Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Fink frowned. "Then they know we're here. I wonder how."

  "Probably a sentry watching the river," Montrose said impatiently. "Or an Oracle sensed our presence. Either way, it doesn't matter. I want the rest of the men on top of the bluff in two minutes, and then we'll move out."

  A lanky wraith in a faded denim jacket, one of the guerrillas to whom Fink had been giving orders, said, "We aren't going to wait for the Legionnaires?"

  Montrose had to suppress an impulse to knock the fellow down. For a second he had the uneasy feeling that his irritation was excessive, conceivably symptomatic of some sort of problem, but on further reflection, he couldn't see why. No commander liked having his orders questioned. "Absolutely not," he said. "According to our intelligence, there are only a few Heretics down there, and that's the way it looked to me. Considering that we already cleaned out Grand Gulf once, how many could there be? Besides, when have we ever truly needed Gayoso's clowns to help us fight?"

  Montrose staggered, squinting against the dazzling glare, fighting the impulse to throw his AK-47 away and use his hands to seal his ears. Around him, his men stumbled back and forth. Some screamed and others fired their guns, apparently at random, the cries and the shooting barely audible above the endless shriek. After a moment other firearms barked in response, and the guerrillas began to drop.

  Shielding his eyes, pivoting back and forth, Montrose tried to make out the source of the enemy fire. To his dismay, when he did manage to catch a glimpse of the terrain beyond the light, he discovered that it seemed to change from one second to the next. Formations of riflemen and hordes of hideous Spectres flickered in and out of existence. The contours of the ground flowed as if made of jelly. At one point the whole world inverted itself, and he felt as if he were about to plummet into the endless abyss of the sky.

  At the same time, terror yammered through his mind. The screaming, the;glare, and the disorienting transformations of the environment were simply too much. He wanted to rip the eyes from his head, ram a stiletto into his own ears, put his rifle in his mouth and pull the trigger, just to make the torment stop.

  What prevented him was that he knew what was going on, or at least he hoped he did. A group of Sandmen were creating the glare and spinning disorienting illusions, while a choir of Chanteurs were singing to fill the Hierarchs with terror. Montrose had never realized that the practitioners of either Arcanoi could work together to such devastating effect, but evidently, with practice, preparation, and, no doubt, a team leader possessing extraordinary knowledge of the mystic arts, it was possible.

  Bolstered by his comprehension, the Scot fought his incipient panic, insisting to himself that it wasn't his fear, not really. The Heretic bastards were putting it inside his head. And finally it loosened its grip.

  He peered about. Guns rattled and arrows arced through the air. Many of his men were already wounded or gone entirely, devoured by the Void. Others, though uninjured, wept and shuddered on the ground. Some were still trying to shoot blindly back at their assailants. A few men tried to flee in what momentarily appeared to be the direction of the old church and the river. An instant later, they staggered and fell. Apparently they hadn't truly been running away from the Heretics but directly at one contingent of them.

  A big man knelt on the ground a few feet away, pumping off rounds from a shotgun. It looked like Fink, though Montrose couldn't be sure in the glare. He scrambled toward him.

  The world spun like a carousel, nearly throwing him off his feet. Something in the air, probably a tactile and olfactory illusion woven by the enemy Sandmen, burned his nose and eyes. An arrow, its force nearly spent, glanced off his mask. At last he reached the man with the shotgun.

  It was Fink. Grinning ferociously, he shouted, "Here's that setback you mentioned." Montrose could barely hear him over the wailing.

  "Sandmen and Chanteurs," the Scot bellowed back, "working together. Sandmen hid most of the enemy behind illusions until we got to the piece of ground where they wanted us."

  "Figured that out," answered Fink. "Don't know what to do about it, though, not when I can't tell where any damn thing is."

  "I can." Montrose hoped that his memory and instincts weren't playing him false. "We're in a depression in the ground. The enemy has us surrounded on three sides. The town is that way." He pointed. "The Chanteurs and Sandmen are on one of the rooftops directly in front of us."

  Fink eyed his dubiously. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes," Montrose lied. "I'm a Harbinger and a general. Nothing can ruin my sense of direction, and I know where to position troops for optimum effect. If I were commanding the other side, I'd put the Sandmen and Chanteurs someplace they could stand together to coordinate their magic, overlook the entire battlefield, and enjoy a measure of protection. And if we're going to turn this fight around, we have to get up there now and stop the bombardment."

  "How?" Fink asked. "It's one thing to know where they are. But to charge it blind, with the ground spinning under your feet and rows of gunmen in the way—"

  "We can do it," Montrose said. "Grab a man or two, anybody who looks as if he can still fight."

  Fink rose, pulled a mewling wraith with stubby jeweled horns off the ground, and shook him. Montrose grasped the shoulder of a youthful-looking wraith with a smoking revolver in either hand. "This way!" the Stygian shouted.

  Over the course of the next few seconds, Montrose collected two frightened men, and Fink three. Not enough, but the Stygian doubted there was time to gather any more. Doing his best to block out the excruciating distractions of the glare and the shrieking, the fear still gnawing at his nerves, he focused his will and invoked his Harbinger powers.

  A glittering circular hole opened in the ground before him. "In!" he bellowed. "Jump in!"

  Grinning, Fink did so instantly, and the other men scrambled after him. Ordinarily any wraith would hesitate to leap into a Nihil. But conditions on the killing ground were so painful, so terrifying, that even the perils of the Tempest seemed preferable. Hoping that he hadn't sent his companions tumbling into the jaws of IT, Spectre, Montrose jumped after them.

  Fie landed on a barren plain littered with huge gray boulders. A freezing wind, its ferocious howl faint in comparison with the .screeching of the Chanteur choir, ripped at his hair and cloak, and blue lightning flickered in the churning clouds.overhead. The Nihil he'd opened, a disk of shadow floating unsupported in the air, made a sizzling sound and vanished.

  Fink looked this way and that. "What next?" he asked.

  Montrose extended his arcane perceptions, studying the patterns of twisted and fractured space around him, and then said, "We go this way. Quickly, but warily, also. The Tempest is every bit as dangerous as you've heard."

  Weapons ready, scanning the darkness for flickers of motion, the seven men skulked forward. "I think I get the idea," Fink murmured to Montrose. "We're going to pop back into the Shadowlands behind the guys who were shooting at us. It's a good trick. Why don't we use it all the time ?"

  "Because it's too easy for it to go awry," the Scot replied. Sensing a kink in the: dimensional fabric off to the left, he led his troops in that direction. "The metaphysical structure: of the Tempest is so complicated, so contrary, that often even the greatest Harbinger can't bend it to its will. I may not be able to create another doorway that will take us anywhere close to where we want to g©, We may not get back for hours, even if it only feels like a few minutes to us. A gang of Spectres may jump us—-"

  Behind them, one of the men screamed.

  Montrose and Fink whirled. "You and your big mouth," the latter said.

  A few yards back, a patch of the hard, cracked ground had inexplicably turned to mush and was sucking down the last two wraiths in the procession. Already the shrieking, thrashing irregulars had vanished up to their knees. At first Montrose thought the men were merely sinking of their own weight, but then he noticed the long, thin tentacles twining around them and dragging them down.

  The comrad
es of the unfortunate soldiers hovered helplessly about the newly formed quicksand pit. They couldn't shoot the tentacles, not without hitting the prey in their clutches as well, and the pool was tbQ wide ;for them to grab their friends and drag them to safety. If they tried, they'd only topple in themselves.

  Montrose levitated and hurtled to the center of the pit. He tore at the tentacles gripping the man who'd sunk the deepest, but he couldn't rip them away. Grasping the wraith by the arms, he struggled to fly straight upward, only to find he didn't have enough lift to overcome the strength of the hidden monster. Its victim continued to slide from view. The Scot had to let him go to avoid being pulled down himself. Gibbering curses and pleas for help until the muck slopped into his mouth, the guerrilla went under with a ghastly slurping sound.

  Turning, Montrose saw that the second irregular was almost as gone as well. Only his hairless head and naked shoulders with their reflective brass-like skin remained above the surface. Snarling, the Stygian whipped out his rapier and began thmsting it into the slime.

  The blade didn't contact anything solid. After a moment, additional tentacles shot out of the quicksand and tried to whip around him.

  "Get away!" shouted one of the irregulars.

  Doing his best to fend off the tentacles with his empty hand, Montrose kept stabbing. The unseen monster's arms lashed around his legs and yanked him downward, plunging his boots into the gelid quicksand. Then the point of the rapier finally punched into something solid.

  The tentacles thrashed, loosening their hold. Montrose frantically flew upward, freeing himself from the tangle, and then looked down. The wraith with the brazen skin was nearly gone. Only his yellow hands remained above the surface.

  Swooping downward, Montrose gripped them and then, straining, rising again, heaved the man out of the quicksand and set him on solid ground. Deep, steaming gashes spiraled around the soldier's body where the tentacles had burned their way into his flesh.

  The Scot flew back over the pit. Hovering just above the surface, he plunged his arm repeatedly into the icy slime, groping for the other irregular. He couldn't find him.

  After a few seconds, Montrose grimaced in frustration. For all he knew, the soldier was still alive, and mired within reach. But with scores of men in jeopardy back in the Shadowlands, there was no more time to fish for him. The Stygian flew to the fellow he had rescued. "Can you walk?" he asked.

  The brazen-skinned wraith gave him a shaky nod. "I think so."

  Montrose turned to another of the irregulars. "You keep an eye on him, and help him if he needs it. Let's move."

  Montrose resumed his place at the head of the column, and they hurried on. "That was pretty smart work," said Fink.

  Montrose scowled, disgusted with himself. "Nonsense. I should have sensed the creature's presence before it attacked. Failing that, I should have saved both of our lads." As the two wraiths neared another towering boulder, the Scot perceived a crumple in the fabric of space. "This is the place."

  Fink pivoted toward the four wraiths behind them. "Look alive, boys. We're going back to the fight."

  Montrose invoked his Harbinger Arcanos. For a moment the dimensional fabric resisted him, but then a round black hole opened in the side of the rock. He checked his AK-47, making sure it was ready to fire, and then sprang through the portal.

  To his relief, he emerged into the Shadowlands precisely where and when—

  he'd intended, between a line of Heretic gunmen in dark glasses, all facing in the opposite direction, and a crumbling brick tenement, on the roof of which the choir of Chanteurs was keening. Fortunately, now that he was out of the target area, their song failed to rattle him anew. Presumably the Sandmen were atop the building also, though from his vantage point, he couldn't actually see them.

  Fink and the other irregulars scrambled out of the rift. Montrose pressed his finger to his lips, commanding stealth, and pointed at the rooftop.

  Fink nodded, turned, and led the other raiders toward the tenement's front door. Montrose levitated. Though his blood was up, he didn't relish the idea of assaulting the rooftop in advance of his companions. But his helpless men in the field of glare were dying by the second. He couldn't put off attacking until his allies appeared for fear they'd arrive too late.

  He started shooting the instant he rose above the parapet, sweeping the assault rifle in an arc, cutting down Sandmen in gaudy clothing and Chanteurs clutching a miscellany of musical instrument^. The deafening chorus of wailing ended abruptly.

  As Montrose had hoped, he'd caught the Heretics by surprise. Alighting on the rooftop, he shot another pair of Sandmen, and then the rebels who were still on their feet struck back.

  Some snatched pistols from holsters and started to shoot. Others used their Arcanoi. Ghastly shrieks jolted Montrose, or even seared away patches of his skin. Bursts of glare dazzled him, and intangible fingers fumbled at his mind, trying to make him fall asleep.

  Snarling, nearly berserk with hatred, he spun this way and that, striving to keep any of his opponents from getting a fix on him, hoping their own numbers would hinder them. The assault rifle blazed and vibrated in his grip.

  Three more Heretics went down, their bodies dissolving in ripples of shadow. Grinning Crazily, Montrose decided this kamikaze strike was actually going to Work. He didn't even need the reinforcements presumably charging madly up the stairs. He was going to clear the rooftop all by himself.

  Then a Chanteur wailed and blasted Montrose's legs out from under him. But as the Stygian fell, he glimpsed Fink and the other irregulars bursting through the walls of the enclosure that presumably capped the stairwell.

  Fink bellowed and brandished his shotgun Over his head. Crackling strands of electricity blazed across the rooftop, filling the air with the smell of ozone. Heretics, caught in the discharge* shuddered and burned. The other intruders opened fire with their rifles.

  The diversion gave Montrose the moment he needed to scramble back to his feet. He tried to shoot a Chanteur, a little man with a guitar strung across his back, discovered the AK-47 Was empty, and clubbed the Heretic with the stock instead. Events the musician dropped, the Scot reached inside his mantle for another clip.

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something flashing at him. As he pivoted, a tattered canvas lawn chair, hurled with considerable force, slammed against his shoulder. The Skinlands object sailed ©n straight through his body to vanish over the parapet. The impact didn't alter the course of its flight an iota. But it staggered Montrose.

  He tried to regain his balance, and a second folding chair whizzed through his legs. He fell back down. A slender blond woman, no doubt the Spook who'd thrown the furniture, charged him, a katana in her upraised hands and a silver owl pendant, the emblem of the Sisterhood of Athena, bouncing on her breast.

  And Montrose froze. Because the rebel leader was Louise.

  For a moment he simply felt empty, as if his astonishment had smothered every other emotion, even the desire to survive. Then a wave of rage and hate crashed through him. Lurching to one knee, he jerked his rifle over his head. The Japanese sword clanged against the barrel.

  He slammed the AK-47 into Louise's knee. Bone cracked, and she reeled backward. Dropping the rifle, he scrambled up, drew his rapier, and went after her.

  Hobbling now, she started to cut at his head, then faltered, her blue eyes widening. He realized that, thanks to his mask, she hadn't recognized him until now. The enemy commander with the auburn lovelocks might have reminded her of the man she'd once betrayed, but if so, she'd dismissed it as a chance resemblance.

  The discovery that she hadn't even known him infuriated Montrose still further. Screaming, he thrust the rapier through her forearm. Black light rippled from the wound. The katana tumbled from her grasp. Dropping his own weapon, he pounced on her, intent on ripping her apart with his hands.

  They grappled, and he bore her backwards. A dagger with a silver owl's head pommel and a curved darksteel blade popped into e
xistence in her hand.

  Once again, it was Montrose's turn to be startled. Because even delirious with fury, he realized that Louise's weapon was the knife Katrina had showed him.

  Louise started to thrust it at his breast. Then something smashed down on top of her head, bone crunched, and she slumped in his arms.

  Montrose raised his eyes, to discover that Fink had come up behind her and clubbed her with the butt of his shotgun. Though he was leering as savagely as ever, the hulking, black-haired wraith looked somehow less real, almost translucent, as if he'd been drawing on his Haunter's Arcanos so heavily that even his prodigious strength was nearly spent.

  For a second Montrose wanted to strike his lieutenant for daring to intrude on what should have been an intimate moment. But ultimately, that resentment was a puny, ephemeral emotion. It couldn't divert him from the utter loathing he felt for Louise. And even though she wasn't conscious at the moment, it would still be delightful to mutilate her. After all, as long as he was careful not to do too much damage, she'd heal, and he could hurt her all over again when she woke up. He threw her down, straddled her, and began to tear open her garments.

  "What are you doing?" Fink demanded.

  "It's all right," said Montrose. "Leave me alone."

  Fink grabbed his shoulder, yanked him to his feet, and slapped him. "Snap out of it," the river man growled.

  Montrose thrashed, struggling to break the other wraith's grip. "You don't understand! It's her!"

  "I don't give a watery shit who it is," Fink replied. "There's still a fight going on. By wiping out the sons of bitches up here, we've given our boys an outside chance of winning it, but only if their leader rallies them."

  Montrose's frenzy lost some of its edge. Of course, the battle. He'd forgotten all about. He gave his head a shake, trying to clear it. "I'm sorry. It's just that this woman—" "Whoever she is, she'll keep!" Fink picked up the rapier and stuck the hilt in Montrose's hand. "Are you ready?" The Stygian nodded. "Let's do it."