Rage and anger clenched his throat, nearly as powerful as the bone-deep despair that crushed his breath. Even as he fought for air, crippling fear of his own weakness terrified him most of all. Alexander had only to walk into the tent in this moment, sob and hold Hephaestion close, and Hepheastion knew he would buckle. Alexander would plead and charm and entice Hephaestion to follow him, follow him into New Dis and perhaps even to lay siege to Purgatory itself.
Would Alexander’s metal army tear down the white clock? Would his men burn Minu’s home-turned-refuge to the outcast Japanese and her hand sewn pillows that offered respite to the weary? Would the soldiers overcome Adina and Gottbert and Boudica, leaving Yitz and Albrecht at their mercy?
Alexander’s entire army wasn’t Greek countrymen either, but Hellbound monsters.
His voice rasping with sorrow, Hephaestion met Yitz’s sad gaze. “Once, when questioned by Cleitus about the loyalty of his army on Earth, Alexander said, ‘I march with the army I have.’”
Yitz only nodded, letting Hephaestion process his grief in silence.
Clearly, the army Alexander had was malicious, bloodthirsty, eager, motivated, and armed, beyond anything they’d ever imagined in life. They were the absolute worst of humanity, distilled into a perfect concentration of horror by the methods of the afterlife. At any moment, he could walk into the tent, his sparkling eyes and zealous passion alit from within, and Hephaestion might fall prey and become yet another soul added to the ranks.
He didn’t have the strength anymore. Everything Hephaestion had in him, he spent waiting… hoping… believing. This journey, risking everything he was for someone he believed felt the same. Yet here he was, only to find that after all the sacrifices of others and trials of his own, Alexander was exactly as he’d always been.
A truth Hephaestion had known deep down, even as he’d lain dying in a richly appointed suite, amidst more wealth and opulence than any man could hope for, yet completely alone.
A truth he’d ignored for a millennia in a desperate bid to believe…what? That Alexander had loved Hephaestion more than himself? Or had he determined that Alexander’s affection meant he, Hephaestion, had worth?
Father Franco’s assassin wiped his blade clean in the crook of his elbow. “We will escort you to the command tent.”
“Yes.” Hephaestion thought his spine might collapse, but he strapped on his armor despite his quivering hands. He knew what he had to do. Adina, Yitz, Boudica, Albrecht and so many others in pursuit of their own truths were at stake. How many temples would be filled with the dead this time if Hephaestion failed? How much was love worth, when the lives and loves of others hung in the balance? “Get me close to Alexander. Just get me close enough so he can see me.”
“You will assassinate him?”
Hephaestion said nothing.
Chapter 39
Like a royal escort, the samurai surrounded Hephaestion and led him from the interrogation tent. Traveling on a walkway made of crumbled bones and stone, they walked passed bunkhouses, training pens for soldiers, and armories. Grunts and snarls came from all directions as men lifted cargo, heaved ropes, and shoved each other. Those that trained slaughtered and spit, larger men brutalizing smaller ones by tearing them open as they screamed, learning how to kill effectively and with flair.
These men were learning to terrorize, not fight an opposing army. They had siege weapons—tanks and cannons—but no major infantry. They would break the walls of each enclave and swarm the boundaries like pillaging thugs.
As they walked, Yitz falling in at Hephaestion’s side, several soldiers looked their way. Hepheastion’s face was cleaner than most, and his Songhai cuirass stood out as distinct in contrast to their red and grungy battle gear.
The men he fought in the glutton’s circle must have been deserters from this army, and the skinless man in Dis could have been a forward scout of some kind. Either way, these men were brutes and more than a few looked halfway to becoming hulkish beasts, perhaps like ushers.
A crowd slowly gathered around them to gawk. Hammers paused, and shouts ceased as the entourage travelled along a giant, tent-covered structure with the massive steel head of an eagle peeking out from underneath. The samurai took no notice, merely escorting Hephaestion toward a tall flag in the distance, but people followed.
A rearing white horse adorned billowing silk, the traditional flag for Alexander’s command tent. Hephaestion had searched the landscape for the bright beacon hundreds of times, smiling when it winked in the breeze. Any place under that flag had been home.
Trireme airships awaited command in a large, muddy field beyond the forges and armories, posts and tethers restraining them. Like fierce hatchlings, smaller airships tucked between the larger ones, meant for transporting shock troops. War had indeed changed, but Hephaestion could recognize the strategy.
Crew members aboard the flying war machines craned their necks to watch the crowd pass, Hephaestion and Yitz at the center.
Curious whispers reached Hephaestion’s ears. Then he heard his name. A fellow Greek that recognized him, perhaps? Either by sculpture or personal acquaintance?
The tent was a large, multi-room structure, a replica of the one Alexander and Hephaestion had traveled with during their campaigns. A tall, armored guard of copper complexion stepped forward, arm out to halt the advancing samurai. The guard had most likely earned the position by being almost seven feet tall with tusked teeth. The nearest samurai unsheathed his sword, his momentum in force before the katana cleared its sheath, and took the guard’s head off. Another samurai kicked, caught the falling head, and launched it over the tent.
Never had Hephaestion seen a more precise and spectacular display of intimidation before.
Hephaestion cleared his throat as they stood outside the tent entrance, decorative cauldrons of hellsteel bubbled in a serene harmony to the snap and crackle of the distant foundries and smithies. The warriors around him glanced up, and Hephaestion responded with a nod. The wooden porch looked sturdy enough, but the muddy ground would be the best place for a fight.
The samurai turned toward the gathered crowd, commanding them to back up. Most onlookers did so, and any that hesitated died moments before their sundered bodies hit the mud.
The whispers surrounding Hephaestion increased. He heard his name again and again. His shield held ready, knuckles white with his grip, he drew his sword, the wave of heat making him wince and his sweaty skin prickle.
Hephaestion banged his sword and shield together three times. Silence dominated everything within a league, only the hissing cauldrons foolish enough to refuse.
Wide-eyed, Alexander emerged from the tent clad in white leather armor. His beauty remained as dashing, his presence as virile and commanding as Hephaestion remembered. Alexander’s face erupted with joy, green eyes sparkling as if all his prayers had been answered; his arms open as he took a step toward Hephaestion.
Hephaestion had heard that Alexander’s mourning had been legendary, but he didn’t care. He had only wanted Alexander to have stayed with him. Even now, as he greeted the face he’d held dearer than all others, he wished he’d been enough to compel Alexander’s attention that final day.
When Alexander’s gaze met Hephaestion’s, the legendary conqueror’s arms fell to his side in slow disbelief. Hephaestion’s eyes burned with emotion, but the image of Yitz throwing his hood back, surrounded by enemies who could cut him down faster than he could pull a trigger… and using the only real weapon he had—his conviction—to yet again save Hephaestion’s life…his resolve hardened, even as the final piece of his heart shattered.
Without a word exchanged, Alexander nodded his understanding. Never had Hephaestion seen Alexander express such pain, such baffled agony, as he did in that moment. And everything in him longed to take it away.
Alexander’s lips pursed to form a question but it never came. Hepha
estion was never good at concealing his intentions. This would not be a sparring match or test of wills.
Hephaestion was glad Alexander didn’t speak. One word from him could make every joint of his surrender like a marionette cut from its strings. Everything felt heavier than it should to begin with.
Two runners brought Alexander his spear and sword, while a third brought Alexander his shield, which bore an intricate portrait of Hephaestion’s face.
Alexander adjusted the strapping on his sword, hoisted his shield, fingered the spear in his hand, and rolled his shoulders.
Hephaestion moved first, creeping toward Alexander’s right. Alexander corrected, his shield forward and his spear hand back, ready. The samurai shifted in unison, keeping the combat space clear of any interlopers.
Yitz watched, arms folded, yet Hephaestion suspected his hidden hand rested on his pistol.
When Alexander tested Hephaestion’s nerve, Hephaestion flinched. Alexander feigned again, spear tip slipping past Hephaestion’s defenses and deflecting off of Emmett’s jaw-work.
The two men circled each other as the Provost General emerged from the tent to investigate.
Alexander had always beaten Hephaestion. He had beaten him at taming horses, flirting with girls, and sparring and planning and leading. Alexander had been the best and the one celebrated beyond all human measure.
Hephaestion knew this, and the knowledge weighed on his mind when Alexander blazed at him, shield forward and spear aimed. But Hephaestion also knew something else.
Hephaestion had always held back.
He leapt into Alexander’s attack, shield out and piston poised. A noise like a hollow hammer cracking an anvil echoed over the masses as the piston struck Alexander’s shield. Alexander stumbled backward, trying to keep his footing. Hephaestion pushed on, not allowing Alexander to get his stance again.
Arc after arc of Hephaestion’s burning sword came down as Alexander frantically tried to parry the searing attacks; each strike countered by Hephaestion before it was made.
Bashing Alexander’s shield aside, Hephaestion’s fiery blade sliced into his love’s exposed forearm, severing it completely. Then, grabbing Alexander by the collar with his shield hand, Hephaestion bellowed as he drove the burning blade into the conqueror’s gut, all his weight crashing down, pinning him to the royal tent’s wooden porch.
Sputtering and sizzling, Boudica’s blade was finally tempered by Alexander’s blood, and it burned no more. Alexander’s shield spun slowly; face down in the mud like a bowl, the remaining arm inside filling it with a reflective pool of blood.
Hephaestion knelt next to Alexander. “I came for you—” Hephaestion choked, hand on Alexander’s pallid face. “And I find this,” he chastised through his growing tears.
Alexander nodded. “I am what I am,” he said, crimson gargling through his teeth.
Hephaestion let his tears fall, a drop landing on Alexander’s cheek.
Hephaestion tore Alexander’s armor open with clumsy hands weak with grief. He took out the heart-ripper.
For the first time in Alexander’s entire existence, he willingly accepted defeat and closed his eyes.
The Provost General stepped forward, his hands out in mid-plea just as Hephaestion drove the ripper in, twisting and grinding, Alexander’s eyes rolling up toward Heaven. With a final wrench and tug, Alexander’s core gave way, the arteries like tangled roots yanked from the ground. Bloody and in the grasp of the wretched device, Hephaestion dropped the ripper, heart and all, into one of the molten cauldrons.
The heart incinerated instantly, fusing with molten steel and ash, burning into nothingness. It would take centuries to reform, if at all.
Alexander was, again, gone.
“Do you realize what you have done?” the Provost General cried, hands clenched in the air.
Hephaestion gave a mirthless chuckle, eyes swollen.
Returning to the mud, he gripped Alexander’s spear, claiming it as his own. Then he pointed the tip at the Provost General and spoke loud enough for anyone gathered to hear. “I am Lord Hephaestion. When Alexander died on Earth, they asked who would inherit his empire. Do you remember what he said?”
Several nods came from the crowd.
“Whoever is strongest.” Hephaestion dug into his satchel and handed the astrolabe to the nearest samurai. “Use the flying machine that brought you here, and return this to Queen Sungbon of Songhai. And go with my gratitude and blessing. Don’t stay here. This army will tear itself apart in a few hours and be nothing but ruin within a day.” Despite Hephaestion’s commanding tone, his voice broke over the words.
With shaking legs, Hephaestion marched down into the dried riverbed and across to the other bank, using Alexander’s spear like a cane. The crowd gave him a wide path.
Yitz appeared at his side, letting him lean on his strength, and they left the desolate, bitter Phlegethon to its destruction.
Chapter 40
As cannons blazed behind them, and explosions rumbled like a rolling storm, Hephaestion hoped that the samurai got away in time. Given the nature of Alexander’s army of abominations, they would prey on the weak first, and the samurai were anything but. Without Alexander’s zeal and passion at the helm, the siege weapons had likely turned on each other, and ancient rivalries among the murderous damned had resurfaced. The army imploded as expected.
His body weakened with every step, toes dragging, and his emotions muted and dulled. There was neither joy nor hope…nor a future. Not now.
All that remained was his promise to Yitz and Adina. He had to find Gil. Someone had to walk away with something from all of this.
After several leagues, the air turned crisp and ionized, and the ground hardened beneath their feet. Wind howled in the dark ahead where no light flickered.
They approached the Malebolge. Down there, no light from Heaven could reach them, and, much like an oubliette, the dark, empty cocoon was a place of forgetting. At the bottom of that icy pit lay Cocytus, the lake of frozen tears drained from all of Hell’s damned. And in the center, imprisoned as the paragon of a sinner, was Lucifer himself, Chief of all the Hated.
The ground sloped upward, each step requiring more energy. Hephaestion dug the weighted end of the spear into the cold ground with each forward stride, and, finally, he and Yitz reached the very lip of the crater. A fierce wind formed a wall in front of them, released from the abyss below.
Hephaestion had originally intended to climb down one of the infamously narrow staircases along the cliff face, two leagues downward, to safely reach the bottom. But his mind had darkened with misery, and, with an outstretched hand, he held out his spear, point downward, and let the weapon go. The spear disappeared into the vicious blast.
Yitz gripped his bicep. “Easy there, Heph. Where do we go now? How do we get down—”
Hephaestion shrugged free and, arms out, embraced the impending afterdeath, his only desire to be swallowed by the maw of nothing, to feel nothing, and to be nothing, if only for a time. With a graceful pitch, he fell forward into the darkness, wishing to fall forever and never land.
He tore Alexander’s heart out! He tore his heart out and fed it to molten steel! He belonged in Cocytus as much as Gil, frozen in agonizing stasis for his betrayal of his soul mate and king.
The wind fought his freefall, slowing his descent. When he landed on the frozen plateau of Hell’s loneliest region, leagues below the crater’s edge, his spine shattered, his skull cracked to pieces, and his blood froze as it poured from his wounds.
Chapter 41
Yitz sighed, not entirely surprised. His friend did have tendency for dramatics. Rolling his eyes, he resolved to take the slow way down and gather up the pieces.
Several staircases had been carved into the sheer sides of the crater, each spiraling down.
Despite the frigid air, Yitz co
uldn’t help feeling a warm tingle of excitement. Soon he would see Gil. He would see his boy.
After two leagues, a stone plaque depicted stairs, making their narrow entrance easily visible. Yitz stared at the sign for a moment, but he couldn’t make sense of it.
The stairway curled into the shadows below, each step no more than a foot across. Yitz briefly considered Hephaestion’s solution. It would save time and struggle. After all, he’d managed to shoot himself in the heart.
As his foot lowered with slow caution, frigid fingers clinging to the rocky crag, he prayed to be strong like Adina. If only God had chosen to send her instead of him, Hephaestion would have been better off, safer, and whole. Adina made everything better, because she was better.
Struggling with the second step, Yitz didn’t pray for Adina’s strength; he instead prayed in gratitude to God for making Adina.
The third step was almost as easy as the fourth…
Chapter 42
Slowly, his eyes opened. His heart must have just started anew. Armor cracked and torn, shield filled with dents, his body had mended, but his eyes didn’t seem to be working. At first, he thought he was blind, but then he remembered. He’d reached the bottom.
All of this was a loss. Dragging Ulfric and The Bonny Sweetheart into the sea to spend months looking for a glutton. The hackneyed attempt to get past Minos. The protection from Adina, the kindness from Minu, the guidance from Boudica, and even the newfound bravery from Yitz. All of that effort and care and love wasted on the worthless endeavor known as Hephaestion.
Perhaps he could just lie there. But...what if this wasn’t his story? What if all of this was about Gil, a son needing to hear his parents loved him? Would Hephaestion allow his wallowing to stop that? Was crushing heartbreak enough for Hephaestion to forsake a promise to good people?
Trampling in the Land of Woe Page 23
