Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  Chapter 36

  I left the building quickly. I wasn’t sure what Walpole had been talking about, but didn’t want to stick around to find out. Someone who had the name of The Defiler probably wasn’t going to offer me a nice foot rub.

  Distracted with searching for a rickshaw, I bumped blindly into pedestrians. Seeing nothing but carts and carriages trundling down the street, I gave a sigh and started walking. By the time I got home, I was sweaty, tired and starving. I had picked up some take-away noodles on the way, and wolfed them down in the kitchen. My broken finger ached and my hip joints were fiery bundles of pain from the long walk. With aching slowness, I pulled a hot bath and then spent a good hour soaking. My thoughts relaxed with the warmth and it was with effort I didn’t fall asleep and drown myself.

  Once out, I collapsed into bed. I was exhausted. My mind tried to put together a plan. A good plan. A smart plan. One that would tell me what I needed. Of course, in lieu of a good plan, I’d take a crazy one. Breaking into the Order of Guide’s Library sounded like just the ticket.

  Chapter 37

  The rickshaw driver glanced back at me with a look that spoke volumes. He thought I was nuts and he was probably right. “You sure about this, love?”

  “Just drive,” I told him. The sun had set without fanfare, hidden behind low grey clouds that promised rain. I was sitting in the back of the rickshaw, wearing a pair of jeans, plain white shirt and a bandaid over Legara’s love bite. I was also wearing my lucky motorcycle jacket: black leather with a red racing stripe down the sleeves. My broken finger and lame leg were tightly braced, and my hair braided.

  Opening my jacket, I splashed the last of the goat’s blood from my silver flask onto my shirt. I smeared it around, trying to avoid my belt. The driver tore his eyes from the road and glanced over his shoulder with a frown. “Careful. You know how much it costs to clean those seats?”

  “Just watch where you’re going and remember what to say when we get there.”

  “Alright, alright.” He turned back to the road. “No need to get snooty about it all.”

  Making sure the blood was starkly visible on my white shirt, I glanced towards our destination. My heart rate sped up. The granite walls of the Order of Guides compound stood starkly against the early evening sky, outlined with lights on top. I’d never gone into this compound, other than when I’d been bought to the hospital, where I’d been barely conscious and bleeding. I didn’t see any other choice, though. That, and I wanted to prove Seth wrong. Did everyone else think I was a walking disaster zone? I pressed my lips together. My plan was just stupid enough to work.

  The trip over the stone bridge that stretched across the Harken River took a few minutes. I glanced out at the deep waters of the river, trying to calm my nerves. A single boat was bobbing in the flow, a dim light flickering at the prow and a whiff of something rotten and foul carried on the breeze.

  “Get ready,” the driver warned me, pulling on the brake and slowing the rickshaw. I slumped down, half closing my eyes. Two guards stood outside the front of the compound, eyeing the rickshaw with mild interest. The driver pulled up outside the gated entrance and put the car in neutral, the clockwork engine clanking and ticking. He jumped out, waving frantically for the guards to come over. I popped a couple of my top buttons for good measure, then slumped further in the seat, clutching my belly and groaning in pain.

  “Help!” I heard the driver shout. “Found a girl, I did. Maybe stabbed, or something.” Hurried footsteps approached and then a soldier peered in through the half open window.

  “You alright, miss?” he asked. “Need the hospital then?”

  I reached up through the window and grabbed the bottom rim of his helmet, yanking hard so his head banged against the top of the vehicle.

  “Ow!”

  “Get me to the hospital, dumbo, I’ve been stabbed.”

  The soldier freed himself from my grip and motioned for the driver to take me inside the walls. I closed my eyes, wrinkling my face in mock pain until I heard the driver get back in the car and close the door.

  “Think they bought it?” I murmured.

  “I used to work in the Applecross Community Theatre,” the driver replied, clunking his gearstick forward. “You got the right man for the job, you did. Course, after I drop you off, you’re on your own.”

  I didn’t reply, just kept my eyes half closed until the car came to a second stop. Peering out of the window, I noticed we were in the central courtyard. It stretched out in an expanse of dull pavement, devoid of any greenery. The place looked deserted, with a lonely limestone fountain at the square’s centre, dribbling water out of an urn. Forbidding-looking buildings hemmed the square with windows running their length.

  A young monk with a clean, freshly shaved head and a nervous look approached the car.

  “Don’t you need a stretcher, kid?” the driver asked. “She’s no lightweight.”

  “Everyone’s at the evening prayers, sir,” the young monk answered. “It’s just me on the front roster at the hospital.”

  Biting my tongue and shooting a vicious glare at the driver, I kept doubled over as the kid struggled to help me out of the car.

  “Don’t worry,” he told me as my ride drove off. “You’ll be alright here.”

  In the distance, I could see The Order’s round church, painted a startling white with blue windows. In front of us, the featureless building of The Order’s hospital squatted sullenly. A little daisy garden grew at the front of the hospital but was unable to soften the building’s depressed presence. We entered a long, empty colonnade that led to the hospital entrance. I stopped walking.

  “What’s wrong?” The kid looked at me, alarmed. “You needn’t be afraid.”

  I pulled the blade from my vest and jammed it against his side. The kid’s mouth flew open and he turned a funny shade of green.

  “Relax, kid,” I said in a low voice.

  “But you’re hurt,” he gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Shut up and listen,” I said. “I need to get to the library. Which way is it?”

  The kid blinked a few times before answering. “N-n-next building, second floor.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “Ambrose. The-the Head Librarian, he never leaves.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped behind the kid and hooked my arm around his neck, grabbing him in a choke-hold. The kid took a moment to realise what was happening, but by the time he started to struggle, I’d cut of his air. I squeezed harder, listening to him gasp and gag. Then his body went limp and I quickly let go. Checking his pulse was still strong, I eased his slender limbs out of his monk robe and slipped into it, pulling the cowl low to hide my face. I dragged his body to one of the benches and tucked him under it in the recovery position.

  Walking at a brisk pace, I went through a doorway and into a hall leading to the building the kid was talking about. I glanced with idle interest at the gilt framed paintings lining the walls, noting dates engraved on the frames. Each painting held a grim faced man wearing the peaked scarlet hat of the Grigori rank and none looked happy in their immortalisation.

  At the end of the hallway, I ascended a narrow round staircase, meeting only one other soul halfway up, a man with his arms loaded with papers. He didn’t seem interested in me at all, his round faced flushed with juggling his load and we passed without incident. I finally reached the second floor of the building, where I a quiet hallway with thick carpeting. A closed door at the end had a with a marble sign sitting over the doorframe with the words Reference Centre carved in it.

  Feeling a surge of adrenaline, I pushed the doors, cringing as the hinges squealed. Inside the library, bookshelves sat in tidy rows. Book spines were in muted tones and dust mites floated on the air. Paintings adorned the walls: religious images involving battling hellspawn and angels, usually with a haloed Grigori priest watching with a rather smart-arse face.

  I moved through the library with my head bowed low. My neck p
rickled with being watched, but there was no one about I could see, so I shrugged it off. Bookshelves towered above me, giving me a claustrophobic itch. I walked to the far end of the room, weaving in and out of bookcases.

  An open doorway beckoned and beyond it was a small room, lit with a hanging lantern with yellow glass. It was furnished with only a small table, two chairs and an overloaded bookcase. An elderly monk sat in one of those chairs, his back bowed to me, reading a book before him. I figured this might be Ambrose.

  Slipping into the room, I closed the door quietly. The old man didn’t look up, and said in a thin, warbly voice, “Are you blind? The room is occupied.”

  “Are you Ambrose?” I pushed back the cowl, hoping I wasn’t going to have to threaten him too much. Beating up old people wasn’t my style. The old guy looked up with an expectant expression. His skin resembled uncooked dough, which had settled soft and flat over a bony body. Tufts of grey hair coiled out over his ears, sticking out in a distracting way. His faded grey eyes went wide with surprise, then crinkled at the corners with amusement as he laboured to his feet. He looked frail and hoped I wasn’t going to give him a heart attack.

  “What lovely surprise is this, then?” he asked.

  “Are you, or aren’t you Ambrose?”

  He straightened, sunken chest puffing out slightly. “I am who you seek.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’m after a book. I hear you’re the man to get it for me.”

  Ambrose’s smile widened as if he were having the time of his life. “My, my. What do we have here? Are you a thief? Why is it that such a beautiful rose would risk life and limb to find a book of all things?”

  “The Key of Aldebaran.”

  Ambrose’s eyebrow’s knitted and he shook his head, the loose skin on his neck wobbling. “Whatever do you need that wretched thing for?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Is it in this library?” My heart started beating quicker when Ambrose nodded his head.

  “We have a copy of it, I believe,” he said. “A rather gruesome grimoire. Written by a madman. Spells that used blood magic to tap into some sort of hokey chaos power.” His voice turned brittle and sharp. “Utter nonsense, you realise. Blood magic, chaos magic, the stuff of fairytales and legends.”

  “Have you read it?” I nibbled my bottom lip, trying to rein in my impatience.

  “Once, when I was young and curious.” Ambrose said. “It was nothing more than gibberish. You might say they were spells grand in design, but short in logic.”

  I watched Ambrose carefully and focused on his aura, seeing it coloured a calming bronze. The old man was wary, but he wasn’t lying. “Take me to it.” I blinked a few times to clear my vision.

  Ambrose looked worried. “I’m not sure about that. I do have an obligation to protect the contents of this library, after all. Perhaps if you explain why you want to read it?”

  “You only need to want your head to stay where it is. I’ll have you know my street name is Chopper.”

  Ambrose’s shoulders relaxed and he gave a chuckle. “My dear lady. You don’t have to threaten me. I’ll take you to it, but I’m just a bored old man, and I sense an entertaining story.”

  “Not from me. Now move.”

  Ambrose’s face fell with disappointment and he stood with a sigh, straining slightly as he picked up the heavy book he had been reading. He shuffled over to place it on one of the bookshelves nearby, then turned and indicated for me to follow. “Keep an eye out for anyone watching. If you were discovered within these walls, you’d find yourself in a Grigori prison before you could blink.”

  Heeding his words, I pulled up the robe’s hood as we left the reading room and walked back into the main library. Grabbing a lantern from a nearby table, Ambrose shuffled to a corner of the library. A door was there, partly concealed by a bookcase overflowing with scrappy scrolls. I kept my head low and watched as he produced an iron key and unlocked the door. Pushing the door open, Ambrose disappeared into a dark room and I followed him closely, my blood pumping with dread.

  The walls here were not plastered a smooth white as they were in the library, they were bare stone. The air in the room smelt dank, as if something wet rotted inside. Bookcases lined the space, shelves askew with musty books, their cracked spines sagging. Ambrose busied himself with searching, the lantern casting a soft honey glow.

  To my right were three podiums, their stems carved with vines and fruit. They all held closed books and I shifted closer, feeling curious. One book had a metal skull stamped on its cover; the second had the symbol of Anon. The third book was the biggest, made of leather with gold corners and a gold clasp holding it closed. The air around this book hummed softly. I was smart enough to keep my hands to myself, reminded of my own small book of darkcraft magic and the way it made my fingers tingle when I had first picked it up.

  An old tapestry hung one side of the wall above the bookcase. I moved closer, drawn to the intricate stitching. It showed hellspawn fighting with grotesque looking animals. I didn’t recognise the legend being told, and squinted harder in the dim light. The image was suddenly illuminated as Ambrose stood beside me with his lantern.

  Ambrose gave a snort of laughter. “It’s all very dramatic, isn’t it?” The light dimmed as he turned and walked over to a wall of books, head moving from side to side as he kept searching the bookshelves. “I wish you would confide in me on your reason for wanting the book, my dear. My time will all too soon be up on this world.” He turned to give me a brief, unreadable smile. “What adventures are there left for old men?”

  I shook my head. “My business is my own.”

  “Well, I had to ask.” He paused, then said, “You are aware, of course, of the Eight Books of Forbidden Magic, I take it?”

  “Sort of, I guess.”

  “The Order takes the war on heretics very seriously. With this in mind, there is the thought that one must know the enemy to effectively fight it.”

  “Are you saying that there are some within The Order that practice darkcraft?” I asked lightly.

  “Goodness, no.” Ambrose glanced back at me, looking shocked. “I merely meant the texts are studied. It would be considered heresy to practice what these books teach.” Ambrose waved a hand in the direction of the three podiums. “Those are originals manuscripts. We have other books of magic, of course, but only copies, you understand. I suggest you don’t get too close to those ones. Disgusting things.”

  “Who has access to this room?”

  “Myself and the some of the ranking Grigori,” Ambrose sighed. “Those who have clearance are in a ledger in my office.”

  “What about City Watch officials?”

  “They have don’t have access. Why would they?” Ambrose raised his light, the soft light splashing on his unhappy face. “It would appear the book you are after is missing. I find that most unusual.”

  “Missing, or stolen?” I asked, thinking I had a good idea of who had taken it.

  “It isn’t easy to gain access to this room.” Ambrose again produced the key that had allowed us entry, holding it up to the light. “As you can imagine, there are not many of these keys and they are guarded closely. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to discover who borrowed the book.”

  “Or stole it.”

  Ambrose gave me pained looked. “Please stop saying that.”

  “Do you know how The Order got the copy in the first place?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. But the story of how the original was created is interesting, should you want to hear it.” He looked at me hopefully. I rolled my eyes.

  “Okay, lay it on me.”

  He drew himself up, cleared his throat. “According to legend, demons had just discovered a way to enter The Weald. They swarmed the lands, destroying everything in their path. In this chaos, a great General rose up, by the name of Dugan. A superior strategist, he united humans and full-bloods to drive the demons back to The Pit.

  “Peace reined, but as
time passed, the unity between humans and full-bloods fractured once more. The full-bloods became shunned, outcasts of society. Dugan saw this and was a great champion for the full-bloods.” Ambrose’s voice dropped. “Riots broke out and they were followed by the Great Burning.”

  This part of history, I knew about. A time when full-bloods had been hunted and killed in a bloody genocide. “Witnessing such cruelty,” Ambrose continued, “Dugan began to doubt he had done the right thing in saving The Weald. This realisation sent him to the brink of madness. He announced one day he was going questing, to seek answers from God. Which one he believed in, I could not tell you. The only way to accomplish this, he reasoned, was to embrace madness itself. He left The Weald and roamed the deserts of the Outlands. During those years, it was claimed he received a vision and wrote a book, written in Sumerian, the mother-tongue of magic. The book was filled with impossible spells; a way to tap into the old ley-lines themselves and to harness a magic that was connected to the very earth.”

  I gnawed at my bottom lip. My eyes were drawn again to the tapestry. “What legend does this tell? I don’t recognise it.”

  Ambrose gave a nod. “An obscure legend. The battle of the Dreadwitch and the Howling King. A battle of wills for the soul of The Weald…” He made a rolling motion with his hands. “The usual stuff. I’m sure you’ve heard those fairytales before.” He shuffled over to the tapestry on the wall. “This is the Dreadwitch here—” he pointed at a stitched figure of a woman with long black hair, “—battling against the Howling King.” His finger slid across the tapestry to a monstrous looking man with horns.

  “What exactly does she do, this Dreadwitch?” I leant in to look closer at the tapestry.

  “I’m afraid I’m not sure about the finer details. It’s a very obscure story.”

  “Where did this tapestry come from?”

  Ambrose walked to the door, motioning I should follow. “One of the Grigori priests, Father Fowler, discovered it while in the city of Moorat. Quite a rare find, really. It’s supposed to be nearly three thousand years old.”