Best Laid Plans

by D. P. Prior

  Blightey! For pity’s sake, no!

  ‘Just kidding,’ the Dweller said, its head morphing into that of a severe looking woman with a blue rinse.

  Mama?

  ‘Do you really think your old friend Blightey still looks like that? It’s been how long since you left Verusia?’

  Years. Centuries even. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Payment,’ the Dweller said. The black mass twisted into a column and sprouted limbs until it stood before Cadman sleek and androgynous, its face as featureless as the Void.

  ‘I don’t pay for failure.’ Cadman sounded braver than he felt. His fingers curled around the pieces of the Statue of Eingana in his pockets. The Dweller cocked its head, fingers twitching, wisps of dark smoke spilling from their tips.

  ‘You’ll pay Cadman. Everyone pays, sooner or later.’

  Cadman relaxed his hold on the eye and the fang. Poker face, Cadman. Poker face. Best not to show my hand yet. ‘What will you accept?’

  The Dweller stalked towards him until its blank face was pressed close to Cadman’s.

  ‘Bring me Shader without his sword. Failing that, find me someone bound to him in love.’

  ‘And if I can’t?’ Cadman felt his illusion wavering; bones were starting to show through the translucent flesh of his fingers.

  ‘Then I shall take your soul.’ The Dweller jabbed a black talon against Cadman’s chest. ‘Three days, Cadman, and then I’ll return.’

  The Dweller collapsed into a liquefied mush that seeped through the carpet, leaving a stain like an oily footprint.

  Cadman reached into his breast pocket with tremulous fingers that were more bone than flesh. He plucked out his metal case, but fumbled it, spilling cigarettes to the floor.

  ‘Butter fingers, butter fingers, butter fingers!’ The chant rose to a wail as he dropped to his knees to gather them up. ‘Callixus!’ He reached out with his mind and felt the sullen presence of the wraith. ‘Where the deuce are you? Do you have it yet?’

  Flipping a cigarette into his mouth, Cadman patted his pockets in search of his lighter and at the same time attuned to Callixus’ sight. He gazed through the wraith’s eyes upon a murky interior—a warehouse by the look of it—lit by a single lantern. There were ropes and hooks hanging from wooden walls. A couple of bluff looking men were gathered around a barrel playing cards. One of them looked up as Callixus approached, dropped his cards and gawped.

  ‘I’m still making my enquiries,’ the wraith answered Cadman’s question with a thought, ‘but I’m sure these gentlemen will prove most instructive.’ The last was spoken aloud as the gawping man’s face came into close-up.

  ‘Now we don’t want no trouble,’ he spluttered.

  The second man tried to make a run for it, but Callixus spun and Cadman saw his black blade slash down. The wraith turned back to the first man who was licking his lips, eyes darting left and right.

  ‘I’m looking for a midget,’ Callixus hissed. ‘About this tall, and with skin as white as yours is now.’

  ‘Came by earlier,’ the man said so quickly the words were all jumbled together. ‘Looking for passage to the Anglesh Isles. Told him to go see Diaz, captain of the Dolphin. Reckon it’ll take a lot of persuading to get anyone to go there, though.’

  ‘The Dolphin?’

  Callixus’ spectral hand came into view.

  ‘That’s it,’ the man said, his eyes locked to the fingers reaching for his chest.

  ‘Thank you,’ the wraith said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  The man went rigid and froth seeped from the edges of his mouth.

  Cadman refocused his eyes on the office and lit his cigarette. ‘Don’t take too long, Callixus. You might be needed back here.’ In three days, most likely.

  The wraith’s voice sounded like an echo from a drain as Cadman terminated their communication.

  ‘I will find him. Abelard can deputise in my absence. He can be trusted.’

  Only because he has no choice, like the rest of you automatons. Which reminds me…

  ‘Abelard!’

  The door creaked open and the death-knight entered, jaw hanging slack, and an eyeball swinging like a pendulum across his cheekbone.

  ‘Time for another patrol,’ Cadman said, leading the way out into the corridor. ‘You can never be too careful.’

  This would be the seventh time they’d toured Arnbrook House, checking the locks on the windows and the bolts on the doors. Every possible way in was scrutinized for weaknesses, and Cadman never tired of familiarizing himself with all the escape routes. And then there was the matter of his prisoners. It would never do to leave them unattended for too long—they could get up to all sorts of mischief.

  Abelard’s hulking corpse scuffed along behind him without complaint. That was one good thing you could say about Callixus’ second, Cadman thought: he had the patience of the dead.

  THE LION’S DEN

  Early next morning Shader found himself a stray horse a few streets from the Templum of the Knot and rode through the barracks grounds that had recently housed the White Order. Finding nothing but a handful of sick knights who were starting to show signs of recovery, he sped south towards the river and then followed its banks eastwards seeking word of the Order.

  By midmorning he crested the hills of Lesmallen and was greeted by the smell of sausages and bacon. A lone sentry looked out over the city centre, a thick cloak wrapped about his slender frame. Shader dismounted and shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his lips.

  ‘Solomon Jonas. Still standing. Always said you had it in you.’

  Solomon didn’t seem to know whether to draw his sword or prostrate himself. He opened his mouth to say something, but the blood drained from his face and he started to tremble.

  ‘What’s going on?’ someone called as heavy footfalls drew near. ‘Elgin,’ Shader said. ‘So you made it, too. Now that doesn’t surprise me at all.’

  ‘Well shog me for a shogging shogger!’ Elgin swore. He looked Shader up and down for a moment and then crushed him in an enormous bear hug. Elgin’s breath reeked of stale wine, causing Shader to turn his head away.

  ‘Where the Abyss you been?’ Elgin asked. ‘We thought you were dead.’

  ‘Interesting choice of words,’ Shader said, wondering how much he should say. ‘But thank Ain I’ve found you. Is Barek in command?’

  ‘Rode out earlier. Justin’s his second,’ Solomon said, finally finding his voice.

  ‘Justin?’ Shader said. ‘Wonders never cease.’

  Elgin guided Shader through the camp where most of the knights were just waking, rubbing their heads and groaning as an old hunchback hurried about with plates of food.

  ‘Dave the Slave,’ Elgin said. ‘He’s like the camp mascot. Says he saw a vision of a Nousian knight and when we rode by he took it as a sign from Ain. Complete nutter, but a bloody good cook. Polishes a mean boot too, and if you ever need wine, Dave’s your man.’

  Dave stopped his scurrying and turned to face them. His twisted neck cracked and popped as he lifted his head to view Shader. He froze for a moment and then dropped to both knees.

  ‘Holy Nous! Ineffable Ain! Blessed Archon!’

  Elgin gave Shader a sideways look. Shader was both fascinated and disgusted as the hunchback started to crawl towards him, face in the dirt.

  ‘Thank you, Ain, thank you,’ Dave cried as his fingers ran over Shader’s boots. He lifted his eyes, mouth hanging slack and drool trickling down his chin. ‘I am your servant. I will do anything you ask. Anything. Thank you for coming. Thank you.’

  Justin sauntered over, wiping his greasy fingers on his surcoat and chewing a crust of bread.

  ‘You’re already pledged, Dave. A thousand times at least,’ he said. ‘Oh, my shogging…’ Crumbs dropped from his mouth as he saw Shader. ‘I mean, Ain’s bal…Holy Nous!’

  Shader went down on one knee and bowed his head.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said, ‘and there�
�s no time to tell it. Cadman holds the city. There are pockets of militia dotted around. We need to join up with them, and soon.’

  Justin crouched down and helped Shader to his feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered. ‘You’re our founder. I should be kneeling to you.’

  Shader looked him in the eye. ‘Not any more, Justin. I made my choice and I’ll stick to it. You outrank me now.’

  ‘But I’ve done…I mean…’

  Shader leaned in close so no one else could hear. ‘I know what you are, Justin. I’m doing this for the others.’

  Justin frowned and then nodded. His eyes flicked every which way, but never settled on Shader’s. ‘Barek’s already gone for help,’ he said. ‘I told him he was mad, but he’s the boss.’

  ‘Where…?’ But Shader knew the answer before he’d finished the question.

  ‘There’s a big camp of Imperial troops a mile north of the city,’ Justin said. ‘More are pouring in each day. Once they know what’s happened here, they’ll listen to reason.’

  Shader turned and strode back towards his horse, Justin close on his heels. ‘Let’s hope so, but after what Gaston did I doubt they’ll be in a listening mood.’ Shader swung into the saddle and cast a look over the camp. ‘Get the lads ready, Justin. War is coming and the time for hiding is past.’

  Dave the Slave hobbled up and took hold of Shader’s boot. ‘Take me with you! Please!’

  Shader dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped from the camp with the hunchback’s cries in his ears.

  ‘I must atone. I must atone!’

  ***

  The pavilions of the Imperial camp were visible from the suburbs, banners unfurling in the breeze and reminding Shader of the horrific battles he’d fought on the borders of Verusia. No one tried to stop him as he rode from the city. The troops had left their posts and Cadman’s undead hadn’t moved from the vicinity of Arnbrook House. He was waiting for something, but what it was Shader could only guess at.

  He entered the camp with his hands raised, the horse slowing to a plod. A troop brandishing halberds immediately ran to intercept him. Someone grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him from the saddle. He tried to speak, but his face was rammed into the ground. Rough hands took hold of his wrists and bent his arms behind his back. A knee pressed down hard on his spine and he heard the rasp of his swords being removed from their scabbards. Someone cursed and the Sword of the Archon dropped to the ground beside Shader’s head.

  ‘The city has been taken,’ he spluttered through a mouthful of dirt. ‘I need to see your commander.’

  A boot slammed into his teeth and Shader tasted blood. His hands were trussed up behind him before he was hoisted upright and shoved in amongst the pavilions. A rough-hewn cross had been erected in the centre of the camp. Nailed to it was the bloody body of Barek Thomas, his surcoat soiled and in tatters.

  Shader gasped and whispered the youth’s name under his breath. Barek struggled to pull himself upright upon lacerated arms and weakly raised his head. He stared at Shader with despairing eyes and then sagged, suspended only by loops of rope and the nails tearing across the skin of his palms.

  The soldiers allowed Shader to pause long enough for the effect to sink in and then he was ushered to a large pavilion outside of which stood the Imperial standard and a ring of armoured guards. With a soldier on either side firmly gripping his shoulders, Shader was forced through the awning and brought to stand before a translucent veil. Giant shadows moved across its surface, and raised voices came from the other side. There were two guards with halberds crossed in front of the veil, each heavily armoured and cloaked in black. They snapped to attention, stepped to the sides, and then parted the veil to reveal the interior of the tent.

  Half a dozen hanging lanterns shed their warm and dappled glow around the pavilion. There were four men inside, standing around a map table, engaged in fierce debate. Three were clearly high ranking officers, judging by their polished armour and heavy velvet cloaks. The shortest— and the fattest—was tapping a baton against the map, red-faced and flustered. He had bushy whiskers and a drooping moustache of the kind that had been fashionable in Britannia when Shader was a child. Peering over his shoulder was a bluff looking soldier with a gaunt face and receding grey hair. The man opposite was ramrod straight, arms folded across his barrel chest. His eyes flitted from the map to the others as if he were assessing everyone in the tent. He was flanked by a lean man with red hair and a clipped goatee who kept frowning and licking his lips.

  The fourth figure was dressed in a black silk shirt, leather breeches, and buckskin boots. A simple band of gold held his great mane of grey-flecked dark hair in place. The face was angular, softened slightly by a close-cropped beard; the nose long and severe. Brilliant green eyes roved restlessly in deep-set sockets, and every so often the man would moisten his thin lips with a darting tongue.

  ‘Unacceptable, General Starn. Utterly preposterous!’ he roared at the fat man. ‘Are you a soldier or a milksop?’

  The other two sniggered, but stopped when the man in black glared at them.

  ‘If your courage was as great as your appetite, Starn, you’d stop whining and start fighting. Reputation, Starn, that’s what this is about. Someone gives you a bloody nose and you damn well give them one back. If Templum knights want one of my cities they’re going to get more than they bargained for.’

  Shader was forced to his knees in front of the group.

  ‘Another one!’ snapped the man in black. ‘If this continues we’ll have defeated the lot of them without so much as a skirmish.’

  The others dutifully laughed and the man in black peered closer at Shader. ‘Name?’ he demanded.

  ‘Deacon Shader.’

  ‘Rings a bell. General Starn?’

  ‘The liberator of Oakendale, my Lord Emperor,’ the fat man said, fiddling with his breastplate and scratching the armpit beneath.

  Shader groaned inwardly. The Emperor Hagalle was notoriously intolerant of Nousians. He was reputed to be a cowering paranoiac, too frightened of his own shadow to set foot outside of Jorakum.

  ‘The ringleader!’ Hagalle said, and then stooped to stare Shader in the face. ‘You remind me of someone else.’ He leaned in closer, tilting his head from side to side. ‘Never mind,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Do we have another cross?’

  ‘I was not involved,’ Shader said, feeling a pang of guilt, even though it was the truth.

  ‘But you’re with the Templum Elect, are you not?’ asked the gaunt man with a smug grin.

  ‘Not anymore,’ Shader said. ‘I’ve left the service of the Ipsissimus.’

  ‘Ha,’ Hagalle said. ‘You make it sound voluntary.’

  Shader met his gaze and winced as Hagalle raised his hand. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed and the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. After an uncomfortable pause, he merely sniffed and wrinkled his brow.

  ‘It’s not the Templum you should be worrying about,’ Shader said. ‘The city has been taken from within.’

  ‘So the last one said,’ the barrel-chested man sneered, looking at his companions as if he’d resolved the issue and just wanted to get back to the previous discussion.

  ‘Barek Thomas, the man you’ve crucified, is not your enemy.’

  Hagalle slammed a fist into his palm. ‘He damn well is. Broke my quarantine, assaulted my troops. Blast it, they even singled him out as one of the leaders.’

  Shader took a deep breath and fought to keep his voice calm. ‘He was following orders. You’re right, Emperor, obedience in the Templum is not voluntary. They were under the command of a youth named Gaston Rayn. He was never elected, but used his strength and the uncertainty of the others to assume control.’

  Shader’s face tightened with the effort of keeping focused on the outcome. It would do no good to point out that his own abandonment of the Order had led to Gaston’s ascension. ‘Barek Thomas has been making efforts to put things right.’


  ‘Which is what he’s doing,’ Hagalle said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Self-sacrifice is the Nousian path of atonement, is it not?’

  Shader threw off the hands of his guards and surged to his feet. He smashed an elbow into one man’s face and hit the other with a right hook. Both went down hard. General Starn’s sword appeared in his hand so quickly that it seemed he’d used magic. Hagalle gently pushed it away and crossed his arms.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, eyeing Shader. ‘I like a man to be direct. Can’t stand pussyfooting around. Let’s keep this honest, shall we? You think I’m an intolerant idiot and I despise your putrid sect.’

  The guards stood and dusted themselves down. One was holding his nose and cussing under his breath, the other rubbed at his chin and glowered.

  ‘This isn’t about religion,’ Shader said.

  ‘It never was.’ Hagalle’s voice was a low growl. ‘It’s about empire building.’

  Shader bit his tongue before carrying on. ‘Have you heard of an artefact known as the Statue of Eingana?’

  The man with the barrel chest guffawed, but was silenced by a glare from Hagalle.

  ‘Go on,’ the Emperor said.

  ‘After the Reckoning, the Dreamer Huntsman split the statue into five pieces and entrusted each to a guardian. One was in the keeping of the Grey Abbot of Pardes.’

  Hagalle made a fist, but remained attentive.

  ‘Soon after my return from Aeterna, the abbey was attacked and the Grey Abbot’s Monas symbol taken. It concealed a piece of the statue.’

  Hagalle turned to General Starn. ‘I ordered no such attack.’

  Starn shrugged. ‘Could it have been the Sicarii, Emperor?’

  Hagalle sighed as if he couldn’t believe how stupid his General was being.

  ‘It was an army of corpses,’ Shader said.

  ‘Oh, please!’ the gaunt man protested to the accompaniment of a loud tut from barrel chest.

  ‘That’s enough!’ stormed Hagalle. ‘Riken, Dalglish, out of my sight!’

  The two bowed and backed out of the tent. Hagalle was chewing his lip, his face purple, eyes glinting dangerously.