The rest of us were not so lucky. A mob of imps forced the gryphon down in the midst of the last mangrove, Logistilla disappearing beneath the trees in a glow of pale greenish light. Not waiting for the roc to release him, Titus leapt forward—breaking off the sharp, curved tip of the roc’s talon when the collar of his enchanted garment would not give way. He charged toward Logistilla’s position, shouting the war cry of his mother’s Scottish clan: “Creag an Tuiric.”
“Blimey,” murmured Ulysses. “He’s determined! The poor roc. Doesn’t seem to be in pain, though. Hopefully, it was like ripping a fingernail.”
As for Erasmus and me, the first few imps that came near shriveled, withered, and evaporated, all except for a dark bit of writhing wormlike thing, apparently impervious to the ravages of time, that dropped to pitter-pat against the ground below. After that, the imps stayed back and tried to poke at us with the cruel barbs of their tridents. These I parried or sliced in two with my war fan. Only without my Lady to guide my blows, I felt slow and awkward, unsure when and where to swing. One trident slipped past me and jabbed Pegasus in the haunches. The flying horse reared. Erasmus held on to the mane, but I, who was not holding anything, tumbled off.
As I fell, I managed to catch the winged steed’s tail and cling to it with both hands. This kept me from falling, but the horse did not like it and kicked. My enchanted gown protected me from the sharpness of the hoof but not from its impact. The air was knocked from my lungs. I hung, gasping, my mouth moving like a fish’s. When the land beneath grew close enough I let go, curling into a ball to avoid another kick. I landed and rolled, then sat, battered and sore, until I regained my breath.
Titus came running toward us, Logistilla clinging to his back. Mephisto tapped his staff, and the magical beasts—the roc, the flying horse, the winged lion, and the harpy—vanished like a dream, the harpy still blowing kisses to a weary Gregor.
“Fall in!” Theo barked in his best “Major Prospero” voice.
Nine of us formed a circle back to back—our staves in our left hands and any weapon we carried in our right. Caliban and Mab, who had never fought with us before, stood to one side. Mab caught on and quickly muscled in beside me, but Caliban stood uncertainly until Mephisto grabbed his arm and pulled him into the ring.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the enemy. The green streaks of light hovering like wings behind my shoulder glittered. Beside me, Theo looked spectacular in his silvery titanium armor, which he wore over the enchanted gambeson Logistilla had quilted for him along ago. His breastplate of shining Urim gleamed so brightly in the gloom of Hell that it was hard to look at him. Some of the imps veered away, mistaking him for a warrior angel. Erasmus had done such an excellent job of fitting the armor to him that Theo now looked like his splendid self of old. No wonder he had asked for his old squire!
Since the others, except for Ulysses, wore their enchanted garments—all fashioned by Logistilla in centuries past—we resembled living versions of our statues in the Great Hall. Titus wore his MacLaren tartan kilt. Gregor’s dark, wavy hair brushed against the red half-cape that fell from the shoulders of his crimson cardinal’s robes. Logistilla, in her dark blue split-skirt garment with its enormous collar, looked every inch the fairy-tale villainess. Mephisto, garbed in his voluminous-sleeved shirt and matching pantaloons of indigo with his black vest and wide-brimmed boots, resembled a pirate or perhaps a circus ringmaster. Beside him, Erasmus wore the garments of a gentleman of the eighteenth century, dark green justacorps and even darker waistcoat, with matching breeches and a silver garter beneath each knee, while Cornelius wore his purple Orbis Suleimani robes, an eye emblazoned in a triangle upon his chest. A matching purple blindfold covered his eyes.
Ulysses, leaning upon his staff and playing with his slight mustache, wore a gray domino mask and tuxedo. Mab and Caliban also lacked the protection of enchanted garments. Mab slouched beside me in his trench coat and fedora, and Caliban was clad in ordinary jeans and a flannel shirt.
We looked glorious.
The imps dropped out of the sky—some directly atop us, others gathering in hordes before charging. Wherever they stabbed the ground, large pot-bellied demons with stinger tails and pitchforks as long as lances appeared out of nowhere. These new demons opened their mouths and blew icy cold winds, strong enough to lift a grown man off his feet. These were Focalor’s servants, not the dancing storm imps I knew from our sea battles, but servants of his, nonetheless.
Theo stabbed three of the imps that landed close at hand, followed by a pot-bellied demon. I slashed one of the latter across the chest, though it vanished again before I did it much harm, and Mab knocked two imps out of the air, bashing their wings with his lead pipe. Titus swung his thick length of cedar like a golf club, sending imps and demons spinning head over heels, and Erasmus withered all who came near him. Ulysses fired at the enemy with matching dueling pistols. They must have been enchanted, for he fired and fired, never once stopping to reload. His accuracy was astonishing, every shot piercing the brainpan of an imp or a demon. To his left, Caliban screamed like Tarzan and bashed skulls and leathery wings beneath his club, while Mephisto ducked behind him shouting instructions and encouragement.
The demons struck back, slingshotting their long flexible tails over our heads, their shiny stingers curling to strike our backs. Theo, Cornelius, Gregor, and I would all have been stung had it not been for the protection of our enchanted garments. The pitchforks, too, were turned aside by the magical cloth, but a barbed tine caught Erasmus’s unprotected hand, and another stabbed Caliban in the thigh, before he broke its shaft with a blow from his club.
Gregor pushed Cornelius into the middle of our ring, for with his staff out of commission he was useless in a fight. Once our blind brother was safe, Gregor stood poised, the Seal of Solomon glittering upon his finger, ready to slap any denizen of Hell who ventured too close. Those he touched shriveled up until they were the size of a pea. Some he managed to capture in glass vials he carried under his robes. Others fell beneath our feet and were lost.
Then, an imp managed to evade our blows and strike the ground with its weapon inside our circle. Immediately, three pot-bellied demons appeared behind us, blowing us from our feet and freezing us with their icy breath. Our circle was broken. Mab, Theo, and I were thrown headlong.
Theo and I rose and stood back to back, while Mab turned angrily toward Focalor’s servants.
“Damn if any puny puff is going to blow me around!” Mab cried. “Don’t you know who I am, you pathetic gutless gusts? If it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be such a thing as an icy wind!”
He opened his mouth, and the air grew colder. An icy gale-strength wind threw the demons from their feet, coating them instantly with rime. The startled demons flew through the air, flailing their limbs and trying to stab their stingers into anything that might give them purchase. A few had the presence of mind to wink out, appearing elsewhere. The rest either did not think of this or could not.
Mab’s wind whipped about, catching imps and demons in its blast. Then, it swung out over the river, carrying them with it and dropping them into the black waters. Icy rime coated the path it had followed. Some demons reappeared, and some imps had escaped the Northeasterly rage, but many of those it had captured fled, dripping with icicles. They refused to return, and enemies’ numbers began to dwindle.
Mab’s body flopped over. I ran to him. Remembering Caurus in the Vault, I did not panic when he showed no sign of life. Instead, I held the body upright, mouth open, while Theo guarded my back. Sure enough, there was a second blast of cold, and Mab’s eyes opened. He straightened, then twitched and jerked awkwardly as he situated himself within the fleshly body again.
“Sorry about that, Ma’am,” he muttered embarrassed. “I shouldn’t let them get my goat.” Then a grin broke out across his stony features. “Sure felt good to see them scurry, the poseurs!”
A little distance away, Logistilla held up her staff. Long stream
ers of pale greenish light spilled from the globe at the top striking our opposition. Red-skinned imps trembled and shivered and collapsed into toads, who sank beneath the murk, while the larger pot-bellied demons turned into equally pot-bellied pigs. A moment or two later, however, imps began popping up again, as they used their own magic to transform back.
“Bother! That’s no good,” she cried. “Titus!”
Again streamers of verdant light spread from her staff, striking our enemies. This time, both imps and demons were transformed into swine. Then, Titus raised his staff, and everything went silent. My enormous brother strode forward, making no noise as he moved through the misty waters. He began striking pigs on the head with the Staff of Silence, caving in their skulls. Caliban quickly joined him, killing swine with a single blow of his stout club.
Mephisto ran backward, dodging demons or doing backflips over their heads, until he was beyond the range of Titus’s staff, the effect of which inhibited the operation of the rest of our staffs. As soon as he was able, he began tapping his staff, summoning his friends.
The winged lion swooped out of the sky and landed on a sow. The gryphon followed suit, and the magnificent roc carried off six fat hogs. A three-headed hound, a cockatrice, and four giant, green, fairy dogs loped across the ground chasing swine. The Cu Sith could not enter the area of the silence, but they moved together as a pack and tackled the first animal to break free of Titus’s effect, howling their eerie fey howls. Farther away, the mammoth silently stomped on a nest of toads, and the hamadryad dripped its long sinuous body out of one of the remaining mangroves and swallowed a squealing pig whole.
All of this happened silently, as if we were all part of a well-choreographed film to which the sound track had been lost.
I slit the throat of three hogs with my fan. As I looked around for a fourth, gnarled arms grabbed me from behind, squeezing me painfully. More demons were among us now, and Logistilla could not transform them while Titus’s deadening silence remained. Twisting my wrist like a fan dancer, I cut the hand holding me and turned, kneeing my assailant. Alas, there was no vulnerable spot where my leg connected, just a hard ruby carapace that bruised my kneecap.
The large demon leered and poked at me with his trident as I hopped with pain. His blow slid harmlessly off my enchanted gown. As he struck again, I waited until the tines touched my dress and brought my moon-silver war fan down, cleaving the trident’s haft. He looked down in consternation at his broken weapon, an almost comical expression upon his ugly face. I wasted no time but lunged forward, despite the sting in my knee, and slit his throat. His chin flopped back, black ichor spurting like a fountain. My blow had not cut all the way through his neck, however, so his lolling head hung helplessly above his windmilling arms. A second strike separated the head from the body, which I then pushed over with my foot.
Sound came rushing back: breathing, wheezing, screams, and thuds. Caliban was still uttering his ululating yell, and Mephisto was riding a big squinty-eyed pig, whooping like a cowboy.
“Brother, come, be my guide,” Gregor’s voice spoke nearby. Turning, I saw Gregor grab Cornelius’s shoulder and hold up the Staff of Darkness. Shadows poured out, surrounding the both of them. As the black cloud about them spread, demons and imps disappeared within its growing radius. None emerged again. Turning to parry another stinger tail, I smiled at the irony of Cornelius, who was familiar with pitch darkness, acting as a guide for his seeing brother.
Somewhere nearby, a great voice cried: “Strike not Focalor! His armor corrodes all that touches it.”
I spun around but was too late to see who had spoken. Overhead, a figure descended from the sky, borne upon tawny wings shaped like those of Mephisto’s gryphon. His body was clad in rusted armor, pitted and ruddy. The surface had a wicked sheen reminiscent of acid or poison. The figure carried a shield, the device of which was too corroded to be distinguished.
So this was Focalor, whose minions had so often harried us at sea. He did not look so imposing—until he landed and revealed himself to be well over seven feet tall, with a wingspan of over twenty-five feet. His great wings closed with a loud whoosh, and his armor clanked as he moved, shedding reddish metallic dust. Even the air near him was damaged by his passage, for it hurt my nose and throat to breathe it.
The demon regarded us contemptuously and spoke: “Despair, Children of the Dread Prospero, and kneel to me! For I am your doom!”
“Not likely!” murmured Ulysses. He raised his pistols and fired both barrels at the newcomer. The bullets disintegrated to nothing. Ulysses’s cocky grin faded to a frown. “That doesn’t even make sense! Lead doesn’t rust!”
“But it does age,” murmured Erasmus, studying the rusty armor carefully.
Focalor ignored Ulysses and cried out, “Long ago, I was one of the Great Seven who ruled Hell. When the unaccursed Solomon crept among us, binding and kidnapping, I was wrongly held accountable for his treachery—a charge that should have fallen to Asmodeus—and robbed of my throne. The throne that had once been mine was granted to Abaddon, the Angel of the Gateway, when he changed sides and joined our infernal forces. It has been promised that after I defeat the Family Prospero and retrieve the stolen demons, my rightful place shall be restored to me.”
“Oh, and you believe them?” Logistilla gave him a look of disdainful sympathy. “Take it from me. Devils lie.”
Focalor ignored her as well. “Compose yourselves to remain here, in Hell, for all eternity. Who will die first?”
Theo stepped forward, his expression hidden by his faceplate. “I challenge you to single combat.”
“Then, you may die first.”
“Theo, wait!” Erasmus unbuckled a sword that hung at his side and held it out to Theo. “Take this. Your sword will never survive the fight.”
“What is it?”
“Durandel, the unbreakable sword of Orlando. I borrowed it from the Vault, thinking it might be useful.”
“Durandel!” Theo drew the sword from the sheath. It seemed brighter and more substantial than its surroundings. He saluted the demon with it. The demon eyed the sword with distaste but drew his own blade—which had been partially eaten away by rust—and returned the salute.
The battle began. Theo fought hard, but his enemy was faster, stronger, and had reach on him. Theo parried many of the incoming blows but failed to strike his foe more than once or twice, at which time Durandel skidded harmlessly off the demon’s armor, his rusty plates clanging loudly.
The sword Durandel held its own against the corrosive blade of the enemy, but Theo’s normally untarnishable titanium grew black and dull wherever the rusted blade struck it. Only the Urim breastplate and helmet remained unharmed. When struck, they chimed like leaded crystal, evoking memories of Easter and the ringing of church bells. Around us, the imps and lesser demons held their heads at the sound.
I watched, my heart pounding, as my beloved brother pitted his life against the demon Focalor. It seemed impossible that he, old and weary, in armor made for a much younger man, might hold his own against this great duke of the Inferno. Yet, amazingly, Theo did not falter. After five or ten exchanges, the imps began to mutter and dance about impatiently, amazed anyone could last so long against their master. Apparently, Focalor was considered an expert swordsman, even among the denizens of Hell.
My brethren were similarly impressed.
“Theo’s rather good for an old man,” murmured Titus.
“Good? He’s astounding!” Logistilla replied, wringing her hands with concern. “Oh! I do hope he’s careful!”
Only Mephisto remained unconvinced by Theo’s performance. He leapt upon the winged lion again and soared up above the match shouting advice. “Go left. No, down! No, it’s a feint! Duck!”
Theo, who could not respond in time, was thrown back when Focalor reversed his feint and swung his great sword at Theo’s head. He managed to successfully block the blow to his face, but the corrupting blade struck the upper part of his sword ar
m, leaving a black, sullied spot on his shiny titanium armor, deeper and larger than the previous marks. The place sizzled as if the metal itself were being consumed by some virulent, sinister acid.
Before Theo could rise again, the winged lion swept down upon him and his opponent. With a single fluid motion, Mephisto leapt from the creature’s back, did a double backflip that knocked the cavalier’s hat he wore over his shoulders onto his head. He grabbed the sword out of Theo’s surprised fingers, knocked Focalor’s blade to one side, moved the tip of his own weapon around his opponent’s rusted breastplate, and stabbed him in the armpit, driving his blow home to the demon’s heart.
“Touché!” called Mephistopheles. The indigo panache atop his hat bobbed jauntily.
“Good work, Meph!” Erasmus cried, unconsciously calling him by a nickname from an earlier age.
“Excellent, Master Mephistopheles!” cheered Caliban.
“Wow!” murmured Mab. “That was . . . wow.”
The demon Focalor fell backward, crashing to the ground. As the lesser demons drew back, murmuring in awe, Mephisto swept the hat off his head and bowed.
Immediately, Focalor’s servants either fled—the imps flying away, and the demons disappearing in a dark puff—or ran forward and leapt upon their master’s body, poking and stabbing him in a frenzy of malicious vengeance. We backed away, putting distance between ourselves and our erstwhile attackers.
All around us, dead imps, demons, and swine lay scattered; some were being munched upon by Mephisto’s friends. Hatless again, Mephisto returned Durandel to Erasmus. He ran his hand up and down his staff, tapping it repeatedly, until all his friends had vanished, returning to more wholesome stomping grounds.
Prospero in Hell Page 40
