by Brom
A man bumped Coach as he walked by. Coach looked, then looked again, not believing what he was seeing. It was Chet! Chet, right there in front of him! “Hey,” Coach growled, grabbing the man by the arm, but when the man turned Coach could clearly see it wasn’t Chet. “Oh . . . sorry,” Coach said, letting go. “Sorry.” Christ, he thought, what’s wrong with me? Why in the fuck would Chet be down here? This wasn’t the first time he’d thought he seen the boy either. He could’ve sworn he’d seen him in the crowds of Styga, then hanging from one of those crosses on the hill. He rubbed his eyes. He knew why he was seeing the boy: because next to finding his mother, there wasn’t anything he wanted more than to get his hands on that little cocksucker.
Shiner, that’s what the kids had started calling Coach back at Walker High, right after Chet had broken his nose, giving him that black eye. And it had stuck too, for a while. He could deal with the kids, they were all shits anyway, but when David Jenkins, the fat-ass economics teacher, had slapped him on the back and called him that in the teacher’s lounge, in front of half the faculty no less, that had been too much. After class that day, Coach had paid David a visit, walking into the economics room and shutting the door behind him. When David looked up from grading papers and saw the look in Coach’s eyes, he did not call him Shiner. Matter of fact, once their little meeting and the things Coach had made abundantly clear to David got around, none of the faculty ever call him that again.
“Four fleshies.”
“Huh?” Coach realized it was his turn.
“The fare is four fleshies,” the gatekeeper, a brawny man with a long red beard, said.
Coach patted his pockets one more time, but it was all gone—the handful of change, his whistle. “I’m a hard worker. I can—”
“No coin?”
Coach shook his head.
The man frowned, glanced over his shoulder. “Beck, we got any more work-for-passage slots?”
“Hell, yeah. Seet needs at least two more shovelers.”
“We got a slot. But it’s crappy work. You have—”
“I’ll take it.”
“Suit yourself.” The gatekeeper handed him a yellow tag tied to a strap. “Wear this where it can be seen. Follow Beck, he’ll take you to the line.”
Coach hung the tag around his neck and followed. I’m on my way, Mom, he thought, his mind turning to all the things he wanted to tell her, needed to tell her, hoping to God, that in the end, she’d see fit to forgive him for what he’d done to her.
CHAPTER 25
The clouds above them began to lighten, dousing the stone buildings in a reddish glow. Chet and Ana stood within the shadows of an alley watching souls as they pulled carts and carried bundles and baskets purposely up and down a broad avenue. Most of the souls here were dressed in dingy work clothes and heavy boots. A brick wall, blackened with grime, lined the far side of the avenue. It was too high to see over, but Chet could hear sounds of laboring coming from the other side.
Ana waited for a large wagon to pass, then stepped out. “No sign of them,” she said and headed down the street. Chet followed, shifting the bundle on his back. Yevabog moaned, the first sound from her in hours. They followed the road to an archway topped with a crumbling bust of a great stag that led into a muddy yard. Wagons and carts were lined up in rows within—souls running about, packing and loading.
“You think this is it?” Ana asked.
Chet nodded.
Several souls and a few carts lined up outside the arch, waiting their turn to enter. A brawny man with a long red beard stood next to a small guard shack, manning the gate. “Have your coin ready,” he yelled. “We’re leaving in two shakes.”
A small man with an anxious, puggish face, dressed in crimson and gold silk—much like a jester’s outfit—rode up in an ornate cart drawn by two white horses. The cart was also crimson and gold, painted like a circus wagon.
“It’s about time,” the gatekeeper called, holding up the line as he waved the man through. The horses clomped forward then stopped at the arch; they appeared spooked.
“Get on now!” the gatekeeper yelled. “The whole caravan is waiting for you!”
“Don’t you yell at me, Samson,” the man in the cart growled. “Stupid beasts got a mind of their own.” Chet noticed just how strange the horses were, one of them in particular, its snout short, stumpy, the other thin to the point of emaciation. Neither one had any fur, just a pale, blotchy hide.
Two guards armed with swords and draped in matching crimson cloaks leaned against the gate, sharing a cigarette. They watched the proceedings with bored, bemused expressions. Chet approached. “This caravan going to Lethe?”
One of the guards, the younger, slender one, rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes. Yes,” he said in a highly annoyed tone. “All roads lead to Lethe.”
The second guard, a heavyset man with a bulbous nose, shook his head. “Don’t mind him, he’s a jerk to everyone. The Barrens of Styga border Lucifer’s kingdom. Lethe is the next real city along the trade route. So unless you’re wanting to visit Satan, you’re going to be going through Lethe.”
“I’m not a jerk to everyone,” the younger guard corrected. “I’m very selective.” Then added to Chet. “Getting out of Styga isn’t a bad idea. Nothing good left, not since the Green Coats took over.”
The older guard nodded. “If you got coin, just pay the gatekeeper. If not, there might be a few work-for-passage spots left. You can always try the Smith Caravan just down the way. But don’t believe they’re heading out for a day or two.”
Chet thanked the guards and headed to the back of the line with Ana.
“Chet,” Ana said. “I don’t have any coin. Do you?”
“No. Carlos took everything.”
“Stop. Stop!” the gatekeeper shouted at the little jester man. “You’re stuck.” The horses had managed to wedge the cart against the gate post, blocking the entire line. One of the horses reared, fighting the bridle.
“Watch it!” the gatekeeper shouted.
The jester man got the horses back under control, but they remained skittish, snorting and stomping.
“Dammit, Joseph!” the gatekeeper cried. “You injure one of those horses and Veles will cook us both alive.”
Chet felt Yevabog tense against his back.
“Veles,” she hissed.
“What?”
“Leave,” Yevabog whispered. “Find another caravan.”
“But,” Chet said, “they’re leaving now. We don’t have—”
“Veles . . . he is a monster.”
“What’s she saying?” Ana asked.
“That this is a bad choice.”
“The guard said there was another caravan,” Ana said, stepping out, peering down the avenue. “I think I see it. Let’s just—” Ana pulled back, tugging Chet with her. “It’s them—the Green Coats. They’re down at the other gate.” Chet and Ana started away, stopped. “Shit,” Chet said, seeing more Green Coats coming from the other direction. The men were poking their heads into every doorway and window, stopping souls, searching carts, asking questions. Chet and Ana took cover against the gate, behind the line of souls, searching for an escape, finding the arch to be their only way off the avenue. “We gotta get in,” Chet said.
“The wheel’s jammed against the gate,” the gatekeeper barked. The horses whinnied and stamped, tugging on the reins. “You’re going to have to unhitch them and back it up. Now get to it.”
The little man hopped down wearing a thunderous scowl and started unhooking the horses.
“Hey, you two!” the gatekeeper shouted at the guards. “How about pulling your thumbs out your assholes and helping out!” The two guards exchanged a frown, but headed over.
The jester man unhitched the horses and led them to the gate, tying them to a post behind the gatehouse, then returned.
“We’re going to have to lift this side and push it back,” the gatekeeper said.
All four men lined up along one s
ide of the wagon. The moment everyone’s attention was on the wagon, Chet nudged Ana, pushing her along, the two of them slipping behind the little gatehouse. “When they lift the wagon,” Chet whispered, “we go.”
Ana nodded.
“Just follow—” Chet didn’t finish, cut off by a loud stern voice.
“Hail, there.” It was Carlos, addressing the gatekeeper.
Chet and Ana ducked down out of sight. Chet only got a peek at Carlos but realized he had his arm back, and was pretty sure the burns, the ones on the man’s face, were gone.
“We’re on the lookout for two criminals,” Carlos continued.
The gatekeeper and the guards either didn’t hear or didn’t care, all their attention on moving the cart.
“Were looking for a man with red hair and a Latino woman. Traveling together. They—”
“For fuck sake,” the gatekeeper said. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
“We’re here on Defender business. It’s urgent.”
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
“You don’t.” Carlos’s tone turned hard. “We will just check around for ourselves.”
The gatekeeper let go of the wagon and faced Carlos. “The hell you will. This is Veles’s caravan and he don’t care much for you Green Coat fuckups. So bugger off.”
Chet stared at the wagons just inside the yard, all the souls going to and fro. So close, he thought, knowing if they could get around the arch they could disappear among the chaos.
The men continued to argue, their voices heating up. Chet snuck a peek; everyone’s attention was on the gatekeeper and Carlos. It looked like things were about to come to blows. Now, Chet thought. Now. He bit his lip and slipped up alongside the horses, keeping the animals between him and the guards. The horse closest eyed him, stamping its hooves. “Easy, there,” Chet whispered, patting it along its neck.
He untied the beast, grabbing hold of its bridle, then nodded to Ana. She looked at him as though he were crazy, but joined him. Chet had spent a summer cleaning the stables for his neighbor’s two horses—had even been allowed to ride them on occasion—and always felt he had a way with them, but he wasn’t feeling any connection with this strange beast. He tugged the horse, unsure if it would come along or not. Surprisingly, the horse followed, seemed eager to escape the clamor. Chet maneuvered it along, using it for cover, as they headed through the archway and into the yard.
They reached the first wagon and Chet was about to let himself breathe again when the horse collided with a man coming rapidly around the wagon—only, Chet saw, it wasn’t a man, but some kind of creature. It reminded Chet of a goblin or gargoyle with its gray, stony hide and beakish, reptilian face, its hindquarters similar to those of a goat. A single horn protruded from the back of its flat head and a crest of stringy hair ran down its spine, all the way to its stubby tail.
“Sorry,” Chet said, trying to move past the creature.
The goblin man grabbed hold of the reins, setting its small black eyes on Chet. “Who are you?” the creature demanded, its words clipped, as though hard to form.
Chet stole a glance back to the gate and to his horror saw the little jester man staring at them with a puzzled expression.
“Let go,” Chet said. “Now!”
The goblin man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
The jester man began shouting and pointing at them.
“Ah, fuck,” Chet said as every eye fell on them: the gateman, guards, Carlos and all his men.
Chet punched the goblin man, stepping into the punch, driving his fist hard between the creature’s tiny eyes. It was like hitting a rock, but the goblin man crumbled all the same.
Chet threw Yevabog up on the horse, grabbed a handful of mane, and pulled himself after her. “Come on,” he yelled, reaching for Ana. She took his hand and he tugged her up, seating her behind him.
The horse kicked and spun, braying more like a donkey than a horse. Chet tugged sharply on the reins, trying to get the beast under control.
They came for them, all of them.
Chet could see open terrain out past the wagons. “Giddy-up!” he shouted, driving his heels into the horse’s sides. “YAH! YAH!”
The horse bucked and kicked, spun around a few more times, and then—to Chet’s utter horror—took off at a full gallop back toward the gate.
Ana screamed, clinging to Chet’s waist.
“WHOA!” Chet cried, yanking the reins, fighting not to be tossed.
The gatekeeper came out of the arch waving his arms, the guards right behind him. The horse veered sharply, its legs tangling, and crashed headlong into the arch.
CHAPTER 26
Chet shook his head, unsure where he was. Pain shot up his leg and drummed in his skull. He blinked, saw Carlos peering down at him.
“Hello, Chet.”
“Crap in a hat!” someone yelled. “Crap in a hat. Crap in a hat.” It was the little jester man. “What’re we going to do?” He sounded on the verge of tears.
The horse lay among the toppled stones, its head crushed beneath the rocks. It wasn’t moving. Ana sat against the wall, staring at the horse. Yevabog, still wrapped in the silk rag, lay next to her.
Chet tried to get up but couldn’t, both of his legs pinned beneath the horse.
“Grab him,” the gatekeeper said. “He can explain to Veles what happened to his horse.”
The two guards started forward, but Carlos stepped in their way. “No worries, fellows. We’ll take care of him.”
“The hell you will,” the gatekeeper said. “He has to answer to Veles. ’Cause if he don’t, then we will.”
Carlos waved his men, his Defenders, forward, close to twenty of them. “Sorry, but he’s coming with us.”
“And I’m telling you he’s not,” the gatekeeper said, drawing his sword.
Chet, seeing where this was going, struggled to reach his knife, but it was wedged beneath him.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Carlos said. “But this man is a wanted by the Defenders of Free Souls.”
“Fuck the Green Coats,” the gatekeeper spat. “This ground belongs to Veles and you’re trespassing. Now get out!”
When Carlos didn’t, the two guards drew their swords and stood next to the gatekeeper.
“Don’t throw your lives away for a god,” Carlos said.
The gatekeeper and two guards tightened ranks.
Hell, they mean to do it, Chet thought as he strained to get his hand on his knife. Three men against twenty.
Carlos nodded and his crew spread out, slowly surrounding the guards.
“My Vindo. My poor Vindo,” came a deep, resonate voice. All heads turned. There, standing upright upon its hind legs like a man, was a stag of grand proportions with magnificent antlers jutting out from its thick mane and a golden corona glowing dimly behind his great head. The mane—dark green, the color of forest moss—flowed down its neck, back, across its deep chest. It raised a hand and made a circle in the air—a slow, elegant gesture—and that’s when Chet noticed that its hands were human, the fingers long and graceful.
Carlos lowered his sword; his men followed suit. “I’m sorry for your loss, Veles. It was a beautiful animal.”
The stag’s golden eyes found Carlos. It cocked its head. “A Green Coat. What is a Green Coat doing in my yard?”
“My apologies, Lord Veles. No disrespect intended.” Carlos’s words were polite, but Chet could hear the disdain beneath them, as though it hurt to speak that way. “We’re only here to capture these criminals. We’ll see to it that—”
“No disrespect? Hmm . . . yet you do not bow? You and your men barge into my yard, and no one bows.”
Carlos grimaced; Chet could see the man wrestling with his temper.
“Oh,” Veles said. “I forgot. Green Coats do not bow to gods. Do they? For they have no need of gods. Well, Green Coat man, when souls have no need of gods, then gods have no need of them. Now be gone while I still allow it.”
“Veles,” Carlos began, the words terse, almost a growl. “I’m marshal here. I’ve been given authority to—”
“Authority?” Veles said, his voice low, dangerous. “Now you claim authority . . . over a god? You, little insect, should leave while you still have your ba.”
Carlos’s mouth tightened; he met the god’s eyes, held them. “No. Not without the criminals.”
No one spoke, moved, not so much as twitched.
The two figures, the towering stag and the soul, stared at one another and to Chet’s surprise it was Veles who blinked, his face softening. “You are playing a game. I like games. These two”—he gestured to Chet and Ana—“owe me a debt. Therefore I, Veles, claim them as my own, as my slaves, to be punished as I see fit. Now, Carlos, what will you do? Will you take them? Would you dare try to steal from a god?” Veles smiled. “It appears to be your move, godless man.”
All eyes shifted to Carlos, who didn’t appear in any mood to play games. He sucked in a deep breath. “We’re not leaving without the criminals.”
The Defenders exchanged quick nervous glances.
Veles raised his hand, his lips moving, the softest whisper, his elegant fingers dancing across the air as though playing an instrument. The great stag’s golden corona brightened slightly and the air crackled, feeling suddenly warm. Several of the Defenders fell back a step; two turned and fled.
“Hold your ground,” Carlos commanded. “You’re free men.”
Veles blew along his fingertips. Chet noticed smoke drifting off two of the guards, then a third, a fourth. One of them cried out, his hair suddenly bursting into blue flame. They all turned then, turned and fled. All except Carlos, who stood alone glaring at Veles.
Veles smiled. “It appears these men do not wish to throw away their ba for you. Godless men lack conviction. True loyalty lies only in devotion.”
“A new day’s dawning,” Carlos muttered. “Mark my words, god. Soon, very soon, we’ll no longer be your little playthings.” He spun, stormed away.
