There weren’t many; a few stubborn shrubs and weeds, their dull green leaves mostly blanketed in grey ash, clutching on to skeletal branches in a desperate gasp for life. The warm, sulfur- tinged breeze sent drifting flurries of ash swirling and dancing into the night sky. Occasionally the clouds would part, revealing a crimson moon for a moment, bathing the setting in its sickly red glow.
Other than the ash and the clouds, nothing moved. No animals, no humans. No living creature. The landscape was as motionless and barren as a corpse.
A figure stood amongst the ash and dead vegetation. He was shirtless, every muscle on his lean torso defined periodically by the light of the moon. A sword was clutched in either hand, one long, one short. A Katana and a Wakizashi. The long and the short. Daisho.
With startling swiftness, the figure began to move, his swords flashing out in practiced movements more like dance than mindless killing strokes, each strike elegant, fluid and undeniably deadly. The power behind the blows was enough to shatter full grown trees.
Despite the obvious energy expended, the figure seemed unaffected. His breathing was slow and even. Occasionally, he would breathe out forcefully in time with a particularly energetic strike. The only real evidence of his exertion was the sweat slicking his upper body.
Suddenly, he stopped, the action almost shocking in its abruptness. He cocked his head as if listening to something. To a human ear, there was no sound other than that caused by the constant motion of the wind. But the listener wasn’t human — at least not entirely.
His eyes darted towards the sky. Something was coming from that direction but the figure appeared unconcerned, lowering his swords so that the tips touched the ground. For a moment he cloaked his mind using the glamor ability he’d worked so hard to perfect, concealing his presence from any nearby demon but then he appeared to sense the futility in it, and let it drop. Whatever it was in the sky had probably already seen him. He’d learnt that his glamor ability, whilst useful for shrouding his mind and thoughts, did little to mask his actual physical body, especially at close range and especially when he’d — in all likelihood — already been seen.
Lightning flashed, outlining a winged creature for a fraction of a second before it gracefully touched down a few feet from the other figure. The two stared at each other for a moment, unmoving. They could have almost been twins. Both were tall and well-proportioned with dark locks. The only obvious difference was the black wings that the new comer sported.
“Greetings, Samael,” said the winged figure. “I trust you are well.”
The other figure appeared to flinch slightly. “You can call me Sam, you know,” he said. “It is the name I go by, after all.”
“I prefer to use the old names.” The winged inclined his head and smiled mirthlessly. “It doesn’t pay to deny your heritage, Samael.”
Sam glared but said nothing for a moment. “What do you want, Samyaza?”
The Watcher took two light steps closer. Sam watched him warily but didn’t raise his blades. He didn’t exactly trust the Watcher but had no reason to distrust him either. The creature had, after all, helped him out in the past.
“I’m here to help you, Samael. Again.”
“Why?” Sam asked suspiciously. He’d learnt that the Watcher (or Grigori in the old tongue), had his own agenda.
The other grinned. “Do I need a reason?”
Sam considered for a moment. If he was being truthful with himself, it didn’t really matter why the Watcher wanted to help him. If it served Sam, then where was the harm?
The Watcher tossed something through the air. Without conscious thought, Sam transferred one of his swords to his other hand and caught it. It was a small statuette. He turned it over in his hand, examining it curiously. It was a crude, ugly thing, roughly carved out of volcanic rock to resemble a dog.
Sam looked up, meeting the knowing stare of the Watcher. “What is it?” he asked.
“In a moment. First, tell me, Samael, what is your heart’s desire?”
Sam paused, momentarily caught off guard by the question. Images of people flashed through his mind. Aimi, Hikari, Grace. His mother. “You know better than I do,” he replied eventually.
“Tell me,” the Watcher commanded.
Sam sighed resignedly. Clearly, the Watcher wasn’t going to be satisfied until he got an answer. “I want the truth about my mother. To save her if possible — if she can be saved. I want to get Grace out of Hell. I want to be with Aimi. Why ask me this, though? You knew the answers before you asked.”
The Watcher nodded, satisfied. “That object in your hand is filled with possibilities. It can lead to the fulfillment of all your desires. It is up to you what you do with it, though.”
Sam examined the object again. What was so special about it? How could this stupid, ugly piece of rock possibly help him be reunited with those he cared about?
As if reading his mind (which he potentially was), the Watcher spoke. “Tell me one further thing. What do you know of Hellhounds?”
Sam grimaced. He knew all about Hellhounds. Had faced one himself in Hell only a few months earlier, almost losing his life in the process.
“They’re one of the greatest demons in Hell,” he said, remembering the demon lore drummed into him by his master, Hikari. “Almost impossible to kill and feared by all.”
The Watcher nodded again. “Quite right. But did you know that every Hellhound is bonded to a demon of the upper echelons of Hell? To a Prince or Princess. As powerful as they are, they were created to serve. They were bred for bondage. That statuette you hold in your hands has the power to summon one.”
Sam glanced at the object again with renewed interest. How could such a simple object contain such power? “So what am I meant to do with it? What’s it got to do with me?”
“At rare and specific times in Hell, demons of noble lineage — that is, those who are related to the Prince of Lies in some respect — gather in the hottest parts of Hell. These parts are invariably volcanoes. They gather for one purpose and one purpose only: to gain the servitude of a Hellhound.” Samyaza smiled infuriatingly and spoke in a condescending way, as if lecturing a child. Sam let the insult pass, intrigued.
“A Hellhound is a powerful instrument of destruction,” he continued. “It can serve in many other ways — their senses are also extremely sensitive, especially their sense of smell.” The Watcher paused, watching Sam carefully. “I can see from the look on your face that you realize the import of this.”
Indeed Sam could. With such a powerful ally, he could track down Grace. Even his mother. He wasn’t entirely convinced though.
“Why would the Hellhound obey me?” he asked.
“Because you have the blood of the ruler of Hell in your veins. Hellhounds only obey Princes, and what greater Prince could there be than yourself? Besides, the ones that come out of the mountain craters are juveniles. They will bond with the first Prince that they consider acceptable. Not every Prince is chosen. In fact, few are. Be warned though. Hellhound juveniles are rare and only emerge at certain times. You must travel to Hell only at these times. There is also much competition amongst the other demons for their services. Once you have bonded, you must leave immediately before another Prince finds you and kills you for the prize you possess.”
Sam breathed out heavily, slightly overwhelmed. “But how can I guarantee that a Hellhound will come for me?”
“You can’t”, said Samyaza. “It all depends on the strength of the demon Prince doing the summoning. If you are weak, none will appear. If you are strong, the statuette also has a chance of summoning a greater Hellhound juvenile, which is rarer still.”
“Where on Earth did you get this? And why give it to me now?”
The Watcher smiled knowingly. “Good questions, but your wording is wrong. It wasn’t on Earth that I found it. And as for your second question, that doesn’t require an answer. Just be content that you have this. Use this opportunity that I have given you. It is simple. If you want to find someone in Hell, you need to sniff them out. What better tool than a Hellhound? This object I have given you is rife with potential. With it, you can save the one who will in turn save you.”
“Save the one who will save me?” Sam echoed. Did the Watcher mean his mother? Aimi? “Who are you talking about?” he demanded.
The Watcher smirked. “That’s what you need to figure out. I wouldn’t spend too much time thinking about it,
