Tesla and Chopin braced themselves against the force of the hurricane and looked back over the obstacle course they had just completed. Already the bullying gusts were at work, covering large segments of the clockwork deathtrap with sand. Soon it would be utterly hidden, ready for its next victims.
“I can’t believe it was that easy,” Tesla muttered. “Torturously indirect, and sometimes heart-stopping, I’ll admit, but . . . but . . .”
“A bit of a nerve-tingler?” Chopin said.
“Exactly. When you first neared the edge of the matrix so quickly, I was surprised . . . to say the least. Of course, that’s before you led us back into its heart. Three times! I should have known better.”
Chopin had to agree. Despite his foreknowledge, some of the maze’s foot-snapping, bone-breaking undulations had approached frighteningly close. Snaking back and forth in a totally mesmerizing and completely random fashion, its automated operation had clearly been contrived to confuse and raise false hopes. He couldn’t think of a single soul who could have guessed the safest route.
Tesla visibly shivered.
“And the ticking. Always the damned ticking . . .”
“Of course,” Chopin agreed, “the entire construct was designed to place an aspirant under constant pressure. If you don’t know the right way and are panicked into taking a wrong step . . . ouch!”
Tesla looked impressed.
“And yet, for all our meandering course, we didn’t once need to run. Well played, sir. Well played.”
“We can’t relax yet,” Chopin stressed. He beckoned to the trail ahead. “Come on, let’s see what else awaits us before our eventual audience with destiny.”
A storm was rolling in. They set off, pulling their cloaks ever tighter about them.
As Chopin’s mind’s-eye map had suggested, the path did indeed twist and turn through a series of switchbacks toward the looming bulk of the headland dominating this end of the island. The higher they went, the more barren the place became. Nonetheless, scattered clumps of dune grass and a hardy variety of beach-pea edged the path with green and violet glory. Chopin marveled how something so small and delicate could thrive in such harsh conditions.
But that’s what life — or afterlife in our case — is all about. Clinging on and making the best of whatever comes your way.
The adventurers continued in this manner for a further fifteen minutes, during which time the biting wind increased, as did the chill factor. Then they wound their way around an outcrop of boulders and found themselves in a steep depression.
At more than twenty yards across, the bowl looked as if it had been scooped from the hillside by a giant hand. The effect was similar to walking into a hidden room, for although exposed to the vault like an amphitheatre, here the gales ceased abruptly and everything fell still.
Chopin came up short. To date, his visions had been incredibly detailed and accurate, and yet not once had the existence of this place been revealed. They were clearly meant to visit this shrine: although the path led in, there was no other way out.
A henge of stones stood at the center of open ground, rumbling to the resonance of hidden power. Surrounding the henge lay a shallow ditch from which eruptions of golden light sputtered into the air like exuberant soap-bubbles.
“What’s the matter,” Tesla asked, “was this not part of your dream?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Chopin admitted, “and yet something about this location seems familiar. Strange as this may sound, I don’t feel threatened or worried.”
“You don’t feel threatened? But what are we going to do now? We’re stuck.”
“I don’t think so. Don’t forget, we’re supposed to be here. We successfully traversed the shoreline trap, demonstrating we knew the official pattern, or code, if you like. The fact that I obtained the cryptograph by way of my prescient gift is neither here nor there. I did, I used it correctly, and we are safely through. Do you see any sign of jailers coming to rend us limb from limb? No. The island doesn’t see us as a threat, and so long as we keep acting like we know what we’re doing, I think we’ll remain unharmed.” He glanced toward the inner circle with its waiting moat of glowing essence. “The hard part is behind us. All we must do is . . . accept their invitation.”
“Invitation? What the hell do you mean?”
“Watch this . . .”
They crept forward until they were standing at the very edge of the outer dyke. A spherule of aureate potency bloomed forth, and Chopin reached out to cup it with one hand. The bubble burst, spraying him with globules of shimmering radiance. A draft of unhellishly fresh, clean air wafted over him, together with the briefest snatch of a distant song.
Chopin gasped. But that’s . . . that was wonderful!
The surge of vitality he’d detected had been absorbed by his skin, and now coursed through his veins. He flexed his fingers in delight.
“What was that?” Tesla asked, impatient to know what was happening.
“Hang on a second. I’ve sensed this energy before.”
Ignoring all distractions, Chopin made a conscious effort to still his mind and look deep within himself. He soon remembered what was troubling him. His eyes snapped open, and he embraced his friend warmly.
“Are you all right, Frédéric?” Tesla blurted. The scientist seemed taken aback by Chopin’s show of affection.
“More than all right.” Chopin pointed toward the bottom of the moat. Simmering fissures marked several points where the fabric of Sheolspace had been torn open. “Those are natural rents, through which the very tincture of God’s Grace can leak into the netherworlds.” The ground rumbled beneath their feet, then subsided. “My visions have revealed such spots exist, here and there, throughout all the levels of hell; not because there’s been a breach, but because such things are natural.”
“Divine essence, a natural occurrence in infernity? Surely not.”
“Oh yes. Despite the propaganda we’ve been force-fed, don’t you recall some of the ancient texts we’ve discussed? You know, the ones my precognition revealed to us? Before the Time of Sundering, Satan and his angels could come and go from heaven at will. They even had their own appointed stations before the Almighty’s throne. Our very own Ombudsman, Job, reveals such facts to us in the texts he wrote before his first death. Tell me, my friend. You’re as sharp as a button, what core extract do you think our Dark Lord employed to kick off his little rebellion in the first place? What dominion did he share, to empower Samael and the rest of his cronies?”
Tesla pondered the conundrum only briefly. “I thought he used the Bãlefire?”
“Eventually, yes he did, but not until he’d had time to work on it. Before that, the devil was forced to subvert the true nature of what was already on hand.”
“Hang on, are you saying the Bãlefire is corrupted Grace?”
“Ta-dah! How else do you think Lucifer was able to fabricate all this?” Chopin swept his arms through the air and spun on the spot. “He used the very power of creation itself, perverted to suit his aspirations. And he’s the master of all corruption.”
“Unholy shit!”
Chopin steered Tesla toward the ditch. “I’ve felt this potency before. Remember, the artifacts we recovered are ancient, leftovers from a time when the division between heaven and hell became established. The animating crux imbued into the angelic and demonic weapons was very faint. Mere echoes of what it once was. But it was so similar. I first credited this to opposing powers waning over time and blending together. I was wrong . . .”
“It was the same . . . or kindred, at the very least!” Tesla chipped in, showing he had caught Chopin’s line of thought.
“Precisely. So, while we have to be careful of the potency boiling away within the fissures” — he paused to nod at another bubble as it floated past — “these are a very different kettle of fish. I think we’re supposed to embrace their distilled essence before we make our way into the temple. This extract will provide the key to open t
he way forward, trust me.”
They studied each other.
“Let’s do it,” Tesla declared. “You haven’t been wrong yet, and I doubt you’ve brought us this far only to fall at the final hurdle.”
They waited, side by side, until another effervescent discharge sparkled into being. As it rose into the air, they jumped forward across the gap, bursting the bubbles as they went.
The moment they landed, Chopin felt a prickling sensation crawl across his skin, along with a familiar reverberation. Then he heard a buzz coming from the middle of the circle. Walking forward, he discovered a series of blocks embedded into the floor at the exact center of the open area, forming an annulus.
Slightly submerged, the annulus had been invisible from outside the henge. But now, standing beside the feature itself, Chopin could see that each slab formed an exact representation of one outer, standing stone.
A small indentation in the middle of the disc drew his attention.
“I think this is a keyhole,” he murmured. “Quickly, kneel with me and place your hand on this slab while a resonance of God’s Grace still sings within us.”
They placed their palms against the rock, then jumped in unison as thunder grumbled overhead and a series of hidden needles shot out to pierce their skin.
Too surprised to do anything else, Chopin listened as the thunder ebbed and the background hum intensified. Louder and louder it became, filling the air with a static charge that soon soared beyond the upper limit of human hearing.
A skein of energy blazed through the collar of the annulus. Round and around it went, faster and faster, circling them until one of the keystones burst into light. No sooner had it done so than a corresponding flare issued from one of the larger henge portals.
Air now shimmered across the plane of an invisible threshold, and a door appeared. As black as pitch and strengthened with heavy metal bands, this entrance glowed around the edges as if a sizzling hearth filled with Bãlefire were roaring behind it.
“It would appear we have been successful,” Chopin declared. “Now prepare yourself, for I suspect our goal lies beyond . . . and the real battle is about to begin.”
*
Cream staggered along the bluff, cursing his luck and trying to hide behind the scant shelter of Strawberry’s slender body. To no avail. The reality of the Isle of Cogs was very different from what he had imagined, eavesdropping during those early days of Chopin’s initial planning; and he had arrived ill prepared for the weather.
I should have paid more attention to his ramblings, he mused bitterly, or at least thought to pack more prudently.
He threw one arm across his face and peered, through tear-blurred eyes, out into the boiling cauldron of the ocean. So thick were the rolling thunderheads and so tempestuous the sea that it was impossible to distinguish where vault ended and water began. An all-consuming shroud rushed toward him out of the north, pregnant with rain.
And if I don’t hurry up, I’ll get soaked to the skin as well as chilled to the bone.
The first fat drops fell, blown ahead on a gale of bad tidings: an eager portent of what was to come. These were swiftly joined by the staccato beat of a myriad more, all equally desperate to make his acquaintance.
He sighed.
A flash of distant lightning illuminated the trail ahead. Cream noted that Strawberry, his unresisting captive, remained oblivious to the worsening conditions; secretly, he envied her. But then he spotted a dark gash just ahead, splitting the cliff face from top to bottom.
A gully? Perhaps it’ll offer some respite. Not that I can tarry long. Chopin and Tesla must be well on their way by now.
He ducked as a tympanic peal of thunder blared, directly overhead.
At least I’m working my way down the hillside. I can’t imagine how miserable they must be, climbing over wet rocks and sodden grass.
As swiftly as possible, Cream steered his bedraggled puppet into the defile and stopped dead. There, not five yards away, sat a huge block of stone. At more than seven feet wide and twice that tall, it almost filled the cleft, and loomed over them as if about to attack.
The vault above flared again, and by its light Cream was able to distinguish that the slab was, in fact, an obelisk. He also spied a series of steps cut into the rock on both sides of the culvert, giving access to small platforms near the top of the monument.
The breeze had abated considerably, and a tang of ozone spiced the air. Fumbling in his bag and fishing out a torch, Cream used its light to examine the edifice.
Whatever this was, its stone was extremely old and weatherworn. Faint symbols he couldn’t distinguish had been carved long ago into its surface. Now, they were nothing more than vague indentations.
The doctor turned to his prisoner. Trying hard to ignore the way Strawberry’s flimsy gown clung to her figure, he asked, “What is this structure?”
Milk-white eyes turned to regard the object.
“It is a sentinel and ancient ward-way. Although granted free passage by the conduit, you must still prove your mettle; for only those deemed worthy may enter the Black Keep.”
“And how do aspirants prove their worth?”
“The blood knows.”
Strawberry didn’t explain further. Instead, she pointed to the top of the pillar and waited. Intrigued, Cream mounted the nearest stairway and made his way carefully toward the small ledge jutting out across the gully.
Once there, he shone the torch down a hole in the exact center of the monolith’s crown. From it, a shallow trench led toward the outer edge, where another even tinier cavity awaited, along with a further set of narrow furrows.
He had an idea.
“My dear lady, tell me. Would an attractive Inquisitor of Satan’s inner circle be deemed worthy to operate this device?”
“I do not know. Everyone is measured differently.”
“Then let’s find out, shall we? Slave, I order you to make the attempt.”
Strawberry moved to the opposite steps and climbed them. Reaching the top, she knelt, extended her fangs and bit into her wrist, hard. Then she held her arm across the top of the block itself.
I didn’t know she had fangs. So that’s how she chewed out poor Micah’s throat so easily. I really must learn to do my homework more thoroughly in future.
Thick, rich blood dripped into the center receptacle. Cream watched closely as it pooled before trickling toward the rim of the obelisk. The blood reached the plug and drained into a narrow channel running down the front of the pillar. The leading plane of this sentinel hissed as it heated. Soon it was white-hot, evaporating any rain falling near its surface. The characters adorning the shaft’s face blazed to life, as fresh and precise as the day they were carved.
Cream scrabbled down to the ground and stood in front of his prize, beckoning urgently to his captive.
“Quickly, girl, tell me: what am I looking at here?”
Strawberry glided down, drenched to the skin but unhurried and unconcerned. Her blank eyes scrutinized impassively.
“These are ancient Hellanese glyphs,” she explained, “not modern-day Hellonian as is customarily used amongst the so-called elite of the Devil’s Children. By resorting to the language that birthed our culture, the jailers ensure that only those with the right heritage and breeding gain access to the keep. Even then, there are three elements that must be met: acoustic, telepathic, and physical. First, I must identify myself verbally, in Standard English. Second, I must enter the correct demonic mental sequence. As I do, I must also simultaneously complete the third requirement, which is to depress the hieroglyphs themselves. Only once I have completed these steps may I utter the plea, requesting passage into the inner sanctum.”
“Do so, now.” Cream, overcome and elated, danced a merry jig on the spot.
Strawberry stepped forward, wiping blood from her wrist onto the fingers of her opposite hand. In a clear voice, she said, “I am Strawberry Fields, known as Red Cap, aka Red Riding Hood, an Inquisitor o
f the First Order of Shâitan.” As she intoned the words, the column started to vibrate.
Next, Strawberry pressed her fingers to the stone, a look of intense concentration on her face.
That must be the psychic phrase, Cream surmised.
Without missing a beat, Strawberry pressed a series of different glyphs. Her movements were swift and precise.
She clearly knows what she’s doing . . . and her fingers aren’t burning. Interesting. I must discover wh–
His thrall stood back, threw her arms wide, and intoned, “Dàirit mi do leigh’d, ceadaîch (Grant me permission to pass).”
The glyphs which Strawberry had depressed came alight as if illuminated from within by fire. A shiver rippled through the air, and then the monolith no longer stood before them. In its place was a huge door.
As black as midnight, and armored with iron studs set within reinforced mounts, the door gleamed coldly in the darkness despite the piercing scarlet light stabbing outward from around its gilded frame.
“Mercy me,” Cream spluttered, “I didn’t expect that!”
The portal exuded an air of sadness.
The faintest hint of a melancholy tune reached Cream’s ears as he struggled to break its spell.
Then he looked toward his captive, all thoughts of lust forgotten. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get out of this insufferable rain.”
*
The headlong downward rush receded, and Nimrod and I slammed into the ground inside what appeared to be a heavily fortified bailey, about thirty yards away from a tall dark spire. This, my first true experience with a multi-phasic portal generator, had been an eye-opener, a frigid helter-skelter ride of accelerated awareness and shifting glaciated perceptions. It was a pity I’d been so badly injured on the previous occasion, since the frosty euphoria that this method of travel produced was thrilling, even addictive.
No wonder Tesla’s little toys have proved so popular among the mercenary and rebel leaders: just what they need to ensure their troops go into battle properly prepared or, in this case, hyped up on adrenaline and battle ardor.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 36