Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  Acrid smoke billowed from the Jolly Roger’s chimney, which listed crazily to one side. Of its three levels, each floor leaned out farther than the one below. A sign swinging from the post outside depicted a fat man sitting at a table, a large tankard of frothing ale in his hand. He was laughing heartily and taking a long pull from a Gaelic pipe clenched firmly between his teeth.

  At this crossroads, Jolly Roger’s was the only place with its windows open; light spilled out from inside, along with the sounds of a popular sea-shanty. As tap houses went, it was one of the biggest I’d ever seen.

  Nimrod opened the door and I followed him in.

  More than fifty people cluttered the main saloon, a clear sign that most of the fleet was locked in port. Every single seat and table was taken. Even the table-free spots along the walls were packed with patrons leaning against thoughtfully-placed, waist-high shelves.

  Background chatter fell away to nothing as we entered, and the smell of ale, roasting meats, and tobacco made me ravenously hungry.

  As I glared around the room, a rotund, cheery, red-faced fellow behind the main bar waved and came hobbling toward me. A yelping sound rang out with every step he took, loud in the silence. He made his way between the tables, and I saw that his right leg disappeared at the knee into the butt-end of a fawn-colored, wrinkly-faced dog.

  A Pug! The penny dropped. A pirate with a literal pugleg. Oh, very good!

  Despite the fact he was a complete and utter tosser, I was forced to appreciate the subtle nuances of the Undertaker’s humor a bit more.

  Roger saw me smile as he drew near and grinned in return.

  “You’ve heard, then?” he said, waggling the pug at me. Then he held up his right arm and showed me a gleaming razor-sharp hook. “And this is the hand I wipe my ass with. Our halitosis-ridden friend was inspired by the circumstances of my first reassignment after arriving here. He’s kept me this way ever since.”

  Roger threw a beer-soaked cloth over one of his shoulders. The other shoulder was stained by white and black droppings of some sort. Whatever made the stains must have been acidic, for it had eaten away at the fabric of his shirt.

  He noticed my scrutiny. “Yes, before you ask . . . I do have a parrot. Her name is Polly, and nooo, she isn’t pretty. In fact, the Undertaker inflicted her with a severe bowel condition, so she gets screaming diarrhea. Regrettably, that only takes place when she’s sitting on my shoulder.” He sighed. “Anyway, your acquaintances across the water have told me why you’re here. Follow me to the bar, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “So why is everyone so afraid?” I asked. “I thought the Pirate Lords ran a pretty tight ship to keep business flowing?”

  “That’s just it,” Roger called back. “We’re getting a buzz that the shorelines are shifting. Most trading is done along the coasts, but the captains who’ve just returned to port say the land is falling into the sea in one place after another. What’s more, shallow reefs and new headlands are appearing where previously there was water. Tides are going haywire, as if following the lead of an entirely new gravitational anchor, and the Maw is experiencing all sorts of weird phenomena. One ship reported seeing a mid-ocean tsunami. It uncovered the seabed for miles in every direction, and then crushed three brigantines that had fallen prey to its currents . . .”

  He fell quiet for a moment, conscious of the fact that the entire tavern was hanging on every word.

  “Anyway, the Talon was the only vessel to survive that encounter. And her testimony ties in with the fact that we’ve lost seven crews since yesterday morning, and three more today. That’s not good for business.”

  I grunted.

  He turned to look at me. “You’re Satan’s Reaper. Do you know why any of this is happening? Is His Infernal Jester trying to punish us for something? Keep us on our toes?”

  Patrons leaned toward us, waiting for my reply.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I answered. “The truth of the matter is that one of the attacks was aimed at me. And the only thing I do know is that I urgently need to cross the Bitter Sea. Tonight, in fact. Anyone with the balls enough to help me can name his price.”

  The entire inn fell silent.

  “It’ll be like pissing in the wind,” someone called from one of the snugs, “all kinds of messy and disgusting.”

  “That it will,” I countered, “but just imagine what it’ll do for your reputation. The only captain with the guts to help the Reaper — and His Satanic Majesty — in their hour of need.”

  “Fortunately, I like messy,” the same voice cried out. “Ah, fuck it! You only live repeatedly down here. I might as well do something that’ll make life more interesting.”

  A tall, rangy pirate with short-cropped hair and goatee stood and made his way toward me. I was momentarily taken aback. Usually, his ilk favored the feathered tricorn hats, breeches and waistcoats of their era. But this guy was wearing a PFD vest over a Trident aquafleece spray top and leggings, rounded off with no-nonsense, modern-day sailing boots.

  “Captain Charles Vane at your service,” he declared, “although some here call me Allweather Vane, because I’m willing to take my ship into any kind of storm, any time of day or night.”

  “Just the man I’m looking for!” I declared. “Although you might have a problem from the word go.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The people I’m after are heading for Cog Isle, a three-day journey from here. They have a two-day start.”

  Vane threw back his head and laughed. “Pah! That’s nothing. What are they using, a galleon? Their best speed is a mere eight knots. Even the fastest clipper rigs we have are limited to a paltry twenty knots; and so far as I’m aware, they’re too light to brave the squalls raging at the moment.”

  I decided to keep some details close to my chest. “My apologies. All I can say is it will take them a full three days to reach their destination. Can you help?”

  Vane looked toward Roger. “Jolly? A bottle of Diabhalvulin 18 to toast my imminent contract.” Then he extended his hand toward mine. “Reaper, you’ve got yourself a deal. The Lone Ranger, my cruiser, isn’t like other vessels in the fleet. Perhaps you can tell by looking at me that I like things chic and modern. My baby is a Constantine Class Hell-Cat 6000 super-sport sea cruiser. She’s one hundred and fifteen feet long, and powered by six HTV Kamikaze water-jet diesels, giving me a round range of eight hundred and ninety nautical miles, and an average cruising speed of forty-nine knots. I can get you where you need to go and back on one load of fuel in just over twenty-four hours. Is that good enough for you?”

  “You have a speedboat?”

  “More like a speed yacht. I’ve modified her, so she’s watertight, submersible, and self-righting. Come hell or high water, I can plow straight through the choppiest water. In some circumstances we might reduce speed a bit, but we’ll still get to the Forbidden Isle in less than a day, which I believe was the main stipulation of your request?” He held his hand and knife at the ready.

  At last! Something’s going right. “You’ve got yourself a commission. And if Diabhalvulin 18’s your tipple, I’ll have a case of it waiting for you for when we get back.”

  I held out my palm.

  Two quick slashes later I was sealing the deal.

  Vane held up my arm so the rest of the room could see the blood running down our wrists. He shouted, “The Reaper and I have reached an agreement, bound by blood. Both he and his companion are now protected by our code. Do you all bear witness to this fact?”

  “Aye, we do!” The room resounded with off-color affirmations, and suddenly everyone was ordering a fresh round of drinks.

  I glanced toward Nimrod for the first time. Thank Azazel for that! I thought we were screwed.

  It would seem your record may yet remain intact, he replied, without a glimmer of emotion. Just as well. You know how our Master loves untarnished service.

  Roger shouldered his way through the press, carrying the distinctive gold and
green bottle I knew so well. I leaned closer to Vane.

  “So, you like your whiskey?”

  “I do. While most pirates stick to rum, I’ve developed a more refined palate. I was first introduced to Devil’s Shore a few years back. A beautiful single malt if ever there was one. Then a fellow privateer suggested Corsairs’ Rye and Armageddon while we were on a job across in New Hell a few years later. Now that was spectacular . . .”

  He broke off as Roger laid out two glasses. Our host filled each one with sparkling amber nectar, and placed the bottle on the table.

  “. . . but all that paled when I discovered this little beauty.”

  Vane lifted his tumbler.

  “Gentlemen, may I propose a toast to safe wa–”

  The tavern rocked to its foundations. A deep, subsonic note infringed on my astral senses. Tables and chairs shook and men shouted as drinks spilled and display shelves toppled to the floor.

  I heard detonations outside. Through a window I saw a solitary telegraph pole on the other side of the river swinging from side to side, as if in the grip of a giant’s invisible hand. Then the transformers adorning its crossbars suddenly exploded.

  Immediately after, another, much more powerful shockwave reverberated down into the roots of the fundament. Car alarms triggered as the distant rumble gathered strength and drew nearer. Roaring past, it shattered the Roger’s windows in their frames and splintered the stone paving the floor.

  A rolling motion seized us, shaking everyone back and forth like helpless fox cubs in the jaws of merciless hounds.

  Dust billowed through the air. Falling from every ledge, crack and crevice, it filled my lungs and covered everything in a gray film of death. Following came chunks of mortar and larger lumps of plaster. Pressure built within my eardrums as if something were trying to crush my skull.

  Are we under attack again? Nimrod called.

  You can bet your ass we are. C’mon, let’s go and see what hornets’ nest has been stirred up this time.

  I deployed my scythe, and struggled toward the door through dancing furniture and juddering bodies. The door’s iron supports burst from their hinges and flew across the sidewalk, shredding passersby like wheat.

  I staggered outside and stood on the embankment looking north. My head was ringing, and for a moment, everything went still. No hell-birds, no traffic, no noise.

  Then reality returned with a vengeance:

  Lambsdeath Bridge was gone, along with most of the infrastructure lining this side of the Tombs. All that remained were the scoured frames of one or two of the larger properties, and two stumps of reinforced concrete: one on my side of the river, and another midstream.

  Opposite me, Westmonster had been devastated. Although Little Ben was still intact, huge chunks of the Ministry of Infernal Affairs had been wrecked and now lay in ruins amid growing plumes of greasy smoke and spreading fires. The entire city looked as if it had just endured a blitzkrieg, only to come off second best.

  I watched open-mouthed as a wall of magma sped away from me. Following the course of the river, it vaporized everything in its path and left the Tombs behind it empty but for an insipid trickle of mud.

  Utter carnage raged. Sirens sounded in the background, and dark clouds gathered overhead as if Juxtapose had been laid upon a funeral pyre.

  What the fuck?

  “We’ve been marooned!” someone behind me gasped.

  I spun to find Vane and Nimrod staring off into the distance, south toward Bittersea from where the magma had surged.

  A part of me — a part deep down inside — liked what I saw.

  This is what hell should look like. Make the bastards suffer . . . But not on my watch, not unless Satan actually sanctions it. “What do you mean, we’ve been marooned?”

  Vane pointed toward the Satanic Intelligence Service, a mile away.

  “The Lone Ranger was berthed not far from the MI13 building, but look at it. The whole area is devastated. I’m betting this goes all the way back to the Bitter Sea.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Perhaps even farther. Remember, that ocean borders on the junction of a number of realities. If whatever caused that upheaval came from another realm, it will have destabilized the entire region. That’s why the River Tombs has run dry. Think of it as a mega form of hydraulic damming. There’s such a huge difference in pressure, it’s effectively holding the sea at bay. But this can’t last forever. As gravity equalizes, there’ll be a gigantic tidal bore hammering this way. Any ships that survive the initial fire surge will no doubt get smashed to pieces by the second wave. We need to evacuate.”

  “But that means —”

  “I know. My deepest apologies, Reaper, but this is no storm in a teacup. We won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

  So what the blazes can I do now?

  Chapter 23: The Isle of Cogs

  The chamber had no need for candlesticks or any other form of lighting, for tongues of God’s Grace flickered everywhere. They sparkled within the constitution of the air as if comprised of the essence of suns, born amongst theomorphic clouds of infinite opulence. They glittered from the veined fabric of the marble columns holding the roof in place. They danced in a multitude of scintillating shades amid a waterfall that cascaded like molten silver into a pool of liquid serenity. And they clustered in corners, in every nook and cranny, so that the very idea of “shadow” could never taint the fidelity of unblemished illumination.

  Yet those concentrations of glory congregated especially about the being that glided, like beauty personified, amongst the pillars of ancient enmity which endowed the cavern with strength.

  The being’s robes were simple and hung from slender shoulders like veils of purest silk. Pristine and unblemished, the gown was colorless, far too immaculate to be labeled with anything as banal as mere pigmentation.

  The figure’s feet were bare and perfectly formed, although bound about the ankles by delicate diamond fetters. Yet its movements still were graceful. It possessed no wings, for they had been taken a long, long time ago. Nonetheless, this creature was unmistakably an angel.

  The angel’s face was pale and ageless. While its countenance encompassed both majestic antiquity and the innocence of a child, its ravaged eyes looked beyond eternity into madness.

  The troubled spirit tarried by the fountain and stooped to drink.

  Bitterly cold, the water frosted when making contact with the angel’s skin, and yet the temperature didn’t concern it, for it was immune to the effects of mundane things.

  Three sets of doors stood between pillars of living rock.

  Two were within reach and seemed to be made of obsidian. Black as coal, they were heavily barred with iron and set inside ruby frames powered by the very lifeblood of infernity.

  The third door was as white as snow and made of an unknown substance. Simple and unadorned, it stood positioned within an arched stone frame decorated by inlaid golden glyphs. This particular portico lay just beyond the reach of the angel’s restraining chain and shimmered as if suffering a relentless assault from someplace else.

  To one side of that entrance, a granite plinth housed a huge glittering sword. Buried halfway to its cross-guard, the weapon burned like ice, and the jewel that formed the pommel of its impossibly large hilt blazed silver, like a lunar flare in the night sky.

  The entity drank its fill and then dipped its fingers into the mirrorlike liquid. As it trailed idle patterns across the surface, it sang, softly:

  “Hark the bonded angel sings,

  Curses on Earth’s would-be king,

  Always vile and never mild,

  Satan fallen and defiled,

  Joyful Erra’s plans arise,

  See new fires in the skies,

  Portents from the ends of . . .”

  Distracted, the angel paused in its song and closed its eyes as if about to pray. Its head kinked to one side, and a sad smile crept across its face.

  “Visitors?” it gasped, c
learly bemused by the concept.

  “Why, I haven’t had visitors since, since . . . well, forever!”

  *

  Waves crashed against the small craft from every angle, as if attempting to beat it away from its goal by brute force, but it was too late. Despite the wild fluctuations that had harangued them since Bittersea Port, the boat’s passengers had almost reached their destination.

  With a heave, the longboat caught a final surge, lifting across the last of the shoals and onto the narrow strip of sand edging the waterline.

  Frédéric Chopin ignored the driving wind and stinging rain, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. His exhalation mingled with the hiss of receding surf.

  We’re here at last. Not long now, my love.

  Seizing the moment, he wrapped his oilskin tighter about his slight frame and crunched up through the shingle so he could better survey their destination. As he went, he absentmindedly massaged his hands and resolutely ignored everyone else.

  But not for long.

  “Is this it — our destination?” Nikola Tesla enquired, his eyes alight with energetic fascination as he took in the details of the land ahead.

  “It would appear so.”

  Chopin thought back to his vision and brought the prerequisite details to the fore.

  A jigsaw lay in front of them, unlike any puzzle you’d willingly want to solve, for this construct filled the beach with menace. Neither was it made of wood, but of iron and steel, of bronze and copper, perhaps of purest gold. And it was huge; a sprawling enigma of cogs and ratchets, sprockets and prongs in all shapes and sizes, stretching off toward the sand dunes fifty yards away.

  Chopin was reminded of pictures from hellivision documentaries about breakers’ yards and commercial sites where metal-based industrial waste was processed for recycling.

  Those teeth appear capable of swallowing the Flight of Fancy whole, galleon or not, while the smaller tines look sharp enough to snap an ankle or take a finger.