And sometimes, I feel . . .
It’s a series of bootsteps, too many and too loud to be Q and Cid. Maybe they’d gotten help? It has been some time. Maybe they needed—
A single figure appears beyond the shadows where my son had fled. When he takes a step forward, I cannot hear the footfall. The dim lighting of the cave only illuminates my savior from the waist down. He’s wearing old world leather hiking boots of some kind, with soft soles and metallic loops for the laces. His pants are dyitzu hide, dark in color, probably from some dye, but I suppose it’s possible that the devil could have been that dark. At his belt is a sword. I can’t quite see the hilt, but I can say almost for fucking sure it’s an infidel weapon.
Oh thank God.
The fear races out of me and I let myself take in a deep, deep, deep breath. Then I let it go, and try to forget that my soul has been ruined. That my son is gone. That I have nothing left to live for.
“I’m glad you—” I begin.
A flash of blue light bursts into the room, illuminating the figure in full. The silver-hilted blade sheathed at his waist is Cid’s. His shirt is made from the same dark colored hide as his pants, though it’s been ripped open at the shoulder by the clawing hands of some devil. Blood stains cover his clothes, slick and reflective, seeming black in the sudden azure strobe. He’s got what I think is a shotgun slung over his shoulder, and its strap is half filled with shells. At his side, in a policeman’s holster, is a pistol of some kind. His face is pale, wan, and familiar. Eyes, unmistakably blue, are sunken behind dark circles. Cheekbones, both strong and somehow fine featured, jut out, matching the obtrusive handsomeness of his supermanesque cleft chin. His hair, midnight black, is interrupted by a thin streak of pure white where some horror must have touched his soul.
Keith.
His cancer men filter in around him, human hyenas who keep to the darkness. They crouch in the black alcoves of the room, their stubble-filled faces occasionally visible in the inconstant light of the Erebus. Amongst them I see Durgan, the marble-skinned wight from Maylay Beighlay. I knew it. I knew Keith had him.
I hear the far off call of a Fury, shouting its trainlike cry into the Erebus. Keith walks toward me, silent as death, slow as time, and kneels down beside me.
“Hello, Godslayer,” he says softly as the hellacious blue lighting comes and goes, and comes and goes. His fingers reach out, touching my cheek in an almost caring gesture.
The laughter of his hyena men drowns out the distant call of the Fury.
Durgan approaches, standing over Keith’s shoulder, his stonelike face and black on black eyes glistening in the shaky light.
The depth of my failure dawns on me.
I’ve been a terrible father. It’s true, I did my best to recover, and I put together a good run at the end. I chased my bewighted son for three God damned years before killing a fucking Archdevil—but I just couldn’t make things go right. Aiden, I couldn’t make you love me. Those early years, they were my undoing. I gave you enough pain to justify your becoming a monster, then I gave you the means to become one. I’m just so fucking tired of being out of control. Of being not good enough. Of losing in the one place where a man can’t have excuses.
I’m a failure as a father.
I roll over onto my stomach to get away from Keith’s caressing hand. There is only one thing I can control. Again I crawl for the ledge.
Hell, have you a Fury for me, or will I die upon your cruel rocks as I tumble?
A cold hand, hard as stone, grabs my wounded ankle. Dear fucking God, that hurts. I bite deeply into my lip and try to propel myself forward with my elbows, but I can’t.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Keith says, laughing. “You don’t get to die, Godslayer. Not for a long, long, time.”
I reach up through the darkest depths and grab with my outstretched fingers a single silver strand of wakefulness. It cuts deeply into my palms as I pull myself, bit by bit, hand over hand, into consciousness.
The fire is there in my throat again.
I awake with a start in a dim room—my brain trapped in some deep fog and my arms struggling against the bonds which hold my beyond-numb hands behind my back—but I close my eyes as soon as I realize they’re open. It’s probably better if they don’t know I’m awake. In that flash of vision I saw red faces around a smokeless fire. Tired faces. Terrified faces.
Did anyone notice me stir? My heart slows down as I force myself to take even breaths. As the moments pass my mind clears, and gradually the sound of the men’s whispered voices begins to reverberate in my brain.
“I see it when I close my eyes.”
“Get the fuck over it, man.”
“Look, I know you’re feeling it too. We’re all fucked up. This isn’t the time to be tough.”
“I don’t need your God damned help, Alec.”
Then sleep claws again at my mind. No, not sleep, unconsciousness. I don’t dare let myself succumb to the blackness. For one, I’m afraid that if I slip down into that morass again, I might never return. And for another, I’m a prisoner. My only chance at survival is to understand and outwit my captors. A prisoner has to be the most dangerous kind of man if he is to survive. He must be an opportunist with a plan.
I’ve got the first box checked.
I can’t count on rescue. I’d lain on the banks of the Erebus for far too long. Undoubtedly, Cid and Q had been forced to leave.
I really am alone, and there are so many questions I need answered. I’d known Keith and his hyenas intended to take me alive since Dendra, but what use could I possibly be to them?
And is my son here? I understand why he ran. He didn’t know who was coming. But will he try to follow them? Would he view Keith as an ally or an enemy? I guess it would all depend on if he heard Durgan’s voice or not. Durgan and Aiden had presumably spent some time together in Maylay Beighlay.
The temptation to open my eyes is driving me crazy, but I fight the urge. If my son is here, then I’ll find out soon enough. Nothing will change in the next few minutes if I see him, except that the men around me will speak less freely.
“I don’t want to go in there.”
“It’s where our home is.”
“It’s worse in there. Let’s stay here. Let’s never leave.”
“Durgan will lead us through safely.”
“Like he just did?”
“No. God no. I hope not like that. We’ve lost enough men already.”
Cid had called them a cancer. A group of people who took the successful ideas the infidels had gathered and used them to pursue a vastly different agenda. Knowledge is a powerful tool, but there’s nothing in human nature that demands it be used for good. I think her title for them is spot on. They truly are a cancer.
I had cancer in the old world, and I know a thing or two about the spirit of the affliction. People think cancer is death, but it is not death. Cancer is life. It is the abundance of life that leads to death. And these men, they form this cell, warped by some mutation away from its normal purpose. That cell then multiplies and spreads throughout the system, destroying all that the infidels had hoped to achieve.
For just a moment, I feel my own soul beneath my black pit of depression. There is a yawning chasm of emptiness where the purpose of my life used to lie.
There’s nothing left for me to live for.
I bury that thought beneath the ample rubble of my previously shattered blocks of self-denial. Escape first, then face the existential emptiness which threatens to swallow your soul. You think such a denial would be hard, you know, but it’s not. Humans were built this way. Built to bury their thoughts deep under the lies.
I have a task. I must learn my enemy—then destroy them from within. Motherfuckers, you can call me chemo.
I listen and learn, memorizing their names and their voices, peeking from time to time to attach a face to a name . . . then I drift back into sleep.
I’m disturbed by their arguing. This time I awaken with more gr
ace, and I’m almost positive no one noticed me.
“That is utter and total bullshit, Keith.” That’s Harris.
I’d learned his voice earlier, and I’m pretty sure I know which face that voice belongs to as well. He’s a black man, but his voice is indistinguishable from a Midwestern Caucasian one. For whatever reason, he’s the only one that will dare speak up to Keith.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility.” Keith’s tone is unbothered by Harris’ anger.
“You listening to this shit, Durgan?” Harris gives a nervous laugh. “You’re thinking Godslayer over here is some two-bit untrained son-of-a-bitch?”
Wait a minute. That’s me. I’m the Godslayer. Keith had called me that for some reason as I’d crawled toward the Erebus.
I keep my breathing even and make sure not to move.
There is a moment of silence. I imagine all the hyenas turning to stare at Durgan.
“I am indeed listening—to this . . . shit,” Durgan answers as if dissecting the meaning of the colloquial curse.
There is more silence.
“He killed Xyn, man,” Harris says. “He killed our God. I’m telling you, this motherfucker over here probably orders Ares and Endymion around.”
Their God? Does he mean the Archdevil? That Archdevil was claiming to be the Devil, not a God—but in Hell, I suppose it amounts to the same thing.
“Gods ain’t supposed to be dyin’.” That’s Clement.
I start coming up with some associations to help me remember their names. Clement is what Mason of Cid’s group would be—if Mason were a total shithead with long blond hair. That being said, old Clement/evil-Mason here has a good point. I’m pretty sure one of the things a God is supposed to be is immortal.
There is some tension in the air. I guess Clement has stepped close to that line called blasphemy.
“Did you hear that?” Alec’s harsh whisper cuts us all short.
Alec’s been quiet so far—so much so that I gave him and that Ryan fellow the nickname mute—but he spoke up for this.
I hear everyone’s breathing.
“You didn’t hear shit,” Harris’ whisper is equally harsh, but it is a whisper, so he must have given the threat some credence.
They wait for some time, their conversation on hold as they listen for enemies.
“You’re fucking paranoid,” Clement mutters.
“They’re out there, man. I can hear ‘em.” Alec sounds completely unhinged.
I’d thought the Order would be more, well, in control of themselves.
“Yeah? What the hell is it you hear?”
“I don’t know man, but it’s out there.”
“He might be hearing hellsong,” Fin says.
“Jesus, Fin, you’re so stupid,” Harris answers. “We’re too far from the Erebus.”
“But you can still hear hellsong,” Fin snaps back. “You can hear it anywhere. Stop acting like I’m stupid.”
There’s a sigh I believe came from Keith.
“Look, I know how you feel, Harris.” Keith’s voice is noticeably softer this time. “Xyn was my god too. What you have to appreciate is—”
“He was never your god,” Clement breaks in, his hushed, southern voice shaking a little with the venom of his accusation. “You’ve always been Igraine’s bitch.”
Great. Igraine? The last thing I need right now is more names to memorize.
Harris the harasser. Clement the evil Mason. Durgan the marble man. Keith, Mr. Clark Kent. Fin, the peer pressured putz. Alec and Ryan, the mutes. And now Igraine, Keith’s master.
My foggy mind isn’t up for this.
But it has to be because I have—I have to fight. The alternative is to face the reality of what happened to Aiden, and I’m not strong enough for that.
“The pattern is recognizable,” Ryan says.
Damn it, if he’s going to start talking more, I’m going to have to find the fucker a different nickname.
“You don’t know shit about patterns,” Harris spits.
“Speak your mind,” Keith encourages him.
“You ain’t gonna like it,” Ryan answers.
“You alright, Ryan?” Harris asks.
“Sure,” Ryan says, his voice calm. “I just don’t feel like myself, is all. But the pattern, we’ve heard about it before. An Archdevil comes in. The Infidel himself orders all his men out. Then the Infidel sends in one of his best. Ares, Endymion, Hades, someone like that. Someone he can be sure can hang with an Archdevil. Before Cris came in, the infidels split. I’m telling you man, he’s one of their heavy hitters.”
Harris chuckles. “I take my shit back, Ryan. You got it right. What do you say to that, Keith?”
“I’m not saying he’s not a heavy hitter.” Keith’s smile is in his voice.
There is some shifting, and I hear what sounds like a pack being dropped on the floor.
“Fuck it, Alec,” Harris says. “You keep your shit quiet. You understand me?”
“Ryan bumped me.”
“Ryan didn’t bump shit, you fuckhead,” Harris snaps.
“Keith,” Clement says, his southern accented voice almost giving the man’s name two syllables. “What were you saying.”
“Myla,” Durgan’s voice cuts through the room. “The whole reason we know we need the Godslayer is because of Myla.”
I just can’t seem to get away from that bitch. You’d think murdering the woman in cold blood would have been enough to get her out of my life.
Keith laughs. “Right, and she also said that Cris was fresh to Hell when she met him in the City of Blood and Stone. That was all of ten years ago. Certainly not more than fifteen. So if you want to tell me that Cris went from zero to hero in just ten years . . . well, be my guest.”
“You laugh at me one more time, motherfucker,” Harris says, his voice sounding like he’s losing control, “and I don’t care who the Order put in charge, I’m going to rip your throat out.”
I hear the sound of a blade being drawn from leather.
“Put that shit away, man.” Fin’s voice is high and weak.
“He wasn’t laughing at you, Harris,” Clement says. “Was he Fin? He was just laughing.”
I hear the snap of a button. It could have been Harris putting away his dagger, but I’m not sure.
“Keith,” Harris says. “you better wipe that damn smile off your face, or I’ll do it for you.”
“Try,” Keith answers.
I let my eyes open just slightly. Keith is a demon in the light of the smokeless fire, leaning against the uneven black wall behind him. His face has a rictus grin, a daring grin.
Harris is fuming.
Jesus, what’s wrong with these people?
“Less than ten years, as a matter of fact,” Durgan’s gravelly voice cuts through the tension. “According to Myla, they spent some time together afterwards. I doubt she’d fail to mention any infidel training.”
“Then she lied,” Alec says. “That fucking bitch lied to us, man. Set us up. She said she was with Xyn, but the whole time that bitch was with the infidels.”
If there’s one thing Myla was good at, it was pissing people the fuck off.
“Possible,” Keith answers, running a hand through his hair where the single white mark marred its otherwise uniform black color. “Then again, Cris could have been an infidel the whole time, and kept it secret from her.”
Keith’s open mindedness is clearly bothering his compatriots. They seem to need quick, concise answers.
There was a time when I needed the same.
“That’s the only explanation that makes a lick of sense,” Clement says. “Cris called the shots in Dendra, not El Cid.”
“Oh come on,” Harris says. “El Cid’s name doesn’t mean shit to the infidels. Plenty of them could order her around.”
This almost makes me snicker. I did indeed take the lead in Dendra. Not because I was in control of Cid, but because my stupid ass didn’t know how to behave.
�
��Whose side are you on?” Clement asks.
“I don’t even fucking know, man,” Harris says with disgust. “Shit doesn’t make any sense.”
“Myla may have been deceived,” Durgan says, and again, when he speaks, they all become quiet. “But the Godslayer did manage to escape his cell in Maylay Beighlay—somehow. I saw him take a beating which would have immobilized any man. It’s possible she was always on his side.”
Keith snorts. “You were the one who told us what he did to her. That doesn’t sound like they were on the same side.”
“It’s true,” Durgan admits. “If that scenario holds, then their relationship can’t have been a pure one.”
Well, that’s fucking spot on.
“Maybe he got trained in just a few years?” Clement tries.
Keith snorts louder this time. “No one is that talented.”
“He could’ve just gotten lucky,” Clement says. “Been trained a little, and happened to be chasing after his son.”
“No one’s that lucky, either,” Keith says.
I can’t really blame them for skipping right over the truth.
“If it is a deception, boss, we better find out quick,” Clement points out.
“Oh, why?” Harris asks.
I hear Keith stand up.
“Because if we tell Igraine we’ve given her someone who can show her Blood Pass,” he says, “and he can’t, she might send some Carrion born after us.”
Fuck pronouns. Okay, I remember Igraine. That’s the woman Keith’s all about. But Carrion born? Fuck my damnation. I’m guessing Carrion born are soldiers, but they could be anything. Demons. Corpses. A secret society of angry midgets. Anything.
“That’s a good point, Clement,” Keith says. “Durgan, I’ll need you to extract the information from him before we arrive at Tintagel.”
Tintagel? Okay, I’m not even going to try to remember that one.
“That will be very problematic,” Durgan says.
“The hell it will be,” Clement argues. “I’ve seen you tear a man limb from limb. What, you can’t break an infidel or something?”
“I can,” Durgan says with a cool assurance that sends a spike of fear into my belly. “Infidels break. They might recover faster, but all humans are weak against torture—at least when you can test their claims and return. However, the amount of pain I can inflict on his body, particularly considering how damaged it is right now, must be mitigated lest he be unable to travel.”
Dust (Hellsong: Infidels: Cris Book 3) Page 2
