Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  He turned to face Tergil and Eric.

  ‘In general,’ he said, ‘what do the other mystical races think of demons?’

  The elf seemed slightly reluctant to reply. The dwarf, however, had no such objection.

  ‘We don’t like most of them,’ said Eric. ‘Even before they started trying to clobber everybody. See, they’re big, nasty, bad-tempered. And they smell bad.’

  ‘Only “most”, though,’ said Paris. ‘So some are alright?’

  ‘A few. Grarf, he’s okay. He’s done training. But he still stinks.’

  Paris kept looking at Eric, although he watched Tergil out of the corner of his eye. He’d discuss “training” later. At the moment he had bigger fish to fry.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘before the war started, did anyone have much to do with the demons? Even speak to them?’

  ‘Not normally,’ replied Eric. ‘No reason to.’

  Paris sat back in his chair.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bonetti’s right.’

  ‘What?’ asked Malbus. ‘You mean seals really are birds?’

  ‘No. What we thought we knew, we don’t. And what we thought the Vanethria knew, they don’t know.’

  Everyone around the table stared back at him. Paris didn’t mind; the gears in his head were turning at full speed now.

  ‘You lot,’ he said. ‘Elves, dwarves, fairies. You know about the human world because you go backwards and forwards to your own one, then you talk to each other. You know how powerful our technology is because you’ve seen it. But nobody’s telling the demons. And none of them ever got back to tell the others. So when they come here, it’s all new. Don’t you get it? They attacked the centaurs to see how we’d react. They went into the school to study how we fight. I wasn’t supposed to rescue the kids with magic creatures, I was supposed to bring human soldiers. They weren’t interested in me particularly; they were taking on the only human there.’

  Paris paused. He took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s not just Bonetti who’s right. I’ve been right all along. It is an invasion.’

  32

  Evening arrived in south Manchester, accompanied by rain. Paris watched approvingly as it spattered against his office window. Rain meant fewer drunks on the streets and persuaded burglars to stay at home. It had also driven away the last remaining reporters. Shame, he thought. What a story you could’ve got.

  It was one he hardly believed himself. Were they really about to be invaded by demons? Tergil and Malbus hadn’t shot his suggestion to pieces this time; both looked nervous and said they needed to consider it. Paris hadn’t argued – he did as well. Two hours later, he’d considered it every possible way. It was still the best answer he could come up with. Damn.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the silence in the station. Always quieter at this time of day, with the reduced numbers of the night shift. Even Cassandra had gone home, citing the desire for a change of clothes. A perfectly understandable course of action, although some folks managed it without leaving the building. The dwarves had brought clean outfits with them, buried in their carrier bags amongst the battleaxes and chocolate bars. Of course, the dirty washing had to go somewhere. Constable Fairclough wasn’t very happy to be sent off to the launderette. Count yourself lucky, thought Paris. Be grateful Grarf doesn’t own a spare loincloth.

  He opened his eyes again, looked down at himself and sniffed. He was sitting at his desk in the same things he’d been wearing for what seemed like forever. A change of clothes would do him good too, except he’d felt obliged to stay here with the magical creatures overnight. On the plus side, he did have a takeaway and a replacement emergency bottle of whisky. Maybe he did whiff a little, but all was relatively right with the world.

  Impending demonic onslaught notwithstanding.

  A knocking interrupted his deliberations. The office door opened. Tergil’s face appeared around it.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  The inspector shook his head as he beckoned the elf into the room. Tergil, he knew, had also come prepared. Paris’s old green jumper was still being worn, but underneath lay a fresh tunic and brown trousers. And beneath them, new underwear. He’d brought a rucksack with him, the contents of which had been methodically arranged in the staffroom earlier. Strange to think that this being of magic and mystery, from the realm of spells and sorcery, bought his pants in Marks & Spencer.

  Paris pointed towards the whisky. It stood in full view of anyone who came in, all pretence at concealment now abandoned. Like smoking in the staffroom, he decided, boozing in the station should be governed by rules which only applied in normal circumstances.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked. ‘Assuming you do drink.’

  ‘I do,’ said Tergil. ‘Occasionally. Not at the moment, thank you.’

  ‘Please yourself. Hope you don’t mind if I have one.’

  ‘Of course not. I know it helps with your contemplation.’

  Paris considered the statement carefully. Being in such close proximity over the last few days had allowed the elf to pick up on things he didn’t particularly want to show. Besides, in this instance, it hadn’t helped anyway. He’d come up with the invasion idea when sober and a couple of whiskies provided no more insight at all. Maybe he was losing his touch. Or maybe he hadn’t drunk enough yet. He poured himself another glass.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You been contemplating too?’

  ‘I have,’ replied the elf. ‘I did not know what Cassandra told us: no demon has returned to my world in such a long time.’

  ‘Yeah. And back in my house, when you said magic creatures knew our world, she didn’t argue because she reckoned you must be right. Wasn’t until she spoke to Grarf that she worked out you weren’t.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Tergil. ‘Taking everything into account, your reasoning is well thought out and your conclusion is sensible. As you stated earlier, you appear to have been correct all along.’

  Paris said nothing. Gratified to see his logic recognised and evidently appreciated, he still wanted to be wrong. Being attacked by an army of mystical killers was hardly something to gloat about. However, the pieces of the jigsaw were coming together. It was too late to wish he’d done a sudoku instead.

  ‘Well,’ said Paris. ‘Looks like somebody’s changed the rules of engagement. A crucified fairy doesn’t mean “Don’t worry, we only want to capture runaways.” Not any more.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ replied Tergil.

  ‘Amazing. You can’t trust a demon. Who’d have thought it?’

  Paris tapped his fingers against the side of his glass.

  ‘The ones in the school,’ he said. ‘You never did tell me why they came in all shapes and colours.’

  Tergil smiled a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should.’

  He sat down on the other side of the desk, as Paris studied him with a seasoned policeman’s eye. The elf looked as if he had something important to say but couldn’t work out how to do it. Or, Paris mused, he looks the same as he always has done, but the whisky was starting to take effect.

  ‘Demons,’ said Tergil, ‘do indeed come in all manner of forms, with every possible type of horn, spike or other appendage. No two are identical. Even when newly born they are not necessarily similar to their parents or previous generations. They may be like nothing ever seen before.’

  Paris pondered. Demons produce children, although their obnoxious offspring bear no resemblance to them. There must be some interesting conversations in their maternity wards.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t say it’s magic.’

  ‘It is not,’ replied Tergil. ‘I believe it is genetic. Something in their DNA which makes them prone to random mutations. Admittedly, I have not dissected one to test this theory. Yet.’

  The inspector gave him a curious look across the table. Biology wasn’t his strong suit, so he didn’t want to argue. Especially not wi
th someone who spoke umpteen languages and was very knowledgeable. Living in a cave with a rock troll obviously meant the elf got through an awful lot of reading. Paris hadn’t decided if Tergil could be trusted, but he would make a damn good quiz team member.

  ‘This is why they eat other creatures,’ said Paris. ‘These random genes must make it pretty easy to imagine you can grow wings or whatever.’

  ‘Correct. I think it is also what causes their bad temper and aggression.’

  Paris sipped his whisky. ‘Makes them good at fighting, though. Also makes them unpopular with the other races, I guess. Although I thought demons and Vanethria are the same thing. That’s not right, is it?’

  ‘No. Some demons are not involved, though they are very much the minority these days. The majority have been swept up in the fervour incited by Zalgot, leader of the Vanethria. An ambitious chieftain who knew he could steer other demons’ aggression into an army – if they were given a cause to fight for. He built a group of followers on the supposed mistreatment of his kind by the rest of the magic world, then gradually expanded their numbers. You see, the rise to power of an individual on the back of bigotry and hatred is not limited to humans.’

  Paris nodded. In some ways the mystical realm was different from everything he knew, but in some ways it was remarkably similar. Stupid bloody magic creatures.

  ‘What about the other races who get involved?’ he asked. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘By inviting anyone who feels slighted, or thinks that they deserve a better deal – and is seeking an easy way to achieve it.’

  ‘Like dwarves? Malbus said some of them had signed up.’

  ‘Yes. At first I feared the dwarves here would unwittingly reveal information to their brethren. However, I subsequently realised this will not happen, as they hail from two groups who seldom mix. The little people here are mountain dwarves. Those who joined the enemy are valley dwarves.’

  Paris frowned. ‘Valley dwarves? I thought they all lived in the hills.’

  ‘Most, but not all. The ones in the mountains dig mines and are rich. Those in the valleys must farm and are poor. Dwarves do not make good farmers.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Have you ever seen one trying to milk a cow?’

  Paris had not. Although the image would now be stuck in his brain forever.

  ‘You see,’ said Tergil, ‘the valley dwarves feel neglected by the rest of their kind. They joined up with Zalgot in the hope of a better life. You must understand that it is not simply a military force we are dealing with; it is a political organisation. “Vanethria” is a demonic word that means “the oppressed”.’

  Paris chewed over what he’d heard. It was hard to imagine a two-metre-tall armoured killing machine being oppressed. Then again, it wasn’t hard to imagine these armoured killers being shunned and ignored by everybody else. He felt almost sorry for them. Almost.

  ‘I guess it’s always the same,’ he said. ‘This world too. Used to be whenever anything went wrong, people blamed it on evil spirits. Or demons. Crop failure, flood, pet goldfish died – you name it.’

  Tergil nodded sagely. ‘Their treatment here has always been worse than in my world. Although all magical races have suffered at human hands to some extent through the years, none have endured as much as the demons. They are not able to call upon the beauty of the fairies or the charm of the dwarves. All they can offer is being fierce and horrifying. This tends to make them somewhat less than popular with your people.’

  He paused, continuing to look as though there was something important he had to say.

  ‘I think that is why centuries-old rules of engagement were altered. According to Cassandra, no demons have managed to return safely for two hundred years. The location of the portal has doubtless faded from their collective memory over time. And finding it again is not something they would want to do, after their previous experiences with humanity.’

  ‘But they’ve come here now,’ said Paris. ‘Why?’

  ‘In your realm,’ replied Tergil, ‘the portal is in a garden in Manchester. In mine it lies in the mountains of Prk’ysh, the rock troll kingdom. For centuries magical creatures passed through this gateway before spreading out across many of your lands. All were granted free passage by the trolls, save for demons, their ancient enemies. Then the Vanethria invaded Prk’ysh. They recently captured the region containing the portal, although at first without even knowing it was there.’

  ‘Which explains how the rest of you could still use it. Carefully. Then the demons found it themselves?’

  ‘I believe,’ said Tergil, ‘it may have been discovered by accident. They probably did not appreciate what they had found, perhaps viewing it as a hidden entrance to another country in the magic world.’

  He shuffled round on his seat.

  ‘I assume some fairies were observed and regarded as escapees. The crucifixion sign was set up as a matter of course, with no intention to attack. At some point a closer examination of the portal took place. The soldiers realised where it led.’

  He finished speaking, leaving Paris to process the information.

  The inspector groaned as he reached the conclusion.

  ‘They worked out it’s the human world,’ he said. ‘The place where their kind get more badly treated than anywhere else.’

  Paris racked his brain. For hundreds, maybe thousands of years, people had encountered demons. Probably slaughtered every one. Now the demons had a chance to get their own back.

  ‘So what do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘What we must,’ replied Tergil. ‘Prepare for the offensive. Position your soldiers around the portal. Wait for the Vanethria army to appear. Then kill them.’

  The brutal simplicity of the statement took Paris by surprise. Tergil spoke in a measured, matter-of-fact way, which implied there was no trouble at all; as if “what we must do” meant “go and buy a pint of milk”. Unfortunately his shopping list also included several dozen crates of bullets.

  ‘Just like that?’ asked the cop. ‘Kill them all?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘A few should be allowed to escape. To go back to my world and spread the news. You see, we assumed the demons would not invade because your weapons would deter them. Since they are unaware of your military power, they must find out. The hard way. Once this lesson has been learnt, they will not come again.’

  Paris stared at him across the desk. Tergil’s logic was as well thought out as his own, although slightly more final. Plus the idea of turning Manchester into a battlefield didn’t really appeal. But what were the options?

  ‘How long have we got?’ he asked.

  ‘Long enough to ready your forces,’ said Tergil. ‘Most of the Vanethria legions in Prk’ysh pressed deeper into rock troll territory, leaving behind only sufficient numbers to control the captured region. Another force will need to be assembled. It takes time to prepare and transport an army through the magic lands, as we do not possess your aircraft or railways. Everything has to move on foot. I estimate another week, possibly longer. However, do not doubt it: they will come.’

  He nodded towards the desk.

  ‘I think I will have that drink now.’

  33

  Sleeping on his office couch had become pretty much the norm for Paris, although it hadn’t grown to be any more enjoyable. Even less fun if he got disturbed in the middle of the night. A strange sensation woke him this time, like somebody jabbing the back of his hand with a cocktail stick. He roused grudgingly, bleary eyes trying to fathom what was happening. The desk lamp had been switched on and his clouded mind could make out something moving, right in front of his face. He tried to focus – and his eyelids snapped wide open as he realised what it must be.

  It was a fairy. The same size as the one who’d started all this madness, with the same type of movie-star good looks. This individual, however, would be a male movie star, his chiselled jaw and flowing locks fit
to grace any action film. Muscles rippled under his dark blue uniform as he waved a spear the same height as himself. He looked every bit as hunky as you could possibly be when you were fifteen centimetres tall with silver butterfly wings sticking out of your shoulders.

  The fairy gazed back at him and grunted. ‘He’s awake now, sire.’

  Paris stared at the tiny figure, trying to get his brain working. He’d been sleeping off several glasses of whisky and it was dark outside. Still night-time. Maybe I’m dreaming, he thought. Maybe it’s not real. Please. Just for once.

  The fairy’s wings fluttered as the miniature soldier flew off from the edge of the couch. Paris watched in amazement, clambering slowly up from his prone position as he did so. He was disappointed to see that a sparkling trail of dust wasn’t actually left behind, but fascinated nonetheless. His fascination level cranked up several notches when the fairy landed on the desk, next to three others of his kind.

  The first wore the same blue uniform, carried a similar spear and looked as if he belonged to the same Hollywood modelling agency. The remaining two were even more impressive: a breathtakingly attractive woman and a leading man with obvious regal bearing, both dressed in golden robes. The man also wore a shining bejewelled crown. Well, not quite bejewelled, Paris decided; more like studded with flakes cut off proper-sized jewels. He nodded his head in a half-hearted, half-awake bow.

  ‘You must be the king and queen of the fairies,’ he said.

  ‘Correct,’ said the little man. ‘I am Oberon.’

  ‘And I,’ said the queen, ‘am Gladys.’

  Paris did a double-take. ‘Gladys?’

  ‘Short for Gladioli. No need to stand on ceremony, is there?’

  ‘Actually,’ hissed the king, ‘there kind of is.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Obi. We don’t have to be formal.’

  ‘Yes, we do. I’ve got the crown.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it go to your head.’ She turned towards Paris and rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘They say he married beneath him, but look: he’s only two millimetres taller.’