by Brian Daley
He turned to Gil, whose jaw had been open for some time. “Do you have any more of those burning sunlets, the like of which good Pomorski threw down Chaffinch’s throat?”
“White phosphorus grenades? Yeah, we have more.”
Andre clapped his hands. “Good! When that one detonated, I perceived that the terrific heat and the particular energies it exuded were of a special sort. They resemble solar light and would probably be excruciatingly painful to our opposition.”
Van Duyn stepped forward. “Then we’ll go now. According to the altazimuth readings the stars will not be more favorable to this thing for days. I propose that we should leave on the moment.”
Andre nodded. “We shall indeed go, Edward, but you will have to stay here. You will be our anchor, our guide and mainstay against a quick return from the Infernal realm.”
The scholar incensed, stabbing his forefinger at the magician’s paunch. “No, by God, Andre, I won’t be shoved aside again. Dammit, I want to go to her.”
“Who else,” the soft question came, “can accomplish the task I have set you? I must go with them on this sortie to protect them and guide them insofar as I may. Of us all I am the only one who has made the trip before.”
Van Duyn blew his breath out with a whooosh, his frown slackening, and turned from them to stand staring into the hearth.
Andre looked to the others. “Springbuck, you will come with us, for I think that somehow you have begun to play your part in the march of events. You must begin to assert yourself in the battle for ascendancy, particularly since much of it will revolve around the throne of the Ku-Mor-Mai. Sergeant, please look to your equipment; I shall begin inscribing a pentacle and the other requisite insignia around your vehicle. When I close them, we shall be on our way.”
Andre deCourteney was no longer an amiable, comfortable man. All present, from the GI’s used to command to the intractable Van Duyn, obeyed his orders without objection or hesitation. They adjourned to the courtyard with some of Andre’s magical paraphernalia. He removed Calundronius from his neck and again placed it within the pommel of his sword, confining his mighty talisman but thus keeping it close to hand for need.
They evacuated all the other residents of the castle to the main hall, instructing them to bar the door; then Van Duyn was installed in a space traced around with colored dusts and powders. There he stood reading from an ancient tract as the Nine-Mob and Springbuck boarded Lobo and Andre began to delineate a far more intricate design around the APC. Time passed as he completed it with many an enchantment and much strange speech in unfamiliar tongues.
He turned and jumped through the rear hatch, light as a cat, and stood in the very center of the deck, stooped forward with his eyes shut. He continued to chant and the Nine-Mob watched agape as a blue glow began to emanate from his body. Springbuck knew that it was the magic of Gabrielle deCourteney reaching out to enfold her brother and draw him to her.
Gil took his position, staring in amazement out over the splash shield of the .50 as their surroundings went to gray, just as they had on the road near Phu Loi. It became mortally cold and he could not but hope that by some mistake they’d find themselves back in Vietnam—not that he was fond of the place, but at least he’d know his way home.
A split second later he was looking out over a vast, barren plain, a place of cracked, dry earth, radiating heat. He wasn’t sure if it was dark there or if his mind had difficulty interpreting the data of that gruesome world; his senses seemed to be operating aberrantly. In the distance, a reddish glow lit the horizon as if some huge city were there. More than anything else, he noticed in that first instant an oppressive sense of the alien, of a distorted atmosphere threatening to fill him and smother with dread beyond mention. It was, he supposed, the very essentially human part of him recoiling in primeval alarm, repulsion in the core of his being, product of his total incompatability with this place. His soul in rebellion.
The air was filled with menacing smells and unspeakable odors. Unintelligible sounds reached his ears, suggestive of distant howls of pain and torment and blasphemous laughter. He twisted around as the others pulled themselves up for a better look.
Between Lobo and the limitless plain in the distance was a river a half mile or more in breadth. It was filled with a glowing lava-like fluid, yet there were eddies and ripples in its surface as if there were swimmers within. On Lobo’s side of the river the ground was of black sand, drifted in low hills and valleys. After his arrival in Coramonde, Gil half expected the misshapen building that stood nearby. It loomed to their rear, lit with eerie auras and leaping flames and its design was grotesque and disturbing, grating on human sensibilities.
Between it and the APC was a high, gleaming-black wall which paralleled the river and ran in both directions as far as the eye could see. The only visible access was a tall double gate close by, shut and forbidding.
“The river,” said Andre calmly, “is a little device the residents use to keep the Confined from escaping. Just beyond the horizon, where the sky glows, begins the infinite continent of Hell proper, where punishment is dispensed and the mustering of the Hosts conducted. Behind us, beyond the wall, is the palace of Amon, Yardiff Bey’s Lord and sponsor demon. He is an ancient being, chief of forty legions. Tonight there will be high celebration in his house. To get there we shall have to breach younder gates. I know of no incident in time when such a mass of metal as Lobo was transported to the Infernal plane. I think that cold metal will have the requisite properties to deal with the gates.”
Gil glanced upward. He thought he saw, against the sky, darker figures soaring and gliding threateningly through the air. Here and there on the sands around them black, obscure shapes hulked or scuttled.
“What about watchdogs?” he said.
“I don’t think that the lesser guardians of the Pit will bother us, who are men of flesh and substance and ride in a thing of metal. They despise true life and fear iron greatly.”
“Except that our armor’s mostly aluminum,” Pomorski said. “But, hey, won’t the . . . owner be warned?”
“Possibly,” Andre conceded, “but we will have to hope that the entertainment will occupy the attentions of the dwellers in that place.”
The Nine-Mob divvied up the WP grenades among them. Springbuck and Andre both refused the offer of firearms; they were afraid that their lack of familiarity would lead to some misfortune, and Gil had to agree.
“I wonder,” said Pomorski, “if there isn’t something produced by burning white phosphorus that they’ve filtered out of their light sources here?”
Andre replied, “I am almost certain that in order to protect themselves from your grenades those within the manse will have to take on substantiality in forms our weapons can bite.”
Ready now, mastering his spiritual vertigo, Gil settled his hands on the .50’s familiar grips. He experienced a pulse of confidence, not of triumph or even of survival, but simply the feeling that he was no easy quarry for man or devil, and that any being who came against him would find the confrontation costly. He gave Woods the go-ahead.
The engine caught and they plunged at the gates as he braced himself and repressed the urge to call out to Woods to stop. Their objective looked as if it could withstand an antitank round. Yet when the prow of the APC struck the doors, he thought they moaned, and they shrank and buckled from contact with Lobo, withering from their hinges.
The APC sped toward the manse and Gil gave the order to slow until speed and engine noise were as low as was feasible. They drove up to the very doors of the building, towering two-story-high panels, and stopped. The bedlam coming from within was amazing; cries, mad laughter, wailing and shrieks mingled with music, which set mortal teeth on edge and made their hackles rise in alarm. Andre spoke into Gil’s ear. “You and I shall look around while the others wait. Tell Al Woods to take the machine off to one side of the doors.”
Pomoroski took the .50 as Gil took off his helmet and headset once again and grabb
ed Shorty. Andre drew his sword from its sheath and they stepped out of the rear hatch and watched the APC move away to the right of the entrance.
Then they circled to the left, bent low, running close to the wall. They paused after thirty yards with a wide, balconied window above them.
“We’ll climb up the cavern giltwork and take a look,” Andre said. Gil slipped the submachine gun over his shoulder and they began the ascent. The carvings, horrid faces and tortured human figures, man-woman-animal shapes and things less describable, provided ample grip and footing. The material of which the building was fashioned was coarse and abrasive to their hands and unpleasantly warm to the touch. They pulled themselves onto the balcony in the perpetual half-light and stepped to the doorway, keeping low and to one side.
The manse itself was more immense than Gil had realized when they’d approached it. The room into which they gazed was enormous. He spotted the twin doors, dwarfed in relation to the titanic chamber; the ceiling was lost to sight. The walls and the center of the place teemed with groups and individuals, people and things which were not human. There were appalling combinations of animal and mankind and other celebrants bearing no relation to either. But all had about them an aspect of malice and evil. Fangs, shaggy flanks, horns, gleaming torsos, barbed and scaly tails, clawed and webbed feet, restless talons, all of these there were. Old, young, beautiful and hideous were spinning and capering in a primitive, hysterical dance to music of insanity and hatred and abandon which came from no source that the American could see. In that moment there flashed into his mind the works of Hieronymus Bosch, inadequate and mild when held now in comparison with the real thing.
At both sides of the room were rows of tables laden with food and drink and set with black candles shaped like tumescent phalli, which guttered with flames of various colors but were not consumed. On a raised dais was a statue of the Goat. Gil stared at it and terror rose in him again, for the red eyes seemed alive and directed toward him alone. Then Andre placed a hand on his shoulder and he regained some of his control.
A steady stream of dancers was leaving their writhings momentarily to run to the statue and kiss its hairy rump, then anoint themselves with salve. On the dais one figure towered above the rest, an apparition with a wolf’s head, a bare, manlike torso rearing on lion’s hind legs and having a thick serpent tail which twitched behind it. Before it, on two bread slabs of obsidian were the forms of Gabrielle and what appeared to be a baby, the latter wrapped in a coverlet. Andrews hand tightened on Gil’s shoulder in a grip which threatened to pulp it until the magician became aware of his excess and relaxed it.
“My sister,” he said anxiously, “there, in front of the Wolf. He is Amon, Bey’s liege and Lord of this place. There’s Bey, standing next to Gabrielle’s slab.”
Indeed the sorcerer stood near her, but offered her no harm and only saw to it that no one approached her too closely. His face was closed to scrutiny and his exotic ocular threw back light from its moon-cold silver and verdant malachite. He watched coldly as the revelers anointed themselves with the sabbat ointment compounded of poppy, hellebore, hashish and human flesh, rubbing it behind knees, ears and arms, and on neck, armpit and chest. Here and there on the cyclopean floor flame leaped from pits and troughs, fitting illumination for the scene.
Gil asked Andre the reason for the infant’s presence. “A sacrifice, in all probability. Yes, the blood of an innocent.”
All color left the soldier’s face, though it was not an expression of dismay he wore, but rather one of anger beyond anger. Andre watched the interplay of the sergeant’s features and nodded to himself, satisfied.
They were distracted a moment later by the arrival of a new guest. The crowd cheered and threw their hands up as a woman, a big, imposing blonde, rode out of the shadows at the end of the dais and stopped before Amon. Her steed was a naked man upon whose shoulders a sort of saddle had been fastened.
“That is Mara, the ice witch,” said Andre, “Bey’s rival for Amon’s favor and often at odds with him.”
“Who’s her . . . her mount?”
“Perchance some poor soul she—Ah, gods, no!” Andre leaned forward, staring intently at the dismounted Mara, whose bearer kneeled docilely. “What madness is this? That is none other but Thom, the Land’s Friend. Oh, my poor, poor comrade, how have you come to this? Come, we must get my sister out of here.”
They clambered back down, then sprinted to the track. Back behind the .50, Gil took over the assault. He told the Nine-Mob what to expect but didn’t get graphic about it; they’d soon see for themselves. And as he spoke the sergeant felt a tide of emotion building in him, a yearning to bring some terrible retribution upon those within the manse as though he, Lobo, all of them were instruments of some higher justice.
They drew up closer to the doors but with enough distance yet to gather momentum, as the insane music from within crowded over the track’s rumble. Woods raced the engine and they all braced themselves; then he slapped the APC into gear and they tore across the black sand. Lobo hit the stairs before the doors and shot up them in a single bounce, crashing against the high portals. Unlike the gates at the outside wall these did not crumple. A shock ran through the track’s occupants and jolted the vehicle, then the doors shattered to either side. There was a reeling impression of stunned, demented faces drawing back in sudden consternation as Alpha-Nine thundered down the center of the cavernous hall.
No attack came, only a general drawing back by those assembled, as Amon and his two lieutenants stepped to the front of the dais. It took an eternity to get there, and Gil’s palms were wet at the .50’s grips. Woods braked to a halt next to the two slabs. There was an ancient crone hovering nearby, an enormous spike-studded aclys held light as a feather in her decaying hands. Gil spoke into the intercom. “Olivier, cover the old gal with the club. Al, kill the engine.”
Andre climbed up through the cargo, hatch and stood next to Gil’s cupola, noticing the sergeant’s shaking hands as he did.
“Well, my Lord the Wolf,” he said to the silent Amon, “I have brought another wolf to visit you, hight Lobo.”
The demon answered in a deep voice, harsh with hatred and frightening in volume. “The wizardling Andre deCourteney, come to join his sister with his new friends and bringing the snot-nosed Springbuck, if I smell aright. I knew you were sniffing at my windows, but I also knew that you’d come to me presently. Ha, so predictable are you of the Terrestrial plane. Can I entice you to light repast?”
“Thank you, no,” Andre answered. “Carrion and putrefaction do not attract me.”
“Then, why invade my hall? In hastening the inevitable—for I would have had you here eventually—you’ve upset my guests. Still, I suppose I should expect such behavior from bothersome little spell-workers. Do you know that I am the final word here? Come down from that clanking kettle, deCourteney, and we’ll let your sister take a final look at you.”
“I thank Mighty Amon,” was the retort. “But first, be pleased to accept these small gifts from us.” And with that, he tapped Gil’s shoulder. The American, nearly paralyzed until that moment, lobbed the WP he’d had waiting in his hand and it landed fair at the feet of the demon, who looked at it curiously. A second later the canister went off with a hiss, and a flare which grew into a burning nimbus.
Amon staggered back from it, shaggy arm thrown across his eyes, and howled. The other members of the Nine-Mob tossed their WPs in all directions as Olivier, poised at his gun and taking the most careful aim he ever had, cut down the crone without compunction.
Yardiff Bey, who had been racing toward the two slabs, skidded to a stop at the first sound of gunfire. He bit his lip in indecision as his resolve wavered. Andre drew his sword and jumped to face Bey while Springbuck threw open the rear hatch and ran to Gabrielle’s side. Bar severed the bonds holding her as if they were rotten cordage. He swept her up in his left arm and dashed for Lobo.
The hall had become a scene of unimaginable chaos. Th
ose creatures of the depths who had been closest to the buring WPs were lying stricken on the floor, among these Amon himself. Many more were shifting their shapes to afford protection against the torturous light. Human adherents, in a turmoil, were beseeching their Lord for help and Bey himself had drawn Dirge to meet the advance of Andre deCourteney. But the Nine-Mob had cut loose with all guns and the pandemonium became a slaughter. Gil had elevated his barrel and was quartering the air, bringing down the flying creatures—huge bats, bloated birds, nightmare fliers—which some of the celebrants had become.
Bey cursed, turned and fled before Andre could reach him, no doubt moved to do so by the gunfire but perhaps unwilling to face the portly magician in a physical contest. Mara had resumed her mount and was fleeing, too. Andre cried out to his old friend to stop, but to no avail. Springbuck and Gabrielle were back aboard the APC and Gil called out to the wizard to follow. A swollen thing of gorilla body and pig-snouted face made to slaughter Andre with scythelike claws before he could regain the track, but Handelman saw, and cut its legs out from under it, continuing to fire after the magician skirted the convulsing body and raced on. Andre reached the APC and dogged the hatch behind him, turning instantly to his sister.
She was sitting up, apparently well and unharmed. She shrugged their helping hands away. “The infant,” she insisted, seizing the Prince’s. arm. “Get the child; we cannot abandon it to them.” Springbuck exchanged glances with Andre, who nodded. The Heir of the Ku-Mor-Mai sprang up through the cargo hatch.
The Nine-Mob were men possessed, lashing out with all their strength at the things gathering for attack. They swiveled smoking weapons here and there as swarms of bullets found this or that target, paused to decimate it, and moved on. Torrents of slugs reached out implacably for the creations of the Infernality whether they groveled, fled or gave battle, as if some cleansing holocaust sped through the hall. They steered their barrels back and forth as if the outpouring of death and devastation would never end. They had no thought but to walk the paths of tracers from one annihilated enemy to the next. The racket of machine guns and the popping of the grenade launcher overwhelmed even the screams of fury and wrath ringing through the room.