by C. L. Werner
But her plan had backfired. Not wishing to endanger herself, Carlotta had sent a vampiric thrall with the expedition, and her surrogate had been destroyed by the faithless Arabyans. Worse, when she had finally caught up with some of the treacherous thieves in the city of Ka-Sabar, she discovered that they had found the lost city of Khareops, and had already penetrated the tomb of Nehb-ka-menthu.
As Carlotta had suspected, the undying liche priests of Khareops had mummified the remains of their slain king in the wake of the Great Ritual. The Arabyans had seen the mummy with their own eyes. Recalling her orders, several of them had decided that some potent magic must lie within the priest-king’s mouldering remains. They conspired to bear the mummy away to the coast and transport it to the Tilean city of Miragliano. One of the men was certain his contacts in the black market would enable them to dispose of the carrion at great profit.
Carlotta did not like to think what the ancient priest-king might have become in death. The embalming arts of the liche priests would have prevented his spirit from abandoning his dead form. But what effect might the vampire blood he had so laboriously extracted from his Lahmian captives have had upon him? In life, it had held back the sands of time, but in death? What sort of monster had the foolish Arabyans taken from the dry wastes of Nehekhara, and what might happen if the awful thing were to stir from its centuries of slumber? Nehb-ka-menthu’s mummy might be nothing more than a wasted corpse, but could she take that risk?
The black drapes parted and a pair of darkly handsome figures drifted across the onyx floor to stand beside their mistress. They were very alike in many ways, possessing the same pale skin, the same hungry cast to their lean faces and similar lustreless eyes. The vampire thralls had waited in hiding, to guard against any sudden aggression on the part of the bounty hunter. The contessa did not know whether her guest had been instructed in the detection of vampires by his literary chronicler. And she had learned that one could never be certain how the fragile living would react to the presence of the undead.
‘Mistress,’ spoke the vampire who had emerged from the left side of the room. He was a tall, well-built man. Two hundred years ago, before Carlotta had taken a fancy to him, he had been the premier duellist in Miragliano. He still wore his heavy duelling cloak, and still bore the light duelling rapier at his side. Carlotta reflected how even after hundreds of years, her kind were very much creatures of habit. ‘Why engage the mortal? You do not need him.’ The vampire’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I can find this carrion you so greatly fear.’ He drew his sword, letting the exposed steel gleam in the candlelight. ‘Time has not dulled my skills. I am still the greatest blade in all Tilea!’
‘Do you think that mere swordplay is enough? It would take more than a sword to strike down anything my lady fears,’ scoffed the other thrall. He was shorter than the other vampire, but no less handsome. He wore a set of elegant clothes with large frilled cuffs. His elaborately trimmed tunic resembled those that might be worn to the elaborate balls held by the wealthiest of Tilea’s merchant princes when they were not making war against one another. Indeed, Torici had once been a fixture at such functions: a dashing, witty rogue who had a reputation for making even the coldest heart warm to him. Carlotta had been amused by his wit, by his clever observations on the world, and she had taken him, that he might continue to entertain her into the long night. While Relotto was her brawn, Torici was her brain. The two thralls naturally complemented each another.
Relotto scowled back at his rival, baring his elongated fangs. Torici ignored him and continued to speak. ‘I must observe, with all deference my lady, that I am also at a loss to understand why you hired a vulgar bounty killer instead of sending one of us to deal with this matter.’
Carlotta fixed her slave with a withering look. ‘Because I do not wish there to be any trail that might lead back to me. If what I fear is true, if he walks again, I want no chance that he might find me!’
‘If I sent you, he would know I was behind the attack, because he would taste me in the blood that courses through your carcasses. But the bounty hunter is a different matter. There is nothing in him that will lead my enemy back here.’
‘Do you really think the warm-blood has any chance?’ Relotto remarked. ‘If the Vile One has not awoken, he might be able to destroy it, but if the Vile One walks again?’
‘Yes,’ replied the contessa. ‘You are quite right. I must keep an eye on my bounty hunter. I must know if he succeeds or fails.’ The vampiress lifted the animal nestled in her lap, and turned it so that she might whisper in its ear. She stood and gently set the animal on the floor. The cat swiftly scurried away and was soon lost in the deepening shadows of the corridor beyond the black room.
The cat shared some of Carlotta’s unlife; it was itself a thing removed from the living. By concentration and exertion of her will, the vampiress could see through the feline’s jade eyes. Her familiar would follow the bounty hunter. When Brunner found the hiding place of the priest-king, Carlotta would know. And if he found the mummy still locked in its ancient rest, and if he put the abomination to the torch, Carlotta would be close at hand to reward the villain for the boundless effrontery he had shown her.
Carlotta looked again at her devoted minions. ‘Notify the servants that we are leaving,’ she said. ‘In the event that the bounty hunter does fail, I want to be ready to quit the city immediately.’
The vampiress settled back in her chair as her minions returned to the shadows to carry out her orders. She reached a slender, pale hand for the crystal decanter, poured the rich red liquor into a small glass and daintily sipped. She held the blood on her tongue, savouring its salty, vibrant taste. And as she drank, she found herself hoping that Brunner would survive his task.
She was curious to know what his blood would taste like.
The dingy cellar was dark and cool, like the hole of some rodent. Brunner strode through the darkness, dodging the wet strips of cloth dangling from the wooden supports, and heading toward the rearmost corner of the underground room below the tannery. The stink of garbage and rotten vegetables assailed his senses as he pushed aside the damp rags. A faint light beckoned from the shadows.
‘Ah, my old friend!’ a frail-sounding voice coughed from somewhere near the light. ‘You’ve come to visit me once more and relieve my loneliness!’
Brunner advanced on the speaker. The man was spindly and old, his bones wrapped in wrinkled skin. The man’s skull-like face bore ghastly tooth-like projections. One of the hands that protruded from the sleeve of his thin nightshirt was malformed; it resembled a set of boneless tentacles. The human wreckage lay upon a rickety cot, with a small wooden chair set before it. An old lantern hung from a hook set into the beam above his feeble figure.
‘Tessari,’ Brunner said, as he seated himself in the old wooden chair. The mutant smiled as he heard his name, and his large, watery eyes misted with emotion.
‘It is so nice to hear my name spoken by another voice,’ Tessari confessed, tears slithering down his malformed face. ‘Sometimes I almost forget what it sounds like.’ He closed his eyes, his wasted body heaving with dry sobs. ‘Sometimes I almost forget what it is. I have to recite it to myself in the night so that I will remember.’
Brunner sighed, adjusting his position on the chair. ‘If you could delay the onset of madness for a few minutes, I have some questions for you, old man.’
Tessari’s eyes snapped open, the tentacles of his hand writhing and twitching. He contorted his features into a grimace of distaste. ‘I was forgetting myself. Forgetting who I was talking to. Tell me, Brunner, is there even a trace of pity in that stone heart of yours?’
‘None,’ the bounty hunter replied. ‘And since you seem so forgetful, I think I’ll just take my questions somewhere else.’ Brunner rose to leave. Tessari waved him to sit down again with his still-human hand.
‘There are many things I still remember,’ Tessari said, his tone sullen. He tapped his forehead wit
h one of the worm-like digits of his altered hand. ‘There are still a few things in this skull of mine.’
‘Let’s just hope that what I need is in there,’ Brunner commented as he sat back down.
‘Perhaps,’ Tessari responded. ‘But this time I want my fee paid in advance.’ The mutant’s tentacles clenched in a macabre parody of a closing fist. ‘And no tricks this time,’ he warned.
‘Of course not,’ assured Brunner. He lifted his helmed head to consider the hanging lantern. ‘After all, I see that you put your previous fee to a good purpose.’
‘Just so we understand one another,’ wheezed Tessari, settling himself back into his cot. ‘Who are you hunting this time?’
‘Not “who”,’ the bounty hunter corrected. ‘I am paid to find a “what” this time. A relic stolen from an expedition in Araby. My patron has reason to believe it is here in Miragliano.’
Tessari made a disgusted groaning noise. ‘Stolen property in Miragliano,’ the mutant laughed. ‘You might as well seek an individual snowflake on the ice fields of Kislev!’
Brunner favoured Tessari with a knowing smile. ‘I imagine that this particular item might be unusual enough to be remarkable. What was stolen was the mummified body of a Nehekharan priestking.’
Tessari’s wormy digits convulsed as they tried to make the signs of Shallya and Morr together. ‘Gods preserve us!’ he exclaimed.
‘I imagine that would be most people’s reaction,’ Brunner stated. ‘There can’t be too many men in Miragliano willing to deal in such wares. Even fewer who would have ties to thieves from Araby.’
‘There is only one whom I can think of,’ Tessari said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Abdul-Qaadir bin Shereef. Normally, he deals chiefly in Crimson Shade and other narcotic herbs from the South Lands, but he is not above dabbling in slaving and the black market. He is an Arabyan, but has lived in Miragliano for the past ten years. He is a ruthless and cruel man, utterly without morals. It is said he fears neither god nor man. I should think he would be just the sort of person who would buy or sell this thing you seek.’
‘This Abdul-Qaadir does indeed sound like the man I am looking for,’ Brunner agreed, tossing a set of silver coins onto the edge of Tessari’s cot. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Abdul-Qaadir maintains a warehouse off La Strada di Falco,’ Tessari answered, lifting his body so that he might retrieve the coins. ‘But be warned, he keeps much of his illegal merchandise there, and the warehouse is always guarded. Abdul-Qaadir is not like Ennio Volonte. He knows when and where to spend his money. His guards won’t be the usual gutter-trash.’
Brunner rose. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘I was getting worried that this job wasn’t going to be interesting.’
‘It might be more interesting than you can handle,’ cautioned Tessari. ‘You have given thought to the possibility that Abdul-Qaadir has already sold the mummy? Ask yourself what sort of man would want such a thing? Ask yourself what he might hope to do with it?’
‘I’ve already been warned of those possibilities, old man,’ Brunner retorted, caressing the pistol holstered across his belt. Tessari shook his head.
‘Once, when I was still young, the caravan I led happened upon a barrow mound just off one of the back trails to Monte Castello. Trust me when I tell you that guns and swords are no proof against the restless dead.’
Brunner stood still for a moment, considering Tessari’s advice. ‘What is?’ he asked.
‘Faith,’ the old mutant replied. ‘Faith in the good and noble gods, faith that they will preserve and protect you against such abominations.’
Brunner snorted contemptuously, stalking away from Tessari, and making his way back through the maze of damp rags. ‘I’m afraid that my faith in anything has run pretty low, especially faith in the gods. I prefer to put my trust in steel. And in gold.’
Tessari shook his head, and listened as the bounty hunter’s steps carried him from the cellar.
‘Steel and gold won’t help you, Brunner,’ he said to himself. ‘They won’t help you at all.’
Abdul-Qaadir pushed his swarthy hand into the wooden box, immersing it in the crisp dried leaves that filled it. The Arabyan smiled, stroking his scruffy beard with his free hand. This shipment of Crimson Shade that had been smuggled into Miragliano was the largest and freshest he had ever received. The noxious herb leaves felt like wealth, like power.
The broad shouldered black marketeer removed his hand, bringing with it a fistful of the leaves. The Tileans were fanatics for this maniac art they called the vendetta. Many of them fancied themselves masters of the sword, true artists of the duel. But a Tilean did not like to leave anything to chance. He would plot and plan, laying schemes within schemes to ensure that events would transpire toward the end he sought. It was the same with the duellists. Their skill with the blade might indeed be remarkable, but they always liked extra insurance. Some would coat their weapons in garlic or some other blood poison so that the merest scratch would finish their enemy. Others preferred to make certain that theirs would be the swifter blade. Such men were easily lured into the use of Crimson Shade, an exotic herb that would speed up their reflexes and reactions.
Abdul-Qaadir smiled again. That Crimson Shade was also dreadfully addictive was a side-effect his customers discovered for themselves. The Arabyan looked up and gestured for one of the hulking mercenary guards who stood watch in the sprawling warehouse. The hired sword walked over, his hands twitching on the grip of his halberd. Abdul-Qaadir handed him the leaves he had scooped from the crate.
‘A bonus, my friend,’ the black marketeer said. ‘You did well in ferreting out Emir’s thankless thievery.’ The Arabyan shook his head sadly. ‘Poor Emir, such a disappointment. He, more than anyone else, should have understood that there must be honour among thieves.’ Abdul-Qaadir gave the big Tilean a knowing look. He knew that the mercenary had informed on Emir, but it was only because he had been too stupid himself to figure out a way to steal from his employer. The black marketeer dearly hoped that the mercenary would continue to be thick-headed. Smart men made poor guards.
The swarthy Arabyan looked about the warehouse. It was a broad, squat building, crowded with the crates and barrels that held the black marketeer’s wares. In one corner was a massive iron cage. It was a little early yet to collect drunks from La Strada dei Cento Peccati. The Arabyan barques with their secret holds would not be in port for several months yet, and feeding prospective slaves for weeks on end would cut into Abdul-Qaadir’s profit margin. Profit was the black marketeer’s lifeblood. He’d sold his own mother to a caliph’s harem when he was a boy for the price of a camel. No matter what leader’s face graced the coin, Abdul-Qaadir knew the value of a piece of gold.
There was a furtive rapping on the heavy wooden door that opened onto La Strada di Falco. The guard nearest the door listened as the series of knocks was repeated. Abdul-Qaadir did not pay it much attention. The code had been given. It was one of the petty addicts who peddled Crimson Shade to Prince Borgio’s soldiers in the many taverns and brothels scattered throughout the city. It never failed to amaze the Arabyan how the street peddlers always knew when he had a new shipment. It was almost as if they could scent the leaves like a pig with a truffle.
The mercenary opened the door, and stared down at the heavily cloaked figure beyond the portal. Abdul-Qaadir’s herb-sellers often arrived in shabby disguises. The guard swore an oath and stepped through the doorway. He held his halberd in one hand and balled a fist with his other.
‘The boss will send for you when he wants you,’ the guard growled. ‘You’d be smart to stay away from here until he does.’ The guard lashed out with his fist, aiming a punishing blow to the man’s belly. He was shocked when the cloaked shape dodged aside from his blow. A surprised look froze on the guard’s face when a slender stiletto sprang into the figure’s hand and the cloaked killer punched a needle of steel into his throat. The guard slumped into the doorway, supporting himself against the halber
d, as his fingers clutched at the spurting wound in his neck.
The cloaked figure tucked the stiletto back into its place beneath the armour enclosing his forearm. Other weapons filled the bounty hunter’s hands.
It had not taken Brunner long to find one of Abdul-Qaadir’s Crimson Shade vendors. It had only taken a little longer to extract the information he needed from the wretch: the coded knock that would gain the man entry to the Arabyan’s warehouse. Now he only hoped that Abdul-Qaadir would be as forthcoming.
Brunner checked his weapons and kicked open the door that had been left ajar. Across the street, a tiny shape observed the prelude to death and violence. It was a small black creature with jade green eyes.
Abdul-Qaadir turned as the door of the warehouse slammed noisily. A ragged-looking man wearing a shabby brown cloak stood in the doorway. The Arabyan could not make out the man’s face beneath the hood of the cloak; much of it was masked by the visor of a steel helm. The curious-looking crossbow and heavy blackpowder pistol gripped in the man’s gloved hands, however, were menacingly identifiable.
‘Jafar’s rotting soul!’ Abdul-Qaadir exclaimed. ‘Brunner!’
Even as the Arabyan spoke, the bounty hunter had sprung into action. He sprinted across the room, closing upon the stunned black marketeer. The hulking Tilean Shade addict moved to intercept him.
Brunner’s repeating crossbow sent steel bolts smashing into the guard’s stomach and breastbone. He fell to the floor in a bleeding pile.
Abdul-Qaadir made to draw the curved blade from the colourful sash that crossed his midsection, but the business end of the bounty hunter’s pistol made him reconsider. The remaining five guards surged towards the intruder who had killed two of their number and was now menacing their employer.
‘I wouldn’t,’ growled the bounty hunter, as he gestured with his repeater crossbow. ‘Any closer, and your boss dies.’