There was no one outside that he could see. Given the weather, that wasn’t surprising. At the far end of the village’s single long road stood a stone building, larger than any of the others, though still no bigger than an average house in Eidendel. A Foundation flag, rather tattered and ill-kept, hung limp and wet from a pole out front.
He trudged down the wet road, mud sucking at his boots, and climbed up the sagging wooden steps to a pair of oaken doors. He knocked three times. “Hello?”
No response.
Simon waited, shifting his weight. His boots were already filled with water, and his socks squished. He was about to knock again when he heard the thump of approaching footsteps.
The door creaked open to reveal a towering, muscular man with a curly black beard and a shaved head, wearing deer-hide pants and a sleeveless vest of scruffy brown fur. The man squinted at Simon and wrinkled his nose, as if he’d found a smashed bug on the bottom of his boot. “Haven’t seen you around these parts,” he rumbled. “If you’re trying to sell something, we probably can’t afford it.”
Simon supposed he didn’t look very impressive, soaked and bedraggled as he was, dragging a suitcase almost as large as himself. He cleared his throat. “My name is Simon Frost. I’m from Eidendel. I work for the Foundation?” It came out sounding like a question; he winced. “You—the mayor here, that is—sent a request for aid.” He removed the wrinkled letter from his robe pocket and held it out.
The man took it with one meaty paw. He held it with a strange delicacy, pinching the corners between his thumbs and forefingers as he studied the words. He looked from the letter to Simon and back again several times, then scratched the shiny dome of his head. “You?”
Simon withdrew a bronze compass from his pocket and showed him the bas-relief phoenix on the front: the emblem of the Foundation, proof of his registration. For good measure, he tapped the phoenix-shaped clasp on his cloak.
The man grunted skeptically, but shoved the letter into his pocket and opened the door. “This way.”
Simon followed him into a wide hall. Fires blazed in two large hearths on opposite walls. The head of an elk was mounted over one, a great, spotted cat over the other.
The man led him to a door, knocked, and called out, “Mayor Umburt, sir? The Animist’s here.”
“Ah, excellent!” boomed a deep voice. “Come in.”
They entered a wood-paneled office filled with yet more trophies. Stuffed quails hung suspended from the ceiling on wires, as if frozen midflight. In one corner, a stuffed rattlesnake hissed silently at a snarling bobcat, and in the other—surreally—a pair of squirrels seemed to be having an animated conversation over acorns. One had its paw on its chest and its head tilted back, as if it were laughing.
Simon wondered if the mayor was a bit mad. He supposed living in this dreary, isolated corner of the world could have that effect on people.
Behind a hulking desk sat a bearded man in a billowy scarlet shirt. Everything about him—his hands, his face, his build—was stout and blocky. He blinked at Simon. “You’re a child.”
“I’m fourteen. But I am an Animist.”
The mayor stared for a moment then sighed. “You may go, Brock.” He nodded to the guard—butler?—who bowed his head and ducked out, closing the door quickly behind him. Umburt folded his hands and frowned, causing his broad face to crinkle up like a bulldog’s. “You don’t have a partner. Don’t Animists usually work in pairs? Master and apprentice?”
“Usually, yes.”
Umburt paused, as if waiting for an explanation. When it became clear that none was forthcoming, he massaged his forehead with short, blunt fingers. “All right. Let’s see a demonstration.”
Simon blinked. “Pardon?”
“Of your powers. Show me what you can do. Let’s see . . .” He rubbed his hands together. “Ah, yes—summon a demon!”
“Er . . . I’m not at that level yet.” Quickly, he added, “I could summon an imp or a wraith. They’re not as powerful, but—”
“Whatever.”
Simon rummaged through his robe pocket and withdrew the small jar of summoning ash. He hated to waste something this potent on a demonstration, but he had enough of it for at least two summonings. And if he didn’t prove his power now, he might lose his chance.
He cleared his dry throat. “It’s a little harder to perform Animism indoors.” Stop making excuses, he thought. But his traitor mouth rambled on. “I suppose it would be inconvenient to go outside now, since it’s raining, but when I’m standing on the soil, I can channel larger amounts of meta—”
“What?”
“The Earth’s energy. It flows through all living things and exists in the atmosphere as diffuse particles.” At Umburt’s blank look, he continued, “It’s what Animists use. For power.”
The mayor grunted. “Get on with it.”
Sweat trickled down Simon’s back as he emptied some of the ash into his palm and sprinkled it in a circle on the floor. He nicked his palm with his pocketknife, pressed his spread hand to the floorboards within the circle, and focused. The cut on his palm pulsed.
This was the moment he’d been waiting for, the chance to prove himself.
“I call upon you, servant of the Eldritch Realm,” Simon whispered. “Claim my toll and lend me your strength.”
The ash glowed a smoky green. The glow brightened until a column of solid green light shone up to the ceiling. Simon leaped to his feet, heart pounding. Umburt sat up straighter, staring intently.
A puff of smoke filled the room. When it cleared, a three-foot-tall form stood in the center of the circle. The creature was squat and nearly neckless, with a wide, flat, froglike face and moist olive-green skin splotched with purple. It looked around, its bulging eyes rolling independently of each other, and opened its mouth to reveal a set of bare gums.
The mayor’s expression went blank.
A sickly heat crept up Simon’s neck and spread across his face. All right, he thought. It didn’t look very impressive, but that didn’t matter. He just had to demonstrate that he had control over it. “Servant,” he said. “Bow to me.” After a half beat, he added, “Please.”
The imp waved its short, pudgy arms, hands flapping, and shrieked like an irate parrot. It ran into a wall, staggered back, then ran into the same wall again.
Simon stood stiffly, his ears burning.
The imp fell on its back and lay there, squealing, its stubby limbs flailing.
The mayor removed a small brown glass bottle from his desk drawer and took a swig. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
Simon clapped his hands together, and the imp vanished in another puff of smoke. Awkward silence filled the room.
He cleared his throat. “I can demonstrate some basic fire techniques, if you like.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Umburt leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his girth. “I should have expected this,” he muttered. “I don’t suppose the Foundation takes our complaints very seriously. We’re just a bunch of illiterate yokels, stinking of manure. That’s how you think of us, isn’t it?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever thought much about you, sir.”
“Precisely.”
There was a small, dark stain on the mayor’s left breast pocket. Simon couldn’t quite tell what it was. Maybe sauce or coffee or a bit of crusted porridge . . .
“Why are you staring at my shirt?”
Simon forced himself to meet the mayor’s eyes. They were a watery brown. “Sorry.”
“Never mind,” Umburt said. “We won’t be requiring your services. I’ll send another letter to the Foundation tomorrow. They can’t insult us like this and expect us to take it quietly.”
Simon could feel an invisible rope cinching around his neck, pulling tighter and tighter.
He raised his head, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “Sir . . . if I may speak bluntly, you’re not in a position to be picky.”
Umburt’s eyes narrowed. “
Excuse me?”
“Frankly, you were right. The Foundation doesn’t consider your village worth its time. If you send another letter, it will end up shoved in the back of a file cabinet and forgotten. They didn’t send me here. I decided to come. I’m all you’ve got.”
Umburt muttered something under his breath and slammed the brown glass bottle onto his desk. “Bloody parasites,” he growled. “They’re more than happy to take our taxes, but what do they do for us?”
Simon waited, hoping his robe hid the way his legs shook.
Umburt rose from his chair and walked over to the window. He interlaced his fingers behind his back and stood there for a moment, gazing out at the landscape, as if contemplating the cruel unfairness of his lot. Then he turned and glowered at Simon. “All right. You’re here. You may as well try.”
A giddy mixture of relief and anxiety swept over him. But he managed to keep his tone calm. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “So. This . . . monster. How big is it, exactly?”
“See for yourself.” He opened his drawer and removed a large wooden box. With a grunt, he slammed the object down on the desk.
Simon leaned closer. Inside the box was a plaster cast of a reptilian footprint, twice the size of a lion’s paw. The four toes were elongated, like fingers, each tipped with a talon as long and sharp as a pocketknife. A fifth talon jutted out from the side like a thumb.
A web of chills spread across Simon’s skin. “Where did this come from?”
“Near a stream in the mountains. A hunter first encountered the beast there. He barely escaped with his life. Funny thing—he insisted that it spoke to him. Or tried. He couldn’t make out what it was saying.”
“It’s intelligent?”
The mayor shrugged. “Or the hunter was drunk. Who knows? In any case, we sent a group of our men into the mountains with weapons and torches, hoping to drive the beast out. They tracked it down to its hiding place, an abandoned house in the forest. They managed to wound it, but at a high cost. Two men were badly injured. One died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He gulped. “Did anyone get a clear look at it?”
“Only glimpses, but it was enough to give them nightmares. And we know it’s still there. Just yesterday, another hunter found the remains of a kill in the mountains—the hindquarters of a deer, with bite marks too large to belong to a bear.” He met Simon’s gaze. “So tell me, Animist. What are we dealing with here?”
“It doesn’t sound like any natural animal I know of,” Simon admitted.
“A demon, then?”
“That wouldn’t make sense.” He paced. “Eldritch creatures don’t just wander between realms. They only appear when they’re summoned, and only remain for a few hours before they vanish. There’ve been a few cases of summoned entities remaining for a full day, if the summoner is very powerful, but—”
“Speak up, boy. You’re muttering.”
“Sorry.” He took an unsteady breath. Maybe deep down, he’d believed Master Melth’s claim that this monster was just an overgrown bear. “Listen, I . . . I may be out of my league here.”
“So you’re running away, then?”
“I didn’t say that.” He looked again at the massive footprint. “This abandoned house . . . where is it?”
The mayor pointed out the window. “See that mountain range?”
Simon peered through the glass. Beyond the village, grassy, windswept plains sprawled, their foggy monotony broken only by the occasional scraggly tree. Mountains loomed against the cloudy sky—a dim, humped shape, like the back of a sleeping dragon.
“The house stands on the leftmost peak,” Umburt said. “Just follow the trail. It’s easy enough to find. Though considering you don’t have a weapon, a Master, or the ability to summon a proper servant, I wonder how you plan to stop this monster.”
That was an excellent question. “You said it’s capable of speech. Maybe it can be reasoned with.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It hasn’t gone out of its way to attack humans.”
“I told you, it killed one of our men,” Umburt snapped.
He’d also said that they stormed the house with torches and weapons. Most beings, earthly or Eldritch, didn’t react very well to that. “I know. But if it could be persuaded to leave . . .” When Simon saw the look on Umburt’s face, the words died in his throat. “Well. I’ll figure something out. Er . . . is there an inn here?”
Umburt waved Simon toward the door. “There’s a spare room at the end of the hall. I recommend staying the night and leaving at first light tomorrow. You don’t want to be out in the mountains after dark.”
Simon nodded, uneasy. He started to turn then paused. If he was going to ask, now was the time. “By any chance, is there a woman named Veera Frost living in this village?”
Umburt frowned. “Who?”
“She would be in her late forties. Medium height, thin, with blond hair and green eyes. She has a small mole here.” He touched a spot on his own left cheek.
The mayor shook his head. “Never seen her. Why?”
Simon turned away. “I just wondered.”
Chapter Seven
Brock, the guard-slash-butler-slash-live-in-companion, led Simon to the small, sparsely furnished guest room. With its black iron frame and granite slab of a mattress, the bed resembled a torture device. Though it was probably no worse than the foldout cot in the mailroom.
“You want something to eat?” Brock asked. “There’s mutton stew, mutton stew, and mutton stew.”
Simon gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’ll have the second option, please.”
Brock left and returned with a bowl of brown sludge, a wooden spoon jutting out. He set it on the nightstand. Simon eyed the globby mixture and took a bite. It was lukewarm and gristly, but edible.
Brock stood, muscled arms crossed over his chest, his expression inscrutable. “I overheard some of the talk in there. Seems like you don’t have much of a plan. If it were up to me, I’d burn down the lair with the monster still inside.”
“That seems . . . drastic.”
“Seems good and simple to me. But after what happened, the mayor didn’t want to risk any more men. Said matters of magic were best dealt with by magic.”
“Animism isn’t magic,” Simon replied automatically. “It’s a manipulation of natural energy through focused human will.”
Brock gave him a flat smile. “Magic is a common word for the common folk, eh?”
Simon froze, a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth. Come to think of it, Neeta had once said something similar. Never call it magic. That’s a vulgar term used by uneducated people. We aren’t performing card tricks, here. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, I suppose.” He cast an uncertain glance up at Brock. “I, um. I get the impression you’re not fond of Animism.”
“Well, there are some here who see the Foundation as a bloated tick on the arse of the people, sucking us dry. Animists give us crumbs, then go back to their soft, cozy lives in the city and expect us to be grateful.”
Simon thought about the tiny, drafty office where he spent most of his waking hours. He opened his mouth to tell Brock he was wrong then shut it. He was suddenly, acutely conscious of how Brock towered over him. He could see the veins standing out on his muscular arms. “I, um. I think that’s a bit—well, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but that’s not entirely fair. I mean . . . certainly, the Foundation has its problems. But—”
“Don’t get nervous, lad.” Brock chuckled and clapped Simon on the shoulder, hard enough that he flinched. “We called you here, didn’t we? Might as well do your job.”
He nodded and took another bite of meat sludge, hoping Brock would leave.
“That man the mayor mentioned,” Brock said, “the one who was killed . . . he was my brother.”
Simon drew his breath in, nearly choking on the gristly stew. Brock’s expression was stony, but there was a subtle tightness around his eyes and mouth. Si
mon swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I truly am.”
“I don’t want words,” he said. “I want the monster’s head.”
“I—that’s not something I can promise. I may not have to kill—”
“Bring me its head, Animist. If you’re worth anything, that is.”
Brock gave him another bone-jarring clap on the shoulder, then walked out, shutting the door behind him. Simon rubbed his shoulder, wondering if there’d be a bruise.
The situation crashed down on him all at once: the enormity of his mission, the stakes, and the consequences of failure. This was real. He could die. In fact, that possibility seemed overwhelmingly likely. He started to shake. The space inside his chest was shrinking down to the size of a postage stamp. He could barely draw a breath, and the harder he fought, the more his chest constricted. Dark fog crept in around the edges of his vision.
Oh, Spirit. Not now. He hadn’t had a fit in months.
Simon plunged his hand into the capacious left pocket of his robes. Panic jabbed at him when his fingers encountered nothing but a hankie and a few crumpled bits of paper. The medicine. Where was the medicine? Had it fallen out of his pocket?
He pushed deeper, groping through the loose paper scraps, until he touched smooth glass, and the terrible pressure in his chest eased, just a little. He fished out the tiny, clear bottle, undid the rubber stopper, and shook its contents—two shiny black capsules—into his sweat-damp palm. There they lay, like fat, oblong droplets of pure night. If he looked very closely, he could see glistening swirls of purple moving inside.
These were his last two pills. He’d been holding on to them for a while now, saving them for an emergency.
He started to lift his palm toward his mouth then stopped.
He’d made up his mind. No more.
It took all his willpower to slip the pills back into the glass bottle and set it on the nightstand; his fingers trembled so hard, he almost dropped it.
Don’t think about the future. Just get through the next minute. The next few seconds.
Little by little, the invisible boulder on his chest lifted, at least enough for him to breathe, though a lingering pressure remained. He let out a quiet sigh. Rain ticked against the window.
Cathedral of Bones Page 6