I passed through a long hall full of classical statues and suits of standing armour set out on display. The statues turned their heads to watch me pass, their empty mouths sounding the alarm. And one by one the suits of standing armour came alive. They lurched forward to block my way, throwing themselves at me, grabbing onto me with their shining steel arms. I threw the first few off easily enough, but more and more of them clung to me with unnatural strength, trying to pull me down. I fought them savagely, and when their heads came off and their arms tore away, I quickly discovered the suits of armour were empty. Just old armour, animated by old magic. Now that I knew I didn’t need to hold back, I tore them apart and ripped them off me, one suit at a time. I smashed them with my golden fists and cut them apart with my sword. No one wastes protective enchantments on empty suits of armour. I finally broke free and ran on again, but the time it had used up was all it took for the other Knights to catch up with me.
When I entered the next corridor, a dozen armoured Knights were waiting for me. I barely had time to stumble to a halt before they charged straight at me, yelling their battle cries. They quickly spread out to surround me, so they could come at me all at once from different sides. Glowing swords and battle-axes rained down on me as I dodged this way and that, using my armour’s speed to keep them off balance. Moving at my armour’s top speed made it seem as though they were all moving in slow motion, giving me plenty of time to anticipate their movements and avoid their attacks. But I was tired, so tired. I was the one who had to move the armour, and I had already done so much. It had been a very long day . . . I was slowing down despite myself, and they were speeding up.
I dodged and feinted, using their numbers against them. They had to be careful not to hit one another in the press of the fight, while for me everyone was a target. A sudden inspiration came to me, and I switched my sword to my left hand. Immediately, the Knights fell back, expecting a trap or a trick. I backed away, just enough that they were all arrayed before me. And then I reached through my armoured side, into my pocket dimension, and brought out one of my uncle Jack’s most dependable devices. The portable door. The Knights saw that all I had in my hand was a black plasticky blob, and they started forward again. Which was just what I wanted.
I manipulated the blob, rolling it back and forth in my hand to activate it, but instead of slapping it against the nearest wall to make a door, I threw it onto the floor before me. It immediately expanded to make a trap-door opening, and the advancing Knights fell through it before they could stop themselves, crashing down into the floor below. The sound of their armour landing made a terrible noise, and I grinned briefly behind my featureless mask.
Nice one, Armourer.
I made it the rest of the way without being stopped, or even challenged—all the way to the main entrance door. A pretty ordinary-looking door, on the far side of a great open hall. And there, standing between me and the way out, were six armoured Knights. I was so tired I almost cried at the sheer injustice of it. I was so sure I’d left them all behind. I didn’t have the strength left in me to fight my way past one angry Knight, let alone six. I staggered to a halt and tried hard to give them the impression I was studying them thoughtfully from behind my impenetrable mask, while I fought to get my breath back. My chest was heaving, my arms and legs and back ached, and my head was swimming with simple fatigue. I could feel sweat running down my face, under my mask. Drood armour can make a man more than a man, but it’s still the man who drives it.
I could tell from the way these Knights held themselves, and their glowing weapons, that they were experienced fighters. Men who knew what they were doing. I was out of strength, out of tricks, and out of time, and they knew better than to come to me and leave the door unguarded. So all that remained for me was to take the fight to them.
I’m coming to get you, Molly. I swear to God I’m coming for you.
I strode towards them, taking my time, gathering my strength, and then accelerated at the last moment, forcing my aching legs on. The armour’s speed had me in and among the Knights before they could react. I lashed out at them with my strange matter sword, with all the strength my armour could give me. But these Knights dodged my blows, or deflected them with raised swords or lowered shoulders, and stood their ground. The force behind my blows was enough to rock them on their feet, when they landed, but the Knights wouldn’t fall, or fall back. Their swords and axes flared brightly, supernaturally fierce, as they hit me from every side. The points and edges couldn’t pierce my armour, but just the terrible strength behind their blows was enough to hurt me, inside my armour. The spells laid down on their steel were enough to reach me, and damage me, beyond my armour’s protection. And all I could do was take it.
I couldn’t kill them. I wouldn’t kill them.
I lowered my head and struck out with my sword and my fist, absorbing the punishment that came at me from everywhere; forcing my way closer to the door, one stubborn step at a time. The blows came hard and fast, doing real damage, until I wanted to cry out at the pain. Swords and axes rose and fell, driving me this way and that, until I couldn’t even see them coming any more. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out. So they wouldn’t know how badly they were hurting me. I could feel blood coursing down inside my armour. Sudden attacks sent me staggering back and forth, but I wouldn’t fall. I was damned if I’d fall. Molly needed me.
I could have drawn my Colt Repeater and shot the Knights, trusting to the strange matter bullets to punch through their armour. But that would have meant killing them—which would mean war between the Knights and the Droods. But Molly needed me . . . I couldn’t think what would be best. So hard to think, when it hurt so much . . . I lowered my head and bulled forward, into the blows and the pain, forcing my way forward one stubborn step at a time.
An axe came sweeping round impossibly fast and hit me in the side of the head, almost causing me to pass out from the impact. I hurt so bad I fell to one knee, and the Knights immediately crowded in around me, raining blows down on me, scenting victory at last. I punched one of them in the knee, slamming his leg out from under him, and he fell forward across me. I held him there, using him as protection against the blows, trying desperately to think what else I could do. And that was when the owl appeared out of nowhere.
It came sweeping across the open space at incredible speed and hit one of the Knights in the side of the head with such force that it actually dented the metal of his helmet. The impact spun the Knight around on his feet, and he fell to the floor, the sword flying from his hand. The owl spun round in a tight circle and came screeching in again, striking another Knight so hard in the chest that he was thrown over backwards. The owl swept up into the air, hooting triumphantly.
“I am stealth owl! Death from above!”
The Knights scattered, surprised and unnerved by this unexpected intervention, turning desperately this way and that to see where the next attack would come from. The owl drove the Knights away from me and yelled my name as I hauled myself painfully back onto my feet.
“Get the hell out of here, Drood! I’ll hold them off! Teach them to look down their noses at me! I am a weapon of war, dammit! I am!”
And while the Knights were still coming to terms with that, I lurched forward and made it all the way to the main entrance without being stopped. I grabbed the handle—and the door was locked. Of course it was locked. And then I heard the lock mechanism work and felt the handle turn in my grasp.
“I always was a sucker for true love,” said Gayle.
I pulled the door open and staggered out into a London street, armouring down as I went. The cool evening air was a blessing on my torn and bloody flesh. The door slammed shut behind me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Going Underworld
Cold; so cold.
I was back in the world again, and already it was starting to feel like a really bad mistake. I felt cold and tired, and I hurt
all over. I looked cautiously around me and gradually realised I’d emerged onto Oxford Street. A familiar enough area to me; part of my old hunting ground when I was the official Drood field agent for London. Traffic was roaring past, taxi drivers leaning on their horns when anyone hesitated even for a moment; and all kinds of people hurried past me, far too busy and preoccupied with their own lives to pay me any attention. The late-evening sky was heavily overcast, and an increasingly bitter rain was slanting down. From an Arthurian Castle to a wet and windy day in London—story of my life, really.
I looked behind me. According to my family’s files on the London Knights, there should have been a Green Door, the only real-world access to Castle Inconnu. Instead, there was just a bleak expanse of yellowing wall, separating two quite ordinary and respectable businesses. Presumably with Castle security now on Red Alert, the Door was closed. I turned away and stumbled off down the street before the Door could reappear and spit out a whole bunch of outraged London Knights charging after me. The Seneschal might be able to justify my presence in the Castle, or he might not. And Gayle might decide to keep the Green Door closed, or she might not.
I staggered through the driving rain, keeping my head well down as I weaved my way through the crowds as best I could, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention. Though this was, after all, London; where people are well versed in not seeing people and things they don’t want to know about. I was feeling worse all the time. I’d taken a hell of a beating inside my armour, and it was starting to get to me. Stabbing pains jolted through my body with every step, and I was feeling increasingly weaker and more worn down. I braced myself in case anyone should bump into me and make things worse, but somehow nobody did. Which was . . . unusual for a street in London.
Every movement sent more and more pain shooting through me. I’d been too busy concentrating on moving forward while the Knights attacked me to realise just how much punishment I was soaking up inside my armour, and now that I no longer had the armour to support me, the damage was catching up fast. I had to stop, just for a moment. I concentrated on my breathing, pushing back the pain and weakness with an act of iron will. I lurched over to the nearest shop-
window. Shop dummies in sharp city suits stared blankly back at me. Watching coldly, dispassionately. They didn’t care how bad I felt, no more than the people passing by did. London can be a cold city.
I made myself concentrate on my reflection in the glass. I looked bad. Hell, I looked awful. Battered and bloody. I was shaking and shuddering all over now, and not just from the cold rain. My left arm hung limply at my side, blood coursing down to drip steadily from my numbed fingertips. I couldn’t move the arm at all without risking a pain so bad it almost made me pass out. I hadn’t realised how far over I was leaning to compensate and favour my damaged side. Underneath the arm, my whole left rib cage shouted pain at me with every breath I took. The left side of my face was worryingly slack, under heavy mottled bruising. And my left eye was swollen completely shut. A nasty wound jerked across my brow above the eye, and when I touched it gently with my right hand, fresh blood ran streaming down my face. It didn’t hurt at all—which was not a good sign.
So . . . my left arm was broken, in at least two places. Most of my left ribs were broken, and from the feel of it, pressing in to pierce the lung. Add to that the beginnings of a really serious concussion as well as any number of internal injuries. Something inside me felt loose, detached, damaged. Blood gathered in my mouth, and when I spat it out, more blood immediately appeared to replace it. Really not good. I felt suddenly hot, and then cold, and then hot again, in sudden sharp flushes. My head was swimming and my legs were trembling, and only an act of desperate willpower was holding me up.
I didn’t have time to be hurt this badly. Molly needed me.
I put forward my good arm, placing my right hand flat against the window glass, so I could lean on it. That supported some of my weight, and helped a little. I pushed back the gathering confusion in my head, refusing to give in to it, and tried to work out what I should do next. I could armour up again, and let the strength of the armour carry me until I could reach a place of safety. But that would definitely freak out all the people around me, and give the game away as well. There had been too many sightings of armoured Droods in public in recent years. Most of them my fault. The general public isn’t supposed to know that Droods move among them. When people stopped running and hyperventilating, they might start worrying about what else might be moving unseen in their midst. And they really wouldn’t like the answer.
Besides, the open presence of a Drood in his armour on a London street would be bound to attract the attention of all the wrong people. The kind who would very definitely come running, for the chance to attack a wounded and weakened Drood. I turned and put my back against the window, gritting my teeth against the horrid pains that stirred up. I looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone, or anything, immediately threatening. I pushed myself away from the shop-window and moved on, not sure where I was going, knowing only that I had to get away. Get somewhere safe. I needed help; I was no use to Molly like this.
So I gathered up my courage, swallowed my pride, and called on my family for help.
“Kate?” I said, through my torc. “This is Eddie, reporting in. I’m in trouble. I need support, and backup, and a really good medical team. I’m on Oxford Street. Who have you got in the area? Who’s nearest? Kate? Kate, can you hear me?”
I couldn’t hear anything. Which was disturbing. My controller should have been there, just waiting for me to make contact, in the event I might need something urgently. That’s the only reason field agents put up with controllers. I called Kate again, but there was still no response, so I called out to anyone in my family. Anyone on duty, who might be listening. There’s always someone on monitor duty. But there was only silence. I tried to make sense of what was happening. Could someone have already told my family about what had just happened at Castle Inconnu? If the Seneschal hadn’t cleared me, could my family have already cut me off, abandoned me, to avoid a war? Without even wanting to hear my side? It was possible. They’d done worse to me before. I kept moving. I was on my own. So I had to keep moving, or die.
I weaved ponderously through the packed crowd on Oxford Street, and no one bothered me. No one even glanced in my direction. I looked around, curious. People were avoiding making eye contact with me. I wondered if they were doing that because they thought I was one of the homeless, or because they genuinely couldn’t see me. No . . . if I was invisible to them, they’d be trying to walk straight through me. And everybody was giving me plenty of room, even stepping off the pavement and into the busy street if I happened to lurch suddenly in their direction . . . without any of them seeming to realise they were doing it. Just as well; one heavy impact, one crash of bodies, would have been painful enough to knock me out cold.
I felt . . . distanced; not a proper part of the world any more. As though I was drifting between the real and the unreal, suspended between life and death. I didn’t understand what was happening. I felt . . . lost. I stopped and stared blearily about me, and realised I no longer had any idea of where I was. My surroundings had changed while I wasn’t looking. The street around me didn’t look anything like Oxford Street. I didn’t recognise the area, or any of the shops, and when I looked up . . . it was into a night sky. Night? How could it be night so soon? Where did the day go? There was no moon, and the stars were like splashes of white paint, sliding slowly down the endless dark of the sky.
I made myself concentrate on the shop-windows around me. All the familiar businesses and tourist traps were gone, replaced by new and unfamiliar places. Like changelings, left in place of a kidnapped baby. The names above these new ugly premises were in languages I couldn’t read, didn’t even recognise. The things on sale in the windows made no sense. Some of them moved around, or bumped angrily against the inside of the glass. Some changed shape even as I looke
d at them, their details becoming strange and monstrous. Like in those really bad nightmares, where you can’t trust anything to stay what it seems. Neon signs flashed and flared too quickly to be understood, their colours so harsh and overpowering that they hurt my head and made me feel sick. The buildings rearing up around me were now impossibly tall, or broad, or inhumanly detailed, bulging with too many spatial dimensions to be contained in a single shape. Some shops seemed to slide away, backwards and sideways, as though reluctant to meet my gaze. Or to be pinned down to one shape or location, by the pressure of my observing them. Other shops were all too clearly there, staring right back at me, with bad intent.
Come inside . . . Come on in, little Drood, and see what’s waiting for you.
When I peered out at the traffic, most of what was passing by looked more like living things than vehicles. Or perhaps vehicles that were living things. The pavement under my feet felt soft and treacherous. As though I might suddenly sink into it and never come out. And the people on the street around me . . . didn’t look or sound or act the way I thought ordinary people should. As though everyone was just wearing a people mask and pretending to be ordinary. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. I wanted to just run, blindly, wildly, slam people out of my way and leave all this madness behind. But I didn’t know where to go. There was nowhere that felt safe any longer.
I didn’t know where I was, though that shouldn’t be possible. I was Drood field agent in London for years, had been everywhere, leaned on everyone. So why didn’t I know this street, these buildings, these people? I tried to access the street maps stored in my armour, but there was no response. I wondered briefly whether my armour would still come if I called? Or would it defy me now, like the Merlin Glass had? Was I really that alone, that helpless? Where had the Green Door brought me . . . ? I swayed on my feet, cold sweat slick on my face, a nameless horror clutching at my guts. Lost and alone, in a crowd of strange strangers.
From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel Page 25