Kultus

by Richard Ford

  The stench of singed wood drifted up to him, the lamp he had smashed must be igniting the floorboards. There was nothing else for it; he would have to open his eyes. If the lamp had leaked oil everywhere it would not take much for it to ignite. If he were set afire when he was already feeling like crap it would not be a great way to end the day.

  Tentatively, Thaddeus lifted the lid of one eye. The room was still spinning its merry-go-round waltz, but nowhere near as fast as it had been. He glanced down at the lamp. The glass shade had shattered into several pieces at his feet but it had not yet spilt its cargo of oil. The flame still flickered from the lamp’s wick and it was scorching the wooden floor. He knelt gingerly and stood the lamp upright, taking a deep breath and willing the room to slow. It seemed to work, and Thaddeus managed to open his other eye and stand on both feet without the aid of the wall.

  The tingling in his limbs was beginning to subside and the shaking lessened. Like a rush of fuel to a combustion engine he felt the strength returning to his taut muscles. There was still nausea, the urge to vomit almost overwhelming, but it was the least of the side effects and the one he could tolerate best.

  His skin began to cool, and the moisture that covered his body cooled with it. With a shiver, Blaklok surveyed his room. The chalk pentangle was still intact, a wisp of grey smoke still rising from its centre where the object of his conjuration had so recently debarked. The salt circle he had laid within was now smeared and skewed across the floorboards. Between the two markings was the eviscerated rat. Even now, mere seconds after its demise, jinking flies were beginning to congregate to lay their spawn and feast on the fresh carcass.

  It had been a simple invocation. The circle of salt was merely a precaution. After all, the imp he had summoned had entreated him for aid, not the other way around. But old habits were hard to shake, and a protective circle of salt was an elementary and requisite aspect of necromancy; any novice knew it.

  The encounter had been mercifully brief and Thaddeus was left in no doubt as to the importance of the liaison. Unfortunately, as with all things associated with the demonic, he had been given the most cryptic of clues as to the nature of his task.

  Procure the Key for us, Rankpuddle had said, its dog-like muzzle forming the words perfectly. As it spoke its mouth seemed strange, the bestial jaws working just as a man’s would. Blaklok didn’t know whether the key in question was meant for the imp or for someone else, for the creature always spoke about itself in the third person, and even then not very plainly. A deluge is coming that must be stopped continued the imp, the Key is the way. Of course Thaddeus had asked which key in particular, to which the answer had been, look to the dead. Then, with a flash of blinding light and a whiff of sulphur, the foul creature was gone.

  Look to the dead, Blaklok thought. Well, that could mean anything. If the damnable beast demanded his aid then why not just ask for it? Why all the puzzles?

  Thaddeus sat himself in the small wooden chair that had been pushed to the room’s edge. The shaking in his hands had all but left him now and even the bilious feeling in his gut was beginning to subside.

  A sudden rapping at the door set his heart racing once more.

  ‘Mr Blaklok?’ It was Mrs Fotheringay, his landlady. Trust her to pick now of all occasions to bother him. ‘Is everything all right in there? I heard a terrible loud bang earlier on. And next door is complaining of a peculiar smell.’

  Thaddeus opened his mouth to give his usual gruff reply, when he noticed something on the floor. More flies had rushed to join their fellows around the rat, and something black and hairy had crawled from beneath the floorboards to investigate the tiny body. But it was not the carousing of insects that had caught Blaklok’s attention. He moved from the chair, crawling on all fours to where the carcass lay, its entrails strewn in what he had originally believed a haphazard manner.

  Look to the dead, he thought again with a smile. The rat’s innards spelled out a word, the slimy guts spread across the floorboards in an elegant script. Chronicle, they said, bold as brass.

  Thaddeus jumped to his feet, feeling the sudden elation of triumph. Mrs Fotheringay bashed on the door once more, just as he wrenched it open. Her sullen expression, the one she bore most often as though she had just stood in dog shit, dropped from her face. Her eyes popped open at the sight of Blaklok bearing down on her, stripped to the waist, tattoos plain to see on his muscular frame, face of thunder, covered in sweat and surrounded by a queer effluvium.

  ‘I was only–’ she managed to say, before Thaddeus grasped the newspaper that sat in the crook of her arm.

  He held it up before her face and nodded his thanks, his eyes still burning in their deep sockets. She flashed him a bewildered smile as he slammed the door in her face.

  Quickly he laid the newspaper out on the bare floorboards. The Chronicle was the most popular broadsheet in the Manufactory. In fact it was the only broadsheet in the Manufactory, its stories bearing a particular bias towards the Noble Houses that ran the city and the Sancrarium, the papacy to which they all paid a cursory tribute. In the metropolis that was the Manufactory, journalism was as functional a vocation as street sweeping or lamplighting. There was nothing that passed for freedom of the press, but right now Blaklok didn’t give a damn – he only wanted information.

  The cover bore several headlines, and Blaklok was quick to rule them out as he scanned the crisp paper. A murder in the Cistern, the betrothal of two unexceptional nobles, a tower in the Spires finally completed. All trivial.

  Then he saw it; Key of Lunos on Display.

  A smile slowly crept across Blaklok’s face. That must be it! Though he had never been one for puzzles, this one seemed plain enough. He scanned the rest of the paper just in case. If he was wrong about this he would end up ‘procuring’ the wrong key, and that could never be good. But there was nothing, no mention of a key anywhere else in The Chronicle.

  Once he had determined that this was the object of his task, he read further:

  Duke Darian Hopplite, fortune hunter and explorer, heir to the House Hopplite fortune and eligible bachelor, has decided to show his recent procurement – The Key of Lunos – at the Manufactory’s Repository of Unnatural History. The Key, unearthed by Duke Darian on a recent expedition to the Moon, is an item of great value, and the subject of intense scientific and theological debate. Some say the Key is a vessel for the Almighty, while the scientific community argue the veracity of this, stating that the Key of Lunos is an item of “undeterminable extra terrestrial import”.

  Duke Darian has declined to become involved in the debate, himself stating that the item: “Looks dashed nice on the old mantle”.

  The Key of Lunos will be on display for one week, starting Thrivensday.

  Thaddeus sat back in the small wooden chair that still leaned against the wall and rubbed his stubbly chin with one calloused hand. This could be difficult. An item owned by a duke of the Noble Houses. Not only would it mean a hanging offence thieving such an item, but now it was to be displayed in the Repository of Unnatural History. Everyone knew security within that monolith to all things weird and weirder was almost as tight as the Chambers of the Sancrarium. The place was full of dangerous flora and fauna, and the near impregnable aegis was there as much to keep the exhibits in as to keep the light-fingered out.

  There was nothing else for it, he needed advice. First of all he needed to know exactly what he was dealing with. What was this bloody Key and why was it so important? The rest he would figure out as he went. After all, how hard could it be? The Repository’s safeguards might be considered insurmountable by its custodians, but then again they had never tried to stop Thaddeus bleeding Blaklok!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Castor Cage walked with purpose. He neither rushed nor tarried, but there was a definite sense of resolve to his long stride as he moved down the dank passageway. The High Priest had seemed almost feverish in his eagerness to get the ritual started, and Castor was very keen not to di
sappoint the High Priest.

  With two other acolytes at his shoulders, the three of them cloaked from head to foot in scarlet satin, Castor felt his confidence rising. Soon the ritual would begin, he and his fellows would be gifted with a boon undreamed of, and he felt almost as keen as the High Priest for this to be underway.

  At the end of the torch-lit passage stood a heavy steel door and, as he reached it, Castor pulled a rusted iron key from within the confines of his flowing robes. There was a small grille set in the centre of the vast portal and Castor could see nothing but blackness through it. Soft whimpers emanated from within and he felt a sudden pang of pity for the cell’s occupant. Castor was by no means cruel, but he understood that he and the other acolytes might sometimes have to perform acts of cruelty to attain their ends. It was a burden he was more than willing to bear.

  He slotted the key into the lock and turned it. Despite the age and condition of the rusted metal door, the lock itself was well oiled and the key turned easily, sliding the bolt mechanism inside with a resounding click. Castor pulled the door open and allowed the light from the wall’s bracketed torches to bathe the cell, revealing the wretch within.

  ‘Earl Beuphalus,’ said Castor with a smile. ‘The time is now. Please come with me.’

  The Earl cringed in one corner. Dried blood stained his torn clothing and he looked gaunt, two hollow eyes staring from within a pallid face. At first he shook his head and backed away from Castor’s brothers as they entered the cell, but there was nowhere for him to go. As the robed figures reached out for him, Beuphalus began to whine and mewl like a puppy being gelded. All the pity Castor might have felt for the man suddenly vanished. This was a Highborn noble of House Westowe. Where was the dignity he had been taught to expect from such aristocrats? Besides that, this man was also a prominent member of Valac’s coterie. Where was the fearless edge, the arrogance in the face of the enemy? Castor knew for a fact that were the tables turned he would be sure to give a much more august account of himself.

  The acolytes deftly bound the Earl’s hands and secured a gag to his mouth. It served to muffle the pitiful grousing somewhat, but Beuphalus still managed to make an annoyingly loud racket. Castor led the way as they dragged their prisoner back along the corridor, through the tunnel of flickering light.

  When they reached the end, Castor could hear that the chanting had already started. Butterflies began to beat gossamer wings within his stomach as he mounted the stone stairs to the upper sanctum. Near the summit, the bright yellow light from the corridor’s torches mixed with that of a thousand crimson votive candles, throwing an odd titian hue against the walls. As he stepped out into the huge red-lit hall, a hundred hooded heads turned to greet him.

  Beuphalus was dragged up behind, and when he saw what awaited him he began to scream behind his gag. The sound was truly awful, and must have caused the Earl great pain, but the congregation gave no response.

  The sanctum rose high, a hundred feet, perhaps more, Castor could not really tell. It was bare but for the four-foot altar that rose in its centre and the pit of fire that stood to one side. Lining the walls, standing on racks reaching almost to the ceiling, were thousands of scarlet candles, giving off a baleful light. Even the glow of the fire pit seemed to burn an angry red.

  Castor stood, his brothers holding Beuphalus between them, waiting for the High Priest to appear. They did not have to wait long.

  From a dark alcove to the north of the hall strode a tall, thin figure. He was adorned in satin, just like the other brothers present, but the robes he wore were black as ebon and his face was not hidden by the shadow of his cowl. A burnished bronze mask adorned his head, at once beautiful and grotesque. Its edges were sharp, splaying outwards like a sunburst and wickedly pointed. There was no mouthpiece but the nostril and eyeholes were like slits; lacerations in a face of evil. From within the sharp eyeholes burned two blue orbs, intense and focused. Castor could see those eyes even from this distance, and it made him shiver.

  The High Priest paced slowly to the altar, and with one long arm, beckoned his acolytes to bow. This they did, humming as one as they stooped towards the altar, accompanied by the sighing sound of a hundred satin robes moving as one. Castor took this as his signal, and led his brothers as they dragged Beuphalus towards the altar.

  To his credit, the Earl seemed to realise that his end was near, and chose this moment to begin a valiant struggle. Alas, his resistance was for naught – the acolytes chosen to bear him forth were not selected for their weakness of arm. Strong hands held on tight to him, and the squeak of bare feet being dragged on the polished marble floor made Castor smile within the shadow of his hood.

  As the Earl was shackled tightly to the stone altar, the High Priest held out one of his arms in silent demand. A hooded acolyte shuffled forward, his head bowed, holding out a worn leather tome, which the High Priest grasped in a claw-like hand and held aloft for all to see.

  ‘Earl Beuphalus of House Westowe,’ the High Priest began. His voice was distorted behind his mask, but his words remained clear, echoing throughout the massive hall. ‘Heir to vast fortunes. Keeper of slaves. Dweller in towers.’ The gathered mass of acolytes tittered at the joke. ‘Your plans are known to us. Your intentions clear. As self-professed Guardian of the Codex of Valac you would presume to leech us of power. To use us, our entire order, as a sacrifice to your weak master.’

  The congregation muttered disapprovingly. It was as though they sat in judgement of the Earl as he lay trussed to the altar, a jury of a hundred robed acolytes, baying only for blood. Castor doubted there would be any clemency.

  ‘How could you ever presume to overcome us in the service of such an inferior eidolon as President Valac? How could you hope to defeat us, when you are but few, and we are Legion!’

  At his words the hooded mass began to chant louder, a buzz of forbidden words, both mundane and demonic. It was all Castor could do not to join in, but his own task was more important. The Earl had to be held steady. Despite the chains that shackled him he was still able to struggle, and the High Priest’s aim must be true. With his two brothers, Castor pressed the Earl down on the hard stone.

  ‘This foul tome must be consigned to the flames,’ said the High Priest, his voice growing feverish and harsh. With that he flung the heavy book into the fire pit. The flames leapt up, hungry to consume the leather cover and ancient leaves, flickering higher in a frenzy of carmine light.

  The High Priest stepped towards the altar, reaching within one gaping sleeve and producing a wickedly curved dagger. At the sight of the blade the Earl’s eyes widened and he began to scream anew, but his words were lost behind the gag, now moist with his spittle. His body writhed, straining against the chains that bound him, but it was little use. Castor pressed down, feeling the Earl’s thin ribs beneath his taught flesh. Beuphalus had little strength left and his final attempt at resistance subsided into muffled sobs.

  Echoing chants resounded around the hall, and it became almost deafening. The acolytes brayed as one, their resounding voices seeming as a single call. But then, that was the point.

  With a deft stroke, the High Priest brought the dagger down, its point easily piercing the Earl’s sternum. Castor could hear the crack of bone as the High Priest deftly twisted the blade, splitting the flesh and cracking the rib cage apart.

  Beuphalus went limp.

  Expertly, the High Priest wielded the curved dagger, drawing the flesh apart and prising open the Earl’s chest. Long, deft fingers searched keenly within the cavity as the razor sharp blade cut away sinew and cartilage, until finally his hand reappeared, holding the Earl of Westowe’s moist, red heart.

  Castor could see a stream of blood beginning to flow from the body, now still beneath his hands. It pooled in gutters carved into the stone, its flow guided to small holes that would channel the still warm lifeblood from the altar. His eye followed the trail as it led between his legs, running fast to gather within a pattern carved in the marble floo
r. As the blood began to pool within the carved sigil it became clearer. The red stood in contrast to the light grey marble, marking out the sign of Legion, his score of limbs spreading wide, his thousand eyes staring, seeing all.

  Looking back to his High Priest, Castor saw that the figurehead of the Cult of Legion was standing in triumph, holding aloft his enemy’s heart, allowing the blood to run down his arm in streams.

  With a flick of his wrist, the High Priest sent the heart spinning into the fire pit. This time the flames grew even higher than when they had consumed the infernal codex. It was like oil had been flung on the flames, giving them an almost lifelike vigour. All at once the chanting stopped and silence fell over the hall.

  ‘Legion!’ cried the High Priest. ‘We offer the heart of your enemy, and we ask for your boon that we may better effectuate your needs. We await our benefaction that your glory might once more be seen. That you might be liberated from your execrable detention. Bestow your numen upon us!’

  Silence.

  Castor stood back from the altar, watching the High Priest. The Earl’s blood still continued to drip from his body but it was now beginning to congeal, and did not flow down the channels of the altar quite as well as it had.

  Seconds passed, and still the assemblage waited. No one dared move, least of all Castor. Everything hinged on this, everything they had worked for and believed in. Should this fail the High Priest would have much to answer for. For the first time in a while, Castor was thankful that he was only a simple acolyte.

  A sudden shocked sound came from within the congregation. A group of red robes moved aside, revealing one of their number, bowed in discomfort. Men were murmuring with disquiet as one of the acolytes began to make choking sounds. Before Castor could react, another sound alerted him to more movement in another part of the hall. Then, right next to him, one of his brothers suddenly fell to the ground as though he had been hit by an eight-chamber carbine. The man writhed on the floor, and Castor found himself backing away in disgust and fear.