The Valley of Thunder

  "What?" he said softly. "Taking up arms against your own brother?"

  "You are not my brother," Clive said. "It's that simple."

  "I say I am! You are wasting our time."

  "On the contrary, ii is you who wastes our time."

  "You know nothing about this place."

  "Exactly," Clive agreed. "Yet I do know that I want satisfaction, and I'll take it out of your hide."

  "The Good Lord frowns on fratricide," the replica said.

  Clive knew what he was trying to do. If the replica could keep even a bare rumor alive in Clive’s mind that this was his own twin with which he would be dueling, that vague indecision would work against him. Not much, but enough to throw off his timing. And against the replica's superior strength, that could be crucial.

  "I don’t doubt that He also frowns on the replicas that men make of His own creations," Clive said.

  "I am not a replica."

  "Then answer my question."

  "Your question insults me."

  Clive shrugged. "Then, have at you!"

  He stepped forward, left hand on his hip, blade licking out. The two sabers met with a clash of metal that rang in the hallway. Sparks leapt at the impact. Parrying and thrusting. Clive forced his opponent to back down the hall.

  The replica met his every blow with the perfect parry, but such was the impetus of Clive's attack that it allowed the replica no opportunity to mount his own offensive. He was forced to retreat, continually kept on the defensive.

  Clive’s companions and the captive Tawnians were behind him, so that when he heard a sudden uproar to his rear, he was well-tempted to turn to sec what was up, but he knew the replica was waiting for just such a foolish move. So he kept his gaze on his opponent, forcing him into the wider breadth of a joining of corridors. He flinched when he heard the thunderous boom of Howlett's handgun resounding through the hall, but he never turned.

  God help them, Clive worried. Now what? But he had no time to think of it.

  This crossroads of corridors had given them more room to maneuver, and now the replica look the lead, mounting his own offensive. He feinted, blade darting in toward Clive's left flank. As Clive brought his blade around to block the strike, the replica abruptly changed the line of his attack.

  Clive was already committed to his defensive action. He brought his own blade up, enough to catch the main force of the replica's blow in a shower of sparks, but too late to stop his opponent's saber from nicking his shoulder.

  "First blood!" the replica cried.

  There was a moment's lull during which Clive conserved his energy and said not a word. The wound was nothing. It had missed the muscle, but it was bleeding. Left alone too long, it would weaken him. This had to be finished quickly.

  He listened for sound from the corridor that he and his opponent had so recently quit, but the uproar had died down. There was no sound from his companions.

  Had the Tawnians overcome them with another of their futuristic devices?

  There was no time to turn, no time to think of anything but the battle at hand as the replica got his second wind and launched a new flurry of strikes. Now it was Clive who was put on the defensive, forced to retreat until his back was up against a wall. Their sabers met with a clang, the two blades locking, and suddenly the replica was pushing the false edge of Clive's own blade back against his face.

  The replica had the superior strength—as Neville had always had.

  "Weakening, little brother?" the replica asked.

  "Damn you." Clive muttered as he strained to break the deadlock.

  Through sheer force of will, he managed to put a halt to the replica's pressure. Sweat beaded both their brows. The replica's face was so close to Clive's that Clive could see every pore in replica's skin. The resemblance to Neville was frightening, it was that uncanny. It was as though he actually fought Neville—Neville, who invariably beat him, no matter what the game, except perhaps for chess.

  But this wasn't chess now. No black and white pieces to be moved on the board. It wasn't a game—it was life or death. Clive could see that plainly in... the replica's—his brother's?—eyes.

  Suddenly, the replica brought up his knee toward Clive's groin. A true swordsman's sixth sense had warned Clive, however, and he turned just enough to catch the blow on his thigh. Clive's anger at the low blow was enough to fuel him with the strength to slip free of the deadlock. He faced the replica, features flushed.

  "Always the gentleman, are you?" he said, forgetting in the heat of the moment that it wasn't his brother that he fought here.

  He saw only Neville standing there.

  "There are no gentlemen in this place," the replica replied. "There is only winning or losing—nothing else."

  The tone of his voice, the spirit of his words, was so like Neville that it left Clive thoroughly confused. God help him, what if this truly was Neville? Neville, who could be so stubborn that all you wanted to do was throttle him, and still he wouldn't change his mind. Neville, who—

  The replica grinned at Clive's momentary lapse. He renewed his attack with a bewildering flurry of strokes. It was all Clive could do to parry them. But then he had an opening and he thrust. The point of his saber entered the replica's chest, directly above his heart.

  The replica's eyes widened and he faltered. As he stumbled back against a wall, his body pulled free of Clive's blade. Blood flecked his lips. It oozed from the wound to spread across his shirt. Slowly he lowered his own weapon and lifted his left hand to touch the wound. He stared at the blood, then his gaze lifted to meet Clive's shocked features.

  "I ... I never thought you had it in you...." the replica managed.

  His saber fell from his hand and clanged to the floor. His head slumped forward and he slid to the ground. And then he was dead.

  "My God!" Clive cried, dropping his own weapon. "Neville!"

  He no longer knew true from false, replica from original. Not anymore. All he could see was that his brother lay here—dead by Clive's own hand.

  "Neville," he said, his voice breaking.

  He reached to touch the dead man's cheek, but suddenly Smythe was there at his side.

  "Sah!" he cried. "We've no time."

  Clive turned slowly to look at Smythe. "I killed my brother...."

  Smythe shook his head. "You killed a replica of him. God knows. I'm hard put to tell the difference myself, but you saw the man, sah. He couldn't answer the simple question you put to him."

  "Couldn't? Or wouldn't?"

  For that would be very like Neville, Clive thought. Lord help him. How could he face their father now?

  Smythe laid a hand on his shoulder. "We've no time for this, sail."

  Clive gave him a blank look, the shock of his deed still just settling in.

  Neville dead. By his hand.

  "Some more of the buggers attacked us while you were fighting," Smythe went on. "Howlett took out one and Guafe used their own stasis ray back on them, but one of them had time to fire a projectile weapon and kill Howlett."

  "There's no end to the killing." Clive said dully.

  "Not if we stay, there isn't."

  Smythe hoisted Clive to his feet. He bent and retrieved Clive's saber, cleaning it on the replica's shirt and replacing it in Clive's scabbard. Picking up the replica's blade as well, he steered Clive toward the vehicle they had commandeered.

  "There are more of the buggers coming," Smythe said. "We have to go now."

  "But, Neville...."

  Finnbogg helped Smythe tug Clive up onto the back of the cart. Guafe was behind the wheel. As soon as the cyborg saw that they were all aboard, he started up the cart and they shot down the corridor.

  "That wasn't Neville," Smythe told Clive.

  "But how can we know that?"

  "We'll find the real Neville." Smythe told him. "He's here, somewhere in this Dungeon, and we won't rest until we find him."

  But Clive only shook his head. Somehow, it didn't matter. Re
plica or not, it was still as though he'd killed his own brother. They had had their differences, God knew, but surely he never meant Neville that much ill?

  It was true that Neville had led them a merry chase through the various levels of the Dungeon, but Clive had always expected that when they finally caught up with his twin, there would be a reasonable explanation for it all. He'd be angry—who wouldn't?—but it would blow over, because they were still brothers, in the end. Twins. Surely to God that still stood for something?

  But he'd killed that man wearing Neville's face so easily. And what if it had been Neville...?

  Lord, but his head hurt to think of it all.

  Smythe left him sitting beside Finnbogg, the dwarf seeing to Clive's hurt shoulder, while the sergeant climbed into the seat beside Guafe.

  "Do we have a destination in mind?" he asked.

  "I assumed we would continue to this Oracle Chamber, as we had initially planned," the cyborg replied.

  Smythe nodded. "That's logical enough. What do you think of what just happened?"

  Guafe shot him a sidelong glance, the look in his metallic eyes unreadable. "What is there to think?"

  "Was that Sir Neville?"

  "I really wouldn't know," Guafe replied.

  "We turn here," Smythe said as they came upon a distinctive mural that Merdor had described to them back in his office.

  "I know that." Guafe replied. "Here," he added, passing over the stasis ray control device.

  "What is this for?"

  But then there was no need for the cyborg to explain as they rounded the corner, the cart taking it on only two wheels, and they were aimed straight tor another group of Tawnians. Smythe thumbed the device's control and the Tawnians froze in place. Guafe slowed the cart down so that Smythe could lean forward and push the rigid bodies out of the way without having to plow through them.

  "Handy little toy," Smythe remarked as they entered the last corridor before they would reach the elevator taking them down to the Oracle's Chamber.

  "It is more than a toy." Guafe said, "but not by a great deal, judging by its size, it can't hold enough of a charge to immobilize a truly large creature."

  "Like the brontosaurs?"

  Guafe nodded. "They would be entirely out of the question. Even something twice the size of a man—it would slow down more than completely immobilize."

  "Then, let's pray we meet nothing larger than men."

  "Prayer is only superstition," Guafe said.

  Smythe shrugged. They had reached the elevator now. He got down from the cart and pushed the control button beside its closed doors. As the doors slid open, he hopped back into the cart. looking back at Clive as Guafe drove the cart inside.

  "Feeling any better?" Smythe asked.

  Clive nodded, but the haunted look in his eyes belied his response.

  As the elevator took them down. Clive sat up straighter, preparing himself for the next disaster that the Dungeon had to throw at them.

  Thirty-two

  There were twenty-two sarcophagi in the chamber. One belonged to the slain Oracle, and it remained shut. The one from which they'd rescued Neville was also empty. That left twenty stone lids grating open. Twenty Lords of Thunder stepping out from their coffins, like the walking dead in a Romero flick.

  We really don't need this shit, Annabelle thought.

  "BLASPHEMERS!" one of the Lords bellowed.

  Ers, ers, ers....

  Other Lords took up the cry, until the chamber rang with the thunder of their furious voices.

  "FOR THIS YOU WILL DIE!"

  Die, die, die....

  Oh? Annabelle thought. Like you were gonna let us go before?

  Shriek ran to the slain Lord and ripped free the bandoleers around its chest. She swung the leather bands experimentally, getting a feel for them. With the sharp blades that were stitched to the leather, they would make a better weapon than her hair spikes, which had already proved ineffective.

  "That's not gonna be enough!" Annabelle cried, having to shout as loud as she could to be heard over the thundering voices of the Lords.

  "What else can we do?" Sidi asked.

  He started for the dais to rip the Oracle's bandoleers free as well, but he was too late. Two Lords had already blocked the route. Their movement made the curtain behind the dais flutter, and Annabelle caught a glimpse of what looked like wood, before the curtain fell back to cover it.

  An exit, maybe? A way out? Unfortunately, they weren't going to be able to try it. as there were now five of the Lords between the dais and themselves.

  The small party retreated, Sidi and Annabelle dragging Neville's limp form with them, until they had their backs almost up against the elevator doors. There was nowhere else to go.

  Tomàs, as though atoning for his earlier cowardice, took up a stance a few yards in front of Annabelle, so that the Lords would have to attack him first. Shriek swung her bandoleers, waiting for the nearest of the monsters to come in range. Sidi stood at Annabelle's side, hands clenched into lists beside either thigh.

  "Well, kids." Annabelle said, swallowing dryly. "It's been real nice knowing you."

  "Perhaps we can make a break for the dais," Sidi said.

  "You saw it, too?" she asked. "What looked like a door?"

  Sidi nodded. "Some of us might make it."

  Not bloody likely, Annabelle thought. But what did they have to lose?

  "Okay," she said. "You and Shriek take the right—Tomàs and I'll go left."

  But then she heard the elevator doors open behind her.

  "Take 'em!" she cried.

  She turned to meet the new threat, then darted aside as one of the Tawnian golf carts came whipping out of the elevator. It took her a long, shocked moment to recognize the cart's riders, then she cave a whoop of delight.

  "Hoo-ha! The cavalry's here. Go get 'em, boys!"

  Smythe leaned forward, holding out one of the Tawnians' stasis devices. He aimed it in an arc, sweeping the room. The Lords came to abrupt halts, then slowly began to lurch forward again, moving as though they were a film in slow motion.

  "I told you," Chang Guafe said to Smythe.

  Annabelle could have kissed the cyborg, never mind his know-it-all attitude.

  "Where is the gateway?" Smythe asked her.

  "There's one in here?" she replied. When he nodded, she pointed to the dais. "Then, it's gotta be behind that curtain."

  She and Sidi began to hoist Neville's body onto the cart. A very pale Clive was there, with Finnbogg to help them.

  "Hey, Clive-o—how's it going?"

  "Who is this?" he said as he pulled the limp body on board.

  "Your brother. Who did you think? Errol Flynn?"

  "He's not a replica?"

  Annabelle nodded. "I get the picture. Naw, the Oracle says he's the real thing."

  Clive touched the pale check of his twin. "Thank Christ."

  "Will the rest of you get on?" Smythe shouted.

  Annabelle, Tomàs, and Sidi climbed into the back. Shriek stood on the front of the cart, whirling the bandoleers as the slow-motion giants approached. By weaving back and forth through them, and thanks to the Lords' now-slowed reflexes, they reached the foot of the steps leading up the dais without anyone being hurt.

  "Take the wheel," Guafe told Smythe. "You help me," he added to Shriek.

  The Lords were turning, slowly, slowly, but approaching them all the same. While Smythe got the cart moving, Shriek and Guafe helped it climb the steps by pushing it along, literally lifting the vehicle at times. Annabelle jumped off at the top and ran for the curtain, ripping it aside.

  There was a door there, big enough to take the cart. But the door had a padlock on it. Shriek and Guafe each took a side of the large shackle and tore it apart. They pushed open the door to reveal another corridor, ceiling lit and running off into the distance.

  "Okay, kids." Annabelle cried. "Let's go for it!"

  Smythe drove the cart through. Shriek and Guafe pulled the im
mense door closed behind them. A crossbeam lay to one side of the corridor, and they hoisted it up, fitting it into place to bar the door from their side. They heard the slow hammer of the Lords' fists on the wood, but the door held.

  "I don't believe it." Annabelle said, leaning back against the side of the carl's bed. "It's like a miracle. Not only did we all survive, but we're back together again."

  "This is really my brother?" Clive said.

  Annabelle nodded. She gave Smythe a questioning look. Clive looked right out of it, as far as she was concerned.

  "Major Clive fought an exact replica of Sir Neville." Smythe said. "Fought and killed him. It was an ... unsettling experience."

  "I guess." Annabelle said. "I'm not feeling so settled myself."

  She turned to Sidi and put her arms around him, hugging him close.

  "I can't believe we made it," she said.

  Sidi stroked her hair. "Only this far, Annabelle."

  "Sure. Rain on my parade.

  She felt a weird tension in the air then, and looked over to find Clive watching her with a pained expression. Right, she thought. Fraternizing with the hired help, and a native, to boot.

  "Don't you even thinking of saying anything." she told him, holding Sidi closer.

  Thirty-three

  With all that they had just gone through—their escape, killing Nevilles replica, the monstrous Lords, finding Neville—Clive's mental state was in an uproar. Seeing Annabelle embracing the Indian was just too much.

  "Annabelle—" he began, but Smythe gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

  It was his hurt shoulder. The pain cut through him like a piercing fire. He turned, struck numb at this further betrayal, but Smythe was already letting go of his shoulder.

  "Good Lord." Smythe said. "I forgot your wound, sah."

  "Damn my wound. I—"

  Smythe shook his head before Clive could continue. "Be happy they're safe." he said, "and that we're all together again. Companions in a bad situation, it's true, but together."

  Finnbogg nodded. "We have found your brother, if not mine," he said. "Now we have a chance to escape. Together."

  Clive frowned. "But...."

  "What they're saying, Clive-o," Annabelle told him, "is it's none of your business what I do or anybody else does, just so long as it doesn't screw up the party's chances as a whole."