Demon Games [4]

by Steve Feasey

  ‘They won’t come back now,’ Shentob said with a shake of his head. ‘Not until they eat again. They never come back before then. Shentob is always left here alone to clear up and prepare the next meal.’

  The servant ducked behind a curtain in the wall that Trey had not noticed before, and called out for the boy to follow. Trey found himself in a small kitchen. It was a tiny space, filled with pots and pans of all descriptions. To one side was a stone sink, and the smell that emanated from it made Trey’s stomach churn, threatening to reject the gruel he’d eaten.

  Shentob shoved and heaved at a tall cupboard, finally moving it aside to reveal a small opening. The demon lit a small oil lamp and then ducked into the darkness on the other side, calling for Trey to follow.

  When he straightened up, Trey found himself in a tiny room, narrow enough for him to touch the walls on either side if he reached his arms out. Ahead of him was a metal ladder, its pitted and rusted rungs stretching up into the darkness overhead. He followed Shentob up the ladder into the roof space of the building. Things scuttled and slithered away from the two of them as they entered that shadowy, dusty space, but Shentob paid them no mind. The demon shambled forward towards the underside of the roof, where he slid back wooden covers from various openings, providing a number of viewpoints on to the world outside the barracks. Returning to one of these, Shentob looked out of the spyhole before pulling back and motioning for Trey to take a look. The teenager did so, and discovered that he was looking out on the training grounds where the school’s fighters were all gathered.

  Trey turned and looked at the demon quizzically.

  ‘Not allowed to see this,’ Shentob said in response to the look.

  ‘Why?’

  Shentob pulled a strange face. ‘Demon Games are big business. Lots of wagers, deals and agreements are struck on the outcome of the fights. Disputes too,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘The demon lords have been known to settle rows and disagreements by pitting their fighters against each other. Some say that the Demon Games have stopped wars here in the Netherworld.’ He gestured towards the spyhole in front of Trey. ‘Nobody who works with the fighters is allowed out of the camp between Games because they could tell others how a fighter is doing: its weaknesses and strengths, how it can be defeated. But old Shentob is allowed out of the camp – to get food and things that the fighters need. So he is not allowed to see this.’ He nodded at the teenager. ‘Shentob would be killed if they knew he was watching. But Shentob does watch, and he sees things.’ The old demon drew himself upright and puffed out his chest in a manner that Trey found quite comical. ‘That is why old Shentob knows so much about Abaddon. That is how Shentob knows how to defeat the champion.’

  Trey stared at the demon, unable to see how the ancient creature could possibly have worked out how to defeat the undefeated champion just by spying on the fighter during his training sessions. ‘This demon – Abaddon the Destroyer – he’s unbeaten, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Even when he fought here, among his peers who have watched him fight many times? Abaddon was never defeated?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘You’ll excuse my scepticism then, Shentob, but I’m finding it difficult to understand how, when all of those fighters couldn’t work out how to defeat the champion, you solved it simply by watching from up here in your attic.’

  If the demon was offended, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed oblivious to the teenager’s sarcasm, and took the remark as a compliment, puffing up with pride again and grinning back at the boy.

  ‘You are right, Trey Laporte. Shentob is not as foolish as they say. Not worthless. He watches how they all fight Abaddon, and he sees where they go wrong.’

  Trey sighed. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me your theory,’ he said, sitting back.

  Shentob gestured towards the openings in the roof. ‘These fighters –’ he spat the last word, shaking his head dismissively – ‘they are all stupid. Stupid because they see a demon as big as Abaddon, and see the punishment that the nether-creature can take, and see the damage that he can inflict, and they think the only way to defeat him is to increase their own size and strength. Bang!’ Shentob clapped his hands together. ‘They hit Abaddon with everything they’ve got, and Abaddon takes it. Yes! Even without armour – the Destroyer doesn’t wear any – Abaddon takes it. The champion even laughs at them. Laughs at them before crushing them like insects.’

  ‘No armour?’

  Shentob shook his head. ‘Doesn’t need to with skin like his. It’s as if the Destroyer is almost impervious to pain. Doesn’t feel it!’

  ‘Great,’ Trey said, tipping his head back in despair and staring up at the roof. A thought occurred to him, and he turned to look at Shentob again. ‘What type of demon is Abaddon?’

  The little nether-creature shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘He’s a freak. Unique. Shentob’s guess would be that Abaddon was a result of a botched summoning.’ He looked at the teenager and rolled his eye. ‘It happens. A sorcerer or sorceress will try to summon up or create a demon, and make a mistake. If the mistake is not a big one, the magic can just about work, but the nether-creature that is summoned forth is unlike anything that has been created before. A one-off.’

  The little demon looked across at Trey, a sly smile forming on his face. ‘But Shentob knows that Abaddon has a weakness. A unique weakness for a unique demon.’

  ‘An Achilles heel,’ Trey said.

  ‘A what? Who is this Achilles? Is he a fighter?’

  ‘No he … oh, never mind.’

  Trey waited for the servant to continue, becoming impatient when it was clear that he wasn’t going to. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is what?’

  ‘Abaddon’s weakness.’ Trey had the sneaking feeling that Shentob was enjoying himself.

  Shentob grinned, his one eye creasing into a thin slit. ‘Abaddon doesn’t wear armour, but … ’ He held up a finger, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘He does wear a great big belt. A huge gold thing, wide enough to cover his entire midriff.’ The servant nodded to himself and described a circle in the air above his own abdomen. ’ Some say that it is worn to hide an old wound. Others think that it is a thing of vanity – it has a large decorative face on the front, a face not dissimilar to Abaddon’s. But—’

  A loud roar went up outside, and Shentob stood up, hurrying over to look out of the spyhole nearest to him. He turned back to look at Trey again. ‘One of the fighters has lost a hand.’ He rolled his eyes and sat back down in front of the teenager.

  Trey waited. ‘You were telling me about Abaddon’s belt?’

  ‘Oh yes! There are two holes in the belt. About here and here,’ the demon pointed to his own stomach again and indicated two points at the same height, about a hand’s width apart. ‘A strange place to have holes, don’t you think, Trey Laporte?’

  The teenager shrugged and stayed silent, knowing that anything he said would most likely knock Shentob off the course of his narrative.

  ‘Abaddon has never been hurt in a fight. Some say that the champion cannot be hurt.’

  ‘You’re not exactly filling me with confidence, Shentob.’

  The demon tittered and pointed at the teenager. ‘But Shentob has seen the Destroyer hurt. Yes, he has. Seen him hurt badly.’

  The servant went quiet and looked over at the boy mischievously.

  ‘Through those holes?’ Trey said. ‘You saw someone hurt Abaddon there?’

  The servant jumped up, clapping his hands in delight. ‘Not someone, something. But yes! Hurt the champion lots. And only Old Shentob saw it.’ He curled a finger, beckoning Trey towards him and whispering, ‘It was an accident. It happened out there.’ He pointed in the direction of the spyhole. ‘There was a demon that used to prepare the fighting squares – sweep them and make sure any … spillages from the day before were covered up with fresh sand. This was done first thing, before the
fighters were awake. But Abaddon liked to get out into the squares before any of the others got up. One day this demon in charge of keeping the squares in order wasn’t looking what it was doing. Abaddon was walking up behind it, and the end of the sweeper’s broom got jammed into one of those holes.’ Shentob clapped his hands over his mouth to stifle a giggle as he replayed the scene in his mind’s eye. ‘Abaddon went down as if the champion had been poleaxed – bellowing in pain and clutching at his stomach. The noise was so great that it woke the other fighters. They came streaming out of their quarters to see what all the noise was about. The sweeper was about to explain to them what had happened when Abaddon leaped up and silenced it by ripping its head clean off of its shoulders. The other fighters were too scared to ask any questions. Nobody knew what had happened.’ He paused and then whispered. ‘Nobody, that is, except old Shentob.’

  ‘What’s beneath the belt?’

  Shentob shrugged. ‘Abaddon never takes it off.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told anyone else about this? Surely you could have used this information to your advantage.’

  ‘Who would Shentob tell? The scum here who beat him and spit on him every day of his miserable life? No. But Shentob tells you, Trey Laporte. Old Shentob cares about what happens to you.’

  The demon reached out and placed a gnarled hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was a nervous and tentative gesture, and the teenager turned to look at the miserable wretch who had befriended him. Trey thought of how often he’d been betrayed and deceived by nether-creatures. He thought of how Dreck the Fire Imp had pretended to befriend him, only to lead him into the hands of the demon lord Molok. But something told the boy that the servant Shentob was genuine in his desire to help him. He placed his own hand over the demon’s and nodded. ‘Thank you, Shentob. Thank you for helping me.’

  30

  When their exhaustion had made it impossible for the searchers at Naramcasson to continue any longer, they’d been forced to call a halt in the hunt for Caliban and Helde.

  Moriel gave the order, signalling for the others to congregate back on the ground with her and Lucien. The vampire looked around him, and could clearly see the fatigue that was etched on to the face of every member of the search party. They were not just fatigued; they were battered and bruised. The terrain had taken its toll on those on the ground: they were caked in mud from head to toe, the stuff so thick on their feet and legs that it was an effort to simply lift one foot in front of the other. The aerial reconnaissance team had fared no better: they’d suffered numerous wounds from the airborne creatures that claimed this territory as their own. One of the Arel nursed a huge gash in its thigh, where a daggerbeak had swept down at it and raked the battle-angel with its deadly bill.

  ‘We should stop now and return tomorrow,’ Moriel said, looking at everyone gathered together. ‘We all need to rest now. We covered a lot of ground today.’ She nodded her thanks to them and watched as they departed, the Arel carrying the two nether-creatures.

  When they were alone Lucien turned to face the battle-angel.

  ‘I don’t think he’s here.’

  ‘Hag does.’

  ‘She could be wrong.’

  Moriel turned her head to one side a little and raised an eyebrow in the vampire’s direction.

  ‘I concede it’s unlikely that she’s wrong, but I have my own reasons for doubting Hag’s foresight right now.’ Lucien ran the tip of his tongue over the fangs in his mouth.

  Moriel cast her eyes over the bleak landscape, her jaw set determinedly. ‘Your brother is here somewhere. I can feel him. He’s here, and tomorrow we will find him and I will kill him.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We too need rest. It would not do to encounter Caliban in such a weakened state. We will return as soon as possible.’ She glanced up at the burning globe in the sky.

  ‘Have you considered that we may already be too late? That my brother has already sufficiently revived the sorceress and moved her to a place of safety?’

  Moriel wiped at a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and when she looked back at Lucien her brilliant blue eyes bored into the vampire’s. ‘If that’s the case, I fear that none of us, in this realm or the human one, will ever be safe again. The sorceress is poison. She is the perfect cohort for Caliban, and the vampire knows this. Gwendolin was a powerful ally, but she was more scholarly – interested in the art of dark magic. Quite often for Gwendolin, the knowledge alone was enough, and Caliban was always frustrated by the miserly way she offered him her skills and assistance. But Helde is every bit as evil as your brother. She will happily destroy anything and everything to rise to power again.’ She waved her hand as if embarrassed to have been seen talking in such an impassioned way. ‘You know all this, Lucien.’

  Lucien puffed out his cheeks and nodded. ‘Very well, we’ll rest,’ he said. ‘But before we return here tomorrow, I want to speak to Hag again.’

  The Arel nodded. ‘Come,’ she said, beckoning the vampire closer to her. She wrapped her muscular arms around him and, unfurling her huge sable wings, leaped up into the air. Lucien hung from the battle-angel’s grasp and scanned the landscape one last time for any sign of his brother. But something told him that they were too late, and that the chance of capturing Caliban and Helde had slipped through their fingers.

  Caliban stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up and out of the crypt. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Everything came to a perfect stop: all sound and movement ceased, and he tuned into the world outside his hiding place. He knew that this would further diminish him: already weak, he could ill afford the effort this skill required, but he had to be certain that his pursuers were no longer in the area.

  They were gone.

  He slumped down on to his knees, trying to gather himself for what lay ahead. When he turned to glance at the creature climbing out of the stone sarcophagus, he was taken aback by what he saw. Helde seemed more robust than he would have dared to imagine. She appeared to have physically solidified since feeding on him, so that now only the occasional creepy-crawly plopped to the floor before being swept up again.

  The sorceress turned to stare back at the vampire, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. She pulled herself up to her full height, one hand brushing at the front of her leg, as if straightening a skirt that was not there. She glanced down at herself before looking up again, her chin thrust forward, eyes meeting the vampire’s own.

  ‘Am I still beautiful?’ she asked.

  The question was almost too much for Caliban, and he laughed out loud, the harsh and terrible sound echoing round the stone space.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ the sorceress asked once the laughter had died away. Her voice had a harder edge to it this time, and the vampire narrowed his eyes at her, considering his response before answering.

  ‘No, Helde. You did not say anything funny. But I find the subject of your query a little odd at this precise moment in time. I was not laughing at you, merely at the unexpected nature of your question.’

  She paused, then nodded, as if accepting his explanation. She took a step towards him. ‘So, am I still beautiful?’

  Caliban knew that he had to be careful: Helde’s beauty had been almost as legendary as her cruelty and her skills as a sorceress. And the Queen of the Dead had basked in her good looks. It was said that she had had hundreds of lovers in both the human and demon realms, none of whom survived very long once she lost interest in them. He looked at the creature before him, taking in the curved lines of her body and the swell of her breasts.

  She took in his gaze, standing still and allowing his eyes to roam over her.

  Caliban turned his attention to her long, elegant neck and then to her face: high cheekbones; a strong but feminine jawline; full lips.

  ‘Yes, you are still beautiful,’ he said finally, and surprised himself when he realized that he spoke the truth.

  She nodded again, her look searching his face for any trace of the humour
he had shown moments before.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She came over to him, taking his arm in her hand and helping him to his feet. She looked him up and down now, not quite in the same way as he had just done: her gaze was more calculating and determined.

  ‘We should leave this place,’ she said suddenly.

  Helde stood at the bottom of the small staircase, looking up at the door that opened out on to the world beyond – a world that she had not set foot in for what felt like an eternity. Surrounding the door was the glamour that had been put in place to stop anyone ever finding this place: from the outside it would look like a great rocky outcrop, but to the sorceress’s eyes it looked like amateur, shoddy magic, and she was amazed that it had fooled anyone for as long as it had.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ Caliban said, pulling out a small sickle-shaped stone. ‘It opens the door and disables the glamour. You can’t get in or out without it.’

  Helde waved her hand at the vampire dismissively. She closed her eyes for a moment, her lips moving silently. And the glamour was gone, the door already swinging open at the top of the steps.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘We need to ensure that you are fed and that your strength is restored for what lies ahead.’ She took him by the arm and led him back up into the Netherworld.

  31

  Trey lay back on his pallet, staring up at the dark ceiling, and tried to rein in the panic that clawed at his insides. Up until now everything had happened so quickly that he really hadn’t had time to consider the plight he was in. But the Games began next morning and the prospect of going up against nether-creatures in hand-to-hand combat terrified him. He was glad that Tom and Lucien had made him spar so often when he’d been living in London with them – at least he wasn’t a complete novice when it came to fighting demons and their like – but this would not be like those sparring sessions; these fights would end only when one of the participants was dead.