Must Love Hellhounds

seemed apparent no one had heard the muted groans and gurgles of the dying soldiers; or perhaps if any passerby had, the noises had been perceived as arising from their activity. At any rate, no one came to investigate.
    Batanya knew it was only a matter of time before they came face-to-face with someone who would challenge them. The traffic in the tunnel made it obvious that they were getting closer to the hub of Hell’s activities. Several times various beings passed the mouth of their little hidey-hole, and each time the three held their breath until the footsteps had passed (if the creatures had feet). One of the slugs oozed by, and Clovache and Batanya got to observe firsthand how the creatures undulated through the tunnels, the slime oozing from their underbellies and sides to grease their passage. This slime hardened within seconds. Now Clovache understood why the floor of the tunnel was so smooth and even; the passage of the slugs, the largest of which was perhaps ten feet long and as big around as a medium barrel, had led to a gradual buildup of the substance. There was a coating on the bottom half of the walls, too, but it wasn’t as thick and glassy as the layer on the floor.
    “If we’d known, we could have brought metal cleats,” Batanya said practically. “Perhaps someone should have told us.”
    Crick was wise enough to keep his response to himself. He just grinned at Batanya in a foolish way. “There’ll be less traffic at nighttime,” he whispered. “We’ll have to wait it out.”
    Some hours passed, and the activity in the tunnels died down. The three spent the passing time trying to ignore the smell of both the heaped bodies and the dark area beyond them at the end of the tunnel, perhaps five yards farther. The area had evidently been used as a latrine in the recent past, and though the functional amenity was handy, it was also unpleasant to be around for any length of time—and all they had was lengthy time. Very lengthy. The two Britlingens dozed, ate a couple of energy bars, gave Crick another, and drank sparingly. Presumably there were underground springs somewhere; almost all living beings needed fluid. But they hadn’t seen one, and the map showed only the tunnels.
    “At least we haven’t seen any animals,” Clovache said in a bright whisper. “I wonder how they supply themselves with meat?”
    “There are pens of cows and other edible creatures, kept pretty far distant from the rest of Lucifer’s palace,” Crick said. “Why are you glad we haven’t seen animals?”
    “They might bark,” Clovache said quickly. In the dim light that pervaded the tunnels, which varied quite a bit from one tunnel to the next, she looked as if she wished she hadn’t spoken.
    Crick looked curious, which was probably his natural condition. “You wanted to avoid dogs in particular?” he said. “Why?”
    There was an awful moment of silence.
    “Because this large scar on my face was caused by a dog. I got it on my first mission,” Batanya said, with no inflection at all. “We were protecting a guy who bred attack dogs. His breeding and training methods were famous. A rival of his, as a practical joke , bribed one of our client’s kennel boys to feed the dogs an irritant that acted on their nervous system.”
    “How did that turn out?”
    Batanya shrugged and looked away.
    “Not very well,” Clovache said. “I hadn’t finished training. A man named Damon was Batanya’s junior. This alleged practical joke cost him his life.”
    “Did your client live?” Crick asked Batanya directly.
    She met his eyes. “Yes,” she said. “He lived, though he lost a leg and one hand. Damon died after four hours. I got the scar.”
    That was end of all conversation for a long time.
    Batanya gradually became convinced that it was night. It was hard to tell with no change in the light, but it felt like night to her. She gave Clovache a hand signal. After a quick check of all their accoutrements, the bodyguards prepared to move. According to the legend on Crick’s handy-dandy map, they were about a mile from their objective as a crow flies, if a crow would be demented enough to navigate the tunnels of Hell.
    Clovache glared at the map, which in some ways was a godsend, in other ways completely useless. Fumbling their way ignorantly would have been nearly suicidal, but the map would have been so much more valuable if it had shown the rooms that must be lying somewhere. Presumably, in this huge