Mickie’s world was an ongoing slog of endless darkness and chains. A dreary quiet split only by abrupt surges of violence, punctuated with the chatter of demons. Belphegor would not always come to see him after a bout. In fact, the old demon lord seemed to be gradually losing interest in its new toy, the intervals between its appearances growing ever longer. The trend concerned Mickie, Miz-Mag had been spending every waking moment scoping the interior of their new home, but the demon was not yet confident in their escape. Mickie sensed he was shifting from a strange curiosity to obstinate liability in his captor’s eyes. Belphegor wanted to know what had occurred within the palace, though not so much the old fiend would risk keeping him around indefinitely.
If Mickie’s ongoing silence was becoming a bitter draft, his success in the arena was the honeyed chaser. It appeared the higher rungs of demonic society within this sunken city used the battles as a component of their larger political games. Every so often the Mickie’s shifting cage would deliver him to a fight that stank of ulterior motives. Whether it be an opponent far below his abilities, or a separate request from Belphegor to kill during a non-lethal match, there were usually signs. It was after such a fight that the branded man now found himself, battered and broken, lying panting on the floor of his cell. Rather than fulfilling a request for Belphegor, Mickie had found himself on the receiving end of the political bludgeon.
A group free-for-all had turned into a team match from the moment the announcer said go. The five other fighters had turned on him as one and revealed weapons that were too lethal for a friendly duel. His opponents were not pushovers, and if they had caught Mickie at the beginning of his stay within this raised death pit, then the result would have been different. The sands however, had changed the branded man from a raging bull to a deadly scalpel. In life he had been exceedingly proficient at violence. Now, he was the embodiment of it. When he rose from the dark, the hordes in the stands roared at his arrival. Mickie had yet to give his name, and The Soul Lord’s Dog was apparently too much of a mouthful for the bloodthirsty crowd. Now they just called him the Gunman. An apt name, if a little plain.
A painful click came as his shoulder realigned itself. Mickie’s arm had been dislocated during the fighting, and apparently his own ministrations were not sufficient for his demonic healing. The cage was nearing the end of its return journey to his quiet little corner of the dreary prison. Thirteen seconds marked the end of its descent and the grumble of the engine ceased as he lined up with the hall. With a grind and a click the chains on the floor sought out his wrists of their own volition. Mickie was prepared for them, kneeling towards the door with arms outstretched. He had long learnt the lesson of attempting to avoid the bonds. No matter where he stood within the cage, the chains were always long enough to reach him, yet always short enough to keep him restricted to the floor. No doubt a feature tied to the indecipherable runes lining their surface.
The passage beyond his cell was empty, which meant Belphegor would not be coming to visit following his latest match. For all that demons were supposed to be creatures of chaos, Mickie’s captor seemed to prefer the structure of a routine. The old lord would always be waiting for him after a bout, ready with a quip and a laugh. Next would follow a round of questions, though never anything about his brand or deal, and then a reminder of the mortal’s precarious circumstance. If Belphegor was not already here, then it would not be coming at all.
That did not mean Mickie was alone in the dark, however. Usually, he would spend the time between fights trying to touch on that strange otherworldly force, the power that repaired his damaged armour. This time though, something gave him pause. The silence in the cell was too complete. For all his prison was quiet, there was always the background hum of activity. The distant roar of an engine, a crash of steel on steel, the turning of some hidden gear. All he could here once his cage had settled however, was the gentle hum of fluorescents. It was as if the world abruptly ended beyond the boundary of his imprisonment.
‘I know your there.’
His voice was soft, yet it echoed within the unnatural silence. A shadow peeled itself from the metal walls of the hall and took the form of a small figure. Blood red eyes peered through the bars at him.
‘I was beginning to believe your initial success in detecting me was the exception rather than the rule.’
It was the demon that had captured him during his brief flight through the city. For some reason Mickie could not gather, this shadowy fiend had taken an interest in him. It was second only to Belphegor in appearances outside his quiet cage. The only reason he knew it had started visiting was the fact Miz-Mag had awakened from its slumber to find the creature nestled in shadows. Ever since then, Mickie had kept his eyes and ears open after a match, looking for the signs that he was not alone. The strange silence was one such sign, an ability of the demon that veiled an area from the senses of onlookers.
‘What brings you to my humble little box this time? Another chat about my poor performance?’
‘No, I believe you fought well, though perhaps without efficiency.’
Its voice was sharp and cold, like a breeze before a snowstorm. Now though, after speaking with the fiend a few times, Mickie had learnt to recognize inflection in the ice.
‘Well, isn’t that a glowing bit of commentary. How very unlike you.’
Belphegor’s intentions were easy to understand. The old demon wanted to solve the puzzle of his brand and uncover the situation within the palace. This other demon however, was proving to be Mickie’s own personal enigma. He could not understand why the shadow kept coming back. They never spoke of anything important. Rather, the fiend would dissect his fight, pointing out the mistakes and offering improvements. At first Mickie had been reluctant to listen to advice from the creature that put him in chains. Over time though, he began to implement the changes, and found himself becoming ever more deadly as a result.
‘So, if you’re not here for a bit of positive reinforcement, then what?’
Red eyes gazed into his, and in them Mickie thought he saw a glimmer of reluctant melancholy.
‘I came to inform you that this will be our last meeting. Another mortal has emerged from the palace, and Belphegor has taken them into custody.’
A stone sank into Mickie’s guts. How? The palace was supposed to be closed off from the other layers. He swallowed but did not allow the sudden fear onto his face.
‘I thought the ninth circle was in lockdown?’
‘It is. The stairs are still barred, yet the lord is convicted of this informant’s validity.’
It could be a trick. Perhaps Belphegor put this demon up to it, another tactic to push Mickie into spilling his secrets.
‘I don’t believe you.’
His visitor gave a slight huff of amusement, a rare outward display of emotion.
‘Believe what you will. This was not a warning; your fate would be unchanged whether or not I told you of the informant. Have you not sensed in in your battles, the rising pressure?’
Mickie had sensed it. Belphegor’s increasingly infrequent visits, and battles that were becoming ever more deadly and treacherous.
‘You were a tool, one the lord has put to ample use. He has struck more blows to other houses in the city than you even realise. In doing so however, he has painted a target upon your back.’
‘I though Belphegor wanted the secrets of the Soul Lord?’
‘Indeed, he wants them, but not to the extent he will risk keeping you alive to have them. It may not seem as such at the outset, but above all else the lord is cautious. He will not grasp if he risks being burnt.’
It was a facet to his questioning that Mickie did not understand. Belphegor would ask circuitous questions about the Soul Lord, touching on Mickie’s presence in the palace and attempting to tease out details on his powers. The old demon would never directly ask about his brand though. It was as if the specifics of his deal were a taboo subject, one that Belphegor expected him to be unable to speak on. Mickie had his theories, yet was reluctant to confirm with the old lord or his current visitor. Showing he did not understand might be worse than remaining in the dark.
‘Alright, the other houses want me dead, I gathered that much. What does it matter? I’ve survived up to this point.’
‘You have survived because you had utility. But now the lord will want you gone.’
Mickie stared out at the strange shadow. While he was still unsure if the creature was telling the truth, it was becoming clear that he could not afford to call this bluff. The shadow seemed to take his disquiet as fear.
‘Do not fret. He will not slay you outright. You will have the opportunity to die on the sands.’
Well, wasn’t that just peachy.
‘You mean I’ll be going into more rigged fights?’
‘Indeed. Up to this point there might have been tampering within the bouts, but all contenders still agree on fair terms. Now however, there will be now such restrictions. Belphegor has set up a fight you cannot win.’
His time was up. Miz-Mag did not yet have a perfect understanding of the palace, but they would just have to make do.
‘How do you even know all this? Surely the houses try to keep this stuff under wraps.’
Hesitation flickered through the crimson eyes before the shadow answered.
‘Knowledge is power, and I am steeped in it.’
It appeared that line of questioning was not welcome, because his visitor stepped back from the bars.
‘You are an impressive specimen for a mortal, yet a mortal you are still. No human can outlast hell.’
The shadows swallowed the sleek frame of the demon, until all that remained was a pair of red eyes in the dark.
‘It is a shame that you were branded by the Soul Lord. I might otherwise have taken you for myself.’
The fiend vanished as the ambience of his prison returned, leaving Mickie to his fate.
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It was a tense wait for Miz-Mag to reappear. Now Mickie knew his next fight might be his last he wanted to get moving before the cage got going again. That being said, Belphegor had always waited until Mickie was fully healed before shipping him off to get torn up. Even if he was to be sent to his death, the mortal could rely on the old fiend to maintain its habits.
He was still dripping from the inbuilt shower in his cell when a red figure came into existence before him. Miz-Mag took in Mickie’s bruised form as the mortal released a tense breath.
‘Bit of a rough one kid?’
‘We’re out of time.’
Miz-Mag tensed, noting the severity of his tone.
‘But I’m not sure…’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Mickies gave his companion a meaningful look. He did not however, mention the arrival of the new mortal from the palace. The red eyed fiend might be able to obscure audio surveillance, but he certainly could not.
‘By the blood. This is it then. Well, I suppose we could… No that won’t work.’
The tiny demon paced the cell floor before its branded companion, muttering to itself.
‘Ah well kid. I suppose we have no other choices. I got a path out, but it ain’t an easy one.’
‘No time, it’ll serve.’
Miz-Mag nodded and relayed the first steps of their escape to him before darting out of the cell. A few minutes past in tense silence before the manacles about Mickie’s wrists clicked open and fell to the floor. The invisible little imp had long since found the controls to the shackles and observed their use as Mickie was sent to a fight. The branded man wasted no time, rising to his feet and calling his gun to his hand.
The entire barred wall to his cell abruptly slid into the floor, leaving no barrier whatsoever between Mickie and the hall. It was the functionality used when he was sent to the arena, ensuring there was nothing for him to grab onto when the cell dumped him upon the sand. Now the mortal and demon used it to flee their cage in less than six seconds.
Mickie sprinted down the hall as his companion had directed, taking turns at speed until he reached a plain door at the end of a hall with no cells. The door was locked, just as Miz-Mag had warned him, so Mickie shot it open with a single blast from his weapon. He used a trick he had stumbled upon in during the endless time in the dark between fights. Just as he could use the strange force within himself to repair his clothing, he could also use it upon the triple barrelled gun. It had been a difficult trick to master, requiring more conscious effort than the armour, but the results spoke for themselves.
A trickle of force was siphoned from within, running along an ethereal channel to poor into the weapon. Grills on the body of the gun glowed and the steel heated. The lion head did not so much roar, as explode with golden light, blasting the heavy metal door right off its hinges. The slab of steel fell into the room and landed atop a screaming imp. Force from the blast was not one directional, and Mickie unsummoned the weapon as it flew from his grasp.
‘By the blood kid, that almost hit me.’
Miz-Mag cursed loudly as Mickie entered the control room and peered down at its prior occupant. The imp guard was mostly covered by the heavy door, its head poking out to reveal bloody holes in place of eyes, courtesy of his sadistic companion.
‘Pop’em open.’
Against the far wall was a desk, hunched beneath a multitude of screens displaying images of various cells. Demons and mortals all peered about in confusion as their manacles began to unfasten and fall to the floor. Miz-Mag tap danced across the controls, familiar with the technology if not the runes that marked the chains. Metal barred walls fell away in rapid succession, leaving nothing between the prisoners and freedom but empty air.
‘All done. Left us a path through but we got to move quick.’
This was the sure-fire start to their escape plan. Miz-Mag had spent hours in this control room, following the imps in during a shift change and watching as they worked the controls to the arena. Codes for access, location designation and layout had been catalogued and memorised by his companion. As the prisoners began to wander into the halls, Mickie marvelled at how much damage the tiny fiend could cause with only time and incentive. Miz-Mag took up its perch on his shoulder, and the duo made for the exit. As they passed the fallen guard a scoff sounded right into his ear.
‘Stupid bloody imp. Popped the door right open when I rang the access.’
Halls passed in a blur as Mickie hurtled through the labyrinthine prison. Like a beast rousing from slumber, the various gladiatorial captives moved slowly, then with more force as they realised nothing had arrived to stop them. Shouts and laughter began to ring through the metal corridors as the man and demon fled, yet they did not come face to face with any loose prisoners. Miz-Mag had purposefully left a path out of the maze untouched, hoping to redirect any guards and provide them with a swift exit.
Yet it turned out the chaos of the sudden prison break was not something the pair could avoid completely. Mickie turned at an intersection only to stop as he came face to face with a boulder of a demon. Eight feet of craggy stone suspended on four pillar legs; the mortal was glad he never had to face down this beast on the sands. The rocky behemoth was glancing about confused, as if unsure of where it was, though when it noticed Mickie, he gained its full attention.
‘Hey, uh you mind if I slip by?’
A mouth like a small cave opened, and his request was met with the sound of an affirmative avalanche. At least Mickie assumed it to be affirmative as the monster shifted into a side passage, making space. He had hoped the other prisoners would be positively inclined to one another, and it was good to see the thought confirmed. Mickie moved by the giant and was about to jog off down the passage when a brief crackle of static sounded from above. A voice followed, emitted from speakers set into the ceiling.
‘My bloodthirsty friends, it would appear there has been an issue with our security systems. While I’m sure this all seems like an exciting opportunity, I highly recommend you only consider it as an amusing diversion from your usual duties.’
It was the unmistakable voice of Belphegor, projected throughout the prison.
‘Get back to your cells, and we will resolve the issue shortly. Fail to do so, and you will be punished.’
Mickie had paused to hear the message, but now set off again, worried control would soon be reestablished.
‘I speak now to those of you who carry my mark.’
Belphegor’s tone abruptly changed from its usual smooth delivery, becoming harder, deeper, like when it had used the strange ability on Mickie.
‘You are to contain those who are without my brand. You will neutralise all unmarked fighters. Do this, for I command it.’
The words rolled by the duo like wind on a hilltop, yet the giant they had stumbled into was not so fortunate. A groan like the shifting of the earth came from behind. Mickie glanced back to find the massive creature trembling, a strange light glowing on its chest, over the place a heart would be on a human. Squinting, he realised it was a symbol carved into the beast, radiating bloody red. A flame in the centre of a web. The monster abruptly stilled, focussing upon the duo with terrible purpose.
‘Shit. Kid, run.’
Mickie did not need to be told twice, he set off at a sprint down the hall. The ground quaked and the narrow passage was filled with the sound of a jackhammer as the monster pursued. That must have been Belphegor’s mark on its chest, forcing the stone giant to obey or die. It was a terrifying thought, that the old demon could force his marked to act at any time. Could the same happen to him if the mood struck Miz-Mag? A thought for another time. The monster was gaining on them, momentum building in its clamorous charge.
‘Turn left, just ahead.’
The intersection came just in time, Mickie diving down the passage as the stone giant thundered past. It was moving far too fast to make their turn and continued past, legs grinding steel to slow. The duo were already making another turn by the time the creature made it to their hall, and soon left it behind as they made for the exit.
While they had gotten lucky in this encounter, the same could not be said for other prisoners. Shouts of excitement became screams of pain as the freed slaves turned upon one another. At a guess, Belphegor would only have marked those gladiators he did not plan to kill. The best of his bloody dogs, powerful like the stone giant they had just left behind. Mickie knew all too well what that meant for the other captives. Only death or recapture awaited them now.
‘We’re close kid, take a right at the end of this passage.’
Mickie and his companion could still make it out though, if they stuck to the plan. He darted about the next turn and discovered the narrow halls opening up ahead. A duo of guards nearly crashed right into him as they raced towards the unfolding debacle. The first died before it even got the chance to raise its rifle, head becoming a gory shower. Mickie grasped the now headless imp by its armour jacket, not slowing his sprint as he spun the rifle and shot the second in passing. A body thudded to the floor as he continues towards the exit, corpse still in hand.
The passage emerged into a small room containing a staircase, sealed behind a metal sliding door. Originally the duo had no solution for the obstacle other than Mickie’s gun, same as with the control room door. Now though, an alternative was dangling from the branded mortal’s hand, dripping blood onto the floor. It was the work of a few moments to rip free a pass card from the corpse and swipe it against the reader. He had been slightly worried there might be some form of lockdown in effect, but the door slid open without issue.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
According to Miz-Mag they were held beneath the cup atop the spire, close to the massive arena. The plan required them to gain some height and head towards arrival hangar for the more important guests of the arena. It was an unexpectedly peaceful climb to the destination floor, no guards or staff blocking the staircase. When they reached the correct level however, another door barred their path, and this time the swipe card failed to provide access. Mickie sighed, pocketed the slim piece of plastic, and blew apart the door with a charged shot from his gun.
‘I only managed to slip up here once, so it’s a bit foggy, but we gotta head straight down this hall.’
After clearing the scene of their explosive entry Mickie slowed to a brisk walk, giving Miz-Mag time to recall the path onwards. Occasionally demons and mortals passed them, frantic with the news of the breakout and the clamour he had just caused. He received a couple of double takes, being a familiar face to any who frequented the fights. However, Mickie did not meet any eyes or flee the confused glances, instead relying on chaos to hold his cover just a bit longer.
Eventually they turned into a hall that pressed right against the side of the huge spire top. Rather than walls surrounding the passage, one side was open to the dark skies above the black city. Twinkling lights of countless districts stretched out before him, staggered by cliffs of rough stone. After so long in the dark, the expanse took Mickie’s breath away, just as it had went he first stepped out of the tower.
‘Stop gawping kid, the chain’s just down this path, we…’
His companion cut off abruptly with a squeak, going rigid on Mickie’s shoulder. Turning about, the marked man discovered they had not been nearly as subtle as he had hoped. A familiar figure rose from the shadows, emerging like a beast from the deep to bar their path. Bloody eyes met his, and Mickie felt his hopes of escape begin to wither as silence blanketed the world.
‘How?’
He breathed the question softly, not directing it at the demon before them, but getting an answer all the same.
‘I know you mortal. I have known you from the moment I heard of how you escaped the tower. You are a bull, charging ever onwards, relying upon momentum and chaos to carry you fourth. I observed it within the Hive, and I observed it in the arena.’
The dreaded shadow was standing in the open before him, not even bothering to veil itself with darkness.
‘You do not fight for glory, you fight to survive. I figured you might attempt an escape when encountering impending death.’
Shouts came from further in the halls accompanied by the tromp of boots.
‘I do not know how you slipped your cage, but I know you had powers that lay unrevealed. The guards think you are mad, muttering to yourself in the dark. But you are not mad. You are driven.’
‘Why tell me of the fight? Push me into escaping only to stop me?’
His voice shifted, getting lower as anger began to churn in his chest. They were so close. Then to his surprise, the demon reached up and pulled upon the fabric that cocooned its head. Dark cloth fell away, spilling out long black hair. A face was revealed, beautiful and cold, with high cheekbones above a slender neck. Crimson lips, pressed flat in a pitiless line. Mickie would almost think the fiend a human woman, if not for the horns that adorned its head. They were small and sharp, circling its skull like a crown of black bone.
‘I require your fall. A sacrifice for something greater. Before you go however, I will grant you the privilege of knowing who it is you sacrifice for. My name is Illiath, descendant of the fallen queen Lilith. I am the last of my house, but I will not be the end of it.’
The guards were getting close now, soon they would be upon him. Mickie tried to parse the demon’s words, derive their deeper implications, but the fear and anger were making it difficult. He attempted to empty himself of it all, but the quiet calm was too far from reach to call.
‘Kid you need to do something or we’re screwed.’
Mickie acted, raising his gun and firing at the proud demon. Expecting the fiend to explode into shadow he made to dash past. Except Illiath did not take the blast head on, the demon weaved sideways, past his gunshot and came straight at him. A knife flashed towards his head, but Mickie stepped past it, attempting to grapple. It was then that Illiath’s form became murky, like paint in a pond. The mortal’s hands passed through the demon’s neck and the rest of him followed, stumbling forward. A stinging heat took him in the back of a knee and Mickie crumpled to the floor, grasping the limb, and finding his hands coming back bloody.
‘You are but a mortal. Learn your place.’
The voice came from above, so very close to his prone for. With a roar of frustration Mickie, pushed off the ground so hard he crashed into the fiend’s leg. He grasped soft fabric in one hand while raising his weapon in the other. A glimpse of Illiath’s face provided a satisfying, wide eyed look of shock. Mickie expected the demon to turn to shadow as his finger tightened on the trigger. Instead, the black horned hell spawn launched itself backwards with such force that the fabric of its clothing was pulled from his grasp.
Mickie shot fading shadow as Illiath leapt over the railing and into opening air. In an instant the demon was gone, disappearing as abruptly as it had arrived. He was victorious but it did not matter that Mickie had managed to scare the fiend away, the damage was already done. He tried to stand, but his cut leg refused to cooperate. The pursuing guards were close now, and even as he dragged himself towards the end of the hall, Mickie knew he would never make it.
The escape had failed, and his life would be forfeit.
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He put up a desperate struggle, but eventually the guards overwhelmed Mickie and beat him into a half-conscious fugue. They dragged him roughly back to his cell, where the remnants of the breakout where being cleaned off the floors and walls. Miz- Mag was gone, jumping from his body as the guards beat him, then unable to catch back up when they dragged him away. Mickie did not know if his companion had returned to rest, or was just stuck behind one of the doors leading back to the prison. Either way he was chained alone in his cell, lying in a daze as groans and whimpers reached him through the narrow halls.
It would have worked if not for Illiath. They had been so close. The thought of the humanoid demon made Mickie burn with anger. It felt like a betrayal, as stupid as the thought was. During his time in the dark, the red eyed fiend had been the only creature with whom he could speak somewhat openly. Miz-Mag was always exploring, and when they did talk, he had to be wary of prying ears. Even the little he had said was enough to clue in a keen eared demon like Illiath, anything more and his secret might have been pieced together. So, he had come to enjoy the talks with the living shadow, if only because they kept him sane.
Except it had all been a ruse, and he was a fool for not seeing it earlier. Mickie of all people should have noticed the tactical undercurrent, that the demon visited him to gain his trust. Not to win him over completely, but just enough that when it told him of his impending doom, he might act on the information. He just could not put together why. Illiath had mention its house, that of Lillith. It was a name Mickie recognized, and the demon to whom it belonged was apparently dead. He just could not see the link between his death and the return of a fallen demonic house.
Pain faded with time, his body healing its bruises and breaks, leg repairing the cut that put an end to his escape. Yet, Mickie’s mood remained dark, he knew what was to come and when the sound of claws on steel reached him, it felt like a funeral dirge. Belphegor came to a stop outside his cage, arms locked together behind its back and trailed by the usual older woman. Time past in silence as the old fiend watched him, emerald eyes shadowed and without their usual twinkle.
‘You know, I am quite fond of humanity. It’s how I earned my old station as the lord of Sloth.’
Though the cries of the other prisoners had died down, the occasional moan or sob still echoed through the halls.
‘I give mortals opportunity that other demons do not, shepherd them as others do not. In return, all I ask for is loyalty.’
Mickie strained his sore neck, looking into the eyes of his captor. He felt as he did before his death in the living world, empty, drained of energy and drive.
‘You were serving me well. I would have had you tame the sands, kept you alive even with the mark of the Soul Lord. Yet you have spit in my eye.’
‘You were going to kill me, send me into a fight I could never win.’
The red skinned demon’s thin brows furrow in a frown.
‘Whatever gave you that notion? I do not dispose those who perform without cause. It is only now you have given me such.’
‘But…’
Mickie almost spoke of Illiath but stopped himself short. The shadowy fiend only ever came with that shrouding veil up, and when he escaped it had been Illiath that enabled his capture. It just went to show how badly he had been played. He would look like he was grasping if he laid blame upon the red eyed demon.
‘But what?’
Belphegor waited for him to elaborate, then gave a heavy sigh after a few moments passed in tense silence.
‘Very well. I will give you one final chance to tell me of what occurred within the palace. Prove to me that you are more trouble than you are worth.’
The old lord straightened a cuff as he stared intently at the haggard mortal, waiting for a response. Mickie let his head fall back against the hard floor with a thud. So, the comment about the new arrival had also been part of the ruse, an added hammer to drive home the lie of his impending demise. He had misjudged Illiath and Belphegor both, by trusting the first in the slightest and underestimating the value of loyalty to the second. It did not matter if he spoke of the events in the ninth layer. His tenure as Belphegor’s pit slave had been shaky at best, there would be no recovering from this. Talking would just hurt the chances of the Kindle Kin. A minute ticked by before Belphegor let lose a sigh of dissatisfaction.
‘You know, I could have tortured you. Pulled you apart piece by piece until you let slip what I wanted. Yet I showed restraint, because I care for you humans more than you care for yourselves. For centuries I have shaped, I have guided, and this is the repayment I receive.’
Belphegor turned to his mortal companion and gave her a sorry shake of the head, as if to say can you believe it. Mickie just stared. He could shout that he had been tortured, held in the dark and only taken out to kill or be killed. But the scrawny demon knew that. It was just pandering, putting on a show for its silent partner.
‘Very well then. If you so desperately want to keep your secrets, then you can have them. But I’ll have one last show out of you. You mentioned an impossible fight, well do I have one ready for you.’
A clap rang through his prison as the fiend brough its clawed hands together.
‘Who knows though, you haven’t died yet.’
With a humourless chuckle Belphegor turned, and left Mickie to be thrown to the dogs one final time.
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Hours later the cage rumbled to life and began its usual grinding journey towards the arena. Mickie remained on the floor throughout, listless, and still aching from the beating he had taken. He was in that freezer again, cold tiles against his knees and nothing but a weary pit in his gut. An entire circle of Hell conquered, and this was how he would end? Just another a bloody smear on the sand?
Anger began to spark in his gut, a flame sputtered to life, low and hot. No. The abyss would not have him yet, the uppity demons were not going to just lop off his head. They wanted a show, a spectacle, to set him against an impossible foe and then watch him die. But he had given his word to Aria before she took her own life. To die here would be to show the demons that he was nothing but a tool for their amusement. If he killed their champion though, that would give them second thoughts.
No foe was truly invincible, and he had spent countless fights on the sands, working, refining, becoming a more deadly than he had ever been before. He would kill their impossible enemy, then once he was done, he would find another way out of this prison.
The cell rose into the arena, welcomed by the roaring crowd. Mickie slid feet first from his prison as it tilted, landing comfortably in the sand. The rows of demons were close to a frenzy, hollering with excitement and bloodlust as the announcer rumbled out its usual niceties. Across the arena a telltale bulge in the sand indicated the arrival of his foe.
‘Here it is. A match we have all dreamt of since the Gunman first drew blood upon the sands. A fight that you can tell your kin-spawn about. Today a fan favourite takes on the Queen of our halls, and as customary for challengers to the throne, this will be a deathmatch.’
His opponent’s cage did not have the usual opening at the front. As far as Mickie could tell it was a perfect box, without space even for air to flow. Then the roof split, four equal triangles rising to turn each wall into an oddly shaped arrow. As the solid steel points then proceeded to sink into the floor, the crowd went from frenzied to completely mental.
‘Welcome to the sand, our lady of pale marble. The beautiful, the terrible, Stone Eye!’
A figure came into view upon the open platform left by the cage. Tall, and armoured in shining plate. In one gauntleted hand his adversary held a monstrous tower shield, in the other, a short spear with a curved blade. Whatever hid behind the steel armour was clearly humanoid, though Mickie could not make out if it was human or demon beneath the gleaming shell.
‘I hope your bets are in, dearest denizens, because the fight, starts, now!’
The customary horn sounded as Mickie called his gun to his hand. Without hesitation he began to stalk forward, and at the same moment his armoured adversary did the same. They approached one another like a pair of stalking tigers, steady and focussed. As the so-called Stone Eye neared, Mickie made out details on its armour. The head was the yawning jaws of a great serpent, the mouth holding a dark visor that would be at home on a motorcycle helmet. Snake motifs adorned the chest plate and greaves, curling reptiles with tinted orange eyes. It was an ensemble far beyond anything Mickie had encountered within the arena so far.
The audience wanted blood, and armour was generally considered a boring hinderance at best. Mickie was an exception to the rule with his ability to summon protection, and apparently this champion was as well. Anger flickered cold in his chest. What kind of creature hid behind that tinted face plate, to have earned such protection. No doubt he was facing the favourite pet of this twisted city’s high and mighty.
As they neared one another, the two warriors did not strike out. Instead, they circled; assessing, judging, waiting for the first move to begin the bloodshed. Mickie’s gun was held low and at the ready, not yet pointed at the Stone Eye but resting with his finger on the trigger. For its part the serpentine gladiator kept its massive tower shield at the ready, prepared to intercept any attack he threw its way.
Secretly, subtlety, Mickie willed the power he held within towards the weapon in his hand. The body of the gun began to glow with internal light as the leopard head clicked into place at the top of the barrel. He was close to the armoured warrior, with enough charge he might be able to blow right through that shield and win with a single shot.
Suddenly, the Stone Eye moved. He had been prepared for the strike but was still caught off guard by his adversary’s speed. It was almost on him when Mickie got his overcharged weapon up and fired. The weapon kicked so hard it flew from his grip, nearly breaking his pact strengthened hand in the process. If the trigger had a guard, it might have even ripped his pointer finger clean off.
The shot sent him stumbling back, and in doing so saved Mickie life. A glint of metal whispered past his neck as the tower shield buckled. It had been the spear with the crescent tip, inches from taking his head clean off. Unfortunately, his attack had not been as devastating as intended. The tower shield was made from sturdy stuff, warped, and deformed, but not broken. Another swing off the spear came at him, and Mickie blocked it, wedging the blade between the roaring mouths of his gun barrel.
Even one handed, the strength of the attack was such that he struggled to resist it with both of his. Shining metal inched towards his head, steel hungry for the taste of his flesh. Mickie heaved and with a roar of effort he shoved the curved razor away and danced backwards. The Stone Eye attempted to follow but stumbled as the tower shield dragged awkwardly in the sand. With a serpentine hiss of pain, the warrior sliced away the strapping of the armament, letting it fall. Good to know his attack had not been for nothing.
The armoured warrior rushed him and Mickie tried one of his favourite tricks, raising his gun before it had fully reloaded. The Stone Eye did not so much as twitch, coming right at him and stabbing forward with the spear. Mickie eye’s widened, it must have been informed of his abilities and their limits in advance. He twisted sideways and felt the weapon slide along the leather on his back, failing to penetrate the summoned material.
Instead of ducking away the branded man grasped a hold of the spear’s haft with one hand as the gun finally clicked over to the Lion’s head. Going straight for the kill he raised the weapon. Even as his finger squeezed the trigger the Stone Eyes twisted unnaturally. It folded backwards and sideways in an attempt to avoid the golden roar of the lion, but Mickie was too close. Steel screamed as it tore and blood sprayed as he carved through the front of the gladiator’s chest plate, raking its collarbone and shoulder with claws of force and flame.
Before Mickie could untangle himself the Stone Eye straightened, whipping upright and forward like a coiled spring. The helmet of his foe crashed into Mickie’s face, crushing his nose like an empty can. Briefly blacking out, awareness returned as fire speared into his left thigh, stars twinkly as he reeled backwards. Blood pulsed slowly from a ragged gash, carved through the weaker protection of his jeans. There was no time to rest though, his opponent did not want to give his gun time enough to reload.
Mickie staggered away from a cyclone of slashes. He took a cut on his hand, his cheek, his lower stomach. Every time his gun reloaded the Stone Eye would twist and swing at it, sending the shots askew or letting them glance off its armour. It had his measure, knew his tempo. When Mickie had seen his opponents armour, he had thought that it might be slow. But this creature was a machine, eerily fast and dangerously precise. It made no noise as it came after him, uncaring of the wounds he had managed to inflict. The crescent spear was a dancing tongue that lashed and probed him without respite. Mickie needed to change the pacing, disrupt the rhythm of the battle. It was time to play his hidden card.
When he had first discovered the ability to overcharge his gun, it had swiftly been followed by another idea. One of the biggest weaknesses of his strange weapon was its delay between shots. It made groups of enemies are more challenging prospect and put him at risk if he failed to kill immediately. So Mickie had concluded, that if he could shoot harder, then he could probably shoot faster. He had only ever tested it once, nestled in the dark of his cell where the camera would hear a gunshot but see nothing. It worked, but the cost to his reserves of power was high.
Deep within that abstract self his soul thrummed with nascent energy, almost eager for use. Mickie twisted his gun up as it completed a normal reload cycle, but the Stone eye was ready. As he pulled the trigger his foe spun sideways and whipped the gun aside with the butt of the crescent spear. The shot went wide and his foe was quick to capitalise on the misfire. Steel glinted as a curved blade swung for the branded man’s side. Mickie could have dodged it for the price of another cut, but instead he stood firm.
Pain radiated up his side as steel met leather with enough force that it slid through and dug into his ribs. Stumbling, he grabbed hold of the spear shaft as it was wrenched free. Energy roared through him and into the steaming gun. Lethargy overcame him as his ethereal cup ran almost dry, but he was rewarded by a blast of heated air and the sound of a barrel thunking into place.
Mickie hauled on the spear, dragging himself forward. As the gun rose the Stone Eye hesitated, surprised. He fired into the hand holding the spear. Hardened wood accompanied blood in the air as his enemy’s weapon exploded in its grasp. With a rare cry of pain, his opponent staggered back, finally giving Mickie the space he so desired. Blood dripped from a mangled gauntlet, steel fingers warped into strange directions.
‘Look at that! The Gunman can hold his own! Perhaps we should let the beast out of its cage then?’
The slight reprieve finally let some of the announcer’s endless prattle filter through the blood pounding in his ears. While the two fighters had been locked in their deadly dance the audience had been held in tense silence. Now they started up again, not just shouts and cheers but an underlying chorus. A chant that sent shivers down his spin.
‘Open. Eye. Open. Eye. Open. Eye.’
Abruptly the Stone Eye moved. Not to engage him, but in a retreat that took it out of his weapon’s range. Mickie glanced about cautiously, unsure of what was about to happen.
‘Well then, let’s take off the training wheels.’
Then, to his surprise, the armour on his opponent’s body began to flake off like dead skin. Greaves slid to the sand, gauntlets following soon after. Scales of burnished gold reflected the light, coating clawed hands and muscled legs. Partway up each appendage the shining reptilian scales shifted to dark skin that was distinctly human. The chest plate fell heavily to the ground, revealing a prisoner’s clothes, ragged, stained and worn. He noticed runes of deep red embedded in the armour’s inside, same as those that lined the chains in his cell. Why would his enemy’s equipment be controlled like his shackles?
Soon all that remained of the shining armour was the serpentine helmet. The wounds he had inflicted on his opponent were more visible now, one mangled hand and an arm that appeared dislocated. Blood seeped from a gash near the demon’s collarbone alongside a plethora of other small cuts. Seeing the injuries should have buoyed Mickie, yet all he felt was a rising dread. Something nagged at him. A hall within the spire’s peak danced across his mind’s eye, lined with statues of stone warriors. He swallowed. Serpents, Stone Eye, statues, scaled skin. It was like the old Greek legend of Medusa. Now he knew why the armour was controlled remotely. It wasn’t to protect the champion from him, but to protect him from its deadly gaze.
Twisting its broken hand painfully around its injured arm, the scaled fiend wrenched the appendage back into place. Then both hands moved to the helmet and removed it slowly, as if pulling a splinter from a wound. Mickie glimpsed bronze hair, broad strands that twirled, shifted, moved. His eyes fell to the demon’s feet as the yawing serpent’s head hit the sand. The crowd roared their approval at the unveiling, and he glanced about to find the masses wearing tinted glasses. Just like those that could be found in a movie theatre. The sight might have made him laugh if he wasn’t so concerned for his own unprotected eye sockets.
The gorgon took one slow step forward on the sand, then another. Mickie did not know what to do, he could not pause to aim, and risk meeting the demon’s gaze. His opponent paused by its dropped tower shield, bending down to heft the item with its recently repaired arm. Supporting something so heavy on a limb so recently dislocated should have been painful, but the gorgon bore the weight without so much as a grunt. Then, it ran at him, covering the ground at incredible speed with the shield held aloft. Panicked, Mickie readied himself for the second round of their duel, keeping his eyes to the ground before the Stone Eye.
When the gorgon nearby he raised his weapon and fired, half blind and inaccurate. The shot caught the edge of the tower shield, denting it further. His opponent had been expecting the move though, and the shield was supported by the gorgon’s full body weight. With hardly a stumble the serpentine warrior was on him, the protective slab of iron discarded in favour of deadly claws. Mickie tried to weave back, nearly looked up, and froze in horror. The blow took him in the shoulder, not punching through his jacket but landing like a hammer. Then a second took him in the chest, a third in the thigh.
It knew he would not look up and played on that advantage, always striking high to low. Mickie’s collarbone popped painfully, and he tried to back off, desperate for distance. The gorgon stuck to him like glue, faster without its armour, not giving him a moment to retaliate. He needed to do something, to fight back, to focus. The gun barrel rotated, and Mickie took the chance it presented, raising the weapon without a thought to direction and firing. Miraculously, the blind shot clipped his opponent’s thigh, carving off a chunk of scales and flesh.
The haggard mortal staggered back as the Stone Eye gave a serpentine hiss of pain. In the seconds before it came on him again, Mickie withdrew into himself. Emotions broiled within, hot anger, writhing panic, twitching pain. They ruled him, feral as a wild beast with instinct only to snap at claw. He needed to pause, to take back control. As the Stone Eye closed, he took a steadying breath, and with it finally locked out everything but the immediacy of the fight. A claw came for his shoulder and Mickie twisted sideways, letting it pass.
Fury and pain made the gorgon strong, but also rash. He stepped into the monster, driving a knee into its gut. Locks of twisting bronze serpents writhed as before his eyes, but Mickie’s attention was drawn to something just below them. The gorgon’s forehead was tattooed, red ink in the shape of a crescent moon, encircled by a ring of jutting bone. As the monster pulled back he shifted his focus, avoiding its gaze and whipping his gun up. The steel cracked into the nest of snakes and staggered the gorgon.
It paused, stunned from the blow to the head, letting Mickie dance sideways and stomp on a knee with everything he had. The joint held but the Stone Eye gave a pained cry and slowed. He laid into it, moving always, focussed on anything but the face, the eyes. Keep by its injured hand, take the hits he could, slide by those he couldn’t.
The reload of his weapon signalled that it was time to end the fight. His opponent was on one knee, still struggling to rise under his onslaught. The weapon swung up to fire, this time at the head. Yet Mickie had not been the only one to hear the thunking sound of death’s footstep. With a scream of pain and fury the gorgon exploded up towards him. Its good hand wrapped about his jaw, the other about the barrel of his gun.
In silence the two gladiators strained against one another, Mickie twisting his weapon towards the stone, his opponent forcing his head closer, drawing his eyes in. Claws cut through the meat of his cheek, grinding against teeth. The demon was stronger, but its hand was a ruin, struggling to hold the gun back. Mickie focussed on the struggle over that cylinder of steel, even as his forehead was forced against the gorgon’s he kept his eyes away. Just a bit further, the bloody grip slackened, and the leopard’s head pressed into the neck of his foe.
‘No…’
The noise was not a hiss, not an angry roar, or a defiant shout. It was a whisper, the last gasp of someone feeling hope slip through their fingers. A human sound. The gentle pain of it broke Mickie from his shell of cold violence, not completely, but enough that his focus slipped for just a moment.
And in that moment, he looked.
The eyes were bronze speckled with golden flecks. Slitted pupils stared into his, and within them he saw a reflection of himself. The pain, the rage, the desperation, and the fading hope. For eyes that were so deadly to behold they displayed so much, untrained in hiding emotion because nobody dared to look. Something itched inside Mickie, a sensation like ants were crawling through his veins. It snapped the mortal from his stupefaction, the mistake he had just made splashing his brain with icy water. His finger twitched on the trigger of the gun even as his felt his body changing, he could still kill the demon. But those eyes were still locked with his, and even as his hand hardened, he found his grip slackening on the weapon. The last thing Mickie saw before he fell deep within himself was the eyes of his enemy, softening in sadness.