Devil of the 22nd

by Richard Nell

  “If there are tunnels, your good and honorable savages neglected to take their women and children inside them.”

  He handed Clara the doll and walked on, raising a hand for the soldiers to follow.

  The larger hall, or ‘temple’, had been built no different than the houses beside it. Tall support pillars of solid wood supported the thatched roof around the outside. Kurt saw no stone, only wood, grass, and maybe mud or clay. He decided a single cannon shot would likely rip the hall asunder. And if we’re trapped inside, it will burn fast, and hot.

  He noticed the pillars had been etched and even carved with symbols and images that looked like monstrous animals, and the entrance doors had been carved with two huge closed eyes. He seized the wooden latch and tried to push or pull it open, and failed.

  “Break it.”

  He stepped aside, and three soldiers with halberds took turns hacking it apart.

  “Won’t they hear us?”

  Clara flinched as every blow of iron on wood echoed eerily through the silent town. Kurt blinked and stared until she looked away.

  The good Keevish iron made short work of the Helvati door, and once a few planks had been ripped apart men reached inside and pulled off the crossbeam. Harmon led the way inside.

  “God in heaven what is that smell?”

  “Griss opened his legs,” answered a veteran, and the men laughed.

  Kurt took little breaths through his nose and tried but failed to identify it. He looked around the nearly empty hall, which held only chairs and tables with bare plates and cups.

  “There.” Harmon pointed.

  Kurt saw the wide, open hole dug into dirt in the corner, the only section of floor not covered by planks. “Spears and bows stay here.” He gestured at the entrance, and the ten archers and men with polearms grinned and moved outside to guard.

  “Lucky bastards.” Harmon cleared his throat and drew his sabre, then leaned over the hole to look down.

  Kurt took the torch from his kit. He struck his flint and lit the oil, and the firelight birthed shadows that danced with the soot-covered walls as darkness warred with something blacker.

  The men sobered as they understood they’d be going down. Some dropped their packs and rolled their shoulders, others withdrew their torches, others checked the pans and barrels of their muskets or tapped their feet or hummed. The many rituals of courage, Kurt thought, letting himself feel the fear of that darkness. He counted to five, and banished it.

  He waited until they’d finished and settled, all the while staring at Clara. She wiped her hands on her oversized soldier’s trousers and closed her eyes, as if trying to control her breathing.

  “Anything else I should know?” he whispered. “For example, how we’re actually going to capture your little creature?”

  “Just kill it,” Clara whispered back, the picture of innocence. “And I’ll do the rest.”

  Kurt nodded slowly. He felt like pointing out ‘killing’ seemed rather different and incompatible with ‘capturing’. But his men were ready, and anyway—he knew, or at least maybe knew, more than he let on. But it seems entirely bloody crazy.

  He nearly scratched his side, then drew his sabre with his right hand, and held the torch with his left. He glanced down the tunnel to see it sloped reasonably gently. Then with a glance at his men, he grinned the mad grin only a man who truly loved risk and death could form, and dropped.

  * * *

  The Helvati tunnel had been dug high but not wide, so only one or possibly two men who squeezed could move at a time. It reeked with the same sickly warm, sour scent from the hall, and led North briefly before breaking into three paths. In the utter darkness Kurt couldn’t see far enough down any of them to glean more than rounded dirt tunnel lit by his torch.

  “Thoughts?” He glanced at Clara, but could tell by her eyes she had no idea. “Nevermind. Harmon and Miss Lehmann left with me. Griss take two and go right. The rest wait here. Be ready.”

  For a moment he just stood still in the gloom and listened. Hearing nothing, he led the way with his torch held out like a shield. The light bounced with his steps, the gravelly dirt beneath his boots crunching so loudly he winced. Then the darkness withdrew and sucked away, and the walls vanished as Kurt’s torch revealed a large room.

  A tall, man-like fetish stood in the center with arms raised towards the roof of the tunnel. Kurt couldn’t tell what it was made of, but he thought perhaps clay or stone. Beads, hides and necklaces had been draped over its arms, neck and shoulders, and bones lay littered at its feet. Most, if not all, looked human.

  Kurt stepped inside. The tingle of danger touched his spine but he saw no one, nor any sign of any creature. With a few more steps his light reached the corners of the small room, and he saw other ‘offerings’ behind the fetish.

  Skin hung like curtains above a dozen crates, the holes in the mouths and eyes open wide, as if surprised and locked in some perpetual scream. Kurt clenched his jaw as he examined the outlines of eyes, nostrils, mouths, and breasts. Someone had fully skinned several women—and with such care and delicacy that the skin seemed undamaged. They looked much like leather now, attended by some skilled tanner who must have smoked, salted and oiled it like animal hide.

  “God in heaven.” Harmon stepped beside him. “Damned savages.”

  “Yes, but nevermind.” Kurt pointed at the crates, and waited. Harmon looked and his brow furrowed as he searched, then his eyes widened until he grinned.

  The crates were slightly rotten and covered in a thin layer of dust, but visibly branded onto each lid was the crossed swords and crown of the Imperial seal.

  Harmon took his parrying dagger and shoved it into the moisture-warped corner of a crate. With little effort, he yanked back and lifted the rusted nails, seized the lid, and threw it aside.

  Kurt spared a glance, then turned away as his mind raced. So she didn’t lie. Surprising. And if she didn’t lie, and that part’s true…then what does that mean? What the hell is down here?

  “God, my God. God in heaven.” Harmon lifted a solid gold brick and tapped it with his knife. He coughed, maybe from the dust, or maybe from the shock. “We’re bloody rich, Kurt. It’s royal currency. It’s old imperial, solid gold. You sneaky, clever son of a bitch, look at this!”

  “Yes. Lovely.” Kurt checked his pistols, then half drew his sabre and let it fall to make sure it was free.

  “How the bloody hell do we carry it?” Harmon’s greed had overcome any other concerns. “Better get the boys. You see any carts up top? Should’a brought our own.”

  Kurt wandered back towards the tunnel with a sinking feeling in his gut. He scratched idly at his side, then jerked his hand off and shot forward, taking hold of Clara’s arm.

  “What the hell have you got me into? What is this? What’s down here?”

  She met his eyes squarely, and though her voice trembled, she stood tall.

  “I told you. I’ve never lied to you. It’s a demon. It’s shadows and teeth and claws. If you thought I was lying, why did you come?”

  Because I’m a damned crazy fool, Kurt thought, and because I wanted to know for sure. He held his torch towards the tunnel, wanting suddenly very much to see the strength and weapons of the men he’d left behind. But he winced, and chastised himself. It’s just nerves. He’d brought the best of the best and anyway demons didn’t exist, or not like Clara said they did. It would be some strange animal or maybe a man with deformities, or…

  A scream pierced the dark and Kurt’s thoughts. He clenched his teeth.

  “Load your pistol, we move together.”

  Kurt tossed Clara aside and waited for Harmon’s gold-lust to drop from his eyes. It didn’t take long. At the sound of the scream the fierce captain tossed the crate’s lid and stood erect like a hunting dog, a different kind of lust taking over his features. He cocked the trigger of his loaded wheel-lock, then stepped to Kurt’s side with a nod.

  Gunshots and metal against rock sounded fr
om the tunnel, then a wet, gurgling cry. The four or maybe five men waiting called out ‘Ahead!’, ‘Behind!’, and iron clashed in a sound like pulsing thunder, echoing through the sealed passages.

  Kurt kept by Harmon’s side, leading step by step, torch extended, pistol close behind. As they moved closer they saw men fighting—half-naked Helvati covered in body paints thrashing and leaping at the veterans. Kurt nearly sighed in relief.

  “Go,” he stepped back, and Harmon dashed ahead and fired his pistol. With impossible speed he drew his sword and dagger and called out to let the men know he’d joined the fray, and a few of his killers raised a bloodthirsty cry. Kurt didn’t know how many there were, or where they’d come from, exactly, but men didn’t concern him. Men he knew how to kill.

  Then he saw one of his veterans slumped, body leaning against the dirt wall. The man’s wide panicked eyes stared at the darkness, and his neck held four deep, grisly slashes that drained his life beneath him. Kurt’s stomach dropped.

  “There!”

  Clara pointed at nothing, and Kurt spun and damn near blew its head off.

  “Get back.” He ground his teeth, blinking as the torch sizzled and flared and oil dripped to the ground. He looked again and still saw nothing but cave wall.

  The veterans from the further tunnel were joining now, and men fell back and jabbed or shot at one another in the four-pronged corridor joint. At least a few of Kurt’s men looked wounded, but only the one man down. He wasn’t frightened. At least not of this. The veterans knew what to do and would hold their ground without instruction, hopefully while the men from above joined the fray. Unless they’re all dead, of course, Kurt thought, then banished it.

  The Helvati from behind them must have come from some secret tunnel that Kurt and the veterans had all stepped past. Nothing in the world could have dislodged his men up top so quickly.

  “Let’s go get your god damn demon. Maybe the savages will give up.”

  Kurt didn’t bother glancing back at Clara. He waited until a lull in the fighting gave him space to run through the corridor joint, then pushed past one of his men and jogged down the unexplored path. With every few steps the acrid, sour stench of the pit grew worse. Kurt felt his throat tighten and his hands sweat, and he almost laughed with the sheer insanity of the moment, then the joy of feeling anything deeply—even if it was fear.

  He heard light, quick footsteps behind him, and frightened panting.

  “You’ll need more men,” Clara’s voice was hushed, but wild. “Alone we can’t…”

  “If I shoot it, can you capture it?”

  The torch flickered and shadows splayed on the girl’s pale, sweaty face. He saw her terror, and felt himself believing, impossibly, that this demon was real. For a moment he very seriously considered using her as bait.

  “I can,” she said, and looked away. Kurt thought perhaps she was telling herself more than him.

  “Then keep close, and if you see it then bloody lunge with that sword, but don’t shout at me. Right?”

  She nodded, and with a final breath, Kurt plunged ahead. He resisted the urge to laugh.

  Light revealed a room with wooden troughs set in four lines. Kurt blinked and for a moment saw instead the gaping claw wounds on his dying soldier. Coagulated blood lay in several fetid pools. Flies swarmed raw chunks of day old meat. Kurt heard Clara retch, then waved his torch before him to try and light every dark corner of the room, for a moment thinking perhaps it was only the evils of men.

  Red eyes flashed from the far corner of the room, and for a tiny moment Kurt froze.

  Then he banished all doubt and questions or fear. He raised his pistol, and fired. The powder flared and half-blinded his dark-adjusted eyes, and the trapped roar made his ears ring. He ran into the room and followed the wall, dropping the weapon so he could draw another. He heard nothing else, no shout of pain, or rage. He blinked furiously to clear bright spots, hoping if the creature struck it would miss or find the girl instead of him. He crouched and cocked his second pistol, hoping to God it was strong enough to hurt the thing. He blinked one last time, and saw the eyes.

  “Shit.” He raised his pistol even as he cursed, but knew it was too late.

  The creature stood less than a pace away, tall and thin and black like a scarecrow made of coal.

  With nowhere to go Kurt dropped his torch and raised his arm before his neck. Fire erupted at his forearm, raking down his elbow. His torch flared as it landed in water, or maybe blood. He pointed his second pistol blindly and fired.

  Amidst the ringing thunder of the gunshot, the creature screamed. The sound was high-pitched and shrill, and utterly inhuman. In the dim light Kurt watched it stagger away, maw opening to show two layers of tiny fangs. He saw its wet, stained claws drift over the wound. Then its eyes leapt up and it looked ready to pounce again.

  In a single, smooth motion, perfected over a lifetime of war, Kurt drew his third pre-loaded pistol from his belt, cocked it, and fired.

  Spots filled more than half his vision now, as if he’d stared too long into the sun. He threw the pistol away and drew his fourth and last, and then he stood. The creature had staggered back and nearly tripped over its feeding trough. It looked down at the oozing holes in its torso as if it couldn’t believe—couldn’t understand. Its eyes fluttered and it bared its teeth, and Kurt leveled his last pistol to the creature’s mouth.

  “It’s called gunpowder.”

  He fired. The demon’s head snapped back as black ooze sprayed the wall behind. For a sickening moment it kept its feet, and Kurt blinked watery eyes and dropped his pistol, reaching for his sword. Then the creature fell.

  Kurt sagged down beside it. He stared in disbelief at the strange, almost skeletal body of the thing. The smell of its open wound was almost overpoweringly sour and burned his nostrils like boiling vinegar.

  “God in heaven.”

  Light flooded the room as veterans stepped to the entrance with torches. Harmon led them, holding his torch out as his eyes flicked from the troughs, to the gore, then to Kurt, then the creature.

  “I…I must be quick. Step aside!”

  Clara knelt down before the demon, throat tight and swallowing at nothing. Kurt watched her. He clutched his arm, feigning bewilderment and greater injury than he’d taken. But she ignored him anyway.

  “Ick thane, ick yaweh,” she said, as if in a trance. Her voice shook and she dipped her slender fingers into the creature’s wound, staring at the stain of dark blood.

  “Miss Lehmann.” Kurt grunted and shifted up, making sure to keep his wounded arm raised. Clara blinked and looked at him, annoyed, perhaps, but mostly surprised. She stared at his expression, and then at his eyes, as if beginning to see something she didn’t understand.

  Kurt gestured at his men.

  “Sorry about this.”

  Harmon and two men grabbed her arms and held them fast, dragging her away from the corpse.

  “What…stop! What the hell are you doing? It isn’t dead! It isn’t dead, Kurt! I’m not finished!”

  Kurt groaned as he rose to his knees. He inspected the demon, watching the powder-burnt and shot-ridden flesh already beginning to pull itself together. He dipped a finger in the gore.

  “Unbelievable. Truly. You’re a woman of your word, Miss Lehmann, I’ll give you that.”

  She stared at his hands, then the body, head shaking and face twisting in horror.

  “You can’t…you must be marked. There’s a symbol, Kurt, it will destroy you. Please!”

  Kurt rose up and took his sabre, then plunged it through the creature’s heart, hoping to buy a little time. Then he sighed, and turned, using his good hand to raise his shirt.

  “This mark?”

  He smiled politely, and Clara’s wide eyes ran over the symbol inked carefully on his side. She opened her mouth to form words, but couldn’t seem to speak.

  “I drugged you, and read your journal,” he explained. “Your handwriting is very good, Miss Lehmann. B
ut you really ought to consider a code, or something.”

  Her legs seemed to weaken, and Harmon had to hold her up. Her voice softened to a desperate whisper.

  “There are words, and training, Kurt. It’s not enough just to be marked, you must learn how to resist, you must discipline your mind and soul to face such evil and corruption…”

  Kurt shook as the bitterness came, every ounce of contempt he felt for her and the whole world. He wanted to laugh, as usual, just to let a little out. But in this moment he couldn’t—not with her staring at him.

  “Evil? You think you know evil, Miss Lehmann?” He rose and stepped forward. “Twenty years,” he hissed, fighting the urge to strike her, or really anyone. “Twenty years of taking and losing everything that matters, risking death and madness again and again and again. You don’t resist it. You accept it. You plunge your hands and mind so deep into the filth you know you’ll never be clean. And now you think, you think…you, or your soft, fat men locked in libraries, you think you have something to teach me about evil? You think you can face a darkness I can’t? That we can’t?”

  He waved his good arm at his soldiers, and met their eyes one by one.

  “We face it every morning, Miss Lehmann, every night—in every glimpse of ourselves in every bottle, in every broken shard of mirror.”

  He stared into her eyes, waiting, begging to be challenged, knowing a single word would throw him from the ledge. She said nothing at first, and he saw maybe pity mixed with the hate, and he couldn’t stand it. He turned and fell to his knees at the demon’s regenerating corpse.

  “It will drive you mad, Kurt.” She only whispered now. “You don’t understand.”

  “No you don’t understand. I’m already mad. I’m already tainted. Do you think I’m afraid?” He ripped his sabre from the creature’s chest, then bent over the stench and blood and yanked out a fistful of black gore. He looked back at Clara’s horrified expression, then turned his attention to the blank, toothy face of the demon.

  “I’m Kurt Val Claus,” he said, almost shaking, wishing someone, anyone could understand what that meant, what he’d earned with his own red hands. “Hear me demon?” he whispered in its ear. “I’m Kurt God damn Claus.”