‘Also,’ she reminded him, ‘out there at the rim of the cold and sluggish sea, a dozen or more warriors, watchers, guards.’
‘You followed my son’s advice and made yourself some creatures?’
‘Yes . . .’ But she looked away.
‘Out of what? And why do you avoid my eyes?’
Karen snatched her head round to glare her defiance at him. ‘I avoid nothing! I found my materials in the stumps of the shattered aeries, in the workshops of the Lords. Most were ruined, crushed or buried forever, but some were intact. At first I blundered, creating flyers which could not fly, warriors which would not fight. But gradually I perfected my art. You have seen and ridden upon my flyer: an exceptional beast. Likewise my warriors. I made three pairs which were sound and fearsome and mighty, who by now have made six or even nine more. Except . . .’ And again she turned her face away.
Harry caught her chin in a hand and turned it back again. ‘Except?’
‘For a while now they have not answered my calls. I send my thoughts out across Starside, requesting information, but they don’t hear me. Or if they do, they fail – or refuse – to answer.’
Harry frowned. ‘You’ve lost control over them?’
She tossed her head. ‘It was something the Old Wamphyri were always afraid of: to make creatures with a will of their own, which might one day bolt and run wild. Mercifully I heeded The Dweller’s warning and they are doomed genetically: there’ll be no females among the offspring.’
Harry gave a grunt. ‘So, you have watchers who don’t watch, and warriors which won’t war. What other “precautions” have you taken against this threat from the Icelands?’
Now she hissed at him. ‘Do you snigger at my works, Necroscope? And should I tell you how I had decided to meet the threat, when and if it should arise? Remember, before you came I was a woman alone; and how do you think Shaithis would deal with me – with Karen, great traitor bitch of the Wamphyri! – if he had survived the Icelands and would now return here? Should I surrender myself to his tender mercies? Hah, no, not while I could defy him to the last!’
‘Defy him?’ (Lit up in the blaze of her hair and eyes, and in the gleam of her teeth, Harry was struck anew with the thought: She’s a volcano, inside and out!) And out loud: ‘How, defy him?’
Again she tossed her head. ‘Why, rather than have Shaithis force himself upon me, I’d give myself to a more destructive, even more faithless lover. For I’d mount my flyer and head south, over the mountains and across Sunside, even into the brazen face of the sun itself. Let Shaithis chase me there if he would, into streaming gases and exploding flesh and nothingness. So be it!’
Harry drew her into his arms and she came without resistance. ‘It won’t come to that,’ he husked, stroking her hair while her furious tremors subsided. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ But etched on the mirror of the Necroscope’s inner mind, kept hidden even from Karen’s telepathy, was a scene out of future time which try as he might he could not banish.
A picture of a fiery, molten gold future. A vision of THE END, framed in the scarlet, all-consuming fires of an ultimate hell . . .
4
Again Perchorsk – The Icelands Now
The hivelike caverns, burned-out burrows and haunted magmass levels of the Perchorsk Projekt had seen a period of intense activity. Six days had passed since Harry Keogh’s night visit with Projekt Direktor Viktor Luchov, and his subsequent invasion of the core riding a powerful American motorcycle; as a result of which, a final, terrifying scene had now been set. The pieces were all in place for what Luchov could only hope would be the permanent closure of the Gate.
Down in the core, standing on the now deactivated, recently cleaned and polished fish-scale plates where they encircled the dimensional portal, Luchov’s unblinking gaze fell in silent awe on the would-be instruments of that disconnection: a pair of top-secret Tokarev Mk II short-range missiles (in more common parlance, nuclear exorcets), mounted atop the compact, caterpillar-tracked carriage of their grey-metal launching and guidance module. Behind the smoked lenses of his plastic eye-shields, the Projekt Direktor’s eyes were mere slits, as if frozen in a wince or grimace; for it had been his responsibility, passed down from Moscow, to order the Tokarevs armed and programmed. He knew only too well what he had here: knew that obscene slugs of toxic metal had been loaded into the slender steel bellies of the missiles, where now they lay quiescent but ready on the instant to spring shrieking awake. All it required was the push of a button.