Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  He lowered his head back behind the BMW and considered once again its strange position: sticking out of a driveway, straddling the pavement. Paris assumed the driver had started reversing out, seen what was in the street, then fled. At least, he certainly hoped so. He turned to scowl at Tergil.

  ‘You said it’d be a week before they assembled their army!’

  ‘I did,’ replied the elf. ‘I cannot understand how it has been managed so quickly.’

  ‘Not much of an army, Boss,’ said Bonetti. ‘I only count fifty, maybe sixty, tops.’

  ‘Sixty out here,’ said Paris. ‘God knows how many in the houses and the back gardens where we can’t spot them.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Tergil. ‘They are professional soldiers, experts at remaining hidden. If they do not wish to be seen, you will not see them.’

  ‘Great,’ said Paris. ‘So why are these ones so happy to be noticed?’

  He flinched as another car alarm joined the cacophony, accompanied by more cheering and shouting.

  ‘You hear that?’ continued the inspector. ‘An alarm went off when the centaur got killed and it frightened them. Now they’ve realised it’s just a noise, they’re setting the damn things off for fun. Where the hell’s our army?’

  The sound of running feet came from behind him, right on cue. Paris looked round to see three British soldiers, two men and a woman, bent down low as they headed towards him. Their semi-automatic rifles appeared sufficiently lethal for any situation, even if their green and brown camouflage uniforms seemed better suited to Belize than the urban jungle. What the hell, he thought, let’s have soldiers who are as much out of place as the demons. Almost.

  He raised his eyes above the running figures. Another fifty metres beyond lay the main road, where the rest of his men were trying to control the snarled-up traffic and keep the public back. Why, oh why did some people insist on filming every bloody thing on their mobile phones? He gazed at the amateur cameramen more in pity than annoyance, however. He’d long since abandoned the idea of keeping things covered up.

  The three soldiers flattened themselves against the car. Paris observed with quiet satisfaction that green and brown didn’t blend in with metallic blue either.

  ‘Captain Montrose,’ said the woman. ‘Sorry we’re late. Traffic’s murder.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Paris. ‘We’re only a mile away and it took us ages to get here.’

  ‘Marvellous. Who are you exactly?’

  ‘Inspector Paris. This is Sergeant Bonetti and, er, Doctor Tergil.’

  The soldier nodded. ‘Nice hat. So what’s the situation?’

  Paris frowned, jerking a thumb towards the demons. ‘That.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Montrose. ‘I can tell you’ve got a disturbance, but what’s actually happening? We’ve been sent here to help with counterterrorism and civil unrest. As far as I can see, your terrorists are guys with swords in wacky costumes.’

  Good old Chief Constable Pemberton, thought Paris. Bring the army in to cover your back, then don’t tell them why they’re here. Why look an idiot when there’s a handy inspector who can do that instead? He took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s not people in costumes,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s real demons.’

  The captain was unmoved. ‘Demons?’

  Paris began to feel uncomfortable. ‘Yeah. Well, up there on the right, there’s a house, a yellow one. In the back garden there’s a portal to the magic world. They’ve come through it to attack ours.’

  Even after everything he’d gone through in the past few days, it still sounded stupid. He wasn’t surprised when Montrose glared at him like he was simple.

  ‘Magic?’ said the soldier. ‘Do you believe in magic?’

  Paris glanced at Tergil. ‘I’ve been trying not to, but it’s getting more difficult.’

  Montrose banged her fist against the car’s tyre. ‘For God’s sake, man! Is this some sort of joke? You expect me to think we’re having a mystical invasion?’

  ‘Yes,’ said a quiet voice beside her. ‘You should.’

  Paris and the soldier looked round. A fairy in a blue uniform hovered in the air by their heads, wings fluttering gently.

  ‘It’s you,’ said Paris. ‘The one who woke me up last night. Corrulus, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘In hiding. We couldn’t go back through the portal. The Vanethria are surrounding it, lots of them. We had to keep out of their way. Once it was safe, the queen sent me to warn you. Except you weren’t at the station. And, well, you obviously know now.’

  Paris grunted. As a messenger service, fairies were less useful than a paper aeroplane.

  ‘Is everyone alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. For now.

  ‘Good. You’d better get back to them, before you end up as a snack. Tell the king and queen we’re doing our best.’

  The fairy saluted. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Corrulus spun round in the air and shot off towards a hedge at the end of the road. Paris watched him until he was out of sight. Then he turned back towards Montrose and her men. They were staring open-mouthed at the greenery. Paris suddenly felt much more comfortable. He tried hard not to smirk.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you believe in magic?’

  Captain Montrose looked at him like he was the most complicated person in the world. The soldier’s jaw snapped shut as she blinked furiously.

  ‘Marvellous,’ she announced. ‘Demons, you say?’

  ‘Right. Armed and very dangerous.’

  ‘Although only with basic weapons,’ said Tergil. ‘And they are not bulletproof.’

  Montrose nodded, her composure evidently recovered in record time. British Army training, thought Paris. You can’t beat it.

  ‘What’s happened to the street’s residents?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied Paris. ‘There’s no sign of any blood or fighting and they don’t seem to be interested in the people on the main road behind us.’

  ‘So what are they doing here?’

  The sound of breaking glass preceded the wail of yet another alarm. Paris winced.

  ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘But whatever it is, we need to get rid of them before they accidentally blow up a gas cooker or set fire to a car.’

  ‘I’ll call the rest of my men,’ said Montrose.

  Turning towards the end of the road, she waved. Another soldier signalled a thumbs-up reply then shouted something round the corner. A squad of armed troops began to enter the street, running up towards their captain. Paris turned away to peer over the car bonnet again. He gasped in horror. The demons had abandoned whatever they’d been doing and were forming up into a battle group. One that was heading towards him.

  ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘That’s why they’re not interested in the public. They want to fight the soldiers!’

  36

  Captain Montrose’s eighteen men lined up across the street, semi-automatic rifles raised and ready to shoot. It made Paris think of a firing squad. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  The potential targets stood perhaps a dozen metres away, shaking their fists and shouting like angry pickets. They showed no desire to come any closer, for which Paris felt very grateful. Up close, some were bigger than he’d appreciated, ranging from taller than a man to almost the height of Grarf. With proportionally bigger muscles. Although armed with only medieval weapons, brute strength and loincloths, they also had numbers on their side. If they attacked, he reckoned, most would be slaughtered in an instant. Some, however, would get through to where he was standing. That was an even less pleasant thought.

  He stared out at the sea of gnashing teeth and slavering jaws, glad to have the abandoned BMW as another line of defence against them. While the language being hurled at him remained unfathomable, the sentiment seemed pretty clear.

  ‘Do I want to know what they’re yelling?’ he asked.

  ‘Demonic is no
t my strongest tongue,’ replied Tergil. ‘I cannot understand everything being said. However, I can pick up enough to tell you – no, you do not want to know.’

  ‘Isn’t really much of an army,’ said Montrose. ‘More of a rabble.’

  ‘Do not be deceived,’ said Tergil. ‘They will be upon you in an instant if you lower your guard. You should kill them all now, while you have the chance.’

  Paris grimaced. Magic world logic was as black and white as a penguin riding a zebra, but also just a bit brutal.

  The army captain gave Tergil a curious look.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I won’t order my men to shoot people – or demons – who are simply standing there.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the elf, sounding less than convinced. ‘But remember: apart from the ones directly ahead, we must also deal with those who have spread out to the houses either side and behind us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Paris. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Montrose.

  ‘Your guys could’ve been attacked when they were still coming up the road, before you got into position. They weren’t. I think if the Vanethria want to see our weapons and how we fight, then they need to have a battle.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Montrose. ‘But nobody’s attacking us yet. Even big ugly demons don’t want to be machine-gunned to death. And I can’t stand here waiting for them. All these twisted, contorted, screaming faces. It’s like watching the audience on Britain’s Got Talent.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘It’s a stand-off. So what happens now?’

  As if in reply, a strident voice boomed out from the back of the supernatural horde. Paris peered over the rows of misshapen heads to see a figure standing on the bonnet of a car. Even for a demon, this one was unique. His head resembled a bat, which in their terms would be only slightly weird. However, his skin, instead of being a single colour, came striped in black and yellow. He looked, thought Paris, like a vampire bumblebee. Around his shoulders he wore a cape, seemingly made from stitched-together pieces of animal hide. And in his hand he carried not a weapon but a long staff topped with a silver star.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ asked the inspector.

  Tergil nodded grimly.

  ‘Shadrak,’ he said.

  The battle mage held his staff above his head as he bawled out what were obviously commands.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Paris.

  ‘He is telling his men to hold their positions, to trust in the strength of their great god Xaxx, and to put their grandmother into the wardrobe.’

  Paris frowned at him.

  ‘I told you,’ said Tergil. ‘Demonic is not my strongest language.’

  Paris rolled his eyes, then looked back at the hideous crowd in front of him. The fist-waving and jeering continued unabated. They did indeed appear to be a rabble. He pondered. Could the rowdiness be an act? Were they actually in full control of themselves and ready to strike? He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

  Tergil prodded him.

  ‘In front of some of the houses,’ said the elf. ‘What are those blue receptacles on the pavement?’

  ‘The wheely bins?’ replied Paris. ‘It must be paper recycling day. Whoever put them out last night is going to be disappointed, though. Somehow I don’t think the recycling men are coming this morning. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

  ‘Shadrak is studying them,’ said Tergil.

  ‘Well, good for him! He might be a psychopath, but at least he’s environmentally friendly.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I believe he is gauging their use as potential weapons.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Paris. ‘With all these big, strong, heavily armed troops at his disposal, he’s going to use his mystic powers to set up Attack of the Killer Bins?’

  ‘No,’ replied Tergil. ‘He is probably going to use his mystic powers to throw them at us. Your soldiers will be forced to take evasive action. As soon as they are distracted, the Vanethria will have them.’

  Paris glanced over at Shadrak. The mage’s gaze moved from blue bin to green-and-brown-clad British soldiers, as if calculating distance. Tergil obviously wasn’t just talking rubbish. Paris’s brain raced. He needed inspiration. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his cigarettes.

  Tergil glared at him. ‘Do you think this is an appropriate time?’

  ‘Certainly hope so,’ replied Paris.

  He opened the packet and extracted the small pink tube he’d put in there for safekeeping.

  ‘Fairy flying spell,’ he said.

  Tergil’s eyes widened. ‘It might work.’

  ‘Better had do,’ said Paris.

  He didn’t want a bloodbath. Especially if it might involve his blood.

  Paris turned back to the car as he pulled off the tube’s cap. The innocuous grey powder within hardly seemed to be a lifesaver. Fifty metres or so away he saw Shadrak extend a hand and raise it upwards. Four blue wheely bins lifted off the pavement. Paris gulped. Genuine magic, being performed by a genuine magical killer. He sprinkled the powder over the vehicle as fast as he could, keeping one eye on Shadrak as he poured.

  ‘Bonetti!’ he shouted. ‘Get over here! Pick up this car!’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  Paris watched a quartet of bins float higher as his sergeant strained at the BMW. They were the height of the lamp posts now, hanging in the air like demented balloons. Shadrak dropped his hand and they became four missiles, arcing over the assembled demons. British soldiers hit the deck as the dustbins of doom shot past them. The Vanethria leapt forward. They crashed into the soldiers with a roar, one instantly eclipsed by the almighty bellow at Paris’s side. Demons and humans stopped in mid-fight. Swords were paused in the air, halfway through a swipe. Trigger fingers froze in the middle of firing. Everyone was far too busy staring in amazement at the impossible sight of Sergeant Bonetti holding aloft almost a ton of motor.

  Paris stood by his side, eyes flicking around the various protagonists. He looked at Shadrak, confusion etched across his bat features. Fantastic, thought Paris. You wanted to see how we fight. You didn’t know we could do this. Hell, we didn’t know we could do this. He leant closer to Bonetti.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered. ‘Now call out some magic words.’

  ‘I haven’t got any magic words, Boss.’

  ‘Invent some!’

  Bonetti looked as though his brain was feeling the strain more than his arms. Then his face lit up.

  ‘Bayern Munich!’ he shouted. ‘Eintracht Frankfurt! Dynamo Dresden!’

  Paris groaned inwardly. Not quite “Open Sesame”, but it would have to do.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Now throw it. Throw it at their leader.’

  Bonetti gritted his teeth, flexed his muscles and roared, ‘Borussia Monchengladbach!’

  The car sailed over the demons. Those at the back of the crowd scattered as it crashed to the ground, wreckage flying off in all directions.

  Paris fixed his eyes on Shadrak. The battle mage glared back from his vantage point, untouched and unmoved by the debris. He lowered his staff and barked a further instruction. The demons began to pull back in silence, evidently stunned by this turn of events.

  The inspector let slip a sigh of relief, then caught it in mid-air as Montrose lunged after the retreating mob. He jumped forward, grabbing the captain’s arm.

  ‘They’ve taken some of our guns!’ said Montrose.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Paris. ‘We’ve got away with this one. Don’t push it.’

  The Vanethria pulled back towards the house with the portal, keeping watch on the humans all the way. Paris maintained a similar watch on them. Bonetti stomped around behind him, yelling like Tarzan with toothache. Please don’t get carried away with the role, thought Paris. And for God’s sake don’t try to pick up another car.

  A movement caught his eye. More demons ran from the side road up ahead on the left, joining in wi
th the mass exodus. Paris felt a glow of satisfaction. They had indeed spread out all around him and they’d all been driven back.

  He heard a familiar ring, audible above the car alarms now the shouting had subsided. He pulled out his mobile.

  ‘Maria?’ he said. ‘We stopped them.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Superintendent Thorpe. ‘They attacked the station too. We’ve got casualties. And they’ve taken Rocky.’

  37

  Paris approached the station with Thorpe’s phone call ringing in his ears and a cocktail of emotions swirling round his brain. “We’ve got three men killed,” the superintendent had said, which made him both upset and furious. “At least fifteen injured. But we managed to drive them off.” That brought some measure of relief. “The dwarves are okay. So is Cassandra.” With this came elation, plus a little surprise that he had actually been worrying about her. It mixed with guilt for doing so when his colleagues were dead. And on top of everything – confusion. When the Vanethria retreated, they’d taken Rocky with them. How? She was massive, too big for even a demon to carry. Paris could only assume it must be bloody magic again.

  The police car screeched to a halt in front of the building. Tergil leapt out and ran for the door, with Paris hot on his heels. They jostled their way in through the doctors and nurses coming to help and the other medics bringing out the wounded. Inside were still more, tending to injuries or comforting those in pain. Paris decided having the station next to a hospital was useful sometimes.