I say goodbye to the gift-wrapped mortuary and get out. I take the only door out of the garage and into the private quarters of the deceased Nylmeris. The floor is soft under my feet, a multitude of coloured carpets cover the surface. Wall lights automatically come on when I walk past them. The rooms are extremely spacious. The interior decorator didn’t scrimp on the furniture, nevertheless the place has an austere feel to it, spartan even. One can see at a glance that it is—that it was—the apartment of an old-style military man, more accustomed to camps than walls.
I waste no more time poking around and focus on finding my way to a well-known area of the spire. I ignore a couple of dead ends and eventually get to the enormous training room, it’s deserted. Cautiously, I cross it in the direction of the stairs I noticed yesterday. While I’m approaching the spiral staircase I hear muffled sounds of revelry, confirmation of my suspicion that the stairs lead to the orgy room. It’s Sunday night, the perverts are probably having a whale of a time. I instinctively sink deeper inside the hood as I stealthily pad across the floor. Halfway up the stairs I can already identify separate voices, moans and carefree laughter. At the top there’s a bare ante room, a reception area for those intending to join the immense fornicatorium. I warily peep inside.
It’s difficult to work out if that mass of legs, arms and gasps is composed of seven or eight individuals, but in any case it appears to be too busy to concentrate on anything but itself. Although the room is heaving with knots of depraved immortals, only the wild heap near the entrance could potentially spot me, the others are too far away to see me if I slink through the shadows along the length of the wall. At least, too far away to notice anything unusual about a tightly-fastened elf cape.
A few seconds to wait for the right moment. Yeah, okay, I’m not averse to watching the action. An elf orgy is not the kind of thing you see on TV.
I shake my head to drive out a sudden feeling of sexual arousal, and pull my cape around me.
Right. I’m off.
Walk briskly, but don’t run.
Don’t look at anyone, go straight on.
Close to the wall.
Don’t break into a run.
Halfway there, you’re doing well.
There’s the hall that leads to Valan’s office.
Shit! One of those glowing globes is coming towards me, to light the way.
I speed up.
Don’t run.
A cheery voice greets me in Elvish.
I respond with a wave, the light is getting closer.
A few hurried steps…
I turn the corner, the globe appears to forget about me.
I quickly retrace the route, from here onwards it’s still very fresh in my mind, as far as his office, shunning any interest from individuals wearing only their birthday suits. It’s a good job that elves don’t believe in privacy within their own environment. I haven’t seen a single door in the living quarters at the top of the tower, but I imagine that for a family who spends their free time shagging the very idea of intimacy sounds vaguely ridiculous. The odd curtain here and there, just to keep the draughts out. Like this one that now separates me from the patriarch. I breathe in a deep lungful of oxygen. I part the curtain and go inside.
Valan is at his desk, bent over a large book, he’s writing in it with a flamboyant quill, it looks like a peacock feather but I bet it’s phoenix.
“You wallowed in your vendetta a good while, Nylm.” He greets me in Elvish, without looking up.
“Sorry Daddy, there was a hitch,” I answer in the Common language, just the right side of irreverent. I have to come across as unscrupulous, determined, confident of pulling it off.
The sound of my voice causes the nib to skid, smudging the elf’s elegant copper-plate handwriting. To begin with he locks his eyes onto me, while keeping his head down. Two spears of fire enter my body, almost causing me physical pain. Then he straightens up, his lips pressed together like an old scar, his eyes reduced to oblique cracks, his jaw clamped.
“What has become of my descendant?
“Terribly sorry, but he didn’t make it, your Excellency.”
He stands up in a burst of fury.
“You miserable, insignificant little creep, clouded by the dust of Leng! What sordid felony allowed you to cut down such a refined example of military prowess, a soul so noble as to outdo even myself in the art of the blade?! The same which has rendered you so very fearless that you even dare to imagine showing yourself in my presence, without even prostrating yourself, your forehead to the ground and begging for mercy, indeed you pollute my air with arrogance! Phrenasthenia, I call it!”
I let him vent his confused fury, also because I haven’t completely understood what the fuck he’s banging on about, and I rummage about in my bag while I walk towards the desk. I take out Inla’s manuscript and gently place it on the desk, on top of the one he was writing in and catch sight of the change in handwriting that marks my arrival.
“Oh come, come Excellency. We both know what you’re capable of doing so as to see another dawn-less day.”
Valan sits down again, his murderous instincts come down a notch. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still livid, but it’s more contained.
“I demand that the body be returned to our people.”
“He’s downstairs, in his house. With the blonde and Cohl.”
“You are aware that those two unsuspecting urbanities are allowing you to continue to soil my abode. Nevertheless, I wonder if you are so wicked as to delude yourself that they can sufficiently amend the infamy you blatantly champion.”
Right, at last he’s ready to talk reasonably. I was certain that the old fox wouldn’t have given in to emotion for very long. No, that’s not true. To be honest, I wasn’t certain of anything at that point.
“I am aware of that, Excellency.”
“So, are you here to taste the icy metal in the dry clutches of the Pale? Or, alternatively, your delirium is such that you have reached the heights of childish imaginings and you are persuaded to challenge me and emerge the victor?”
“No, Excellency, neither of those.” I’m smiling. Okay, it’s more of a half-smile.”
“Then speak, irritating upright worm!”
“Does your Excellency know what a scanner is?”
“Technological rubbish for reproducing images on electronic calculators.”
“And the internet?” I allude while stroking the jacket of the book.
His face turns puce.
“Even a mediocre user of magic practices such as yourself should know that an enchanted scroll contains far more than a photographic image can capture.
“Oh, of course. But a venerable archmagus like yourself knows equally well that sometimes, it’s just enough to provide a few ideas. Particularly when the spell is supported by extensive commentary… I’m sure that some Lich or another will get the picture. Or perhaps, I don’t know, a brilliant porcine shaman…”
“That’s enough!” The idea of being humiliated by an ogre enrages him. “I can imagine the rest. In the meanwhile, name your price, vile extortionist.”
“Two hundred thousand, in cash, now. Then I’ll disappear along with the files.”
“That’s all? You have extinguished the blood of my blood in order to beg for a few coins?”
“It might be a trifling amount to you, but not to me. And then, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“I have to be officially dead. Nobody must come and look for me.”
Here we go. Valan is giving his chin a massage, in search of the catch. Because it all looks too easy, doesn’t it? I’m putting my head on a platter. I’m practically beheading myself with my own hands. But the old man is as angry as hell, and he thinks I’m completely off the rails. After all, what harm could it do him, letting me get out of here alive? Like he couldn’t have me bumped off tomorrow if he felt like it. He’ll have to send someone to make sure that the information gets cancelled, but maybe I
’m so stupid as to save him this job. Officially dead, in the end, it means that he could torture me whenever it takes his fancy, if icing me isn’t enough. Come on caryatid, you’re king of the world. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.
“And so be it.”
He’s actually fallen for it.
At the click of his fingers an ethereal silhouette with elusive features appears. In his native language he instructs it to bring what I have requested. While we wait I can’t bear the sight of his eyes, brimming with hate, despite my feeling of exuberance at having almost got away with it. He’s too… ancestral, too malevolent. Interminable minutes of cruel silence, squashed by his divine influence. I can’t breathe, a visceral feeling of unease is rising within me. An uncontrollable desire to throw myself at his feet and implore forgiveness, reveal my bluff, stab myself and beg to be pitied…
MAGIC!
I stick my hand under my cape and summon the Altra, which immediately vibrates and hums.
The claws of terror produced by his magic release my flesh and leave me panting.
“You’re feisty, for an inferior being. Not as feeble as I thought. Perhaps in some way this may redeem Nylmeris from his dishonourable fall from grace.”
The gun returns to its dimension, to safety. It seems I was wrong about weapons in the tower.
“Let’s be honest, Excellency. The colonel was out of his mind when he killed your daughter.” I don’t want to let him develop that suspicion by provoking him. Victory is in my grasp, I can’t let him screw me over on the finishing line.
“Do not challenge my benevolence, you’re nothing more than a parody of a sentient being.”
The mysterious servant reappears with a brown briefcase in his ghostly tentacles. He opens it in front of me, so I can check the contents. I flick through one of the eight wads of notes, mostly because it’s what the film script demands more than because of a lack of faith. Satisfied, I close the case and take hold of it.
“It’s been an honour doing business with you, Excellency.” I perform a little bow.
“I struggle to say the same, you blackmailing filth.”
Without further ado, he teletransports me to the entrance of the tower, right in the middle of the rubbish bins. I don’t know if he intentionally made my journey as unpleasant and disorienting as possible, but after I trip over I don’t know what, I upset a heap of rotting organic waste matter, and my usual queasiness develops into three rounds of projectile vomiting. Funny old gimp at the top of his gigantic dick. Now it’s my turn to play a prank on him.
I get rid of the revolting cape stained with the half-digested sandwich I had for lunch and stagger off to find my car. I leave the immediate area around the tower and make off top speed towards a nearby park I noticed on my way up. It doesn’t take me more than thirty seconds, but I need to keep a safe distance. In any case, I can’t leave it any longer as I they might discover the explosives. One last glance at the building, through the window that makes everything look yellow.
I take out a detonator and hold it at both ends.
In the middle, it is slightly thinner, just like a domino.
The fracture line, the primer.
The goal.
I snap it
A flash reflects off the clouds, the blast arrives a couple of seconds before it. It’s the foam, someone explained to me… I can’t remember who explained it to me. Odd.
Even before the sound of the first phase reaches me, the second stage of the explosion shatters the one-eyed tower, forcing me to shield my eyes from the light. After the foam comes actual beer. A deafening roar makes the car windows rattle, which, so far, are standing up to the onslaught. My ears ring when I come out from behind my elbow.
The sky itself is ripped apart, there’s a huge hole between the stunned clouds. Fragments as big as trucks zip through the sky and rain down on the city like bombs. Explosions are happening all over, collapsing buildings, tongues of fire blister the air. I think I can see humanoid figures waving their arms in panic at a huge piece of the structure heading straight for another elf tower. It bounces off, explodes and causes even more devastation when it collides with the magic shield. While the asses explode in a red cloud. A meteorite lands a dozen metres away from me and forms a gigantic burning crater, dust and debris blanket this infernal spectacle of death.
But it’s the chilling, savage roar of vendetta from the crater which makes me move.
I slam the car into reverse without looking where I’m going and run over something in my haste.
The smaller pieces of debris rain down like granite hail, denting the roof of the car, cracking the windscreen, and ripping the radio aerial off.
Pedal to the metal, the car goes into a tail spin.
I drive from memory in the dust cloud towards the ramps, dodging the rubble from the Lovl tower embedded in the ground. I keep having to slam the brakes on and change direction to avoid holes in the road and collapsed buildings.
And I’m off in a new direction.
Tonight we’re going to settle all unfinished business.
The gods are with us.
The city has been plunged into utter chaos. A state of total madness, unusual even for this termite hill stifled by darkness. I drive slowly amongst fires and looting as though they are nothing to do with me, as though they aren’t even there. I watch a team of firefighters being swept away by an enormous elemental coming out of the ground. It looks for all the world like a football fan who missed the world cup because his mother-in-law made a surprise visit. When a living fist of rock smashes a fire engine with the force of a truck, it flies into the air and collides with a building like a bag of rubbish thrown out of a speeding car. No towers higher than one kilometre are still standing because the architect was clever, particularly if it was built at the beginning of the Middle Ages. A certain level of shrewdness is required. Of the magical variety. Like a few hundred elementals anchored to the structure. Obviously, after a few centuries of forced servitude. The Academy would have had its work cut out trying to secure all the elementals I had accidentally freed.
Traffic light.
Red. For some weird reason, it feels right to stop. The collective lunacy has penetrated the cracked windows of my car, it has eaten into my brain which is soaked with a combination of adrenaline, drugs and exhaustion.
Green. But I’m too busy. A bunch of looters has knocked through the window of a white goods store. I stupidly watch a housewife in her nightie and slippers, curlers in her hair, come out of a bombed-out shell of a building clutching a microwave oven to her saggy bosom as though it was her baby. It’s Redemption Day for Mrs Anybody, too. Today she finally gets her longed-for microwave. The shards of glass crunch underneath her pink slippers. Maybe they were red once and they’ve faded.
Yellow. A guy wearing boxer shorts and a vest approaches Mrs Anybody. His pot belly produced by his desk job peeps out from underneath. He too has always dreamed of owning a microwave oven, it seems. There are lots in what remains of Lumo Super-Saver.
Red. But he wants the one Mrs Anybody’s got. If she’s holding onto it so tightly, reasons the office worker, it must be the best one. There’s no time to look for another one. Maybe they’ve all gone, and he’ll be left empty-handed. He’s already got one, but what does that matter? Everybody’s hitting the jackpot tonight, and he’s not going to be the only one to lose out. He goes up to Mrs Anybody and tugs at her baby, but she’s a good mother and doesn’t let go. She tells him to go and find a baby of his own.
Green. He pushes her to the ground, she falls but doesn’t let go of her baby. She tries to crawl away. Mr Office Worker doesn’t have time to waste and spots an iron rod there on the ground. I start laughing. It’s like one of those jokes that always makes you laugh even if you already know the punch line. In fact, he picks up the piece of metal and approaches the woman.
Yellow. Mrs Anybody raises an arm to protect herself when Mr Office Worker in his vest brings the rod down. There’s a
dull sound as her bones break. I can’t hear it with my ears but I can hear it in my brain. She screams. Oh I bet she wished she’d had an abortion now. Too late for that, fat cow. Mr Office Worker doesn’t do things by halves. He’s determined to win the case for custody. His lawyer strikes again, this time there’s no resistance from her arm. Mrs Anybody tries to drag herself away, and, like a slug leaving a trail of slime, she paints a sticky vermillion trail in her wake.
Red. Something has exploded on the other side of the street. An annoying cacophony of car alarms starts squealing, but I can’t afford any distractions. Not now, not during the key moment of the programme. This extraordinary reality show which is being broadcast onto my window. The man is looking at the housewife, his face is deadpan, engrossed. He can’t understand. He really can’t understand why this overweight woman won’t let go of her prize. I’m still laughing, and I laugh harder. Because he has to aim very carefully if he doesn’t want to hit the microwave. The bleeding fat woman is lying on her back, like a stranded whale on the beach, and she is protecting herself with the electrical appliance.
He takes aim.
Splat!
Her arm, the one that is still intact, continues to tremble, even if Mrs Anybody’s skull is completely smashed in. Like Inla: in actual fact, it wasn’t the blows to her head that killed her, it was the unborn child. Ring composition.
Green. I can go now. I deserve my baby too. It’s right there, on the passenger seat, inside the briefcase. I look at it lovingly.
The windscreen abruptly explodes, the force of the collision makes my head bang against the steering wheel. I find myself thinking that seatbelts save lives, while my body doesn’t appear to be responding to orders. The car horn joins the car alarms. Out of the corner of my eye I can just see the dance of flames devouring the umpteenth store for third-rate customers. I would like to lift my head and put an end to this infernal racket abusing my sensitive soul. I’m still in the mood for cracking jokes.
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 28
