by Grey Durose
The vault door was made from shimmering steel, utterly unique, a work of art never to be imitated There was a flawlessly smooth operation to the combination lock, no click to give away the fall of the tumblers. There were keyholes, four, but no keys, the locks had to be picked, but only someone who'd been trained to do so could manage it, without making a mistake. Any error was punished with a strong but non-fatal electrical discharge. George had experienced this shock a number of times during his training, it was extremely painful and not something he wished to repeat.
Once the locks were sprung George was free to open the vault, he grasped the sturdy, metal loop of the handle and felt the carvings on the inside; more wards, designed as an arcane biometric security measure. The handle turned and there was a loud metallic clunk, as the last locking mechanism moved out of place. The door swung elegantly to one side, revealing an opening, barely big enough for a grown man to pass through upright - another measure designed to slow down anybody who managed to make it this far and was trying to empty the vault of its precious contents.
Inside the vault was a light switch and with its click a sight was revealed of which George could never grow tired. Row upon row of silver, gold, copper, bone, ivory, wood, leather, gemstones and many other materials, all worked in to myriad different shapes, weapons and tools. Also, there were more books and scrolls, works of literature too precious to leave out with the rest and too dangerous to ever be allowed in to the hands of mortal men. Keeping them here was just a way of slowing the passing of their knowledge. His father, Master Giovanni, had always told George that once something is written down - no matter how private the text - it had a habit of finding its way in to the minds of other men and women. That was why the traditions and knowledge of the Horrendos were passed on orally.
George approached the silver section, the amulet he was looking for would surely be there, if anywhere. He scanned down the shelves, smaller objects were stored at the top, rings and pins first, moving down to an impressive looking silver-plated broadsword at floor level. Two shelves down from the top, he found the collection of amulets and necklaces, large and small, intricate and plain, some with gemstones of blue, red, green, jet black, white pearls or amber, others with delicate flowers, shields or tools etched in to their metal. There, in the middle, was the identical twin of the amulet he was holding in his left hand. The amulet had a small booklet attached with a red dot on the front. George hastily placed the other amulet next to it, red meant: “Do Not Use” but also do not touch with bare skin, unless absolutely necessary.
He went back to the doorway and put on the old pair of soft leather gloves, which were left there for just such occasions, and went back to the amulet with the booklet. He picked it up and studied it carefully, it was indeed the same in every tiny detail, as the one he had found in the study, save for a few scratches. He moved over to the small table in the middle of the vault and sat down. The booklet contained only a couple of pages, which was a relief, some of the items in the vault had veritable novels attached.
As usual, the handwritten notes began with what was known of the history of the item, in this case a name: The Amulet of Shared Thought. According to the description, it had been crafted sometime in the late seventeenth century, a copy of an earlier version, which had been commissioned by John Dee.
'Perhaps the second one is Dee's original.' George conjectured.
Dee was an interesting character, Master Rudulphus had known him personally in the late sixteenth century. He was a great scholar of his time and an accomplished alchemist. Dee also had a third string to his bow, he was an advisor to Queen Elizabeth and, as a much trusted and respected subject, had been charged with the job of taking appointments with the other noble houses of Europe in order to spy on them and send any word of interest back to a waiting Elizabeth. In order to keep his messages from being intercepted - and his purpose revealed - the messages would be encoded, and signed: 007.
The next part of the description gave a list of previous owners and a summary of how it was misused and then how it was obtained by Master Otto in the mid-nineteenth century. At last it came to the crux of the matter, the partial description of its powers: The wearer is imbued with the ability to delve the dark corners of another's mind. Upon reading this, George immediately realised what Henry had done. The description continued: It is particularly drawn to secrets and traumas in the subject's past and will give the wearer a visual and auditory recounting of these events.
Henry had seen too much. Not only had he been exposed to the legend of the Nameless One but he would also have experienced numerous of George's encounters, with creatures and cultists, which would have driven any normal man over the edge. Even knowing of the existence of some of these beasts had been known to drive ordinary folk to madness.
At the end of the notes came another warning: It should be noted, that the wearer of this piece may gain access to the memories of their subject but they may also find it to be a two way street, with memories of their own, passing in to the mind of the subject. This was why it bore the red mark, without that final note it would have been invaluable but with it, the amulet became far too dangerous for George to ever use.
So it became clear; Henry had acquired the amulet, perhaps for his own amusement, and had inevitably been tempted to use it on George. The tale of the Nameless One had wormed its way in to his mind and George's own experiences had been too much for Henry's fragile psyche to handle. This had driven Henry's obsessive nature to seek out more knowledge of the Nameless One and something that he'd found must have nudged him in the right direction to make him believe he could attempt to contact the beast, to discover first hand, its nature.
George pondered for a moment, did Henry contact this thing? Surely, if he was attempting to find such an obscure, possibly legendary, monster, he may have instead found some other unspeakable thing. One thing was clear to George, Henry did not succeed in opening a portal, at least, not as he'd intended it. If he had tried such a thing it would certainly have been in the cellar, there would be plenty of space there and all the materials necessary for such activities would be ready to hand. He certainly wouldn't attempt it in his bedroom, and to deliberately place it in the only exit would have been foolishness beyond even a madman.
George's thoughts returned to the warning in the notes, 'Surely, if Henry had been sharing my memories then he would have let slip some of his own.' he muttered. He thought back over the last month that he'd been away, his mental training had given George superior recall - when he concentrated - and now that he focused he began to remember the odd dreams he'd had.
Sleep was not always necessary, with the correct application of meditation, but every three days or so it was impossible to resist, so George slept whenever he could. Dreams were few and far between for George and, most often, they involved the revisiting of past traumas. However, during his last trip, there had been an unusual number of dreams and all relevant to Henry. The setting of the dreams was, for the most part, during Henry's dark period, images of people shooting-up in squalid, run down pits, with peeling wallpaper, half rotted carpet and blacked out windows. One of the dreams involved stumbling over the corpse of some young woman, her body still warm but lifeless, her lips bluing and crusted with vomit at the corners, her eyes half open but only the whites showing. His ears had been filled by the incessant screams of an infant, hungry for its mother's milk. Now it seemed clear that these were not just dreams, but ghosts.
'What now?' George asked himself, a habit common to all who live their lives in isolation.
If Henry had failed to open a portal of his own, then whatever took him must have somehow found Henry. George knew that nothing could find him here, unless he'd drawn its attention first, like sending up a magical flare in the darkness of eternity. The answer might lie in the cellar, he thought.
Chapter Four
Yasin drove for most of the day, his mood was almost celebratory. At last he was free from his duties at the sect
and, after a short visit to Baghdad, he would be able to return to the Hidden Fortress and be among his own kind for the first time in over a decade.
The House of the Initiates would be his first stopping off point on his journey, a loose end that needed to be tied. The House was situated outside the suburbs of Baghdad, well away from the prying eyes of the centre of power but close enough to exert influence swiftly. It was a large structure with considerable grounds surrounding it in every direction, so that no part of the building was close enough to a road, or a neighbour, that the activities within could be observed. Yasin had lived there for the best part of ten years and as he pulled up in front of the iron gates that night he felt a twinge of nostalgia.
The gates were the only way in or out of the grounds. Once you'd been accepted as an initiate, there were only three ways you would be permitted to leave: by becoming a fully-fledged member of the cult, by being trained as an agent of the cult, or in an urn.
Ironically, it was easier to become a member than an agent. All that was required of prospective members was to demonstrate that they could offer the cult access to wealth or power, which they would find useful in hiding their activities, or furthering their grasp on the world of men. Agents, on the other hand, were put through years of painful and often degrading training, to ensure their loyalty to the cult. Torture and brainwashing techniques were used and at the end of it many of the young agents could barely remember who they were before they’d entered the House.
The House, was how they'd referred to the place. It was a good habit to keep since the word ‘initiates’ might stir up suspicion if it were overheard by outsiders. The name seemed inappropriate now, as he waited for the guard to finish opening the gate. The building was more like a sprawling mansion, a complex of buildings all tied to one enormous structure, where the inhabitants slept, ate and trained.
The House was a piece of classic Islamic architecture. It looked as if it belonged to another age but it had been purpose built, in the years either side of 1950. Its decorative arches and sandstone pillars supported golden domes and shaped parapets. There was even a pair of minarets at either end, to give passers-by the impression that they followed a more acceptable creed. No one ever climbed them to call anyone to prayer, though. The other buildings were dedicated to the different aspects of training. They fanned out from the mansion like the legs of a spider, long and thin, and windowless.
The grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall, two feet thick and topped with barbed spears of ironwork. The spears faced both ways, designed to keep the initiates in as much as to keep the rest of the world out. Inside the wall, were hundreds of acres of grass, orchards and fields, all of which needed to be tended. The initiates' tasks could seem never ending but they were designed to beat the flaws out of candidates. From what Yasin had observed in his time here, the system had a few flaws of its own.
He came to the end of the long stony driveway and parked to one side of the main entrance, close enough to make his car easily accessible but a safe distance from the dormitories, so the initiates would not be disturbed by his arrival, or departure.
He got out of the car and strolled casually across the flagstones to the house, he had a large bag hanging across his shoulders that emitted muffled clanks with every step. The double doors at the front of the house were made from patterns of coloured glass, framed by dark wood, and the light from the foyer shone through them, painting the flagstones with licks of polychromatic flame.
There was a familiar squeal as he opened the door and his shoes clacked on the diamond chequered tiles as he approached the security desk. The guard didn't recognise him at first, it was only when Yasin spoke that he bowed his head with appropriate respect.
'Our lord has sent me to see the Mother.' Yasin's tone was cold and formal.
'The Mother sleeps, I will have a room made ready for you and you can see her in the morning.' the guard replied, trying to be as helpful as possible.
'No. The lord was clear, I must see her now, I have a message for her and she must hear it as soon as possible.' Yasin insisted.
'If you write the message down I could have it taken to her.' the guard suggested.
'Did you not hear me? Our lord said now! The message is for the Mother's ears alone, I have strict instructions not to share it with anyone else.' Yasin adopted a commanding tone, he was, after all, a full member of the cult, one of only a dozen, and had the right to demand the respect of a lowly agent.
'I will call her rooms and see what I can do.' The guard whimpered, bowing his head again.
'See that you make it clear that this is of the utmost importance.' Yasin stressed.
The guard picked up the phone and engaged in a brief conversation with a person at the other end who seemed as resistant as the guard had been to wake the Mother. Eventually, the point was made and the person at the other end of the line caved in. 'The Mother will see you. I will take you up, sir.' The guard got to his feet to lead Yasin up the stairs.
'That won't be necessary, I know the way.' The last thing Yasin wanted was a security agent hanging around, making his task more challenging.
'As you say, sir.' He sat back down and left Yasin to make his own way.
It was a long climb, the stairs were shallow but that only meant that there were many more of them than was necessary. Yasin climbed and climbed, until he was at the top of the mansion, the Mother's rooms sat beneath the great dome.
A maid was waiting for him outside the door, a young woman, barely twenty, she was pretty, he supposed. From what he remembered of his few encounters with the Mother, she preferred them that way. She liked to break pretty things. The girl ushered him in to the Mother's quarters and informed him that he would have to leave his bag outside. He did so, he wouldn't be needing it here.
This was the softly lit waiting room, the Mother was in her chamber, dressing. She was old, perhaps ninety, she would almost certainly keep him waiting a while. After another twenty minutes, the maid returned to the room and informed him that the Mother was ready to see him. He rose and followed the maid down a short corridor to the Mother's office, where the little old lady was sat behind her desk, waiting for him.
The maid closed the door behind them, the Mother seemed engrossed in a thick bundle of paper in front of her and paid them no heed. Yasin coughed politely to gain the Mother's attention. After a few seconds of tense silence, he drew breath to cough again but, as he did, the Mother's eyes flicked up and gazed at him over her wire-framed, thick lensed glasses. She was ancient in appearance, Yasin had never been told anything about her, nobody seemed to know. Her glasses were always perched above the bulbous tip of her nose, which had sprouted three white hairs. It was a trick, of course, she only needed the glasses for reading and she was never really reading when her visitors arrived. The old woman must have felt that gazing out at her charges over her spectacles, gave her a look of authority, and it probably worked on the others. Her shrivelled, beady eyes peered out from below her thick grey brow, deep lines scored her forehead, surrounded her eyes and flared out from her nose to meet her sagging jawline. Her hair was a blend of silver and white and was always pulled back in a tight bun, a habit which had probably served to lift her face in days gone by.
Finally, the crone spoke. 'Well? Speak, boy. I don't have all night.' her voice was harsh and her throat crackled with phlegm.
'I came to deliver a message but it is only for your ears, Mother.' Yasin was getting tired of this dance already.
'Here I am and, unless something has happened to them while I was sleeping, so are my ears.' In her sarcasm she slipped, and a little of the French of her childhood seeped in to her accent.
'Our lord insisted that we be alone when I convey his words.' Short of getting up and manhandling the maid out of the room, he could not have been blunter.
The Mother sat silently for a few moments, her face a blank, then her croaking voice welled up again, 'Very well. What the lord wants, the lord must have.
Girl, get out. And make some tea.' She wafted the back of a bony, liver-spotted hand at the maid. The girl got up from her seat by the door and left the room, shuffling backwards. 'There, happy now?' the old woman asked.
'Forgive me, Mother, I only do as I was commanded.' Yasin replied with matching venom. He didn't like the Mother, she was a spiteful old hag, she wouldn't have commanded such a position if she hadn't been.
'Do get on with it, boy. I may be ancient but I still need some sleep.' the Mother complained.
'I have an important message for you, perhaps the most important message you will ever receive.' Yasin began to explain.
'Yes, yes, our lord entrusted you and you alone, blah blah. I've heard it all before.' The Mother was tired, and old, and even more crotchety than usual.
'I assure you, you have never heard this before.' Yasin was a little taken aback by her blithe, dismissive attitude, she was in danger of ruining this for him.
'So? Are you going to tell me, or should I sit here all night while you pump your young ego up to adequate size?' She maintained the attitude in her voice but there was something in Yasin's demeanour that intrigued her.
'Very well, I will get to the point. I feel I should come closer though, walls have ears and this message...' Yasin was interrupted by the impatient old woman's voice.
'Is for my ears only. I know. You're repeating yourself. I wouldn't expect dementia in one as young as you.' She took off her glasses and placed the tip of one of the arms in her mouth, while she considered the request. 'Come, whisper it in my ear like a young lover if you must.'
Yasin got up from his hard wooden seat and cautiously approached the crone. She didn't move but he could tell she was watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. He leant in, placing a hand on her shoulder. Through the thick cloth of her gown he could feel the bones protruding from beneath paper-thin, fleshless skin. He pushed his face closer to her improbably large ear, until he could feel the hairs tickling his lips.