The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  “Friends,” I called over my shoulder, “I’ve changed my mind. I think we should run.” A flock of devils from either side of the river lunged skyward.

  Meanwhile, our pursuers had reached us. Their whips whistled and snapped as they set upon Ajax and Diomedes. I nocked an arrow—took a devil right in its open mouth as it reared back to bite Diomedes. The shaft punched straight through and out the other side of its skull so that the fletched end protruded from its jaws like a feathery tongue. It screamed and flailed about with its claws, knocking down several of its fellows in panic. This seemed to frighten the others, and it bought Diomedes enough time to untangle himself.

  And that’s when the real fighting began. Ajax let loose his dreadful war cry and charged directly into the thick of the enemy, swinging his long spear like a club and knocking several devils clear off the bridge into the river below. The bony fiends fell before him like grass before a scythe, and Diomedes followed in his wake, lashing out at anything that moved. It was an oddly beautiful thing to see two warriors work with such deadly coordination.

  And I, Odysseus, Master Strategist, Raider of Cities? What feats of bravery did I perform in that hour? None. I had only one arrow remaining in my quiver, and so long as we had the upper hand, I thought it foolish to waste them. I also thought it unwise to position myself too close to Diomedes, who seemed to be fighting in every direction at once. With Ajax right there, my efforts could only slow them down; so I dropped my bow, drew my sword, and decided to wait till I could tell where I was needed.

  I’m sorry to say, the need arrived almost immediately. Our enemies were no match for us one-on-one. They were armorless and uncoordinated, and their only weapons were their whips. But they were strangely resilient, and as many times as we knocked them down, they rose again and renewed their attack. Before long, Ajax himself was caught in a snarl of whipcord and, strong as he was, could not pull himself loose. Diomedes was pale with exhaustion.

  Clearly, my time had come. I shouted the battle cry of my fathers, “Io!” and threw myself forward, bracing my shoulder against my shield. All the old instincts returned, and I settled into an offensive crouch, stabbing up and under my shield wherever I felt resistance. The enemy responded with a concerted push that rocked me back onto my heels and set me face-to-face with their front line.

  And then everything just stopped.

  The whole crowd of devils halted in their tracks, every howl and scream dropped to a gasp, and the crowd of faces that were snarling in fury a moment earlier turned to the sky in awe.

  CHAPTER 4

  DEVILS WITH WINGS

  ACTUALLY, “sky” isn’t the right word for it. On the rare occasion one looks upward in Hell, the only thing that meets the eye is a dark, cold emptiness—a starless, hopeless, endless reach of blank desperation. That is, unless your view is obstructed by an army of winged devils, which happened to be the case just then. For my part, however, I was looking straight ahead, trying to extricate my sword from the pelvis of a horned devil who had endeavored to punch a hole in my shield with his head. But now he too was looking upward, and I was looking at him, so for me, the first indication that there was someone in the air above came in the form of a turd, which landed directly in the face of my enemy.

  In retrospect, I have to wonder at the excellent marksmanship. The notorious seagulls of Pilos were never so accurate. The devil had just enough time to breathe a wretched sigh before an enormous confusion of wings and claws fell on him. One moment he was standing before me; the next he was a flat and bloody pulp, upon which rested a massively muscular and very angry-looking beast. Evidently, his sudden arrival was some sort of signal to the others of his kind, for all about us, like great fleshy hailstones, devils dropped from the sky.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Ka-thump.

  The bridge shook under our feet as the sky rained devils. One after another, they fell to earth like shot birds. They made no attempt at a landing in the conventional sense. They simply folded their wings and plummeted to the ground, oblivious to what lay beneath. More than one of the skinny devils was flattened as it ran for cover.

  If I’d thought the creature I’d been fighting earlier was ugly, the thing before me now was a whole new class of hideous. It had the same pitch-black skin and shining silver eyes, but its arms and legs were covered with thick, pale hair, and its horns were broken off, forming two jagged bulges on its forehead. It had a broad, low brow, surmounted by a pointed skull, no real nose to speak of, and a wide, fleshy set of lips through which two long, crooked tusks protruded like a pair of yellow fingers.

  Of course, it all happened so quickly that my mind had no time to register any of this at first. All I knew was that my enemy had tripled in size. I had already raised my sword to deal a second blow, and it came down reflexively on the devil’s shoulder. His skin was thick as tanned leather, and my blade made little more than a nick, but his reaction was thunderous. He howled, and his long red tongue waggled about in his mouth. He stretched his jaws so wide, I thought his face would split, and howled for so long, I had time to notice the little vermin that scurried about between his teeth.

  When he finished bawling, he coughed, licked his lips, and spoke. “What be that for?” he shouted, and knocked the sword from my hand. His long tusks rubbed against his face when he talked, giving him a strange sort of lisp that turned every s into a slurred amalgam of spittle and speech. “Well?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder and leaning his face into mine. “ ’Splain yousef.”

  “I . . . um . . . what?”

  “Why you hitting me wif tat ting? Look at me shoulder.” He picked at the cut with one thick, yellow fingernail and snarled.

  “I’m . . . sorry. I think.”

  “Huh,” grunted the devil. “Everybody say tey sorry down here, and nobody be meaning it. Here I be try to rescue you, and you be treat me like a devil from Hell.” There was some appreciative laughter from the others. “I tought you be Greeks. I tought you knows how to be good guest. Make you wonder why te Big One don’t just trow you all down here to begin wif. Sons of Adam,” he added with a snort. “Big waste of time, if you be asking me.”

  “Good for a laugh, though, if you be having someting sharp nearby,” added one of the others.

  “Yeh,” added a third, doing a little jump in the air and knocking the ground with his knuckles. As an afterthought, he grabbed one of the cowering horned devils and pulled its head off.

  I decided it would be wise to start over in the formal language of Achaean courtesy. “Lord of the Dark River, Black-Winged Bearer of the Hooked Spear, we come to you as guests and unhappy suppliants—”

  The winged devil belched loud and scratched himself. “Listen here, meat sack. You not glad to be here and we don’t be want you here, so shuts you up. Me be Rotrump. Me brothers and me be knowt as te Malebranche.” There was a cheer from the others, and a few more of the skinny devils lost their heads. “Tis be our valley. Tis be our bridge.”

  “Rotrump!” a voice called from behind. A tall horned devil, whip in hand, strode forward, stepping gingerly over the twitching body of a headless comrade. (I noticed with horror that it was struggling to relocate its skull, which lay nearby.) His voice was high and exceedingly nasal, as though he were speaking through a tube. “These humans escaped from our ring. We are simply here to retrieve them.”

  “Not my business!” thundered the devil. “Tis be my valley. Tis be my bridge. Tese be my souls, Scrawnrump. You bad luck if you be lose some of you own. Te Chief be having someting to say about it . . . no no no no no. You know te rules. We don’t suppose to be leaving our valleys. No exceptions, say Te Chief. In fact, maybe me be telling him you be breaking te rules.”

  The skinny devil shut his mouth but seemed reluctant to leave.

  “You be goin’ now,” admonished Rotrump, as though scolding a child. A few of his fellows took some menacing steps forward, fondling their hooked spears.

  “You go play wif you fr
iends. We be having work to do.”

  The tall devil glared at him. “We shall have words about this, Rotrump.”

  “Ooh. Words. Yeh. Plenty words. Come back later. I be sending one of me boys for you.”

  Rotrump watched approvingly as the thin devils collected themselves and their heads and slunk away. “Me be having more smarts tan some folk tink,” he said, with the wink of a silver eye.

  When the last of the horned devils had passed beyond the summit of the bridge, he continued, “Now ten. We be especting you.”

  “Expecting you” is not a phrase one hopes to hear in the Underworld, so I thanked him for the welcome and muttered something about how much we’d like to stay but were just passing through.

  “Me hope so,” answered the devil, squatting in place and signaling his cronies over with a jerk of his head. “Te word be slipping down from me sisters in te Wood of te Suicide, and me do no be liking what me hear.” He paused for a moment, grimaced, and passed wind. His fellows nodded approvingly. “See, Rumor has it tere may be having a truce between Centaur and Harpy. Tey be talk of an alliance—even peace. We be not liking tis.”

  Ajax looked at me questioningly, and I shrugged. “Sir,” I said, “I am as surprised by this news as you are. When I left them, the Harpies and Centaurs were fighting. I have no idea how it happened, but I’m sure I am not responsible.”

  “Well, it be only Rumor,” he added, “but Rumor do fly down here.”

  “Yeh, he a nasty little bugger,” added a devil to his left, lumbering forward a step. “He be no fun. Not much smart. Not much joke. And he be a terrible liar. But he got te good wings.”

  “If you be want te news round here,” added a third, “you be asking him.”

  Rotrump snorted loudly, and the others fell silent. “Me friends here be rude, but tey be true,” he continued. “Rumor has it you was helping a Harpy. Rumor has it you be give her some medicines and make her all good. And tis be got te Harpies talking. And it be got te Centaurs talking. And we no need te talking down here in Hell!”

  “I’m—”

  “Shut up! I be talking!” He looked hard at me, and I lowered my eyes. The other devils shuffled their enormous feet and looked sidelong at one another with their hairy eyebrows raised. “You be talking. Tey be talking. Te Harpies be talking. Pretty soon, everybody be talking each oter. Nest you know we got te peace and te harmony all over Hell. And nobody be wanting tat. Belief you me.”

  The other devils nodded and knocked their knuckles on the ground.

  “Now what you be having to say for yousef?”

  I looked at my friends, but they seemed as baffled as I. “We are on a mission,” I said, trying to sound authoritative, “from an immortal whom we call the Parthenos.”

  There was no reaction from Rotrump, but I noticed his cronies were suddenly interested. It gave me confidence.

  “The Parthenos herself commands it,” I continued in a louder voice, and this time, I could see Rotrump cringe at the name. “She herself, the Parthenos, has ordered us to make our way to the lowest ring of Hell. Do not stand in our way. So commands . . . the Parthenos.”

  “You be speaking a strong name, Son of Adam,” answered the devil. He had the look of a beaten bully in his eyes. “Maybe you no be speaking like tat if you knowt her.”

  His silver eyes passed from me to Ajax to Diomedes and back again.

  “We help you pass tru,” he said at last, settling back on his haunches. “Dogscratch! Fatworm! Scumwalk! You be following tese men till tey be reaching top of te next bridge. Make sure tey be going te whole way. We don’t want tem be coming back.”

  Three devils trundled forward, rolling their eyes. The one named Fatworm gave him a salute that was less than military.

  “Knotbeard. Swinetoof. You go too. Swinetoof, you in charge.”

  These responded with even less enthusiasm, if such were possible.

  “Goot,” said Rotrump. He looked about and nodded. “Te job be well done. Now don’t come back.” He turned his back on us, lumbered over to the edge of the bridge, sounded a short trumpet call with his posterior, and stepped off. His fellows did likewise, leaving us alone with our five escorts and a phenomenal stench.

  “I guess now we know how he got his name,” coughed Diomedes as we collected our gear.

  “Enough talk,” grunted Swinetooth, poking Diomedes with the butt of his spear.

  “Tis one be no like tem oters,” said Knotbeard, squinting at Ajax. “Let me see what’s inside.” He advanced toward Ajax, holding out his hook. Ajax raised his spear.

  Swinetooth intervened. “No,” he said, swatting Knotbeard on the head with the back of his hand. “You hear te boss. He say we be making sure tey leave, and tat what we be doing. We be taking ’em to te next bridge.”

  “Yeh,” added one of the others. (Whether this was Dogscratcher or Scumwalker I could not say.) “We take tem to te nest bridge—te whole way. He. He. He.” He did a clumsy little dance and beat his spear on the ground.

  Swinetooth gave him a swat as well. “Moof!” he shouted, and off we set—five devils and three men. If Proteus was nearby, he remained hidden.

  CHAPTER 5

  DISTRACTIONS

  PERHAPS IT WAS the noxious air or the exhaustion or the constant bickering and malodorous emissions of our guides. Perhaps it was the nagging sense of regret and betrayal I felt whenever I looked at Diomedes. Perhaps it was the loss of Argos or the new and dismal certainty that in spite of all my efforts, our journey would end in despair. Whatever it was, our hike across that next bridge seemed to take an eternity. Our guides insisted on making frequent stops, during which new and more tedious quarrels were continually breaking out. The only devil that seemed exempt from these squabbles was the aptly named Fatworm, who always found some interesting stone to examine or toenail to pick when his comrades quarreled. He was larger and slower than the others, and it was hard to tell whether they avoided him out of fear or disdain, but I had a sense that he was the weak link in the chain. If I could find some way to use him against the others, there might be hope for an escape.

  That hope acquired new urgency when I saw the next bridge. The Malebranche had us headed to the top, but a disaster of some sort had caused its collapse. Just at its apex, the bridge fell away, and from what I could see, there was no way down but a sheer drop.

  Even Ajax sensed we were headed for trouble. “Odysseus,” he whispered, “this bridge don’t go nowhere.”

  “I know, old horse,” I said, trying to give my voice the ring of confidence, “but I’ve got a plan.” Ajax looked more worried than ever.

  The Malebranche halted when we reached the top, and Swinetooth pushed me over to the precipice. “Time for you to leaf,” said Swinetooth. He raised his hook. “Nice to meet you. Now get lost.”

  “Sir,” I answered, “surely you don’t expect us to go over the edge. The fall would kill us.”

  Swinetooth looked puzzled for a moment; then he smiled toothily and answered, “Yeh. We know.”

  The devil named Knotbeard gave a guffaw, and the others answered with rude gestures of one sort and another.

  “Tis bridge be broked for many long time,” said Swinetooth, planting both fists on the ground. “We knowed it before we left. Rotrump knowed it too. We all be knowed it te whole time. Tis be te end of te bridge, and tis be te end of you.” Swinetooth put one massive claw on my shoulder and shoved me forward. It was a long way down.

  I looked at Diomedes and Ajax. Ajax looked back at me, his face ashen and grim. Diomedes gave me a look that said nothing. But I smiled to myself. If Odysseus, the Great Tactician, the Man of Winged Words, couldn’t talk his way past these goons, then he wasn’t worthy of the name.

  “Lord Fatworm,” I said so the whole group could hear, “if it please you, may I have a moment to say good-bye to my friends?” It was an obvious stall tactic, and I didn’t expect even these knuckle draggers to fall for it. The important thing was that I ask someone other than the lea
der for permission.

  Fatworm looked up from his toenail. “Uh?”

  Swinetooth eyed me angrily. “Why you be asking him? I be te boss.”

  I could have hugged myself for my cleverness. “My apologies, Lord Swinetooth,” I answered, bowing low. “I meant no disrespect. I’m sure on some level you must be the boss of something—and of course I would be grateful for your permission as well—but just the same, I’d like the permission of Lord Fatworm to confer with my friends.”

  Swinetooth and Fatworm looked at one another with knitted brows.

  “But you no need his permission,” said Swinetooth at last. “He be no important. I be te boss. And I say no permission.”

  “I is important,” whined Fatworm.

  “No,” growled Swinetooth, “you be a fat, useless bag of snot.” He knocked him on the head with the butt of his spear.

  Fatworm snarled and stood up to his full height. “Tump me on te head again, and we be seeing who te real boss.”

  Swinetooth thumped him without hesitation, and a moment later, they were rolling about in a tangle of fists and fangs. I smiled at Ajax and winked. He lifted his spear. Diomedes reached for his sword. I drew my bow. But the joke, it turned out, was on us. The Malebranche, you see, were so busy arguing, and I so busy watching Fatworm, and my companions so busy watching me, that none of us noticed the dark wave of horned devils that had sneaked up the road behind us. A choked howl from Knotbeard was the only warning we got. When we looked back, he was buried under a mound of whips and claws. Like ants on a beetle, the horned devils swarmed over him, hissing and screeching.

  Their quarrel forgotten, Fatworm and Swinetooth took to the air, and within seconds, there was a pitched battle underway, the winged devils swooping in with their hooked spears and the horned devils lashing back with whips and claws. For the moment, my friends and I were forgotten altogether.