Chapter 12: Is it the Stink of Prawn Cocktail or Demon that Betrays?

The planes forever devour their own offspring. All life is transitory, mere hurrying to level up, only to be engulfed by those more powerful than you. A moment of happiness when hit points rise and the prospect of wielding a new skill becomes closer is but one step in sunshine on a path surrounded by the shadows of destructive power. The planes forever devour their own offspring.

No sooner had the youth completed the second cycle of mobilising and annihilating skeletons than thunder rumbled in the purple skies. A type of magic that was familiar and disliked by Lord Azanth swirled all about the graveyard. It was summoning magic. Every demon hated such and desired to be free of it. Yet every demon was vulnerable to it, should the summoning power weild the magic knowledgeably. Prompted by the distinct flavour of the magic in the vicinity, Lord Azanth suddenly recalled the particular demon who was going to manifest here, whether he would or no. Borqualimus.

Borqualimus was minor prince of the First Plane of Wickedness whose natural form was that of a half-insect, squatting on four legs, each a tree-trunk in thickness. His body was like that of a scarab with folded wings, wings that Lord Azanth had never seen used. The minor demon had four arms – two with claws and two with hands – and a head like that of a fly. For delight, Borqualimus enjoyed making ruins out of finely wrought constructions. No greater satisfaction for this uncouth thug-even-among-demons than to topple a monument.

My young friend. You are about to encounter a demon called Borqualimus. He is a violent bully and like so many of that quality, you must not show him any hint of fear. On the contrary, you must persuade him that you are a powerful wizard who has summoned him to provide a service. Remember: Borqualimus. When wizards a demon wish to tame, they first must know the wicked creature’s name.

What?

‘Liam!’ Roisin cried, ‘something’s changing.’

‘My friend the crisp says that a demon is coming and we are not to show fear.’

‘Feck that, run to the portal!’ The rogue was sprinting with an urgent motion of elbows and knees that most demonstrably exhibited fear, though once she arrived at the turquoise light she controlled herself sufficiently to call back. ‘We’ve probably triggered a raid event.’ Then she was gone through the light and there were only the two of them in the group. The human was hurrying toward the portal with almost as great a sense of urgency, which perhaps, after all, was the safest course of action.

‘Who dares summon me?’

And there he was between the young mage and the glowing archway that represented safety. Borqualimus. As large as he was large and twice as irritating. The enormous fly head turned towards Lord Azanth who gained an impression of a thousand eyes staring at him, each containing fury.

What am I supposed to do?

Improvise. You’re a clever and resourceful mage. Imagine yourself far more powerful than this oaf.

‘Lower your voice, demon, when you address me. And bend your front knees to he who can destroy you with a word.’ The human spoke with an admirable composure that Lord Azanth knew he could not have felt.

Borqualimus filled the air with vibrations of laughter and took a large step forward, causing the ground to shake and Lord Azanth to bang into the sides of his Tupperware case. Before the demon could slam the next of his huge, taloned feet into the ground, the boy yelled back, holding up his wand.

‘Stop right there, Borqualimus or your worst fear will be realised.’ Quick. Did you get any impression of his worst fear when I said that?

A horror of the public display. Of being in the presence of sophisticated demons, more intelligent than he. Of being the bumpkin. Of the mocking laughter of succubi.

‘How do you know my name?’ The demon’s foot was still mid-air.

‘I am a mighty wizard who demands your service. I know all about you Borqualimus and about your weaknesses. If you fail to honour me, I will destroy you, indeed, but not before I force you to dance at the Ball of the Demon Lord…’

A bit of help.

Scanthax.

‘…Scanthax. You will be there in front of all the nobility of demonkind. Dozens of succubi will be watching from the galleries. The orchestra will play and the whole room will look at you. And you, Borqualimus, I will not even need to curse you, for you will move like a sheep surrounded by wolves, trembling and without any other purpose than to flee if an opening permit.’

Slowly, the demon’s foot was placed on the ground and the front two knees bent, tipping the fly’s head towards the mage. ‘My lord, how should I address you?’

No higher cunning can this thuggish demon rise to than to seek a name for revenge at another time, I suggest you provide him with a false one. It will make it more difficult for him to scry upon you from afar.

‘You may call me No Boday.’

Nobody? Really?

It worked for Odysseus.

‘Lord No Boday. How can I serve you?’

Should I send him away?

Not yet, or he will be suspicious. Greed can only recognise greed. Might can only recognise might. Allow him to recognise you, not as you are – a reasonably good soul in the body of a feeble mage – but as avarice incarnate.

‘Bring me buried treasure.’

‘As you command.’

As humans went, this young mage seemed to be a competent one. Good. He thinks to fool you by presenting a pathetic bag of undesirable possessions from a ransacked grave.

Borqualimus stamped heavily to a patch of ground where he quickly clawed down about a metre and straightening up, waved a bag. ‘Your treasure; now release me.’

To deliver a mocking laugh was the work of the undead skeletons of this graveyard, yet the human did a fair impression of such a sound. Contempt and a thrilling scorn coloured the tone of his words. ‘Borqualimus, we both know that the contents of that bag are worthless. You have a second and final chance. Bring me buried treasure, something that I will value.’

‘As you command, mighty No Boday. Would you consider treasure in a mausoleum to be buried?’

‘I would.’

Pleasure, as expressed in the physical movements of Borqualium, involved an extra energy in his leaping motion and an eager flexing of his mandibles. Just three bounds carried him to his target and then, without hesitation, the demon kicked into the wall of a grey, stone mausoleum. It caved in, heavy blocks hitting the ground with sounds that recalled to Lord Azanth the deep and satisfying thump of stones launched by trebuchets as they slammed into soft ground. A tall spire cracked, leaned to the side, and then collapsed. Whatever the workforce, be they undead slaves or hired masons, their construction for a dead knight had endured through decades, even centuries, untroubled by howling winds or lashing rain. Now the creation of their efforts crumpled and collapsed in every direction as the demon stood inside the ruin, kicking and kicking.

Reaching into the dust with all four hands, Borqualium wrestled for a moment with a large stone sarcophagus, then flung it mightily through the air where it whirled around several times before crashing to the ground. Beneath the sarcophagus was a secret tomb, that of a knight? Plucking something from the skeleton, the demon flung the remains aside and then came bounding back like an eager dog that had retrieved its master’s stick.

Don’t let him too close.

‘Stop there Borqualium. What do you have for me?’

‘A magical ring, master. A wonderful treasure.’

‘Place it on that gravestone.’

‘As you wish.’ The fly-headed demon sniffed the air and it seemed to Lord Azanth that all his attention was focused on the young mage. ‘I smell… something surprising.’

‘Prawn cocktail?’ The youth was giddy with success and being flippant.

‘Demon. You have the stench of my kind about you.’

Well, that’s interesting. Is he lying?

A demon crisp I be. Yet thou should not feel dismayed. Great deeds arise when such a pact as ours is made.

‘Master!’ Borqualium suddenly screeched in an entirely different tone. ‘I have performed my service. Release me quick. Abysses yawn and fires spring from plain and rocks and mountains. From the depths of the Earth comes Nuska, a titan unbound.’

‘Get thee gone, demon.’

A shimmer and Lord Azanth felt a space where the demon had been.

What did he mean by that? And why is there smoke rolling in from every direction?

Smoke? I feel a raw, chaotic power is near. And if Borqualium has good reason for his claim then we should return at once to the mortal plane. Nuska for centuries has been underground, reaching up with volcanic fingers from her chains. Were those chains to be no more then comes catastrophe, fire and war.

Pausing only to snatch up the ring, the young mage brought them both to the relative calm of his university. Not, however, before deep in his potato heart, Lord Azanth had sensed the truth of the other demon’s words. Nuska was free. Syceus was free. Was someone letting loose the titans? If so, they were unravelling all fifteen planes and no one, not even his hated enemies from the higher Planes of Virtue, was safe.