by Williard M. Oliver
in Issue 103, August 2020
“There were crimson gulfs unplumbed,
there were black wings over a sea;
There were pits where mad things drummed,
and foaming blasphemy.”
—Robert E. Howard
A lone figure moved quickly through the dark wood. He had come seeking a demon; one found him instead.
The man entered the foreboding woods a week prior, an arcane forest whose trees stood like sentinels, brooding, casting their shadows over a dark land. Yet, save for the denizens of the forest, the only things these still watchmen lorded over were the thick undergrowth and vegetation of the silent wood; silent now save for the raindrops falling from branches in the canopy, dropping steadily like the tears of the inconsolables. Storms had passed earlier over the forest, leaving only wind and water behind to penetrate the impervious woodland.
Prior to the storms, the man had felt the presence of another, something not of the woods. He looked up through the nearly impenetrable canopy and saw a large winged creature, black as night against the graying skies. He sensed it was stalking him like prey. He stopped to watch.
It circled the forest overhead, its expansive wings like none he had ever seen, a small head, narrow and tapered, with skeletal legs dangling like those of the great egret. Evoking an uncanny feeling, the man continued moving, quickening his pace.
The gray clouds soon grew dark and heavy, and the shadows of the dusky sky merged with those of the forest below. The skies rent open and the pouring rains and raging winds came upon the forest, and the demon creature was gone.
Three days later, the dark winged-creature returned. It again moved across the sky, following the dark figure as he moved through the wood. An intruder upon the sky, tracking an intruder on the forest floor. One an eagle stalking his prey, the other a panther stalking his.
The forest sentinels leaned in closer upon the man, themselves tracking the interloper’s progress across their vast domain. Perhaps it was nothing more than the wind and rain that bent their dark boughs, but they appeared ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
The hooded, black-cloaked figure, wet from the storm, moved through the undergrowth with the skill of a hunter. The hood remained bowed while he moved, as if the figure were tracking some unseen animal, or perhaps merely bowing his head in reverence to the guardians of the forest. Thus, the silent form moved as if sensing the forest, rather than merely observing.
The figure halted suddenly by a tree, the hood lifting. There before him, hidden amongst the trees, was what he had expected to find, a small village. There he could gain the information he sought and respite from the beast above.
The village, as he observed, was no different from all others that sprang up after his birth. Hidden and isolated communities with the central feature being a large hall where the people, always of the same clan, could gather in communion or safety, depending upon their circumstances. Their own homes were nothing more than hovels, built as closely together and within a stone’s throw of the gathering hall. It was no way to live, neither in a hovel nor in fear.
Ever since the night of terror, the very day he was born, a pattern had emerged. When the lightning without rain or fire struck the world, people began talking in tongues. Unable to understand one another, they clung only to those who spoke their same language, and out of fear, fled into the wilderness. Every clan then isolated themselves from the rest of the world, intentionally hiding in the hopes of never having to face what had come to be their greatest fear: outsiders.
Like all other villages he had visited, this village hall would no doubt serve as the meeting place and tavern for the people. It was there he hoped to find ale, food, and information, preferably in that order. Watching the smoke drift upward from the hall’s fireplace, and seeing no one about, he stepped out from the woods, crossing the small opening and rounding the building.
Pausing at the entrance, he looked up. Seeing no sign of the demon, he paused longer. He listened to the men inside telling their loud tales, laughing with mirth, no doubt a result of the ale and not their stories. He knew upon opening the door, there would come a silence over the room, a pause that would last exceptionally long in light of the fact he was an outsider. Nevertheless, he opened the door, and stepped into silence.
It was as he envisioned, men gathered round the fireplace, setting upon chairs, while a man and woman—most likely father and daughter—plied them with ale. There was only one exception—a lone man sitting in the corner. All stopped what they were doing, save the solitary man, to look and stare, some with surprise, others with anger, but all with fear. Only the man in the corner did not turn and stare, but carried on his conversation with the wall.
The stranger nodded toward the father, making the sign for drink. He made his way to a table, away from the fire, away from the men, including the lone one. Seated, he did not remove his hood, but sat relishing the warm, dry room.
The men continued to stare.
“Looks like we have a stranger in our midst, gentlemen,” said one of the men.
“He’s a queer one,” said another.
“He sure is,” replied still another. “Why doesn’t he take off his cloak?” he asked to no one in particular.
“He’s probably wanted for something,” said one.
“He’s probably disfigured,” said another then added, “or maybe he’s not human!” The others broke out in laughter.
“He’s just like an outsider. He doesn’t know what we’re saying, so he’ll just sit there by himself, afraid,” said the fattest man in the room, the one who had called him “queer.” “I think if he doesn’t take off his cloak soon, I will take it off for him.”
The stranger pulled back his hood, revealing a bronze face, a black-mane and grey-eyes, hardened beyond his years. The men would have placed his birth well before the night of the tower; they would have been wrong.
The outsider removed his cloak and set it aside, never looking at the men speaking. Silence once again took over the hall as all present returned to staring—all save the one man in the corner. Much larger than he had appeared upon entering the room, the stranger also proved to be well armed, bearing both iron sword and dagger. His tunic was short-sleeved and clearly too tight for the massive arms and chest that strained the material.
Recovering himself, the fat-man wondered aloud, “If I didn’t know better, I might think he understood me.”
The father, not the daughter, brought the stranger his ale. The girl was still staring at the stranger, though no longer in fear. The father set the jack of ale before the stranger, like one setting meat before a wolf.
The outsider picked up the ale and drained the vessel in one long gulp. He motioned it toward the proprietor signifying another then set it down on the table, knowing the father would not take it from his hands. When he grabbed for the jack, the stranger put his fingers to his lips. The father nodded and returned to the kitchen.
“Ha!” laughed the fat-man. “It seems our stranger is also a deaf-mute. I saw one of them in the old days, in Ba’bel.”
“What does that mean?” asked the smallest man among them.
“Are you stupid?” the fat-man replied, “It means he can’t speak.”
“Was that what happened to some people on the night of terror?”
“No,” the fat-man began, but then trailed off thinking the better of it.
“Well, I don’t like the looks of him, moot, or whatever you said,” stated the small man.
“Perhaps we should throw him in the pit like our babbling friend here,” he said, gesturing toward the man in the corner.
“What is the pit?” the stranger asked.
Once again, there came a silence among the men, several dropping jacks of ale from their lips.
The fat-man, who acted as the leader of this backwoods group of men, was the first to recover.
“How is it stranger, that you speak our language?” he asked suspiciously.
“I have traveled far and wide. There are other such villages that speak your language,” he answered. It was a lie.
He had traveled widely, but that was not how he knew their language. On the day of his birth, his father took him up to the roof of the tower the pagans had built to reach heaven so they could be like God. Raising him up to the sky in forgiveness, he offered the child up to God. When the lightning without rain or fire flashed across the sky and men began talking in tongues, no one knew the strange phenomenon had passed over the infant. Soon after he began to speak, it became evident he spoke and understood all languages as if they were one.
“And what is your name my friend?” the fat-man asked.
“For one who threatens to toss me into a pit, I am not sure I qualify as one of your friends. Nevertheless, I will answer the question: I am Ashur of Shi’nar.”
“Shi’nar. Hmm, Shi’nar is a large area. To which clan do you belong?”
“I belong to none, I am a wanderer.”
“Not many men wander the roads anymore; not since the night of terror.”
“True,” Ashur replied, “but many men are also afraid of their own shadow.”
The fat-man guffawed, while the others snickered.
“How do we know you are not an enemy?” he pressed.
No one saw Ashur’s movement, but his dagger was in hands as the next words passed his lips, “When this is sticking out of your fat belly,” came Ashur’s reply, “then you will know. Now, you were saying about the pit?”
“I only mentioned the pit in passing. If you want to know about the pit,” he gestured toward the lone man in the corner, “ask him.”
“Why him?”
“Because he is the only man I know who has ever been to the pit and returned, and that should give you pause stranger, because when he went to the pit, he was as sane as you or I. Of this, I will say no more.”
The second jack of ale came with a plate of meat, beans, a small chunk of cheese, and a quarter-loaf of bread. The proprietor again brought the servings, not his daughter, and stood by the table. Ashur reached into his coin pouch and pulled out a silver piece, holding it up to the father whose eyes grew wide.
“Keep the ale coming and bring my friend in the corner food and drink as well.” The proprietor looked uncomfortable for a moment until Ashur brought forth several coins and placed them on the table.
Ashur stood, retuned the dagger to his belt, and took his plate and jack to the table in the corner. He asked the babbling man if he may sit, but when the man continued talking to the wall, he set the plate of food and jack of ale before the man and took a seat beside him.
The lone man paused his babbling and, after looking down at the plate, began eating ravenously. Ashur smiled and when the proprietor brought the other plate and jack—he joined him. After their repast, the man went back to babbling. Ashur listened, for he understood the words, it was only difficult interpreting their meaning, so he patiently listened until he felt he had heard—and drank—enough.
Then standing, he thanked the lone man, and, grabbing his cloak from where he had left it, he moved toward the door.
The fat man shouted after him, “Did you learn anything from his babbling, outsider?”
“I learned there were great treasures at the bottom of the pit,” Ashur replied.
Once more, the men sat stunned by his comments as greed slowly began forming on their faces.
Then Ashur added, “And one Ishtar of a demon.”
There was a pause, after which the fat man was the first to laugh. The others joined in as Ashur closed the door.
As the laughing died down, the fat man wondered to himself why Ashur had not asked for the location of the pit.
*
It took Ashur all the next morning to find the pit, or rather, the large black rock slab that marked its location. Climbing up a rocky crag and passing over the last outcropping, he came to a plateau. Before him stood menacingly, a monolithic black stone, while the sheer rock walls beyond it cast their shadows over both plateau and stone. Despite it being noon and the sun high in the sky, the black shadows appeared as inhuman hands reaching up to draw all things on the plateau down into darkness. The rock walls themselves stood brooding, grim, and dark, while the ground of the plateau itself was ink black, like some monstrous shadow spread across the land, ready to absorb all who dare tread its surface, both body and scream.
Ashur saw no pit. He had learned of the pit’s location from deep inside another one, the one he had come to refer to as the wizard’s pit—once the mighty tower of an ancient wizard covered over entirely by the Great Flood. The black slab watched over Ashur like a stony idol, situated roughly where the wizard’s notes and map indicated. Beyond it was to lie the pit—but there was none; at least none seen through the impenetrable darkness that lay upon the plateau.
Ashur looked to the symbols, carved in the stone, trying to decipher them. It was not his inability to read that made this a difficult task, but the black stone itself. Despite all his powers of concentration, it was as if he were staring into shadows; staring into the abyss. The symbols moved, taking on horrid shapes, and black visions began to grow.
He looked away.
He glanced back again, but could not hold his gaze long. It mattered not for he had read enough. He understood the words, but strung together he did not—could not—understand their meaning. A wizard’s spell, or perhaps, more properly, a ward, intent on keeping things out; or possibly, keeping something—something foul and fell—in.
Nevertheless, he came not to stare at the stone, nor to be driven off by some ancient wizard’s warning. To Ashur’s thinking, the dead would hold no sway on his actions. He wanted what the wizard and the lone man had suggested lie at the bottom of the pit—a demon’s treasure. That treasure would mark the first toward his dream’s fulfillment.
Making the assumption the entrance to the pit lay behind the weird stone slab, he laid his cloak aside, pulled out flint and iron pyrite and set about lighting the pine-pitch resin torch. He had gathered the materials that morning, breaking up chunks of dried resin off the trees for it was too cool for the sap to flow. Holding it angled high in his left hand and placing his right hand on the hilt of his sword, he stepped beyond the sentinel marker, into the shadowy ground.
His foot disappeared instantly into the ink black shadow, as it swirled around his ankles, and the feel of skeletal fingers closed about his boots. He paused a moment. Then lifting his foot to ensure it would pull away, he took another step. With each passing step, the feeling of the bone-like appendages grasped just a shade tighter, making each step more laborious than the last. Whatever was gripping him under the veil of darkness, seemed to have a life of its own.
As he approached the center of the plateau, where the pit should lie, the skeletal fingers held tight, as if not wanting him near what he hoped to find. He drew his sword with a curse, and struck downward. He felt the blade slice through something thick and fibrous, not like bones, when he saw branches moving supplely like vines up his legs, pinning his ankles then knees in place.
“Ishtar!”
He swung his sword, striking with every blow, but the crawling vines continued to grasp ever tighter; they were not slowing their attack. He turned, considering retreat, and twisting himself up, he began to fall backwards. The branch-vines were now at his hips and, as he fell, he threw out his torch hand to break his fall. In so doing, the fire touched the crawling vines and the plant guardian, if that is what it was, retracted its hold on Ashur. Instantly letting go, he fell backward into space.
He had found the pit.
With torch in one hand and sword in the other, he had a choice to drop one or the other for he needed a free hand. In light of his situation, fire seemed his only friend, but out of instinct, he dropped the torch and held on closely to the iron sword. His other arm flailed out and he crashed into the side of the pit. More vines lined the interior walls and he grabbed for them. He caught hold, but the force of striking the side of the pit caused him to fall forward, the vine ripping from his hand, he fell.
The falling torch gave him enough light to see by and seeing he fell toward the other side of the pit, he again grabbed hold of the vines. Straining the pliancy of the branches, he dropped another few feet, and stopped, dangling from what appeared to be, based on where the torch had landed below, fifty to sixty feet up. Knowing he was in an awkward predicament should he slash the vine creature that was holding him up, he nevertheless prepared to strike.
The vines did not move. Unlike those on the surface, these appeared to be nothing more than branch vines; they were unmoving. It also appeared they stretched down to the bottom of the pit, but the light from the torch had scattered on the floor below and now only burning embers of pine resin lighted the pit.
As he set about descending by way of the branches, his ears caught a sound from below. It was a soft sound, a fluttering sound—perhaps, he thought, the sound of wings. When he looked down, he knew instantly what he was to find, the creature that had followed him across the forest was streaking up toward him, silently, save for a quiet clicking noise.
Recognizing his peril, Ashur let his body go save for his left hand gripping tightly on the vines, and he swung his sword. Because of his weight, he dropped several feet, as the tapered head of the hideous creature with its pinned back ears, bringing toward him an ominous set of fangs aimed for his throat, missed. But neither did Ashur mange a successful strike with the blade of his sword, only the hilt. It was enough to prevent the bat-like creature’s fangs from hitting their mark and it arrested its upward movement.
Ashur, knowing he was in a precarious predicament, let go of the branch and, instead, grabbed onto the leather wings of the creature that was as least as tall as he was. The wing crumpled in his hands and he struck the creature again with the hilt of his sword—no longer intending to kill the creature, at least not until it carried him safely to the ground below.
The creature, human in form save for its face and wings, let out an ear-piercing screech, causing Ashur to hold on even tighter. As they fell through the shaft of the pit, the hideous monster now only had survival in mind, as it tried to turn over and expand its leathery wings. Ashur pulled and tugged, preventing its wings from expanding fully, which it may have been able to do seeing as how the width of the pit was some fifteen to twenty feet in diameter.
Falling rapidly through the shaft, the ground approached in mere seconds, and Ashur twisted savagely once more to ensure he was on top of the loathsome creature when it struck the ground. The sound that echoed through the cavern at the bottom of the pit was sickening, giving Ashur pause to wonder if he had not been successful. The mass that lay underneath him, however, told him otherwise, and rolling over, he felt no major injuries, internal or external.
The creature did not move.
Ashur stood.
Silence returned to the cavern as he listened to see if the foul creature had companions.
Sensing no others, he returned his sword to its sheath and set about gathering the fallen pieces of sap that were still burning with the toe of his boot. Carefully scooping them back into their resting place in the torch, he added more, then waited for the torch to burn more fully, giving him adequate light by which to see.
Looking about, he realized he was not in a natural cavern. Hewn out of solid rock in ages past, the stone of the pit’s shaft was too perfectly shaped, and the limited cavern in which he found himself had worked stonewalls. Littered across the dusty floor were numerous skeletons, both human and otherwise, perhaps more of the foul bat creature that lay dead at his feet, but most assuredly their feculence. There were also strands of rope in various states of decay, and several rusty daggers lying about. From the description erratically given by the lone man in the hall, these were probably his companion’s remains.
Leading out of the chamber, a narrow tunnel stretched back into the interior of the cliffs above. Ashur passed from the chamber, entering the narrow tunnel with torch held high at an angle in one hand, now drawn sword in the other.
The tunnel, despite the light emitted by the torch, was dark, as if the surrounding darkness was attempting to absorb all light. Regardless of the limited glow of the torch, Ashur was thankful for the light. It gave him hope, for he knew well that all hope turns to despair in the absence of light.
Holding the torch close to the tunnels’ walls, Ashur saw mysterious etchings, both symbols and images, covering the walls. The symbols held corresponding words, all of evil things and acts, he knew, while the images were revolting depictions of abnormal behaviors that needed no translation. It must have been some foul demon, like the winged bat demon he slayed, who carved these graven images in the tunnel’s walls, for surely no human who called himself man would have done so.
Passing no more than thirty feet, he came to another slab of smooth black stone, smaller than the one above. It blocked the way. Sand had piled up in front of the large stone, which did not quite reach the ceiling. There were similar carven symbols on the face of this stone as well. Ashur read the ancient symbols and, like the other, felt the shadows of the stone moving. Again, the words, all strung together in a nonsensical manner, suggested a ward to keep things in or out.
On either side of the slab there sat a small opening where the sandy floor dropped down into the chamber beyond. He chose the left and, kneeling down, stretched his torch as far past the black stone as he could into the chamber beyond. All the light allowed was sight of a floor some ten feet below his present level in the tunnel.
Ashur decided to slide into the chamber on his backside. This he did with torch outstretched in front of him and sword at the ready.
Landing on his feet, crouching panther-like, he looked about the chamber. It was not much wider than the tunnel above, and the floor was dusty. There were various footprints on the floor, old, but clear enough to distinguish. They were of unknown origin, but animal-like in nature. Ashur pondered what they could be, but dismissed the thought, and continued examining the room.
On the backside of the black slab, he saw the stone sat atop a sort of pedestal carved into the stone floor. Whether from wind or water, the stone had eroded away, so that it now sat precariously above. The chamber, however, was slightly bigger than the stone slab, so it would present no danger should he stay along the chamber’s walls.
Across from the carved pedestal was another narrow tunnel, though this one traveled back no more than five feet before opening into another cavern that angled to the left.
Ashur crossed this antechamber and, holding the torch high with sword still in hand, he entered the tunnel, stopping just outside the cavern room beyond. And that was when the torch caught a sparkling reflection, light shining back upon him, dazzling his eyes.
Across the cavern room, not further than eight feet away, stood a rocky shelf about waist high. On that shelf sat a series of small objects about that size of a man’s fist reflecting the rays of the torch light back at him in a kaleidoscope of colors. It was dazzling to watch, and distracting, he knew, but he found it hard to pull his eyes away. Through his own sheer will, he did so, and stepped into the chamber looking to his left.
The cavern stretched back further, though he could only see 10 feet into the black beyond. The Stygian darkness was more difficult for the torch to penetrate in this cavern than the tunnel or chamber before, so he held his breath and listened.
At first, he heard nothing. Seconds passed, then he thought he heard a rasping noise, or some whispering sound, but he wondered if the near total darkness was simply playing tricks on his mind. He waited a moment longer and, hearing nothing, crossed the rest of the chamber to the figurines.
There were many of them, lined up in a row along the stone shelf. Each a carved figure of some foul creature, some with wings, others with horns, and still more with unknown appendages protruding from their bodies. The mix of animal visages was also odd and grotesque, for there were abominations of dogs, cats, goats, bats, numerous types of birds, and one with elephantine features. All were clearly depictions of fell creatures, demons no doubt, but carved from diamonds, giving them a fascinating—fixating—quality about them.
Ashur knew, most importantly, the wealth of the diamonds must be immense. Surely, they would catch a high price in Ba’bel, he thought, for diamonds, carved into figurines of demonic images detailed in every way, would certainly fancy the licentious merchants of Ba’bel and fetch high coinage. Of this he did not doubt, though he began to wonder at the size of the diamond that each figure was carved from, the time it took to do such intricate work, and what sort of tools were used, when there sounded a deep horrible guttural rumble and his mind instantly translated the words.
“Who dares intrude upon my chamber?”
Ashur turned, holding his torch high, while leaning his sword up against the rock shelf.
Peering into the dark, he grabbed the first of the figurines with his right hand and slipped it into the bag at his waist, held by the strap slung over his neck and shoulder.
“A human,” the creature continued talking, “I have not seen a human in many years, not at least since the waters came.”
Ashur waved the torch in his left hand and pocketed several more of the figurines.
“Some have tried, but they made it not past my children.”
The sound coming from the creature hidden in the dark was most foul; loud and deep, offensive to the ears. Ashur did all he could to maintain his sanity in the presence of that voice, made all the worse by his ability to understand what was said.
“You are like all the other humans,” the voice spoke, “you do not understand me, so you fear me ever more. You, human, are remarkable in one right, you do not scream, though neither do you talk.”
Ashur knew enough to hold his tongue. Despite having the gift of language, he had learned to use it to his advantage. Ashur was pleased at the thought the demon wanted to talk. As the wizard had written of him being banished to the pit for eons, this most certainly starved him of conversation, but the fact he was so willing to talk now, even if it was as of yet a one side conversation, held out promise for Ashur.
“It is time to show myself and make you grovel in fear before me, and when you have lost all hope, take your life for my own.”
Ashur moved forward waving the torch with his right-hand, and moved his sword forward, leaning it against the rock shelf. He then pocketed more of the figurines into his satchel.
It was at this point the demon stepped into the range of his torch and gave a guttural snarl. Had Ashur not been prepared by the wizard’s writings or the inane one-sided conversation of the creature, he would assuredly have groveled in fear. The size alone of the creature was intimidating, for he stood several heads taller than Ashur, but his countenance was most horrific, being a much larger head with the same bat-like features of the other demon, but also bearing resemblance to a goat. It too had enormous leathery wings, currently pinned back, but its legs were enormously thick and ended in hooves. Perhaps the foulest aspect of it though, were its eyes. They were large orbs protruding grotesquely from its head at odd angles. Above them, from its forehead, protruded two horns, though one appeared shorter than the other, broken off ages ago.
Ashur concentrated on pilfering the diamond figurines, keeping his hand close to his sword. Focused on gathering the figurines gave him purpose, helping to prevent his succumbing to fear.
The demon itself seemed angered by the lack of visible reaction on the part of Ashur and, stepping forward, unpinned its leathery wings, demonstrating its massive size when they unfurled.
“Is it true,” Ashur said, letting the words hang in the air before adding, “that you are a fallen angel?”
The demon, like all others, upon hearing Ashur speak their tongue, stopped, its wings returning to their former position.
The demon then did something wholly unexpected, it laughed. Not a simple chuckle, but a resounding laugh that originated deep from within. Its voice had forced Ashur to concentrate for it was hard to control himself upon hearing that hideous sound; but the laugh nearly made him go mad. As it was, an instant headache struck him, his temples pounding. Temporarily forgetting about the wealthy figurines, he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Does that mean it is true?” he forced himself to ask.
The demon stopped its laughter, for which Ashur gave silent thanks.
“How is it a man can speak my tongue? Are you a wizard?”
“No, just a simple man,” was Ashur’s reply. “You did not answer my question. Is it true you are a fallen angel?”
Feeling confident that he was still alive and had the demon talking, he leaned his sword aside again, and resumed pocketing the figurines.
“It is true,” the demon replied. “And what do you know of angels?”
“I read they were made in God’s image and they rebelled against Him.” He had read this in the wizard’s notes in the other pit.
“We were made in his image, except for one thing. He did not give us his powers. If we were made in his image, he should have allowed us to be gods.”
“So you rebelled?”
“We did and there were many of us; we were legion.” The demon paused, then continued, “But there were also many angels who did not see it our way and they fought back.”
“And you lost?” Ashur asked, moving his sword forward then resuming his pilfering.
“Disappointingly, yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Those of us who rebelled were cast into hell, told to step through Abad’don’s gate.”
“So this is hell?” Ashur asked. This time he asked out of surprise and curiosity, not just to buy more time.
The fallen star laughed again, forcing Ashur to concentrate, his temples pounding madly. He desperately wanted to cover his ears, protect them from that hideous sound, but he knew that would be a sign of weakness and he did not want to give the demon the pleasure.
“No,” the demon finally answered. “Some of us refused to go willingly, so we resisted and fought our expulsion. Each of us were cast into our own pits.”
“So,” Ashur thought out-loud, “you could have been in hell with the others, but for your resistance you ended up here, alone. How long ago was that?
“Eons.”
Now Ashur understood the figurines. The fallen angels, now demons, may be loathsome creatures, but they were still social creatures. The figurines were representations of other angels the demon had known.
“But you have not been alone. The winged creature that was in the shaft, was that one of your spawn?”
Again, the demon laughed. Ashur realized his tolerance was drawing nigh, he could not take any more such laughter.
“You do not understand because of your weak mind, human. They are not my spawn, they are my children; I am their god! They come to pay me homage.”
“They come to you here, in this chamber?”
“No, that unholy symbol prevents them from entering.”
“Or you leaving?”
Silence came the response. Ashur realized that his reading of the stones had not been confused—the ward kept things out, and one thing in. Yet, he managed to get past without a problem, so that meant the ward was for fell creatures, not otherwise.
Ashur posed another question to keep the demon talking. “Why should they worship you?”
There was no laughter this time, only a sound Ashur interpreted as anger.
He had collected well over a dozen of the figurines and as he moved forward; he was drawing closer—too close—to the demon.
“Because I am a god,” the demon replied. “And you, human, you too shall come to worship me.”
“I worship no god. My experience tells me they are all thieves. They demand tributes from their followers and, when they don’t receive it, they take it by force.”
“That seems an ironic statement coming from a thief.”
Ashur, ignoring the comment, pressed on. “I want a god that is a giving god, one that doesn’t steal and hate.”
The demon broke into laughter again before stating, “The one who put me here felt the same way.”
Ashur barely heard the words for he could no longer control himself. His hands instinctually dropped the torch and flew to cover his ears. The effect of the laughter was too much; he was losing control. The last words of the demon he did not understand. The pain in his head was excruciating and he fell to his knees. Ashur tried to concentrate, tried to break the foul spell set upon him by the demon.
“Good, my little human, come to me. Come closer so I can take your soul.”
Ashur realized the entire time that he believed he had been delaying the demon’s wrath; he had been played for a fool. Whether it was anger at the demon for tricking him or anger with himself for falling prey, the rage caught hold and broke the spell. Coming to his feet, he grabbed his sword and swung forcefully at the foul demon.
It was fast, anticipating the attack. Flaring its wings it stepped, flew back a foot, enough to clear the first stroke. The demon at full height and with wings expanded, towered over him like a mountain. Ashur, unconcerned for the demon’s size, pressed the fight. He rushed in, slashing with his blade, until finally it made contact, and the demon’s body gave way like common flesh. From the deep gash, there flowed a strange viscous liquid, like pitch.
The demon, now enraged, slashed at Ashur. He ducked under the first attempt, but the others came at him fiercely. Ashur madly slashed to and fro, shearing through flesh again and again, his sword tearing and renting the demon. But the harder Ashur fought, the more he was tossed about by the demon in the violence of that battle, for a buffet by the wings, a back hand from the claws, elbows, knees, horn. They all came at him and despite his slashes, the demon was too quick, they were merely scratches the beast ignored.
The demon seemed to be warming to the fight, as if it had simply been toying with Ashur, for a slash of those deadly claws came blinding fast, and only his reaction to fall to the ground along with the blow saved him, otherwise, he would have been torn asunder. His clothing and belly, as it were, were deeply torn; blood began to flow. The ends of those claws had barely made contact, but now Ashur knew how the demon carved the figurines.
He rolled back, came to his feet and swung his great sword repeatedly, now pivoting his hips for greater thrust and wider arcs, to keep the foul demon away. The demon must have been toying with him before, for it was coming too quick. The thing seemed to be clawing, biting, crushing, clubbing, and buffeting him all at the same time. The demon was bestial with superhuman strength, it was both demon and devil, but it was certainly no longer angel.
Ashur felt fangs, stabbing horn, and black talons rip and tear at him, rending clothing and flesh. He knew if this continued, in seconds he would lie dead at the demon’s goat-like feet. Wheeling away, he ran for the tunnel leading out of the cavern. Retreat, he knew, now stood as his best option—his only option. He just hoped the ward on the black stone would not fail.
The demon stepped forward, taking wing; it pursued. Its headlong rush, gave power to the slashing razor sharp claws that caught Ashur high on the shoulders sending him sprawling, bleeding, screaming to the ground. The momentum sent him rolling toward the tunnel that led into the antechamber, so he continued to roll in hopes of salvation.
As he reached the tunnel, he stood and turned. The demon, instantly on him, flailed the air with striking blows. Ashur drove the sword over and over as the creature pressed forward, while he backed up. Then, he stumbled backward, falling. Falling hard on the ground, nearly exhausted, nearly spent, he felt his life floating away like sand at high tide. To add to this nightmare, now away from the torch left lying in the cavern, his only source of light, he plunged into near utter darkness. Fear began to take hold.
He pushed down the rising tide, and thought only of his survival. The demon was on him before he gained his feet. Pinning his legs, Ashur fell back. The demon moved forward slashing, biting, thrusting with its one good horn, and even the broken one bruised.
Ashur’s mind reeled from the punishment he was taking. His labored breathing seemed not enough to supply the oxygen he needed, he felt faint and dizzy. He bit down the fleeting feeling of panic, and he strove to push the demon off. The creature, once an angel, too close upon him, limited the use of his sword. He struck with the hilt, he struck with his free hand, kicked with his legs, he pushed, pushed, pushed to extricate himself from the demon, all to no avail.
Pivoting his hips to one side, he then forcefully threw them to the opposite side, and suddenly rolled away from under. It was enough to clear him of the creature and he stood like a wounded panther. He lunged toward it now, thrusting with all the waning power he could muster. As the demon rose, the sword came down. Hilt-deep the sword sank, high on the demon’s breast where a human’s heart would be, and broke. Ashur came away with the hilt, the demon with the blade.
The creature’s wings flared wildly, a response to the pain. It screamed, a sound a hundredfold more horrible than a demon’s laugh, and Ashur felt his head being torn asunder.
Bleeding everywhere, his head pounding, fatigue taking grip of his body, he fought back, no longer with the demon, but with himself. He reached for his dagger. He drew it from his belt. He slashed up and down, ripping through the leathery skin of demon wing. He slashed once more upward, then down, down into the demon’s goat-like thigh, burying it also to the hilt.
The creature reeled and fell, taking with it Ashur’s only weapon.
Weaponless, Ashur backed away, backing into the stone pedestal on which the black stone stood. He remembered the stone standing black and ominous. He remembered the precarious pedestal. Then he remembered the sandy incline, and he scrambled for it as the demon came to its feet in pursuit, slashing at his back.
Ashur needed time. He knew he could never climb that incline with the demon pressing behind him. With no weapon in hand, he resorted to a tactic he had used as a child, considered lowly, but in desperation, he did not care. He grabbed a handful of sand and, turning, cast it into the demon’s orbital eyes.
It worked. The demon, temporarily blinded, if only for a few seconds, gave Ashur the time he needed to scramble up the sandy passage. Making the top, he wasted no time moving behind the black stone. Pressing his hands against the inky shadowy surface, he pushed. Weak from his wounds, near exhaustion, he feared it would not budge. He pushed harder, straining every muscle in his body, while his head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil.
The pounding, too much to bear, caused him to scream, and with that terrible cry, the top weight of the stone and the crumbling pedestal on which it sat below, crumpled, giving way, the stone fell. As it tumbled, the vast bulk of the warded stone enveloped the demon, crushing it under its massive weight. The demon made not a sound.
Ashur looked down, ensuring the demon was dead. Then seeing its head, a claw, and a portion of one wing protruding, with a convulsive shudder the demon tried raising its head, then sank limply back to ground.
Ashur fell to one knee, wondering where a demon went when it died. Perhaps it met Apollyon, the destroyer, he thought.
In the brief moment of time that Ashur’s mind filled with random queries, he felt a tremor beneath his feet. Warily, he stood.
Dust began falling from the roof of the tunnel and antechamber, so whatever this horror of nature was, it occurred all around him.
The rumble grew stronger, louder; it did not abate. Stones and dirt came raining down upon Ashur and instantly he knew there was little time before it brought death and destruction upon him. With that realization, he turned, and ran.
As he ran pell-mell down the tunnel, stones crashed about him, showering him with more dust. He burst into the cavern with the pit’s shaft, and he ran recklessly across the room running toward that shaft, through near total darkness, dazed and confused by the sudden explosion all around him.
Through sense more than sight, he believed himself under the shaft. He leaped. It caused him untold pain to stretch his body in that manner, but fear of death overcame all pain. His hands caught the vine-like branches, and he seized hold. With no weapon to worry him, he climbed, rapidly.
Dirt and stones fell down upon him from above as he ascended. The shaft itself rocked, as if the sky had crashed to earth, and all the earth was pouring into this one hole in the ground. The pit, he felt, was collapsing all about him.
Suddenly, he burst through the darkness into the dim-lighted day. Beyond the shadows of the cliffs and the massive black stone, he saw light, he saw hope.
Gaining his feet above the pit, he ran toward the warded stone, which itself rocked against the crashing sky. He found the inky blackness of the ground gone, perhaps itself cast down into the pit. The vines remained, but they did not grab as before.
As he ran, the ground beneath him gave way. The earth heaved, the stone tottered, the cliffs thundered as they slid down to the plateau, itself collapsing all about him as he ran. Running by the stone, he reached down for his cloak, never breaking stride, which turned out to be a good thing for the stone fell. Making a few more bounds, he leaped, over the outcropping, tumbling down the craggy incline into the woodlands below, leaving in his wake a colossal cloud of dust.
*
He returned to the great hall by early evening. Wearing his cloak to hide his wounds and torn clothing, he entered.
The room was empty save for the father and daughter sitting to an early meal before the customers arrived, and the babbling man still sat in his corner, still talking to the wall.
He made the same hand signals for food and ale as before then held up two fingers. Ashur sat down across from the babbler.
He and his talkative companion had nearly finished their meals when the evening crowd entered. The fat man, being one of the group, spied Ashur. With a laugh he asked, “So, did you see the demon?”
“I did,” replied Ashur.
“Was he as gruesome as you expected?”
“He was.”
“And what happened to the demon?”
“He died.”
The fat man broke out in laughter and stated, rather matter-of-factly, “You cannot kill a demon!”
Ashur had wondered the same thing.
The group ordered ale then took their apparently usual seats by the fireplace. They spoke among themselves, no doubt about the demon. After a time, the fat man shouted loudly, “And did you get the treasure?”
“I did,” responded Ashur.
The men looked surprised.
“And what great treasures were there?”
“Demon figurines carved from diamonds that must have been the size of your fat fists.”
The men laughed uproariously at that comment as the proprietor passed by them, coming to Ashur and the babbler’s table. “Is there anything more I can get you?”
“No, no thank you,” he replied.
The father stood unmoving. Ashur reached into his pocket and, coming up empty, told the man, “I am sorry. I am out of coins. My last, I gave to you. Will those coins cover our food and ale?”
The fat man with more mirth said loudly, “The one who found a demon’s treasure can’t even pay for his meal!”
The group relished the irony of the statement and joyfully joined in the fat man’s roar.
As they did so, Ashur handed the father an item wrapped in a large leaf. He told him it was to take care of the man in the corner as long as the value of the item lasts.
He said goodbye to the babbling man, who took no notice, and left the great hall, closing the door behind him.
The fat man, having watched this strange exchange, asked, “And what did our penniless demon-fighter honor you with wrapped in a leaf?”
The father unwrapped it, holding up the shiny object in his hand. The light from the fireplace gave it a sparkling shine. In his hand, he held a grotesque figurine of a demon creature, with wings like a bat, meticulously carved from a diamond as big as a fat man’s fist.
©August 2020, Willard M. Oliver
Willard M. Oliver, long a fan of Robert E. Howard and sword & sorcery, wanted to create his own such character and yarns. This is his first.