Differential Damsel
Page 11
pouch and stuffed it inside her sash. "How much is it?"
They started down the slope together. "It's hard to say, exactly. Crowns are minted in the kingdom of Ooth-Nargai, but outside that realm they are used pretty much for credit transfer. More common is the tahler, which is an ounce of pure silver. The exchange rate is fifty tahlers per crown, so carrying crowns is easier than the equivalent value in tahlers. Though the value of silver in pounds Sterling is considerably higher, you can think of a tahler as having the purchasing power of one pound. Since there are no coins of smaller denominations, everything is priced in whole tahlers, and the only items priced at less are those purchased in bulk. You have the equivalent of 500 tahlers; that's a lot, but no better or worse than having 500 pounds."
"I didn't ask you how to make a clock." Margaret sound piqued.
"Oh, shut it, you slag."
A gigantic shadow passed overhead and a scream like that of a titanic eagle split the air. Margaret shrieked, covered her head, and collapsed to the ground. Differel couldn't help bursting with laughter.
Margaret sat up and looked out over the meadow. A huge raptor soared low over the ground. Even in the bright sunlight the wing tips glowed with St. Elmo's Fires as sparks danced between the pinions of its crest. Once it reached the river it gave a ponderous flap and rose into the air.
"What the bleeding hell is that?!"
"That's my faithful Wakiya, Eleanor d'Aquitaine." She held out her hand. "We share an empathic bond, so she always knows when I'll arrive. That's just her way of saying hello."
Margaret took it and Differel hauled her to her feet. "A what?"
"Another name is 'thunder bird'. She can pick up and store static electricity in her feathers, and discharge it at will as lightning."
"You and your dodgy companions."
"Hmph. You're one to talk."
They started off again, but just before they reached the river they came to a road. Differel crossed over and went on down to the river to fill the canteen, but Margaret paused and squatted, running a hand over the rust-red surface. "Is this concrete?"
She looked back as she pulled the brown glass jug out of the leather pouch. "No, it's called laterite. It's a form of subsoil rich in iron. When mixed with sand, small stones, and water, it forms a slurry that can be poured like concrete, but it dries in the sun, forming a hard, brick-like surface. It's brittle, so it cracks easily, but it can be repaired with minimum effort."
She knelt by the bank to fill the jug, and Margaret kneeled beside her. "This is the River Skai, and it's one of the major waterways in this part of the Dreamlands."
But she didn't seem to pay attention as she examined her cute round face in the water. "Oh, bugger. I wanted to see what I looked like."
Differel understood what she meant. The water appeared so clear it seemed invisible.
Margaret eyed the canteen. "You sure that's safe to drink?"
She stood up as she stopped it. "Perfectly. Further down it picks up junk from the fields, but here it's practically pure." She placed the jug back in the pouch.
Margaret took off a glove and filled her hand, then slurped it up. "Mmmm, fantastic! I've never tasted water that fresh and clean before!"
"Part of it's because there's no pollution, but part is due to the nature of Lands themselves. Hungry?"
"I could eat." She stood up and Differel handed her a piece of bread and a handful of jerky.
She chuckled when Margaret made a face. "The bread looks like hardtack, but it lasts three times longer and tastes like pastry. But you can only get it in the Cavern of Flame." She watched as she nibbled at it, and laughed when he face lit up in surprised enjoyment.
While Margaret ate, she loaded her pistols. She took a practice shot with each and reloaded them.
"I thought you said this place was sword and sorcery." She spoke around a mouthful of food.
"That's basically correct, but not strictly so. Nothing that was invented after 1500 in the Waking World can exist here. No one knows why, though most believe it's because it takes 500 years for something to become embedded in the collective unconscious. Regardless, there are exceptions, but there are also items and technologies that people think are modern but are actually much older. Firearms and gunpowder are two examples. These are called wheellock pistols. The mechanism was invented just before the sixteenth century. They look like flintlocks, but they use an internal spring-loaded wheel to create sparks. They're bloody complicated to maintain and clean, but I feel more comfortable with one of them in my hand than a sword. I have quite a collection by now; these two will put it at nearly 400."
"You always were a packrat, Dribble."
She felt her irritation flare. "At least I collect something other than men, Maggot."
Coming in April.
From "Youthful Indiscretion"
As soon as the block fully reassembled itself, the tolling stopped. Apprehension crept over Henry; he knew something was about to happen, he just didn't know what. Then the room began to grow dark. He looked around at the lights. They didn't appear to grow dim; in fact, they seemed as bright as ever. Rather, the areas over which they cast their luminance shrank as the borders became more distinct and sharp. Beyond them, the room fell into shadow like it would at twilight when the sun had set but the sky was still bright.
In that moment They appeared in his room. It wasn't like how Vlad emerged from shadow, or the affect of Dr. Mabuse's transporter machine. Quite literally one moment the room was empty, and next five beings stood in its center. The thing he noted first was the stench. Though not overpowering, it was enough to turn his stomach, and yet overlaid was the scent of vanilla, which partially mitigated but could not completely cover their foul, rotten odor. At almost the same time he spotted the blue phosphorescent glow that surrounded them like a mist.
Their most horrific feature, however, was that each was deformed or mutilated in some hideous fashion. One was morbidly obese, with its face so swollen with fat that the wrinkles distorted and obscured its features. Another had a flap of skin covering its eyes while its disfigured mouth had the lips pulled back well away from its mouth and the teeth clattered together endlessly like it was chattering. The third was the size of child about his same age, but its flesh had been seared as if in a barbecue while its eyes stared out from their sockets without blinking. Number four looked like a teenage girl, and while bald was otherwise unmarked, except for a gaping wound in her throat held open by small hooks. They all wore clothing that looked like a combination of religious vestments and butchery garments, except they were made from black leather and vinyl. The robes exposed areas of skin on their chests and stomachs, and it was pierced and sliced and coated with fine powder, like talcum, or...ash? The garments themselves were sewn or hooked into the skin, as if that was needed to hold them in place, in the manner of buttons or zippers.
But the fifth and foremost, whom he took to be the leader, was the most compelling. He was hairless, with dead-white skin, and his face and scalp was etched in a grid of lines. At each intersection a large pin or small nail had been driven into the bone below. Unlike the others, who looked vacant or mindless, he seemed intelligent and aware. He stared at him with a sardonic half-smile, as if he alone knew a secret others would give their lives to know. It sent chills down his back even as he felt ill. Yet despite how repulsive they appeared, there was something about them that he found fascinating, even provocative. Even as he feared he would vomit at any moment, he felt enchanted by their presence, even a little bewitched.
But then the nail-headed one frowned, like he realized something was wrong. His companions moved towards the bed, he assumed with the intent to take him, but as they tried to go around their leader, he held up a hand.
"No, he did not summon us."
Summon!? He stared down at the block in horror. That's why it was in the vault! How could I be so stupid!
Vlad appeared in an explosion of shadow, in front of the bed between him and the monsters. "Run, Little
Master!"
Whatever spell, psychological or psychic, that held him in that room broke, and his terror galvanized him. He ran for the door to the nurse's room, pulled it open, and made for the opposite side, which led into the nursery. From there he could access the secret stairwell and make his way down to his mother's office. She would protect him.
As he reached the other door, he heard the one to his bedroom slam shut.
Vlad moved to block the door to keep the Cenobites from following his Master's son, but he felt the one called Pinhead extend his power to push it closed.
"Vlad Tepes Drakulya." Pinhead regarded him with what appeared to be an arrogant expression. "Have you finally decided to surrender yourself to us?"
"No. My current existence still satisfies me."
"Then why do you interfere with our actions?"
"I defend the Van Helsing Bloodline. So long as I draw breath, no harm will come to those who possess it."
Pinhead sported a bored expression. "So be it." Even as he spoke, iron hooks at the end of heavy chains flew out of the walls, ceiling, and floor. The chains wrapped around Vlad's body, ensnaring him, as the hooks dug into his flesh, ripping through to the bones. They lifted him off the floor and spread-eagled his limbs even as they pulled him apart.
Through the haze of agony and blood he saw Pinhead scan the room in a slow manner, as if searching for something. "The one who