Book 2 - Daemons Are Forever (55 page)

Then, the sounds. From outside the steel walls came noises, from far away at first, then drawing inexorably closer. Roars of rage, howls and screams, and something very like laughter, but not quite. Basic, primal emotions given voice, without the burden or restraint of conscious thought. The horrid empty voices we hear in childhood nightmares, from things we know would hurt us, if they could only find us… The voices sank into words, and that was worse, as though plague or fate or evil had learned to talk. They circled the descending elevator, coming at us from this side and that, rushing in and falling back, threatening and pleading, mocking and begging, trying to persuade us to open the elevator doors and let them in. I can’t remember exactly what they said, and I’m glad.

Some of us tried putting our hands over our ears, to keep the voices out, but it didn’t work. We weren’t hearing them with our ears.

We left the voices behind, their cheated screams receding into the distance, and after that there was only silence, and the descent, and the feeling of something really bad drawing slowly closer. At the end, there was no sensation of stopping. The elevator doors just slid open, without cause or warning, and the standard colourless light spilled out onto a terrible darkling plain. None of us moved. It didn’t feel safe. What we could see of the world outside was dark and dismal, the only light a deep dull purple, like a bruise. I moved reluctantly forward, stepping out of the elevator, and one by one the others followed me. A terrible, grinding oppression fell across me the moment I left the comfortingly normal light of the elevator, as though I was suddenly carrying all the troubles of the world on my shoulders. There was no sound anywhere, as such, but something like an unending roll of thunder growled in the air, like a long bass note you could only hear with your soul, like a threatened storm you somehow knew had been on its way forever.

We all stood together, keeping close just for the comfort of living company in the face of this dead or dying world. We didn’t belong in a place like this, and we all knew it. And then the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the bright, healthy light, and we all spun around just in time to see the elevator disappearing down into the cracked stone ground; leaving us alone in the awful place it had brought us to. A purple stained plain that seemed to stretch away forever in whatever direction I looked.

It felt…like the end of the world. A darkling plain under an endless night. Up above, a bloodred moon hung low in the sky, where one by one the stars were going out. Already there were great dark gaps in the unfamiliar constellations. The endless plain was bare stone, marked here and there with huge craters, long jagged cracks, and deep crevices. Like the bottom of the ocean, after all the seas have boiled away. There was a crevice nearby, a long jagged line with crumbling edges. I moved over to it and stared down into the gap. It seemed to just fall away forever. I made some kind of sound, and Molly was quickly there to take my arm and pull me back from the edge. As though the sound of my voice had triggered something, strange twisting vegetation, rough creepers with huge dark leaves covered with pulsing red veins, curled slowly up out of the crevice. Molly and I backed away, and the twitching plants tried to follow us, but already they were rotting and falling apart. Alive and dying at the same time, as though they hadn’t developed enough to hold a form properly.

Other cracks and crevices held crimson magma, seething sluggishly, but even though they weren’t that deep, the magma’s heat didn’t rise up to the surface, as though the heat lacked the strength to travel that far. The air itself was thin, and disturbingly lacking in any smell. I clapped my hands sharply, and there was no echo. I was pretty sure the sound wouldn’t travel far either. We all stuck close together, looking around us, because we were the only living things in this running-down world.

“This is the place where quests fail,” Subway Sue said quietly. “Where love is always unrequited, promises are broken, and only bad dreams come true.”

“Then how the hell are we supposed to succeed in our mission?” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. He sounded like he wanted to be angry, but it was just too much of an effort.

“We brought something of our own universe with us,” said Molly. “Enough to give us a fighting chance. But the longer we stay here, the sooner that insulation will wear away. We really need to get moving.”

“This is the broken world,” said Subway Sue, almost hypnotised. “The shoddy lands, the abandoned territory…”

“All right,” I said. “You’re starting to get on my nerves now, Sue. This is a bad place; got it. Now get over it, and tell me where the hell we’re supposed to head for.”

She looked at me with big, unfocused eyes. “Say the name, Eddie Drood. Say the name of where you want to get to.”

“Just do it, Eddie,” Molly murmured in my ear. “She’s more in tune with this place than I am. She understands the hidden ways; they talk to her.”

“We need to get inside Truman’s base under Stonehenge,” I announced, speaking clearly and distinctly into the silence, and feeling just a bit silly. My words didn’t echo. They seemed to fall flat and lifeless on the still air.

“There!” said Subway Sue, pointing off to one side with a sharp finger. “There is our destination.”

Far off in the distance, a beam of light stabbed up into the dying sky like a beacon. It was bright and clear and glorious, very definitely not a natural part of this world. It shone like hope, like a promise…like a way out.

“This is a dying world,” Giles Deathstalker said unexpectedly. “Where entropy is king.”

“Don’t you start,” I said firmly.

I have no idea how long we walked, under that bloody moon and the disappearing stars, across that sere and blasted plain. The night never ended, landmarks were few and far between, and we soon discovered none of our watches worked. But it felt like forever. I did my best to set a steady pace, leading from the front, circling around the deep craters and jumping across the cracks and crevices. The ground was hard-packed and unyielding under my feet, but strangely there was hardly any impact, no matter how hard I stamped. We made no sound as we walked, and our few conversations seemed to just trail away to nothing, until even the impulse to talk faded away, set against such an overwhelming silence. So we trudged on across the endless plain, while the grinding silence wore away at our thoughts and emotions and plans. Until only slow, dogged determination kept me moving, a simple refusal to be beaten by this awful place.

At some point, we passed a long row of overpoweringly huge stone structures that might have been buildings. Tall as skyscrapers, fashioned from some faintly shimmering, unfamiliar stone. They towered over us like brooding giants, strange, disturbing shapes with deep-set caverns up the sides like so many dark, watchful eyes. The lower reaches were covered with long curling displays of unreadable glyphs. Threats, or warnings, or perhaps just
Do not forget us. We lived here and built these things, despite the nature of our world
.

And yet somehow these solid signs of life gave no comfort; there was in the end a feeling of cold malice about them, as though whatever ugly things had lived in these ugly shapes would have resented our presence, our purpose, our life. We kept walking, and eventually we left the stone structures behind us.

“Is this what Hell is like?” I said to Molly at some point.

“No,” she said. “Hell is more alive than this.”

As though encouraged by the sound of voices, Mr. Stab abruptly announced, “Something is watching us.”

I stopped, and the others stopped with me. We looked around. Just cracks and crevices and craters.

“Are you sure?” said Molly, frowning.

“No, he’s right,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. The more we all talked, the less of an effort it was. “I’ve been feeling watching eyes on us for ages. Haven’t seen anything, though.”

“We are definitely being observed,” said Mr. Stab. His voice was entirely calm and easy, as though proposing tea on the lawn.

“Yes,” said Subway Sue. “There’s something here with us. I can feel it… I told you something had come to live here, and prey on travellers. That’s why people stopped using the Damnation Way.”

“Maybe you should have just changed the name,” I said. “Advertising is everything these days.”

“Not now, Eddie,” said Molly.

Giles Deathstalker drew his long sword and turned slowly around in a full circle. “They’re here. Close. Close and deadly.”

“But who the hell would want to live in a place like this?” said Molly.

We moved to form a circle, shoulder to shoulder, facing outwards. I felt suddenly more awake and alert, as though shaking off a long doze. I glared out across the endless plain, the dull and sullen purple stone, but nothing moved anywhere. Whatever was here had to be pretty powerful, and decidedly dangerous. From what Subway Sue had said, some fairly major players had used this route, and never showed up at the other end. I was looking for something big and impressive and obviously deadly; I should have known better.

This was a dying world, after all. And what do dead and dying bodies attract? Scavengers, parasites, carrion eaters.

They came up out of the cracks and craters, crawling and creeping, on two legs and four, swarming across the dead ground towards us. They were all around us, running and leaping, wave after wave of them, seething like maggots in an open wound. I didn’t know if they originated in this place, or came here from somewhere else, but the nature of this place had got to them. They looked like they were aspiring to be human, but falling short. They looked rough, unfinished, the details of their bodies blurred or corrupted or missing. They didn’t even have faces, just phosphorescent, rotting eyes and sharp-toothed circular mouths, like lampreys.

They surged forward from every side, and there seemed no end to their numbers. I subvocalised my activating Words, but nothing happened. I tried them again, but my armour didn’t respond. I looked at the Sarjeant-at-Arms, and the shock in his face told me all I needed to know. He made grasping motions with his hands, trying to summon the guns that came to him by right, and nothing happened. Molly raised her arms in the stance of summoning, and then looked at me blankly as nothing happened.

“It’s this place,” said Subway Sue. “Complicated magics can’t work here. Or complicated sciences. The disintegrating laws of reality can’t support them. That’s why so many major players never made it out of here. We’re helpless. Defenceless.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Giles Deathstalker. He swept his long sword back and forth before him. “A strong right arm, a good blade, and a forthright heart always work.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Stab, his long blade suddenly in his hand.

Molly reached down into the tops of her boots and pulled out two slender silver blades. “Arthames,” she said crisply. “Witch daggers. I mostly use them for ceremonial work, but they’re no less sharp and nasty for that.”

She handed one to me. It felt surprisingly heavy for such a delicate-looking thing. The Sarjeant-at-Arms pulled a long blade with jagged edges out of his sleeve.

“Albanian punch dagger,” he said. “Always a good idea to have a little surprise in reserve. For when you absolutely have to kill every living thing that annoys you.”

“Knives won’t work,” said Subway Sue hollowly. “Swords won’t work. There’s just too many of them. We’re all going to die here. Like everybody else.”

“I think this place is getting to you,” said Molly. “Stay behind me and you’ll be fine.”

“Numbers are never any guarantee of success,” said Giles. “Any trained soldier knows that. Stand your ground, make every blow count, remember your training, and you’ll be fine. A trained soldier with a blade is a match for any number of unarmed rabble.”

We stood shoulder to shoulder, our weapons held out before us. Subway Sue sat down suddenly inside the circle and covered her face with her hands. The scavengers were running towards us, bounding across the broken ground, driving forward from every side at once. Wave upon wave, in numbers too great to count. If there’d been anywhere to run, I’d have run. But the bright pillar of light seemed as far away as ever, and we were surrounded. So all that was left was to stand and fight, and, if need be, die well.

Hopefully, someone else would find a way to get to the tower in time, and stop it. I wished…well. There were so many things I wished I’d done, or said. So many things I meant to do … but I suppose that’s always true, no matter when you die. I glanced at Molly, and we shared one last sweet, savage smile. And then the scavengers hit us.

They reached Giles first, and he cut them down with effortless ease. His long blade swept back and forth as though it was weightless, the incredibly keen edge slicing through flesh and bone alike. Dark blood spurted and the scavengers fell, but they never made a sound. Giles laughed happily, doing what he did best, and glorying in it. Mr. Stab reached out casually with his blade, cutting throats, piercing bellies, stabbing eyes with graceful skill. He smiled too, but there was no human emotion in his eyes, only a dark, desperate need forever unsatisfied. The Sarjeant-at-Arms stamped and thrust with brutal efficiency, killing everything that came within reach. He was frowning, as though engaged in necessary, distasteful work.

Molly and I fought side by side, hacking and stabbing at the horribly unfinished creatures that kept looming up before us. The scavengers had no sense of tactics, or even self-preservation. They just came at us with clawed hands brittle as dead twigs, their rotting eyes glowing, dark saliva dripping from their circular mouths. There was nothing in them but the need to kill and feed. To drag us down and tear us apart, and never know or care who it was they were destroying.

The dead piled up around us, the flesh already decaying, the dark blood eagerly soaked up by the parched stone ground. My whole body ached from the strain of wielding the silver blade without pause or rest, of hacking and cutting through flesh like mud, that seemed to suck and catch at the blade. I was bruised and cut, my clothes torn, sweat and blood running down my face. I could hear Molly breathing harshly beside me, and Giles singing some obscure battle song to my other side. There was something almost inhuman about his cheerful refusal to be stopped or even slowed by the impossible numbers set before him. He killed and killed, and was always ready for more, like a starving man at a feast. It crossed my mind then that, in some ways, Giles Deathstalker was even scarier than Mr. Stab.