Muerte’s head spun momentarily as his efforts to throw the Aspect of Orcus and himself from the deck of the ship had proved successful. His body burned with the pains of the act, but nonetheless, he held his arms tightly around the base of the wings of the demonic avatar.
Gravity rushed up at him and Muerte looked up at the ships above him as they seemed to fly up and away from him. A part of his mind marvelled momentarily at the novelty of the airborne vessels, but the thought was interrupted by low demonic laughter.
The wings Muerte held began to beat heavily, his grip strained to hold on and he was thrown from the demon. Below him now, it beat its wings and slowed itself. Seeing an opportunity to strike it again, Muerte steadied himself in mid air and aimed his enormous bended elbow at the demon’s muscular back.
“Muerte desde arriba!” he roared, moments before his elbow drop struck the demon. He recovered quickly and was gripping one of its leather straps in moments. Years of his craft in the ring in Santo Del Rey’s courtyard had proven useful yet again.
Muerte seized the left wing of the demon. Desperate panic had gripped him, but not for his own safety- he would die here and he had come to terms with that. But he had panicked at the thought of the demon surviving him. Jamming his booted foot under one of the leather straps across the demon’s shoulder, Muerte reached down and tightly gripped the wing’s base in his hands. He dug deep, pulled all of the energy he had and strained, his aching sinews popping and ripping in his limbs. He roared in agony and with all the force he could muster, he tore the demon’s wing out of its socket and cast it into the rushing air.
The Demon screeched, its pain and distress obvious as it felt imminent defeat at the hands of the Pharasman giant. Muerte flailed momentarily, his boot stopping him from being thrown off his foe’s back. He bent his leg and pulled himself down to the belt and seized it with a shaking bleeding hand. He glanced at the demon’s head and realised he wouldnt be able to reach it with his free arm.
‘No mind,’ Santo Del Rey’s words echoed through his memory, ‘Just feel.’
Nodding to himself, Muerte seized the belt with his other hand and arched his back, his legs trailing in the rushing air above him. With a twist and a turn and in one fluid motion, he flipped himself and placed his legs under the demon’s horns, securing a new grip on the beast. He released his grip on the belt and launched his arms forward, seizing the demon’s horns with his hands. He slipped his feet to its shoulders, braced himself and began to pull it’s head from it’s shoulders.
It flailed wildly, roaring and bellowing in its foul hellspeak as the giant strained its neck. Muerte could feel shuddering in the demon’s shoulders. He laughed aloud, his chuckles booming over the din of rushing air.
“IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU’RE A NOBLE KING,” through his feet, he felt a loose pop in the demon’s shoulders. A tendon had broken. Muerte quickly turned the head to the right.
“OR A CHIMNEY SWEEPER!” He then wrenched the head fast and hard around to the left and was rewarded with a loud cracking noise as the demon’s neck broke. It turned suddenly, its limp body no longer able to stabilise itself in death. One of its arms struck Muerte and sent him flying. Muerte looked down to the fast approaching ground.
“Everybody has a turn to dance with the Grim Reaper,” he said, knowing the words to be his last.
He didn’t feel the impact. No sounds, no scream, no pain.