Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  "Oh, I will," Montrose said, half irritated and half amused. "To assign some special work details to you and most especially your friend." It was too bad, he reflected, that an army of the Restless didn't need anyone to clean latrines.

  The Stygian turned and sauntered back the way he'd come, through the ring of sentient torches and on down the hill. But as soon as he judged he was out of eyeshot of the Legionnaires on the roof, he slipped into the narrow walkway between two tenements and veiled himself in darkness.

  A wraith learned to take it for granted that mortals couldn't see him; but, despite the centuries Montrose had spent honing his Harbinger abilities, he sometimes found it nerve-wracking to operate on the assumption that his fellow spirits were similarly blind. As he crossed the open space around the Citadel, he kept expecting one of the Legionnaires to shout a challenge, or simply open fire. The tension prickled along his nerves and made his mouth feel dry.

  But no one noticed him, and finally he reached the base of the wall. As he stepped through it, his substance resonated to the buzz of emotion lingering in the brick. Children had suffered in this place, slaving at workbenches from before dawn until after dark, breathing hot, thick air, squinting against the gloom, muscles cramping and fingers bleeding. The Stygian shuddered, invigorated and repelled at the same time.

  Shaking off the sensation, he inspected the interior of the building. He was standing in a cavernous, musty-smelling chamber illuminated by the dim gray light leaking through filthy skylights. Nearby, a wraith, a budding Chanteur, was practicing her Arcanos by crooning to spiders. When she hit the right note, the small predators ran madly around their webs, or even tumbled out of them altogether.

  Montrose prowled on through the complex, avoiding proximity to other ghosts when possible. Cloak of shadows or not, he saw no point in tempting fate. Where not given over to open work areas, the derelict buildings proved to be a maze of cramped rooms, snaking hallways, and blind alleys. Often compelled to backtrack, he might have saved time by slipping through walls, but he feared losing his bearings.

  Finally, warmth began to prickle across his skin, warning him that his mask of darkness would soon evaporate. He supposed he had little choice but to expend the energy necessary to weave another. Then he heard a commotion up ahead.

  He crept forward, reached the end of the hallway, and peered out into another open area, this one illuminated by greenish barrow-flame. A diversity of banners, emblazoned with hawks, question marks, crowns of thorns, grinning faces, begging bowls and hourglasses, hung from the rafters. Various luxuries, including a large television, one side of its mahogany cabinet a web of jagged Nihil fissures, stood here and there about the floor.

  In the middle of the chamber a number of Legionnaires in the ubiquitous green sashes—officers, judging by the quality of their clothing and gear—were jammed in a circle together, crowing, cursing, and shouting encouragement. Peering, Montrose glimpsed a pair of barghests fighting in the center of the ring. The frenzied thralls were lean as greyhounds, their sculpted heads more canine than manlike, their bodies altered to enable them to stand erect or lope on all fours with equal facility. The gray iron muzzles which denied them human intelligence also prevented them from biting one another, but didn't hinder the use of their long gray claws.

  A man in a gleaming steel domino, a short magenta cape, and the cuirass and helmet of a conquistador stood calmly watching the battle. As heedlessly as the other spectators jostled one another, they took care not to crowd him or obscure his view. A smirking dwarf in green and violet motley crouched at his side, a leather bag in his stubby hand. It probably contained the coins his master had wagered on the bout.

  Montrose walked up behind the masked man, dissolved his veil of darkness, and tapped him on his armored shoulder. The masked man jumped and spun around.

  "Hello, Manuel," the Stygian said. "It's good to see you again."

  EIGHT

  Manuel Gayoso de Lemos's suite occupied much of the top floor of the derelict building, where, for some reason, the echo of ancient suffering was strongest. Montrose supposed that by Shadowlands standards, his fellow Anacreon's rooms were more than comfortable. The Spaniard had even arranged for someone to sweep, dust, and scour the place clean; a task which, considering that the accumulated grime had existed on the other side of the Shroud, must have been a major undertaking. Still, to a Hierarch accustomed to the luxuries of the Onyx Tower, the place was essentially a hovel. Montrose did his best to conceal his disdain.

  Gayoso ushered him into a dark office, then snapped his fingers. The three white tapers in a brass candelabrum burst into cold blue flame, their reflections of the fires gleaming on his breastplate and domino. After offering Montrose a chair, he sat down behind his desk, hesitated, and finally, as courtesy required, removed his mask, revealing pouchy eyes and a fleshy beak of a nose.

  Montrose had known any number of wraiths who hated revealing their faces. Struggling to survive amid the rivalries of the Hierarchy, they didn't want anyone gleaning their private thoughts from a momentary flicker of expression. Montrose sympathized with their anxiety, but he didn't share it. He flattered himself that he was generally capable of concealing his true feelings without recourse to a tangible veil.

  "Well," said Gayoso, "it's been a long time since we'd had a visitor from the Isle of Sorrows. To what do we owe the honor?"

  "The Smiling Lord has ordered a war against the Heretics operating along the lower Mississippi. He appointed me to the Order of the Unlidded Eye and ordered me to direct the campaign." Montrose gave Gayoso what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. "Needless to say, I'll be relying heavily on your advice and support."

  Gayoso grimaced. "I can't believe that our master would send you alone. Does he expect me to give up my troops and my resources—"

  "He expects you to provide any assistance required, but in point of fact, I did set sail from Stygia with my own troops. Unfortunately, raiders attacked and overwhelmed us en route. As far as I know, only I escaped. So as it stands now, yes, I'm afraid I will have to draw on local reserves for my entire army. Surely it won't be all that much of a burden."

  "Spoken like a true Stygian," Gayoso said.

  Montrose lifted an eyebrow. "I fancied we were both Stygians, my lord Anacreon."

  "I'm a Hierarch," Gayoso said. "There's a distinction. Hierarchs do the dirty work and Stygians reap the rewards. We struggle to keep order and enforce the Code of Charon. You extort levies of thralls from us to feed the Soul Forges, and keep all the newly made goods for yourselves."

  "A harsh man might feel that that remark borders on treason," Montrose said. "But I don't. I understand your frustration. These are hard times. Stygia isn't receiving nearly as many souls as it used to, which means we can't ship nearly as many articles back. That's why all Legionnaires should work together to restore the empire to its former ascendancy."

  "And you're going to accomplish that by destroying a few Heretics."

  "It's a start," Montrose replied. "I'm amazed you haven't already set about purging them yourself. I saw one preaching in the shadow of this very Citadel. How can you command the respect of the populace if you tolerate open sedition?"

  Gayoso sighed. "You don't understand the situation here. Yes, of course the Heretics are a problem, but they aren't our biggest problem. Since the emperor perished, we've had a steady string of Spectres and Maelstroms laying waste to the province. We can't afford to provoke a major confrontation with Heretics or Renegades. Particularly not right now."

  "What do you mean?" Montrose asked.

  Gayoso shook his head. "I wish I knew. But I governed the living folk of this settlement three hundred years ago when I was breathing, and I've dwelled here ever since. I'm attuned to this place, and I feel something new arising. Something foul."

  Recalling Katrina's murky warning, Montrose felt a chill ooze up his spine. He did his best to quash the feeling. Even if Gayoso wasn't lying to excuse his reluctance to cooperate, there
was always danger lurking in the Underworld. A Legionnaire who permitted that realization to cow him would never accomplish anything.

  "Perhaps," Montrose said, "the Heretics are responsible for the new threat. If so, a preemptive strike could nip it in the bud."

  "I don't believe that," Gayoso said. "And even if I did, there's another consideration. I don't rule here alone."

  "I'm well aware of that.," Montrose said, striving not to lose his patience. During Charon's reign, a council of seven Anacreons, each representing one of the Deathlords, had governed every Citadel in the Shadowlands. In recent years, however, with manpower shortages endemic, no Legion maintained a presence in every single Necropolis. According to Montrose's information, Natchez currently belonged to the minions of the Smiling Lord, the Beggar Lord, and the Emerald Lord, a datum confirmed by the particular banners and other insignia he'd seen since his arrival. "I expect your peers to assist me; also."

  Gayoso snorted. "You can expect it all you like. It won't happen."

  "Are you telling me that they're traitors, then? Every Legionnaire owes obedience to the will of every Deathlord."

  "What we owe and what:we pay can be two different things. With Charon gone, some people in the Shadowlands believe that propping up the Hierarchy is a lost cause. They want to establish their own kingdoms to.rule as they please."

  Montrose smiled. "I trust you're not speaking for yourself."

  "Of course not," Gayoso said. Montrose couldn't tell if he was lying or not. "But that's what Dwight and Cramer want to do. If I turn my troops over to you, they'll seize the opportunity to depose me."

  Aha, Montrose thought, the truth at last. Gayoso had finally revealed the primary if not the only reason he didn't want to help.

  "And by ousting met" the Spaniard continued, "they'll remove Natchez from the Smiling Lord's sphere of influence. Surely he doesn't want that."

  "If he didn't have faith in you," Montrose said, "you wouldn't be in charge here. I daresay he assumes you're resourceful enough to retain your position even if placed at a momentary disadvantage. By the Scythe, man, I don't mean to take every Black Hawk you've got! I'll leave you an adequate bodyguard."

  "I don't understand why our master ordered this done here," Gayoso said sullenly. "Here, out of every place on Earth."

  "For one thing, he has the impression that the Heretics have grown particularly impudent in this area."

  Gayoso's dark eyes narrowed. "Why the devil does he think that?"

  Montrose shrugged. "He's a Deathlord. One of the most powerful beings in the universe. I don't know how he comes by all the secrets he uncovers. I suspect he may also have chosen to attack the Heretics hereabouts because he assumed he had a loyal commander in place to help me carry out his will." He stared into the other wraith's eyes. "And you are going to help me, Manuel. Just between the two of us, I don't have any great enthusiasm for this venture, either. I went through hell just getting here. I'd far rather have been at home, savoring a Sandman chef's fantasy of rOeSst pheasant and champagne. But we have our instructions, and that's the end of it."

  Gayoso's lips twitched into a smirk so fleeting that Montrose nearly missed it. "You may have your orders. I don't know that I do."

  "What are you talking about?" Montrose said. "I just now delivered them."

  "By word of mouth," Gayoso said. "Surely such an important directive would arrive in writing with the Smiling Lord's seal attached. And by the same token, if you've joined the Grim Riders, where's your black robe? Where your lantern with the Lux Veritas shining inside it?"

  "I lost everything but these clothes on my back when I fled my ship," Montrose said. "What of it? You know me. We met when you came to Stygia for Charon's funeral obsequies,"

  "Preciselyj" Gayoso said. "And you were a member of the Fifth Legion, not the Order of the Unlidded Eye. A fellow Anacreon, not anyone who outranked me. In these chaotic times, with duplicity everywhere, I couldn't possibly place my command at your disposal. Not without clear instructions from higher up. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send a messenger to Stygia, asking for confirmation of what you've told me, just as soon as I deem it feasible. In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy the Citadel's hospitality. Fair enough?"

  "Evidently it will have to be," Montrose said.

  NINE

  The small emergency room was full to overflowing. From what she'd overheard, the blond wraith gathered that a pickup with no brake lights had stopped suddenly in the rain, and by so doing engineered a seven-vehicle pile-up. Hearing the wail of the ambulances, a number of the Restless had hurried to the county hospital to watch the proceedings. Some were clearly soaking up the agony and terror in the air, as palpable to a ghost as the reek of blood, bodily waste, and disinfectant. They looked as if they were becoming more real in some indefinable way. A second contingent wagered on who would die, how soon, and whether the unfortunate in question would join the Restless. A few Reapers hovered possessively over the injured, intent on capturing any souls who did materialize in the Underworld. Those with the ability to reach into the Skinlands subtly hampered the efforts of the mortal doctors and nurses.

  The blond wanderer, a slender young woman dressed in faded jeans, a baggy flannel shirt, and a silver pendant cast in the shape of an owl, climbed up onto the wheeled gumey in the corner. Beneath her insubstantial feet, the cart was no more likely to shift than a slab of granite. Next she sang, first a plaintive lament for delights and loved ones sealed away forever behind the Shroud, then a lewd, raucous satire on the Deathlords, and finally a hymn of Transcendence, of reconciliation and release. She was no Chanteur, but she had a pleasant soprano voice and did a reasonable job of accompanying herself on the mandolin. By the end of the third song, she'd lured several of her fellow spirits away from the ongoing drama of the carnage.

  She took another look around the room, checking for Legionnaires, and then launched into her speech. The Sisterhood of Athena was an odd, hybrid sort of organization, Heretics or Rebels depending on how one looked at it, and her oration reflected the dichotomy. It was partly an exhortation to seek Transcendence and partly a call for revolution. But a fiery abhorrence of slavery infused every syllable. Catching the thrust of her remarks, the Reapers glared.

  She kept the sermon short, partly out of concern that Legionnaires might wander in, but primarily to avoid boring her audience. As she neared the end, she searched their faces, looking for an indication that her words were hitting home. She didn't find it, though one or two of the wraiths looked genuinely thoughtful.

  At least, the Sister reflected, no one had heckled her. And after she finished, some of them asked questions.

  "You didn't tell us what path really leads to Transcendence," a stooped old man in a bow tie, suspenders, and zippered leather bondage mask said quemlously. "Should w7e believe in the Third Coming, the Needle Dancers, the Invisible Tabernacle, or what?"

  "The Increate is infinite and therefore infinitely diverse," the Sister replied. "That being the case, many creeds embody aspects of the truth. Follow the path that suits you best. Just make sure it isn't a corrupt faith, one that feeds your Shadow and grovels to the Void."

  A slender woman in a red halter and a mask of peacock feathers raised a hand with a bright blue eye in the center of the palm. Wondering if the sculpted organ could actually see, the Sister gave her a nod.

  "A friend of mine got depressed," the masked woman said. "Over the course of a few months, he just lost the will to go on. I was there when Oblivion took him."

  "I'm.sorry," the missionary said.

  The masked woman scowled as if the Sister had jeered at her grief. "That isn't the point! I knew somebody else, a Holy Roller like you. She spent most of her time meditating, looking for Transcendence, and finally she disappeared. I was there that: time, too, and you know what? It looked exactly the same!"

  "Many people do believe that Transcendence is just another name for annihilation," the blond ghost conceded. "That's what the Deathlords and
the Legions want you to believe, and I can't prove they're wrong. But I feel it, and I think that if you look into your hearts, you'll feel it too. There has to be something beyond this desolate, lonely place. Somewhere better. Something to hope for."

  The masked woman sneered.

  Scowling, a doctor stepped back from a motionless, gory body. The Reaper poised at the head of the bed, a rangy man wearing a latex Newt Gingrich mask and a chainmail vest, quivered with expectation, eager to: snap the shackles in his hands on an Enfant'S wrists. But no new wraith appeared in the Shadowlands. Finally, the Reaper abandoned the corpse and looked around. No doubt discerning that other scavengers had already laid claim to the rest of the dying, he wrapped the manacles around his waist and swaggered toward the Sister.

  "I take thralls," he said curtly. "I catch them, I chain them, and I sell them."

  "I can see that," the Sister replied.

  "If you want to. chase after Transcendence," the Reaper said, "go ahead. It's your funeral. But why do you want to screw up the world for the rest of us?"

  "Whatever their differences, nearly every faith agrees that you Transcend by becoming a good person. How could I aspire to virtue, yet ignore the suffering and injustice all around me? How could I ever deserve ultimate freedom if I didn't care that others were trapped in the: vilest sort of slavery?"

  "That sounds real noble. But what's that mandolin made of? Or for that matter, the shirt on your back?"

  The Sister frowned. "Quite possibly, they came from a Soul Forge. But—"

  "You bet your ass they did! This is the Underworld. There's nothing but souls to make stuff out of. It's a tough break for the losers who go to the smelters, but if we let them go free, the rest of us would have nothing!"

  Some other wraiths muttered in agreement.