Hell’s Heroes

“Do you want my help?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll make them comfortable first. You can give them your pep talk in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be impressed.”

Prae leaves and I chuckle softly. I’ve grown fond of her in recent weeks. She reminds me of Dervish. He could be a distant customer too, when he needed to be.

Thinking of my dead uncle wipes the smile from my lips. I spend a few minutes remembering some of his finer moments — when he came to see me in the asylum after my family was killed, fighting Vein and Artery in the cellar at Carcery Vale, battling Lord Loss in the town of Slawter, dying with dignity in the desert.

Then I recall his love for Juni, when we thought she was on our side, and that reminds me of her dire prophecy. Sighing miserably, I shuffle off to hospital, wishing I could avoid quiet, human moments like these. Life’s a lot easier when chaos is erupting all around and the beastly wolf within me rises to the fore.

MR GRUMPY-PUSS

→ I’m not going to the hospital to have myself tended to. Prae’s concern was touching, but unwarranted. I’ll be in a lot of pain until the next attack, but as soon as a window opens and magic floods the air, I’ll revive spectacularly. No, I’m going to look in on a patient. A guy not much older than me, whose eyes I clawed out a month ago.

As I enter the ward where I left Kernel before the battle started, I fill with guilt, as I do every time I face him. My stomach still gives a turn when I recall the callous way I blinded my friend, ripping his eyes from their sockets the way a bully might swipe a bag of sweets from a child.

The doctors and nurses are rushed off their feet trying to deal with a flood of casualties. Abandoning the more seriously wounded to chance, they focus on those most likely to respond to treatment.

Nobody pays much attention to me as I pad through the corridors. I’ve made myself a bit smaller, but I still cut a sinister sight. I’m taller and broader than any human, naked except for a pair of torn, tattered trousers, hairy, bloody and foul-smelling. I’d inspire terror if these were normal times. But we’ve passed way beyond the bounds of normality. These days, in the cities and towns where the war takes me, I draw nothing more than curious glances.

I stop at the door of Kernel’s room and study the bald, brown-skinned teenager through the glass. He’s sitting on a chair in the corner. I left him lying on a bed, but he’s given that up to one of the recently wounded. Kirilli Kovacs is by his side, chatting animatedly, making sweeping gestures with his hands. I smile at the ridiculous Kirilli. He still wears a stage magician’s costume, though he replaced his ruined original suit with a new one a few weeks back. It didn’t have gold and silver stars down the sides, but he found some and has been stitching them on in quieter moments.

Two fingers on Kirilli’s left hand are missing, he’s scarred and bruised all over and his right foot was bitten off at the ankle — he wears a prosthetic. Kirilli is proud of his injuries. He whined to begin with, but when he saw the impression they made on people – especially pretty nurses – he adopted a stoic stance. He loves telling exaggerated tales about how he lost his various body parts.

Kirilli’s a natural coward, but he came good when we last fought the demons in their own universe. He was a hero that day, surprising even himself. He hasn’t been called into action too often since, but has handled himself capably when required. I think he’s over the worst of his cowardice, though he’ll never be an out-and-out warrior.

I push the door open. Kernel is smiling at whatever tall tale Kirilli’s spinning. The pair have become good friends. Kirilli helps Kernel forget about his missing eyes. I should really set the Disciple more demanding tasks – he’s too important to waste on babysitting duties – but guilt over what I did to Kernel stays my hand.

There’s a growl to my left. It’s Larry, crouched in the corner. I leave one of my most-trusted werewolves with Kernel whenever I’m not around. Officially they’re here to protect him. But the truth – as Kernel knows – is that I don’t trust my blind companion. I’m afraid he’ll create a pair of eyes when a window is open and slip away. Larry’s instructions – hammered into him with difficulty – are to watch over Kernel and disable him if the teenager ever starts fiddling with his sockets.

Kernel and Kirilli glance up when Larry growls. Kernel’s expression instantly changes, even though he can’t see me. I guess the smell gives me away.

“Here comes our triumphant general,” Kernel sneers. “Kill many demons today, Grubbs? Blind any of them?”

“How is he?” I ask Kirilli, ignoring the taunts.

“Blind!” Kernel snaps before the Disciple can answer. “In agony. A doctor had a look at me earlier, before the window opened. Infection has set in. I used magic to clean it – carefully, so as not to arouse my guard’s suspicions – but the rot will return. I’ll probably drop dead of some disease of the brain any day now. Give me back my eyes, you son of a wolfen hound!”

“Does he ever change the track?” I sigh.

“He only gets like this when you’re around,” Kirilli murmurs. “And, as I’m sure you acknowledge, he has genuine cause for complaint.”

I grunt sourly and step aside as a patient is bundled past by a couple of nurses. “We’ve had this conversation too many times. I won’t restore your eyes until we rescue Bec. If you promised not to take off, I’d let you fix them now.”

“I promise to kick your ass every day for all eternity in hell,” Kernel snarls. “How about that?”

I scowl at the blind magician, hating myself more than him. Kernel’s part of a demonic weapon known as the Kah-Gash. I am too. It can be used to settle this war, handing ultimate victory to us or the Demonata. The third part is in a girl called Bec, currently a prisoner of the demon master, Lord Loss.

The original plan was for the three of us to unite, unleash the power of the Kah-Gash, destroy the Demonata and ride off into the sunset, champions of the universe, the greatest heroes ever. Easy.

Then Death came along and complicated matters. Death used to be a force, the same as gravity or light, without thought or form. Now it has a mind and it created a body from the souls of the dead that it reaped. We christened it the Shadow before we found out its true identity.

Death doesn’t like us. Life’s too abundant in this universe. It wants to go back to the way things were, when only demons and the Old Creatures were around. It’s thrown its support behind the Demonata. Under Death’s guidance, the demons have banded together and launched an assault on Earth. Their reward if they triumph will be the obliteration of mankind, control of our universe and immortality. Not a bad little package!

One of the ancient Old Creatures took Kernel on a trip to the centre of the universe, explaining the origins of life along the way. Apparently there was one universe to begin with, divided into sixty-four zones, half white and half black, like a chess board. The Kah-Gash held it all together, keeping the demons and Old Creatures apart. Then law and order broke down, the Big Bang shattered everything and life as we know it began.

The Old Creatures protected us from the Demonata as long as they could, but they’ve been fighting a losing battle. Unlike the demons, they can’t reproduce, so when the last one dies, we’ll be left to the devices of the inhuman armies. That spells curtains for this world and all the others in our universe.

To deny the demons their triumph, the Old Creatures created an ark. Like Noah’s, only this is an entire world, staffed by a variety of the universe’s more magical creatures. They want Kernel to captain the ark. As the eyes of the Kah-Gash, he can find shortcuts between any two points in the universes. By keeping him alive forever, the Old Creatures hope that he can steer the ark one step ahead of the pursuing Demonata, ensuring that a small section of our universe survives until the end of time.

It would have been easy for Kernel to accept their offer. But he came back and pitched in with us for one last assault. The Old Creatures said we couldn’t beat Death, that it’s invulnerable, but Kernel refused to write off our chances. He joined with Bec and me, and we confronted the Shadow.

We managed to destroy Death’s body, but it’s only a matter of time before it returns, bigger and badder than before, to lead its followers to victory. Seeing this, Kernel chose to return to the ark. I asked him to stay and fight. Bec had been captured by Lord Loss and I wanted us to free her, then unleash the full force of the Kah-Gash on Death when it returned.

Kernel refused. He thought Bec had switched allegiances and sided with Lord Loss. Even if she hadn’t, he couldn’t see any way of defeating Death. He got ready to open a window and take off for pastures unimaginably distant.

That’s when I lost my cool and tore out his eyes. I needed Kernel to find Bec for us to stand any sort of chance against Death. If I had to blind and imprison him to force his hand, so be it. The human Grubbs Grady could never have acted so viciously, but the new, wolfen me… Well, I don’t sleep with an easy conscience, but I can live with it.

“How does he look?” Kernel asks Kirilli. “Ashamed? He should. What he did to me, I wouldn’t have done to a dog. Or a demon. Not even a werewolf.”

“He looks tired,” Kirilli says, offering me a slight smile.

“Poor Grubbs,” Kernel sneers. “Are you overworked? You should take a week off, treat yourself to a holiday.”

“That’s right,” I sigh. “Go on hating me. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to hate, is it?”

“The Demonata?” Kernel shakes his head. “I don’t hate them. They’re doing what they were born to. Nature spat them out as foul, heartless killers. That’s the way they are. You, on the other hand, chose vileness over humanity. We were friends. I trusted you. But then you did this to me and keep me here against my will, even though you know it’s wrong. I despise you more than I ever thought possible.”

I sniff away his insults. “Whatever,” I deadpan, echoing the girl with the yo-yo. “We’re staying here the rest of the night, then moving out at ten in the morning. If you want anything, ask a nurse.”

“I want new eyes,” Kernel snarls. “Can a nurse fetch me those?”

I start for the door.

“Grubbs,” Kernel stops me. I glance back wearily, preparing myself for more insults. “Why are we still here?”

I frown. “I told you, we’re staying overnight, then–”

“I mean on Earth,” he interrupts. “When you blinded me, you said you needed me to find Bec, that we’d wait for our wounds to heal, then rescue her. But it’s been a month and we haven’t gone after her. Why not?”

I’m surprised Kernel hasn’t mentioned this before. I kept waiting for him to ask and had all sorts of responses lined up. But now my tongue freezes. I flash on the dreams I’ve been having, think about sharing them with him, then shake my head.

“We’re not ready. We’ll go for Bec when the time is right. We can do more good here at the moment.”

“We?” Kernel replies archly. “All I do is wait around in hospitals for you to return from the killing fields. If you’re not going to use me, set me free.”

“I will use you,” I mutter. “When it’s time, I’ll take you back to the demon universe and let you build new eyes.”

“And then?” Kernel prompts.

“We’ll find Bec.”

“Find her?” He pounces like a cat. “Not rescue her?”

I gulp, then nod at Kirilli. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not if I see you first,” Kernel calls after me, then raises his voice as I exit, to make sure I hear his parting shot. “Not that that’s very likely!”

→ I find an unoccupied room on an upper floor of the hospital and make a bed out of some balled-up surgical gowns. I’d rather not sleep, but rest is vital, even for a creature like me. I have to be at my sharpest to keep on fighting demons.

I think about my conversation with Kernel, and about Dervish, Juni, Lord Loss, Bec. I recall the prophecy again, the way Juni cackled, her delight as she described seeing the world explode, the universe burning beneath my twisted hands.

It’s too much. Guilt, fear and loneliness overwhelm me. I’m not in close touch with my human emotions these days. I’ve become a detached, brutal excuse for a person. But tonight, for a few brief minutes, my defences crumble. I become an awkward teenager again. I feel the weight of the expectations that ride upon me… the awful price the world will pay if I fail… those who’ve been lost… the lives I’ve taken, like the confused little girl tonight… the fear of what might be waiting for me when I cross to Lord Loss’s realm… Juni’s prophecy.

As my face contorts and becomes more human, my chest heaves and I weep. Hot, thick, salty tears run down my cheeks as I sob and beg for help from the dead — Dervish and Beranabus, Mum and Dad, Meera and Bill-E. I’ve blinded a friend. Hidden terrible truths from those who’ve placed their trust in me. Killed and lied. And, if Juni’s to be believed, there’s worse to come.

I wail and mumble madly, biting into the gowns to stifle my cries, pounding my chest and face with my fists. I curse the universe, God if he exists, the Old Creatures, the Disciples, Lord Loss and all the demons. But most of all I curse myself, poor, pitiful, apocalyptic Grubbs Grady.

Then, as the tears dry… as the werewolf regains control and my features harden and transform… as I bury my humanity deep again… as the Kah-Gash whispers and tells me I’m not alone and to stop behaving like a child… I gradually calm down.

I turn and readjust the gowns. Make myself comfortable. Breathe more slowly. Mutter a short spell. And fall into what should be a pure and dreamless sleep — but isn’t.

IN DREAMS I WALK WITH YOU

→ The spell I use when I want to sleep is meant to stop me dreaming. It’s designed to provide me with a good night’s sleep, free of nightmares, so I can wake fresh and bright in the morning. But it hasn’t been working since Bec was abducted. I’ve tried different spells, having asked a number of Disciples for advice, but nothing keeps the dream at bay. The same disturbing scenes unfold every time and they’re the real reason why I haven’t tried to rescue Bec.

As the dream kicks in again, I flow along with it as usual. I’ve tried fighting, struggled to change the sequence or details, but without success. Tonight I accept my lack of control with as much grace as a savage beast like me can muster.

I’m in a room made of cobwebs, staring down at a sleeping girl — Bec. She lies on a bed of thick webs, covered by a blanket of much finer strands. She looks pale and exhausted, but bears no wounds and breathes easily, calmly.

Her left hand moves upward and brushes her cheek, as I knew it would. Her nose twitches and again I’m not surprised. I’ve seen it all a dozen times. When you experience the same dream over and over, you start paying attention to the details, to stop yourself going mad. I try to find something new tonight, a little movement or quiver that I missed before, but everything is exactly the same as before.

Bec’s eyelids flutter open. A moment of panic – “Where am I?” – then her look of alarm fades and she rises. She’s dressed in a beautiful nightgown, the sort I’ve only seen in old movies. It’s not made of webs. I guess Lord Loss took it from one of his victims — I can’t imagine him going shopping for it.

Bec walks to a small, round window and gazes out over a landscape of cobwebs. This is Lord Loss’s realm, a world of countless sticky strands, a massive network of despair and sorrow. The air is thick with misery and suffering. I can sense that thousands of people have died here, crying out for their loved ones, alone and separated from all they’d ever known.

Bec turns to a table and chair, both carved out of webs. There’s a mirror set in the wall over the table. The girl sits and studies her reflection. She looks tense, but not scared. She reaches out to touch the face in the mirror, as if she’s not sure it’s really hers, then pauses and lowers her hand.

Standing, she walks to a wardrobe on the other side of the room. The doors open as she approaches and a clothes rack slides out. Long, frilly dresses hang from it, the sort a princess or movie star would wear. I don’t think they’d suit a plain girl like Bec. She must think the same thing because she smiles at the dresses and shakes her head.

“You do yourself a disservice, Little One,” says a voice. Bec stiffens, then turns slowly and regards Lord Loss. He’s hovering in the doorway, blood seeping from the many cracks in his pale red skin. His dark red eyes are as kindly as I’ve ever seen them. Even the snakes in the hole where his heart should be look harmless, hissing playfully, seeming to smile at the young girl by the wardrobe.

“Of course you deserve such finery,” Lord Loss continues, floating into the room and running a couple of his eight arms over the dresses. “You are a priestess of high standing. You should expect only the best from your world and its people. They exist to serve your pleasure and revere your beauty.”

“You flatter me,” Bec says shyly.

“No,” Lord Loss says. “Power is beauty, and as you are the most powerful of all humans, you must be the most beautiful. Wear these dresses and think of them as rags. We shall find finer robes for you later.”

He picks out a green dress and smiles. “This matches your eyes. Will you try it on, to please me?”

“Very well.” Bec sighs and slips out of her nightdress, not embarrassed to be naked in front of the demon master. Bec’s nudity made me uncomfortable at first, but I’m used to it now. What I find more unsettling is the fact that she seems to want to please Lord Loss. Why should she care about his wishes, or dress to impress him? This is our enemy, a vile, twisted monster. Yet she’s letting him treat her like a doll.

When Bec has dressed, Lord Loss leads her to the table and applies make-up as she sits patiently. It’s obscene, watching his mangled hands brushing across her face. I want to knock him away and slap Bec back to her senses. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was controlling her thoughts, brainwashing her to do his bidding. But I don’t get any hint of that. Bec looks nervous, but her mind appears to be her own.

When Lord Loss is finished, he drifts back a few metres and studies her. He nods with satisfaction, as he does every time, and murmurs, “What a vision.”

Bec blushes, unable to hide a timid smile. I’ve grown to loathe that smile. It’s wrong. This should be a place of tears and heartache, not shy smirks.

“Come,” Lord Loss says, offering Bec an arm. “Let me show you more of my palace.”

Bec gulps, then takes his arm and lets the demon master lead her out of the bedroom. They descend a staircase of webs. Some of Lord Loss’s familiars scurry past as the pair walk gracefully down the steps. The lesser demons scowl at Bec, but steer clear of her, afraid of angering their master. Bec knows they hate her, but she doesn’t care. She’s safe as long as she stays by her protector.

They stroll through the castle, Lord Loss polite as a prince, the perfect host, pointing out features of special interest. Bec admires the chandeliers and statues, and coos when Lord Loss modestly admits to designing them himself.

“You’re so creative,” she says.

“That is kind of you, but untrue,” he replies. “They’re modelled after objects I have seen on Earth. I have a certain workmanlike skill, but no real artistic streak. Unoriginality is the curse of my kind.”

They descend further, to a cellar deep beneath the ground. In my sleep I tense. I know what’s coming and I hate it. This is one of the worst parts of the dream. If I could skip it, I would, but it draws me on as it always does, an unwilling viewer, unable to pull back or look aside.

We enter a chamber of torture. Savage implements of torment are strapped to the webby walls. Brands glow red in burning fires. The air is pierced by the screams of the dying. Bec flinches and her fingers tighten on Lord Loss’s arm. He pats her small hand, comforting her. She gulps, then takes a trembling step forward. Lord Loss nods approvingly and leads her on.

I’ve never been able to count all the people in the cellar, since many are hidden behind walls or cabinets. There are at least thirty, probably a lot more to judge by the volume of shrieks and moans.

“Do you feel sorry for them?” Lord Loss asks as Bec shudders.

“Yes,” she whimpers.

“Good,” he says. “Pity is a virtue. I feel sorry for them too. It’s true,” he insists as she shoots him a dubious glance. “I take pleasure from their torment, but I feel pity too. That is how I differ from my fellow demons. I don’t hate humanity. I crave their torment and sorrow, but I also adore them. I torture with love, Little One. Can you understand that?”

“No,” she frowns.

He sighs. “At least you are honest. I’m glad you can reveal your true feelings to me. I don’t want there to be any deception between us. Always tell me the truth, even if you think I won’t like it. Lies belittle us all.”

Bec observes silently as Lord Loss sets to work on a few of the humans hanging from the walls or lying across hard tables. He acts like a nurse as he tortures them, every movement deceptively gentle and loving. He purrs softly, telling them how sorry he is, how he wishes he could free them, how it won’t be much longer now.

Bec doesn’t look as if she shares the demon master’s enjoyment, but she doesn’t object either. I’ve tried to read her mind every time we get to this point, but I can’t. I’d give anything to know what’s in her thoughts. I hope she’s putting on a detached face to fool Lord Loss, to stay on his good side and trick him into thinking she doesn’t hate him. I hope this is a masterful act, that she’s plotting to betray him, waiting and praying for Kernel and me to burst in and rescue her.

But her eyes are calm and emotionless, and when she licks her lips, it looks as if she’s fighting a desire to try what Lord Loss is doing.

As the demon master continues to extract fresh pain from his victims, Bec casts her gaze around and my virtual head swivels too. This is the part I hate the most. I try to look away or shut my eyes, but I’m locked in. I have to see what she sees, even though it sends a chill through my bones that will still be there when I wake.

The people chained to the walls and torture devices are a varied mix. Men and women, boys and girls, of different races. No babies — Lord Loss likes to be able to hold discussions with his victims. With a single exception, I don’t recognise any of them, though I know by his magical aura that one – a thin, blond-haired man – is a Disciple.

Bec studies the Disciple – he’s in the worse shape of anyone, kept alive only by magic – then moves on, her gaze sweeping over a girl my age. I didn’t notice her the first few times. To Bec she’s of no more interest than any of the others. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. It was only after the fourth or fifth time, when I was concentrating on details to keep boredom at bay, that I focused on the girl’s face and got a shock that echoes even now, twenty or so viewings later.

The girl is pretty, but her face is covered with blood and scrunched up with terror. Her clothes hang from her in filthy rags, but I’m sure they originally came from the finest designer boutiques. And although her hair is a tangled mess and her nails are long and cracked, once they were as carefully tended as a model’s.

Apart from the blood, the girl doesn’t seem to have been tortured, but many of Lord Loss’s victims look unmarked. He patches them up and lets them recover a little when he’s done, to make it all the more painful next time. Inside, I’m sure she’s been twisted and torn in more ways than most humans could imagine.

As Bec’s eyes dart about, I snatch the same quick glimpse of the girl that I’ve been horrified by ever since I realised who she was. Back on Earth, in a quiet hospital room, my lips move as I mutter in my sleep. “Bo Kooniart…”