~~~~~~
Babel Tower rose into the sky. He left the level-way and guided the flyer up to Babel Tower.
Jasmine won’t come home tonight. It’s all right, Nodlon Memorial needs her. The Lunans need her. Of all the friends in his life, he loved her most. But I need her too! Will she be safe?
Jack steered for the landing bay and slowed the Andromeda.
The Meddler’s Nemesis
The Black Dwarf enjoyed his view. The lake shimmered under the stars. The moon’s reflection danced on distant reefs. He could just see the tip of the pier below the tower, its inky black silhouetted against the shimmer on the water.
Night is the best time of day.
He enjoyed the mystery of darkness. Ghosts and spirits; vampires and werewolves; demons and the undead prowled the night.
Night is my kind of day.
Wagging his finger, he summoned the wench holding his grapes. As she dangled a bunch, he sucked them from the vine and squished them with his front teeth savoring the juicy meat.
Snuggling into his throne, he pressed a button and reclined. Wiggling his toes, he summoned another blonde to give him a pedicure.
“Work on those cuticles some more,” he ordered. He soaked his fingers in a bowl of soft soap, and rubbed them together as it dawned on him how pleasant the gooey mess felt.
A red call light blinked on his remote. “Always when I’m taking a break.” With his free hand he picked up his caster and pressed the audio connection. “What is this time, Sargon?”
“Excuse me, my lord Nimrod. Earlier this afternoon, we were probed. A black dwarf working for Cretaceous Clay walked into our New Gem office in Nodlon and asked to see Balaam.”
“Why wasn’t I informed before now?”
“Balaam informed us during his evening briefing, he was unaware of its significance and he thought it was only a coincidence. We investigated the matter when we received confirmation.”
“Hold on.” He pressed a switch on his remote and his pedestal rotated. He rotated past his fireplace and past his four poster bed with a pair of nubile vixens, and past the lounge he used as his antechamber, until he faced his wall vid. Flipping another switch, Sargon appeared on his wall. His old servant wore a black dwarf clad in a black uniform and a baseball cap. Macaroni decorated the cap’s brim, and the device of the Black Dwarf was embroidered on the jacket.
“Please explain,” said Nimrod in an even tone.
Sargon gulped, and coughed into his fist. “On your screen sir, I’m throwing up the picture of the suspicious black dwarf.” In a lower corner, the vid displayed the picture of a dwarf wearing an expensive shirt and black trousers.
“The New Gem clinic took him as a walk-in. He gave them his name, Patrick Morgan, but they didn’t recognize him at first. Almost all dwarves look pretty much alike. Nothing aroused their suspicions until they slipped him the ultra-Soma we developed.
“Shortly after Morgan popped the pill and collapsed, an elf showed up. I’ll put him on the screen.” Next to the dwarf, an elf appeared in expensive men’s furnishings. He wore a cloak with matching tunic, breeches, a leather vest, and suede boots. On his head was a medieval cap with a feather.
“You’re looking at Cretaceous Clay, my lord. The staff recognized the elf pretty darn quick. He’s the elf working with the police on the Zodiac case. He gave Balaam a cockamamie story. When he arrived he was huffing. He ran from a stake-out nearby.”
“If he can levitate, why didn’t he fly?”
“Maybe the fool hoped he wouldn’t blow his cover.” Sargon shrugged, “How should I know? Maybe he wanted to surprise us.”
“What’s the significance of this Captain,” sighed Nimrod. He rubbed a temple and felt a drip running down his cheek. He looked at his fingers and remembered the manicuring gel. “The police aren’t going to get anywhere with their investigation. The more they struggle in the mire, the deeper they sink in the quicksand of our plot.”
“My lord,” said Sargon. “Clay possesses magical power; the kind of power we haven’t seen since the days of the prophets.”
“Magic? What kind of magic?”
“He’s a thespian and playwright who performs simplistic operettas featuring special effects, dancing girls, choreographed battles and magic. A band of studio musicians called the Rockhounds accompany the show with an eclectic variety of songs from folk tunes to heavy metal. He’s a big hit.
“What really sets his show apart is magic. He creates illusions, flies, levitates objects and dancers. Thanks to his abilities, the action is rarely confined to the stage.”
“You sound as if you’re a fan of this new nemesis of ours.”
“I’ve watched his shows on Clay-net. He’s good. If you could mesmerize him, and force him to serve us, he’d be entertaining.”
“Maybe,” Nimrod tapped his dimple, “or maybe he’s the elf Phaedra stole from the Dragon Lord?” The Black Dwarf thought for a moment. “When did he appear in this time continuum?”
“About thirty years ago, and we have almost no personal history on him. What we know comes from his website, and he’s reclusive about his personal life.”
“Continue our investigation. If he’s Phaedra’s son, I want to know. What about the police? How far along have they gotten?”
“Inspector Jacques Lestrayed, the leading homicide detective in Nodlon is on the case.” A picture of a middle aged man in a trench coat and a fedora appeared next to the elf. “He’s getting nowhere. He tried getting a warrant, but our agent on the high court squelched the warrant request.” Sargon’s eyes narrowed.
“Lestrayed suspects the missing dwarves and the sacrifice to the Dragon Lord are connected, but he has no idea how. The city is in an uproar, and the Inspector is unlikely to learn anything more before war breaks out. With the threat of Mars breathing down their necks, the cowards in Parliament plan to evacuate Nodlon and hide at Iron Mountain.”
“How did the flat foot team up with a magical elf?”
“The two know each other from prior cases. It’s only recently entered the old fool’s mind that the supernatural was involved in the disappearances. Clay is the only magician he knows, so he called him in as a consultant.”
“Contact our agent, Sumuqan, and take the meddlesome police officer off the case.”
“What of the elf?”
“Nothing must interfere with our plans to attack Nodlon and blame Mars.”
Wiping his fingers on a towel, he glowered.
“If Cretaceous Clay is Phaedra’s son, he’s radioactive. Why make him work out the mystery? Let’s save him the trouble.”
“Arrange for our black dwarves to ambush them. If the black dwarves succeed, we can check him off our to-do list. If not, Nodlon Yard will panic. All dwarves are peaceful by nature. The thought of a violent revolution of black dwarves hasn’t crossed their minds yet. The possibility of dwarves going rogue en masse will send all Nodlon into a tizzy.”
“Yes my lord, as you command.”
The Black Dwarf chuckled. “Jack’s name should’ve been diatomaceous earth. Clay you are, and unto Jack you shall return. All will go back to the clay. And in the grave you’ll worship the Dragon Lord.”
Sargon smirked, “A fitting eulogy, my lord.”
Rimshot Sees Too Much
An airship hunkered in the alley between the hotel’s loading dock, and the dumpster. Even in the dim light of early morning Rimshot recognized the low-slung profile of an air hearse.
“You, come ‘er an’ give us a hand.”
The burly shadow between him and the street light called him again, “Hurry up swabbie or I’ll let your management have a piece of my mind.” The shadow was too short for a man, so he assumed the fellow was a dwarf.
Another shadow shuffled slowly to the back of the airship.
Cursing silently, he wished he had taken the night off. Aye, better to be in bed, But what the customer wants, the customer gets. Still he had not e
xpected a flying hearse driven by dwarves.
Carefully navigating through the rubbish, he approached the dwarves. “What ‘kin I do for ye?” Standing none too close, he thought he was safe.
The burly dwarf closed the distance, grabbed his overalls near the scruff and lifted him in one swift move.
Barely standing on his toes, he trembled. He was face to face with the dwarf. The dwarf was wizened by time and scarred with old wounds. A spot on his forehead betrayed his microchip, but in the dark, Rimshot could not make out a color.
The wizened dwarf’s bulbous eyes took him in. Rolling to a stop, the eyes gave him an uneasy feeling.
“Open the bay doors,” growled the dwarf, jerking his head at the dock.
“Sure Guv’nor,” he said. Better to cooperate, he told himself than to ask for trouble.
The dwarf released him with a flick. He staggered backwards and caught his balance. Keeping an eye on the two figures near the airship, he backed slowly up the loading dock stairs. Putting his thumb on the lock, he pulled the door aside revealing a small bay. A hoist slung from the roof resembled a spider awaiting its prey. A forklift peeked from an alcove.
“Hey,” he called, “we’ve got a hoist or a forklift if you need ‘em.”
The burly dwarf dismissed his offer with a wave. “Get out of here, swab, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mumbling, he backed into a shadow where he watched without being seen. It would not do if they nicked any tools on his watch. Just do your business and leave.
The dwarves pulled a heavy load from the rear hatch on a levitator lorry. Oblong and black, the load slid towards the dock. Rather than use the stairs, the burly one ordered the other aside. Using short bursts, the dwarf pushed the load to the dock’s lift.
As they pushed their burden into the bay, the light revealed the unmistakable outline of a coffin. They wore black and they each had a black microchip.
Now, that’s peculiar. Rimshot, what kind of party do they need one of those for? Years before he recalled a Halloween party. The hosts had filled a coffin to the brim with ice and drinks. But Halloween was months away. And there were no other guests on his roster. This was a private affair booked just hours before.
After the first coffin, the two dwarves pushed in a second coffin.
Two? Rimshot wondered. He shivered. The black dwarves unloaded a pallet of boxes, an assortment of jugs and a set of spears, and they were done.
The burly one hurried now down the steps. “I’ll tell the master, you get his staff.” His boots slapped the concrete. He opened a passenger door, and stood next to the airship. The gangly dwarf jogged to a compartment and retrieved a staff with a stone in its head.
“My lord, we have unloaded.” A dwarf in a dark cloak emerged from the airship, and took the staff from the gangly dwarf.
“Good.” The cloaked dwarf waved the burly one ahead, and mounted the stairs. He passed by the frightened custodian’s hiding place.
Blimey, thought Rimshot, he’s the spittin’ image of a warlock. It’s too early for a costume ball. Halloween’s not for seven months!
Rimshot shrank farther into the shadows.
When he walked into the bay, Rimshot felt a chill in the air. In the bay’s light, silver designs glittered on the dwarf’s robe. Atop the staff, mounted between four gargoyles, was a crystal of quartz. A snake coiled round the gargoyles’ feet. Silver filigree ran down the shaft to a foot shod in pewter.
The robed dwarf waved his servants ahead. “Move on fools, we have little time.” The warlock sniffed, and slowly turned searching for an odor.
He flung his hood back revealing a lifeless face with a sunken visage shrouded in a pasty pall. His thin lips, blue and drawn, curled in a frown. Bloodshot eyes blazed with a fierce light, hot with the ferocity of some inner hate.
He sniffed the air.
Rimshot sucked in a breath and held it. A black dwarf, he thought. He quietly slipped deeper into the shadows and cowered behind the forklift. Fear burned his lungs. Breathing in silence, he froze.
The mysterious trio crossed the bay. The service entrance to the ballroom opened, and the door slammed. The empty bay tempted him to run.
Sticking his head out, he checked the corridor carefully. Have they all gone into the ballroom? He tiptoed past the doorway. He heard whispers in the ballroom.
How to explain the inexplicable? Especially to one’s betters.
“No pressin’ your luck, Rimshot,” he muttered. “Hide yourself old man, ‘til they’re gone.” He looked up and down the service corridor. Hide ‘til dawn if needs be.
He slipped into the stairwells and hurried away.