by Adrian Cole
How to make sense of them, manipulate them? Presumably he was unique, not having come here through the machine medium. It would give him an advantage. And one he would need, for something told him that this vast inner domain was constantly policed by forces beyond his understanding.
For the moment he was content to explore randomly, like a bird swooping down into a landscape before rising high on a thermal, then dropping again. Now that he was here, he realised that finding any remnant of Bannerman’s psyche would be like seeking a single pearl in a sea. Cyberspace was as limitless as a universe.
As he travelled on across the empty wastes that now opened up below him, his surroundings began to fuse themselves into the inner arches and spars of a vast dome, grey light filtering down into it from vaults that had previously been like a night sky. The walls of this place curved away on all sides, while encircled by them was a wide, flat area that was many times larger than any enclosed area Reverence had ever seen in his earthly travels. It was like an empty Gothic cathedral, though it could have held several of them within its extraordinary confines.
Reverence drifted warily towards one of the curved walls, where a huge, eye-like window had opened. From this monstrous orifice, the light of unimaginable stars bled inwards, puncturing the floor of the colossal chamber. Reverence could see that it was riddled with the most grotesque symbols. They seemed to writhe within the light, a trick of its undoubtedly malefic power. There were figures down there, scores of robed acolytes, bowed down in supplication, worshipping that evil light. And beyond the portal out into the spaces beyond the dome, clouds were gathering. Living clouds.
Reverence drew back in alarm. Something about what he had seen filled him with a dreadful revulsion. Confused, appalled, he willed himself across the upper vaults of the hall and out of it. This could only have been the work of Fung Chang. He was summoning up powers beyond imagining. But from where? Within this false realm? Somehow Reverence did not think so. It was more probable that Fung Chang was using this realm to draw powers from another.
As he fled through the enigma of cyberspace, Reverence tried to grapple with the immensity of the problem. He would need Riderman’s knowledge. And how much more vital would Bannerman’s knowledge have been. This was Cyberwolf’s domain. Only he would properly have understood what was happening. But one thing seemed clear: this was an invasion of some kind. Those massed horrors were not looking for him, Reverence. They were materialising here, from God alone knew what black abyss beyond the world. And from here, he could only assume that Fung Chang intended to unleash them.
Part of Reverence wanted to flee altogether, go back to the safety of Riderman’s hotel, but he mentally gritted his teeth against the compulsion to do so. I must find any atom of Bannerman that has survived.
He paused, now in another mock-corridor, a tunnel that wound like a thick wire through this part of the complex. He seemed to be able to melt into and out of all parts of the system, like a ghost. How to find what I want? I must establish contact. Mentally he closed his eyes and leaned back, imagining he felt the curve of wall behind him. Part of him thrilled to this challenge. It was testing him so far beyond normal barriers. But equally he was afraid. How Jameson would have raised his brows at that! The great detective humbled at last. But, yes, fear ran amock in this hellish zone.
Then it came to him. He must establish physical contact. He focused his attention on the wall behind him. He made it real. He touched it. His hands slid into it, as though it were composed of thick, thick treacle. And he felt himself drawn into the distorted reality of cyberspace. At once he was speeding down its veins, the electronic arteries that powered it. Stunningly, his mind seemed to explode in all directions at once, like a massive burst of electricity running out along a grid that covered the entire extent of cyberspace.
Appalled, because he knew that he would have alerted his enemies to his presence just as if he had screamed out his whereabouts, he jettisoned himself from the cybernet as easily as he had entered it. But just as the power had shot outwards from him, so it had returned. And with it came the knowledge he sought.
Bannerman!
Something of the American had indeed survived the crossing to Pulpworld. And Reverence knew where to find it. Like him it was hiding. And like him it was hunted. He prayed that he would find it first. Like a diver sucking in a vital lungful of air, he steeled himself before launching again into the uncertainties of the cybernet.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
An Unequal Contest
Darkwing stood close beside the Barbarian, his eye lenses glinting in the moonlight, expressing doubt about the big man’s plan. “You must be pretty sure you can take this Artavius. Why?”
Lentullus had gone to fetch the commander, his other men remaining here, posted by the doorway. Cradoc and the others were themselves deep in shadow.
“He gave me the answer himself,” was the gruff reply, but Konnar’s craggy features had broken out in a smile that took years off him. In a hand to hand fight, Darkwing would have backed him against pretty well anyone. But Artavius would be no fool.
A few moments later, voices from beyond the doorway announced the coming of another group of men. Lentullus stepped out into the moonlight, behind him the burly soldier that Darkwing recognised as Artavius.
“So where’s this fight you want me to watch?” he growled. He had, as Lentullus had promised, been gambling and was still wearing his harness, though he carried no weapons. “If it’s as good as you say it will be, we’ll end the night contented and send everyone to their beds.”
Beside him, three of his henchmen grinned automatically, each of them equipped with a gladius, the short sword common to the soldiers. Quintus pushed through them. Like his commander, he bore no weapons.
“Here,” called Konnar, stepping out into the light where he could be seen. “Your fight is here, commander.”
“Who in Baccus’ name are you?” Artavius snorted contemptuously, his hands on his hips.
“I was chained in your pit,” said the Barbarian, holding up his hands. “But I am chained no more.”
Artavius glowered at Lentullus. “What is the meaning of this, centurion? You’d better have a good explanation.”
“He’s spoiling for a fight, sir,” said Lentullus calmly.
“So are you, I think,” Konnar told the commander.
“You think I would waste my breath on scum like you?” laughed Artavius.
“You boasted earlier that you could brain me with one arm tied behind your back.”
Artavius’ laugh became more derisive. “You think I couldn’t?”
“Your centurion thinks not. In fact, he’ll bet a year’s pay that you can’t.”
Lentullus kept still with a huge effort. Was this barbarian mad? But it was too late to back out of this now.
Artavius turned to Lentullus. “A year’s pay, Lentullus? My, my. I didn’t think you liked to gamble. You want to bet against me?”
“He’s very strong,” the centurion started to reply.
“I’ll tell you what, commander,” called Konnar. “I’ll make it easier for you. Forget about tying an arm behind your back. Take me on as you are. You’d have to be a fool to fight with one arm, even against a mule like me.”
Artavius’ eyes narrowed. This Barbarian was not the dummy he had seemed in the pit. So he would be sharp in a fight. He was no young warrior, but on closer inspection was a veteran. Those battle scars had been gleaned over long years of conflict and a score or more bitter wars. Dangerous. But he had compromised Artavius. He was in danger of losing face here.
He turned again to Lentullus. “You want to bet a year’s pay on him. What do you expect me to lay out as a stake? Not that it matters.”
“The debts my men owe you. And mine to you. They must total as much as a year’s pay.”
Artavius had noticed the four soldiers in the shadows by the door, though Darkwing and Cradoc were masked in shadow. The commander was nodding. By the God
s, this is a fine set-up! If I refuse to fight now, I’ll earn even deeper contempt from these men. But I’ll deal with Lentullus afterwards. “Very well. A fight it is. But we must give your uncouth friend proper satisfaction. Quintus! Come, you must bind my left arm behind me.”
The sergeant came forward, a look of horror on his face. “Sir, you cannot mean —”
“But I do! The barbarian is right. I made a boast. Let it not be said that Artavius cannot honour his boasts. Nor that he is a coward. Bind my left arm and do it to Lentullus’ satisfaction.” Artavius grinned unpleasantly while Quintus turned to fetch a leather thong from inside the barracks. But he was stopped at the door by one of Lentullus’ soldiers.
“Here, sir.” He handed a length over, blocking Quintus’ way so that he could not go inside and call out more support.
Quintus returned to Artavius and began reluctantly tying his left hand behind his back.
“A sword, if you please,” the commander said to him.
Quintus took a gladius from one of his men and gave it to Artavius. They were smiling, though whether in smugness, assured of Artavius, or in pleasure at his plight, Quintus could not tell.
“You, barbarian, will fight as promised. I should have said, however, that your hands cannot be permitted to soil a Roman blade. You will fight as you stand.”
In the shadows, Darkwing mentally cursed, preparing to defend the Barbarian. They should have known better. This would be an unequal contest after all. Konnar had underestimated Artavius’ cunning.
But the warrior’s grin had not faded, as if it was exactly what he had been expecting. “Very well, commander. I am happy to accommodate you.” He stepped out further into the drill ground, his moonlit form casting a long, solid shadow.
Lentullus inspected the knots Quintus had tied and saw that it would take a knife slice to part them. Artavius would indeed fight with one arm.
“You didn’t say, barbarian — is this to be a fight to the death? I think it should be.”
“I think you are right, commander. Do your men accept the terms of the wager?”
Artavius turned to Quintus. “You witness this, Quintus.”
Quintus hesitated, but as Artavius made a few cutting passes in the night air with the gladius, he nodded. “Very well, sir. My men and I witness it.”
“Good. So, let us conclude the matter,” said Artavius, automatically adopting a crouching stance. He moved forward. The moon brightened, as if itself eager to follow the proceedings, limning the barbarian clearly, marking him for death.
Konnar was very still, his muscles tensed, eyes searching for a weakness in the Roman’s tactics. Artavius, he guessed, would not want to look too cautious in front of his men. He would want a quick kill, a show of dominance over this insolent vermin from the wild lands. The pride of Rome was a vast thing, Konnar had assumed. It would be no different from the pride of other empires he had known. Known and seen topple.
Artavius made a lunging pass, but it was exploratory. Konnar slipped away from it easily. Again Artavius chopped and cut, but each time he cleaved no more than air. Konnar eluded him comfortably, but feigned a slight slowness on his right side. Artavius, also looking for weaknesses, had noted it. He followed up with another flurry of strokes, designed to test out this favouring of the left in his opponent. Once more, the barbarian was quick to skip aside and weave away from the gladius. But there was definitely a weakness on his right side.
Darkwing and Cradoc watched uneasily. Konnar was quick, but he could not hope to evade the Roman’s sword for long. The commander was testing him, that was all. And he was good. Sharp, experienced.
Artavius shifted the weight on his feet, balancing his body instinctively and made his first real attempt at a strike. The tip of the blade swung in an arc, missing the Barbarian’s throat by the breadth of a hair. Normally the commander would have adjusted his balance in an eye-blink and been ready to attack again. But without his left arm to compensate, he was fractionally off balance. Konnar’s right arm shot forward like a piston and the heel of his hand smacked up under Artavius’ right elbow. The strength of the blow swung Artavius even further round, exposing his right side. Konnar drove his left fist into his opponent’s lower ribs and Artavius let out a gasp, spinning away, sword raised in defense.
But Konnar was too experienced to rush in. He had hurt his opponent. Artavius was dragging air into his lungs noisily, cursing crudely, though he could hardly get the words out. He knew that only the harness had saved him from a broken rib or two. He would have to compensate more for the tied arm.
As he came back to make another stab for the barbarian, he was wary. He flicked the blade out like the tongue of a snake and more than once he scored a hit, drawing blood. But they were nicks, no more. The Barbarian remained as slippery as an eel. Again Artavius made a sweeping chop, but this time the fingers of the Barbarian clamped down on his upper arm. Konnar’s head swung forward, cracking down on Artavius’ nose. The commander lost his footing, swinging wildly, but opening himself up. Konnar’s fist drove up under his nose and the commander went backwards, knees folding. He thumped on to his back, blood spraying his face, but managed to protect himself with the sword.
Konnar remained wary, not prepared to risk the sharp blade. He watched as Artavius struggled to his feet, blood pouring from his ruined nose, filling his mouth. With only one hand, he was seriously disadvantaged now. His eyes were filled with tears, his vision blurred as he fought to hang on to consciousness.
Across the drill yard, Quintus swore, pulling another sword from the scabbard of one of Lentullus’ guards before they could prevent it. He rushed upon Konnar, meaning to spit him where he stood, but the shadows around him seemed to solidify for an instant. The air thrummed to the sound of wings. His sword arm snapped like a dry twig, the blade spinning away and Quintus was knocked backwards, crashing down untidily on the stones.
Darkwing, who had himself been about to spring forward to defend the Barbarian, watched the fall of the sergeant with a cold smile. “Wondered when you’d get here,” he murmured to the shadows. The blurred darkness shifted into the outline of a woman, crouched like a panther about to spring. But human eyes could not focus on it clearly. It danced away from any hint of light, ethereal as a wraith. Behind it, on the sloping tiles of a roof, a small flock of jet-black birds had materialsed.
Artavius turned instinctively to watch Quintus, who was rolling on the ground in agony, his arm badly broken. What is happening? What gods toy with us here?
Only Konnar remained attuned to the matter in hand. One fractional glance at Quintus was enough. He fixed on Artavius, whose defenses were now breached. With a sudden rush, he bore in on him, kicking out at his legs in a mock attack that forced the commander to drop the sword in defense of his lower half. Konnar’s fist again cracked against what was left of his nose.
Artavius screamed, releasing the sword, falling to his knees and clutching at the ruin of his face. Konnar swiftly got behind him, put an arm about his neck and gave one violent twist. Artavius stopped screaming. Konnar let him go and he fell on to his face.
Konnar wiped the dripping blood from his arm and took the sword from the commander’s nerveless fingers. He went to Quintus, who had scrambled to his feet, nursing his shattered bone, unable to defend himself.
Darkwing stepped out of the shadows, afraid that Konnar was about to dispatch the wounded man. The Barbarian lifted his sword and set the point down on Quintus’ shoulder.
“Should I send you to join your master in whatever hell he’s gone to?”
“I’m not afraid to die. But you used sorcery to defeat me,” Quintus spat through his pain, eyes trying to find the shadow demon that had foiled him.
“And you, I think, would have cut me down from behind, had you not been stopped.” Konnar turned, eyes searching for the darkness that had coalesced. Instead he met the steady gaze of Darkwing.
“Shadow Woman,” said the latter. “I had a hunch we’d see her.”
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Konnar had no idea what he was talking about. “Is she still here?”
“She’ll be somewhere close.” On the roof, the ravens croaked.
Their conversation was broken up by Lentullus who, like his soldiers and the other guards were staggered by what they had seen. The Barbarian had bested Artavius easily. The commander had been as tough a fighter as the legion possessed, but this Barbarian had torn him apart!
“I think,” he told Lentullus, handing him the sword, “that you are in command here now. And my companions and I are in your hands.”
Lentullus shook his head in bafflement. He turned to the others. “Look to Artavius.”
One of them was already doing so. “Sir, he’s dead.”
“Then we’ll arrange a proper funeral for him. Quintus, get up. You saw what happened here. The fight was a fair one. Or if it was unequal, it had no bearing on the result. You are in no state to lead us. I am indeed assuming command until word comes to us from Londinium.”
The men all saluted, right arms crossing their chests. Quintus bowed in grim acceptance, face still screwed up in agony. “Yes, sir.”
“Get Quintus to the surgeon. Quickly. That arm will need setting at once.”
Moments later the sergeant was led away, barely able to avoid fainting.
Darkwing was studying Konnar’s face, but it was calm, unmoved by the violent events of the last few minutes, for the entire episode had been enacted remarkably swiftly. “That was some fight, buddy.”
Konnar shrugged diffidently. “He made one fatal mistake. You need both arms, no matter what weapon you have.”
Good job these fellars don’t have guns yet, Darkwing mused.
Cradoc lumbered over to them, the remaining soldiers drawing back, in awe of his size and grotesque appearance. The Mire-Beast reached out one of his great paws and gripped Konnar gently on the shoulder. The eyes of the creature communicated his relief at Konnar’s success.
“So where to now?” Konnar grinned. “And by the way, who in the Nine Pits of Acherae are you? And what weapon did you use to cut us free?”