by Sean Ellis
Something moved behind her—she felt its presence more as a premonition than anything else—and she twisted around to meet this new threat. Her intuition saved her life, but the warning came a moment too late. A heavy, indistinguishable shape bowled into her and sent her sprawling. The impact jarred loose the grip of her left hand and knocked the breath from her lungs, but she retained her right handed hold on the weapon and brought it to bear. The pistol spoke again as she pumped the trigger.
There was another howl, much closer, and in the muzzle flash, Mira could see the outline of the assailant that rushed toward her. Her shots, at point blank range, could not have missed, but the shrieking behemoth did not relent. She tried to roll out of the way, even as she emptied the pistol, but again she was a split second too slow. The lumbering shape crashed into her and pinned her to the stone floor.
The impact further stunned her, and for a moment she could mount no defense against the flurry of blows or the scratching of claw-like fingers against her extremities. But the assault weakened and ceased almost as soon as it had begun. Mira felt the splash of hot arterial blood soaking through her clothes as the quivering mass of her attacker became motionless, his full weight settling upon her.
As the odor of burnt cordite began to dissipate, Mira felt the full force of the aggressor’s stench, both in life and death, and knew that the hulking shape did not belong to anything remotely human.
The sound of continuous gunfire in the distance reminded her that the peril had not passed, but now at least she understood the reason for the shooting; her enemies were doing battle with the same creatures she had just fought. She couldn’t find it in her heart to pity the loser of the outcome, but a twinge of concern for the catatonic DiLorenzo crept to the surface. She doubted anyone in Tarrant’s party would raise a hand in his defense against the strange creatures.
Pushing and squirming from beneath the heavy, motionless carcass, she managed to free herself. She immediately slammed a fresh magazine into the pistol and swept the area for a new target, keeping low behind the corpse of the slain beast. Nothing.
Relaxing her guard only a little, she studied the form of the creature that had attacked her.
It was unquestionably primate, but larger even than the mountain gorillas of Central Africa. The simian face, fixed in a snarl upon death, resembled the fierce features of a baboon, but its pelt was a shaggy mass of orange and black stripes, now streaked with dark blood. Mira knew exactly what it was.
No concrete proof of their existence had ever surfaced, but more than a few credible sightings had been recorded, even in the modern age. Its name was taken from two words in the language of the Sherpas: Yah, meaning rock, and Teh, or animal. It was a name given to creatures that existed in the legends of the Himalayas for as long as anyone could remember; demons that left the abyss to walk among men, ravaging their herds and frightening children.
She had killed a yeti.
Hefting the pistol in both hands, she walked backwards until she had a building directly behind her. The presence of the yeti was not something the Trinity had prepared her for. At no point in the vision of Agartha’s genesis that she had experienced, did these legendary creatures make an appearance. Their origin lay in some other niche of history or evolution. Yet at some point, the species had found its way into the chasm deep beneath Everest. Perhaps the great cavern had not been completely sealed after all.
The significance of it was not lost on her, and she wondered what other surprises lay in store.
As she skirted along the perimeter of the building, then darted across a narrow avenue to put yet another structure at her back, she had the nagging suspicion that there was something else about the encounter with the yeti that had escaped her notice. She heard sporadic gunfire, presumably from the next level of the city, but was not herself attacked again. It was only as she entered the pagoda, triggering the tiles to answer a second, more difficult question and open the next gate that she realized what she had been missing.
The yeti had free run of the city. In the visitation she had shared with DiLorenzo, the security of each level had been absolute. Even now, the mechanisms that guarded the stairwells were active. It was highly improbably that the ape-like creatures had randomly solved the riddles in order to come and go as they pleased. There had to be another way to reach the upper levels, and anything that might give her the edge in her race to intercept Tarrant was worth pursing. She turned from the open portal and made her way back into the streets.
She retraced her steps to the place where she had fought the giant beast. It still lay where it had fallen, undisturbed by others of its species. Mira did not approach but instead walked in a wide circle, scrutinizing the smooth street surface underfoot in the glow of her chemical light. She soon found what she was looking for: a spray of red slowly drying on the glassy floor. A few steps away, she saw a scattering of drops—the blood of the first yeti she had fired at and only wounded. Maintaining constant vigilance with the Desert Eagle drawn and ready, she followed the spatters that marked the trail of the injured yeti’s retreat.
The path veered sharply away from the route she had taken to the stairwell, leading directly toward the massive overhanging cliff on the side of the tier opposite the chasm. As she drew close to the imposing stone embankment, she observed another instance where her familiarization with the city had been incomplete. The solid wall of rock was not solid after all. Imperfections in the rock, seismic fractures, and erosion from subterranean streams and glacial melt, evidently occurring after the abandonment of Agartha, had left the massif a veritable Swiss cheese of natural tunnels. The metamorphic rock—sandstone transformed by the heat and pressure of continental collisions—was riddled with holes, some no more than pockmarks, but others large enough for her to stand in. The trail of blood led directly into one.
Mira hesitated. The wounded yeti would likely flee to its lair, but was that where she wanted to go?
“Let’s be logical about this,” she murmured, barely aware of her own voice. It made sense that the creatures would dwell in the lower reaches of the massive cavity. Even underground, the air was thin at higher altitudes. Moreover, the plenitude of sightings of the so-called Abominable Snowman near populated areas seemed to confirm that the yeti had discovered a way out of the Agarthan cavern unknown to its original builders, and that exit was almost certainly in the depths below. Therefore, the route taken by the wounded beast would probably lead, not to the uppermost levels of the city, but down into the abyss.
She moved away from the tunnel, scanning the wall for another opening that bore the signs of continuous travel. Almost a hundred meters further down the wall she sound what she was looking for: a tiny niche at shoulder height that was littered with tufts of orange and black hair and smelled of animal excrement.
There was a scratching noise behind her and she whirled, the barrel of the Desert Eagle seeking a target. Something was moving near the corner of one structure, but it was clumsy and obvious. Over the pounding of her own heartbeat, Mira could hear labored breathing. It didn’t sound like one of the yeti
A familiar figure abruptly stumbled into view. It was the hulking mercenary she had first seen in the sky above the New York museum. His clothing was torn and soaked with blood, and there were streaks of red on his face like handprints. His eyes were wild and his head jerked spasmodically in every direction, searching the shadows as if fearful of an attack. He still clutched his AK-47, thrusting it forward randomly to engage targets that existed only in his imagination. When he squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. Either the weapon had jammed and the man had not attempted to correct the problem, or he had fired off all his ammunition. That he still lived after an encounter with the fierce ape-like beasts suggested the latter.
Mira lifted her own weapon, unsure of what sort of threat the traumatized mercenary presented. The motion caught his eye and he swung the assault rifle toward her. “You.” He spat the word of recognition disdainfully. He was not as incoherent as s
he had first believed.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she replied warily, her finger ready on the trigger. It had not escaped her notice that the man had not actually attempted to fire the empty weapon at her, and she wondered if it might not be possible to reach through his delirium to find an ally. “I’m sure you know my name, but I didn’t catch yours.”
The man seemed mildly surprised at her forbearance. “It’s Turner.”
Mira nodded. “Well, Mr. Turner, it looks to me like your employer isn’t paying you quite enough.”
He laughed humorlessly. “That’s for damn sure.”
There was movement in the shadows behind him, but Mira kept her stare fixed on the mercenary. “Maybe it’s time you rethought your loyalties.”
“And work for you? Think you can pay more?” His tone was insincere, as if he was merely curious.
“You don’t actually believe Walter will reward you,” she countered. “If you stick with him, you’ll end up like Montero.”
“The Nazi? Hah. He deserved what he got.”
“Maybe,” Mira conceded. “But men like Walter don’t make a habit of keeping their promises.”
“You don’t get it, lady.” Turner advanced a step, a hint of menace twisting his visage. “When he gets what he’s after, he’s going to be top dog. King of the world.”
“That will never happen,” she replied, her tone flat and certain.
“You think you can stop him?” Turner moved forward again, his intent beyond question. “That’s what ain’t going to happen.”
The shadows stirred again. Mira extended her pistol, the muzzle aimed directly at his right eye. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
Turner did not stop, but as he took another step, he let the spent Kalashnikov rifle fall to the ground. “You won’t shoot an unarmed man.”
She didn’t argue his assertion. “I won’t have to.”
The yeti began moving as soon as the AK-47 rattled to the ground, crossing the distance in a flash. Turner saw the flicker of movement in Mira’s eyes. He did not comprehend that her statement was not a threat, but rather a warning, until it was too late. The charging creature scooped up the fallen weapon and swung it like a club. There was a sickening crunch as the wooden stock made contact with the mercenary’s shaved skull. In a frenzy of bloodlust, the simian ignored Mira and continued pummeling Turner’s motionless corpse.
She pulled herself up into the tunnel, distancing herself from the carnage, but did not turn her back on the preoccupied yeti until it was no longer visible. “I’m sorry we couldn’t work something out,” she said under her breath, and then hurried down the passage.
SIXTEEN
The tunnel was nearly vertical in some places, like a chimney, and Mira had to brace herself against the narrow sides in order to make upward progress. She found this encouraging, however, for as long as she was going up, she was moving closer to her goal. After what seemed an eternity of climbing and crawling, she came to an opening that overlooked a higher portion of the subterranean kingdom.
It took her only a moment to recognize where she was—the eighth level of the city. The terrace was considerably smaller than the first two. Only a select few ever gained access to the highest levels of Agartha. The disc-shaped shelf was only a few hundred meters across, and occupied only by a single, palatial structure. Situated closer to the crystal light source, the floor of the terrace had at one time been cultivated into a magnificent garden, but centuries in the dark, scoured by the winds rushing up from the chasm, had left it as barren as the rest of the underground empire.
The eighth level had been the secular capital of Agartha. The citadel had served as an administrative headquarters, overseeing the day-to-day needs of the population on the seven tiers below, and also housed the highest court to which the citizens might appeal for justice. Only the three Trinity bearers, who resided on the tenth level, held greater authority, but they were rarely bothered to resolve civil disputes.
The transition to the ninth level established the segregation between the worldly and mystical spheres of Agarthan culture. Although essentially living in a theocracy, with absolute power in the hands of their spiritual leaders, the residents of the underground kingdom, for the most part, had little interest in religious mysteries. The ninth terrace housed a seminary where an elite few studied the power of the Trinity and debated the true nature of the figure known only as the Wise Father. As an additional security measure, the means to unlock the gates leading to the tenth and eleventh levels, the eleventh tier being itself the final gate, were known only to the three.
Mira recalled all these details in the few seconds it took for her to pull herself from the narrow cleft and descend spider-like to the floor below. She scanned the open floor, searching both for signs of yeti and Tarrant. Her heart sank when she saw movement in the shadows above, on the ninth level. Her gamble to beat the old grave robber to the Trinity temple had been in vain; Tarrant was within final striking distance of his objective.
Despite the rarefied atmosphere, she took off at a sprint and crossed the distance to the unsecured entrance to the palace complex. Although the corridors and courtyards seemed as familiar to her as the buildings of the Farm complex where she had been raised, she found herself hesitating at each junction. The thin air was causing her to feel disoriented and slowing her reflexes.
She paused before the ornate gateway that guarded the next ascension, trying to calm her racing heart and jangled nerves. At this level, the temples and their security mechanisms were not simply locks that kept out the uninitiated, but also traps designed to punish those who did not correctly grasp the mysteries of Agartha and its rulers.
Once more, the means to unlock the gate was found in a series of tiles and a question requiring an exact answer. Without her intimate knowledge of the city and its rulers, Mira could not have begun to guess at the correct solution, much less understood the riddle. So alien was the culture and lifestyle of the hidden city that there was no frame of reference in the modern world. She did not waste the mental energy trying to fathom what she read, but simply selected the appropriate tiles and waited for the gate to rise.
By the time she reached the top of the stairway, she could see three figures moving along the next flight of steps, advancing to the tenth level. She couldn’t make out individual features. If she had been able to, she might have tried shooting Tarrant at a distance, despite the questionable accuracy of a pistol at that range. But DiLorenzo was almost certainly one of those distant shapes, and she wasn’t ready to risk killing him to stop her foe. Not yet, at least.
She was gaining on them—of that she was sure—but there was no way to tell whether she would be able to intercept Tarrant before he reached the Trinity temple. The small trio was not moving rapidly, but their destination was already within reach. The remaining tiers of city were the smallest yet, requiring only a few minutes of walking from one side to the next. She lost sight of them as she negotiated the passageways through the Agarthan seminary to the gateway shrine, and by the time she set foot onto the next flight of stairs, Tarrant and the others had already moved onto the tenth level.
Prior to dividing their kingdom, the three members of the triumvirate had chosen to make their permanent home two steps below the crystal pagoda, in a mansion that occupied the entire breadth of the terrace. The enormous structure was primarily utilitarian; the Trinity wielders had no need to impress their subordinates by displaying an opulent lifestyle. In fact, very few citizens ever saw the palace where Sham’b’Alla, Le’Mu and Atl’an ate and slept. None of those few who did would recognize that the manor had been hewn from living stone according to a very familiar pattern. Mira instantly recognized the circular layout, with three crystalline spires spaced equidistantly around the perimeter, in an enormous representation of the joined Trinity.
The stairs to the next level rose directly from the center of the palace, spiraling around a pillar of quartz crystal. She could
easily distinguish Tarrant from his daughter and DiLorenzo, halfway up the flight and advancing at a steady pace. Without hesitating, she sighted down the barrel of the Desert Eagle, tracking the undulating motion of his head for a few seconds, then squeezed the trigger.
The gun thundered in her hands, the recoil traveling up her arms to buffet her torso. At the same instant, she saw Tarrant’s head snap sideways as an equivalent amount of kinetic energy was delivered in the form of a .45 slug, and he disappeared from her view. She recovered her stance before the last echoes of the report fell silent and drew a bead on Rachel Aimes, but before she could fire, the blond woman ducked for cover. DiLorenzo stood in place, unmoving.
A moment later, the stubby barrel of Rachel’s PDW protruded from the edge of the stairs and unleashed a random burst. The shots gouged chips of marble from the palace roof but were otherwise ineffectual. Mira nevertheless sought concealment before answering the volley with a single well-placed shot that grazed the edge of the step where Rachel was hiding. The weapon disappeared as its shooter retreated.
Without warning, DiLorenzo turned on his heel and marched to the open edge of the spiral staircase. For a moment, Mira feared he might walk right off the precipice, but he came to an abrupt halt with the tips of his toes protruding out into space, and stood there, gently swaying.
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do, Mira.” The detective spoke, but the voice was not his own.
Mira breathed a rare curse. That Tarrant had survived was unfortunate, but somehow not really surprising. All along she had suspected that the Trinity implanted in his chest would grant the old grave robber almost total invincibility. In order to beat him, she was going to have to separate him from the Trinity, and that would mean getting a lot closer.
“Careful who you shoot,” chided Tarrant, using DiLorenzo like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
She caught a glimpse of activity behind the enslaved policeman—Rachel Aimes, identifiable by her mane of lush, blonde hair, staying close to the inner limit of the stairway, but resuming the ascent. Mira couldn’t see Tarrant, but it stood to reason that he was also on the move. DiLorenzo remained on the outer edge, but turned and began climbing as well, keeping pace with his captors and serving as a human shield.