by Adrian Cole
It took Darkwing a few more minutes to widen the hole he had made. He slipped his hand into it, reaching through the charred wood of the door to its thick metal fastening inside. Carefully he eased it up off its latch, using his weight to push at the door. The hinges creaked faintly, but Darkwing was able to edge the door inward very slowly. If there were guards there, they were asleep.
When the door was open enough, Darkwing flowed through the gap. A few seconds later he beckoned the others to follow. Once beyond, they closed the door and dropped the bar once more. Ahead of them was a narrow corridor, lit at its far end by a single sputtering torch in a cresset.
“With any luck,” whispered Darkwing, eyes sparkling, “we’ll be away before they even know it. On the other hand, we may have to fight our way out.”
His companions shrugged, committed. No problem, they were both thinking.
At the end of the corridor, they had a choice of directions. Darkwing was deliberating, but Cradoc indicated the left branch. He could remember the exact route his captors had taken when bringing him here. The three of them edged forward, working their silent way through this part of the barracks. As they did so, they could hear the snores of sleeping men. If anyone was awake, they were not on guard. Evidently the Romans saw no need for it in this place.
A doorway led to the outside, but it was a wide courtyard, probably a parade drill ground. They would have to cross it to get to the front of the garrison and then the outer gates and the road back to Meridian Park. Satisfied that there were still no guards around, Darkwing led them around the edge of the yard, the shadows of the eaves masking them.
“Looks like the only way out is through that doorway and then on to the main gate, or maybe a side gate around the perimeter wall,” Darkwing breathed. Again his companions nodded.
“Okay, I’ll check it out.” He padded to the doorway he had indicated, hiding within its darkness. Satisfied, he beckoned them on.
As they were crossing the last twenty yards of the courtyard, they heard someone behind them. Both the Barbarian and the Mire-Beast swiveled about. Four soldiers had emerged from a side doorway, about to cross the yard, yawning and muttering as if they had just returned from a late watch elsewhere. They did not see the two figures before them until they were almost on top of them. As they did, they gasped, fumbling with the short swords at their belts.
Another shape materialised out of the shadows behind the two figures, drawing a sword that scraped from its scabbard, splitting the silence. Darkwing was behind this figure in an instant, an arm about its neck, his cloak enfolding it. The man felt something warm pressed to his neck.
“Tell your men to drop their swords, or you’re all dead men,” Darkwing told his captive.
Cradoc and Konnar were like coiled springs, about to fly into the four startled Romans, but as they saw Darkwing grip the other soldier, they held back.
“Drop your swords!” the captive called, his voice low.
“Lentullus?” said one of them, peering at him from the darkness. He could not properly make out the face of the man who had spoken, but he could readily see his predicament. Everything had been played out very quietly, as though no one wanted to disturb the rest of the garrison.
“Aye. Do as I say.”
“Whoever you people are,” said another of the soldiers, “you can’t hope to get out of here alive. You can kill us all, but there’s another five hundred men between you and the gates.”
Darkwing ignored him. “You are Lentullus? Lentullus Secundus?”
“What if I am?”
“You are a friend of Grimsfeather?”
The Roman drew in his breath. “How could you know that?”
“I saw you speak to him. You recently allowed a carriage to pass through your streets, with Grimsfeather and other passengers you might not have seen. I was one of them. Grimsfeather sent me here.” Darkwing eased his grip on the man’s throat.
“But why? What could you possibly want here?” Lentullus gasped. His men remained frozen, uncertain what to do. The huge Mire-Beast looked to them like some god of the forest, some Britannic horror brought out of the night, as some of the other soldiers had been predicting. Its uncanny silence and scarlet eyes was enough to freeze the bowels of the hardiest campaigner.
“I have come for these two. They are my allies.” A thought occurred to Darkwing. “Allies of Grimsfeather and Riderman, his master.”
“Riderman!” gasped the soldier.
“I don’t have time to explain. Your commander — is he sympathetic to Grimsfeather and those he serves?”
“Artavius? That grasping bastard? You jest! Artavius serves only himself. His god is the god of greed.”
“Then spiting him won’t come so hard.”
“What do you intend?”
“Get us away. Are your men loyal to you? Or do we have to kill them?”
Lentullus looked horrified. “No, no, they are loyal. They’d slit Artavius’s throat if I asked them to.” He called out to the men again. “These people are not enemies.”
The soldiers were still eyeing the Mire-Beast warily. Even in this light he looked forbidding, towering over them, demonic. But if Lentullus spoke up for the creature, it was good enough for them. He had dealings with these Britons and had declared more than once that he trusted their leaders. Lentullus himself had evidently now adopted a more relaxed attitude.
Konnar grinned at the men. “If we’re going to quit this place, why don’t we leave a memento of our passing?”
“What do you mean?” said Lentullus. “I can get you away, but if Artavius knows I had anything to do with it, I’ll be crucified and left out for the crows!”
The Barbarian’s grin widened. “Artavius is obviously not a popular leader. Nor, I suspect is Quintus. Who would take command here if they both perished?”
“You think to murder them in their beds?” said Lentullus with a scowl. “It’s an idea not without its attractions, but they are too well guarded. They know well enough there are more than a few soldiers here who would gladly slip a knife into them.”
The Barbarian was shaking his head. “No, nothing so crude. I was thinking more of a fair fight.”
Darkwing’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t want to be taking any risks.”
“No risks,” said Konnar, still grinning. “Lentullus, bring Artavius here. I’ll fight him, if he has the stomach for it.”
“And if not?” said Lentullus. “He’s no coward, but he’s not a fool. If he knows you are here, what is to stop him from surrounding you and chaining you up once more?”
“If I kill him fairly and then dispose of Quintus, you are sure the men would elect you to take the garrison over?”
The four soldiers were all nodding. “Aye, barbarian. Most of Artavius’s cronies only support him out of fear. But you seem sure of your victory. Both Artavius and Quintus are skilled with the sword.”
“All the more reason for them to feel confident of dispatching me.”
Darkwing moved uneasily to his side. “Hold on there, buddy. We could be away from here well before dawn. Why the heck risk all our necks in a fight?”
“I would have thought,” said Konnar, “that Lentullus would make an even stronger ally if he had a legion at his back. I don’t know what is brewing in this strange world, but I have seen enough to know that we are outnumbered as we stand.”
“You want to risk you and Cradoc’s freedom?”
“Artavius won’t see it as a risk. And once I’ve killed him and Quintus, we’ll have an entire legion to call on, eh, Lentullus?”
Lentullus smiled in spite of the bizarre situation. “Brave enough words, barbarian. But there can be no doubting that this is a gamble. Artavius is addicted to such things, and I promise you, he would think nothing of loading the dice.”
“Something vile brews in this land,” Konnar went on. “There are demonic forces out there. Cradoc and I have fought them. You’ll need a legion, maybe more, to oppose them.”
>
“Who leads them?” said Lentullus.
Darkwing nodded. The Barbarian had a point. “He’s right. A particularly powerful sorcerer is at work. His name is Fung Chang.”
“Fetch Artavius,” Konnar said again to Lentullus. “He won’t be able to resist a fight when he hears my terms.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Psychic Search
Time seemed to move at differing speeds, like currents in a river. For Riderman, the day dragged into afternoon. He made countless phone calls, like a general marshalling an invisible army, pacing up and down the room, eyes turning again and again to the motionless figure of Reverence in the chair as though he could will it awake. To Jameson, too, the day crawled. His friend had never been in a trance for so long. The detective’s pulse and heartbeat had slowed, but at least they were steady. Whatever his condition, it had not worsened.
Mears, seeking respite from the anxieties and frustrations of waiting for Reverence to come to, returned to the library. Miss Timkins had evidently found something useful to do and was nowhere to be seen. Mears gazed around the rows of books, most of which were beautifully bound, hand-tooled and no doubt very valuable. His curiosity got the better of him and he started to examine the titles. There were numerous travel books and a large history section. Flicking through the pages of some of these he found himself even more perplexed by the mysteries of this strange world. So much of what he read was familiar, yet other parts were like fiction, describing places he had never heard of and events that would have belonged in novels in his own world.
In one press, he found a number of thin volumes, bound in hide, their spines devoid of markings. Idly he pulled one off the shelf and opened it, to reveal its title, The Hungry Stars by Ludwig Kriegman. It seemed familiar, but elusive. Skimming the minute print of the text, he guessed the book to be the work of a crank: it referred to ‘stellar visitors lodged in deep Atlantis’ and their ‘crawling spawn.’ This belongs in one of the pulp magazines, he mused. But it occurred to him that here, things would be different. Maybe here there was an Atlantis, and God alone knew what was swimming about its deep trenches.
There were other bizarre titles, reminiscent of those he had read about in the vivid horror fiction of his own world. There, he would have feasted on their pages, but somehow here he couldn’t bring himself to open them, tempted though he was. Wandering about the close-packed shelves, he found nothing to help him in his understanding of the current plight facing the group, the peculiar mixture of characters in whose company he found himself.
He decided instead to look for Miss Timkins. If he was honest with himself, the thought of her was too much of a distraction and the real reason why he didn’t absorb himself more in the books. Normally he would have been like a boy in a toy store. He knew she had an office, so quietly left the library and even more discreetly passed through the room where Jameson yet watched over Reverence. Riderman was staring out of the large window, hand idly stroking his beard, deep in thought.
Mears found the girl’s office and to his delight saw her sitting at a desk. Her back was to him and she was leaning over the desk, which was littered with papers and folders, her contribution to the current quest.
“Hi, there,” he called quietly, closing the door behind him. “Mind if I join you? The conversation has dried up out there.”
She made no move, wrapped up in her work. Slowly he walked around to the side of the desk. “Serious stuff, is it?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Still she did not move. Her hands were flat on the desktop, as if she were meditating or even dozing.
“Miss Timkins?” He frowned. “Are you all right?” He was concerned now and reached for her arm. As he took it gently, she flopped back into the chair, leaning over on one side. Her eyes were closed, her face slightly pale.
He dropped to his knees and gently gripped her shoulders, shaking her carefully. “Miss Timkins!” Still she didn’t respond. He felt her pulse, which was slow, but regular. What would Jameson make of this? He tried shaking her again, to no avail.
“Don’t touch her, Mr. Mears!” called a voice from the door. It was Riderman.
Mears tumbled back in surprise, as if he had been caught in an illicit act. “I think she’s fainted,” he stammered, getting awkwardly to his feet.
“No, she’s fine,” said the novelist. He came forward, leaning over the girl and listening to her breathing. “Nothing to worry about, old chap.”
“I thought with Reverence out cold —”
“Not the same thing at all,” said Riderman with a forced smile. “She has her own way of relaxing. It’s a sort of trance, a deep meditation. But it’s dangerous to pull her out of it. Best to leave her alone. She’ll come out of it in her own time. Believe me, Mr. Mears, I’m quite used to it. Scared me a bit when I first saw it. Nice of you to show such concern.”
Mears could not conceal his embarrassment, but Riderman put an avuncular arm around his shoulder and guided him from the room. “We must seem an odd lot,” said the novelist.
Mears laughed nervously. “It’s certainly an odd world. Are you absolutely sure she’s all right?” He looked back.
“Yes, yes. You mustn’t worry. Taken a bit of a shine to her, have you?”
Mears blanched. “No, no. Yes, well, she looked so vulnerable —”
“Let her rest awhile. You’ll see.”
Mears nodded, accepting the situation reluctantly. He glanced at Reverence as they faced him again. “Any change?”
“Not yet,” said Riderman, exchanging an uneasy glance with Jameson. “I’m afraid it’s a waiting game at the moment. No word from outside either.”
* * * *
He drifted weightlessly through the darkness, floating like a ball of light through an astral dimension. Somewhere beyond the borders of his vision, shapes shifted, blurred and sluggish. Some were huge, leviathans patrolling the deeps of the ocean, others blending into thick clouds. He felt himself slowly going downwards, like a leaf spiraling to earth, or a tossed pebble zigzagging its way to the ocean floor.
Dim lights below revealed a landscape. It was only partially familiar and after a moment’s study, he saw that it was Pulp City, or at least a version of it, for in this realm he was as removed from it as he was from his own world. Controlling his slow fall, he steered himself over the towers and spires, the tree-lined avenues and the curious domes of its suburbs.
Reverence’s projected form hovered above a brightly painted construction that sprawled above an area of the city where the buildings were impossibly packed. The building, Oriental in style and decoration, was surrounded by a thirty-foot high wall. Reverence knew at once that this was the retreat of Fung Chang, the fortress where his enemy drew up his plans against the world. But Reverence sensed that the woman he was seeking was not there. No trace of Annabella Fortescue’s essence was detectable.
Drifting around the perimeter of the Temple of the Seven Winds, Reverence’s psychic attention was drawn by a single volcanic crag and the stone building that had been hacked from its peak. He focussed on its bleak walls, the energies at work within it. Within moments he realised he had found something important. But it was not some essential part of Annabella that he sensed. There was still no clue to her whereabouts. But something was here.
Beside the walls, he paused. The astral air above him was thickening, as though with guardian spirits, dark entities that pulsed with evil. Like hounds scenting their prey, they closed in on Reverence. He passed through the stone walls before they could pin-point him.
He knew at once that he was in a different realm, one that hummed and thrived on other energies, the curious electrical and electronic emissions of machines that belonged well in the future of his own world. But Riderman had spoken eloquently about them, these computers and the cyberspace they generated, itself a world, a dimension within a dimension. It was the world of Cyberwolf, where the American, Bannerman would have been as much at ease as a dolphin in the sea o
r a hawk in the skies. Reverence would have to learn to navigate its currents quickly.
The upper corridors of this place were a stone maze, housing little of interest. But they were enough to enable him to shrug off the attentions of the invisible guardians outside. He sensed their withdrawal. Cautiously he slipped down into the heart of the tower, like cutting through the layers of a huge onion. He could feel the energy generated by the machines, like an aura, a parallel astral realm. Cyberspace, he thought. The inner world Riderman had described, the mind of the machines.
And Reverence knew that there was some link with Bannerman. Had something of his essence survived the crossing?
He was no longer alone. Something else closed in on him, minds as powerful as his own, exerting psychic energies as surely as others wielded fire or steel. If he remained here, they would exorcise him. Fung Chang’s servants would be ruthlessly efficient.
He concentrated on the machine energy, the fluctuations of its raw nerves. Something buzzed in the air around him, as if he had brushed up against a live current. Then he was in. It had been easier than he had expected. There was a moment of confusion, superficial dizziness, as though his astral being was reorganising itself, reconstituting itself, becoming a new form of energy.
At once he metaphorically plunged into this new environment. Faster than light, thought even, he swooped through immeasurable vaults, almost drunk with the sensation of freedom, the power of a god.
Reverence brought himself to a halt, calming his racing emotions, emotions over which he normally exercised such complete control. Dangerous, he told himself. Yet how easy to be seduced in this amazing realm, just as the opium pipe lures one back.
Now that he had begun the process of reason again, he became aware of some of the forces at work around him. This place was not unlike the astral realm, with its invisible limits, unknown dimensions and shifting shapes and powers. It was like being adrift in a conglomeration of minds, their thoughts darting hither and yon like speeding stars in the night sky, or shoals of fish in an ocean.