The Demesne of Girdan the Fair (Formerly Calais, France)

Sunday, April 3rd, 2050

The trip to what had once been Calais took about two weeks. We in the Horde weren’t known for maintenance, and the habit the goblins had of tearing down everything mechanical for scrap meant that the old train tracks were gone, to say nothing of the trains. I understand the sub-lords of Asia and the Americas had done a better job of restraining that impulse, so they still had at least rudimentary rail systems, the lucky bastards. A mammoth-drawn wagon is a picturesque way to see Europe, but it certainly isn’t the fastest, or the most pleasant smelling.

Then, there was the trip across the English Channel, my third. Humans have been plying the seas for tens of millennia. By contrast, Hell has no bodies of water larger than a puddle, with the closest being seas of lava that we never conquered. There’s something ancestral about my fear of the sea. Even today, having spent a lifetime on boats and in airplanes, I look at this huge, unnatural blue… thing and feel my knees go weak.

It was worse then. The remnants of the Royal Navy and the RAF were patrolling those waters in force, looking to avenge their fallen nation and pick up any straggling survivors. There were reports of widespread famine in England among the Horde due to the blockade. Against that, I had a rowboat smaller than some bathtubs I’ve owned. To compound things, it was night, and while my fellow devils can see in the night as well as an owl, I inherited Mother’s baby blues. The light of my lantern seemed pathetically tiny against the inky blackness.

I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder. Father had come with me, but this is where we would part. I turned to face him. I could just make out the red hue of his face, the short-cropped hair, the glasses and business suit that would have been more fitting for an accountant than the number two devil on Earth. I memorized every detail, and even now, that’s my mental snapshot of him. Even if I thought he had a plan to keep me alive, I knew how hard our parting was on him. I’d tried to be a little more civil on the trip, knowing that, but it was hard with just how pathetic he could be.

His eyes were misty as he said, “Son, even with this unpleasantness, I’m still proud of the devil you’ve grown into. Be as safe as you can and do the Dark Lord proud. We’ll see each other again. I believe in you.”

All of a sudden, I was that scared boy I’d been before he sent me to the army. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread, and a conviction that I’d never see Father again, and that sudden sense of loss overwhelmed me. Did I hate him for sending me off, just because he wanted to grieve in peace? Yes. Yet, I had to fight off unbidden tears. It had been so long since I’d see him, and here I was, off again to what the best of the Grim Horde saw as certain death. I could see him trying to be strong for me and failing. I wanted to embrace him, to tell him it was okay, that I would be fine. I wanted to promise right there that I would succeed, as false a hope as it was.

However, such sentiments are unworthy of an officer or a gentledevil. Indulging in such soft feelings could only get me killed. I removed his hand, albeit more gently than I had last time. “Of course you do. Goodbye, Grand Vizier Malthus.” I spun on my heels, climbed into the boat and ordered the orcs to get rowing. When the one on the left was too slow for my liking, I threatened him with the back of my hand. That set him to his work faster, and all was right in the world.

I wish I had more to say about my daring nighttime voyage across the Channel, but I honestly slept through most of it. The orcs asked me to turn off my light, since they didn’t need it and it could only get us spotted. I wanted to be prepared for any attack, but the rocking of the seas and the all-enveloping womb of darkness carried me off.

My next memory is of being jostled awake. “We’re here, m’lord.”

“Here,” turned out to be a stretch of beach beneath the Cliffs of Dover. The sheer white walls were breathtaking, but they'd be a challenge to climb. Thankfully, my task would keep me by the sea.

I bade my boatmen farewell, and they made their way back to France. I considered giving them a tip or a treat. However, I knew full well they’d be killed the instant they got back on shore so they couldn’t let slip what they’d done. There was always the worry that the Anti-Demonic League had spies in our midst, after all. I only had a few days’ worth of supplies in my pack, and I wasn’t about to waste them on dead men.

I considered my next move, and I realized just how exposed I was. I had to somehow get the attention of a Royal Navy vessel without my countrymen noticing. My disguise was a navy-blue British schoolboy's uniform I'd captured during the sack of a magical academy. I’d taken it as a trophy on a whim, which went in my favor for once. I'd studiously abused it during our trip across the continent. I hadn't bathed either, giving me a fine cake of dirt and grime that had me smelling like an orc fresh out of the bath. To cap off the effect, I'd been on half rations, and I knew I'd lost weight in my cheeks. I certainly looked like somebody who'd been barely surviving since the Grim Horde had landed in December, and nobody would think I was a devil of any stripe. And that was the rub: anything I did, like firing off a flare or casting a spell, that could draw the attention of a distant ship could also attract the Horde. I knew for a fact there were squads of orcs and goblins combing the countryside for survivors; Hell, I'd led a few of them. They wouldn't believe I was a devil, and I would be in trouble if there were enough of them. Even if they did believe me, I would have to kill them so they wouldn't go talking about it, and it would just be a dangerous mess all around. I needed a way to be spotted from the sea that wouldn't be visible from the land.

Then it hit me. I had nature's greatest billboard right in front of me, and just the spell to make use of it. I made the gestures and intoned, "Squid's Essence." Circlets of magical runes sprang into being around my hand, imposing my will on reality. The sea at my back contorted itself into a midair stream and balled up around my forearm. Once the energy had turned it black, I gestured again, and a great gout of black ink sprayed from my outstretched hand. It was always a hit at parties, and a great way to trip up pursuers or refill an inkwell, depending on how much strength I put into it. It was hard going; I'd never cast it more than twice in a row before, and I'd never tried to be precise with it. It took several hours, between the breaks to recover my energy and the eventual march a half mile down the beach to start over when I messed up one spray, but finally, I'd managed to write "HELP" in splattered, hundred-foot letters. It wouldn't win any handwriting awards, but it would do the trick. Sweating like a goblin too long without a drink, I sat down on a convenient log and waited for help.

As an aside, I'm told that they've never been able to remove my message from the side of the cliff face, and it's only starting to fade away now thanks to decades of erosion. It's always nice to know you've left a mark.

It was almost nightfall before I spotted a naval vessel in the distance. I was to learn it was the HMS Coventry, a destroyer on its final sweep through the Channel for survivors. Had I been a day later, I would have had to march across the island and try my luck on the Irish Sea. They were wary at first and launched an unmanned drone to scan the area. I shuddered at the sight and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it wasn't armed. The humans couldn't hold a candle to us in magic, but those UAV's were a terror. I suppose I can't blame them for being cautious, since this was technically a demonic ambush. Satisfied I was alone and human, they sent a lifeboat to pick me up.

I've attended funerals less somber than the Coventry. I could feel defeat in the air, and the only smiles I saw were the thin sort I see men wear when they try not to cry. I did appreciate the irony that saving a devil was the only thing that raised their spirits. That good cheer didn't last long, and they were back to mourning their country soon after. I was the only survivor they encountered during their entire patrol, which didn’t help matters.

I won't dwell long on my time aboard the Coventry in English waters, except to say that they weren't eager to share their drink with a "schoolboy," and none of the women were game, so I was left with nothing to do but be seasick and wallow in their depression. I stole one of the forks from their commissary as my little revenge. It didn’t do much for the disappointment, but it felt good to strike back in some small way.

The only noteworthy encounter I had was with the first mate, Carpenter I think his name was, who was the only one who treated me like an adult. One night we stood there, looking out over the railing towards the coast of Cornwall.

"You know, no foreign army has touched English soil in centuries,” said Carpenter. “The Royal Navy turned aside the Spanish Armada, Napoleon and even Hitler. But, we blinked. We failed. What would Churchill think?"

I knew little of human history, but there were so many books littering the continent on World War II that I couldn’t help but learn the basics. I recalled a line from a Churchill speech I'’ d read and thought I’d lighten the mood. "Yes, I suppose this wasn't our finest hour."

He never spoke to me again after that. I suppose some men just don't have an appreciation for wordplay.