‘I don’t need anybody,’ Rowan interrupted.
Sergei’s voice rose sharply. ‘Stop being an idiot, boy! Mr. Jones has money, weapons, men … I have worked for him for some time, and I have discovered him to be as ruthless as he is cunning. You need him. You have seen what we are up against, and you know that on your own, you will get both you and your sister killed. Patience here is necessary. He will come up with a plan, and we will execute that plan with military precision. Do you understand?’
Rowan sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s just … it’s my sister is all.’
‘I know, my boy,’ Sergei said. ‘You have to be realistic about these things. Simply running in and gunning down anything that moves would be suicide.’
Outside the door, Mark smiled thinly to himself. Then he stepped into the kitchen. Rowan was pacing around with a grim expression on his face. Sergei was sitting on a stool at the black granite breakfast bar. Both men turned to face him.
‘It’s time,’ he said flatly. ‘Equipment is in the garage. I’ll meet you both there in five minutes.’ He turned to leave.
Rowan’s voice stopped him. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked, his steel tooth glinting.
‘We’re going to run in there and gun down anything that moves.’ He absorbed their silence for a moment, and then he walked from the kitchen.
‘Blood and spit,’ the Tattooist said. ‘That’s what you’ve got to watch out for. You Elves, at least.’ He looked at Dow and narrowed his flaming eyes. ‘The infection is carried in their blood and spit. The Jötnar are vulnerable too, but the spells on Grímnir’s body will protect him.’
‘What about you?’ Dow asked.
‘I have never been exposed, and neither have any of my kind.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not know if I can be turned into one of those things, and I prefer not to find out. Blood and spit – do not let them bite you; do not get any of their blood in an open wound, in your mouth, in your eyes. You use weapons that cut and spray blood – it is a miracle that none of you have been infected already. Even that monstrous thing the boy carries over his shoulder is dangerous.’ Cam stroked the shotgun protectively and pulled a face. The Tattooist deigned not to notice. ‘Just one drop of blood in a tear duct is enough. That is why guns proved so ineffective … they spread the infection.’
‘I knew all of that. I was hoping to sneak us through. I anticipated meeting one or two ORCs. But there was an … incident and the horde swarmed. We fought our way clear. Grímnir has been leading. He has borne the brunt of the blood splatter,’ Dow said. ‘If he is immune, as you say, it explains how we survived,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘That makes some sense, but you were still very, very lucky. If you ever have to come this way again, you must all wear scarves around your faces, and keep any open wounds covered. Since our path leads in another direction, I think we can do without.’
‘We are not going back?’ Grímnir asked.
The Tattooist said, ‘No – there is a Ring in a set of rooms across the hallway. We will use that to enter The Tower at Dusk.’
‘And what then?’ Cam demanded.
‘We must find Camulus and kill Cú Roí,’ Grímnir said.
‘Can’t we kill him without the sword?’ Dow asked.
‘No. Cú Roí is special,’ Grímnir said wearily.
‘He is as close to being truly immortal as is possible without being deified,’ said the Tattooist. ‘His offspring – the Barghest – are tough but can be killed using conventional methods, assuming you are able to find a part of its body that can receive a mortal wound. A Barghest doesn’t have a heart; its tentacles pulsate to carry what passes as blood around its body. Its brain matter is spread through every appendage, making each one almost independent from the rest. Cutting a few away won’t really bother it, and without destroying all of them, you cannot destroy its brain.
‘There is a bundle of nerves above its mouth that will slow it down somewhat if you breach it, but even that won’t kill one. The worm-like mass that the tentacles surround is just a big stomach. It expels waste through its skin as acidic slime, and it has few other organs. It is a perfect organism – very hard to hurt.
‘Camulus will kill them, as it will kill anything else that carries fairy blood. Otherwise, they need to be completely destroyed. Fire is always the best way, or short of that, massive trauma. If they grow too big, though … well, then you’ve got real problems.
‘The Therians – those that are bitten by Cú Roí – are even harder to kill. They are shape-shifters, and completely invulnerable to physical harm. Anything that is cut away simply grows back.’
‘So they can’t be killed?’ Cam asked in dismay.
‘Anything that walks can be killed if you know how,’ the Tattooist said flatly.
‘Fire,’ Grímnir said. ‘It is the only way to be sure. Fire will kill them, but they need to be burned to dust or they will come back. It is their bones that prove tricky – the flesh will burn away quickly enough, but their bones need to be destroyed as well, otherwise they will regenerate. Camulus will kill them as well.’
‘We need the sword then,’ Dow stated.
‘Yes.’
‘So, we go through to The Tower at Dusk and find the Maiden? Just like that?’ Cam asked.
‘Yes,’ said the Tattooist. ‘We must be careful, though; your kind are still unwelcome in The Tower at Dusk.’
‘Well, your kind aren’t really welcome here either, Ifrit,’ Dow snapped back.
The three of them began to argue about the politics of the Courts. Bored, Cam wandered back through to the kitchen. He unlocked the sturdy door and walked into the main entrance hall. The dawn’s light still spilled through the arch at the end of the room, and he made his way towards it.
Rays of light lanced down, catching particles of dust that spun and whirled on invisible convection currents in a crazed dance. Cam could smell clean morning air and the fresh tang of vegetation. The light caused his eyes to water as he stepped from under the arch, and he realised he had been in darkness for far too long.
Wiping away tears, he opened his eyes to the dawn’s rosy twilight and his heart leapt. The balcony jutted out from the side of The Tower like a fat lip. Looking up, Cam could see that there were other, similar balconies rearing out over the abyss above him. He could not see the top of The Tower – it was lost in a haze of wispy white cloud, rippling in the dawn sun. Large windows speckled the grey building with black dots.
Grass crinkled under Cam’s feet as he moved slowly towards the edge of the balcony. To his right and ahead of him the lawn glittered, emerald green scattered with the white of daisies. To his left, a large copse of trees – practically a forest – rose in dark profusion. The boles were evenly spaced, and light filtered down into the undergrowth in an intricate lattice.
Easing his way to the edge of the balcony, Cam leant out and looked down. He could not see The Tower, but other balconies were just about visible until they were lost in the rough sea of cloud that eased its way out to the horizon in soft waves. He pulled his head back and inhaled the sweet scent of morning dew and pollen. The sun was a swimming ball of fire, half-clothed in vapour, but rapidly, eternally burning its way through. Closing his eyes, Cam lifted his head to the rising sun and enjoyed its warm caress on his face.
After a moment of intense peace, he turned and rested his back against the low balustrade of thick stone, set to prevent an unwary – probably drunk – Elf from falling into the abyss. There was speculation that to fall from The Tower would be to fall forever.
Gazing up at the incredible piece of architecture, Cam was awed by how big it was. Looking left and right, he could see no curve to The Tower, and the edges were lost in more of that ubiquitous frosting of morning cloud. He shook his head and tried to fathom how a race that could create such a thing, wielders of magic that could support this impossible place, had come to such a low: begging for magic from a man sucked through time, w
hile zombies rampaged through the basement.
A movement caught the corner of his eye and he looked up. One of the high windows – nothing but a black speck against the stonework – had split in two. Cam frowned in consternation. The black speck was moving steadily down from the window like a dark teardrop slipping down a corpse’s cheek. Another one followed, and another, until a steady stream, like an army of ants, was descending the side of The Tower. Cam squinted, trying to make out what the strange phenomenon was.
Realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. He stiffened involuntarily, and a cold wave broke in his stomach. The lowest speck was out of sight behind the trees that rose up against that side of the building. They were coming onto the balcony. Cam looked for the door back into The Tower. He was surprised at how far away he was. He began running. As he did, he took a deep breath and screamed.
‘They’re coming,’ he shouted as loud as he could. He reached the arch that led into the Tattooist’s residence at a flat-out sprint, screaming through burning lungs all the while. He stopped at the threshold and looked back over his shoulder. Lurching towards him at an incredible speed came the Death’s Head zombie. A hundred other ravaged monsters loped behind it.
Cam fled into the safety of the building and ran quickly to where his two companions were still arguing with the Tattooist. ‘They’re here – they’re coming. They crawled down the side of The Tower like a bunch of spiders!’
‘What are you talking about?’ the Tattooist demanded irritably. ‘This place is impregnable. The door could hold off an army.’
‘They’re coming down the fucking walls,’ Cam screamed, spittle flying from his lips. ‘They’re on the balcony.’
A great wail rose from beyond the door and Cam jumped. Then he spun and slammed it shut. He began piling chairs, and anything else he could find, up against the door. The others watched him, dumbfounded. Dow was the first to react. He jumped to his feet and pulled his gauntlets on. His face was flat and expressionless. Grímnir was only a second behind him.
‘What are you doing? Didn’t you lock the other door?’ the Tattooist asked. Cam didn’t answer. ‘Damn it,’ the Tattooist said. ‘Damn it!’ he screamed. ‘It’s built to withstand an army, and you didn’t bother to lock it! I knew this would happen!’
‘Well I’m sorry,’ Cam screamed back at him, ‘but I had other things on my mind. I mean Christ, you gave me that lecture about building your own fortress of fucking solitude, why didn’t you think to put locks on all the doors?’
‘Because there wasn’t any need! The defences are more than adequate if you bother to use them. Numbskull! Fool! Pea-brain!’
‘Wanker – yeah, I’ve got it,’ Cam panted as he thrust a sideboard against the door. A bang from the other side of the door caused the clutter of furniture in front of it to shudder. ‘It’s that one that looks like fucking Skeletor. It’s smart; it ducked when I fired the shotgun on the bridge, and it worked out how to get down here. That’s the one we’ve got to worry about.’
‘I think it’s best to worry about all of them,’ Dow said.
‘You brought them down on me, you imbeciles,’ the Tattooist screamed again, his eyes flaring painfully bright with white fire. A flayed arm smashed through the window. A thing with no lower jaw glared balefully at them, attempting to climb through the narrow aperture. Grímnir walked over calmly and slammed a huge fist into its temple, crushing its skull. It flopped down the side of the wall, half in and half out of the room. The creatures outside pulled at the now inanimate corpse.
‘Is there another way out?’ Dow barked at the Tattooist.
‘Of course there is. If we continue through this suite of rooms, there’s a back way out. But it would be better to cross the hall.’
‘How can that be better?’ Cam asked. ‘I vote for the way that doesn’t take us through a mob of dead cannibals with compulsive eating disorders.’
‘Because that route will take us back into The Tower,’ the Tattooist said. ‘I don’t know where the nearest Ring is from there. The Twisted would hunt us through the corridors, run us to exhaustion like a pack of wolves.’ His voice went quiet; introspective. ‘And there will be more of them. Many more, waiting in the darkness. Waiting for us. And they are hungry.’
Cam actually gulped. ‘We need a Ring,’ Dow said. ‘It would take us out of here, and we need to get to The Tower at Dusk anyway.’
‘There is a Ring; the one I mentioned,’ the Tattooist said. ‘That’s why we have to cross the hall. It’s in a room on the other side.’
‘Then that’s where we are going,’ Grímnir said.
‘In that case, we go up through these apartments, and then we go across the gallery and into the rooms on the other side. We can lock the door behind us,’ the Tattooist said looking pointedly at Cam. ‘It’ll buy us a few minutes, but the door at the base of the stairs is open. They’ll find their way in sooner or later, but we should have enough time to get to the Ring. It’s only a few rooms further on.’
‘You really want us to run across that hallway?’ Cam asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t mean to sound awkward, but there are a hundred zombies out there.’
‘Well that’s not my fault, is it?’ the Tattooist hissed.
‘That place must look like a house party in Hell right now, and you want us to walk through it?’ There was an edge of hysteria to Cam’s voice.
‘Aren’t you listening, you imbecile?’ the Tattooist snapped. ‘There’s no alternative. If we run into The Tower they will eat us. If we wait here … trust me, those things are patient. We’ll starve before they give in, and that’s assuming they don’t get in here.’
As if to prove the Tattooist’s point, the dead zombie disappeared from the window and another, this one with a hole the size of a teacup in the side of its face, took its place.
‘The Tattooist’s right,’ Dow said. ‘There’s no alternative. We’re going to have to fight our way to the Ring.’
‘Oh, that’s just peachy,’ Cam said glumly. He looked around and spotted his shotgun depressingly close to the snapping jaws of the zombie that was crawling through the window. He snatched it up and pumped a shell into the breach. Turning his head away, he pursed his lips, closed his eyes, and blasted the zombie point-blank in the head. A mist of corrupted brain matter splattered against his cheek and neck. None of it went into his eyes or mouth. When the ringing faded from his ears, he could hear the Tattooist bellowing with incoherent rage about stupid Elves with stupid weapons. Cam ignored the rant and scooped up his sword.
Dow and Grímnir already had the other door open. The Tattooist shoved his way past them, still muttering and throwing dirty looks at Cam. ‘I’ll lead,’ said the Ifrit as he stepped through the door. ‘I know the way.’
Tell me, Samuel Autumn, who else is your wife close to?
The question was so unexpected that for a moment, Sam didn’t notice the queasiness that rose in him whenever Cú Roí spoke.
‘Tabby, Master? She has a few friends, I suppose …’
No, this will be somebody she has known for a long time. Somebody who is very close to her.
‘I don’t understand, Master …’
It is not your place to understand. The words were leaden and disapproving, and Sam felt himself cower involuntarily in front of the tall, imposing creature.
‘I am sorry, Master,’ Sam said, lowering his eyes. ‘She was close to her parents, but they are dead. Then there is her brother, Rowan. She has always been very close to him.’
Rowan. Yes. Where can this Rowan be found?
‘He was at the house when I went for Tabby. I left him there.’
Then you must go and get him for me, Samuel Autumn. I would dearly like to speak with this Rowan. Take the girl with you. I see you have become attached.
‘Yes, Master,’ Sam said, his mind whirling. What on earth could the Master want with Rowan? He turned and hurried away in search of Annalise. He was going to need some new cl
othes, too – the ones Leach had given him stank.
‘A couple of shaped charges would widen that entrance,’ Sergei said. ‘Cause a bit of confusion: make sure there aren’t any … things waiting for us in the shadows.’
Rowan looked at the gloomy, overgrown portal and thought the mercenary might have a point. Anything could be waiting in the darkness.
‘Not a chance,’ Mark said pensively. ‘Can you imagine what will happen if we blow up a building in Manchester City Centre? There’d be armed cops all over the place in seconds.’
‘That might not be a bad thing,’ Sergei commented. ‘They might get rid of some of the bad guys.’
Rowan weighed up the options. ‘No, he’s right. Do you honestly think they’re going to stop and ask us what’s going on? Three men with automatic weapons stood next to a bomb site? Do you want to explain we’re just blowing up a nest of inhuman monsters that have kidnapped my sister?’ Rowan harrumphed sardonically. ‘Even if they put us in straitjackets, it’d only be to make the double tap easier.’
‘We do this as planned. Quick and hard. You’ve seen the blueprints and the heat signatures: whatever’s living in this pile of shit is in the cellar. We go down, stick together, shoot anything that moves, and grab Tabitha. Understood?’
‘This is madness,’ Sergei said. ‘We should put a proper team together and do it tactically …’
‘You’ve seen these things, Sergei. Do you remember what Samuel Autumn did in the hotel room? We could send in a small army, and they’d just get torn apart. No, this is the only chance we’ve got. A small contingent running fast, extreme prejudice, no mercy, and pray those bastards don’t realise what’s going on until it’s too late.’
‘Besides,’ Rowan said grimly. ‘I doubt Tabby’s got enough time for us to be fucking around hiring mercenaries.’
‘It’s daytime. Everything we’ve seen so far points to these things being nocturnal. We might just catch them all asleep.’ Mark slipped a clip into the L85A2 assault rifle that hung by a strap over his shoulder. The click of it slipping home was somehow reassuring.
Immortals' Requiem Page 23
