The Dragons of Andromeda Page 18

  “I don’t need a car,” she said. “What I want is your respect.”

  “I do respect you!” he said.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Maycare came out from behind the gravcar and grabbed Doric by the shoulders. She shrunk back, or attempted to, but Maycare’s hold was tight and unrelenting.

  “Of course I respect you,” he said. “I’m lost without you, Jess. I’m just too pigheaded to realize it sometimes!”

  “This is also inappropriate by the way,” she muttered.

  Maycare released her immediately and took a step back. “Sorry.”

  “Alright, Lord Maycare,” she said. “I’ll go back to work for you.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful!” he replied. “What about the gravcar? Should I take it back?”

  “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “I’m keeping the car.”

  Dr. Sprouse followed a corridor through the bowels of Warlock headquarters. She stopped at an unmarked door and knocked. From within, a man’s voice spoke. “Come in!”

  The doctor closed the door behind her once inside a long, narrow room with no windows. At the other end, a man with a hairless, throbbing head leaned over a workbench.

  “Good evening, Dr. Sprouse,” Lars Hatcher said without looking up.

  “It’s morning, actually,” she replied, stopping just behind his chair. On the bench, an ancient book with burned pages lay beside several instruments. “How’s it going?”

  Lars sat up, as if studying the question in his mind. Dr. Sprouse wondered if he was, in fact, studying her mind instead.

  “No,” Lars said. “I’m not reading your mind.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I meant,” Lars admitted, “not at first.”

  The doctor put her hand on the metamind’s shoulder as she leaned past him to get a better view of the tome. “The craftsmanship is amazing. The cover material looks odd though...”

  “It’s someone’s skin.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Not unless you knew someone from a hundred thousand years ago.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “You’re sure it’s that old?”

  Lars pointed at some of the pages, the edges singed to a crisp.

  “Carbon dating shows the latter pages are slightly more recent, but overall,” he said, “it’s a very old book.”

  “Any idea where it came from?” Dr. Sprouse asked.

  “Outside the Imperium. Perhaps beyond the Talion Republic.”

  “How did it get here then?”

  A thick blood vessel in Lars’ head pulsated. The doctor instinctively pulled her hand off his shoulder.

  “Difficult to say,” Lars replied. “Many parts of the Talion Republic were looted by Imperial forces after the end of the last war with the Magna Supremacy. We wanted to punish the Tals for supporting the Magna and apparently, taking their art treasures was part of that. On the other hand, it could have been smugglers.”

  Dr. Sprouse crossed her arms. “Skarlander will want facts, not speculation.”

  Lars, for the first time, turned his eyes to look at her. “I know.”

  As if by magic, a book lifted off a neighboring shelf and floated across the room until landing on the table. Cracking it open, Lars flipped through several pages until finding the spot he was searching for.

  “This is a book in High Dahlvish,” Lars said, pointing to a paragraph of intricate script. “It talks about a psionic ability the Dahl use to travel great distances with only their minds.”

  “Like a transmat?”

  “Not exactly,” Lars said. “They don’t actually travel physically. They project an ethereal image of themselves instead.”

  “Does the other book talk about the same thing?” Dr. Sprouse asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Lars replied. “After piecing together the burnt page fragments, I’m beginning to think the book allows the user to travel, but it’s unclear how. Perhaps using a portal of some sort.”

  “If we could understand the method,” Dr. Sprouse said, “it could revolutionize how we travel between planets...”

  Lars nodded.

  “I’ll need more of these books before that can happen,” he said.

  “Then let’s get you more books,” the doctor replied.

  The Veber family yacht settled into orbit above Lokeren. Standing on the transmat pad aboard her ship, Lady Veber was thankful to be home again. No longer needed, Magnus Black had already left, returning to the Starling.

  She wondered if she would ever see him again but, re-materializing on the surface, Lady Veber’s only ambition was to see her son. The consequences of her actions might mean a death sentence, but knowing she had avenged her boy’s illness gave her a sense of relief. The rest would take care of itself.

  From the transmat pad near the cliffs overlooking the ocean, Lady Veber walked purposefully up the trail to the estate. A few staff members and one or two robots met her at the entrance. She heard them talking about the state of her affairs— budgets and personnel issues— but their words were clutter to her ears. She drowned them out with thoughts of Philip and how he might have been faring since she was away.

  In the wing of the estate where their private quarters were located, Lady Veber passed her own door on her way to Philip’s. Although she was tempted to enter unannounced to surprise him, she paused to knock. She waited, but hearing no response, she tried the handle and went in. The lights were off, except for a few candles burned down to stumps. Concerned, she crossed through to the bedroom.

  Before Lady Veber had left for Aldorus and the capital city, she had been aware that her son had started collecting animals so she was not surprised to see the cages, even if their silence was unnerving. Her attention, however, was immediately drawn to a figure standing with its back to her in the dull candlelight.

  “Philip?” she asked.

  The person turned. Now in less shadow, it was clearly a woman and completely naked. She was also without hair and her skin was tattooed with strange lettering across her entire body. It took Lady Veber a moment to recognize her as Annis, the handmaiden.

  “Annis—?” Lady Veber began but stopped.

  The handmaiden’s eyes, cloudy white without pupils, showed signs of recognition, but didn’t reply. Behind her, beside a wooden table, the rough outline of a door was scrawled onto the wall with white chalk. Lettering like that written on Annis’ flesh was inscribed around the edges of the fake door.

  “Where’s my son?” Lady Veber pleaded.

  Annis, or whoever she was now, began moving toward her with plodding steps. With a scream, Lady Veber ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the stranger first arrived at the Katak village, one of the younger froglings went to the chief’s hut and told him the news. Lying in a cot covered with moss to comfort his tired bones, the chief struggled out of bed, standing with the help of his wooden staff.

  “There’s some people here,” the young Katak croaked.

  “Alright,” the old frogling said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  When the chief emerged, most of the villagers had assembled around the main bonfire still smoldering from the night before. On the far side, the stranger waited. He was taller than the Katak or even the Sylvan. He wore brown vestments and carried a tall staff of curved wood, topped with a skull. His skin was gray and chalky like bleached bones, and his eyes blazed like fires from otherwise empty sockets.

  The stranger was not alone. Accompanying him were creatures the chief learned later were called Ghuls. Like their master, they were somewhere between alive and dead, with rotting skin hanging off their bodies in various stages of decay.

  As the chief approached, the stranger reached into his mind.

  Greetings, the stranger said telepathically.

  Who are you? the chief thought.

  I am Ghazul of the Necronea.

  Necronea?

  My people live below the
ancient cemetery west of here, Ghazul said.

  What do you want?

  The chief could feel the stranger’s eyes staring through him, examining every fiber of his being.

  You’ve served your village a long time, Ghazul said, but now you see the end is coming and you’re afraid.

  All things die, the chief replied.

  But do they have to?

  What are you suggesting?

  Life everlasting, the stranger said. I’m offering you and your people life without end, and in return, I ask only that you provide us with what we need.

  Which is what?

  His mouth, without lips, turned up at the corners, baring his teeth in a gruesome smile.

  Sacrifice.

  When Sir Golan and the rest of the group arrived at the crypt, the three froglings outside were heading back toward the village. Unlike the rest of the Katak, these warriors showed no interest in fighting.

  “Tell them their chief is dead,” the knight said, turning to Silandra.

  Silandra focused on the Katak, singling out the apparent leader.

  “He says good,” she replied after a pause. “He says their chief made a deal with the man who lives below the graves. He says they were promised endless life but given only death.”

  “What about Sisa?” Mel asked.

  “She’s inside the crypt,” Silandra replied.

  Sir Golan approached the marble building, giving the door a firm shove.

  “It appears to be locked from the inside,” he said, tapping the metal with the tip of his sword. “The door is thick, too. I doubt even Rippana could do more than scratch it.”

  Mel reached into her satchel, removing a tool shaped like a small wand.

  “What’s that?” the knight asked.

  “A plasma torch,” Mel said.

  “How novel...”

  Mel stared at him, her eyebrows raised.

  “It’s... really not.”

  “Fair enough,” Sir Golan replied, sheathing his sword and crossing his arms.

  Sizing up the door, Mel set the torch against it, a brilliant blue light erupting from the tip, and began cutting a long, narrow swath across the metal surface. In less than a minute, a slab fell inward with a loud, echoing crash.

  Sir Golan stepped inside first, calling in the rest soon after. The crypt was a single room with a limestone sarcophagus filling most of it. Figures were carved along the sides of the coffin and the lid, but the knight did not recognize the creatures depicted.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” Silandra replied.

  “They’re running from that fellow there,” Squire remarked, pointing at a biped figure with tentacles coming from its face.

  “It’s the same person portrayed on top,” Sir Golan said, motioning to the lid.

  Sculpted in relief, the humanoid lay facing the ceiling, his arms crossed. A pair of angry eyes glared from beneath heavy, curled brows at the center of a domed head. Instead of a mouth, four tentacles protruded from his lower jaw. Each feeler coiled around itself, reaching out as if to touch Sir Golan and the others.

  “Who cares?” Mel shouted, throwing her arms in the air. “Has anyone noticed there’s no other exits in this room? Where did Sisa go?”

  Sir Golan, realizing she was right, took another look at the coffin lid.

  “Help me with this, Squire,” he said.

  The Cruxian and the robot pushed against the top of the sarcophagus. At first, the lid remained stubbornly motionless, but after a few more attempts, the limestone gave way, sliding a few feet to the side.

  Sir Golan peered over the side.

  “It’s empty,” he said.

  “How can that be?” Mel asked.

  “Except for a staircase,” the knight went on.

  Mel clenched both fists and shook them. “Gah!”

  “You’re very excitable,” the knight observed.

  When Silandra reached the bottom of the staircase, the others had fanned out into a circular chamber lined with blazing torches. Thick roots twisted along the walls and hung from the ceiling. The air smelled dank and rotten.

  “There’s tunnels going in every direction,” Mel said, shining a flashlight down one of the passages.

  “The floor is covered in tracks,” Sir Golan noted. “Difficult to tell which ones are fresh.”

  “Can you sense your daughter?” Squire asked.

  In her mind, Silandra focused her thoughts on Sisa like squinting at a fuzzy object in the distance.

  “I think...” she began, “I think she’s in that direction.”

  Silandra nodded toward a tunnel no different than the rest.

  His sword drawn, Sir Golan cautiously plodded inside with Mel behind him providing light. Silandra followed and Squire, with his energy shield active, protected the rear. The path was narrow and serpentine, everyone except Mel having to crouch at times to avoid hitting their heads.

  Scraping the top of his helmet against the tunnel roof, Sir Golan sent a scattering of loose dirt into Mel’s face.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” she protested.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” the knight replied ceremoniously.

  “Why do you talk like that anyway?” she asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind...”

  Sir Golan stopped.

  “What is it?” Mel asked.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “shine your light over there.”

  The beam of the flashlight landed on an object protruding from the ceiling at an angle. The knight tapped his sword against it, producing a wooden sound.

  “I believe it’s a coffin,” Sir Golan said.

  Silandra came closer and noticed the end of the coffin was torn open, the edges splintered.

  “It’s empty,” she said.

  As they continued, they came across more caskets poking from the dirt, each one broken and empty. A few were scratched along the sides as if by claws. Silandra became aware of another pattern.

  “The tunnel keeps changing direction every time it hits a coffin,” she said.

  “Oh, lord,” Mel said. “They’re using the tunnel to access the bodies. I bet all the tunnels are used for that. There must be hundreds of graves in that cemetery.”

  “To what end?” Squire asked.

  “Hell if I know!” Mel replied.

  Squire emerged from the narrow tunnel into a spacious chamber, the others having come out before him. The walls of the domed room were red clay with rocks jutting from between tree roots. Entrances to several more tunnels were visible in the dim light and the roar of flowing water was coming from the far side.

  “Sisa’s footprints are going that way,” Sir Golan said, motioning toward the thundering noise.

  Mel trained her flashlight in that direction, the beam catching watery mist floating through the air.

  “She’s close,” Silandra said anxiously.

  “Make haste!” Sir Golan shouted, starting to run.

  Following his master, Squire and the others quickly caught up with the knight at a wooden bridge on the edge of a cliff. An underground river cascaded below, disappearing into the dark. The other end of the bridge was lost in the gloom.

  “Looks kinda rickety,” Mel remarked, scanning the planks with her light.

  From somewhere up ahead, a girl’s voice cried out, echoing off the rocks. “Let me go!”

  “Sisa!” Silandra shouted.

  “Mom?”

  Silandra sprinted down the bridge with Sir Golan close behind. Mel looked at Squire for a moment before running after them. The robot followed, his heavy feet clomping against the soft, soggy wood. When he caught up, his master was slashing the arm off a humanoid creature with sickly skin and glazed eyes. Silandra and Sisa, illuminated by Mel’s flashlight, were sharing an embrace. With a stroke of Rippana, Sir Golan sent the creature’s head flying into the water rushing below. The rest of its corpse collapsed against the railing.
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br />   “What is that thing?” Mel asked.

  “A Ghul,” Sisa replied, buried in her mother’s arms.

  “Foul monsters,” Sir Golan muttered.

  Watching Silandra and her daughter together, Squire regretted his lack of emotional depth. He wondered if Mel could give him an upgrade.

  From the darkness, farther down the bridge, sounds started coming closer.

  “We should go,” Mel said, turning back the way they had come.

  “You go,” Sir Golan relied. “I’ll hold them off while you make your escape.”

  “Should I stay too?” Squire asked.

  “No need,” the knight said. “Now be off!”

  Reluctantly, Squire obeyed his master and followed Mel and the two Sylvans. Before they reached the end of the bridge, Mel stopped.

  “What is it?” the robot asked.

  “Look!” Mel replied.

  The hulking shape of a man blocked their way. Eight feet tall, the creature was covered in patches of skin, each different but all sewn together in a jigsaw puzzle of flesh. On each patch, an archaic letter was tattooed and glowed with a bluish hue.

  “It’s a golem,” Silandra said, “held together with Dark Psi.”

  “Dark psionics?” Mel asked. “I knew someone who used that...”

  “It’s an abomination,” Silandra replied.

  “He wasn’t so bad...”

  The flesh golem planted one of his heavy feet on the bridge. Squire felt the planks shake.

  “Without Sir Golan,” the robot said, “I don’t know how to stop this monster.”

  “The power comes from the ancient writing on his skin,” Silandra said. “We must destroy that to destroy the golem.”

  The creature’s other foot came down hard on the bridge. His eyes were nothing but specks of black like shards of coal.

  “Mel,” Squire said, “you didn’t happen to upgrade me with a flamethrower by chance?”

  “There wasn’t enough time,” Mel replied.

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Wait,” Mel said, reaching into her bag. “This’ll do the trick.”

  She pulled out a metallic cylinder and, removing a round pin on the top, tossed it at the golem’s feet.

  “Stop!” Silandra shouted but the device exploded, engulfing the creature in a fireball.