The Summoning

by F. G. Cottam

  ‘I’m wondering if it was all he was sleeping with.’

  Grayling made some sound in his throat but whether of approval at this suspicion or disgust, was impossible for Adam to judge. ‘I stand by my belief that he was emotionally vulnerable, professor. It isn’t revisionism to think a man in the Middle Ages prey to human feeling. This woman saved his life and he had lost his wife and daughter to the plague, and we know from his own words that she was physically attractive. The king had commanded him to kill a shadow world alchemist.’

  ‘The greatest mass murderer in recorded history,’ Grayling said.

  ‘Granted, but it wasn’t stipulated anywhere that he had to carry out the job celibate.’

  ‘Except that Eleanor would have had her say in that,’ Jane said. ‘We know de Morey was brave and principled, but he could have been physically repulsive. Do we have any idea what he looked like, professor?’

  ‘There are surviving likenesses,’ Grayling said. ‘He looked pretty much as I think one would have expected him to. He would have had Millais and Rossetti and the like very hot under the collar, I should think. Fair, is the expression they would have used in contemporary accounts. Robert de Morey was exceedingly fair, even before that rather dashing facial scar he’s just acquired in the story. What isn’t ringing true, Jane?’

  ‘Just saying goodbye to her like that. It has the feel about it of abandonment.’

  ‘Maybe he’s simply liberating her.’

  ‘It doesn’t read like that, though.’

  ‘He has his duty to perform. Nothing can impede or obstruct it. It’s the reason for his being there. It’s the reason for his existence. Without it, he is nothing.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Please read on, both of you.’

  They came for me in the night. I became alert to some subtle alteration to the material world in the still darkness beyond the door of that forest abode. There was no noise. They did not disturb a single nocturnal creature. They did not snap a twig on the ground or stir a rustling leaf, for it was autumn in the forest now and nature was in decline.

  I smelled an odour, faint but no less sickening to the spirit for its slightness. That was the only clue offered my exterior senses, but the hairs stood proud on the backs of my hands and prickled the nape of my neck in a warning both fearful and somehow dreadful to me. It was as though danger mingled with the basest despair in some abject trick of alchemy.

  When I opened wide the door I did so on a silent multitude of still figures assembled patiently there in the darkness. They were the parasites of legend and they were legion. Their hunger, or more truthfully their thirst, was a devouring pull held wilfully in check, like some sucking breeze that plucked at clothing and flesh. They were black-clad in monkish habits and their heads were hooded and I could not see their features in the dismal absence of light. I had the curious sense that their scrutiny was blind.

  This impression was confirmed when one of their number approached. He raised three-fingered hands tipped with black talons that were truthfully more like the claws of some scavenging beast. He pulled back his hood. His head was entirely bald and misshapen and the only feature it possessed was a maw, like the sucking orifice from which a lamprey depends, feeding on the fishy flesh of its unfortunate river host.

  I confess the sword felt useless in my hand. The great temptation was to imagine myself in the sleeping grip of nightmare. But I knew I was not. I could feel the rough boards of the floor under my bare feet and the cold weight of the weapon I held.

  I would fight. They were too many and I would be overwhelmed. My death would be quick and savage though I did not fear it, determined to account for as many of these nocturnal monsters as I could in the quickening fray. But I had failed my king. Hieronymus Slee would escape retribution. My wife and daughter would go unavenged. It was a conclusion to my quest as miserable as it was strange. I breathed deeply of the tainted forest air and raised the blade I held firmly in both hands before me.

  And the creature before me raised its own horrid hands in a gesture of supplication. All of them did, as one, with a rustle of the rough hessian they wore to cover the obscene sight of their stinking flesh. I saw with amazement that they meant me no harm.

  The offence of them lay in their look and their odour. They possessed no violent intent. The leading creature gestured with a finger and I saw that they wanted me to accompany them. The thirst they shared for me had not abated. I was aware of its deep, unsatisfied strength. They were acting not on will but from duty, as wild beasts brought cruelly to subjugation by a skilled trainer for entertainment at a fair.

  They led me to a tent. I saw this structure as the dawn broke in a clearing in the trees that gave on to open ground. We were obliged to cross a wooden bridge over a stream to gain the tent. There was no sound of birds singing to greet the morning.

  The fabric of the tent rippled in a stiff breeze and my spectral escort melted away from me. They diminished in number rapidly, as the last grains of sand will rush down the aperture of an hourglass in the moment before you tip it over to record the time to come.

  I could not have said where it was they went. They were there and then they had gone and I was alone before the striped livery of the large cloth structure dominant on the field. It was a generous width and the height of two tall men, this construction of timber-framed cloth. It was boldly coloured in purple and gold and its lavishness suggestive of nobility and wealth.

  A man emerged from the tent. He was a little taller than I, dark and bearded, and the beard was carefully trimmed and his hair longish and smoothly combed. He was altogether fair in appearance.

  So soon after enduring the grotesque company of those who had delivered me there, any mortal man might have appeared pleasant in aspect. But the count of Sarth, as I was to come to know him, was a man well-made in every particular. He was finely attired, and a dagger with a jewelled hilt hung in an embossed sheath from his belt. Yet I felt no martial threat from him. Had he wished me harm, his eyeless acolytes could have accomplished that long before the coming of daylight.

  ‘Noble friend,’ he said. ‘I have followed your progress, intrigued. Will you breakfast with me? Will you tell me of your earthly ambitions for the benighted kingdom to the south?’

  For a moment, so startled was I at what he had learned that I did not identify the language in which his words had been spoken. And then I did. And my delight at hearing my own tongue swiftly delivered sorrow to my heart at how long I had been away from home on this most curious odyssey of vengeance. I missed my own warm hearth and my own bed and the familiar fields of my own domain, and before all, of course, I missed Simon, my fine, strong and most beloved son.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English, sir?’

  ‘I learned the tongue in England, the land from where you come.’

  ‘How did you come by this knowledge you have of me?’

  ‘Your armour and the saddle of your horse were of the English style. The length of the bow you made for the lady who accompanied you suggested archery in the English tradition. These are compelling clues.’

  ‘You have been observing me?’

  ‘I have had you observed, a paltry distinction.’

  ‘Those creatures have no eyes.’

  ‘No, sir. But there is more than one way of seeing.’

  ‘How did you tame them?’

  He looked at me for a long moment, then glanced at the sword buckled to my side. He stroked his beard and smiled. ‘Break your fast with me. I will undertake to answer the questions you have. But it must be an honest and just exchange, sir, for I require answers also of you.’

  I nodded and followed his invitation into the tent. I am sometimes rash to judgment, impulsive, headstrong in forming opinion. But despite the vile company he kept and the curious nature of his earlier summons, I confess that I liked the count of Sarth from the first moment of our encounter.

  He did not strike me as a kind or necessarily merciful
personage. There was in truth a glint of cruelty in his eye. But there was courage and amusement in him and I had felt the lack of both qualities most keenly. I had missed more than I had realized the company of considerable men. The count, I knew at once, was one such.

  His table was elaborately laid. Autumnal fruits were piled ripe on silver plate and there were loaves of fresh bread and butter newly churned and cheeses and aromatic pies. I had subsisted long in the forest on rabbit and fowl, and sour berries and scarce wild vegetables boiled and near flavourless. It was a feast the count provided and I ate as heartily as any man would, only a night march from accepting that the moment of his death had come to call.

  ‘How did you tame them?’

  ‘They are not tamed,’ he said. ‘They are trained. I make their lives easier and so they accommodate my family and me. They serve.’

  ‘You have their loyalty.’

  ‘They are loyal only to their own appetites and needs.’

  ‘Then you have their gratitude.’

  ‘You fail to understand,’ the count said. ‘They tolerate servitude because I am able to satisfy their thirst. Were I to stop, you would soon see how loyal to me those creatures are.’

  ‘Why do you tolerate them?’

  ‘They keep me safe,’ he said simply. ‘Their legend is fearsome and well founded too. Were it not for the fear they inspire and the protection they provide, the Crimson King would send assassins from Salabra and I would be dead and my family and household slaughtered with me.’

  ‘Why would he do that? In what manner have you offended him?’

  The count looked at me for a long moment. ‘Do you really not know?’

  ‘I know little of Endrimor beyond the language. I am ignorant of its politics and history.’

  ‘He would kill me because I am his brother.’

  ‘I still do not understand.’

  ‘I am his elder brother, sir. I am the rightful heir and the Crimson King a mere pretender.’

  ‘Yet you do not rule. You do not even rule the parasites.’

  He laughed loudly at that. He slapped his thigh with mirth at the bitter truth of the jest. ‘Your lack of tact suggests the soldier more than the diplomat. But I knew that about you. Word of your prowess with the sword has spread even unto this baleful corner of our world.’

  He lived in exile. That was his true situation. He had material comforts and the parasitic creatures provided him with some measure of security, but he was divorced from the place and status rightfully his. I did not pity him and it was evident to me he had no pity for himself. I wondered why he had summoned me there. I also wondered what to tell him when he asked about my rude presence in the kingdom that had been robbed from him. As I had with Eleanor Bloor, I knew I would elect to tell the count of Sarth the truth.

  When I had finished telling him, he was silent for a while. It was a brooding silence but possessed no menace towards my person. The count was a sometimes dangerous man familiar with malice and capable of the darker furies, I was certain of that. But I was not his enemy and suspected his feelings towards me not dissimilar from mine towards him. Outside the sun rose in the clear sky and the tent warmed pleasantly within. Serving maids came in and cleared our spent dishes before he spoke again.

  ‘Their pestilence was a decade in the planning. I am sorrier than I can say for the loss of your wife and daughter. I hope with all my heart you will live to see your son again, but I do not think that you will. I have little doubt you can inveigle your way into the court and even less about the fate of my brother’s alchemist should you succeed. Sadly, though, I do not think you will escape Endrimor after you have slain Hieronymus Slee. It grieves me to say it but the seven gateways will be guarded vigilantly and in some strength. You would require the army you do not travel with to breach one of them.’

  I nodded. I had anticipated this. But I think what I said next surprised my host entirely. ‘What about the eighth gateway?’ I asked him.

  ‘Where did you learn about that?’

  ‘In a bleak cell set in a chill cloister at an English abbey. I was told about it by a man who claimed to be an apothecary. His name was Brandt.’

  ‘He was a liar, if possessed of that knowledge he claimed that lowly occupation.’

  ‘Perhaps he was. But I believe he was telling the truth about the gateway. He told me it cannot be impregnably guarded because it is to be found on the open sea.’

  In his breast pocket, Adam felt his mobile phone begin to vibrate. He had silenced it to incoming calls but when he sneaked a glance at the display, he knew that this was one he would have to take.

  The call came from Rotterdam and Delilah’s harbour bar. He looked apologetically at Grayling before rising and taking the call out in the corridor, leaving the file he had been reading on his chair and shutting the professor’s office door behind him.

  ‘Adam? I think your father’s time has come.’

  Adam ran a hand through his hair. ‘I thought he had weeks?’

  ‘The prognosis in such cases can never be exact. He is weakening rapidly and he is asking for you. You are all that he is asking for, your presence here.’

  Was there a note of bitterness in her voice? He did not think that there was. She sounded only urgent, grave. He would have to leave immediately. He still had more than 200 Euros of McGuire’s expenses money in his wallet. Perhaps someone, Jane or Martin, would give him a lift north to the ferry terminal.

  He had not seen Martin in days. Grayling wanted Jane and Adam to go with him to Brighton. The dying never met death at a time convenient for those they left behind. He felt his eyes fill with tears. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he said into the phone, before severing the connection.

  Returning to Grayling’s office, he explained the situation to Jane and the professor as briefly as courtesy allowed.

  Grayling nodded. He rose and took the file from Jane’s fingers and the loose papers from Adam’s chair.

  ‘I can read it aboard the ferry.’

  ‘No, you can’t. This material does not leave this office. You don’t drive, do you, Adam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘I’m a pretty good driver but I’ve never driven a Land Rover.’

  ‘Nor are you about to start, far too slow.’ He took a set of car keys from a drawer on his side of the desk and slid them across the polished wood. He coughed, ‘I’ve a mid-life crisis vehicle that will suit perfectly. It’s a predictably racy little sports model. You’ll find it in the long-stay car park.

  ‘It’s a green Lotus, near the west entrance on the first floor. A few clicks of my computer mouse will insure you to drive it, Jane. For God’s sake don’t crash. I value my no claims bonus almost as preciously as I value avoiding litigation with your father.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Adam said.

  Grayling waved away the sentiment, unwilling to meet his eyes. They reached the door.

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you forgive your father, tell him so. If you love him, tell him that also. Don’t let misplaced pride consign you to a lifetime of regret over what you did not say.’

  And now he did look and his eyes were coldly blue and appraising.

  ‘I won’t,’ Adam said. ‘Thank you.’

  Jane was at the wheel of the car with the engine running when she said, ‘Where’s your passport?’

  ‘It’s in my pocket. I only got back this morning. You met me at the station, remember?’

  ‘God, it seems like a lifetime ago.’

  ‘The world is a different place from what it was then. And we’ve travelled a long way back over the last couple of hours to have that proven to us.’

  ‘You believe it all?’

  ‘Your father wasn’t stupid. He knew it was true when he found de Morey’s account a quarter of a century ago. Grayling wouldn’t have bothered concealing a forgery. He hid it because it was real and has only exposed us to the truth now because he h
as had to.’

  Jane put the car into gear and released the clutch and Adam felt the power of the race-tuned engine as the acceleration pushed him back in his seat. ‘We’re sitting about four inches off the ground,’ he said. ‘Does this thing have any suspension at all? There isn’t even a radio.’

  ‘Grayling provides his own music. He sings to himself,’ Jane said.

  ‘I know. You told me. Coldplay.’

  She turned her wrist and looked at her watch. ‘I hope you get there in time.’

  ‘I’m praying I do.’

  They were a few miles clear of Cambridge before Jane spoke again. ‘Grayling hasn’t told us the whole truth,’ she said. ‘And neither did de Morey. He prepared Eleanor Bloor for the cross, didn’t he? He coached her for earth, as she prepared him for his mission on Endrimor.’

  ‘That’s my interpretation too,’ Adam said. ‘De Morey was terrifying in a fight but there’s another side to him along with the ruthlessness. He wasn’t a psychopath. He was sentimental and loving. He was a widower who did not want to be without intimacy in his life. The key to it is that he thought he was going to succeed in his mission. He wanted to be reunited with Eleanor and he thought that she could successfully pass and it was a realistic ambition.’

  ‘I think it was a bit more noble and selfless than that,’ Jane said. ‘But he definitely connived in her escape and by the time of their parting, he had probably come to love her.’ She glanced from the road at Adam. ‘Sometimes you can fall for someone very quickly.’

  ‘And she didn’t need a gateway, like he did. They use sorcery to cross to here. And she hinted that she was capable of magic after the affray with the assassins left de Morey badly hurt.’

  ‘Does Grayling think we’re so dumb we can’t see the sub-text?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Adam said.

  ‘He might where you’re concerned. The speed you read at would give most normal people serious doubts. Have you ever thought about the possibility of some kind of remedial therapy?’

  Adam smiled at her teasing. But his mind was on Rotterdam and his ailing father.

  They drove in silence for an hour. Jane was a fast and confident driver and the car was very quick. Eventually she said, ‘Does the count of Sarth seem familiar to you? In de Morey’s description of his appearance and character, I mean.’