by Jack Conner
Not for long.
The creature he was trapped inside wasn’t stupid. Realizing its mistake, it retracted the stalactites and stalagmites from the far end back into their previous positions and sent out new ones in their place—new ones much closer to the werewolf’s current position. Stuck in the air with a stalactite impaling him, he had nowhere to go.
Shit.
Surely the stone that impaled him really wasn’t stone at all; if it were, then how could it move so fluidly? Jean-Pierre used what strength he had left to transform into his two-legged beast shape and clawed at the tongue that trapped him. Its hide was thick, almost true stone—but not quite. Thank the gods, not quite.
Just as half a dozen other rocky swords barreled down on him, he ripped through the one that impaled him, breaking it in two. With nothing left to suspend him in midair, he plummeted to the floor and wriggled loose of the lance sticking out his back.
He leapt to his feet, snarling and snapping and swatting away the rocky lances driving at him. Several of the swords nicked him, one even tearing through his side. He lunged in the other direction and howled as he felt his own flesh tear free. Damn it. He was bleeding badly and needed all his strength to fend off the stalactites and stalagmites that plunged at him.
On instinct, he quested out with his mind and felt that of the creature that had trapped him. It was immortal, he sensed, or nearly so, but he couldn’t communicate with it as he could with humans and other animals. Maybe it was just too stupid, or simply unable to converse in any appreciable manner. Nevertheless, driven by blind rage and desperation, he struck the mind of the beast with every ounce of psychic power he had.
The darting stone lances recoiled.
Jean-Pierre knew that this was his only chance. He jumped on top of one of the curving stalactites, which was for the moment still, and slashed at the lowered ceiling of the cave—of the creature. He exerted all his strength at breaking through the monster’s thick hide. He continued his struggle for psychic dominance over the thing, knowing it was futile—but he was slowing it down.
Finally, a claw broke through and found air beyond the hide of the living tunnel. Tearing with tooth and nail, Jean-Pierre opened the wound and flung himself through, emerging into the cool stagnant air of the cave. When he glanced down to see what manner of beast he’d just sprung from, he found it to be nothing more than a great worm, maybe sixty feet long and tapered at both ends. He could now see the light of the torch and felt a tide of relief wash through him.
The monster swelled. Just as it had contracted before, now it expanded. Within seconds, Jean-Pierre would be crushed against the real stone wall of the actual cave.
He scrambled over the roiling back of the worm and at the last moment launched himself free.
He dropped from the tapered end, rolled several yards and shot to his feet, panting. He tried to force his body to heal, but without sustenance …
Food … I must have food …
He turned to look back at the tapered end of the big stone worm and found to his horror that this end was opening up. Inside, he could see scores of stone lances coiling to spear him where he stood. Worse, the big worm was moving—toward him.
He turned on his heels and fled.
* * *
“My soldiers tell me you went down into the catacombs,” Sarnova told Kharker, both of whom lounged comfortably in the Dark Lord’s den. “Is that true?”
The Hunter could not lie to his old friend. “I did.”
“Why, Khark?”
The grizzled old werewolf gave Sarnova a slightly amused expression. “I think you know, if you stop to think about it.”
Sarnova frowned. “Damnit, Khark. Don’t tell me you went down there to remove that sign I went through so much trouble to get set up in the first place.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, but I need Maleasoel dead, Roche. She killed Gavin, threatened to kill both Jean-Pierre and Ruegger, and now she intends to torture and kill you. Not only that, but I think Jean-Pierre might really be dead.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. He didn’t like being grilled by Sarnova but had expected it and resolved to tell the truth. He added, “She needs to die, Roche. Let the Sabo and the Balaklava do your work for you.”
Roche groaned. “If I let her come into the Sabo, she’ll bring along her nukes, Khark. Even if Junger and Jagoda do kill her, would you rather the nukes be in their hands?”
Kharker blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that when I went down there,” he admitted. “Fuck! I thought I was saving us all, but I’ve damned us all instead, haven’t I? I’ve endangered the whole Castle …”
Roche leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. One of the harem girls came in and asked if he’d like a massage, but he waved her away with a word of thanks.
“Well,” he said. “I appreciate your efforts, anyway, although I think both you and I know that vengeance was more on your mind than saving the rest of us.”
Kharker didn’t argue. “How can we salvage the situation? Surely we can rouse Ruegger and go put up another sign, for heaven’s sakes. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“I can’t allow him to leave the Castle until the chess match, Kharker. It was risky enough the first time.” Sarnova pulled a face. “Another question is what to do about the Balaklava? I’m beginning to dread them as much as the Libertarians.”
“The Sabo’s still on our side. It’ll fight Junger and Jagoda, maybe even kill them.”
“Maybe. But with the monsters they’ve created I doubt the Sabo can do much about them.”
“Yeah. I saw one of them. Weirdest abstraction I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many. It was made of people, Roche. People. Gods.”
“I need to get them the hell out of the Sabo before they kill it, or at the very least take up permanent residence there, but I haven’t the vaguest clue how to go about it. I mean, the Labyrinth is eight stories tall and half a mountain’s width. They could be hiding anywhere ... and with those things they’ve made, I don’t relish the thought of sending my own men down there after them.”
“No.”
“Not only that, but there are their zombies to consider. I’ve been receiving reports all night and again a few minutes ago that certain residents of the Castle have gone missing. Actually, quite a few—about fifty, so far.”
“Shit.”
“They could easily be building an army of zombies down there. If I sent my own troops into the Sabo to kill Junger and Jagoda, the bastards might use the Labyrinth to separate my forces, isolate and kill them. Then resurrect them. They’d have not only a contingent of well-trained shades to convert to zombiedom, but they’d have our guns, as well.”
Kharker was beginning to realize just how powerful the Balaklava were, and thanked whatever gods that might exist that he’d made it out of the Sabo alive.
“Also, there’s something I should tell you,” Sarnova said, “something that hasn’t become common knowledge yet. Maleasoel isn’t with the army.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Your mission to send her to her doom would’ve only killed a bunch of random Libertarians in her place. Or so says the daybeast you captured, after extensive interrogation by one of our flayers.”
Kharker cringed, but couldn’t help a small chuckle. “Well, at least I did that much for you. But why isn’t she here?”
“I don’t have a clue. It’s all very vexing. For all I know, she’s out recruiting more Libertarians to invade us.”
“Whoa, Roche. One problem at a time. First, how are we going to deal with the Balaklava? It seems to me that if we could plant some bombs in the Sabo ...” When Kharker saw the indignant look on his friend’s face, he raised his hands, palms out. “Trust me, Roche. I love the Sabo as much as you do, but it’ll survive the bombs. It’ll rebuild. Junger and Jagoda, on the other hand, will be dead.”
“So you hope. They’ve survived bombs before. Why should this time be any different?”
“Because
this time we’re not going to use regular bombs. We’re going to track the Libbies down, steal their nukes, and detonate them in the Sabo. That should kill Junger and Jagoda, don’t you think—as well as anything else they’ve created down there.”
“Great Buddha, Khark. You don’t know what you’re saying. For one, I don’t know if the Sabo could survive a nuke.”
“A tactical nuke. It can. I’m certain.”
“We don’t have the manpower, not anymore, to attack the Libertarians during the day. We also don’t know where they are.”
“Fine. If you can’t send in your troops, can’t bomb them, can’t nuke them ... what can you do?”
Roche Sarnova took a long sip from his drink. “Now that’s a very good question,” he said.
* * *
Ruegger was sound asleep in Danielle’s arms when he heard a fierce rapping at the door. At first, he didn’t want to get up. Let whoever it was go the hell away and leave him and Dani in peace. A peace they deserved very much.
“You’d better go see who it is,” Danielle said.
He groaned in protest, but the knocking did not cease and soon he forced himself out of the warm bed and into a pair of black jeans and steel-toed boots. He crossed to the door, a .45 in his hand and a knife in his waistband.
“Who is it?”
“Kharker.”
Ruegger hesitated. He’d hardly seen the old werewolf since Kharker had turned him in to Roche Sarnova, and he wasn’t too happy to hear from him now. Nonetheless, he opened the door and admitted the Hunter. Immediately, candle wicks burst into fine flame throughout the room, brightening it so that it gave Ruegger a headache.
“What do you want?” he said, once the Hunter had taken a seat for himself.
Danielle had pulled on a tight black concert T-shirt and slipped into a pair of black hot pants, the closest thing she had to shorts. On the end of her feet jutted fluffy house shoes. She held a gun, aimed, not quite, at the Hunter.
“Several things,” Kharker said. “But first, may I embrace you, my boy? Can you let your hatred of me go, just for now? I fear Jean-Pierre may be dead, though I won’t believe it till I see his body myself.” He looked the Darkling square in the eye. “You and Blackie may be the only ones I have left, and I can’t bear the thought of you hating me.”
To see his old friend sitting there, his brown eyes almost weepy, drove Ruegger to grab one of the Hunter’s hands, yank him from the chair and hug him. He could feel Kharker’s sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” said the werewolf, clapping Ruegger on the shoulder as they parted.
“I forgave you a long time ago, Khark, even when I was in my cell. It’s not me you need to apologize to. It’s Danielle.”
Surprised, the Hunter turned to see the vampiress staring at him critically, her delicate white fingers still wrapped about that big pistol. He started to approach her on the bed, but she cocked the gun and he backed off.
“Dani ...”
She waved his words away. “Don’t. It was Ruegger you wronged, and doubtlessly tried to corrupt when you two were alone at the Lodge. If he forgives you, I’m not going to act against you. Just don’t get near me, don’t speak to me, and we’ll get along fine.”
Ruegger thought she was taking a rather hard line on Kharker, but he couldn’t blame her. After all, if Ruegger had never gone to prison, he’d never have had to face off against Kiernevar and so endanger his life. If Danielle still held a grudge against the Hunter, it was hard to blame her.
“Please, Danielle,” Kharker tried again. “You lived with me for some months, remember, back when you were with my Jean-Pierre. We were friends, then, remember? We can be friends again.”
“Shove off,” she told him, gesturing with her pistol. “I’ve told you all I’m going to. Now if you’re about some other business, get on with it. We’ve no more to say to one another.”
Clearly, the words stung Kharker, but he nodded. “Very well. Ruegger, I’ve got some things to give you. Things that might just save your life.”
“Trying to buy love now?” Danielle said, breaking her edict about not saying anything to each other.
Kharker smiled. “Dear Danielle, if I could buy love than I’d have no other troubles, would I? Now come with me, Ruegger. These gifts have to be properly given, or else they lose their value. First, put on a shirt and your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“Trust me.”
From her bed, Danielle said, “I’ll remember you said that.”
Kharker exchanged a glance with Ruegger, a look of exasperation, but the vampire could offer him no solace. By any measure, the werewolf was an evil creature, and Danielle had pledged to fight evil. But he was oddly loyal to those he loved, and it was because of this that Ruegger could never harbor any serious thoughts of violence against him. Any man who could love could be good. Or so Ruegger thought.
When he was dressed, Ruegger gave Danielle a kiss good-bye.
She pulled on his lapels and whispered in his ear, “Be careful, baby. I don’t know what all this is about ... but be careful.”
When Ruegger stepped outside the room, he was unnerved to see that the group of soldiers guarding his door had swollen to six. He wanted to question them, but first he wanted to get this business with Kharker over with as soon as possible and return to Danielle. Just the same, he was annoyed that, as Kharker led him to the Hunter’s own lavish chambers, three of the soldiers followed. Why did they bother? Ruegger could whip all three before the first one hit the floor.
As they reached Kharker’s apartments, Ruegger was relieved that the soldiers stayed outside while he and the Hunter went in. Kharker’s chambers were large and opulent. There was a foyer, a kitchen, a den, a dining room, a feeding room, a sauna, two bathrooms and two bedrooms, along with some other amenities, such as the terrace that Ruegger was sure would offer a beautiful view of the mountains if the black-out curtains weren’t drawn to. Somewhere incense candles burned and the sound of tribal music floated in from another room.
The Hunter’s apartments nearly equaled the size of Sarnova’s, and all the halls and rooms were decorated wonderfully in accordance with Kharker’s tastes: animal hide carpets and animal heads sticking out of the walls as if they were trying to figure out just what was so interesting in here.
Kharker showed Ruegger to the den, where they reclined before the fireplace (not quite as large as Sarnova’s) as a harem girl brought them drinks from the bar and offered them massages. Ruegger accepted the drink, but declined the massage. Kharker took her up on both.
While she was kneading the Hunter’s feet, Ruegger said, simply for something to say, “You have a nice place here.”
“I’ve had it forever, or at least since the Castle was built. Roche told me a long time ago that if I ever decided to leave the Lodge, I could come live here instead. Every now and then I’ve been tempted, too. Jean-Pierre and I would come stay here for a few weeks, enjoying ourselves. Sometimes we’d join Blackie and hunt humans through the labyrinth of the Sabo.” He smiled. “Those were good times.” As he reached for a cigar, he looked down at the girl massaging his feet. “Ah, yes, that’s it. Just a little harder, honey. That’s good.”
It was if he had no idea that he’d just mentioned how casually he killed mortals, when one was sitting right there in front of him, rubbing his feet.
Ruegger couldn’t take it any longer. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Why, to save your life, of course.”
Chapter 2
The chameleon worm chased Jean-Pierre until he slipped into one of the countless fissure-like tributaries and out of its reach. From there, the albino followed the narrow tunnel, zigzagging this way and that before he finally found another, larger corridor. A torch burned softly along one wall.
He needed to feed. If he didn’t, he’d either start rotting where he stood or else he’d go comatose and be easy prey for any other predators that roamed this strange underworld. He wanted just to
sit and think, to ponder all he’d seen and done in the last hour, but he couldn’t afford to waste time just then, so, wearily, he shuffled down the stone hall, this time careful to avoid places with an overabundance of stalactites or dark walkways.
Still preferring the larger avenues, he proceeded through Blackie’s Zoo, cautious of every step. It seemed a long time passed.
Finally, with a great flutter of wings and screeching noises, a thousand bats—or so it seemed to him—descended from their resting places on the cave ceiling and came to swirl about him in a mad rush. Jean-Pierre quested out towards them, but his psychic powers were either drained or the bats themselves blocked him. Still, he came away with the notion that the bats were curious.
So was he.
The tide of fliers ceased circling him, and, all at once, as if joined by a single will, gathered before him in a busy cloud of leathery flesh and claws and sharp teeth. Then the truly strange thing happened. The bats began assembling themselves into some sort of shape ...
First, Jean-Pierre saw legs, then a torso and arms. Finally, as if the bats were a child’s blocks, they formed the head: a hideous thing if the albino ever saw one. The body was bad enough, light and constantly shifting as the bats moved about, but the head, crowned by wings and with forehead and cheeks both made of wings to give the appearance of leathery flesh, the creature did not look pleasant at all. As for eyes and mouth, where a human mouth would be was the mouth of a great bat (who also provided the eyes), a bat almost as big as a hen … and its horrible toothy mouth could speak.
“Well met,” said the creature.
I’ve lost too much blood. I’m hallucinating. Surprising himself, Jean-Pierre managed to ask, “Who are you?”
“A better question would be to ask who you are. I know who and what I am. Obviously, by your injuries, you’re an immortal. It looks as if a Grife caught you unawares.”