Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (2 page)

He turned a corner into a clearing and violently snapped the gun downward; the legs of the harpoon gun shot out telescopically and cracked into place. As he tried to ground the weapon he felt a thunderbolt of pain shoot into his right shoulder, knocking him backwards, a stupefying punch from an electrically charged fist. A small, canine whelp of surprise escaped him. He dropped the gun. The pain was white hot and building. Newton’s crossbow bolt penetrated the core of his muscle and bone radiating agony outwards, exploding a mini Armageddon in his sinew. His eyes narrowed to black slits and he hissed air in through gritted teeth, rode the pain, used it to get focus, to get set, to get even.

He pushed himself up, grabbed the weapon and rammed the windshark gun down into the earth, primed to fire at Newton. The projectile protruding at its head was a four-foot long spear with a six-way barbed end. The evil hooks caught the moonlight and glimmered in Croel’s black, malicious eyes. The harpoon's ferocious design had meant its use had been prohibited on anything other than the massive and predatory windsharks that roamed the channels of dead air between the Edgelands of Nimbus and the Lowlands more than a thousand feet below. The hooks acted as grappling irons, engineered for one way travel, for anchoring into flesh and muscle and bone, and staying there. On the projectile’s tail end was high tensile carbonised wire, wound around a small lightweight reel and tethered to the body of the gun.

He pressed the weight of the windshark gun down, so its pointed legs punched deeper into the soft ground. He hit the stand release button, stepped back and watched as heavy carbon claws shot out and gripped into the earth around it. There was a satisfying crunch of compacting grass and soil. It could reel two tons when mounted this way, four if riveted or bracketed somewhere more secure, possibly an Edgelands turret or Zeppelin. His quarry weighed considerably less than that, with or without his coat. He swung the barrel around to aim and then flinched as he watched Newton fire his last crossbow bolt that sailed at least five feet wide. It clattered noisily into the trees beyond. Newton then dropped his bow, turned, jumped and executed a perfect swan dive off the edge.

For an instant, Newton looked crucified against the sky, frozen at the height of his jump in moonlight mercury, graceful and natural and free. He unfurled his white wings and they vibrated gently as the wind buffeted the feathers. They ruffled and opened on the thermal updraft. The feathers said hello to an old friend, embraced the current and then he soared.

 
As he climbed, Newton threw his head back and screamed. It was the high emphatic sound of victory, a rapture of anguish, triumph and freedom. He loved flying and angled his body naturally into the thermals, spiralling up on their physical lift to evade Croel’s aim and get high enough to circle back for the wounded Mckeever.

In the Lowlands someone heard the scream and looked up, saw nothing, shook their head and dismissed it as an alcohol induced conniption, shuddered, belched and had another drink. Small animals heard it, recognised it as primordial and, feeling threatened, scurried to hide in burrows and holes of their own creation. The cry seemed to explode across the night sky, a climactic firework, and echo-bore its message to faraway hills.

There was a loud crack and Newton’s cry was severed.

Abruptly snapped to a violent stop.

Yanked out of the air like a needle clumsily plucked off a record.

Equilibrium returned as if the sound had never been ushered into the cool night at all. Reverberations dwindled, curled away on the breeze to the Nimbus horizon and nothing.

Croel reeled Newton in.

Hit fast.

And hit again.

Vanguard Training

Sergeant Windaker

The Angelbrawl Arena; an underground conclave heaving with the rich and pointless, gathered to watch the spectacle of two winged fighters attempting to beat each other into furious feathery pulps. People had journeyed far across the Lowlands of Nimbus to attend, paying their well-earned credits to witness the spectacle or, in some cases, just to boast of their attendance. The majority of the audience were wingless, as virtually everyone on the Lowlands was. All except the two fighters, Phoenix and Jackdaw, who would now be preparing themselves for the bout with their usual array of redundant posturing, flamboyance and feathery pomp.

Some said the matches were rigged, that they were not sport but staged, choreographed dances of violence and bloodletting. Others said that it was just another Government reminder of their ‘them and us’ attitude; that the winged dwellers of the Edgelands of Nimbus were to be revered, cheered and deified, whilst the rest of the Lowlands masses could pay, jeer, then shut up and eat their hot dogs.

I didn’t care about any of that. I was here to work and I had just seen what I had been waiting for on one of the Arena’s grainy, flickering monitors.

I ran from the security room, down an empty corridor in the bowels of the stadium, over a mixture of highly polished wood and compressed concrete, towards the upper arena. I grabbed a bag of candied nuts from one of the concession stands as I sped by, the vendor shouted some vague obscenity that was lost in the reverberating acoustics. I picked up my speed and hoped I would not be too late. The men had moved in much faster than anticipated, circling the woman like a pack of hungry hyenas: heads low, full of savagery and intent.

She was in her early thirties, alone, pretty and immaculately presented in a tight red dress that detracted from her age and accentuated her figure. I had hired her because she looked at home in the first zone of ringside seats, where the more affluent and socially adept patrons sat, all but shouting their opulence and smiling their flawless million-credit cheeses at the cameras. Her billowing blonde hair cascaded in waves over her bare shoulders and one curl was wrapped around her forefinger in an absent pre-occupation, a gesture she may have developed in childhood or one she had practiced more recently to make her somehow seem more demure and alluring. My money was on the latter. I noticed there were two empty seats to her left.

She fit the profile of the other women who had disappeared at the Angelbrawl fights this month. They had been found rotting in one of the many non-descript backwater swamps of the dark Deadlands: decapitated, brutally disfigured and raped. Worse was, according to the investigations and diligence of one pathologist, that it had been in that order.

But not tonight. Not on my watch.

The Arena’s in-house security team was an ineffectual, disorganised shambles and I had been hired to stop the rot. The team had acted with all the alacrity and maturity I had come to expect of the organisations I was asked to investigate, infiltrate and ‘problem solve’ for, my very presence confirming their own failings and shortcomings. I was there because they couldn’t do their jobs, a six foot one testament to their inadequacies. I did not care what they thought.

To me they were glossy, self-obsessed and weak. They had no composure in crisis, no intuition or urgency, no intellectual process or clarity of mind to prevent incidents like this one happening. They were fatheaded hired muscle, a deterrent, a ‘Beware of the Dog’ sign.

I was the dog.

Their hostility and diffidence served me fine, I preferred working alone.

The Angelbrawl Stadium manager, Lacroix, had publicly lied when he had hired me, saying that it was ‘for the protection of his valued customers’. The reality was that his takings had been on a steady decline. From the accounts I had looked at, nearly as much as thirty percent, and another incident could send him into a spiral of financial insecurity and certain disfavour with the Board of Directors. I had seen the bodies of people who had fallen out of favour with Directors before and knew I was protecting the manager's life as much as that of the woman in the red dress on row J. The dead women were nothing more than box office statistics to them.

That’s all they were to me too.

The crowd cheered loudly, deafeningly and I could barely hear the klaxon denoting the beginning of round one.

Lacroix had given me half of the money up front and, after consulting with the board, had nervously complied with my request to read my statement out to the media, at a press conference prior to tonight’s bout. My profile as an ex-Vanguard Slayer, the elite faction of the Valkyrie Police and Militia, was as anonymous as the organisation it came from. People were frequently aware of the fearsome reputation, but seldom of the men or force behind it. I told Lacroix that if I had presented the statement to the press, I would have received the usual media bombardment of questions regarding my messy career, mercenary practices and dubious, violent history; about Bethscape and my hate for the government I once fought to protect. He came around to my way of doing things. My substantial frame usually helped persuade people; built for battle and something my sergeant in the corps had called 'attitude adjusting', I was used to getting my way in tactical and physical situations.

He read out my statement exactly as I had asked him to. No mean feat for a small, coiffured manager better versed in the arts of digression and self-promotion than he ever would be at the noble pastime of ‘telling it like it is’.

He fed them a few answers, a little of what they were after, no details they didn’t already know, tasters to whet their veracious appetites, and they obliged by running the story, with the usual conjecture and embellishments. They got their headlines and my message got the exposure it needed; everybody was happy.

They used me and I used them.

Symbiosis.
 

I had issued a warning, broadcast to all across the Nimbus Lowlands, Edgelands and
 
Deadlands, that the Angelbrawl security was impregnable and that the killers would not succeed again. I said that if they tried I would despatch them myself, personally, and that they should not consider themselves cowards for staying away. I had used the word ‘cowards’ deliberately and asked Lacroix to instruct the media to do the same. Most people saw the arrogant ranting as a worthless publicity stunt full of machismo and hollow reassurances.

Few saw it for the irresistible public challenge and humiliation that it really was.

I pushed both doors open and entered the stadium’s main floor. The huge, underground cavernous space seemed to diminish the size of everything within it. The deep grooves in the curved rock dome emphasised the harsh glare of the sodium lights and sent criss-cross shadows of bas relief sprawling over the surface, like creases and wrinkles on the back of an old man’s neck. The construct, shape and architecture amplified the jeers and howls of the crowd to an intensity that was as much a part of the fight as the two men in the centre ring. The atmosphere boiled with noise. Despite the cacophony one of the guards heard me as the heavy doors swung shut at my back. His arms were folded across his puffed out chest and his heavy chin protruded as if in an invitation for me to take a swing and put out his lights. I resisted.

‘You.’ He said.

‘Get out of my way.’ He must have caught a glimpse of something in my eyes because he quickly turned back to face the fight, unfolded his arms and shuffled his feet uneasily. He got out of my way.

Beware of the dog.

I barged my way to her at ringside.

The ring was at least sixty foot wide and square, allowing the Angelbrawlers room to fly and pirouette, to make sure everyone enjoyed a good view of the fight.

Fight?

More like a show.

I fucking hate Angelbrawlers.

Phoenix, the ‘Angel’ in red, was in the process of having his face pressed into the mesh that surrounded the entirely enclosed, square ring. Dark blood ran out of his nose and hung off the thin, robust wire. Jackdaw, the ‘Angel’ in black, drew Phoenix’s head back and rammed it again into the unforgiving steel. Phoenix had lost his red mouth guard. He spat a blood and saliva coated tooth through one of the gaps in the fence and rich, ringside socialites clambered to catch the macabre memento. A genuine fervour filled their eyes as blood sprayed their pressed, synthetic clothes.

I slowed down and tried to appear as just another patron returning to my seat after a trip to the confectionary stand. I kept my gaze firmly on the fight, stuffed a handful of candied nuts into my mouth and moved closer to the blonde and the four hyenas moving in towards her.

Phoenix was yanked from the cage wall by his wings and sent crashing to the canvas covered hardwood floor, face first. The boards bounced, sprang from the forceful blow and the ring’s raised, hollow underbelly amplified the thud to a satisfying boom. The low stool in the corner fell over, toppled from the impact. There was an upsurge of noise from the clamorous crowd, warming to the prospect of an end move from Jackdaw and hoping that more teeth may be coming their way. Blood spilled across the cream canvas. Jackdaw smirked from behind his black mouth guard and slowly raised his hands to incite the crowd.

I was not far from the ring and risked a sideways glance at the hyenas as they moved in. They had split up. Two were keeping watch, nearby, at ringside. Two made their way towards her. One of the men on the move was a spotter, scanning the crowd for approaching security or potential problems as he walked behind the nearest of the four. The other stared directly at his target as he advanced with his hand holding something in his pocket. The target, or ‘date bait’ as she had called herself, was still busy twisting the same ringlet of hair around the same finger. They were moving purposefully down the central aisle to approach the woman along her row.

I didn’t need to worry immediately about the two more distant ringside observers, they would come soon enough into the affray. I prioritised the immediate threat of the two men now entering her row and slipped into row K, the row immediately behind them, making my way over the shoes and toes of the disgruntled audience. I would be alongside them before they got to her.

As I nonchalantly chewed my stolen snack I let my knife slide from its sheath in to my open palm and patted the thin wooden club at my belt with my other hand.

I was ready.

They were entirely focused on her.

The man nearest to her took something small from his pocket. The second man rubbed his bottom lip with the back of his hand whilst unhooking a thick wooden club from his belt. His knuckles were white as he gripped it. I noticed the first man had a syringe. I glanced at the two ringside and one was staring directly at me; mouth agape, he was shouting something that was inaudible above the crowd tumult. I relished my observational awareness, my senses were heightened, taut, like a fine glass wire ready to pick up any vibration or change in the air. My Vanguard Slayer training kicked in and I embraced the adrenalin and aggression, the building force behind my physical inertia and my stillness of purpose and mind. It did not matter how out of practice I was; how long it had been since I had left. The reason why was also inconsequential, all that mattered was this second, this inevitability, this fight.

I existed entirely in the moment, became the moment, the action and the consequence, the cause and effect.

I tapped the shoulder of the hyena nearest to me and he turned into the handle of my club as I brought it crashing in to his bulbous, pock filled nose; a pestle into its rotten mortar. He fell backwards like a sack of sticks, already unconscious and sprawled across the popcorn filled laps of two bemused audience members who were surprised, as if wondering how the mesh of the ring had not contained the fight. The first man spun as I quickly flipped the club in the air, caught it handle first and brought the heavy end down into his solar plexus. A massive gush of foul smelling air belched out across his uneven, jagged teeth, and he doubled over. I felt a sharp stinging sensation in my thigh as he fell. Sickly warmth radiated from my thick muscle. I looked down to see the empty syringe hanging from my leg like a mosquito that had died in the act of injecting anticoagulant. Revolted, I rammed the club back down and it settled with a hard wet smack into the back of his skull. It was an instinctual action borne out of the disgust for the possible concoction of barbiturates and diseases that could now be coursing through my system. It was more dumb Mudhead Police than Slayer though, and Sergeant Bleecker would not have approved of my reaction or the fact that I had been stuck in the first place.

The club stayed where I had left it.

People near me were screaming but it sounded like their voices were being filtered through thick layers of muslin into a duller, more distant tone; like the whole world was having a party next door. I blinked to try and clear my vision and turned to ringside again. I had lost sight of the spotter but could see the heavier one of the observers stepping on the same toes I had stepped on moments ago, storming down row K. People fleeing into the aisles were impeding him.

Were they running from me?

I swayed on my feet.

Confused and contorted faces stared at me.

Mouths wrought into screams.

A strangled, rasping noise escaped me.

The room staggered a little, struggled to find its balance. The noise levels crept up. The lights became fireflies; their effervescence burned snaking light trails across my retinas, sodium shooting stars.