Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  “No. That is true. We’ve been on extra long routes lately because we’ve been catching very little. We’re only returning to our old routes for as long as the stores last. So don’t worry, I won’t be working them like dogs yet.”

  There was some more laughter.

  Aaron stopped and his firm voice was replaced by the distant echoed thrum of Father Klein’s.

  “Don’t forget to be thankful. It is not every day that. . .”

  “What’s the ration?” Molly asked those around her.

  “I think it’s supposed to be a pound, measured out by Staunten,” the hunter carrying Julian said.

  Molly looked at him suspiciously. “Did you hear it from Baker, or are you just guessing.”

  “That’s what Citizen Mayse said before they started.”

  “Did anyone hear?”

  The villagers on the church steps didn’t know.

  They had to wait for the service to end before they got their answer. A quarter pound of spider guts and a half pound of spider eggs, picked up from Father Klein at the church each morning.

  “That’s a good thing,” Molly said. “Klein will give you two servings and never know it. Staunten would probably write your name down.”

  Alice was surprised to see Arturus come out of the church with the last of the villagers and the first group of citizens. He was talking with Michael Baker. Michael was laughing.

  Arturus looked at her and smiled.

  That little twerp. I don’t know how he does it.

  “Oh, yeah. Like Turi needed to hear,” Molly said. “He doesn’t even live here. This shit is so unfair.”

  If Turi thinks I’m going to fall all over him because he’s found a way to get Michael Baker’s ear, he’s in for some disappointment.

  Arturus awoke to Ellen’s voice. He could hear her footsteps on the gravel.

  “Turi,” she sounded frantic.

  Not again.

  “I’m awake,” he said.

  “Turi, I really need you this time.”

  He grabbed his gun belt, checked to make sure the boots he’d slept in were tied, and hurried out across the gravel hallway.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  He hadn’t seen Ellen looking so upset since the first day he met her. She glanced frequently over her shoulder. Not as if someone was chasing her, but as if she had left something behind.

  “Someone’s dying. I helped him out of the river. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

  Arturus ran back into his room. He checked his pack to make sure that he had his bandages. He found the woodstone board which had Ellen’s name on it and tossed it by the entrance so that Galen or Rick would see it.

  “Ready,” he told her.

  Ellen led him, running at times, along the river.

  There was a smear of blood and water at the entrance of her room.

  “He was right here,” she said.

  Arturus could tell that the wounded person had dragged themselves away from the riverbank and into Ellen’s room.

  Smart. And if they were strong enough to do that, they probably aren’t going to die.

  Arturus and Ellen followed the trail of blood and water. Ellen stayed just slightly behind him but was close enough to peer over his shoulder.

  He entered the room and took stock of the figure. He immediately put out a hand to keep Ellen back.

  The man who lay before him was unfamiliar. He had scratches along his armored vest, as if it had been clawed by dyitzu. A bullet had struck him on his unarmored shoulder, apparently of small caliber. It looked like the bullet was still in him. His right leg was a bloody mess, sporting two different sets of lacerations. Arturus figured those were probably hound bites. But for all his wounds, the man was well groomed. His face was clean shaven and his hair was short and neatly cut. Even his fingernails were trimmed. He was well armed, too, with an M-16 rifle slung at his side and a pistol holstered at his hip. Arturus approached the wounded stranger carefully, making sure that the man’s eyes were closed and that his breathing was regular. He reached out and touched the stranger’s right hand, checking the palm.

  Scarring. Hard to do in Hell, Arturus knew. One had to treat a wound with rustrock to keep it from healing properly. The scar that had been cut into his palm was a symbol, a triangle within a trapezoid which had two lines running through it.

  Arturus drew his gun. The end of it was shaking. He tried to keep control of it and his breathing while he reached for the man’s rifle. As carefully as he could, he removed the straps from the gun and pulled it aside. Then he stole the man’s sidearm out of his holster.

  Arturus looked at Ellen.

  “Go to Harpsborough.” Arturus’ voice was hoarse.

  “What?” Ellen sounded frightened.

  “Go to Harpsborough, now.”

  “I don’t know the way.”

  “Then find it. Get the guards. As fast as you can. Tell them you’ve found an infidel.”

  From the Book of the Infidels, Gehennic Law: Fisher of Men

  The Little Boy Jesus came to the Sea of Galilee with His nets. He thought that fishing was rather hard work, so He decided that He’d play His flute in order to entice the fish onto the bank. He played then such a beautiful song that the birds silenced their chatter just to hear Him.

  But the fish could not hear Him, so they did not come onto the shore and swam instead in the muddy sea.

  Angered, but still unwilling to cast His nets, Jesus played another song. This time the song was so beautiful that the trees bent in close, and the breeze itself stopped to listen.

  But still the fish did not come onto the bank.

  Jesus’ anger grew, and He resolved to play a song more beautiful than had ever been heard on Earth or in the Heavens. Its beauty was so great that the angels came down from clouds, and the sun and moon stopped their fighting, instead sharing the sky, that they might hear the melody.

  But still the fish did not come onto the bank.

  Enraged, Jesus leapt to His feet and opened His nets. He cast them into the sea, and when He had captured the fish He tossed them on the earth. He watched the fish flop about as He prepared to gut them.

  “Well,” He said, “there’s no use dancing now.”

  “Free will was the greatest gift God gave to Man. Is it any wonder that this was the first thing He wanted back?”

  —Ares

  “Wisdom is such a tricky thing. I speak often to wise men. They are always telling me that, when they were raised, things were done this way. They also tell me, that had things been done that way when they were little, they would have been chastised and beaten. I always wait for their argument, but it seldom comes. It seems sufficient to them that they should think as their mothers did—as if other people didn’t have mothers who disagreed.”

  —Endymion

  Benson saw a figure running through the cavern.

  Is he real, or a figment?

  Whatever it was, it stopped in indecision.

  He’s real.

  “Wait, wait!” Benson shouted. “Carlisle? Is that you? It’s Benson.”

  Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

  “Carlisle, stop. You can’t go running here. It’s not the same. You’ll never find your way back.”

  Carlisle turned, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He bent over as he spoke, placing his hands on his knees. “I can’t. He’s after me. He’s shot me already. In the side. Like Christ.”

  “Who, Carlisle? Who’s shot you?”

  “The Infi—”

  “Don’t say his name!” Benson screeched.

  The fool. Doesn’t he know how many people the Infidel’s touched? How many minds he’s imprinted himself upon?

  Carlisle looked horribly lost. Benson tried to remember how long ago it had been since he’d seen him. It was before Harpsborough. Before t
he Citizens.

  Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

  Carlisle looked to be regaining his energy. He stood, placing his hands on his hips. Sweat dripped from his brow and splattered against the cavern floor. “He’s been here. I can feel him. The walls remember him. He’s after him. The boy. He’s after the boy.”

  “What boy? Carlisle—”

  “The angel’s get!” Carlisle shouted. “The Infidel can’t be allowed to have him.”

  “Angel’s get? Jesus Christ, Carlisle, that was over ten years ago. You heard La’Ferve. That boy was human. Human, Carlisle. His mother was fed human blood. You know that.”

  Can he even hear me?

  Carlisle turned and ran, his bare feet slapping against the cavern’s stone. Benson chased after him. They passed through a room that had a floor made all of gold and then through an archway whose natural rock formation looked like the mouth of a dragon.

  Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. The mouth of the dragon. The floor of gold. Don’t forget. Don’t forget. You’ll make it back to the cold room. And then you’ll remember. Somehow you’ll remember. It may take years but something will spark your memory and you’ll know the way.

  He reached out and grabbed Carlisle’s arm. The man turned, looking about the chamber, unsure of where he was.

  “Carlisle stop. You can’t keep running.”

  “The boy,” Carlisle insisted.

  “We’re dead, Carlisle. We’ve gone further down, to another level of Hell. You fool. You can’t go running. Hell here only stays the same if you remember it. You can’t find the boy. The Infidel can’t catch you. You’re dead again. Do you get me?”

  Carlisle’s eyes widened.

  The only chance a man here had for happiness was to find another who could help ground him. Someone who could project a shared reality into the Hell about. But it was so easy to lose that person. Particularly when one slept.

  Benson doubted Carlisle could ever help root him.

  He’s mad. Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. The mouth of the dragon. The floor of gold. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

  Carlisle’s face tightened in fear. “No. I have to find him.”

  “It’s over, Carlisle.”

  The man ran again, and Benson chased after him.

  They ran through a chamber of stalagmites and into a mist covered river that was only a few feet deep but nearly a hundred feet wide. Benson tried to keep up with him, stepping into the water. The water clung to his feet, slowing each step as he sloshed after the running Carlisle.

  Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. The mouth of the dragon. The floor of gold. The room of stalagmites. The knee deep river. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

  “Carlisle, you can’t get anywhere.”

  Benson understood. He knew that the farther out you got from whatever center this Hell had, the less real everything became. The rooms would disappear as soon as you blinked. Once you got this far out, it was almost impossible to get back. You could get lost sleeping and be forced to remember your dreams to try and figure out how and where you traveled. And the rooms were just like that, dreams. You could remember them, just barely, if you tried hard enough. Sometimes you knew the room was there, you could feel it, but the harder you tried to remember its details the more it slipped away.

  “I can,” Carlisle shouted, turning about in the river. “I can make it back. Don’t you remember what the Infidel taught? Hell is infinite. Its end is also its beginning. If I go down far enough, I’ll find the boy.”

  Don’t forget. Don’t forget. The caverns that look like the belly of a giant worm. The twin pillars that stand there like guards. The floor of gold. The room of stalagmites. The knee deep river. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

  A cold shiver rippled up Benson’s spine.

  I forgot something. What? What did I miss?

  “Carlisle!”

  The man was receding into the river’s mists.

  “Carlisle!”

  You’ll remember. It was just one room. You’ll remember it. And then you’ll get back to the cold room. And you’ll remember how to get to the silver falls. And you’ll remember all the way back to Harpsborough.

  He dreamed about the village sometimes. He dreamed of sitting against the Fore and watching through blurry eyes as people walked by. But each day those dreams grew dimmer.

  “Carlisle!”

  The man was gone.

  Julian moved quickly through Harpsborough, passing Kylie’s Kiln on his way to the side of the village that was the furthest from Father Klein’s church. Mancini’s Still was the only underground room in Harpsborough, save for Ben Staunten’s storeroom under the Fore. Smoke seeped up through the cracks in the hatchway, and the heat blasted him as he opened it.

  Julian closed the hatch behind him and crept carefully down into the still’s stairway. Smoke poured up along the slanted ceiling above him like an upside-down waterfall. Julian let his fingers trail along the inside wall to keep himself steady as he descended away from the light. The tight confines didn’t bother him at all, though he always wondered how some of the others, like Copperfield and Ben Staunten, were able to come down the stairs. The heat increased at each turn in the stairwell, and he began to cough a bit.

  “It’s Julian.”

  “I know,” Mancini answered.

  The last few stairs were lit by the fires below. Julian was sweating profusely by the time he entered the still.

  Mancini was standing by his quicksilver thermometer. The man kept a careful eye on it while Julian tried to wait patiently. He watched the smoke pouring up the stairs. Then he watched the copper tubes on the ceiling and pretended he could see the bloodwater flowing down them and into the collection barrels.

  Mancini, apparently satisfied, turned and spoke. “Got the feathers?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t let them touch anything, did you?”

  Julian shook his head.

  With Mancini, he knew, the fewer words you spoke, the better off you were. He dug around in his pack until he found the old world plastic bag that he kept the dirty brown harpy feathers in. He produced it, and passed it to the Brewer.

  “Julian,” Mancini said harshly, “the bag’s not tied twice.”

  Julian nodded, trying to look as sorry as he could.

  “This isn’t like corpsedust, kid. A bit of this gets in Staunten’s stores, and you’d take out half our food supply.”

  Julian looked to his shoes.

  “Promise me you’ll bathe in the river after you leave here.”

  “Yes, Citizen.”

  Mancini seemed satisfied and went to the back of the room where he kept his stock. He gathered three jars of his new brew, a box of shells, and what Julian longed for the most, some honey from the Pole.

  Julian could feel himself smile as soon as he saw the honey.

  “You were safe, as always?”

  Julian nodded, thinking for a second that Mancini was concerned about him. That seemed a little odd.

  “No chance of the harpies following you?”

  Julian shook his head glumly. He hadn’t really thought that Mancini was concerned about him as a person, but it would have been a nice gesture for the man to at least pretend he cared. Mancini was still staring at him, so Julian figured he would need to speak a little.

  “I never see the harpies. The feathers fall down through a grate. I gather them very carefully, like you say. I have too, because I can’t let them spoil the devilwheat.”

  “Good enough,” Mancini said, “but if you ever feel like there’s danger, just stop, okay? This new bre
w is helping me out. I practically own the Fore by now, but there’s no sense in bringing harpies down upon us, okay? Okay?”

  But Julian had been followed.

  Even if Mancini doesn’t care about me, he cares about getting the feathers. He’ll stop the burnt man, if he can.

  “I have been followed, Citizen,” Julian said, “just not by harpies.”

  “Who, then?” Mancini asked.

  “A man with no face. He’s quiet, quieter than the hunters. He moves faster too, and knows the labyrinth well on the far side of the Kingsriver.”

  Mancini nodded slowly, pursing his lips. At long last, he spoke. “Don’t worry about him, Julian. That man is of no danger to you. He is an old friend of mine. Has he discovered where the devilwheat is?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Even if he does, don’t worry. He’ll not harm you, or take your share.” Mancini passed him the bloodwater, shells, and honey. “Now run along.”

  Julian did, clutching his loot to his chest and running up the stairs as fast as he could. He felt safer in the wilds than he did in the still.

  He put a little distance between himself and Mancini before he finally sat down. He pulled out his jar and eagerly worked at the corking with his knife. The seal was stubborn, so he had to work at it a bit longer than he liked. Finally there was a little pop, and the jar opened. He put a finger into the honey, closed his eyes, and then sucked on it. The sticky sweetness clung to his tongue, and he pushed it toward the roof of his mouth.

  He sighed as the honey dripped down his throat.

  “You doing alright there, Julian?” a hunter asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  The hunter laughed.

  There was some shouting, and then a gunshot from the entrance. A young girl was screaming.

  Julian quickly sealed the honey.

  “God damn it, Huang, keep that weapon safetied,” one of the guards from the entrance shouted. “You damn near shot her.”

  The guard, who tuned out to be Fitch, poked his head in. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

  But Julian wasn’t listening to him. He was listening to the girl.