Blood River Down

by Lionel Fenn

  The pews were empty.

  Ranged along the bare walls were black-clad Moglar guards carrying weapons of several descriptions, all of which made Gideon grip his own bat more tightly.

  Wamchu gestured that his so-called guests should take the front row, then climbed to his throne and, with a theatrical swirl of silk and satin that reflected none of the room's light, took his seat, crossed his legs, leaned forward, and smiled.

  Whale looked away.

  Ivy grew pale.

  Gideon wondered if those teeth were really as sharp as they looked.

  "You have come for your friends," Wamchu said, his baritone echoing solemnly throughout the massive chamber.

  Gideon, seeing the others unresponsive and possibly paralyzed with fear, nodded.

  "In good time," the giant said amiably. "In good time. But first I would like to know more about you." He leaned back and cupped his hands behind his head. "It is a tradition we in the Lower Ground have and would like to establish here in the Middle Ground. Don't be shy. Why don't you go first," and he pointed at Gideon.

  It wasn't so much the man's arrogance, or his obvious power, or the cruel cast of his unusual face that made Gideon stick out his tongue in defiance; it was his uncanny occasional resemblance to the owner of the now disbanded football team, who had ruined his career, lost him his self-esteem and pride, and, as a consequence not to be ignored, cost him his house, his hometown, and the bottle of scotch in the sideboard.

  Wamchu frowned with one eye.

  Gideon turned sideways and glared.

  "You have spunk," Wamchu said. "Lower Ground wisdom has it that spunk is stupid."

  Gideon ignored him and peered around the room, seeing several exits flanked by the giant dwarves, seeing no others save for the one leading to the corridor they had just traveled.

  "You ignore me at your peril," Wamchu said, his voice rising.

  Gideon ignored him, standing now with hands on his hips and looking to see if there was some way he could loose the chandelier and cause havoc in the chamber, thus effecting their escape with a minimum of danger.

  "I am not pleased," Wamchu bellowed. "Turn around! Look at me!"

  Gideon did, and had no idea at all why he suddenly smiled, unless it was the fact that Wamchu truly had no idea who he was and therefore had no way of measuring how effective he would be as an opponent. The thought gave him a bit more confidence, and he touched the handle of his bat with one caressing finger.

  "Where is Glorian?" he demanded in a soft voice.

  Wamchu's mouth opened as if he were going to shout, then slowed into a thin pale line as his left hand thoughtfully stroked his cheek. "Glorian."

  "Yes."

  "I see."

  "Do you?"

  "Clearly."

  Gideon nodded sagely as if he understood, then glanced at Whale in the forlorn hope that the armorer had somehow developed the power of telepathy in order to tell him what the hell he was talking about.

  "I cannot help you there, my friend," Wamchu said smugly. "She is beyond your reach now."

  Ivy leapt to her feet, and a half hundred Moglars growled a warning. "She better not be dead!"

  "Not at all, not at all," the tyrant said with a wave of his hand. "I am not so crude as that. No, she is alive, though I cannot speak for the condition of her health." He laughed, low and slow. "My right hand, so to speak, Houte Illklor, has an affinity for women such as she."

  "You wouldn't dare!" Ivy shouted.

  "No, but Houte would."

  "And the duck?" Gideon ventured calmly before Ivy did something stupid.

  Wamchu slammed back in his seat. "What? How did you know about that?" he hissed.

  "I have my ways," he answered enigmatically.

  Wamchu gathered some folds about him huffily and narrowed his eyes, gnawed pensively on his lower lip, and recrossed his legs. "Interesting."

  "I wouldn't know; I haven't met it."

  "No. I mean, it is interesting that you should ask me now about the duck." A cruel smile parted his lips. "And, I'm afraid, a little too late. You see, my mysterious friend, events have already been set in motion. The Blood—"

  "You wouldn't!" Whale interrupted fearfully. "That's rather drastic, don't you think, Lu? Certainly as a teaser it's most effective and you've done it well, without bloodshed, I might add." He grinned then. "My heavens, I think I've made another joke." He looked at Ivy, who smiled wanly. "I must remember that one, I really must."

  "It is too late, as I've said," Wamchu snarled. "The Blood is already beginning to turn. With time, it will rise, and then the Ceremony will begin and all..."

  He laughed again, maniacally, the room reverberating with his madness while the guards chuckled and the drapes rippled and the very pews seemed to rock on their foundations.

  "What the hell is the Blood?" Gideon asked in frustration.

  "Hush!" Whale admonished.

  Wamchu sobered and eyed him as a snake would a bird with a very large beak and nasty little claws. "The Blood, my inexplicable friend, is, as you well know, the third river of the Middle Ground. Called thus—the Blood, that is, not the Middle Ground—because of its color when certain portents come to pass. It will soon fill to overflowing, spreading its diseased and vile contagion into the Tearlach Sea, which will then become a cauldron of flooding that shall destroy all it touches! It is inevitable! It has begun!"

  Gideon did his best to understand, but it did not make sense to destroy a land one was attempting to conquer. Unless, he thought suddenly, by destroying the Middle Ground Wamchu thus had a golden opportunity to then move his operations successfully to the land above Chey.

  His eyes widened.

  Wamchu chuckled.

  His eyes became slits at the diabolical implications.

  Wamchu nodded.

  "That's crazy," he said.

  "You have your methods, I have mine," Wamchu said primly.

  "You won't win, you know," Whale said quietly. "This man is a hero. You anger him at your own risk."

  Wamchu leaned forward. "Whale, you will not stop me."

  "It's been done."

  "I didn't have the Blood or the duck before."

  "And I didn't have Gideon Sunday."

  Wamchu frowned. "Sunday? What kind of name is that?"

  "Pious," Ivy grumbled, anxious to stop the talking and get on with the adventure.

  Wamchu rose, and Gideon stepped back as the tyrant pointed an unwavering finger at him.

  "I asked you once and I ask you again for the last time—where do you come from, my unrevealed friend? I know you were with Glorian. I saw you on the Ekkler Meadow. But where did she find you, eh? Where did she find you?"

  For some reason, Gideon understood that his origin was vital to the madman's plans. And that same instinct told him that Wamchu wasn't going to like the answer a bit. For the second time, then, he smiled. "I," he said softly, "have come across a Bridge."

  Wamchu gasped in horror, dropped to his seat, and gripped the armrests so tightly the ivory began to crack. "What? A Bridge? That is impossible!" His face shaded slightly darker. "I control all Bridges, all Tunnels, all roads to every place in this land! What you say is a lie!"

  Gideon shrugged.

  Wamchu bared his teeth. "Just tell me who you are, where you came from, how that little bitch in the white dress came upon you and brought you here."

  "A Bridge," Gideon said, beginning to think that perhaps he ought to change his tactics to something a bit closer to cooperation and submission.

  But Wamchu gave him no time. He clapped his hands once, and from behind the draperies suddenly appeared three of the most striking women Gideon had ever seen. His immediate attraction, however, was rather dampened when Whale muttered, "Oh dear," and Ivy said, "Oh shit."

  No introductions or fanfares were needed—these were the infamous wives of Lu Wamchu, and despite their snugly clinging black silk dresses with just a hint of flare at the bare ankles and a daring slit at each hip to
expose a wink and a nod of soft pliable flesh, they were quite clearly as dangerous as the man himself.

  "Chou-Li," Wamchu said to the tallest, "tell me if this man is telling the truth."

  Chou-Li, her straight black hair parted in the center and framing an alabaster face of most exquisite Chinese beauty, stared at Gideon with deep blue eyes, and he felt a chill around his heart, a fence of ice rise around his lungs. It was impossible to breathe. His vision blurred. He tried to step away, but the pew behind pushed into his legs, and he had to force himself to remain upright, to keep from falling abjectly to his knees.

  "He is," she said, her voice high and sweet and laced with deadly sugar.

  Wamchu waved her away angrily, refusing to believe her. "Thong," he ordered.

  Thong was of middle height and an exact twin of Chou-Li, her hands kept coyly folded at her waist, the glint and glitter of a dozen rings of a dozen different stones and settings causing Gideon's eyes to water, his bones to turn to rubber, his tongue to swell and blacken in his mouth. He could not swallow. He could not hear. He tried to step away but could only stumble at the force that emanated from those blue-ice eyes.

  "He is," she said, her voice high and sweet and laced with deadly sugar.

  "I swear," Wamchu said with a dismissing wave, "you women are helpless. I don't know why I didn't leave you home." He took a deep breath and turned to the remaining woman with a silent command.

  She was short, lithe, busty, well-hipped, well-ankled, with wiry brown hair, a pug nose, freckles, soft chin, outstanding ears, and an emerald-frame monocle in her right eye.

  So, Gideon thought as his vision cleared and his lungs returned to normal and his bones permitted him to stand upright again, this is Agnes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I am not fool enough to think I am not in serious trouble here, Gideon thought as Agnes Wamchu stepped around the throne and bowed slightly to her husband. Wamchu bowed back, albeit a little tentatively, and gestured her to get on with it.

  "Lu, I beg you not to do this," Whale implored. "This most assuredly goes beyond the bounds of decent behavior, don't you think?"

  Wamchu silenced him with a glower.

  Ivy, her lips taut and her eyes narrowed, turned her dagger over and over again in her hand, clearly wanting to bury its blade in the tyrant's chest and just as clearly unsure whether she ought to take the chance. If she missed, the consequences didn't bear thinking about, but she did all the same and changed her mind reluctantly.

  Agnes put her hands on her hips and stared dispassionately down at Gideon.

  He braced himself for another onslaught of psychic torture, which, he had barely time to realize, had not injured him physically at all, though several parts of his body weren't entirely positive they were still functioning, much less present to be accounted for.

  "You have one more chance to answer me correctly," Wamchu said pleasantly.

  "I've already told you the truth," Gideon repeated sternly. "It's not my fault you don't believe me or your precious little wives."

  "Agnes," Wamchu said, "fry the little prick."

  She took off the monocle.

  Wamchu hissed and averted his face.

  Whale shouted, "No!"

  Ivy began to cry.

  Gideon lunged to one side, throwing himself to the floor and, at the same time, snatching Whale's purse from his belt. A penetrating heat began to form in the middle of his spine as he fumbled for the ball-bombs; an acid flame began to trace through his veins, swelling his shins and forearms; a vision of doom and destruction filled his brain as he suddenly rolled over and lobbed one of the spheres at the throne.

  He missed.

  Wamchu cried out a warning.

  The explosion was muffled and partially absorbed by the drapes into which the missile had been thrown, but it was enough to break the woman's spell. Gideon leapt to his feet, weapon in hand, and whirled about to meet the challenge of the Wamchu.

  And he gasped.

  As smoke and dust showered over the dais, he could see that the throne, slightly askew but still intact, was empty. Wamchu and his wives were gone.

  The Moglar, however, after initially deciding to panic at the explosive violence, changed their minds and charged down the aisles, screaming their war cries, grunting, brandishing their weapons, and barely managing not to trip over themselves in skidding halt when Gideon whirled again and faced them, the bat describing a smooth circle over his head.

  He grinned.

  Ivy whipped out her dagger.

  Whale whipped out another bomb.

  Together, shoulder to shoulder, they advanced down the center aisle toward the Moglar guard. Bluffing, Gideon knew now, was out of the question. This was not merely traipsing through forests, dropping into oceans, or riding on Red's back like some sort of idiot conqueror; this was the real thing, and if those guards didn't move soon, he was going to find out just how well he knew himself.

  They didn't.

  He did.

  The first one broke ranks and ran screaming toward Ivy, a particularly fierce-looking triple-bladed battle axe spinning deftly in his hands; Ivy slit his throat. The second through eighth ones broke cleverly into the spaces between the pews on the left, intent on a flanking maneuver that would soon have the trio surrounded; Whale tossed them a bomb. The ninth through fifteenth charged in a body, and Gideon shoved his friends to either side, took a swing that took off a head and part of a shoulder, then jumped out of the aisle and began hopping from pew to pew toward the back, the bat whirring through the smoke and dust, his legs braced for each blow, his eyes racing to either side in order to keep track of the others.

  Screams of carnage and defeat filled the chamber.

  The aisles turned red and green.

  The torches danced crazily, and shadows darting across the walls made them all slightly dizzy.

  Several of the implacable guards ran for the exits in order to alert the rest of the battalion in case Wamchu had other things on his mind.

  Several more decided to avoid the fool with the alien weapon and concentrate on the old man.

  Whale tossed another bomb for good measure.

  Ivy found a Moglar's weak spot and kicked him there, sending him writhing to the floor.

  Gideon bounded from the top of the last pew and put his back to the first exit he reached, waiting until Whale had joined him, then calling to Ivy, who speared one last guard before racing through the doorway.

  "Where are we going?" she called over her shoulder.

  "Follow me!" Gideon called back as Whale ran agilely around him when a second contingent of giant dwarves burst after them from the throne room.

  They ran toward a wooden door, opened it, slammed it shut behind them, and ran again, angling left, always left, through dank and choking air, over bones scattered on the floor, around rusted iron cages in which skeletons reposed with jaws slack and eye sockets empty, through clouds of tiny insects that parted like the Red Sea when Ivy swatted at them with her fists, through a series of unlocked doors, until, at last, they found themselves at a dead end.

  "Damn," Ivy said. "A dead end."

  The room was small, its wall bare and made of wood. No light save from the corridor penetrated it, and despite a frantic pressing and shoving and kicking and yelling, no doors appeared or traps in the floor.

  "Now what?" Whale asked, leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath.

  "We go back," Gideon said, "and try another one."

  "You're not serious!" Ivy said.

  "What else can we— Wait! Listen!"

  They listened.

  And they heard, muffled behind one of the walls, the faint but unmistakable sound of Red's bleating.

  "Red!" Gideon shouted. "Red!"

  The bleating returned to a purring.

  "Stand back," Gideon warned the others, picked up his bat, and leveled the wall.

  —|—

  "You're getting pretty good at this," Ivy said cheerfully as th
ey rushed through the hole.

  He managed a smile as portions of the ceiling began to crumble behind them, not sure he wanted to "get good" at this at all. So far, all it had gotten him was several severe headaches, a few new dyings, and an intense yearning for the humiliations and boredom of the unemployment line back home.

  As it was, however, he stumbled into what was obviously a makeshift jail cell, in the far corner of which cowered Tag. When the lad saw the trio burst through, he gaped, grinned, and unabashedly threw his arms around Ivy, who hugged him back, kissed his skull several times, then backed away when Gideon put his bat against the lefthand wall.

  Another cell, and Red was cramped inside, his eyes black and his head shaking with helplessness against the confines of the shackles that held his four legs and neck to a dripping stone wall. When he saw Gideon he purred so loudly the others had to hold their ears until the shackles were dispensed with. Then Gideon wrapped his arms around the animal's neck and did his best not to weep.

  "A man and his lorra," Ivy said. "A hell of a sight."

  "How," Whale asked Tag, "did this happen?"

  "I don't know," the boy said as he attempted to yank open the thick doors of both cells. "One minute the lorra and I were in the field watching the city, and the next I was in here."

  "You felt no blow?"

  "I felt awfully tired, I think."

  "Ah-hah!"

  "Chou-Li," Gideon guessed as he extricated himself from Red's fur.

  "No, I think it was Thong," Whale said.

  "What about Agnes?" Ivy suggested.

  "Never," said Whale vehemently. "She seldom deals in measures less than full—as Gideon here, in his own private way, which cannot readily be shared by anyone, will attest to."