Demon Quest

by Craig Askham

  “Where’s the demon hunter, you sack of sh…?” Idella launched her shoulder into his solar plexus, preventing her fellow gamer from finishing his sentence. To the sound of air expelling itself from his lungs in a drawn out wheeze, he dropped to his knees next to the man he’d just assaulted. Idella towered over them both, doing her best to look menacing.

  “Start talking,” she said to Mr. Hood.

  “No chance.”

  “What were you doing at The Old Lantern?”

  “Minding my own business.”

  Obviously feeling better, he shuffled onto all fours and laboriously went about trying to climb to his feet. She waited until he’d almost succeeded before taking a step closer. He tensed, expecting a kick, and she sensed rather than heard Tregurtha move nearer. Poking him with the end of her right boot, she simply sent him tumbling back down onto his stomach. Meanwhile, Naz had recovered enough to regain control of his lungs.

  “What did you do that for?” he demanded, and she felt the pressure of three sets of eyes on her. Naz was angry; the tip of his nose had turned white where his scowl had forced the skin around it to crinkle up. Mr. Hood was pensive as he tried to determine whether or not to resume the foetal position; a lock of unwashed hair had fallen across his face and was caught in his eyelash, so every time he blinked it moved down and back up. Tregurtha, although she had her back to him, was grinning; she just knew it.

  “Shut up, Naz.” She reached down and felt underneath Mr. Hood’s cloak, fingers searching for the hidden pocket she thought she’d spotted him slip something into back at the tavern. He thought about jerking away, but decided against it. She poked her fingers against the lining until she found the telltale bump, and eventually she came away with what she’d been looking for. Grasping it between thumb and forefinger, she held it up so that Naz and Tregurtha could see it. “This is what I saw the Shadziri blacksmith pass to him back at The Old Lantern.” It was a chipped and nicked silver band, thick and wide enough that it could only feasibly belong to a man, and set with three square red stones across its width, in a line that was flush to the metal. It was well crafted, but didn’t look expensive.

  “Give that back,” said Mr. Hood. His expression was wary now, and he licked his lips nervously. “The blacksmith was fixing it for me, that’s all. One of the stones fell out. It’s nothing to do with anything.”

  “Why go to such great lengths to hide that he was giving it to you, then?”

  “You saw the other people in that tavern. They’d have slit my throat for it in a heartbeat, if they thought they’d get enough for it to buy a bottle of feijen. Now give it back. Please.”

  Idella rolled the ring back and forth between her finger and thumb, pretending to consider his request. A quick glance at his tanned hands revealed there was no pale band on any of his fingers that would suggest he was a ring wearer.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I think you’re supposed to be taking this to Varun Behl. It’s important to him.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “You admit to knowing Varun Behl, then?”

  “I do not.” Unwashed hair aside, her captive was handsome. His eyes were grey, his nose was straighter than a ruler, and his cheekbones were perfectly sculpted. In fact, he was too handsome. The cheekbones could have been enhanced by implants, nobody on this planet could’ve possibly had a nose that straight without the use of a surgeon, and were those contact lenses he was wearing? Not to mention the smug smile he was brandishing in her direction; it exposed his unnaturally even, impossibly white teeth. Considering Idella had not yet seen any evidence that toothbrushes existed on this planet, she decided she’d caught him out. Good work, Miss Marple.

  “Fine. You may leave.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Mr. Hood wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Naz looked at her, and then over her shoulder at Tregurtha, offering them both the same surprised expression.

  “Huh?” he said.

  Mr. Hood clambered to his feet and held out his hand for the ring.

  “Well, that was easier than I expected.”

  Slowly, Idella started shaking her head. Mr. Hood took her meaning immediately. Unsurprisingly, Naz failed to catch on.

  “Good luck explaining to the demon hunter why you don’t have his ring.” She didn’t want to, but couldn’t help but shoot Naz a sideways glance to see if the idiot had figured it out yet. He was still at the working-it-out stage. “Just before he guts you like a fish, perhaps you could instruct him that Idella Breck has his ring, and is staying at the Old Lantern should he wish to pay her a visit to reclaim it.” She wafted a hand at him. “Now run along, and good luck.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Go on, get lost!” Naz laughed, the penny finally having dropped for him. He clapped Idella soundly on the back, and she glared at him.

  “I need you to give me that ring back, young lady.” Mr. Hood drew himself up to his full height, which was a full head taller than Idella and a good couple of inches taller than Naz. Only Tregurtha, big and silent, bested him in that department. “However you dress it up, what you’re doing is nothing short of theft. I’ll alert the Watch, if I have to.”

  “Then please do so. By the time the Watch track us down, your ring will have taken a one way trip to the sewers.”

  Idella pocketed the ring in question, and turned to leave. Mr. Hood’s hand thrust out to catch hold of her left arm and, as soon as he grasped it, she reached across her body with her right hand to grab it. Her fingers slid between her arm and his hand, and came to rest on his palm. With her thumb pressed firmly down on the back of his hand, she stepped away and twisted his arm so that his whole body was forced to turn away from her. She bent his hand at the wrist and he doubled over with his arm up in the air, completely at her mercy.

  “Wirio’s balls!” he yelled, going immediately still in order to discourage her from using any more force. “Come on!”

  “Do you have another suggestion for me?” Idella wondered. “One that’s a little more…mutually beneficial, perhaps?”

  “Fine! If you really have a death wish, you can come with me! What do I care? He’s going to eat you for breakfast, and the biggest challenge I’ll face for the rest of the day is having to distribute you to every stray dog in the city, bone by sodding bone!”

  Idella let go of his hand. He straightened up and turned back to her, cradling it in his right hand as if she’d broken it. Naz sniggered next to her, and she assumed she was providing him decent entertainment.

  “Good man. He sounds charming, by the way.” She gestured for him to move, a friendly grin lighting up her pretty face. She’d never felt so alive! Words were coming out of her mouth that she’d never dream of saying back in her real life as a chartered accountant. No, it wasn’t even about the words; it was about the newfound confidence with which she spoke them. She made good money, obviously. She wouldn’t be here, otherwise. But she worked long hours to make that money, and hadn’t quite gotten around to spending any of it on her appearance yet. So she was pretty, but not beautiful like she probably should have been. Her skin was pale, and freckly across the cheeks. Her nose had a slight bump that would be simple enough for a surgeon to chip away at until it was flat, and her round face gave the impression that she was plump when, actually, her body was slim and lithe thanks to the countless swimming tournaments she’d competed in as a kid but never won. She was somehow less than her peers and, truth be told, the excuse about not having gotten around to fixing her looks was exactly that; an excuse. She was terrified of letting somebody near her with a scalpel, and self-confidence was the price she had to pay for her weakness on that front. She didn’t even know what to do with her hair, and surely that was the easiest thing to fix? It wasn’t long, it wasn’t short, it wasn’t blonde and it wasn’t brunette; it was somewhere in between, and not particularly willing to lend itself to a shape that suited any of the changing fashions. As such, she tended to hide behind her computer a
t work, and blend into the background. Sometimes in the office she worked her long hours in, she would cough or sneeze and make people who’d forgotten she was there jump out of their skins. Sometimes she did it just for fun. Once, near the end of particularly busy financial year, she’d been forced to creep out of the office like a ninja when two of her co-workers, thinking they were alone, had started to have sex.

  Here, though, on this planet? Things were starting to change. She was starting to show glimpses of the confident person she should have been back home. She fit in with these people, and the little imperfections they didn’t even know were imperfections. No. The little imperfections that weren’t imperfections. Men looked at her differently, here; like she was…what was the word…attractive?

  Hence the friendly grin she was giving Mr. Hood right now. When had she ever given anybody a friendly grin before? She didn’t know the answer to that. Somehow, it didn’t matter.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching him kill you,” he said. Caught up in the fun of the mission, Idella didn’t even wonder whether or not he was acting. She just grinned even wider, showing off a set of teeth that were ever so slightly off-white and endearingly not-quite-even. Motioning for him to lead the way, she even gave him a little wink.

  “We’d better not keep him waiting, then, had we?”

  Four

  Rafferty stroked his new goatee, then gave it a little tug to test the strength of the glue. It didn’t budge, but it did bring tears to his eyes. Satisfied, he made a mental note not to try that again.

  “In your own time, Mr. Barnes.” He turned to look over his shoulder, which was almost impossible in the red dragon armour that was a perfect match for the set the hologram had been wearing. It had taken nearly an hour for a three-person team to squeeze him into it, and there was a good chance it was never coming off again. No wonder Jason Lister had called in sick. Somewhere behind him, Jessica cleared her throat and spoke again. “In other words, Mr. Barnes, get your creaky-leathered arse through that portal.”

  “I’m mentally preparing, Jessica. With all due respect, I’ll get my creaky-leathered arse through that portal when I’m good and ready.”

  Jessica sighed theatrically, and it didn’t take much for him to imagine the eye roll that must have accompanied it. He gave up trying to look at her, and instead turned his attention back to the real source of his heel-dragging. There it was, straight ahead. The portal. Three steps away. Three long, terrifying steps. Six months of stepping through, and it still hadn’t gotten any easier. He craned his neck as far to the right as the heavy armour would let him, and looked at the green letters above the door that read Exit. The same thoughts tumbled through his mind that always did when he reached this juncture; should he be doing this, would it be better to try rebuilding his flagging career here on Earth, what if the portal collapsed while he was on the other side and he was trapped there forever, could he survive without a power shower and toothpaste for the rest of his life, and what if the portal never spat him out the other side and he was doomed to eternally whoosh through the cosmos or whatever the hell it was? They were all valid concerns, of course, and he always managed to come up with the same old answers; of course he shouldn’t be doing this, his career on Earth was dead not flagging so bloody well deal with it, life on the other side of the portal would probably be a whole lot better than life here anyway, but no, he probably couldn’t survive without a power shower and toothpaste, or triple quilted toilet paper for that matter, and for the love of God stop thinking about whooshing through the portal because there really was no suitable answer for that one.

  “Sweet Lord, Rafferty. I don’t care if I’m ninety-three years old, I swear to God I’m going to pick you up and throw you through if you don’t grow a pair in the next ten seconds.”

  Rafferty felt his face burn. Did this qualify as bullying in the workplace? Jessica appeared in his line of vision, pointedly blocking his view of the exit. The room was usually a hive of activity, with maybe ten people carrying out jobs concerning the portal that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. There were another five people, all soldiers, supposedly ready to shoot anybody or anything that appeared through the portal that wasn’t supposed to. And there was Marjorie, of course, the obligatory representative of the Professional Standards Department, here to make sure that everybody followed protocol. Finally, there was John Bonfield, the middle-aged American who looked like an Army general, minus the obligatory fat cigar that would have complemented his look perfectly. He was in charge of the entire London Stillwater operation, and Rafferty could feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. All of them should have been hustling and bustling from one end of the huge, industrially lit basement to the other, checking reports and fiddling with switches that did God only knew what. At this precise point in time, however, they had all stopped what they were doing in order to watch him stand like a porcelain Dungeons and Dragons figurine, in front of the portal that should have been whooshing him to the Planet Vangura. To illustrate her point, Jessica was holding out both hands and silently closing one finger at a time as she counted down from ten.

  Rafferty looked back at the portal. Unlike the one in Los Angeles, the London portal wasn’t a pool of liquid mercury on the floor that required travellers to wade into as if they’d left their clothes in a neat pile on the beach. He was glad of that small mercy, at least. He’d been suicidal once before, and having to travel through a portal that reminded him of his darkest hour every day might just have broken him for good. No, the London portal looked exactly like its Los Angeles counterpart but with one important difference; it had been tipped on its side and leaned up against the wall. Not completely vertical, it reflected the harsh lights on the ceiling rather than the people who stood before it. Because it looked so much like mercury, it was difficult to understand how it defied gravity to stay where it was; logic dictated that it should slowly ooze downwards to form a puddle on the ground like its American cousin.

  Right. Pre-flight safety procedure done. Thought processes followed from start to finish, and favourable comparison to American portal completed. It was time to grow a pair before Jessica reached zero. With a deep breath, he took a confident step forward. The second step was hesitant, and the third so pathetic that it fell short of reaching the portal. He was now stood so close that his nose was almost touching the surface.

  “You can do this,” he whispered.

  “I’m coming, Mr. Barnes.” There was a trace of glee in Jessica’s voice. No. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. He took the final step, half hoping that something had gone wrong and his knee would simply bounce back off what was now just an elaborate mirror. No such luck. The portal sensed his hesitance and, as soon as contact was made, it sucked him through like a spider in the path of a vacuum cleaner. It was the closest he hoped he’d ever get to an out of body experience; one minute his mind was attached to his body, and the next it wasn’t. His body was still there, or so he’d been told, but it didn’t feel like it. He could have been nothing more than a pair of eyes, floating through a grey expanse of fog. He had no control over where his eyes were headed; they could have been moving forwards, backwards, sideways or diagonally. Possibly even up or down.

  And then he was out the other side. It could have been five seconds, it could have been five minutes; he had no way of knowing. There was no sense of landing back inside his body, just a vague feeling that he was back and may have been for some time. He stood there, wide-eyed but not able to focus. Possibly swaying; he wasn’t sure.

  “My, my.” Rafferty’s eyes shifted slightly to the right, and found something to focus on. At first, he thought he was looking at a walking dog. It took a moment for him to realise it was, in fact, just a man. A man with hair long enough to cover his ears and make him look, just for a split second, like a spaniel. “What have we got here, then? An agent of Chikwirio, perhaps? Sent here to soften us up before Chikwirio himself arrives to drag our spirits down to whichever ver
sion of hell this world balances on?” His tone was openly mocking, and possibly not in a friendly way. Rafferty stepped forward and held out his right hand.

  “Greetings, chap. Rafferty Barnes, at your disposal. Ever so pleased to meet you.” When in doubt as to somebody’s intentions, his default reaction was to dazzle them with over-the-top good manners. Let them think that he was a harmless, bumbling Englishman while he sussed them out.

  “This your first trip, by any chance?” The long-haired man stepped forward, squinting his eyes to get a look at Rafferty underneath the goatee. He was mid-thirties, well over six feet tall, and didn’t suit having long hair. His chin was square in a Desperate Dan way, and the only other character he could have gotten away with looking like was GI Joe. Rafferty had no doubt he was wearing a ridiculous wig over the top of his buzz cut, and guessed that nobody had the guts to tell him how stupid it looked. “No. I’ve seen you before. Don’t know your name, but you should know better. Don’t ever let me catch you using your real name again, you bloody idiot.”

  Belatedly, Rafferty realised his mistake. It was a rookie error, of course. Good start. He decided to drop the polite act.

  “Apologies,” he said. “I thought you were a talking spaniel. It threw me for a moment. Won’t happen again.”

  “Good comeback.” He tugged a lock of hair, jaw thrust out aggressively, as if he could use it to knock Rafferty clean off his feet. To be fair, Rafferty thought he probably could. “I lost a bet. Don’t mention it again, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Sounds fair.” Rafferty looked around the room as if inspecting it for the first time, just so that he could show GI Joe he wasn’t intimidated. He was an actor, after all. The room was much smaller than the one he’d just left, and nowhere near as well lit. It was the back room of a small warehouse in the merchant district of Sheniwar, the largest city the predominantly farming country of Aneir had to offer. Located on the southern tip of the continent, the next port of call for anyone heading even further south was the island capital of Arunkumar, and then the huge Salebrian continent after that. The locals liked to think of Sheniwar as the centre of their nice, flat world. Others, especially those from an even larger city called London, scoffed at such a bold claim but were forbidden from even thinking about setting them straight. Somewhat fittingly, considering the appearance of the Stillwater portal, this particular warehouse stored mirrors. Hundreds of them, of varying sizes and degrees of tastelessness. This windowless back room housed the damages that were beyond repair, and was hidden behind a maze of false walls and hidden doorways. Filled with enough cracked glass to scare the life out of anyone even vaguely superstitious, the portal at the back of the room was barely noticeable to the untrained eye.