series 01 05 A Prince of Mars Read online

  4.

  Kak’hamish clung to consciousness despite the repeated blows from his captors as they dragged him across the main deck. The two crewmen on duty stared at the procession of four robed priests, six black-clad judges, and two prisoners, but Jed-An’s voice rang with authority.

  “Mind your duties and leave justice to your betters!”

  The crewmen turned away and became suddenly busy coiling lines on the deck.

  The veneer of unanimity disappeared as soon as the party made its way below deck into the cargo hold forward.

  “This is madness!” Jed-An barked to the priest who seemed in charge of the cultists. “Take the ugly one if you wish, but we can use the English. He has value.”

  “More value to the Worm than to your schemes, Jed-An. The ugly one will serve, but not suffice. The Old Ones have never tasted the eyes of an off-worlder.”

  “The woman, then,” Jed-An said. “Let the Old Ones have her.”

  “Fool!” the priest leader spat, turning on the would-be prince. “If I make a useless, crippled body their temple, they will eat my soul!”

  Kak’hamish felt his stomach turn cold at these words. For as long as people remembered, naughty children had been threatened with visitations by the Old Ones, the ghosts of the mighty and terrible architects of the canals who screamed from beyond the grave for vengeance against those who had allowed their work to crumble. But these were grown men speaking as if the Old Ones were real, had substance in this world, and could walk among men. And what did the priest mean by tasted the eyes?

  They came to the lowest level of the cargo hold, unevenly lit by swaying lanterns which cast monstrous, creeping shadows across the uneven walls. The wind blew from the open hatchway which led to the loading platform, beyond which loomed the yawning blackness of the night sky. In the open space at the centre of the hold the servant of the priests laboured, pulling the sarcophagi from their wicker protective cases. Something in the way the servant touched the sarcophagi, reluctant with both revulsion and fear, made Kak’hamish shudder.

  “Those two,” the head priest commanded, pointing at two of the sarcophagi, “stand them upright. Let the unbelievers confront the Worm face to face, eye to eye.”

  “Shistomo will join us soon enough,” Jed-An protested. “Will you at least wait for your superior’s orders?”

  “No! If he orders the sacrifice, the Old Ones will love him, not me. If he forbids it, the Old Ones, in their slumbers, will wonder why I did not act when I could, will ask me this when we meet, and what will I say to them? That I waited? That I took careful counsel of a worldly prince? Stay and watch this miracle or, if you have no stomach for it, go now.”

  Jed-An turned wordlessly and left, followed by four of the judges who Kak’hamish recognised as the four bodyguards from the caravan. The sixth black-clad figure, the stooped and shuffling translator, lingered, and his eyes glowed with anticipation.

  “I…I would like to see the miracle, Revered One,” he said.

  “Watch the prisoners while we prepare the Old Ones,” the head priest snapped and then summoned the other priests with a gesture.

  The servant backed hastily away from the sarcophagi as the four priests moved to them, two priests for each sarcophagus. They carefully broke the clay seals to either side and then ran their knives down the seams between the lid and body of the containers. About half-way down, Kak’hamish heard a sigh of air, realised they were cutting a wax seal on the containers, and within moments he caught a scent of rotting corruption and immediately vomited, as did the translator behind him. Nathanial, still lying senseless on the deck where the priests had dropped him, now stirred, rolled over on his side, and vomited as well.

  Kak’hamish had crawled through sewers, through the rotting garbage and excrement of ten thousand people, had almost passed out and died from the stench and lack of oxygen. He had seen and smelled a hundred bodies thrown over a city wall and left to rot in the sunlight, had hidden under them for days while they swelled taut like inflated bladders, then split and spilled their vile fluids over him. He had experienced all that and even worse, but none of it approached this smell.

  Kak’hamish took a step back away from the sarcophagus, but stopped when he felt the point of a knife in the small of his back.

  “You’d leave your British friend to his fate? Shame on you!” the translator hissed in his ear, and pricked him again with the point of his blade. The head priest turned, saw the situation, and nodded.

  “You watch the English,” the priest said to his own servant, who crossed the hold to stand over Nathanial’s prone figure, staying as far away from the sarcophagi as he could.

  The priests carefully lifted the lids of the sarcophagi and moved them to the side, and Kak’hamish found himself staring straight at the empty eye sockets of a blackened and rotting corpse, the flesh dripping and in places sliding off the bones. The odour became almost overpowering, but it was more than just rotting flesh, and as he stared he realised the eye sockets were not completely empty, that something moved inside.

  “The vessel is consumed,” the head priest said.

  “The vessel is consumed,” the others chanted in unison.

  “The Old One hungers,” he said.

  “The Old One hungers.”

  “Come forth and live,” the priest said, and held his hands up, as if in supplication, in front of the corpse’s face.

  “Come forth and live.”

  “Come forth and feed!”

  “Come forth and feed!”

  Kak’hamish again saw a flicker of movement in the eye socket as the priests continued their chant, and then the entire corpse seemed to tremble. A shape took form, emerging from the eye socket, a twisting, writhing shape with a dozen or more tiny pointed teeth surrounding a circular maw, which opened and closed as if in hunger. The body behind it was tubular, but segmented rather than smooth, with countless quivering appendages, dripping with the black decay fluids of the corpse.

  As it emerged from the eye socket, first six inches long, then a foot, the corpse seemed to shrug, to pull in upon itself, as if turning itself inside out through the eye. Then the animal seemed to reach a limit, could emerge no further, and it suddenly coiled back upon itself, twisted and bit its own body where it met the eye socket, tore at itself until the forward eighteen inches fell into the hands of the head priest, severed from the part still in the corpse. The corpse itself sagged in the sarcophagus and nearly came apart, as if some supporting member had been removed, then slid down into the bottom of the container until it was nothing but a tangled mess of bones and sinews and greasy black sludge.

  The creature, whatever it was, twisted and writhed in the priest’s arms, but he held it firmly, one hand immediately behind the first large segment which contained the mouth, the other hand well back on the body. He turned and looked at Kak’hamish.

  “This one is yours,” the priest said, and advanced on Kak’hamish, holding the creature out ahead of him, its hungry mouth extended, open, searching for the soft tissue of Kak’hamish’s eye. Behind him, the blade moved down his back, hesitated, and then in one quick slice severed the leather strap binding his hands.

  5.

  nathanial trembled in uncontrolled terror and revulsion as the priest thrust the writhing creature toward Kak’hamish’s face. Suddenly Kak’hamish leaped forward, his hands unexplainably free, and grappled with the priest.

  “Oh! Oh! The prisoner is free!” the stooped translator shouted, and he scurried toward the other priests in alarm, colliding with them in his clumsiness and driving two of them back toward the sarcophagi. One fell against the second casket, the one still containing an intact corpse, and it began to tip backwards.

  For a moment, the scene seemed to freeze in Nathanial’s view. Kak’hamish stood locked in struggle with the head priest, his hands upon the priest’s wrists, forcing back the terrible creature. The other priests stood frozen in indecision, torn between helping the head priest or preve
nting the tumble of the precious sarcophagus. The translator crouched, well-balanced and alert, taking in the entire scene. The priest’s servant stepped back in horror. He turned and dashed for the ladder to the main deck as the tableau again came to violent life, but hit his head on an overhead support beam, knocking himself senseless.

  Kak’hamish pushed the priest’s arms back on themselves and the priest screamed as the creature lunged and tore into his own eye socket.

  Two priests threw themselves at the tumbling casket, but too late to arrest its fall, and they sprawled among it broken shards and disintegrating corpse.

  The remaining priest leaped to the assistance of his chief, but after only a single step he faltered and then collapsed, the black-clad translator pulling his knife from the priest’s ribcage and stepping easily back to avoid his fall.

  The head priest, still screaming in pain, broke away from Kak’hamish and clawed at the creature now burrowing into his skull, but he took only a step or two before collapsing to the deck. He began shaking violently, uncontrollably, the spasms wracking his body. Kak’hamish watched for a moment, then stooped to pick up the knife of the priest killed by the translator.

  The two remaining priests by the broken sarcophagus found their feet, drew their knives, and carefully circled the translator and Kak’hamish, ignoring Nathanial. If he rose up they would surely turn on him, and in any case his hands were still bound. Still, it didn’t feel right simply waiting to see who won, as if watching a steeplechase.

  The nearest priest was no more than six feet away and nearly had his back to him. Nathanial made up his mind, took a deep breath, and began rolling across the floor toward him, intending to knock him from his feet. The priest was too quick for that, but as he turned to Nathanial and raised his knife, another knife seemed to sprout from his neck. The priest staggered in surprise, and then blood coursed from the wound, spraying a yard distant, spattering Nathanial. He kept rolling, tangled the fellow’s feet, and the two of them ended up in a heap. The priest stabbed at Nathanial, but it was a weak effort and Nathanial managed to duck to the side. The blade caught in the sleeve of his coat, sliced through and cut the flesh of his bicep, but not deeply. When the priest pulled back for another blow, his eyes turned glassy and rolled back up into his head, the dagger fell from his limp fingers, and he collapsed.

  For a moment Nathanial lay panting, all but spent by his ordeal. Then he felt a knife cut his bonds. He sat up and faced Kak’hamish, who knelt by him.

  “You are all over blood, Nathanial. Are you injured?”

  “No, thanks to you. That was well-thrown. You saved my life,” he said, and offered his hand.

  “Or you mine,” Kak’hamish said, moving his knife to his left hand to shake Nathanial’s. “Who knows how an even fight might have turned out?”

  Nathanial heard a shuffle and turned to see the translator heaving the corpse of the head priest over the rail of the boarding platform. He turned and walked toward them, smiling. “We had better either tie up the servant or pitch him over the rail. He’ll come to soon enough,” he said in English.

  “You are our secret ally?” Nathanial asked, scarcely believing it. “Who the devil are you?”

  The translator came to rigid attention, the first time Nathanial had seen him stand straight, and he snapped a salute so perfect, so crisp, his rigid hand vibrated at the end. “Mahaan Tolni. Corporal, Queen’s Own Parhoon Rifles, seconded to the Intelligence Branch on special duty.”

  “What are you doing here?’ Nathanial asked, but Kak’hamish interrupted before the translator could answer.

  “Time enough for that later. What is your plan, Corporal Tolni?”

  Tolni’s eyebrows went up slightly and he shook his head. “Plan? I have no plan; everything happened too quickly. I couldn’t let them kill you, but beyond that…”

  “Oh, I see. Very well. Who stands against us?” Kak’hamish asked.

  “Jed-An and his four bodyguards. Onxym Haat, the caravan master, knew of the plan in outline, but had not known the Worm was part of the conspiracy, and now he grows reluctant, but he is still with Jed-An. The ship’s captain follows Haat’s orders, and the crew follow his.”

  “Yes,” Kak’hamish said, “but I wonder how they feel about carrying a hold full of monsters.”

  Clack-clack.

  “What are you thinking, my friend?” Nathanial asked.

  “First, Jed-An thinks us dead, so we have surprise. Second, we must use this to recover Annabelle, if they have her, so they cannot use her as hostage against our actions. Third, we must take this ship.”

  Just the three of us? Again? Nathanial thought, remembering events on Venus that seemed so distant now.

  “We must do so quickly,” Corporal Tolni added. “Within an hour we are to meet a warship carrying Shistomo, the Black Circle High Priest of the Worm, along with the rest of the conspirators, or at least those outside Siruahn. Most of the insurgents are in the city, but the leaders are here and on the other ship.”

  “Insurgents?” Kak’hamish asked. “Insurgents against what?”

  “Against Siruahn. Jed-An and his worm priest allies, and the disgruntled royalist faction within the city, intend to overthrow the citizen council and establish Jed-An as Prince of Siruahn. The princes of the four cities of Charon have promised to recognise his rule, and send military support to back that recognition, once he is established on the throne. He gains the mantle of nobility, the Charoni princes gain an end to this revolutionary example of self-rule, the Worm gains a friendly haven from which to support their underground covens in British territory, and for his trouble Onxym Haat gains a monopoly on the through-transport of ereban spice.”

  Kak’hamish let escape a groan of dismay which surprised Nathanial. He had the impression his Martian friend cared little for Siruahn and less for its squabbling citizen council. Apparently that belief was mistaken.

  “Surely the Army did not send only one enlisted soldier to thwart a plot of this magnitude,” Nathanial asked Tolni

  “Bloody hell no, sir!” he answered.

  Well, at least he swears like a soldier, Nathanial thought.

  “Truth is,” Tolni continued, “no one in the Crown territory had a whiff of this. They sent me to find out what was what with the Russkie arms trade—breach-loading rifles for the Charoni princes, that sort of thing. Jed-An seemed the likely villain to attach myself to for that business, and all this other argy-bargy just came up out of nowhere. I’m afraid we’re on our own, sir.”

  Kak’hamish shook his head, but Nathanial put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, my friend. What these scoundrels plan and what comes to pass are not necessarily the same, and the odds against us on this ship are no worse than they were two minutes ago. But if what this man says is true, there is no time to lose, so help me to my feet.”

  Kak’hamish nodded and rose with stony determination in his eyes. They climbed to the main deck and found half a dozen crewmen there, milling about and muttering nervously. More appeared at the hatchway to the crew’s quarters, obviously roused by the bloodthirsty screams of the dying head worm priest.

  Corporal Tolni barked a sharp order in Koline, the exact meaning of which Nathanial did not understand, but the crew hastened to make way for them all the same. The black garments of a steppe judge, and the cracking voice-of-command of a British-trained non-commissioned officer, proved a potent combination.

  Tolni led the way into the berthing deck. If any of his erstwhile comrades waited, his appearance would not arouse their suspicions. He waved them in behind him and they made their way down the empty passage to Annabelle’s quarters. Nathanial knocked softly on the door and whispered her name, but only silence answered him. He pushed open the door slowly and looked in—empty.

  “She’s been taken,” he said, but Kak’hamish shook his head after a quick inspection.

  “Not unless they also took her artificial leg and her crutch.”

  A shot rang out from the stern of the s
hip.

  6.

  the door to the stern cabin burst open but Annabelle looked away from her prisoners only long enough to see that Kak’hamish and Nathanial had come, with Jed-An’s servant an apparent prisoner. Nathanial was covered with blood, but his actions were lively and his eyes bright. The flood of relief which accompanied their appearance brought tears to her eyes, but she swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and coughed.

  “Nathanial, are you hurt?”

  “Oh, no!” he said, and rubbed the blood on his face around as if to wipe it away. “This is someone else’s entirely.”

  “I am pleased to hear that, although you certainly took your time getting here,” she said with more courage than she felt.

  Nathanial and Kak’hamish surveyed the room and Kak’hamish shook his head in apparent wonder. Onxym Haat, pale and sweating, sat in a chair holding his wounded right arm, from which the carved skrill horn Kak’hamish had given her still protruded, The point of the horn was driven completely through his bicep and the sleeve of his robe glistened, saturated with blood. Jed-An and three of his bodyguards stood with their hands up and the other guard lay prone on the deck in a spreading pool of blood, gasping in pain and gripping his stomach. Annabelle stood for support and balance with her back in a corner of the room, legs spread, holding Nathanial’s old derringer in both hands. The pistol, smoking from its recent discharge, trembled noticeably, but her prisoners seemed to view that with alarm rather than encouragement, which suited her perfectly.

  “Look at me!” she said. “I am shaking so hard it is a wonder I have not shot all of them. Have you dealt with those other villains?”

  “We have, my dear,” Nathanial said. “I am quite pleased to see you have things under control here. I imagine there is quite a story as to how this rather unusual scene came to be arranged.”

  “No, it was quite ordinary,” she answered, although it had been anything but that. She noticed Jed-An’s servant staring at her, and also noticed he did not seem to be a prisoner. “Has this one come over to us? Unless he is in truth the servant of Jed-An, which I now doubt, I don’t believe we have been introduced.”