City of Beasts - Eddie Riggs

The gang was unaware that they were being watched.

Of course, no-one else was expected at this gathering. The thugs were lurking behind the old, worn-down church for one reason only – to inspect their latest shipment. It had taken months of haggling for price, not to mention one hell of a trip to the sewers and back to collect it, but finally the quartet, dressed in the traditional light armour of Levia, were looking over their ill-gotten gains in the shadow of a huge beech tree – a series of cardboard boxes, unmarked and sealed shut with masking tape. An innocuous-looking delivery, no-doubt, but one that raised far more questions than it answered.

The mob leader, a bulky man in his mid-thirties, was tearing open the seal of one box with a sharp knife, ripping through the tape of the lid in one smooth motion. Throwing the lid open eagerly, he pulled out what appeared to be a red-haired doll, dressed in a frilly skirt – more appropriate for a children’s nursery than the grim scenario taking place. However, one quick tug revealed the object’s true purpose – accompanying the stuffing that poked from the neck stump was a series of small plastic packets, filled with something white, powdery and definitely illegal.

The man’s face twisted into a grin, the moonlight casting patterns on his stubbly chin.

“That’s the stuff, boys,” he chuckled, standing up and tossing the doll’s head away. “Get these to the van, pronto – and don’t mess up like last time.”

The other three, much younger than their boss, did as told, each grabbing a box in their arms and running with haste into the shadows of the street beyond. The leader watched them leave, hawk-fashion, then leant against the icy trunk of the tree and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. As he did so, his eyes swept across the churchyard, just to make sure that no-one else had been prying.

No-one on the pathway, no-one by the gate. No-one hiding behind the gravestones, which time and weather had carved into all sorts of lumpy, malformed shapes that cast horrid, shadows onto the grass beneath them. No-one in the shade of the willows, planted many years ago in memory of some old fogey that used to work in the church long ago – the thug couldn’t give shit about who it had been. And certainly no-one on the patio, where guests often came to sit when the rain and the sleet came down and have a chat and some lemonade. Decrepit and dying, like the rest of this damn city. The sooner it was pulled down, the better.

Absorbed in thoughts like this, the man didn’t notice when a bat-winged shape that could have passed for one of the church gargoyles suddenly peeled from the rooftops and soared overhead. Nor did he hear the near-silent rustle of leaves above him.

Pulling a cigarette from the pocket of his breeches, the man jammed it between his teeth, and then yanked a lighter from the other pocket with his free hand, flicking the lid open in one smooth motion. The flame caught, flared for an instant to reveal the royal symbol of Levia, and then dimmed down into a flicker. Cupping one hand around the flame to shield it from the cold wind, the man brought it to the tin stick in his mouth, the end of it glowing as it caught alight. Then he shut the lighter off, inhaled deeply from his cigarette and pocketed the lighter, before blowing a plume of smoke from the other side of his mouth.

Then coughed as something kicked him in the face.

The cigarette flew from his mouth as he fell, to land and fizzle out in the wet grass. The man landed heavily, the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground face-first, and his first instinct was to reach for the knife on his belt again. But as he twisted round on the earth, trying to confront his attacker, a meaty hand grabbed him by the throat, choking him as its owner dragged him off the grass and slammed him back into the tree. The thug’s ears sang with the impact, and his vision blurred as tears of pain pooled in his eyes.

Through the blur, a red-eyed, greasy-haired demon loomed from the blackness, face twisted into a snarl.

“Who ordered this shipment?!” it roared in a voice like thunder that echoed around the graveyard.

“I-I don’t kn-kn-know!” The man gasped for breath, fighting to release himself from the monster’s clutch, his voice a terrified squeak. “Swear t-t-to Lady Fortuna, I n-never-”

“SWEAR TO ME, YA TRIDEN SHIT!”

The man suddenly found himself soaring through the air, screaming as he went. This time, he landed on the solid cobbled path, his chain-mail rattling as he impacted, pain singing though his spine. Then a heavy boot thumped into his chest, threatening to break his ribs, while the silvery glint of an axe-blade scythed from the gloom to stop mere inches from his neck. The terrified man looked up at the demon above him, black armour glinting in the moonlight, tusked helmet leering down, blood-red wings spread like grasping fingers.

“It w-was a p-p-private ord-der,” the thug gasped, breath coming short from sheer panic. “C-came from the s-s-shopping district.”

“That ain’t Triden territory, dude,” the demon rumbled, shoving the axe closer. “What’s Alex got to do with that, eh?”

“Don’t ask-k-k me! All the v-vans have been diverted t-to the old fun park!”  The man was wishing he was somewhere else now. “It’s b-been deserted f-f-for fuckin’ months! Cops don’t go there!”

“Do I look like a fuckin’ cop? That’s where Jaxx’s dregs are hidin’ out! Why’s your boss shippin’ powder to that goddamned psycho?”

The man, sweating and terrified, did not answer. Then the demon moved the axe away from the thug’s throat, and lifted his iron-plated foot from his chest. What sigh of relief should have come next was turned into a squawk as the monster lifted his captive up by the front of his tunic. Its breath stank of cheap whiskey, and other things besides.

“I’ve got things to do,” snarled the beast. “But when you get back to your boss, tell him that he’s gonna need those drugs to take away the pain of the ass-kicking I'm gonna give him!”

The thug was almost on the verge of a heart attack now, but had the foolish courage to croak out three more words.

“What… are… you?”

The demon, against all odds, grinned.

“Riggnarok.”

Several minutes later, the three thugs returned to find their leader out cold on the grass. Pinned to his tunic was a silvery badge, carven in the visage of a tusked, snarling beast.

The Fire Beast, Ormagöden.