“You fucking have no—”
“You think you’re the only one?” She shouted, dropping to her knees and putting her hands behind her back so that she was helpless before him. “You raped me because you couldn’t think of me as human. Big fucking deal. What, you kind of raped one woman? One! Do you have any idea what I’m responsible for? Where I served as priestess, I had over a hundred people who worshiped me at any given time. I had soldiers and slaves, and not a one of them had any choice when I came for them. Not one.”
Avery’s eyes widened. “I—”
“No! You shut up. You listen. You only did it once. You thought one person was less than human. I was taught that an entire gender was. Half of all the people who ever lived—I believed they weren’t worth a damn. I was taught that no matter how hard a man tried, no matter how good his intentions were, that he was destined to want to face off against Hell, and that when he did he’d bring about the ruination of his people. But do you know what it means to believe that? Do you know what the cost of not fighting Hell is? And then there’s Turi. And I met him the way you meet people—not as a slave, but as an equal. I met him and started to think of him the way I would have before I died. And then I saw Galen leading those serfs in Calimay’s. I have ruined hundreds of men like Turi. Hundreds. So don’t you stand there and tell me you hate yourself for just one. Because I’m worthy. Avery, I’m fucking worthy of Turi. I’m fucking worthy of you, and of Galen, and of the whole fucking Hell. And if you say you aren’t shit for one rape, then I sure as hell am not for the hundreds.”
Avery set his pick down upon the stone floor. He was crying. He got on his knees too. Kelly hated seeing men cry. He circled his mottled, half dead arms around her and she rested her head on his chest.
The sword slung over Malkravyan’s shoulder clacked against the wall as he leaned back against it. “You’re going into the City of Blood and Stone?”
El Cid nodded.
“I’ve got contacts,” Cris said. “A little bit of an underground movement. And Eagan over here has enough infidel fire to drop a bridge.”
“And you’re going to take her with you?” Malkravyan asked, pointing to Molly.
Molly felt a shiver run down her spine. Instinctively, she looked away.
“That’s the idea,” El Cid said.
“If you’re worried that she doesn’t have the training,” Malkravyan went on, “I can take her back to Calimay’s. Keep her there till you return.”
No, I have to stay with Cris.
“Thank you, but not necessary,” El Cid answered. “She won’t hold us back once we’re in the aqueduct.”
Malkravyan let his pack and sword drop to his feet. “Be careful, there’s a Minotaur out there that’s pretty nasty. He’s got better tracking than I’ve seen in one of his kind before, and he’s got wights with him. I have no idea what alliance he made to pull that off. A lot of wights, and none of them are in control of other corpses.”
Molly had never seen a Minotaur before, she’d only heard of the one which had gored Michael and left him for dead on the banks of the Kingsriver. For the first time, Molly felt homesick. She had been Michael’s woman, then. Everyone had liked her. She’d spent all day in the Fore. But that fight had fucked Michael up somehow. He’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming, clutching at his stomach.
He’d started to beat her after that.
El Cid was shrugging her shoulders. “From what we’ve heard, Lucreas Crassus is back. He’s used undead before.”
“It could be Nephysis, too,” Jessica broke in. “We’ve been told that Maab is afraid he’s turned traitor, or that he might be playing both sides.”
Malkravyan thought about this for a moment. “It’s possible he’s turned, I suppose. I have a hard time seeing him accepting any authority, though. I could be wrong, but I think it’s more likely he’d play both sides in hopes that he could keep a handle on his own destiny. Either way, keep an eye out for that Minotaur on your way back. He’s hard to shake, so even if you think you’ve lost him, keep on going. Other than that, Cris knows what’s going on—mostly.
“The Carrion is filled to bursting with dyitzu. Oh, and don’t pass through the Deadlands. It’s so full of corpses it’s not even worth the protection from the dyitzu.”
Cris’ eyebrows raised. “Truly?”
“I’m serious, it’s a mess in there. I haven’t spoken to my contacts at the City recently, but be careful with how you sabotage the bridge. Maab knows that bridge is being built too—Hell, she probably knew before you found out about it, Cris—and she’s not any happier about Saint Wretch coming across than we are. The best guess of my contact in her compound is that she’s sending a group to take out the bridge too. Supposedly, she’s got La’Ferve’s best apprentice leading it.”
El Cid frowned. “Cris, you sure we can’t work with this Maab woman? I hate wasted motion.”
“Limited objectives with her, only,” Cris said, “and be careful even at that. Hell, ask Malkravyan here if you don’t believe me.”
“He’s right, Cid,” Malkravyan said. “Maab may not deal with devils, but that’s about the only thing she won’t do. Her societies are glorified rape dens with ritual castration, mutilation, slavery, and torture. In a lot of ways, it’s better to be a slave for the City than for Maab.”
“Is Calimay any different?” El Cid asked.
“Not really, but I’m working on her.”
Malkravyan had more to say, but Molly could tell that he didn’t want her to hear it for some reason. Of all the infidel traits, secrecy was the one that bothered her the most.
Her thoughts drifted back to Michael. To the first time he’d hit her. He’d been sorry. Really, truly and genuinely sorry. Molly had been able to tell that about him. She never doubted that for a minute—and it was that earnestness on his part which had made her think it wasn’t going to happen again, and again, and again.
And then no one had believed her, or those that did, simply thought it didn’t matter. From and infidel perspective, she could say those villagers and Citizens wanted to like Michael more than they wanted to see the truth.
But that willingness to see truth cut both ways. She had been horrific to Michael. She had hurt him psychologically, when he was at his most low. She’d given him wounds which were, in some cases, as vile and as cruel as the bruises he’d given her. The infidels would want to see that truth, too. The infidels might love her unconditionally in that they’d lay their lives down to save hers, but who the hell wanted love? They wouldn’t respect her unless she became . . . she couldn’t think of the word for it. A good human being? Great? Honest? All three?
Unless I become an infidel.
Cris put a hand on her shoulder. She looked around and realized that everyone was getting ready to leave. Malkravyan hugged each Infidel Friend, but passed by Molly without a thought.
Bastard.
She picked up her pack and followed El Cid and the infidels into the next chamber.
The back wall of this room was made of a shiny black, unbroken substance. It was perfectly smooth except for an inscription of a few backward and forward Cs on the side. She heard the sound of stone grinding on stone coming from behind the wall.
“Malk’s got it for us,” Cris said.
Eagan and Aiden walked over to the left side of the room and pressed against the stone wall. It opened like an old world sliding door. Inside, all was dark.
“What is this?” Molly asked. “This is the aqueduct?”
“Sure is.” Eagan grinned. “Welcome miss, to Hell’s Autobahn.”
Arturus awoke.
His sleep had been fitful, small moments of rest between stretches of nightmares. He kept dreaming that his body was dead, and that it wouldn’t move for that reason. Finally the morning had come, and even though he could not remember ever having a less restful night, he felt better.
My body is coming back alive. I’m probably as tired as I have ever been, it’s just that
I have something newly horrific to compare to exhaustion.
His friends lay nearby him. Avery’s head was propped up against a stone wall. Rot still covered him almost completely, but he didn’t seem to be in any pain. Kelly was already awake. She was looking at him. For some reason she was wearing the bloodied shirt of one of the rapists she’d killed. Black strands of hair were in her hands.
Her hair, it must be coming out.
“It’s okay,” she told him, “Galen said it was okay. The hair comes out. I’m healing. I can grow more hair. I’ll be pretty for you again.”
Flakes of dead skin fell down from her cheek as she spoke.
Arturus was too tired to stand, and the soles of his bare feet were hurting, so he crawled over to where she lay. “I think you are the most beautiful corpse I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled. Her lips were beyond chapped. “You’re sweet.” She pointed to Aaron. “He’s still in pain.”
Aaron had curled up into a fetal position. He was shaking in his sleep.
The price we paid . . . are still paying.
“It’s not fair,” Arturus said.
“Of course it’s not.”
“No, I mean the whole thing. All of this. That we are born able to feel pain. That there are devils who want to hurt us. That there are ways to make us care about things which can be taken away from us. That there is a universe out there intent on doing so. It’s not fair. There needs to be some justice.”
When Arturus said justice, Kelly turned her head to look at Galen. He was sitting by Calimay’s priestess. There were ten soldiers with her, and about half of them were awake. To the right of the room were the twenty slaves—or there would have been. There were seventeen, now. Canvas bags of rustrock lay stacked up by the exit.
We’re going to carry those all the way back.
“You want to go down?” Calimay’s priestess was saying.
The woman bothered Arturus. It was the way she’d handled the news about her slave’s death last night. She hadn’t said a word. All she did was shrug. No hint of distress or mourning, or of any other emotion.
“Yes,” Galen answered.
One of the soldiers shook his head. “Absolutely not. The mists are there. We could walk right into a dyitzu pack without noticing a thing.”
“I’ll be able to hear them,” Galen said.
The priestess snorted. “Forgive me if that doesn’t put my mind at ease.”
“Look into my eyes,” Galen ordered.
“I’m a priestess of Mithras, you dumb-fuck male, you don’t order—”
Galen stood. “Look into my eyes.”
For a second, the priestess did.
“That Minotaur followed us through these mines when we first came here. The only reason he didn’t slaughter your workers while you extracted the rustrock is because he was too busy chasing us. He followed us through paths so secret, only the infidels know them. Your own soldiers have seen that he has wights at his beckoning. And he’s out there,” Galen pointed towards one of the ladders. “He’s out there waiting for you. He thinks my group is dead, and he knows that you are going to be calling the shots. He must know the paths your people are likely to take. So do you really want to go toe to toe with a Minotaur?”
The priestess glared at him. Her lip curled up into a sneer. “You’re right,” she raised a hand, quivering with anger, to point at Galen. “And we will go the way you suggest. But when you are no longer of any use to me, you will be whipped for your insolence.”
“Deal.” Galen turned to the room full of soldiers and slaves. “We leave in ten minutes.”
Julian was only bleeding a little when the morning came and the huge, ironbound woodstone door opened. This door would not swing in all the way, as its base would scrape against the hellstone floor. It was that scraping which had awakened Julian. He found himself in Edmond’s arms as the firelight of woodstone torches lit up their dirty sleeping chamber.
Edmond kissed Julian in the back of his head and stood up.
I am the pick.
Julian felt blood and semen seeping out of him. It was going to leave a wet little stain in the back of his grey pants. He could pretend it was just a shit stain, if he wanted, but everyone would know better.
There was a priestess by the door. Not a little lady, but a full on priestess. She was Selena’s favorite, and rumored lover, a woman called Mehlia.
“Come out,” her high voice intoned, “there will be no work today. A lesson, perhaps, but no work.”
He broke.
But the knowledge came as no surprise to Julian. He had known George would fall because George was a friend of the infidels. George didn’t have faith. He pretended to believe in the Lord just as Julian pretended to believe in the god Ahuramazda. The torchlight danced off Mehlia’s black robe, keeping her face in shadow. Julian did not know what expression was on her face, but he could imagine her wicked glee.
His friends are coming, the Infidels. If he broke, or pretended too, he could stay in their good graces and escape when the time comes.
Julian found that he couldn’t really blame the man for ratting them out. The Julian that had been kidnapped by Pyle certainly would have. That Julian did break before he’d found his real faith. He had only truly found God after he had truly lost Him.
I’m sorry, Lord. I wanted to serve you. I wanted to help these people rise up against the evil here. I wanted to change this place to one that worshiped you, to one that would do your will. A place more like Harpsborough. A place that could have honey.
Julian sighed. He’d done his best. This wasn’t like Earth. On Earth, he would have won. On Earth, God would have helped him. On Earth, the scales of the world tipped towards justice.
Not so in Hell.
They’re going to have him point me out in front of everyone. They’re going to talk about the terrible torture that they put him through, and then he’s going to be brought out, a sniveling mess, and he’ll point at me and any other Christian he knows. And then we’ll all be tortured. The weak ones will break, the last of us will be found, and our movement will be stamped out.
On Earth, a few of the weak ones would find strength. On Earth, the Lord would make sure some of the faithful survived. On Earth, the scales of the world tipped towards justice.
Not so in Hell.
He marched with his fellow slaves out into the corridor. There were other groups of slaves there, each standing by their priestess and a requisite amount of soldiers. He looked down the hall. There must have been hundreds of people here, standing in the little pockets of firelight.
Maybe we should try to fight now, try to destroy the soldiers.
On Earth a rebellion might succeed at a moment like this. On Earth, his men might have been able to wrest the guns away from the soldiers and win their freedom. On Earth, the scales of the world tipped towards justice.
Not so in Hell.
They walked through the winding corridors of Selena’s complex. The corridors were not even, nor were they laid out in any sensical manner. This was no accident. Selena built this place as a maze because, if they were ever attacked, her soldiers would know how to navigate it and the enemy would not.
They walked up a series of stairs, and then another, and then another. There were perhaps a thousand of them now, slaves and priestesses and soldiers and Little Ladies—all moving silently through the halls. The stones echoed with their footsteps, with their breathing, with the crackling of the fire.
It seemed surreal. He almost felt as if he were outside his body, looking at himself from the crowd.
Depression began to weigh on his mind, but there was also a part of him that was looking forward to this. He almost wanted the persecution. He almost wanted to test his faith against the worst that Selena’s people could give him. Let them try their hardest, let them bang stones against steel.
The largest room in Selena’s complex was called the Square. It was built deliberately to mimic the ritual chamber where Maab b
roke the bull. It was almost as large. Two great braziers burned, bright enough to illuminate the center of the room, but dim enough to leave the outer walls in darkness. He could see those walls slightly as the firelight wavered. It appeared as if the stones were rippling.
Julian felt the crowd pulling him forward. They were coming to the stage.
Tears began forming in Julian’s eyes. He felt them roll down his cheeks. He wiped them away before a Kruk could see them, but more came. He felt a sorrow in his heart that he could not explain. Maybe it was for George, for Julian knew what he had just undergone. Maybe it was for all the slaves that would never be freed. Maybe it was for the poor man Jesus who had been crucified so long ago only to have the people that he was tortured to save turn their backs on his offered salvation. Maybe, just maybe, it was for himself—because he was going to die today. Not in body, necessarily, but in soul. That young man who had daringly braved the Carrion to get food for his village would be dead. The young man who had dreaded going to church each morning would die. All that would be left was his heart’s armor.
His faith.
But that’s what it means to be a soldier of God.
On Earth, maybe, he would have been able to keep some of his innocence. On Earth, maybe, he would have been able to lay down his sword and return to the fields. On Earth, the scales of the world tipped towards justice.
Not here. Not in Hell. Not where Selena ruled.
The crowd was all around him. The heat of their bodies and the heat of the fire began to make him sweat. He hoped the sweat would hide his tears.
Selena appeared on the stage, or maybe she had been there the entire time and the light had just now grown bright enough to expose her. Her long shadow crept back from her robed body, fanning out across the floor before rising like the silhouette of some cruel monster across the dark stone walls behind her.
The light was getting brighter, he knew, because he could now see the uneven, unworked rock walls that bound them in.
“George was a slave who many knew,” Mehlia’s high pitched voice called out.
March till Death (Hellsong Book 3) Page 23
