Era of Wrath (Chrim Chronicles #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wren of West

The white horse with black manes that carried me through the infinite fields of dirt had a skull on its head and eyes glowing bright red. My hands were clothed in black leather gloves, with them I directed the horse to my right and made her gallop up a mountain with a staircase carved in the stone going round and up. Somewhere in the middle of the mountain, we came to a halt and I took a moment to examine the lands below and ahead. Cords of glowing red lava streamed through dirt and stone, in the distance were bare trees with thick trunks and far beyond that I could see tiny dots scattered around, at last a hint of civilization.

As civilized as Tartarus could get, at least. Far in the distance a bunch of fast moving shapes neared the mountain I stood on. A horde of a dozen hellhounds, their miles-long saliva swinging around as they ran after my scent, leading them a cloaked man on a horse identical to the one I rode on. I pulled the chains and the horse dashed forward. I had no clue where I was going, all I knew was that I had to get far away from them.

The cold wind brought forth tears in my eyes as it lashed at my face. If anyone had told me last year that I would one day become a fugitive in Hell, I probably would've choked in laughter. But as it were, I was in a deep mess now. In the past two weeks I had travelled along lands and mountains trying to evade the hellhounds led by Sir Death himself. I did not know for how many weeks I had yet to run before I found a way to Earth, I tried not to think about it.

In the distance appeared low-built shacks made of dark wood so small that they only had room for one or two beds, all of the windows were nailed shut with rotten wood and the roofs had been topped with twigs. I pulled at the chains, making the horse come to a halt, and looked at what seemed to be some sort of a village. I helped myself off the horse and stroked its manes as I surveyed my surroundings for any traces of life. There was a calm that made a shiver crawl down my spine. In Tartarus it was either screams, or utter silence. The one thing one would never hear in Hell was that hum of life; no purring cars, no whistling birds, nothing.

Pulling the horse along with me, I strolled down the mud and looked around. One of the shacks up ahead was not only bigger than the others, but its windows also burned a warm orange. As I neared it, I could hear a flood of mutters coming from inside. The wooden door hung askew, it opened with a creak. The voices fell silent. The floorboards beneath my feet creaked as I made my way amidst the staring men, past the bar and the tall stools. The men looked ragged and in dire need of baths. I found an empty table somewhere in the middle, before I took a seat on the bench I untied the brown holster that housed Death's scythe and laid it next to me.

The men were still staring in silence when the bartender moved away from his spot behind the bar and walked up to me. The first thing that struck me about him was his blonde mustache, its ends were long and thin and each contained a blue bead. His bald head was smudged.

"Now, what's a little Grim Reaper doing in The Wik?" the bartender asked.

"I'm on vacation," I answered, trying my best to keep my voice firm and solid. "And I'm thirsty."

A smile crept up his face, the greasy, snake-like kind. "We're all a little thirsty, little reaper."

"Whiskey," I said with a frown. "Do you have any?"

The man gave me a nod. "Aye. I got whiskey."

"I'll have a bottle." I reached in my pocket and threw a pile of silver coins on the table. "And some soda with that, please."

The bartender turned his head and looked at the dozen or so men sitting at his bar, and they all burst out in laughter. "And some soda, she said!"