The pain came on strong, strong enough to send tears flowing down his cheeks.
Wasted water. You need that.
He was tired of fighting. He was tired of waiting for a dyitzu or a hound to enter this place and take his life. He was tired of trying to guess when a day had passed, or how much was safe to push away from the rubble. A few days, or pushes ago, depending on how he tried to measure time, he had gone too far. The bleeding had started in earnest, and he had lapsed into unconsciousness. To his horror he had awakened again.
It’s time, Avery. It’s time for you to end it.
He knew how he was going to kill himself. All he had to do was push hard against the rock. His body would inch its way out of the rubble and his blood would spill and he would die.
Anything left you want to think about, Avery? This is your last chance.
But was there anything left to think about? He’d made his peace with Kelly.
There were people back in Harpsborough he missed. Jessie and Sally. He would never get a chance to kiss Jessie. He would never become a Citizen. He would never get to eat on a Fore balcony.
But those weren’t his real regrets. His real regrets were the things he’d left undone in the old world. They were the loose strings that a man could leave unknotted as he traveled through life living as if he would never die. Really, he hadn’t much cared about Hell. He’d never tried to make anything of his time here. He’d just been waiting to die. It seemed to be an inferior way to live.
I wish, I wish I had lived my life here like I had lived my life on Earth.
Then he would have regrets for Hell. Regrets were good. They were a sign that things had meant something. His existence here seemed so utterly meaningless that he cursed himself for having not found anything important to strive for.
Well that’s a regret of a sort.
But it wasn’t enough. If he was going to die like a man should die, he should have had something worth fighting for. A cause worth dying for, even. There should be a woman he loved with all his heart who he was trying to get back to—a woman who would be devastated by his death. Or better yet, a woman who didn’t love him back, who he would never get the chance to tell about his unrequited love. That was the way to die. Not like this. Not as a lonely animal in an abandoned castle—alone—with no friends and only a pile of rubble for company.
I did it all wrong, somehow.
He should have a kid back in Harpsborough, or kids, who could carry on his legacy. Or maybe he shouldn’t, damnation wasn’t easy after all. He should have an enemy he hated.
I didn’t do enough yet. Please, God, let me live.
But there was no God here—only men, and none of them cared enough for him to save him from his fate.
This isn’t the death you would have chosen, but it’s the one you have.
Had he really made it so far only to die like this? Had he really eaten all that corpseflesh and walked through the mobs of the dead only to be killed by hellstone? Was there any justice in that?
No, he had squandered his time here, but there was nothing to do about it now. Now it was time to die. He put his hands against the rock, breathed deeply—but where would he go next? What if the next universe he found himself in was so terrible that he would wish he were back here? But was there anything he could really imagine that he feared more than a dyitzu coming into this room while he was so helpless? Or a hound? Or a corpse?
I’ve got the shotgun.
He looked around for it. He had knocked it away at some point, maybe when he was eating, or perhaps when he was unconscious.
He struggled to reach it, but the distance was too far and the pain was unbearable. More tears streamed down his face.
No, it’s time to die.
He readied himself again, taking in a few more deep breaths. He put his hands against the stone, but he was afraid of something more than a dyitzu. It wasn’t any of the Hells he could imagine—it was death itself. Dying was so terrifying that he found he couldn’t face it again.
Oh, Lord, Jesus fucking Christ. The Devil, or whatever fucked up god Calimay prayed too, anyone, anything, please help me.
He was losing blood from his efforts to reach the shotgun. The blood was fluid that he could not replace.
I can’t die.
But there didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. How could he have been so stupid as to have pushed too far? How could he let his impatience cause him to make that mistake? Choosing how hard to push was literally the only choice he had left to make, and he had fucked it up.
Way to go Avery. Way to fucking go.
His heart beat faster, which caused more blood to leave him, but it also caused him to be more alert.
Did I hear something?
Was it happening now? Was a devil coming to kill him? All seemed silent.
It was me fooling myself. Or maybe it was a stone falling from one of the walls.
But he couldn’t make himself believe it. He looked towards the entrance to the room. That was where his friends had left him.
Oh God, is it the Minotaur?
He looked over to the dead thing. It had taken more punishment than he had thought possible. Hell, it had moved without a heart. Could such a devil heal after receiving all those wounds? Would it be rising soon from amidst the rubble? Avery’s situation was hopeless enough already. He had plenty of healing to do and not enough food to fuel it . . . but things would be even worse if he was in a race against a healing Minotaur.
He heard the noise again, a footstep.
It wasn’t the Minotaur.
He looked towards the shotgun. There was no way he could reach it.
I could take off my shirt and try to pull it back.
But if he moved enough to take off his shirt, he would surely die. All he could do was look to see what was coming for him.
Malkravyan entered the room.
The hell?
Suddenly his thoughts were of Aaron and Turi and Kelly and Galen. “Did they make it?”
Malkravyan nodded. “I took them down the Lethe. They were able to pass out of the Carrion. All of them were alive at that point.”
Avery felt a sudden wave of relief.
“Ironic, is it not?” Malkravyan said.
“What?”
“That so many good men die, and yet you, a rapist who should have been crushed, will live.”
Malkravyan walked over and sat on the rubble beside him. He dropped his pack and pulled out a canteen.
“I made my peace with the girl,” Avery said.
The Infidel Friend nodded. “I am heartened to hear that. Not that I wouldn’t have saved you anyway, Avery. I love all people.”
“That’s very Christian of you,” Avery said.
“Now there’s no need to be insulting,” Malkravyan answered with a smile as he unscrewed the cap to this canteen. “Here, drink two swallows, no more.”
Avery nodded, reaching for the canteen.
“I’m serious, Avery,” Malkravyan said. “Your body has no efficient way to get rid of your waste right now. We have to time this very carefully. You have to take in enough nutrients to heal while not building enough shit up inside you to poison your system. Couldn’t have happened in the old world, so you will no doubt find this difficult to intuit. Thus, I would recommend that you defer to my judgment on such matters until you have a better working understanding of your body.”
Avery nodded. “I understand.”
Malkravyan let him have the canteen. The metal felt cool in his hands. Drinking the water was the first pleasant sensation Avery had experienced since the collapse. He almost took a third gulp, but spat it out.
He handed the canteen back.
“You are a tough bastard,” Malkravyan said. “That’s good. No doubt you know that a man who wants to live heals better than one who doesn’t. For you to win this race and survive, you must want life very badly.”
But I don’t. I feel defeated.
“I’m not sure
I want to live,” Avery admitted.
“I can help you with that,” Malkravyan said.
Avery thought about this. “I don’t see how.”
“I figure I’d piss you off. It should help.”
“You’re an Infidel Friend,” Avery said, “so I can see you being pretty damn good at that.”
“Excellent. Your confidence in me is heartening.” Malkravyan produced a book from his backpack.
“The hell is that? Your fucking infidel bible?”
Shit, this guy is good. I’m pissed already. He’s just like that Cris fucker.
“No,” Malkravyan said, “it’s your Bible. I thought we’d read it together. Discuss its finer points.”
Avery grinned. “I fucking hate you already.”
Malkravyan’s smile seemed to be in earnest. “Good. I think you just might make it, Avery.”
What are you doing there?” Huxley called to the man in the Hungerleaf Grove.
Galen stood and regarded them.
Marcus tugged at his arm. “You don’t know what you’re doing, man.”
“The Hell I don’t,” Hux whispered back, “the Fore owns this grove, and he’s stealing from it.”
Galen was standing on the island where the Hungerleaf Grove grew amidst the tremendous Kingsriver chamber that housed it. He walked to the shore, standing by the stepping stones which led across the thin finger of water separating it from the land where Huxley and Marcus stood.
“I am tending to the grove,” Galen responded in his deep voice. “I fear that, during my time of absence, and Rick’s, your villagers have plundered it. Their work has damaged the trees, and might kill a few. I must work to save as many as I can.”
“You’ve no claim on this grove,” Huxley said.
Galen’s eyebrows raised. He seemed amused.
“You do not want to do this,” Marcus whispered to Huxley.
“My understanding,” Galen began, “is that the Fore ceded me this grove after I helped them defeat the Icanitzu. Tell me, has Harpsborough declared war on my family?”
Huxley shook his head. “You can pretend this is all a war if you want, but the truth is that the Fore took this grove from Rick as a punishment for his conspiring with infidels.”
If anything, Galen’s amusement grew. “Took it from Rick?”
“Yes,” Huxley shot back, “for conspiring with the infidels.”
Galen looked to the grove for a moment before returning his attention to Huxley. “So you tell me how its right that the Fore took the grove away from me for something Rick did.”
Huxley opened his mouth to respond, and then stopped. “Well, we thought you were dead, so it seemed that ownership should pass to Rick, so—”
“And you were mistaken about that?” Galen coached.
“Well, yes.”
“So you’d say that your Fore gave this grove away while they were under a misconception?”
“That’s true but—”
“So they were in error when they claimed the grove.”
“I . . .”
“I accept your apology,” Galen said.
Marcus grabbed Huxley around the arm. “Look man, Galen is . . . well, all I can say is that shit would have gone down a lot differently if he’d been there during the corpse war and the fight with Maab’s people. Okay? Tell him you’re sorry, that we were mistaken, and let’s get the hell out of here before he decides to get pissed at us.”
“But the Fore—” Huxley began, but then he stopped, thinking better of it. “Well it was nice to meet you in person, Galen.”
Galen looked up from where he was tending to one of the trees. “Oh. Well nice meeting you too.”
Kelly slept silently.
She was always quiet, and he liked that about her—it was the way the Carrion people were. He stood up from the floor of his own room. It was odd to be here again. It was so familiar even though he’d been absent for so long. His leather strop was exactly where he’d left it. He walked silently to the door curtain, passing through it. His steps were soft, and the gravel crunched only a little beneath them.
He could hear the gentle rush of the river and the slow, peaceful rhythm, the tranquil, harmonious beat of the woodstone waterwheel. He walked out into the river room, the cool, moist air greeting him, alighting on his cheeks and on his bare arms.
Slowly, he came up to the river his fathers affectionately called the “Mighty Thames.” It was a slow and gentle stream, hardly worthy of a name, which meandered softly through the underground labyrinth of Hell without much of a fuss. Its waters were always cool and crisp, and just standing here reminded him of growing up along its banks. In this chamber the Thames was so smooth one could use it for a mirror. He often had, in the past. He used to kneel on the dark red hellstone by its bank and gauge the stubble which covered his face’s reflection in the flowing water. And the chill, he’d missed the chill. It wasn’t like the Carrion at all. It was . . . invigorating.
He knelt on one end of the strop, and held the other up. Reverently, he took out the bone handled straight razor he kept in his pocket. It had been the only thing he’d taken into the Carrion that he’d returned with. His guns, his clothes, his ammunition, his food and pack—all left behind.
He began honing the razor, then, on the strop, and found after a while that he was doing so to the rhythm of the turning waterwheel. He reveled in the light whispers of vibrations that crept up from the strop, through the razor, and into his hand. To him, at this moment, this action meant that he was truly home. Somehow, even with everything he’d experienced, the truth hadn’t really sunk in. But now, as he readied himself to shave, he knew in his heart that he had made it back. He held up the blade and blew off the particulates of leather. Carefully, he tested the edge on his chin and was satisfied.
Arturus washed his face, the water a blessing on his waiting cheeks. He shaved down first, on his right side, with quick, even strokes. Before he left, he had been able to cover that same area with quick upstrokes, but he could not do so now. The hair had grown in too thick, and he was bound to cut himself if he tried.
Instinctively, he placed the blade in the water a little downstream from his reflection. Above and around his own head, he saw the ceiling of this chamber. The whole of it was a soft, deep red, and it rippled around where his blade was disturbing the water—blurring where the bricks interlocked in the arched roof.
After a few more minutes, he finished and inspected his work.
Again careful not to disturb his reflection, he washed off his blade, drying the razor on his pants before folding it into its bone handle. His fingers found one of his pants pockets, and he slid the blade in it.
Then, deliberately, he looked into his reflection, meeting his own eyes as their image hovered on the surface of the oscillating water. His face was not the face he remembered. The Carrion had changed him. He could tell that he looked older. His cheekbones were a little more prominent, his face a little more angular. Maybe it was the way his reflection played off the water, but he thought he looked a little bit sadder too. It was a wistful sort of melancholy, just a touch of it. It reminded him of how Galen looked when he was thinking about times long gone. About people he’d once known. Lovers and friends he’d lost. Maybe, during some of those times, he was thinking of Arturus’ mother.
I know where this river goes.
It would meet with the Kingsriver, eventually, downstream of the Hungerleaf Grove. Its water would mix there, joining the mighty rush. But some part of it would find its way into the Carrion. Some of the water that was flowing beneath him now would pass by where those silverleg spiders lay, past where he’d killed Pyle. It would travel on to that room where he and Aaron had bathed. To the room where Galen had spoken about good and evil. Eventually it would join the river Lethe, and it might turn and fall through Giant’s Tunnel. Or it might keep going, past where Maab’s ritual chamber was. It might flow down into the lake where Galen said the Lethe pooled. There it could rise as mist
and float through the halls where Calimay lived—to where, even now, Avery might still lay. Or it could go on past the Deadlands and the mines to where it flowed by the quarry where the workers of the City of Blood and stone labored to unearth Tu-El—to where it must finally rush over the edge of the piece of Hell they called Gehenna before falling freely into the unending depths of the Erebus. Beyond that chasm, Saint Wretch waited. He was going to come, of that Arturus was certain, and it was going to be this face, this face touched with melancholy, that Saint Wretch would be looking for.
Do you fear me, Saint Wretch, like I fear you? Do you wonder, as you wait to escape from that prison the Infidel tricked you into, if maybe, just maybe, the blood of my mother will let me hurt you? Do you have nightmares where you dream that my flesh can touch yours? That my teeth might draw your blood? That my fists might break your bones? Do you fear these things even as I fear that my strikes will be as ineffective as any other?
He left the Thames and returned to his home.
The loose rocks welcomed him as he walked back across them. He brushed through his door blanket to enter his sleeping chamber and placed his razor reverently next to where Kelly slept. She turned and looked at him. She was a light sleeper. He liked that about her, too. That was the way the Carrion people were.
He offered his hand, and she took it. He helped her to her feet. As soon as she was standing, she reached out and brushed the back of her fingers against his cheek. His face felt smooth under her touch, as smooth as polished marble.
She smiled, not the smile of a dark priestess, but the smile of a girl—a lover. “Love me,” she ordered.
Arturus smiled back. “Thus spake Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly.”
“What’s that from?” she asked.
“The end of a poem Galen used to sing to me.”
He kissed her, and though it was painful, he loved her.
When they were finished, they napped and then stirred together. Arturus could hear Rick moving around in the battery room.
March till Death (Hellsong Book 3) Page 34
