Kindling (Flame of Evil)

by Mick Farren

  He shook his head to clear it. He had to focus his eyes. This was no time or place to go up and out. Up and out could only take him places even more dread and loathsome. Quadaron-Ahrach had left the stage with his Zhaithan, but his presence lingered over this ululating gala of deadly power and violent iniquity. The vision of the supreme Zhaithan’s gleaming eyes had locked itself hard into Argo’s mind, and he knew from his newfound instincts that it was this image of the eyes, and the swift, sharp corruption of the mind behind them, that was willing the whispering ghosts to surround him. Argo’s problem was that the horror had a strange and seductive buoyancy that was trying to enfold him and then float him, weak and irrational, to where he absolutely did not want to go.

  A vibrant energy of discolored orange-yellow was now streaming from the men around him, and in a different part of the camp, as far from the river and the human habitations as it was possible to get, an electric compound of Dark Things bounced and hummed with ugly satisfaction as they sucked in the confluence of the thousands of bonding and expanding streams of stolen lifeforce. Overhead, indistinct winged creatures fluttered like moths as the Dark Things were nourished by this tainted and hemorrhaging power of humanity and they visibly grew stronger and more malevolent as they fed. Some actually perceived him and evilly invited him to join them, promising that they would be his to command if only …

  Argo needed something easy and human. He needed a shock, a drink, a jolt of physical reality to bring him out of this Other Place and to prevent himself constantly slipping and sliding back into it. He was tired. Without help, he could not resist. He only knew he had to resist, but he was being hard pushed by temptation. He was being enticed with promises of unspecified power to reveal who and what he was even though he was far from certain of that himself.

  In the place where he did not want to go, Quadaron-Ahrach waited. The hunchback of previous fearful illusions was again on his throne, and more of the all-consuming sheets of flame danced behind him, a fire of this world combined with the fire of another. But he now leaned forward, gaunt and smiling, with a sinister if shapely female figure in the silhouetted shadows behind him. Quadaron-Ahrach was speaking to him. His thin, ancient lips moved, and although no audible words came, the message was clear. He wanted Argo to come to him. He wanted Argo to join him. If Argo came to Quadaron-Ahrach and pledged his fealty, all would be made good. Argo would not only be safe in the power, but a proud prince among men, with thousands to do his bidding.

  A slap of sharp, sudden pain and the wrathful hiss of Yancey Slide brought Argo back to reality. “Stop that! It’s getting a grip on you! You have to fight it.”

  Slide looked to T’saya, who was wide-eyed herself. “He has to get out of here. The boy is being taken over. I believe Quadaron-Ahrach has found him.”

  T’saya blinked and nodded as though tearing herself away from a vision of her own. “Yes. Yes, indeed. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  No sooner had she spoken than the entire picture changed, and any number of spells were broken as a loud explosion was detonated somewhere in the camp, not too far from the parade ground. Men looked angry, puzzled, frightened. Were they being shelled? Was Albany attacking them? Had an ammunition dump accidently blown up? After a moment of puzzled silence, a thousand Mosul soldiers blundered into each other as they looked for weapons or a superior to issue them some kind of orders.

  Argo did not know how he knew, but he was certain enough to speak without hesitation. “That explosion came from the Bunker.”

  T’saya nodded. “It’s your crazy damned Rangers, Slide. They’ve only gone and mounted an attack on the Zhaithan headquarters.”

  Slide looked from one to the other, but before he could say anything, Argo took control. “We have to go there right now.”

  “Has something gotten into you, boy, or are you just out of your mind? You want to go to the Zhaithan headquarters in the middle of a crisis?”

  “It’s where we have to go.”

  Argo readied his horse and was preparing to mount. Slide put a hand on his arm. “Hold on there, Argo Weaver.”

  Argo shook his arm free of Slide. “We have to go.”

  “Have you thought where this imperative might be coming from?”

  “It’s from me.”

  “I’m not letting you do this.”

  For the first time ever, Argo turned and fully faced down Yancey Slide. “I’m going. It’s nonnegotiable.”

  “Big words, boy.”

  “Big or small, I’m going.”

  Slide blazed with the force of command. “No!”

  Argo was unmoved. Let Slide blaze all he wanted. “Yes.”

  And the Ziggurat blew up. Later Argo would know that it was an aimed mortal shell, fired by Jeb Hooker’s Rangers, but in the moment, as men yelled and burning debris rained down on them, he thought Slide had done it to make his point.

  “Nice effect, Yancey Slide, but I think that makes my point rather than yours. I’m going!”

  T’saya had ducked when the burning structure spectacularly blew, but then she reached for the reins of Slide’s horse. “I don’t know about you, Yancey Slide, but I’m going with the boy. This place is under fire. Probably more of your Rangers’ games.”

  CORDELIA

  Room SB101 had yielded all that Cordelia, Jesamine, and the new boy, who had told them his name was Raphael, needed to restrain and silence the two Zhaithan. The bloody, bruised, and toothlessly disfigured victim of Jesamine’s pistol-whipping posed no threat, and his condition should have been enough warning of what might happen to his companion if he did the slightest thing to raise an alarm, but still no chances were being taken. In addition to being careful, both Jesamine and Raphael seemed to take a shameless, payback delight in gagging Jeakqual-Ahrach’s little helpers and manacling them to the wall. Together they had locked the manacles so tight that the circulation in the men’s arms would almost certainly be cut off. When the Zhaithan who had not been pistol-whipped protested, Jesamine’s lip had curled, and, with a glance at Raphael, she had all but spat in the helpless man’s face. “Do I give a rat’s ass if your hands turn blue, or even drop off? I don’t think so.”

  Not that Jesamine was willing to totally trust Raphael as yet. The concubine had seen too many Mosul uniforms in her time to completely take the word of anyone who might be wearing one, but that did not stop her sharing some acts of minor revenge on their former oppressors. Cordelia might have felt the same if she only had the young man’s word on his defection, but she had seen a small way inside his mind, and that had been enough for her. She had no doubt that he was another of the Four. A short conversation, and a not-too-well-performed exchange of silent images and unspoken ideas, had further convinced her but also made clear that they all had a great deal to learn about their powers and how to use them. Cordelia was now certain that nothing would function properly until the full quartet was together.

  This was a fact that Cordelia kept to herself, however. Their strange new powers were their last best hope for finding a way out of room SB101 in less than one hour, and she did not want to plant the idea of failure before they had even started to explore the possibilities. Even where to start was a problem. Raphael knew less than either Jesamine or Cordelia. He had seen the two of them in his dreams, he had made drawings of them in his secret sketchbook, and he had experienced visions in the presence of the supernatural entities called Dark Things, but that seemed the limit of his experience. He had frowned at the two women in mystification when Cordelia suggested that they try for some sort of psychic bond that included Jesamine. “I suppose we could link hands and see if anything happens.”

  They had tentatively grasped each other’s hands and closed their eyes. Concentrating hard, they had found that precisely nothing had happened, and when the attempt had been abandoned, Raphael had looked at the women in all innocence. “You said you were able to form a bond with each other. How did you do that?”

  Jesamine hesitated. “It was
kind of accidental.”

  “Accidental?”

  Cordelia could not leave him hanging. “It grew out of a sexual thing.”

  Jesamine nodded, a little overcoyly in Cordelia’s opinion. “And we were both very drunk.”

  The same thought occurred to both Cordelia and Raphael at the same time, and they both knew it. To engage in an erotic threesome right there on the floor hardly seemed plausible, practical, or effective. Not that Cordelia would have hesitated had she thought that it might have revealed a magickal avenue of escape, but the silent stares of the two Zhaithan had been enough of a distraction when they had been just holding hands. To try for some kind of lewd transcendence with those two bastards watching was plainly pointless and would never happen. Not that Cordelia questioned Raphael’s willingness to play his part. Without so much as reading his thoughts, she had seen him staring at her and Jesamine’s bodies when he thought they weren’t looking, and by his covert glances, he clearly indicated that he was interested in more than just their immediate survival. Before he, Jesamine, and Cordelia had immobilized the Zhaithan, they had stripped them of their tunics to give the girls something to wear apart from their ripped and filthy kaftans. The overlarge black jackets still revealed a lot of intimate flesh, and Raphael had continued to look. Cordelia, for her part, also did not view Raphael with distaste. Cleaned up, and with new clothes, the young man, with his large brown eyes, black hair, and olive skin, would have been darkly attractive, and the Goddess only knew how long it had been since he had been anywhere near a woman. Raphael had caught this final thought, smiled with a boyish embarrassment, and Cordelia had giggled. Jesamine was, of course, mystified. “What the hell are you two laughing at?”

  “Just a shared thought.”

  “Why can’t I share a thought?”

  Raphael diplomatically intervened. “Let’s try again and see if we can link the three of us.”

  They once more joined hands, and, to Cordelia’s surprise, something indistinct faltered on the very periphery of each of their minds. Glowing colors like lines of force were bent and tangled as though, without the fourth individual to complete the conjuration, nothing was going to happen as it should, and then, without warning, a fully realized vision fell on Cordelia. She jerked and pulled her hands free of the grip of Jesamine and Raphael. The illusion not only shocked her with its unheralded suddenness, but it was also someone else’s perception. She was looking through the eyes and mind of a stranger.

  A vibrant energy of discolored orange-yellow was now streaming from the men around her, and in a different part of the camp, as far from the river and the human habitations as it was possible to get, an electric compound of Dark Things bounced and hummed with ugly satisfaction as they sucked in the confluence of the thousands of bonding and expanding streams of stolen lifeforce. Overhead, indistinct winged creatures fluttered like moths as the Dark Things were nourished by this tainted and hemorrhaging power of humanity and they visibly grew stronger and more malevolent as they fed. Some actually perceived her and evilly invited her to join them, promising that they would be hers to command if only …

  Then the vision distorted, seeming to slip sideways, and when it returned, the hunchback of previous visions was facing her on his throne.

  All-consuming sheets of flame danced behind him, a fire of this world combined with the fire of another. But he now leaned forward, gaunt and smiling, with a sinister if shapely female figure in the silhouetted shadows behind him. Quadaron-Ahrach was speaking to her. His thin ancient lips moved, and although no audible words came, the message was clear. He wanted Cordelia to come to him.

  Just as Cordelia felt she was unable to handle what was happening to her, the vision abruptly ceased, and, at the same time, a bomb exploded somewhere very close. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. The electric lights went out in the subbasement, but the light of the burning torches remained. Cordelia stood up as two smaller explosions, closer but deafening, and a burst of gunfire echoed from above. “I think this may well be the cavalry coming to rescue us.”

  Jesamine looked at her as though she had just lost her mind. “I hope you’re right. I’ve never been too impressed with the cavalry.”

  ARGO

  They forced the horses through the crowd, with Argo leading the way and T’saya riding behind Yancey. As they rode towards the smoke that was rising from the Bunker, they were forced to push through a solid mass of confusion. Behind them, two more explosions ripped upwards from the parade ground, and someone was yelling that the gallows was gone, as if the fact was some kind of loss. Although no one opposed them, the going was difficult as crowds of men in drab green thrashed around in their own disorder and stampeded this way and that according to the dictates of the latest shouted rumor. Some seemed to believe that a preemptive strike was coming from across the river. Others were convinced that it was the Norse Union attacking from the air and scanned the night sky for flying machines. The only mercy in the mess was that the great majority of the Mosul rank and file had not been issued with ammunition. Otherwise, a fearful random slaughter might have broken out as the euphoric high of suggestion, regression, and human sacrifice gave way to panic and irrational terror. Only the fact of having nothing to shoot with prevented men from firing at everything that moved, including each other. The Zhaithan had made scrupulously sure that no man not on duty, on or near the parade ground, had a loaded weapon. Enough dangerous armed mayhem was being caused by the panicking officers who had retained their loaded sidearms. Some, persuaded that a prearranged mutiny was being instigated, had opened fire on troops doing nothing more threatening than desperately searching for their own units and familiar faces, while others had simply blazed their six shots into the night on the principle that doing something was better than doing nothing. For greater authority, Argo had drawn his own revolver and brandished it in the air as he kicked his horse forward to the irrational but certain conclusion the Bunker would provide the answers he had needed for so long.

  An eerily familiar sound caused Argo to rein in sharply. The distinctive and repetitive bark of a light-model Bergman gun was echoing harshly from the Bunker. He turned back and stared at Slide and T’saya. “That has to be the Rangers.”

  T’saya grunted. “You have little faith, Argo Weaver. That’s what I already told you.”

  Argo looked around, suddenly undecided. “If it’s Hooker and his boys attacking the Bunker, how the hell do they expect to get out of here? There’s a lot of bloody Mosul between us and the other side of the river.”

  “Something we need to bear in mind ourselves.”

  Argo was still maintaining a healthy anger at Slide. “It was supposed to be a suicide mission, was it?”

  “It’s not a suicide mission. The Rangers work on the principle of blow up the whole world if need be and then vanish. You’d be surprised what they can pull off with a little surprise. Here and now they’ve got more than surprise. They’ve created total fucking chaos.”

  In the area around the Bunker, the chaos had actually doubled as the Bergman had opened up. A sudden surge of men came from the direction of the building, seeking cover and, once again, someone to give them an order. No one seemed to care that two mounted Zhaithan and a physically strange soldier were pushing their way in the opposite direction. If the attack really was the work of no more than Hooker and his squad, they had done a destructively miraculous job on the Zhaithan headquarters. A huge section of wall had been blown out, right beside the main entrance. A staff car was burning, and bodies, some whole and others no more than separated limbs, seemed to be scattered for ten yards or more from the point of impact, covered in drifting cement dust, fallen beams, and shattered masonry.

  Slide rose in his stirrups and looked over the heads of the fleeing crowd. “Seems like someone did a good job of laying a satchel charge right by the front door.” Muzzle flashes were visible in the smoky darkness of the interior, and Slide laughed. “And then they went inside to make it a massacre. You ha
ve to hand to Hooker and his boys. They have style.”

  “The other three of the Four are inside there.”

  Slide looked sharply at Argo. “What did you say?”

  “The other three of the Four are inside there.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “The thought came to me, and I said it.” Argo had nothing to add. It was exactly as he had told it. He was suddenly in a world without questions, where he could only act on the instinct of the moment.

  But seemingly Slide believed him. “Damn.”

  “We have to go in there.”

  “That presents a real fucking challenge to not be shot by our own side.”

  Argo, still without thinking ahead, kicked his horse hard, eager to go and be unable to turn back should his courage run out. He plunged ahead, breaking through the ragged perimeter that some Teuton officers, less drunk and more on the ball than the rest, were attempting to kick and bully into place around the Bunker, while an underofficer and two men were being sent for an issue of ammunition. A brief bayonet charge had been attempted, but it had been cut down by the faceless fire from inside, and Argo’s path took his horse’s hooves across the still-warm bodies. He glanced back and saw that Slide was following, having been left with little or no alternative. What sounded like a bullet from inside hissed past him. Slide had been right. The challenge really was to not be shot by their own side. When he reached the gaping hole where the entrance had once been, he slid from the saddle and cut his horse loose. At the same time, he ripped off his helmet, and, with revolver in one hand and the dead man’s carbine in the other, stumbled shouting into the smoke and gunfire. “Hooker! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Weaver. I’ve got Slide with me. Don’t fucking shoot!”

  RAPHAEL

  Raphael and the two girls moved through darkness and smoke, feeling their way along the ways of the subbasement corridor as what sounded like a violent firefight raged above them. Through all of his time in the service of the Mosul, he had heard men mimic the dread sound of the enemy Bergman gun, but he had never heard it for real and fired in anger. He hissed to the girls. “This has to be an Albany attack.”