Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  To his surprise, Montrose realized that he couldn't quite anticipate how he'd react if it turned out that the Smiling Lord had recalled him. He still yearned for the splendors and luxuries of the Onyx Tower, and chafed at the thought of rival courtiers scheming to usurp his place in his absence. But he also had the obscure feeling that his recent adventures had stimulated dormant aspects of his personality, a valuable dimension of himself that had been in danger of withering away. If he left, he'd miss some of the people he'd met, Fink, Valentine, and others. And to some degree it would irk him to abandon the mystery of the false Pardoners—and the Atheist murders, if they were part of the same puzzle—for a successor to unravel.

  Ultimately, of course, it didn't matter how he felt. He'd go if the Smiling Lord had ordered him to go, or stay if he wanted him to stay. He was just glad that he'd emerged from his fugue state before his fellow Stygians arrived.

  Montrose's blackout had lasted nearly forty-eight hours. He'd awakened feeling more nearly himself than he had in weeks, his Shadow apparently having exhausted its strength maintaining the possession. At first, realizing what had happened to him, the Scot had been terrified, certain that the parasite must have run amok, reveling in perversions and atrocities.

  But if it had, it had covered its tracks flawlessly, which seemed unlikely. It would want Montrose to discover its handiwork, to shame and sicken him. In point of fact, as far as he'd been able to determine, none of his associates had noticed anything even a little strange about his behavior. He could only assume that his psyche had managed to hold his malignant side in check, in a contest of wills inaccessible to memory.

  He swooped toward the ground and alit in front of the Citadel's primary entrance. His fellow Anacreons, Valentine, and Fink had arrived before him. A smattering of Shellabarger and Mrs. Duquesne's soldiers were also present, as were a few of Montrose's irregulars, but only Gayoso, no doubt in an effort to make himself seem a better commander than his colleagues, had managed to turn out a full company of his men in all their somewhat tawdry martial finery. The wavering bluish light from the ring of torches gleamed on their weapons and on the black hourglass in Mrs. Duquesne's shriveled hands.

  "Good evening," said Montrose.

  "Yes," said Gayoso, a smug note in his voice, "isn't it."

  Leather creaked, metal clinked, and cloth rustled. The newcomers had nearly reached the crest of the hill. A moment later their commander strode from the gloom, a lanky man with long brown hair whose outer garments were much like Montrose's, except that his mask was made of riveted crimson metal. The soldiers at his back were marching four abreast.

  Montrose smiled, because he recognized the commander despite his visor. The inquisitor was Karl Reinhardt, a valued agent of the Smiling Lord these past two hundred years. Reinhardt had never seemed to aspire to a permanent position in his master's household, and thus had never posed a threat of Montrose's ambitions. As a result, though they weren't friends—the Scot made it a policy to avoid true friendship with men of equivalent rank—they shared a bond of respect, forged in a hard-fought campaign against a horde of Spectres in 1832. It would be pleasant to talk to him.

  A Centurion bellowed a command, and the column halted. Reinhardt continued forward. "Good evening," he said in his German accent. "I bring the governors of Natchez greetings and instructions from the Seat of Burning Waters." He reached inside his cloak, produced a scroll bearing the Smiling Lord's personal seal, and handed it to Gayoso, who unrolled it without haste. Compromising their dignity a bit, Shellabarger and Mrs. Duquesne pressed in close to him to read the message also.

  "Hello, Karl," said Montrose. "It's good to see you."

  "I'm afraid you won't think so in a moment," the Grim Rider replied. "James Graham, Earl and Marquess of Montrose, Anacreon of my own Order, I have a warrant for your arrest."

  "What?" Montrose exclaimed. "On what charge?"

  "According to this," said Gayoso, brandishing the scroll, "treason." The gloating note in his voice was now unmistakable.

  "That's absurd!" said Montrose. He'd worried that in his absence, his rivals would try to undermine his master's trust in him; but in light of his successes in the field, how could anyone have actually convinced the Smiling Lord he was a traitor? It didn't make sense.

  "It's no use protesting," Reinhardt said. "I've seen the evidence against you, and even if I hadn't, I have my orders."

  "What evidence?" Montrose asked.

  "A journal in your handwriting. In its pages, you reveal your intention to conquer your own kingdom here along the Mississippi."

  "I never wrote any such thing." Montrose turned to the three governors. "Gayoso sent the papers to Stygia, didn't he? Well, he forged them, too!"

  "As I mentioned," Reinhardt said, "the document is in your own hand. Chiarmonte did the comparisons himself, and said there isn't any doubt. Even so, the Smiling Lord was reluctant to accept your guilt. He had Demetrius examine the journal through some esoteric application of his Arcanos, and he, too, is certain that you wrote it."

  Montrose felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare. The more Reinhardt explained, the stranger the situation seemed. Chiarmonte was a rival, but he couldn't quite imagine the Venetian falsifying the results of a graphological analysis, if only because of the pride he took in his professional expertise. Nor could he imagine the man conspiring with Demetrius to frame him. Chiarmonte wasn't unduly fond of Montrose, but, like most of the courtiers who'd attended the Smiling Lord for a century or longer, he loathed the upstart Oracle.

  Then, suddenly, Montrose's intuition told him what had happened. In effect, his Shadow had framed him, writing the journal during the period when it was dominant. Now that he realized the truth, he sensed the parasite laughing in the depths of his unconscious.

  And why shouldn't it? Montrose couldn't prove he'd been possessed, and he suspected the Deathlords, whose justice was often leavened with a generous measure of expediency, wouldn't regard it as an adequate defense anyway. If his Shadow had mastered him once, perhaps it would do so again, and put its treasonous schemes into effect. It would be safer to execute him and avoid the possibility. He struggled to suppress a surge of panic.

  "Surrender your weapons," Reinhardt said.

  "I give you my word," said Montrose, "I'm innocent."

  "It doesn't matter," Reinhardt replied doggedly. "I have orders to take you into custody, and that's what I'm going to do. Unless you compel me to destroy you instead."

  Montrose looked at Shellabarger and Mrs. Duquesne. "I've helped you people. I've rid your territory of subversives. I've brought prosperity."

  "You also disrupted a reasonably comfortable status quo," said Shellabarger. Montrose could just barely make out the form of the governor's bulging, faceted eyes, glinting behind the openings in his hood. "You pretty much forced us to obey your orders. To be honest, I think I can cope with the pain of your departure."

  "I'm a loyal Hierarch," said Mrs. Duquesne. "I wouldn't think of disobeying a command from any of the Deathlords." She glanced at Gayoso's troops and the ranks of Stygians. "Even if it were practical."

  "Listen to me," said Montrose, "there are things happening along the river I haven't told you about. A new danger, from an unknown source. You need me to help you get to the bottom of it. I understand you have no choice but to return me to Stygia, but you could intercede for me. Assure the Smiling Lord that no matter what the evidence seems to indicate, you've observed me closely over the past few weeks, and you're certain I'm loyal."

  Inside the lugubrious frown of her white-glazed mask, Mrs. Duquesne's lips quirked in an ironic smile. "Tie my own fate inextricably to your own. An intriguing concept. But unfortunately, I never take it for granted that anyone's loyal. That's what makes me a successful politician."

  Gayoso sneered at Montrose. "Did you really expect anyone to believe such a blatantly self-serving lie?"

  "It's not a lie," Montrose said.

  "Well," said Gayoso, "in the unlikely
event that there is some mysterious menace lurking about, I'll deal with it. These soldiers didn't all come just to drag you back to the Isle of Sorrows, my lord Anacreon. Your military reputation isn't that fearsome. Most of them will remain in Natchez under my command, to continue the suppression of the rebels." He smiled coldly at his fellow governors, proclaiming without words that the balance of power had shifted, and that, henceforth, they'd better stay on his good side.

  "Give me your sword and pistol," Reinhardt said.

  Montrose looked at Fink. The river man grinned and shrugged. The Scot had the feeling that if the odds hadn't been quite so overwhelming, his lieutenant might actually have tried to rescue him from his would-be captors, if only for the savage, reckless fun of it. But whatever bond of friendship had sprung up between the two wraiths, it wasn't enough to prompt the former outlaw to throw his existence away. And if he didn't make a move, none of the other irregulars would, either.

  The Scot was tempted to try to veil himself in darkness, open a Nihil and leap through, or project himself onto the otherside of the Shroud. But his Arcanos didn't work instantaneously, and as soon as he began to generate an effect, the Legionnaires would shoot him. If he truly wanted to escape both immediate destruction and the terrible justice of the Smiling Lord, the only hope was to surrender now and try to get away later. A chance so slim it was barely worth contemplating; but still, the only one he had.

  As he undipped his scabbard from his belt, he saw Valentine's homely features twist in anguish, and suspected the dwarf had played some part in his downfall. Betrayed by yet another friend. He supposed he should have been expecting it.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  As Bellamy surveyed the rows of crumbling, whitewashed mausoleums, floating like islands in a sea Of tangled brush and pearly ground mist, he felt his pulse ticking in his throat. Speaking lightly in an effort to alleviate his anxiety, he whispered, "Well, this figures, doesn't it?"

  "What?" Astarte replied.

  "That we'd wind up in a cemetery before this mess was over."

  She smiled wryly, the moonlight gleaming on the steel rings in her piercings. "I don't mind as long as it isn't a permanent stay." She pointed. "That way?"

  He nodded. "Stay alert." They slunk forward, down one of the lanes defined by parallel rows of dilapidated tombs. There didn't seem to be any copings, a fact which didn't surprise him. In New OrleanSj with its high water table, it was easier to lay the dead to rest aboveground that to bury them.

  Try as he might, he couldn't move altogether silently, any more than Astarte could. The weeds and long grass swished and rustled around their feet. He hoped it wouldn't matter, Astarte took hold of his forearm, halting his forward progress.

  "What is: it?" he asked.

  "No^bne's keeping this place up."

  He repressed a sarcastic observation about her keen grasp of the obvious. "I noticed."

  "So where are the signs that other trespassers have jumped the wall? Where are the condoms and beer cans?"

  He frowned. "I don't know. I did see some graffiti on some of the tombs."

  "All of it funny symbols. Hieroglyphics. Nothing in English."

  "In other words, the cemetery has such a nasty reputation that people are; afraid to trespass. Or when they do, the men from Lafayette kill them."

  Astarte nodded. "That's what I'm thinking."

  After a moment's hesitation, Bellamy said, "We already knew we were headed into danger. I'm not going to turn back. But if you want to—"

  Astarte grimaced. "Will you get over that sexist crap? I just thought you ought to know we were already in the danger zone. Now come on." She crept forward, and he followed her.

  Five minutes later they reached the eight-foot wall, itself a tomb riddled with vaults, on the far side of the cemetery. Bellamy hoisted himself up until he could peek over the top.

  The house on the other side was a massive brick edifice that reminded him of a prison. Indeed, with its few narrow windows sealed behind burglar bars, it was: an eyesore ugly and ominous to stand out even in one of the city's most miserable slums. As far as he could see, no lights were burning. With luck, that meant no one was. inside, though he. was by no means certain of that. The mysterious people from West Louisiana might be thoroughly at home in the dark.

  Bellamy hauled himself to the top of the wall, and Astarte scrambled up beside him. They dropped to the other side and sneaked on, through a yard as overgrown as the cemetery. Bearded with long gray streamers of Spanish moss, the branches: of a huge cypress blocked out the stars, making the night even blacker than before.

  The intruders reached the back door without anything leaping out at them or anyone shouting to announce their presence. Bellamy switched on his pencil flashlight, examined the entry, and found no evidence of an alarm system. Holding the light in his teeth, he took out his knife and pick.

  After a moment's work, the lock clicked open. He cracked the door open and a faint but foul stench like the smell of rotting meat wafted out. He peered through the opening.

  He was looking into a spacious kitchen. Flicking the flashlight beam this way and that, he sensed there was something odd about the room, and after a moment, he realized what. There were no pots and pans hanging from the hooks on the walls. He stepped inside and opened some drawers and cabinets. There was no cutlery, plates, or canned goods, either, and when he checked the faintly humming refrigerator, he only found wine, soda, and beer. Evidently, the rotting smell was coming from another part of the house. No one prepared any food in here.

  He listened intently but didn't hear anyone moving around in the darkness ahead, just a nearly inaudible buzzing. Drawing his Browning from its holster, he led Astarte through the next doorway. The foul smell grew stronger.

  The next chamber was a dining room, though it appeared as if it had been a while since anyone had used it as such. Many of the chairs lay shattered on the floor, and someone had carved sets of parallel grooves in the table. It looked as though a gigantic cat had sharpened its claws on the wood. Crudely painted on one wall was a black spiral like the design on a hypnotist's spinning wheel. Pointing to it, Bellamy gave Astarte an inquiring look. She shrugged.

  Bellamy listened once again, and still didn't hear anyone. He and Astarte crept through the next arch. The stink burned in his nose and throat, half choking him. He swung the light around, and flinched at what he saw. Nausea squirmed in his stomach.

  The large room was littered with human corpses and body parts. Most were little more than gnawed bone, pocked with tooth marks, but a few scraps of decaying meat remained. Enough to account for the stench and nourish swarms of flies, their wings the source of the ambient drone.

  Bellamy told himself that he'd seen the handiwork of serial killers and even cannibals before, though it hadn't been on this scale. He had to get past his horror and function like a professional.

  Astarte made a gagging sound. He took her in his arms and she hugged him tightly.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know it's bad. But we have to cope with it."

  "I know," she said. "It's just that it's worse than seeing Vulture die. Worse than feeling Mr. Daimler's teeth pressing into my neck. Worse than anything so far. But I'll be all right." She clung to him for a moment longer, then released him.

  Bellamy played his light back and forth, trying to ignore the ghastly remains of the murderers' victims and see what else was in the room. The beam slid across a few pieces of dilapidated furniture and a collection of trophies and curios, many nearly as ghastly as the corpses and nearly all of them strange in one way or another.

  Mobiles made of wire, sticks, and human bones hung from the ceiling, and someone had thumbtacked pairs of snapshots to the faded, floral-print wallpaper.

  The first picture in each set was a candid shot of a man, woman, or child. The second was a view of the body of the same individual, torn to shreds.

  On the marble mantel reposed a long ivory tusk, so flamboyantly curved that Bellamy was certa
in it couldn't have come from any breed of elephant alive today. It reminded him of artists' conceptions of the hairy pachyderms that had walked the earth during the last ice age. And when he approached it, he discovered that it was carved with crude representations of gigantic sloths, cave bears, and other prehistoric beasts.

  The skulls of two huge canines rested on a table. Each had been painted with the black spiral and a selection of other symbols. At first glance, Bellamy assumed that they were fossils, too. But on closer inspection, they looked too fresh, almost as fresh as some of the human bones littering the bloodstained floor.

  An assortment of jewelry—bracelets, rings, pendants, and earrings, most of it rather large and primitive-looking—lay on the tiers of a bookshelf, along with a straight-edged dagger the size of a Bowie knife. The color of the blade seemed a little off. Bellamy wondered if it might be made of silver rather than steel.

  Once again, he looked at Astarte, asking her to interpret the significance of the various relics. Once again, she shrugged. So much for her claim to be an occult expert, he thought sardonically.

  Denied any esoteric insights, he decided that, for the time being, he'd better ignore what he couldn't comprehend—the meaning of the tusk, the canine skulls, and similar enigmas—and focus on what he could. Which was that he was virtually wading through evidence of multiple murder. For a moment, he felt a swell of satisfaction, and then it withered. He scowled.

  Brushing a fly away from her face, Astarte asked, "What is it?"

  "We've got all the evidence any cop could ask for to prove that certain people have been killed. But—"

  "We still don't know who the men from Lafayette are," she said. "We don't know how they figure into the Atheist conspiracy, or even that they do."