by Peter Oxley
I felt a deep surge of rage at the creature’s words, of which I understood only enough to know that it meant yet more mischief. I looked down at my trapped arm and noted that it burned with the red symbols which I had fleetingly noted on occasions in the past but had involuntarily disregarded time and again; deep red marks which were somehow the twins of those that adorned the sword. My sword.
With a roar I drew upon a reservoir of strength from somewhere deep within me and threw the massive stone slab away from my arm. The pain which should have resulted from that action was dismissed by my fevered brain as a mere irrelevance, something far too fleeting as to be of any import. I felt the power surge into my freed left arm and shoulder, imbuing them with life once more. I held out my ruined right hand, the limp fingers dangling in the direction of Andras and my sword.
Andras leered at me but then gasped as the sword was wrenched from its grip by a force which only I could truly feel. The weapon spun toward me and then stopped a few mere inches away from my broken fingers. I felt the power rush into those fingers and I flexed them, somehow whole once more.
I grinned at Andras—a vicious, primal grin—before plucking the sword from the air and launching myself straight at the demon. My heart sang as I fully acknowledged the fact which I had before only fleetingly recognised; I did not merely wield the sword. It was a part of me and I a part of it, the two of us indivisible in so, so many ways.
Andras caught the blade in its hands, throwing me off to the side and following up with a sharp kick to my kidneys. I gasped as the air was torn from my lungs but managed to spin with the force inflicted on me, using it to take me around and back into a defensive stance.
“Nice try,” said the demon, holding up bleeding hands which healed before my eyes. “But I have many, many more years’ experience of this than you will ever have.”
I nodded through a haze of sheer, animal hatred and charged straight at the fiend, swinging my sword again and again, meeting the demon’s guard every time but still driving forwards until there was nowhere left for the creature to retreat to. One final swing brought the hilt of the sword to bear across Andras’s temple and the demon stumbled to the ground, stunned.
I stood over the creature, panting hard. The sword wanted me to finish the fight and for a moment I nearly succumbed, but there was something which held me back, something which I could not quite grasp. Then the red mists parted and I remembered who I was, and who I stood over. There was still a chance that N’yotsu was in there somewhere; I had to give him one last chance to assert himself.
“You are right,” I said. “In our collection of individuals, people who might save the world, I am the humanity; but you underestimate that quality. You have been around us for centuries, millennia perhaps. You have seen what we have become, what we can achieve. Do not forget, even this—” I gestured at the device and the portal it was spewing forth “—was only achieved with the help of ‘mere’ humans.
“Without what we have done—inadvertently or not—you would be sitting in some hole somewhere, trapped and all alone. We are flawed, myself especially, but we learn, and we adapt.” I took a deep breath, the mistakes of a lifetime flashing before my eyes. “Whilst we do so, there is always hope. And that is what you mistook for a flaw: hope. For as long as something remains of N’yotsu in that big, ugly head of yours, there is hope. That is why I did not fire the weapon and why I pause now—something that N’yotsu would understand if he can hear me now.”
Andras grinned and kicked out with both feet, sending me flying across the room. I landed awkwardly, head spinning wildly as I watched the demon stalk toward me, its face twisted in that terrible grin. “Poor, weak, stupid Gus,” it taunted.
Then it tensed and clenched its fists. Its face and form, which had been solid for the past few minutes, started to shift once more. My heart skipped a beat as it threw its head upwards and shouted a wordless challenge to the sky. Wavering as though fighting against an unseen force, a clawed hand thrust toward the device maintaining the portal and a burst of energy shot from the extended fingers. The machine exploded.
I screwed my eyes shut against the flash of the explosion, holding my arms up in an attempt to protect me from any debris. I opened my eyes and looked down; as far as I could tell, I was unharmed, and a glance at the others reassured me that they were at least breathing and moving. However, the machine was gone and I allowed myself a glimmer of hope; whatever happened to us, surely at least the world was now saved.
I looked up at the portal. “Oh, no,” I muttered; the blackness still loomed above us, unchanged. We were too late.
“Wait,” shouted Kate. “Is that...?”
I stared but could see nothing but sheer blackness. “What?” I asked.
“The mist,” she said. “It’s going.”
Sure enough, the tendrils of mist which had reached across the skies were retreating, like a vast sea creature fleeing a closing cave. I focused on the edges of the portal and, what at first I took to be an illusion borne of hope, was soon moving steadily enough to be incontrovertible: the portal was shrinking.
I looked back to Andras, or whatever the creature was now. It still stood, fists clenched and body rigid whilst its features shifted, the only outward sign of what was clearly a monumental internal battle for control. It shouted, a wordless scream which shook the very foundations of the building, and then doubled over and gagged. With a solid clink, an obsidian stone the size of a baby’s fist was ejected from the demon’s mouth.
The creature slumped backwards and looked up at me. I met its gaze and was relieved to see N’yotsu there, pale and shaken but unmistakably our friend. “It is over,” he said.
Chapter 43
We staggered out into the afternoon sun and looked up at a perfect blue and white sky, with no hint of Aether or portals. I breathed deeply as I struggled to keep my body, which was now feeling every one of the rigours inflicted upon it, moving and upright. My main motivation, as with all of us, was knowing that my pains were as nothing compared to those being suffered by my brother.
Finally released from Andras’s control, the golem carried Maxwell, who claimed to be bearing up well but still looped in and out of consciousness with alarming frequency. I was no physician, but I feared there was little which could be done for his legs. “Can you fix him?” I asked N’yotsu. “Andras said it could restore his legs if he did a deal...”
He shook his head. “Andras was lying. We—I—have no influence over the physical world in that way. I can cure my own injuries rapidly, but that is because I am not truly of this world. The best you can do is get him to a doctor as soon as possible. And both of you, as well.”
“We find a barracks,” said Kate, staring straight ahead, her speech hindered slightly by the weeping scar on her face, a mark which I feared would be a constant reminder of our terrible ordeal. “There’s bound to be a doctor somewhere.”
I grinned through gritted teeth. “Ever the optimist, eh?” I turned to N’yotsu. “You will come with us?”
“No,” he said, gesturing down the hill to where the battle still raged between the soldiers and the demonic outcasts from the Aether, now trapped in our world. “I have work to do. The golem will be able to get you where you need to go. I shall find you later, when I am done.”
I felt a jolt of power spark from my fist which was wrapped round the sword, causing me to walk a little taller and straighter. “I shall come with you,” I said. “You are right; we still have our friends to help.”
They eyed me suspiciously. “You should lay aside that sword,” said N’yotsu gently. “Stop using it, before...”
“It is too late?” I finished for him. “Too late for what, exactly?” I had my suspicions, terrible thoughts that the weapon was making me into something else, something other or more than human just as Andras had hinted, but I wanted to hear it from his own lips. After all, he was the one who had created the inscriptions which gave the sword its power; whatever was hap
pening to me, he was the one to blame. Or to thank; I had not yet had a chance to consider that side of things.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “As with many things,” he said. “There is more to this than can be explained in a few short moments. You should go—we will talk later, when all of this is done.”
“What about Andras?” asked Kate.
“He is in here,” said N’yotsu, holding up a bundle of material which housed the obsidian stone. “Or rather, the essence of Andras; the elements which made it—me—do the things I did. Again, I am so sorry for what I did, and said.”
Kate shrugged. “It wasn’t you. As long as you’re sure it won’t return.” Her words were forgiving but there was a steely glint in her eye which spoke of a trust which would never be restored.
“Take this,” said N’yotsu, handing the bundle to me with a nod. “Put it somewhere safe; somewhere out of reach and out of sight.” I felt its cold, hard weight and nodded back, my heart beating fast as I realised the responsibility which he had so casually dropped onto me.
The sounds of gunfire continued to echo round us and in the distance we could see men running and shooting; clearly our Army friends were still hard at work.
“Ah, yes,” said Kate, looking down. “It looked like a pretty tough battle when me and Derek bashed our way through.”
“Derek?” I asked.
Kate patted the golem’s leg. “Yes—Derek.”
“Thank you, Derek,” grinned N’yotsu up at the golem, which in turn looked impassively down at him. “In the meantime, I have work to do,” he continued. “We have closed the portal but all of the creatures which passed over are still here. This world will never be the same again.”
“And we’re the ones to clean it up, protect the weak, all that stuff?” said Kate.
“I cannot think of a better team,” grinned N’yotsu. “Oh, and by the way,” he turned to me. “I agree with you, about your place in the grand scheme of things. You could have killed me before I had a chance to do what I needed to do, but you did not. You saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful. In our motley crew of world-savers, you are the humanity, the conscience. The beautifully flawed humanity. And that is something we all need, now more than ever.”
I frowned. “Long may that continue,” I said, my mind still spinning from everything which had happened, all of which I might still be required to endure. As we started to make our way down the hill I looked back. “What do we call you now that you are officially a demon? Please do not say ‘Andras’.”
He laughed. “Oh, no.” A group of demons had noted our passage and were charging toward us, hideous visages twisted in a sheer desire for destruction. He turned and grinned at us. “I am N’yotsu, Destroyer of Worlds.” And with that he launched himself into the air, straight at the advancing hordes of Hell-fiends.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people without whom this book just would not have been possible.
To those fantastic Indiegogo backers who took a risk and supported an unknown author in achieving his dream—I can’t say this enough, but you are amazing: each and every one of you! So a huge, huge thank you to mum and dad, Andy Bruce, Steph McMahan, Iain McMahan, Caz Sharpe, Matt Sharpe, James Doran, Carolina Cautillo, Chris Rooney, Claire Rooney, Alpesh Naik, Hazel Naik, Andy Heaney, Mathew Rees Jones, Jamey Novick, Jenny O’Brien, Tim Betts, Bruce Oxley, Helen Oxley, Jude English, Miriam Donnellan, Matt Turk, Chris Brewster, Bridie Brewster, Gareth Brooks, Ju Casstles, Gary Fall, Dorothy Fall, Kev Bygrave, Ruth Bebbington, Janito Filho, Jennifer Pinkley, Al Foster and Nick Daws.
To all those on Wattpad who took the time to read, comment, vote and just say nice things throughout the first draft—thank you for giving me the motivation to keep ploughing on.
Thanks to John Harten, editor extraordinaire—your comments and amendments were a revelation, and this story is so much tighter and more immersive for them.
There is one man who deserves an extra special mention, someone without whom this book truly would not have happened—Ken Foster, a.k.a D. L. Mackenzie. Throughout the process I have been in awe of your talents, not only as an outstanding writer but also challenging and pushing me, mentoring me through the writing process, providing the inspiration for so many aspects (including the genesis of the name: “N’yotsu”), editing and finessing the book, marketing, crowdfunding, cover art sourcing, video making (and presenting!)… Thank you Ken—so, so much.
And finally, a huge thank you to my darling wife Jess and our fantastic kids, Tom and Sam, who have lived / suffered through all of this with me - right from the early days when I was thrashing around with some vague short stories about demons in Victorian London (well, we all need a hobby…). Thank you for being there for me, putting up with my darkest hours and giving me the courage, motivation and encouragement to keep pressing on.
Dedication
For Jess, Tom and Sam - my support, inspiration and source of so much happiness. I love you all so much.
A Christmas Aether – An Infernal Aether Novella
A Christmas Aether
(An Infernal Aether Novella)
Peter Oxley
By Peter Oxley
Cover: Kristina Pavlovic
Extracts and Sigil images from The Lesser Key of Solomon Goetia, version compiled and translated by S.L. “Macgregor” Mathers (editing and additional material by Aleister Crowley)
Copyright © 2015 Peter Oxley
All rights reserved.
With Apologies to Charles Dickens
A Christmas Aether
It was Christmas Eve, 1867, and the London streets rang with the last minute bustle of tightly wrapped revellers rushing back to the warmth of home and family or the solace of friends, eager for the festive season to distract them from their daily struggles. Mothers, wives and servants hugged parcels of cold meats and vegetables to their chests as they carried their precious loads back to hungry households, leaving behind them costermongers growing increasingly merry as their stalls emptied. Those stallholders fortunate enough to have sold all their wares were on their way to the nearest tavern to spend their profits, or at least as much as they could without falling into trouble with their families or lenders.
Children ran through the streets, dodging past stalls and through the legs of passers-by, merrily ignoring the curses and waved fists which followed in their wake. All looked forward to what surprises might await them in the morning, whilst the more enterprising of the urchins gave Saint Nick a helping hand by securing early presents from the pockets of unsuspecting adults as they passed.
The ever-present sound of church bells mingled with carollers, drunks and rowing couples, the whole scene given a muffled, other-worldly air by flurries of snow which whipped up and around the people and buildings before coming to rest on the ground, at which point they congealed into a general pile of yellow-brown slush. Joyfully, the noises drowned out the snarls and yowls from those neighbourhoods still hostile to human occupation, allowing people to briefly ignore the world’s new reality.
Meanwhile, locked away in a cellar somewhere in the depths of some nondescript slum, I squatted against cold wet stone and coughed up blood and shards of teeth.
***
A few hours earlier, I was sat in The One Tun on Saffron Hill, nursing the beer which I hoped would finally send me to oblivion. To my side lay a battered copy of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, open at the start of Chapter Two: my own half-hearted nod towards the Christmas spirit.
I glared at the others in the tavern, with their noisy happiness and normal lives. “Sheep,” I muttered into my drink.
“Pardon?” belched the man opposite.
“I agreed that you could sit there,” I said, “if you agreed to stay silent.”
“Sorry.”
I emptied the rest of my vial of laudanum into my mug of porter and swilled the drink to ensure it was fully mixed; a potent combination which surely would provide the desired effect of numbed oblivion.
With a sigh I drained the mug in one gulp and sat back as the warmth started to spread down my throat.
“The thing is,” I continued, “the world has gone to Hell and all these idiots are carrying on as if they can have normal lives. Don’t they see the demons on the streets? Their friends disappearing? Don’t they wonder why they can’t set foot in half of London? And yet they sit here and laugh and sing.” My next drink arrived and I nodded my thanks, handing over a coin.
“They see all that stuff,” said the man opposite. “That’s why they drink. What about you?”
I glared at him. “I spend my days fighting demons, a job which I am singularly unsuited to.” These last words sounded slurred even to my ears, and I took a deep breath to try and recover some dignity. The sword on my back twitched in protest against my words and I put my hand back to check that it was not being stolen. The handle’s warmth brought a solid glow to my mind, pushing me slightly back to sobriety.
“I thought you were Augustus Potts, famous chronicler of the battles against Andras, the man who fought back hordes of hell-fiends,” said the man.
“And I thought I told you to be silent,” I shot back. “Thing is,” I sighed, taking another long swig of ale, “I’m just a man with a magic sword. Take that away,” I belched, “and I’m helpless. Worse: the thought of being without it…” I leaned in to the man opposite and whispered: “Do you know the last time I didn’t have this thing at my side?” He shook his head and I did likewise. “Me neither; I even sleep with the damned thing! Max reckons I’m addicted to this,” I held up my mug of beer, “but the truth is it’s this I’m really addicted to.” I flapped my arm at my sword and missed, giving the impression that I was warding off a large moth.
