Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  Paris stared at him. ‘Really? The only chance we’ve got goes down the Swanee and that’s what you’re calling it?’

  The huge red face peered down quizzically at him. ‘Why art thou cross, Nipparis? Be that not the correct expression?’

  ‘Well, it’s probably not the one I would have used.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Grarf. ‘But I hath a large bum. Methinks ’twouldst be a large pain.’

  Paris rolled his eyes. The logic was almost as indisputable as Tergil’s. Although somehow not quite.

  Shadrak’s projected voice intruded into his brain once more.

  ‘Human,’ said the mage. ‘Be silent and heed the words of our sovereign.’

  Paris turned to face the leader of the Vanethria again. Blood-red eyes burned into him.

  ‘I,’ boomed another voice inside his mind, ‘am Zalgot.’

  The demon king obviously hadn’t mastered mystic telepathy yet. His mouth spoke actual incomprehensible words, which Shadrak’s powers evidently made Paris hear as English. He felt as if he was watching a badly dubbed film. One where the main character could lunge out of the screen and crush your head like a grape.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ lied Paris. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘I wanted to see humans,’ said Zalgot. ‘I wanted to see what you looked like. Not very impressive, as it turns out. But you do make good weapons. Weapons I will use to cause your own destruction.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Paris. ‘That’s why you stole the guns.’

  Zalgot sneered. ‘The fire-sticks? No. We fight one to one, sword against shield. Look at my hands. Our fingers cannot work your toy cannons.’

  Paris peered at the enormous clawed digits all around him and realised this was true. He was more confused than ever.

  ‘So why did your men take them?’

  ‘As trophies. What else? They have no value to us. Other things from your world are what I will use.’

  He waved towards his soldiers. An attendant brought him a grey circular object. Paris recognised it as the remains of one of Damien Renwick’s bombs.

  ‘This thing stored explosive energy, of a kind we do not possess. But Mandy tells us the fairies have worked out how to store magical energy. I will make them show me. I will use the same method to hold the sorcery of my mages. With these devices in the hands of my troops, I will attack the human lands with the might of an army of magicians. An army that will not be weakened by using its mystical power.’

  Paris’s confusion evaporated, replaced by mounting horror. The arms he’d brought into this world were about to be used against his own one. His wonderful rescue plan was going to blow up in his face. Literally.

  Zalgot grinned, displaying a mouth full of curved black teeth. ‘You look surprised and fearful. Good. Now you will die.’

  He clicked his fingers. The Vanethria soldiers moved forward, grabbing Paris and his companions by their tied arms. Vain attempts at struggling ensued. Vain even from Grarf, as half a dozen troops grappled him.

  Paris’s mind raced like it had never raced before. He thought about everything that had happened in the past week and everything he’d seen. He thought about his life being turned upside down. He thought about the trauma of coming through the portal and how his brain had tried hopelessly to understand it. His struggles to deal with magic, his attempts to be rational – all of that was abandoned now. It was time to do something completely illogical. It was the only logical thing to do.

  ‘Zalgot!’ he shouted. ‘I challenge you, as is my right. My right… as a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary.’

  The scuffling stopped and everyone stood stock still. Paris waited for the derisive laughter. None came. Instead a murmuring sounded around him.

  He leant towards Tergil.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he whispered.

  ‘They are confused,’ replied the elf. ‘They do not know what a “Constabulary” is, but you mentioned “Her Majesty”. They think you are of royal descent.’

  The leader of the demons held up his arms and the soldiers holding Paris released him. He felt a sharp tug as a knife cut through the ropes around his wrists.

  ‘Very well,’ said Zalgot. ‘You, human, will face me in single combat.’

  He smiled the smile of somebody about to tuck into their favourite meal. Paris stared at the enormous white body and realised what he had done. There was no going back now.

  The soldiers in front of the inspector held out their swords and spears towards him.

  ‘As challenger,’ said Shadrak, ‘you have the choice of weapons.’

  Paris turned round slowly, surveying the axes, clubs, machetes and other things he had never seen before but which all looked equally nasty. None, however, would help him in the slightest. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need them.

  ‘Well?’ asked Shadrak. ‘Have you made your selection?’

  Paris turned back towards him and nodded.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I choose: whisky.’

  51

  It had seemed like such a good idea. Zalgot’s strength wouldn’t do him any good in a battle where Paris was an expert – a drinking contest. True, the demon boasted a massive body, able to absorb more alcohol than him. And Paris was shattered, with only an hour’s sleep plus two large whiskies beforehand. But he had experience on his side. Lots of it. Then there was the contest’s format. Sit at a table brought out of the inn, swig a glass in one go, get up, stand unaided to prove you still could. Paris figured that moving the demon’s huge mass up and down all the time would cause him maximum discomfort and annoyance. So everything had been worked out, and biased in his favour. He thought. Until, that is, he discovered why Mandy stored crates of whisky in his attic. Zalgot had developed a taste for the stuff and it was now his favourite tipple. Plus the demon king, for all his bulk, was as supple as a Chinese gymnast and could leap to his feet like a three-ton gazelle. Paris gazed at the floor through bleary eyes. Having gulped down a whole bottle in twenty minutes, and with his own feet increasingly hard to even find, the drinking contest didn’t seem a very good idea any more.

  Eric slapped his cheek.

  ‘Come on, Mr Parrots,’ said the dwarf. ‘Keep going.’

  Paris felt the stinging sensation bumble its way slowly into his consciousness. He wondered if insisting his companions were cut loose had been a good plan.

  He looked at them, standing around his chair like a boxer’s cornermen. Nobody appeared to be holding a bucket in front of him, though. Probably sensible.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Temporary pause,’ said Cassandra. ‘They only brought out two bottles and you’ve drunk one each already. Gone to get some more. Mandy doesn’t look too happy about giving away his supply.’

  ‘Tough. I’d say that’s the least he can do.’

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Malbus, standing on the witch’s shoulder. ‘Focus! How many fingers am I holding up?’

  Paris stared at the black thing wobbling in front of him. He tried his best to think.

  ‘You’re a bird,’ he said. ‘Have you got fingers?’

  Malbus shrugged. ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘Right. In that case, seventeen.’

  The crow lowered his wing and puffed on his cigarette.

  ‘We’re doomed,’ he said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Tergil. ‘However, Malbus is correct; you have to be focused. Try to draw inspiration from history, or some of your great works of literature.’

  ‘Yeah, Boss,’ said Bonetti. ‘Books can change your life. You know which one had the biggest effect on me?’

  ‘No idea,’ replied Paris. ‘Was it Noddy Learns to Drive?’

  ‘No, Boss. It was The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer.’

  The words cut through the fog in Paris’s brain like a laser-guided lighthouse. Bonetti, reading the seminal tome on feminism? More amazingly: Bonetti, reading?

  ‘Are you having me on? When did this happen?’ />
  ‘When I was fifteen,’ said the sergeant. ‘My class were in Central Library doing work for a project. I went to the toilet and got lost. Ended up in the women’s section.’

  ‘Okay. So you just decided to read the most challenging book you could find?’

  ‘No, Boss. It fell off the shelf and broke my toe.’

  Paris stared at him. It didn’t help. Sometimes he couldn’t understand Bonetti when he was sober.

  ‘How the hell is that a life-changing experience?’

  ‘I missed the county rugby trials. So I decided to join the police.’

  Paris took a deep breath. The laser-guided lighthouse had been abruptly switched off. He happily let the fog wrap round him again.

  He looked up at Tergil.

  ‘Any other suggestions?’ he asked. ‘Ones which don’t involve libraries?’

  ‘Remember,’ replied the elf. ‘The fate of two worlds is in the balance.’

  Paris shook his head. Very slowly. ‘Won’t work. I’m not doing too good with balance at the moment.’ He turned to Cassandra. ‘Anything you want to offer?’

  ‘Would it help,’ she replied, ‘if I said how much I love you and believe in you?’

  ‘You were going to tell me that?’

  ‘Course not. Soppy rubbish. You’ve been watching too many movies.’ She winked. ‘Let’s just say there’s lots about me that you don’t know yet. And if you die, you’ll never get to find out.’

  Paris stared at her, smiling back down at him. He really would like to learn more about this mad woman. He was sure she was pretty underneath the panda make-up. At least, he thought he was sure. Right now he wasn’t certain of anything.

  His musings were interrupted as Eric slapped his cheek again.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Paris. ‘Will you stop doing that?’

  ‘Seconds out,’ said the dwarf. ‘Round two.’

  Paris glanced over towards the inn. A Vanethria soldier headed towards him, carrying a cardboard box in his enormous clawed hands.

  Three more demons ushered Cassandra and the others away as the inspector turned towards the table. The hulking figure of Zalgot glared at him across it. Paris took a sharp intake of breath and attempted to focus. It proved very difficult.

  The box was plonked down on the table. Twelve bottles of whisky peeked over the top of the cardboard. One was yanked out unceremoniously.

  ‘Bluhrgh,’ said the demon who carried it. Paris had undergone a crash course in their language over the past half hour and he now understood one word: drink. He decided this guy would require a slightly longer training course if he ever wanted to be a waiter.

  Two glasses were filled with golden-coloured liquid. Zalgot picked one up with great care, trying not to crush it. Swigging the contents in a single gulp, he placed the tumbler back down. The demon king spun round on his sofa. He bounded to his feet, arms held out wide in triumph. His soldiers cheered enthusiastically. Paris pondered. They hadn’t been too keen on the drinking contest at first, as it seemed to be lacking the requisite violence. Now, however, they were really getting in to it.

  Zalgot sat down, snorting. He grinned.

  ‘Bluhrgh!’ he demanded.

  Paris drank, knocking back the whisky in one go. He put the glass down, then peered towards his feet. The floor must be round there somewhere.

  He stood up, with all the grace of a sloth on Valium. The Vanethria soldiers booed and shouted what he assumed to be abuse. Paris sat down, smiling. At least he was entertaining the masses.

  Two more whiskies were poured. His smile evaporated. Though Zalgot still looked fresh as the proverbial daisy, Paris felt like compost. Concentrate, he told himself. He thought about Tergil’s suggestion, and tried to remember literary classics. Moby Dick came to mind, followed by Treasure Island, The Water Babies, Watership Down. It didn’t work quite as intended. He wasn’t inspired, but he really needed a pee.

  Zalgot snatched up one of the drinks and gulped it down. He belched. He leapt up to his feet, arms stretched out once again. The soldiers cheered. Their leader roared, throwing back his bull head as he did so. The cheering subsided as he coughed in mid-roar, folding his arms across his chest. He rocked for a moment. Then he toppled backwards like a falling tree, hitting the ground with a thud.

  A hushed silence descended. Zalgot lay motionless, like a beached beluga.

  Every pair of eyes in the square turned to Paris. He peered around the sea of shocked faces. All he needed to do was have one more drink then stand. All? He could hardly even see the tumbler and the floor seemed kilometres away. Paris gulped. He closed one eye and aimed his hand at the glass. He picked it up. A major triumph.

  He stared at the demon waiter.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Bluhrgh.’

  The soldier nodded, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Paris knocked back the drink. He turned meticulously away from the table. He had to get up, only he wasn’t sure his legs were actually working.

  Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, something told him to stand. Something? A voice maybe, an order. It told him to rise, insisted he move. Urged on by this silent command, Paris struggled to his feet. Defying the booze, defying nausea, practically defying gravity – he stood, by sheer force of will. Somebody else’s will, but that didn’t matter. He had won!

  He was vaguely aware of the groan from the demons surrounding him and the cheer from the other magical creatures behind them. Then Cassandra and Tergil came running towards him. Partly, he guessed, to congratulate him; but more, he hoped fervently, to hold him up.

  They grabbed him just before his legs gave way.

  Cassandra planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘You did it!’

  ‘You did indeed,’ said Tergil. ‘Well done. Would you like a celebratory drink?’

  Paris gave him the hardest stare he could manage.

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  52

  ‘There’s one thing about dwarves,’ said Cassandra. ‘They sure know how to party.’

  Paris couldn’t argue with that. In the four hours since the drinking contest, Jallengard’s main square had been turned into a huge carnival by its little residents. Dancing and singing filled the plaza, accompanied by banjos, drums and various instruments he couldn’t even begin to name. Stalls selling food had appeared from every side street, wafting cooking smells through the air. Drinking tankards clanged together like church bells after liberation. And why not?

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘The Vanethria have skulked off with their pointy tails between their legs. Folks here have got their town back. If I were them, I’d be pretty happy too.’

  Cassandra turned to face him.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘this is all because of you. You’re the hero.’

  Paris sighed. ‘Didn’t quite work out like I wanted, though. When Zalgot keeled over I thought he was dead drunk. Didn’t realise he was straightforward dead.’

  ‘I’d assumed you guessed too much alcohol would be fatal to demons?’

  ‘No. I work on logic, not instinct. I just hoped my stomach would be able to handle it better than his. For the first time ever, I had to trust my gut.’

  The witch peered at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve been working on that since we first sat down, haven’t you?’

  Paris smirked, but didn’t reply. Maybe she wasn’t reading his mind after all. Not completely, anyway.

  He surveyed the crowds.

  ‘The elves are a bit more restrained than the dwarves,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘Hanging round the edges like the boys at a school disco. I don’t think they do “wild abandon”.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Cassandra. ‘I see everyone else is joining in, though. Couple of unicorns over there. A faun by that cake stall.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘And somebody else getting into the swing of it too.’

  He pointed across the square towards the statue at its centre. A marble figure on horseback had become an impromptu stage. The magical cre
atures assembled before it cheered loudly as the guest performer finished his latest song.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ shouted Malbus, bowing. ‘That was “Don’t Stop Believin’”, which seemed kinda appropriate. Now I’m gonna do another number which really is suitable. It’s called “I Fought the Law – And the Law Won”. Damn right we did.’

  The crow began to warble again. Paris rolled his eyes. He had to admit, Malbus did have a good voice. But he definitely wasn’t inspector material.

  Paris looked down at his plate of meat and vegetables. Not exactly haute cuisine, but tasty enough rustic food. Being the hero of the hour meant that he received waiter service, at the very same table where Zalgot had been defeated. He felt a bit self-conscious about it, although he hadn’t complained. That would be rude. Besides, after all that whisky, he was glad of the seat.

  Someone tapped him on his shoulder. Tergil’s head appeared between him and Cassandra, as the elf rested his arms on the backs of their chairs.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How is everything?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Paris cautiously. ‘And yourself? Done everything you needed to?’

  Tergil nodded. ‘Your sergeant is on the way back to his family. Grarf is with him, so he can check on Rocky. As for other matters, well, let us simply say that the Duck and Dragon will be requiring a new landlord. The previous occupant has had to vacate the premises, due to a sudden bout of death.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘As to myself – I will be choosing my friends with more care from now on.’ He smiled. ‘You will be glad to learn that you are both included.’

  ‘I thought I might be,’ said Paris. ‘Because when I was drinking with Zalgot, I couldn’t even stand up at the end. Then a voice inside my head told me to move. Not in an unfriendly way, although it was ordering me. Something which I imagine is very like short-range mental control. Wasn’t you by any chance?’

  ‘Me?’ said Tergil. ‘My limited abilities only work on the simple-minded. I am sure that does not apply to you.’

  ‘Not normally, no. But what if my willpower was a bit blotto at the time?’

  ‘Even then,’ said Cassandra, ‘Shadrak would have spotted what he was doing and cried foul. You’d need to have a completely separate sorcerer there, someone who can hide the presence of mystical powers.’