Operating under a strict code as laid out by their leader—a mystery corsair known only as the Commodore — the Pirate Lords oversaw a huge enterprise from their headquarters, Davy Jones’ Locker, in what the world of the living would have known as Battersea Station, a decommissioned, coal-fired power plant.
Here in hell, the Locker served as the main sea port for the whole of Juxtapose. Encompassing more than a hundred acres, the complex comprised a huge travel terminus, docklands, warehouses, tanneries and distribution center, all catering to the needs of those voyagers and traders who dared brave the worst stretch of interdimensionhell water in the underworld: the Bitter Sea.
But there was good reason why the Bitter Sea was so problematic. The Juxtapose level was saturated with random pockets of infernity, each snatched from one era or another and thrown together into a mishmash of conflicting realities. These kept the entire region in a constant state of flux, creating distortions throughout the Sheolspace continuum and generating eddies strong enough to disrupt the anchors linking Juxtapose to other underworldly circles.
The end results of all this organized chaos were some of the most vicious waterspouts and whirlpools ever witnessed by man or demon. Even elementals feared to venture into the heart of the maelstrom during stronger storms.
Yet that’s exactly why Frédéric Chopin was here, waiting at the Celestial Mary Inn, Bitter Sea Port. Come what may, he had every intention of voyaging out into the Maw, as the churning mass was affectionately known; and to make matters worse, he wanted to be under way that very night.
Resplendent in a navy-blue frockcoat suit and contrasting Homburg hat, he stuck out like a sore thumb among the swarthy deckhands and salty seadogs filling the establishment with raucous cheers, bawdy songs, and a constant stream of explicit threats.
Accustomed to this rarefied atmosphere, serving wenches skillfully wove their way between tables. Hugging frothing tankards to their ample breasts, they dodged sudden lunges here and ducked repeated drunken advances there, all whilst engaging in good-natured — if somewhat graphic — banter.
Amazed by their wit and agility, Chopin wondered what it might be like to hire one’s company for an hour. Then he immediately decided against it. Up until now, he’d managed to keep himself to himself; and although repeated glances were cast his way, he’d been left well alone.
No doubt I’m still alive because I look the part of a prospective client. He patted the stun grenade in his jacket pocket. But just in case, I’ve taken adequate precautions.
His mounting anxiety caused another spasm. As pain burned its way along his arms and into his spine, Chopin found his outlook shifting. His gaze melted down, through the woodworm-riddled table, on through the sawdust- and blood-covered floor, and deeper into the foundations of the tavern. Eventually, his consciousness arrived upon a wide expanse of shimmering bronze: somewhere else entirely.
Confused, Chopin blinked and shook his head.
Before he could clarify his position, the ground beneath his feet began to move every which way at once. He jumped back, thinking he might have stepped into quicksand, only to remember he wasn’t physically there, but a mere spectator floating high in the air with a grandstand view of the most spectacular rock outcrop he’d ever seen.
Like a fist in the middle of a vast ocean, an island clenched its fist in defiance against the relentless assault of a vicious sea. Waves crashed against land from every angle, attempting to accomplish in seconds by brute force what wind and wave might hope to achieve over millennia by attrition. Resonating booms shook the shore. But to no avail, for each was followed by a hissing exhalation of surf through shingle, as the isle was given yet another breath of life.
Inland, away from the immediate battering, a buttress of weather-blackened granite stood out against the wet winds like the bow of a vast ship. Sharp as an arête, it faced north and sliced the approaching squall in two.
Chopin’s attention was drawn to the top of the bluff, where an obsidian tower rose like an impossibly slender finger of contempt aimed at the heart of the storm. Dark and brooding, it pierced the gloom with an indestructible resolve.
He tried to scrutinize each feature of this new panorama, but no sooner did he attempt to focus than the vision wavered again, and he found himself swooping like a gull down toward the shoreline.
From this new perspective, Chopin saw that the undulations below him weren’t due to the movement of a peculiar form of sand, but because of a vast network of giant interlinked sprockets and ratchets. Made from what looked like brass and blushed steel, each tine rotated in a different direction, churning up the beach until it was a lethal minefield of mechanical traps and snares.
The Isle of Cogs!
Then, everything went still.
What’s happening . . . ?
A ticking sound, loud in his ethereal ears, lifted above the din of the tempest. Moments later, an abrupt click snapped through the air, whereupon everything started up once more.
Puzzled, Chopin watched the process unfold a second time, following the glittering shockwave as it clanked and clunked its way from the waterline up to the rocks leading toward the castle above.
In less than ten seconds the automated advance had wound to a close.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick — Click!
He continued to observe from on high as the clockwork process repeated itself over and over again.
Once accustomed to the ebb and flow of this harmony, Chopin could distinguish a pattern, a congruent course through the maze of flesh-grinding teeth that would avoid the danger of being rent limb from limb.
Well, well, well. How provident —
A surge of intense agony ripped through his hands. Chopin doubled over in pain, cursing as the fractured outlook of a migraine overcame his vision. He bit his bottom lip in an effort not to cry out, and soon the wave receded. He waited patiently for the refractive, kaleidoscopic rainbows to arch their way free of his sight. Once they had gone, he opened his eyes to find everyone within the Celestial Mary, staff and customers alike, staring at him.
The urge to explain himself was overwhelming. Fortunately, Chopin was saved from further embarrassment by the return of his companion, Nikola Tesla:
Tesla kicked the main door open, and it smashed into the nearest table with a bang. The sailors occupying that position jumped up cursing until they saw who was accompanying him, whereupon they resumed their places and ducked their heads.
A grizzled fellow with an authoritative air strutted into the salon. Obviously a pirate, he held his fists against his hips and glared around the room as if daring anyone to challenge him. They didn’t. Instead, everyone fell silent.
At more than six feet tall, he certainly looked the part. Long dark hair, hook nose, eyes as sharp as slate. Barely visible above the cut of his slashed doublet and embroidered baldric, the telltale mark of a faded scar ran across width of his throat. His broad scarlet sash housed two pistols and a rather large cutlass. As the man drew nearer, Chopin could see a strange device sewn into the buccaneer’s breast pocket: a red skeleton upon a sable background.
“This is Captain Edward Low,” Tesla told Chopin, “and just the man we need for the job. Captain Low was born only a few miles from here — well, topside he was — in what we call Westmonster. He’s sailed the Bitter Sea all his unlife, and knows her like the back of his hand. Like a friend, really, and . . . oof!”
“Avast, ye knock-kneed silver-tongued bedazzler!” Somehow, Low was able to doff his hat toward Chopin whilst managing to cuff Tesla on the back of the head in the same movement. “No one, and I mean no one, knows the Bitter Sea as well as I do. But let’s get one thing straight. While I can tell ye every scar, every cut and blemish that adorns these mutinous hands o’ mine, nobody can sail that murderous stretch o’ water and say he knows her well enough to call her friend. Anyone who does is a liar!”
Chopin grinned. Ooooh, I like this fellow.
“But if the
re’s a place ye need to be, Flight of Fancy and me will get ye there.”
“Flight of Fancy?” Chopin asked.
“My ship, sir,” Low replied, as if insulted his prospective client wouldn’t know that, “and if truth be told, the only true love o’ my life.”
“And how stout is she?”
“Well, whatever that she-bitch of a Maw throws at us, we’ve taken. And more besides. We’ve weathered squall and tempest together, hurricane and doldrums. The Maw’s tried to chew us up, swallow us down, and spit us out in bits, but we’re still here. Her currents are as changeable as a woman’s moods, and her weather fouler.” He laughed. “Yes, the Fancy and I like it rough . . .”
Low waved to the barkeep for a round of drinks and took a seat opposite Chopin. Tesla slid in beside his friend and had the sense to keep quiet.
Chopin leaned across the table.
“Has my friend explained where we’d like you to take us?”
“He has. I thought I was the crazy one around here until he admitted that little doozy. Still, that’s the name o’ the game. If ye can pay, and we survive, I’ll be able to milk this one among the captains for decades to come because no one has ever dared to land, unwarranted, upon the shores o’ Cog Island.”
“Oh, I can pay,” Chopin whispered. “In fact, how would you like to see your bounty? Here and now?”
“Ye mean ye have the cash here?” Low was aghast. “Are ye truly insane? Ye don’t know what I’m going to charge yet. And if the scum in here knew ye were minted so well, ye’d find yerself bleeding out in the gutter before winding yer way back to Slab A.”
“I’m just focused,” Chopin countered. He lowered his voice. “And well aware of your laws as laid down by the Commodore: once you accept the terms of the commission, along with payment, we are bound by writ and I come under your protection.”
Low paused while a serving girl laid the table with a semi-clean cloth, chipped glasses, and filthy bowls. Then she placed before them one pot of bubbling “stew” that quivered as if still alive, along with three grubby spoons. The food smelt foul. The rum, however, was the genuine article. One hundred percent proof Captain Gorgon’s.
Low gave the wench a squeeze on the backside as she left, then resumed his interrogation. “Ye seem sure I’ll accept? While I admit the destination doesn’t put me off, ye might not agree to my price. It’ll be steep.”
“Steep or not, I’m confident we’ll reach an accord, for what I have to offer is far more precious than mere blood or gold or money.” Chopin glanced around and dropped his voice even further. “In fact, I have something that will guarantee your mastery of the Bitter Sea. Just imagine a future where vendors flock to you for custom and your fame spreads far and wide. Interested?”
“Show me,” breathed Low the pirate.
As casually as possible, Chopin reached beneath his seat and produced an ordinary-looking oblong box about three feet long by fifteen inches wide, covered in stretched black leather. The lid was split down the middle and hinged on both sides, so that its contents could be viewed without removing the actual item.
Chopin beckoned and opened the leaves.
A golden glow sprang forth, bathing Low in its warm radiance. His eyes sparkled, and as he drank in the reality of every sailor’s dream come true, he wore a beatific smile. “Is . . . is that the . . . ?”
“It certainly is,” Chopin assured him, “and the only condition of my proposal is this: If you accept the Moral Compass as payment, you must use it to ensure I reach my goal unharmed. After that, we part ways, and this remarkable device is yours . . . forever.”
In a flash, Low’s dagger gleamed before Chopin.
“Yer right hand, sir,” the captain breathed, “quickly, before others see what we barter over.”
Chopin extended his arm.
With two deft slices, Low cut a gash first along his own palm, then Chopin’s.
“Now shake.”
They did, and the tablecloth stained red beneath their clasp.
Turning to the rest of the room, Low bellowed, “This man and I have reached an agreement, bound by blood. Both he and his companion are now protected by our code. Do ye all bear witness?”
“Aye!” The room shook to a thunderous declaration as pirates raised tankards and made toasts. The atmosphere became much friendlier.
Low slammed shut the lid of the box and scooped his prize to his chest.
“Our journey will take three days,” he announced. “When would ye like to begin?”
“My bags are already in storage,” Chopin replied, “and I’m a firm believer that when something needs doing, there’s no time like the present.”
*
To the north, a shattered plain rolled away as far as Champ’s eye could see, broken and desolate. Flames burned constantly along parched ridges, and noxious gases burst forth from the myriad fissures, fracturing its surface with carbonized scars.
In the west, rivers of molten metal poured down from distant hills, adding their torrid potency to an already volatile mix. Fiery tornados rumbled across the horizon, blazing fulgurations that kicked up blinding clouds of cinders and dust. Hurled high into the air, each particle ignited, transforming into a storm of miniature meteorites that fell spitting and sparking from the sky in withering blasts that stung the eyes and burnt the lungs.
Champ Ferguson found the fumes and rippling heat overwhelming. He ducked down behind an outcrop of basalt, hawked up the contents of his gullet, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
The spittle sizzled and bubbled on the scorched earth before disappearing in a puff of acrid vapor. His brow creased in frustration at the sight, and he clenched his fists in barely controlled anger.
“Are you all right, my friend?” Yamato Takeru enquired.
As serene as ever, Yamato stood a few yards behind his companion. Exposed to the searing winds that caused rocks to crack and living things to wither, he somehow managed to look as fresh as a daisy on a rainy day.
“Goddam fuckin’ Hades,” Champ spluttered. “First we were too cold, now we’re too hot. My balls are swimming in gravy, for Satan’s sake and . . . and” — he coughed, then gagged — “and you, with your bloody elemental magic keeping you all nice an’ frosty, ask me if I’m all right? Unholy shit! I’m too frightened to fart in case I spontaneously combust and generate a mushroom cloud visible all the way over in Purgatory.”
Yamato grinned.
“Now that I would pay to see.” He shrugged. “Especially since you have no cause for complaint. I’ve already offered to encompass you within the cooling sphere of my influence, but you insisted it would interfere with your skills. I’ve let you have your own way, and still you bicker about it being too oppressive.”
Champ was framing a retort when he felt a sudden concentration of heat around his nether regions, closely followed by the smell of burning. He glanced down and noticed his combat trousers were starting to scorch.
Shoot, I’ve been sitting still too long.
He jumped up, swatting at his thighs and buttocks, only to fall forward again as the ground beneath his feet flexed like a bubble.
What in tarnation . . . ? “Is that a hellquake? Quick, we’d better hightail it outta here before —”
“Hang on!”
Champ spun on the spot and noticed his fellow Hound had adopted the stance of a person walking a high wire. Yamato’s eyes were closed, and he appeared to be concentrating.
Training kicked in. While his colleague was off in Wonderland, Champ drew his Abaddon 6000 pump-action shotgun from its back sling, racked a cartridge, dropped to one knee and scoured the immediate vicinity for danger.
Okay, perhaps it’s not a hellquake?
His keen eyes caught sight of a distortion two hundred yards east of the cave where the Sibitti enforcers had installed themselves only half an hour before. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he watched the air flicker. After thirty seconds, the very fabric of reality seem
ed to bend in on itself.
I don’t care what Yamato says, that isn’t natural.
A great plume of sulfurous steam sprayed into the air. As it descended in a glittering mist, several huge fingers of rock punched upward out of the baked earth, bringing with them a brand new river of brimstone. The flow increased, flooding the valley floor below them.
Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!
When blobs of magma rained down from the sky, Champ had to jump from side to side and pat his clothes repeatedly to stop them catching fire.
“Erra’s champions appear to have found a new way to amuse themselves,” Yamato announced. Safely cocooned within a shimmering force field, not a hair on his head had been singed. “And whatever they’re doing, it looks to be affecting the deepest levels of this realm.”
“That can’t be good for us, then?”
“It can’t be good for anyone. We need to get closer to see exactly what they’re up to.”
Champ glanced at the cave. “You mean, in there? Are you fuckin’ joking? There’s four of them.”
“On the contrary, I’m deathly serious.”
It never rains — “Ow!” Champ paused to slap at the stinging sparks dancing through his hair. “And when were you thinking of enacting this death wish of yours?”
“Well, the sooner we get started, the sooner we can get out of here.”
“And you’re sure you’ll be able to mask our presence sufficiently?”
Yamato casually expanded his protective field until Champ was safely inside. He smiled. “Of course.”
“Against four of them?”
“You worry too much, my friend.”
“No, I worry about getting torn limb from limb by personified weapons and forced to watch as they feed my liver to unfriendly ghouls. Call me possessive, but I’m rather attached to my insides: I’d like them to stay exactly where they are.”
Yamato beckoned him forward.
“And you’re getting soft.”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 30