by Megan Cutler
Kaylie only shrugged in response. What good would a little extra light do them at this point? Counting the demons on shore wouldn't help them deal with the threat.
Arimand had only been gone a few minutes when he returned, eyes darker than before, face grim.
Kaylie's heart leapt into her throat. “What did you see?”
He hesitated.
Wardel crept down the stairs behind him. Thail inched forward, eyes wide, fingers nervously worrying against each other. “Something he didn't expect? How curious…”
Arimand reclaimed his abandoned seat. “I think we've just determined what happens when the body of a damned soul dies.”
“Poor Sulard,” Wardel sighed as he lowered himself back to the floor. “Perhaps his location had something to do with his fate.”
Kaylie's head spun. Had they spotted their former companion among the prisoners on shore? Sulard died his second death saving Arimand from the demon that stalked them in the city. Was this his reward? Were the actions of the damned truly meaningless?
Kimuli tumbled down the stairs, followed by Eselt. The hunter surged to his feet, teeth bared like a wild animal. “We have to help him! Gods only know what those demons are doing to him!”
Eselt paused on the final step and seized Kimuli's ear, twisting until the man mewled like a kitten. “Stop fussing before you rouse everyone to a frenzy.”
Kimuli jerked free of the smaller man's grip, heedless of the pain it might cause. “Maybe I should light the fire in everyone's blood,” he retorted, rubbing his sore ear. “Why are we all just sitting here waiting to die? Have we forgotten what Sulard did for us? Not just on this gods-forsaken journey but for years in the wasteland?”
“What do you propose?” Eselt snarled. “We're outnumbered. Our attacks barely damaged the demon from the wall. How can we fight a group of them on familiar ground? We're diminished. How many have we lost? Not to mention our weakness from hunger and thirst. Do you think sheer determination will overcome the demon wardens? Perhaps we could start a revolution while we're at it.”
“So we just lay down?” Kimuli's outrage echoed through the small hold. “Just let Hell have its way with us? I never figured you for a gods-damned coward, Eselt.”
The clan leader looked like a cat ready to pounce, but Arimand laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him pause.
“Any action we take here is bound to draw the attention of Hell's ruler.” Arimand's voice was calm, if sharp. “You think one of his messengers is bad? Would you like to summon his personal army? Or perhaps raise such a ruckus he comes after us himself?”
Kimuli spat at Arimand's feet. “Sulard don't deserve this.”
Kaylie wondered just how close the two men had been and how Sulard might have reacted if their positions were reversed. Kimuli couldn't possibly hope to liberate their fallen companion, even with the full-force of their expedition behind him. The walls of the demon fortresses were thick and sturdy, not to mention the quality of their weapons.
“No one believes he does,” Wardel replied. “But what will happen to Lady Kaylie if we're captured during a doomed rescue attempt?”
“Or slaughtered,” Thail muttered from the corner.
Kimuli clenched his fists at his sides so hard his dusky knuckles turned ashen. He heaved a heavy breath and swallowed another. “I never gave a shit about your foolhardy mission. I came for Sulard, because he was determined to go. And if you'd let me go down into that damn city, he'd still be right where he should be! What makes her so damn special?” He jabbed a finger in Kaylie's direction. “You don't even know she's really innocent!”
“Shut your idiotic mouth before I shut it for you!” Eselt howled.
But Kimuli refused to budge. Both men leaned close, yelling into each other's faces and waving their arms. Eselt nearly threw a fist at the hunter's face, but Arimand caught him and pulled him off the staircase, standing between the two men to prevent escalation.
It was only a matter of time before one of them stopped caring who he hit. What would happen if the remains of the clan divided against each other in the middle of a burning river?
“Enough!” Kaylie pitched her voice to pierce the volume of the argument. All eyes turned to her. Even the men on the upper deck peered through the open hatch to see what was going on.
She swallowed hard.”I regret agreeing to undertake this journey. If it were possible, I would turn what's left of this ship around and return to Ethilirotha. If I could wish all this away, I'd go back to the days we traveled the wastes, weary and worn but comfortable and content. But it would tarnish the sacrifices of the men who died to get us this far. Men who now inhabit the prisons dotting these shores.”
It wasn't just Sulard. How many more would die before the end? And if they fell in this ring, what fate would await them in the next?
“If we fracture now, we will fail. And make a mockery of the souls we knew that suffer now.” Kaylie caught Eselt's gaze. “What's the harm in letting Kimuli try? If others want to aid his attempt, let them make that decision.”
“We needn't linger to see the result,” Arimand agreed. “If he gives us time to get further upriver, it shouldn't affect our journey. Perhaps he could even delay our demon stalker.”
A soft murmur of assent circled the room.
Eselt exhaled heavily. His shoulders sagged.
“I am going,” Kimuli declared, fists still clenched at his sides. “I don't wish the rest of you ill, but Sulard is my only concern. I won't abandon him to those filthy creatures.”
“Where will you go if you succeed?” Wardel asked. “How could you hope to survive?”
“It doesn't matter,” Kimuli replied. “This is the only solution I'll accept.”
With a snort, Eselt called the meeting back to order. He had a list of demands before he was willing to agree to the attempt, including how many men and weapons he was willing to part with. Kimuli agreed to all of them, his only insistence that the men of his hunting party be allowed to choose for themselves whether or not they followed. Arimand seemed more concerned about the timing, but it would be impossible to coordinate with Kimuli's group after their departure.
Kaylie should have focused on the conversation. She needed to know their plans, needed to know what to expect and how she could help. But the words slipped through her mind like sand through an hourglass.
It didn't matter how many arrangements Kimuli made. It didn't matter how many hunters accompanied him or how many spears and swords they carried. Hell consumed everything sooner or later. Resistance only prolonged the agony. Kimuli's mad gambit had no greater chance of success than their own, but at least he walked to a certain fate.
Exhaustion consumed her. How much longer would their dwindling vessel carry the rest of them upriver? What would happen when it failed? And what would they do if the demon from the city caught up with them again?
Chapter Fourteen: Nocturnal Stalker
Though he couldn't have traversed the rolling hills without eyes that cut through the night, it was for his nose that Moril gave thanks. Demon noses had an incredible ability to distinguish individual scents amid an olfactory mélange. They'd be useless trackers without it, and the King of Hell wasn't fond of useless things. His servants needed to traverse the harsh wastes of his realm quickly, locate their prey efficiently, and complete their tasks before his limited patience snapped.
Moril's prey had made clever use of the flaming river to slip past the wall. He couldn't attack while they remained below the surface, lest he maim the woman he sought to retrieve, and his watch from the wall top had gone unrewarded. Wherever the vessel bobbed back to the surface, it had been farther upriver than his demonic eyes could penetrate.
How far had they drifted? They would leave no scent markers if they stayed on the river. But they must be hungry and thirsty. Many of their supplies burned when the larger ship sank. Sooner or later, they must come ashore and leave some sign of their passing. As far as he knew, Arimand could not disgu
ise the stench of unwashed bodies. But it would be unwise to underestimate that man. He wouldn't suffer the same mistake again.
Moril galloped along the riverbank, keeping far enough back the fire wouldn't dazzle his night-adjusted eyes. His nose pointed ever toward the flames, sifting the air for the fresh scent of man. Even from here, he smelled the fear-laden, pain-laced, desperate souls that inhabited the prisons.
A hint of something sharp and dissonant drew his attention. He paused, pressed his snout to the ground and inhaled deeply. Men had passed this way. And they had been determined. Only the newly dead held hope in this region of Hell, and never for long. But new souls so intermingled with the desolate, their scent barely carried before it died.
These must be his targets. The scent was crisp, but still a few hours old. And moving in the wrong direction. Had Arimand doubled back to throw him off balance?
Moril tested the air again, sifting through the scent markers. He didn't detect Arimand's distinctive tang. Nor could he find the sweet, intoxicating scent that accompanied his charge. Was Arimand clever enough to fool a demon's nose?
Moril paced the pungent patch of shore, but saw no sign of the boat. Backtracking made sense if the party wanted to throw off pursuit. It could be a trick, meant to distract him from his true target. If it wasn't a distraction, what other purpose could the small party serve? A meager attempt at a trap? A hunting party? But why send someone for supplies and not stop to wait for their return?
Presenting an obvious distraction didn't seem Arimand's style. Unless the rest of the group had disembarked on the far side of the river. Even Moril's nose couldn't penetrate the acrid steam rising from the Phlegethon. Nor was he confident in his ability to cross safely without returning to the wall.
If he ignored the obvious clue, where would he go? He had no idea if the main group had continued upriver, crossed to the far embankment, or devised some other plan he couldn't fathom. Their goal would drive them deeper into Hell, but the path was important. If he went the wrong way, he might lose days.
Moril glanced over his shoulder, in the direction the men had gone. Given the age of the scent trail, they couldn't have traveled far. A few hours to confirm his suspicions wouldn't cost much. His legs were swift enough to recover lost ground if he was sure of the direction.
Moril's fangs formed a wicked grin as he dashed through the darkness. Demons did not tire. Arimand was obviously not as clever as he believed himself to be.
Moril could tell at a glance his hated enemy was not among the party. Of course, Arimand would never deign to risk himself for a pitiful distraction. Perhaps seeking supplies in the city had taught him a lesson.
Moril's paws itched. If the lady moved in the opposite direction, he should follow quickly. But it wouldn't hurt to know Arimand's plans. Any information he could glean from these men would give him an advantage.
He waited for the ragtag party to traverse several hills before he inched in their wake, needing a large gap to hide his considerable bulk. Their destination appeared to be a nearby cluster of prisons, though what they hoped to free from the stores, Moril couldn't guess. How did they intend to transport their spoils back to their ship? Perhaps Arimand told them to make their distraction look convincing. Or perhaps he hadn't told them anything.
Moril watched as the men scampered to the base of the wall surrounding the prison yard. He watched as they piled three men on each other's shoulders to peer over the top. He watched them huddle in a tight group and whisper. It didn't sound like they came for supplies. It sounded like they'd come for people.
A prison break? A desperate distraction, but it made more sense than stealing from the prison stores.
Moril waited until they settled in the shadows for rest to attack. They were too few to fight him, though that didn't stop them trying.
This time, rather than bounce their spears off his tough hide, the humans retained their weapons. Perhaps the lack of ready replacements encouraged them to do so. Not that it mattered. Moril snapped several of the twigs with a sweep of his meaty fist.
While their leader barked directions to climb on his back, Moril crushed two men against the prison wall. Several others darted between his legs. One broke and ran for the river. He'd let Hell take care of that one.
In a single fluid motion, Moril spun, preventing the humans from flanking him. Their leader threw a spear at his eye. The demon batted it aside. He scooped one of the attackers off the ground. The man jabbed his palm with a spear, but Moril ignored it, tossing the offender over the nearby wall. His final scream died abruptly.
What could a party this small ever have hoped to accomplish? If they had come recruiting, they would have had a difficult time freeing any of their converts.
Moril charged, scattering the remains of the party. Another pathetic soul fled into the wastes. No doubt the demon wardens would tend to him soon.
Their leader darted back between the demon's legs, organizing an attack against his ankles. There were only five left now; three wielding shabby swords and two still swinging spears, though only one bore a metal tip.
Rather than wait for a lucky blow to sever a critical tendon, Moril reared onto his hind legs. The men scattered as he lifted one foot, but he still managed to crush the slowest. Then he swept the same foot forward, spilling two more to the ground. One skidded down the hill and came to rest in an awkward sprawl.
The leader waved his arms, howling at his men to get back up. Moril muffled his tirade with a triumphant growl. Bending, he scooped the leader into his hand, careful not to pierce the man with his claws. He squeezed enough to silence the man, but not enough to cause fatal harm.
As soon as the hunter could breathe again he growled, cursed and kicked his heels as hard as he could. “Damn beastie! Give us a fair fight! I ain't letting you off after what you did to Sulard. Get me down, men! Come on! Fight!”
But the remaining members of the party threw themselves on their faces, babbling as they begged for mercy.
Ignoring the rest, Moril lifted the leader to eye level. The man spat at him, but Moril shifted his arm and the spittle fell uselessly to the ground. The demon snorted in the man's face. The gust of hot breath seemed to leave him stunned.
“Where is Arimand?” the demon's voice rasped from the depths of his chest.
The human lifted his chin. There was unholy fire in his eyes, the fire of madness. He threw his head back and laughed. “I ain't afraid of you, bastard. Arimand ain't here. Good luck findin' him.”
Moril squeezed again, tightening his hand carefully. When his captive's face turned blue, he eased his grip, allowing him to breathe again. The men on the ground were incoherent. He'd never get information out of them, and he needed to be swift.
“He could not have expected such a pitiful distraction to succeed. Where did he come ashore? How many decoys did he send?”
The human bore his teeth in a smug snarl. “Arimand is gone. He ain't comin' ashore. And the next time he sees you, he's gunna put that fancy sword of his straight through your neck, you piece of shit!”
It could be a lie, false bravado, or an attempt to earn mercy. But Moril didn't think the man cared about anything other than revenge. The demon glanced over his shoulder at the bright line of light in the distance. If they were still on the river, they would not be difficult to catch. But what to do when he reached them?
Without comment, Moril scooped the cowering men into his other paw. He mashed the three of them into one fist, squeezing just enough to keep them immobilized. Gathering all his strength into his hind legs, he leapt straight up, digging the claws of his free hand into the prison wall. One more thrust of his powerful muscles brought him to the top, and he hopped down as if he had jumped a garden fence. Since the humans had been interested in this particular fortress, it seemed only reasonable to help them along.
The prison yard was empty, both prisoners and wardens hidden within the impressive keep. Moril knocked on the massive wooden door that served as an en
trance to the main building.
Two lesser demons opened the door. The moment they saw him, they dropped to one knee.
“I brought you a gift,” Moril rumbled, “and an assignment.”
Cruel glee lit the creatures' faces as they rose to accept the new prisoners. “Speak, brother. We are eager to offer assistance.”
~*~*~*~
Their boat was shrinking. With each passing hour, the fire whittled away more of the structure. They were almost out of room to repair the interior. Even without Kimuli's group, the lower deck had become so crowded it was difficult to move. Eselt made certain everyone took turns on the upper deck, but Kaylie rarely agreed to ascend.
The never-ending night had closed a fist around her heart. When she closed her eyes, she saw souls falling in the river. Souls that had traveled with her for months to meet that gruesome fate. Would they awaken here after they burned, playthings for the demon wardens? How could it not be her fault?
Now that she knew Sulard was a prisoner, every silhouette looked like his. If he was lucky, Kimuli would share the same fate. If he died trying to breach the prison walls, he might awaken in the fourth ring. She couldn't imagine what terrors awaited him there.
Worse, the men still with her had no hope of recourse from the pits of the fourth ring. What had Arimand said about Hell's fifth ring? From the depths of her memory she recalled someone saying it was reserved for suicides. But what if a soul killed itself in Hell?
And what of Dwenba, her best and constant friend? How could she leave knowing her ascension would consign them all to endless torment? Surely such selfishness disqualified her from Heaven?
Eselt tried to improve the failing morale by reminding everyone they could refill their water skins when they reached the Cocytus. It wouldn't curb their consuming hunger, but it might restore some of their strength.
To Kaylie, his reassurance rang hollow. Soon they'd be forced to abandon the river and continue the journey on foot. No one knew how far they had left to travel before they reached the edge of Hell's third ring, and how could their failing strength carry them more than a few feet? Kimuli was right. We're just waiting for doom.
