by Steve Feasey
Trey picked up the plate and smelt the food. ‘What kind of meat is this?’
‘Menchon.’
‘Menchon? What’s that?’
The demon looked off into the distance, a puzzled expression on his face as he tried to figure out how to describe the animal. ‘In the human realm the closest thing would be … rabbit.’
Trey had eaten rabbit before. His grandmother had made stews from the meat, and after his initial refusals to try them, he’d finally given in and discovered that they were in fact very good. He dipped his finger into the gravy and licked it, raising a surprised eyebrow at how tasty it was. He took up the spoon and helped himself to a big mouthful.
He looked up again at his visitor. The demon was still frowning, his lips working silently as if puzzling something out. Moments later, he clicked his fingers and pointed at Trey, who was ravenously shovelling the food into his mouth. ‘Sorry, not rabbit,’ the demon said. ‘Rat.’
Trey spat the food back on to the plate and drank greedily from the tankard.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,’ Trey said, grimacing down at the plate.
‘Shentob.’ The demon held out a gnarled old hand, which Trey shook.
‘Trey Lapo—’
‘I know who you are. Yes. Old Shentob knows who you are. And he saw you. Saw you fight that oaf Kronok.’ The demon giggled and danced about on the spot like some demented hobgoblin. ‘They don’t know that Shentob has a place where he can see out on to the square. They think he is locked up in here with no way to see.’ The demon touched the side of his nose with one finger and winked conspiratorially at Trey. ‘But he can.’
‘That’s nice,’ Trey said, wondering if the creature was mad in a dangerous way or just demented.
‘You should have killed Kronok,’ Shentob said, his face suddenly becoming serious. ‘Your father would have.’
Trey stared at the demon. ‘What did you say?’
‘You should have—’
‘Not that. You said something about my father.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Trey was on his feet now, looming over the demon menacingly.
Shentob cowered, covering his head as if expecting a blow and whimpering in a small voice. Trey glanced at the nether-creatures sitting round the table and wondered how this unfortunate creature had been treated to make him so fearful.
‘It’s OK, Shentob. Please stand up,’ Trey said, reaching out and gently taking the demon by the elbow, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Thank you, Trey Laporte.’ The demon smiled back at the boy, displaying a mouth of missing teeth and rotting gums and a dark blue tongue.
‘Now tell me what you meant when you said that—’
There was a shout from the room outside, one of the fighters banging on the table and roaring out incoherently for something or another.
Shentob called out that he was on his way. He hurried to the door, pausing in the opening and looking back at Trey. His eyes flicked towards the plate on the floor before settling on the teenager again.
‘Shentob will come back. And he will bring something good to eat. Something that Trey Laporte likes. And he will bring him something else – something he will need in the Games.’ He hopped about on the spot, clapping his hands again. ‘Something that Shentob has kept hidden.’
The waiting nether-creatures called out again, issuing threats in the servant demon’s direction.
‘And Shentob will tell you all that he knows. Teach Trey Laporte about the Demon Games. Tell you things that you need to know.’ He turned on his heel and left, leaving Trey’s head awash with questions and worries.
When Shentob did return, the barracks were full of the moans and snores of its other inhabitants.
Dinner had ended in more violence. The nether-creatures had proceeded to get exceedingly drunk after their meal, shouting out and arguing with each other in loud voices. Trey sat and watched from his cell as Shentob ran between them, topping up their tankards with whatever foul concoction they were drinking, receiving nothing but kicks and punches and worse by way of thanks. At one point late in the evening, one of the creatures had stood up, shouting out something about Trey and Kronok, and started off across the room in the direction of Trey’s cell. Trey was up on his feet in an instant, anticipating some drunken attack. But Shentob had run to get in the drunkard’s way and it was the poor one-eyed demon that had received a terrible beating before the bully’s companions had dragged him off to bed. That had been a short while ago, but judging from the sound of the deep, rumbling snores that filled the building now, the soporific effect of the drink had worked its magic on all concerned.
Despite his fatigue, Trey knew that he would not sleep. All he could think of was what Shentob had said to him: the way the demon had mentioned Trey’s father, Daniel, implying that he too had fought here and that Shentob had known him.
There was a small cough outside his cell, and Trey quickly turned and went over to the bars.
‘Shentob said that he would come back,’ the demon said. He was carrying something bulky wrapped up in an old blanket. Trey slid back the heavy bolt and opened the grille door, stepping back so that the nether-creature could pass. Before crossing the threshold the little one-eyed demon looked nervously in the direction of the other cells.
Trey closed and locked the door and drew the curtain. He turned to face his visitor.
‘For you,’ Shentob said, thrusting the bundle in Trey’s direction.
Trey kept his hands by his side, looking at the thing suspiciously.
‘What is it?’
‘For you,’ the demon repeated. ‘And this.’ He shifted the bundle on to one arm and reached with the other into a pouch that hung round his neck by a cord. When he withdrew his hand he clutched a number of what appeared to Trey to be strips of dried leather. ‘Eat,’ the demon said, gesturing with his head towards his hand. ‘Shentob got them for you. Stole them.’
Trey curled his lip in disgust. ‘No offence, but I think I’ll just stay hungry. Your Netherworld cuisine is a little too exotic for my taste.’
‘These are from your world!’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve never seen anything like—’
‘Yes, yes. They are made from cow meat.’ Shentob pushed the strips into Trey’s hand. ‘Beef You call it beef jerky.’
Trey sniffed at one of the dried strips of meat. He shrugged and put the thing in his mouth, which filled with saliva at the taste of the sweet and salty strong-flavoured meat.
Shentob looked up at him anxiously. ‘Good?’
Trey nodded and pushed another piece into his mouth. He was so hungry that he seriously doubted if he’d have turned down the Netherworld rat stew if it had been offered to him again.
The demon placed the bundle on the straw pallet, stepping back and reaching out to touch Trey lightly on the arm. ‘Open it, Trey Laporte. Please.’
Trey paused for a moment before stepping forward and pulling back the blanket to reveal various pieces of black leather armour. They had been used. Some of the leather had been scored or punctured in places, but despite this it was clear that the pieces had been well looked after: the leather was buffed and supple and the silver studs and decorations all shone.
‘Old Shentob kept them. Looked after them. They were your father’s. That is why Shentob hid them and kept them safe.’ The demon gazed at the armour with a look of admiration.
‘These were my father’s?’ Trey said, reaching out and letting his hand touch the stiff leather of the large breastplate. ‘What are they doing here? What—’
‘He would want you to have them. To use them in the Games.’
‘What do you mean?’ Trey said in a loud voice.
Shentob cowered and let out a small whimper.
Trey looked at the demon servant. The creature was always on his back foot, leaning away slightly as if expecting to have to duck out of the way
of a blow at any second. A thousand questions jostled in Trey’s mind. He wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Shentob and demand to know what the creature knew about his father. But he sensed that the creature standing before him was fragile. It was clear that the servant had been terribly mistreated, and Trey would not do anything to add to his fear and misery. He put his hands up, showing the little blue demon that he meant him no harm. Then he gestured towards the pallet and ushered the reluctant demon to sit. Once he’d settled Shentob, Trey sat down next to him and said in a calm, quiet voice, ‘Please, tell me what you know about my father.’
27
There were eight of them: five Arel, Lucien and two other nether-creatures which the vampire had managed to coerce into coming along. Three of the Arel flew overhead, scanning the ground for anything that might suggest where the crypt was hidden, and directing those on foot towards anything of interest that they spotted.
Lucien couldn’t decide which of the two groups had the better deal. He and the others on foot were forced to wade through thick, viscous mud that tugged and pulled at boots or feet and made it hard to move forward at anything but a snail’s pace. The mud had a sweet, fetid smell to it, as if it too had once been a living thing and was now rotting away like the unseen bodies buried beneath its surface. The airborne Arel, on the other hand, were besieged by the carrion-eaters that took umbrage at the interlopers daring to invade their domain, so that they fought a running battle with the daggerbeaks, clagbats and corpseflies that attacked them. Naramcasson was a place of death. No cemeteries or crematoria existed in the Netherworld; nether-creatures were as uncaring towards their dead as they were of the living. Instead, places like this became the dumping ground for ancient demon bodies, which were brought here to rot.
Lucien glanced across at Moriel, who was a few metres to his right. The earthbound members of the search party were spread out to cover as much ground as possible between them. He watched as the battle-angel waded through the thick mud, her face set into a grim and determined mask. Lucien knew how badly Moriel desired to find Caliban. The murder of Jenos had been a great blow to her, and she was hell-bent on exacting revenge on the Arel’s killer. She became aware of his scrutiny and turned to face him.
‘This is madness,’ he said, resting against a large rock. ‘This place is just one vast cesspit of death and decay, and it occurs to me that even if Helde’s crypt is here – and I’m far from convinced that Hag’s theory regarding these insects holds up – it would be hidden in some way so that the likes of you and I wouldn’t just stumble upon it. Whoever put Helde’s heart in this crypt would have used magic to conceal its location.’
‘Almost certainly.’
Lucien shook his head. He looked about him at the bleak and desolate landscape, and tried to picture his brother in a place like this. It was difficult to imagine. Caliban would not come here, Lucien told himself. His brother would hate the idea of wading through the stench and filth of a place like this. He was about to tell Moriel as much when there was a call from above. Lucien looked up to see one of the Arel fold its wings behind it and dive towards them. The creature looked like a huge black tracer bullet as it plummeted towards them, and Lucien was forced to smile in admiration when at the last moment the creature righted itself, spread out its vast wings and came to a graceful halt before them, saluting Moriel as it did so.
‘There are fresh bodies in a pit some way off in that direction,’ the Arel said pointing away to its left. ‘They have all had their throats cut or ripped out, and they appear to have been drained of their blood. Attempts have been made to hide them.’
‘These are human bodies?’ Lucien asked.
‘No. They are all nether-creatures.’
Moriel walked towards Lucien. ‘It’s as Hag said: he needs to feed her demon blood to bring her back.’ She turned back to the Arel, hooking one hand around the vampire’s waist as she did so. ‘Take us there,’ she said, and unfurling her wings she leaped into the air.
Caliban stood at the bottom of the stone steps, staring up at the opening above him. He could not believe how close they had come to discovering him, and was certain from the clarity of his brother’s voice that Lucien must have been standing right beside the rock that disguised the crypt entrance. He moved away from the stairs, deep frown lines creasing his brow. He didn’t like to think what the battle-angel Moriel would do to him if he should fall into her hands again. Few things existed that could strike fear into the vampire, but Moriel was one of those. And she was close – far too close.
He thought back to the time when he had last fallen into her clutches. On that occasion he had only managed to escape with his life by misting out of her grip as she’d carried him high up into the air. He’d fallen hundreds of metres to the ground and broken many bones. It had taken him days to recover – even at the incredible rate that his kind regenerated. Since then he had had the good fortune to capture her deputy, Jenos. He had killed the Arel and left his mutilated body to be discovered. Moriel’s hatred of him had been refuelled to new heights, and now the leader of the battle-angels was on his scent.
Caliban turned and glanced at the thing in the room with him. She could stand now – not for long periods of time, but at least she was able to get out of that confounded coffin without falling to pieces. When he had first watched her clamber out of the sarcophagus he had despaired of the sorceress ever being of any use to him; she had fallen apart – the insect host that made up Helde’s new body had been incapable of adhesion, and great chunks of her had fallen to the floor. The insects had immediately scurried back up the side of the plinth to rejoin the black mass and reform the missing parts, but it was clear that the body was in no fit state to be moved. He had had to encourage her to return, to wait.
But she could stand now.
There was still a steady trickle of tiny creatures dropping to the floor around the upright figure of the sorceress, but she was clearly stronger than she’d been at any time since he’d resurrected her. He had to make a decision: to leave her here to be discovered and destroyed, or risk his own capture trying to get her to the safety of his own stronghold.
She caught him looking at her and took a tentative step in his direction. ‘What is it?’ she asked, glancing towards the steps.
‘Our enemies almost found us. Luckily the glamour that conceals the entrance to this place was strong enough to fool them, but they are aware that we are in the area, and it is only a matter of time before they discover us.’
‘I am not strong enough yet. I need more—’
‘Yes, I know what you need!’ The vampire glared at her. ‘But my ability to get that very thing has just been somewhat compromised, hasn’t it?’
She paused. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘And how do you suggest I bring more victims to you here under the noses of the Arel?’ The vampire turned his back on her in frustration.
‘Maybe you don’t need to bring any more victims here. Perhaps you have everything I need now, Caliban. You alone are capable of giving this body the strength it needs.’
‘What do you mean?’ the vampire asked, his back still to the sorceress.
‘Vampire blood has the power to heal, to revive those on the brink of death and make them be reborn.’ Helde watched him stiffen at the suggestion. ‘It would not be the first time that you have used your own blood to reanimate something you had thought was lost to you. Your vampiric brother is an example of the power that flows through your own veins.’
Caliban turned on her, his eyes blazing with a light of their own. ‘And do you really think that I would trust you to drink from me?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Do you think that I would give up my own life force to feed you?’
‘I would not need much,’ she said, pouting at him in a way that he guessed was supposed to be alluring. Once beautiful, Helde seemed to have forgotten that her face was now entirely composed of black-bodied invertebrates.
The vampire looked at her. He had r
isked too much, sacrificed too much, to give up now. And the reward for bringing Helde back would be great. He had not shed his blood for another in a long time. He had not made any others like him since his own brother became a vampire hundreds of years ago. And he had no idea what he would be making by giving the thing in front of him vampire blood.
They were vulnerable here, exposed and unprotected. Vulnerability was not a characteristic that Caliban was comfortable with. He had to get Helde to somewhere safe, somewhere away from the Netherworld. Somewhere she could fully regain her strength and powers. The solution came to him then: he would take her to Leroth. It sat between the two realms, and even though he had not used the place since the death of Gwendolin, he thought that they could be safe there – for a while at least.
He sighed and shook his head before beckoning the sorceress towards him. She came with a shambling gait, the insects that fell from her making little snickety sounds as they dropped to the floor around her before scuttling back to rejoin the mass.
Caliban eyed her suspiciously. ‘You are certain that this will work?’ he asked.
‘Quite certain.’
‘And you have not forgotten your oath of allegiance to me?’
‘I have not forgotten.’
The vampire held out his wrist and raked the bladed finger of his prosthetic hand across it in one swift movement. The thick, dark blood came quickly to the surface and he raised his arm, wrist out, so that the sorceress could drink from him.
She did so greedily, clutching his cold flesh to her mouth and pulling hard at the wound so that the blood flowed faster and faster. After a few moments, a low moaning sound came from her as she drank, and Caliban echoed the sound with a groan of his own. He could feel his own life force gradually beginning to ebb away, and he tugged at his arm to try to remove it from the sorceress’s grip. But she clung to him, hands wrapped round his forearm, eyes closed in ecstasy as her mouth sucked the vampiric blood from his undead flesh. His head began to swim.
‘Enough,’ Caliban said, pulling harder this time. But if Helde heard, she chose to ignore the command. If anything, the sorceress’s grip increased in strength.