He saw more. The magic had known what it needed. Shock. He was a man, a poor vessel for such powers. His castration had helped tie the magic to him, but the bonds that had been formed between him and the symbols in the blood light of the well needed renewing. He had let them wither, preferring the comfortable life to sacrifice.
He had sacrificed, of course – the black lambs and the goats and sheep his goddess demanded – but the magic could not be sustained by such meagre offerings. He knew what it wanted – pain, revulsion, a horror to shake the sanity from its everyday existence, to jettison the mind’s clutter and leave it free to understand the fundamental relations of the universe as expressed in the runes he had taken from the waters to plant in his head.
Something moved at the edge of his vision. He wheeled about, searching for it, but there was nothing there. He sensed a presence, though – bitter and angry. His dead sister. Was her spirit doing this? Could her anger enable her to break the bonds of death? She was a priestess of Hecate, goddess of the dead. She had died at the most holy place, where the three waters met. Had the goddess granted her the right to return? Was she sending the symbols mad inside him, loosening his control, letting them pull from him to kill and cause chaos in the city?
He sensed this to be true. He had gained control and insight once, power even. If he was to regain it, he needed a sacrifice equivalent to his first.
Styliane. He had kept her there, his one connection to a life of love, of tenderness and familial feeling. He had bound himself to the runes in the well once and done great things. He needed to be bound again.
Across the city lights flickered, buildings burned, people screamed. What had he unleashed? He mouthed the words of the dedication to Hecate.
Goddess of depths eternal,
Goddess of darkness,
Come to my sacrifices.
I am burning for you some dreadful incense –
Goat’s fat dappled, filth and blood,
The heart of one untimely dead.
Your greatest mystery, goddess
Who opens the bars to the lands of the dead,
Who makes light useless and plunges the world
Into premature night.
He’d thought the words were just an acknowledgement of the goddess’s power, not a description of something that might actually happen.
Again, a movement, a thickening of the air in his lungs.
‘You’re here, aren’t you, Elai? Sister?’ said the chamberlain out loud.
A dog howled in the distance.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you need disturb yourself no more on my account.’ He dabbed the cloth against his nose.
‘I shall come to visit you,’ he said.
Far off on the walls, someone cried out in anguish. He heard distant voices, the screams of battle. Just visible, a mass of torches streamed through one of the lower gates – not the one that burned. Norsemen.
He guessed what had happened. Death in the streets, civil disorder, the incident with the wolfman. It had all become too much for the emperor. Reports had reached him in the east. He had sent his seal and ordered a gate opened to allow the Varangians to do as they had requested – replace the Hetaereian guard. That would not be accomplished without a fight.
It was a move against him. Basileios had trusted the chamberlain with everything, freeing himself up for his campaigns, but if the chamberlain could not keep order or subdue the magic assaulting the city then he would destroy his power by removing his loyal Hetaereia and replacing them with foreigners. It would have been obvious to the chamberlain had he not been so preoccupied with magic. The threat spurred him to action.
‘Get me messengers here now,’ he said to his servant, ‘and send in the new master of post.’ The servant left the room, leaving the chamberlain alone. He put his head into his hands and said, into nothing, ‘This is not the end time. I will endure. Whatever it takes, I will endure.’
38 Revelation
The dark again and the damp again and the sounds of torment and the stink of men rotting alive in their shackles.
The Numera had multiplied its horrors since Loys last visited. The messenger service had filled the prison with anyone at all who was suspected of sorcery, anyone who had ever had a seditious thought and anyone with whom they had a score to settle, which was a multitude.
So many had been crammed in they had run out of manacles, and on the bottom level men had even ventured – or blundered – into the lower caves in search of space to uncoil their cramped limbs. They did not go far down. The tunnels were too tight, too jagged and dark for anyone to risk going into them without a light, a rope and pegs to mark the way out.
Loys and the Varangians had to shove, push, bully and threaten their way to the caves. Vandrad and his fellows cracked a few heads, and though the prisoners vastly outnumbered the northerners, no one attacked them. These men, thought Loys, had lost their will. The party pressed through the last of the prisoners and clambered up a rockfall. From here it was a belly crawl into the bigger caverns beyond, Loys knew.
‘You can’t keep people like this,’ said Vandrad. ‘Kill them as a man kills his enemies or let them go. There can be no glory in this death.’
Loys knew the messenger service wasn’t seeking glory. They wanted power, to terrify their enemies.
‘It’s a sacrifice,’ said Loys, ‘made by fear to fear.’
‘I know that I hung on that wind-racked tree, pledged to Odin, myself to myself,’ said Vandrad.
‘I was talking about human evil, not your pagan idol,’ said Loys.
‘Odin is human evil. Odin is fear,’ said another Varangian, ‘and he sacrificed himself to himself as your god Christ did.’
Loys couldn’t be bothered to argue with the man. He was too keen to get into the tunnels and away from the mob of dying men at his back.
‘Let’s press on,’ said Loys. ‘I want this wolfman taken alive.’
‘Might not be possible,’ said Mauger.
‘I pay double for a living wildman,’ said Loys.
‘You mean you will show me the fountains of the palace twice?’ said Mauger.
Loys almost laughed. He had forgotten that Ragnar – as he knew the northerner – was alone in not working for pay.
‘If you catch him I’ll bath you myself in one,’ said Loys.
Loys led the way, holding the lamp before him. He knew it was important to appear brave to the northerners. The first section was incredibly tight and he had to wriggle his way in. He was glad he had employed smaller men.
He emerged on top of another pile of rubble, looking out on the broad cave where Azémar had taken on the messengers. Things had moved so quickly since then he hardly had time to think about how strange it was that his friend had struck down so many enemies after his long ordeal. Perhaps Azémar feared being sent back to the prison. Men could fight like wolves when they were afraid, Loys had often heard it said.
Loys’ mouth was already dry with dust as he lowered himself onto the cavern floor. He took up his lamp. The bodies of the Greeks Azémar had killed were still there. He tried not to look at them.
Vandrad came bumping down and then the rest behind him. Six men now in the cave. Loys couldn’t help thinking eight men had already died in there, to his knowledge. Never mind, he had to go on. The wolfman had the answers he wanted, Loys was sure.
Here the passage was tall enough for them to walk without stooping. They went on, their progress somewhat hampered by the uneven floor, but in the next cavern great slabs of rock protruded precariously from the ceiling. Loys and his men had to sidle around them. No one dared touch them for fear of triggering a collapse. The way was obvious at first, but as they descended other possible routes emerged. A black crack in the floor made Mauger pause and wet his finger to detect the movement of air. Another fissure, halfway up a wall, bore signs of dried blood just inside it. Mauger again licked his finger but this time rubbed it on the rock and tasted it. He climbed a little way up inside but
came back to report the route was blocked by a decayed corpse. No one had been up there in years.
They went further down the biggest tunnel until a rockfall barred their progress. ‘What now?’ said Loys. ‘There were other tunnels – should we try them?’
Mauger glanced at him to silence him. The northerner spent a long time padding about on the rocks. Then he climbed the rockfall and began clawing away rocks at the top.
‘Careful,’ said Vandrad. ‘You don’t want this down on us.’
‘No chance of that,’ said Mauger. ‘These rocks are loose.’
After some time only Mauger’s feet were visible, and he had to wriggle to pass out the rocks he was removing. Then his feet disappeared.
‘Pass me through a lamp,’ said his voice.
Loys climbed up with a lamp and squeezed in himself. Mauger took the lamp and Loys crawled through. He was in a cavern quite unlike the ones above. This was damp, the walls shiny with moisture. The floor was more even too, with fewer loose rocks, and smooth, the rock rippled in layers as if it had lain on the bed of a river.
The Vikings came through to join them.
‘Those men above would dearly love to know this place existed,’ said Vandrad. ‘You could live licking the water off these walls.’
‘It would be impossible to find in the dark,’ said Mauger.
‘How did you know the rocks were loose?’ said Loys.
‘I didn’t know,’ said Mauger; ‘they just looked wrong. The ones that had fallen lay differently. The ones on top had been placed there.’
‘Someone’s trying to cover his trail,’ said a Varangian.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mauger. ‘Nothing makes a man easier to follow.’
‘I’ll leave a mark on the rock to help us on our return,’ said Vandrad. He scratched at the wall with his knife.
‘What’s that?’ said Loys.
‘Thor’s hammer.’
‘You don’t need a sky god down here,’ said Mauger. ‘Best call on Odin – he finds people’s way in the dark.’
Loys glanced at the Norseman. He wore a rough wooden cross at his neck but here, underground, in the old dark earth, he reverted to his heathen ways.
‘Then Odin,’ said Vandrad. He carved a strange symbol of three interlocking triangles on the wall. Loys was too concerned to get in and out of the tunnels to reproach him for his idolatry, but the symbol sparked his scholar’s curiosity, despite his unease.
‘What is that?’
‘The dead god’s necklace,’ said Vandrad. ‘A hanging knot.’
‘Three in one,’ said Mauger.
‘Three what?’ said Loys.
‘Never bothered to ask,’ said Mauger. The Vikings seemed to think this was a great joke. Mauger saw he had embarrassed the scholar and said, ‘It is a way of showing he is not a straightforward god. He’s many things to many men.’
‘Most gods are,’ said Loys, surprising himself with his cynicism. He offered an inward prayer as an apology.
‘Not Thor,’ said a Varangian. ‘He’s a smack round the head to many men.’
‘Well,’ said Vandrad, ‘let’s find old wolfboy and honour him in a way that god would like.’
Mauger held up his hand. ‘Silence from now on in,’ he said. ‘If he’s anywhere he’s down here. He’ll know we’re coming no matter what we do – the lamps will give us away – but let’s try to keep the warning to a minimum. When we find him we’ll try to take him alive. That might be possible – he’s been a long time down here with no food so he could be weak. However, I’ve encountered sorcerers like this before. They’re tricky bastards and hard ones too, some of them. If it gets too tough let’s make sure it’s him who dies and not one of us.’
Grim nods, a couple of muttered words of agreement and the men went on, Mauger first. The passage quickly became very steep and then narrower and steeper still. It split into two tunnels, both dropping. Mauger threw a pebble into one. A long pause and then a splash. In the other tunnel the pebble rattled down. That one then.
The descent was precipitous and there was no way to hold a lamp. Instead Vandrad waited at the top of the shaft with a light. When all the others were down, Mauger lit a lamp at the bottom, then Vandrad extinguished his and climbed down. A long low tunnel stretched away in front of them. They crawled along it until what Loys had feared happened – the tunnel dipped into water.
Mauger tapped Loys on the shoulder and beckoned him forward. Loys crawled around the Viking.
‘Someone has been through here,’ said Mauger in a low voice, ‘both ways. Look.’
In the flickering light Loys saw a muddy hand print on a rock near the water.
‘So?’
‘We can go through. Or try,’ said Mauger.
‘It’s a brave man who will go first,’ said Loys.
‘That’s you,’ said Mauger. ‘You are the one who most needs this wolfman. You can take this risk.’
‘The crawl could be any length,’ said Loys.
‘We will tie a rope about you. If you fear you’re starting to drown give three sharp tugs on it and we’ll pull you back.’
‘And if I make the other side?’
‘Just draw the rope through. Can you find a way to keep your tinder dry?’
‘I have a box,’ said Loys.
It was his one valuable possession – a small box in worked pearwood, so tight-fitting it was proof against damp weather. Would it keep the tinder dry underwater? Perhaps.
‘Go through, and if you can light your lamp then give five tugs on the rope,’ said Mauger. ‘If you can’t we’ll need to turn back.’
Loys prepared himself, checking his bag – his bread and cheese were going to get soaked so he quickly ate the bread. His lamp and the spare would likely be all right – their wicks were soaked in oil. The tinderbox was in God’s care. He put his knife in his belt.
‘Are you ready?’
Loys shrugged. He tied the rope around one leg – Mauger said he would get stuck if he put it around his waist. Then he took three big breaths and crawled down into the water. It was horribly cold and drove all the breath from him as he went in. He floundered and gasped, gulping in water. In four heartbeats he had returned to the surface, spluttering and coughing.
The Vikings greeted him with contempt in their stares. He lay panting on the floor, the men silent around him. When he had recovered, he tried again. This time he went under properly. Panic gripped him once more but he fought it down and clawed his way on. He floated up. White light flashed in his eyes as he banged his head on the ceiling. He flipped onto his back, pulling himself along by gripping the uneven rock above him. He desperately needed to breathe. He couldn’t go on. Panic was overwhelming him. He gave three sharp pulls on the rope with his foot but it was slack. He had to continue. Finally he could feel no ceiling above him and he kicked up, not knowing if he had reached the end of the tunnel or just some drowned chimney of rock that led nowhere. He didn’t know if he had reached air but he had no choice: he had to breathe in.
He gulped air into his lungs, casting about with his arms for dry land. Then the rope tightened and he was pulled back under. The Vikings clearly thought they had detected a signal and were pulling him back. He plunged back under the water, thrashing and scrambling to get purchase on the bank but it was no good, they were hauling him backwards. Horror made him find his knife and he slashed himself free of the rope.
He surfaced again and his hand hit something. He kicked towards it and felt around. Yes, dry rock. He carefully pulled himself out of the pool, wary of hitting his head if the ceiling was low. It wasn’t.
The dark was terrifying. Loys imagined the massive weight of rock above him, bearing down like a giant’s hand ready to crush him. He breathed in deeply, trying to summon up his courage. He reached into his bag. He had to be careful not to soak the tinder, so he put the box down carefully. Then he squeezed dry the wick of the lamp and made sure it was soaked in oil. He found his flint and tinder, struck �
� and screamed.
No more than an arm’s length away crouched the cadaverous figure of the wolfman. Even in the brief instant of the flint flash he saw he was filthy and nearly starved, indeed like a wolf, or a corpse come back to life to answer a sorcerer’s call. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes dark pits and his body sinewy, terribly lean.
‘You’ve returned.’
The words were in Norse. Loys heard only the voice. Once again he could see nothing. He backed into the wall, desperate to hide from that horrible man.
‘You were with my brother.’ The voice was just as near.
Loys held his knife out, praying his eyes would adjust to the dark. They did not. There was no light, none at all.
‘Calm yourself,’ said the wolfman. ‘I have no reason to kill you. Why are you here? I took steps to make sure I was not followed.’
‘I’m looking for you,’ said Loys. No profit in lying.
‘For what reason?’
‘This sky, the deaths, the emperor’s affliction …’
‘What deaths?’
‘In the streets above people are dying all at one time, falling to lie cold on the ground where a moment before they stood living as you and I live.’
‘He is coming,’ said the wolfman.
‘Who? Christ?’
‘Does it matter to give the god a name? He who hung on the tree, wounded by the spear, chilled by the stars and blinded by the moon. The god who is three, he is coming here.’
‘A demon then?’
‘Who is the one who killed the guards, the one you took from here?’
‘He is a monk of the Norman lands, as am I.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He was my friend. He came here to save me.’
‘From what?”
‘Assassins sent to kill me.’
‘And why are you so important?’
‘I am a scholar. Loys of the Abbey of Rouen. I ran away with the lord’s daughter.’
Lord of Slaughter (Claw Trilogy 3) Page 28