Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  My trip down psychedelic lane came to an abrupt end. Multiple bursts of light flashed around us. Our unscheduled arrival had triggered some form of defensive measure. Given the circumstances, this was something I’d have dearly wished to avoid, if I’d known. But, too late.

  Back to back, Nimrod and I dropped into defensive positions, weapons drawn, prepared to face whatever came our way. Or so we thought.

  We soon discovered what that might entail, for a death squad of hardened killers surrounded us.

  Literally.

  Not only were our overly-muscled hosts much taller than we, but they were dressed from head to toe in the distinctive leather jerkins, boots, and hoods of medieval executioners. What’s more, each possessed vicious-looking ironware that captured the mood of their uniforms perfectly. A quick scan revealed they carried swords, cleavers, hatchets, and a wide variety of axes in all shapes and sizes. Every single weapon appeared well used and razor sharp.

  Now I faced a conundrum. My need was urgent. Cream and Chopin had a head start; if they weren’t here already, they soon would be. Their mere presence represented a huge threat to our security and safety. I simply didn’t have time to waste explaining why I was here. Unfortunately, I saw no choice. The jailers had a job to do, and would resist me with all their considerable might if they considered me a risk.

  Before any could advance, I stood tall and made a show of collapsing my scythe. As I put it away, I mentally instructed Nimrod to follow suit.

  “Do you know who I am?” I lowered my barriers and let the unrestricted essence of my identity shine through. “In case you haven’t been informed, I am Daemon Grim, our Lord Satan’s bounty hunter and hellegally appointed Reaper. If you will be so kind as to exercise restraint for a moment, one of you can complete a psi-dentity and aura check and confirm it against my Infernal serial number: Six, six, six, alpha. Zero, zero, thirteen.”

  I glanced toward Nimrod. He adopted a similar approach.

  “Nimrod of Ba’bel, in the land of Shi’nar. Our Lord Satan’s bounty hunter, and first among those appointed as Hell Hounds. Infernal serial number: Six, nine, three, alpha. Zero, six, zero.”

  These guys were professional. Not one moved, although I was able to discern a butterfly sensation fluttering in the pit of my stomach.

  At least they’re scanning us instead of wading in to attack.

  “Please be quick,” I stressed. “This is an emergency. I suspect there may be an attempt on prisoner Alpha-One within the maximum-security solitary-confinement chamber.”

  A sizzling report, directly in front of the tower, announced the arrival of another jailer. From the gold braid across the shoulders of his waistcoat, I assumed he must be the guy in charge.

  “Welcome, Reaper,” he boomed. “Both you and your companion will be allowed to demonstrate your worth. If found true, an accommodation will be reached.”

  He lowered his hand. The ground in front of the keep shimmered and split apart. The fracture lengthened and widened, stretching across the entire width of the inner courtyard.

  A rumbling sound issued from the crevice. Then a bright glittering veil of concentrated brilliance punched up, toward Paradise above.

  That’s God’s Grace! How do they have access to such pure and unadulterated potency?

  Sure enough, I heard the faint telltale harmony of an angelic choir, as if their song had been carried to us on a stiff breeze, full of the promise of spring. Try as I might, I couldn’t make out the words. Nevertheless, their cadence remained, albeit just beyond the reach of my most finely-tuned perceptions.

  “Pass through,” intoned the chief warden, “and prove your mettle to the Black Keep.”

  “Very well,” I replied. “But understand: If I pass the test, this is something Nimrod and I must address alone. I am under strict instructions to sanitize all knowledge of the issue I am investigating, and I’d hate for you or your brethren to become . . . casualties.”

  The warden nodded.

  I made my way toward the barrier of rippling golden radiance and stopped a few feet shy of its threshold. There I extended my hand, and the chief stepped forward to make an incision along my palm.

  Blood flowed. I clenched my fist and thrust it into the fire. The surface of my skin tingled. Then my form was enveloped by a curtain of emerald-green flames. Yet I wasn’t consumed or hurt. Instead, I found myself invigorated, filled with an eager excitement I could barely contain.

  The curtain reacted to my eagerness by falling in on itself. Its rate of collapse increased.

  I stood transfixed by the roaring flame condensing until swallowed by the wound on my palm. The gash flared white, and my entire body flushed. When I glanced down, I wasn’t surprised to discover that all trace of the scar had disappeared.

  Now the keep itself beckoned.

  When the process had started, the base of the tower had been nothing but a series of huge and uninterrupted obsidian slabs. Each one had been smooth, unadorned, betraying only the faintest seam where its artisans had fitted it in place.

  Now, the flint-black exterior showed the glimmering impression of a massive double-leaved archway. Highlighted in silver, the outline contained thirteen translucent symbols: six to my left in classical Hellanese; an additional half dozen to my right in the divine language. The final character was fashioned into a keyhole at the point where both doors met.

  I understood immediately what to do.

  With the echo of divine resonance still coursing my veins, I approached the portal and studied its characters. These were ancient ideograms, each symbolizing the spirit of what I hoped to achieve. From what I remembered of such rituals, I had to select three appropriate glyphs from each side, press them in the correct order, and simultaneously pronounce their true meaning. If successful, I would then need to enter a final phrase.

  Here goes nothing. Be forthright, be respectful, and above all, don’t get cocky.

  I started with my mother tongue, and chose what I hoped would be a fitting set of symbols from the left-hand sequence.

  “Troh a’ lùthse ain mi sealbģh (By the power invested in me),

  “etom an a’ Satanas aínim (and in the name of Satan),

  “dàirit mi do leigh’d, ceadaîch (grant me permission to pass).”

  Then I reverted to angelic speech:

  “Lan khol yétev zélah (By all that was once holy),

  “a na-khòr ené ne-phesĥ (recognize my spirit),

  “pa-the eyl shal’tiél e-na shavat (and open to me with all haste).”

  I studied the final hieroglyph. It represented a very rare and antiquated dual-tongued phrase — sho-vâl — which meant “qualify.”

  So, how do I sum this up?

  A moment’s inspiration almost had me choking on spit.

  Of course!

  As quickly as possible, I removed my scythe from its sheath and inserted the base of the shaft into the indentation forming the keyhole. Then I turned the whole thing in a clockwise direction. In Standard English, I added, “Allow me to complete my task.”

  Some arcane element within the weave of the Black Keep’s defenses recognized me for who I was, and why I was there. The door disappeared.

  Nimrod and I found ourselves within the tower itself, looking down into an open-sided stairwell winding its way around the outer wall and dropping into the bowels of the earth. Even with my keen senses, I couldn’t find its bottom.

  Snatches of song wafted up from the inky depths. A few verses distinguished themselves. From what I could tell, it sounded like a dirge, and the words led into an obvious chorus:

  “My spirit has been sundered

  Betwixt light and dark,

  Eternal life unending

  Cursed by Satan’s mark.

  What once was bright and holy

  Now tainted by regret,

  Paraded here for all to see,

  A championship rosette.

  But now he comes a-creeping,

  A-winnowing and reaping
,

  Your next bounty he is seeking,

  Blood in rivers will be weeping . . .”

  The voice was flawless and melodic, yet filled with a sadness that pulled unexpectedly at the fringes of my own dark emotions.

  Get a grip, Daemon. Next thing, you’ll be taking it flowers.

  Nimrod appeared affected by the tune as well, excited at the prospect of meeting the prisoner face to face.

  “Was that the . . . ?”

  “Angel? Yes. It’s down there somewhere and, from the sounds of it, it’s expecting us. Time was when I could sneak up on a target without them knowing I was coming. If this continues, I’m going to start developing a complex.”

  “I didn’t actually believe until now.” Nimrod breezed on as if he hadn’t registered my drab attempt at humor: “I’d heard the rumors, of course, but I thought it was part of His Dark Majesty’s propaganda machine. You know, ‘look how powerful I am, I’ve captured one of our celestial cousins.’ I never really suspected it was true.”

  “Of course it is. Where else would Satan obtain seraphinite? At a million diablos a pop, it’s his most lucrative form of currency. And exceedingly rare.”

  “But it’s an angel! A real, live angel.”

  “Yeah, well, switch on, and fast. This is our first encounter with one. And although it’s been captive for thousands of years, we don’t fully understand what influence it might be able to exert. . . .”

  A further snippet, this time from a different refrain, clarified from among the background echoes. Prisoner Alpha-One was obviously feeling perky and looking forward to company, for it was now serenading us with a quirky little ditty:

  “Death stalks these halls and smiles

  As it wiles away my bitter lament

  Of time ill spent in eternity’s halls.

  How it calls to your soul, which is dank

  As it’s rank, for your smile

  Does beguile, faded hopes . . .”

  For all that the voice was pure and resonant, singing seemed a pointless exercise.

  Now all he’s doing is pissing me off.

  We increased our stride to four steps at a time, round and round, ever downward. With every circuit, bits and pieces tempted us, fragments of nonsensical jingles or excerpts from deeper refrains. Not one stood out directly, and soon we reached the very bottom of the shaft to find ourselves in a stunning antechamber.

  Simple and unadorned, the black slabs of this vestibule seemed to stretch off into the distance, extending for miles in every direction. Even so, the walls and floor sparkled from within, as if glittering dust motes had somehow been crushed and infused into the composition of the stones.

  It looks like the Milky Way in miniature. Astounding . . .

  And yet, for all its glory, the wonder about us paled into insignificance. For there, suspended in midair and blazing silently in the darkness, was a giant representation of the Greek letter Pi.

  It revolved around itself on an unseen axis at the very center of the atrium, and a smattering of crystal snowflakes fell to the ground within its halo.

  A sonorous ballad flowed out from the construct:

  “The blood you shed stains hallowed ground,

  The knife so wrought now rusts deep brown,

  The marrow you supped, now blushed pale yellow,

  But your memory, in lament, now fades in peril.

  The endless stain of treachery

  Leaches my soul and calls to me,

  It cries of death, and of bones bleached white,

  It whispers of shackles, from pits without light.

  I rot now, in halls of twilight hue;

  Longing for escape, I dream of you,

  A brother in my hour of need.

  Are you truly one of Satan’s seed?

  O dark angel,

  I bid you welcome . . .”

  In some strange way, I connected with the emotions embedded in the words. They were full of sorrow and crushed hope, crammed with an eternity of endless benediction at my inevitable presence. Then I noticed something else, something insidious and well hidden. Although transcendent, the angel’s voice possessed a strange lilt that made me think of someone teetering on the edge of madness.

  But that wouldn’t be possible, would it?

  Some unseen influence tugged me forward. Before I realized what was happening, Nimrod and I had crossed the threshold, and we were falling:

  Time and circumstance changed.

  I blinked my eyes clear.

  Several things struck me at once but I ignored them all, for only one person mattered. There, not twenty yards away from me, the bane of my life in recent weeks, Dr. Thomas Neill Cream, was rolling around on the floor, fighting with someone — if you could call their bitch-slapping “fighting” — while a grinning Nikola Tesla looked on.

  I listened as Tesla shouted encouragement to the other fellow involved, a man called Frederick.

  Hang on . . . Frédéric Chopin?

  Then I spotted Strawberry, off to one side.

  Thank Satan for that!

  She looked dazed and the worse for wear, but whole nonetheless. Even though my heart went out to her, Cream still acted like a lodestone to my attention.

  “Cream!” My voice thundered across the confines of the room. I stomped forward, yanking off my gloves. “At last. While I’d have been happy to catch you on your own, I’m delighted you thought to put all my eggs into one basket.”

  “Strange,” a familiar voice trilled from behind me, “I was just thinking that very same thing!”

  Chapter 25: The Angel Grislington

  I whirled around and came face to face with one of the most exquisite entities I have ever seen. Although it stood as tall as me, the angel was far more slender. And while it lacked my bulk, it exuded an unfathomable aura of strength that made me uneasy.

  Its garment appeared almost fluidic in nature, draping its frame as if made to blend with its physique. Pristine and unblemished, the gown was devoid of all color and yet encompassed the entire visible spectrum in a scintillating display too refined to be limited to any particular color.

  Somehow I knew this creature was male, but his finely wrought features were both sexless and ageless: a perfect blend of masculinity and femininity I would have classed as beautiful. Except for his eyes. His calm stare looked right through me as if he were gazing beyond eternity and into madness.

  The Angel Grislington.

  Grislington breezed past me without another word, looking completely at ease in the company of so many people. He tarried to watch Cream and Chopin’s spat, and I grasped the opportunity to take in more of my surroundings.

  The room had been modified from an existing cave. Stalagmites and stalactites meandered across ceiling and floor like vast pillars of living quartz. They’d obviously been here for an age, for even the smallest was thick enough to support an entire bank vault upon its gnarled shelves.

  The natural pigmentation of the rocks was dark as midnight, as in the antechamber, yet they glittered with prismatic reflections. I couldn’t detect a single shadow. In fact, I felt sure such a concept had never been given the chance to challenge the constancy of untainted effulgence. The canon of fire and ice seemed woven throughout the atmosphere. It flowed within the heart of a waterfall that cascaded into a pool of sublime clarity on the other side of the room, and threaded the essence of everything existing within the confines of this dungeon.

  But especially did the radiance congregate about the angel.

  When Grislington walked, a phosphorescent display danced in the air around him, as if every available facet of light paid him homage. Plasma flickered in his hair and through the fabric of his clothing. Sparks skittered along his skin and in the eddy created by his passing. Miniature tongues of flame rushed forth to clarify his way.

  His feet were bare and perfectly clean, I noticed. And only then did I see the diamond manacle about one ankle. I opened my perceptions and staggered.

  In Azazel�
��s name!

  Whatever theurgy was encompassed within that fetter was obscene. It stung my eyes and irritated my nose. The chain led past me to a central ring. The loop itself also reeked of occult power, and nowhere more so than in the anchor sunk into the bare rock floor at its core. From a mundane point of view, the chain didn’t look capable of restraining a butterfly on a windy day, but my esoteric senses painted a different picture.

  Despite the cavern clearly being his prison, Grislington’s presence still suffused the place with a grandeur and permanence it otherwise would lack.

  He saw me studying the gallery.

  “Do you like my home?” he asked, gesturing to the bare walls. “I feel I must apologize, for it is somewhat lacking in the creature comforts you would expect.” He smiled shyly. “But then, I am a creature the likes of which this place would never have hoped to entertain. For example . . .”

  He waved his hand again, and two portals appeared fifty yards apart on opposite sides of the room. From what I could ascertain, they were barred, warded by dark sorcery, and yet within the angel’s reach. Both were made of the same material as the Black Keep itself, obsidian. And Strawberry and Tesla each were standing just beyond the threshold of their own particular doorway. Because I’d been so intent on Cream when we’d entered, I now found myself closer to the left-hand gate.

  I sobered instantly.

  That must be where the different parties entered the vault. My eyes narrowed as I studied Grislington more closely. And if he can hide the existence of such potent magic from me while restrained, he’s even more powerful than I thought.

  Grislington blinked, and with that insignificant action dismissed me entirely from his concerns. Self-absorbed once more, he then bent to the outpouring I’d spotted earlier. He seemed fascinated by the texture of water as it trickled through his fingers, and I could understand why. Even from this distance I could taste its resonance. Majesty burst forth in a flood of vitality from a point just below the cave’s ceiling, generating a gentle shower of ice flakes that pattered down around him. Where they burst, tinkling chimes in a variety of notes filled the air with music.