Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  The Malfean's conjuration discharged itself in deafening explosions of black energy, like an infernal fireworks display. But harmlessly, across the ceiling, without ever finding a target. Roaring and babbling in a hundred silent voices, Tezcatlipoca collapsed in on himself, or perhaps fell away from the mortal world along some vector normally perceptible only to Harbinger senses. In an instant, the hideous thing was gone, and the smoking oval rift snapped shut behind him.

  Montrose staggered around to survey the scene below. The tell-tale stain on the east wall was gone, along with the stinging in the air. The surviving werewolves were trying to fight their way clear of the warehouse, but it didn't look as if any were going to make it. Possessed mortals fell unconscious as their doomshade masters abandoned them.

  Wishing to view the Spectres themselves, Montrose allowed death to draw him back across the Shroud. On the other side, he found not the Tempest but the Shadowlands, with the totality of the warehouse back in place. Even the Maelstrom seemed to be subsiding.

  When the world reverted to normal, Nihils had reappeared, and each of the scaly, double-faced Spectres was scrambling toward whatever opening was nearest. But it didn't look as if any of them were going to escape, either. Some were spontaneously rotting into ripples of shadow, as if the knife which had pierced their deity had slain them as well, while Legionnaires, irregulars, and Queen Marie's warriors maneuvered to intercept the rest.

  Montrose's mangled wrist throbbed, and a sudden wave of weakness and dizziness nearly dumped him back onto the stone. He peered about for another moment, until he finally spotted Louise standing unharmed. Then he sat down, opened himself to the currents of pain, horror, and rage shrieking through the cavernous room, and willed himself to heal.

  FIFTY-TWO

  By the time Bellamy recovered the strength to stumble back down the pyramid, the battle was over. Most of his fellow Proctors having already returned to the Underworld, the gloomy, cavernous chamber appeared nearly empty, except, of course, for the corpses scattered about. Astarte was trying to comfort some of the surviving children who were huddling together in a corner, applying pressure to the exit and entry wounds in her upper arm, her black-painted lips curved in the sweet smile they wore so rarely.

  Bellamy had breathed for her and pumped her chest until her first gasp and first thudding heartbeat, then rushed back into the fight. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done. For all he knew, her body would stop working again as soon as he stepped away. But he couldn't sit out the rest of the combat, knowing what was at stake. He guessed he was a cop through and through.

  When she saw him coming, she gave a little girl clutching a stuffed Winnie the Pooh a hug, patted a hairless, emaciated boy in green hospital pajamas on the shoulder, and then rushed into his arms.

  For a while, they simply clung to one another. Finally she said, "I don't know what to say or do for these kids. They're pretty much in shock."

  "You could go into shock yourself," Bellamy said. "You shouldn't be on your feet. Don't you know I've had to resuscitate you twice in the last ten hours?"

  She grimaced. "Stop scolding me. I'm okay. Titus put a spell on me. It stopped the bleeding and made me feel better. So why don't you just shut up and kiss me?"

  He did. For a few moments, it was sheer joy. Then she shuddered involuntarily, chilled by the touch of his flesh.

  It struck him that he and his allies had finally beaten the bad guys. If this were a movie, all the remaining obstacles dividing the two lovers would magically melt away. Yet the gulf between the dead and the living remained, vast as ever.

  "What's wrong?" Astarte asked. "All of a sudden, p® look so:-sad."

  "It's just that you're right," he.answered, reluctant to share the depressing, insight. "These poor kids. I don't suppose they'll ever get over this night. The survivors of the possession probably won't, either." It wasn't a lie. He did pity them. It simply wasn't the whole truth.

  A soft, cool touch settled on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Titus, his body slightly translucent, resting one hand on him and the other on Astarte. Behind the shaman, other shadowy-looking abambo were moving about. Evidently the old man had worked a bit of magick to permit his comrades to peer across the Shroud.

  Titus, looked utterly weary, and small wonder. After fighting as.fiercely as: anyone, he'd no doubt scurried about the warehouse ministering to each and every one of the wounded. "Most of the Quick will forget what happened here." he said, "and that's for the best. It will help their spirits mend."

  "I hope so," Bellamy said.

  Titus eyed him keenly. "But you still aren't rejoicing in our victory."

  "I wanted to stop the killing," the FBI agent said.

  "We did,'"' Astarte said.

  Louise met Montrose halfway down the pyramid, and they kissed. The fierce embrace made his torn wrist throb—his wounds wouldn't heal completely until he Slumbered—but in his bliss, he scarcely noticed. He kissed her thrice more, and "Yeah, but not until a lot more innocent victims died. Heck, we gunned down some of them, the poor possessed people, ourselves. God, I wish we hadn't had to do that."

  "So do I," panted Marilyn. She. limped froth the shadhws, using a goi:e-stained assegai as a makeshift crutch. From the amount of blood encrusting the front of her garments, it was a miracle she wasn't dead. Bellamy assumed Titus had cast healing magick on her as well. "But we saved countless others, dK both sides of the Shroud."

  "She's right," Titus said. "You.can't imagine how terrible things would be if the Tempest had come to Earth to stay. As it is, the madness will stop now. Indeed, you can already hear it subsiding."

  Bellamy tried, and found that the African was right. Out in the city, the shrieks, sirens, and rattle of gunfire, like the Wailing of the Maelstrom, were dwindling with the coming of the dawn. "I do hear it," he admitted.

  "So cheer up!" boomed Fink. Unlike the majority of his Comrades, the hulking: mercenary seemed to have emerged from the battle Completely unscathed. "You gloomy son of a bitch."

  "All righti" Bellamy said, pretending to shake his somber mood. "I guess that as soon as everyone's ready, to travel, we can get out of here. And call the authorities to: come and look after these mortals. Lorcl only knows what the government will make of the werewolf bodies.;" He smiled crookedly. "Maybe Dunn will wind up on the SAD dissection table."

  Power suddenly, silently boomed and sizzled through the room, Someone gasped.

  then, avid to behold her lovely features, removed her scarred golden visor, cast it aside, and then did the same with his own.

  Suddenly he sensed space contorting, and magick pulsing through the warehouse. Startled, he looked around.

  In the center of the floor below loomed six masked figures in bizarre regalia, standing motionless on stone pedestals. A man in green, with a crown of thorns and a wheel-of-fortune amulet, holding a pair of crimson dice in his ivory-gloved hand. A woman with black, snaky tresses and garish patchwork garments, manipulating a harlequin marionette. A one-legged, beggar-like fellow in saffron tatters, equipped with a crutch and a begging bowl. A thin man costumed as a skeleton, with a mechanical rat perched on his narrow shoulder. A stooped, hag-like figure leaning on a gnarled cane, and a figure in a murky red robe and a mouthless silver visor. Each of the newcomers towered as tall as a werewolf, far bigger than they'd been when Montrose had last seen them on the Pinnacle of Lamentations, and each, at certain moments* appeared subtly translucent.

  The Grim Riders, Black Hawks, and other Legionnaires: froze in shock for a moment, then came to attention. The Africans and even Fink's mercenaries, who were more accustomed to thinking of the Deathlords as bogeymen than revered patrons, hovered uncertainly. Many looked as if they'd bolt if they only dated, Montrose shared his comrades' awe, but beneath it ran a rivulet of scorn. "Now they appear," he whispered, "when the danger's past."

  "And even so, they haven't come in the flesh," Louise replied. "This is.some sort of projection. Well, I suppose we'd better go hear what t
hey have to say."

  They descended the ztggurat, approached the demigods, and bowed. After a moment, the Ashen Lady quavered, "Rise, Sister, and my lord Anacreon. Soldiers, stand at ease."

  Montrose and Louise straightened up. After another unnerving silence, the SkeletakLord said, his voice sepulchral as ever, "Lord Montrose, your judgment was correct. You were needed here. You and your allies have averted a calamity, and we of the Council thank you all." For an instant, the Cavalier glimpsed a few of the black spires of Stygia behind the archangel's back.

  Titus cleared his throat, and as one, the Deathlords turned to look at him. If the shaman found their icy regard unnerving, he didn't betray the fact. Perhaps, now that he'd endured Smoking Mirror's terrible gaze, :it truly didn't faze him. His left hand resting on Bellamy's shoulder and his right On Astarte's, he said, "If you'd like to show- your appreciation to those of us who come from New Orleans, Dread Ladies and Lords, you can make a lasting peace with our country."

  "If Queen Marie will respect the,border," said the Beggar Lord, "then so will we."

  Louise took a step forward. "If you're dispensing boons, then I ask that you halt your persecution of the Heretics along the Mississippi."

  Another pause. Evidently the Deathlords were confening telepathically- At length the Ashen Lady said, "The Hierarchy cannot tolerate Heresy anywhere in its dominions. However, the Spectres' scheme has done extensive damage to this province. For a season at least, it will be advisable for the Legions to concentrate on rebuilding and warding against external threats, as opposed to pursuing the Inquisition."

  "Does anyone else want to beg a favor?" asked the Laughing Lady, her tone so poisonously sweet that Montrose would have been flabbergasted if anyone had dared. "No? Then perhaps we of the Seven can proceed with our business. As my worthy sister has observed, the territory is in disarray, with all its Anacreons slain. Thus, the first step in its restoration must be to appoint a new Governor. Valentine, the Spectres would have prevailed if not for you, and you've abided in the area long enough to know it well. We choose you."

  "I discern from your deathmarks that you died of disease," said the Skeletal Lord, a hint of smugness in his hollow voice. "Therefore, you will swear your primary fealty to me,"

  The dwarf gaped at them. "I.. .I don't think I can do it," he stammered. "I mean, who would take orders from me?"

  "Anybody, if I back you up," boomed Fink. Leering, he looked about as at ease in the presence of the: Deathlords as it was possible for any lesser being to be. "Which I will, as long as you treat me and the boys/right. Or at least until we get bored with being good little Hierarch soldiers."

  "Maybe I can help you, too," said Belinda, "if you want me gjj$t It would give me something to do now that Starshine's gone-."

  "If you want the office, take it," Montrose said. "You earned it, and I think you'll perform it well."

  Valentine swallowed. "All right," he mumbled. "I guess. I mean, I'll try."

  "A far higher position, the office of the Smiling Lord himself, also stands vacant," said the Beggar Lord. "If the Imperium as a whole is to flourish, we must anoint a: successor, and after much study, we believe we now know how to invest him with the powers hi-- role requires. Lord Montrose, in recognition of your services to Stygia, and because you are already thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the Seat of Burning Waters, we select you."

  "We will permit the Sister of Athena to remember your former identity and to abide with you as your consort," said the Ashen Lady. Her manner was that of an empress granting an unparalleled concession, as, indeed, she was. Charon might well have destroyed the lot of them for proposing such a thing. "Provided she renounces any intent to overthrow the State."

  Montrose felt as stunned as Valentine had appeared a moment before. In all the years he'd spent working and scheming his way up the ladder of the Hierarchy, he'd never dreamed he might reach the very top and become a god. Yet he knew with utter certainty that he didn't want the office unless Louise wsa willing to Stay with him.

  He turned to her, and she smiled at him. "Yes," she said softly, "if it's what yon want. We? said that it might not be so bad to be- Stygians if we had the power to improve the system, and this way, you would."

  Her words -should have elated him, but instead, for some reason, they gave him pause. Could he change the Hierarchy, or, once his mind was wedded to the inhuman intelligence dwelling: in the Smiling Lord's visor, and he was enmeshed once again in the labyrinthine intrigues of the Onyx Tower, would it beat him into its own decadent image?

  He thoughtof the debauched, amoral cynic he'd been before his master ordered him to Natchez, and felt a pang of loathing. He'd rather perish than become that wretch again, or one of these aloof, ruthless, paranoid creatures posed on their ridiculous daises, either. Finally comprehending all that he most truly desired, seeing his path clearly, he faced them.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "but I decline. I don't care to hide my tace for eternity, nor do I any longer have the stomach to govern a realm of Soulforges and barracoons. In fact, I hereby resign from the Grim Riders. After four centuries of vassalage, it's time I discovered how it feels to be my own man." He undipped the Lantern of Truth from his belt and set it on the floor, then removed his black Inquisitor's mantle with its Unlidded Eye medallion and laid them there as well. Louise took his hand and squeezed it.

  This time, the silence dragged on for half a minute. Montrose wondered whether the angels were debating whether to annihilate him for his insolence. At last the Emerald Lord said, "We regret that your elevation does not please you, milord Anacreon. But we did not say you could decline it, let alone that you could forsake our service altogether." The red dice glittered in his fingers.

  "Loath as I am to trumpet my own accomplishments," Montrose replied, "if any Legionnaire has ever earned the right to retire, it's myself. However, if you don't agree, perhaps I can buy my way clear." He proffered the sacrificial knife. "This weapon may have destroyed a Malfean, although in all candor, I suspect not. But at the very least, it wounded the beast badly enough to make it flee back to its lair. Surely the Council can find a use for such a potent weapon."

  "Since you are our servant, the dagger is ours already," said the angel in green. "Why shouldn't we simply confiscate it, and give nothing in return?"

  "Because you claimed you were grateful," Montrose said. "What does that concept mean to you? In addition to the blade, I offer my promise that I won't share Hierarch secrets with the rebels." He smiled. "Even if I favored their cause, I've had my fill of war. I intend to relax, teach Louise the delights of golf, and possibly even compose a verse or two."

  Another pause. Finally the Laughing Lady shrieked with mirth, and the Quiet Lord inclined his head.

  "So be it," said the Emerald Lord. "Send us the knife and we will grant you your freedom, Lord Montrose, though it leaves our Council incomplete."

  His expression grim, Bellamy stepped forward. "I'll take the job," he said, "if you'll have me."

  Bellamy had spoken on impulse, and was now surprised at his own audacity. And yet, why shouldn't he volunteer? Though he liked Titus, Montrose, and the others, Antoine had been his only real friend among the abambo, and Antoine was gone. No ties bound the FBI agent to Shadowlands New Orleans, Natchez, or anywhere else. He needed to make some sort of place for himself, find some useful role that he could play.

  Fink roared with laughter. "And I thought I had big cojonesl You just put in to be one of the lord high muckety-muck bosses of the whole Underworld. Shit, Frank, you're just a Lemure, and not even a Hierarch at that."

  "And yet," said the Emerald Lord slowly, "the idea is not without a certain logic."

  "Like Lord Montrose," said the Beggar Lord, "he opposed the Spectres with valor and wit."

  "From one perspective, it's good that he's newly dead, and no Legionnaire," quavered the Ashen Lady. "If we anoint him, we can each be certain—well, relatively certain—that he isn't secretly the puppet of one of ou
r peers."

  "In any case, we need someone," the Laughing Lady said. "If we set up a new Prince Ares quickly, there may yet be time to discredit the rumor that a lowly pair of assassins"—to Bellamy's astonishment, she gave Montrose and Louise a wink— "managed to slay one of the Seven. I say, let's give the detective a try. If he doesn't survive the investiture, or crumbles under the weight of his office, we can always elevate another candidate later."

  The Deathlords fell silent and motionless as idols. Bellamy assumed they were somehow palavering among themselves.

  Frowning, Montrose said, "Agent Bellamy, you're being reckless to say the least. Do you understand that hitherto, it was always Charon who created Deathlords? The members of the Council may find themselves unable to duplicate the magick, and if so, their botched experiment could destroy you."

  Bellamy shrugged. "I've been taking chances ever since I ran away from my desk at the Bureau to meet poor R. J. No point in stopping now."

  "Even if you do succeed in becoming the Smiling Lord, you might not like it. I don't think you comprehend the isolation, the terrible choices you'll have to make, the countless atrocities that your servants will commit in your name."

  "If anybody starts committing atrocities in my name, I'll tell him to stop. Look, you're right, of course. I have no real idea of what it means to be a Deathlord. But basically, it's all about holding the Sinkinda back, isn't it?"

  "I suppose so," Montrose said. "Or at least, it should be."

  "Then it sounds like an appropriate job for a cop."

  The Scot smiled wryly. "Perhaps it is at that."

  "We have reached a decision," intoned the Skeletal Lord. Startled, Bellamy jerked around. "Frank Bellamy, we will accept you into our company."

  "But he gets the same deal Montrose was going to get," said Astarte. "Right? He gets to bring his girlfriend along."