Demon Quest

by Craig Askham

  “Alright love, don’t milk it.” Lee sounded annoyed at Jessica’s hesitation, and Lee sounding annoyed usually led to a full blown temper tantrum. He was an actor, after all.

  “Very well.” She sounded reluctant, but Lee was too busy thumping the table in celebration to call her on it. “Mr. Casey will be our resident dragon hunter, then.” She paused, and fixed him with a disapproving glare. “Please remember, though, that this has the potential to become one of Stillwater’s most popular attractions to date. We’ll be charging top dollar for this, so it will only be the richest of the rich that can afford it.”

  “Yeah yeah, don’t let the billionaires die,” said Lee. “Gotcha, Jessie. We’ll have a big team of actual soldiers with us though, right? With massive guns?”

  Jessica sighed and shook her head.

  “No massive guns, dear. Not on a medieval planet.” Pause for effect. “You bloody idiot.”

  Some of the bravado went out of Lee at that point, and Rafferty immediately shrank into his chair in case the flame-haired idiot withdrew his offer and forced Jessica to return to the drawing board.

  “You won’t be getting close enough to worry about that, chap,” he said, hoping he sounded encouraging. “And the soldiers will have massive crossbows instead, which will be far more appropriate than massive guns. Right, Jess?”

  Jess nodded.

  “All you’ve got to do, Lee, is brush up on your dragon facts and meet with the source. Put the billionaires at ease, talk them through some mating rituals, and make sure they keep their distance. They’ve all signed waivers, they know the risks; just make them believe it’s real and that they might actually die. Keep the idiots happy.”

  “It is real, though,” Rafferty pointed out, wondering how Jessica had managed to lose track of that minor detail.

  “And they might actually die, Jessie,” Lee suggested.

  “Should be easy enough, then.” Her tone forbade any more argument. She looked at her volunteer and nodded in the direction of the door. “The word’s out,” she said. “Anyone interested has two hours to make their way to the Beijing portal, which means I want you there in one hour. These jobs don’t come around very often, Lee. So, you know…”

  “I know,” he said, standing up and heading for the door. “Enjoy it.”

  “No, you imbecile. Don’t cock it up.”

  “Oh.”

  He was halfway out the door before she relented and called him back with a smile that revealed perfect white teeth that were definitely not the ones she’d been born with.

  “I’m joking, you daft sod. This job was made for you. It probably should have gone to someone from the Beijing office, but the powers-that-be requested you specifically. Your reputation precedes you, so I suggest you enjoy it and don’t cock it up.”

  Jessie always knew the right thing to say. Lee left with a spring in his step, and there was nothing in her expression after he’d left that suggested she’d made any of that up just to keep him happy. Losing the smile and cancelling the dragon with a single gesture, she flicked through some more images until she came to one that gave her pause for thought. A few seconds later, a tiny man appeared on the table in the same spot the dragon had occupied moments earlier. He had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, and was dressed in dark red armour that looked like it could have been made from the scales of the same dragon they’d just been looking at. They overlapped each other to form a seemingly impenetrable breast plate, with enormous pauldrons covering each shoulder. The inside edges rose up like the rebellious collar of a schoolboy’s polo shirt, and he held an enormous sword in his hand. As they watched, he swung the sword several times against an imaginary opponent, moving along the table like a fencer as he did so. Once the move was complete, he flickered out of existence and reappeared back in his starting position in the centre of the table, ready to begin the programmed sequence again. He looked mean. Jessica let them watch the moves again before speaking. “Does this guy remind you of anyone?” she asked.

  All eyes looked at Rafferty, who immediately raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? I don’t see it.”

  “You look more like him than anyone else in the room.”

  “Is that your way of telling me I won’t be playing the part of Hachiko the wandering bard today?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafferty tried his best to look relaxed, but realised that both his fists were not only clenched, but were clenched blatantly enough for everybody to have noticed. Things went from good natured to awkward, very quickly indeed. He forced his fingers open, ran one hand through his stiff hair and drummed the fingers of the other on the table. It didn’t help make him look any less terrified.

  “Do you think I’m ready for this?” he asked. Jessica looked at him without any expression, as if she couldn’t decide which tack to take with him; good cop or bad cop.

  “Your curriculum vitae is most impressive, Mr. Barnes. And you came to us highly recommended.” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward to give her words more weight. “I even remember watching you on stage once, in Stratford-Upon-Avon; you were magnificent. I don’t lavish praise where it isn’t merited, and I also don’t let people play a part in these briefings if I don’t think they’re worthy of top billing. You’ve spent six months playing bit parts, and now I consider you broken in. It’s time for a meatier role, Raff. Do I think you’re ready for this? I’d stake my reputation on it.” She paused, and gave herself time to sit back again in her chair. “In fact, I am staking my reputation on it.”

  Rafferty rubbed his chin as he looked at the holographic swordsman. Maybe she was right. He could listen to people compliment him all day long on his theatre work, especially the Shakespeare period, but those days were behind him. He’d picked up an impressive drug habit just as he was about to hit the big time and, as a result, the big time had dodged. The hard drugs were mostly gone now, thankfully, but so was his reputation. Stillwater had come along at just the right time, which was definitely no coincidence, and he was finally able to pay the bills again. Maybe Jessica was right, and it was time for a meatier role. He had basic swordsmanship in his repertoire, thanks to a small part in a straight-to-television reboot of the Highlander franchise, and his improvisation skills had been honed to perfection on the amateur dramatic circuit of his youth. He could probably do this. Emphasis on probably.

  “Who is he?” he asked, wafting his fingers at the hologram. Jessica nodded her approval at what she took to be his acceptance, and the rest of the room breathed out in relief.

  “Varun Behl.”

  “Varun Who?”

  “Behl. B-E-H-L, pronounced B-air-l. It surprises me that you’ve not heard of him; he’s a big deal over there.”

  “He’s a demon hunter,” someone around the table answered. Rafferty looked around to identify the voice. It was Wojciech Unpronounceable Surname, who always seemed more opinionated in these briefings because, like Lee Casey, sitting down allowed him to disguise his diminutive stature. Outside, he allowed people to call him pretty much whatever they wanted, but in here with his legs out of view and his skinny backside resting on a couple of cushions, he made sure people pronounced his name Voy-Check.

  “Say what now, Woj-Keech?” Rafferty was physically unable to stop himself; he’d been pushing the boundaries his entire life, and wasn’t about to stop now. He allowed himself a grin as he noticed the colour spreading over Wojciech’s face. The latter crinkled his pale forehead so that lines appeared all the way up to his transplanted hairline. He was the guy that went to the gym every damn day and had absolutely nothing to show for it.

  “It’s Voy-Check, Barnesy.” There. Two could play at that game, apparently. Rafferty felt colour spread to his own cheeks. “And Varun Behl is a demon hunter. Part demon and part god, his soul possesses whatever body it jumps into. Works out well for us, as it means his part can be played by anyone, really.” He shot a meaningful glance in Jessica’s direction, but his unspoken offer
was turned down with a firm shake of the head.

  “Not on this occasion,” she said. “Varun Behl is supposed to be played by Jason Lister this week, but Jason has called in sick. There are gamers out there right now, following the clues that will shortly lead them to a warehouse in Sheniwar that they think is his lair. Jason is tall, with grey hair and a black goatee, and that is what the gamers will be expecting to find when they get to the warehouse. Not a five-foot-six man-child with bum fluff on both his chins and tits bigger than mine.” She paused. “No offence, Woj-Keech.”

  Wojciech’s hands automatically reached to protectively cover his chest, aware that all eyes in the room were judging him. If his cheeks had started to turn red before, then they were positively throwing off heat now. Thoroughly deflated, and with Jessica pretending to be completely unaware of the devastation she’d caused, he shrank back into his chair as if he thought it could swallow him up.

  “Bit hard not to take offence at that,” he muttered, and there were tears in his eyes. Rafferty felt sorry for him, and it took a lot for Rafferty to feel sorry for anyone. The rest of the room twiddled their thumbs and shot each other glances with raised eyebrows. Rafferty gave his full attention to the Varun Behl hologram, trying to think of something witty to say that would end a silence that was starting to become uncomfortable. Nothing particularly witty leapt out at him, apart from a comparison to the time the late, great Tom Cruise had played Jack Reacher in those seven increasingly awful movies. He wasn’t sure how the comparison would make Wojciech feel better about himself, though, so he let the idea slip away into the area of his mind that stored the memories of all his wasted opportunities. Finally Jessica spoke again, and took the approach of pretending the last thirty seconds had never happened.

  “So, Mr. Barnes. You’ll be needing a quick visit down to Susie in the makeup department for that goatee, I believe…”

  Three

  Idella Breck took a deep breath and stepped around the corner of the building. A quick glance to her right confirmed she hadn’t been spotted by her quarry, and her breath came out as if she was running a cross country race. That was close.

  He was hurrying away from her into the darkness, but not in a way that suggested he was escaping. The hood of his dark woollen cloak was pulled down low over his eyes. Idella couldn’t even say for sure that she was following the right man, but nobody else in the tavern had been acting suspiciously enough to arouse her suspicions. This had to be him. Cautiously, she started to follow his retreating back along the cobbled street.

  “Don’t you dare go any further without me,” called a voice from around the corner she’d just come from. She paused, anxious not to let Mr. Hood get away but not confident enough to go it alone. What the hell are they doing? In answer to her question, a tiny stream of yellow liquid started to meander its way from the alley. Blocking out the bustling sounds of the evening market in the background, Idella pursed her lips as she realised what was happening. She could hear water being poured from a jug. No. She was wrong on both counts; the liquid wasn’t water, and it wasn’t coming from a jug. Setting her stance another foot or so wider, she let the piss trickle between her boots.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed. Throwing caution to the wind, she abandoned her fellow spy in the alleyway and set off after Mr. Hood. He’d disappeared from view around another corner, but she was sure he couldn’t have gotten far. Breaking into a jog, she darted into the alleyway she thought he’d ducked into, and succeeded in planting her face right into his chest. Panicking, she took a step backwards and resorted to the most British thing she could do. “I’m so sorry, sir. I blatantly wasn’t looking where I was going. Please accept my…”

  “Why are you following me?” the man growled, and two beefy hands clamped down on her shoulders.

  “I wasn’t! My friend had to take a leak, and I was wondering what was taking him so long. I thought he’d come into this alley, but I can see now that I was mistaken. If you’d be so kind as to let me go, sir…” Idella was in trouble, and knew it. Where the hell was Naz? Had she blown the whole mission? Mr. Hood didn’t loosen his grip.

  “No,” he said. “You were following me. I recognise you from the tavern. Spill your guts, girl, before I spill them for you.”

  Idella started to shake. She felt it in her legs first, but knew that if she spoke, it would already be at the stage where it was obvious in her voice. Damn you, adrenaline. She wasn’t scared. Well, not as terrified as the shaking suggested, anyway. She just had a problem with adrenaline; produced too damn much of the stuff. This was one of those moments that she was either going to look back on with regret or pride. If she failed to act quickly, it would definitely be regret. Do something, idiot!

  “Please. Don’t hurt me. This is just a game, right?”

  Mr. Hood moved both hands from her shoulders so that he could grip her by the front of her tunic. With a grunt, he yanked her further into the alleyway. Sensing her opportunity and remembering something of her basic fight training, she didn’t resist him but went with it. As soon as he was on the back foot, she launched her knee into his groin and pushed herself away from him as he doubled over. When his wide-eyed face was at an acceptable height, she took aim at it with one of her tough leather boots. Just as she was about to strike, a hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her off balance. Buoyed by her successful attack on Mr. Hood, she whirled to face her new attacker with her guard raised. He released her immediately and stepped back, hands raised in the air to show that he meant no harm. She relaxed. It was Tregurtha, their Stillwater guide, and the grin on his sun weathered face marked him as more than a little amused. Naz Caliskan skidded into view over his shoulder, still wiping his pudgy hands on his trousers because, not for the first time since they’d been paired up and she’d unwillingly become familiar with his toileting habits, he’d managed to flick urine onto his fingers.

  “Whoa there, young lady,” said Tregurtha, flicking his gaze behind her to make sure that Mr. Hood wasn’t thinking of doing anything stupid. He needn’t have bothered. Idella had made solid contact, and she could tell by his groans that he was going nowhere in the near future. “What happened to the three of us sticking together, eh?” His voice was musical, and his tone only half a measure away from gentle mockery. In stark contrast to his gentle voice, he had the face of a battered gladiator; nose bent at an angle, crooked teeth, and an angry scar that came all the way down from his shaved head to the crinkly brown corner of his left eye. Not a man to be messed with, and always in the right place at the right time. Although, sometimes only just. Idella supposed that Mr. Hood was a fellow Stillwater employee rather than a local, which was why Tregurtha had stopped her from sending her boot through his teeth. The poor sod probably didn’t get paid enough for that, to be fair.

  “I wasn’t going to lose the mark because of a poorly timed call of nature,” she said, shooting Naz a disgusted look. He shrugged.

  “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  Idella looked back at Tregurtha, dismissing Naz as nothing more than a hindrance she had no choice but to put up with. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Mr. Hood, who was doing a convincing impression of a foetus.

  “What should we do about him? I suppose I’ve blown it?”

  Tregurtha’s smile showed no sign of leaving his face.

  “You’re in charge,” he said. “It’s taken us four days to get to this point. We need to know where he was going, and if we can no longer simply follow him there, we’ll have to find another way to get that information from him.”

  Idella was doubtful. She wanted to ask how far they were allowed to go in order to get this information, but wasn’t sure that such a question was in keeping with the spirit of the mission. Was torture allowed? Mr. Hood was an actor, or at least she assumed he was. This was a standard mission that Stillwater offered on a weekly basis, so Mr. Hood and Tregurtha must have played out this scenario countless times already with other gamers. But ho
w was she supposed to know who was a gamer, who was an actor, and who actually came from this planet? It begged the further questions; where was the line that they weren’t allowed to step over and, more importantly, why was she even wondering if torture was allowed? There was no way she could ever bring herself to do that. This was supposed to be a bit of fun, a step up from the monotony of the total immersion online games. She hadn’t expected the whole experience to be so real. There was a chance she could actually die, and she’d foolishly signed a waiver, before she’d stepped through the portal, that absolved Stillwater of any blame should it happen. What had she been thinking?

  She turned to face Mr. Hood, and yanked his hood back. Either he was an excellent actor, or the baleful glare he directed back at her was for real. If he was that good an actor, he’d probably have been in a movie rather than risking his life every day on a live action ‘set’ that was millions of light years away from the nearest television screen. She guessed she’d really hurt him. Was it weird that she wanted to apologise to him? Play the game. He’s aware of what he signed up for. Stop feeling guilty.

  “Where’s Varun Behl?” she demanded, kneeling down next to him but ready to dive out of the way at the slightest hint of an attack. When he didn’t answer, she grabbed a fistful of his unruly brown hair. She didn’t pull it, though. She didn’t want to hurt him. Naz Caliskan brushed past her and backhanded him across the cheek.