Inferno 7013

14 THE UN-THING

Centuries later, when bards discussed the destruction of the Court of Filth and the downfall of the Duke, they would wonder whether the outcome was truly inevitable, or whether Sir Alharazed could have averted it somehow: if, for example, he had not befriended Yraine in the Tower, or if he had done more to win her loyalty; perhaps if he had rescued his companion Dalile first, instead of abandoning her in the pit; perhaps if he had paid closer attention to the welfare of his companions, Natalia and Ragak; but in the end, as Sir Alharazed stood at the pinnacle of the Court and beheld his long-lost love, Kitra, waiting closer than she'd been in centuries, the truth was that he could not have done anything differently, and that the outcome of that final battle truly was inevitable.

The carnage in the Court was remarkable to behold. The first wave of attackers were the enraged undead knights of Pazgul - re-animated corpses of slaughtered warriors, their armour a mass of flesh-piercing spikes, driven by insurmountable pain. Ragak and Natalia acquitted themselves well, but it was Sir Alharazed - his obsidian blade alight with sacred flame - who committed the great slaughter that day. Scraps of decayed flesh and shards of armour were strewn across the white marble of the Court.

Next came the spider-people, the serpentmen, the eight-foot demons with their burning eyes, the sword-constructs and the blood-eaters and the devouring flesh-things and the masses of eyes and tendrils called Walkers and all the other horrors of the Court's infernal populace. In the hundreds they stood against Sir Alharazed and his companions; alone, the three of them stood, and while Ragak and Natalia slew many, Sir Alharazed cut down countless numbers, until he was washed in demonic blood and charred with profane fire, and at last he emerged at the peak of a mountain of corpses and looked into the ruins of the Court and smiled.

He turned at the sound of a scream.

Behind him, Heroslayer Nethro stood over the impaled corpse of Natalia, his sword ablaze with fire, and grinned at Ragak. "Your turn, hero," he said.

Had Sir Alharazed been a bit closer, perhaps he could have saved his friend. But he was not, and Ragak's rage overcame him. A moment later Nethro had carved the brave barbarian into twenty pieces.

"At last," said Nethro coolly, "the madman can be at rest."

"You're a real jerk," said Greg, hefting the sword. "I'm here to prove it. By killing you. I didn't really think this part through."

Nethro's eyes narrowed.

"Be quiet, little earth-man," he said. "Let Sir Alharazed speak. I want to hear his voice before I end his life for the third and final time."

"I am Sir Alharazed," said Greg.

When their blades met, the twin fires burst in an inferno that consumed half the Court.

*

In a dark and silent place, Yraine oversaw the sacrifice of the last tender virgin into the fuckmaw of the Outerworld Devourer and smiled. "The ritual is nearly ready, my lord," she said.

Lord Pazgul grinned. He'd been watching Yraine's work for hours, admiring the grace with which the nearly-naked and bound woman went about her work. Even in a state of pain and subjugation, the girl was a masterful witch, and Pazgul was beginning to suspect that the state of subjugation itself gave her power.

"Now, my lord," she said, "I summon the creature of annihilation itself. Avert your eyes."

"It's fine, girl," said Pazgul, settling back in his chair. "I wish to see how this unfolds."

Yraine shrugged. "Fine," she said.

The words of the ritual were simple, and they inscribed themselves across Pazgul's brain in a script of branding fire. He shuddered as she spoke, and as the darkness and blood swirled around her feet, he began to wish that he had turned away after all.

But it was too late. The void rose from beneath her, and Yraine smiled, her eyes blank as pitch.

"Is it here?" said Pazgul unsteadily, an instant before he was erased from existence.

*

Each stroke of Nethro's sword cleaved through a pile of dead flesh, cauterizing the wounds as it passed through, and each stroke was met by a counterstroke from the obsidian greatsword, which rose and fell like a blazing hammer. Nethro grinned. Sir Alharazed glared.

"Do you remember the ruins of Cath, hero?" Nethro mocked. "You thought you'd thrown down the creature from beyond time and space, but you had only drawn it into your life, and when you returned home, everything you had worked to build had been torn away and obliterated."

"Not everything," growled Sir Alharazed.

"You refer to your stupid princess?" Nethro laughed. "Do you truly imagine that she still loves you? After centuries of captivity and centuries of pursuit, you finally delivered her into the hands of your enemy. The Duke himself has enjoyed the fruit of your sweet princess, and you have been removed from her memory. She'll know nothing but torment and hatred for eternity. And you will not even have the mercy of oblivion.

Sir Alharazed had nothing to say, so Greg interjected. "I don't understand why you're such a douchebag," he said. "Can't we all just get along?"

Nethro raked through a mass of twisted bones, flinging them like a hail of arrows, and roared: "No! I LOVE MY LIFE!"

And Greg grew batlike green wings, dove into the air, and yelled:

"THEN BEHOLD THE POWER OF THIS GOD-THING I KILLED A LONG TIME AGO BUT ABSORBED ITS POWER!"

It was almost disappointing.

But the disappointment was soon forgotten. As Greg rose from the ruins of Heroslayer Nethro, he looked toward the highest point of the Court, where the Duke lurked, and broke into a dash. He forgot about Dalile, who still suffered in the pits, and about Corvel and Ithuria, who suffered through unending torment in the Duke's fuckchambers.

He desired only one thing.

*

At the peak of the highest tower of the Court, in a spartan room that looked down upon the entire world, Zagrazel, the Duke of Filth, waited, grinning with all of his mouths.

Beside him stood the Princess Kitra, beautiful as she had ever been, and also naked, bound and displayed so that the Duke could revel in her shame. She looked at Sir Alharazed with a single tear in her eye.

"Sir Alharazed," said the Duke mildly. "I see you've left your friends behind."

"Duke," said Greg, swinging his sword. "Looks like all your friends are dead. Literally all of them. I killed them all."

"I saw," said the Duke. "An impressive display."

Greg ran a hand through his sweaty, blood-drenched hair. "You know," he said, "I've been wandering around for a long time. I got a shit-ton of magical artifacts. This sword is ten times more magical than it was when I got it. This armour is indestructible. I can move across worlds at will. I killed Heroslayer Nethro, the undefeatable demon, and his fat boss. I could probably march up to Heaven and become a god now. But I came here instead, because all I want is that girl, and you're still standing in my way."

"True," said the Duke.

"And I've just realized," said Greg, "that you've got nothing left. I've killed everyone and everything that made you powerful, and now I'm going to kill you, and there's no amount of smarming and snickering you can do that will save you."

"That's true," said the Duke. "But you've forgotten -"

According to some of the fine bards who've written songs about this day, the Duke had been about to mention the one ally of his that Greg had forgotten: Pazgul, and the slave-witch Yraine. Perhaps if Sir Alharazed had paused to listen, things would have gone differently. But Sir Alharazed was too angry to listen. He cleaved the Duke in two, and the Duke dissolved, and its gruesome spirit dissolved into nothingness.

Now Sir Alharazed stood closer to his beloved than he'd been since the fateful day he departed from Cath to slay the Un-Thing - the journey from which he'd never truly returned.

"Kitra?" he whispered.

"My love?" she whispered back.

"You do remember me," he said.

But now she was looking at something behind him.

Slowly, Sir Alharazed turned around.

"Yraine?" said Greg.

It wasn't Yraine, though it was wearing her form. But as she drew closer the form began to fall away, exposing the naked oblivion beneath.

"Oh," said Greg. "It's you."

There, for the first time, Greg gazed into the pool that Sir Alharazed had gazed into for centuries, and saw the offer he'd been rejecting all along. The mercy of oblivion - the gift of final rest - better, of the total erasure of existence, the undoing of everything, all for the small price of failure and the loss of the one thing he still desired.

"I dunno," said Greg, as the Un-Thing approached to consume the last thing that remained to Sir Alharazed. "Maybe it's time to give up."

Sir Alharazed lowered his sword. His skin crumbled, and his armour fell away.

"No," said Sir Alharazed in a husky whisper. "I will find another vessel. I will pass on my sword. I will live on."

"Fuck me," said Greg.

Time, and the universe, dissolved, and Sir Alharazed passed again into the nothingness.

*

"Holy shit," someone said. "There's people in there."

Greg opened his eyes.

He was lying in a pile of ash, he saw, and staring up at the clear blue sky, and at the outline of the upper towers of Miskatonic University.

"Jeez," he said. "How much did I drink last night?"

He looked to his left. Sofia was lying there, completely naked except for a necklace of filigreed gold, looking as stark-raving-hot as he could possibly have imagined. She looked as confused as he felt.

"Where are we?" she said.

Greg turned around. People were marching towards them through the rubble. They looked like firefighters.

"Did the dorm burn down?" Greg said.

Sofia looked around.

"It sure looks like it," she said.

"Sir," yelled the firefighter. "Ma'am?"

"Huh," said Greg. "Were we... together last night?"

Sofia rubbed her forehead.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe Satanism isn't such a good idea."

*

That's probably as good a moral as you're going to get.

A month later, Greg sat in his new apartment, idly looking at designer swords on his laptop. He'd dropped out of school, feeling a sudden profound sense of ennui at the whole prospect of academics. Some part of him wanted to climb Mount Everest or perhaps penetrate the depths of a jungle. Another part of him wanted to learn swordfighting. Another part of him felt like he already had.

"I don't know what to do, Sofia," he said.

"Mmgb," said Sofia, who was under the table, sucking his dick. Their relationship had progressed pretty well, Greg though.

*

Two months later, he was with Sofia in a coffee shop, trying to figure out which latte to order. Sofia had taken to wearing collars and jewels over her increasingly scanty clothing. She said it reminded her of a happy time in her life.

"I just want something with vanilla," she said.

Greg looked to his left. "Hang on," he said. "I think I know that girl."

She was sitting at a table in a circle of friends, wearing blue jeans and a short black top. She was attractive, though not strikingly so; Greg wasn't sure what drew him to her. But he went over anyway.

"Hey," he said. "Do I know you?"

She looked at him quizzically. "I don't think so," she said. "Who are you?"

"The name's Greg," he said.

She shook her head. "Don't think we've met," she said. "I'm Kitra."

"Hi," said Greg. "Pleased to meet you."

He left the coffee shop without saying anything more.