Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong) (13 page)

“Duncan,” Michael said.

“Yes, Citizen?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael corrected.

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was that blonde girl?” Ellen asked as they were traveling down the rustrock road through a room full of waist high square blocks.

“Which one?”

“The one you were staring at, in the blue.”

“Alice,” Arturus said, “and I wasn’t staring. She’s just one of my friends. I wanted to say hello to her.”

“Do you like her?”

“That’s a silly question.”

Arturus looked around the room for hiding dyitzu. Everything seemed safe—except for what Ellen was saying. The last thing he wanted was Ellen going into Harpsborough and telling everybody that he wanted Alice.

“I think you like her,” she said.

Arturus shrugged. And of course, since he was the only person Ellen knew, she was bound to gossip about him to anyone she met. And if Alice were to hea
r
. . .

But what if she likes me back?

“What was so important about that man leaving?” Ellen asked.

“He’s their leader. It’s been very hard for everyone to eat, so he’s going to go out and try to get them some food.”

“Oh.”

“That’s actually why we didn’t ask him to take you in. If he gets food, or finds a way to make sure everyone isn’t hungry, then we can see if you can join the village.”

“But I don’t want to join the village, Turi. I want to be a hermit like you.”

“You said you liked the village.”

“I do, but I can still visit as a hermit. Like you do.”

“It’s hard to live alone. If you don’t stay in Harpsborough, you’ll die.”

“I don’t mind,” Ellen said.

Arturus stopped and looked at her. He wanted to shake some sense into her, to tell her that she must care, to tell her that if she didn’t start caring she would be subjected to all manner of tortures. Then she would care, but it would be too late.

But the funny thing was he didn’t have the slightest idea of what to say.

“I didn’t mean it,” she told him.

Yes you did.

“Okay,” Arturus said. “Okay.”

They walked a little farther into the wilds together while Arturus mulled over what she’d said. Soon enough he led them off of the rustrock road.

“Promise me you won’t die,” he said impulsively,
not even thinking about the words.

“What?” she asked.

“Promise me you won’t die,” he repeated, this time more firmly. “Now.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“I promise.”

“Say it all the way.”

“Okay, Turi. I’ll say it. I promise, I won’t die.”

He nodded satisfied.

“It’s a stupid promise anyway,” she said after a moment.

“Doesn’t matter. You still made it.”

People took their time going to bed that evening. Massan and Kara were speaking outside their hovel. Kara’s eyes never strayed from Massan, though she moved about frequently. Her laughter often drowned out all of the other noises in the village. A few even hushed her. Father Klein could also be heard all across Harpsborough, his voice booming out from where he preached upon the church steps. A huddle of less faithful villagers gathered in one corner, betting what little food and ammo they had on the roll of some devilbone dice. Martin had played the game at times. They called it “Icatian Craps.” Martin had called it “no craps” because he tended to lose all his food when he played it.

Late nights like this one would have normally annoyed him, as he was the man who, along with Avery, most often took the guard position during the night. It was hard to protect people, in his opinion, who were making enough noise to drown out the possible approach of a devil. His missing hand, however, had absolved him of this duty.

Martin wandered over to the kiln. Kylie was there, tending the woodstone torches which served as its fuel.

“Kylie, princess, I got to get me a pot.”

“Martin, you always eat everything you’re given. I thought for sure you kept a pot in your stomach.”

She reached out and rubbed his belly.

As far as Martin Warwick was concerned, Kylie was the only worthwhile Citizen in the entire Fore, except for Aaron, of course.

“Well, babe, I’ve decided to start saving some food.”

She nodded and glanced over towards the gamblers.

“Bad luck has also been my pot,” he admitted, “but I’ve decided to stop gambling.”

“Tired of ‘no craps?’” she asked.

He laughed.

Lewd things were somehow more amusing when Kylie said them. Martin figured that Michael was a lucky man. Kylie wasn’t the prettiest girl in the village, not by a long shot, but her hair was luxurious, her eyes were sparkly, her smile was wide—and she had a huge mouth.

As far as Martin Warwick was concerned, the mouth sealed the deal. “Losing my hand, it’s kind of got me thinking, you know? I need to have some things stored up next time. That way, when things go bad, I can still eat right. I mean, what if I had a woman too? I wouldn’t be able to feed her on what hunters get these days.”

Kylie nodded. “Let me see that hand.”

He held out his stump.

She ran her fingers across the growing hand, sending shivers of fiery pain to his brain and a similarly warm but more pleasant sensation to his heart and loins.

“Growing back fine,” she said. “What do you think, a month or so?”

Martin beamed. “Maybe, if I’m quick about it. Could be two.”

“Now about that pot. You know I’m not an old world kind of girl.” Her tone was stern. “I don’t do layaway.”

“I’ve got devilwheat,” he said defensively. “I’m not trying to be your charity case.”

Kylie smiled. “Well, I might have made an exception for you, anyway.”

Martin pulled out a bundle of devilwheat from his hoodie’s front pocket.

“You want me to make you one fresh?” She asked. “I was thinking about firing another batch before I went to bed.”

Martin looked at the few pots she had on display. One was short and squat. She’d covered it before its firing with mixtures of colored dust to paint a picture on the clay. Bands of darkening sandstone gave the impression of a beach. Dark blue hellstone made up the ocean. There were white marble dust seagulls and a single sail cresting the horizon. The sun was made from a red so light that it almost looked pink, and more of that dust adorned the crests of the waves where the sun’s light hit the ocean.

The scene hit him hard for some reason. He spent most of his time ignoring his memories of the old world. Of the nine to five job he
’d worked to pay for the Ford Taurus he’d driven. Of the Winsten Mill apartments he’d lived in with an old couch and some lawn furniture. Of the girl that lived in 111B who had asked him to come in and kill a spider for her. Of Caleb, the Lab/Boxer mix, who always shit on the carpet when he thought Martin had been gone too long.

“Can I have that one?” he asked.

“Martin!” she said. “I painted that one. You know that’s worth a lot more than a bundle of devilwheat. I paid more to Kara for just gathering the marble dust.”

“I know. I know. It just looks so beautiful. I guess I’ll take the one next to it.”

She started to pick it up, but changed her mind. “Just take it.”

She shoved the squat painted pot at him.

“No, Kylie, I don’t want to cheat you.”

“Just remember you owe me one, alright. I’m just being sympathetic, you know. I wouldn’t do this if you weren’t injured.”

“Are you sure?”

“Martin, I’m sure. Maybe it’ll help you save up some food.”

Martin nodded. “You’re the best.”

She hugged him, and then kissed him on the cheek.

“Alright,” she said, “now run along, I’ve got to get this last batch out.”

Grinning ear to ear, he held the squat clay urn to his chest as he wandered back across Harpsborough.

The late night was finally beginning to end. Kara was still laughing, but she was doing it from inside her hovel. Father Klein had retreated inside his church to speak with the last of the faithful. Only a few people were still moving about. A couple of men and women were walking in through the village entrance, having made their waste or gotten one last drink of water before they took to their beds.

Martin stopped beside the Fore, his cheek still burning from where Kylie had kissed it.

He wasn’t ready for the day to end, he decided, but there wasn’t really anyone for him to talk to.

He saw Benson. The stilling had taken most of the meat off of the man. His face was as gaunt as a holocaust victim’s, his eyes as red as a hound’s.

“Hey there, ole Bense,” Martin Warwick said as he sat down next to the still man. “What did you see today?”

Benson said nothing, his face as pallid as a living man’s face could be.

“Really?” Martin went on. “I got this pot.”

The hunter held it up in front of his own eyes and looked at the beach. Some of the marble dust seagulls were smaller than others. He tried to perceive the depth which this represented in the painted urn.

“Did you ever get to go to the beach?” he asked Benson. “I never did, you know. I saw it on the Discovery Channel, and in a bunch of movies, but I never made it. Bet you it’s for the best, though. If I saw the ocean, I’d probably turn straight into a pirate.”

Benson said nothing.

“Arr, motherfucker,” Martin told him, and laughed to himself.

He set his pot down between his legs and looked up to Harpsborough’s ceiling. “I’m doing good these days, Benson. You’re probably pretty proud of me. I got some steady food, you know. Better than hunting for the moment. I’ve got this pot. I’m going to save some of my food this time. I’ll be ready for when I’m a hunter again.”

He sighed before continuing. “Then I’ve got to worry about the woman situation. You know? Aaron told me I better find me one. And I’m not the kind of man who disobeys an order, am I fella’?”

Martin laughed at his own joke and uncapped his hunter’s canteen. “Sure wish it could be Kylie. Woman’s a Citizen, and a nice one to boot. Michael would probably have me killed, though. I’d be lucky if he sent me through the Golden Door.”

Martin took a swig and recapped his canteen. “You know, I should get my hand cut off more often!”

He looked back towards his pot. To the ocean depicted upon it. He slowly spun it and watched the beach landscape change. The clay urn issued a grinding sound as its bottom scraped against the stone. “I know you took her death hard, Bense. No harm in that. We all did, you know? All us hunters. To see that girl lose her guts like tha
t
. . .”

Martin studied Benson’s face. Not even a twitch. The man was very grey.

“I thought it was nice of you, what you tried to do. I wouldn’t have done it. You did all you could.”

It seemed like Benson was greyer closer to his mouth.

“Oh shit, man. You alive?”

Martin reached out to check for breathing.

He was relieved to feel just the faintest touch of air on his hand, but there was something else on the man’s face. Some grey dust. “Motherfucker!” He lumbered to his feet.

The curse startled a young man out of his hovel. Martin had forgotten his name.

Martin drew his sidearm and reluctantly leveled it at Benson. “Go get Aaron and Father Klein,” he shouted to the boy.

The young man stood still, confused.

Martin waved him on with his stump. “Some bastard’s poured corpsedust all over ole Bense.”

That sent him running

Martin bent down to inspect Benson as the boy ran off to the other side of the Fore.

“Fuckers,” Martin told the still man. “And of course, they’d wait for Michael to leave before they did this to you.”

“Not bad.” Galen inspected the mold Arturus had made for the pawns. “Not bad at all.”

Behind them, the forge burned steadily.

Arturus had never seen a chess set before, so Galen had made the appropriate drawings for him. The pawn had been the simplest, so Arturus had made one of those first. He had become a good whittler of woodstone, and the pictures were clear, so he felt confident he had made the piece and its mold correctly.

“I don’t understand why there has to be so many of these,” Arturus remarked.

Galen shrugged his shoulders.

“For every King there are eight pawns. For every Queen there are eight replacements. Just the way of the world.”

Galen had made other demands of the pieces as well. For one, he insisted that the diameter of the base of the King was to be exactly half of its height.

“Why?” Arturus had asked. “Does Michael know that it’s supposed to be this way?”

“No, but the ignorance of your fellows is no excuse for shoddy work.”

Galen had agreed to work the bellows since Arturus had used the battery up on grinding sandstone. He had also made the sandstone mixture to Galen’s exact specifications. For the black pawns, Arturus used nine parts ground sandstone, one part ground whetstone, and two parts ground pewter. For the white pawns he was going to use eleven parts sandstone and one part whetstone. He poured his black mixture into an obsidian cup. They used obsidian because it was the hellstone which was most resistant to heat. Galen held up the forge’s grate, and Arturus used a pair of tongs to place the obsidian cup into the fire.

The heat was so intense that it was difficult for Arturus to stare into the fire for long, but he looked for as long as he could stand it, watching the sand melt together.

Donning a protective glove, he then used his tongs to grip a stirring rod. To make the piece perfect, he knew, the mixture had to be as even as possible.

Galen grunted his approval as Arturus began to stir.

“Why are we going to use whetstone dust in the white pawn’s mixture? Won’t it darken the glass?” Arturus’ voice sounded weak, drowned out behind the forge’s flames.

“You might have been right in the old world.” Galen shook his head. “But for us it will just make the glass stronger. We don’t want those men in the Fore knocking over the set and breaking the pieces.”

“Why would they do that?” Arturus asked as he continued to stir.

“Chess can make people quite angry at times, boy. Make sure you are a gracious winner, should you play them.”

Arturus laughed. Galen always assumed he would win at things.

He looked again at the mixture. It looked like dirty water. He stirred it just a little more.

“Do you have the syringes prepared?” Galen asked.

“I think they’re ready.”

The warrior nodded and opened the forge grate. Arturus reached in with the tongs and pulled out the cup of obsidian.

“Be careful with that, boy,” Galen said. “
That molten glass is hot enough to kill. Don’t move fast, lest you stumble.”