by Matt Turner
She stared down at him, as silent as the grave.
“I loved you,” he hoarsely confessed. “At least, I think I did. But I loved myself more. I…” His voice started to weakly trail off, but he forced himself to continue. “I murdered you. I murdered our daughter. I deserve everything that’s happened to me, and worse.”
There was nothing more to say. He knelt there, waiting for her judgment. The minutes ticked by, and the sweat rolled down his neck, but he did not dare to say anything, hardly dared even to breathe. He could not bring himself to even look at her feet; he did not deserve that. Instead, he stared at the latticed brickwork of the floor, watching a trickle of the guard’s blood flow through the cracks. Will mine join them?
He did not know how long he knelt there, waiting, but when he finally looked up, Tituba was gone.
18
The first torturer who the Holy Council had sent to Simon had been a careless fellow; once, as he cranked up the voltage of the electric chair, he leaned just a little too close to the bars and Simon ripped out his spine with his bare hands as reward for his incompetence.
After that, the guards had nailed Simon’s forearms and shins to the chair in punishment, but he was still able to move his neck just enough to cave the next torturer’s burly skull in with a well-placed headbutt.
The third torturer was the most difficult of them all. Before she even dared to enter the cell, she had ordered an entire squad of the Praetorian Guard to fire a barrage of crossbow bolts into Simon at point-blank range. Thirty times they skewered him, landing so many bolts in his chest that he looked like a porcupine, and impaling his face a dozen times so that he could not move so much as an inch.
“This is nothing,” Simon had mumbled between the two bolts embedded in his mouth. His skin, still blackened from where the bitch Prophet had burnt him alive, shed off bits of charred flesh as he violently tried to tear himself free.
The torturess had given him a sadistic smile. “So much hate in your heart! It’s a shame you didn’t join the Kingdom when you had the chance.” She came into the cell and leaned forward, a scalpel in her hands. “But now, the Holy Council wishes to have your eyelids removed. What a waste.”
“If you come one inch closer, I’m going to blind you,” Simon had warned.
She had laughed at his threat. “Maybe I’ll take your tongue first then, foolish Horseman.” The scalpel drifted down to his mouth.
He bit at it, ignoring the razor-blade that cut his lip in half, and wrenched the weapon out of the surprised woman’s hand. His mouth had filled with the coppery taste of blood as he spun the scalpel around with the tip of his tongue, but the torturer’s shriek of pain as he spat the scalpel directly into her eye had been worth it.
The torturer had run away, blubbering as she clutched at her bleeding face, and Simon had laughed even as the guards emptied another barrage of quarrels into his ragged body. “I’ll get the other eye next time!” he had crowed in triumph. “Come back anytime—GOD’S WOUNDS, stop shooting me, you FUCKS!”
And so now he sat in darkness, a steel yoke around his neck, a four-ton anvil chained to each of his feet, a muzzle on his face, and what felt like a thousand crossbow bolts impaled in his body. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel cheered by the fearful whispers in the outside hall. I wonder who they send next. He grinned. God, I hope it’s one of the Prophets. He had a score to settle with that masked bitch—had a score to settle with the whole damned Kingdom while he was at it.
As fast as it had come, his good mood soured as he thought of the final score. Cain. I’ll make you pay for what you did to Amaury, bastard.
“Horseman!” a muffled voice called through the barred door. “We’re coming in!”
Another torturer. Simon grinned. How am I going to break this one? “Boo!” he screamed in a hoarse voice as soon as the cell door opened. The guard yelped and leapt back, nearly knocking over the chained figure that he led. For a single hilarious moment, the group of armed soldiers making their way into the cell flailed about like drunken toddlers, until at last they regained their balance.
The Praetorian at the head of the small group glared daggers at Simon. “That,” he said as he took aim with his crossbow, “was not funny.”
The bolt stabbed into Simon’s sternum, but compared to the hundred others, it barely hurt.
“Who’s the next one?” Simon chuckled manically. “I hope it’s that one-eyed bitch, lads. I really need to even her out—”
The guards parted, revealing a young man whose red hair matched his bloodstained body. “Hello, Father,” Amaury said in a resigned tone. “Fancy meeting you here.” He made no move to resist as the guards chained him by the ankles to an iron ring in the center of the room.
“Amaury?” Simon demanded. His gaze flickered over to the guard who had led him in. “Explain, peasant.”
“I’ll let Ginger Junior explain it himself,” the guard sneered. He and the other soldiers retreated to the opposite end of the cell, where they kept their crossbows cocked and pointed directly at the two Horsemen.
“They have Manto.” Amaury sighed. There was nothing but defeat in his voice and slumped shoulders. “Out there. If I don’t torture you, they’ll…” His voice weakly died.
“Manto,” Simon said. “She’s your…”
“She was my only light in the darkness of Judecca,” Amaury whispered. “Without her, I…”
They had given him a knife, Simon saw; it slightly trembled in his hands. The fingernails first, probably. “Amaury,” he said slowly, “what did I first tell you about war?”
His son blinked. “War is built on sacrifice.”
“This is boring!” One of the guards groaned. “Hurry up and cut his balls off already!”
“I truly believed that.” Simon sighed. “And then, I nearly killed you for that belief. Fathers…fathers shouldn’t sacrifice their sons.” He closed his eyes; every word was painful beyond anything he had known, and not just because of the crossbow bolts embedded in his chest. “I sacrificed you once. Now, it’s time for you to sacrifice me.”
The guards jeered and catcalled, but their words were nothing. All that mattered to Simon was the creak of chains as his son leaned in close to his ear. “Father…” Amaury whispered. “You’re still an evil old bastard.”
Before Simon could react, Amaury lurched forward and slammed his nose into the steel yoke around Simon’s neck.
“Fuck!” he screamed as blood spewed from his face. “The fucker bit me! He bit me!” He reeled back in a panic, and out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw a flicker of motion as Amaury slipped a single iron key into the lock.
“God damnit,” one of the guards swore. “Just fucking torture that bastard. Christ!”
“You do it,” Amaury whined. His hand flickered out again, turning the key and returning it to his palm as the lock clicked open. “I’m too…”
The guard strode forward and shoved Amaury to the side; he fell with a whimper to the floor. “I knew this was a stupid fucking idea,” the guard grumbled. “One’s a fucking goddamn monster and the other is a little pussy bitch. If you want something done right…” He cocked his crossbow and took aim at Simon’s face. “What if we blind him first?”
Simon ever-so-slightly shifted his weight in the steel chair. They still had a dozen rebar stakes impaling his legs and arms to it, so this was going to hurt. A lot. Still, this constant torture was becoming tiresome. “Come a little closer, sniveling little craven,” he sneered, trying to distract the guard from the subtle click that came from the shackles around Amaury’s ankles. “I think I’m going to rip off your speck of a manhood and make you eat it. How’s that sound?”
“Why, you—” the guard snarled. Just as his finger tightened on the crossbow’s trigger, Amaury bolted up from the cell floor with the speed of a tiger. There was barely enough time for Simon to even register the crossbow bolt that left a bloody furrow across his face, for the guard was screaming as Amaury wrapped a
loose chain around his throat, and the others were raising their crossbows in alarm.
“I think you dropped this,” Amaury snarled as he flicked the iron key out of his palm and shoved it deep into the guard’s gasping, choking mouth. He dug the chains in even deeper as he jerked the guard backward, holding him against his own body in a makeshift shield. A dozen bolts tore through the man’s leather armor like paper, spilling his guts out onto the floor, but Simon could tell it was already no good; the other guards were moving to flank him, and soon enough they would bring Amaury down through sheer weight of numbers.
I have to help him. He jerked his shoulders back and forth, causing the iron yoke to fall from his neck and crash to the floor, but he was still pinned in place by the stakes impaled through his limbs. Fuck.
Amaury tossed aside the bleeding man and snatched up his crossbow. “I love minions!” He laughed manically. He leapt forward, shattered the crossbow into the head of another guard, spat in the man’s face as he crumpled backward, and shoved him into two more of his comrades. “No tricks, no gimmicks! Just good old-fashioned murder!”
Four of them charged him, blades drawn; he was able to bring down one with a brutal swing of his loose chains to the skull, and with another, he forced their hand around and skewered them with their own blade. But he was quickly losing ground, and they were starting to force him into a corner.
“Watch your flank!” Simon called out. He struggled with the rebar embedded in his right arm—he could just barely lift his arm, but the sensation of the metal spike slowly being pulled from his flesh was so excruciating he could barely stay conscious.
Amaury kicked one of the guards in the balls and slashed off both the man’s hands as he fell back and tried to nurse his groin. “I—know—what—I’m—doing!” he snarled, punctuating each word with a kick, punch, or stab. The enemy were severely hindered by the slick pools of blood on the floor and their own wounded, and he easily cut them down with their own weapons.
He was never this good in life, Simon thought in amazement. In the space of a minute, Amaury had reduced the number of opponents from twenty to ten, through a combination of guile, agility, and sheer brutality—all while unarmored. Or was he this good all along?
“Four,” Amaury called out. He wrapped a chain around one of the guard’s legs, reducing his shin to splinters of blood and bone when he ripped the iron links taut. “Three!” One of the guards charged him, and Amaury easily sideswiped the attack and cut down, chopping off the man’s forearms. “Two!” The remaining two guards turned to run for the exit. Amaury grabbed one by the back of his head and savagely twisted it about. Vertebrae screamed and grated in a violent CRACK, and the man fell limply to the floor.
“One,” a very different voice said. The cell door creaked open, and Amaury immediately stopped in his tracks. A man so massive—he had to be over eight feet tall, judging by the way he had to partly stoop in the doorway—stood there, encased in steel plate armor from head to toe.
“Oh, thank the council,” the last guard breathed. “It’s you, George.” He rushed for the door, still hoping to escape.
With a lazy swing of his great sword, the giant split the soldier in half from head to groin. The two perfectly carved pieces of meat spattered on the ground with a dull splat. “Horseman,” the giant rumbled from behind his helm, “stop right fucking there.”
Amaury slid his foot under one of the crossbows scattered about on the bloody floor and kicked it up into his hands. “Fair enough.” He chuckled. “Open up that visor of yours for me, would you?”
“Drop the crossbow,” the giant boomed. He brought his free hand into view, revealing the woman’s head that he carried in his palm. His steel fingers tightened around her forehead, and she let out a cry of pain. “Or I’ll make the bitch’s brains pulp.”
“Amaury, don’t!” Manto pleaded. The giant dug his fingers into her skin even more, drawing a few drops of blood.
“Let her go or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,” Amaury snarled.
“You’re about to make ol’ George a rich man.” The giant laughed. “Not every day someone keeps two Horsemen from escaping. The Holy Council will let me take any bitch I want.” He tightened his grip, and this time Manto screamed. “Maybe I’ll take yours. She still has one hole I can—”
The four-ton anvil that Simon hurled connected directly with George’s head, crumpling his helmet like tissue paper and shearing his head, neck, and shoulders from his body in an explosion of blood. There was a deafening crash as the anvil smashed into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. George’s body swayed in place for a moment, his spine peeking out from his torso like a bud on a leaf, and then he toppled to the ground. Amaury rushed forward and grabbed Manto out of the air before she was crushed beneath the armor-clad body.
“You all right, Manto?” Amaury asked her.
“They know we’re free,” she replied crisply. “Four battalions are on their way. We have ninety seconds.”
“Thank God,” Amaury muttered in relief.
“You’re welcome,” Simon grunted. He winced and tore the remaining rebar stakes out of his legs. “Fucking fuck goddamn. Amaury, dear son, any chance you can heal these wounds of mine?”
Amaury rolled his eyes, but he approached Simon and began to tear crossbow bolts out of his father’s chest. “You’re lucky I’m here to save you, dumbass.” He grinned. “Otherwise they’d be cleaning bits of you from the floor right now.”
“Not likely,” Simon growled. “I’ve been making their torturers cry.”
“Seventy seconds,” Manto warned.
“So what do you say?” Amaury demanded. He placed his hands on Simon’s arms, and the gaping holes that the spikes had left began to quickly stitch themselves back together. “Ready to break a few more of them, War?”
“Always, Plague.” Simon laughed. He could hear them coming now: hundreds of boots marching down the narrow hallway, the shouts of panic growing, and the distant clanging of an alarm within the depths of a dungeon. There must be an army of them.
Simon eyed the massive great sword that had tumbled from George’s body. When Amaury finished healing his legs, he strode forward and lifted the blade from the ground. It simply felt right; it had been so long since he had held a proper blade that he nearly wept in relief.
“Twenty seconds.”
Amaury’s eyes danced with excitement. “Let’s go.”
Together, they strode out into the dark hallway as an army rushed to stop them.
19
“This is Imperator Sisera! We have lost containment of multiple Beta-class prisoners! This is not a drill.” The pop and fizzle of the imperator’s garbled voice echoed through the halls of Pandemonium as columns of the Praetorian Guard rushed back and forth, desperately trying to make sense of what was going on.
Lao couldn’t help but let out a little chortle of amusement at Sisera’s distress.
“Well, this complicates things,” Lao noted as he led Legion past a squad of Praetorians who reluctantly snapped to attention at the sight of the Prophet. “It’ll be damn hard to get to them now.”
“But a new opportunity arisssesss,” Legion whispered. Without pausing a beat, they reached out with a score of arms and wrenched the surprised Praetorians into the many mouths that lined their flank. The entire squad barely had enough time for a gargled scream before they were digested and assimilated into the Prophet. “We will have another gift for the Massster. Come.”
To Lao’s surprise, the Prophet shuffled their bulk to a small corridor that led off the main hallway. “This isn’t the way to the dungeons,” he protested, though he didn’t dare leave the Prophet’s side.
“No,” Legion replied. “Thisss leadsss to… ah!” The abomination’s faces let out a sigh of excitement as the Prophet stopped halfway down the deserted hallway. In the main corridors, commanders shouted orders and the distant echoes of fighting could be heard, but none of the passing soldiers even glance
d down the darkened space where they hid. “We knew it wasss here,” Legion whispered. They reached out with several arms and pulled a loose stone from the wall.
A gust of cool air greeted them; Lao was surprised to see the outline of a small pipe.
“What is that?” he asked.
“One of the Holy Council once thought he’d try pumping in poissson gasss on all the othersss. He never executed the plan, but one of hisss workersss told usss after we consssumed him. A whole ssseriesss of pipesss connectsss to the main council chamber.” Legion reached a single arm into the pipe—the opening was barely wide enough to reach past the elbow. “Thisss isss one of them.”
Lao stared in disgusted horror as the flesh on Legion’s arm receded and twisted to fit within the narrow pipe. The arm went in deeper and deeper, and the rest of Legion’s body began to shrink as the monster kept feeding in more and more of itself. Like pressing a piece of clay into a hole, he thought in utter revulsion.
“We ssshall bring the Massster the entire Holy Council asss a gift,” Legion whispered. Their faces shrank and twisted about into the snakelike shape the monster was taking—its limbs retracted, its eyes rolled back into its body, and soon the Prophet completely pushed itself into the tiny pipe and vanished from view.
Lao imagined Legion as a worm-like creature that stretched a hundred meters, twisting and pulsing its way through a tiny pipe…
Ugh. He actively had to suppress the urge to vomit. Please let this work, he prayed. And for the love of the Master, please don’t let that thing eat me.
Legion had been waiting a very, very long time for this moment. This was not even their first time traveling through these tunnels; many times, they had twisted and pulsed through the lattice of pipework that connected Pandemonium. They remembered the way to the Holy Council’s chambers well, for they had often hidden in the walls while the great leaders of the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace squabbled and bickered like children. It had always been so tempting to burst out of the pipes, and envelop them all with love and belonging, but there had always been Giles and the other Prophets to contend with.