‘Tell me!’
‘I won’t!’ she wept, muffled by her hair, but her voice betrayed her words, and as Caeles wrenched her back up on her knees again, she gasped in fear. ‘All right.’
‘Where.’
‘Follow the river, to the east side. Keep going until it ends.’
‘How far?’
Her speech was broken with sobs. The eye with the burst blood vessels was round like a rusty button. ‘Ten minutes on horse.’
‘Let’s go,’ Gabel said. ‘We need to go back to the bordello.’
‘What for?’ Caeles dropped the girl, but didn’t take his eyes off her.
‘I need the thing – the vial, with the medicine in it.’
‘That Doc Fenn gave us? Why?’
‘Use your imagination,’ Gabel said, and pushed past him. They went past the throne chamber and Gabel stopped to look inside, then continued.
‘What’s the matter?’ Caeles asked.
‘I saw Rowan in there before.’
‘She’s not there now?’
‘No. She was with Turenn. They were holding hands.’
‘So we’ll beat on him later. I’ve lost my patience with that guy. Let’s go.’
‘No. I’m not going to let him spend any more time with her than he already has. You can find her and take care of her.’
‘Not a chance. I’m not a soldier anymore, and I don’t take orders. Rowan will be fine.’
‘Caeles, please. I need you to look after her. Don’t let her stay with Turenn. I’ve got this.’
~
Fury is a thing that envelops you, Sarai was thinking. Whereas rage is blind and unstoppable, fury can be controlled, even funnelled. Control it, Sarai. Find a suitable target to vent it upon.
She was crouched atop a smouldering building. Smoke drifted through the wooden roof, but it was not yet burning and Sarai could sense that the structure was still firm. All around her was a collapsing city, a town of people who had suffered the same trials that she once suffered.
I am dark, she thought as she stood. But I am not darkness.
Ashes whorled in the air and up above the tree-line. Sarai was shocked by the amount of smoke in the air, but she knew that there was nothing she could do about it.
Through the smoke she saw retreating figures. The attackers had decided to leave. Either they felt that their evil job had been accomplished, or they had been repelled by Lady Firrok’s obedient apprentices.
Sarai was not about to let the surviving Luxers escape. She stepped to the edge of the smouldering building and dropped down to street level, where the smell of burning wood was stronger. There was less smoke there though, and this was better for Sarai’s sensitive eyes.
She had not changed from her all-over suit, but she didn’t always wear the facebelt. She now lifted it from her shoulders and fastened it over her eyes, in order to better sense the world around her. She was privy to every disturbance in the molecules of the air.
Running was like second nature. She had always moved fast. Now she vanished down one street and around a turn in the road without decelerating. The moment she left the heat of the closest burning dwelling she was on top of the retreating Luxers. There were two of them. One was apparently wounded, a bullet hole in his abdomen that was bleeding profusely. The bullet had cut right through.
‘I see you have encountered my new friend Joseph,’ she said, her supple limbs already stretching to their limit as she pivoted. Her right foot caught the injured Luxer in the mouth. As her body righted itself, she threw her knuckles hard into the face of the second.
‘Your voice,’ he tried to say. ‘You’re a—’
He never finished. Perhaps his teeth still vibrated with the words he had been about to utter, but they were far from his mouth now, clattering across the fire-blistered pavement to the right. Blood spluttered from his lips.
The injured Luxer fell, too weak for hand-to-hand combat. Sarai stepped on his bent knees, pushing them straight.
‘Get off him! I’ll kill you…’
‘You may try,’ she allowed, luxuriating in the anonymity the voice-temper of her mask granted. People respected her more when they thought that she was a man.
She bobbed up and down on the other Luxer’s knees, and relished the twinned cracking sound they made. The Luxer screamed; his comrade lurched toward her, but she had trained for years with her kukri blades and his blow never landed. He fell to the ground next to his fellow attacker.
‘Scathac.’
Sarai turned on the spot, still in position on the Luxer’s knees.
‘I was just speaking of you,’ she said. ‘The bullets of Joseph Gabel fly far.’
The factotum approached confidently, apparently full of emotions that fought so clearly on his face that Sarai couldn’t tell them apart.
He said, ‘You are angry at these people, right?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And you know how it feels to lose somebody.’
‘Yes.’ Sarai dragged her fingers through her hair; it was clogged with blood and soot. ‘You know that.’
Gabel shook ash from his jacket. ‘Then come with me. We have something to do.’
~
Outside the smouldering town of Iilyani, past the wide clearing, along the path of the almost dried river and deep into the forest, there was a second clearing. It was wide – it had to be, so the members could sit far enough apart to avoid detection by the goyles – and all around the perimeter sat fifty or so Luxmen and Luxwomen. Each one was hooded and robed in the traditional white, each bearing the red Crosswheel upon their sleeves or chests. Their necks, chests and hands glinted with steel armour. They sat in trepidation, each excited by the night’s events – and the surprise meeting that had called them all afterwards.
Flames flickered in the very centre of the clearing, a great fire lit with machine iconoil to produce a yellow heatless flame. It wasn’t a pyre, however, but a great flaming crucifix ten feet high, illuminating the robed figures sitting patiently around it, and the man standing before them: the caller of the meeting, the leader of this Luxer horde: the Grand Wizard.
He turned his head and opened his arms, welcoming his group. ‘Allies!’ he called, and they cheered back at him. ‘Fighters in the cause against the scourge. Tonight we have moved a step closer to ridding the filthy ghetto town of its plague of rats.’
Cheers erupted from the members all around him. The Grand Wizard – whose real name was Dennis McNair, though none of his followers knew that – was adept at speechmaking. The Luxers never really needed much encouragement anyway; they were each fuelled by their own desires, the ambition, excitement and pride in their mission.
McNair had prepared a special speech for tonight. He knew that one day they would strike Iilyani hard enough to cripple its defences ready for the final onslaught. For months this speech had been floating inside McNair’s mind, being tweaked and polished, waiting for this night, when the town would finally fall and its citizens burned or fled.
He called out to the Luxers, crowned in flames, the giant Crosswheel on his chest dark against the ghostly robes. ‘The purge will reach a critical moment this following night, my Brothers and Sisters. We all bear the Crosswheel to show our love for one another, for the White Race, and for the love of God and Christ Himself. The Cross, standing for the sacrifice Christ made! The Circle which represents the wheel of creativity, the circle of unity, motion, and the ancient Aryan icon for Light! We bear the Crosswheel for the whole of the White Race!’
Again, the Luxers cried out. As the Grand Wizard made his speech, they all rose and cheered in a continuous din. The speech was simply adding to the sense of family and mission. Luxer rallies that were held without the Wizard always ended the same anyway: in celebration, the consumption of alcohol and drugs, and often group fornication.
The party continued as the speech reached its crescendo. Behind McNair, the crucifix burned brighter as the fuel was consumed and released further acc
elerant. In the middle of all the excitement, no-one noticed the two outsiders crouching in the undergrowth just outside the clearing.
~
‘Give me the thing,’ Gabel whispered harshly. Sarai handed him the small vial of fluid entrusted to them by the doctor of Goya. She had travelled quickly and stealthily through what was left of the town, at one time resorting to scaling a wall and slipping across a rooftop to navigate around burning wreckage. She reached Turenn’s bordello and, as Gabel had requested, she found Doctor Fenn’s medicine and quickly met him at the edge of town, where he waited with horses.
‘Is this not for Rowan’s sickness?’ she asked.
‘It was only in case she has a fit, and she appears recovered now. She isn’t going to require it.’ Gabel took the vial and slipped it into his pocket. He was shivering from the cold. ‘Why is there no heat from that fire?’
‘I doubt that they would start a real one, out here with those … things in the trees.’
‘I suppose that makes sense. They cannot all be stupid. Stay here.’
‘Where are you going?’ Sarai asked, her eyes on the speechmaker, whose face was concealed by his hood.
‘Do you see those kegs? It appears that the leader here has planned a party. I am going to give him one. Stay here.’
On his stomach Gabel crawled around the edge of the clearing, behind the gathered Luxers, safe from sight in the shadows of the trees. He took his time, making certain not to go over dry leaves or to catch his clothes on any of the thorny flora.
The Grand Wizard McNair continued to stir the members of the Luxer rally:
‘For centuries we have been condemned as criminals and racists,’ he yelled, ‘but we know that it is blind misunderstanding. The Luxers search merely for Purity. They say we hide behind our hoods and robes – we know they are truly symbols of humility and anonymity in our selfless dedication to Christ!’
‘Amen!’ the Luxers cried.
‘The Fiery Cross – often misunderstood as desecration – represents the truth and light of our Saviour!’
In the undergrowth, Gabel made a face of disgust. He continued to crawl carefully to avoid detection, and arrived at the stack of five or six large wooden kegs, each on a stand and fixed with a tap. Quietly, he removed the cork from each in turn and poured in a portion of Rowan’s medicine. As the final drop entered the sixth barrel, Gabel muttered to himself:
‘Please Irenia, don’t let Rowan need this later on…’
He jabbed the cork back into the keg, and looked up to see Sarai signalling discretely from across the clearing. Shadows began to move; the crowd of ghouls danced before the fire. Some moved toward the kegs. Rough hands collected around the wooden barrels and they were hefted from their stands by half a dozen men each, the corrupted liquid sloshing inside.
Gabel shrank back into the forest, unseen in all the excitement.
The Grand Wizard had finished his speech, and joined in with the merry-making. The moon shone a spectral white above as the barrels were passed and rolled around. Everyone drank, each anonymous member swilling the alcohol as if it would run out the next day, the men and women only distinguishable by the pitch of their cheers and cries of merriment.
It didn’t take long. Almost as soon as the party started, it ended.
The first to vomit was a woman, tearing away her mask as she was violently sick, covering her robes. It took only a further few seconds before others were joining her, painting the clearing in vomit.
‘You used too much,’ Sarai accused. ‘It isn’t going to—’
‘Be quiet.’
Those not being sick were in confusion. They milled around, concerned about their comrades. The barrels were left alone as the unaffected stop drinking.
‘They should be feeling tired,’ Sarai whispered to herself.
‘No, it’s not an anaesthetic.’
True enough, those being sick spasmed and fell, pulling against themselves, coiling into foetal positions, groaning and lying in their own messes. Then their muscles weakened, and they rolled onto their backs, totally slack.
‘Come,’ Gabel said quietly. ‘It’s working, and we’ve already been still here too long…’
‘What if—’
‘If I don’t want to see this, I’m sure that you don’t either. Let us get back. It’s done.’
Together they returned to where the river ended, and mounted their horses. As they untied the reins from the trees, the branches above them rustled. A shower of dried leaves drifted about them.
~
In the clearing, everyone was motionless. They had consumed the contaminated liquor, and now they all lay limp, not a single muscle responding to commands. Several had suffered heart attacks, unable to cry out, throat muscles ignorant of the commands their brains issued.
The Grand Wizard McNair lay panting on his back. He tried to speak but he simply couldn’t manage it. Every muscle in his body was perfectly slack.
‘Hhhh…’ he said. ‘Hhhhhh…’
All about the clearing, the trees were alive.
The goyles attacked in swarms. Great clouds of the tiny creatures flocked toward the immobile Luxers, lured by the heat of their gathered bodies. Before, during the speeches and the dancing, the movement had frightened the apish creatures. Now the Luxers were like a feast laid out for them by generous hosts.
Winged hordes thronged upon the robed victims, fangs and claws bared. Tiny arms and legs lashed out, tearing fabric and flesh. McNair’s mind struggled within his inert body. Although it was utterly limp, it still felt every moment of pain his nerve impulses sent to his brain. Busy snouts buried themselves in the slitted hoods of his congregation, and gorged upon soft open eyeballs.
The clearing was no longer clear. It was the site of a massacre.
~
When two men on horseback were caught riding slowly across the flats toward Iilyani, watchers sent messages to Saykaan. He took three of his best men to intercept this pair of invaders.
When he saw that once again it was Gabel and Sarai who rode toward him, he ordered his men to stand down. He asked what they had been doing in the forest, and Gabel told them.
At first, there was disbelief. An attack on the whole Luxer clan? He’d not heard of such a sure impossibility before, but he sent out three scouts toward the camp to investigate. When they returned, describing the horror flooded the clearing at the end of the river, Saykaan insisted on checking himself. He returned half an hour later, and silently shook Sarai’s and Gabel’s hands.
~
Rowan was no longer Rowan. In less than two hours, her dark hair, previously hanging down to the small of her back, had been cut to the shoulders in a hastily layered fashion. Her skirt had been split then hemmed up both sides, leaving slits that went thigh-high. She wore an impossibly tightly-strung corset of deep crimson, and the rest of the bodice was a light lilac, trimmed in crimson lace.
The fire of the buildings was reflected on the sheen of her exposed skin. She walked down the ruined streets, circled each toppled structure in horror. People groaned and wept on all sides.
‘Turenn?’ she called from between rouged lips. ‘Turenn?’
It had been a long night, and not simply because of the violence. Her time in the great hall had stretched the hours out for her. The period after that, when she and Turenn had laid together, had been devoid of time altogether. It was a moment drawn out for blissful eternity as her lost memories were made up for. Possible virginities forever forgotten were taken as gently as she’d imagined. The dark culpture of his body was a new warmth against hers, the thick sensation of their coition bringing hot tears to her eyes, not because of pain, or of uncertainty, but because of the blistering thrill of her resurrection, of her returning to life after having hers taken from her. Rowan’s amnesia was, via a form of ironic justice, forgotten. She had tasted the phoenix’s ecstasy.
Turenn had left her to get changed, saying that he must see what he could do outside – their time tog
ether, for the evening, was over. He had to help repel what intruders remained, and he left her in the care of his girls.
There were no intruders left to repel. There were only the wounded, the grieving, and the few benevolent stoics who already helped to clear away the wreckage.
Rowan didn’t know where she was going. Fear made her uncertain, and as she called for her love she received only echoes for replies, until—
‘Rowan.’
She turned. Down an alleyway, half-obscured by a resigned wall, stood Turenn. He was by the body of one of his other girls, her form cruelly burnt on one side, and left remorselessly atop a mound of rubble to die.
‘She just went,’ Turenn said sadly. ‘My poor Peridot.’
Rowan knelt by the blackened body, tenderly touched the scorched cheeks, once red as hers. ‘I don’t understand,’ she sobbed. Tears streaked her make-up, and ruby droplets vanished into the dark lace of her bodice.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly, lifting her. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to mine, where you belong.’
‘What?’
‘Where you’re safe,’ he corrected, a bright smile erasing the scowl for a second, then dropping from his face as if his lips had weights.
‘Wait, I need to find Joseph, and Caeles…’
‘We can find them later.’
‘But—’
‘Look,’ he said sharply, catching her by the shoulders and spinning her around. ‘Listen to me, all right? I’m in no mood. One of my girls just died. What a waste of money!’ he snapped, jerking his head toward crumpled Peridot.
‘Turenn,’ Rowan murmured.
‘Just leave talking about it.’ He frowned, and the fire, like the candles once did, put darkness to his features. Now they were harsh, and heavier than regret. ‘Come on. I’m not—’
Rowan fell back with surprise. Her uncomfortable new heels snagged on the heat-cracked cobbles, and she fell badly against the floor of the alleyway. Directly in front of her slid the body of Turenn, eyes still bright, but dead.
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