The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries) Read online

  The Case of the Singing Sword

  A Billibub Baddings Mystery

  By

  Tee Morris

  Cover art by J R Blackwell

  Chapter One

  Trouble is a Princess in High Heels

  Chicago, 1929. There are a thousand stories in the naked city. And when you’re a dwarf at four-foot-one, they all look that much taller.

  The name’s Billibub Baddings. I’m a private eye. I know you’re probably scratching your noggin right now, wondering how the hell did a dwarf of the Highlands of Gryfennos get to be a detective walking the asphalt jungles of the Windy City? It’s an easy story to tell, but not one I enjoy telling again and again…and again. I won’t lie to you—being a four-foot-one detective in a world of six-foot thugs, creeps, and low-lifes is tough, but I manage. Just as I manage, every time, to tell the tale of how I ended up in this crazy, mixed-up world called Chicago.

  Let me take you back in time, and then to the left a nudge, to the world of Acryonis. With valleys and groves greener than Hyde Park in springtime, it wasn’t a bad place to hang your axe and shield at the end of a day. Where there wasn’t green, there were mountainous arctic regions, rolling moors, and clear, vast lake districts. Yeah, Acryonis had it all. It could’ve been paradise if the noisy neighbors upstairs—Black Orcs from the North, who weren’t that happy with being cold all the time—hadn’t gone stirring up trouble.

  The Great War of the Races began as a series of more-than-occasional village burnings along the borders of Stone Guardian Valley and the Shri-Mela Plains, and then grew hair over time…and as it was orcs who started this mess, this war grew hair in places that you wouldn’t think to look for hair. This Great War (and to this day, I still don’t know why they call it that, as there was nothing great about it), which started back before my great-grandfather’s day, now started to pick up steam in mine. It fell upon me to uphold the great estate of Baddings—to carve out a name for myself, my future offspring, and my ancestors on the Holy Tablets of Yearnese.

  Yeah, big deal. My family name and a nickel might get me a cup of java or a taste of foam from a freshly tapped keg. The “great estate of Baddings” I was charged to uphold consisted of a couple of rickety chairs, a wobbly table, and a thatch roof that leaked on rainy days. Since I really didn’t have much to lose, I figured I would find my fortune in the heat of battle…thirst for glory, rattling sabers and all that.

  Unlike my ancestors, I did all right for myself. Managed to make Captain of my unit. We dwarves were the best in the Allied Races, our sterling reputation with infiltration and search-and-destroy missions preceding us to the point that other races were willing to pay or barter only the finest goods for our services. We never disappointed. The 25th Dwarf Warriors Company went so far as to adopt the motto, “Don’t let ’em know you’re comin’, but let ’em know when you’re leavin.’” At least, that’s a rough translation in Chicago’s native tongue.

  It was this particular talent of getting in unannounced and leaving with a bang (and a boom, for good measure) that got the “Stormin’ Scrappies” noticed by The Council of Light. It appeared that the Black Orcs, who had fought this Great War for decades only to find themselves on the losing side, were cooking up this cockamamie scheme of taking over Acryonis by calling on the Darkness of Ish’tyis: an all-supreme evil that could make the most crooked politician look straighter than a flagpole.

  I know I should be pissed beyond reason at the arrogance the orcs displayed in dabbling in dark magic, but it’s more of a pity I feel. Truth be told, orcs ain’t the brightest bulbs on the moviehouse marquee. They had their eyes on the prize, but hadn’t considered how they would control this Darkness once it was unleashed. Instead, they kept their plan to the basics: collect the ancient talismans of Acryonis and open the Portal of Kraketia, unleashing the Eternal Night of Ish’tyis in the process.

  You think these names are hard to read? Try living there.

  Anyway, our counterplan was to get this crossbreed blacksmith, Sirus Hawthorne, up to Death Mountain’s summit so he could drive his handcrafted toothpick into the heart of the Black Orc Barbarians’ top dog. Along with Sirus and his tagalong cleric came me and my boys, leading a team of representatives from every race in the Allied Forces.

  We were trying to sneak in undetected, but humans are a loud and clumsy bunch. But even with the Black Orcs closing in on us, we managed to reach the Central Chamber, where the Talisman Ritual had already begun. Sirus took on the Black Orcs’ Big Cheese while we fended off his thugs. I broke free of the melee and got over to the Portal of Kraketia, and from the sounds coming out of there as it opened, I had to think fast. Otherwise, a bunch of grumpy orcs would have been the least of our troubles.

  I figured the best way to separate the talismans would be to toss them into the Portal, condemning them to Oblivion in the process. As I threw the last talisman into the portal and watched the rip in front of me slowly close in on itself, it looked like the plan was working.

  The only problem was that I didn’t know how close “too close” to the portal was. As the rip became smaller, I found myself getting closer to the gaping chasm without necessarily wanting to get closer. Ahead, I could see slips of dark-blue mist quickly disappearing into a black void darker than goblin’s blood; the void was growing larger, but only because I kept sliding forward towards this closing maw. No doubt about it: It looked like I was to be a final dessert for this portal’s nine-course dinner.

  The kind of fear I was feeling at that moment can motivate you—no matter how desperate that last act may appear—to make a final stand in order to live to see another day. To that end, I turned around and shot out a hand for this cute elf in our party, just out of arm’s reach. She was a pretty little creation with finely-honed muscles, the end result of disciplined training and a few too many tours of duty in that friggin’ war. There was just a touch of the wild child left in her, what with the V-cut shirts and leather armor that worked like a barmaid’s bodice to push her tiny breasts up and together, giving this hardened Elvish warrior enough cleavage for a dwarf to enjoy. I looked deep into her brilliant green peepers—a pair of emeralds set in a hard, intense face framed by long, thick locks of silky fire billowing in the strong currents that pulled me ever closer to Oblivion.

  Yeah, she was a cutie. Always had a soft spot for the redheads. Still do.

  I remember feeling her fingertips just brushing mine…and with that, everything I knew and accepted as my world slipped away like dirty bathwater taking its time running down a slow drain. But at least I knew that pretty little thing and the rest of Acryonis would be all right. I had done my part to uphold the all-important Baddings name. I had sacrificed my life for the tranquility of my kinsmen, and of the kinsmen I would never know.

  I remember the chamber disappearing from me in a blur. I remember falling. I remember seeing all kinds of stars, like on a winter night where you can see the edge of the universe and just a yard past it. I remember the wind growing louder the longer I fell.

  Then everything stopped…and I mean stopped. I was surrounded by that silence you hear (and to an extent, feel) after you’ve been thrown against the nearest wall in the middle of a tavern brawl.

  So, I guessed I was done. This was it. The big sleep, and it felt like being thrown against a wall in the middle of a barfight. Damn, this was going to be one hell of an eternity!

  Now, here’s the funny thing about Oblivion: Everyone knows what it is, but no one knows where it is. You can consult those All-Mighty Oracles, and they will describe the same thing I’ve just gotten th
rough telling you about. The stars. The wind. Flashes of light. Okay, they might skip the “being thrown against the tavern wall” analogy, as the average Oracle doesn’t drink, smoke, or enjoy a good woman. (If that’s the price for clairvoyance, let me forever wallow in the bliss of ignorance!)

  Ask the Oracles what happens after the silence, and suddenly the planets are out of alignment, or the cards are refusing to yield their knowledge. If ever an Oracle answered with a simple “Gee, I don’t know…” it would probably trigger some bizarre spell and make their heads explode or something. No, instead of ’fessing up that they’re about as enlightened as the darkest part of a goblin’s butt, they spew this bizarre rhetoric that makes Irving Berlin lyrics sound like Shakespeare. “The Winds of the Future are brewing into a storm I cannot see through…” is always an old standby of theirs.

  Oblivion, as I discovered, is not the part you see, but the part where you end up. Makes sense, right? And since no one has ever come back from Oblivion, no one—not even the wizard with the biggest hat of the nine realms—knows where Oblivion is.

  But now I’m here to tell you exactly where Oblivion is and where it ends. The portals of Oblivion, at least the ones I fell through, end at the Chicago Public Library on 78 East Washington Street in Chicago, Illinois, USA.

  When I finally came to, my head was pounding harder than a wardrum firing up the troops before the great push. I picked myself up to make a fire and brew up a good home remedy for headaches like this one. That was when I realized I wasn’t in the Everlasting Fields of Yernase. I wasn’t in a forest. I wasn’t even outdoors. Books. I was surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books.

  I’ll be the first one to tell you that I was never a bookworm. I always preferred a good battle-axe and a bad attitude over protocol and diplomacy any day. “A good book is worth more than any treasure of a king,” our village’s elder told me once. I was forty-two then. Thought I knew everything, so I didn’t really take that one to heart.

  Once I found myself in this library, I knew I was standing in a vault of gold, platinum, rubies, and sapphires.

  I understood enough to find my way through the simple books in the Children’s section, but quickly figured out I would have to wrap my brain around human tongue (the dialect of Ro’hema in particular) because it was the prominent language here. The hard part wasn’t learning the lingo (which, I found out later, was called English) so much as staying out of everyone’s way during the day before coming out at night for my education.

  All my previous training in getting in and out of keeps, dungeons, and fortresses without setting off traps or alerting any guards was now paying off with an intellectual interest. Here, the only thing I left in my wake were a few books out of order and some perplexed librarians wondering where their lunches had disappeared to on certain days. I noticed from the shadows that these humans were, on a whole, a bit thick in the head. I managed to work up to what they called a sixth-grade level while others continued to struggle with “See Spot Run.”

  Once I was done with the Children’s wing of the library, I began to search for books on world culture, hoping to come across groups who practiced magic. But the only documented “magic” was hardly worth talking about. I read about something called “voodoo” that was practiced in a city called New Orleans, and newspapers often advertised traveling carnivals that featured fortunetellers and their all-knowing crystal balls alongside entertainment greats like “Alligator Boy” and “The World’s Fattest Lady.” And I even overheard a couple of librarians offering to read one another’s tea leaves to forecast the future. These gimmicks were no better than the hocus-pocus scams in my world, pulled by failed apprentices for the out-of-towners. Not what I call magic.

  The papers also kept me up to speed on the dates and daily news, teeming with stories about the Prohibition Act, the Gangland Wars, and the war waged by the Treasury Department on Organized Crime. This was where I got my bearings on the concept of time—at least, how time is measured in this world. By the time I learned what a year was and that I’d arrived in the year 1927, I’d been here for roughly four months.

  And just my luck—I finally figure out the year, and according to the Tribune, Chicago was ready to ring in the new year. 1927, I barely knew ye.

  As I put it all together in that moment, it felt like some invisible squire had thrown a suit of armor equal to the weight of a pregnant Cerberus on top of me. The truth finally sunk in: I had been here four months, and there was no way back home.

  I felt my legs give way underneath me along with the impulse to relieve the unbearable tightness in my throat with a good, old-fashioned howl. That wasn’t an option, unless I wanted to be discovered by anyone working late in the stacks. So I covered my face and let it all go, sobbing into my calloused palms every emotion, regret, and memory that had been bottled up inside of me.

  You would cry too if you had the same epiphany I did: my family, a collection of dwarves that could fill a small banquet hall; my friends, comrades-in-arms of both Dwarven and Human races, and maybe the odd crossbreed here and there; my home, not a great castle by any stretch, but still mine. Gone. There were issues I hadn’t resolved, a few wrongs I wanted to right. I still had a lot more to do in Gryfennos, be it as Captain Baddings of the Stormin’ Scrappies, or simply as landowner and faithful subject, Billibub Baddings.

  Everything—everything I had known—was lost. I had just spent four months in a library, and the only magic in this realm existed in works of fiction. While there were some distinct advantages to a world void of necromancers, wizards, and soothsayers, it looked like I was never going to see Acryonis again unless I had the right spell and the right mage calling it. Here, in Chicago, that wasn’t going to happen.

  So yeah, I cried. You got a problem with that?

  When I finally removed my hands from my face, the first thing my eyes focused on through their watery haze was another librarian’s lunch I’d helped myself to earlier that day. No, I thought, there ain’t no way I’m living like some second-rate street urchin! I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, spend the rest of my life hiding in the stacks and pilfering bag lunches. My Mama Baddings had brought me up better than that. So, I gave the bootstraps a yank and committed myself to finding a place in this new world.

  When I wasn’t searching for something I could do to make an honest living, I turned to the fiction shelves for something light. Here, I was drawn to those mysteries of Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Now, there was a vocation I could see myself excelling at. A detective. Why not? I could see the application of my military skills put to a daily test and kept sharp. It was, of all the different jobs I had read about, the one that I found most appealing. I remember smiling wide, content that I could find a place for myself here after all.

  Then, I caught a glimpse of my transparent reflection in a window. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  The first thing I needed to do was to step out into this real world and get to know it better. Sure, you can learn a lot from hitting the books, but nothing beats walking your battlefield before facing the cavalry, truly knowing where you would be making your stand.

  When I finally made it back to the library after that first night, I honestly considered applying for a job stacking and sorting books for the rest of my days. I’d seen a lot in Acryonis, but when you see your first skyscraper, which easily towers over the tallest keep you’ve seen in all your years above ground, you tend to feel a little intimidated.

  Then, there were the cars. Whenever I’d overheard these humans calling this age the “Roaring Twenties,” I thought in my early ignorance that this was an oblique reference to twenty-ton dragons nesting somewhere in town. No doubt, the number of these horseless coaches added to the roar of the times. Okay, so they were efficient, but they were also loud, and belched out fumes that made troll farts smell like a dozen roses! And I was going to call this place home?

  From the shadows where I watched the humans of this world, I silently ran down the list
of the Fates and tried to figure out which one I’d crossed.

  I soon learned that the “Roaring Twenties” referred to the lifestyle: late-night parties at the supposedly hard-to-find speakeasies, flappers dancing the Charleston, guys trying too hard to act like Rudolph Valentino’s “Sheik,” and what have you. At the same time, it was also an accurate description of this city being nothing more than a cement jungle with a pack of noisy lions, all trying to be the king. The rules of the game were “survival of the fittest”—not too different from the Acryonis days.

  Accepting the fact I stood out from a crowd like a desert sphinx in a pedigree dog show, I continued to slip out of the library in my most plain clothes: a simple shirt and breeches with deerskin boots. I walked the city at night, sticking to shadows and alleyways, not only getting familiar with the mean streets but also gaining some confidence. Little by little, I started to find a common ground between some parts of Chicago and a few cursed realms I’d crossed back home.

  The next step was to get a bit of the green. I cased pawnshops and antique dealers, keeping an eye out for merchants who dealt in “the unique and unusual.” If I found the right trader, I figured that some of my gear would sell. I also checked out local talent agencies. There was this book called The Wizard of Oz that everyone was raving about. (I read it in the library because I caught the word “Wizard” in the title, and I held a glimmer of hope there really was a place in this realm called Oz and maybe there was a wizard there.)

  Between its popularity and Semon and Hardy’s moving picture from 1925, really short people were in demand for high-priced birthday parties and special events. So I showed up on the front doorstep of the Harvey Showenstein Talent Agency one morning and became their golden boy for a couple of months. While I’m sure my ancestors weren’t entirely happy with my antics as “Waldorf, the Protector of Munchkinland,” it did get me those first Hamiltons and Franklins. I’m still on Harv’s calling list, as a matter of fact. When business is slow, I do an occasional job for him, provided the pay is good and I’m allowed a lot of stage make-up to keep my identity in the anonymous category.