by D. P. Prior
“My view,” Aristodeus said, “my suggestion to help with your…” He glanced at Galen and then appealed to Ludo. “His Divinity gave me the impression you were to be exiled.”
Galen harrumphed, but Ludo let out a gentle sigh.
“We are to bring the light of Nous to new lands. It was presented to me as an honor, but there is truth in what you say. I overstepped the mark with—”
“Shader,” Aristodeus said. “And I’m grateful for that. The Judiciary might have failed to bring him into the Templum’s war with Hagalle, but I still entertain hopes of returning him to the real fight.”
“Oh?” Ludo said. “I think he’s left all that behind. It was a difficult road you sent him down. I trust it was worth your while.”
Aristodeus rubbed his beard and bit down on his lip. “It still might be, if only I could get him to see sense. And I will, believe me. Before long, he’ll be back here, ready to fight the good fight. And when he arrives, who better to keep him virtuous, eh?” He clapped Ludo on the shoulder.
Galen growled and said, “If you ask me, Shader’s a ruddy—”
“Now, now, Galen,” Ludo said.
“Not fit,” Galen said. “Not fit to wield the Sword of the Archon.”
“He won the tournament,” Aristodeus said. “And it accepted him. How many others could say that?”
Galen flinched, as if struck. “And he abandoned his post. The Keeper of the Sword is—”
“Redundant,” Aristodeus said. “Without the threat from Sektis Gandaw, there’s no more need for the Saphra Society, and no more need for the Keeper.”
“All the same,” Galen said, “any man who reneges on his responsibilities—”
“Galen, enough!” Ludo said. Then, in a gentler tone, he added, “Please.”
“Eminence.” A flush hit Galen’s cheeks, and he dipped his head.
“Well, I don’t know,” Ludo said. “We do have missionary work. I’m not sure we could—”
“This is missionary work,” Aristodeus said. “Believe me, the Ipsissimus agrees.”
“What?” Ludo said. “What exactly does His Divinity agree with?”
“He has a rudimentary outline of what I’m trying to do. But my point is, if you are to evangelize Aethir, you will need a guide, and transport.” He said the last with a look at Shadrak.
“Forget it,” Shadrak said. “Only work I take is for money.”
“And what about Nameless?” Aristodeus said. “How long do you think it will take for the Archon’s patience to run out?”
Ludo and Galen exchanged looks at mention of the Supernal being.
“Trust me,” Aristodeus said. “If all goes to plan, Nameless will be free of the axe, and—”
“And I’ll be up shit creek,” Shadrak said. “One chance is all I’ve got to be free of this bastard pact.”
“And you believe him? You believe he’ll leave you alone if you do his dirty work for him?”
Shadrak hadn’t thought of that. He knew he should have. Desperation was making him careless. He backtracked to where Aristodeus had said, “Trust me.” He’d sooner trust a mawg not to eat him raw. For that matter, he’d sooner accept a meal from Albert.
The door slid open, and Mephesch entered, followed by Nameless, Albert, and Ekyls. Albert’s cheeks had a rosy glow, and he stumbled slightly as he walked.
“Ah, good,” Aristodeus said. “Come, let’s go to my quarters. We’ll be able to talk there in more comfort.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and stage-whispered, “And it’s away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. Not the animals, though. Last thing I need is a carpet of manure. Mephesch, see to it that they’re taken care of.”
Galen started to protest, but Ludo touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Aristodeus put his arm around Nameless’s shoulders and led the way back through the conical chamber with all the screens. “Remember the plan we spoke of? Well, Shadrak has agreed to help us, haven’t you, Shadrak?”
He hadn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so. A confusion of emotions battled inside him, and he was already second-and third-guessing himself. Could the Archon be trusted? Could Aristodeus? Could he really kill Nameless? Would he? He felt himself dragged along by the current of Aristodeus’s persuasion. There were choices, to be sure, but none of them good. Obey the Archon, and kill the only person he had any sort of respect for; or betray him and side with the philosopher. One scheming git or the other, and he still didn’t know enough about either of them to make a move.
Kadee’s face sat like a warm glow behind his eyes. She smiled at him, let him know this was the right thing to do. Let him know he didn’t have to kill Nameless, at least not yet. As she started to fade, his heart leapt to his throat. But what did that mean for Kadee? If he didn’t do as the Archon said, she’d be left in whatever hellhole her spirit languished. On Thanatos, wherever the shog that was. That was the truth of it: the Archon was his only way of finding her.
THE MAN IN THE PIEBALD MASK
Anderida, Britannia, Earth
The marsh road ended at the ancient fort’s east gate. Heaped and jagged flint made up the outer walls that penned a scatter of sheep in the haze. A chill fog rolled in from the bay, smothering the dusk and laying to rest the last streaks of sunset.
Shader ducked beneath an overhang as it started to drizzle. With fingers numb from the cold, he did up the buttons on his coat and tugged down the brim of his hat.
The keep glowered at him out of the gloom. Beneath the quickening patter of rain, the waters of the moat sloshed against the buttresses, and he heard the occasional chink of metal, the low bark of voices. His eyes were drawn to the flickering glow of torches upon the parapet.
A spyglass had been mounted on a tripod and pointed out to sea; early warning, for when Hagalle’s ships set sail from Gallia. And set sail they would, sooner or later. Aeterna had fallen, and now it was only a matter of time.
Strange how Britannia, his childhood home, had become Nousia’s last stand, an island fortress against the surging tide of barbarism.
When there was a break in the shower, he followed the bridleway through the sleeping village. Silver shards of moonlight coming through the clouds picked out a cockerel atop the pitched roof of a templum—a weathervane, squeaking and rattling in the breeze.
He’d seen something similar as a child amid a field of winged statues. Their heads had lain broken in the tall grass, empty eyes glaring up at him, like he’d done something wrong. Like he was to blame. And maybe he was, in some small way. Hadn’t he gone farther afield than his parents permitted? Wasn’t it the same disobedience that had landed him in the Judiciary’s dungeons? His guts clenched with the recollected pain he’d felt that day as a child. Tears of anger still threatened to spill from his eyes, no matter how many years passed. That was the day Aristodeus had first come for him. That was the day his dog, Nub, had died.
His heels were angry sores against the tough leather of his boots, and his left leg was shot through with fiery needles. He rested a while on a low wall and rubbed his ruined knee. It hurt like the Abyss from where the ligament had torn on the rack. There were good days and bad, but at times like this, he doubted it would ever heal.
The rain started to crash down in sheets, and he saw no choice but to press on. He squinted up at the dark slopes of the Downs, knowing what it was going to cost him to cross them. Sucking in his top lip with resolve, he set one foot in front of the other, and moved off at a lurch.
A whisper of movement made him turn.
“Hold you still, or I’ll cut you!” a man’s voice growled.
A figure rose up from the graves at the side of the templum. Instinctively, Shader reached for his sword, but there was nothing there. Hadn’t been for some time.
“What’s yer name?” The man loomed closer, pointing with a curved blade. “Come on, give it breath!”
A snatch of moonlight splashed against a mask of black-and-white leather. The eyes were drowned in sha
dows, nothing but black creases. Recognition tugged at Shader’s awareness, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“I’ve nothing for you,” Shader said. “I’m a priest.” The words still sounded wrong coming from his mouth. Even at the ordination, when Adeptus Ludo had laid hands on him, it felt like it was happening to someone else.
With no sword to grasp, his fingers found the prayer cord hanging from his belt. He’d kept hold of it all these years, a present from his mother on his seventh birthday.
And then he remembered. He’d seen this man before, only in the distance, amid the trees on a high bank. That very same day, before Brent Carvin had killed his dog. Before the philosopher had come to tutor him.
“Name, I said! Mouth it!”
“Shader.” And then he mumbled, “Pater Shader.”
The masked man lowered his blade, let it hang loosely at his side.
“Pater, is it? Was expecting to find a Deacon.” He turned, made a short run, and then stopped to peer over his shoulder. He looked Shader up and down. “Sure you ain’t no Deacon?”
Shader felt like a fish off the hook that had just swum into a net.
… when the time is right, Aristodeus had said. I’ll call upon you.
Well, Shader had already given the philosopher his answer four years ago, after he’d stopped Sektis Gandaw’s attempt at the Unweaving of all Creation, and a dozen times since.
The man stepped between the brambles beside a grassy mound. Thorns clung to his clothes like the hands of corpses tugging him down to the loamy earth.
“Plague,” he muttered, nodding to indicate the mound. “Hundreds packed in beneath it, rotten and slimy. Least they was once. Nothin’ but bones now.”
He pulled clear of the gorse and pressed the tip of his blade to Shader’s chest.
Shader made a fist about the prayer cord. His heart thumped, urging him to act. The longer he stalled, the more it would clamor, until the fire surging through his veins turned to ice, and the will to fight petered away into fear.
“Ain’t this falchion you needs worry about,” the man said. “It’s a blade of another sort that’ll prick your heart.” He tipped his head back, letting the silvery light fall once more on the piebald mask.
“Let me guess,” Shader said. “Aristodeus sent you.” Truth be told, it wouldn’t have surprised him if it was the philosopher, hiding behind the mask.
The man’s black eyes flicked from side to side, as if he watched the play of pictures on the moon. “Bald bloke, is he, this Aristodeus? White robe an’ beard?”
Shader nodded. “Same answer as before. He’s wasting his time.”
The man chuckled—a low gurgling, like water draining from a ditch. “I ain’t no lackey of his. I know of him, but he won’t know of me. Mind like his, full to bursting, brimming with itself, don’t see the hidden things of the world. Ain’t just him; ain’t just them three as fell through the Void gets to weave fate. I was here before they came, and will be here when they’ve gone. And not just me, neither. We are like the insects in our numbers.”
Involuntarily, Shader took a step back. His mind was a torrent of implications, all of which shifted the earth beneath his feet, threatened to plunge him into a chasm of unknowing.
“I been watching you a whiles, Deacon Shader, e’en when you was just an unnatural child.”
“Unnatural?”
The man dropped his gaze from the moon, drank deep from Shader’s eyes, then looked back up again, as if he might otherwise miss something. “You did us right, when you stopped the Unweaving, for even we would not have been exempt. One good turn deserves another, I say.”
“We?” Shader asked. He couldn’t form a clear passage through his thoughts. He felt dazed, overwhelmed, buried beneath an avalanche of questions.
“Things is as they are, no matter what the likes of Sektis Gandaw say, nor your philosopher friend. That’s all you need to know. All you are capable of knowing. I see things fer you, Deacon Shader. In the soil of the earth. In the waves of the sea. In the face of the moon. E’en the Dreamers of Sahul speak your name. Aye, and a worldful of daemons, too, truth be told. Priest now, is it? Priest of—what d’you call him nowadays?—Nous, am I right? Not fer long, I say. Not fer long.”
Shader’s hand enclosing the prayer cord came up to touch the pendant beneath his tunic.
“The wolves are coming, Pater Shader. This Aristodeus won’t take no fer an answer. Find the piper; catch the running man; b’ware the snares of beauty. I will aid you, two days hence, atop the beacon.” He looked deep into Shader’s eyes, nodding slowly, then he glanced back up at the moon.
“Don’t fret about the girl, Pater Shader, least not now. She’s a paradox waitin’ ta be unwound. Saphra, her name is. You’ve heard it before.”
The Saphra Society? He’d heard that from Osric, the doomed knight of the Lost. An elect within the Elect, charged with protecting the Ipsissimus’s segment of the Statue of Eingana. Shader would have been inducted, the wraith-knight, Osric, had said, if he’d been faithful in his duties and not fled back to Sahul; for he’d won the Sword of the Archon in the tournament, and the Keeper of the Sword was the traditional head of the Saphra Society. So, what was this girl? A symbol, like the woman on his pendant? He looked at the masked man for an explanation, and once more had the feeling his thoughts were not his own.
“Yours and not yours, she is. Perhaps a savior, perhaps the doom of all. Look fer me in two days atop the beacon; you’re going to need my help. The folk o’ the Downs call me Heredwin.”
He slipped between the tombstones, dissolving into the darkness.
Shader forgot to move, until the cold air made him shiver.
Yours and not yours. What did it mean?
He shook himself and crouched down to pull his flask from his boot. Tilting his head back, he took a long draft, and warmth trickled through his veins.
Shader’s head started to thump. He took a shorter gulp of whiskey, then another.
Perhaps a savior, perhaps the doom of all.
A cloud smothered the moon, leaving the sky as black as the Void.
… atop the beacon…
At least there was no mystery there. There was only one place worthy of the name in this part of the South Downs. He’d climbed it often as a child.
Firle.
But he’d be damned if he was going. Anything he might need from this Heredwin smacked of manipulation, either by Aristodeus or the Father of Lies himself. If it was Aristodeus, then the answer was the same as before, and no amount of scheming was going to change it. If the Demiurgos, then you could do worse than follow the advice of Luminary Tajen and ignore it. Either way, he had plans of his own, and old friends didn’t take kindly to being stood up.
Especially old friends like Rhiannon.
Thrusting the flask back in his boot, he turned once more to the brooding Downs and limped into the night.
THE FENCIBLE
Town of Hallow, Britannia, Earth
Sweat trickled down Rhiannon’s back, stung her eyes, made her grip on the chinning bar slippery. Her forearms burned as if the scars crisscrossing them were fresh once more, and her heart thumped like someone had released a herd of kangaroos in her ribcage. She almost laughed, in spite of herself. Almost cried, too. Reminded her of home; but the chances of her seeing Sahul again were slim to none, even if she’d wanted to. The Emperor Hagalle was waging war against the world, and she was on the other side.
“One more, mate.”
Sandau always called her “mate”. Rhiannon guessed that’s how he thought all Sahulians spoke, and she’d’ve been hard-pressed to prove him wrong.
“No surrender, Ranny.”
She could see him pumping his fist in the mirror. He was so close, she could feel his heat.
“Give me one more. No surrender!”
“Jerk,” she grunted as she gritted her teeth and ground out another rep.
Fighting the impulse to drop to the ground and call it a
day, she lowered herself slowly; painfully slowly, eking out every last inch of effort. Only way to do it, in her book. Most of the other soldiers in the gym had their systems, but there was no substitute for hard work. She’d learned that for herself; maybe the one thing she didn’t owe Aristodeus. That and Nous, but the bald bastard had well and truly flushed any pretensions she’d had in that realm down the crapper. No, not him. She’d done it herself by giving him what he wanted.
“Again!” Sandau yelled. Silly shogger actually sounded excited, like he was invested in her battle with herself. “You got an audience. The boys are watching.”
Watching her arse, most likely.
She pulled again, but her arms gave out. Sandau took hold of her feet, lent his support. “One more. I’ll help you.”
“Shog off. You do it.”
He laughed at that. Sandau was as muscle-bound as they got, but it was no secret he avoided chin-ups as much as squats and dead lifts. He claimed he was too heavy, but that just translated as too weak, or too lazy.
She dropped lightly from the bar, landing on the balls of her feet. Say one thing for Aristodeus: he’d gotten her lean and agile. It was hard stopping herself from back-flipping over to the squat rack. That would’ve been showing off, and it wasn’t like she needed any more attention. She tied her slick hair into a ponytail and walked there instead.
“Oi, I’m using that.” A bloke with no neck and pencil legs got in her way. He had a curling bar sitting on the rests, like he couldn’t be bothered to pick it up off the floor.
“Get lost, goat face.”
She lifted one end of his bar and sent it crashing to the floor. Heads turned. Some of the lads laughed. Others muttered and glared. What did they expect, shoggers?
“It’s a squat rack. You know, legs.” She ran her gaze over the twenty or so soldiers working out at various stations, all hitting chest or biceps, save one tub of lard doing hundreds of crunches, like that was gonna outrun all the pie he’d been eating. “Oh, of course. You don’t train legs, do you?”
She started to load up the bar, casting a smirk over her shoulder at No-Neck, who’d picked his weights up and was looking about for somewhere to lay them. He scowled at her, then slung down the bar and stormed outside.