by Mark Eller
About them, gnomes wandered around the hall, lifting a few of the smaller items and carrying them away. Human guards and multiple hellborn seemed to be spread liberally around, some parts here, some parts there. A few pieces hung from the ceiling and walls. A chambermaid screamed, and continued screaming when a young devil Mathew recognized raped her against a wall. Shredded flesh hung from Phrandex’s jaws, remnants of the chambermaid’s torn shoulder, arm, and left breast. She bled against his dark skin as he lowered his head and ripped more flesh free. Arching his back, Phrandex screeched and pulled his blood smeared barbed member from her bleeding body. The woman fell, but he caught her on his talons. Mathew watched while her wounds sealed, healed, and were gone. The maid’s eyes rolled back. Her mouth remained open when Phrandex released his hold and dropped her to the floor. Even unconscious, she still screamed.
“I love that sound,” Belthethsia whispered to the king. She looked up. “I’m impressed, Phrandex dear, and I’m sure your mother is proud of you, but really, don’t you think it’s time you actually did something to help Athos. He’ll be leaving the pocket universe in another day or two, and he still doesn’t know you left Hell. I’m not sure I’d want him to find that out if I didn’t have something really big to hand him.”
“I’m being as evil as I can,” Phrandex complained. “What more can I do?”
“You can grow a pair,” Sulya complained. “You could be a bit more aggressive in your demands. Look at the new changer, Rebel. Not long ago she was nearly a nobody, just like you, but in just a few weeks she’s risen surprisingly far in the ranks.”
“She scares me,” Phrandes complained. “I don’t like feline changers. Never even heard of one before.”
Sulya sighed. “Really Phrandex, your horns are far too small for a devil your age.”
Mathew grinned, lunged, and ripped out a passing hellwright’s throat. The hellwright reeled, stumbled, and fell. Mathew tore lose a section of thigh and chewed.
Around him, the room stilled. All eyes turned in his direction. Mouths opened in sudden grins, revealing long rows of pointed teeth. Belthethsia brushed non-existent dirt from absent clothes and glared. Her lips parted. An imp’s head poked from between her teeth, crawled out, and sat on her shoulder while Sulya rubbed a thumb on her chin.
“Mathew, you are hell-changed, not hellborn,” Sulya said, her voice dangerously low. “You should not have attacked someone so far above you.”
Mathew swallowed down his fear and forced a grin, something marginally easier to do than it had been a few minutes earlier. Hellwright flesh didn’t give him the same heady satisfaction he had experienced when eating Glace, but it managed to drive his need to the background. Looking at the soul-sucking imp, he wondered if it could harm him. He wasn’t sure if he still possessed a soul, or ever had possessed a soul. For all he knew his had shriveled and died when he first learned of the power found in murder and fear. As Mathew recalled, he had been six or seven at the time.
Belthethsia seemed about ready to give orders to her imp. The time for hesitation was over. Game on.
“I saw Jolson.”
Grabbing the imp, Belthethsia shoved it back into her mouth. She leapt to her feet, reached out, grabbed a gnome, broke its neck, and tossed the small body toward Mathew. “Enjoy. Gnomes taste much closer to human than hellwrights. You should find its flavor more satisfying. Where’s Jolson?”
“Nearby,” Mathew answered, his voice muffled because he already chewed. He swallowed. “A few miles east of Grace, though he probably moved on after I saw him.”
“Is he alone?”
“Of course,” Mathew lied. “Who would he trust? He’s spawn. Humans hate him. Hellborn hunt him, and the virtuous gods are helpless to interfere.”
“Raise the hunt,” Sulya ordered the gathered hellborn. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Mathew dined on gnome while hellborn raced for weapons and ran from the castle. Belthethsia had been correct. The gnome’s flavor was much more satisfying than the hellwright’s. It almost tasted better than Glace, though its blood was a bit thin and a touch bitter. Ripping off a chunk of meat, he looked around. A good number of fresh bodies were now scattered about, some of them still twitching. Many of the smaller hellborn, the less vicious or less well weaponed, had been killed or trampled in the rush to capture Jolson. However, not all the fallen were weak. At least three larger demons had succumbed to a concerted attack from their smaller brethren. Mathew understood the viciousness. Jolson’s capture or murder would ensure advancement beyond what all but a few of the hellborn could normally hope for. Less competition in the hunt meant a greater chance of success.
Unfortunately, none of the fallen were Phrandex or Sulya. Mathew had a major beef with that pair.
Belthethsia returned her attention back to the king by opening his mouth and shoving the rod into what remained of his throat. Pausing for several moments, she studied her handiwork, sighed, and focused on Sulya. “I’m afraid you’re right. A failure. I don’t believe he was ever alive. Not after I reattached his head, anyway. Oh well, experiments don’t always work. Maybe next time.”
Rising, she brushed off her hands and approached Mathew with Sulya and a hellhound by her side. Belthethsia’s smile was sweet. Alluring. Sulya’s walk enticed. When they stopped, Belthethsia stood before him, naked, enticingly covered with blood, her arm about Sulya’s waist. Worming her hand under the near- similian’s clothes, Belthethsia gently stroked Sulya’s back.
Sulya grimaced and frowned.
Belthethsia’s other hand extruded talons. One finger reached out, caught on cloth, gently sliced open Sulya’s shirt, and stroked a powder blue breast. Sulya’s head turned obediently, though hate glared from her eyes. Her lips opened, and the two women kissed. When the kiss broke, Belthethsia looked cruelly satisfied. She ran her talons across Sulya’s belly, leaving four thin furrows. Nodding at Mathew, she smiled.
“Do you like my toy, Mathew. Poor Sulya has been loaned to me these last few days. A present from Zorce. It seems she couldn’t keep her hands on a child. Not surprising, really. Can’t expect competence from the poor thing. After all, she wasn’t born in Hell. Adopted, really. More from pity than anything else, I suspect.” Sinking her claws into Sulya’s thigh, she flexed them slowly. Blood flowed. “Darling, I hope you didn’t lie about seeing Jolson. Your death will take years if you did.”
“He’s alive,” Mathew assured her. “I saw him. Jolson will be here when Athos arrives. You can hand him to your god and be made queen.”
Sulya stiffened. She straightened. “Bel, this charade only goes so far. Yernden’s throne is mine.”
Belthethsia shook her head, appearing truly sad for a moment before the tiniest hint of a smile broke free. “Really dear. I did promise you the throne, but not until I’ve finished with it. You can have it when Athos and I move on to something bigger.”
She continued gently stroking Sulya’s back. “Maybe after I’ve played with you a couple hundred years. I’ll be tired of the throne by then.”
“Zorce will kill you,” Sulya promised, low voiced
“I doubt it,” Belthethsia answered. “After all, I’m his daughter. You’re only an interloper.”
“Sulya is my mother,” Phrandex protested. He stamped his foot in emphasis, accidentally slamming his talons into the unconscious woman at his feet. Her eyes shot open. Her ragged throat released one more screech, and then she died.
“They always break,” Phrandex muttered.
“We’ll find you another,” Belthethsia said, “and I promise I won’t kill you because of your mother. Not until you are fully grown, anyway.” She looked at Mathew. “Devils are so endearing when they’re young.”
“The throne is mine,” Sulya insisted dangerously. “Now. Not later.”
Belthethsia sighed. “Do you really insist on this?”
“I do.”
Belthethsia nodded. Her stroking hand paused. Talons shot out, piercing Sulya’s blue skin,
sinking deep, deeper, stretching until they burst from Sulya’s belly. Sulya twisted her lips in a sudden grimace. Her talons shot out, but by then the hellhound’s mouth engulfed her head. He wrenched, twisted, and Mathew heard a sudden snap. Sulya’s head twisted around, and then she fell to the floor, her neck broken. She blinked, and her eyes held murder.
“You are so fucking lucky I’m loyal to Zorce,” she snapped to Belthethsia.
“Drag her to her room,” Belthethsia ordered the hellhound. “And be careful. We can’t hurt her too drastically. Zorce wants her back tomorrow.”
Sinking his teeth into Sulya’s arm, the hellhound dragged her away, grumbling. Belthethsia gestured to one of the few remaining gnomes. “This place is a mess. Gather up the meat and take it to the kitchen. Don’t entirely fill the larder. I want some shelf space left in case the changer lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” Mathew growled as she walked from the room. He bit into the gnome again and discovered its intestines made excellent floss.
“I’m going to die,” Phrandex moaned. “Not even a hundred years old, and I’m already going to die.”
Mathew rose, stretched, and looked over the mayhem his small statement concerning Jolson had caused. Gnomes and demons, hellwrights and spawn lay dead. Other gnomes scurried about, collecting limbs and carcasses, and industriously licking blood from the floor. Mathew grinned. No doubt the carnage was not limited to this room. Hellborn would be dead throughout the castle. In fact, they were probably killing each other on the streets right now to better their chances at winning favor.
All fine by Mathew. Weeks earlier, after laughing at his claims of kingship, Helace had cast him out on the streets to spread fear and death to the humans. Because of her and Belsac’s broken promise, Mathew had given up his lordship of Yylse, had disbanded his power, and had brought Glace to his death. For these crimes Hell had to pay.
Studying the carnage, Mathew decided getting revenge wouldn’t be so terribly hard. Hellkind seemed to be just a little too full of themselves, a little too confident and not nearly careful enough in their plans. Helace was a perfect example of Hell’s shortcomings. She was dead because she had been a perpetual amateur. Helace had spent centuries comfortably ensconced in Hell’s familiar environs where hellborn knew their place. They knew who to fear and who to bully or kill. Because of this, they had little need to look far ahead, exercise their imaginations, or even make well thought out plans. As proof, this present invasion, this war, had been four or five hundred years in the making. A human general could have created and won a similar war in half a decade. Imagination. Doing the unexpected. Sowing discord. These were the strengths of humans. Yes, a number of hellborn were thousands of years old. Many had once been human, but they had become complacent over the years. They felt entitled within their own little world. They had forgotten how to make sharp, quick plans. Even Zorce.
Something to remember.
Mathew studied Phrandex, another example of Hell lessening its standards. The being was a devil, but he was a bit more and a bit less than that, too. Phrandex was the child of Zorce’s lust, but he was Sulya’s son as well. She was a similian, not hellborn, and so Phrandex was a mixed breed, something Hell would have murdered out of hand even three hundred years earlier. Phrandex’s father’s heritage showed strong, but his black skin held a tint of Sulya’s blue. His inherent weakness showed by him not possessing either his father’s nor his mother’s casual viciousness, although he tried hard to prove he did. Mathew had kept his ears cocked for the tales. Yes, Phrandex had raped and maimed human women, but afterward he healed their wounds and erased their memories, proving himself younger than his years, less mature, less wary than a devil his age should be. Thus, by Hell’s standards, defective. In fact, he was more defective than Mathew had originally thought. Even as he watched, Phrandex displayed growing worry.
“She won’t kill you yet,” Mathew reassured the devil. “She promised to wait until you were fully grown.”
“That’s only another fifteen years,” Phrandex protested. He stamped on his broken toy, apparently trying to show he was truly evil. An empty gesture since the woman was already dead.
“Well then,” Mathew shrugged his wolf shoulders, “I guess you’re going to die unless you find Jolson before any of the others.”
Phrandex’s expression fell. “I tried. I looked everywhere. Asked everyone, but nobody admitted seeing a spawn with a green hook. It’s as if he disappeared somehow or affected their memories. Who knows what Athos’s Hook is capable of?”
Mathew chuckled. “Who cares? Jolson isn’t wearing the hook anymore. He has no arm from his elbow down. The others are looking for a spawn, but Jolson isn’t that either. He looks human, but is something else.”
Phrandex stilled. “How do you know this human is Jolson?”
“I was there when he climbed out of the hellhole,” Mathew explained. He sat down, yawned, and scratched idly behind his ear. “None of the others will find him because they’re looking for the wrong thing. Now a smart fellow who knew the truth, he might gather a few friends and go looking on his own. He might capture Jolson, and then he might win Athos’s attention and be in a position to ask a favor for a friend.”
“What do you want?” Phrandex demanded.
“I want to be human again,” Mathew answered, “unless the humans lose. Then I want to be at least a demon, or maybe a devil like you.”
Phrandex pranced nervously. “I don’t have to deal. I know everything you do.”
“I can tell this to all the others, too. Then you’d have no advantage.”
Phrandex’s eyes narrowed and his poisoned tongue flicked out. “I could kill you.”
“I could shout before you do,” Mathew added. “Somebody would be sure to hear my news. After all, there are more than a few gnomes around.”
“A deal,” Phrandex snapped, and then he was gone, racing through the door faster than Mathew had ever before seen a devil move. Was that speed part of Phrandex’s mixed similian/devil heritage, or did he move so quickly only because he was inspired?
Mathew had no doubt Phrandex was anxious, and the devil had agreed to the deal. Even so, Mathew was not fooled. Once Jolson was captured Phrandex would have no reason to keep his word. That was another weakness of hellborn. They were so predictable.
Mathew stretched, enjoying the sensation of kinks being soothed out of his back. He felt strong and limber and young and satisfied. Bending his head, he lapped blood from the floor the gnomes had not yet cleaned, and then he turned to leave the throne room, to leave the castle, to see exactly what chaos his words had born.
* * * *
Jolson casually studied an iron encased stone statue of a man stamping down on a barren field. Wall sconces surrounded him, only a quarter of which held lit candles. Part of a ceiling arched over his head. The other part was gone. Missing. White clouds drifted overhead. He lowered his eyes to fasten his attention on the woman holding a sword.
“What are you?” Queen Elise demanded.
Her sword’s point stabbed into Jolson’s chest but did not enter him. It merely rested its tip against his breastbone. He couldn’t feel it. He also couldn’t feel his clothes or Mira’s hand on his shoulder. Since the merging, he hadn’t felt anything physical. His skin was numb, dead and dry. He was a sponge, but the sponge waited for something it could absorb.
Leaning forward, pressing his body against the sword’s point, Jolson stared at the queen and her companions. They weren’t many, not enough to even come close to filling Nedross’s Temple’s large front chamber. One man appeared hard, competent. The other man seemed somewhat foolish, but Jolson sensed a ruthless core buried somewhere beneath his foppish exterior. Beside the fop stood two women. One had a slightly hard visage. She was cool, calculating, and very pregnant. The other woman was several years younger. She owned a full figure, come hither eyes, and radiated magic stronger than any human Jolson had ever encountered. Tessla and Mira stood off to the side. Mira
looked anxious. Tessla held a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“If you stab me, do I not bleed,” Jolson said to the queen, and then he stepped forward, taking a quick long stride before she had time to react. The sword bent slightly, straightened, and then slid deep into his chest. The watchers stood frozen, a tableau of stunned faces waiting for him to fall.
“No,” Jolson answered his own question, “I do not.”
The queen drew the sword out, lowered it, set it in its sheath, and held out a hand. “Under the circumstances, this might be a better approach. Who are you Jolson? Why does Athos want you so badly?”
“I’m a spawn,” Jolson said. Something not too distant worried at his attention. Something hunted him. It was near. “I escaped.”
“You are no spawn,” the man named Harlo said. “I’ve seen spawn. I’ve seen how they act. I’ve seen how stupid they are. You might have their scars, but you aren’t a spawn.”
The fop who wore a devil’s image over his true body, moved over by the temple door and checked the locking bars. He wore a worried expression, as well he should if he expected the seeming placed over his body to fool any but the weaker hellborn. Illusions were one of the easiest spells for Zorce’s get to discern.
“Jolson was a spawn when he resided in Hell,” Tessla added. “I saw him not long after he arrived, but even then he was different. Defiant at the start, until his defiance was scourged out of him. Apparently, after he stole Athos’s Hook, he made himself even more different than before. I can see how he might have used the hook to change himself to something nearing human, but now the hook is gone and he’s become something neither human nor hellborn.”
“Human child becomes spawn. Spawn becomes human. Human changes into whatever Jolson is now,” the not-quite-woman, Tirelle, observed. She moved closer to Jolson and studied him with magical eyes, eyes that looked deeper than the surface of his skin. “I wonder if you were like this before you became human the first time. What were you before? What will you become?”