by Al Ewing
That didn't mean El Sombra was immune to the mist either. The strange fog was slowly starting to make his head swim, bringing up memories of his brother's curse and Jesus Santiago's final accusing stare. He hadn't torn his own face off just yet, but he could feel his mind slowly breaking under the pressure. It was time to check out.
He grunted, teeth gritting again, as his hand tore free of the manacle, raw and bloody. It felt like the edge of the metal cuff had taken off most of the skin, and he was lucky his thumb hadn't been dislocated. He flexed it a few times before reaching for the cotter pin he kept fixed at the back of his mask and starting work on the other shackle, trying not to breathe in more than he had to. The sooner he was out in the fresh air, the better he'd like it.
"So... where are you keeping her?"
General Eisenberg admired his dress uniform in the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks carefully. "In the basement. We still have some holding cells there from the days before we built the Palace. I wouldn't go down there, though. It's bad luck to see the bride the night before the wedding."
"It's a quarter to eleven, Father. The wedding's at noon. I'm sure it wouldn't do any harm to look in on her. Just to share a final sweet moment together before we meet at the altar..." Alexis busied himself brushing his shoes, which had arrived in the post that morning from Milan, where they were currently proving the height of fashion. This was one of the few pairs of shoes Alexis had ordered in recent weeks that had actually arrived in any fit state to be worn. He had lost eight pairs of suede loafers - hand-crafted in Tuscany - when the Traction Engine had toppled over the cliff, and attempts to have other pairs brought across the desert on the trolleys had been stymied by El Sombra's one-man raiding parties. Once, he'd been fortunate enough to receive a pair of brogues from Saville Row that had allegedly managed to find their way through. He'd opened the box to find an 'E' carved onto one toe and an 'S' onto the other.
Alexis shook his head. "I'm sorry, Father, what were you saying?"
"I was running through the schedule for today, Alexis, if you could take your mind off your footwear for a moment. Carina and her father have both been dressed and are being gathered for the ceremony. They'll be waiting by the main doors by 11:30 hours. By 11:40, I need you to - where are you going?"
Alexis looked back at his father as he sauntered to the door, flashing his angelic smile. "Well, I've got almost an hour. I thought I'd borrow a wing-pack and head over to the Palace. Maybe check in on my best man... show him my new sword." He grinned and hefted the recently-acquired blade, twirling it a little before placing it in a sheath at his waist.
The Generaloberst closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to control his anger. "You don't need another reason to talk to Master Minus, Alexis. You pay more attention to that withered corpse of a man than you do to your father. I told him - and I told you - there is no way in hell that El Sombra is going to be your best man. I don't care what sort of message it sends, we're not dropping a random element like that into a controlled experiment! We either have him publicly executed or we have him put to work on the latrines-" He looked up from his tirade and lapsed into angry silence.
Alexis had gone.
El Sombra hadn't had any luck finding anything to wear, but he had found a Japanese katana to match the tanto. The twin swords had been a gift from the Japanese emperor after the recognition of Manchukuo in 1938, and had been subsequently passed on to Master Minus in recognition of his service. They were a good pair of swords - finely balanced and very sharp. As El Sombra had had no practice fighting with a dagger, he took the longer one and left the tanto behind. He wasn't too fond of that blade anyway. The blood was still dripping down over his belly.
His left wrist was still throbbing and stinging, and the yellow mist was hardly helping his composure. The maze of tunnels and cells that composed the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts was ghoulish and confusing enough in the ordinary course of events, but with Master Minus' drugs coursing through his veins and lungs, the cold and sterile concrete felt like the inside of some hideous mausoleum. The walls loomed in oppressively and the echo of each footstep convinced him that there were enemies on all sides, waiting like tigers to spring at him. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. There were no guards stationed inside the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts. Soldiers were required to enter only to escort prisoners to their cells. Once in their cells, any prisoners were swiftly made tractable and easily directed by the mists, and Master Minus could generally move them from place to place himself without any trouble.
Those few prisoners left in their cells did not reassure El Sombra in the slightest. When he worked open their cell doors and attempted to give them their freedom, most simply continued lying on the floor as they had been. One or two burst into tears. One man of around thirty walked towards the grey concrete wall of his cell and began to rhythmically bang his head against it, until El Sombra knocked him unconscious to keep him from fracturing his skull.
Carina, thankfully, was not among the prisoners. To see her in that state would have most likely driven El Sombra over the edge.
Eventually, the masked man opened an airtight metal door to find himself in a small room with leather jumpsuits in a variety of sizes hanging on one wall, and another larger airtight door on the other. As he closed the smaller door behind him, extractor fans in the ceiling pumped slowly into life, drawing the yellow mist from the room and replacing it with clean, fresh air. El Sombra felt his head begin to clear immediately, and allowed himself to stand for a moment, taking in deep lungfuls, relaxing as the artificial wind slowed around him.
The outer door began to open.
Hans Bader had been guarding the outer door to the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts for a little over three years. In many ways, he was the perfect candidate for such a duty, for Hans Bader had lived in a state of almost constant fear and anxiety for most of his adult life.
His first memory was of seeing his father's pipe in a pipe-holder in the study, and reaching up with tiny little fingers to take hold of the fascinating object. His father had not had the chance to clean his briar-bowl that day, and the ash had, quite naturally, gone everywhere, most of it scattering on an antique rug that his father had brought back from Turkey. Hans Bader vividly remembered how his mother had grabbed his shoulders and shaken him roughly. "You're a stupid, stupid, stupid little boy!" she had screamed, as he bawled in uncomprehending terror. His father stood by, shaking his head, and at the end of his mother's outburst he had simply muttered that he was very disappointed. Then he left Hans Bader to sit in his room and think about what he'd done.
It was a pattern that repeated itself throughout his childhood. There would be some minor infraction - a bottle of milk accidentally tipped over perhaps, or an egg dropped on the floor, or simply a word out of place - and his mother would grab at his shoulders, shake him roughly, and bellow that he was stupid and useless and had no common sense whatsoever. His father would simply repeat, in his low, slow, sad voice, that he was extremely disappointed. And Hans would be sent, shaking at the ferocity of the verbal assault, to his room, to think deeply about what a useless and pathetic creature he truly was.
He began to jump at shadows, staying in his room constantly to avoid the verbal attacks, spending his time there trembling and twitching with an unnamed dread. His father, having already proved himself an expert on the rearing of children, took his listlessness and depression for indolence and resolved, after caning the boy several times, that the best thing for him would be the army.
And thus, Hans Bader was enlisted with the Ultimate Reich.
Naturally, by this time his confidence had been not so much damaged as razed to the ground. He was utterly incapable of using his own initiative by this point, and as a result, stood frozen and trembling while his fellow soldiers rushed about their tasks, petrified lest he make some tiny, insignificant error. He was deathly afraid of his drill instructor upon first meeting, and memorably wet himself on being ask
ed his name, which sealed his fate with regards to his fellow soldiers. 'Wetpants Bader' had a career that mostly consisted of being shuttled from one place to another, screamed at for being almost completely incompetent, and then dismissed, to be moved on to the next hellhole that awaited him.
Eventually, his travels took him to Aldea. By this stage, he was heartsick, barely able to eat and had developed a severe nervous twitch in his right eye. When other soldiers stood stiffly to attention, he hunched his shoulders, quivering like an autumn leaf.
It was in such a state of nervous exhaustion that he was first taken to meet Master Minus.
Master Minus had never had more enjoyable company.
Soon, Hans Bader was given a new task, one he was told that he could not possibly fail at. He would stand outside the door to the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts and prevent anyone without the proper clearance from entering - a simple matter of remembering the faces of three people. And whenever he heard the telltale whine of the fans, that was his cue to open up the door and allow Master Minus to leave, lest the old man strain himself turning the heavy iron handle.
Almost shockingly, he found himself happy in this work. It was so very simple, and Master Minus was the only person he had ever met who truly liked him for who he was. Slowly, he began to feel more self-assured. Which, for Hans Bader, meant fewer episodes of bed wetting and more nights spent sleeping rather than staring at the ceiling and shivering in cold, stark, fear.
For a little over three years, Hans Bader had guarded the door, protecting the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts against any threats that might come from outside. He was finally somewhere close to being happy, and had even grown almost proud of his three years of service. He felt that he could finally call himself competent.
Unfortunately, he couldn't. In guarding the door against outside intruders, he had made another grievous error - his last.
He had never considered that a threat might appear from within.
His end was mercifully swift. The keen edge of the katana cut through Hans' side, slicing through organ, muscle and bone until it exited through his shoulder; along the way, it split his heart into two unequal segments, ending his life in an instant.
The body slid into two chunks as El Sombra stepped back, nimbly avoiding the gore.
As he stood, breathing heavily and trying to get the remains of the drug out of his system, a small burst of applause erupted from the sky above his head. He looked up.
There, smiling angelically in a wing-harness, steam-wings creaking softly as he slowly glided towards the ground, was Alexis Eisenberg. El Sombra looked at him, and then looked at his right hand. Suddenly he could no longer hear for the sound of blood pounding relentlessly in his ears.
Clutched in Alexis' hand was the sword that had belonged to El Sombra's brother, Heraclio.
The Generaloberst walked around the Old Church slowly, casting a critical eye over the new decor. Finally he paused, and turned to Oberleutnant Odell Strauss, who had masterminded the workforce in transforming the place in a single night.
"Most satisfactory, Oberleutnant. The pews could perhaps have used a little more work, but the new altar is perfectly serviceable. And I particularly like the new stained-glass window. It's simple yet bold."
The window that had been shattered by El Sombra on his entrance had been replaced by a gigantic swastika, in black on red. It cast the whole church in a baleful, bloody glow, making it look like a place more suited to satanic rituals than a wedding. The altar had also been remodelled, the angels originally pictured on its sides replaced by soaring eagles flying though fields of sculpted fire, and the wooden pews were now decorated with more swastikas, tastefully carved into the wood at regular intervals. The only part of the Old Church untainted by the Nazi emblem was the creaking old pipe organ. It had been dismantled to create a space for Das Drehkreuz to lurk in, but now it was back in its old familiar place, as though it had never left. Ironically, under the infernal light it looked like nothing so much as an ancient torture device.
Oberleutnant Strauss nodded. "Thank you, Herr Generaloberst. Under the circumstances, I feel it would be wise to discipline the workers who recarved the pews, since their craft has proved somewhat lacking."
Eisenberg nodded. "Shoot them. Master Minus is far too busy to be interrupted with trifles. My son is no doubt delaying him with foolish requests as we speak." He looked down at his watch - twenty minutes to noon. He sighed, and walked to the open double doors, looking out at the street. Over a distant rooftop, he could see a single stone hand where once there had been the reassuring figure of his Führer, standing in proud dominion over the town.
He sighed and shook his head.
"Where is that boy?"
Alexis smiled as he touched down in front of the masked man. He wore a tuxedo which had cost slightly over 2,000 Marks, a pair of shoes hand-stitched by Salvatore Ferragamo himself, and a necktie made by McLaren and Westwood of the King's Road, a black silk affair with a single blood-red swastika imprinted on it where a tiepin would normally stand. Even the creaking pack on his back fitted perfectly, the straps holding fast without ruining the line of the suit. He looked - and felt - truly angelic. The perfect couture in which to slaughter his greatest enemy.
The trick would be to avoid getting blood on the tuxedo. Although perhaps a little would offset the fabric nicely.
He examined his enemy. El Sombra trembled slightly as he stood, like a leaf in a light breeze. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his knuckles white as they gripped the handle of the katana. He looked feverish, occasionally shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. Several fresh wounds were bleeding down over his right nipple, arranged in a pattern the significance of which escaped Alexis entirely. And he was completely naked except for the mask.
Alexis ran his finger slowly over the scar that marked his beautiful face, then grinned like a wolf.
The mask would have to go.
He lunged forward, aiming the point of Heraclio's sword at El Sombra's shoulder. The masked man, still disoriented from the yellow mist, and reeling from the sight of his brother's most prized possession in the hand of the man who had murdered him, failed to block the blow quickly enough, and the point of the sword grazed his shoulder, drawing fresh blood.
El Sombra grimaced in pain. Paradoxically, his first thought was not to the two inch gash in his shoulder, but rather to his brother's sword. Bad enough that it was in the hands of Alexis, but the katana was by far the stronger blade. El Sombra knew from the heft and the sharpness that it was capable of snapping Heraclio's sword in two, like an axe chopping a sapling. Perhaps he should have done just that - ended the threat before using a second slash to divest Alexis of both his wolfen smile and the head that went with it. But this was his brother's sword. It was more than just a weapon. It was all that remained of Heraclio. It had been handed to him with his brother's dying breath. It was not a possession, but rather a sacred relic.
It would be wrong to say that for El Sombra, losing the sword was like losing a limb. It would be like losing the very heart beating in his breast.
Alexis knew this, of course.
He had not spent years visiting and conversing with Master Minus simply for the company. He had always been adept in spotting the physical weaknesses of his foes, but with the insights the old torturer had provided him, he knew where to search for psychological weakness as well. His father, for example, had a deeply buried fear of the Führer - something Alexis suspected was common in those who had actually come face to face with Adolf Hitler in his later years. A simple phone call had been enough to arouse the Führer's interest in Projekt Uhrwerk and inform him about the new element attacking it, and suddenly the great General Eisenberg was concentrating less on controlling his son than on saving his own neck, which had allowed the younger Eisenberg the freedom to play his own games. As a result of which, Alexis had discovered El Sombra's own hidden weakness. He grinned, darting forward again, forcing the renegade to parry his brother's
blade as it aimed for his heart and then for lower organs. Then he spoke.
"What's the matter, Djego?"
El Sombra stumbled back as though he had been struck. Alexis stepped forward to fill the gap, keeping Heraclio's sword moving, forcing the masked man to continue parrying to avoid being skewered. "Oh, I see..." He chuckled, his right arm a blur of motion. "This is the way your brother was killed, wasn't it, Djego? While you watched? As I remember, you were crying at the time, like a little child, so it's always possible you didn't see very much. But you saw plenty of him afterwards, didn't you, Djego?"
It was like being punched in the stomach. The name. Again and again. The shame of it. The man he had been, and as the yellow mist sparked and hissed inside his brain, the man he was again. Dirty and ashamed and alone in his brother's blood.
He swung the katana, but it was with Djego's strength, and Alexis easily blocked the clumsy strike. El Sombra - if it was El Sombra and not Djego, that foppish, foolish young man who had let his brother die - blinked, trying to marshal his thoughts. He was being taken apart like an amateur. He was an amateur. He was weak and hopeless and useless...
"You've failed him again, Djego. Poor Heraclio. It's a good thing I killed him. Imagine how he'd feel to see this." Alexis was, frankly, having the time of his life. This was utterly perfect. It was everything he'd wanted since the first time he'd been humiliated by the man in the mask. It was perfect. The perfect wedding present.
