Just Another Judgement Day

SEVEN The Good Man

I’d barely cleared the door of St. Jude’s when I found myself charging down the Street of the Gods, with Chandra Singh pounding along behind me. A gift from the Lord of Thorns, or from the church itself? Or maybe even from Someone higher up . . . Some questions you just don’t ask, especially in the Nightside. I skidded to a halt and looked quickly around me as I realised the Street of the Gods wasn’t in any more of an upset than usual. Gods and worshippers, strange Beings and stranger tourists, all milled about making rather more noise than was necessary, stirring up trouble for themselves and each other, but there was no sign anywhere of the Walking Man. No-one was dead and dying, there were no piled-up bodies, and no-one was screaming . . . so perhaps he hadn’t actually got here yet. I made myself take a deep breath and concentrate. I’d spent too long chasing around after the Walking Man. Now I was ahead of him for once, I had to stop and think. Find some way to stop him. The Walking Man already had two massacres to his credit. I couldn’t let him get away with a third.

Especially not here.

“It’s like a carnival!” Chandra Singh said suddenly. He was staring all around him, beaming widely. “Brightly coloured tents holding wonders within, while hawkers shout their wares, and boast of the glories to be enjoyed by braver and more adventurous souls. The scale may be different, but the spirit’s the same. Come in, come in, put your money down, for an experience that will change your life forever! I have seen this before, John Taylor, from the smallest towns to the biggest cities. Religion for sale and faith on special offer. This is just another marketplace!”

“Of course,” I said. “Why do you think the Street of the Gods has always been so closely associated with the Nightside?”

“Bit short on taste, though,” said Chandra, positively curling his lip at some of the more ostentatious displays.

He was saved from hearing my perhaps overly cynical reply when we were ambushed by a pack of pamphleteers. They seemed to jump up out of nowhere, loud and aggressive and very much in our faces, surrounding us in a moment, forcing their cheaply printed pamphlets into our hands, while keeping up a constant clamour of hard-sell conversion. I glanced reflexively at the pamphlet in my hand.

Better Living Through Urine: Drink Yourself Holy! Worship Baphomet Now—Avoid The Rush When He Finally Manifests In All His Awful Glory! Join The Church Of Smiting: Strike Down The Ones You Hate With A Truly Nasty Act Of God! Suffering And Unfairness Guaranteed Or Your Money Back! Are You Not Sure Of Anything Really? Then Join The Church Of The Undecided. Or Not. See If We Care. We’re Only Printing These Things As A Tax Dodge.

Chandra made the mistake of trying to talk kindly to these hyperventilating vultures and was immediately shouted down by a dozen competing voices. Some of them even grabbed at his silk sleeves and tried to drag him off in a dozen different directions at once. So I made a point of throwing all my pamphlets on the ground and stamping on them, and when I had the pamphleteers attention, I fixed them all with a hard stare. They fell back as one, struck suddenly dumb. It’s amazing what you can achieve with a good hard stare when you’ve got a reputation like mine. But by now more pamphleteers had arrived, scenting blood in the water, and filled the silence with their own shouts.

“I saw them first! They’re mine!”

“Don’t listen to him! Only I can bring you to Enlightenment!”

“You? You couldn’t even spell Enlightenment! I offer a tenfold path to true transcendence!”

“Ten? Ten? I can do it in eight!”

“Seven!”

“Four!”

“Dagon shall rise again!”

It got nasty after that. They fell on each other, pamphlets thrown to the winds, fluttering on the air like particularly gaudy autumn leaves. Fists were brandished, shins were kicked, and there was a lot of close grappling and unnecessary biting. I strolled off and left them to it, and Chandra hurried after me.

The Street of the Gods was being its usual strange and unnatural self, with weird shit on every corner and more manifestations than you could shake a crucible at. Chandra enjoyed the sights, like any other tourist on his first grand tour, but every now and again he’d catch himself as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to approve of things like this. Organised religions are always jealous of the up-and-comers. But there was a lot to look at and enjoy. Self-appointed saints with neon halos looked disapprovingly on other-dimensional entities playing croquet with the heads of heretics, while rival congregations shouted rap sermons at each other from the safety of their church doors.

And a long line of sad furry animals followed a large scruffy bear as he trudged down the Street, holding up a crucifix to which was nailed a small green frog.

I pointed out some of the more interesting faiths and beliefs to Chandra as they presented themselves, at least partly in the spirit of self-defence. It pays to watch your back in the Street of the Gods. You never knew when some of the more aggressive Ideas will sneak up behind you and mug your subconscious. But there are many sights to be seen in the Street of the Gods, and I enjoyed showing them off to Chandra. It was all so new to him. The glamour rubs off fast after you’ve cleaned a fallen god’s blood off your shoes, as he’s viciously ejected from his temple to make way for someone more popular.

I showed him the Church of the Blood Red God—a tall Gothic structure with spiked towers and barbed parapets, a gloomy crimson edifice made entirely out of blood. Blood and nothing but blood, gallons of the stuff shaped and held in place entirely by the will of the Blood Red God. Impressive to look at, though up close it smelled pretty bad. Attracted flies like you wouldn’t believe. The God’s disciples provide the blood, mostly voluntarily.

“And what, precisely, does the Blood Red God get out of all this?” said Chandra suspiciously. “Apart from a church that smells like a slaughterhouse?”

“Well,” I said. “He feeds off his flock, transmutes the blood in his own divine body, then feeds the supercharged blood back to his devotees, a few drops at a time. Their worship makes him a God, and they get to feel divine, for a time. Do I really need to tell you that the process is addictive and that it burns out the human system pretty damn quickly? Not that it matters. There’s a believer born every minute.”

“But...that means he’s nothing more than a glorified leech! Feeding off his followers!”

“I could say something very cynical and cutting here about the nature of most organised religions,” I said. “But the Street says it all, really.”

Chandra sniffed loudly. “What does he look like, this Blood Red God?”

“Good question,” I said. “No-one knows. Like many of the Beings on the Street, he rarely walks abroad in person. Probably because if their flocks ever got a good look at what they were actually worshipping, they’d go off the whole idea. However, the Blood Red God has been known to send out humanoid figures composed entirely of blood to take care of day-to-day business. Some of the more adventurous vampires like to sneak up behind and stick straws in them.”

“Show me something else,” said Chandra. “Before I projectile vomit every meal I’ve eaten in the last three months.”

“Well,” I said. “If you’re looking for something more spiritual . . . over there we have the Hall of Entropy. A dour-looking place for a congregation of real gloomy buggers. They believe that since the whole universe is winding down, and everything that lives is going to die, it’s up to us to evolve into a higher order of Being and get the hell out of here in search of a better class of universe. They offer courses in how to become a higher order of Being. Very expensive courses.”

“Ah,” said Chandra. “And have any of these people ever actually transcended?”

“Funnily enough, no,” I said sadly. “According to the people who run the courses, it’s because the students aren’t trying hard enough. Or because they haven’t taken enough courses. There’s a pool running on the Street as to how long it will take before the students wise up and rebel, and tear the whole place apart. Probably only to find that the organisation’s leaders have already absconded with all the cash. In search of a better universe, presumably.”

“Why is everyone staying well away from that one?” said Chandra, pointing entirely unselfconsciously. “Even the tourists are taking their photos from the other side of the Street.”

“Ah,” I said. “That is the Church of Sacrifice. Its priests have an unnerving tendency to rush out of their church without warning, grab anyone handy, or anyone who doesn’t run away fast enough, and drag them into their church to sacrifice to their god. Usually singing psalms very loudly, to drown out the screams and objections. Their god, who has no name but I think we can all take a pretty good guess at his nature, sucks up the souls and shares the life energy with its followers. No-one on the Street objects, as such. They think he adds colour and character to the Street. And besides, he helps keep the tourists moving. The Church’s worshippers wear masks at all times. Because if any of them do get identified, everyone else kills them. Just on general principles.”

“This whole Street is a disgrace!” said Chandra, rather more loudly than I was comfortable with. “None of these Beings are gods! Powerful creatures, yes, but not gods! Nothing worthy of worship. In fact,” he said, his voice suddenly thoughtful. “Many would seem to me to qualify as monsters . . .”

“Let us not go there,” I said quickly. “We really don’t want to start anything. We’re here to stop the Walking Man.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” insisted Chandra.

“Well, yes, quite probably,” I said. “But it’s still not something you want to actually announce out loud unless you like having your testicles expand suddenly and violently, then blow up in slow motion. Some of the gods here have very old-fashioned ideas when it comes to smiting unbelievers.”

“You think that will stop the Walking Man?” said Chandra.

“No. But then, his god is bigger than everyone else’s god.”

“I am a khalsa,” said Chandra. “I do not believe . . . that this Walking Man can do anything that I cannot.”

“You can believe anything you like, on the Street of the Gods,” I said. “But that doesn’t necessarily make it true.”

There was the sudden sound of loud and angry confrontation, from further down the Street. I started running again, with Chandra pounding along behind me. He was in better shape than I, but he was carrying more weight, so I kept a comfortable lead. I felt a very definite need to encounter situations or Beings before Chandra did. He had a disturbing tendency to say exactly what he was thinking, and that can get you into a whole lot of trouble on the Street of the Gods.

Lots of other people were running right alongside me, including a whole bunch of tourists with their cameras at the ready. We do love our free entertainment in the Nightside, especially if it promises to be dramatic, violent, and quite spectacularly bloody. And given that this involved the Walking Man, it promised to be all three. He was standing quite calmly in the middle of the Street, his long duster hanging open to reveal the guns still holstered on his belt. He was surrounded by proponents of a whole bunch of belief systems, singing the praises of their gods and denouncing the Walking Man as a heretic, an unbeliever, or worse still, a fake prophet. Even more were shouting insults from the safety of their church doors. And yet, nobody wanted to get too close to him. Even the fiercest of believers, the most fanatical wide-eyed extremists, could sense the power and the threat of the Walking Man. Even standing still, he was more frightening and more dangerous than any of the Beings on the Street of the Gods.

You just knew it.

I pushed my way through the crowd surrounding the Walking Man, and most people only gave me a quick glance before getting out of my way. Probably because they were curious to see what I was going to do. My name moved swiftly through the crowd, along with a sense of Now we’re going to see something . . . Chandra Singh stuck close behind me. I was huffing and puffing from the run, and he wasn’t even out of breath. And then the Walking Man opened his mouth to speak, and everyone fell silent.

“You aren’t gods,” he said, in a calm but still loud and carrying voice. “You’re spiritual con men, confidence tricksters offering false faith and false hope. Is there a greater sin?”

“Even false hope is better than none,” I said. “Especially in a place like the Nightside.” Everyone around me fell back to what they clearly hoped was a safe distance. The Walking Man looked at me, and I met his gaze firmly. I needed to get him talking, try to reason with him, before the horror I sensed hanging on the air erupted into bloody murder. There had to be a way to reach him. Before all hell broke lose.

The Walking Man did me the politeness of considering my words for a moment, then shook his head. “No. All of... this is just a distraction from the true God, the real God, and a real state of grace. God is God, and none of these pretenders can be allowed to continue in their offences. There’s no room for mercy when souls are at stake.”

“What are you going to do?” I said bluntly. “Fight your way into all the churches and temples, drag the gods out into the Street, and shoot them all in the head? Even if you could do that, which I rather doubt, there are so many of them, you’d still be at it years from now.”

“I have faith,” said the Walking Man. “And faith can move mountains, never mind a false Church or two.” He stopped and glared across the Street at a grimy stone edifice. “I mean, come on, look at that. The Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. Who in their right mind would want to worship that?”

“Someone looking for an unfair advantage, probably,” I said. “It’s all about the deals you can make on the Street of the Gods. Faith is currency here, with valuable prizes to be won by the faithful. You can win good fortune, bad cess to your enemies, transformation or immortality, and everything in between, if you make the right kind of deal with the Being of your choice. Though the price will almost certainly be your soul, or someone else’s. And I don’t see that you’re in any position to protest. You made a deal, didn’t you? To put your humanity behind you and become the Walking Man?”

He glared at me, all the casual humour gone from his face, and when he spoke his voice was flat and calm and very dangerous. “Don’t press me, John Taylor. And don’t you dare compare me to the debauched fools and heretics of this corrupt and corrupting place. I serve the real deal, the one true God.”

“That’s what they all say here,” I said easily, refusing to be intimidated.

“But my god has made me strong enough to destroy all their gods,” said the Walking Man.

“Is that who you serve?” I said. “A god of blood and murder?”

He smiled suddenly, and I realised I hadn’t even touched his faith and conviction. “I am the wrath of God. I punish the guilty. Because someone has to.”

Chandra Singh pushed in beside me, positively quivering with eagerness to join the debate. He still thought we were only talking.

“I have no interest or affection for this place, but still, everyone has the right to worship who or what they please, in their own way,” he said earnestly. “There are many paths to enlightenment, and none of us are fit to judge them. Do you intend to kill me, for worshipping my god in a way that is different to yours?”

“I don’t know,” said the Walking Man, with breath-taking casualness. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You would kill me?” said Chandra Singh.

The Walking Man shrugged easily. “Only if you get in my way. You’re not guilty. Merely deluded. Ah well, time to get to work.”

He drew both his pistols and opened fire on the Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. The crowd scattered to give him room, keeping their heads well down. I stood my ground, and Chandra stood his ground beside me. Under normal circumstances I would have done the sensible thing and run like hell with the rest of them, but somehow I just couldn’t while Chandra was with me. Never hang around with heroes; they’ll always get you killed. The pistols’ bullets hammered away at the front of the temple, punching holes clean through the wall and exploding the ancient stonework. There was a power in those guns and those bullets that the temple was no match for.

Cracks spread jaggedly across the entire front of the temple, then the whole front wall exploded outwards, as the Unspeakable Abomination showed itself for the first time in centuries, to see who was knocking so loudly on its door. Dozens of loathsome tentacles burst out into the street, dozens of feet long and bigger around than the average car, all of them lined with hundreds of vicious suckers packed full of rotating knifelike teeth. The flesh of the tentacles was a sick and leprous grey, as much metallic as organic, an impossibly flexible living metal that dripped corrosive slime. More and more tentacles slammed through the disintegrating front of the temple, as the Unspeakable Abomination rose up from the depths of its night-dark caverns far beneath the Street of the Gods, determined to have its revenge on whoever had dared disturb its sleep of centuries.

The tentacles lashed back and forth, grabbing everything within reach and crushing it to rubble or pulp. People died screaming as the tentacles shot after them faster than they could run. Men and women were snatched and slammed against the ground or the nearest buildings. Razor-packed suckers ate greedily into yielding flesh, and blood and other fluids ran down the Street in thickening streams. The temple was gone now. All that remained was a nest of long, thrashing tentacles killing everyone within reach. And finally, deep in the heart of the tentacles, there rose up a burning three-lobed eye, almost the size of the temple itself, staring unblinkingly on the death and destruction it was causing and finding it good.

Beings of all shapes and sizes and natures came charging out of their churches and temples to face this new threat to the Street of the Gods, for whatever threatened the security and business of the Street was a threat to them all. The Walking Man might have intimidated them, but this was one of their own, and no-one would take you seriously on the Street if you let your neighbour intimidate you. So gods and icons and avatars spilled out on to the Street, and magics and sciences and strange energies spit and crackled on the air. Tentacles writhed and caught fire, exploded and cracked apart, and a choking, noxious smell filled the air as thick black blood spilled. But there were always more tentacles to replace those that were destroyed. Fanatical worshippers rushed in to cut and hack at the tentacles with blessed swords and axes, urged on by their priests, only to see the metal of their weapons break and shatter against the unyielding unearthly flesh of the Unspeakable Abomination.

The three-lobed burning eye looked on god and follower alike and found them all equally hateful in its gaze.

The tentacles churned out from the ruins of the temple, growing longer and thicker. They snatched up gods and squeezed them till their heads exploded, or pounded them against their own churches like a child having a temper tantrum with its toys. They slammed down on whole congregations, crushing them under their writhing weight until nothing was left but red pulp. The Abomination was awakening from its long sleep and remembering the joys of slaughter and destruction and the sweet taste of blood and suffering.

Chandra Singh strode steadily forward, his long, curved sword glowing almost unbearably bright in the gloom of the Street. Some of the lesser Beings actually flinched away from its light and fell back to give Chandra room to work. He cut savagely at the nearest tentacle, and the shining blade sank deep into the metallic flesh. Steaming black blood spurted, hissing and spitting on the ground, but though the tentacle reached for Chandra, it couldn’t touch him. He gripped his sword in both hands, raised it high above his head, and brought it sweeping down in a mighty blow that sheared clean through the tentacle. The severed end flapped and flopped on the Street, curling and uncurling aimlessly. The stump retreated, spurting blood. Chandra went after it, his gaze fixed on the three-lobed eye.

Meanwhile, I had my own problems.

A tentacle came right for me, then hesitated at the last moment, as though it recognised me, or at least something about me. Which was both flattering and worrying. The tentacle humped and coiled before me, as though making up its mind, then suddenly pressed forward. I jumped out of the way, dodging behind a handy stone pillar. The tentacle curled around the massive pillar and wrenched it away with one heave. The roof started to come down, and I was forced back out into the Street. There was nowhere to run; the tentacles were everywhere. I dug through my coat pockets, searching for something I could use, and finally came up with a flat blue packet of salt. I tore the packet apart and spilled the salt on to the tentacle as it reached for me. The metallic flesh shrivelled and blackened and fell apart, the way salt affects a slug.

Never leave home without condiments.

I tried raising my gift, hoping I could use it to find some fatal weakness in the Abomination (seeing as I’d run out of salt), but the aether was jammed with the emanations of all the Beings out on the Street, fighting the Abomination. It was like being blinded by spotlights—I couldn’t See a damned thing. I had to screw my inner eye shut to keep from being overwhelmed.

When I could see clearly again, the Walking Man was striding right into the heart of the lashing and roiling tentacles, heading straight for that burning three-lobed eye. It loomed over him, bigger than a house by then. The tentacles couldn’t even get close to him, let alone touch him. Something made them pull back in spite of themselves, as though just the touch of him would be more than they could stand. He was protected because he was walking in Heaven’s path. He passed by Chandra Singh, still fighting valiantly though surrounded on all sides. The Walking Man didn’t even glance at Chandra, all his attention fixed on the three-lobed eye.

He walked right up to the eye, tentacles recoiling from his very proximity, and when he was standing right before it . . . he raised one of his long-barrelled pistols and shot the eye three times; one bullet for each lobe. The eye exploded in a blast of incandescent fire, and a wave of almost unbearable heat rushed down the Street, but none of it touched the Walking Man. The tentacles collapsed and lay still, slowly melting away, disappearing into long blue streams of decaying ectoplasm. The Unspeakable Abomination was gone. I’d like to think it was dead, but such creatures are notoriously hard to kill.

All around, Beings and men alike stared at the Walking Man, and a whisper went down the Street; Godkiller . . .

I started towards him, and Chandra Singh came forward to join me. He looked like he’d been in a fight, his silks torn and steaming from black blood-stains, but he still held his long sword, and his back was straight and stiff. He only had eyes for the Walking Man, and he looked mad as hell.

“You!” he said, when he was close enough. “Walking Man! You did this! How many dead and injured, simply because they happened to be here when you chose to pick a fight with the Abomination? How many innocents dead today, because of you?”

“There are no innocents here,” the Walking Man said calmly. “Not on the Street of the Gods, or in the whole damned Nightside. Isn’t that right, John?”

“Not everyone here needs killing,” I said stubbornly. “Sometimes, a place like this can be a haven for the damaged and the broken . . . a place to go when no-one else will have you. You can’t just kill everyone.”

“No?” said the Walking Man. “Watch me.”

He didn’t even bother with his guns this time. He walked unhurriedly down the Street, turning his terrible implacable gaze this way and that, and buildings and structures on all sides began to shudder and shake and fall apart under the impact of his deadly faith. Centuries-old stone and marble cracked and splintered, while construction materials from a hundred worlds and dimensions collapsed, or shattered like glass, or melted away like mist. For what use was antiquity and mystery in the face of his brutal faith? He was the Walking Man. He had God on his side, and he wasn’t afraid to use Him. Beings and creatures and things beyond reason stumbled horrified out on to the Street, driven from their places of worship. Some came out howling and screaming, some sobbing bitterly, and some came out fighting.

The Robot God, the Deus in Machina, demon construct from the forty-first century, all strangeness and charm and vicious quarks, came stamping down the Street on its solid steel legs, its divine metal workings exposed, clanking and scraping against each other. Its eyes were multi-coloured diodes, and its slit mouth roared static. All kinds of energy weapons emerged from secret recesses, and the Robot God unleashed all its terror arsenal on the Walking Man, seeking to blast him right down to the quantum level.

The Walking Man swaggered down the Street to meet it, flashing his old insolent smile, and when he got close enough, he jumped lightly up to grab a handhold on the massive metal body and tore the Robot God apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands. Future energies howled and sputtered around the pair of them as the Robot God lurched back and forth, screaming bursts of static. In a matter of moments, all that remained was a scattered pile of metal parts and a few dispersing energies.

The Inscrutable Enigma appeared out of nowhere, forming itself around the Walking Man in spiralling circles of coruscating intensities. Its living energies had burned up through the material world to reach the Street, and its very presence set fire to the ground and ignited the air. Unearthly flames burned all around the Walking Man, but could not consume him. The Inscrutable Enigma might have been as much idea as matter, an alien concept manifesting in the material world, but it was still no match for the power that burned within the Walking Man. And all too soon the Enigma exhausted its energies and faded away, its base idea consumed by a bigger one.

Pretty Kitty God gave it her best shot. She was an utterly artificial god, cold-bloodedly designed and created by marketing groups to appeal to the biggest possible audience. But they did their job too well, and Pretty Kitty God became real, or real enough. She escaped the confines of her planned Christmas Special, broke the shackles of her trade-mark, and took up residence on the Street of the Gods, where she belonged. She was vast and powerful and almost unbearably cute. All fluffy pink fur and enormous eyes, ten feet tall and wondrously soft, she advanced on the Walking Man with her padded arms outstretched for a hug, to overwhelm as she always had, through sheer, unnatural cuteness. The God of Lost Toys, designed to appeal to all those who never got over finding out Father Christmas wasn’t real, or having their favourite teddy bear thrown out by their mother because they were too old for it now, though they weren’t and never would be. I’d seen Pretty Kitty God subdue and smother old-school horned demons within a deluge of sheer niceness.

She always gave me the shudders. Toys should know their places. They certainly shouldn’t want you to worship them.

The Walking Man gave Pretty Kitty God a hard look, and she burst into flames. She waddled away sadly, her leaping flames lighting up the gloom of the Street. The Walking Man, still smiling his mocking smile, looked unhurriedly about him, and all the gods of the Nightside stood there and stared back, not knowing what to do.

Then Razor Eddie appeared, and everything on the Street of the Gods went really quiet. He didn’t come walking down the Street, he didn’t make an entrance. He was suddenly there, the Punk God of the Straight Razor, a terrible thin presence in a filthy old coat, more than a man but less than a god. Or just possibly the other way round. Thin to the point of emaciation, his eyes dark and feverish in his sunken grey face, Razor Eddie was one of the more disturbing agents of the Good in the Nightside. He slept in doorways, lived on hand-outs, and killed people who needed killing, all in penance for the sins of his youth. He did awful things with his straight razor, in the name of justice, and didn’t give a damn.

I suppose he’s my friend. It’s hard to tell, sometimes.

He wandered down the Street towards the Walking Man, who turned and considered him thoughtfully. Like two gun-fighters in a Western town who’d always known that some day they’d have to meet, and sort out once and for all which of them was fastest on the draw. The wrath of God and the Punk God of the Straight Razor finally stood facing each other, maintaining a respectful distance, and it felt like the whole Street was holding its breath. God’s holy warrior and the most distressing agent the Good had ever had. The Walking Man’s nose twitched. Eddie lived among the homeless, and up close his smell could get pretty rank. But when the Walking Man finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured and even respectful.

“Hi, Eddie,” he said. “I wondered when you’d get here. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Nothing good, I hope,” said Razor Eddie, in his pale ghostly voice.

“You should approve of what I’m doing here. Striking down the false gods, punishing those who prey on the weak.”

“I don’t give a damn for most of the scum who infest this place,” said Razor Eddie. “And yes, I’ve killed a few gods in my time. But Dagon . . . is my friend. You don’t touch him.”

“Sorry,” said the Walking Man. “But I really can’t make exceptions. Bad for the reputation. People would think I was going soft.”

“Bloody hell,” I said, stepping forward. “The testosterone’s getting so thick around here you could carve your initials in it. Both of you, take a step back and calm the hell down.”

The Walking Man looked at me. “Or?” he said politely.

I met his gaze steadily. “You really want to find out?”

“Oh you’re good,” said the Walking Man. “You really are, John.”

I looked at Razor Eddie. “You’ve got a friend here, on the Street of the Gods? You’ve been holding out on me.”

He shrugged briefly, the merest lifting of his shoulders. “Do you tell me all your secrets, John?”

“Can we at least give reason and common sense a try?” I said. “Before the shit hits the straight razor, and I have to get seriously peeved with both of you?”

“All right,” said the Walking Man. “I’m game. Try me.”

“The Street of the Gods serves a purpose,” I said, trying hard to sound both firm and reasonable. “Not everyone who comes to the Nightside is ready for the real thing, for true faith. You could say this whole place is a repository and a haven for the spiritually walking wounded. They have to work their way up, in easy steps, one step at a time, out of the dark and back into the light.”

“There is only one way,” the Walking Man said patiently. “There is good, and there is evil. No shades of grey. You’ve been living here too long, John. Made too many compromises along the way. You’ve got soft.”

“I haven’t,” said Razor Eddie. “You’re not so different from me, Walking Man. We both gave up our old lives, and all human comforts, to serve God in violent ways, to do the dirty work no-one else wants to know about.”

“If you understand, then step aside and let me do my work,” said the Walking Man. “You don’t have to die here today, Eddie.”

“Can’t do that,” said Razor Eddie. “Hard as it may be to believe, there are some good people here. And some good gods. One of them is my friend. And what kind of... good man would I be, to step aside and let my friend be killed? Sometimes this Street can be a place for second chances, one last opportunity to make something better of one’s life. I found new hope here. You have to believe that.”

“No I don’t,” said the Walking Man. And he shot Razor Eddie in the head.

Or at least, he tried to. Razor Eddie’s hand came up and round impossibly fast, his straight razor blazing like the sun, and cut the bullet out of mid air before it could reach him. The two separated halves fell to the ground, and the two small sounds seemed to echo on forever in the hushed quiet of the Street of the Gods. The Walking Man stood still, openly stunned, defied and defeated for the first time in his life since he’d left his simple humanity behind to become God’s hit-man. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen any more. And while he was standing there, trying to make sense of what was happening, Razor Eddie brought his straight razor round in a blindingly swift arc and cut the Walking Man’s throat.

Or at least, he tried to. The supernaturally sharp blade, which had been known to cut through Time and Space, sliced across the Walking Man’s throat but couldn’t touch it. The blade just swept past, held back the merest fraction of an inch from the bare skin, by the power and the force operating within the Walking Man. The two men just stood there, shocked silent, looking first at each other, then down at the weapons that had betrayed them. And from the crowd that had gathered all round, there came the busy murmurs of many bets being made.

The Walking Man’s hands were suddenly full of his guns. He blazed away with both pistols, firing over and over again, but somehow Razor Eddie was never there to be hit. He surged back and forth, dancing through the fusillade of bullets, here there and everywhere at once, like the grey god he was. The Walking Man swept his guns back and forth, raking the Street with bullets, and everyone watching fell to their knees or flattened themselves on the ground, as bullets flew overhead. I had to pull Chandra Singh down beside me. He was so caught up in the spectacle of two earthly gods going at it right in front of him that he forgot all about self-preservation.

Both guns kept firing long after they should have run out of bullets, but for all the deafening thunder of the gunfire, Razor Eddie was drawing closer, step by step. Now and again he cut another bullet out of mid air, just to prove the first time hadn’t been a fluke, slicing clean through the flashing bullet with his shining blade. And finally, inevitably, he drew close enough to go head to head with the Walking Man. He cut and sliced and slashed, moving almost too fast to be followed by mortal eye; and still he couldn’t touch the man touched by God.

And finally, inevitably, they duelled each other to a standstill. They stood facing each other, both breathless from their exertions, close enough to feel each other’s panting breath on their faces, eyes staring into eyes. Neither of them beaten, neither willing to admit defeat. And then, quite unexpectedly, the Walking Man took a step back. He put his guns back in their holsters and showed Razor Eddie his empty hands. And as Eddie looked, and hesitated, the Walking Man snatched the straight razor out of Razor Eddie’s hand. Eddie cried out, as though he’d lost a part of himself. The Walking Man threw the straight razor the length of the Street. It tumbled end over end through the air, the blade flashing brightly, until it vanished into the distance. And then the Walking Man clubbed Razor Eddie to the ground with his bare hands, beating him unmercifully again and again until Eddie crashed bloodily to the ground and stopped moving. The Walking Man stood over him, breathing harshly, blood dripping from his fists. And then he drew back his foot to kick the fallen god in the head.

“No!” said Chandra Singh. “Don’t you dare!”

I was back on my feet again, and so was he. And if he hadn’t spoken out, I would have. But when Chandra advanced steadily on the Walking Man, I stayed right where I was and let him do it. I was still observing the Walking Man, seeing what he could do, and making up my mind as to what I was going to have to do. So I let Chandra Singh take his shot, to see what would happen. I can be a real cold-blooded bastard when I have to.

Chandra stood protectively over the fallen Razor Eddie, and stuck his face right into the Walking Man’s. Chandra was clearly steaming mad, but his face and his gaze had never looked so cold. The Walking Man met Chandra’s gaze calmly and didn’t budge an inch. One holy warrior facing off against another. This was what Chandra had wanted all along, whether he’d admitted it to himself or not. Why he insisted on sticking with me. To end up here, in this place and at this moment, for a chance to test his faith and his god and his standing, against the legendary Walking Man.

He stepped quite deliberately over the unconscious Razor Eddie, putting himself between the fallen god and further violence, openly defying the Walking Man to do anything about it. He didn’t draw his sword, made no move to attack or defend; but stood there, confident in his faith and the righteousness of his cause.

“Go ahead,” he said steadily to the Walking Man. “Shoot me. Kill a good man. Just because you can.”

“A good man?” said the Walking Man, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you are, Chandra Singh? After all those creatures you killed, merely for the sin of being . . . different?”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Chandra, entirely unmoved. “I have only ever acted to save lives. Can you say the same?”

“Yes,” said the Walking Man.

“Too much faith can blind a man,” said Chandra. “Especially to his own faults. I admit, I came here for selfish reasons. I wanted to test myself, my skills, my faith, against yours. To prove once and for all that I was your equal, if not more, in everything that mattered. But now that I have seen you at your bloody work, your murderous function . . . I see I have a duty here. You have to be stopped. You’re out-of-control. What you are doing . . . is not God’s work. He may have his wrath, but He tempers it with mercy and compassion.”

“Mercy,” said the Walking Man. “Compassion. Sorry, not my department.”

“Then I must represent it,” said Chandra. “Even with the blood of so many unfortunate creatures on my hands. Because someone has to. John Taylor was right. There is still some hope left in the Nightside, and not everyone here deserves to die.”

“If you stand against me,” said the Walking Man, quite casually, “you stand against God’s plan. God’s will.”

“This is your will,” said Chandra. “Your need to punish the guilty and avenge your lost family. How many deaths will it take, Mr. Saint, how many murders, to put your soul at rest?”

“Only one way to find out,” said the Walking Man.

They didn’t just throw themselves at each other. They were both professionals, after all, with many years of experience in what they did, and they knew enough about each other to respect each other’s skills. So the Walking Man didn’t go for his guns, and Chandra Singh didn’t draw his sword. Not just yet.

“I am the wrath of God,” the Walking Man said finally.

“No,” said Chandra. “You’re only another monster.”

He drew his sword with inhuman speed, and thrust the blade straight for the Walking Man’s heart. It all happened in the space of a single breath, all of Chandra’s strength and speed compressed into a single deadly strike, planned and launched while he was still speaking, to catch the Walking Man off-balance. But that was never going to happen. The Walking Man hardly seemed to move, but one hand came out of nowhere to grab the long, shining blade and stop it dead in its track. The two men stood face-to-face for a long moment, straining almost imperceptibly, Chandra to push the blade forward, the Walking Man to hold it where it was. Until finally the sword blade snapped, broken clean in half by the two immovable forces working upon it. Chandra staggered and almost fell. The Walking Man opened his hand, and the broken half of the blade fall to the ground. His hand wasn’t even bleeding. Chandra breathed harshly, swaying as though he’d been hit, but he didn’t drop his broken sword, and he still stood before Razor Eddie, protecting him. The Walking Man smiled on Chandra, almost kindly.

“Nice try. But you’re only a khalsa, a holy warrior, whereas I am so much more. I made a deal with God Himself.” He looked at me for the first time. “Always get it in writing, eh, John?”

“You’ll have to kill me to get to Eddie,” said Chandra.

“Kill you, Chandra?” said the Walking Man. “I’m not here to kill men like you. You’re a good man. Unfortunately for you, and everyone else here, I’ve gone far beyond that.” He looked at me again. “Are you going to try and stop me, John Taylor?”

“You really think you’re ready to throw down with me?” I said. “I may not be holy, but I’m sneaky as hell. I move in really mysterious ways, and I guarantee you’ll never see it coming.”

I met his gaze easily, holding my breath . . . and he shrugged abruptly and turned away from Chandra and Eddie.

“I’m wasting my time here,” he said. “I’ve allowed myself to become distracted. I came to this godforsaken place to kill your precious new upstart Authorities before they can organise the Nightside into a real threat to the outside world. I can always come back here, after I’ve killed them. So, stop me if you can, John.”

He turned his back and strolled away. I let him go. I was thinking furiously. He hadn’t realised I was bluffing. And that...was interesting. Chandra Singh knelt beside the unconscious Razor Eddie, hugging his broken sword to his chest. He was crying.