Folkestone raised his weapon, pulled the trigger, but the hammer only clicked impotently.
“You luck has run out, Captain.”
Daraph-Kor raised a trembling arm and turned his palm toward Folkestone; with his other hand he supported himself against a column. At the centre of his open palm appeared a coruscation of light, which ebbed bright, then slowly waned.
Daraph-Kor appeared confused.
A bullet struck a rock near his head, causing fragments to cut his left cheek. He appeared not to notice the scarlet flow. He looked at his hand, then fumbled for his gun.
Folkestone leaped at him, grasping him about the waist and sending him flying. They tumbled to a heap at the base of the Black Mirror. Daraph-Kor fought desperately, throwing Folkestone aside and leaping toward the ancient instrumentality he had attached to the infernal device. Folkestone grabbed him and flung him back, rolling in the dust and snow.
They struggled to their feet, each not letting go of the other, each attempting to subdue the other with the only weapons they still had left to them, their own ebbing strength and resolute will. Abruptly, Daraph-Kor caught Folkestone by the shoulders, exerting pressure on his already aching wounds while at the same time driving him back. Folkestone felt a shattering pain, saw a dazzling kaleidoscope of light as the back of his head solidly thudded against a sharp outcrop of adamantean stone. The human, consciousness slipping away, started to slide toward the ground. The Martian released him, turned and took a few faltering steps toward the Black Mirror, in the depths of which the long-imprisoned Dark Gods seethed impatiently.
Folkestone steadied himself, shook the shadows from his vision and rushed forward. Daraph-Kor, hearing pounding footfalls, turned and caught Folkestone as Folkestone caught him. They grappled in the shadow of the Black Mirror.
Daraph-Kor gripped Folkestone at the throat and squeezed with all the desperation and hate of his of dying race. Folkestone clawed at the choking hands, but they refused to let go. Flecks of darkness swam in Folkestone’s vision.
Sparks erupted and smoke billowed from the Black Mirror, the concussive blast threw Daraph-Kor forward. Folkestone broke the Martian’s grip and, then broke his jaw with a massive right cross. The Martian hit the ground and his eyes rolled to whiteness.
The instrumentality attached to the Black Mirror was ruined.
Sergeant Hand sat upon a nearby block, left arm hanging loose within the charred remnants of a sleeve. Scarlet blood flowed from dozens of wounds. A ragged strip from his trousers was stuffed into a deep gash that ran from the centre of his chest, across his throat and up the side of his head. And, once more, Folkestone saw his gleaming clockwork heart, battered but still keeping time like the very engine of creation. In his other hand, bloody and all but stripped of flesh, he held his smoking side-arm.
“Sergeant, I wish I could say you’ve looked worse, but I do not think that would be true,” Folkestone said.
“Made my steam-repeater blow up in my ruddy grip, he did, the filthy beggar!” Hand grumbled weakly.
Folkestone pulled Hand’s other weapon from its holster. “It is past time for this, Sergeant.”
They took aim at the Black Mirror. Within its ebony depths, they saw swarming monsters, seething nightmares, all the terrors that lie deep in the subconscious minds of all the races of the Solar System, the devils of the id, the beasts that lurk at the edges of memory and howl in the outer darkness, seeking to regain entrance to a realm denied.
“No!” Daraph-Kor screamed.
Projectile after projectile sundered the device’s silvery frame and shattered the black substance that seemed so much like glass at first glance.
“No!”
The ancient bonds forged by the all-but-forgotten Elder Race broke down, ending the stasis of that which was bound within. The sentence imposed by the sea-kings of Mars, of life without death and death without life, finally came to an end. The light of a hundred suns rushed outward, accompanied by a wind that swept away all the dust and snow and threw Folkestone and Hand aside like feathers before the storm.
The light died.
The wind paused.
“Hand, are you all right?” Folkestone demanded, clawing his way to his feet. “Where are you?”
“Here, sir,” Hand responded, his voice but a whisper. “I do not think I am all right, sir.”
The Martian sat up from where he had been thrown, tried to stand, but managed only to slump against an inclined block.
“Steady, Hand,” Folkestone said. “We’ll get you…”
“Alone!” The cry wailed through the ruins like that of a wounded animal. “Murderers! I am alone!”
“Crikey!” Hand groaned. “Can’t the blighter just die?”
The shattered remains of Daraph-Kor rose from a sepulchre of rocks like an accusing spirit. His clothes were ribboned, as was his flesh. Blood gushed. He had no weapon and attempts to lift his arms met with failure. He swayed, but managed to stay on his feet.
“Worthless animals!” he screamed. “I shall kill you!”
Folkestone and Hand raised their weapons and fired, but the hammers fell on empty chambers.
“I alone survive!” Daraph-Kor yelled.
The sound of a single shot rang through the ruins. A bullet fired from behind burst out of Daraph-Kor’s chest. He looked down in surprise, then fell to his knees.
Lady Cynthia, battered and dirtied, stepped from out the ruins, her arm held out straight, her aim steady, ready to fire again if the need arose.
“This is not the way it was supposed to turn out,” Daraph-Kor whispered. “Alone. Utterly alone. But this is the way it will have to be…alone I shall conquer…”
Abruptly, the Martian thrust his chest forward, flung his head back and threw his arms wide. A shuddering scream of rage and terror tore from his gaping mouth. A flash of ebony erupted from the centre of his being, a vomiting of darkness, as if his frail body had been transformed into a volcano of shadows. A massive presence formed in the frigid air above the ruins.
As the last of the entity ripped its way out, the shell of a lowland trader named Daraph-Kor fell aside.
The Dark God, now free of his useless mortal frame, writhed like a thousand serpents, prowled above them like hungry jackals. It was literally the stuff of nightmares, the dread shape passed from generation to generation, and interpreted by hundreds of cultures on the worlds of the Solar System. It was the horned demon, the goat of the woods, the fanged devourer, the worm that dies not, the snake in the eternal fire, the winged eater of men, the terror by night and the pestilence that strikes when the noon sun withers – it was all that and a thousand other primal fears.
Folkestone plucked the Martian’s own weapon from the dust and fired, as did Lady Cynthia. Hand was trying to reload.
Three small fears, boomed a voice in their minds. Not much of a meal for a rising god, but most satisfying never the less.
Hand’s weapon barked along with the other two, but it was clear to the three the gunfire was having little effect upon the freed Entity. They had prevented the return of the Dark Gods, but not this one who now had no advantage staying within Daraph-Kor. They had not the slightest doubt that it would eventually fall before the firepower of the British Empire and its allies, and that certainty somehow made their sacrifice anything but futile.
The Dark God loomed over them.
It surged toward three small beings standing defiantly.
The cold air suddenly boomed and rattled.
The Dark God staggered back as the Agamemnon’s cannons belched volley after volley. Flames leaped from its rotary guns. The Dark God screamed in agony and rage. It tried to swat the ship from the sky, but Krios dodged its efforts easily, all the time mounting a non-stop attack. Black ichor rained down.
The three on the ground took cover as the Dark God fell back, breaking the statues of its forebears, shattering the walls and domes of Misr.
Evading its tiring limbs and its weakening blasts of energy,
the Greek blinded the creature, much as Odysseus deprived dread Polyphemus of sight, then laid waste to what was left. Only when it was certain the Dark God was dead did he break off his attack and land in the plaza.
Folkestone and Lady Cynthia carried the severely wounded Sergeant Hand to the Agamemnon. Letting Krios take over for him, Folkestone ran back into the ruins, ignoring the cries behind him. He found Daraph-Kor where he had fallen.
“I am sorry,” Daraph-Kor whispered. “I tried to fight it once I understood what it was, but…I am so very sorry.” Tears stained his face. “Never wanted this…only dreams and songs.”
“It’s over now,” Folkestone murmured, cradling the Martian in his arms. “You are free.”
“The nightmare is ended?”
“It’s over,” Folkestone said. “For all of us.”
“I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you back to Syrtis Major.”
“I will see my wife again?”
Folkestone paused. “Yes, she is waiting for you.”
“I am so…happy…”
Daraph-Kor’s last breath escaped like a soft sigh. Folkestone stood and lifted the Martian’s body. How light it seemed, like a hollow shell. He carried it across the plaza to the Agamemnon where Lady Cynthia stood in the hatchway.
“How is Hand?” he asked.
“Bad shape, but resting,” she replied. “Between the doctors and the artificers, they should be able to put him back into some sort of shape. He’s a tough old Martian, you know.”
They wrapped Daraph-Kor’s body and loaded it into the cargo hold for the trip back to Syrtis Major and a decent burial.
The form of the Dark God, lacking now any of the force of will that allowed it to retain cohesion is this material dimension, was quickly reverting to dust. It mixed with the sands of ages and was whipped aloft by cyclones or air. Soon, little remained of its terror and majesty but dull soot.
“Lieutenant Krios, we are quite relieved you appeared when you did,” Lady Cynthia said.
The Greek pilot bowed deeply.
“But how the devil did you find us?” Folkestone demanded.
“The adjustments I made to the proximity detector, it made it very sensitive,” Krios explained. “When I saw your signals vanish, there was remaining…how do you say in English…a path?”
“A trail?” Folkestone suggested.
“Yes, like the gleam of a star across the sea,” Krios said. “It was not much, but it was all I had, and fading quickly, so I followed it fast as the Agamemnon will go, which is very fast.”
“Well, we are alive only because of your quick actions and quicker thinking,” Lady Cynthia said, bestowing a kiss.
“I shan’t kiss you,” Folkestone said, “but I will recommend to the Admiralty you receive a medal, that your bravery be noted to King George.”
“And perhaps a bard to sing a song?” Krios said hopefully.
Folkestone smiled. “I cannot promise the equal of Homer or Shakespeare, but I’ll see what I can do. Now, we need to get Sergeant Hand back to Syrtis Major as quickly as possible.”
Krios saluted and flew to the controls.
“Well, Robert, do you think they will believe our report of what has happened?” she asked. “What happened here will not fit in well with their ideas of anarchists and evil masterminds.”
“Our report?” he queried. “You mean my report.”
“I was there as well,” she reminded him. “If you will recall, I saved your life more than once.”
“And endangered it at least twice as many times!”
“If not for me, you would be dead!”
“If not for me, you would be dead!”
“I saved you first!” she claimed.
“This was a military operation,” he said. “I don’t even know why you were involved.”
“I was following orders.”
“Whose orders?” he demanded.
“That is none of your business, Captain Folkestone,” she replied haughtily. “You have no need to…”
“Blimey!” yelled Sergeant Hand from the doorway of the rear cabin, holding the doorframe for support. “Why don’t you two just kiss and get it over with?”
“Back to bed with you, Sergeant,” Lady Cynthia snapped as she smothered a smile.
“Aye, to bed with you,” Folkestone agreed sternly.
Hand shook his head in disgust and turned back toward the bed from which the sounds of arguing had drawn him. He paused.
“Crikey, Captain,” he muttered. “After defeating the Dark Gods and saving the whole blooming Solar System, it should be easy enough to just kiss the girl.”
He returned to bed and a dreamless sleep.
Lady Cynthia looked at Captain Folkestone.
Captain Folkestone returned her gaze.
“You know,” he said, “for once Hand might be right.”
“I believe he might, Robert,” she agreed, smiling.
Epilogue
Sesta had not sighted another Naga for several days. In his desire to hunt untrammelled swamps, he had ignored all signs marking his tribe’s boundaries. He was now far from his village, deep in an ancient swamp. Unless he happened upon some totem or came across his own trail in the trackless swamp, he would likely wander under the cloudy sky of Venus for a very long time.
He chastised himself in the deepness of a Venusian night. This swamp was not hunted by any Naga for it had long been held in ill repute. Just why, no one could say, not even those whose task was to remember the past and tell the old stories.
Nor could Sesta explain why he was drawn here. He tried to tell himself it was because he could hunt old beasts with the best hides, or find bog-eels so large their salted flesh would feed his family for months. But he knew none of those reasons were true.
Finally, he came to the hollow bole of a golbus tree, dry and above the level where the night crawlers swarmed. In the fitful illumination from above, he saw columns and blocks of stone rising from the morass. He settled down to an uneasy sleep.
In the depths of the long night, something like a song came to the young Naga, a strange wheezing of pipes. Its atonal melody roused a primal fear and longing within Sesta, and quite against his will he rose from his arboreal bed and ventured into the ruins in the midst of the forbidden swamp.
He came to an opening he was not surprised to find, and descended into a chamber greenish lit by fungi upon stone walls. It was all so strange to him, for it was not the way of the Nagas to work with stone except for spearheads, but at the same time it was all so familiar, as if he had seen this place before, in a dream.
At length he came to a rectangle of blackness set in a frame of silver worked into terrifying images. At first, the blackness was absolute, an endless void. Then, peering deeper, he saw writhing shapes and the creatures of nightmare.
Uttering a shriek of terror, he fled, scrabbling to the surface, running though the mocking night till, finally, the small lights of a Naga village hove into view.
In the darkness, the Black Mirror waited, patiently.
Shadows Against the Empire Page 29