Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  As she watched the chief surgeon massage his patient's wet, crimson heart, she wished she were as fearless as Marilyn thought she was. In truth, she'd recoiled from the hideous Nosferatu Mr. Daimler, while Dunn's transformation from man into heast had driven her mad with terror. Evidently such paralyzing dread was an all but inescapable part of a normal human's first encounters with the supernatural, but people could get past it if they tried. Frank had done it, and so, she vowed, would she.

  A string of commercials—for pickup trucks, sugar-frosted breakfast cereal, and scented douches—finally led into the news. A slender young blonde in a lacy white blouse and an avuncular, ruddy-faced, gray-headed man in a navy business suit sat behind a desk. Just as Astarte turned the sound on, the words mystery death in cemetery appeared on the screen behind the reporters.

  "The body of a man in his twenties or early thirties was found in the Gates of Serenity Cemetery Number Two about an hour ago," said the blonde. The TV displayed a collection of cops, some uniformed and others in plain clothes, clustered around an indistinct form on the ground. Yellow crime-scene tape, strung from tomb to tomb, fluttered in the breeze.

  Astarte made a tiny sound in her throat. Her face older, more angular and masculine without cosmetics, Marilyn jumped back up and put her hand on her companion's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "The cemetery isn't maintained, and apparently the body lay undiscovered for several days," the blonde continued. "As yet, the police have been unable to identify the victim. But Channel Six has learned that he died of violence, though the precise cause of death is undetermined. The body was virtually shredded, as if slashed repeatedly or mauled by a large animal, and also extensively burned."

  Two men in coveralls hoisted the corpse onto a gurney and rolled it toward the camera. Marilyn gently tried to turn Astarte's head away from the screen. "Don't look," she said.

  "I have to," Astarte said. "We still don't know it's him."

  The gurney rolled closer. She felt herself growing tenser and tenser. Meanwhile time seemed to slow down, until she imagined the interminable wait would make her scream.

  And then, at last, the dead man's face swung into view.

  His features were tattered and charred, puffy and greenish, with fluids leaking from the mouth, nose and ears, and bumps like blisters studding the skin. Astarte discerned that insects and rats had been nibbling at him, though she couldn't have said exactly how she knew. She told herself that death had so ravaged and rotted the corpse's features that no one, even his would-be lover, could possibly identify him.

  Yet even as she framed the thought, she realized she was deluding herself. The dead man was Frank, beyond any shadow of a doubt. She recognized him even through his mask of decay. And all the mental work she'd done to prepare herself for this moment didn't soften the blow at all. She whimpered.

  Marilyn hugged her, tried ineffectually to turn her head. "You've seen what you needed to see," the occultist said. "Now look away."

  "No!" snarled Astarte, her grief warping into a seething rage. She wrenched herself free. "I want to remember. Remember what they did to him." Bellamy's body moved off screen, and then a paunchy black policeman carrying an evidence bag sauntered past the camera. Inside the clear plastic container was a spiral notebook.

  "My god!" Astarte exclaimed. The two reporters reappeared on the screen.

  "What is it?" Marilyn asked.

  "The notebook. The one Frank stole from the house. The cops have it."

  "How is that possible?" Marilyn asked. "Why didn't Dunn retrieve it?"

  "Maybe Frank dropped it somewhere before Dunn caught up with him," Astarte said. "Or he had it stuffed inside his clothes, and Dunn never noticed it. You have to remember, he didn't know we took it." She grimaced. "Look, it doesn't matter how he missed it. The important thing is that there it is, and we have to get it. Now, before the police identify Frank. Once they do, they'll call the FBI, Dunn will get involved, and our chance will be gone."

  "Slow down," said Marilyn. "Breathe. You're jabbering a mile a minute."

  "What difference does that make?" Astarte demanded, baffled and annoyed by the Arcanist's lack of enthusiasm.

  "You're almost hysterical," Marilyn said gently. "I think you're getting all worked up about this to sidestep the pain of Frank's death."

  As if on cue, Astarte felt a swell of immense, debilitating sorrow. Clenching her fists, trembling, she fought to will it away. "What if I am? The notebook really is important, isn't it? God, this is so typical of you people, worrying about what's going on with my fucking feelings in the middle of an emergency! You've got money and pull, right? You can find out where the cops took the notebook. Maybe you can even bribe somebody to turn it over to us, or make us a photocopy."

  "It's conceivable," Marilyn said. "But we need to think more about this. Why would the police have any difficulty identifying Agent Bellamy?"

  "He was on leave from his job. Nobody had filed a missing person report or anything."

  "But wasn't he carrying ID?"

  Astarte shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he didn't have it on him."

  "We didn't find it among his effects."

  "Then Dunn lifted it. Maybe because he didn't want Frank identified."

  "Possibly," said Marilyn, frowning. "I suppose he wouldn't want his colleagues in the FBI poking around next door to the werewolf lair. But in that case, why allow the body to be found at all? Why not bring it into the house with the others?"

  "Probably Dunn didn't want to take the time. He was eager to get after me."

  "But why not later?"

  "Maybe after I got away, they decided they'd better clear out of the house, in case I called the cops, and then it didn't matter anymore."

  "Perhaps," Marilyn said, sounding unconvinced.

  Astarte scowled. "All right, Sherlock, what do you think is going on?"

  "I don't know. Possibly nothing more than meets the eye. On the other hand, you wondered if we could lure the enemy out into the open. Perhaps they're trying to do the same to us."

  "I don't believe you," Astarte snarled, drops of spit flying from her lips. "Frank gave his life to get that notebook. It may have all the information we need to stop the Atheist. And all the magic secrets you've been looking for your whole life. But you won't go after it. Because you're worried we might be walking into a trap, even though there's no solid reason to think so, and like always, you're too gutless to take a chance. But no problem. You can always shoot up and dream that you're not pathetic!"

  Her jaw tight and her eyes troubled, Marilyn gazed at her companion. "I never said I wouldn't try to get the notebook," she said at last. "I just said we should discuss it. Now that we have, I'll make some calls."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  His Mag-10 Roadblocker shotgun dangling casually from his enormous fist, a long ax slung across his brawny back, Mike Fink prowled through the dark, ruinous, high-ceilinged room, moving from one cluster of guerrillas to the next. Answering their questions. Inspecting their equipment. Sympathizing over the pain of their wounds and the loss of fallen comrades. Doing his best to assess their mood, which was unquestionably more sullen than it had been a few weeks before.

  Though he would have sooner have been torn apart by doomshades than admit it, Fink felt somewhat out of his depth. Hitherto, he'd never commanded anything grander than a keelboat crew or a band of desperadoes. Even serving as Montrose's lieutenant, he hadn't quite realized how onerous it would be to bear the ultimate responsibility for leading the Grim Rider's ragtag army himself.

  The thought of Montrose made him frown, which in turn caused the freckle- faced archer he was cunently palavering with to twitch in apprehension. The boatman would never have admitted he could miss anyone, either. In the eyes of the Underworld, Mike Fink was a raging force of nature, a titan who could shatter a Deathlord's head with a flick of his finger and gag the sucking maw of Oblivion with his cock, not some weakling who craved the companionship of lesser men. S
till, he'd gotten used to the auburn-haired inquisitor. Sometimes he found himself regretting that he hadn't tried to rescue him from the Legionnaires who'd shown up so unexpectedly to arrest him.

  Fink snorted the thought away. If he'd tried to buck those odds, he would only have wound up destroyed or manacled himself. Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor, even for the King of the Mississip.

  "Mr. Fink?" said a diffident voice.

  Fink turned and saw Valentine, Gayoso's nominal jester and general flunky. The dwarf s homely face displayed a couple of shiny patches, the ghostly equivalent of bruises.

  Fink didn't much like the little tnan, particularly now that he'd become so furtive and morose. His new demeanor reinforced the former outlaw's suspicion that Valentine had somehow participated in Montrose's fall from grace. "What the hell do you want?" he growled.

  "Governor Gayoso would like to see you," Valentine replied.

  Fink gave the archer a reassuring clap on the shoulder, staggering him, and then twisted his face into a menacing leer. "I wonder why the Spanish son of a whore always sends you to fetch me," he said to Valentine. "Every time I see your ugly little monkey carcass, I get the urge to see how far I can kick you."

  "That probably is why," Valentine said. "He'd enjoy seeing you do it. He has some pretty crude notions of entertainment, particularly lately. He also doesn't like to be kept waiting, so shall we go?"

  "Sure," Fink answered. "Maybe I want to talk to him, too."

  As they set off through the labyrinthine corridors and gloomy chambers of the Citadel, he noticed Valentine was limping. He quickened his long stride, making it that much more difficult and, he hoped, painful for the servant to keep up with him. "Do you like being knocked around?" he asked contemptuously. "Is that why you're spending your afterlife licking Gayoso's boots? Is that what you pay that little girl down in Under-the-Hill to do for you?"

  Valentine peered up at him. To Fink's surprise, the dwarf didn't look angry or insulted, just miserable. "You know Daphne? Have you seen her lately? Do you know what's happened to her?"

  Fink whipped his shotgun in a horizontal arc. The end of the barrel caught Valentine across the ear and threw him stumbling through the wall. When the jester reappeared, his face screwed up as if he was struggling not to cry, Fink said, "Do I look like a pervert? No, I don't know—or care—what happened to the bitch."

  Valentine lifted his hands in a pleading gesture. "I just thought that with all your connections, you could—" Abruptly all the desperate hope in his expression withered, replaced by a kind of bleakness. "But why would you? Sorry I annoyed you."

  They finished the walk in silence. Fink felt vaguely uncomfortable. If he hadn't known himself incapable of shame, he might almost have wondered if that wasn't what he was experiencing.

  Illuminated only by the trio of milk-white tapers burning blue and cold in their brass candelabrum, a bracing echo of ancient misery thrumming in the air, Gayoso's office seemed much the same as ever. Except that the last time Fink had visited here, the Anacreon hadn't had bodyguards armed with Skorpion Model 61s and cutlasses watching vigilantly from the shadowy corners, nor had Prudence, the plump, matronly Pardoner, sat lounging on the sofa beneath the equestrian portrait of Robert E. Lee.

  Gayoso had set aside his helmet and cuirass, but, as usual, retained his steel domino. He frowned. "You're out of uniform," he said, referring to the green sash emblazoned with a black hourglass, emblem of the Citadel's military forces, which he'd given Fink the week before.

  Fink shrugged. "It gets in my way. Anyway, my boys and I are mercenaries, not Legionnaires. That was the deal we made with Montrose when he recruited us."

  "The traitor is gone," Gayoso replied. "I'm in charge of the crusade now, and I'd appreciate it if you'd accommodate yourself to my way of doing things."

  "I know things have changed," the river man said. He hesitated for a split-second, then decided that, as long as Gayoso had summoned him here, he might as well speak his mind. "The trouble is, they've changed for the worse."

  Inside the steel mask, Gayoso's eyes narrowed. "If there's some sort of problem," he said, his voice full of what Fink assumed to be bogus concern, "please, tell me about it."

  "All right," said Fink. "You keep sending us farther and farther north, and farther and farther away from the river."

  "Of course," the Spaniard said. "When you've stamped out Heresy in one region, it's time to move on to the next."

  "The farther we travel from the capital, the more danger we're in. There's always the chance a big bunch of god-lovers will circle around behind us and cut us off. Meanwhile, we're getting less and less support from the Legions. It's like Grand Gulf every damn time."

  "I thought you irregulars boasted that any on© of you is worth twenty Legionnaire?."

  "We are," Fink growled. "That doesn't mean we want to go on suicide missions. I'll tell you, Anacreon, if I weren't such a gentle, trusting sort, I might even think you're worried that since Montrose hired us, you can't trust us. And you figure, now that you have a fresh levy of soldiers from Stygia, the smart thing is to send us into tough situations until you get us killed off."

  "That's absurd!" Gayoso snapped. "I care about the welfare;efall my troops. Even insolent former criminals. If I didn't understand the stress you've been operating under, I'd be tempted to have you bastinadoed for suggesting otherwise.

  "The truth is, I've been depending on you and your force to spearhead the campaign against the Heretics for one simple reason. Your men are formidable. Under Montrose's leadership, they accomplished miracles. If you're not the general he was, or if you've lost the belly for hard fighting, feel free to step down from your position. I'll find someone else to place in command."

  The keelbpatman drew himself up straight. "You think yeu can find a better man than me? I'm Mike Fink, you spic son of a bitch. I can outrun, out-jump, outsmart, out-fuck, Out-voudoun, or drag out, throw down, and lick any wraith on the river. Spectres and death mages piss themselves when they see me coming. When I fart, I blast holes in the Shroud. I'm a Salt-River roarer and I'm chock-full of fight.

  "Don't worry, I'll head up your lousy little crusade for you. I'll slaughter every Heretic from here to Hannibal. You just make damn sure you deal square with me."

  "Absolutely," Gayoso said. "If you feel you need more support from the regular troops, I'll see that you get it. Now that that's settled, let's discuss what I actually invited you here to talk about. As you presumably recall, I ordered all my soldiers to consult Mother Prudence and her colleagues here in the Citadel at least twice a month. You haven't, nor have most of the fellows under your command."1

  "Montrose warned me that a lot of the Pardoners along the river are really Spectres in disguise," Fink replied. After the Hierarch's arrest, he'd intended to investigate the mystery himself, but he hadn't made any headway. The inquisition had kept him too busy.

  Gayoso's jaw tightened. "Despite your notoriety, Mr. Fink, I've given you the benefit of the doubt. I've assumed you were Montrose's dupe, ndfep willing collaborator in his treason. Still, now that he's been unmasked, it would behoove you to stop parroting his lies.

  "My ageiits have checked, and there's absolutely noifevidence to support such a preposterous claim. And even if there were, that would be all the more reason for you to seek out Prudence and the other Pardoners on my staff. I can personally vouch for:every one of them."

  "Isn't that peachy," Fink said. "But I've never been to a confessor and I don't see any reason to start now. My Shadow doesn't bother me. I think my soul chewed it up, swallowed it, and crapped it out a long time ago."

  "Exposure to Heresy weakens the psyche," Prudence said. "So do the brutality and hardships of warfare. Even if you're immune, Mr. Fink—which, in all honesty, I doubt—your subordinates aren't. Darkness is eating them up inside. Yet they avoid the ministrations of those who could help them, because they're emulating you."

  "Bull," Fink replied. "They just don't fee
l like they need it. Why would they? How often does the average ghost visit a soul-shrinker? Two or three times a year?"

  "Perhaps," said the fat woman, "but that's inadequate, particularly for front-line soldiers in the war against Oblivion. We have to do better."

  "I order you to commence treatment tonight," said Gayoso to Fink, the sapphire candlelight gleaming on his domino. "And to make sure all your men do likewise within the next seventy-two hours."

  "What if I say no?" asked Fink.

  "This isn't a trivial matter, like wearing a strip of cloth," Gayoso replied. "I need soldiers I can depend on. Between your outlawry and your friendship with Montrose, you already have two black marks against you. If you won't permit the necessary precautions to keep Oblivion from gaining a foothold in your soul, then I'll take it that you have resigned your command." He gave Fink a contemptuous little smile. "I suppose that if you do feel inadequate but can't bring yourself to admit it, this is a good way to save face."

  Fink glared back at him. His instincts told him to tell the Anacreon to go screw himself. As a rule, he resented taking any kind of orders from anyone, and this one galled him more than most. He'd always regarded the role of penitent as inherently weak, effeminate, and undignified. In fact, the thought of revealing his innermost thoughts to a Pardoner, of allowing a stranger to tamper with the essence of who he was, revolted him.

  But if he didn't play along, maybe people really would think he'd abandoned his new command because he'd lost his nerve. They'd start to doubt his legend, and the prospect of that was simply intolerable.

  He supposed a person could talk to a confessor, yet refuse to disclose anything personal. Surely the bastard wouldn't be able to do anything to him if he declined to open up.

  "All right," he grunted. "It's a waste of time, but I'll do it once, just to prove I'm right."

  Beaming, her voluminous purple gown with its miscellany of religious symbols swishing around her, Prudence hauled herself laboriously to her feet. "I'm so glad," she said.