Memphis Run

Chapter Twelve

“You’d better hope the Dark Lord is in a generous mood today,” Aloysius the First remarked as they approached the red door in the right-hand wall.

Rikki walked behind the madman, with General Thayer at his right elbow and Sergeant Boynton at his left.

“In a minute you will understand why none dare oppose me,” the King boasted.

“Sir, may I speak?” General Thayer said.

“Of course, my dear general,” Aloysius the First replied.

“Is this wise, sir? I mean, what if the Dark Lord kills this man? We need reliable information on St. Louis before we launch our strike…” Thayer stated, and checked himself, too late.

The King halted abruptly and wheeled, looking from Thayer to Boynton and back again. “General, how could you?”

“Sir?”

“You know our planned strike on St. Louis is classified information,” Aloysius declared angrily.

“Yes, sir,” General Thayer said. “But Sergeant Boynton already knows about it.”

“He does?” Aloysius responded in a surly tone.

“Yes, sir. I confided in him. Sergeant Boynton is a trustworthy Hound.”

“Have you informed anyone else?”

General Thayer hesitated, thinking of the driver of his jeep who had undoubtedly overheard the conversation en route to the city. “No, sir,” he lied.

The King smiled at Sergeant Boynton. “Then no harm has been done, not if the sergeant is as trustworthy as you claim.”

“I am, sir,” Boynton blurted out.

“I’m sure you are,” Aloysius said politely.

“If our prisoner is killed, sir,” General Thayer resumed, “we’ll lose the best chance we’ve got of discovering the Leather Knights’ layout.”

“Perish forbid,” Aloysius responded, looking at the Warrior. “Very well. One last opportunity. Will you agree to provide the information I require?”

“Let me put it this way,” Rikki answered, gazing idly at the posters decorating the wall, “don’t hold your breath.”

“Ever the defiant one, eh?” the King said.

Rikki stared at a blonde woman in a blue denim jacket and skirt, wearing dark glasses, seemingly endowed with… attributes the size of Mt. Everest.

“Do you like my collection?” Aloysius inquired.

“What are they?”

“Posters of prewar music stars,” the King disclosed. “My Hounds are under standing orders to scour every music store they come across for posters. A lot of them are frayed or ripped,” he said sadly.

Rikki studied the lunatic. “You have an interest in music?”

“Why would my musical affinity surprise you? Genius does not restrict itself to the mundane.”

“Do you play an instrument?” Rikki asked.

“Yes,” Aloysius said proudly. “The bongos.”

“The bongos?”

“I found an intact pair in the basement storage room of a music store when I was fourteen, and I’ve been playing them ever since,” Aloysius the First mentioned. “Musical instruments are rare in the Outlands, you know.”

Rikki surveyed the dozens of posters on the wall, marveling at the mix of men and women with their flowing, unkempt hair, garish attire, and sexually suggestive postures. Were they truly prewar musicians? Probably.

They evinced the characteristic self-indulgent vanity so typical of prewar society, and were totally unlike the plain yet supremely talented Family Musicians. As part of his schooling, Rikki had been taught a Music Appreciation course by one of the Elders. His interest had been minimal, because as an aspiring Warrior he’d been more interested in martial matters. He could recall one part of the course he’d liked, a review of the music produced by a famous, outstanding American group known as Mannheim Steamroller. Their music, as played by the Family musicians, had stirred his soul.

“I wanted to learn the guitar,” Aloysius was saying, “but I could never locate anyone able to teach me. If I had, who knows? I might be a traveling minstrel today.” He laughed at the idea. “No, I guess not. My destiny decrees otherwise.”

“I have friends who are musicians,” Rikki remarked. “They would be willing to teach you.”

“They would?”

“If you will renounce your plans for conquest and disband the Hounds.”

Aloysius the First cackled. “I like you, little man! You have a superb sense of humor. And what an intriguing choice. Fulfill my childhood dream of being a musician, and forsake my higher calling to tear down the vestiges of society and rebuild civilization in my image. How delightful.”

He suddenly sobered. “Enough of this frivolity.”

“I take it your answer is no?” Rikki quipped.

“Let me make my position perfectly clear,” Aloysius stated harshly. “I need information on the Leather Knights and St. Louis. You’ve been there and fought them, so you will willingly tell me what I want to know or I will have the Dark Lord grind the truth out of you.”

Rikki stared at the King for a moment, an inexplicable sensation tugging at his mind, a feeling that the lunatic was deceiving him somehow. But how?

“Suit yourself,” Aloysius snapped, and turned. He walked toward the red door.

Gazing at the posters as he was prodded by Sergeant Boynton, Rikki noticed a poster of the man portrayed in the painting on the landing. “Do you know his name?” he asked.

Aloysius glanced over his right shoulder. “Whose?”

“The man I saw in the painting,” Rikki said.

They were within ten feet of the door when the King again stopped.

“No, I don’t. I wish I did. I found a document in an office upstairs bearing on the previous owners. The first was the man in the painting, who apparently was a real king. After his death the mansion was converted into a shrine, then later was bought by a musical group called The Blands.

They converted it to their own use. Oddly enough, they kept his paintings but removed every reference to his identity. Perhaps they didn’t like him, or the paintings were valuable. I don’t know.”

“He projects an aura of dignity,” Rikki remarked, still looking at the man in the poster.

Aloysius the First nodded. “Yes. We have a lot in common.” He proceeded to the door and placed his right hand on the knob.

Rikki held his hands at his waist as he walked over, mentally debating whether to make his break or wait. General Thayer was not being particularly cautious; the officer had his right hand on the hilt of the katana, but was otherwise unprepared for an unexpected bid for freedom.

Sergeant Boynton, however, was covering Rikki with the HK-33. He decided to wait.

The King opened the red door a crack, then glanced at the noncom.

“Sergeant, you will escort our prisoner inside.”

Boynton gulped. “Sir?”

“You heard me. I want you to bring him in.”

“But, sir—” Boynton began.

“Do as I say!” Aloysius barked, then looked at Thayer. “Is this the type of discipline you instill in my men?”

General Thayer stiffened. “The Hounds are trained to obey you simplicity.”

“If you can’t train them acceptably, I’ll find someone who can,” Atoysius warned.

“I can train them, sir,” General Thayer promised.

“We shall see.” The King opened the door and stepped into a pitch-black chamber. “Bring the swordmaster in,” he commanded, invisible in the stygian darkness.

Sergeant Boynton ushered the Warrior into the Dark Lord’s sanctum.

“Close the door,” ordered Aloysius’s disembodied voice.

Boynton complied.

An ominous silence descended.

Rikki strained his physical senses to their utmost. His nostrils detected a slight tangy scent in the air, a peculiar odor that tingled his nose.

Visually the chamber was impenetrable. Except for a faint rim of light around the edges of the door to his rear, the chamber was cast into complete blackness. He listened for the tapping of the King’s high heels, but all he could perceive was a stealthy scuffing sound.

“Sir, are you there?” Sergeant Boynton asked nervously.

The King did not reply.

“Oh, shit,” Sergeant Boynton muttered, glancing at the door. “This stinks.”

“Where is the Dark Lord?” Rikki inquired.

“I am here!” thundered a raspy, low voice. “Behold!”

A pair of fiery red eyes materialized abruptly 20 feet above the floor and ten yards from the Warrior and the Hound.

“Do you see me now?”

“Yes!” Sergeant Boynton exclaimed in undisguised dread. “We see you. Mighty One.”

“Down on your knees, humans!” the Dark Lord bellowed, and the air near the eyes crackled and sparked with vivid flashes of miniature lightning. Huge radiant spheres containing arcing purple and blue rays appeared on both sides of the eyes, with each glowing sphere 30 feet from those blazing orbs.

Sergeant Boynton threw himself on his knees, the HK-33 on the floor next to his bowed forehead. “I hear and obey, Dark Lord!”

Rikki smelled an acrid odor, the aroma of something burning. He tried to determine if the red eyes were gazing at Boynton or him, but the orbs, lacking pupils and never contracting or widening, gave the impression of being fixed on nothing and everything. He could hear a loud humming.

“Both of you—kneel!” the Dark Lord directed.

Sergeant Boynton looked up. “Kneel, you asshole,” he hissed. “On your knees.”

“I kneel to no one,” Rikki declared.

“You will kneel to me,” the Dark Lord stated.

“Never.”

“Resistance is futile. I could slay you where you stand,” the Dark Lord observed. There was a metallic quality to his voice, and the words were clipped and precise.

“I will not kneel,” Rikki vowed.

“Kneel, damn you, before he kills both of us,” Sergeant Boynton snapped.

“Never,” Rikki reiterated.

“That’s what you think,” Sergeant Boynton responded angrily, and before his intent could be gauged, he swept his right leg into the back of the Warrior’s knees.

Taken unawares, Rikki buckled and fell backwards. He felt the noncom grab him and attempt to wrestle him into a kneeling posture, and he lashed out with his left elbow and caught Boynton on the chin.

The sergeant, on his knees but off balance, grunted as he was struck and swayed to the left.

Rikki followed through with another elbow jab to Boynton’s chest, gouging the tip of his elbow into the Hound’s ribs. He cupped his hands and delivered a powerful blow to the noncom’s right cheek, and Boynton went down.

“Cease and desist!”

Sergeant Boynton, about to scramble to his knees, froze.

Rikki was on his left side. He rose slowly to his full height and stood, waiting.

“Why do you fight?” the Dark Lord demanded.

“I wanted him to kneel for you, mighty one,” Sergeant Boynton answered.

“You wanted!’”

“Yes, Dark Lord. I wanted to help you.”

The response was blistering. “And who are you, puny human? Did I request your aid? Do I need you to compel someone to kneel?”

“No, Dark Lord—”

“I am the Dark Lord. I am power personified. I am what I am, and there are none like me.”

“I know, Dark Lord—”

“No one can escape my wrath. Like a specter in the night, I seek out my enemies and make an end of them. My word is law, and my will is my blade of retribution.”

Sergeant Boynton was trembling.

“Except for Aloysius the First, none are my equal.”

Rikki could discern the vague outline of a large, bulky object or objects ten feet below the orbs. What were they?

“Do you doubt me?”

“No, magnificent one!” Sergeant Boynton cried.

“And what about you, swordmaster?”

The word caused Rikki to do a double take, and he stared at the fiery eyes in open-mouthed wonder.

“What about you?” the Dark Lord repeated.

“What about me?”

“Do you believe in my power?”

“True power stems from the Spirit. Where does your power stem from?”

“Observe and learn.”

A raucous cacophony of sound blasted from the Dark Lord, a strident mixture of wailing, screeching tones, some individual notes attaining a crescendo of piercing intensity while others were plummeting to the depths of the auditory scale. The result was a deranged orchestration of deafening volume.

Rikki inadvertently flinched, and he saw Sergeant Boynton cringing on the floor. His ears were ringing terribly. The intensity of the noise was painful to endure, and he wished his hands were free so he could protect his eardrums. The torment grew and grew, making his head pound in anguish. Just when the bizarre concert attained its most torturous level, two surprises occurred simultaneously.

The noise unaccountably ceased.

And the Dark Lord’s chamber went totally dark.

A ringing engulfed Rikki’s ears, the only sound in his universe. He looked for Sergeant Boynton, but the noncom was indistinguishable in the dark chamber. The next moment a hand clutched at his left ankle, catching on the fabric of his baggy pants, tugging fiercely. He started to resist, and as quickly as the tugging began, it stopped, the hand slipping from his clothing. “Boynton?” he said, startled by the faint, muffled quality to his voice.

The Hound did not reply.

“Boynton?”

“Sergeant Boynton is no longer with us,” declared a familiar tenor to his rear.

Rikki turned as the red door was opened, and the influx of bright light made him squint and blink.

Aloysius the First was framed in the doorway. “The Dark Lord elected to give you a demonstration of his power,” he said, nodding to the left.

His abdomen tightening in expectation, Rikki glanced down at the floor near his feet.

Sergeant Boynton’s face was a grisly death mask, his features contorted, his tongue protruding from his mouth, his eyes wide and gaping, his cheeks distended.

Aloysius the First smiled at the Warrior. “Don’t worry, little man. Your hearing will return to normal shortly.”

Rikki stared at the dead Hound. There wasn’t a wound in sight. “This was unnecessary,” he commented.

“To the contrary, swordmaster,” the King responded. “This was essential to your education, to your mature appreciation of your situation.

You’ve been granted a temporary reprieve. You have one hour to change your mind, to agree to tell me everything you know about the Leather Knights and their setup in St. Louis. If you still refuse at the end of the allotted hour…” He paused, smirked, and pointed at the corpse. “Guess who is next?”