Catching Hell Part One: Journey

by Marc Watson

  The knife lowered and the boy nodded his head in agreement, smugness removed from his face at the threat. Skerd moved his massive body up the hill, tail still pained from the dip in the river, but otherwise fine. He crossed the road, continuing up the hill to his brethren, turning one last time to the scene of destruction and death below, knowing that shortly the talisman would be gone and the animal inside him would be back. A worrisome proposition, but in this deal, everyone had something to lose.

  “I will wait for you…?”

  “Johan,” he answered. “Johan Otan’co of Tan Torna Qu-ay. I will be there or I’ll be dead. On my honor.”

  “And on my own, Johan Otan’co. That of Skerd of the Uhluktahn. Pray you are not late or otherwise indisposed.”

  Even now, getting higher in the mountains, Skerd could feel the clarity leave him in small bits, and with each iota that left, the more skeptical he was that this deal was the right one. So it is and so it must be.

  He knew what he needed to know, even in the haze of animal instinct now overtaking him; there were talismans in his lands again, even if it was just this one. The foolish one known as the Dragon King had not rid the world entirely. That was something worth killing for.

  Moments later, he and his brothers were gone.

  Chapter 21

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  Tower of Crystal, Sea of Blood

  The prospects were terrible for the small group left in the Paieleh River Valley. Of the twenty-one travelers, twenty-three military Riders and three from Tan Torna Qu-’ay, as well as the four large carts and the giant Turtle loader that had left Huan, very little remained after the Stalker attack.

  The Riders had lost more than half their numbers and mounts, leaving only eleven including Chief Rider Wyndam who had suffered what was likely to be a fatal injury at the claws of Skerd. For now, he was being carried in an open spot in the back of the Turtle, but to all it seemed a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’ he was lost.

  Another cart was lost, bringing them to the lonely number of one, with four folmes and one ragged horse remaining of the travelers’ stock, and nine warhorses for the Riders. The people who had chosen to undertake this trip were not as bad off as the Riders who had taken the front lines of defense during the attack, but the toll was still damaging. Four dead, and Seraphina’s father had been badly injured as well. She had separated herself from Johan for the time being to tend to her father and likely to take stock of her feelings towards him. It was no secret many thought he should never have made a deal since he seemed to have an advantage on the monster.

  The aftermath was gruesome and frightening. Blood and destruction were at every turn. But mankind is terribly resilient, and when you’re still short days of anything in the world that could save you and your loved ones, pinned down in a dangerous and deep river valley with little supplies and less hope, there’s nothing else to do but pick up and go or lie down and die. Since the ground was already littered with the signs of many who had met that finality, pick up and prepare to set off again they did. By daybreak the following day, the battered Turtle led the charge once more, followed by a now heavily overloaded cart pulled by four terrified and injured animals; all others on foot, no space left to carry them and what they needed to survive.

  Canned food was all that was left to eat, which was for the best as they no longer had enough supplies to build a fire to cook by. The next few days were going to be tight and likely very hungry. No one complained, though. They did what they must.

  On the road once more, the group no longer spared a thought for where their place was, even the Riders. Each did what needed to be done at the time it needed to be done with no questions. Riders surrendered their mounts to weary travelers, and the travelers were thankful for it. Rank and social standing meant little to this group now. Putting one foot in front of the other was all that mattered. Each step took them closer to a faint hope of salvation and farther away from the rock-covered graves behind them.

  The two from Tan Torna Qu-ay went together now, hatred set aside in the wake of their newest shared experiences. They weren’t likely to spend holidays or free time together, but for the sake of the journey and their shared pain of the last few weeks, they had more than enough in themselves to be civil.

  When Esgona did join Johan in free time, he was still his quiet self. He understood this was all of the acceptance he was ever going to get. One night, Johan finally asked him about things he’d seen in the south, and during that time of conversation, he told Johan about the knife and the things he’d seen in it, the feelings it conjured and the thoughts it evoked. Johan listened, not sure if he believed him or not, but after a moment he realized his mind did have more echoes of the things he was speaking of, though he’d never thought of it as out of the ordinary since he was so attached to the knife and its meaning to him in the first place.

  Silence was still his strength, and he didn’t reveal everything. Somewhere deep down inside him, beyond the pain and guilt of his actions, he was still Esgona, and these two were still Johan and Aryu, and that was a barrier likely never to fall.

  Johan thought often of Aryu. Where he was. What he was doing. If he was coming at all (a dire possibility he seemed to freely accept).

  They encountered no more trouble that was a major setback of any kind. The river held its dangerous-but-tolerable levels, the road remained clear (confirmation that what Skerd had promised would be so) and the weather, although still windy and cool at the best of times, held out enough to let the group stay dry with a minimum of effort. Once again, the blessing of small miracles experienced by Johan was in the air. The world was merciful in its cruelty.

  They trekked for six days, stopping each night since they could no longer afford the space for people to sleep on the carts. After the third night, only one Inja Rider was left for sentry duty, but it was mostly to keep an eye on the river and nothing more. It was a useless position. If the river was to surge as it had become famous for, by now the steep walls were nearly impossible to climb, the loose rock giving way to sheer slopes and huge cracks in the rock face that appeared to continue on forever. They were all trapped.

  At high-sun of the seventh day, the coldest they’d seen thus far since setting out from Huan, they came to a small rise that signaled the steady decline of the mountain peaks. As the day grew into evening and the sun was close to setting, the walls fell away at last, shocking each of the travelers with their sudden absence. Their eyes had a difficult time adjusting to the sudden appearance of an actual horizon and not just the dark shadow of rock.

  Soon the sun, in the last of its moments in the sky, cast a light that reached out below the cloud line and illuminated the vast and impossible sight of the great shores and massive expanse of the Blood Sea.

  No one cheered. No one said a word. The arrival at this place was either thought of as a dream or the inevitable end to what was an excruciating and nightmarish journey. Huan and the Thunder Run seemed like another lifetime.

  It was here, at the top of a hill that descended to the shores of the sea that Chief Rider Samson Wyndam succumbed to his injuries at last. He let out one last breath as the group watched the sun go down, though no one would know it until they checked on him while unloading the Turtle moments later. Here the ground gave rise to trees and grasses and his body was sent off to what lay beyond in the manor most fitting a man of his kind, with all that were left from the group standing in a circle as he burned, the last reminder of the death that was found for many of those foolish enough to travel the Paieleh River Valley. Samson Wyndam was a good man, and died in the manner he’d have chosen for himself on any given day. He was sent off to the who-knew-where of the afterlife with a minimum of tears shed, only memories of his greatness in the minds of his men. He never wanted anything more.

  A camp was set up on the roadside and the fires burned brightly once more. The two had a moment to pause and reflect on what was to come next. They had agreed with Stro
an that when his evening duties concluded he was to join them, and as a group they would discuss what the next course of action was for the Inja Army Riders and war they were soon to fight. The last few weeks had done nothing to them but strengthen the need to extract as much machine-destroying satisfaction as they possibly could, come hell or high water (a fantastically apt expression after their time in the valley).

  It was a long time coming for them before Stroan finally did arrive.

  Esgona said nothing and Johan looked off to the other fires searching for Seraphina, finding her at last in the distance, minding her younger brother. Thankfully her father seemed to be on the mend, but she’d still said little to him in the last week of travel. He missed her most now, in the chill night, as any man would.

  “The city is another day away, south, down a heavily traveled road that follows the shore of the Blood Sea,” Stroan said, launching into the story. “We’ve sent a Rider ahead to survey the area and try to get an understanding of what’s going on. We can’t see any fighting nearby, but we can’t say for certain the army isn’t here.”

  The Great Range came to an end south of here, following the line that stretched right across to the east, where Johan assumed Aryu still was at this time. Their homelands went along the base of them, funneled into a great valley by another, less impressive mountain range that rose from the Westland, a place known to conceal many fighting troops during the wars that raged there. This large valley, many days across by foot, was the home of the wide and impressive Vein River, the outflow of the Blood Sea that eventually led to the southern ocean.

  The valley was a pinch point, making it a terrible place to travel in times of war and dispute (which was always, it seemed), and many fled into the mountains instead of the sure death of the flat and open Vein Valley. By this point in time, it was essentially a foregone conclusion that if you wanted to get to whatever lay north of the Vein Valley, you were either in the military or in a casket.

  There was no sign of war anywhere. No proof that the Army of the Old had marched this far. Knowing what they did of the army and its staggering capabilities, they should have been here weeks ago, dropping bombs and conquering lands with impunity, yet they were not.

  “There’s a city to the south of here. It’s a big place, from what I’ve heard. Not like what you may be accustomed to. Buildings are tall and there are hundreds of thousands of people. People who’ve fully accepted technology like those on the far side of the sea. I’m guessing it will be a shock for you, or any of us for that matter. Most of the other Riders in this group are from south of here, me included. Towns and villages on the ocean or near it. This is new territory for us all. Still, it beats the alternative.” That was something they didn’t all entirely agree on. The possibility of getting to a place where hundreds of thousands called home was unsettling to the two. No great good had ever come from such a large collection of people.

  If the size of this place was the truth, how was Aryu going to find them? True, he has wings and tends to stand out in a crowd, but was that enough? How long did they wait until they decided they couldn’t wait anymore, either by their own choice or the dictation of circumstances?

  Stroan was equally disturbed, as it was well-known from their first meeting that he has no love of technological advances beyond the Ark 1 he sometimes carried, and there was also the worry he felt for his family and loved ones. From what he’d told them about the location of his homeland in his talks with them, if the Army of the Old made it to the Vein Valley, then his home had likely been lost.

  The three eventually slept, there on the threshold of many dark roads to travel.

  Sunrise brought out the best in people as the light caught the distant water and showered the group from the Inja in shimmering beauty. Few had ever seen an expanse of water so large, and those that had still enjoyed it immensely. Being in the valley for so long meant they hadn’t seen a proper sunrise not obscured by mountains or valley walls. By breakfast, a very welcome non-canned meal, the Riders assembled and prepared for the expected coming of the scout sent off the night before.

  Fate had grown weary of the depression it had bestowed on this clan, and not a minute past the expected return time, the Rider Scout came into view at full gallop, both horse and rider looking well-fed and rested. Flanking behind him were two more Riders keeping pace, though who they were and why they were here was a mystery.

  As they got closer, a general feeling of uneasiness washed through the group. The Rider and his companions were already back and talking with the man who, as of the unfortunate death of his superior officer the previous night, was thrust into the command of the ragged group.

  One of them was another Inja Rider, a man likely the age of Chief Rider Wyndam at the time of his death, though this man had a long beard with little original color. The same steel eyes looked out of his haggard, sunken face, a seeming prerequisite for a Rider commanding officer. It was the other man that set the crowd on edge.

  He was a Westlander, and a very large one. Having been the only one that had met him, Esgona put him a hair’s width taller than Nixon Ash. His horse was a head taller than that of the largest any had seen before, its black body covered in nothing but a modest saddle, unlike the Riders and the full armored regalia of their mounts. He was muscular and wore tan clothes that fit firmly to his broad chest. His skin was darker than the two from Tan Torna Qu-ay, who were already a deep shade. The whites of his eyes stood out like beacons from his face as he surveyed the group (who of course surveyed him right back, decorum be damned by this point in the journey), and soon he glanced down at the two in the back of the pack, his eyes remaining on them until the elder Rider had finished his discussion with those that were left of this brigade. After a brief stop at the pyre of Samson Wyndam to pay their respects, they approached the Turtle and the two with it.

  Stroan rode with them, hanging back with a look of great sadness on his face, though the natural strength of the Rider and the journey he’d just undertaken to get this far betrayed any attempt they used to figure out what had him so down. Soon they sat in the presence of the four: the visitors, the newest commanding officer Rider Liffe, and Stroan to the rear.

  Liffe greeted the two, dismounting and casting aside his helmet (they had known Liffe from the trip, but he was never anyone they had been close to). The senior Rider and the Westlander did the same.

  “You are the two from Tan Torna Qu-ay?” the elder Rider asked, voice rough like sandpaper scraping together. They nodded. He took measure of each of them. “And who is the one named Johan?”

  No time wasted, as it was clear that this conversation had purpose. There was still tremendous respect bred into Johan for the Inja Riders. “I am, sir. Johan Otan’co.”

  The Rider stood before him, only slightly taller than Johan, but with a presence of someone much larger. His hand extended, less his pinky finger. Johan took it and shook heartily, no longer surprised by the strength and roughness of the action. These were both hard men. Each would have expected no less from the other.

  “On behalf of the Riders of the Great Inja Army, I, Chief Rider Merrik Caspar, wish to thank you…” a look to Esgona, “each of you, in your part of the safe return of my Riders, and the people they were charged to protect, to this place. I know there were losses, but it likely would have been everyone if not for your quick thinking and help. For that I thank you both.” He released Johan’s hand and took Esgona’s, followed by stepping back to take them in. Johan surged with pride, and Esgona filled with disinterest muddled with shame. Authority did astonishing damage to his psyche.

  The large man stepped forward, towering above each of them, great arm extended, massive hand devouring each it met in another round of congratulations (met by the two, it should be said, with a fair amount of distrust and skepticism). “I salute you each, and your party as a whole, for emerging from the Paieleh Valley. The dangers of this place are well-known far and wide, and the courage it took to get here is aston
ishing.” His voice was deep, but not so much as his body was large. They didn’t know what to expect when he spoke, but they certainly didn’t expect what they got: a voice and tone exactly like theirs without an accent to be found. Clearly they didn’t know near enough about him and his people, another downfall of the sheltered life of the places they came from.

  “I’d like you boys to accompany us,” Caspar continued, “the Turtle in the lead, as we head back to Bankoor to get you and your companions a decent meal, a solid bed to sleep in, and a hero’s welcome.”

  Although all sounded too good to be true, Johan still had to speak up. “Um, thank you sir, but where?”

  Chief Rider Caspar looked at him, understanding dawning on his face. “Bankoor, the city you and yours have been questing for.” Blank faces on the two. “Really? All this time and trouble and you didn’t even know the name of the place you were going. Simply amazing.”

  They’d never given it much thought to be honest. They didn’t even know there was a city for certain when they set out. The rumors simply made them assume as much. Looking back on it, it did seem somewhat foolish, but given their options, what else could they do?

  A name given their destination, as well as promises that sounded like they had been cut from a dream, they agreed to what Caspar was saying and began to head out with the rest of the meager troop.

  They descended the small rise they were perched on, looking out over this new landscape and the life it held and began the trip to the road on the shores of the Blood Sea and the city of Bankoor. Not a word was heard from any of the group except for the newcomers leading the way. The rest knew it was no time for talk; it was a time for reflection.