by Jack Conner
For several minutes, they waited, and he began to lose feeling in his feet. Finally he judged that the homunculi patrol was safely past, and he jimmied the grill off the culvert and led the others outside into open air. They scurried out of the stream and ran for cover behind a group of tombstones. Stomping their feet and shaking, they threw tense looks at each other. They’d all learned sign language long ago in order to communicate with Hastings, and now Harry signaled, What the FUCK?
A flurry of silent expletives followed. At last Stevrin said, Let’s get away from the wall.
They agreed. Breathlessly, silently, they fled deeper into the cemetery grounds, past crumbling shards of tombstones and rearing, graffiti-covered mausoleums, until finally Stevrin thought it safe enough. Great, gnarled oaks loomed above him. The oaks raked at the sky with limbs that seemed to be out of proportion with each other, and the bark gave off bitter odors. Just like the trees at the mansion in the Ivies, Stevrin thought. He didn’t like to think of the implications of that.
They were on one of the hills now, and from it they commanded a view of two of the walls. After he stared at them for awhile, he began to make out dark figures moving against them here and there.
The others saw it, too. “Patrols,” Jack whispered.
“Homunculi patrols,” Vallie corrected.
“Yeah,” Harry said, blowing air onto his hands to warm them. “Why do the monkey-buggering cultists have homuncs?”
“They’re buddy-buddy with the Guild, remember,” Stevrin said, still stomping his feet to dry them and renew circulation.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“I think we should keep going,” Nimfang said. “We’re still too close to the walls. I only see ‘em there.”
“Nim’s right,” Stevrin said. He led them down the hill and up another. It was steeper than it looked, huge and round. He navigated between crumbling headstones and monuments, and increasingly weird-looking trees.
Out of nowhere it occurred to him that right about now Danny would be getting ready to be auctioned off to a group of strangers, and Stevrin wouldn’t be there for him afterward. I’ll make it up to you, Danny. It had surprised him that Danny would be going through with the auction after what happened with Agatha, but the Aunts had decided to proceed normally so as not to scare off any johns.
When the Whoresons reached the crest of the next hill, they could see over the other rises. To the north stretched more grim hills, and silhouetted against them loomed the dark towers of the Temple of Yreg-ngad. It stood on the peak of the next hill over, about a quarter mile from where the Whoresons crouched behind a tree. Stevrin knew the temple had been built by the Magnarists many years ago. Back then this whole property used to be known as The Resting Place of Our Lord’s Faithful. The Order of Yreg-ngad had killed or driven off the Magnarists, much as they had the Hyalithins that had worshipped at the Divinity a hundred years ago, only this time they had taken over the property.
“I don’t see any more sentries,” Stevrin said.
“They don’t need any,” Jack replied in his most eerie voice. “They have the dead.” He suddenly goosed Harry under the armpits. Harry yelped.
“Knock it off, you guys,” Vallie said. “We’re trying to be quiet. Who knows how well the homuncs can hear?”
“Magnar impaled,” Nimfang breathed, and Stevrin turned to see what had caught his attention. When he saw it, he swore.
A great mausoleum jutted from the hilltop not far from them, with a beautifully and nightmarishly wrought statue before it. Ten feet high, the statue depicted King Lucius Magnaris himself, naked and dead, impaled on a sharpened pole that stuck up from the ground. The pole ran up through his anus and out his mouth, and he dangled on it like some grisly fruit. The sculptor had even depicted blood gushing out of his mouth and coating the pole below him. Stevrin had seen many sculptures of the famous event, but few so detailed and realistic. The sculptor had chosen not to depict Magnar in the famous, almost noble spread-eagled position most sculptors chose but instead the sculptor presented him with his limbs all twisted and gnarled, as though he’d been writhing about horribly before he died.
At the sight, Vallie gasped and clutched Stevrin’s arm.
“Fuck me but that is one ugly statue,” Harry said. “Look, there’s even flies on his face.”
“It’s horrible,” Vallie said.
Stevrin started to pat her on the back, but he resisted. “Yeah,” he said. “Corpse-worship. I never did get that.”
“It’s not the corpse, it’s the sacrifice.” This came, surprisingly, from Nimfang, whose home country of Zanshin did not worship Magnar or any of the Western gods. “He died to save Elineth. Without that kingdom, Elineth, there would be no Western culture today.”
“Yeah yeah,” Stevrin said. “I know the fuckin’ story already. One day he was out riding and the Izrai got him.”
“No, it was Myrca,” said Vallie.
“Whatever.”
“They wanted to know where the secret entrance to Elineth was. It was in a valley and impossible to get at except through the secret caves. But he refused to tell them, thus saving Elineth”
“Yeah, and that’s what he got for his troubles.” Stevrin hiked a thumb at the statue. According to legend, Magnar had been impaled right before the gates of his city so that all could watch, even his family.
“At least people remember him,” said Vallie quietly.
“You think he was really the son of Olos?” Harry asked. His eyes were round as saucers, staring at the grisly statue. Stevrin wondered if he was a believer.
“Idiot,” Jack said. “There is no Olos.”
“There is,” Vallie insisted. That surprised Stevrin.
“Jack’s right,” Stevrin said, remembering what had become of the former Temple of Olos in
City Square. “There’s no gods left. Come on.” They pressed on through the cemetery, down the hill and into another valley. It was darker now, colder. The stars winked down at them through a thick haze of pollution. Stevrin could smell the gritty smoke of some factory on the wind. The boys and girl had fallen silent this close to the temple, but suddenly Nimfang said, “What’s this?”
Stevrin peered around. Nimfang was eying a dark patch in the hill. Stevrin stepped closer and saw a shored-up cave, leading directly into the tomb-covered hill. It looked like nothing less than the entrance to a mine. It was certainly new, not an artifact left by the Magnarists before the Yreg-ngadans drove them out. At last he shrugged and said, “Let’s worry about it later.”
He resumed his march. Using the tombs for cover, they went up the last hill. It was higher and steeper than the others. Long ago the Magnarists had planted their dead here over many generations, had tended to the graves lovingly. The Order of Yreg-ngad had not kept up the tradition, and many of the tombs were crumbling and ruined. Stevrin wondered what other changes they had made. What would the temple be like? Just what were they keeping secret in there? Again he thought of the thing in the Ivies, and felt cold all over.
Edging over the rise, threading through the tombs and weird trees, he came in view of it. The temple rose from the top of its hill, great and dark, its towers scratching at the polluted sky. Lights blazed in many of the windows, but it still seemed dark to him, the lights feeble and muted.
A clearing encircled the temple.
“What now?” Jack asked.
Stevrin frowned. Wind hissed across the hills. Dead grass waved. Weird oaks creaked. “We scatter,” he said at last. “We each hide far apart—and watch. Keep track of each other, but hide separately. That way we can each watch a different area and if something happens we’ll see it. If nothing interesting does happen, we’ll have to get ... closer.” He could see by the looks on their faces that none of them wanted to do this last bit, but they nodded.
They moved off from each other, but not before Vallie squeezed Stevrin’s good hand. To his surprise, Harry looked on jealous
ly.
Stevrin found a place on the northwest side behind a mausoleum, and he set up watch. The temple loomed, dark and silent. Wind hissed. Waves boomed. He smoked one cigarette, and then another. He tried not to think of the Order of Yreg-ngad, instead recalling the taste of Melias’s breasts, the feel of her womanhood. For the thousandth time he cursed himself for a dolt for spoiling his chances with her for all time. She had just felt so good.
At last he heard sounds over the roar of the wind. Following them, he drew away from the mausoleum and slipped down the face of the hill to the adjoining hill on the west. Swerving around a knoll that jutted up from it, he came to the rise. The sounds grew louder, louder. He heard talking, jostling and occasional shouts.
Then he saw it. With a gasp, he quickly ducked behind a tombstone—
And stared ...
Across the little valley that separated his hill from its neighbor he saw a strange excavation in the hillside, and cut into it there appeared to be two man-made tunnels leading into the cemetery hill, with scaffolding leading up the cliff walls. Shabby figures streamed into the tunnels, and shabby figures stumbled out. Overseers shouted orders. Some of the workers carried heavy sacks over their shoulders, with odd, irregular objects bulging in them. Curious stains marked those bags. Still more bore long objects between them and hurled them onto a pile of similar objects in the excavation below. Stevrin watched as one such oblong object, covered with earth and entangled with hewn roots, spilled onto the pile. The object had already been shattered and opened, and as it settled onto the mound something sagged partway out of it.
It was, to Stevrin’s shock, a corpse.
By a flash of moonlight, he saw that the body’s flesh looked leathery and ancient, its eyes dark pits. Indeed, he saw that bodies in various stages of decomposition tumbled half out of most of the boxes—or coffins, rather. It was a mound of death.
Staring at the mound, then at the tunnels, Stevrin swore. It was a mine. A corpse mine – though for what purpose he couldn’t fathom. He had to get back to the others, had to tell them, warn them.
Just then, he heard a footstep behind him. Whirling, he saw a figure standing over him. He started to bolt, but there were two more, coming from each side.
“What’s this?” asked one.
The first one grabbed Stevrin by the throat, hauled him off his feet. Stevrin fumbled for his knife, which he had replaced, but the sudden pressure on his throat stopped him. He grabbed his attacker’s hand, tried to pry it open. The man laughed, reached into Stevrin’s pocket and hurled the knife away. That done, he dropped Stevrin like a stack of potatoes. Stevrin wheezed for air as the other two neared.
“Who is he?” asked one.
“Is he a spy? They told us to watch out for ‘em.”
The first one, the one that had grabbed Stevrin, kicked him in the gut, hard. Stevrin gasped, feeling his muscles clench, feeling bile sting the back of his throat. “Who are you, then? Are ye a spy, or is ye a robber? Speak!” He kicked at Stevrin again, but Stevrin just barely managed to wriggle aside, and the kick merely scraped his ribs. Even that would leave a mark, he knew. “Speak!” the man shouted.
“Neither,” Stevrin wheezed. He fumbled for truths, for lies, told the first and best one he could think of. “I’ve come to join your Order.”
* * *
After some debate, two of the men marched Stevrin up the hill.
“I don’t believe a wurd o’ it,” said one.
“I’m telling you, it’s the truth!” Stevrin maintained.
The other grunted. “It takes all kinds, Brother. An’ there’ve been more ‘n and more of ‘em lately. Things’r movin’ faster now.”
The first one nodded guardedly. “Father Abayan’ll decide.”
Desperately, Stevrin glanced around, trying to spot Jack or one of the others. He saw no one. No. Wait. A shadow behind one of the tombstones to the east. It looked about the right size to be Harry, or maybe Vallie. He prayed they weren’t spotted. He wanted to gesture to them to get out, get out while they could, but he didn’t want to draw attention to them.
“So where are we goin’ exactly?” he asked conversationally.
The bearded man shoved him forward. “To Brother Abayan, natcher’ly. He’s the one performs the initiation rituals.” He pronounced it ritchools.
Stevrin felt beads of sweat pop out on his brow. “Initiation?”
“’at’s right.” Stevrin turned back in time to see the man leering cruelly. “I’m sure he’ll do it right off, too—if he don’t slit your throat fer lyin’.”
“I told you, I ain’t lying.”
“Good. We always need new pairs of hands.”
Stevrin wondered how literally to take this. In any event, this initiation bit didn’t sound like much fun. His stomach still ached from the kicking, and he rather hoped that would be the end of his torment this evening. “We’re going to do it tonight?”
“Imagine so. Why wait? Oh, in the old days we might’ve waited a piece, might’ve gathered the whole Brotherhood to watch and participate, but things’re movin’ too fast now. We haven’t got time for such as that.”
“Why’re things moving faster now?”
The man swatted Stevrin’s ear. “Quit yer flappin’. You’ll find out soon enough, you make it past Initiation.”
The temple’s dark towers hung over them, closer and closer, actually blocking out the stars. Stevrin wondered if he could somehow escape. The man had a tight grip on the back of his shirt, but he might be able to wriggle loose. On the other hand, maybe this is what he should do. Maybe the only way to find out what the hell the Order was up to was to become part of it. They were a scary lot, and observing the ritual involving the boy and the gray mound in the Ivies did not make him feel any easier. Still, he didn’t wriggle loose.
The men shoved open the door and pitched Stevrin inside. There was an oak-paneled foyer, then a wide, short hallway, then a great room, surely the room of worship, with many pews facing a podium, and a high ceiling overhead. In the old days, when the Magnarists dwelt here, there would have stood a statue of Magnar on his pole behind the podium, but of course the Order had removed such symbols. Long, stained-glass windows lined the walls and Stevrin imagined that during daylight this place would be flooded with light. Of course, many of the windows had been broken, and nail-studded planks covered others. Their room of worship was empty.
The Order-men led Stevrin through this room, past the podium, and through the door at the rear. They did not pause once, as if the room held little meaning for them. Beyond a narrow hallway was a circular room with hallways leading off in all directions, and stairways leading up. There would be many rooms for the priests above, Stevrin supposed. Strangely, it all looked abandoned, dusty. Shortly he saw why.
The Order of Yreg-ngad had made one great change to this room. It had been dark, and Stevrin had not seen it at first for it emitted no light, but there was a gaping pit about fifteen feet wide right in the center of the room.
“Shit!” he said. For a moment he feared the cultists would fling him in.
They dragged him to its lip. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t do it! I wasn’t spying, honest! “
They laughed.
He closed his eyes and braced himself to be hurled. Nothing happened. When they didn’t throw him, he opened his eyes and peered over the edge. There was nothing to see, just a black hole dropping away to unguessable depths, bored out of earth. A stairway had been carved into its sides. Hacked out of the pit wall, it spiraled down and down into the darkness. He shivered.
“We’re not going down there, are – ?”
The bearded man shoved him toward the stairs. Stevrin found his feet just before he tumbled over into nothingness.
“Hey, watch it!” he said.
“Git goin’,” the man grumbled.
Swallowing nervously, still tasting bile in the back of his throat, Stevrin started down. The men followed. No railing lined the stairs. If he tripped,
he would plunge over the side, and that would be it for Stevrin James Corckrin, if that was his real name. Cold air wrapped him, and moisture slicked the stairs. The further he went, the heavier the air became. Strangely it did not grow colder but warmer—warmer and more humid. Soon sweat dripped off him and stuck his shirt to the narrow of his back.
This was utterly fucked. Where in the world were they going?
He began to see tunnels leading off the stairwell, usually at landings. From time to time he would see lights or sense movement down these ways. He began to realize the temple above was a sham. Oh, it had been used by the old Magnarists, sure enough, but it did not appear as though the Order used it at all. It had been consumed by dust and quiet and neglect. But movement and activity stirred the darkness beneath. Could the cultists possibly live down here ... ?
The men had brought no lanterns or flashlights, so all the light they had was that provided from above and from the side-tunnels. It wasn’t much, and Stevrin found himself squinting and going slower and slower as they progressed.
At last the stairwell ended. The pit went on, gaping beneath their feet, but no further stairs wrapped around it. Perhaps it connected to the Below. A tunnel somewhat wider than the others led off from the final landing; they entered it. It smelled of minerals and dampness. The heat grew, and the humidity. Stevrin blinked sweat out of his eyes. His breath came slower and more labored. The walls widened, and dark pillars held aloft the receding ceiling. Distantly he heard the chitter of bats and smelled their offal.
Darkness hid the way, and Stevrin stumbled as he went. The Order-men went slower, too, but they seemed to be able to see more clearly than he.
They came upon the man that must be Father Abayan at a little shrine down a side tunnel. Stevrin saw him first as a kneeling, humped figure surrounded by candles dripping wax and leaping with fire. The robed figure crouched over a crude altar. He mumbled something to himself in some tongue Stevrin did not understand. It sounded half-familiar, though, and he remembered where he’d heard it before: that night at the mansion. It was the same language the sacrificial ritual had been conducted in.