Knight of Gehenna (Hellsong Book 2)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  There was a hum that filled these holy walls, created by the amalgam of worried Citizen voices. The church may have smelled better, but it sounded as if it were filled with villagers.

  The voices did not die away as Michael walked down the aisle. Nor did they quiet as he stepped up and stood in front of the pulpit. Mancini was the only one not talking. Whatever webs he’d weaved must have been completed already.

  Kylie walked up beside Michael and took his hand. Normally she stayed quiet and distant during such meetings, but she must have known that this one was going to be different.

  Michael took a deep breath.

  Alright, Mancini. Let’s see what you’ve got in store for us.

  “It’s become clear now that we have problems,” Michael said loudly, his voice echoing throughout the church.

  He was pleased to hear the hum drop away. For the first time since he’d sentenced the Infidel Friend, Michael found that he had the Citizen’s undivided attention. “Many have accused me of being soft hearted when it comes to the villagers, but I think we can all see now that this is not the case. Harpsborough’s villagers are misbehaving. Some have begun to murder each other. Others have begun to sleep in the wilds. They are still gathering their food, but they are not paying their fair share to the Fore. Others speak quietly, or not so quietly, about how much food is in our storeroom. We thought before that we could simply help the hunters, and that their guns could help secure us. It was a good idea at the time. After all, who would stand up to a hunter? But now people will, and we have to do something. I am, of course, open to suggestions.”

  Copperfield led the sudden rush of voices, leaping to his feet. “I know what you mean to suggest.” His baritone was deep and loud enough to enforce silence around him. The Citizens directed their attention to him. “And I’m telling you, we can’t feed them from the Fore! It is better that we kick them all out—”

  “But we may not be able to kick them out!” Chelsea broke in.

  “Then it is better that we gun them all down,” Copperfield shot back. “Better than letting them have our stores.”

  “Peace, Copperfield.” Mancini gave a laugh, which seemed so out of place that it quieted the Citizens. “No one has suggested that we open the Fore’s stores to the people. There are other ways.”

  “Fool,” Staunten spoke up next, “that’s all they want. How could you assuage them without giving them what they want?”

  “Have some imagination,” Mancini said. “There are many solutions.”

  Michael tried to gauge Mancini’s expression. The man’s face gave nothing away.

  What have you cooked up for me, Davel?

  “We should redesign everything,” Kylie said suddenly. “We should find out how many people we can feed with the resources we have. We should find out how long we can last if we give each person an equal share. It’s time to be fair.”

  For a moment there was dead silence, then the church exploded with voices of derision.

  “Please, please!” Mancini managed finally to get the crowd quiet again. “Please! I hear you all. Like you, I worked hard to get this position, and it isn’t fair to just take all that work away, but what Kylie mentioned is a solution. We need to look at them all, even the ones we’re not comfortable with.”

  Kylie squeezed Michael’s hand, and for the first time that he could remember, Kylie gave Mancini a warm smile.

  “Surely you can’t be suggesting . . .” Copperfield seemed to almost be in shock.

  “We could look at a few less drastic solutions, first,” Herod the Gunsmith broke in. “Maybe some small changes which would make the villagers feel better.”

  Chelsea stood up and walked down the aisle, as if leaving the church, before turning on one heel. Her braid of red hair swung around after her. “We could start by not eating on the balconies.”

  “It’s our food,” Copperfield insisted. “We can eat it wherever we want.”

  “It would just be until the famine was over,” Chelsea responded.

  “But the famine might never be over.”

  Michael felt his heart suddenly in his throat. “Listen to her.”

  Is it not enough to rob them? Must you flaunt it in their faces as well?

  “She’s right,” Staunten said. “By eating on the balconies, we’re just asking them to come and kill us.”

  From the sounds of their voices, Staunten seemed to have a good amount of support.

  “See,” Mancini said, “all kinds of solutions. These are the kinds of sacrifices that we are going to have to make if we wish to keep the current system running. If you vote against these types of measures, then it’s a vote towards Kylie’s plan of reapportionment.”

  Kylie’s grip tightened even further, and she glared at Mancini.

  “Alright,” Michael said. “Let’s get a couple of votes knocked out. First, all who are for continuing aid towards the hunters.”

  Almost everyone raised their hands, surprising Michael more than just a little.

  “All against?”

  The naysayers didn’t even bother to vote.

  “The rest I’ll count as abstentions.” Michael felt as if there was electricity in the air, prickling across his skin. Things were changing. “All for Chelsea’s vote to keep us eating in private until the famine ends?”

  This time the support was a little less overwhelming, but it was still a clear win.

  “All opposed? Abstentions?”

  Wow, we did something.

  “I have another proposal,” Mancini said.

  Here it comes.

  “What is it, Davel?” Michael asked.

  “I think we need to replace Graham with a different temporary Lead Hunter.”

  Michael stepped back, running into the pulpit and shaking his hand free of Kylie’s grip.

  Surely this can’t be his plan. What’s going on?

  “What on earth for?” Michael asked.

  There were similar murmurs of concern from amongst the Citizens. They all looked towards Mancini.

  “He’s failed in his two main tasks. He failed to keep Molly safe, and he failed to get any dyitzu. His men haven’t caught a single one yet. Even while Aaron was Lead Hunter, he wouldn’t have gone more than a day without catching one.”

  “That’s a bit unfair,” Chelsea said. “The dyitzu might still be decreasing in number, and we couldn’t expect him to be as good a hunter as Aaron. Particularly not right at the beginning.”

  “The villagers have reported several kills,” Mancini answered. “There are still just as many dyitzu in the halls as when Aaron left. If the villagers are out-hunting the hunters, then I think either we need new hunters, or a new Lead Hunter.”

  As the Citizens made their agreement with Mancini’s suggestion known, Michael began to figure out why Mancini might have bothered to make the suggestion in the first place. If the Lead Hunter changed and things got better, the villagers might be inclined to blame Graham for their lean times rather than the Fore—even if there were no rational basis for doing so. A villager could even think that if Aaron returned, things might be just as they were before he left. In a way, this made sense. Not much had changed in Hell since the expedition to rescue Julian, but they’d be missing the broader point. It was attrition that was wearing them down. Aaron’s return would do nothing to stop that.

  “But who would replace him?” Copperfield was asking.

  “Martin,” Michael and Chelsea said simultaneously.

  There really isn’t another choice. We lost some of our best on that stupid Carrion expedition. I was right about that, too.

  A buzz of support began to grow in the church. Martin was an old hunter, and a familiar one. He could be a bit over the top at times—and there was that odd habit he had of talking to Benson—but he was a man that could be trusted.

  “These things are not enough to fix all our problems, though.” Mancini stood up and ascended onto the stage to stand next to Michael. “Are they, Mike?”
r />   Here it comes.

  “No,” Michael answered. “They are not.”

  Mancini turned to the crowd. “Michael’s been telling us that we need to give to the villagers, and we’ve been ignoring him. We thought our ability to refuse Mike showed how well our system was working. It showed us that Michael was no tyrant. That if we disagreed with him, he would not arbitrarily overrule us—and for that knowledge we are grateful. But we underestimated you, my good friend. You were right. We are going to have to give.”

  Mancini paused, and Michael took the opportunity to check the Citizens’ reactions. Most seemed ready, finally, to hear the news. A few, like Copperfield and Staunten looked even more stubborn than ever. Copperfield’s face was actually red, his fingers clenched into angry fists. Chelsea had a smirk on her face.

  It’s Mancini. She knows real change won’t be coming from him.

  “They’ve got our backs to the wall,” Mancini went on. “By leaving the city and not paying taxes, they’ve forced our hand. Our hunters still protect them, yet they do not pay us taxes. Are we willing to gun them down? I think not. It would anger their fellows left in town too much. This we cannot do. And we cannot let them keep leaving. We must have something to draw them back in.”

  “Mancini!” Copperfield erupted.

  “Have you not learned to trust me yet?” Mancini shouted back.

  Copperfield’s nostrils flared while his fists opened and closed again and again. Finally something in Mancini’s gaze broke through to him, and he sat down.

  “Like I said, we need to give to them, but they need to give to us, too,” Mancini said. “Isn’t that, after all, the essence of compromise?”

  Copperfield began to nod.

  Mancini had them all spellbound now, hooked by his intellect. “We’ve long wanted all caches that exist to be subject to the Fore’s taxes. I propose a new legislation. Once, every three weeks, we provide a feast day. That’s when all people in the town are treated to a free meal from the Fore. If someone hasn’t paid taxes, and has been living in the wilds, then they don’t get to participate. In exchange, all caches, even new ones, are taxable by the Fore. It’s the price of living under our protection.”

  Michael felt something break deep inside him.

  Had I really hoped for anything more?

  This new legislation might even make the Fore richer, particularly in the long haul. It would make it more difficult for any villager to hoard, and in so doing, might allow the Fore to continue hoarding a bit longer.

  “How are you going to enforce this?” Chelsea asked. “As things are, I can’t imagine the villagers volunteering to us knowledge of their secret caches.”

  “Most are common knowledge,” Mancini said, “but you’re very right. We need someone to collect the taxes. A scapegoat of sorts. We could elevate a second hunter to a high status. He would be in charge of domestic things, like investigating these new murders, collecting the taxes and finding new caches. He’d need some new men, too, who would be easy to hire since everyone is looking for a meal. And that would put another couple of guns on our side.”

  “But who would we get to lead the crew?” Herod asked.

  Mancini’s smile split his face. “Why Graham, of course.”

  When the light came to Julian, it was as a stranger. It filled his vision even through his closed eyes. Opening them was a difficult task. The blood from his forehead had clotted in his lashes, so he had to rub them until they were clear. He had not remembered the light being so bright.

  Two silhouettes stood in that brightness.

  “It’s okay, Julian,” a male voice descended upon him. “It’s okay. It’s time for you to go home.”

  “Home?” Julian croaked around his dry tongue.

  “Yes. Selena has approved your conversion. You’re not a lamb. You’re free to return to work.”

  “Home.”

  Harpsborough. Turi. Aaron. Kylie.

  But he was never going to see those people again. It was as far away from him as the old world. He might as well have died again. The soldiers helped him to his feet. They were gentler this time because they thought he was not a criminal. Julian didn’t know if they were right. He didn’t know what he believed.

  You better believe you’re not a Christian. You abandoned Jesus already. Ahuramazda is your only hope.

  He tried to get adjusted to this new light, this light that was the blessing of Ahuramazda, but it was too bright for him. It stung his eyes.

  “Mother,” Julian called.

  “He’s delusional,” one voice said.

  “He needs water,” said another. “And a bath.”

  Force welled up beneath him, supporting him, keeping him warm. It helped him down the corridor. He kept his eyes shut, but even through his eyelids he could tell there was light. It was easier to take with his eyes closed, however. It was softer. Redder. Familiar, like the red bricks around the Thames river.

  Water poured down over him. It washed away the blood from his face and the sweat away from his clumped hair. The smell of his own sweat and blood was enough to make him swoon. He tried drinking. It hurt his stomach, but he couldn’t help himself.

  His stomach began cramping uncontrollably. He curled up into a ball. When the pain finally passed, the light didn’t hurt his eyes as much. The two men half carried him down familiar tunnels and then stopped at an unfamiliar cell.

  God, are you there? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to abandon you. I was weak. I love you still. You can damn me as many times as you like, it won’t change me. I love you. I love you.

  He tried to feel God’s warmth in his heart, but nothing was there.

  Please don’t let me be lying.

  The door closed behind him, and he was finally free from that strange light. He collapsed to the floor. The floor was dirty, covered in dust, human hair and other filth. He crawled over it until he made it to a corner. He could hear that there were other people in the cell, but not many.

  All I want is to eat some honey.

  The idea of the sweet syrupy substance filled his mouth with saliva. Honey had never been merely a food to Julian, not even when he was in the old world. It meant things to him which were far more important. Things like comfort, safety, and love.

  He was reluctant to open his eyes. When he did, he could see a little, perhaps four or five feet in front of him. A man emerged from the darkness. His hair was long and blond, his beard just slightly darker. His skin was as pale as a ghost. He wore the grey robes of a slave. The same robes that Julian wore.

  “Home,” Julian said.

  The man drew closer, looking as determined as anyone Julian had ever seen, as if he were at a point beyond reason. He had a cup in his left hand. It was shaking.

  “You,” the man began, and he reached out, grabbing one of Julian’s wrists earnestly. “They just converted you.”

  You can’t withstand that again. You must love Ahuramazda. You must remember to hate God.

  “They did,” Julian said, unsure of his words.

  Did they? Am I lying?

  “They did that to me, too,” the man said.

  Even in the darkness, the man’s white hands stood out against Julian’s black skin. Two of his fingernails were broken to the quick. The black bruising below those missing nails looked painful.

  Julian didn’t know what to say to him.

  Just leave me alone.

  “I . . .” he began. “I know. I know what it’s like.”

  Julian nodded.

  “I . . . it’s good right? Feels good. Being converted.”

  Julian nodded.

  I’m sorry, mother. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. They took it from me. I didn’t mean to give it up. I’m sorry. I love you, mother. If you can see me from Heaven, forgive me. I know I’m a sinner. I tried, mother. I tried.

  The man let go of Julian’s arm. He dipped one of his fingers into the cup. Slowly, with a trembling hand, the man used the water to dampen the dirty stones. His fi
nger traced a shape. Then he looked at Julian intently, so nervous that his entire body was shaking.

  I know I should have kept the faith. I know it. I knew better. I know I disappointed you. Just try to understand. I didn’t mean to fail you.

  Julian looked at the shape. He couldn’t make out what it was. Not a shape, really. Just a single curved line. It looked like a check mark, except it was round where there was usually a ninety degree angle. Maybe it was supposed to be a bent ladle.

  I failed you, Ma. You raised me right. Don’t you feel guilty for this. This shit is from my own failings.

  Maybe it was half of a teardrop. Maybe it was fishing hook, lying on one side. Maybe the man was mad. The man seemed like he thought this line was the most important thing he’d ever drawn. Like what he was drawing could mean the end of his life.

  Julian jerked forward, looking closer at the line.

  An Ichthys.

  Julian reached out with his own hand, holding it up before his fellow slave. The man held forth his cup and Julian dipped one finger into the warm water.

  Julian finished drawing the fish. The man’s white hand wiped the symbol away. They lay down next to each other, grasping each other’s arms. Their faces were so close they were touching. The man leaned forward even closer, so that their mouths were by each other’s ears.

  They whispered together so softly that sometimes Julian wasn’t even sure that the words were always leaving his mouth, but his heart had never said any words so loudly. Every once and awhile, he could hear the other man over his own whispering. Somehow, they managed to stay in sync.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

  Arturus awoke from torchlight flickering through the crack beneath the iron door. The light was licking at his boots, illuminating for brief instances the makeshift laces which were holding them together. Arturus sat up.

  Galen, who was already standing, offered him a hand. Arturus took it, and his father helped him to his feet. Metal clinked in the lock as the key turned, but the rust must have made the process difficult, because the noise went on for some time before the door opened.