Breaking the Lore Read online

  The intention had been to give Tergil and Rocky asylum in the station, even before the Vanethria found his house. He couldn’t think of a safer location, at least for the short term, and Tergil agreed it was a sensible proposal. It also meant they would be on hand when Paris wanted to ask further questions, although he’d kept that part of the scheme to himself. Now, however, things needed to be altered a touch. He couldn’t drop them off then return home; the demons had tracked him down, so he no longer considered his house safe. They may have seen him make his escape. They may have seen the elf and the rock troll go with him, meaning they’d be even keener to catch him. He didn’t know. He did know that they hadn’t followed the van – at least, not by any conventional means. He’d tried to think of unconventional methods, though without the foggiest clue what they might be. When he got to demons trailing them on invisible hovering motorbikes he decided it must be time to give up. But could they track him down at the station? The possibility of them finding out where he worked by knocking on a neighbour’s door and saying, “Excuse me, do you know what Mr Paris does for a living?” seemed more far-fetched than flying bikes. This was England. Nobody knew anything about their neighbours.

  He glanced at Tergil, sitting next to him in the van. The elf maintained a good poker face, but maybe his brain churned with confusion too. Paris certainly hoped so. Perhaps, he thought, I should offer some words of encouragement.

  ‘Am I sure nobody’ll see Rocky?’ he said. ‘Pretty sure.’

  Not that encouraging, Paris admitted to himself. It would have to do.

  Tergil glanced back at him. ‘I have to ask because your “station” is, after all, South Manchester Police Headquarters. I assume there will be people around, even at this late hour.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Paris. ‘Except there’s very few officers compared to the day shift, and the admin staff are strictly nine-to-five. Cutbacks. Plus there’s a school either side of us, both shut until morning. The care home opposite has long since finished visiting hours. Withington Hospital over there has no emergency ward, only day treatment for outpatients. So practically no one comes past here at night. All in all, it’s just about the ideal place to unload a rock troll. And the sad thing is, that’s not the strangest sentence I’ve come up with today.’

  The gate clanged fully open as they drove through. They moved round the almost empty car park to the back of the building, pulling up next to the rear entrance. Paris stared down at the scuffed blue door with the dim yellow lamp above it. In normal working hours there’d be a crowd of smokers here, desperate to get their fix. Now there were only the remains of cigarettes to remind him that he hadn’t had one for hours. And he hadn’t had a drink in, what, a whole day? These magical creatures really screwed up your social life.

  The four of them got out of the van. They made their way in through the back door unnoticed, with nothing more awkward than a bit of a squeeze for Rocky’s shoulders. Superintendent Thorpe met them inside. She studied Tergil’s adopted daughter with a polite smile and an expression of strained serenity. Paris grinned to himself. Seeing the fairy had left Thorpe stunned. She was obviously determined that a walking pile of stones wouldn’t have the same effect.

  ‘You made it,’ said the superintendent. ‘Everything alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Paris, choosing not to mention the demons in his road. ‘You’ve managed to keep everyone away from the back of the building?’

  ‘That’s the idea. They should all be occupied with their work.’

  She raised her eyes as Bonetti’s grinning face loomed over her.

  ‘Good this, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Like James Bond.’

  Thorpe looked at Rocky.

  ‘Not quite,’ she replied.

  The group made its way through deserted corridors, Thorpe leading the way in case they bumped into anyone. Before long they reached the old holding cells, a grey cul-de-sac with three metal doors along the right-hand wall. Paris stopped walking and thought for a moment. How long since he was last down here? People who got arrested nowadays ended up in the cells near the front desk; they were easier to get to. These ones had been more or less abandoned. Also, for the immediate future, off limits to most staff too. Ideal.

  ‘Bonetti,’ he said, ‘wait here with Rocky.’ He turned towards Tergil. ‘You want to check out the accommodation?’

  The pair walked down to the end cell, with Thorpe following. Paris grabbed hold of the door handle and looked at the elf.

  ‘I should tell you,’ he said, ‘it’s not exactly the Ritz.’

  He pushed open the door then moved out of the way. Tergil stood in the doorway, examining the room. Paris peered over his shoulder. It seemed pretty much like every other cell in the building: grey, gloomy, two windowless metres by three, with a metal bed against one wall and a toilet in the corner. A flickering light bulb fought a losing battle to brighten the place up.

  ‘I’m kind of hoping,’ said Paris, ‘you can stand Rocky in one corner and put her back to sleep. This is the best we could do with short notice.’

  ‘It is perfectly acceptable,’ said Tergil.

  Paris grunted. ‘At least you’re easily pleased.’

  The elf turned to face the two detectives.

  ‘Everything is relative,’ he said. ‘Remember, we are fugitives. At the moment we live in an abandoned part of the Cheshire salt mines. In a cave.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound much fun,’ said Paris.

  ‘It is ideal for Rocky. And it is not too unpleasant for me. We have cable.’

  ‘Well,’ said Thorpe, ‘we don’t. I do have a building full of officers, though. Are they going to be safe with you in here?’

  ‘That’s the question,’ said Paris. ‘Because we don’t know what we’re up against. But he’s going to tell us now. Aren’t you?’

  Tergil leant forward, between the cops, to look up the passageway. Paris followed his gaze to where Rocky and Bonetti stood talking. Looking a bit closer, he realised Bonetti was showing the troll his Premier League sticker album. The sergeant pointed and explained, while Rocky stared down with all the interest of a statue being talked to about the offside rule.

  The elf straightened up again as he stepped back into the cell. He gestured Paris and Thorpe to move closer. They followed him inside.

  ‘I do not want to discuss it in front of Rocky,’ he said quietly. ‘However, your men are quite safe. As I told you, the Vanethria are only here to capture escaped magical creatures. They have no interest in humans.’

  ‘Except,’ replied Thorpe pointedly, ‘humans who help the escapees.’

  Tergil sat down on the bed. He waved his arm out in front of him.

  ‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘We are not being helped. We are being imprisoned. Or rather, that is the impression I wish to convey. Should they ever find us, the Vanethria will probably thank you.’

  Paris’s brow furrowed. ‘Should they find you? You don’t think they will?’

  ‘They have no reason to come here. Magical creatures keep away from humans, as a rule. We have been treated badly in the past. In less enlightened times, possibly, but we have long memories.’

  ‘You’re here now, though?’

  ‘That is the cleverness of my plan,’ explained Tergil. ‘They will not expect us to be amongst humans. Even less to be amongst the human police force.’

  ‘I see,’ said Paris. ‘You’re saying the police force are an even less enlightened organisation. Logical, I suppose. Kind of insulting, but logical.’

  Tergil smiled benignly while Paris pondered. He understood where the elf was coming from. Although something he’d said didn’t quite ring true, and the inspector couldn’t put his finger on it.

  ‘The Vanethria,’ said Thorpe, interrupting Paris’s musings. ‘Tell us more. Why are they so dangerous?’

  Tergil said nothing for a moment, looking up at the two cops. He leant forward on the bed, clasping his hands together in front of him.

  ‘Demons,’
he said. ‘How would you describe their appearance?’

  Paris shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Horns, fangs, red face, stink of sulphur. That sort of thing.’

  ‘That is the traditional image,’ said Tergil. ‘It is actually a good checklist. Some of them are exactly like that. Others are different, yet equally fearsome. Big, strong, powerful killers. The size of Rocky, sometimes larger, and armed to the teeth. They are the most feared of all mystical races.’

  ‘But you were ready to fight them,’ said Paris.

  ‘Yes. If I must. I will do whatever is necessary to protect my daughter. Of course, for large numbers of magical creatures the fighting is already over. Their lands have been conquered and they have been made into slaves. Or worse. Trolls work in Vanethria mines. Elves toil on their farms.’

  He finished speaking, leaving Paris and Thorpe to draw their own imaginary pictures. They exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Paris switched his expression from discomforted to puzzled as he looked back down at the elf.

  ‘What about fairies?’ he asked. ‘What do they use them for?’

  Tergil stared up at him. ‘Snacks.’

  Silence hung in the air like smoke from a barbecued goblin. Paris broke it eventually.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Charming. Well, I need a fag.’

  He trudged out of the cell towards the football sticker conversation.

  ‘Bonetti,’ he called. ‘He’s happy. They’re staying here.’

  He stopped in front of Rocky’s massive frame. Two black-hole eyes stared down at him, expressionless and empty. What thoughts went on inside that head? Rock trolls didn’t exactly radiate warmth, but he still didn’t want this child sent down a mine.

  ‘Think she’d better go in sideways,’ he said. ‘See if you can persuade her. She seems to like you, for some reason.’

  ‘Where are you off to, Boss?’

  ‘I’m going for a ciggy.’

  Paris set off through the station, with the air traffic controllers in his brain continuing their strike. What the hell should he make of it all? Tergil appeared to be credible, as incredible as that sounded, although something still nagged away at the back of the inspector’s mind.

  He went out into the car park. Just like when they’d arrived, there were no other smoking lepers around. Not a surprise and quite a relief. Paris had no need for company at the moment. He took a couple of paces away from the building, digging out his cigarettes while he walked.

  ‘Strewth,’ he said out loud. ‘Wish I’d brought my hip flask.’

  He pulled out his lighter – and froze before flicking it on. The hairs on his neck stood up as a strangely familiar sensation accosted him. The instinctive awareness of no longer being alone. Directly behind him, having arrived without a sound, somebody else now skulked. Or something.

  Paris swallowed hard. He spun round. And looked down. A lighted match was being held up towards him. The chunky fingers holding it belonged to a stocky figure, about half as tall as the policeman. A huge grin beamed out through a thick red beard.

  ‘Hello,’ said the dwarf. ‘I want to buy a dog.’

  9

  The car park at night was not the best-lit place in the world. You could find your vehicle and see where to walk, but there were still plenty of shadows and possible places to lurk. If you really wanted to, anyway. Since this car park belonged to a police station with a barbed-wire fence and a security gate, lurking did not normally merit consideration.

  “Normal”, however, was something that Paris wasn’t seeing much of at the moment.

  The little figure standing before him had apparently just appeared. His boots had made no noise on the tarmac. His baggy shirt had not rustled in the breeze. He was simply there – as if by magic? Paris forced the idea from his mind and stared down at the smiling, bearded face.

  ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

  ‘Stockport.’

  ‘I mean just now! You scared the life out of me!’

  The dwarf shrugged. ‘Only trying to be helpful. You want this light or not?’

  He waved the match. Paris shook his head.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the dwarf. He pulled the flame back towards his face and blew it out. ‘Nasty habit anyhow,’ he said. ‘Stunts your growth.’

  Paris fought hard to regain his composure.

  ‘Have you followed me?’ he demanded. ‘Were you at my house?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ replied the little man. ‘I don’t know where you live.’

  It was such an innocent, simple and downright gormless answer that Paris had the wind knocked right out of his sails. He frowned, vaguely aware it was almost becoming a permanent feature, and studied the individual in front of him. A bushy, slightly scruffy beard and moustache at the bottom of the face, with a tangled mop of hair on the top. Thick, firm arms stuck out from the shoulders of a thick, firm body. A small, thick, firm body. This obviously wasn’t a two-metre-tall armoured demon. Not unless they were very good at disguise. Paris took a deep breath and calmed himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m Arno,’ replied the dwarf. ‘And I’ve told you already, I want to buy a dog. Well, I don’t actually want to, not really. I mean, when you’re my size, you have to be a bit dubious about them, don’t you? But I’ve got to. And these ones are amazing, by the sound of it. I didn’t even know dogs could do rhymes!’

  Paris gaped at him. The recovered composure made a serious bid to get away again. ‘I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’

  The dwarf sighed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s just what I’ve been told. If we want to keep away from the Vanethria, I’ve got to get a poetical Alsatian.’

  Realisation dawned inside Paris’s brain, slowly but surely, like the sun rising with a hangover. ‘I think you mean political asylum.’

  ‘Do I? Alright then, I’ll have one of them. How much?’

  Paris scratched his head. Tergil’s request for asylum had been well spoken, well presented and well thought out. This one was, well, none of the above.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘It’s not a dog. And before you ask, there’s no poems either.’

  Arno sniffed, in what Paris took to be an attempt at being haughty. It didn’t work. It’s very hard to look down your nose at someone who’s twice as big as you.

  ‘You’re probably not even the right human to ask,’ said the dwarf. ‘I need to see a policeman called Parrots.’

  ‘I’m Paris,’ said Paris, emphasising the pronunciation.

  Another dwarf appeared suddenly out of the darkness. The cop jumped in surprise. The second dwarf ignored him and poked the first one in the arm.

  ‘You daft bugger!’ he said. ‘Told you the message was wrong!’

  The two little men started jostling and shoving each other, apparently oblivious to the policeman. Paris peered down at the newcomer. Like his companion, he stood about half the height of a person, but as solid as a rock. They both wore loose, sleeveless shirts above dark, plain trousers. They both had thick beards and muscular bodies. And they’d both moved into the pool of light near the station door without making a sound.

  He glanced around, straining his eyes. The lamp above the entrance made this the brightest part of the car park. In the gloom he could make out other figures, keeping to the edge of the shadows. Little stocky bearded men, little stocky beardless women, and tiny yet still stocky round-faced children. Plus something that looked suspiciously like a wheelbarrow.

  He turned back towards the first two dwarves.

  ‘For crying out loud!’ said Paris. ‘How many of you are there?’

  The pair stopped jostling and stared up at him.

  ‘Nineteen,’ said Arno.

  ‘Nineteen? That’s a lot of dwarves.’

  ‘What did you expect? Seven?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting any. Besides, this is a secure police park
ing area. How did you all get in here? More magic, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ replied the dwarf. ‘Being able to move without being spotted. And some wire cutters.’

  The one who’d poked him stepped forward.

  ‘We had to come, see,’ he said. ‘Arno cocked up the message, but we still need help.’

  Paris looked around again. The other dwarves had all edged silently closer and now a circle of wide eyes stared up at him expectantly. So much for keeping things under wraps. An elf and a junior troll they might get away with. But this lot?

  Another notion struck him as his gaze passed over the group. Tergil said mystical creatures kept away from people. This implied not many of them would be asking humans for help. All of a sudden, that was evidently not the case. How many more would there be? He sighed, facing forward again.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘From what I understand, these Vanethria are pretty nasty.’

  The two dwarves nodded.

  ‘I suppose,’ continued Paris, ‘you’re worried about your families?’

  The dwarves nodded again.

  ‘Well, I can’t promise you refuge.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Arno. ‘We don’t need any garbage.’

  Paris considered explaining. He decided not to bother. His brow furrowed deeper instead. By now, he imagined, it probably looked like a trench.

  ‘We’ll have to discuss asylum some more,’ he said.

  He felt a tug at his sleeve. One of the women dwarves had moved next to him. Completely unnoticed, of course.

  ‘Mr Parrots,’ she said, ‘can you do that later? The children are getting cold.’

  Paris stood gazing at her for a second. The cloudless night was indeed a bit nippy and some of the tiny kids were indeed very tiny. It hadn’t occurred to him that strange beings like this felt the cold. Then again, up until two days ago, strange beings like this hadn’t occurred to him at all.