by Richard Ford
Gelredida pulled something from her robe and flung it while Bram was still talking. It burst as it flew through the air, spreading spore-like dust all over the boy’s head. He reeled back, dropping the dagger and yelping like a beaten hound.
Gelredida rushed forward to Gerdy’s body. ‘Waylian,’ she barked. ‘You have to help me.’
Bram’s face began to burn, coming up in livid welts, and he stumbled back, clawing at the skin.
Gelredida knelt beside Gerdy, laying her hands on the black flesh of her chest.
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Waylian, unable to take his eyes off the dead girl.
Gelredida looked up, her eyes burning into him, into his very soul.
‘Kill him!’ she growled.
Waylian looked at Bram, who seemed to be recovering from the poisonous dust. His face was burned, his flesh peeling in places, but he was regaining some control. He stared at Waylian, then at Gelredida, seeing the Magistra lay her hands on Gerdy’s chest and begin to absorb the blackness from her body, leeching the darkness from her veins. Gelredida’s hands were already turning as black as the dead flesh on Gerdy’s chest.
‘No,’ screamed Bram. ‘You won’t. You can’t stop it!’
He rushed forward, but Waylian was already moving to intercept him. He didn’t know where his courage came from, whether he was more scared of what Gelredida would do if he didn’t act, or whether he knew Bram’s ritual had to be stopped at all costs. Either way he leapt forward, bowling into Bram before he could speak any more foul incantations.
They went down in a heap, rolling across the platform. When they came to rest, by some miracle Waylian was on top of Bram, hands clenched around his throat. Bram only smiled as Waylian did his best to choke the life from him.
Then he gripped Waylian’s belly.
It was like being stuck with hot pokers. Waylian held on for as long as he could, but the pain was too intense. He screamed in defiance, trying desperately to throttle Bram, seeing the spittle rise from his mouth, but it was no good. White hot pain was searing through his innards, and he had to pull away, to wrench himself free of Bram’s grip.
He fell back, suppressing a scream of agony, and as he writhed on the ground Bram looked down at him, his face a mask of contempt.
‘How does it feel to know you’re going to die, Grimm?’ said Bram, the black of his eyes spreading, covering what little white was left in them. His hands twisted into claws, the fingertips turning black and sharp like a hawk’s talons.
This was it. This was how it was going to end.
Something hit Bram hard on the head, sending dust flying as it bounced away. Waylian looked up to see two more figures on the platform — Greencoats, one big and hulking, the other young and fearful looking — but then Waylian could hardly blame him for that.
He tried to stand, but could only flail uselessly on the ground as the two men circled Bram, who was still reeling from a rock to the head.
‘Go on then,’ said the smaller Greencoat.
‘You fucking go on then,’ said his tough-looking friend, eyeing Bram’s claws warily.
Before either of them could act, Bram raised himself up to full height, lifting his arms above his head and screaming to the heavens before smashing them into the ground at his feet.
Waylian had enough time to register the deafening sound of the impact, before madness ensued. Cracks appeared in the platform, spreading from where Bram’s fists had struck. The dais began to split, each crack widening. In a sudden conflagration of flying bricks and dust, the floor collapsed beneath them. All Waylian could hear was a cacophony, all he could see was a grey mess of rubble as he fell towards the floor of the chapel fifty feet below.
Something hit him in the face, then something struck him in the back, knocking the wind from his lungs. It took him a moment to realise he had come to rest, a pile of fallen rock sticking in his back every which way.
As the grey haze of dust began to subside he tried to move, first his arms then his legs, relief washing over him as he found that, somehow, the only injuries he had suffered were a few cuts and bruises. Even the searing pain in his gut was subsiding, and he tried to rise, keen to fill his lungs with air again.
Before he could pull himself to his feet, something smashed into his chest, knocking him back to the ground. He opened his eyes, crusty with blood and dust, and could see the malevolent face of Rembram Thule glaring down.
‘You’ve ruined everything!’ he said, his words carefully measured as though he were suppressing his rage. Waylian could only hope he’d keep suppressing it long enough for help to arrive. ‘This was to be my moment of glory. My apotheosis. And you’ve fucked it up!’
His rage wasn’t suppressed any more. Those claws were growing again, his fingers enlarging into grotesque talons like black crab pincers, nebulous streams of black mist seeping from them.
‘Bram … wait,’ was all Waylian could manage.
Pitiful, even for him.
Bram only smiled. ‘The wait is over, Grimm. Time for you to go.’ He reached back, ready to strike with one black-clawed hand.
This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Waylian hadn’t even wanted to be here. Why hadn’t he stayed at home? Why hadn’t he become a scribe like his uncle, or even a farmer? Nothing bad ever happened to farmers.
Waylian’s rage burned within him. The injustice, the humiliation, stoked a fire in his chest. He could feel it filling him with strength, filling him with … power.
In that instant he spoke a word. Afterwards he would have no idea what that word was or what it meant, but it was enough. Words of power generally were.
As he spat the word from his lips, the weight was lifted from his chest. Bram was smashed backwards against the wall, shattering one of the grotesque friezes to dust and raining more rubble onto the ground.
When Waylian finally had the strength to stand he saw Bram’s body stretched in the dirt. And all he could do was stare.
Had that really come from him? That power? That magick?
It looked like it had … and there’d been no one around to see it.
Somewhere in the Chapel of Ghouls, Waylian could hear someone calling for help.
FORTY-SIX
‘It’s too quiet.’
It was the fourth or fifth time Denny had said that. The lad was right of course: it was too quiet, and Nobul should have been all the warier for it.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t wary because all he could do was look at the back of Denny’s head as they did their rounds through the lamp-lit streets and think about smashing it in with his fists.
You killed my son, you little cunt, and I should stove your fucking head in.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, but he thought about it. Thought about it a lot.
Denny had picked up on it, of course; Nobul had never been one to hide his feelings and anyone with eyes could see he was brooding over something. When the lad had asked what the matter was, Nobul had just shrugged. That had been enough for Denny; he wasn’t particularly inquisitive, or very bright for that matter, and when Nobul shrugged that was the end of it.
As they walked the streets the feeling only got worse. Nobul found himself gripping the sword at his side, wanting to pull it out, wanting to use it, to stab Denny right there in the street, to scream at him that he was a murdering shit — that he’d killed a defenceless boy and he had to suffer for it.
The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge it was an accident. A stupid mistake, made by a stupid bastard. Denny had said he regretted it, and Nobul had no reason to think he was lying. That was the only thing that had kept the lad alive — the fact that Denny was sorry. If he’d made light of it, made a joke … well, Nobul had killed men for less.
‘I’m bored,’ said Denny, like the child he was. ‘We should head towards Eastgate. See if there’s any action down there.’ Why would we go looking for trouble? ‘Nights are getting colder. It don’t do to be wandering aro
und in the cold.’ It’s better than lying in the ground, dead as a doorpost. ‘There must be something going on somewhere.’ Shut up, just shut your …
There was movement ahead. Nobul could see figures through the dark, hear armoured men moving along the street.
‘What’s th-’
‘Quiet!’ said Nobul, sick of Denny’s constant wittering.
The figures were moving fast, and Nobul had to make a quick choice: ignore it or investigate. If only to give Denny something to occupy him, he picked the latter.
The group ahead moved with surprising speed considering some were wearing heavy armour. Nobul quickened his pace, trying to get a better idea of what he was dealing with.
A patch of light gave him the chance to get a better look.
There were four of them, two in dark armour — Raven Knights from the Tower — and two in robes, who could only have been magisters. What in the hells were they doing out at this hour, and moving with such urgency?
‘What do you think?’ Denny whispered. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’
Yes, it was obvious something was going on, but Nobul had no idea what. If it was the affairs of magickers then he could quite happily have left them to it, but there was something in their gait, their urgency. Something was happening.
‘Should we follow them, Lincon? What should we do?’
Denny certainly wasn’t helping him think. That was probably why, despite every instinct telling him to leave them to it, Nobul carried on after them.
As he followed he could see the foursome making their way towards the centre of Northgate, and Nobul knew exactly what was there — hells, everyone knew exactly what was there — the Chapel of Ghouls. The thought of where this group was heading began to worry him. Members of the Caste on their way to the Chapel could not be good.
It was with rising panic Nobul saw all four go through the open gateway, a gateway that had never been opened for as long as he could remember. Despite his fear, Nobul crossed the street after them, pausing at the gate.
Denny looked at him quizzically, grasping his sword in hand. ‘Are we going in?’
Nobul stared after the group, hearing the Raven Knights in their armour making a racket as they moved towards the chapel. If they needed help surely it was the Greencoats’ duty to give it. He was a protector of the city now, and if the legends about the chapel were right, they’d need all the help they could get.
With Denny at his side, Nobul crossed the threshold, following the cobbled path that ran up the knoll towards the Chapel of Ghouls. He fully expected to find the foursome standing outside it, wondering how in the hells to get in, but when he saw the massive stone door lying smashed on the ground and the entrance open he stopped again, apprehension winning out over sense of duty.
‘What do we do, Lincon?’ Denny asked, clearly just as spooked.
‘I’m fucking thinking!’ he snarled.
He hadn’t meant to lash out, but Denny was doing his head in, always asking questions, always on the want. Couldn’t he think for himself?
Nobul stared into the dark. He should go in after them, they might need help, they certainly looked like they were ready for trouble — Raven Knights never left the Tower of magistrates unless something was up. But something was holding him back, a dark and dirty feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was no good, he couldn’t just hang around outside all night waiting for someone to come out. With a nod to Denny he rushed inside.
They came out in a massive chamber — bigger than the Sepulchre of Crowns — and the pair of them stared in awe. Not for long, though. A shout from above pulled them both from their reverie. Nobul couldn’t make out the words, but they were loud and they were angry. Denny looked just about ready to piss himself, and Nobul was almost ready to join him. This was magister business, and it was never going to be pretty work. Surely they were better left to it. Either that or he and Denny should go and get help. From the shouting above it looked like it was all kicking off.
He turned to Denny, nodding his head, his mind made up.
‘All right. You go and-’
Something smashed into the ground right next to them, missing Denny by less than a yard. The lad yelped in fright, and Nobul was right ready to drop his sword and scarper.
It was a crumpled body, one of the Raven Knights, his limbs skewed all funny, his helmet dented in on one side, something dark and nasty seeping out of the gaps like oil.
‘Fucking hells,’ said Denny, staring at the body.
Whatever was up there had just killed one of the feared Raven Knights. Fucking hells was probably just about the right assessment.
Nobul stopped thinking. There was no time to go and get help now; there was just them. Whatever was going off could be all over soon and who knew how bad it would be if they did nothing. Grabbing Denny by the shoulder, Nobul bolted towards a flight of stairs that led up to the roof.
He took the staircase as quick as he could, and he was pleased that Denny, despite his obvious fears, was right behind him. As they climbed, there was a strange smell, almost overpowering them with the stink of something dead, something rotting.
Denny cursed, slowing his pace and shielding his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow, but Nobul would not stop. His blood was up now with the prospect of violence, of murder.
Was this what he wanted? Had this been what he’d been needing all this time since Markus had died? Something to fight? Something to kill?
He’d find out soon enough.
Denny slipped behind him, cursing again, but Nobul carried on, seeing the platform above. He could hear more shouts of desperation, screams of horror, and he knew he was needed. There was also something in the atmosphere, a metallic feeling like the air before a storm, but Nobul knew this was nothing to do with the weather. He had seen magickers in action before, experienced their fell work. He knew this could only be the cloying effect of sorcery.
Nobul burst out onto the platform to a scene of chaos.
The other Raven Knight lay slumped in a heap of black armour, and Nobul didn’t have to look twice to know he was a goner. A grey-haired witch was doing some kind of hoodoo on a naked girl who didn’t look like she was going to be up and about any time soon.
Then there was a lad lying on the ground, didn’t look much older than Markus, and standing over him …
Nobul almost ran away right then at witnessing that thing standing there.
It was another boy, but not like any Nobul had ever seen. His eyes were black pits in his head and his hands … those fucking hands … sharp like an eagle’s talons, growing longer with every moment.
Denny almost fell right back down the staircase as he came to stand beside Nobul.
‘How does it feel to know you’re going to die, Grimm?’ said the twisted, daemonic travesty of a boy. It was clear he was evil, and though Nobul had no idea what was going on, he was sure as shit he wasn’t going to stand around and let someone be torn apart by some daemonic bastard.
Nobul picked up a chunk of rock lying loose on the ground and flung it as hard as he could. The missile smacked the black-eyed lad right on the head and, as he staggered back, Nobul and Denny moved forward, brandishing their swords. Before they could attack though, those dark eyes turned on them, furious intent written in their black depths.
‘Go on then,’ said Denny, urging Nobul on.
‘You fucking go on then!’ he replied, not wanting to get close enough to have a piece taken out of him by those claws.
The devil boy heaved in a breath, and for a second Nobul thought he was about to charge. He had no idea what he’d do — shit himself? run like fuck? — but no attack came. Instead, the lad lifted himself up full, raising those black claws high above his head before smashing them down.
Nobul was hit by whatever it was had been unleashed. He felt himself knocked off his feet, heard a din like thunder and took shards of stone and dust in the face.
When he came round, ha
lf the platform was missing, just smashed in, a big hole where it had been. He was the only one still on it, clinging to what remained, his green jacket now grey with the dust that hung around in a huge cloud.
‘Lincon!’
He heard the shout, but at first couldn’t work out where it was coming from.
‘Lincon, help!’
He stood gingerly, looking around in a daze, then glanced over the torn lip of the platform.
There was Denny, clinging on to a bit of masonry, dangling fifty feet above the floor of the Chapel.
‘Lincon, I can’t get up,’ he said, tears welling in his eyes, voice all desperate.
Nobul made to reach down, to grab Denny’s wrist and pull him up to safety, when he stopped.
In that instant he wondered if Markus had tears in his eyes when he’d been bleeding to death on that roof. Wondered whether he’d had time to cry out, all desperate like.
‘Lincon?’ said Denny. ‘Lincon, help me. I’m slipping.’
He could see Denny’s grip was loosening. It would have been so easy to reach out and …
Save the bastard that killed your son? Is that what you’re made of now, Nobul Jacks? You used to be feared. You used to have men shitting in their britches and now you’re going to show mercy?
Nobul turned. He could hear Denny crying out, could hear him panicking as he hung there, the desperation in his voice.
Fuck him.
Nobul moved towards the stairway, ready to walk away, ready to leave that bastard to his fate.
You’re a hard one and no mistake, Nobul Jacks. Tough as they come and twice as evil. Leave a lad hanging like that, leave him alone in his last moments. Yeah, you’re the toughest. No wonder you had such a reputation.
No! That wasn’t him! He wasn’t … evil.
He turned, scrabbling his way back up to the platform, lurching over the edge, ready to grab Denny and pull him back up.
But Denny wasn’t there.