Montrose loathed the sight of the pool, yet simultaneously yearned to throw himself in. Or to push his companions in. With an effort, he wrenched his eyes away.
"Dear God," Louise whimpered, "what is it?"
Montrose pivoted. The Heretic was leaning far out into space, staring down into the abyss. When he took hold of her arm, she tensed as if she meant to fight him, but then suffered him to draw her back and turn her away from the spectacle below.
"One could call it the largest Nihil ever seen," he said, "but even that wouldn't do it justice. Because it's not just an opening into the Tempest. It's a window on the Labyrinth, or perhaps even the heart of the Void itself."
Chiarmonte nodded like a teacher indicating his approval of a clever student. "It is indeed." He strolled on down the path. The fugitives followed more carefully, fighting the irrational urge to look at the black whirlpool again.
''Did Charon build his city on top of it, knowing it was here?" asked Louise. "I can't imagine that."
"He may even have opened it himself," the Venetian said. "Oblivion is the ultimate threat, but it's an extraordinary source of power as well, and those"—he waved his hand at the cabalistic symbols carved in the stone high above their heads— "allowed him to tap it to work his wonders."
"Rotting his soul in the process," she said.
The Venetian shrugged. "All monarchs do that anyway, one way or another." He ambled on.
Montrose wished they could turn around and return to the fortress. He didn't want to remain in the vicinity of the vortex another moment, let alone descend closer to it. But evidently Chiarmonte had more to show them. "This is all very interesting," said the Scot. "But what does it have to do with the present crisis?"
"What," said Chiarmonte, "if someone else were able to use the energies of the pool to influence the course of the war?"
Montrose's eyes narrowed. "Has the Smiling Lord figured out how to do that?"
"Well," said the smaller man, a hint of laughter in his voice, "not exactly. He certainly can't manipulate them with anything like the facility the Emperor undoubtedly acquired." He stepped over a knobby outcropping of rock. "But here's what's going to happen. Our master has invited each of the other Deathlords to a clandestine meeting in the Tower, supposedly to seal an alliance. I'm certain that, for one reason or another, at least some will attend. Alas, they won't find Prince Ares—he'll be many levels above them—but they will, to their dismay, encounter one another."
"And then, you hope, attack and destroy each other," Montrose said, "as opposed to simply withdrawing. I wouldn't count on it. They're too wary, too calculating, to act so precipitously."
"Ordinarily, you might be right," Chiarmonte said. "But suppose the Lord of Violence weaves a spell to infuse them with homicidal rage. Suppose he augments the innate powers of his office with Charon's secret source of magic. Don't you think his rivals might stand and fight then?"
Montrose frowned, pondering, wondering if the sovereign to whom he'd sworn allegiance actually had a chance to seize the Imperial throne. If so, then his lieutenants, Montrose included if he could win back his favor, would rank as high as the Seven did now!
Louise touched him on the arm, dispelling his momentary fantasy of glory. "James," she murmured.
He grimaced. "I know. You're right. Chiarmonte, it doesn't matter who's best positioned to win the conflict. The point is that the Seven shouldn't be fighting in the first place, not at the instigation of a foe who means to exploit our internal conflicts to his own advantage. I respect the Smiling Lord. I daresay he's as wise and powerful as any of his peers. But do you honestly think he's capable of taking Charon's place? Or of putting a war-ravaged Stygia back together, with Fate only knows how many of the Legions destroyed, and the other Deathlords slaughtered or driven into hiding?"
At last Chiarmonte halted. He turned, smiled, and said, "Frankly, no. I think that the Imperium is in for a long, bleak time of weakness, disorganization, and hardship at the very least. My true masters conceived my mission in Stygia as a diversion to draw attention from the offensive in America, just as you hypothesized. But they had no idea just how much I could achieve. I think that one day, in the last bloody hours before the death of all things, people will look back and recognize that mine was actually the more significant victory of the two,"
Louise snatched for her pistol, and Montrose raised his sword. "Your 'true masters?"'" he said. "Are you saying that you're part of the conspiracy?"
"Yes," said the other Anacreon. "You would never have suspected it of shrewd, responsible Chiarmonte, would you? So perhaps it will comfort you to know that I'm not him. I killed him and took on his shape just a little while ago." His body grew tall and gaunt, his skin darkened, and his gray medieval attire became the folds of a white toga. A sardonyx helm clasped casually under his arm, he gave the other wraiths an ironic smile.
"Demetrius!" Montrose said.
"If you like," the Oracle said. "Although actually, that identity is a mask as well. Haven't you ever wondered how, after centuries; as an obscure functionary, the Greek abruptly developed the talent and ambition necessary to attract the notice of the Smiling Lord? Simple. I murdered him and usurped his place."
"James," Louise said tensely, "he impersonated Chiarmonte because he guessed that that was who you'd turn to, especially if there was only a single guard watching the door to the suite. He planned to bring us here."
"She's right," said Demetrius. "You seem to be a man of almost infinite resourcefulness, milord Anacreon. You've certainly accomplished feats I would never have expected of the jaded debauchee I remember, whoring, gambling, and sidestepping all but the least onerous of duties. But you've been operating under an insurmountable handicap from the start, namely, my divinatory powers. I assure you, no true Stygian can match them. They warned me early on that you alone might foil my schemes. Unlikely as that seemed, I took steps to ensure you wouldn't get the chance. I persuaded the Smiling Lord to dispatch you to the Shadowlands, and passed along the intelligence which enabled the Soul Pirates to intercept your convoy. Naturally I hoped they'd destroy you, but even when they didn't, it was all right. On the Mississippi, unwittingly advancing our agenda through your persecution of the Heretics, you couldn't interfere while I got on with the task of clouding your master's mind."
"And how did you do that?" Montrose asked.
"I'm afraid you give him too much credit for sagacity," Demetrius said. "Employing my Art, I long ago determined that he was the weak link among the Seven, Not in terms of might—he can more than hold his own on that score—but with regard to his personality. He's by far the youngest of them, and accordingly sees himself as vulnerable and despised. I enhanced his anxieties by various means, mystical and psychological, and made him increasingly dependent on me. In due course one of my minions pretended to try to assassinate him.
"Naturally he assumed that one of the other Deathlords Was responsible. After that, it was an easy matter to persuade him to attack his colleagues' holdings in a way that would cause them to blame one another. As it happens, my lord, though I'm proof that a single enemy agent can infiltrate the Onyx Tower, and even sneak an occasional confederate in, I don't think an entire armed host could conduct operations in Stygia without somebody finding out about it. But with the Smiling Lord's soldiers at my disposal, I had no need of other troops.
"Soon open war appeared inevitable, and your sovereign was well on the way to luring his peers into their perilous rendezvous. I'd cast the necessary enchantments to channel the energies of the vortex to him at the proper time—since he has no idea this place exists, his amplified magical prowess should come as a pleasant surprise at first—and to feed the mystical forces unleashed by the battle back into the pool, with, I hope, useful or even spectacular results. In short, I thought I could relax. Imagine my chagrin when, scrying, I observed two fugitives, an auburn-haired swordsman and a lovely blond woman, making their way to the palace.
"The omens indicate
d that you could still ruin my schemes, Montrose. Foreseeing that you'd enter the Crimson Gallery, I tampered with the magic there in the hope of causing it to swallow you forever. But by whatever means, you escaped that trap as you'd evaded so many other hazards. Luckily I also had a backup plan—impersonating Chiarmonte—in readiness. You see, uncertain of how much you knew, I couldn't simply let the palace guards deal with you. There was at least a slim chance they'd arrest rather than slay you, and then you might have spoken to someone who would listen. So I opted to defuse the threat you represented by luring you away to a secluded spot like this."
"To kill us, one would assume," Montrose said, wondering if the saturnine Oracle was insane. "But we three appear to be alone here, milord Anacreon. It's two against one, you're unarmed, and we have the drop on you. However potent your various Arcanoi, we can slay you in an instant should you force our hands."
"But Spectres don't fear Oblivion," Demetrius said, leering. "I certainly won't mind going down into the darkness now that I know my people will be avenged. And they will. I explained my scheme—bless you both for providing me an opportunity to strut and gloat at last—but perhaps I didn't make it clear just how rapidly it's racing to fruition. Maddened by Prince Ares's magic, the other Deathlords will be at one another's throats within the hour. And rest assured, my friends, whether you dispatch me or not, you'll be in no position to mar the festivities."
The whisper of the shadowy maelstrom changed. For an instant Montrose had no idea how, then realized a portion of the sound was now emanating from the rocky wall above him as well as from the abyss below. Perhaps the hissing overhead had been there all along, but he hadn't been able to pick it out until it changed timbre.
With a ghastly sense of foreboding, he raised his eyes. Nihils no larger than pinpoints dotted the escarpment. I should have seen them! he thought, hating himself, though he knew that, with Demetrius and the repellent yet fascinating vortex to occupy his attention, no one else would have noticed either. The tiny, glittering openings lengthened into fissures, and scores of horrors, the majority creatures with dark, gleaming scales and two reptilian faces, flowed through.
"Dear Jesus," Louise breathed.
The sound of her voice pierced Montrose with an excruciating pang of love and anguish. Demetrius laughed, and his fellow doomshades streamed down the cliff like a black torrent.
THE OBSIDIAN BLADE, DARK KINGDOMS: VOLUME III
Dedication For Kendall, Micky, and Jade
ONE
The horde of Spectres surged down the wall of the gargantuan basalt vault in a black wave, clinging to the vertical surface almost as easily as if it were level, charging the wraiths on the narrow path which spiraled into the depths.
Though she must have realized it was a futile gesture, Louise lifted her pistol and started firing at the doomshades. Her honey-blond hair and golden domino gleamed in the eerie light flickering up from the bottom of the chamber. James Graham, onetime Marquess of Montrose, thrust his darksteel rapier into the breast of Demetrius, the traitor who had led them into this trap.
The gaunt, swarthy man kept laughing brokenly as his knees buckled and black waves of Oblivion pulsed through his form. His barrow-fire lantern shattered on the ledge, while the sardonyx helm slipped from beneath his arm, fell, and rolled over the drop. His human body warped into a black, scaly horror with two reptilian faces— a creature resembling many of the Spectres hurtling down the path—and then dissolved altogether.
Invoking his Harbinger abilities, Montrose wrapped his arm around Louise's waist and flew off the ledge, an instant before the hissing, gibbering doomshades swept over the path like a torrent.
The dark whirlpool at the bottom of the vault was the largest Nihil Montrose had ever seen. He sensed that the rift opened not merely on the chaotic dimensions of the Tempest, but into the Labyrinth, the very heart of that hellish realm, or even into the ravenous nothingness of the Void itself. He struggled not to look at it. To hurtle upwards.
But it was impossible. The wound in space silently called to him, and without consciously willing it, he halted his ascent. Peered down at the pale flames dancing atop the swirling, churning darkness. Plummeted.
Louise screamed his name and pummeled him, snapping him out of his trance. He struggled to rise again but his powers of levitation were unequal to the task. He felt as if the Nihil had augmented the force of gravity to drag him down with brute force. Straining his abilities to the utmost, he managed to slam down on the path at a point considerably lower than the one he'd taken off from.
"I can't fly us out," he said. "The vortex won't let me."
"I figured that out," said Louise. She gestured at the Spectres, charging them again, streaming down the twisting path. "Here come our friends. Let me see if I can slow them down." She peered intently up the slope, her hands closing into fists, and he realized she was invoking her psychokinetic abilities.
With a crash, a portion of the cliff crumbled. An avalanche poured down, crushing doomshades and sweeping them into the gulf, arresting the forward momentum of the charge. Taking advantage of the enemy's momentary consternation, making sure he didn't veer out far enough or rise high enough to catch a glimpse of the vortex, Montrose flew up the path, dispatched three Spectres in as many seconds, then made a hasty retreat when the monsters poised themselves to strike back at him.
Alighting back at Louise's side, he said, "Nice trick. How many times can you do it?" Her Spook abilities were really only intended for moving loose objects around. A display of force like crushing a mass of solid basalt strained them to the utmost.
"Not nearly enough to destroy them all," she wheezed. "It would be helpful if you could think of a trick or two of your own."
"I'll give it a try," he said. Employing his Harbinger senses, he scanned the area, seeking a trans-dimensional warp he could use to transport them to another place. Ordinarily one wouldn't expect to find such things within the borders of Stygia or any of the other islands of stability inside the Tempest. But due to the proximity of the vortex, space was fractured here, so much so that the walls were riddled with tiny Nihils, a phenomenon normally encountered only in the Shadowlands of Earth. But he couldn't locate a gateway large enough for his purposes. Only Demetrius's magick mirror, inaccessible in the cave at the very summit of the path.
Montrose picked Louise up and flew farther along the descent, keeping ahead of their pursuers, landing about two thirds of the way down the chamber wall. He wondered grimly how much deeper they could retreat without succumbing to the impulse to fling themselves into the vortex. The closer they got, the more difficult it became to block out its beckoning presence, loathsome yet infinitely fascinating.
He wondered if it might not be preferable to let the Spectres have them, or better still, to slay each other, then angrily thrust the thought aside. Undone before by treachery, he'd lost the war he'd fought in life. Somehow, this time around, he was going to win. The welfare of all the Restless and perhaps even the Quick depended on it. Louise was right, he had to think of a trick—
Up the path, four Spectres vanished into the cliff face. Montrose peered frantically about, spied the hissing Nihil holes pocking the expanse of basalt above his head. A split-second later the openings lengthened into fissures, and the creatures flowed out of them. As Louise had warned him, this particular breed of doomshade was particularly adept at moving from normal space into the Tempest and back again. The monsters could squeeze through warps so small that they were impassable to most spirits, corrupt or otherwise, and exploit the distortions of their native realm to traverse distances elsewhere with uncanny speed.
Its twin sets of dragon jaws hissing, the lead Spectre swung its sword, a length of bone lined with razor-sharp chips of obsidian, in a two-handed blow at Montrose's head. He sidestepped the swing and counterattacked. His point took the monster in the throat.
As the Spectre began to dissolve, filling the air with a momentary stench of putrefaction, it toppled off the w
all and onto the path, and its comrades sprang down behind it. Its four slit-pupiled eyes, blazing, one lunged and raked at the Scot with glistening ivory claws. He levitated above the attacks and stabbed the monster in the back, where its double necks joined together. The Spectre fell forward, nearly dragging his blade out of his hand in the process.
Louise's pistol banged. Montrose whirled, just in time to see a third doomshade reel over the drop. The last one, a hulking creature with lines of iridescent scarlet scales forming geometrical patterns and cryptic symbols among its black ones, pounced snapping and clawing at the Sister of Athena. She tripped it with a foot sweep, then drove her knife into its chest. Montrose simultaneously thrust his rapier into the Spectre's spine, and the servant of Oblivion vanished like a bursting bubble.
Montrose looked back up at the Nihils, saw that no more Spectres were swarming through jg yet, and then a thought struck him. "Do your trick again," he said, "on this piece of wall."
She cocked her head quizzically. "Wouldn't it be easier just to retreat away from the Nihils?"
"If you break up the rock and move the pieces," he said, "you can move the Nihils inside them. Merge them into a single rift large enough for us to pass through."
She frowned. "That won't be easy^ if it's even possible."
"Give me the pistol. I'll hold the Spectres off and buy you the time you need."
She handed him the gun, then gazed intently at the Nihils. The basalt around them began to crack. Chips rattled down onto the ledge and bounced over the drop.
Rapier in one hand and pistol in the other, Montrose looked up at the scores of horrors racing down at them. A pang of dread lanced through him. What could he do against so many? They'd overwhelm him in an instant.
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