Demon Games [4]

by Steve Feasey

  ‘Enough!’ the vampire roared, and this time he pushed with all his might, sending them both sprawling to the stone floor.

  Weakened, Caliban got to his hands and knees, raising his head to look over at the prone figure of the sorceress. Her eyes were still closed, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth, and she seemed more solid than at any other time since her resurrection. He glanced at his wrist, noting how the wound was already starting to knit together. He would need to feed. He needed to return to full strength to recover from this episode. He was weak, weaker than he had been for a very long time. He needed to rest now.

  Before closing his eyes he glanced at Helde again. She was looking back at him, a tired but contented look on her face.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said.

  Caliban nodded his head, and the two nether-creatures slipped into oblivion.

  28

  Shentob was silent for some time, just sitting and staring at the pile of armour on the end of the bed, lost in thought.

  ‘Why did you keep it?’ Trey asked.

  ‘Because he was a great fighter. And because he was good to Shentob. Daniel Laporte said he would try to come back and rescue me – rescue me from this.’ The demon gestured at their surroundings and then looked back at Trey with his one good eye, and smiled.

  ‘Shentob, you do know my father is dead, don’t you?’

  The nether-creature shrugged as if he had not heard him. ‘He was good to Shentob,’ the demon repeated, then pointed at the ugly puckered scar tissue where his other eye should have been. ‘If it had not been for Daniel Laporte, Old Shentob would have lost both eyes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shentob saw something that he should not have. He got caught. Molok took his eye. He would have taken them both, but Daniel Laporte was here then, and he stepped in to stop the demon lord.’ The little demon stared off into the distance as if replaying the scene over again in his head. ‘He told Molok that if he wanted the werewolf to be his new champion then he had to leave Shentob’s other eye. Molok was furious, but he bowed to the lycanthrope’s demands.’ Shentob stared off into the distance again, moving his lips as if in a silent conversation with himself.

  ‘Shentob, how long have you been here? In the gladiator school.’ He might as well have been talking to himself, Shentob was so lost in his thoughts and imaginings. Trey reached out and placed his hand on the demon’s shoulder. The unexpected physical contact made Shentob cry out, and the nether-creature pulled away as if he’d been scalded, hands flying up in a defensive gesture.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Trey said, putting his own hands up in response. He smiled, and the smile was returned. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A long time,’ the demon said in a small voice. ‘A long, long time.’

  ‘How many Games did my father fight in?’

  The demon looked at him as if he was an idiot. ‘Just the one. One Demon Games for the lycanthrope Daniel Laporte. But what a Games! He was magnificent – yes, he was! Many still say that it was the best Games ever.’

  ‘And why did my father fight in the Games?’

  ‘Why does any creature fight in the Games?’ The demon servant shrugged, still looking at Trey as if he was asking the most moronic of questions. ‘Deals are made, promises traded. Some fight for freedom, some for power, some for access to the human realm.’ Shentob paused, eyeing the boy carefully. ‘Some, like your father, for information.’

  ‘And what information did my father seek? What deal did he strike with Molok?’

  ‘He wanted to know the location of your mother’s killer. He wanted help to find and kill the vampire Caliban.’

  ‘And Molok provided that help?’

  Shentob hissed and spat on the floor. ‘Molok helps only himself. Your father wanted revenge, and Molok promised him the opportunity to get it. Molok wanted to see a lycanthrope fight in the Demon Games for the first time, so he contacted Daniel Laporte and told him that he would give him what he wanted if he would fight for the demon lord in return. The demon lord did all this sneakily.’ Shentob hissed this last word. ‘He had to keep his plans secret. Secret from the vampire Lucien Charron, who would have stopped him. Your father came here, like you, to this place. And old Shentob helped him. Fed him and told him things he needed to know to survive the Games.’ The demon smiled sadly. ‘Nobody thought that the werewolf would win. Nobody expected Daniel Laporte to beat the best fighters in the Netherworld. But he did. He tore through them as if they were not even there, and in the end Molok had to keep his side of the bargain. But he didn’t want Daniel to go. Molok didn’t want to lose his new champion, oh no.’

  It was Trey’s turn to stare off into the distance now as he remembered an evening, not so long ago, when he’d stood on the balcony outside Lucien’s Docklands apartment and listened to the vampire recount the tale of how his father had been killed. How his father had somehow found out the whereabouts of Caliban and had rushed off to an island in Tahiti with a hastily assembled force. He remembered the look on Lucien’s face when he’d told Trey how this force had turned on his father and aided in his terrible murder at the hands of Caliban.

  ‘Shentob.’ Trey’s voice sounded thick as he fought his emotions. ‘The creatures that went off with my father to find and destroy Caliban – where did he recruit them?’ He nodded as Shentob answered, already knowing what the demon was going to say.

  ‘From Molok. Molok supplied the nether-creatures that Daniel Laporte took with him.’

  Hot angry tears filled the teenage boy’s eyes, and he let them fall unchecked into his lap.

  ‘Shentob can help you, like he helped your father. Yes, he can! You will fight three fights, and if you win the first two, you will fight Abaddon in the final. And old Shentob knows Abaddon – yes, he does. Shentob has watched Abaddon a thousand times from the same hiding place that he watched you from today, and Shentob knows everything about the champion.’ The demon looked down at the armour again before turning to grin at Trey.

  ‘Maybe you and Shentob can work together. Work together like your father and Shentob did. And if we do, maybe we can show the Netherworld again what a werewolf can do!’

  Despite the aching sadness Trey felt at discovering how his father had been deceived by Molok, he could not help but smile at the enthusiasm and zeal of the little blue demon by his side. He held out a hand and watched as Shentob first looked at it and then, very slowly took it in his own to shake.

  ‘And maybe I can rescue old Shentob,’ Trey said hopefully. ‘Rescue him as my father said that he would.’

  The demon waved this last idea away and pointed at the pieces of armour. ‘Try them on. Old Shentob wants to see them on you. It would make him happy.’

  Trey shook his head. ‘Not now, eh? I’ll try them on tomorrow.’ But he reached out and picked up the breastplate, hefting it in his hands and peering at the symbol pressed into the leather at the front. At first it was difficult to make out, but he turned it so that he could see it in relief better. It was not the symbol he had expected, not the symbol of Molok that was stamped into the other fighters’ armour. No, this was something altogether different: it was a raised clenched fist, the same as the one that Trey now wore as an amulet round his neck – the symbol of Theiss. The teenager frowned and turned to look at Shentob, who was grinning back at him.

  ‘Your father had it made. He asked me if I knew anyone in the Netherworld who could make such a thing, and old Shentob arranged it. We never told anyone of our plans, and on the day of the Games your father ditched the armour that Molok had supplied him to fight in and wore this instead.’ Shentob did a little hopping dance on the spot. ‘You should have seen the look on the demon lord’s face!’ The nether-creature clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that erupted from him.

  ‘I think I’d like to see that look again,’ Trey said with a mischievous grin.

  The demon servant stared back at the teenager, mouth and eye wide open. Then, poin
ting up at Trey, he resumed his hopping dance, giggling madly. ‘You, Trey Laporte, you are your father’s son all right! We will wipe that supercilious smug look off Molok’s face again, eh?’

  Trey placed a hand on the armour, his own smile slowly fading away into a look of concern. ‘But Molok will know that you gave me this. You’ll be punished.’

  The demon too became serious. He sniffed and glanced at the floor before lifting his face up, his chin jutting defiantly. ‘Old Shentob is beyond caring what Molok will or will not do to him. This will be Shentob’s last Games.’

  Trey didn’t know what his new friend meant by that, but he looked the demon in the eye, offering his hand again. ‘Then we will have to make sure that they are memorable for all the right reasons.’ He yawned, suddenly tired.

  The demon servant frowned and, standing, moved towards the door. ‘Shentob will go now. Trey Laporte is tired and needs to sleep.’

  Trey patted the armour and nodded at the demon. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We will try this on tomorrow.’

  The demon nodded and left.

  Trey secured the door and pulled the curtain across. He settled back on to the straw pallet, stared up at the ceiling, and his thoughts turned to Alexa in her own cell. He was certain that Molok would keep to his side of the agreement, and that she would be safe as long as Trey did his part. But what if he was defeated in the Games? What if he was killed? It occurred to him that he had not discussed this possibility with Molok, and he suspected that he had made a grave error in neglecting to do so. He would not let Alexa down. He would do whatever it took to win her freedom. He pictured her face, holding on to the image as he closed his eyes and let his exhaustion consume him.

  29

  When Trey opened his eyes the next morning the first thing he saw was the old demon servant looming over him, a bowl of something hot and steaming in his outstretched hand. The teenager sat up with a start and stared towards the barred door, which he knew he’d bolted from the inside the previous evening.

  ‘How did you get in?’ he asked, staring at the nether-creature suspiciously.

  ‘Eat, eat,’ Shentob said, waving the question away and pressing the bowl into Trey’s hands.

  Trey looked down at the contents of the bowl and took a quick, tentative sniff.

  ‘Eat it,’ the demon servant urged. ‘You need your strength, Trey Laporte. It is good.’ He winked at the youngster, tittering. ‘Old Shentob knows you do not like rat, so he has made this for you.’

  Trey gave a small shrug and lifted the spoon to his lips. Much to his surprise, the watery porridge-like stuff tasted a lot better than it looked. Still, he decided it was best not to ask what it was made from – he was hungry, and the gruel was going some way to assuage the pangs in his stomach. He’d almost finished when the double-fronted doors of the barracks were thrown open and a series of shouted commands filled the living quarters. Trey got up. He was still wearing the short tunic he’d been given, and he quickly crossed his cell to stand in the doorway. He looked out at the short stocky creature that had entered. The demon called out names and numbers from a clipboard, the bottom of which it held in one hand while resting the top against a heavy-looking, bulbous stump where its other hand had once been. Another nether-creature entered now, squeezing past the first and walking towards Trey’s cell, where it deposited a pile of armour before leaving silently.

  The teenager glanced down at the heap, noting that the dark purple colour matched the various pieces being hastily donned by the other fighters.

  Trey heard his name and turned, raising an eyebrow at Shentob, who was hiding behind him.

  ‘The order of practice,’ the demon said in a whisper, hurrying past the teenager and out into the communal dining area. ‘Today is the last day before the Games, and Molok wants everyone to train one last time.’

  Trey looked at the other fighters as they hastily stood up from the table, shoving the remains of their breakfast into their mouths, pulling on last-minute items of armour or clothing and hurrying outside. He was struck by how compliant they all were, and wondered what special agreements they had come to with Molok to make them so willing to fight for him.

  Clubhand turned to stare at the teenager. It glanced at its clipboard again. ‘Trey Laporte, number six.’ It gestured with its head towards the exit.

  ‘Number six?’

  ‘Square number six. That is the number of your fighting square for today. Get that armour on. You are fighting … Eshnel Gormank first.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ the teenager said with a shake of his head.

  The creature frowned, looking at its clipboard carefully to ensure that it had not made any mistake.

  Trey went on. ‘It might say that I’m facing Estel Gortank, or whatever the creature’s name is that’s on your list, but I’m not fighting today. My agreement with your master is to fight in the Demon Games. I never agreed to train. Go and find someone else to fill square six with their blood.’

  The creature pulled itself up to its full height and walked towards the teenager menacingly. It glared up at him, and when it spoke, the foulest stench imaginable was released, so that Trey had to turn his head away.

  ‘Get that armour on and get over to square number six,’ the demon hissed.

  ‘Sod off,’ Trey said, and turned his back on the creature to return to his cell.

  Clubhand grabbed at the teenager’s arm with its good hand, and Trey Changed, spinning on his heel and roaring into the demon’s face, so that the nether-creature was staring up into a huge tooth-lined claw only centimetres from its face.

  ‘Get out.’ Trey said. ‘Go and play-fight with those who are interested. Tell Molok that I will not be fighting today. And if you or he or any other nether-creature has a problem with that, they can discuss it with me themselves … But they had better be prepared to fight me for the right to do so.’

  And the werewolf growled at the demon, a deep terrible sound that came from somewhere deep within his huge barrel chest.

  Clubhand took a momentary glance down at the clipboard that it had dropped at the werewolf’s feet, then hurried in the direction of the main doors. It stopped just before them, turning on its heel and pointing at Shentob, who was standing by the table. ‘You are now responsible for telling dog-boy over there everything he needs to know about the Games. Make sure he understands what his responsibilities are and how the Games work.’ And with that it walked out, slamming the heavy doors behind it.

  Shentob had paid the demon no attention. He was staring, open-mouthed, at the werewolf, the empty cups and bowls he had been clearing up before Trey morphed still stacked up in his arms. Without taking his eyes off Trey, he put the things back on the table and walked towards him. He reached out with one hand, and stretched up to touch the fur of Trey’s huge barrel chest. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘You look … You look like … ’ His expression of amazement slid away into a frown, and he hurried into Trey’s room to fetch the armour he’d brought the previous evening, returning with it and laying it at the werewolf’s feet. ‘Try it on. Please let old Shentob see you with it on, Trey Laporte.’

  Trey hesitated for a moment before nodding, and he began to don his father’s black-and-silver armour. Shentob fussed around the giant lycanthrope and kept up a running commentary about the function of each item as he helped Trey to position and buckle on the various pieces. The leather breastplate, or cuirass, as Shentob insisted on calling it, protected the chest, abdomen and back; vambraces covered Trey’s forearms and wrists in the same way that the slightly longer greaves protected the lower legs. The gauntlets had heavy silver studs covering each knuckle joint, but were fingerless to allow Trey’s talons through. When these were all firmly strapped in place, Shentob ducked back into Trey’s cell and returned with the black leather helm, holding it up reverentially for Trey to place on his head. It fitted perfectly.

  When he stood back and looked up at Trey, Shentob gave a loud gasp.

  ‘What is it?’<
br />
  The demon bit at his lower lip and seemed genuinely moved by the sight of Trey in all his regalia. ‘You look exactly like him,’ he whispered. ‘You look like your father.’

  Trey flexed the fingers of his werewolf hands and moved the parts of his body that were now encased in the hard leather shielding. He was surprised at how well it fitted, and how light and unrestrictive it felt. He balled his hand into a fist and banged the front of his cuirass. He was confident that it had been made to withstand the attack of any nether-creature, and the nicks and scratches were testament to its success in this respect.

  ‘Thank you, Shentob.’

  The demon made a formal little bow. ‘We should take it off now,’ he said, moving forward to help. ‘It would not do to spoil our surprise by having you seen in it.’ Trey halted the little demon with a gesture of his hand.

  ‘Please would you get me a clean tunic to put on?’

  Shentob detected something in the tone inside his head and he paused, looking up at the werewolf before nodding and darting off into the teenager’s cell.

  Trey looked down at himself, and felt a sudden rush of emotion at the realization that his father might have stood in this very place wearing this very same armour. He had so few memories of his parents that for a moment he was overcome with sadness, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to throw his head back and howl his pain and anger to the world. Instead, he morphed back into his human form and collected the armour together.

  Shentob came back and handed the teenager the tunic. If he saw the tears on the boy’s face, he pretended not to.

  ‘You said that you’d tell me about the Games,’ Trey said to the little demon.

  ‘Yes! Old Shentob will tell you everything he knows.’ The demon looked at the mess on the table and the floor surrounding it, then flapped a hand dismissively at it. ‘The mess can wait,’ he said under his breath, and he shuffled across the room, beckoning for Trey to follow him. The teenager hesitated, glancing towards the doors.