Chapter 13

 

The smooth, metallic hull of the Gloriana had been uncommonly reflective even before its power had been restored. Now, as it cut through cloudbanks on its rifle-shot course between the continents, no light dared to strive for a foothold on its repellent surface, and had there been anyone to observe, they would have seen no more than an unusually active heat-haze. Travelling as it was at somewhat over two thousand miles an hour, they would not even have been able to enjoy even this vague apparition for any great length of time. This was probably just as well, as the combined powers of the world possessed no artillery capable of causing the ancient vessel the slightest inconvenience, and knowledge of its approach would only have upset them.

        In stark contrast, the pilot was very nearly on his last legs. Slumped upon the panel, bathing in sweat, and breathing in a rapid staccato of short gasps, the fact that the interior of the vessel seemed completely insulated from the violent extremes of acceleration braved by the exterior was of small comfort to Lieutenant Dorus. The only solace he derived was from the knowledge that he was within minutes of achieving the main crossing, and precious time for recovery. The regent’s plan had been for a non-stop flight until all the cities had been hit, but Dorus sincerely doubted he could survive the attempt. Thankfully, with his mind attuned to the navigational archive, he could instantly locate a rich variety of desert and wilderness in the lands ahead, in which he could ground the Gloriana and take some respite, before commencing the attack run. Whether he would last even that long, or collapse in the next few minutes and finish up crushed to a sliver on the ocean floor, remained to be seen.

 

Admiral Corin had not got where he was today by entertaining fanciful fears, and had at first angrily dismissed his lieutenant’s morbid assurances that the screams they had been hearing – and following – in the depths of the increasingly complex and deranged tunnel system, were, in fact, the same scream, slavishly repeated. The most he had initially conceded was that they were all certainly uttered by a male daemon – Corin was hardly likely to mistake that detested accent – and that they were all expressive of the same, mortally terrified emotion.

        Though openly he had admitted no change in his opinions, he was gradually arriving at the reluctant conclusion that his lieutenant had a point. There was a distinct lack of variation in the oft-repeated cries, which were becoming louder and clearer by the minute, and the admiral was briefly ashamed to discover himself drifting rather closer to the corporal who had been tracing the map of their progress. Considering the nature of the labyrinth, involving such friendly tricks of perception as doorways that were only visible from certain angles, or from certain sides, he was by no means certain that it would serve much purpose in the event of a very hurried withdrawal, but chalk marks had stubbornly refused to adhere to the smooth, prickly walls, and no-one had thought to bring along a mile or two of string. Needs must, but he was now entertaining some very serious doubts. Indeed, he was very close to giving up the hunt and ordering a return to the entry tunnel, where he could take great pleasure and no small relief in laying a hefty charge of blasting gelatine and burying the filthy place for the better part of eternity. Then, it dawned upon him that the last, mechanically faithful scream had been from mere yards away, and dead ahead. However, there were deep shadows in that part of the tunnel, obscuring the source of the cry. He had just picked a couple of men to go forward and investigate, when the lieutenant pointed out, with his typical cheer, that the shadows were themselves advancing. Corin’s revived sense of contempt and derision lasted for about a second on this occasion, as the disembodied death-screams bore down upon the squad in their cloak of black vapour.

 

Dorus? This is Gloriana. Can you hear me?

        Her thoughts pierced through the masses of telepathic data and the haze of Dorus’s exhaustion as a faint, but unwelcome distraction, threatening to break his faltering control over the craft. In his own mind, he could not refrain from cursing her liberally, but to judge by her failure to appreciate the precarious nature of his situation, she was evidently not paying much attention:

        I have new orders for you, Dorus: my enemies here have moved against me, and now they hold the town. The admirals have betrayed me, and my people have been murdered. Lucinia can wait. You must act now to put an end to this treasonous coup… I can see you, Dorus. Are you conscious? He managed a slow, painful, resentful nod. Patience, lieutenant. I know the strain you must be under, but it will not be for much longer. Discharge one of the amber cylinders over this mutinous rabble. When they have been ‘blessed,’ let them form their own estimation of my ‘true’ powers. Then, find a safe place to land. Rest, then. But do not delay. I am in grave danger.

        The telepathic message ended, and Dorus had already, wearily and unthinkingly, redirected the course of the Gloriana to Fort Rowan, when the implications of this order hit him between his glassy, watering eyes. Gloriana’s deposition was no surprise in itself – the only surprise was that she had lasted as long as she had – but he had certainly never expected to be summoned as her champion at the final reckoning, and there was precious little comfort or flattery to be taken from that. Success in such a role would certainly do his military career no favours. Come to that, except in the laughably unlikely event that, even as dismayed and anarchic changelings, the entire Admiralty would deign to beg the mercy and favour of Her Highness, it would leave the lieutenant as a wretched pariah. It was hard to imagine the parents of Albinor extending open arms to the loyal lackey who had arranged that their sons should return home as daemons, purely to fulfil the final, vengeful command of a deposed and powerless regent.

        He was her last, pathetic hope of regaining the vaguest shadow of her former position, through a personal gamble so unrewarding and otherwise repulsive to his mind, that he could neither consider it, nor her, without detestation. By what right did she imagine herself entitled to command him, in this or in anything, bearing in mind that by her own admission, his senior officers had rejected her outright? And why should he not join them in rejection? If necessary, her plans for Lucinia could still be put into effect in due course. Lord Corin would doubtless distrust, but if he was now co-operating with Lord Lycon, there was every chance he could be brought around to the idea of a quick, and relatively bloodless resolution. In fact, there was much to be thankful for: the end of a controversial, humiliating and unstable regency was hardly to be lamented, and if, as it seemed, it had actually inflicted a much-needed spirit of fellowship upon the Admiralty, it was to be positively praised. By all these favourable signs, Albinor was rapidly heading towards unprecedented greatness, and that was where Dorus wanted to be. Certainly, rather that than sharing an unmarked grave with some short-lived tyrant, for the sake of some worthless ideal of chivalrous fealty. He now knew where his true loyalties lay.

        During these reflections, the Gloriana had continued unchecked on its north-east course, losing altitude as it approached Fort Rowan. When it arrived there, and the lieutenant was still in the depth of reverie and quite unaware, for want of any new orders it continued on its trajectory. When the disc finally impacted with the mountainous terrain, even the unparalleled skills of the ancient faery shipwrights could not have prevented it from rupturing. The distorted, sealed environment of the interior, suddenly exposed to a hostile world of three rigid dimensions, instantly gave up any attempt to exist any further, and Lieutenant Dorus passed from the world in hope and pride.

 

The screams continued to sound at their rear, whilst Corin and – as he now feared – the last two surviving marines from the squad retreated at a very smart pace through the corpse-lit corridors of the labyrinth, following the crude map to the best of their abilities. Hopeful signs that the hellish tumult had been left in the distance were long forgotten. The repeating cries – now increased to a hideously varied repertoire – had been perceptibly gaining on them for several minutes, and navigation through the maddening convolutions, map or no, was a laborious and not very hopeful business. Still, there were no thoughts of turning and making a stand of it: much good their first attempt had done them, and Corin was not a man to repeat his mistakes. If some Hades-spawned abomination should jump them in the rear, it was probable that the lack of honour involved in such a death would be the least of his concerns. On the other hand, if they should reach the main tunnel with enough time to lay a charge, being able to entomb that blasphemous atrocity beneath the mountains would not be among the least of his consolations. He was satisfied that the regent, along with any survivors of her retinue who had been unfortunate enough to seek refuge in this unhallowed den, had met her death in a hideous enough fashion that he could not, or would not have attempted to surpass, but there was no immediate solace to be drawn from such reflections.

        The doorway in the wall before them appeared no more than a black, vertical scratch, but proved more than wide enough to allow their passage. It was a nauseating procedure for a rational-minded man, but one that Corin was getting altogether too accustomed to. On this occasion, the effort was well rewarded: they passed through into a tunnel that was, for all their inability to conceive a fixed and definite idea of its structure, quite evidently larger than the ones they had been recently traversing. They had, for all their doubts, kept true to the late corporal’s map, and were back in the main tunnel. One right turning, and one last dash for the antechamber, and they would be ready to seal this detestable catacomb from the land of the living, bearing in mind that the screaming was still hard on their heels.

 

Curse that poor idiot, Lath. When she should have keeping tabs on Dorus, the control system had kindly informed Gloriana that the rogue miasma – which it had cost her no small effort to seal in – had been alerted by the recent intrusion, and was now on the rampage. She would just have to trust the lieutenant to keep his faith, as there was certainly no ignoring this alarm. When it had finished off any stray invaders in the tunnels – which, she reluctantly conceded, would be of some comfort if it helped to preserve the secret of her bolt-hole – it would most certainly track down her heartbeat and make a complete job of the carnage.

        Come to that, she could already hear a faint, but tortured screaming from the tunnel. There were more than a few cries in there, mostly unfamiliar, but she thought that she heard Lath’s among them. That was more than enough to be going on with. She sat before the panel, placed her hands upon ancient instruments which even her heightened daemon senses could barely perceive, and focused her thoughts upon noise. Engines, explosions, gunshots, riots: enough to persuade the system to set up a loud distraction for the scavenging thing, until she could construct another sound-proofed barrier. The task required a great effort of concentration, through which she could not afford to notice, never mind acknowledge the approach of rapid footfalls.

 

The grisly commotion, having been mere yards behind the fleeing men, had begun to fall back. Corin did not take enough encouragement from this to slacken his pace, but risked a backward glance. As his gaze fell upon the wall, it discovered a door directly beside him; one that he had overlooked during their first advance. When he pulled up after another few feet and looked back, it was again invisible, and when he called down the tunnel for the troopers, he had no better fortune in locating them. The antechamber arch was very close, and they had evidently passed through and crossed to the stairwell door in the time it had taken him to make this discovery and to manifest his shock.

        He gravely doubted that they could have run far enough to be out of earshot of his commands, and cursed himself for not having taken note of their numbers while he had the chance. Still, he might remember their faces in the fullness of time. That piece of petty revenge could wait. He loaded his carbine, and began sidling along the wall. The screaming had died down entirely, so he probably had nothing to fear from that quarter, but if he was not deluded in his sight of that door, not to mention the familiar, grey-cloaked figure he had glimpsed beyond it, now was not the time to be renouncing violence. On the contrary, now was the time to be making the most of it, if he was right. The blasting gelatine would have been an acceptable compromise, but this was too good an opportunity to miss, and he continued his stealthy, sideways advance, weapon at the ready.

 

In spite of their initial resolve to keep Lord Lycon out of circulation, the day was not far advanced before the Admiralty, deprived of Lord Corin’s ardour and direction, was humbly soliciting his support. Events following the coup had done nothing to boost morale: everyone agreed that Corin had acted with more courage than responsibility in personally commanding the assassination squad, and his persistent failure to return from the catacombs was adding fresh weight to that opinion by the minute. The confused reports of the two troopers who had returned, and an explosion on a nearby mountainside in the early hours, had given new cause and scope to the various morbid rumours that were now common currency (although eventual investigation of the explosion site yielded up nothing more than a few fragments of charred silver foil).

        Given the volatility of the post-regency regime, none of the lesser admirals saw fit to offer themselves in Corin’s stead, and the grudging respect they all held for Lycon, in spite of all his rival’s effort to anathematise his very name, came to the foremost. His first action was to free the imprisoned conscripts, and return them to duty throughout the town: primarily in any areas where he felt that there was the vaguest possibility he would have to venture. The surviving courtiers had to remain under guard for the present, as there was no question of releasing them into the occupied zone whilst they were still wishing death and damnation upon every subject of Albinor who crossed their path. Nor was he cruel enough to consider releasing them into the ghetto, and to the tender mercies of a daemon population who held them in such contempt that even Corin himself might have approved of it. Whatever personal respect she had painstakingly earned, Gloriana had made little enough headway in reconciling her renegade faction with those still loyal to Queen Rowan.

        All academic, of course, as none of her trust-building efforts would now endure. Unless, that is, she had survived, but even if she had, would the fragile understanding they had carefully nurtured between them have survived that fool Corin’s sledgehammer tactics? That at least seemed too much to hope for. He felt that he was unlikely to rest easy until he knew for certain, but bearing in mind the general disapproval and ill outcome of Corin’s maverick venture into the crypts, he chose his moment carefully, and slipped down there alone and unannounced, after the emergency conference of the Admiralty.

        As he passed through Gloriana’s workshop in the antechamber, he noted with a cynical sneer that Corin’s men, who had fairly trashed the interiors of the palace, had left in immaculate condition the drawings, apparatus, and unfinished weaponary designs that occupied the central area of this antediluvian lobby. Trust them to get the priorities mixed up. There would be time to deal with this lot later on. There were no untoward noises from the tunnel, so as far as he could tell the main danger was long past. There were others to consider, but he had come looking for those, and beyond proceeding with his carbine at the ready, there was a distinct limit to the available precautions. Let us hope that I remember where that wretched door is. Sidling up to it was probably as dangerous as accidentally walking past it, assuming that there was anyone waiting within. He measured his paces down the tunnel with great care, keeping his vision firmly ahead. Now, if memory serves.

        He turned abruptly to the left and froze, his carbine levelled, but he did not fire. Within the archive chamber, a figure in long, grey, hooded garments sat in the wooden chair at the panel, facing directly away from him. Several seconds passed, whilst both Lycon and the seated figure remained silent. Much as he was unwilling to jump to conclusions, after he had noticed a considerable amount of blood showing up very dark upon the softly luminous floor, he deemed it very unlikely that there was any danger awaiting him in the room. Or at least, none that he could presently make out, hence his very sudden entrance, culminating in an about-turn when he was well within, and rapid glances into the corners. But as it turned out, there had been no one waiting behind the doorway to jump him, so he turned his attention back to the seated figure.

        A quick look at its face was rewarded with a flash of relief, and of sickness. Notwithstanding the stuff dress and the headscarf, it was Lord Corin, with an extremely ugly and evidently grievous wound to his left eye. At all events, he had not suffered. His pallid, blood-streaked face had frozen in an expression of rage, before pain even had the time to register in his hopelessly traumatised brain. The only other uncharacteristic element of his appearance was the wedge of folded paper that had been forced between his clenched teeth, and which Lycon, with great care and distaste, extracted and opened out.

        He could easily recognise her rather careless, spidery handwriting, under any circumstances, and could not suppress a thin smile at the discovery, even under these. Not that the note was especially cheerful in itself, its contents being as follows: I have gone down the passage into the main labyrinth, if you want to follow me. It is completely uncharted. Not even certain if I can find my way out again. How much is revenge worth to you? Signed, Gloriana, regent. Still smiling, and shaking his head, Lycon left the chamber and headed back to the stairs, but kept alert for every step of the way.