Bare Souls

Candles of dubious provenance lit the small, wood-lined dining hall. They filled the air in the dark hall with scents that put the guests in mind of hot nights, dreams they had fought free of, abandoned churches and forbidden desires.

The new lord’s inauguration was, while an event not to be missed - as befitted the occasion of such a high-standing demon wishing to stretch his (rather small and feathery) wings of dread power in the mortal world of Politics - one they uneasily wished that they could.

(He had arrived one day in August, a hot, sultry day that threatened thunder and made everyone irritable, riding a sulphurous yellow wyrm. He introduced himself in the square in ten foot letters of fire that licked the roof of the church and cracked the bell. Runners were dispatched to locate the Margrave. After a short, frank discussion the Margrave agreed that the demon was obviously the better choice of ruler for this particularly large and wealthy border province; he had bags packed and was on the road within the hour. That he was fatally wounded by a falling tree not an hour beyond the town wall was widely regarded as a freak of fate, and a small bench was erected in his memory.)

There was a halt in conversation as the new lord, Astaroth, Grand Duke of Hell, Treasurer General, Prince and Throne of the Ninth Realm, and Whelp of Belphegor, walked in. He cut an impressive figure; tall, skin like polished jasper, a hint of scales around his flanks and, as Lord Mountjoy said sotto voce to his friend and business partner Baron Wentworth, “insufferable. That thing’s got a bare arse.” A remark which fell into the hubbub like a pebble dropped in a pond.

Silence rippled in the wake of those words repeated, until it became absolute.

Astaroth strolled to a halt. He frowned. He turned slowly and beautifully, his ridged horns catching the candle-light in a pleasing way, his new crown of office shimmeringly magnificent with peacock feathers. He tilted his head and regarded Lord Mountjoy, who was giving him a silly grin, designed, no doubt, to demote the slight to nothing more than good-natured banter.

‘Indeed I do, Lord Mountjoy,’ the demon said, his black lips pulling back over his white teeth in a small, ugly smile. “As do you.”

Mountjoy’s smile wavered momentarily, and then pulled into a grimace. He looked down at himself and cried out as his body swelled and began sprouting fur. He toppled forward onto all fours, his skin stretching, and hair spreading thickly down his face and back, sprouting from his arms as his hands contorted into wide shaggy paws, and his cries became roars. The change took barely anytime at all. The guests stared at the bear. The bear tried to look back at himself and turned, and turned.

“Behold,” said Astaroth, bowing slightly. He looked at the gawping crowd with a coy smile. “Another bear arse.”

Finally, somebody screamed and dropped a glass.

Cocooned in a bubble of avoidance, Astaroth watched the chaos of self-preservation: lords and ladies yelled, tripped, screeched, stumbled, cursed, pushed, tipped tables and trampled servants and those of a less spry nature.

In the empty centre of the hall, Mountjoy roared in shock and fear

The doors of the hall slammed open, and the 298 guests attempted to exit at once. Outside, however, some callously practical souls battled the doors shut again, and trapped both bear and those less fleet-footed, thus eliminating the risk to themselves and the town.

“Old friend, help me!” roared Mountjoy to Wentworth, but the man, hobbling after a nasty kick to the shins, saw only the prospect of being mauled approaching in the shaggy fur and muscle and teeth and he drew his sword in panic.

“Oh, perhaps I should just mention—" Astaroth started to say, but was drowned out by Wentworth’s cry of, “pull your swords! Encircle the beast,” and the frightened roar of Mountjoy the bear, who reared up on his hind legs and pleaded: “Help me!”

Astaroth inspected his new manicure. “Oh, deary me, do stop, no, no, I beg you, what is to become of us,” he said, and in that moment the good Baron plunged his sword into the bear’s great heart. Another man came forward with a roar, sword swinging, and lopped off the bear’s left foreleg, and a lady screeched as she dug a dagger repeatedly into the bear’s flank.

The sword whistled past Wentworth’s face and the dagger nicked his thigh. “Steady on!” he hollered.

Blood ran freely through the bear’s fur. He lurched and dropped, staggered and fell onto his side. Wentworth withdrew his sword, and delivered a mercy stroke. The bear twitched once and died.

Astaroth’s hooves beat a delicate staccato on the old wooden floor. His gaze followed Wentworth’s to the severed paw, a torn shirt-cuff still embedded in the fur. He nudged it with a hoof tip and delicately avoided the flow of blood. “Well,” he said finally.

In the clotted silence, the bear’s limbs shortened, and from the right forepaw a hand took shape. Fur fell in patchy clumps and the long snout slowly drew back into the head. One of the canine teeth fell out. The left ear flattened and twisted back against the head.

“He’s changing back,” Wentworth said, aghast.

“It always takes a little longer when they’re dead. Perhaps talk amongst yourselves?” He grinned. “Awkward, no?”

“I didn’t know! How was I supposed to know?”

Astaroth demurred.

“He was attacking me!” He looked round wildly. “You all saw! I was protecting myself. All of you!”

“Of course you were. It’s the thought that counts. You murdered him in good faith—”

“No! I—” Wentworth fell to his knees. His sword clattered to the floor.

“Saved us all. Yes. You’re quite the hero.” He looked around then spotted a gaggle of soldiers. “You, sort this,” he said, the flick of his fingers encompassing both murdered, and murderer, and nodded at the orchestra who scrambled back to their abandoned instruments. He closed his eyes and smiled as the strains of violin and oboe overlayed the anguished cries of tormented souls.