by Robin Jarvis
The three men hurried to obey and the Ismus draped himself across the Bakelite console, face tilted towards the Keep. What a truly fantastic panorama. He’d never dreamed it would be so ravishing. Lucifer, in all His brilliant splendour, surveying the wretched world he, His humble servant, had wrought for His return. He could sense the satisfaction, the dark pleasure emanating from that lofty throne and, when the glare from those scalding eyes glanced across him, he felt a soaring pride. He had done well. No one had ever achieved more in His name. There had never been destruction and terror on such a scale as this. And there was still more to come.
Returning his attention to the controls, he flicked off a row of switches and waited.
Overhead, the lightning turned crimson, like gigantic veins and arteries, flaring in the broiling night. The invisible barriers he had raised and maintained, this final week, dissipated and the huge area round the construction site was now defenceless. The myriad creatures that had been drawn to this seething mass of people were free to move in and dine.
The Ismus stared out, over the horror-filled, burning landscape, where his former readers were either killing one another, or were consumed with despair and self-loathing and trying to kill themselves.
Almost immediately new sounds swelled that agonised cacophony. A hill of people lifted, as something immense burrowed up from below. A segmented back broke the surface, followed by a writhing mass of tentacles that snaked from its gaping mouth. It was the same species of nightmare that had appeared in the aberrant camp that summer, the thing Captain Swazzle had called a Marshwyrm. But this one was much larger.
Its massive bulk steered through the screaming multitude. The fleshy, worm-like tentacles snatched everything in their path and shovelled them into the hungry mouth. Then another of them burst up from the deep regions of the earth – and another.
“I saw three ships come sailing in,” the Ismus sang, clapping his hands, rejoicing.
On the horizon, winged shapes were circling in the sky.
The scavengers of Hell had come to feed.
“Christmas dinner, with all the trimmings,” he welcomed them. “Tuck in, my friends, no party hats or table manners required. Plenty for everyone. Make merry, indulge and be sated.”
The Ismus breathed a gratified sigh. He who had been cast down was most pleased in him. He could feel the approval radiating from His Sovereign Majesty. It had been a difficult road, but the sacrifices had been worth it: the small defeats, the trials, the doubts, the long wait, the dangers and uncertainties that had so often threatened to upset the entire scheme. Finally each one had been overcome. His triumph was complete and total. It was a magnificent moment to savour.
“My Lord!” a voice interrupted.
Irritated, the Ismus turned his head and saw that two of his Black Face Dames had returned. Struggling between them, held fast, was a bespectacled teenage boy wearing a cowboy hat.
“What have we here?” the Ismus asked in amused surprise. “Why – it’s the Milky Bar Kid! Ha ha!”
Spencer said nothing and the toes of his boots scraped the floor, as the bodyguards dragged him closer.
“When I said no party hats,” the Ismus scolded, “that included Stetsons, not just paper ones from crackers. Are you feeble-minded, boy? This isn’t a barn dance. Where can you have sprung from?”
Spencer refused to answer. The Ismus raised his eyebrows at the Black Face Dames.
“We found him skulking by the drawbridge,” one of them reported. “When we went to release Mauger.”
“Ah, yes,” the Ismus said, studying the monitor. “Has the Growly Guardian been let out of his den?”
“Any moment now, my Lord.”
The Ismus selected the camera in the archway of the gatehouse, the one pointing at a large, heavy door built from stout metal bars. He saw the third bodyguard attend to an iron padlock and begin drawing back the bolts.
The Ismus picked up the horn-shaped microphone.
“Mauger, my lovely pet,” his voice broadcast over the speakers below. “The time has come for your grand finale – a solo spectacular. Out there in the castle is the man who evaded you once. His family is on top of the West Tower. Run, my favourite. Slay them first, then bring me back his head, or anything that’s left over – I don’t really care what.”
A bellowing roar vibrated through the stones of the gatehouse. On the monitor, the Black Face Dame stepped back. The door flew open and Mauger came storming out. Its powerful jaws ripped through the man’s throat and, with a shake of its great head, the two horns tore him in two.
Its mighty fists pounded the ground, until the flagstones cracked, and Mauger let out another ferocious roar. Then, tossing its head, it bounded away, across the courtyard – towards the West Tower.
The Ismus watched it charge through the castle. “How he loves to gambol and frolic,” he remarked with affection, before giving the captured boy his full attention once more.
“I ask again,” he demanded, now deadly serious and threatening. “Who are you and what were you doing? Where are you from and how did you get here?”
Spencer remained tight-lipped, but the awful vision of the entity that reigned supreme upon the Keep would have rendered any attempt to speak impossible. He was so petrified, he could scarcely breathe.
“He was carrying these, my Lord,” one of the bodyguards said, holding out two hand grenades.
The Ismus took them and an ugly grin split his thin face as he realised.
“So that’s who you are,” he said. “You’re Spencer, of course. That’s what the old fairy meant. I should have remembered you from my days hiding inside Christina, back in the camp, and when we met at Malinda’s cottage in Mooncaster. But then you’re not exactly memorable, are you, boy? Takes more than a novelty hat to make you interesting. You’re one of those grey-faced wallpaper people, forever unnoticed, always hovering in the background – being a bit creepy with nothing interesting to say for yourself. At least the zits have cleared up.”
Removing the pins, he threw the grenades into the moat, where they exploded with great spouts of water.
“Let him go,” he instructed. “I don’t think there’s any fight left, if indeed there was any to begin with. What a specimen. He can hardly stand up unaided. The resplendence of the Dawn Prince is too much for him to bear.”
The Black Face Dames released Spencer and took a step back. The boy wilted and almost fell among the cables that trailed from the back of the console.
“Were you seriously planning on blowing this up?” the Ismus asked in bemused disbelief. “You? On your own? Were Old Mother Riley and Miss Sour Noodle supposed to be some sort of diversion? That really is the most ludicrous plan I’ve ever heard. I’m almost insulted! If I’d known they had plotted something so cretinously pathetic, I’d have made them suffer a lot more before they died.”
Spencer winced and his mouth quivered.
“Oh, yes,” the Ismus assured him. “Your hapless little band of outlaws are all dead and dying. The pensioner has worn his last frock, the Korean girl is a gibbering wreck, soon to be picked clean by my Christmas guests, the cars containing the little sheep won’t get far, they’ll be opened up like tin cans, and my bloodthirsty demon is just about to rend Martin Baxter limb from limb. It’s been a highly satisfying, productive night. I’m so very lucky. Merry Christmas to one and all – but especially me!”
A choked, crushed cry sounded in Spencer’s throat and his tormentor laughed viciously as he turned to the monitor to watch Mauger closing in on Martin Baxter.
“They really do show the best telly over the festive season. This is my all-time favourite programme!”
Austerly Fellows was triumphant.
28
THE ADRENALIN PUMPING through Martin’s system had brought him to the West Tower ahead of Mauger. He could hear the demon stampeding through the castle, smashing its way in this direction. It wouldn’t be long now. Sweat was running down his face, washing clean rivers thr
ough the smeared filth, and steam rose from his stinking rags.
Standing on the battlements, he stared up at the tower. From here he could see only one corner of the Nativity roof. Was there time to run inside and climb the winding stairs to be with Carol and Paul? Or should he deal with Mauger first, down here?
Looking at the golden dagger in his hand, he knew it was too paltry a weapon to inflict any harm on that monster. He remembered their last encounter, when it pursued him from Fellows End. Mauger was going to make very short work of him. Martin cast around to see if there was anything else he could use against it. He pulled at the scaffold poles round the tower, but they were fixed firmly in place and there was no time to unfasten the couplers to release one.
Another roar resounded across the castle walls. Mauger was closing. Martin didn’t know what to do. And then he heard a snicker behind him.
“Kizka smell scared Mauger meat,” a voice said.
Martin jumped round. Emerging from the darkness of the tower entrance was the Punchinello that had been guarding the Nativity scene. A spear and sword were in his gnarled hands, but he hadn’t come down to attack; he wanted to watch the fun.
“Mauger make much mess!” the Punchinello gurgled in excited anticipation. “Your guts will be strung like bunting, your bloody bones…”
His gloating ended abruptly when a length of timber walloped him across the shoulders. The guard whirled round furiously and was clobbered by the same piece of wood across the face.
While he tottered in stunned surprise, he was robbed of his weapons and pitched over the edge of the high walkway.
“That’s for threatening my baby,” Carol spat when his tumbling body hit the ground. “Yeah – and everything else!”
“Carol!” Martin yelled.
The woman threw the timber on the floor and rushed to him.
“Oh, Martin!” she cried joyously. “Martin, Martin…”
Despite everything, she couldn’t help laughing. “You really do stink. You never did know how to dress.”
Clutching her face in his hands, he kissed her passionately on the mouth. Standing in the tower entrance, cradling the baby, Paul grinned.
“We smashed up the manger,” the boy said, nudging the wood with his foot. “Perfect for thwacking!”
Martin hugged him and gazed down at his infant son.
“I think he’s got your nose,” Paul said.
“Poor thing,” his mother added.
Martin wanted to take the baby in his arms, but was so dirty he didn’t dare touch him. He was a beautiful child. Large hazel eyes stared up at him and he giggled, wrinkling his nose.
“What’s his name?” Martin asked.
“Hasn’t got one,” Carol told him. “Not a real name, not from this world. I want you to choose it for him… but try to resist Spock or Bilbo.”
At that moment Mauger came rampaging into the courtyard below. The repulsive head turned and twisted as the nostrils flared. Prowling over the cobbles, the demon approached the Punchinello’s body. With a casual shake of its curved horns, it flung the guard against the far wall.
Then the yellow eyes slid upwards and fixed on the humans gathered upon the battlements. Mauger’s jagged teeth crunched together. Then it let loose a chilling roar.
Martin took the spear and sword from Carol.
“Get back inside the tower,” he told her and Paul sharply. “Go right to the top and wait for me there.”
“Oh, no,” she refused, making a grab to get the sword back. “I’m not leaving your side ever again!”
Martin recognised that obstinate, belligerent tone and knew it was pointless trying to argue.
“All right, you madwoman,” he said, keeping the sword and giving her the dagger instead. “But stay behind me. Don’t do anything reckless.”
“Bit late to tell me that,” she replied. “I moved in with you, didn’t I?”
Then Carol turned to Paul and urged him to take the baby up to the top of the tower. The boy didn’t want to leave them, but he knew he had to take care of his little brother now. Carol and Martin embraced him. Paul took one last look at them, preparing to fight a demon they didn’t have a hope of defeating, and hurried away.
With a lumbering gait, and a percolating growl vibrating in its throat, Mauger stalked towards the courtyard steps that led to the battlements. The powerful, gorilla-like shoulders rolled as it lumbered forward. Then, with a sudden spurt of speed, it sprang up the steps, six at a time.
Martin’s sweat had turned cold. Mauger had grown since their last meeting. Against that ferocious horror, what could one middle-aged man, with a spear and a sword, hope to accomplish? He would be as effective as a figure made from straw. He would be dashed aside with a single swipe of those mighty claws.
Despairing for those he loved most more than for himself, he watched the demon race up on to the high walkway and turn towards them. Digging the tip of one of its horns into the stonework, it gouged a deep trench along the wall as it advanced.
This was it.
Carol reached forward and touched Martin’s hand.
That simple gesture, a pure demonstration of love, here at this deadly finale to the night’s entertainment, made the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck rise. Suddenly the fear, the nervous dread and doubt left him completely. Anger and determination rushed in to replace them. His courage soared. That foul creature wasn’t going to find it so easy to get past him. Even if it was as unstoppable as an express train, he’d make it tremble whenever it recalled this second encounter – and he’d make sure there were plenty of deep scars to keep those memories fresh and stinging.
Gripping the sword and spear firmly, he marched along the walkway to meet the demon head on.
“Come on, you great ugly mongrel!” he yelled, cutting the air with the blade. “I’m going to give you a lesson in fractions you won’t ever forget!”
Mauger threw back its head and its bellow was augmented by an explosion somewhere in the castle. Then it charged straight for him.
On the gatehouse roof, Spencer hung his head. There had never been much hope for this suicidal operation, but to hear the news of Gerald’s death, delivered in so off-hand a fashion, was a grievous shock. He couldn’t bear it and could no longer look at that shining being up on the Keep. The boy tried to blot it out, forget it was there, concentrate on what was directly in front of him. But wave upon wave of terror flowed out from the new ruler of the world and Spencer couldn’t master himself. Gerald and Eun-mi shouldn’t have put their faith in him. He was letting them down. Why did he ever dare think he could accomplish this? From the moment that unspeakable horror had ascended the Waiting Throne, they should have abandoned their foolish plan and crept away, to die in the darkness somewhere.
And who was he anyway? The Ismus had described him with painful accuracy. He was just a nerdy loner who didn’t have any friends, long before Dancing Jax trashed the world.
But, since that book had surfaced and its poison had spread, he had made true friends – the very best.
Spencer scowled and ground his teeth, furious with himself. Eun-mi had been right too: he was weak. But, standing there, steeped in the effulgence of Hell, his hands began to clench into fists. He wasn’t going to cheapen those friendships and the memories of those amazing, courageous people by giving up, here at the very end of everything.
“Who am I?” he found himself whispering. “I’m Herr Spenzer, that’s who.”
Taking heart from the name Marcus had called him in the camp, he went on to recall a favourite quote – uttered by the greatest Western hero of them all.
Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.
Well, here he was, scared to death, so he told himself it was time to saddle up.
Spencer raised his head defiantly and brushed his fingers across the brim of his Stetson in a salute to ‘the Duke’. There was a bold new gleam in his eye. For the next five minutes, in all probability the last of his young life, he
was going to be John Wayne.
“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t ya?” he said in a bellicose drawl to the Ismus. “Well, let me tell you somethin’, tenderfoot. We already blew up your homestead, with all those other fancy doodads in it. You shoulda patented them as a cure for bad skin, cos that’s all they is good fer.”
The Ismus was so taken aback by this unexpected display of spirit, he gave a snort of laughter, thinking the boy had lost his wits entirely.
“How the blazing glory of His Radiant Majesty afflicts them,” he observed. “How His presence shrivels their insect minds. Do you think, boy, that I was unaware of what you did in Fellows End? For almost eighty years, my essence saturated every stone, seeped through every fibre of that house and, after I departed, echoes of my thought and being remained. Not a mote of dust floated through those hallways that I was not cognisant of. The moment Miss Winyard, my bright little protégée, guided you over the threshold, I knew of it. Such a pity you razed the old place, but it had served its purpose. I was never going to return. And, as for my special room, the bridging devices there had only a very localised field of influence. Their destruction didn’t even register on this master console. You achieved nothing.”
Spencer breathed deeply and adopted the famous John Wayne stance he had practised so often before. He wasn’t going to let the Ismus distract him. Grasping the crown of his Stetson, he lifted the hat from his head carefully and held it against his chest.
“Now you might think you got it all figured out,” he said, mangling lines from the classic movie McLintock! with his own words. “But you caused a whole mess o’ trouble here today and got folks killed, and somebody oughta whup ya real good and belt you in the mouth. But I won’t, I won’t…”
Spencer glanced down at his Stetson and reached inside. With a brazen grin, he looked up again, stared the Ismus square in the eyes and snarled, “The hell I won’t!”
Taking the grenade that had been concealed under his hat, and from which he’d just ripped the pin, he dropped it into one of the vents at the back of the master console.