Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

  “Hey boys. Has your tanning salon closed down?”

  The one who must be the boss puts on his angry face and takes a few steps forward.

  “Dasson and Arkham?”

  “That’s us, yes,” replies Dasson. “We need to see your boss.”

  Nooo, and here’s us just passing through by accident. Two flunkies frisk us, but they take our mobiles and completely ignore the gun. When they’ve finished, the only one who seems to possess the gift of speech hands us two dark hoods.

  “What’s going on?” asks the archmagus suspiciously.

  “It’s a hood, mate. It goes on your head,” he explains patiently.

  “Ha ha, very funny. I thought we were guests.”

  “Boss doesn’t like it when guests find their way back to his house. He’s very protective of his privacy.”

  A sharp glance from me nips Dasson’s excessive reaction in the bud, he slips his hood on without so much as a look in our direction. Me and the head killer Iook at him in bewilderment, not sure whether to laugh or hit him, when he stands there stock still with the hood on and his arms folded.

  “Erm… maybe it’d be better to wait until we’re in the van,” I suggest, trying to be polite, but he takes it as a complaint directed at our escort.

  “In fact, it’s not at all practical…”

  One of the thugs is not amused in the least and vigorously accompanies him inside the van, the hood is still on Dasson’s head.

  “Your friend can’t hack it.”

  “I’ve only just met him.” I excuse myself before following him and putting on my travel headwear.

  It takes us a while, the driver takes an intricate, contorted route to make sure that we are confused and also to lose anyone who might be following us. The only thing I can do is count the number of ramps we go down before we arrive at our destination. Our journey comes to an end in a covered car park, which according to my calculations is on the Sixth Level. They make us get out and allow us to see again. We zigzag between the cars strewn around the place until we get to a rusty old goods lift, with an instantly noticeable and instinctively credible sign saying OUT OF ORDER which, it goes without saying, is fake, despite its good intentions.

  Gradually we start to descend, I’d say that we go down a level. I bet that if Dasson knew where we were he wouldn’t be so relaxed, so I don’t say anything. Then, at a certain point we start to hear a rhythmic unz noise, as if we were near a club, and at first I try and remember where the ogre clubs are, to work out our position. But the noise is getting more intense as we go farther down, until it becomes clear that the club is actually where we’re headed. Ah, perfect, Lich’s techno club.

  I loathe techno.

  Brutal strips of strobe lights flash rhythmically and slice the blue-tinted darkness, creating the impression that the crowd is moving from one still to another. The place isn’t large, but it’s certainly packed with wildly gyrating club-goers who exchange generous sprays of sweat with each other at every convulsion. In the middle a raised section of the floor dominates the room like a tiny acropolis. Trying to catch a glimpse of the inside is like looking through a sheet of alabaster, you can only make out vague silhouettes, one of which is undoubtedly Screech. My personal tastes aside, the place is definitely superior to those on the Fifth Level and wouldn’t look out of place on one of the first double-figure levels. Apart from some details of course.

  Perhaps noticing our hesitation, a skeleton dressed as a butler discreetly sidles up to us, with a large fixed smile and its clothes hanging off its bones, it offers us a tray loaded with a vast selection of coloured pills and capsules. The glassy reflection where its eyes ought to be, reinforces its evil non-dead appearance. This is a much lower-ranking creature than the ones who accompanied the ambassador at Nexus, who possessed a vigorous blue flame. Dasson realises a few seconds later that the skeleton is here, and dives in with an interested “oooh”.

  “A skeleton waiter, how fascinating…”

  Bending its skull backwards and forwards so he can peer inside the cavities, the thing doesn’t appear to object to Dasson’s rather undignified inspection, while the men who accompanied us get stuck in at the bar.

  “Let’s focus on our objective, Dasson,” I bellow in his ear over the appalling racket, then I dismiss the waiter with a flick of my hand. “Scram, Boney. I just saw a hungry dog sniffing around.”

  “Just a minute!” The wizard blocks his exit and stuffs a handful of pills into his pocket.

  “Surely you’re not going to take those.”

  “Of course not,” he retorts, miffed at the insinuation that the drugs market supplies items that he isn’t able to produce himself. “I just want to know what they are.”

  “The boss is waiting for you over there.” The delegate from the association of henchmen butts in and indicates the sphere of vagueness which is the focal point of the dance floor as well as the whole club. The waiter takes the opportunity to continue his tour of the club armed with his characteristic sunny smile.

  “Aren’t you going to take us?” I ask when I see that he’s got no intention of moving.

  “Are you worried you might get lost? We’ll wait for you here, when you’re finished we’ll take you back.”

  Making our way through the hordes of ever-excited slags and other forms of scum with enough metal in their faces to set off the metal detector from the back of the queue turns out to be less difficult than anticipated. The people on the dance floor can hardly stand, once I get rid of a wasted girl with a stud through her tongue who is totally committed to “sucking off my soul too”, all it takes is firm pushes here and there to get through. Under different circumstances I would have unleashed the water pump, but this electronic hammering is stimulating a certain murderous uneasiness within me, an irresistible urge to get this done as quickly as possible. It might not even have been the pact, but the music that made the fellas in the van like that.

  Three low, wide steps lead down to the area marked by the spell, which from this distance looks like a gigantic soap bubble. Slimy and viscous it looks too much like sperm to touch it casually, this fact clearly doesn’t trouble my companion next to me in the slightest, who inspects it, his brow furrowed with curiosity and sticks his finger into it. A series of concentric waves ripple out across the entire surface, as though he’d tossed a pebble into a pond. Dasson observes the phenomenon with a lop-sided smile of satisfaction, he establishes when he rubs his thumb against it that his finger-probe is completely dry.

  “Very clever! I think the density of an ordinary magic field has been increased to make it soundproof from the outside. Shall we go? It’s probably okay inside.”

  “Apart from the dead flesh,” I remind him, his sudden enthusiasm takes me by surprise. I’m the one who’s feeling a bit unsure now. Maybe I’m making a huge mistake.

  “Well, we’re here now.” I shrug my shoulders. Maybe he’s schizophrenic. In any case he’s right, there’s no time for second thoughts. I cross the threshold, once again I’m unprepared for what awaits me.

  A flash tightens my eyes when I enter, but this is no effect of the spell. It’s the gold. Piles of coins, ingots, candlesticks, cups resting on or partially covered with saffron drapes, it’s as though it chimes at the delicate caress of the fire. Gold. A fucking mountain of gold.

  Sitting untidily on a baroque throne, one leg stretched out and the another tucked underneath, is a creature who could easily pass for the main character in the worst trash-horror film in cinematographic history. He’s wearing a purple suit, like an old-style pimp, a wide-brimmed hat complete with a red feather which Puss in Boots is still looking for. If nothing else, the astute feline can rest assured that its beloved footwear is safe, as the hat-thief clearly doesn’t share its classic tastes, he prefers white, glossy crocodile skin boots. However, and unfortunately, the clothing is not the most disturbing feature of this creature who is eyeing us. His open jacket allows us a glimpse of his parchment chest underneath
the heavy chains which are also made out of that shiny, precious metal. His skin is tightly stretched across his bones and emphasises the ribs branching out from the sternum with ruthless precision. Skin the colour of rotten vellum. The head hanging underneath the hat is, unsurprisingly, the most repulsive feature.

  The whole left cheek is missing, thus exposing a yellowed yet tidy set of teeth, creating the impression that the mouth has been positioned in the wrong place. The nose, not as yet completely devoid of cartilage resembles a mountain eroded by the wind. The eyes, small electric blue spheres with no irises or pupils, have lost the comfort of upper and lower lids and rotate within the dark sockets as though they are completely independent from the rest of the body. The few long hairs left on his skull are scraped into a grotesque, grey pony tail which is perched on one shoulder.

  There are three other people in the room, three deathly pale girls, with bloodshot eyes and their faces distorted with anxiety so intense it is tangible. They are performing a cappella number of wailing and weeping, not exactly uplifting, it is positively soul-destroying. They give off their own weak luminescence, their faces and immaculate kimonos are the only things not to be affected by the golden atmosphere produced by the treasure. Our host allows us the privilege of listening to a little more artistic whining before halting the performance with a gesture, inducing them to finish with a silent genuflection.

  At long last Screech says something.

  “My irreplaceable friends and companions, I hope their singing didn’t terrify you too much.”

  So that’s where the nickname comes from. No mysterious hidden magical meanings or anything. Screech has the voice of a coarse child, he is an incredibly powerful non-dead who sounds like two skeletal fingers scraping across a blackboard. Shit, this could be hilarious but I try to keep a straight face, seeing as I’m here to get help and not get battered again.

  “Not at all, they’re very good” Dasson amazes me, he’s in complete control.

  “They say that only those who live in the constant company of the spectre of death can appreciate Banshee singing,” chirps the Lich, “apart from those who have crossed the fatal threshold of course.”

  I pause a moment to consider the alchemist and this new information. That I live in the shadow of death is common knowledge but him? There must be more to this eccentric wizard than meets the eye. He picks up on my doubts and puts them off to some point in the indeterminate future with a curt flick of his hand. Now that everyone’s quiet, I realise just how distant the noise from the club has become, despite the fact that I’m only a step away.

  “Bareo Dasson, the great archmagus. It is an honour to finally meet you after only communicating online for so long.”

  “The same goes for me… what should I call you?” He spits out little clouds of breath when he speaks. The temperature is close to zero, even though everyone is sweating inside the club. The combination of the two contrasting climates produces the extremely unpleasant sensation of sweat turning to ice on my skin.

  “ Screech is just fine,” he screeches, hauling the skin on his intact cheek into a sloping smile.

  “That’s one hell of a feather.” I reclaim my spot in the centre of the attention.

  “…and the famous Lieutenant Arkham from the Federal Guard, who is supposed to be hunting me down instead of coming to visit me like an old friend. Our Lieutenant, however, is far too clever to get bogged down in such formalities.”

  “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?”

  I pick up a cup and look at it with wide-open eyes. Because, I mean, let’s be honest here, no one in the world wouldn’t be all wide-eyed in front of a room full of gold, though you wouldn’t want to touch any of it to check if it’s real. The metal is icy cold. Dasson too, spurred on by our hosts’ indulgent attitude to his priceless knick-knacks, imitates me and rummages absent-mindedly in a pile of coins.

  “I said yes, ask away.” Oops, that just slipped out. He doesn’t seem to mind, it’s not like he’s got much facial expression to show it anyway. Reluctantly I put the cup back and try to retain any dignity I have left.

  “What’s with the trashy circus number in the middle of a techno club?” I hope I sound as scornful as possible. Not scornful of gold, mind you. I mean scornful of danger. Please don’t take it personally, gold.

  “I like it when the people who come to see me go oooh. It puts them in the… right frame of mind. On the one hand, it wouldn’t be nice if they were totally comfortable, seeing as this is my house. But on the other hand I wouldn’t want them to be completely uncomfortable, seeing as they were so kind as to come and see me. Then, I have to make sure my epichurians have everything that can shorten their senseless lives.”

  “Your what?”

  Epi Churo stipulated a pact about three centuries ago. His level of success was so modest that he had lost all hope of belonging to the highest cast after the handover, when he finally outlined his philosophy. Even though he was out of the game by then, even though he was destined to amount to nothing or a mere shadow of his former self devoid of mind and willpower, it made no sense to insist. He would have spent the rest of his life enjoying things as much as possible and resigned to the end. It was a triumph, epichurism spread amongst the homeless and the defeated, and brought Ecatomb back together during a difficult time. Ironically, later on, it allowed many people to find happiness through desperation, an unachievable goal for our beloved west. Today Epi Churo is a brilliant propaganda minister, the perfect ending to his philosophical fairytale.

  Listening to him is like being cut my thousands of shards of sharp glass. It’s so very irritating that he tries to talk as much as possible in an effort to maximise the damage. If we died from irritation, he’d feel so satisfied he’d wank off.

  “This is all very interesting. However, I am here about something else.”

  “I hope it’s not because you need a loan. Not that I’m short of cash, but it would break my heart if my gold was mauled by Kahn Ugube’s fat paws.

  I wonder if you squeezed his hand Screech would produce the same noise as those rubber squeaky toys. His eyes might even get bigger too. Anyway, message received, dead meat.

  “I need to talk to someone.”

  “You’re in luck, you already are.”

  He’s quite the fucking comedian.

  “A dead person.”

  “It appears to be your lucky day.”

  All right, I asked for that one.

  “Recently died. Dead dead.”

  “I must admit that it’s been a while since I had a look at the penal code, but I do seem to remember that this is quite a serious crime.”

  “Oh, you’re very amusing, Screech. Have you ever thought about getting your own programme on TV? Er, I don’t know, how about, Die Laughing with the Worms? Inside the Nest of the Happy Dead Squirrel? It could work on the radio, too.”

  The non-dead hoicks up the skin on his cheek again.

  “Lieutenant Arkham, the tough one. Rumour has it you’ve got the balls of a bull and a brain the same size. People also say you’re going downhill, mortal. That Onirò and crippling debts are dragging you down.”

  His baiting only bothers me because Dasson is there too. About one baddie out of three, at a certain stage of the relationship, has the kind idea to tell me that I’m finished, so it doesn’t really annoy me anymore. I’m not counting old Lonny, who never misses an opportunity to remind me what a loser on the road to nowhere I am. It appears to be an extremely long road indeed. One day I’ll get this putrefied piece of shit and I’ll get my small vendetta. Before that, though, he’s got to perform my spell.

  “If you don’t know how to do it, just say so, you don’t need to make a song and dance about it.”

  “Of course I know how to do it. But why should I?”

  “So as to do your duty as a good citizen and help the Guard?”

  “Are there any tax benefits?”

  “Out with it, what do you want?”

&
nbsp; “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Let’s just say that you owe me favour.”

  “A small favour,” I drastically reduce it between my thumb and index finger, “nothing too difficult, for somebody like you.”

  He takes off one of his gloves and sticks out a bony hand. I squeeze it and my face contorts with pain at the extreme cold which pierces my palm like a nail. Let’s hope that the Lichs don’t know any binding spells that are sealed with a handshake, otherwise I’m up shit creek.

  “Have you got anything which belonged to the person you wish to contact?” grates the non-dead, slipping his glove back on.

  “Will a handwritten note do?” Hoping she wrote it. I’ve got absolutely no desire to repeat the whole journey.

  “It will do.”

  At his command, the Banshees lift, prepare and float a small brazier between us and Screech. As soon as the flames start to crackle, the Lich tosses the note into the fire and starts chanting a litany in the arcane language of Ecatomb. Normally it has a gloomy, solemn sound, but when it comes out of his vocal chords it sounds more like an interminable jingle for a new pricing system in a bank. During the spell I sit on the marble-topped table, clearing a space between the precious objects. It has to be said that sitting in the middle of all this gold is quite a thrill. I am starting to worry that the spell hasn’t worked when suddenly, a faint, translucent image of Inla appears above the brazier, seemingly unaffected by the incandescent flames licking the soles of her feet. She’s wearing the same dress that was on her when I found her in the alley, but it’s shabby and torn after the hardship of only a few days spent in the abyss. The elf’s spectre is covering her face with her hands.