Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  She dredged up all her pain and fury and screamed it at the White Knights surrounding the templum. The horses before her panicked and bolted—straight into the backs of their comrades who were struggling to contain Maldark.

  The dwarf was bleeding from a score of cuts, some deep and gushing blood that drenched his cloak and habit. He took advantage of the confusion and redoubled his onslaught, swinging the huge war-hammer to either side and opening a path between the knights.

  Rhiannon threw herself forward, hacking and slashing in a crazed frenzy, battering back the horses in her way. Brutal strokes, clumsy, but she had enough rage to make up for lack of skill. But not enough rage that she didn’t see her mistake. She’d gone straight through the knights around the templum and now they were turning and cutting off her retreat.

  A sword lanced out, catching her in the shoulder. She grunted and dropped Gaston’s blade, swore, and grabbed the rider who had struck her, pulling him to the ground and biting, clawing, gouging. Maldark stepped over her and thudded his hammer into the face of the knight behind, but another hit him hard in the chest, snapping links on his hauberk and sending a spray of blood across Rhiannon’s hair. Maldark staggered and then bellowed, smashing his hammer against the cobblestones where it emitted a sound like thunder that caused the lead horses to rear, throwing their riders.

  For a fleeting moment, Rhiannon caught sight of the rotting horde surrounding Shader. She clambered to her feet, blood slicking her hair to her face, the knight’s skin beneath her nails. Shog, she probably knew him. Couldn’t really tell in all the chaos. The wound in her shoulder was throbbing and oozing hot blood across her robe. She clamped her hand over it and looked desperately for some way of escape. The knights were closing in again, more cautiously this time. She bent down and retrieved Gaston’s sword.

  Maldark looked like he’d been dragged from the mortuary slab, but he still managed a broad grin. “By all that’s holy, thou canst fight, lassie. Whence comest thou?”

  “Oakendale.” The name didn’t taste bad on her lips, like it ought to.

  “Oakendale?” Maldark said, ducking beneath a blade. “For Arnoch!” he roared, hammering a knight from the saddle. “For Oakendale!” He clobbered another.

  Rhiannon staggered back as she parried a scything saber, forgetting her injured shoulder and swinging two handed. “For Oakendale!” she screamed, thrilling as the blade bit deep into bone. “For Mom! For Dad!” She blocked another attack and buried the longsword in a lad’s throat. “For Sammy!”

  ***

  Shader had lost count of how many death-knights he’d felled, each of them still relentlessly trying to get at him, a grisly cluster of reaching and grasping limbs scratching and clattering about the cobbled drive. The undead continued to press forward, their movements slow, their attacks easy to counter, but sheer weight of numbers threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to back away in the direction of the templum, but tripped on something that proceeded to scurry up his leg. He brushed off the severed hand with the flat of the gladius and barely managed to parry a blow aimed at his head, a rusty blade shattering against his longsword.

  Callixus materialized three ranks back, red eyes blazing, black sword pointing at Shader and urging the horde forward like a tidal wave. Unnatural winds fanned the death-knights’ cloaks and added an eerie howl to the clash of steel.

  Shader was beginning to slow, his footing growing unsteady. With a flurry of desperate blows, he broke through the line of the Lost and staggered towards Maldark and Rhiannon. As the three formed a defensive circle, Shader managed one brief, appalled glance at Rhiannon before blocking a strike from a rusty sword that disintegrated and showered them with iron.

  “Too many,” Rhiannon gasped. “And what the shog are they?”

  Before Shader could answer, all three came under a concerted assault from front and back, and Shader was sent hurtling into Rhiannon by a fierce blow from a mace. He struggled to rise, but felt an agonizing pain in his chest. A rib or two had been crushed. Rhiannon wrenched him to his feet and turned back to deflect a saber aimed at her head. Shader caught a slash with the longsword, wincing as pain jolted along his arm. He cut the attacker down with the gladius, thinking he recognized the face, dropped the longsword and let his arm hang limp.

  Rhiannon sagged against him, blood gushing from a shoulder wound. A horse reared to her left and then bore down upon her, a White Knight swinging his saber above his head. Shader tugged her out of the way and braced himself for the killing blow, but the knight twisted in agony as a sword lanced through his ribs. Behind him, Barek Thomas pulled his blade free, and spurred his gray gelding back amongst the White Order knights.

  Rhiannon slipped in a pool of her own blood and Shader caught her, no longer caring about his own defense. Maldark fought on furiously, but was so closely surrounded by death-knights that he could barely swing his hammer. The end was very close.

  And then Ioana was amongst them, holding aloft the wooden Monas that stood behind the altar, a look of absolute compassion and love on her face that seemed disarmingly incongruous. The knights of the White Order did not move against her; indeed, it seemed they had parted to let her through. The undead shrieked and hissed, but came no closer. Callixus floated to their fore, his eyes a molten fury, but even he didn’t approach.

  Barek rode back to the head of the White Order, and it was then that Shader realized he had somehow taken command during the fight and had allowed Ioana through. Not only that, but he had saved Rhiannon—saved Shader—at the expense of one of his own men.

  “Into the templum,” Ioana commanded.

  Shader picked up his longsword and followed Rhiannon and Maldark back towards the entrance. Ioana brought up the rear, the death-knights keeping their distance from the Monas. Shader nodded to Barek as he passed, but the lad didn’t seem able to meet his gaze as he ordered his remaining men to dismount. Ioana held back the undead long enough for the surviving White Knights to make their way into the templum, leaving their horses abandoned outside.

  Agna set about staunching the bleeding from Rhiannon’s shoulder, whilst Velda fussed over the worst of Maldark’s many wounds. Shader lay heavily on the ground, wincing at the pain in his ribs. His fingers curled tightly around the statue in his pocket and he accepted its power without thinking. Suddenly his body was infused with blissful warmth and he sat up refreshed and painless. Cadris looked at him in amazement. Gaston raised an eyebrow then went to retrieve his sword from the floor beside Rhiannon. A crow cawed from somewhere in the distance, or maybe Shader was imagining it. He shook his head and climbed to his feet, returning both swords to their scabbards.

  The knights of the White Order crowded inside and looked about in bewilderment. Barek raised his arms for silence and tried to reassert some sort of discipline.

  Ioana paused in the doorway to cast one last glance over the hellish cavalry milling around the porch. She backed into the templum, but as she did so she seemed to glimpse something behind the mass of undead. She slammed the doors and pressed herself against them, fighting for breath.

  “Mater?” Shader took her hands and led her from the door as Maldark slid the bolts across.

  Ioana merely waved towards the rear of the templum. Her fear was contagious, and soon everyone was edging back into the nave. Barek ordered some of the knights to help move the sick to the sacristy, whilst Gaston simply glowered at him. Shader took the statue from his pocket, determined to use its power on Rhiannon and Maldark, when suddenly a dreadful chill pervaded the templum and the doors began to warp and buckle.

  THE DEATH OF DEACON SHADER

  Shadrak was lucky to be alive, he supposed, but at what cost?

  According to his mental map, it should be just past the next intersection. He scanned the silver ceiling with its blue lights and found the symbols he was looking for. Running the palm of his hand over a section of the left wall, he was greeted by a sharp hiss. A panel slid open to reveal metal rungs set back a couple of feet beh
ind the wall.

  He hurried up the ladder and crawled into a crumbling and foul smelling tunnel that was lit only by moldy phosphorescence. There was a ledge a few feet above him, cold air spilling down and giving him pause. He became aware of the blood rushing in his ears, the rapid pounding in his ribcage. He flicked his eyes in every direction and held his breath as he listened.

  Nothing.

  As he reached for a handhold, Shadrak’s arm trembled. His knees went slack and he felt the urge to turn about and run.

  “I am Shadrak the Unseen,” he whispered. “Killer, hunter, the knife in the dark.”

  He gripped a jutting rock and jabbed a foot into an indent, pulling himself upwards until he hung from the ledge. Swinging one leg over the edge, he rolled onto a flagstone floor.

  There was an iron grill set into the low ceiling. Reaching up, Shadrak tugged until it came away in his hands and he dropped it clanging to the floor. He sprang, catching hold of the sides of the opening and pulling himself through.

  If he was right, he should be in the crypt beneath the sanctuary.

  From somewhere up above he heard a great chorus of screams and began to shake once more. He shut his eyes, fighting for calm. Was he losing it? He’d never felt anything like this before. He was like a child frightened of the dark. And so he did what he’d have done as a boy: focused on the one face that had brought him comfort, the one person he could always turn to.

  Kadee’s eyes gleamed their warmth from the brown skin of her face. Her gray hair was braided with strips of leather and sparkling quartz. Her mouth was moving silently and he strained to hear her speak, knowing all the while she’d never utter another word.

  Shadrak’s eyes opened and he gritted his teeth.

  “Anger, not tears,” he told himself, pulling up his hood and sprinting for the stone steps that led to a trap in the ceiling.

  ***

  The doors lasted longer than Shader expected. The wood blistered and cracked, the frame smoldered, and the bolts screeched in protest.

  Barek’s lads dragged the pallet-beds with the patients still lying on them to the sanctuary and set up a protective ring around them. There can’t have been many more than thirty knights left. Ioana forced a smile for their benefit, and Gaston approached them, head down, sword trailing behind, scraping the floor. Barek clapped him on the shoulder and made room for him.

  The priests huddled in front of the altar, a few paces behind the knights. Shader and Maldark stood shoulder to shoulder halfway down the nave, eyes riveted to the straining and groaning doors. The surrounding wall shuddered and the doors buckled further, the wood warping to an alarming degree. Thin black tendrils slid beneath and around the sides of the frame, feeling their way to the center where they began to knot and intertwine. Within moments the doors were completely obscured by the writhing feelers, which suddenly tensed and then sagged as the doors finally gave way. The tendrils relaxed their hold, allowing the shards of the doors to clatter to the ground, and there in the doorway roiled a seething formless horror. Heads sprouted forth from a central mass of gelatinous blackness, eyes rolling, teeth grinding until they burst and reformed as legs, arms, or thick lengths of tentacle dripping with slime.

  The abomination’s bulk filled the entrance and radiated such terror that Shader’s body sought to run, or collapse, until the warmth of the statue flowed once more and gave him the strength to stand firm. Maldark, likewise, withstood the fear that emanated from the beast and hefted his war-hammer with a look upon his face that was something between repulsion and anger.

  Behind them, the cordon of knights turned away in panic. The priests scattered and sought the nearest exit. Even the plague victims upon their beds started to drag themselves towards the sacristy and the link corridor to the residences in order to get as far from the aberration as possible.

  The creature roared—a loathsome gurgling susurration that immediately halted all activity as the priests, knights, and the sick screamed in absolute horror.

  Shader’s arms and legs were trembling as he fumbled with the gladius. The blade left its scabbard, bursting with golden fire that suffused throughout the templum. Strength and courage such as he had never known flooded his body.

  The monster lurched forward and those still in the sanctuary fought and screamed in their desperation to get away. Shader put his free hand on Maldark’s shoulder. The dwarf was shaking violently.

  “Get the others out. I’ll hold it here.”

  “’Tis the Dweller,” Maldark said, his face ashen. “There is nothing thou canst do.”

  “I can give you time. Now go!”

  Shader risked a look over his shoulder as Maldark backed away towards the sanctuary. Ioana was ushering the others into the link corridor when the flagstone behind the altar shifted and a head appeared from the crypt beneath. Shader caught a glimpse of a pallid face and pinkish eyes before a small man in a black cloak clambered up.

  “Quickly,” the albino shouted.

  As fast as they could, the priests and knights began to lower the sick to the relative safety of the crypt. Gaston was staring at the newcomer, sword shaking and suddenly looking too heavy for him.

  The Dweller roared again and surged forward.

  “Deacon!” Rhiannon screamed, as the bubbling black mass bore down upon him.

  “Get out!” Shader shot her a despairing look. “Everybody get out!”

  The Dweller belched and emitted a noxious vapor that almost overpowered him. He lashed out with the gladius and an arc of fire followed the blade, searing into vile black flesh. The Dweller hissed and belched again, and this time Shader was blinded by a cloud of soot. Instinctively he clutched at the statue in his pocket and accepted its power. The blindness passed, but even as it did he was ensnared by countless tentacles that squeezed cruelly about his legs and torso, cutting into the flesh with serrated edges. As he hacked at the sinuous limbs, the gladius slicing and burning, Shader craned his neck and saw that the evacuation was almost complete. Only Ioana, Rhiannon, Maldark, and, surprisingly, Gaston remained.

  Maldark took a step forward.

  “Flee!” Shader bellowed as he cut his way free of the tentacles and leapt at the central mass hacking and slashing, a pattern of flame left in the wake of his sword. No matter how many times he cut and burned the demon, its oily flesh simply reformed. He drew the longsword and redoubled his efforts, but the mundane steel merely rebounded from the Dweller’s hide. This was a fight Shader knew he couldn’t win. All he could do was delay the inevitable.

  Gaston ran towards him, eyes wide with fear, sword arm trembling. Maldark caught hold of Gaston’s arm and spun him in the direction of the crypt, but not before Shader glimpsed the tears spilling down his face.

  More tentacles fastened around Shader’s boots and tugged him towards a cavernous maw. The gladius sliced through black flesh, affording Shader enough time to glance over his shoulder to see Maldark climbing down to the crypt, herding the others before him.

  Shader launched a frantic attack in the hope of wounding the demon enough for him to make his own escape whilst it reformed. He hewed great gouges into the ever changing form and jumped backwards, batting aside a lashing tentacle with his longsword. He was about to turn and run when there was a sudden numbing sensation in his back. He stood motionless for a moment, blinking with shock, and then dropped to his knees as the Dweller surged over him.

  ***

  Cadman watched Shadrak pull his stiletto from Shader’s back and slip behind the altar as the demon smothered the fallen knight. Backstabbing little runt. That could have been me. Could have been me. Could have been… Oh my giddy—

  The Dweller exploded in a flash of amber and gold. The blast roared towards the shattered doors, smashing Cadman from his feet. Shreds of shadow shot past his face amidst a terrible screeching.

  Callixus!

  A black cloud descended over Cadman’s eyes. He tried to fan it away, but his hands wouldn’t move; suddenly felt he needed to
breathe, but couldn’t. One, two, three. Oh cripes. Oh cripes, no! The dark fog was inside his skull, eating away at what was left of his brain, rolling down to consume his innards. Oblivion! Not me! Not meee!

  Cadman sat bolt upright. Someone was screaming. Someone was… Oh, it’s me. He shook the fug from his head and tried to orientate himself. Misty black ribbons swirled beside him, coalescing into Callixus. Cadman followed the burning glare of the wraith’s eyes, saw movement in the templum as the smoke began to clear.

  Shadrak crept back to Shader’s body, bent over the face as if listening for breath, then felt around the throat.

  Probably as skilled at detecting death as I am.

  Callixus drifted past Cadman’s shoulder, heading down the nave. Shadrak glanced up, then hurriedly rummaged through Shader’s pockets. He pulled out something dark and sinuous. Cadman squinted. That had to be the statue, the body of Eingana. It was still smoking, throwing off sparks of amber. Callixus drew his black blade, raised it to swing, but Shadrak managed to thrust the statue into a pouch and throw himself into a twisting backflip in one fluid motion. As Callixus struck air, the assassin darted behind the altar and seemed to be swallowed up by the ground.

  Callixus started back down the aisle, eyes like twin red suns.

  “No, you idiot!” Cadman’s toes clattered on stone as he stormed towards him. Bloody illusion had gone again, and with it every last scrap of security. “The statue! Get the sodding statue!”

  The wraith sped back to the altar and dispersed through the floor.

  Cadman sagged and nearly fell. He lacked the strength to resume his fatness. Lacked the strength to go on. What have you done, you stupid, stupid fool? Keep to the shadows, didn’t I always say? Never do anything rash. Just lie low and endure. But now someone else had the power of Eingana, and goodness only knew what that meant.

  Cadman dragged himself as far as Shader’s body, which was lying in a steadily growing pool of blood. He almost felt sorry for the knight. You had to admit, his final stand had been somewhat valiant. But what chance had he had against the Dweller, not to mention a knife in the back? Comes to us all, in time.