The creatures born from the teeth of the Hydra were proving very helpful. She and her companions would have fallen to the deluge of the dead much sooner if not for their assistance. Quickly, she looked about the chamber. Ceridwen seemed to be holding her own, manipulating the elements of the Underworld to combat their relentless enemy. She wondered how much longer the Fey could keep it up. That fine-looking son of a bitch, Nick Hawkins was holding his own, not that she gave a shit.
Danny was nowhere to be found. That worried her.
She slammed her fist through the tattered remnants of the rib cage of a goddess, even as the tall, majestic creature tried to reach for her face. Eve tore her spine out through her chest.
Conan Doyle appeared at her side, as she spun around to face other enemies. A quartet of armored corpses were attempting to surround him, but Conan Doyle was not so easily taken. He wielded a pitted, ancient sword he must have taken from one of the fallen, but it was infused with a strange green fire that caused the dead gods to explode when they were cut by the blade. One after the other, he destroyed them.
'Enjoying yourself, Eve?' he asked, wearily.
'Oh, yeah, this might be the best field trip yet,' Eve snarled, clawing at a black-eyed, hulking figure, spilling its viscera to the ground. 'And to think, we owe it all to your buddy, Gull, and his hard-on for Medusa.'
Conan Doyle muttered something beneath his breath and the soft, fleshy ground beneath their enemies’ feet turned to a bubbling, viscous fluid, swallowing six of the groaning, hideous dead before returning to its solid state.
'Gull and Medusa?' Conan Doyle asked, turning to her, a look of astonishment upon his blood-spattered face.
Eve twisted the head of an ancient god completely around with a loud, wet pop, tearing it from its roots. She rode the corpse to the ground and sprang up once more to fall in beside Conan Doyle. 'That’s what this is all about. I figured you’d have sussed it out by now. Gull’s in love with Medusa and wants the tears of the Furies as some kind of cure to lift her curse. Ain’t love grand?'
Conan Doyle uttered a disgusted laugh. 'Oh, that’s simply priceless.' A shrieking god clad in tarnished armor forced his way past the children of the Hydra’s teeth, coming toward Conan Doyle with his spear lowered. Still deep in thought, the sorcerer did not seem to notice, and Eve moved to intercept the attack.
'Watch your — ' she began, but a powerful hand wrapped around her ankle, sending her sprawling to the gore-soaked ground. One of her recent victims, it seemed, was not quite dead.
From the ground she watched it all unfold in slow motion, the spear- wielding zombie making his way toward Conan Doyle and he turned slowly, too slowly. The spear was poised for the mage’s heart, and there didn’t seem to be much that could be done to prevent it from finding its mark.
Then she heard it, rising above the din, a song as beautiful as any ever sung in her eternal lifetime. She watched in wonder as the resurrected god fell to his knees, spear clattering at Conan Doyle’s feet.
The scene was repeated all around the chamber as the song lifted through the air. The gods who had been stirred to battle by the cries of the Erinyes fell to their knees, enraptured by the voice of Orpheus.
Eve knew who was responsible, but was surprised that he had the decency to come to their aid.
Hawkins, the worse for wear and looking far less dapper, let loose a raucous cheer. He lifted a bloody battle-axe above his head as he watched his master step back into the vast cathedral of Hades’ heart. Eve almost began to believe that the spirit of camaraderie had taken hold of Gull, but the dark mage stumbled over one of the hundreds of bodies that littered the floor, and she caught sight of the demon boy behind him. At first she did not recognize the hellish visage as the boy she’d grown so fond of. Danny was changing. Quickly.
Eve felt a wave of relief. The boy reached down to haul Gull back to his feet. He pushed Gull toward them.
'It’s a good thing we decided to bring him, eh Arthur?'
Conan Doyle was looking about the room, distracted.
'Arthur?' she asked, catching his eye.
'Do you feel it?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'Feel what?'
'Something familiar,' he snapped, moving away toward an exit from the chamber. 'Hold things here while I investigate.'
Conan Doyle had felt it on at least two other occasions since arriving in the Underworld, a presence of power not native to this death realm, a presence that brought about a tingling sensation at the back of his neck, and the disquieting feeling that they were being watched, maybe herded in a certain direction. At first he’d chalked it up to his own, quite active paranoia, but each time he caught wind of it, his suspicions grew. He felt it now here within the corpse of Hades, a familiar electricity that drew him away from the safety provided by the voice of Orpheus to a passage that would lead him to the unknown beyond the chamber.
The feeling grew as he cautiously walked the winding path, the song of Orpheus growing fainter in the distance. As he rounded a bend, Conan Doyle stopped, a spell of defense ready as he saw a figure lying upon its side in the path ahead. Cautiously he approached, studying the crumpled figure for any sign of movement.
Conan Doyle squatted down beside the body and was startled to see that it was the last of the Erinyes. She was quite dead, as were the snakes that had attempted to flee their host upon her demise. He rolled her onto her back and watched as a ghostly wisp of smoke trailed up from the fist-sized hole burnt into her chest. Conan Doyle reached down and touched the edges of the blackened wound, letting some of ash collect on his finger. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of power.
An ancient and terrible magick had been unleashed upon the last of the Furies, a spell that he was certain had not been performed by any in his company, or even the enemy. By the acrid aroma of the residue, Conan Doyle knew this was magick of a darker nature, wielded with the utmost precision, that could only be attributed to a sorcerer with enough knowledge and strength to master such fearsome power — an arch mage of the highest order and discipline.
He could think of only one such mage.
The Fury had been struck down before the entrance into another chamber, the passage having been at one time covered in a thick membranous skin. The covering had been torn, and as he approached the rip, Conan Doyle could hear the sounds of movement from within the chamber beyond.
Stretching the opening wider, Conan Doyle forced his way into the room behind and gasped at what he saw. It was a workshop of sorts, but nothing like the hot, clanging place Squire worked his weapons. This was not a workplace for hobgoblins or even members of the human race. This was the workshop of a god, a massive chamber cluttered with the enormous tools of the metalsmith and laden with gigantic swords and armor that had been crafted for the true gods of Olympus. No sword was smaller than Conan Doyle himself.
The mage stepped farther into the vast chamber, marveling at the sights before him; an intricately carved golden throne obviously meant for a king, a winged chariot, beautiful jewelry spilling from countless metal chests, weapons, and armor. There was animal statuary so wondrously sculpted that he could have sworn they were living breathing things. Everywhere Conan Doyle looked there was something so fantastic that it nearly took his breath away.
Once upon a time, this workshop had been the pride of Olympus, its fires forming the treasure of the gods. But like the Furies, the craftsman himself had relocated to the corpse city within the remains of Hades.
This was the workshop of Hephaestus, god of fire and patron of craftsmen. Not the most powerful god in the Greek pantheon, but among the most respected and best loved.
There came the sound of clatter and the mutter of an angry voice from deeper in the workshop, and Conan Doyle remembered that he was not alone. Cautiously he made his way closer. He could feel it again in the air, the familiar crackle of primordial forces reminding him that he was in the presence of awesome power.
He came around the gigantic bronze sculpture of a bull to see the figure of man dressed in a charcoal gray suit, as if he’d come from a wedding or maybe even a funeral. The man’s back was to him, but Conan Doyle knew immediately who it was. It was as if the magick was saying his name over and over again.
Sanguedolce. Sweetblood. Sweetblood the mage.
'Lorenzo,' Conan Doyle called out, but the man did not respond.
He continued to rummage about, grumbling beneath his breath as he furiously searched for something among the creations of Hephaestus.
