Hunting in Hell

by Maria Violante

  Strangely, he hadn't been able to figure out what endgame might motivate their actions - save cause the Consortium grief. Didn't they know that their interruptions were no more than minor inconveniences? Necessary supplies occasionally got routed to the wrong destination. Operatives disappeared. And now, there was this business with Laufeyson and a minor mercenary - their minor mercenary - that had somehow resulted in the death of one of their best Enforcers. And of course, the mercenary and the Mademoiselle were now missing.

  How convenient.

  The death of Muninn troubled him greatly. By what crazy bent of luck could - what was her name? De la Rosa? - the mercenary accomplish such a thing? She would need a weapon and powers far beyond those she was bestowed with.

  Unless, of course, she had help.

  Golden had doubted that the Mademoiselle was stupid enough to interfere with Muninn or in any way contribute to his death. But, he thought, the gears in his mind suddenly spinning - Thyrsus has disappeared as well. The Mademoiselle's hatred for the pair of brothers was no secret, and Thyrsus resided in his own dark plane - one he created during the Great Rift. Such a plane was inaccessible to anyone that couldn't either create a waypoint or travel out of body.

  Perhaps I should speak with the advisor that tipped off Veles? He might be able to make some sort of identification.

  Probably not. That demon's face is always changing.

  There were so many players here - the Mademoiselle, Laufeyson, the mercenary, the Enforcer and his brother … Golden had the feeling if he could just connect any two of them together somehow, the grand picture would emerge, and he would figure out what the Damned had in store. No matter how he tried, though, he couldn't. Frustrated, he slammed his hand into the wall, the great power in his blow driving pain down through his knuckles and into his wrists.

  Chest heaving, he swallowed and smoothed back his fair hair. They are just rats, he soothed, and you will root them out as such. He made a mental note to locate and have a discussion with the Mademoiselle at his earliest convenience.

  #

  As he rounded the corner, he wondered if Nemain had gotten the infidel speaking yet. Hell's foremost torturer was a very convincing negotiator.

  When the hall came into view though, he didn't see anybody standing outside of the door.

  Curious, he thought. She is inside. Laufeyson must have had tight jaws indeed. Nemain was gifted with unique powers, able to extract information with the force of her will, but when that failed ... Golden shuddered. Her physical touch could inflict unimaginable agony. He did not envy the prisoner, not in the slightest.

  He had not expected that when he reached the bars of the cell, the breath would stop in his throat, or that his mouth would gape open. He had not predicted the carnage he would glimpse through their golden lines.

  Nemain's limp form lay facedown on the floor in front of him. Her wingless back oozed great rivers of red blood that spilled down and pooled on the floor. When he saw her saturated wings, fairly swimming in a puddle by her feet, his throat clenched as he stifled a sob.

  How had this happened?

  Laufeyson!

  He fought the urge to rush through the door, his calculating mind taking over. Has he fled? Could he still be in the cell? Alert, he unsheathed the sword that always lay at his side. It blazed bright, singing with its defiance, and the chains around his neck hummed in response.

  Nemain moved then, turning her head and tilting her face up to see over her shoulder. Her visage was smeared with the garish mask of her own blood. His stomach dropped.

  "Golden."

  At hearing her voice, he opened the door and entered the cell, his sword held at the ready. Yet once he crossed the threshold, he stopped, his eyes locked on the wings by her feet. He couldn't bring himself to come any closer.

  Her eyebrows went up, and she tried to follow his gaze. She sighed and nodded slightly, her sudden understanding scrawled clearly across her face.

  "Golden, do not worry. I did this to myself."

  Astounded, he let the sword fall from his grasp. It crashed to the floor, clanging in protest. "You … what?"

  "The prisoner, Golden. He is gone."

  "Where-"

  Her voice was a whisper, yet he fell silent to listen. "I do not know. There are no signs of escape. He just … vanished."

  "Magic?" It was an odd word choice. Angels did not fear magic; all of them wielded it to some degree. They had their kevras and their akras, powers so bonded to their souls, they would retain them, even if they lost their wings. But he knew Nemain would understand. He was speaking of magic beyond their innate abilities - of an artifact of old, another's kevra stone, a curse.

  "I don't know. I'm not even sure if it matters." She sighed heavily.

  Golden nodded, his mind numb. He couldn't bring his eyes away from the long gashes that she had rent with her own knife. He could not imagine her pain or the horror she must have felt during Separation. Few warriors, regardless of their shame, had the strength and moral fortitude to commit the self-sacrificing ritual of the Wingless.

  She noted his gaze, and returned it with her own fierce stare. "I may have failed in my task, Golden, but I will die with honor."

  The meaning of her words sank in, and for just a moment, there was the briefest flash of horror across his face. He shook his head once, quickly, as if ridding his hair of an unwanted object, but the magnetism of her stare was unbreakable, and his resolve melted into the pool of blood on the floor.

  "You will do this," she said.

  When he answered, he knew his heart was breaking in his chest.

  "I will do this," he repeated.

  She lifted the chains off of her neck. For the first time, their clinking reminded Golden, not of the triumphant ring of bells, but of the cry of shattered glass, something broken that could not be repaired. He met her hands in midair, and then they fell back to her sides, leaving her chains behind.

  He added them to his own. They felt impossibly heavy. He looked down, as if to reaffirm their mass, and the sudden glimpse of her blood smeared across the metal links made his eyes sting with unwelcome tears.

  He would not protest. To do so would dishonor her sacrifice.

  "Do it now." Her stare never wavered.

  "I, as Head Pentarchian of the Consortium, declare you washed clean of your shame."

  His voice dropped to a whisper. "You have been redeemed."

  And then he brought up his great, flashing sword, and plunged it through her neck.

  NINETEEN

  Using little more than a keen sense of hearing and the occasional brush with a side wall, Alsvior and De la Roca proceeded to the back of the creature's mouth. They waited, each one searching for a hint from the other, yet the chasm that stretched between them proved impassible. Soon, they no longer attempted to break the silence.

  She squatted near the entrance to the serpent's throat and ran her hands over the walls. They were smooth, without handholds or footholds. With just a mote of light, she could have estimated the jump; as it was, the only clue she could garner was from the pressure of the warm draft of the creature's breath.

  She made her decision. She jumped, the wind whistling by her ears as she plummeted towards the unseen bottom.

  As she fell, she could hear Alsvior's voice echo down the serpent's throat. "De la Roca? De la Roca?" Perhaps he thought she would never go on without him.

  The fall was not nearly as long as she had guessed, perhaps seven stories at most, and she landed on a surface that was surprisingly soft - too soft, in fact. It gave so easily under her feet that she struggled to balance, her arms pinwheeling comically in a move that was most unlike her. Just as she thought she might regain an upright position, her senses tingled and she realized that something was in the air near her-

  -and then Alsvior flattened her completely, his body knocking her over with the inertia of his fall. She fell face-first into a soft, loamy surface that was surprisingly fragrant. The heartbeat
was louder here, and its gentle double-thump echoed around her, reflecting off of the walls. Already robbed of her eyes, the effect was quite disorienting, and she fought to regain her footing.

  "You would have left me." The uncharacteristic anger in his voice was arresting.

  "You would not have stayed behind." She was unsure if that was true or not, but she guessed it might be. "Besides, you said yourself - there was only one way out of there. You would have come this way eventually."

  Without light, she could not see if her response had mollified him or not. Instead, she concentrated on the soft strands beneath her. They were gently moving, she realized, like waves of grass in the wind. She could just feel them slowly brush by her hand.

  "What do you think this stuff is?" she asked, a tiny current of awe evident in her voice. She raised her hand to her face and sniffed. It smelled lightly of citrus and sand.

  "I'm assuming you're referring to the floor."

  "Yes. It's so soft, and it smells nice."

  Alsvior was silent for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. "I wouldn't touch it," he said, finally, his voice sounding slightly strained. "It's villi." He pronounced the unfamiliar word with obvious disgust.

  "What?"

  "Villi - like, in your intestines or in your lungs. They are like little fingers … of flesh … that push food and foreign objects in one direction."

  She pursed her lips. "And in our case, that destination would be?"

  "The stomach, obviously. Although in our case, they do indicate where we want to go. So I guess you can go ahead and touch them, because we need to follow them."

  She snorted into the dark. "Why can't we just follow the walls?"

  His reply was cryptic. "There are parts we wouldn't want to touch."

  De la Roca squatted and lowered her hand. She felt the gentle brush of the villi and noted the direction. "This way."

  "I can't see you. You need to speak to me, and I'll follow your voice."

  The suggestion made her slightly uneasy. Why must he rely on her? Couldn't he just touch the villi himself?

  "Please?" he asked, as if he could sense her recalcitrance.

  "I'll figure something out," she said.

  She started off in the direction the villi had indicated, clapping her hands as she went to give Alsvior something to orient to.

  "This isn't working." His obvious frustration only made her feel more exasperated.

  "Why not? You can hear it, right?"

  "Yes, but I can't follow it. The claps just bounce and echo around. It feels like I'm playing a child's blind party game."

  "I don't feel much like talking."

  "Then sing. Or I will go first, and I'll sing."

  "I'm not going to sing."

  "Suit yourself."

  She felt the gentle scrape of his body rubbing past hers, his scent spicy and familiar.

  "Guess you have to follow me." He cleared his throat, and when he began his song, his voice was surprisingly mellifluous. "While walking through a valley snow covered, I came upon a bunny alone …"

  TWENTY

  Two of the Pentarch's four remaining members had voted to start off on the search for Laufeyson immediately, but Golden had given a moving speech about the need to respect their dead. Without a crowd, he was unable to subtly pour his influence into the words, but he was confident.

  When the final vote came, they stayed and honored Nemain with a ceremony befitting a warrior's death.

  It had taken half a day to clean Laufeyson's cell. A few of the angels had the kevra of converting bits of matter, of rearranging the atoms themselves - he had no doubt that they would be able to make short work of the mess. It mattered not; in deference to Nemain, Golden had opted to do it himself with only his bare hands and a rag.

  In the end, he took the rags that he had used to mop up the blood and put them on the pyre with her body, so that she could be made whole again on the fields beyond. All four members lit torches, and the light from the fire turned their faces into something dark and otherworldly. They nodded at Golden, who began his speech.

  "Nemain was a warrior among warriors, a master of the blade and of the dance of death."

  Some of the Pentarch had already started to nod. The other thousand angels of the Consortium had gathered to see the death-proceedings.

  No wonder, thought Golden. It has been so long since we have sent a warrior on the pyre. Since … since Kalima.

  And she? Well, she was undeserving.

  He shook his head once, dispelling the memory, and directed his focus towards his kevra. He felt his body warm as the power flowed in from the crowd, wiggling and pricking at his skin like feeding goldfish.

  "More than that, she was honest, loyal, and wise. Her death will be felt throughout the fabric of time; even Heaven will be sorrowful for her loss."

  Behind him, he heard a swift inhalation. Golden guessed it was Pentarchian Veles. No doubt he thinks it a mistake to mention our lost home.

  Veles was still stuck in the past, and he thought the rest of them were there with him. He had written numerous tirades on the injustice of an empty Heaven. He had even tried to break down the gates shortly after the Abdication.

  Unlike Veles, Golden never attempted re-entry. After all, what would be the point of a Heaven without God?

  The faces in the crowd were starting to glaze over, and he released his hold upon them slightly. Instantly, many of them perked up, more refreshed and alert. In his reverie, he had been pulling too much, and he chastised himself. Instead of his kevra, it was his intelligence that he depended on today.

  Golden had informed almost every angel he encountered of the death of Nemain, and to each, he gave instructions that the escape of the prisoner was to be kept a secret. He expected their disobedience.

  He knew the pressure each Consortium member would face upon learning of Nemain's sacrifice. Bound by a promise to guard the privileged information, but unable to act, they could only seethe. Secrecy would pressurize the rage until a single spark would send the entire thing into an explosion - a spark which Golden was about to provide.

  "The fault for her senseless death lies with a demon we were holding for various crimes, including the murder of an Enforcer." A murmur began reverberating through the audience, and he further pulled back his influence as he pressed on.

  "His name was Laufeyson. Some of you may have heard of him; some may even know him personally. He is a madman, a traitor, and a terrorist." With each word, faces tightened, eyes squinted and teeth were bared.

  "He has escaped from a Consortium Prison. He is responsible, not only for Nemain's death, but for her wings"-

  The crowd erupted in a collective gasp. He raised his hands over his head, stemming off the angry roar, and they fell back into line. The power he suckled flowed back to them in a giant circle, changed by his kevra into an influence he knew they could not break. He was pulling enough from them to taste the mosaic of their essences, a thousand kinds of lifeblood, each one captivating and unique. He lessened his influence again, this time with some sadness as the energies faded.

  "My subjects," he said, feeling them dangle from his hook, "Laufeyson is still in Hell. He must be found and punished, he and every other member of the Damned. We will root them out!"

  He threw his hands into the air, and a rumble ran through the crowd. A thousands swords clanged as they were drawn and readied. Golden threw his torch, and as it streaked towards the pyre, the other three members of the Pentarch followed suit. Within seconds, the explosive liquid had lit with a loud whump, the flames as tall as a man.

  The chant began as a murmur in the center. Golden heard and sent a sliver of power towards those nearest. It caught like the pyre's flames, the chant growing with its own life. "Golden! Golden! Death to the Damned! Golden! Golden! Death to the Damned!"

  He had loved Nemain. The sight of her body, bathed in fire, filled his mind with the memory of Cleopia and her betrayal. His throat grew tight, and he pu
shed his emotions away, his resolve steadying his breath.

  Goodbye, Nemain. Dead, you do more for our cause than you could ever do alive.

  #

  Laufeyson wanted … what?

  The fuzziness in his mind warded off coherent thought.

  He didn't want to think, either. He wanted to keep drifting on the calm waves of the dark water around him, lit only by the gently bobbing light of … what was this thing? Its name itched beneath the surface, but after a few minutes of trying to uncover it, he lost it completely and drifted away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ghosts sparkled in front of De la Roca's eyes, the constant darkness causing her optic nerves to fire randomly. The visions first appeared as balls or flecks of light, but soon, she was seeing ornate, detailed images - people, animals, beasts. Once, Laufeyson appeared, and she had Bluot raised and cocked before she remembered that he wasn't real. It reminded her of her time spent on the Mademoiselle's dark plane, waiting for the monster that was Thyrsus.

  I almost lost Alsvior then. Have I lost him now?

  The floor beneath the villi followed a downward slope that slowed their progress. She was forced to place her toes down with utmost caution, only following through when she had compressed enough of the finger-like tentacles to be sure of the lay of the surface beneath them.

  Finally, they rounded a bend, and a light came into view. It could have been the lantern of a giant anglerfish, waiting to tear them apart - De la Roca didn't care, so long as she could actually see where they were going.

  As they progressed, the light grew brighter, and she broke into a run. The feeling of being able to stretch her legs and push herself, to draw air into burning lungs again - it made her giddy.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Alsvior was falling behind. Briefly, she considered slowing down, but he was a part of this prison, as heavy a weight around her neck as the walls that surrounded her. She broke into a sprint, fully intent on leaving both it and him behind.