Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  The problem with the theory was that her wounds were as raw and the danger to her friends and herself as great as before. She was frightened and suffering now, wasn't she?

  Perhaps not. Not with the drugs in her system, or at least, not enough. In any case, she knew a way to raise the ante.

  Cankerheart's magick grasped her to stand her up. She thrust her hands inside her garments, tore through her bandages, and clawed at the sutured gashes beneath.

  A pang of excruciating pain stabbed through the buffer of the morphine. Blood gushed, soaking her chest and thighs in a matter of seconds. If the battle didn't end soon, allowing someone to. give her first aid, she would unquestionably bleed to death.

  And as Cankerheart's spell set her on her feet, her magick spiraled up and up inside her, without her even having to call it. Power pulsed in her eyes, her tongue, her lips, her fingers, her mangled genitals. Still breathless with pain, she laughed nonetheless, while the werewolf gaped in dismay.

  FIFTY

  Bellamy fired a burst at the smoke-shrouded, shape-shifting god atop the ziggurat. Screaming words in a language the ghost didn't recognize, a buxom young blond woman charged down the steps at him, a revolver blazing in either hand. He could tell she'd been pretty once, before the spirit possessing her had forced her to mutilate her face and breasts.

  The Ruger shivering in his hands, spewing spent cartridges, he cut her down. A pistol banged, and to his left, something grunted.

  He whirled. A gaunt, gray werewolf with patches of writhing tendrils where its eyes belonged had been sneaking up on him, an enormous silver knife poised in its hand. In another instant it would have stabbed him, if the steaming,, bloody hole in its flank hadn't made it falter.

  Grinning fiercely, Astarte put another silver bullet into it. Bellamy fired, and his assault rifle punched a line of wounds from the monster's crotch to its sternum. The wolfman collapsed, the silver knife slipping from its grasp.

  The weapon was as big as Bellamy's darksteel shortsword, and he assumed that against a Black Spiral Dancer, it would do more damage. He snatched it up and rammed it into the eyeless wolfman's throat. Blood spurted. The creature thrashed and then slumped motionless.

  He turned to Astarte, quashed the usual futile urge to tell her to get to safety, and said, "Thanks." Side by side, they fought their way upward.

  A wild crossbow bolt, shot by one of their own allies, whizzed between their heads. Bellamy dropped^ possessed man who'd rushed him with a clanking nail gun. From somewhere behind him, Titus jabbered an incantation, and another Sinkinda's stolen body simply exploded, spattering the FBI agent with gore. The ambient smells of gunsmoke, wolfman fetor, and blood were almost enough to choke him.

  From farther up the pyramid sounded a ghastly howl, a cry of rage and challenge.

  A towering, black-furred figure with pointed bat-like ears and luminous eyes bounded down the tiers. The .44 Magnum looked like a toy in the werewolf s hand. Its finger scarcely fit through the trigger guard.

  It was Dunn. Bellamy felt a surge of hatred. He opened fire, and Astarte did the same.

  Dunn threw himself sideways, rolling. Nothing so huge should have been able to dodge with such agility. Even as he tumbled, the werewolf emptied his own pistol. One shot smacked into Astarte and spun her off her feet.

  There was no time to check on her. Bellamy kept firing until the Ruger's magazine was empty. Dunn instantly snapped to his feet and charged. Here and there, blood gleamed on his black fur. A few bullets had found their mark, but the wounds weren't even slowing the werewolf down.

  Dropping the assault rifle, Bellamy backpedaled frantically. He snatched his Browning from its holster and fired it.

  Advancing almost as rapidly as before, Dunn ducked and sidestepped. The pistol clicked empty, and the Black Spiral Dancer pounced.

  Bellamy threw himself down. Dunn passed right over him, the claws of one foot grazing his back.

  The wraith knew he didn't have time to reload. Dunn would land lightly, on balance, and spring back up at him immediately. Wrenching himself around toward his opponent, he thrust out the silver blade.

  Dunn was bounding up the ziggurat so fast that the knife should have plunged deep into his groin, but somehow he stopped himself in time. His eyes blazed, and his fanged grin stretched wider. For the first time, Bellamy perceived that his murderer returned his hatred in full measure. Even at this desperate moment, the realization gave him a pang of vicious satisfaction.

  Abruptly the smell of ozone tinged the air, and Bellamy felt a prickling on his skin. He just had time to comprehend that Dunn had charged his body with electricity, and then the werewolf clawed at him.

  Bellamy could neither counterattack nor block, for fear that any contact would transmit a lethal blast of electricity to his own flesh. He jumped backward, and Dunn's talons missed him by a hair. The monster kept coming.

  Still dodging, horribly aware that Dunn would surely tag him any second, Bellamy retreated toward Astarte. If God or the Orishas or Destiny truly was backing his cause, there might be some silver ammo left in her gun.

  She was sprawled a little closer than he realized. He caught his heel on her out- flung leg and nearly fell over her. At that instant, Dunn lunged.

  Bellamy had no choice but to jump backward, leaving Astarte's pistol in her hand. Dunn looked down at the unconscious girl, laughed a snarling, bestial laugh, and kicked her. Electricity crackled, and sparks flew. Astarte tumbled down the ziggurat to the warehouse floor. Her body spasmed, and then lay still.

  Bellamy screamed and ran at the wolfman. Dunn whipped up an arm to block the silver blade. The point grazed a shallow gash above his wrist, but at the same instant, his other hand lashed out at his attacker.

  Had the blow landed squarely, it might have ripped Bellamy's head off, but reflex twisted him aside. Dunn's talons merely nicked his chest and convulsed him with a relatively mild shock. Evidently the Black Spiral Dancer had expended most of his charge on Astarte.

  Still, the jolt was enough to lock up Bellamy's muscles momentarily. He sensed more than saw Dunn lifting his hands for a follow-up blow, knew he wouldn't be able to. dodge backward nearly as fast as he had before, and made the only other move he could think of. He dove between the towering monster's legs.

  The desperation tactic must have caught Dunn by surprise, because the werewolf s claws missed, Bellamy slammed down on the stone, forced himself to scramble up and around, and fumbled his darksteel shortsword from its scabbard, providing himself with a blade in either hand. Dunn whirled to face him.

  For the next half minute, the two combatants danced back and forth, striking, parrying, and dodging. Bellamy tried repeatedly, unsuccessfully, to cut the werewolfs enormous hands when they flew at him, and to spring in close enough to stab him in some vital spot. His shoulder throbbed and his breath rasped in his throat, as, subject to the limitations of mortal flesh on this side of the Shroud, his strength began to fail. Meanwhile, Dunn, seemingly tireless, lunged and clawed as agilely as ever.

  He's better than you, Bellamy's shadowself whispered. Stronger. Faster. Longer reach. He's.going to destroy you again, just like he did in New Orleans.

  Bellamy struggled to block out the gloating voice. There had to be a way: He wasn't the same as he'd been the first time he battled Dunn. He was an abambo now, a supernatural creature himself. That should count for something.

  Unfortunately, his only ghostly power was the ability to skip back and forth across the Shroud. And according to Montrose, if he crossed back into the Underworld while he was:on the pyramid, the forces at play on the other side would destroy him.

  Would they? Granted, they must be incredibly powerful, or he wouldn't be able to sense them from here in the Skinlands. But they didn't feel as strong here on the monument as they had at the edge of the cloud. Maybe he could bear them, just for a moment. It was worth a try.

  He reeled backward, allowing his arms to droop as if his weapons had grown too heavy, a.preten
se which was nearly the truth. He let the black shortsword slip from his hand and clank on the stone. Dunn danced in, long claws reaching, foaming jaws opening wide, breath reeking of slaughter and tobacco.

  Bellamy waited until the talons actually touched him, then released his hold on the world of the living.

  The Underworld was a chaos of swirling darkness. He couldn't see Dunn, the pyramid, or anything else in the Visible anymore. A blistering wind flayed streamers of ectoplasm from, his body. Oblivion churned inside him, alternately numbing and wracking him. His memories of the last few minutes and his very sense of self began to bubble away.

  He pictured Astarte lying crumpled at the foot of the ziggurat. Somehow the image arrested the decay of his mind, if not the erosion of his body. Remembering that he needed to take a couple steps to wind up behind Dunn, he floundered forward.

  The gale howled and smashed him in the face, as if trying to hold him back. When he judged that he: had staggered far enough, he turned and tried to project himself back into the world of the Quick.

  His shadowself rose from the depths of his mind, fighting savagely to wrest control of his body and powers away from him. The storm seemed to seize him with iron claws, anchoring him in place, while his form and his mind alike boiled away.

  The torment seemed to last for hours. Finally, when he'd all but abandoned hope, all but forgotten why he was even struggling, the Arcanos magick rose inside him, opened a rift between the dimensions, and thrust him through.

  As his thoughts snapped back into focus, he saw Dunn directly in front of him, facing in the opposite direction. In reality, he'd only spent a second or two in the Tempest. Evidently sensing his return, the wolfman began to pivot. Bellamy lunged and thrust the silver blade into the small of his opponent's back.

  The wound crackled and smoked, and Dunn crumpled. Bellamy yanked the dagger free and rammed it in again. And again. For a few seconds, the werewolf clawed at him spastically, but failed to connect. Then a rattle issued from his throat, and the light in his demon eyes went out.

  In his darker moments, Bellamy had imagined himself rejoicing over his killer's corpse. But now that the moment had arrived, he felt only fear. Heedless of the battle still raging around him, he raced down the pyramid and flung himself down beside Astarte. She wasn't breathing. He frantically rolled her onto her back, pressed his mouth to hers, and blew air into her lungs.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Montrose sprang at the headless ogre, thrusting his rapier at the dark god's breast. A plume of the smoke billowing up around the Malfean became solid for an instant and parried the attack. Tezcatlipoca swung a huge gray hand at the Cavalier's head.

  Montrose ducked beneath the blow and stabbed the obsidian dagger into Smoking Mirror's wrist. The razor-sharp volcanic glass cut deep.

  Tezcatlipoca yelped, snatched his arm back, and then laughed. "Nicely done, little soul. No wonder my slaves were wary of you." A huge sword of bone, the edges lined with honed chips of obsidian, appeared in his hand, and he swung it up for a head cut.

  Montrose raised his own weapons in a high guard—poised himself to dodge— and was caught by surprise when, abmptly, the giant changed into a jaguar the size of a small automobile.

  Amber eyes blazing, the huge cat clawed at its prey. Montrose leaped back, but the hooked nails grazed down his torso anyway, ripping his raven Inquisitor's garments and the flesh beneath. For a moment, Oblivion gnawed at him.

  Tezcatlipoca hissed and struck at him again. Extending his rapier, Montrose caught the Malfean's paw with a stop thrust. The jaguar jerked its limb back, and the wound puckered instantly, nearly stanching the flow of blood. The puncture from the sacrificial knife, on the other hand, was still bleeding freely, perhaps because the dark god had infused the weapon with a measure of his own power.

  The trick, Montrose thought grimly, would be getting in close enough to strike a mortal blow with the shorter weapon. It was too bad he couldn't take to the air, or cloak himself in darkness, but unlike certain other Arcanoi, his Harbinger talents were useless on the warm side of the Shroud. If he was to prevail, it would have to be through sheer martial prowess alone.

  Smoking Mirror became a towering bipedal figure once more. This time, his priapic body was painted black, and he wore bells around his ankles. He had a bear's face, striped yellow and black, with shining yellow eyes.

  Montrose advanced, and the god's eyes blazed as brightly as the sun. The Scot flinched from the glare.

  Half blinded as he was, his sight swimming with afterimages, it was instinct more than vision that warned him of the figure slinking silently in from the side. Pivoting, he thrust his sword at his assailant's breast, only noticing after the attack reached his target that he'd stabbed a masked, auburn-haired caricature of himself, imperfectly formed from coils of smoke.

  The phantom dissolved. Montrose sensed something hurtling through the air at him. He threw himself flat, and Tezcatlipoca swooped over his head. In the second it had taken the CaValier to dispatch his vaporous twin, the Malfean had assumed the form of a shadow, essentially amorphous save for its great, bat-like wings.

  Smoking Mirror wheeled, flew over the bloody altar, and then split into two pieces. The larger became the decapitated ogre, and the smaller became the corpselike creature's head. The latter shot at Montrose like a cannonball.

  He dodged, struck at the head with the sacrificial knife, and missed. His attacker whirled dizzyingly around him, sometimes trying to ram him, sometimes snapping at him, its teeth clashing together. He. stabbed and slashed at it repeatedly, but it moved so quickly that he only managed to nick it.

  Montrose assumed that the head was trying to divert him while the body crept in to dispatch h im with its sword. Keeping watch from the corner of his eye, he tried to look as if the desiccated thing whizzing around him had his complete attention. Indeed, the head was attacking him so furiously that that, of necessity, was nearly the case.

  The huge gray body skulked forward. Bellowing a battle cry, MontrOse spun and rushed it, the obsidian dagger extended to pierce its chest.

  TezCatlipoca wrenched himself aside. The knife skated along his ribs, leaving a long cut, but not; the lethal wound MontrOse had intended. Pivoting frantically, the Scot raised his rapier to. guard against the Malfean's return stroke.

  Smoking Mirror swept his weapon down in a two-handed blow. The force of it hammered Montrose to his knees. Then pain blazed in his wrist, and waves of heat and cold pulsed up his arm. The rapier slipped from his spasming fingers.

  The severed head had flown after him, bitten his wrist, and was clinging to it now. The power of the Void flowed from its stained, broken teeth like venom, and its jaws seemed powerful enough to cut through bone and shear off his hand altogether.

  But at least the head had stopped hurtling about. Perhaps MontroSe could finally hit it square. Praying that Smoking Minor's brain reposed inside the stinking, withered thing, he thrust the knife at one of its cloudy yellow eyes.

  The head winked out of existence a split second before his point could make contact. Now Tezcatlipoca was the intricate, unfathomable creature he'd glimpsed previously, a slimy, heaving mass of entwined tentacles and alien organs. Gasping and shaking with pain, the blood of his materialized body pattering onto the ebon stone, Montrose struggled to rise and throw himself at his attacker. Then the god opened a thousand eyes.

  Every orb was black as despair, and each was fixed on Montrose. Their terrible scrutiny froze him like a statue, and he felt himself crumbling away from the inside.

  He strove with all his might to stand, and then to throw the dagger. To no avail.

  He realized he'd never had a chance of defeating a god in single combat. It was a miracle he'd lasted as long as he had. Perhaps, like the Smiling Lord, Tezcatlipoca had invested a portion of his strength in his ritual, and had been reluctant to draw any of it back merely to annihilate one puny, impudent challenger.

  Montrose wished he could turn his head and see Lou
ise one last time, but it was impossible. His flesh and spirit unknit, speeding toward their ultimate dissolution.

  An automatic weapon chattered. Bullets hammered Tezcatlipoca's writhing convolutions. Bloody now, teeth bared in rage or loathing, Bellamy stalked past Montrose to shoot the dark god at point-blank range. Evidently, while the Cavalier had kept Smoking Mirror occupied, the battle on the pyramid had gone well enough for at least one ally to come to his aid.

  Some of Tezcatlipoca's myriad dead-black eyes shifted their gaze to Bellamy. The FBI agent gasped and collapsed, but the pace of Montrose's disintegration slowed.

  From somewhere behind him, Titus cried an incantation. A small section of the Malfean burst into flame, the flesh melting like wax. But only for a moment. Then the god fixed the attacker in his gaze, whereupon the shaman's voice and the fire he'd conjured died together.

  Hoarse with pain or exhaustion, Marilyn chanted in Latin. Her magick had no visible effect, but it must have done something, because Tezcatlipoca stared at her as well. Her plainsong ended in a yowl.

  The dark god's anger rose, and power rose with it. Montrose could feel the magick building like a cloud of poison vapor thickening in the air. In a moment, the magick would erupt into some irresistible counterstroke that would sweep each and every assailant away.

  Unless Montrose managed to move and slay him first.

  It must be possible. Only a fourth of Tezcatlipoca's unspeakable eyes were peering at him now. He strained to scramble forward.

  For one terrible moment, during which he felt Smoking Mirror's power poising itself like an adder preparing to strike, nothing happened. It was as if some injury had severed his spinal cord. Then, abruptly, he lurched to his feet.

  Smoking Mirror's countless eyes seemed to bulge in almost comical surprise. Montrose felt the energy the god had amassed re-aiming itself at his own head. Flinging himself forward, unable to pick out a vital organ amid his adversary's bewildering mass of whorls and knots, he buried the obsidian knife in a spiral of squirming, fleshy petals.