‘Would you help?’ The cook set his hand on the underling’s shoulder. ‘I’ve half a pig on the spit out back, needs bringing in.’
The underling sighed and clapped the bread crumbs from his hands before following the cook out to the yard. The second the door closed behind them, Vesta’s focus settled on the two remaining bowls. Despite his utter depravity, Mr Ruth was very fond of manners, and wouldn’t serve himself before anyone else. Which meant that one of the appetisers was his own; ripe for doctoring.
The cook had exotic herbs that needed to be boiled for hours before losing their potency. It was the fashion of late to eat the most dangerous and outlandish fayre; she suspected it was an effort on the ruling classes part to emulate the daring guilders they pretended not to admire. Just a sprig as garnish might be enough to lame Ruth, she didn’t imagine his constitution was particularly strong. However, to ensure success, she would have to poison both remaining portions, and the other would certainly be for her brother as host. She couldn’t do that to him.
The sound of water hissing to steam pulled her from deliberation. The soup on the hearth was boiling over. A smile peeled her lips upwards; the mere thought of Eldridge Ruth writhing in agony was almost enough to make her burst out laughing. She hopped from her chair and hurried to the stove. With a square of layered linen wrapped around the pot’s handle, she hefted it in both hands; the beef-scented broth slopped and sizzled on the stove top.
Positioned at the hall door, she took care not to spill any scalding liquid. Scared for what might happen, but determined that she would avenge her loss of freedom, she readied herself. Footsteps approached on the other side of the wood.
The door opened and Ruth stepped across the threshold. He had only the time to see Vesta’s malicious expression before his eyes, face, and chest were doused in the blistering liquid. The scream that came was enough for two men, high and loud, guttural and filled with dread. Just as agony washed through him, satisfaction swelled in Vesta, but it was only short lived.
As the man crumpled to the floor, she became acutely aware of how badly she had spoiled any chance of a normal life. If the men could catch her, they would kill her without second thought. She had to get out; now.
1682
For the third day in a row, ash hung heavy in the air and the sun was blotted from the sky. It was cold, miserable, but solemnly beautiful. The whole town was swathed in a sinister twilight mist that framed the buildings as shadowy monoliths, as opposed to rundown dens.
William shivered, and though he had managed to scrape together enough change for a coarse new shirt, and had washed his trousers of grey matter and flecks of skull, he was still dirty with soot. The dust clung to him, making limbs heavy with a crust across his skin.
He ached from sleeping on the floor of Vesta’s rented room – an economical move he would have rather avoided – and was altogether displeased about her insistence on trailing him until the target was dead. He had tried and failed to convince her to leave him to his work countless times already, and rather frustratingly she refused to see sense. Like any simmering disagreement the arguments would build and wane, sometimes finishing in an almighty row, but more often than not they petered to a period of sullen silence. He just couldn’t accept their difference of opinion. So, on route to the chapel for his initiation, he decided to dredge it up again.
‘You’re only going to slow me down…’ He wondered whether one talking point would be enough, and added, ‘or get yourself killed.’
‘I doubt it,’ Vesta replied with a stern confidence; she was battle hardened to their little rows by now. ‘I’ve looked after myself for the last eight years. I know exactly what we’re walking into; I can handle it.’
Her tone was steadfast, though William detected a little hastening of her breath. It could have been the steep elevation to the chapel, but she seemed fit enough, perhaps even more so than him. There was a fear in her, which bred doubt, and that could be used to keep her distant from the killing.
While the district around the town hall had been approximately flat, the closer one got to the high chapel, the more precipitous the districts became. Townhouses and shops crowded busy roads, connected via wandering stone stairways and steep little paths cut into bare rock. More than once, William’s shoes slipped on the cobbles and drifts of ash, and he was forced to adjust his course. Folk that bustled from the shops seemed more accustomed to the slick cambered streets, and gave no leeway for a foreigner in smooth soles; he started to lag Vesta.
Her purposeful stride was unwavering and the further she drew ahead of him, the more it seemed like their little disagreement had been decided in her favour. Placing his feet purposely in the grooves between cobbles to give him a little more traction, he hurried to keep pace with the rhythm struck by her lengthy legs. As he trotted close, somehow managing to keep his footing while dodging a group of awe stricken death-tourists, he cleared his throat and resumed their debate.
‘It takes more than a blade or a bullet to kill a man.’ He was trying his best to discourage her enough to turn back, but not enough for her to call the job off all together. She had the coin for both of their initiations, and he still needed her to pay up. ‘You have to be able to live with yourself after. I’ve seen people like you fall to pieces over less than murder.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ She seemed a little more distant now, as if deep in a memory. ‘I’ve killed before.’
An uncomfortable silence slung between them. While he doubted her claim, she did have a certain confidence about her. Not to mention the courage to enter Blackbile unaccompanied. Yet, Vesta was far from the cold hearted sort of woman that typified the guild. He could see her trepidation, even if she refused to admit or project it. Her eyes darted to every shadow when she thought his attention had lapsed, and ever-so-occasionally she worried her bottom lip. The confidence and fear seemed to be in constant battle, and though the fear was losing, William started to wonder exactly what his patron was expecting for them upon arrival at the chapel.
‘How do you deal with it, anyway?’ she asked as they ascended onto a sort of plateau, allowing them a little respite from the relentless climb. ‘The guilt?’
‘Guilt?’ William scoffed. ‘I don’t have any, I kill to keep going. The same way that you eat meat to not starve, I kill to avoid destitution; life feeds on death.’
He paraphrased what he could remember of Ojo’s mantra. Though he had believed in it for so long, he had never actually aired it before. It didn’t sound quite as poetic as when the legendary assassin had espoused it, but he could still feel the sentiment ringing true, even if he couldn’t vocalise it.
‘I suppose.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘But it is possible to survive without meat, the monks do it; and you don’t have to kill to survive – you could farm, tend a shop – you do it because…’
‘Do you want me to kill the scalded man or not?’ He interrupted her altogether too-competent sounding argument before the entire foundation of his being was shaken any further. ‘You’re the one that wants a man dead.’
‘I’m not happy about it.’ She scowled. ‘It’s just something that needs to be done, and it would be wrong if I wasn’t there.’
Their discussion faltered, and they continued to the chapel in a pall of oppressive quiet. The town too was subdued, the merriment from the opening ceremony had all but died off, and the festivities associated with the firing of the starting pistol had yet to begin. At only two hours past dawn, many of the tourists that insisted on revelling week-through were in bed or otherwise unconscious, making it feel like any number of other tedious Wellensdays.
The chapel loomed overhead, its stone made black by endless soot and ash from the mountain; it looked far more ominous up close. The throbbing light from sconces inside swelled in the crimson stained glass and the spire held a similarly coloured flag on the end of an upturned cross. William noted a high balcony that would provide quite the vantage once the competit
ion started.
A crowd of people outside held banners and chanted something distantly. Presumably part of the initiation. The whole image sought to impress, but under the circumstances of infiltration, it was quite unsettling.
‘You told them you would be coming with an extra recruit, so if you arrive alone they might suspect something,’ Vesta said out of nowhere, reassuring herself to stay the course.
‘True.’ He was becoming a little more grateful for her at his side now. Two against a cult was infinitely more agreeable than one.
As they drew closer, it became apparent that the people with the banners were not part of the ceremony at all. They were shouting and chanting things not entirely flattering about the presence of the cult in their borough. Signs sported painted messages like “we will not pay the tithe” and “extortion is not salvation”.
William and Vesta shared a worried glance; this group had entirely encircled the steps to the chapel entrance.
‘How do we get through?’ Vesta asked as if William had experience in passing through an angry mob. He stopped twenty feet behind the crowd, lacking in answers for the time being.
‘We won’t pay, we won’t pay!’ The crowd became unified in their chant as cult members spilled from the chapel doors. They were dressed in robes of ceremony; silken gowns of pure white with flowing red scarves around their necks and sheep hide mantles about their shoulders. Most of them held orbs and sceptres of gold and glass, others carried woven baskets.
‘Heathens!’ a cultist roared at the mob. William recognised the high cheek-boned cultist from the brothel. ‘Hell-bound masses, do you not seek redemption from your inherent sin?’
‘Crook!’ one of the women in the crowd called out and was echoed with a rally of cheers.
‘There is only one way into the heavens,’ Cheekbones continued with all the charm and gravitas a preacher to a real god might have. ‘Selflessness! We Lambs sacrifice ourselves to this higher cause for your benefit, and we offer you your own chance at redemption. Give generously your wealth to the betterment of your community through a tithe to us. Save your very souls by letting go of your greed once and for all.’
The crowd answered with a volley of root vegetables, bottles, and horse dung. It seemed they were not convinced by the promised salvation of the Lambs. Nor was William, but he needed them in the competition.
‘You are misguided by the devils amongst you.’ An over ripe tomato hit the wall behind Cheekbones with an explosive squelch. ‘They must be expunged so that the meek amongst you may be free to contribute your tithes.’
Cheekbones took his sceptre in two hands and twisted each end sharply. A spark shot from the head as if a flint and steel had been struck internally, then gunpowder ignited in a fizz of crackling embers. He fished a glass orb from the basket of a fellow cultist, and used his burning sceptre to light its trailing wick.
‘Accept salvation!’ Cheekbones shouted as he tossed the orb into the crowd. Bodies scrabbled over one another to get away from the arcing ball, women and children screamed in the press. Glass smashed on the cobbled streets, then the powdered mix inside kindled. Pure white light erupted in the crowd, so bright it singed the retinas: spark powder.
The protestors began to flee; other cultists ignited their charging rods and tossed glass grenades.
William snatched Vesta roughly about the middle, and hurtled for the cover of a garden wall. Ash plumed around them, spiny plants snagged their clothes. He pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth, and instructed her to do the same. This was not exactly the kind of reception he’d expected; religious folk were more civilised, even the zealots usually.
‘Let the fires cleanse you!’
Bombs popped like fireworks in the crowd, and soon more than half of the protestors were floored, cradling their faces, or unconscious on the ground. William was sure that at least a few were dead.
When the cultists stopped throwing their orbs and twisted their charging rods to extinguish them, the uninjured townsfolk started to re-emerge. They crept from doorways, alleyways, and from behind abandoned carts to drag away their friends and family members. William was a little wiser, and understood the rudiments of spark powder, so waited until the last wisp of smoke had been carried away on the breeze. Then, seizing the opportunity of the ceasefire, he jumped up, and pulled Vesta to her feet.
‘One day you will thank us for the amputation of your rebellious limb,’ Cheekbones shouted authoritatively over the writhing bodies and crying children. ‘The only way to salvation is through God, and the only way to God is through us.’
He tossed his ignition rod into a basket, and took the moment to bless the townsfolk with a muttered prayer and flamboyant hand gestures. Recognition pulled over his otherwise impassive face when he spotted William marching a very circuitous route through the carnage.
‘William, welcome!’ He widened his arms like a magnanimous saint.
‘Hello.’ William failed to match the cultist’s enthusiasm. He felt Vesta wriggle her hand free, like a child determined to prove she was all grown up.
‘I’m so sorry about that little display.’ Cheekbones wrapped his arm about William’s shoulders. ‘Terrible business, but that’s the problem when you set up in a town like this. They’re all too used to the ways of the devil, so won’t accept a fair tithing lying down. But they’re not far from breaking point now; they’ll see the light, one way or another.’
William nodded, now entirely comfortable with his decision to side with Vesta against the cult.
They were led inside, to a nave about as welcoming as implied by the building’s foreboding exterior. The walls were white and the whole room was aglow with the light from a thousand tallow candles. The Lambs that had been with Cheekbones remained outside, but there were far more in here, stood in regimented groups, chanting scripture in a guttural tone. William and Vesta followed the cultist between two columns of pews left vacant – should any of the locals feel inspired to join – and up a staircase that spanned the entire width of the chapel.
At the top of the steps was a large font, sunken into the floor, and filled with a putrid red liquid. It was unmistakable to anyone with a nose as slowly fermenting blood; a skin had congealed, and a few flies dawdled about its surface. William hoped it was lamb’s blood, at least that would be thematically appropriate, but the cultists’ display outside suggested they weren’t quite so predictable. He could deduce – perhaps because of his own sour luck – that he would need to submerge himself in it before the day was done.
On the other side of the font was a pipe organ that lined the wall with brass tubes, and not far above it, a balcony from which a sermon could be given. Unlike many of the other faiths he had come across, there would be no hope for a peaceful inauguration. In such a fire and brimstone place as Blackbile, the Sacrificial Lambs were exactly what he should have expected.
‘Are you ready to join the Flock?’ Cheekbones took his place between the pair and the font. ‘William? And you miss?’
‘Jane.’ She nodded, even managed a weak smile.
‘Place the tithe in my palm and remove your clothes.’
Vesta didn’t hesitate. She offered two coin purses and pulled off her clothes as readily as any back alley bawd. William was more tentative, but had to convince the cult of his sincerity. Making a concerted effort not to look at Vesta, he surrendered his shirt, feeling the cold air against his bare skin. As he lowered his trousers, his two pistols clattered loudly against the floor.
‘And the hair tie.’
Vesta was more reluctant to unbind her hair than she had been in removing her clothes. Softly, she loosed the leather band holding her plaits and ran fingers through her hair to remove the knots.
‘Do those of you here today, swear to give your lives for the betterment of the Cause?’ The pair shared a nervous glance, then echoed him with a yes. ‘Will you hold the tenets of the Lambs close to your hearts? Selflessness, purity, obedience, and a swift and stern hand for thos
e who seek to do wrong to members of our good religion?’
‘I do,’ they lied in unison.
‘Then give yourselves up to the font. Wash yourselves in Lambs’ blood to cleanse your souls of sin.’ Cheekbones lead a small procession of cultists and incense bearers to the far side of the font, then pulled a ceremonial blade from beneath his robes.
William took the first step into the still-warm font. It was thick, far more resistant than water; the very feel of it rose gooseflesh across his body. Vesta followed, now the more hesitant of the two.
Cheekbones plunged the tip of his knife into the scar beneath his eye and jerked it, letting blood flow freely over the back of his hand and drool into the font.
As William took another step forward, submerging his genitals in the liquid, he confirmed in his mind that the entirety of the font’s contents had been sourced from cultists in sacrifice. Suddenly aware that the men and women who lined the edges of the room had moved inwards and were now surrounding the pool, William struggled to keep his disgust hidden. Each member pricked their skin in one place or another and added their essence to the mixture.
‘Surrender yourselves to our kinship,’ Cheekbones instructed with a shudder, pushing the knife ever so slightly deeper into his own face.
William pursed his lips as tight as was humanly possible and sank to his knees. If there were gods, they certainly weren’t watching as the warm liquid enveloped him, filling his ears and nostrils with its taste. Making his skin feel dirty and impure. He held himself under for as long as he could stomach then resurfaced. He spat to clear his lips of the coppery liquid, and smeared it away from his eyes.
Vesta was similarly coated in the blood; her dark eyes gleaming in contrast, and hair plastered to her scalp. William found his eyes pulling to the side of her head. There was a small channel – hard to decipher clearly – that she had previously hidden with delicately arranged plaits. It might not have even been noticeable if her hair was dry. When she looked at him, he averted his eyes to save her from self-consciousness, but she was too distracted to notice; sick from the ordeal they had been through.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 13