by Brom
Veles watched Carlos go, the mirth fading from the god’s face.
Heavy boots ran up, the goblin man leading a band of souls wearing the crimson tunics and bearing spears and swords. They halted, taking in the scene, mouths agape.
“Should we give chase, my Lord?” one of the guards asked.
Veles didn’t answer, his eyes on the horse, eyes full of bitterness.
The guards exchanged looks, shifting stiffly from foot to foot.
“My Lord?”
Veles let out a great sigh, a sorrowful sound. “Why must everything I love come to an end.” His eyes drifted to Chet, slowly turned grave. Chet found himself wishing he’d gone with Carlos.
“And can you give me one reason why I should not crush your skull?”
Chet opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say, anything.
“Because he belongs to me,” came a weak voice. Pale hands and spidery limbs slid out from the tangled silk. Yevabog pushed herself up on trembling arms, the exertion plain on her face. “They serve me.”
Veles’s face changed to one of confusion, then displeasure. “Dark omens abound. I am fearful for what lies ahead on this journey.” He stepped over, towering above her. For a moment Chet felt sure he meant to crush her beneath his hooves like some pesky insect. Instead he stooped, lifting her up by the nape of the neck. She hung lifeless, no fight left in her.
Veles turned, started away, stopped. “The slaves, they are yours, Seet,” he said, addressing the goblin man. “Do with them as you please. Only”—he looked at his horse again—“do not kill them. I want them for the games.” Veles continued away then, Yevabog dangling from his hand like a soggy rag.
Chet met Seet’s small, dark eyes.
Seet’s lips peeled up in a smile, revealing dozens of tiny sharp teeth.
PART THREE
The Games
CHAPTER 27
Hard hands took hold of Chet and dragged him out from under the horse. His knife tumbled from his belt, landing in the dirt. Chet made to grab for it but then something slammed against the side of his head, knocking him back, and everything went blurry.
Seet swam into focus, standing over him, staring at him with soulless eyes. He held a lash, the hilt of which was a large bludgeon. “Hell just got much worse for you,” Seet said, his words difficult to understand, coming out clipped and half-formed.
The guards grabbed Chet and yanked him to his feet, pinning his arms tightly behind him.
Seet bent and snatched up the knife, giving it a curious look before slipping it into his own belt. Then, without warning, he hit Chet again, smacking the bludgeon across Chet’s temple and leaving Chet’s head ringing. He raised the lash. “This is Agony,” the goblin man said before driving the weapon into Chet’s ribs, doubling him over. “Agony is your new very good friend.” He struck Chet again, then again. “Take them to the line,” Seet barked at the guards. “Hook them up to Priscilla. Let them get a taste of Hell.”
Several guards half-carried, half-dragged Chet away. “Not sure how you done it,” one of the guards said, “but I’ll be damned if you haven’t managed to piss off just about everyone you shouldn’t.”
They escorted Chet and Ana up the line of wagons, most of them rickety contraptions made of bone and patchwork cloth, but several brightly painted and ornate, festive as though they belonged in a carnival.
Souls ran up and down the line, shouting orders. Chet’s head still reeled, but he found he could at least walk on his own. Something bellowed next to him, startling him. The guards laughed. It was a tiger, of sorts, a hairless, cadaverous creature with dark, hollowed eyes. They passed cages on wheels. Beneath the tarps he caught glimpses of ordinary house cats and dogs, a few goats, as well as strange beasts looking from another time and place, some staring back at him with painfully human faces.
Chet felt a rumble through the ground, noticed a large statue made of black ore at the head of the wagon train. As they approached he could see it was in the shape of a massive woman, at least twenty feet tall. She was thick and squat through the legs and waist, a power lifter’s build. Her face was fixed in an expression of perpetual rage. A great furnace burned within her chest, smoke billowing from the tall crown atop her head while spark and flame danced from her slanted eyes and cruel mouth. A wide yoke sat atop her shoulders, with chains running to a boxcar stacked with what appeared to be chunks of coal. Two men, with rags tied across their mouths and noses, shoveled the coal into a grate in the back of the iron woman.
The statue let out a deep, low groan and stomped its feet. Chet and Ana halted, staring at the thing horrified.
“Meet Priscilla,” the guard said, prodding them forward. “She’s one of the biggest golems in these realms. And you’re going to find out only too soon that she’s got a temper to match her size.”
The guards led Chet and Ana up to the coal car. “More fodder for Priscilla!” the guard shouted above the rumble.
A squat, shirtless man gave Chet and Ana a pitying look. “Sure, okay. Just a sec.” The man snatched up two metal rings, hopped down. “Chin up,” he said, clamping the steel collars in place around their necks.
“Hitch them up right there,” he said, pointing to a rail jutting out from the side of the coal car. The guards pushed two other collared souls over and hooked a short length of chain to Chet’s and Ana’s collars.
Thick oily ropes and chains ran from the coal car to the wagons behind them. Between them, several lines of souls—around fifty or sixty—hitched up like a team of mules. All wearing iron collars, their skin scarred and dark with soot and grime, many missing hands and arms, their faces laden with misery.
A whistle blew and the man next to Chet nudged him. “Down.”
“What?”
The man wore a tunic and sandals, both worn and stained. He had high, prominent cheekbones and sharp, clear eyes. He was lean but muscular, a boxer’s build. His gray skin was spotted with scars, but most appeared to be ritualistic, swirling across his strong African features. He crouched down behind the rail, shielding his face with his arms. Several of the other slaves did the same. Guards and workers all moved quickly away from the golem.
Chet had no idea what was going on but followed the man’s lead, grabbing Ana, tugging her down next to him.
Another whistle blew, this one from just ahead; there came a loud blast followed by a roar. A bright flash of flame bloomed, enveloping them in a cloud of hot steam and smoke. Sparks and flaming cinders rained upon them, stinging and searing their flesh.
The golem let out a great moan, lifted a foot, and leaned into the yoke. The chains pulled taunt, sending a shudder through the whole line. The coal car jerked forward, almost knocking Chet down.
“Up! Up!” Seet shouted. “PULL!” he cried, lashing the nearest souls. The souls stood, the ones in the harness pulling, those next to the coal cart pushing against the rails.
A fresh gust of steam billowed from the golem’s stack and she took another step, then another, inching the caravan forward, building momentum.
A wave of shouts and cheers went down the line.
The golem picked up pace, her powerful strides moving the wagons along at a rapid clip. The smaller wagons and carts started forward, falling in line with the big train.
A sharp slash of pain struck Chet, followed by another and another. “Push, horsekiller!” Seet cried and lashed him yet again. “Push!”
CHAPTER 28
Trish opened her eyes. She was in a small, dark room with tall ceilings. She sat up, trying to understand how she’d gotten here. A thin slice of daylight peeked through purple velvet curtains. Ornate flower designs, looking much too much like faces, ran up the faded wallpaper. There was no furniture other than the bed.
She slid her feet onto the floor, then it hit her. “Chet.” For one moment she tried to convince herself that seeing his cold body in the atrium had been a dream, but she knew it wasn’t. “Oh, God. Chet.” She clutched the bedpost as the tear
s came again, tears spilling onto her bare skin. She looked down and realized she was nude. Where are my clothes?
She stood up, swooned, waited for the dizzy spell to pass, then walked over to what appeared to be a closet door. She opened it to find a small windowless bathroom with only a toilet and sink. A white nightgown hung from a hook. She took it and slipped it on, then went to the other door, the wood planks creaking beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room. The door was locked. “What the hell?”
She knocked on the door. “Hello? Lamia? Hey, anyone there?”
Nothing.
She banged again, this time louder, and heard footsteps coming down the hall. A key entered the lock, there was a click, and the door opened. Lamia peered in.
“Lamia, why am I locked in here?”
“Oh, child. I’m so sorry, you were in such a state. I was fearful you’d wander off.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Are you hungry, dear?”
“What? No. I just want my clothes.”
“Now, don’t get upset. Here, why don’t you go back to bed while I fix you something to eat.” She started to close the door, but Trish set her hand against it.
“I don’t want to go back to bed.” Trish tried to push the door open, but Lamia held it. “What’re you doing?”
“You’re not well. You really should go back to bed.”
“Lamia, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m okay. Truly.”
Lamia still held the door.
“Lamia, let me by.” This time Trish gave the door a solid shove, pushing past the old woman and into the hall. Her throat was parched; she headed down the hall to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the faucet. She could see the atrium from the kitchen window, thought of Chet lying out there alone.
She took a long sip and closed her eyes, the cool water doing her good. When she opened them, Lamia was there, in the reflection of the window. Trish started, almost dropped the glass. She turned. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Just want to keep an eye on you. You’re not well.”
Trish wished the old woman would stop saying that. “Lamia, I want to go out in the atrium. I need to see Chet again.”
“But he’s not there.”
“Oh. Where is he?”
“We buried him this morning.”
Trish stared at Lamia. “Buried him? Buried him? What do you mean? Where?”
“Down there next to his mother.”
“You buried him without me?” Trish’s hand began to shake and she had to set the glass down. “You had no right. You had no—”
“Be quiet, child,” Lamia snapped, her sharp tone catching Trish by surprise. “You’ve been in a state for two days. Ranting and going in and out of consciousness. Someone had to take care of things. The boy needed to be put in the ground.”
Two days, Trish thought, trying to make sense of that.
“We couldn’t take him anywhere else without stirring up trouble. Your father would’ve found out, come for you. Then what would’ve happened to your baby? Tell me.”
Trish knew what would happen. The child would be taken from her and put up for adoption. She’d never even get to see her little girl’s face. “Lamia, I’m sorry. I just . . . I just wanted to see Chet one more time.”
Lamia’s tone softened. “Perhaps I was rash. We’re all a bit overwhelmed.” She laid a hand on Trish’s shoulder. “We’ll go visit the grave tomorrow . . . when it’s light.”
Trish glanced out the window. The sun was only just starting to set. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see him now. I’ll go get my shoes.” She walked from the kitchen, headed up the stairs to the room she and Chet had last shared. She entered, stopped—everything was gone. Even the bed had been stripped. It was as though they’d never been there. What’s going on?
Lamia waited at the bottom of the stairs in front of the main entranceway, a cup of tea in her hand.
“Lamia, where are my things?”
“You sound upset. Don’t be upset, you’ll stress the baby.”
“Where are my things?”
“Here now, why don’t you have some tea and go lie down. A rest will do you good.”
“I’m leaving.”
“The car is gone, dear.”
“Move out of the way.”
Lamia just stood there staring at her, her head cocked at an odd angle.
“I’m asking you one more time . . . get out of my way.”
“You don’t want to go out there. There are things that will hurt you out there.”
She’s crazy, Trish thought, and tried to shove her aside.
The old woman grabbed Trish’s wrist, twisting, forcing her down to her knees.
“Stop it!” Trish cried. “You’re hurting me!”
“I’m trying to help you.”
Trish struck out, punching Lamia in the chest, knocking the tea from her hand, the cup shattering on the floor.
Lamia slapped her, twice, and twisted her wrist even harder, until Trish felt sure the bones would snap. Trish cried out, struggling, but the old woman’s grip was unrelenting. She half-led, half-dragged Trish down the hall.
She shoved Trish back into the little room and slammed the door. There came a click. Trish grabbed the knob; it was locked. She slapped and kicked the door. “Let me out!” Trish shouted. “Let me out right now!”
“We have to do what’s best for the baby.”
Trish went to the window, threw the heavy dusty drapes aside, and let out a gasp. The entire window was boarded up. She gave one of the slats a tug. It didn’t budge. She set a foot against the sill and pulled with all her strength. A sudden sharp pain stabbed at her stomach. She doubled over, clutching her belly, and slid to the floor. She began to cry, gently rocking back and forth, holding her stomach. “Oh, little one,” she whispered. “You hang in there. Just hang in there.”
CHAPTER 29
The sky cast all in its ruddy amber gloom. A light ash fell, blowing along the ravines and fissures as thin wisps of low-lying clouds swirled around them. Cliffs and peaks spiraled above like crumbling Gothic cathedrals, looking ready to topple down upon them at any moment. The city was now hours behind, the only structures the occasional clusters of standing stones.
A burst of steam escaped the golem’s stack as she clumped along, her chains clanging with every footfall. She let out one of her long moans, a forlorn sound that echoed across the desolate landscape.
The guards had spread out, weapons in hand, keeping watchful eyes on the surrounding crags and peaks. Chet noticed bones among the rocks, all sizes and shapes, human and animal, some huge, like dinosaur bones. Only a few at first, but more and more until the entire valley looked to be full of them. He wondered how long before his bones would be among them, before Trish and his child were forever lost. His eyes dropped to his feet, watching the chain hanging from his neck swing back and forth with every grinding step. What chance is there now? What fucking chance? He heard Seet yelling ahead, looked up, saw the hilt of Senoy’s knife jutting from the creature’s belt. What was it Senoy had said? Something about a chance, no matter how slim, is still better than no chance. Yes, Chet thought, clinging to the angel’s words. I made a promise, swore to my little girl that I’d always be there for her. He looked at the chain again; it appeared ancient. He grabbed it, twisted the links against the stock pin, the rust crumbling away, revealing several thin spots. There’s always a chance.
A shrill whistle blew, and grew steadily in volume.
“Down!” the man next to Chet shouted. They all ducked, and a moment later a large blast billowed from the golem, sending sizzling cinders again raining about. Souls cried out, slapping the embers off their skin.
Seet came up the line, cursing and flogging everyone back to their feet.
“It is important to pay attention to Priscilla,” the man next to Chet said.
Chet nodded.
“My name is Ado.”
&
nbsp; “Chet. And this is Ana.”
Ana was staring out into the valley, at an immense skull, half-buried in the black dirt, easily thirty stories tall. It had human features, but with thousands of jagged teeth. “Is that what’s out there?” she asked. “Monsters like that?”
“There are plenty of monsters out there,” Ado said. “But not like that. That belongs to one of the ancient titans. They were all slain long before the first angel fell.”
Chet noticed several carts and dozens of figures milling around the skull, sawing the giant bones into planks, loading them on carts.
“See them,” Ado said. “They come all the way out here, risking their ba, to gather that bone. It is good bone for building, but that is not why they go to such trouble. It is because they believe it is full of magic and will bring them luck.”
“Just bones, rocks, and dirt forever,” Ana said.
“Not forever,” Ado replied. “The nether regions are vast. I have seen a lot, but that is still just a little. I have heard tell that there are realms not unlike earth. Gardens of great beauty created by the ancients such as Asphodel Meadows and the Elysium Fields. I still hold hope that I will see them one day, before they are gone altogether. And there are other beings, creatures who came before. Some that are alive in their way. Some whose flesh even runs with blood like Seet. Have you noticed how difficult it is to understand him? That is because he is a Trow, one of the few remaining underworld races, and cannot speak true Babel as we do.”
“Before what?” Ana asked.
“Before?”
“You said those who came before.”
“Ah, before the One Gods, before the angels fell. Before—”
Seet fell in step with Chet, staring at him with his cold reptilian eyes.
Chet kept his own eyes forward.
“Every step you walk,” Seet said, “takes you closer to the games . . . to horror and torment.” Seet let out a snort and continued on.
“I am sorry, Chet,” Ado said. “Seet takes pleasure in our misery. As I said, he is one of the before creatures. They feel the dead are a plague upon their land . . . and perhaps we are.”