The Relic Guild

by Edward Cox

  Clara made to help the boy, but Samuel gripped her arm and pulled her into the shadow of a tree.

  ‘The boy isn’t our concern,’ he growled into her ear. ‘Stay focused.’

  Clara swallowed as the altar boy ran past them. She didn’t know whether to feel disgusted at Samuel’s resolve or terrified.

  The old man headed doggedly towards the church, and Clara followed. They approached the door, and Samuel drew them to a halt. Someone was shouting – a man. Samuel opened the door a crack and took a peek into the church. Then he opened the door wide. He and Clara stood on the threshold, witnesses to a grim scene.

  Another altar boy lay dead at their feet, his throat cut and his limbs twisted. On either side of him, a few denizens sat on rows of bench seats. Initially there to listen to the early morning sermons that gave thanks to Silver Moon, these denizens now rocked back and forth like simpletons, drooling and murmuring as though drugged.

  ‘Demon sign,’ Samuel whispered.

  At the front of the church, a priest stood before the altar with his back to Clara and Samuel. His arms were outstretched, encompassing a stained glass window that depicted the Timewatcher – a purple cloud with a golden sun burning at its centre – as She banished Spiral, the Lord of the Genii – a shapeless mass of poison shadow – to the depths of Oldest Place. The priest’s black cassock was dirty and torn.

  ‘There is no afterlife,’ he shouted. ‘Our souls will never be delivered to the paradise of Mother Earth and the loving arms of the Timewatcher. For She has abandoned Her children in the Labyrinth!’

  The priest turned to face Clara and Samuel revealing blood on his hands and more smeared over his face. Clara fought the urge to gag. It looked as though the priest had clawed his own eyes out.

  Beside Clara, Samuel drew his revolver from his leg holster. The power stone whined as he thumbed it, and began to glow.

  ‘We live in a festering shit-hole!’ the priest screamed. ‘We are mere crops, food to feed the hunger of demons.’ He began stumbling towards the agents. ‘Our souls are already condemned. The Retrospective awaits us—’

  Samuel’s pistol flashed. He shot the priest in the chest. There was a moaning like bitter wind, and the flames of candles on the altar fluttered and died to swirls of smoke. The priest dropped to his knees and his body hardened to ice.

  Samuel walked further down the aisle.

  Clara stepped over the dead altar boy, but was reluctant to go any further. The few denizens sitting on the rows of benches seemed unaware of what had occurred, and continued to rock and drool mindlessly. Clara watched them and struggled to catch her breath.

  ‘Clara,’ Samuel said. ‘The police can clean up this mess, and they’ll probably be here soon. Now come on!’

  The strength in his voice gave her a little mettle. She skipped around the frozen priest and joined the old bounty hunter beside a door behind the altar. He opened the door to reveal a shadowed stairwell leading down.

  ‘These stairs go to the catacombs,’ he said. He was emptying his revolver of bullets that glowed with a faint blue light of magic within their glass casings. He put them into a pouch on his utility belt, and then produced eight regular slugs from a separate pouch. ‘Can you sense anything down there, Clara?’

  As Samuel reloaded his gun, Clara stuck her head out into the stairwell, trying to ignore the thud of her heart in her ears as she listened.

  ‘I can hear … it sounds like a child humming.’ She sniffed the air, and then swallowed heavily. ‘Someone’s bleeding down there.’

  ‘Give me the satchel,’ Samuel said, holstering his revolver.

  She passed him the satchel, and he took out two of the spell spheres, holding one in each hand as if weighing them.

  ‘Keep still,’ he said, and then broke a sphere against Clara’s chest with a tinkle of glass.

  She gasped as a shock ran through her body.

  Samuel then broke the second sphere against his own chest. He then faded slowly and disappeared. Clara looked down, but could not see her hands or body or legs …

  ‘We’re invisible,’ she said in awe.

  ‘Illusion,’ Samuel’s disembodied voice explained. ‘It’ll fool the Orphan, but not for long. We have to move quickly.’

  Clara felt him take her hand, and he pulled her through the door. They crept down the darkened stairwell. It seemed to take a long time to reach the bottom, where they came to an archway that led into the catacombs.

  Candles burned everywhere, at least a hundred of them, of varying thickness and length. They flickered in dark niches between tombs, upon mantels and statues, dripping hot wax down stony faces onto the dusty floor. On the far wall hung an old tapestry, once a monument to someone, now faded and torn.

  At the centre of the room, side on to the archway, Charlie Hemlock was hanging by his wrists from a rope. The rope was threaded through a ceiling pulley and secured to a metal ring on the floor. It creaked as Hemlock’s body swayed gently. His eyes were closed, his expression was vapid. His face was smeared with blood that also stained the front of his clothes. His lips were split and swollen; Clara’s fingernail marks scored his cheek, and it looked as though a blade had been taken to his forehead.

  A thin metal tube had been inserted into each of Hemlock’s legs, just above the ankles. His blood dripped from them, slapping wetly into a small copper cauldron. And before the cauldron a child sat cross-legged, rocking back and forth as it hummed something akin to a nursery rhyme.

  Samuel gave Clara’s hand a reassuring squeeze before he released it.

  She found it hard to believe that it was a wild demon from the Retrospective that had Hemlock at its mercy. The Orphan appeared to be a young boy of nine or ten years old; its limbs and body were thin, its belly slightly bloated, and golden curls crowned its head.

  Samuel pressed the hilt of a knife into Clara’s hand, and his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, ‘I’ll deal with the Orphan. As soon as it’s distracted, you cut Hemlock free and get out as fast as you can. Don’t wait for me. Don’t look back.’

  Clara nodded, though it was impossible for Samuel to see the gesture. She heard the faint chink of glass on glass and knew that Samuel was retrieving more spell spheres from the satchel.

  The demon stopped its humming. For an agonising moment Clara thought it had heard the chink of glass too. But the Orphan only leaned forwards to pick at the end of one of the tubes that was inserted into Hemlock’s leg. No doubt it was dislodging congealed blood. Satisfied, it sat back, sucking its finger clean. The humming resumed, as did the little slaps of blood slowly filling the cauldron.

  ‘Get ready,’ Samuel whispered.

  Clara heard the light swish of material, and a spell sphere appeared in midair. It arced across the room and smashed on the floor close to the Orphan. Green mist swirled and spiralled up to form a perfect duplicate of Samuel aiming his revolver at the wild demon’s head.

  The Orphan rolled backwards and jumped to its feet. The façade of an innocent boy vanished. White eyes with thick red veins glared at the figure of Samuel. Long black nails sprang from its fingertips, and its mouth was filled with sharp, glass-like teeth. It hissed and flicked out a long, blood-red tongue. Muscles bunching, it made to lunge forward, but the image of Samuel pulled the trigger. The power stone flashed, and the Orphan jumped back, raising its clawed hands to protect itself.

  But the weapon and the man that fired it were merely illusions that disappeared after the shot, and no bullet had hit the demon.

  A second spell sphere arced through the air and smashed at the back of the catacombs. This time a joint of meat appeared, skinless, still on the bone and wet with blood. The Orphan pounced on it hungrily. The instant it sank its teeth into the bloody meat, the joint exploded into a cloud of angry insects that swarmed over the demon and sent it writhing and screaming to the floor.

  �
�Go!’ Samuel shouted.

  Clara ran for Hemlock. She willed her hands to stop shaking as she sawed through the rope where it was connected to the floor ring. The rope parted with a dull twang, and Hemlock fell to the ground in a bone jarring heap. He stirred and groaned as Clara yanked the tubes from his legs.

  ‘You don’t deserve saving, you bastard!’ she hissed into his ear. ‘But if you want to live, move!’

  Hemlock became more alert then. He struggled weakly to get to his feet. Clara helped him and put his arm over her shoulders. He stank. They stumbled towards the archway, knocking the cauldron of blood over in the process.

  The insect swarm had now dispelled, and the Orphan was back on its feet. Its red-streaked eyes widened at the upturned cauldron and the red meal going to waste on the floor. It then glared at Clara and Hemlock.

  With sudden alarm, Clara realised the illusion spell had worn off. She was no longer invisible.

  The Orphan screeched at her. The voice of reason in her head told Clara to drop Hemlock and run, but her body would not react. She was frozen to the spot. The Orphan stepped forward. Clara whimpered.

  Then Samuel materialised, holding his revolver an inch from the demon’s temple. And this was no illusion.

  With a low and hollow spitting sound, the power stone released a burst of thaumaturgy. The Orphan slammed sideways to the floor. Its blood, black as night, bubbled into a pool around its head. There was a hissing sound, and the demon’s body began to steam. Slowly it dissolved, as though made of ice and melting. The Orphan became a puddle of shadow, which was drawn into the ground until it disappeared completely.

  Its grip on this realm severed, the demon had returned to the Retrospective.

  Clara dropped Hemlock, and collapsed heavily on the floor beside him, breathing hard. Samuel gave her no respite. With a grunt he grabbed Hemlock and hauled him up onto his shoulder. Hemlock murmured and passed out again.

  Samuel offered a hand to Clara. She grabbed it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  The old bounty hunter clapped her shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here before the police arrive.’

  Chapter Nine

  Hypocrisy

  Down beneath the streets of Labrys Town, Fabian Moor walked through the sewers, guided by the dirty light of pale glow lamps. The stench of filth filled his nostrils, and the thick, oily atmosphere seemed to cling to his hair and cassock. But these minor discomforts mattered little to him; the thin line of purple magic that snaked and weaved through the foul air before him was vibrant and alive, and he followed to wherever it led, deep in the gloom ahead.

  The sheer disappointment he had felt at the antiques boutique had faded away like an unimportant dream. Yes, it had stung at first to discover the magic in the terracotta jar dead after all these years, but the blood of the feeble old shop owner had given him more than adequate sustenance. Moor felt whole and strong again – for the time being, at least. It helped to put things back into perspective. Whatever disgust he felt towards his surroundings did not affect his impatience and drive, for the Genii’s work was far from done.

  Accompanying Moor was a doughy and round-shouldered man who struggled to keep pace on the walkway. He scuttled along, rubbing his hands together worriedly. His thinning hair hung in lank and greasy tendrils, and his unshaven face was parchment-dry and flaky. His mouth seemed perpetually agape, and his eyes never stopped watering. He blinked too much. He smelled of onions. And his very proximity irritated Moor to the point of murder.

  ‘My real name’s Clover,’ said the man in his nasally voice. ‘But ain’t nobody calls me that anymore, sir.’

  ‘Is that right,’ Moor replied.

  Clover nodded enthusiastically. ‘They call me Dumb Boy.’

  Which, Moor reasoned, was unsurprising; even an idiot would consider this man a simpleton.

  Clover leant into him, and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Are they all right, sir?’ he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Only, I ain’t never seen people like them before.’

  He referred to the two golems following close behind. Spindly and withered within their black cassocks, submissive and unquestioning in their obedience, they carried pickaxes in their gnarled hands. All remnants of the humans they once had been were lost in their deformed faces. They were as ‘all right’ as they would ever be.

  Moor sighed. ‘Were you not told that keeping your mouth shut was a requirement for this job?’ he said to his imbecilic companion.

  ‘Oh, yeah – I remember.’

  ‘Then kindly remain silent until I say otherwise.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  In the gloomy light of the glow lamps, Moor continued following the line of purple magic that weaved through the air. He led his mismatched entourage down a short tunnel-way, and then out onto a path than ran alongside a river of rancid sewage water. The stone became slippery underfoot, the stench of filth grew stronger, but at least the silence endured.

  Moor needed Clover more than the fool would ever realise. Not being the most intelligent specimen of humanity made him perfect for Moor’s needs; and, like that cretin Charlie Hemlock, the fool had pounced at the chance to earn a fistful of Labyrinth pounds without question.

  How like the denizens it was to place need before consideration. Even though they had been cast aside by the Timewatcher, these humans still worshipped Her as if She continued to watch over them; they still believed in their high social position among the Houses, even though every ally had long ago abandoned them. The denizens were in denial; they could not accept the pointlessness of their continued existence, or the hypocrisy by which they lived.

  The personal use of magic had always been forbidden to humans. They simply could not be trusted with it. Before the war against the Timewatcher, magic-users had been punished with a petty prison sentence. But when the war had ended, the Resident decreed the crime punishable by death. With a straight face, the Resident told the denizens that the personal use of magic was a terrible thing, evil, that a powerful magic-user might destroy the boundary wall and set the Retrospective upon their precious town. While at the same time he knew that magic had always ensured his people’s survival, that it was fundamental in keeping the Labyrinth’s society functioning. And the denizens never questioned the hypocrisy.

  Magic lit their streets, drove their trams, warmed their houses, and cooked their food. The little power stones they used absorbed ambient thaumaturgy from the atmosphere and energised their weapons and appliances. The Resident would keep them safe from magic abuse, he promised the humans, while utilising it to watch their every movement. Yes, under the Resident’s law, the punishment for the personal use of magic was death … unless it was being used by those rare humans who were born touched by magic, the agents who served that secret, rag-tag organisation called the Relic Guild …

  And they referred to themselves as magickers, as if a name could give them some authority equal to that of the Thaumaturgists. The agents of the Relic Guild were the epitome of the Labyrinth’s double standards, just another bunch of hypocritical humans – filthy, pathetic humans.

  Moor suppressed his angry thoughts as at long last the tendril of purple magic led him to where the river of putrid wastewater became shallower. The twisting thread disappeared beneath the surface of the water, as if stabbing down through the waste into the very stone of the river floor. He drew the ill-assorted group to a halt. The signal of magic was strong, healthy, and he felt a rush of triumph.

  Moor turned to his golems. ‘Do it,’ he ordered them.

  Without hesitation the golems splashed down into the river with their pickaxes. It was even shallower than Moor had first supposed, and the water barely covered the ankles of his servants. Without need of further instruction, the golems raised the pickaxes above their misshapen heads and began striking the river floor with muffled chinks, heedless of the human effluen
t their efforts splashed upon their cassocks.

  Clover watched the golems work with some interest. He turned watery eyes to Moor. Rubbing his hands together, he hopped from foot to foot, and actually seemed pained by his new employer’s prohibition on speaking.

  Moor resisted the urge to snap the simpleton’s neck and said, ‘Your job is to supervise my servants. Ensure they remain undisturbed in their work. Understand?’

  Clover blinked at him. ‘You … You’re putting me in charge?’

  ‘I suppose you could see it that way, yes.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ Clover looked close to tears, though it was hard to be sure with his ever-watering eyes. ‘Charlie said I could trust you, sir – said you’d do right by me.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  ‘And I’m obliged for the money, sir. It ain’t easy for me to get a job in this town—’

  ‘Clover, it is time to shut your mouth again.’ Moor looked down at his golems working tirelessly, striking away with their pickaxes, over and over again. It would be some time before their work was finished.

  ‘You will stay here,’ he told Clover. ‘When my servants find what I want, you will receive your reward. Serve me equally well, and perhaps there will be extra money in it for you – no! Don’t speak. Merely nod if you understand.’

  The idiot did, as if he was trying to work his head loose.

  With a sudden desire to be far from this disgusting place, Fabian Moor turned and strode away.

  Van Bam walked along the corridors of the Nightshade. Each of his steps was accompanied by a stamp of his cane, and each time the green glass struck the floor there was a sound like a distant chime, and the Resident’s inner sight was filled with the corridor’s layout in myriad shades of grey. His stride purposeful, his brow knitted with concern, he headed for Hamir’s laboratory.