On a Pale Horse (38 page)

A huge man in a chef’s hat met him at the portal. “Your repast is ready, sir.”

This was not his regular cook. “I will return for it in due course,” Zane said, attempting to squeeze by him.

The chef put a massive and calloused hand on Zane’s shoulder. “But it is ready now, sir.”

Molly remained insubstantial here in Purgatory, except when she concentrated, but this man was as solid as a side of beef. Zane squirmed out from beneath the punishing grip. “Not now, thanks.”

“I am sure you will reconsider, sir,” the brute chef said, his hand dropping to Zane’s forearm.

Angry and somewhat alarmed, Zane turned his gaze directly on the man’s face. He knew the other saw the death’s head, for he remained in uniform. “Whom do you think you are touching?” he demanded grimly.

The big man blanched, as most people did when confronted by the Deathmask, but stood his ground. “I am already dead. There is no harm you can do me.”

Then why had he blanched? Zane lifted his right hand. The gems on his wrist glowed. His fingers caught the man under the chin and lifted him up. The man lifted readily, becoming cellophane-thin; he was, in fact, a soul. Zane folded the soul in half, and then in quarters, and finally wadded it into a ball and hurled it downward through the floor toward Hell.

Then he paused, surprised. He hadn’t known Death could do that! But it was obvious, in retrospect, since Death routed souls to their spots in Eternity. When he took deliberate hold of a soul, it moved as he willed it to.

“That was pretty,” Molly murmured.

Zane had forgotten her presence. “Maybe you had better
get out of here, too,” he suggested. “Satan’s minions could probably manhandle you.”

“It’s very hard to hold a ghost against her will,” she said, and faded from view.

“Thanks again for your help,” he called. “You have opened my eyes!”

“You’re welcome, Death,” her breeze-faint whisper came. Then he was alone.

He strode through the doorway—and encountered a truly regal and lovely woman, garbed in elaborately archaic paraphernalia. “I am Helen of Troy,” she announced.

Zane was, of course, familiar with the historical, virtually legendary accounts of this famous woman’s activities. Hers was the face that had launched a thousand spells and precipitated a savage ancient war between the city-state of Troy and the massed forces of Greece. Naturally Helen now served Satan more directly.

“Now you do call-girl duty for the Father of Lies,” Zane snapped, brushing by her.

“Please!” she cried, clutching at his arm. “You do not know what it is like to be three millennia past your prime! You can not guess what the Lord of Flies does to women who fail him!”

Against his better judgment, Zane was moved by her plea. She might be three thousand years dead, but she was one lovely creature. “I wish you no harm, Helen. But I am trying to keep a good, living woman out of Satan’s grasp. Would you seek to betray that woman?”

Helen looked at him. Tears formed in her beautiful eyes and streaked down her classic cheeks. Slowly her face collapsed in on itself, and her body became a shapeless mass. She dissolved into vapor, and her soul sank through the floor on the way to what she dreaded.

She had understood. Helen of Troy had been a good woman in essence, refusing to betray another of her kind. Saddened, Zane moved on outside. Mortis was waiting for him, saddlelight blinking urgently.

Zane mounted and set the translation jewel in his ear. “What is it, gallant steed?”

“Satan has loosed Hellhounds.”

“That sounds bad. What’s a Hellhound?”

“A demon in animal form. You cannot fold its soul, for it is not human.”

Zane digested that. It seemed Satan was playing with a harder ball now. “What can I do?”

“It is not my place to say, Master. I can protect you if we encounter them singly.”

“Do Hellhounds hunt singly?”

“Not necessarily.”

Zane felt a chill. “How much time do I have?”

“It takes time to run all the way from Hell’s Hound-pound to Purgatory, even for supernatural creatures. You may have fifteen minutes before they arrive.”

“Good. I have an errand to attend to. Take me to the Records Department.”

Mortis galloped for the big Purgatory building across the plain. “Do not be long about your business,” the horse warned. “I cannot be with you inside.”

“I’ll rejoin you before the Hounds arrive.” Zane dismounted, entered the building, went immediately to the computer terminal, and turned it on.

A GREETING, DEATH
, the screen flashed.
THE INFORMATION YOU SEEK IS NOT IN MY STORAGE BANKS
.

“I’ll bet it isn’t,” Zane muttered.

NO ORDINARY CREATURE CAN STOP A HELLHOUND
.

News traveled fast! “That isn’t my question.”

The computer flickered its screen, seeming startled.
SURELY YOU ARE CONCERNED
.

“How many souls have been released from Hell?”

MEANINGLESS QUERY. PLEASE REPHRASE
.

“Oh, no, it isn’t meaningless, machine! According to the Prince of Evil, he only processes souls to expiate their burden of evil, then releases them to Heaven. How many souls has he released to date? A round figure will suffice.”

There was a pause.
NO INFORMATION
, the screen showed at last.

“What do you mean, no information? You’ve got the records of Eternity!”

I MEAN THERE HAVE BEEN NO ENTRIES OF THE TYPE YOU DESCRIBE
.

Zane gasped. “
No
souls have been released from Hell—in all Eternity?”

CORRECT
.

“What a colossal liar Satan is!” Zane cried. “I was sure he exaggerated, but there should have been at least a modicum of substance to his claim!”

THE CLAIM WAS NOT FALSE. ETERNITY HAS NOT ENDED
.

Zane considered. “You mean that, theoretically, Lucifer will release souls at some future date?”

CORRECT
,

“Some loophole! It’s a blank check! Eternity, by definition, never ends.”

The screen was blank. Zane turned off the terminal. He had learned what he came for. He had guessed that Satan might be underreporting the cured souls, saving out a certain percentage beyond their appointed tenures in Hell, but the reality was grossly worse. Certainly Death was not going to do things Satan’s way!

Mortis was fidgeting impatiently outside. “Hellhounds getting close?” Zane asked as he mounted.

“Six of them.”

“Can you outrun them?”

“Neigh. I could outdistance them in an extended run, for they lack my endurance, but their short-range speed is greater than mine.”

“Can we hide from them?”

“No. They can sniff out even invisible spirits. They are Hell’s cleanup squad. Nothing escapes them.”

“Is there anywhere in the cosmos we can go where they can’t follow?”

“Heaven, perhaps.”

Zane laughed wryly. “Let’s not involve Heaven in this! Let me consider.”

“Do not consider more than ninety seconds, Death,” the stallion said meaningfully.

Zane sat and pondered. He was surprised to discover that he was not afraid. He had never been a brave man; temper and bravado had passed for courage. But his recent activities in the office of Death had removed most of the dread of dying from him. He did not want to die himself, but this was now mainly a practical matter rather than fear for himself. If he died now, his replacement would end the strike and take Luna, and Satan would
win. Luna might go to Heaven, and perhaps Zane would, too—though he would hardly bet on that! Certainly neither faced extinction. But how would the rest of humanity fare, if Satan had his way?
That
was Zane’s real challenge.

The Hellhounds, it seemed, could kill him, for they were supernatural monsters who would not be balked by the magic of the Deathcape. He might send one of them back to Hell in the same manner he had sent the chef-demon, even though its soul was not his proper department. But that would be the limit, since these creatures would have no fear of the human Death Incarnation.

If he couldn’t hide from them, or flee them, or fight them—what could he do? Just stand and wait for them?

Into his mind came the pattern of matchsticks. Five arranged in a pentagon:
Now he realized what it meant. His thoughts were going in a circle, leading him nowhere, providing no solution.

Hastily he reshaped the matches to a better configuration. He laid them in a line. If he couldn’t hide — and he couldn’t flee — but he had to prevail — then he had to fight — and therefore needed a suitable weapon — There was his series chain: — — — — —.

He heard a chilling baying. At the horizon of Purgatory, dark lumps appeared, rapidly swelling in size. The Hellhounds had arrived.

Weapon, weapon—what was a weapon against a supernatural monster? Not his cloak, not his gems. He needed something offensive.

The six figures loomed into great red-brown canine shapes, each half the height of a man. Their eyes glowed red, like little furnace portholes. They moved with huge catlike bounds, covering ten meters at a time. There was no sound as their feet struck the ground; even in open attack, they showed their stealth.

What he needed was a good sword—one enchanted to dispatch natural and supernatural entities alike. But this was rather late to think about procuring one.

The Hellhounds ringed man and horse, pausing to study the situation. In a moment one or more would pounce.

Zane’s eye fell on the scythe. Suddenly he remembered the manner in which Mars had suggested that he practice with it. He had not done so, as his attention had been taken by other things. But he did know how to swing a scythe.

The first Hellhound pounced.

Zane grasped the scythe and jumped to the ground. The Hound passed overhead, missing the suddenly descending target. That freed a few more seconds.

Zane shook the scythe so that its giant blade snapped into place at right angles to the handle and locked there. “Get out of here, Mortis!” he cried. “This is not your quarrel.”

The Deathsteed bolted.

Zane hefted the scythe. He felt its terrible power. Oh, yes, this was a good weapon! “Come at me, puppies!” he cried, letting his volatile temper take over, and the cruel blade gleamed. “Come try my strength, you dogs who thought to attack helpless prey! But when you do, O beasts of night, know that you face the Lord of Night. I am Death!”

The first Hound, unimpressed, turned and leaped again. It seemed this kill was the privilege of the leader. Zane angled the great blade upward, pointing roughly at the Hound. The monster canine landed on it.

The gleaming point entered the Hound’s head and slid right through to its tail, almost without resistance. Blood spurted at each end as the creature expired. The magic blade had efficiently destroyed the magic animal.

Two more Hellhounds, still unimpressed, pounced, one from each side. Zane hauled the blade out of the first and whipped it about in a fierce circle. It struck the first Hound halfway up its body and passed through as if encountering snow.

The top half of the monster’s body flew off, leaving the bottom half to collapse in a burble of blood.

The blade carried on to contact the second Hound crosswise. The front of its body parted company with the rear. Guts spilled out as both halves collapsed.

Three Hellhounds remained. They were now impressed.
“What’s the matter, curs?” Zane taunted them. “Don’t you like it when your quarry fights back?”

Another stepped forward, jaws gaping. Its teeth and tongue were as black as solid soot. It belched forth a searing jet of fire.

Zane’s blade swung, separating the creature’s head from its body. The fire died as the canine did.

Four down, two to go. Zane’s right side smarted where the fire had heated his cloak. This fire was more penetrating than that of the Hot Smoke dragoness! But he couldn’t rest now.

“Exactly whom did you suppose you were stalking, O sons of Hellbitches?” Zane demanded, stepping toward the two with a blade that dripped the blood of their companions. “By what unholy arrogance did you expect to interfere with an Incarnation? Begone, whelps, lest I slice you in thin pieces!”

But one Hound refused to be intimidated. It charged—and Zane’s terrible blade swept off all four of its legs with one motion. Still determined, the monster opened its mouth to shoot fire, so Zane clipped off the tip of its muzzle. “Are you a slow learner?” he inquired savagely. “Give over, or I will treat you unkindly.”

The Hound, incapacitated, lay still and bled.

Zane turned to the last. “Put your tail between your legs, O sniveling cur, and hie back to your fell master,” he cried, orienting the bright red blade. “Tell him not again to send pups to do men’s work!”

The Hellhound, cowed at last, put down its tail and fled.

Zane’s knees felt weak. He had done it! He had bluffed them out!

Bluffed them? No, he had destroyed them, by drawing on a power of his office he had not consciously exploited before. His practice with the scythe, long ago in life, had proved well worthwhile!

Mortis trotted back, nickering. “That was a credit to the office, Death,” the translation said.