Rise of the Death Dealer (54 page)

His chest heaved under the painful pressure of the claws, and he gasped for
breath. The claws were shearing into his chain mail at shoulder and thigh. He
struggled, but it only helped them. He blinked dizzily and waited, gathering
strength. Then he spewed flames from the helmet. But his head was pinned, and
the fire only scorched the night air. He roared in frustration.

The mountains, black and round, now looked small below him. Specks of fire
were moving through them, troops of bat soldiers hunting Robin. Around him,
spreading into infinity, was star-filled sky, a vast world of air ten thousand
times the size of the one made of earth.

A claw sheared away most of his metal skirt and exposed his legs, freeing
them. He yanked them away from the reaching fingers and squirmed up inside the
clutch of the furry membrane. He wiggled and kicked and shoved until his arms
and shoulders were well above the top finger of the wing’s grip. He discarded
the clumsy remnant of his chain mail and padded tunic, leaving himself dressed
in boots, loincloth and helmet, then drew his knife. The vampire bat
somersaulted onto its back in what appeared to be its feeding position, and the
clutching wing swept him toward its open jaws.

Gath turned the face of his helmet toward the jaws, and sent flames into the
waiting mouth.

The bat shrieked in pain, drawing its human morsel away from its jaws, and
darted down in a dive.

The Barbarian turned his head away from the rush of air, but it swept by so
fast he could not breathe. With his lungs bursting, he drove the blade of his
knife into the huge knuckle of the bat’s thumb, working it furiously. The
knuckle gave a little, then its grip relaxed, and the bat abruptly darted to the
side, again somersaulting.

The wing again folded up, drawing Gath toward the waiting mouth, but the
movement further loosened its grip, and Gath hauled himself onto the back of the
wing, out of reach of the bat’s jaws.

The bat dove again, trying to dislodge him. Gath drove his knife and fingers
into the wing membrane, tearing it open, then thrust an arm into the wound,
seizing a wing bone with it, and hung on.

The bat twisted as it neared the ground, and darted at a mountain. Then it
twisted again, avoiding it, and darted along its rock face. Its flapping wings
came within inches of the rock, and Gath was raked by the stone. But he was not
dislodged.

The vampire bat darted and twisted through the indigo sky, and Gath slowly
hauled himself toward the head until a huge pointed ear was within his grasp.
Gath got a hold of the bottom edge and waited. The bat somersaulted and Gath
used the roll of the creature’s body to let himself fall into the ear. There he
pulled himself into the narrowest section and hung on.

The bat continued to dart and twist, no more than forty feet above the
moonlit ground. Screaming came from the monstrous rodent, but Gath did not hear
it. The helmet’s hunger was a roar inside him. He gathered his body close to the
ear hole, breath and smoke heaving from the helmet, but forced himself to wait.

The bat darted and twisted, driving through narrow chasms of rock and passing
between boulders, blind but uncanny with vision. Then it suddenly hovered in
mid-air, as if needing time to think.

Gath instantly forced his body in amongst the tangled cartilage of the ear
and drove the full length of his thick arm inward. The arm’s hand held his
knife, and its blade penetrated the eardrum. Gath turned and twisted it, tearing
and cutting. Blood washed out of the ear hole, drenching him, but still he cut.

The bat squealed and twisted, darting away from the blunt side of a mountain,
then twisted and darted directly for it.

Gath took no notice. He was working.

The bat turned, but too late. It had somehow lost its uncanny sense of
direction and distance, and a wing collided with the rocky side of the mountain,
breaking with a brittle crack. The vampire bat plummeted.

Gath stopped work, and stared down at the earth coming up at him. The helmet
roared in rage, and his body instinctively gathered up in a ball, protecting
itself within the membrane and cartilage of the huge ear.

The bat landed headfirst against a boulder with a crunching crash, and the
skull exploded on one side allowing the boulder to enter. Gath shuddered at the
impact, but hung on. The bat’s body stood upright, quivering twenty feet in the
air, then toppled over and thudded against the ground.

Stunned by the impact, Gath sat numbed within the protective embrace of the
mammoth ear. When his vision cleared, he saw that the skull on his side still
held its shape, while the other side had been pulped. The ground was not five
feet below him. He wiped his bloody hands on the furry membrane, �crawled to the
rim of the ear and dropped to the ground. His legs gave way under him, as if
they had never stood before, and he sprawled awkwardly.

From the ground, he looked around. He did not know where he was. Then, far
off in the distance, he saw vague figures on a moonlit slope of loose earth. He
could not tell who they were.

He crawled away from the bones and gore, and held himself up on hands and
knees, naked and bleeding. There was no sign of his belts and sword. They had
been torn away, he did not know when or where, and he had left his knife in the
bat’s ear. When he had gathered enough strength, he slowly stood, and a terror
unlike any he had felt during the battle shot through him. It was the same fear
the helmet had felt when it had seen the small bite on the dead girl’s severed
arm. Foreboding. Cold. Without remorse. Then he saw the source of that fear.

Hovering against the moon was a cloud of bats, small but numbering in the
hundreds. They looked like layers of finely wrought black lace in constant
motion, as if they were weaving their bodies together in a flawless pattern. A
frantic pattern. Mad.

Gath’s body lowered instinctively, and the horned helmet flamed, but the fire
was weak, and only served as an invitation.

The bats dove en masse, a blanket of tiny teeth.

THE BLOOD TRICK

T
he blanket dropped over Gath, staggering him. Biting. The bats clawing for a
perch on arm, chest, leg, back. Then more descended, mindlessly landing on those
already feeding, and their weight bore the Barbarian to his knees. He tore away
furry handfuls, crushing them. The helmet’s flames charred wings and incinerated
bodies, but the frenzied creatures kept swarming and biting.

Far above the action, at the top of the slope of loose earth, Brown John and
Jakar winced with horror, and Robin cried openly, her tears spilling on Jakar’s
circling arms, while Cobra stared helplessly, devoid of tears and color and
hope.

“They can’t whip him! Not a few bats,” Brown John asserted. But his voice
lacked sparkle, and the hot spots which normally flushed his cheeks were no
bigger than a baby’s fingertips.

Jakar glanced off at a distant line of torches moving their way, and said
quietly, “We had better get away from here. They know we’re here now.”

They nodded, but made no move to leave.

Far below, Gath suddenly staggered back to his feet, thrashing wildly and
throwing off bats. His bloody body glistened in the moonlight for a moment, then
was again covered with the moving black blanket. He went down on his knees, arms
flailing.

Bits of flame spurted between flapping bodies, then it died to an orange
glow.

Cobra groaned in frantic despair and erupted from Brown John’s grasp,
flinging herself forward. She got ten feet, lost her footing in the loose ground
and fell, her arms grabbing at the air. She hit the ground, rolled over twice,
and her head came to a stop against a protruding boulder.

Brown John reached her in three strides and gathered her limp body in his
arms, cradling it tenderly and stroking her forehead. It was cut and bruised
above her left eye.

“It’s no use, beauty, you can’t help him,” he whispered.

She didn’t hear him. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth hung open. Holding
her close, he looked back down at the moonlit battleground.

Gath was now on his hands and knees, teetering like a dying animal. The bats
clung to all sides of him and circled around him, darting at him whenever they
saw flesh. The helmet lifted, glowed brightly for a moment, then the light faded
and the headpiece dropped between his shoulders.

Robin and Jakar came up behind Brown John, and Jakar tugged at him urgently.
“Come on, Brown.”

The
bukko
nodded but did not rise. He could not remove his eyes from
his friend.

Small and indistinct in the distance below, Gath howled, low and forlorn, and
collapsed on the ground. The bats scattered and screeched, those pinned under
the body flapping for release. Then they again dropped on him, and heaved and
surged like boiling tar on his carcass.

The troupe stared, immobilized with horror. In the silence they could hear
the bats drinking, and Robin sagged against Jakar dizzily. He held her close,
and suddenly turned sharply.

A line of torches was coming around the side of the nearby mountain at the
base of the slope. Riders carried them.

Jakar pulled on Brown John. “Let’s go. Now!” His voice had a ring of
authority that shocked Robin to her senses, and as Jakar pushed her up the
slope, she pleaded, “Hurry, Brown! Hurry!”

The older Grillard abruptly came to his feet, carrying Cobra in his arms, and
took in the situation. “Holy Bled!” he cursed, and ran back up the slope, his
short legs pumping in the loose earth.

When the group reached the top of the slope, it crouched in the shadows of
boulders, gasping with momentary relief.

The riders, a troop of bat soldiers, had not started up after them, but had
circled around Gath’s fallen body and were hooting and laughing with delight as
the bats, their wings filling the night with a whooshing roar, flew off. Several
soldiers dismounted and cast the light of their torches over the fallen bodies
of the monster vampire bat and Gath, inspecting them. Two tried to pull off the
homed helmet, but it would not come away. So they picked up his body, threw it
over a saddle and began to rope it in place.

“He’s alive,” Brown John whispered excitedly. “He’s still alive.”

Robin looked uncertainly at Jakar, and he explained, “Otherwise they wouldn’t
bother to tie him.”

She nodded, then shivered as a group of bat soldiers separated from the
others and started up the slope toward them.

Staying low and to the shadows, Jakar led the group across the crest of the
mountain to the hollow where the surviving horses were still tethered. The sound
of the bat soldiers’ horses coming their way was growing louder.

Robin moaned. “They’ll find us!”

“Maybe not,” Jakar said quietly. “Follow me. We’ll leave the horses here.”

He led Robin through the boulders, and Brown John, carrying Cobra, followed.

Moving swiftly and silently, they found the gash in the cliff and started
down. Reaching the shelf of earth overlooking the road, Jakar guided Brown John
to a hidden gut of rock, saying, “You stay here.” Brown John, acknowledging the
young man’s authoritative command, slipped out of sight behind the concealing
gut with Cobra in his arms, and Jakar turned to Robin. “Follow me, fluff. I’m
going to need your help.”

Moving with neat, sure-footed steps, Robin followed him to the edge of the
shelf, zealous in her desire to help. But when she saw the slaughtered caravan
below the ledge, she faltered and turned away, gagging. Ignoring her sick,
heaving sounds, Jakar kneeled, studying the bloody tableau below, and his eyes
thinned with satisfaction.

Moon vultures were working the two lines of bodies. They were white, with
long necks for probing deep into bone cavities, and their necks were red with
blood, their crops bulging. The bodies of the slavers and slaves were no longer
in an orderly arrangement. Limbs and trunks had been dragged and tossed about by
the big birds, and the dead girls, more accessible to the vultures because of
having been stripped before the birds arrived, were in total disarray. A tangle
of gory limbs, torsos and heads.

When Robin quieted, she squatted beside Jakar, forcing herself to look
directly at the scene. She trembled, but asked evenly, “What can I do? How can I
help you?”

“It’s not going to be easy or pleasant,” he whispered. “You finished being
sick?”

“I think so,” she said, and her voice faltered. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be,” he interrupted. “I did the same when I saw them.” There was a
commotion of shouting voices at the top of the crest far above them, and he
stood abruptly, bringing her with him. “They’ve found our horses. We’re going to
have to hurry.”

They scrambled down to the road below, bringing down a small avalanche of
earth. The vultures glanced in their direction, but continued to work at their
bloody meal. Jakar leveled his crossbow at the nearest bird and fired.

The steel bolt took the vulture in the chest and drove it fluttering and
mawking off its gore. The noise startled the others, and they scattered, crying
in frustration.

Jakar took Robin’s hand, and they hurried across the open road to the bodies
of the girls, kneeling beside them. Choking at the sight, Robin averted her
head, and shut her eyes tight.

“That’s all right,” Jakar said, setting his crossbow down. “You don’t have to
look.” He drew his knife. “Give me your wrist… I’m going to open your vein.”

She looked at him in shock, saw the bodies and gagged again. Quickly turning
away, she lifted her wrist to him. He took it, saying, “Listen, fluff, there’s
not much time to explain, but I think this Nymph Queen has some way of
identifying you by your blood. So I’m going to smear it over one of these
girls.”

She forced a nod, and he guided her wrist to a full-breasted torso, noting
the girl’s shape paled beside Robin’s, and wondering at himself for noting such
a thing at such a time. Then he hesitated, and stared wide-eyed, momentarily
unable to breathe or move.

Torch-bearing riders had appeared down the road. They were far off, but
coming hard. The beat of their horses’ hooves was growing louder, and their
vibrations could be felt in the road.

Robin opened her eyes, saw the torches and gasped.

Jakar held her arm roughly, so she couldn’t move, and drove the blade into
the underside of her wrist. Robin jerked at the pain, gasping as blood spurted
forth, but did not pull away, and he marveled at her courage as he guided her
wrist over the body of the dead girl, drenching it with blood. His eyes shifted
to the riders.

They moved around a bend and disappeared behind it, showing no hurry. It
appeared they had not seen Jakar and Robin.

Jakar, forcing himself not to do a hurried, inadequate job, continued to
spread Robin’s blood, and the dead torso began to glitter wetly in the
moonlight. Then Robin’s body sank heavily against his back, and he turned
sharply. Her face was white, and she was gasping.

He cursed himself for taking too much of her blood and, yanking a rag from
under his belt, whipped it around her wrist tightly. He tied it off securely,
stopping the flow of blood, then guided her to her feet and started across the
road toward the shadows of the gash. Noise from the mountain brought him to a
sudden stop.

Bodies were coming down the gash. Hurried. Raising dust.

Jakar, holding Robin’s trembling body tight, glanced around, suddenly
furtive, terrified.

The torches of the riders appeared coming around the bend, only several
hundred feet off now.

Jakar hurried Robin back past the gory bodies and moved through the tall
grass lining the opposite side of the road, dropped behind it. There he held
Robin close.

Her breath came fitfully, but then it quieted, and she whispered, “I’ll be
all right. It will pass.”

He nodded at her brave face and kissed her dirty cheek, again wondering at
her healthy scent and the thrilling feel of her warmth. Each sensation stood
alone and distinct, and was full of wonder and chance and adventure, and his
senses reeled.

The sounds of men descending the mountain were suddenly loud, and they peered
through the grass. A squad of bat soldiers, dusty and cursing, now stood on the
road. But Brown John and Cobra were not with them, and had apparently not been
discovered. The soldiers moved tentatively among the slaughtered bodies, their
blunt faces uncertain and wary, then looked up at the sounds of the arriving
horses. A troop of twenty bat soldiers pounded to a stop beside the slaughtered
caravan. Some of them led trailing horses, and now handed the reins to the squad
on foot.

A small man with blistered flesh and wearing a blue skullcap with long
pendulous ear flaps appeared to be in charge of the detachment. He was chortling
with malevolent triumph, pointing at the dead girls and shouting in a dry,
coarse voice.

“There! There! The one with the big dum-dums. Put her in the sack.”

Robin cringed, and hugged Jakar tighter, not understanding the small man’s
language and her eyes asking Jakar if he had somehow identified her blood. Jakar
lifted a finger to his lips and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

As several bat soldiers began to pick the dead girl up, the small man
shouted, “Get all of her, you dolts. I need her right hand.”

Robin shuddered and Jakar held her tighter.

The bat soldiers stuffed the torso and severed arm of the girl in a leather
sack and slung it over the pommel of their leader’s saddle. Chuckling, the
little brute patted it as he spoke to it. “You’ve given me a whole lot of
trouble, lass! But you’ll behave now.”

Several of the bat soldiers grunted with laughter, then one asked the small
man if he wanted any of the other bodies. He walked his horse along the row of
dead girls, inspecting them, and shook his head. “The serpent queen isn’t one of
them.” He looked off into the surrounding shadows. “She’s probably out there
hiding someplace, but she’s helpless now. Of no importance.” He turned to a
mounted bat soldier. “Inform your officers that the girl has been found and that
I am returning to Pyram with her.” He glanced at the others as the squad on foot
mounted. “The rest of you will accompany me to Pyram.”

The designated soldier saluted, and galloped back down the road, while the
small man, smiling with dark triumph, headed west with the troop.

Jakar held Robin tight against him until the riders were out of sight, then
whispered, “They’re gone. It’s all over.”

She looked up at him. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and dirt, and he had
never seen anything so lovely. “Really?” she asked, and he nodded. She sagged
against him, murmuring, “Hold me, Jakar. Please, just hold me.”

He held her.