The Ace of Skulls

Thirty-Two

Crake held his breath in the gloom of the darkened mansion. A bead of sweat inched its icy way across his scalp.

A floorboard creaked.

‘Now!’

Kyne’s gloved hand slapped down on a button on the metal sphere he was holding. Plome’s palm came down on a sphere of his own. A screamer and a damper, activated together. The silence was shattered by a high-pitched screech and a dull throb, a non-noise that sucked the echoes from the air.

In the next room, the Imperator let out a cry, a daemonic howl fit to freeze bones. Crake hurried in, lumbering beneath the weight on his back. The others were close on his heels. Crashing among the furniture, a black-clad figure flailed wildly in the half-light.

‘Thirty seconds!’ Plome squeaked.

Crake swallowed down his fear and applied himself to the dials on the portable control panel he held. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds till the batteries gave out, eaten up by the voracious devices that kept the Imperator disorientated and choked off its power. Thirty seconds to nail its frequencies with the sonic flux emitter.

Plome’s eyes were wide, shining with terror behind his pince-nez. He held up the damper, knuckles white, a pocket watch in his free hand. Kyne had found him hiding in a cupboard. He was fortunate the Imperator hadn’t found him first.

How long had passed? How long?

The Imperator staggered to his feet. Kyne kicked his knee, knocking him back down. He had his gun drawn and aimed, but if the devices gave out, he might not get the chance to use it. The Imperator’s influence could crush a man instantly, pull all the strength from him, drive him to the floor.

Concentrate!

Crake turned the dials as slowly as he dared. He didn’t need haste here, he needed precision. As he altered the frequency he kept half an eye on the shadowy figure in the centre of the room, watching for a reaction.

‘Twenty!’

Had it been ten seconds already? Time was running too fast. The Imperator tried to stand and Kyne knocked him down again. He was tangled in its cloak and his hood had come off. His head was covered in black fabric, hiding the white maggot-like skin beneath. Crake stood back, turning the dials. Nothing.

‘Ten!’ Plome cried.

‘Hurry it up, Crake!’ Kyne warned.

Crake twisted too fast, swallowed, went back to his previous position and resumed scanning from there.

‘Five! Four! Three!’

‘Plome!’ Kyne cried.

Plome fumbled at his belt and hit the screamer there. Kyne dropped the sphere he was holding and hit his damper. ‘Thirty!’ Plome cried again.

Each of them had been carrying a screamer and a damper. Crake had used his earlier. These were the last of them. When the batteries went dead, there would be nothing between them and the Imperator. They would die or Kyne would fire his weapon, but either way their struggle would have been meaningless.

The Imperator shrieked as if struck, spun away, clattered into a table which collapsed under him. Crake’s eyes widened. He tuned his dials, watching to see which made the subject writhe. The Imperator’s back arched.

Crake’s hand jerked away from the dial. He hadn’t realised how much it would seem like torture. Tormenting a daemon was so much easier when they weren’t wearing a human form.

‘Twenty!’ Plome called.

Crake’s misgivings were forgotten. He had the daemon speared through one of its primary frequencies; now he had to anchor it. He tuned more dials.

‘Ten!’

The Imperator began to squeal and buck. Now he couldn’t even get to his feet; he rolled and spasmed as if suffering some awful grand mal seizure.

‘I’ve got it!’ Crake said. ‘I think I’ve got it! Go! Go!’

They pulled off the spheres they were carrying and tossed them aside. From their packs, each drew a metal cylinder with a pinecone-like set of rods on the end. The cylinders were connected by cables to the harmonic arc generators in their packs.

‘Kyne! Two-twenty-four hundred in the mid-bass range!’ Crake called, reading off his dial. ‘Plome! Eight-eighty in the subsonic!’

With their free hands, they set the dials at their belts. Crake concentrated on the Imperator. He lashed and twisted like a landed fish, slithering through the darkened room. Without Kyne to keep watch, he was wary, as if he might lunge at any moment. But the sonic flux emitter was working, it was working the way it was supposed to work, and gradually Crake’s fear was replaced by triumph. He was looking at the proof of his theory right here!

The first time he’d tried the harmonic arc generators, on the Iron Jackal, he’d been in possession of the daemon’s frequencies. He’d been forearmed. Not this time. And yet he had the Imperator on a hook nonetheless. He was bruised and battered and he’d come way too close to death, but he had him!

‘Ready!’ Kyne said.

‘Ready!’ Plome agreed.

They’d moved round to either side of the prone Imperator. They held out their cylinders towards it.

‘On my mark. .’ said Crake. ‘Now!’

He hit the switch and deactivated the sonic flux emitter just as the others activated their own devices. The Imperator jumped to its feet and threw himself at Crake. He flinched away — he couldn’t help it — but the Imperator never reached him. He froze before he got there, trapped in an invisible cage of frequencies.

Crake took a moment for a few gasping breaths. The Imperator raged against its confinement, but it couldn’t break free. Plome and Kyne struggled to hold it. ‘Together,’ Crake reminded them. ‘Move together. One on each side to maintain the cage. Go.’

He stepped out of the way. Kyne and Plome shuffled through the doorway, Kyne backing off and Plome following. As they moved, the cage between them moved too, and the Imperator was forced that way.

Crake went after them, his hand ready on the switch of the control panel in his hand. He wasn’t sure how much juice his pack had left in it, but he’d need it if the Imperator broke out. He could see the effort it took Plome and Kyne to keep it where it was. Even the Iron Jackal hadn’t fought that hard.

Then it struck him. Something he hadn’t considered in his theory. The Iron Jackal was a pure daemon. It couldn’t pass through the barrier that the harmonic arc generator set up. But an Imperator was a daemon sheathed in physical form. The sonics had no effect on the physical body, just the daemon inside.

He began to worry. Could the Imperator break through the barrier by muscle and momentum?

‘How much time do we have?’ Plome called, as they dragged it through darkened rooms, keeping a steady distance between them.

‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ said Kyne. ‘The batteries will hold. Keep focused.’

‘I can’t help concerning myself!’ Plome protested.

The Imperator bucked against his cage, jerking Plome’s arm. Plome swallowed and forced it back, his pudgy hand trembling.

Crake went ahead into the audience chamber where they’d set their trap. It seemed like he’d aged half a lifetime since they were here last.

‘Watch you don’t trip on the cable across the doorway,’ Crake warned them as he hurried over to a trolley rack of resonators. He crouched down in front of it, aching from the weight of his pack and the multiple cuts and bruises he’d sustained.

Kyne backed into the room. The Imperator was dragged through with him, stiff-legged and stumbling. Plome came last, pate glistening.

Crake hit the switch to activate the outer defences. A row of resonator masts against the wall hummed into life, sealing the room.

The Imperator sensed what Crake had done, saw the summoning circle in the middle of the room, and finally understood what they had in store. He redoubled his efforts to break away, struggling wildly. The force of it caused Plome to trip. He sidestepped and just about retained his balance, but his hand wavered: the harmonic arc cylinders were no longer aligned. For a moment the Imperator could move again. He lunged, trying to escape, but Kyne calmly shifted to his left and the Imperator froze again with a howl of frustration.

‘Let’s get this done,’ said Kyne, his artificial green eyes burning into Plome’s. Plome swallowed and nodded. Kyne backed into the summoning circle, stepping through the double row of rods and spheres. Plome stepped forward. The Imperator went with them, fighting every inch of the way.

Come on, come on! Crake thought to himself, his hand poised over another switch. Hurry up!

Kyne stepped out of the circle and tried pulling the Imperator in. Plome pushed from behind. The Imperator wavered on the threshold, resisting for all he was worth. Plome let out a cry of effort and exasperation. And then Kyne and Plome lurched, the Imperator stumbled forward, Crake hit the switch, and it was done.

Crake slumped to the floor, plonking himself on his arse. The Imperator howled and thrashed, but he was contained. Once a daemon was in the circle there was little chance of getting out of it, and there were enough batteries and backups here to keep him trapped for half an hour or more.

Exhaustion swept over him. He met Plome’s eyes across the room. The politician looked dazed. Then the two of them began to laugh, little chuckles of disbelief.

They’d caught him. They’d actually caught an Imperator.

Plome walked unsteadily over to Crake and offered his hand. Crake let himself be pulled to his feet. Plome blew out his breath, gave Crake a nervous smile, and patted him on the arm.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That was hairy.’

‘Welcome to the world of field daemonism, my friend,’ said Crake, who was feeling expansive and elated. ‘You’ve just gone where few have dared to tread.’

Plome mopped his brow and adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Shouldn’t say I’ll be in a hurry to tread there again,’ he said. Then his eyes glittered. ‘But we got one, didn’t we? We showed those bastards what real daemonists can do!’

‘They’ll write about us for years to come, just you see if they don’t,’ Crake replied.

Plome coughed. ‘Yes, well. After daemonism is declared legal, I hope. I have my career to think of until then. Not to mention my neck.’

‘We’re not done yet,’ said Kyne gravely, from the other side of the room. ‘Crake, take the readings.’

His tone brought Crake down to earth again. He glanced at the Imperator, trapped in the circle, and was reminded what a dangerous creature they’d caught. He’d been overconfident in the past, and it had cost himself and others dear. Kyne was right: they were not done yet.

Plome helped him get his pack off his back, then shooed him away when Crake offered to return the favour. ‘I can take care of myself. It’s down to you two now. Go on.’

Crake went over to the oscillator, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back. It was a pleasurable agony. His muscles had stiffened and he hurt in two dozen places, and he still couldn’t hear properly. A great tiredness had settled on him. After this, he planned to sleep for a week.

After this, he thought. He could finally believe there would be an afterwards. A time where he might find himself in Samandra’s arms again.

The sound of gunfire outside filtered in through the grey windows and the whistling in his ears. Best not to think about that yet. There was still the matter of the battle outside. And even if he survived, Samandra might not.

No. She’ll win through. She’s like a force of nature. Nothing can stop her.

He told himself that, but the thought of her out there made his stomach knot, and he put it from his mind as best he could.

He knelt down gingerly in front of the oscillator and recorded the Imperator’s primary resonances. Halfway through scribbling them down, he stopped as the enormity of the information in his hand hit him. This was the key to defeating the Imperators. To the population at large they were beings of supernatural power, divine enforcers like the will of the old gods made flesh. But the daemonists would show them otherwise.

He finished jotting down the frequencies and put them in his pocket. ‘Got them,’ he called over his shoulder. It seemed a weak line for an occasion so momentous.

Kyne, meanwhile, had finished his preparations. The Imperator was facing Plome and staring at him with an unwavering gaze, as if calculating the amount of pain he’d visit upon the politician when he got out of there. Kyne walked up behind the Imperator, reached into the summoning circle, and in one quick movement he seized the Imperator’s wrist and snapped a manacle on it. The Imperator, surprised, tried to turn, but Kyne grabbed the other arm, twisted it behind his back, and secured the other wrist.

Crake was amazed that Kyne dared to reach into a summoning circle that way. Even though the daemon’s power was nullified by the walls of the summoning circle, it seemed a reckless thing to do.

But Kyne wasn’t finished. He grabbed a fold of the Imperator’s mask in his fist. With one quick jerk he pulled it free, and the face of the Imperator was revealed.

Crake had seen one before, but it did little to prepare him. There was something instinctively repellent about them. Their cadaverous, pinched features and white skin made them corpselike. Their eyes had yellow irises like a bird of prey. Rancid gums and jagged teeth guarded a black lipless cave of a mouth. No tongue moved within.

‘Spit and blood,’ Plome gasped, and turned away.

This was where Kyne’s expertise came to the fore. Crake had devised the method to catch the Imperator, but there was still one question remaining: how did you interrogate a creature who couldn’t speak? Imperators had no tongues; they’d seen that in the past. Perhaps the Awakeners cut them out to preserve their secrets, or perhaps to keep them servile: it wouldn’t do to give daemons a voice. Although, judging by what Crake had seen of the Lord High Cryptographer, it appeared they’d gained one anyway.

Kyne provided the answer to the question. A collar that made men speak the truth. It was something like Crake’s golden tooth, but more powerful and focused. Kyne had used it in interrogations before; now he’d adapted it, thralling in a daemon that could read the vibrations of vocal cords and make them understandable. Once more, Crake was filled with admiration at the Century Knight’s skill with daemonism. But then he remembered that his own rough artistry had done what even Kyne could not, and he felt a swell of pride.

‘Now,’ said Kyne. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

Kyne picked up the collar, a simple loop of metal with a hinge and a clasp, and held it open as he approached the circle. The Imperator snapped his teeth, struggling against the manacles. Unmasked, trapped, he’d lost some of his dark grandeur. Kyne waited for the right moment, then with one assured movement he darted forward and snapped the collar shut around the Imperator’s scrawny throat.

The Imperator immediately went rigid. Kyne stepped back and crossed his arms over his armoured chest. His eyes glowed piercingly beneath his hood.

‘The Awakeners intend to launch an attack on the Coalition in the near future,’ he said. ‘You will tell me when and where. You will tell me the size and nature of their forces. You will tell me everything you know about it.’

The Imperator opened his mouth, gaped soundlessly, and shut it again.

‘You will speak,’ Kyne said, and suddenly the gloom felt heavier, and Kyne seemed to grow, to become menacing and dreadful. Crake almost spoke himself, such was the force of the command. He felt a powerful need to do as he was told.

His voice, Crake thought, as the words skittered away into silence and the harmonic echoes died. He’s thralled the mouthpiece of his mask. Samandra was right: he’s crawling with daemons!

The Imperator trembled with the effort of resistance. ‘Speak!’ Kyne said again.

The Imperator shuddered. A line of red trickled from the corner of his mouth, shocking against the dead white skin of his face.

‘Speak!’ Kyne commanded.

The Imperator began to twitch and spasm. His mouth moved without sound. Drops of blood ran from his rotted nose.

‘What’s happening to it?’ Plome cried.

‘It’s the same thing that happened to Condred,’ said Crake. He should have anticipated this. ‘The daemon’s trying to destroy its host.’

‘Speak!’ thundered Kyne, and he loomed so large in Crake’s mind that Crake took a step back in fear.

‘Thessssk. .’ The words wheezed out of the Imperator like a slow breath through a harmonica, dragged from his lungs. ‘Attack Thesssk. . whole. . fleet. .’

Thesk, the capital. They were planning an attack on the capital, the seat of the Archduke’s power.

‘When?’ demanded Kyne.

The Imperator coughed up a gout of dark blood. It spattered Kyne’s chest and masked face, and drooled down the Imperator’s chin. Kyne didn’t flinch. The Imperator was wavering on his feet, but the power of the collar and the summoning circle kept him upright.

‘When?’ Kyne said again.

‘Tomorrow. .’ the Imperator said. ‘TomoooooaaaccCKKK. .’

The Imperator’s final word dried up into a rattling choke. Another flood of red spilled over his lips, his eyes rolled back, and he fell to his knees and tipped sideways, out of the circle, knocking aside rods and spheres as he fell. An unearthly screech sounded in their heads as his body passed through the protective flux, the last howl of the daemon as it was torn apart by the sonics. Then the Imperator hit the floor, lifeless and still.

Crake stared at the corpse, his chest heaving from the tension of the last few moments. Plome had his hand over his mouth. Kyne turned his head slowly towards them, green eyes like lamps in the dark. Outside, the sound of rifles cut through the silence.

Tomorrow. The Awakeners were going to attack the capital with all their strength, carrying an Azryx device capable of destroying the entire Coalition fleet. And they only had until tomorrow to stop it.