The girl started to talk. Her voice was youthful and bright, but she recited her story in the third person. It gave the rendition a creepy puppet like quality that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and sent a cold disquiet through his bones. He had sent men across the mountains to look for this girl and now, through an odd twist of fate, she was standing right before him.
‘It is night and she’s hiding on a mountain ledge. Her uncle is injured and she’s supposed to be resting with him. But after witnessing the exodus from their camp she was compelled to follow. Her leg throbs with poison and it was only with gritted teeth and sheer force of will that she reached this place.
‘A man appears from a rocky channel below. Another appears behind him and then another until there’s a whole row of men marching up the pass. Higher up, seven elders await them – four women and three men. And their leader Gallianos is with them. He wears the Creator Stone around his neck and it shines with an inner rainbow of colours -’
‘- It is the very stone that hangs from The Reader today,’ the Butcher interrupted; like a child who can’t wait to share an insight, ‘But it is smaller around his neck.’
‘On route,’ he went on as the girl, ‘they sling their weapons into a rocky gully and shout something. It’s a word she can’t make out, but they shout it from their hearts. They gather in a deep bowl of rock. She begins to count them, but gives up at a hundred and fifty when they start to mingle. She recognises Mr Thenyon - a woodcutter who lives on the outskirts of Joebel and Tom Denny, the baker’s apprentice who once pushed her into a river playing tig. The men embrace and the sound of clasping hands rings around the mountain. Eventually Gallianos raises an arm and they grow solemn and still. ‘‘A great pestilence has gathered at the foot of the mountain,’’ he says. ‘‘A great pestilence that has driven us from our homes and into these mountains. Tomorrow it will rise from the foothills and take what’s left of us.... Men of the new world, tonight you give your lives...’’ His voice hitches and wavers and she can see that he weeps, ‘… so others can live on… Long will your descendants heap honour and gratitude upon you.’’ Two men set down a large iron pot of liquid. They queue up, fill the cups they are carrying and spread out. A toast is made and the word they cried before rings out again. This time the word is clear as it is spoken with the power of their collective voice: Eternity!
‘Heads tilt back as one and the liquid is drunk. Not a single man falters in the act. Silence claims the scene - the men as still as statues. Minutes slip by; then almost as one their knees buckle. Some drop like stones, others stagger and collide, but soon enough, a tangled mass of bodies covers the rocky bowl. Movements catch her eye, the twitches and convulsions of those nearest to her and she realises some of them are still alive. Gallianos grasps the Creator Stone and holds it up. The jewel flares and her senses are slain by a crippling force that infuses the air.’ Her voice wavered and she morphed briefly into the wolf, who began to whine and cower, its paws covering its head.
‘We struggle to tell this part,’ said the Butcher, taking his original form, ‘because the stone’s power was so great it burned the experience into her mind allowing us to relive it. We have felt the Wakening at your ridiculous Reader Ceremonies, but the power of the stone is much more than that. If there’s a god of creation, she was in its presence.’
His eyes glazed over and his face morphed back into hers.
‘Her heart quickens and it is like she exists outside of herself, her life suspended while the jewel does its work. There is movement from the twitching pile of men as an invisible force begins to manipulate them, lifting and twisting their limbs and separating them from their bodies. There are no cries of pain, but the stillness of the mountain is profaned by the tearing and ripping of flesh and sinew. Deep into the night the work continues. Gallianos holds the jewel up and his arm never falters. The seven elders that stand with him are as rigid as the rocky outcrops on which they stand.
‘Scavenger birds are drawn by the carnage, but they soon settle on ledges; transfixed by the spectacle. By the time the cold eye of the moon looks directly down on the rocky bowl, bones and flesh have been separated and they rest in a pool of blood that looks black in its light.’ The girl’s eyes opened wide, bursting with excitement. But Kass understood it was the Butcher’s emotion he was seeing and not hers. ‘The Creator Stone breaks and fuses the bone, raising an enormous skeletal frame from the grisly soup. Its skull is formed from several pieces coming together all at once and her heart misses a beat. Suddenly the skeleton seems sentient – the owner of the power that created it. She shrinks down on the ledge. In its empty eye sockets, she senses the presence of a pitiless god.
‘Organ tissue rises up and packs the frame. One huge mass, the size of a boulder disappears into its chest. She realises it’s a heart, forged from the individual hearts of the fallen men. Muscle and tendon follow - wrapping and layering the bone; empowering its joints. The pool of black blood is drained dry as the skinless titan draws it up through its feet. Eventually all that remains of the men is a litter of clothes and folded material she realises is skin. This latter comes together now in huge swatches that rise up and wrap the giant figure like bandages.
‘Now it is done and it stands there like a child born of the mountain - a titan whose proportions and features are the average of the sacrificed men. There is hardly time to appreciate it before Gallianos throws his hands up and a shock wave thunders through the mountain. Silence. Then a double thud from its chest. It lives!’
The Butcher’s face came back and his eyes were full of wonder. ‘I wish you could see it Riole. It is our favourite memory.’ He clutched his hands to his chest, looking like a love sick maiden thinking about her betrothed. ‘A memory we value more than all the rest put together. It’s so vivid and raw - more beautiful than blood on freshly fallen snow.’ His eyelids flickered and he shivered with pleasure, his spectral form glowing through several shades of red and orange.
‘Gallianos finally lowers the stone,’ he went on, his face blinking back into that of the girl’s. ‘The elders fill their cups in the iron pot and return to him. Now they drink. But this time they die. Gallianos removes his mantle and lays it over each in turn. Their ghosts rise through it and disappear into the titan’s head. When the last of them vanish, he holds the Creator Stone against the mantle and it turns to ash. In its place is a spectral mantle which he draws around his shoulders before dropping to his knees.’
Not since he was six years old had Kass been so rapt by a story and as the Butcher went on all other thoughts melted away in the periphery of his mind.
‘He remains there for the rest of the night, pouring out his grief at the foot of his creation. It is not until the moon sets and the sun glazes the tips of the mountain that he pushes himself to his feet. He looks up at the titan and there’s some silent communication between them. High above two eyes open… With movements as sure and smooth as any man it reaches into the gully where the men cast their weapons and picks up two enormous swords. There has been some magic in that gully she hasn’t seen. It takes Gallianos in one massive hand and thunders away down the pass. She climbs down from the ledge and hobbles out onto a rocky spur that gives her a clear view across the plains and her heart quails at what she sees.
‘Smoke drifts across the Eastland as the homes of her people burn. Gathered against the foot of the mountains is an Uhuru army. A race that had, until a week ago, existed in her mind only as a result of the stories told by her parents and teachers. Now the Uhuru are here and her parents are gone; lying unburied beneath the drifting smoke.
‘Below her the titan is crashing down the mountain towards the army, bounding off great precipices and sliding down banks of shale - breaking off great boulders that tumble after it. On a rocky outcrop she sees Gallianos and his robes are flapping in the wind.
‘The titan lunges from the mountain and thuds down amongst the Uhuru, setting about them with its twin swords. A second later she is h
it by another shock wave – a blast of pure terror that radiates from the Creator Stone. A weapon designed to strike fear into the hearts of its enemies. Even though she stands high above the battlefield the urge to flee is immense. But she watches, trembling; barely able to hold her water. The Uhuru do not flee. She knows they resist with the power of another stone: a green gemstone full of mist and malice. Green fire erupts from their ranks, but the titan is unharmed. A skin of white spirit light emanates from it, deflecting the enemy’s attacks around its body so it appears to fight through a twisting mesh of fiery green veins. The smell of burnt butter is carried up to her on the breeze.’
‘Isn’t that odd?’ said the Butcher. ‘That the coming together of the two great powers should smell like something as mundane as burnt butter.’ His face flickered over hers and he sniffed hard, closing his eyes as he savoured the smell. Then the girl was back again.
‘The titan smites the Uhuru, carving and trampling, and it is as if they raise their bright magic only to celebrate their own death. She sees two of their giant snakes. The distance has shrunk them to the size of worms, but it doesn’t stop her leg from throbbing. One of them disappears under the titan’s foot – its tail whips up and spasms before one great sword cuts it in half. It rages amongst its foes, never tiring or faltering, slicing through great swathes of Uhuru with every swipe of its heavy blades. Eventually it stands alone in a stain of carnage.
‘Now it strides across the plains toward Joebel. It stops in the centre, knee deep in houses. At its feet is the rat hole from where the Uhuru poured - the portal they forged from the other side of the universe. It discards its swords, kneels and reaches in. White fire erupts from its arms, becoming so bright she loses sight of Joebel entirely. She feels the mountain quake and when the light dies, the portal is closed.’
The Butcher’s face reappeared and his eyes were brimming with gleeful expectancy.
‘You lie,’ said Kass in a voice that betrayed his groping mind. He had been so drawn into his story that his draw had fizzled away again and for the last few minutes he had been completely vulnerable. He knew the Butcher had sensed it, but he seemed more interested in his reaction and was staring at him with a childish satisfaction.
‘You doubt me? So did Izle. We have told you what was in her mind and nothing more; but if it is a delusion, her imagination is better equipped than reality itself… What’s the alternative? That the titan, or The Reader as you call it, is a selector of kings, dropped from the sky to serve the Westland?’ He shook his head with contempt. ‘Do you really believe that Krass Riiiiole?
‘The last command Gallianos gave the titan was to protect the Creator Stone and to allow only those with noble intentions to access it. That’s why it was mistaken for a selector of kings.’
Kass’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
‘Izle believed her story,’ he smirked. ‘But there again he had no choice. While he was trying to purge us, we were busy imbuing his mind with her story. In the end he saw it as we do and it became an obsession that drove him to test himself at a Reader Ceremony. He never stood a chance and I knew it. Izle failed because the titan saw the selfish purpose within him… He didn’t take his rejection very well did he? You all thought his reaction was due to injured pride, but what really irked him was he knew he would never get his hands on the Creator Stone. He came back to us in frustration and anger and we consoled him by telling him there was another way.’
‘And what way is that?’
‘Protection of the stone was not what the titan was created for. Oh, it performs such function well enough, but we suggested to him that it wasn’t infallible. Gallianos gave it this guard duty – the afterthought of a mortal man and not a design of the Creator Stone itself. We convinced him he had the power to trick The Reader. Was it not a basic skill of the exorcists to resist an invasion of the mind? To compartmentalise thoughts and feelings and keep them out of reach of a would be possessor? Wouldn’t that work with The Reader? Couldn’t he simply hide from its scour?’
‘Why didn’t you try?’
The Butcher laughed. ‘We did! But we were rejected. Go look at the records if you don’t believe us. They say we’re mad and perhaps they’re right. Look at us Kass. We are not one voice, but many. And we couldn’t all hold all our tongues under its glare. In truth, we don’t know if it’s possible to fool The Reader. We only suggested it to keep his interest while we worked on him. We advised him to strengthen his mind with forbidden arts and sent him back up to the Caliste like a sickness.
‘If Izle’s back, it’s to go before The Reader again. He might even try to kill the King to initiate a ceremony.’ Kass stiffened and the Butcher grinned. ‘He’s already killed him hasn’t he? It’s written all over your face… If he gains possession of the Creator Stone, he’ll destroy your noble edifices. And it will be all our doing.’ He swept an arm in front of him like a magician completing his trick. ‘This is our legacy Kass Riole! You have imprisoned us here in this tree sap prison and in return we have poisoned one of your finest men and turned him loose.’ The Butcher’s face was bright with triumph; the dead congregation behind his eyes united in pleasure. ‘Well Riole, what do you think of that?’
Kass’s mind was reaching out in several ways at once. The death of the King made sense now. A Reader Ceremony was imminent and with the Caliste out of the way there would be no one to stop him getting a reading. Kass had much to think about, but it didn’t change the purpose of his visit. His priority was still Irongate’s rogue spirit and the Butcher remained his only hope.
‘An interesting tale, but no doubt a delusion of your sick mind.’ The look of self-satisfaction plummeted from the Butcher’s face. ‘You believe you’re the greatest spirit lure that has ever lived. But you are not. Granted, you were formidable in your own time, but now you’re nothing more than a historical sideshow. There’s a different world outside this rock and your talents have been surpassed by many. The spirits we put in the cells either side of you make you look like a fumbling child.’
‘Liar!’ He turned his head left and right, looking through the walls of his cell. His surface boiled like lava, pushing out dozens of faces and swallowing them again.
‘You were once feared, but now you’re pitied. You say I have no control over my draw, but look at you. You have no control over yourself.’ The Butcher rippled and bulged, his face twitching as he tried to suppress the rising turmoil inside him. Kass stepped away from the wall and grew tall.
‘You asked me if I housed a power of which you should be wary. Now’s your chance to find out. I came to purge you. To free this cell up for one greater than you. There are others that could do it, but I needed to fill a quiet time when I had only my thumbs to twiddle. You are housekeeping forgotten - housekeeping overdue.’ His voice rose as he spoke, exuding strength and confidence. Not a single note of fear crept into it, for there was none in him. He was bristling with the vigour of youth and it was coursing through his veins.
The Butcher stared at him, stunned.
‘What…? The Butcher of Baker’s Cross hesitates. Do you fear to strike an old man with a wobbly draw? An old man who visits you alone... They say you fear no exorcist. But you fear me now, don’t you? Come here Butcher and bring your congregation of ghosts.’
Our Game!
The Butcher frothed and fizzled like butter in a hot pan. He drew back with a snarl of rage and bore down on him in a blast of spirit wind that should have lifted him from his feet. But Kass was ready.
The theory of Membrane dynamics proposed that the souls of the living were contained in pockets held together like the puckered end of a drawstring bag. His draw had been building behind the neck of that theoretical bag and as the Butcher flew at him he loosened the drawstring, turning the bag into a windsock for his gust; welcoming rather than resisting his assault. It was well timed and he managed to confine most of his momentum to the Membrane. But a tiny fraction leaked through and it struck him like a battering ram,
sending him flailing against the wall. His heart stuttered and he gripped his chest. Not now. His body couldn’t fail him now.
He wrapped him in his draw and pressed down on him from all sides. The Butcher fought ferociously, trying to expand into his head with a fountain of insane voices that would have flooded a lesser mind.
‘Is that your heart knocking on the Membrane Peehole?’
‘I think you’re dying! Three seconds left to live Kriole. Three, two, one, BOO!’
‘Don’t brag, you’re the King of the Cragg.’
‘Sixteen!’
‘Shshshsh.’
The trick was not to fight the voices; but to let them spiral away while maintaining steady pressure with his draw. If he entertained so much as a single voice, the Butcher would take possession of him.
‘Warm blood steaming on cold snow.’
‘Absent when present and present when Absent.’
‘Reach up and scratch out your eyes. Do it now! ... Do it now! ... Do… It… Now!’
‘The Creator Stone in your hand; the titan in your power.’
The voices faded as he bore down, partitioning the Butcher from the rest of his mind. He imagined gagging and binding him with a succession of mental knots. The last one he wove through the rest and left loose. Tightening it would purge the Butcher and he didn’t want to do that just yet.
He turned around and leant against the wall, steadying his breathing and waiting for the pain in his chest to subside. His mistlamp was broken, but he still had his mist stone. It pulsed on his finger, bleeding its poison light onto the wall – a green abscess in the black belly of the mountain.
With only the stone’s light to guide him he groped his way through the antechamber and up the iron ladder. He conducted a series of internal scours as he moved through the dungeons, making sure the Butcher wasn’t wriggling free. It was always better to tighten the knots as they came loose rather than wait for them to drop off altogether. But to his surprise the Butcher was perfectly still within him. So still, it was hard to feel him there at all. With each scour he became increasingly concerned. Contained spirits always fought against their bindings. Always.
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