Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  No, that speculation always drove him to wine or the scourge. It was easier to focus on his assigned task, mission by mission—this one for instance, curse this damn crypt he loathed being here every damned night. It took all his concentration to appear alert. Richard gave a nervous twitch of his shoulders. He’d an extreme dislike of cellars, pits and especially tunnels. Yes tunnels were definitely the worst. This crypt may have been regarded as spacious but his ears were always pitched to the slightest creak of rock or patter of falling earth. The callous bitch Annise had dismissed this fear, laughing at his weakness. It had driven him to anger from time to time as did many of her traits. His dearest mistress hadn’t been trapped in the collapsed siege tunnel for days…Ahh Jesu, it was better not to think about it.

  Deus vult no! Richard wiped a coldly damp brow. Instead he had to concentrate on the immediate problems, like would Annise and their new master ever stop their stupid games and finish this! Three nights wasted effort and for guarding what? Any fool could see that Agryppa had been consistently rattled by Annise. She’d be punished or not depending on whether her fickle nature led her to keeping that appealing mouth shut. Ahh well, why ask—it was so predictable. As for the courtier and his servant, where was the threat in them? Of the latter, the servant’s knees knocked so much in steady terror that you could use him to mark time for a gavotte. And as for the courtier, hmm now wasn’t that a shock—the fool had fallen for her pouts and a flash of creamy white breasts. Richard bit his lip at the thought. Annise possessed him by more than just her damned magicks! The troubadours had sung about her dangerous and capricious nature that could hold a man’s heart enthralled with a glance.

  When she’d gained the inevitable victory of magicks over the doctor of devices Richard had just sighed in regret. If only he could have laid a wager. The result though had even him chilled. No damned protection! Was Agryppa a lackbrained fool? Even he knew precaution was the first lesson in any would–be arcane novice’s hornbook and he didn’t even possess enough skill to light a fart! Somehow he suspected that the time for magicks in this disaster had passed.

  Richard abruptly pushed away from the pillar and quickly broke into the developing argument, grabbing his mistress’s shoulder. “Annise, yea said the one who summoned the efreet could still hear fro’ the corpse?”

  “Probably—yes, I suppose.” Annise snarled a half answer. Locked in her dispute with Agryppa she angrily tried to shake him off.

  “Nae, I needs ta know! Can the summoner track us?”

  Agryppa now made to push him away and Richard pivoted his icy glare towards the master of modern magicks. The fool shut his open mouth and stepped back, shocked. Annise still hesitated until Richard dug his fingers deeper into her flesh. His reward was a glare that promised pain and not in the too distant future. Despite this he kept on and finally some seconds later Annise gave an abrupt snarl as a reply then pried his fingers loose “Yes…A summoner this powerful, oh yezz!”

  He would have grinned at his brief victory but well gloating was a sin. Anyway the flurry of Agryppa’s suddenly frantic preparations was enough confirmation. As for the hovering courtier, he quickly stepped forward with his own urgent question. “What, the efreet and the corpse... that can happen again?”

  Annise seemed to take this question with more grace and replied with a short nod. No glare of course, Richard wryly noted. Despite his favoured status the courtier didn’t look too pleased at the news. “Jesu, it was hard enough to keep her down the last two times!”

  Richard didn’t need a retelling. The look of teeth–clenched loathing on the courtier’s face was quite enough. “So we leave—easy enough.” As Richard said it, he knew as if gifted with prophecy that it was never going to happen.

  Their new master caught the drift of the conversation and hurried over. “We can’t. My devices, they’ll be damaged!”

  Richard kept his reaction muted as Agryppa grabbed his sleeve to pull him closer. “I charge you, by your bond, protect me!”

  The master of Arcanum’s spittle splattered Richard’s face and with difficulty he calmed himself. Blood bond or not, Agryppa was asking for a dagger in the ribs. Instead he pried the nervous clutching fingers from his arm, and striding towards the stairway, loosened his sword. “Oh aye. Tis probably ta late ta run. I’ll guard the church. We’re sure to be a havin’ guests.”

  Richard relished the new look of comprehension on Agryppa’ features. So not only was it another beastie of the darkness a coming, but also a pack of minions to boot. Agryppa went from pasty pale to absolutely bleached. The fool should have heeded Annise. Yes, too late by half. They’d been tracked and pinned by means arcane and mundane. Damned magicker—as sensible as a Bedlam loon. They’d tracked here three nights in a row. Even the blindest beggar could tell where they were.

  “Yes, yes stop anyone from entering the crypt!” Their wise and thoughtful new master gabbled.

  Richard shook his head in disgust. These magickers were all the same; too haughty to admit error and too damned keen to save their own hide with the blood of others. Deus vult, if he’d a choice Agryppa could wallow in his own stinking piss. But no, the swine had bound Annise and thus him.

  To his surprise a second pair of boots clattered on the stairway behind him. Richard found that the courtier followed him dragging along his gibbering servant. “You’ll need another sword if we’re to get out of this staked foxhole, Master Montchrestien.”

  Richard switched his inspection from one to the other. While the courtier looked capable of holding his own, his retainer trembled like a trapped cony.

  “Sword yea,” he flicked a thumb at other man now gulping nervously. “Him, thou I would nae trust him ta peel me an apple.”

  “Oh, Bottoph’s all right. Give him a shadowed corner to hide in and he’s as bold as a lion.” The courtier shook his man like a terrier would a rat and Richard didn’t need the lantern’s light to see the fear on the face of the servant.

  “Ol’ Jasper here will serve a purpose.” The courtier released his hand and the fellow shot off like a ferret, scuttling into the deep gloom of the church.

  Richard shrugged. Either the courtier’s man would be of use—or not. His varied experience of violence made him more self–reliant than trusting. As for the courtier, as if oblivious to the approaching threat the fellow crossed his arms and lent against a pew, its end board carved like a sprouting tree. He coughed once and groomed that pointed beard of his, features shadowed black and white by the dim light of the lantern. “Ahh, so if your mistress is, is…learned in magicks then you must be…?”

  “The hired sword, yes.” The question didn’t worry him. No doubt the courtier was curious about their servant–mistress relationship, if only to clear the way for his suit. Richard suppressed a smile. If only Master Bryan knew how many times a lord or courtier had made him the same play.

  “You’ve some experience?”

  “Oh aye.”

  “Where?”

  “The last wee time, Italy.” That answer appeared to settle the courtier for he returned a slow nod. The mention of the place was enough. Everyone knew of the shifted allegiances, constant battles, skirmishes and sieges up and down the peninsular as the armies of the French, Imperials, Papacy and local dukes sparred and Richard forbore mentioning how long ago he’d been there or his tasks. This Englishman didn’t need to know.

  “As a veteran how many do you expect?”

  Richard smiled. Excellent! This courtier was catching on fast. The past was to be a closed subject, and so he focused on practicalities.

  “I’d say about half a dozen, maybe one or two more, but less than ten.”

  “Why so?”

  Richard smothered a laugh at the question and ruefully shook his head. “By Christ, yea usual magicker is a miserable piece o’ God’s handiwork. They’re as proud as Lucifer an’ as stingy as a bishop. I’ve niver met one that’d nae pay out gold fo’ a tatty unicorn’s horn an’ pence fo’ a decent retainer.”


  Even in the low light Richard could see the amused smile of the courtier. “Yes, ahem yes Master Montchrestien. I very much see your point.”

  The recent antics of Agryppa didn’t need to be mentioned. Richard felt a sudden strange affinity with this courtier. They’d both been snared by dark magicks and had to bear the consequences.

  Reacting on impulse he stuck out his open hand. “Montchrestien’s ta big a mouthful fo’ a pair o’ men abut ta face a brawl. Call me Richard.”

  His arm was taken in the strong firm grip of a man who didn’t just laze around at court. His hand had the familiar calluses that spoke of more than a passing familiarity with a sword. That at least was promising.

  “Fair exchange, I’m Francis.” Then the courtier gave one of those delicately discrete coughs he’d no doubt practiced at court. “Ah I don’t mean to pry, but as a demon, how can you mention Our Lord and Saviour?”

  Richard gave a grim chuckle. “We’re nae demons. I’ve friends who’ve reasoned where we fit in but I’m a sworn man an’ don’t bother with musings. Like any mortal Master Bryan…ah I mean Francis, I live in hope o’ salvation. “O’ course my path may be steeper an’ rockier than even the Pope’s.”

  That got a deep laugh in reply. Hmm, mused Richard. Maybe the courtier may not be so much the pizzle–puller that he’d first appeared. “Then Richard, as a mortal and a veteran afeared of judgement, what do you think?”

  “I reckon they’ll nae muck ab’ut and come straight through the door.”

  “So where should we stand?”

  Richard pointed towards to an almost hidden alcove to the far left of the door. “If’n you take a post there an’ charge after they’re in, we’ll have ’em.”

  “Isn’t it too far? They’ll spill into the nave before we can stop them.”

  “Nay, I’ve a little welcoming gift fo’ our guests. A touch o’ space and I’ll be fine. Just wait for it an’ go for ‘em.”

  The courtier paused for a moment then nodded and took up the assigned spot. As for the rest of the preparation, Richard used the lantern to light a spray of candles down by the rood screen and placed the hooded lantern on an empty iron cresset by the first pillar next to him in the nave. Then as before any battle it was only a matter of waiting. As for apprehension, well he’d admit to a twinge—maybe. But of course gross errors of judgment and arrogance leading to deadly affray wasn’t anything new. After all he’d spent years in Annise’s company and those two curses dogged her every footstep. Anyway at least he could console himself that he was out of the damned crypt, though a part of him was curious as to how Annise would use the coming opportunity to try and wriggle out of their bond. Richard shrugged off the speculation as he checked his final preparations. By morning they’d be free, bonded or dead, and two out of three was decent betting odds. He just had to wait, and even now after all the missions, ambushes and, battles, waiting was still hard.

  ***

  Chapter 17: A Fine Brawl - Blackfriars Chapel

  It was the waiting that tended to make him nervous. Francis shifted his right hand slightly making sure his sword didn’t clink on the stone pillar. After weighing up the pros and cons he’d decided to have both his sword and dagger out. Chandos, his family’s grizzled master of livery, had drilled him on ambuscades. The blackened face and cloth covered armour wasn’t an option. Chandos would growl at him not to fidget or move his weapons about. Francis clearly remembered his instructions ‘if’n yer cramped in a leg or arm move it slowly damn’ye’. And just to ensure he’d got the message through Chandos had whacked him with his staff. It had only taken a few lessons to get the drift—a second and third thump harder than the first would come his way if he moved.

  Now in the dark of the chapel with the odd disturbing sound drifting up from the crypt below, Francis found the memory of that chastising unexpectedly calming. Slowly he breathed in and out keeping his vision centered on the doorway. The swordsman—what was his name? Oh yes, Richard—Richard Montchrestien. His steady confidence and wry humour had been reassuring, certainly more so than having Bottoph back you up in a brawl. His fallen angel as its want made a more ominous comparison. Better cunning cowardly Ol’ Jasper than that two faced weasel Agryppa. Hmm yes, Francis had to agree. The doctor of devices was not to be trusted. His games and ploys had imperiled Francis three times by now, and apart from proving demonic possession which he’d already surmised, they were no closer to solving the posession of Gwen.

  At the memory of his murdered bedmate Francis’ cods shifted uncomfortably, for one prompted the recall of another, that sharp toothed demoness Mistress Athyney. He was still unsure how he felt about her. So as his fallen angel had surmised she drank the blood of men. That was unnatural at the least. But she was damned fair, with reddish tinted blonde hair and deep emerald green eyes a man could drown in. Francis swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Ahh yes, thinking of her sparkling eyes automatically lead to ‘other attractions’, the creamy skin of her throat down to the gentle curves of swelling breasts. By Christ his mouth felt dry. Bedding her would be an experience. Mistress Athyney had all but suggested an invitation would be welcomed when her small tongue licked a tilted smile. No doubt it’d be spirited session.

  The sound of low voices outside abruptly recalled his straying thoughts to the here and now. Their visitors must have arrived. Francis twitched a smile. Their guests were arguing over the organization of the coming assault. That was far too late. A louder snarl silenced the debate and Francis eagerly bent closer. That hadn’t sounded like any Englishman—the words seemed slurred and abrupt. A long minute passed in silence after that command, and all Francis could discern was the subdued sound of men preparing for a fight.

  Then the door opened.

  Unlike what he’d been expecting the iron strapped heavy oak door didn’t slam back with a hollow boom. Nor did the raging pack of rogues storm in, screaming and waving cudgels and knives—mores the pity. No, instead the door silently eased open with nary a squeak or a squeal and a full fifty heart beats later the first shadow cautiously slunk in. As if cued in a player’s performance a cry and scream echoed from the crypt stairway and several darker shapes instantly joined their leading companion. After a further hissed discussion and satisfied chuckle, the band began moving purposefully towards the crypt stairs. Francis tensed as they turned away to the right preparing to charge when a loud cry drew the band’s attention to the rood screen.

  “Oi, ye pack of rent boy arse priggers!” Richard was standing in front of the flickering light of the cresset, waving a friendly greeting to their visitors. This clearly surprised them and the gang paused for a moment. “Catch!”

  It probably wasn’t the right move—nor was putting up a hand or arm to deflect the cluster of missiles flying towards them. Francis watched their flight with interest. From the way the candle light made them glitter he suspected they were crystal. The distinct sound of shattering glass provided one answer, while the resulting howls and screams gave Francis his cue. He pushed away from pillar and three paces brought him into the chaos of Richard’s surprise. One of their visitors was rolling on the ground, his hands clutching at his face squealing like a scalded pig. One more figure was leaning against a pew gasping and sneezing, while a third was screaming and ripping off his sleeve. Francis took this all in, ignored them, and instead slashed his blade across the back of the legs of the closest figure. The dark shadow collapsed with a startled cry.

  In his training for battle Chandos had drilled him over and over about the importance of movement—a still fighter was…was dead. Combat was fluid. If there was a gap take it. Make your opponents react to you. Keep them off balance. Francis proved the old retainer’s lessons hadn’t been in vain as the fellow with his legs cut dropped with a cry, and Francis slid into the empty space lunging to his left with his dagger. A curse suddenly bitten off told him the strike was true and in another pace he was through the pack and spinning around.

  “Down!”r />
  Or not. At the call Francis threw himself backwards seeking the shelter of the nearest pillar. A further fusillade of glass spheres shattered amongst their assailants, creating a further chorus of screams and curses. To his fallen angel it made a sweet counterpoint to the cries echoing up from the crypt—battle above and below. For all its pleasure at the battle beneath his daemon prompted him to concentrate on the here and now. Magicks and sorcery below wouldn’t save him from a dagger’s keen edge. Francis dodged a deflected sphere which spun towards him and burst past his left shoulder but not quite enough to avoid a spray of fine misting powder. It splattered over his cheek. Francis was suddenly convulsed by sneezing that threw him into a pillar. By Christ! He shook his head at the stinging and burning irritant that crawled up his nose. Damn, pepper dust! That was clever.

  Forced to step away from the irritating cloud Francis rapidly scanned the battle. Several figures were thrashing and screaming on the floor and one more was stumbling towards the door dragged a leg. A shadow slipped out from the wall and the limping visitor stiffened suddenly before falling to the floor gurgling out his last breath. Francis nodded in grim approval. Ol’ Jasper was finally in the fight. From his perspective this battle was more or less over. Only some three assailants remained, and they were sheltering from the continuing barrage behind upturned pews. As a sphere smashed near him on the floor Francis caught the sharp pungent odor of aqua fortis and sought cover by the nearest pillar. So that explained the screams. He’d be distressed if splashed with an alchemist’s corrosive water.