Devil's Gambit

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  I stabbed behind with my dusack but made no contact. Something bit down hard on my injured scalp. I flailed my wakizashi in its direction and it stopped.

  I caught glimpses of its plaster-white flesh and unnaturally black eyes but couldn’t see it clearly. It kept moving. Teleporting, or whatever it was doing with this In Between nonsense that Duer was on about. How could I anticipate where it was going next? It could go anywhere, it seemed. And faster than I could react. I felt blood coating my outer-thigh and on the side of my head.

  A blow to the back of my head sent me reeling and my vision shook. I tried to lift myself off the ground but could only manage rolling out of the way, narrowly avoiding the creeper landing just where I was. I stabbed in a random direction. Made no contact. Felt something skewer my shoulder.

  I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want Ndlovu coming out and risking her neck. If someone was to die, it should only be me.

  The creature disappeared and I felt a temporary relief. That was broken as I saw it on the roof above me, its head craned down, staring without any hint of human emotion. Passionless. Unfeeling.

  I lifted both my swords up above me. My hands shivered as exhaustion and pain wracked my body.

  It disappeared, and I closed my eyes.

  An intense heat emanated from me and I opened my eyes. I was on fire. Well, not me. But my coat, at least. I was still lying down, and an inferno that felt as pleasantly warm as a campfire was bursting out from my salamander coat. It now looked like the beast I’d killed to get it. More than that. It was unleashing an inferno far deadlier than anything that lizard had put out. I felt that the fire should have scorched me to a crisp, yet I felt only an agreeable warmth within the coat.

  The fire abated and I stood up, slowly. Dark red was spreading through my jeans and I felt pain in my shoulder where the thing had tried to pierce through my armour. It didn’t feel stabbed, though. Just bruised. All in all, I was in better shape than the monster.

  “Duer said it couldn’t die,” I rasped between panting. My vision blurred.

  “Duer is often wrong.”

  The creep was an emaciated burnt crisp. A black skeleton that could have been excused as a modern art exhibit.

  “Seems this coat is useful after all.”

  “Kat…”

  I was about to ask why he sounded so frightened and then I collapsed.

  Chapter 15.

  Morning Light

  I woke up where I’d fallen, only moments later. Feverish. In intense pain. But I knew I had to get up. So, I did. I’d let myself recover later.

  The burnt-out husk of the creature from the In Between was gone without a trace. Seems Duer was right. They couldn’t die.

  The sun was beating down hard through the cracks of the apartment building and its neighbouring towers. It was blessedly daytime and the creature, or creatures, would give me a breather. As I stood, I winced at the pain in my thigh, my shoulder, my scalp. Everywhere.

  “You need to rest,” Treth begged. I pulled myself along the handrailing of the stairway. Down, down, down onto street level.

  “Someone wants me dead,” I rasped.

  “Don’t help them then.”

  I didn’t know if he felt my pain, but he should detect my anxiety.

  I passed Mrs Ndlovu’s residence. Her lights were off. I remembered that it was Sunday. Mrs Ndlovu would be sleeping in. Then, who was it that I heard?

  I felt a cold chill mix with the pain. I’d been tricked so easily by the creature. I’d have to be careful. But what if it really had been Mrs Ndlovu? I shivered. I didn’t want to think about it.

  I got to the bottom floor of my building and noticed that I’d spilt blood all over the handrailing. My shoulder was bleeding, dripping blood from my arm, to my hand. It was now all over the usually white painted metal handrailings. I hoped Mrs Ndlovu wouldn’t be too mad. I’d clean it up when I was better. When this was finished. I had a lot of cleaning up to do after this was done.

  For now, I needed help. And if these creatures were of the demonic variety, there was only one person I’d trust. Said person would also be able to heal my wounds, and better yet, remove the curse.

  I limped my way to the top of my street where, by a new art-shop, there was a very old payphone. Practically ancient. I hoped it would work. My cell was still fried. I gripped onto the side of the payphone booth, breathed heavily to stave off the pain, and fished in my pocket for coins. I had a few. They weren’t dollars. Only digital transactions (which most were) used dollars in Hope City. For physical transactions, people still used the old Rands, from when this was still Cape Town, and still South Africa. I inserted a few coins, not counting, and then dialled Cindy’s number. At least what I thought was her number. It was miraculous the clarity that trauma could bring. Through the heat of agony, I could remember things I normally never could.

  “Hello?” Cindy groaned. She sounded hungover. I’m sure most of the attendees of my party last night were, at least a little.

  “Cindy,” I rasped, meekly. My vision blurred at the exertion of speaking. I was looking down, resting my head on the payphone. My jeans were dark with blood.

  “Kat?” Cindy’s voice cleared up immediately. “Where are you? What has happened?”

  “Corner…of…my…”

  I almost ripped the phone off the hook as I collapsed. I saw black.

  ***

  I’d like to say that I fought through the pain and exhaustion, and that I stoically found help myself. But this is not that sort of story. I lay prostrate on the ground, on a Sunday morning, on a street where nobody helped me. I awoke in Cindy’s car, lying on her backseat. I passed out moments later.

  When I woke up again, Cindy was above me, her forehead creased, skin pale and hands glowing gold. I felt an intense warmth on my thigh and only the echo of pain on my scalp and shoulder. I felt epochs better, but Cindy looked like she was on the verge of being undead.

  “Cindy,” I acknowledged, my voice still weak. My throat was dry.

  “Don’t move,” she said. Her voice was still strong, despite the sickly pallor to her skin and the hollowness of her eyes. This magic must be taking a lot out of her. It would. Healing mages normally only stopped someone from dying and then let the body and medicine heal the rest. Cindy was going further. She was helping me recover fully.

  “Stop,” I managed to croak out. “You’re killing yourself.”

  Cindy did stop, but only after there was no more pain and only its memory.

  I sat up, and she sat down, sinking into an armchair. I was in a place I didn’t recognise. It must be Cindy’s home. It was utilitarian. Soft colours. Very few decorations. Nothing gaudy. The only hint of extravagance was a wall covered in photographs and another covered in spell glyphs.

  Cindy rubbed her temples and then looked at me. I was sitting on a medical bed in her living room. Odd as that may be, it somehow fit into the room.

  “What happened?” Cindy asked, simply.

  “Duer, the pixie, said I’ve been cursed.”

  “I detected a curse. What form did it take?”

  “A creature. A creepy white thing that was stuck to my window but couldn’t enter without an invitation. Duer said it came from the In Between, whatever that is.”

  “The In Between?” Cindy pondered. She glanced at the photos and I saw a hint of sadness, for just a moment. “This creature. Did it move faster than you could see?”

  “Yes. Do you know what it is?”

  Cindy nodded, grimly. “I do. We called them void-creeps. Or just creeps. They infest the realm between realms. The half-world. What many call the In Between and others call the Void. Yet, they come from another realm. A demonic plane called the Undying Woods. A realm of endless darkness and innumerable dead trees that were never alive in the first place. It is home to a wind that emanates from nowhere and only serves to lead its victims into eternal travel and torment.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, rubbing my thigh. I
felt the tingle of new flesh, but no more pain.

  “Because, I went there.”

  “Went there?” I asked, dully. Can’t blame me. No Earth-born human had left Earth and returned. Much less one that had survived a demonic realm.

  She nodded. “Only for a moment, but it was enough. There, I found the dreadful scenes of the battle-dead, strewn across the black and husky soil, frozen in the throes of the trauma that had caused them to have their souls flung to such a place. Many were from realms of which we have no knowledge. Others were more recognisable. Those wearing the bloodied French and German uniforms of Verdun, emaciated figures from the gas chambers of 20th century Europe, the war-weary and crushed spirits of Stalingrad and the ancient yet still suffering souls of Marathon. They were frozen in time, yet still forced to suffer every waking moment of their demise.”

  “How…how did you escape?”

  “The man with many names. I called him Tom.”

  I looked at the photos more carefully, and saw a bearded man wearing a bright-orange duster. The Flame Viking, the Spell-Axe, the Skin-Walker. Tom.

  “You’ve been cursed with a demon homing beacon. The creatures of the In Between, who have fed so long on the trauma of warriors, will hunt you in the darkness…until you are no more.”

  Cindy said this with a sense of resignation. If Cindy was giving up, what hope did I have?

  “You can remove the curse, right? A purification?”

  She shook her head. “I cannot. This isn’t some spurious curse flung by an uppity corruption mage. Someone got your blood and your true name.”

  My vision blurred, and my heart threatened to pound out of my chest.

  My true name?

  True names were the last defence of a mortal from magical destruction. They were the most closely guarded secret of any person. If someone knew my true name, they were practically holding a loaded gun to my head. Worse!

  “But, you aren’t defenceless against the creeps,” Cindy said, and stood up so suddenly that I almost jumped. She disappeared out of the room and then returned.

  “I saw that Brett is teaching you how to shoot.”

  She handed me a small wooden box. I accepted it and flipped open the lid to reveal an old-fashioned pistol, with a varnished wooden handle and deep-black metal finish. The pistol was linked to a silver chain, draped across the wood-chip supports within the box. Its barrel was long, jutting from a small box internal magazine. I recognised it from some old war game I’d played with Trudie. I wasn’t a military historian, but I could approximate the era. End of the 19th century or early 20th century.

  “World War One?”

  “Just over a decade out. Boer War. The second. It is a C96 Mauser Pistol. Its official designation is the Die Weltreisepistole des Dreiunddreißigsten Reiches. But call it Voidshot.”

  I examined the weapon closely. German was stamped on the side of the body. I only understood the date. 1896. Three years before the start of the Second Boer War.

  “This weapon found itself in South Africa, so far from home, in a time of bleak turmoil and violence. It became a part of this violence, as such was its function. So much so, that it was imprinted onto the Undying Woods. As warriors find themselves doomed to forever lie dying in that dark world, so do their weapons. This weapon, however, escaped. It travelled with us through the In Between and returned to Earth. After that, it gained an unusual ability. It could fire its rounds, no matter how previously conventional, through the realm between realms – damaging those who were hit. Usually, the residents of the void know no fear of our conventional weapons. The pain and suffering of Earth cannot follow them into their dimension. But, bullets fired from this gun can.”

  I examined the weapon closer. It looked normal to me. I gripped the broomstick handle.

  “I don’t have my license yet,” I said.

  “Since when has the law ever stopped you?” Cindy said, the hint of a smile on her lips.

  I stood up and Cindy passed me a leather holster. I attached it to the back of my belt, where my coat would conceal it.

  Cindy handed me a stripper-clip filled with silver tipped bullets. I accepted it and she showed me how to load. I holstered the pistol and attached its chain to my belt. Hopefully, I would be able to draw it in time. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

  “Thanks, Cindy,” I said. “For everything.”

  “Survive, Kat. That’s all I ask. They are compelled by a master to hunt you. Slay the one who placed the curse and the creeps will lose interest. “

  I nodded. I knew what I had to do.

  Chapter 16.

  Faith

  One would expect a full parking lot near a church on a Sunday morning. Not in Hope City. Christianity had taken a knock worldwide since the Cataclysm. In Europe and South America, it still survived through an evolution of its key functions (turning to purification, the pursuit of magic and the understanding of the Seraphim), but the traditionalists of Southern Africa couldn’t keep up with the times. As people flocked to the Titan Cult and secularity, the Church suffered.

  As I stood outside the thick double doors of this old chapel, I could not help but feel intense discomfort. I had not set foot inside a church since my parents died. Struggled to subscribe to the same world vision after that. Few could.

  I took a deep breath, smelling the morning moisture and the wood varnish from the door. At least I was moving around. Cindy had expended a lot of her spark to heal me up, so I could pursue my curser. It meant she couldn’t aid me, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I cricked my neck and pushed both doors open. A gust of wind from inside sent my coat aflutter.

  The church was empty. No congregants. Yet, it was not in ill-repair. Every pew looked freshly waxed, every stained glass window dusted and every candle lit. There was not a soul in sight. I hoped that the man I was looking for still worked here. It had been a while. But it was my only lead.

  I took a seat in the second row from the altar and looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary. I couldn’t help but grimace. I’d been a good Catholic girl for eight years. Now? Religion and I didn’t get along. Try going through what I’ve gone through and seeing what I’ve seen and maintaining a good relationship with faith.

  I sat quietly for quite a while. Treth was silent, examining the room. I wondered if the chapels on his world looked anything like this.

  Finally, a door opened in front, and a man wearing a black priest blazer and white clerical collar appeared. He was old. Greying everywhere he could grey. He had been old when I saw him last. And that was an age ago.

  The priest was reading from a book while walking but did a double-take when he saw me. It must not have only been that he wasn’t expecting company in this society that was bored of church. I must have been quite the sight, with a quarter of my hair shaved away, my scalp stitched up, wearing a flaming orange coat, with the pommels of two swords sticking up from my backpack.

  “Child,” he said, with the croak of age. “How can I help you?”

  Child? I thought the scars made me look at least a bit older.

  “Father Digby,” I said. “You may not remember me, but my family used to come here for mass.”

  He squinted at me, deep in thought. I recognised the look. It was the same one he had when answering questions when my family and I came here. He hadn’t seemed to have changed a bit.

  “Drummond?” He asked.

  I nodded. So, he remembered me.

  He nodded, satisfied. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

  I felt an uncomfortable sensation. I didn’t like him mentioning my mother.

  “Father, I sadly don’t have a lot of time. I have some questions.”

  He sat down at the end of the pew and looked at me. Worry lines criss-crossed his already wrinkled forehead.

  “Of course. Speak, child. Once a part of my congregation, always a part. I have missed your family during my sermons. I am so sorry about what happened to them. A dreadful thing to happ
en to a child.”

  Yes, dreadful.

  “Father, you know my true name. Correct?” I ignored his statements.

  A look of brief shock. He didn’t expect that question.

  “Yes…yes. Your parents wanted you christened in the manner set forth by Pope John Paul II in 1998. Children of the Church were to be granted their true names with an ordained minister as witness. I do recall your name. But I will not utter it.”

  “Thank you, Father. I appreciate the silence in this regard. But it may be too late. Someone, or something, has gained knowledge of my true name. As my parents are dead, you are the only other person with knowledge of my true name.”

  “I would never use your name to do you harm,” he said. His tone was sincere,but I was in a mistrustful mood. But I had to keep acting civilly. As much as it hurt me to do so.

  “Slow and steady,” Treth said. “I know you’re anxious. But we’re close.”

  Treth always knew when he needed to remind me to behave. Was almost irksome.

  “Do you believe in God, Ms Drummond?” Father Digby asked suddenly.

  I considered the question, initially shocked, but then shook my head.

  “I believe in gods, but not God.”

  He looked disappointed as he stood up and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “A pity. But to be expected. Very few youth of this Cataclysmic age have faith. Why look towards the heavens when the marvels are here on Earth?”

  That wasn’t my reasoning, but I let him continue.

  “One would think that magic and its wonder would be testament enough to God’s miracles. Let alone the existence of his adversaries and servants.”

  “The Seraphim have rejected their allegiance to a god,” I said. It was a well-known fact. The Archangel Michael of the Seraphim, when conversing with the current Pope Gabriel I, stated that the angelic hosts followed each other’s wills and their own. They had no knowledge of a greater power.”

  “Many reject God’s role on Earth. The angels have revealed themselves to be as ignorant as we are of these matters. Immortality, disappointingly, does not bring wisdom. There may be a God that created both the Seraphim and us. But like us, the angels do not know. They are blind to truth and can only be saved by faith.”