by D. P. Prior
Callixus caught a sly look in Ikrys’s eyes, but said nothing. Cadman fretted a moment longer and then seemed to grow fatter. It was like watching a child snuggle under the bed clothes. Ikrys winced and glared at the necromancer. Apparently the enhancement of the illusion came at a cost. The gargoyle shook out his limbs, stretched his wings, and inhaled as if drinking invisible forces from the night air.
‘I am not without power,’ Cadman said, adjusting his pince-nez on his nose. ‘I have my necromantic skills; I have two pieces of the Statue of Eingana; and I have you,’ he squinted at Ikrys.
Once more, a cunning look passed over Ikrys’s taut and leathery face. Callixus wondered if it conveyed a secret amusement.
‘Well,’ Ikrys said, ‘now that your grunt is back it might be a good time to mention another threat I’ve detected.’
Cadman’s fists clenched and he shut his eyes. ‘What threat?’
‘The other woman, the one you said you knew—¼
‘The tart?’ Cadman said.
Callixus looked at him for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.
‘If you like,’ Ikrys said. ‘She proved extremely resourceful and had made it most of the way to Sarum when I caught up with her. She was intercepted by a group of black-clad men on the edge of the forest. They looked like they were about to do my work for me, but she spoke with one of them in private. He fondled her as he questioned her and then relayed what he learned to the others. After that, the man escorted her back to the city whilst the rest of the group altered their course.’
‘Altered it how? Where are they heading?’ Cadman asked as he fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and struggled to light it.
‘They are coming here,’ Ikrys said.
‘Shit,’ Cadman said. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Black clothes you say?’
‘As the night,’ Ikrys said with practiced innocence.
Callixus’ hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘Why have you kept this news until now, demon?’
Ikrys’s tail arced through the air, its barbed tip stopping before Callixus’ chest.
‘Why, because I was waiting for you do deal with it. No point alarming the master until there’s something we can do about it. So, be a good boy and do whatever it is he pays you for.’
Callixus half drew the black blade, but Cadman jabbed a cigarette between them.
‘Cut that out, the pair of you. If these men are Sicarii, I’m finished. Do something, Callixus. You’re supposed to be the strategist; and do it quickly before I send you back into the Void. No, on second thoughts you’d probably like that, but I doubt you’d have such a peaceful time in the Abyss.’
Callixus’ vision blazed red. He released his grip on his sword and shut his eyes until he could once more feel the torment of his brethren, their despairing thoughts, their futile desire for revenge against Cadman. When he opened his eyes he made sure to keep a neutral tone.
‘The Lost have heard me,’ he said with a pang of pride tinged with loathing. ‘They are ready.’
‘Keep the assassins from the tower, Callixus. Do this for me and I may yet release you,’ Cadman said.
Callixus studied him for any sign that he was lying, but then realized there was no point. Cadman was the arch-liar; even his appearance was a distortion of the truth. If there were to be any end to this nightmarish existence, it wasn’t going to come from an act of gratitude on Cadman’s part.
‘Come on, Ikrys.’ Cadman started walking back towards the tower. ‘We still have much to prepare. As if it’s not enough having Sektis Gandaw hunting us from beyond the stars, and a bunch of trained killers at the door, we still have that blasted demon to deal with. The woman is secure on the roof? Good. Let’s hope it’s enough, eh? I trust you have some knowledge of the…’
Cadman’s voice was cut off by the slamming of the door. The skeletal steeds of the Lost began to emerge from the darkness, the red eyes of the riders burning like embers. They would have all felt Callixus’ despair as he once more looked upon his comrades. Without the need for speech, he conveyed his orders, and the former knights of the Elect took up their positions around the tower like nothing more than obedient guard dogs.
THE SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS
The hard earth at the foot of the gangplank was as unfamiliar to Shader as the myriad realms he’d passed through on the flight from Araboth. His sea-legs still wanted to sway, and a wave of nausea broke over him. Clutching the rail to steady himself, he glanced back at the ship, at the flashes of silver mail and white tabards making ready to disembark. Ignatius Grymm was staring down at him like a disappointed father. He’d not said anything, but Shader knew the Grand Master had expected him to stay, to ride once more with the Elect.
The port of Dalantle was sleeping, save for a few fishing boats straggling in from the ocean. The Templum fleet spilled across the harbour, white sails furled, prows gently bobbing. One huge sitting duck, Shader shook his head, but the Ipsissimus must have known that. The Imperial patrols had seen them—how could they not?—and alarms had pealed out across the bay whilst they were still in open water. Night had fallen rapidly and the clamour had ended. Dalantle was already watchful, and messages had likely been sent.
Shader drew his coat tight against the chill air and headed towards the hazy lights of town. His chainmail felt so much heavier since he’d put it back on. Maybe he was just tired; maybe he’d get used to it again. He’d find an inn, see out the night, and then seek passage to Sarum in the morning. The stench of blood still filled his nostrils; it was as if it had seeped into his pores. Elpidio haunted every alleyway of his mind, one minute limned with misty luminescence, the next as a hunk of blue-dappled meat, stiff and waxen; neither true but both yelling for his attention, baying for comprehension, or grief, or vengeance. The swirl of emotions was as twisted as the knots on his prayer cord, which now hung from his belt like a flaccid serpent.
Shader left the harbour by a footpath that ran parallel to the main road. The way was lit by hanging lanterns that creaked in the breeze. The clopping of hooves sounded from somewhere ahead and a dark shape came into view.
Shader’s hand caressed the pommel of the gladius as he took to the shadows, waiting for the horse to pass. A hunched man walked before it, leading it by the reins and muttering under his breath. The sound was rhythmic and sonorous, like a prayer chant, the words ill-formed but vaguely familiar. The man came into focus beneath the muggy light of a lantern, the chant sharpening at the same time into a litany of Aeternam. The horse came to a halt just beyond Shader’s position and the man turned to face him. Shader covered his nose and mouth against the stench and took a step back. He watched for the telltale smoulder of red eyes, the cold presence of undeath, but saw only darkness under craggy brows. The man’s face was both broad and long, his lips almost drooping. He’d seen this face before, he realized, at the White Order’s camp above Lesmallen.
‘Praise Ain! Praise Nous! Praise his holy Archon!’—Dave the Slave. ‘I knew you’d return. I waited. See, I waited. Oh, Nous be praised for giving me this chance to atone.’
Shader’s gut clenched with revulsion. He fought down the bile in his throat. ‘What…?’
Dave shuffled forward and thrust the reins into Shader’s free hand. He fumbled at his belt and removed a scabbarded longsword, which he handed over. Shader half drew it, instantly recognizing the blade.
‘My father’s sword? But how did—?’
‘Nous revealed it to me. It was lost, but now it is found. Quickly, milord. Hurry. Nous’s work must be done. Ride! Ride to Sarum! Evil besets the servants of Nous and they have need of his champion.’
Shader was jostled towards the horse and helped into the saddle. His mind felt heavy and numb. Questions half-formed and dissipated before he could voice them.
‘How…?’
‘Never you mind that,’ Dave said, guiding the horse in a circle by its bridle. ‘Make haste before they all perish. Ride for the Templum of the Knot.’
The hunc
hback gave the horse’s flank a sharp slap and Shader clung on as it cantered towards the town.
‘Ride, I tell you! Ride!’ Dave yelled. ‘The Sicarii are coming. Coming to kill the priests.’
Ioana? Cadris? What about Rhiannon? Was she still with them? Sammy had said she was lost—
‘Swiftly!’ Dave flapped his hands and jigged from foot to foot.
Leaning low over the horse’s neck, Shader dug his heels in and galloped for the Old Sarum Road.
***
Gaston muttered the Aeternam words softly as he fingered the knots on his prayer cord. He had remained in his pew as the priests returned to their rooms. His heart was swollen with gratitude and tears of relief rolled down his cheeks.
Mater Ioana was the last of the priests to leave the templum. She paused to rest a hand gently upon his shoulder. ‘Not ready for sleep?’
Gaston looked up through blurry eyes and smiled. ‘I should be exhausted, after all we’ve been through, but I feel…’ He winced, trying to find a way to express the relief washing over him like a cleansing wave. More than relief, he realized: acceptance; belonging; the dim possibility of forgiveness.
‘I know what it is you feel, Gaston.’ Ioana gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘We have all felt it at some time—me, Cadris, Agna, Velda. Even Hugues.’ Ioana shut her eyes for an instant, her face lit by a smile that seemed to radiate from within. ‘I think even Deacon Shader felt it once, although I could be mistaken. It is Nous accepting your burdens. You are where you’re meant to be, Frater. You are home.’
Ioana’s fingers slipped from his shoulder and she headed out through the sacristy.
—Frater.
A shudder started in Gaston’s chest and rippled throughout his frame.
—Home. Here in the templum, not amongst the knights of the White Order; not following in Shader’s footsteps. Maybe that was the one good to come out of the evil he’d done to Rhiannon: it had forced the split from Shader. Ever since the founding of the White Order, even when Shader had abandoned them, Gaston had striven only to be like his mentor. He’d wanted nothing more than to serve Nous with heart and sword. Now, Gaston felt like scales had fallen from his eyes. It wasn’t Nous he’d craved, it was Shader’s approval; Shader’s presence in his life. From the moment he’d fallen out with his dad, Gaston had felt like a hollowed-out skin, an empty carcass.
Shader had given him a glimpse of wholeness, but it hadn’t been the truth. Maybe they’d been too much alike, Gaston thought; too alike in their errors. For all his nobility and courage, Shader was not following Nous. He was a fighting man, a warrior of terrifying skill. In spite of his struggles with prayer and his attempt at the monastic life, Shader still resorted to the sword in his trials. Undoubtedly he sought the good, but not in the way that Nous did. For Shader, morality was a matter of opposing evil and enforcing the greatest good. He believed the employment of pain, suffering, and even death was necessary if good were to prevail. The important issue was that good triumphed, whatever the means, whatever the cost.
As he worked his thumb and forefinger around the third knot on the prayer cord, feeling out its mysteries, Gaston heard a gentle thud on the roof. His senses flared to alertness, but he quickly quelled them with the thought that it must have been a possum. No sooner had he continued with the prayer than he heard another thud, this time followed by a slight scuffing sound. Rising to his feet he listened intently, but heard nothing else. Shaking his head at his own jumpiness, Gaston yawned and decided to call it a night. He put the prayer cord over his neck and strolled towards the sacristy and the adjoining door to the residences. As his fingers touched the handle, someone screamed.
Gaston ripped the door open and sprinted along the corridor past the priests’ rooms. Pater Cadris and Frater Hugues emerged from the refectory, white-faced and trembling.
‘That scream—?’ Gaston said.
Hugues was transfixed by something outside the window.
Cadris stammered his reply. ‘I think it was Velda.’ He gazed fearfully down the corridor to her closed door.
‘There are dark shapes outside,’ Hugues whispered.
Gaston headed towards Velda’s door, but stopped when Ioana’s burst open. She was panting, her eyes wide and fearful.
‘Run, Gaston!’ she commanded. ‘Run, all of you! The Sicarii—’
A black-garbed figure stepped out into the corridor from Velda’s room. In his hand he held a blood-stained dagger.
Without hesitating, Gaston bundled Ioana back into her room and followed her inside, dropping the catch.
‘It’s useless,’ Ioana said. ‘They’re everywhere.’
Another muffled scream came from a nearby room and then a door slammed. The sound of tramping feet filled the corridor outside, and a pounding started from the direction of the refectory. Gaston’s heart matched the fierce beat as he cast about for some means of escape. Shadows passed across the window and someone started rattling the door handle.
***
Shader rode through Calphon drawing looks from the whores arrayed along the pavements. A commotion broke out ahead as a couple of rogues set upon an old man who’d been foolish enough to walk home at night. The muggers scarpered as Shader’s horse drew near and he leaned from the saddle to offer the old man a hand up.
‘Thank you, sir, thank you.’ The man dusted himself off and slapped a cap on his balding head. ‘I was just on my way—’ He staggered back as if he’d seen a ghost and raised tremulous hands to his face.
‘What is it?’ Shader righted himself and looked around expecting to see the rogues coming back with reinforcements. The street was deserted.
‘It’s you!’ The old man stumbled away and then started to run with bandy legs. ‘It’s him!’ he yelled into the night-blackened streets. ‘The one they’re looking for! Guards! Guards!’
Faces appeared at windows and at the cracks of doors. Figures began to step from the shadows back where Shader had come from.
‘I saw him first,’ the old man was protesting. ‘The money’s mine.’
Shader kicked the horse into a canter, but already a crowd was forming up ahead. Whistles sounded from somewhere in the distance amidst cries of ‘Make way! Make way!’
Springing from the saddle, Shader slapped the horse’s rump and sent it galloping towards the crowd. He ducked into an alleyway and ran, cutting and weaving through a maze of byways until he was clear of the main thoroughfare.
He stopped to catch his breath by a battered fence that picketed a garden. How had the old man recognized him? The one they’re looking for, he’d said. Who was looking for him? The Sicarii? Surely not—it was hardly their style to enlist the aid of the public; that’d do nothing for their reputation. Who then?
He made his way through the underbelly of Calphon, threading a route back to the main road some way beyond the crowd. Keeping pressed to the wall, he peered around the corner, ducking back out of sight as a couple of soldiers jogged by. He sucked in a sharp breath. These were no mere militiamen; they were dressed in the livery of Imperial regulars. He risked another look. The soldiers had stopped to consult with a large group of similarly garbed troops back down towards the crowd. After a brief exchange, they split off in pairs and scattered. Pulling his hat low and raising his coat collar, Shader hurried across the main road and continued towards the Mermaid. He reached the entrance to the tavern with footsteps close on his heels, but without waiting to see who it was, he slipped inside and shut the door.
The air was thick with smoke and the odour of stale beer and sweat. The place was heaving, all the tables taken and the spaces between packed with standing drinkers. Shader was hit by the wall of noise—raucous laughter, barking voices, the clink of coins and the chink of glasses.
He forced a passage to the window and peered out. Two Imperial soldiers were passing from view up the street. They must have been right behind him. He waited a minute to make sure the way was clear and then made his way back to the entrance.
Shader’s hand went to the gladius, but he resisted the urge to draw it. He turned and looked up from beneath the brim of his hat.
A dirty-faced woman was squeezing through the crowd, her chestnut hair in greasy disarray as if she’d been dragged backwards through a bush.
Her clothes were ripped and tatty—they may have once been some sort of servant’s uniform. She met his gaze, ran her fingers through her hair, and bumped up her breasts.
Shader turned, a snarl half-formed on his face.
‘Wait!’ she repeated, touching his shoulder.
‘Sorry, lady,’ Shader said. ‘I’m consecrated.’
‘What? No. How dare you!’
A waft of sickly perfume inflamed his nostrils. He backed into the entrance porch, dragging her with him. She opened her mouth to say something, but Shader took her jaw in one hand and pushed her against the wall.
‘Out with it,’ he hissed. ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend, you idiot!’ She almost spat the words at him. ‘Or at least a friend of a friend.’
Shader narrowed his eyes, willing her to explain.
‘My name’s Lallia.’ She extricated herself from his grip and straightened her top.
Shader’s eyes flicked to the mountain of soft flesh threatening to burst free of its constraints and then met her cattish eyes.
‘I know where your friend is,’ she said. ‘Rhiannon.’
‘What? How—?’
Lallia pressed herself against him and pulled his face close to hers. Shader struggled, but then her lips smothered his as the door opened.
‘Make way in the name of the Emperor.’
A pair of soldiers pushed roughly past and entered the bar.
Shader’s head reeled with Lallia’s scent, and the warm wetness of her lips sent fire through his veins. She pulled away and whispered urgently.
‘I went with Elias Wolf to rescue her, but we were attacked. She’s being held at Dead Man’s Torch. Dr Cadman has her. I used to work with—’