Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

That is preposterous. Outrageous. You shouldn’t talk like that.

  “Why? You are a colossus amongst insects. Why shouldn’t you release the potential so artfully obscured and claim what could be yours?”

  What are you saying?

  “Overthrow the pretender, Satan. Why do you think Erra and his personified weapons were dispatched? He is insufficient for the task.”

  Blasphemy!

  “Take the throne . . .”

  Treason!

  “Assume your rightful place as lord of the underworlds. Have you not personally consigned billions to such a fate? Who better to rule?”

  No. Never!

  Myriad images flickered toward me, each depicting the many realms of hell as they would be under the dominion of my governance. Desolate, inhospitable, and the epitome of pure misery . . .

  Visions of magnificence. I felt emancipated, alive for the first time in millennia.

  “This is who you were,” the enticing voice cajoled, “and a portent of what you will become.”

  It was . . . it was . . .

  A lie!

  The very thought of it repelled me. Fueled by a sudden burst of unrighteous anger, I wavered on the brink of the Obsidian Rage, a deadly fury as harsh and abominable as all the levels of the netherworld combined.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I roared into the night, “but you’ll never break my resolve, Tempters. These are but fabrications sent to test my integrity. I refuse to play these mind games any longer. Now release me, or face Satan’s wrath . . .”

  My challenge pealed into the void.

  “Very impressive . . .” hissed an unexpected voice above me. Its resonance echoed through the ether, then dissipated on the wind.

  My skin tingled, and I found myself standing on a narrow gravel pathway leading up a small incline toward a fortified tower.

  The Cloister of Scourging, I guessed.

  A hulking great brute of a man dressed in simple gray robes stood before a lowered drawbridge. Behind him, a portcullis barred the way.

  The welcoming committee? Or another test?

  The guardian radiated great power and authority. Although he appeared to be in his mid forties, his aura betrayed the ruddy tinge of one who had served in hell for centuries. Arms like threaded tree trunks crossed a broad, finely-muscled chest. A combat scepter hung from a worn leather belt about this monk’s waist. Something about the weapon set my teeth on edge.

  Eyes like two chips of stone regarded me in silence. I was surprised to note a look of astonishment tinged with respect in their flintlike depths. “You made it then?” he stated.

  “It would appear so.” I patted myself down to ensure all the bits were in the right places and then turned to look about me. “That was one of the most unpleasant experiences I’ve ever had to endure and, believe me, I’ve suffered quite a few.”

  “It’s supposed to be unpleasant.” A brief look of anger clouded his face. “But sadly, not unpleasant enough, it seems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it’d be better if I just showed you. As you’ve just tasted what it’s like to face the Knights Tempter, you’ll appreciate more than most just how daunting is the task. Hopefully, you’ll put a word in with His Nibs and be able to divert the heat of his anger.” He extended his hand. “I’m Friar Lemuel Tuck, the Warden.”

  “Friar Tuck? Seriously?”

  Lemuel smiled. “No. Not that one. I’m the real deal, one of the nastiest bastards you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet in the woods . . . but only if you cross me.”

  I grinned in return and took the proffered hand. Only then did I notice it was a different color than the rest of his arm. In fact, the stitching was exquisite, an outstanding piece of work.

  I felt my fingers go numb through my gloves.

  Unholy shit! How did he do that? “Did the Undertaker make this modification?”

  “He did, on His Satanic Majesty’s instructions.” He patted the war hammer hanging from his belt. “If I didn’t possess the angel-hand, I wouldn’t be able to wield the power of Godsbane, my mace.” He gestured along the path and began to lead the way. “Please follow me, and I’ll clarify a few things.”

  “I assume this all has to do with the reason why our Dark Father is going to be pissed at you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He took a deep breath and continued: “Tell me, would you say the Knights Bridge was a formidable obstacle?”

  “Are you kidding?” I couldn’t prevent a claw from scratching its way down the chalkboard of my spine at the mere mention of it.

  “What did you find the most disconcerting aspect of your experience?”

  I thought for a moment. “To be honest, being confronted by my nightmares made manifest, and being unable to do anything about it except let the vision take me where it wanted. How did they manage that?”

  “That, dear Reaper, is due solely to the power of the mystery we protect — the Key of Sighs.”

  “Key of Sighs?”

  “Yes. Despite your high standing, it’s a closely guarded secret and not something that you, even with your clearance level, would have heard of. Don’t feel insulted, it’s a need-to-know matter.”

  “I’m not, believe me. My current assignment is emphasizing all the time just how little I really know. Seeing as you’ve mentioned it though, what is this Key of Sighs?”

  Lemuel shared a strange telepathic image with me. At first I thought I was viewing an oval piece of stone, but on closer inspection the artifact had the texture of crystal, overlaid by the iridescent luster of a precious mineral.

  “Is that a rock?” I murmured. “Silicate of some kind?”

  “Believe it or not, what you’re looking at is a chunk of the pearly gates themselves, taken during the original attempt to storm heaven. We call it the Key of Sighs because of what it can do. Anyone with sufficient strength of will can channel its divine nature to generate a sympathetic cosmic cipher — a key if you will — and . . . Shazam!”

  “No way! Are you saying it can breach the Divide?”

  My guide merely flared his eyebrows.

  Fuck me!

  Then a certain notion struck me. “But what does all this have to do with you? Or the Knights Tempter, for that matter?”

  Lemuel responded by enlarging the psychic representation. The Key of Sighs circled idly, round and around; meanwhile I noticed what appeared to be two smooth areas along the upper quadrant of its surface. From my perspective, it looked as if a gem cutter had excised two portions from the chunk itself.

  He followed my gaze and explained: “As you can see, our Lord Satan had two slivers removed from the Key in order to augment its defenses. The surrounding miasma generated by the Knights is empowered by one of those flakes. Think of it as an environment laced by the very essence of God’s Grace. A crux that acts as anathema to all who are hell-spawned.”

  I whistled.

  The friar continued: “By its tincture, the Tempters are able to measure the physical, mental, and spiritual worthiness of all who seek to pass, for the Key searches out the darkest secrets of an aspirant’s soul. From this, the Knights gain a foundation for each trial.”

  They certainly do! But I still had questions.

  “And this is linked to your hand and the scepter?”

  “Correct.” Lemuel flexed his fingers and hefted Godsbane from his belt. “This weapon is forged from a subtle blend of medusanite and the second fragment of the Key. As I mentioned, were it not for the angel-hand, I would not be able to wield Godsbane’s might in battle. Nor would I be able to do things like this . . .”

  We arrived at the portcullis. Lemuel took a moment to compose himself and flipped the mace so its handle was uppermost. Then he pressed the heel into a small indentation next to an ornate ring-pull.

  “Lan khol yé zélah (by all that is holy),” he intoned, “pa-the eyl e-na shavat (open to me now).”

  “You speak the divine language?” I felt a
familiar ripple of power as the metal grating rose ponderously into the air.

  “A necessary evil, I’m afraid.” He looked resigned. “The enchantments about this keep are comprised of both divine and occult essence; not that they seem to do much good, as I said.”

  I gasped. “Don’t tell me someone’s stolen the Key?”

  “No! In a way, it’s much worse.”

  Before I could ask him to clarify his remark, Lemuel gestured again and led me down a short flight of steps. We stopped before a solid oak gateway covered in metal studs and engraved with a host of cryptic sigils. The hairs along the back of my neck and arms stood up, and I realized we had arrived at the threshold of a powerful force field.

  Lemuel removed a set of old-fashioned jailer’s keys from a fold of his robe. He selected one, positioned it at the lock, and whispered a brief phrase in Hellanese. A spark of energy pulsed through the glyphs, and I heard a loud click. The entrance swung silently inward to reveal a similar corridor and identical-looking door about twenty yards away down a short slope. Braziers stationed within alcoves on either side of the passage burst to life as we stepped inside.

  From the way he approached the next obstacle, I thought Lemuel would adopt the same procedure as before, but I was mistaken. This time, he used the shaft of Godsbane to operate the lock — as he had at the portcullis — and uttered a single word in the divine language.

  At the next gate I spotted his pattern. The first doorway had been sealed by sorcery, the next by angelic wards. As such, Lemuel was patiently employing an overlapping strategy to overcome each successive barrier. We continued in this manner until, after more than fifteen minutes, we arrived at the final gateway.

  This particular entrance was huge, fashioned from two great leaves of very dark timber. I examined its texture and determined it must be something similar to brazilwood, for the black grain was enriched here and there by knots of luscious red heartwood.

  At chest height, the outline of two opposing hands had been fashioned into the surface of each panel; one on the left, the other on the right. The protective shield had power enough to make me feel as if a million insects were crawling across the surface of my skin.

  My guide turned toward me. “Prepare yourself, Reaper. What you are about to see has only been witnessed by a handful of denizens in all the levels of the underverse. You might find it a little . . . overwhelming.”

  “Don’t worry about me. My heart is black through and through and my soul belongs to Satan.”

  “Good to know. Nevertheless, I urge prudence.” He winked. “You’ll see why in just a moment.”

  Lemuel slung his scepter and removed a knife from the opposite side of his belt. He ran the tip of the blade across both his palms. As rich scarlet fluid flowed from the wounds, he placed each hand against the outline of its corresponding relief upon the panels. Conflicting energies blazed to life, red on the left, blue on the right, outlining his fingertips in coronas of lurid light.

  He uttered a single word: “Lem-esh (Lemuel),” then stood back and made the sign of an inverted cross in the air.

  His blood soaked into the wood’s dark grain before my very eyes, and when I glanced at his palms I noticed the cuts had already closed over.

  The background buzz cut off. The barrier dropped, as did the door, straight down into a hidden trench in the floor. My sensibilities were assailed by the pure, unadulterated glory of my personal opium made manifest.

  The Bãlefire.

  I staggered, and had to grasp the frame and lintel to prevent myself from falling.

  A chamber lay revealed, similar to a one-hundred-yard vertical tube. The entrance I found myself occupying appeared to be the only one and had been positioned at the exact center of the chamber’s height. At a point two or three feet below the ceiling, the Bãlefire erupted from thin air in a rush of pyrotechnic fury. It thundered down past our position to terminate in coruscating glory at the same distance from the floor.

  I inhaled deeply and felt my potential swell.

  “Careful, Reaper,” Lemuel hissed, “so much tincture in such a confined space may present unforeseen hazards.”

  He’s right, of course.

  Only with the greatest effort was I able to prevent myself from leaping in, there and then, to feast.

  Lemuel must have guessed my intentions. A firm grip on my shoulder refocused my attention away from the rose-tinted wonderland before me . . . and toward something else. “Look carefully,” he advised, pointing with his other hand.

  Having adjusted my sensitivity to compensate for the presence of so much limitless might, I was rewarded by the actuality of what I’d already seen by psychic representation.

  “Behold the Key of Sighs,” Lemuel breathed in a reverential tone, “a most puissant icon; and one of the great mysteries of the Divide, for by its sweet solace is the prohibition between our realms maintained.”

  Gleaming like a many-faceted precious stone, a basketball-sized chunk of the pearly gates hung suspended within the matter stream like the personification of tranquility made manifest. Its surface glittered as if dusted by a thousand mirrors, and in those reflections I saw an echo of the power of creation. It revolved slowly, over and over around its own axis while its hypnotic redolence called to me in ways I’d never imagined possible for one so dark-hearted.

  The more I searched the mystery of its hidden depths, the more I found myself falling into it, meshing with it, and understanding the sublimity of its nature.

  A dissonant tone grated on my nerves. Without thinking, I linked to the discord and manipulated the Key’s position within the plasma strand. It twisted, revealing a portion of its surface that had previously been hidden; An ugly scar marred the beauty of its perfection.

  “Bloody hell! Your thoughts presented a different picture. I thought you said an expert was employed to extract the samples for the defenses?”

  “You are perceptive, Reaper. Rest assured, that wound was not inflicted by us. Our artisan was indeed skilled enough to take the cuttings without marring the Key’s form or function. What you are looking at is much more recent. So here we come to the crux of our dilemma, for whoever committed this act of vandalism was making a statement.”

  “A statement, you say?”

  “Of course. Think about it. They went to all the trouble of infiltrating one of the most heavily fortified locations in all of hell . . . and for what? Only to leave their prize where it was? Just so they could take a selfie and post it to Hatebook? No, they came here for a reason, and the realization of their plans involved a great deal of preparation. I dread to think what the bigger picture may involve.”

  Cream!

  My visage darkened.

  Lemuel noted my angry flush and moved closer. “You suspect someone of this outrage?”

  “Am I that obvious?” I projected a sanitized précis of my dealings with Cream and his mysterious benefactors directly into Lemuel’s mind, so he would better understand my recent frustrations.

  He spent the next few minutes studying the data specifics, and then laughed aloud. “I see. Now it makes sense.”

  “What does?”

  “Reaper, I suspect you’ve either been baited again, or been left another calling card.”

  “Calling card?”

  “Yes.” He pointed to the Key once more. “Please focus more acutely and tell me what you see.”

  I did as he asked and was surprised to discover that something had been wedged within the crudely-fashioned hole in the Key’s perfect surface. Something small and shiny.

  I frowned. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Sadly, no. For all our arts, none of us possess the might to withstand the pure essence of the Bãlefire. Even I cannot enter, for the presence of the angel-hand might cause the wards about it to drop, giving away its location to those above who seek to recover it.”

  “So this setup effectively veils the Key from you-know-who?”

  “Amongst others, yes. That’s why
I need your help. Because of your unique heritage, only you can hope to withstand such fury without triggering a catastrophic reaction within the shield’s integrity.”

  Lemuel’s statement puzzled me.

  “Hang on a second, what about Satan and his fallen angels? Surely they could have helped you?”

  “His Satanic Majesty fears to approach lest the mere presence of the Key prompt his ardor to attack heaven once more. Such a move requires careful strategy and execution, and he is determined upon certain success next time. When he comes for this blessed device, it will be at the hour of his devising, not before.”

  “And Samael and his brothers?”

  “In all truth, he does not trust them to possess such might.”

  But he does me?

  I didn’t know whether to be shocked, honored, or downright insulted. Regardless, something Lemuel had just said hit a nerve:

  “How do you think our intruder actually managed to enter? From what you’ve intimated, the barricades surrounding this site are formidable. If they’re breached, there’s a danger they’ll fall. Our burglar didn’t want that to happen, so he took precautions. But why? And how exactly would he do so? I could list the possible candidates on one hand, fallen angels and their mystic weapons included.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean,” Lemuel replied. Then more quietly, “I fear the answer may lie in the realms of the forbidden. Things proscribed since the Time of Sundering. Understand, Reaper, I only discuss such matters now because I wish to ensure the security of the treasure in my charge.”

  “By that inference, I take it you’re aware of contrivances that could do this?”

  “Of course. As the protector of the Key, it is my function to know of everything that might present a danger. Having studied the factors of this incident closely, I feel we may be forced to consider one or two utensils that should have been vitiated long ago. Such as the Sword of Damocles, or the Mermaid’s Pin.”

  “What do these artifacts do?”

  “The Sword, which in reality is a big dagger, negates all power, no matter who or what the source. The Pin is able to pierce the strongest barrier. They can only be used by the corporeal once, and even then at great cost. Both were ordered destroyed millennia ago.”