by Nick Baker
‘Ah, Mr Isaacson, a cab is on its way. It should be here presently,’ Albright said, proffering a thick, woollen coat, which Isaacson draped around his shoulders. Moments later, the sound of a taxi’s horn rang out in the distance.
‘Goodnight, Professor,’ Isaacson called out as he hurried across the driveway towards a vehicle that was parked beside the common, its engine idling.
Price returned to the sitting room and poured himself another drink. He retired to his chair to reflect on the events of the day. He had already decided that he would seek the assistance of Cornelius Spydre, an old friend and expert on antiquarian manuscripts. He would undoubtedly need more information before the Council gathered, and if anyone could help, it was Cornelius.
Price took a sip of port as he deliberated over the theft of the book and the unshakeable conviction that it was somehow connected with the past. He thought back to a time fifteen years earlier when he had assembled the Council to counter the rise of a mysterious sect known as the Order of Eternal Enlightenment, which had sprung up from nowhere behind a façade of benevolence. Price had battled to expose the Order for what it truly was—a murdering bunch of renegades responsible for the assassination of several leading figures of the time. The challenge posed by the Order had been met head on by the Council under Price’s jurisdiction, ultimately resulting in the death of the Order’s leader, Pearly Black. Ironically, Black and Price had once been students together at the Academy of Arcane and Alchemical Arts, but eventually, their friendship had degenerated into one of bitter rivalry following a run of increasingly acrimonious clashes over Black’s abstruse alchemical research.
Black had gone on to found the Order as a means to pursue his inscrutable goals and had watched it flourish under his leadership. Following Black’s death and the Order’s demise, the Council had evolved into the country’s main body responsible for national security and counter-terrorism. Over several years, the Council had built up a network of informants and an army of unidentified workers who had infiltrated or subverted many undesirable organisations with some considerable success.
If only it were still so easy, Price thought disconsolately. He shook his head, recalling the Council’s many successes during its formative years. With time, internal squabbles and petty disputes had slowly undermined the principles the Council had been established to uphold, culminating in its current predicament linked to a dispute over membership. At a recent rancorous meeting, two distinct camps had evolved, vying with one another over the suitability of respective candidates to fill a vacancy. Price had tried time and again to satisfy all parties but he was becoming increasingly concerned that the Council was being destabilised from within.
And now the theft of this book at a time when the Council’s stock was at its lowest ebb. He closed his eyes, his glass empty on the table next to him. Too many problems, he thought as he got up and made his way slowly from the room.
‘Goodnight, Albright,’ he called to his manservant who was loitering in the hall.
He climbed two flights of stairs to his bedroom feeling like a man whose problems were only just beginning.
He was eager to get to bed in the hope that sleep would provide a temporary respite from his troubles, but as he removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, he was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming sense that something was amiss.
He rushed to the window under the sway of an uncontrollable urge to part the curtains and peer out. There, bathing in the dull glow of a street lamp across the road was a smartly dressed figure unmistakeably staring back at the house. The man looked up to the bedroom, perhaps drawn by a flicker of movement at the curtains. Even in the dim light, Price could see the man’s sharp features and goatee beard.
The men briefly locked eyes, but the stranger, seemingly satisfied that his job was done, casually adjusted his collar and raised a scarf from his neck to wrap round his face. He turned his back on the house and swept away through masses of rotting leaves littering the path before disappearing into the impenetrable darkness shrouding the common.
2
THE STONE OF MADNESS
A Subterranean Reunion
THE STREET WAS EMPTY as Josef Frankl made his way down the steep, ill-maintained track into Riddlescombe’s main thoroughfare. The coastal village had flourished as a small fishing community since the sixteenth century, but its denizens were now a ragtag bunch of dubious characters making a living from smuggling and even the occasional foray into piracy. Little had changed in almost a hundred years, and Riddlescombe’s uncertain reputation hung over the place like a pall of black smoke.
Nearby places had evolved into quaint seaside tourist traps drawing in visitors, and more importantly, their money. Not so Riddlescombe, a place that protected its independence with a fierce secrecy bordering on animosity towards all unwelcome intruders. It was no surprise that modernisation had bypassed Riddlescombe with many of the youngsters born to the village gone, leaving behind a community of hardened old folk who spent their time scraping together a living by fair means or foul; this and a penchant for drinking in The Serpent’s Nest, the only vaguely thriving place in town.
The few remaining habitable buildings were all in varying states of disrepair, apart from a single respectably maintained structure standing alone at the end of the street. The sign swinging lazily above the door portrayed a snake with vicious blood-red fangs and maniacal yellow eyes, seemingly intent on striking out at whosoever approached.
Any sensible visitor who stumbled on the village would turn and flee at the sight of those evil-looking eyes, yet Frankl was not deterred. His eyes darted down to his wristwatch, then returned to the creaking sign that was badly in need of lubrication.
So am I, he thought, before veering off at the last moment and making his way towards the inn.
It was late afternoon, and as the December light rapidly failed, a sea mist rolled in with the tide, bringing the unmistakable tang of salt to the air while insidiously enveloping and soaking anyone who was foolish enough to be out.
A light flickered at a window, suggesting a flourishing open fire within, confirmed by a sudden rush of warm air that spilt out to greet the stranger as he opened the door. Frankl surveyed the stark interior of the pub from the threshold. The Serpent’s Nest was empty apart from a handful of unsavoury looking men sitting in silence at the bar with their heads bowed over their tankards.
Frankl crossed the room and headed towards the men at the bar. ‘A glass of your finest red wine,’ he declared to the scruffy bartender.
‘Beer,’ the barman replied, eyeing the corpulent, bald man with suspicion.
Frankl immediately got the gist of what the barman was saying by the sniggers that came from the motley crew propped up at the bar. ‘Very well. I’ll have a pint of ale,’ he replied, suppressing an urge to scowl at the men.
Frankl carried the tankard of cloudy ale back to an empty table next to the fire and sat down without a second glance. He knew the patrons were staring at him, but he ignored them in a dismissive manner and sat bathing in the warmth radiating from a spitting fire happily thriving on damp logs. He reflected on the events of the past few days and felt a glow of pride at how much he had achieved in such a short time. As he mulled this over, he was interrupted by the sound of size twelve boots pounding across the sawdust-strewn floor. Frankl turned to see a thickset man with heavily tattooed forearms built like tree trunks peering down at him in the shimmering light of the dingy bar.
‘We don’t be likin’ no strangers in this place, particularly them that don’t be introducin’ ’emselves,’ said the man, glowering at Frankl.
Frankl pointedly ignored the interruption and continued to look beyond the interloper, seemingly lost in thought. The man hesitated, unsure of what to do next. The man’s face was unshaven and ill-kempt with long, greasy hair straddling dark brooding features, and small, wide-set eyes with widely dilated pupils. A spider’s web was tattooed across his forehead that was rudely interrupted by
a deeply furrowed scar, which extended to the corner of his mouth, tethering it into a permanent scowl that merely added to the malice clearly written across his face.
‘My name be Razor. No one enters ’ere without my say so,’ the man said.
Frankl continued to stare into the fire and took a sip of beer as if nothing untoward had happened.
‘I be speakin’ to you, mister,’ said Razor, looking puzzled by the stranger’s lack of a response. ‘Strangers that wander in ’ere all alone might find ’emselves as crab bait, if they ain’t too careful.’
Frankl finally looked up and met his aggressor’s gaze square on. ‘Please forgive my ill manners. I’m here on some personal business. I’ve simply stopped by for some warmth and refreshment. I’ll soon be on my way,’ he said, looking dismissively at the man towering above him. He turned away and stared deeply into the fire.
In an instant, Razor drew back to give himself some space and pulled a frighteningly thin stiletto from his jacket. The reflection of the fire glistened menacingly in the cold steel as Razor pointed the tip of the blade towards the stranger.
‘’Bout time someone taught ’e some manners, mister,’ spat Razor in a deadly tone.
Frankl turned to face his assailant and exhaled a loud sigh. He did not wish to argue, knowing it was likely to be futile. He slowly rose from the chair and lifted his hands in a gesture of supplication, muttering a few inaudible words with an effect that was instantaneous. He held the flats of his palms towards the man, despite the knife that was pointing directly at his chest. He edged forwards, his hands radiating a bright unnatural light that illuminated a look of astonishment on Razor’s face. The eerie glow rapidly intensified as it drew away from Frankl’s hands to envelop the man, holding him helplessly in limbo like a rabbit snared in the headlights of an approaching car. The knife slipped harmlessly to the floor as Razor’s hands sagged listlessly by his side.
Frankl flexed his arms, drawing Razor towards him as if pulled by invisible strings. In a sudden thrust, Frankl extended his arms as he allowed the light to wane. The invisible grip holding the man dissipated but the force generated by the motion of Frankl’s arms sent Razor flying across the room. He landed with a great clatter in a dishevelled heap several feet away from Frankl and did not move. Despite the spectacle, the bar remained silent apart from the gentle moans of the semi-conscious man. The men seated at the bar continued to sup their ale and gave no indication that anything unusual had happened, although their telltale expressions failed to mask a combination of surprise tinged with fear.
‘Don’t rush back,’ the innkeeper called out bravely after Frankl, who had turned his back on the men and was walking casually towards the exit.
Frankl left the inn without looking back. In the short time he had been indoors, nightfall had arrived in all its jet-black splendour, and with a thickening sea mist, it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead in the poorly illuminated street.
Frankl stopped and raised his hands a few inches in front of his face. ‘Beluchten,’ he whispered. His hands began to emit a strange glow that gave him a phantasmal appearance in the swirling mist, yet the give-away light did not concern him. He was not expecting to meet anyone where he was heading, nor did he anticipate that one of Razor’s cronies would follow him after his show of force inside the tavern.
The luminous glow eased Frankl’s progress, lighting up the way as he set off for the coast. The track was muddy and treacherous, but he quickly located the infrequently trodden path he was searching for. The wind had picked up as he neared the coast, and with it, the mist was beginning to clear. The path led to a grassy headland, which ended abruptly, falling away onto a steep cliff. Frankl did not hesitate and strode boldly forwards over the brink onto a hidden track that led precipitously down. His unnatural light marked the way, but it was not easy going, and his footing repeatedly slipped, sending scree tumbling down before him.
Frankl was greatly relieved when he clambered down onto a rocky shore. After a brief pause to regain his breath, he set off towards a narrow inlet at the base of a towering cliff that marked the entrance to a cave bordered by a natural accumulation of rocks. Frankl smiled on observing the tidemark etched several feet above the cave’s low entrance. Waves were beginning to crash onto the base of the cliff, causing water to pool with the flow of the incoming tide. It was no coincidence that he had chosen this time for the meeting. A full moon was due, and the spring tide to accompany it would submerge the cave’s entrance in little more than a few hours’ time.
Frankl scrambled through the small slit into a spacious cave. He watched in fascination as the light emanating from his hands cast strange shadows onto smooth glistening walls, perpetually moist from the constant drip of water permeating through dense overhead rock.
After several minutes of easy passage, the cave became steadily more tortuous until it finally came to an abrupt halt. Frankl craned his neck to look up, espying a narrow, vertical channel inches above his head. He pulled himself up on the natural stone handholds and squeezed his bulk the short distance through the claustrophobic passageway to emerge into a small, rounded entranceway that opened into a vast cavern. He could not comprehend how such a geological oddity could form such a distance from the sea, but he did know that the space was sufficient to accommodate the four people whom he had invited to assemble with him tonight.
He had made sure that he was an hour ahead of his guests and had timed it so that they would arrive when the tide was beginning to force its way beyond the entrance, having learnt this trick from his erstwhile leader, Pearly Black, as a tactic to disconcert his associates.
Following his arrival, Frankl allowed the light emanating from his hands to fade. He withdrew a handful of sturdy candles from his jacket, lighting them with a touch of a finger, then securing them with drops of molten wax at various points around the cavern. When he had finished, he sat down, propped himself up against a wall and waited.
The cavern’s irregular shape appeared to heave in the guttering candlelight, distorting its features. Frankl closed his eyes, seduced by the flickering light. His breathing gradually steadied after the exertion of the journey, and in a short while, he fell soundly asleep.
Frankl remained motionless for almost an hour before a slight disturbance in the air forewarned him that the first of his guests had arrived, in advance of their accompanying footsteps. Shortly afterwards, two people emerged through the natural stone entranceway, one after the other. First, Abel Strange, followed by Aurelia Nightshade, both long time compatriots and former members of the Order of Eternal Enlightenment.
Abel Strange, leading academic and polymath, genius in healing, mysticism, alchemy and science, and current Chief Mentor of the Academy of Arcane and Alchemical Arts, was breathing heavily. Beads of perspiration had collected on his forehead and were steadily trickling into his eyes.
Strange gasped when he saw Frankl. ‘Josef … yes, er, of course,’ he faltered. He fumbled for a handkerchief, which he managed to drop. He bent down and groped blindly around his feet in the gloomy candlelight in an attempt to regain it.
Strange’s inauspicious entry was in stark contrast to the dazzling Aurelia Nightshade, who looked as exotically alluring as ever. She nodded to Frankl and proffered a hand.
‘Josef, how good to see you,’ Aurelia said coldly, the tone of her voice contrasting bleakly with her words.
Frankl stooped and set the bold solitary jet stone ring that dominated Aurelia’s middle finger to his lips. He noted Aurelia’s tightly cut, black hair and her sharp, classical features that masked a deeply disturbing undercurrent. Her make-up, a stunning combination of gold and black, exemplified Aurelia’s trademark colours and matched the swirling cloak draped around her shoulders.
Frankl beamed, revealing preternaturally large teeth that reared frighteningly into view whenever his lips parted. ‘As always, Aurelia, the pleasure’s mine,’ he replied sycophantically.
Aurelia had been Black’
s closest confidante before the vanquishing of the Order, and while she had shown a singular lack of purpose in pursuing Black’s goals in the aftermath of his death, Frankl was optimistic that he could persuade her to play a pivotal role in his plans.
‘Candles. How quaint,’ pronounced Aurelia sarcastically.
Strange was looking about him. He had managed to retrieve the handkerchief and was mopping his brow. ‘Yes, and an interesting choice of venue for, er, this evening’s meeting,’ he said uneasily.
‘I’m sure you recall the places we met for Pearly’s gatherings,’ replied Frankl.
‘I, er, remember only too well, Josef. Pearly always held important meetings in places such as this.’
‘Yes,’ Frankl agreed. ‘The added edge of a million tons of rubble toppling down on top of us does tend to focus the mind somewhat, wouldn’t you say, Abel?’ he added.
Strange nodded. ‘Er, yes. I recall only too well the Order’s final meeting before Pearly’s death.’
‘Indeed,’ Frankl agreed. ‘The basement of a tenement block due for demolition around the time of the meeting. Pearly always believed that the Order should only make its most crucial decisions when faced with rather daunting circumstances.’
‘It was more than that,’ stated Strange. ‘He, er, believed that it engendered a sense of unity.’
Aurelia snorted. ‘Yes, but he also saw it as a test of loyalty. Being committed to Pearly was never something to toy with.’
‘P-Pearly never, er, asked anything of us that he was not willing to risk of himself.’
‘Oh, Abel, it was always inconceivable that you would not be fooled by Pearly’s charm. He may have been a genius, but out of all of us, you always seemed to overlook the fact that his judgement was, at times, misguided,’ said Frankl.
Strange grimaced. ‘Yet P-Pearly was never, er, motivated by greed,’ he said, challenging Frankl.
‘And I am? You know nothing of my plans,’ he replied dismissively.