“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 hands 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 long 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.”
“Maybe we can use that,” I said. “If we could reach him, make him see the truth… we might even learn from him a way to make everyone immune…”
“Perhaps,” the Sarjeant said kindly. “If I might continue…”
“Oh yes, you go right ahead, Cyril. Don’t let me stop you.”
“We know that those infected by the Loathly Ones become Loathly Ones,” said the Sarjeant. “They work together like insects, a hive mind, where each of them knows what every one knows. The nests communicate, ghoulville to ghoulville, in a way we can’t understand or intercept. We invade and destroy every nest we locate, and burn down their towns, but they’re better at hiding than we are at finding. We’re winning the battles, but losing the war.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Strange, “but the War Room has just received a significant communication. Callan is on the line; he says he’s finally located Truman’s new base of operations. Shall I patch him through?”
“Damn right,” I said. “First good news I’ve heard…Callan! This is Edwin Drood; I’m back. What have you found?”
“Well it’s about bloody time,” said Callan, his unmistakable voice emerging from Strange’s crimson glow. “You picked a hell of a time to go on vacation. Did you bring me back a present? No one ever brings me back presents. Look, I’d love to chat but I don’t know how long I dare remain in contact. Truman’s new base is crawling with security people, and some things that very definitely aren’t people. You wouldn’t believe the layers of protection he’s put in place.”
“Understood,” I said. “Where is he?”
“You’re not going to believe this. I’m here looking at it, and I don’t believe it. To be exact, I’m just outside of Stonehenge, keeping what I fervently hope is a safe distance from the outer ring of Stones. Truman has set up his new base in the bunkers set deep underneath the Stones. Once again he’s taken advantage of an old, mothballed government installation, dating back to World War II, I believe. The bunkers were put in place as a last redoubt, to which the government could retreat if the Nazis invaded and forced them out of London.”
“Hold it,” I said. “I thought as long as the Soul of Albion was safely in place at Stonehenge, no one could invade England?”
“Maybe the government of the day didn’t trust it,” said Callan. “Are you ready for the really bad news? Truman’s got his hands on the Soul. He’s dug it up from under the main sacrificial stone and locked it away in his private of
fice.”
“Callan,” I said carefully. “Just how sure are you of your information?”
“I went in and had a look for myself, and I am here to tell you right now that I am not doing it again. Sneaking past all his protections and very heavily armed guards has taken ten years off my life, and positively cured that slight but definite touch of constipation I was suffering from. If I were shaking any more you could mix cocktails in me. See if I ever volunteer for field work again.”
“How could Truman have got to the Soul?” I said. “The family’s been adding layers of protection around it for centuries.”
“I know,” said Callan. “There’s only one answer, and it’s really not a very nice one. Someone in the family must have given him the necessary Words to unlock the guards. And that someone would have to be very high up. A traitor in the family…”
“Impossible!” said the Sarjeant. “It’s unthinkable…”
“Not after the Zero Tolerance debacle,” I said. “They were ready to destroy the family in order to rebuild it in their own image.”
“Just like you,” said Harry.
“Shut up, Harry,” I said. “This is grown-up talk. Recommendations, Callan?”
“Put together a major strike force, transport it straight here, and I will use it to hit Truman where it hurts, right now, while we’ve still got the element of surprise.”
“No!” I said quickly. “I know your idea of tactics, Callan; everything forward and trust in the Lord. You hold your position, keep watching, and report back if there are any new developments. I’ll work out a plan of attack and get back to you. Until then, stay put. That’s an order.”
“You can go off people, you know.”
“Strange, cut him off, and then talk to me.”
“Yes, Eddie. Callan is still talking to the War Room. He is not at all happy.”
“Wouldn’t recognise him if he was,” I said. “Tell me about the Soul of Albion, Strange.”
“I only know what the family knows, Eddie. According to your records, an unnatural, other-dimensional crystal fell to earth from the stars, thousands of years ago. Long ago, so long ago that history shades into legend, someone carried out a major Working with the Soul, harnessing its power to ensure that England could never be invaded. As long as the Soul stayed in position, under Stonehenge.”
Daemons Are Forever sh-2 Page 31