Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  The animated cliff of gray-green might tore into them, and the Fancy lifted. Higher they went, ever higher. The deck upended and the world twisted. Men screamed, flailing helplessly as they fell into the sea’s raging clutches. Those that survived the initial surge grabbed at anything that might extend their meager grip on life. Unbelievably, they kept rising skyward until the ship was almost vertical. And still the wave’s summit appeared to stretch on forever.

  Low clung to the wheel with all his might and focused on the darker shade of black just beyond the frothy crest. Beside him, Barnes moaned under the relentless pressure of keeping the ship on course. Men were thrown from the rigging, and Chopin and Tesla hung like mere deadweight from the mast, the soles of their feet pointing directly toward Low.

  Then they were over the apex and freefalling into the void. Down they plunged, gaining speed until they plowed into the sea like a hammer striking an anvil.

  A tremendous shockwave tore through the keel. Water swamped the entire vessel.

  Low instinctively clutched the wheel and scooped in the biggest lungful of air he could hold. The vibrations threatened to tear his arm from his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and squeezed with every ounce of strength he had. Eternity seemed to pass as the freezing waters tore at him, testing his resolve to hang on, enticing him to let go and take a last, welcoming breath.

  I’ll not go out this way. Not like this.

  He started to thrash, his fingers grew numb, and lights danced before his eyes.

  No!

  Just as the world began to darken, they swept through an intervening curtain of cobalt turbulence and burst free into a welcoming gust of windblown air. Low experienced a moment’s weightlessness before the ship slammed down into the ocean once more. Thrown off his feet, Low’s chin smashed onto the deck, and stars flashed across his vision again. He spat out a tooth, and a coppery taste trickled down his throat as he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked behind.

  A massive wall of roiling water surged away, eager to be someplace else as quickly as possible.

  We were lucky.

  Jumping to his feet, Low used his sleeve to wipe away blood and started issuing orders:

  “What are ye lying there for? D’ye think this is a holiday excursion? Collins, get up to the crow’s nest and see what’s around us. Watson, Aspin? Go forward and sound for depth. Daubery, take a head count. Morris, damage assessment. Barnes . . .”

  Barnes was gone.

  Low caught sight of Chopin and Tesla lying in a bedraggled heap amid a pile of crushed blocks and pulleys against the port railing.

  “Glad to see ye decided to remain with us, gentlemen. Welcome to the Bitter Sea. If ye think that little storm in a teacup was frightening, just wait until we face a real maelstrom. That’ll be something to compose a tune to, I tell ye. Now, it looks as if I’ve lost a few hands. Nothing about this trip is turning out to be ‘First star to the right, and straight on until mourning’ so you’ll have to make yerselves useful . . .”

  *

  Thomas Neill Cream hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time. Not only were the threads of his scheme pulling together rather nicely, but he also found himself experiencing an unexpected reprieve from pursuit.

  Thick, fluffy white clouds graced the sky overhead. Through them, the shimmering radiance of an unseen sun grazed the landscape in the golden blush of a midsummer’s grace. Above that expanse, an amethyst vault glittered to the frosted brilliance of a billion stars, each one humming with prismatic overtones of crystal clarity.

  Before him, lush grasses and dense woodlands spread away to the horizon, encompassing the hills in viridescent blankets of luxury, and uncountable olive hues.

  Arriving here only an hour ago, he had been sorely tempted to simply sit down, lie back and enjoy the scenery. Sadly, the temporal conduit didn’t work like that.

  He glanced behind where his spellbound thugs, Haggai and Micah, were bringing up the rear with his insensible insurance policy. These damned souls were not the focus of his scrutiny, however: just beyond them a huge stone archway slowly advanced, ponderously but inexorably marking the limits of his specially-fabricated personal world. Where the granite blocks grazed the ground, all evidence of this reality literally faded away, to be replaced by a featureless gray void.

  Fortunately, there was no rush. Although relentless, the granite’s progress was undemanding, its easy pace a delight to savor. Regardless, the point was clear: This was but a construct, a tool by which one traveled from A to B within the underworlds, and not a place to offer permanent respite from endless drudgery.

  More’s the pity.

  Cream checked on how his lackeys were doing. Despite their large size, both were bureaucrats accustomed to sitting behind desks. The physical exertion was taking its toll.

  “What appears to be the holdup?” he called.

  “She’s heavy,” Haggai complained, “and my arms feel like they’ll drop off at any moment. Can’t Micah take a turn now? He hasn’t even tried to carry her yet.”

  “Why should I?” Micah countered. “You obviously liked the look of the Inquisitor when we surprised her in her lair. Want her for yourself, do you?”

  ‘No!”

  “Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Liar! I just wanted to protect her from you. You’re the pervert, don’t forget. That’s why you ended up condemned. I don’t really care what happens, so long as you don’t get all sicko on her.” As if trying to prove a point, Haggai deposited his burden on the grass and jabbed a finger toward his associate.

  Before Cream could say anything, Haggai stepped forward and drove the point of his toe into Strawberry’s stomach.

  “Careful, you idiot!” Cream thundered. “She must be unblemished to create the right effect. If you damage her, I’ll have your head.”

  Micah rushed to intervene. “It’s okay, it’s all right. I’ve got her now.” He stooped to lift the unconscious form into his arms. “Up you come, nice and —”

  Strawberry’s hands flew around the Blue Suit’s head and pulled him close.

  “Aaaaaaaargh!”

  Micah’s scream froze his companions. Dropping his charge, he staggered backward, hands clutching his throat. Blood welled between his fingers in an endless cascade that drenched the front of his shirt. Then he slumped to his knees, gargling, and fell forward. As he landed face down in the long grass, his body dissipated on the wind.

  “Who’sh fucking nexht?” Strawberry slurred, attempting to wipe gore from her chin and gain her feet at the same time.

  Cream was delighted by the unexpected resilience of his captive. “Miss Fields. Pretending to be drugged, were we? Naughty girl, we can’t have you kicking and screaming until we’ve set the stage. Here, let me put that right.”

  He nodded to Haggai, who had moved up behind the stricken Inquisitor. The ruffian punched her to the back of her neck. Already stupefied from the powerful cocktail of drugs running through her veins, Strawberry’s head snapped forward.

  She must have been stronger than she looked, however, for she caught herself and attempted to rise once more. Then the abuse took its toll, and her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. She flopped to the floor for a second time and lay still.

  Cream stooped to his bag and removed a large syringe containing a viscid, rose-gold fluid.

  “This time I think I’ll give you a double dose . . . just to make sure.” He moved to her side, applied the needle to her carotid artery, and injected the syringe’s entire contents into her. Only then did he sit back, satisfied.

  “What now, sir?” Haggai asked.

  Cream stood up and looked about.

  “Now? My dear Haggai, pick her up. You don’t get another break until we reach our destination.”

  The doctor spun on his heels and resumed his leisurely walk.

  *

  “Haven’t we seen enough?” Champ Ferguson complained. “We’ve been here two days now. Two goddam blister
in’ days. Shouldn’t we be reporting this back to the boss, or even to Satan himself?”

  “We will, my friend,” Yamato Takeru replied. “But before we do, I must ensure to gain the whole picture. You know how vexed Daemon gets with an incomplete account, and our Master all the more so . . .” He paused to glance toward their targets. “So I need to understand exactly what they are doing. How else can I prepare an effective countermeasure?”

  Champ continued to grumble until Yamato held up his hand for silence.

  Once he had it, the former ninja warrior checked the integrity of his encompassing shield and extended his senses into the grotto, closing his eyes. So severe were the conditions inside that it was useless to attempt using his mundane sight, for the world he could see was swathed in a shimmering haze that reduced his vision to a greasy blur.

  Despite being within a vast cave system, ash and cinders pattered down about them like snowflakes. These brought no relief, however, only serving to emphasize the intensity of the stifling furnace surrounding the Hounds. The ambient heat flensed the surface from the surrounding rocks and scorched them black. So extreme was this phenomenon, it even superheated the atoms of the cave walls. Their crystalline structure glowed as if powered by miniature suns, and the diamond-hard stalagmites and stalactites festooning the floors and ceiling gleamed like an army of laser scalpels.

  Thick acrid fumes belched into the air, and spumes of acid sprayed every which way at once. Yamato eased his discomfort by ceasing to breathe.

  The remains of a dozen Corinthian columns lay scattered across the floor before a wide marble stairway at the far end of the chamber, leading up to a boiling cauldron of flame. Yamato surmised this place must have once served as a site of worship for one of the many sects infesting hell. Now, it only served the needs of the four Sibitti crowded around it.

  Yamato refined his sensitivity, allowing his astral probe to sample the character of their enemies’ manipulations. He was deeply shocked by what he saw.

  That can’t be right? Surely they aren’t that powerful?

  A chill wormed its way down his spine, forcing him to consider a more prudent course of action. He opened his mind to share the scene with his colleague.

  “Champ,” he murmured, “this is important. If I don’t make it out of here, ensure Daemon is apprised of what these monsters are doing.”

  “And what are they doing?”

  Yamato enlarged the impression of the blazing inferno, labeling it clearly so Champ could understand.

  “That is an access point to a cosmic chain,” he said. “Think of it as an anchor that helps keep the circles of the underverse in their proper places. Every realm has a number of them scattered throughout their esoteric foundations. They’re important, because not only do they keep each reality secure in relation to its neighbor, but when we journey, say, between New Hell and Hades, or between Perdition and Niflheim, we use the gravitational vortexes those anchors generate to travel safely. Like this . . . see?”

  Champ studied the diagram his friend presented to him.

  “So, those are hydraspace lanes? The actual roads that run through the Sheolspace continuum?”

  “That’s right. Anyway, it would appear the Sibitti are trying to mess with the gravity wells that fasten each chain in place.”

  “They’re what?”

  Yamato tried to think of an analogy Champ would understand. He had a moment of inspiration: “Imagine sneaking up on your enemy when they’ve bedded down for the night. The Sibitti have just found out where we’ve tethered our horses, and they’re trying to cut them loose.”

  “What? So all the different levels would float free like stampeding colts?”

  “Exactly!”

  Champ glanced around the outcrop and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Shoot! Can they even do that?”

  “I don’t know. But as I said, it’s not preventing them from trying.” Yamato nodded toward the enforcers. “Even though we’re tucked out of the way, in a remote part of Hades, they’ve managed to access an anchor leading to Juxtapose. From what I can tell, that specific one is meshed to the Bitter Sea, just outside Olde London Town. Out of all the locations they could have chosen, that is the one most prone to fluctuation. Whatever they’re doing will cause a huge seismic disturbance. We’ve got to warn them.”

  “About fuckin’ time.”

  “And why would I let you do that?” a voice suddenly enquired.

  The air shivered, and a demonic Sibitti folded out of nowhere.

  Champ raised his Abaddon 6000 and discharged it full at the enforcer’s chest.

  Boom!

  Glittering claws raked through the air, slapping the pellets aside.

  “We’re about to test the extent of our machinations,” the entity hissed. “Wouldn’t you care to stay and witness the results?”

  Yamato whirled around to intervene. His enchanted blade, the Sword of Gathering Clouds of Heaven, came singing free of its sheath.

  Something about his weapon caused the Sibitti to pause.

  “A worthy foe,” it hissed, “fearless, disciplined, focused. And elemental it would seem, as are we . . .”

  A second Sibitti appeared.

  Then a third.

  Yamato’s mind flared. We must go!

  No shittin’?

  Yamato spun an upsilon field and slammed it down over himself and Champ. Just as they were about to cross the threshold, the personified weapons reacted.

  An almighty concussion turned the whole world white, and the Hounds fell into a yawning chasm of blackness.

  *

  How I managed to keep my temper, I’ll never know. I needed a pirate, and fast. The first place I looked was Davey Jones’ Locker, down in Bittersea — an area blessed wall-to-wall with brigands, buccaneers, and privateers. But these were also amongst the most superstitious folk in existence and ever since the attack on the Cirque du Freak, something had our seafaring denizens spooked. What it was they wouldn’t say, but reports kept rolling in of strange occurrences out in the middle of the ocean. A bit of an understatement, in my view, as the Bitter Sea was renowned for unexpected squalls and storms.

  Yet this strangeness was something different. It had them running scared and, due to the uncanny timing of events, I suspected it might also be connected to my current case.

  Therefore, after more than forty hours during which pleading, sweet-talking and, in the end, outright threats had fallen on deaf ears, I found myself marooned on dry land and no closer to capturing Cream than I’d been two days previously.

  Until fifty-five minutes ago, that is, when I’d had my first lucky break . . .

  I was at the port, going from ship to ship, haggling with the Pirate Lords and trying to strike a deal, when one of them suggested I try a character called Jolly Roger.

  A bit of digging revealed that Jolly Roger was none other than Roger Crossbones, an ex-sailor and one of the craziest men undead. About five years previously, whilst still a first mate to Captain “Rip” Tide, he’d been enjoying a day off, shark fishing with some of his crewmates. The group had gotten very drunk and had run out of chum — the mixture of fish-parts and blood fishermen use to attract prize specimens — so Roger had taken it upon himself to offer his own slashed toes as bait. This worked like a charm. The Great White had not only accepted the proffered foot but the rest of the leg as well: It had yanked in the whole of Roger, whereupon it chewed him six ways from Sinday. Due to his inebriated state Roger didn’t feel a thing and died laughing, amid a frothing patch of blood, guts, and bubbling turbulence. Hence his nickname: “Jolly” Roger.

  Upon reassignment, the Undertaker saw the funny side of this, and gave him a ‘pugleg’ instead of a pegleg. I was intrigued to find out what that meant, as I had been reliably informed that after the loss of his limb, Roger was taken under the wing of the Commodore himself, and encouraged to expand into a new line of business: trading.

  Except, of course, that “trading” m
eant smuggling, as well as exchanging goods, services and information to selected customers for the right price. Needless to say, Roger had taken to his new line of work like a fish to water, and was now one of the Commodore’s most trustworthy white-market contacts.

  An excellent bit of news, for if anyone knew of captains willing to risk certain death by venturing out into the Maw during this latest crisis, Roger most certainly would.

  But how to ensure his cooperation?

  That’s when I requested the help of my newfound friends in Perish. Both Don Pérignone and François de UnBorn were delighted at the prospect of expanding their considerable network into Olde London Town.

  On my behalf, additional calls were made, and not fifteen minutes ago I received my second lucky break. Roger agreed to see me, and I was given directions to his base of operations; a tavern called, unsurprisingly, Jolly Roger’s. Only it wasn’t in Bittersea, but over in Lambsdeath High Street, smack bang in the middle of Old Paradise Street and Black Prince Road, an area known for street gangs and unsavory dealings.

  However, that had a plus side. Roger’s establishment had built up a reputation, and now attracted the crazier element among the criminal underworld and pirate bands. In fact, certain captains known to frequent the inn would gladly stab themselves in the heart merely to increase their standing among the brotherhood.

  These were exactly the type of men I needed to speak to, and as the carriage pulled up outside, I felt more positive than I had in a long time.

  Jolly Roger’s sat right on the boundary of several epochs. The property itself was encompassed within medieval times. The sidewalk outside and the road looked to be part of the Victorian era, with gas lamps and cobbled streets the norm. The opposite side of the river appeared most definitely modern-day.

  Despite the cosmopolitan mix, this district had its own unique character. Other buildings along the block were shuttered and barred, a reflection of the natural order here. Mesmerizing vapors undulated across the ground from the River Tombs only yards away. For the most part the place was deserted, except for those determined damned souls still out to make a living or end a life.