torg 03- The Nightmare Dream (14 page)

God, she was a stunning woman, Cage thought as he poured wine into her silver chalice. She had hair as dark as the night sky, and skin the color of alabaster. There was a playful smile upon her full, red lips, but her dark eyes hinted that the games she played were as dangerous as they were exciting.

She let her fingers glide slowly across his hand as he poured, and he felt the electricity in her touch. He tried to recall her name, for it was on all of the servants lips since he had infiltrated the palace. Clemeta, he remembered, catching himself before he let the wine overflow.

"You do not act like a servant," Clemeta purred. "Do I make you nervous, slave?"

"Should you?" Cage asked, trying to remember what

he was supposed to call the Royal Escort.

"Should I what?" she teased, scratching his flesh with her long fingernails.

"Is something wrong, Clemeta?" Mobius inquired, finally noticing their exchange.

Cage locked eyes with Clemeta, trying to communicate with her without making Mobius suspicious. He desperately hoped she wouldn't draw attention to him, but he had no idea what was going through her mind. After a few heartbeats (during which Cage held his breath), Clemeta tore her gaze from him and called to Mobius is a sing-song voice.

"Wrong, my Pharaoh?" Clemeta asked. "What could be wrong?"

She turned away, dismissing Cage without a word. But Clemeta had left her mark. As she pulled her hand away from his, she let her nails slide quickly down the length of his finger. In their wake was a thin trail of bright-red blood.

39

Thratchen stood at the bay window in the dining hall, looking out into the long gray day that hung over Orrorsh realm. Of the Gaunt Man's two great inventions, only one was still operating. The stormers led by Tolwyn of House Tancred had destroyed his possibility sorting device, and with it the hopes of creating a reality pattern free of the possibility of failure. But his second device, the infernal machine, still continued its work somewhere in the Indian Ocean. The machine was the reason the Earth was slowing down. It was draining away the physical energy of the planet and storing it for later use.

In the Gaunt Man's plan, the physical energy would be infused into him along with the enormous amount of possibility energy also provided by the Earth. Without the physical'energy, he would literally burst from the power of the possibility energy. Now Thratchen had to figure out how to do the same thing with the mechanisms still in place. If only he could find out where the Gaunt Man hid Heketon, his Darkness Device.

There was a knock at the door to the hall, and the man-servant Picard announced, "The Lady Sabathine has arrived."

"Show her in, Picard," Thratchen ordered.

The ancient vampyre entered, and Thratchen caught his breath. He knew that it was of unnatural origin, but nevertheless, Sabathine was darkly beautiful. She wore a flowing gown, and her hair fell loosely to frame her alabaster face. She smiled at his reaction, offering her hand for him to kiss.

He obliged.

"Do you like what you see, Thratchen?" she inquired, letting her sensuous voice caress him.

"You walk in beauty like the night," he quoted, and Sabathine laughed. "Come, sit at my table and let us talk."

He took her arm and led her to the table, holding her chair for her in a gentlemanly manner. She flashed him a grateful smile, and for a moment the image of a spider and a fly flashed through his mind. He had no idea which role either of them was playing.

Wine was poured, and Picard served dinner. Through it all, their conversation was light, friendly, often suggestive. Finally, pushing away his plate, the techno-demon asked, "Do you need to eat food, Sabathine, or do you do it just for enjoyment?"

The vampyre treated him to another one of her lilting laughs. "Everything I do is for enjoyment, Thratchen. I

thought you knew that."

"Unfortunately, there are a lot of things that I don't know, my lady," Thratchen admitted. "I am not a native of this cosm. I only joined the Gaunt Man's court when my master pledged the remains of our race to his service. For example, I have recently heard the term 'dire wolf'. Does it have any meaning to you?"

Sabathine looked at him with playful eyes, trying to ascertain what kind of game he was playing. Good, he thought, let her keep guessing.

"That's right," she said, "the dire wolves were gone — well, just about — by the time you arrived in court. Great, proud creatures they were, a high order of werebeast. They haven't existed since shortly after the Gaunt Man claimed Orrorsh as his own, and even before that there were only a few packs of them. They hunted where they would, and few could deny them that right."

"What happened to them?" Thratchen asked, completely intrigued by her tale.

"The dire wolves joined together to oppose the Gaunt Man's invasion," she continued. "They even appealed to another cosm, a cosm full of the werecreatures, and they resisted the Gaunt Man for long months. It would have been called a war, if not for the way it ended."

Sabathine sipped from her wine, never taking her sparkling, mischievous eyes from the techno-demon. She ran her finger slowly along the lip of the crystal goblet, then placed it to her lips so that she could lick the liquid from it.

"How did it end?" Thratchen demanded. He was totally captivated, which was dangerous when dealing with a vampyre as powerful as Sabathine, but he didn't care. He had to know how the story ended. His curiosity demanded it.

Sabathine smiled. "He destroyed them all. Every dire wolf on Orrorsh, every one of them in that far away cosm, wiped out. Even the memory of them was erased, except in whispered stories like the one I'm telling you now."

"They were all destroyed?" Thratchen sighed.

"No, not all," Sabathine admitted. "One remained at court, serving the Gaunt Man as an example of sorts, but his memory was wiped clean. He didn't know who he was."

"Kurst," Thratchen said.

"Yes, the Gaunt Man's hunter."

"Why was Kurst allowed to live?" Thratchen asked. "Why were his memories denied him?"

Sabathine rose and walked over to the demonkind. She rested her hand on his shoulder. "Enough questions, Thratchen," she said, her voice almost hushed. "Besides, what you ask me I do not know. Ask your master when he returns. There are other things I want to do right now."

The demonkind looked at her, then he smiled. "Can you love, Sabathine?" he asked.

"More questions, Thratchen?" she said, her eyes aflame with merriment and dark desire. "Come learn the answers."

Sabathine took his clawed hand and led him away from the table. His mind flashed the image of a web, but he dismissed it and followed her into the darkness.

40

The jeep emerged from the storm into a mist-filled landscape that was the world that Decker knew — but yet it wasn't. He made a quick check and saw that everyone was alive, including Julie. She stopped the

vehicle, however, and turned to Kurst.

"You didn't say anything about fog," she screamed, releasing the tension of the drive through the storm. "Look at this stuff! It's as thick as pea soup! I'll never be able to drive through this."

"Yes you will, Julie," Kurst said, returning to his seat beside her. "I will guide you."

"Don't tell me you can see through this stuff?"

"No, but I have traveled in it before. There are certain ... tricks I know."

"I'll bet."

"Okay, let's not panic," Decker said calmly, trying to ease the tension. "This stuff wasn't here the last time I traveled through the Living Land. Maybe it'll blow over."

Paragon shook his head. "No way, man. This is the Deep Mist. Baruk Kaah had it brought down from Takta Ker with miracles. It's here for the duration."

"Then we'll just have to make the best of it," he said.

The mist obscured vision. Ten meters past the jeep, everything became shapes and vague forms. After thirty meters, they couldn't see anything. Unlike the morning mist Decker associated with cool mornings, this mist was warm and humid. It was uncomfortable, and Decker wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stand being in its confining embrace.

Kurst tilted his head, the now-familiar gesture that meant he heard something.

"What is it, Kurst?" Decker asked.

"Be very quiet, Decker, and maybe it will pass by us," Kurst said evenly.

Out of the mist galloped a score of black horses and gray stags. On their backs, riding with wild abandon, were armored warriors that appeared to be out of a

Celtic myth. Some wore horned helmets, others brandished heavy axes. Ravens flew around them, and large wolf hounds ran at their sides and between the legs of their mounts. Between them, lightning danced, and every hoof fall was accompanied by crashing thunder. From certain angles, when the lightning flashed at just the right time, the riders' flesh appeared transparent and he could see the gleaming white of their bones. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders were gone.

"What ..P." Decker tried to say, but an unnatural fear gripped his heart, and he couldn't find the words to say.

"The Wild Hunt," Paragon said.

Kurst nodded.

"Get us out of here, Julie," Decker finally managed. "It feels like death just rode past us."

"It did, Ace," Kurst said. "And now it rides toward Covent and his men."

"Don't even think it, Ace," Julie warned as she started the jeep, letting it roll slowly forward. "We've got our own agenda."

She hit the gas pedal and the jeep gained speed. "If you have a trick, let me in on it, Kurst," she called. "Here we go!" Julie, Kurst, Paragon, Decker and the jeep began moving and were soon swallowed by the Deep Mist.

41

Claudine Guerault tried to stay to the shadows as she made her way down the streets of Avignon, France. Since the miracle had occurred, religious fervor had swept the city. As far as she knew, the whole country was awash in the religious revival. The Dark Ages had returned to France, and Guerault was trapped without a light to show her the way.

No street lights illuminated the sidewalks. No automobiles raced through the avenues. Not even the drifting sound of a radio turned up too loud greeted her ears. The Church, which had gained unbelievable power the past few weeks, had branded technology and the tools of the modern world as evil. Guerault shivered at the thought, and cursed herself for letting herself get caught in the madness.

She leaned against the cool brick face of an old building, taking a brief rest. Hiding was hard work, dangerous work. She had seen too many horrors since the miracle had occurred to let her caution falter. But she was so tired. As she let her eyes drop closed — only for a few seconds, she told herself — sounds came to her, drifting on a light breeze.

It sounded like a party, she thought, full of excitement and anticipation. When a cheer rose up, she opened her eyes. She had been a reporter before the city changed, always would be a reporter, she imagined. The cheers made her curious. Suddenly she had a burning desire to find out what was going on.

The sounds came from around the corner. She made her way there carefully, staying to the shadows closest the buildings. In the middle of the square, a large crowd was gathered around a bonfire. Standing atop a platform, cajoling the crowd to greater excitement, was a priest dressed in simple parish garb.

What was he saying? Something about evil? She listened, concentrating on his voice over the sound of the crowd. "Throw away the instruments of evil, my children!" the priest urged. "They do nothing for you except blacken your souls and remind you of the pleasures of hell! Yes, they provide amusement, but the damned souls find little to laugh about in the eternal

flames!"

The crowd responded with shouts of agreement, and more people joined the growing circle around the fire. My God, Guerault thought, now they were burning books! The very idea appalled her, and she forgot herself and stepped closer to the crowd.

"Your souls have been weighted down by these foul gifts of Satan," the priest continued. "And this is the worst of the lot!" He lifted a small, personal computer over his head for all to see, and the crowd gasped. Some even backed away, fearful of getting too close to such an evil object.

Guerault would have laughed if they crowd wasn't so serious. They weren't burning books. They were burning appliances and office equipment!

"Now, my children," the priest urged, "let us give these evil things back to the flames!" With that, he tossed the computer into the fire. There was a loud crack as the plastic casing was consumed in the hot flames.

Suddenly the crowd joined him, throwing toasters, televisions, telephones, video tapes—even a refrigerator — into the fire. They danced around it as they did their work, singing praises to God and the Church as cameras and microwave ovens were fed to the flames.

Guerault was dizzy with the sight of it, sickened by the level to which her countrymen had been reduced. Were these the actions of holy men? Were these even the actions of sane men? Suddenly she felt naked and exposed so close to the crowd, and the fire made her sweat. She backed into the shadows, then ran back the way she came.