Imperial Black

by David Bishop

  "What is that?" Flintlock asked.

  "Yak butter," Mai replied quietly. "The animals provide much of the essentials for life here: wood, meat, skins, cheese. But they also provide something essential for death. The butter is fuel for the funeral pyre. We do not bury our dead, we burn them."

  "I say, is that wise?" Flintlock worried. "The Imperials are bound to see the smoke rising from the fire. It might warn them that we're coming."

  "Let them see," Dante muttered.

  The last child threw her taper on top of the pyre and the flames quickly spread, engulfing the corpses and belching black smoke into the sky. Namu beckoned Mai to join the other villagers and handed her a broken tree branch.

  "What is it?" Mai asked.

  "Juniper. The white smoke from its burning creates a road between the earth and the sky, so the spirits of the dead may find their way."

  Mai closed her eyes and whispered to herself before adding the juniper branch to the funeral pyre. She watched intently as pale clouds rose, mingling with the darker fumes from the fire. Around her the children were singing a sad lament.

  Further up the slope, the Enforcer noted the plume of smoke and alerted Ivanov to it. The general waved away suggestions of sending a squad down to investigate. "We're close to our quarry, major, and you want to go backwards? That is why you shall never attain my rank or status. The bold soldier always goes forwards, no matter what the cost or consequence!" Ivanov continued leading his regiment up the vertiginous slope.

  The Enforcer remained where he was, studying the column of black and grey that swayed in the air currents that flowed around the mountain. If what the headman had said was true, they could not be far from the ice bridge. Cross that, and the Forbidden Citadel was within reach. Behind his facemask the major frowned, still perturbed by the vision of that ghostly girl he had seen in the hut. The sooner this mission was behind them all, the better.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time the funeral pyre's flames started to die down. Spatchcock had been busy keeping the children entertained with suitably censored tales of his adventures, assisted by a less enthusiastic Flintlock, while Mai helped Namu tend to the other survivors. Dante stayed by the fire, staring into the burning mass of bodies, as if transfixed by it. Even the Crest was unable to tear him away from the grim spectacle.

  It was Mai who suggested the time had come to resume their quest for the citadel. Spatchcock and Flintlock agreed with her but Dante remained unmoved. Mai joined him in front of the pyre, watching the reflection of the flames in Dante's eyes. "It doesn't matter how long you stare at those bodies, Nikolai. You can't bring them back. None of us can. What's done is done."

  He frowned. "Spatchcock told you what happened to Rai, didn't he?"

  "Yes. Why didn't you?"

  "Would you have believed me?"

  "Probably not," Mai conceded.

  "Besides, your hatred made you stronger, drove you on. We needed that anger. We still do."

  "Don't worry, I have plenty of anger, more than enough to keep going. And I have a new target for my hatred."

  Dante grimaced. "Ivanov."

  "Yes. Spatchcock thinks it unlikely you and the general will leave the Himalayas alive."

  "Spatch is smarter than he looks."

  "Are you going to let your hatred for Ivanov cloud your judgement?" Mai asked. "Spatchcock told me what the general did in Rudinshtein after the war."

  "Don't worry," Dante replied. "I know where my priorities lie. We've got to reach the citadel before Ivanov. If that butcher gets holds of the weapon, whatever it is... the consequences don't bear thinking about."

  "Then it's past time we moved on. Once we're gone, Namu will lead the other survivors off the mountain. There's another village where they can take refuge. If the Imperials come back this way, the survivors will be safe from them."

  "Good."

  "Namu says the village headman was tortured for an hour to get the location of the citadel. She overheard the Enforcer telling Ivanov they should climb up this slope, then cross an ice bridge to reach a tor on the western side of the mountain. Namu has never been to the citadel, but she knows that it is located somewhere on that tor."

  "Then we know what path to follow-"

  "No," Mai cut in. "She says it is quicker to climb down for an hour from here, then take a smaller path that leads up the side of the tor. Namu believes the headman deliberately sent the soldiers by the longest route."

  "Why? He couldn't know we were coming."

  "Not him - the goddess of the mountain."

  Dante raised an eyebrow at Mai. "Excuse me?"

  "My people believe each mountain is a goddess, just as they believe each lake is sacred. But this mountain is home to a living goddess. Namu says the goddess knows we are coming, as she knew the soldiers were coming. She knows the past, the present and the future."

  "Sounds like a woman after your own heart, Crest," Dante commented.

  A living goddess? This will be fascinating.

  Mai pointed at the sun dipping towards the distant horizon. "We must get moving if we are to find the new path and suitable shelter before darkness falls."

  "Agreed." Dante smiled as she moved away from him. "So I'm not on your list of those marked for death anymore?"

  Mai stopped abruptly. "Keep thinking about my body like that and I'll be perfectly happy to castrate you free of charge." She marched away, muttering under her breath darkly.

  Mai may not want you dead anymore, the Crest said, but you would do well not to antagonise her needlessly.

  "I'm keeping some spice in our relationship," Dante replied. "Nothing worse than a love affair that's gone stale."

  Love affair? The two of you have never even kissed. That's hardly a relationship, even by your rather limited standards.

  "But she's thought about it. Any woman who protests that loudly about my appreciation of her backside must fancy me, right?"

  Did you ever think Mai might not want to be seen as a sex object?

  "No."

  I rest my case.

  "Can I help it if my libido overwhelms my better judgement sometimes?"

  Sometimes?

  "Alright, frequently."

  Dante, your libido has gotten you into more trouble than your mouth and fists combined. In matters of the heart, your groin always takes precedence.

  "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  Spatchcock whistled from the other side of the village. "Dante, time to go!"

  The renegade gave the funeral pyre a final look. "You will be avenged," he vowed before hurrying to join the others.

  Dusk was approaching by the time Ivanov and his men reached the ice bridge. During their ascent, the soldiers had marvelled at the mighty chasm that opened up between the mountain they were climbing and its secondary peak, to the west. The tor was covered in snow and ice, but its slopes were considerably steeper and more challenging. At the highest point was a jagged stab of snow that resembled a broken tooth against the darkening, blue horizon.

  Ivanov studied the terrain with interest, his inner doubts silenced by what he saw. The headman was right to send them this way. The general had harboured suspicions about the directions, but getting so many men up to the tor would have been almost impossible over such terrain. Of course, that was before Ivanov saw the way over the chasm that plunged between the two peaks. Such a crossing gave pause to any sane person.

  The ice bridge was two metres wide, at most. It was difficult to tell how deep the accumulation of ice was, perhaps a metre and a half. Certainly, it should be sufficient to sustain the weight of the regiment crossing the precipitous chasm, if not all the soldiers at the same time. Ivanov called for the Enforcer and together they calculated the various factors.

  "The men will have to go in two's," the Enforcer surmised. "The chasm is some three hundred metres wide at this point. Allow a metre between each row to spread the weight evenly, and we should be able to cross the divide before nightfall. Those who go first
can begin establishing our shelters for the night."

  "Very well," the general replied, satisfied with these calculations. "I will lead the first group of two hundred across. When we reach the other side, you may bring the remaining men over."

  "Sir, let me go first," the Enforcer suggested. "This ice bridge is an exposed position from which it is impossible to quickly escape - the perfect place for an ambush. If an enemy should choose to strike against us-"

  Ivanov waved aside such notions. "You saw how weak those villagers were, no fight in any of them. Are you seriously expecting some secret army to be hidden in these mountains?"

  "No, sir, of course not. But I would prefer-"

  "Your preferences are not my concern," the general warned. "I have given an order and it is to be obeyed without question. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well. Assemble the first group by the ice bridge. In the meantime, I will test the crossing on my own." Ivanov marched briskly to the edge of the ice bridge and peered into the looming chasm below. He could see where the snow ended and the rocks began, but one slip would certainly be fatal. Such were the perils of leading from the front, Ivanov reminded himself.

  He stepped out on to the ice. Its surface was wet and slippery, but not impassable. The general stamped on the bridge several times, gradually putting more and more weight on the crossing. Satisfied with its solidity, he strode out on to the ice. Ivanov waited until he was halfway across before calling back to his men.

  "As you can see, the ice bridge is perfectly safe. However, as a precaution, you shall begin crossing in sections of two hundred, with no more than three sections on the bridge at any time. I will see you men on the other side!" He continued his journey and reached the tor's slopes within a minute. The first section of two hundred was already halfway across, with the Enforcer leading a second section on to the ice bridge. Soon there would be nothing to stop the thousand-strong Imperial Black regiment from finding the Forbidden Citadel.

  Gylatsen smiled as he entered the Mukari's throne room. He was one of the few monks allowed to visit her on a daily basis. Most of his brethren were serious men, their faces heavy with the burden of responsibility and sacred duty. But Gylatsen had never forgotten the joy of being a child and he always tried to share that joy with their deity. Yes, the Mukari was their living goddess, but she was also a seven year-old - a child who needed to play and have fun. So Gylatsen let his natural exuberance shine through in her presence, never remonstrating with her for smiling or laughing as Khumbu was prone to do.

  After completing the ritual bowing that was required of all those who came into the throne room, Gylatsen approached the Mukari's throne. "Goddess, I am preparing the evening meal. I understand you enjoyed the broth I made. Perhaps you want something similar?"

  "I'm not hungry," the girl replied. To Gylatsen's surprise she was standing by the windows. Normally the black-haired monk instinctively knew her position in the room, even though he was blind. But his goddess was fond of teasing him by projecting her spirit out of her body. She could be quite the trickster when the mood took her, yet the sombreness of her tone belied any tricks.

  "But, Mukari, you must eat," Gylatsen insisted, swivelling to face where her voice had come from. "Going hungry is not good for you."

  "I do not want for food," she said quietly.

  Gylatsen could hear a gentle sobbing. "Goddess, are you crying? What saddens you?"

  "I saw the villagers dying and I could do nothing to protect them. They were beyond my power to help."

  "What villagers? Forgive me, Mukari. I do not understand."

  "I know, Gylatsen." She walked gently towards him and rested one small hand against his rough, calloused palm. "I shall show you."

  And Gylatsen saw what the Mukari had witnessed and the light went from his face too. After he had seen enough, the monk pulled his hand away. "Forgive me, Goddess. I did not know."

  "Gylatsen, I need you to stand guard outside the throne room," the girl said, her voice devoid of feeling. "Let none enter, not even Khumbu. I must concentrate now, and any distraction will undo that."

  "Yes, goddess." He bowed deeply, then withdrew. Though he was blind, the vision of what the soldiers had done repeated itself endlessly in Gylatsen's mind's eye, hammering at his heart.

  Inside her room, the Mukari remained still, her breathing becoming increasingly shallow, all her energies concentrated inwards. Finally, when she felt in complete control, the girl clapped her hands together - once, twice, three times. The sound they made grew louder, echoing around the walls of the throne room, building relentlessly. With the final collision of skin upon skin, a mighty rumble joined the sounds, as if the mountain was grinding against itself, harsh and abrasive. Still, the noise got louder, the echoes repeating. The Mukari was oblivious to the cacophony building around her, not noticing the paintings falling from the walls, the candles and small statues toppling over.

  In the corridor outside Gylatsen kept his back to the door, both hands clamped over his ears to block the booming sound leaking from inside. Khumbu and several of his brethren appeared, bellowing to be heard above the cacophony, but Gylatsen refused to move from the door. He pushed away any hands that tried to pull him aside. The citadel walls were vibrating: floorboards rippled and shuddered beneath their feet. Whatever was happening, it threatened to tear the fortress apart unless unleashed.

  In her room the Mukari smiled, picturing what was about to happen, seeing its effect. She should not rejoice in this, the goddess told herself, but it was no more than they deserved. Content with her choice, she steered the noise to the balcony doors. They were flung open and the noise escaped into the dusk, searching for a target, bouncing from peak to peak in the mighty mountain range. The Mukari nodded and the noise buried itself in the eastern side of the tor. The throne room's balcony doors swung gently shut and the cacophony was audible no more. But its effects were about to reveal themselves with terrifying ferocity.

  Ivanov stared into the sky, trying to locate the source of the noises, which were booming overhead. It sounded like a barrage of distant cannon fire. The noise abruptly died away, not even an echo remaining in the air. Ivanov was determined not to be distracted from the task in hand. The first unit of two hundred men had safely crossed the ice bridge, and the Enforcer was already two-thirds of the way across with the next section. Beyond him a third section was resolutely following in their footsteps, while a fourth was stepping on to the ice bridge. Another few minutes and all of the Imperial Black troopers would have crossed the chasm.

  It was the Enforcer who first saw what was coming. He gave an order for his men to run across the bridge. The general saw this and demanded an answer from his second-in-command, but the Enforcer did not reply, pointing at the sky instead. Ivanov looked up and staggered back a step. Under the cover of darkness he could see only white and grey, as if the mountain was tumbling towards them. The first wave of ice and snow struck seconds later, punching through the ice bridge like fists, smashing the structure into fragments. Hundreds of soldiers were crushed to death in an instant. More fell to their doom, screaming in pain and fear. Ivanov hugged the side of the mountain, bracing himself for the moment when the avalanche claimed him, too.

  Flintlock had been happy to lead the others back down the mountain path, but soon lagged behind when they took the side path that led up the adjoining peak. His whining was alleviated solely by his shortness of breath and the thin air. "Please... Can't we stop... for the night?" he whimpered. Further up the slope, Mai paused at a small plateau in the shadow of an overhanging cliff face.

  "Remind me, what talents does Flintlock add to your gang of three?" she asked Dante tersely. "You have the Crest and all it adds to your capabilities. Spatchcock proved himself an adept pickpocket on the Okiya, and his body odour is no doubt a useful weapon in unarmed combat. But what does his lordship do?"

  Dante smirked. "He makes the rest of us look good."

  Not
an easy task in any circumstances, the Crest added.

  Spatchcock opened his mouth to speak, but was drowned out by a thunderous noise in the sky. He and Dante tried to see what had caused the cacophony, but Flintlock was already running for the concave space beneath the cliff. As the sound died away, he screamed at them to hurry.

  "Why?" Dante asked. "There's nothing up there to worry us, it's a clear blue..." His words petered out as he glanced upwards once more. "Hey, the sky's turned white."

  That's not the sky, that's an avalanche. Dante, evasive action - now!

  "An avalanche? But..." He realised Spatchcock and Mai were hurrying towards the safety of the overhang. "Diavolo!" Dante sprinted after them, the first falls of snow and ice already slamming into the mountainside around him.

  ELEVEN

  "A caress is better than a fist."

  - Russian proverb

  "The Dante campaign is perhaps one of the most famous advertising extravaganzas of the pre-war era. Over a period of months the same image of the notorious Romanov renegade were plastered across billboards, airships and almost every other imaginable space. The picture showed Dante stark naked, but for a pair of underpants incongruously positioned atop his head. On either side of him were two curvaceous women, subsequently identified as prostitutes from the infamous House of Sin brothel. Dante was apparently unaware the image of him was being captured, otherwise he might have arranged for his genitals to have appeared larger or in a more flattering arrangement.

  Most industry commentators believed that Tsarist sympathisers, who were using Dante to make the House of Romanov look ridiculous by association, funded the relatively harmless campaign. But to this day rumours persist that it was the Tsar's daughter, Jena Makarov, who paid for the campaign from her own allowance. Whatever the source of its funding, the picture of Dante's flaccid groin remains one of the most remembered images from the pre-war era. Despite the amazingly unimpressive genitalia displayed, the notorious rogue continues to exert an attraction for an inordinate number of women who simply should know better."