Prisoner, page 59
part #2 of The Contractors Series
A sound washed over them, reverberating through the walls of the cavern. Daniel cocked his ears as it echoed around them, then faded. It sounded almost mechanical, like the pieces of a giant machine locking into place far in the distance. None of the demons were surprised by it.
The goblin stepped forward and seized Daniel’s chin, wrenching his gaze up. “This one looks bloodied up, don’t he?”
Daniel got a foot under himself and kicked the bastard, forcing the warty hand off his skin. The goblin stumbled back a bit, coughed, and straightened. “Looks like we got a wild one here. Barna.”
A blow slammed into the back of Daniel’s head. The dizziness swam back stronger; his limbs felt loose, numb. “Les’ go of me,” he managed.
“And it’s a human,” the goblin said. He glanced at the undine.
“Not an illusion,” that demon said. “Bonafide human.” There was concerned mumbling from several people behind him.
“Any word about this?” the goblin asked.
Daniel tried to focus to talk his way through this, but his tongue just flapped uselessly. The hold on him kept his armlet wrenched above his head, well out of his easy reach. The harpy walked over to the goblin and bent to whisper something. The goblin nodded, then gestured to the stone table. “Get his arm taken care of. This one is a permanent guest.”
Daniel was dragged over to the slab. He could feel a bit of the magic working on him, healing the injury on the back of his head, but he couldn’t get his arms to move the way he wanted. As he was dragged closer to the slab, he could see colors—orange, purple, red again, staining the slab. Dried on it.
Daniel tried to struggle when he saw the machete drawn from inside the coat of one of the trolls holding him down. He threw his legs out, shifted side to side. A devil walked over and stabbed its needle-claws straight into Daniel’s stomach.
He clenched up. Gasping sounds came from his throat.
Daniel’s arm was pulled straight. They pinned it over the slab. The blade fell, and his arm fell to the ground, taking his armlet with it.
Daniel tried to scream, but the sounds couldn’t get past the wound in his stomach. His body convulsed as the pain gnawed at him.
They threw him into the snow next to the others. The magic went to work on him, healing and rebuilding his arm from scratch. He shivered as he felt his skeleton cracking and shifting; his flesh itched as it crawled over that scaffold and reformed, tendons, muscle and eventually fresh skin.
Daniel’s breathing steadied as the pain subsided. He glanced at his arm—reformed—and tried moving it. Good as new. As he tried to get to his feet, a blade slipped in front of his neck. “Sure you want to try that?” came a rough voice from behind him.
Daniel swallowed. His skin pressed up uncomfortably against the edge of the blade as his Adam’s apple moved up, then back down.
He was in the middle of unknown territory at the bottom of Hell, and—as usual—surrounded by torturous psychopaths. One of whom had a hand on his shoulder and was threatening to cut his throat. Daniel stopped trying to stand and stayed where he was.
The troll bound his hands behind his back. Daniel glanced over, trying to see what they were doing with his former arm—and more importantly, his armlet. Behind the stone slab was a small crate holding a pile of the things; the goblin slid his armlet off the severed limb and into the crate, not bothering to check it or take his item out of it.
There was a red stain in the snow next to him, now. His blood. The other colors were from the demons that didn’t have red blood.
A light flashed, and a new demon arrived where Daniel had been a short time before. “Robe!” one of the trolls called out.
The process repeated itself, and this time, Daniel watched as what had been done to him was done to another. The three demons moved with the coordinated precision of people that had repeated the same work many times over. In short order, the demon was kneeling with the rest of them, a shivering, bleeding hulk that slowly had its arm regrown by Hell’s healing magic. His armlet was deposited with the others.
The distant sound came again—a heavy, metallic ker-chunk that Daniel could feel in his chest. A trickle of snow fell from a ledge high up on a cliff as the canyon walls shifted ever-so-slightly.
Daniel glanced at the demons near him. “What is that?” he whispered.
One of the other bound demons—a goblin—glanced back at him. “Gears,” it said, in a low voice. “The Hell seal. It’s below us.”
“Stinking human,” another demon muttered. “Don’t know anything about anything.”
“Human?” said another voice. The devil at the front of the group, who had been staring down at the snow, turned and looked back. His black pupils met Daniel, and he smiled that shark-toothed grin the red-skinned creatures all shared. “Well, well. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. What luck.”
Daniel didn’t recognize him at first—they all looked similar to him—but the words clued him in. This was the same devil that he’d competed against in his first challenge in Hell, the one that tried to attack him right after they made it to Purgatory—Zelunix.
“Luck,” Daniel said, looking at him, “is not the word I’d use right now.”
“Really?” Zelunix tapped at his throat—the demon chuckle. “I feel like the luckiest demon in Hell.” The tapping at his throat turned into a full-on series of slaps as he laughed harder; a dull, hollow noise that drifted over the group even as another demon was dragged over to be butchered. And as that demon was dismembered, he laughed louder still. The sound echoed off the ice and rock, like a finger flicking on a used-up tube of cardboard. Dull, empty.
Daniel stared out over the canyon. He didn’t feel cold, even though the others were shivering.
He fully understood how bad things were, in that moment. He quietly appreciated it all from a distance, as if withdrawn from himself. He didn’t even feel the slightest bit upset anymore.
He didn’t feel anything at all.
Epilogue
Several miles north of the Astor manor in upstate New York, the Ivory Dawn had just finished final preparations to open a full portal to the demon world. It was one of five that were being constructed across the world, gateways to allow the demon army onto Earth.
The portal was constructed according to Beelzebub’s specifications, a steel-and-stone archway with a 127 foot radius. The arch soared above the surrounding forest, a lone monolith in the middle of an isolated clearing. A huge ruby was perched at the pinnacle, large enough that, standing on the ground, Henry could clearly see the red gleam of sunlight filtering through the gem.
Despite the towering height, the arch was only a foot thick. The weight of the stone would have caused it to collapse if it wasn’t supported by magic. It stood on two mighty foundation stones, each studded with mana crystals, mirror images of one another.
The site was chosen for very particular reasons—close to where they thought the Vorid would strike, but far enough away from the refugee camps for them to feel safe. They’d detected dimensional shifts near the lingering, silent fortress still floating above New York City. The Ivory Dawn had dug in most of their forces around it, as it was highly suspect as a launching point for another strike from the Vorid. The demons would shore up those defenses, allowing them to keep the Vorid pinned down away from the general population.
Henry would’ve preferred to build the thing at the North Pole, but the cost of teleporting in the materials would’ve become even more burdensome.
Unlike a summoning—in which a mage helped a specific demon create a physical projection of themselves on Earth—the portal would allow the demons to come in the flesh, bringing advanced magics and technology with them. There were plenty of spells capable of banishing projections, but there was no way to quickly rid themselves of the demons once they’d crossed through the portal. To say it was unusual to allow the demons to simply walk in on a scale like this was the understatement of a millennia. The week prior, the largest portal Henry had ever seen was fifteen feet tall, embedded deep in a top-secret, high-security facility underneath a nuclear missile silo in Nebraska and guarded day and night by their best men.
Henry toured the outside of the foundation, helping with the final checks. The other magicians gave him space, letting him work in peace. His eyes scanned the sigils carved in the stone as he checked and re-checked where they linked with those on the foundation and then focused in around the mana crystals. At times, he would approach, touch his hand against the stone, and test a small stream of mana, watching it flow through the runes; then, satisfied, step away to another portion.
Once the portal activated, the space would be permanently tied open; they wouldn’t need to continually provide it with energy. There was, however, a second set of mana crystals, quietly buried under the foundation. Those could be used to untie the space and shut the portal, should they feel the need to do so.
That would only help, though, if they could keep control of it.
He glanced up to the sky, seeking comfort in what he knew was there. Three of their airships were present, patrolling in steady circles like dark thunderclouds. Two of the three were their oldest, and most powerful, traditional airships. The third was the experimental airship, the IVD Methuselah 138. They’d poured tremendous resources into it, having crossed a bristlecone pine with a sequoia to produce its living core. The child tree-core, while sterile, married the weight and strength of a redwood with the longevity and tenacity of the bristlecone. The nature of the tree itself was directly proportional to its potential in powering the airship’s functions, both in and out of battle, and the Methuselah had proven a fantastic success. In particular, it was equipped with the state of the art technology allowing them to monitor for Vorid incursions.
The Vorid were not the only thing to be defended against. The demons were allies of the moment at best, and the war effort had set off a magical arms race across the globe. Even as the strongest factions positioned themselves to fight the Vorid, they wanted to remain at advantage when the fighting was over.
As Henry rounded the foundation for the fifth time, he realized he was stalling. The runes were fine; the sigils were perfect. He was merely hesitating on the trigger.
He heaved out a breath, and his expression firmed. Xik had stolen his daughter from him—and in so doing made his stance perfectly clear. This was a necessary evil, one they’d deal with after the Vorid. The Ivory Dawn weren’t the only group taking on the risk of a portal, and for that, at least, they could count on their rivals to help.
Henry made his way back to the waiting mages. There were ten thousand men encamped around the portal—mostly mundane military—alongside five hundred of the Ivory Dawn, crowded against the tree line, ready to receive the enemy of their enemy. Gerald Aiken was at their head, looking at him expectantly. “It’s ready,” Henry said. “Activate the formation.”
Gerald turned, raising his hands as a signal. Five magicians began to chant, leading a group of 50 mages in each segment of the formation. One of the chanters was Eleanor’s betrothed, Matthew; traditionally, leading any formation was considered a position of honor, and Henry had no problem giving them a sense of appreciation that cost him nothing.
Those not chanting drew a sigil in the air, each a single link in the massive formation. Typically, mages would be responsible for maintaining four or five sigils in a formation, but this brooked no mistakes. The other 250 mages were the backup if something went wrong, ready to step in to support anyone who faltered or work together as a group to bring rampant energies back under control. Gerald stood behind his son, nodding in approval as Matthew picked his way through the enunciation of the words.
Their preparation proved unnecessary. The spell hummed along smoothly, frighteningly smoothly, without any of the nastiness or messy sacrifice one might imagine creating a portal to the demon world might entail. In fact, the spell was remarkable in how little resources it used—a detail that grew more frightening the longer one thought about it. Beelzebub was very old and possessed a tremendous amount of very dangerous knowledge—especially concerning spells that shouldn’t be cast.
The foundation stones began to glow. The light increased in intensity as the spell built to completion, focused in on the mana crystals; they shone with various colors matching their affinity, some white, others blue, red, black, green. Henry watched, unblinking.
The foundation stones went dark, and the collected energy lanced up each side of the arch in a wave of multicolored lightning. The sigils carved into the stone lit up as the wave of energy crackled past. Upon reaching the top, the waves of energy struck the ruby from either side, discharging into the gem.
A beam of red light shot down from the ruby and into the ground, holding steady as a laser. The glowing sigils flashed from white to solid red, washing out the light of day until it seemed the entire forest was painted in blood. The ground vibrated under their feet. The magicians held steady, but the mundane soldiers shifted and stirred, casting worried looks at the trees and the archway.
The laser of red light rotated, spinning a single circle within the confines of the arch. It was that action which twisted space together, linking their location with a matching one in the demon capital city, Dis.
As the light turned, the view of the forest behind the arch vanished, replaced by a view into a facility comparable to a massive hangar. Squared-off legions of demon soldiers lined the interior of the building, organized by race—goblins, ogres, devils, undines, and grazul, to name a few. Hovering tanks and smaller support vehicles were present between the larger squares of infantry. What Henry suspected were small aircraft lined the outer walls of the hangar, no doubt to be wheeled in after the infantry.
As the red haze of the formation faded away, Henry had a better view of the front row. Standing near the portal’s edge was a small collection of demons of various races, each decked in gleaming armor and medals—the leaders and generals. Henry stepped forward with his own contingent from the Ivory Dawn’s high council, squaring his soldiers and mentally preparing himself to receive them. The first impression was going to be important. It was no secret that humanity had fallen behind the development of Beelzebub’s empire—to what extent, they weren’t quite sure—but Henry was determined to demonstrate that the Ivory Dawn would not be trifled with, if push came to shove.
A fully transformed dragon emerged from the shadows at the top of the hangar and swooped through the portal. It was massive, at least twice the size of any dragon Henry had ever seen, the tips of its wings nearly touching the sides of the archway. Its scales shimmered bright purple in the light.
It roared down at the mundane military. Some soldiers flinched or cringed away from the beast, but most stood firm, probably too awed by the proceedings to process the fear. The dragon snorted smoke in their direction, then took off above the trees, buzzing one of the airships. It hovered there a moment, craning a neck to get its bearings, before flying southeast—the direction of the city.
“Are they trying to scare us?” Matthew said. “They’ll have to do better than cheap intimidation tactics.”
Gerald shrugged. “We’re asking them for help. A little showboating is expected.”
“That was a test,” Henry said. “We can’t let it pass unchallenged.”
“They’ll accuse us of nitpicking inflexibility, no doubt,” Gerald said.
“Better we’re perceived as inflexible than weak.”
“True enough.”
The other demons walked through the portal. The view rippled slightly at their passing, as if they were emerging from a pool of water. Henry made for the demon in front—a devil, judging from the white horns protruding from his helmet and the black nails jutting from the ends of his gauntlets. The rest of him was covered head-to-toe in jet black armor, spiked and beveled enough that he looked like a soldier of death. He wore none of the decoration or medals like the other demons.
As they closed the gap, Henry saw that the armor was streaked through with gold in a few places. A brief magical scan—all he could do while still being polite—sent his senses practically vibrating.
“Henry,” Gerald said, keeping his voice hushed.
“I know,” Henry said. “Orichalcum.”
“That much in one place is worth more than five New Yorks.” Henry was very much aware, considering his family still owned a good portion of the city. “Nothing written about Asmodeus mentioned this armor.”
Henry shook his head in agreement, but withheld further comment. They couldn’t whisper amongst themselves all the way to their counterparts.
Both groups stopped several feet apart. The armored demon stepped in, leading with a hand. Henry took it. The black armor was as cold as it looked.
After they shook, the devil waved a hand; an orange sigil flashed over his group, then disappeared. Henry was able to catch enough to recognize it as a basic translation spell.
“I apologize,” the devil said. The words creaked out from his helmet, reluctant, but in perfect English. “For the behavior of my general, Varnifax.” He gestured up to the dragon, now a shrinking dot in the sky. “He tends to get…enthusiastic.”
It didn’t sound like the demon was happy about it, but Henry was pleasantly surprised for the public acknowledgement. “We were certainly a little surprised,” Henry said, “but I won’t be upset about someone enthusiastic to take on the Vorid.”
“Give him time,” the devil said. “He ages like sour milk.”
Henry smiled at that. “I’m Henry Astor, leader of the Ivory Dawn. Welcome to Earth.”
“I’m Asmodeus,” the devil said, “commander of the military.” Henry noted that Asmodeus did not need to specify which military. “Are we clear to move in our troops?”
