Shadows Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “Well, well, and who have we in our audience today? Hey folks, it’s William (I’m in charge) Royce, Imperial Leader of the famous (or should that be infamous) Warriors of the Cross; paragon of virtue and all around good guy. Defender of the meek, as long as they worship the right God in the right way, and punisher of the unworthy, and to Hell with what the Law says. Well, what do you say, folks? Give the man a big hand, and one hell of a welcome! William Royce; come on down!”

  Agonized screams erupted from behind the figure, the sound of countless people in unbelievable, indescribable pain. The flames leapt up for a moment, filling the screen, and then fell back to reveal the game show host transformed into a heavy metal rock-and-roller, complete with long hair, leather and chains. His face was puffy and swollen from too many excesses and gratifications of the flesh. The horns curled up blatantly from his forehead. He smiled, and a forked tongue flickered briefly between his pouting lips.

  “Don’t look so surprised, William. Isn’t this what you always suspected? I have many forms and many faces, and my name is Legion. I know, it’s an old gag, but we’re great ones for tradition down here. I’m every rock-and-roller who ever played too loudly for your precious ears. When you play a record backwards, it’s my voice you hear, if you listen hard enough. But only as long as you want to hear it. You’re not smiling, William. Doesn’t this form please you? You know I’ll do anything for you, as long as you’re out there and I’m down here. Perhaps this is more to your liking.”

  He was a choirboy in a pristine white surplice, nailed to a wooden cross. Blood ran thickly from his wrists and ankles, and his eyes were very cold. He opened his rosebud mouth and sang. “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam…”

  “Enough!” A bead of sweat ran down Royce’s face, but his voice was firm and commanding. “Cut the crap, demon. I summon you in the name of the Lord, and command you to assume a more pleasing countenance.”

  “Spoilsport,” said the choirboy. The flames leapt up again, and when they fell back, a teenage girl in jeans and sweater was sitting in a wicker chair, legs casually crossed to show off their magnificent length. “Remember me, Billy? I was the first girl who ever smiled at you, back in high school. You had all kinds of dreams about me, but you never did work up the courage to actually talk to me. You could have me now. You could do anything you want with me. All you have to do is break the pentacle and let me out, and I can be everything you ever dreamed of.”

  “The hell you say,” said Royce. “Don’t you ever get tired of these pathetic routines? I know who you are and what you are, and I do not feel your temptations. I am sworn to the Lord, and his strength is mine.”

  “Wouldn’t doubt it for a moment, Billy boy. Only, if you’re so pure and holy, and your cause is so damn righteous, how is it you ended up coming to me for the power you needed? And you do need me, Billy. Prayer and fasting’s all very well, but it won’t take a town for you. All the armies and traitors in the world won’t get you past Shadows Fall’s defences. You need me and my kind for that. And when the day is over and the battle’s done, I’ll be standing right there at the front of the line, demanding payment. And all the prayers in the world won’t save you then, Billy boy.”

  “Liar and Prince of Liars,” said Royce calmly. “You obey me because the Lord is with me, and you cannot disobey his word.”

  The demon shrugged prettily. “There’s none so deaf as those who will not hear. What do you want from me this time?”

  “Tell me of Shadows Fall. Do any of them suspect our invasion is imminent?”

  “A few are beginning to have their suspicions, but they know nothing of what is to come. We have hidden the future from them, and clouded their minds. Relax, Billy. Your agents and mine are in place. Nothing will go wrong.”

  “And the traitor angel Michael?”

  “My brothers and I still combine to keep him from returning to a human host. Such fun. Don’t you find it amusing, Billy dear, that a man who claims to soldier in God’s name should traffic with one of the fallen against one of God’s host?”

  “Your words do not sway me. I do what is necessary.” Royce was careful not to let his voice waver. “I will use whatever weapons I can find, to fight the good fight. I will use evil to fight evil, if I must. The archangel Michael is a traitor to the Lord and the Lord’s work. He would defend the unnatural creatures that plague Shadows Fall. If I must soil my hands to work with such as you to stop him, I shall not hesitate. God is with me.”

  The demon giggled charmingly. “That’s what they all say…”

  “Enough! Don’t think to tempt or confuse me, demon. You are corrupt and evil, and I know you too well. Now begone.”

  “Not just yet,” said the demon casually. “We’re having such an interesting chat. And your wards have grown very weak.”

  Royce looked automatically at the chalked lines of the pentacle around the television set. They were still intact. And yet suddenly it seemed uncomfortably warm in his office. A blisteringly hot breeze wafted out of the screen towards him, thick with the stench of sulphur. Screams of pain and horror rose again in the background, but nearer now, and mixed with awful laughter. The demon rose from her chair and strode forward, filling the screen. The flames jumped and danced. She put out a hand, and it thrust out of the screen and into his office. Her fingernails were long and sharp, the colour of blood. Royce fell back a step in spite of himself, and the demon laughed mockingly. Horns thrust up out of her brow, curling and twisting like a goat’s.

  “Did you never hear the saying, sweet Billy, that when you sup with the Devil, you should use a long spoon? Well, your spoon wasn’t long enough. The game’s over now. You lose. Time to play another game, more to my liking. Time for me to come out, and all my friends. We’re going to have one hell of a time.”

  The television screen stretched and widened, looking less like a window and more like a door with every moment. Royce tore his gaze away from the laughing demon, and took a deep breath. The remote control was still in his hand, and the familiar weight of it calmed him. He met the demon’s gaze again. It had started to pull itself out of the screen, and it didn’t look much like a girl any more.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” said Royce. “I summoned you and I can dismiss you. You entered into a compact with me, and are bound by its terms. I know your true name, and so I have power over you. Back to the flames, hellspawn, till I have need of you again.”

  He hit the off button on the remote control, and the television began to shrink. The demon was sucked inexorably back in, despite all its struggles. It snarled and spat and clutched desperately at the edges of the screen, but in a moment it was back inside, and the television was its normal size again. Royce hit the off button a second time, and the scene disappeared from the screen, as though it had never been. The set turned itself off, and all that remained was the uncomfortable warmth, and the smell of sulphur. Royce sat down behind his desk, put away the remote control, and turned up the air conditioning.

  The intercom buzzed, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He waited a few moments to let his heart settle before answering. It wouldn’t do to sound upset or flustered. His people needed to believe in him. And it definitely wouldn’t do for them to suspect the forces he was dealing with, on their behalf. They wouldn’t understand. He leaned over the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Frank Morse is here to see you, Leader.”

  “It’s all right, I’m expecting him. Send him through.”

  Royce settled himself behind his desk, and put on his most stern and unreadable face. This wasn’t going to be at all pleasant, but it had to be done. The door opened, and Morse came in. He marched up to the desk, crashed to attention and stood there silently, staring fixedly at a space just above Royce’s head. Morse was young, barely into his twenties, but his heart burned with the holy fire of the zealot, and he would have died for Royce, or the Lord. Sometimes he seemed to have them confused. He’d been the obvious man to send into Shadows
Fall, to perform one simple task, but somehow it had all gone wrong. Royce was pretty sure he knew why, but he wanted to hear it from Morse’s lips. He nodded to Morse to relax, and he crashed into parade rest, still not meeting Royce’s eyes.

  “I’ve read your report on your trip to Shadows Fall, Frank. It doesn’t make very good reading. I’m really very disappointed in you, Frank. You were sent in with strict instructions. Kill the Sheriff and the Mayor, and leave immediately without being spotted. This would have been a test run for other missions.

  “Instead, you allowed yourself to be distracted by one of the town’s lesser creatures, and I had to send a helicopter in to get you out. Have you any idea how many agents I had to jeopardize to get you and that helicopter safely out of Shadows Fall? Answer me, Frank. I’m not talking for the pleasure of hearing my own voice.”

  “You’re entirely right, Leader. I allowed myself to be distracted. I saw… visions. Things that pretended to be angels, in all their glory, to test my faith. And then, when I saw the demon standing there, in a Christian cemetery, blatantly revealing its goat’s head and horns, I let my anger get the better of me. I failed in my mission. I accept any punishment you deem necessary.”

  “Oh you do, do you? I wasn’t aware I needed your permission. I’m not interested in punishment, Frank; only atonement. You have sinned against me and against the Lord, and you must make amends. You will be at the front of our forces when we attack the town. You will go naked and without weapons, armoured only in your faith. If that is strong enough, and if it is God’s will, you will survive and be reinstated. That’s all, Frank. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, Leader. Thank you, Leader.”

  Morse crashed to attention again, spun round, and marched out of Royce’s office. He didn’t seem too upset by his penance. If anything, the cocky young prig looked quite pleased at a chance to show off his faith. The intercom buzzed again, and Royce looked at it as though it was a hissing snake.

  “Yes?”

  “Martyn Casey is here to see you, Leader.”

  “Yes, of course he is. Send him in.”

  Royce grimaced disapprovingly. He must be getting tired. He’d forgotten all about this meeting with his Second in Command. And he still had to find some time to get a little rest before the off. Tired people make mistakes. The door swung open, and Casey came in, smiling pleasantly. Royce smiled and nodded in return as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Ah, Martyn, good to see you. Take a seat. Now then, I understand you have a problem.”

  Casey sat down, looking immediately relaxed and at ease. He was just a little shorter than average, with a bland open face and pale, guileless eyes. He was in his early fifties, and looked at least ten years younger. His selfcontrol was legendary, and no one had ever known him raise his voice in anger, let alone lose his temper. His speciality lay in taking general aims and translating them into specific plans and missions. He was the perfect Second in Command, and Royce kept a careful eye on him at all times. Such men were ambitious, and therefore dangerous.

  “Everything is going as scheduled, Leader. The troops are prepared, our agents in Shadows Fall have all been contacted, and everyone is ready to move out at a moment’s notice. The town is being quietly but systematically stripped of its defences, and soon will lie helpless before us. In every way that matters, the war is already over. They just don’t know it yet. However, we do have one small problem…”

  He paused for effect, and Royce glowered at him. “Get on with it, Martyn.”

  “Yes, Leader. There is still the enigma of the Wild Childe. Intelligence has been able to turn up remarkably little on this individual, other than that he is thought by the town to be responsible for a series of recent murders. Not particularly important in itself, this man is still an unknown factor, and therefore not one we have prepared for.”

  Royce smiled tightly. “I don’t see one sneak-in-the-dark murderer giving our soldiers much of a problem. I see no reason to change any of our plans. The invasion will go ahead as scheduled. There can be no place for doubt in us now, only faith. That’s all, Martyn. You may go.”

  Casey bowed briefly, got up and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Royce sighed. He was so close to success now he could almost taste it. All the years of planning, to get to this place, this moment. Everything he’d done, so that he might enter the Gallery of Frost, and stand before the Forever Door. He knew exactly what he’d say. He’d waited a lifetime to say it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  First Strike

  Sitting alone in his office, Sheriff Richard Erikson looked at the bottle of whisky on his desk, and the bottle looked back. It had been full when he’d taken it out of the bottom drawer of his desk, but somehow he’d got through almost a third of it in under an hour. Just shows you what a man can achieve, if he puts his mind to it. It was good to know he was still good for something. He couldn’t catch murderers, or protect the townspeople, but he could still get himself stinking drunk. He smiled harshly. It was almost a cliche: the hard-nosed cop who dives into a bottle when things get too tough. Play it one way and it’s tragedy, play it another and it’s comedy. Except he didn’t feel like playing. He was just a man who needed a drink.

  He’d always thought of himself as a strong man. A strong, competent man. Someone reliable you could lean on when the going got hard. But then the murders began, one after another, and he found out he wasn’t the cop he’d thought he was. On quiet days, he used to dream of what it would be like to solve a murder. Do a Sherlock Holmes, and astound everyone with his detective skills. Only now his dream had come true after all, and it turned out to be a nightmare.

  Twelve bodies. Eight men and four women, all killed in the same way. No murder weapon and no witnesses. No suspects, no clues, nothing to link the victims to each other or their murderer. Erikson and his Deputies had been working sixteen-hour shifts and more, trying to find something that would open up the case, and all they had to show for it was shortening tempers and dark circles under their eyes. The one time the town depended on its Sheriff, and he’d let them down. He was no nearer catching the killer now than the night he’d knelt by the body of the first victim at Suzanne’s place down by the river.

  Murders weren’t supposed to happen in Shadows Fall. Such a thing was impossible. At least, that was what he’d always been led to believe. The town policed and regimented itself, with a little covert help from Old Father Time. And occasionally Jack Fetch. Erikson scowled. In theory, he had authority over the scarecrow, but he’d always known Jack Fetch took his orders only from Time. He’d kept his mouth shut and looked the other way on occasion, because Time had always seemed to know what he was doing. The scarecrow did what was necessary to protect the town, nothing more. Only now Time had abused the trust Erikson placed in him, by turning out not to be infallible after all. The murders were tearing Shadows Fall apart, and Time and Jack Fetch were nowhere to be found. Great. Just great.

  Erikson poured himself another large drink. There was something rather disturbing about drinking whisky out of his favourite coffee mug. Almost… sacrilegious. The thought amused him, but he didn’t have it in him to smile. It wasn’t as if he liked whisky all that much. Tasted like weasel piss. He looked at his mug broodingly. It had a picture of Judge Dredd on the side, and a speech balloon saying I’m in Charge! Yeah. Right. Judge Dredd looked accusingly back at him, and Erikson turned the mug round so he wouldn’t have to look at him. He looked at his watch. It was getting late. Another hour or so and it would stop being late and start being early. He ought to go home and get some rest, but he was too tired to move. Too tired, and too drunk.

  Too drunk to drive, probably. Have to give himself a ticket. He giggled at that, and the high, sudden sound surprised him. He wasn’t the giggling sort, as a rule. He could call a taxi. He could, but he wasn’t going to. Word would soon get around about his… condition. He had to keep up appearances. The town had to be able to believe in its Sheriff, even if he
didn’t, any more. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anybody at home waiting for him. Never had been. He’d always been alone. He allowed his lower lip to pout self-pityingly. Once, there had been Leonard and Rhea, but now Leonard was dead and Rhea was Mayor. The job had been his life, and now even that was being taken from him. He’d given up all hope of love and marriage in order to concentrate on the job, and then it went and did this to him. Destroyed his dream by proving he wasn’t worthy of it. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t even Doctor Watson.

  He drank his whisky and glared about him at his empty office. No one home, and no one here, either. All his Deputies were out, somewhere, working on the murders. Maybe he’d go down and sleep in one of the cells. Leave a note he wasn’t to be disturbed. They’d understand. They all felt the pressure. Some of them were even looking to him for comfort and support, which only went to show they weren’t as bright as they thought they were. He sighed, poured more whisky into his mug, and looked at it tiredly. He ought really to be out there with them, scouring the town for clues, searching for the one break that would blow the case wide open, and make everything make sense. That was what any television detective worth his ratings would be doing. Instead, he was wasting time getting drunk and allowing himself to be distracted by the likes of Doctor Nathaniel Mirren.

  Now there was a man with problems. Erikson scowled unhappily. Much as he hated to admit it, even a son-of-a-bitch like Mirren was entitled to protection, but he was damned if he could see what he could do to help. The dead were out of his jurisdiction. He smiled briefly. Good line, that. He’d have to remember it. He sighed, and sat back in his chair. Maybe he could ring around a few Churches, see what they suggest. Not now, of course. Wrong time entirely to be ringing Churches. Even if he did find somebody up, they might ask awkward questions about the state of his voice. Priests could smell whisky, even down a phone.