Faerie Wars

by Herbie Brennan

  He peered through the kitchen window, then the glass pane in the back door. There didn’t seem to be anybody inside. He knocked loudly on the door and then the window. The noise echoed, but no one came. Somehow it sounded like an empty house.

  Henry fished in his pocket and pulled out a key on a long piece of string. Didn’t know about that, did you, Mum? He opened the back door and slipped inside. ‘It’s me, Mr Fogarty!’ he called reassuringly. ‘It’s Henry.’ He waited. Once when he’d used the key and startled Mr Fogarty, the old boy’d come at him with a kitchen chopper.

  Nobody appeared, not Mr Fogarty, not Pyrgus. ‘Hello ...’ Henry called. ‘Hello ...’ He moved cautiously from the kitchen into the cluttered living room. ‘Mr Fogarty? It’s Henry, Mr Fogarty.’ The room smelled musty and there was nobody in it.

  Ten minutes later, he’d been through every room in the house. The only living thing he found was mould on a half-eaten hamburger beside Mr Fogarty’s rumpled bed.

  He came back to the kitchen and noticed something he’d missed earlier, a brown envelope held down by an empty salt cellar on the kitchen table. There was one word written on the outside in black Biro:

  Henry

  Henry grabbed the envelope and found a single sheet of paper inside, torn from a ruled notebook. On it were just four words in Mr Fogarty’s neat handwriting:

  Npx uif gspou mbxo

  6851

  Henry stared at them. You could always read Mr Fogarty’s handwriting, so there was no doubt about the spelling, but the words themselves didn’t make sense. He didn’t think they were in a foreign language – they certainly weren’t French, which he learned at school – although they might be something weird and East European like Serbo-Croat. Except that Mr Fogarty didn’t speak Serbo-Croat, or anything but English as far as Henry knew. Anyway, didn’t languages like Serbo-Croat have a different alphabet?

  It was code! All of a sudden, Henry knew it was code. It had to be! Mr Fogarty had never left him a note in his life, but if he’d left one now, it would have to be in code. Especially if it was something important, maybe something to do with Pyrgus and the portal. Fogarty would never leave stuff lying around for others to read – he was far too suspicious. Suddenly Henry was excited.

  Then the excitement died abruptly. How was he going to crack the code?

  All sorts of stupid thoughts poured into his mind. Maybe Mr Fogarty kept a codebook ... maybe this sort of thing dated back to his bank-robber days ... maybe there were clues hidden about the house ... maybe the numbers were the clue ... maybe ... maybe ...

  Maybe he should stop flapping around like a headless chicken and see what he’d got here. It couldn’t be too difficult. Mr Fogarty knew he wasn’t Brain of Britain, so it would have to be fairly easy. Maybe a little like charades. Ignore the numbers for the moment and concentrate on the words. First word NPX. OK, first word, three consonants. But you didn’t get words that were all consonants. So one of those consonants had to stand for a vowel. And it was a short word, just three letters, maybe ‘the’. If the first word was ‘the’ that made ‘X’ stand for ‘E’. Were there any more ‘Xs’ in the message? Yes, there was one in the fourth word. This was looking good.

  If ‘X’ stood for ‘E’ then ‘N’ had to be ‘T’ and ‘P’ must be ‘H’. Any repeats there? No more ‘Ns’ but there was another ‘P’ in the third word. So the whole sentence read:

  THE / – – – / – – H – – / – – E – –

  Henry stared at it for a while, then ran out of steam. Four words, first word ‘The’, second word unknown, third something with an ‘H’, fourth something with an ‘E’. The something something something ...

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Henry saw it. The first word wasn’t ‘the’. What you did was displace a letter of the alphabet. The simplest way was to displace by one: A became B, B became C, C became D and so on.

  Mr Fogarty’s code was a straightforward, one-place displacement. So to decode, you just displaced one back again. N became M, P became O, X became W He found a leaky ballpoint in his jacket pocket and jotted down the transpositions underneath the original message:

  NPX UIF GSPOU MBXO

  6851

  MOW THE FRONT LAWN

  6851

  He stared at the message stupidly. He’d cracked the code. He knew he’d cracked the code because everything fell neatly into place. But the message didn’t make any sense. Mow the front lawn? Why would Mr Fogarty leave him an instruction like that in code?

  The lawnmower! Mr Fogarty had always told him not to touch the lawnmower! Now he was telling him to mow the lawn. It had to be something to do with the lawnmower in the shed.

  Henry crumpled the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, then raced down the back path to the shed. Inside was the usual mess. (He’d never got round to cleaning it for Mr Fogarty that day Hodge caught Pyrgus in his fairy form.) There were cobwebs and dust coating the largest collection of junk, machine parts, garden tools and flower pots he’d ever seen. On his left was an ancient grow-bag for tomatoes, with the wizened brown remains of last year’s plants emerging from it like a spider. The lawnmower was at the far end of the shed.

  Henry picked his way across. As he reached the mower, his heart began to pound. Mr Fogarty was up to something, definitely trying to send him some sort of message. He cautiously unwrapped the plastic covering the mower, looking for another envelope. There was none. He detached the grass box and looked inside that, but couldn’t see because of the gloom of the shed. He stuck his hand in and fumbled around, then gave up and carried the box outside. When he tipped it to the light, there was nothing inside there either.

  He started to drag the mower from the shed so he could see a little better. There was a cavity underneath it in the concrete floor.

  The cavity had been covered by a thin sheet of plywood, but as Henry dragged the mower a loose fitting caught and moved it slightly. Even then he might not have noticed the cavity if he hadn’t been so hyper. But he was watching out for clues and spotted the dark crack at once. He pushed the mower clear and lifted the plywood.

  The cavity was no accidental flaw. It was a three feet by two feet rectangle, three feet deep with neat, clean edges, obviously built in when the concrete was first laid. Inside was a metal strongbox with a combination lock.

  Mow the front lawn

  6851

  Henry’s heart was thumping so loudly now it was making his whole body shake. That’s what the numbers were for – the combination lock! His fingers were trembling as he dialled the combination and jerked the lid.

  The lid didn’t move.

  Henry tried again, taking great care to do it right this time. 6 ... 8 ... 5 ... 1 ... But while he was certain he’d dialled exactly, the strongbox remained locked.

  What was going on here? The numbers had to be the combination – nothing else made sense. He frowned. The message wasn’t Mow the front lawn 6851. The message was Npx uifgspou mbxo 6851. To get it right you had to shift the letters. Maybe you had to shift the numbers as well!

  Henry tried the new combination. 5 ... 7 ... 4 ... How did you shift one backwards? Zero, he supposed. He dialled in the final 0 and the strongbox opened easily. Inside was a brushed aluminium cube with two inlaid concave plastic buttons on the top. Lying beside it was another scrap of paper. He picked up the paper. There were eight words, but no code nonsense this time. Mr Fogarty’s second message said simply, GONE ON AHEAD. FOLLOW SOON AS YOU CAN.

  Gingerly Henry picked up the cube.

  Twenty-Six

  Pyrgus had the impression of an open trapdoor with stone steps leading downwards, but his mind was no longer working. He felt as if it had been pushed into a tight, dark corner of his skull and locked there like a small, furry animal in a cage. He could still see through his eyes, still hear through his ears, but everything was at a distance, as if he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Nothing was important any more, not where he was going, not getting back to the palace, not
his father, not his sister, not his new friend Henry. His thoughts crawled through treacle and were blurred around the edges, slipping and sliding away from him every time he tried to use them. His memory had collapsed and his head ached. He was no longer sure where he was before he got here or even who he was exactly. If he concentrated really hard he could recall his name, but not much else.

  The demons led Pyrgus along a stone-flagged passageway that seemed to be illuminated only by a greenish fungus clinging to the walls. The light level was so low he stumbled constantly, although the demons themselves didn’t seem to have much trouble. He could hear them oozing and chittering along the edges of his mind. The slimemould had withdrawn a little, but he knew it was still there with the others, ready to pounce at the first hint of him trying to break free. Pyrgus couldn’t fathom that. Why would he try to break free?

  The passageway led into a maze of galleries with corridors and tunnels branching off in all directions. Most of them looked the same to Pyrgus, but the demons never hesitated. The colour of the light began to change, sliding from the bilious fungus-green into a softer, rosy hue, but he couldn’t understand where it was coming from. At the same time the temperature seemed to be rising, a little at a time, until he found himself sweating. There was an increasing smell of sulphur in the air that was vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t remember why.

  They emerged from the maze after more than an hour. An odd thought occurred to Pyrgus. An invading army could wander for months in that labyrinth. Had it been built for just that purpose – as a protection for the place where the demons lived? Pyrgus didn’t know and didn’t really care.

  They were standing in a cavern so vast Pyrgus couldn’t see the other side. Before them, stretched out across the cavern floor, was an underground city, laid out in a mirror image of the ruined city he’d seen above. But this city was made from gleaming metals, not stone, and in far better repair. The polished surfaces reflected the dim red light, yet the whole city was somehow in shadow. Pyrgus didn’t care, any more than he cared about the heat. Pyrgus didn’t care about anything much.

  The demons marched him through the gloomy streets towards the central plaza. In his drifting thoughts he mused about the demon world. Demons kidnapped people all the time and flew them off in metal ships. Somebody had told him that, although he couldn’t quite remember who. Six million people called Americans were missing. He wondered why the demons wanted so many. Perhaps they were food. He wondered if an American would taste as good as a potato crisp.

  There were demons on the streets, but none stopped to look at him.

  In the centre of the plaza was an enormous dome-shaped building that extruded a metal ramp as they approached. It looked so friendly and inviting that Pyrgus almost broke into a run, but the slime-mould at the edges of his mind reached out and quickly pulled him back. His thoughts clicked into gear. They were all going to see somebody important. He stepped on to the ramp and forgot what he was thinking.

  As they entered the building he saw there was machinery in the walls. How weird was that?

  In the gently wafting thistledown that had replaced his mind, a new thought appeared. Nobody who was kidnapped by demons ever got back to their own world. The slime-mould seized the thought at once and threw it out. What a totally stupid thought that was! Demons only wanted to be friends.

  The demons led him through into a large, high-ceilinged chamber (throne room? Situation Room?) where a red-robed demon studied a large map spread across a metal table.

  The creature looked up as they entered. ‘Crown Prince Pyrgus,’ it said smoothly. ‘How good of you to visit us.’

  The world snapped into sharp focus as Pyrgus’s mind cleared. He was in Hael, the demon world. He had no idea how he’d got there, but it was the only thing that made sense. Somehow Mr Fogarty’s portal must have sent him here. He remembered the smell of sulphur and the barren desolation, the sullen, stark, unmoving sun, the rosy light, the metal city – he had to be in Hael.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Pyrgus hurled himself at the demon in the scarlet robe ... and found his body wouldn’t move.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Pyrgus,’ the demon said. ‘It will be easier on you if you avoid aggressive actions. And more convenient for me.’

  If he couldn’t move, could he talk? There were things he needed to know if he was to have any chance of getting out of here. ‘How do you know my name?’ he asked. It came out slightly slurred, but otherwise just fine.

  The scarlet demon stared at him with huge dark eyes, but made no attempt to control his mind again. ‘We’ve met before.’

  Pyrgus blinked. He had no memory of ever seeing this creature.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ the demon asked, picking up his thoughts. ‘Well, perhaps that’s understandable. I looked a little different then.’

  To Pyrgus’s astonishment the creature began to expand in all directions. It grew upwards to a height of six feet ... seven feet ... eight feet and more. Its body burst out of the scarlet robe and took on slabs of rippling muscle. Its skull distorted and its face changed. Ram’s horns erupted from its forehead and curled powerfully to frame the side of its head. ‘Does this refresh your memory?’ Even the voice had changed. The smooth, well-modulated tones now rumbled like a thunderstorm.

  Pyrgus’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. It was the creature Brimstone had called up, the creature that had tried to kill him just before his father’s guards arrived. ‘You’re – you’re –’

  ‘Prince Beleth at your service!’ laughed the demon.

  The transformation was astonishing. ‘Is that the way you really look?’ asked Pyrgus.

  Beleth shook his head. ‘Of course not. All this is just part of the show we put on for old fools like Brimstone. He believes he’s a Master of Illusion, but he never thinks to question what he sees himself.’ The huge form began to shrink until Pyrgus was again faced with the creature in the scarlet robe. Somehow it looked no less scary than the thing with horns. This Beleth was a formidable opponent however he looked.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ Beleth said, again demonstrating how easily he picked up Pyrgus’s thoughts. He glanced down at the map, then back at Pyrgus. ‘I expect you’ll soon be wondering how you got into this mess.’

  Pyrgus, who’d started to wonder how he’d got into this mess, felt a nasty little chill crawl up his spine. How could you get away from something that read the plans in your mind as you were making them?

  ‘Not very easily,’ Beleth told him. ‘So why don’t you stop worrying about getting away and in return I’ll satisfy your curiosity about one or two things that have been troubling you. How about that, Prince Pyrgus? Do we have a bargain?’

  Pyrgus found his headache was getting worse. He didn’t like the thought of making bargains with a demon, but just at that moment he couldn’t figure out what else he was supposed to do. Clearly he couldn’t get away just now, whether he worried about it or not. Besides, he was curious about how he’d managed to end up here and a few other things besides. Starting with why Brimstone had been so anxious to sacrifice him to this creature.

  ‘Well,’ said Beleth, ‘let’s deal with how you got here first and I’ll tell you about Brimstone in a moment save the best for last, so to speak. You’re here because we interfered with your portal – that’s why you’re here. Not many people know we can do that.’

  Pyrgus certainly hadn’t known. He’d never heard a hint of demons interfering with portals before. He wondered if Beleth said, ‘We’re the ones who sent you off course when you tried to translate to the Analogue World. We had help, naturally. We needed to know House Iris portal coordinate settings. Catching you this time was a lot easier – we already knew the coordinates for your return so it was only a question of watching for the signal and diverting you as you stepped through.’

  ‘But why?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘Because Brimstone didn’t manage to fulfil his contract,’ Beleth explained patiently. He smiled, showin
g little demon teeth. ‘So now I have to do the job myself.’

  ‘Just seven groats a week,’ the old woman cackled. ‘Won’t find anything this good for the money anywhere in the realm, young man.’ She grinned toothlessly and a knowing look crossed her features. ‘Or as private.’

  Brimstone stared at his new lodgings with distaste. They consisted of one filthy room with a shuttered window. The bed was a heap of vermin-ridden straw in a corner. The only furniture was a rickety table and a single wooden chair. From now on he would sleep here and eat here

  ‘Meals is extra,’ the old woman added, as if reading his mind.

  – and venture out only after dark. ‘I’ll take it,’ he told the harridan. He tossed her a few coins. ‘Here’s a month in advance – now piss off.’

  She tested two of the coins between her gums and presumably found them satisfactory. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. The knowing look returned. ‘Rest assured no one will know you’re here, sir. Not while there’s breath left in my body. Guarantee my tenants privacy, I do. Guarantee it.’ She hesitated at the door. ‘Bone gruel for supper,’ she said. ‘Very nourishing.’

  Brimstone turned away as she closed the door and opened the shutter a crack. His room looked out on to an open sewer. He closed the shutter again. At least no one was likely to break in through the window. He went to the table, sat on the chair – which was hideously uncomfortable – and carefully counted the gold coins he had left. He could stay here for quite a while at seven groats a week if the bone gruel didn’t kill him off, but he’d have to come out of hiding eventually.

  He just hoped Beleth wouldn’t still be looking for him when he did.

  Pyrgus felt like a balloon tethered to Beleth by an invisible cord. Demons prostrated themselves as their Prince strode through the city streets. Pyrgus followed no more than a pace or two behind, but seemed to be floating rather than walking. His mind was racing now, even though he knew Beleth could pick up every thought.