by Greg Curtis
MANX
Greg Curtis
MANX
Greg Curtis
Digital Edition
February 2020
Dedication:
As always this book is dedicated to my family, without whom I could not write a word.
Table of Contents
Chapter One 4
Chapter Two 8
Chapter Three 14
Chapter Four 24
Chapter Five 34
Chapter Six 41
Chapter Seven 47
Chapter Eight 55
Chapter Nine 60
Chapter Ten 68
Chapter Eleven 76
Chapter Twelve 82
Chapter Thirteen 87
Chapter Fourteen 91
Chapter Fifteen 94
Chapter Sixteen 101
Chapter Seventeen 105
Chapter Eighteen 108
Chapter Nineteen 111
Chapter Twenty 118
Chapter Twenty One 124
Chapter Twenty Two 131
Chapter Twenty Three 134
Chapter Twenty Four 142
Chapter Twenty Five 147
Chapter Twenty Six 152
Chapter Twenty Seven 156
Chapter Twenty Eight 161
Chapter Twenty Nine 163
Chapter Thirty 171
Chapter Thirty One 177
Chapter Thirty Two 183
Chapter Thirty Three 188
Chapter Thirty Four 194
Chapter Thirty Five 198
Chapter Thirty Six 208
Chapter Thirty Seven 211
Chapter Thirty Eight 217
Chapter Thirty Nine 221
Chapter Forty 228
Chapter Forty One 236
Chapter Forty Two 241
Chapter Forty Three 244
Chapter One
The city streets were dark and cold, and there was a faint smell of sewage in the air. It was rising up from the man holes in the street. Permeating the fog. Transforming the dank air into a blanket of disease. At least it felt that way. It was the sort of night Manx didn't want to be out in. But really he didn't want to be out at night at all. He was weak and vulnerable at the best of times. Night was worse. But he'd had no choice. The library budget meeting had run late – very late – and his boss had insisted he be there, even though he'd had nothing to say.
Why? He didn't care about budgets and funds. He restored the books when they got damaged. And he had no idea about the politics involved in running a city library. But Mr. Merryweather had insisted and he and the others had had to be there – or they'd be fired! The whole damned staff! He was an odious little man!
Still it was only a quarter of a league or so to his home. And his boots beat a steady tattoo as he thumped them into the solid concrete of the footpath. He would be home soon. Assuming he didn't get lost in the fog.
That would be ironic, he thought, since he could control fog. At least a little. But only to make it thicker or thinner. He couldn't shape it or blow it away as he'd like. When whoever or whatever it was that handed out magical gifts to people had given him his, he'd obviously been in a sour mood. Or else the damned god had a dark sense of humour. That wouldn't surprise him. There were so many of them and most of them seemed to enjoy playing jokes on people from time to time.
Up ahead through the fog he saw the massive fence pillars of the Oldstone Estate appear, and he smile with relief. He knew he was getting close. But he also saw the tiny furry shape on top of one of them and immediately knew it was going to become an even more unpleasant journey. He knew that ball of fluff.
“Nice night,” the cat greeted him from the top of one of the pillars when he drew near, “to watch the monkey's dance!”
“Vermin!” Manx retorted. He knew who the damned cat meant by monkeys. A lot of cats called people monkeys for some reason. They called them a lot worse too. And by dancing he meant stagger around blindly in the fog.
“Why don't you come up here and say that piss pot!” The cat replied haughtily. He knew he was safe. The pillars of the fence were nearly a dozen feet high, and Manx couldn't reach him. He couldn't have even if he was fit.
“And why don't you just go to hell!” Manx walked past the furry little nightmare without bothering to look up at him.
“It's not a long journey,” the cat replied tartly. “Every time I see you, monkey man, I'm nearly there!”
“Muck spout!”
“Knuckle dragging oaf!”
Manx walked on past the cat and ignored the rest of what the furry little beast had to yell at him. It wouldn't be very nice. It never had been. Not from the day he had first discovered that cats could talk. Waking up in a bed in the infirmary, with hordes of physicians and nurses hovering around him after he'd somehow survived being mauled by a lion, only to spot a cat sitting on the end of one of the empty beds, laughing at him.
From there of course, things had only grown worse. He'd argued with the cat as best a five year old could, the cat had called him names and the physicians had told him he was delirious. Actually they'd worried his blood loss had been so bad that it had damaged his brain. And the damned cat had laughed itself silly!
Manx loathed cats – some more than others. And he hated whoever had given him the gift of speaking with animals. Not because it was a bad thing – it should have been a wonder. But rather because he'd limited it to only being able to speak with cats. And all cats as he had discovered over the years, were verminous little muck spouts, who wouldn't know the truth if it hit them over the head. They were also nasty little sods to boot.
People thought they were cute. Some people even thought they were friendly. People were bloody stupid!
None of which explained how cats could talk or why he could understand them. But then there was no explanation as far as he knew. He had two theories, neither of which made much sense. The first was that it was because he had been mauled by a lion, and lions were cats of a sort. The second was that he should have died. He'd been right on the edge of the darkness beyond. But neither of those theories matched anything he understood of the real world.
This was Winstone, one of the larger cities of Redmond. It was civilised. They had science and technology. Steam wagons, skyships and electric lights. And there was no such thing as magic. No witches or wizards. That was just superstition and myth. And yet he could talk to cats. It turned out that there was magic in the world after all. At least a little. But it was all bad!
Manx continued on his march through the streets of Winstone, determined to get home as quickly as possible. Once there he could collapse into an easy chair, put his feet up in front of roaring fire, and drift off to sleep with maybe a glass of hot mulled wine. He'd slept in the easy chairs many times before and they were surprisingly comfortable. Much more comfortable than having to climb the stairs to his bed-chamber and then undress for bed. Warmer too.
Then he heard the sound of hard shoes smacking into the concrete, and he forgot his usual annoyances. Because whoever it was out there, somewhere behind him, was walking quickly.
It could be no one. But it could also be one of his enemies – if he truly had enemies of his own – he was never sure. Or it could be the enemies of his father. They didn't seem to understand that he had had nothing to do with his father in twenty or more years. Not since he'd literally thrown him to the lions. So sadly they kept coming after him, thinking that killing him would somehow upset his father.
Worst of all of course, it could be Walken. His father's most terrible enemy. The man would kill all of his father's family if he could just to hurt him. But somehow Manx doubted his father would even shed a tear if he succeeded.
Manx immediately set about thickening the fog. He hated being followed. And in a matter of mere secon
ds it was starting to turn into a blindingly thick cloud which people couldn't see through. His gift had its uses, he supposed. But of course it also had its downside. All magic had a downside. And this one's downside was a sod. He couldn't see through it either! Which meant that they were both blind.
Luckily he had an advantage over whoever was following him, he knew this area well. So he walked a little more carefully and a lot more quietly, found the fences to the side of the footpath and made his way by feel along the street. His pursuer wasn't quite so quick witted, and Manx heard his footfalls grow confused.
A few hundred more paces and he would be safe. Free of the worst of the fog and able to make some good distance on whoever was following him. That brought him some cheer.
But then the foot falls behind him gathered pace and he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. Which was why he started hurrying once again. And readying his third cursed gift, just in case.
Unfortunately the faster he walked, he discovered, the more noise he made. And that was what his follower was using as his compass. Worse than that, the fog was thinning as he reached the edge of the thickened mass he'd made. Soon it would thin for his pursuer as well. And he was in a part of the city that was comprised of wide open streets, and at the moment, no people. No witnesses and no policemen.
Meanwhile the only weapon he had on him was his cudgel, tucked up inside his frock coat. And while he had no doubt that he could deliver a mighty blow with it, he suspected that whoever was following him would be a far more efficient fighter, and better armed.
Manx sighed. There was no choice. And he gathered his will as he finally walked out of the thickest part of the fog, and prepared to use his last gift. Then he found a place by a brick and iron stone wall and waited.
He didn't have to wait long as the man emerged from the fog, maybe fifty steps away from him. A ruffian of some sort with a long blade in his hand. Not a sword, but a knife that was just as deadly. Someday, Manx thought, he was going to have to get himself a pistol. Or stop wandering the city streets at night.
Immediately the man saw him he raised his knife and started advancing on Manx with a cruel grin on his face. He'd found his prey. But then as Manx released his gift, the man slowed and the grin vanished. Instead it was replaced by a confused expression as the man suddenly realised things weren't as they seemed.
He raised his hands to his face, and shook his head as if trying to make sense of what was happening, and the knife in his hands was no longer pointed at Manx. Manx was glad of that. But not so glad that the man kept coming. Or that he was heavily dressed. There was hard leather underneath his long coat. Almost as though he'd come prepared for a fight. Obviously he had.
Ten paces from him the man stopped, freed his face from his hands, and stared wide eyed at Manx as if seeing him for the first time.
“By the gods!” he exclaimed, his mouth falling open in wonder. “You're beautiful!” And then he advanced on Manx, the knife still in his hand, but hanging loosely, aimed at the ground, forgotten in his passion.
Manx didn't waste time. As the ruffian in his armour closed the gap between them, he gripped his cudgel tightly, and then swung it the moment the man was in reach.
It was a good blow. A lusty strike with the solid wooden club that caught the man on the side of the head, and dropped him to the ground with little more than a surprised gasp. And after that he just lay there on the concrete, out to the world.
Manx let out a heavy breath. The blood started pumping furiously through his body once again. And a sense of relief washed over him. Once more he had cheated death. But why did he have to do it like that?! Why did the gods have to be so cruel?!
They gave him the gift of speaking with animals, but then limited it to only those animals he didn't like and couldn't trust! They let him hide from his enemies, but then made it so that he was as blind as them when he did so! And they gave him the power to compel love from others, but only from men! Damn! The bastards must be laughing in their palaces in the clouds! Laughing at him!
Still there was nothing to do but finish his journey, he supposed. To get home and then shut the door behind him. So he turned and left the fallen man behind him on the concrete. No doubt in the morning he'd wake up with a broken head and a worse headache, and then have to report his failure to whoever had sent him. That was assuming the police didn't find him first, realise from his knife what he was, and take him away to gaol.
“So, another monkey falls!” The cat from the Oldstone home emerged from the fog unexpectedly. “If only the rest of you were so considerate!” He walked along the cobbles, his tail held high, crossing the street.
“If only you were considerate enough to do the same you mange ridden rat!” Manx retorted.
“Can't. It's too good a night for that. There's music in the air! Tonight's a night for singing!”
“Oh crap!” Manx groaned as he continued on his way back home while the cat vanished from sight. It was a full moon. There would be cats out singing, mating and fighting all night! Raiding the rubbish bins and waking everyone up!
That was all he bloody needed!
Chapter Two
It was wrong. Everything was wrong. But she didn't understand. All that she did understand was that she was trapped. Bound in a place that didn't have rules. No time and no space. And that she had been here for a very long time. Or not very long at all. Confused and dreaming.
Except that it wasn't a dream. It was hell! She was in hell! An everlasting dream of chaos and suffering.
But now something was different. She knew she was in hell. She knew she was suffering. And most of all she knew that this wasn't her home. She didn't belong here, wherever here was. Mostly she knew that because she could sense her home so far away. She could sense the comfort of space and the passage of time in it. And it destroyed the timelessness of wherever she was.
She had to go to it!
In that moment she began to struggle against whatever spell held her. To look around, not with her eyes because there was no light in this place nor anything for it to fall upon, but instead with her gift. She was a walker between worlds. And now that she had awoken, her gift was telling her where she wasn't. Where she needed to be.
It took time, but time was something that had no meaning in this place. Seconds could have been years. Millennia could have been heartbeats. Either way she knew her way home and that was all that mattered. And then she walked towards it.
A heartbeat later she knew the sensation of cold tiles under her knees. Of water soaking her through. And of a man yelling something. But she also knew the passage of time passing and the wonder of space as her flesh extended through it. She could see again – with her eyes. Feel the beat of her heart and the pulse of her blood as it rushed around her body. She knew the sensation of having muscles and warmth in her flesh. Of shivering with the cold as well.
Then she heard a noise and discovered a completely different sensation – fear.
She looked up, saw the shining blade streaking towards her, and desperately rolled to her side, something that wasn't easy when she was on her hands and knees. But she was lucky. She was fast enough. And the blade came smashing down on the cold marble tiles which she had just been lying on.
The man in his silver armour screamed with rage as the sword bit into the stone while the floor screamed as it was torn asunder by the weapon. But she knew it wasn't over. Even before she saw the silver man in his armour pull the blade free from the chasm it had cut in the floor, she knew he was going to strike again.
Acting on instinct she called a snake to her aid. Except that it wasn't the sort of snake you would find in this world. This one was much larger and had half a dozen venom filled heads, all of which struck at the silver clad man.
They caught him too. And for a moment she almost dared to think she was safe. But only for an instant. The heads caught him, their fangs bit deep into his flesh, but then the entire beast vanished, exploding into a cloud of soot as his blad
e struck deep in its flesh.