Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  A torrid image leapt to her mind, one of crazed looters dancing around the fire swinging the remains of the children found in the vats. With a crazed howl, the ghoulish dancers hurled the carcasses on the blaze. But she also noted that the floor was peppered with green pellets of feces. She concluded that this could also be the refuse pit for the creatures that nested in the heights of the church. Could these be the remains of local infants snatched up by these wretched birds only to be brought here and devoured? If so, the creatures were faithfully keeping up the time-honored practices of the Lucent, a grim commemoration to the church’s bloody history. She wasn’t sure which of her theories about the bones was more unsettling.

  Broken glass crepitated underfoot. Some were slivers from the windows above. They must have rained down when the rioters hurled objects. Others were fragments of broken bottles. As the marauders had descended on the Lucent in the early morning, the bottles’ presence attested to the day-long drunken orgy that reigned here.

  She reached down and fished a hand through the ash, freeing a chain choked with soot. Once it was wiped clean, she could see that it was a necklace of prayer beads. Near the front entrance Torkoth emerged from an arch.

  “What’s in there?” Lakif asked.

  “The vestry of yore—all empty.” Lakif knew this meant a chamber dedicated to changing garb.

  The three headed for the crossing where the four halls met. To the north and south of the crossing were the transepts, the short arms perpendicular to the church’s main axis. Here, the clerestory was accessible by narrow stairs that wound up from the intersection. A series of cloistered alcoves lined both transepts. Where one transept and the chancel intersected was the raised pulpit. It wasn’t immediately clear how to access the rostrum. There must be a stair, Lakif thought, perhaps within the transept’s first arch.

  In the center of the crossing lay a rectangular slab of stone. Along the sides of the altar were niches for the placement of small relics. Each was empty, having been robbed of its occupant. Behind the altar lay a smashed wooden screen in a heap. Why it had been spared the flames was a mystery, although a dozen arrow tips speared it, suggesting that it had been used as an archery target. Its intricate carvings spoke volumes of its once great value.

  Beyond the crossing, the nave turned into the chancel. The chancel was the customary rear end of a church. The chancel arch separated it from the crossing proper. A statue guarded the right side of the arch. It appeared to depict a being in airy garb, apparently an angel. Its face had been subject to a litany of blows. So severe was the abuse that it was completely disfigured by gashes and chips. Sprouting from its back were broken stone nubs. The cracked wings themselves were discarded some distance away.

  The statue’s companion, which was supposed to be guarding the arch’s left flank, was missing. Just as Lakif began to wonder if it had been carried off as a prisoner, she noticed that it lay toppled beyond the chancel arch. A faded surplice lay draped over it. The statue’s feet protruded from one end. Had she not been expecting to find the companion statue, Lakif would have assumed that the protruding feet belonged to a real corpse hidden under the surplice.

  The bishop’s vestment itself had been shredded haphazardly. It was terribly effaced with age, and at points discolored by apparent stains. Lakif could only imagine what bodily fluids had christened the once-sacred vestment.

  Scattered around the floor of the chancel were torn, yellowed scrolls. The defiled parchments were crumpled and stained as if they had been used as toilet paper. The rioters hadn’t even taken a break to find a suitable place to relieve themselves. It seemed that they had urinated and defecated freely.

  Lakif’s stomach trembled, for everywhere she looked she was assailed with depredation and rape.

  Beyond, a series of small chapels radiated out from the chancel proper. Between each of the chapels were numerous recesses. Lakif suspected that these ambries once held sacred vessels but they had all been robbed. Above the chapels loomed the raised choir.

  The chancel itself ended in the rounded apse. Formerly, an ambulatory skirted the apse. A wooden baluster separated the ambulatory from the chancel proper. The baluster’s horizontal railing had been torn off, and the vertical posts sharpened into stakes pointing upward. The skeletons of several animals were speared on these stakes, obviously impaled by the raging looters. They appeared to be the remains of domesticated animals. Lakif wondered at the purpose of this. She suspected they were the priest’s own livestock that had been quartered in the yard out back. Perhaps they had been sacrificed in a specific ritual to appease some heathen gods. Or perhaps they were slain simply out of spite because the rioters had failed to butcher their primary target.

  Within one corbelled arch they found an age-blasted door. Flaking white paint jutted out like barbs. It was apparently the only surviving door within the entire church. It wasn’t clear why had it been spared, perhaps as a last-ditch deterrent to those who would descend below.

  Lakif trembled before the portal. Bael gently pulled it. Lakif gulped as the door creaked open. On the other side, a narrow stair descended.

  “This must lead to the undercroft.” Bael spoke softly as if trying not to awaken something.

  As the stair was entombed in darkness, they rummaged around for a torch. Fortunately, splintered wood abounded in the ravaged structure. Bael returned with a slender fragment resembling a pew leg, whose end he had wrapped in cloth.

  After lighting it, they paused to brace themselves for the descent. Despite intense curiosity, Lakif felt not a little inertia stonewalling her toward the grimy stairs. She sensed that her trepidation was shared, at least by the High-man. Therefore, without a word, Torkoth seized the torch and marched ahead into the dark orifice, sword drawn. Reluctantly, the two children of Rhoan Oak followed suit.

  The stairs proved to be shallow, bending steeply to the right as they descended. After a few steps, they arrived in the undercroft.

  The chamber was capped by a low ceiling. It seemed to be directly beneath the chancel proper. The level of desecration here surprisingly surpassed that of the church above. Corner to corner, refuse littered the floor, the molding carcasses of trunks, chests, and coffers that once housed the church’s cherished relics. Crypt coffins were blasted into pieces. Numerous ossuaries lay smashed like cheap crockery. Others seemingly remained intact but lay half concealed under the wreckage. Their lids were ajar and bony fragments of long-lost saints spilled out. Based on the amount of carnage, Lakif could only imagine the feverous plundering that had scourged the undercroft.

  In addition, there was evidence that a substantial amount of the refuse had been dragged down from above and heaped here. A busted lectern, an armchair, a skeleton of a sofa, and a charred wardrobe crowned the heap. Several breviaries were scattered around, their bindings shredded.

  The mountain of rubbish prevented them from proceeding much farther than the base of the stairs. They would be forced to clear a path through the debris. With determination they set to work, throwing wreckage toward the corners in order to forge a path through the destruction. Sometimes they were even forced to take bulkier items up the stairs to discard in the chancel above. Even working in concert, the task took over an hour.

  At last, they cleared a path to the center. An oval-shaped oubliette was set in the floor. A large ring handle was bolted into the portal’s iron lid. The trapdoor was corroded with rust. Lakif knew that the trash dumping served to add an extra layer of clutter over the lid, like dirt scattered across a casket to seal it in the earth. Her knees melted before the hatch.

  From its stolid appearance, Lakif doubted even the three could open it. How could the alchemist, but a single man, have mastered the device? Perhaps he had concocted some mechanism. Bael and Torkoth positioned themselves over the hinges and grasped the ring.

  With their combined effort, a dark crevice appeared. As they slowly raised the lid, cobwebs broke free and dangled from its underbelly. A sonorous groan belched
out. It probably issued from the rusty hinges; the wail marked their sullen indignation with having to budge after an eternity of repose. On the other hand, it could be the escape flight of imprisoned spirits beneath.

  The trapdoor fell back with a clang. Upstairs, the sound of frantic fluttering rang out as agitated creatures soared around the heights.

  A flight of crooked steps led into a gaping hole in the earth. The pit exhaled a frigid blast of cold, stale air. It was of such force as to visibly ruffle Lakif’s hair. A shiver pulsed down her spine.

  XXXIV

  The Furnace

  “WE HAD BEST GO DOWN ALONE, TORKOTH. IT’S WELL ENOUGH DESERTED,” Bael said. His voice echoed down into the depths.

  Lakif started at the Kulthean’s comment. The prospect of descending into the unexplored basement without an armed escort didn’t sit well with her. But she appreciated the High-man’s logic. Lakif knew that the hatch had not been opened for decades. Although descending into the cellar without the swordsman troubled the Acaanan, she felt reassured by the presence of the Kulthean. Whatever waited for them below was the final hurdle to surmount in order to liberate the Arcanum. As such, it was the two warlock hopefuls’ providence alone to confront.

  “I agree. We’ll need you most up here,” Lakif declared boldly, although the quiver in her voice made a sham out of the feigned composure. “Someone may have spotted us enter and may follow us through the window. We need you up here, alert.”

  Lakif noticed the white lily pinned to Bael’s chest. Although freshly purchased, the petals had withered under the frosty air belching up from the cellar. She immediately regretted the decision to leave Torkoth behind.

  “I’ll perch up in the choir. It offers a panoramic view of the nave and affords some cover if needed,” the Half-man replied, giving the Acaanan a comforting nod. That simple gesture reassured her that with any hint of danger, the sentry would barrel down below, sword swinging. It was the most calming image Lakif could muster at the moment.

  The two scions of Rhoan Oak turned to the stairs. Bael led, torch in hand. Behind them, Lakif heard Torkoth climbing to the chancel proper.

  The stairs creaked under their weight, and the Acaanan feared they might collapse altogether. Lakif sucked in her lower lip in apprehension, and her sharp teeth protruded. The surrounding stone of the church’s foundation gradually dissolved, replaced by moist, earthen walls. At places the dirt was punctuated by small holes. The left wall disappeared, and she knew they were reaching the bottom. No sooner did Bael step onto the earthen floor than his torch dimmed markedly.

  “What happened?” Lakif shrieked.

  “The air is poor here, not able to feed the flame,” Bael remarked. Indeed, the torch’s flame had diminished to the point that it resembled a matchstick. The light was so feeble that although Bael held the torch at arm’s length, his own face wasn’t illuminated at all. While the logical explanation seemed to satisfy the Kulthean, it wasn’t acceptable to the Acaanan. Lakif had a feeling that everything about the site was so unnatural that the very laws of physics were counterfeit.

  She looked back up to the trapdoor at the roof of the stairs. While they had seemingly only descended two score of steps, the orifice was a mere pinpoint speck, as if it were a mile distant.

  She struggled with her surroundings. The scope of the cellar could not be appreciated in the feeble lighting. All that was clear was that the stair ended in a corner.

  “There must be candles or such here,” Bael pointed out. Lakif had no intention of wandering blind through the pitch blackness, groping for a light source. The tepid torch wove and bobbed as the Kulthean stumbled ahead. She shuffled closely in tow, hugging her torso and rubbing vigorously to ward off the arctic sting in the air.

  “Be careful,” Lakif urged, fearing her partner would fall into a pit. Despite this, she cleaved to Bael’s backside so as to not be deserted in a black void. Moments later, Bael banged into something.

  “There’s a table here!” he shouted as if Lakif were across the room and not at his elbow. Bael panned the sickly flame over the tabletop. A sea of ethereal objects appeared, like a fleet of sunken ships lost in the bottom of the sea.

  “There!” Lakif grabbed a small lantern. After fumbling around for a flask of oil stashed in her gear, she managed to light the antique. Its light slowly gained strength, forcing back the oppressive gloom. Apparently the lantern, being part and parcel of the alchemist’s basement, was not subject to the same unearthly forces that had quenched the torch.

  Lakif’s attention was drawn to the table, a construct made of metal. An apparatus was erected on it. A rusted metal stand bore a circular ring clamp. Beneath the clamp pooled wax. The ring supported a glass retort. A thermometer protruded from it at an askew angle. The terminal end of the device hovered above the first of several Erlenmeyer flasks positioned to catch the distillate. Also scattered around were slender paper strips. They were discolored and curled, suggesting that they once served as litmus paper.

  Several scratched glass beakers lay nearby; smaller ones were telescoped into larger to save on space. A posy of ground-glass stirring rods was crammed into the topmost beaker. There was a balance with various weights. Mixed amid this equipment were countless vials, more often than not uncapped. Some sealed tubes lay among them, along with a pair of tarnished tongs.

  Lakif’s impression was that the assembly represented an experiment; one that had been interrupted. The apparatus was a type of distillation; Lakif had seen the setup depicted in diagrams before. She angled her eye into the retort, but all that she could see was a tarry residue caking the inner glass.

  All the elements on the tabletop appeared to be perfectly standard components of a chemist’s lab. The only unusual feature was a cracked prism set near the retort. It captured the light and dispersed it across the table in an arching rainbow. Unlike the normal colors of the rainbow, however, the dispersed light spanned colors from bright red to gray. This reminded the Acaanan of the range of colors blood turns as it ages. Several ribbonlike insects scurried haphazardly among the colored glassware.

  She turned her attention from the chemist’s bench to the rest of the cellar. Thanks to the lantern, Lakif could now appreciate the entirety of the cellar, which appeared to be an amalgam of root cellar and laboratory.

  The table occupied roughly the center of the basement. The stairs, as noted, ended in a corner. The wall under the stairs, as well as the one heading off, was lined with shelves.

  A third wall had all but collapsed. Anything that had been in the vicinity was now buried. All that remained of that end of the cellar were mounds of clotted dirt. Several holes were dug into the moldering dunes.

  Between the table and the collapsed wall lay several oblong metal plates in the ground. They bore handles, betraying their use as some kind of lid. Lakif feared that they were covered vats, the ones narrated by the ancient taleteller. She entertained opening one. They were no doubt empty.

  But something deep within forced her to investigate one. At first it looked like a wine vat, crammed with crushed berries. But to her surprise it was full of dead flies. She slammed the lid shut in disgust.

  The far wall was dominated by an immense iron furnace. It was a free-standing husk, a squat metallic igloo. Its shadowy facade was obscured by cobwebs. Before it stretched a stone dolmen like a primitive altar.

  Lakif pulled her cloak close around her. The cellar was bitterly cold, but the eerie feel of the place chilled her to a different degree. She wondered about the man who would call this place his haven, the high priest of the Lucent. Such a rakehell truly earned the ignominy of Grimpkin.

  “Do you suppose that we are the first…since that day?” Lakif felt uneasy speaking aloud. Her breath was frosted into wispy ghosts.

  “I would say so, given all the debris above.”

  “So that’s an alchemical furnace!” Lakif could now reconcile the actual device with the image engendered by the Bard’s tale. “It’s an iron behemo
th.”

  “Hopefully not a dead one,” Bael replied.

  “Can we even get it working?” Lakif appraised the tank with doubt. “It looks utterly ancient.”

  “It’s older than the church itself, surely.” Bael approached the furnace. “I suspect that the dolmen was the original church. This was a sinister place harking back to the earliest crack of time. The edifice above grew up around it.”

  Faced with the sinister contraption, Lakif had the feeling that they would need to offer a Human sacrifice to stir the ancient god to life.

  “Something lives here.” Lakif pointed to the tunnels in the collapsed wall, hoping to change the object of her dread to a topic perhaps less disturbing. “That vat is a storage bin of mangled flies. Could they be kept for something in those tunnels? Do you think they go down to Erebus?”

  “Most likely to a goblin nest. Goblins savor flies like a delicacy. But our noise should keep them away,” her friend reassured her. Lakif was calmed by Bael’s take on the tunnels. The tunnels were narrow enough to accommodate goblins, and if indeed they funneled into a goblin colony, they had little to fear. Goblins were famously weak; they were even bullied by imps! They certainly wouldn’t molest two adults.

  There were no doors to seal up the furnace. The dome-shaped aperture was covered by a veneer of webbing that stretched from top to bottom, like frozen saliva spanning a voracious mouth. The High-man used his torch to burn away the tarp. Curiously, as the webbing disappeared, a sharp aroma of sulfur stung Lakif’s nose. It smelled like burning hair.

  The two looked with trepidation into the device’s voluminous interior. At the iron hulk’s belly laid a mass of dust, insect husks, broken glass, and other unrecognizable objects all bathed in a pearly ash. The furnace could easily fit an average sized man. Lakif had no doubt she was viewing a crematory.