Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  “Okay,” Arturus said. “Okay.”

  They walked a little farther into the wilds together while Arturus mulled over what she’d said. Soon enough he led them off of the rustrock road.

  “Promise me you won’t die,” he said impulsively, not even thinking about the words.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Promise me you won’t die,” he repeated, this time more firmly. “Now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Say it.”

  “I promise.”

  “Say it all the way.”

  “Okay, Turi. I’ll say it. I promise, I won’t die.”

  He nodded satisfied.

  “It’s a stupid promise anyway,” she said after a moment.

  “Doesn’t matter. You still made it.”

  People took their time going to bed that evening. Massan and Kara were speaking outside their hovel. Kara’s eyes never strayed from Massan, though she moved about frequently. Her laughter often drowned out all of the other noises in the village. A few even hushed her. Father Klein could also be heard all across Harpsborough, his voice booming out from where he preached upon the church steps. A huddle of less faithful villagers gathered in one corner, betting what little food and ammo they had on the roll of some devilbone dice. Martin had played the game at times. They called it “Icatian Craps.” Martin had called it “no craps” because he tended to lose all his food when he played it.

  Late nights like this one would have normally annoyed him, as he was the man who, along with Avery, most often took the guard position during the night. It was hard to protect people, in his opinion, who were making enough noise to drown out the possible approach of a devil. His missing hand, however, had absolved him of this duty.

  Martin wandered over to the kiln. Kylie was there, tending the woodstone torches which served as its fuel.

  “Kylie, princess, I got to get me a pot.”

  “Martin, you always eat everything you’re given. I thought for sure you kept a pot in your stomach.”

  She reached out and rubbed his belly.

  As far as Martin Warwick was concerned, Kylie was the only worthwhile Citizen in the entire Fore, except for Aaron, of course.

  “Well, babe, I’ve decided to start saving some food.”

  She nodded and glanced over towards the gamblers.

  “Bad luck has also been my pot,” he admitted, “but I’ve decided to stop gambling.”

  “Tired of ‘no craps?’” she asked.

  He laughed.

  Lewd things were somehow more amusing when Kylie said them. Martin figured that Michael was a lucky man. Kylie wasn’t the prettiest girl in the village, not by a long shot, but her hair was luxurious, her eyes were sparkly, her smile was wide—and she had a huge mouth.

  As far as Martin Warwick was concerned, the mouth sealed the deal. “Losing my hand, it’s kind of got me thinking, you know? I need to have some things stored up next time. That way, when things go bad, I can still eat right. I mean, what if I had a woman too? I wouldn’t be able to feed her on what hunters get these days.”

  Kylie nodded. “Let me see that hand.”

  He held out his stump.

  She ran her fingers across the growing hand, sending shivers of fiery pain to his brain and a similarly warm but more pleasant sensation to his heart and loins.

  “Growing back fine,” she said. “What do you think, a month or so?”

  Martin beamed. “Maybe, if I’m quick about it. Could be two.”

  “Now about that pot. You know I’m not an old world kind of girl.” Her tone was stern. “I don’t do layaway.”

  “I’ve got devilwheat,” he said defensively. “I’m not trying to be your charity case.”

  Kylie smiled. “Well, I might have made an exception for you, anyway.”

  Martin pulled out a bundle of devilwheat from his hoodie’s front pocket.

  “You want me to make you one fresh?” She asked. “I was thinking about firing another batch before I went to bed.”

  Martin looked at the few pots she had on display. One was short and squat. She’d covered it before its firing with mixtures of colored dust to paint a picture on the clay. Bands of darkening sandstone gave the impression of a beach. Dark blue hellstone made up the ocean. There were white marble dust seagulls and a single sail cresting the horizon. The sun was made from a red so light that it almost looked pink, and more of that dust adorned the crests of the waves where the sun’s light hit the ocean.

  The scene hit him hard for some reason. He spent most of his time ignoring his memories of the old world. Of the nine to five job he’d worked to pay for the Ford Taurus he’d driven. Of the Winsten Mill apartments he’d lived in with an old couch and some lawn furniture. Of the girl that lived in 111B who had asked him to come in and kill a spider for her. Of Caleb, the Lab/Boxer mix, who always shit on the carpet when he thought Martin had been gone too long.

  “Can I have that one?” he asked.

  “Martin!” she said. “I painted that one. You know that’s worth a lot more than a bundle of devilwheat. I paid more to Kara for just gathering the marble dust.”

  “I know. I know. It just looks so beautiful. I guess I’ll take the one next to it.”

  She started to pick it up, but changed her mind. “Just take it.”

  She shoved the squat painted pot at him.

  “No, Kylie, I don’t want to cheat you.”

  “Just remember you owe me one, alright. I’m just being sympathetic, you know. I wouldn’t do this if you weren’t injured.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Martin, I’m sure. Maybe it’ll help you save up some food.”

  Martin nodded. “You’re the best.”

  She hugged him, and then kissed him on the cheek.

  “Alright,” she said, “now run along, I’ve got to get this last batch out.”

  Grinning ear to ear, he held the squat clay urn to his chest as he wandered back across Harpsborough.

  The late night was finally beginning to end. Kara was still laughing, but she was doing it from inside her hovel. Father Klein had retreated inside his church to speak with the last of the faithful. Only a few people were still moving about. A couple of men and women were walking in through the village entrance, having made their waste or gotten one last drink of water before they took to their beds.

  Martin stopped beside the Fore, his cheek still burning from where Kylie had kissed it.

  He wasn’t ready for the day to end, he decided, but there wasn’t really anyone for him to talk to.

  He saw Benson. The stilling had taken most of the meat off of the man. His face was as gaunt as a holocaust victim’s, his eyes as red as a hound’s.

  “Hey there, ole Bense,” Martin Warwick said as he sat down next to the still man. “What did you see today?”

  Benson said nothing, his face as pallid as a living man’s face could be.

  “Really?” Martin went on. “I got this pot.”

  The hunter held it up in front of his own eyes and looked at the beach. Some of the marble dust seagulls were smaller than others. He tried to perceive the depth which this represented in the painted urn.

  “Did you ever get to go to the beach?” he asked Benson. “I never did, you know. I saw it on the Discovery Channel, and in a bunch of movies, but I never made it. Bet you it’s for the best, though. If I saw the ocean, I’d probably turn straight into a pirate.”

  Benson said nothing.

  “Arr, motherfucker,” Martin told him, and laughed to himself.

  He set his pot down between his legs and looked up to Harpsborough’s ceiling. “I’m doing good these days, Benson. You’re probably pretty proud of me. I got some steady food, you know. Better than hunting for the moment. I’ve got this pot. I’m going to save some of my food this time. I’ll be ready for when I’m a hunter again.”

  He sighed before continuing. “Then I’ve got to worry about the woman situation. You know? Aaron told me I better fi
nd me one. And I’m not the kind of man who disobeys an order, am I fella’?”

  Martin laughed at his own joke and uncapped his hunter’s canteen. “Sure wish it could be Kylie. Woman’s a Citizen, and a nice one to boot. Michael would probably have me killed, though. I’d be lucky if he sent me through the Golden Door.”

  Martin took a swig and recapped his canteen. “You know, I should get my hand cut off more often!”

  He looked back towards his pot. To the ocean depicted upon it. He slowly spun it and watched the beach landscape change. The clay urn issued a grinding sound as its bottom scraped against the stone. “I know you took her death hard, Bense. No harm in that. We all did, you know? All us hunters. To see that girl lose her guts like that. . .”

  Martin studied Benson’s face. Not even a twitch. The man was very grey.

  “I thought it was nice of you, what you tried to do. I wouldn’t have done it. You did all you could.”

  It seemed like Benson was greyer closer to his mouth.

  “Oh shit, man. You alive?”

  Martin reached out to check for breathing.

  He was relieved to feel just the faintest touch of air on his hand, but there was something else on the man’s face. Some grey dust. “Motherfucker!” He lumbered to his feet.

  The curse startled a young man out of his hovel. Martin had forgotten his name.

  Martin drew his sidearm and reluctantly leveled it at Benson. “Go get Aaron and Father Klein,” he shouted to the boy.

  The young man stood still, confused.

  Martin waved him on with his stump. “Some bastard’s poured corpsedust all over ole Bense.”

  That sent him running

  Martin bent down to inspect Benson as the boy ran off to the other side of the Fore.

  “Fuckers,” Martin told the still man. “And of course, they’d wait for Michael to leave before they did this to you.”

  “Not bad.” Galen inspected the mold Arturus had made for the pawns. “Not bad at all.”

  Behind them, the forge burned steadily.

  Arturus had never seen a chess set before, so Galen had made the appropriate drawings for him. The pawn had been the simplest, so Arturus had made one of those first. He had become a good whittler of woodstone, and the pictures were clear, so he felt confident he had made the piece and its mold correctly.

  “I don’t understand why there has to be so many of these,” Arturus remarked.

  Galen shrugged his shoulders.

  “For every King there are eight pawns. For every Queen there are eight replacements. Just the way of the world.”

  Galen had made other demands of the pieces as well. For one, he insisted that the diameter of the base of the King was to be exactly half of its height.

  “Why?” Arturus had asked. “Does Michael know that it’s supposed to be this way?”

  “No, but the ignorance of your fellows is no excuse for shoddy work.”

  Galen had agreed to work the bellows since Arturus had used the battery up on grinding sandstone. He had also made the sandstone mixture to Galen’s exact specifications. For the black pawns, Arturus used nine parts ground sandstone, one part ground whetstone, and two parts ground pewter. For the white pawns he was going to use eleven parts sandstone and one part whetstone. He poured his black mixture into an obsidian cup. They used obsidian because it was the hellstone which was most resistant to heat. Galen held up the forge’s grate, and Arturus used a pair of tongs to place the obsidian cup into the fire.

  The heat was so intense that it was difficult for Arturus to stare into the fire for long, but he looked for as long as he could stand it, watching the sand melt together.

  Donning a protective glove, he then used his tongs to grip a stirring rod. To make the piece perfect, he knew, the mixture had to be as even as possible.

  Galen grunted his approval as Arturus began to stir.

  “Why are we going to use whetstone dust in the white pawn’s mixture? Won’t it darken the glass?” Arturus’ voice sounded weak, drowned out behind the forge’s flames.

  “You might have been right in the old world.” Galen shook his head. “But for us it will just make the glass stronger. We don’t want those men in the Fore knocking over the set and breaking the pieces.”

  “Why would they do that?” Arturus asked as he continued to stir.

  “Chess can make people quite angry at times, boy. Make sure you are a gracious winner, should you play them.”

  Arturus laughed. Galen always assumed he would win at things.

  He looked again at the mixture. It looked like dirty water. He stirred it just a little more.

  “Do you have the syringes prepared?” Galen asked.

  “I think they’re ready.”

  The warrior nodded and opened the forge grate. Arturus reached in with the tongs and pulled out the cup of obsidian.

  “Be careful with that, boy,” Galen said. “That molten glass is hot enough to kill. Don’t move fast, lest you stumble.”

  Arturus carried the cup away from the forge’s fires. Galen gripped a funnel in his own tongs and held it above the closed mold. Arturus carefully poured the glass into the funnel. He stopped on instinct.

  Galen looked down through the funnel, and then nodded. “Quickly, follow me to the river.”

  They hurried across the gravel hallways and entered the river room. The cool moist air was a relief to his face, which was hot and dry from being near the forge.

  “You’ve got to get it just right,” Galen said as Arturus dipped the mold into the river. “The outside of the piece has to be cooled enough to hold its shape, but the inside must still be liquid.”

  Arturus counted out a long sixty seconds as the river flowed by, and then took the steaming mold out and placed it on the bank.

  “Quickly and carefully,” Galen said.

  Arturus used his knife to undo the buckles that held his mold together. To Arturus’ relief, the pawn held together and did not melt as he removed the mold’s top half.

  “Pass me the syringes,” Galen said.

  Arturus pulled them out from his pack and handed them to the warrior.

  “I’ll only show you this once boy. The rest you must do on your own.”

  Arturus watched like a hawk as Galen punctured the pawn’s thin crust of hardened glass with the first needle. He then inserted the same needle in a second spot and drew an imperceptible amount of molten glass into the syringe. He quickly emptied it into the river. Using the hole made by his first puncture, he put in the second needle. Galen injected just the smallest amount of the substance as he slowly withdrew the needle. He swirled the needle about as he did so, leaving a trail of red coloring inside the pawn. Arturus watched the substance as it touched the glass. The red hellstone seemed to flow within the pawn for just a second before stopping, leaving a trail of blood, frozen and hanging, within the pawn.

  “Close the mold carefully.”

  Arturus did so, and placed it back into the river. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Leave it in for another fifteen minutes,” Galen said. “More won’t hurt, but less might. Show it to me when you’re done.”

  Arturus nodded numbly, staring into the river.

  “And don’t lose focus, boy,” Galen said. “You’re still in the wilds. Make sure you watch the exits.”

  Arturus nodded and shook his head clear.

  He lost count a few times, but when he was sure fifteen minutes had passed, he took out the mold and looked at the piece.

  The glass was dark, barely transparent in places, but in others he could see the red swirling of the hellstone. It was hypnotic.

  Because it was made from a mold, there was excess glass at the base of the pawn that he would have to smooth off, but he was in no hurry to do that.

  The red matches the red in the black marble.

  He wandered back into his home to show Galen the pawn.

  Galen grunted and nodded.

  “Can we do the same thing with
the white pieces?” Arturus asked. “Except maybe we’d swirl in some powdered white marble?”

  Galen furrowed his brow.

  “I had thought to make them clear, and perhaps glaze the outside. But this is your creation, boy, and if you decide to do so, I would support your decision.”

  “It will take more work,” Arturus said.

  Galen nodded.

  Arturus thought about it. “I’ll do it.”

  Galen grunted his approval.

  Nearly the entire village had awakened and come to gawk by the time Aaron exited the Fore. Martin was waving the crowd back so that they wouldn’t get too close to Benson. Aaron joined up with Father Klein and they made their way together through the villagers. They walked up to Martin, and the three squatted by the still man.

  “Lookie here,” Martin said. “Bastard’s got it on his face a little, but check behind his teeth.”

  Benson issued no complaint when Aaron opened his jaw. Aaron tried not to get any of the saliva on him. He was amazed the fellow had any saliva left.

  “See that?” Martin asked. “All down his throat.”

  Martin was right, the man had corpsedust coating the inside of his mouth.

  “Jesus,” Aaron said, giving a whistle. “Who would want to do that?”

  Father Klein stood abruptly and shook his head.

  Aaron looked about. Many of the Citizens had gone to the balconies and the fourth floor of the Fore. A few were coming out of the front entrance to see what was going on.

  “Does anyone remember how long he’s been still?” Aaron asked the crowd.

  “About a month, maybe two,” one villager answered.

  Martin rubbed the skin at the base of his stump. “I agree, it’s about that.”

  Aaron wiped his hands on his camouflaged pants.

  “As soon as he dies, he’ll rise,” a voice warned from the crowd.

  “He can’t last much longer,” another said.

  “Father Klein, you’ve been here the longest,” Aaron spoke out before the crowd could get too carried away. “How long can a stilling last before it takes a man?”

  “It’s not like the old world,” the Father said. “There a man can sit still for three days and stand a decent chance of dying. Here it’s different. I’ve seen the stilling last nearly a year.”