by James Hunter
No, we had to face him on the other side of the five rivers, and sooner rather than later, because our only hope lay in an ambush. Once again time wasn’t on our side. Had Hades already heard about our strike force? Was Myrina being tortured even now? Had I damned the world forever? I had no answers, but this had to work because there wasn’t a fallback plan.
Having a Nice Tine
SINCE CHARON WAS BEING an uncooperative dick, we called in Otrere, my Water-Witch. She’d parted the waters of the Submerged Labyrinth for the vast majority of my Amazonian army, so this should’ve been a cinch in comparison. Otrere marched right up to the edge of the river, back straight, demeanor fierce, arms raised high, power emanating from her palms. She looked like a woman hell-bent on a mission—one who wouldn’t be deterred by anything. She planted her feet and thrust her hands forward, curls of arcane power flashing out and slamming against the black waters ...
Nothing happened.
Charon chuckled darkly. “The five rivers are not made of simple water, my child. They cannot be manipulated by such magic as yours. In them run the blood of the universe.”
What are the chemical compounds of universe blood? Phoebe wondered aloud in my head while she absently scratched her chin.
Otrere, sweating, finally had to stop. “I apologize, War God, but ...” she faltered, stealing a sidelong glance at me. “I cannot part the waters of this river,” she finished, confirming the boatman’s claim.
“It’s okay, Otrere,” I said. “You tried. And don’t sweat it. We’re not beat yet. We navigated the Submerged Labyrinth, took out Daedalus, and buried Earl Necro Earl and his whole army—we’ll figure this out too.” I offered her a reassuring smile, sure that there was a solution.
My eyes fell on the trident and spear stuck in the Helios Chariot. Ding-ding-ding, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Antiope had used the trident to manipulate the gelatinous goop in the monster generators, which wasn’t really water, so there was an even money chance it would work here, too.
I snatched up the weapon, letting my godly sense wash over it as I checked the stats to see what powers this thing was working with. My gaming display flashed and an image only I could see appeared.
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I WHISTLED SOFTLY THROUGH my teeth. Well, now. This was one remarkable weapon. Leave it to Poseidon to get such a sick stick. I’d been lucky that Antiope had been at a relatively low level. She’d only been able to use a fraction of the weapon’s powers, but if she’d been able to unlock the uber-powerful one-off abilities at the bottom—Mortal Wound, Tsunami Stride, and Hurricane Onslaught—she would’ve been a thousand times deadlier.
Although, Mortal Wound. That phrase really stood out in my mind, especially considering this was the weapon used to killed Myrina. I pulled up the feature—the breath caught in my chest.
<<<>>>
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THIS WAS IT—THE THING that had killed my general. Antiope might’ve been holding the weapon, but it had been Necro Earl’s spirit that threw it. He was probably around my level.
Well, I was going to rectify Myrina’s death one way or the other. I’d already started by killing the assholes responsible for killing her, and now all I needed to do was find her here in the Underworld and get her back. And this weapon? This weapon could help toward that end. While Otrere’s magic had failed, I thought we might have more luck with the Dry Foot function. That would allow us to cross at least two of the rivers. And if not, the overgrown pitchfork had some other features I could use.
“Hey, Charon,” I said, “so we can’t fly over the rivers. You made sure of that. What about bridges? If I could whip up a bridge, could we cross over?”
The boatman chuckled, his laugh ghostly and haunting. “In the land of the dead, there is little by way of wood or stone. A bridge I would tolerate ... assuming you can build one. Which you cannot.” He grinned at me—hard as hell to accomplish without lips—his undead eyes sparkling, and leaned against his oar. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the boatman of the dead was smug.
Well, I’d teach him a lesson in smugness he wouldn’t soon forget. “Muster up and get ready to cross this stream,” I hollered at my troops.
The Amazons burst into action, quickly assembling into neat battle columns near the shore of the River Acheron. I shot Charon a wink, then lifted the trident and triggered the Dry Foot function. Unlike for Otrere, the mystical Underworld sludge reacted to the power of Poseidon, god of the waters and deep places. The river boiled away to my right and left, showcasing a muck-filled bed liberally peppered with glowing bones—skulls, ribs, femurs, the whole nine yards.
Charon drifted over to float above the rising ichor on my right. We only had so much time before the trident’s power failed. I was at level twenty-nine, which meant it would fail in just under two-and-a-half minutes.
I charged into the gap between the two walls of river, the goopy mud sucking at my feet, though I had no other negative effects. Persephone shot forward in the Helios Chariot, the heavy wheels leaving deep ruts in their wake. Phoebe led the rest of my forces. Amazons sprinted behind her, faster than the best Olympic runners, while winged horses, charging bulls, and oversized bears followed in the rear, policed by the ever-watchful eyes of Loxo and Asteria. No one would be left behind, not on their watch.
The river gushed down just as Thunderfoot clambered up the side. That sludge of muck and skulls rolled on unimpeded. But everyone had made it, which was the important thing.
On the far side of the River Acheron, the disgusting field of graying hair gave way to a field of human fingers, all poking up toward the twisted purple-gray sky overhead. Old fingers, young fingers, stubby fingers crippled by arthritis, fingers with nail polish, fingers with tattoos.
Gonna build a finger bridge, boss? Phoebe asked in a playful voice.
Not hardly, I sent back. Fate might not like me breaking the rules, but holding this trident ... well, I’m feeling like this is destiny.
Yeah, we’ll see. One down, four to go, and there’s a three-headed puppy around here somewhere. Phoebe stomped forward on her mech, crushing fingers as she went, the crunch of bones carrying in the air and turning my stomach. Persephone and I could fly, so we didn’t have to trample any of the digits, for which I was eternally grateful. The idea made me feel squeamish—I may have been a living deity with untold power, but this place still grossed me out to no end.
“Where’s Cerberus?” I asked the spring goddess.
“I have that same question,” she answered, her tone rather cryptic. “He can jump the rivers, and he moves back and forth at will. I am sure we shall encounter him at some point. OMZ, he’s so cute when he is not the vicious guardian of the Underworld. Did I mention he’s completely invulnerable to all manner of weapons?”
I winced. “No, that must’ve slipped your mind.”
We marched across the field of fingers until the next river came into view.
“Behold, the River Styx,” Persephone said with a wave of her hand and a surprisingly chipper disposition.
This river wasn’t black like the last one, but a milky white color. What looked like a low-hanging silver mist covered the surface, churning and swirling, offering little glimpses of the waters below. A potent odor hung in the air—overly sweet and a bit rotten, like perfume sprayed onto a fresh corpse. An odd image of my seventh-grade teacher sprinted through my mind; that smell reminded me of her. Mrs. Hugeback had been a vicious woman who covered her BO with so much fragrance that she came off smelling like an 18th century French aristocrat who bathed once a year.
As we drew closer, I realized that it wasn’t mist covering the River Styx, but the souls of the damned. They would swim out of the milk, frantic to escape, but then the unnaturally pale waters would suck them back down into the burbling morass.
Charon appeared before us, loitering in a long, low boat crafted from a single piece of yellowed bone. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what creature a bone tha
t size had come from, though if I absolutely had to guess, I’d have said it rhymed with Bodshmilla. Charon had his oar dipped into the waters of the Styx. An old woman’s ghost swirled up the pole, but he shook her off and she dissipated. I could’ve sworn that woman had worn a dress with a floral pattern, just like Mrs. Hugeback. Was that why I was smelling her perfume?
“Hey, Charon,” I said. “Let me guess. This is where wicked souls are punished.”
He nodded, bony face otherwise unreadable. “The River Styx holds evil souls until they can be processed and sent on to Tartarus. Here, they claw at each other, showing neither kindness nor mercy. A single act of charity would free their tortured spirits, but not one will relent. They press the others down in their attempts to escape, as was their habit in life. They care only for themselves, and so all suffer.”
“Mrs. Hugeback never should’ve been allowed to work with children,” I muttered.
Raising the trident, I used my last batch of Dry Foot to part the haunted waters with relative ease. Charon’s boat crested the waves and he watched as we made our dash across the channel.
Turning, I saw a myriad of faces in the creamy water. All were trying to force the others away so they could escape. It was like what Jean-Paul Sartre wrote: Hell is other people.
One face appeared, and it was looking right at me. The mouth worked open and closed, open and closed like a dead fish gasping for air. It was Earl Perkins, a.k.a. Earl Echo Earl, a.k.a. Necro Earl, my nemesis and overall douchebag. He was pleading with me, saying, Help me. Help me. Help me.
I gave him the finger. I couldn’t help him. He’d have to help himself.
I would’ve thought Antiope would be next to him, but there was no sign of her.
We marched up onto the banks of the next field. The ground seemed to be dried mud, which was an improvement. No hair. No fingers. A win all around.
I let out a sigh of relief. Until Phoebe marched her mech across the landscape and an eye blinked open near her bronze foot. Then another. And another. This was a field of eyes, because why wouldn’t there be a field of eyes in the ever-varied landscape of Hell? Each pupil caught the light of Persephone’s rainbow, and together the eyes glistened like a field of diamonds. Against the darkness on the other side of the light, it was almost pretty. Then I reminded myself it was a field of eyeballs. Blech.
Phoebe mused aloud. How many humans and gods and demigods will live over time in all possible worlds? Trillions? Quadrillions? Quintillions? If this is the place where all souls eventually go, maybe the hair, the fingers, the eyes are the leftovers of all those people.
I wasn’t so sure of her conclusion. Maybe it’s just meant to be creepy because Hades is one sick dickhead.
Phoebe’s laughter filled my head. It made me smile—made this nightmare landscape just a touch more bearable.
Across the ghastly field lay a third river, the River Cocytus, which wasn’t really a river at all so much as it was an enormous ice flow. Even from a distance, we heard the cries and screams of souls in absolute anguish. There was weeping, lots of weeping. And ... What was that? I heard the distinct sound of teeth gnashing. You know what they say—can’t have an ice river in the Underworld without some good ol’ fashioned teeth gnashing. At least I think that’s what they say.
I floated toward the bank—ecstatically thankful for the winged shoes—and saw faces forming in the ice: faces of parents crying over their dead children, sons mourning their fathers, daughters weeping over their dead mothers. Friends, wives, husbands, a trillion souls crying over a trillion souls lost.
I glanced at Persephone and noticed the goddess’ face was covered in tears.
Charon’s raspy voice drifted over to us like a breeze. “The River Cocytus is the river of sorrow, the sorrow before the great forgetting. All will weep, for all will know death.”
“Way to keep things light, Charon,” I said with a frown. “I bet you get invited to all the cool parties, what with your sunny disposition and great small talk.”
In the ice of the Cocytus, I saw myself for an instant, as a teenager, and while I wasn’t crying, I was mourning my grandfather. Then that face was lost as other faces formed an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of people lamenting. Everyone who had ever lived had to deal with sickness and death. With the loss of a loved one and the pain that came with it. Some did better with it than others.
Like me for instance. I couldn’t accept that Myrina, Doris, and Ianthe were gone. Again, the doubt gripped me. What was I doing?
The godstone felt cold in my chest. It certainly wasn’t happy with my decision to invade this realm. If anything, it felt almost ... afraid. That was definitely a first from the godstone. Maybe all of Ares’ posturing and bluster was just a way to cover the fact that even the former god of war was as scared of death as anyone else. Maybe more scared of it than most. I couldn’t help but wonder if that had been part of the motivation behind Ares’ battle against Hades: finding a way to stave off death once and for all.
Charon and his bone boat carved through the ice, pushing through the sorrowful faces and leaving a wake of weeping behind him. “I am curious to see how you pass the River Cocytus, War God,” he said. “For your trident would only let you part my rivers twice.” He stuck two bony fingers into the air, emphasizing his point. For wanting his boss Thanatos to run the show around these parts, Charon sure seemed like he wanted me to fail.
“Whose side are you on, Charon?” I asked.
“I have but one task,” the boatman replied placidly. “To ferry souls across the rivers to the land of the dead. Or to give them to the rivers until those souls learn what they must.” He stopped his craft and waited on me. “I am no one’s ally.”
“Except you helped Jacob’s Amazons,” Persephone pointed out, arching a now strawberry blond eyebrow.
“Hades was meddling with my process,” Charon grumbled, one hand tightening around the handle of his oar. “He doesn’t respect the dead, he uses them. That, well ... it is not our place.”
I raised the trident and slammed it down onto the bank next to the river of ice. I remembered some story about Poseidon using his trident to create an island. Me? All I needed was a bridge. I activated the Create Earth function, visualizing what I wanted to manifest in the world.
Stone burst from where I stood, rippling out, a stream of rock and earth forming into huge blocks, which slammed together. For a second, it felt like I was playing Minecraft, but on an epic, god-level scale. I just prayed I had enough cubic footage to go around. The bridge didn’t need to be very strong, since the ice itself would add some support, but it absolutely needed to span the entire breadth of the river. We couldn’t touch the water—not even a splash—at least, not if we wanted to keep on breathing.
Though that was one nice thing about being in the Underworld: if we did kick the bucket down here, it would be a short trip to the afterlife. After all, the only thing worse than death is bad jet lag.
I sighed in relief as the rocky bridge connected to the far side with room to spare. It was only half a foot thick; hopefully it would bear the weight of the Death Harvesters. As we crossed, an army of frozen hands, all fueled by anger and sorrow, reached up from the river, digging at the stone, scraping it away a centimeter at a time. My foot troops made it across without a hitch; the bridge groaned beneath the weight of the siege weapons and war mounts, but it held. Our last Beastiamancer, Ariadne, reached the far side on Thunderfoot half a heartbeat before the bridge gave way to the ghostly hands, stones plunking into the icy waters.
The fields on the other side of the Cocytus were full of ghosts, pure and simple.
A little girl floated up to me, transparent, in a tunic of some sort. Her voice was a grating squeak. “Who am I?”
A man wearing a three-piece suit, also see-through, asked the same question, “Who am I?”
All around us floated a zillion souls, their outlines blurring together even as they came into focus. From cavemen to people from the future in wha
t looked like space suits. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
I flew above them, but Phoebe had to soldier through. The minute her mech touched a soul, it vanished into shifting smoke that reformed behind her. But the voices ... The voices remained, an echoing cascade of humanity asking the same question, over and over: Who am I?
It was unnerving. I couldn’t see the ground because again, as on the River Styx, the silvery mist of ghosts swept around, creating a dense fog.
We pushed through the confused specters, and as we did, I started to lose track of myself. Who was I? Was I Jacob Merely from Rockford, Illinois? It didn’t seem likely. I mean, I was wearing Greek armor, I had a burning shield on my left arm, and I was flying using the winged sandals of Hermes.
Then, was I Ares? No, Ares wouldn’t care about saving Myrina.
I cruised above the sea of ghosts and eventually came down on the banks of the River Lethe. By then, I couldn’t remember my name, but I did know I had to build a bridge across what looked like an empty gorge, ten feet deep and twenty feet across. A Chicago Cubs baseball cap drifted down the empty gorge, almost as if it was floating in thin air. I hunched forward, hands on my knees, and looked closer. No, there was a river there. I just couldn’t see it. But there was a ton of random shit just floating merrily along on its invisible current.
This was new: a river you couldn’t see that made you forget everything.
“Do not be fooled, War God,” Persephone called above the din of voices, her voice like a clarion bell that somehow brought me back to myself. “This is where I fell in. This is how I lost myself. This is, perhaps, the most treacherous area in the Underworld, save for Tartarus itself. You must be strong—you must remember your purpose.” At the moment, she was a black-skinned woman with wild hair and a brilliant smile with perfectly white teeth.
Charon in his grim boat floated twenty feet above the bed of the invisible river. “People live life not knowing who they truly are. And so they are the same in death. It is a tragedy. Why do you humans love your tragedy so much?”
