The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  Eighty-Three

  Darkness.

  ‘Are you all right, Pyrgus?’ Nymph’s voice, concerned but steady. ‘Is everybody all right.’

  Somebody groaned.

  ‘Blue? Is that you, Blue? What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ Henry’s voice, and he sounded on the verge of panic.

  Pyrgus said quietly, ‘I’m on top of something soft—I think it may be alive.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Comma crossly.

  ‘Blue? Where are you?’

  ‘It’s all right, Henry—I’ve hit my head, that’s all. Has anybody got a light?’

  ‘I’ve got a sparker,’ Comma said. ‘If Pyrgus would get off me.’

  But Nymphalis beat him to it. Her face suddenly emerged out of the darkness, illuminated by a portable glowglobe about the size of a hen’s egg. It floated gently upwards as she released it, then expanded and brightened until its light picked up them all.

  They were in a wide corridor with gleaming metallic piping running down both walls. The heat was appalling and there was a rhythmic pounding in the floor.

  Blue said softly, ‘Nymph ...’

  ‘I see him,’ Nymph said.

  Pyrgus turned in the direction of her gaze. Ochlodes was stretched out on the floor, still clutching the remnants of his shattered bow.

  From the position of his head, it was clear his neck was broken.

  Eighty-Four

  Brimstone had a moment of funk—he hadn’t bothered with a circle and now there were an awful lot of demons to control. He raised his hand and drew a series of command sigils with his finger. They should have appeared in the air, outlined in flame, but nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Then, with a muttered curse, he remembered magic didn’t work that way in the Analogue World. You had to earth every visualisation!

  The demons were spreading out across the church, hopping across pews and climbing up the walls. One of them started grimly to beat up a statue of a saint. Brimstone grabbed a piece of parchment from his bag and savagely bit the end of his right thumb. As the blood welled up, he drew the sigils roughly on the paper:

  ’ "Give unto this skin power to assume the signs that I have made upon it!"’ he called through pursed lips. (Biting himself on the thumb had proved incredibly painful.) ’ "Which signs are inscribed with my blood in order that such inscriptions may be endowed with power to do that which I desire."’ Honorius the Great was so long-winded. ‘ "And make it so that it will also repel the devilment of demons who shall become afraid when they see these characters, and who will be able only to tremble as they behold them and approach."’ That should do it.

  He waved the parchment in the air, the inscribed side facing the approaching demons. ‘See that?’ he shouted. ‘Now pull yourselves together and line up in orderly ranks!’

  The demons ignored him. Several scampered through the broken window high up in the wall behind the altar and disappeared into the world outside. ‘Come back!’ Brimstone screamed. They were just a cab ride from New York City: demons could run that distance in no time. There’d be riots if they turned up in Times Square. He waved the paper again. ‘If you don’t behave, I’ll stuff this parchment up ’

  The demons stopped skittering abruptly and began to congregate to one side of the altar. Those on the walls slid down sheepishly. ‘That’s better,’ Brimstone began, before realising their behaviour had nothing to do with his command sigils. An enormous horned figure was squeezing awkwardly through the portal.

  ‘You might have made it bigger,’ Beleth growled. ‘You know I had to set up a special connection from the Faerie Realm.’

  The demon prince was looking a lot more together than the last time Brimstone had seen him. His broken horn had regrown and his skin taken on a luminous red tinge that made him look as if his insides were on fire. He also seemed to have grown talons. Or had he always had them? Brimstone shook his head. He was sure he’d have noticed before.

  ‘Honorius didn’t know about resizing,’ he explained. ‘Or if he did, he didn’t put it in his grimoire.’ He watched Beleth warily, more aware than ever there was no circle of protection, but the prince only stretched luxuriously.

  ‘No matter,’ Beleth said. ‘You’ve set up a working portal and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘So we’re quits?’ Brimstone asked quickly. ‘I can go now?’ He never liked to admit it, but he always felt a little uncomfortable in the Analogue World. Too much of his basic magic didn’t work the way it should and a lot of the people here seemed deranged. He’d no idea why Beleth wanted portal access here, but now the demons were through, Brimstone was well content to leave them to get on with whatever damage they planned to inflict on New York.

  ‘Quits?’ Beleth echoed, his voice reverberating through the church. He smiled. ‘Not quite, Brimstone. Not quite.’

  Eighty-Five

  They took Chalkhill up to the floating platform, where he was faced with the most terrifying sight he’d ever seen. Although it did have some reassuring aspects. It was clean for one thing. All the metal surfaces sparkled, the floor had been recently polished and there was fresh linen on the operating tables.

  There were two tables, side by side. Apatura Iris, the Purple Emperor, was strapped naked to one of them. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and, while his face had a flaccid, expressionless look, Chalkhill somehow didn’t think he was under the influence of an anaesthetic spell. Although to be fair, Hairstreak would probably use one. He’d want the Emperor fit and well as soon as possible after the operation.

  There was a swarthy man in a shaman’s loincloth between the two operating tables. His eyes were so dark it was impossible to tell whether he was a Faerie of the Night or some eccentric Lighter. He had very large, powerful hands.

  ‘This is Mountain Clouded Yellow,’ Hairstreak said by way of introduction. ‘Our psychic surgeon.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Chalkhill said without enthusiasm.

  The scary thing, Chalkhill thought as he climbed on to the operating table, was the equipment. There was a lot of it packed into the theatre and none of it was nice. He recognised an automatic stitcher for treating open wounds, and a weighted scissor blade that amputated any limb poked through an adjustable aperture. There was a glass-fronted cupboard with shelves full of body parts—hands, feet, toes, fingers, ears and, alarmingly, an enormous number of eyeballs laid out in colour-coded batches.

  ‘I hope they use everything on you,’ Cyril muttered sourly in his mind.

  Chalkhill ignored him. They’d taken his clothes off and he was feeling chilled to the bone as he stretched out on the table. Psychic surgeons didn’t necessarily use equipment, of course. The good ones just plunged their hands into your body and fiddled with your guts. It sounded hideous, and he’d read in a magazine somewhere that it was seventeen times more painful than having your testicles crushed in a vice unless an anaesthetic spell was used.

  He wriggled to try to get comfortable and wished they’d cover him up with something, preferably a heavy blanket. He supposed Mountain Clouded Yellow would plunge his hand in and rummage around in his intestines until he found Cyril. Then he would probably rip the worm out and ram him directly into the abdomen of the Purple Emperor.

  Chalkhill wished he hadn’t thought of that. He was suddenly feeling so nauseous that his stomach had begun to heave. Worse still, Cyril was feeling nauseous as well, something that gave Chalkhill the sensation of a small dog throwing up on his brain.

  Chalkhill closed his eyes and prayed Hairstreak wasn’t double-crossing him, prayed that, frightened though he was, this would be started quickly and finished soon, prayed that

  ‘Just waiting for the anaesthetic wizard,’ Hairstreak told him cheerfully.

  An elderly wizard tottered into the operating theatre and looked around vaguely.

  ‘Ah, Colias,’ Hairstreak said. ‘So glad you could make it.’

  A look of panic flitted across Colias’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Your Lordship�
��I forgot what day it was.’ He forced a smile that showed rotted teeth and waved one trembling hand in the air. ‘But I’m ready now, Your Lord … ah … Your Lord … ah ... Your Lord ...’

  ‘Ship,’ said Hairstreak.

  ‘Ship,’ said Colias. ‘Ready now, Your Ship. Oh yes indeed.’

  ‘This is your anaesthetist, Jasper,’ Hairstreak said.

  Chalkhill stared at the walking wreck in horror. The man’s eyes were streaming so badly it was odds on he could hardly see. A drop hung at the end of his nose, which probably meant he was suffering from some disease. The tremors in his hands extended to his body at regular intervals, so that he shook uncontrollably all over. His filthy robe hung on his wasted frame like a rag thrown over a tent-pole. This was the anaesthetist? He couldn’t remember what day it was and his magical skills didn’t even extend to preserving his own teeth.

  ‘Oh no,’ Chalkhill said and tried to sit up. At once the leather straps on the operating table snapped around him in a series of audible slaps. ‘Yipes!’ He struggled wildly, but was firmly held.

  ‘They’re for your own good, Jasper,’ Hairstreak told him, grinning. ‘Can’t have you moving when the surgeon gets to work, can we?’

  ‘This will kill you,’ said Cyril smugly. ‘I told you so, but would you listen?’

  Chalkhill didn’t even bother to tell him to shut up.

  Hairstreak looked at Mountain Clouded Yellow. ‘Are you ready to begin, Mountain?’

  The shaman nodded.

  With a sinking sensation, Chalkhill realised he was supremely expendable in this whole ghastly affair. What mattered was Cyril, who would survive since nobody was messing with his innards, and the Purple Emperor who, let’s face it, was dead already and couldn’t be killed a second time unless Mountain Clouded Yellow accidentally staked him through the heart or cut his head off.

  Hairstreak turned to the supine Apatura Iris. ‘Are you ready, Your Majesty?’ he asked with mock deference.

  The Purple Emperor said nothing. Chalkhill noticed that while his eyes moved slightly, he did not breathe at all.

  Black Hairstreak smiled broadly. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll begin.’

  Eighty-Six

  ‘What?’ asked Brimstone irritably. ‘What? What’s not quits? I’ve opened you a portal into the Analogue World. It works. You’ve arrived. There are demons heading for New York. You can do anything you want now—idiots here don’t believe you exist any more. You could have yourself elected President and three-quarters of them wouldn’t know the difference.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Beleth bellowed. ‘Why would I want to waste time in this miserable little world? Oh, no, it’s the Faerie Realm I’m after. Several scores to settle that require full portal access.’

  ‘The portals aren’t working any more,’ said Brimstone, not without a hint of malice. ‘I expect you’d have fixed them by now if you could.’

  ‘The direct portals aren’t working any more,’ Beleth corrected him. ‘Demons can no longer reach the Faerie Realm—you’re quite correct in that. But what’s to stop a two-stage journey?’

  It hit Brimstone all at once. Beleth wanted him to open up a second portal! Not between Hael and the Analogue World, but between the Analogue World and the Faerie Realm. Or maybe more than one. Maybe dozens—scores—of portals between the Analogue World and the Faerie Realm; and probably a few more between the Analogue World and Hael.

  It was so simple! That way Beleth could invade the Faerie Realm any time he wanted to. All he had to do was send his troops via the Analogue World. And since nobody would suspect the existence of the new portals until they were actually used, Beleth and his demons could lay to waste the entire Realm before anybody even realised what was happening. It would be a disaster of the first magnitude. It would mean the end of the Faerie Realm as they knew it.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ Brimstone asked.

  Eighty-Seven

  They stared down at the body.

  ‘We can’t just leave him here,’ Pyrgus said.

  ‘Yes, we can,’ Nymph said firmly. ‘Ochlodes was forest-born and soldier-trained. Any soldier who dies in the forest expects to be left where he fell. The trees take care of the body. That way his soul becomes part of the forest itself.’

  Henry chewed his upper lip. ‘There aren’t any trees down here,’ he said. He was feeling ill. Ochlodes’s death had been his fault.

  Nymph glared at him. ‘It’s still Ochlodes’s belief.’

  Blue looked at Pyrgus. ‘It’s not as if we have any option.’

  Pyrgus moved away from her and turned to take in his surroundings. ‘Is this the second level? Does anybody know how we got here? Did we fall into a trap?’

  Henry’s mouth had gone dry. ‘I think I —’ He swallowed.

  Blue moved beside her brother and followed his gaze. She shook her head. ‘This isn’t the second level. It isn’t any level.’ She blinked. ‘At least it doesn’t look like a level to me.’

  ‘It’s a service tunnel,’ Comma said.

  They turned to stare at him.

  ‘Well, just look at it,’ Comma said defensively. ‘Look at the heating pipes on the walls. I bet if we follow this corridor, we’ll find machinery that runs bits of the maze. Uncle Hairstreak would do it that way—it’s cheaper than using spells all the time.’

  Blue glanced at Pyrgus. ‘What do you think?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Why aren’t there lights?’ Pyrgus demanded aggressively. ‘You wouldn’t have a service tunnel without lights—it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘How should I know?’ Comma muttered. ‘Maybe this isn’t the main service area. Maybe it’s just a connecting passage. You wouldn’t need lights in a connecting passage.’

  ‘What do you think, Nymph?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘Does anyone know how we got here?’ Nymph asked in her turn.

  ‘I did it,’ Henry blurted.

  ‘Henry,’ Blue said, ‘I don’t ’

  But Henry was sick to his heart with the need to confess. ‘I did it,’ he repeated. ‘One of the torches—I was fiddling with a lev— Look, when we were coming down the stairs I noticed the torches were fake. I mean, I don’t know about this stuff, but I was fiddling with one of them and it turned out to be a lever and I pulled it and the stairs opened up and we all fell through and I killed Ochlodes.’ He finished close to tears.

  To his astonishment, nobody started shouting blame. Pyrgus said, ‘A lever?’

  Henry nodded. He was watching Blue out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t seem upset by what he’d done.

  Pyrgus said, ‘This must be a service tunnel. The engineers would know about the lever, but they wouldn’t use it without a ladder or a portable suspensor spell.’

  ‘And a light,’ Comma put in brightly.

  ‘But I ki—’ Henry bit back the rest. He was learning that life and death were treated very differently in the Faerie Realm to the way they were at home. Ochlodes was just one more bit of guilt to add to his personal store. He thought briefly of Flapwazzle and shuddered.

  ‘OK,’ Pyrgus said, ‘let’s see if Comma’s right and this corridor leads to a machinery bay. But be careful. We don’t know for sure yet. There could still be traps, so keep your eyes open.’ He hesitated. ‘But if this really is a service corridor then we’ve survived the maze and that’s something we have Henry to thank for.’

  Henry blinked. He’d killed Ochlodes, and Pyrgus was saying he’d saved them all. In the turmoil of his emotions he found himself thinking he didn’t belong here, in this Realm. He didn’t have the courage or the toughness, or —

  Comma said, ‘If it’s a service tunnel there’ll be a way out.’ He grinned, happily.

  They began to move as a group down the corridor. Without any further discussion, they left Ochlodes’s body where it lay.

  Eighty-Eight

  It was incredible. There were Forest Faerie everywhere, swarming in the branches, squeezing in endless files of two or th
ree from the boles of the larger trees. You could hear the tramp of their feet on the overhead roadways.

  There were hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, ranging across the forest floor, arranging themselves rank on rank in clearings. All of them were armed: with bows, with javelins, with swords, with their ubiquitous, lethal little elf-bolts and, to Fogarty’s great surprise, with ice cannon, disruptors, stone crackers and other heavy magical ordnance he didn’t even recognise. It reminded him of the milling crowds at Dunkirk, except the faerie were less noisy. All the same, there was a steady hum throughout the forest, like a giant hive of bees.

  ‘She did this because I told her I had a feeling about Pyrgus,’ Fogarty whispered, bemused. There was an army massing in the forest, one big enough to overthrow a kingdom. If these people ever decided to leave their beloved forest, no throne would be safe.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, my deeah,’ said Madame Cardui kindly. ‘Queen Cleo has been teetering on the brink of attacking Hairstreak for weeks now. The only thing that’s really held her back was the old worry about attracting attention. I expect she hoped Pyrgus might sort things out without any major forest involvement, but she never had much faith in the commando raid. All you did was tip the balance—it would never have taken much. I’m surprised she’s held back so long.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Fogarty sniffed. ‘Her trees are safe unless the Hael portals open again. That may never happen.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not just demons that worry her, Alan, whatever she said. She was never happy about Hairstreak building in the forest. He simply commandeered land and cut down trees. She was afraid it might start a fashion—others seizing land and building. She asked my advice about it at the time.’

  ‘What advice did you give her?’ Fogarty asked curiously.

  ‘To wait and see.’

  Fogarty stared at the massing troops. ‘Looks like she got tired of waiting.’