Demon Quest

by Craig Askham

  “Starting to wish I wasn’t.”

  “Excellent.” A few of the others in the room had noticed their presence, and paused what they were doing in order to listen. The rest, oblivious to their leader’s rant, carried on doing what they were doing. Yooku cleared her throat, and held up two fingers. “Now, option two.”

  “Option two,” Jida sighed, and checked her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there.

  “Yes. Stay with me, Jida; this is going to be good. Option two, the poor local in question realises that the warehouse he’s mysteriously appeared in has been taken over by alien actors from another planet, who are pretending to be the acolytes of a famous demon hunter called Varun Behl who, because he’s played by an actor called Jason from an English town called Slough, can neither feast on any actual souls nor go any way towards facilitating the end of the world. His sole purpose, if you’ll pardon the pun, is to convince the rich aliens who aren’t actors that he’s the son of a god called Chikwirio, just so that they can pretend to vanquish him back to the fiery hells of Vangura before going back to their boring accountancy jobs on Earth. Right? Good. And then, once the poor local realises all this, he flees for his life into the arms of the afore-mentioned City Watchman, and you know what he says? He says By the gods, I just heard the tall woman call the short woman Susan!”

  Yooku looked around, suddenly aware that she might have just shouted Susan into the chamber-like room. It echoed a few times, and she realised everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing in order to look at her. Some were amused, and others looked terrified. She nodded as if pleased with herself and turned back to look at Jida, whose face was an unreadable mask.

  “That was a bit silly, wasn’t it?” Jida said.

  “Yes, I suppose it was. Sorry.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Will it? The first gamer is on her way here to take on the demon hunter, only we have no demon hunter for her to take on thanks to Jason and his irritable bowel. Could he have possibly given us any less notice, do you think? I hope his bowel falls out of his backside, the irritable little sh…”

  “Yooku.” Jida’s voice cut through her panic. Apart from her husband, Jida was the only person on either planet who knew how to deal with her artistic temperament. She was invaluable. “We have a bunch of guys over there who can fill in for Jason, if necessary. It’s our own fault for not having a proper understudy on standby, and if Jessica’s replacement doesn’t get here in time, you know what we’ll do? We’ll adapt. We always do.”

  Yooku sighed. Why couldn’t she be more like Susan? Jida, even. No. That wasn’t how they worked. Yooku was a director; she turned each game into a production that the Royal Shakespeare Company would be proud of, and it cost her a little part of her sanity each time. Jida was her conscience, the calming influence that stopped her from ripping off actors’ heads and feeding them to their whiny little necks when they couldn’t or wouldn’t do as they were told. Well. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes there was nothing even Jida could do, and Yooku was starting to think that today was going to be one of those times. She looked over at the assortment of actors she had at her disposal, and shook her head.

  “Why is it okay for us to use Jessica’s real name?” she wondered. “I mean, I know she doesn’t have a Vanguran name because she’s Earthbound and you can’t risk sending a backside that old through the portal, but shouldn’t we have a name for her anyway? I’ve used the word backside twice in as many minutes, now. I just want you to know that it’s really difficult for me not to use stronger language. I know you don’t like my potty mouth, Jida, but I don’t think I can hold it back much longer.”

  “You’re rambling again. Did you take your medication today?”

  Yooku ignored her, and made a shooing motion at the actors who were still stood watching her outburst.

  “None of them will do, and you know it. We don’t have a demon hunter.” She wandered away from Jida, hands on hips as she took turns staring at the actors she’d just openly disparaged. They knew better than to let on that they’d heard. The warehouse space resembled a movie set, but without the cameras. There was an authentic looking altar right in the middle of the room, consisting of two circular stone columns resting on the ground, atop which rested a simple flat stone slab for sacrifices. Yooku’s vision of Varun Behl was unimpressed with intricate decorations and needless golden touches, so the altar was plain. There were grooves cut into the stone that collected blood and channelled it into a curved recess by the foot of the slab, and that was pretty much that. It was entirely possible the real Varun Behl, and Yooku had no reason to believe he didn’t actually exist, would have dressed his temple entirely differently. Until he put in an appearance and gave her a few pointers, however, she would continue with her version and its simple, inexpensive tastes.

  Footsteps echoed through the warehouse, and Yooku looked up in time to see a tall man enter from the same direction herself and Jida had just arrived from. He was half a head taller than her, and she was just over six feet. He was broad shouldered and square jawed, the perfect soldier if not for the long, wavy hair that sat on top of his head and reminded her of a judge’s wig. Her breath caught in her throat. Givrok Ironshoulder. He wasn’t an actor, but by the gods of this damn planet, she’d make him one today if she had to!

  “Did somebody ask for a demon hunter?” Givrok asked, standing aside and holding up a half-hearted hand to introduce the companion that was in the process of following him into the room. The companion stopped abruptly, and took in his surroundings. Yooku’s heart skipped a beat when she realised he was in Varun Behl’s dragon armour, and clapped a hand over her mouth in delight. Something in Givrok’s manner set a few alarm bells ringing in the back of her head, but she ignored them in her excitement. The show would go on! She cast her eyes over the new arrival, marvelling at how well he wore the ponderous looking armour. He was tall and grey-haired, as requested and as Jessica had promised, but with youthful skin and blue eyes that gave him an ageless, haughty appearance. Perfect! The goatee obviously wasn’t real, but it was good enough to fool the standard of gamer they would be dealing with today. There was something familiar about him, and she found herself holding a hand in front of her face so that it blocked her view of the lower half of his face. Something wasn’t quite right, and it was related to those alarm bells that were now clanging away in her head.

  “Oh no.” It came out as a mumble, and coincided perfectly with the slumping of her shoulders. She knew this actor.

  “What is it?” Jida wondered, appearing at her side and making her start. Dejectedly, Yooku raised her hand and pointed a finger at Jessica’s replacement actor. Not for the first time today, and certainly not for the last, she sighed.

  “She’s only gone and sent us Rafferty bloody Barnes.”

  Six

  Rafferty followed GI Joe into the large open space of the warehouse, and stopped in his tracks. There were plenty of people in the room, but the very first thing his attention was drawn to was the large stone altar in the centre. The sight of it chilled his blood, just as he supposed it was meant to. Wrenching his eyes away from it, he took in more of his surroundings. They’d done quite a good job, if he was being honest. The altar was convincing, but he guessed a large part of that was because the whole room was lit by torchlight that cast flickering shadows on the walls and almost hid them from view. The effect made the already large storage space look positively cavernous, and the drop in temperature was a welcome relief from the warmth of outside, despite the dozens of naked flames that seemed like an unnecessary fire hazard. He’d been on more stages and film sets than he could remember, and this was right up there as being one of the best he’d encountered in his long career. His heart raced, and he felt insignificant. Which, of course, was no good. He was Varun Behl, the most feared demon hunter the land had ever seen. This was his home, and he should feel comfortable here. Nodding to himself, he forced his hunched shoulders to relax a little and tr
ied to shift his focus to the people in the room instead. He noticed the women first. There were six of them, all dark haired and barely dressed. Although the room wasn’t freezing, he’d have wagered that if he got close enough to them, they’d all have goosebumps somewhere on their exposed skin. They were wearing what had maybe once been identical white togas but, now the costume department had finished with them, were more like cocktail dresses with indecent slashes to both thighs that made underwear highly advisable. They somehow managed to be both backless and strapless, with plunging necklines that once again necessitated some kind of underwear solution. All six of them were beautiful, and so similar looking that he wondered how many modelling agencies had been used to successfully fulfil the brief.

  Reluctantly, Rafferty shifted his attention to the shaven-headed men. The first thing he noticed was that none of them were bald. He didn’t know why that was something he’d noticed, other than it feeling slightly strange that nine men with perfect, stubbly hairlines and not a thinning patch between them, would choose to shave off what had undoubtedly been amazing, starring-role-winning hair. There were very few bald men these days, what with the excellent stem cell therapies and 3D printed follicle treatments that were available and widespread, so to see quite this many hairless pates in one place was mildly disconcerting. Not as disconcerting, of course, as the sharp looking knives each of them was carrying, all of which looked perfect for soaking that altar in sacrificial blood. He couldn’t tell from where he was standing, but he hoped to God they were nothing more than incredibly authentic looking props. If they were, then Stillwater was employing the very best props department in the business. Something told him, though, that these knives couldn’t be more real. The thought made him want to turn and run back the way he’d come. What had he gotten himself into? Perhaps getting back into television via a few commercials was the route he should have taken, after all. His agent had warned him about this job but, as ever, he’d been too arrogant to listen. One of his many failings. No. He was going to see this through. He was a professional, and he still had cosmetic surgery debts to pay off. Another six months of this madness, and he might be able to have a rethink. Until then…

  “She’s only gone and sent us Rafferty bloody Barnes.”

  The voice sounded familiar, but he hadn’t really gotten around to looking at the two remaining figures that stood not far from the altar. It was hardly surprising, considering the beautiful actors that surrounded him. That voice, though…it was definitely familiar, and not in a good way. He dragged his eyes away from the beautiful people, and focused them on the two figures that had so far failed to capture his attention. One of them was a young boy, with short dark hair and pathetic bum fluff on his top lip. Scratch that. It was a woman of indeterminate age; possibly in her twenties, thirties, or forties, and utterly dwarfed by the gangly woman stood next to her. Oh, sweet Jesus. The gangly woman. Veronica Schubert, or Ronnie to her friends. Of course, she had no friends so it was just Veronica. Or Ms. Schubert. Not Miss Schubert, and God have mercy on whoever called her Miss after being corrected the first time. Ms. Schubert, emphasis on the zzz. A fine stage director with dozens of awards to her name, she was world renowned for firing her leading actors halfway through a run, and for the most ridiculous reasons imaginable. Including, if memory served him correctly, a certain Rafferty Barnes at the depths of his drug-taking descent into obscurity and ruin. She’d not fared so well herself, and had endured her own fall from grace after experiencing some sort of breakdown that had made her impossible to work with. There was no way this was going to end well. He should cut his losses now, and run for the hills. Jessica would give him another gig if he got down on his knees and begged. Possibly.

  “I’m going to leave,” he said, with a decisive clap of his hands. “You’ve clearly got this covered without me. Goodbye.”

  “Wait! Don’t you dare!” It was the short woman with the moustache. She was surprisingly authoritative.

  “Let him go, Susan. We’re not that desperate.” That was Veronica, of course. She sounded bitter. He searched his drug-addled memories for the reason she’d fired him from whichever play they’d been working on. The answer evaded him. He turned to go back the way he’d just come.

  “Ironshoulder, do not let him leave!” The short woman again. Susan. GI Joe’s hand clamped around his forearm, armour and all. Rafferty paused, and turned to look at him.

  “That’s assault.”

  “No, it’s not. Around here, it doesn’t even qualify as foreplay. Stay where you are until I say you can leave, please.”

  “It seems I have no choice.” Rafferty glanced down at the hand restraining him, and raised an eyebrow. He was a heady mix of fear and fury, but he did as he was told because he was no fighter. Not really, anyway, despite the various martial arts listed on his résumé. Fear always beat fury; it was just the way he was built.

  “I can’t work with Rafferty Barnes. Not again.” Veronica sounded distressed. Rafferty glanced at the hand around his arm, and then up at the implacable Ironshoulder.

  “You heard the lady,” he said. “She’s in charge, and she can’t work with me. I’ve no idea why, but I’ve already made my peace with her reasoning. Such is life.”

  Ironshoulder grinned, tightened his grip, and said nothing.

  “Excuse us a moment, please,” said Susan, and pulled Veronica off to one side so that their backs were facing the rest of the room. They spoke in furious whispers that were just out of earshot, but it didn’t take a genius to see that they were having a heated debate. Rafferty tried pulling his arm free of his captor, and failed abysmally. No more than thirty seconds passed, although the uncomfortable silence in Varun Behl’s lair made it seem more like thirty days. Eventually, Veronica straightened to her full height and both women turned back to face the rest of the room. The director was clearly furious, and immediately clamped her hands behind her back as if they might reach out of their own accord and grasp Rafferty around the throat if she didn’t. Slowly, ever so slowly, she composed her features into an almost blank mask. Her hair was scraped back into a bun so tight it doubled as a facelift and, as an added bonus, it drew extra attention to her large ears. Susan tried to give her an encouraging nudge, and merely bounced ineffectually off the larger woman’s hip.

  “Very well.” She sounded hoarse. “It seems my hands are tied. Never let it be said that I’m not a team player. I…nope, can’t do it. Susan, give him some direction please; I can’t bear to look at his smug face.”

  With that, Veronica did an about-turn and stormed back the way she’d come. Susan looked up to a ceiling she could barely see, and seemed to be mouthing a prayer. When she was done, she strode over to Rafferty and Ironshoulder.

  “You can let him go now, Givrok,” she said. As soon as the human spaniel loosened his grip, Rafferty snatched his arm away and glared at him.

  “That was unnecessary.” He took an exaggerated step to the side, to put as much space between them as possible without making the bigger man suspect he was going to make a run for it. Ironshoulder seemed unconcerned either way, and smiled down at Susan.

  “I’d love to stay and see how this pans out,” he said. “But I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. Don’t ask me for details, otherwise I’ll be forced to make something up.” He jerked his head in Rafferty’s direction, and shared a knowing look with the woman who barely reached his stomach. “Good luck.” He walked off in the same direction as Veronica, and Rafferty saw that he was shaking his head as he went. He couldn’t help but feel he’d done very little to warrant this treatment, and thrust his hand in Susan’s direction in an effort to turn things around.

  “Rafferty Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Susan shook her head, and ignored his hand until he let it drop to his side.

  “You’re Varun Behl until further notice, and you can call me Jida. I don’t know what you did to warrant that reaction from Yooku, but if you try any nonsense with me, I’ll
serve your balls to you on a plate. Is that clear?”

  With Ironshoulder gone, Rafferty felt a little more confident. Although he wanted nothing more than to fire off a pithy retort that would put this Susan in her place, he didn’t know yet how friendly she was with all the knife-wielding actors. He decided that, just for now, it might be wise to let her think she was in charge.

  “No nonsense,” he confirmed with a smile, brushing imaginary dirt from one of his pauldrons. “Otherwise, balls on a plate. Got it.”

  “Good.” Susan started to scurry off in the direction of the other actors, and Rafferty immediately replaced the smile with a scowl that he directed malevolently at her back. Realising he wasn’t following, she stopped abruptly and pirouetted like the ballerina she might have been in another life. Almost too late, he contorted the scowl back into a smile. She noticed, and tilted her head up to the ceiling again with an accompanying slow shake. “Are you waiting for a written invitation?” she murmured, through clenched teeth. “Get over here and start bonding with the rest of your cast.”

  Rafferty took a deep breath, and imagined how tiny her dead body would look on the huge altar in the middle of the room. He wasn’t a petty man, but the thought did offer him a large slice of comfort. He was better than everyone here, that much he knew beyond doubt. A better actor, at least, and possibly a better person as well. He found himself an outsider once again, but that was fine and good. He might not have been able to fathom why the people around him couldn’t help but be jealous, but one thing was for sure; the atmosphere would only serve to help him focus on his craft. He was going to be the best damn Varun Behl this bunch of Royal Shakespeare rejects had ever seen.