by Peter Oxley
At first I had pitied the poor misguided individuals who became the Soul-less: after all, I had been perilously close to joining their ranks myself. However, any sympathy was lost when word started to spread about the atrocities committed by those creatures. While the demons were pitilessly amoral by nature, they came from worlds completely alien to us in every way, and so had no concept of or use for our human morality. The Soul-less, on the other hand, knew full well that what they did was against civil laws and human nature, and as such had turned their backs on their own kind. People grew to fear the Soul-less as much, if not more than, the demons: for while the demons did what they did for their own unfathomable reasons, the Soul-less did it for the joy of undermining everything that they once were. It was this calculating thuggery that particularly riled me, for if there was one thing I could never abide, it was a bully.
My sword swung through their bodies like a hot knife through butter, barely troubling my arm muscles. Although the Soul-less were strong and fast by human standards, they were snail-like compared to me with my enhanced powers. As a result, I was able to dance through them as though they were statues, carving a bloody progress as I picked out my next targets.
A Soul-less landed in front of me, a huge man with long hair as wild as his eyes. With a wordless yell he threw himself forward, thrusting a rusted bayonet blade at my face. I ducked and swung out with my own blade, catching a glancing blow across the man’s chest. He did not seem to notice the deep cut, instead lurching forwards once more, clumsily trying to snare me with his makeshift weapon. I batted his arm aside, grabbing his wrist as it passed and using his momentum to pull him down to the ground. He tried to twist round, in the process knocking my sword arm out and to the side, where a passing body knocked it from my grip. Forgetting the weapon for the moment, I focused on my adversary and wrapped one arm round his neck while my other hand grabbed the wrist holding his blade.
He writhed against me, twisting his arm up so that the blade was inches from my face. Without the runic sword’s influence I could feel my vitality ebbing away while my foe had the strength of a bear. With a yell I pulled his arm down and then grabbed his head, wrenching it round with a sickening crunch. I threw aside the limp body, swallowing back the bile as I cast around for my weapon.
The runic sword thankfully lay only a couple of feet away, trampled in the dirt but otherwise ignored by the creatures running amok around us. The sound of gunfire was as loud as ever and I marvelled at the fact that I had not been hit by a stray bullet: either someone was looking out for me or the soldiers were incredibly accurate marksmen.
I turned at a motion from behind me to see the Soul-less whose neck I had just broken stumbling to his feet, shaking his head back into position. Great, I thought. “N’yotsu!” I shouted. “Be warned: we have Djinn here!”
The man’s eyes were as wild as ever but something had changed behind them: a slight red glow, a subtle sign of the Djinn demon that now occupied and animated his body. It was still adjusting to its new host and I took advantage of this pause to decapitate it with one swift swipe of my sword. Head and body parted company in a fountain of blood and I turned without waiting to see them fall. “Can’t even trust them to stay still when they’re dead,” I muttered as I carved into the back of a nearby demon. “It’s just not cricket.”
I heard a loud bang and looked up to see a rag-tag line of soldiers, two deep, firing on the demons. My heart rejoiced to see this prime example of British soldiery, both ranks firing in turn, raining a constant hail of death down on our attackers.
I returned my attention to my own battles as a demon threw itself at me, its jaws slavering hungrily. I stepped aside and my blade sang as it bit deep into the creature’s stomach, barely noticing the spray of blood and exit of wet viscera into the dust as I charged towards my next target, a particularly hirsute demon that was screaming a shrill challenge, the noise sickening enough to curdle blood. I attacked with my blade and the demon parried, thrusting me aside with a long arm. I fell hard and felt the red heat of the runic transformation start to flow through me again.
No, I said to myself, forcing my body to slow in an effort to stem the physical changes. I could not allow myself to transform in broad daylight and only a few feet from the carriage, lest I be mistaken for one of the demons or—worse—my friends and colleagues realise what I was turning into.
This distraction cost me precious seconds and by then a demon was upon me. I swung wildly with the sword, hoping that I would somehow draw blood, but the creature stepped aside and kicked me in the stomach. I rolled with the blow, finding my feet but doubled up with the crippling pain that sucked the breath from my chest.
I staggered and lunged away from blow after blow, fighting to regain my strength while also trying desperately to contain the runic strength so that it did not turn me into that other thing. My attacker grinned through sharp teeth with an overconfident glee. I allowed myself to stumble and fall, sweeping the sword round as I did so. The demon fell onto my blade with one final shriek and I grunted as it landed hard on me.
For a moment I welcomed the demon’s dead weight, knowing that it hid me from view and protected me from any further attacks. However, my conscience would not allow me to rest while N’yotsu and the others fought on. I yelled as I rolled the beast off me, glancing at my hands and sighing with relief as I noted that they were relatively unblemished. A small kernel of hope grew in me: maybe I could control the changes after all.
The battle had largely abated by this time. N’yotsu was trading punches with one last demon, their weapons long since lost. On the other side of the battlefield, the soldiers had poured from the carriage and were firing as they advanced on the largely retreating enemy. I allowed myself to relax as I watched N’yotsu finally overcome his demon with a powerful blow to its chin, which lifted it clean off the ground. He swiftly jumped on top of it and wrenched its head round until its neck was broken, before collapsing heavily in a mirror image of my own exhausted state.
I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at me, his face a study in tortured concentration as he fought to regain his strength.
“Looks like we won,” I said.
“This battle,” he agreed. “But they’ll be back in greater numbers come nightfall.” He peered at me. “Are you all right?”
“I had a moment of losing my focus,” I said. “The changes were coming on, but I could not let them take hold while I was here, in broad daylight.”
“I understand,” he said, accepting my hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “But you are hamstringing yourself if you are fighting not just your opponents but also yourself.”
“Those changes are nothing to do with me,” I shot back. “They are the sword’s doing. I am human.” I marched away before he could respond, heading towards the carriage and Captain Pearce, who was busy marshalling his troops.
“Good work,” he said as I approached. “We have them beaten for the moment, but we need to move on before they come back.”
“Any ideas where to?” I asked.
“We estimate that Nottingham is about a three-hour march that way,” he said, pointing to the south-east. “We can get another train to London from there.”
“It won’t be the Juggernaut though,” I said mournfully, surveying the wreckage of that once-great machine. The carriage that had borne us on our abortive flight lay on its side like a fallen tree trunk, the fact that it was still largely intact being a great testimony to the sturdiness of its construction. The sleek engine itself lay at right angles to the rail track around half a mile away, steam still trickling from its funnel. The rest of the train was in similar disarray, carriages strewn in a zigzag across the track, like a child’s discarded toy.
“She’ll be fixed and back on the rails in no time,” said the driver, noting my dismay. “Assuming we can keep the scavengers away from her.”
“We will have to trust to luck for that,” said Pearce. “I�
�m not leaving any men here to guard her.”
The driver grumbled but had the good sense not to argue; anyone left at the engine would be a sitting duck for the demons when they returned, and we would doubtless need as many men with us as possible as we made our way back to London.
Captain Pearce and Sergeant Jones organised the men and the equipment, parcelling out those items that were to come with us. The driver and his crew set about securing the engine as best they could, disabling it so it could not be easily moved and removing the more portable and precious items, burying those which could not be taken with us.
Thankfully, as civilians, we were spared the need to lug heavy equipment, although after sharing the burdens of Joshua and Lexie’s luggage, including a copious amount of books, we were struggling as much as the soldiers.
We set off at a punishing pace, my friends and I firmly encased in the middle of the marching column of battle-weary soldiers. We were all desperately tired and wanted nothing more than to rest, but we also knew that to stay where we were was to invite death; if not soon, then certainly when night fell.
“I’ve not been outside Sheffield since it all started,” said Lexie. “Is night time in open country really as bad as they say?”
“Basically, yeah,” said Kate. “If by ‘bad’ you mean horrendous creatures from our worst nightmares running riot, stealing souls and killing people willy-nilly.”
Joshua shuddered. “How long until sunset?”
I took out my pocket watch. “Around five hours,” I said. “We should be safely in Nottingham by then, with luck.”
After around an hour my feet joined the rest of my body in protesting against the exertions they were being put through. The adrenaline from the battle had long since burnt away and I dared not risk the use of the sword to give me another energy boost, lest I suffer a sudden transformation so close to the others. Instead I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and marking each step as a minor victory, a spur to push me on to the next one and then the next and the next.
Glancing up, I noticed a flash on the horizon and commented on it to Sergeant Jones.
“I know, sir,” he said. “They’ve been with us for a while now, but not getting any closer. I reckon they’re just tracking us so they know where we are. They’ll soon back away when we reach the town: that’s the usual form of it.”
His theory proved correct soon enough, as the welcome sight of Nottingham began to loom over the horizon, the hulks of factories and buildings replacing the monotony of trees and bushes. We paused as we reached Radford Station, searching in vain for any sign of trains on the tracks to either side. As we did so, I looked out for our demonic escort and noted with satisfaction that they had faded away.
Pearce shook his head. “We can’t wait here. The garrison is at the castle: should be just a few more miles.” He pointed east towards the city.
I looked to the sky. “We should get moving then. I would estimate we don’t have more than a couple of hours of daylight left.
The Ilkeston Road took us through Radford and then past an engineering works that rattled and clanked through its daily routine, oblivious to our struggles. Rows of terraced houses were huddled in the shadows of the works building, trailing towards the city in a staggered line and containing row after row of curious faces at windows and doors. Children playing in the streets ran after us shouting questions while their mothers watched from doorways, occasionally calling to their son or daughter to keep away from the strangers.
Our route reached a large crossroads, half a dozen streets leading off in different directions like the spokes of a wheel. In the centre of the junction stood a tall man in a dark uniform who was flanked by half a dozen policemen, a cemetery looming behind them. Captain Pearce turned to look at us before walking over to them, N’yotsu and I at his side.
“Who am I addressing?” asked the man. He had a long, drawn face that, combined with his dark clothes and greatcoat, put me in mind of one of those fanatic lay preachers who travelled the country spreading tales of the end of the world.
“I am Captain Pearce of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. We were attacked by a horde of demons on the railroad heading from Sheffield, and we’re looking for sanctuary here before we continue our journey to London. And you are?”
“Witchfinder General William Morley,” he said. “I am chief of the constabulary here.”
“Witchfinder General?” asked Pearce. When there was no further explanation, he continued: “We mean no harm. We merely plan to bivouac with the garrison overnight and will take the next train back to London.”
“We will escort you,” he said, “to make sure you do not get lost. You will have a bit of a wait, though: the next train is not until the day after tomorrow.”
“We will see about that,” said Pearce. “We are on urgent government business and are needed in London post-haste.”
“One thing that you will find about these parts,” said Morley, his eyes boring into us, “is that your government has little sway here.”
Pearce stared at him. “Our government? Surely you misspeak, sir?”
Morley glared back with a cold calmness. “I never misspeak, sir.”
Chapter 6
We endured an awkward trudge through the marketplace and down Castle Gate, crowds of curious onlookers gawping at us in silence, clearly fearful of our sombre bodyguards. The garrison was quartered in Nottingham Castle, a tall and imposing stone edifice that squatted on the top of Castle Mount overlooking the whole of the town. I looked back as we passed through the garrison gates to see three policemen leaning against the wall of a building opposite, watching us with a mournful intensity. “They are going to stay there all night, aren’t they?” I said. “Why do I get the feeling we’re little more than prisoners here?”
“Probably because we are,” said Kate. “Something about this whole place don’t feel right. And I definitely don’t like him.” She nodded in the direction of Morley, who stood near the policemen, watching us closely. “He gives me the willies.”
“With good reason,” I said. “There have been a few Witchfinder Generals throughout history and they are infamous for having spread fear and misery in their wake.”
We were pulled from our dispiriting conversation by Pearce, who beckoned us over to meet the leader of the garrison, a weary-looking old soldier who introduced himself as Captain Gilbert. Satisfied that we were all inside, he ordered the gates shut and secured. “That should keep out prying eyes,” he said.
“What exactly is going on here, Captain?” I asked.
“Let us discuss it inside, in the warmth,” he said, “and away from any flapping ears.”
We followed him in silence to his office, a large room with a fine view over the training ground and the main gates. Orderlies brought in chairs and refreshments and,. as we gratefully fell upon the beer and stew provided, Gilbert began to answer our questions.
“Everyone’s been scared stiff of the demons and the Soul-less for the past few years: that’s nothing new. However, in the last six months or so, this fellow Morley has started throwing his weight around.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“He was an ordinary policeman, albeit a fairly vigilant one: known for never taking a bribe, always applying the law fairly, that sort of thing. Then his daughter died, his wife went missing and all of a sudden Morley was locked up for leading a lynching of some woman he accused of being a witch. Before we knew it he was back on the streets, had taken over command of the police and imposed his own type of martial law on the city. In a way it’s a good thing: it keeps people off the streets, particularly at night when the demons are abroad. But he’s taking his ‘Witchfinder’ duties very seriously. Anyone so much as suspected of conniving with a demon is straight off to gaol. You don’t want to hear the stories about what they do to them in there.”
“Good God,” I said. “It’s like we’re back in the Middle Ages!”
“Can’t you do something ab
out this?” asked Kate. “He can’t just start making up laws and enforcing them all over the place, surely?”
“He shouldn’t be able to,” said Gilbert. “But he is. He claims that he has authority from some higher powers—as in someone high up in government or something—and from what I can see he’s probably telling the truth. Every time anyone’s tried to stand up to him, they’ve been sent away with a flea in their ear. Including yours truly.”
“And the people stand for this?” asked Joshua.
“The people mind their own business, stay out of trouble and hope that Morley and his men don’t come banging on their doors next. Neighbours are wary of each other and no one wants to get accused of any sort of consorting with demons, true or otherwise. That’s the way of things here, and I can’t see them changing any time soon.”
That night I slept the deep, sound sleep of the truly exhausted but I still awoke feeling troubled by our conversation of the night before. I had heard all about the witch trials of centuries past and the misery that they had inflicted, but had truly thought that such terrors were now behind us in our more enlightened times. The fact that a city such as Nottingham could revert so quickly to this mediaeval state filled me with a sick dread. My home, London, had been affected more than most cities by the demon incursions but, as far as I could tell, people continued with their lives as stoically as possible under the circumstances.
When I mentioned this at breakfast, Kate laughed in my face.
“Dear old Gus,” she said, “the man of the people! You really don’t get out much, do you?”
“I’ve been a bit busy spending most of my time fighting demons,” I retorted, my cheeks reddening.
