Friedrich’s sword was drawn through the air, sweeping a wave of blood onto the soil as the skeykyag collapsed in a miserable heap with her wings bent and crooked underneath her. The Mercian wiped his sword on the grass and continued along the road, feeling reinvigorated by his latest kill.

He had been following Pheston’s trail for at least five hours and the last sign he had from the old man was a scrap of cloth tossed by the side of the road. It had occurred to Friedrich that he could have been being led astray by a demon that forked away from the rest of his comrades to deliberately throw him off the scent.

“No,” he repeated to himself for the seventh time. “There’s no motive for that. They would simply attack me and spill my guts. Pull yourself together, Friedrich.”

As Friedrich ascended a hill, his jaw dropped. He was now assured that he had gone the right way and threw himself behind a rock to avoid being seen. After a moment to take a few deep breaths, he peeked out from behind his hiding spot.

Nestled within a valley surrounded by two large cliffs was a forty-foot wall made of obsidian where dozens of demons stood atop and a further dozen guarded the bottom. At the centre of the wall, sitting at half the height, was a gate.

As the armoured demons patrolled the rampart, they were continually looking from side to side. No one was permitted to come even close never mind crossing it. Friedrich had the horrifying realisation of who was buried away behind the gate in his castle. It was not only Pheston, it was the lord of the region. The Lord of Horns.

The old smith had told Friedrich of the cruelty of the foul demon who he had once run afoul of. His minions feared him above all except for Ph’zerak—the demon god of Keldracht—himself. Such was his cruelty that he slaughtered fifty of his own men every few years to ensure that his notoriety was preserved. An act as cruel as this would have been met with mutiny in human lands, but not in demon territory. The hierarchy was enforced with an iron fist and Friedrich had witnessed this himself at the meeting of demons in the castle he infiltrated three months ago.

“How can I get past the gate?” he muttered in despair. “I can’t climb as a goblin without being shot down, I’m much too slow. I’ll be seen as a fox because of my fur and with nowhere to hide. If only I had Namavar’s moth form…”

Friedrich retreated behind the rock again as the gate began to open. Holding his breath as he dared to look, he saw a wagon ride out with a single rider and a pair of grecks to pull it. This was exactly what he needed and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

The Mercian morphed into Kitt’s form and waited behind the rock for the demon to come close. Friedrich could hear the beating of the reptilian feet on the road and the rolling of the wheels as they flicked dust into the air. The second it passed him, he stormed after it and leapt onto the back. Upon descending to the bottom of the hill and out of sight of the obsidian gate, Friedrich returned to his normal self and drew his sword. He crept up behind the driver, yanked his helmet from him and cut his head off in a clean sweep as the lizards continued to run along.

Friedrich hurriedly removed the man’s armour and strapped it to himself as the grecks took him down the road. It was a stark reminder for him that the demons didn’t need to constantly whip the beasts who were intelligent enough to find their way on their own.

“Farewell,” said Friedrich, throwing the driver from the wagon and hopping onto the front of the wagon.

The young man was indistinguishable from a demon save for the pale skin of his face that was clearly visible underneath parts of the helmet. He leaned down and grabbed a handful of soil that he then rubbed across his exposed skin, hoping that would do the trick.

Friedrich grabbed the reins of the two running beasts and hoped his plan would work. “Turn!” he said, tugging on them, but the beasts did not obey him. “Agh,” he grunted in frustration.

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Looking around for something that he could use, he spotted the driver’s whip sitting in the back of the wagon. Surely not.

“Turn!” Friedrich yelled, whipping the grecks in turn, and turn they did.

They ran off the road, moved in a semicircle and returned to the road, heading straight back to the obsidian gate. Friedrich breathed a sigh of relief before he felt the panging realisation of what he was about to attempt. It was foolish, if not suicidal. What was his plan if the gate did not open for him? He had no more than three minutes to think about it and that didn’t feel like enough time at all.

He tried to focus his mind, but he could see the hill creeping closer and closer. By the time he was nearing the top and the wall came into view, he still had nothing. As he descended and heading straight for the gate, he was starting to panic. He hoped his perspiring would not wash the grey soil he was using to disguise himself as a demon.

“Oh no,” he muttered to himself upon seeing that the grecks were not slowing down. Perhaps he gave them too much credit for their intelligence. “Kyah!” he yelled, whipping them, forcing them to slow as he was mere yards from the gate.

Friedrich didn’t dare look at any of the demons close by, keeping his eyes focused on the gate. Seconds felt likes hours as the gate remained firmly closed. His hand moved to his armour, ready to reach underneath for the minotaur mask in case he needed to fight his way to safety.

“Heh,” grunted the young man in relief as the sharp gates started to move.

Slowly but surely, they swung open and, with another whip, he was riding on through in the hijacked wagon. He suspected that had he made contact with even a single one of the patrollers, he would have been rumbled.

Friedrich suddenly noticed that his right hand was sitting upon the armour, trembling. It was right over the spot where the minotaur mask sat underneath. It was the first time in a while that the spirit had tried to impose its will on him. The last time it had was upon Pheston’s accidental mentioning of The Lord of Horns over a month ago. Something was wrong.

Once Friedrich was sure that he was clear of the gate, he redirected the grecks into a small cave and forced them to stop. He pulled the minotaur mask out from underneath the armour and held it in both of his hands, looking directly at the turquoise stone that swirled with its ethereal vapour.

“What do you want?” Friedrich demanded of it.

His impulse to put on the mask faded away upon the words leaving his lips.

“No,” he told the minotaur. “You are not going to get away with your madness any longer. You have an insatiable bloodlust that eats away at me back in Mercia and Kai’roh, yet here, you can control yourself? What is the meaning of it?”

There was no answer from the mask, not that Friedrich expected one. He clutched the mask and shook it violently, his rage building at the spirit that dwelled within.

“You forced us into this horrible plane and you sit by silently. What is it that you’re so afraid of, minotaur? I’m all ears.”

Friedrich whipped off his helmet and placed the minotaur mask, transforming upon the wagon and startling the grecks who tried to flee. With a thump from his huge fists, the two beasts calmed themselves and stood still once again.

“Kill…horns…” grunted the minotaur, his chest heaving as he tried to prevent himself from flying into a rage. The beast was in full control and Friedrich could not move a muscle. He hoped, however, that it could read his thoughts while taking control of his body.

“You want to kill The Lord of Horns, I understand that,” he thought. “Yet you drag us here and are too afraid to go through with it?”

“Kill…horns…revenge…” uttered the minotaur.

“You want revenge against him? For what, trapping your soul in the stone? Is that it?”

“Revenge…slaughter…”

“I will make you a deal, minotaur,” thought Friedrich. “I will ensure that The Lord of Horns is dead, but I want something in exchange.”

The minotaur was silent.

“I want you to pledge yourself to me, as Kitt has done before you. I will see to it that you get your revenge, even letting you take over for the killing blow against the one you so hate. What you must do is serve me without resistance from that point onwards. Do you understand?”

Again, the minotaur said nothing.

“Do you understand?” thought Friedrich more loudly.

The minotaur snorted and scowled, but Friedrich felt his head nod. “Kill…horns…serve…deal…”

“Good,” thought Friedrich, taking back control of his movement from the spirit of the mask.

If he was to see this task through and save Pheston in the process, he needed to be certain that he could remain undetected. That meant that the poor grecks could not be taken out in case they were recognised further along the road. He would continue on four feet and stick to the shadows once he was no longer forced to remain a minotaur.

Friedrich walked towards the edge of the cave opening and looked further up the road. There, halfway up the mountain sat a towering castle. It was much grander and markedly more sinister than the one he had visited before. If Pheston and the demonic ruler were anywhere, it would be inside that castle.