The Dragon Pool: The Dragon Pool (22 page)

"Here goes."

Hellboy took a breath, clamped his teeth, and pulled. For long seconds nothing happened. His tendons stood out like cables on his arms. With a great exhalation, he relaxed his grip. Frustrated, he glanced up at Stasia. She nodded once, urging him on.

Again, he pulled. The weight of the stone would be tremendous, but something else held the slab in place. It had been sealed shut, he felt sure. A single grunt escaped him. Jaws grinding, he threw himself backward, putting his entire body into the effort.

The round slab shifted, stone grinding against stone. Dust rose from its edges, then it lifted. A gasp of ancient air came from the darkness beneath. The rain spattered Hellboy's head, wet droplets running down his sawed-off horns and sliding down the back of his neck. The coolness felt good. He took another breath, then braced the stone against his body and repositioned his hands, releasing the iron ring and gripping the bottom of the slab.

With a low roar, he upended the massive slab, pushing it away. It started to roll like a wheel and crashed to the ground. Hellboy could feel the impact. Stasia was beside him in an instant. Now that there was no danger of being crushed by the stone, Tenzin and Koh stepped nearer.

The four of them stared down into the grave at the still, lifeless form of Dwenjue, the warrior monk. The dwarf lay clad in simple, rough, brown clothing. He had a long mustache that drooped on either side of his face, but not a hair on his gleaming pate. In his hands, the monk held a sword that had been buried with him. It pointed downward, toward his feet. The sword seemed nearly as tall as the monk himself.

Koh muttered something in an awestruck voice.

"How is it possible?" Stasia asked. She knelt at the side of the grave.

Hellboy understood her confusion. Dwenjue might have died centuries earlier, but he looked as though he'd been laid in the ground hours ago. If anything, he appeared far healthier than any of Hellboy's companions.

"Tenzin?" Hellboy asked.

The guide listened to Koh's mutterings a moment, then gestured into the grave. "He thinks the sword has mystical properties. That may be what has kept the body preserved."

Hellboy dropped to his knees and reached his huge right hand down into the pit.

"You're not going to disturb the site," Stasia said, the admonishment sharp.

He glanced up at her. "You can't be serious. This isn't a museum gig, babe. We may need to kill the Dragon King ourselves. If we can't have the monk who offed him the first time, the mystical sword is a decent runner-up prize. Anything will help, at this point."

Anastasia hesitated. He saw it in her eyes. The idea of disturbing an ancient grave, or any site of historical value, was anathema to her. But he spoke the truth, and she recognized that as well. She sighed and rolled her eyes, averting her gaze so she wouldn't have to see him desecrating the grave of Dwenjue.

Hellboy wrapped his hand around the blade.

Dwenjue's nostrils flared, and he breathed in. His features contorted as though he'd caught the scent of something that disgusted him. His eyes opened--small yellow eyes--and he stared at Hellboy for a moment.

"Crap," Hellboy muttered.

The dwarf monk's gaze shifted past him. True hatred engraved itself upon his face, and perhaps a bit of madness, and the monk let out a cry and thrust himself up from the grave. The rain fell harder, spattering off his bald head and the glistening sword.

Hellboy backed off, raising his hands. "Whoa, Tattoo. Hold on. Tenzin, tell him we're friends. Tell him!"

The guide had scrambled backward in terror, but now started talking to the yellow-eyed warrior in hard, sharp words. Hellboy moved in front of Anastasia protectively.

But Dwenjue had no interest in Anastasia. He sniffed the air, the rain pounding the ground all around them, and spun to glare at Koh. He screamed one word, and lunged.

Koh shifted instantly, his face elongating, his skin altering to the rough scale of dragons. The fire bloomed from his eyes, and he lowered himself into a defensive crouch. When the sword whickered through the air and the rain, Koh managed to dart out of the way. He did not try to attack, shouting at Dwenjue instead, trying to explain.

"We don't have time for this," Hellboy muttered. He shot a glare at Tenzin. "What's he doing?"

The guide shook his head. "He smells dragon! What do you think he's doing?"

Anastasia moved past Hellboy at a run. Dwenjue brought his sword back for another swing, and she grabbed hold of his wrist. Dwenjue glared at her with those yellow eyes and started to shake her off. Then Hellboy was there beside her. He picked up the little warrior by the wrists, keeping the sword far away from him.

"You wake up nasty," Hellboy said.

Tenzin and Koh continued to shout at him.

Dwenjue blinked, and soon the hatred and madness seemed to lift from his eyes. All the tension went out of him, and the warrior monk replied, quietly, staring at Koh.

"What's he saying?" Stasia asked.

"He wants to know how long he's slept. And he wants to know how long the Dragon King has been awake," Tenzin replied.

Hellboy nodded toward Dwenjue. "Ask him how he knows the worm's awake."

The monk, the guide, and the dragon-man conversed a few moments, then Tenzin glanced at Hellboy and Anastasia again.

"He thought he had been victorious against the Dragon King, but the rest of the monks were not certain. They asked him to sleep here in eternal peace, never to be disturbed unless the Dragon King returned. We woke him. The scent of dragons is in the air. All he wants is to fulfill his destiny, to destroy the Dragon King forever, and return to his rest. Or to die."

Hellboy looked down at the diminutive monk with the fierce eyes. "I like his style."

"Right, then," Anastasia said. "Tell him what he needs to know, and let's get to work."

By dusk, Redfield and Lao's pilot had taken most of the evacuees to Lhasa on board their two helicopters. A small handful of evacuees were left at the monastery, but it had been decided that those few would have to take shelter there for the night. The consensus seemed to be that the Dragon King was likely to come after dark, and Bruttenholm and Lao agreed that they ought to be at full strength when that happened. If the dragon hadn't emerged by dawn, the last group of evacuees would be airlifted from the monastery shortly thereafter and returned to Lhasa.

For tonight, they would have to fend for themselves.

Redfield and Lao's pilot had returned from their latest trip to Lhasa well armed, and with the surprises that the man from Beijing had promised. There were handheld antitank missiles with infrared guidance systems, at least two dozen American-made M47s, ironically called "Dragons." The black helicopter guided by Lao's pilot had delivered several portable surface-to-air missile systems whose make Abe didn't recognize. It reminded him of some European model he'd seen--the stand and gyrostabilizers were similar--but it had to be a Chinese model. There'd been no time to outfit the helicopters with missiles, but he thought these would do just as well. If the Dragon King could be brought down with flying explosives, they would do the trick.

Besides, the choppers would be otherwise engaged delivering Lao's real surprise. Half a dozen enormous, electrified nets had been procured from some strange black box Chinese government warehouse in Lhasa. Abe had asked him what their purpose was and why they were in Lhasa to begin with.

"What are nets for, Mr. Sapien, but to capture things?"

Lao would not elaborate further, though Abe pressed him. He wondered how many things happened around the world--how many odd, dangerous, perhaps unnatural things--that the BPRD never caught wind of. The nets certainly implied that the Chinese government had needed to capture something huge and deadly before. Abe wondered if it had worked, but since the BPRD had never learned of it, he could only presume it had.

Some kind of monster, or demon, he figured. His big question, though, was what the Chinese had done with the beast after they'd caught it. Abe decided he didn't want to know.

The mist of steam had grown thicker atop the lake, but the glow of fire beneath the water had only brightened. The stink of sulfur rose from the water, and where the wind rippled the surface, the lake foamed. Abe stared at the water, scanned the lake from end to end, then turned from the shore to join Professor Bruttenholm. Idly, barely aware of it, he kept his right hand on the grip of his sidearm.

The professor stood in the lee of the rocky hillside with Mr. Lao and his commandos. The night sky had been obscured by clouds since early afternoon, but now only a soft drizzle fell around them. Dim moonlight diffused by the gauzy cloud cover provided enough illumination to see by, but Professor Bruttenholm had forbidden them to use lantern, torch, or spotlight if they didn't have to. Drawing the attention of the Dragon King would be foolish, and probably fatal.

But the old man was working on that.

The commandos lined up in front of Professor Bruttenholm and stood calmly as he painted their faces with ocher, inscribing sigils with his index finger. Lao had gone first, as if to set an example for his men, to make certain that they cooperated. Abe joined them and waited patiently for Professor Bruttenholm to finish his work. As he drew on their foreheads and cheeks and around their eyes, he muttered a quiet incantation again and again.

When the professor had finished, Lao barked orders at his men. All of their calm dissipated, and they scrambled to obey, taking their places behind what cover they had found--tumbled-down rocks and ditches dug with the help of the few members of the archaeological team--with assault rifles, rocket launchers, and the other weapons the pilots had brought back from Lhasa. Lao followed his commandos to their posts, issuing further orders, still looking like nothing so much as a dour businessman or politician.

Abe watched them, glancing at the water every few moments, even as Professor Bruttenholm dipped his finger into the ocher paint he'd mixed in a small tin bowl. The old man began to trace the same sigils upon his own face.

"When I'm through, Abe, I'd like you to check my handiwork and make certain I've done the work properly. I haven't a mirror."

"Of course, Professor."

"You're certain you don't want me to paint you with the ward as well?"

Abe cocked his head, scrutinizing the man's work. The sigils looked perfectly fine to him. "I'll be in the chopper with Redfield. There'll be no hiding a helicopter from the dragon. Whether it can see us inside won't matter very much."

"True enough," the old man said, finishing the lines around his eyes and dipping his finger into the paint again.

"Do you really think this will work?" Abe asked.

Professor Bruttenholm frowned, brow wrinkling.

"With the proper incantation, which I've recited, these sigils ought to make anyone temporarily invisible to the senses of the dragons."

A chill mountain wind blew across the plateau, momentarily eclipsing the heat emanating from the lake and stirring the steam above the water. Abe glanced around, unable to escape the dreadful knowledge that they were woefully unprepared.

"When do you think our reinforcements will arrive?" he asked.

Professor Bruttenholm glanced at the southwestern sky as if expecting a phalanx of helicopters to appear at that very moment. "I wish I knew. We've got to presume that we're on our own, at least for tonight. If the Dragon King will only stay submerged another day, our odds will be much improved."

Abe frowned. Without a child sacrifice, he doubted the Dragon King would content itself to remain under the lake. Kora Kyichu had been taken away to Lhasa with the other evacuees, and half the complement of Mr. Lao's commandos were in Nakchu village, keeping the survivors of the dragon burning there captive. That might not save them from a return of the dragon, but it ought to keep any of the dragon-men from returning to Lake Tashi to sacrifice one of their own children.

The Dragon King had not been appeased. The fire beneath the lake provided proof enough of that.

"What of Professor Kyichu and the others from the dig?" he asked.

A troubled expression crossed Professor Bruttenholm's features. "They're digging, believe it or not. Kyichu has them attempting to excavate the preparatory chamber for the third time to retrieve the bodies of their colleagues buried there. An admirable effort, but damned foolhardy timing."

"They're not going to fight off the dragon with shovels," Abe said, shaking his head in wonder. "What about the wards? Have you painted their faces yet?"

Weighted with regret, the professor glanced up at the ridge where the ruins of the city of the Dragon King had been ravaged. "Professor Kyichu was the first person I approached. He declined the offer of the protective ward."

Bruttenholm gave a sad laugh. "Apparently, he doesn't believe in magic."

Abe stared at him in horror. Professor Kyichu, Corriveau, and Gibson were as good as dead if the Dragon King set his sights on them.

"All we can do is our best, Abe," Professor Bruttenholm said, laying a paternal hand on his shoulder. "It is always hardest to save people from themselves."

A dusting of rock and loose soil slid down the hill behind them. Abe glanced up to see Neil Pinborough clambering toward them. The agent dropped the last seven or eight feet and landed in a crouch. In the dark, he seemed made of the night. Across his back were slung a long bow of simple design and a leather quiver containing perhaps half a dozen arrows of similar rustic quality.