"But she did vouch for me," Montrose said. Once again, he wondered why. "Don't you trust her, either?"
"I've always found the Sisters of Athena to be honest," said Artie, "so yeah, I trust her to a degree. But when I realize there's something my alleged allies aren't telling me, in a situation where my butt is on the line—"
His shackles rattling, Montrose lunged at: the other man.
Artie was quicker, evidently a more practiced combatant than his attacker would have guessed. Goggling in alarm, he nearly managed to leap out of the way. But Montrose snapped a one-two combination to the other ghost's jaw and solar plexus, and the performer reeled. The Hierarch grabbed his arm and tumbled him facedown onto the ground, then dove on top of him and seized him by the throat.
"It would have been safer to confront me in the presence of your friends," Montrose growled. "As the situation stands, I'm certain they can't see us, not in this gloom, from all the way across the cavern, with scores of Drones and madmen in the way. I could snap your spine and send you on to experience that Harrowing after all, and they'd be none the wiser. I could tell them a doomshade jumped us, and slew you before I could intervene." He wrenched Artie's head around. But not quite far enough to break his neck.
"That's what I could do," the Scot continued. "What I would do if I truly were your enemy. But happily for you, I want us to. be comrades, and work together to free ourselves from this dungeon. I hope that you in turn can find it in your heart to trust in my good will, despite my reticence about my background and any peculiarities you observe in my demeanor."
"Get off me," Artie croaked. "You're as heavy as an ox, and I wish I could say the resemblance ends there."
Montrose rose, and when the little man rolled over, he offered him a hand and hoisted him to his feet. A nearby Drone, a balding, pot-bellied man with a prominent appendectomy scar, peered at them curiously. Perhaps he had just enough intellect left to realize that in this purgatory, a scuffle that ended without grievous injury to someone was a rarity.
Artie massaged his neck. "I think you gave me whiplash," he said.
"Do we have an understanding?" Montrose asked.
"I suppose," said Artie. "Like you said, you could have killed me, but you didn't. Just almost. That really eases my mind."
"One question," said Montrose. "Why didn't you question me in the presence of the others? You're clever enough to realize it would have been more prudent."
"I figured there was no reason why everybody needed to hear your deep, dark secrets, not if it turned out you really were on the up-and-up." He grinned. "You see what I get for trying to be a nice guy. A haggis-eating gorilla mauls me."
"I'm sorry," Montrose said. "It seemed the only way to make my point." Metal groaned and clinked overhead. Alarmed, he lifted his gaze, but no one was operating the crane. It had shifted slightly on its own, perhaps in response to a stray current of air wafting down from the tunnels.
And abruptly, as he stared up at it, a idea flowered in his mind.
"What?" Artie demanded. "Why are you smiling?"
"I've thought of another way to escape," Montrose said. "And I'll be genuinely surprised if you tell me you've already attempted this one."
FIVETEEN
"It's too risky," said Pierre, squatting at the front of the niche in the cavern wall. He was a lanky, fortyish fellow originally from Quebec, with a remarkably hairy body and one glass eye, a relic he'd managed to carry from life into death. Montrose assumed their mutual captors hadn't noticed the orb was artificial. Otherwise they would have confiscated it as they did everything else.
The fallen Anacreon brushed an errant lock of his auburn hair, now sadly in need of combing, out of his eyes. "I disagree."
"First off," said Pierre, "you don't even know if it will really block out the sound. Chanteur voices are funny. They jab right inside your brain."
"On the other hand, we don't know that it won't block it," said Artie, warily studying the horde of wraiths shuffling around out in the pit. Somewhere, someone began to scream.
"But even if it does work, what then?" Pierre demanded. "The Artificers have weapons. We don't, and most of us are wearing shackles. Maybe if we could get by with earplugs, we might have a chance, but—"
"It will be dangerous," Montrose said, assuming his most confident air, "but not impossible. I've seen men who were outgunned, weary, half frozen, and starving prevail against superior numbers. We'll have surprise on our side, and that particular advantage wins a great many battles."
"Maybe so," said Charles, a plump young man with a slight stammer. As usual, he sat with his thighs pressed together, evidently to conceal his genitals. "But it wouldn't be like the other tricks we've tried, where, when it didn't work, we were still alive to think up something else. If we make it to the crane, and then things fall apart, we're finished."
"But we're as good as dead now," said Louise from the back of the niche. Even though she seemed to be speaking in support of his plan, her sweet voice scraped at Montrose's nerves. Trying to avert a spasm of outright fury, he avoided looking directly at her. "One way or another, this place will destroy us in the end. We have to take any chance to escape, even if it seems foolhardy. And this is the only new idea any of us has hit on in a long time.
"I know James only recently arrived," she continued, "and naturally, you're reluctant to face pain and peril on a stranger's say-so. But I assure you"—her voice wavered slightly—"there was a time when I knew him very well, and he was a war hero. He truly has led armies to victory in circumstances as desperate as this. If he thinks the plan will succeed, I trust his instincts."
"Me too," Artie said, "and I'm a good judge of character, though I admit you couldn't tell it by looking at my ex-wives."
"All right," said Pieree, "I'm in. Maybe it is our only chance." He smiled crookedly. "Besides, I'd feel pretty stupid if you people got away with it, and I was still stuck in this hole."
"I'll go, too," said Charles, after which the other members of the band declared their willingness to do likewise.
Montrose smiled. He'd scarcely dared to hope that all of them would embrace his reckless scheme. With eight fighters on their side, they actually might have a chance.
Once the matter was decided, there was nothing to do but wait, while the hours or perhaps even days crawled by; entombed in a cavern, immune to hunger and the need to sleep, they found it all but impossible to judge the passage of time. They kept two sentries posted outside, watching the summit of the cliff. Everyone else engaged in desultory talk, mostly reminiscing about the joys of mortal existence, or played games like Twenty Questions. At one point Louise looked over at Montrose, set her jaw, rose, and headed toward him.
For a moment, for some reason, he felt hypnotized, fascinated by the way the dim blue phosphorescence gleamed on the contours of her naked body. Then a surge of loathing broke the spell, and he wrenched his gaze away. He jumped up and rushed out into the open cavern.
He feared she might follow, but she didn't. He shuddered, swallowed away a dryness in his throat, and, when he was able, told Charles, "Go inside. I'll stand watch for a while." The young man peered at him uncertainly, as if he'd noticed something odd about his expression or tone, but then did as he'd been bidden.
Perhaps an hour later, something stirred in the shadowy opening behind the crane.
"Quick!" Montrose cried. "It's time!" They had to make their preparations quickly, before the Chanteur started to sing.
Some looking frightened and others grinning fiercely, his fellow prisoners scrambled into the open. Montrose positioned himself in front of Artie, cupped his hands, and lashed them against the comedian's ears, bursting his eardrums. Artie made a choking sound and staggered. Meanwhile Louise, the other expert martial artist in the group, injured Charles in the same manner.
In a few seconds they'd deafened everyone except one another. The crane swiveled slowly, squealing, its jaws creaking open and clanking together, like a drowsy beast awaken
ing from a nap. Her tangled, honey-colored hair flying about her head, Louise scrambled in front of the man she'd betrayed. "Good luck," she said. Montrose slammed his palms against the sides of her head.
Her knees buckled. His fists clenched to strike her again, and with an extreme effort of will, he forced them open. Then, to his horror, a long, ululating cry rose from the ledge and echoed from the rocky walls.
Montrose pressed his hands against his ears, but it didn't do any good. As Pierre had predicted, the Chanteur's voice plunged inside his head, splintering his thoughts and filling him with a mindless compulsion to march toward the crane.
He took two trudging steps, and then something caught his ankle, tripping him and dropping him to one knee. Agony exploded through his ears.
He felt an instinctive impulse to heal himself and end the pain, but managed to quash it just in time. Because he realized he was reasoning again, and that meant his idea had worked. Deaf, unable to hear anything but a noise resembling static, he was immune to the magic of the Chanteur.
Louise hauled him to his feet. The cavern floor seemed to tilt beneath him, and she clutched his arm to hold him upright. His injuries had damaged his sense of balance as well as his hearing.
In the past, he and his companions had survived the coming of the Artificers by racing to the far end of the pit, maximizing the distance between themselves and the crane.. Usually the guildsmen stopped scooping up prisoners before any of their band shuffled within reach of the metal jaws. This time, however, they wanted to be taken up. So they hobbled forward as quickly as they could.
Hampered by excruciating pain, lack of equilibrium, and his shackles, Montrose soon suspected he wasn't going to make it. Mesmerized by the Chanteur's song, the countless Drones, Spectres, and lunatics were nearly as intent on reaching the base of the cliff as he was. He used every infighting trick he knew to shove and elbow his way through the crowd, praying that none of his captors would peer down and notice one of their victims forcing his way forward with considerably more skill and intelligence than the rest. He lost sight of Louise, Artie, and the rest of his allies within the first few moments.
The farther he advanced, the tighter the suffocating press became, until he could only see a few inches in front of his nose^ Finally a long shadow, so vague and ill- defined that only the eyes of a wraith could have discerned it in the darkness, swept over the crowd. He looked up. The immense steam-shovel jaws of the crane hung in the air just a few meters ahead..
Without warning, the head of the apparatus plummeted to the floor, pulverizing the ghosts directly beneath it. Montrose couldn't hear the crash, but the shock jolted up his legs. Prisoners clambered into the gaping gray metal dipper.
Montrose struggled forward, trying to fling himself in. When he was almost within reach, the crane jerked upward. Pivoting, it dumped its burden on the ledge.
For several seconds Montrose was grimly certain he'd missed his chance, that the Artificers had already collected as many captives as they needed. Then the long arm swung outward again. The metal jaws dropped, slamming down to his right.
Once again, he struggled toward them. Just as he wrestled a final animate obstacle out of his path, the crane operators reeled the cable in, and the dipper shot upward.
Montrose leaped for it, landed half in and half out, and immediately slid backwards. He frantically clutched at the bodies of his fellow passengers, striving to anchor himself. Still stupefied by the Chanteur's eerie wail, they slapped and pushed at him sluggishly.
The jaws of the dipper began to close on his waist. Grabbing someone by the neck, he yanked himself forward. The rough metal ridges flayed skin from his knees to his toes, but he got his lower limbs inside before anything was severed.
Now that he was sealed in utter darkness, the writhing mass of the other captives seemed less like a jumble of human bodies than a knot of colossal serpents. Once again he fought the temptation to put an end to the ghastly pain in his ears. Finally the dipper opened, and he tumbled out onto the ledge. Several other prisoners dropped on top of him.
Groaning, dazed, he dragged himself from under the pile and peered about. He spotted Louise, Artie, and Charles right away, but in the gloom and confusion, with people milling about, he couldn't tell if any of his other comrades were present.
Then one of the Artificers held up a long chain attached to a series of iron collars, and Montrose realized it no longer mattered. Even if his force was under strength, they had to strike now, before their captors immobilized them in a coffle. Turning, he shuffled around toward a fat crossbowman with skin burned sooty black. The guard wore a glassy crimson domino, the usual coin around his neck, maroon shorts, and high-laced sandals. A falchion, its hilt wrapped in scarlet leather, hung at his side.
The smith pivoted, also. Doing his best to look hypnotized, Montrose gave him an imbecilic smile. The Artificer's lip curled, and he turned away. The Scot lunged and punched at his kidney.
Another wave of vertigo overtook him in mid-attack. The blow landed, but not solidly. The guildsman skipped backward and raised his crossbow. Staggering forward, Montrose flailed, somehow managed to knock the weapon out of the other man's hand, and then fell to his knees.
The Artificer retreated again, this time to draw his blade. Montrose scrambled forward and flung himself against his opponent's shins. The smith lurched back a final step and toppled over the edge of the cliff.
Montrose sprawled on the ledge for a second, groping for the strength to keep fighting despite the throbbing in his ears and the terrible dizziness. Then he gripped the crossbow properly, lurched to one knee, and shot an Artificer in the back. When that guard dropped, he grabbed the fellow's darksteel saber and engaged another.
By the time he disposed of that one, the crane operators were scrambling away from the heart of their mechanism—a bewildering arrangement of clockwork, pulleys, gauges, levers, a steam engine, gleaming brass pyramids, and pulsing, luminous crystals—to join the fray. Hindered by his shackles, taking small, quick steps, he charged them.
When, rather to his own surprise, he'd cut them down as well, he turned, peering, trying to discern how the battle was going. And was overjoyed to see his side was winning. Evidently his entire force had made it to the ledge, caught their captors flatfooted, and nearly finished dispatching them. He grinned.
Then he caught sight of the duel on the edge of the drop.
A mace in one hand and a pistol—presumably out of bullets—in the other, long white gashes on her forehead and left shoulder, Louise struggled to fend off a huge Artificer in a brazen mask. A far better fighter than any of the guildsmen Montrose had slain, the smith swung a poleax with appalling speed and accuracy. Hindered by pain, her shackles, and impaired balance, further handicapped by her adversary's superior strength and reach, the Sister of Athena manifestly couldn't cope with him.
Montrose glanced about. His other comrades were still busy with their own opponents. They hadn't even noticed Louise's predicament, and wouldn't have been able to rush to her aid even if they had. Nor, he thought, smirking, creeping by behind her foe, would they be any the wiser if he didn't help her, either. So why not wait for the Artificer to dispose of her, and then drive his saber into the fellow's back? It would be delightful to watch hope flower in her eyes, then crumble into despair when she realized he wasn't going to save her.
But he found he couldn't do it. She hadn't abandoned him when he'd fallen under the spell of the Chanteur, nor did he wish to break faith with Artie, who'd trusted him to stand by every member of their company. Besides, they were nowhere near out of danger yet, and he might need her later. Snarling, he slashed at the Artificer's neck, half severing his head. The big man collapsed, dissolving into ripples of black light before he reached the ground.
Swaying with exhaustion, Louise spoke. Montrose had never studied lip-reading, but it looked as if she'd said, "Thank you." He felt something twist inside his chest, and then someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He lurched around, nearly tripping over his chain. Artie stood behind him, babbling something, brandishing a silvery megaphone.
Montrose surmised that the Chanteur had been using the conical instrument to augment the natural powers of his voice. And if the object was now in Artie's possession, the wretch had presumably been silenced. Gratefully, the Scot allowed his eardrums to heal. The process sent a wave of weakness sweeping through his body. His knees turned rubbery, and he nearly fell. But the pain in his head and his vertigo disappeared. He sobbed with relief.
"—believe we did it!" Artie said.
"I'm just as pleased as you are," Montrose croaked, straightening up and surveying the scene. His troops scavenged clothing and weapons, and Drones shuffled aimlessly about. "But we aren't out of the woods yet. Did we lose anyone?"
Artie's smirk gave way to a grimace. He looked ashamed of his momentary elation. "Yeah. Abdul got shot."
"I'm sorry," said Montrose. "But if only one of us perished, we got off more lightly than we had any right to expect. Thank goodness we were fighting artisans and not trained soldiers. Do you know if any of the enemy escaped into the tunnels?"
Artie shook his head.
"Neither do I," Montrose said, retrieving a green leather vest, matching breeches, and a pair of shoes from the ground. The body that had once been inside them had evidently fallen into the Void. "Considering the confusion, I don't see how anyone could be certain one way or the other, so we'll have to assume the worst. Which is to say, that someone has carried word of our insurrection to the Artificers upstairs."
"Terrific," Artie growled. He flung the megaphone over the drop, bent down, picked up a backsword, and swung it back and forth, testing the weight and balance.
"We should move out quickly," said Louise, "before they have a chance to get organized. But our chances will improve immensely if we can get rid of these leg irons."
"I've got it covered!" Charles cried. Standing beside the crane, his ankles now unshackled and his flabby stomach bulging over the waistband of a yellow kilt, he brandished a ring of keys. "The second guy I killed had these hanging on his belt."
Dark Kingdoms Page 43