Moonbreaker

by Simon R. Green

  Molly cried out a warning, and I looked round to see two Angels running straight at me. I had killed one of their own, and all they could think of was revenge. Molly stabbed a desperate hand at them, but nothing happened. She’d exhausted her magics defending the other Droods and had nothing left for me. She started running, but I knew she’d never reach me in time. I filled my hand with a golden sword and stood my ground. Wondering if I could find the strength to drive it through one Angel before the other killed me.

  And then everything stopped, and everyone looked up, as a great shadow fell across the battleground. A deafening roar filled the sky above. And a dragon flew over us, soaring across the grounds on wide-spread wings, complete and reborn. No longer just the severed head I’d brought home from Castle Frankenstein so long ago. My uncle Jack had sworn he’d set things in motion that would grow the dragon a new body eventually. The reborn dragon was huge and magnificent, his scales burning a bright emerald green. Massive wings flapped powerfully, driving the dragon on in defiance of gravity and nature, as he flew for the first time in centuries.

  He opened his mouth and blasted the Angelic Droods with long streams of supernatural fire, targeting each one expertly. My family fell back quickly to give the dragon room to work, but he never missed once. The old Heart armour of the Angelic Droods was no match for the dragon’s fiery breath. They staggered back and forth, screaming horribly, until one by one they crashed to the ground and lay still, their armour melted away or fused together. Molly finally reached me, and I armoured down so she could hold me and I could lean on her.

  It was all over very quickly. What was under the Angels’ armour turned out to be mortal after all. The dragon circled overhead for a while, to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone, and then called cheerfully down to me.

  “Hello, Eddie! Molly! It’s good to be back! Peter came to me and told me I was needed, that I was ready to leave my burial mound at last, and he was right! Come round and see me later, and we’ll talk.”

  I waved a hand at him, but didn’t have the strength for anything else. Molly waved hard enough for both of us. The dragon swung around in a tight arc and flew off. All across the grounds my family armoured down and congratulated themselves and each other on still being alive. A few moved slowly and cautiously among the half-melted Angels, searching for survivors.

  “I don’t know,” Molly said finally, letting me lean companionably against her. “The Pook saved us from the Demons, and the dragon saved us from the Angels. Are we finally getting old?”

  “No,” I said. “Lucky, maybe.”

  The Matriarch and the Sarjeant-At-Arms came over to join us. Armoured down, they looked almost as exhausted as I felt. I started to explain some of the background behind the Angelic Droods, but the Matriarch waved dismissively.

  “I know what they were. Sometimes I think there’s too much history in this family. Who was that old man who sacrificed himself to save me? I didn’t recognise him.”

  “His name was Peter,” I said. “He used to be a field agent.”

  I didn’t say any more. If the Matriarch really didn’t know Peter was the last of the very-secret agents, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. I took a moment to regret all the family knowledge that died with Peter. He really did take his secrets with him to the grave, just as he’d promised. I realised the Sarjeant was looking at me, and made myself pay attention.

  “What happened with Edmund?” he said flatly.

  “He got away,” I said. “After he stole a book from the Old Library.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” said the Sarjeant.

  I explained how the Demon Droods escaped from the Grim Gulf, and how much damage they’d done to the Old Library before the Pook took care of them. The Matriarch winced.

  “You can explain that to the Librarian. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Edmund arranged all of this just so he could steal a book?” said the Sarjeant. “Which book was it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m hoping the Librarian will be able to tell us. Where is William? I don’t see him.”

  “I had Yorith take him away before the fighting started,” said the Matriarch. “He would have wanted to fight, and we couldn’t afford to lose him.”

  She called out to the nearest Droods and told them to find William and Yorith, and then escort them back to the Old Library. As they hurried off to do that, I took the time to look around me. The grounds before the Hall had been reduced to blood-soaked mud, with bodies lying everywhere. We’d taken down the Angelic Droods, but it had cost us dearly. Most of my family were just sitting where they’d collapsed, heads hanging down with exhaustion. Some looked to be pretty badly injured. Doctors moved among them, doing what they could to stabilise the most serious cases before moving them inside.

  One young man was kicking the body of a dead Angel, slowly and methodically.

  I looked down at my wounded arm. I’d had to leave it covered in a sheath of golden armour to protect it. The pain had settled into a slow, vicious ache. I didn’t even want to think about what the injury looked like under the armour. Molly swore harshly.

  “Eddie! You’re hurt!”

  “Yes,” I said. “I had noticed.”

  “Sit down. Take it easy. I’ll call for a doctor. We have to get you looked at.”

  “Don’t fuss,” I said. “It can wait.”

  “No it can’t!” Molly said fiercely. “You’re . . .” And then she stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to use the word dying.

  “It can wait,” I said.

  We both looked round sharply as a Drood called out urgently. He’d found some survivors among the Angels. The Matriarch immediately insisted on taking a look, and the Sarjeant insisted on going with her, just in case one of the Angels found enough strength for a last desperate gesture. I went after them, with Molly sticking stubbornly close.

  “I am not letting you out of my sight,” she said sternly. “I swear, even when you’re dead you won’t have the sense to lie down.”

  “The doctors should concentrate on those they can help,” I said. Using my most reasonable voice, because I knew that always drove her crazy. “They can take a look at me later.”

  “How are you?” said Molly.

  “Still dying,” I said. “And tired, really tired. But apart from that, pretty good.”

  I thought, but had the good sense not to say out loud, that I didn’t know how long that would last. I’d been through worse fights than this and never felt so completely used up. I should have bounced back by now. I had a feeling I was going to crash, and crash badly, once the last of the adrenaline ran out. So I might as well keep busy. As long as there was still work to be done.

  We stood together, looking down at the three surviving Angels. They were all refusing to lower their armour, and given the way their arms were welded to their torsos and their legs were fused together, I wasn’t sure how we’d be able to get it off without expert help. I remembered Edmund brandishing his straight razor and talking about better can openers, and surprised myself with a brief bark of laughter. The others looked at me oddly for a moment, and then turned back to the Angels. Molly leaned in beside me.

  “Remember the dead Droods we found at the Other Hall?” she said quietly. “Their armour had been melted and fused like this.”

  “Maybe they met a dragon too,” I said.

  “Armour down,” the Sarjeant commanded the Angels. There was no response.

  “At least show us your faces,” said the Matriarch.

  One Angel slowly turned his distorted golden face mask in our direction. “Why should we?”

  “So you can show us your defiance,” I said. “You’re Droods, aren’t you?”

  The golden mask slowly retracted, in fits and starts, to reveal the face beneath. As perfect as a classical statue, but completely lacking in character. The eyes
had no pupils, but they still seemed to look right through me. I couldn’t tell whether the Angel was male or female, both or neither. The other two Angels peeled back their masks. One face was a charred ruin without any eyes. The other had been roasted red and raw all down one side. Neither of them made a sound, though their agonies must have been appalling.

  “You’re Eddie Drood,” said the first Angel.

  “And you’re Uriel,” I said. “I recognise the voice.”

  “I should have cut you down the moment I met you,” Uriel said flatly.

  “There doesn’t have to be any more killing,” I said. “The war’s over.”

  “It will never be over, as long as one of us still lives,” said Uriel.

  “Why did you do this?” the Matriarch said loudly. “None of this was necessary. Whatever was done to you in the past, we are all Droods. All family.”

  “The family betrayed us,” said Uriel. “Why should you be any different?”

  “Because times have changed,” I said. “We’ve changed.”

  Uriel turned his head slowly to one side to look out across the grounds at his dead brethren, burned alive inside their armour. “No you haven’t.”

  “Give me your word,” the Matriarch said to Uriel. “Give me your surrender, and I’ll have my people carry you into the Hall. The doctors will get you out of your armour and do what they can for you.”

  “Of course,” Uriel said immediately. “No more fighting. We surrender.”

  He was lying. I could hear it in his voice, see it in his implacable face. One glance at the Matriarch showed me she knew it too.

  “Take them inside,” I said. “And guard them. Don’t look at me like that, Matriarch. These people only underwent alchemical marriages all those years ago because they were forced to by the family. Who knows what that unnatural practice did to their minds? What they did then helped make the Droods possible. We have a duty of care for them.”

  “No we don’t,” said the Matriarch. “Their duty was to do what the family required of them. My duty is to protect the family.” She turned to the Sarjeant-at-Arms. “Kill them. Kill them all.”

  The Sarjeant shot Uriel in the head. He shot the other two while I was still registering that he had a gun in his hand.

  “How could you?” I said to the Matriarch. “He wasn’t a threat any more!”

  “We could never trust them,” said the Matriarch, meeting my gaze unflinchingly. “I gave Uriel his chance, and he lied to my face. I’m damned if I’ll lose any more of the family to these misbegotten mistakes. This is why you had to give up being in charge, Eddie. Because you never could make the hard decisions.”

  “I never wanted to be in charge,” I said. “And I can remember a time when you didn’t either.”

  I looked down at Uriel’s cold, inhuman face. He didn’t look surprised at what had happened. He seemed to have been expecting it.

  “I told him the family had changed,” I said. “I was wrong.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We Need to Talk about Edmund

  The war was over, and the Droods went home.

  I walked through the front door with Molly on my arm, each of us leaning companionably on the other. It took a while to make our way through the entrance hall, as part of a stream of triumphant but deathly tired Droods. People chattered loudly all around us, discussing things they’d seen and done out in the grounds, that they hadn’t expected to have to deal with when they got up in the morning. And of course everyone was arguing about who’d done what and who’d done most. Some weren’t even that sure about who they’d been fighting or why. The Matriarch and the Sarjeant-at-Arms had armoured up and ordered everyone into the fray . . . and everyone just did what they had to and hoped someone would get around to explaining it all later.

  The walking wounded and the shell-shocked stumbled along side by side, with empty eyes and heads hanging down, until someone came to lead them away. Others were quiet, mourning fallen friends or loves, but there wasn’t much in the way of tears. Droods are brought up to be self-contained and self-controlled. People triumph and people die, but the family goes on.

  I smiled and nodded to those around me, and they nodded and smiled at me. I didn’t feel like talking. I was preoccupied with my own thoughts. Among other things, it had occurred to me that this was probably the last time I’d ever fight alongside my family. My last chance to do something with them that mattered. I was learning the hard way that a large part of dying is saying good-bye to things. Making lists and ticking things off one by one. Last time I’ll do this, or be here, or see that.

  I felt tired, so tired. I stumbled suddenly, missing my step, as though the floor wasn’t where I expected it to be. I almost fell, and Molly had to hold me up until I could do it for myself. We stood together in the middle of the entrance hall and let the Droods stream past us, too wrapped up in their own pains and problems to notice mine. I wanted to get moving again, but my head was packed with cotton wool and my thoughts moved slowly, uncertain of their way. Molly looked quickly around, spotted a side door, and half helped, half carried me over to it, snarling viciously at anyone who got in our way. I felt vaguely that I should apologise for her, but by then Molly had kicked open the door and hustled me into the room beyond.

  I forced my aching head up, to check where we were. Just a simple open room, large and light and airy, with half a dozen reading tables and some comfortable chairs. Molly slammed the door shut and helped settle me into the nearest chair. I sighed with relief once I didn’t have to carry my own weight any longer. I looked unhurriedly around me, taking in the bookshelves covering all four walls, tightly packed with identical leather-bound volumes. Molly made sure I was okay before taking a look around her.

  “What is this—another Library?”

  I smiled, feeling better if not stronger. “Not a Library; not as such. This is the Diary Room. Every member of the family is encouraged to keep a diary, not as part of the official family history, but just to record the everyday experiences of what it’s like to be a Drood. So future generations can look back and see how much has changed and how much has stayed the same. Not everyone keeps a diary; it’s not required. But there’s always a few who do. The earliest versions go so far back they aren’t even in English. It does the family good, now and again, to be reminded of just how far back we go.”

  I started to wave a hand expansively at the shelves, with all their centuries of recorded memories, and then stopped. I didn’t have the energy.

  “The Drood Diaries. Handwritten and entirely personal. Private during the writers’ lifetimes, but open to anyone after their death.”

  Molly shook her head slowly. “There must be hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands . . .”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “Looks like we’re going to have to put up some more shelves.”

  She looked at me. “Have you read any of them?”

  “I’ve dipped into a few,” I said. “There’s fascinating stuff to be found in these accounts. The real stories behind the official histories. All the personal details, to give an event context and meaning. In this room there are answers to questions you don’t even know to ask. The everyday secrets of my family. Some Matriarchs have talked about putting a stop to the Diaries on security grounds, but they always get talked out of it. If only because we might need something in here someday.”

  “Do you keep a diary?” said Molly.

  “I’ve written a few things down.”

  “Let me take a look at your arm.”

  “We don’t have time for this, Molly.”

  “Make time,” said Molly. “And don’t argue with me, if you ever want to see me naked again.”

  “Yes, Molly.”

  I looked down at the golden sheath covering my left arm. The extruded armour gleamed dully, giving away nothing. I pulled it back into my torc, and immediate
ly the long wound opened up, spurting blood. I hissed at the pain and grabbed hold of my forearm with my right hand, clamping down hard to hold the cut together. Blood pumped thickly between my fingers. Molly made a low sound of shock and distress.

  “I must have torn it open again,” I said.

  “Even a cut that bad shouldn’t still be bleeding like that,” Molly said slowly. “That’s not right, Eddie.”

  “Don’t fuss, Molly.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You need help.”

  “I’m all right!”

  “No you’re not! You need a doctor!”

  “I am not going to the Infirmary,” I said firmly. I couldn’t tell her why. Couldn’t tell her I had this sick, certain fear that if I went in, I’d never leave.

  “Ethel!” Molly’s voice was so loud, I would have jumped if I hadn’t been so exhausted. “Ethel! Can you hear me? We need you!”

  “It’s all right, Molly,” said Ethel. Her voice came clearly out of the empty air before us. “I’m here. I’m always here.”

  “Can you talk some sense into Eddie?”

  “Almost certainly not,” said Ethel. “But I can see the problem. I have already called for a doctor.”

  The door burst open and a young woman came bustling in, without waiting to be invited. She was tall, slender, intense, and driven, wearing a white doctor’s coat with fresh bloodstains down the front. Dusky-skinned, with high cheekbones and flashing dark eyes. She looked like she’d just been called away from a lot of hard work, and wasn’t at all happy about it.

  “I am Dr Indira,” she said sharply, striding right up to me. “And you’re just the patient, Eddie, so don’t give me a hard time. Look at that arm! Why aren’t you in the Infirmary?”

  “Don’t even start,” said Molly. “Aren’t you a bit young to be a doctor?”