Ruler of the Realm

by Herbie Brennan

  The altar dwarfed her. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the book, but that, while large, was at least of manageable proportions. She pulled it down, taking care not to lose the place where it had opened. The pages were crafted from the skin of some unfamiliar animal and smelled of grave dust and dank earth. The binding was of heavily tooled leather.

  For the barest moment she experienced a pang of panic. The book was handwritten in an ornate and unfamiliar script, delicately illuminated around the edges with scenes and creatures so alien they almost twisted the mind. How could she read from this? There was nothing about it that she understood.

  But then, as if the book had a life of its own, the words began to rearrange themselves subtly. Nothing really changed character, but now, with an effort, she found a degree of comprehension:

  Micma Goho Mad Zir Comselha Zien Biah Os Londoh Norz Chis Othil Gigipah Vnd-L Chis ta Pu-Im Q Mospleh Teloch ...

  The words were in a language so archaic she could not even guess its roots. It bore no resemblance to anything she had ever known, yet somehow the meaning resonated in her mind:

  Behold, saith your God, I am a circle on Whose Hands stand Twelve Kingdoms. Six are the Seats of Living Breath. The rest are as Sharp Sickles or the Horns of Death ...

  Carrying the open book carefully in both hands, Blue took a step backwards, then another. In a moment she was standing just outside the brazen circle with its inlaid pentagram and altar. Her chest felt tight, but she ignored it. She took a deep breath. Although she had never heard the words spoken before, Blue commenced to intone the evocation on the page before her:

  ‘Micma Goho Mad Zir Comselha Zien Biah Os Londoh Norz …’

  The flame of her lantern flickered wildly and the background hum rose noticeably in pitch and volume.

  ‘Chis Othil Gigipah Vnd-L Chis ta Pu-Im …’

  In a moment the brazen pentagram began to glow.

  Ninety-eight

  It was fully dark by the time Pyrgus and his two companions managed to retrace their steps to the rise from which they’d spied on Beleth’s army, but the moons rose early at this time of year so they had light enough to see.

  The demon encampment stretched below them.

  Pyrgus lay propped on his elbows with Nymph to his right and Woodfordi on his left. He could see the flickering campfires and the rigid, robotic movements of the sentries.

  ‘Looks real enough to me,’ Woodfordi murmured, echoing Pyrgus’s very thought.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Nymph whispered formally, ‘such illusions are meant to look real.’

  ‘Well, all illusions are meant to look real,’ Pyrgus said. ‘But there are illusions and illusions.’ When Nymph gave him a long-suffering look, he added, ‘I mean, the Goblin Guard is an illusion that can kill you. When it’s triggered, the goblins might as well be real for as long as the illusion lasts. They can attack you and cut you up and react in every way as if they were really there except you can’t kill them. But you couldn’t do that with a whole army.’

  ‘Why not?’ Nymph asked.

  ‘Costs too much,’ said Pyrgus simply.

  ‘Beleth’s hardly short of money.’

  Pyrgus shook his head. ‘It’s not just money – it’s the energy cost. All spells need energy. You can’t just keep making them bigger and bigger. After a while the spell needs more energy than your technology can handle. An illusionary army that could actually fight is way beyond anybody, no matter how much money they have.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, this is all very interesting,’ Woodfordi said, ‘but it doesn’t help us figure whether that army down there is real or not.’

  ‘No,’ Pyrgus agreed. He began to climb to his feet. ‘Only one way to find out …’

  The arguments started at once. ‘You can’t go down there,’ Nymph said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’ She glanced towards the demon encampment and added, ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘My job,’ volunteered Woodfordi. ‘I was trained in espionage.’

  Pyrgus looked at him in surprise. ‘Were you?’

  Woodfordi shook his head. ‘Not really, sir. But the lady’s right – can’t have a prince taking that sort of risk.’

  They bandied it back and forth for a while, then reluctantly agreed they’d all go, but only on the strict understanding there would be no heroics.

  In the event, none were needed. Beleth’s entire army proved to be as insubstantial as a moonbeam.

  Woodfordi passed his hand right through a patrolling sentry. ‘What’s going on here?’ he whispered, half to himself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pyrgus told him. ‘But I do know we need to tell the palace about this. Are you still out of communications range, Woodfordi?’

  ‘Afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Then we have to get back to the flier right away.’

  Ninety-nine

  Henry said, ‘I don’t think I can be hypnotised, Mr Fogarty.’

  Fogarty was scrabbling about in one of his tin boxes. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.

  ‘I went up on stage once when I was a little kid. The Illustrious Svengali couldn’t put me under.’

  ‘The Illustrious what?’ Fogarty snorted.

  ‘I don’t think it was his real name,’ Henry said.

  ‘Ah!’ Fogarty exclaimed. He dragged an old pocket watch out of the box and began to free its chain from a tangle of electrical wiring. To Henry he said, ‘Little kids aren’t all that easy – attention spans of goldfish. Might do better with you now.’

  Henry watched with trepidation as Mr Fogarty liberated his watch. Despite his negative experience with the Illustrious Svengali, he had a nervous feeling Mr Fogarty might just manage it. ‘You won’t … make me do things?’ he asked.

  ‘Christ sake, Henry!’ Fogarty exclaimed impatiently. ‘We’ve a war on, the demons are invading, you got implanted by the Prince of Darkness and you’re worried I’ll make you stick your finger up your bum and bark like a dog? This is serious.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Fogarty,’ Henry said. It didn’t matter. It probably wouldn’t work. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just sit there and watch the watch.’ Fogarty began to swing the ancient timepiece on the end of its chain. ‘Let your eyes follow the watch.’

  The Illustrious Svengali hadn’t used a watch. He’d just stared into people’s eyes and made peculiar hand movements. Henry hoped Mr Fogarty knew what he was doing. What happened if he did put Henry under, but couldn’t wake him up again? All the same, he did let his eyes follow the watch, which was swinging like a long, slow pendulum.

  ‘Heavy,’ Mr Fogarty remarked. ‘Your eyes are getting heavy …’

  Henry’s eyes actually were getting heavy, but that wasn’t exactly surprising. If you kept swinging your eyes back and forth, they got tired and when they got tired, they felt heavy. Didn’t mean you were being hypnotised.

  ‘So heavy you can hardly keep them open,’ Mr Fogarty intoned.

  Henry found his eyes were sliding shut and jerked them open wide. He knew if he let his eyes close he was in trouble. He’d watched Paul McKenna on television. They didn’t show you how he did it – probably to stop people at home getting hypnotised by accident – but his subjects always ended up with their eyes shut doing stupid stuff. When you had your eyes shut you were putty in Paul McKenna’s hands. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be putty in Mr Fogarty’s hands.

  Then he remembered why they were doing this in the first place. It was important to find out what Beleth and his demons were really up to. Because there was definitely something wrong with the story they’d told Blue.

  ‘Heavy,’ Mr Fogarty repeated in a heavy sort of voice.

  Heavy, Henry thought as his eyelids slid south again. He felt really comfortable. He’d always thought of hypnosis as a battle of wills, but it wasn’t like that with Mr Fogarty. Interesting that he’d never noticed Mr Fogarty had such a nice voice before.

  ‘So heavy you can’t keep them open,’ said Mr Fogarty in his nice voice.
r />   Henry gratefully allowed his eyes to close. It didn’t really matter that his eyes were closed. Mr Fogarty might be a nut, but he was a nice nut and Henry trusted him. Sort of. No, completely. He had such a nice restful voice. And besides which, Henry wasn’t putty yet. If he wanted, he could open his eyes at any time. It was just that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to offend Mr Fogarty by opening his eyes.

  ‘Falling,’ said Mr Fogarty. ‘Falling backwards into darkness, safe, warm darkness. Safe and well. Happy and relaxed.’

  Henry felt safe and well, happy and relaxed. He was floating through the darkness, a safe, warm darkness inside his head that came about when you closed your eyes and listened –

  ‘Listen to my voice,’ Mr Fogarty droned.

  Henry wasn’t under, of course. He knew that. But he didn’t want to contradict Mr Fogarty because that would be rude. Much better to float in the safe, warm darkness and let Mr Fogarty think he was asleep when actually he was wide awake and knew everything that was going on and could open his eyes whenever he wanted, even though he didn’t want to just yet.

  Mr Fogarty reached across and touched his right arm. ‘Heavy arm,’ remarked Mr Fogarty; and immediately Henry’s arm felt as heavy as lead. It was very peculiar. He tried to lift it, but it was too heavy to lift.

  ‘But now it’s growing light,’ said Mr Fogarty. ‘Lighter than the air. So light it’s floating in the air.’

  Henry almost giggled. His arm really did feel light, like a gas-filled balloon. It was lighter than the air. It wanted to float in the air. Henry relaxed and watched, eyes closed, as his arm began to move of its own accord. First it twitched, then it shifted, then it lifted. Mr Fogarty was right – it was floating in the air! How cool was that?

  ‘Your arm will now float of its own accord until your hand touches your face. And when your hand touches your face, you will fall at once into a deep … dreamless … sleep.’

  Henry knew he wasn’t gone, of course. He was absolutely wide awake and in complete control. He could do anything he wanted, say anything he wanted. He could jump up and do a tap dance if he wanted. But best not to mention that to Mr Fogarty, who was working hard to put him under. Besides, it was interesting to sit with your arm floating in the air.

  ‘Deep … dreamless … sleep,’ repeated Mr Fogarty. ‘When your hand touches your face.’

  There was no way at all he was going to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. That was very obvious. Henry wasn’t sleepy, wasn’t remotely sleepy, just warm and safe and very, very relax—

  Henry’s hand touched Henry’s face.

  ‘Open your eyes!’ commanded Mr Fogarty firmly.

  Henry opened his eyes. Madame Cardui was standing behind Mr Fogarty – when did she come in? – and both of them were looking grave.

  ‘Didn’t work, eh?’ Henry remarked sympathetically.

  Mr Fogarty said, ‘Beleth has implanted Blue.’

  One hundred

  There was so much pressure in her skull that Blue’s head began to ache. The background sound in the chamber of brass had become a howling, like the cries of lost souls trapped in agony. The glow of the pentagram increased, reflecting in the ceiling and the walls. The immense porphyry altar began to shake.

  ‘Od commemahé do pereje salabarotza kynutzire fabaonu, od zodumebi pereji od salabarotza …’ Blue read aloud from the book, her voice rising clear and true above the din. Although the language was unknown to her, it seemed she understood it: And I bind thee in the fire of sulphur mingled with poison and the seas of fire and sulphur …

  The words were a blasphemy, drawn from the time of the Old Gods, but she did not care any more than she cared about her pain. What she was doing was important, vital for the welfare of the Realm. Nothing was more important than that.

  ‘Niisa, eca, dorebesa na-e-el od zodameranu asapeta vaunesa komesalohé!’ she intoned. Come forth, therefore, obey my power and appear before this circle!

  The howling rose to a crescendo and the brass plates of the chamber took up the resonance in a hideous vibration. The pain in Blue’s head was so intense now that she could scarcely focus on the words that writhed and crawled across the pages of the book.

  ‘Niisa!’ she called again. Come forth! Come forth!

  The brass plates in the ceiling shifted and a trickle of dust poured down. The whole chamber was shaking now, as if caught up in a violent earthquake. Her lantern flickered, then went out, but the chamber remained illuminated by its own reflections. Behind the howling there arose a deep subsonic drumbeat, then, incongruously, the music of a distant orchestra. The cacophony gripped body and brain, drawing her towards the point of madness, but she did not hesitate for an instant.

  ‘Niisa! Niisa! Niisa!’ Come forth! Come forth! Come forth! she shrieked.

  All noise and vibration stopped. There was an instant of deep silence. Then the massive altar cracked and shattered into rubble.

  From its depths stepped Beleth, Prince of Darkness.

  One hundred and one

  As the flyer swooped low over Yammeth City, Nymph said suddenly, ‘Look over to the east.’

  Pyrgus glanced in the direction of her pointing finger. Below them tens of thousands of Nighter troops were streaming through the city, accompanied by heavy ordnance. He had never seen so many soldiers together at one time in his entire life. He felt his spirits sink.

  ‘I hope our men can hold back that lot.’

  ‘They’re moving in the wrong direction,’ Nymph said.

  Pyrgus blinked. Woodfordi moved out of his seat and stood behind him to look over his shoulder. After a moment, Pyrgus said, ‘You’re right.’ The forces were pouring out of their city gate into the Eastern Desert. He turned round, frowning. ‘What’s that all about? Are they retreating from our troops?’

  ‘Does that look like a retreat?’ Nymph asked.

  It didn’t look anything like a retreat. The men were marching in good order with no sign of casualties at all.

  Pyrgus said thoughtfully, ‘Maybe Uncle Hairstreak’s joining up with Beleth’s army.’

  ‘Beleth’s army doesn’t exist,’ Nymph said.

  ‘He may not know that.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Nymph said shortly.

  Pyrgus glowered at her. ‘All right, what do you think’s happening, smart boots?’

  Nymph shrugged annoyingly and turned away. ‘I don’t know.’

  To Woodfordi, Pyrgus said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re back in contact with your network yet?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. Should have been by now, but I’m not and that’s the fact of it. I think the Communications Angel must be sick.’ He craned round Pyrgus’s head to get a better view of the city below. Almost every street was full of men now, marching like ants towards the eastern gate. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’

  ‘Because the sooner the palace knows about this the better.’

  ‘Your people will already know about it,’ Nymph said. ‘From their Generals.’ She sat down and added, ‘Since Lord Hairstreak is obviously disengaging.’

  ‘Why would he be disengaging?’ Pyrgus asked belligerently.

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘The palace still needs to be told as soon as possible,’ Pyrgus muttered.

  ‘We’ll soon be back there anyway,’ Woodfordi said in a conciliatory tone.

  Pyrgus wheeled the craft around and increased speed to maximum, ignoring the spell-driven voice that claimed it wasn’t safe.

  One hundred and two

  Henry stared at him. ‘How do you know Blue’s been implanted?’

  ‘You just told me,’ Mr Fogarty said.

  ‘I wasn’t under,’ Henry said.

  ‘Oh yes you were, sunshine – deepest trance I’ve ever seen. You’ll remember soon – I gave you the suggestion, but it sometimes takes a minute or two to kick in.’

  ‘But you were right, Henry,’ Madame Cardui said.

  She must have joined them while he was in a trance. It was spooky: he hadn’
t even noticed. He licked his lips.

  ‘Right?’ he echoed.

  ‘The story about Beleth wanting you to mate with Blue, deeah. It was all a nonsense.’

  ‘It was?’ Henry asked. There were maybe about a hundred more appropriate emotions at this moment, but the one he actually felt was relief.

  Madame Cardui smiled. ‘Just a story they implanted in Blue’s head and yours to distract us from the invasion.’

  ‘None of it really happened?’ Henry asked. But Mr Fogarty was right. He was beginning to get little flashes now. ‘I wasn’t put in a bedroom with Blue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t kill a demon?’

  Mr Fogarty snorted. ‘Thought that was a bit farfetched from the start.’

  Madame Cardui said kindly, ‘I expect you could easily have killed a demon, deeah, but none of it actually happened. Blue didn’t kill hers either – she didn’t have her stimlus with her. Those were all false memories.’

  ‘So I didn’t kidnap Blue?’

  ‘You kidnapped Blue all right,’ Mr Fogarty said. ‘The way it worked was Beleth had you kidnapped and implanted. Then they programmed you to kidnap Blue and implanted her as well. The business about the demons breeding half-human babies is true enough, but it won’t work in the Realm – the DNA is too dissimilar. But they gave you and Blue the same false memories and sent you back as a distraction from their real plans. Cunning little ploy.’

  It was coming back to him now, exactly as Mr Fogarty said. He could remember the implant and the creepy, slimy feeling as black-eyed demons in white lab coats carefully layered the false memories into his brain. He started to feel guilty about the kidnap all over again. Because of him, Blue’s brain had been tinkered with as well. The thought of it left him agitated. Actually quite a lot agitated.