Dragons & Dwarves

  Apparently, you had a much wider range of motion in one of those things than you’d expect.

  I slipped under the broadsword and pushed through the door into the shop.

  If the showroom was any indication, business was pretty good. There were glass-fronted display cabinets on every wall, and a couple taking up floor space in the center of the showroom. While there were a couple of full suits on display, most of the space was devoted to individual pieces. Helmets, gauntlets, shields, swords, breastplates, and innumerable other metal parts whose names escaped me.

  I was busy studying an intricately engraved broadsword with an eight hundred dollar price tag when Mr. Parthalán emerged from one of the rooms in back. He announced himself in a gruff voice, “Is your interest display or function, good sir?”

  I tapped on the glass in front of the broadsword. “What would you consider this?”

  “Display, my lord.” He chuckled. “That pretty little number is meant for a wall, or for fancy dress.”

  “I see.”

  He seemed to measure me up. “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “A story.” I turned around and held out my hand. “My name’s Kline Maxwell, Cleveland Press.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and took my hand. It felt as if I were shaking hands with a cinder block. “Ahh, you didn’t look like any Cleftlander I know.”

  “Cleftlander?”

  “Barony of the Cleftlands, the local chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Somewhat. I had a friend in college who would go out every Wednesday with a bunch of people who’d beat each other with sticks. I didn’t think it was this sophisticated, though.”

  “Well, it’s a little more than that. The S.C.A. recreates all aspects of the Middle Ages: arts, sciences, as well as combat. It happens to be that armory is my own particular specialty.”

  “If I recall, my friend’s armor was mostly blue plastic and duct tape.”

  The dwarf laughed. “I doubt any marshal would pass that nowadays, even before the Portal opened. There are strict safety rules.”

  I shook my head. “So how did someone from the other side of the Portal become involved in the S.C.A.?”

  Teaghue shrugged. “Many of us had to change specialties, I preferred to find out what market existed for what I had always done.”

  “You seem to have done well.”

  “Why would anyone engage in labor to do poorly?”

  “Your workmanship is incredible, but I was referring to your business.”

  “As was I, good sir.”

  I looked down at him and saw him smiling. He obviously enjoyed talking about what he did, a trait that will endear you to any journalist. I tried to see any familial resemblance to the late Ossian, but I wasn’t familiar enough with dwarven appearance in general. The kinky brown hair and beard, flat nose, and brown face were similar, but were also similar to just about every dwarf I had ever seen.

  “A story, you say?” he asked. “On the S.C.A., my lord?”

  “No. I am looking for background on a person named Ossian Parthalán.”

  I paused for a moment. I had no idea if Teaghue was a close relation to the dead Ossian or not.

  “Go on.” No overt reaction to Ossian’s name, but I had the feeling that he knew Ossian. The way his humor seemed to fade, I suspected that he knew Ossian’s fate.

  “I cover city politics,” I told him. “And I am looking for connections between him and the late Councilman Mazurich.”

  “Sad end, that,” Teaghue said. He could have been referring to Ossian or Mazurich. “The councilman was a friend to me and mine. There was a feast when he died.” He looked up at me. “You don’t do poetry, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Pity, a soul like Mazurich should have an epic written to him.”

  “Ossian thought highly of him, then?”

  “Ossian Parthalán is not of any clan of mine and I shall not speak for him.”

  “But the councilman is well thought of in the dwarven community?”

  “It was his work that found us homes, and labor worth pursuing. Without him, those of us that came from the Portal would be as rootless as the elves.” Teaghue glanced away as if he was seeing something else. “Without him there would be no halls under Erie.”

  The “halls” he spoke of were the remnants of another industry collapse caused by the Portal’s opening. The salt mines under Lake Erie, particularly those around the spit of land called Whiskey Island closest to the Portal, suffered some severe issues with “mana” that resulted in about a dozen deaths before the operation was shut down.

  The dwarves ended up resident in those mines, apparently immune to the magical influence that tended to drive anyone else mad. I’d personally never paid much attention to the details of how that happened. At the time there was a federal blockade of the city, an economic meltdown, and a thousand other crises.

  “He participated in the dwarven settlement in the mines?”

  “He initiated it.” Teaghue looked up at me with a suspicious expression. “You ask about dwarves and you do not know this?”

  “Just trying to get your perspective,” I lied. The fact was, I tried to avoid inhuman interest stuff that simply existed to announce, “See, it’s magic here! See? We’re special.” It’s a strange bias to have in this city, I admit, but I’ve always been more interested in the political ramifications of the Portal than its material manifestations. Usually, considering my seniority at the Press, and my particular beat, it wasn’t an issue.

  Usually.

  Still it does tend to be a bit of a blind spot.

  “I see,” Teaghue said. I could feel the guy closing up.

  “Can you tell me anything about Ossian’s relationship with the councilman?”

  “Ossian is nothing to me or mine. For the Councilman, he was a good man, ill-used.”

  “How so?”

  “That is my perspective, Mr. Maxwell. Should you ever be interested in the purchase of quality arms or armor, feel free to return. Right now I have work to attend to.”

  Teaghue ended my interview by walking into the back of the shop, leaving me alone in the showroom.

  A good man, ill-used.

  I couldn’t help but think, Used by whom?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OF course, since The Dwarven Armorer was only two blocks away from Ossian’s body shop, I swung my Volkswagen around to take a look at the place where the late Ossian Parthalán made his living.

  Thor’s Hammer wasn’t much to look at. A brick garage with a rolling metal door, an asphalt lot with half a dozen cars in varying states of destruction, a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Only one of the cars gave a hint at what Ossian was capable of, a ’68 Mustang that, from the back, was a mint cherry-red muscle car, and from the front was a rusted-out hulk. It was obviously a restoration job, not a wreck. The front of the car was jacked on its rims, the hood was gone, and the engine compartment was empty. The contrast between front and back made me wonder if dwarves actually were capable of magic.

  I got out of my car and looked around, and I wasn’t surprised to see the yellow police stickers sealing the garage door. It was the standard warning about a sealed investigation scene, along with a complex glyph that you did not want to break, unless you were into pain and felony convictions.

  I had sort of been hoping to find a cop or two on the scene that I could talk to. No such luck.

  I walked over to the side door opposite the chain-link and the lot, and stopped.

  Someone was here.

  Not cops.

  The seal on the door had been torn open, along with most of the doorframe. The warning tag still smoldered with the aftereffects of the torn rune. The discharge should have dropped anyone opening the door.

  However, judging from the splintered state of the door, whoever had smashed it was probably well past being affected by such nuisance enchantments.

  I heard
movement inside the building, and I flattened myself against the wall. Not being the action-hero type myself, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.

  “911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I’m at Thor’s Hammer an autobody shop by West 50th and Detroit,” I whispered into the phone. “There’s been a break-in.”

  “Sir? I have tro . . . king you out.”

  I spoke a little louder, “Detroit and West 50th, break-in at Thor’s Hammer.”

  “. . . t and Wes . . . at right?”

  Christ, of all the times to get funky reception.

  “Detroit and West 50th!”

  “. . .”

  Nothing.

  But the motion inside the body shop had stopped.

  I decided that was not a good sign. I turned and ran back toward my car. Halfway there, a large panel of frosted glass windows exploded beside me. It happened suddenly, and about all I could do was throw my arms up to cover my face from the flying glass.

  So I didn’t see what yanked me inside.

  I sailed in through the window, and slammed facedown into the hood of a Lincoln Town Car parked inside the garage. I felt the impact in every joint, as if every bone in my body had snapped in half. Even my teeth hurt. I rolled over and groaned, sliding down the slope of the hood. I couldn’t even manage to get my arms up in front of me to defend myself.

  Lucky me, I didn’t need to. While I lay there, stunned, my assailant retreated out the window. I didn’t get a good look at it, back lit by sun outside. However, what I did see made me think I didn’t really want to get a good look.

  Despite what the Cleveland Growth Association has to say about it, the born-again authors of my green evangelical pamphlet had a point. A lot of nasty things came out of the Portal. It’s not all fairies and elves and unicorns. The thing that cleaned my clock would not make it into any convention brochures.

  The face was a human skull covered by red glistening flesh, held in place by metal wires. It wore a trench coat that covered most of its body, and the fabric was spotted with stains from fluid that oozed from its exposed flesh.

  When its hand gripped the edge of the window frame, I could see the tendons move, and the glint of metal.

  Then the thing was gone.

  I lay there until the sirens came.

  Commander Maelgwyn Caledvwlch was, predictably, not pleased with me.

  He walked up to me as a paramedic was giving me the once-over. Caledvwlch stood by the ambulance, watching as the medic waved some charms around my head and neck. The medic shook his head and said, “You’ll be fine.”

  I rubbed my neck. “You’re sure?” I still hurt all over.

  “If you want me to, I can take you the Emergency Room.”

  I stood up and shook my head. “No, if you think I’m fine.”

  “Take some Advil.”

  “Mr. Maxwell,” Caledvwlch announced himself as I stepped away from the ambulance.

  “Commander Caledvwlch.”

  “How is it we find you assaulted in the late Ossian Parthalán’s place of business?”

  “I’m working on a story.” I brushed some of the dirt off my clothes. “You should know, you showed me the picture.”

  “What did you expect to find here?”

  “To be honest? Some cops who would be more forthcoming about Mr. Parthalán’s death than you are.” I looked into Thor’s Hammer. It was easy now the window was gone, the view only obstructed by some yellow rune-stamped police tape draping the entrance.

  My friend the zombie had been busy. He’d gutted the place. Filing cabinets had been torn open, the contents scattered everywhere. Tools, fragments of computer hardware, and broken office furniture littered the garage floor. A safe lay on its back next to the Lincoln, the door missing.

  That made me rub my neck.

  The Lincoln itself had been torn apart by this thing. The seats had been pulled out and shredded, the doors and fenders ripped off, bumpers on the ground.

  Amidst the chaos, two things struck me:

  First, the car had out-of-state plates, California plates. Not terribly common, even in the tourist-trap areas downtown.

  Second was the number of people going over the crime scene. Three carloads of forensic investigators was overkill for a B&E, even one by something like zombie-boy.

  They seemed to pay particular attention to the fenders on the Lincoln.

  “What was zombie-boy looking for?”

  “I would make a suggestion, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “What?”

  “That you leave this particular investigation to those with the expertise to undergo it.”

  I backed up a bit as Caledvwlch made a pass with his hand and folded his tall angular frame under the police tape. I called after him, not really expecting an answer, “Can you tell me why this investigation rates the personal attention of the SPU commander?”

  Caledvwlch ignored me.

  They had my statement, so there was nothing to keep me here. I did, however, slip out my phone and take a few discreet shots of the inside of Thor’s Hammer.

  Camera phones are a wonderful invention.

  I revised my opinion of my phone when I’d driven to the Flats and had parked long enough to look at what I shot.

  My phone was an expensive Cleveland model. That meant that it had some very hefty software that—in theory—could filter and do error correction to limit interference from the Portal’s magical influence. Using a film camera anywhere around here would give you a picture, but the picture would be something out of Timothy Leary’s id. Same thing with most pre-Portal electronics. Signals into any device—cameras, tape recorders, television, Xerox machines, cell phones, computers—tended to pick up hitchhikers generated by the mana around the Portal.

  Of course, after over a decade of dealing with it, most of the problems have been worked out. If you duplicate a signal enough times, you can filter out a real image. It’s just a matter of storage, bandwidth, and money.

  And I had paid a lot for this phone.

  For all the good it did.

  The pictures were garbage. Demonic faces drooling at the camera, snakes coiling around twisted machinery, murky landscapes that looked as if David Lynch did underwater filming of the Cinderella castle at Disneyland. In one or two shots, I could make out parts of the Lincoln. That was it.

  “Fuck it.”

  Just to check, I took a shot out the windshield.

  Perfect. Murphy’s law, I guess.

  I was parked in a lot near the Club Nazgûl, trying to get a feel for the place before I stepped inside. Caledvwlch had called it a tourist club, but there are tourists, and there are tourists.

  The building had been a warehouse in a prior life. Now it had been painted completely black. The only detail in the exterior came from subtle patterns done in glossy black, over the matte-black exterior. They looked like wards of some sort, which I suspect they were, since the city inspectors wouldn’t let you inscribe anything really dangerous in a public place.

  But looking at the outside gave me a good idea of the clientele they were trying to attract. My guess was the tourists who frequented this place probably came to this city alone looking to find some patron of the “dark arts.” This place, I suspected, helped connect those wayward souls with mages who were more than happy to fulfill someone’s faux-satanic heavy-metal fantasies.

  Also gave the evangelicals a reason to reread “Leviticus.”

  The mages that cruised clubs like this weren’t really black sorcerers, at least as far as city ordinances on necromancy, curses, and dangerous incantations went. Usually they were only a step up the food chain from the teenagers they conned. They didn’t want to buy your soul. Just your body for a few nights—and if you had any drugs or cash, that would be nice, too. I reached the door, embossed in screaming black skulls, and thought of my daughter.

  Maybe her mother is right . . .

  I had the brief Dad argument with myself, one side saying how I
really should give Sarah a lot more credit, the other thinking about all the kids that were given too much credit by their folks.

  Is it different than anywhere else? There’re predators everywhere. She’ll be in more danger during spring break in Florida—

  Maybe I should just lock her up when she gets here.

  I grabbed a skull, pulled the door open, and walked inside.

  The decor wasn’t particularly innovative. Call it early Inquisition, though they one-upped Torquemada by putting in a dance floor. While my eyes adjusted to the gloom, someone in the back yelled at me, “Hey, we’re closed today.”

  I blinked until I could identify the speaker. It took a moment because, until he moved, I thought he was a prop. The guy had a shaved head, a sleeveless black T-shirt, and a combination of tattoos and obnoxious piercings that would severely limit his career options.

  “Hello, Kline Maxwell, Cleveland Press.”

  The guy walked toward me, carrying a mop. “You a reporter?”

  Add “not particularly bright” to my list of first impressions. “I understand you had some problems here last night.”

  “Fucking-A.”

  I’ll take that as a yes. “Would you mind talking about it?”

  “You going to put me in the paper?”

  “You’ll only be a named source if you want to be.”

  “That’s cool.” He set down the mop and held out his hand. “I’m Christian.”

  This kid got first place in line when they were handing out irony. I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You’re here about the dwarf, aren’t you?”

  “What’s the story there?”

  “Wish I knew. It’s all fucked up.” He pointed back toward a row of caskets on the other side of the dance floor. “I was working the bar. We’d just opened up at four. And this dwarf dude comes in and pays for one of the private party rooms upstairs.” Christian pointed up into the vast loft space at a line of windows overlooking the dance floor. If the lighting were in full party mode, the rooms up there wouldn’t be visible.