He strained, listening for the warriors. To his relief, they sounded farther away than before. Evidently they'd moved off in a different direction.
"Do you think they're looking for us?" asked Louise.
"Who knows? It's possible that what we heard was simply a routine patrol. On the other hand, perhaps someone noticed that the original owners of these robes have gone missing. Perhaps he then quizzed the Legionnaires who escorted us into the gate, and they swore they brought all their charges back. If so, he surely deduced that there are two intruders roaming the Seat in disguise, and started the Paupers hunting us."
"That doesn't sound like an easy job," she said, "not in a place where most of the civilians wear more or less identical hooded robes. Maybe learning to tell your associates apart was originally an exercise to sharpen your perceptions, too." Montrose Sensed that she too was grateful for an excuse to shift the focus of their conversation to less intimate Concerns.
"Perhaps so. At any rate, I daresay the Beggar Lord's guards are up to the challenge, and I think it's time we departed from here and made our way to my own master's fortress."
"How?"
"Clearly, we'd be unwise to assume theisentries here will simply let us pass through a gate unchallenged. I'd rather fly over the wall. If we pick the proper place, we may be able to slip away without anybody spotting us. The defenses here are primarily intended to keep people out, not in."
"I assume the defenses at the House of Strife are intended to keep people out, too," she said. "Have you figured out how to get through them?"
"I'm working on it," he said.
With its pale marble flagstones, the plaza was like a huge mirror reflecting the teal and ochre flickers of lightning overhead. Every so often a thunderbolt blazed brightly enough in the proper quadrant of the sky to cast the prodigious shadow of Charon's donjon across the square. In the perpetual night of the Underworld, the band of deeper darkness resembled a chasm plunging into the earth.
The last time Montrose had seen the Plaza of Lost Stars, so named for the cyclopean statues scattered across it, each depicting one of the constellations of the Earthly sky, the area had been full of people. Messengers scurrying from one Seat to another. Ministers and lackeys strolling at their leisure. Artificers hauling some new creation to a Deathlord or grandee. Overseers with snapping whips herding coffles of trudging Thralls.
Now, like the rest of the squares, markets, parklands, and thoroughfares which the Seven held in common, the space was silent and deserted. Everyone was keeping to the stronghold of his own master. Everyone but the patrols, looking for signs that someone else's sovereign was readying an attack, or collecting intelligence to aid them in launching one of their own.
Terse voices muttered off to the right, where the faceted ramparts and spires of the Seat of Thorns, a structure reputedly carved from a single monstrous emerald, glowed against the sky, illuminated by some magic bound in the stone. Glad to be rid of the hindering folds of his saffron robe, Montrose drew his flintlock pistols, cocked them, and ducked behind the pedestal of a stoic if not bovine Andromeda chained to her rock. Her crossbow ready, her slouch hat and leaden mask concealing her features, Louise crouched beside him.
A moment later a dozen female soldiers prowled into view. Though their choice of clothing and weapons was eclectic—the one on point wore only a short deerskin dress and earned a lever-action rifle, while the next one in the procession had opted for mail, a pike, and a brace of Colt .45s—each sported a copper mask-of-comedy badge, a token of allegiance to the Laughing Lady. They'd all received bald heads, fiery red eyes, and pointed goblin ears from some Masquer, too, evidently to express their devotion to their particular unit. Montrose took them for Storm Maidens, an elite corps specializing in the destruction of Spectres. If the Mistress of Lunacy was calling them to Stygia from their outposts in the Tempest, that was one more indication that all-out war could break out at any time.
Not, Montrose reflected grimly, that he needed another sign. The indications were everywhere.
To his relief, the Amazons stalked by without noticing him and Louise. "How many scouting parties have we dodged?" the Sister of Athena asked wryly. "I'm losing count."
"Five, I think," he said. "It's a miracle they haven't all started fighting each other." In point of fact, he and Louise had heard cries and crackles of gunfire as one such skirmish erupted in the direction of the Ashen Lady's castle.
"At least that would make it easier to slip past them. I thought for sure those Mutes were going to notice us."
"Chin up," Montrose said. "We've nearly reached my master's citadel."
"I hate it when you call him that," she said.
He scowled, his hostility welling up anew. "Why? That's what he is. You didn't scorn me for giving fealty to Charles as my King."
"Back then, we all had lords, unless we were the lords. We assumed it was the natural order of things. But the mortal world has changed since then. I don't know how much of it you've seen—all this time we've been traveling together, and we've told each other so little!—but the Quick have new philosophies and systems of government. The old authoritarian notions that were showing their age even in our day have no currency at all anymore, at least not in Europe or America."
"As it happens, I do know something about present conditions in the Skinlands." Actually, given that he'd spent most of the modern era in the Onyx Tower, his knowledge was unquestionably more superficial than hers, but he wasn't about to admit it. "And whatever rights the living have proclaimed for the common man, and whatever systems they use to ratify their laws, the strong and the cunning still control the destinies of the weak and the dull, just as they do here. Nor are you Renegades and Heretics any different, with your field marshals, first citizens, popes, and ayatollahs. Human societies inevitably organize themselves into hierarchies."
"No," she said. "I don't agree. But let that go. The real point is that your devotion to your King was different from your service to the Smiling Lord. You fought for Charles Stuart and his son because your principles required it; earlier in your life, when the father tried to tamper with your church, you opposed him with equal fervor. In contrast, your fealty to the Seven with all their cruelty and oppression seems so..." She waved her hand, groping for the right word.
"Expedient?" he supplied. "That's precisely what it is. It elevated me from a wretched foot soldier battling Spectres in the bowels of the Tempest to a peer of the realm dwelling in the luxury of the Imperial Court, and when we sort out our current difficulties, it will do the same again."
Despite her mask, he could feel her frown. "And that's all that matters to you."
To his annoyance, he hesitated a beat before answering. "Short of preventing the Void from swallowing all Creation, yes. You know, I thought we'd about had our fill of intimacy back in the Beggar Lord's palace. If you can suppress your penchant for personal observations, I'd prefer to concentrate on the task at hand."
"All right," she sighed. "I'm sorry."
He led her onward, skulking past towering stone images of Taurus the Bull and Orion the Hunter brandishing his sword, using the statuary for cover. The cold wind gusted, toying with his cloak.
Beyond the plaza was a patch of artificial woods, a stand of fragrant evergreens trilling with recorded bird song. A road ran through it, but for concealment's sake, the fugitives chose to stalk among the trees instead. The ground, carpeted with brown, dry needles, was soft and springy beneath their feet.
Nearing the end of the miniature forest, they glimpsed the Seat of Burning Waters. Louise caught her breath, and small wonder. Every Deathlords residence was imposing in its own way. Each, even those that should have seemed fragile—like the Seat of Shadows, which crumbled into ruin during the course of every day, renewing itself in the blink of an eye at midnight, or the Skeletal Lord's castle of bone, which looked as rickety as a latticework of matchsticks—projected an aura of preternatural strength. But as befitted the personification of
war, the Smiling Lord's fortress was the hugest and most forbidding of all. Constructed of dark basalt, it stood on a motte in the middle of a wide, barren clearing, where searchlights swept over a crazy-quilt of ditches and razor-wire fences devised to hinder any enemy's advance. Rounded towers protruded from the enceinte, ensuring that any foe who did dare to approach could be subjected to constant fire, usually from more than one direction. Almost invisible behind the merlons of the battlements high overhead were cannons, mortars, trebuchets, rocket launchers, mangonels, and insectile darksteel artillery pieces with no counterpart in Earthly history, products of Artificer ingenuity capable of discharging deadly magics. Of all the structures Montrose had ever seen, in Stygia, in the Shadowlands, or in the Tempest, only the Onyx Tower itself was more impressively ominous.
Montrose took cover behind a thicket. Studying the landscape, he said, "The spotlights are a new touch. Considering all the defenses that were already in place, it seems like a prime example of gilding the lily."
"It reminds me of every old prison movie I ever saw," Louise replied.
"And have you seen many? Do you like movies?" He realized that it was the first question about her current tastes and casual pleasures he'd asked since they'd crossed swords in Grand Gulf. Somehow it had just slipped out.
"Yes," she said, a hint of laughter in her tone. "Even Heretic nuns don't spend all their time chasing Transcendence and plotting against the Legions. I was actually stationed in Los Angeles during the silent era. In my free time, I watched DeMille shoot—"
Its rotors chopping, anti-tank guided missiles jutting from its nose, a Defender helicopter rose from behind the castle walls. Montrose held himself absolutely motionless until it became obvious that the gunship wasn't coming after him and Louise. Like an angry wasp, it droned off in the direction of the mainland.
"Speaking of shooting," Louise said ruefully. "I guess this isn't the time to pause and reminisce, is it?"
"Possibly not."
"Can you get us inside, James? I'm no defeatist, but the place looks impregnable."
"I think we have a chance. Remember, I resided here as a high-ranking officer. I learned the defenses." He pointed to the left. "Do you see that relatively clear, rectangular patch of ground, more or less leading up to that sally-port?"
"Is that where we're going to make our approach?"
"No. It's a minefield, and the gate is only a blind door, a lure. But can your Arcanos reach that far? Could you apply pressure to the ground and set off the explosives, walking the blasts away from us?"
"I think so."
"Well, once you get all the guards looking that way, we'll fly in the opposite direction, toward that hexagonal tower with the frieze of carrion crows around the top. We'll be moving under and through a web of invisible light. Should we break any of the strands, we'll set off an alarm, so keep your arms and legs in close. Don't let yourself brush the ground, either, even though at times we'll only be a few inches above it."
"I take it that there are a few mines over there, also."
"Unfortunately, yes. Once we make it through the net, we'll slip over the wall, and that will be that." He gave her the grin which had always heartened his ragtag army of Highlanders, and later, the wraith soldiers he'd commanded. "The whole thing's childishly simple, now that I come to think about it."
"Childishly," she said, an answering smile in her voice. "Are we ready?"
He unfastened his cape. He couldn't afford to have it billowing and flapping around him. "We are now."
She took off her fedora, folded it up, and stuffed it in her pocket. That done, she stared at the minefield, taking slow, deep breaths, her body occasionally tensing, then relaxing once more. At first, nothing happened. Frowning, Montrose decided she'd overestimated her range, that they'd have to moye closer to the explosives and thus dangerously extend their approach. Then, with a boom, a:pillar of crimson fire shot upward, followed by a second several yards beyond it, and a third more distant still.
"That's it," gasped Louise. "I can't reach any farther."
"That's good enough," he said, taking her in his arms. Pressing close, she wrapped all four of her limbs around him, almost as if they were making love. He floated off the ground, then flew out into the clearing.
He couldn't grope his way as he had in the Artificers' labyrinth. Louise's diversion had only bought them a. few seconds. He had to travel fast, climbing and diving suddenly, trusting that his memory ofthe pattern of the web, augmented by his pathfinder's instincts, would see him safely though. And as if that weren't demanding enough, he had to avoid slamming into more tangible/obstacles ;as well.
A circle of light swept across his path. Decelerating frantically, sacrificing a precious second, he kept himself from hurtling into the illumination. As soon as the beam slid by, he shot forward, made a ninety-degree turn, dove through the narrow Opening between a portion of the web and coils of glinting darksteel wire. Black barbs snagged Louise's coat, then tore free.
"You're doing it," she said.
Yes, he thought, by God, he was. Unlikely as it seemed, they'd negotiated more than half of the net already. Grinning fiercely, still flying low, he zigzagged onward toward a ditch, and then a dark, glistening shape heaved up directly in front of him.
He started to veer left, remembered that if he did he'd break the web, and tried to swing right instead, but by that time it was too late. A scaly tentacle thicker than a big man's thigh flailed at him. It only grazed him, but even a glancing blow was sufficient to smash him and Louise to the ground.
Montrose slammed down on top of his companion. Striving desperately to shake off the shock ofthe sudden attack, he scrambled to his feet and snatched out his pistols. Meanwhile, whistling like a tea kettle, the moat monster clambered out of its den.
In the gloom, the huge beast was only a vague mass with an acrid stench, gleaming fangs, and perhaps a dozen thrashing rubbery limbs. Montrose had no idea where its vital organs might be located, any more than he could tell whether it was a captive Spectre, a Phantasy, or some poor slave, lobotomized and flesh-sculpted into a horror.
Praying for a lucky shot, he fired the flintlocks.
The black beast faltered for a split-second, then kept coming. Wishing he still had the automatic he'd picked up in the Coliseum, Montrose dropped the single- shot guns and whipped out his rapier. With a grunt, still dazed, Louise struggled to her feet, raised her crossbow, and stumbled sideways, trying to flank the creature.
Intent on the creature's advance, Montrose could only see Louise from the corner of his eye, but even so, his Harbinger's intuition suddenly warned him that she mustn't take another step. "Freeze!" he shouted. "A mine!" Then the monster lunged at him.
All he could see was a shining black confusion of coiling, flailing limbs. He did his best to thrust past them, at the beast's central mass. He felt his point plunge into flesh, and then the monster heaved, tearing the sword out of his grasp. Tentacles whipped around him and crushed him to the ground. Huge saurian jaws dipped toward his head. He struggled madly but impotently to break free.
Then the beast lurched and fell over as if someone had swung a wrecking ball into its side. A muffled blast jolted it and hurled chunks of its flesh skyward. Its tentacles spasmed, nearly tearing Montrose limb from limb, and then relaxed. As he squirmed free, retrieving his rapier in the process, he realized that Louise must have used her Spook powers to knock the creature onto the mine he'd warned her of.
Clutching her head, the Renegade swayed from side to side. Evidently shifting such a heavy mass had strained her psychokinesis to its limits. "Don't move!" Montrose snapped.
"Another mine?" she said.
"Just to your left." Sheathing his blade, he struggled to invoke his own mystic talents once again. After a moment, he felt the power rise. He floated upward, lifted her in his arms, and flew on toward the Seat. Perhaps, he thought, no one had noticed the creature coming out of its hole, the mine blowing it apart, or anything else. Pe
rhaps he and Louise were still all right.
Then guns blazed from the battlements.
Well, at least he didn't have to worry about breaking the damn web anymore. Swooping unpredictably back and forth to throw off the sentries' marksmanship, he raced on toward the castle. "Shield us!" he said.
"Trying," Louise croaked. A second later, several arrows whizzed out of the darkness, then stopped and broke as if they'd hit an invisible wall. She shuddered violently.
Automatic weapons chattered, spotlights flitted around the fugitives, and then suddenly the enceinte was directly in front of them. Flying at maximum speed, Montrose barely managed to pull up in time to avoid crashing into it. He rocketed toward the stormy heavens, weathered tiers of huge basalt blocks streaking past only a foot away.
Now that he was next to the wall, many of the defenders could no longer see him. Even so, bullets hammered the stonework, stinging him with flying chips. A magenta fireball exploded on his left, buffeting him sideways.
He doubted that he was going to make it to the top, but then, abruptly, the battlements were beneath his boots. The guards on the wall-walk gaped up at him, frantically swung their weapons up to shoot him. One, a Harbinger himself, levitated straight upward, three-round bursts erupting from his rifle.
Montrose swooped lower, hurtled onward over the jumble of courtyards, chemises, towers, and other outbuildings which lay between the perimeter defenses and the primary keep. Searchlights, gunfire, and sizzling bolts of magic pursued him across the rooftops. Other Harbingers soared upward to intercept him.
Dark Kingdoms Page 64
