Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  Cam made to go with them, but Creachmhaoil stopped him with a gesture. When Dow and Grímnir had vanished, the older Elf turned to Cam. ‘You have spent the last few days with Grímnir Vafthrúdnir.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cam said warily.

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s big and ugly, and obsessed with killing Cú Roí. I don’t think he really understands that it doesn’t matter in the long run – we’ll all be dead in fifty years anyway.’ Cam said the last bitterly.

  ‘Quite so. Do you understand what I was saying earlier? About the magic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Those tattoos were etched into his flesh back when the magic was strong – so strong that miracles were commonplace. They were traced into him to give him power over Cú Roí, and they still contain that power. There is magic in those tattoos, some say the power of the Maiden herself – a Seed lain away for when The Tower at Dawn needs it the most. The Seed, if properly stored and rationed, could give us another century, possibly two. By that time, who knows what might have happened – the humans could have annihilated themselves.’

  ‘They won’t. They’re like cockroaches,’ Cam said miserably. ‘Trust me, I know.’

  ‘Still, it gives us time, and we need time. We need the magic. We need the Seed.’

  ‘So, what’s this got to do with me?’ Cam asked suspiciously.

  ‘You heard him,’ Creachmhaoil said. ‘He is intractable. But you have known him longer than any of us.’

  ‘By a day,’ Cam said with a laugh. ‘We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

  ‘You are the best we have. You might be able to persuade him.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try,’ Cam said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I can have a word with him, but I think he’ll want to be going as soon as he’s changed.’

  ‘That is why you must go with him.’

  Cam stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. ‘You’re kidding, right? Me? Down there?’ He gestured absently at the marble floor. ‘I wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  ‘You must try – the future of our race depends on it.’

  ‘No,’ Cam said flatly. He took another swig from his canteen and Creachmhaoil lashed out, knocking it from his mouth.

  ‘You are a disgrace, Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha. It pains me to see what you have become. You have no feelings except self-pity and greed. You resent us for your short life, and yet you do nothing to help. You are pathetic. Get out of my sight.’

  Cam stood and stared at his old teacher in shock. He had never seen Master Creachmhaoil lose his temper. The words echoed in the great hall, and Cam heard his father’s words again. I have indulged your childish excesses for too long. It is time for you to grow up. You have a duty to your people, and your shameful behaviour over the last decade has embarrassed me and discredited you. You are not a human, and your insistence that you are is pathetic … You have abandoned your race, Camhlaidh. We still strive to solve this problem, but we are few and the work goes slowly. Rather than help, you allow yourself to rot away …

  Cam watched the vodka glug out of the canteen and onto the marble floor, and in it, he saw his life slowly dribbling away. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said and instantly regretted the words. Once said, they could not be taken back.

  Creachmhaoil smiled. ‘Good. That is good. Go and find some clothing … and a weapon. Yes, you’ll need a weapon.’

  In a daze, Cam turned to follow his companions up the stairs. Before he had gone one step, he turned and hurried back to his canteen. He picked it up and found it to be a quarter full. Clutching it to his breast, he followed Dow and Grímnir up the stairs.

  Saturday night. It was a magical time in the city centre. Not the Disney magic of perfect princesses and happy endings, of triumph over adversity, of vibrant colours and cute sidekicks: this was the base magic of the human soul. This was a magic born of lust and greed and excess.

  It was early evening when Sam left the hotel, strolling out of the huge glass foyer with a hungry smile and a jaunty step. Even then, with the sun just set, there was an atmosphere that clung to the streets. Sam could smell it amidst the fumes, beneath the perfumes and aftershaves of the thronged street. It was the smell of violence.

  He walked the city. The pull in his head was not urgent and he sensed that, whatever it was, it wanted him to explore for a while, to see the maggot crowds of humanity with the fresh eyes of a demigod.

  Sam watched the kids in the Castlefield Amphitheatre, their raucous cries and drunken frolics made dangerous by the BMX bikes and skateboards they threw themselves around on.

  One of the skateboarders took a particularly nasty tumble, and Sam’s delighted laughter rang out clear and sharp. The skateboarder, a white boy of about seventeen with greasy brown dreadlocks and some painful-looking facial piercing, stormed over to Sam.

  ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ the boy demanded in a whiny tone that Sam might have found threatening yesterday. To the new Sam, the boy sounded foolish and petulant. Sam laughed again.

  ‘Fuck you, I’ll beat the shit out of you,’ the boy threatened.

  The need to commit quick and personal violence surged through Sam, and he looked up at the boy, his face twisting viciously. The boy looked into his eyes and his mouth dropped open. He turned and ran. His friends watched, bemused, and Sam stared at them until they, too, drifted away in discomfort.

  Laughing once more, Sam moved on. The pavement outside a large pub was crowded with people. A phalanx of bouncers wearing black guarded the doors.

  On one side of the big men was a small queue to get in, on the other, a mass of inadequately dressed people smoking and talking. Sam spotted a pretty girl with pigtails in a ridiculously short skirt. She was dressed like a schoolgirl, and something ugly in Sam rolled over and took an interest.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to her with a smile. She looked at him and dismissed him out of hand, not even bothering to answer him. She was about ten years his junior, and up close, he saw acne on her cheeks. It had been inexpertly covered with a foundation much too dark for her skin. ‘You shouldn’t ignore me, you know. It’s impolite,’ he said.

  ‘Look, just fuck off, will you?’ she snapped at him.

  ‘Well aren’t you the feisty one?’ Sam asked. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come down that alleyway with me, and I’ll make all your dreams come true.’

  The girl looked at him with such loathing, Sam felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck in perverted pleasure. ‘Go away, or I’ll get my boyfriend to sort you out.’

  ‘Boyfriend? And which one is he?’

  ‘Jamie!’ the schoolgirl shouted. A large man of around twenty detached himself from another group of smokers and walked over. He had broad shoulders and massive arms, and moved in the odd primate manner of someone who works their upper torso to the detriment of their lower body strength.

  Jamie stopped in front of Sam, eyeing him up and down disinterestedly. ‘What?’

  ‘This guy’s bothering me. He wants to take me down a back alley.’

  Jamie stared at Sam with a bored expression. ‘Maybe if you didn’t dress like that, blokes wouldn’t pester you,’ he said, then he looked at Sam. ‘Come on mate, get lost, will you? I don’t want any trouble.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Of course, my apologies.’ He turned and walked away as the schoolgirl began to scream, her voice high-pitched and coarse. ‘I’ll dress anyway I want to, Jamie! Fuck you!’ Sam laughed as the domestic escalated.

  He moved onwards, past the sort of pond life Sam would have crossed the road to avoid two days ago. As he walked, he stared at them, fascinated. He had never really looked before, had never taken the time to notice these strange, alien life forms in expensive t-shirts and jeans, their hair cut just so, their faces set in grim lines.

  There were large groups of violent-looking men, all a similar size and shape to Jamie. Gaggles of drunken females, in garish pink and yellow tutus, low-cut tops and high-cut skirts, stumbled around. Some of the girls
were slim and exotic, but most were obese and repugnant.

  One specimen fell out of a taxi and bent over right in front of Sam to fix an errant knee-high boot. Sam was treated to the sight of a black thong, so deeply embedded between the glutinous cheeks of the fat girl’s arse, it might as well have not been there.

  A young man dressed like Wonder Woman skipped past, asking everybody to high-five him. Sam hit his hand so hard, the gunshot crack made several nearby policemen in high-visibility jackets look around in alarm. Wonder Woman-man yelped and clasped his sore palm between two Lycra-clad thighs.

  Outside a club, another squad of doormen forcibly ejected a young man with a shaved head and the ubiquitous big arms. The young man stood up and began yelling abuse at the doormen. The police rushed over and bundled him away before anybody got hurt. Sam watched, entranced.

  There was a roar and the sudden noise of heavy bass, and then four Asian males, crammed into a black Ferrari, passed Sam on the street. The front passenger hung out of the window, shouting abuse at Wonder Woman-man. Sam heard his friends laughing.

  This was his new kingdom, and these were his new subjects. He could feel the fugue of confused displacement in them. He sensed how much they needed to find something – anything – in the dark streets of Manchester. The ugly girls looking for love, or failing that, a quick feel; the tough guys trying to impress their mates with crap passes at the few beautiful girls; the beautiful girls at a premium, flaunting their wares and trying to catch the eye of a wannabe gangster; the wannabe gangsters wanting desperately to be respected, threatening bouncers and talking too loudly.

  Bored, he wandered on. Eventually he found himself beneath the looming presence of Piccadilly Station. It was nearly eleven. The night-time traffic whirred past him, tail lights a kaleidoscopic mirage of trailing red lines. A constant whir of engines and burbling voices was punctuated by the rattle of trains passing overhead and the occasional screech of their brakes. The station was busy with people and taxis.

  He watched the abandoned building opposite him – that was where the presence was. He could hear the Siren’s call. It was time to meet his Master.

  Sam stepped into the road. A Ferrari came up too fast. The driver saw Sam at the last minute and slammed the brakes on. The car came to shuddering halt only a few inches from Sam’s knees. There was a moment of stillness, and then the doors opened and the front-seat passenger stormed out of the car.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, you vanilla-faced fuck?’ the passenger called. He was about twenty, slim, with spiked black hair and thin lips. It was the same Ferrari from earlier, Sam noted disinterestedly.

  The driver, a burly skinhead in a tight black t-shirt, got out of the car. ‘What the fuck – what are you doing getting in my way?’ he shouted over Spiky Hair.

  The two back-seat passengers, who must have been very cramped since the front seats had been ratcheted back until they were practically horizontal, also got out and stretched their legs.

  The heavy bassline of the music still blared from the Ferrari. One of the back-seat passengers wore a pink polo shirt, the other had a sleek mobile phone hung around his neck by a chain. They joined their friends at the front of the car. Both carried open bottles of beer. A waft of cannabis came from the open doors; Sam wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma.

  Sam tried to walk past them. A big arm blocked his way. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going, snowdrop?’ Skinhead demanded.

  ‘He’s fucking pissed. You should have run the fucker over,’ said Spiky Hair. Pink Polo Shirt and Mobile Phone laughed as if this was the funniest thing they had ever heard.

  Sam tried to push past. ‘Stay there,’ Skinhead said. Sam turned to face him. He stretched out an arm and put his hand on the car’s bonnet. It was hot to the touch.

  ‘Nice car,’ he said conversationally, his calm voice concealing the rage slowly consuming him.

  Skinhead reached out and pushed him. Sam swayed. ‘Get off my fucking car,’ Skinhead said.

  ‘Say, how much does a paint job on one of these things cost?’

  ‘What?’ Skinhead asked, confused. Sam dug a finger in and scored a massive white line straight down the middle of the wide bonnet with a preternaturally strong fingernail.

  ‘You fucking cunt,’ Skinhead shouted.

  ‘I’m getting that a lot, at the moment,’ Sam said with a self-deprecating smile.

  ‘He just keyed the car!’ Pink Polo Shirt shouted in alarm. ‘We didn’t get insurance – the rental company’s going to take our deposit!’

  ‘Rental?’ Sam asked and then began to laugh. Cars were piling up behind the Ferrari. A horn sounded, then another.

  ‘You’re dead,’ Skinhead hissed. Sam nodded at Skinhead and his friends, and then he turned and ran.

  He heard the Ferrari’s engine gun from behind him. Running felt natural. He upped his pace to a sprint and laughed out loud with the joy of it. He did not feel tired or sweaty, he did not experience the stab of a stitch or the burn of acid reflux, and his limbs were immune to cramp.

  Sam kept running. He could hear the men in the Ferrari whooping and laughing. The occasional taunt made it over the growl of the engine – they thought he was trying to escape.

  Soon he was in the dystopian back streets behind the train station. This area was commonly understood to be one of the city’s red-light districts. It was dark and industrial. The only people who came here were prostitutes and their punters, and none of them wanted anything to do with the police.

  Something hissed past his head, and he glanced over his shoulder. The passenger – Spiky Hair – had another empty bottle of beer in his hand. ‘That’s it you fucker – keep running.’ He threw the second bottle, and it narrowly missed Sam’s head. The people in the car laughed raucously. The Ferrari kept pace with Sam; obviously, they were happy to torment him and run him to ground.

  Sam stopped and the car overshot him. He crossed quickly from left to right. The car reversed. ‘Come back, prick,’ one of the passengers shouted. Sam started running again. There was a grinding noise as reverse was slammed into first, and then the howl of the engine as the Ferrari set off after him again.

  A rough-looking woman, with skimpy clothes and bad teeth, stared at him blankly as he sprinted past her. He could hear the Ferrari still hot on his heels. He darted right, into a car park, and ran quickly to the centre. It was dark in the middle of the tarmac expanse, and Sam stopped. He wasn’t even breathing hard. The Ferrari’s headlights lit up the car park as it turned in.

  The car pulled up a few feet from Sam, and the occupants poured out. ‘What the fuck? Did you think you could outrun a Ferrari? You stupid fucking prick.’ The four men walked towards him, Skinhead at the front. Sam waited patiently. Skinhead stopped a foot from Sam.

  Skinhead lashed out at him, his fist slamming into Sam’s face. Sam felt it, but it was as if the sensation came from a distance. He registered the impact, but he did not feel pain, nor did he feel any need to move. It was like being hit by a wet sponge.

  ‘The problem with you lot,’ he said as he casually reached out and gripped Skinhead by the throat, ‘is that you do not recognise a demigod when you see one.’ Sam tossed the bigger man to the ground.

  ‘What?’ Spiky Hair whined. His eyes were wide, and they were stuck on Skinhead who was lying on the ground holding his throat.

  ‘Why are you driving around like this anyway? The cost of renting this thing … and the petrol … it’d be cheaper to go and have a few drinks. You might actually meet someone the old-fashioned way, rather than trying to pick up some poor little bitch, too pissed to know what she’s doing. That’s what you’re up to, right? It’s pathetic.’

  Skinhead had gotten back to his feet. His face was a mask of anger. Sam was enjoying himself. ‘I’m warning you,’ Skinhead said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘What? You’re going to assault my fingers with your throat again? I like this car; I think I’m going to keep it.’


  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Skinhead.

  ‘You’d be surprised at how hard that is.’ Sam looked at the men and realised he was already bored. ‘Go on, get lost before I decide to actually hurt you.’

  Skinhead marched up to him and started waving his hands around in Sam’s face. ‘I’m not some little bitch, you know. I’ll fucking kill you. You can’t come over here and threaten me. Do you know who I am? Do you?’ Spiky Hair and Pink Polo Shirt came and grabbed Skinhead by the arms to hold him back. Sam watched the act with bemusement. ‘You motherfucker,’ Skinhead raged on. ‘You white motherfucker. You pansy ass, queer fucking bastard. You think you’re hard; you think you’re some kind of hard man – I’ll fucking smoke you.’ A fleck of spittle landed on Sam’s face.

  ‘Go home. You’re getting boring.’

  ‘Boring? I’ll show you fucking boring – I’ll show your wife fucking boring. I’ll stuff my fucking cock in her mouth, you homo bastard. I’ll …’

  Sam had stopped listening. With the mention of his wife, amusement had tripped over into pure, unadulterated rage. His face twisted up, and a low growl issued from his throat. He fixed his eyes on Skinhead, who met his gaze and stopped speaking. Fear crossed his face.

  ‘Fuck, look at his eyes,’ Mobile Phone mumbled from behind them.

  ‘Let him go,’ Sam said to Spiky Hair and Pink Polo Shirt. ‘Let him go and then start running, because as soon as I’m done with him, I’m coming for you. That’ll give you maybe ten seconds. Run and hide.’ The other three turned and ran back across the car park together. ‘You want to fight me? You’ve got your wish,’ Sam said in a harsh voice.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you,’ Skinhead said. A thick waft of urine rose from the man.

  ‘Too late,’ Sam said.

  ‘Please?’ Skinhead begged softly. Sam snarled. Skinhead’s screams were cut off before they even started. Then Sam went after the others.

  ‘Give me an update.’