Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  The big man ignored the assault and continued to squeeze. The most unsettling thing, Sam thought, was that apart from the initial scream by the tattooed man, the two fought in complete silence. They didn’t even grunt. Dead Eyes managed to drag his head back, and Sam caught a glimpse of white bone where more flesh had been torn away from the tattooed man’s face.

  Elastically, Dead Eyes managed to pull his right arm free, and he lanced a finger into the big man’s other eye. The tattooed man staggered backwards, temporarily blinded, but he did not cry out or relax his grip. If anything, he appeared to be squeezing harder, yet somehow Dead Eyes slipped through his grip like a greased balloon and dropped to the ground.

  Turning quickly, he threw himself back at the tattooed man. The big man seemed to have regained his sight. He caught Dead Eyes by the throat in his huge right hand and began to mercilessly squeeze the life from his opponent.

  Dead Eyes thrashed around, trying to escape. Both his hands lashed out, tearing the painted skin of the solid arm that held him up, causing long, bleeding lacerations. It was not enough; the tattooed man shook him like a terrier with a rat.

  It took about seven or eight hard jerks before there was a sharp snap, and Dead Eyes hung lifeless in the victor’s hands. The tattooed man casually threw the corpse against a set of railings at one side of the narrow street. It hit limply with a clang and slid to the ground. The tattooed man stumbled to one knee and shook his head again.

  Only a few minutes could have passed since Dead Eyes had walked towards Sam, though it seemed longer. He wondered idly what had happened to the first man: the man who had attacked him. The bastard must have run off, Sam thought exhaustedly. He could feel his heart slowing down. The gouts of blood from his throat were becoming sporadic and weak. He knew he was dying. There was a shout from somewhere back towards Quay Street.

  The big man got to his feet. Some of his tattoos wriggled up over the wounds on his arms. Others slithered up his neck, over his jaw bone and clustered around the orbit of his hurt eye. Seconds later they all snaked away, leaving behind clean, unblemished skin. Sam blinked. It must have been the rain, or maybe a mild hallucination brought on by loss of blood. It couldn’t have been real. The big man moved his left arm up and down. He didn’t have much of a range of movement. It didn’t flop in that unsettling lifeless way anymore, but it looked crooked and lame. His nose was bent almost sideways across one cheek. The kick to his face, Sam thought … but the injury looked old: healed.

  ‘What is going on here?’ a scared voice demanded from behind Sam. The tattooed man turned and ran in the other direction. Sam found himself staring up into the worried face of the taxi driver. ‘What on earth?’ the man hissed when he saw the state of Sam’s throat. ‘Hang on my friend, I will call an ambulance.’ He pulled out a mobile phone and dialled. Three sharp tones punctuated the storm.

  Sam closed his eyes for a second and did as the man said – he tried to hold on. He heard the taxi driver frantically request an ambulance and explain Sam’s injuries. Wet fingers clasped his, and he looked back up into the taxi driver’s concerned eyes. ‘They are on their way,’ he said as he squeezed Sam’s hand. Sam looked over to where Dead Eyes’ body should have been, and he felt a rush of fear when he saw that it was gone. Then he finally lost his battle with consciousness, and the world slipped away.

  The surge of magic had occurred a few moments ago. Cam had almost forgotten that he was drunk. He stood up and dusted himself off just as Elsa came from the room behind the bar to see what the commotion was.

  ‘What was that banging?’ she demanded like an angry mother to a brood of naughty children. The few regulars left in the bar stared doggedly into their drinks. ‘Come on, who was it?’

  ‘He had some kind of fit,’ the shabby man said with a hiccup, pointing at Cam. ‘Fell off his stool again. Probably all that antifreeze he’s been drinking. Rots the brain,’ he added confidingly.

  ‘You’ve been drinking your own antifreeze in here?’ Elsa demanded in a dangerous tone.

  ‘Of course not,’ Cam said indignantly. ‘I’ve been drinking your antifreeze all night. Look, I fell off my stool again, that’s all. Banged my head a bit. I’m okay.’ Elsa stared at him suspiciously for a few more seconds and then nodded her head. ‘I’ll have another Guinness while you’re here though,’ Cam said. He added a hasty “please” at Elsa’s venomous glare.

  With a fresh drink in front of him, Cam began to wonder about the surge of magic he had felt. Whatever caused it had been very powerful – possibly more powerful than anything left in the world today. As scales of magic went, the wave he had felt was somewhere below Hiroshima, but way above your basic cruise missile. Nowadays, it was rare to feel enough magic to power a spud gun. Oh, there were abilities that still worked, but they tended to be hardwired; natural abilities rather than in-your-face, throw-a-fireball, fly-by-night magic.

  Even the natural, ingrained abilities were beginning to fade. The magic was dying. That was a fact known to everybody able to consider such things. So, when a tsunami of magical fallout rammed through a bar wall with enough force to knock you off your seat, it was only natural to be curious.

  Cam’s head hurt, and he could feel a lump growing. He rubbed it absently as he considered all the other people who would be naturally curious: the two Courts for a start. He thought about going and having a look at what had caused the wave. Thinking of the two rival factions and who, and what, he might run into, Cam reassessed his options and took another drink. Besides, he could already tell that whatever caused the event had made no lasting impression. The magic was still faint and ephemeral; he was still going to die soon.

  Glumly, he picked up his drink and downed half of it. Then he belched. He heard the door open behind him but didn’t bother to turn around. He took another drink. As he put his glass back on the bar, Cam realised that the room was quieter than usual.

  There was rarely any conversation, but usually you could hear the tap of glasses hitting tables, or the rustle of a newspaper, or the crinkling of plastic bags. There was always an unhealthy cough or a wet sniff, or somebody wandering back from the stinking toilets in a half daze. Now there was nothing – no noise, no movement, not even breathing.

  Swivelling in his seat, Cam turned around. A very wet, very naked white man stood just inside the doorway. He was massive, just under seven feet, with heavily muscled arms and shoulders, and a narrow waist. The most immediate thing about the man, apart from his nakedness, was the vast number of green and blue dragon tattoos that writhed up his legs to his collarbone, wrapping around each other in swirling complexity. His face and head were covered with thick, brown hair that hung to his shoulders in wild, matted disarray.

  His beard fell to his chest, and appeared to have once been braided; now it was mostly unravelled. His left arm was crooked and deformed. The upper arm bent out at around twenty degrees, giving it the appearance of having three joints. Like a spider. It must have been broken and set badly. His nose looked like it had received similar treatment. It was practically laid across his cheek. Above that shattered mess, two bleak grey eyes scanned the bar from deep sockets, and Cam got the impression the man was searching for something. Then he realised with a flutter of panic that the blunt, harsh face was staring expressionlessly at him.

  With a sinking feeling, Cam turned back towards the bar and put his head down. He sensed the tattooed man walking towards him.

  ‘Nice tatts,’ said Tony the ageing biker, from his habitual seat near the door. The tattooed man did not reply. Cam could feel his presence behind him long before a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around.

  Cam looked up into those cold eyes. The tattooed man smelled of mud and rainwater. ‘You are an Elf,’ the big man stated. ‘I must find the Maiden of Earth and Water immediately. You will take me to her.’

  ‘Will I?’ Cam asked doubtfully.

  The tattooed man stared at him. ‘Speak the True Tongue, Elf.’ It was only then that Cam
realised the tattooed man was speaking in the ancient language of the Courts.

  ‘Look,’ Cam said in the True Tongue, ‘I can’t help you. I have no idea who you are …’

  ‘I am Grímnir Vafthrúdnir,’ interrupted the tattooed man.

  ‘Right, that’s wonderful. My name’s Cam. It’s very nice to meet you …’

  ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ Elsa demanded in English.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Cam said honestly.

  ‘He’s got no clothes on! Get him out, or I’m calling the police.’

  ‘Tell the human to shut her mouth, or I will shut it for her,’ Grímnir growled.

  Cam looked from Grímnir’s flat, bearded face to Elsa’s, which was only slightly less flat and bearded, and bright red with fury to boot. He decided he didn’t want to get between them.

  ‘What did he say?’ Elsa asked dangerously, unable to understand Grímnir’s words but getting the gist of them all the same.

  ‘Look,’ Cam said in English. ‘He’s a nut. He’s left the hospital. I’ll take him back, okay?’

  ‘What language is that?’ the shabby man demanded.

  Cam glared at him. ‘Swedish,’ he stated bluntly.

  ‘It’s not Swedish. Lived there for a few years. Definitely not Swedish.’

  ‘It’s Swedish, you drunken old bastard. Okay?’

  ‘Definitely not Swedish … it sounds more like archaic Irish Gaelic to me.’

  ‘You speak Gaelic?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the shabby man replied. ‘Why would I speak Gaelic?’

  ‘Then how do you know … oh, just fuck off, you dickweed.’

  ‘No need to be like that,’ the shabby man mumbled. ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Elsa barked.

  ‘We’re going, we’re going,’ Cam said, standing up and finishing his pint hurriedly.

  ‘Now!’ shouted the landlady.

  ‘Okay,’ Cam shouted back. He grabbed Grímnir by his huge right bicep – he didn’t want to touch the deformed arm – and guided him out into the storm. He was instantly drenched. Grímnir didn’t seem to notice the cold or the wet. ‘You arsehole,’ Cam said to the big man in English.

  ‘What was that?’ Grímnir demanded in the True Tongue.

  ‘I said, “What now?”’ Cam lied glibly.

  ‘Take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Cam said. He was thankful for the rain and the wind. There was nobody about, which meant nobody was going to ask any awkward questions about Grímnir’s nakedness. ‘We need to get you some clothes.’

  Grímnir looked down at his body. Then he looked up at the buildings around him. For a second, he looked uncertain. ‘You are an Elf, are you not?’ he asked. ‘I thought I sensed an Elf, but …’

  ‘Yes, I’m an Elf. Not much of one, but still an Elf. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Where is this place? It is all stone. And what is this hard thing that covers the Earth?’

  ‘It’s Manchester: the city centre. That’s a road … look, where exactly are you from?’

  ‘I have never heard of this Manchester. Where is the nearest Brigante settlement? I will find somebody there who can direct me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

  ‘Brigante? What’s a Brigante? Whatever, let’s get you back to my place. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry, and I’ve got some tequila, I think. We’ll get you warmed up, and then we’ll talk about our next step, all right?’

  Cam tried to tug Grímnir along, but he refused to be budged. ‘Why can I not feel the Earth’s life?’

  Cam stopped pulling and sighed. ‘The Earth is dying.’

  Grímnir stood very still for a moment as he absorbed this. Then he looked back at Cam. ‘You will take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water?’

  ‘No. But I know somebody who can point you in the right direction. Let’s get back to my place, out of this rain.’

  ‘First, I need to fix this,’ Grímnir said, shrugging his bad arm.

  ‘Fix it? What are you talking about?’ The big man ignored him and walked over to a lamppost. He held the knobbly part of his broken arm against it and then slammed his open right palm into his elbow. There was a crunch. Grímnir grunted. His left arm flopped down at a very unnatural angle, clearly broken.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Cam gulped, fighting down cheap whisky and Guinness. Grímnir reached around and took hold of his left elbow. Then he pulled his upper arm out sharply and began to grind it back up towards his shoulder. It was awful to look at, but it was the sound that made Cam double over and throw up all over the pavement.

  ‘That’s not fucking normal, man,’ Cam gasped, wiping vomit from his chin. ‘That is not right at all. You sick bastard!’

  ‘What is the matter? Speak in the True Tongue!’ Cam looked at the naked man incredulously. He was rotating his left arm at the shoulder, looking for all the world like a Viking strongman warming up to toss a caber, or whatever the hell they did.

  ‘You are one fucked-up puppy, my man.’

  ‘The True Tongue!’ Grímnir roared.

  ‘Fine, I’ll talk in your bloody language,’ Cam said in the True Tongue. ‘You masochistic twatscicle,’ he added in English.

  ‘What is “masochistic twatscicle”?’ Grímnir asked dangerously, mangling the unfamiliar words.

  ‘Eh? What? Erm, it means you’re … erm … a brave and honoured friend,’ Cam improvised. ‘Yeah, brave and honoured friend, that’s right. Look, I’ve just thrown up a good couple of hours’ solid drinking. I almost feel sober. Come on, I’ll take you back to mine. But no more … of that … whatever the fuck that was. And don’t fucking touch me … I’m not into that shit. Christ, I need a drink.’

  ‘It was necessary.’

  ‘It was not necessary. It was the opposite of necessary.’ Cam paused to think. ‘It was unnecessary,’ he finished with a satisfied nod.

  Grímnir stared at him silently for a moment. Then he reached up and gripped his broken nose between a thumb and forefinger. He wrenched it back into place with an awful crunch. ‘Oh, you utter, utter bastard!’ Cam groaned and threw up again.

  The storm was finally passing. It had lasted all night but now, with dawn only a few hours away, the rain was slackening, and the wind was dying down.

  Sarah stood at the bus stop beneath the railway bridge on Fairfield Street with her back to the cold brickwork, one stocking-clad leg set jauntily out ahead of her, her thin arms crossed beneath her sagging breasts. To her left she could just see Piccadilly Railway Station, a short walk past the edge of the bridge. To her right, the road ran on into the night; the street lamps struggled to illuminate anything farther than fifty feet.

  A gust of cold air leapt up from nowhere, a final throw of the violent weather. Chill currents ran up her ridiculously short skirt, to tickle at her crotch and the inside of her thighs with slimy furtiveness. Sarah cursed the weather for the thousandth time that night and checked her watch. It was nearly five in the morning.

  Sighing, she began to walk away from the stop. Soon people would be getting off at the bus stop to go to work in the city, or walking towards the station and the first trains of the morning. Sarah told herself that she was not ashamed of what she did, but deep down at the core of her, that bright little girl who had been loved by her mummy and daddy shuddered.

  In the darkness of the red-light district, she didn’t care who saw her. The other girls understood, the johns didn’t care, and the cops were all right if you didn’t take the piss. There was an economy here, and everybody knew their place. When the harsh light of day started creeping in, and normal people began to walk past … that was when she felt the weight of the years on her shoulders.

  She was twenty-four, but she looked forty. An addiction to crack cocaine had melted her flesh away, leaving her gaunt and scrawny. Her hair was lank, and though she had long ago ceased to notice it, she knew that the peculiar foetid stench of homelessness – a combination of mould
and stale sweat – clung to her in a miasma. Her teeth were yellow and crooked as were her fingernails, and wrinkles had been carved into her lumpy, broken face through weariness and self-loathing.

  Looking down at the ridiculous clothes she was wearing, Sarah stifled a laugh. Knee-high boots – some of the girls called them ‘slag wellies’ – fishnet stockings, a short denim skirt that flashed her black knickers whenever she walked, a white low-cut top that managed to show some cleavage with the help of a push-up bra, and a denim jacket. Mutton dressed as mutton, she thought to herself wryly. She went back to watching the street.

  Two men were walking unsteadily towards the Mayfield Station, the first completely naked and walking with obvious difficulty. Sarah goggled at him, and not even because he was wearing less than her, but because of how tall he was. The giant was bent almost double over the other man, long greasy hair tumbling down to hide his face. The second man was thin and pale, and dressed in a cheap blue suit that was drenched through. The dye appeared to be running. He appeared … slimy. There was something wrong about him, something that set her flesh to crawling and her hackles twitching on end. The man in the awful suit was supporting the naked giant, helping him along gently. Sarah felt her mouth drop open at the strange sight.

  Mayfield Station had been abandoned for years; rough sleepers used it all the time, but she had never seen a naked man get carted in there before. She felt a moment of concern for the giant – what if he had been drugged and was about to get raped or murdered by the other? The feeling seeped away almost as soon as she felt it. She had her own problems.

  As they turned into the old station, something the slimy man was holding glinted metallically under the street lights. Maybe a metal bar, she thought. She couldn’t be sure. The two men vanished out of sight before she could figure it out, and Sarah shrugged the mystery away and looked down at her watch again.