Black House

The smile drops away entirely when Lord Malshun realizes that the man with the club was that boy. He has come again to annoy them, but if he thinks he will take back the prize of prizes, he’s quite mistaken. It’s only a stick, after all, not the Globe itself; perhaps a little of the Globe’s residual power still lives within the man, but surely not much. Surely there can be no more than dust, after all the intervening years.

And dust is what my life would be worth if I let them take this boy from me, Lord Malshun thinks. I must —

His single eye is drawn to the black thunderhead hanging behind the men from the Ter. It gives off a vast, sleepy drone. Bees? Bees with stingers? Bees with stingers between him and Station House Road?

Well, he will deal with them. In time. First is the business of these annoying men.

"Good day, gentlemen," Lord Malshun says in his most pleasant voice. The bogus German accent is gone; now he sounds like a bogus English aristocrat in a West End stage comedy from the 1950s. Or perhaps the World War II Nazi propagandist Lord Haw-Haw. "It’s wonderful that you should come so far to visit, perfectly wonderful, and on such a rotten day, too. Yet I’m afraid most days are rotten here, the Dins of End-World were simply made for the pathetic fallacy, you know, and — dash it all — I can’t stay. I’m afraid these are time-delivery goods, here."

Lord Malshun raises Ty and shakes him. Although Ty’s eyes are open and he’s obviously aware, his arms and legs flop as bonelessly as those of a rag doll.

"Put him down, Munshun," says the one with the club, and Lord Malshun realizes with growing dismay that he could have trouble with this one. He really could. Yet his smile widens, exposing the full, ghoulish range of his teeth. They are pointed and tip inward. Anything bitten by them would tear itself to shreds trying to pull free of that bony trap.

"Munshun? Munshun? No one here by that name. Or Mr. Monday either, for that matter. All gone, cheerio, ta-ta, toodle-oo. As for putting down the lad, couldn’t do that, dear boy, simply couldn’t. I’ve made commitments, you know. And really, you fellows should count yourselves fortunate. Your local reign of terror is over! Huzzah! The Fisherman is dead — dispatched by this boy right here, in fact, this perfectly admirable boy." He gives Ty another shake, always being careful to keep the head raised. Wouldn’t want that cap falling off, oh no.

The bees trouble him.

Who has sent the bees?

"The boy’s mother is in an insane asylum," says the man with the stick. That stick is glowing more fiercely than ever, Lord Malshun realizes with deepening fear. He now feels very afraid, and with fear comes anger. Is it possible they could take him? Really take the boy? "She’s in an asylum, and she wants her son back."

If so, it’s a corpse they’ll have for their trouble.

Afraid or not, Lord Malshun’s grin widens even further. (Dale Gilbertson has a sudden, nightmarish vision: William F. Buckley, Jr., with one eye and a face five feet long.) He lifts Ty’s limp body close to his mouth and bites a series of needly little nips in the air less than an inch from the exposed neck.

"Have her husband stick his prick in her and make another ‘un, old son — I’m sure he can do it. They live in Ter-tah, after all. Women get pregnant in Ter-tah just walking down the street."

One of the bearded men says, "She’s partial to this one."

"But so am I, dear boy. So am I." Lord Malshun actually nips Ty’s skin this time and blood flows, as if from a shaving cut. Behind them, the Big Combination grinds on and on, but the screams have ceased. It’s as if the children driving the machine realize that something has changed or might change; that the world has come to a balancing point.

The man with the glowing stick takes a step forward. Lord Malshun cringes back in spite of himself. It’s a mistake to show weakness and fear, he knows this but can’t help it. For this is no ordinary tah. This is someone like one of the old gunslingers, those warriors of the High.

"Take another step and I’ll tear his throat open, dear boy. I’d hate doing that, would hate it awfully, but never doubt that I’ll do it."

"You’d be dead yourself two seconds later," the man with the stick says. He seems completely unafraid, either for himself or for Ty. "Is that what you want?"

Actually, given the choice between dying and going back to the Crimson King empty-handed, death is what Lord Malshun would choose, yes. But it may not come to that. The quieting word worked on the boy, and it will work on at least three of these — the ordinary three. With them lying open-eyed and insensible on the road, Lord Malshun can deal with the fourth. It’s Sawyer, of course. That’s his name. As for the bees, surely he has enough protective words to get him up Station House Road to the mono. And if he’s stung a few times, what of that?

"Is it what you want?" Sawyer asks.

Lord Malshun smiles. "Pnung!" he cries, and behind Jack Sawyer, Dale, Beezer, and Doc fall still.

Lord Malshun’s smile widens into a grin. "Now what are you going to do, my meddling friend? What are you going to do with no friends to back you u — "

Armand "Beezer" St. Pierre steps forward. The first step is an effort, but after that it’s easy. His own cold little smile exposes the teeth inside his beard. "You’re responsible for the death of my daughter," he says. "Maybe you didn’t do it yourself, but you egged Burnside on to it. Didn’t you? I’m her father, ass**le. You think you can stop me with a single word?"

Doc lurches to his friend’s side.

"You f**ked up my town," Dale Gilbertson growls. He also moves forward.

Lord Malshun stares at them in disbelief. The Dark Speech hasn’t stopped them. Not any of them. They are blocking the road! They dare to block his proposed route of progress!