The Dark Storm (27 page)

When Titus stepped back into his receiving chamber his guest was in the same spot he’d left her in, standing in the far corner of the room and staring out the window. With her back to him he could appreciate her near-perfect posture and subtle curves. On the back of her neck, just beyond her flowing brown hair, he could make out the tattoos of protection etched into her skin. The words were written in a language that hadn’t been used since before Christ, but Titus knew them well.

Feeling his predatory gaze, her body stiffened and she turned to him. Her angular features were sharp, but it took nothing from her natural beauty. Slanted onyx eyes regarded Titus as if she could read every dirty thought on his mind, which she probably could. Tamalla P. Hardy was not only a respected Crime Scene Investigator with the NYPD, she was also a very skilled clairvoyant. She had an uncanny ability to communicate with the dead, which she learned to monopolize at an early age. When there was business to be done between the dead and the living, it was Tamalla who brokered the deal.

“I trust all is well?” Tamalla asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing my people can’t handle. So, what brings the voice of the dead lands to me tonight? Does King Morbius have need of my services?” Titus moved closer to Tamalla. He purposely let wisps of his power escape in an attempt to intimidate the shorter woman, but she held firm.

“No, but it has come to my attention that you may be in need of his,” Tamalla replied. Titus continued to stare at
her like he was ignorant of her meaning, so she continued. “There have been a great many restless souls traveling on the
Jihad
these last few nights.”

Titus shrugged his shoulders. “And what business is it of mine who travels between here and there as long as I remain?”

For a moment Titus could see Tamalla’s eye twitch with irritation, but she quickly regained her composure. “These aren’t average souls; most of them are pretty pissed off for being used as sources for your Stalkers.”

“We do what we must to keep our armies strong. Tamalla, for as full as your schedule is, I didn’t realize you had time to become an advocate for the rights of human souls,” he said sarcastically.

“I could give a shit about what you and your twisted lot do, Titus; it’s the stories the spirits are telling in passing. The word is that you’re out here fighting some secret holy war with the Knights of Christ over the Nimrod.” She laid it on the table. If she was looking to get a rise out of Titus, it didn’t work.

“As you so eloquently stated, what we do is our business. What do I care if the dead are complaining to a mortal?”

“Because it isn’t just me; Ezrah’s caught wind of it too.” Tamalla smirked as the color drained from Titus’ face.

“Ezrah has no claim to the Nimrod,” Titus said.

“Try telling him that. Titus, you should know better than anyone the addictive effect that thing has, so imagine being denied that fix for hundreds of years. It’s just hearsay now, but if Ezrah gets it in his mind that there’s truth to the rumor that the Nimrod has resurfaced, the Sheut are gonna be all over this thing, and we both know how that would play out.”

Indeed he did. Though the
Jihad
and her crew were bound to the service of King Morbius as his ferrymen, it was not unheard of for them to go on bloody rampages amongst the living at the behest of their captain. The lust for power Ezrah had carried in life only became more consuming in death, and his ambition knew no bounds. The captain knew that the same trident that had damned him could be his salvation, and he would spare no effort if he thought he could capture it a second time.

“And why bring this information to me, Tamalla?” Titus asked suspiciously.

“Because until something better comes along you’re the lesser of two evils,” she said honestly. “With people like you, us mortals have got a fighting chance. If the Sheut get the Nimrod it’ll be over before the first shot from our side is fired. I lose enough sleep with wayward spirits pestering me, so I’m really not looking forward to entire cites of them.”

“This I can understand, but I still can’t see you doing this totally out of your sense of humanitarianism.” Titus eyed her.

“Of course not.” Tamalla smirked. “For my time and trouble coming up here to deliver the message in person you’re gonna wire one-point-five million to my standard business account. And for me not to tell Ezrah that the Nimrod is in New York I’ll expect another five million wired to an account whose numbers I’ve already provided to your secretary.” Tamalla headed for the door, but Titus cut her off.

“And what’s to stop me from killing you now and burying my secret with your remains?”

Tamalla looked at him seriously. “Because if you kill me, then you’ll never see it coming when the Sheut swoop down on this world and make it a ghost planet,” Tamalla warned, and left the office.

When Flag reached the zoo his body stiffened with the thought that the most dangerous part of his mission lay before him. Over the last few centuries the age of magic had died out, giving way to the modern world, but there were still pockets in the fabric of reality where magic and the things spawned of it stirred. These pockets were called places of power. For the most part the wormholes led nowhere, but there were a few that led to the land of Midland and the last kingdoms of magic.

The driver pulled into the service area of the Bronx Zoo and idled outside one of the loading docks. “Wait here,” Flag told the driver before sliding out of the limo. The two Stalkers lumbered behind him. The few employees who were still on the grounds acted as if they didn’t even see Flag as he entered the main building. At the end of a darkened hallway there was an unmarked door, guarded by a portly man in a security uniform that appeared to be two sizes too small.

“Can I help you?” The security guard looked up from his newspaper and studied Flag. At a glance the security guard appeared quite ordinary, but the trained eye could see smudges of black magic all over his aura.

“I’ve come seeking an audience with the prince of the Iron Mountains, conqueror of the underworld, and devourer of man-flesh,” Flag said in a rehearsed speech.

“All man-things who enterer the bowels of hell do so at their own peril, for the things that dwell here prefer the taste of flesh and blood only second to the screams of battle. The stink of your fear will drive them to frenzy and only the sucking of your bones shall quiet them again. If you value your life, then you’ll turn back now.”

Flag regarded him. “I fear not for my life, for I come as the voice of Lord Titus, favorite son of the dark lord and earthly vessel of our order.” Flag rolled up his sleeve
and showed the guard the patch of rotted flesh on his left arm that was roughly the shape of a hand. It was Titus’ mark. “Recognize the mark of he who slew the Bishop and for his services was welcomed into the bosom of all things unclean and vile.”

The guard’s eyes lit up slightly when he studied the mark. When he was satisfied with its authenticity he half-bowed and stepped aside to let Flag pass.

Flag and the two Stalkers passed through the door and found themselves inside a room that was slightly smaller than a linen closet. Flag ran his hands along the wall until he felt the familiar uprising of stone under his palm. He said the words as they had been spoken to him and stepped back. There was a grinding of stone as the wall slid back to reveal a dark stairwell that led farther under the zoo. Before descending the stairs, Flag took a moment to make sure all of the proper protection spells were in place. Titus had a standing alliance with the prince, but there was no telling what Flag might run into between the entrance and Orden’s stronghold. Taking a deep breath, Flag proceeded to venture to the levels of the city that weren’t on any map, the stronghold of the goblins.

The farther belowground he got, the more he could feel the barriers of science become more frayed and the call of magic stronger. It was subtle, akin to walking into the freezer section of a supermarket. By the time Flag reached the bottom of the stairs he could no longer feel the eerie dullness of science that hindered the powers of all things not belonging to the new world. In Midland it was the magic that held things together and not the theories behind it.

He had been within the bowels of the Iron Mountains before but never on this route and never without Titus or one of the more powerful demons who served them. The entrance beneath the zoo was arguably the quickest but
also the most dangerous because of its close proximity to the goblins’ fort. Had Flag had it his way, he’d have gone the traditional route, using the Coach, but in the enchanted carriage the journey was at least a day under the best circumstances. Titus didn’t have that kind of patience.

Because of the goblins’ varying sizes, the tunnels beneath the Iron Mountains were the largest in the new world. The tunnels leading to the Iron Mountains were probably the largest of any built under the city. The beasts ranged between six feet and nine feet, but no matter the size, they were the fiercest race of creatures in all of Midland.

The walls in the tunnel were slick with moss and other vegetation, none of which was native to the United States, but it grew freely in Midland. Flag could feel the temperature rising, no doubt from the wild pockets of lava that ran freely within the mountains. In the shadowed hollows he could feel the eyes of the creatures that dwelled in the bowels on him. Even with the two powerfully built Stalkers guarding him, Flag still felt uneasy. It was not unlike the flesh-loving goblins to descend on intruders and make feasts of them, regardless of which side of the light they fought on. Within the Iron Mountains the strong ruled and the weak were food. The carcasses that crunched under his feet were a testament to that.

A few yards ahead the tunnel opened up to a larger chamber, where something stirred that he couldn’t quite see. Only God knew what refugees of the fairy lands dwelled within the tunnels, and Flag wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. The Stalkers grumbled uncomfortably, but Flag settled them with a raised hand. He cast a light spell, more to avoid startling whatever was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel than to see his way, and motioned for one of the Stalkers to lead the way. As soon as the Stalker cleared the tunnel a massive hand grabbed it and
lifted it off its feet. The second Stalker moved to help its comrade but was pinned to the ground beneath a clawed foot. The goblin centurion was almost ten feet tall and his body was easily the width of a bus. His head was completely shaved with the exception of a long braid that snaked from the back of his skull to his waist. The skin that coated the goblin was an off shade of green and covered with pus-filled sores. The Stalker hissed and squirmed, but it did nothing to stop the thing that held it from clamping his massive jaws around its head, removing it. Pale yellow eyes turned to Flag as if to say, “You’re next.”

“All man-things that enter the Iron Mountains are meat for the strong,” the thing hissed, raining bile and saliva onto Flag’s suit. The goblin’s massive jaws opened unnaturally wide as he leaned down so that he was eye level with Flag. His instincts bid him to run, but he knew he would never make it out of the tunnel before the centurion devoured him. Instead he raised his hand.

“I bear the mark of Lord Titus,” Flag said as calmly as he could, showing the rot mark on his arm. “Harm me and risk his wrath.” The goblin examined the mark carefully, as if he was weighing his options. After a brief sniff of the mage the goblin determined that Flag was telling the truth and withdrew.

“What business do you have here, ass wiper of the dark lord?” the goblin demanded. His voice sounded like two worn brake pads rubbing together.

“I have urgent business with Prince Orden; I must speak with him immediately,” Flag said.

“If my prince wishes it, you must do nothing but die!” the goblin said.

Fearing that his life could possibly be in danger, Flag called on his magic. As he waved his hands in a mystic symbol the air around his hands ignited. The air in the
room seemed to almost boil at the magical energy that was suddenly gathered within the chamber. Flag pointed a glowing hand at the goblin but did not release the energy. He knew that killing one of Orden’s men would come at a heavy price, so he was hesitant, but if it came down to a choice between his life and that of the goblin, Flag would destroy him. Luckily the door to the inner chamber flew open, saving Flag from having to make the choice.

“Silly things who interrupt Orden’s council not value their lives!” The speaker was a goblin, but one far smaller than the centurion. He was about the size of a small child, with coal black eyes and yellowing fangs. Small wings flapped about wildly, but he seemed to hop rather than fly. The tip of one of his ringed ears had been bitten or chopped off. Flag never bothered to ask which. Though the goblin was small, the centurion lowered his head and backed away. All the goblins knew better than to harm Gilchrest, brother of Prince Orden.