She gave him an intense look then, and he knew that there was a deeper problem, one that the cultists couldn’t fix. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m . . . I’m pretty sure they knew my past.’
‘Nonsense,’ Fulcrom reassured her. ‘I promise you, no one outside of the highest echelons of the empire have the slightest clue, and even then the background of the Knights is hugely confidential – just one or two cultists, perhaps; security is tight on this. They wouldn’t gossip.’
Had she imagined it? Her head was hazy from the beatings and the treatments. Maybe it wasn’t true. No one was treating her any differently, were they? And in fact the cultists had just spent their resources repairing her. She felt she should just keep quiet about it.
‘From now on,’ Fulcrom said, ‘I want the Knights only to work as a group, or at the very least patrol the streets in pairs.’
Lan creased her face as little fluxes of pain moved around her body. ‘I feel a little drunk. What did these cultists do to me?’
‘Saved your life, is what they did,’ Fulcrom reminded her. ‘It was Feror’s work mainly.’
‘Good old Feror.’ She gently eased her feet to the floor, Fulcrom clasping his arm behind her for support as her legs took her weight.
She let him prop her up for a while longer, and he walked her around the room in slow circles.
Soon he realized she was walking normally. ‘Do you actually need my arms around you?’
‘No, I can do this on my own – I just didn’t want you to let go.’ She smiled, stood upright, faced him, then with a sigh she held him, burying herself beneath his robes.
For someone who’d nearly been beaten to death, her grip was remarkably strong.
*
When Lan was well enough to return to her living quarters that evening, Fulcrom guided her home, taking care not to be too patronizing with his gestures. He found Tane and Vuldon in the company of Ulryk. Of course, Fulcrom realized, the priest has not yet found a new place where he can shelter. What better place than this?
He didn’t think there would be a conflict of interests – he was overseeing ‘weird shit’, as Warkur so aptly put it. It seemed more efficient to lump all the weirdness together.
None of the three stood up at the couple’s entrance. Tane and Vuldon were hunched over a table. The pages of The Book of Transformations, Ulryk’s copy, was the focus of their attention. The tome was surprisingly large under the mellow lighting, at least a foot long, and three or four inches thick. Sometimes Fulcrom wondered why so much fuss was being made over a simple book.
‘Investigator,’ Ulryk announced, ‘I was explaining what it was that got me into so much trouble earlier. I considered that such brave and skilled people might be able to help me . . . where we both visited.’
‘I was thinking something similar,’ Fulcrom agreed. ‘Though I’d only be able to spare a maximum of one. No more, I’m afraid. Maybe it’s something Lan could do?’
Lan nodded as she joined the three of them at the table. Somewhere in the distance, Fulcrom could hear the sea droning against the base of the cliff.
The tattered sheets of vellum were turned slowly, one after another, as Ulryk revealed some amazingly incomprehensible scripts and diagrams. There were weird woodcuts, parodies of real-life objects, creatures in perpetual states of change, and unexpected juxtapositions – couples bleeding into flowers into houses.
‘To the trained eye,’ Ulryk explained, ‘there are numerous glyphs, none of which are to be found in any other text in our world, and no more than seven per word. This is a special script, a special language, comprised of special letters, written in intricate code. It is an artefact of huge importance.’
‘Who wrote it?’ Lan asked.
‘Frater Mercury,’ Fulcrom said. Then, aware of everyone’s surprised expression. ‘That’s what Ulryk told me before. I’ve no idea who he really is.’
‘The wars you have heard about, where creatures have come from another world into ours,’ Ulryk said. ‘They come from warring civilizations, ones created by Frater Mercury. These civilizations he created millennia ago, in this very world. He is responsible for all you see – for life as we know it – and within The Books of Transformations we can be witness to some of his secrets. I think, also, that he has left such texts for wayfarers to discover, people such as myself, should he need to return to our world. I am convinced it is so. Now he needs to return. As islands of our realm are cleared of human and rumel life, as alien cultures swarm into ours to destroy it, we need him. And, as I understand it, things are far worse where Frater Mercury still resides.’
Though the news of the wars on the fringes of the Empire came rarely, Fulcrom was aware of the threat. He was convinced that what reports People’s Observer did publish were heavily censored so that the information wouldn’t be detrimental to the population’s peace of mind – or, indeed, threaten the current regime.
Was it some ancient conflict coming to fruition?
‘Frater Mercury – the man who wrote this – you’re saying he’s still alive?’ Lan asked. ‘How old is he?’
‘Who knows?’ Ulryk sighed. ‘He is responsible for creating much of our culture. As his influence grew, and his creations began to dominate, he was forced into another dimension – a choice he took in order to preserve his work.’
‘Is he some kind of god?’ Lan asked.
‘Gods are crafted by mortals, dear lady, so that may have been the case at one point. I believe that he was a scholar, a theologian, a scientist, a philosopher, a linguist. A world-changer.’
‘What kind of things did this Frater Mercury make?’ Fulcrom enquired.
Ulryk sat back with a beatific grin. His shoulders rose and fell as he chuckled. ‘What didn’t he create?’ Then with sudden urgency, he returned to the book and pointed out a section which seemed to feature wings . . . Garudas. They were definitely draft sketches of garudas, with tables of incomprehensible script to one side.
‘Here,’ Ulryk gestured with the flat of his hand, ‘lies the method in which garudas were constructed. And here’ – he skipped backwards two pages, where a diagram of other animals upon which large wings had been grafted – ‘here is where primitive experiments at creating flying beasts failed. I have trouble reading much of the notes, but I have little doubt that garudas were as a result of experimentation deep in the past. And Frater Mercury had repeated this process for hundreds of other creatures, many taken from our own stories, made real – merely because he had the knowledge to do such things.’
The group stared dumbly at the pictures, not quite understanding, but not quite disbelieving either.
‘It is my conclusion, from years of study, that cultists – who for thousands of years said that they rescued and perfected ancient methods of technology – were in fact merely resurrecting the tools of the author, Frater Mercury. I believe that the still undiscovered companion book to this unites the two texts; and that, together, they contain a ritual for the restoration of Frater Mercury in this world. Given the great disasters about to ensue, his return might well prevent a catastrophe.’
Vuldon seemed to take a deep interest in the pictures. With reverence, and a delicate gesture, he turned the pages, smiling when he came to an elaborate sketch. ‘This is a recipe book for life itself, then.’
‘It is indeed, my dear Vuldon,’ Ulryk sighed.
‘The pictures – do they come to life or something? I mean, is this magic?’
‘No, though there are techniques I know where pictures can have an extra dimension added to their purpose – pictures that can influence minds.’
‘I’d really like to see that.’ Vuldon seemed impressed. ‘Fulcrom, Ulryk can stay here for the evening if he wants.’
Fine by me, Fulcrom thought. Better to keep an eye on him than have him summoning anything else into being.
TWENTY-NINE
Their ship ran into trouble: the seas were rough, rolling at four times the height of their vessel, and n
one of them had the skill to sail or navigate.
Dartun was forced to steer them to the western edge of the island of Folke, and it took them some time before they found a stretch of coastline that satisfied their needs. They had run out of provisions and were desperately hungry. Verain was so exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, that nothing in her life seemed to matter any more.
Eventually, they ran their ship into a wide estuary, surrounded by high, snow-smothered valleys, with a scattering of buildings nestled into the nooks and crannies of the landscape. Smoke drifted up from chimneys, a sight that generated some optimism in Verain’s heart: here was a signal of domesticity, an indication that life was perfectly normal for some people.
Up ahead was a reasonably large port. A few dozen boats of various sizes were moored, most of them equipped for fishing. Slick slate roofing and grey granite structures created a dreary ambience, but at least this side of Folke was untouched by the invaders pouring from the Realm Gates.
Snow and winds buffeted them as their craft approached the quay. A local harbourmaster strolled out in a thick coat and hat to meet them as they alighted on the quayside. Verain’s determination to survive had somewhat diminished since they’d left Tineag’l, but it felt good to be on land again, to have something solid beneath her. She did not have the legs or stomach for sailing.
‘Sele of the day, strangers,’ the harbourmaster called out loudly in heavily accented Jamur. ‘Not from these parts then.’ A declaration more than a question.
Dartun strode forward to meet him. ‘Morning, sir. We were passing through, on our way to Villjamur. We seek lodgings for the night.’
‘You, uh, got a licence for that vessel of yers? ’Fraid we’ve a tax for those who ain’t registered with our community, like.’ He had small button eyes, narrowed tight against the weather. His skin was sun-blemished by years of working outdoors, his close-cropped beard was grey.
‘We’re cultists,’ Dartun announced.
‘I see . . .’ the harbourmaster replied. ‘Well, I’ll let it be known to yer, we don’t welcome the likes of magicians here.’
‘Sir,’ Dartun continued, ‘we will be no trouble. We need simple lodgings, that is all. We’ve little in the way of money, but I’m sure I can lend my hand to something that requires fixing in exchange.’
The harbourmaster appeared to think about it. Seagulls called out across the distance, and boats rattled against each other in the water behind. ‘After last night’s storm, a wall on one of our churches has collapsed, four streets away,’ he said. ‘Road’s blocked and we ain’t any spare horses to clear the rubble. Whatever magic yer have, keep it hidden – but if yer can clear our mess, I’ll guarantee lodgings.’
Dartun nodded curtly. ‘Consider the road cleared.’
*
The roads were very narrow, the houses tall, so the rock was piled not just over a wide area but high, too. Dartun worked with his bare hands, tossing aside boulders as if he was playing a game and eliciting admiration from the gathered locals. Verain wondered what they’d feel if they knew the truth: that he had transformed, that he was inhuman.
While he single-handedly hauled chunks of granite, more locals congregated. But awe soon changed to fear, and soon Verain could hear sinister accusations about them being cultists, people of magic. Most didn’t trust cultists: they thought they were abnormal, artificial, ghosts, monsters, whatever – anything other than welcome guests.
A grunt drew her attention to Dartun once again, as he laboured with a hunk of granite the size of his torso. Verain could only watch in awe: she knew what he was doing was not possible for a human. Rock by rock, Dartun slowly cleared the street, piling the rubble neatly alongside the remains of the church, and eventually traffic could now flow along the cobbles with ease.
Having lost interest the locals drifted away, resuming their routines. In the distance a pterodette’s cry rose above the sound of the sea.
Dartun sat on a rock and his cultists gathered around him. He was breathing heavily, showing that the labour had, at least, required some effort. Verain threw his cloak around his shoulders, whispering, ‘You’ll need to keep warm.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, and gave her such a look of tenderness that she almost hoped him capable of returning to normal again.
‘We could’ve helped you,’ Tuung muttered.
‘You wouldn’t have been able to lift any of this.’ Dartun gestured to the stone. ‘The locals couldn’t, and you don’t have any relics.’
‘But why do this on your own?’ Verain asked, laying a hand to his shoulder. ‘At least you could have let us try.’
‘No. You each need safe accommodation for the evening. You need food and warmth if you’re to survive the journey home.’
Tuung didn’t seem satisfied by that, and if she was honest with herself, neither was Verain. Their exchanged glance revealed that they weren’t buying Dartun’s reasoning, but she knew better than to press him.
They were rewarded with cheap lodgings in the local tavern, which was more like an impressive drinking warehouse overlooking the harbour. A large and spacious building, with several rooms available for rent, the group were the only guests – although the word guests implied an element of hospitality, whereas their stay was negotiated in one swift, urgent conversation between the harbourmaster and the landlord.
This was the only tavern in town, so the place remained packed with mouthy locals until late. Not that it mattered: they ate well, and Verain was sitting so close to a log fire she thought she might burn. That was all that mattered, to feel some heat in her bones, to feel . . . human again.
The landlord didn’t let the locals get near them. The harbourmaster had said that they should keep their heads down. A line had been drawn with the fug of weed smoke and ale, and Verain was fine with that. Dartun slumped silently in the corner of the tavern, in the lantern light; and, as he impassively regarded this vast hall, which was an excellent opportunity to discuss their plans, Verain remained too scared to say anything. Now and then the locals would direct fierce stares at Dartun, but when he returned their gaze without response, they quickly looked elsewhere. Two citizens even spat on his table as they passed, but he did not move an inch. Dartun’s inertia disturbed her.
In between sips of the strong, local ale, Tuung whispered to Verain, ‘I don’t know about you, lass, but I reckon your fella is up to something.’
‘He’s not my “fella” any more,’ she replied solemnly. ‘I just want to get back home.’
She longed for Villjamur again, for the comfort of the ebb and flow of the city.
*
It wasn’t until they were about to go to bed that the trouble started.
A group of locals loitered just beneath their window. Songs broke out, crude and vile lines. Raucous, they began throwing stones, little pebbles at first, and then larger rocks that clattered against the wall and eventually broke a window. Cold air and bitter voices washed into the room. Verain huddled on the floor along with the others, next to the fireplace – no one spoke about their situation, as if they might be able to ignore it completely.
A firecracker smashed through their window, landing by her foot; she leapt up and kicked it against the far wall before it exploded. Everyone in the room cowered back in shock. They turned as Dartun suddenly stood.
Without looking at them he calmly walked out of the room, closed the door and they heard as he walked down the stairs. A few moments later, a quarrel erupted outside.
Verain tiptoed to the window, navigating her way carefully around the broken glass. She peered down to see Dartun had emerged down below, and the crowds began surging towards him. There must have been nearly a hundred people there, packed in along the quayside, where boats gently moved against each other in the strong breeze.
A few at the head of the throng steered towards Dartun and began hurling abuse at him. He moved out of sight, back towards the tavern, but a gurgled scream followed – then another.
>
‘What’s going on?’ Tuung asked, grabbing her elbow and trying to glimpse past her.
She tugged herself away from his grip, threw on her wax coat, ran out and rushed downstairs to the front door which was still open, but it was too late . . .
A dozen bodies already sprawled at Dartun’s feet, their forms bent awkwardly, limbs severed in places. Blood was pooling on the wooden veranda, glinting in torchlight. Still people came at him, brandishing swords and maces. Someone fired an arrow, which pinged off Dartun’s chest, he caught another in mid air. The locals gasped.
Verain screamed his name, but he ignored her.
She stepped outside but slipped on the spilled blood, collapsing uselessly to the ground. Looking up, she saw Dartun heave his arm into someone’s stomach, their eyes bulging as they hunched over, more than winded. Another man tried to hit him with an axe but Dartun grabbed it at the handle, pulled the attacker forwards, and smashed the weapon backwards into their own face – cracking their skull with a simple ferocity.
Two, three more bodies fell, six, eight, ten – it was hideous, but she was too scared to move. This was beyond her control, beyond her scope of understanding. Why would these people not move away from him?
Eventually the immediate crowd dissipated. Someone hurled a firecracker by his feet but he didn’t flinch. Where it exploded, it should have ravaged his leg. She followed his still-emotionless gaze to a line of townsfolk, who were standing by the corner of a street, each carrying a bow. They fired at him and he stood there, arms out wide as the arrows rained down.
Verain clawed at the door frame as she scrambled back inside, shuddering as the arrows impacted on the tavern wall. When silence came she peered around the corner. Moonlight broke through the cloud, revealing the massacre in full. Dartun was standing still, arrows imbedded in his body – he strode forwards, plucking them out one by one, happily gesturing for the archers to try once again, but they looked at what was approaching them and retreated around the corner.
Verain joined him outside, where under the light of both moons she surveyed the scene. Her hand across her mouth, she gazed on the wreckage of the community: the corpses and dismembered limbs were everywhere. Where bodies were still moving, she longed to do something to help them, to call for medical attention.
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