Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood (17 page)

. . . and was hit from behind. Marsh had come back and launched himself at the guy,
feetfirst
. The soldier's head snapped back as he fell forward, out of control. Coop dodged around him and ran for the Rift.

Marsh got up and sprinted after him.

The soldiers down on the arena floor saw the fight unfolding in the stands above but stayed at their posts, standing ten yards in front of the Rift. They were no threat.

But the ten soldiers who were running along the stands from either side were.

"As soon as we land in the arena, the guys down there will attack," Marsh exclaimed, breathless.

Coop looked around, desperate for an idea.

"So let's not land," he exclaimed, and ran for the top of the Rift.

Lying across the seats that were directly above the Rift was the heavy rope netting that was used to protect the spectators from stray weapons that were thrown from the arena. It was attached to the top edge of the wall and spread out over several rows of seats, ready to be hoisted.

Coop stuck his black sword through his belt and grabbed at the netting several rows up.

Marsh saw what he was doing and followed his lead.

"Go no farther!" came an angry warning.

The soldiers were running fast, seconds from reaching
Marsh and Cooper. The lead soldier in each group held a
black sword.

Marsh grabbed the netting with both hands and nodded
to Cooper. He was ready. "Ralph?" Coop shouted.

"Yeah?"

"Go to hell."

Clutching the net, the two launched themselves over the
edge of the wall.

The soldiers in the arena saw what was happening and
closed on the Rift . . . too late.

Marsh and Cooper sailed down, the top edge of the net
caught, the ropes pulled tight, and their fall turned into a swing that arced over the arena floor, past the guards, and flung them straight through the Rift.

Into the Blood.

Damon wasn't used to taking orders.

With each step his anger grew more intense as he stared at the back of the tall, wan spirit who called himself Sanger. He kept his rage under control, though. If Sanger could lead him to Brennus, it would be well worth swallowing his ample pride. There would be plenty of time to destroy Sanger once he was no longer of use to him.

Sanger held his lantern out as they walked, not to light their way but to keep the light-sensitive demons at bay.

They trudged through many visions . . . a battlefield crisscrossed with trenches, the dry dead garden of a crum
bling castle, and a mall with no customers or merchandise. Sanger walked with authority. Damon wished he could say
the same.

"How much farther?" he asked.

"We'll be there when we get there," Sanger replied,
tweaking Damon's ego yet again.

"That sword you got," Sanger said. "Never seen nothing
like it."

"
And you won't see another,
"
Damon replied with pride.

"It's useless here," Sanger said flatly.

"Do not be so sure about that," Damon replied with arrogance. "It may not have had any power over those vile
demons but—"

Sanger spun around, grabbed the blade end of the poleax, and before Damon could stop him, he drove it into
his own stomach.

"No!" Damon screamed. He hated the crude spirit but
he wasn't done with him.

Sanger gritted his teeth against the pain, but managed
a smile.

Damon was speechless. It was true. His mighty weapon
held no power in the Blood.

Sanger stared straight into Damon's eyes. It took all of Damon's willpower not to look away from the man who
showed more than a touch of insanity.

"You haven't been here long, have you?" Sanger asked.

"I—I have only just arrived," stammered Damon.

"You've got that look. No spirit here's got that look for
long."

"What look is that?"

"You still got hope."

Sanger stepped back, pulling himself off the poleax.

He spit, rubbed the wound, then turned and continued the
journey.

Damon's confidence was shaken. For the first time in his life, or death, he felt as though he was not in complete
control.

Soon after, Sanger held up his hand and the two stopped.
They had arrived at an old farmhouse with broken, glassless windows that allowed wind to whistle through and billow the tattered curtains. Across from the house was a large, nondescript gray barn.

"I do not understand," Damon declared. "This could not be the vision of the spirit Brennus."

"It ain't," Sanger replied. "This is my vision."

The house had no soul . . . a fitting home for Sanger, thought Damon.

"Why have you brought me here?" Damon demanded.

Sanger ignored the question and continued toward the barn. Damon had no choice but to follow. Sanger loped past the large closed barn doors and rounded the structure to where a long, wooden canoe
sat upturned against the wall.

"Fetch it," Sanger ordered. "We'll go the rest of the way on the river."

"We will carry it together," Damon countered.

Sanger bent down and picked up two wooden paddles. "I got these," he said, and held up the lantern.
"
And this. Course I could always leave the lantern but I can't guarantee them demons won't come back."

Damon bit his lip to keep from raging at the man and lifted one end of the canoe.

"It is too heavy to carry," he announced. "I will drag it."

"Suit yourself," Sanger said with disdain and started off. Damon quietly vowed to himself that he would destroy Sanger at the first opportunity. He dragged the canoe along the ground, following the light from the lantern as Sanger entered a narrow path that cut through thick woods. There was no telling what might be lurking to either side, waiting to pounce. Damon struggled to keep close to Sanger and, more important, the lantern.

The trail opened up to a stretch of rock and rubble. Ten yards beyond was a wide river with thick forest lining both
banks. There was nothing treacherous about it, other than the fact that the water was glowing orange like molten lava.

Damon gasped and dropped the canoe. "We cannot navi
gate this waterway," he declared. "The wooden craft will surely burn."

Sanger ignored him, dropped the paddles and the lan
tern, and picked up the canoe, easily lifting it over his head. He walked to the edge and dropped the boat down into the glowing water.

It didn't burn.

"Paddles," Sanger commanded.

"I will go no farther," Damon announced petulantly.

Sanger pulled the canoe onto land to make sure it wouldn't be carried away in the current, then approached Damon. He stood facing the ancient warrior and without warning he lashed out and slapped him across the face.

Damon's head snapped to the side. He was more sur
prised than hurt. No one had ever dared to treat him like that. His hand immediately went to the poleax . . . and Sanger quickly slapped his other cheek.

"Who are you?" Sanger demanded. "You think you're strong enough to line yourself up with Brennus? All I've seen is a scared little fat man. Maybe that weapon makes people in the Black do what you say, but that holds no water here. Now either you pull yourself together and start showing some mettle or I'll leave you here and pick my teeth while watching those little banshees tear you apart."

Damon straightened his back and snarled, "Forgive me for causing you such inconvenience. There must be so many other things you'd prefer to be doing with your valuable time, you wretched little cretin."

Sanger's eyes flared.

"Now, that's more like it," he declared.

He turned his back on Damon and strode toward the canoe. Damon wanted to leap at the spirit and snap his neck, but he fought the urge and did what he was told.

Sanger went straight for the bow of the canoe and sat there holding the lantern, waiting for Damon to launch them. Damon struggled, but managed to push the craft out onto the glowing water and get aboard without tipping.

"It's a ways," Sanger said. "Start paddling."

Damon knew nothing about paddling a canoe but man
aged to get the small craft moving with awkward strokes.

Sanger quickly realized that Damon was incompetent, so he propped the lantern up in the bow and grabbed the other paddle and worked to right their course.

They moved downriver with the slow current, pass
ing burned-out towns, ruins of shattered glass skyscrapers, and the caved-in dome of the United States Capitol build
ing. Damon chose not to question Sanger. He had committed to trusting the surly spirit. He was more concerned about retracing his steps back to the Rift. Getting lost in the Blood would prove to be an inglorious end to his quest.

The river emptied into a large lake that glowed as brightly as the river that fed it. The stark contrast between the dark purple sky and the orange glow would have been strangely beautiful, if not for the ever-present moans of the damned.

"There," Sanger announced, pointing to a dark struc
ture on the shore.

Damon's spirits rose and he paddled faster, eager to finally meet Brennus and to destroy the spirit who'd led him there. As they drew closer to shore, the outline of a structure took shape. A high, stone wall rose up from the water like the battlement of a medieval fortress. Beyond the retaining wall was a low
castlelike
structure with triangular towers and misshapen arches.

Damon had witnessed the evolution of architecture from his time until the present and had never seen a build
ing quite like this one. Massive statues of snarling, winged beasts lined the edge of the roof. It looked designed to intimidate and dissuade the curious. There was nothing welcoming about it in the least.

It was the exact sort of dwelling that Damon expected to be the vision of the spirit called Brennus.

Sanger expertly steered the canoe to the stone steps that led up from the water, then deftly grabbed the lantern and jumped out. With one mighty pull he yanked the craft up and onto the steep stairs, with Damon still aboard.

Damon dropped the paddle into the canoe, swearing never to touch such a crude instrument again, and stumbled out onto the stairs.

Sanger stood on top with his hands on his waist, snick
ering at Damon's awkward performance.

"Any day now," he called.

Damon climbed the stairs until he reached Sanger. He stood tall to try and regain some measure of dignity, and commanded, "Lead me to Brennus."

Sanger shook his head in disgust, turned his back on Damon, and walked toward the building.

Damon looked past him to see that a wide courtyard stood between the retaining wall and the sprawling stone mansion. He followed Sanger, past several fountains that were scattered about, spewing glowing water from the lake in decorative patterns. It wasn't until he got close to one of the fountains that he realized the statues within were stone versions of the demons that had attacked him.

"How do you know Brennus?" Damon called to Sanger.
Sanger stopped and
surveyed the imposing, dark com
pound.

"Never crossed paths with him," he replied with a shrug.

Damon was rocked. "What? Then, how did you know to lead me here and—"

"Relax," Sanger commanded. "I said I never met him. That don't mean I don't know nothing about him. I've heard
the stories. They say he'd be a rival to Satan himself, if there was such a thing as Satan."

"Then, how can you be sure this is his vision?" Damon asked.

"'Cause that's how it works here," Sanger replied. "I set my mind to finding him and here we are. We got as many different visions going on here as spirits that
brung
'
em
. It's all one big
stinkin
' soup. You not only have to deal with your own misery, but every other fool's as well."

Damon took a look at the surroundings with new under
standing . . . and dread.

Sanger said, "I've heard of spirits who went looking for Brennus, but never met one who found him. Yet here we are.

Maybe there's something special about you that'll make us the first."

He broke into a crooked smile that offered no warmth. Damon stared him down and Sanger dropped the smile.

It was the first sign that Sanger wasn't completely comfort
able with Damon.

"Tell me," Damon said. "What stories have you heard?"

Sanger shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just rumors and such."

"
Are you aware that Brennus was a sin eater?"

"
A what?"

"
A sin eater. He would enter the home of the recently deceased where the body w
ould be laid out next to a sump
tuous feast. The food was his to enjoy. All he needed do was to reach over the dead body . . . and eat."

"That's a heck of a thing. Why?" Sanger asked, intrigued.

"With each bite of food, he would also be taking in the
sins of the deceased. The dead man's soul would be cleansed, avoiding any possibility of being sent directly to the Blood."

"And that worked?" Sanger asked.

"I do not know, but I understand it came with a great cost to Brennus. He was a poor laborer with only one brother. He was driven to eat sins so as not to starve. His body may have been nourished, but his soul took on the weight of the sins from multiple lives. He continued the practice after death brought him to the Black. That is when I first heard of him. He ate the sins of those in the Black who were desperate to avoid being banished to the Blood. Imagine a single soul that contained that much evil? It staggers the imagination."

"Maybe I wasn't so far off in thinking he's kin to Satan," Sanger said in awe.

"Ultimately he knew he was doomed for eternity and chose to take control of his destiny. His goal was to destroy the Morpheus Road. When he was finally banished to the Blood, he came willingly. His plan was to gather an army of the damned and break down the barrier between dimensions. That is the last I heard of him, which tells me that he failed in his quest. But knowing he was here, and knowing what he intended to do, I have decided to allow him to join me in my own quest."

"And what is it you're after?"

"The very same thing."

"I may have misjudged you, friend," Sanger said nervously.

"Indeed," Damon replied. "My army stands ready in the Black to take control of our own destiny. Do you wish to wander aimlessly for all time through this dark hell? Or return to the Light and the life of your choosing?"