by Shad N Freud
“Well gang, you heard our resident sneak. Let’s get to it then.”
Chapter Ten
Mistress Ink floated in the Abyss, staring down at her compatriots. They consisted of four other eldritch beings, all demonic Princes and each feared within their respective plane of the Gray Marches. One smiled, his shark-like teeth gleaming in the purple light of the abyss and his dark eyes sweeping the circle. “Friends, and I do use the term lightly, we’re gathered here because our dear Ink’s plan to invade the world of mortals nears fruition. With any luck, her incorporeality will come to an end and our coalition can cease guarding her borders. There will be bloodshed enough for all of us, so no point in backstabbing. That can come later, after our sleeping Father awakens and brings ruination upon the pathetically weak mortals beyond. When he grows bored, we can carve the world up among ourselves.” Malak turned, looking each of his peers in the eye as his grin grew wider, seeing how enthused his fellows were.
“Yes, but what is the challenge? To make this work, we have to eliminate the Chosen and prevent the Prophecy from being fulfilled. And, to be honest,” another spoke up, pointing at the fetid water the group was using as a scrying pool, “the only one among them to present a real threat is the Orc, and I somehow doubt he could come close to matching my prowess.”
“Marduk, you shortsighted fool! That ‘Orc’ you speak of gave me this!” Ink scowled, pointing at the hideous scars that marred her once perfect face. “And no amount of souls nor work of chiurgeon has been able to restore me. Only after his death at my hands will I be satisfied. Do not underestimate this Carl Beaumont…after all, The Spaniard crossed blades with him in the past and never came back to the Gray. Or, have you forgotten that, Marduk? The Spaniard’s destruction is the only reason you were able to rise so meteorically within the ranks. And, we all know the Spaniard was not one to take likely. So, if Carl Beaumont is within the temple, we can almost write it off as a loss. One that we can turn to victory, however, if we can break him before he goes to the past.”
“Ink,” Marduk snorted, his porcine features illuminated by the gloomy sky. “Your lack of competence in dealing with them in the past is the reason why you can’t presently fog a mirror.” Marduk smirked as he tossed a stone through Ink and guffawed as the rest of the circle resumed their game of throwing things through her while laughing at her ineffectual rage.
Kali raised all six arms to bring the others back to order. “Be that as it may, Marduk, Ink isn’t wrong. We should tread carefully, as those mortals are instruments of faith. I recommend we do our level best to eliminate the remaining candidates, to make it more difficult to find spares in case these instruments should be broken. After all, gestalts are rare in any world, and these five are even rarer.”
The last, an immense shifting mass of silently screaming faces pressed into a gigantic humanoid form placed its hand on its ‘chin,’ which it stroked in thought, staring into the pool as the others plotted and bickered. It watched as the six made their way through the temple, slaughtering demons and zombies every step of the way. It held up a hand to get the others’ attention and, when that failed, it’s ‘face’ creased into a deep frown. It shrugged, then lowered its constant silence spell, every mouth screaming in a gibbering chorus for a bare moment before resuming silence. It certainly had the wanted effect, as the other princes shut their mouths, and looked up at the behemoth of darkness and torment. It gestured to the left and an immense piece of slate exploded out of the ground. It reached inside of itself, pulled out a huge piece of chalk, and began writing.
“Legion? What are you trying to say?”
The demonic prince palmed it’s face as it pointed at the ersatz chalkboard, a flash of purple lightning illuminating the writing on the wall. Ink floated upward and began reading aloud, to Legion’s thankful nod. “Let’s see…The gnome has a rock. It’s an important rock. It’s a rock that has the Lost inscribed on its molecules and there are more like it. These ‘rocks’ are trying to find each other. I suggest we help. No point in working harder than we need to. After all, the rocks together, with the right body, could end worlds. I say that we find them a body. Perhaps one can be found in the Lost, in a factory.”
Ink pondered the words Legion wrote for a moment. “Hmm. You have a point, Legion.”
Legion bowed his head in recognition, then looked down at the others.
“Go into the Lost? Please. That’s a certain loss of any demons we send in; the Lost will eat them as surely as ripping a hole into Oblivion and throwing the demons in ourselves. It’s a waste of time, resources, and effort. All for a single murder golem? I say no.”
Kali rolled all six of her eyes and crossed all of her arms as she shook her head. “Why am I not surprised, Marduk, that you’ve got reservations about anything that takes your pig-headed ass out of your comfort zone? Even a full grown Terrasque could be felled by a single McG Pacification Drone, and this plane has only a larval one, kept under heavy guard, in cold storage and drastically underfed. Think of how easily it could roll over any defenses their pitifully weak forces could muster.”
“Forgive me for being out of the loop for several aeons, but what in the Gray is the Lost?” Malak asked as he stared down into the scrying pool. The lizard had just skewered three anzus with his sword like an Abyssal ka-bob. He shook his head as he watched the vulture-like demons get roasted by a fireball and could imagine the squelching noise as the lizard slid the cooked demons off his blade.
“The Lost is what we call the McGillicutty Corporation’s home plane, one utterly obliterated by the madness caused by a single man’s petty anger. Were it not for that, we’d still be able to outfit our soldiers properly. While the flesh is willing to slaughter wholesale, we’re stuck in the clearance bin, as the mortals have far better weapons at their disposal. As do the forces of Hell. Even the dumbest, lowliest Lemure will leap at the chance to consume souls, but have you ever seen a succubus try to study particle physics? It’s not a pretty sight. I mean, Ink couldn’t handle a single orc and she’s supposed to be the best of them.”
“Marduk! As soon as I regain enough strength to- “
Again, Legion broke his silence, the screams accompanied by extending his skeletal hand from within his shifting mass and scratching his immense finger bones on the humongous chalkboard. Every demon involved glared at Legion after he resumed his silence and pointed back at the board.
“Offer the Warden of the Lost something greater than what it would lose? What in the Gray…you don’t mean…” Legion nodded vigorously, and a rather contagious sadistic grin spread among the assembled princes as the rest caught on. “So then, it’s agreed,” Ink finished after Legion wrote his last lines.
The Demon Princes cackled as they turned and left R’yleh, the Tomb-City of the dead Elder God and Entropy aspect of reality, Cthulhu. The winds picked up, and the sound was deafening in an almost sinister laugh as the gargantuan mountain the five had met by shifted in it sleep of aeons. What could have been mistaken for deep valleys shifted, revealing themselves to be the facial tentacles of Cthulhu, covered in the detritus of an eternity of the ceaseless grinding of the Gray Marches. One tentacle reared up and struck a hill off his face, revealing a closed eye that moved rapidly under its eyelid. The eye opened fractionally, and the laughter filled the infinite desolate landscapes of the Gray, sending demons skittering to their homes in fear.
∞∞∞
Cenere did his best to not tear his horns out in frustration, glaring at the pile of the dead that surrounded their current location. They’d been slogging their way through this damned temple for days, trying their hardest to find the lowest point and their ‘hosts.’ He grabbed a package of biltong out of his pack and ripped it open with his teeth, ravenously devouring a thick chunk of the spicy preserved meat.
They knew they were near the bottom-most level, as the ancient stonework had long since given way to concrete, and the sound of huge fans piping air into the computer rooms below their feet
was almost deafening. The group had to rely on hand signals to communicate, and these gestures became obscener as the group became more frustrated.
After the last ambush while they’d tried to rest, Carl had rushed headlong into the horde and given into his bloodlust, his rage manifesting as his canines on his lower jaw were forced out of his skull and tusks took their place, his Orcish blood finally taking control of his body as he was swallowed by the masses of undead flesh. That was the last Cenere had seen of Carl before the satchel charges blew and caved in the doorway, cutting off the flow of the dead.
That had been two days ago and Cenere was getting worried. He knew Carl had to still be alive, as no devil had arrived to promote him to Grand Inquisitor, but this temple was fraying his sanity. He looked over at the others and rubbed his head as he yearned to join them in dreamland. He’d taken the short straw, allowing everyone else to sleep while he stood watch. Camilla had long since run out of ammunition for her beloved grenade launcher, but stubbornly refused to get rid of it. Sachi’s guns were likewise out of ammunition and she was relying on the pair of shortswords sheathed on either hip. Jin had exhausted himself tending to the non-satanic member’s wounds, as well as incinerating anything that even twitched the wrong way in their direction. Zeke was dead to the world as he snored with his mouth open, his sword in a vice-like grip as he slept.
Cenere glared at the sleepers as he pulled a whetstone from his pack and began sharpening a trench knife, he’d ‘liberated’ from one particularly hapless ghoul that had chosen the wrong tiefling to mess with, glaring into the gloom. As he did, he failed to notice a single flickering shadow move away from the darkness it had been inhabiting and silently creep up behind him before chittering in a high laugh and enveloping Cenere. His scream of alarm fell on deaf ears as the rest of his fellows were likewise grabbed by the very shadows themselves.
∞∞∞
“Cenere, my precious boy, where did you go?” a voiced called out as he giggled into his muffler in the cold. He’d hidden in a snow cave he’d dug for himself while out playing, his mother busily working in her workshop on a new pendant for a wealthy customer. One that, with the application of a drop of blood from the wearer’s mother, would grant them a powerful protection. It was part of the family magic, a technique passed on from generation to generation, mother to daughter, for centuries. Normally, such enchantments were placed on hearth stones to add to the power of one’s ancestors to the wards of a home. But the Cornua Ferrea, his mother’s clan of itinerant Tieflings chased out of Verona by the Borgias centuries past, had to adapt, and one way was to create talismans as powerful as their hearthstones.
While considered little more than gypsies by most places they’d traveled to until settling in the Americas, they had turned away from Catholicism along the way, choosing to follow the Inquisition instead. His mother had, in fact, been a member of the Eye before deciding to take an extended sabbatical to raise her child, a son. Male Tieflings were exceptionally rare, typically kept away from prying eyes. Which explained why they were hidden away in the white capped mountains of the Colorado Rockies. His father had fought and died for the Inquisition as a member of the Black Hand, and while Cenere had been offered tuition as an Inquisitor, he turned it down. His mother supported his decision, as the boy had an incredible talent when it came to music and a voice that affected everyone that heard it, some saying his voice had an aetheric quality to it.
He muffled his laughter as he watched his mother pass by his location twice, her hooved feet sinking into the deep snow almost to mid-thigh, as she listened intently for childish laughter. Cenere popped out of his hidey-hole and took off running for the house, squealing gaily as he tried to outrun his mother back to the house. She caught him, of course, and the two rolled in the snow, giggling as she helped him to his feet and then led her eight-year-old son back to the house. As they approached, Cenere noticed that the door was wide open. His mother did as well and pushed her son behind her as she silently strode over to the door and withdrew a long, thin knife. She crept into the house, gesturing for her son to stay where he was.
Several moments later, there were loud gunshots, a masculine scream of pain, and a loud thump inside the house. He bolted into the house, and saw his mother slumped in a corner, covered in her own blood and clutching the gold pendant to her chest as she pressed the talisman into a bleeding gunshot wound just above her heart. Cenere screamed as he ran forward, begging her not to die. She coughed, a red spray of blood and spittle hitting him in the face as she smiled at him, then placed the pendant around his neck with shaking hands, whispering that she loved him as the light left her eyes. Cenere screamed in heart wrenching sorrow, his song causing a massive avalanche that buried the other gunmen that had come to take out the “unclean” Satanists who had taken up refuge on the mountain.
∞∞∞
Cenere’s face stung as he registered the slap that had brought him out of his nightmare and wished that it hadn’t. Tied to posts in front of him were his friends, all unconscious. He looked around and saw a nine-pointed star etched into the concrete floor of the room they were in, with torches being held by four liches. Noxious fumes rose out of the cauldron in the center of the summoning circle near their feet as the four liches chanted in Abyssal. He knew that they were performing a ritual and his blood chilled as he realized that the vast number of cannon-fodder his group had killed were, in actuality, sacrifices. He struggled against his bonds and alerted the liches to the fact that their captive was awake. He bit down onto his gag as they stepped forward, the robed one drawing an obsidian knife.
“Did you know,” the General lifted Cenere’s chin to force him to meet his red gaze, “that the primitives who once called this temple their home performed heathen sacrifices to their dead gods? That the blood, sweat, and willing deaths of their citizens caused a darkness to fill this temple, and make it a prime location to perform a planar-rending ritual that will open a permanent portal to the Abyss? Of course, it couldn’t have been possible without all your help. Ending so many existences and spilling negative energy here by the thousands of liters? Indispensable.
“We’d worried that doing it ourselves would have ruined the ritual. And, in addition, we couldn’t have done it without you specifically. The last ingredient, the blood of a male tiefling, would have been nearly impossible to procure on our own. Our agents that tracked you down in the Rockies…rather, your mother, all those years ago…we’d nearly had you. Then came the avalanche and your rescue by your Church.” The general spat the last word like a vile epithet.
“We’d given up hope that we’d be able to perform the ritual and decided to make do with what we had available. So, you can imagine our surprise when your plane appeared in our airspace and, lo and behold, a male tiefling. Granted, your mother had been the one we were after, as she knew the location of a complete copy of the Libro Verborum Tenebris, but she decided to fight our people. And, when you were threatened as leverage, she sacrificed herself to save you. No matter. Your blood shall allow this world to fall.”
The lich placed the blade against Cenere’s jugular as he pulled away the gag. “Any last words?”
“Splash,” came a voice from the other end of the room as a brown paper bag flew through the air and landed in the cauldron. It started to bubble out of control and then the cast iron cauldron exploded. The bang made the lich lose his footing and drop the sacrificial dagger. The faint scent of excrement filled the air as a green flame flickered into being, lighting a black licorice flavored cigarette as Carl stepped out of the darkness, grinning like a madman as his red eyes glowed in the fire light. He raised his arm and his gun rang out, hitting the Colonel in the forehead with a disruptor round; his body to crumbled to dust.
The General snarled with rage as he realized what had been in the bag, and hastily cast a spell of invisibility. Meanwhile, Zeke had awoken and was frantically struggling against his bonds, which gave way with a final snap. The others had also awoken
and watched as Carl whipped his baton across the Doctor’s face, caving in a large portion of his skull before driving his flaming hand into the lich’s chest and setting him ablaze as the doctor screamed in impotent fury. Frau Stitcher shrieked with rage and ordered the makeshift ettin to go ‘play’ with Carl and the others while Zeke frantically freed Jin.
∞∞∞
“You can’t be serious!” Lucifer shouted ecstatically at his Helevision screen, shoveling popcorn into his mouth as he used Stalin as a foot rest. “He threw a bag of his own shit into the cauldron? Who had ‘shit in the cauldron’ as the way Carl would fuck up the ritual?” Lucifer asked Asmodeus’ severed head as he floated about in his fishbowl. The head sighed, looked up at the chalkboard, and mouthed the answer to him. “Well, of course Baal said that. Who else? Mephi-boy? Should have figured he’d have won the pool.”
The Archduke of Caina smirked and bowed his head to the Lord and Master of Hell, Lucifer.
“Well, Hell, hookers and blow for everyone! Oh, and you won, so enjoy your week off.” Lucifer stood and cracked his back before he skipped over to Mephistopheles, gave him a boop on the nose, and then pranced off to go give Hitler his afternoon pineapple suppository. Lucifer might not have been a fan of Sandler’s most recent pictures, but he had enjoyed Little Nicky immensely. Not surprisingly, Hitler had not.
Mephistopheles grinned as he made his way back up to his frozen home to pack his bags for a nice, long week on Earth. He planned on going native in Vegas for a few days before hopping into the conflicts in Southeast Asia. Burma was bloody this time of year, he thought with sadistic glee as he threw on a glamor to look like a regular tiefling. Being the patron Archdevil of the tiefling race, he didn’t want to get mobbed when planeside. As he made his way to the authorized terminal, he cracked his neck and threw his luggage into the gate first, then swan-dove into the portal that would lead him to a week of blissful relaxation. It was going to be a great week.
