by Ryan Attard
The sky was blue. Nope, not the pretty landscape sort. This was dark and oppressing, and hurt to look at. I guess ultraviolet isn’t as annoying to demons as it is to humans.
The air tasted heavy, as if someone had vaporized iron and made it breathable.
Berphomet grunted.
“Where is not as important as whom does this land belong to,” Berphomet said.
I shrugged. “And who is that?”
Berphomet suddenly whipped out his gun and fired. I flinched and hopped off the ground. Ready to yell, I then saw the egg-shell-white snake dead at my feet, its fangs bared and poised to strike me. Bright orange venom dripped from the snake’s dead still-open mouth.
A wail of agony and rage echoed all around us.
The sand roiled and rumbled, exploding at various points. Entire nests of snakes erupted from beneath our feet.
Berphomet and I found ourselves back to back, watching the ever-growing mass of hissing, writhing serpents.
“Who daresss approassshhh my domain?”
The voice came from a shadow that came to life from behind one of the larger columns.
Think of the largest snake you’ve ever seen, then triple that. Then triple it again.
No, no, that still wouldn’t be accurate.
Think of a bus. Sitting on top of a tank. That’s how thick this snake was. You could have fit two of me standing on top of each other.
The top half was humanoid with a torso that matched the same white-and-wisteria scale pattern. Six arms emerged from where the ribs should have been, each tipped with venom-dripping claws.
The demon’s head was vaguely feminine, with angular features, a wide mouth, emerald-colored slits for eyes, and a darting forked tongue that looked like a swollen eggplant split in two. A cobra’s hood covered its ears, bleach white and slightly crystalline.
“Mortal,” it hissed. The tongue darted forwards again and the colossal demon slithered forwards. “And you.”
Berphomet sighed next to me and holstered his gun. “We mean no harm, Kulshedra.”
“You are early.”
“I am.”
“You failed.”
“It’s only a temporary setback.”
I watched as the giant snake lady opened her mouth, revealing a maw of teeth and fangs, poison bubbling inside, and huffed at Berphomet.
I looked from him to Kulshedra, confused.
“Wait, you two know each other?” I asked.
“Yes,” Berphomet said, with about as much enthusiasm as someone going for a colonoscopy. “We share a… familial bond.”
“One he isss very assshhhamed of,” Kulshedra said.
Berphomet brayed again in frustration. “Erik Ashendale, this is Kulshedra, the Fanged Vengeance.” His nostrils flared. “And also my aunt.”
It took me a second to digest all that.
Actually, I think I did way too much digesting, because I fell to my knees and laughed.
Full laughter too. Face-in-the-sand, arms-around-my-stomach, tears-down-my-eyes, can-barely-breathe laughter.
I didn’t even care about the snakes. I laughed, my face inches from their own.
“Thisss isss most unusssual,” Kulshedra remarked. “The mortal isss not afraid.”
“This particular one is defective,” Berphomet said. “However, he is linked to my quarry.”
“Berphomet,” Kulshedra said, “you knowsss very well thatsss you cannot bring your worksss to our home.”
“I did not,” Berphomet protested. “At least not intentionally.”
Kulshedra hissed again, before I realized she was laughing, too. “You have been outsssmarted by a human.”
“Will you let us through or not?” Berphomet snapped. “I must find the Sage to restock my trans-dimensional device once again.”
Kulshedra uncoiled. She slammed a hand on either side of me and leaned close. Her purple tongue flicked over me.
“Yesss. I can tassste the power in you, mortalsss.” She coiled on herself again and addressed Berphomet. “The General will wantsss him. He comesss now.”
Right on cue a trumpet resonated, cutting through the hissing of the snakes. Rays of light cut through the atmosphere, forming pools of sunlight. From these pools emerged tall human-shaped demons with no face, backward-jointed legs, and hands twisted into a single forward-curved claw.
Asmodaii. Hell’s foot soldiers.
And wherever there were soldiers, there was going to be a leader.
He emerged from behind Kulshedra: a centaur-like creature, with the lower half of a horse, the top half of a mangled corpse. Bones and joints jutted out. His four arms carried a pair of rusty and chipped longswords in the lower pair, while the top two held onto a magnificent gleaming golden trumpet that was attached around his neck with a length of rope. Mythology had classified this type of demon as a Nucklavee, but I knew this one in particular.
Paimon. General of Hell. The rallying call behind every bloody massacre and conflict in Hell’s macabre history.
He clomped all the way to me, and trust me, one look at his corpse head, with its dark eyes and crown of thorns, and the laughter was all gone.
“Didn’t I kill you last time?” I spat.
Paimon chuckled.
“You killed a demon in Hell,” he said. “Did you not think we re-spawned, given enough time?”
“Oh good,” I said. “You should change your name to Herpes.”
“You jest.”
“Would you prefer I fight?” I said, hefting Djinn.
It was a bluff, of course.
First, there was the numbers issue. I was up against Paimon, a shit-ton of Asmodaii, Kulshedra the big-ass snake and her living mass of venomous bastards, and maybe even Berphomet.
Issue the Second: Hell did not agree with humans. At least not in my current form. The atmosphere here was different, and with every breath I became weaker.
Worse still, I felt like I was losing control, as if a voice in my head was telling me to let go and just give in. I had no idea what happened after I did give in, but I sure as shit didn’t want to find out. That type of power was usually irreversible. It damaged the very fabric of your soul, the thing that made you you.
So, no, thanks.
Paimon recognized my bluff for what it was. To be fair, a six-year-old could have done that.
“I seek not to harm you,” he said. “Rather, I am but a seneschal to one with a higher purpose. A general following a king.”
“That so?” I said.
“Yes,” Paimon said. “And I offer you my army, provided you are who my King says you are.”
“Who’s your King?” I asked. “Greede?”
Paimon threw his head back and laughed. “No. We serve one with higher power, and infinite divinity.”
My mind flashed back to Greede’s visit in my cell. I remembered his companion, the creature that scared the shit out of both me and Greede himself.
“Azazel,” I said.
Paimon cocked his head, while Kulshedra and Berphomet recoiled backwards.
“We do not utter his name,” Paimon said. “But you are correct. We serve the One.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said. “Not him, not Neo, no Ones for Erik.”
“But you are the Knightmare,” Paimon said.
Berphomet glared at me. An instant later I was staring at the barrel of his gun. Most of the Asmodaii turned, ready to leap to my defense.
“I’m not,” I said.
“If you are, you will die,” Berphomet said.
“If you are, we will serve you,” Paimon said.
“You must choose,” Berphomet said. “Are you the Knightmare or are you not?”
“Yes,” Paimon insisted. “Choose now, Erik Ashendale.”
My head hurt. Power pulsated painfully. All eyes were on me and I was truly fucked.
If I said I wasn’t the Knightmare, then Paimon and his cronies would kill me. If I did, then Berphomet would kill me.
Either way, I was de
ad.
I needed a way out.
Yeah, sure, Erik, who’s gonna take your side in Hell…
“Wait,” I said. “You are both right. I don’t know who I am, but there is someone who does. Someone who has seen inside me before, and will do so again.”
I looked first Paimon, then Berphomet in the eyes.
“Take me to Astaroth.”
Chapter 22
We were a weird bunch. A demonic centaur-looking corpse creature leading an army of Asmodaii, a giant serpent lady trailed by a living writhing wave of snakes, Berphomet the goat-boy assassin, whose hands never strayed too far from the revolvers strapped to either hip, and finally me, the human wizard who might or might not also be a demonic serial killer.
And we were all on our way to see Amaymon’s brother, Astaroth, the guy who made his other two siblings seem very well-adjusted by comparison.
I’ll take disturbing Wizard of Oz reenactments for ten points, please.
The entire time, my mind was racing to try and find a way out of my situation.
I was trapped in Hell with no way out. (My fault. I didn’t think my plan through.)
Berphomet wanted to kill the Knightmare, while Paimon wanted to serve him. And they both had reason to believe I was the Knightmare.
(Kulshedra was just coming along because she was bored.)
Oppressive heat greeted us, marking our arrival. Traveling in Hell was not a question of distance and time. You could get anywhere by just willing yourself there.
Getting out, now that was the real issue.
Astaroth’s land was the same as I remembered it: scorched earth, barren and covered with ash. Ahead was a small palace, like what the Disney castle might look like as a child’s drawing, but rather than the picturesque Fantasia-inspired colors, it was all gray stone the color of ash, and a dried-up moat around it, the bottom of which glowed with dying embers.
We stopped at the door, which seemed like an almost too-polite thing to do for demons, until I remembered that Paimon had invaded this place when I had been a ghost hidden here for safety. Long story short, the general had got his ass handed to him (most of it by me), and then everything had gone up in literal flames when someone had ripped one of Astaroth’s sock puppets.
No, you’re not going crazy. The guy had actual sock puppets that he communicated with. Sad thing was, he was saner with them than without.
And this was the guy I was pinning all of my hopes on.
Blue fire exploded from around the moat, rising high towards the sky. The castle blazed, and the iron doors glowed hot before being thrown open.
From within, a massive army of small fox-like creatures (all on fire) rushed out, and stopped just short of us. One of them yipped at the edge of my coat, further scorching the leather.
Astaroth himself walked out, clumsily shuffling out without a care in the world. His teal skin caught the glow of the flames. The four tiny horns jutting out of his temples looked ridiculous compared to the massive pair of spectacles he wore on his face which magnified his yellow feline eyes to the size of saucers. As usual, his feet were barren, and it seemed that he’d forgotten to wear pants on this occasion. Thank God he had remembered the underwear, a striped pair of billowing boxers. His shirt had the words Foxes are Fun in giant bubble font, while his heavily-stained lab coat flapped in the breeze generated by the roaring flames.
Astaroth looked at the fire, then back at us, and said something inaudible over the roar. He glanced at the fire again. Then, as if figuring out the problem, he snapped his fingers (he had mercifully left his sock puppets inside) and the flames died out.
The fox creatures, or kitsune as they are known, backed away.
Astaroth looked at me and grinned like a big idiot. Two seconds later I was being hugged by the demon.
“Erik!” he yelled happily in my ear. “You came back to see me. Did you lose your soul again?” He tapped my cheeks as if examining a cut of beef. “No, still there. Oh, but something else is there, too.”
“Heya, Astaroth,” I said, taken slightly aback by his last comment. “Good to see you again. How’s everyone?”
“Orange is fine,” he replied. “Black is still sore from last night’s concerto. What a fine voice he has.”
Orange and Black were the two sock puppets he always carried around with him. Each seemed to have its own personality, with Orange being a sarcastic, murderous asshole, and Black speaking solely in quotes from the song Crazy by Britney Spears.
Before I could say anything (like “thank Christ for that”), Astaroth was already prancing toward the other demons.
He stopped dead in front of Berphomet and cocked his head. Then he sniffed the goat assassin. Berphomet reached for one of his guns but Astaroth lost interest and whipped his head so fast, his white ponytail smacked Berphomet in the face.
“Horsie!”
Astaroth skipped towards Paimon.
“Look, Erik, Horsie is back,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and pouting. “Are you here to be naughty again?”
“No,” Paimon hissed. I swear the general was recoiling from Astaroth. “We are here for answers.”
“Answers? But you haven’t asked any questions.” Astaroth grabbed one of the Asmodaii. “Did you hear him ask anything?”
The demonic foot soldier stayed silent. Mostly because it didn’t have a mouth.
Astaroth shook the demonic soldier. “I think this one is broken.”
He shook it some more until a sharp crack echoed and the soldier fell dead on the ground, its neck askew.
“Whoopsie,” Astaroth told Paimon. “No worries—I can fix him.”
“It matters not,” Paimon said. “I have several thousand more.”
“Thisss one isss fasssinating,” Kulshedra quipped. “Sssuchhh insssanity.”
One of the kitsune yipped at a snake that had ventured too far towards the castle. The snake reared up, hissing and exposing its fangs. The kitsune surrounded it and pounced, tearing it to shreds.
“Hey, lady,” Astaroth said, waving a threatening finger at her. He would have looked impressive if he had been wearing pants. “Snakes belong in a jar. Or in tea. Have you ever had snake tea? It’s positively delissshhhiousss.”
Kulshedra reared up. “It mocksss me.”
“Perhaps we should get back to the task at hand,” Berphomet suggested in a tone of voice that left no one with much choice.
Astaroth snapped his hand up in a salute.
“Yes, Sir, Goatie Sir.” He skipped towards me. “You seek answers? Come inside. I am craving snake tea now.” He pulled me in close. “But you alone, Erik. I don’t like the others. Goatie and Horsie are mean. And I kinda want to barbecue the snake lady.”
I nodded. “That’s fine with me, pal.” I turned to the others. “Wait here.”
Berphomet cocked his head. “No.”
“There’s only one exit, you paranoid fuck,” I shot back. Then I spread my arms. “And even if I did escape, where am I gonna go? I’m a mortal in Hell!”
Berphomet looked at me for a fraction longer than was comfortable.
“Are you safe with the demon?”
I raised my eyebrows. “About as safe as I am with you lot.”
“Not very much then.”
“Story of my life. Now shut up and let me find out if I have a serial killer inside me.”
“You tell him, Erik,” Astaroth cheered. “Woohoo. Snake tea!”
To my surprise, Astaroth did not lead me towards his laboratory. Last time I had been here, he had led me and my sister into a massive lab with a thousand living machines, all doing a myriad of chores, conducting experiments, massaging their owner, and basically redefining the term ‘cluster-fuck’.
This time however, Astaroth sat me down in front of a fireplace, on a faded, soot-covered armchair that was missing a cushion. I sank into this thing and tried to keep my balance, while he offered me a cup of green, foul-smelling tea that had a minuscule worm-like snake swimming in
side it.
Astaroth grabbed his own snake and slurped it up like a noodle.
“You want to know about the thing inside you.”
It wasn’t a question, merely a statement. But that wasn’t what scared me.
Gone was the joviality from his voice, the jokes and the comedy. Sitting across from me was Astaroth, the Forging Flame, demonic elemental of Fire. One of the most powerful primordial demons, one of the four elemental demons that had shaped Hell.
When I had been resurrected I had got a glimpse of Amaymon’s true power after centuries of having his powers locked away. To this day, I have no idea how strong he is. There was simply no measuring scale that was big enough.
And that was Amaymon after a hundred years of holding back.
I couldn’t imagine Astaroth’s ability, someone equally as powerful as my familiar, whilst in his home turf, and never having stopped developing his powers.
If he were ambitious, the demon sitting before me could just dominate Hell or scorch most of it to a cinder for shits and giggles, and there was fuck-all anyone could do about it.
So thank God for the sock puppets, I suppose.
“You knew,” I said. “About the darkness inside me.”
“Darknesses,” he said. “Plural. One good, one bad. Neither of them yours. Borrowed power, each at a price.”
“My curse,” I said. “Yeah, I already know about that.”
“But there is one more,” Astaroth said. “One that is new. One that came at the exact moment you died.” He clasped his hands together. “Splat!”
“Greede mentioned something like that,” I said. “So you knew as well.”
He nodded. “I saw it.” He traced a drawing on the wooden table, scorching a crude pictogram.
A spider.
No. A tick.
Bulbous body, six legs, pincer mouth.
Then I remembered, clear as day.
Dark Erik, the representation of my curse power in my subconscious, merging with a creature similar to this.
The first time I’d had a nightmare about the Knightmare. I had seen this tick-like creature looming over it, screaming the same words Dark Erik had said.
