Daemons Are Forever

by Simon R. Green

  “When I walked in, this room was full of barely suppressed hysteria and panic,” I said calmly. “Not what I’d expect from a Patriarch. And really, Harry, is this the best you could do for advisors? I wouldn’t take their advice on how to pick my nose. I swear, I take my eye off this family for five minutes, and everything goes to hell.”

  “Five minutes?” said Harry. “Eighteen months! We didn’t know whether you were dead or alive, or captured, or gone over to the enemy, or ever coming back! And now you swagger back in here with a smug smile and a condescending word, and what have you got to show for it? One man!”

  “One Deathstalker,” said Giles. “And that makes all the difference.”

  “He’s big,” said Sebastian.

  “I had noticed,” said Freddie.

  “And he’s got a really big sword.”

  “Best kind.”

  “What happened to my Inner Circle?” I said loudly. “I chose them carefully, to represent all the voices in this family. I’m not surprised to see the Sarjeant here, hello Cyril, and Molly and Jacob are with me . . . but where, pray tell, are the very sensible Penny and our extremely experienced Uncle Jack?”

  “The Armourer is back in the Armoury, where he belongs,” said Harry. “And Penny is very busy looking after those tutors you so graciously inflicted on the family. They’re popular enough, I suppose, if not especially useful. If I had to be in charge, and there was no one else, I decided I wanted my own advisors. People I could trust to see things my way, and carry out the policy I set. There’s no room for arguments during an emergency. Don’t think you can just walk back in and take over, Eddie. You had your chance, and you blew it.”

  “Whereas you have done so much better?” I said. “Do tell.”

  “You weren’t here! You don’t know everything that’s happened in the last year and a half! I’ve been fighting a war against an enemy that threatens the whole world. Not just one nest, one tower, but thousands of the bloody things. Hundreds of thousands . . . we can’t even keep count anymore, they’re spreading so fast. Look at you, standing there, sneering at me . . . You have no right to judge me! You have no right to just walk in and expect us all to fall at your feet, and plead with you to save us! I run the family now, by right. I’ve earned this. I am the Patriarch; if you want it, you’re going to have to take it from me.”

  “You see, that’s the difference between us right there, Harry,” I said. “I never wanted it. But I’ve always known my duty to the family. And that’s why I have to replace you—for the good of the family.”

  Harry armoured up, and to my surprise the metal that flowed from his torc was golden, not silver. He laughed at the expression on my face, his own hidden behind the featureless golden mask.

  “I never liked the silver look. So I talked to Strange, and he saw no reason why the strange matter shouldn’t be gold . . . so I had him change it. Gold is the colour of tradition, of continuity, a reminder of the days when our family was strong. And will be again!”

  “Strange!” I said. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Eddie.” The voice emanating from the crimson glow sounded strangely muted, and far away. “It’s so good to see you again. You’ve been a long way; I can see it on you. And the world . . . has moved on, while you were away. Even I am not what I was, being spread so thin. Only my protections keep the family safe. It’s the Loathly Ones, Eddie. They infect the living world like a virus, like a cancer. And the more they take over, the more their presence limits me. I provide armour for the Droods, and power for the family’s weapons and defences . . . but every day I find it that little bit harder. The Hungry Gods are coming . . . and not even I can hope to stand against them once they manifest in all their awful glory.”

  I’d never heard Strange sound so tired, so beaten down . . . almost defeated. He’d always seemed so powerful, so far above humanity, it had never even occurred to me that there might be other forces, other Beings, as far above him . . . I looked at Harry, standing proud and tall in his golden armour.

  “Put that away,” I said. “We don’t have time for this shit. We have important business to discuss. Family business.”

  “No,” he said immediately. “There’s nothing more important than this. Nothing can happen, nothing can be decided, until we decide who’s in charge. I noticed you haven’t put on your armour, Eddie. What’s the matter? Haven’t you got the balls for a fair fight?”

  “A duel?” I said. “In the middle of all this, you want to fight a duel?”

  “It is the traditional way,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms, smiling just a little bit.

  “Just another reason why I never got along with the traditional ways,” I said. “But if it’ll make you happy, Harry . . .”

  I subvocalised the activating Words, and the armour poured out of my torc to encase me. I immediately felt stronger, sharper, more confident. A quick glance down showed me my armour was now as golden as his. I flexed my golden fists slowly, and then started towards Harry. He came to me, and we circled each other cautiously. Everyone else fell back, to give us plenty of room. I saw Molly holding Giles by the arm and murmuring urgently in his ear, making it clear he mustn’t interfere. He nodded. He looked like he understood all about duels.

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms took a step forward, perhaps to say something in support of Harry, or perhaps just to try to distract me, and Giles swept forward impossibly quickly, crossing the width of the hall in a moment. His long sword leapt into his hand as he slammed the Sarjeant up against the wall, and then he set the edge of the long blade against the Sarjeant’s throat. It all happened so quickly the Sarjeant didn’t have a chance to call up his armour. He looked into Giles’s cold eyes, so close to his own, and stood very still, saying nothing. A slow trickle of blood ran down his throat from where the razor edge of the sword just parted the skin over his Adam’s apple.

  “Don’t,” said Giles.

  Harry seized the moment while my attention was elsewhere, and threw himself at me. We went head to head, both of us too angry to think of subtlety. We traded blows that would have killed ordinary men, but neither of us felt them. We grappled with each other, swaying back and forth as we wrestled, but we both knew all the tricks. We slammed together again and again, our superhuman strength and speed equally matched. I pushed him away from me and extruded long golden blades from my hands. Harry grew blades from his hands too, and we cut viciously at each other, thrusting and hacking and swirling around each other too quickly for the human eye to follow. We were in the grip of the armour now, our passion and hate transformed into superhuman action.

  I slammed his left blade aside through brute force and cut at his chest. The supernaturally sharp edge cut through his armour to reach him, the only thing that could. I heard him grunt, in pain and surprise, and then I had to duck quickly as his backhand response almost took my head off. We spun and danced, stamping our golden feet so hard we cracked the wooden floor. We fought on, golden blurs in the crimson light. But even in this we were too evenly matched, trading superficial cuts and wounds that never even came close to ending the duel.

  But I’d been through a lot more than he had, and I was tired. My arms ached, and I could feel blood trickling warmly down my skin inside my armour. I had to end this, while I still could. So I used an old trick, the one I used to beat his father. I parried both his blades with mine, forced them up and out of the way, and went for his throat with both hands. My blades withdrew into the golden gloves so I could get a good grip on his golden neck. The impact sent us both crashing to the floor and I ended up on top, both my hands bearing down on his throat. His hands discarded their blades as he instinctively grabbed at my wrists, trying to force my hands away. The armour around his neck should have been a match for my armoured hands, but at such close proximity, under the force of my will, his armour and mine melded together so that my bare hands were suddenly at his bare throat, inside the armour.

  He made some sound of shock and surprise, and then my han
ds closed, and I cut it off. He bucked and struggled under me, but he couldn’t shift my hands. He choked and convulsed, and I wouldn’t let him breathe.

  Until finally he stopped fighting me and slapped the ground at his side. The old signal of a fighter who yields. I let go, and he started breathing again. I stayed crouched over him, ready to go again if he was faking. For a while we stayed there, him on the floor, me over him, both of us breathing hard. I would have killed him if he hadn’t yielded, and he knew it.

  “Was that how you killed my father?” he said finally.

  “Typical of you, Harry,” I said. “Always fixated on the past. A leader has to look to the future. I could have killed you, but I didn’t want to. First, because it would probably have caused more problems than it solved, and secondly, the family needs experienced field agents like you. Now more than ever. So forget this Patriarch crap. Go back to being part of my Inner Circle. Give me your word that you’ll follow me, obey my orders, for the good of the family . . . and this is over.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “You know the answer to that. It’s all or nothing, Harry. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he said quietly, bitterly. “For the good of the family.”

  We both armoured down. I gave him my hand and helped him to his feet.

  “No!” Roger said suddenly, stepping forward. “You don’t have to give in to him, Harry! You don’t have to take any crap from anyone, not while I’m here!”

  And just like that, he took on his Infernal aspect, wrapping it around him like a cloak, and he didn’t seem in any way human anymore. Shadows gathered around him, a living darkness that seemed to eat up the crimson light. There was a thick stench of blood and sulphur on the air, and a rush of almost unbearable heat sent all of us stumbling back, even Harry. Roger smiled, and his mouth was full of pointed teeth. His eyes were black pits in his face. His presence was heavy in the Sanctity, like an unbearable weight pressing down on the world. He looked like what he really was; something from the Pit. Even Harry couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Roger laughed softly, an evil, hateful sound that had no human humour in it, and we all winced. Roger rose up into the air, defying the natural laws of the world as though they were nothing, and hung on the air with his arms mockingly outstretched as though nailed to an invisible cross.

  “Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam,” he said in a voice like an animal grunting. “You think you’re so much, Eddie Drood . . . Let me show you true power.”

  Before I could even say anything, Molly rose up into the air to face him, levitating effortlessly. Her face was set and cold as she put herself between me and the hellspawn. I wanted to call out to her, but I had no voice. Unnatural energies coalesced around both of them, felt as much as seen, spitting and crackling like beads of water on a hot surface. Something was gathering between them, something awful . . . Just being this close to the two of them felt like razor blades slicing into my soul. Mortals weren’t supposed to see things like this, feel things like this. Forbidden magics and inhuman practices . . .

  Roger waved a hand, and a hole opened up in the floor of the Sanctity. The wooden floorboards seemed to just rot away into nothing, and the hole grew steadily, like a cancer in the body of the world. Barbed brass tentacles, already slick with spilled blood, shot up out of the hall and snapped around Molly, pinning her arms to her sides. She cried out, as though fouled by their touch, and struggled fiercely, blood spurting on the air as the metal barbs dug into her flesh. And then the tentacles snapped back into the hole, taking her with them, and the hole disappeared. The floor was solid again, untouched, as though nothing had happened. Roger turned slowly, still hanging unsupported on the air, and smiled his awful smile at me.

  “I am of Hell,” he said, “and I carry it with me everywhere. So I’m never far from home. I just sent your girlfriend to Hell, Eddie Drood. Damned her forever, to eternal suffering, to the lake of flames and the torments of the Pit, just because I felt like it. How do you feel about that, Eddie Drood?”

  “After I’ve killed you, I will go down into Hell and bring her back,” I said. “Whatever it takes, whatever it costs. But first I will break your body with these golden hands, and make you scream, and after all the terrible things I do to you, falling back into Hell will seem like a relief.”

  “Wow,” said Molly. “Hard core, Eddie.”

  We all looked around, startled, and there she was, standing untouched and unharmed where the hole had been. I ran over and took her in my arms, and we held each other tightly and nothing else mattered.

  “I really thought I’d lost you,” I said.

  “You really think I’d go anywhere and leave you behind?” she said.

  When we finally broke apart and looked around, Roger was staring at us incredulously. And for all his Infernal presence, he didn’t look half as threatening anymore.

  “You can’t be here!” he said. “You can’t! I sent you to Hell!”

  “Been there, done that,” said Molly.

  She snapped her fingers crisply and a hole opened in the high ceiling above us. A celestial light slammed down through the hole, shouldering its way into the mortal world like a holy spotlight, transfixing Roger where he was like a bug on a pin. He screamed horribly, thrashing helplessly in agony in the grip of that Heavenly light, and we all had to turn our heads away. The light was just too dazzling, too pure, for human eyes to look on. Just being in the same room with it hurt, as though it was burning away my imperfections. Molly snapped her fingers again, and the light snapped off, the hole in the ceiling gone in a moment. Roger fell to the floor and lay still, breathing harshly. He looked like just a man again. Harry hurried forwards to kneel beside Roger and take him in his arms. He rocked him back and forth like a hurt child, murmuring soothing words. Roger’s face was blank with shock and suffering and an indescribable horror. I looked at Molly.

  She shrugged. “I’ve been around. You’d be surprised at who owes me favours. Really.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” I said. “Everybody else okay?”

  I looked around. Sebastian and Freddie were huddled together in a far corner, trying to climb into each other’s pockets. The Sarjeant-at-Arms looked pale and shaken, but not even the sight of Heaven and Hell could break his composure. Jacob the ghost had disappeared. And Giles Deathstalker . . . was grinning widely, as though he’d just watched a really good show.

  While I was still considering that, the Sanctity doors flew open and a whole bunch of Droods came running in, led by the thugs who used to guard the doors. They seemed to have got their second wind and, emboldened by reinforcements, they were back to teach us all a lesson. Unfortunately, they made the tactical error of bursting in unarmoured. Giles was off the spot and heading right for them the moment they appeared, moving impossibly quickly for someone who didn’t have Drood armour. He didn’t bother to draw his sword, just slammed into the newcomers, stopping them in their tracks, and taking them all down with swift, almost clinical precision. He struck about him with amazing skill, and every blow sent a man flying. In just a few moments he was the only man standing, surrounded by moaning and unconscious bodies. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Now that is what I call a fighter,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I’d never heard him sound impressed before. “You did well, Edwin. This is exactly what we need.”

  “Thank you for not killing them,” I said to Giles. “They’re family.”

  He nodded briefly. “I know. I saw the collars around their necks. I only kill when necessary. And these poor specimens definitely weren’t worth it.”

  “That is partly why you’re here,” I said. “I need you to train my family, turn them into warriors, to fight a war against impossible odds and the most powerful enemy even you’ve ever seen.”

  “I can do that,” said Giles. “I’ve made armies out of worse. I can take the most unprepossessing material and turn them into fighting men. I am a Deathstalker. We win wars. It’s what we do. How lo
ng have I got?”

  “Good question,” I said. I looked at the Sarjeant-at-Arms. “Talk to me, Cyril. I need to know exactly what’s been happening while I’ve been away. Just the high spots, for now; I’ll pick up the details later, as we go along.”

  The Sarjeant nodded slowly. “Welcome back, Edwin. The family has missed your . . . decisiveness. You have to understand; Harry had the support of the Matriarch. I had no choice . . .”

  “Just tell me what happened,” I said. “We can spread the blame around later. You can start with, how did everything go so wrong? When I left we were winning. Sort of.”

  “Manifest Destiny had some of their people at the Nazca site,” said the Sarjeant. “Long before you and your team arrived. Truman wanted to keep a close eye on his new allies. But everyone he sent there ended up possessed, or infected, by the Loathly Ones. They returned to Truman, to spread the gift that keeps on giving. They infiltrated his organisation and penetrated his new base, infecting others in their turn. They became his closest advisors and whispered poison in his ear. They persuaded Truman to support the establishing of new nests, and fund the building of new towers.

  “Backed by Manifest Destiny’s resources, and under Truman’s protection, the Loathly Ones spread their influence across the world, embedding their infected agents in organisations and governments in every country. Ostensibly they spoke for Manifest Destiny, representing it as an alternative to Drood rule. Of course, once they were invited in, they quickly moved up to high positions and set about spreading chaos and indecision, dividing humanity from within. There are nests everywhere now, in every country, often hidden away inside ghoulvilles to hide the building of their towers. Once these have reached a specific number, known only to them, the great summoning will begin and the Invaders will come through.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “They haven’t infected Truman himself? Why not? Then they’d run his organisation.”

  “It seems they can’t,” said the Sarjeant. “After all the operations he’s carried out on his brain, it would appear he is immune to their touch.”