Ascendance (26 page)

‘We know,’ Heath said. ‘The only one who can stop you doing anything is Dave, and he doesn’t seem inclined to. Nor are we, Colonel. We all know that we’re well beyond that. But do us a favour, if you’re still drawing breath tomorrow, don’t just disappear. All right? If you’re going to embarrass anyone, please let it be Trinder. Not the Professor or me.’

Her smile, which Karen so often used as a cover to conceal something, like an old-fashioned lady’s fan, suddenly lit up, as though Heath had flicked on a switch.

‘Oh Captain, rest assured, a choice between inconveniencing you and humiliating Agent Trinder is no choice at all. I will, as one of your most celebrated fascist warmongers promised, return.’

‘And you, Dave,’ Emmeline said, seemingly satisfied with the word of a spy. ‘Be careful and good luck.’

Heath stood forward and put out his hand. Dave took it carefully and shook.

‘I can’t make any promises,’ Heath said, ‘but I will try to get you what support I can. We have . . . other assets in play.’

‘Thanks, man,’ Dave said, taking care not to crush his hand. ‘But Emmeline’s right, a couple of extra guns might make all the difference, and I got those already.’ He nodded at Igor and Zach. Turning to Emmeline, he leaned in without thinking to give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘No,’ she said, throwing a hand up in alarm. ‘Don’t. Just be careful, like Michael said. And get your boys. Your wife too.’

‘Ex-wife.’

‘It hardly matters,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

25

I
t was always weird hearing a recording of your own voice, and Threshy was in the unusual position of having more than one internal voice now, none of which sounded like Daffy Duck with a mouthful of chainsaws. That’s what he sounded like on-screen, however. No denying it.

‘Dude, change the channel,’ he told the terrified calfling behind the bar. The man, who wasn’t the barkeep, struggled to use the remote with shaking hands and numb fingers. Compt’n ur Threshrend could feel the guy’s panic wanting to slip the leash. His fear was a barely caged animal, wild and ready to bolt. Still, he was better able to work the tech than Threshy or any of the sabre-clawed daemonum in the bar. And so he lived. And changed channels.

By way of contrast, the barkeep, who had not done as he was asked and had made a nuisance of himself with a sawn-off shotgun, was dead, an arrakh-mi bolt through one eye. The other patrons of Fightin’ Phil Luton’s Sports Bar, on an isolated stretch of highway well north of New York, were gone, taken under to the blood pots. Even so, the bar was crowded with the cohort of Warriors Grymm assigned to escort and protect the lord commander. The ceiling was low, forcing Lord Guyuk to perch on one knee as he watched the giant flat-screen behind the bar.

There were at least another two dozen televisions they could have been monitoring, watching multiple news feeds from all over the world, but Guyuk confessed himself vexed by the human magick which was not magick.

‘Conjure me but one vision at a time, Superiorae,’ he growled after a frustrating few minutes of trying to follow Compt’n as he summarised the various news feeds he’d had the surviving human set up for him.

‘Not a multi-tasker, eh, chief?’ Threshy said. His mood had vastly improved since he’d learned Polly Farrell was drawing breath. ‘Fair enough. All the research says it’s bullshit anyway. Let’s just grab us a seat at the bar and watch the big screen. Our man Chumley here can fetch us some more pork rinds.’

The man’s name wasn’t Chumley, but he looked like a banker to Threshy, and Chumley seemed a good name for a banker, even a comparatively young one like this. Guys like Chumley had owned the world before the Horde returned. Threshy knew that. None of the other cattle whose thoughts and memories the empath daemon had sucked down, along with the warm, sweet pudding of their delicious brains, had much liked guys like Chumley. One of the SEALs blamed the Chumleys of this realm for his old man ‘losing the farm’ and dying drunk and poor. The Scolari Compton had resented them for gathering the rewards which should have been due to him. It was interesting to ask all the voices which spoke to Threshy what they made of poor Chumley’s fate – trapped in an isolated drinking hole off US Route 1 playing step and fetch it for a cohort of Grymm.

For most of them, it seemed payback was a welcome bitch.

‘Yo! That one, go back. We want to watch that one,’ said Threshy.

‘Yes, s-sir,’ Chumley stammered and waved the stick at the screen, mashing buttons.

He lost reception altogether for a second, and moaned a pitiable apology.

‘I’m sorry, sir, so sorry . . .’

‘Just fucking fix it,’ said Threshy. ‘And hurry up with those pork rinds.’

Pork rinds, it turned out, were even more delicious to the daemon palate than to human taste buds. Chumley found the right channel and opened another packet of salty treats for his captors.

‘B-beer?’ Chumley asked.

‘W-what?’ Threshy asking, mocking his stutter.

Chumley took a deep breath and visibly steadied himself. ‘Beer,’ he said. ‘I could get you and your friends some beer. To go with the p-pork rinds.’

‘Sure,’ Threshy said. ‘Why not. Pause that.’ He pointed one fore-claw at the screen and Chumley did as he was told.

‘What transpires, Superiorae?’ Guyuk asked. ‘Is there a problem? The magick lantern no longer dances with light.’

‘Just getting some beer,’ Threshy said. ‘To go with the pork rinds.’ As much as a Threshrend daemon could shrug, without shoulders, he did. ‘It’s a special libation, boss. To go with this delicacy.’

He scooped up a few of the scratchings and threw them into his gullet.

‘Oh,’ Guyuk said, ‘I see. Excellent,’ and he reached forward with one massive arm, draped in chain mail and armoured with vambrace, to scoop the rest of the deep-fried snacks toward himself. The lord commander had a powerful taste for pork rinds and insisted they locate a supply to present to Her Majesty.

‘Would a b-bucket be okay for the beer?’ Chumley asked, holding up a plastic pail. ‘It’s just, your . . . claws . . .’

‘Yeah, got it. We’re disabled,’ Threshy said. ‘You don’t have to rub it in, Richie Rich. Just fill the bucket. And find us some more pork rinds.’

Chumley hopped to his orders and within a minute they were able to enjoy their show with beer and snacks. The plain and earnest face of Polly Farrell, lately returned from the demesne of the Horde, the only human being to make a round trip to the UnderRealms as far as anyone knew, filled the giant screen. She was talking to somebody from WYNY, a sure sign she’d recorded the interview shortly after making it back, escorted by the Grymm. No way this lucky bitch was going to be playing in the minors from now on. She’d be talking to Larry King or Oprah or someone like that next. Not bad for an intern.

And some time soon
, thought Threshy,
she’s gonna be interning for one horny little empath daemon
.

Guyuk had picked up a few words of English here and there. Mostly military terms. And now ‘beer’ and ‘pork’, which he mispronounced as ‘prork’. But he was no more able to follow the twitterings of the released intern than she could have understood him. Being the only daemon able to translate the Olde Tongue to English gave Threshy an advantage he was keen to use while he alone still possessed it. He had no doubt Guyuk would have other Threshrendum follow his example and directly ingest the thoughts and memories of select human captives. The old devil hadn’t said anything like that, but Threshy could sense the deceit and potential betrayal coming off him. Tough shit. Let ’em try.

None of those other softcock mind-readers were likely to snack down on the premium grey matter he’d managed to score, were they? Not top-shelf mad scientist and Navy SEAL brains. Fuck, he could bullshit people in German and Chinese and half a dozen languages now. He knew how to make doughnuts, do a PowerPoint for a grant application and clear a room full of armed men. Or at least, he could do those things if he had an opposable thumb instead of these stupid talons.

Chumley delivered the bucket of beer as Polly said, up on the enormous screen,

‘. . . they took me down to their world . . . They call it the UnderRealms and they talk about it as if it’s right underneath us. But I don’t think it is.’

‘Smart bitch,’ Threshy said, as he translated for Guyuk. ‘And hot, really hot,’ he added in English, just for himself.

He picked up the beer bucket and tipped it messily into his maw. It did go well with those pork rinds.

‘More beer,’ he roared at Chumley, who hurried to comply.

‘S’good,’ Threshy told Guyuk. ‘You should have some. It’s no bloodwine, but trust me on this. Beer and pork. It’s a good reason to not kill every last motherfucker up here.’

‘I don’t think their world is even physically part of our reality,’ Polly continued. ‘I’m not a science major, but I think there’s some sort of dimension thing happening and these portals or wormholes, or whatever they use to travel back and forth, are a bit like the points at which different universes touch each other. But, like I said, I don’t know.’

‘Ha, you knows plenty, pretty Polly,’ Compt’n ur Threshrend said, or tried to. The beer went to his head quicker than bloodwine hot from the jugular, causing him to slur his words, but not so badly that he could not translate for Guyuk.

‘This is disturbing, Superiorae,’ the lord commander said around another mouthful of pork fat. ‘This creature, a mere slave, not even one of their most learned Scolari, has intuited this from her short time in our realm? Perhaps we were wrong to let her go. What more might she tell the human warrior caste? They will surely interrogate her.’

‘Oh for sure. But that’s cool. She’ll tell them what we want her to. Watch.’

The camera cut away to the interviewer, some anonymous haircut trying to look as though he wasn’t freaked the hell out by asking this girl about her trip to monster land.

‘And they just let you go?’

‘Yes,’ said Polly, then, ‘No. They didn’t just let me go. I had to promise the smaller one, the Threshrend, to make his video. In return they let us go.’

‘And let’s have a look again at some of that remarkable statement from the . . . er . . . spokesmonster for the Horde . . .’

The screen filled with vision of Threshy and Guyuk standing in front of a line of Grymm. Threshy was telling the world there were worse things than the Grymm in the underworld and promising to protect any who submitted to She of the Horde. Guyuk shifted his massive bulk next to him with a clanking of armour and the rattle and clink of mail.

‘Yadda yadda yadda,’ Threshy said. ‘We’ve seen this bit already.’

But Guyuk was entranced by his own appearance on the big screen.

Ego-fucking-maniac
, thought Compt’n ur Threshrend.

‘How would we secure this magick for the Horde?’ Guyuk asked, not really listening to the answer. He seemed hypnotised by himself up there behind the bar.

‘Oh, a couple of thousand years of intellectual evolution,’ Threshy muttered to himself in English. ‘A Reformation, an Enlightenment, some materials science, some physics, maybe a little less bathing in bloodwine, a little more respect for Threshy . . .’

‘What’s that you say, Superiorae?’

‘Oh we could catch some guys and totally eat their brains for sure, boss.’

Polly was back explaining that she didn’t really expect the Horde to honour their word. She’d agreed to help them because she thought that at least she might be able to help a few of the other prisoners.

‘But they let them all go. And me,’ she said, shaking her head, obviously having trouble believing her luck.

‘So he can be trusted, this Lord Guyuk?’ the male voice asked off screen. ‘After the terrible things he’s done? The things he’s still doing.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But he kept his promise to me. Maybe he can be trusted but others can’t. The monsters have been fighting each other forever. Maybe he wants an alliance or something. I don’t know.’

‘Booyah!’ roared Threshy, punching the air and nearly jostling Guyuk’s drinking arm as he did so. Luckily the Grymm Lord’s drinking arm was as thick as a tree trunk and not easily jostled. None of the beer spilled over him.

‘It’s working,’ Threshy said. ‘They won’t believe this shit coming from you or me. But from pretty little Polly, who’s been all the way to Hell and back. Dude, the surrender monkeys will eat this shit with chocolate topping for breakfast.’

Guyuk belched and wiped his lipless mouth. Chumley startled at the thunderous sound and nearly fainted away.

‘More beer, sir?’

‘Beer! Prork!’ the lord commander barked. The television was filled with images of Grymm Legions manoeuvring on the Clan’s training grounds; all shot on Polly Farrell’s phone cam.

‘I guarantee you, G-Man,’ Threshy said. ‘This won’t stop the cattle shooting back at us, but by the time the breakfast cable news shows are on, half of them will be crying like bitches, blaming themselves for everything and demanding their warlords stop fighting and sue for peace.’

‘If this comes to pass,’ said Guyuk, ‘you will have done well, Superiorae. It is the role of the Threshrendum to confuse and dispirit
dar ienamic
, but the scrolls have always deemed it to be a duty of little import and no honour. Perhaps that will change if Her Majesty be well pleased.’

‘Oh she’ll be pleased,
jefe
. You can bet your leathery ass on that. Especially with all the losers in the other sects still rolling up to get their asses kicked wholesale by the cows.’

Guyuk came out of his reverie, almost as if he noticed where he was for the first time. The low roof, scarred by blade and bludgeon work. The pools of blood and random scatterings of body parts. The destroyed furnishing and the stone-still figures of the Sergeants and Lieutenants Grymm arranged about the wayside inn.

‘We must away soon, Superiorae. The Masters of the Ways will have prepared our transit by now.’

‘So we’re done with this guy?’ Threshy asked, jerking a claw over the bar at Chumley. As soon as Guyuk nodded, the Threshrend daemon launched himself across the pork scraps and the empty beer bucket. His roaring fang tracks closed around the human’s head and sheared off the upper third, allowing him to suck out the hot, quivering grey matter. Chumley didn’t even have time to scream.

‘Huh,’ said Threshy as he licked bloodwine and bone flecks from his slowing fang track. ‘I understand the derivatives market now.’


Guyuk’s eyes slitted as he watched video of the Djinn being slaughtered by human forces in the demesne known as Nebr’skaa. Guyuk did not take his eyes from the screen. He could not know what the voiceover was saying, but he could read a battle clearly.

‘It is not necessary that you refer to them as cattle, Superiorae,’ the lord commander said in a low voice. ‘Your allegiance is not in doubt, and we defeat ourselves if we treat this foe as being unworthy of respect. They will teach us otherwise, as they have taught the Djinn, the Morphum and the other sects who sought them in the open field. We must know them as they know themselves, and so we call them as they are, Superiorae. Call them Men.’