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When we left our intrepid companions, they were at the top of the literally devilish descent from the
Seventh Level of Hell to the Malebolge, the Eighth Level, following the trail of the Lupus demon who
has rendered the Temple Priestess a mere shade of her former self, and aided by Aaardvark; a hellhound,
piglet or enchanted bicycle. In the distance spits the eternal flame of Mount Doom, from the broiling
bowels of which come the flames and heat that feed through the various arenas of this most tortuous
afterlife to bring pain and eternal suffering to those whose own attitudes render them deserving of an
inhuman fate.
Ravenbait sneezes, then asks solemnly: "Is everyone sure their tyres are up to pressure?" She doesn't
mean anything by it; it's just to break the silence as they gather their nerves for the descent. A couple of
the bikes start fidgeting, freewheels creaking slightly, front wheels nuzzling around on the hard-packed
dirt that the road has become as their riders half-stand astride them, gazing down into the dismal grey
valley below. "Best to check your brakes as well."
A wind scuds across the ridge, somehow chilling the bones while leaving no impression on skin. It
brings the smell of sulphurous tar; the crispy pork aroma of seared flesh; the acrid, cloying stink of
burning hair. There are burnt smells, hot smells carried on a zephyr that seems to come straight from
the depths of some wasteland icier than Siberia in midwinter.
"What is the plan of attack, dear lady?" Gunner asks manfully.
"See those horned things down there? Those are the Malebranche. Well, some of them. I'm betting our
little friend is after promotion, but they won't have a skinny little oik like him. I think we could be in
and out without even bothering them." She hums to herself. "Although it would be easier if Huginn and
Muninn hadn't stuffed themselves with jam scones." She gestures downwards.
"Don't talk to anyone," she continues. "Don't talk to them, don't listen to them. Remember that this is
their hell, not yours. Did we have anyone destined for Level 8? Yes? Well this is just a flying visit.
You're not staying. If anyone tries to talk to you, whether sinner or demon, pretend you didn't hear.
They might think you're ghosts. Don't eat or drink anything, like I need to tell you that, and if you see a
scrawny little bugger that looks a bit like Gollum but with a pointed tail and red eyes, you grab him. If
anyone physically attacks you in a way you can't ignore, holler and we'll get out of here."
She favours them with a bright smile. "Ready?"
Beams of light blaze out from the lumicycles slung beneath Fingal's aerobars, tilting downwards as his
front wheel leaves the ridge and leads down into the depths of Hell.
The wind attacks them, pushing backwards. Flying Monkey remembers the wind that assaulted him
and Aeroflash when they were contacting Colin the Chief Controller at Avebury, and this is very
similar, although nastier-smelling. It apparently comes from nowhere and chews into them. Flying
Monkey can hear snatches of muttered incantation the Priestess is grinding out from beneath clenched
teeth. She is not strong at the moment, and is failing to make much of an impact on this wind that
guards the edges of the Malebolge. He pushes forwards and lends his strength to the effort. Their way
is made somewhat easier, and Ravenbait flashes him a grateful look of thanks without faltering in her
chant.
When they reach the bottom the wind dies away. The air is stifling with the heat of the volcano, and
Nutty is worried that the dirt on which they ride will be hot enough to melt his tyres. As they pause to
regroup, he reaches down and feels the ground. To his surprise it is icy cold.
"Level Nine below us," says Ravenbait. "About as far away from heat as one can be. In places it
penetrates the ground even here. Quickly now, ladies and gents. We don't really want to spend any
more time down here than we have to."
"I say dust off and nuke the place from orbit," Gunner says. "It's the only way to be sure."
Ravenbait grins at him and then they are off again.
There is a distinct trail, but it is barely more than a slightly smoother surface snaking its way between
the steaming gravel piles. Naked, writhing bodies, encrusted with suppurating scabs, grind desperately
against the rough ground below them, scoring bloody trails in their own flesh with fingernails
blackened by trapped, necrotising tissue. Some of them reach out to the passing cyclists with agonised
faces, tendons straining in emaciated bodies now sickened by the physical manifestation of spiritual
torment. Sunk into the ground in spaces left between the gravel mounds are deep cess-pits, in which
people identifiable as such only by the whites of their horror-struck, panic-filled eyes dog-paddle and
kick with limbs forever on the point of failure. The mounds themselves, the cyclists see, are not just
rubble piles but contain people trapped within them. Tiny orange flames can be seen flickering through
gaps in the stones. The steam that vents through them stink of sulphur and is blisteringly hot. Up
against the cliffs on either side of the valley there are more people, fixed up there with massive serpents
slowly and eternally crushing them, bone by tiny bone, the whole thing a horrific, writhing mass of
screaming flesh and sinuous pain. Closer to the volcano are the stumbling, gaunt figures of those being
made to walk across the glowing rocks spat our from the mountain, cloaks of lead grinding them more
heavily into the ground. Their feet do not bleed, despite the slashing edges, for the stones are hot
enough to sear any cut as it is made. This close, the size of the Malebranche, wielding their whips as
freely as they wield their long, forked tongues, is more apparent and far more terrifying.
Kathy closes her eyes and refuses to look. As the single stoker, she is the only one able to afford that
luxury.
Aaardvark, being a hellhound, is quite happy, but they are keeping an eye on him in case the
Malebranche decide they are hungry. Remarkably, he also seems to be perfectly able to continue
tracking the lupus demon, which is just as well. Thought and Memory are still lying gurgling on the
ground outside the Priestess's house, and are in no fit state for aerial reconnaissance.
"Priestess!" The company of cyclists comes to a sudden stop. Ravenbait narrows her eyes and looks to
her left. Gunner moves resolutely forward and takes up a protective position on her left flank, close to
her elbow.
Sauntering towards them is a man of incredible, bewitching beauty. He is fey in appearance, with
incredibly gentle eyes and a nimbus of hazel hair that reaches to his shoulders. He bears an incredible
resemblance to modern depictions of Jesus, with a slightly feminine mouth and flawless skin.
To the Cake Stop's collective surprise, Ravenbait dismounts and bows with respect.
"Morningstar," she greets him. "It has been a while."
"I didn't expect to see you this far down. You're not thinking of vacationing in Cocytus, are you?" he
asks with friendly tones.
"No, my Lord," she says, earning a discomfited glare from many of the other cyclists, who do not
necessarily understand that, when in Hell, it pays to be polite to the Devil. "We come in search of a
lupus demon who escaped from my domain."
"This one?" Lucifer snaps his fingers and one of the immense, horned demons thuds over, each footstep
making the ground quake. It laughs, the sound rumbling like the movement of tectonic plates. Caught
between the very tip of its thumb and forefinger, the aforementioned lupus demon is wriggling like
worm on a hook.
"That would be the one, yes my Lord, " says Ravenbait, with a steely look at the struggling demon that
speaks of many horrors lying in wait for the creature.
"Well, seeing as how you did such a nice job of adjusting my rear indexing last week, you can have this
one for free." He turns to the enormous beast still holding the lupus demon. "Boris, will you just drop
that off at Ravenbait's for me? There's a chap. Make sure he's not going to get out again before she gets
home, will you? Splendid." The Malebranche stomps off, chortling to itself. "And this would be that
enchanted bicycle, yes?" he pats Aardvark on the head. Aardvark wags his tail happily. "Excellent.
Excellent. Well," he says brightly. "That seems to have sorted out everything all round, wouldn't you
say?" The cyclists nod, somewhat uncertainly. "Priestess, I hope that I will be seeing your
splendid...er....face again on our Sunday club runs now that your recovery is assured."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss them, Lucifer," Ravenbait replies with a winsome smile.
"I thought you might say that," the Devil replies, and for an instant there is a hint of his power in the
undertones of his voice. The Priestess's deliberate flirting does not fool him entirely, but he enjoys the
game enough to continue playing. "See you Sunday morning then."
He smiles beatifically at the pack, and then saunters off again, vanishing quickly.
"Are we going to Level Nine, now?" asks ZimZum42, who is just about to put a deposit on a timeshare
there.
"You want to keep going down?!" Kathy exclaims, horrified. "This isn't Jules Verne, you know!"
"We're going back," says Ravenbait firmly. "Hope you've got legs for the climb."
"Ning!" Gunner says, baring teeth in a massive grin. "Of course we do! Right you 'orrible lot! Get those
bikes turned around! Move it move it move it!"
With a sense of relief and accomplishment to fuel them, not to mention an overwhelming desire to get
some peace and quiet away from the desperate, gut-wrenching screams of the tortured, the Cake Stop
posse turn round and head for tea and cake at Ravenbait's, mission accomplished.
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