Walking On Broken Glass
Part Four: Queen to Bishop's Rook Three
The portal spits me out onto a blackened rocky plateau, pulling me free of my husband's hand, and I sprawl clumsily onto the ground, tiny scrapes opening instantly on my skin and beginning to sting painfully. Behind me I can sense the others doing the same – Bishop takes the impact on his shoulder and rolls smoothly into a crouch, his energy rifle raised and ready to fire almost immediately, while Sam, Brian, Meggan and Warren kill their momentum and find their feet thanks to quick uses of their respective mutant powers. Logan, meanwhile, merely endures the momentary bruising that peppers his flesh, but Scott has to follow Bishop's example in order to escape without significant injury. "Everybody okay?" he asks when he's found his breath. In response, Sam raises a hand wordlessly, Bishop nods (once he is satisfied that the area is secure enough for him to relax), and Logan merely lopes off in the direction of the cliff face that lies off to our right, while the rest of the group simply murmurs agreement with Scott's statement.
I follow Logan over to the cliff face in order to see what he's so interested in, and below us I see a throng of misshapen, warped creatures of all shapes and appearances, all of whom are milling around a raised stone dais. Upon the dais is stood Lady Mortis' ornate white marble throne, to which Rebecca has been chained, and alongside her is the bloodstained stone plinth upon which my son is resting. I can't see my daughter's face in order to make sure that it's her, but I can sense her thoughts, and that's confirmation enough for me. Walking up behind me, his massive muscular frame making little more noise than a stalking cat, Bishop touches my shoulder. When I turn to face him, he flips open a compartment on his belt and hands me a small metal device. It has one large viewing window on one side, and a large circular lens on the other, which seems to have automated focusing qualities. "Magnoculars," he says simply. "They'll give you a better view of what's going on down there."
Putting the device up to my eyes, I can instantly see the monsters in the valley below at about three times normal magnification, the magnoculars' mechanical innards whirring constantly as I pan across the chamber, until I get to where Rebecca is kneeling. I feel my breath catch in my throat before I look at her, but she looks fairly unharmed – relatively speaking, anyway. From here, it's impossible to tell what kind of condition she or Tom is really in, but I'm hoping that Mortis will have kept them mostly unharmed for now. What kind of sense would it make to kidnap them and then instantly have them murdered, after all?
A droplet of something splatters on Logan's shoulder just then, startling him – and the rest of us, if the truth be told. He glances at it, surprised, before another droplet hits him squarely in the face, leaving a long red smear on his left cheek. He raises his blunt fingers towards it, wiping it off and then taking a cursory sniff. "This is blood," he mutters. He sounds a touch unsurprised about what the substance is, but is still fairly puzzled as to its origin. "I ain't bleedin', an' I know none of you is, either… so where'd it come from?"
"Um, Logan? Look up there." Pale-faced, Sam points a gloved finger towards the ceiling of the chamber. All of us follow where he is pointing, and all of us are struck completely dumb by what we see. Sprawling across the roof of the chamber, like a giant cobweb made of mangled, sharp steel, is a huge metal framework which is bolted crudely to the rocky ceiling with massive rivets. It looks almost organic in the way that it grows and twists new extensions out of itself, but the razor edges of the frame belie that assessment. It stretches for miles, it seems, clinging to the upper edges of the cavern like a parasite.
And from it hang dozens, hundreds, of creatures – some human, some not; some there for punishment, some not – who are bound to it by further twists of knife-like metal. It cuts into their flesh as they dangle crucified from the frame, slicing into their bodies as they writhe in pain – and sometimes, disturbingly, pleasure. Even as I watch, the frame shifts position, seeming to flow like water, cutting into fresh body parts with horrifying ease and causing the faint chorus of moans raining down from the ceiling to intensify briefly. Crawling over the victims like locusts are swarms of tiny, green-skinned imps, who dip their fingers into weeping, suppurating wounds mischievously and suck their claws dry of the infected pus with twisted glee. And from those same infected wounds falls a sparse but regular shower of blood, like that which still marks Logan's shoulder and cheek. The blind horror of it strikes every one of us dumb for a long time.
Finally, Scott clears his throat, trying not to let his gaze drift back to the poor tormented souls above us. "We need a plan," he says, his voice a little shaky. "We can't just run down there without thinking – we'd be ripped apart before we got within a hundred metres of Rebecca or Tom."
"Agreed," Brian says, nodding, before he looks at either side of the cavern's bowl-like structure, thoughts beginning to race through his head. "Wait…" he continues, before pointing to the raised ridges of stone. "Those are pretty ideal cover positions. If we could put some long-range power behind them to give close-up fighters like Logan some support –"
"– we'd have a better chance of getting to the kids," Warren finishes, before he gestures at Scott and Bishop. "You guys are pretty much the only choices we've got in that regard. You sure you can give us enough juice?"
Sam raises his hand. "Um… I can use my blast field like that in a pinch, Mr Worthington. You need extra coverin' fire, I can give to ya." I can tell that he would rather rescue Rebecca himself, but I can also sense that he realises the severity of the situation demands a less emotional response.
Thank you, Sam, I send to him. In response, he simply nods quietly at me, which says more to me than anything else he could have done.
"Good idea, Sam," Scott says, pulling at the edges of his gloves as if he is indulging in one of his pre-combat rituals. "Right now, I think we need all the help we can get."
"So what should the rest of us do?" Meggan asks, her pretty, elfin features drawn into a deeply concerned expression, before Logan points at the floor of the cavern and then at the curling stone-sheathed pathways branching off from our position that lead down to it.
"See those?" he says gruffly. "There are plenty of 'em, and most of 'em are pretty well-concealed from the main chamber. If we're quiet, we can get down there pretty much under their noses." He takes a sniff of the air just then, as if he's testing it for something. "Better do it quick, though; those creeps down there look like they're gettin' restless…" He points towards where a small knot of hulking, scarlet-skinned monsters is starting to form, claws and teeth flying as the creatures begin tearing at each other, spraying their fellow beasts with luridly-hued gore and chunks of bone. Even from here, I can hear (and sense) their howls of twisted pleasure as they carve ugly, jagged wounds into each other's hides. The blood they've spilt becomes more paint for their already sodden and dripping skins, their claws daubing it in handfuls onto their muscular bodies. Elsewhere, meanwhile, squat, hunched-over creatures dressed in ragged, hooded robes sit rocking silently back and forth, picking obsessively at their diseased, necrotic skin and playing with the clouds of impossibly-large plague flies that circle around them. Misshapen, mindless monstrosities that don't even have anything approaching a single solid form pull themselves across the stone floor of the chamber with curved talons or suckered tentacles, their snapping, lamprey-like mouths ringed with razor-teeth and dripping with strings of discoloured saliva, and their flailing limbs scything through the air like knives.
The madness that I see below me just serves to reinforce why I have to get to Rebecca and Tom as quickly as possible. "I'm going down there," I say, my voice decisive, focused. The oily blackness on my right hand sings at the certainty of bloodshed, its cold touch accentuated by its expectant hunger, and I can even feel it extend a few hopeful tendrils down the length of my fingers, as if it hopes that I will surrender to it once I am concerned with other things.
I clench my hand angrily, forcing the darkness back to my fingertips. "No," I hiss, feeling the chill in my hand recede just a touch. "You will not have me. Not now."
"Betts?" Logan asks, concerned. "You say somethin'?"
"No," I say again, stalking towards the closest pathway and drawing both of my katana blades, curling my hands around their elegantly-sculpted handles and feeling their comforting weight reassure me a little. "Nothing." Padding stealthily across the cliff to the nearest pathway, I begin my descent, followed in single file by the others, with Warren understandably staying closest behind me, his hands clenched and his jaw set into a firm line. I can feel his teeth grinding together through our psionic rapport, along with perhaps unavoidable feelings of anticipation and apprehension. As I move down towards the floor of the cave, Scott, Sam and Bishop take up their positions behind the rocky outcrops; I can feel them picking out targets already. Bishop picks the largest and strongest creatures, aiming his plasma rifle directly at their heads, while for his part Scott finds what he believes to be the swiftest amongst the mob and keeps his mind trained on finding their knees, and Sam merely resolves to use his powers on the most immediate threats that he can see, whatever their capabilities. It's a nice illustration of their differing approaches to leadership, I suppose – if they were tools, Bishop would be most like a war-hammer, heavy and brutal, while Scott is like a surgeon's scalpel, precise and economical, and Sam is like a Swiss army knife, always ready to do whatever he can to fix a problem.
Brian begins to follow me, and then stops, before saying "Betsy, perhaps it might be better if Meggan and I went this way." He points towards another passageway off to his right with his right hand. "If we were to try a pincer movement, it might give us a better chance of getting to Rebecca and Tom."
"Yes," Meggan agrees. "I think it's called 'divide and conquer', isn't it?" She holds out her hands, which begin to warp into long, sharp talons. Their razor edges glint in the dim light, indicating that perhaps Meggan is not the innocent, scatter-brained faerie I initially took her for. She grins at me as she sees my thoughts unwittingly ripple across my face. "Perhaps I could try being like you, just this once?" She opens her mouth a little wider, so that I can see her perfect, lily-white teeth elongating into a mouthful of deadly fangs. "Just in case," she says, pointing at her mouth with a lengthy, double-edged claw, her voice slightly altered by her new teeth, as she sees my expression change once again. Then she and Brian move towards the passageway that my brother had indicated just now. Brian clenches his fists before he descends into the passage itself, and then he looks back at me mutedly. "See you down there, butterfly," he says softly, before he and Meggan disappear.
"See you, Brian," I whisper, before my resolve returns, and I begin walking determinedly towards the route down to the cavern's floor, with Warren and Logan following behind me. When the three of us are hidden behind a screen of thick sandstone, I lead the way down the curling path, my telepathy helping me to judge when it's safe to move past the occasional large gaps in the stone walls. Beside me, Warren flexes his great wings and eases the techno-organic gauntlet on his right hand into a more comfortable position, wincing a little as he does so, and Logan simply extends his bone claws, before he begins sniffing the air and listening hard, his silence telling me more than anything he could say right now. The three of us walk slowly down the curving passageway until it begins to level out, the rancid, rotten-egg smell of the creatures beginning to filter up to us at the same time.
Abruptly, I hold my hand up, indicating that we should stop. I can sense a small group of creatures beginning to make their way to the mouth of the passageway. Their thoughts are more sophisticated than the primal, bloodthirsty urges of most of the horde, but are still full of depraved and vile images which burn my mind as they filter into my brain.
Stay still, I say telepathically to both Warren and Logan simultaneously. I'll try and hide us. Concentrating, I put my hands to my temples and begin to create a telepathic illusion for the creatures to see, instead of the three X-Men that are really in the tunnel. As the creatures pad bestially up from the wide, yawning doorway at the bottom of the passage, I slide gently into their brains, like a stiletto dagger through flesh. The butterfly of my telepathy flutters into the centre of their twisted minds, telling them that there are no X-Men in their way, only some dislodged boulders.
As they shuffle up the sloping stone pathway, the scaly, insect-like creatures hesitate for a moment or two, their eyes telling them one thing and their brains interpreting it as another. One of them growls softly, turning its nictitating gaze towards where Warren is standing as motionless as he can. Its growl becomes a roar then, and it throws its emaciated frame at my husband, its filthy claws outstretched and ready to tear into Warren's flesh. Realising my illusion has been shattered, I raise my katana, ready to deal the monster a killing blow – but Warren has swatted the creature aside with one of his great wings before my sword is anywhere near its objective. There is an ugly cracking of bones as the thing hits the side of the corridor, its diseased, paper-thin skin tearing like wet parchment and exposing fragile bones to the air. The other two creatures attack then, their vision clearing just as the other monster's had, and Logan and I are suddenly under threat once again. Logan ducks under one swiping claw, his right hand sweeping upwards in a tight arc, slicing off the outstretched arm at the elbow. Black blood gushes, splattering across Logan's face, but he doesn't seem to care. His eyes are empty pits of bottomless rage, and he endures another wild swing by the creature in order to drive both sets of claws right into the monster's chest, so hard and fast that they tear out of the creature's back, taking uneven lumps of distended, sickly internal organs with them. Logan stabs at the corpse until his rage is sated, ebon blood coating him up to his shoulders.
Meanwhile, I am matching my whirring, singing katana blades against the claws of the last beast. I aim a hacking slice at the leg of the monster, trying to hamstring it and make my job a little easier, but the blade's aim is knocked off by a scything kick from one of the fiend's splayed, bird-like feet, and instead of finding flesh, it thuds into the side of the passageway, embedding itself into the hard stone and sticking fast. The beast senses my momentary weakness and moves in for the kill, its clawed hands raised and its glittering eyes shining with bloodlust, but as it approaches, I use the blade in my free hand to carve a long, ugly cut into its side. It howls with pain, and staggers for a moment before it is able to balance itself again.
That moment is all I need to pull my sword out of the stone wall. Swinging the newly-freed blade, I feel its keen edge biting into the flesh of the creature's chest hungrily. Blood explodes from the wound, and as the thing staggers, air wheezing from a hole in its side, I strike with my other blade, decapitating my opponent in one swift stroke. The two pieces of the corpse fall a full metre apart, and I feel the exhilaration of battle tugging at my mind as I try to regain my breath. It's only then that I notice the fabric of my bodysuit is torn in more than one place, long scratches marking where the demon's talons found their mark. None of them are serious, but they're all bleeding, the blood that seeps insistently from them streaked with threads of swirling black.
Warren notices the odd colouration of my wounds when he has managed to suck some air back into his lungs, and points at them, concerned. "What's that?" he asks, his gloved right hand reaching out to touch my arm curiously.
I shrug him off, annoyed. "It's nothing, Warren. I'm fine." As if to belie my words, the darkness on my fingers chooses that moment to join up with the trickles of blood from a wound on my shoulder – and before I can force it back down again, the darkness' tendrils have found the blood. Instantly, my arm goes cold, the warmth of my flesh and blood replaced by the chill of a living shadow. It's all I can do to keep the blackness confined only to my arm, although I can already feel its insistent tentacles worming their way into my shoulder like vicious maggots beneath the sleeve of my suit, ready to exploit any potential weakness. I can sense the horror and shock in both Warren and Logan as their minds register what's happened to me.
"Betsy," Warren begins, his face gone an ashen shade of blue, "please tell me that's not what I think it is."
"I can't, Warren," I say, sighing and rubbing my eyes with my unaffected hand. "Putting it simply: the Dawn wants me back. It's not going to get me. End of story." I turn away from both men, moving stealthily down to the mouth of the tunnel and crouching behind a large boulder that has fallen across the entrance, partially blocking it. Looking out over the landscape in front of me, I can see Lady Mortis addressing her followers. Her voice is too far away to hear clearly, but I can sense the triumphant tone in her thoughts nonetheless.
Suddenly, she turns her head towards where Logan, Warren and I are standing. Even from this distance, I can see her yellow eyes glowing malevolently, as if she is anticipating an easy victory. Hello, Betsy, she says in my head, her psionic voice like ice water against my mind. Merlin sent you at last, did he? Good. I hate waiting… don't you?
I can feel her words burning into my brain long after the telepathic contact has been broken, as if they were coated with acid. Shaking my head to try and clear it of Lady Mortis' poisonous influence, I stumble and fall against the side of the tunnel. Quickly, both Warren and Logan are there to help me to my feet, and as they help me pull myself back into a standing position, I gasp "She knows we're here."
"Crap," Warren says simply, and Logan nods in agreement as he pulls his mouth into a grim line, his only other action being to ready his claws. His silence speaks volumes, as usual.
My husband's assessment of the situation is proved accurate, too, when almost the entire host of mutants, demons and plague-ridden hooded freaks turns to face us.
And then they charge.
"Oh, crap," is all I can say.