusting worm, all his muscles tensing, and he exploded, bits of his flesh and bone flying across the pentacle, drenching us all.
The glass dome encircling us shattered, sending shards falling down onto me, slicing my skin, the devils swooping down and pulling at the ethereal collection of glowing points that had been Lord Silmon.
# # #
Lieutenant Arcled, commander of the self-proclaimed Ghostwalkers, lay down in a hammock swinging between a couple of trees, his hands resting on his overfull belly, right leg hanging out. Gazing up at the stars, a light breeze brushed against his gray skin.
“When are we leaving?” Agholor asked, his human face pinched up like a petulant child’s, leaning up against the tree near Arcled’s feet, arms crossed.
“You need to learn when to sit back and savor the beauty of existence,” Arcled said, closing his eyes, “because right now, your ugly mug, sour demeanor, and lack of perfume are ruining the quality of my connection with the universe.”
“You talked to the general, right?” Agholor asked, nagging like a mother hen.
“Yes. I talked to Silvertits, herself,” Arcled said, reaching down to scratch at his testicles, just because he could, and, maybe, a little bit, as a symbolic gesture to both the Old Lady and to Agholor.
“So when are we leaving?” Agholor asked.
Arcled opened his eyes, and glared at Agholor. “You didn’t listen to my little speech about savoring life, did you?”
“This place creeps me right the hell out,” Agholor said. “I’ll enjoy getting back to an honest forest where a lot of little kids aren’t about to be executed by a pack of magic-using jackasses who’ve convinced themselves that they’re superior to every other prick on the planet.”
“Are you having a crisis of conscience I should be aware of, Number Two?” Arcled asked, picking up his right leg, crossing his feet at the ankles, wriggling his toes at Agholor. “Saying unflattering things about our employers? Are you considering your retirement perhaps? Too bad you weren’t Summoned here, like me. You’re stuck on this shit-hole. Not that I won’t miss you when I go back home. Oh, wait. No. I won’t miss you at all when I go back.”
“Since you’re not armored, I figure we’re not leaving tonight,” Agholor said.
“We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, sometime. I think she’s got to have some sort of meeting with Diyune after the sacrifice tonight.” Arcled closed his eyes, letting his head fall back on the hammock, relaxing. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Agholor turned and began to walk away, but stopped abruptly. His sword slid out of his scabbard. “Number One?”
“What?” Arcled squeezed his eyelids together, refusing to open them. “I’d really like to rest and relish this little vacation, away from the Onei, where my ears aren’t frozen off, where I don’t have to keep my armor on every hour of the day and night in case of a surprise attack by a bunch of axe-wielding Onei berserkers and reindeer-fuckers.”
“You better get your armor on, Number One.”
Arcled sat up in the hammock, slamming his feet to the ground, the blades of grass prickling at his soles, hearing his friend’s tone, eyes snapping open, alert. “What? Why?”
Agholor pointed toward the interior of the monastery, to a building outlined against the night sky. Flames reached up into the night sky, the black batwings of devils silhouetted against the stars.
Arcled hopped out of the hammock. He slapped Agholor on the back, knocking the human forward several steps. “Get everyone formed up and ready.”
# # #
Chittering devils descended upon me like a black avalanche, their smut-covered wings flapping around me, striking me, their snarling mouths biting at me, their feet and hands clawing at me pulling out chunks of my flesh, and with the chains holding me fast against the altar stone, I could not defend myself, could not drive them away.
An unseen force slammed against me, pushing me toward the floor, my wrists pulled up by the manacles embedding themselves into my hand, gouging my skin, the blood dripping down my arms. The stone itself rocked and quivered. My senses rebelled as I fell but this time, falling upwards and inwards, upwards into a force at the same time shoving me down. The flying devils collapsed, tumbling from the air, some reaching out to grab me for support as they fell, their claws digging trenches in my skin, more demons plummeting through the shattered remnants of the shield, crashing into me, smashing against the marble floor, unable to do more than squirm like worms against that awful force. The screams of the damned souls, of the other sacrifices, the cackling of the devils, the chanting, all of this disappeared, drowned out by the horrid roar sucking the air from my lungs.
The thunderous roar climaxed in a tremendous explosion. Clouds of gray dust obscured everything around me. The force crushing me evaporated replaced by another force tossing me upwards, only the chains holding me to the altar restrained me or I would have flown up into the air to strike against the ceiling.
I crumpled against the altar, hanging by my wrists, gasping, the stone slimy and wet against my back. Shapes moved around me, indistinct in the smoke and dust, people screaming for help, for aid, minor devils and demons flying around twittering.
The ceiling crashed, the dome caving in, wooden beams swinging, splintered wood and cracked tiles spraying. I yanked at my chains, trying and failing to pull my arms up to protect myself. One beam missed me by a hand’s breadth, my world shaking as it struck the middle of the altar stone, cracking it, cold air rushing in, hitting me like a bucket of water thrown on a smoldering campfire.
The ruined ceiling revealed the night sky beyond, the stars twinkling above, the breach releasing the demons to soar up out into the sky, setting fires as they cackled with glee.
A female monk stumbled forward, covered in dust, except for a dark trickle of blood snaking out from under her hair, down her cheek, dripping off her chin. A broken beam supporting her weight, she coughed into her hands, a hacking cough.
“Help me,” I called out to her. “Unlock me.”
“Caldan
e?” She stumbled forward, eyes squinting, pulling keys from the belt on her tunic, selecting one, and I recognized her, Fi Cheen’s head assistant, Syo-see. A wave of her hand and a murmured spell locked my muscles, keeping me still while she reached up, inserting the key and twisting it to unlock my left hand. “You must be immortal.”
A long point erupted from her chest, a bony spike. The keys slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground, her eyes widening, gawking down at the spike, surprised, blood sputtering from her lips, her quivering body rising from the ground, lifted into the air by a bony tail of naked vertebrae, the tail leading back into the murky darkness to a crouching, skeletal figure.
Her spell left me, freeing my muscles. My left hand unchained, I grabbed the keys with my toes, lifting my leg as far as the chain would allow, stretching down with my free hand to snatch them up, reaching up to insert a key, then another, in the manacle on my right hand.
The devil’s tail retreated into the darkness, carrying Syo-see’s body through the air, her mouth moving, her eyes locking on me, imploring me, trying to tell me something.
The manacle on my right hand popped open, finally, and I knelt, slipping the key into the shackle on my right ankle, expecting the shackle to pop open, twisting the key, again, nothing. The shackles needed a different damned key. A growl of rage erupted from my sore throat.
“Is someone over there?” A monk, his tunic torn and bloody, stumbled out of the murk.
I pointed with one hand, trying the next key with the other, saying, “There’s a devil over in those shadows, a big one, and it killed Syo-see.”
The devil hissed, tossing Syo-see’s body out from the shadows to fall at the man’s feet, her body desiccated, sucked dry of all fluids, her skin gray and sunken against her bones.
“What?” The monk grabbed an iron candelabra from the floor, taking a stance, holding the candelabra like a quarterstaff, an unwieldy, unbalanced quarterstaff. He screamed charging forward.