The Black Hawks

by David Wragg

  ‘Well, this is grand as fuck,’ Rennic muttered as the ceiling came into view. ‘What happened to all that shit about charity and bestowing all the good stuff on the meek?’

  Chel offered a sardonic smile. ‘Not exactly meek, are you?’

  ‘Fuck off, I’m meek. I’m meek as anyone.’

  ‘Hey,’ a voice said from above. ‘Stop there. Stop right there.’

  Two confessors stood before the doors, their garb grander than those below. Their robes were finely layered and embroidered, a cut above the rough, rust-coloured fabric of their comrades. Gleaming, ornate maces hung from their belts, but they seemed otherwise unarmed and unarmoured. Braziers burned to either side of the grand door, casting the confessors in a warm, fiery glow.

  Palo came to a halt at the top of the grand stairs. Tall windows, inlaid with multi-coloured glass in sacred patterns, cast crisp winter light across her. The whole floor reeked of incense.

  ‘Tell me, brother,’ she said. ‘Has the crown prince come this way?’

  ‘Who are you?’ the first said, expression uneasy. ‘You shouldn’t be up here.’ His colleague looked only bored, although this was in danger of being the first interesting thing that had happened on their watch.

  Palo spread her hands, her inherent lack of visible emotion going some way to reassuring the confessor. ‘We are his retainers. He asked us to complete a task for him, but we have been unable. Is he in consultation with the blessed Primarch?’

  The confessor nodded, and Chel felt something unclench within him.

  Palo smiled. It looked wrong on her face. The confessor’s look of suspicion returned.

  ‘Why are you armed? Weapons aren’t allowed in the tower.’

  His colleague stirred, as if the thought had only just occurred. ‘Those are blessed blades!’

  They looked at each other, then to the engraved silver bell that hung from a frame beside the stairs.

  Palo’s smile faded. She dropped her hands. As the confessors lunged toward the bell, Spider and Dalim surged past her up the stairs and onto the landing. Dalim’s spear transfixed the first confessor, punching through his midriff and driving him backward toward the door, his legs flailing and buckling. Spider leapt upon the second, carrying him sideways past the bell-frame, driving him down against the cold stone floor. The two barely managed a cry between them before they were silenced.

  Rennic shot Chel a look that said, are you taking notes?

  Tarfel peeped a miserable face up from the staircase, frowning at the stricken confessors. ‘Did we have to … Wasn’t there another way?’

  Rennic tilted his head, one thick eyebrow raised. ‘I doubt we could have won them over with strength of argument alone.’

  ‘But couldn’t we just have tied them up?’

  ‘You got a great spool of secret rope hidden somewhere in your pantaloons, princeling?’

  Chel sighed. ‘It would take too long to secure them properly,’ he heard himself say. The image of the archer floated across his mind, her nervous smile, her slumped form at the feet of the strangling reaver. ‘And someone would need to keep watch on them. Even that would be no guarantee. This is just … safer.’

  Something in his chest withered. Should we simply have killed Brecki? he wondered. Would that have been … better? Would it have been right?

  Tarfel wiped at his nose with a sleeve. ‘So much … killing, so much death. And for what? I doubt these two were even in robes when my father died.’

  Palo turned from the top of the stairs and fixed the young prince with a gimlet stare.

  ‘They are complicit,’ she said. She walked toward the grand doors as Dalim dug the spear from the first confessor. He lay crumpled at the wall’s foot, breath coming in short gasps, a dark puddle spreading beneath his robes. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t force out a word. Palo looked down at him for a moment, expressionless once more.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘when I was a girl, long ago now, before the wars, before the schism, before the New Church and its rancid corruption, we had a confessor in our keep. Just the one: a gentle, patient man. His divine calling was to listen, to hear the confessions of the keep’s people and provide guidance, and perhaps even absolution. The confessions he heard were freely given, not extracted!’ Anger rose in her voice. ‘A confessor is a keeper of a sacred duty. Not a red-clad thug, a tormentor of the helpless.’

  She breathed deeply, and the anger left her again.

  ‘May your god forgive you, for mine will not.’

  She reached down and cut the man’s throat, wiped her blade on the shoulder of his fine robe, and threw open the doors.

  THIRTY-THREE

  A short, dark passage of new-looking chunky stone led to a thick metal gate. A low rumbling emanated from somewhere beneath their feet, a sound that suggested something heavy was moving nearby. As they neared the gate, Chel realized that it was moving. The thick, crossed bars were sliding sideways, a new vertical pillar appearing in the doorway as the last one disappeared from view.

  ‘The fuck is this?’ Spider said, prodding the metal with a knife. Dalim reached out and grabbed the bars, trying to slow or stop the metal’s movement. He whipped his hands away just before the doorway’s stone edge would have crushed them.

  ‘Shit-pipes!’

  Palo stood before the sliding wall, unmoved. ‘This is the gate to Vassad. That it moves is good. We need only wait.’

  Chel and Rennic exchanged uncertain glances, but her confidence quelled dissent. They waited, peering through the gaps in the bars. Beyond lay a wide, stone-floored chamber, mostly in darkness, its far side promising a door-shaped sliver of silvery daylight, half-obscured by heavy curtains. Chel imagined he saw thin bars moving across the distant slice of light, but the glare made it hard to be sure.

  ‘Ah,’ Palo said, and took a step forward. ‘Quickly now.’

  A gap opened in the bars, a framed space that widened as the wall slid. Palo stepped through, and Dalim and Spider followed. By the time Chel and Rennic reached the doorway, the gap’s far edge had already appeared. The doorway began to close on them.

  ‘Highness, this way!’

  Tarfel wasn’t moving, his gaze fixed on the narrowing doorway. ‘There’s … There’s not enough time …’

  Rennic grabbed his arm and yanked him forward.

  ‘Like fuck there isn’t.’

  He shoved Chel through the doorway ahead of him, then wrapped his arms around the prince and bundled him through. The rolling wall slid closed as they fell to the smooth stone flagstones beyond, almost slicing Rennic’s boot-heel as he kicked free.

  ‘God’s bollocks, princeling,’ Rennic said, pushing himself upright and checking his scuffed boot. ‘You know how to make a meal of things, don’t you?’

  Dalim offered them a disdainful sneer, then turned to Palo. ‘What now?’

  They stood in a circular space, two dozen paces wide, in darkness but for the narrow light from the curtain-wrapped far doorway. The ceiling rose in a high dome overhead, continuing the same gilded motif as the outer hall, the serene faces of church figures past beaming down at them with a dull golden gleam, the bejewelled stars at their backs doing little to light the gloom. The rumbling beneath their feet was louder, joined by a ticking clank of thick chains in whatever mechanism drove the rotating cage wall.

  Palo nodded at the empty metal door-frame, now grinding slowly over a wall of blank stone at the chamber’s edge, then at the dull grey light beyond. ‘We wait. Our friends should be on the other side.’

  ‘What is this room?’ Chel said, as Spider leapt at the ceiling, arm extended, trying to prise out one of the dome’s embedded gemstones. He fell short, and looked to Dalim for the use of his spear.

  Rennic squinted in the gloom. ‘Plenty of scuff marks, old fireplace over there. Looks like a receiving chamber. Once.’

  ‘And now?’

  Rennic looked at the circular cage wall that surrounded them, its single doorway rolling steadily toward
their presumed exit. ‘A holding pen.’

  Chel shivered. ‘This is … very strange.’

  Rennic scratched at his beard. ‘This is the kind of construction someone might build if they wanted to keep all visitors at arm’s length, control their comings and goings while observing them from safety. Look at it, one entrance, one exit, only one can open at a time, controlled by a mechanism which I’m guessing is behind those cage bars and curtains over there. It’s a paranoid’s paradise. We should probably check there aren’t spring-mounted spikes in the ceiling.’

  Tarfel had made his way to the far side, keeping a nervous pace back from the moving bars. The edge of the door-frame was approaching the far doorway. The prince peered through the sliding metal into the light beyond, then started and took a step forward.

  ‘Mendel? Mendel!’

  His shriek brought the others running, but he was already pushing at the narrow gap, his nervousness forgotten. He slipped through before anyone could reach him, despite Palo’s shouts and Rennic’s lunge.

  Something clanked beneath their feet, and the wall stopped moving with a judder. Tarfel hesitated, then pushed on, running into the watery glare, bellowing his brother’s name and throwing the curtains aside. Rennic tried to squeeze after him, but the gap was too narrow. He huffed and swore while Palo snapped at him, then pulled back, enraged.

  ‘Little man! You’re dinky enough, get in there.’

  Chel had his bad arm and shoulder through when the floor clanked again. The metal wall trembled. For a moment, Chel was relieved: he’d no longer have to scrape himself through after the skinny prince. Then the wall began to move.

  Backward.

  His screams alerted the others, and Rennic and Dalim between them dragged him free, hauling him back into the circular chamber, coughing and sweating and desperately afraid. He sat on the floor, arms cradled against his body, shivering and gasping, unable to forget the cold metal against his skin, the crushing sensation against his chest.

  Rennic nudged him with a boot. ‘Get up. Wall’s stopped again. Get your prince to open it.’

  The room was silent, but for a murmur from beyond. Chel forced himself back to the doorway, now blocked with thick bars of cold steel. His heart was thumping in his chest, his breath shallow and head fuzzy, but he could hear Tarfel’s voice. He pushed his face as close to the bars as he dared. The curtains that had covered the archway were thrown open, and finally he could see what had sent the young prince running.

  The Primarch’s opulent chambers stretched away on either side, rich decor and fine furnishings, thick furs on the floor and beautiful tapestries festooning the walls, to Chel’s utter unsurprise. Mendel sat, slumped, in a tall-backed wooden chair, surrounded by a halo of weak daylight from the open balcony behind. He was covered in blood. Tarfel knelt at his side, whimpering and gabbling, his hands roving his brother’s armoured body as he searched for his wounds.

  ‘Brother, oh brother, what’s happened? Where’s the Watcher? Where’s Primarch Vassad? Oh brother, come back to me, please! Father is dead! You’re all I have!’

  Mendel stirred, raising his head as if from a doze. ‘T— Tarfel? You made it.’ He offered a weak, generous smile. Blood flecked his teeth. ‘Where are your friends?’

  ‘They’re in the … The cage room.’ Tarfel gestured, and Chel tried to catch his attention. He saw no sign of Torht, nor of any guards, let alone their quarry. His focus was only on escaping the receiving chamber, but he didn’t fancy marching straight into whatever had done that to Mendel.

  ‘Highness,’ he hissed. ‘Prince Tarfel!’

  Tarfel looked back, bleary-eyed and choked with emotion. ‘What?’

  ‘Find the mechanism! Get us out of here.’

  Tarfel stood to look around, but Mendel put a gentle, bloodied hand on his arm. ‘Tarfel,’ he said, his voice weak. ‘Tarfel, I’m so glad. I’m so glad you made it all the way up here.’

  Palo jostled Chel aside, gripping the bars until her knuckles whitened. ‘Mendel!’ she called. ‘Where is Vassad? Where is the Watcher?’

  Mendel turned his head toward them. His beautiful face was criss-crossed with blood splatter, but still he seemed serene, beatific. He smiled, wide and genuine and gory.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be right along. He’s just around the corner.’

  ‘Who will?’

  A cackle filled the chambers, an eerie sound like the shrieking of an evil mimic bird. Mendel swivelled his gore-streaked head. ‘Here he comes now.’

  A white-clad figure danced into view. It was not Torht, not by any stretch of the imagination. The man was tall, long of hair and beard, now more silver than black. His posture was stooped, his limbs spindly, but he moved with great freedom, skipping around the two princes in his simple white robe. Light spots of blood dotted the robe like the gentle patter of rain.

  ‘You see, you see,’ the new figure said. ‘Room goes round, round and around, then back around, round and around, yes. The world is round, round and around. You see? You see?’ It was unclear to whom this was addressed.

  Chel peered over Palo’s shoulder. ‘Who is that?’

  Palo was rigid.

  ‘Lo Vassad.’

  The white-robed figure stooped to pick up something Chel couldn’t see, then held it to his ear, nodding as if it spoke to him. He turned and uncupped his hands with great tenderness, as if he’d been cradling a precious butterfly, then waved into the empty air beyond the open balcony. He swivelled on one foot, nimble as a veil-dancer, then sashayed over to the barred doorway.

  ‘Faces! Faces in the world room. Friends or foes, friends or foes? Friendly faces are fool’s foils, firmly.’ He tittered to himself, then walked back to the princes with wild, exaggerated strides.

  Chel’s jaw hung loose. He could feel Rennic’s breath over his shoulder, the others crowded in around him and Palo. ‘He’s … He’s fucking mad.’

  Rennic sounded no less confused. ‘I’ll say. I’ve seen saner box-preachers.’

  Palo said nothing.

  ‘But …’ Chel’s head was spinning, faster than the chamber walls ever had, ‘how can he command the Rose? Write their orders?’

  Mendel stretched out his legs, then bounced to his feet. His smile was no less wide, no less generous, but somehow the light in his eyes was no longer warm. Despite the blood coating him, he moved easily. Tarfel took an involuntary step back at his brother’s sudden rise and looked from the chattering Primarch to his brother and back.

  ‘Mendel? Wha—?’

  ‘You know,’ said the crown prince, reaching down to pick something up from beside the chair, ‘I didn’t think you’d get all the way up here. I wasn’t sure, truth be told, that I wanted you to. But in the end, I’m glad. I wanted you to see it all.’

  He hefted a sack that hung heavy and sodden.

  ‘See all what?’ Tarfel said. ‘Whose blood is that? What’s in the bag?’

  Mendel turned toward the barred door. Behind him, Vassad crouched to listen intently to the conversation of two passing mice, who, he announced, knew a great many secrets, but were bound by oaths of sharpest discretion.

  ‘I wanted you to see my work, brother. I wanted you to see that I have already won.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mendel took a deep breath. ‘Tarfel, the greatest villain ever to stalk our kingdom is now, for want of a better term, my pet.’

  Chel’s brain caught up with his eyes. Of course. Alchemy. The malicious herb.

  ‘What? But … but how? Are you saying you control the Primarch?’

  ‘I’m saying this shambling husk here,’ Mendel gestured at the robed figure, who had seated himself on the room’s other chair and was listening intently, ‘became so paranoid, so jealous of his power, that he walled himself off from the world. He created an engine of control, a shadow state, its levers at his sole command, and I … I took it from him.’ Mendel patted his chest. ‘Once I had his seal, the kingdom was mine. They were all accustomed to taking his
orders from me. They still take orders from me. They know no different.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Did he kill Father? Did … Did you?’

  Mendel looked genuinely offended. ‘Fuck off, Tarf! Of course he did! Your pal Torht had it right, just not all the way. Vassad drugged Father for a decade, pushed it too far and poisoned him, then tried to clear the board in a panic.’ Mendel laughed, an oddly bitter sound from his golden countenance.

  Tarfel was paler than Chel had ever seen him.

  Mendel began to walk around the chair, the sack dangling from his hand. ‘He was going to keep Father “alive”, if you will, for as long as it took to cement his own claim. Didn’t want to risk the whole thing turning into a war of succession. But Brave Prince Mendel had suffered a terrible injury and wasn’t quite the same upstairs any more. Music to this malignant arsehole’s ears.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘He told me. You know, before he, ah, lost it all upstairs himself. When he thought I was his. I cut my own face, did you know that?’ He ran one finger along the scar on his cheek. ‘It was that or wait for the knife in my back.’ He sighed.

  ‘He never drugged you?’

  ‘Oh, he tried, of course – didn’t want to risk me forming my own ideas. But I knew his game. And once he thought it was working …’ All levity left his voice. ‘I returned the favour. He’s still in there somewhere, you know? Blood in the air gets him all fired up, gets him clanking the mechanism round and round until he calms down. That was him trying to crush your man there.’ Mendel winked toward the door. ‘Hello again, sand-flower. Sorry about laying that mess at Denirnas at your feet, but it’s always easier to scapegoat an outsider, eh?’

  Tarfel stared for a moment, speechless. ‘But why is he still alive?’

  Mendel pursed his lips. ‘Someone needs to be up here. Eat the food, defile the privy, keep the servants entertained.’ He smiled. ‘Ha, you know, there’s a place somewhere in the deep east where it’s a fairly quotidian punishment to tweak out someone’s tongue? God knows where, but the transgressors make for the most discreet help, especially when you throw in the language barrier.’