Dream II: The Realm

by RW Krpoun

  “Thought I was a goner.”

  “You should have been: that was a .54 ball that hit you. I’ll replace some of your armor charms, but I can’t replace all of them. There, just rest for a couple minutes. Here, Derek grabbed your shotgun; Fred dropped the guy that shot you.”

  “You dragged me clear?”

  “Yeah, you’ll get my bill after the fight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lose some weight-I’m not getting any younger.”

  One by one the Black Talons advanced up the street, each in turn rushing sixty or so feet to a covered position while the other three fired to cover the runner. It took time but it was safer, albeit costly in ammunition.

  Shad slid into the lee of a rain barrel next to a weather-grayed cottage wall; a few feet away a Long Sun warrior lay face-down in the street, his smoking rifle still in his hands, blood creeping out from beneath him to puddle in the rut. The Shootist shot him in the head to ensure the man was out of the fight and thumbed fresh rounds into his shotgun.

  Leaning around the corner he fired up at the gun smoke hanging around a dead tree on the next level of the pyramid until Derek raced up to crouch alongside him. “End of the line,” the Alienist gasped, gesturing towards a circular stone cover ten feet ahead. “There’s our destination.”

  “Where’s the kid, our guide?” Shad asked as he reloaded, noting the growing lightness of his bandolier.

  “Dead. Took one in the head about fifty yards back. He was running like the wind-pure luck he got hit.”

  “Damn.”

  The two fired as Jeff trotted up, and a moment later Fred moved up on line with them across the street. Derek tossed a hex sheet towards the stone cover, and a second later mist began to billow up from the ground. As it thickened Jeff opened fire on the pyramid and Fred raced from cover to laboriously haul the stone lid free and dive within.

  “You guys go-I’ll cover from here,” Shad told the other two. “We can’t risk getting cornered down there if Derek has made a mistake in his math. When its open stick a rifle barrel out of the hole to let me know.”

  “I’ll throw a red flare,” the Alienist assured him and ran for the hole, Jeff not far behind him.

  The storm drain was a stone tube about ten feet high; Fred had tied off a knotted rope so getting down onto the foot or so of gravel that covered its bottom was not difficult . Derek tossed a hex sheet and a ball of silver light appeared on the ceiling a dozen feet from the manhole.

  “Derek, do your thing,” Jeff instructed. “I’ll watch the manhole. Fred, check the other way,” he pointed away from the pyramid. “See if there’s another way in.”

  “I’ll need a light,” the Scout pointed out.

  Derek tossed a hex sheet and a bright ball of light the size of a grapefruit appeared above the big man’s head.

  The Jinxman reloaded his Winchester and applied a charm to a nasty cut he had gotten from a bullet that had been imperfectly deflected by his charms. Up above he heard Shad’s shotgun and hoped the Shootist was all right; he might be abrupt, abrasive, and unpleasant at times, but Jeff thought of him as a brother, just as he did the other two members of the group. They had been through too much to imagine a time when they were not a group.

  Fred came trudging back. “There’s a couple places by the cave-in where you could dig out or in, but not fast,” he reported. “I’m glad Shad stayed topside. We’re in a barrel.”

  “If Derek has it right we won’t be here long,” Jeff checked on the Alienist, who had activated another ball of light at the back end of the drain; he was drawing foot-high runes which glowed like blue neon on the wall.

  “Don’t tell him I said it, but the little bastard knows his stuff.”

  “He’s done a good job,” Jeff nodded absently.

  Whoever was in charge of Cecil’s troops had obviously gotten word of the Black Talon’s participation, but apparently wasn’t too worried because the only response was a few Celts coming from the south. Eventually the tribesmen could flank him and then he would be done, but for the short-term his repeating shotgun trumped their muzzle-loaders.

  It didn’t hurt that the Long Sun warriors did not appear to be deeply motivated-obviously they knew that there was no way into the pyramid from this side. By trotting from the rain barrel to the cottage door to a pile of bricks the Shootist was able to keep the enemy deterred for the time being.

  Shad jumped at a sound that was both loud and low, perhaps more of a shockwave than a noise except that the dirt and smoke were unaffected, a sort of vast echoing ‘voom’ or ‘vah-boom’ At the same time the otherworldly tone rang out a burst of blue light flashed out the open manhole as if a giant blue strobe had ticked on for a single pulse.

  Concerned and also taking advantage of the distraction, the Shootist raced for the manhole, firing as he went. Tossing his empty shotgun in, he scrambled down the rope.

  Jeff and Fred, looking a bit concussed, were standing near the rope; in fact, Shad’s shotgun had narrowly missed the Scout. “Are you guys OK?” the Shootist asked as he retrieved his weapon and began reloading.

  “…yes,” Jeff muttered.

  “What the hell? Why are you guys blue?” Jeff, Fred, and Derek were a pale blue across the face, neck and hands; all three’s clothes appeared to have been liberally dusted with talcum powder the exact same shade as their skin. “What the hell?” Shad repeated. “Are you guys Smurfs or what?’

  “A slight miscalculation on the spell,” Derek made soothing gestures with his hands. “Its a temporary side effect.”

  “How temporary?” Fred snarled, rubbing at the back of his hand.

  “Think explosive dye pack,” Derek grinned uneasily. “Ten to fourteen days.”

  “Well, it brings out your hair and you’ll save a bundle on eyeliner,” Shad shook his head. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He pointed towards the pyramid. “Did it work, or was that like that before?”

  “It worked, we’re in,” Derek grabbed up his Spencer and shook blue dust from it. “Time to go.”

  “We’ll settle this later,” Jeff promised in a tone of a man holding his temper in check with only the greatest difficulty.

  Aside from the blue tone applied to all exposed skin Derek’s spell had bored a hole four feet wide through the twenty-foot-deep foundation stone. The Black Talons crawled in single file through the tunnel into the pyramid proper.

  “The entrance was supposed to be bigger,” Derek explained as Fred, the last in line, extracted himself from the hole. “But it worked for our purposes.”

  “Can you block it?” Jeff asked.

  “Sort of.” The Alienist tossed a hex sheet and the interior of the horizontal shaft was plunged into inky darkness in which there were vague hints of movement. “I bet they don’t want to crawl into that.”

  “Damn, look at this place,” Shad breathed.

  The interior of the pyramid was vast, and eerie greenish lights crawled snake-like across the interior surfaces of the stepped sides, dimly illuminating the great space. Slender buttresses of what appeared to be ivory swept up at irregular intervals from the floor to the ceiling, glowing runes outlined in dull red that reminded the Shootist of banked coals scattered along their length. In the center of the under-pyramid an open staircase marched around a central pillar to, and through, the ceiling.

  The air inside was warm and smelled of the sea, a salty tang that was completely out of place within the vast stone enclosure. It seemed to stir, as if there was a breeze or air flow from somewhere, although the gates at the west entrance were solidly closed.

  “Why is it empty?” Fred asked softly, awed by the enormous open space.

  “This is where the Flame was tended,” Jeff replied. “The Flame was the pyramid’s entire purpose. What we’re seeing is like a snail shell: still the same shape, but the life has gone out of it.”

  “Not just the life,” Derek pointed out. “Those green lines on the walls indicate power being fed into Cecil’s eff
orts to open the passage between spheres. We need to get upstairs quick.”

  “Let’s go,” Shad sighed. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’ll be back in Bloodseep.”

  “That’s sort of like home these days,” Jeff nodded as the Black Talons set off across the debris-littered floor. “Funny how that works out.”

  “Great,” Fred leaned back to look at the ceiling as the Talons reached the stairs. “How many stories is that?”

  “Too many for stairs without guard rails,” Shad eyed the structure. “Let’s get started.”

  “Hey, what’s the extraction plan?” Derek asked.

  “Now you think about that?” Jeff shook his head.

  “We’ll see how Cecil’s death impacts the hired help,” Shad advised the Alienist. “If they still want to fight, we’ll work our way down the outside in the direction of our choice after dark. How are we fixed for ammo, guys?”

  “Four full tubes,” Derek said.

  “About sixty rounds for my Winchester,” Jeff was refilling loops from boxed rounds.

  “About eighty-five rounds of .44-40,” Fred observed.

  “I’ve got four shotgun shells left,” the Shootist noted. “The run in was hotter than I expected.” Discarding his bandolier, he slung his shotgun across his back. “Now the million-duro question is how many are between Cecil and us.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Talk about marching in circles,” Derek observed. “We’re walking around a pillar like it’s the biggest Maypole ever.”

  “And we have company,” Fred pointed downward: men were entering the pyramid through the west gate carrying torches. The ruddy light of the brands reflected off rifle barrels. “They won’t be able to see us while they have torches.”

  “I’m not running up all these stairs,” Jeff said quietly.

  “Stay close to the pillar, single file,” Shad whispered. “It’s as high for them as it is for us, and we’ve got a head start.”

  “Why aren’t they just coming up the outside to the hatch on top?” Fred wondered.

  “You can wait and ask them,” Jeff shrugged. “But I’m not.”

  “I’m thinking that the green fire we saw on top of the pyramid may prevent the use of that hatch,” Derek mused.

  “Or maybe they already have enough men up there,” Fred suggested.

  “Thank you, Miss Sunshine,” Jeff shook his head.

  The Black Talons trudged on as the group below doused their torches. A rifle barked down below, but the shooter was so far off target that the four couldn’t even hear the passage of the bullet.

  “They can shoot at us or they can follow us,” Shad observed. “Limited options.”

  They paused forty steps later to catch their breath. “Looks like they unlimited their options,” Fred pointed. “They’re fanning out to surround the stairs. We’ll be under fire the rest of the way.”

  “We’re at least ten stories up,” Shad frowned. “And that will only increase. Fred, drop one and we’ll get moving. As we circle around going upwards Jeff will take a shot at the next change of facing, and then Derek. Let’s see if we can dampen their enthusiasm.”

  Bracing his shoulder against the central pillar Fred wounded one of the men down below and then the Black Talons began their upward trek, pausing to fire an aimed shot as the stairs circled around the pillar, exposing other enemies down on the floor.

  The shots startled Cecil’s men, who lost no time spreading out and seeking what cover was available. When they opened fire it was quickly apparent that they were Celts armed with muzzle loaders, and just as apparent that the only way a Talon would be hit was by blind luck.

  “I wonder why they’re not coming up after us?” Derek wondered out loud as the four toiled upwards.

  “We have a twelve-story lead, probably closer to fifteen now,” Jeff observed. “They don’t want to run up these damned steps.”

  “We’re past the half-way point, closing in on three-quarters,” Fred took a cautious look at the ceiling and then scooting back as rifles barked below.

  “It can’t be too soon for me,” Jeff grunted. “My thighs are talking to me.”

  The shots from below forced the Black Talons to move in single file, hugging the stone pillar that was the core of the stairs, and since it would be pointless to try a shot with a revolver at their height Shad had ended up not only in the lead but about twenty steps ahead of the rest. Sweating in the oddly warm air, he kept an eye on the stairs as each step exposed a slice of the next rank of steps.

  He was tired, overheated, battered, and growing increasingly uneasy because his infantry instincts were deeply unsettled by the fact that the Celts were not in active pursuit. As had been too common since they arrived in the Realm, he felt rushed and pushed, stampeded into something he didn’t fully understand.

  A slight movement ahead froze him in his tracks and he grabbed for an M-4 assault carbine that hadn’t hung across his chest in years. Motionless, he studied the scene, finally stepping forward one cautious step as his drew his Bowie, the weight of the wide, foot-long blade feeling very good.

  He used the blade to probe the source of the movement and frowned at the length of gray-white rope that lay across the blade, too thick to be a tripwire, too low to offer a handhold. He took another cautious step forward, looking for more rope.

  Then he was slammed back into the pillar as a bear trap clamped around his left forearm and a horse leaned against his torso, filling his nostrils with the scent of unlit incense even as his head hitting the stone filled his vision with bright shooting pulses of light.

  Reflexively he thrust with the Bowie, punching the blade into the horse’s side which produced a noise that seemed to originate from, and hover within, his sinuses. Although it hurt like blazes he pushed outwards with his left arm, figuring the bear trap was attached to the horse.

  As his senses cleared and his fighting instincts swam up from the mental floor to which they had been knocked by the blow to his head, Shad realized that his left forearm was pinned between the mandibles of a spider the size of a Herford yearling; its fur-covered exoskeleton producing the impression of a horse. The arachnid was trying to press close enough to bring a belly-mounted stinger into play, but the narrow stairs and the Shootist’s arm jammed between its mandibles had created issues even before he had gotten the knife blade in.

  Being more or less face-to-face with a spider the size of a bean-bag chair plus legs was without a doubt the worst experience Shad had ever encountered in a life that had held a lot of terrible experiences, but the one saving grace was that he had fought similar creatures in the Prison, and while that was no comfort, it did neutralize a small measure of the horror of this event.

  The two struggled wildly for what seemed an eternity to the Shootist but which in reality was only a few seconds, the spider trying to push forward enough to bring its stinger into play while Shad pushed back with his left arm while trying to rock his panther-pommel Bowie deeper into the creature.

  Realizing that he was slowly but steadily losing the contest Shad let go of the knife and clumsily drew the Colt under his right arm. Jamming the muzzle amongst the circle of eyes above the creature’s black horn-like mandibles he fired off all six shots, adding the stench of burning fur and gunpowder to the odors assailing his nostrils. The spider spat his bleeding arm free as it backpedaled away, abruptly dropping off the edge of the stairs.

  Holstering the Colt Shad slid to a seated position, blindly fumbling at his shirt-front until he realized that his shirt pocket had been torn away in his travels. The world was getting fuzzy around the edges when Jeff reached him, a deck of charms in hand.

  “Damn, I hate those things,” Derek slotted a full tube into his carbine’s stock. “Ordinary spiders creep me out.”

  “Explains why the Celts weren’t following us,” Fred agreed as he reloaded his Yellowboy and Jeff applied a charm to a wound on the Scout’s shoulder. “Shad, you OK?’

  “Yeah,” the p
ale-faced Shootist was reloading his Colt from his pockets with shaking hands. “I’m going to have nightmares about that until the day I die.”

  “The good news is that that day might be today,” Jeff grinned. “We shot four more spiders while you were doing the arachnid tango. Your bug jumped the gun, gave away the ambush before we were in the kill zone. Otherwise we wouldn’t have gotten away so lightly.”

  “I spotted a length of web,” Shad took a drink from the half-empty canteen. “I think that spooked it.”

  “Probably,” Fred agreed, surveying the ceiling carefully. “I hope we got them all.”

  Shad slowly rose to his feet. Pulling the empty sheath from his belt he tossed it aside. “It went over with my knife in its belly.”

  “All the way to the floor,” Derek observed, risking a glance over the side. “That’s a confirmed kill.”

  The remaining few yards of stairs were marked by gunfire as jittery Black Talons, especially Shad, opened fire at perceived movement along the irregular ceiling. Whether any more spiders were killed, wounded, or even present was unclear, but it was at least modestly reassuring in the wake of the attack.

  The stairs ended as they passed through the ceiling, leaving them in a small unlit cubicle. Enough light leaked in from the stairway to allow the Black Talons to make out the outline of a doorway in the west wall.

  “Derek, light,” Shad whispered, aiming a Colt at the doorway.

  The Alienist flicked a hex sheet from his bandolier and a silver-blue ball of light shot into the next chamber and attached itself to the ceiling.

  Even as the ball was in mid-flight trade muskets bellowed and both Shad and Jeff opened fire in response, firing at muzzle flashes; Fred yelled and dropped his Yellowboy, but promptly drew his revolver and joined the fight.

  Shad hissed as a single buckshot collided with a rib as he holstered his empty Colt and drew the other. He fired four shots at movement and then ducked back from the doorway, setting the Colt on the floor in order to reload the other.