by D. P. Prior
Fully alive: not one thing or the other, knight or monk. Just a man.
Nothing stirred beyond the wreckage of the doors. The templum was empty, leaving Shader to wonder at the outcome of the battle with the undead and the Dweller. He turned his attention back to the body on the floor and was about to check its pockets for the serpent statue when a cowled figure materialized in the air above the chancel.
‘It has gone, Deacon Shader. Already taken.’
Shader lowered his eyes. ‘I heard your voice in my head when I fled from the Abyss.’
‘My voice is often in your head, only you never cease your internal chatter long enough to hear it. So, you believe in me now, do you?’
The Archon? Shader had assumed he was just a Templum myth propagated to bolster the supernatural elements of the faith. ‘Well, I have your sword,’ he said, twirling the gladius in his hand, ‘and that seems real enough.’
The Archon laughed—a sibilant rustling sound like a breeze through dried leaves. ‘You find it easier to accept magic than the existence of angels?’
‘Is that what you are?’
‘No,’ the Archon said. ‘But that is what I have been called for centuries. Tell me, what does it feel like to be a being of pure spirit?’
Shader looked from his spirit hands to the body of flesh lying on the floor like a wax effigy. ‘Incomplete,’ he said.
‘Good. A man who finally knows his place.’ The Archon drifted down to stand before Shader and placed a hand on his head. The gladius quivered slightly and seemed to sigh.
‘You must be whole again, Shader,’ the Archon said. ‘The Ipsissimus is coming for the final battle and he will need you.’
Shader pulled away, drifting further back into the sanctuary. ‘I’m out of favour in Aeterna. The Ipsissimus sent the Judiciary after me. He’d rather I was dead than dissenting.’
The Archon turned, sparing Shader the blaze from his face. ‘I’m afraid your friend Aristodeus was insistent on you leaving with the sword. Things are desperate; more desperate than you could ever know. I’ve entrusted him with this move, despite his previous failure. If we lose again, I’m not sure fate would be so forgiving a second time.’
‘What…?’
The Archon held up a hand that appeared to be made from porcelain. ‘I go too far. I have already said too much. Forgive me, Deacon Shader, and grant me one thing.’ Light spilled from the edge of the hood as the Archon tilted his head to look at Shader. ‘Your faith.’
Shader frowned. ‘That’s something I have in short supply.’
‘Understandably,’ the Archon said. ‘These are the times of deception. My brother must be very pleased with his progress. Even the Templum is divided, and it is no small task to keep it on the path of light. Theodore is a good man, but he will not be Ipsissimus forever.’
Shader nodded his understanding. Everyone knew that Exemptus Silvanus was his most likely successor. The Prefect of the Judiciary was a rigid traditionalist, a hard-liner. Shader had fallen under his influence during his formation in the Elect. The Discipline, they’d called him on account of the punishments he’d inflict for even the slightest deviation from his particular brand of orthodoxy.
‘Tell me,’ the Archon interrupted his train of thought. ‘Do you believe in resurrection?’
Shader was taken aback by the question and scrabbled about for an answer. ‘It’s mentioned in the Liber.’
‘Not as much as it once was,’ the Archon said, white fire flaring from his cowl. ‘The Liber has been altered, but there is still gold to be found there if you know where to look.’
‘But…’
‘Another time. Resurrection. What is it? A new life? The same life restored? The raising of a spiritual body?’ The Archon flashed a look at Shader. ‘Or is it something altogether more subtle, intangible? What would happen, I wonder, if you were to touch your own flesh? Come, try it.’
Shader floated down to his double and knelt. The sword shifted restlessly in his grip. He bent over the body and reached out a hand. As he made contact he felt a sickening thud and found himself staring up at the ceiling. Something damp and sticky clung to his head. Reaching up he felt it was a lock of his own hair slick with congealed blood.
‘How do you feel?’ the Archon asked, looming over Shader. ‘Resurrected? Or something else?’
‘Heavy. My back hurts like the Abyss.’
‘Excellent. So there is no difference between how you were at the moment of your death and how you are now. You are still fully human.’
Shader forced himself into a sitting position. The wound in his back began to seep more blood. He felt queasy and started to swoon. The Archon leaned in close and pressed down on it with his hand. Immediately, the flesh knitted together, the pain faded, and warmth flooded back into his once dead body. Sparing a quick glance at the oddly purring gladius, Shader hurriedly sheathed it and rose to his feet.
‘What am I?’ he asked. ‘Another animated corpse like those that serve Cadman?’
The Archon dipped his head for a moment before making his reply. ‘You are the same man risen, Shader, but you have seen things no one should see. I am not convinced that Aristodeus is right about you. You are the desperate plan of a desperate man, but it is the best we have. You may not have found your faith, but I will make you the gift of mine. Find your friends—they have fled this place; take counsel, and do not be swayed by power for that is the chief weapon of the Deceiver. Fulfil your task, Deacon Shader. It is a long road you must take. If it is the wrong one, then the error is Aristodeus’s, but the guilt is mine for permitting it.’
‘But why me? Why can’t you…?’
White fire consumed the Archon, coalescing into a ball of flame and winking out of existence. Shader was left staring at his boots, feeling leaden and exhausted. It took all his will to lift his eyes and scan the emptiness surrounding him, the wreckage of the doors through which the Dweller had forced its entrance.
Tajen’s contorted face came unbidden to his mind, flesh peeling from his skull, the blank look of despair filling his eyes. Shader shook his head and the image dispersed like mist in the breeze. Clenching his jaw, he drew back his shoulders and set off down the nave. All he could think of was the urgent need to gain some distance from the desolation of the templum.
PLANS AND PREPARATIONS
Shader made his way through the deserted streets of Sarum. Occasionally he would glimpse a face peering at him through gaps in shutters, and once or twice he spotted dark clad vagabonds rifling the bodies of the dead. None approached him; he felt like a lion among hyenas.
He made for Arnbrook House with the intention of enquiring about the fate of his friends. Passing the stone Arch of Welcome that had stood as long as Sarum’s ancient spires, he pressed himself flat against a wall as he was confronted with a gruesome sight that turned his stomach. Cadman’s deathly troops had apparently found new recruits amongst the plague victims. A vast undead army now filled the square before the council offices, spilling into the adjoining streets. To the rear of the horde he could see the horsemen of the Lost. In all there must have been a thousand rotting and animated corpses assembled, all waiting with the patience and stillness of the grave. Muttering a curse, he retraced his steps. If the others had survived, if they weren’t among the numbers of the walking dead, they’d have found somewhere to hole up in the city. The priests would stick out like diamonds in dung. Somebody must have seen them.
In spite of the rule of undeath, the city had started to come back to some semblance of life now that the plague appeared to have relaxed its grip. Sarum’s drawn and haggard populace began to creep forth from their dwellings, still wary at first of contact with one another, still frightened and grieving. Here and there a market stall was erected where those with the foresight to store and preserve their wares now profited from the desperate hunger of their fellows. It was from such a stall that Shader learned that the priests were hiding in a dilapidated townhouse in Edgebriar. Apparently a
fat man in a white robe had come this morning to purchase rations.
Cadris screamed when he opened the door to Shader and then started blubbering about Nous and resurrection. Soror Agna almost genuflected, but opted instead for an open-mouthed look of astonishment. Ioana, when at last she came downstairs, looked for the wound in his back, noted its disappearance, and simply sniffed.
Once the initial shock of his arrival had passed, Shader was bustled up three flights of stairs and a flimsy ladder to the attic.
Gaston was sitting with his back against a joist. Soror Velda was stooped over him adjusting the blood-stained bandages that were wound about his torso. Her spectacles kept slipping down her nose, causing her to tut and shove them back up. Shader felt his mouth curling into a tired smile—it was like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill only to have it roll back down again. The smile turned to a frown as he remembered it was Aristodeus who had told him the story. The philosopher claimed it came from his homeland of Graecia millennia before the Reckoning.
Maldark mooched beneath the eaves, his chin resting on the stone head of his war-hammer. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Shader and he almost smiled.
Rhiannon had an open Liber in her lap, her lips moving silently to the words of a prayer. Shader thought how drab the white clerical vestments made her look, and for a moment entertained the image of tearing the garments from her and unleashing her great raven tousles. The image startled him. It was the first indication that all was not pure and uncomplicated since his return to life. Rhiannon looked up abruptly, as if she’d read his thoughts. The colour fled her face and her mouth hung open.
‘You’re dead,’ she said. ‘Gaston saw…’
Shader shook his head and moved to make way for the priests coming up the ladder behind him.
Gaston waved Velda away and pulled on his surcoat, leaving his armour heaped on the floor.
‘I-I-I wasn’t lying.’ He shot a look at Rhiannon before rising and to examine Shader. ‘It was Shadrak—the assassin who m-m-murdered my dad.’
‘The lad speaks sooth,’ Maldark said. ‘He pushed past me on the stairway to the crypt. Brave or foolish, ¼tis hard to say, but in any case, he was too late.’
‘The little shogger s-s-stabbed you,’ Gaston said. ‘Right…here.’
Shader batted his hand away. ‘I know. I felt it, and then the demon rolled over me.’
‘Aye,’ Maldark said, ‘’Twas then I grabbed Gaston and fled, though I see it is to my shame.’
‘My spirit was parted from my body,’ Shader said. He couldn’t blame any of them. They’d already shown more courage than he could imagine staying as long as they did. ‘I thought I was in Araboth, walking amongst the Luminaries.’
Ioana folded her arms and cocked her head. ‘You were dreaming?’
Shader sat on a beam and pulled his hat off, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. He flicked a look at Rhiannon. Her lips were working, her eyes moist, her fingers clenching and unclenching. He couldn’t tell if she was relived, confused, or angry. It was easier just to look away and answer Ioana. ‘I wish I had been.’
There was a hushed expectancy, as if nothing could surprise them anymore. Shader was starting to feel that his was the only world view to be turned on its head.
‘The Statue of Eingana and the Sword of the Archon combined to drive off the creature. When it was cast back into the Abyss I fell with it.’
He took a deep breath and hurried on, not wishing to dwell on the images of the Luminaries warping and melting, twisting into creatures of nightmare.
Maldark was watching him through narrowed eyes. ‘I have passed through the Abyss,’ the dwarf said. ‘There are few who come out again. How didst thou manage it?’
‘I had help,’ Shader said. ‘The Archon bought me some time…’
Ioana touched her forehead. ‘The Archon? But he’s…’
‘Real,’ Shader said. ‘As are so many of the myths. The sword really is his gift to Aeterna. I’d always thought it a fraud. He couldn’t free me, though. The Abyss seems inimical to him.’
Ioana nodded, her focus far away. ‘It is the abode of his brother. The two are like oil and water, it is said. Light and darkness.’
Shader became aware of the tightening of his stomach. He doubled over on his perch and grimaced. ‘Do you have any food? It feels like I’ve not eaten for days.’
Cadris scurried about the attic as the others seated themselves in a semi-circle about Shader like children awaiting a ghost-story.
Shader looked up and fixed his eyes on Rhiannon. ‘Sammy came for me,’ he said. ‘He brought me out of the Abyss.’
She shook her head, her brow creased with strain. ‘Sammy? He’s OK? How…?’
Cadris passed Shader a crust of stale bread and a cup of dirty water. Shader nodded his thanks, but kept his eyes locked to Rhiannon’s.
‘Huntsman still has him. I think he’s changing the boy. He has new powers.’
‘Shog that!’ Rhiannon stood, hands on her hips. The Liber fell to the floor in a heap of creased pages.
Velda pushed her spectacles back on the bridge of her nose and dropped to her knees. She scooped up the book as if it were a sickly child and clutched it to her breast. Ioana touched a hand to her shoulder and offered a weak smile.
‘He also speaks with the Archon,’ Shader said. ‘The boy is special.’
‘I already know that,’ Rhiannon said. ‘But if you think I’m gonna let that bloody witch doctor take my Sammy…’
‘What do you want to do about it?’ Shader stormed, bread crumbs spraying from his mouth. ‘We’ve all suffered, and there’s bound to be a whole lot more suffering before this is over.’
Rhiannon raised a fist, the knuckles scabby and raw.
Shader frowned. ‘What happened to you?’ He took another bite of bread and did his best to ignore her rising anger.
‘S-S-Shadrak’s face,’ Gaston said. ‘She beat the living c-c-crap out of him.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Shader said. ‘You don’t want to mess with a Kwane.’
Gaston laughed. ‘Shog, no. Those udder-pumping arms s-s-sure pack a wallop.’
Rhiannon sniggered, her eyes glinting. Shader smiled, and for an instant the three were as they’d always been, utterly familiar and happy in each other’s company. But then Rhiannon turned away, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest. Gaston lowered his head and moved to the back of the attic where he accepted some bread from Cadris.
‘Where are the others?’ Shader asked no one in particular. ‘Frater Hugues? Pater Limus?’
‘Limus fell behind in the tunnels,’ Maldark said. ‘We tarried a while to look for him, but there was no sign. Hugues fled when the Dweller appeared. Ain knows where he is. Mayhap he is still at the templum.’
‘I saw no one when I left,’ Shader said, fearing the worst. ‘What about the White Order?’
Gaston looked up from the gloom at the rear of the attic, but said nothing.
‘Barek led them to look for help,’ Rhiannon said over her shoulder. ‘There weren’t enough of them to fight back, and they’d only have drawn attention to the rest of us. If they’re lucky, they’ll link up with the militia.’
‘Or the Imperial troops outside the city,’ Gaston said.
Shader glared at him, but Gaston was looking at the floor, his shoulders bunched up about his ears. ‘They’ll find no help there,’ Shader said. ‘Your attack won’t have been forgotten. One other thing,’ he scanned the group. ‘The serpent statue given to me by Huntsman has been taken.’
‘Must’ve been Shadrak,’ Gaston said.
Rhiannon turned back to face Shader. ‘He came up from the crypt. We thought he’d come to help, though shog knows why. Guess we were too flaming scared to care at the time.’
Shader’s hand went to his back. The wound had healed, but he still felt the pain. ‘I’ll find him.’ He narrowed his eyes and sucked in a long breath through his teeth. ‘But first
things first. We have to get word to Barek and see if we can drum up some more support. We can’t let the city fall to Cadman.’
SERVILITY AND COMMAND
The sun dipped below the distant towers of the city centre, leaving streaks of pink and crimson across the darkening sky. Barek spat into a rag and rubbed at the basinet in his lap. He couldn’t really see what he was doing, but that wasn’t the point. He needed to keep busy.
The rest of the White Order knights were sitting around fires dotted about the hilltop at the centre of Lesmallen, Sarum’s easternmost suburb. It was a play area, judging by the wooden climbing frames and the knotted ropes hanging from the branches of trees encircling the camp. Further down the hill he could see the orange glow from the windows of the locals’ cabins. Most had their own smallholdings and allotments; they were doing their best to live apart from the bustle of the city. Probably reckoned themselves amongst the lucky few now.
No one had approached the knights in the two days they’d been in Lesmallen. At best they’d drawn suspicious glances, but mostly they’d been greeted by closed shutters and sullen silence. Lesmallen appeared to have escaped the worst of the plague, but clearly its residents were taking no chances. It was Barek’s guess that the locals thought the White Order was in the vanguard of trouble spreading out from Sarum’s centre like a cancer. Maybe they were right, he thought, but what choice had they had? They’d already lost four more men to the hordes of walking dead as they’d ridden clear of the chaos, and if they fled beyond the city walls, they’d have to answer for the attack on the Imperial troops.