Belial
“My Lord, the engineerhas found a weak point in the gate.”
A bony hand on my arm gingerly shook me from the immersive daydream.
The spell shattered, Rayven’s image fading as she slipped from my arms. I reached for her, crying her name, but it was too late. Consciousness came slamming back, and I was plunged into cold reality.
I’d been standing at the back of the gondola on the platform designated for the ferryman, leaning on my oar in a magic-induced trance while using Asmodeus’ over-cooked bull head as a pillow.
It was like being wrenched out of a dead sleep, my senses crashing into me in a blink. Before I even fully processed what was happening, I reflexively lifted my oar from the water and swung it toward the offender who’d disturbed the dream spell.
I registered Cecil’s terrified features just as my oar made contact with the skeletal servant.
A curse dropped from my lips as my hand snatched out, catching the librarian by his yellowed cravat before he could topple into the River Styx. Relief wrinkled what was left of his aged skin.
I pulled him back into the boat, setting him to his feet with a scowl. “That’s a good way to get your soul shattered, Cecil,” I grumbled.
Cecil’s tooth-laden eye sockets clacked together like they always did when his nerves took over. “F—forgive me, Lord. I was just saying that the engineer, he’s finished.”
Finally, the soul found a weak point. A chain and a pulley hung above the gate—mechanisms so small, I hadn’t seen them, despite my thorough inspection. It was hard to believe they were integral to the iron monstrosity.
A quick blast of magic snapped the chain, and weights that had been concealed by the stalactites overheard plummeted into the river of souls. The gate slammed open with a deafening thud that rained dust from the cavern’s ceiling.
I straightened, brushing dust from my cloaked shoulders before taking my stance back on the ferryman’s platform. I guided our vessel through the gates of the fifth circle of Hell while Cecil ushered the soul back through the portal with promises of a new soul book for him to live out his eternal paradise as a reward upon our return.
The gondola drifted through the gate, and suddenly, the air was sweltering and sticky. Even the Styx burned almost magmahot, and the water started to boil and bubble with heat, making everything smell of death and rot.
It had been centuries since I’d visited Mammon’s realm, yet that was still too soon for my tastes.
Holga shivered on the bench beside me, even though she didn’t have skin or nerves to sense the hellish atmosphere. “This place is filled with horrible energy. It’s as bad as the second circle.”
“Mammon is not unlike Asmodeus.” My voice dropped to a hateful growl. “They’re both cruel and stupid, though if I had to choose, I’d say Mammon wins out by a couple of brain cells.”
Here, in the Lord of Greed’s domain, the souls in the Styx were restless. Faint, spectral hands reached from the boiling river, grasping at the gondola as we passed. Holga screamed, zapping a bit of magic at the occasional hand that managed to grip the sides of our vessel.
Using my oar, I knocked back the growing heap of souls gathering around us. Their collective, tortured moans did nothing to shake my sympathies. If these souls were here instead of in the safety of my soul library, it meant they deserved every bit of the torture in store for them in the lower realms.
A towering replica of Mammon loomed as we approached the forge, and my face screwed up in annoyance. The fucker was even uglier wrought from iron.
We sailed between the statue’s legs and into the massive structure, the dock workers and various enslaved souls stopping their work to watch our approach.
Whispers of disbelief rose from the gathering crowd as I shifted back into the Lord of Bones. None of my ferries had passed through these parts in ages, and seeing one operated by the Lord of Limbo himself was unheard of.
I docked next to Mammon’s hideous river boat, noting the two vessels that bobbed in the water beside it. One of the vessels wasa long, thin gondola like mine, veneered and stained in a poison-colored hue of green. A silvery substance clung to the hull, sitting on top of the water like an oil spill.
If the mercury—the Lord of Sloth’s metal—wasn’t a dead giveaway that the vessel belonged to Paimon, the demons native to the seventh circle minding the boat in their master’s absence were. They had giant eyeballs for heads, and their limbs were covered in a network of skinless muscle and sinew.
The vessel beside that looked just like a Viking ship, the sails bearing what I knew was the Lord of Wrath’s sigil rolled up tight with many thralls, legendary warriors in past lives, waiting for Baal’s return.
Fuck. Paimon and Baal were here too. What in the nine Hells were they up to?
The foreboding feeling in my gut spiked, pushing me to move faster. I commanded Cecil and Holga to remain seated while I cast a protective charm on the gondola. The souls among the slaves on the docks would likely keep to themselves, but among the workers was an alarming number of goblins.
I fucking hated goblins. They were stupid, hideous little fucks, dirty and crude. Mammon loved them, thought they made fantastic servants since they bred like rabbits. Sheer numbers always appealed to wannabe warlords like the Lord of Greed.
I ascended the steps, my oar acting as a staff, and the goblins parted as I passed. They bowed and groveled as they poked and shoved at each other, all eager for a turn to offer me their worthless greetings and respects.
“It’s the Lord of Bones,” one hissed.
