Bacchus wrenched out the liqueur, seizing a large crystal terrine on the way down. He landed unseen, but Buttercup had an acute sense of smell and would be on him shortly. He squatted and grasped a piece of pottery from the perpetually filling urn, ripping the cork from his bottle with his teeth and shoving the glass chip in. The liqueur replenished and Bacchus quickly poured out as much as he could into the basin. He tipped the bottle upright and waited as it refilled, then added more to the almost full bowl. Buttercup’s dedicated sniffing brought her nearby.
She halted, taking in the foreign scent. She raised her snout and howled -- a deafening whine that blasted with an effect worse than nails down a chalk board. He clamped his available hand over his ear, an entirely futile defence, and sunk involuntarily to his knees. Buttercup knew instinctively that Bacchus was a special case: a hunted fugitive who’d broken their laws previously.
She also sensed the dangerous liquid before her was not from her Realm, but gluttony was her bestial nature and she could not resist the temptation. She would fail her duty to keep prohibited persons out as a result. She lowered her middle head and drank deeply, whimpering all the while. Bacchus had no notion of what the liqueur would do and waited in tense anticipation. The tunnel filled with a weird yipping sound and Bacchus observed the retreating hound tottering drunkenly towards the cave entrance. It seemed she had the hiccoughs!
“Oh no! Here Buttercup, here doggy!”
He could not allow her to be seen outside in this state, which would surely encourage a conscientious watcher to investigate eventually. He received a garbled bark in reply. She was way too noisy! He followed, Mercury’s Wand in hand. Happily, a short way into the cave, Bacchus was granted a reprieve from prying staff when he nearly tripped over the beast’s hunched form. She was slumped on her back, legs in the air like an upended milking stool, snoring loudly.
He wasted no time climbing over her stomach to tentatively make the opening. There was a slight glitch as she grumbled in her sleep, her back leg peddling to shred Bacchus’s makeshift loin cloth with a claw, but given that had the scratching paw occurred a jot sooner, he would have been disembowelled, Bacchus was pleased with the overall outcome. He was also nude, yet again.
He popped his head out into the now almost blinding light, and after a pause to allow his eyesight to adjust, was appalled to note the heavy gates barring access to Hades’ realm silently swinging ajar. Garrulous complaint drifted towards him, snippets of the outburst gaining volume. Bacchus groaned. Please, not the Keeper of the Keys! He busied himself stuffing a handful of the pungent herbs into his mouth and chewing manically. They would have to be rationed carefully to last the journey. Worst fears realised, Aiakos, the Keeper of the Keys for Hades barrelled into view. Who could guess that such a kindly looking grey-bearded old man proved so unpleasant?
In fact, he was a totally unsavoury and snivelling character, currently griping loudly that “an official of his stature should not be reduced to babysitting the lowest demons, brutes and phantoms”, that his “input in current proceedings would have been invaluable and his exclusion was an inexcusable waste of talent”, and that “maybe he should seek a more rewarding career elsewhere”.
Surely Aiakos’ most fitting profession was as an out-of-work hermit in the mountains of Tibet, where only the poor alpacas were left to suffer his gibberish! Bacchus swallowed the bitter mouthful of greenery, swishing a gulp of liqueur around his mouth to dislodge a few splinters between his teeth. He began to feel strangely unwashed as the herbs took effect.
To action! He’d wasted enough time on the easy stuff! By now he should be undetectable to the residents and chose Aiakos as the model candidate for experimentation. He met the Keeper half way to Buttercup’s lair, daintily sidestepped and stuck his foot out. Aiakos had some angry speed up and tripped spectacularly to face-plant the gravel. Bacchus suppressed laughter as Aiakos commando rolled to his feet, aggressively staring around with his puny fists raised. He’d clearly read too many of Homer’s Trojan War fight scenes.
“Who’s there! Come out coward and I’ll have you!” A large ring of keys jangled from his belt as the old man attempted some fancy boxing foot-work. Bacchus tripped him again and he fell in a heap, his starched white toga dust-logged. Aiakos’s face was livid as he leapt upright, screaming hysterically.
“Show yourself yellow cur!” A train of unmentionable words followed.
Although Bacchus found harassing Aiakos extremely enjoyable, as always, time was pressing. The Keeper spun glowering in frustration at this elusive rival. After, he commanded an avid audience at the tavern, relaying his heroic encounter with a murderous swarm of Afreets or depending on his mood, more sinister attackers.
Bacchus blew on the wand and Aiakos dropped to the ground, not to rise again until a senior Demon in search of the key to the executive bathroom roused him much later. The Keeper’s paranoia and ridiculous claims of an unseen mighty warrior, coupled with the charge of neglect of duty, brought him a visit to the Witch Doctor for a few disagreeable sessions. To ‘cure’ his jumpiness, the Doctor made a clay doll in his image, sticking him with a sharp pin whenever he flinched, which of course made him flinch all the more. Miserable Aiakos was left with a violent nervous tick and more holes in his body than a sieve.
Bacchus stole the five keys to the front gates in case he needed them to get back out; they were easy to find being the biggest and most decorative. He dragged Aiakos’s limp form behind a particularly large deposit of Buttercup’s dung. The smell was putrid, even for this place, and it would be a while before anyone approached the Keeper without gagging or pinching their noses. Bacchus slipped through into the Underworld proper, known as the Dolorous Realm, closing the gate behind him.
Like the Ethereal Realm, it was an enormous city, broken into sectors for various beliefs and worshipped entities. Unlike Bacchus’s home of bliss-filled peace and sharing, this was a place of pain and suffering for individuals who’d failed to appreciate the privilege of their earthly existence. A vile and ceaseless wind blew from the left; enough to drive even the strongest slowly insane.
Bacchus guessed the Elders were closeted in Hades’ Palace, a colossal sprawling fortress set on the highest hill in the distance. It was in this direction Bacchus strode, worried mightily by the lessening time. If Azazel read from the Book, it rendered even the Most High, powerless.
Between him and his destination lay myriad obstacles, the nearest a slime-filled stream of boiling mud known as the River Acheron, the Woeful River, which was eventually joined by the Kokytos, or Wailing River. Although shallow, the waterway was wide and its corrosive sludge necessitated crossing by boat. The banks of this despicable coast were crowded with moaning listless Spectres, unable to make the other side, as they’d neglected to bring payment for the Ferryman.
Speaking of which, Bacchus was relieved to note the man himself emerging out of the dense haze that shrouded the middle, his long pole probing the murky bottom where Poseidon only knew what lived there. Bacchus’s relief was fleeting however, upon closer inspection of the proposed transport, a hobbled-together, flat-bottomed barge. The rickety contraption’s Captain was Kharon, ferryman to Hades and authority on who was permitted to undertake the crossing. He squinted and scanned the dismal beach with a confused frown, his ancient weather-toughened skin puckering like crumpled parchment. The bow slithered ashore.
“Declare yourself and make offering for your passage!” A section of the restless mob soared over, each frail spirit jostling for a prime spot to beg permission to come aboard, their voices combined in a rasping whisper. Kharon irritably shooed them away with a flick of his gnarled hand and they scattered. “Make plain your intention or remain here forever to lament on the Shore of Nothingness!”
Bacchus slid as quietly as possible onto the deck. His weight rocked the boat with a noticeable sloshing sound. Kharon was instantly alert, his eyes raking the sodden floor of his vessel for a sneaky stowaway. The Captain sensed a vague presence but
his eyes deceived him, as there was nowhere to hide and no one visible. He retracted his pole and began jabbing it about, just to be sure his suspicions were wrong. Bacchus could conceal himself with the Helmet and the herbs, but his voice would be clearly audible if he received a sharp prod and cried out, then the ruse would be ruined.
As silently as he could, Bacchus brought out a feather he’d collected from Nimbus’s wing-rot episode back at Jinx’s. A Cherub’s feathers were impervious to flame and granted blissful serenity to any blessed enough to hold one. They were extremely valuable. Kharon’s dogged stabbing came within millimetres of Bacchus’s foot and he hastily pulled his legs to his chest. The Captain would not miss with his next stroke.
Bacchus fluttered the feather up into the air where it appeared in front of Kharon’s grizzled features, drifting down into his line of sight. He paused, his expression one of astonishment. His hand automatically reached to pluck it from the greasy atmosphere. He took on an unfocused, dreamy look as his fingers gently closed about the delicate gift.
“Your fare is satisfactory,” the Captain murmured, as he moved away to commence pushing the barge from the shore. The pathetic occupants of the beach moaned sadly, their hopes for a break from eternal tedium fading once again, the pain more intense for its false promise.
Exhaling softly, Bacchus settled in, grateful for the trip and a brief chance to rest weary limbs. He was getting too long in the tooth for such high adventure! Kharon tucked the feather behind his ear, and unbeknownst to Bacchus, was in the throes of a euphoria the likes of which he’d not experienced since first consuming a barrel of genuine Buccaneer’s Rum. He started singing an abominable version of ‘Yo Ho Ho a Pirate’s Life for Me!’. Bacchus eagerly wished he were deaf, the ear-splitting screech of a Chimera preferable.
He desperately scrutinised the horizon for a sign of land and was not disappointed. Hades’ flamboyant abode glimmered close enough to reveal its over-wrought architecture and gilded exterior, with soaring minarets connected by a complex of bridges, expansive balconies protected by excessively filigreed railings and a high wall enclosing the lot. Subtlety was not one of Hades personal qualities. Within were well-tended orchards, freely roaming herds of cattle and other domesticated beasts, and fabulous gardens filled with exotic but deadly or flesh-eating flowers and other things even more wicked. The pile was also surrounded by a deep moat, home to several vicious Water-Dragons.
Still, Bacchus believed that he would not need to enter the Palace, merely get close so when he blew on the Horn of the Host, the Most High would be within earshot. The barge bumped to a halt at an equally wobbly-looking jetty. Bacchus disembarked after carefully skirting the Captain, who was still entranced and singing (if it could be called that) his tuneless dirge. Bacchus reflected it was a true talent to take a lively sea shanty and turn it into a funeral song, an off-key one at that.
He was almost unbalanced into the slick, foul-smelling mud below as a mad dash of inhabitants attempted to flee their ordeal in the afterlife, hurling themselves at the Captain, who simply closed his eyes and chanted a warding curse so they pounded onto the rank beach. Bacchus clung to the jetty pylon until the most fraught escapees were persuaded to stay.
He eventually picked his way through those more timid and made it to land. He ate his next ration of herbs and allowed himself a few generous swallows of his now endless supply of liqueur and refreshed, set off. He had made relatively good time on the trip over and was more optimistic of achieving his goal in a timely manner.
A completely deserted, cobbled path lead to Hades fortress and Bacchus maintained a jaunty confident stride, believing that the worst of his trials were over. A series of ramshackle hovels lined the way, their doors securely barred and shutters firmly closed to prying eyes, or worse. There was not a skulking phantom, grotesque monster or other gruesome local about.
Nevertheless, Bacchus started to feel strangely exposed. The creepy sensation he was stalked, sent warning goose bumps up his spine. He hastily munched more herbs to be on the safe side and scrutinised the surrounds trying to locate the source of dread, but could not perceive anything out of the ordinary. He increased his pace. One more block brought him close enough to blow the Horn. The place was undeniably disturbing and it was getting to him! That was all, surely?
Ahead was a bend beyond which lay a wide incline; the grand parade to the Palace. Not far now. Relief surged, the current position of prime dependable God far too much responsibility for one not inclined. He rounded the corner and stopped dead still. Intense fear washed over him and his stomach lurched and writhed like a bag of eels. He gulped and held his breath. In the very centre of the pathway, some cubits above ground, glistened several swirling phosphorescent smears. The soft keening of wind through a deserted house came from the luminous patches of fog and Bacchus strained to snatch fragments of the words embedded within.
“It will be a feast like no other. Blood for all, my sisters!”
From behind Bacchus, an ice-pick to his skull, joined a rasping cackle. “And the entrée is right on time! Hail, Bacchus, my slippery rival. Couldn’t stay away?”
He spun on the spot. “Stygia, my dear! Sharing gossip with the girls?” Bacchus manoeuvred so that he was sidelong to this sinister Coven and could watch all of them simultaneously.
“Yes,” she hissed gleefully. “We were chatting about sharing you!”
Their voices joined in a thin wail of pleasure, for these were the foulest of Hades things. Known as Lamia -- ghastly witches standing on serpentine tails -- they were blood suckers of the worst kind. Although preferring to siphon the life source from children, they would take what they could get. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on bias), the pickings in Hades were slim for those favouring the youthful, and they were always famished. Sin usually took a while to accrue and youngsters didn’t have the time.
“We have foreseen Azazel’s intent and will gorge when he prevails! But you will do for now.”
Her voice chafed the air as her physical form came into view like some horrible flickering mirage. Bacchus sorely wished they were a hallucination, but having encountered them on his last trip, knew they were real. Their corporeal leader towered over Bacchus, her bluish skin blotched with leprous disease, her hollow fangs pointed and yellow. Her hair hung to her waist in lank green clumps. Her eyes rested on her cheeks, and where they should have been, were empty raw sockets seeping pinkish fluid like tears.
Although, technically they were blind, Bacchus was as clear as Alexander’s Lighthouse to them. No entity hid from their psychic vision. Stygia’s ghastly pet vulture clung to her shoulder eyeing Bacchus beadily, its mournful mood lifting at the sight of such an ample potential snack. Stygia’s taloned fingers raised and moved in ceaseless anticipation, the long knife-like nails clicking. She drifted slowly towards Bacchus and her excited sisters came into full body to follow. He was in real trouble at present and utterly unarmed.
“So good of you to forgo clothing and spare us the trouble. All the better to carve those juicy love handles!”
“His breasts are larger than mine.” A particularly well-endowed witch enthused.
“I claim the rump!” Another called, barely containing her excitement. “It’s huge! I’ll be full for a month!”
Although supremely miffed they’d not noted his obvious weight loss (surely being deprived of deep fried peacock had slimmed him down?), Bacchus used the only weapon at his disposal -- persuasion-- to stall for time.
“Ladies, ladies. What’s the hurry? Perhaps another glimpse of the future might prove fruitful. Just to be sure things will turn out the way you’ve predicted? After all, it really would not do to aggravate Hades further, since your last incident. I believe he threatened to tear-up your lease and where would you live if that were to happen? Even the worst shack in the err…” He appraised the so-called street and chose honesty, “most appalling suburb, is better than nothing?”
They gibbered in outrage
at this reminder of a bungled raid on Hades’ herd, swaying and crooning hysterically. “It was one weeny calf!” whined a witch in high-pitched indignation.
“We were starving.”
“Our King,” spat Stygia, “values his Oxen more than his dedicated subjects! Glorious fields of lush grass, fresh hay and cream to drink, while we suffer and waste away!”
“That’s really too bad.” Nodded Bacchus sympathetically. He’d clearly hit a sore point. “Have you approached your Union Rep?”
He struggled to erase his thoughts as the desire to blow the Horn gained urgency. The witches were oracles and could read upcoming events as though flicking through a calendar. They could also read minds, but it was not an exact science due to the overwhelming amount of cosmic information they needed to sift, searching for the illuminating nuggets in much the same way as a prospector pans for gold.
Stygia began a rhythmic chant and her eyeballs stretched on their sinewy nerves like odd, squelchy balloons on a string. Her sisters joined in, their jaundiced eyeballs bobbing in unison. Bacchus’s gullet flooded with bile and he fought the need to heave. His stubborn brain kept showing him pictures of the Horn at his lips. He simply must find something else to think about or become a moveable feast for these grisly ghouls. But it was too late.
Stygia’s orbs whipped down. “Deceit!” she screamed.
He had no time to lose; their full spite focused upon him and they readied to attack. He fumbled for the Horn, which snarled in the handle of his bag. Their tails whipped about savagely and they lifted their razored digits, poised to slice him open.
“Yak’s crap!” A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. “Come on!”
He pulled and tugged to no avail and the furious vampires were almost upon him. He could smell their stinking breath, reminiscent of the slaughter house. Bacchus vaguely heard the rabid call of the vulture and their eager screeches as he silently meditated for calm and concentrated on achieving his goal. With nimble-fingered speed he disentangled the Horn and drew it to his mouth.
Clawed hands reached towards his face, one aiming to viciously swat the trumpet away. Bacchus held on for all he was worth. Their frustrated shrieks sent slivers of ice through his veins and his knees trembled. Out of the frenzy of roughly grasping and pinching hands, sharp nails lanced his front, causing a blazing fire over his belly. He looked down to see four long ribbons of blood, which flowed freely down his legs and dripped sickeningly onto his feet.
The witches writhed with renewed vigour, gurgling with joy at the smell. But Bacchus was not a God for nothing, and although he was severely weakened by his time in the Underworld, he possessed an inner resolve the equal of any of his lofty peers. He was, after all, pivotal in their triumphant battle against the Titans who foolishly tried to storm Mt Olympus. He fixed upon his aggravation at the short-sighted actions of his colleagues, who’d placed himself and his Fledgling Angels smack in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The last vestiges of his power blasted forth and ivy curled up his legs twining around his body to cover his skin in spring-fresh greenery. The witches’ grappling, rotted hands exploded from him, unaccustomed to this radiating life-force. Bacchus drew the Horn to his lips, took a deep breath and blew. No sound could be heard. The witches flew apart and raced away, their shrill squeals fading.
Abruptly the ground beneath his feet tipped and buckled, sending him to a sprawl in the grimy muck. The earth quaked and groaned, demolishing the flimsy huts into dusty heaps, one after the other like collapsing dominos. A whooshing roar blotted out all else and Bacchus could only curl into a bleeding ball, clamping his head between his elbows to ride out the upheaval. Somehow, he did not believe that this unfolding cataclysm was due to the Skylar’s Horn; something far worse was happening!
***
Chapter Thirteen
Betrayal