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.