Knight of Gehenna (Hellsong Book 2)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Hang on just a little longer.

  “Kylie,” he told her, trying to keep his mind off of the food. “I really don’t think I did anything special.”

  And he hadn’t. Everything that he’d needed to do had been so clear cut.

  “Well I think it was special,” Kylie told him, eyes wide with sincerity. “And the way you treated Katie just now . . . you’re a rare man, Martin. A rare man.”

  Mancini, who must have figured that enough villagers were eating to make him safe from a riot, cleared his throat and began giving a speech. Martin had to give it to the wily Citizen, this was the perfect time to take credit. There was plenty of goodwill to be spread around, and Mancini seemed dead set in making sure that he and the Fore got their fair share of it.

  As if they weren’t the cause of all this trouble to begin with.

  Martin, seeing that the line was letting up around the cauldron, headed towards it. Saliva filled his mouth. He had to swallow to keep himself from drooling.

  There were only two people in front of him. Their bowls were filled far too slowly for Martin’s taste. He saw Huxley come running out of the Fore.

  Don’t you dare run towards me. I’ve gotta eat.

  Martin held up his bowl. Patrick gave him a smile and took it. He scraped his giant ladle against the side of the cauldron and brought up a large helping. Martin could see a dyitzu bone sticking out from it.

  This is going to be so good.

  He looked back to Huxley. The hunter was only a few feet away.

  Damn.

  Martin accepted the full bowl from Patrick.

  “Sir!” Huxley was nearly out of breath. “The corpse eater is awake. He’s talking clearly, too.”

  Martin frowned. He remembered someone saying that Rick had brought them one, and that they were keeping the man in the Fore, but he’d never seen the fellow. “I guess someone’s gonna have to interrogate the guy.”

  He took a bite of the stew. The flavor of the houndsblood and dyitzu meat exploded in his mouth. The devilwheat warmed his throat as he swallowed. He let out a contented sigh.

  “Sir?” Huxley was saying.

  “What?”

  “You’re the Lead Hunter.”

  Oh shit! I have to interrogate him.

  “Right, right.” Martin took another bite and chewed quickly. “Come with me,” he said around his food. “I want your opinion on what he says.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Martin, bowl in hand, marched up to the Fore.

  Calimay’s slaves, Arturus noticed, were indistinguishable from Maab’s. They were just as bony, just as malnourished, and if anything, they were more broken. Even their clothes were the same. Ripped and threadbare robes were draped over equally worn grey shirts and pants. Nearly a hundred and fifty of them, all that remained of Calimay’s “serfs,” were seated in an internal hellstone quarry deep inside Calimay’s complex. They were surrounded by tons of broken up rock.

  Avery had refused to leave his bunk, but the rest of them were here. Galen, Aaron, Johnny Huang, and even Kelly.

  So few of us left.

  Near the exit of the chamber was the lavender robed priestess, Tamara, and a couple of her Carrion soldiers. Calista was there as well, standing right next to Arturus.

  “So this is what we have to work with?” Johnny asked.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Galen,” Aaron said, “I’m not sure if we can do all this. Calista was saying this is normally three days’ work.”

  Galen shrugged and then hefted a giant burlap sack he’d brought over one shoulder. “It needs to be done.” He walked over to the pile of gravel which filled the chamber.

  Arturus couldn’t guess how far back that pile of broken up rock was.

  “So you’ll be working us today?” one of the slaves asked. “Will you, lamb?”

  His tone was challenging. Arturus remembered what these kind of men were called. They were Kruks. Maab had implied that they bullied and sodomized their peers. At the slave’s mention of the word lamb, a few others laughed. Most looked anxiously at Tamara and her soldiers.

  Galen turned to Tamara. “You can leave us now.”

  She frowned. “Better get results, Galen. You won’t be Calimay’s little princess for very long if you can’t fulfill your promises.”

  She had made the response, Arturus knew, because she would rather die than let the slaves see a man order her around. In so doing, she had managed to connect Galen to Calimay’s authority, which probably was the last thing Galen wanted right now.

  “We had better get results,” Arturus’ father answered. “If we don’t reinforce the camouflaged walls you built so poorly, they will fall in.”

  Tamara set her jaw, turned about, and then left.

  Arturus saw Calista getting closer to him. He tried to avoid looking at her. Kelly snorted, perhaps noticing his plight. The slaves began to look at Calista as well.

  “You’d better go too, sweetheart,” Galen told her.

  “I am Calimay’s daughter, Galen. You will not speak to me like that.”

  “Milady, if you get hurt down here, your mother will make sure I’m unfit to be anyone’s princess.” Galen turned to Arturus. “Him too.”

  Calista was suddenly pouting. “But I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”

  When did they get so familiar?

  “You can rejoin us shortly, but for now I need to speak with them in a setting where they fear no punishment.”

  She nodded, then turned to Arturus and gave him a smile. “See you at lunch.”

  Arturus was amazed how much the little girl was able to get her robe to move as she walked away. He looked back to his friends and noticed that Kelly was staring at him.

  “So you’re going to try and be our overseer today?” one slave asked.

  “Calimay thinks you can work us harder,” another said.

  Galen pulled stacks of shovels and picks out of his burlap sack. “I’m not here to work you. I’m here to tell you a story.” He placed the tools next to a series of waist high stacks of wicker baskets. “Of course, I did make a deal with Calimay. If you were to somehow clear this room of all the rubble, and dump it into the gaps between the outer walls, the rest of your day would be free.”

  “Friend, I know you mean well,” a tall skinny slave said, “but that is too much rock to move in a day.”

  “Of course,” Galen said. “Even if you all were to work as hard as you could, you’d fail. But you’re not here to work today, are you?”

  The slaves mumbled amongst themselves.

  Galen wandered up to the wall of gravel. “You’re not even here to make fun of lambs.”

  “Baa,” Johnny said, causing some laughter.

  Galen smiled. “You’re here to listen to a story.”

  One slave snorted. A few others were still staring off into nothingness. Some, Arturus noticed, seemed confused. Perhaps they feared Galen was going to trick them into some sort of punishment.

  “Oh don’t worry,” Galen assured them. “I know that you’re afraid that this will be some kind of verboten story. That it might somehow be a subversive tale designed to weaken Calimay’s reign. Oh, no. It certainly isn’t that kind of story. It’s a story about a would be princess, named Gala, who wanted to marry a prince . . .”

  The slaves were at least listening to Galen as he paced before them, though Arturus couldn’t guess as to what they were thinking.

  “. . . named Calimon.”

  That got them. A few sat up straight. Others looked nervously towards the exits, but not for long. As Galen walked back to Arturus and the hunters, he took their undivided attention with him.

  Galen spun around on the ball of his foot, facing the crowd and gesturing with his arms at the rock. “Now Prince Calimon ruled the Castle of Nid, which sat on the hill of Nod before the plains of Ned. And Gala, his greatest love, was a farmer on those plains. Because she was just a peasant, the soldiers of the Prince feared her. They thought that
if Gala were to get the Prince’s ear, then the Prince might start doing things for the lowly farmers. He might start making their lives easier. He might even stop working them so hard—and we all know that cannot be allowed.”

  There was some mirthless laughter.

  “So the Prince’s most annoying soldier . . . named Tamarand . . .” Galen paused for their laughter. A smile spread across his face. “Whispered into the ear of the Prince, ‘surely you don’t want to marry such a baseborn woman?’ The Prince replied, ‘Of course I do! Haven’t you seen her tits?’” more laughter. “And that ass?” Johnny was laughing too.

  Galen put a hand to his chin, and for a moment stroked his well trimmed beard. “But Tamarand would not relent. ‘Let us at least make sure she is worthy, my Prince.’ And the Prince Calimon was a bit of a fool, so he agreed. Tamarand then came to the family of Gala and told them that the marriage was on, but that Gala had to complete a few simple tasks.

  “The first task was to spin forty bales of wool into yarn in a single night. The family was horribly distraught, but they had no choice but to agree. Fortunately, word of the ridiculous task got around town, and that night, when Gala got ready to attempt the Herculean task of spinning the yarn, her village showed up to help. Sure enough, by daybreak, all the wool had been spun into yarn.

  “Unfortunately, Tamarand had left spies behind. In the morning, the Prince received the report that his beloved Gala had somehow accomplished the impossible task. He was overjoyed. But Tamarand at the same time received word that the villagers had helped. So Tamarand came up with another task, a task so impossible that no one could accomplish it, and then he sent his soldiers to the town and arrested all the villagers so that they could not help Gala.

  “This time he took Gala to a mountain. ‘This is your last task,’ he said, ‘and if you move this mountain to the far side of the plains of Ned, you will be allowed to marry prince Calimon.’

  “And Gala cried because there was no way that she could move a mountain. And her tears fell to the ground where she saw three ants watching her weep.”

  Galen sat down on the rubble, mimicking the pose of a weeping princess. “‘Oh, ants!’ Gala exclaimed. ‘I was to marry the Prince, but to do so I have to move that mountain over there. I cannot do it.’ The ants took pity on her plight. ‘If we help you, will you speak with the Prince on our behalf? We ants are not well treated, you know.’ ‘Of course, of course. If I ever marry the Prince I will make sure all the ants in the kingdom are well fed. But can you really move a mountain?’

  “Well, the lead ant thought about this. ‘We can,’ he answered, ‘but it is a lot of work, and I cannot make my entire family do it if they do not wish to.’ So he turned to the first ant, named John. And he asked John if he would help. John agreed, and he moved to the base of the mountain. And then the ant leader came up to another of his friends . . .” Galen walked up to one of the slaves and knelt beside him. “And he asked that ant what his name was. And the ant said . . .”

  The slave Galen was kneeling next to looked at him in confusion.

  Galen cleared his throat. “What was the ant’s name?” Galen asked the slave.

  “Porter.”

  “Porter, a good name for an ant who moves mountains. And the Princess asked Porter if he would help her, and Porter said . . .”

  The slave was still confused.

  “And Porter said?” Galen pressed.

  “Yes?” the slave tried.

  Galen stood up suddenly, his hands raised in the air. “And Porter said yes!” The serfs laughed again. “And he moved to stand next to the mountain.” Galen helped the slave to his feet and pushed him towards the rubble. “Go on. Go and stand next to the mountain.”

  The rest of the slaves continued laughing as the man walked across the room.

  “And then the leader came to another ant, and he asked that ant what his name was.” Galen stopped before another slave. “And that ant’s name was?”

  “Chuck.”

  “And the ant leader asked Chuck to help, and Chuck said?”

  “He said yes.”

  “And Chuck moved to stand next to Porter.” Galen’s voice was building in volume.

  Chuck stood up and walked over to the rubble.

  Galen moved to the Kruk. “And the leader asked a third ant, whose name was?”

  “Sebastian.”

  “And did Sebastian agree to help?”

  “He did.”

  Sebastian moved into the line. Galen walked over to the shovels and picks he had dropped earlier. He took a wicker basket and placed it next to the rubble. Using a pick, he pulled down some of the stones into the basket. “And the ants made a line next to the mountain. The first ant picked up a single pebble and then passed it to the next.” Galen picked up the wicker basket and passed it to Porter. “Who passed it on to the next.” Porter passed it to Chuck. “And the next.” Chuck passed it to Sebastian. “And some of the ants gathered by the foot of the mountain to gather the pebbles.” Galen pointed to a series of about ten of them. The men moved to stand next to the wicker baskets. “And the rest went to the line, stretching themselves evenly between where the mountain was, and where the mountain would go.”

  As one, the remaining slaves stood.

  Martin took a deep breath as he approached Staunten’s heavy wooden door. Behind that door was the captured corpse eater. Ben was the hunter on duty.

  “He was calling for help,” Ben said. “First time he’s been able to string whole sentences together. We’ve had him unbound and ungagged since he calmed down a couple of days ago. I should warn you, sir. He is speaking, but you’re not going to like the shit he’s saying.”

  “Here, take this,” Martin ordered, handing the hunter his half empty food bowl. “Only come in if we call you.”

  You’ve got to appear strong. You can’t let him see any weakness. He’s not going to want to talk. Try to say what Aaron would say.

  He nodded to Huxley, who took out a key. Huxley worked the lock before tugging at the door. It swung open smoothly on hinges greased with dyitzu fat. The smell of rot poured out into the hall. The room’s windows had been covered in black sheets. Light came pouring in from behind Martin, stopping mere inches from where the corpse eater lay. A rip had been made in one of the sheets, allowing another finger of light to crawl over the man’s body. That finger showed grey tinged skin and a massive pus filled sore that rose from his exposed leg.

  The corpse eater covered his eyes with his forearm.

  Martin entered the room, his boots clopping upon the stone floor. Huxley followed, closing the door behind him, leaving the finger of light as the only source of illumination left. After a moment, Martin’s vision began to adjust.

  The corpse eater was pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Are you . . . are you real?”

  The question took Martin by surprise.

  Huxley leaned over his shoulder and whispered into Martin’s ear. “The corpsedust has had him hallucinating. He might not know that there’s none left in his body.”

  “I’m real, brother,” Martin told the man.

  The corpse flew to his feet and rushed him.

  Martin raised his hands to defend himself, but he was too late. The corpse eater grabbed him tightly. The heat from man seemed unnatural. Martin tried to wrestle himself free but stopped when he realized the corpse eater was sobbing. Tears started to seep into his right shirtsleeve. Martin could hear the distant sound of the villagers laughing from the feast outside. The noise seemed out of place in this room.

  Klein says that corpsedust is worse than heroin. Who knows what terrors this man’s mind has imagined for him?

  “Easy, brother,” Martin found himself saying. “Easy.”

  The corpse eater let go slowly and stood back. Even in the dim light, Martin could see that his clothes were threadbare. The corpse eater did his best to straighten his shirt. His hands shook terribly.

  Martin seized the man’s shoulders and met
his eyes. “You have a name, brother?”

  “Caval.”

  “I’m Martin, and you may have met Huxley.”

  Caval shuddered as he looked at Huxley. “He’s a face from my nightmares.”

  Martin snorted, letting go of the man’s shoulders and looking towards the door. “This nightmare is on your side, Caval. He’s been here to watch you, to feed you, and I assume to give you the sinfruit juice you’ve needed to clear your system.”

  Caval nodded. “Why am I shaking still?”

  “Klein says it’s withdrawal,” Huxley answered. “Like from an old world drug. We thought about giving you small amounts of corpsedust—”

  “Yes!” Caval was suddenly very animated. “You could give me a little. Just a little. Just enough to take away the pain.”

  Martin grabbed his shoulders again. “No.”

  “You don’t understand.” Caval’s face was contorted. “I don’t want it. I don’t. I’ll stop. We just need to give me a little. A little!”

  Martin shook his head. He walked away from Caval and sat in the one chair Staunten had left in the room. “They say there ain’t no reason to be good anymore, Caval. There’s no God to write down your sins and hold them against you. That’s already been done. What I can tell you is that the corpsedust has hurt you. Your body is covered in the sores it gave you.”

  Caval looked as stubborn as any man Martin had ever seen.

  “I have information you want,” Caval said. “I won’t say a word until you ease this pain!”

  Martin leapt back up from his seat. “And it wants to go on hurting you,” Martin boomed, his sudden motion causing Caval to fall back. Martin advanced towards him. “Who needs devils to poison your soul when you can do it all on your own?”

  Caval collapsed. “I’m sorry,” the corpse eater was literally blubbering. “I didn’t mean to hurt your people. It was the corpsedust. It drove me insane. It made us do things we would have never done. It led us astray. It whispered words into our minds . . . but there’s more. The dust, it did one man’s bidding. We didn’t notice it at first. It was hard, through all the hallucinations. We’d sit in the chapel and partake of it together. But the hallucinations, the visions—they led us toward truth. Powell had taught us that it was leading us back to Heaven. And at first it seemed true. The highs were so high. I saw angels. Real angels! They sang to us. I cannot explain to you the bliss. But the dust took us back down too. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. There was one among us who never started to rot. The visions we experienced, we learned that he was giving them to us. He was the real leader. I think he is the one who hooked Powell.”