The Book of Transformations lotrs-3

by Mark Sharan Newton

  ‘Why did you take so long to say anything?’ Fulcrom enquired, attempting to remain calm at this information.

  ‘Well… no one asked what I thought until now.’

  ‘What do you know about… her, about Shalev?’

  Lan said, ‘I didn’t hear much, only of her escape — it was when I was… you know.’

  Fulcrom acknowledged her words.

  ‘She murdered people, on Ysla, apparently. They’ve pretty strange ways over there — a bizarre culture — but she wasn’t welcome there. She’d been sent to a part of the island in whatever exile those people can permit with their strange lack of law. Then she vanished. She wasn’t like the rest of them I think. She had a bad history with the Empire regarding her homeland. That’s all I know — I swear.’

  ‘Thanks, Lan. That’s the most we’ve heard in a long while.’

  *

  Later that night, sprawled in a vast chair in an antechamber adjacent to the main operation theatre, Fulcrom was sipping a mug of spiced tea whilst staring into the light of the only lantern in the room. An open notebook lay to one side and, in it, he had been pencilling in plans and strategies to ensure the Knights could reduce the crime-wave that had washed over Villjamur. He’d also made notes about Shalev, exploring what Lan had told him, that the woman might have some personal vendetta against the Empire, and was targeting symbols of the city.

  Fulcrom waited as the screams of the Knights ebbed and flowed through varying stages of their transformations. He closed his eyes hoping that these pains were not going to scar them for life. Distantly he thought of what it was about Lan’s appearance that provoked him, or at least his memory. Adena… of course, how could you be so stupid. The acknowledgement and memory of her disarmed him.

  Emperor Urtica fresh from his Council business suddenly marched into the room.

  Fulcrom raised to greet him, with a bow. ‘Sele of Urtica, my Emperor.’

  ‘Less of that, investigator,’ Urtica instructed, and gestured for him to sit back down.

  Urtica paraded around the room ending up behind Fulcrom’s chair, and suddenly slapped down his Imperial hands on Fulcrom’s shoulders. Fulcrom noticed the man’s hands were shaking slightly. Is he nervous?

  ‘They were right about you,’ Urtica declared.

  ‘What’s been said, my Emperor?’ Fulcrom enquired.

  The Emperor moved in front of him, a darkness momentarily blocking the light of the lantern on the table. ‘That you possess remarkable skills with people. You’ve managed these misfits rather well already. They’d never listen to someone as… well. Let’s just say that I do not have the patience to put up with errors and slowness in individuals.’ Urtica paused for a moment, as if considering his next statement. ‘I need to trust you will have the people of this city enthralled by your achievements, investigator. I… I don’t trust that many people in Balmacara. People there seem to always want things from me, or seek my favour.’

  Is this some sort of mind-game? ‘I don’t ask for faith in me,’ Fulcrom said. ‘We’ll work hard. You’ll see results.’

  ‘Results — yes.’ Urtica perked up suddenly, like a different man. ‘I need to see results — the city needs to see results, and the fears of our citizens need to be abated. You are responsible for this, and your management and crime-solving abilities come recommended very highly, so do not let me down.’

  ‘My Emperor,’ Fulcrom replied, ‘I’m simply honoured to serve you and the city.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Urtica said. ‘Because if you fail I will have you killed in a heartbeat.’

  With that, the Emperor departed the room, leaving Fulcrom alone with his pulse racing. There was little Fulcrom could do about his new role and knew all too well what would happen if he opted out. Still, at least it seemed a good opportunity for putting something positive into the city.

  It wasn’t every day that happened in Villjamur.

  TEN

  Councillor Mewun shuffled from his temporary office and moved further into the heart of the Imperial residence of Balmacara. Dressed in official state colours of a green tunic and grey cloak, he strolled down the endless, shining corridors, considering the ornaments, portraits and marble decor. As far as temporary workspaces went, this wasn’t too bad.

  He smiled politely at the administrative staff who rushed past with armfuls of papers, and he stopped only to reflect upon his greying, balding head and expanding waistline in one of the gold-gilded mirrors. With the excitement and energy of Urtica’s new political regime, the last few months had simply flown by. A slender young woman passed him in the corridor, one he recognized as a being a former servant to Councillor Boll, who was murdered some time ago. She was full of saccharine smiles, yet with her soft young skin and red curls, she was a startlingly tender and humane contrast to his paperwork.

  She made the mistake of asking him a question: ‘Have you had a good morning, councillor?’

  Mewun took this as an opportunity to rid himself of his anxiety about city affairs. ‘Not so far, no,’ he told her.

  ‘Oh?’ she asked, taken aback on realizing she must actually engage in a conversation whether she liked it or not.

  Tough, he thought. ‘Oh indeed. Refugees are collapsing dead, heaping up on the doorstep to our city, and nothing can be done about it. They can’t come in, of course, what with resources being so precious. No, the lucky corpses lay on pyres, those worse off rot in the snow, bringing further disease to their neighbours. We fight a brave war on our northern front, which depletes our resources further. And this endless winter… well, it certainly makes logistical decisions and planning more challenging, I suppose.’

  ‘The fact that smart people such as yourself are helping Villjamur is very much noted, councillor,’ the girl droned.

  ‘Ah, to be so uninvolved with the affairs of this world. To be so naive! I envy you.’

  She gazed right past him, choosing to remain silent. It was a good thing. He was fully prepared to spurt his anger at the fact that forces in Balmacara could organize a military campaign, but not, it seemed, know when to take his laundry.

  Mewun made to leave, hearing the scuffed footsteps of the girl’s escape.

  Amidst another flurry of activity from servants carrying trays of food, Mewun eventually progressed from Balmacara’s depths and slipped out of one of the side entrances — which was Urtica’s suggestion. Mewun was fine with all of these procedures, of course, though he couldn’t help but think the Emperor was being a little too… paranoid.

  Outside, the weather was arse-bitingly cold. Even around the back of Balmacara, in the shadow of the chunky basalt walls where one of the majestic, arch-shaped new Council carriages awaited. A brown mare stood glumly with her face lost in a cloud of her own steam; the winter had found a way to stretch its icy tendrils even to her.

  ‘Morning, councillor.’ The stout old man standing before him was his driver, and he opened the door of the carriage, which was a huge dark-wood affair outfitted with luxurious ruby red trim. Mewun popped up, ducking his head, and plunged inside with a groan.

  ‘Thank you, Edsan,’ Mewun called out, once he was safely within the opulence of the carriage.

  ‘Where’s it to today, sir?’ his driver enquired.

  ‘The indoor iren project, if you please.’

  ‘That open now, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, no, but very soon — I’m giving a site visit to make sure we’re all set for the grand opening.’

  ‘Very good, councillor.’ Edsan slammed the door and, through a little hatch, Mewun watched him trudge around the front of the carriage. A few minor rumbles later, a few terse words, with the undergear cranking as the mighty wheels turned, they rocked forwards.

  Mewun shifted into the corner, rummaged around in his pockets, and drew up a roll-up and a box of matches. A few moments later, he promptly lit up and eased back, allowing the sounds of the city to wash over him, the calls of traders, the sharp orders of the military, the crunch of wheels and the hor
se’s hooves on stone. Outside, the sun peered beyond the clouds, giving the city a rich, red veneer. Snow seeped from roofs round chimney breasts, dripping onto the streets incessantly, whilst children hurled snowballs at each other. They must have been entering an open plaza, as the scents of fried food from vendors filled his nostrils Something brown flashed by the hatch. What was that? Something rattled underneath.

  Mewun scrambled to the opening to see a hooded figure in brown clothing sprinting down the street in the opposite direction.

  As he frowned, he heard something fizz, and could smell burning, followed by an enormously bright flash and loud ripping and fire streaming upwards and oh shit oh shit his skin was burning…

  *

  ‘Fulcrom, get over here.’

  Fulcrom strode cautiously through the chunks of charred wood to Warkur’s side. The rumel superior’s face seemed distinctly unimpressed by the carnage, and who could blame him? Debris littered a zone nearly a hundred feet wide: flesh was scattered amidst the remnants of a carriage and, a few feet away, the burned and mutilated corpse of a horse lay gruesomely on its side. Even Fulcrom, who had seen his fair share of dire things on the streets of Villjamur, was forced to cringe. At the moment it wasn’t snowing, but he wished it would, just enough to cover this mess.

  The iren had been forcibly closed, the traders ushered on, the citizens steered away. It was possible there were some civilian casualties amidst the wreckage, but it wasn’t easy to tell. Other Inquisition aides had been sent to recover the bodies and any evidence, and they sifted through the scene with sketchpads or assiduously made notes.

  ‘What’re you doing here — aren’t you supposed to be looking after the Knights?’ Warkur snapped.

  ‘I heard about the incident and rushed here as soon as I could. Looks like we’ll need military assistance on this.’

  ‘If my hunch is right, we’ll need whatever help we can get. You know who I’m thinking did this?’

  ‘Did you see the flag too?’

  ‘What flag?’

  ‘On the wall over there.’ Fulcrom pointed to an old red-brick structure between two whitewashed shops. Tied to a windowsill was a black flag: similar to ones that had been found at the site of every major anarchist crime to date.

  ‘You and your powers of observation,’ Warkur muttered. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be — I’m missing even obvious things now.’

  One of the human aides, a red-haired man, lunged onto the scene out of breath: ‘Sir, we’ve got some information on the event.’

  The carriage was one of the new models — strips of wood bore fresh Imperial logos, but there was no glory to be found in this mess, only the remains of a politician. A councillor had been in the carriage. The aide provided the name of Mewun, who had left Balmacara earlier.

  Fulcrom knew the name, though couldn’t put a face to it — but the title was enough. Sure, councillors were murdered from time to time, and there had been public incidents in recent months, but generally such matters were kept low-key and away from prying eyes.

  ‘This is some damn public spectacle,’ Warkur said.

  ‘It was obviously intended that way,’ Fulcrom added. ‘We know these anarchists like to make a show of things. They must have known a councillor was using this route, or they followed him from Balmacara.’

  Warkur shook his head in disgust: ‘How’ve they become so damn effective all of a sudden?’

  ‘Do you want me to pursue this case, sir?’ Fulcrom asked.

  ‘Though I don’t fully trust orders from the top, and we could do with someone like you checking the day-to-day investigations, you’ve got enough on with the Knights,’ Warkur said, waving him away.

  ‘Well, we all have plenty to be getting on with, sir,’ Fulcrom replied.

  ‘It’s possible all investigators are going to have to work together from now on. Means we’ll have to pass over full control of monitoring the refugees outside to the military.’

  And I know just what the military would do to them under Urtica’s control, Fulcrom thought grimly.

  ‘So’, Warkur continued, ‘you just look after those precious Knights and make sure they’re ready to prevent shit like this from happening again. If our Emperor’s beloved news rag is anything to go by, they’ll have some pressure coming their way. They’ll be famous. Everyone out here knows their names and faces. With all that damn fuss, they’ll find it difficult to get close to the enemy. In the meantime, I’ll start drawing the investigations together. See if we can spot patterns or find new leads. Fuck, at this rate I might as well get some tribal priests in for shell readings — maybe they can help us find out who the hell these anarchists are.’

  Warkur kicked a piece of wood, and it skittered across the street and into the wall. A few passers-by had snuck into the scene, and there were several more leaning out of windows despite the cold, voyeuristically curious. Two human aides were now surveying the debris and lifting pieces of flesh into large metal containers. It would take a while to clean it all up.

  ‘These Knights of yours — they’d better be good,’ Warkur bellowed, before skulking off into the distance.

  What difference can three humans possibly make in a world like this? Fulcrom thought.

  ELEVEN

  After a few day’s travelling, and with the sun about to dip over the horizon, Dartun called a halt. He seemed suddenly attentive to their surroundings.

  ‘We’re being pursued,’ Dartun announced, his breath clouding in the air. He held his hand to his eyes and scanned the horizon.

  ‘What should we do?’ Verain called out.

  ‘Confront it.’ His voice seemed to lack his usual vibrancy. For a man who had been given new life, he certainly seemed to lack it.

  ‘Why?’ Verain asked.

  ‘Because I can sense it needs to be removed from our paths,’ he replied.

  Sense? How has he ever been able to sense things before? Surely he can’t mean intuition — that kind of talk goes against his whole logical philosophy.

  ‘Who’s following us?’ Verain persisted. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Due south, and based in a small piece of woodland.’

  How can he know such things? she thought, trying to follow his gaze and seeing only the empty landscape.

  ‘They are from this world.’

  That offered some consolation. They wouldn’t, at least, be facing the horrors that they’d just left behind them. Dartun seemed to sniff the air. His mannerisms startled her, but his sudden smile was vicious. ‘They were sent to track us, possibly to even kill us. I would like to see them try.’ Dartun waved them on again, the dogs hauled forward, ropes snapping tight, their paws kicking up puffs of snow as they slowly dragged the sleds on. Verain continued to worry about the changes to Dartun: since returning he had not so much as held a relic in his hand, had not once harnessed the technological wizardry of ancient races.

  Come to think of it, where are the relics? When she expressed her concern to Dartun, he barely acknowledged she had spoken. This was a far cry from the man who had plucked her from her life as an orphan, who had chosen her for her skills with relics, who had taken her into his great Order of the Equinox, his inner sanctum, then his heart, and shown her great tenderness. Now, he was as cold to her as the wind that whipped across her face.

  The landscape was punctuated only by a cluster of shattered shacks, broken villages and torn-down church spires. The weather was brutal. Bitterly cold, the ice was blinding, and the wind felt raw upon Verain’s skin. Occasionally, when her hood blew back, she had to close her eyes and hunch double to shelter from the pain of the elements.

  It wasn’t long before Verain’s legs buckled and she tumbled face-first out of the sled into the snow…

  *

  The world seemed a blur — a haze of images, nothing more. She came to her senses to find Dartun crouching over her pouring hot fluid into her mouth.

  Minutes passed and all she could do was stare up at him. They had paused
to make camp near where she had fallen. Canvas wind-blocks provided shelter and a fire was burning.

  Dartun regarded her, and she felt like an object of his investigations under his gaze. ‘Your strength should return soon,’ he said — more a statement of fact than words of encouragement. ‘I was foolish to push us so hard. I suspect one thing I have learned is that where I walk, others will suffer.’

  ‘W-what d-does that mean?’ she replied.

  ‘Only that when we were there — through the gate — what was done to me has enabled me to survive much, whereas the rest of you… Well, of course, you remain unchanged.’ He seemed almost delighted at that last statement.

  ‘I wouldn’t say we remain unchanged,’ one of the other cultists muttered — Tuung, a bald man whose attitude was dour even before they went through the gates. ‘I’m now cold, probably suffering from frostbite, and starving. And I’m mightily pissed off. I wasn’t like that before, I can tell you.’

  Dartun laughed at them like they were charming, naive children.

  ‘Still,’ Tuung continued, peering down into the flames. ‘Least we’re alive.’ The look he gave Verain said: Remember how the others died, right? Remember what they suffered, the hideous brutality they faced?

  ‘Why were we set free, Dartun?’ Verain asked, shivering.

  All that could be heard was the wind groaning as it drifted across this landscape.

  ‘Because’, Dartun said, ‘we have work to do on their behalf. Temporarily, we are working for them.’

  And now she remembered. The patches of memory were starting to slot together to form a narrative in her mind.

  Like visual echoes:

  Images of the genocide across Tineag’l, before the cultists stepped through the Realm Gates the first time. Villages with blood-trails through the snow, the corpse in the bath, dead bodies of the very old and very young left strewn behind buildings like waste outside a tavern. Then she had thought it just brutal warfare — that they had been the innocent victims of an invasion. Now she knew why people had been taken by the creatures made from blackened shell, now she understood why the island had been cleansed. And she wished she didn’t.