“What is the answer? How to find happiness in a world where the laws of nature say we must be beasts? The bold answer is to kill that part of ourselves which seeks anything high and noble and human. An elegant solution! By indulging each cruelest impulse and vile desire of the flesh, we find the only true rebellion; hence the only true freedom; hence the only true artistic expression of man. You see?”
Ami realized that he was not rolling his eyes upward as the theatrical gesture. She stole a glance up.
A number of white owls on silent wings were flying down and landing softly on the roof of the building above and behind. They stared down with unwinking eyes as bright as brass mirrors.
“Death is real. Death is what all art aims at. All true poetry is throwing a stick of dynamite, not just at living things, but at the idea of life itself!”
Little sparks of light crawled over the owls, and they became women, pale faced, cruel eyed, and beautiful, in feathered white cloaks and feathered headdresses with charming wands in their hands.
The Cossack saw that Ami had seen the owl women, and so he hopped from the oil drum and drew his sword. “Ah, you do see! Your escape over the rooftops is cut off; you are outmaneuvered, outnumbered, outwitted, and out of hope.”
He had been speaking not, as it seemed, merely to hear his own voice, but to distract her long enough for the lid of his trap to be fitted in place.
“Now, how would you prefer to begin? Deflowered first or dismembered first? Think it over since sometimes one wishes the meat before the pleasure, but at other times…”
She tried again to draw her knife, but her numb fingers betrayed her. The kunai fell from beneath her cloak and clattered loudly on the pavement of the street.
The Cossack stopped, his mustache twitching. The wolves circling her froze in place, as if surprised by the unexpectedly loud noise. Their noses quivered, lips drew back, heads lowered, and ears lay flat.
Then, the Cossack stared at the dropped knife in disbelief. He threw back his head and laughed so hard his cigarette flew from his lips and landed behind him.
“Why!” he cried, “That was… really… are you still trying to fight us? Oh, puh-lease! Take off running. Pick a direction. Like Heaven, I will grant you false hope to help torment you. I’ll give you a ten-second head start! My beasts need exercise.”
Ami said, “Lucien Cobweb, I have a message for you.”
“Ah! So the little teen vixen can talk!” His grin slanted sideways, and his eyebrows slanted the other direction. “A message? From Winged Vengeance? Do tell!” Then, he pouted. “Wait… How did you discover my name?”
She said, “Let all the Twilight folk know that when eternal day breaks, twilight is no more, and all deeds will be laid bare and judged.”
His eyes grew wide in shock. “Who told you that? Who told you to tell me that? Who? It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie!” He whirled and shouted at his wolves. “Tear her to bits!”
Ami shouted, “Who wants the Ring of Mists? Here it is! Whoever takes me takes it and takes Lucien’s place!”
Lucien shouted, “Wait!” and his wolves, trembling and crouching in anticipation, hesitated at his command.
She held up her fist, turned, and threw something past Lucien Cobweb’s ear. He turned his head. A small, round, bright metal object clattered off the side of the oil drum behind him and went skipping off into the dark.
“Fetch!” she called.
Several of the wolves pelted after it, and then, seeing their brothers run, and greedy for the ring, more wolves broke formation and ran toward the northern part of the yard. Lucien turned his head to follow the bugging device she had tossed. “Wait! Stop, you fools! The ring is still on her fi–!”
While his head was turned, Ami took a running leap and launched herself into the air, uttering her piercing kiai as she did so. Lucien snapped his head back around just in time to see the side of her high-heeled boot catch him under the chin and strike his neck with the full force of her body.
Of course, her body was only five-foot-two and ninety-nine pounds. Lucien staggered back with a cough, grinned, struck her knee with one hand, took her ankle in his other hand, and threw her to the ground. She could not use her hands to cushion the blow. The wind was knocked out of her lungs, and a dazzling darkness danced in her eyes.
Lucien opened his mouth and screamed a mindless scream of rage. His teeth elongated, and his skull was pulled out of human shape. His clothing did not rip, but grew misty, changing into a colored fog and vanishing. His transition into wolf-shape was much faster than what Ami had seen his packmates do: it was done in an eye blink. The scream had changed into a howl. He fell to all fours, and by the time his hands touched the ground to either side of her, they were paws.
He was bigger than the other wolves, and his pelt was the rich and handsome silver of an arctic wolf. His forepaws were on the concrete to either side of her, pining her in. All the wolves howled with him, and the owl women screamed.
Despair overcame her. Whatever spirit it was that enabled a man to fight to the bitter end and beyond, with no hope of victory or survival, when she sought it in herself, it was not there. She had failed entirely! Hot tears stung her eyes.
Ami did not even raise her hand to defend her throat. She merely turned her head aside so that the wolf would not see her tears, and she waited for death.
When she exposed her throat, instead of striking, the silver wolf grinned the same slanted grin his man-face used, but then his ears pricked up, and his head swiveled.
He whispered, “What is that? Who is it? Who dares?”
Ami heard a trumpet blow.
Chapter Nine: The Sign of the Swan
1. The Cavalry
Horncalls blowing echoed through the wolf howls. The wolves lowered their ears and tails, some whimpering but others snapping and barking in fury. The owl-women on the roof shrieked thin, high shrieks and swirled their cloaks, leaping into the air. The huge, ungainly beast reared up, bellowing.
Lucien raised one forepaw, ignoring the girl trapped under him, and stared down the dark street. Noise, howling, and commotion were coming from somewhere just beyond the stack of shipping containers on the southern side of the yard.
With her hands numb, Ami could not grip and turn her ring, and when she tried to flick her wrist to bring the wirepoon gun out of its quickdraw holster, nothing happened.
Ami did not try any precision strikes with her numb hands. Instead, she knee-kicked the silver wolf in his groin, with one leg then the other, and kicked with both legs into his ankle joint. He howled and fell to one side. She rolled to the other, driving her elbow like a pick-ax into the wolf’s temple. He snapped at her, seizing her elbow with a grip like a beartrap, strong enough to break her bones. By sheer mischance, however, the elbow pad in her supersuit inflated in his mouth and tore loose of its fastenings. Ami rolled and came to her feet while Lucien choked a moment on the expanding wedge of fabric in his mouth. He spat it free.
The horn sounded again, and now came the sound of drumming hoofbeats, as if iron-hard hooves were pounding divots out of concrete. Lucien glared at her, but the noise of the horn made him turn his head.
Other wolves were more intent on her. Three jumped her. She leaped in the air and kicked one in the chest so that he landed to one side of her and failed to knock her over. But two of them grabbed her arms, one set of jaws clamping each wrist. The fabric of her suit stiffened and creaked under the pressure of those jaws, so neither arm was ripped off, but the pain was terrible, and she screamed as she twisted to strike the wolf on her left with knee and boot, and then with an ax-kick as she brought her leg back down. The wolf snarled in annoyance, yanked its head, twisted her arm, and forced her to her knees.
She cried out, more in fear than pain, knowing she was helpless before the monsters.
At that moment, a tall figure, armored head-to-foot, and riding a monstrously tall, muscular roan-red steed came pounding down the street like a thunderstorm, and the
cloud of debris from the concrete exploding under the steed’s hoofs was like a sirocco. The mantle of the knight flapped like vast white wings. The plumes of his helm in the night gloom shined like fire. The steed was as heavily armored as the rider, with a chamfron on the head and a crinet on the neck, a peytral on the wide breast of the horse and flanchards and a crupper to side and rear.
Wolf howls and owlshrieks erupted. The knight rode directly into the midst of the thickest pack of wolf-monsters and trampled and slew them. His lance dipped lightly as a willow wand and stuck with all the weight of horse and man, skewering one wolf after another. Then, he was past them, and the wolf corpses were tossed into the air from the fury of his passage, and the lance was red, wet, and smoking with blood.
The magnificent horse leaped into the air, graceful as a deer, while the astonished wolves below raised their muzzles and howled in awe and fear. The shadow of the huge steed passed over Ami, and she looked up, her face pale and eyes wide. The caparison of the steed spread like wings. The golden spurs on the heels of the knight caught the light and shined like red comets.
Directly atop the wolf gripping her right arm, the steed landed with all four hoofs, like a pronghorn stag trampling a serpent. Blood sprayed everywhere. The sound of bones breaking was like the noise of a tree tossed down by the wind, with every branch snapped in half. The wolf on her left arm released her, raised his maw, and vomited a stream of liquid fire toward the knight. The stream splashed off his shield.
He raised his terrible lance and gored the wolf through its burning mouth and throat. The horse neighed and reared. The knight raised the corpse on high with effortless, superhuman strength and tossed the great wolf—as large as a pony—off the spear point and a dozen yards through the air.
In the light of the fire clinging to his shield and spear, Ami could see the play of diamonds sparkling in his white armor. There was a white swan on the blue field on his surcoat, with its wings spread. The crest of a swan was above his brow, and jutting up from his temples were shining swan-wings of bright silver.
The horse neighed angrily. The knight said softly, “Yes, I know it is she!” The rearing horsemen turned his head toward her. His helm was a single piece, with a Y-shaped opening in the front where the gleaming of his eyes could be seen, the glint of his grimace. She thought the bright helm was skull-like and terrifying.
The steed came down again, landing his forehoofs on the broken body of the werewolf he had earlier trampled. The clash of the steel barding on the huge steed was like thunder.
Then, the knight shouted over the clamor of the howls and shrieks, “Little thief girl, flee this place! These dark matters are not for you! You have spoiled one clue leading us to the City of Corpses: spoil no more!”
It was a boy’s voice—a teenager, perhaps no older than herself.
She shouted up at him, “What have you done with Elfine?”
“Oh? What have you done with Tomorrow? Avaunt this place!” He raised his shield as arrows from the bowmen standing on the loading dock let fly a volley. The arrows bounced from shield, armor, and barding alike. He steered the horse with his knee to place himself and his steed between her and the bowmen.
The Cossack leaped up into human form and onto the loading dock. His costume and gear solidified out of a cloud of mist around him. He turned and raised his pistol. But at the same moment, the dark gray wolf—the same one who had been guarding the violin case—now leaped on the man from behind and, with his jaws, tore the gun from his hand.
The gun went off, but the bullet missed the knight. Instead, there was a noise too loud to be heard, and a gush of hot wind as sharp as a blow across the skull, and the all the upper windows of the Mr. Vegetable warehouse exploded outward in a shower of glass. Balls of red flame poured out and then columns of black smoke after. Alarm bells rang. The owls scattered. Whatever it was that the Cossack’s pistol fired was no bullet but had the force of dynamite.
As the dark gray wolf landed, stolen gun in mouth, he stumbled over the lip of the loading dock and fell to the concrete of the yard. His wolf pelt came off. Beneath, he was a dog, not a wolf. He had a white chest and snout, black ears, and bright eyes with circles like a raccoon mask around them. He was barking furiously, nose high, inordinately proud of himself. One owl and then another stooped down out of the black sky and clawed at his face but both of them missed.
The knight shouted, "Bad dog! Bad! You could be killed! Get out of there! Get Matthias!” To her, he turned and shouted, “Flee, miss! I shall defend you at the peril of my body, even if I die for it!”
Ami turned but she saw no direction in which to run. Several of the wolves were still circling her, hesitating, and she could not get her wirepoon gun out of her glove. She dodged one wolf who lunged at her, kicking him in the head. The others hung back, trying to get behind her.
The Cossack was staring at his bleeding hand in confusion and shock. The knight saw him, lowered his lance, and charged. The Cossack’s head jerked up at the sound, his eyes bright and fierce. As before, the Cossack’s splendid uniform turned into mist and vanished, and a large arctic wolf, rearing on hind paws, was in his place.
The steed’s hoofs practically flew across the concrete of the yard, kicking up gouges. The silver wolf howled and leaped headlong through the air toward the knight and his deadly lance, but then the Cheyenne and two other men in leather jackets, dropping their longbows, tackled the silver wolf in mid-leap, knocking him aside, and a smaller black wolf leaped at the charging knight and threw itself bodily on the lance, sacrificing its life without hesitation. The lance was fouled, and the silver wolf was pulled by his loyal minions back into the dark doors. The Cheyenne shouted a command.
The rough necrovore reared up and grinned with its crocodile mouth, and came rushing to battle. The speed of the charge was horrifying. It seemed unnatural that so huge a beast could move so fast.
Ami saw this and screamed in fear, seeing the gigantic beast rushing on the smaller figure of the knight. The boy in armor was sure to be killed! Fortunately, she had seen the speed of the huge red steed; the horse would no doubt carry the lad out of danger.
Instead, as if life and limb meant nothing, the knight shouted a battlecry, “For God and Arthur!” bent over the horse’s neck, lowered the lance, and rushed at an insane speed directly toward the vast beast.
All the wolves and owls, as if frozen, paused and stared. The great beast reared in fear as the lance darted toward its piggy eye. Instead, the shaft entered the breast where foreleg met ribcage, seeking the creature’s monstrous heart. The lance shaft sunk a yard into the blubber of the monster’s flesh and was torn from the hand of the knight as the tall red steed thundered past.
The beast, out of control, now trampled a line of wolves too stunned with fear to leap aside. Their bodies were scattered under the massive, galloping elephantine feet, and the other wolves yowled and fled, leaderless.
The knight drew his sword and shouted, “For Arthur! For Christ! For the Last Crusade!” The sword blade gleamed like a mirror in the gloom, wonderfully bright. And the knight set off charging after the beast. The first wolf who leaped toward the knight, he stabbed, and the sword blade erupted into bright fire, throwing shadows all along the street, and drawing reflections from all windows nearby.
By that light, in the distance, Ami saw a young man walking down the middle of the street about two blocks away. His head was bowed, and his steps unhurried. In one hand he held a book, and in the other, a candle in a candlestick.
2. Bell, Book, and Candle
As the beast rushed away and the knight thundered after in pursuit, most of the yowling wolves went rushing after the knight. The few who stayed here were circling her, their heads low, ears flattened, snarling.
She fumbled again at her belt. With her numb fingers and unresponsive hands, she could not feel which holster snap, pouch clasp, or knife handle was which. She threw down a trio of miniature grenades, which began spitting greenish-brown gas. Sh
e tossed her head to bring her mask over her face. The filters engaged automatically, and the neckpiece of her suit sealed airtight with a sharp hiss.
The tiny grenades must have been built on the same principles as her suit pouches and holsters because the volume of gas that erupted was more than seemed possible. The cloud erupted and filled the street. Her night vision was blocked, but the cloud was transparent on infrared wavelengths, and she saw the low, quadruped shapes of the wolves dancing and gyrating madly at the edge of the spreading gas cloud, trying to escape it.
Their noses were perhaps more sensitive that human noses because half of them started to stand up and take on human outlines: but these shouted and screamed even more loudly than the wolves howled, for they had no fur to protect their naked skin.
Ami ran as quietly as she could toward the edge of the cloud where the heat-shadows of the wolves were farthest apart. But there were still over a dozen wolves in the street and owls overhead despite those who had fled to chase the knight.
A wind from the river passed down the street, and the green cloud began to sink. Ami’s fingers fumbled at her belt, hoping she had one more gas grenade left.
Now only a hundred yards away, she could see the boy with the book and candle more clearly. He was a young man in rimless eyeglasses with a narrow face, solemn, and grave. His hair was long, falling almost to his shoulders, and his garb was black from neck to heel. Ami was certain she had seen him before.
He was reading from the book:
…let them be excluded from the bosom of our Holy Mother Church in Heaven and on Earth; let them be excommunicated and anathematized and judged condemned to eternal fire with Satan and his angels and all the reprobate, so long as any refuse to burst the fetters of the demon, do penance, and satisfy the Church. You are delivered hence to Satan to mortify your body, that your soul may be saved on the Day of Judgment….
He then dashed the candle to the ground, saying, “So be it! So be it! So be it!” Closing the book, he drew a bell from inside the pocket of his long, dark coat, unwrapped a handkerchief from its mouth to free the clapper, and rang the silver bell with a long, high, solemn sweep of his arm.
Daughter of Danger Page 13
