“Kill them both,” the Sarjeant said tiredly to his people. “And when you’re done, cut off their heads and stick them on spikes. So everyone can see what happens to traitors.”
And then they all looked around sharply, as Isabella Metcalf came racing down the street on her mystical motor-bike in her blood-red biker leathers, with Louisa Metcalf riding pillion in a billowing white gown. The motor-bike floated some two feet above the ground, defying gravity on general principles. The Sarjeant opened fire, but his bullets just burned up against the bike’s flaring force screens. And then he had to throw himself to one side as the motor-cycle smashed head-on into the Droods, sending them flying in all directions. Isabella brought her bike screeching around in a tight circle and slammed to a halt before Eddie and Molly.
“Somebody call for a rescue?”
“About time you got around to checking your messages,” said Molly.
Isabella jumped off her motor-bike, and it stood happily upright on its own. Louisa put out a delicate hand to Eddie, and he helped her off. She didn’t need the assistance; she just liked to be made a fuss of. Isabella looked thoughtfully at the Droods, already heading her way with a great many weapons in their hands, and produced a Hand of Glory from inside her jacket. She used its power to freeze them all where they stood, but only for a moment. The armour was learning and adapting. So Isabella put the Hand away, slipped on a pair of knuckle-dusters personally cursed by the Anti-Pope, and went striding among the Droods, punching them in the face and cracking their armour.
Isabella had always been the most direct of the Metcalf sisters.
Louisa went tripping lightly among the Droods, like a fairy-tale princess with feral eyes. She laughed at one Drood, and he started laughing and couldn’t stop. Louisa moved on to another Drood and cried real tears, and he sobbed like his heart would break. Wherever she went, people felt what she felt, until it wracked their souls and broke their hearts. Because she could make people feel anything, anything at all.
Louisa had always been the scariest of the Metcalf sisters.
The Droods turned and ran because there are some things no one can face and stay sane. The Sarjeant was forced to retreat with them, to keep it from becoming a rout. Isabella and Louisa went back to rejoin Eddie and Molly at the church doorway.
“What took you so long?” said Molly, sending away her bark armour.
“We were busy,” said Isabella.
“We were!” Louisa said brightly. “Really. Ever so busy.” She looked hopefully after the retreating Droods, now regrouping at the far end of the street. “Do you think they’ll come back, so we can play some more?”
Eddie looked at the two dead bodies. One lying on the ground before them, the other just inside the church.
“The one in the medieval armour is a London Knight. The Sarjeant called him Sir Bors.”
“And that’s Demonbane!” said Molly. “I didn’t think anything could kill him. What was he doing here, anyway?”
She broke off as the Sarjeant came walking back down the street. He’d lowered his armour as a sign of trust. Eddie did the same, so as not to be outdone. Isabella leaned against her motor-bike and looked thoughtfully at the Sarjeant. Louisa smiled dazzlingly. The Sarjeant stopped a respectful distance away and nodded to Isabella.
“Hello, Iz. It’s been awhile.”
“Hello, Cedric. Yes, it has.”
“They used to go out,” Molly said to Eddie.
“I know!” said Eddie. “I keep up with the family gossip.”
“Well, this is awkward,” said the Sarjeant.
“Why?” said Isabella. “Just because we used to be an item? If I got awkward around all my exes, I’d never be able to leave the house.”
“I’m sure that sounded so much better while it was still in your head,” said Molly.
Isabella ignored her. “Why did you kill the London Knight, Cedric?”
“Because he got in the way,” said the Sarjeant. “It was necessary. I’ve always been able to do the hard, necessary things. That’s why they made me Sarjeant-at-Arms.”
“You once gave me a weapon to use against you,” said Isabella. “In case you ever got out-of-control.”
She held up her hand, and in it was a small plastic clicker in the shape of a green frog. Eddie tensed. He’d seen one of those before. The old Armourer made them as a defence against Droods gone bad. The clicker could force a Drood’s armour back into their torc and hold it there. Eddie hadn’t known the Armourer had given a clicker to the Sarjeant, and he certainly hadn’t known the Sarjeant had given his to Isabella.
“I have new protections in place,” said the Sarjeant.
“And I upgraded the clicker,” said Isabella.
The Lord of Thorns came to join Eddie and Molly in the doorway and fixed the Sarjeant with his coldest stare. “Why are you still here?”
“I have more people on the way,” said the Sarjeant. “Enough Droods to dismantle this church stone by stone if need be. But I’m still hoping I can persuade you to surrender peacefully. Your defiance has already cost good lives.”
“You would have to kill everyone here to take St Jude’s,” said the Lord of Thorns. “Not just those standing before you but all the innocents within that I have given sanctuary to. You would have to bathe these ancient stones in blood. And given that this is a church where prayers are heard and sometimes answered, do you really want to attract God’s attention with a massacre?”
The Sarjeant sighed. “I don’t need St Jude’s. There are more important places that will serve equally well as significant victories. And after the Authorities have been forced to surrender, and the Nightside has fallen . . . I’ll have St Jude’s anyway.”
He turned and walked away, his back stiff and unyielding. Isabella made a rude noise after him. Eddie looked at the Lord of Thorns.
“Were you bluffing, just then?”
“No,” said the Lord of Thorns.”
“Would you admit it if you were?” said Molly.
“No,” said the Lord of Thorns. And he went back into his church.
* * *
• • •
Conrad Drood had never wanted the responsibility of leading Droods. He was used to working on his own, as a field agent. But since it was his idea to break the invading army up into smaller groups, he didn’t see how he could refuse when the Matriarch ordered him to lead one of those groups to the Street of the Gods and take control of it. He didn’t expect that to take long. The Street was certainly valuable territory, but since it had already been deserted by its inhabitants, he couldn’t see any problems. So he led his people through the largely deserted streets, going out of his way to avoid confrontations with any resisting Nightsiders because he had been trained to get the job done with a minimum of trouble.
He’d killed people when he’d had to, as a field agent. It had never bothered him. But he always liked to think he’d never killed anyone who didn’t need killing.
When the Armourer’s compass finally brought Conrad to the Street of the Gods, his people slowed right down as they gawped about them, dazzled and baffled by the weird and wonderful edifices on all sides. Churches and temples, with stained-glass windows and flaring neon, steeped in sanctity or blatant as a whore’s come-on. The Droods chattered loudly together, awed and occasionally spooked by their surroundings. They’d all heard stories about the Beings and Forces that manifested on the Street of the Gods. The miracle workers and the wonder makers, the strange and the sinister, the divine and the damned and pretty much everything else Humanity has ever worshipped, at one time or another. Or if not worshipped . . . feared, with good reason. Conrad finally stopped, turned, and lowered his armour so he could glare properly at his people.
“What is wrong with you? We are Droods; we don’t do impressed.”
His people stirred unhappily, and there was a lot o
f looking back and forth before one Drood stepped forward and lowered his armour. Conrad didn’t know him, but then, it was a large family, and he didn’t get home much. The Drood looked very young and very troubled.
“We came here to fight people, not gods,” he said. “What use is armour against a plague of boils?”
“The gods ran away when they heard we were coming,” said Conrad. “What does that tell you about them? This is just another market-place, selling lies and false hopes to the spiritually gullible. Now put your armour back on.”
“Why?” said the Drood. “If there’s no one here to threaten us . . .”
“Because I will punch you in the head if you don’t stop annoying me!” said Conrad.
The Drood nodded and armoured up. He’d worked with the Sarjeant, and this was the kind of pep talk he understood. And then Conrad realised most of his people had stopped looking at him and were staring past him, at something farther down the Street. Conrad turned to look and swore silently as he saw the two figures blocking the way. Conrad knew Dead Boy, if only by reputation, but he didn’t recognise what appeared to be a homeless person standing next to him. Whoever he was, if he palled around with the infamous Dead Boy, he was bound to be trouble. Conrad ordered his people to stay put and went forward to confront the new arrivals. He deliberately didn’t put his armour on, to suggest he didn’t feel in any danger. He finally came to a halt before Dead Boy and nodded briefly.
“I know you, but who’s your scruffy-looking friend?”
Dead Boy grinned. “This is Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor.”
Conrad frowned. “I thought all the gods had left the Street?”
“This isn’t my Street,” said Razor Eddie, in his ghostly grey voice.
“Then why are the two of you here?” said Conrad.
“Someone has to show up when the barbarians are at the gates,” said Dead Boy.
“This is sacred ground,” said Razor Eddie. “In its own appalling way.”
“Stand aside,” said Conrad. “This doesn’t have to get unpleasant.”
“From what I hear, that ship has already sailed,” said Dead Boy. “You people have crapped all over some of my favourite places. I’d never be able to show my dead face in this town again if I let you get away with that.”
“We’re only doing what we feel is right,” said Conrad.
“Did no one tell you, before you came here?” said Razor Eddie. “The long night brings out the worst in everyone.”
“Besides,” said Dead Boy, “according to the Authorities, the gods bailed out of here in such a hurry they left behind all kinds of things people like you shouldn’t be allowed to get your hands on. I know! I couldn’t believe it either! It was news to me that there had ever been anything here worth the taking, or I’d have ransacked a few likely places myself. But anyway, it’s hands off everything as far as you’re concerned. And I have always wanted to know whether I could take a Drood.”
“I just thought this was the right thing to do,” said Razor Eddie.
“Yes,” said Dead Boy. “But that’s you.”
Conrad had started breathing through his mouth because the Punk God’s stench was really starting to get to him. And he couldn’t help noticing how the flies buzzing listlessly around Razor Eddie dropped dead out of the air if they got too close.
“Why are you so ready to defend a Street that all the other gods abandoned?” he said finally.
“I never had a church here,” said Razor Eddie. “I never wanted to be worshipped, only feared, by the right kind of people. But it seems to me that the Street belongs to the worshippers, not the gods. It matters to them. And you would destroy that.” He smiled slowly, showing grey teeth. “And I always wondered whether I could take a Drood.”
“You really think you can stop us?” said Conrad. “A zombie with appalling dress sense and a homeless person with delusions of godhood, defending empty churches deserted by celestial con men . . .”
“You see it your way,” said Dead Boy, “and we’ll see it ours. So, get out of our playground, Drood, while you still can. The Street of the Gods, every last little tasteless bit of it, is under our protection.”
“I have thirty armoured Droods under my command,” said Conrad. “Be sensible!”
“This is the Nightside,” said Razor Eddie. “We do things differently here.”
Conrad armoured up and stood before them, splendid in his golden armour. Just the sight of that was usually enough to make the point that Droods were not to be messed with. The power of the armour and the eerily featureless face mask made it perfectly clear who was in charge. But Razor Eddie and Dead Boy just stared at him politely, as if to say Is that all you’ve got? Conrad called back to his people to come and join him. And while he was busy doing that, Dead Boy picked him up bodily and heaved him at the nearest church. Conrad sailed through the air, arms and legs waving wildly, and smashed through the wall. The other Droods stopped to watch Dead Boy do this, and he ran straight at them, laughing out loud.
“Come on, then! Give me your best shot! I can take it!”
Razor Eddie followed after him, shaking his head. There were good reasons why so few people were willing to fight alongside Dead Boy.
The Droods moved closer together to meet Dead Boy’s charge, but his sheer momentum was enough to slam some of the Droods right off their feet. Dead Boy waded into the Droods, picking them up and throwing them around as if they were weightless. He punched one of them in the face mask and broke every bone in his hand. Dead Boy just shrugged and carried on fighting. He didn’t feel pain any more; in fact, he had to take some fairly heavy-duty pills in order to feel anything. He ducked and dodged most of the Droods’ blows, despite their armoured speed, because for all his bravado he wasn’t stupid, and did his best to roll with the few that landed. He heard more bones break but decided he’d worry about that later.
Razor Eddie produced his supernaturally sharp straight razors and went to work among the Droods. The first few just put up armoured arms to block the blows, but Razor Eddie’s blades were sharp enough to cut clean through Drood armour, and sink deep into the flesh beneath. The strange matter repaired itself almost immediately, but the wounds didn’t. Droods cried out in shock as much as pain, as blood ran inside their armour. Razor Eddie darted among the Droods with godly speed. Come and gone in a moment, he was never where they thought he was going to be, his straight razors flashing out to cut throats with grim precision. Droods crashed to the ground, making hideous sounds, bleeding out inside their armour.
Conrad dug himself out of the church he’d been thrown into and bellowed orders to his people. They swarmed all over Dead Boy, hanging on to his arms and legs, and dragged him down by sheer weight of numbers. Razor Eddie had to stop slaughtering Droods to go save his friend. His razors dug deep into armoured backs and shoulders, until the Droods were forced to release their prey and retreat. Dead Boy tried to get up, and couldn’t. Razor Eddie hauled him up onto his feet. The Droods had done a job on Dead Boy. More of his bones were broken than not, the edges protruding jaggedly through torn skin, though no blood flowed. His deep-purple greatcoat had been ripped to tatters, and he’d lost his slouch hat. But he still had enough strength to laugh at the look of concern on Razor Eddie’s face.
“Nothing some hard work, an industrial stapler, and a fair amount of duct tape won’t put right,” he said. “There are times when being dead has its advantages.”
The two men stood side by side in the middle of the Street of the Gods. Dead Droods lay scattered all around them. Conrad walked forward on his own, and Razor Eddie moved to place himself in front of Dead Boy. Conrad grew a gun, and shot Razor Eddie’s straight razors out of his hands. The broken pieces fell to the ground at his feet.
“You’re just a god,” said Conrad. “I’m a Drood.”
Two new blades appeared in Razor Eddie’s
hands, shining unnaturally bright. He smiled coldly.
“I am the Punk God of the Straight Razor. And I have faith in myself.”
Conrad shot Razor Eddie in the face. One razor moved too quickly to follow, and two pieces of bullet fell to the ground. They rattled around for a moment, then shot back to be reabsorbed by Conrad’s armour. Some way down the Street, the other Droods moved a little closer together.
Dead Boy leaned in close to Razor Eddie. “Nice trick, but there’s no way we can win this. There are too many of them. Sooner or later they will bring me down, and even you can’t stop a bullet to the back of the head. So get out of here while I hold their attention.”
“You’re being very heroic,” said Razor Eddie. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Dead Boy shrugged as best he could, with one shoulder smashed to pieces. “Like the man said, no point in dying over an empty Street.”
“Where would I go?” said Razor Eddie.
“There are other people fighting,” said Dead Boy. “Join up with them and find a way to fight Droods that works. Allow me my pride. It’s all I’ve got.”
Razor Eddie nodded. “You know . . .”
“I know,” Dead Boy said kindly. “Now get the hell out of here before you say something that will embarrass both of us. Come on, I’m dead! What more can they do to me?”
Razor Eddie cut a hole in Space, stepped through it, and disappeared. The hole slammed shut behind him. Dead Boy turned to face the Droods, who were advancing on him with more confidence now Razor Eddie was gone. Dead Boy laughed happily and went lurching forward to meet them.
“Come on, then! Is that all you’ve got? I’m Dead Boy! I’m a legend, a dead man walking, the nightmare in the long night; and I am scarier than all of you put together!”
The Droods swarmed all over him and pulled him down, despite everything he could do. They forced him onto his knees and held him there. Conrad grew a golden sword from his hand, raised it, and cut off Dead Boy’s head. It rolled away down the Street, and the body collapsed. The Droods let go and stood back, murmuring in relief. And then they all looked around sharply as a futuristic car came screaming down the Street toward them.
Night Fall Page 46