Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  As the Barghest darted in towards Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha, the Sylph oozed from beneath the sofa. Where light hit the shifting weave of its form, it became solid. Its limbs thrashed wildly as it fought to completely emerge from the darkness.

  Throwing the empty HK416 to one side, Rowan turned back to the centre of the room to look for something else to use against the seemingly unkillable Barghest. The Tattooist was still struggling with the thing, his immense strength and flaming eyes holding it in a snapping stalemate. Rowan found the bags of guns in the centre of the room by the sofas.

  There – he leapt towards a flare gun that was lying beside a box of 5.56x45mm cartridges for the Heckler & Koch assault rifles. Even as he moved, Rowan realised something wasn’t right. The shadow beneath the sofa was too long … and it was moving.

  Sam heard the unearthly cry of the Sylph and turned to face it without thinking. The werewolf saw something strange, even by the standards of the last few days.

  A shadow was condensing into black fury. At first he thought it was the third Barghest, for it looked similar with its thick body and the multitude of legs, which writhed around it without rhyme or physical reason. He quickly realised it was something different again.

  It was more arachnid than cephalopod; its black limbs clawed furiously at the floor as it dragged itself from the impossibly narrow space beneath the couch. Its body was a globe of viscous black liquid held together by some unknown force; its surface rippled uncertainly as the powerful legs finally found purchase and brought it into the room. It was bigger than a Barghest. The joints of its long legs almost brushed the ceiling before sweeping down into squat, phallus-like tips that seared the floor where they touched. It was all black and featureless.

  One limb elongated fluidly to touch the Barghest that was about to fall on the Elf with the shotgun. The black substance immediately rushed out to cover the Barghest in a thick tarry carapace. The black monstrosity skittered over and dropped onto the trapped monster, absorbing it and the limb with such speed, that Sam barely believed what he had seen.

  Another limb sprouted from the back of the thing and hooked down to the floor. Of the Barghest there was no sign. Sam’s concentration was jerked back to his opponent when the tip of the Elf’s sword slammed into his back.

  Cam stared at the creature, which had erupted from nowhere to save him, with a mixture of fear and relief. Although there was no way of telling where the thing was looking, Cam had the unpleasant sensation that it was looking at him, and that it did not like him very much.

  Cam scampered backwards and began to load more shells into his shotgun.

  Quickly getting over the sight in front of him – after all, what was one more terrifying impossibility – Rowan scooped up the flare gun and turned back to the Barghest that had the Tattooist wrapped in its tentacles. He fired, hitting the Barghest in the thick core of its body. The round burned red and began to smoke; the choking fog quickly filled the room. After that, things became confused.

  Screeching, the Barghest released the Tattooist as the flare in its back began to flame in earnest. Rowan heard another cry, and turned to see Manannán being mauled by a giant wolf thing. It had his head firmly clutched between its massive jaws. A sword jutted out of the wolf’s back, but it didn’t seem to care. The werewolf stabbed long talons into the Elf’s stomach and ripped them up to his chest. Manannán’s body briefly spasmed. Viscera slopped from his body cavity to the floor. Rowan knew that Manannán was dead: nobody could survive being gutted like that.

  The monstrous black thing that had crawled from beneath the sofa skittered towards the werewolf. Sam saw it coming and released his grip on Manannán, who slumped lifelessly to the floor. Sam awkwardly clawed the sword from his body and threw it at the black thing before dodging past it and bounding out the door.

  On the other side of the room, the flaming Barghest lashed out in a frenzy, and its tentacles ripped through the Tattooist. Fire erupted from the Ifrit’s wounds to engulf the monster. It tried to flee, charging straight into a wall where it collapsed and slowly burned.

  Rowan looked around. The black thing was gone. Cam was cradling his father’s dead body. The Tattooist lay on the floor with a gaping hole in his stomach that smouldered dully. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Rowan said helplessly as he bent over the Ifrit. He tried to lift him but he was too heavy.

  ‘No,’ the Ifrit growled. ‘I am finished.’

  ‘A little scratch like that? Nonsense. Now get to your feet.’

  ‘I am finished. The monster’s tentacles punctured deep. Its venom is eating me. The fire of my life is dying. Bring me the Elf before it is too late.’

  ‘Manannán’s dead.’

  ‘I know that, fool – bring me the other one. Bring me his son.’

  Rowan went over to where Cam sat on the floor with his father’s corpse in his lap. His face was expressionless, his eyes dry. ‘The Tattooist is dying.’ Cam looked at him blankly. ‘He wants to speak with you, Cam.’

  It didn’t seem real. His father was dead. He had been ripped open from navel to sternum. There were punctures around his face. Teeth marks. Cam stared at the man’s youthful face, realising for the first time exactly what he had lost. His childish recalcitrance: his stubborn refusal to be part of the Elfin Court had denied him the time he wanted – needed – with his father. There would be no return for the prodigal now. His petty rebellion would not be forgiven and forgotten. He would never earn his father’s respect; he would never take his place at his dad’s side.

  Something broke inside him, then. Tears formed at the corner of one perfect eye, but they did not fall. There was a buzzing in his ear but he did not hear it. Manannán Ó Gríobhtha was dead, his son a disappointment to him, his life a broken thing of childish memory. Cam had never sat down with him, listened to him speak about his long life, about his mother, about his hopes.

  ‘I thought there was more time,’ Cam said aloud, to nobody in particular. ‘I thought …’ he trailed off. There was more buzzing in his ear. Something fell heavily on his shoulder. He shrugged it away angrily. ‘I love you,’ he said to the corpse, at the same moment realising that those words could never be reciprocated. Something dragged him around. He opened his mouth to protest, but a stinging sensation swept across his left cheek.

  Rowan stood above him. ‘You slapped me,’ Cam said dully.

  ‘The Tattooist needs to speak with you.’

  Cam submitted meekly to being dragged over to where the dying Ifrit lay. The creature’s abdomen was a wide pit of ash and molten rock. The heat was immense. Its flaming eyes were starting to fade away.

  ‘You are the only one left, Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha, in whom I can trust. In any case, you are the only one close enough to receive my gift.’ The Tattooist’s voice was hoarse. Death rattled deep within it. Cam stared at him. ‘This is not how I would have had it – you are a child far out of his depths, but you are all I have to work with. Yet, you have shown bravery and resourcefulness, and beneath your complaints and your petulance, I believe you are a brave man. An honourable man. I trust you to do what is needed.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I ignored her. I squandered my power. Too late … it was too late! Do you understand? I hoarded what was left for the last battle. For this time. For now. It’s kept me alive, but I haven’t used it. I should have done but … I was scared. Scared of what it meant. Now it is for you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Not a word,’ Cam said numbly.

  ‘You must find Grímnir, you must find the Maiden, you must destroy Cú Roí.’ Cam opened his mouth to speak, though he did not know what he was going to say. He never got the chance, because the Ifrit’s huge hand closed about his right wrist. The dying creature’s grip was still powerful enough to make Cam yelp.

  ‘Use the magic. Use it to get her back.’ The pain began. It started beneath the Tattooist’s palm and quickly spread. A burning agony ran up his arm and across the back of his shoulders, and then d
own his left arm and across the back of his hand. It felt like the flesh was being stripped away by an inferno. Cam screamed then: he raised his face to the ceiling and he screamed and screamed.

  Then it was over. The Tattooist slumped back, dead. His body ignited and began to burn. The smoke from his corpse rose to merge with that of his smouldering killer. Cam fell to his side, hugging his arms to his body, convinced that the Ifrit had damaged him in some final malice. Slowly, he realised that the pain was gone. He sat up. Rowan was staring at his arms. Cam looked down.

  A tattoo covered both limbs. It was a huge, wingless dragon, so realistic that Cam thought he could see it move. It shimmered in red, each scale minutely detailed, the coils of muscle beneath its skin almost tangible. Its realness was incredible.

  His arm formed the trunk, the decoration wrapping completely around his forearm and bicep. Its wedge-shaped head covered the back of his hand, and its open mouth, with a throat red and ridged, dominated his palm. His index finger and little finger formed vicious fangs, and the other two completed an evil-looking snout. Black eyes glittered from his knuckles with wild intelligence, and his thumb formed its lower jaw.

  The rest of its body appeared on his left arm, his flesh etched with the creature’s scales. He turned his left forearm up to the light. Like the other, his arm formed the torso of the dragon. Its tail writhed down to cover the back of his left hand. He knew without looking that the dragon’s body went up his shoulders and crossed the back of his neck, for that was where the burning had been.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Rowan said quietly. ‘If I didn’t know they were your arms, I’d say there was a big lizard hanging from your shirt sleeves.’

  Cam didn’t answer. He stared at his arms, then at the Tattooist’s ashes, and then at his father. Then he stood resolutely and walked to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Rowan asked.

  ‘To get well and truly shit-faced,’ Cam replied without looking back.

  Rowan dropped the flare gun and lunged forwards, grabbing the Elf by the right arm. Cam turned and violet eyes bored into him.

  He relaxed, wondering why he was holding Cam. The Elf’s arm was very pretty, he thought to himself absently. That tattoo looked almost alive. His hand dropped to his side and he looked around. This was a nice apartment. Warmth flooded through his body, and Rowan smiled contentedly. A yawn rose from his gut, deep and lazy, and he let it roll out of his mouth. He raised his arms above his head and stretched. He was tired. The sofa looked very comfortable.

  Stepping towards it, Rowan’s foot nudged something. It looked like a gun. He frowned, thinking that a weapon should not be left on the floor. Stooping, he picked it up and carried it with him to the sofa.

  Jason sat on the sofa staring at him. Rowan frowned. He could not sleep if Jason was sitting there – where would he lie? Rowan asked Jason if he could sit elsewhere. The man didn’t reply. Rowan put the gun down, reached out, and shook his shoulder. Jason fell forwards and Rowan instinctively caught him. Jason was sticky. He smelled odd: coppery. There was something else in the air, now he thought about it. Burning? Yes, burning flesh and smoke and …

  Reality rushed back in as the Glamour faded. The unremitting carnage of the room snapped into focus. Rowan dropped what was left of Jason’s corpse with a cry of disgust. Blood covered his hands and the front of his shirt. He snatched up the HK416 as he looked for Cam, angry that the Elf would twist his mind up at such a time, in such a place. Cam was gone. Grabbing as many clips as he could find, Rowan chased after him.

  There were people in the hallway. They screamed and slammed their doors shut when they saw him. Rowan ignored them. The display above the lift showed it was already on its way down. Rowan ran for the stairwell and charged down the floors recklessly. He made the lobby in time to see Cam walking out the front door, his shotgun slung casually over his right shoulder.

  Aiming the HK416 at the Elf’s back, Rowan was half-tempted to fire. Then he swore and ran after his last remaining ally. ‘Cam,’ he shouted. ‘Cam, stop. I need to speak with you. This isn’t what your dad would have wanted. What about Tabby? We’ve still got to find Tabby!’ Cam walked out of the building without turning. Rowan went after him.

  Outside was a scene of confusion, with a lot of flashing blue lights and a lot of police. Some of them stood protectively over a dead body. Some of them were armed. Rowan stopped and blinked. Cam walked through the cordon of cops sedately. One officer stepped aside to let him go, his face crinkling with confusion as he did it. Obviously, it was easy to walk from the scene of a massacre whilst holding a prohibited weapon – if you were an Elf.

  As a human, Rowan found that he was not similarly blessed. ‘Put the weapon down,’ shouted a very angry-looking police officer who was pointing a gun straight at him. Rowan dropped the HK416 and followed the officer’s instructions; he knelt on the ground and placed his hands behind his head.

  He stared at Cam, and the Elf finally had the decency to look back over his shoulder. Their eyes met briefly before a scrum of police slammed into Rowan and pinned him to the ground.

  Leach had replaced the torch six times now. At least, Mark thought it was six. It might have been more. The agony that crushed him when the sword stabbed into his body made his concentration waver. All Mark could really think about was getting free. Every time the silver metal of the blade cut him, Mark screamed and thrashed and pulled as hard as he could at his right hand.

  It had taken a long time, but it was almost out. It hurt a lot; the flesh around the heel of his hand split and tore with the violent tugs. The skin re-formed instantly until the manacles were almost a part of him. Each time he yanked, chunks of meat were scythed away to fall to the floor. Leach apparently hadn’t noticed. Or just didn’t care.

  When the pale man had returned from whatever errand he’d needed to run, he had pulled the sword from Mark's body and become sadistically experimental. With the blade, Leach explored every one of his orifices; Mark felt it in his anus, tasted it at the back of his throat, and saw its tip flash into each eye. Leach cut out his tongue, sheared away his penis, and chopped off his fingers, feet, legs, and ears. He placed the sword between Mark's teeth and split his face into a gaping smile, then punched out his teeth with the pommel and smashed them with the razor edge after they grew back. In a frenzy, Leach smashed open his skull and tied his entrails around his throat to choke him. For one gruesome hour, he forced Mark to watch him go about his work whilst wearing his face; the monster had carefully sliced it off during a particularly painful fifteen minutes. Each time he inflicted a new insanity upon his prisoner, Leach stood back and watched body parts and flesh regenerate with fascination. Then he kicked Mark’s sundered body parts into a growing pile in the corner of the room and started all over again.

  The sword rammed back into his gut, and Leach jerked it from side to side to open a wound in Mark’s abdomen. Mark pulled his hand one more time. Skin ripped and came off like a glove. The bones in his fingers cracked and broke, and the limp, bloody thing that had been his hand slid free. Mark’s toes touched the floor. His hand straightened and healed. Clenching his fist, Mark brought it down as hard as he could onto the top of Leach’s head. The pale man’s rubbery skull gave slightly, as if there was no bone beneath the brittle hair. Mark lashed out with his feet and Leach fell backwards, leaving Camulus behind in Mark’s gut.

  Reaching down, Mark pulled the weapon free and lashed it towards Leach, who stumbled back out of reach of the weapon. Mark stood and glared at the pale man. ‘Come over here, you freak, and we’ll see how you like having this thing crammed up your arse!’

  Leach stared at him blankly and held his ground. Mark got the uncomfortable feeling that Leach was weighing up exactly how to get at him, like a cat with a slightly irritable canary. With his left hand still securely manacled, Mark was trapped. The sword was surprisingly light. He waved it at Leach again. The man didn’t even blink.

  After a few seconds of stalemate, Leach
began to undress. Mark stared at him, nonplussed. Leach pulled off his shoes and laid them down carefully, side by side. Then he removed the ragged, dirty suit jacket and the equally fouled pants and placed them delicately on top of the shoes so they wouldn’t get damp. He removed a shirt that had once been white and folded it neatly, laying it across his other clothes so that it, too, wouldn’t touch the filthy floor. He seemed completely oblivious to the large quantities of Mark’s blood that already stained it.

  Once Leach was naked, Mark could see exactly how weird he really was. His bulbous head sat atop a thin, androgynous body without nipples or genitals, or any other definition or muscle tone. His hairless torso was a rubbery white mass, covered in veins that looked purple in the firelight. His long, thin legs were bent in too many different directions. Leach hissed. His open mouth was round and wide and rimmed with crooked, yellow teeth. Fully open, it was far too big for his head; it reminded Mark of the big worms he’d seen in the movie, Dune.

  The similarity was even more pronounced when Leach began to change. He juddered, and his legs fused into one. His body engulfed his arms, and his torso began to elongate, reaching up to merge with his oversized head: his neck flattened out and flared slightly, forming a thick ridged saddle. What little hair the creature had disappeared, and his eyes and nose were consumed by blubber. Only the mouth remained. It became larger and rounder as his body stretched and began to thrash in white coils that glistened with slimy translucent mucus in the firelight. Thick veins throbbed angrily beneath marbled skin.

  It had changed its shape in seconds. What was something roughly humanoid was now a giant worm with a cavernous black mouth, lined with barbed fangs. A third of its twenty-foot length weaved upright in front of Mark. Its trunk was barrel thick.

  The thing darted its head in towards Mark, and he barely avoided it; he twisted his body around and it slipped past his face. It knocked him sideways on the way back, and he briefly lost his footing. He swiped at it with the sword and left a long gash in its sickly flesh. Leach hissed and coiled backwards into a corner of the room.