Now, the idea that his lifetime run of bad luck was merely a form of justice–the universe balancing the scales for his misdeeds–was intriguing. The humans of the normal world had a name for it:
Karma.
Which, when you looked at it, deep down, sort of had the same meaning:
You’re going to get what’s coming to you, dude.
A small, but significant difference.
Given the choice, Hilario would take karma over justice. In his experience, most things that came with exclamation points at the end were signs of impending trouble or disaster.
The exceptions were often food based. Like: Cake! Pizza! Cookies!
Any of those he would have gladly taken at the moment.
Although, at the moment, he had no idea what the heckity heck was going on.
The sulfurous air of the river Phlegethon was just as hot and stinky as it had been a moment ago. And his orange and white striped uniform was still sticking to his rolls of fat. The silver barge still seemed to be moving. The hull hissed over the molten rock of the river. The black rocks on the banks either side of the fiery river were still black and jagged. The sky was still the color of blood.
The only difference seemed to be the horde of ogres, mounted on bat-serpents.
Great leather wings spread out on either side of the twisting serpent bodies the ogres rode. The ogres were quite a lot like Roger the runt ogre. Only rather bigger. They wore metal studded leather armor and had a variety weapons in their knobby fingered hands. Rusty spears, axes and swords.
None of the weapons looked well cared for, but they would probably do the job.
If the ogres got to use them.
There seemed to be some question about that at the moment.
The flying ogre horde hung, motionless in the air over the barge. The ogres’ faces were twisted mid-yell. Except for a small number that were either frozen in the act of picking their noses or scratching their buttocks.
The bat-serpents were equally motionless. Their formerly writhing, flapping bodies as still as if they were carved from stone.
The whole scene was more than a little unsettling.
Hilario straightened up from the terrified crouch he’d dropped into moments earlier. The Sapphire Witch stood like the proverbial statue near him. Her arms were folded over her chest. Her delicate brows were furrowed.
He waved hand in front of the glowing blue lenses of her brass rimmed goggles.
No reaction.
Above her the frozen ogre horde stretched back to the black ridge they had appeared over.
The barge slowly moved past the frozen ogre horde. In a minute or two, they would be falling behind the barge like the world’s most terrifying arch.
Hilario reached out a trembling finger and poked the Sapphire Witch’s arm.
No reaction.
An impression of his fingertip stayed in her leather coat.
He stepped back. Turned and scanned the rest of the barge. The van still sat near the middle. Thankfully. Odom the Paladin stood in a heroic pose, his mighty sword raised to the sky. Ready to slay some ogres.
Detective Marco stood at the front of the van. His body seemed as blocky as the van. Rumbled and tired looking. His face was upturned to the ogre horde. His mouth open, frozen in a yell.
Or maybe he was just belching. It was hard to know for sure.
Queezleyan the six tailed rat demon was on top of the van, giving a double thumbs up to the flying ogres.
No doubt about whose side that little creep was on.
What about Larry?
Hilario squinted at the windshield. There seemed to be a faint, faint form behind the glass. Like a faded photograph.
There didn’t seem to be any movement there, either.
He turned toward the bow. Where Roger the size challenged ogre was.
Roger gave him a wave.
“Oy, whats kinds of magics is thisses?” Roger said, “Powerfuls its is.”
Yes. Powerful. And why wasn’t it affecting him or Roger?
Come back to the stern.
Ice went up Hilaro’s spine.
The voice had been in his head.
“Oy, me’s too?” Roger said.
The ogre looked confused.
Which probably matched Hilario’s look.
Both of you.
Roger scrambled to his feet. Started toward the end of the barge with a shuffling lope.
“Bests nots makes ‘em waits,” Roger said, “Powerfuls magics nots patients.”
Hilario snapped himself out of his trance. Watched Roger disappear around the back of the van.
The ogre was quite right. Making a powerful magical being wait was not recommended. Such beings didn’t like to repeat themselves.
He spun on his floppy clown shoes and hurried after Roger. Who had done this? Who had the power to freeze a horde of bat-serpent mounted ogres in mid air?
Of course, there was only one answer.
The only question was why the Sapphire Witch hadn’t thought of it as well? Had she thought her power was greater?
Roger stood at the back of the barge, near the tiller. Hilario hurried over to him. Bowed deeply to the black cloaked figure who held the tiller in its skeletal hands.
“Honored Riverman,” Hilario said, “I apologize for the intrusion upon your space. I–”
Can it, clown, the Riverman said, You’re not in trouble.
Cool, sweet relief spread through Hilario. Oh, how nice it was to not be in trouble for once. Though it was likely to be short lived.
The Riverman lifted its head, revealing a bone white skull. The eyeholes were full of darkness above the permanent toothy grin. The Riverman’s tattered black robe fluttered in the sulfurous breeze coming off the river.
Silly witch forgot the rules, the Riverman said.
Or thought she was above the rules. Or thought the bone folk didn’t have the power to stop her.
The five rivers of the unseen world belonged to the bone folk. Who were older than all the other races of the
