Prospero in Hell (56 page)

From my left came the familiar whirr of the
Staff of Devastation
powering up. As soon as the noise became a steady hum, Theo raised the silver-white length and pointed it at the approaching flock of imps. A beam of pure white fire came from the staff and sizzled across the sky, causing the very air it passed through to burst into flame, until a corona of red-orange flame surrounded the white-hot beam.

It struck the flock. Imps exploded into tiny white stars. They scattered, causing much of the force of Theo’s beam to be wasted, dissipated upon the air or lost as it continued unimpeded over the horizon. About a third of those approaching evaporated or dropped from the sky, burnt.

The rest regrouped.

The force of the beam threw Theo backward, pulling the roc with him. The great bird tumbled beak over talons, sending my brothers flying. Luckily, Theo had the presence of mind to stop firing as soon as he started to spin; otherwise the magnificent roc, and possibly some of my brothers, would have met a white-hot death. The roc righted itself and stooped after those whom it had dropped, catching everyone except for Theo himself, who smashed to the ground below. Diving, the roc snatched Theo up in its huge curved beak. It was impossible to make out whether Theo was injured.

Then the surviving imps were among us, stabbing our flying beasts with their long, pointy pitchforks.

“Fly for the far side!” cried Ulysses.

“No! We mustn’t risk the chance that one of us might be dropped into the Styx,” cried Gregor. “Make for the solid land this side of the bridge.”

The roc reached solid land without dropping anyone except for Caliban, who rolled and came quickly to his feet, club ready. Gregor raised his staff. He and the harpy disappeared inside a ball of darkness. No imps approached his hovering ball of Hellshadow as it floated down to the ground beside the roc. The winged lion landed as well. It had a glow of holiness about it that kept the imps from coming too close, and when they tried to stab it with their tridents, Mephisto parried with the
Staff of Summoning,
wielding the length of carved wood as if it were a sword.

The rest of us were not so lucky. A mob of imps forced the gryphon down in the midst of the last mangrove, Logistilla disappearing beneath the trees in a glow of pale greenish light. Not waiting for the roc to release him, Titus leapt forward—breaking off the sharp, curved tip of the roc’s talon when the collar of his enchanted garment would not give way. He charged toward Logistilla’s position, shouting the war cry of his mother’s Scottish clan:
“Creag an Tuiric.”

“Blimey,” murmured Ulysses. “He’s determined! The poor roc. Doesn’t seem to be in pain, though. Hopefully, it was like ripping a fingernail.”

As for Erasmus and me, the first few imps that came near shriveled, withered, and evaporated, all except for a dark bit of writhing wormlike thing, apparently impervious to the ravages of time, that dropped to
pitter-pat
against the ground below. After that, the imps stayed back and tried to poke at us with the cruel barbs of their tridents. These I parried or sliced in two with my war fan. Only without my Lady to guide my blows, I felt slow and awkward, unsure when and where to swing. One trident slipped past me and jabbed Pegasus in the haunches. The flying horse
reared. Erasmus held on to the mane, but I, who was not holding anything, tumbled off.

As I fell, I managed to catch the winged steed’s tail and cling to it with both hands. This kept me from falling, but the horse did not like it and kicked. My enchanted gown protected me from the sharpness of the hoof but not from its impact. The air was knocked from my lungs. I hung, gasping, my mouth moving like a fish’s. When the land beneath grew close enough I let go, curling into a ball to avoid another kick. I landed and rolled, then sat, battered and sore, until I regained my breath.

Titus came running toward us, Logistilla clinging to his back. Mephisto tapped his staff, and the magical beasts—the roc, the flying horse, the winged lion, and the harpy—vanished like a dream, the harpy still blowing kisses to a weary Gregor.

“Fall in!” Theo barked in his best “Major Prospero” voice.

Nine of us formed a circle back to back—our staves in our left hands and any weapon we carried in our right. Caliban and Mab, who had never fought with us before, stood to one side. Mab caught on and quickly muscled in beside me, but Caliban stood uncertainly until Mephisto grabbed his arm and pulled him into the ring.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the enemy. The green streaks of light hovering like wings behind my shoulder glittered. Beside me, Theo looked spectacular in his silvery titanium armor, which he wore over the enchanted gambeson Logistilla had quilted for him along ago. His breastplate of shining Urim gleamed so brightly in the gloom of Hell that it was hard to look at him. Some of the imps veered away, mistaking him for a warrior angel. Erasmus had done such an excellent job of fitting the armor to him that Theo now looked like his splendid self of old. No wonder he had asked for his old squire!

Since the others, except for Ulysses, wore their enchanted garments—all fashioned by Logistilla in centuries past—we resembled living versions of our statues in the Great Hall. Titus wore his MacLaren tartan kilt. Gregor’s dark, wavy hair brushed against the red half-cape that fell from the shoulders of his crimson cardinal’s robes. Logistilla, in her dark blue split-skirt garment with its enormous collar, looked every inch the fairy-tale villainess. Mephisto, garbed in his voluminous-sleeved shirt and matching pantaloons of indigo with his black vest and wide-brimmed boots, resembled a pirate or perhaps a circus ringmaster. Beside him, Erasmus wore the garments of a gentleman of the eighteenth century, dark green justacorps and even darker
waistcoat, with matching breeches and a silver garter beneath each knee, while Cornelius wore his purple
Orbis Suleimani
robes, an eye emblazoned in a triangle upon his chest. A matching purple blindfold covered his eyes.

Ulysses, leaning upon his staff and playing with his slight mustache, wore a gray domino mask and tuxedo. Mab and Caliban also lacked the protection of enchanted garments. Mab slouched beside me in his trench coat and fedora, and Caliban was clad in ordinary jeans and a flannel shirt.

We looked glorious.

The imps dropped out of the sky—some directly atop us, others gathering in hordes before charging. Wherever they stabbed the ground, large pot-bellied demons with stinger tails and pitchforks as long as lances appeared out of nowhere. These new demons opened their mouths and blew icy cold winds, strong enough to lift a grown man off his feet. These were Focalor’s servants, not the dancing storm imps I knew from our sea battles, but servants of his, nonetheless.

Theo stabbed three of the imps that landed close at hand, followed by a pot-bellied demon. I slashed one of the latter across the chest, though it vanished again before I did it much harm, and Mab knocked two imps out of the air, bashing their wings with his lead pipe. Titus swung his thick length of cedar like a golf club, sending imps and demons spinning head over heels, and Erasmus withered all who came near him. Ulysses fired at the enemy with matching dueling pistols. They must have been enchanted, for he fired and fired, never once stopping to reload. His accuracy was astonishing, every shot piercing the brainpan of an imp or a demon. To his left, Caliban screamed like Tarzan and bashed skulls and leathery wings beneath his club, while Mephisto ducked behind him shouting instructions and encouragement.

The demons struck back, slingshotting their long flexible tails over our heads, their shiny stingers curling to strike our backs. Theo, Cornelius, Gregor, and I would all have been stung had it not been for the protection of our enchanted garments. The pitchforks, too, were turned aside by the magical cloth, but a barbed tine caught Erasmus’s unprotected hand, and another stabbed Caliban in the thigh, before he broke its shaft with a blow from his club.

Gregor pushed Cornelius into the middle of our ring, for with his staff out of commission he was useless in a fight. Once our blind brother was safe, Gregor stood poised, the Seal of Solomon glittering upon his finger, ready to slap any denizen of Hell who ventured too close. Those he touched shriveled
up until they were the size of a pea. Some he managed to capture in glass vials he carried under his robes. Others fell beneath our feet and were lost.

Then, an imp managed to evade our blows and strike the ground with its weapon inside our circle. Immediately, three pot-bellied demons appeared behind us, blowing us from our feet and freezing us with their icy breath. Our circle was broken. Mab, Theo, and I were thrown headlong.

Theo and I rose and stood back to back, while Mab turned angrily toward Focalor’s servants.

“Damn if any puny puff is going to blow me around!” Mab cried. “Don’t you know who I am, you pathetic gutless gusts? If it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be such a thing as an icy wind!”

He opened his mouth, and the air grew colder. An icy gale-strength wind threw the demons from their feet, coating them instantly with rime. The startled demons flew through the air, flailing their limbs and trying to stab their stingers into anything that might give them purchase. A few had the presence of mind to wink out, appearing elsewhere. The rest either did not think of this or could not.

Mab’s wind whipped about, catching imps and demons in its blast. Then, it swung out over the river, carrying them with it and dropping them into the black waters. Icy rime coated the path it had followed. Some demons reappeared, and some imps had escaped the Northeasterly rage, but many of those it had captured fled, dripping with icicles. They refused to return, and enemies’ numbers began to dwindle.

Mab’s body flopped over. I ran to him. Remembering Caurus in the Vault, I did not panic when he showed no sign of life. Instead, I held the body upright, mouth open, while Theo guarded my back. Sure enough, there was a second blast of cold, and Mab’s eyes opened. He straightened, then twitched and jerked awkwardly as he situated himself within the fleshly body again.

“Sorry about that, Ma’am,” he muttered embarrassed. “I shouldn’t let them get my goat.” Then a grin broke out across his stony features. “Sure felt good to see them scurry, the poseurs!”

A little distance away, Logistilla held up her staff. Long streamers of pale greenish light spilled from the globe at the top striking our opposition. Red-skinned imps trembled and shivered and collapsed into toads, who sank beneath the murk, while the larger pot-bellied demons turned into equally pot-bellied pigs. A moment or two later, however, imps began popping up again, as they used their own magic to transform back.

“Bother! That’s no good,” she cried. “Titus!”

Again streamers of verdant light spread from her staff, striking our enemies. This time, both imps and demons were transformed into swine. Then, Titus raised his staff, and everything went silent. My enormous brother strode forward, making no noise as he moved through the misty waters. He began striking pigs on the head with the
Staff of Silence,
caving in their skulls. Caliban quickly joined him, killing swine with a single blow of his stout club.

Mephisto ran backward, dodging demons or doing backflips over their heads, until he was beyond the range of Titus’s staff, the effect of which inhibited the operation of the rest of our staffs. As soon as he was able, he began tapping his staff, summoning his friends.

The winged lion swooped out of the sky and landed on a sow. The gryphon followed suit, and the magnificent roc carried off six fat hogs. A three-headed hound, a cockatrice, and four giant, green, fairy dogs loped across the ground chasing swine. The
Cu Sith
could not enter the area of the silence, but they moved together as a pack and tackled the first animal to break free of Titus’s effect, howling their eerie fey howls. Farther away, the mammoth silently stomped on a nest of toads, and the hamadryad dripped its long sinuous body out of one of the remaining mangroves and swallowed a squealing pig whole.

All of this happened silently, as if we were all part of a well-choreographed film to which the sound track had been lost.

I slit the throat of three hogs with my fan. As I looked around for a fourth, gnarled arms grabbed me from behind, squeezing me painfully. More demons were among us now, and Logistilla could not transform them while Titus’s deadening silence remained. Twisting my wrist like a fan dancer, I cut the hand holding me and turned, kneeing my assailant. Alas, there was no vulnerable spot where my leg connected, just a hard ruby carapace that bruised my kneecap.

The large demon leered and poked at me with his trident as I hopped with pain. His blow slid harmlessly off my enchanted gown. As he struck again, I waited until the tines touched my dress and brought my moon-silver war fan down, cleaving the trident’s haft. He looked down in consternation at his broken weapon, an almost comical expression upon his ugly face. I wasted no time but lunged forward, despite the sting in my knee, and slit his throat. His chin flopped back, black ichor spurting like a fountain. My blow had not cut all the way through his neck, however, so his lolling head hung helplessly above his windmilling arms. A second strike separated the head from the body, which I then pushed over with my foot.

Sound came rushing back: breathing, wheezing, screams, and thuds. Caliban was still uttering his ululating yell, and Mephisto was riding a big squinty-eyed pig, whooping like a cowboy.

“Brother, come, be my guide,” Gregor’s voice spoke nearby. Turning, I saw Gregor grab Cornelius’s shoulder and hold up the
Staff of Darkness
. Shadows poured out, surrounding the both of them. As the black cloud about them spread, demons and imps disappeared within its growing radius. None emerged again. Turning to parry another stinger tail, I smiled at the irony of Cornelius, who was familiar with pitch darkness, acting as a guide for his seeing brother.