by Kenny Soward
As if in reply, a howl broke the stillness. They turned, eyes drawn to the base of the bridge. Dark shapes moved in from every direction, slipping oozy up to the northern approach, converging right where the steel grating met pavement.
One car rolled into the roundabout. The person inside saw the stolen and wrecked van, the ghoulkine moving around the walkway, and spun through the circle, speeding back north.
Lonnie’s emotions were jacked up at having narrowly escaped death, and he wanted to shout, “Fuck you!” Wanted to do jig and pump his fist. Hell, maybe even moon those mangy bastards. But that wasn’t happening in his condition. Not with the muscles on his left side in complete rebellion and his chest cramping.
Instead, he grinned, raised his middle finger, and waved it at the monsters. It was a weak grin, a weak gesture, and he felt like a five-year-old doing it. But under the circumstances, it gave him immense pleasure.
The things below snarled their disdain.
A ghoulkine reached from the shadows and gripped the blue rail, pulling itself onto the bridge. When nothing happened, it took one step. Then another. It glared triumphantly at them, and Lonnie’s middle finger wilted.
“Uh oh,” Ingrid said, hoisting her weapon. “Half a mag left. That’s it.”
The bare-handed Crash flexed his arms, ripples of muscle beneath his torn and bloody shirt. “I’m out myself, but that doesn’t mean I can’t toss the bastards into the river.”
Lonnie detached himself from Elsa’s embrace and leaned against the rail. He plucked his XDS from his waistband. Popped the magazine. Checked it. Two bullets left including the one already chambered. He replaced the mag with a snap.
Or maybe he could use his power, but he was so weary. Yet, he was too tired to run anymore. They were too tired to run anymore. “Well, time for some doggie discipline, I guess.”
Elsa snorted as she slung her weapon forward. “Good one, Lons. I like that. Doggie discipline.”
Selix took five strides down the walkway. “Stay back,” she told them.
The single, brave ghoulkine continued its approach while its brothers and sisters watched. The smart ones, they waited to see what would happen before trying the bridge themselves.
“This old bridge. It’s soaked up magic over time,” Selix said, positioning herself next to the railing. “Well, what little this world can offer. This old boy's been standing over a hundred years. Men died building it.” She ran her fingertips gently along the paint-flecked rail. “The ghoulkine fear it.”
“Then why is this stupid creature on it?" Elsa said. "Why is it no longer afraid?”
Selix could have been a ghoul herself as she stared at the beasts with her pale, bloodless face, sunken cheeks, and hair tousled and sprinkled with ghoulkine ashes. But her eyes remained determined. “It’s a latent power. Quiet. Doesn’t do much until you shake it free.”
She put both hands on the rail. Gripped it tight as if she were bracing against a storm. Legs spread, knees locked, Selix moved her hips slightly, seductively. A chant dripped from her lips. Different from the pop music she'd channeled in Rose Park and at the foot of the bridge. This was an ancient song in an ancient language. A melody as elegant as the first he'd ever heard her sing. The true song of a dragon voice.
Selix kept turning her hips. The steel thrummed like a cell phone on vibrate in his pocket, but it ran through the entire structure, through his feet and bones. It happened again, and Lonnie sensed an electric prickle across his skin.
“Oh, that tickles.” Ingrid gave a soft giggle.
Selix bent at the knees and did a twist with her body, up and then down, all while keeping her grip on the rail. She repeated the phrases, her tone turning dark and thick and emphasizing each consonant with more deliberation.
Something creaked in the girders; a metal whine and stretch. The ghoulkine, halfway to them, stopped and looked at its feet.
Just when Lonnie thought the power might drive the thing off, Selix buckled, falling into a squat. She gasped and gave a clipped sigh. “I’m too weak. I can’t.”
Lonnie assumed if the dance ended the power coursing through the bridge would fail.
Sure enough, the approaching ghoulkine quickened its pace.
Elsa was there, crouching behind her, chest to Selix’s back, one hand thrown on her hip. “Nonsense, my pretty one.” The whorchal nuzzled Selix’s neck, kissing her, licking at her ear lobe.
A moan fell from Selix’s lips as she leaned into Elsa.
Elsa nibbled, hands running up Selix’s front and over her breasts, caressing her entire body.
Selix undulated against the whorchal, groaning and moving against Elsa’s crouched form. And then, with a snap of her hips, she broke free.
Elsa, knocked back, leered. “Poor dear just needed a jump start.”
The vibration returned tenfold. It crescendoed like a dozen sledge hammers whacking the steel in sequence.
The ghoulkine coming up the walkway stopped, clutched its rib-thin abdomen. Its head jerked, eyes pitching in every direction. It snorted from its snubbed maw, tongue flicking out to lick at the air. Tendrils of crimson fire raced along the steel planking and bound the beast’s feet before it could escape.
The ghoulkine fell to all fours, crawling, yowling at Selix in a spray of spittle.
Selix released the rail and strolled toward it. She raised her hands, palms down, fingers making little flicking movements as if coaxing the fire. Her song continued, drifting through the air in a whiskey vibrato. When it seemed like she'd miss the pitch, her voice lifted the note until it rang true. The ghoulkine caught flame, twisted upright, and burst into a cloud of floating ash. A wind picked up and carried the particles over the river.
The creatures at the foot of the ramp leapt back as if the steel was poison. Some turned their long bodies and loped off in the other direction.
Ingrid applauded, pausing only to wipe tears from her eyes.
Elsa sneered. “Stupid doggies.”
Crash caught Selix as she collapsed.
“Is she—?” Lonnie’s voice was a croak.
“She’s fine.” Crash carried Selix easily. “Just exhausted.”
Lonnie sighed, heart lifting. He reached out to stroke her cheek and found it cool to the touch. “We need to find this healer. Anyone else know the way?”
“We all do, Lons. Everybody who’s anybody knows.”
“Oh. Guess I’m still a loser then.”
“No, Lonnie.” Ingrid hugged his waist, got her shoulder beneath his arm. “You’re so special.”
“Right.”
Chapter 10
They left the bridge as soon as they could, the going made painfully slow by the wounded. By wounded, Lonnie meant himself, because Selix had come awake enough to walk and even managed to descend the ladder to a maintenance platform. Crash had to carry Lonnie over his shoulder, a horridly painful affair, and from there a short jump to a pile of rocks. They slid on their butts to a patch of long grass that led to a thin, blacktopped path.
By the time Lonnie’s feet touched ground, his entire body was in full upheaval. His chest was in a vice, one big cramp of pain that made him wish for death every breath.
Selix took their kit out and fixed them each a dose of pure grade beneath the watchful moon. Elsa, Ingrid, and Crash hovered like vultures while Lonnie did Selix first, then she him. Then the rest of them. They sat in a lull for fifteen minutes, Lonnie’s discomfort removed to a far distant place even though a deep part of his mind knew he was much worse off than he felt.
Lonnie dozed and dreamed of his life back in Hell.
He strode a long, curved hallway constructed of the same black stone that formed Xester. Vivid red banners of House Bet-Ohman with emblems of the cog and quill hung every sixteen feet on both sides of the wall. He was a young man, he sensed, having passed his third trial in the chamber. He was getting good. Better than his sister, some insinuated. Perhaps not epic in his mastery of runework, but proficient. Others said Mak
are, who’d had her eye on power since she was a girl, felt threatened by Lonnie’s growing skill. A waste of worry. Lonnie cared no more for it than did his mother. He wanted to work for the betterment of the family, but did not yearn to rule, and he’d made that known to his father who had grudgingly acknowledged Lonnie’s lack of ambition and heaped greater responsibilities on his sister, which she’d accepted.
There was no problem as far as Lonnie was concerned. As far as Mardokh Bet-Ohman was concerned.
He held his sore ribs as he walked. He’d just finished a bout with another of Oru’s fine students. A cousin of Lonnie’s who’s incredible prowess with kicks and punches had left him gasping. Lonnie was more of a finesse fighter, but he always put up a good fight.
The ache was nothing a glass of meldwine couldn’t fix. A quiet night of reading awaited him, studying schematics to help Father build a new line of airships. Something Mother wouldn’t approve of, but there were some responsibilities he couldn’t shirk no matter what.
And he looked forward to seeing his sandcat Manx, too. The creature had been his loving companion for many years. A good beast, loyal and vicious in Lonnie’s defense, especially near his sister. Makare had a way of aggravating Manx, but she wasn’t in Xester much these days, off doing Father’s bidding in Umokor and the Demon Wastes, occasionally stopping in to reinforce her family position by bullying friends and eliminating enemies.
Lonnie came to the door to his personal chamber, home to a long line of Bet-Ohman’s before him, since the dawn of Hell and the Cataclysm. Runes and symbols of House Bet-Ohman traced along the surface of the old steelcore slab. Lonnie ran his hand over the intricate locks and triggered the spell that unlocked it. The clockworks spun. Steam hissed from the mechanisms. His door popped open.
“Manx, I’m home," he said, laughing. "And you’ll be happy to know my sister is not around to bother you. She was your only competition for most ferocious beast in the keep, I’d say.”
He shut the door behind him, pulled off his gauntlets one at a time, and tossed them on an ornate dressing chair. His room was sparsely decorated, not having any love for demonic or Trans-hubaric art. He recognized good craftsmanship, but the real magic was in the mind. Books and lessons and processes were what he craved. He’d have fancier things later when he grew bored with everything else.
Lonnie stood there, arms out, waiting for Manx to pounce on him. The beast had grown to his hip and weighed over a hundred pounds. By now, he was usually stumbling around the room holding the pile of fur, trying to keep the cat from licking his face off.
But no welcoming growl reached his ears. No pounding of paws on the stone floor.
Strange.
“Manx!” Lonnie called again.
When no reply came, Lonnie brushed his hands together. Runes raised along the back of his hand and knuckles, and the wall sconces blazed with light.
Aside from the swirling patterns of Septune language on the walls, mostly Bet-Ohman proverbs, there were no ornate tapestries. Just one cover thrown up depicting the six groups of sweeps he was learning. A small table sat near the open veranda overlooking the Boiling Sea, and two chairs for that. His bed, on the right, was simple with a hard, flat mat. Covers tossed to the side, ruffled from Manx having nested in them during the day.
His bookshelf hung in the air on his left, shoved up against the wall next to his wardrobe.
That's not where he'd put it last night. No, he’d left it by the bed where he'd been reading.
Lonnie approached with caution, heart thudding in his chest. A breeze blew across the veranda, and he glanced in that direction. He shouldn’t worry. No one could have gotten past the locks on his door, or scaled the wall to the deck. He was safe.
He stopped in front of the bookshelf facing a spine that read, Faces of the Seven Tempests. The hum of magnetics, which kept the shelf hovering in mid-air, should have comforted him, but it didn’t. No, something was wrong here. Something terrible.
He reached out and shoved the shelf aside.
It floated out of the way.
Lonnie gaped at what hung nailed to his wall, throat knotted so tightly he couldn’t swallow. Tears stung his eyes.
It was Manx.
Lonnie held out his hand, touching the blood-sandy fur. His fingers traced the wounds, perfectly placed cuts. Scrawled in blood above the corpse was the word, “I’m home, Brother.”
“By the Devil Gods, Makare. Why?”
She’d nailed the big cat there as a sign of her power. A warning to Lonnie, to Mardokh. And as cruel as it was, such messages weren’t uncommon among family rivals. But Lonnie had never claimed a position above his sister. Had only loved his pet. Aside from his mother and the Master, Manx had been Lonnie’s only friend.
Such a waste.
“I wasn’t a rival before,” Lonnie whispered, dream voice hoarse with emotion. “But I am now.”
Chapter 11
Selix prodded him awake, and he opened his eyes to find they were still on the river shore.
Lonnie rolled forward. Stared out at the rolling water. Clenched his fists in impotent fury.
“You okay, Lonnie? I mean, other than your lungs.”
Lonnie nodded, twice as miserable as before. He wiped away hot tears. The memories were surfacing, all the reasons they’d escaped Xester. He didn’t feel like sharing, so he struggled to his feet, showing his readiness.
“Okay,” Selix said, giving him an unsure glance. “Let’s go.”
They traveled south on the blacktop for a quarter mile, then stumbled like zombies through a rough stretch of tall, scratchy grass to the shore. They picked the driest places to walk, places not too rocky or cluttered with shrubs and sticker bushes. Lonnie smelled fresh river mud and dead fish. The faint stench of sewage. But it was much cooler along the river’s edge, and that helped.
They gathered empty pop bottles as they went and put them in Selix’s pack.
Crash found Lonnie a nice thick branch. “Here, man. Use this as a crutch. Between me and this stick we should be able to keep you from falling.”
“Thanks,” Lonnie mumbled, digging the end of the staff into the soft shore mud.
“I’ll take the poor boy for awhile.” That was Elsa, holding out her arm for him.
As Crash was handing Lonnie over to her, Lonnie caught her eyes. Even when she was trying to be helpful, she looked wicked and impish, eyebrows etched into two aggravated slashes. Elsa kept her rifle slung over her right shoulder as she took Lonnie’s weight. Different from both her sister and Selix, Elsa was hard as a wooden pole. Even her tits were solid mounds as Lonnie leaned against her. Wasn’t a bad thing. She had the body of a lanky runner with padding here and there, giving her a dangerous, seductive energy.
The nipple of her right breast stood out, exposed through her torn blouse.
A smile curled on her lips. “I’m happy to see you, Lons. Can you tell?”
“Mm hm,” Lonnie mumbled glumly, his mind still back in his chamber in Xester with his dead pet nailed to the wall.
Selix, turned and walked backwards, almost tripping in the treacherous debris. “Don’t worry, he won’t be a pain in the ass much longer.”
"Are you giving me permission to throw him in the river?”
Selix shrugged. “I could look the other way.”
“You didn’t have to bring me. Could have left me back there.” Lonnie gave a lazy swing at her feet with his new crutch.
Selix danced away with a smile. “Just kidding.” She fished out a bottle of water from her pack. “Last one.” She passed it around.
They walked in silence for a short time except for the river squelches, scrapes of their boots, and ragged breathing. Frogs croaked and a few insects chirruped along the water’s edge.
“I’ve been remembering home,” Lonnie said to Elsa. “Xester. Hell. The Rim. But you? I—”
“Where are we from?” Elsa said. “That’s what you want to know?”
Lonnie gave a brief nod.
“Lies,” Ingrid said over her shoulder where she stepped carefully from rock to rock in the lapping river waves. “It was horrible. We lived in the dirt and filth.”
“Mother?”
Selix interjected. “Whorchals don’t breed with one another. They spawn from pods lain in the body of a victim. The pod grows and grows until finally, pop, a whorchal is born.”
“In our case, two.” Ingrid held two fingers over her head.
“There are no families,” Selix said. “No mother or father—”
“Yes, yes. Daddy was quite absent. Dead beat dad, as they say.” Elsa’s lips curled into a laughing sneer.
Selix continued. “There is only a pecking order. The young ones are killed off as soon as they’re discovered by the others. The weak adolescents further weeded out. Some hide long enough in the shadows, grow strong enough, to survive in the den. And when whorchals move into an area, they consume it like a plague.”
“We inhabit places no one else wants,” Ingrid corrected. “Old and empty castles and ruins. Catacombs and any place next to a food supply. A nice plump town is always good. We’re hardly a plague though.”
“Maybe a little like a plague,” Elsa snickered. The way she said little sounded like leetle.
Lonnie tried to remember Sooth. Vaguely recalled it on a map of the Rim, Hell's most populous region. The area most populated by humans, anyway. The rest of Hell was everything Earth people feared the most. Biblical shit.
“In any case,” Elsa continued. “Ingrid and I had your average childhood. Birthday parties, lots of friends.”
Ingrid just shook her head and gave up on the conversation, focusing on traversing the shoreline. “You are so full of shit, Elsa.”
Elsa’s smile wilted as her pale eyes scanned the moon where it inched closer to the skyline. Her gaze fell to the river where the light quivered over the surface. “Perhaps we’ll tell you about our wonderful life sometime, Lons. It is a beautiful story.”