Trampling in the Land of Woe_Book One of Three

by William Galaini

  Their odd host chuckled at the emptiness of the ballroom. “This town is dead.”

  “What brought you here?” Yitz asked, nodding politely in agreement.

  “It reminds me of home.” A hint of melancholy peeked through his eloquence. “I miss the city life. Such a good warren for a fox to hide in.”

  “Are you a fox?” Hephaestion prodded.

  “Oh yes. But far too good of one. I was never caught, even on Earth. I ate so many chickens and mice that Minos’s pens nearly ran dry scribbling down my repertoire. A fox is a lonely creature on Earth, but here it occasionally gets the chance to sit by the fire and chat with fellow foxes.”

  “So I’m a fox, too?” Yitz asked, eyebrow raised.

  “Certainly. Why else would the hounds be chasing you?”

  “Hounds? The samurai?”

  “To be more specific, yes. Led by that Jesuit fellow, judging from the robe and hat. They had flown over the city back and forth for hours and hours until they finally landed in that courtyard. They had no interest in hiding from prying eyes. So confident. Just as sure as hounds. But don’t worry.” The stalker cooed as though to a frightened child. “As a fellow fox, I postponed their hunt enough for you to easily make your way through the city down to the docks. Besides, they are merely hounds: loud and baying, scratching everywhere in circles. Strong and dedicated, certainly. But no match for foxes like us.” The innocent face met each of their gazes. “So I am here because it reminds me of home. Why are you here, friends? What brings one of God’s chosen and a speaker of archaic Greek so well equipped into the pit?”

  “I’m here to find someone,” Hephaestion said.

  “Do tell!”

  A thought struck Hephaestion. Reaching into his satchel he pulled the paperwork out. “This man here. There’s a drawing of his face. He’s down in the Malebolge on the frozen lake.”

  The man took the stack of documents from Hephaestion, his boney fingers gently gliding through them. Yitz appeared uncomfortable with such a wretched sinner thumbing through personal information. He glared at Hephaestion. “Hm, such a petty crime when you think of it,” the skinned man said. “Betraying the community and your religious institution for money. So many other, more interesting sins to commit. But surely he did not steal from a Grecian like yourself?”

  “No, but his parents are dear to me, and I promised to tell the boy they loved him.” Hephaestion glanced at Yitz, hoping his friend would understand his tacit apology.

  He couldn’t read what went on behind the metal mask. The man’s eyes unfocused, blinked, and then he handed Hephaestion the papers. “I hope you find him then. I am sorry I can’t be of help in that regard.”

  “You’ve done a lot to help already.”

  “Enough seriousness, let’s talk about the weather.” The red man spouted about how foggy his city used to be back on Earth. He spoke of icy snow and blistering summers and how the church bells used to rouse him every morning.

  Yitz thrived amid smalltalk, and he was in his element. The two men engaged, complaining about the complexities of finances and annoyances of the lesser peoples that pollute the city. They both coerced Hephaestion to share about his time in Greece, and he told his host about the rushing waters pouring down from the Macedonian mountains in the spring, swelling the rivers and lakes with fish and silt.

  The three talked of songs, instruments they played poorly, and the difficulties of their daily lives on Earth and how much they missed them. Hephaestion wondered if all the pleasant conversation was intended to stall them, allowing the Jesuit to catch up. If so, why would this man have done so much to help in the first place? Do foxes toy with their prey?

  “Clearly you are ancient,” the skinless man said to Hephaestion, “and clearly I must wonder where you have been for thousands of years. Many ascend to Heaven in far lesser time frames. Do you have residence in New Dis? Do you have no interest in Heaven?”

  “I was in Purgatory.”

  “What an excellent place to waste your time, I hear. I’ve never seen it, but it sounds dreadfully dull.”

  “There are good, kind people there. Very patient,” Hephaestion replied, feeling defensive.

  “Did you stay there for thousands of years because of patient people?”

  “No.”

  The metal cherub’s gaze bore into Hephaestion. “Well, you are here now, aren’t you? Something significant must have pulled you from your perch.”

  “I got tired of waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For…someone. Someone to come to me.”

  “Come to you or come for you?”

  Hephaestion shifted in his seat so his sword handle pressed into his forearm. “Is this how you speak to mice or chickens before you eat them?”

  The red man roared with laughter. “Maybe my habits die hard, but no, Mr. Fox. The thought didn’t cross my mind. I am sorry to pry so hard. My manners are all but lost. Sometimes I fear I will go feral in this mausoleum of a city. Truth is, you two simply speaking with me has been more of a help than you know. I am delighted to assure you safe passage through my city—always. Do you intend to come back this way?”

  “No, we’ll crawl down the Devil’s Spine to Purgatory.”

  “Ah, the fabled passage so many dream of. But if ever either of you do come back to my city, perhaps in a flying machine even, please stop by. I’ll have a fire ready for another chat. And perhaps you could take me for a ride.”

  Hephaestion allowed himself a smile.

  “Good,” the man said. “Good.” Rising slowly before taking a knee before Hephaestion, he drew a long, curved line in the dust on the wooden ballroom floor. “Before you go, I owe you some simple advice. Please do not think me stingy, but your method for crossing is what I did. I held my breath, drifted into a trance-like state, and crawled along the bottom of Styx like a crab. It feels like ages ago.”

  Yitz’s expression turned bleak.

  “I wish to offer more advice. The boiling river…” the skinned host began.

  “Phlegethon.”

  “Quite right, quite right. Phlegethon. Home of those brutal and violent toward their fellow man. Or woman, as the case may be. But as I was saying, that river…you need to be very careful in your approach. Keep your eyes open and don’t speak to anyone you might see mulling about until you are certain they won’t figure out who you are.”

  “And who am I?” Hephaestion asked, his voice benign.

  “Why, you are Hephaestion of Macedonia, of course.”

  Was he really that transparent? Out of the millions of Greeks in the afterlife, how could a random denizen of Hell figure out his identity so easily?

  He ignored Yitz’s knowing grin. “How is it that everyone knows who I am? Thousands of years have passed.”

  “Well, while there are many famous Greeks, few are as famous as you. Besides, your ‘hounds’ were talking extensively about their fox.”

  “So you knew the whole time?”

  He nodded, his gaze delighted.

  “I didn’t want to be rude. But I do think it important you take my advice.”

  “Beware our approach to the river,” Yitz repeated.

  “Indeed.”

  “And what of the hounds?” Hephaestion asked.

  “I’ll eventually let them pass. I’ll let you reach the docks first and figure a way across the river, but then I’ll permit them your scent again.”

  Despite his host’s help, he still felt wary. “From one fox to another, thank you,” he said.

  The skinned man stood and bowed low with courtly flourish. “Speak of me well and speak of me often,” he said. “Especially to the ladies.”

  Chapter 32

  Like all good palaces, an escape tunnel led to the docks. Their polite host showed them the way, bowing low as they left, his empty hand p
roviding a flourish as though clutching a phantom top hat.

  Narrow and low, the tunnel ran directly to the main floor of the dockmaster’s tower. A fire had destroyed the office at some point, all of the documentation and wooden furniture reduced to cinder. The blackened ceiling camouflaged an open hatch. With Yitz boosting him, Hephaestion pulled himself through before hoisting his friend up. Once on the observation deck, he saw that the wide stone tower stood no taller than the city’s rooftops. Lying on their stomachs beneath the bronze roof, they combed the city with their eyes.

  “A looking glass would have been a good idea, Hephaestion.”

  “They are heavy, and it would have most likely broken. Besides, not many areas are large enough or clear enough to warrant one.”

  Hephaestion placed the astrolabe inches from their noses. The small device oriented to their location, whizzing and humming, until the surface emulated the rotation of the rings.

  “I think we can cross here just fine.” He pointed to the rocky shoreline below. “We’ll move cover to cover to avoid any prying eyes in the air. Once in the wood, we’ll head several leagues clockwise until this tower here comes into view. The Queen told me to meet a man there named Landis.”

  Yitz nodded while checking the pistol.

  Minutes later, they’d exited the tower and reached the river dock.

  Styx was cold and lifeless, its surface as smooth as untouched glass. The murky waters washed away memory and worldly joy, leaving nothing but despair and bitterness. Some said the depths were once a dry ravine until the spiteful damned shed their selfish tears.

  They sprinted towards a half-painted boat propped up on stone blocks, using the length to hide them. The cobbled street had dwindled to pebbles, and in the distance stood wooden docks, clearly fashioned from the suicide wood. Triremes, their long oars drooping, sat perfectly still on the motionless river, their reflections pristine on the water. Styx had no direction or flow. Not even a ripple.

  Some of the triremes had decayed to the point of sinking, their center masts and forward figureheads hinting at the sunken bulk.

  The boats themselves were long and wide, some of which held three rows of oars, and many of them had metal plating on their hull’s exterior. Hephaestion’s research had uncovered that many of the triremes’ oar banks acted as electrical crank generators, the combined electrical output of hundreds of oarsmen providing enough power to electrify the nearby water. The result was simple; if the damned condemned to the river Styx got too close, they would be shocked and deterred. This was necessary, because prior to such generators the water-logged damned would swarm to any boat on the surface and capsize it, consuming its occupants and dragging everything below to their depths.

  Just as the spiteful desired to drag others down in life, they did so now in eternal death.

  Yitz and Hephaestion sprang from their hiding spot and rushed to the land end of the dock.

  Yitz hid his profile behind a wide post, the surface stained with oily blood.

  “I wish we could burn it. Burn it all.” Hephaestion glared at the reddened wood around them. “Burn it and give them some kind of release.”

  As he surveyed the river, his stomach churned. No visible horizon would guide them, and he couldn’t judge depth or distance.

  A distant thumping echoed in the distance.

  “The ornithopter,” Yitz snarled as they scanned the sky. “This is how a rabbit feels.”

  “We have to move fast; we’ll be safer under the river. But I have to enter extremely slowly, so I’ll do it unde—”

  A gunshot startled Hephaestion; he gripped a thick post to avoid plunging into the dark water. Yitz dropped to his knees, head back, pistol smoking as it slipped from his fingers. Blood soaked through his waistcoat, spreading over his heart. Yitz folded onto his side, the last of his air slipping out of him in a sigh.

  After several stunned seconds, Hephaestion closed the Jew’s eyes. Perhaps he’d wanted to kill himself before he lost his nerve, or to retain some dignity. But either way, Hephaestion appreciated his bravery.

  The reverberating echo surrounded him, foreshadowing the flying machine’s imminent arrival. Hephaestion rolled Yitz off the dock, leaping down with him to the shore, and then dragged him under the dock. Through the slats, he spied an ornithopter flying over the city, the crew surveying the ground with spyglasses. Then another, and another, and soon the sky was full of buzzing, mechanical wasps, hovering, altering course, and seeking.

  Pulling a cord from his satchel, he trussed Yitz like a bird for baking, his arms secured by his sides and his legs bound together. Hephaestion laid out lengths of rope, draped his small comrade over them, and secured all of his gear to his chest. Then he laid on top, his back to Yitz’s chest, and tied them together with practiced knots. With a grunt, Hephaestion rolled over, turning Yitz into a giant, long backpack.

  After double-checking his knots, he wasted no time dragging himself forward on his stomach, as fast as he dared. Even a displaced stone would cause a ripple, which meant danger.

  With exquisite care, the fingers of his left hand entered first, found gravel, sunk down to grab hold. Then his right hand. Tiny increment by tiny increment, he pulled himself beneath the surface, careful not to cause a single disruption, even as his burden shifted.

  Hephaestion’s chin breeched the water. Cool and oddly inviting, he forced himself to maintain his pace.

  Years of practice had taught Hephaestion to still his lungs, to resist the innate desire for oxygen. But when the water threatened his nostrils and he sucked in his last breath, he realized nothing could have prepared him for this.

  At first, he clamped his eyes shut against the agony. He had to wrestle with his lungs and hands and knees and feet, but they would obey. His body was his army, and his campaign lay ahead, and he would have victory across this river.

  The heavy armor, shield, sword, and Yitz kept him low in the water, and, after he was fully submerged, he opened his eyes. None of the conscious dead clung to each other for comfort, or even seemed aware of others. They remained dormant, content in their misery. Shafts of weak light broke through the dull gloom, silhouetting the drifting bodies of the damned as they floated in lazy spirals like asteroids, wisps of hair wiggling around their scalps like lethargic paint strokes.

  His chest burned with need as he attempted to convince his instincts that air was only a comfort. Soon he banished “air” and “breathing” from his mental vocabulary, and he instead tried to think only of water. Hephaestion reminisced about the Aegean Sea and its many islands. Alexander and he sailed to where Troy once stood and honored the graves of Achilles and Patroclus. That night, after they made love in the sand under a bright summer moon, Alexander first whispered “my Patty,” and Hephaestion had felt weightless.

  Somewhere, on the other side of this drifting and lonely tomb waited his love.

  Deep now, the surface seemed an endless league above. His fingers clung to the bottom’s mossy stones, and he hauled himself forward, careful to avoid the occasional damned that would float nearby.

  Silence and pressure clogged his ears. His lungs constricted off and on, depending on how successfully he distracted himself. The dim light from above acted as an azimuth, his only guide to the far shore.

  The solitary, tedious task absorbed his physical concentration, giving him pockets of time during which his mind wandered. Throughout his afterlife, he’d always had someone around. Ulfric, certainly, but even now, in the lowest reaches of the universe, Yitz had been his company. Despite his apparent frailty, Yitz possessed a bravery Hephaestion could scarcely comprehend—how many times had the man saved the day? Could Hephaestion even have gotten this far without Yitz at his side?

  Hephaestion perceived a slight incline. He’d lost track of time and distance, placing his mind in a trance as his body obeyed a simple pattern. But he was closer to the other s
ide now. Fighting his eagerness to end the ordeal, his self-discipline tightened against the urge.

  Left hand, fingers dug in, pull forward. Right hand, fingers dug in, pull forward. Over and over and over.

  The gradient increased, shortening the distance to the glass-like barrier above him, bringing it lower and lower toward his head.

  He kept his wretched pace, his hair growing heavy as he broke the surface. His gaze sought the shore, spying trees in the distance. He tamped down his excitement, sheer will battling against centuries of instinct.

  As soon as his face crested the water, though, his nostrils flared, snorting and rippling the water’s surface. Hephaestion sprung to his knees, body weary from the weight of submergence and Yitz. He stumbled for the shore, desperate.

  They came. Bursting from the water like a nightmare, clawing hands and pale, howling faces surrounded him like a swell of frenzied carp. They surged upward—dozens of pale, bloated men and women, gargling and gasping in ferocious hunger.

  Their white eyes rolled about aimlessly, and Hephaestion understood: the damned in this river couldn’t see. They were as blind in death as they were in life.

  He ran, splashing through the knee-deep water, as they yanked at his cargo. Like a macabre tug of war, they gripped Yitz’s legs, tightening the ropes around Hephaestion until they cut through his skin and restricted his breath. A coughing fit seized his creaking lungs, bending him over and giving them the advantage.

  The bindings around Yitz loosened. Drawing his sword, Hephaestion spun, Yitz’s arms flopping as the damned held tight.

  He drove his blade into their swampy flesh, its heat sizzling against their skin, steam erupting from their mouths and nostrils. Swinging his weapon like a scythe, he sliced them down, turning the water crimson. They surrounded him, a chaotic mob that gave him no recourse.

  Over the howling and screeching, Hephaestion heard an alien sound—a shrill staccato. Several of the damned jolted and shook as holes popped open in their flesh like corks from champagne bottles. The automatic gun fire hailed down from the ornithopter above.