Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong) (35 page)

He’s a good man, Mike. Can’t you see that? He’s just different.

“You godless bastard,” Michael said. “I would watch you die.”

Michael, please be lying.

The Infidel Friend nodded and stepped down from the dais. He regained his arrogant and defiant posture in the center of the pews of hecklers.

“Have you anything else to say?” Michael asked, holstering his sidearm.

Chelsea could see only apathy on the infidel’s face. “I have nothing to say to you.”

She could tell that the words cut Michael to the quick. The First Citizen sat back in his chair, his face a mask of worry.

You hurt him, Cris. For whatever that’s worth.

“Then we shall vote,” Michael said, and then cleared his throat. “All who say he is guilty?”

This wasn’t the first time that Chelsea had ever seen Michael’s Fore give a unanimous vote, but it certainly didn’t happen often.

“All who say he is innocent?”

The Infidel Friend raised his hand.

Chelsea covered her face again, struggling to smother her laughter. Michael shot her another dark look.

“All abstaining.”

There was no one left.

“Very well,” said Michael Baker, the First Citizen of Harpsborough. “You are guilty. You mock us, and blaspheme in our very church. Such behavior is inexcusable. Luckily for you, however, we are not as heartless as your peers. We struggle to be the children of God, bastard children though we may be. When possible, we love our enemy. We love you today. To prove this, and that we are as merciful as our Lord of the old world wants us to be, I shall not have you executed. Rather, you shall be exiled through the Golden Door. Know that no one who has ever gone through the Golden Door has returned. Know that it is not thought that this path leads to certain doom, but rather, that its tunnels take you to another part of Hell so distant that it would be impossible for you to find your way back.

“So rules this court.”

Thank you Mike. Thank you.

The First Citizen slammed the stone on the desk as punctuation.

There was buzzing about the hall. Chelsea wondered how many approved of the decision. If an Infidel Friend did come spying on them, then they could truly say that they did not kill the man. They had merely sent him away.

The Infidel Friend nodded, and then turned on his heel. His escort of hunters had to jog to catch up with him in order to take him back to custody.

Outside the village erupted at the news. It was a hollow and empty buzz.

Chelsea could not say if they were pleased or displeased.

That in itself probably means that we have enough time to exile him before they start forming a lynch mob.

Arturus rolled over onto his shoulder. The Carrion stone was cool beneath his body. He saw where his breath had condensed against the wall.

Either that or I’ve been drooling.

Someone, probably Galen, had left a small black t-shirt beside him. He struggled into it.

Avery and Duncan lay in one corner, blood seeping through the bottom of their boots. They were coming in and out of consciousness. Too tired from the fight and the run to stay awake for long, Arturus guessed, but the needles in their feet were probably too painful to sleep through.

How long have we lain here?

He saw a small silverleg spider climbing the wall. Arturus wondered if it had ridden in on his back. He sat up, working at his boot with his un-burnt hand. Pain lanced up his leg and into his stomach. His vision blurred.

He let go of his boot and waited for his eyes to stop watering.

Aaron was sleeping peacefully. The cut over his eye looked fine. The wound at his shoulder had bled out into a puddle where he slept. The blood there had thickened in the air so that Aaron’s rhythmic breathing barely disturbed it.

Patrick’s wheezing breaths came in short, quick gasps. He looked blue in the face. At times he would pass out, and his breathing would deepen. The pain would wake him, though, and he would try to scream. Fortunately it came out as a hoarse gurgle.

We would muzzle him, if it wouldn’t kill him.

Johnny Huang had given up both his pants and his shirt, and lay wearing only boots and boxers. His face had swollen up around his nose. He looked ghastly, his bruising having spread across his cheeks. His mouth hung open, perhaps to allow him to breathe. Tiny scabs covered his right hand.

Kyle’s legs were a bloody mess. He was as pale as death. Arturus was worried that he might already be dead.

“Galen,” his father’s voice announced.

“Turi,” he responded.

When did he leave again? Why?

Aaron also stirred and used his arms to push himself back up against a wall. He looked about to his fellow hunters, without an expression of worry or remorse. He looked lost, though.

Galen ducked into the room. He stepped over Arturus and knelt between Aaron and Kyle, taking stock of the man’s flayed legs.

“Does he need amputation?” Aaron’s voice sounded almost as hoarse as Patrick’s mock screams.

Galen lifted a flap of the man’s tattered pants. Blood oozed out from where he’d lifted the cloth. The warrior grimaced. “He might die from it. Probably has better chances as it is.”

“He can regrow all that?”

“I had a friend who was crushed by a stone from the pelvis on down. He didn’t die, though, because the stone had twisted his body in a way that kept his wounds shut. We pulled him back an inch a week until he was whole.”

“Jesus.”

“Kyle’s will seems strong. He could well live.”

“And Patrick?” Aaron asked.

“Hopefully the pain becomes manageable before he’s able to shout again,” Galen said. “If not, he’ll kill us all.”

“You’ve been scouting?”

Galen nodded.

Aaron lowered his voice, but Arturus could still hear him. “What’s it like out there?”

“Thick. More dyitzu than I’d thought possible. There are hounds about, too. Enough of them to make lying in puddles of our own blood pretty dangerous. Not much chance of getting back without another fight. Besides, other than through the spiders, I haven’t found a good way out of here, yet.”

“How much longer can we afford to lie here?”

“Not long.” Galen shrugged his shoulders and looked back to the room’s exit. “But we haven’t much choice.”

“If it comes to it, we may have to leave some behind.”

“Won’t matter now,” Galen said. “Till I find a way back, we’ve no recourse. But I saw something else, while I was out scouting.”

“What?”

“A marker stone. No healing on it, so I know it was placed recently. When I was in the Carrion last, that meant that there was an upcoming meeting to be had amongst the people here. A ritual to their God, Mithra. The tribes all stay hidden in sealed cubbyholes, sending only their strongest out to hunt and gather. They join together only for this.”

“Is there a possibility of getting any help from them?”

“I doubt it very greatly,” Galen said, “but at such a gathering I might see some of the friends I used to keep amongst the enemy. When I was working with your village founders, before they escaped slavery and came to Harpsborough, they served me well. It may be that one of them can give us some aid. Or perhaps lead us back.”

“Will you be safe?”

“As much as you, at least.”

Galen stood. There was no mark on him, though his clothing was tattered.

His soles were tough enough that the silverlegs didn’t hurt him.

Galen drew a knife and bent down to inspect Arturus’ boots. “Are your feet swollen?”

“Yes, sir.”

Galen nodded. “We’ll have to cut these boots away. Angling your foot out would cause too much damage with the spider legs still in you. We need to pull the boot straight back.”

“We can just lace it back together, right?” Arturus asked.

Galen smiled. “Yes, or you’ll go barefoot.”

Galen began cutting a line from the top-front of the boot, straight down along Arturus’ instep, and on towards his toes. The pain came back as the knife worked away at the leather. Arturus eyes watered again. His nose began to run.

“It hurts,” Arturus managed.

Galen eased him back against the stone. The man’s touch was practiced. Arturus trusted his ministrations even more than Rick’s.

“It hurts,” Arturus repeated.

“I know, son.”

Galen stopped after he had cut to the sole, which he left intact. He rummaged through his pack until he found some bandages and then, to Arturus’ dismay, a pair of tong-like tweezers.

“I’m not ready,” Arturus said.

“Be offensive. Attack the pain.”

“I can’t. It hurts.”

“Face it. Look at your feet. Watch.”

Arturus did as he was ordered. Galen pulled at his boot. The needles in his foot moved, loosened by Galen’s efforts. Explosions went off in his brain. He let out an involuntary gasp.

“Quiet, boy.”

Arturus squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

“I asked you to watch,” Galen said.

Arturus did. He couldn’t understand how all those tiny needles could hurt so badly. A few Galen removed immediately, pulling them out with his tweezers through the sole of Arturus’ shoe. The needles were covered in his blood. Each one had a tiny spur on its end, curved back so as to catch in the skin.

For some reason those spurs made Arturus angry.

“Hell has entered your body, son. You must face this pain while I purify you. Those who wish to be well heal faster. Do you want this pain?”

“I do.”

After the some of the needles had been removed, Galen began working the sole away from his foot. He felt the tug against his flesh as the remaining silver legs were being pulled out of him. He gasped.

Tears were coming down from his eyes and snot was pouring out of his nose. His stomach was clenched so hard that he had to sputter to breathe.

At last the boot was removed.

He finally managed to inhale. His chest rose and fell as his vision cleared. He wiped the snot away and tried to shake his head clear.

I did it. I’m here. The agony did not destroy me.

Galen rested Arturus’ foot on his own thigh and used a cloth to stop the bleeding. The pain brought by the dry cloth brushing against his freshly opened wounds was considerable, but it was nothing compared with what he had just experienced. Galen worked quickly to bind the foot, wrapping the gauzelike strips of cloth quickly. The wrap was firm.

Arturus held up his foot and looked at it. A bit of red seeped through the bandages.

We’ll have to redress it soon.

But that wasn’t so bad. Exhausted, Arturus let himself crumple back against the stone.

“Good,” Galen said. “Now let’s get to work on your other foot.”

Ellen had heard of the Golden Doors, but she had never seen them. The doors were doubled, like the ones that led into Father Klein’s church, but these were much larger. They looked obscenely heavy and had beautiful pictures inlaid upon them. On the right door was a hunchbacked smith with a mighty hammer. On the left was a half nude woman, covered only from the waist down. She was young, but not slender, and had one arm across her chest. She looked blankly at those who stood before her.

The Citizens of Harpsborough who had dared come down these long hallways spread out about the infidel in a half circle. Four of the Harpsborough hunters stood before the door, their guns raised and pointed at it. Two more covered the Infidel Friend.

“What’s behind there?” Ellen asked Rick.

Rick frowned. “A tunnel.”

“Where does it lead?”

“No one knows, Ellen.”

Two of the hunters brought the Infidel Friend at gunpoint to the door.

“On your knees,” one said. “Hands behind your back.”

The infidel complied.

He looked at the door and then towards the girl called Molly.

Ellen didn’t know why, but Molly looked away as if she were terribly ashamed.

“Worry not,” the Infidel Friend said to the First Citizen. “The Infidel’s men will seek no revenge upon you for my treatment. Your clemency is notable.”

Michael produced a long, slender, golden key and passed it to one of the hunters.

They were talking about something, but Ellen couldn’t hear their words. She could hear the Infidel Friend’s reply, however.

“You still have people in the Carrion,” he was saying. “You send me through here and you won’t have anyone left to get them out.”

“Quiet,” Michael ordered. “Graham, open the door.”

The hunter called Graham walked up to the door and inserted the key. The lock turned with a long series of clicks. Graham took the woman’s golden handle, while his friend took the smith’s. Together they opened the doors, revealing a steel grate.

The passage beyond was long, dark and deep. One hunter held up two woodstone torches. Another tried to light them with heavy strikes of firerock and hellstone. The sparks showered down upon the torches, each flash of light sending bursts of illumination down the dark corridor beyond.

Ellen could feel the cool air pouring out of the place. The chill, and perhaps her own fear, caused goose-bumps to rise on her flesh. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as well. She could hear the hum of the waiting Harpsborough people, the creaking hinge of the golden door, and one thing more. Something very distant. Down the corridor, she thought she heard a woman singing.

The torches came to life with a pair of roars, and the hunters held them up beneath the golden archway to clear the darkness. The Harpsborough people shuffled about, many of them trying to get a better view of what lay beyond.

The Infidel Friend would be walking down that tunnel, weaponless as he was now and naked, as he would soon be.

Satisfied with their search of the corridor, Graham and his friend put their torches through the grate and dropped them. Together they moved towards the chain. They pulled it, alternating heaves. Matching their efforts, the grate lifted in small jerks. It reminded Ellen of the maw of some great shark that was slowly opening to accept the Infidel Friend.

“Strip,” one of the hunters ordered.

He did so without modesty.

“It’s as if they never ate the apple,” Ellen overheard Father Klein whisper. “They have no idea that their nude bodies are shameful.”

The man’s scars and wounds were fresh, some not even covered over. A bit of blood was even seeping from the man’s leg where the hound bite had partially re-opened. He seemed as oblivious of the wounds as he was of his own nakedness.

He’s so beautiful.

The grate neared his shoulder level.