by Aaron French
By the light of his torch he could see the contorted fungus shapes all about him, like sinners pent in Hell. The walls were alive with them. The mass of dripping mold was not one thing, but hundreds of crusted convolutions which resembled nothing so much as tormented human figures. He tried not to look at them too closely. “Wherefore by their fruits shall ye know them,” he said, casting his words before him like stones.
The torch flickered in the clutches of a sudden draft, and the stones around him echoed with the dull pounding of the storm on the island above. The steps beneath his feet, smothered as they were by mold, had been carved centuries ago, before either Venetian, Florentine or Lombard had prowled the waters of the Adriatic. Those who knew about such things swore that the island had first been settled by the Romans, and that the roots of the keep-turned-abbey that now occupied it were built on the bones of some ancient shrine to the gods of antiquity.
Corsi thought there was some merit in the idea; when the tides receded and the waters of the lagoon above grew low, one could see the remains of an old Roman road leading from Grado to the island. Granted, the water levels had changed some since the days of the Caesars, and now the only way to reach the island was by boat.
The brothers of the Order of Saint Benedict who made the abbey their home were probably glad enough for the latter. The world had been in upheaval since Baldwin had sat his fundament on the throne of Jerusalem. Wars in the west and the east, plague, kings losing their heads left and right. But here, such things seemed far away.
Then, there were worse things than wars and plague. His grip on his sword tightened, and he felt the old familiar fear stir in him, like a startled serpent. Hazy half-formed images, brief snatches of memories that were not his, or at least not his alone surfaced. He smelled the foetid stink of the great jungles that stretched across the horizon and felt the strange warmth of the basalt towers. He saw again the horrid, lurching shapes of his captors. He heard again the voices of his fellow prisoners—the Frank, Montagny, the Aegyptian, Khephnes, the Saxons, Peaslee and Woodville, the Roman Blaesus—men like himself, torn from their God-given flesh, and trapped in devilish shapes.
For five years, he had been Hell’s prisoner, confined within a cage of unnatural flesh, in a body not his own. For five years, one of them—demon, fallen angel, something else—had occupied his shape. No one would tell him what it had done with his hands, or said with his mouth. But he knew. He dreamed of those dark, forgotten days, and wept upon awakening.
Corsi closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer as he did every time the old memories threatened to overwhelm him. The images receded, back into the roots of his mind with all of the other bad memories, where he wished they would stay. They did not lack for company, for his had been a life of sin.
He had been a man of the world before he became a lamb of God, killing the enemies of Anjou and later, hunting the foes of the Florentine Republic. He’d killed men in the Holy Land under the banners of Robert of Normandy, and hunted Syrian pirates in Byzantine waters. The sword he held had spilt the blood of Christian, pagan and Turcoman alike. But he’d seen the face of God in the fire of Jerusalem’s fall, and he’d traded his armor for a cassock and his boots for sandals, but God had seen fit to call him back to his original trade after his time in Hell.
The world was adrift in a sea of darkness, and Holy Mother Church had use for a man who had seen the torments of the Pit firsthand, and knew which bit of a sword went into an enemy’s belly. There were enemies abroad worse than any Mohammedan or heretic, and it was Corsi’s burden—his duty—to face them, wherever they might lair.
Corsi’s foot came down off of the last step onto a mass of fungus and something that might have been a whimper escaped from it, rippling up past him. He jerked his foot back and swept his torch across the floor.
The light caught on ridges that might have been terror-widened mouths and staring smoothness that might have been eyes or shoulders or heaving limbs. Corsi turned in a slow circle, the light of his torch dancing over the walls and floor to catch the shapes that seemed to swim upwards through the floor and along the walls, towards the ceiling in straining, bulbous rashes of unmoving mold. He did not wonder what they were running from. He suspected he knew the answer.
He had been sent to seek it out after all, and dispatch it as best he might, God willing. He recalled the face of Selvo, the abbot, as he’d spoken about the plague of creeping mold and rot that afflicted the abbey. It had begun in the balneary—the baths—spreading in the warmth and the wet, as such things do. When the stores in the refectory went bad, the brothers had thought nothing of it. Such things happen, after all, in places like this. But it had grown worse, day by day. The fungus crept into the dormitories, invading the brethren’s cells and the chapel. Outside, it was just as bad. The brothers had to put down what little livestock they had and the fruits of their gardens were rendered inedible.
It had taken years, growing slowly in strength. But then, that was ever the way of it, Corsi knew. His soul had not been wrenched from him all at once, but slowly pried free of its mortal flesh over the course of months. Evil grew in the dark and the quiet, and by the time men recognized it for what it was, it had grown strong indeed. “Their hand is at your throat, though you see it not,” he murmured. He couldn’t recall where he’d learned that particular phrase, from what book or scroll, but it seemed apt.
He pressed on through the catacombs, striding across flat, heavy foundation stones carpeted with bunches of mold and the humps of toadstools clustering between them. In the light of his torch, he saw that the walls around him bulged with mushrooms and furry streaks that blended in hideous harmony to give shape to still more faces and hands and other, less identifiable things. But all of it was covered in the yellow mold, which rustled and strained like a thing aware in the draft.
None of it was natural. Corsi was no herbalist, but he knew the slime of the Outer Dark when he trod on it. That much he’d learned in his time in the jungles of Hell. “Until out of corruption, horrid life springs,” he said.
His words were not swallowed this time, but echoed about him, louder than he’d intended. He’d come to a large, domed chamber, where ribs of wood and brick held up a roof of stone. It was the heart of the catacombs, where generations of the Veles family had been interred in the stone vaults that might once have played witness to the mysteries of Rome. Water dripped from somewhere, creating tiny rivers of running wetness which curled between the stones of the floor. The smell was stronger here, and it seemed to permeate everything.
He froze. A sound, deep and raspy, echoed through the cellar. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Corsi crept through the brick and stone archways, moving swiftly, but carefully, not looking at the mold which covered everything. Things moved in the darkness around him, he thought, things that grunted and clawed at the stone softly as they watched him pass. Rats perhaps or something worse. “Things have learned to walk that ought to crawl,” he muttered. Evil bred evil, of one kind or another. And that evil was aware of him now, watching him, listening to him, stalking him without moving.
He did not know what it was, or what it might have been. How long had it lain in the dark, creeping forward to reclaim that which it had once owned? Who had it been, when it last stood in the light of day? He shook his head irritably.
Corsi had never been a man for questions. He was neither curious nor creative, and though he could read and write, his only pleasure was in scripture. He and the sword he held were of a kind, forged for a singular purpose. That was why he had been chosen, he thought, both by Hell and the church. He was not brave, for was a sword brave? He was but a tool in the hands of God. And tools felt no fear, and needed only a guiding hand to see that they accomplished their task. “Into thy hands I commend myself,” he said.
A noisome, humid draft swirled about him, and his torch guttered, nearly going out. He turned his body to protect it, and saw a gap in the wall before him. The stones l
ooked as if they had been forced outward by the slow, persistent expansion of the foulness which billowed from it. Mold and fungus had broken the ancient seals and spread from there. Despite the damp and the effluvial growth which made the crumbled wall resemble nothing so much as the gaping mouth of a leper, the air was cold. Colder here than anywhere else in the catacombs. His breath frosted before him, in spite of the cloth covering his face.
The broken stones seemed to leer at him, and he could hear a sound emanating from within the hole. It was a soft, insistent sound, like moss being ripped from wood and the glow of his torch began to fade as if all of the air were being drawn towards the hole. In the growing darkness, he felt, rather than saw, something shift and move and begin to rise within it, like a parody of birth. What nightmare shape festered in that charnel womb? He could not say. He only knew he would not allow it to be born unchallenged. That was why he had come, and why he had been brought alive from the jaws of Hell.
Corsi raised his blade, a prayer on his lips. “Negotium perambulans in tenebris,” he intoned. “I name thee the pestilence that walks in darkness, the evil fruit of a corrupt tree.” He extended his blade. “The soul of the devil-bought hastens not from its clay. Thus, you shall be cast into the fire.”
Something gurgled in the darkness. It was a mud in a bucket sound, deep and unpleasant. It was laughter, he thought, laughter from a thing which had not laughed in centuries. The thing began to move again, pushing itself up. He had the impression of spindle-thin arms, and a moldering shroud and something that shined in the dark—an eye, perhaps, or a bit of jewellery. Something, then, was left of the man it had been, once upon a time. Some stray scrap of mortality that might yet prove its undoing.
“Veles,” he spat. The thing stilled. “Veles. In whose name did you rule this island? In whose name do you seek to take it back from those whom your kin gifted it?” His words seemed to catch on the air, and were swallowed by the soft masses of mold. “Questions for scholars or alchemists, I think. I am but a humble monk. And I know only one way to give you absolution.”
He tossed aside his torch, as the flame weakened and turned blue. The thing began to pull itself towards the aperture and he stalked to meet it. “Your covenant with death shall be annulled. Your agreement with the realm of the dead shall not stand. And when the overwhelming scourge passes over, then you shall be trodden down by it. Come forth and receive God’s judgement, Veles, if that be your name. Come forth!”
The laughter, if that was what it was, ceased. A stench swept over him and enfolded him in its foul wings, choking him. It was the miasma of ages, the stink of sin steeped in its own foulness. It had waited so long, gathering its strength. God alone knew what it intended, should it free itself. Then, what was one more pestilence in a world rife with them? “Come forth,” he whispered. “Come forth, so that I might give you absolution, and make good the bequest.”
With a great ripping sound, the thing lunged, flowing towards Corsi like a geyser of foulness. He could not see it clearly in the darkness, and for that he was glad. His blade swept out, and he was nearly jarred from his feet as the blow connected. There was a wet shriek, like a sail tearing in a storm, and then he was shoved backwards across the floor. He lost his grip on his sword as his back connected painfully with the wall.
Corsi heard something heavy crashing around in the dark, and he thought of a serpent he’d beheaded as a boy, twisting and writhing in on itself for long agonizing moments before it finally fell still. The air was filled with a foul odor, and he groped blindly for his blade. A keening whistle threatened his eardrums, and he realized that the sound was coming from the fungal growths all about him. Each and every wet clump had cracked wide, and the sound speared forth from them. He thought that there might have been words there, curses and pleas, but he ignored them. The words of the dead were not meant for the living. His clawing fingers found the pommel of his sword and he snatched it up as he lurched to his feet. Sparks were drawn from the stone as the sword scraped across it and he swung it up over his head and hurled himself at the writhing shadowy mass.
It struck out at him, and he felt something flabby crash against him. Sharp things tore at his flesh, and he felt the mass lurch into him like a wounded beast. Two burning embers which might have been eyes glared at him as he slashed out with his blade. The dark shape writhed and seemed to collapse in on itself.
He brought his sword down, parting the darkness. Its edge struck stone and shivered. His arms were covered in something wet and tarry, his face and chest as well. He staggered back to his fallen torch. The flame, once close to being extinguished, had grown in strength and had set alight the moss upon which it had fallen, as if the latter had suddenly become exceedingly dry. He snatched up the torch. “Every tree that bringeth forth not good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire,” he croaked and stabbed the torch down into the deflating bulk of the thing he’d felled. He didn’t know whether he’d killed it, whether it even could be killed, but he knew somehow that what steel couldn’t accomplish, fire would.
He backed away. The flames caught and fed hungrily on the indistinct bulk. Soon, they lapped at the walls and crawled across the floor. By their light, he found his way back to the steps. Corsi did not once look behind as he climbed back up into the clean air and light of God’s grace.
About the author: Josh Reynolds is a professional freelance author whose credits include novels, short fiction and audio productions. As well as his own work, he has written for a number of popular media tie-in franchises, including Games Workshop’s Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40,000 lines. He can be found online at http://joshuamreynolds.wordpress.com/.
Weaned on Blood
Richard Gavin
Omnibus Exclusive
Brother Baldemar stood beneath the quarry-rock wing of a flying buttress, studying the copse that seemed to stretch and deepen with the setting sun. It was his first night within the cloister of the Trappist abbey and he hoped the nagging uneasiness he’d been experiencing since his arrival was simply unfamiliarity. Though he was not expecting to spot one of his fellow monks emerging from the shadowy forest, he was quite puzzled as to why this innocuous sight had managed to unsettle him so.
The monk hurried across the open field, his hood drawn. He stopped at the carven birdbath (vacant, as the swallows and finches were all wisely nested until morning’s light) and scooped up several handfuls of rainwater, rubbing his hands vigorously and then shaking them dry. The brother then knelt before the large cross with its carven Christ and performed what Baldemar considered a trifling genuflection.
A deep metallic thunder purged these judgments from Baldemar’s mind as the bell summoned him and his brethren to Vespers.
Baldemar spent the bulk of the following day conversing with his fellow monks in between the requisite observances and chores. This particular Trappist abbey may have been new to him, but monastic life was not, and this brought a measure of comfort to Baldemar, which managed to nourish him.
Until sunset.
What impelled him to creep back to the shaded perch of that same cloister, Baldemar was unclear. Some force (which he hoped was purer than mere suspicion or unseemly curiosity) pushed him to the outer rim. There he waited, and any feelings of guilt harbored over being suspicious of his brethren were eclipsed by a mounting sense of unease once he saw the robed figure once again fleeing out of the woods and cutting across the yard.
Although disguised by his upraised hood, this brother was noticeably taller than the one who had emerged the night before. Still, his actions were almost identical: the hasty march across the grass, the frantic washing with rainwater, and the genuflecting before the large cross upon which an alabaster Christ hung.
Once the mysterious brother had entered the abbey, Baldemar approached the birdbath. The bells tolled as if to hurry him. It was quite dim, but there was enough sunlight to illuminate the still-unsettled water in the bath. A few faint streaks swirled about the otherwise transparent po
ol. He reached out to touch the eel-like contaminant, but stopped himself.
With heartfelt need he looked up to the crucified effigy and crossed himself before rushing off to Vespers.
***
“My plans for the morning?” Baldemar echoed as he passed the wooden bowl of gruel to Brother Jerome. “I thought I’d take a walk through the woods. I’ve not yet explored the area.”
He was watching Brother Jerome, hoping for some type of reaction, but none was forthcoming.
“A splendid idea,” Jerome returned. “I can show you the nicer paths if you wish.”
After breakfast the two men breached the thickets and the shrubs that distinguished their cloistered grounds from the verdant church of nature. The sun irradiated them, casting the whole scene into something like an etching. They strolled and spoke of matters secular and matters of the Catechism. Baldemar was charmed by the landscape of his new home.
After a time the two monks found themselves stationed at the nexus of four crossed paths. As it was the direction of his stronger hand, Baldemar instinctively began down the left-most path. Brother Jerome gripped his elbow with what Baldemar felt was unnecessary force.
“That path gets rather treacherous,” said Jerome. “I suggest we take this one here. It’s much more pleasant.”
Baldemar heeded the wisdom of his brother and onward they went, past moss-contoured stones, imperial oaks, and all manner of scuttling and lively fauna.