by Bali Rai
One of the patrollers, over-sized, with black fur and a wide head, howled. The other, shorter and skinnier, with chocolate-brown markings on white fur, gave one of the youths an almighty slap that knocked him flying to the ground.
‘They’re going to kill them,’ said Tyrell. ‘You know it.’
Behind them, and from every other occupied building, people were beginning to pour into the street – some of them looking fearful, the others angry. ‘Leave him be!’ one brave voice called from the crowd. The patrollers sensed the mood, saw that they were outnumbered and paused. Any second they would call out, asking for assistance, and the street would fill with demons. If that happened, I knew that no one would survive.
‘Damn!’ I shouted, caught between urging the crowd to flee and helping Tyrell rescue the boys. I searched up and down the street, watching for demon reinforcements. I didn’t have to wait long.
‘HOLD!’ came a deep, resonant call.
I turned to my right, saw the owner of the voice and shuddered. My legs felt like jelly and my heart was racing. Mias, underlord and lieutenant of Valefor, was striding towards the fracas with nine more patrollers in tow. His arms, covered in thick black fur, hung low, a silvery stripe cut through his powerful chest, and the eyes of his simian face blazed scarlet. Many in the crowd scuttled away when they saw him approaching, right to be alarmed. Mias was sadistic, and well known for enjoying his work. The rumours claimed that he preferred to torture his victims before killing them, inflicting terrible pain. Apparently mercy was something he didn’t understand.
‘Get everyone inside,’ I whispered to Prior, knowing that we had to act. ‘Quick!’
The patrollers with Mias sprang forward, taking up positions on each side of their fellow demons. Each resembled a wild dog, jaws snapping and globules of thick saliva flying in every direction. Every growl sent humans running.
‘YOU DARE TO DEFY US!’ screamed Mias, his words echoing. I could feel my heart pulsing, hear the blood thumping through my arteries. One of the dog-demons, a bloated Alsatian with the mouth of a barracuda, faced us, snarling. The fuzz round its jaws was smeared with fresh blood.
I felt myself shiver with fear, even despite all my experience in the Hunt. Thing is, this was different. Neither me, Tyrell nor Prior were armed and we didn’t have the others backing us up either.
‘Don’t move!’ the dog-demon ordered, viscous russet spit dripping to the ground and steaming.
Tyrell clenched his thick fingers into fists and I knew that he was seconds from exploding. Before we first met, a patrol had killed his father, tearing him to pieces in front of his young eyes. His hatred was so deep that he began to shudder.
‘Tyrell . . .’ I cautioned under my breath.
Mias loped towards the cornered youths, looking this way and that, daring someone to interfere. A single person stepped forward, an old man who I knew as Turner. He was clothed in a tattered grey cloak, stained white T-shirt and once-blue trousers. His feet were bare and caked in filth, like they always were. Often, I’d let him use the rooms above the bar to have a wash. He was a strange one – a loner who often talked to himself. Tyrell started to tense up, so I put a hand on his chunky arm, hoping to hold him. Turner might be odd but he wasn’t a child – he knew the dangers of confronting an underlord.
The demons, I had been taught, had their own hierarchy. Valefor and the other lords were true breeds, ancient beings with powers no human could counter. The underlords weren’t as strong – often the offspring or favoured servants of the lords. Demon underlords such as Mias were, however, more than a match for any of us. At the bottom were the minor demons, such as the patrollers, and they too were still formidable foes. Turner’s act was idiotic – akin to jumping off a cliff into a sea of pain. I wanted to drag him away but I was frozen – scared and angry and unsure of my actions. I longed for my weapons but they were hidden away, deep inside the Haven.
‘They weren’t doing anything, my lord,’ said Turner, keeping his head bowed, his eyes averted. A gasp rippled through the onlookers.
Mias turned slowly, his mouth set wide in a smirk. ‘You dare to tell me . . .’
‘They’ve done nothing!’ Turner insisted, looking up.
‘They were setting a fire!’ growled one of the patrollers who’d caught them.
Both youths shook their heads, two pairs of eyes almost bursting from their respective skulls.
‘We were hungry . . .’ one of them managed to say, his hands trembling as he held out a limp, lifeless rodent.
Mias ignored them, his attention fixed on Turner. ‘How long have you lived, creature?’ he asked, his voice rasping.
Turner shrugged. From where I was standing, I could see the sly little smile that had broken on his face. I gulped and held onto Tyrell’s arm, squeezing hard. I’d had enough conversations with Turner to know that he was about to sign his own death warrant. I prayed that I was wrong.
‘Long enough to know your mother,’ Turner chuckled. ‘Your father too.’
Mias looked bemused. ‘My mother?’ he asked. ‘I ate my mother a thousand years before your father spilled his seed.’
Turner smiled again and my stomach turned over. I wanted to shout at him, tell him to run, but it was already too late. Turner was going to die and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to help him.
‘I bet she tasted like a turd too,’ he replied. ‘Like the rest of your godforsaken kind.’
‘Ha!’ spat Mias. ‘God? That infant’s myth, which your species thought would stop us? Tell me, old man, where is this god now?’
Turner shook his head. ‘You’ll never understand us,’ he replied wearily. ‘We are more noble and righteous than you’ll ever comprehend. Each of us carries a god inside. You carry nothing but iniquity in your soul . . .’
Mias began to clap his hands together slowly. Sarcastically. ‘Which soul?’ he asked. ‘I have consumed so many . . .’
Turner sighed. ‘Leave these children alone,’ he ordered. ‘If you want to fight, fight . . .’
Mias’ arm was just a blur. His fingers tore through Turner’s chest, returning with his still-beating heart in their grasp. As Turner collapsed, Mias turned towards the rest of us. He held the deep purple vessel above his head and squeezed, a rivulet of blood dripping from his hand. I felt bile rising into my throat.
‘No!’ cried Tyrell, trying to reach the demon but slamming instead into the closest patroller. The two of them locked arms and hit the ground. The dog-demon snapped at Tyrell’s neck with its teeth, trying to sever an artery. Tyrell managed to roll the thing onto its back and pin it with his knees before drawing back his right fist. I felt my knees quiver. My mouth went dry. I scanned the street again, desperate and no longer concerned that my secret life might be discovered. I couldn’t lose another brother. I had to help Tyrell.
Before I could move, however, Tyrell had pounded the demon’s head into the pavement with a mighty punch. Mias roared, dropped the heart and used his ape-like gait to scamper towards Tyrell. The other demons began to bait him, shrieking. Mias pounced on Tyrell, knocking him aside. Tyrell’s strength was useless now, his lungs emptied of air, his ribs probably cracked where Mias had caught him. The underlord pinned my friend, took hold of his throat, moved his head in close. A crack of lightning preceded an almost instantaneous explosion of thunder. Torrential rain burst through the clouds.
‘You’re a strong one,’ Mias observed, his fur beginning to drip with water. ‘A soul worth taking . . .’
‘Tyrell!’ I screamed as the demon drew back his head, baring his teeth . . .
15
STONE HEARD A commotion down in the street. Intrigued, he walked over to the windows, across creaking oak floorboards, and pulled back half-rotten, permanently drawn blinds. He watched as a patroller unit backed two homeless youths up against a tailor’s shop. Disturbances in the heart of the protected zone were rare; such was the fear of the people. No doubt the youths had broken some minor rule and now they wo
uld be severely punished. From the look of them, Stone saw that they were useless anyway. Homeless, malnourished and probably riddled with fleas and disease, they were fit for death and not much else.
The lead patroller, a particularly ugly specimen with a head that seemed three times too big for its body, slapped one of the boys, sending him sprawling. From the left he heard someone shouting, then someone else. To the right, a group of male workers stopped to watch. Another shout, this time from directly below, caused Stone to open one of the dirt-smeared windows and listen more closely.
‘Leave him be!’ he heard a man yell.
The street was now filled with people and Stone smiled. The Hunt was an event he rarely witnessed because he wasn’t foolish enough to trust the demons – they were just as likely to turn on the Wanted during their blood lust as anyone else. Here, though, was a chance to watch some sport. Very soon other patrols would arrive and take care of the crowd. If he was very lucky, some of the Resistance might show their faces, making his job of hunting them down even easier.
Not that he was ignorant. He had his suspicions about who might be involved. Suspecting someone and catching them was not the same thing, though. Had he been in charge, Stone wouldn’t have let ridiculous ideas about evidence prevent him from acting. The Mayor, in some myopic quest for personal popularity, insisted on following protocol, such as it was. Time and again Stone had pointed out that laws were for the Wanted. The dispossessed were chattels, and they deserved no favours. He might as well have been talking to himself, for all the good it did.
He walked back to his desk and picked up his coffee mug before returning to the window. More people were gathering now and a familiar voice boomed across the scene – Mias. Things were getting very interesting indeed . . .
* * *
Mace stopped, held out his arm and told Jonah to wait. They had reached a crossroads and Mace sensed an enemy presence.
‘Careful,’ he told Jonah.
Jonah raised his head, shoulders tense, fists clenched. They had managed to avoid the patrols during the afternoon but now, back in the protected zone, there were demons close by. He could smell them. The sky had turned from purple to deep, dark blue and the buildings each side of the street cast long shadows. Mace gestured towards a burned-out shell.
‘Walk in the lee of the buildings,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll give us cover.’
They moved quickly, silently, every sense on alert. Jonah, following Mace’s lead, crouched and waited. Up ahead of them, past a bus abandoned where the two roads crossed, a patrol unit came into view. One of the canine demons stood guard. The other two cautiously approached a disused building. A tattered and faded sign told Jonah that it had once been a shop. The letters that remained spelled out AX and OBS but gave no clue about what sort of business it had been. The larger of the two demons gestured towards the entrance with his oversized head. The other one, much smaller, with tiger-striped brown on white fur, nodded. They flanked the doorway, waiting. Jonah lifted his nose to the evening air. There, above the stench of sewers, was another smell, smoky and dense – fire. He saw the faintest of orange glows coming from inside the building.
‘Homeless kids,’ whispered Mace.
Suddenly the patrollers broke cover and sprang through the door, howling. Jonah waited a second and ran across to the bus, fifteen metres from the demon on point.
Mace cursed Jonah’s mother, but followed anyway. ‘Don’t get involved!’ he spat when he reached the young man. ‘You’ll get caught.’
Jonah ignored the giant, his attention fixed on the shop. Seconds later two shapes crashed through the window, splintering the wooden planks that had been nailed across it.
‘They’re just boys!’ said Mace.
Jonah saw that Mace was right. Each kid wore tattered clothes, black with filth. They ran to the left, barefooted. The patrollers followed moments later, pursuing their prey on all fours. Jonah peered round his cover and saw that the third patroller in the unit was watching the action. He took a dagger from his belt and set off towards the unsuspecting demon, keeping low. Mace looked on in disbelief as Jonah made up the ground with almost inhuman speed. Before the demon could react, he jumped onto its back, reached round and slammed the dagger into its left eyeball. The patroller fell to its knees, barely making a sound as Jonah took another, longer knife and cut off its head. The body slumped, head rolling right and Jonah left. Calmly, Jonah got up, bent over the severed head and retrieved his dagger, wiping the blood away on the demon’s fur.
Mace joined him quickly.
‘You take the street,’ Jonah ordered.
‘What are you—’ began Mace as Jonah took three strides towards the nearest building, managed to find some form of grip and scaled the wall to the roof. He disappeared within seconds.
‘What the hell!’ Mace exclaimed, unwilling to trust his own eyes. He caught himself quickly. The boys on the street needed his help. There was no time to stand and gawp. Drawing his long sword, he turned and pounded towards them . . .
Up on the rooftops, Jonah made ground more quickly, careful to avoid any crumbling rafters. The buildings adjoined each other until the next road created a break, and he wanted to reach the end before the demons. He stayed as close to the edge as he could, his eyes flitting between watching his own path and scanning the street below.
The patrollers had set off fast but their prey was nowhere to be seen. He saw the demons come to a stop, panting and sniffing the air for a scent. He let them alone and continued towards the end of the row. Once there, he crouched low at the corner and waited. His eyes searched the street, trying to sense the whereabouts of the youths. He took slow, deep breaths and cleared his mind. A heat signature, something he had been trained to look for, emanated from behind a dumpster. The youths were there, and Jonah could hear their hearts beating out a frightened rhythm as clearly as if it were a march being played on a drum. Through sheer luck rather than skill they had managed to avoid the demons, but not for long. The patrollers had sensed them too, and before Jonah could react they charged, the largest colliding with the bin, sending it crashing into the nearest wall. The youths set off again, right underneath Jonah’s position.
He wondered whether to drop down and head off the demons but stopped short. It would be quicker to get across to the building opposite. He considered the gap for a moment before backing up by five metres and taking a deep breath. Then he ran forward at a sprint. Using his left leg to pivot from, he pounced from the edge, out into thin air, his arms outstretched. His momentum lifted him high, and seconds later he crashed onto the opposite rooftop. He took a breath and moved on, eyes once again fixed on the street below, which was filling with people . . .
* * *
Mace felt his lungs burning as he ran after the demon patrol, sword heavy in his hands. He wondered where Jonah had gone, why he hadn’t dropped from the rooftops and taken on the patrollers. Looking upwards, he scanned the buildings but there was no sign of the young man. Ahead of him, across another junction, lay the centre of Fire City. If the patrollers managed to chase the youths as far as the hotel, all bets were off. Attacking a patrol there was suicidal and would bring other demons to the fight. It would also reveal who was fighting for the Resistance, and if the battle for the youths didn’t kill them, the discovery of their clandestine struggle would see them executed for sure.
Yet what choice did they have? They couldn’t ignore the youths’ plight and let them die. That was what collaborators did, the scum that Mace hated almost as much as the demons. Despite all the problems it would bring, there was no other way. They had to rescue the boys; otherwise any faith the general populace had left in the Resistance would disappear.
‘Goddammit!’ he cussed as he crossed the junction and hid in a doorway.
The youths were running blind now, unconcerned that they were heading into bigger trouble. They were only metres from the hotel, and about to be caught.
Mace scampered from doorway to doorway, sl
owing his approach. When he was within twenty metres of them he ducked down an alley, sprinting to the end where he knew a covered passage ran parallel to the street behind the row of shops. He walked into the darkness slowly now, switching from his long sword to a machete. The shorter weapon would be easier to swing in the narrow passageway, which was prime rodent-nesting territory, and although the vermin wouldn’t kill him, they could inflict serious injury, especially when protecting their young. Mace stayed alert as he moved, and made it to the end without incident. Once there, he turned left into another alley so narrow that his shoulders brushed against both walls. Ahead of him lay the main street. He came to a stop just before the end and crouched low, using the darkness as cover once more. Peering out into the street, he heard a voice that made him tremble with fear . . .
Jonah stepped from one roof to another, taking his time to avoid a gaping hole in the tiles. Once he was sure of his footing, he took up a position opposite the hotel. Four large windows ran right to left across the first floor, mirroring the second above it. There were two smaller windows on the third floor, parallel with his eye-line. The panes on the first floor had drawn blinds, but a soft light illuminated the room inside and Jonah could make out a figure observing those below. At street level, a single opening about two metres high and four across had been boarded shut. To the left of it was an entrance, and he raised an eyebrow as Martha and Tyrell stepped out, followed by Prior with his sallow and wrinkled skin. The tatty sign hung suspended by rusty chains from a bracket above the doors. Only three letters remained: T, E and L. He watched as Martha said something to Tyrell, placing a hand on his right forearm. The older man said something too, drawing an angry glance from Tyrell.
A movement in the first-floor room alerted him. Whoever was watching had moved away. Once again, Jonah tried to read the heat signature, but the glass panes prevented it. The skill, taught him by his mother, needed more practice. Instead, it was his regular vision that informed him of the watcher’s return. The blinds parted slightly but not enough for Jonah to get a clear view.