"That's it," Montrose said. "An exit." The other fugitives jabbered excitedly, and they all surged forward.
A detachment of several Spectres, stepping into view from another hallway, strode into the foyer, blocking the fugitives' way out. A tall doomshade clad in a hood like an executioner's mask and sable robes decorated with the foul emblems of the Malfeans was the first to notice the onrushing party. Startled, he pivoted and stared.
Montrose shot him in the chest. Snatching out his saber, he bellowed a battle cry, one his Highlanders had roared at Alford and Kilsyth, and charged. His companions pounded after him.
Others Spectres lurched around, jerked up their guns, and snapped off shots. The bullets sang past Montrose, leaving him unscathed, though he was grimly certain that not all of his comrades had been as lucky. A final bound carried him into striking distance.
He cut down one foe and instantly assailed another. The second Spectre, a burly fellow whose helm bore a crest cast in the image of Gorool, whipped up his bayoneted rifle to parry. The two blades clanged together, striking sparks.
The doomshade thrust his point at Montrose's belly. The Scot retreated a half step, avoiding the stab, then feinted a slash at his opponent's thigh. As the bayonet jerked down to block, he whirled the saber up and slammed it down on the other wraith's head.
The hideous helmet split in two, revealing a round face with a bulbous, ruddy potato of a nose, pale blue eyes, eyebrows so blond they were nearly invisible, and a receding hairline. His scalp gashed, the rifleman staggered. Gaping in amazement, Montrose finished the fellow off by pure reflex, just as it was sheer martial instinct which prompted him to whirl, searching for another foe. He couldn't find one. His surviving troops—evidently he'd lost another man in the skirmish—had already accounted for the rest of the enemy. He turned back to look at the rifleman again, but by that time the fellow's body had already dissolved into nothingness.
"Come on!" Artie said.
Montrose blinked. "What?"
"Come on!" the abolitionist repeated. "We got the door open! We're free!" He seized the Scot by the arm and half dragged him into a narrow lane. Ugly warehouses and factories towered on all sides. Sheet lightning flickered in the eternal storm clouds overhead, staining the stonework green.
SEVENTEEN
When Montrose slipped inside the boxcar, he found countless scratches on the reinforced wooden walls, floor, and ceiling. Evidently the car had been used to import Thralls, as similar rolling prisons had once carried prisoners to Auschwitz and Buchenwald, and some of the wretches had tried to claw their way to freedom.
The Hierarch grimaced. Having just escaped the Artificers' dungeon, he didn't much care to be reminded of slavery. But the car was sitting on a siding in a seemingly deserted corner of a vast rail yard. It seemed like a good place to hide until he recovered his strength. He looked back out the door. "This will do."
His exhausted companions clambered in, and Charles shoved the sliding door most of the way shut. Though fairly certain no potential enemy was close enough to overhear, Montrose winced at the resulting rumble.
Louise slumped to the floor. "I never imagined it would feel so good just to have clothing, be warm, or see the sky."
"Well, frankly, m'dear I used to pay good money to be chained up naked," Artie said, smirking. "Still, you have a point. And I'm going to feel even better when we put some distance between Stygia and us. Thank God we've got a Harbinger to steer us through the Tempest."
Montrose felt a vague twinge of discomfort. Grimacing behind his mask, he quashed it. "I'm afraid that isn't so. I promised to lead you people out of the guildsmen's fortress. I didn't say I'd shepherd you any farther, and I prefer to take my chances alone from here."
"But then we're still trapped!" said Charles.
"Not so," said Montrose, "The Hierarchy has expended centuries of effort marking and stabilizing certain major byways through the Tempest. Except in unusual circumstances, a person doesn't have to be a Harbinger to follow those roads. Just avoid the patrols and bandits, and you'll do all right. Or better still, stow away aboard an outgoing train. With luck, you could reach the Shadowlands in a matter of hours."
"I know I'm not a soldier," said Charles. "I know I was scared. But I did my best back there, and I'll keep trying—"
Montrose lifted a hand to silence him. "Please, don't disparage yourself. You were fine. You obeyed orders, and fought hard when required. You all did well. That isn't the point."
"I'm the point, aren't I, James?" said Louise wearily. "You simply can't bear my presence, even knowing you'd be safer with friends to watch your back." Charles, and those other fugitives who hadn't realized Montrose despised her, peered at the two of them curiously.
"True enough," said the Scot. "I desperately want to put some distance between us, and if you have any sense, you ought to feel the same."
"Whatever you say to the contrary," Louise replied, "we both know these others will have a better chance in the company of a Harbinger. If I go, will you stay?"
Artie glared at her. "Don't be an idiot. Nobody expects you to sacrifice yourself."
"I'm a Sister of Athena," she replied, "sworn to help others even at the risk of my own existence. Although I have no intention of becoming a martyr. I may not possess James's talents, but I'm a trained warrior, and skillful enough at my own Arcanos. I'll make it back to Earth."
"What a noble offer," Montrose drawled. "And it sounded so sincere. But then, I would have expected no less. Be at ease, you won't be compelled to wrack your brains, thinking of a way to squirm out of it. I'd take my leave even if you weren't here."
"And why's that?" Artie asked.
"Personal reasons," Montrose said.
The little abolitionist made a spitting sound. "You can take your 'personal reasons,' fold them up, and stick 'em where the stars don't shine, hotshot. I didn't mind you holding on to your secrets before, but that was then and this is now. You noticed something just before we ran through that last door, something that flabbergasted you, something that, for all I know, represents some horrible danger to the rest of us. And after all we've just been through together, you owe it to us to tell us what it is."
Montrose hesitated. Artie was a presumptuous fool. The Hierarch owed him nothing. If anything, it was the other way around. Yet even so, Montrose did feel an obscure impulse to tell. He doubted it could do any harm, and perhaps anyone in his position would desire to share such an immense and calamitous discovery with someone. "Very well," he said, making sure his crossbow was still cocked and within easy reach. "I'm not going to relate the whole ugly history of my association with Louise. I daresay she's thankful for my reticence. But I will confide something of more immediate significance. When I first saw the raiders, I thought they made an odd-looking band of Spectres." He explained why. "And when we fought them, I cut one of their helmets in two, and recognized the face underneath. It belonged to a Legionnaire named Ingmar Svensen, a soldier in the service of the Laughing Lady. I fought alongside him against genuine doomshades, in the great campaign of 1832, and encountered him from time to time in the years since. So I'm sure I'm not mistaken."
Charles goggled at him. "You mean you were a Legionnaire yourself?"
"To be exact," said Montrose, "I'm a cashiered Anacreon, wrongly convicted of treason." He found that he rather enjoyed their astonishment. "I hope no one has hard feelings about that, not now, after, as Artie pointed out, we've been through so much together. But if anyone does, well, let's settle it now."
"Calm down," Artie said, sounded annoyed. "Nobody wants to take out his hatred of Stygia on little old you. Especially now that you've given us something more intellectually stimulating to think about. You're claiming that one Deathlord disguised her stooges as Spectres and sent them out to fight another's."
"Exactly," Montrose said. "The Seven have been conniving against each other since Charon's demise. Each covets the throne, or at least means to ensure that none of the others gains su
premacy. But up until now, they've restricted themselves to political maneuvering. If they've begun conducting covert military operations against one another's minions in the capital itself, it can only mean the Empire is poised on the brink of all-out civil war."
"Well," said Charles, "if it tears itself apart, it'll stop persecuting people like us, and that's good." He faltered. "Isn't it?"
"No," said Montrose, "it isn't. I know you hate the Hierarchy." He smiled ruefully. "Considering what's happened to me lately, even I'm not quite as enamored of it as I used to be. But still, if not for the Legions, the Spectres would annihilate us all, Imperial, Renegade, and Heretic alike."
"It says so right in all the propaganda," said Artie, his bumpkinly tone and wide- eyed expression a parody of naivete, "so you know it must be true."
"You're a clever fellow," Montrose told him, "correct more often than not. But you haven't been dead anywhere near as long as I have. You haven't witnessed the horrors I saw, fighting Charon's wars. And I assure you that if Stygia ever finds itself unable to continue defending Creation, I can't imagine who else could take up the burden."
Artie smiled. "Don't underestimate us Renegades. If you Stygians had any clue as to just how powerful we're getting, you'd wet your pants. But skip it. If you honestly believe Charon's creaky old dog-and-pony show is indispensable, I'm know I'm not going to convince you otherwise. But even so, you shouldn't worry. Even if the Hierarchy does have a civil war, it probably won't collapse. One Deathlord will grab the throne, and things will settle down. Hell, maybe they'll be more stable than before. The Hierarchy's been slowly losing its grip ever since Godzilla gobbled up El Queso Grande. Maybe a new head honcho could turn that around."
"Perhaps," said Montrose doubtfully, "if any of the Seven is truly fit to wear Charon's mantle. I've seen them all at one time or another, and they're awesome enough to be sure, but none of them exudes quite the same aura of omnipotence their master did. I suspect that now that he's gone, the Empire may very well need each of them, presiding over his proper sphere, to function properly.
"But even if that isn't so, there's still cause for concern. Recently, on an expedition to the United States, I met a Ferryman named Katrina. She cautioned me that some mysterious new menace had arisen to threaten me and countless others. I didn't take the warning seriously. But in time I discovered that Pardoners were vanishing— presumably being assassinated—along the lower Mississippi, and impostors setting up shop in their places. The newcomers practice a corrupt version of their Arcanos, strengthening a client's Shadow instead of binding it. In consequence, an ugly mood prevails throughout the province. People fly into rages and slay one another on the slightest provocation."
"What's more," said Louise, "Heretic priests and missionaries have also disappeared, as if somebody wants to eliminate anyone who might provide spiritual guidance to the Restless. I nearly fell victim of an attack myself."
The traitoress cocked her head. "Do you know, James," she continued thoughtfully, "your crusade against the Heretic Circles in the region could be construed as another facet of the same campaign. You and your inegulars were spreading spiritual darkness, also."
"Nonsense," Montrose snapped. "There nothing unusual about Stygia conducting an inquisition."
"Unfortunately," she replied, "I suppose that's so. But the Governors in Natchez didn't request one, did they? If what I heard is true, they initially wanted nothing to do with it. So isn't it interesting that, with all the Shadowlands to choose from, the Smiling Lord dispatched you to that particular part of the American South?"
Montrose frowned, thinking it over. "Perhaps," he said reluctantly. "In any case, I also learned that a murderer called the Atheist is killing mortal priests and ministers, as if to foment terror and disenchantment with religion on their side of the Shroud."
"So what does it all mean?" Artie asked.
"I wish I knew," Montrose replied. "I was framed for subversion, arrested, and returned here in chains before I could find out. But if relations among the Seven have so deteriorated that they're about to go to war, that might be another facet of the same complex strategy. They couldn't do much to counter an external threat while fighting one another."
"You two are implying the Deathlords are being manipulated," Artie said. "Do you really think that's possible?"
Montrose shrugged. "I wouldn't have said so a month ago. They are virtual demigods, after all. And lord knows, there was never any love lost among them. You don't have to posit an unseen hand to account for their present malice. But I always thought they had better sense than to allow their rivalry to endanger the realm. And for armed hostilities to erupt now, at the same time that sinister forces are at work in the Shadowlands, would constitute quite a coincidence."
"Hm," said Artie, mulling it over. "There's one thing I still don't understand. Well, actually, there are a million things, but one you can explain. Whatever's going on, why don't you want to check out with us? If Stygia's about to become a war zone, that's all the more reason to schlep your keister down the road."
"But I intend to prevent the war," Montrose said. For an instant, the declaration made him feel rather pleasantly like the gallant fool of his youth, the high-minded Cavalier who'd never quailed from any challenge. "By infiltrating the Onyx Tower, reaching the Smiling Lord, or, failing him, someone else in high authority, and convincing that person to do whatever it takes to halt the preparations."
"On the say-so of a supposed Benedict Arnold," Artie said. "Oh, yeah. Good plan, Pinky. That'll happen."
Louise stared at Montrose. "Artie's right. The whole idea is insane. People say that no one has ever slipped through the defenses of Charon's palace."
Montrose smiled. "They also said no one had ever escaped the Soulforges. I don't suppose they'll say it anymore."
"I'm sure security is always tight, all over Stygia," Louise persisted. "If the Deathlords are about to go to war with one another, their guards will be more vigilant than usual. And you're a fugitive. Everyone will be watching for you. You'll never even make it across the channel."
"We'll see," Montrose said.
"Well, you're on your own," said a wraith slumped in the corner. "I'm with Artie. I want Stygia to crash and burn."
"Well, believe it or not," said Artie, sounding bemused, "I am tempted to tag along. This whole thing is so weird, it makes me curious to see what'll happen next. But I can't come, either. I have a responsibility to the Underground Railroad. If the Empire's in danger of falling apart, and something sinister is happening away down south in Dixie, then I've got to tell my friends. Sorry, bubbie."
"That's all right," Montrose replied. "I told you already, I want to go alone. None of you can become invisible, so your presence would only be a hindrance. Moreover, if you'll pardon my frankness, given your professed rebel sentiments, how could I trust you not to sabotage the mission? Now, why don't we be quiet and rest? When we've recovered our strength, we'll go our separate ways." He leaned back against the splintery wall and closed his eyes. Muttering to one another, the flooring creaking as they shifted about, his companions gradually settled themselves as well. After a few minutes, the last conversation droned to a halt.
Some time after that, Louise's baggy khaki shorts rubbed softly together as she drew herself to her feet. One sandal squeaked as she crept toward Montrose.
His eyes still shut, the Scot wondered why she thought she could sneak up on him. She'd been dead nearly as long as he had. She ought to be thoroughly accustomed to the keen hearing of the Restless. Perhaps, for some reason, she thought he was Slumbering, although ordinarily ghosts only succumbed to that sleep-like state when grievously injured by darksteel, barrow-fire, or the natural weaponry of certain doomshades.
In any case,j he was delighted she'd decided to attack him. The prospect of sparing her had galled him sorely, and now he wouldn't have to. Peering through slitted eyes, he'd wait until she was standing over him with her weapon of choice upraised, then kick her fee
t out from under her, leap up, and butcher her with his saber. Under the circumstances, no one would blame him for defending himself. Indeed, Artie and the Others would finally recognize her for the vile creature she was. For some reason, the thought of exposing her true nature pleased him nearly as much as the idea of her impending demise, "Oh, James,™ she sighed. "I was tiptoeing to keep from disturbing everyone else, not because I meant to slit your throat. Dear God, how did it ever come to this?"
He wondered how she'd known he'd heard her coming. He supposed he must have tensed without realizing it. Opening his eyes, he saw that her hands were empty. She'd left her pistol, spiky-headed mace, and long dagger on the floor behind her.
"I'm sure you recall exactly how it came to this," he replied. She might have flinched; in the darkness, it was difficult to tell. "If you weren't attempting to slay me, what do you want?"
"To talk some more about your plan," she said, squatting down beside him. "Surely there% more than one way to skin this particular cat. Why don't you come back to the Shadowlands and continue striving to discover the enemy's plans and identity there? It wOuld be safer than trying to slip into the Tower."
"Probably so," he said. "But if armed conflict broke out here while I was investigating elsewhere, it would no longer matter what I learned. No, someone needs to address this particular problem immediately."
She was quiet for several moments. At last she said, "Very well, then I'll help you."
Utterly astonished, Montrose gaped at her. "You're joking," he said at last.
"No," she said.
"Then you're, mad. I said I wouldn't even trust Artie or these other"—he waved his hand at the remaining fugitives—"staunch comrades who've done me nothing but good. How, then, can you imagine I'd welcome you?"
"Because I protected your identity in the pit, to keep the others from hurting you. And during our escape, I saved your neck."
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