Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  The Twisted Mirror accelerated, receding from him, its paddle wheels turning more rapidly. He tried to swim after it, but his muscles were still numb and unresponsive, altogether unequal to the challenge.

  Though they must have recognized that the effort had already failed, the majority of the remaining Sinkinda continued their assault on the steamboat. But a couple— one resembling the rotting corpses of a pair of Siamese twins, the other a gaunt, bug- eyed, sexless thing wearing a harness of spiked leather straps—oriented on Bellamy.

  Unlike some of their fellows., the creatures didn't look as if Oblivion had specifically shaped them for aquatic existence, and they stroked toward him clumsily. But not so clumsily that they couldn't catch him, half paralyzed as he was. He raised his sword hand, only then perceiving that the weapon was gone. He must have dropped it when Titus's thunderbolt knocked him senseless.

  He wondered if he was strong enough to avoid the Spectres by shifting across the Shroud. Even if he did jump to the mortal world, taking on the vulnerabilities of the Quick, he might well drown before reaching the surface, but he didn't know what else to try. He struggled to rouse his Arcanos, and then jaws closed on his forearm.

  Startled, he thrashed, and his assailant's teeth tore his skin. The creature gave him a brutal shake. In hisyenervated state, it was enough to stop him struggling, and

  Bellamy lay on the deck for a moment, savoring the fact of his survival. A pins- and-needles prickling down the length of his body roused him from his lethargy. He clambered awkwardly to his knees, and one of Marie's soldiers hauled him the rest of the way up.

  Gripping the rail, he peered out over the flat black expanse of the Mississippi. The howling wind had died, and the Nihils which had opened on the surface were gone again. Evidently it had been a mere squall of a Maelstrom, ending as abruptly as it began.

  His companions had stopped shooting into the water, and Titus was no longer hurling bolts of magick from on high. Either the Spectres had voluntarily broken off the attack when the storm ended, or the Twisted Mirror had outdistanced them.

  Some distance down river, Marilyn's cabin cruiser drifted. Much to Bellamy's relief, the Arcanist still lay on the foredeck with Astarte and the pilot now crouching over her, a first-aid kit ready to hand. Astarte kept looking wildly out across the water, trying to glean some hint of what had happened to the wraiths, an effort that could only succeed if one of the abambo gave her a sign.

  Bellamy couldn't shift himself into the realm of the living. The sidewheeler would cease to exist for him, and he'd fall back into the river. But he could project his image and voice across the Shroud. Invoking his Arcanos, he felt the barrier between the dimensions attenuate.

  "Astarte!" he cried. Though he was shouting as loud as he could, he knew that if she heard his voice at all, it would be as an eerie whisper, just as she would see him as an insubstantial phantasm hovering above the water.

  Marilyn's pilot—a fat, enormously phlegmatic man who'd seen more than his share of peculiar phenomena ferrying Arcanists along the Mississippi and into the bayous as they poked their noses into one enigma or another—nevertheless gave a violent start. Astarte peered madly about until she spotted the wraith. "Is everything all right?" she yelled, too agitated to remember that he could have heard her even had she spoken softly.

  "It is over here," the FBI agent replied. "How's Marilyn?"

  The mage lifted her head. "Fine," she groaned. "Poor, foolish Marilyn has simply been overdoing, that's all, straining too hard to master her new talents. A few hours' sleep and a smidgen of morphine, and she'll be good as new."

  The pilot frowned at her. "Mr. Sebastian"—evidently he'd usually seen the transsexual in masculine clothing, and was accustomed to thinking of her as a man— "I know I'm just some guy you hire to run the boat and keep his mouth shut. And as usual, I don't have a clue what's going on. But it's obvious that you checked out of the hospital too early. You're bleeding."

  when he did, he saw that it was Antoine who had taken hold of him.

  Swinging around the Sinkinda, Antoine carried him in rapid pursuit of the riverboat. In a few seconds they came alongside the vessel, and surfaced. Hands reached out over the water to help them aboard.

  Marilyn put her hand on his forearm and gave it a feeble squeeze. "I appreciateyour concern, Jacques. I wish lluu I could |iave told you what By colleagues and [ wete'iip to on those moonlight excursions. It wasn't that I didn't trust: Wu. I'd taken a vow i if Silence."

  "As,long a* you paid me," said Jacqties, "I didn't care what you were doing. I don't care now. I just don't want you dying on me."

  "I'll cftttainly do my utmost to oblige you," Marilyn said. "But I can't go to a hospital—that is to say, hack te a hospital—U'fttil I take care of my errand in Natchez. Be a dear and help me to my bunk, will you.'"

  The pilot and Astatic, hauled Marilyn n' her teet. The girl with the spiky, tnagenta streaked hair gave Bellamy a look that was almost a glare,, k was clearly driving her crazy that the crisis had conic lifts! gone without her being ah! e to help resolve it, that she still didn't even know .what it had been. "I "ai|gou come onto our boat for a while."' she asked"Yes," Bellamy said. Even it he hadn't wanted to be with her, he would have- gone. Until Marilyn woke, Jacques would need his guidance to stay reasonably close to thtfiviifth vessel. "But give me a lew minutes. I have to take care of something over he.;® first."

  "All right," Astarte called. She and the pi lea helped Marilyn below decks.

  Noting with satisfaction that the tingling in his body had. subsided, and his muscles seemed to be working normally otyce again, Bellamy peered! abottt. His wounds beginning to close, Afttoine was lumbering AtKaK toward the stern.

  The FBI agent hurried after him. "Wait up, partner. I haven't thanked vou tor dragging me hack to the Mirror."

  I he gator bobbed his wedge-shape d bead in his approximation ot a shrug. "Seems like we keep savigg each other's asses, warmblood. No point making a big deal igjl ot it. Look, I'm eh owed up enough that I think I should go Slumber."

  "That sounds like a smart idea-," Bellamy said. "I'll tag along with yon: until you find a good place to-bed down,...Thejai'lJget Titus to take a: look at you." They walked em past the paddle wheel. Water hissed and gurgled beneath the hull.

  "You don't have to watch over me.," Antoine growled. "I'm not wounded bad flioilgh to tall into the Void."

  "Thank God tor that," Bellamy said. "But I want to know what else is wrong."

  Atitoine's saurian eye blinked. "Nothing I know of. I mean,, except tor Artec Sinkinda. and werewolves plotting to trigger some terrible disaster, and the nastiest string of shadow storms hereabouts since Hiroshima."

  "I SBEUir., what else is wrong with you. 1 jumped into the river because 1 figured t hat you must have noticed that the boat had iSl arted, moving under itllnvn power again, and it you weren't rushing to climb hack aboard, you must be in trouble."

  "I lust needed to rip.soine more Spectres oft the paddles, to make sure the Mirror really would get away. Maybe voit didn't realize, but you ftyo-leggers were hardly putting a dent in the bastards, sheeting down from thedtefik."

  Bifiiinv shook his head. "There was more to it than that. When I found you, you were confused. You acted as it yat! barely remembered who I was, and then, when I gestured at the boat, you didn't seem to undersea! what I was trying to tell you."

  Antoine heaved a sigh. "Okay, I'll lay it out tor you." He: shot a baleful glance at one ofthe warriors loitering on-the deck. "Bur not until we're alone. This is just between you and me."

  "Okay," Bellamy said.

  For most of the length of the steamboat, the walkways were relatively narrow, but at the front and back, the deck immediately above the waterline widened out into platforms suitable for carrying cargo. When Bellamy and Antoine reached the stern, the latter crawled to a heap of sacks secured by coarse hemp netting—gifts from Marie to the Governors of Natchez. Cocking his head, the gator briefly studied the pile, the
n said, "This'll do. Nobody'll pester me if I sleep under here."

  Bellamy wondered fleetingly why Antoine didn't commandeer a stateroom. Maybe he felt more comfortable in the open air. The human glanced about, and saw that no one was nearby. "We're alone," he said, squatting to put himself nearer to eye level with the other wraith. "Talk to me."

  "All right," said Antoine, his rough voice low. "Actually, I already told you the basics, but I don't blame you if it slipped your mind. We've been through more than our share of shit since then. What it comes down to is that the atmosphere, the reality in New Orleans makes it possible for there to be smart, talking animal ghosts. The reality in Stygian territory doesn't."

  Bellamy stared at him. "My god, Antoine."

  "Now, don't panic. I've gone north before, for a day or so, with raiding parties, and it didn't hurt me. I hardly noticed any difference. The problem this time is these damn Maelstroms. They get inside my brain, like static, and screw up my thinking.

  "Down in the river, I lost it for a while. Became more like an ordinary stupid reptile. I knew I was supposed to get the Sinkinda off the paddle wheels, but I couldn't have told you why. And when you tapped me on the tail, it did take me a couple seconds to remember who you were."

  "I remember how you hesitated before asking Marie if you could come along. You suspected you might have this problem."

  "I also figured I could handle it, which so far, I am. And I was pretty damn sure you were going to need me, which, as we just proved, you do. What's the matter, are you afraid I'm going to turn completely wild, go Mia Watu, and chow down on you?"

  "Ot course not. You're about the only thing in the Shadowlands I'm not afraid of. But I am worried about your health."

  Antoine snorted. "We're dead, remember? We can't expect a whole lot of health."

  Bellamy grimaced. "Your well-being, then. Your sanity. Your safety. You know what I mean."

  "'Course I do. But we're friends, aren't we? I wasn't planning on it, but somehow, after we rescued Titus, it just turned out that way."

  Bellamy nodded. "I guess it did."

  "Then I need to help you, warmblood. 'Case you haven't noticed, the Underworld's a cold, dark, empty place. Feelings—particularly the ones we can be proud of—are about all we have to keep us going. If you wimp out on them, you're giving yourself to Oblivion. So don't give me any crap about this, okay?"

  "Fair enough," Bellamy said. He noticed that Antoine's zebra-striped bandanna had come loose, and retied the knot.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  On the other side of the rise, something clicked. Montrose fleetingly considered taking to the air or veiling himself in shadow to scout ahead. But if he started invoking his Harbinger abilities every time he suspected some danger might be lying in wait, he'd likely exhaust his reserves of psychic energy long before he and Louise reached the next Legion way station. And so he merely readied his CAR-15. Then, his voluminous sable Inquisitor's mantle billowing behind him and the Lantern of Truth secured to his saddle nudging his thigh, he walked his paint spirit horse on up the road. Louise drew her own assault rifle from its boot, then followed. Her mount, a chimerical Tempest creature with the body of a roan mare and the head of a hawk, gave a short, harsh avian cry. The beast's hooves clopped on the worn, hexagonal paving stones.

  Reaching the crest of the low hill, the Scot studied the landscape stretched out before him. The highway ran on through what appeared to be a wasteland of uneven ground, rocky outcroppings, and scrub growth. The faux vegetation was either slate gray or white as ivory. Near the point where the road faded into the gloom stood a weathered granite marker, a stela carved with a scythe and a bear at the top, and writing below. For once, the wind had died. Nothing stirred but the churning, flickering thunderheads occluding the sky, where a colossal six-fingered hand was forming amid the roiling vapor.

  "I heard the noise, too," said Louise. "But I don't see anything poised to pounce on us."

  "Nor do I," said Montrose, kicking his steed into motion. For a moment, the air had a sweet, floral smell, evidently emitted by the ashen, blighted-looking bushes to the left. "Perhaps it was only leaves shivering in a breeze. Or if it was a creature, we may have frightened it away. So far, so good, eh? The Great Bear Road has always been considered one of the less perilous Byways."

  "I'm surprised you didn't take it on your previous journey to America," the Sister of Athena replied.

  "At that point in time, most Harbingers felt it safer to travel by sea than by land. My instincts said the same. They might have proved correct, too, if Demetrius—or whoever he truly was—hadn't rigged the game against me by revealing my itinerary to his Soul Pirate friends."

  "What do your instincts tell you now?"

  "That it's a bad time to travel the Tempest at all, by any route. But we'll make it."

  "I know we will. What can the Spectres throw at us that's worse than what we've faced already?"

  They rode in silence for a time. Suddenly something buzzed, loudly enough to hurt Montrose's ears, and a swarm of winged creatures vaguely resembling horseflies swirled up from behind a bluff. There were several score of them, each the size of a wolfhound, and each flying toward the road. The Cavalier leveled the CAR-15, but intuition told him to hold his fire. Louise evidently sensed his hesitation and did likewise. Ignoring the wayfarers, the huge insects soared across the highway and on into the darkness. In a moment, nothing remained of them but the fading echo of their wings.

  Montrose smiled crookedly. "For a moment, my love, I wondered if Fate had seen fit to vouchsafe you the answer to your question."

  "About what worse could happen? No. Take it from a Heretic missionary, the Bright Powers don't operate that way."

  "You sound so certain. And yet you've told me that in all your wanderings through the Shadowlands, you haven't found one particular deity or one particular creed in which you can believe."

  "I believe we can Transcend," said Louise. "That there's a better place than the Underworld for us to go. I'm just a trifle hazy on the details."

  "I remember possessing that same sort of faith," said Montrose, a little wistfully. Although as near as he could ascertain his mount didn't eat, the Phantasy had the annoying habit of halting to investigate grasses and bushes just as if it could. The paint stallion stopped and lowered his head, and he urged him onward. "It landed me in more than my share of trouble, but I confess that it also bolstered my spirits in times of adversity."

  "You sound like a man losing whatever trust he reposed in the Deathlords," said Louise, brushing back a strand of her honey-blond hair. "If so, I can't say I blame you."

  Montrose hesitated, not quite willing to acknowledge that she'd read him correctly. "I'm not altogether disenchanted. I do understand why the Seven declined to give us any soldiers."

  "Because they're afraid of one another."

  "When expressed in those words, it sounds craven and selfish, doesn't it? Still, it's vital to the stability of the Empire that there be no further strife among them. And considering what's happened of late, that's an appropriate matter for concern."

  "I agree. And yet we both know they made the wrong decision."

  "We do indeed," Montrose said. "If I learned anything as a soldier, before my death or after, it's that one has to take risks to accomplish anything."

  "And it came as a shock to find that they aren't as wise or as bold as you."

  Montrose grinned. "I wouldn't put it quite like that, but thank you for the compliment."

  She smiled back. Her steed ruffled the gleaming bronze-colored feathers on its neck, then laid them flat again. "Don't feel too flattered," said Louise. "I'm a rebel. My opinion of the Deathlords was never that high to begin with."

  "Well, cocky fellow that I am, I'll take it as an accolade nonetheless. You know, it's not that I never before considered the Deathlords to be acting unwisely. But I was never entirely certain I was right, and they, mistaken. Because they were, after all, demigods. Aloof, potent, and enigm
atic. Even the Smiling Lord, who numbered me among his household."

  "Well, they certainly seemed godlike to me," said Louise, "even though I'd resolved beforehand not to be awed by anything they said or did."

  "Oh, they reek of power and strangeness, without a doubt. But I suspect now that it's simply an attribute of their office. A mantle the Emperor wrapped around them, and not something intrinsic to themselves. I feel that you and I have been afforded a glimpse behind the facade. And armored in all that magick and secrecy are souls not fundamentally different than ourselves."

  "Like the Wizard of Oz," said Louise.

  "In a sense. Except that our six wizards are nowhere near as kindly."

  "So what does this insight mean to you?"

  Montrose shrugged. "I don't honestly know. Perhaps nothing. Neither Charles Stuart nor his son was a perfect king, but I served them nonetheless, because I believed in the principle they represented."

  "Stygia represents tyranny, slavery, and the transmutation of living souls into coins and jewelry. You don't believe in that."

  "No," he said, "I suppose not, not anymore, certainly not merely for the sake of providing luxuries to the grandees. But I still believe in keeping down the Spectres, and the Legions are better equipped to do it than any other force in the Underworld."

  She heaved a theatrical sigh. "Woe is me! For a few moments there I thought you'd experienced an epiphany, and so resolved the problem of where to spend the rest of our existences."

  "I'm afraid not." He felt a sudden despondency, a fresh surge of doubt that they truly had a future together, and masked the emotion with a grin. "Perhaps we could winter on the Isle of Sorrows and summer with your rebel friends."

  She chuckled. "Oh, brilliant, milord! Everyone on both sides would shun and mistrust us."

  "Which would afford us plenty of time alone together," Montrose replied. "It is brill—" Abruptly he perceived the fabric of space kinking and fracturing across the desolate landscape. The paint stallion shied. As a creature native to the Tempest, perhaps the spirit horse also had some awareness of what was coming.