Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  I took another step.

  Celestial vitality continued to respond to the dominion of Tesla’s command. It crushed in on me from all sides, until I felt as if I had the weight of a mountain on top of me.

  My knees buckled under the strain; my eyes bulged.

  I refused to consider defeat. Fighting against these tornadic stresses, I extended my sickle to its full battle configuration and took a hard-won pace forward.

  Heavenly light thundered against hellish dark. What was holy beat against all things profane. A rising tide threatened to engulf me. Terrible, endless pressure mounted.

  I had an idea.

  Can my weapon handle this amount of energy? Absorb it and channel it?

  Obsidian walls were glowing white hot, and the columns had begun to melt. My clothes started smoking, then burned along with them.

  Although Chopin and Tesla were cocooned within a protective sphere, I could see them becoming increasingly worried. The closer I got, the more they glanced at each other and backed away.

  Tesla leaned closer to Chopin, shouting something over the banshee scream of the cyclone. Because of the din, I couldn’t hear everything they said.

  “. . . is now without the protection of . . . so the wards will be deactivated. That means we can . . . the orbs. It’ll . . . completely safe.”

  “. . . sure? If you’re wrong . . . end up goodness knows where . . .”

  Tesla shrugged. “If you don’t think . . . can always use . . . to . . . ship? What have . . . to lose?”

  Only a few more steps . . .

  My thumb inched toward the bottommost stud on my scythe.

  Chopin dropped to his knees and rifled around inside a military-style kitbag lying at Tesla’s feet. He soon found what he wanted: a small spherical matte-gray object that fitted in the palm of his hand.

  Oh no you don’t!

  The trouble was, I could barely stand, let alone move. The tempest was whirling about me so viciously, I felt as if I’d be ripped away any second and pummeled into a bloody mess against the rocks. And even if I survived, so much razor sharp chaff whizzed about the room that I’d be cut to shreds if I allowed my concentration to slip.

  So, despite my keenest desire, I couldn’t do anything to stop them.

  I gritted my teeth against the strain, leaned into the storm, and did my best to hold my hands steady.

  Slowly but surely, I raised my scythe and leveled it at them. They were now huddled so close together I couldn’t miss.

  Just a few more sec–

  The Cup of Tartarus clanged to the floor as they winked away. For some reason, the cup seemed immune to the effects of the destruction being wrought within the cavern. It merely lay there on its side, spewing forth an endless cataract of godly energy.

  What the fuck do I do now? How do I turn that thing off?

  “Fool!” an ethereal voice whispered, clear above the tumult. “Did I not say you are more than you appear to be?”

  A majestic resonance bounded around the chamber. Something within me fluttered in response. Whatever it was, I refused to recognize it. But it was there, buried so far down I’d never accessed it before. Older than the Bãlefire, it strained for release.

  Before I could examine this unknown incongruity, my perspective shifted and fresh worries took over:

  The chalice was still active and, like a black hole linked to a bottomless universal well, continuing to funnel into my world a raft of cosmic forces that could eventually consume me. My natural inclination was to destroy it . . . if I could.

  However, something alien within its tincture called out to me.

  Feed!

  I had nothing to lose, so I opened to it.

  Part of my mind tried to prevent what was happening, and threw up a shimmering veil of incandescent fury.

  That veil was vaporized in an instant.

  How in Satan’s name—?

  Never had I tasted such potency. Undiluted dominion screamed toward me: so much, so quickly that it generated a gravity-well which threatened to bring the entire edifice down around my ears.

  Unadulterated might filled me. I felt myself swell, expanding beyond the constraints of mere flesh. Exhilarated, I burst into astral flame. Glory roared out from the goblet to quench me. And there, in the eye of the storm, I discovered a paradox.

  I was the Bãlefire. Brimstone incarnate, made flesh.

  I was also part of the Heavenly Light, celestial beauty eclipsed.

  Perpetual discordance personified. At war with myself — within myself — because of myself, I was the very anathema of my own existence.

  But how can this be?

  A realization of my predicament struck home. I won’t survive this.

  The Cup of Tartarus, now united with the very genesis of the creative matrix, would continue pouring out its energies until either the Light or the Bãlefire was extinguished. Or until I was consumed.

  And I was under no illusions as to which would expire first.

  Unless . . . ?

  A similar notion to one I’d had earlier came to mind.

  My weapon need only survive long enough to absorb the combined capacity and redirect that energy to where I need it most.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I leaped high into the air and exposed both myself and my scythe to the empyrean vigor drenching the atmosphere. My potential instantly swelled. As I descended, I inverted the handle and triggered all five buttons. Dropping to one knee as I hit the floor, I slammed the hilt onto the chalice.

  The scythe’s gem blazed, and the Cup of Tartarus shattered. A livid flame of blue-white anger stabbed out. Piercing my chest like a fang, the scintillating ribbon of boiling puissance blasted into my body. Impaled on a spike of agony, I hung suspended in midair.

  The Bãlefire rushed to respond and the topaz plasma strand was joined by another coil; this one silver and scarlet: my torment magnified a thousandfold.

  I caught sight of my hands and feet. My clothes were gone, extirpated an eternity ago. Yet neither was I naked, for my skin shone translucent, a fickle reminder of who I once was. Too shocked to regret, I stared in amazement at a photonegative image of my skeleton, and pondered why I was still alive. Pain returned in blistering waves, and I doubled-up into a fetal ball.

  Still fighting for ascendancy, the two bands of power intertwined, enveloping me within a coruscating helix. In the mad rush to cancel one other out, the polar opposites were, in fact, still augmenting each other’s capacity. Tendrils of chaotic energy multiplied. Snapping out like whips, they screamed for oblivion.

  A multitude of fissures opened around me, snaking their way through the cavern and beyond. The obsidian portals ruptured, and effervescent bands of neon-red light burst forth. As the process accelerated, the fracturing stretched onward and outward like fingers of forked lightning. Now, only the white door stood in their way.

  There was nothing I could do. I was but an embryo, hovering in arcane amniotic essence amid the very stuff of creation and destruction.

  The block securing the Sword of Celestial Arches shattered. As the glaive fell free, its gem flared like a star, drawing a response from the capstone above the final gateway.

  A tone of purest clarity rang out. The fabric of the door shimmered and was gone. In its place, a window into eternity beckoned, containing visions of such wonderment that for the first time in my long and lonely life I knew what it meant to be truly insignificant.

  Oh my . . .

  The scales dropped from my eyes.

  Limitless potential waited within the nucleus of the smallest atom.

  Memories, hidden within a vortex of confusion, tugged at the edge of comprehension.

  Something significant clawed for air within the very core of my soul.

  Then, as if the multiverse had taken a breath, everything went silent.

  When this happened, the overwhelming surge of incandescence blasting out of the portal shattered what remained of my broken husk and swept my shadow
high into the air, out of the light and into the chaos beyond.

  Now it became as if I’d never existed.

  Nonetheless a part of me remained aware, conscious of the fact that I clung tenuously to life, yet able to bask in a freedom and exultation long denied me.

  If only Strawberry were here to see this with me.

  But, eventually, an end came.

  I knew it would.

  An unfathomable source of gravity claimed me once more, and my terrible descent into darkness began.

  As I fell, a poignant thought intruded.

  Haven’t I done this before?

  Epilogue

  “Ship dead ahead,”

  The warning barely registered on Captain Edward Low. So strong blew the squall that his lookout’s words were snatched away and scattered to the four winds.

  He peered up through the blinding rain and spray and could just make out the shape of his crewman, outlined by the glow of the lantern, peering down at him from the crow’s nest.

  The sailor waved his arms and pointed.

  Low hurried forward with the sure step of a man who’s spent most of his life at sea, Chopin and Tesla tucked in behind. Like drunken revelers, Lowe’s two passengers rolled and swayed with every stride, providing amusement to those crew members they passed.

  “Is this it?” Chopin yelled.

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Low answered across his shoulder. “The Moral Compass indicated we’re at the coordinates ye provided. Moving shorelines or not, we’re in the right vicinity. Keep yer eyes peeled.”

  The three men reached the bow and leaned over the rail.

  The silhouette of a brigantine materialized out of the gloom. Without lights, the ship rode low in the water and listed heavily to one side. Even from a distance, Low could see her sails had been shredded. One of her two main masts was missing, and spoiled rigging played out into the ocean, working with the currents to drag the craft to her doom.

  Low’s first look told him she was beyond saving.

  Blast! I could have done with the salvage price.

  The gusts eased, and the Flight of Fancy sailed into a patch of calmer weather.

  “Ahoy there!” Low called.

  No reply.

  “Ahoy, unknown craft,” he called again, cupping both hands to his lips, “d’ye need assistance? Is anybody there?”

  The only response was the resonant groan of stressed timbers and creaking pulleys.

  The rise and fall of the sea masked just how rapidly the Fancy was bearing down on the brig. Soon, they were alongside. Everyone fell silent, and several ratings held their lamps high in the air. Tesla produced a modern-day flashlight and played its beam up and down the other ship’s hull.

  A particularly large gash had been ripped along the starboard bow, and her gunnels and oar-ports were tattered.

  “It shows all the signs o’ being abandoned,” Low murmured. Or worse. I’m sure some o’ those gouges are teeth marks.

  “It is as I suspected,” Chopin explained. “The crew of that vessel failed to take into account the respect due to Scydia, and paid the price. She is a female hydra, as I explained the other day, and although the whole of the Bitter Sea is her home, she is drawn like a moth to the vibrancy of the objects we seek here, at the center of this island. To pass her safely, we must appease her with a suitable distraction. That’s why I insisted we stop at Clam Bay on the way.”

  “And yer sure that’ll do the trick?”

  “His visions have never been wrong,” Tesla interjected, “as you witnessed on the Isle of Cogs.”

  Low’s face clouded at the reminder.

  Aye, I did that. “Expensive business though. The loss o’ one old salt is cause for grief. But I’ve lost fourteen. Fourteen! It’ll cost me dearly to replace them with experienced hands I can trust.”

  “You’ll be able to afford it, and more,” Chopin rushed to reassure him, “for the chamber that awaits our discovery contains more gold than you can safely fit in your hold.”

  Low turned to study the composer.

  So ye say. “And ye don’t want any of it?”

  Chopin shook his head. “Not a doubloon, diablo, bar, or ingot. My interests remain focused on other totems we will find. Like you, I seek to replace what I’ve lost. The Angel Grislington was quite a talkative fellow before he chose to flee. What he said leads me to believe I’ll discover something here that will allow me to do just that. Hopefully, it’ll be one of many I get to recover, and with it I intend to — What’s that?”

  Chopin’s eyes grew round as saucers. Low turned to look at what had so alarmed the composer.

  Another shape, vast and imposing, loomed out of the mist. The sound of breakers could be heard nearby, surging across unseen shallows.

  Cliffs . . . I’ll be damned. He grinned.

  “We’re here,” Chopin enthused. “How soon can we get ashore? From what my dream indicated, we’ll have an eight hour march to the mausoleum.”

  “Just ye hold on a second,” Low advised. “I’ll not have the Fancy wrecked because we were too hasty. Afore we do anything else, we’d better get the lady’s gift ready. Davy Jones’ Locker’s goin’ to wait a while longer before claimin’ any more o’ my crew.” Low turned away and signaled to his new first mate. “Morris? Quickly, man, get below and bring the Olympian Pearl topside.”

  *

  The stench of rotting corpses filled the air. Erra found its bouquet a soothing distraction from the irritation before him.

  His enforcers had captured his guests four days previously while completing their final preparations for the next stage of his campaign of terror. Not only had the prisoners proven remarkably difficult to subjugate at the time, but since then both had shown exceptional fortitude against injury and pain.

  It must be why they were chosen as . . . what was the term they used? Hell Hounds?

  The oriental warrior in particular proved most resistant to the interrogation techniques employed by the Sibitti, and in addition to an elemental capacity that demanded respect, possessed a sword that caused Erra’s champions to become troubled in its presence.

  This Grim fellow surrounds himself with a most capable retinue. If I can ascertain what is so different about them, I’m sure I could accelerate our timetable.

  One of the Seven left the captives in a heap on the floor and came forward to the base of the throne mound.

  “Sire.”

  “Please tell me you’ve been able to achieve a positive result?”

  “Alas, no. They continue to show a remarkable resilience to our questioning. But we did follow your suggestion, and gelded them both. Following that, we took out their eyes and burned their limbs slowly away.”

  “And?”

  “The most uncouth specimen, one Champ Ferguson, roared his defiance throughout. So much so that we cut out his tongue as a lesson. One he failed to . . . appreciate. Thereafter, he took to spitting at us on every occasion until we cauterized his mouth shut. Since then, he has continued to insult us telepathically with an endless and inventive tirade of vulgarity.”

  “And the warrior?”

  “As ever, the warrior Yamato Takeru maintains a serenity that detaches him from our ministrations.” A tinge of respect clouded the enforcer’s emotions. “Impressive.”

  Impressive indeed. “So, after four days we are no closer to discovering what makes our guests different. Nor, indeed, can we glean any intelligence regarding the full potential of their illustrious leader.”

  “I’m afraid not, Sire.”

  Unfortunate.

  Erra considered his options.

  “Continue your interrogations around the clock, no breaks. But whatever you do, exercise extreme caution. If we inadvertently kill them, I doubt we’d be able to prevent their essences from dissipating and returning to source. And if that happens, we’ll have more than a mystical sword to worry about. From what I have learned, Satan’s Reaper would be vexed to discover our treatment of his aides and
seek to redress the perceived slight to his honor. Such a confrontation should be avoided at all costs; at least until I have had an opportunity to ascertain more about him. So, move them to a more secure location and keep them alive, if barely, while continuing to inflict the most exquisite misery upon them.”

  “I have just the place in mind.”

  The enforcer retreated and signaled for the prisoners to be dragged back to their cells.

  Erra watched them go in silence.

  The one called Champ Ferguson littered the air with mental threats and promised horrors of certain vengeance. Meanwhile, Yamato Takeru remained aloof, secure within a psychic cocoon that defied all attempts to breach it.

  Four days? Erra mused. How much longer will they hold out?

  *

  Grislington peered across the heads of the passing crowd. A sign within the shop window on the opposite side of the street caught his attention:

  Dirge & Skinners — Suits to die for

  So’vile Row

  Bespite Tailors & Shirt makers

  Dirge.Skinners.co.jux.doom

  Perfect, exactly what I need as part of my new identity.

  Choosing his moment, Grislington crossed the busy road and made his way to the entrance. The brass doorbell tinkled as he entered. Inside, Grislington was relieved at how insulated was the premises’ interior from the traffic noise outside.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the glass to clear his mind. After an age held in solitary confinement, experiencing so many new sensations was proving both overwhelming and novel.

  “May I help you, sir?” a voice called out.

  Grislington shook himself. Ignoring the query, he surveyed his surroundings:

  The shop floor was dominated by a huge central desk. Around it, fussy clothes racks, over-filled shelving, and more than a dozen suits in various stages of assembly made the place appear cluttered. Pictures of satisfied customers filled all available wall space, and Grislington was intrigued by the pedigrees of the tailors’ clientele.