Catching Hell Part One: Journey

by Marc Watson

  Johan, remaining composed, asked yet again the question they all were thinking. “It's all right, Rider Stroan. We'd hear what you'd have to say if you'd tell us. We are men of the world now. We are ready.” Lies and bravado, every word of it. Aryu wanted no part in the story of an enemy with the apparent powers of the Old, with the ability to send armies running like Death Himself trailed after them.

  “Machines,” he said, his voice beginning to trail off into a whisper. “Wave after wave of metal, robotic, heartless, evil machines. Each one of them bearing the stink of the forbidden ways that spawned them. Dear Great God of Dragons, we have lost the entire south coast of Inja to the Army of Old, and we have no way to stop it.”

  Despite tens of thousands of years of history and evolution, a timeframe full of glories and mistakes, mankind as a people had insisted on empowering their own self-destruction to the point of near extinction on four very well-known occasions, each one ingrained in almost every sentient mind.

  The first was a rumor. A legend no one alive could substantiate. It told the story of a great flood sent by God to purge the earth of those who displeased him. Only after the concurrent destructions did the rumor earn a place in the history books as a possible example of something similar happening. It was a fable that suddenly became feasible.

  The second was at the dawn of more modern times, when mankind was evolving beyond its infancy. In a time of war, mankind chose to flex its muscle and revel in its own impossible strength. The stories of hellfire engulfing the earth in wave after wave of cleansing abomination was a tale repeated and altered very little with each subsequent generation. Retold to near-perfect accuracy by the few alive who were there so long ago.

  From that time and after, most lived in a constant leeriness of anything of a mechanically advanced nature. This part of the world seemed to avoid it completely. Here, in the land some called Inja, so strong was the fear that most electronic and mechanical devices were banned, feared, and rarely spoken of. A self-imposed exile that had lasted centuries. This was where those with the greatest fear chose to live.

  The only thing more feared were Embracers of the Power: which were the creators, commanders, and destroyers of God Himself. Embracer wrath and fury brought about the third Fall of Man. That was an extermination of the Divine so overwhelming in its scope that few alive could fathom it.

  The fourth and most recent epic human mistake was an unmitigated and disastrous attempt by humans to grasp and control the wonders of the Old. Attempting not to harness the destructive powers of the Old but the creative and inventive aspects, the most recent near-apocalypse was during an age when man, feeling cocky in its survival of the inhuman wrath of God, traveled once again onto the path of the machine. Although an excellent story for a later time, the conclusion was the same.

  It did not go well.

  Mankind had escaped its own demise four times, but as two of those times were at the hands of “technological marvels,” machines had by this time developed a mythically evil quality. People all around this land were now so deathly afraid of anything more complicated than a combination of gears and pistons, they had elevated technology to something akin to undiluted, pure evil in its most basic form.

  And, with a harsh wind attempting to kick up their terror, two men who not long ago desired nothing more than the peace and respect that was awaiting them in a village not far away, were now told that that evil had returned, reformed, reorganized, and was marching a path of horror that leads straight to their doorsteps. To imagine how one would feel knowing that the vanguard of Hell was approaching their home and loved ones, one would be at the threshold of understanding the terror these two felt at this moment.

  Stroan couldn't bring himself to continue much more beyond the basics. All the southern colonies had begun a hasty retreat, with caravans like the one that just past them, and some much larger, charging north to the safety they thought they could find in the Great Range. Mankind always had a place in life for illusions.

  Stroan knew the power of the enemy, and entrusted to these men that he wasn't at all convinced the Great Range would be any kind of barrier against such an awesome level of brutality.

  Johan's face expressed a painful mix of confusion and nausea. Aryu could only stand mouth agape, in cold shock.

  “They couldn't be...” Johan choked out at last, breaking the silence fear had created. “It was gone from here. It was TOLD to us! We got rid of it! Destroyed and buried it centuries ago. This whole part of the world is defenseless!” Rage was beginning to add itself to his simmering pot of emotion. No one knew more than Johan about the history, the results, and the unmitigated lunacy of dealing with the power of the Old. There had never been a good result, and every victory was bathed in the blood of countless innocents.

  Stroan had no answer. He simply shook his head, composing himself as he did so. “I can tell you nothing but the truth as I know it. They began a strong push to the northwest shortly after landfall, following the coast. Based on what we know, the Valley of Smoke was not in their immediate path. They were heading westerly, into the Vein Valley. But a force so large is bound to be everywhere eventually. If another Rider hasn't alerted them, you can be assured that one will soon. All towns and villages are being told the same thing. Pack up, go north, and run until you can’t run anymore. It's all we can think of to do.

  His words were heavy, and nearly unbelievable. Aryu and Johan shifted back and forth, praying Stroan would offer something more in terms of comfort.

  “Southeast from here is your home, still three or four days away by way of the road we're on now, and then to the Traveler’s Trail at the north end of the valley. I'm sure you know it?”

  They did. The Travelers Trail was the main north/south road through the valley.

  “And what about going straight, going day and night, non-stop?” Johan asked.

  Stroan looked confused as he puzzled it out. Aryu already smelled the beginnings of a Johan plan.

  “I guess no more than two days,” Stroan decided. “Hard country between here and there, though. Harsh, dry valleys would be the least of your worries. There's also the risk of hidden raiders, deadly creatures, and at least a few shifting sandpits. It'd be better to stick to the roads you know, especially in these times. The only upside is it’s all downhill.”

  Johan barely heard Rider Stroan’s opinions on the matter. He was already looking at Aryu. “Can you do it?” he asked, partly curious, partly pleading. “With water and supplies enough for the journey?”

  Aryu thought about it. Although he'd embraced his freakish deformity’s greater benefits years prior, his embarrassment and shame kept him from trying at a trip so long. That said, he couldn't say it was impossible, and that was enough for him.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “As long as we keep it light. It won't be easy going that far.”

  Johan nodded and dropped his pack to assist Aryu with what he needed. Stroan looked on in wonder and finally brought himself to speak. “It won't be any easier with only one of you. I dare say it'd be more dangerous that way. I wouldn't consider it if I were you two.”

  Johan gave Aryu dried meats and enough water for the trip. Anymore, and Aryu feared the extra weight would be nothing but a hindrance to him.

  “We can't thank you enough for your information, Rider Stroan.” Johan was eager to send the young man on his way. “You should go now, continue to the north and save more villages. We'll be fine from here on.”

  Stroan hesitated, watching as Johan handed Aryu the last of the needed supplies. His duty was to the north, though, and the foolish actions of these two were no longer his concern.

  “I advise against this course of action, sirs. No good can come of it. Just stay togethe...”

  Aryu had unlatched his strapping and was tearing his pack from his back. Thick, dark, leathery wings slowly unraveled themselves to their full length as a terrified Stroan looked on.

  “By Gods and Devils, you have got to be kidding
me,” Stroan stammered.

  Johan had gotten used to it by this point. “Of all the things you've seen lately, I promise you this is the least of your worries.”

  He supposed that was true. He had seen too much to be surprised anymore. If the Armies of the Old, long thought destroyed, were currently tromping across the land with little resistance, a man with mutant wings was just another drop in what was becoming a very odd bucket.

  Aryu gave the wings a few strong test strokes, kicking up the dirt at his feet, causing the others to shield their faces.

  “Wait.” Johan was digging into his pack again, eventually emerging with his coveted dagger. He held it out to Aryu. “It's no defense against machines, but it's all I have to offer for protection.”

  Aryu at last knew it was time. The sixth sense he'd felt since its arrival told him so. He waved off the offer of his friend, instead digging into the long storage pocket on the inside of his own pack.

  What emerged was a straight, sheathed sword; its square, golden hilt and wrapped handle grasped firmly in his hand. At its base were two small protrusions, not unlike latched horns.

  Aryu took a spare piece of strapping and secured the hidden treasure to his back between his wings in a fashion that wouldn't interfere with them.

  “You son of a bitch.” Johan looked on, anger just as obvious as confusion. “Since when?”

  “Last night. On the mountain, while you were still climbing.” Johan looked very doubtful. Aryu waved it off. “Later. For now, keep the dagger and I'll tell you about it when we meet up again.” Johan wasted no time tucking his blade back in his pack, almost ashamed with himself that he'd offered it in the first place.

  By this point, Rider Stroan had returned to his horse, which had stood like chiseled stone this whole time, and mounted up. “May we meet again in this life or the next,” he offered, giving them the wave of his position once again.

  Johan looked to him, returning the salute, and smirked. “Preferably the former,” he answered.

  “Indeed, men, indeed. Good fortune to you!”

  “And you, Rider Stroan,” Aryu replied.

  With a click of the teeth and a dig of his heels, Stroan took off at full gallop after the caravan, his own destiny off in the looming shadows of the Great Range.

  “Alright,” Aryu began, recapturing Johan’s attention. “I expect you in no more than four days.”

  “I'll push hard to cut it back,” Johan replied. “I can’t wait that long.”

  Aryu began to run, but stopped. “Wait… What if it goes sideways?”

  Johan didn’t care for the sudden pessimism but knew where it came from. They were far too close not to think of a backup plan. “The village,” Johan answered. “The one from yesterday. The bar with the electronic spouts.”

  Aryu nodded. He remembered how startled he’d been when he saw those lights along the kegs. Was he really about to fly into this nightmare when a beer spout had rattled him so much?

  His supplies in hand and treasure on his back, Aryu gave one last wave and then began to run with his wings folded behind him. As he reached a gully farther down the road, his abnormally large and powerful back muscles flexed and the wings stretched out beside him, catching the wind as he headed into it. In moments, his feet lifted off the ground. His wings began to arch and bend in long strokes like a kite picking up speed. His body began stretching out behind him, and after a moment of apparent weightlessness, he gave one huge twist with his wings, which took his whole body upwards. He bent himself forward like the demon he was rumored to be, gliding with the wind, and then dove slightly to gain speed. He couldn’t ‘fly’ like a bird, his body was too heavy, but he had mastered controlled gliding as soon as he was strong enough. From there it was only a matter of mastering the techniques that allowed him to move forward and gain altitude if conditions permitted. His friend looked after him until he was no more than a speck in the distant sky.

  Johan re-shouldered his pack and stepped back up to the road. He checked what remained of Aryu's pack, taking whatever he thought he might need.

  Where in the name of The Great God of Dragons did that damn sword come from? Johan thought with jealousy. He saw in one quick glance that it was a well-made weapon, just like his knife.

  He began down the road at a brisk pace, already regretting the decision to add what little Aryu had to his overloaded pack. His best friend was a man with wings. At some point, he should stop being surprised with the details of life.

  Chapter 4

  -----------------------------------

  The Face of the Enemy

  Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash, or just Nix to his few friends, emerged from the poorly lit bar with the excellent draft sometime after midnight. Or, at least, he assumed it was midnight. The truth was he'd been away so long that he could no longer rely on the moon and stars to aid him while seeking his whereabouts.

  The old man had spoken in great detail about an item Nix was interested in, but the big man was upset early into the conversation to find out that the item the spirited old man wished to speak of was not the one he'd hoped. Still, it was as good a place as any to start.

  With the conversation over, the information shared and the deal to never appear to the old man again sealed and honored, he secured the beastly sword on his back and began down the road and out of this town to where the man had said he'd find it.

  “The place you seek is a small village to the southeast of here,” he'd told him. “The pup who took it was out on his blood-quest, a mission to manhood favored by many in those lands. “It's all a load of fart in a wind to me. I'd say it takes more than a little hike to make a man, eh? Well, a normal man anyway, which you, my ridiculous demon-friend, are most certainly not.”

  Well, he was part right in that at least. Nixon was by no means a man, but he was most certainly not a demon either. Had the old man not been so bold and so damned likeable in Nix's eyes, it's safe to say his constant references to Nix as a demon would have seen him smash the old goat’s face in. Nix was no demon, but he was also not the nicest of God's creations, and it's true that he often found violence to be a needed friend if the situation had called for it.

  Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash was most definitely one of God's creations from a time when God was more than just a man. From a time when God was a god.

  That God was long gone from this place, this world, and its peoples. Most never even knew of that deity, only of his purge, the so-called ‘First Fall of Man.’ They only knew of the one they had called God. Nixon knew better than any alive, even those that had beaten time and lived far longer than a person should, that their deity was just a man. A mortal too lost to go home again.

  Nix had been around, in one form or another, for just as long. He might even say longer, but he'd spent so many years and so much time chasing his target that he could remember nothing that came before that, provided there was anything to remember. He assumed there was. He assumed there had to be the great Power and deadly beasts that needed his disposal before the time of the false god. There had to be, didn't there?

  It sometimes upset the fire-haired man-thing to know that his existence had become nothing more than being the janitor to what he considered mankind’s greatest mistake. No man born of woman was to possess the kind of power the false god did. It was too unstable, too unpredictable, and too reckless to let him continue on the way he did.

  It wasn't Nixon’s place to criticize. His job sadly had never been to destroy that particular worldly menace, only the useless, overtly powerful legions that followed in his wake. That damn sword they held corrupted far more than it ever empowered.

  Every time someone possessed it for purposes unbecoming in nature, Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash was there, bringing about the true balance of things, not the balance the false god swore to uphold. That bastard was always one tiny slip from becoming another of Nixon’s clean-up duties. It's just for the best, though. Had that day ever come, Nix was certain their battl
e would have just gone on forever. Neither could die in the traditional sense, and neither would give quarter.

  Nixon had better things to do than battle a fool until the world fell apart at its seams.

  But still, he was dead now, finally gone despite Death and its idiocy in delaying his final verdict. Nixon wasn't sure who was more to blame for the catastrophic disaster that little episode created. The false god should have known that Death hated following the rules. And Death should have known that ‘God’ would never just accept a cruel fate. Death should have known no meager mountain could hold him.

  It was a mountain that was not far from where he was currently. Odd how the world always seemed to spin him back here.

  Death had been a fool, and the two fools together made for a terrible end. If only Nixon had been there. Stop the madness in one swoop. But by the time the false god had let the wicked evil sweep through him enough to awaken Nixon, the deed was done. The world was destroyed, the power of the ages released, and Nixon was left with the god-damned clean-up job.

  He smirked at the thought of the moment the false god was allowed to die. “It should ‘ave been me t’ deal the killin' blow. I would ‘ave enjoyed it so much more.” But he knew it never could have been. The false god was too damned egotistical to allow anyone but himself to end it.

  This left one rather large question in his mind: what the hell was he, Nixon of the Great Fire and Ash, doing back here? In this part of the world, the Power had been lost and the people had been cast into fear at the mere mention of it. Even those that had once followed the same path of power had abandoned it, choosing instead the life of either solitude or the always refreshingly ridiculous path of false prophecy. Years ago, a man whose life’s ambition was to entertain the foolish masses had said something so apt in every age, Nixon was likely never to forget it.

  There's a sucker born every minute. Amen, good sir. Amen.