‘I like open spaces as well,’ he said. ‘But only when I can see where I’m going. I don’t care what world you’re in, the countryside at night isn’t somewhere to wander about. It’s something to look at, from inside a pub.’
‘There are no taverns in this dale,’ said Tergil. ‘Unless you count the weapons we must face.’
Paris gave him a very puzzled frown. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The demons’ arms.’ Tergil grinned. ‘Elf humour,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Paris. ‘Don’t give up the day job.’
Tergil turned, still grinning, to peek out through the edge of the trees again. Paris glared at the back of his head. Had the elf realised how nervous he was and tried to relieve the tension? Another reason for not using his claustrophobia against him. Time for another mental note. When this is all over, buy him a drink instead. In a country pub with a beer garden.
He sniffed the air, catching a whiff of the same pungent herb they’d found earlier. Rubbing it on themselves while they walked should help disguise their scent, he’d been told. This theory would soon be put to the test.
‘Mr Parrots,’ said Eric. ‘The guards are nearly at the furthest away point now. We better get going.’
Paris turned to peer in the same direction as Tergil, down the gentle slope that led to the valley floor. The Vanethria camp spread out before them, the torches no more than twenty metres away across the grass. Their red glow lit up the nearest tents like a campsite at the entrance to hell. Paris felt anxiety rising again. It would take a lot more than awful jokes to get through this.
‘You sure we’re out of their sight?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Yes,’ replied Eric. ‘I been watching them.’
Paris had no idea at all how the dwarf could see the demon patrols, but the little man’s uncanny vision made any argument redundant. He swallowed hard.
‘Right,’ he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘Let’s go.’
The trio crept out through the branches and set off down the slope, keeping low and moving quickly. They slipped between a pair of blazing beacons, dodged around one tent and crouched in the shadow of a second. Paris amazed himself by not falling over. Lacking Eric’s amazing eyesight, he struggled to see a damn thing now, although his other senses were working overtime. His hands rubbed against the coarse animal skin of the strange yurt-like structure. The general quiet of the camp was broken by the occasional sound of snorts, snores and grunts coming from within it. The rotten-egg stench of demon breath hung in the air, mixed with the smells of sweat, fire, cooking and various other things he didn’t want to try and guess.
‘Everyone okay?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ hissed Tergil. ‘Do you remember the route through the camp?’
Of course I do, thought Paris. They’d stared down through the binoculars, mapping the directions on the cave floor. Then they’d gone over the path more times than he knew, reciting it with their eyes shut. This was why they’d trooped round to the far side of the place, after all. Bonetti was being held approximately two-thirds of the way in from the portal side and only one-third from this one. So there were half as many sleeping demons to sneak past. That sort of arithmetic beat geometry any day.
There were still a lot of Vanethria soldiers to get past, though, even coming this way. A large enough number to ensure that his memory stayed focused.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘We’ve gone over it enough.’
‘It was important to do so,’ said Tergil. ‘We all need to know where we must be, and when. This will be the most well co-ordinated raid in the history of my world.’
‘Why? Because me and Cassandra have synchronised watches?’
‘No. Because you and Cassandra have watches.’
Paris thought for a moment. The witch and her watch were on the opposite side of the dale, helping Grarf carry out the other part of the plan. In spite of being worried for himself, he worried about Cassandra too. The kiss for luck she’d given him when they’d departed had left him wrapped in a soft, warm glow. It was probably embarrassment.
‘How long have we got?’ asked Eric.
Paris looked at the pale green phosphorescence of his timepiece’s hands.
‘Five minutes,’ he replied. ‘We’d better move.’
They set off through the untidy shambles of a campsite, Tergil leading the way. Right at the next yurt, left at the supply wagon, moving deeper into enemy territory. A few torches here and there meant that it wasn’t completely dark. The chorus of grunts and snores around them remained at a constant level, though the smell of demonic body odour became almost unbearable. It was, thought Paris, like being held prisoner in a marathon runner’s sock.
Tergil stopped abruptly. Paris almost crashed into him. He was about to ask what the hell was going on, when he felt the blade of Eric’s battleaxe against the side of his face. A useful way of getting your attention, he decided – and of making sure you don’t say anything.
The group stood frozen in the blackness as a rustling sound came from the adjacent tent. Its door flap swung open and a towering shape emerged two metres in front of them. He stretched out his arms and sniffed, evidently oblivious to the three figures off to his left. The weird-smelling herb with the even weirder name must be doing its disguise job, Paris concluded. He added another entry to the list of “sayings I never thought I’d say”: thank heaven for Badger Fart.
The inspector held his breath, trying to sink deeper into the shadows. The demon yawned, looking slowly from side to side. The air was filled with the unmistakeable sound of somebody having a pee.
Paris pondered. Hiding in the dark listening to someone take a leak wasn’t really why he’d joined the police. Then again, nothing in the past week had featured very strongly on his application form.
The demon finished his business with a satisfied burp and lumbered back into the tent. Paris and his companions stood stock still, checking the coast was clear. Eventually Paris let out his breath in a sigh.
‘Is it safe to carry on now?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ replied Tergil. ‘But mind your step.’
They resumed walking, moving ever further into the encampment. The well-memorised route was panning out exactly as planned. Perhaps, thought Paris, those binoculars are the most important piece of technology in this world.
Tergil turned left past another tent and stopped. Paris peered over his shoulder. A few trees dotted the otherwise open grassland of the valley floor. This particular one stood proud in a mini clearing, its branches preventing any yurts from getting too close. A torch on the far side of the artificial glade illuminated the plant’s trunk. And the figure tied to it.
Bonetti stood upright, thick ropes wrapped around his torso and arms. His body had slumped forward, his chin drooped towards his chest. He wasn’t moving.
‘Oh no,’ said Tergil. ‘We are too late.’
‘Maybe,’ said Paris.
As if on cue, Bonetti shuddered. His lips mumbled the words “more sausages”.
Paris rolled his eyes.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘He’s not dead. He can just sleep anywhere.’
‘Shall we get him?’ whispered Eric.
‘Not yet,’ replied Tergil. ‘Remember the plan. How long is there to go?’
Paris glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty seconds.’
‘Perfect timing,’ said Tergil. ‘Get in as close to the tent as possible.’
The trio squashed themselves against the animal hide. The snorts and belches all around continued unabated, but Paris paid no attention. He could hardly hear anything above the pounding of his own heart. He gulped, looking down at his wrist again. Three seconds. Two. One. Blast off.
The quiet of the night was shattered by an enormous explosion, off towards the far end of the valley. Then another. And another. Paris winced with each bang. “If we want to pretend the rock trolls are attacking,” Tergil had said, “we need to make lot
s of noise.” Grarf and Cassandra were certainly doing that.
Tents burst open all around as armed Vanethria soldiers erupted out of them, bellowing in rage and surprise. Another explosion. Demonic eyes glared in its direction, accompanied by more shouting and waving of weapons. They charged off towards the booms. Paris quivered as dozens of clawed feet thundered past within centimetres of him.
Eric placed a hand on the inspector’s shoulder.
‘Stay calm, Mr Parrots,’ whispered the dwarf.
‘Easy for you to say!’ hissed Paris.
Another huge bang.
‘Impressive,’ said Tergil. ‘Did you get the weapons from your army?’
‘They wouldn’t give me any,’ replied Paris. ‘But when you arrest a mad bomber and then search his house, you’d be amazed what you can find.’
The flood of soldiers running past thinned to a trickle and gradually stopped. As the last few disappeared, Tergil stood up. He checked all round as he stepped cautiously out into the open. Paris and Eric followed, also casting nervous looks from side to side. With no sign of any more demons, and with the sound of detonations continuing to rumble, Paris fixed his eyes on Bonetti. He was still asleep.
‘Bloody typical,’ said Paris.
He slapped his sergeant’s cheek as Tergil cut through the ropes.
‘Boss?’ said Bonetti. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Long story,’ replied Paris. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, Boss. Bit stiff though. Could do with a leg massage.’
‘Tough. We’ve got to get out of here before the Vanethria reach the bombs and realise there’s nobody there. Now start walking.’
They set off through the camp the same way they’d come in, Paris and Tergil holding Bonetti up between them. Eric prowled in front, battleaxe at the ready.
Off in the distance, yet more explosions sounded. Paris glanced towards the noise. Somewhere over that way were going to be some very confused and annoyed demons. Pretty soon they’d find out they’d been conned. But by the time they got back here, he and his team would be long gone. He grinned. Hell of a plan. Never in doubt. Now all he needed was a pub.
46
It had been a long and gruelling hike. Three hours walking in the dark, with lots of concentration and very little conversation, wasn’t really Paris’s idea of fun.
Heading straight across the camp was too risky. They didn’t know the route, or how many demon guards they might meet on the way. Going back round the semicircle of hills was also not an option. The Vanethria would return in numbers before they reached safety, intercepting them on the path to the human world. So there was only one choice left for him, Bonetti, Tergil and Eric: up the hill, out of the valley, down into the next one. He knew it was logical. That didn’t stop him feeling knackered.
He also felt anxious about Cassandra. She and Grarf had been closer to the portal, so they should have had plenty of time to get to it. They should have been through it before the demon army got anywhere near. They should be safe. But he couldn’t be sure. And the fretting left his brain as frazzled as his body.
Tergil put a hand on his shoulder.
‘You are concerned for Cassandra?’ asked the elf.
Paris looked at him warily for a moment.
‘Just how does your “short-range mental power” work?’ asked the inspector. ‘Can you actually read my mind?’
‘I can read faces,’ replied Tergil. ‘Do you want to talk?’
Paris considered the offer. In the last few days he’d met a centaur, seen a fire-breathing dragon, and been blown kisses by a fairy. But speaking to another bloke about emotions? That really would be strange.
‘No thanks,’ he said, eager to change the subject. ‘You can tell me where we are, though.’
He pointed. The outlines of buildings were barely visible in the darkness, a hundred metres or so from where they were crouched down on the grass. No lights could be spotted on the nearest ones, although a few shone out from those further back.
‘This is obviously the town you mentioned,’ Paris continued. ‘So I’m baffled. I mean, rock trolls are supposed to be massive, right? As far as I can make out, most of the houses over there aren’t much taller than Bonetti. What’s going on?’
‘We are in their lands,’ replied Tergil, ‘but this is not a rock troll town. It is a joint elven and dwarfish town, with a few other races mixed in.’
‘I see. I think. What the hell’s it doing here, then?’
‘Jallengard is basically a port, although we are many miles from the sea. It exists to sell provisions to magical creatures going into your world, or to trade with those coming back. And the trolls do not object, because they benefit from taxes.’
Bloody hell, thought Paris. Mystic realm economics were new to him, but making money was clearly the same everywhere. And, it seemed, so was stupidity.
‘It’s a port,’ he said slowly. ‘Miles from the sea. In the middle of the troll kingdom. Full of elves and dwarves.’
Paris stopped talking. He peered at Tergil. The elf’s expression was barely visible in the moonlight. His groan, however, was certainly audible.
‘The demons will have wondered why it is here,’ said Tergil. ‘They would have gone in search of the border it serves. That is how they found the portal.’
He shook his head. Paris watched in silence. Everybody makes mistakes and there was almost a sense of satisfaction in knowing Tergil did too. Although the timing could have been better.
‘Liverpool,’ said Bonetti.
Paris’s brain snapped back to unreality. ‘What?’
‘Liverpool,’ repeated the sergeant. ‘That’s a port with dwarves.’
Paris sighed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They’ve got wharfs.’
He looked back at Tergil.
‘It’s done now,’ he said. ‘But since this place is here, why haven’t the demons taken it over? How come they’re camped out in the next valley?’
The elf took a deep breath as he composed himself.
‘They will have raided for supplies,’ he said. ‘Thereby adding to the residents’ hatred of the Vanethria. However, they would not use it as a base. Demons do not like our towns. They live on the plains and find our narrow passageways too confining. In a strange way, they probably prefer the wide roads of your cities.’
‘Oh good. I must mention that to Tourist Information. I can see the slogan now: “Come to Manchester. Nice big streets to walk down and plenty of people to kill”.’
Tergil didn’t reply. Instead he blew on his hands and rubbed them together. Paris stamped his feet and glanced at his watch. In a couple of hours it would be dawn and the town would wake up with the sun, but right now it was dark. And cold.
‘How long have we got to hang around out here?’ he asked. ‘I thought your pal was expecting us?’
‘He is,’ replied Tergil. ‘Malbus has told him we will be here, although he could not say exactly when we would arrive. That is why Eric has gone on ahead.’ He looked up and down the two policemen. ‘It also gives me time to decide what to do with you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The noise of our explosions doubtless woke everybody here. So there will probably be townsfolk out and about, who may see us. And while strangers walking through Jallengard at night is not unusual, humans certainly would be.’ He studied Paris for a moment. ‘You might pass for a tall elf, provided we do one thing.’
Tergil reached into his pocket. He pulled out Paris’s red woolly hat.
‘Your ears are too small. We will need to cover them up.’
The cop frowned.
The elf shrugged. ‘It worked for me.’
Paris sighed and put the hat on, muttering as he pulled it down. As usual he couldn’t argue with the logic, even if this time it did seem like getting your own back.
Tergil turned his attention to Bonetti.
‘Take off your tie,’ he said. ‘Wear it as a headband. That will be better, alt
hough you could never be an elf. Perhaps we will say you are a short giant. Can you grunt?’
‘Eh?’ said Bonetti.
‘Perfect.’
They headed off towards the town, falling silent again as they approached. This, reasoned Paris, wasn’t the main way in. There must be a centre, with a road for the traded provisions to use. This was evidently the outskirts, almost rural. Single-storey wooden dwellings sat between small plots of vegetables, with the smell of manure drifting around them. It must be what a real medieval township had been like. If only he could see it better. Living history wasn’t something he wanted to tread in.
Moving further into the settlement, vegetable patches were left behind as they passed through a rabbit warren of alleys. Houses jostled for space, with the occasional noise escaping from within them and the occasional lamp illuminating their steps. No wonder the demons don’t like it here, thought Paris; it’s a mugger’s paradise. Then again, nobody in their right mind would want to mug a demon anyway. Apart from their size and their weapons, they only wore a loincloth. Where they kept their wallets didn’t bear thinking about.
The trio reached an area of larger, two-storey buildings, with better-lit pathways. Still they met nobody as they went, something which the inspector didn’t mind at all. It was like creeping through the Vanethria camp – except that if they were spotted this time, the residents would probably be more scared than him. The notion didn’t help. Being chased in the dark by an angry mob was even less fun than hiking.
The babble of conversation came from somewhere ahead of them.
‘We must be near some sort of main square,’ whispered Paris. ‘They’re probably having a town meeting to discuss the bangs in the next valley.’
‘Better than wandering round finding us,’ said Bonetti.
Paris didn’t argue. Even Bonetti was clever occasionally.
Breaking the Lore Page 27