Simon Green - Daemons Are Forever

There must have been twenty men and more against one lone warrior, and he killed them all in just a few minutes.

As the last man fell into the snow in a flurry of spurting arterial blood, the warrior looked calmly about him, not even breathing hard. He nodded once, as though satisfied with his performance, and then lowered his sword. He was just starting to relax when another man rose up from under the snow behind him. He’d been hiding under another body, completely hidden, waiting for his chance. He raised his unfamiliar gun to shoot the warrior in the back, and I drew my Colt Repeater and shot the man in the head, through the doorway. A bullet from the past, to kill a man in the future.

The sound of the Colt was loud and coarse, after the brief hum of the energy weapons, and the warrior spun around incredibly fast, his sword at the ready. Just in time to see the man who would have killed him collapsing into the snow with half his head blown away. The warrior saw me, watching him through a hole in the air, and his gaze was dark and cold and thoughtful. He strode unhurriedly through the blood-spattered snow to stand before the gateway, and then considered me thoughtfully for a long moment. He still hadn’t put away his sword. Blood dripping from the blade steamed in the chill air I could feel blowing through the opening. He said something, his breath clouding on the air, but I couldn’t understand him. It didn’t sound like any human language I’d ever heard. I quickly ordered my torc to translate, and just like that his words began to make sense.

“Thanks for the help,” said the warrior. “Didn’t expect to find a friend in this God-deserted place. I owe you a debt of honour, stranger.”

“Where are the rest of your people?” I said.

He shrugged. “Dead. Every last one of them. We knew it was a suicide mission when the emperor sent us here; but it wasn’t like we had a choice. Man proposes, and the emperor disposes. Especially when you’re…no longer in favour at court.” He stopped and looked sharply around him, listening for something I couldn’t hear. “My enemies are coming again. Can you get me out of this mess, stranger? I am the only survivor of my command, and the size of the opposing force is … far greater than I was given to understand.”

“You’re taking my appearance very calmly,” I said. “Or are such things as this common in your time?”

He shrugged again. “I’ve seen stranger shit than this, out on the Rim. Get me out of here, stranger, and I vow to serve you as I would my emperor. Not forever; my vow to the imperial throne must take preference. But a time away from court might help the blood to cool a little…on both sides. Shall we say, service to you in return for my rescue, for a year and a day?”

“Sounds fair to me,” I said. But when I tried to reach through the opening, the Glass wouldn’t let me. I’d been afraid of that. “Look, I’m not really a stranger. I’m speaking to you from far in your past. I don’t know exactly how far. Centuries, certainly; maybe more. You are a descendant of my family. And my family needs a warrior’s guidance. But I can’t just…bring you through. You’re too far off from me. But I have another way of reaching you.”

“Better be quick,” he said dispassionately. “My enemies will be here soon. What’s your name?”

“Edwin Drood,” I said. “And yours?”

The warrior smiled. “Deathstalker. Giles Deathstalker.”

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole of my time at the Hall consists of people marching up to me, determined to tell me things they already know I’m not going to like. There’s a certain look I’ve learned to recognise; equal parts determination and it’s-for-your-own-good glee. This time it was Callan Drood, emerging from a side room as I wandered back into the Hall. He looked not so much sunburned from his trip to South America, as sun-roasted. He headed straight for me, already scowling furiously. Didn’t mean it had to be bad news; Callan always looked that way. Even at the best of times, he gave the impression of someone perfectly prepared to walk through anything that got in his way, including walls, regulations, and, quite possibly, people. I just knew I didn’t want to hear what he was so determined to tell me, but short of clubbing him down with the nearest blunt instrument and walking right over him, there was no way of avoiding the man. So I stopped, heaved a heavy sigh just to show I wasn’t at all happy, and let him get on with it. “The Inner Circle wants to talk with you,” Callan said bluntly. “It’s nice to want things,” I said. “I want several large drinks and a meat pie, followed by a nice lie down, and I think I’ll go get them right now.”

“Let me rephrase the message,” said Callan. “The Inner Circle needs to see you right now, and I have been instructed not to take No, Go to hell , or even Fuck off and die for an answer.”

“The Circle has already demonstrated that it can make decisions without me,” I said flatly. “Let them get on with it.”

“Sulking doesn’t become you,” said Callan. “So cut it out, or I’ll slap you somewhere painful. Right here, in public. This is important.”

“This bluff-but-honest act of yours is really starting to get on my tits,” I said. “How important?”

“Sphincter-clenching, testicle-shrivelling, end-of-the-world-and-everything-turning-to-shit important,” said Callan. “They’re waiting for you down in the War Room. Probably crying and wetting themselves and trying to hide under things.”

“Oh,” I said. “That important.”

So we went down to the War Room, threading our way through all the security checks, until finally we passed through the specially reinforced doors and into complete bedlam. The usual hushed air was gone, replaced by a tense, charged, and very noisy atmosphere, in which people ran from station to workstation, held rapid conversations, threw up their hands, and then hurried on somewhere else. The giant display screens covering the black basalt walls, showing maps of every country in the world, were thickly dotted with flashing red lights, indicating realtime emergencies and disaster spots. The farcasters and computer technicians were all shouting into their hands-free headsets while waving sheets of paper for messengers to pick up and take wherever necessary.

I actually stopped and stared for a moment. The War Room was always the cold, calm, and collected heart of family decision-making. I’d never seen the place so distracted, so openly close to panic. What used to be my Inner Circle was standing around the main mission table, waiting impatiently for me to join it. Or at least most of them. There was no sign of Jacob, of course, nor of Molly or Penny. Presumably those two were still off somewhere private, having their little girl-to-girl chat. The Sarjeant-at-Arms was there, and the Armourer, and Harry…and Roger Morningstar. I did wonder whether I should object to a known hellspawn being allowed into the Drood family War Room, but that was after all the kind of thinking I was trying to overturn. If he had anything useful to contribute, I’d listen to him.

We could always kill him later.

Still, with Molly and Penny absent, and both the living and the dead Jacob off about their business, it meant the only real ally I had in the Circle was the Armourer. Good old Uncle Jack. Who was, to be fair, glowering at Roger.

“What is that half-breed demon doing down here?” he demanded as I approached the main mission table with Callan at my side.

“Roger’s with me,” said Harry.

The Armourer sniffed loudly. “Don’t know what the family’s coming to.”

“Hi guys,” I said. “What’s happening?”