but I think I’ve found a way back. I choose to stand in Heaven’s gaze again, and pay in blood for what I did in blood. I think . . . when you know you’re going to die anyway, it’s all about being able to look God in the eye. I know you’ll drag me down eventually; enough jackals can always pull down a lion. . . . But all I have to do is hold you here long enough and then my family will avenge me. By slaughtering every one of you. Not for revenge or even for justice. But to make sure none of you can ever harm Humanity again. So here I stand. One last chance for atonement. And you’re right, Phil; I do have so much to atone for.”
Alexandre Dusk had come down from the stage. He pushed his way through the crowd to address me, though he was careful to maintain a safe and respectful distance.
“Don’t talk about God and Heaven here, Drood. They have no place in Schloss Shreck, not after all the awful things we’ve done. This is our place, our game, our rules. Were you perhaps expecting some great beam of light to shine down from above, and empower you, because you stand against us? ‘My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure’? It doesn’t work that way, Drood.”
“Never thought it did,” I said. “I don’t expect anything. Except to stand and fight, and hold you here, for as long as I can.”
“If you stay we’ll kill you,” said Alexandre Dusk.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.
And I drew the Colt repeater from my back holster and shot Dusk in the head. He fell backwards, blood flying in the air as he crashed into the Satanists behind him. They fell back, making loud shocked noises, and Dusk was dead before he hit the floor. The crowd fell quiet, looking on with startled, disturbed eyes. They looked at the body and then back at me. I smiled easily at them.
“I got caught without my gun earlier on this case,” I said. “So I made a point of bringing it with me this time. Had a hunch it might come in handy. And as long as I’m standing here, on the other side of the door, it works fine. You didn’t think I was just going to stand here, did you?”
“Take him down!” yelled MacAlpine from the stage, his voice almost hysterical with rage and frustration.
“This is a Colt repeater,” I said. “Never misses, never needs reloading. Usually. But with all the protections on this place, it’s probably only a gun. With a handful of bullets. Which means I can kill only a limited number of people. So come on! Who’s willing to die so others can have the honour of dragging me down?”
I kept trying to reach out to the Sarjeant-at-Arms through my torc, to tell him where I was, and to get a bit of a move on. But if he could hear me, I couldn’t hear him. So it was down to me: one man against a horde of Satanists. I looked about me, and they all stared silently back with sullen, snarling faces and hot, hateful eyes. As long as I was careful to stay in the doorway and not let them draw me forward, they could come at me only a few at a time, and none of them wanted to be the first to die. Even though MacAlpine was yelling himself hoarse up on the stage, screaming at them to do something, no one did. A few actually yelled back at him, saying that if he was so damned keen, he should come down there and try something himself.
And then even these few voices fell silent as Alexandre Dusk sat up. A few drops of blood rolled down his face from the great wound in his forehead, and then stopped. He rose slowly to his feet, brushed himself down and then turned to smile at me. A very cold, very knowing smile.
“Witches aren’t the only ones with the good sense to hide their hearts somewhere safe,” he said. “Like Phil told you: I’m old-school, and I know all the old tricks.”
He came straight at me, and I shot him in the chest. He staggered but kept on coming, and I had no choice but to keep on shooting. I used up every bullet in the gun, and he wouldn’t go down again. He stopped and smiled at me.
“So,” said MacAlpine from the stage. “One man, without a gun.”
“One Drood,” I said, tossing the empty gun behind me. “And you bottom-feeding scumbags shall not pass.”
They came at me then, rushing past the smiling Alexandre Dusk, hands outstretched like claws in their eagerness to get at me. There were a hell of a lot of them, and some of them looked to be really big bastards, but I’d been right: As long as I held my position, they could come at me only two or three at a time. I struck them down with hard, pitiless, practiced moves before they could even lay a hand on me. They crashed to the floor, and those behind trampled right over them to get to me. Their faces were flushed and distorted with rage; they were desperate to drag me down and get away before the rest of my family arrived. But in the end they were amateurs, facing one very well-trained Drood.
I hit them hard and I hit them often, and I hit them with practised skill, not wasting a single movement or using the least bit more energy than I had to. I was in this for the long run. It felt good; it felt really good to punch a Satanist in the face or the throat, to break their ribs and smash their kneecaps, to feel my fists jar on bone and send blood flying. All I had to do was think of the cells, and the prisoners I’d found there. But I was still careful to pace myself. I held my ground, let them get in one another’s way and enjoyed the opportunity to dispense some very basic justice to some very bad people.
Of course, that didn’t last long. First my hands hurt, and then they began to bleed. I’d got too used to fighting inside my armour. My fists jarred every time I hit bone, and my hands and arms began to ache. I was getting short of breath, and despite myself I was starting to slow down. Then my legs and back began to hurt, because I was constantly moving and couldn’t stop even for a moment. Sweat ran down my face, stinging my eyes and leaving salt on my lips. And my lungs began to labour, because I couldn’t stop to get my breath.
I fought on, and still they came at me, an endless tide of cruel, vicious faces, flying fists, clawed hands and improvised weapons. Blunt instruments, stiletto heels, even keys jammed between the fingers of a fist. They kept coming at me, scrambling over the bodies of their own fallen to get at me, and I stood my ground and would not back away. Inevitably, the attacks started getting through. Because in the end I was only one man, against so many. They hit me and cut me, desperate to hurt me and drag me down. And all I could do was stand my ground and take it.
Because of Harry and Roger, left to face their enemies and their deaths alone, because I couldn’t get reinforcements to them in time. Because of the Indigo Spirit and Charlatan Joe, my old friends, and what I’d done to them in the name of a good cause. And all I could think was,
I was deadly tired now, every movement a struggle, every blow an effort. Blood ran down my face and dripped from my nose. I’d never taken a beating like it. Didn’t know you could take a beating like it and still stay on your feet. The things we do for guilt’s sake . . . And while I might finally be standing in Heaven’s gaze, I certainly didn’t feel any stronger. My muscles ached; my hands blazed with agony every time I hit someone; my lungs strained with the effort of sucking in air. I felt like shit. More and more of the blows were getting through, and fewer and fewer of mine were doing real damage. Fists jarred against the bones of my face, slammed into my ribs, hammered against a defending arm. Sharp edges cut at me, darting in and out. And still, somehow, I held my ground. Though the floor at my feet was getting slippery with my blood.
Heaven always did have a thing for martyrs. . . .
I didn’t have to do this. I could turn and run, let the Satanists follow me. I could lead them to the Sarjeant’s forces. No. I couldn’t do that. I had no idea where the rest of my family was. And if the Satanists got out of this room . . . I couldn’t take the risk that they did have some last hidden teleport gate to let them escape the castle and the Timeless Moment. Let them escape back to Earth, and the Great Sacrifice . . . And all the children in the world. No. I had to hold them here for as long as I could. And hope my family got here in time.
I was reeling on my feet now. I hurt everywhere. One eye was puffed shut, and there was so much blood in my mouth I had to keep spitting it out. The agony in my sides was cracked ribs, maybe broken. It was an effort to raise my arms now. I was a ragged, bloody thing, all out of strength, held up by only a simple determination not to fall to scum like this. I wasn’t fighting anymore, just trying to protect myself as best I could, spraying blood into the faces of my enemies with every breath, because my nose was broken. The only reason they weren’t landing more punches was because I was swaying so much. I kept my head down and my hands up, and laughed at them with crushed and bloody lips.
They finally got close enough to grab me, fastening onto my arms and shoulders with clawed hands, trying to drag me forcibly from the doorway, and I fought them with all the strength I had left. Making them fight for every inch. Not for pride’s sake. Not even for my family’s sake, but because I couldn’t let them do what they planned. I had to save the children.
Because there was no one there to fight for me when I was a child, and my parents left me in the cold arms
