Chapter Nineteen
I approach the Devil Killer slowly out of an abundance of respect and caution, and maybe some nerves, too.
The sword seems almost alive, resting there upon the wall.
The metal is deep black, like the sword back home, so black it might have been forged from the devil’s own heart.
Strange symbols crawl along the blade’s surface, moving just enough to convince me they aren’t engravings at all.
What they are or what they mean, I have no idea.
The sword back home has no such markings.
To think this thing has just been lying dormant down here is astonishing.
Had the Dark One and his demons truly been unaware of the complete and total destruction such a sword could wreak upon them?
If so, it suggests the weapon has likely never been used.
But still, something about that doesn’t quite add up.
Why keep such a weapon anywhere near the very creatures it was created to destroy?
In my world, only the Devil Killer can send demons and even the Devil himself back to the Origin. Such creatures obviously have little fear of hell, so eternal punishment seems rather pointless. Apparently, it is better to remove them from existence altogether and let the Origin sort them out.
With a demon horde pounding on the heavy door behind me, I fly across the armory and up the wall, where I reach out and wrap my hand around the sword’s handle.
And wow, the hilt fits my hand perfectly.
Almost like it has been made for me, which is a strange thought.
Then again, not many people can wield such a weapon.
Apparently, only those imbued with angel magic can do so, and I have been.
My dark angel wings are still proof of that. Angel magic indeed!
But yeah, the moment my fingers wrap around the grip, a pulse of heat surges up my arm and into my shoulder. My ice sword immediately shatters into glittering frost, almost as if it knows it is no longer needed in the presence of a weapon created to destroy demons.
The demons, perhaps unaware of what now awaits them inside the armory, slam harder and harder against the heavy wooden door. Does the Dark One himself know that I now wield the Devil Killer? Another series of impacts follows, each harder than the last. The hinges groan.
From below, Azul swallows hard. Prince Pickles tightens his grip around my shoulders. Pretty sure that is him whimpering in my ear. He has always watched the Games from the safety of the royal box, where the demons have never posed the slightest threat to him. All that is changing now.
Meanwhile, I test the sword. It is surprisingly light and perfectly balanced in my hand. There is also something dangerously eager about it, almost as if the weapon has a personality of its own and desperately wants to be used. Okay, that is new.
Bam! Another impact, then another and another.
Wood splinters. A fist the size of a bull shark’s snout punches through the door.
Then another fist appears beside it, followed by a hideous horned face straight from my nightmares.
The iron bolt bends as the entire door buckles inward, barely holding against the demons on the other side.
Soon, the door inevitably explodes inward, and demons pour inside. Twenty. Maybe thirty. Too many to count while trying not to also die.
The nearest demon roars, swinging nothing but its long, extended claws, which, apparently, it thinks are all it needs. It thinks wrong. I step forward, duck beneath its telegraphed swipe, and slash. That is all it takes.
The Devil Killer passes through its neck as easily as a hot knife through butter. The demon freezes, looks confused, then bursts into a billowing cloud of black smoke.
Oddly, the sword hums with approval. I don’t remember the previous sword being encouraging in any way, so this is new.
“Oh,” says Azul. “So that’s what it can do.”
I smile. “That, and more.”
“Truly forged by angels,” says the wizard, staring at the now-glowing blade.
“Looks like it.”
Three more demons charge, all wielding heavy axes.
I jump and spin, Sebastian’s lessons flowing through me as naturally as instinct.
The Devil Killer sweeps horizontally from left to right, then I reverse the blade and slash back the other way.
Three bodies stumble forward as three heads tumble free.
A moment later, all three demons dissolve into billowing black smoke.
The demons hesitate. I’m not surprised. From my experience, demons have an innate desire to stay alive. I suspect they are now recognizing that this might be their last battle. I am not about to let them think this through and retreat.
Spurred by the sword’s eagerness, I leap, wings spread wide, and land atop a table stacked with primitive weapons.
Then I dive back into the fray, dodging blades, teeth, and claws, trusting my vampiric dexterity and inner alarm to keep me alive.
Both do. Couldn’t say as much for the demons, who fall by the dozens as the Devil Killer flashes, slashes, and spears.
A head tumbles free. A clawed hand follows.
One particularly thick demon is nearly cut in two.
Every demon touched by the blade simply ceases to exist. No corpse remains behind. No blood spills across the floor. No spirit returns to Hell to regroup and come after me another day. There is only a burst of black smoke, and then the demon is gone forever.
Azul stands to the side and raises his hands.
Purple bolts crackle from his fingertips as demons suddenly find themselves floating helplessly near the ceiling.
I sweep beneath them. One slash. Another.
Another. That is all it takes. No disemboweling.
No guts. No blood. Each demon simply flashes into dark smoke, then vanishes completely.
I could have been a kid at a Macy’s Day Parade popping balloons with a long stick.
Minutes later, silence settles over the armory as black smoke hangs just below the ceiling. The prince peeks out from behind a massive shield I had deposited him behind.
“Are they dead?” he asks.
I look down at the glowing sword. “Dead or gone. Pretty much the same, I think.”
“Daddy won’t be happy.”
I notice movement: a lone demon cowering on the floor, missing a hand. Clearly lopped off while I was using my ice sword. When it sees me looking, it yelps and tries to crawl away. I dash over to it, grabbing it by one of its long horns.
“Congratulations,” I say as it whimpers. “You just got to be a tour guide.”
It grunts and shakes its massive head.
I raise the Devil Killer. White flames dance along its black edge. The light shines in the demon’s obsidian eyes.
“I wasn’t asking,” I say. “Can you speak?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“The communication spell should extend to him and anyone else in the nether realm,” says Azul behind me.
“Take me to your master,” I say, shaking it as I haul it up to its feet.
The demon shudders. “He lives below, mistress. Deep below. His palace lies beneath the arena.”
“Where he consumes the blood of the fallen.”
“Yes, but not just the fallen. Any and all blood is captured and funneled to him.”
“You serve him?”
“He made me to serve him.”
That tracks. The devil in my realm created his demons, as well. “Take me to him.”
“First we must travel past the fires, the cells, the pits, and past the Hall of Champions.”
Yeah, not terribly different than the Greek underworld, and probably the Christian Hell, too, which I have technically not visited. Yet. Then again, we will see what J.R. Rain has in store for me in future adventures. That is, of course, if I am to survive this one.
“What Hall?” I ask.
“The champions he consumed. He keeps their weapons and their heads.”
“He fights them?”
“In his way, yes. The winners have one final fight, down in his chamber, where they invariably lose to my master.”
I nod toward the door. “Lead the way, dipshit.”
“How did you know my name?”
“Lucky guess. Go on.”
The demon lumbers forward, cradling his damaged wrist against his side.
Azul joins me, while the prince trails behind as commanded.
We leave the armory and emerge onto a long, covered walkway that runs parallel to the arena, its high roof supported by thick stone columns.
Open arches along one side give me glimpses of the massive stadium beyond, while a succession of doors and darkened passages line the other.
The demon leads us along the walkway until we reach a narrow set of back stairs, where we begin our descent into the bowels of the arena.
Lower and lower we go, until the light from above disappears completely and there is only the sound of dripping water and not-so-distant screams. Eventually, the passage widens into a broad underground corridor, dark and damp and terribly familiar.
Yup, I have seen something similar in the Greek Underworld. Guess not a lot of imagination goes into designing hellscapes.
Shortly, enormous iron doors materialize before us, easily thirty feet tall and covered in creepy etchings that seem to move whenever I look away.
Demons mill before them. More demons than I have ever seen gathered in one place.
No way I can cut through them all. I would need ten of me. Hell, fifty of me.
“He’s waiting for you inside, stupid human,” says my guide.
“What are all those demons doing?” I ask.
“Waiting for his appearance. Once each day, he allows us to bask in his unholy presence. May I go wait with my brothers and sisters?”
“You may.”
He lumbers off, reminding me of a gorilla barreling across the uneven ground.
I chuckle, adjust my grip on Azul and Pickles, and leap up onto my wings.