Hell's Pawn

by Jay Bell

  “L isten to me, Norseman,” R immon snarled, grabbing him by the beard with unexpected aggression. “We’ve decided you’ve suffered enough for your sins.”

  “You… You have?” the ragged man trembled.

  “We have, but Heaven doesn’t want you, and we can’t stand the sight of you.” R immon feigned thoughtfulness, his face beautiful even when scowling. “You remember those stories your grandfather used to tell you? About O din and his bunch of fools? Well, they’re all true. M aybe the old gods will take you in, if you think hard enough of them and your grandpappy. Otherwise it’s back in the pit with you.” The incubus released his victim and moved to the side of the coach, opening a door and waving John in. “Pull the lever as soon as Dante’s in and you’ll be on your way.”

  “What’s with the castaway?” John asked, nodding to the Norseman.

  “He’s your driver and your engine. R emember how you hitched a ride here by holding on to Dante? The same concept applies, except the seating arrangements are more comfortable. Goodbye, John.”

  R immon turned away, walking around the back of the coach with Dante in tow.

  That was it? A night more intimate than J ohn had ever known, and this was how they parted? B usiness was business, but a courtesy kiss would have been nice. O r at least one of those pitiful hugs where they patted you on the back.

  J ohn waited in the coach, trying as casually as possible to glance out the far window for one last look at R immon, but it was only Dante who appeared around the other side, looking pale as he struggled to pull himself up on the bronze step. B y the time he was seated, he appeared positively nauseous.

  “What’s the matter, stagecoach fright?” John asked.

  “Ha, ha. Let’s get this over with.”

  The coach was luxurious inside, with two blue velvet benches facing each other.

  P olished mahogany paneled the interior, and a stylish brass lamp with emerald glass hung from the ceiling. O ne of the benches was segmented by an armrest, and protruding from this was a simple, brass-tipped wooden lever. B ecause it was the only lever in sight, J ohn felt safe in pulling it. The coach jerked, propelled forward with a hiss of steam. Their unwilling coach driver began a dreadful moan that soon graduated into a full blown scream as they increased in speed. Furious shouts came from the pedestrians who were rolled over or knocked aside by the runaway coach, which was accelerating at an alarming rate.

  J ohn’s stomach lurched as the coach rounded sharp corners, maneuvering at right angles with frightening precision. The vehicle slid left, right, and back again, all in a ma er of seconds as it wound through the city streets. The world outside was nothing more than a blur when an explosion rocked them to the core. Then came calm.

  O utside the coach window, nameless colors looped and spiraled, their hues overlapping and mixing when blown by the occasional astral wind. They had broken free of Hell.

  Chapter Six

  Any sight, no ma er how breathtakingly beautiful, becomes routine given enough time. This truth allowed J ohn to eventually pull his eyes away from the entrancing world outside the coach window. He had thought Dante’s silence was for the same reasons as his own, but the I rishman wasn’t looking out the window at all. I nstead he was leaning back against the bench with his eyes closed, his skin still pale.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I ’m fine,” Dante murmured, opening his eyes with some reluctance. “I just had a long night, is all.”

  E xcept that he had been his usually chipper self in Asmoday’s office. O nly before boarding the coach had he gone green in the gills. Unless a soul could be travel sick, whatever had been covertly conveyed had Dante upset.

  “W hat did they say to you back there? M y ears started ringing when Asmoday was speaking to you, which was hardly subtle.”

  Dante paused a li le too long before answering. “They just wanted to make sure—” He hesitated but then picked up speed, obviously running with a new idea, “—that I do right by you. You say jump, I jump. That sort of thing. Asmoday wants to keep me in line, that’s all.”

  “Right.”

  I f that were the case, they wouldn’t have bothered keeping J ohn out of the loop. B ut he thought he could guess the truth. Asmoday wanted someone to report back to him, one of Hell’s own. M aybe there was more to it than that, but J ohn suspected that Dante was worse at keeping at secret than a nosey neighbor. He would bide his time and find out sooner or later.

  “This is taking a long time,” John said. “It took about two seconds to get to Hell.”

  “O ur driver’s connection to Asgard isn’t as strong as mine was to Hell,” Dante said, resting his eyes again. “We’ll be there shortly.”

  J ohn turned back to the window and was surprised to see a familiar shape—a tree, with far-reaching branches that drooped under the weight of its own broad leaves. The trunk was gnarled and twisted, worn by the uncountable years it had taken to grow so astoundingly tall.

  The coach veered toward the tree’s canopy and began to speed, the driver excited by the appearance of a place he scarcely believed existed. E ven Dante came out of his repose to gawk. The branches weren’t just burdened with leaves. They supported entire lands along their length: some frozen tundras, others mountainous planes, all do ed with trees of the same species as their gigantic mother. R ivers spilled over the edges of flat worlds, spiraling downward to quench the tree’s roots far below.

  The coach dipped as if gravity had finally caught hold, the world outside becoming a blur before they jarred to a stop. J ohn didn’t hesitate to spring from the coach when he saw what awaited them.

  G rass! And trees! And air as fresh and clean as any laundry day in J uly. J ohn squa ed to run his hands through the grass and dig in with his fingers, feeling dirt gather beneath his nails. He had always been a city boy, but the time he had spent trapped in P urgatory’s metropolis had heightened nature’s allure. The difference was like stepping out of winter and directly into summer, the air suddenly alive with sunshine and bird song. J ohn glanced up to catch sight of the singing avians and stared.

  The sky was made of branches. This wasn’t poetry. W here they had landed were hardly any trees, just a few scrawny specimens sca ered across the surrounding slopes. B ut where the sky should have been, the endless branches of the world tree splayed out in every direction. He could see no blue beyond, no sky peeking though, and no sign of a sun, yet the day was as bright and warm as any other.

  B irds of every species busied themselves in these branches, cheerfully cha ering when not swooping from location to location. S ome flew in densely populated flocks, drifting like feathered clouds through the air. I f there was a heaven for birds, this must be it, a place where tree and sky had become one.

  “I’m free!” someone hooted joyously.

  J ohn turned to see the Norseman had undergone a transformation. Not only had he freed himself from the coach, but his previous bedraggled appearance had changed.

  G one was the singed hair and stained clothing. He was clean now, his body and his clothes, and his cheeks had taken on a healthy hue. The Norseman cast one suspicious glance in John’s direction before running away down the hill.

  “G ood riddance,” Dante mu ered, his back against the coach. L ike the Norseman, his appearance had improved. He was still as scruffy as ever, but the color had returned to his face.

  “You sure we don’t need him as a guide or something?”

  “He doesn’t know Asgard any better than we do,” Dante said dismissively. “Besides, I ’m pre y sure we need to go up. W hat self-respecting god would reside at the bo om of a hill?”

  J ohn regarded the gentle slope where they stood. They were at the bo om near a sparse forest, where the Norseman had already disappeared. Above them, the hill rose until its apex. The hike wouldn’t be easy, but Dante was right: G ods were more likely to be at the peak.

  As it turned out, the hike was nothing to worry about. P hysical exertion was a thi
ng of the past. They reached the top of the hill with li le effort and no pain. J ohn wasn’t even breathing hard, because he wasn’t breathing at all.

  B efore them, a farm lay on an even plateau. E very field was in full bloom, the crops ripe and ready to be harvested. They stopped to watch a man in the field, picking various items and placing them in a basket as if he were shopping. The man noticed the two onlookers but didn’t seem concerned. W hen he was finished choosing the food he wanted, he returned to a path and walked away from them. They followed, finding a simple road outlined on each side by grooves created from the frequent passage of carts.

  They travelled along this road until they reached a village. R ustic buildings crowded together, each crafted from the most basic materials. M ost were long with odd rounded roofs reminiscent of hulls, like the V ikings had simply turned their ships upside down when se ling on land. The curious roofs were supported from the ground by hewn tree trunks spaced every few feet.

  O ther buildings were also squat and long, but their walls were made of packed dirt.

  L ike their counterparts, the roof dominated the architecture, but these were made of turf and were green with sprouting grass.

  “I have to see inside of those,” John breathed in awe. “They’re brilliant!” J ohn had spent countless hours creating blueprints, obsessing over the smallest details to ensure maximum space usage, energy efficiency, visual appeal, and an overwhelming number of other considerations. He relied on drafting tools and the accuracy of computers, and yet the simple practical structures here had been built by hand. No construction vehicles had erected these buildings. They were created by the sweat and muscle of men and women who were unlikely to take them for granted.

  “We’ll be going in one of them, I ’m sure,” Dante said. “M ost likely in the center of the village and of a size much larger than these.”

  J ohn was surprised by Dante’s confidence in what they needed to do. The conversation he wasn’t allowed to hear had only lasted a minute. C ould they have really briefed him so thoroughly?

  M ost of the villagers were dressed in simple but colorful robes, decorated with belts, cords, and primitive jewelry. L ike the man in the field, none of them appeared surprised by the presence of two strangers. Apart from initial glances, J ohn and Dante were ignored as they moved through the village.

  After travelling a considerable distance, they reached the center of town and found what they were looking for. The hall was so large that it dwarfed shopping malls and football stadiums. L ike the buildings they had seen earlier, it resembled a boat turned upside down, but this one had a roof thatched in gold. L ight from an invisible sun reflected off its surface, the effect almost blinding.

  “Valhalla,” Dante said before grinning. “You know what goes on in there, don’t you?”

  E ven J ohn was familiar with this myth. The great heroes and those who had fallen in ba le spent eternity in Valhalla, drinking, feasting, and brawling with the gods.

  There may have been some womanizing with the Valkyries as well, he couldn’t quite remember, but there was sure to be booze.

  “There’s a lot of drinking in the afterlife,” John commented.

  “When in Rome,” Dante said, “or Norseland or wherever.”

  J ohn shook his head and followed Dante as he strode forward. No guards were at the door, but what sort of deities would need them? E specially when the hall beyond was stuffed with hundreds if not thousands of immortal warriors, drunk, rowdy, and no doubt eager for a good fight. J ohn winced in anticipation of the loud festivities taking place inside as Dante threw open the door.

  The hall beyond was completely silent until a cranky voice called out, “C lose the door! You’re letting in the cold!”

  They hurried in, the door slamming shut behind them. The hall was even grander inside. M ythical beasts hung from the ceiling, monsters that had been slain by heroes and stuffed. S words, armor, and weapons of all kinds were mounted on the walls, each with a plaque declaring who they belonged to and what their achievements were. The most important of these were accompanied with statues of the heroes, each in a noble pose.

  A long table ran the considerable length of the hall. The surface should have been covered in steaming bird carcasses, delicious fruits, great slabs of meat, and of course, tankards of mead. I nstead it was bare except for some kni ing, a number of used handkerchiefs, and something that looked like a bowl full of prunes.

  A handful of gods sat at the table. There was no mistaking what they were. E ven though they appeared more wizened than expected, they still radiated power. As J ohn looked upon each of them, he knew them by name and reputation. S uch was their presence that their stories gathered around them as auras.

  There was B aldur the sun god, still beautiful despite his considerable age. His brilliant blue eyes shone with what might have been youth or senility; it was difficult to tell. Next to him was a blindfolded god with an old bent horn in his ear: Hodur, the greatest of all archers despite being blind. At the center of the table sat Frigg. Age only lent more credence to her reputation for wisdom, which was currently focused on knitting a fat pair of socks. Holding the wool for her was the mighty Thor, still a hulking figure although his muscles now sagged from his arms.

  No one else was in the room. No warriors, no Valkyries, not even serving staff. The old gods went about their nose-blowing and napping without even glancing up at the newcomers.

  J ohn grasped for a properly formal way of addressing them. He cleared his throat and declared, “Norse gods! It is an honor to stand before you.”

  “Is it time for my bath?” Baldur asked.

  Some of the gods snickered as John’s face flushed.

  “We bring greetings from Hell,” he tried again.

  “What’s the old witch been up to, then?” Hodur asked.

  “Not Hel,” Frigg said patiently. “He means the place, not the goddess.”

  “Oh. Well, tell her we said hello,” Hodur replied.

  Dante stepped forward with an impatient sigh and produced a scroll that was burning with fire. “Just read this, will you? Which one of you is in charge?”

  “I am.” Thor’s voice rumbled like thunder when he spoke. He stood and snatched the scroll out of Dante’s hand, not fearing the flames. He unrolled the parchment and examined it, his brow furrowing in concentration. Half a minute later and he moved on to the next word. Eventually he grunted and shoved it toward Frigg.

  The goddess took one look at it and tu ed. “The writing is too small for these old eyes.”

  “L et me,” Hodur offered. The blind god took the scroll and held it at arms length in front of him. “M m-hm,” he said after a moment’s time. “I see. Hell wants to wage war.”

  “Against us?” Thor grumbled.

  “No, no, against Heaven,” Hodur explained. “They want our help.”

  “What care we of angels and demons?” Frigg asked.

  “There are souls trapped in P urgatory, held there against their will,” J ohn said, stepping forward. “Not just C atholics, but souls from all religions. S ome of your own people could be there, too.”

  “M ost of our kind came here long ago,” Frigg answered. “There isn’t likely to be more on the way.”

  “There are the neo-Pagans,” B aldur pointed out. “I rather like them, even if they don’t have a taste for blood.”

  “Any of our kind could fight their way out of P urgatory!” Thor snarled, crossing his massive arms over his chest. “Nothing there but a bunch of fluffy birdmen. W hat are they called? Angels! P

  a!” The glimmer in his eye didn’t go unnoticed by J ohn. The thunder god was full of pent-up aggression. E nticing him into a war shouldn’t take much more than a little creative description.

  “P urgatory has changed,” J ohn told him. “G one are the angels. I n their place are giant spiders and glass wizards, cruel masters of their territory. P urgatory is surrounded by a barrier built from their victims, a monument to their skill
in ba le.

  They are indeed worthy foes!”

  B aldur and Hodur were both bright red in an effort to hold back their laughter, but Thor was buying it. His eyes were alive with the idea, his great muscles twitching in anticipation. “And Heaven?” he asked.

  “So deadly are the foes there that none have returned to speak of them.” The thunder god leapt to his feet. “We shall feed the ravens!” he bellowed. “We will wage war until Heaven is covered in wound-dew!”

  Frigg delicately took hold of his elbow and pulled Thor back down to his seat. W ith an expression of limitless patience, she whispered into his ear. Thor flushed and pouted at her words. “We are too old to fight,” Thor said in monotone. “Loki has stolen the golden apples that keep us young.” He sounded as if he were reading from a script.

  “G o to J otunheim, the land of the giants, and bring the apples and the traitor back to us, and we will join you. This falcon shall guide you.” Finished with his speech, he sat back in his chair and glared at them.

  A bird’s cry echoed through the hall as a falcon swooped down from the rafters. The bird circled J ohn until he raised his arm for it to perch on. He eyed it nervously for a moment before turning back to the thunder god. “What do we—”

  “Go!” Thor yelled, cutting off his question.

  They left the hall with haste, the sound of laughter bursting out the second the door slammed shut.

  “There’s something very wrong here,” John said.

  Dante nodded. “They’re taking the piss. I reckon they’re playing some sort of game with us. Asmoday said we weren’t the first ones here.”

  “That’s right. He said the others had been sent back in pieces.” J ohn frowned. “S o what do we do?”

  The falcon screeched shrilly and launched itself from his arm.

  Dante shrugged. “Follow the bleedin’ bird.”