Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Bolan sighed and reentered the bathroom, flinching reflexively as he glimpsed the mirror. But nothing peered back at him, nothing but his own round face, its pale blue eyes slightly bloodshot and its chin gray with stubble.

  He bnished his teeth, shaved, and showered. The drumming water refreshed him and gave him hope that he might actually enjoy the rest of the day. As he dressed, the sizzle and aroma of frying bacon wafted up the stairs. His stomach growled.

  He looked at his rickety tie rack, a gift from a parishioner with a distinctly limited aptitude for woodwork, and decided on the teal silk one. But as he reached for it, he faltered.

  Or rather, his arm did. Nothing had distracted Bolan himself from his intent, but the limb simply froze in mid-extension, as if it had a will of its own. Numbness flowed from his fingertips down to his elbow.

  Bewildered, he tried again to lift the tie off its peg. Instead of obeying, his hand closed, opened, made a tight fist, and opened once more. After that it snapped its fingers. Then, when the minister had forgotten all about the tie, it finally picked it up.

  Bolan imagined his hand flipping the neckwear around uncanny dexterity, tying it into a noose, then tossing it over his head and choking him. He grabbed its wrist with his left hand, the still-obedient one, and at that instant the numbness tingled away. His right arm shuddered, and the blue tie fell to the floor.

  The minister gingerly flexed the fingers of his rebellious hand. The organ felt like his flesh once again, as much a part of his body as ever.

  I'm too tired, Bolan thought. Dora's right, I've got to get over this morbid fear of the Atheist before I have a breakdown. I don't know why I'm so paranoid. I've never had these kinds of problems before.

  He started to pick up the fallen tie, then, with a quiver of aversion, left it on the floor. He selected a red one instead, and headed downstairs.

  He found McGinty and Dora in the kitchen. The self-styled militiaman was seated at the table spreading orange marmalade on a piece of toast, and she was scrambling eggs at the stove. "Perfect timing," she said. "Everything will be ready in a second."

  "Great," he said, trying to shake off the rest of his anxiety. He sat down, reached for some toast, and his arm went numb and locked up on him again.

  This isn't happening, he told himself. It's all in your head. Exerting every iota of his willpower, he strained to grasp the bread. His hand wouldn't budge. He made a tiny whimpering sound.

  McGinty gave him a questioning look. Dora turned around. "What is it?" she asked.

  Bolan wanted to say, I think I'm sick. I need to go to the hospital. But as he opened his mouth to speak, the numbness shot all the way up his arm and into his head. To his horror, he heard himself say, "I'm all right. I just grunted because my elbow gave me a twinge. I guess I bumped it when I fell."

  He tried to shout, No, no, that's not what I meant to say! But the words wouldn't come out. He felt as if he were a puppet and the numbness, the hand of the puppeteer, controlling his mouth.

  The dead feeling tingled through his entire body, and as his sense of touch faded, another mode of perception seemed to sharpen in compensation. Suddenly he felt the presence of another consciousness clinging to his own, like a lamprey feeding on a fish.

  This is demonic possession, Bolan thought, awestricken. He realized that even though its existence was an article of faith in his fundamentalist sect, he'd never truly believed in it until now.

  The spirit squirmed Bolan's shoulders as if his hijacked body were a garment in which it was trying to get comfortable. Then it began to peer about the kitchen.

  Bolan discovered that he could catch an echo of its thoughts. The forks and butter knives were too puny to bother with, and McGinty's rifle was leaning in the opposite corner, out of reach. But there must be some suitable weapon at hand.

  No! Bolan thought. I won't let you hurt them!

  To his surprise, the demon answered him. Though it was speaking silently, in thought alone, as he was, somehow its words still seemed cold and sibilant. You can't stop me, mortal. I'm the presence you've been sensing. I spent weeks Skinriding you, preparing for this moment. Now it's your turn to go where I lead.

  Bolan strained to close his hands into fists. To regain control. His fingers didn't even twitch. Jesus, please help me! he prayed.

  Nothing can help you, the devil replied. Stop fighting me and enjoy the bloodshed. You can if you try.

  Bolan felt the demon's attention fix on the silvery coffee pot. Two reptilian faces sneered from the curved reflective surface. The spirit took hold of the handle, hefted the pot experimentally, and then stood up.

  McGinty looked up at his pastor, or the creature he still believed to be his pastor, with an expression of mild curiosity on his square, weather-beaten face. The demon smiled, swung the pot over Bolan's head, flinging coffee behind him, and then smashed the container down on the bodyguard's skull.

  Bone crunched. The shock of impact jolted Bolan's arm, and hot coffee sloshed from the pot to burn his hand. He could feel the pain even through the numbness, but the devil didn't seem to mind it.

  McGinty made a choking sound and fell out of his chair. The demon stamped thrice on his skull, mashing it out of shape) and then turned toward Dora.

  She was still standing beside the stove. Her face was gray, her eyes so wide that Bolan could see white all the way around the irises, and her mouth hung Open. Don't just stare! the minister begged her. Run! But of course she couldn't hear him, and she didn't move.

  "All right, now we're alone," the spirit said. "Are you happy?"

  Dora's mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  "There's no pleasing some people," the demon said. The coffee pot upraised, he started toward her. Once again, Bolan struggled desperately to reassert mastery of his body, without hindering the spirit in the slightest.

  For a moment it looked as if Dora still wouldn't move. Then she snatched up the cast-iron frying pan in both hands and swung it at her attacker's head, spattering eggs and hot: grease.:

  Perhaps her sudden move caught the devil by surprise, because it didn't quite manage to block. The black skillet bonged against Bolan's temple, bringing another jab of pain. Everything went dark. Vaguely he felt his knees buckling, and the coffee pot slipping from his fingers. Yes! he rejoiced. Pass out, you horrible thing!

  But then the world swam back into visibility. The demon lurched upright, wrenched the pan out of Dora's hand, and grabbed her by the throat. It shoved her down on top of the Stove and began to choke her.

  She thrashed madly, clawing at its hands and forearms, but she couldn't break its grip. Flames licked along her torso, as the burner set her housecoat ablaze. Before long the fire reached her throat and head, but the searing heat didn't make the spirit let go of her, either. A stink of burning hair and meat filled the air.

  Finally Dora stopped struggling. The devil slapped out the flames on Bolan's sleeves and then flexed his black and red hands, evidently making sure they were still functional. Tears flowed down the minister's face, and the demon wiped them away. Don't whine, it said. You know very well that there were times when you wanted to kill her. I've fulfilled one of your fantasies.

  Why ? Bolan wailed. Why are you doing this? He had the mad feeling that if he could convince the devil it had made a mistake, then Dora would be alive again.

  To settle an old score, the spirit answered. This morning's sacrifice is just one tiny part of a scheme that encompasses the Atheist murders and much more. We should both feel proud to be part of something so grand. The creature retrieved the CAR 15 and then opened the back door. Outside, the dewy grass, the slender white steeple of the Third Baptist Church of Memphis and the red roof of the Youth Fellowship building shone in the early morning sunlight.

  Pi ease, God, Bolan prayed, let this end. Destroy this monster, even if it means killing me with it.

  Do you think We should begin with the church or the Sunday school? the spirit asked, examining the gun. I think, the ch
ildren.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  His rapier in one hand and a pistol in the other, Montrose prowled the muddy alley at the head of a ten-man patrol, looking for any Heretics who'd escaped the battlefield. Elsewhere in the Friar's Point Haunt, other irregulars and Legionnaires crowed whenever they ferreted a fugitive out of hiding, momentarily drowning out the hiss of the Nihils riddling the row of crumbling shanties on the Stygian's left.

  Abruptly Montrose heard something shift in the shadows under the eaves of a nearby hovel. He peered, but saw nothing that might have made the noise. Perhaps one of the religionists was a Harbinger, with a Harbinger's ability to veil himself in shadow. Invoking his powers of flight, the Scot hurtled toward the shack. As he landed, he aimed his blade at the spot he judged the Heretic to be.

  The form of a small man with a gaping white cut in his forehead shimmered into view. He cringed against the wall. Montrose waited until he saw hope dawn in the other wraith's face, hope that the Stygian didn't mean to destroy him on the spot. Then, lunging, he thrust his blade into the Heretic's breast.

  Pulsations of darkness swept through the religionist's body. He toppled, but vanished before his body hit the ground.

  Grinning, Montrose pivoted back toward his men. Murderous ruffians though they were, they seemed to be eyeing him askance, and their wariness took the edge off his glee.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  The men looked at one another as if silently agreeing upon a spokesman. Eventually a Masquer, her translucent body shining with a golden inner glow, said, "I thought the idea was to take them alive when we can. Otherwise, there's nothing to sell."

  Montrose blinked. "Yes. You're right, of course. I guess that in the heat of battle, we can all become overexcited."

  "Do you want to go back to the command post? We can handle the mopping up."

  Montrose scowled. "No, of course not. I'm fine. Come on." He stalked on down the alley and the guerrillas fell in behind him.

  For a few paces, he wondered if something might actually be wrong with him. The Soulshaper was correct; they were supposed to be taking captives, and it was unsettling that he'd forgotten it. And though he'd worked hard to become as ruthless as the intrigues of the Stygian court required, he didn't ordinarily revel in needless slaughter.

  But gradually his exhilaration seeped back and washed his misgivings away. The fugitive had been a Heretic, hadn't he? An enemy to all creation. As foul a thing as his own treacherous Louise. How could anyone feel remorse over slaying an abomination like that? It was remarkable that Montrose and his army managed to contain their loathing sufficiently to drag any of the bastards to the barracoons.

  A hulking cutthroat in a bottle-green top hat and cutaway coat stuck his head through the side of a shanty, checking the interior. When he pulled it out again, he said, "I don't see anything. But I feel them. Somebody's in there somewhere."

  "Then I suppose we'd better search it," Montrose said. He glided through the wall, and the rest of the patrol followed. It only took a moment to find the trapdoor sec in the rotting floorboards.

  Montrose knelt and thrust his face through the hatch. The earthen cellar below it was dimly lit by the greenish glow shining up a set of plank stairs. The cool air smelled of vegetables gone rotten.

  It would be tricky to slip one's body through the substance of the trapdoor, yet avoid plummeting through the steps as well. Grunting, Montrose shifted himself across the Shroud, gripped the edges of the door with his fingertips, and pulled. For a moment the warped, swollen wood resisted him, but then it jerked upward. The Scot surrendered to the pull of the Shadowlands, and his soldiers reappeared around him.

  "Let's go," Montrose said. He charged down the steps with the guerrillas behind him.

  The root cellar was lined with crudely built shelves. The sickly light of a single barrow-flame candle gleamed on row after row of dusty mason jars. In the corner stood four children, three boys and a girl, with a small, dark-haired woman behind them.

  Startled, Montrose froze. Because even though he knew better, for an instant, in the dim light, the young wraiths resembled John, James, Robert, and Jean, his long- lost children; the ghost behind them, their mother Magdalen, whom he'd loved deeply until his penchant for dangerous politics had driven them apart.

  The tallest boy pointed a pepperbox pistol at Montrose's chest. His mother, if that was who she was, grabbed his arm and jerked the gun out of line. "No, Davy!" she cried. "There are too many of them. We can't fight them."

  "Bind them," said Montrose to his troops. They hurried forward to obey.

  The ruffians seemed to delight in handling both the woman and the children as roughly as possible. They slapped them, fondled them, and snarled threats and obscene endearments in their ears. The boys struggled frantically, while the little girl began to sob.

  Montrose watched the proceedings with growing distaste. He searched for the delicious cruelty he'd enjoyed only moments before, but for the time being, it seemed to have abandoned him.

  He reminded himself that the prisoners weren't his children. Indeed, judging from their homespun clothing, they were probably more than a hundred years old, not youngsters at all in any rational sense.

  Yet with their piping voices and coltish frames, with the girl's terrified weeping and the boys' desperate defiance, they certainly seemed like children. And in point of fact, Montrose had noticed that many wraiths who died before reaching adulthood retained childlike personalities forever after, no matter how many decades or even centuries of existence they experienced.

  He wished he could turn away, but he knew he shouldn't. He mustn't look weak in front of the men.

  The black-haired woman stared at him beseechingly. "We haven't hurt anyone," she said. "Why are you doing this?"

  Because my master ordered me to, Montrose thought. For sport. For revenge. All three answers made him uncomfortable. "Because you're Heretics," he said aloud. "The agents of Oblivion."

  "No!" the woman said. "Perhaps some Heretics do worship the devil, but we hate him as much as you Stygians do! Our beliefs are in the Bible, and that book over there!" With her hands already bound, she couldn't point, but she jerked her head at a dilapidated workbench in the corner, and the slim volume, bound in white leather, lying atop it.

  "Thank you for calling it to my attention," said Montrose. "I wouldn't want to leave subversive literature lying around to corrupt the innocent. Perhaps the artificers can melt it down and make something useful." He shifted his gaze to two of the irregulars. "Take them to the stockade and then rejoin the search."

  "You got it," said the taller of the pair. He shoved the woman and the younger boy toward the steps.

  The little girl wailed. The woman cried, "I beg you! Do anything you want to me, but let the children go!" She kept pleading all the way up the stairs.

  Montrose supposed that he really should confiscate the book. He walked to the workbench. When he saw the gold letters embossed on the cover, he faltered, and then, his hands trembling ever so slightly, picked up the volume and started leafing through it.

  It was the old Prayer Book of the Scottish Kirk, in defense of which he and his fellow Calvinists had formed the Covenant and defied the Crown. This text had set him on the twisting path which eventually led him to fight for the murdered King and his faithless son, and finally put Montrose himself on the gallows.

  He didn't know what to feel. Or rather, he felt too many things at the same time, contradictory emotions which ground together inside him. He hated the Prayer Book. How could he not, when it had prompted him to waste his life? Yet simultaneously, he remembered the reverence with which he'd once regarded it, and the knowledge that he was persecuting women and children for embracing its teachings sickened him.

  The Masquer with the luminous flesh cleared her throat. "Are you okay?" she asked diffidently.

  "Yes," Montrose said, "but you know, you were right. You don't need me for this, and there are matters I ought to take up with Fin
k. I'm going back to camp. You report to me when you finish."

  "Will do," the Masquer said. Montrose got the distinct impression that she and her companions would be glad to be rid of him.

  The Stygian headed back toward the edge of the Haunt. Soon he heard the sounds of his temporary headquarters, the drone of dozens of conversations, the clink of manacles, and the cracking of whips. Fink stood loitering at the edge of the weedy vacant lot into which the men were herding the captured Heretics.

  "Hello again," boomed the former pirate. "Considering the haul we made tonight, you don't look very chipper."

  Uncertain that he actually wanted to confide in Fink, Montrose hesitated, but then the words started slipping out. "I suppose I'm in an odd mood. I'm wondering if there's a point to what we're doing."

  Fink grinned. "If you don't see the point of getting rich, then Stygians are even odder than people say."

  "I do see it," Montrose said. "I must, mustn't I, since I fought so hard to win a place at the Smiling Lord's right hand. But a philosopher once told me that the wealthiest, most powerful wraith is poorer than the neediest mortal pauper, and sometimes I think he was right. No matter how many trinkets we amass, there's a cold, barren quality to our existences that can never be dispelled. That's obvious here in the Shadowlands, where the Shroud makes the whole world ugly, but one can feel the bleakness even amid the splendors of the Onyx Tower."

  Fink snorted. "You're right, you are in a sour mood. If you've lost interest in money and power, can't you still be happy that you're making yourself useful? How many times have I heard you say that by persecuting the Heretics, we're protecting all creation from Oblivion?"

  "And I suppose I still believe that. But what if I'm mistaken? What if that notion is just an excuse to justify our brutality?"

  "Who cares?" Fink replied, casually loosening his pistol in its holster. "Your problem is that you think you need an excuse."