Something nagged at the back of Chopin’s mind.
So why aren’t they moving, as they were in my dream?
He felt unnerved, for he’d seen enough of this maze at work to know it could mash a human body out of existence in seconds. Regardless, he was forced to dismiss the conundrum from his mind to assess the rest of their route.
Sure enough, a slender path led from the fringes of the shoreline up onto a cluster of stony hillocks. Following a series of switchbacks, the trail wound higher and higher, eventually climbing a massive rocky peninsula situated at the narrowest point of the island. Shaped like a vast wedge, this buttress faced out to sea like a colossal icebreaker, daring the atrocious weather to overwhelm its resolve. The black tower sat atop that fistula, as defiant and proud as in his vision.
“Yes,” Chopin mumbled, “this is definitely the place, although its defenses seem to be lying dormant at the moment.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? Won’t it make our task easier?”
“It would. But this is hell for, goodness sake, and I don’t imagine for one min–”
“Well, it’s good enough for me!” Edward Low interrupted.
Chopin turned to discover the captain had been busy whilst he himself had been otherwise engaged. Having unloaded the landing craft, his pirates now scuttled about on shore, preparing a few provisions.
“My job was to get ye here,” Low said, “and that I’ve done. However, it feels wrong to just dump ye here, especially considering the prize ye’ve given me.” He nodded toward the clockwork trap. “I know ye said it was dangerous, but the darn thing doesn’t appear to be working. So, I’ll have my men drop a few supplies off for ye among the rocks, and we’ll be on our way.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Chopin replied, “but completely un–”
He braced himself as an incredibly strong gust of wind caught everyone by surprise. Men staggered and struggled to remain upright. Screams alerted him to the fact something was wrong.
They all turned to watch as two of the sailors were swept into the air. They must have been unpacking something, for they were holding tight to a large piece of tarpaulin that now acted as a kite. Away they sailed, inland, only to be deposited in an untidy heap amongst the rocks.
Low burst out laughing. “Well, that was fortuitous. Raleigh and Brown completely overshot the beach. Perhaps we all ought to try that method of approach. Why don’t ye —”
A bright flash interrupted his words.
Not seventy yards away, two gigantic apparitions appeared from thin air, close behind his stricken men. More than seven feet in height, both muscle-bound effigies wore executioner’s smocks and hoods, and each looked able to tear a bull in half. Not that they’d need to, with the axes they were carrying, which seemed as large as the interlopers ahead.
And neither Raleigh nor Brown was aware of the danger.
“Jailers!” Chopin gasped. “Captain, you can’t —”
“Hawkins, Blight,” Low snapped, “get yerselves over there and help those men. Aspin, Daubery, go with ‘em.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” they yelled.
All four pirates sprinted forward, drawing cutlasses as they ran. The dull, hollow reverberation of feet on metal rang out.
Clunk!
Oh, no!
A resonant ticking kept time above the steady drone of the gale.
Chopin reached out to grasp Tesla by the sleeve and backed away into the water. Low saw the movement and followed suit, dragging the two nearest sailors with him.
Just in time.
The sprocket just in front of where the captain had been standing spun to life. Its movement kicked two other cogs on its either side of into motion. Within the blink of an eye, four ratchets were moving; then eight. The escalating activation rippled forward, like a wave gaining momentum. In seconds, it caught up to the pirates at the rear.
A terrible grinding sound of meat and bone being levigated buzzed through the air. Aspin and Daubery went down as if poleaxed, amid a sickening spray of red mist.
Still a few paces ahead, Hawkins and Blight glanced over their shoulders, distracted by the commotion behind them. Panic set in. Both men leaped away from each other, dancing and jigging from side to side in a desperate attempt to evade the monstrous teeth chomping their way toward them.
Beyond the carnage, Raleigh and Brown jumped up and down, waving their arms like mad, yelling encouragement, still completely unaware of the presence of the jailers.
I can’t watch, Chopin thought.
But he did, for the unfolding scene was as compelling as it was horrible.
Hawkins was the next to go, caught squarely in a crusher that would have squashed a sedan flat. One moment he was running hell-for-leather toward the refuge offered by a small seaweed-covered rock; the next, the ground simply opened up beneath him. Caught between two huge slabs of metal, he was instantly mangled below the waist. The slabs slammed together and flipped over for a second time, liquidizing what was left of the unfortunate Hawkins as they swept him from sight.
Up on the hillock, Raleigh and Brown froze in shock, just as the jailers’ axes split them open from crown to crotch. Their sundered remains began to dissipate before they’d even had a chance to flop to the earth.
Now only Blight remained. A former circus acrobat, he’d managed to evade the wheels of death with remarkable alacrity. He was within yards of the mound when his heel came down on a needle-sharp point. He yelped in pain, stumbled, and threw himself forward, toward the temporary safety of the rocks.
He didn’t quite make it.
The fabric of his trouser leg caught in a tine. Hooked, Blight was yanked to a standstill, whereupon he bunched into a ball and gathered his strength for another leap.
Ratchets and sprockets continued churning. A small prong latched onto his toes. Dragged backward, Blight screamed and started clawing divots from the earth as his legs were drawn, inch by morbid inch, into the workings of the trap, and pulverized.
A shot rang out, and Blight’s head snapped back. His body fell limp and was consumed by ravenous teeth before it had a chance to dissolve.
Chopin turned to stare at Low, who calmly replaced his pistol in his cummerbund.
The Captain snorted. “I’ll not have my men die like that.”
Higher up on the rocks, another flash signaled the departure of the jailers.
“I did try to warn you,” Chopin said. “This place might look benign, but it’s one giant network of death. From what I can understand, arriving by sea requires aspirants to navigate the minefield. There is a safe path, and only by following it can we hope to deactivate all the other booby traps.”
“Then I’ll take my leave.” Low tipped his cap. “I’ve lost enough men on this voyage. It’ll take weeks for their reassignment to come through, an’ even then I can’t be sure I’ll get them back; and if I do, what I’ll get from that bloody idiot who calls himself an Undertaker might be next to useless.” He started wading toward the longboat. “Morris, Christian, come along. It’s time to be away.”
Chopin and Tesla watched them go.
As the small pirate craft bobbed back toward the galleon, Tesla sidled closer to his companion.
“Are you sure you know the correct way?”
“We’re about to find out.” Chopin stooped to retrieve his knapsack and waggled his finger. “But just in case, we have our additional insurance right here . . . and a bonus I almost left back on the Fancy.”
“Insurance?” Tesla queried, “You think we’ll need it?”
In reply to Tesla’s questioning look, Chopin added, “We’ve waited a long time for this plan to come to fruition. I’ll not have things spoiled now by the impatience of an idiot with a god complex. I’ve learned it’s never wise to keep all your eggs in one basket, even with the end in sight. Sometimes, one makes sacrifices in order to ensure the day is won. At least that way, you survive to come back and play another day, yes?”
He paused to brin
g up the image of the elaborate pattern he’d seen in his mind. After replaying the events a few times, he felt confident enough to proceed.
“Are you ready, Nikola? Now, whatever you do, stick close to me and step exactly where I step. If anything triggers, for pity’s sake, just use the orb and damn the consequences.”
*
The gusts scouring the crown of Gibbets Hill on Cog Isle regularly exceeded two hundred and twenty knots. But that was understandable, for the prison had been encompassed within a permanent hurricane ever since its inception thirteen millennia previously.
Being so close to an established core of instability kept most things from thriving — except for a tree called the Scaffold. An ancient oak, fed on the blood of the condemned and fortified by the darkest necromancy, the Scaffold served as the prison’s gallows for those rare few who managed to survive — in a more or less lucid condition — until the end of their sentences. For only if they satisfied the Dark Lord’s perversions would they be permitted a death that freed them from torment. Of course, they then would face the corruptions of the Undertaker. But that was another story.
Except for one shattered spar, not a single leaf or bud sprouted from this weathered sentinel. And even so, the only thing to adorn its ruined limb was a frayed and tattered rope, fluttering wildly in the wind — a poignant reminder of how long it was since the tree had seen the last emancipation.
Below that bough, a wreath of stones marked the point of departure for the deceased; or, once in a blue moon, the site where new arrivals might take their first awestruck glimpse of one of the most desolate places in the underverse.
Today must be a special day, for as visitors made their slow way across the beach nearly a mile below, the ring of boulders here on the promontory began shining for the first time in an age.
A vortex condensed within the circle.
The outline of three people appeared there, infused with ethereal radiance. One traveler stood alone, distinct and separate, while the other two were superimposed as if one were carrying the other.
The light winked out, and they dropped down onto the bare dirt only to stagger under the wind’s onslaught.
Dr. Thomas Cream’s hat was snatched from his head in an instant. He ignored its loss, and scrambled forward as best he could to survey his surroundings.
Incredible. The entire island is shaped like a tooth, and we’re at the root end.
Down below, within the scant protection afforded by a shallow bay, a galleon lay at anchor just offshore from the only beach the isle seemed to possess. Cream could just make out the shape of two people walking toward the low hills bordering the main outcrop while, out at sea, a small boat inched its slow and painful way in the direction of the ship.
Ah, my erstwhile associates. He smiled. You’re too late, my friends. I still think I’ll get there just in the nick of time. And as they say, winner most definitely takes all.
Cream glanced behind, where Haggai still struggled to retain his grip on their prisoner against the gale.
I suppose I’ll have to do something about this now, or I’ll lose the advantage I’ve worked so hard to achieve.
He removed the Sword of Damocles from his bag. As casually as possible, he strolled toward the swaying pair and made a deep incision in Strawberry’s arm. As the blood flowed, he smeared some of it across the jewel adorning the weapon’s hilt.
“You are in thrall to my will. Awaken now, and obey me in all things.”
Although they remained glazed and unfocused, Strawberry’s eyes snapped open. She stood upon her own two feet, somehow able to ignore the buffeting wind.
Excellent.
Freed of his burden, Haggai grinned and massaged his arms. “What do we do now?” he asked.
Cream sidled closer and pointed toward a black tower jutting up from the cliff less than half a mile away. “Well, Strawberry and I are going in there.”
“And me?”
“And you . . . ?” Cream drove the tip of the blade into Haggai’s temple. As Haggai’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, Cream concluded, “You, dear boy, are going to enjoy a most wondrous day in the care of the Undertaker. Although you’ve not been a willing subject, and I can’t guarantee he’ll go easy on you.” He chuckled. “But that’s not really my concern, is it? Ta ta.”
Haggai’s essence dissipated, and Cream hummed a merry tune as he started down the slope. Passing Strawberry, he paused to trail a finger along her thigh. “Come along, my dear. Destiny awaits us.”
*
I used the corner of my towel to wipe steam from the mirror and took a good long look at myself. This time, my gaze didn’t crack the glass. Usually, a hot shower and change of clothing left me feeling refreshed and ready to face the challenges of a brand new day.
But not today.
Today, I was fighting the urge to rip off my trademark gloves, take my scythe, and go on a killing spree. I hadn’t done that for ages — simply gone out and massacred a whole crowd of “someones” for the sheer, unadulterated joy of it.
I’ve been too focused on one thing lately. Consumed by it. That’s going to change.
My bathroom door banged open.
“Glad to see you’re dressed,” Nimrod chided. “Everyone should be here within the next ten minutes. Have you worked out what you’re going to say?”
“What is there to say,” I retorted, “except the truth? We fucked up. Hidden away in our little tower and graced with all sorts of privileges, we’ve grown soft. Complacent. What started out as a straightforward assignment to recover a single renegade has somehow snowballed into stymieing an ever-growing plot to undermine Satan’s authority. The devil only knows how many people are involved. I tell you now, we’re only scratching the surface with Cream, Chopin and Tesla. Even though they have their own personal agendas, this conspiracy goes much deeper than we think.”
“In what way?”
“Erra, for a start! How did he become involved? Hell, why did he become involved in the first place? And what about this apparently endless list of banned artifacts and weapons? Is there a link between Erra’s insufferable enforcers and the encyclopedic knowledge that suddenly seems to be flooding the netherworlds regarding our strictest taboos? For Azazel’s sake, I’ve been half expecting to see ‘Read All About It, Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About The Time of Sundering’ splashed all over the front page of the Sinday Times. I mean, c’mon! In what reality would someone like Cream be able find out about these things, and Satan’s own Reaper not have a clue to their existence?”
As I settled into my very own ‘throwing teddy out of the pram’ session, I hurled my towel into the laundry basket and made my way toward the bedroom. Nimrod tagged along behind.
“Then there’s the Devil’s Children. How far has this cancer spread among them? Lackeys or not, each one of them is now a surefire security risk. I dread to think of other time bombs hiding away, just waiting for some subliminal signal to trigger further acts of mutinous mayhem. And which departments did Cream and Chopin actually choose them from? What data can they access? If I had my way I’d cull the lot of them, and damn the inconvenience. The Undertaker could always draft additional assistants to help Gorgonous and his minions get through the backlog. It’d be safer in the long run because I’m now certain this . . . this pantomime has been in the planning for much longer than we originally thought.”
I opened the door to my suite and ushered Nimrod inside.
“Strawberry’s a prime example,” I continued: “One of my own Inquisitors, abducted from a private, heavily-defended location that no one was supposed to know about. She’s no slouch in a fight, and yet there was hardly any indication of a struggle. And to top it all, we can’t seem to reach Champ and Yamato, and you know as well as I do what they were doing.” Sparks danced along my scalp and down my arms, and I had to make a conscious effort not to let my passion take control. “There’s a connection between every single event that has happened recently, I’m telli
ng you. A common denominator that would help me reveal the mastermind behind it.” I clamped my mouth shut and threw on my coat. “And Lucifer help them when I do.”
Just mentioning His Infernal Majesty’s name reminded me of another unsavory task I couldn’t put off much longer.
Bugger! And I’ve still got to let my Dark Father know I messed everything up and need his help . . . “Fuck this, I need a drink. Care to join me?”
“Why not? But make it quick.” Nimrod checked the time. “The team will be arriving soon, and we don’t want to be partying when they get here.”
The decanter was situated next to my writing bureau. I walked over to prepare a couple of single malts. As I did so, I glanced across to the fireplace, a welcome sight I hadn’t laid eyes on in more than a week. Something on the mantelshelf caught my eye.
What’s that?
A gray, baseball-sized object sat on the far side of my Napoleon-style display clock. Nestled between several figurines depicting Satan’s daughter, Sin, in various stages of sublime rapture, it looked oddly out of place.
Hang on . . . I thought the Boss was going to take that?
Leaving the glasses where they were, I stalked over and picked up the item.
The orb’s casing was warm to the touch.
Unholy shit! It’s the prototype of the new multi-phasic portal generator François gave me. And it’s still active!
Then I remembered a specific detail about the orb that made me go numb with shock.
Tesla specifically programmed these early models to operate twice before self-destructing. And I only used it once, to get away from the Sibitti. So that means . . . ?
I extended my other hand and exerted my will. My scythe flew from its resting place on the bed and into my grasp.
With a look of triumph, I turned to Nimrod.
“Cancel that meeting and grab your weapons,” I crowed. “There’s someplace we have to be. Now.”
Chapter 24: Eggs in a Basket
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 35
