Despite his reluctance Kendrick didn't dare drag his steps. Six centuries he'd managed to survive the plentiful inherent dangers of the realm of the damned. It hadn't been pleasant, to be sure, but he still preferred existence to oblivion. He would have to play things very carefully to survive this errand and testing the minimal patience of the Prince was not the road to that end.
It was too quiet for this part of Hell, which found unsettling. His footfalls echoed back to him off the dank walls of the torch lit hallway that should have been filled with the screams of the tormented and the wails of the broken. Instead, only one voice periodically disrupted the anomalous quiet with deep throated cries that served as a grim reminder to the unlucky demon as to the probable outcome of the mission with which he'd been tasked.
Arriving at his destination he allowed himself a brief moment's hesitation outside the heavy wrought iron bound door. In truth, there was no more danger in opening it than in failing to do so. Steeling himself with this knowledge he reluctantly pushed it open. The pungent odor of decay billowed out enshrouding him in a cloud of the stench.
Kendrick had been in chambers like this before of course, as an artisan, and before that, as the raw material. It was, like many others intended for the same purpose, furnished with a wide variety of sadistic devices designed not just for pain but to maximize feelings of helplessness and humiliation inspired in those restrained within them. Normally most would be occupied, the room resounding with anguished cries and desperate pleas, the air wafting with the tang of freshly spilt blood and the rank of loosened bile.
The torture chambers of Hell were busy places, teeming with the never ending labor of stripping away whatever humanity still clung to those that had condemned themselves there, like a perverse Santa's workshop. Teams of Satan's little helpers toiled endlessly at the task of keeping the roster of Hell's lowest ranks perpetually replenished.
This one, at this time however, had been cleared, set aside on Azazel's order for the private use of Hell's Grand Inquisitor, who did not greet interruption joyously.
Kendrick could hardly look upon the bound soul it burned so brightly. Hell-bound souls were, as a rule, fairly tarnished when they arrived, already darkened by the taint they'd put on themselves in life, which would only deepen until the darkness was all that remained. This one was a special case, which would have been evident even if he had not been told. The lesser demon marveled at Alastair's ability to maintain the scrutinous eye needed for his meticulous work when the best he himself could manage was brief glances, quickly forced to abortion by the harsh light.
The soul was secured on a breaking wheel, face up, spine forced to bow over the arc of the device, wrists shackled to the hub of the wheel so as to keep the arms from causing hindrance. Thick straps, festooned with archaic sigils held the head secure, ensuring that no thrash or flinch would spoil the master's careful craftsmanship.
Kendrick stood just inside the open door, not daring to cause any interruption or distraction. He'd have leapt at this opportunity under just about any other circumstances. Alastair's skills were legendary, the subject of both epic tale and whispered warning in even the darkest reaches of the pit. A chance to observe without being an unwilling participant in the proceedings was a rare thing. He watched, letting himself become absorbed in the perfect path the scalpel made through flesh and tendon as it sliced away a shilling thin strip of cheek.
One side was already completed, the soft bit sheered away, teeth and jaw laid bare to the joint, over what must have been hours of slow work. Discarded bits littered the floor like left over party ribbons, scattered about in the fluid that pooled from the still bleeding wound. Now Alastair worked to shape The other side to match. Each slice robbed a sliver more of the victim's former identity, transforming his visage into a mutilated parody of himself. Kendrick could think of no better allegory for the transformation that Hell wrought upon a soul. If art was a mirror held up to reality then that was truly what Alastair had achieved.
That, in and of itself, would have been a masterpiece, but as mark of true genius Alastair had even included the mirror itself in his composition. Angled to be visible to the tortured soul it created a temptation, played to the morbid curiosity that didn't allow humans for force their attention away from horrors they did not wish to see. "Meta" the youngsters would have called it.
Alastair provided two layers of torment, physical and psychological and then invited his charge to take part and visit a third upon himself, which he did because his human nature would not allow him to do otherwise. Taken all together the display was a thing of beauty. Kendrick hoped he would be allowed to continue existing long enough to fully appreciate it.
"I don't like to be interrupted when I'm working." Alastair spoke dismissively, not looking up from his consideration of the placement of his next incision.
Kendrick startled out of his intrigued admiration of the scene and remembered his purpose here. "Apologies, Sir, Lord Azazel wishes a report on you progress."
"Hmmm," Alastair didn't look up from his task, and at first Kendrick wasn't certain that he'd heard. "You can tell Azazel that I will be finished when I am finished and not before." he declared.
"Um, yes, Sir," the lesser demon shuffled his feet nervously, hopes sinking, "I could do that, to be sure, but, not wishing to be bold, Sir, if I did, what was left of me wouldn't have time to blow away before the next expendable functionary was standing right on this spot here, Sir, in search of a more acceptable answer. Your own interest may be best served by fulfilling the request and having done with it. With respect, Sir." He knew it was a gamble, but there was no better one.
Alastair paused, mulling that over, while Kendrick tried to keep his trembling to a minimum. "Dean," the elder demon eventually spoke, "we're going to have to take a bit of a break while I see to this. But no worries, I have a little something to keep you occupied while I'm away."
The torturer turned to his workbench, where an earthen crock sat nestled amongst an array of nasty looking tools of the trade. Alastair lifted the lid prompting an agitated hiss to erupt from within its depths. Dean's eye's flitted wearily towards the sound. The demon reached in and extracted a vile looking serpent. It thrashed in his hand, a protest to being handled, causing its glossy, barbed scales to scintillate from red to black. The thing hissed again, mouth gaping open impossibly wide to reveal twin fangs. A single droplet slipped from the tip of one of them and fell, smoking and hissing when it hit the floor.
"Yes, I know, pet," Alastair spoke soothingly to the incensed creature which writhed in his grasp, rasping out angry threats, "but we'll have you back inside, nice and warm, in just a moment."
Turning back to the bound captive he wrenched his jaw open with his free hand. "Open wide for me." the demon instructed. Held by the restraints, Dean attempts to turn away were doomed to fail. The damage to his cheeks and lips reduced his protests to incoherent garbles. Alastair fed the snake headfirst past what was left of the lips. Dean could only gag and sputter as the repulsive thing slithered its way down his throat to coil in his belly.
For a brief moment everything was still. Alastair waited, watching expectantly until, with an inhuman scream, Dean's body arched up as much as his bonds would allow. Through the sound the demon could make out the pop of something, a shoulder he guessed, dislocating. Dean collapsed back down, his chest heaving with gasping, ragged breathes.
Satisfied Alastair turned away and crossed the room to speak with Kendrick. Behind him a second scream erupted, higher pitched and more desperate than the first. The demon nodded in approval, knowing that Dean had now deduced the serpents intentions and understood that he had no recourse but to endure it. True, it lacked any real finesse, but it would fill the time that he had to step away without providing the mercy of a break. It would have to do.
"What Azazel does not understand is that torture is an art, not a science. There are no equations, no percentages. Results may be speculated, even predicted in some cases, but this is not one of them." he groused to the hapless messenger.
Kendrick was quick to respond, eager to divert Alastair's frustration away from himself, "I don't disagree, but my Lord grows impatient."
"Excrement!" Alastair barked, "Azazel doesn't grow impatient. He's been perpetually impatient for all the time I've known him, centuries, millennia."
"Might I suggest, Sir," the lesser demon ventured nervously, "if I could report what reaction there has been to the offer thus far, that may appease Lord Azazel for a time."
"There has been no reaction because there has been no offer yet." Alastair dismissed the suggestion.
"But, Sir, I don't understand. Why wouldn't you…" Kendrick clamped his mouth shut too late. Knowing he'd overstepped his place he braced himself for the inevitable destruction. So close, he thought regretfully.
Alastair, however, didn't seem angered. He regarded Kendrick with an assessing gaze. Most any demon will revel in any pain not its own, nature of the beast really, but in this one the torture master could see some hidden potential. It could be that he might be worthy of an apprenticeship. He found himself moved to impart a lesson.
"You see how that one shines?" he glanced over to where Dean contorted on the rack unable to escape as the serpent helped itself to bits of his innards to feather itself a new nest within him. "He is a truly untouched canvas, here through no fault of his own. More than that, he is damned by a noble sacrifice, his soul for his son's life."
"That sacrifice is a source of strength for him. It gives him comfort to believe that in his suffering he protects his son. He must come to realize that the moment is past. All that he could do for the boy was done the moment that he entered into the bargain. All that remains now is paying the price for all eternity. He doesn't see yet that he suffers needlessly, his pain doing nothing more for his son, only paying the debt already owed. When he understands this, the comfort of suffering nobly for a worthy cause will cease, the strength he draws from it will fade."
"Azazel's offer provides him with the power to effect his fate. In that power lies hope, another noble cause for which to suffer. Refusing to barter with demons gives his pain purpose. It could take decades to break through that resistance. These hero types can be frustratingly stubborn. This is why he must be driven to the point of having no hope, no power, no purpose, only the acceptance that his existence is now pain and only pain, without end, or even recess. Then, when a chance to escape that fate is dangled before him, he will leap at it. It will take far less time in the long run."
Kendrick nodded in understanding, "I fear that Lord Azazel doesn't share your eye for the finer points of the craft. He wants results and very likely will not leave you in peace until he gets them."
"This can not be rushed." Alastair complained. "It is not as simple a burning away the humanity. The prophecy requires a righteous man. This must be done delicately to ensure success. If he turns, it won't take and the chance is lost forever. I'm sure Azazel wouldn't want that."
No, he wouldn't, but Kendrick desperately wanted not to be the one that had to tell him so. "Without your understanding of the subtleties involved, I suspect my Lord's harassments of you will continue." he ventured. It was a dangerous move, pitting two powerful demons against one another in hopes of escaping the notice of both, but still better than returning to Azazel with this message on his lips.
The elder demon sighed, "You're probably correct." he admitted. Oh, how he hated political types, no vision, no appreciation of the service to one's art. It was all so tiresome. What a waste. This untainted soul had presented such a rare opportunity, a test worthy of his skills, to usher a good man into inhumane action while still retaining his humanity. Any fool with a knife could carve away the conscious leaving only the hunger of lust of one's own desires and the drive of greed to fulfill them. That was paint by number. This could have been a masterwork had he been allowed the time to do the job properly.
Still, the chance to return to his own pursuits, resume the experiments set aside in favor of Azazel's latest bit of dogmatic folly did hold a certain appeal. He did have his own hungers and drives after all.
All right, he decided, to lose what he'd gained in order to regain what he'd lost was a fair trade. "Inform Azazel," he instructed the messenger, "that there is a faster way, but it will require certain...sacrifices."