Simon Green - Casino Infernale

“No,” said the generic spokesman. “You must die. All of you. The Shadow Bank regulates Humanity. Keeps you under control. This is necessary. You cannot be allowed to run free. We know better than you what is good for you. We live to serve, to make you behave. Surrender. You cannot win.”

“Lot you know,” I said.

I started forward, and the others came with me. The generic army surged forward to meet us, like a great living wave. No weapons in their hands, just thousands of outstretched arms determined to drag us down and tear us apart. I raised my golden hands before me. Metal spikes rose up from the armoured knuckles of my left hand, while a long golden sword blade extended from my right hand.

Even then, at the end, I wanted to save them. But they weren’t what I thought they were. So I went forward to kill as many of them as I had to, to get to the hotel and do the right thing.

One more time.

The generic army came rushing forward in an awful, focused silence, intent on violence and murder. Their outstretched hands clenched and unclenched convulsively, desperate to tear and rend our flesh. Their blurred, characterless faces never changed. The spokesman was quickly swallowed up in the crowd as they all moved forward with the same swift, eerie synchronisation. The first of them slammed into me, and their vicious hands broke against my golden armour. They tried to force me backwards, drag me down, overwhelm me by sheer force of numbers, but they’d never faced a Drood in his armour before. I stood firm, and would not fall, and would not retreat. I cut about me with my golden sword, thrusting and slashing, its impossibly sharp edge slicing through flesh and bone alike. I swept the blade back and forth like a golden scythe, and generic men fell dead and dying before me. Thick dark blood flew on the air, splashing against my armour. The blood ran quickly away, dribbling down onto the grass, and the earth. I moved steadily forward, step by step, striking about me with undiminished strength. Men with exactly the same face died before me, and not one of them cried out in pain or shock or fear.

I led the way and the others came with me, and together we committed slaughter under a starry sky with too many moons.

There were thousands in the generic army, swarming all around us, grabbing at our arms and legs, our necks and heads, fingers raking like claws, fists hitting us with savage force. But that was nothing to Drood armour. The strange matter soaked up the impact of their blows and deflected the rest, so I wouldn’t be distracted from the messy business of killing. I struck fiercely about me with my golden sword, forcing my way forward, and a whole army wasn’t enough to stop me.

The Armourer was right there on my right hand, striking about him with his golden fists with grim precision. He had never been a soldier, but he had been a field agent in the Cold War, one of the most quietly savage wars of recent times. He struck generic men down, and none of them ever rose again. He strode forward over their bodies, old man though he was, raised in an older time of relentless, remorseless duty. He would not be slowed or stopped or turned aside, because he was a Drood.

Molly jumped and danced and spun on my left hand, laughing out loud in sheer exhilaration as she let loose her magics. It was enough for her that she finally had a clear enemy, a chance to strike out at last, after so many frustrations. She threw fireballs with one hand, and lightning bolts with the other. When she tired of that she stabbed a pointing finger, and whoever she pointed at exploded into bloody gobbets. She laughed happily, but her face was never cruel. She just believed in doing everything to the best of her ability, and enjoying her accomplishments. The enemy came at her, determined to kill her horribly, and she laughed in their faces and killed them all. Molly always was a better fighter than me.

I caught glimpses of the others, as we went to war.

Sir Parsifal wielded Ex Caliburn with practised skill and silent fury. Cutting down every generic figure who came against him, moving always on to the next target. He fought for duty and honour and the protection of Humanity, as a London Knight should, and there was no room left in him after that, for small things like mercy or compassion. I don’t think he cared who he was fighting, it was enough for him that they had been declared the enemy. He strode heavily forward in his armour, slamming the dead and the dying out of his way, singing a martial hymn behind his steel helm. Blood soaked his armour, falling away to be replaced by fresh. Sir Parsifal lived to fight the forces of evil. For him, this was a good day.

J. C. Chance thrust his Hand of Glory out before him—a wrinkled, withered thing whose stick-like fingers had been made into candles. The fingertips burned with a constant blue flame that never went out. And wherever J.C. pointed the monkey’s paw, the generic men just froze up and fell paralysed to the ground. They fell in waves as he swept the nasty thing back and forth, and he strode easily over the unmoving bodies. Sometimes a generic man would get too close, and then J.C. would glare into the unfinished face with his glowing gaze, and they would scream and fall away, writhing in horror on the bloody grass. J.C. would laugh at them as they fell, and something in that sound made me shudder, just for a moment.

Natasha Chang waved her piece of secret tech around, almost aimlessly, as though wafting clouds of bug spray on the night air, but wherever she pointed the thing, generic men would just softly and silently vanish away. Gone, disappeared, banished out of existence. I had no idea whether they were dead or not, but given Natasha Chang’s reputation, I had my suspicions. She laughed like a child as she stepped daintily over dead bodies, making men disappear forever.

Dead Boy just hit everyone who came within reach. He advanced happily into the ranks of the generic men, lashing out with the terrible strength of his dead arms. Flesh and bone broke under his blows, but he felt nothing, nothing at all. Hands grabbed at him from every side, fastening on to the deep purple greatcoat, but all their strength put together wasn’t enough to stop him, or even slow him down. He punched heads and smashed faces, broke arms and backs and necks, striking everyone down who came at him, hammering generic men to the ground and then happily trampling them into the bloody dirt. They couldn’t hurt him, and they couldn’t frighten him, because the worst possible thing had already happened to him, years before.

Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat brought up the rear. And when the generic men would push past the rest of us, hoping to attack us from the rear, they came face to face with the Bear, and stopped dead in their tracks. Because they had never seen anything like him before. They bowed their heads and bent their knees to him, and adored him. Because he was that sort of Bear. And they had waited all their lives to meet someone like him, without ever knowing it. The Bear moved slowly, steadily forward, smiling on them all, patting them on their lowered heads with his fuzzy paw. The Sea Goat stuck close behind him, watching carefully, but his shillelagh was never needed.

Finally, I fought my way up a grassy slope to reach the Casino Infernale hotel. The generic men fought ever more desperately, but they couldn’t stop me. I reached the front door to the lobby, and Molly was immediately there at my side. I kicked the door in, and the two of us burst into the deserted lobby. I spun around and locked the door, and my uncle Jack was right there to set his back against the locked door and defy anyone to get past him. To buy Molly and me time to find the Shadow Bank’s head-quarters. Because they would have to kill him to get past him, and there weren’t many good enough to take down Jack Drood.