Kultus

by Richard Ford

  ‘We’re here on official business,’ she said, walking proudly. ‘I demand this door be opened immediately.’

  She was forced to stop in front of the two broad sentinels who refused to move at her behest. They merely stared, eyes dull with their lack of comprehension. It was obvious they were unsure how to handle the situation.

  Blaklok decided he’d best give them a hint.

  They were big, bigger than Blaklok at any rate, and he had to put them down quick before they could defend themselves. Fastest way to do that was to smash a bloke in the neck as hard as you could. There was lots of theory behind it, Thaddeus had learned it a million years before, when he’d been taught all the complicated jargon and shown the precise techniques. But what it basically meant was he could knock the guy out with a single blow no matter how big he was.

  Blaklok had to leap to get the right angle, swiping his forearm down on the first guard’s trapezius. He connected against the rock-hard muscle of a neck as thick as most men’s waists, but instantly the guard went down.

  It was doubtful he even knew what hit him.

  The second guard was more problematic; he was moving now, hand reaching for a weapon, body tensed and ready. This one would be much more difficult to drop.

  Amelia moved in the periphery of Blaklok’s vision, out of his focus like a spectre in a haunted house. There was a baton in her hand, something tiny and metallic, much smaller than the banded club her tipstaff carried. She hit the guard five times before Blaklok realised what she was doing. At first, the hulking sentinel didn’t move. Then slowly, like a toppling tree, he fell onto the prone form of his fellow sentry.

  ‘Mr Blaklok, I can’t stress enough the need for subtlety here.’ Amelia looked annoyed, or at least as annoyed as she would allow herself to appear. She still bore the cold mask of self control.

  ‘There’s a time for subtlety, and a time for smashing heads,’ Blaklok replied, relying on an old and well-used adage.

  ‘Yes, well. Might I suggest we proceed with caution?’

  ‘Suggest what you like, love.’ He gestured for her to lead the way.

  Her tipstaff was already opening the vast steel door that led on to yet more subterranean shadows, so with Snapper whimpering to himself in the dark, they carried on.

  After several minutes of twisting, turning tunnels, Blaklok could see light up ahead. He raised an arm for the others to stop, something that must have hurt Amelia’s sense that she was in command, but she didn’t complain.

  He stalked forward, keeping within the shadowed confines of the tunnel, and peered out into the light. It was a wide reception hall filled with more brutal looking guards. Blaklok counted eight of them in various stages of repose.

  This wouldn’t be easy, but then it never bloody was, was it.

  ‘We’ve got trouble ahead,’ he said, after returning to Amelia’s side. ‘But I think we can get through. I just need a knife.’

  Amelia looked at him uncertainly, then nodded to her tipstaff who duly produced a short blade.

  ‘Can I go yet?’ said Snapper suddenly, his voice sounding more pitiful than ever. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Please?’ The last word was said through a strangled sob.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Blaklok, not even bothering to look at Trol’s tear-streaked face. ‘But if I ever see you again–’

  Trol was moving before Thaddeus had a chance to finish his sentence.

  ‘So, what do you plan to do with that little pig sticker, Mr Blaklok?’

  ‘I could tell you,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘But then I’d have to induct you into my cult.’

  From her face, it was obvious Amelia didn’t see the funny side.

  She followed Blaklok to the edge of the tunnel, and realised what he meant by ‘trouble’. The room was lined with towering guards, each one bigger than the two they had brought down earlier. What he was going to do with a tiny knife was beyond her.

  He stood at the threshold of the room, breathing deeply but silently and gripping the knife in a white-knuckled fist. Then he lifted his left arm, palm upwards. She could see a tattoo covered most of his flesh, but she couldn’t quite make out the design in the dimness.

  Blaklok ceremoniously lifted the knife and stabbed it into his upturned forearm. Amelia lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound of her disgust. He dug the blade into his flesh and slowly, ever so slowly, ran it down towards his wrist. The flesh parted and blood began to pool in a black line along the length of the wound.

  Amelia was assailed with a sense of nausea, her eyes watering as she watched. But it was something more than simple horror at Blaklok’s self mutilation. This was something altogether sinister. As she watched, the blood from Blaklok’s wound began to move, curling into the air like the tendrils of some creeping vine. The blood diffused, dissipating and spreading into the room, creating a slithering shadow that seemed to hunger for the light.

  Her eyes were wide in horror as she watched and it was all she could do to stifle her screams. This Blaklok, this thug, this footpad and criminal, was some kind of warlock? It was beyond reason. Those who consorted with magic and demons were wizened old men with pointed beards and claw-like fingernails, dressed in sparkling robes. This Blaklok was a common criminal.

  But as she watched it was clear he was so much more.

  The black tendrils that sprouted from Blaklok’s arm began to consume the light, coating lamps and candles and dimming the scant illumination in the reception room, right before the eyes of the thugs who guarded it. But none of them seemed to notice, at least not until the room was bathed completely in inky darkness.

  Panic ensued, gruff voices rising in alarm and calling to their fellows, heavy boots stomping around in the blackness, desperately trying to find a light source. It was then that Amelia realised Blaklok was no longer beside her.

  She heard the sounds of violence; muffled cries and solid blows in the dark. A carbine went off in the corner of the room, briefly illuminating the black. Something was smashed in a brief scuffle, then came the sound of someone falling to the ground. Loud voices, more carbine fire, brief muzzle flashes flaring in the dark and revealing the carnage in the shadows, but Amelia could barely make out what was happening.

  Then silence.

  With a sigh, the shadows lifted, dissolving into a wispy fog to reveal the chaos left behind. Blaklok stood in the centre of the room, broken furniture and smashed ornaments lay all around. Surrounding him were the prone forms of eight hulking guards; each bloodied, none conscious.

  Amelia moved forward, suddenly more afraid of this Blaklok than she had ever been. He heaved breath into his lungs and she noticed that the laceration he had inflicted on his arm seemed to have miraculously healed.

  ‘Well?’ said Blaklok, after regaining his breath. ‘What now?’

  ‘Remember what we said about proceeding with caution, Mr Blaklok? Well, this wasn’t what I had in mind.’

  ‘Going to talk your way in were you? Rely on that old Indagator charm? Because to be honest I don’t think this bunch would have been much impressed with it.’

  ‘No, but now everyone beyond that door will know we’re here,’ she motioned to the huge steel portal that barred their progress from the reception room. ‘Do you have a key to open it, because I don’t think they’re just going to let–’

  She stopped as the sound of bolts being released echoed from beyond the door. With a whine of heavy steel hinges the vast metal portal swung outward.

  Another hulking thug stood barring the way and Amelia could sense Blaklok tensing, ready for another battle, eager to add more scars to that battered face and more victories to his tally. But the guard merely beckoned them through, moving back and allowing them access to the room beyond.

  ‘What do you reckon to that?’ asked Blaklok, his question posed with a smug half smile.

  ‘I reckon we should stay on our guard,’ Amelia replied, taking the lead and walking towards the door.

  The room beyond was m
ost out of character with the stinking subterranean tunnels of the Cistern. It was a hazy, scented chamber more akin to a colonial brothel or whore’s boudoir than the lair of a Manufactory crime lord.

  Amelia walked through the room, her feet soundless on the plush rugs that adorned the floor, and followed the heavy as he led them towards a diminutive figure behind a large desk.

  She didn’t know what she had been expecting. The Montserrat was infamous – a man seldom spoken of and never seen – but this strange dwarf was far from what she had envisioned.

  ‘You’ve made quite a mess out there,’ he said, smiling an easy smile. ‘Could you not just have knocked?’

  The Montserrat reclined in his chair. There was something about his tranquil manner that put Amelia at her ease, but she fought against it. It would be foolish to relax in here, despite the sweet aroma and the Montserrat’s polite small talk.

  ‘You must be Indagator Amelia. And this,’ he said, gesturing towards the scarred, tattooed madman at her shoulder, ‘must be the feared and respected Thaddeus Blaklok.’

  ‘Feared and respected?’ Blaklok replied. ‘You don’t know the half of it, mate. Where’s the fucking Key?’

  ‘Straight to business,’ replied the Montserrat, his smile not straying from his lips. ‘That surprises me, Indagator, allowing a known criminal to speak in your stead.’

  Amelia would have preferred to do the negotiations herself, but Blaklok’s blunt-hammer attitude to this whole affair had worked so far.

  ‘Just answer the question, Montserrat,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, obviously I don’t have it with me. But I know where it is, and I can get it for you – at a price.’

  ‘This isn’t happy hour at the second-hand bargain shop you little fucker.’ Blaklok took a step forward, the thug standing near them reached for a weapon and Hodge was quick to draw his carbine.

  The Montserrat raised a hand. ‘Please, no funny business in here. I’ve just had it done.’ He gestured to the hangings and fine ornaments that gaudily adorned the room. ‘The fact is, I have something you want. Being a representative of the Judicature, you’re in a position to provide me with certain goods and services in return. Whether you like it or not, that’s how this will play out.’

  He smiled from behind his desk, pleased with himself, but Blaklok didn’t seem to be the bargaining type, taking another threatening step forward.

  ‘Look, you little–’

  Heavy footfalls suddenly echoed from the room behind them, like a stampede heading their way through the tight tunnels of the Cistern. With a nod of his head, the Montserrat gestured to his bodyguard and the man brandished his carbine and rushed to see what was approaching.

  No sooner had he disappeared through the mist and hangings, than there was a sickening thud.

  The hulking bodyguard came flying back through the room in a wisp of smoke, dragging fine silks and linen drapes with him. He landed in front of Amelia, his dead eyes staring towards the ceiling.

  Figures moved from the back of the room; red-robed figures, their faces twisted in bestial fury. To their fore was a thin man, his face blackened and scarred as though he had just barely escaped from a burning building.

  ‘Where’s my Key?’ he demanded.

  Amelia looked to Blaklok, who had an expression of consternation across his hard features.

  ‘Julius,’ he breathed. ‘Great swinging bollocks!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘You have stolen from me, Thaddeus Blaklok. You have hampered the plans of Legion. On your ever-living soul, you had best atone for this or the consequences will be dire. Give me the Key of Lunos!’

  Obviously Lord Julius was annoyed.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have it,’ Blaklok replied conversationally. ‘But I know a man who does.’ He turned, motioning beyond the large desk that stood behind him, only to stop in disbelief.

  The Montserrat had done a runner.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Blaklok. Trust me, your merry quips will do you little good now.’

  At Julius’s shoulder, Blaklok could see the remaining twisted acolytes; feral faces baring sharp fangs. Among them was Castor Cage, his clothes and face rent and torn by the numerous battles he had endured recently. It was obvious he was only too eager to be unleashed on Blaklok.

  ‘I know you,’ said Amelia. She struck an authoritative figure, despite the numbers arrayed against them, and Blaklok found himself further impressed by her strength of character. ‘You’re Lord Julius. I’ve been to your mansion! Are you telling me you’re behind all this?’

  ‘And I remember you, hell sow! You butchered my dogs!’

  ‘Yes… well,’ Amelia replied, suddenly on the back foot. ‘That may have been a misunderstanding. What’s more important is why you’re dressed like that, and who these… people are.’ She motioned to the demonic acolytes at Julius’s heel.

  ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking questions.’

  ‘I am an Indagator of the Manufactory’s Judicature. I’ll ask any question I like. I have the authority–’

  ‘Please, spare me. What authority do you think you have? Is it any higher than the authority of the nobles? Do you think it will do them any good when the Legion rises to claim this city… this world? We will cut out its heart and feed it to our masters, and there is no ‘authority’ that can stand against us.’

  ‘Cut out its heart?’ said Amelia, her smooth brow suddenly furrowing.

  ‘Indeed, like we have with so many others.’

  ‘It was you!’ she said, her finger raised in sudden accusation. ‘You killed Earl Beuphalus!’

  ‘I wielded the knife. But the sacrifice was made by us all. For we are Legion.’ Julius opened his arms wide to encompass his followers as they hovered around him.

  ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this endless nattering,’ said Blaklok, fast losing patience. ‘Are we going to get on with the fighting or not?’

  ‘So keen to meet your end.’ A wicked grin stretched across Julius’s face. ‘Very well. Cage, if you’d like to do the honours.’

  Without need of further encouragement, Castor Cage bounded forward, but this time Blaklok was ready for him. He had been taken unawares once, he would not let that happen again. He had seen this beast in action and knew its inhuman strengths.

  But Thaddeus Blaklok had strengths all of his own.

  Every mark and sigil that had been sliced, cut, pricked and stained onto his flesh had a purpose. Some were aesthetic, others looked like they had been scrawled by a blind and thumbless crone using a stick and a pot of septic ink. But each had a purpose. Dwelling in the pits of Hell were a myriad different demons, some great, some small, all diabolical. Unfortunately for Castor Cage, he was not even as potent as the weakest of these.

  The tiny marks stained into each of Blaklok’s knuckles flared, their hatred for demonkind burning in a fulgurating rage. As his fist hit the half-demon full in the face, it unleashed a power of Hell that even the greatest demon would have flinched at. Cage didn’t even have time to yelp before he was flung the length of the room, blood spurting from his smashed snout and spraying the drapes that hung limp from the ceiling.

  Blaklok stood, a mad grin marring his face, eyes aflame.

  ‘Right, you fuckers! Who’s next!?’

  With a collective howl of rage the rest were upon him.

  The Montserrat fled for his life. He was not a particularly brave man, having spent most of his days surrounding himself with loyal bodyguards and thick walls. But with all that gone to shit it was time to make a hasty exit.

  He felt in his pocket for the Key and was conscious of it warming his thigh. He had no idea what it was for or why everyone wanted it so badly but he would be damned if he would let it go. At least not without receiving considerable recompense.

  Somehow he had managed to keep his nerve when Blaklok and the Indagator had burst in. Managed to string them along by pretending he did not have the Key about his person
, then fled down his escape tunnel when no one was looking. But that was the Montserrat’s strength – subterfuge, smoke and mirrors, cloaks and daggers – whatever dried cliché you wanted to put on it, that was his power. People believed the Montserrat was an overlord, a ruthless kingpin. In reality he spent most of his time scared, cowering behind the backs of stronger men. He knew though, that as long as no one suspected his craven nature he was safe in this venal, ruthless environment.

  Money talked just as loudly as the blaring of a carbine and from an early age the Montserrat had spent his time amassing men and wealth and, with them, power. He was not about to let that go now just because of one stray Indagator and a back street thug.

  His feet slowly came to a stop as they slopped along the damp, narrow tunnel. Up ahead, the Montserrat could see that someone was barring his way, but that was impossible. This was his personal, secret escape tunnel. It led out onto a separate higher level of the Cistern, just below the Manufactory’s surface. No one even knew it existed.

  In his pocket the strange Key began to burn with a growing intensity. It became more and more uncomfortable with each passing second until it was almost too much to bear, but before the Montserrat could remove it a voice peeled out from up ahead.

  ‘Ey up.’

  The Montserrat squinted in the stygian dark, trying his best to discern the character’s features.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, trying his best to disguise his fear.

  ‘Name’s Quickstep,’ came the reply, and the figure walked forward into the dim lanternlight of the corridor, revealing himself as a short, nondescript individual in a flat cap and raincoat.

  The Montserrat almost laughed at his caution. This was a nobody, some vagrant off the street who had strayed into his secret tunnel by mistake. It was rare that the Montserrat was brave but he was sure even he could handle this fool.

  ‘Out of my way,’ he said, ‘I have pressing business. You’d do well to make yourself scarce, this is a private tunnel. On any other day I’d have you battered shitless for your intrusion, but you’re lucky I’m in a rush.’