“My hatred for this place has no bounds either. I despise it all,” he adds, raising an arm in a sweeping motion, with a flourish. “Every stinking, bloody inch.”
“Our Fiery Home?”
“Let it be someone else’s burden for a time,” he says. “These ancient legs need stretching. Time to shake off the ash of this miserable sewer and see something new.”
“But this is home, my prince,” says Kamala. “And we call you our god.”
Bald and thin, with long ghoulish ears, Kamala is a beauty among her fellow she-demons. Her tautly muscled arms contrast the soft flesh of her sagging breasts, the peak of each inch-long nipple made raw from overuse.
“You have no need to go anywhere,” she says. “At your command, you have everything you could possibly crave. Name your want and I shall fetch it and lay it at the tips of your hooves.”
Basil does not want to argue. He knows he can lie to her and say he simply wants to wander for a while, to acquaint himself with the filthy humans his people have been torturing from afar for as long as he can remember. Yet he has always found honesty to be the quickest cut. He will simply tell her he is bored—so bored, in fact, that if he were able he would have done himself in ages ago.
This terminal indifference has made him weak, exhausted. The weight of his cruelty in staving off one insurrection after another, of serving the penalty for his own sins, has made him a worthless leader.
He misses the comforts his vivid dreams have shown him—things he has never actually seen, tasted or experienced, as far as he knows, yet his unconscious mind feeds him visions so crisp, so stunning, he knows they must exist somewhere. Sun-drenched fields, rivers, trees, starlit skies, birds of every color—he knows these things by name, though he cannot explain how. He misses the up-close odors of an unwashed human woman who has given herself willingly, the magic of his skin against hers, the huff of her hot breath on his bearded neck. He imagines the softness of tilled earth and the raw coldness of snow, the taste of water from an unpolluted stream and the sense of pollen. Oddly, he misses bread and cheese, the simple way they plug his gut.
For too long his diet has been only meat, mostly raw and bloody.
They wander in shadow until Basil decides he is fit to be seen, until he can wait no longer. He steps fully into the firelight—all seven and a half feet of him—and the tongues of flame define his heavily muscled biceps and pectorals, the curve of his round belly, the spiral contours of his oversized ram horns. His smooth, black hooves gleam in the fiery glare, their tips as sharp as cleavers, honed by the red rock. He aches for a reprieve only soft earth can offer.
“I have called this place my prison for too long,” he says. “I can abide it no longer. I cannot imagine how you do either, how any of us do.”
Kamala says nothing in response, and Basil guesses she remains silent because she knows she has no say in the matter. Besides, she does not dare to insult her lord. Few do, and those who have …
Thick cloven hooves crack the red rock as Basil observes the kingdom he has built. Our Fiery Home belongs to him, in a way, but every other denizen may claim ownership too—a warzone fit for sharing. Demons skulk in the sanctuary of near darkness and seethe in penance as their lord passes. Each of them wants him dead, he knows, and before long he finds the proof he does not want.
An undersized demon throws a pebble that bounces off one of Basil’s horns—marbled and curved like a shofar. Basil turns to eye his cowardly assailant, who flees for the safety of the shadows. He deftly carves a two-ton boulder out of the wall and hurls it. The boulder crushes the Nameless demon into globs of green and red, and rolls to a stop against a stone column. Part of the roof caves in and blankets the antechamber in a fine, red dust. Earth shakes as its underworld settles.
Basil learned early into his reign that the seeds of mutiny cannot be permitted to take root, but he is tired of fighting to sustain a legacy built on malice and brutality. He bristles at the thought of breathing this noxious, stifling air for the rest of eternity—for even another stinking bout of sleeplessness. He despises the thankless demons and imps and ghouls. The idea of taking another meal from a bubbling pot filled with putrescent remains sickens him. He tires of the ever-present stench, so much like the stink of an unwashed anus. But mostly he hates the view, or lack thereof. He longs for peaceful colors and open spaces, for the shade of trees and the chirping of birds and moonlight and the wind whispering secrets into his ear—things he knows cannot be disregarded as myth.
“What about our home?” Kamala asks. “What becomes of it if you step away?”
“There is nothing to break or destroy. No more than I have, at least.”
“There will be chaos.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“It will be different this time. They will try to follow you.”
“No. They will try to flee. The Nameless will attempt to take their freedom, which is not theirs to take. Then, when they realize the fruitlessness of their toil, they will try to seize the reins. You will manage, I’m sure. Understand, Kamala: I don’t make this move recklessly. I must have a reprieve from this burden. Every moment passes with the urge to paint my hooves with vomit. You will suffer the same curse by the time I return. It’s the poison in this place.”
“Do you worry for me?”
“You have all the faith I can muster. You are the only one who has earned it, in fact.”
Basil stops to lean his forehead against a pane of brimstone. He rears back slowly, like the arm of a trebuchet, and then bangs his head into the soot-smoked rock until it spider-webs, crumbles and collapses into bits. A moment later he steps back to admire the twin indentations matching the outlines of his exquisite horns.
Kamala offers a sadistic smile, her usual countenance.
“What is it you ask of me? To succeed you, my prince?”
“Consider it a temporary promotion.”
Her smile deepens.
He knows she has been craving his power, as they all have. And he knows she will not want to relinquish control if he returns—when he returns, he reminds himself. Another problem for another day, he decides.
“You face an unpleasant task,” he tells her. “They will come for you. They will try to wrest the crown from your head, as if you had a crown to wear. Make the right allies, or have none at all. Seek the wisdom of the Council. Use the warlords to make war, to crush any uprisings. Kill whomever you must. Punish the rest, harshly, joyfully, without restraint.”
“All stick and no carrot, you say.”
“Precisely. I shall depart at my leisure.”
He knows he won’t return for some time, so he must make fresh memories of the things he will crave. He approaches a pyramid of wet dung, each of the ten or twelve turds just big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Likely from one of the outsized vampire bats that linger in the crevices above, he guesses. He picks up the nearest clump of guano and sniffs it to be sure—still moist, reeking of digested carrion. He cups the turd in his hands until it’s almost a perfect sphere and then brings it to his lips. He whispers the grammar for animation in Locuri, the ancient language of the underworld. He then returns the dung ball to its place on the cavern floor and gives it a gentle nudge. Nothing happens at first, but patience has its rewards. After a moment, the dung ball creeps forward—a cautious inch in one direction, two inches in another—and then rolls away on its own volition, sentient but stupid.
Basil smiles at his munificence for having breathed life into something as simple as a ball of shit. His thoughts then turn to satisfying another urge. He leads Kamala into his chamber, knowing he must make quick work of her. Her eyes grow wide as he takes her by the throat. Digging his talons into the flesh until the tips touch bone, he bends her over a scalding-hot stone. Her skin sizzles against the rock as he penetrates her, from behind—always from behind. He claws at her back and palms her naked skull as he reaches climax. As his semen sprays her scarred back, she reacts as if each drop mel
ts her flesh. He doubts his departure for the briefest of moments, considering how fond he has grown of the glorious pocket between Kamala’s legs.
“Do not disappoint me,” he growls as he releases her.
“Never, my liege,” she squeals. “Any other words of wisdom you offer I will gladly accept.”
“None more than I have already shared. Remember: They will seek to end you, because they know no better.”
“I expect it. I will crush every uprising.”
She does her best to hide her smile of undoing.
He turns and walks out of the chamber, past a legion of imps and demons and other creatures that have no place in a human world, all of which seem to know something strange—something exciting—is about to happen. With Kamala at his side, he passes beneath the outsized welcome sign, past the bubbling cauldrons, doing one final survey of his kingdom.
An imposing young demon, Gideon, emerges from the throngs. He kicks aside a quartet of playful imps and kneels before Basil.
“Your raiders have returned, Lord.”
“It’s about time.”
* * *
“Nothing will change,” Basil assures his masses. His booming words will echo through the subterranean realm for a full year. Kamala stands at his shoulder. “Kamala will lead you in my absence. Know this: I will be watching.”
The horde cheers at the prospect of the dark shepherd’s departure. Some demons have already begun to plot an overthrow. Of this Basil is certain.
He recalls a prior conversation held in the Hall of Ignoble and Prodigious Elders, where he sought the counsel of his closest advisers. The nine members of his Council of Unerring Wisdom were in agreement: Staging the abandonment of his throne and leaving it in the hands of another—a female, no less, meaning Kamala, his crafty administrator—was a poor idea indeed. The dynamics will change in his absence, they said. Chaos and murder will reign, they said. The underworld will forget him, they said. Life in Our Fiery Home will, quite simply, move on.
“The weight of the crown must always be felt, the lash of your whip endured,” Calvin, his most trusted adviser, told him. “One does not find himself in such a position because he is kind and forgiving. Your predecessors—”
“I am not interested in the folly of those who fell before me,” Basil snapped. “Do not take my exodus as an abdication. A break from here will benefit me—benefit us. Every leader must step away for a time to take the temperature of the world around him, to learn from those he considers his betters so he may lead his people more effectively.”
“But, sir, who could possibly be your better?” said Lubos, an uninvited guest, lurking in the doorway.
Lubos, the deceitful ghoul Basil had been considering turning to dust for as long as he could remember.
“If I may,” Lubos adds, “the title of ruler does not entitle its holder to the treasures of escape, of leisure.”
“Watch your tongue, beetle dung,” Basil told him. “You forget your place beneath my hoof.”
Basil studied the white scar that ran the length of Lubos’s lean body, the reminder of the day he was torn in two by a trio of mindless troglodytes. Even Basil could not fathom the depths of such agony, though he had let it happen and, in fact, had encouraged it. Yet Lubos had survived the ordeal, had endured the torture of having his halved body stitched back together, of having each nerve-rich organ stuffed back into its rightful place, however imperfectly, by a troupe of well-meaning imps. After Lubos recovered from the surgery, one of his hips sat higher than the other. As a result, he walked with a noticeable limp, and one arm drooped several inches lower than the other. Regardless, the war wounds seemed to have invigorated him. They somehow made him stronger, meaner, more sadistic.
“Forgive me, my liege. Surely you know what is best.” And then Lubos slithered from the chamber.
Basil mulls the idea of putting Lubos to death prior to his departure, and making sure every imp and every demon in every level of the underworld sees it. Lubos’s strength and enterprise are matched only by his love for atrocity and the depths of his deceit. Even now, Basil knows Lubos will be Kamala’s biggest problem. Kamala deserves a tranquil beginning to her temporary reign, if not relative peace for the duration of his absence. She will contend with mutinies and attempts on her life, but he wonders if she will have the capacity to fend off a revolt led by someone as charismatic as Lubos.
Basil chooses to let Lubos remain for no reason other than apathy. Besides, he considers, perhaps it will be better for Kamala to face a known devil than have a far worse fiend rise up in his place.
He tells his horde he will leave tomorrow, though underground there is no dividing line between days, only a gauzy separation between the moment a demon closes his eyes to sleep, if he sleeps, and the moment his eyes open. “Tomorrow” has no meaning other than “soon”. Red and blue fires burn without end, the corners forever alive with shadow.
“So tonight,” he says. “Tonight we feast!”
He grasps his sharpened pike by the length of shaft between two skulls—one human, the other a horned demon. He points the pike toward the back of the cavern, where a band of demons hoists an enormous wooden raft bearing twelve tusked elephants, six giraffes, three striped horses and dozens of naked humans, most of them female. The humans howl as their flesh melts away, dangling in fatty strips from their arms, legs and bellies.
Basil parts the crowd, trampling a few lesser demons in his haste, and strides toward the raft. As the raiding party scatters, the raft falls to the cavern floor and lands with a thunderous boom.
An elephant trumpets in horror at Basil’s approach, and then breaks free of its bonds. Basil seizes the elephant by its rear leg and slams the beast into the nearest wall. It thrashes pointlessly, and the thrashing soon turns to twitching, then stillness. He lifts the pachyderm’s head off the floor and slits the coarse flesh of its throat with his talon-tipped finger. He then slips both hands into the fresh wound and, with one twist, removes the elephant’s head. Male demons kneel before him to fill their mouths with the rain of spilled blood, suckling, as if it were milk from a giving teat.
He will not miss this place.
* * *
The cavern descends into frenzy as the horde makes quick work of the elephants, giraffes and zebras, deconstructing living bodies into strips of fatty meat. Demons drag the human females into shadowed corners, where unimaginable horrors await. Basil does not recall authorizing the kidnappings, merely the hunt for exotic game to fill their coffers with fresh flesh, but he knows it’s pointless to micromanage, to obsess over every detail. If not the humans, the demons would rape and maim each other. They have learned by following his example, after all. He pities the humans for the carnal nightmares they will suffer before they too become meat.
While the demons feast and sodomize their quarry, he begins the process of his silent escape. He pauses at the front of his chamber and eyes the walls, where he has carved or painted so many of his words with the slurry of ash and black blood. His chest swells with pride at the poetry of his mind, though he’s lost track of each poem’s meaning. He studies one of his favorites—“The villains come to plunder, the innocent come to bruise and bleed, the beautiful souls come to be set free”—and mutters the tercet twice before backing away.
He has nothing to take with him—no possessions. He has never left the sanctuary of this wicked kingdom, so he does not know how he should feel. Everything will be different above ground, beneath the sun, the moon and the open sky, rich with a million stars, or so he has been told. Fear of what he will find rises in his gut, and he chooses to ignore the emotion because no good can come of it.
Besides, nothing can keep him here for another tomorrow.
His hooves lead him toward the front of the cavern. He weaves between the rows of cauldrons bubbling with shit-meat, reaching out to touch the curved belly of each cauldron, if only to remember the sensation of hot iron on his fingertips. He bends to collect a bowl from the loose p
ile—a cratered skull, bleached and emptied of its gray matter—and dips it into the simmering slurry.
Though he knows he must leave, doubt weighs on his mind. His eyes wander to the darkened entrance of the Hall of Ignoble and Prodigious Elders, zeroing in on the grayish silhouette of a frail, broken-down demon. Damir.
Damir has never been shy about reminding Basil of his failures, whether or not Basil wanted to be reminded. Basil passes the fuming bowl to Damir, who holds it between two fleshy stumps where his hands had once been.
“So you’re actually going to do it,” Damir says. He chews on a malignant wart that has eaten away much of his lower lip. “You’re going to run away like a coward.”
Damir downs the slurry. Bits of meat cling to the stubble on his chin.
“You’re mistaken, old one,” Basil responds. “I’m embarking on a journey.”
“Weak, scared, running away—that’s more like it. You think wandering far enough and long enough will enable you to purge whatever poison’s muddying your mind. Then, once you’re all better, you’ll just come back here and walk through the front door like nothing ever happened, every problem solved. Your thinking’s all bat shit.”
“Tread lightly, Damir,” Basil says coolly.
“Why start now? This’ll be the last time I see your ugly mug anyway. Wait until you see what’s waiting for you topside. Ruthless savages—every last one of them.”
“I’ll tame that world like I’ve tamed this one.”
Damir cackles. His laughter turns to fitful coughing.
“Even if that were true, even if the humans don’t put a cudgel to every inch of your back, you’ll find nothing left for you if you come back this way.”
“I have faith in Kamala.”
“Shit for brains! She’ll have you turned inside out. You just had to make a show of your retreat. You just had to announce it to the world like a moron, like a dumb fool. You should’ve just slipped out the door and come back when you were good and ready. Every demon in this place has already forgotten you.”
Burn, Beautiful Soul Page 2
