Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  “He only seeks to betray you —”

  “Don’t be fooled. He’s the worst of us all —”

  “You can’t be serious? He would sell his own mother for personal gain. You can’t trust him. You mustn’t.”

  It took every ounce of my concentration to weed out the distractions.

  “Pérignone,” I repeated, “are you still willing to trade?”

  As emphasis, I lifted Catraz high into the air and dangled him over the edge like a wriggling worm. The resultant clamor from below pealed like thunder through my mind, and the murky waters exploded in a froth of seething agitation as spectral hands burst from the depths, groping imploringly toward a possible source of salvation.

  “Silence!” I roared. “Or I’ll see to it your miserable existence becomes even more wretched. How would you like it if I arranged for the Perishian Hellectricity Company to lay a few mainline cables into this stretch of the Inseine? Perhaps ask Satan himself to concoct a special power source, just for you? Fry your sorry assess all day, every day? You think it’s bad now? Just wait until I’ve finished with you.”

  My threat did the trick. A thousand voices caught in a thousand throats, and the floating garden of puffy chalk-white fingers withdrew beneath the surface. In moments, even the ripples of their passing had disappeared. All except for the Don’s, who managed to wave at me in a manner that somehow conveyed a sense of enduring patience.

  “Of course I’m willing to trade,” he spat, “and more. Just cut the crap and get me the hell out of this shithole . . . please!”

  “Okay, but remember. The slightest sign of duplicity and you’ll be back in there . . . eventually. My Inquisitors will get to play with you first.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of double-crossing you, Reaper. As I already told you, you are unique in your value of honesty, so I’ve been totally straight with you. I demonstrated my willingness to trust you on the last occasion, by transporting you safely away. And I’ll do so again, as soon as my feet are on dry land. Don’t forget, even though I’ve been stuck in this muck-infested toilet for a few years now, I’ve kept my eyes and ears open. We get to hear things. Secret things. Whispers in the dark that filter their way down to the lowest dregs of society. And you wouldn’t believe what’s hidden under people’s noses. Actions speak louder than words. Let me show you.”

  With infinite slowness I unwound the rope around my wrist and lowered Catraz, head first, toward the open embrace of his erstwhile mentor. Catraz felt the sudden motion and fought back with all his might against the inevitable outcome.

  A pale face loomed from out of the depths. Eyes black as pitch and burning with desire fixed on their redemption. Skeletal arms twitched in anticipation.

  They made contact. I felt a tingle of power and a transference of energy.

  Two minds gasped as one.

  Yes!

  No!

  A collective exhalation gurgled through the swirling current.

  Once-gray flesh turned pink, flushing from the renewed vitality now coursing through its veins. Its opposite number stiffened and darkened. The rope perished, snapped, and dropped its load with a loud splash into the clutches of its new family. As it did so, Don Pérignone leaped away from the commotion, as hale and hearty as the day he’d been betrayed.

  We both turned to watch as a waxwork profile sank to its doom. Clenched in the embrace of a score of pasty, bloated hands, Catraz trailed silver bubbles from his nose and mouth until obscured by shadow.

  For some reason I found the experience strangely evocative and mused aloud, “Perhaps I ought to get onto the Hellectricity Company, just for the sheer fun of it? Can you imagine how the spooks will react? They won’t have a clue when we’ll actually turn the power on . . .”

  “I couldn’t really give a damn, Reaper.” The Don emptied the contents of his nose and throat onto the ripples in typical Gallic style. “They’re the biggest bunch of assholes I’ve ever had the misfortune to endure. I’m sure the latest addition will feel right at home amongst such company.”

  He paused to spit again, and cursed, “Bon débarras! Good riddance!”

  Only then did I notice he was holding something in his hand, a box case of some sort that looked to be made of a marblelike substance. Covered in hieroglyphs, it was locked tight by an ornate seal of unknown material.

  “A gift? You’re spoiling me . . . and people will gossip.”

  “Thank you, Reaper. I knew you’d come back.” He placed the box on the floor. “A mere token of what I hope will be a new and productive relationship.”

  I eyed the container dubiously. It was obviously warded, and I could sense the ancient magic that had gone into its fabrication.

  “What is it?”

  “As you know, those falling prey to the Inseine are shackled to their inception site by ethereal chains. They effectively moor you in place so you can’t drift away from the area where this curse holds sway.” He nodded along the watercourse. “It appears to run for a half mile in both directions. Those esoteric manacles are linked to physical things, big and heavy things; and the riverbed is littered with them: concrete blocks, burnt out cars, and so forth. Anyway, once I’d gotten over the initial shock of being double-crossed by that slimy, two-faced, no-good backstabber, I decided to make the best of my situation and examine my surroundings. Imagine my surprise when I discovered what I’d been anchored to . . .” He prodded the item on the floor with his boot: “This.”

  “And this is?”

  “What I hinted at, the last time you were here. Did you think I was bullshitting?”

  Don Pérignone opened his mind, and I was reminded of a vision I’d seen before.

  A wide open valley stood revealed. On either side, two opposing armies waited. Selected champions marched forth to rousing cheers. One was a Titan made flesh. Towering over the other like a colossus over a gnat, his weapons gleamed in the midday sun and his shield bearers struggled to lift a spear more than nine feet in length. His opponent was diminutive; a mere herder of sheep whose only visible means of defense appeared to be a simple leather thong.

  They approached one another. The man-mountain paused to peer down at the ground and deride the fool sent to confront him. The small figure ignored the taunts and concentrated instead on putting something into the sling he carried.

  Closer now. A huge shadow blotted out the daylight as an insect whirred around the shepherd’s head. A tiny dark object sped across the intervening gap, striking the giant square between the eyes.

  The great warrior sagged. Massive knees gave way. The ground shook under the weight of a tremendous impact . . .

  I staggered and shook my head clear. Time reverted to normal, and I stared at the box in astonishment.

  “Are you telling me that’s the Skull of Goliath? The actual skull itself?”

  “Blind luck, eh?” The Don shrugged. “And true to my word, I make a gift of it to you . . . or whomever you wish to present it to.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d have thought that was obvious. I’m in way over my head.” He cocked a thumb toward the Inseine. “My time in there taught me that. Don’t forget, we hear things in the river. I don’t know how, but news from literally everywhere somehow filters down into the mud and silt, as if all the secrets in the underworlds can’t stand being confined, so they find a way to squeeze through infernity’s cracks. We’ve nothing else — sorry; I had nothing else to do except sift through the snippets. Listening here, learning there. Remember, I was better connected than most who wind up in there, so I understood only too well what was going down. Fanatics seem hell-bent on turning the natural order of things upside down, and I don’t want that.

  “And before you point it out, I know the underverse is supposed to be a place of eternal torment and suffering, where few ever manage to achieve a semblance of normality. But I was one of the lucky ones. My business connections had made life here better for me than it is for most. And while I had to contend with my own personal
thorn in the flesh, as do we all, I still considered myself fortunate. Now knowing what I know makes me a liability. It puts a price on my head. So, I want my old afterlife back. And while it means I can’t taste the finest wines and eat the most succulent morsels as I did when alive, I know that by working with you I’ll at least get the opportunity to resume a more bearable existence.”

  As he spoke, I scanned the Don’s aura closely. He was speaking the simple truth.

  “And in return?”

  “Just let me operate as I did before. I’m sure things will return to normal rather quickly now that Catraz is out of the way. I’ll have to install a new set of lieutenants, of course, and clear out the lobotomized monkeys who helped him seize power in the first place. But once I’ve sanitized my staff, I will endeavor to pick up where I left off . . . with one important addition. My organization will now become a major source of intelligence for you — and for those from the Department of Injustice you wish me to work with.”

  Bella and Donna will be ecstatic, especially with the latest leaks.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Pérignone added. “Just before I was released, I heard a little something about the identity of one of the leaks.”

  “A name? An address?”

  “That’s not the way it works.” The Don’s tone was apologetic. “No. We got information by way of images or phrases. Sometimes they were too cryptic to comprehend; sometimes you could understand them right away. While I know that some among the Blue Suits are involved, I don’t know who they are.”

  “So, what have you got?”

  “A phrase: ‘Beware the betrayer’s kiss.’ I don’t know if it’ll do any good?”

  *

  Constructed from the shattered thrones of those he’d vanquished, Erra’s divan had been erected atop a pile of rotting corpses and broken dreams in a huge chamber no denizen of hell could reach. Each year that mound got higher and higher, compounding his title as the undisputed lord of pestilence and mayhem.

  Erra himself couldn’t give two hoots. He was unconcerned with titles, and even less with what the damned thought of him. No, results were what mattered most to Erra, and results were what he continued to achieve.

  The Seven had proven unstoppable thus far, causing a pall of fear to darken even the farthest-flung corners of hell as never before. He watched as the last of them arrived, personified weapons all, sons of heaven and earth, and champions without peer.

  So attuned were they to each other that no sooner had the final enforcer materialized within the chamber than an unspoken signal passed between them, and they gathered at the base of the fleshy knoll in silence.

  “You have done well,” Erra began, “striking randomly and without mercy. The dread of you spreads throughout the entire underverse, and rightly so. However, brute force may have served its purpose, for terror can only do so much. We’ve all seen what happens to the weakest of insects when they are cornered. They can display a tenacity as frustrating as it is surprising. So, I’ve called you together because I want you to scheme amongst yourselves and come up with a fresh approach, one that undermines Lucifer’s authority in a way that . . . that . . .”

  The Sibitti waited patiently as their leader struggled to express the depth of his hatred, for this idea had obviously been fomenting for some time.

  Erra sighed, changed tack and became more direct:

  “Put it this way: you each represent the epitome of power, forces of nature and of chaos. Show me those qualities now, and foster a strategy by taking a leaf from the devil’s own book. He thinks to dominate by taking from the weak and giving back what is precious in a way that perverts its true nature. His efforts have failed. Yours will not. The many levels of this netherworld are but a construct of his devising. Use them as you see fit. Employ your skills to turn the very fabric of his empire against him.”

  A thrum of approval radiated from the gathered champions, although only one, the second, dared to voice a question:

  “And what of Grim? We were unable to fulfill our intentions in his regard, due to unfortunate timing. Does not the Reaper’s office reflect on the integrity of his infernal master? A defeat for Grim is sure to be an embarrassment for Satan.”

  “True, Second, but be mindful of the fact that both you and your brethren caught Grim at an opportune time, when he was at his weakest. Three of you, where one should have been enough. And yet he displayed an unexpected resilience and resourcefulness that surprised you. Now he is fully recovered and empowered. Be wary of rushing in to finish what you started. Believe me when I tell you, there is more to that beast than meets the eye. He deserves further study before we face him again.

  “I want you to plan on a far grander scale, for no matter how large an opponent, he will fall if you take his head. So aim higher. Satan is the primary target. Think! You are elemental creatures: How can we turn hell itself against him?”

  Erra fell silent and watched in anticipation as the auras of his personified weapons flashed through all the colors of the rainbow with excitement. The Sibitti turned to face each other, and although not one of them expressed a word out loud, he could sense an animated telepathic discussion under way.

  “Take your time,” he told them. “Consider all the options at your disposal, and feel free to include the damned if you wish. Thus far, they have proven their worth repeatedly. Their insights and ingenuity may surprise you.”

  The buzz of mental conversation paused as the champions absorbed this latest snippet of information, and then continued apace.

  Left alone with his thoughts, Erra turned his attention to another concern worrying him lately. The enigma that was Daemon Grim.

  *

  The overwhelming surge of dislocation receded. As the substance of infernity solidified about him once more, Frédéric Chopin felt the familiar embrace of his personal bane enfold him. Pain blossomed in his fingers. Radiating along his wrists and arms, it caused him to instinctively grip the lover’s knot adorning his wrist. Only then was he able to relax.

  “Are you back with us now?” Nikola Tesla enquired, concern evident on his face. “That looked to be a particularly virulent attack. Would you like one of my pulsar remedies?”

  “Thank you, but no,” Frédéric replied. “The discomfort reminds me of who I am and what’s at stake. Without it, I fear I’d lose focus.”

  Piercing gray-blue eyes regarded the fallen composer closely, as if trying to read the many subtleties of the bitter battle Chopin endured.

  “You? Lose focus? I doubt that. It’s what drives you, and keeps you sane.”

  Stylish and meticulously elegant, Nikola rose from his seat and made his way to the modern-day mini-refrigerator. Seemingly at odds with the flamboyant furnishings of the Perishian apartment, the cold box nevertheless commanded pride of place next to the grand piano and drinks cabinet. Nikola poured a large helping of white wine over ice and hastened to his friend.

  “Here, the chill should help ease the pain.”

  Frédéric received the beverage, closed his eyes and took a long deep draft.

  Nikola studied his companion as he took his fill. “So, what did you see?”

  “A change of direction, I’m afraid. It would appear my misgivings about our associate were entirely accurate. We are but a means to an end and, having served our usefulness, he deems us a dispensable commodity.”

  “What, he seeks to strike out on his own? Is he quite mad?”

  “Amongst other things. In any event, the timing of his betrayal is both naïve and unfortunate, as certain roads have closed to us earlier I had originally envisaged. All I could see was overwhelming darkness, a veil of obscurity that clouded everything but the inevitability of eternal damnation — or obliteration.”

  “That is a handy gift you have, my friend. No pun or offence intended.”

  “None taken.” Frédéric massaged his knuckles and grimaced. “But sometimes, I wonder if the cost is truly worth it? I’ve lost so much.” His eyes clouded over as
he contemplated former glories. “Still, comme ci, comme ça, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “What must we do?”

  “Do? Why, we need to abandon ship, dear friend, with all speed.”

  “But what of the artifacts still in Cream’s possession?”

  “A necessary loss. For now at any rate. And later, who knows?”

  Nikola reached into his pocket and removed another stringed bracelet, similar in design to that already worn by Frédéric. With an air of relief, he announced, “Just as well I have something prepared to counter him, isn’t it?”

  *

  As Don Pérignone and I rode the elevator car back to the top of the Awful Tower, I continued to mull over the magnitude of recent developments.

  We’re standing at a crossroads. I can feel it in my bones. But with everything happening so fast, it’s hard to determine which route to take. Is that a deliberate ploy, keeping me occupied, hot on the heels of one ghost after another so that I don’t get the opportunity to stand back, jiggle the pieces, and see the bigger picture?

  The image of a massive seaborne squall sprang to mind, and I snorted to myself.

  Very appropriate. I need to step out of the storm and into the calm area. Once I find the storm’s eye, I’ll be in a better position to choose where to direct my efforts. And if I stay there, I can let things unfurl about me without being dragged every which way at once.

  I transposed the impression into one more suitable to my purposes, and found myself looking at a cyclonic drama of all my most recent distractions: my topside assignment; Cream; the infiltration of the Devil’s Children; plots and intrigue; ancient artifacts that should no longer exist; Erra and the Sibitti; relics that subverted the natural order of things; conspiracy by unknown adversaries; modern-day technology that replicated the most puissant arcane devices; Tesla; hell’s most powerful wards subverted; Satan’s rule undermined.

  I found it difficult to know where to start, for each incident screamed past by me at a breathtaking rate. So fast, in fact, that I was hardly able to keep track.