by Mike Wild
Just what the hells was going on? And, more importantly, where the hells had she been brought?
Headache subsiding slightly, Kali looked around her place of captivity – as much as her iron collars would allow. There wasn’t much to see – torches mounted on the walls illuminated a circular chamber accessed by a single heavy door, featureless other than the chair in which she sat, rather troublingly the obvious centre of attention. There were no windows, so it was likely a cellar, and by the absence of outside noise a cellar somewhere isolated and deep. But where exactly? She had no idea how long she had been unconscious and therefore no idea how far she had travelled. She could literally be anywhere on the peninsula.
Kali strained to listen, hoping perhaps to hear some noises from the outside world – perhaps a clatter of cartwheels on mud, cobbles or stone – an indicator of which town or city she was in, or snatched voices speaking in some regional accent. But there was only silence except for the vaguest hint of something in the distance.
It took her a few seconds to place what it was because it seemed so far out of context to the predicament she was in. But then she had it.
It was singing.
Somewhere above her, people were singing.
What sounded like a mix between a battle hymn and a song of praise.
The Final Faith, she thought. Munch must have brought her to one of their churches, and she was sitting beneath one of their congregations. But which congregation, in which church, where? She strained to listen and, beyond the singing, caught the sound of bells.
Twelve bells to be precise, each of them pealing in turn. Kali felt her heart thump as recognition dawned. There was only one place she knew of that had such bell towers. Pits of Kerberos, the little bastard had brought her to Scholten – abducted her halfway across the peninsula, to the cathedral itself.
The realisation – and its implications – sinking in, Kali began to struggle anew against her bonds, but as she felt blood start to trickle, she let out a cry of frustration.
At the same time she heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door.
A key turned in its lock and the door opened.
Three people walked into the room, studying her but staying silent. The first of them was Munch, the second a disturbingly tall, thin man she didn’t recognise, and the third a woman she did – but only because she looked a bit like her statues.
It was Caroline MacDonald. The Anointed Lady.
No, hang on, that didn’t sound right, Kali thought. MacDonald, maybe but... Christine? Katarina? Katherine. She was sure it was Katherine.
Yes, that was it. Katherine MacDonald, the Anointed Lady.
Hells, she really ought to get to church more often.
“We do seem to be plagued by pests of late,” the woman sighed. She strode towards Kali and looked directly at her. “Kali Hooper,” she intoned. “Age twenty-two, sex, sometimes, current occupation proprietor of the tavern formerly known as the Retching Weasel and now the Here There Be Flagons, situated in the hamlet of Stopford, in the western county of Tarn.”
Kali smiled. “Thanks for reminding me. Now I’ll be able to find my own way home. Whenever you’re ready, that is.”
“I’m not. Oh, and if you’re thinking of shouting for help, don’t bother.” She pointed up. “The Eternal Choir never stops.”
“That must get on your tits.”
Makennon ignored her. “Not much to go on at all, Kali. And that is all the information in our records – tell me, don’t you find that strange?”
Kali stared at her. “No, what I find strange is you have records about me at all. Tell me, Katherine, it is just a church you’re running here, isn’t it – not a dictatorship? And hey, I could have done without the crack about the sex.”
“Proprietor of the aforementioned tavern and sometime tomb raider, I am led to believe.”
Kali’s eyes narrowed.
“Actually, I prefer to think of them more as repositories, or reliquaries – museums of the past. To be honest, I’d be pretty much gobsmacked if I found anyone dead in them, their owners having been gone for quite some time. But seriously, Katherine, you are really going to have to go to interrogation classes if you’re going to ask me questions and then ignore everything I say.” She smiled sweetly. “Kind of defeats the object, doesn’t it?”
Makennon slapped her suddenly and unexpectedly on the cheek, hard.
“This isn’t a damned game, tomb raider!”
Her head involuntarily snapped to the side, Kali worked her jaw and spat out a small glob of blood. Then she snapped her head back and glared at her captor, hair mussed over eyebrows that were deeply veed, her expression thunderous. But she spoke steadily.
“I’d kind of worked that out when your hired psychopath here slaughtered my horse.”
Makennon smiled. “What can I say? Konstantin has a... passion for his work.”
“Burn in the hells!”
Makennon cocked her head, almost curiously. “I hardly think that’s likely, Kali, do you? I am Katherine Makennon, the Anointed Lord, head of the largest faith – the largest church – on Twilight. Hundreds of thousands of people see me as the Lord of All’s representative on this world of His, and they revere me as much as they do Him. Each of these people pray for my well-being on a daily basis, and each of them will solicit my passage to the heavens when my time eventually comes. Think about it. With that kind of support, how could I possibly burn?”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s a big enough match somewhere,” Kali said. Makennon, right. “Why have you brought me here?”
“You know why, Kali. I want the key.”
“I thought it was Munch who wanted the key?” Kali retorted. It was a weak retort but the best she could do in an attempt to halt the growing unease in her gut. “What are you going to do – fight amongst yourselves?”
“My desires are Munch’s desires, and our desires are those of the Faith. The key belongs to no one individual but to the Church itself – it has been written.”
“Oh, really? By whom?”
“The Old Races. The forefathers of we, the Divine Race.”
“Oh right, them,” Kali responded casually. Makennon was obviously referring to the elves and the dwarves, but other than that she didn’t have a clue what she was on about. She just wished someone would tell her why the key was in so much demand or what it was that the damn thing actually did.
Makennon studied her, a smile playing on her lips. “You don’t know what it is, do you? You haven’t a clue. The key was just some... bauble you saw your chance to steal from us.”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“When you tell me where it is.”
“You know, I am getting heartily sick of that question. As I told your flunky here – I don’t know.”
“That we shall have to see, won’t we?” Makennon said. She turned to Munch and the tall man. “Get on with it,” she ordered. “Report to me below when you’re done.”
Below? Kali thought. But weren’t they already in the cellars? She thought no more of it, though, as she realised Makennon was about to leave, and in her current circumstances being left with Munch and his mate as they got on with it made her feel more than a little concerned.
“Makennon, wait,” she said. “You’re the head of the Final Faith – a church – how can you countenance this?”
The Anointed Lord smiled. “I don’t. I just ignore it.”
With Makennon gone, Kali stared at Munch and he stared back, saying nothing but slowly rubbing his hand over large black bruises on his face, what looked like a broken nose, a stitched gash above his eye. He breathed shallowly and Kali noticed that bandages wrapped his ribs. She’d given him a good drubbing, all right, but right now it didn’t make her feel much better. The bloody mouth Makennon had given her was nothing compared to the damage Munch could inflict while she was as helpless as she was.
But she was not going to let it matter what he did to her. Sh
e couldn’t. Because if she told him about the key then she would have to tell him about Merrit Moon, and there was no way she was dragging the old man into this.
All she could hope for was that she blacked out quick.
Unfortunately, it seemed that oblivion was not going to be. As Kali swallowed in expectation of what was to come, it wasn’t Munch who made the first move but the tall, thin man. With no expression showing on his sunken, sallow face he walked behind her, cupped her skull in his hands and then tipped it from side to side, fingers rubbing gently. The incongruity of what he was doing made her swallow harder still, her unease made all the worse by the fact that she couldn’t see a thing. “What’s with the massage, Munch?” she asked, sounding calmer than she felt. “You think maybe I need to relax?”
Munch spoke for the first time. He sounded calm and in control but Kali caught a flash of bloodlust in his eyes that belied his manner – the little bastard was looking forward to this. “This gentleman’s name is Querilous Fitch,” he said. “Mister Fitch is here to ensure our session lasts as long as is necessary. It is his job to ensure that you remain attentive and do not lapse into unconsciousness, a technique at which he is particularly adept.”
“Then I’d better warn you I drop like a stone at the sight of blood,” Kali said. “I don’t think Fitch’s massage is going to help very much.”
Munch smiled. “His technique is a little more than a mere massage.”
“Oh? What’s he going to – ” Kali began, and then stopped suddenly, gasping. It seemed to her that the fingers that a moment before had been caressing the back of her skull had somehow just slipped inside it, and while she was pretty sure the sensation couldn’t actually be physical, it sure as hells felt like it. She felt cold and woozy and sick at the same time, and the really creepy thing was that she could feel different parts of her brain throb one after the other, as if the fingers were feeling their way around.
Thread magic, it had to be. Fitch was weaving inside her head.
Kali groaned loudly, and as she did Munch wheeled a small iron trolley into the room and locked it into place by the side of her chair. She flicked her eyes towards it. It looked innocuous enough but she somehow doubted it was there to provide her with a manicure to go with the massage. Too disorientated for a wisecrack, she found Munch speaking for her.
“I imagine you’re expecting a selection of instruments crafted to cause you physical injury,” he said slowly. “Branding irons? Pincers? Thumbscrews?” He lifted the lid. “Unfortunately, the Anointed Lord has decreed that such tools are only to be used should there be a failure in our more advanced techniques. I find these techniques rather uninspiring personally, but who am I to argue? The Anointed Lord has, after all, engaged some of our best alchemical minds to develop both these and their effects.”
Kali looked numbly at what Munch had revealed. The trolley held a number of vials of coloured liquids, greens and oranges and reds, some of which looked more viscous than others, and each of which was marked with a strange symbol she did not recognise. They could have been reptile venoms or plant toxins or some other kind of poison and, though some bubbled of their own accord, what worried her most was that each sat next to a strip of needlereed, the hard, strawlike growth that, filled with a dart and the right ingredients, was a favourite tool of the assassins guilds.
But they were not going to poison her, surely.
So what?
Munch picked up a strip of needlereed and dipped it into one of the vials, the green, and then again, into the red. He tapped the end so that the viscous fluids mingled and slipped down inside, then raised and examined the reed, smiling in satisfaction.
“The dosage and combinations of these distillations have to be quite specific,” he explained, “or can prove instantly lethal. But used correctly their effect is wondrously telling – though I’m told quite unpleasant – making your mind as pliant and as loose as I wish it to be. They do, however, cause some dizziness and lack of muscular control.”
Kali swallowed. “Hey, then why don’t you just give me a bottle of flummox? No, make that a case.” She eyed the needlereed. “Is this going to hurt?”
Munch smiled. “This... no. But you may still feel some little pricks.”
He flicked a lever on the side of the chair and the iron collars holding her clamped tighter, the pins piercing her ankles, wrists and neck. She bucked in her seat but found she could now barely move at all. Her limbs stung and blood flowed into the nape of her neck.
“Uuurngh!”
“As I said, they may cause some dizziness or delirium,” Munch reiterated, “and it is essential for Mister Fitch’s work that you remain absolutely still.”
He dug the needlereed into the bend in her elbow, shoving it hard into her flesh, and Kali felt sick to the stomach as she saw the vein on her arm pulse and tinge green, the colour spreading up.
The noxious substance coursed quickly through her bloodstream, and there was nothing she could do to stop it, no way she could even try. Whatever it was Munch had given her, she felt instantly as if she had been on a week-long bender in the Flagons, the room about her tipping and swaying like a ship on the Sarcrean Sea. Sweat broke from every pore, her skin began to tingle, and as her stomach cramped agonisingly she vomited foam onto her chin. But however bad what was happening to her body was, it was nothing compared to what was happening to her mind. Her vision exploded suddenly with great bomb-blasts of orange and yellow and red that detonated and then spread like spilled paint, coating the inside of her eyes with a vibrant, cloying sea. Her head tipped back deliriously, and that part of her neck that thrust out as a result was pierced more deeply by the pins, making her blood run ever more freely. But she didn’t care – the red of her blood was simply part of a rainbow that wrapped itself now around the inside of her skull, dizzying and disorientating, swooping and sick. As the colours swam, so too did her thoughts, and images of anything and everything began to flood her inner eye. Lost inside her own head, aware that she was dribbling and moaning, there was nothing she could do now but listen to the voice.
“The key, Miss Hooper – where is the key?”
“Told you... don’t know...”
“Of course you know. The key, girl, where is the key?”
Kali tried to fight, to pull her thoughts into some kind of order, but the awareness of what the voice wanted produced precisely the opposite effect. An image of Merrit Moon flashed unbidden amongst a kaleidoscope of others and Kali railed against it, lest she blurt out his name. She tried desperately to make her mind go blank but it was a feat she had never been able to master – she wondered if anyone had – because there was always something in there, nagging away, even if it was only the panicked assertion to make her mind go blank, which perversely and inevitably conjured up the very images she wanted to forget. Kali consciously summoned other memories instead, the sights and sounds of previous adventures, but Merrit Moon hovered like a spectre in them all, smiling, advising, telling her when to run. She concentrated as hard as she could and shoved him away, back, into the darkness, and in his stead a cryptographic stone wheel loomed before her, set in a vine-strewn wall. Three turns to the right and two to the left. No. Oops. Boulder, big boulder. Run!
She could feel herself slipping, and all the time the question.
“The key, Kali. Where is the key?”
In the end, she fled to the only place she could – home. She surrounded herself with the laughter and the banter of the Flagons, the revelry and rivalry that was her tavern’s soul. All her friends were there – Aldrededor, Dolorosa, Red – even Horse, alive once more. She swept away a sudden image of him dying and instead lost herself in memories of exploring the peninsula on his back, the discovery of Thunderlung’s Cry, the Rainbow River, the mind-numbing Heights of Low...
“Such a shame about the beast,” the voice said and, with a vertiginous panic, she realised that it was Munch, and that she must have unwillingly spoken Horse’s name aloud. Her panic d
oubled, for she realised now that in thinking about Horse she was only one step away from thinking about Merrit Moon, and how easy it would be to speak his name out loud.
So she left even home behind, going back before the Flagons, before Horse and before Merrit Moon, back to her childhood and beyond – where lay no memory at all. But in doing so she found herself suddenly remembering what she had never fully remembered before, and she was there on a lonely road, during a storm-lashed night, crying like the babe she was, her tears indistinguishable from the rain. She felt herself being handed from one set of hands to another, caught a fleeting glimpse of a hooded man, and then, above her instead, was Red – a younger Red – smiling down.
Then even Red faded away, and she struggled to fill the gap he left behind. It was getting more and more difficult to concentrate now, she realised, and there was nowhere else to go.
But it seemed there was. Suddenly she felt something pull aside, like a curtain in her mind, and for the first time ever she saw, actually saw, the place where she’d been found.
Despite her escalating delirium, Kali gasped. It was there before her, clearer and more detailed than the memory of a babe had any right to make it. Clearly some kind of Old Race ruin, its interior was adorned with complex runes and trellised with ornate ironwork as artistic as that of the Spiral, or of anywhere she had ever been. But there was more, here – strange panels of light set into the walls, flights of iron steps leading to machine-filled platforms that blinked around the edge, corridors and doors leading away to who knew where. She could feel the whole place tremble with power. Gods – she wanted to get up, to explore, but she was, after all, only a babe and could not rise from where she lay swaddled and helpless, there, in the middle of it all.
Kali found it didn’t matter. For the first time she was seeing what she had never seen or known before – her own origin. It was Munch’s drugs, it had to be, and though she would never have believed it, she actually had something to thank the bastard for.
It was a revelation.
But nothing like the revelation that followed.