A Hard Day's Knight

by Simon R. Green

  “You’re saying they’re evil?” he said politely.

  “They’re so different from us they’re beyond simple labels like Good and Evil. Those are human beliefs, human concepts. They’re bigger than that, beyond that, monstrous beyond anything we can imagine because our concept of evil isn’t big enough to encompass the things they do. We call them Outsiders because they’re outside anything we can understand or accept: outside morality, or sanity, maybe even Life or Death.”

  “You’re very eloquent,” said Oliver. “But I told you ... I don’t care. Let them eat up the Nightside, let them burn it up, let all the people die. Where were they when I needed them?”

  “You still care about your children,” I said. “That’s who you’re doing this for, right? You let the Outsiders loose in our world, and they won’t stop here. Eventually, they will get to where your children are and make them scream with horror before they destroy them.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Oliver. “He promised the Outsiders would be contained inside the Nightside. He made a deal with them.”

  “And he believed them?”

  I was about to try for this particular fool’s name when I noticed that Oliver’s breath was steaming on the air before him. Mine, too. The mall was a hell of a lot colder than it had been. Fern-like patterns of hoar-frost crept quickly across the shop-windows and spread unevenly across the floor, walls, and ceiling. And though the overhead fluorescent lights were still burning just as fiercely, darkness appeared in all the surrounding corridors, one by one, filling them up, then edging slowly forward until only a narrow pool of light remained, surrounding Oliver and me.

  “Something’s coming,” I said. “Something’s draining all the warmth and energy out of our surroundings, from the world itself, so it can force its way into our reality. Something from Outside is coming here, to talk to us.”

  “But I haven’t blown open any of the gateways yet,” said Oliver.

  “Something as powerful as an Outsider doesn’t give a damn about doors,” I said. “They come and go as they please. But they can’t stay long if they force their way in; reality itself rejects them and forces them back out. This is only a messenger boy, here to announce their coming.”

  A fountain of vomit blasted up out of the floor, slammed against the ceiling, and rained down, thick and foul. Oliver cried out in disgust and scrambled up onto his feet. I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the way. The foul stuff kept spurting up from the unbroken floor, hitting the ceiling and falling back again, a thick, pulsing pillar of vomit. The stink of it filled the passageway, harsh enough to choke on. Maggots curled and writhed in it. A great face slowly formed itself out of the vomit, its details just human enough to be disturbing. The unblinking dark eyes fixed on Oliver and me, and the ragged mouth stretched slowly in an awful smile.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” I said to Oliver. “It’s showing off. Trying to find some form that will scare us, disgust us, give it power over us. Think of it as psychological warfare, with a scratch-and-sniff ingredient.”

  “This is an Outsider?” said Oliver, past the hand he’d clapped over his mouth and nose to try to keep out the smell.

  “No, I told you: this is one of their messenger boys. Hey, you! Yes, you, puke face! Knock off the special effects and take on a more traditional form, or I’ll turn the fire hose on you! I am John Taylor, and I don’t take no shit from demons!”

  I did my best to sound confident, like I knew what I was doing, and the demon must have fallen for it because the horror show disappeared in a moment though the horrid smell still lingered. In its place stood a man in a white trench coat, with a familiar face. It was meant to be me, except it had bulging compound insect eyes, and blood dripped steadily from its ragged mouth. The thick blood fell down onto the white trench coat, leaving stains. Its wrists were stuffed deep into the pockets, and something about the way the figure held itself made me think I wouldn’t want to see what it had instead of hands.

  I looked it up and down and sniffed loudly.

  “I suppose that’s an improvement. What do you want?”

  Its mouth moved uncertainly, as though it wasn’t used to human speech. When it finally spoke, it sounded like it was choking on blood.

  “We are coming here, and you can’t stop us, John Taylor. Little human thing. When my masters finally manifest, in all their awful glory, the sight of them will blast the vision from your eyes and drive all you little human things howling into madness and misery. And they shall feast upon your suffering and make you worship them until you can’t stand it any more.”

  “Ah,” I said. “The usual. What is it about you demons that you always want to be loved and worshipped? Definite self-confidence problems there, and probably abandonment issues, too. Like I give a shit. What brings you to the Nightside?”

  “My masters are not coming for the Nightside. They come for the whole world and everything in it. They have been offered an opening here, and they will use it to destroy everything that lives. You disgust us. Your very existence offends us. Meat that dares to think and dream. My masters will tear your upstart flesh apart and eat your souls, and even after you are dead, we will still find ways to make you suffer. Your torment will never end. For ever and ever and ever.”

  “I never get a straight answer, but I’ll try one more time,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because we can. Because we want to. Because you can’t stop us.”

  “Demons,” I said. “I swear, you’re worse than five-year-olds. Want want want and stamp your cloven feet if you can’t get your own way. But ... while you talk a good game, I think you’re running scared. Your masters wouldn’t waste all the power it takes to force a messenger into our reality unless you were worried something might go wrong. You can’t come in ... unless Oliver here blows the doors open; and your masters are shit scared I might talk Oliver out of it. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re afraid his resolve is weakening. You’re trying to bully him into serving you. How do you feel about that, Oliver? Now you know what your death would really bring about?”

  Oliver took his hand away from his mouth, staring at the messenger with revulsion. “I never knew,” he said. “I never even realised things like this existed. What good would it do, to die for my children, if it let things like this into their world? Can you stop this, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling easily. “I’m sure I can find a way.”

  I raised my gift, and it only took me a moment to find the dimensional rift that had let the messenger manifest in our reality. It took a complicated lattice of strange energies to hold the rift open, and it only took me a moment to find a fatal flaw in their arrangement. And then it was the easiest thing in the world to hit those energies in exactly the right place, and the whole thing collapsed. The messenger shrieked once, in shock and horror and surprise, and the collapsing rift sucked it back through and out of our reality. There was nothing left in the mall corridor but bright lights everywhere and the last vestiges of a really nasty smell.

  I smiled confidently at Oliver and let myself relax a little, reaching for my psychic second wind. I really hadn’t thought it would be that easy.

  I took a deep breath and clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “Okay, I’ve got an idea. If you are going to blow yourself up, there might be a way you could do it for the best.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to blow myself up,” he said slowly. “Now that I’ve seen what that would lead to.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I really was, “but you’ve been made into a soulbomb. I don’t think that can be undone. And since an oracle on the way here told me that you were going to detonate no matter what, I think the man who paid for you to be made over into what you are probably installed a fail-safe, to take the decision out of your hands after a certain time. So that even if you did have a failure of nerve, you’d still go off. But even if you can’t decide not to explode, you can still choose when, and why. I need you to detonate when I tell
you; and I will channel the blast away through this.” I showed him the gold pocket-watch. “I know, it doesn’t look like much, but it contains a Portable Timeslip under my control. I can find the dimensional rift the Outsiders will use to come through and turn your detonation away from the other dimensional doors, so that all the energies blast right through the rift as it opens. A soulbomb explosion is enough to hurt even Things from Outside. You can use your death to strike a blow against them. Won’t be enough to kill them, but it’ll hurt them, and make them back off and think again. How does that sound? You could be remembered as the man who saved the Nightside. How’s that for making a difference?”

  “How does that help my children?” he said bluntly. “If I don’t do as I’m told, my children won’t get the money.”

  I thought quickly. “How about this? I sell your story to the Unnatural Inquirer. All right, it’s a rag, but they love stories like this. They’ll pay top money; and I’ll see it all goes to your children. I’ll guarantee the paper does right by them.”

  “How can you guarantee that if I blow up, and you’re still here? You can’t teleport out; the Outsiders would stop you, wouldn’t they?”

  He was right. I’d been thinking I could escape the blast through the Portable Timeslip, but the Outsiders would have access to the dimensional short cut I travelled through. After the explosion, they’d be too busy with their own problems to worry about me, but until then ... I thought some more, then I remembered, and smiled.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Don’t worry, Oliver; I’m protected. I carry the sword Excalibur.”

  He looked at me. “Where? Do you have one of those sub-space pocket things?”

  I reached over my shoulder, took hold of the hilt, and drew the sword. The long, golden blade flashed brightly. Oliver’s eyes widened.

  “It’s ... beautiful. Everything I ever thought it would be. Can I touch it, hold it?”

  He reached out a hand towards the sword, then immediately stopped and drew the hand back again.

  “No. It wouldn’t be right. Not with what I’ve made of myself. Nonetheless, it is good to know that there is still wonder in the world. There is still glory.”

  “Are you ready?” I said. “I don’t mean to rush you, but there’s no telling how much time we have left, before ...”

  “I’m ready if you are,” he said steadily. “Let’s do it.”

  “One last thing,” I said. “Who set this up? Who planned all this and made you into a soulbomb?”

  “Bijou de Montefort,” he said. “One of the business owners in the mall. Do you know him?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “I know him.”

  One of the Emporium’s biggest success stories, de Montefort came from nowhere to make himself one of the richest men in the Nightside. He specialised in awakening demand for things people didn’t even know they wanted, then selling it to them for ten times the price they would have paid if it hadn’t suddenly been fashionable. But he’d come adrift with his last great idea: the Cloned Celebrity Long Pig franchise. Eat the celebrity of your choice! But he really should have asked permission first; a whole bunch of celebrities got together and sued him over unauthorised use of their image and identity, and they won big. Cleaned him out. Overnight, de Montefort’s business empire collapsed, his credit rating was run out of town on a rail, and he was on the brink of losing everything. At which point, one assumes, he was contacted by a messenger from Outside, who offered a bargain. And he accepted, the fool.

  I realised Oliver was looking at me. Bad time to be wool-gathering. “How did he expect to profit from this?”

  “He didn’t tell me. All he said was that my death would make him King of the Nightside.”

  “Idiot. Outsiders never keep their bargains. They don’t have to.”

  “I think we should do it now,” said Oliver. “While I’m still ... firm in my resolve. Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. When you see my children, tell them ... some comforting lie.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can do that.”

  He closed his eyes and seemed to relax completely, as though finally putting down some terrible burden. He gave up the last thing that held him together, and when the explosion came, it was too big to see or hear. A light too bright to bear, and a sound that filled the world. I held Excalibur out before me, between my body and the blast, the point on the floor, the hilt before my face, my hands gripping the cross-piece. When the soul detonated, all I could do was hang on to the sword, blinded and deafened, torn at by forces I could barely recognise. I concentrated on my link to the gold watch in my pocket, using all my mental strength to funnel the energies through the Portable Timeslip and throw them at the Outsiders’ dimensional rift. It wasn’t difficult: once I started the process, the watch did most of the work. Otherwise, I’d never have been able to do it.

  I clung to Excalibur as the storm raged round me, hanging on like a drowning man to a raft. The raging energies seemed to keep on coming, destruction without end, power beyond belief, and myself only the smallest mote in an angry god’s eye. But the blast did end, eventually, and the world slowly came back into focus round me. I could see and hear again, left trembling and shaken by the storm that had passed. It took me a long moment to unclench my hands from Excalibur’s cross-piece and look slowly round me. The mall seemed perfectly normal, undamaged, safe and sane again. The light was very bright, and there were no shadows anywhere. I reached into my pocket and closed the gold watch.

  The Outsiders had been thrown back into Darkness, and Humanity had been saved because one man had given up his soul to do it. But he shouldn’t have had to. My mission wasn’t over yet. There was still justice to be administered. Justice, and vengeance.

  I made my way back through the Mammon Emporium, then took a moment to compose myself before strolling outside to give the waiting crowd the good news. They all looked pretty relieved; presumably, they’d heard something of the explosion inside. I put their minds at ease with a few well-chosen words, and when I told them it was safe to go back inside again, they actually gave me a loud cheer before rushing right past me into the mall to resume their interrupted shopping.

  Business as usual, in the Nightside.

  As the onlookers in the crowd began to disappear, I raised my voice.

  “Is Bijou de Montefort here?”

  Everyone looked round, sensing that the evening’s excitement might not be over yet. A small group of business owners came forward, half encouraging and half driving forward one Bijou de Montefort. He was an average-size, average-looking man, nothing remarkable about him at all, save perhaps that he was better tailored than most. He looked entirely defiant as he was brought to a halt before me and shook off the encouraging hands.

  “I had time for a nice little chat with the soulbomber, before he went off,” I said pleasantly. “He had a lot to say about you and how you planned to profit from his suicide. Did you really think you could bargain with the Outsiders and hold them to their agreement? Were you really ready to see us all die, so you could be King of Shit Heap?”

  “You can’t trust anything that man said,” de Montefort snapped. “He was clearly mentally disturbed, or he wouldn’t have made himself into a soulbomb.” He met my gaze unflinchingly and actually seemed to grow in confidence as he listened to himself. He still thought he could talk his way out of this as he always had before. “You have no proof, Taylor, and no evidence, now that your only witness is dead. And I would advise you to choose your next words very carefully. I can afford the very best lawyers to protect my good name.”

  “Lawyers?” I said. “We don’t need no stinking lawyers! Haven’t you heard? I’m the new Walker. And this is Excalibur!”

  I drew the sword, and the long blade appeared immediately in my hand, its golden light flaring brightly in the night. Everyone watching gasped and cried out. I slammed one hand onto de Montefort’s shoulder and forced him to his knees in front of me. I brandished the sword above my head, and the crowd cried out in awe and wonder
. Many of them dropped to their knees. Some of them were crying. De Montefort looked up at me, all the colour dropping out of his face.

  “No! You can’t do this! It’s not fair!”

  “It’s justice,” I said.

  And I brought Excalibur round in a swift arc and cut his head off.

  The sword sliced through his thick neck as though it were air. For a moment, de Montefort just knelt there, eyes wide; and then blood ran down from the long red cut. He convulsed, and his head snapped backwards and fell away. Blood fountained from the stump of his neck. He fell over sideways, his hands clutching spasmodically at nothing. I looked at Excalibur. There wasn’t a drop of blood on the blade. I put it away, and immediately both sword and scabbard disappeared, invisible again. Some of the onlookers cried out again, in voices thick with loss and disappointment.

  I walked straight at them, and the crowd fell back and split apart, opening up a wide aisle for me to walk through. I kept moving, not looking at anyone. I was considering what I’d done. I have killed before, in my time, when I absolutely had to; but I’m not an executioner. I’d killed de Montefort coolly and calmly, without even thinking twice about it. And that wasn’t like me. It was what Walker would have done ... but I never wanted to be like him. I had to wonder whether the impulse might have come from somewhere else. Whether merely possessing the sword Excalibur was enough to affect my mind, influence my judgement. I realised I’d come to a halt, and was frowning so hard my forehead ached. People were actually backing away from me. Apart from the one who wasn’t.

  “Hello, Julien,” I said. “Come to see how it all turned out?”

  “You killed that man,” said Julien Advent.

  “Executed him,” I said.

  “In cold blood.”

  “You know I don’t do things like that. I’m thinking that the sword executed him and used me to do it. I think the sword is changing me ...”

  “Could be,” said Julien, unexpectedly. “There are many stories about Excalibur that didn’t make it into the traditional tales of King Arthur. May I see the sword?”