Dead & Godless (23 page)

The Cistern and the Seal

A searing pain in
his side brought consciousness rushing back. Corwin snapped awake, craning his
neck and howling into the lightless shaft above. Stripped to the waist, he hung
from a pair of long, clinking chains, their manacles cutting into his wrists. He
wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but as lucidity slowly returned, each
moment revealed a new source of agony. The back of his skull ached, his sore shoulders
felt halfway torn from their sockets, and raw skin throbbed where the burn had
jolted him out of his slumber.

“Rise
and shine,” croaked Isley. “We wouldn’t want to start the night’s festivities
without our guest of honor.”

Corwin
leveled his gaze and stared into glassy white eyes. Though he was suspended off
the ground, Strega’s height was still a match for his own. The demon leered and
raised an iron poker, its tip glowing red-hot.

With
a twist of his head, Corwin recoiled the little distance that he could. From
what he gathered, this place was a cistern, perhaps part of some medieval sewer
system. A pool of water darkly shimmered beneath the grated floor. The chamber
was circular and he noted archways belonging to several adjoining passages,
along with a hollow where a fire had been lit. Dampness glistened on the grimy
brick walls. They sloped to form a dome, but not a complete one. An oculus gave
way to a tall shaft through which rainwater dripped and his chains dangled. And
his weren’t the only chains.

“Not
you too . . .”

Covered
in fresh bruises, Ransom’s scarred body hung across from him. He had evidently
been enjoying the demons’ hospitality for some time. Three-foot-long needles of
iron pierced his arms, legs and torso, skewering him with surgical precision so
as to cause intense pain without rupturing any vital organs.

“Listen,
Corwin,” he strained to whisper. “There’s a seed of hope sewn deep within you.
Whatever happens, don’t let go of–”

A
brutal backfist from Strega cut short his words, a spray of blood and sweat sparkling
in the air.

“He’s
telling you to lie to yourself,” said Isley. “That’s what his kind always
preaches. But you were never one for delusions.”

Ransom’s
head was tossed to one side and then the other as Strega relentlessly rained
blows. For every twitch, the needles punished him, sending pangs of torment
pulsing all the way to his fingertips. But Ransom refused to cry out. Grabbing
him by the hair, Strega lifted his face.

“I
want his eyes,” he growled.

“Not
yet, you fool!” snapped Isley. “He’ll need them to watch.”

Strega
rounded on the Prosecutor with a snarl, but Isley’s imperious stare didn’t
waver. The standoff lasted only an instant. Huffing angrily, Strega backed down
and consoled himself by laying another punch into the angel.

Isley
calmly returned his gaze to Corwin.

“Humans
have toyed with torture, and while we occasionally inspire them, they’ve mostly
proven themselves to be bumbling amateurs. You’ll find that my methods are more
excruciating by far. That is, if that’s what you desire.”

“Let
me guess,” said Corwin. “You’ll set me free if only I renounce god, as if I haven’t
already been doing that this whole time?”

“Do
you think I care what you believe?” Isley’s tone was colder than ice. “I see
you for what you truly are: a fruit rotted from the core. Your skin you’ve
painstakingly polished, waxed to a ripe sheen, but peel away the rind . . .” he
dragged a clawed finger down Corwin’s chest, “and a feast for maggots festers.”

All of
Corwin’s arguments, all his clever words, they meant nothing, he realized. This
creature that wore a man’s face, it despised him with a hatred that surpassed
logic or reason. Corwin thought he knew what it was to be hated. His antireligious
tirades had earned him the vitriol of many a staunch believer. Insults, cold
shoulders, even violent threats were nothing new. But never in his mortal life
had he felt hatred like this. The humans that lashed out against him had done so
because of their own insecurities. They feared what he had to say. Isley didn’t.
His malice was pure, his black gaze more terrifying than any firing squad.

“However,
I am not without mercy,” resumed the Prosecutor. “You have a choice, unlike
your attorney. That one has been the cause of much misfortune for my
associates, and for you as well. Were it not for him, you wouldn’t have to
endure this unpleasantness.”

He raised
a hand, indicating a weapons rack on the chamber wall. Serrated blades, spiked
flails, hammers, pliers and other more eccentric tools of torture decorated its
rusty hooks, bloodstains crusting their metallic edges.

“Take
these instruments, carve your vengeance into him, and I will ease your
suffering.”

Corwin
looked at the cruel collection of weapons, then at Ransom. The angel’s face was
downcast, disheveled hair concealing his eyes. He said nothing.

“I
think,” whispered Corwin, his voice barely audible.

“Yes?”

Isley
tilted his head. He leaned closer, and as he did so Corwin brazenly spat in the
demon’s face.

“That’s
what I think of your offer!”

Hissing
to a boil, the saliva steamed off Isley’s wrinkled skin.

“Unwise.”

He
reached out and a hot poker flew from the flames into his grasp. Corwin gritted
his teeth as Isley pressed the iron to his side, a few inches above the first
burn. Molten fire lanced through his veins. Arching his spine, he hollered, his
chains rattling against the brick shaft.

“I
had thought you to be more pragmatic than this,” remarked Isley as he withdrew
the scalding rod. “Don’t you want to see your beloved Mary again?”

“What?”
asked Corwin between heaving breaths.

While
the poker’s touch had ceased, pain still radiated from the spot. Cool drops of
rainwater tapped his sweat-slicked shoulders, each one a tiny blessing, but it
wasn’t enough to dowse the blaze that ignited in his chest upon hearing Mary’s
name on the demon’s lips.

“Perhaps
the angel hasn’t told you?” Isley intoned. “She’s one of us now.”

“You’re
lying!”

“Don’t
listen to him!” shouted Ransom, who promptly received another pummeling in
response.

Isley
sighed and hung his head remorsefully.

“After
your death, the poor girl was very depressed. She took her own life, Corwin.”

“Mary
wouldn’t do that!”

“Is
it so hard to accept? You nearly did the same once, and the two of you are more
alike than you think; soul mates, one might say, if you believe in that sort of
thing.”

“No!”
Corwin insisted. “That time—it was because of my weakness, but Mary is stronger
than me. She was always stronger than me!”

“Such
faith!” exclaimed Isley. “But as you say, you
are
prone to weakness.
Your flesh is weak. Your will is weak. Do you really think that you’re a hero,
or even a good person?”

Corwin
tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Isley’s stare penetrated his soul,
laid bare every dark secret, every sin he’d buried beneath life’s numbing distractions.
He didn’t need a demon to tell him that he was no saint. A hero? Would he have valiantly
jumped onto those tracks if he had known the true cost? Not likely.

“Oh,
but you’ve been hurt! You’re a victim, aren’t you? Your father was taken away
at such a tender age. And your mother! Where was she when you needed her?
Drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, no doubt. Yes, you always
cursed her for that. Why should little Corwin have to grow up, act like a man
and comfort his mother? Didn’t she know that she was supposed to be the one
comforting you? You vowed to shut her out of your life, and you kept that vow.

“So
what if she felt like she had no one? So what if your father loved her? Why
should that matter to you? Even years later when she finally got her life
together, did you make even the slightest effort to mend what was broken? All
those times when she called, did you ever once call back? All she wanted was to
hear your voice, to see you, to tell you that she was sorry.”

Isley’s
voice sharpened to a scathing whisper.

“You
wouldn’t even give her that. You died without ever saying
I forgive you,
without ever telling her
I love you.”

There
was a knot in Corwin’s throat that he couldn’t swallow. It was all horribly true.
His perfect memory recounted every harsh word; all the times when he could have
softened his heart, but didn’t. And now it was too late.

“And
you think that you deserve paradise?” mocked Isley. “You’re no tragic hero, just
another selfish, sniveling coward who thinks himself entitled to the mercy that
he never gave.”

Corwin’s
mutinous mind echoed the demon’s words, the memories tearing at him, dragging
him down to the blackest depths of the sea of oblivion. Wasn’t that where he
belonged?

I
just want to forget.

He
glanced at the iron poker.

I
don’t want to think about anything anymore.

Soon
its scorching gift would save him, wash over him like an acid tide. Then he
wouldn’t have to remember. He wouldn’t be able to. A thousand suns would
explode beneath his skin, drowning out every other thought in a vague, white
roar of pain.

And
when finally you beg for the torture, then your soul will be theirs.

Hadn’t
Ransom said that once? The words anchored him—a luminous beacon slicing through
the fog—and in that moment he saw himself clearly. Isley had spoken true. He
didn’t deserve Heaven. But there was something else Ransom had told him. That’s
right,
no one
deserves Heaven. It was a prize too great to be earned,
one that was bestowed mercifully upon weak, unworthy sinners.

Sinners
like me.

“Maybe
you’re right,” said Corwin. “Maybe I am just another asshole who ought to be
cast into Hell, but you’re not the one I have to answer to!”

A
sneer disturbed Isley’s calm mask of hatred.

“Strega,”
he called. “Teach this human his place.”

Grabbing
a bullwhip off the rack, the brutish demon smiled with a mouth full of
misshapen teeth. He stepped behind Corwin and the whip’s braided leather tail uncoiled.

“Leave
him be!” Ransom yelled. “Or I swear that scar will look like a beauty mark
compared to the one I’ll give you when I get out of here!”

But this
time the angel’s shout went unheeded. Strega swung back his arm. The whip
cracked and Corwin felt the livid sting of his skin bursting. He locked his
jaw, holding back the screams as the lashes fell.

Ransom’s
chains snapped taut. Furiously, he struggled against them. An ethereal shadow
darkened his figure, but again the brand blazed. Caging his power, the divine
seal burned bright on the back of his hand.

With
a shudder, he fell limp, and Isley cackled.

“It’s
useless to struggle. The chains that bind you were forged in the First Age.
Wrought of smoke and shadow, even I would have a difficult time breaking them.”

Not
for the first time, Ransom’s gaze fastened on a spot beside the fire, where an
unsheathed katana leaned against the wall.

“You
desire this?” asked Isley.

Approaching
the soulrender, he casually lifted it, unconcerned by the flames that
immediately enveloped his hand.

“Your
sword doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“It’s
a smart sword,” replied Ransom.

“I
can feel its thirst for blood.” Isley rested the blade near Ransom’s throat. “Perhaps
I should let it drink?”

“Go
ahead.”

“No,”
the demon decided, “for that would be to release you, and your punishment has
only just begun.”

Corwin
reeled as another stripe was added to his blood-streaked back. Noise filled his
mind, but from Isley and Ransom’s short exchange, one word stood out.

“Hey,
you good-for-nothing angel!” he shouted. “Speaking of punishments, there’s
something I’ve been thinking about for a while. The penalty that god slapped
you with, it doesn’t make any sense!”

“This
really isn’t the time,” groaned Ransom.

Isley
erupted into laughter.

“Even
now he persists in your insipid debate!”

“So
you killed a band of murderous thugs,” continued Corwin. “So what? I’m sorry,
but the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.”

“To
take human lives is forbidden. I broke a sacred trust!”

Breathing
through clenched teeth, Corwin endured a lash low across his legs. He molded
the pain into fury and the fury into speech.

“I
thought Christians were supposed to love their enemies!”

“Have
you gone delirious? What are you talking about now?”

“I’m
talking about what was in your heart! You think that your crime was spilling
blood? That what you really did wrong was break a rule? That’s bullshit! The
truth is that you didn’t want those men to repent!”