Chapter 15 – The Siege
The fashionable London town home had all the trappings of 19th century style so in demand by the 20th century wealthy. The high privacy fence of layered stone and scrolled ironwork and the old brick house with tall mullioned windows and climbing ivy were separated by deep expanses of fastidiously kept lawn and gardens. Large, full leaved trees hid the stone lines of the concealing wall and smaller flowering trees lined the drive. Immaculately groomed hedges hugged the house. It was, even by fussy London standards, a very nice piece of property.
After dark, with the grounds cast in faint relief by dim moonlight, the greenery cast seductive shadows on the night-black grass. Anyone looking out of the house might get the fanciful notion that cloaked shadows moved about the yard, covertly moving from one tree to another, inching ever closer the house itself. A mousy soul might shudder and move into the inner rooms to cower in a large closet but any reasonable person would simply wonder at the magic of the night and return to his brandy and warm fireside.
Sidney Black did just that, and though he didn't spend too much time wondering about the moonlit shadows, he did think, as he settled into his plush leather lounger, that perhaps it was time to move out of this house. He was getting that familiar feeling he always got when he stayed longer than a few months in one place that someone might find him out, that someone might be closing in on him. And it would do him nor his superiors any good if British Intelligence found a Nazi spy in their midst at this delicate point in the Reich's global pursuits. Yes, it was time to move, he thought with a sigh and long appreciative sip of his brandy. He would simply tell anyone who needed to know about his change of rooms that he was simply one man in too large a house. Yes, an apartment in the city would do nicely.
First, however, he needed to dispose of the clutter in the cellar. For while Ardeth Bey was merely human refuse in his mind, he was delicate refuse that required skillful disposal. Perhaps he should have asked for advice in the coded telegram to Germany. Black laughed at that and shook his head. "No", he said aloud to the empty room, "I'll figure out something special on my own for our Mr. Bey. Something worthy of his contribution to our cause."
Black laughed again, a long cold laugh that came straight from the depths of his twisted soul. He had broken Bey. When he'd threatened his daughter, the man had caved immediately. Well, not immediately. It had taken several long, enjoyable minutes of demonstration to convince the heathen that cooperation was best. But in all fairness, what father could resist once he'd been personally subjected to the many ways hot pokers could be used on a child's flesh. Black wondered for a moment if he, too, may have spilled his secrets had their positions been reversed. He snorted at the thought. Not likely. He was made of stronger stuff than the supposed warrior shackled in his basement. After all, it had only taken five lengthy turns of the white-hot poker to make the man talk. He sighed with disappointment. Five turns. He was hoping for more. He did so enjoy convincing people to see his side of things. Still, it had been fun watching his hired thugs beat the heathen senseless afterwards. He had so few real pleasures, it was nice to be able to indulge them once in a while.
Black heaved another long sigh. His brandy was gone. And, as he'd vowed to cut down to one brandy a night, he was honor bound to live up to his word. The spy pushed himself up from the deep chair and put his glass on the sideboard. Tomorrow was another day. He'd surely think of a fitting way to dispose of the heathen by luncheon at the latest. Then he could look forward to carrying out the deed the rest of the day.
Ah, but life was good! It was just such a damn shame he had to move, he thought, as he looked one more time over the darkened lawn. He really liked this house. Maybe after the Reich had won their place he' d return here. It certainly was the kind of place a man could spend the rest of his life. Happy with all he'd accomplished today and the thought that he would return here after all, Black saluted the view and left the room, turning the light out as he exited. Only the unblinking eyes of the windows stayed to watch the moonlight play on the grass and the shadows move closer to the house.
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The big man known only as Blick stood next to the bleeding, unconscious foreigner, a lopsided smile on his deceptively cheerful face. Every once in a while he'd poke at him, hard, sending the man swaying in his chains. This made Blick smile. Since he was 13 years old, the only thing that made him happy was hurting other people. This pursuit, along with his hulking size and cherubic face made him popular with the riff raff that haunted London's lower class. And Blick liked being popular.
When he was young, he'd been picked on for his clumsy feet and big hands. He only wanted to be friends with the other boys but they'd push him and make fun of him. They delighted in telling him he was stupid and dumb and would never be their friend because he was a big idiot and they didn't like big idiots. One day, in spite of his mother's constant warnings not to lose his temper, he did. And he hurt the boys who teased him. He hurt them bad. His mother was afraid the police would put him in jail so Blick ran away. He ran away from the middle class neighborhood he'd been raised in and found his way to the infamous London stews, home of cutthroats and thieves for time immemorial.
There he'd found real friends; friends who liked his large size, friends who'd buy him a drink and make him laugh. That's where he'd met Ollie Wentworth and Arnie Cummins. The two men had taken him in and taught him 'the trade'. Hired muscle, they were. Handy henchmen. Ollie and Arnie were his family. They never made fun of him because he wasn't smart.
"Hey, wake up you," Blick cajoled as he poked at the foreign man again. "Oi want ya ta wake up an' play wif' me." The big man laughed at himself. "Play wif me. Ha ha. 'at was funny".
Ollie always said he was a good one with a joke and if Ollie said it, it was true. But no amount of poking would wake the man. Blick gave him a good look. The strange man was a mess. His back was a crisscrossed mass of bloody gashes, his armpits and lower belly were bright red with blistering burns. Burns also showed through what was left of his pants. Blick smiled at the one high on the inside of the man's thigh.
"Aw, Black musta had fun wif you," he mourned happily. The stranger's hands were wrapped around the chains that held him, clutched there, no doubt, from a moment of intense pain. "Oi wish I coulda bin 'ere."
Blick gave a deep sigh of regret and thought about the sandwiches in the upstairs pantry. He knew he was supposed to stay and keep watch over their captive but he odd, painted man was out cold and he was hungry. He turned toward the stairs, his back to the Med-jai king. It was the last mistake Blick would ever make.
The hands that gripped the shackles tightened and the broken body surged upward. With a speed that bordered on inhuman, Ardeth moved.
"'ere now ... ack... ah," was all Blick could manage before his throat was completely gripped within the iron circle of Ardeth's legs. The big man clawed at his attacker. His fingers pulled at whatever he could reach – knees, thighs – but despite his ordeal Ardeth was too strong. Years of riding and running across desert sands had strengthened the muscles in his limbs to a fine-tempered steel.
Ardeth's hands tightened on the iron manacles as Blick struggled. Ignoring the raking fingers that seared across the agonizing burn on his upper thigh, he willed more of his waning strength into his legs, pressing even harder on the sides of the giant's neck. He could tell by the man's purpling face that the circulation was dwindling. He only had to hold out another minute or so and he would be free. Finally, Blick's struggles subsided into weak jerking motions. After a final push of force against the arteries, Blick went limp. Ardeth forced himself to hold on another full minute before allowing the hulking body to drop at his feet.
His legs trembled with exhaustion as he balanced on the big man's chest, gaining the precious inches he needed to swing his bonds over the end of the wooden beam that held the iron links fast. The bottoms of his feet, burned raw by Black's 'persuasion', protested at the pressure put upon them. Ardeth ignored that, too, concentrating only on getting the loop of chain over the wood. Finally, the iron chain swung free and Ardeth tumbled to the stone floor.
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Rick pressed himself against the side of the house and waited for Nadhir's signal. He could feel the stones pressing into his back and thought about Ardeth. "Where are you, Ardeth?" he breathed into the dark, his voice no louder than the leaves that rustled over his head.
Sometime during Ardeth's torture, Rick had lost his connection with his brother. Since then, he'd been unable to reengage the link that had connected them. He wasn't sure if Ardeth had lost consciousness or he hadn't been strong enough to hold the link. Either way, it was damn troubling. He refused to consider any other possible reasons for the break. Besides, his brother was alive. He'd know it if he weren't. The barest shadow of a hand appeared on the moonlit patch of ground by Rick's feet. It was time to go. He moved silently through the darkened archway and eased open the butler's door. The servants' quarters were quiet. He knew from their surveillance that none of the staff had stayed on overnight.
Rick moved farther down the hall. His dark clothing made him invisible to everything but the faint stripes of moonlight that filtered through the high windows and crisscrossed the floor. To his left, several shadows removed themselves from a corner and surged forward. Rick hesitated only long enough to nod at Ardeth's father-in-law.
Suddenly, loud voices echoed down the corridor. The Med-jai froze. The only room left in front of them was the kitchen. The voices must belong to Black's henchmen. Rick looked at Nadhir. The Med-jai held up two fingers. Rick nodded. It sounded like only two men to him, too. As one, the warriors moved toward the sound.
"Well," Ollie Wentworth proclaimed through a mouth full of roast beef and bread, "oi 'ope 'e does it soon. Oi don' wanna be around when 'is friends find out we 'ave him."
Arnie Cummins snorted and swallowed his own bite of food. "How are they going to find out. Nobody knows he's here excepting you and me and Blick. And we ain't told anybody, that's for certain. Besides, if Black kills him too soon Blick'll be upset. You know how he likes to have fun."
"Yeah, fun," Ollie laughed. "Oi'm just glad 'e's on our side, if'n you get my meaning."
"Oh, I do. It ain't my idea of fun neither."
"Oh come on, fellas. Don't you want to know how the other side feels?"
The two thugs dropped their sandwiches and turned abruptly toward the voice. An unknown man stood in the kitchen doorway, lounging casually against the doorjamb.
"'ere now, oo're you?" Ollie demanded, his hand reaching for the pistol at his elbow.
"Ah-ah!" the stranger warned, tapping the loaded holster under his arm. "I'm pretty sure I'm the faster draw."
Cummins snorted again. "Oh, yeah?" his hand dove under the table. "Wanna bet?"
Rick moved so fast Cummins and Wentworth could only blink. Before either man could even get their fingers on their weapons, the American's pistol was staring them in the eyes.
"I'll take that bet," he said with certainty. "Now, let me tell you what I've won. You two are going to tell me where you are keeping Ardeth Bey and I will tell my friends to spare you rotten lives. Whadya think?"
"Friends? You're all alone!" Cummins laughed at the ridiculous statement. The laugh died on his lips as several black-robed demons melted into the room. "Hey! Who're they?"
Rick casually turned to look. "Oh, these guys? Friends of mine. Friends of Ardeth Bey, too. We want to know where he is."
Ollie folded his arms over his chest. "Suppose we don' know 'oo that is. Suppose we don' 'ave any idea what you're talkin' about."
The tall American's lounging posture changed with incredible speed. He stood upright, the barrel of his drawn gun pointing at a spot on Ollie's forehead, another gun, appearing out of nowhere, was aimed at Cummins. "Suppose I shoot you through the head."
Ollie gulped audibly.
"Now," Rick said with cold calmness as the black wall of Med-jai closed in around them, "where is Ardeth Bey?"
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As silent as the night itself, another of the Med-jai force moved through the halls of the mansion house. They stalked slowly toward the large master suite, knowing their quarry lay within. Naked scimitars in hand, they burst through the bedroom door, ready to kill the man who had imprisoned their king. It took them only a moment to realize that their well-laid plan would need to be rethought. The room was empty.
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Ardeth pushed his aching body into an upright slump. The bulky corpse behind him served as a backrest as he examined the manacles that had held his hands in check for almost two days. The skin around the edges of the irons was raw and bruised. He sighed. Removing them would be painful. On the other hand, what was a little more compared to what he'd already endured. He was alive, there were no life threatening injuries done to him. Getting his shackles off would be child's play. At least, that what he told himself.
Bringing his breathing under tight control, Ardeth centered himself and focused on his right thumb. As best he could with numb fingers, he grasped it with his left fist. Slowly, he rotated the digit, ignoring the prickles of sensation that radiated upward through his wrist. He was thankful that he had little feeling left in his hands; it made this a lot easier. Finally, the thumb gave way with a pop and flopped free of the constraining joint. Ardeth's clumsy fingers then worked at the round iron manacle, gently moving it up and over his hand. It took him several long moments to reset the thumb into its' socket. When hit popped back into place, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and decentered his mind. It was then that he realized he wasn't alone.
The fashionable London town home had all the trappings of 19th century style so in demand by the 20th century wealthy. The high privacy fence of layered stone and scrolled ironwork and the old brick house with tall mullioned windows and climbing ivy were separated by deep expanses of fastidiously kept lawn and gardens. Large, full leaved trees hid the stone lines of the concealing wall and smaller flowering trees lined the drive. Immaculately groomed hedges hugged the house. It was, even by fussy London standards, a very nice piece of property.
After dark, with the grounds cast in faint relief by dim moonlight, the greenery cast seductive shadows on the night-black grass. Anyone looking out of the house might get the fanciful notion that cloaked shadows moved about the yard, covertly moving from one tree to another, inching ever closer the house itself. A mousy soul might shudder and move into the inner rooms to cower in a large closet but any reasonable person would simply wonder at the magic of the night and return to his brandy and warm fireside.
Sidney Black did just that, and though he didn't spend too much time wondering about the moonlit shadows, he did think, as he settled into his plush leather lounger, that perhaps it was time to move out of this house. He was getting that familiar feeling he always got when he stayed longer than a few months in one place that someone might find him out, that someone might be closing in on him. And it would do him nor his superiors any good if British Intelligence found a Nazi spy in their midst at this delicate point in the Reich's global pursuits. Yes, it was time to move, he thought with a sigh and long appreciative sip of his brandy. He would simply tell anyone who needed to know about his change of rooms that he was simply one man in too large a house. Yes, an apartment in the city would do nicely.
First, however, he needed to dispose of the clutter in the cellar. For while Ardeth Bey was merely human refuse in his mind, he was delicate refuse that required skillful disposal. Perhaps he should have asked for advice in the coded telegram to Germany. Black laughed at that and shook his head. "No", he said aloud to the empty room, "I'll figure out something special on my own for our Mr. Bey. Something worthy of his contribution to our cause."
Black laughed again, a long cold laugh that came straight from the depths of his twisted soul. He had broken Bey. When he'd threatened his daughter, the man had caved immediately. Well, not immediately. It had taken several long, enjoyable minutes of demonstration to convince the heathen that cooperation was best. But in all fairness, what father could resist once he'd been personally subjected to the many ways hot pokers could be used on a child's flesh. Black wondered for a moment if he, too, may have spilled his secrets had their positions been reversed. He snorted at the thought. Not likely. He was made of stronger stuff than the supposed warrior shackled in his basement. After all, it had only taken five lengthy turns of the white-hot poker to make the man talk. He sighed with disappointment. Five turns. He was hoping for more. He did so enjoy convincing people to see his side of things. Still, it had been fun watching his hired thugs beat the heathen senseless afterwards. He had so few real pleasures, it was nice to be able to indulge them once in a while.
Black heaved another long sigh. His brandy was gone. And, as he'd vowed to cut down to one brandy a night, he was honor bound to live up to his word. The spy pushed himself up from the deep chair and put his glass on the sideboard. Tomorrow was another day. He'd surely think of a fitting way to dispose of the heathen by luncheon at the latest. Then he could look forward to carrying out the deed the rest of the day.
Ah, but life was good! It was just such a damn shame he had to move, he thought, as he looked one more time over the darkened lawn. He really liked this house. Maybe after the Reich had won their place he' d return here. It certainly was the kind of place a man could spend the rest of his life. Happy with all he'd accomplished today and the thought that he would return here after all, Black saluted the view and left the room, turning the light out as he exited. Only the unblinking eyes of the windows stayed to watch the moonlight play on the grass and the shadows move closer to the house.
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The big man known only as Blick stood next to the bleeding, unconscious foreigner, a lopsided smile on his deceptively cheerful face. Every once in a while he'd poke at him, hard, sending the man swaying in his chains. This made Blick smile. Since he was 13 years old, the only thing that made him happy was hurting other people. This pursuit, along with his hulking size and cherubic face made him popular with the riff raff that haunted London's lower class. And Blick liked being popular.
When he was young, he'd been picked on for his clumsy feet and big hands. He only wanted to be friends with the other boys but they'd push him and make fun of him. They delighted in telling him he was stupid and dumb and would never be their friend because he was a big idiot and they didn't like big idiots. One day, in spite of his mother's constant warnings not to lose his temper, he did. And he hurt the boys who teased him. He hurt them bad. His mother was afraid the police would put him in jail so Blick ran away. He ran away from the middle class neighborhood he'd been raised in and found his way to the infamous London stews, home of cutthroats and thieves for time immemorial.
There he'd found real friends; friends who liked his large size, friends who'd buy him a drink and make him laugh. That's where he'd met Ollie Wentworth and Arnie Cummins. The two men had taken him in and taught him 'the trade'. Hired muscle, they were. Handy henchmen. Ollie and Arnie were his family. They never made fun of him because he wasn't smart.
"Hey, wake up you," Blick cajoled as he poked at the foreign man again. "Oi want ya ta wake up an' play wif' me." The big man laughed at himself. "Play wif me. Ha ha. 'at was funny".
Ollie always said he was a good one with a joke and if Ollie said it, it was true. But no amount of poking would wake the man. Blick gave him a good look. The strange man was a mess. His back was a crisscrossed mass of bloody gashes, his armpits and lower belly were bright red with blistering burns. Burns also showed through what was left of his pants. Blick smiled at the one high on the inside of the man's thigh.
"Aw, Black musta had fun wif you," he mourned happily. The stranger's hands were wrapped around the chains that held him, clutched there, no doubt, from a moment of intense pain. "Oi wish I coulda bin 'ere."
Blick gave a deep sigh of regret and thought about the sandwiches in the upstairs pantry. He knew he was supposed to stay and keep watch over their captive but he odd, painted man was out cold and he was hungry. He turned toward the stairs, his back to the Med-jai king. It was the last mistake Blick would ever make.
The hands that gripped the shackles tightened and the broken body surged upward. With a speed that bordered on inhuman, Ardeth moved.
"'ere now ... ack... ah," was all Blick could manage before his throat was completely gripped within the iron circle of Ardeth's legs. The big man clawed at his attacker. His fingers pulled at whatever he could reach – knees, thighs – but despite his ordeal Ardeth was too strong. Years of riding and running across desert sands had strengthened the muscles in his limbs to a fine-tempered steel.
Ardeth's hands tightened on the iron manacles as Blick struggled. Ignoring the raking fingers that seared across the agonizing burn on his upper thigh, he willed more of his waning strength into his legs, pressing even harder on the sides of the giant's neck. He could tell by the man's purpling face that the circulation was dwindling. He only had to hold out another minute or so and he would be free. Finally, Blick's struggles subsided into weak jerking motions. After a final push of force against the arteries, Blick went limp. Ardeth forced himself to hold on another full minute before allowing the hulking body to drop at his feet.
His legs trembled with exhaustion as he balanced on the big man's chest, gaining the precious inches he needed to swing his bonds over the end of the wooden beam that held the iron links fast. The bottoms of his feet, burned raw by Black's 'persuasion', protested at the pressure put upon them. Ardeth ignored that, too, concentrating only on getting the loop of chain over the wood. Finally, the iron chain swung free and Ardeth tumbled to the stone floor.
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Rick pressed himself against the side of the house and waited for Nadhir's signal. He could feel the stones pressing into his back and thought about Ardeth. "Where are you, Ardeth?" he breathed into the dark, his voice no louder than the leaves that rustled over his head.
Sometime during Ardeth's torture, Rick had lost his connection with his brother. Since then, he'd been unable to reengage the link that had connected them. He wasn't sure if Ardeth had lost consciousness or he hadn't been strong enough to hold the link. Either way, it was damn troubling. He refused to consider any other possible reasons for the break. Besides, his brother was alive. He'd know it if he weren't. The barest shadow of a hand appeared on the moonlit patch of ground by Rick's feet. It was time to go. He moved silently through the darkened archway and eased open the butler's door. The servants' quarters were quiet. He knew from their surveillance that none of the staff had stayed on overnight.
Rick moved farther down the hall. His dark clothing made him invisible to everything but the faint stripes of moonlight that filtered through the high windows and crisscrossed the floor. To his left, several shadows removed themselves from a corner and surged forward. Rick hesitated only long enough to nod at Ardeth's father-in-law.
Suddenly, loud voices echoed down the corridor. The Med-jai froze. The only room left in front of them was the kitchen. The voices must belong to Black's henchmen. Rick looked at Nadhir. The Med-jai held up two fingers. Rick nodded. It sounded like only two men to him, too. As one, the warriors moved toward the sound.
"Well," Ollie Wentworth proclaimed through a mouth full of roast beef and bread, "oi 'ope 'e does it soon. Oi don' wanna be around when 'is friends find out we 'ave him."
Arnie Cummins snorted and swallowed his own bite of food. "How are they going to find out. Nobody knows he's here excepting you and me and Blick. And we ain't told anybody, that's for certain. Besides, if Black kills him too soon Blick'll be upset. You know how he likes to have fun."
"Yeah, fun," Ollie laughed. "Oi'm just glad 'e's on our side, if'n you get my meaning."
"Oh, I do. It ain't my idea of fun neither."
"Oh come on, fellas. Don't you want to know how the other side feels?"
The two thugs dropped their sandwiches and turned abruptly toward the voice. An unknown man stood in the kitchen doorway, lounging casually against the doorjamb.
"'ere now, oo're you?" Ollie demanded, his hand reaching for the pistol at his elbow.
"Ah-ah!" the stranger warned, tapping the loaded holster under his arm. "I'm pretty sure I'm the faster draw."
Cummins snorted again. "Oh, yeah?" his hand dove under the table. "Wanna bet?"
Rick moved so fast Cummins and Wentworth could only blink. Before either man could even get their fingers on their weapons, the American's pistol was staring them in the eyes.
"I'll take that bet," he said with certainty. "Now, let me tell you what I've won. You two are going to tell me where you are keeping Ardeth Bey and I will tell my friends to spare you rotten lives. Whadya think?"
"Friends? You're all alone!" Cummins laughed at the ridiculous statement. The laugh died on his lips as several black-robed demons melted into the room. "Hey! Who're they?"
Rick casually turned to look. "Oh, these guys? Friends of mine. Friends of Ardeth Bey, too. We want to know where he is."
Ollie folded his arms over his chest. "Suppose we don' know 'oo that is. Suppose we don' 'ave any idea what you're talkin' about."
The tall American's lounging posture changed with incredible speed. He stood upright, the barrel of his drawn gun pointing at a spot on Ollie's forehead, another gun, appearing out of nowhere, was aimed at Cummins. "Suppose I shoot you through the head."
Ollie gulped audibly.
"Now," Rick said with cold calmness as the black wall of Med-jai closed in around them, "where is Ardeth Bey?"
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As silent as the night itself, another of the Med-jai force moved through the halls of the mansion house. They stalked slowly toward the large master suite, knowing their quarry lay within. Naked scimitars in hand, they burst through the bedroom door, ready to kill the man who had imprisoned their king. It took them only a moment to realize that their well-laid plan would need to be rethought. The room was empty.
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Ardeth pushed his aching body into an upright slump. The bulky corpse behind him served as a backrest as he examined the manacles that had held his hands in check for almost two days. The skin around the edges of the irons was raw and bruised. He sighed. Removing them would be painful. On the other hand, what was a little more compared to what he'd already endured. He was alive, there were no life threatening injuries done to him. Getting his shackles off would be child's play. At least, that what he told himself.
Bringing his breathing under tight control, Ardeth centered himself and focused on his right thumb. As best he could with numb fingers, he grasped it with his left fist. Slowly, he rotated the digit, ignoring the prickles of sensation that radiated upward through his wrist. He was thankful that he had little feeling left in his hands; it made this a lot easier. Finally, the thumb gave way with a pop and flopped free of the constraining joint. Ardeth's clumsy fingers then worked at the round iron manacle, gently moving it up and over his hand. It took him several long moments to reset the thumb into its' socket. When hit popped back into place, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and decentered his mind. It was then that he realized he wasn't alone.