Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  Obadiah paused to hold up the crystal orb. I studied it closely. It reminded me of a snow globe, except this one had swirling nebulas of rainbow lights inside instead of glitter.

  “I recently completed this,” he continued. “Called Tirion’s Temptation, it contains the last living memories of a mother who died during childbirth. For some reason, her final recollections were of her eldest son, Tirion, as a babe who had just learned to laugh. The Oracle will be drawn to such a gift, which offers him a rare opportunity to animate his own progeny. And while he will be unable listen to it physically, Tirion’s Temptation contains an esoteric vibrancy that will appeal to his peculiar . . . sensitivities. All he has to do is shake it, and hey presto!”

  Perfect. “I’ll take it, name your price.”

  “To you, Reaper, it’s free.” Obadiah placed the ball into my hand and bowed. “Please accept this with my gratitude.”

  “What? Are you sure? You know you can’t buy my favor in any way, so trying that line of approach will be a complete waste of time.”

  “I was hoping you might view my request as a form of payment?”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s . . . I’m due to fight in the arena again tomorrow. My centenary appearance, and I —” He had the decency to look ashamed. “I’m not trying to avoid it or anything like that, if that’s what you’re wondering. But would you mind passing my name on to the Undertaker? I want a better life down here, and being stuck in the Circus has prevented that. Don’t get me wrong, I know I have to pay my dues like every other damned soul. But once you get consigned to the freak show, the Undertaker makes it nigh-on impossible to get out. I was hoping you might pay for this gift with a kind word in the right place? Stronger arms would be nice. Perhaps greater speed?”

  The Bãlefire coursing through my veins flared in response to his request.

  “I’m sure they would,” I replied, “but this is hell, and as our Infernal Lord reminded us only a short time ago, you have to earn his benevolent gratitude.”

  Obadiah’s face dropped.

  I removed my gloves.

  “Still, you have done his Reaper a great service in providing the means by which he can more swiftly expedite the apprehension of a fugitive from injustice.”

  His eyes widened with hope.

  “Here . . . At least this time you won’t have to face the horror of battle.”

  I lightly touched Obadiah’s forehead, and he collapsed to the floor at my feet, dead. In moments, he had melted from sight.

  “You can be really cruel sometimes,” Nimrod sighed. Then he smiled. “Just the way our Reaper should be.”

  “Why, thank you. Coming from one of the greatest hunters of men ever to exist, that’s a great compliment.” I paused to wave my prize in his face. “Now c’mon, the time for teasing minions is over. We have a gift to deliver.”

  *

  The lights of Westmonster Bridge sparkled in the dusky glow of another dangerous evening in hell. At last, things seemed to be picking up, and the night air held a sense of anticipation I hadn’t felt in a long time. From my vantage point outside the All Seeing Eye, I followed the curve of the opposite shoreline and the course of the capital’s illuminations. Just opposite my position, they snaked along the Tombs itself, weaving inland along the length of Blackhall, then Hearse Guards Parade, and up to Hellson’s Column in the distance. This was my hometown, and despite the recent ups and downs of existence here, the mere sight of it made me feel at peace and glad to be undead.

  Things are heading toward a climax — and I, for one, can’t wait.

  Nimrod and I approached the wheel. Only one of the aboveground structures seemed to be connected to the Eye itself, the drive house at the base of the main support struts, and that crouched in total darkness. But I knew from experience that appearances could be deceiving.

  I’d never had to use the services of the Oracle before and wondered how our meeting would go. I’d heard he was a mutant. Regardless, I knew as soon as we drew near the main entrance that he must have a wicked sense of humor, for it was held fast by a gargoyle door knocker. Instead of the usual features, however, the handle of this particular example happened to be a huge set of brass testicles hanging from an elongated scrotum.

  Tongue in cheek, I hammered as hard as I could on the plate.

  The chiseled features etched into the base panel grimaced. “Is there no peace for the wicked?” Its beady eyes snapped open. “What the fuck do you want at this time of night?”

  Our door warden has a particularly foul mouth and bad temper. Mind you, I don’t suppose it’s much fun having a heavy set of balls smashed into your face on a regular basis.

  I tried a civil approach. “Well, I’m not delivering pizza.” I took out a full bloodstone and teased it toward his mouth. “But if you cut the crap and let us in so we can see your boss, you can have all of this. No change required.”

  That did the trick. Suddenly businesslike, the gargoyle’s coppery tongue snaked out to accept the proffered gem. Having coiled around its prize, it snapped back faster than my eye could follow. A loud gulp was followed by a deep sigh of satisfaction. The door cracked open with a sharp clunk.

  Please come in, a voice announced inside my head. Esmeralda will show you the way.

  I jumped, but then reminded myself, Of course, he’s a deviant. That’s how he communicates.

  We trooped inside and discovered the interior to be a rather mundane-looking entrance foyer and gift salon. From what I could see, only one exit led out to the passenger carriages. Not what I expected: apart from Nimrod and me, the place was deserted.

  I glanced at Nimrod. He looked equally bemused, until something on the opposite side of the room caught his eye. When I gazed back across the shop, I discerned a sleek black cat sitting atop the main display case, washing itself. It hadn’t been there a moment before.

  “Aha! That must be Esmeralda?”

  On hearing her name, Esmeralda stood up, twirled around three times, and disappeared.

  The voice had said “Esmeralda will show you the way.”

  “Follow me,” I whispered, “I think I know what we’ve got to do.”

  We hurried across and positioned ourselves in front of the same cabinet. I tasted the air. So far as I could tell, the ether was completely devoid of residual esoteric power.

  “If I’m right, we’ve got to spin round and round like the cat did.”

  “I’m glad no one is watching then,” Nimrod replied. “If I’m going to make a titting ballerina of myself, I’d rather do it without witnesses.”

  We did as instructed . . . although I couldn’t get the shocking image of Nimrod in a tutu out of my mind.

  No sooner had we completed the third rotation than a rippling curtain fell to the floor, and our perspective changed:

  We found ourselves standing in a long hallway stretching into the distance before us and behind. Strangely, both directions seemed to curve away sharply. Esmeralda sat outside a room about three yards away, and a warm glow lit the corridor from inside. On seeing us, she let out a little chirrup, flicked her tail, and melted from sight. Her emerald green eyes were the last part of her to fade away.

  “Goodbye to you, too,” I mumbled.

  I was impressed. We were obviously standing within a hellspace paradox of inestimable refinement, as I hadn’t sensed its proximity at all.

  This guy must have great power. We’d better tread carefully.

  We entered the chamber, and I stopped short. A similar view to the one I had enjoyed only a few minutes ago lay before me. On this occasion, however, I was far above ground level and found myself looking down on the River Tombs via a panoramic window.

  “How . . . ?”

  We are at the top of the wheel, Reaper, the Oracle explained. Once you have entered my home proper, the entire edifice blends into a composite whole, any part of which I can occupy at will.

  For the first time I noticed our host. Sitting in a comfy chair to
one side of a roaring fire, he seemed completely at ease. From what I could see, he appeared human, apart from his head, which looked as if it was on inside out, for he possessed no skull to speak of apart from a lower jaw.

  As I strolled toward him I had to navigate among a multitude of tables, each covered in candles. Despite his having no eyes, I got the distinct impression the Oracle was watching every step I took with infinite attention.

  Hmm, he thought aloud, it’s not every day a denizen of hell gets to welcome the Reaper to his home. I must confess, I find myself intrigued by the notion. How may I be of service?

  “I am on official Satanic business, in pursuit of renegades who must be brought to injustice as swiftly as possible. Recent enquiries have led me here, for I believe the rebels may soon make an attempt on the maximum security prison at Cog Isle.”

  As I spoke, I removed Tirion’s Temptation from within my jacket pocket, shook it gently, and held it up for his inspection.

  The disgusting sound of an infant laughing heartily and merrily filled the room . . . and more! An arcane sub-tone lifted a submerged aspect of its cadence to the fore. The sound rose swiftly in pitch until it was beyond the range of the human ear.

  The Oracle stiffened, and his head tilted to one side as if to savor every nuance of the experience. His brain quivered wetly, and he clapped his hands in obvious excitement.

  But this is wonderful, he gushed, and just what my own child needs to become more complete.

  “Then you should know this offering is made in exchange for information relating to safe passage across the Bitter Sea. You might think it odd that I need to approach you about such a matter, but I wish to conclude this affair speedily and without disturbing his Infernal Majesty, who has much to contend with at the moment.”

  I appreciate the sentiment, the Oracle replied. The Isle of Cogs, you say?

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Fate must be watching over you, for you are the second person to request information regarding the Forbidden Isle today.

  Bong! As if adding emphasis to the Oracle’s statement, the chimes of Little Ben commenced striking the hour. Its reverberating pealed echoed across the rooftops, adding a further layer to the combined resonance of Tirion’s mirth.

  Bong!

  “Really? Today, you say?”

  Yes, a Mister Lambeth was here less than two hours ago. If you are swift, you might catch him and enjoy his company on the journey.

  Bong!

  Fuck me, it’s Cream! “Hang on . . . What do you mean, I have to be swift?”

  Bong!

  The portal manifests but once a year, on the Infernal Equinox. When activated, it only remains open for one minute, after which it dissipates.

  Bong!

  “Only a minute?”

  I’m sorry, once it is shut, nothing can penetrate its boundaries. Not even you.

  Bong!

  “When?” I gasped. “When does it open?”

  Tonight, at midnight, on the twelfth stroke.

  Bong!

  “Where, man? Quickly.”

  This year? Why, at Jekyll and Hyde Park.

  Bong!

  My blood ran cold. Bugger! I glanced at Nimrod. “We’ve got to go . . . now.”

  Wait! The Oracle’s voice blared in my mind.

  Bong!

  “What?” I inhaled, and started to summon the power to phase.

  Bong!

  One facet about the portal you must understand is this: Thanks to the quirks of temporal dilation, time works differently within the conduit.

  “How so?”

  Bong!

  While the traveler will only spend several hours traversing the length of the celestial pathway, three whole days will have passed here in the underworlds.

  Bong!

  “Three days! Are you joking?”

  I do not jest about such matters. Safety is achieved at the cost of haste. This is hell; you cannot have both.

  “Fair enough. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to leave. It just so happens Mister Lambeth is one of the fugitives I’m after. . . . Not your fault. Enjoy your gift.”

  I seized Nimrod by the wrist and blasted us west through the ether at breakneck speed.

  Idon’tfuckingbelieveit! Idon’t­fucking­believe­it! Idon’t­fucking­believe­it!

  The River Tombs passed in a blur. We sped above Blackhall. Then Drowning Street. Hearse Guards Parade followed soon after. St Flames Park passed us by. We roared above Unconstitutional Hill like a meteor entering Earth’s atmosphere. The Serpentine loomed in the distance, and Jekyll and Hyde Park drew ever closer in a giddy, kaleidoscopic rush of impressions.

  Even at this distance I could sense telltale signs of a diminutive and expertly-concealed event horizon in the middle of the island on the lake.

  Azazel! It must be incredibly potent.

  Four persons were gathered before the vortex, one of whom looked to be draped across the shoulders of a much larger traveler.

  Strawberry?

  The edges of the geodesic threshold began flickering. The small party edged toward its entrance, as if happy to wait until the very last second to step inside.

  No!

  I began my descent and watched helplessly as Cream turned toward me and waved.

  What? You are fucking dead!

  Too late, I thundered to the ground scant yards from the terminus. Before the portal snapped shut, I glimpsed the briefest flash of honey-blonde hair inside.

  “What in the blazes are we going to do now?” Nimrod seethed.

  Cold with fury, I tried to think clearly. “If what the Oracle said is true, we have a three-day window. Three days to find a faster, more direct route.”

  “The pirates?” Nimrod suggested. “Or can we concentrate on finding Chopin or Tesla instead, and use their artifacts to help us?”

  “Possibly. But either option will cost us dearly, in time if not resources.” I teetered on the verge of violence. “C’mon! Whatever we do, we’ve gotta be quick.”

  Chapter 22: Storm in a Teacup

  “This voyage is turning into a real pain in the ass,” Captain Edward Low bellowed into the wind at no one in particular. “That’s the fourth time the coordinates for magnetic north have changed in the last twenty-four hours. Neptune’s beard, what in blazes is happening to the fabric o’ our world?”

  Crouching low over the compass, he slapped the gimbals with the flat of his hand, trying to make sense of the fluctuations that had bedeviled them since leaving Davey Jones’ Locker in Juxtapose on the previous day.

  He peered across the deck toward the mainmast, catching sight of Chopin and Tesla as they clung to the Fancy’s guidelines for dear unlife. Green to the gills, both men looked ready to spill the contents of their stomachs.

  Low grinned at the sight of their suffering. Spray and rain filled his mouth with a tangy brew of fresh water and brine. “Avast, ye landlubbers, I told ye the Bitter Sea was a cruel mistress at the best o’ times. Ye can’t say hello for the first time and expect her to withhold the passion of her vile temper.”

  His laughter cackled off into night until he spotted, near the aft castle, a deckhand who appeared to have nothing to do.

  “Barnes! C’m’ere and take the wheel while I check our bearings again.”

  The sailor scuttled across and braced himself to take the wheel. He nodded, and Low released his grip. Ignoring the mad tilt of the deck, Low scooped the Moral Compass from its hidey-hole and positioned the base plate in the palm of his hand.

  Good job this contraption doesn’t need stars or the horizon to work, otherwise we’d all be buggered.

  The arcane tool meshed to his aura, and its miniature gyroscopes commenced their synchronous dance. A gentle turquoise radiance bloomed from the crystal powering its core, which grew until the sextant part of the apparatus was encompassed within a phosphorescent cerulean nimbus. A glittering needle of light appeared within the corona. Flickering wildly, the indicator spun through
all points of the compass and then stopped dead. A coherent beam of sapphire brilliance lanced out, puncturing the gloom and pointing the way to salvation.

  Low sighed. Of course. With an ocean full o’ hate before me, I’ve got to take us even deeper into the jaws o’ the Maw.

  “Three points to starboard,” he roared, “and secure the hatches: we’re heading into the tempest. Reef all spare canvas, stow all lines, and anyone on standby watch, get yer worthless bodies on deck now. Line the railings and ‘ware the rigging.”

  Crew members rushed to comply. Low felt the timbers beneath his feet groaning in protest as the Flight of Fancy inched toward the desired heading.

  “Is that wise?” Chopin complained. “We’ve endured nothing but stormy conditions since we set out. This ship has taken an awful battering. Surely she can’t take much more? Isn’t there an easier way?”

  “If it’s easy ye want, feel free to jump over the side and swim,” Low retorted. “Ye wanted the Isle o’ Cogs, so that’s where we’re going. I told ye the Bitter Sea was a temperamental, murderous bitch, and that was before all these . . . these unnatural interventions. It’s as if Jonah himself is in league with the Leviathan o’ the Abyss to bring us to ruin. The very nature o’ the ocean is changing. But a little weather won’t stop us, ye’ll see. The Compass will keep us true. Learn to trust it.”

  The moment he’d spoken, Low wished he hadn’t. For out of the darkness to the east rolled an avalanche of water that made the rest of the mountainous swells look like mere hillocks.

  That bastard’s moving against the current! If it hits us broadside, we’ll lose the main mast . . . maybe more.

  “Barnes, you slimy son of a whore, hard to starboard. Now!”

  A trained hand, Barnes reacted without question. His muscles bunched as he wrestled the wheel into submission. Low flung the Moral Compass back into its locker and leaped to assist him.

  With infinite slowness, the prow of the Fancy turned. A plateau of foaming peril bore down on them, revenant and hungry. The bow bucked, and planks flexed under the strain. Blocks and pulleys swung crazily, as if as poltergeist were loose among them. Hinges squeaked, and lanterns tilted as gravity went haywire.