“Dyitzu?” Hidalgo asked.
Huxley shook his head. “No. Something different.”
Harpies?
Martin held them still for a few minutes longer, but when he heard nothing, he motioned his men onwards.
The next room was lit by two dim rocks in the ceiling, but a chest high outcropping of natural stone left most of the room in shadow. Hidalgo was in front, and he stopped, pointing to the ground.
Martin hadn’t seen them at first, but there were a pair of stone mounds on the floor. He bent down to inspect them. They had been made of loose gravel, but the stones had started to heal together. They looked like they might be hollow. Martin began to stand up, but as he did so, he thought he saw something deeper in the mound. He dropped back down.
“Flashlight,” he ordered.
Huxley walked up next to him, unslung his pack and pulled a flashlight out of one pocket. He offered it to Martin. The rest of Martin’s men knelt beside him, which made him feel nervous.
“Watch the exits, Tucker,” Martin ordered.
The flashlight’s handle was a long, black metal tube. It would have made a fabulous club. Martin’s thumb found a switch which had raised rubber bumps on it. Martin flipped on the flashlight.
He peered into the center of the mound. Inside it was a dead body dressed all in grey.
“Shit,” Tucker said.
Martin looked up at him. “I said watch the exits.” He turned off the flashlight and handed it back to Huxley. “Move it.”
They’d explored enough, Martin figured, to justify turning around. If they headed back, they should run into another barrier. Then they could follow the walls until they found where they’d entered.
Then we’ll be halfway done.
He could feel his men’s relief when he turned them around, but it didn’t last long.
“There it is again!” Huxley’s said harshly.
“You’re dreaming things,” Tucker accused.
Martin held up his fist again, though his men had already stopped.
Hidalgo’s throat issued a low rattle. “He right. There be something.”
“That way,” Huxley said.
Please let it be nothing.
They followed the young hunter as he led them beneath a violet keystone topped arch. Now Martin could hear the noise as well. It was like a scratching, but different somehow from the sound of dyitzu claws scraping across stone. Martin didn’t know if he’d heard such a sound before.
It got louder as Huxley led them into another room. This chamber’s floor was almost completely covered by the stone burial mounds. Huxley stepped around one and found an aisle where he could walk between them. Martin did the same. The scratching grew in volume, louder and louder, until it was intense enough to drown out his footsteps.
Huxley stopped at the end of the chamber and looked back. He seemed confused. Martin looked behind him to see Hidalgo and Tucker picking their way through the mounds. The scratching stopped for a second . . . and then started again with renewed vigor. Martin realized where it was coming from.
He looked to the burial mound to his right. “Light,” he ordered in a hoarse whisper. “Huxley, quickly. The light.”
The young hunter hurried back, unslinging his pack again. He reached in and produced the flashlight. Martin flipped it on, pointing it at the mound. He could barely see through the stacked stones, but there inside, something was moving.
“He’s still alive,” Tucker said.
“Tucker,” Martin ordered, “Watch the exits again.”
Martin tried to pull at the stones. A few came loose, breaking off from the gravel they’d healed into, but most wouldn’t budge. “Does anyone have a crowbar?”
“I’ve got a pick, sir,” Huxley’s voice cracked when he spoke.
Martin looked towards him. Before they’d entered the Carrion, Huxley had seemed to be the calmest of all of them. He was not calm now. His hands were shaking.
“That’ll do.” Martin leaned closer to the mound. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out.”
Martin accepted the pick, took a deep breath, and then tapped it into the gravel. The sound of the metal banging on stone reverberated through the chamber. He gave it another two strikes, and then a large section of the mound gave way. Martin pulled out a few handfuls of broken stones and dumped them behind himself.
A human hand emerged from the mound and grabbed Martin’s wrist. Its veins were black rivers running through its pale skin. The tip of its fingers had been worn away, perhaps by the constant scratching, so that white bone protruded out of the flesh at the end of each undead digit. Martin let out an involuntary shout, but that was eclipsed by Huxley’s high pitched scream.
Martin struggled to get his wrist out of its grip, but the thing’s cold fingers would not loosen. Hidalgo brandished his hellstone tomahawk and brought it down on the offending limb. Black blood spurted up into the air, spreading across them all. Hidalgo brought the tomahawk down again and again, and finally Martin was able to pull his wrist free.
The bare boned tips of the thing’s fingers had ripped through the fabric of his hoodie, leaving four long lines of blood across his forearm.
He looked to Huxley, who had dropped his rifle and placed both of his hands over his mouth.
For a few heartbeats Martin waited, expecting all manner of devils to come answering Huxley’s scream.
Except for the clawing of the half severed corpse arm that thrashed about at Martin’s feet, all was quiet.
Martin picked up Huxley’s rifle and handed it to him. “Get your shit together, Hux.”
Huxley nodded as he accepted the rifle. “Yes, sir.”
Martin led them through the next arch.
Copperfield usually set himself up on the second story balcony to do his business, and one of the things he’d enjoyed the most about it, in the old days at least, was eating during his meetings. Doing business without food, well, it was a good way to get indigestion.
Cindy, his main assistant, was just getting up to leave. She was the one who coordinated the five men who mined the woodstone. She was the one who traded his torches and his lumber to the villagers. She was the one who delivered the firewood to Mancini’s still and to Kylie’s Kiln. But she was also the one he’d shown how to mix saw dust, sinfruit juice and a pinch of ground firerock in order to make his torches, and it was for that reason that he was thinking about having her killed.
Copperfield watched Cindy walk away from him. He’d miss her figure, sure, but since she’d never bed him, what did it matter? Most women would sleep with him for a meal, but meals were how he paid Cindy for her work, so she was rarely wanting.
If I paid her less, she might come around.
But she wouldn’t. She’d resent him if he cut her pay, and he couldn’t have that since, technically, she could go into business all by herself.
Then I’d really have to kill her, and before she showed anybody else the secret.
His stomach growled angrily, and he felt a little sick. Not for the first time, he resented the law that forbid any eating on the balconies. Copperfield had never approved of the law, but now that they were feeding the villagers on Feast Day, he felt that the law was especially outdated. He had plans to try and strike it down at the Fore’s next meeting, but for the moment that statute still held.
He appreciated the island of bodies that surrounded him and protected him from Hell, but now that Hell was getting significantly less dangerous, he wondered how much he really needed them. The hunters would have to stay. After all, someone had to fend off the corpse eaters and repair the Carrion barriers, but the villagers themselves were getting to be too much of a liability. They were draining the Fore’s resources in addition to upsetting his stomach.
We should at least halve them.
Copperfield’s belly rumbled again.
I’d better get back inside and get some food.
John’s sandals slapped against the stone balcony. “Someone to see you,
Citizen.”
Copperfield sat up straight in his woodstone chair. “A Citizen or a villager?”
“Villager,” John answered.
Copperfield slumped back. “Send them up.”
John’s sandals slapped their way back into the Fore and then down the stairs. While Copperfield listened for their return, he heard a conversation coming down from above him. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he could tell that the voices belonged to Michael and Mancini.
Maybe I can get John to give me some bloodwater. There’s no law about not drinking on the damn balcony, is there?
He looked across the village of Harpsborough with irritation. The slapping of the sandals returned.
John had brought Molly.
Well, this is going to be interesting.
“Really?” Copperfield asked. “The hell could you have to say to me?”
Molly sat down across from him. “It’s true, I said some bad things about you when I was Mike’s. I’m not proud of it. I know it took a long time for people to realize that those lies were lies. It was shitty. Damn shitty.”
“You don’t say?” Copperfield was surprised how much bitterness was in his voice.
“I’m doing what I should have done before,” Molly said. She seemed different somehow, from the Molly he’d known, and her expression was strangely unreadable. “I was doing bad shit, Copperfield. Really bad shit. I was trying to find a way behind the Golden Door and—”
“I know what the fuck you were trying to do, Molly. I think you should face charges for it. I plan to bring it up.”
Molly nodded and frowned. “Jesus Christ, you know, I hope you do. And you know what else? I tried to convince Mike to charge me. Klein wouldn’t let him. But if you push it, it might go through the Fore. I know I don’t have shit for influence with the Citizens anymore, but if you can do anything to make sure I go to trial, let me know. I’ll help you.”
You can suck my cock, you little slut. You can suck the cock you told everyone was small and crooked.
It was a little crooked, and it wasn’t huge, but it certainly wasn’t small. Copperfield had measured it in the old world to make sure. Because of the small bit of truth to her lie, it had taken nearly a year before people had stopped calling him “Little Capn’ Hook.”
Molly’s blue eyes were intent on him.
Copperfield felt the acid in his stomach creeping up into his throat. “Look, you made your own bed—”
“They had revoked my right to be in the wilds right before I left. I thought it was a death sentence. I thought there was no way I could live in Harpsborough, do you know why?”
Copperfield glared at her.
“Do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“Because I’d burned every bridge that I’d ever built. I’d made enemies of all my friends. And before I escaped, in my little fucked up mind, I would have rather starved to death than come back and apologize or make amends. I’m not that chick, Copperfield. I’m not her anymore. I was out there, alone. Hell got to me Copperfield. It got to me. I started to think about the things I’d done. And I started to think about the ways I could make it up to people. The ways I could undo all the pain I’d caused.” She leaned forward. Her shirt wasn’t exactly revealing, but it was loose enough to give Copperfield a sudden glance of her infamous breasts. “That includes you.”
He shook his head. “You haven’t changed, Molly. You just want something from me.”
Molly stood up and walked to the balcony. “I have changed. But you’re right. I do want something from you, and I want it bad.”
“And that is?”
“I want to work for you, Copperfield,” she put her hands on the railing and leaned forward over the edge of the balcony.
“I’ve already got a manager. You’re no match for Cindy.”
“I meant in the mine. I want to mine woodstone for you.”
Copperfield sat back. Before the famine, he’d had ten people working the mines for him. Now that things were getting a little better, he could probably stand to have six, particularly since Mancini had hinted that he’d need to buy more woodstone soon.
“I could, if I were to hire you, pay you what I pay the men, but only if you pull out as much woodstone. It’s outside of Harpsborough, though. You think they’ll let you go?”
Molly nodded. “I think so. Most days your people get escorted by hunters on their way out to hunt, right? That should give Mike enough confidence. Besides, I don’t know if that restriction still applies to me.”
Copperfield pursed his lips.
I hate to trust this woman, but, if she’s working for me . . .
“Okay. I’ll try you out. We’ll be fixing a broken Carrion barrier in just a few hours, assuming Martin survives. No promises. If you work well with me, you’re in. If not, you’re out.”
She smiled. “Thank you!” She walked over from the railing and bent down to hug him. He felt her breasts pushing into his shoulder. “Thank you so much. You won’t regret it. I’ll start, uhm, undoing my previous lies too. Unless you think that would be too indiscreet?”
Copperfield shook his head. “No no! Just don’t . . . you know.”
“Oh, I won’t let anyone think that,” Molly said. “Am I free to go?”
Copperfield nodded. “Just keep an eye out. Come with me when I leave the Fore.”
He had to admit that Molly was more exciting to watch leave than Cindy.
They had finished scouting, to Martin’s satisfaction, the upriver side of the Carrion. Now they were close to finishing the downriver portion.
Just another half hour, maybe fifteen minutes, and I’m free.
Then he could go back to Copperfield and feel justified in asking him to start building the wall. He could go back to Michael and report. He could go back to Katie and make things right with her. He would kiss her and hold her and tell her how terrible the Carrion was—and she would kiss him and hold him and tell him how much she loved him.
The hellstone here was either black or purple. It was difficult to tell which. A vein of lighter hellstone swam through the wall to his right, illuminating the giant room they were in. The room was perhaps a hundred yards wide and half that in height. The purple vein, however, seemed oddly dim in many places. Martin walked up to the wall and held his hand against the lighter purple rock. The edges of his fingers glowed violet as he touched the stone. Even this close to the light source, he could not make out any details in the wall.
“Light,” Martin whispered.
Huxley was there in a moment, passing Martin the flashlight with his shaking hands. Martin flipped it on. Hidalgo sucked air in through his teeth.
The entire wall was scarred with fire. Martin ran his finger over the stone, finding an oily residue.
“Dyitzu fire,” Martin said.
The floor and ceiling showed signs of burn marks as well. There must have been thousands and thousands of fireballs thrown in this room.
“How many dyitzu would it take to do this?” Tucker asked.
“Maybe few,” Hidalgo said, “throwing fire for long time. Maybe many, throwing for shorter time.”
Martin turned off the flashlight and handed it back to Huxley. Their revelation hadn’t made him any less nervous.
“But where they’d go?” Martin asked.
Hidalgo let out a low, throaty growl. “The dyitzu shun the undead, but they not be killing them. When the corpse army come through, they must scare dyitzu. We finish scouting fast, build wall fast, before they be returning.
“Agreed.”
The Carrion didn’t get any easier to navigate as they traveled deeper. Winding staircases appeared which dead ended into stone walls as often as they led to other floors.
The next room was so completely dark Martin almost called for a flashlight outright, but he thought he heard something, so he held up his fist instead. It sounded like breathing—or wind. Probably wind.
Martin held out the palm of his h
and to his people, hoping that would keep them back, and then entered into the pitch black room alone.
No sense in everybody dying.
He felt claustrophobic.
The walls must be only inches away.
The floor of this room was more natural, and it was sloped upwards. As quietly as he could, Martin picked his way across the uneven stone. He kept one hand raised before him, expecting to run into the ceiling at any moment, but he did not. He climbed higher and higher.
He stopped for a moment, and in the silence, thought he heard voices.
They were voices, but they echoed oddly. It almost seemed like they were coming from under him.
At least they’re human.
He climbed even higher.
I think.
There was light. He found himself at the top of a precipice, looking down into a cavern below. It was shaped like half of a caldera, its circular base bisected by a natural-looking cave wall. At its center, a stage had been built, and men filled the surrounding area as if it were an amphitheatre. The whole of it was lit by a single white light orb suspended in the air near the back wall, perhaps a hundred feet lower than Martin, yet one hundred feet or so higher than the stage.
Oh my God.
Martin eased himself to the stone floor and looked straight down the cliff. Just below him, perhaps only ten feet or so away, sat the top row of the crowd. They were still—dreadfully still. He could smell their wet swampy rot from where he sat. Some were corpses, but not all those in the crowd were. Though it was hard to tell which was which since the light was so dim this far out from the stage, he could tell that some of these people were lepers. In fact, almost all of those that filled the front rows seemed to be lepers. Martin could identify them, not because he could make out any details about the persons, but because they were filled with a nervous energy that the dead lacked.
It was not wind I heard. It was their breathing.
The men in the front rows were dressed almost exclusively in dark clothes, though a few who sat amongst them wore grey robes. On the stage, raised up on knee high stone sepulchers and well lit by the brilliant white light, were the bodies of four black robed women. A black robed man stepped up from behind them.
March till Death (Hellsong Book 3) Page 6