Kill Baxter

by Human, Charlie

  ‘You don’t think that’s …’ Nom starts.

  ‘The Muti Man,’ I whisper.

  ‘We need to kill that creepy mofo,’ Chastity says, checking the clip in her Uzi.

  ‘Where’s Gigli?’ I look around for his long pink shape.

  ‘I saw him go through the hole in the wall with some of the other Draken,’ Nom says.

  ‘Shit. If we start firing at those goblins, we’re dead.’

  ‘How about a game of Sanity?’ Chastity says with a grin.

  ‘You’re good, Chas,’ Nom says, ‘but you can’t take them all on.’

  ‘That’s why Faith is going to help me,’ Chastity says. The conjoined twins can’t really look each other in the eye, but each turns her head a little.

  ‘I’m not,’ Faith says. ‘That’s your thing.’

  ‘Come on,’ Chastity replies. ‘You’ve seen me do it a thousand times. And we share the same central nervous system, so I know you know how to do it. Plus I reckon all that repressed stuff going on in that little Barbie head of yours will make for some pretty scary shit.’

  Faith scowls. ‘OK. But if we get out of this alive, we’re doing facials and pedicures together. Both of us, not just my half of the body.’

  ‘Fine,’ Chastity says. ‘I’ll goddamn vajazzle us if it gets you to Sanity those ugly fucks.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Faith says primly.

  They each put a hand out and begin chanting, Afrikaans, Xhosa, Zulu flowing into each other. Shapes start to form around the goblins, misty, incoherent shapes that begin to yelp and scream. The shapes solidify into images of goblins cutting their own throats, goblins eating each other, goblins collapsing in rivers of blood. The terrifying screams warp and pitch in a pure cacophony of terror and helplessness. I have to admit, it’s a masterpiece.

  The real commando goblins start firing wildly. Some shoot at each other; some clutch their heads, whimpering; the rest just run.

  The Muti Man turns towards us, and beneath his cowl I can see nothing but small bright eyes. His raises his staff, and Faith and Chastity fall to the ground, both holding their heads.

  ‘Illusion is a dangerous game,’ he calls across the courtyard. His voice is reedy and wheezing. ‘And I play it better than most.’

  He walks slowly, painfully towards us, his staff clacking on the cobbles. I raise my gun and fire. The bullet takes him in the shoulder. He grunts but carries on walking.

  ‘A Dreamwalker playing with guns like he’s a minion,’ he says. He flicks his staff and my hand spasms in pain, the gun clattering to the stones. I clutch it to my chest and use the other hand to drag the long, ugly knife out of its sheath. ‘Please,’ the Muti Man says. ‘You’re embarrassing us both.’

  He is right in front of me now, at least two feet taller than I am, and looming over me like the Grim Reaper.

  ‘When my informants told me of a Dreamwalker at Hexpoort, I had to investigate. And here he is hiding away in a dark corner.’ He leans down, and I can see those bright little eyes shining in the depths of his hood. ‘Hexpoort and its masters have insulted me beyond my ability to bear. They harbour a false Chosen One, one who they say bears the marks of prophecy, and a Dreamwalker who they claim rivals my power.’

  He reaches up and throws back his cowl. His face is distorted, half human and half Crow, lined with folds of scarred flesh. It’s the beak that is the worst, a mangled crescent that dangles down, revealing the twisted mouth beneath.

  ‘Marked with the crescent,’ he wheezes. ‘The Muti Man come to erase the lines between Known and Hidden. So show me, Dreamwalker,’ he says. ‘Show me your power.’

  I scrabble for the beads in my pocket and drop them on the ground. The Muti Man laughs, a horrible hacking sound. ‘A boy playing with a toy from a Christmas cracker. More human lies.’

  There’s the whooping sound of battle cries above us. I look up to see creatures with white wings and dark skin scything through Crows with flaming swords. They’re part of the Flock, African Valkyries like Katinka, and they’re on our side.

  ‘Remember this moment, Dreamwalker,’ the Muti Man says. ‘Remember the moment I let you and your friends live.’

  He turns on his heel and walks back towards the chopper.

  The fight in the skies is raging, and between the battling white and black wings I see a huge ship ponderously cutting through the air. It’s black, sleek and angular, like one of those stealth bombers, but shaped like an old frigate, the black sails marked with a red pentagram surrounded by runes.

  ‘Dwarven airship,’ says Nom.

  ‘We’re saved,’ Chastity adds. She and Faith are both pale-faced. I can only shudder at the thought of what the Muti Man made them see.

  The dwarven airship turns and its gun turrets open fire, tearing through the escaping chopper, which spins around frantically like a bird trapped in a room and then slams into the side of the canyon and explodes.

  ‘Yes!’ says Faith, pumping her fist in victory. ‘What?’ she asks when we look at her. ‘That was some sadistic stuff he forced into my head.’

  We run up on to the walls. The Humvees are retreating but are being picked off by the airship’s superior firepower. A pack of Draken are chasing the fleeing goblins, and I see Gigli run down a commando and snack on its face.

  The airship turns and hovers above us, a rush of air whipping my hair and clothes about me like I’m in a wind tunnel. It docks against the wall and a metal gangplank opens up and clangs on the granite. Dwarven legionnaires in black combat fatigues and yellow berets, carrying heavy assault rifles, jog down the gangplank and take up positions along the wall. A dwarf in a long black coat appears and follows them slowly, hands clasped behind his back. His coat has a high collar marked with a turquoise insignia of a forked tongue. He has a sabre at his waist and a rifle in a scabbard on his back. As he gets closer, I can see that his black-bearded face is ragged with scars, one eye white, the other dark and menacing.

  Stevo joins us on the wall, breathing heavily. Timothy and Hunter are peeking out from his shirt pockets, still not convinced that the fighting is over.

  ‘That’s a Samnite,’ Stevo whispers. ‘From Dwarven High Command.’

  ‘You all right, Stevo?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Managed to keep away from most of the fighting.’

  ‘What a hero,’ Chastity says.

  Stevo shrugs. ‘I’ll leave that to other people.’

  The Samnite steps on to the Hexpoort walls and looks around disdainfully. The Witch approaches and inclines her head, which in Witch terms is the equivalent of a curtsey.

  ‘We thank you for your assistance, Malachi.’

  ‘Assistance?’ he says, in a cold voice. ‘Deliverance more like. You were almost overrun.’

  The Witch’s mouth twitches. I step back. She’s going to throw this guy from the walls.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘We thank you again.’

  ‘I’m commandeering the teachers’ quarters for my men,’ he says. ‘I trust you can take care of the clean-up? Or should we help you with that too?’

  ‘Thank you. We have it under control.’ I can see the Witch’s fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

  ‘Right,’ she shouts as the dwarves descend from the walls. Her eyes are burning with anger and frustration. ‘I want clean-up units formed. If you find any enemy survivors, alert the Boer. We need them for interrogation. If you are badly hurt, make your way to the infirmary. The rest of you, I want to see action, or there will be hell to pay.’

  The adrenalin is wearing off and my hands start to shake. Nom turns away and throws up against the wall. Chastity is shaking her head and opening and closing her eyes like she’s trying to flush something from her memory. Faith is staring down at where students’ bodies are being dragged out of the courtyard and covered with sheets.

  ‘How many do you think we lost?’ she says softly.

  I scan the walls and the courtyard. �
�Lots,’ I reply.

  ‘What the hell just happened? Why did they do this?’

  It’s a question I’m not sure I want an answer to.

  8

  THE APPRENTICE

  THE CLEAN-UP IS almost as brutal as the fight. We drag bodies into the middle of the courtyard: kids to the left of the gallows and goblins to the right. We work mechanically, dragging people we know from class across the cobblestones with a kind of methodical intensity that’s our only protection against their vacant wide-eyed stares and garish wounds.

  The pile of goblin bodies is huge, a tower of grey limbs and sagging faces. The Boer drags several goblins, burnt and bleeding but still alive, into Hexpoort for questioning. The torched Crow bodies are torched even further until they’re nothing but black lumps of smouldering ash. There is no sign of the Muti Man in the wreckage of the helicopter.

  The Flock, dozens of dark-skinned Valkyries wearing shining metal faceplates that show only the intense eyes beneath, help us. The tall, white-winged women talk to each other in a combination of Afrikaans and flickering hand gestures, but ignore the rest of us completely.

  I find myself staring down at the corpse of the kid from Magical Design that I spoke to when the attack started. He has a bullet hole through his cheek. I have my hand wrapped in his shirt collar, ready to drag him to our growing pile of bodies, but I can’t seem to move.

  ‘Zevcenko,’ the Boer says, coming to stand next to me. ‘Get your fokken ass moving.’

  ‘I …’ I say, staring down at the body.

  ‘Ja, I know.’ The Boer’s face is caked with blood and his khaki shirt is burnt and slashed. ‘In all my years here I’ve never lost a fokken student. Now I’ve lost twenty.’

  The official count is twenty-two. The Boer helps me drag the corpse of the kid on to the pile and we stand back staring at it. ‘Go wash yourself,’ the Boer says. ‘The Witch wants to convene everybody in fifteen minutes.’

  I find Stevo, Nom, Faith and Chastity and we help each other clean the blood and grime off. The bandage around my ribs is stuck, and Faith helps me peel it off and dab at the lacerations. We replace the bandage and then I go in search of a clean T-shirt.

  By the time we’re ready, the rest of Hexpoort has gathered in front of the gallows. The dead kids have been covered with blankets but the goblins remain open to the air, a giant shrine of grinning mouths and glassy eyes. The Flock stand at the back, lounging against the Hexpoort walls, but the dwarven Samnite and several of his men have ascended the gallows platform with the Witch. They stand looking over the assembled students with hard expressions.

  The Witch steps forward and begins to speak. ‘We have been attacked in full force by an unknown enemy. Thanks to Hekka Jones sending out an emergency distress signal, our allies managed to respond quickly enough to stop Hexpoort from being taken.’

  Hekka is at the front of the crowd and dips his head as if he dislikes the attention.

  ‘Probably because he was hiding in the communications room,’ Nom whispers in my ear.

  ‘I would like to thank our allies for their swift response. Malachi and the Dwarven Legion, and Naebril and her Flock.’

  A tall member of the Flock has shifted her faceplate on to her head. Her face is lean and hard but has a look of detached amusement. She raises a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘We need to regroup,’ the Witch says, ‘and—’

  The Samnite moves forward and holds up a hand. ‘We are at war,’ he declares. ‘And war is not a time for empty platitudes.’

  He flicks his hand and several dwarven legionnaires drag a hooded figure on to the platform. It’s a goblin, burnt and injured, with his hands cuffed behind him. Another legionnaire follows them, recording with a top-of-the-range camera.

  ‘War is a time for decisive action and swift retribution,’ the Samnite says, his voice loud and resonant, reverberating across the courtyard. The legionnaires strip the combat jacket from the goblin and bare his grey chest. ‘War is a time for punishing those that stand against us.’

  One of the legionnaires draws a knife from his boot and carves the scratch-like goblin script into the prisoner’s chest. Blood streams from the wounds and the goblin grunts in pain.

  King pushes through the crowd. ‘I object,’ he says, his eyes wide and shocked. ‘That is a symbol of desecration! According to the Kebra Bik, his soul will never find peace.’

  The Samnite looks down at him. ‘War is a time to send a message.’

  The legionnaires drag the goblin across the platform and loop the gallows noose around his neck.

  The Witch turns to the Samnite, a look of outrage on her face. ‘He needs to be interrogated. We need to find whoever organised this attack.’

  The Samnite looks at her with contempt. ‘We already know who we’re at war with. Not just those that attacked us, not just the goblin race, but the whole of the Hidden.’

  He flicks his hand again and the gallows platform opens, dropping the goblin through. There’s a pop as his neck breaks.

  Naebril of the Flock saunters forward and the students part to give her a path to the platform. She raises her hands and claps, a slow, sarcastic gesture that makes the Samnite bristle.

  ‘Well done,’ she says in a strong voice, a voice used to command. ‘That was a brilliant piece of theatre. But we’re not here to listen to your xenophobic threats.’ She turns to the Witch. ‘We have helped you, and now it is time for you to repay us.’

  The Witch’s outrage is raised another notch. She stands there, her body taut like a guitar string tuned too tight. ‘You know our stance.’ Her voice is flat. ‘Katinka is an MK6 agent. We will not hand her over to be killed.’

  ‘The thing you call Katinka is an abomination,’ Naebril says. ‘A male member of the Flock that should have been killed at birth. The fact that he attempts to hide in a female persona does not exempt him from the dictates of our culture.’

  The Samnite looks down at her like she’s a particularly disgusting bug that he’s about to squash.

  ‘Your “culture” has no right to make demands of the rulership,’ he says. ‘Personally I’d prefer it if that confused cross-dressing member of your species were cleansed from this planet. But the Dwarven Legion, and by extension its interest in MK6, will not tolerate the questioning of its authority.’

  There’s a shifting at the back of the assembled groups, and I turn to see the Flock donning faceplates and drawing swords. The dwarven legionnaires have their hands on their guns, and red dots appear in the courtyard as snipers on the airship take aim.

  Naebril shakes her head and laughs. ‘Perhaps a time is coming when the Hidden will no longer bend a knee to the Legion and its lackeys.’

  She flickers a hand gesture and the Flock take flight, dozens of huge white wings unfolding and transporting dark bodies up and away from the Hexpoort walls. Naebril points a finger at the Samnite and then follows them, scattering students as she takes to the air.

  The Samnite’s face is a mask of hate and anger. He looks down at us.

  ‘You object?’ he says to King.

  ‘Well, the Hidden are disparate. There is no unified front. Dwarves themselves fall under the category—’

  ‘You are removed from your post as teacher at this institution.’

  Two dwarven legionnaires approach. King smiles, and his sharp teeth glint in the firelight. ‘Lay a hand on me, my friends, and you’ll lose it.’ They hang back.

  ‘With all due respect, you cannot make changes to my staff,’ the Witch says.

  ‘With all due respect,’ the Samnite replies with a smile, ‘Dwarven High Command has invested more money in this institution than your human government. Every inch of this facility has been purchased with dwarven gold, and we have the final say in any decision.’

  ‘The Blood Kraal will hear about this,’ the Witch says furiously.

  ‘Yes, of course. Please contact the MK6 council. Let them convince you of the veracity of what I’m saying.’

&
nbsp; The Witch stares at him, and then spins on her heel and stalks away down the gallows stairs.

  King is sitting in his office smoking. He nods to the chair in front of the desk when I enter. I slide into it and watch him. He offers me the cigarette and I take a drag. It tastes of cat.

  ‘Malachi is right,’ he says. ‘MK6 leadership in the Blood Kraal has confirmed that he is acting steward of Hexpoort.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘He’s a total dick.’

  King gives a low purring chuckle. ‘You have a way with words, Zevcenko, no doubt. Yes, he’s a dick. But he represents the interests of a very powerful organisation.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I am relieved of my teaching post pending an investigation into where my loyalties lie.’ He shakes his head. ‘Fifteen fucking years in this place and I need a dwarf to tell me who and what I’m loyal to.’

  I hand back the cigarette.

  ‘You students are going to be apprenticed immediately to whatever agents are available.’

  ‘I though apprenticeship was only—’

  ‘In your fourth year of study at Hexpoort? Yes. And the majority of you are in your first and second years. But according to our esteemed Samnite steward, “the Dwarven Legion is committed to many freedom operations across the globe and cannot be expected to shoulder the burden of this alone”.’ He snorts. ‘Freedom operations. That’s what they call mercenary wars these days.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Are we really at war? Is that what the Muti Man wants?’

  King shrugs and blows a plume of smoke from beneath his whiskers. ‘I saw the crown in the courtyard. You were the only one who got a good look at him.’

  I shudder when I think about that twisted face and beak. I describe the whole thing to King: the way he brushed aside Faith and Chastity.

  ‘An injured Crow,’ King says, and scratches his chin with a claw. ‘And one that can perform magic. It sounds like we were attacked by a Tengu.’

  He reaches across and pulls a scroll from a drawer in his desk. He unrolls it and plants an incense holder and a pen on the corners to keep it open. The scroll is made of red fabric and is marked in ink with a mandala annotated in Sanskrit. In the centre is a man with black wings and a long nose, holding a staff.