The airship dropped straight down at a high but steady rate of speed. Hand had been prepared for the sudden motion, but he had not thought his feet would rise a few inches above the deck, a problem not experienced by the larger, heavier humans. He used his upper body strength and the chorded muscles of his arms to force himself down against the lift, and hoped no one had noticed.
“Approaching one thousand…nine hundred…” the pilot said in a dispassionate tone, as if he had done this a million times.
Except for a few clenched jaws, the men showed no signs of stress beyond a sort of quiet expectation.
“…five hundred…four hundred.” The pilot paused half a moment in his metronomic countdown, then said: “All personnel prepare for breaking in…five…four…”
The squads moved swiftly to the edge of the ramps.
“…three…”
Squad leaders signalled silently.
“…two…”
Hand tightened his gloved fingers about his rappelling cord.
“…one…”
Sergeant Hand flexed his knees…
“…breaking!”
…and pushed off into the darkness.
Though Hand had never before made a acceleration-assisted gravity rappel before, he was ready for the sensation, the feeling of having been shot from a cannon’s barrel. He did not see the sight of the airship vanishing suddenly into the night. His head was cocked, sighting down the length of the rappelling cord whirring through his harness buckle, passing lightly over his fingers behind his back, dangling into the darkness below. One hundred feet down was the roof of the House of Wands, but not so as he could tell from looking on his own. But he trusted both the pilot’s ability to be jack on the spot and his own to judge speed of descent.
At the last possible moment, Hand raised the cord behind him, tightening tension across the abseiling buckle of the harness, and came to a sudden, jolting halt. At the same instant he felt the surface of the roof beneath his boots. He softly grunted – he had judged the distance and timing perfectly, but not that gravity on Earth was sixty percent more than normal.
He heard two simultaneous soft sighs, then saw two guards eased silently to the roof. Hand formed with Wedlake’s squad and noiselessly entered the building. As he was swallowed by the ancient structure, he heard the faint whisper of the airship lowering into place.
When Folkestone had hit the roof, he found himself facing a started guard who had heard nothing. His lips had just parted to utter a warning to the other guard when the point of Folkestone’s combat knife severed his vocal chords. Gently, he lowered the unlucky man to the roof.
Lieutenant Burke touched Folkestone’s elbow. They joined the rest of the squad, leaving the security of the roof and the descending airship to Lieutenant Nevins’ squad. With Burke and Folkestone in the lead, the squad entered the House of Wands via a roof entrance opposite taken by the other squad.
The passage walls were plastered over, but in many places the covering had fallen away, revealing dark pocked stone quarried thousands of years earlier. Battered brass lanterns cast fitful illumination. The SAS commandos worked their way from room to room. Most were occupied, but there was no need to silence the men and women prone on stacked slat bunks within, crystals of dream-spice upon their lips and their eyes gazing upon worlds beyond.
Burke’s squad tread softly down a flight of stairs to the next landing. There, the scenes above were repeated, hundreds of damned souls jammed into small rooms dreaming their way across the barriers separating maybe worlds. In a few of the rooms smoke from smouldering dream-spice billowed from braziers tended by hooded Venusians, but these creatures were so suffused with their own poisons the soldiers only administered choke holds.
“Poor wretches,” Burke whispered to Folkestone. “Why are they doing this to them, and to themselves?”
“I could explain it to you later,” Folkestone replied, “but you would never believe me.”
“I can believe a lot.”
Folkestone smiled. “Not this much.”
The upper storeys of the House of Wands were filled with dreamers and it was decided to let them lie in place, leaving them for either Station T agents or the local authorities. None of them were obviously leaders of the conspiracy, just more victims.
Burke paused at a corner, held up a fist to stop his men. They dropped to one knee, listening keenly, alert for any action. He signalled there were five guards in the chamber below, then, by silent gestures, indicated which men were to move and where to position themselves. He glanced out again, motioned for all to hold, then signalled them to strike.
A listener with abnormally keen hearing might have heard a soft sound like the clearing of a throat, but he would never have seen the envenomed little darts flying through the shadowed air. Neither did any of the five guards, nor did they see each other fall.
Soldiers rushed forward to ease the guards silently to the floor, to confiscate their weapons and secure them with bindings and gags. Again, there was no reason to weaken their attack force by conveying any of these underlings to the custody of Lieutenant Nevins’ squad – if the best they could do was guard duty on a bevy of near-comatose dreamers, then they were as worthless to the soldiers as they were expendable to the conspirators.
Gradually, they made their way toward the ground floor. The continuing silence in the benighted structure told them Wedlake’s squad was encountering no more resistance than were they, and handling it just as well. That realisation was a relief to Folkestone, for while Sergeant Hand could always be relied on in a scrap, during battle he was less like a stealthy Ninja and more like a Nordic Berserker – Martian battles of the past were bloody messes and while it had been a few generations since the days of Martian Warlords and the tribes getting into an all-out have-at-it, it was not the sort of temperament that could ever really be bred out of the race. Folkestone knew better than anyone that when this fight turned noisy, as it inevitably would, all Wedlake’s doubts about the little Martian’s fighting prowess would be put to rest, utterly.
According to the information provided by Station T, Slaughter was being held in a cell two levels below the street, in the most ancient part of the structure. Ultimately, that was their goal, but they knew that between them and Slaughter lay the heart of the conspiracy, that this might be their best, perhaps only, opportunity to stop the beating of that heart.
Entering a sort of lounge, Burke’s men dropped everyone in sight, none of them armed. Only one of the enemy got off any sort of noise, but it was muffled by Folkestone’s hand, and when he jammed a thumb against a nerve centre at the base of the neck the man jerked stiff as a plank. Folkestone eased him to the floor, most of the way.
“No telling if any of these Jocks are worth taking up to Nevins, but we’ll have to anyway,” Burke said. “Jenkins, get two lads to help you get these six to the roof, then hie yourself back quick as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” Jenkins acknowledged.
“Don’t like splitting forces, but can’t be helped,” Burke said with a shrug.
Off in the distance, from the opposite side of the House of Wands came the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, three shots which were followed by a quick volley.
“Bloody hell!” Burke growled. He looked to his men. “Keep your wits about you, lads. No need to advertise ourselves just yet.”
They made a quick sweep of the room, gathering all documents and cramming them into a leather shoulder-pouch carried by one of the men. They had just finished and were moving on when Jenkins and his helpers arrived, accompanied by Commander Drummond.
“It looks like Wedlake is in for it, sir,” Burke said.
“He and his men can handle it, and they do have Sergeant Hand with them,” Drummond said. “We may be able to use them as a distraction and help them in a bit, but right now we need to sweep on through, grab the ones we can, eliminate the ones we can’t, and rescue Slaughter.”
“Yes, sir, I…” Burke started to say
.
“They are your men, Lieutenant,” Drummond said, knowing his subordinate’s mind. “Just an observer, like Folkestone.”
Burke nodded, and signalled for his men to continue.
Away in another part of the building, Wedlake and his men were pinned down by small arms fire and energy weapons. As they had silently subdued a mixed contingent of humans and Venusians, a lone guard had stumbled into the room. A thrown blade had gone awry, and the guard’s repeating rifle had discharged thrice. Other armed men and women piled in and began firing. In just a few seconds the battle had settled into a stalemate.
“Bugger!” Hawkins exclaimed.
“Only consolation,” Wedlake muttered, “it will take eyes off the other team.”
“We can hold them off, sir,” Hawkins said.
“That accomplishes precious little, Hawkins!” Wedlake snapped. “If we are not taking prisoners or rescuing the hostage, then we might as well be knitting a sampler.”
From any other man it would have been a frivolous remark to lighten the moment. From Wedlake’s lips it was an epitaph. As if to make Wedlake a prophet, another wave of attackers spilled into the chamber. It was immediately apparent to all the stalemate had suddenly tipped in favour of the conspirators.
Wedlake, however, had a trait which made him a highly effective leader – it was not in his nature to either surrender or retreat. All his men understood the only way out of even the most dire situation was to fight like demons.
And fight like demons they did.
On the other side, however, were fanatic minions of the Dark Gods, fearless and reckless, unafraid to die and eager to kill, motivated by a fiery zeal engendered equally by massive doses of dream-spice and the promise of eternal life through murder.
The servitors rushed from cover and attacked the soldiers. As they fell, they were replaced by even more attackers, an endless tidal wave of hatred and flesh.
Hand, standing beside Wedlake, dropped his now empty side arm and withdrew his pyrang from its oiled scabbard, carving his way forward. So fast did the massive blade move through the blood-soaked air it almost seemed a blur. It also sang, but those around Hand did not hear the whistle of its sharp blade any more than they actually saw it as anything more than a glinting blur. All they heard was a keening animalistic cry that petrified the blood of friend and foe alike. Hand saw nothing but yielding flesh and spraying blood, but had he looked he would have seen Wedlake fighting alongside.
The soldiers surged behind Wedlake and the Martian.
The tide turned and so did the guardians of the House of Wands and its many secrets. Weapons clattered to the floor as fear overcame fanaticism. Many were taken prisoner, bound and tossed aside for later reaping, but many more fled.
Standing in the midst of the large chamber, having run out of foes, Sergeant Hand felt his breaths slow, saw the red tide ebb from his vision, and noted the ever-steady ticking of his clockwork heart. He was also aware Wedlake had said something to him.
“Yes, sir, I am fine,” Hand replied. “Not my blood, mostly.”
“That was quite a demonstration of fighting skill, Sergeant, that I can’t say I…”
Wedlake was interrupted by a wail of rage and frustration, by the sight of one of the cultists rushing back into the chamber, hurtling toward Wedlake with an axe held high. Soldiers looked up from where they were either securing prisoners or preparing them for transfer to Nevins’ men. They reached for their weapons but all were too slow. Wedlake raised his sidearm and aimed straight between eyes white with madness; the hammer fell on an empty chamber, and even as he reached for his combat knife he knew he would be too late. Dying after surviving all he had just been through was really quite funny, he thought, and for the first time in his life Lieutenant Wedlake laughed.
A whistling sound in his right ear, a gleaming flash of silver, a whisper of air – those were the impressions Wedlake received just before Sergeant Hand’s whirling pyrang struck the Lieutenant’s would-be killer, practically cleaving him in twain.
“Good Lord,” Wedlake murmured.
Wedlake’s men did not know what was more amazing, the Martian’s skill with that damned weapon or the fact Wedlake had actually laughed.
Burke’s team advanced quickly through the structure, ever with the goal of reaching the place of Slaughter’s imprisonment, but never missing the chance to take prisoners or gather documents for later analysis. The chatter of small arms fire had stilled except for sporadic shots, which Burke and Drummond counted a good sign for the other rescue team, but Folkestone had counted the blood-freezing war cry of Sergeant Felix Hand, faint but clearly audible, an even better sign.
There had been no sight of Daraph-Kor, but they captured quite a few of the others pinpointed by Station T. As they were taken, they all struggled and wept and blasphemously invoked the wrath of the Dark Gods, caught in a dream they could not escape.
As they neared ground level they heard gunfire and cries of dismay and distress from outside. The will to fight had abandoned many of the conspirators, it seemed, and they wanted nothing more than flight and escape, only to encounter the cordon established by the Marines deployed from HMS Thunder Child. Given the choice of bullets or bonds, most of the crestfallen cultists chose wisely, but occasional shots betook the fates of those who did not.
Down in the lowest and most ancient part of the structure, Savas looked up from his work.
The walls here were dark with age and soot, many feet thick and dressed only rudely. It was never intended that the moans and screams that often filled these nethermost chambers should ever be heard by anyone. But it was also true the giant brute Savas was quite in his own world, cut off from anything going on elsewhere in the House of Wands.
For the past several hours he had feverishly worked to force useful information from the Englishman’s lips, but he was no more successful than he had been since their arrival in Constantinople. Actually, Savas was not truly aware how much time had passed since the Master had assigned him the task of breaking the arrogant infidel, kept away from the light, isolated from any other living being. It might be noon or midnight, Savas had no way of knowing.
Savas might not know the time or the day, but he felt in his gut that time was running out for him. He feared what would happen if he did not accomplish his assigned task. The Martian might cast a dark thought in his direction and bring death eternal.
No sounds were heard, but he felt odd vibrations in the stone. He paused and glanced about, perplexed by his intuition there might be something wrong.
“What’s the matter, old trout,” Slaughter murmured, forcing an insolent smile to his cracked lips. “Am I tiring you out? Perhaps you need a bit of a lie-down, have a nice bowl of pork soup to keep your strength up.”
Savas slapped Slaughter but it was a lighter blow than he had intended. He had not looked at Slaughter before hitting him, still mystified by his uneasiness, and the contact had been glancing. Savas’ world was one of images and sounds. If he could directly experience something he could understand it, but his intelligence was too limited for the evidence of things not seen, for either imagination or intuition. It was why the visions had affected him so profoundly. His faith was as simple as his fear.
“Always afraid of false gods, aren’t you, Savas?” Slaughter said, glad for both a respite and the opportunity to taunt the giant.
Savas barely heard what the Englishman had said. He felt extremely uneasy now, and was distracted all the more by his total inability to explain it. He pressed his hand against the stone. He did not like the vibrations he felt.
“First, that old pederast Mohammed and his purloined moon god,” continued Slaughter, trying to crack through Savas’ unusual distraction. “And now this gloomy old Martian who claims to be some sort of blood-drinking messiah. This Daraph-Kor is quite the charlatan, don’t you know, not even half as good as a music hall magician. You’ve tied your tail to another falling star, old lag.”
“Shut u
p!” Savas bellowed into Slaughter’s face.
“Oh my, have I upset you, my boon companion?” Slaughter teased. “I am so dreadfully sorry. You know how I hate disrupting you in your work.”
Again, Savas struck him, but there was little force behind the blow. Slaughter half closed his eyes and chuckled softly. From the very beginning, he had discerned all the giant’s weaknesses. It was abundantly clear Savas’ only value to this organisation lay in his great strength and the possession of an intellect too limited to allow him to do anything but follow orders. He had the low fear of an animal which would keep him hard at the most hopeless task long after a person with a higher intelligence would have admitted defeat. To accomplish any task, however, Savas had to concentrate with all the power of his tiny mind. Any distraction, even rage, made him less efficient at his task, hence Slaughter’s constant taunting of the brute.
Slaughter was, however, rather perplexed himself at the moment. It seemed Savas had driven himself to distraction without any help from Slaughter, not that Slaughter had not tried and was always glad to pitch in and do his bit – his means of entertainment here were quite limited.
“Why don’t you go take a nap and dream…” Slaughter’s voice faded as Savas turned and started for the heavy door.
A faint rumble came to their ears, causing Savas to pause and Slaughter to rise against the chains. A tap sounded against the door, a small noise, as if some metal object had been pushed to the wood. Understanding filled Chief Inspector Ethan Slaughter even as Savas’ confusion swelled to paralyzing levels, and he threw himself to his side, facing away from the door.
Slaughter heard the blast of the Hertz contact mine, but saw neither the door blown completely off its moorings nor it slam full into Savas’ huge frame. He did feel the concussion against his back, but after what he had endured for however long he had been held captive, it seemed like a gentle breeze.
He turned back to a room filled with roiling acrid smoke. He saw two things through the fumes. First, and most gratifyingly, was the heavy dungeon door flat on the floor with Savas’ arms and legs extending grotesquely from under it. Second was a swarm of eager lads garbed in what he recognised as SAS field uniforms.
Shadows Against the Empire Page 23
