The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  Gradually – though finishing what they’d started - everyone got back on their feet. Samuel had his box of soldiers again.

  ‘So, they were coming back from down there,’ he went on, pointing. ‘They might have already achieved their aim. We're no longer wandering blind: we can follow and see.’

  That passed for good news in the present context and the column reformed with slightly enhanced zeal. Samuel wanted them too occupied for wondering how they might prevail where elite troops hadn't. The march recommenced, scrunching on skeletons.

  Ones and twos of the long dead dotted the succeeding corridor, some still tangled in now eternal combat, but within sixty paces they petered out. Then the only sounds were muffled boots and the tap-tap-tap of Cook's inkstick keeping count.

  Finally, there was another aspirant-cavern like the one they'd just left. Death was there also, but in a manageable single dose. One of the demi-demons they kept meeting in effigy form was here in the – recently live - flesh. The corpse was nailed to a cross and inappropriate scriptural analogies occurred to most present.

  It was therefore a relief to look beyond that and see a set of broad steps commence their descent in the far corner. Alongside were more of the upward snaking burrows, complete with hot pork aroma, but they barely detracted from the discovery. There seemed no other exit from the chamber and thus their way forward was clear.

  It remained clear for all of five seconds. Then the burrows excreted a tumbling mass of problems. Troublesome choice returned.

  The creatures arrived in silence, providing scant notice by the scrabbling of claws. It was when they hit the floor and boiled forward that the screaming began. Every circular mouth, brimful of needle-teeth, emitted the same piping sound and the human party was deafened. Fortunately, there were no orders to drown out just yet, for Samuel was thinking.

  They were a rabble, landing in knots of skinny limbs - and undisciplined as well, fighting each other to arise and get at the enemy. However, they had numbers - the burrow shafts continued to discharge them in a torrent - and animal speed besides. They soon filled the ground with milk-white bodies and reaching hands, blocking the way to the stairs.

  Samuel had seconds to decide whether to fall back or fight through. For the moment his men stood, although shocked, but that might not last. Whatever the case, the hell-chorus was too loud for complicated instructions; he had to lead by example.

  The corridor they’d just traversed looked empty, even inviting. It might just lead back to daylight via a fighting retreat into the days to come. Ahead were opposition and the unknown. It wasn't hard to choose. Trevan charged forward.

  ‘To me!’ he shouted, but might as well have saved his breath. No one could hear him. Though they could hardly miss his advance or the flash of his gun.

  The bullet caught one creature square in the chest, throwing it back and knocking those behind down like skittles. That dissuaded them for a space, even carving out a brief interlude of quiet. Then the shooter followed his shot, stabbing with a seax. Two who felt it liked sharp steel as little as the rest of God's creation and went off to reconsider. Amidst his preoccupations, Samuel got the notion these things had grown unused to stout resistance.

  True or not, they were up to seeing one man off, and soon sprung back. He was at the extremity of torchlight and so saw everything distorted by shadow. Whereas their saucer-eyes, fringed by incongruous long lashes, surely harvested every drop of light and beheld him clear. Also, Samuel was alone and they were legion.

  Trevan's comrades watched him drop the first few; they noted the pause and then the recovery. Each had their own inner debate. For a brittle second it might have gone either way, but then they formed column and forged in his wake.

  A whole volley of shots shoved the beasts aside like the strong arm of Jehovah. Something akin to that same limb, though the Wizard's own creation, pinched off two heads. The victims ran around awhile, spraying their fellows with orangey-green ichor – though without provoking undue dismay. Samuel found space to wonder what other sights had so inured them to horror. Gunfire increased the mad noise to pain level as powder smoke obscured the scene.

  There was the narrowest window of opportunity to pass. The soldiers' blades dealt with dazed survivors in their way and then the path to the stairway was clear. Samuel shepherded the column along, startling himself by his officer-quality behaviour. They had to shift fast. A new breed were coming down the burrows now: the same shape but visibly more mettlesome. These had an orange tint to their hide and carried flint knives. They looked at Trevan and gibbered their hatred.

  ‘Team of two,’ he told the rearmost men. ‘Hold the stairhead.’

  To his amazement they obeyed him, not even protesting when he slipped past.

  'Cheerio,' he thought. Army-bred blind obedience did have its uses.

  Their sacrifice gained the rest a whole minute - maybe two. Samuel practically pushed the column down the steps. From behind he heard pistol discharges, then tumult, then quiet. It lasted long enough to inspire high hopes but then was spoilt by the distant rattle of clawed feet. They were coming.

  At that low point Samuel realised he'd been mistaken: that they didn't really know the way. A downward route had just been their provisional objective. Happily, there was no time to lament.

  The stairs ended in another landing. It extended way out into darkness, hinting at vast expanse. The right-hand wall was studded with little stone-built cubicles, most likely the confessionals where monks had come to admit their clutching-at-straws sins. They would have made good cover from which to ambush their pursuers, but for some obscure reason Trevan didn't want to take refuge there.

  A corridor bisected the row of boxes and Samuel led the way to that. He thought it was probably the course of greater wisdom to just keep moving. An ambush might mow down the first few waves now hammering down the stairs after them, but there was no way of knowing how many more came in their wake. Samuel had a vision of infinite reinforcements pouring from the burrows like ants.

  In any case, it transpired that the 'confessionals' were already occupied. Some demi-demon offspring, little spindly creatures on tottery legs, came out to inspect the visitors. Their presumed nurses, obese and myriad-breasted variants of the males already seen, waddled after them. Any remotely in the way were slashed aside with knife or sword.

  They were moving at a jog now, a perilous pace on an ill-lit unknown route. Several times men fell and half stunned themselves. They were granted a few seconds to revive, failing which, as Samuel put it, it was 'best o'luck' time. That incentive seemed to aid recovery. There was also need to ignite new torches as the originals now guttered low. In that pause and brief absence of the sound of their own feet and laboured breath, they heard heightened screams from the pursuit. They had discovered their dead children.

  The lucifers flared and replacement torches burst into life. Samuel had them throw the old ones back up the corridor. Combined, they made a decent, if obviously failing, barrier of flame. Trevan recalled reading that wild animals didn't like fire. On the other hand brute-beasts didn't fabricate and carry knives either - but it was worth a try.

  Quite how much so was proven seconds later when a oversized example of the foe leapt undaunted over the blaze. Fortunately, it proved to be alone. The rearward soldier shot it full in the face and the dead or dying creature toppled back onto the likewise expiring torches. It sizzled briefly, and then ignited in a whooof of noxious gas.

  Philosophers had long speculated that the demi-demon races predated Man and were examples of God's earlier, less loving, handiwork. Certainly, this type seemed to be more inflated sausage-skins of life than close-knit muscle and sinew. There were (feeble) aspects of cheer in that.

  In the absence of any other encouragement, Samuel seized upon it. They had spare torches for just one more renewing of the light and were emptying their brace-of-pistols-each too fast. Plus they were unlikely to be granted a respite for leisurely reloading.

&nbs
p; ‘They die easy, lads,’ he told all, when echoes and smoke permitted. ‘Save your bullets: use blades.’

  That was easy said but even he didn't relish letting the things get closer than need be.

  They pushed on at increased rate and the corridor enlarged into another library – kind of. Someone had nailed the monastery Bibles, works of great art and age, higgledy-piggledy to the walls. Everyone noted it but there was no time for either rage or rescue. Nevertheless, the message got through.

  Next came eruption into an even greater hall. The centrepiece was a huge throne which looked secreted rather than made. Bright orange pelts (Samuel spared a second to ponder those...) and rough cuts of meat were spread before it. The 'symbol' was everywhere, in every medium.

  ‘The ‘scriptorium’, I think,’ puffed Cook, who really was earning his keep. ‘'Tis usually found near the abbot's rooms.’

  A squeal of elation banished such scholarly thoughts. At the doorway one of the orangey warrior breeds had caught up.

  One soldier returned and screwed a seax deep into it. The squeal produced was soon drowned by some internal flood. Then, from out of view, a stone hammer descended to shatter both human hand and knife. Fortunately, help was nearby to put a shot through the doorway and deal with the offstage threat.

  ‘Away!’ said Samuel. ‘Column to me.’

  The injured man, clutching his jellied paw, rightly expected no allowances to be made. Stoically quiet, if deathly pale, he rejoined the ranks as Trevan took them off at reckless pace. They sprinted round the empty throne and offerings, up to the end of the hall and, mercifully, straight to a way out. Behind, in the returned darkness, they heard the arrival of the hunt.

  ‘Abbot's office,’ said Cook, again locating them. Even in these circumstances he couldn't subdue the tone of professional pride. It was then Trevan decided who had definitively won the contest and was top-dog engineer. Wulfstan failed to muster even a dismissive sneer.

  In a presumed spirit of mockery they'd retained the abbot's desk, and then re-employed its fine surface to sacrifice things on or use as a latrine. Sandwiched between those layers of cack and gore and coin Samuel noted the familiar Bible-nailing statement again and, what was extra interesting, some mistreated maps.

  Still more fascinating than those though, were the shots directed at the column. Two of them, quite distinct, more like musket-fire than pistols. Both missed, but not by much. Trevan's first thought was to speed away, his second that demi-demons did not use firearms. The third spiralled him straight back to his first: namely that bunched torch-bearers in the dark made a lovely target.

  ‘About turn,’ he shouted. ‘Skirmish order. Crab’s claws. Fire at will.’

  It was untried formation but worked well. Strung out in line they presented less of a barn door to aim at. Also, the extreme left and right soldiers, at the very fringe of illumination, could edge along the walls and maybe deal out unexpected blows.

  So it proved. Three more shots followed in their direction and junior-engineer Cook, so full of promise, became also full of lead, dying silently. Yet it would have been worse were they still grouped close. Samuel was then pleased to note his side’s reply via powder flashes from either side of the chamber. A grunt and thud from beyond the doorway tokened reward.

  Best of all, Trevan found he’d had it with being chased about. True to form, he decided to seize the moment.

  ‘Forward!’ he said. ‘Kill!’ It sounded good.

  It also took the opposition by surprise. Samuel heard a panicky debate (with lines for both man and beast) from just out of sight. The toss was still being argued when the human wave hit them.

  Samuel was first through and used his remaining pistol on the rank orange body he blundered into. Accordingly it went away . Then, stumbling over one of its fellows and treading into the squishy body, his outstretched knife encountered resistance which shrieked and flinched. He was dimly aware of others hacking wildly to either side. Two more shots were fired nearby. Samuel looked up and saw a corresponding number of monsters lifted up and flung away in ruin. Then the chain of reflex actions was jarringly broken. Suddenly there was nothing pressing to do: they had won. Five bewildering seconds of flurry had gained them the door.

  Trevan wondered if the more practised soldiers experienced it thus, or whether they could impose sequence and sense? Nevertheless, he still felt he'd done well enough for a first outing, all things considered. However, fresh challenges now arose: like seeing an enemy stream away from you in flight. That was an intoxicating sight and temptation to rashness.

  ‘Hold fire,’ Samuel ordered, trying to sieve the excitement out of his voice. ‘Except... except for that one.’

  He pointed to an apparently man-shaped musketeer scampering off into the gloom of the 'scriptorium'. By now the rest of the party had arrived, improving visibility with their steady torches. A soldier took advantage of it and shot the fugitive in the back. The target went down and skidded forward with strange grace before coming to final rest. His gun did even better, skimming some extra yards along the floor.

  ‘He had pals,’ said the injured soldier, indicating with his good hand one of the corpses by their feet. A boot turned it over. The deceased had fallen atop his musket.

  ‘Certainly looks human,’ said Wulfstan. ‘Looks Devon, come to that.’

  First and foremost, Samuel reckoned he looked a mess, courtesy of the bullet in him, but otherwise the engineer's description was sound.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ said the Wizard at his most disdainful, observing their surprise, ‘that you thought this was just demi-demon stuff? Haven't you been waiting for their officer corps to come onstage?’

  Plainly they hadn't.

  ‘Save us,’ they heard him mutter, ‘the people I have to work with....’

  There was no time to frame a reply, for the Wizard was immediately obliged with fresh corroboration. Commotion signalled new arrivals who cared nothing for discretion. In a new development, these carried their own torches, shedding a fitful, greenish, light.

  ‘You four,’ Samuel stabbed his finger at the designated men. ‘Reload. The rest: stand until we see their numbers.’

  The newcomers sounded numerous and angry. At the very edge of earshot Samuel thought he could hear human - and other - voices in conference.

  ‘Be quick about it,’ he added, needlessly. Those he'd instructed were fairly tearing at their impotent guns: even the injured man was lending what help he could.

  Between the two zones of light there was a patch of twilight spanning much of the 'throne room'. The Wizard wandered off into it before anyone could stop him. He'd evidently seen something no one else could. His speaking loud and clear made Samuel wince. Surely they'd just shoot him down like a dog?

  ‘Mr Brannigan?’ called the Wizard. ‘Stop skulking. Come out and face me.’

  There was no reply, although the screaming of the demi-demons increased in volume and pitch.

  ‘Brannigan! I'm talking to you, you pathetic bum-stroker! What's the problem? Are you a man or-....’

  ‘There is no call for abuse,’ replied a bulky figure, detaching itself from the dimly seen throng, ‘however factual. In fact, I hunger and thirst to meet you....’

  The figure strolled closer and they saw that his dress matched his voice and demeanour. A Piccadilly dance-hall dandy, albeit more fleshy than the norm, was somehow transported into the bowels of the earth. Ditto the tones of London genteel society.

  Samuel felt sorely tempted to blast them both but, fascinated, for the moment held his hand.

  The pair were within yards of each other now. The dandy exaggeratedly quizzed the Wizard, not troubling to hide mounting disgust.

  ‘I don't believe I’ve had the pleasure,’ he said. ‘Though such billows of meat surely preclude much pleasure in any case. I wouldn't be surprised if you were as virginal as a-....’

  The Wizard snapped up his right arm and formed a fist surrounded by crackling light. 'Brannigan' matched
it and thus revealed a similar talent. The two hands approached, their auras met and merged. Within seconds all amusement drained from Brannigan's face.

  ‘I don't...,’ he stuttered; reluctant but obliged to speak. ‘I don’t… understand.’

  ‘You wouldn't,’ the Wizard crowed. ‘Mott smuggled me in from Rome. I'm his secret weapon - or one of them.’

  He seemed to exert additional force. Brannigan winced.

  ‘Good, aren't I?’ said the Wizard, perkiness personified. There was no reply.

  The lively light was now seeping back up Brannigan's arm. His carefully coiffured hair was beginning to stand aloft, strand by oiled strand. Stitches from his embroidered frockcoat were coming unpicked.

  ‘Stoke high the fires of Hell!’ laughed the Wizard - and made a final effort: a head-butt that stopped short of impact.

  Holes melted in his enemy's silken garments and red seeped from eyes and ears. Brannigan gave one small cry, a whimper of submission, and then fell backwards like a toppled statue. Samuel could not decide if he was imagining the wisps of smoke.

  The Wizard returned as though from a particularly scrumptious lunch.

  ‘He didn't merit his standing,’ he told Trevan. ‘Renegades are often over-rated, however infamous. I suggest you shoot now: whilst they're still in shock. And incidentally, I am not a virgin.’

  Samuel preferred not to think about that, but he did see that the opposition were shaken - and more to the point, bunched and lit up.

  ‘Fire!’

  Eight shots followed, in two volleys of four. The enemy ranks became gratifyingly gap-toothed. The Wizard joined in with a lobbed projectile of thought. It landed amidst them, producing screams. A single shot came back but did no harm.

  The Wizard raised his hand to stem Trevan's likely questions - and laughed at the resulting cringe.

  ‘Don't worry: you're safe from me. And you shall have your dull-dog explanation, albeit in haste. We knew of him, but not till today the where of him. The manner of his defection caused a certain scandal – but it and he are now quelled. And yes, a magician's thoughts are like his calling card: detectable to his fellows from some distance. And no, he wasn't entirely without talent, considering. Satisfied?’