by Allan Cole
Then they suddenly stopped, obeying the voice of their Master.
There, far under the earth— near the tensed stone strings of the plain— they stayed. Gnawing and gnashing the firm rock.
Transforming the flame rivers of hot magma in the uttermost depths of the Earth.
Waiting for the Call.
And it was a dead night on the ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Give a man who is not made
To his trade
Swords to fling and catch again,
Coins to ring and snatch again,
Men to harm and cure again,
Snakes to charm and lure again—
He’ll be hurt by his own blade …”
From Kim, by Rudyard Kipling
Old Scratch was in the deepest of depressions— so miserable he could hardly muster strength enough to swear.
Nothing consoled him, not even Homula the great mother of the death spirits. Her charges danced and sang in the flames of the Borodino’s Fiendish Hall, beseeching Scratchy to join them in the soothing fires of the Inner Hell.
But all he could think of was Uttermost Space, the shimmer of uncounted stars and hard x-ray storms and the voices of distant friends he longed to hear again. And the engine spells, ah the spells— the “spells-spells-spells movin’ up an’ down again!”
Old Scratchy despaired that they’d ever let him leave this awful place, where the war devils danced and sang their songs of blood and terror. That he’d ever be permitted to once again ply his honest trade as an Engine Devil, guiding great starships to distant ports. Or any of the other wondrous things that were the very sense of an Engine Devil’s life.
Even Kipling offered small comfort. In Scratchy’s depression the only poems he could think of were dark compositions. Like the one about the “man who is not made to his trade and …”
“He’ll be hurt by his own blade,
By his serpents disobeyed,
By his clumsiness betrayed,
By the people mocked to scorn—
So ’tis not with juggler born.
Pinch of dust or withered flower,
Chance-flung fruit or borrowed staff,
Serve his need and shore his power,
Bind the spell, or loose the laugh!”
It seemed to Scratchy that he was doomed to remain in this place forever. No more to see the stars, much less dear Avalon.
Although everyone agreed he was innocent, he’d become convinced they’d never let him go. Each time he’d raised the issue of leaving, excuses were made.
By the fires of all the burning levels of Hell, the masters of the Borodino were the greatest manufacturers of lying excuses Scratch had ever met!
And now the boy was constantly on his mind … nay, in his mind!
Sending stream upon pleading mentos’ stream to come away with him.
Waugh! Billy was a most powerful young mage, “speaking” to Old Scratch from a guarded hospital room somewhere aboard the Russian space fortress.
He’d grown quite fond of Billy, giving him the nickname of “Little Friend of the World,” which was from Scratch’s favorite Kipling book.
Even now the boy was whispering from afar, saying, “We have to get out of here, Scratchy! We must escape! They’re not gonna to let us go!”
“But, how, Little Friend of the World?” the Engine Devil asked. “How can we escape? They have us in their power! Waugh! Hast thou seen the mage, Carvaserin? Who could escape his clutches?”
“Sure, I’ve seen him,” Billy said, his mentos voice sounding unimpressed. “So what? I call him Danny just to make him mad!”
“Oh, thou must be careful, Little Friend of the World!” Scratch said, although he couldn’t help a grin at the child’s boldness.
“Master Carvaserin comes from a family of mighty wizards! And that is very rare, indeed. Why his brother, the Master Brand Carvaserin, is known as a wizard above all wizards!
“Even now, I am told, this Brand Carvaserin rules the weapons’ mages in a mighty Russian fortress set on old Earth itself!”
“Oh, they’re big shots, all right,” Billy said scornfully. “Old Danny is always bragging about that. But that’s even better, don’t you see? We’re not important enough for guys like that.
“Once we’re gone, they’ll look around some, then forget about us because they have so many other things to do. Big shot stuff for big shot mages!”
Scratch thought of the grim-faced wizard and couldn’t help shuddering. “He’ll be angry!” he said. “He’ll grind poor Scratchy’s old bones to dust!”
“Never mind him!” Billy said, mentos so strong it was almost a shout. “There’s something worse. Can’t you feel it, Scratchy? Something really bad is gonna happen!”
Cold dread raced up and down Old Scratch’s spine: the foreboding that kept creeping in of late, making his big devil’s heart twitch in fear.
“Yes, Little Friend of the World,” Scratch admitted. “I can feel it!”
“Somebody’s coming to see us, Scratch!” the boy said. “He’s big and he’s mean and he’s thinking about us a lot. I don’t like that! I don’t like how he’s thinking!”
Scratch shuddered. Now that the boy mentioned it, he could see the shape of his enemy more clearly: a huge black cloud, all shot with lightning, sweeping through Uttermost Space.
He had a sudden vision of a cruel-visaged creature with a blood-red crystal on his forehead. The creature was coming for him and Billy! This dark truth burned in Old Scratch’s chest with hot certainty.
“How do we flee, O Little Friend of the World?” he asked. “Hast thou pondered this weighty matter?”
“We did it before, Scratchy!” Billy said, mentos sparking with hope. “We got off the HolidayOne, didn’t we? And damn if we can’t do it again!”
Scratch thought, growing hot with excitement. Yes, it could be done! Especially if he and the young mage joined sorcerous forces!
“There’s only one thing wrong,” Billy broke in, worry creeping in now that he could sense Scratch was on his side.
“I don’t know where to go. Or where we can hide. It’s easy for you, Scratchy. You’re an Engine Devil. Now, that’s really something! You can make starships go.
“But I can’t do anything. I’m just a kid. And a half-breed bastard to boot!”
“Do not call dishonor on thy blood, Little Friend of the World,” Scratch said. “The stars shine brighter because of thee. This is the only way to think of thy life.”
“But where can we hide, Scratchy?” the boy pleaded. “Do you know of a place?”
Old Scratch picked at a thick talon, pondering. This was indeed a question of much difficulty. One worthy of several pots of fiery punch, like they served at the favorite inn of Engine Devil’s Local 666.
An honest devil could think at that inn, fumes and flame rising all around. Yes, if only he were in …
“I know of just such a place, Little Friend of the World,” he said suddenly, cares falling away and hope glowing in his chest.
“A place where we can be safe among friends for a time. Wise friends, who can advise us.”
“Where is it, Scratchy?” Billy asked, mentos images bright and full of happiness. “What’s the name of this place?”
“Ah, but it bears a name above all names, Little Friend of the World,” Scratch replied.
“’Tis in a place known to me as … Avalon!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“The dogs are still uneasy, sir,” the young Russian soldier said to his sergeant, a massively built veteran with a permanent frown hammered into his features by foolish young men making foolish statements.
“So what, private?” came the angry reply. “Do you think you can trouble me because of that? Shit on your uneasy dogs! It’s two hours before dawn and I’ve enough work left to do without wasting my time on whining arse lickers.”
“Yes, sir! But, sir…”
“Still here, lad? Put yourself on r
eport so I can remember to kick your ass when I have more time.”
“Sir,” the soldier pleaded with true despair. “Sir, the Manual…”
“Manual, manual … thrust it up your ass. There’s no manual at this god-forsaken hour! Put yourself on report twice, so I can kick your ass twice. Now, off with you, private!”
The unhappy young soldier, whose name was Gregor, exited the door of the guardroom. The chewing out he’d received from the sergeant was of little consequence to him. He was too worried about his dogs, by damn!
As a dog master he only cared about his four-legged charges. And they’d been decidedly unhappy for some hours, although they hadn’t given him a hint about what was bothering them.
He was especially worried about his personal charge— the great Alsatian he’d been partnered with since his training. Gregor called him “Fang” after one of the dogs in Jack London’s books. And Fang had been acting up ever since they entered the guard shack.
Gregor sighed. Well, no more of that. Like the sergeant, he had other duties to attend to before his long shift was done.
At the moment, it was his job to join the patrol of the inner rim of the razor wire fence that surrounded the military installation.
As bases went, this was one of the most important in the entire Russian empire. It was the home of the very best airborne troops: Twelve Red-Banner Kenigsberg-Pskov Airborne Guards Divisions— fourteen thousand men in all; approximately twenty thousand fiends in war machines; special strike airwings with MiG-229 and Su-327 heavy tactical fighters; plus a whole battalion of anti-ballistic missile batteries.
The enormous base was laid out in a strategic circle of Anti-Rocket Defense around Old Moscow. Besides the troops and other defenses, it was also the home of many powerful war-mages and wizards of all classes and ranks.
Most of the mages and many of the higher ranking soldiers had their families living with them. This was to provide stability in an atmosphere that was always burning with many emergencies.
The young soldier and his dog, of course, didn’t know— nor would they have found it remarkable— that among the wizards residing on the base was Brand Carvaserin, brother of Daniel Carvaserin, chief mage of the Borodino.
Brand’s family lived on the base with him and it was the duty of the soldiers to guard his family at all costs, just as they were charged to protect the wizard.
That was the law.
Gregor strode slowly along the guard-path. As they patrolled, Fang crowded close to his master’s right leg, whimpering dolefully. The dog was really frightened, but without any reason the soldier could see.
The night was warm and calm. The sky, deep, clear and covered with innumerable stars. The Milky Way … Orion … the Great Bear …
A dismal chorus of howls from many dog-throats burst up from the distance. Despite all the magical security systems woven about the base, dogs were still one of the best instruments. There were hundreds of them assigned to all the main bases.
“Easy, Fang, easy,” the young soldier tapped his comrade slightly. “What’s wrong, pal?”
Two big brown eyes looked at the human with terrifying anguish. Fang whined softly, jumped and licked Gregor’s cheek.
This was considered “unsuitable” behavior for a war-dog, according to the young soldier’s instructors. And Gregor hadn’t witnessed it since Fang’s puppy days.
“Goodness…” Gregor whispered.
He seized his friend by his thick ruff, pulling him close. The dog was trembling, his ears were pressed close to his head and the fur all along his spine was stiff with alarm.
Then he began howling again, a howl filled with untold despair and fear— becoming louder and louder.
* * *
Young Gregor, along with his woolly-minded praporshick (sergeant) and many others— airborne commandos, pilots, junior mages, lesser fiends, techs, guards and cooks— knew nothing about the true purpose of the base.
Beneath all the barracks and laboratories, beneath the armories and fiends’ dungeons, beneath the command center, there was a level that contained the most terrifying secrets.
The entrance was thoroughly camouflaged by both magical and physical means and was guarded by tongueless and eyeless DeathSpirits of an especially evil breed. Creatures filled with black malice, spiced with a terrible blood lust to kill. DeathSpirits of that nature could not be bribed or, if captured, interrogated with any chance of success.
The secret level was buried deep under ground— so deep that even the special corps of Tecktonic Wizards, specialists in searches for underground caverns, would not be able to find.
There were many things to hide.
Brand Carvaserin was among the exalted few who had clearance high enough to enter the facility. The wizard’s face was grim as he passed the last post of human guards, striding forward, right into the immense darkness.
For three months he had been working here, in this top secret underground facility of magic. Along with several other Fifth-Class Wizards, he was creating a powerful series of magical weapons, never seen before, plus the all important means of delivery.
Good old spells that caused fires, floods, tornadoes, plague, mass madness, or epidemics of suicides had lost their effectiveness.
Effective counters to these spells had been created long ago and now both sides were working hard on new, super-destructive spells.
Day after day, night after night, the Russian wizards at the base labored over new monsters of magic, hiding their work in spell-bound containers.
They were charged with seeking “Something Really New,” which had resulted in the name for the crash program: Project SRN.
And so it was— despite the lateness of the hour— that as the uneasy dogs plagued the young sentry, Brand Carvaserin was on already on his way to the lab.
The darkness surrounding him was thick, hot and sticky. There were no walls or floor in the passageway he moved through— the wizard floated on a pillowy force— like clouds in a child’s dreams.
As he moved, streams of encapsulated power played around his fingers, which identified him to the silent guardians who watched the secret entrance to the laboratories and shops.
The Wizard was uneasy. Project SRN was still far from completion and might not be ready in time if Mother Russia had to fight the Amer bastards. And before he’d descended into the lab level he’d heard the howling dogs.
Brand hated dogs. Also cats, birds, beasts and other living creatures. His old master had told him long ago that this was the price of True Power.
However, Brand was not a fool. Something was wrong, he thought, as he passed the two gray globes that marked the facility’s entrance.
Did it have something to do with the Amers? Would they dare attack?
No, Brand told himself after several seconds of thought. Bastards though they may be, the Amers were not suicidal maniacs. Major Lawson’s investigation was still in progress. Before she announced her verdict the Amers would be forced to wait. Content to shout curses at the Russians.
However, we can shout back, Brand thought, and delay as long as possible until Project SRN is ready.
Therefore, whatever was bothering the dogs couldn’t be the Amers.
But why were the damned animals howling?
Brand became so lost in thought over the matter that he almost forgot to show his clearances at the last check point.
Then the darkness was gone and Brand found himself in a tiny room with several lockers along the walls. He changed clothes.
A door led out of the area into the main facility. It was decorated with all the known runes that protected against evil. There was even a Christian Cross. Brand palmed a switch and the door hissed open.
There was a long corridor with many doors on both sides. Brand opened one of them.
“Privet, Brand. What’s going on outside?”
An old man was standing before a long table covered with a thick slab of the best Italian marble. On the stone Brand saw
several rat-sized black creatures scampering beneath a glowing web-curtain.
“Nothing special, Alex. Except I see that your experiment was successful. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brand’s fellow wizard replied. “All parameters are stable. And the any up-scaling will only strengthen the spell, Brand.”
“Excellent work,” Brand said. “So the mimicking portion of the experiment is nearly complete. Pray for the same success in the warheads division, Alex, and our girl will be ready to dance at the ball.”
Alex grinned evilly in his beard. “They’ll love it,” he said. “Fabulous monsters terrorizing the Amer cities. Diving from the Naught! Jamming all communications! Ripping the Amers apart body and soul! What a panic there’s going to be. And then we…”
“Shut up!” Brand Carvaserin commanded. “These things can’t be discussed even here, you old…”
Alex straightened. “So sorry, sir,” he whined. “I was overwhelmed with joy. I’ll never do it again! Please forgive me, sir!”
“Let it be,” Brand said. Then: “Well, Alex, put your little ratty demons away and see what’s wrong with the dogs outside. They are howling so much it’s driving everyone mad. You are the Beast-Master, Alex. Prove your worth!”
“Yes, Brand, I’ll attend to it immediately,” the old wizard said. “The dogs are upset, you say? Interesting…”
Nodding absently as he thought about the possible causes, Alex swiftly exited the room.
Brand looked after him, considering. Despite his unpleasant nature, he was an excellent wizard. Swift in action and possessing a rich intuition. Something was really wrong! If asked, he would have taken an oath that he smelled danger.
And the odor was evil to the core— the rotting smell of total decay.
Brand shook off the feeling. It was nonsense, he decided. A feeling caused, no doubt, by the powerful magical waves given off by Project SRN.