Hellblazer 2 - Subterranean by John Shirley Page A
Authors: John Shirley
talking to, in the pitch blackness, might be a sentry of some kind—or prepared to call one. It was best he enter the realm of the Sunless unnoticed by its lord if he could, especially considering that MacCrawley was involved. And it made sense that anyone with the title “Gloomlord” was someone best approached circumspectly. A title like that, Constantine reflected, wasn’t exactly a declaration of welcome on the mat.
“Me?” Arfur seemed baffled by Constantine’s question. “How long . . . Why . . . I’m not at all certain, but . . . well, what year is it, friend?”
Constantine told him.
There was a long silence. Then the stranger jeered, “You lie! I came here in the year 1829! I could not have lived so long! Unless . . . but no! I eat, I sleep, I work—I am no ghost!”
“But then the Gloomlord is said to be a long-lived bloke, eh?” Constantine prompted. “If he can live so long . . .”
“His Majesty is no mere mortal man!” There was a touch of reverence in the cracked voice. Then bitter laughter. “And of course it is our toil that gives him his immortality. But one day, one fine day we shall be given our freedom, and wealth beyond imagining!”
“One fine day,” Constantine agreed. Thinking: In which century? The twenty-fourth?
“Why do you tell this lie about the years?” Arfur asked piteously. “It is hard enough here, finding our way about by smell, by the threads, and the clack-smacks. Doing the bidding of the gripplers. Hard enough, hard enough.”
“Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to upset you. When was the last time you beheld the Gloomlord, Arfur?”
“Beheld him? How should I behold him? Never saw him even when we passed by the palace. They locked us in here and we’ve never been out since. No, never do they let us out of the lower galleries. It will take a good long time, I should suppose, to adjust to the light of the upper world when the time comes. But perhaps the King will use his magic so that we do not suffer. Now then, when did you say you got here?”
“Well, in fact—I’m a newcomer,” Constantine admitted.
“What! When did you come past the palace?”
“Oh, not so very long ago,” Constantine said, improvising and aware that someone else was drawing near; snuffling sounds were heard, clickings and crunchings and gruntings and nasty giggles and a wave of awful odors. “Promises were made, as you know, and I’m eager to get to work!”
“That’s the attitude! We often get whiners down here. I don’t mind telling you they’re like as not to become grist for the mill, eh! One has to put one’s shoulder to the wheel or one falls under it!”
“More or less that way on the surface,” Constantine remarked, mostly to himself. “Your Gloomlord’s a right old Tory . . . a bloody neocon . . .”
“But ho, they bring us our meal! You’re in luck! You may eat before you serve the wheels! Here, my friend, put out your hand!”
Constantine put out his hand and encountered another hand, covering a large fired-clay bowl of what he supposed to be food, mildly warm. He was hungry and patted at it with his fingers, wondering if he dared eat any. But the hand was in the way . . .
Then he realized that the hand over the bowl wasn’t in the way, it was in the bowl, severed at the wrist. He could feel the bone-ends protruding from the stump. Constantine drew back his own hand in revolted haste.
“Should be nice and fresh,” Arfur was saying. “He’s just come from the surface. He was supposed to work at the wheels with the rest of us, but he would whine and run mad! Still, I’m glad he did, in a way—I was so very hungry! And you and I share the hands!” As he spoke, Constantine could hear him crunching and slurping at his own meal. Sucking flesh from fingers. “We will have more help here, and soon,” Arfur went on, the words mushy with the meat in his mouth. “No doubt they are still being sorted. Go on, eat up, don’t be shy! You won’t get better
“Me?” Arfur seemed baffled by Constantine’s question. “How long . . . Why . . . I’m not at all certain, but . . . well, what year is it, friend?”
Constantine told him.
There was a long silence. Then the stranger jeered, “You lie! I came here in the year 1829! I could not have lived so long! Unless . . . but no! I eat, I sleep, I work—I am no ghost!”
“But then the Gloomlord is said to be a long-lived bloke, eh?” Constantine prompted. “If he can live so long . . .”
“His Majesty is no mere mortal man!” There was a touch of reverence in the cracked voice. Then bitter laughter. “And of course it is our toil that gives him his immortality. But one day, one fine day we shall be given our freedom, and wealth beyond imagining!”
“One fine day,” Constantine agreed. Thinking: In which century? The twenty-fourth?
“Why do you tell this lie about the years?” Arfur asked piteously. “It is hard enough here, finding our way about by smell, by the threads, and the clack-smacks. Doing the bidding of the gripplers. Hard enough, hard enough.”
“Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to upset you. When was the last time you beheld the Gloomlord, Arfur?”
“Beheld him? How should I behold him? Never saw him even when we passed by the palace. They locked us in here and we’ve never been out since. No, never do they let us out of the lower galleries. It will take a good long time, I should suppose, to adjust to the light of the upper world when the time comes. But perhaps the King will use his magic so that we do not suffer. Now then, when did you say you got here?”
“Well, in fact—I’m a newcomer,” Constantine admitted.
“What! When did you come past the palace?”
“Oh, not so very long ago,” Constantine said, improvising and aware that someone else was drawing near; snuffling sounds were heard, clickings and crunchings and gruntings and nasty giggles and a wave of awful odors. “Promises were made, as you know, and I’m eager to get to work!”
“That’s the attitude! We often get whiners down here. I don’t mind telling you they’re like as not to become grist for the mill, eh! One has to put one’s shoulder to the wheel or one falls under it!”
“More or less that way on the surface,” Constantine remarked, mostly to himself. “Your Gloomlord’s a right old Tory . . . a bloody neocon . . .”
“But ho, they bring us our meal! You’re in luck! You may eat before you serve the wheels! Here, my friend, put out your hand!”
Constantine put out his hand and encountered another hand, covering a large fired-clay bowl of what he supposed to be food, mildly warm. He was hungry and patted at it with his fingers, wondering if he dared eat any. But the hand was in the way . . .
Then he realized that the hand over the bowl wasn’t in the way, it was in the bowl, severed at the wrist. He could feel the bone-ends protruding from the stump. Constantine drew back his own hand in revolted haste.
“Should be nice and fresh,” Arfur was saying. “He’s just come from the surface. He was supposed to work at the wheels with the rest of us, but he would whine and run mad! Still, I’m glad he did, in a way—I was so very hungry! And you and I share the hands!” As he spoke, Constantine could hear him crunching and slurping at his own meal. Sucking flesh from fingers. “We will have more help here, and soon,” Arfur went on, the words mushy with the meat in his mouth. “No doubt they are still being sorted. Go on, eat up, don’t be shy! You won’t get better