Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  ‘You don’t mean…?’

  ‘Yes. Hoist by his own pet aardvark.’

  Paris watched Tergil across the table. As always, the elf’s expression gave nothing away. Even this wasn’t the whole story, though, he could tell. He sat up in his chair, resting his folded arms on the table.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘There’s this powerful battle wizard. He’s not exactly one of your favourite people. I get it. What I don’t get is why they were in the school at all. They obviously didn’t try to split us up in order to hit Rocky. So does anybody know what the hell they were doing there?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Grarf. ‘From what Tergil hath related, methinks thou didst face four low-ranking soldiers indeed. Verily, yon troops wert there as nought but a sacrifice.’

  Paris stared up at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Be not distressed, Nipparis. ’Tis a great honour for a demon to die in battle.’

  Paris studied Grarf’s huge, horrendous face, looking surprisingly pleased with himself.

  ‘Fine,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve worked out they’ve been sacrificed. I still don’t see why. This Vanethria unit hasn’t got many men, evidently not enough to attack here. So why throw away four of them? What did they hope to achieve?’

  Grarf’s expression became slightly less contented.

  ‘Ah,’ he replied. ‘This be a mystery to me.’

  ‘I do not understand it either,’ said Tergil. ‘However, I did notice all of the soldiers being very interested in one member of our team. You.’

  Paris felt confusion giving way to rising anxiety. This was the other thing he hadn’t been told, although in reality he’d known it all along. They were interested in him. Why? The previous theory of wanting him alive had evaporated when Pigface galloped towards him. Perhaps he should have kept the pistol, instead of giving it back to Randall. He shook his head. At least he’d got away and remained alive to think about it. Maybe finding out demons wanted to kill him would be the worst news he heard today.

  The staffroom door swung open.

  ‘You’re all here,’ said Superintendent Thorpe from the entrance. ‘Good.’

  She closed the door behind her, then turned to face the group.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to the chief constable,’ she said. ‘Even though the rescue at the school went well, he’s decided we can’t have anything else like that happen. So, as of tomorrow, the army will be patrolling the streets of Manchester.’

  Paris’s heart sank. Finding out demons wanted to kill him obviously wasn’t the worst news he would hear today.

  28

  Paris’s morning trudged into afternoon via a series of dispiriting activities. First was the phone call with Chief Constable Pemberton, an hour’s worth of banging his head against a brick wall. Second came lunch, with the station canteen’s best imitation of gruel. Third, the unbridled joy of paperwork. And, all through the day, the constant nagging thought that he still didn’t know what the hell the Vanethria were getting up to. Plus the even more constant, even more nagging thought that he’d not had a drink in what felt like eons. Time for drastic measures. His right hand moved towards the bottom drawer of his desk. The emergency bottle of whisky.

  Drinking on duty was, of course, a very serious matter. It had to be a decent single malt. Paris knew for certain he wouldn’t have caught the Fallowfield Arsonist swigging any old rubbish. He remembered the cryptic clues stumping him for weeks. Then, from just one afternoon boozing session, they all fell into place, like ice cubes in a tumbler. The inspector smiled to himself at the analogy. It seemed appropriate at the time – although only as a symbol. He’d never dream of watering down good Scotch.

  His fingers closed on the drawer handle, just as his office door swung open.

  ‘There you are,’ said Cassandra. ‘This is where you’ve been hiding.’

  She stood in the doorway, evidently analysing the scene before her. Paris sat motionless, suddenly feeling uncomfortable without really knowing why.

  Cassandra nodded towards his right arm. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  ‘Do what?’ asked Paris, with as much innocence as he could muster.

  ‘Go in your desk for the whisky. You’ll regret it.’

  Paris weighed up his options. Arguing that she’d got the wrong idea seemed completely pointless. She saw through him like he was a bottle.

  ‘It’s officially sanctioned by the force,’ he said. ‘It helps me to solve crimes. Usually I drink, and think, in the evening, in my living room. But sometimes it has to be done in the office. It’s basically taking your work home. In reverse.’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Cassandra. ‘You still shouldn’t go in the desk.’

  ‘Why? Because it’ll affect your opinion of me?’

  ‘No. Because the whisky’s not there.’

  Paris pulled open the drawer. He stared at the empty space. He looked up, puzzled.

  ‘The dwarves,’ said the witch. ‘You remember how they find things?’

  Paris groaned. Was there no limit to the number of ways magical beings could annoy him?

  Cassandra came into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. She sat down on the couch, her black robe flowing over it like a throw.

  ‘They were having a bit of a celebration,’ she continued. ‘After the fight this morning and the heroes’ welcome when we got back. Suppose they must’ve been quite touched. Humans can sometimes treat them pretty badly.’

  ‘Think I know why,’ muttered Paris.

  Cassandra beamed. ‘Glad to hear you’re concerned about my feelings, though.’

  Paris felt more uncomfortable than ever. He decided to change the subject.

  ‘You’ve kept yourself busy today then?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly have,’ replied the witch. ‘The chance to talk to Tergil, Malbus, all the rest of them – this is the research opportunity of a lifetime.’

  ‘Thought you were Manchester’s foremost authority on magical creatures already?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but you can never have too much info. I’ve found out loads more today. Family life, cultural diversity, economics. Incredible stuff.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as: did you know dwarves love chocolate?’

  Paris raised an eyebrow. ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ replied Cassandra. ‘You don’t look very happy, so I thought I’d cheer you up. Although dwarves really do love chocolate.’

  She placed her elbow on the couch’s armrest, cupping her chin in her hand.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked. ‘The chief constable, that’s my guess.’

  Paris nodded. ‘He’s not changing his mind. I’ve told him armed soldiers on the streets won’t make people feel more secure; it’ll make them more nervous. He’s not having it.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,’ replied Cassandra. ‘Doing this makes him appear decisive and commanding. Except you can’t just rustle up troops out of nowhere, it has to be planned. He’s probably been arranging this for a couple of days – maybe even before he said it’s up to you to sort things out. I guess if you had done, he would’ve simply called them off. He gets the glory whatever happens.’

  Paris looked at her across the desk. She was as smooth as a twenty-year-old malt and as sharp as broken glass. He pondered. Not as good as the ice cube analogy, but it would have to do for now. God, he needed a drink.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Plus it’ll make life more difficult for any magic creatures trying to get back home. I understand how the army works. They won’t just be capturing bad guys; they’ll be rounding up every demon, dwarf, druid and anyone in between. Pemberton doesn’t care about that either.’

  Paris sighed. He leant forward, resting his arms on the desktop.

  ‘What’s going on with you, then? Tell me what you’ve learnt from our assorted mystical visitors. Demons, for instance. Please don’t tell me they like chocolate.’

  Cassandra grinned b
ack at him. ‘I can’t imagine Grarf has ever tried it. Not something they have in the magic world and he’s never travelled to our one before. Everything’s a new experience for him. Well, he’s alright with buildings, because obviously they’ve got buildings over there. But remember the fuss he made before we got him in the van? He spotted a plane through the window earlier, watched it in absolute fascination. When my mobile rang he almost jumped out of his skin. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. He might’ve jumped out of his loincloth.’

  Paris stared back, saying nothing. Cassandra tilted her head to one side.

  ‘You’re frowning again,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘So Grarf didn’t know anything about our world before he came here?’

  ‘Bits and pieces, I guess. Why?’

  Thoughts raced around Paris’s brain as if someone had taken his figurative bottle and given it a damn good shake. He needed to control the maelstrom, to pull it back into order. He opened his mouth to ask another question – and was interrupted as an enormous bang sounded through the window.

  29

  Paris burst out through the station doors, with Bonetti close on his heels. They’d met in the corridor, Paris almost getting flattened in the rush. The pair stared towards the residential care home across the road and the column of black smoke rising up beyond it.

  ‘That’s coming from Withington Hospital,’ said Bonetti.

  ‘Go!’ replied Paris. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  The sergeant set off like a rocket, propelled by superbly fit thirty-five-year-old muscles. Paris’s forty-six-year-old smoker’s body followed on like a bat out of shape. He knew it was around four hundred metres to the hospital entrance. He also knew running would make it feel about four hundred miles. Nonetheless, he ran. It might be a red herring, a Vanethria ploy to pull them away from Rocky. But it could be a real disaster, with people being really dead. It was a chance he had to take.

  Alongside him raced numerous other officers and the pack of reporters who’d congregated outside the station. None of the journalists paid him any attention. All far too busy concentrating on the new story ahead of them, thought Paris. He realised his fifteen minutes of fame were probably over. Thank God.

  He passed the care home, glancing at the confused faces of nursing staff in the windows. They’d obviously got no idea what was going on. Paris felt very little sympathy – he’d been in that position for days now. Then on to the infirmary, across the enormous car park sprawling out beside it. The inspector’s apprehension grew as he moved between the rows of vehicles. The entrance lay round the other side of the large white building, where the dark cloud rose. It loomed menacingly over the hospital like NHS budget cuts. Paris kicked on, running as fast as he could manage. That is to say, he jogged a bit faster. But as he jogged, his brain sprinted.

  Cassandra reckoned Grarf had no knowledge of the human world. However, Tergil said the demons wouldn’t dare invade because they were scared of human weapons. The two things didn’t add up. Paris shook his head as he panted. The more he discovered, the more puzzled he became.

  He rounded the corner, skidding to a halt. His mind was yanked abruptly back to the task at hand. In front of the hospital reception he found a sea of people: some sitting, looking shaken; some lying down, being attended to by doctors. Police officers and members of the public tried to help, while other patients fled the scene as quickly as they could. Since they’d come out of the hospital in wheelchairs or casts, this wasn’t quite as quick as they wanted. And behind them all, indifferent to the mayhem, thick black smoke continued to billow up.

  Paris glanced around. In many ways, a typical scene after an explosion. Although, considering the size of the bang, nowhere near as bad as he’d feared. A few broken windows, several people evidently injured, but no dead bodies that he could see. No obvious sign of any structural damage to the building either. His panting mixed with a sigh of relief, albeit a somewhat bemused one.

  He peered towards the smoke, trying to see through the cloud and confusion. It appeared to be coming from one of the ornamental bushes which surrounded the reception area. Paris frowned. Why blow up the shrubbery?

  ‘Boss!’ shouted Bonetti, running towards him. ‘Think we’ve got a bomb. Found pieces of casing. Over there.’

  He pointed towards where Paris had been looking.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ve worked out that part. Any serious casualties?’

  ‘Not so far, Boss. Cuts and bruises mostly.’

  ‘Call the bomb squad down here. Get some men to check for any more devices. Carefully! And move all these people away, just in case.’

  Bonetti nodded then charged off. Paris groaned. On top of magical creatures, he certainly didn’t need terrorists. Especially ones who blew up flowers. One mob of lunatics was quite enough.

  Paris looked round to see where he might help. A young woman in a white lab coat came stumbling in more or less his direction, seeming a little stunned. Evidently a junior doctor. The white coat gave him a bit of a clue, as did the stethoscope round her neck. But the real giveaway was the badge on her lapel. Paris stepped in front of her, holding up his hands to make her stop.

  ‘Police,’ he said. ‘What happened here?’

  The medic looked up at him through dazed brown eyes.

  ‘A huge bang,’ she replied. ‘Very loud. Shattered some of the windows.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. Hardly an actual explosion, really. Just lots of noise.’

  Her expression cleared suddenly. She stared pointedly at him.

  ‘How can they do that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Paris.

  ‘How can you have such a big bang with so much smoke, then so little damage? It’s unnatural.’

  Paris hesitated. He knew what the next question had to be, even if he didn’t want to ask it.

  ‘Like magic?’ he said.

  The woman nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Who’d do this at a hospital? And right next to a police station.’

  Paris gritted his teeth. ‘Somebody who wants us out of the station. You stay here. Get yourself sorted out. I’m going back there.’

  He turned away, setting off towards his base. He ran as fast as his complaining muscles would allow, wheezing and puffing as he went.

  It was all a trick. A noisy, impressive-looking one, but still a trick. Attacking the school must’ve been the first phase, even if he didn’t understand the reasoning. Could it be meant to soften them up? Or maybe it hadn’t divided the police numbers sufficiently. This time almost everybody on duty had raced over to the hospital. Except for Tergil, Grarf and the dwarves, who remained in the station. Rocky was protected, so what the hell were the demons after? Perhaps they’d figured Tergil and co. would run over here too. He tried to work it out, to think of other possibilities. His mind shot off in several different directions, although one thought kept getting in the way. He came back to what Tergil said: in the school, the Vanethria soldiers had only been interested in one person. Him.

  Paris passed the care home again and crossed the road, still running. He stopped in front of the station, unable to run any further. He stood bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. His panting obliterated any other noise.

  The inspector stood up straight, taking a deep breath. He took one pace forward. As he did, explosions sounded all around him. Thick grey smoke erupted from everywhere at once. Paris staggered. He coughed, gasping for breath, as his nostrils caught the thick burning stench of the gas. His staggering stopped immediately. He froze as he smelled something else. Sulphur. Not the whiff of Grarf’s foul breath, nor the pong of the demons in the school. This was the smell from outside his house and the back of the station last night.

  ‘Inspector Paris,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Prepare to die.’

  30

  In the last few days Paris had seen five demons. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, bearing every poss
ible combination of horns, fangs and spikes. All of them were horrible. Most were terrifying. None, however, had prepared him for what he faced as he turned slowly round.

  It was a man. An angry-looking man, but one who seemed more odd than dangerous. Younger than the inspector, with untidy black hair above thick black eyebrows. He wore a crumpled brown suit, visible beneath a grubby lab coat covered in different coloured stains. And he stank of sulphur.

  Paris stared at him, baffled. He’d expected to find a deranged demonic killer. He’d got a slightly irate science teacher. What was this guy going to do – lecture him to death? Then again, appearances could be deceptive. If you wanted to plant bombs, you wouldn’t send an armoured monstrosity. You’d send someone able to blend in. He remembered Grarf’s revelation: not all the Vanethria are demons. Realisation dawned that this may be somebody far deadlier.

  ‘So,’ said Paris, trying to hide his nerves. ‘You must be Shadrak, the battle mage.’

  The man stared back, evidently not understanding the words. At least, it looked like a man. Paris couldn’t begin to guess what it really was. Plus it probably spoke the same indecipherable gibberish as the creatures from the school. “Inspector Paris, prepare to die” might be the only English sentence it knew. Great if you were a psycho killer, but not much use if you went hitchhiking. He waited anxiously as the figure opened its mouth to reply.

  ‘What are you talking about, moron?’

  It was Paris’s turn to be staggered. He managed it with no difficulty at all. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pathetic police distraction techniques won’t work on me. I know your game.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Calling me some stupid name. You’re trying to confuse me. Next you’ll be saying I’m one of those imaginary demons.’

  Paris raised an eyebrow. ‘Imaginary?’

  ‘I’ve seen the TV. Saying they’re running round causing trouble. I haven’t worked out what’s going on yet, but the government are obviously hiding something.’