There are a few reports about the Disciples, but they're vague and patchy. Rumours of a group of experts with knowledge and experience of demons, but no mention of magic or names.
Some of the older papers still have ordinary sections, sports coverage and gossip columns, the usual padding. An attempt to maintain normality. But the later editions focus solely on the Demonata. Nothing else, just page after page of horror and catastrophe.
I stop reading after half an hour. I've had enough. Humanity has hit a brick wall. We're facing our end, like the dinosaurs millions of years before us. The only difference is we've got journalists on hand to document every blow and setback, cataloguing our rapid, painful downfall in vibrant, vicious detail. Personally, I think the dinosaurs had the better deal. When it comes to impending, unavoidable extinction, ignorance is bliss.
We set down hours later on a private landing strip outside a small town close to the border where humans and demons are locked in battle. There are several other planes and helicopters parked at the sides of the strip. A large, grey, square building occupies one corner. We head for it once we've disembarked, Beranabus leading the way with the stride of a confident, commanding general.
Inside the building are eleven men and women, a mix of races. A couple aren't much older than me, a few look to be in their seventies or eighties, while the others fall into the thirty-to-sixty bracket. Most are neatly dressed, though one or two could compete with Beranabus in the scruffiness stakes. They all look tired and drained.
"Hail to the chief!" a large man in military fatigues shouts ironically, saluting Beranabus as he enters. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles and a shark's head covers the flesh between knuckles and thumb. Like when Sharmila turned up at the cave, I know his face and name, even though we've never really met.
"Shark?" Beranabus scowls. "Sharmila thought you were dead."
"When you broke contact, I feared the worst," Sharmila says, shuffling around Beranabus.
"Couldn't wait for the Messiah forever," Shark grunts. "There was fighting to be done. I was going to summon you back, but I knew you wouldn't return without our regal leader."
"I had to wait," Sharmila says stiffly. "Beranabus is our best hope."
Shark snorts. "Hope? What's that? I heard about it once, in a fairy tale."
"Be quiet," Beranabus says softly and the larger man obeys, though he eyes Beranabus accusingly, as though he blames the magician for our dire predicament. "Any more to join us?" Beranabus asks, addressing the question to the room in general.
"Two, maybe three," a small, dark-skinned woman answers.
"Then I'll start." Beranabus looks around, meeting everybody's gaze in turn. "I won't offer false hope. We're in deep trouble and I doubt we'll be able to wade out. But the war isn't lost yet. If we can destroy the tunnel linking the two universes, the demons will be sucked back to their own realm."
There are excited mutterings. "Are you sure?" Shark asks suspiciously. "You're not just saying that to rally our spirits?"
"Have I ever lied to any of you?" Beranabus retorts sharply. He waits a moment. When nobody responds, he continues. "One of Lord Loss's human allies killed a person in the cave, to prime the tunnel opening. The killer later joined with the rock where the mouth of the tunnel was originally situated-he or she has become a living part of the opening. If we dismantle the tunnel walls, the killer dies, the demons get sucked back to their own universe and all will be well with the world."
"How do we close the tunnel?" Sharmila asks.
"There's a lodestone set deep within the cave," Beranabus says. "The demons are using its power. If I can reach it, I know the spells to disable it and rid us of our unwelcome guests. I'll need somebody to help me inside the cave-Kernel or Grubbs. The rest of you only have to concern yourselves with getting us there."
"You want us to clear the way for you, even if it costs us our lives," Shark growls.
"Aye," Beranabus says. "This is a suicide mission. We're going to drop into a nest of demons. They'll be waiting for us, expecting an attack. They'll outnumber us and many are probably more powerful than we are. Our chances of making it to the lodestone are slim. Even if the boys and I get through, the rest of you are doomed-you'll need to continue fighting while I cast the spells, to guard our backs. I doubt any of you will survive."
"That's a lot to ask," Shark says icily.
"It's no more than I ask of myself. Sacrifice opened this tunnel and only sacrifice can close it." He glances at Kernel and me, hesitates, then pushes on. "For the spell to work, I must kill Kernel or Grubbs. If they both perish along the way, I'll offer my own life. I think I can make that work. Whatever happens, it's a death trip for me. I have to get deep inside the tunnel to work the spell. Once it's finished, I won't be able to fight my way out. I'm too old and weary."
Beranabus looks straight at Shark and awaits his response. The big man shrugs thoughtfully and Beranabus addresses the room again. "I don't think any of us will make it through this day. But if we succeed, humanity will go on."
"Until another tunnel is opened," Sharmila notes. "If we all perish, who will protect mankind the next time?"
"That's not our problem," Beranabus says. "I believe the universe will spit out more heroes to lead the good fight. But whatever happens, it's out of our hands. This is what we must do to counter the present threat. Are you with me? If any of you aren't, say so now and leave the rest of us to get on with it."
Nobody backs down from the challenge. Most don't look very happy-who the hell would!-but they accept the magician's verdict. Seeing this, Beranabus smiles approvingly, then circulates, chatting with the Disciples individually, making sure they're prepared for the fight, offering advice and strategic tips, raising morale.
Kernel and I are in the middle of the room, looking at each other uncertainly. Beranabus's announcement that one of us must be sacrificed came out of the blue. Neither of us knows what to say. It's one thing to go into a fight knowing you'll probably lose. Quite another to be told that to win, you must offer up your throat to be slit.
Sharmila approaches, smiling thinly. "He did not tell you that you were to be killed?"