How many seconds left? Fifteen? Less? If the beast was released, he had no more weapons to fight it.
They sidestepped, pulling the Iron Jackal between them like two handlers wrangling a maddened bull. The daemon came with them, caught within the confines of its cage of sound. It seemed an impossibly fragile restraint for a creature like that, and yet it was working.
One step. Two. Three. Then they were at the edge of the circle. Surely that was fifteen seas fifteconds? It felt like ten minutes had passed. Crake had moved to crouch by the box with the trigger button, ready to activate the circle.
Frey frowned. Was the humming from his pack getting quieter?
‘Now!’ Crake said.
Frey and Ugrik stepped to either side of the circle in perfect sync. The Iron Jackal resisted them with all its might. Frey felt the force of it through his arm. But when he and Ugrik tugged together, it stepped clumsily forward. The instant it was inside the circle, Crake stabbed the button.
If they’d thought the Iron Jackal’s unearthly screeches had been terrible before, they were nothing compared to this. The sound was like a sandstorm, flaying the senses. The daemon writhed and thrashed as if on fire, twisting and turning in the hideous red light from the flares. Frey and Ugrik stepped back, staring, the cylinders in their hand useless now and forgotten.
It had become indistinct at the edges, hazy like smoke. But seconds passed, and no more than that occurred. It was clearly suffering, but it was still there in the circle.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Frey demanded of Crake. ‘Kill it!’
Crake’s eyes were wide with fear as he fiddled with the dials on the machine. ‘I can’t! It’s too strong! It was supposed to be torn apart in the flux!’ The Iron Jackal howled anew at each change of the settings, but it was still holding together. ‘The battery won’t last much longer!’
The creature’s gaze fixed on Frey then, as if it knew, as if to say: I’m coming for you. As soon as this is over, I’m coming for you.
No. He wouldn’t let that thing win. He’d been to the edge too many times to give in to it now. He’d been through fear and rage, and now there was only blazing defiance.
He shucked his pack off his back and let it fall to the floor. Then he walked over to his cutlass, picked it up, and turned to face the daemon.
‘This ends here,’ he said grimly.
‘Well, end it bloody fast, then!’ Crake screamed.
He strode to the edge of the circle. The Iron Jackal saw him coming and bared its teeth. Either the circle was weakening or it had found new strength, because it was becoming solid again, mastering its pain. Frey drew back his cutlass, aiming the point between the armoured plates on its chest.
And suddenly there was no daemon in the circle any more.
The change happened as if in a dream, as if Trinica had been there all along. As if it had alwaf it hadys been Trinica he’d been fighting. She stood in the centre of the circle, all in black, her white face red in the fading light. Darkness was gathering as the last of the flares died, but he could see that her black eyes shimmered with tears as she gazed at him with an expression of heartbreaking sorrow.
‘Darian,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’
He hesitated. His mind told him it was a daemon, but his instincts rebelled. He knew that it was just trying to buy time for the battery that powered the circle to fail, but the thought of hurting Trinica, even an effigy like this, paralysed him.
But this wasn’t her. This was the pirate queen that had taken her place. This was the mask, the shell, the cold nemesis that betrayed and shunned him.
‘Wrong Trinica,’ he said, and drove the cutlass into her heart with all the strength in his body.
The scream was like nothing he’d ever heard before, a sound that cut right through to the marrow of his being. It was a storm of damned voices, made up of tones and pitches that didn’t belong in this world. A hurricane wind blasted out from the circle, scattering equipment and people, sending Frey tripping and tumbling away. The last of the flares flew into the dark and died.
And, in an instant, it was over.
Silence, and blackness. Then, slowly, the ambient glow from the seashell walls returned, lighting the room by degrees until they could see again.
They picked themselves up, dazed. Frey looked around the chamber, scarcely able to believe what had just occurred. He couldn’t get Trinica’s face out of his mind. That scream, the look of terror on her face, the feel of the blade shoving into her chest. Had he… Had he really…?
No. You killed a daemon. Nothing more.
Crake dusted himself down. ‘And that, gentlemen, is a demonstration of field daemonism in action.’ He motioned towards Frey. ‘Your hand, Cap’n?’
Frey removed his glove. The skin beneath was pink and smooth, without the slightest hint of gangrenous corruption. He stared at it, then at Crake.
‘You did it,’ he whispered.
‘ We did it,’ said Crake.
‘Actually, I’m pretty sure it was mostly you.’
‘I ain’t ever seen anything like that!’ Ugrik said. A toothy grin spread across his face and he cackled loudly. ‘That was somethin’! That was definitely somethin’!’
Frey walked over to Crake. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’
Crake held out a hand to shake. ‘My pleasure, Cap-’
Frey grabbed Crake in a crushing hug, driving the breath from his lungs.
He was alive. All the fear and tension that had been dammed up inside him suddenly broke, and he was so overwhelmingly, completely grateful. The whole crew had backed him every step of the way, but Crake had stood alone as his last line of defence. He’d worked himself to the bone for Frey’s sake, to save his Cap’n from the mess he’d got himself into. And in the end, he’d achieved what they both thought was impossible.
‘You’re a real friend, Crake,’ Frey muttered. Then he felt slightly embarrassed, so he broke away and slapped the daemonist on shoulder with an appropriate amount of manly gusto. ‘Not to mention a damn genius.’
‘I am, aren’t I?’ Crake said. ‘Can I have my cutlass back now?’
Frey’s smile faltered. ‘You want the cutlass back?’
‘Just as a little thank-you. For saving your life and all.’
Frey fought to keep the good humour on his face. The cutlass was his most precious possession after the Ketty Jay. It had saved his life several times. And yet, how could he refuse the daemonist now? After what he’d done? The joy of the moment curdled in his guts, but he swallowed down the bile and nodded.
‘Alright,’ he said. It had fallen from his hand after he stabbed the daemon. He looked around for it, and spotted it lying nearby. ‘Fair’s fair, I suppose.’ He went over and brought it back, then held it out to Crake.
Crake took it from him and swept it experimentally through the air a couple of times.
‘It’s a fine sword,’ Frey said.
‘It is a fine sword,’ Crake agreed. Then he tossed it back to Frey, who caught it in the air. He beamed. ‘I’m only joking, Cap’n. Just wanted to see if you’d do it.’
Frey gaped at him, aghast. ‘You horrible son of a bitch!’ he accused, but he stuck the cutlass back in his belt before Crake could change his mind.
This time it was Crake who embraced Frey. ‘Glad you’re still with us, Cap’n,’ he said warmly. ‘Wouldn’t be the same without you.’
After a few moments, he felt a burly arm sliding round his back. They looked intoy looked Ugrik’s grinning, bearded face. The Yort was hugging both of them.
‘Er,’ said Crake stiffly. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just wanted a piece o’ the love in this room.’
‘Would you get off, please?’
They disengaged awkwardly with much shuffling and looking at their shoes.
‘Right, then,’ said Ugrik, looking round the empty chamber. ‘Curse is gone. Now what?’
Frey felt a tremor through the soles of his feet. He frowned.
‘Did you just feel that?’ he asked. Crake shushed him. The daemonist had an intent expression on his face. He was listening.