The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  The Prince shrugged and answered, “Van Duyn says it’s the translational effect; when you were brought here, an adaptational shift occurred. That’s all he’ll say.”

  “Bet he doesn’t know, either.”

  “Mayhap not, but you and he speak the common tongue of Coramonde as well as I—with your own, um, personal nuances, that is.”

  Van Duyn’s voice came from outside. “Sergeant, it’s time.” He stuck his head in the rear hatch. “Chaffinch will have been conjured by now, beyond our means to interfere, and he’s on his way.”

  “Let me ground-guide,” Springbuck offered. “I can at least do that.”

  Gil nodded. The grass smelled fresh and sharp as Lobo’s foot-wide treads crushed endless paths through the dew and Gil craned his head to watch the castle gates swing to. They picked their spot near a stand of silver birch trees and took up watch. Their antagonist wasn’t long in coming, with a slow, distant gale of enormous wings. He came from the west, where Yardiff Bey had conjured him, and they could see him well, high in the morning sun.

  He was fully the fifty feet promised and more. Gil couldn’t see how Chaffinch, even with his impressive wingspan, could stay aloft. The dragon’s powerful claws were curled up close to his belly and his head swung this way and that in search, some enigmatic instinct of predation dictating his course. His armored hide shone with many colors, green predominant, with a broad splotch of brightest crimson along the underbelly.

  “Let’s get at it.” It was Pomorski who had spoken. His words roused them all from a paralysis, and Lobo was off again, rolling forward a short distance. Woods reached back and up with his right hand and worked the lever to lower the rear ramp. Chaffinch noticed the movement and banked ominously toward the track to see what strange thing it might be, though he was unworried that it might be dangerous to him. Was he not Chaffinch?

  At that moment a figure all in white was flung out of the rear of the APC. Gauzy veils and robes swirled as it hit the ground and lay stunned in a quivering heap. Lobo was instantly in motion, describing a tight circle around the body in white, then drawing back to a position closer to the trees. Chaffinch’s baleful eye swung to the lone form in the center of the circles left in the dew by the track’s treads.

  “Let’s hope,” breathed Gil, “the big mother doesn’t gulp his meals without sizing them up.” His thumb hovered nervously over the butterfly trigger of the machine gun.

  The dragon spiraled lower, regarding with reptilian glee the foolish offered sacrifice. He didn’t particularly care whether she was a virgin or not; he had been without mortal flesh for a tedious time now. First, he thought greedily, a bite to eat, then the razing and ravaging of the other contemptibles in that ridiculous withered husk of a castle.

  He landed, poised almost delicately on short, immensely strong legs and lazily approached the still form, eyes glowing like green cinders and head weaving back and forth hypnotically. He expanded his maw, opening his jaws wide, preparing for a leisurely bite of his prey.

  Then, instantly, the cringing figure was standing, Gabrielle’s best robes and veils flung aside with one brawny arm while the other cocked back like a loaded catapult. Pomorski had pulled the pin from the white phosphorus grenade he held when the monster had circled in. He’d released the spoon, the grip safety, as he jumped to his feet. Now he let his trained body launch the grenade with practiced accuracy, using all the seasoned muscle of his arm and shoulder. He regretted that it couldn’t be fired from the launcher like a fragmentation grenade, regretted it a great deal.

  The small canister of the WP bulleted across the seven yards separating man and dragon, landing true between the still-gaping jaws. Chaffinch recoiled in surprise, swallowing reflexively at the object wedged so uncomfortably in his throat. Pomorski, though, was not watching. The instant he’d released, he’d spun on his heel and dashed to the right, headed for Lobo, feet pistoning the ground and strides adrenalin-wide. His backup WP grenades slapped at his belt as he ran.

  The monster had negotiated the bothersome thing in his craw before Pomorski had taken eight steps. What happened next depended on the big soldier’s timing and aim, which were accurate, and the WP grenade, which went off. Detonating, it created 2500 degrees F. of blistering heat. The phlogiston-like substance in Chaffinch’s fiery reservoir ignited, exploded. His neck went ramrod-stiff as his body shook with a cataclysmic spasm. A huge spear of malodorous flame gouted from his maw, licking out for a hundred feet. It was with this in mind that Pomorski had cut off at right angles to the creature’s path, to avoid being fried. It was fortunate that he was already several yards away; he felt the heat scorch his back through his jungle fatigues but it only served to spur his now-frenzied speed. He zigzagged, giving Gil what he hoped fervently was a clear field of fire at the dragon in case the WP hadn’t worked.

  Which it hadn’t, not completely. Gil had hoped to see the monster blown to bits or knocked out, but dragons have bellies like boilers, though the thing was dazed and almost certainly injured. Chaffinch raised his head and roared dreadfully, looking for the author of his hurt. He spied Pomorski’s pounding figure. Chaffinch reared up, spreading his great wings and preparing to swoop after the soldier just as the man was far enough out of the way for Gil and Handelman to open fire. They aimed for the juncture of wing and body, bent on keeping the creature from getting into the air. Gil watched his tracers, corrected his elevation and was rewarded with sustained hits on the thing’s right wing. Figuring one round of every six on the belt was a tracer, he estimated that at least eight of the heavy rounds had slammed on target there, piercing the gristle of the wing joint.

  Then the monster began to thrash, his other wing moving too fast to hit, his awesome bulk coming partway off the ground. Gil and Handelman were concentrating on the wounded pinion and shooting at the weaving head when Pomorski dove headlong through the still-open rear ramp, just over twelve seconds after standing up to confront Chaffinch. Woods hit the winch lever and the cable began to haul the one-ton ramp back into position.

  The dragon was back on all four feet, his wings folded as far back as possible against his body. In a life even longer that that of most of his kind, he had never experienced such pain by the impudence and treachery of humans. He vowed to cook them alive but was prevented by the damaged condition of his throat and stomach. The bullets were still punching at his tender wing and bouncing from his armored body as he threw himself in a rush at the metal thing menacing him. With crocodilian speed he scuttled forward, head darting madly, an impossible target at the end of the sinuous neck.

  Woods slammed Lobo into gear and the APC tore chunks from the ground as they jerked into motion, guns still hammering at the thing closing on them. Streams of hot brass empties and bits of linking flew from the machine-gun breeches. In a few seconds they were among the trees, dodging in an attempt to evade Chaffinch’s first rush, pouring more fire at him. Pomorski was shoving round after round into the launcher and firing grenades as rapidly as he could. They continued to make hits, painful ones to the wings and ineffectual ones to the body. The .50 was the only weapon with sufficient force and weight to penetrate the thick scaly hide, and even it was not able to reach any vital organs. Chaffinch’s head continued to elude their aim while the soft underside never presented itself.

  When he reached the tree line Chaffinch barely slowed down. He was weakening but still a rampaging horror. He drove through the trees, simply shoving them aside, bending or breaking them, or crunching them under his claws. The trees farther in, though, were stouter, and his anger increased as he bulldozed his way with greater effort, occasionally snagging his injured wing painfully. The ground shook and the leaves trembled to the reverberations of his rage.

  Lobo burst through the opposite side of the little wood seconds ahead of the pursuing dragon. All gun barrels were growing hot with the constant firing, and the Nine-Mob’s best efforts had done little more than antagonize the ponderous monster behind them. Might as well face him
here, Gil thought to himself, and ordered Woods to bring the APC around.

  Lobo completed its turn just as Chaffinch broke through the last line of luckless trees. My God, I never dreamed that he would be anything like this. So strong, so fast and big. We didn’t know; we just couldn’t have guessed.

  They were in motion, arcing away to the creature’s right. Chaffinch turned his head and let fly a single lance of foul-smelling flame, weak and cool by his normal standards, but it licked at the right tread and washed across that side of the APC. Handelman howled in pain, flinging his arm to his face and falling to the deck. Pomorski leaped to the vacant machinegun, knowing that if he stopped to check Handelman none of them might survive. The monster’s head reared like a cobra as he crossed in front of the track and struck at it just as Woods threw it into reverse. Chaffinch’s head connected with the wooden trim vane, splintering it, the venom of his fangs etching the wood and peeling paint from the metal. He shook his ugly head, punished by an impact that had rocked Lobo. The trim vane, backed by armor, was a painful target even for him.

  Woods yanked the transmission lever. Chaffinch crouched in front of them, head stationary for the first time in the bizarre battle. Gil fired a burst at the top of the cold, plated skull. Blood and hide and chips of bone flew as the dragon pulled his head down to get it out of the murderous torrent of bullets, until it nearly touched the ground.

  “Keep going—run it down!”

  As the APC shot forward, Woods deftly steered it into line with the thing’s head. It happened so quickly that before they knew it they were lumbering unevenly, right tread elevated, as a grisly crunching sound, mixed with reptilian hisses, came from underneath the treads. Chaffinch’s huge body convulsed, nearly upsetting Lobo, but they were off a split second later, continuing until they were out of range. While Pomorski looked after Handelman, Gil emptied dozens of rounds into the spasm-racked body. Then they sat and watched the death throes of a dragon, a being far older than any of them could imagine.

  Chaffinch’s tail was still twitching when Gil looked at his Seiko. Five minutes or so! Five minutes that had shattered his confidence in sanity and reason, myth and fact. A short episode that could make a permanant place for itself in his nightmares.

  Then for the first time he considered what this creature would have done to the people in the castle.

  * * * *

  As they rode back they spotted two men watching from a distant hill, a column of troops off to one side. Gil thought he recognized them as the ones from the preceding afternoon, the leaders of the cavalry and, in all probability, the bulk of their surviving force. As he watched, the two rejoined their men and the column moved off westward. The sergeant noticed that Erub was still smoking, and stuck his hand out to the withdrawing dragoons in the Sailor’s Farewell.

  The castle’s inhabitants all waited at the gates. Van Duyn was unsmiling and contained, Andre somber and Springbuck was jumping high as he could and whirling his sword over his head and laughing. The thirty or so others were weeping, standing silently, rejoicing or offering prayer for this miracle, according to inclination. Many were aware that, without Gabrielle, these aliens were stranded.

  It occurred to Gil that from a distance it might have looked easy; boom, pow, clank, crunch and a dying, twitching Chaffinch. But when they were inside the walls again they found that the Erubites could scarcely express their gratitude.

  “Nothing really,” Pomorski grinned to a girl who handed him a flower with timid grace. “Well within the talents of any archangel or running back.” They all felt good, their relief and laughter growing as fear retreated. While Andre looked after Handelman’s burns, which weren’t as serious as they’d first thought, they ate breakfast. Evidently the splash shield on which Handelman’s M-60 was mounted had protected him from most of the flame, and his eyes weren’t damaged. Andre applied several balms and salves.

  “We saw the troops pulling out,” Van Duyn said. “Ibn-al-Yed has long since departed. Thus the way is clear for escape eastward.” Andre looked up from his ministrations. “So,” the scholar continued, voice strangely tired, “no matter what happens, you men can flee with us to friendlier lands.”

  “Whoa-up right there,” Gil broke in. “The arrangement, if you recall, was for you to send us back where we came from, which in itself isn’t a peachy deal. What’s this escape crap?”

  Springbuck saw that Van Duyn intended to hedge around the subject and it struck him that these men deserved better.

  “They cannot send you back without Gabrielle deCourteney,” he said. They all turned to face him. “If it should happen that you can never be returned, I shall make every effort to make amends to you,” the Prince went on. “You shall be as Lords Paramount in my realm. But you are caught up in a struggle that is none of your doing and there is little that I can do for you now.”

  Gil ignored him. He was close to Van Duyn now, fists cocked, his face marred with hatred. “I don’t care what’s wrong,” he snarled, and the scholar should have been observant enough to interpret the danger in his quavering voice, “but you’re sending us back.”

  But the older man seemed distracted, unaware of the peril before him. “Back?” he replied as though in a dream. “Sorry, no. Not without her. Not without Gabrielle.”

  Gil cuffed him on the side of the head and got a cruel arm-bar on him, forcing him to his knees. Van Duyn cried out in pain and surprise as Andre and Springbuck looked on in bewilderment. Pomorski had his .45 out and Olivier snatched up Gil’s submachine gun from where it rested against the wall next to him. The sergeant shifted the arm bar and took the automatic from Pomorski, placing its blunt muzzle up against his captive’s temple.

  The Prince and the magician moved to the defense of their friend. Both knew the deadliness of the outlanders’ weapons but neither could watch Van Duyn come to harm and do nothing. A small part of Springbuck reflected on his change in attitude since he’d watched Hightower die at Earthfast. It was now better to risk death than live with the memory of cowardice and the knowledge that another had died through his failure.

  Gil saw that the two wouldn’t be stopped by the threat of guns. Andre was sweeping free his sword, almost involuntarily, while Pomorski blocked Springbuck’s way. Gil thumbed back the hammer of the pistol and grated, “If you two move just one more step, I’ll blow his brains all over the floor. I swear, boys. I’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing to lose.”

  Woods and Handelman were moving to cover the doors; both had their M-16s with them. Van Duyn was gasping in pain, wild-eyed with the .45 at his temple.

  Deciding, Springbuck returned his sword to its scabbard with a clash. “Gil MacDonald,” he said, “what he says is true. You cannot be sent back without Gabrielle’s help. Oh, you might persuade Yardiff Bey to help you or steal Van Duyn’s contiguity device back in Earthfast, but I doubt it. Your best chance is to help us recover Andre’s sister.”

  The sergeant considered this. The panic that had prompted him to act was passing. He rather doubted his own ability to kill in cold blood anyway. He released Van Duyn and the older man fell away, nursing his arm just as Springbuck had eased his wrist when the scholar had humbled him the day before.

  “Damn,” said Gil, “sorry about that. All right, we need her; how do we find her? How do we get her back?”

  The Prince responded, “There is a tie between Andre and Gabrielle, of magic and of blood. We know where she is even now.”

  “So? Spill it. She can’t be too far away. We can go get her for you.”

  Andre’s plump, unshaven face was a study in agony as he replied, “She’s been taken to the place of Yardiff Bey’s liege Lord, Amon.”

  Gil could only look puzzled.

  “My sister has been taken to the Inferno, Gil MacDonald, to Hell, and from there we must free her if you are to return to your place and time.”

  “I want a cheap lawyer,” Pomorski said.

  The moment of confrontation was gone as quickly as it had co
me. They were now bound up by events to attempt the rescue of the enchantress. They didn’t even bother to vote; they were without alternatives.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

  In a strange city lying alone

  Far down within the dim West.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The City in the Sea”

  “Hell,” sighed Springbuck, “what chance do we have to rescue her from the fires of the Pit?” They stood now in a circle around Andre.

  The wizard’s voice shook but there was conviction in it. “There are . . . defenses. Just as spirits of the Inferno may be injured or warded against here, they have vulnerabilities in their own sphere. We have Calundronius. We have Gil MacDonald and his men and their weapons. And there is Lobo.”

  “Only, how do you get to Hell?” the sergeant interrupted. “Short of dying, that is. I have no intention of getting scragged so we can visit among the shades. And while we’re chewing it over, how do you know we can play Orpheus for your sister?”

  “For the last question,” Andre said, “I maintain, as I have said, a connection with my sister. She is not yet dead or I would know; nor will she be soon, I think. Dead, she is simply another wraith, but alive she is a well of ethereal force. I do not believe that Yardiff Bey or his Lord will claim her life, but they may well enslave her, unless we can get her away from them as soon as possible. This is the first time that Bey has struck at Gabrielle directly; he must be confident that she will be unable to give him fair battle while she’s in his hands.

  “What we will do is draw upon her enormous stores of power. I will harness her energy, make her call us to her. In tearing her from me, snatching her away bodily to Hell, Bey has created an imbalance between the Terrestrial and Infernal planes. He will not be able to seal her away from me. He probably does not think that we would dare try to beard him in his master’s den. She is yet whole; I can feel that she still possesses her full vitality. There is nothing holding her there aside from the physical restraints and sequestering spells engendered by Yardiff Bey. They haven’t her soul yet.”