The Anubis Gates

He crossed to the tent flap and pulled it slightly open just in time to see a couple of giant skeletal figures, as faintly luminous as after-images on the retina, running in slow motion behind the burning tents; they faded to nothing, so quickly that he wasn’t sure he’d even seen them. The only sound, aside from the quiet crackle of the fires, was incongruously merry piano and accordion music from the north end of camp.

He let the flap fall shut, then rummaged around in the litter until he found a belted robe and some high-soled sandals, which he put on, a clean scarf to knot around his still bleeding foot, and a scabbarded sword. Feeling a little better equipped, he left the tent.

Footsteps approached from his left. He drew the sword and turned toward them and found himself facing the old gypsy, Damnable Richard, who gaped at him in surprise and then leaped backward, snatching a dagger out of his sash.

Doyle lowered his point to the dirt. “You’re in no danger from me, Richard,” he said quietly. “I owe you my life… as well as several drinks. How’s your monkey?”

The gypsy’s eyebrows were as high on his forehead as they could be. After several indecisive wobbles his dagger-hand relaxed to his side. “Why… very kushto, thankee, and all the better for your concern,” he said uncertainly. “Uh… where’s Doctor Romany?”

On the cool evening breeze the music from the north slowed and took on a melancholy tone. “He’s gone,” said Doyle. “I don’t think you’ll ever see him again.”

Richard nodded, assimilating this, then put his dagger away, pulled his monkey out of a pocket and whispered the news to it. “Thank you,” he said finally, looking up at Doyle again. “Now I must go and gather my poor scattered people.” He started away, but after a few steps he paused and turned, and by the light of the burning tent Doyle saw his teeth flash in a grin. “I guess you gorgios aren’t always stupid,” he said, then started away again.

The tent Doyle had exited was now burning thoroughly and sending glowing patches of tent fabric whirling up into the clear night sky. Remembering the chamber pot that had shrapnelled over his head, Doyle gingerly felt his hair—but it seemed clean, and it occurred to him that he must have left the befoulment back in 1684 along with the borrowed clothes.

“Ashbless!” someone yelled from away to the right, and it took a moment for Doyle to remember that he was Ashbless. It must be Byron, he thought. Or, he amended, the Byron ka.

“Here, my lord, “he called.

Byron came limping up out of the shadows, glaring around and holding his dagger ready. “Here you are,” he said. He looked more closely at him. “What are you wearing the robe and odd shoes for?”

“It’s… a long story,” said Doyle, sheathing his sword. “Let’s get out of here—I need to find a pair of trousers and a long, strong drink.”

“Oh?” Byron blinked. “But what of the fire giants? Have they gone?”

“Yes. Romany consumed them, used them up to fuel a bolt-hole spell of his.”

“Spells,” Byron said disgustedly, then spat. “Where is he now, then?”

“Gone,” said Doyle. “Dead by now, almost certainly.”

“Damn. I had hoped to kill him myself.” He eyed Doyle suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot about it. And how did you manage to lose your trousers in the few minutes since I last saw you?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Doyle repeated, beginning to shiver.

They walked away, past the burning tent by the tree from which Doyle had broken a limb—only, he realized dazedly, a few minutes ago by local time—and then they set off across the grass beyond, and the streaks of their shadows in front of them were gradually absorbed by the darkness as they left the fire farther and farther behind.

* * *

The creature in the dark grass found it easier to crawl than walk through the field, for it could grab weed stalks and pull itself along and only use its feet for kicking off from the ground every now and then to keep itself from settling to the earth; if anyone had been watching, the thing would have looked like some agile crustacean skimming across the sea floor.

Well, thought the thing that had once been indistinguishable from a man, there’s the last score settled, the long circle closed, and the man who ruined me is off on his way to be killed by me. I saw the yags extinguished, so I know he’s gone. The thing chuckled like dry leaves rattling in the wind. Half an hour ago, it thought, I was afraid he might somehow evade his death, and now he’s been dead a hundred and twenty-six years.