[Angelika Fleischer 02] - Sacred Flesh

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  Devorah trembled, transfixed, as a chill wind came down at them from the mountains. Her skin had taken on a pale, papery quality and her lips were dry and chapped. She swung her willowy frame listlessly from side to side as Franziskus and Angelika approached. Angelika frowned. Devorah seemed the least able to move, but she also had the most to lose if they remained as targets in the gully. No matter how bad she looked now, she was still a fetching young woman.

  Franziskus stooped beside Devorah. Angelika turned, to keep a watch On the armoured men. They appeared to be heading off south, toward the base of the mountain, but it could easily be a ruse.

  She saw movement behind her and turned to see that Ludwig had sunk back down to a seated position, his back up against the tree. So many fine and cutting remarks occurred to Angelika that it was impossible for her to choose between them. So she settled for a derisive snort and moved his way.

  Ludwig’s face turned grey. His eyes became pinpoints of appalled realisation. His Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat. He threw his head back and his mouth popped open. A shower of bright orange liquid blew past his lips and washed down his tunic and leggings. Angelika rocked back on her heels, covering her nostrils, as the combined odours of decaying food, bile and blood rolled over her. The acid stench made her eyes water.

  When she was able to open them again, she saw that Ludwig had pitched forward, and orange muck was still issuing from his mouth and nose. His head hit the ground. He lay there, convulsing. The smell stopped Angelika from approaching him. As it wafted onto the rest of the party, Recht stooped over to vomit, followed by Waldemar, then Devorah and Udo. Ludwig’s body ceased writhing. Trickles of blood escaped from his ears and the corners of his eyes. Angelika did not need to touch him to know he was dead.

  She turned her back on the corpse. There’d be gold in his purse. Angelika suspected there was more, sewn inside his shirt: she’d heard Ludwig clanking as he walked. She hesitated. If he’d merely been covered in gore and viscera, she’d already be sorting him out, relieving the body of every last groat. She sniffed tentatively at the air and shook her head. No, this was too much, even for her. Maybe for thirty crowns she’d do it, but she was sure Ludwig didn’t have half that much on him. She plodded on, ordering the others to follow, leaving Ludwig in a pool of his own rotten juices.

  She waited for someone—Franziskus, if no one else—to complain, to tell her she ought to stop for a decent burial. No one did. She thought Gerhold, at least, or Lemoine maybe, would offer a few pieties, or find a few words of praise to speak in the dead sailor’s memory. Silence prevailed.

  Finally Angelika spoke. “I never saw a man kill an orc like Ludwig did on the day we first met.” She listened to the trudge of her boots as she worked her way up the slope. “To shove a cudgel down a greenskin’s throat, handle first. That was a new one on me.” Richart indicated his agreement with an appreciative nod. Angelika turned back to see if she could see a hint of sorrow on any of the faces behind her. She hadn’t cared for him particularly, but someone ought to. Someone ought to at least pretend, for a moment or two.

  Other pilgrims, already labouring their way up the hillsides, filled the air with chatter and the grunts of bitter exertion. Tinny bells clamoured from higher up in the hills. A round of chanting began, but it was abruptly silenced. Somebody laughed, somewhere.

  The group moved out of the gully toward the base of the mountain, which was swaddled with layered foothills, like the rolls of fat on a glutton’s belly. Not long before, these would probably have been covered with tall grasses or even overgrown with shrubs, like the other hills around them. Now, the skirts of the Holy Mountain were bare and brown—they had been reduced to mud and rock by the teeming, crawling masses. Angelika stopped. She reckoned that a healthy party could make it up the hills in just under a day. How long it would take her group remained an open question.

  She craned her neck to survey the rest of the mountain. The hills eventually gave way to a flat expanse of dark, scraped rock. Rising from this plateau was the final rock summit, draped with carpets of glacial ice. It would be these, Angelika realised, that the party would have to climb before they reached the summit, which was now hidden in a mass of charcoal-coloured clouds.

  What Angelika could not determine was the effect that the sheer number of travellers might have on their progress up the mountain. Several hundred travellers, at the very least, were scrabbling up the soiled hills. She watched as an oversized woman slid backwards, spilling loose earth and soil beneath her heels. She was roped to about a dozen other climbers, so her weight pulled them downwards with her, until all of them were somersaulting down the hillside together. They screamed, their limbs thrown helplessly outwards. Pilgrims below them scattered to escape the line of tethered, falling climbers. The less agile among them were caught up in the growing tangle of bouncing, rag-doll bodies. Finally the mass of tangled bodies hit a small shelf of relatively flat, exposed rock and came to a scraping, collective halt. They lay groaning and wailing, but it was not long before they clasped their hands together and began to chant out a wounded, weeping prayer to Shallya. A couple of the fallen seemed to be dead; their companions wailed and lifted their arms heavenwards, in either supplication or reproach. The fallen party reconstituted itself with surprising efficiency; the strays caught up in their dragline dusted themselves off and hauled themselves up to rejoin their own groups. Angelika watched as the slain were laid out on the rock and left behind with nothing more than a few hasty prayers. From here on, the dead could expect neither burial nor ceremony. They might—if they were exceedingly lucky—be retrieved by loved ones on their return.

  Angelika plodded up the hill, no longer caring who kept up with her, or what formation they maintained. Soon they would merge with this rippling human mass and it would no longer much matter who kept beside who. No half-sensible orc or bandit would bother to attack the mob on its way up the hill; they would have to expend breath climbing. If there were marauders about, they’d be hiding in the woods, waiting to pick off travellers as they returned and broke off into small, vulnerable groups.

  “I feel better, having purged myself of unclean humours,” Udo announced. Then he stopped abruptly before rushing a few paces away to throw up. Angelika kept the others moving and not long afterwards a pale and chastened Udo caught up with them.

  “I thought myself empty,” Udo said to Franziskus, who had taken a position at the back of the straggling procession. He held up Devorah, who leaned against him. He turned her head away from the merchant.

  “Please,” said Franziskus. “No more vivid descriptions.”

  Devorah’s lips brushed the lobe of Franziskus’ ear. He straightened his spine. He angled his shoulder a bit, so as to put a more discreet distance between himself and the soft-voiced young sister.

  Udo, not too bleary to lift a knowing eyebrow at Franziskus, moved on to join Ivo and Lemoine, who were the next nearest travellers in the ragged column.

  Devorah wormed her way past Franziskus’ defences, cuddling into him again. Franziskus felt a tingling of arousal. He tried to smother it with a quickly mumbled prayer, but the feeling remained.

  “Muh,” Devorah said.

  “Ssssh,” Franziskus shushed.

  “Muh-Mother H-Heilwig.”

  Franziskus patted the back of her wimpled head. “Yes,” he said. “She is gone, and that is a source of great sorrow. But you haven’t the strength to mourn her now. So ssshh. Lean against me and I’ll get you to the mountain.” He pulled her close to him. He couldn’t tell whether his words had helped the girl, but they’d quelled his own shameful urges. Franziskus made a silent promise to Shallya, that he would find some worthy sacrifice to make on her behalf, when they reached the top of the mountain, in atonement for this unseemly moment of carnal awareness.

  “Mother Heilwig,” Devorah mumbled.

  “Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.”

  “Mother Heilwig, you will forgive me, won’t you?” Devorah
turned glazed and imploring eyes on Franziskus.

  Realisation dawned on him—she wasn’t speaking to him about Heilwig. In her delirium, she’d confused him with the prioress. “It is not Heilwig,” he said to her. “I’m Franziskus.”

  Devorah touched his face with blind and groping fingers. “Heilwig,” she said.

  Franziskus saw that he and Devorah were falling further and further behind the other members of the party. Ivo and Udo, the nearest of the bunch, walked at a meandering pace, about three yards ahead. He wondered if he should call out for help, to find someone to take the girl off his hands. He dismissed the thought; there was no one else in the group he’d trust to take better care of her.

  “Delirium clouds your mind,” he said. “Heilwig is dead, Devorah. Remember?”

  A giddy smirk appeared on her parched lips. “Yes, mother. I know that you are dead. I can tell because you are surrounded in… radiant light.” Widening awestruck eyes, grinning ecstatically, Devorah went limp in Franziskus’ arms. She lolled her head back, basking in some unseen energy. Franziskus, unprepared for her entire weight, tottered backwards, and nearly twisted his ankle in a narrow depression forged by the wheels of a heavy cart. Devorah thrust her arms out before her in a gesture of supplication. “Oh, thank you, Mother Heilwig,” she said. “Bless you. You already know what is in my heart. I do not have to ask you.”

  Franziskus knew it would be wrong to ask what this meant. It would be like listening in on a confession.

  “You know, and you already forgive me,” Devorah said, to her vision of the dead prioress, who once again seemed superimposed over Franziskus.

  He blurted the question out. “Forgive you for what?”

  “Now I can be with him.”

  “With who?”

  “You know,” she said, firmly, as if it was a silly question. “Now I can renounce my vows.”

  “No, no,” said Franziskus. “You can’t do that.”

  Devorah was unperturbed. “You saved me, Mother Heilwig, from a life of wretchedness and iniquity. My debt was always to you. Now that you have transcended to Shallya’s realm of perfect love, that debt is discharged.”

  “When you recover from this state,” Franziskus said, “you will realise that your vows were made not to the prioress, but to the goddess. Surely these vows remain in force…” Franziskus disentangled himself from her. Then he set her on her feet and began to march ahead. Now a good ten yards separated them from Ivo and Udo. Angelika, who was at the head of the column, was at least twenty yards away.

  “Shallya is merciful,” Devorah muttered, stumbling reluctantly along beside him.

  “Yes,” he said, “Shallya has mercy.”

  “She takes mercy on those who follow her. If they see true happiness on another path, she permits them to take it.”

  Franziskus put the back of his hand on Devorah’s forehead. It burned. “How can you be sure you’re right?” he asked. “The goddess may have other plans…” Realising that he was arguing with a fever dream, Franziskus cut himself short.

  “I know,” said Devorah, her face glowing with perspiration and beatific certitude. “I see it just as plain as I see you, Mother Heilwig. He and I, in a clay-shingled cottage, smoke curling up from the chimney. Already I feel the hearth-fire’s warmth. Children play at our feet. Laughing, squealing. I hold him tight”—she tightened her grip around Franziskus’ waist—“and it is through him that I feel Shallya’s grace.”

  Franziskus pictured the things she spoke of. His breath caught in his throat. “No,” he said.

  Devorah’s eyes were shut. “I am so happy mother, that you and Shallya understand.”

  “No,” said Franziskus.

  “I love Franziskus.”

  “It is temptation.”

  “And Franziskus loves me.”

  “It is blasphemy.”

  “Goodbye, Mother Heilwig.”

  “These thoughts, Devorah—they are the sending of some foul imp or daemon.”

  Devorah pitched abruptly forward. Franziskus grabbed at her, but could not catch her. She fell flat into well-trodden mud and grass. She lay there, unmoving.

  She’s dead, Franziskus thought. She’s dropped dead, just like Ludwig did and Rausch before him. I rejected her, and it killed her. If I hadn’t rejected her, it would have been a gross sin against the gods. I did, so she died.

  He crouched over her. He felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. He heard himself burbling and sobbing. He heard the others, running back toward him.

  He rolled her over. Her porcelain face was muddied and still.

  I murdered her.

  Her mouth opened. She spat out a mouthful of damp grass. Her eyes opened.

  “Franziskus!” she said.

  She reached up to wrap her arms around him and pulled him down onto her. She lapsed once more into unconsciousness.

  Another pair of hands gripped Franziskus by the collar and yanked. It was Angelika. Franziskus fought his way free of Devorah’s grip and let himself fall backwards into Angelika’s. She let him drop, then stalked off to the side of the trail, as the other pilgrims, led by Brother Lemoine, tended to Devorah. Franziskus heard someone say, “I think her fever has broken.” He stumbled over to Angelika.

  “I’ve been keeping an eye out for our interests,” she said. “While you’ve been busy trying to get your paws under that girl’s habit.”

  “I assure you the opposite is true,” Franziskus said.

  Angelika watched as the others helped Devorah to her feet. “I don’t doubt that for a moment, sad to say. If you did give her a nice, solid groping, you’d both be better off for it.”

  Angelika turned back toward the mountaintop and resumed her ascent.

  An enervated, gasping voice spoke into her ear. “We’ll all die on these hills, won’t we?” Angelika turned to see that it was Waldemar. She bared her teeth at him. She shoved her hands on his chest and grabbed up handfuls of his tunic. She shouted huskily at him, shaking him, and she kept doing it until the others had gathered all around her with sorry, querying looks on their faces.

  “No!” she shouted, finally letting go of the summoner’s shirt. “All of you are going to hear me, understand, and believe what I say! Am I making myself clear?”

  They nodded haplessly, frightened of her again. Even Franziskus stepped back from her. Part of Angelika was caught up in her anger; the other part wanted to laugh. She wondered which part of her was crazier.

  “You’re all going to stop dying now. How about that? Is that fact clear to you?” She darted among them, bobbing her head like a crow, poking her face into each of theirs in turn. Ivo gulped, his moony ears twitching. Richart stuck his chin out in a gesture of defiantly maintained dignity. She snapped at him. He weaved back from her. “You won’t be dying on me, will you?”

  Richart shook his head, solemnly promising that he wouldn’t.

  Angelika noticed that pilgrims from other parties were beginning to gather around, drawn to her fury like moths to a lantern. She told herself that they did not exist.

  Brother Lemoine poked a crooked finger into the air, ready to ask a question. To get at him, Angelika let go of Devorah and elbowed Recht aside. She clasped Lemoine’s wrist, the one with the question-asking finger on it, and twisted it around to face him. Lemoine feebly moaned.

  “Yes?” she growled. Lemoine quivered. “Did you mean to ask if this shows some kind of change of heart on my part? That I now somehow care about your fates?”

  Lemoine’s trembling seemed to suggest that no, he was not under this impression.

  “Because that is not the case,” Angelika said, letting the monk’s arm flop down to his side. “If anything, your collective inability to survive this situation, into which all of you raced headlong, makes me angrier every time I stop to contemplate it. You idiots. You damn holy fools.” She raised her voice to encompass everyone on the despoiled hillside. “Is this worth it? No.”

  “I assure you,” she hissed, still b
earing down on Lemoine, “that I am still as selfish as ever. I want you to live merely because your dying disturbs the sublime tranquillity of my thoughts. And I do not intend to let you do that any longer. Understand?”

  Lemoine, belatedly realising that he had again been called upon to react, nodded mechanically.

  She turned to survey the entire group, or what was left of it: Ivo, Gerhold, Waldemar, Udo, Stefan, Richart, Lemoine and Devorah. Gerhold earned himself a second look, as he was the only one who had kept his composure. Beneath his reserved demeanour Angelika detected a distinct whiff of pious condescension.

  “Go ahead—tell me I’m talking nonsense!” she spat.

  Gerhold raised a white, caterpillar eyebrow. “I would never dream of it.”

  “You’re thinking my threats are idle, aren’t you? Because if you’re dead, what more can I do about it? Well, I promise you, one day, when my long life ends and I wake up in hell, the first thing I’ll do is seek out each and every one of you who let me down by getting himself killed. And you have my direst vow that no matter what torments you’re suffering, whatever daemon is gnawing on your innards, whatever spit you’re being roasted on, those punishments will utterly pale compared to what I’ll do to you! Need I elaborate?”

  No one answered her.

  “Good,” she said, stomping upwards, a new energy coursing through her. Overhead, the clouds lightened and finally parted, revealing a sky of shining blue. Cold air swept down from the mountain; Angelika let it roll over her; it was refreshing. Her words had worked, she decided. From now on, they would all be too frightened to die.

  Hours passed. When Angelika grew tired, the group rested. When she felt ready to go on, they went on. No one grumbled. No one tugged at her sleeve. She told herself that she felt free and confident.

  She stumbled. She looked to see what had tripped her. It was a dead hand, barely visible in the freshly disordered soil. She called another halt. With her bare hands, she dug the body up. It turned out to be the remains of a fat, moustachioed man. He had been dead no more than a few hours. His belt had no purse on it; neither did he wear boots or jewellery. But he looked like he’d been a wealthy, well-fed individual, so Angelika opened his mouth and found what she was looking for: a quartet of gold teeth, one at the front and three around the back. Yes, her haul to date had been stolen from her, but that didn’t matter. Now that she was on the mountain, she would replace what she’d lost, and more. Whistling contentedly, she plucked her dagger from its sheath and started harvesting.