David Robbins - Memphis Run

“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.