The Anubis Gates

Burghard, wearing some kind of blue and red toucan mask, worked the tiller and sheet carefully in order to follow but not overtake Romany, and they had got nearly all the way across, and were within thirty yards of the Jeter Lane stairs, when the bounding Romany glanced back for the third time, did a double take, and then skidded to a halt, aware at last that he was being followed. “He’s seen us!” Doyle yelled, but Burghard had already wrenched the tiller all the way over to the left, and the boat heeled, tilting dangerously to port as the two wooden wheels on that side kicked up sprays of shaved ice, then righted itself with a slam and cut sharply to starboard, no longer heading for the stairs but aiming straight at a long section of dock. Doyle stood up and drew his sword, and then instantly pitched it away, for it was not a sword at all, but a long silver snake looping back to bite him. A moment later his dagger began to squirm strongly out of its sheath, and it took both hands to hold it in. His clothes were undulating in an insane peristalsis, his mask was flapping wildly on his face, and the very hull under his feet was heaving up and down like the ribs of a big, panting animal. Realizing through his panic that he was in the midst of some awful sorcerous focus, he used the hull’s next heave as a springboard and catapulted right over the side of the rushing, wriggling boat; he landed on his outstretched hands and curled into a tumble. He rolled several yards and then slid to a stop a second or two after the wheeled boat plowed into the dock, loudly shattering the hull and the mast and pitching members of the Antaeus Brotherhood in all directions like bowling pins,

Doyle sat up, wrenched off his palpitating cat mask and flung it as far as he could, and then he noticed his dagger, which had fallen out of its sheath, crawling toward him like a big inchworm; he kicked it away—and instantly felt an almost crippling disorientation engulf him, for though it bounced away as limber as a length of rubber hose, it clinked each time it hit the ice.

Burghard was up on his feet again only a moment after he hit the ice, and though his face was a grimace of pain he managed to croak, “Up onto the land!” as he forced himself to limp forward. Flames had begun to lick up brightly here and there from the shattered hull. One of the boat’s wheels, wrenched loose from its axle, was rolling slowly around on the ice, its painted mouth opening and closing spasmodically and its painted eyes darting about with malign will; and as the flames found and streaked ravenously up the margins of the sail, the face painted on it rolled its eyes and crumpled its canvas furiously as it mouthed unreadable words.

Stowell, his face red as he struggled to stop his scarf from strangling him, bumped into Doyle on his way to the dock, and Doyle shook himself, took a deep breath and followed him. Something had begun to go wrong with the air—it tasted bad, and burned in Doyle’s eyes and nose and lungs, and he could feel the strength draining out of him.

A litter of wriggling and dancing pieces of broken wood had congregated in front of the nearest dock ladder, lashing out at the knees and rolling under the boots of anyone who tried to get near it—one man had fallen and almost been pounded to death before Burghard dragged him clear—and so Doyle simply picked the lurching Stowell up by his belt and collar and, after two swings to get momentum, used very bit of his remaining strength to fling the man powerfully upward; then Doyle fell to his knees and with dimming sight watched the man hurtle up, his arms and legs waving, and plop lightly onto the surface of the dock.

The air was astringent now with fumes like sulphur and chlorine, and Doyle knew that even if the jumping boards moved aside he wouldn’t have the strength to crawl over to the ladder and climb it. He pitched over on his side and rolled onto his back, and with no interest he watched Stowell lean over the edge of the dock, his face lit by the mounting flames, and reach downward with his sword. Doyle was faintly jealous that Stowell’s sword was straight and solid, while his own had turned into a leaping eel. Then he stopped thinking about that and every other thing.

Burghard, still somehow on his feet, staggered into the middle of the crowd of sticks, and as they cracked viciously at his knees and cartwheeled up to slam into his crotch and belly, and as he started to fall he snatched desperately upward and grabbed the razor-edged foible of the downward extended sword.

Instantly the sticks backed away from him, making a frustrated racket of knocking.

Burghard got his feet back under himself to take the weight off his mangled hand, and he inhaled shudderingly. “To me, Antei.’” he fairly screamed. Longwell crawled forward, one arm covering his head against the savage pounding of the wood pieces, and reached out and grabbed the chain that trailed from Burghard’s boot.