by C. L. Werner
The skull-like face of the mummy slowly turned from side to side with stiff, jerking motions, as it took in the room and its contents. As the head passed over Brunner and Carandini for the second time, it froze. Luminous fires of ghostly light burned in the pits of its face, regarding the two men with an inscrutable gaze.
Carandini’s teeth were chattering, his muscles relaxing as he lost control of them. Suddenly the glass vial fell from his slackened fingers. Brunner caught the faint motion and watched in horror as the vial shattered against the floor. He gritted his teeth against the coming explosion, and braced himself for a quick and certain death.
A moment passed and Brunner drew another breath. He looked down at the smashed vial, and at the putrid blood it had contained seeping into the floor. Then he turned to Carandini. The necromancer had torn his eyes away from the mummy, and was glancing downward at the shattered glass. He gave Brunner a frightened, embarrassed smile; his deception had been revealed. Brunner’s lip twisted into a snarl and he thrust Drakesmalice through the necromancer’s belly as a reward for his bluff. Carandini groaned and slid to the floor, clutching at his punctured body, and trying to quell the flow of blood and bile spilling down his legs.
The bounty hunter did not hesitate to round on the tomb king. The mummy began to storm forward, its stride long and swift. Brunner lashed out at the undead horror, trying to pierce through the shrivelled heart in the monster’s breast. Before Drakesmalice could sink into the mummy’s flesh, however, an iron grip closed about the blade, arresting his strike. Brunner tried to pull his sword free, but it was trapped as firmly as gold dust in a dwarf’s fist.
The mummy tore the sword from Brunner’s grasp as if the bounty hunter was a sickly child. Casually, it tossed the weapon aside. Then it reached forward to grab the man who had been presumptuous enough to attack it. The bounty hunter dodged the mummy’s grasp, drawing a throwing knife and hurling it at the monster. The blade sank into the mummy’s chest, causing a puff of corpse dust to rise from the wound. The monster did not pay the slightest attention to its injury, but reached out once more for its foe.
Brunner scrambled from the groping creature. Planting a hand firmly on the top of the table, he jumped over it, placing it between himself and the undead horror. The mummy did not pause; it strode forward and closed its claws around the edge of the table. Effortlessly, the mummy flipped the heavy piece of furniture onto its side and swatted the obstruction from its path.
Brunner retreated once again. As he stepped back, his foot struck something lying on the floor. The bounty hunter glanced down to see Mahrun’s blessed stake lying beside his boot. Quickly, he retrieved the weapon and held it dagger-like in his fist.
The mummy did not hesitate to surge forward, its claws lunging for the bounty hunter. Summoning up every ounce of his courage, Brunner met the monster’s attack, and braved the clutch of its skeletal hands to plunge the stake deep into the mummy’s chest. The undead monster did not seem affected by whatever holy power had been woven into the stake. With the wooden spike protruding from its breast, its hands now closed about Brunner’s body.
The bounty hunter felt himself being lifted up by the monster, and swept up from the ground as though he were a rag doll. The mummy shifted its grip, holding Brunner over its head by his shoulder and thigh. The bounty hunter fumbled to free his axe from his belt. He had already driven Ursio’s stiletto into the monster’s palm as it clutched him—with no effect. Every motion was a test of his will power. His mind began to darken, as pain surged where the mummy’s crushing fingers bruised his bones. As Brunner struggled, he felt the first hint of pressure on his spine as the mummy began to bend his body.
Suddenly, the pressure lessened. The mummy’s head turned, as though it had been distracted by a noise. Dismissively the mummy tossed Brunner aside, sending him crashing into the shelves again. Brunner lay in a heap on the splintered floor, as still as the other bodies lying about the room.
Nehb-ka-menthu paid the hired killer no further thought. It had sensed a familiar presence, a presence he had not encountered for thousands of years. After so many centuries, it would be interesting to renew his acquaintance and finish what had been left undone.
The sun was casting its dying rays across the derelict district. The lingering twilight highlighted a black coach that almost blocked the narrow street. A pair of coal-black stallions snorted agitatedly before the elegant carriage, resisting the best efforts of a pasty-faced coachman to calm them. A group of armed men, nearly a dozen strong, clustered about the carriage, staring at the door of the coach and at the red-roofed building behind them.
Contessa Carlotta de Villarias pulled aside the thick, veil-like black curtain that shrouded the windows of the carriage. She flinched from the fading orange light of the setting sun. Unlike many vampires, de Villarias was able to endure the rays of the sun, for a time, though she was weak during the bright hours of the day, and became filled with a sickness of stomach and heart. Her two devoted thralls were not so strong and they cringed in the coach, horrified at being outside before night had fully fallen.
De Villarias smiled, as she always did when she forced her slaves to endure fear and hardship. The power of command, the compelling force she could exert over others was one of the few remaining things that still gave her pleasure. It was another reason she would exact her own measure of retribution on the bounty killer. In defying her, and refusing to submit to her beguiling gaze, he had denied her the satisfaction of dominating his will.
Very well, the vampire would just have to extract a different measure of satisfaction from him. De Villarias licked her lips hungrily.
‘Is this wise, my lady?’ asked Torici, cringing as far into the dark leather seat as he could. He was squinting distastefully at the faint light. The Lahmian turned her face toward her creature, irritation written on her features.
‘I have to agree with the fop,’ snarled Relotto. His hand closed about the hilt of his duelling sabre, as though he might brandish the weapon at the sun to hasten its withdrawal. ‘If the bounty killer has failed, it may be dangerous here. My lady should not endanger herself so.’ Relotto smiled, showing his fangs. ‘Leave this to me, my lady. I can deal with a mere mortal.’
De Villarias considered her creature’s words. Why was she here? If the bounty hunter had failed, if the withered husk of Nehb-ka-menthu contained even a fraction of that madman’s hideous soul, then this was the last place she should be. The vampiress stroked the sleeping cat curled in her lap, seeking to dispel some of her doubt and fear in the comfort of the animal’s fur.
She was here because she needed to know. She needed to know if the bounty hunter had succeeded, if the deed had been done. She needed to know if that awful thing had been destroyed at last, whether the shadow that had haunted her through the centuries was no more. She could not sit idly within her decrepit palazzo and await word of the bounty hunter’s fate—she had to see for herself, run her hands through the ashes of her ancient tormentor.
But Relotto was right. What if the bounty hunter had failed? What if the foolish necromancer had awoken that dread carrion husk, to make even a vampire know fear? De Villarias shuddered at the image of that dry cadaverous shape swathed in the funeral wrappings. Of a tomb king clutching at her, bearing her back to the sandy wastes of Khareops, and resuming his vile experiments upon her. She pushed aside the curtain once more, watching the last rays of light fade.
‘You are right,’ she said, staring out the window. ‘Relotto, take the mortals and see what has transpired in the house.’ She turned her piercing gaze on the thrall. ‘If the bounty hunter is still alive, bring him to me.’ She let her voice slip into a menacing undertone. ‘Bring him to me alive, Relotto,’ she warned. The duellist twisted his face as though he had swallowed something unpleasant, but nodded his head.
‘And the mummy?’ asked Torici, hoping to unnerve his rival by suggesting that Relotto might have to deal with the abomination as well.
De
Villarias struggled to keep fear from her voice. ‘See that it has been destroyed,’ she answered after a pause. ‘Whatever has happened, see that it has been destroyed!’
Relotto led the contessa’s human guards toward the ramshackle palazzo of the necromancer. They were a motley group of bewitched mercenary vermin, the sort of trash Relotto had cut open in countless street duels. True, they were devoted to the contessa, bound to her by supernaturally enforced chains of devotion and adoration. In the service of their mistress, these men would break before no enemy, no matter how terrible. Still, the vampire considered the mortal warriors with contempt as he addressed them. He was more than capable of dealing with the bounty hunter, and a shambling, stiff pile of bones. He would cut the head from that thing and present it to his mistress. He would show her that he alone was worthy of her attentions.
‘When we get inside, spread out and search every room,’ the vampire ordered. ‘If you find the bounty hunter, call out.’ A cunning smile crossed the duellist’s face. He had seen the way de Villarias had looked at the mortal. Did she really think that he had not seen her intentions toward him? Did she really think he would allow her to replace him with that scum? He tolerated Torici as he would a small, yappy dog, but the bounty hunter was another matter. ‘I will deal with him myself,’ the vampire hissed.
Suddenly the wall of the house exploded in a shower of wood splinters and dust. Relotto and his warriors flinched from the violent display, covering their faces to ward away the flying debris. Striding from the wreckage was a tall, wiry figure, a cadaverous giant with glowing green eyes. The mummy did not pause; it advanced like an unstoppable juggernaut. It closed upon the nearest of Relotto’s men, grabbing the warrior’s sword arm and ripping it from its socket as a man might pull a drumstick from a cooked chicken. The mutilated warrior screamed wretchedly and fell, blood spurting in a crimson torrent from his mangled shoulder. While the man toppled, the withered corpse was in motion, chopping its hand into the face of a second swordsman, pulverising the front of the man’s skull, leaving him trying to scream through the crimson puddle that had replaced his face.
The mummy turned from the ruin of the two warriors, finding its path blocked by the vampire Relotto. The duellist feinted toward the creature with the long dagger clenched in his right hand. For an instant, the green witch-fires burning in the monster’s face focused on the weapon. The vampire struck, driving his sword into the mouldering wrappings that shrouded its emaciated remains. The fang of steel penetrated deep, its point emerging from the other side. The mummy, however, was not as easily disposed of as the vampire’s usual prey. A powerful fist crashed down on the sword, snapping the blade.
Relotto backed away, staring in momentary horror at the useless hilt he now held. Before him, the mummy clawed at the transfixing length of steel, pulling it back out of its body.
The cold, emotionless movements of the mummy infuriated Relotto more than any amount of bravado could have done. He gripped his dagger in both hands, bared his fangs and leapt at the ancient cadaver with the full fury of his supernatural strength. It was an attack that the vampire had resorted to in the past when overcome by anger and red rage. In such a frenzy, he had once torn apart a bear with no more than his bare hands and unholy might. How much easier would the rotten remains of the priest-king crumble apart under his mangling claws?
Relotto fell away from the mummy, his berserk leap transformed into an agonising fall. The vampire pawed at his chest where the mummy had driven the snapped steel of his own blade. Relotto tried to draw it from his cold, blood-ridden heart. The vampire paused in his labour to look up, to stare at the shadow that had fallen upon him. The mummy of Nehb-ka-menthu was tossing aside the torso of an axe-wielder it had torn in two when the man had tried to come to the vampire’s aid. It did not look down as it raised its cloth-wrapped foot and brought it crashing down upon Relotto’s head, grinding the vampire’s skull as a man might grind a beetle under his heel.
Torici and the contessa had emerged from the black carriage. They watched as the mummy massacred the vampiress’s minions with a contemptuous ease. Fear had driven out all thought in the undead noblewoman’s mind. She watched the mummy’s relentless advance with the same mute horror she had seen on the faces of the countless people she had fed upon through the ages. Nehb-ka-menthu walked again! Could any horror in all the world fill de Villarias with the same mortal terror? The mummy glanced away from the headless body of a valiant spearman. Again a blade was removed from the monster’s dried out body. Its ghostly green fires fixed upon the woman beside the coach. The terror filling the vampiress increased a thousandfold as she saw the skull beneath the funeral wrappings smile at her.
The few remaining retainers noted their mistress’s terror and renewed their desperate attack on the monster, throwing away all caution in their frantic attempt to protect their beloved contessa. But it was like setting terriers against a lion. The lives of the reckless men would quickly be spent.
Torici quickly roared for the coachman to remove the kerosene-filled lamps from the sides of the driver’s box. The vampire and the coachman soon had the lamps removed, the lanterns still burning inside, the hot metal singeing the hands of the coachman. The last of the contessa’s defenders raced toward the murdering mummy.
The green witch-fires of the mummy’s eyes considered the improvised flame bombs with contempt. It extended its clawed hand, pointing imperiously at the coachman.
A dry hiss, like the whisper of sand falling through an hourglass, emerged from the cadaverous skull of the priest-king. As the thin tones of the ancient incantation were uttered, the lantern clutched in the hands of the coachman exploded, bathing the man in flame. The enflamed servant uttered a long wail of torment. He became a walking torch that staggered blindly away from the coach, collapsing at last in the muddy trench of the nearby canal.
Torici gave vent to a shout of rage as he saw the mummy dispose of the coachman. It was now left to him alone to protect his mistress. He lunged forward, casting the remaining lantern at the undead horror.
The glass facing of the metal cage shattered on impact, as did the bowl of the lantern, bathing the dry brittle shape of the priest-king in kerosene. But even as the lantern impacted, its effectiveness as a bomb expired; the taper had blown out as it was thrown. The mummy cast its malevolent gaze on the vampire, advancing on the coach with great strides.
‘Run!’ urged Torici, staring at his mistress. The vampire thrall reached past de Villarias and wrenched a wooden spoke free from the front wheel of the coach.
Snarling like a wild beast, the vampire fop flung himself at the mummy, smashing the creature’s head with the side of the spoke. The wood burst like a rotten forest log upon impact with the mummy’s supernaturally strong bones. Torici did not ponder his thwarted attack, but jabbed the splintered end of the improvised weapon into the monster’s face. The vampire gouged the wood into the skull-like countenance, grinding away at the mummy’s features.
Torici was flung back as the mummy’s fist punched through his breast. Nehb-ka-menthu lifted the black, gleaming slab of the vampire’s diseased heart and tossed the ruptured organ at the feet of de Villarias. Once again, the withered features of the ancient priest-king seemed to twist into a mocking smile of triumph and sadistic anticipation.
Carlotta de Villarias stared at the discarded heart of Torici, viewing her minion’s gruesome demise as nothing compared to what her ancient foe would do to her if she did not free herself from her nameless dread. She, who had walked the paths of darkness for centuries, who had outlasted the gods of Nehekhara, who had watched from the shadows as the history of the Old World took shape and form—all that she was would end here, in a filthy, forgotten Miragliano slum. It was a demise fit for an animal, not an aristocrat of the night. Yet such would be her fate unless she were to act. Nehb-ka-menthu had butchered all her servants; the only thing left standing was de Villarias herself.
The horses screamed in terror as the smell of
the mummy reached them. The animals strained and pulled at their yoke, threatening to snap the sturdy wood. The mummy paid the panicked animals no heed, but strode resolutely toward its immortal prey. As it did so, a small, lithe shape launched itself at the walking corpse, scratching at the layers of grey, mouldering funeral wrappings with sharp claws and savage fangs. The mummy was quick to pull the clawing cat from its chest, crushing its body in its powerful grip, and casting the limp, broken remains aside.
The sight of her familiar’s death, the shock of its mental scream as Nehb-ka-menthu destroyed it, broke the terrible spell of fear that had conquered the vampiress. The contessa spat at her adversary like a desert asp. She hissed her wrath at the monster. The vampiress did not simply remove a spoke from the coach, she ripped the entire wheel free, and hurled the heavy missile at her enemy. It smashed into the mummy, hurling the creature back, and knocking it to the ground.
Talons grew from de Villarias’s hands, transforming them into the claws of some great jungle cat. The fangs in her mouth extended into great ivory sabres. The feral sound that rolled over those fangs was unlike any human could have made. De Villarias pounced upon the cadaverous shape of Nehb-ka-menthu as the undead creature began to rise and slammed the desiccated mass back against the hard surface of the street.
De Villarias pawed at the monster, her claws tearing at the funeral wrappings. Bits of ancient cloth and brittle flesh were thrown into the air with every sweep of her hands. Lost in the frenzy of her attack, her mind little better than a beast’s, de Villarias sank her fangs into the withered neck of the mummy. She began sucking uncontrollably at the empty collapsed veins of the shrivelled corpse.
The tomb king of Khareops did not long suffer such abuse. Its claw grabbed hold of the vampiress and hurled her away. De Villarias struck the ground a good dozen feet away and slid across the stones as though dragged by stallions—such was the awesome strength in the withered corpse’s arm.
