The Doomfarers of Coramonde (15 page)

Woods slammed
Lobo
into gear and the APC tore chunks from the ground as they jerked into
motion, guns still hammering at the thing closing on them. Streams of hot brass
empties and bits of linking flew from the machine-gun breeches. In a few
seconds they were among the trees, dodging in an attempt to evade Chaffinch’s
first rush, pouring more fire at him. Pomorski was shoving round after round
into the launcher and firing grenades as rapidly as he could. They continued to
make hits, painful ones to the wings and ineffectual ones to the body. The .50
was the only weapon with sufficient force and weight to penetrate the thick
scaly hide, and even it was not able to reach any vital organs. Chaffinch’s
head continued to elude their aim while the soft underside never presented
itself.

When he reached
the tree line Chaffinch barely slowed down. He was weakening but still a
rampaging horror. He drove through the trees, simply shoving them aside,
bending or breaking them, or crunching them under his claws. The trees farther
in, though, were stouter, and his anger increased as he bulldozed his way with
greater effort, occasionally snagging his injured wing painfully. The ground
shook and the leaves trembled to the reverberations of his rage.

Lobo
burst
through the opposite side of the little wood seconds ahead of the pursuing
dragon. All gun barrels were growing hot with the constant firing, and the
Nine-Mob’s best efforts had done little more than antagonize the ponderous
monster behind them.
Might as well face him here,
Gil thought to
himself, and ordered Woods to bring the APC around.

Lobo
completed
its turn just as Chaffinch broke through the last line of luckless trees.
My
God, I never dreamed that he would be anything like this. So strong, so fast
and big. We didn’t know; we just couldn’t have guessed.

They were in
motion, arcing away to the creature’s right. Chaffinch turned his head and let
fly a single lance of foul-smelling flame, weak and cool by his normal
standards, but it licked at the right tread and washed across that side of the
APC. Handelman howled in pain, flinging his arm to his face and falling to the
deck. Pomorski leaped to the vacant machinegun, knowing that if he stopped to
check Handelman none of them might survive. The monster’s head reared like a
cobra as he crossed in front of the track and struck at it just as Woods threw
it into reverse. Chaffinch’s head connected with the wooden trim vane,
splintering it, the venom of his fangs etching the wood and peeling paint from
the metal. He shook his ugly head, punished by an impact that had rocked
Lobo.
The trim vane, backed by armor, was a painful target even for him.

Woods yanked
the transmission lever. Chaffinch crouched in front of them, head stationary
for the first time in the bizarre battle. Gil fired a burst at the top of the
cold, plated skull. Blood and hide and chips of bone flew as the dragon pulled
his head down to get it out of the murderous torrent of bullets, until it
nearly touched the ground.

“Keep going—run
it down!”

As the APC shot
forward, Woods deftly steered it into line with the thing’s head. It happened
so quickly that before they knew it they were lumbering unevenly, right tread
elevated, as a grisly crunching sound, mixed with reptilian hisses, came from
underneath the treads. Chaffinch’s huge body convulsed, nearly upsetting
Lobo,
but they were off a split second later, continuing until they were out of
range. While Pomorski looked after Handelman, Gil emptied dozens of rounds into
the spasm-racked body. Then they sat and watched the death throes of a dragon,
a being far older than any of them could imagine.

Chaffinch’s
tail was still twitching when Gil looked at his Seiko. Five minutes or so! Five
minutes that had shattered his confidence in sanity and reason, myth and fact.
A short episode that could make a permanent place for itself in his nightmares.

Then for the
first time he considered what this creature would have done to the people in
the castle.

As they rode
back they spotted two men watching from a distant hill, a column of troops off
to one side. Gil thought he recognized them as the ones from the preceding afternoon,
the leaders of the cavalry and, in all probability, the bulk of their surviving
force. As he watched, the two rejoined their men and the column moved off
westward. The sergeant noticed that Erub was still smoking, and stuck his hand
out to the withdrawing dragoons in the Sailor’s Farewell.

The castle’s
inhabitants all waited at the gates. Van Duyn was unsmiling and contained,
Andre somber and Springbuck was jumping high as he could and whirling his sword
over his head and laughing. The thirty or so others were weeping, standing
silently, rejoicing or offering prayer for this miracle, according to
inclination. Many were aware that, without Gabrielle, these aliens were
stranded.

It occurred to
Gil that from a distance it might have looked easy; boom, pow, clank, crunch
and a dying, twitching Chaffinch. But when they were inside the walls again
they found that the Erubites could scarcely express their gratitude.

“Nothing
really,” Pomorski grinned to a girl who handed him a flower with timid grace.
“Well within the talents of any archangel or running back.” They all felt good,
their relief and laughter growing as fear retreated. While Andre looked after
Handelman’s burns, which weren’t as serious as they’d first thought, they ate
breakfast. Evidently the splash shield on which Handelman’s M-60 was mounted
had protected him from most of the flame, and his eyes weren’t damaged. Andre
applied several balms and salves.

“We saw the
troops pulling out,” Van Duyn said. “Ibn-al-Yed has long since departed. Thus
the way is clear for escape eastward.” Andre looked up from his ministrations,
“So,” the scholar continued, voice strangely tired, “no matter what happens,
you men can flee with us to friendlier lands.”

“Whoa-up right
there,” Gil broke in. “The arrangement, if you recall, was for you to send us
back where we came from, which in itself isn’t a peachy deal. What’s this
escape crap?”

Springbuck saw
that Van Duyn intended to hedge around the subject and it struck him that these
men deserved better.

“They cannot send
you back without Gabrielle deCourteney,” he said. They all turned to face him.
“If it should happen that you can never be returned, I shall make every effort
to make amends to you,” the Prince went on. “You shall be as Lords Paramount in
my realm. But you are caught up in a struggle that is none of your doing and
there is little that I can do for you now.”

Gil ignored
him. He was close to Van Duyn now, fists cocked, his face marred with hatred.
“I don’t care what’s wrong,” he snarled, and the scholar should have been
observant enough to interpret the danger in his quavering voice, “but you’re
sending us back.”

But the older
man seemed distracted, unaware of the peril before him. “Back?” he replied as
though in a dream. “Sorry, no. Not without her. Not without Gabrielle.”

Gil cuffed him
on the side of the head and got a cruel arm-bar on him, forcing him to his
knees. Van Duyn cried out in pain and surprise as Andre and Springbuck looked
on in bewilderment. Pomorski had his .45 out and Olivier snatched up Gil’s
submachine gun from where it rested against the wall next to him. The sergeant
shifted the arm bar and took the automatic from Pomorski, placing its blunt
muzzle up against his captive’s temple.

The Prince and
the magician moved to the defense of their friend. Both knew the deadliness of
the outlanders’ weapons but neither could watch Van Duyn come to harm and do
nothing. A small part of Springbuck reflected on his change in attitude since
he’d watched Hightower die at Earthfast. It was now better to risk death than
live with the memory of cowardice and the knowledge that another had died
through his failure.

Gil saw that
the two wouldn’t be stopped by the threat of guns. Andre was sweeping free his
sword, almost involuntarily, while Pomorski blocked Springbuck’s way. Gil
thumbed back the hammer of the pistol and grated, “If you two move just one
more step, I’ll blow his brains all over the floor. I swear, boys. I’ve got
nothing, absolutely nothing to lose.”

Woods and Handelman
were moving to cover the doors; both had their M-16s with them. Van Duyn was
gasping in pain, wild-eyed with the .45 at his temple.

Deciding,
Springbuck returned his sword to its scabbard with a clash. “Gil MacDonald,” he
said, “what he says is true. You cannot be sent back without Gabrielle’s help.
Oh, you might persuade Yardiff Bey to help you or steal Van Duyn’s contiguity
device back in Earthfast, but I doubt it. Your best chance is to help us
recover Andre’s sister.”

The sergeant
considered this. The panic that had prompted him to act was passing. He rather
doubted his own ability to kill in cold blood anyway. He released Van Duyn and
the older man fell away, nursing his arm just as Springbuck had eased his wrist
when the scholar had humbled him the day before.

“Damn,” said
Gil, “sorry about that. All right, we need her; how do we find her? How do we
get her back?”

The Prince
responded, “There is a tie between Andre and Gabrielle, of magic and of blood.
We know where she is even now.”

“So? Spill it.
She can’t be too far away. We can go get her for you.”

Andre’s plump,
unshaven face was a study in agony as he replied, “She’s been taken to the
place of Yardiff Bey’s liege Lord, Amon.”

Gil could only
look puzzled.

“My sister has
been taken to the Inferno, Gil MacDonald, to Hell, and from there we must free
her if you are to return to your place and time.”

“I want a cheap
lawyer,” Pomorski said.

The moment of
confrontation was gone as quickly as it had come. They were now bound up by
events to attempt the rescue of the enchantress. They didn’t even bother to
vote; they were without alternatives.

Lo! Death
has reared himself a throne

In a
strange city lying alone

Far down
within the dim West.

EDGAR ALLAN POE,
“The City in
the Sea”

“HELL,” sighed Springbuck, “what
chance do we have to rescue her from the fires of the Pit?” They stood now in a
circle around Andre.

The wizard’s
voice shook but there was conviction in it. “There are… defenses. Just as
spirits of the Inferno may be injured or warded against here, they have
vulnerabilities in their own sphere. We have Calundronius. We have Gil
MacDonald and his men and their weapons. And there is
Lobo.”

“Only, how do
you get to Hell?” the sergeant interrupted. “Short of dying, that is. I have no
intention of getting scragged so we can visit among the shades. And while we’re
chewing it over, how do you know we can play Orpheus for your sister?”

“For the last
question,” Andre said, “I maintain, as I have said, a connection with my
sister. She is not yet dead or I would know; nor will she be soon, I think.
Dead, she is simply another wraith, but alive she is a well of ethereal force.
I do not believe that Yardiff Bey or his Lord will claim her life, but they may
well enslave her, unless we can get her away from them as soon as possible.
This is the first time that Bey has struck at Gabrielle directly; he must be
confident that she will be unable to give him fair battle while she’s in his
hands.

“What we will
do is draw upon her enormous stores of power. I will harness her energy, make
her call us to her. In tearing her from me, snatching her away bodily to Hell,
Bey has created an imbalance between the Terrestrial and Infernal planes. He
will not be able to seal her away from me. He probably does not think that we
would dare try to beard him in his master’s den. She is yet whole; I can feel
that she still possesses her full vitality. There is nothing holding her there
aside from the physical restraints and sequestering spells engendered by
Yardiff Bey. They haven’t her soul yet.”

He turned to
Gil, whose jaw had been open for some time. “Do you have any more of those
burning sunlets, the like of which good Pomorski threw down Chaffinch’s
throat?”

“White
phosphorus grenades? Yeah, we have more.”

Andre clapped
his hands. “Good! When that one detonated, I perceived that the terrific heat
and the particular energies it exuded were of a special sort. They resemble
solar light and would probably be excruciatingly painful to our opposition.”

Van Duyn
stepped forward. “Then we’ll go now. According to the altazimuth readings the
stars will not be more favorable to this thing for days. I propose that we
should leave on the moment.”

Andre nodded.
“We shall indeed go, Edward, but you will have to stay here. You will be our
anchor, our guide and mainstay against a quick return from the Infernal realm.”

The scholar
incensed, stabbing his forefinger at the magician’s paunch. “No, by God, Andre,
I won’t be shoved aside again. Dammit, I want to go to her.”

“Who else,” the
soft question came, “can accomplish the task I have set you? I must go with
them on this sortie to protect them and guide them insofar as I may. Of us all
I am the only one who has made the trip before.”

Van Duyn blew
his breath out with a
whooosh,
his frown slackening, and turned from
them to stand staring into the hearth.

Andre looked to
the others. “Springbuck, you will come with us, for I think that somehow you
have begun to play your part in the march of events. You must begin to assert
yourself in the battle for ascendancy, particularly since much of it will
revolve around the throne of the
Ku-Mor-Mai.
Sergeant, please look to
your equipment; I shall begin inscribing a pentacle and the other requisite
insignia around your vehicle. When I close them, we shall be on our way.”