Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong) (44 page)

Arturus stood up slowly from his hiding place behind the stage and looked about the empty ritual chamber. The room, once so full of people, was intensely empty. A grey hem, ripped from the cloak of its owner at some point during the ceremony, lay by the entrance. Pools of sweat had formed puddles at low points in the floor. Pools of blood and other liquids did the same on the stage. Over where the torches had burned, and on the ceiling above the stage where the Carrion people had used whatever pyrotechnic substance they owned, black stains of smoke clung to the ceilings and walls. A few extra torches still lay in a pile on the edge of the stage.

Whatever dark magic this place once possessed had been dispelled. Now it was just another empty chamber. It was hard for Arturus to imagine that this was the room in which Maab had held her blasphemer’s ceremony.

There was the sound of a footstep. Arturus ducked back behind the stage, crouching low.

“All clear in the Holy Room!” a soldier shouted.

Of course they’re looking. Other slaves might also choose the Carrion over their masters, no matter what the punishment.

Arturus tried to imagine what the man was doing. Was he walking around the stag
e and heading towards the exit?

Did he dare peek, or would the man discover him?

He waited, and then looked.

The soldier’s back was facing him. The man moved out of the ritual chamber, looking about in the next room.

Safe.

After a few minutes passed, Arturus stood up again took in a deep breath. He saw Pyle out of the corner of his eye. It was a split second before Pyle impacted with him, sending him reeling back across the stones. Arturus’ feet slipped in sweat, and the man caught him up in a bear hug. Arturus struggled to get out of his grip, managing to twist his back towards the man. Pyle’s hands, however, were firmly clasped, and Arturus could not get away.

“Another Harpsborough rat,” Pyle whispered in his ear. “If you see one, there’s another two in the bulwarks.”

Arturus fought desperately to free himself. He worked at the man’s fingers, but Pyle’s grip was too strong. He tried again, pushing against the man’s wrists and elbows. He remembered Galen’s teaching and tried to grab at Pyle’s legs by bending low and reaching between his own. Pyle was quick, strong and moved easily, almost instinctively, out of the way. Fighting panic as much as his foe, Arturus struck out, trying to stomp with his right heel on the instep of Pyle’s foot. Pain lanced upwards into his body from his wounded foot as the blow landed. Pyle wrestled him into the stage, slamming his face into the stone. Blood poured down over Arturus’ eye from where his brow had met with the rock. The liquid blurred the vision of his left eye, so he closed it. Arturus tried to strike with his heel again, this time trying to kick backwards and catch Pyle in the groin. Pinned as he was against the stage, the attempt was futile.

“I’ve caught one,” Pyle shouted aloud.

Hopeless.

But he hadn’t tried everything that Galen had taught him. Arturus studied Pyle’s grip with his open eye. The man’s right hand was over his left. Arturus wormed his thumb down near the base of the grip. Pyle’s fingers were too tightly clenched for him to dislodge them, but that wasn’t Arturus’ aim. Arturus worked his fingernail under Pyle’s. He kept his finger carefully bent, so that his first knuckle joint would support his nail. He jerked his arm back with all his might.

Pyle let out a shriek as his nail tore off. A little bit of it still hung on to his forefinger, dangling as if by a thread. The man still hadn’t let go, so Arturus went for the man’s second finger. This nail ripped off halfway, diagonally and down to the cuticle. Pyle shouted again, and finally released him. Arturus ran, wincing in pain each time his right foot impacted with the ground. He made it to the lip of the stage.

Pyle was close behind him. Arturus picked up a woodstone torch from the stage and swung it as hard as he could. The crack of the torch’s impact was as loud as a man’s shout. Pyle collapsed to the ground, holding his head in his hands. Arturus made a mad dash for the exit.

Pyle stood, one eye shut, with the help of two Carrion soldiers. He put a hand to the swelling on his forehead. It was a hard knot, nearly the size of a baby’s fist. A sudden unexpected pain shot through him, powerful enough to send him back to his knees.

It was coming from his fingers.

He held the offending digits in front of his eyes.

“Did you catch him?” Pyle asked, looking up at the blur beyond his hand.

“He’s nowhere to be found, Pyle.”

“Well, do you have the exit guarded?”

“Yes. Securely, and we’ve swept through. We can’t find him. There’s only a few of us left though. Most everyone else has gone already.”

One of Pyle’s ruined fingernails was still attached, hanging uselessly. He gritted his teeth, and gripped his bloody fingernail firmly with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He shouted as he ripped it off.

He batted the soldier’s hands away with his left arm and stood on his own.

“We need Gilgamesh,” Pyle said, surprised by how much the pain colored his voice.

“He’s to escort Maab home, he’s no time to track a serf.”

Pyle fought this time to control his voice. “Get one of his hounds then, and Hale.”

The soldier shoved him a little. “I don’t take orders from you, Lamb.”

A female voice quieted them all.

“Was it the young male? Picked by the Queen at the c eremony? The well fed one?”

Pyle nodded, unwilling to trust his voice to stay firm in the face of the pain coming from his head and fingers. He recognized the voice of the priestess, but he didn’t remember which one she was. The pitch of her speech was unusually high, though. He tried to look in her direction, but his vision of her was unclear. All he could see was a black blur. He fought back the urge to vomit.

“Then yes, men, by all means,” she was saying. “Fetch Hale, and one of Gilgamesh’s hounds. And be quick. Maab had him marked this very day.”

“Jesus Christ,” Pyle managed.

“Watch your tongue, Lamb,” the priestess said. “Don’t mention your foul Yahweh in this place of Mithras. I’ll lead the hunt.”

Pyle looked at her again and tried for a second time to focus on her. She was shorter than most, and had brown hair.

God damn—Sinna. A Little Lady. This fucking hunt’s going to be run by an eleven-year-old.

Pyle had regained his bearings and most of his vision by the time Hale arrived. Harnessed beside him, and held by two wary Carrion warriors, was the hound. It was just a little thing, about three feet tall. Its mouth was muzzled shut, and its claws and first knuckles had been removed from each of its four feet. Its eyes were wide and confused, evidence of Gilgamesh’s drugs. Practically the only thing Maab’s men had left the hound with was its sense of smell. Somehow, the plight of this creature, even though it was a devil, moved him.

It and I are much the same. Castrated by Maab, blackmailed by her magic, doing whatever we can to avoid the pain she gives us in her disappointment.

Hale wore his hair in a ponytail, almost like Harpsborough man might, but his face was clean shaven. Maab would allow no less.

“It won’t work,” Hale said. “Too many people have been through here. No way to scent the hound.”

“No one has seen him but the Lamb,” a soldier mentioned. “Perhaps this Lamb is lying?”

Pyle sneered. “You think I hit myself in the head with a God damned torch?”

“Watch your tongue,” Sinna said. “I will not warn you again. Still, your point is well taken.”

The Little Lady walked slowly about the ritual room, her satin robes swishing around her ankles. “Is this all your blood, here?”

“No,” Pyle answered, pointing to the stage. “The blood there is from him.”

Don’t forget how smart the Little Ladies are.

Hale motioned to his men. The hunters dragged the hellhound forward. They lifted the thing up to the blood and pointed.

“Scent,” Hale said harshly. “Scent!”

The hound barked.

“We have him by blood, now,” said Hale. “Until his wounds close, he is ours.”

Arturus clenched his jaw as he pulled off his boot. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the bright lights that squeezing created were all he could see. He ran his fingers along the bandage on his right foot. The blood had soaked all the way through.

And that used to be my good foot, too.

He struggled until he got his other boot off as well. The dressing there was much cleaner. He took off his grey cloak and began ripping it into strips.

The sound of the ripping worried him, but he doubted that anyone could hear him. He rewrapped both of his feet. He checked the wound on his forehead. His eyebrow had been cut seriously, and was still bleeding. He tied one strip as a headband around it, as tightly as he dared, and hoped that the blood would not get back into his still stinging eyes.

He felt about in the darkness for his discarded boots, and having finally found them both, braced himself to put them back on. Despite his greatest attempt at fortitude, he gave out a whimper as he put on the right one. He tied the remains of his robe together, making a satchel to carry the torch he’d brained Pyle with. He knotted it together securely with a few more strips and slung it over his shoulder.

There.

He did his best to remember the way out, but there were no visual cues for him to follow. He ran his fingers along the floor around the trap door which led back down into the Carrion tribe’s chambers. A lip had been dug into the stone, presumably treated with rustrock, to make it easier to lift. Confident that he would recognize the feel of the trapdoor he wanted, he moved in a spiral around the room, hoping that his clothes and his weapons would still be here.

They weren’t.

Galen must have taken them.

There was another possibility as well, Arturus knew. Maab’s men might know of these trap doors, and have searched them already after finding out about Galen. If that were the case, all his efforts were sure to be in vain.

He still had the torch he’d used to brain Pyle with, but he had no access to fire.

If they catch me, three days.

He moved into the next chamber and followed the right wall until he had an idea of the shape of the room.

He heard the bark of a hound echoing up from below.

No. There can’t be hounds
down there. Galen, please come save me.

“He’s still in here,” Hale reported. “The hound couldn’t smell him at the exit. You sure you checked through Maab’s chambers thoroughly?”

“Yeah,” Pyle said. “Can’t hurt to try with the dog, though.”

“No.” The Little Lady contradicted him. “Now that we know he has yet to escape we are free to search him out in here. He is undoubtedly hidden in one of the buffer rooms. Take the hound back to the Ceremony Chamber, we’ll just follow his scent from there.”

Pyle didn’t like the tone of her voice.

I’m going to kill that little shit.

They didn’t make it all the way back. In one of the buffer chambers, the hound let out a whine and led them to the wall. It began clawing, as if trying to climb up one of the alcoves.

“Look,” Hale said. “Blood, on the wall.”

Boy’s good.

“He must have climbed up and down here,” Hale was saying. “He knew to confuse the hound. See, there’s blood on both sides.”

Sinna looked at the wall and cocked her head.

“Why would he change sides when he got to the top?” she asked.

That is odd.

“Maybe the blood is dripping from his head to his feet,” Pyle mused.

Sinna chuckled.

I’m not sure which of these children I want to kill more.

Pyle moved into the alcove and looked up. He put his hands and feet on the wall and started to climb.

“Keep looking,” Hale ordered.

“No.
” The high voice responded from beneath him. “Stay put.”

Pyle began climbing the chamber wall, aware that Sinna was watching him intently. At one point he slipped on the boy’s blood, almost falling.

Maybe I’d land on that little whore.

He made it up to the ceiling and looked about. On a sudden impulse, he pushed upwards. The stone moved. The shock of it almost sent him tumbling again.

“He came through here!” Pyle shouted down. “There’s no light, but we should be able to follow him.”

“No,” Sinna countermanded. “It’s too dangerous to chase him through the dark. I think I know where that might lead out. We’ll pick him up in the wilds.”

“He’s unarmed,” Pyle shouted back. “We may never find his scent out there. We should chase him here.”

“Unarmed?” Sinna giggled. “Pardon me if that doesn’t ease my mind, those words coming as they do from a bludgeoned lamb.”

Her face would turn red if I strangled her, then blue. If I get her away from those soldiers, I’ll show her what it feels like to be as helpless as I am.

The hound led them quickly through the tunnels. It stumbled from time to time, perhaps because of Gilgamesh’s potions, or perhaps because its ruined feet were harder to balance on. They had taken six soldiers with them, including the two who held the hound’s harness.

Enough, in Pyle’s estimation, to kill most things in the wilds. They had no serfs to scatter in case they ran into a large pack of dyitzu, though, so the hunt could get bloody.

Boy won’t be able to stay ahead of us for long. I’ll be back with Maab soon enough.

The hound growled as it approached a bend.

“This way,” Hale said, leading them into a room.

“Check the ceiling,” Sinna ordered.

She gives orders just like Maab.

Pyle climbed one wall while a soldier tried the other.

It wasn’t nearly the climb that he’d performed in the previous chamber, but Pyle’s head throbbed each time his heart beat, and his legs felt weak.

“Here it is,” the soldier reported.

“No visible blood,” Hale said, kneeling to the ground. “He may have had time to treat his wounds.”

The hound was already struggling to leave the room.

“Still enough scent in the air,” Hale said.

He pointed back out of the chamber, and the soldiers let the hound continue its hunt.

They stopped suddenly at Hale’s order.

“He must be getting desperate,” the man said.

Pyle caught up to him and looked ahead into the room that had disturbed Hale enough to bring him to a halt. Pyle’s back straightened when he saw the large domed chamber roof, pitted with man sized holes.

Harpies.

“He wouldn’t have dared come through here,” Sinna’s high voice intoned.

“Must be no harpies,” Pyle observed, “or we’d see his body.”

“Either he’s suicidal or he’s fresh to Hell,” Hale said. “Though I can’t imagine even someone damned yesterday being dumb enough to run into a harpy nest.”

Pyle knew why they were confused. Turi wasn’t from the Carrion, so he’d never seen or been warned about harpies before. Hale seemed reticent to enter the room.

If I’m ever going to get a chance to repay that little shit for my fingernails, I’m going to have to let them know where he’s from.

“He’s never seen a harpy,” Pyle said. “He’s from Harpsborough.”

“Like the darkie?” Sinna asked.

Pyle nodded.

“Oh the wonderful gifts you keep bringing us.”

“He moves quickly,” Hale said. “But he’s moving differently now than he was earlier. Ever since we passed the black crystal. He’s spotted this hellstone vein, and he’s following it. I think now he must know where he’s going.”

“Maybe he’s headed home then,” Sinna mused. “Hale, is this the way to the barrier? Is this the way out of the Carrion?”

“I’m not overly familiar with this area, but I don’t think so.”

The hound tugged feverishly against its harness. The thing was eager to leap into the harpy den.

“It’s not,” Pyle answered. “I roam around here all the time. He’d need to travel down with the crystal if he were trying to get to Harpsborough. This vein dead ends after a day or so.”

“Well, he’s headed towards something,” Hale assured them. “I can feel it.”

“He may not be alone,” Pyle warned. “He might be trying to get back to a friend. Maybe friends.”

He watched Sinna consider that. Pyle had long ago learned to stop being shocked by how smart the Little Ladies were. It was better just to pretend they were adults.

“Then we must find him quickly,” she said. “He may also be alone, and be trying to get to a gun. Either way, we should brave this room. Are we sure that nest is empty?”

“Yes,” said Hale. “The hound wouldn’t want to go in so badly.”

“Keep your shotguns up,” her high voice warned. “Just in case.”

“He stopped here,” Hale informed them as the hound sniffed about the room.

One wall was made of small, black bricks, almost the color of obsidian.

Firerock.

“Will we catch him soon?” Sinna asked.

Finally, something that little slut doesn’t know.

Hale shook his head and undid the tie that held his hair. He placed the tie in his mouth and spoke around it while he worked his hair back into a ponytail.

“He’s still bleeding. He’ll either tire, or get himself killed shortly.”

“Look at this, sir,” one of the soldiers manning the harness reported. “A brick is missing. Now how did he do that?”

Pyle looked curiously at the wall. “Look here. He jammed something in between these bricks. It lessens the load on the other ones. If nothing is binding the bricks together you can pull one out that way. An old Harpsborough trick.”

“Well, I’ll trust my shotgun against his brick any day,” Hale said.

“Fool,” Sinna said, rolling her eyes, “that’s firerock. He just wants something to light his torch.”

Pyle imagined her face burning. The hair going up in a sudden blaze while her flesh dripped off of her steaming skull.

“How long, Hale,” Sinna asked.

“This blood hasn’t even clotted. He must be tiring, or the wounds are getting to him. Hopefully another hour. Less, if he tries to rest.”

They moved quickly out of the room, jogging behind the slow lope of the hound. It wasn’t stumbling at all now, Pyle noticed. The exercise must have helped to clear its system of Gilgamesh’s potions. He hoped that Hale had more of those in his pack.