Tales of the Red Panda: Pyramid of Peril Read online

  Tales of the Red Panda:

  Pyramid of Peril

  by Gregg Taylor

  Copyright 2014 Gregg Taylor

  Kindle Edition

  All Rights Reserved.

  For the Three of You

  From the One of Me

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  One

  The desert air hung heavy with scent as the man pushed his way through the crowd at the bazaar. The marketplace was teeming but he seemed to be the only white man in it, though that was hardly what made him stand out the most. The man plowed his way through the masses, mostly watching behind him as if struggling to glimpse some hidden terror. Indignant shouts followed him betraying his path, though they quickly died off as the natives dismissed him as just another boorish foreigner.

  In a small space between two quiet stands the man paused and threw himself against the wall, breathing hard. His face looked like it had absorbed several hard blows, and recently. His hair was white and flowing beneath his Panama hat, and a small white beard, well-trimmed, somehow gave the impression of standing in for a much longer one that should have graced his chin. He felt the corner of his mouth, searching for blood and finding none. The man scanned his surroundings, his reason returning to him, struggling for any sort of plan. Escape could not have been that simple, that much was for certain. They would be upon him soon and he was powerless to resist them.

  Or was he? He looked down at his forearms and pulled up the sleeves of his jacket. Each wrist was bound by a copper-colored band about six inches long. He pulled at them in what he knew to be a futile gesture. The locks would have been child’s play, were it not for the power of the bands themselves. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Resquillium, barathat, mesticost,” he said quietly under his breath. Glowing tendrils of otherworldly power began to coalesce around the man’s fingers, reaching out toward the bands that bound his wrists. But suddenly, the arm bands themselves began to glow from an unseen power within, and a small, discordant note was heard as if a bell had been rung many miles away. The man’s face contorted in agony as the power of the bands cut into him, burning him with a fire like the sun itself, though as their glow subsided, no mark was left upon their captive.

  The man glanced around once again, still panting, his face now a mask of desperation. He was an older man. Older, indeed, than anyone would ever have guessed. He had run this race for many years, and for all of those years, danger had been his constant companion. For this was Maxwell Falconi, who in another time, another life, had fought injustice in the world of men as The Stranger, the Master of Magic. His power had been known throughout the world, men of evil had quaked in fear of it. But now it was gone. Blocked by these devil bands he had been shackled with by his enemies. They would be closing in by now. The chaos of the market was his only protection. It seemed, upon reflection, like a damned fool way for it all to end.

  Once, he had thought to step out of the never-ending battle, to retire into the shadows and leave the fight to younger men. A nice thought, and had he walked away a few years earlier, it might have stuck. He might have been quietly forgotten. But there was a great darkness on the horizon, and when the call had come, he had not resisted. There was a tide in the affairs of men, after all, and perhaps the dark times he foresaw on the horizon might yet be forestalled, or even prevented. That had seemed like enough reason to get back in the game. The thought of those dark times now steeled his resolve. His enemies had won every round, but the fight was not yet over. It could not be over, there was too much at risk.

  Falconi dived back into the crowd, moving quickly still, but calmer. He pulled off his dark jacket and the hat upon his head and made for a stall selling the long, cotton robes favoured by the Egyptians. Holding up his jacket, Falconi made his meaning clear. The stallholder grinned at the trade, recognizing the value of what he was offered, but motioned that he wanted the hat as well. Falconi handed it over and the trade was complete. Falconi pulled the robe over his head on the spot, over his western pants and shirt, and the man at the stall could only shake his head. These foreigners, his grin seemed to say.

  Falconi blended back into the crowd. There were hundreds of people at the bazaar. If he could just blend in for a few more minutes, slip away into the labyrinth of alleys and small streets in the poor district to the north… if he could just fight another day, he might yet find a way to win.

  He heard a great commotion behind him and drew himself into another gap between the stalls. A long, black car had forced its way into the marketplace, parting the crowd before it slowly. At last the limousine came to a halt, and the crowd surged around it. The doors opened and merchants pressed in, hard, each shouting the value of their wares to the rich foreigners who must surely be inside. There was a murmur of surprise as four passengers stepped out, each a tall Egyptian man, dark-suited and wearing a fez. They pushed their way through the crowd, keeping their hands near the opening of their coats, ready to reach for the pistols that bulged underneath. The men were tracking a dangerous quarry and were too close to lose him now. They ignored the roars of the marketplace, but the excitement of the crowd seemed to feed upon their energy and the merchants became still more determined. Children began to climb upon the long, black car. From somewhere nearby a voice rang out in high, lilting song and the whole day took on the air of freakish holiday.

  At last, the car doors opened once again, and another man stepped out into the throng. He was slightly olive-skinned himself, though clearly a westerner, and he wore an immaculate white linen suit. He hollered indignantly in the native tongue but no one listened to him. Here was the rich man who drove his limousine into their marketplace. The frenzy grew wilder. The man shouted abuse at the crowd, first in Arabic, and soon in his native Greek, in which his obscenities seemed far more proficient. Still the crowd pressed in, the first wave of merchants reinforced by those who wished to see such an expensive car up close, and still more who simply wondered what the fuss was about.

  The man in the white linen suit had, at least, pulled the focus from his men, who spread out into the crowd. Maxwell Falconi resisted the urge to run. In the press of this crowd, he would only draw attention to himself, and he could never get far enough away in time. The men who followed him would think nothing of firing into a crowd of innocents, and Falconi could not count on even a simple spell to help them miss.

  A simple spell… the words seemed to ring in Falconi’s mind. He shrank down to the ground, huddled as if sleeping or begging or… could it really be that simple?

  The men in the fezzes were spreading out, but getting farther from one another as they did so. Even a small marketplace like this w
as a tremendous amount of territory for a handful of men, but Falconi knew that they would soon be upon him if he did not try something. He looked at the bands again. They were crafted to use the power of their wearer against himself. To absorb and contain the strongest of magics, and use the harnessed energy of those spells to punish the captive for his struggles. The more one railed against them, the more unbreakable the spell that bound him became. But if he could summon a small, simple spell, the sort of low-grade magic taught to very young initiates… if he could take the expectations of his pursuers and misdirect them… it was certainly worth a try.

  Falconi sat and began to mutter words he had not spoken in more years than he could imagine. A simple spell of concealment. A child’s spell, but with all the chaos around him, it just might be enough. The copper bands around his wrists seemed to vibrate, but they did not glow or burn. A man in a fez passed by within a dozen feet, and though he paused and sniffed the air like a jackal with a scent, he did not stop or pull his weapon. Falconi continued to mutter quietly.

  The man in the white linen suit had given up shouting at the crowd, but if he thought this would quiet them, he was mistaken. His men began reporting back, having found nothing. They struggled to be heard over the crowd, but the message was the same. Falconi was not to be found.

  All at once another man stepped out of the car. He was pale-skinned and wore a dark suit, and he was clearly unaccustomed to the heat. The crowd began to leap forward at the sight of him, but he glared at them and curled his lip. Every one of them fell silent and took three steps back, even those who could not see the hideous expression of contempt upon his face. The hush was sudden and shocking, and spread like a ripple throughout the marketplace. A cold chill seemed to follow it, and many shuddered for a moment, as if touched for just an instant by an unseen horror. The effect was momentary and then it was gone, but those closest to its point of origin moved away from the long, black car, quickly and quietly. Only the car’s original occupants remained.

  “Subtle, as always, Thatcher,” said the man in the white linen suit.

  The pale man snorted. “We have other concerns,” he growled. “What news?”

  The man nearest to Thatcher inclined his head slightly. “Apologies effendi,” he said gravely. “The dog has escaped us.”

  Thatcher scanned the throng once more. “Look again,” he said.

  “If the Captain says that he is gone,” the man in the linen suit protested, “then he is gone. We have men at his hotel, he won’t go back there, but we might be able to intercept him if he breaks for the consulate.”

  Thatcher shook his head. “He will not run, Pavli,” he said. “Not Falconi.”

  “He has run,” Pavli protested, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “He had no choice. The bands made certain of that.”

  “You have a great deal of confidence in your toys, Aris,” Thatcher said with a cold smile. “Almost as much as you do in the Captain and his men. Neither is a sentiment that I share.”

  Pavli’s eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge. “The Limiters are proven, Thatcher,” he said with a smile. “Let us hope that you never have cause to investigate their power more closely.”

  Thatcher nodded, just once, turning his eyes back to the crowded marketplace as he did so. “Let us hope so indeed, my dear Pavli,” he said gravely. “For your sake.” The man in black kept his gaze upon the crowd, and every man and woman that it landed upon felt the cold chill of the predatory stare. “He is here,” Thatcher said at last. “I can almost smell him.”

  The Captain of the guard glanced to his master. Pavli shook his head and the man stepped back. Pavli reached out and placed his hand upon Thatcher’s shoulder. The pale man did not recoil at the touch, but it was clearly a sensation with which he was unfamiliar.

  “Come, Leonard,” Pavli said calmly. “Maxwell Falconi is not the only key to our search. Nor is he now in any position to stand between us and our goal. He is powerless and out of his element. Let him be.”

  Thatcher shook his head. “He was ahead of us, Pavli. We can only guess how far. He may know much if properly motivated. This is not a race that we can afford to lose.” As he spoke, Thatcher rolled his neck like a great cat stretching, as if preparing himself for an exertion to come.

  “Let it go, Thatcher,” Pavli said gravely but calmly, and with the air of a man accustomed to having his instructions obeyed.

  Thatcher smiled. “Not just yet,” he purred, and pulled up a pair of goggles that had been hanging loose around his neck.

  Pavli watched as Thatcher extended his arms to either side, and could see the glowing wisps of dark light around the fingertips of the man in black. He shouted instructions to his men in Arabic, and they hurried close to their master. Pavli grasped an amulet around his neck and muttered an incantation of his own as Thatcher’s power reached out into the air and began to swirl around the limousine. Stallholders nearby began to shout in fear as the tendrils of dark magic resolved themselves into a hot desert wind, whipping around like a dust devil. Women called for their children, merchants struggled vainly to protect their wares and the contented murmur of the busy marketplace transformed into a chorus of terror as the wind grew stronger and stronger. Searing heat and cutting sand whipped around the car, tore through the bazaar and scattered the innocent men and women before the fury of the sandstorm.

  From within the protective dome cast by Pavli, the Captain of the guard looked on in wonder, not just at the devastation around him, but at the exultation on the face of the man in black. If his master was a devil, and the Captain had served him long enough to believe that he was, then this man Thatcher was something still darker and far more dangerous. Thatcher threw back his head and roared with cruel laughter as his power tore the marketplace apart, laughter that threatened to drown out everything, including the terrible howling of the desert wind.

  Two

  The Red Panda peeled back the bright red gauntlet from his left wrist and glanced at his wristwatch. He was a little early. He stepped quietly to the edge of the rooftop and surveyed his domain. Even at this late hour, his city still hummed as if it were living thing and shone in the darkness like a tarnished jewel. He stood easily, with one foot up on the lip of the roof, his hands resting on his raised leg. But even in stillness, there was no disguising the energy within, like a tiger in repose.

  He resisted the impulse to glance at his watch again. It had been two and a half minutes since the last time he looked, and that meant she was not yet late. Below him, Bloor Street stretched to the west, receding into the distance until the lights became indistinct points and continued far beyond. To the south, Jarvis Street was eerily calm. The evenings were warm now, with the promise of the real heat of summer soon to come hanging above the pavement late into the night. It would take until near dawn for the streets to cool off, but here at rooftop level the air was fresh. He leaned forward and surveyed the street directly below the Robinson building with a clinical air. Nothing. The streets were almost entirely empty, and those few who ventured forth moved quickly, quietly and unmolested.

  He held this pose for another three minutes and twenty seconds. He knew that it had been three minutes and twenty seconds, and that meant she was a minute late. He looked at his watch anyway. She was one minute and fifteen seconds late. The Red Panda looked up into the low-hanging mist above him for the first time. His hand moved to the side of his mask, as if to activate the infrared lenses, and thought better of it. He looked back towards the street for a moment, not really thinking about what he was seeing. He almost looked at his watch again when he heard it. From far above, just the slightest note of a joyful Whoop on the wind.

  He stood stock still, his eyes tearing at the sky for another moment before she appeared, rolling from one low cloud into another. The angle she was stretched out on said her circles of the building would be wide and slow, as befit the lack of visibility. He waited a moment and she appeared again, below the haze at last. The Flying Squir
rel’s lean, athletic shape stretched out across the night sky as she looped down in lazy circles, the wind whipping in her face, the gliding membranes built into her costume taut with the strain, a smile of perfect contentment on the girl’s face. It was good to have a job you really loved.

  She swooped in, circling one final time and almost brushing against his fedora and she passed above him. He did not move or flinch. She was low now, and still moving too fast. She pulled her elbows down and allowed her gliders to billow like a pair of sails and pull her upright. She rolled with the momentum and flipped backwards once, firing the counter-charge in her Static Shoes as she twisted to return to a vertical position, mere inches above the ground. Sparks flew from the soles of her shoes for an instant, and she landed as softly as a cloud.

  She walked forward with her momentum and turned to face him just as casually as if she were stepping off a bus. He resisted the urge to smile. That last bit with the mid-air flip had been just for him and he knew it, but he tried to look mildly disapproving.

  “Didja miss me?” she asked coyly, walking toward him.

  “You’re late,” he said flatly.

  She smiled, and her toothy grin seemed to light up the night. “You missed me,” she said with a confidence she was not truly possessed of. She flipped the goggles on her flying helmet to the top of her cowl and gave her head a little shake. She had used these gliders almost every night since he had given them to her, but it was still a rush of adrenaline, even on a quiet night like this. She could feel a little sweat forming on her upper lip and brushed it away with her grey gloved hand as casually as she could as she looked up at him expectantly.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He frowned. He had clearly missed something. “Well what?” he asked.

  “You have notes,” she said, matter-of-factly, her left hand on her hip.