‘I agree; Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha knows too much. Did you see who he was with?’
‘Yes – and he stank of weakness, just like your bitch mistress. The Maiden must have anticipated the waning of their power. That is why she hid the Seed,’ Damballah said quietly. ‘He is nothing to fear; your worries are baseless. No wonder he hid in the depths of The Tower. He is feeble and pathetic.’ He paused. ‘I have a special treat for him and the boy.’
A wave ran through the crowd of Ifrit. They parted to reveal a thing of shadow, which came skittering towards them on eight legs. It resembled a spider, except that its limbs were fluid on its body, moving where they needed to be, stretching like putty. At rest, each leg was thick and squat, with a curved rim near its tapered point.
‘A Sylph?’ Creachmhaoil asked. ‘Oh, jolly good,’ he laughed into the twilight of the desert.
Rowan concealed his surprise well. The tall man in front of him dropped an evil-looking Remington 870 shotgun to the grass.
‘I thought you lot ran around with swords,’ he said, still pointing his L85A2 at Target One.
‘Comments like that are why I’ll kick the crap out of Tolkien if I ever get a grip of him in the hereafter,’ the Elf said wearily. Rowan flicked on the Maglite at the end of his rifle and examined the creature. In some respects, he was exactly as expected … in others he was completely different.
He looked the part on the surface: the Elf’s eyes were a deep, vivacious violet that sparkled hauntingly in the glare of the flashlight. Thick, blond hair spilled around his face and down his back in an artless tumble. His face was narrow and perfectly proportioned, with high cheekbones, full lips, and skin that was as smooth and unblemished as a marble statue. The perfection was marred by inch-long cuts on each cheek. They were shallow but they’d bled, leaving red smears like war paint on the Elf’s face.
Though his features were elfin, his attire was not. He wore jeans and trainers, a chain mail shirt, and some bits and pieces of scruffy, tarnished armour, all splattered with drying blood. A shoulder bag rested on his hip and a couple of empty sheaths were slung across his back. Rowan realised he had anticipated bows and arrows and leather jerkins. The heavy, acrid smell of smoke and sweat came from him in stinking waves. Incongruously, he had a cravat of dark red material wrapped around his neck.
It was the weariness washing from the creature that made Rowan realise this was not some fairy tale Elf. There was none of the tranquil wisdom and unearthly grace that he had expected from an immortal: the Elf was bone tired and filthy.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink, do you?’ asked Target One. Wordlessly, Rowan handed him his canteen of water. The Elf opened it, looked into it with mild disgust, sniffed it and then took a tentative sip. He handed the water back to Rowan with a very ungracious grimace. ‘Anything alcoholic?’
‘No,’ Rowan said.
‘Figures.’ The Elf sat down on the grass, then lay back and closed his eyes.
‘Watch him,’ Rowan said to Sergei. The mercenary turned his gun on the apparently sleeping figure. Rowan turned to the other captive: the one that had appeared shortly before the Elf. This prisoner worried Rowan. He had Jason and Jason’s spotter – an ex-soldier called Jim Zacharias – covering it with guns. Jason said it was an Ifrit.
The Ifrit was obviously inhuman – seven feet tall with flaming eyes that caressed his face in bursts and pulses of heat, like small suns that flared every few seconds. Their fires licked out over his cheeks, singeing and blistering them for short seconds before they healed. The Ifrit stood very still. He had refused to relinquish the two meat cleavers by his side, and Rowan didn’t really want to send anybody in after them. He turned back to the Elf.
‘We’re looking for a tattooed man,’ he said to Target One.
The Elf opened one sparkling eye and looked at him. ‘What for?’
Rowan wagged the muzzle of the assault rifle at him. ‘I think I’ll ask the questions,’ he said. The Elf sighed melodramatically.
A wave of warmth washed through Rowan’s mind. He gasped with pleasure, and tried to remember what he was doing. He was holding a gun, aiming it at a bit of grass on a cold hill. It was night. Puzzled, he looked around. Jason and Sergei were there, and another man … Jim … that was his name.
‘What are we doing here?’ Jason asked in confusion.
Something cold jammed itself into the back of Rowan’s neck. ‘Good question,’ a pure, melodic voice said from behind him. The fugue fell away and Rowan tensed. Reality spun back in. ‘I don’t really want to kill you,’ Target One said in his ear, ‘but you wouldn’t believe the week I’ve been having. Drop the weapon.’
From the corner of his eye, Rowan saw the big Ifrit herd his three companions into the Fairy-Ring. They no longer had their guns. Rowan let the L85A2 tumble to the ground. Target One poked him in the back of the neck with his shotgun, and Rowan obediently went and sat next to the others. His mind was working furiously.
‘What did you do to us?’ he hissed.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the Elf said. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here and what you want the tattooed man for, and we’ll take it from there, shall we?’
Rowan weighed up his options. ‘Right,’ he said, his shoulders sagging in resignation. He told them what had happened, carefully leaving out Mark’s murderous plans for Target One. The Elf listened quietly until he had finished.
‘We came here about an hour ago, looking for a way through the Fairy-Ring – we couldn’t work it out.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t,’ said the Elf. ‘You’d probably be falling through the void right now if you had. So, you want Cú Roí dead too? You’ll get on just fine with Grímnir.’
‘Who’s Grímnir?’
‘The tattooed man you’re looking for.’ The Elf lowered the shotgun. ‘You might as well stand up; it looks like we want near enough the same things that we might as well be civil to each other.’
Rowan stood up uncertainly. ‘What exactly do you want?’
‘A stiff drink. You’ve got transport, right?’
‘Yes,’
‘Good – you can give me a lift.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see my father.’ The Elf shuddered theatrically. ‘I hope you’re brave. Tell me, why did you call me “Target One”?’
‘Er, it’s just what we’ve been calling you.’
‘Nice. What’s your name?’
‘Rowan.’
‘I’m Cam. Remember, Rowan, if you try and screw me, I’ll turn your mind into tapioca.’ Cam smiled at him. It was not a reassuring smile.
The small group walked into the forest. Nobody noticed the shifting form of the Sylph materialise from the Fairy-Ring and skitter after them in its peculiar disjointed run. Thick shadow engulfed it, and it faded from sight.
It was a serious wound. Dow clutched his side with gauntleted hands and watched the big man fight off the hordes. High-pitched screeches lashed the narrow bridge as Grímnir sent the last of the zombie creatures to their final deaths. Dow watched, mesmerised by the sheer elemental power of the Jötnar. Then the big warrior scooped Dow back up into his arms, and their interminable flight began again.
The chainsaw had run out of petrol hours ago, in the long retreat from the hordes of ORCs. Now Grímnir was using it as a jagged club, swinging it into the heads and necks of the rotting carcasses that hunted them. His prestigious strength turned it from an awkward hunk of metal into a deadly weapon.
Dow supposed he should be thankful that the motor was dead – if it had still been running, the sucking gash above his left hip would have been a lot worse. The chainsaw would probably have split him in half.
It was the Death’s Head zombie. Camhlaidh had been right about that one: it was smart. Dow idly wondered who it was, back when it was alive.
After losing Cam and the Ifrit – and with them the way to the Fairy-Ring – Grímnir and Dow fought their way back through the Tat
tooist’s apartments. Grímnir was indomitable; the spells woven into the tattoos that covered his body proved their worth repeatedly. Dow lost count of the times the big man took a wound to prevent Dow being infected by the creatures, using his own body to absorb the gouges and bites meant for the Elf.
The Tattooist was right: Grímnir appeared immune to the gnawing and clawing of the zombies. Where he took an injury, the tattooed dragons came alive, slithering and writhing until blue scales covered the wound.
The Tattooist’s apartments were huge and labyrinthine. They fought a painfully slow retreat through dusty room after dusty room. Eventually, they came to another huge portal with a bridge beyond it. An iron portcullis blocked their way, but fortunately it was a defensive structure, and the winch was on their side. Grímnir kept the decomposing hordes at bay while Dow opened it just enough for them to duck under.
They could not close it from the other side and they backed over the bridge, across another vast well, knocking ranks of the Twisted into the void. They made a temporary stand in the alcove at the far end. The zombies could only come at them one at a time. Dow saw the Death’s Head zombie stood still on the other side, just past the portcullis, staring at them with lidless black eyes.
A huge creature with no lower jaw had ripped a rotten leg from another zombie and swung it at Dow’s head, forcing him to sway backwards. When he regained his balance, he smashed one gauntlet into the side of the thing’s head. The impact caved in its temple, and blood spurted out on to Dow’s chest. The powerful punch knocked it from the bridge and it tumbled into the darkness.
Looking back up in the moment of respite, Dow saw that the Death’s Head zombie had vanished. A female Elf with entrails falling from her belly like an obscene grass skirt attacked him, and he forgot all about the skull-faced Twisted.
Forced back into the tunnels, they retreated through the first available door and slammed it shut behind them, leaving the zombies howling and scratching on the other side. ‘They are crowding it,’ Grímnir said. ‘They will not have enough room to batter it down.’
The hinges groaned theatrically. ‘I have a feeling sheer weight of numbers will see them through in a minute or two,’ Dow replied quietly. ‘Do you know where we are?’
‘I have an idea we are in one of the honeycombs near the edge of The Tower: The bridges we have seen criss-cross this area. Good defensive formations.’
‘Can we get back up?’
‘We can try.’ Grímnir looked around the room. There were two more doors. ‘This is a guard room. It will be at the top of a pillar. Those doors will lead to other bridges. That one,’ he said, pointing to the one to their left, ‘should take us towards the edge of The Tower. If we can find a stairwell, we might be able to escape.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Dow said, pulling the door open. The Death’s Head zombie was waiting for him. It lashed out and Dow stepped backwards, all his grace deserting him in the shock of seeing the monster. His feet tangled and he stumbled. The second swing came at his face, and Dow saw his death there.
A massive pain shot through his side. Everything slowed. Something metallic dragged from his left hip, up across his front, and then slammed into the bare skull of the Death’s Head zombie. The force threw it backwards where it crunched against a wall before sliding down to the floor, properly dead at last.
Dow folded to the floor, his scream ringing in his ears. As he fell, he watched Grímnir step past him, the chainsaw finishing its arc up to his left shoulder. He immediately understood what had happened, and horror hit him like a gut shot: seeing the threat, Grímnir had done the only thing he could. With Dow so close to the Twisted, and with no clear line of attack, he had ripped the chainsaw through Dow’s side to crush the thing’s skull.
Grímnir knelt beside him. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he said, his hands pushing the base of the wound to make it bleed. ‘There was no other way.’
Dow screamed again as Grímnir pushed mercilessly at his side, forcing blood to gout. Then he put his mouth to the wound and began to suck. The pain was such that Dow lost consciousness for a moment. When he awoke, Grímnir was still sucking. Judging by the pool of blood to his right, he had already drawn a lot out. The door was creaking alarmingly behind them, and Dow felt very weak.
‘We have to move,’ Dow managed through gritted teeth.
‘The chainsaw was covered in the blood of these unclean things – I have to get it all out.’
‘I know, but it is too late now. Better we get out of here.’ Grímnir didn’t argue. Scooping Dow up to his powerful chest he walked quickly out the door and closed it behind them.
‘That will hold them for a few minutes.’ Then the Jötnar ran.
It was a confusing, painful ride for Dow. The chainsaw sheathed at the big man’s side bumped his whirling head, the dark tunnels absorbed light, and the darkness pressed over him like a drug. Sometimes they would stop, and Grímnir would lay him down gently before turning to fight.
Consciousness became fleeting and ephemeral, and every time he woke, the scene was the same: Grímnir’s panting breath above him, the dry air scratching at his throat, and the wetness on his lower torso where blood still ran freely from his wound. A human would have died ten times over in that nightmare flight, but Dow was an Elf, and he held on. Eventually blackness took him, and he slipped into fever dreams.
He woke to find himself lying on a stone table in a large banquet hall. Dawn light flooded in from a large window. Grímnir sat nearby, his shoulders hunched. He appeared to be cleaning his chainsaw with a rag. Dow groaned, and the big man turned and came over quickly.
‘You are awake.’
‘Barely.’ Dow looked down at his side. More rags had been packed over the wound and strapped in with his belt. He let his head fall back to the table. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘We left the Twisted somewhere below. They have difficulty with doors. We have a chance now.’
‘Maybe,’ Dow said with a sad smile.
‘I might have got the poison out in time.’
‘We’ll find out within twelve hours, won’t we?’ Dow said as he closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and he welcomed it.
Though it was impossible to say what time it was in the dense blackness of the basement, Mark guessed it was getting late. He had been strung up in this little room for hours.
He swung helplessly in a chill draught, his arms stretched up above him, manacled wrists suspended by chains that rasped as the links twisted. His naked toes brushed the floor, but he was too high to get any real purchase.
A door opened. Two men walked into his cell. One was incredibly tall with weird, glittering, hypnotic eyes. The other was smaller and had a clammy, greasy quality. Mark recognised him: it was the man who had kidnapped him. In one hand, the shorter man carried an old-fashioned torch: a flaming amalgamation of a broken chair leg and oil-soaked rags. The firelight flickered on his abnormally pale skin. In his other hand he carried a sword.
The tall one walked up to Mark and examined him intently. Cold, long fingers caressed his chin, and Mark tried to bite at them. His captor laughed sibilantly – the noise of dry leaves blown across concrete.
You are not frightened. The voice slammed into the back of Mark’s skull, ricocheting through his mind and forcing a groan from his lips. I can sense fear in creatures such as you, and you are not frightened. You have power as well. Magic. Strong magic that will soon be mine. I am curious about this magic, and curiosity is a thing I savour, for it is so rare in this banal world.
‘What are you?’ Mark managed through gritted teeth. The voice in his mind left him feeling unclean, as if he had been molested – invaded against his will.
I am the pinnacle of creation. They called me the Miracle Child when I was born, for I am impossible. What of you, though? What are you?
‘I am a man.’
Soundless laughter echoed in Mark’s mind. You are no more a man than I. The magic that holds you here has stripped you of that. Wha
t are you?
‘Fuck off.’
More laughter. Perhaps if I shared something of myself with you … I am a half-breed. Do you know anything of the Courts? There are four separate races of what you call fairies – Elves, Jötnar, Ifrit, and Svartálfar. These races are distinct in their physiognomy. They cannot mate. Yet a Svartálfar raped an Ifrit, and I was the result. A miracle. A monster.
‘All I need to know is you’re one of them. I’ll kill you for that.’
One of them? No, they hate me, for I am power incarnate. They sought to destroy me, forged a sword of magic and crafted a warrior without peer to hunt me down. I escaped, casting huge magics, ripping a hole in time, which I fell through. I escaped their bigotry, and soon I will hunt them. I despise them. We are the same, you and I.
‘I’m nothing like you.’
I want them dead just as you do. We are the same.
‘You know nothing of what they did to me.’
So, tell me.
Mark clenched his lips together in obstinate silence.
Then what use are you to me other than another source of power – another meal? The tall creature leaned closer and stared into Mark’s eyes. Surrender yourself to me. Surrender the magic inside you. I know you, Marcus Aquila Romila. I see you.
The last three words were almost a sigh. They fissled through his head touching here and there as they went. Mark felt something pulling at him: twisting in his soul. Snapshots from his life flashed across his mind’s eye. Memories from his childhood, his youth; his eternity flipped past like images in a zoetrope. Then they stopped, and one of the echoes snapped into sharp focus. He saw Annaea’s corpse resting against the tree. He saw the wound in her neck.
Yes, the magic was forced upon you. You know what it is. You know what it has done. It is an infection. It is a disease. I can take it away. I can heal you. I can save you. Just … let … me … in.
For a second Mark felt the gates to his consciousness opening. He wanted to succumb to the creature’s seduction. He wanted to die. Mark tried to let go … and something slammed down between them. Instantly the images disappeared, and with a rush of guilt, Mark remembered Tabitha. He couldn’t die. Not yet.
Immortals' Requiem Page 30