by S E Holmes
All went still and Bacchus gingerly stretched his cramped, aching limbs. He was clothed in tribal red but merely looked the worse for wear as his ivy had sealed the witches’ cuts and he was no longer bleeding. Unhappily, his enchantment would not undo the disease now ravaging his body and transforming him into carrion for their pleasure. They did not favour their victims sprightly, too much effort in the chase. He needed more advanced healing and was unlikely to get it in this damnable place. He had to hurry, time was shorter than ever.
He laboured to his feet, feeling far older than his ancient age and pining for Zeus’s footstool, a shot of liquor-laced molten chocolate and a good scroll to peruse. Perhaps the romance Venus had recommended. He staggered a few steps, enduring the fiery acid leaching into his muscles, but was spared the need to progress further when the great flamboyant gates of Hades’ Palace slid open.
Rhadamanthys, Hades’ highest official and ultimate Judge, stepped out onto the lowered drawbridge. He wore a floor-length red tunic, a circlet of rubies held his white hair neatly in place and his long beard was anchored by a broach bearing Hades’ Insignia. He carried the Sceptre of Retribution with which he dealt a person’s penance in the Underworld. Bacchus sagged with relief, it was all he could do to remain upright. Unlike his peers, Rhadamanthys was fair and level-headed, even almost kindly.
The reprieve was temporary, however, when he caught sight of the individual following. Aimrod! The high priest of the Black Order of the Dark Angels. A more shrewd and malignant being there never was, his spiked and tattooed face hidden beneath the folds of his black, hooded cassock.
Bacchus quickly removed the Helmet, popped it into his sack, and slouched onto a sizeable chunk of rubble to await their descent, his head bowed as he mustered the stamina to go on. If only he had his Thyrsus, his own staff from which he drew power and security. But Celestial had discarded it amongst his other belongings before their trip. That girl really needed to learn respect for opinions more experienced.
If he escaped his ordeal in Hell, he pledged to begin the Cherubs’ training in earnest. The first lesson on the sacredness of one’s personal Instrument of Influence (given his own inclination to abuse others’ blessed objects, the ethics of such a lecture were mighty sticky, but he would float that cloud if he reached it).
“Bacchus, my excellent fellow! Back so soon? What brings you to our humble chunk of the universe?” Rhadamanthys boomed heartily. “And what’s the rumpus? A couple of Hades’ baubles fell off. He does not like it when that happens!”
“Your Honour, Supreme Bloodar Aimrod,” Bacchus nodded weakly. “Seems we have a situation. A member of your staff is operating outside the Divine Plan, trying to read from the Book on the Pedestal. Couldn’t get me a word or two with Zeus by chance?”
Before Rhadamanthys reacted, Aimrod interjected silkily, “Well, if Azazel succeeds that would be destined. We should never deign to intervene in such lordly matters.”
Only his pinched mouth was observable. Bacchus narrowed. How had Aimrod known he referred to Azazel?
“Roddy, Roddy,” Rhadamanthys admonished, shaking his head as though addressing a wayward child. Aimrod’s lips thinned murderously.
He clearly didn’t enjoy being known as ‘Roddy’ and Bacchus stored the fact for later. If later got its sorry self into gear and finally arrived. The judge reflectively stroked his long grey beard, ignoring the petulant display. “It would only be destined, if he succeeded despite our involvement. Now we are appraised of the circumstances.”
“I beg to differ, Rhaddy,” Aimrod responded acidly, but Bacchus prevented further debate.
“This is no time for philosophising!” Bacchus fought to keep conscious.
“Indeed!” clapped Rhadamanthys. “It is time, however, to apprehend a wanted felon. One charged with multiple crimes against our lands.” He materialised a scroll, which unfurled until it made the ground. “Trespass and kidnapping of a resident for instance. So on and so forth. And just when your mother was less-than-happily settled.”
“W-what!?” spluttered Bacchus, suddenly keenly attentive. “We have to alert the Elders! NOW! Or it will be too late!”
The Judge clicked his fingers. “Attendants!” he called. “Lock him in the infirmary and see to his condition. Strip him of his possessions. Do not take your eyes off him. He’s a wily one.”
Aimrod cracked his knuckles beneath his sleeves and smirked. It was a farcical expression of joy and Bacchus briefly wondered if it hurt such a corrupt creature to smile. From guard booths spanning the fortress wall, two huge warthogs with long, nasty-looking tusks, mean yellow eyes and hides of thick wiry hair appeared. Their ears were pierced with large golden rings and they wore leather vests chained in front. They swaggered upright on two hind legs, grunting and squealing with far too much gusto for Bacchus’s liking. Long scimitars hung from their belts, the blades meticulously sharpened. Excellent, Bacchus mused ruefully, pigs with small brains and big, pointy sticks! He had but a moment to act.
“And boys,” Rhadamanthys advised with a fatherly tone, “the emphasis is on imprisonment, not impalement. Captives tend not to survive minus their entrails, so goring is definitely out! Not to mention we’ve had some complaints from the Domestics. Seems splattered intestines are very difficult to spot clean.”
He eased the stress of managing unruly employees by massaging his crinkled forehead. “If you’re good, I may grant you some recreation leave down below to frolic with the damned.” His generosity garnered a hail of enthused snorts.
While this occurred, Bacchus slid out the Horn of the Host. Feigning a particularly bad turn, he’d doubled over. He bent low, bringing it to his lips and straightened rapidly, causing a shredding pain in his abdomen. Aimrod’s mortified frown made the agony worth it, and Bacchus grinned at the High Priest as he blew three short bursts.
The earth shuddered and a low rumble could be heard. The boars looked around dimly, one gawking skywards with its ugly jaw sagging, slobber trickling down its bristly chin.
“Reinforcements!” commanded Rhadamanthys. A torrent of warrior warthogs spewed from the castle. Soon, Bacchus would be swamped. “Seize him! Seize him!” But the two soldiers present were distracted by the gathering din and slow to respond.
“Allow me!” Aimrod threw back his hood, unveiled auburn wings and propelled himself at Bacchus, landing forcefully on his chest with hands and feet to hurl him to the ground. He growled savagely, his face bare millimetres from Bacchus. Elongated spines that dripped venom projected in a line from his cheeks and across his brow. Cruel fangs grew as Bacchus watched, along with claws designed to rend flesh. His stark white skin was covered with mesmerising pitch symbols, that swirled and writhed.
“Delightful! May I suggest a breath mint?”
“You will not be so flippant when I’m through with you!” Aimrod leered, closer still to suggestively smack his teeth together in Bacchus’s ear. He dragged a talon teasingly over Bacchus’s cheek.
“Can’t we discuss our differences over a drink for once, like civilised entities?”
“Who said I’m civilised?” Aimrod made a horrible sucking sound with his tongue. Bacchus was far too weak to fight back. The sickness in his bones had taken a terrible toll. He reflected on how relaxing it would be to finally give in, but defeat was not in his nature.
“Just a spot of advice. You might contemplate running before it’s too late.”
Aimrod sat upright, straddled Bacchus and laughed deliriously. From deep below, came a the grinding of rock, louder than Judgement Day. A yawning tear appeared in the terrain, travelling quickly in a widening chasm. Its path created a gorge between Rhadamanthys and the surging swine, isolating Aimrod and Bacchus on one side. Hogs toppled into the subterranean crack, their squeals fading down into the murk. Rhadamanthys teetered on the edge of the cliff, shouting and gesturing, his words incoherent across the fissure.
“Your Superior does not seem to favour your method of justice,” Bacchus commented mildly.
His joints stiffened. Soon he’d become a solidified, useless lump. The pressure on his chest felt like lead, due to hardening lungs from the witches’ toxin, rather than the weight of Aimrod, whom Bacchus would ordinarily have been able to flick off like an inconsequential speck.
“I have no superior. Rhadamanthys is a senile old grub with delusions of important rank! His authority is over.” Aimrod triumphantly exposed his teeth.
“You’re behind Azazel’s plot. How have they been coming and going without attracting attention?” Bacchus wheezed with monumental effort.
He found breathing remarkably taxing, speech slurred and his eyelids drooped. His flesh remembered the worst beating of youth, when both Urg the Ugly and Grendel had taken exception to his wooing their girlfriend. Bacchus had never thought to repeat that pain, but felt it now in every molecule .
“I had Azazel and his charges consigned to administrative duties, so they were not required to attend the Enclave. It was enough to have my shape-shifters show themselves occasionally, in his guise and that of his Fledglings, and their presence was assumed --”
He did not get the chance to finish. With a shattering roar Skylar’s ghostly polar bears advanced in an unbreachable line up and over the edge of the sink hole. Anarchy prevailed as the Bear Spirits easily swatted aside any pigs brazen enough to challenge their progress.
Aimrod leaped backwards onto his feet, screaming obscenities. “What manner of self-righteous meddling is this!”
Bacchus tumbled stiffly onto his side, where he lay as motionless as granite, observing events through horizontal slits. Accepting an exercise in futility, most of the Guard made a disordered retreat towards the shelter of the Castle. Rhadamanthys gesticulated madly, issuing frazzled commands to his unheeding troops. His crown of rubies was awry and he shook his Sceptre in frustration as an unyielding barricade of Bears advanced towards him. He backed-tracked uncertainly up the rise, belatedly grasping the fact his protection team performed their duties admirably -- in protecting their own hides. His soldiers had scattered and were nowhere to be seen.
“Let them destroy the pitiful fool!” Aimrod sneered as he spun to face Bacchus. “They don’t seem to have your security in mind though, do they?”
This point was regrettably true, although Bacchus was too incapacitated to communicate his agreement. Even his partially open eyelids had seized. Aimrod strolled to Bacchus’s side and knelt with leisurely ease. He thrust his evil face down so that it once again blighted Bacchus’ view.
“Hmm, what to do with you? Ordinarily, you would experience the privilege of my hypnotic tattoos, which offer a panorama of my world’s most treasured delights. An infinity of horrors that even the most resilient find impossible to withstand. It is difficult to maintain a belief in anything after such grand vision.” He gave a humourless bark that may have been a laugh, Bacchus was unsure.
“But on you, I feel it would be wasted at this moment, trapped in the shell of your unsightly, bloated body as you are,” he eyed Bacchus with disdain. “I find a victim’s reactions most enlightening and am loathe to deprive myself.”
Aimrod sat back on his haunches and stared distractedly off, clearly contemplating options for more appropriate abuse. In the distance, Rhadamanthys could be heard beseeching the Tower Guards to lower the bridge and allow him access, as the Bears pressed in on him, forcing him closer to the edge of the moat and the hungry serpents thrashing below.
The loyalty of Rhadamanthys’ workers was evidently patchy. Bacchus reflected idly that a revision of management practices might be in order. For the first time in long memory, his scheming brain came up blank, and he could only languish physically entombed, as a series of absurd thoughts wandered consciousness. He dreamed of his lost sandals, wished for one final card game with his mischievous friend Pan (usually an exchange where outrageous cheating was applauded), and found himself acutely disappointed he would not carry-out his proudest appointment -- tutoring Celestial and Nimbus. He was surprised by the admission, as his fuel-deprived mind dimmed permanently.
“No!” Aimrod pounced and slapped Bacchus vigorously about the head. “You cannot fade! I will not have my utmost reward wasted!”
“Too late.” Bacchus exhaled through lips frozen ajar.
As his spirit prepared to depart, Bacchus hallucinated a massive hurtling object that flew at Aimrod to savagely dislodged him from his squat. His enemy was propelled through the air and came to a bone-crunching sprawl, spread-eagled on his back in the dirt. A loud snarl echoed across the land and Bacchus felt a fiery sting on his thigh, which although quite painful, was oddly reassuring as it suggested he was still capable of sensation. A burn slowly spread through his body and when locked muscles loosened, he pulled a shallow, life-reviving gasp.
This was no mere vision. Bacchus weakly pulled himself upright and peered over at Aimrod. He could barely believe what he saw. Buttercup sat astride the devil, pummelling him with her huge paws.
He aggressively shoved her in the chest. “GET OFF! You stupid beast!”
Instead, she gave one giant strike, batting Aimrod’s head like a chew-toy and he instantly blacked out. The Demon-Dog swivelled and fixed Bacchus in its beady focus. He tensed. It was surely too ridiculously ironic to be saved from Aimrod, only to be mauled to death by his Hell Hound!
Instead she yapped a playful greeting and sauntered over, wagging her tail. It was truly a frightening spectacle to behold three colossal, teeth-filled jaws stretched in welcoming doggy grins. She plonked herself nearby and reared upright, a begging behemoth. Bacchus blinked and scratched his head.
He’d better work out fast what she was after or he doubted he’d escape the encounter as healthily as Aimrod. He rummaged hopefully in his bag and Buttercup responded with excited yips. The yips! They reminded Bacchus of the hiccoughs back in her tunnel. Buttercup wanted more of Skylar’s liqueur! He grabbed the bottle and Hades Helmet, and hoisting them out, poured a generous amount into the upturned hat. Buttercup plopped to her front paws and drank deeply.
“Well, I can’t fault your taste!” Bacchus said, gingerly patting one of her snouts.
He took a large, energising gulp for himself. His attention was taken by a panicked shriek at the Castle gates, and he glanced over in time to watch a sodden Rhadamanthys, his dignity as shredded as his ragged uniform, pelt gratefully through the widening draw-bridge, three slithery aquatic dragons close on his heels. The sentinel Polar Bears dissolved quietly into the ground, leaving no trace of their presence.
After a brief pause, Bacchus was mightily relieved to hear Zeus blast a warning thunder clap at the snakes. They re-emerged and beat a hasty retreat, sliding off the path into their watery home.
“I will not be further constrained!” An angry voice trumpeted, and the legendary God himself stomped out onto the road, appearing livid.
Gabriel followed with supreme composure. Hades, with a brisk, military bearing, joined them, hauling Rhadamanthys by the scruff, as though he were one of Celestial’s handbags. He wore a full dress uniform in the style of a human General, complete with highest rank epaulettes and badges of honour.
The quartet made their way down towards Bacchus, Zeus flicking a finger to mend the fissure in the road and stepping up to gently embrace his battered friend. Once free of the clinch, Gabriel reached over and placed a hand on Bacchus’s forehead, reinstating him to full fitness and hygiene. With a flourish, the Archangel added a cleanly pressed white toga and a platinum circlet of ivy for his brow. Bacchus inhaled robustly.
“Thank you, Gabriel. That was most kind.”
Hades dumped Rhadamanthys at Bacchus’s feet and glowered at Buttercup, who noisily slurped from his valuable-beyond-measure helmet. The beast gave a small whine and cringed. The King nudged his bedraggled advisor with a persuasive toe.
“Explain yourself!” he commanded imperiously.
Aimrod moaned and stirred faintly, attracting a dark look from Gabriel. Bacchus raised a
quelling hand.
“There is no time for a full account. Other matters command our immediate intervention!”
***
Chapter Fifteen
The Sword