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  PRAISE FOR SHAUN O. MCCOY AND THE HELLSONG SERIES

  "McCoy is a brilliant writer; insightful, intelligent, articulate, imaginative, and funny."

  —McKendree Long, Author of No Good Like it is

  "McCoy masterfully creates characters, scenarios and the Hell where they live. He writes with a passion, layering emotion on fantasy and science fiction, drawing in readers from beyond his genre."

  —Ginny Padgett, President of SCWW

  "Shaun is the real McCoy."

  —Laura Valtorte, Filmmaker, Author of Family Meal

  “McCoy has a queer ability to highlight the most delightfully horrific details imaginable. I grimace, suck air through my teeth and squeeze shut my eyes. Then I open just one so I can keep on reading.”

  —Fred Fields, Author

  "McCoy will certainly go to Hell for writing Soulfall . . . but it was probably worth it."

  —Justin Williams, Author of Blind Faith

  "McCoy is a talented and bright young writer."

  —B. Butler, Author of Murder in Cairo

  OTHER WORKS BY SHAUN O. MCCOY

  HELLSONG SERIES: ARTURIAN

  Even Hell Has Knights

  Knight of Gehenna

  March Till Death

  Book IV (2019)

  HELLSONG SERIES: INFIDELS: CRIS

  Affliction

  Soulfall

  Dust

  Convalescence

  Execution

  Wasteland (Coming Soon)

  Restoration (Coming Soon)

  NOVELLAS

  Electric Blues

  Binary Jazz

  Infidels: Cris

  EXECUTION

  SHAUN O. MCCOY

  SISYPHEAN PUBLISHING

  This is a work of fiction. The damnation portrayed in this novel is fictitious, and similarities between it and any actual damnation are strictly coincidental.

  Convalescence

  Copyright 2017 © by Shaun McCoy

  All rights reserved.

  Editor-in-Chief: Gabrielle Olexa

  Associate Editors: Kitty Garner, Andrew Anderson, Justin Williams

  Title art: Dusan Arsenic

  Title Layout: Paul Mavis

  A Sisyphean Publishing Book

  Http://hellsongseries.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0692168714 (Sisyphean Publishing)

  ISBN-10: 0692168710

  First Edition August 2108

  This book is for Jami Conniff

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  From Neostoicism: Philosophia

  To the patient man, time is an implacable ally. To the impatient, an executioner.

  —Ares

  They say hope springs eternal, but the pits of Hell are infinitely deep. For all practical purposes, hope in Hell is just God urinating off the edge of a cliff—even if you’re lucky enough to get some of it on you, in the end, it’s just piss.

  —Cris

  The infidels tell the story of Damocles, a man who sat in thrall of a great King. In a fit of sycophantism, he exclaimed, “My King, you are the most fortunate man!”

  The King was dubious. “You jest! If you believe this, then let’s switch places, you and I.”

  Damocles eagerly exchanged seats, but the King—in order that Damocles might know how a throne truly felt—hung a huge sword by a single horsehair above Damocles’ head.

  Damocles was frightened, of course. At any moment the hair might break, and the sword would fall upon him. Suddenly ready to abdicate, Damocles pronounced, “My King, now that I know what it means to be master, I don’t wish to sit here any longer.”

  “No shit,” the King replied.

  Well, you bastards can call me Damocles.

  My captor has a hold of me, his fingers digging into the meat of my tricep. Ahead, other treemen guards have taken the same rough custody of my son, Nebuchadnezzar, Q and El Cid. Together, surrounded by uneven rings of Dendra’s soldiers, we are dragged toward our doom.

  Bright mists fill the endless chasm far below the thin, wooden walkway we cross, illuminating us from below, turning the guards’ faces into the menacing visages of flashlight-lit children telling ghost stories.

  Keith, the man who’s caused our incarceration, steps up to a rickety, wooden guardrail and surveys the unreal seeming panorama. As my guard drags me onward, I look too.

  Upside down trees of unwholesome size, taller than the greatest redwood and thicker than the most gnarled oak, grow downward from where their tangled roots cling to the ceiling like the stiffened fingers of dead men. Their grey, bark-clad trunks split into webs of branches beneath us, sporting green leaves wider than a harpy’s wingspan. Those leaves glow a hot lime hue against the silvery shining mists below, their long shadows spreading upward and outward onto the chamber ceilings above.

  Keith turns back to me. Before, he looked like an evil Clark Kent. Now his black hair and its white streak seem disheveled, his clear blue eyes are clouded with worry and wide with something akin to insanity. His cheekbones, which seemed so strong before, make his face look drawn. His skin, previously pale, is wan.

  Honestly though, after running and climbing for so long that my nipples are literally bleeding, I can’t look much better.

  “Don’t struggle,” my guard whispers. “I’ve got a family. You’ll only drag us both down into the abyss, and I know you don’t want to die.”

  That’s a hell of an assumption. Emotional stability hasn’t really been my shtick lately.

  “Don’t worry,” I lie. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

  I might as well deceive him. If I’m going to dive headlong to my death in order to deprive the Tree Lord of his mock justice, it’ll help to have this guard caught unawares. And if I’m not going to jump, well, it’s best not to leave this poor treeman freaked out for no reason.

  I’m such a sensitive and caring guy.

  A bridge, made of two braided branches from opposing trees, stretches from our landing to the next. The Dendrans had been nice enough to erect a rickety set of posts strung together with rope to act as a guardrail. The treemen stop us as we come to the bridge.

  The tree they’re leading us to is less healthy than the rest, its anemic branches laden with tangled masses of sinfruit vines. I watch as a flock of psychopomp sparrows flutters under the drooping limbs before soaring out across the chamber.

  Though my son is the slightest among us, thin of frame and only around eight years old, they’ve assigned two guards to him. Damocles’ sword, hanging by that metaphorical horsehair, is above his head, too.

  Keith follows along with us, his stride uneven and lurching, his eyes wild and unfocused. If anyone is going to toss themselves into the endless abyss of mists and stone below, my money’s on him.

  “Escort one prisoner across to the Wicker Tree at a time,” Amirani orders. “Chuck, Jacobs, you’re responsible for getting their equipment to the Storage Tree.”

  The treemen obey, for some reason choosing not to lump him in with us conv
icts. Maybe I can understand why. As far as guidance goes, they’ve got a choice between Amirani or Keith—and no sane person would pick Keith.

  Two men move to Aiden, one ahead, and the other behind. They lead him onto the bridge. My son doesn’t hold the rope rail, though his captors do. I watch their crossing as sparrows fly above and below them. Their progress is slow by necessity, but is retarded further by the fear Aiden’s guards hold toward him.

  And of course they fear him. He’s a monster after all—just like his dad.

  Amirani steps up to my right side and speaks to the guard on my left. “I’ll prep the Tree Lord. Let him know we’ve taken them and their wight to the Wicker Tree.”

  The guard nods and his grip on my tricep tightens. “I’ll let Fabian know after we drop them off.”

  Amirani grunts his approval.

  My son is halfway across. Maybe he’s out of range of the treemen’s stone-tipped arrows. Since he’s a wight, their bullets won’t be able to hurt him. If he was going to fight and make a break for it, he’d do it when he reached the far side. But where the hell would he go? The only quick way out of this chamber is down, and wight or no, that fall would kill him.

  “Fabian will visit your woman friend,” the guard says to Amirani, nodding toward Cid. “You know he can’t get it up without beating a girl. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I’d be lying if I told you no,” Amirani says. “But it’s Fabian’s prison. What he does in the Wicker Tree is beyond my control.”

  Cid’s tough. She can handle it. We’re all going to die anyway. What’s the worst he can do, beat her? Rape her?

  But the latter thought raises the hackles on the back of my neck. I am the fool of my own impotent fury. I love that little girl, and in her own way, she loves me back. That means something to a man, infidel or no. It means I want to protect her. To keep her safe. To make sure what happened to me in Tintagel never happens to her. The idea of someone violating her in that way sends daggers stabbing into the tender parts of my heart.

  I’ve not felt wounds like this since Myla.

  “I’m sorry,” the guard tells Amirani, his voice seeming genuinely disturbed.

  They love him, that’s obvious. Amirani has been fighting alongside them for some time, and as an infidel, doubtlessly he’s saved many of their lives. I don’t know if that’s bought him enough goodwill to save Amirani from the Tree Lord’s justice, but maybe—

  “If you want,” the guard lowers his voice to a whisper, “I can escort the woman infidel across. I can advise her to jump.”

  The daggers in my heart twist.

  Amirani shakes his head. “No.”

  I see Cid’s face and marvel at her beauty. At her green eyes and slightly upturned nose. At her fine elvenesque cheekbones. I want nothing more than to hold her close.

  “I know you’re hoping they’ll be pardoned,” the treeman says, “but surely you must know they’ll be forced to take the fall.”

  I can practically feel that sword swaying over my head.

  “It’s the Tree Lord’s decision,” Amirani says. “We can’t make it for him.”

  “But you know what that decision will be,” my guard presses.

  I look at Amirani, at his stoic face.

  “I know,” he says, his voice calm and even.

  Aiden makes it to the far side.

  Amirani points to me. “Cris next.”

  I, apparently, only warrant a one guard escort.

  I become lightheaded as we move toward the center of the bridge.

  A hand presses against my back and I jerk, nearly losing my balance.

  “You’re stalling,” the guard accuses me.

  A sparrow chirps from a nearby branch. I realize I’m breathing heavily—and I’m sweating enough to soak the armpits of my Icanitzu armor. Slowly, I turn to face the guard.

  Someone calls out from the landing, but I ignore them.

  I pause to catch my breath before speaking. “I’m not that kind of guy, either.”

  “I’m not stupid,” the treeman says. “You’re an infidel. I know you could take that gun from my belt and shoot me with it. But they’ll kill you.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

  With the back of my sprained hand, I wipe sweat from my brow. “Man, believe me. I ran a marathon to get here, and capped it off with a mile-long climb. I’m about one leg cramp away from tumbling off this thing. You’ve got to give me a bit of leeway here.”

  He sneers suspiciously and takes a few steps back.

  “Move along!” someone shouts from the landing.

  Neither the guard nor I move.

  I look ahead across the chamber and see the hole in the Wicker Tree where they’d taken my son.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” I tell him.

  The guard takes another step back, his hand inching nervously toward the gun at his belt. “About what?”

  “About the Tree Lord sending us to our deaths,” I tell him. “You’ve sided with the wrong guys. Our wight’s been tamed. His brain is fried. Keith is working with a wight too, and it’s not tame. It kills.”

  He grins and takes a confident step toward me. “I thought all infidels were as good as Amirani, but you’re pathetic. Keith had a wight with him, you’re right about that, but only because he captured it from the Archdevil Varadoolyn. He gave us the creature so we could try to extract information on the Archdevil’s whereabouts.”

  Varadoolyn? Who the hell is that? And Keith turned Durgan in? Captured from an Archdevil? What the hell is going on here? How much went on while I was recovering in the safe chamber?

  Just one time, just for one fucking time, I’d like to know what the hell is going on.

  “Keep walking, infidel,” he says. “Whatever game you’ve been playing is over. Justice is the only thing you’ve got left. Justice, and a long fall.”

  There’s a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He’s enjoying my misery. Maybe we humans really are evil. Maybe Hell is something we really do deserve.

  The Wicker Tree’s landing is broader than most, and it circles halfway around the tree. There’s a tremendous hollow in the trunk, like the kind where an old world owl might have lived—except scaled up in size to match the insane size of the tree. Its opening gapes before me, carved wooden steps lead down through the hollow, disappearing into the blackness within.

  Women gather sinfruit from the vines which hang from the trunk and branches above. The smell of sap is strong but holds no comfort for me.

  “Go on down,” the treeman says.

  I turn. He’s got his gun drawn. In the distance I see they’ve started taking Q across.

  I descend onto the hollow’s stairs. It becomes dark almost immediately. I smell something decaying, but it’s not altogether unpleasant—like rotting wood. I put my foot down into the blackness, counting on the regularity of the steps. That, at least, doesn’t let me down.

  My eyes adjust quickly, and now there’s enough light coming from a passage ahead to illuminate the edges of the stairs.

  That passage opens off to my right as I go down. Iron bars, partially rusted, form a wall which separates us from the level beyond. A little light spills into the level from a few openings to the outside, but these are also barred. Shadowy shapes of stumbling men move in the dim light.

  Corpses.

  Oh hell.

  “Keep on moving,” the treeman says.

  I remember Amirani talking to us about the undead when we traveled through Dendra earlier. They kept corpses here so they could use their corpsedust to ferment their alcohol. Maybe I can have some bloodwater with my last meal—assuming they’ll even bother to feed us.

  “Here,” my guard says as we make it to the next level. The stairs keep going down, spiraling into the blackness beneath me.

  This level is slightly better lit, and is home to several cubbies. Their openings are blocked by evenly spaced bars. Unlike their cousins on the floor above, their iron is unrusted. The cells on the l
eft don’t have windows so much as their back walls are completely missing. In their stead are more bars, and beyond that, Dendra’s open chamber.

  There’s no door into any of the cells, so I have no idea how the hell they plan to get my ass in one of them.

  Right by the staircase is a series of pulleys whose chains run vertically down into the trunk.

  A man waits there. Maybe he’s our warden.

  “Second cell on the left,” the pulleyman says.

  He begins tugging on one chain and three of the bars on the cell they’ve marked out for me begin to rise into the trunk. The sound of tinkling bells accompanies their ascent.

  The iron bars stop about three feet up.

  I walk forward, dreading the stretching of my taut muscles. There is a prisoner in the first cell on the right, already. His skin is pale, no, paler than pale, and blue veins run through it like marble. He looks at me with his all black eyes.

  Durgan. That fucker.

  He stands as I walk down the hallway, his obsidian eyes glinting in the dim light. After gaining his feet, he remains motionless. I can only guess that his irisless eyes are looking at me.

  “Good to see that you’re well,” I tell him.

  “Move on,” says the treeman. “Get in your cell.”

  Aiden is in the first cell to the left, opposite Durgan, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. His black eyes are similarly implacable.

  “We’ll be okay, son,” I tell him.

  As if to expose my lie, the treeman grabs me harder by the tricep and forces me down to my knees.

  “Crawl,” he orders.

  Hours pass slowly.

  The bars are secure. Hell, they’re more than secure. Originally, someone must have drilled holes into the floor and the ceiling to install them, and at that point, they might have been loose enough to pry out. Unfortunately, the tree has healed around them, locking the iron in tight.