Lord of Slaughter

by M. D. Lachlan

  One day he had been working the fields. The lord rode by and behind him his children. He’d seen her in the distance across the river, the duke’s daughter on her grey horse, flanked by warriors. For a moment he glimpsed another life, imagined he was one of those men, destined to marry, to have children and to fight in wars. Then he had gone back to his toil.

  His friend Loys had gone, if not to fight then to love, and Azémar had been left with his books, observing the hours of devotion, making the food, cleaning and cooking.

  He crawled forward on his belly.

  ‘What have I been? What have I been?’

  He sensed water.

  Lights flared behind him, lights and voices. He stood, his shadow long on the walls. From somewhere in the tunnels another voice called. A woman. A girl?

  There was water in front of him. The water connected him to her. He put his mouth to it and drank.

  ‘This is the stream …’

  He said the words himself and edged forward into the water. A song came to his lips.

  ‘The water weft that knots in the world well.

  Where the dead god took his lore.’

  A current tugged him forward. Was the current of this world or of the dream world?

  A scream.

  ‘What are you doing? It’s him you want!’

  ‘You’ve made enough mistakes, Meletios!’

  ‘In the name of the chamberlain, I tell you to stop!’

  He recognised one of the voices behind him. It seemed to recall something of his old self, before the Numera, before he had eaten of bloody fruits, sucked knowledge from the marrow of men’s bones, seen the world as it is, in its stains and its sweats, its smears and its stinks, not as men imagine it to be.

  There was another scream and a crash.

  ‘He’s got a knife! The bastard has a knife!’

  ‘Where’s he gone? Get that torch lit again. You idiot, get a light!’

  Frantic voices jabbered down from the upper tunnels, floating on a hot wave of panic, delicious to Azémar as the smell of a cooking pot.

  You are near her. Bring her. I will be your salvation. It was a girl’s voice, sounding in his mind as clearly as if she’d been standing next to him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  One who sits and waits. She who gave the most for lore.

  ‘You are a demon.’

  No.

  ‘You are a thing of darkness.’

  You are of the dark, of all fears and fancies made.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Bring her to me.

  ‘Who?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Get a light! A light!’ The voices again.

  A cry, a shout of pain brought him jolting back to himself.

  He remembered Loys. His friend was just a child when he’d met him, too scared to sleep in the big dormitory, crying in anguish and loneliness. Azémar had told him he’d felt like that too on his first night. Loys was among friends, kind and gentle people who would help him.

  ‘Find him. Here. That’s better. There, down the passage, down the passage.’ The harsh voices were full of panic.

  Azémar spoke: ‘I would not be what I am.’

  What are you? It was the girl’s voice.

  ‘A hunger,’ said Azémar.

  You are the wolf.

  And then he was running towards the lights that flickered from the upper passages, towards the screaming and the stink of fear that drifted down.

  Six men, one on the floor dead, one rushing past him, others pursuing.

  Azémar didn’t think or question. His keen senses put the world into two categories now – foe and everything else. The man plunging into the dark behind him was not his enemy. The others, their sweat sharp with the stress of battle, their hearts pounding out a rhythm of excitement and fear, their knives bright in the lamplight, were the same guards as the men who had dragged him to the dungeon and left him to fester.

  He sprang from the shadows unseen and unsuspected, catching both men in his arms, lifting them and slamming them down hard. Then the others attacked. A knife drove at his belly but it seemed slow, like the man was passing it to him rather than trying to kill him. Azémar stepped past the blade to deliver a backhanded blow to the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe and sending him choking to the floor.

  The next knifeman stabbed at him with a high, downward motion. Azémar caught the knife hand and pulled him forward, driving the man’s head into a knee and knocking him cold. Then he span to face the two behind him. They’d regained their feet staggering, groggy, like men on a ship’s deck in a gale. Azémar leaped at the nearest, seizing his head and thrusting his teeth into his neck. The man fell back, his head and chest soaked in a burst of blood. The last died more easily, his neck broken with a quick twist.

  Azémar sank to his knees, the man’s head in his hands.

  ‘I am a hunger,’ he said.

  You are a hunger, said the voice in his head.

  His nails worked back the skin of the chest to expose the flesh beneath and he ate, enraptured by the taste of blood.

  ‘Azémar! Azémar!’

  The voice. He recognised it. Who was it?

  ‘It’s me, Loys. Leave him! You have starved too long in here. You’ve gone mad. Leave him!’

  Azémar tried to speak. ‘I …’ The word seemed like an anchor to his storm-blown thoughts.

  ‘Azémar, please. It’s me. Loys.’ The man had a torch in his hand.

  ‘Yes. I knew you at Rouen.’

  ‘You knew me? I’m your friend, Azémar. Do you not remember?’

  ‘You were scared and I comforted you.’ His voice was distant.

  ‘I have come to save you, to take you from this place. You’re not yourself. You need to recover.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on. Come with me.’

  ‘The guards will fetter me again.’

  ‘No. I have authority over them. These are not prison guards. They are enemies of mine sent to kill me. Come on. I will get you out. You need proper food and drink and to be clean again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Loys searched the bodies. There was nothing on them.

  ‘How did you find me?’ said Azémar.

  ‘We thought we saw you and followed you down.’

  ‘I have not moved.’

  ‘Then it was someone else. Let’s get to the surface. Can you find the way?’

  Azémar pointed up the passageway.

  ‘To the bad air,’ he said, ‘and beyond it to the good air. Can’t you smell it?’

  ‘No, not here.’

  ‘I can. And other things too, the water and the rock, the blood and the corruption of death. I can smell it all. I can feel it on my skin. I don’t know what has become of me. I am not myself.’

  ‘We won’t speak of it again. No man can be held responsible for what he does down here. God’s light does not shine here.’

  ‘Do his eyes see?’

  ‘The test he set you was too hard. Come on, to the surface. You will return to yourself with care and with affection.’

  Loys extended his hand to Azémar, who took it and allowed his friend to pull him to his feet.

  ‘Loys.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Loys.’

  Azémar said the word almost as if he didn’t understand it. A presence he recognised was at his side, someone who had shown him kindness and to whom he in turn had shown kindness.

  ‘Loys?’ That name. He knew it. He had said it for a reason.

  ‘Azémar, my friend, we have you, we have you.’

  ‘Save me,’ said Azémar, as a darkness came down upon him and he fainted into Loys’ arms.

  29 Snake in the Eye’s Bargain

  Mauger tried to dissuade Arnulf from pursuing his claim of hölmgang against Snake in the Eye. The boy was rash; he had been humiliated in front of the camp; too much blood had been spilled already.

  Snake in the Eye stood watching the negotiatio
n, his mouth wet with anticipation. He wanted to see Arnulf die and was afraid Mauger – or Ragnar, as he was now known – was on the verge of backing out. He had guessed the man was more than a monk the first time he had seen him. Mauger’s way of walking, how he had scanned the buildings from the top of the church steps – not warily, as a field mouse, but boldly, like a hawk. His fighting skills were impressive, but would he use them on Snake in the Eye’s behalf? Was he trying to crawl out of what he had promised? ‘You will help me with my problem,’ Snake in the Eye had said, ‘and I will help you with yours with the scholar.’

  He needn’t have worried. Arnulf wanted vengeance for his son and insisted on his right to ritual combat. He couldn’t fight the boy but he could strike his friend and feel someone had paid for the grief he was suffering.

  They had gone to it down by the shore on a black morning when the wind whipped in from the ocean and the air was full of grit and sleet. Mauger’s sword had caused an intake of breath in the crowd. It was an excellent Frankish weapon, its blade almost blue beneath the shroud of dark clouds.

  Arnulf had a spear in his hand and an axe in his belt.

  Three shields each were allowed. Snake in the Eye had bought them for Mauger. The Norman held one; the boy held another ready, and a third lay nearby.

  Bollason called, ‘Go,’ and the two men circled each other. A flash of steel and it was over. Arnulf took two quick steps towards Mauger, who retreated, but when his opponent took a third step, Mauger suddenly advanced, brushing away the spear with his shield and slashing at Arnulf’s left calf. The shield offered no protection there and the sword bit flesh, forcing Arnulf to one knee.

  Snake in the Eye cheered as Mauger drove a kick into his opponent’s face, sending him back into the mud. Mauger stepped forward again, sword high, but Arnulf was unconscious on the cold ground.

  ‘Do I have to finish it?’ said Mauger to Bollason.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Snake in the Eye.

  Bollason gave the boy a simmering glare. Then his eyes turned back to Mauger. ‘No. I declare honour satisfied, his and the boy’s.’

  Mauger threw his shield to the ground and strode back towards Snake in the Eye.

  ‘Don’t cheer for death, boy; it finds us soon enough in times like these. I have performed you a service,’ he said, ‘now it is time for you to perform me one. You will go to the university and the churches and the palace and you will find this scholar Loys and let me know where he is. Then I’ll have to worry about getting to him.’

  Snake in the Eye went straight away. It was not too difficult to locate Loys. His second port of call was the Magnaura and, the emperor’s medal in his hand, the boy had quickly established Loys worked for the chamberlain in the palace. He lacked the subtlety to disguise his purpose but was lucky enough to pick on someone who was impressed by his medal and willing to talk.

  The men on the first gate deferred to his medal and he was allowed through to the school proper. There he questioned the custodian of the door to the Magnaura, a shy man but a proud one, who took the opportunity of the ease he felt talking to a boy to demonstrate the range of his knowledge. The doorkeeper was one of that species of men in lowly jobs who imagine themselves the colleagues and intimates of the more celebrated men they serve. He was eager to show his familiarity with palace and university gossip.

  ‘You’ve been called by him, then?’ he said.

  Snake in the Eye said nothing, not quite knowing how to answer.

  ‘No need to be shy about it, boy; he’s been examining half the palace and all of the university. He’s putting the fear of God into people.’

  ‘I should see him,’ said Snake in the Eye.

  ‘Didn’t the messenger who summoned you not make it clear he’s no longer here? You have to visit him in the palace. Ask at the Room of Nineteen Couches and they’ll let you in.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by his foreign looks,’ said the custodian, ‘not that being foreign means you’re automatically stupid but …’ He gave Snake in the Eye an up and down glance and then thought better of expanding his point. ‘Look, he’s a slippery bastard. Remember that. He’s an expert at finding devil worship where there is none, so admit to no amulet, no charm, no number square. He’ll use it against you.’

  Snake in the Eye smiled, not quite understanding at first.

  ‘He casts curses?’

  ‘No, he studies them and seeks to remove them.’

  ‘What sort of curse?’

  ‘This sky for a start. And many we’re not supposed to talk about.’

  ‘How does he do this? He’s not doing it very well – the sky is still black.’

  ‘It’s an enormous magic,’ said the custodian. ‘You can’t shift that sort of thing overnight; I think even the most rudimentary knowledge of the correct charts and positions of the stars would reveal that. No, he’s working towards it, slowly. He’ll get there. He’s a scholar of the Magnaura. Our men never fail.’

  Snake in the Eye touched the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Has he successfully removed curses before?’

  ‘This university attracts the finest brains from throughout the world. Of course he has; it’s why he was picked. The word is he was shipped in from the north specifically to solve this problem.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You are awed,’ said the custodian, ‘and no wonder. Every day here we see marvels that men from other countries – indeed men from two hundred paces down the Middle Way – have never seen in their lives.’

  Snake in the Eye thought about that. He thought about the mechanical tree in which birds sang, the great statues, the amazing mosaic that stretched out under his feet.

  ‘Could this man remove a curse on a person?’ he said.

  ‘He could,’ said the doorkeeper. ‘For do you think the chamberlain would trust him to take the stain of hell from the sky if he could not do such a simple task?’

  Snake in the Eye’s tongue wet his lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will go to the Room of Nineteen Couches now.’

  ‘Don’t apologise if you’re late,’ said the custodian. ‘The guards there don’t keep proper records like we do in here. Just tell them he’s sent for you and leave it at that.’

  Snake in the Eye walked out of the building, his heart pounding. If this man was as good as the custodian said he was he could cure him. Then Snake in the Eye would lead Mauger to him and honour his debt.

  He cleared the university grounds at a trot and ran to the palace through the dirty air. He was on his way to his destiny, his future of blood.

  30 A Curse Removed

  Loys helped Azémar up the stairs of the Numera, his mind numb with shock.

  ‘For pity,’ Azémar kept saying, ‘help some of the others too. Use your authority to spare them the dark.’

  ‘It will be a close call getting you out of the prison,’ said Loys. ‘I can’t risk any others.’

  ‘God does not see here,’ said Azémar. ‘He does not see. He is a blind thing fumbling through the night. Can’t you smell him? He’s here. I can smell him; I can hear him breathing in the tunnels.’

  Loys said nothing, just helped his friend on. He was convinced Azémar had become deranged by his ordeal. He had to get him back to a calm and clean place. The palace was ideal, but he had been frightened by the assassins in the tunnels. Who had sent them? The chamberlain? Styliane? The Office of Barbarians? Who knew?

  He felt very vulnerable. Loys’ discovery of the presence of the wolfman had triggered the attack. There had been threats before but no move against his life. The wolfman sorcerer was the key to whatever was going on, Loys was sure. Beatrice was in the palace; rest and food for Azémar were there. He had to enter the den of his enemies.

  What to do? The emperor had insisted on the study. He had initiated the whole thing so he must be interested in seeing it done well, accurately and effectively. He was Loys’ only certain ally but he had no way to contact him. He
couldn’t just run off to find him in the field and put all his suspicions in front of him. Loys was aware he was implicating great men, allies of the emperor. The proof would need to be undeniable before he acted.

  Azémar looked around the Numera with terror in his eyes.

  ‘He’s here,’ he said.

  ‘Who is here, Azémar?’

  ‘The pale fellow, the one who led me to the abomination.’

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  Loys had got Azémar as far as the door now. Two guards stared at the men, one holding up his hand. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said one, a tall man with a scrappy black beard.

  ‘Out,’ said Loys.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A prisoner of the chamberlain. I am the chamberlain’s lieutenant and I am removing him.’

  ‘No, you’re not, son,’ said the tall guard. ‘No one leaves here but by the say-so of Meletios.’

  Loys swallowed. Meletios was dead in the caves – one of the assassins had done for him. The noise would not have carried to here, past the groans and the screams of the prisoners.

  ‘Your Meletios is under investigation by the chamberlain’s office. This man is part of that investigation. Do you want me to report that you are obstructing the chamberlain?’

  ‘He can’t leave without official sanction.’

  ‘What is that?’

  Loys pointed to a cheap medallion made from a coin on the man’s neck.

  ‘Just a necklace.’

  ‘Worn to what purpose?’

  The man took a pace back.

  ‘No purpose at all, sir.’

  ‘Because it looks very much like an amulet to me, soldier. It looks to me as though you might have drilled that coin and uttered charms over it in order to protect you from this black sky.’

  ‘Men need some protection,’ said the guard.

  ‘That is devilry. And I am the man appointed to root devils out of this city. We will return the prisoner.’

  ‘No!’ said Azémar.

  ‘We will return the prisoner but you will report for interrogation to my rooms at the palace tomorrow. What is your name?’