Eighty or ninety years ago, then. That’s when they built this machine. He began to put the story together in his head, his scientist’s mind assembling and examining the evidence. And later they sealed up the place with daemonic wards, until it was opened again by the quake. But there are still relics around; they didn’t take them when they left. That implies they left in a hurry.
He looked at the machine. There, at the centre, was a narrow cage somewhat like a gibbet, shaped to fit a person inside. The bars on one side had been bent and twisted by some enormous force.
And then he knew.
Spit and blood. Imperators. They were creating Imperators here.
It all fit. The timing, the secret location. Long ago, a group of daemonists, full of hubris, attempted a grand summoning and accidentally unleashed the Manes. The Awakeners heard what had been done, kidnapped the survivors, and learned how they’d managed it. They refined the technique, and soon after the first Imperators appeared.
They took their most faithful servants and put daemons inside them. And they did it using apparatus like this.
He studied the machine and did some calculations in his head. This wasn’t one of the original devices. It was too advanced for that. Imperators had been around for twenty or thirty years by the time this was built, though their powers were cruder then, by the accounts of the day. But this shrine must have been an important place, judging by its size and location. Perhaps they were up to something here, something more ambitious than simply creating more of their terrible enforcers.
He looked at the broken gibbet.
Something that went badly wrong.
Encouraged, he went looking for more evidence, while keeping a wary eye on the darkness beyond his lantern. Whatever was in that cage had escaped, and he’d lay odds that it was the same thing they’d heard howling earlier. Perhaps it was nowhere nearby, or perhaps it was already watching them.
He rounded a huge stone, larger than he was, and caught sight of Pelaru. The whispermonger had found something in the debris, it seemed. He’d put down his lantern and was holding a large grey metal casket in his hands. There was a frown on his face as he examined it. As Crake watched him, the Thacian’s expression slackened in realisation. Then he turned his head, and saw that he was being observed. His features became a carefully composed mask again as he met Crake’s gaze.
He recognises it, Crake thought. Damned if he doesn’t recognise what he’s got.
But the thought fled his mind as a new sensation crept over him. He recognised this feeling, this faint sense of detachment and unreality, this increasing paranoia and unease. He’d felt it many times before, in the presence of daemons.
He looked around frantically. ‘It’s here,’ he said, his voice echoing up to the roof of the hall.
‘You what?’ Frey called from elsewhere, loud enough to make Crake flinch. ‘You say something, Crake?’
‘It’s here!’ Crake yelled. ‘The daemon! It’s here!’
From the darkness, something screamed.
Nine
Frey went cold at the sound of that scream. He dropped the relics he was carrying, pulled out his cutlass with one hand and a pistol with the other. Backing up, he scanned the hall, saw nothing.
Suddenly he wished they’d got out of here when they had the chance.
Ashua came hurrying towards him from another direction. ‘Cap’n,’ she murmured. ‘That doesn’t sound much like something I wanna meet.’
‘Me neither,’ said Frey. He raised his voice. ‘Time to leave, fellers! This junk’s not worth gettin’ killed over. Let’s leave the nice monster alone, shall we?’
The others were nowhere to be seen, lost amid the rubble. Frey was glad of Ashua by his side. The presence of a woman necessitated bravado, and it helped him to stand firm. Otherwise he might have just legged it. He bloody hated daemons.
That sound again: a tortured shriek, inhuman, possessed of some terrible quality that went across the nerves like a rusty saw. And the fear! Damn it, that was the worst. It was what they did to a man, these Manes and Imperators and daemons, that made them so hard to tackle. Just being near them inspired a feeling as unreasoning and primal as a child’s terror of a dark wardrobe.
Something moved, up on top of a rubble pile. He whirled and aimed.
Nothing but the skitter and bump of stones and rocks as they tumbled down the slope.
He thought of Osger, and the other bodies out in the corridor. Torn to pieces. Was that what awaited him and his crew?
You should never have brought them here, you selfish son of a bitch.
Silo and Pinn came into view, weapons held ready, and joined them in their retreat towards the door. Silo exchanged a glance with Frey. They didn’t need words. They’d been in enough spots like this before. They knew how bad it was.
‘There!’ Ashua cried. They caught a glimpse of a dark shape dropping through the air. It landed with a heavy thump in front of the door, compressing to a crouch, blocking their path.
It raised itself to its feet. Frey’s mouth went dry.
He’d seen Manes, and he’d seen Imperators unmasked. He’d looked the Iron Jackal in the eye. But this was the most horrifying yet, this grotesque, malformed, swollen wreck of a thing. The very sight of it appalled him.
There was enough humanity in its form to see how it had started out, but it was far from human now. Piled cords of veined muscle bulged unevenly all over it, gathered into huge straining knots. One of its arms was three times as thick as the other. Its back was twisted beneath a lopsided hump of gristle and scaly hide. Tendons stood out stark on two-fingered hands.
He’d seen how daemons could change a person, but there had always been purpose and symmetry in it before. This one was a wild jumble of flesh and bone, as if its insides had grown unchecked and in all directions, barely contained by the stretched sack of its skin.
It opened its jaws and shrieked again. Its face had slumped. One eye faced forward; the other was a third of its size, and sat low on its cheek looking sideways. Half its mouth was toothed, the other was bare. Saliva dripped from its gums.
‘Cap’n?’ said Pinn quietly.
‘What?’ Frey croaked.
There was a pause. ‘Aren’t you gonna say hello to your mum?’
Ashua snorted with suppressed laughter. The tension dissipated. Leave it to Pinn to get a dig in at a time like this. He was too stupid to be afraid of death.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and opened fire.
The daemon shuddered and jerked as a hail of bullets tore into it, sending it staggering back towards the doorway. The crew’s faces were lit up by muzzle flashes, teeth gritted, eyes hard. They emptied their chambers, and when they were done, the monstrous thing lay on the floor in a heap, tattered and torn.
Then it groaned and, slowly, it began to get up.
‘I bloody knew it was going to do that,’ said Frey, as the crew backed off and began to scatter. ‘Crake! Where are you?’
But the daemon was on its feet now. Its skin was ripped and its flesh full of holes but it didn’t bleed and it didn’t appear any the worse for wear. It fixed an eye on Frey and snarled.
‘Don’t come after me!’ Frey cried. ‘Eat Pinn, he’s fatter!’
His generous advice fell on deaf ears. The daemon came lumbering towards him, accelerating as its powerful legs drove it forward. Frey darted to the side, hoping to put a pile of rubble between him and his pursuer. It angled to intercept him, smashing through the edge of the pile and causing a landslide behind it. The impact barely hindered it; it bore down on him like an express train.