The Demonata #10: Hell's Heroes

by Shan, Darren

  Dispensing pain, despising all

  Shuns friends, nurtures foes

  Ravages hope, breeds woe

  Drinks moons, devours suns

  Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes

  In the center of the web, lush Lord Loss is all that’s left

  START ME UP

  WE pick a black square at random and set about putting together the building blocks of life. The three of us work as one, without having to discuss what we’re doing. Bec provides the memories, and thus the blueprints of what we need to start life again. Kernel manipulates the hidden strings of the universe to bring into being anything Bec desires. And I supply the power, channeling the energy of the Kah-Gash through them.

  It’s a long, complicated process, yet at the same time swift and simple. This is what the Kah-Gash does. It’s like a person breathing, walking, talking, snapping his or her fingers. As humans we performed countless natural functions every second of the day. This is the same, only on a cosmic level.

  The Old Creatures are aware of what we’re up to, and we can sense their seal of approval, even though we never communicate. They’re happy to drift along in their own zones. All they ever wanted was to be left alone, safe from the threat of the Demonata, to roam as they pleased. We can guarantee that now, so they have no further interest in us.

  I wish we had it so easy. There are hard times ahead. Having to focus for billions of years… put worlds, ecosystems, and civilizations back the way they were… ensure every seed finds the egg it was meant to… guide every animal from a single-celled organism upwards, on every planet, in every galaxy… determine the deaths of all creatures, down to the fraction of a second of the date when they were meant to die…

  It’s no walk in the park!

  One problem we don’t have to worry about is the harvesting of souls. As strong as we are, there’s a higher force than the Kah-Gash. We can sense it, but we can’t define it, something greater than power, knowledge, life, or death. We could give it a name, but that’s not our job or our right. Let the beings of the universe name and worship the force in whatever ways they wish. We’re not here to provide answers, just to give others the opportunity to marvel at the secrets of the heavens and perhaps one day unravel the mysteries for themselves.

  I’m not looking forward to letting bad things happen. I’m sure I’ll be tempted to intervene a million times a day, spare innocents, undermine tyrants, build a better, safer, cleaner universe. But it’s a temptation I must ignore. If we start to interfere, we’ll rob individuals of the right of self-determination. Nothing good can come of celestial dominance, no matter how noble our intentions. We’re architects of this universe, nothing more, and we must never let ourselves forget that.

  Having said that, we’ll have to direct traffic up to a certain point, to the moment when we tore the universes asunder. We could start fresh if we wanted and let things develop randomly, but there’s no telling what would happen then. Life might never evolve at all. We think it’s better to start the ball rolling, guide the creatures of this universe along the path they followed the first time around, then withdraw and leave them to themselves.

  Well… maybe we’ll stop a bit earlier. We don’t have to let time stretch to the very last second. There’s no harm tying up some loose ends a day or two before the universe ended. We have to implement change at that stage anyway, fiddle with the order of events to ensure this new universe isn’t annihilated. It wouldn’t make any real difference if we rounded things off a week or two earlier… maybe even a few months or years…

  “That’s dangerous thinking,” Bec notes, her voice coming from every part of the universe and yet from nowhere in particular. “We agreed we wouldn’t interfere.”

  “But we have to at the end,” I argue. “If we let events play out as before, the re-creations of ourselves will tear the universe to shreds. We have to make changes. There can be no wandering pieces of the Kah-Gash. Death must remain a force and never be unleashed as the Shadow. No war between the demons and humanity. We have to juggle events, remove a few individuals from the mix, strip some of power, give others more to do. It’ll be like a game of chess. We can let the game unfold as it did before, but if we want to avoid checkmate, we’ll have to readjust the pieces a few moves shy of the finish.”

  “That makes sense,” Kernel agrees.

  “So where do we draw the line?” Bec asks. “Grubbs was the last to be born. Do we set the universe free just before that? Or do we go back to before I entered the world and release our grip then?”

  “That would be the simplest thing,” Kernel says, but there’s an uncertain edge to his voice.

  “The trouble with stopping there,” I mutter, “is that the people we knew might never be born. My parents, Gret, Dervish…”

  “Shark and Sharmila,” Kernel says.

  “Bill-E and Kirilli,” Bec sighs.

  “We could keep them all,” I croak. “Even save them. My parents don’t have to be slaughtered. We can give Dervish a stronger heart. Bill-E and Loch needn’t die in the cave in Carcery Vale.”

  “Shark could live to fight another day,” Kernel murmurs. “We could let Nadia lead a normal life and spare her the indignity of becoming Juni Swan.”

  “Bran could enjoy a dignified retirement,” Bec muses aloud. “Meera could be spared. Maybe Dervish would finally see sense and fall in love with her.”

  “We have the power,” I whisper. “We need to tinker with things, no matter what. Why not make a few beneficial, personal changes while we’re at it?”

  “Do we have the right to alter the universe to suit our own desires?” Bec asks.

  “Let’s call it a perk of the job,” I chuckle.

  “We should discuss this further,” Kernel says.

  “A lot further,” Bec adds.

  “Fine,” I shrug. “We’ve got plenty of time. I’m sure we’ll sort something out over the next billion years or so.” I create a giant pair of knuckles and crack them loudly. “Now let’s get this show on the road. Who wants to set the Big Bang in motion?”

  “That’s your privilege,” Bec says. “Everything’s in place. Kernel and I can’t do any more until you generate the explosion.”

  “We can control it, can’t we?” I ask. “The Big Bang, I mean. It won’t affect any of the other zones?”

  “Not this time,” Bec says.

  “It will all run smoothly,” Kernel assures me.

  I’m nervous now that the moment has arrived. It’s no small thing, creating life, the universe, and everything. I’m probably not the best man—hell, best boy for the job. But then it’s not a perfect universe. You can’t hang around waiting for somebody else to pull your strings. Destiny’s what you make of it. You have to face whatever life throws at you. And if it throws more than you’d like, more than you think you can handle?

  Well, then you have to find heroism within yourself and play out the hand you’ve been dealt. The universe never sets a challenge that can’t be met. You just need to believe in yourself in order to find the strength to face it.

  Where to start? I feel like I should say a few words to mark the occasion, but I’m not good at speeches. Perhaps I could borrow from one of the many creation myths that have been—will be—written by others more adept at capturing the spirit of momentous events like this.

  I start to ask Bec if she can recommend an appropriate extract. But then I recall something Mum used to read to me when I was young. Mum wasn’t especially religious, but she read to Gret and me from a variety of holy books. I don’t recall the exact way it went, and I guess my choice won’t suit everyone, but what the hell, this is my show, so I’ll run it the way I please.

  Clearing my throat, to a chorus of good-natured groans from Kernel and Bec, I chant solemnly. “In the beginning Grubbs created the heavens and the earth, and everything was dark. Then Grubbs said, ‘Let there be light!’”

  And there was light.

  Coolio!

  THE
END

  THE DEMONATA

  FEBRUARY 6, 2001–JUNE 5, 2009

  DARREN SHAN

  THE THIN EXECUTIONER

  THE EXECUTIONER SWUNG HIS AXE-

  THWACK!

  -AND ANOTHER HEAD WENT ROLLING INTO THE DUST. THERE WAS A LOUD CHEER.

  RASHED RUM WAS THE GREATEST EXECUTIONER WADI HAD EVER SEEN.

  When Jebel Rum sets out on an eight-month journey to petition the fire god for invincibility, he wants nothing more than to return and claim the post of executioner from his father. But the quest he and his slave embark on will set him off on the bloodiest fight of his life, and by the end of the journey, Tel Hesani is more than just a slave—he is Jebel’s friend. Will Jebel sacrifice Tel Hesani to appease his brutal god, or will he find the strength to reject his violent upbringing to save his friend?

  Inspired by The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, international bestselling master of horror Darren Shan injects this classic story with his trademark gore and breakneck speed, and champions the idea that peace is often the bravest choice of all.

  Heads will roll in The Thin Executioner, available August 2010.

  Turn the page for a glimpse at Darren Shan’s greatest adventure yet.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The executioner swung his axe—thwack!—and another head went rolling into the dust. There was a loud cheer. Rashed Rum was the greatest executioner Wadi had ever seen, and he always drew a large crowd, even after thirty years.

  Five executions were scheduled for that morning. Rashed had just finished off the third and was cleaning his blade. In the crowd his youngest son, Jebel, was more interested in the high maid, Debbat Alg, than his father.

  To Jebel, Debbat Alg was the most beautiful girl in Wadi. She was the same height as him, slim and curvy, with long legs, even longer hair, dazzling brown eyes, and teeth so white they might have been carved from shards of the moon. Her skin was a delicious dark brown color. She always wore a long dress, usually with a slit down the left to show off her legs. Her blouses were normally cropped and close-fitting, revealing much of her smooth stomach.

  Rashed Rum tested his blade, then stepped forward. He nodded at the guards, and they led the fourth criminal—a female slave who’d struck her mistress—to the platform at the center of the square. Jebel slid up next to Debbat and her servant, Bastina.

  “I bet she’ll need two blows,” he said.

  Debbat shot him an icy glance. “Betting against your father?” she sniffed.

  “No,” Jebel said. “But I think she’ll try to wriggle free. Slaves have no honor. They always squirm.”

  “Not this one,” Debbat said. “She has spirit. But if you want to risk a bet…”

  “I do,” Jebel grinned.

  “What stakes?” Debbat asked.

  “A kiss?” It was out of Jebel’s mouth before he knew he’d said it.

  Debbat laughed. “I could have you whipped for suggesting that.”

  “You’re just afraid you’d lose,” Jebel retorted.

  Debbat’s eyes sparkled at the thought of having Jebel punished. But then she caught sight of J’An, Jebel’s eldest brother, handing his father a drink. Debbat would have welcomed a kiss from J’An, and he knew it, but so far he’d shown no interest in her. Perhaps he thought he had no competition, that he could claim her in his own sweet time. It might be good to give him a little scare.

  “Very well,” Debbat said, startling both Jebel and Bastina. “A kiss if you win. If you lose, you have to kiss Bastina.”

  “Mistress!” Bastina objected.

  “Be quiet, Bas!” snapped Debbat.

  Bastina pouted, but she couldn’t argue. She wasn’t a slave, but she had pledged herself to serve the high family, so she had to obey Debbat’s commands.

  “Bet accepted,” Jebel said happily. Bastina had a sour, pinched face, and her skin wasn’t anywhere near as dark as Debbat’s—her mother had come from a line of slaves from another country—but even if he lost and had to kiss her, it would be better than a whipping.

  On the platform the female slave was motionless, her neck resting snugly in the curve of the executioner’s block, hands tied behind her back. Her blouse and dress had been removed. She would leave this world as vulnerable as when she had entered it, as did everyone when they were executed. When the wise and merciless judges of the nation of Abu Aineh found you guilty of a crime, you were stripped of everything that had once defined who you were—your wealth, your clothing, your dignity, and finally your head.

  Rashed Rum drank deeply. Refreshed, he wiped his hands on his knee-length bloodstained tunic, took hold of his long-handled axe, stepped up to the block, and laid the blade on the slave’s neck to mark his spot. His eyes narrowed and he breathed softly. Then he drew the axe back and swept it around and down, cutting clean through the woman’s neck.

  The slave’s head hit the base of the platform and bounced off into the crowd. The children nearest the front yelled with excitement and fought for the head, then fled with it, kicking it down the street. The heads of um Wadi or Um Aineh were treated with respect and buried along with their bodies, but slaves were worthless. Their bones were fed to dogs.

  Debbat faced Jebel Rum and smiled smugly.

  Jebel shrugged. “She must have frozen with fear.”

  “I hope you don’t freeze when you kiss Bas,” Debbat laughed.

  Bastina was crying. It wasn’t because she had to kiss Jebel—he wasn’t that ugly. She always cried at executions. She had a soft heart, and her mother had told her many stories when she was growing up, of their ancestors and how they had suffered. Bastina couldn’t think of these people as criminals who had no right to life anymore. She identified with them and always wondered about their families, how their husbands or wives might feel, how their children would survive without them.

  “Come on, then,” Jebel said, taking hold of the weeping girl’s jaw and tilting her head back. He wiped away the worst of her tears, then quickly kissed her. She was still crying when he released her and he made a face. “I’ve never seen anyone else cry when a person’s executed.”

  “It’s horrible,” Bastina moaned. “So brutal…”

  “She was fairly judged,” said Jebel. “She broke the law, so she can’t complain.”

  Bastina shook her head but said nothing more. She knew that the woman had committed a crime, that a judge had heard the case against her and found her guilty. A slave had no automatic right to a hearing—her mistress could have killed her on the spot—but she been afforded the ear of the courts and been judged the same as a free Um Aineh. By all of their standards, it was legal and fair. Yet still Bastina shuddered when she thought about how the woman had died.

  “Why aren’t you muscular like your brothers?” Debbat asked out of the blue, squeezing Jebel’s bony arm. “You’re as thin as an Um Kheshabah.”

  “I’m a late developer,” Jebel snapped, tearing his arm free and flushing angrily. “J’Al was the same when he was my age, and J’An wasn’t much bigger.”

  “Nonsense,” Debbat snorted. “I remember what they looked like. You’ll never be strong like them.”

  Jebel bristled, but the high maid had spoken truly. He was the runt of the Rum litter. His mother had died giving birth to him, which boded well for his future. Rashed Rum thought he had a tiny monster on his hands, one who would grow up to be a fierce warrior. But Jebel never lived up to his early promise. He’d always been shorter and skinnier than other boys his age.

  “Jebel doesn’t need to be big,” Bastina said, sticking up for her friend—her mother had been his nurse, so they had grown up together. “He’s clever. He’s going to be a teacher or a judge.”

  “Shut up!” Jebel barked furiously. Abu Aineh was a nation where warriors were prized above all others. Very few boys dreamt of growing up to be a teacher.

  “You’d be a good judge,” Bastina said. “You wouldn’t be cruel.”

  “Judges aren’t cruel,” said Debbat, rolling her eyes.
“They simply punish the guilty. We’d be no better than the Um Safafaha without them.”

  “That’s right,” Jebel said. “Not that I’m going to become one,” he added with a dark glare at Bastina. “I’m going to be a warrior. I’ll fight for the high lord.”

  “You? One of my father’s guards?” Debbat frowned. “You’re too thin. Only the strongest um Wadi serve the high lord.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” Jebel huffed. “You’re just a girl. You—”

  Rashed Rum stepped forward, and Jebel fell silent along with the rest of the crowd. The day’s final criminal was led to the platform, an elderly man who had stolen food from a stall. He was an um Wadi, but he behaved like a slave, weeping and begging for mercy. He made Jebel feel ashamed. People booed, but Rashed Rum’s expression didn’t flicker. They were all the same to him, the brave and the cowardly, the high and the low, the just and the wicked. It wasn’t an executioner’s place to stand in judgment, just to cut off heads.

  The elderly man’s feet were tied together, but he still tried to jerk free of the executioner’s block. In the end, J’An and J’Al had to hold him in place while their father took aim and cut off his head.

  J’An would come of age in a year and join one of Wadi’s regiments. When J’An left, their father would need a new assistant to help J’Al. The position should be offered to Jebel, but he doubted it would be. He was thin, so people thought he was weak. He hoped his father would give him a chance to prove himself, but he was prepared for disappointment.

  Debbat turned to leave, and so did the other people in the square. But they all stopped short when Rashed Rum called out, “Your ears for a moment, please.”

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd—this was the first time in thirty years that Rashed Rum had spoken after an execution. He took off his black hooded mask and toyed with it shyly. Although he was a legendary executioner, he wasn’t used to speaking in public. He coughed, then laughed. “I had the words clear in my head this morning, but now I’ve forgotten them!”