Prospero in Hell (57 page)

Somewhere nearby, a great voice cried:
“Strike not Focalor! His armor corrodes all that touches it.”

I spun around but was too late to see who had spoken. Overhead, a figure descended from the sky, borne upon tawny wings shaped like those of Mephisto’s gryphon. His body was clad in rusted armor, pitted and ruddy. The surface had a wicked sheen reminiscent of acid or poison. The figure carried a shield, the device of which was too corroded to be distinguished.

So this was Focalor, whose minions had so often harried us at sea. He did not look so imposing—until he landed and revealed himself to be well over seven feet tall, with a wingspan of over twenty-five feet. His great wings closed with a loud
whoosh,
and his armor clanked as he moved, shedding reddish metallic dust. Even the air near him was damaged by his passage, for it hurt my nose and throat to breathe it.

The demon regarded us contemptuously and spoke: “Despair, Children of the Dread Prospero, and kneel to me! For I am your doom!”

“Not likely!” murmured Ulysses. He raised his pistols and fired both barrels at the newcomer. The bullets disintegrated to nothing. Ulysses’s cocky grin faded to a frown. “That doesn’t even make sense! Lead doesn’t rust!”

“But it does age,” murmured Erasmus, studying the rusty armor carefully.

Focalor ignored Ulysses and cried out, “Long ago, I was one of the Great Seven who ruled Hell. When the unaccursed Solomon crept among us, binding and kidnapping, I was wrongly held accountable for his treachery—a charge that should have fallen to Asmodeus—and robbed of my throne. The throne that had once been mine was granted to Abaddon, the Angel of the Gateway, when he changed sides and joined our infernal forces. It has been promised that after I defeat the Family Prospero and retrieve the stolen demons, my rightful place shall be restored to me.”

“Oh, and you believe them?” Logistilla gave him a look of disdainful sympathy. “Take it from me. Devils lie.”

Focalor ignored her as well. “Compose yourselves to remain here, in Hell, for all eternity. Who will die first?”

Theo stepped forward, his expression hidden by his faceplate. “I challenge you to single combat.”

“Then, you may die first.”

“Theo, wait!” Erasmus unbuckled a sword that hung at his side and held it out to Theo. “Take this. Your sword will never survive the fight.”

“What is it?”

“
Durandel,
the unbreakable sword of Orlando. I borrowed it from the Vault, thinking it might be useful.”

“Durandel!”
Theo drew the sword from the sheath. It seemed brighter and more substantial than its surroundings. He saluted the demon with it. The demon eyed the sword with distaste but drew his own blade—which had been partially eaten away by rust—and returned the salute.

The battle began. Theo fought hard, but his enemy was faster, stronger, and had reach on him. Theo parried many of the incoming blows but failed to strike his foe more than once or twice, at which time
Durandel
skidded harmlessly off the demon’s armor, his rusty plates clanging loudly.

The sword
Durandel
held its own against the corrosive blade of the enemy, but Theo’s normally untarnishable titanium grew black and dull wherever the rusted blade struck it. Only the Urim breastplate and helmet remained unharmed. When struck, they chimed like leaded crystal, evoking memories of Easter and the ringing of church bells. Around us, the imps and lesser demons held their heads at the sound.

I watched, my heart pounding, as my beloved brother pitted his life against the demon Focalor. It seemed impossible that he, old and weary, in armor made for a much younger man, might hold his own against this great duke of the Inferno. Yet, amazingly, Theo did not falter. After five or ten exchanges, the imps began to mutter and dance about impatiently, amazed anyone could last so long against their master. Apparently, Focalor was considered an expert swordsman, even among the denizens of Hell.

My brethren were similarly impressed.

“Theo’s rather good for an old man,” murmured Titus.

“Good? He’s astounding!” Logistilla replied, wringing her hands with concern. “Oh! I do hope he’s careful!”

Only Mephisto remained unconvinced by Theo’s performance. He leapt upon the winged lion again and soared up above the match shouting advice. “Go left. No, down! No, it’s a feint! Duck!”

Theo, who could not respond in time, was thrown back when Focalor reversed his feint and swung his great sword at Theo’s head. He managed to successfully block the blow to his face, but the corrupting blade struck the upper part of his sword arm, leaving a black, sullied spot on his shiny titanium armor, deeper and larger than the previous marks. The place sizzled as if the metal itself were being consumed by some virulent, sinister acid.

Before Theo could rise again, the winged lion swept down upon him and his opponent. With a single fluid motion, Mephisto leapt from the creature’s back, did a double backflip that knocked the cavalier’s hat he wore over his shoulders onto his head. He grabbed the sword out of Theo’s surprised fingers, knocked Focalor’s blade to one side, moved the tip of his own weapon around his opponent’s rusted breastplate, and stabbed him in the armpit, driving his blow home to the demon’s heart.

“Touché!”
called Mephistopheles. The indigo panache atop his hat bobbed jauntily.

“Good work, Meph!” Erasmus cried, unconsciously calling him by a nickname from an earlier age.

“Excellent, Master Mephistopheles!” cheered Caliban.

“Wow!” murmured Mab. “That was… wow.”

The demon Focalor fell backward, crashing to the ground. As the lesser demons drew back, murmuring in awe, Mephisto swept the hat off his head and bowed.

Immediately, Focalor’s servants either fled—the imps flying away, and the demons disappearing in a dark puff—or ran forward and leapt upon their master’s body, poking and stabbing him in a frenzy of malicious vengeance. We backed away, putting distance between ourselves and our erstwhile attackers.

All around us, dead imps, demons, and swine lay scattered; some were being munched upon by Mephisto’s friends. Hatless again, Mephisto returned
Durandel
to Erasmus. He ran his hand up and down his staff, tapping it repeatedly, until all his friends had vanished, returning to more wholesome stomping grounds.

We began jogging, covering the remaining eighth of a mile between us and the bridge. Beside us bobbed an enormous dark mass of Hellshadow, as Gregor had left the
Staff of Darkness
running. The sooty stuff that issued
from it now stretched across the countryside, winding its way along the river bank like a dense, charcoal fog. Mab kept a wary eye on it, fearing that some nasty thing might pop out, but the locals seemed afraid of it. Those few individuals who could be seen walking near the Styx moved quickly away from the drifting darkness.

Without warning, the muddy ground beneath us shook and parted, throwing many of us from our feet. A chasm opened in the earth, stretching for nearly a mile along the upstream riverbank. The noise was deafening, and the putrid odor of hot brimstone escaped from the crevasse. Nearly half a mile down the bank, an angel, if such a thing could still be called by so holy a name, rose from the pit.

The creature was monstrously huge, towering over us like a mountain. Its armor was black as pitch. Its seven pairs of sooty wings were patchy, molting. The great pinions had been clipped. One wing looked as if it had broken and healed at an awkward angle. The face, once beautiful beyond bearing, was now partially rotted. Only, the angel seemed unaware of this gaping wound and carried itself as if it were still as beautiful as in days of yore. The creature was both glorious and horrible, like a dark, twisted mockery of some precious thing. Around its neck, a large golden key hung on a thick iron chain.

“Abaddon! He’s come for me!” cried Ulysses, leaping behind Titus and curling up into a ball. I wondered briefly why he did not just run, but he did not even try. “Save me! Theo, shoot him!”

Theo raised his staff and then lowered it again, shaking his head. “He’s too far away. He must know what my range is.”

I gazed up at the monstrosity. This
thing,
this twisted angel, was Ulysses’s dark master, the cause of all our recent suffering and agony. It was he who had compelled my youngest brother to bring about the ruin of Gregor and Theo.

I had wished there were an enemy we could unite against. I had thought that Abaddon, who had caused our family so much harm, would be an ideal target. As I gazed up at the enormous fallen angel with its terrifying, damaged beauty, I wondered if, in the future—assuming I was lucky enough to be granted a future—I should be more careful what I wished for.

The Angel of the Bottomless Pit opened its mouth. What sounded forth was a grating noise like unto an avalanche. We had heard this before, near the bluff, the night we rescued Gregor. Nor did it seem in any way diminished, though the speaker was over a mile away.

“Imprudent Prosperos. Do you revel in your fleeting victory? It is of no significance.
We of Hell need do nothing. There is a traitor amongst you who will do our work for us.”

Beside me, Theo met Gregor’s gaze. Gregor nodded grimly, his eyes gleaming with steely purpose. Taking Cornelius’s arm, he gestured to Theo, and the three of them stepped into the darkness still issuing from Gregor’s staff. As they disappeared into the ever-lengthening ribbon of gloom, Theo muttered under his breath: “Keep him talking!”

I reached out to call Theo back, but the Hellshadow had enveloped him. My heart ached in my chest. I feared suddenly that I would never see him again.

Mephisto took up Theo’s request with zeal.

“Oh yeah?” he bellowed back toward the gigantic angel. “Then, why did you try to attack us? Hmm? Hmm?” He brandished his staff. “That’s right, flee before our superior might.”

“Now, Mephisto,” purred Logistilla, who had not heard Theo, “let’s not taunt the devil. I think he’s letting us go.”

“Your sister speaks truly. I shall make no effort to hold you. My work is already done.”

“Done, in what way?” Mephisto called back. “Or, perhaps I should say, in what respect? By exactly what definition of the word ‘done’ is your work done?” He gestured cheerfully toward the rest of us with the hand to which his staff was again handcuffed. “I ask, only because most of us seem to be here, alive and kicking, which goes against this idea of”—he made quote marks in the air—“ ‘doneness.’ ”

Coming up beside me, Mab whispered softly, “Remind me, if we ever need somebody to stall for time, that the Harebrain is definitely our man.”

The horrible fallen angel spoke. Again his voice grated like an avalanche, but now the sound was so immediate that it felt if the stones were grinding against one another within the cells of my body. The sensation was painful. Around me, I heard moans of agony from my siblings.

“Lowly worm. Show obeisance to me!”

“Er… why should I do that again?” Mephisto cupped his ear and leaned toward the gigantic demon. “Because you’re so… What? Goofy? Dorky-looking? Tall? Being tall is important. Many people are worth worshipping because they are tall.”

The Angel of the Bottomless Pit turned toward my brother, and the weight of his infernal gaze fell upon him—literally. Mephisto stumbled and dropped to his knees, as if pressed down by a terrible heaviness. Logistilla
ran to help him, but she, too, was borne down, until she collapsed face first against the ground, unable to rise.

Titus ran to her, throwing himself between her and the gigantic demon. He tottered and slowly dropped to his knees, but so long as Logistilla kept the bulk of his body between her and Abaddon, she was able to rise a little.

Ulysses, who had been hiding behind Titus, let out a loud bleating sound and dived behind Caliban. I now saw why he had not teleported away. Erasmus had a firm grip on the
Staff of Transportation.
Caliban, however, was striding forward to stand between Mephisto and Abaddon. So, Ulysses was left exposed again. He scrambled behind Erasmus and begged for his staff, weeping with fear.

I could not blame him. He was the one Abaddon had a hold over, the one who would suffer when the demon learned how Ulysses had deceived him.

Abaddon’s gaze now fell upon the rest of us. A tremendous weight oppressed me. I felt as if I were trying to keep a semi-trailer from tumbling sideways by supporting it with my shoulder. Beside me, I heard Mab grunt with exertion. His legs gave out just after mine did, and we both collapsed to the ground.

I tried to get up, but the ground seemed stuck to me. My chest would not rise to allow in air. I opened my mouth, gasping for air. The tremendous weight continued to press upon me, forcing me downward, compacting me. If my back grew any closer to my front, something was going to break.

From the corner of my eye, I could see my siblings struggling. Logistilla had curled up behind Titus and, like Ulysses, lay crying, but Titus, Caliban, and Mephisto struggled against the demon’s gaze, trying to rise, trying to resist the incapacitating gaze. One then another rose, only to fall down again, as the weight of the infernal gaze grew greater. I saw Titus reaching for his staff, which presumably could have stopped this attack, but it had rolled from his fingers, and he could not stretch his arm long enough to reach it. Caliban succumbed last; not even his legendary strength was enough to save him.