by Richard Ford
He was free.
Birds twittered. Green grass caressed his toes. The sun was on his face.
Of course, he knew this was a dream, but that knowledge did not impair its lucidity.
They were there, just beyond his vision. The three of them, standing where he could only just see them, tantalisingly out of reach.
He tried to walk to them but could not move. He reached out a hand but they did not see.
Then he began to focus, his vision fighting through the blur. In seconds the haze was gone, their faces clarified and he saw them standing there – red and ruined.
He screamed.
Blaklok’s eyes were open but the room was in darkness. A cool sweat had set itself around his neck and down his spine, and it made a soft peeling sound as he lifted himself from the reclining leather chair.
It took his eyes some seconds to adjust to the gloom. He moved through the dark, searching for any sight or sound, but there was nothing but a dim glow coming from the adjoining chamber.
Inside, a potbelly stove still shed some light and warmth as the last of its embers burned down, and beside it was the Apothecary, asleep in a battered armchair.
Thaddeus was unsure whether he should just slip away in the night. The old man had been paid, after all. But then he had done his work so well. Blaklok felt invigorated, his wounds stitched and bound, his bruises having lost their swell. Maybe he would stay and give his thanks when the Apothecary awoke.
Then he noticed something from the corner of his eye – an adjoining room he hadn’t noticed before. Closer inspection revealed it was a hidden door left half open.
He crept up silently and pulled the door back gently, relieved that the hinges did not creak. When he had made enough of a gap he stepped inside. A dim gaslight burned in one corner and there was a sound of something bubbling, like a boiling kettle, emanating from a recess.
Blaklok moved further inside, straining to see in the darkness. At the far end of the room was a metal tank, and Blaklok could tell this was where the sound was coming from. He moved closer, stooping to peer in the tank and suddenly stopped. Inside was a human arm, floating in some form of bubbling liquid.
Weird indeed, thought Thaddeus, but perhaps not the weirdest thing in the Apothecary’s rooms, if he chose to investigate further.
As he turned to leave he was sure he saw the fingers of the arm suddenly twitch. It made him stop dead, but before he could look again, the Apothecary’s voice filled the room.
‘Inquisitive as ever, Thaddeus.’ Blaklok could only nod. ‘I suppose you want to know–’
‘I know not to stick my beak in where it’s not wanted,’ he replied, walking from the room and past the Apothecary. It didn’t do to pry unless the job called for it, and this was neutral ground, everyone knew it. ‘I’ll be off now. Got appointments to keep, you know how it is.’
‘Indeed I do, young Thaddeus.’
Blaklok made for the door, but stopped on the way. His eyes were drawn to two small objects on a shelf. He recognised them from times past – times when objects like that had been in common use. Going by recent events, they might come in handy again.
‘Mind if I take these?’ Thaddeus said, motioning to the shelf.
The Apothecary gave a shrug. ‘Feel free. Your account more than covers it.’
Blaklok nodded his thanks, and carefully placed the items in his pockets. He would have to find a safer way of carrying them later, but for now, just having them to hand was safeguard enough.
‘Not leaving by the skylight?’ the Apothecary asked, as Thaddeus began to unbolt the front door.
‘Don’t think that’s necessary now,’ said Blaklok.
He opened the door and strolled off into the night.
A ROMANTIC
INTERLUDE
It had never felt such pain before.
When last it had trodden this plane of men they had not borne such weapons. The sting of their fire belchers still tore at its flesh, leaving welts that were slow to heal. These creatures were meant to be its chattel, not to stand against it with such venom and fury.
Valac knew that it was weak, and would remain so until it had consumed of the flesh enough to build its strength, but that did not stop the rage inside.
These men had grown bold in its absence. They dared to attack it, instead of prostrating themselves at its feet and begging to be consumed so that it could thrive.
The demon moved silently through the maze of underground tunnels. It didn’t know where it was or what its next move would be but, for now, rest was the only priority. When it could walk no more it sank to its haunches in the muck and filth.
It was cold here, and dark.
Valac hated the dark; it shed no light on its magnificence.
It had been dark in the Pit, and the demon had hated that, and it pained it to have to hide in the shadows now that it was free. It yearned to be out, basking in the light, feeling the radiance of the chattel as they worshipped it.
Valac yearned to be exalted.
After millennia in the Pit it was all it desired. But for now it would have to hide down here in the shadows until its strength returned.
It lifted a hand to its head in the dark and felt the horn at its brow. It was tender to touch. The man-brute had hurt Valac – a mere man had the audacity to cause it pain. There would be a reckoning for this, and soon, but for now there had to be healing.
In the dark, alone and in agony, the great demon began to weep tears of mercury from eyes of burning coal. They splashed down and sizzled in the muddy water that submerged its hoofed feet, then ran away across the surface in silvery rivulets.
For hours the beast healed and wept in the dark, planning its vengeance and growing stronger. Soon it would need sustenance, and then the men of this place would know true terror, and Valac would feast and the men would worship at its feet.
There was a sudden sound.
It grew closer, and Valac pressed itself into the recesses of the tunnel hoping to catch the interlopers unawares. As the intruders drew nearer, Valac realised there was more than one of them. Its jaws began to drip in anticipation of the feast, and it could only hope to be quick enough to catch them all before they fled in terror.
Something glinted up ahead, a glimmer of gold in the dark.
As Valac watched, robed figures appeared, their faces wan and pale, frightened but determined as they moved through the tunnel.
It recognised them – these were the idolaters who had summoned it here. They were the real reason for its current suffering.
Valac stood, filling the tunnel, ready to leap among them and sunder them apart, but despite the terrified looks on their faces, the robed chattel did not flee. Instead, one of them walked forward, dropping to his knees in the filth at Valac’s feet.
‘We beseech thee, our President. Please, what have we done to anger you so?’
It was quite admirable that the weak fleshed chattel had the resources and guile to track it down. They must be cleverer than Valac thought. Perhaps it had been rash to begin feasting on them so soon, at least without allowing them to prostrate themselves at its feet first.
‘I am Trajian Arkwright,’ the chattel continued. ‘Humblest and most loyal of your servants.’
‘No, that is I, almighty President,’ said another of the weak-fleshed, dropping to his knees beside the first. ‘Please, give us your divine guidance that we may serve your aims.’
Soon they had all prostrated themselves, and Valac began to feel a little better. Maybe these were worthwhile peons after all.
Then again, Valac was ravenous.
It reached down, grasping the one that called itself Trajian in both its huge clawed hands, lifting his head into its mouth. The chattel screamed as jaws bit down, instantly falling silent as the head was bitten off and swallowed whole.
The rest were thrown into a panic, fighting each other to escape. Valac was in half a mind to pursue them, but in truth it was done with these worthless mi
nions.
Besides, it had larger game to hunt.
The headless corpse it held in its hands bore the stench of another of the weak-flesh. It smelled faintly of the man-brute that had evaded Valac; the hulking chunk of pink skin that had wrenched at Valac’s horn and consumed his breath in an instant. This was the one Valac would have, and soon, if there were any justice on this plane.
Eagerly, Valac consumed the rest of the body, gold robes and all, and licked its sodden lips in satisfaction.
As it prepared to leave it saw another of its worthless minions cowering on the ground. Suddenly, Valac felt the dangling flesh between its legs stirring. It had been millennia since it had indulged in carnal delights with the weak-fleshed. Despite its eagerness to hunt and feed further, Valac decided it would sate its other urges first.
The chattel squealed and struggled as Valac picked it up, but the resistance only served to arouse it further, pumping molten ichor through its veins until the phallus between its legs had grown vast. The squealing grew more urgent as it pressed itself into the writhing creature again and again. Within seconds Valac had spent its lust and spewed its demon seed, and the subject of its advances was still and limp. The President threw the spent flesh to the ground and smiled.
How it would enjoy indulging itself on the man-brute. That one would feel him for hours, again and again as it satisfied itself; spurting its seed a dozen times before it was finished.
There would be a reckoning, all right. The man-brute had better prepare himself for that!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As ever, the Apothecary had done exemplary work. Thaddeus flexed the fingers and one stump of his left hand, happy that it no longer throbbed. He could still feel the tip of his little finger, even though it was absent, but the fact that the wound was neatly stitched, covered in a pain-numbing balm and didn’t stink anymore was almost as good.
Now all he had to worry about was retrieving the Key of Lunos from a bunch of skin-changing demon worshippers whilst avoiding the attentions of the Judicature and a Chamber of the Cistern. He also had to find President Valac and banish it back to the Pit before it could reap any more harm among the innocents of the Manufactory – though actually finding innocents in the Manufactory might well have been a harder task.
Blaklok was sure there had been a time when he’d faced a tougher task, but it didn’t spring readily to mind.
Fact was he had no lead. No one seemed to know anything about the Legion or where their coterie might be based. He had scanned a copy of The Chronicle that morning, and despite several articles on demons and their followers, which were obviously influenced by the score of sightings of a rampant demon President in the city, there was nothing that would lead him to the whereabouts of the Legion.
Though he hated to do it, Thaddeus was going to have to retrace his steps and return to Lord Julius. He was the only one who seemed to have any idea at all what was going on. If he didn’t know anything about the Legion he may at least be able to reveal more about the Key, such as where it might best be used for the most potent effect. It was tenuous, but any lead was better than none.
After managing to purloin some clean clothes, Blaklok had made his way across the city, using the usual less trodden byways. With news of a demon on the loose, the streets were quieter than most days, and it did not take him long to reach the affluent district in which Lord Julius resided.
This time as he trod across the gardens of Julius’s estate there were no hounds to come bounding across the lush grass. Blaklok found it curious that the manor’s resident safeguards were not as vigilant as they should be, and rather than accept the absence of guard dogs as simple good luck it made Thaddeus even more cautious. He stole into the house more carefully than he had done before. Once inside there were no sounds or smells, no chatting servants, nothing cooking in the pot.
The place appeared all but deserted.
In the drawing room where Blaklok had been forced to give Julius’s bodyguard a pasting, all was quiet. The same pictures lined the walls, the paisley armchair sat empty and a clean ashtray sat by its side on a small table. There would normally have been nothing untoward about this whole situation, but something was niggling at Blaklok – something was wrong.
Even if Julius was simply out and about there should at least still be someone at the estate looking after the holding. Then again, Julius was an ostracized member of the aristocracy… where would he go? He couldn’t exactly make house calls on old friends when he had been excised from every social circle in the Manufactory.
Had he been kidnapped perhaps? Maybe the same set of goons who had sliced open Earl Beuphalus had come for Julius. Or maybe the Judicature had decided to clamp down on dabblers in the occult since a rampant demon popped up and started eating people off the street.
Either way, his pursuit of the Key was at a dead end.
This wasn’t good. Not only had he found himself defeated – a fact that galled him more than anything – but the parties he was working for would not look kindly on failure. Even Blaklok might find it a struggle to get out of this one with all four limbs still in working order.
There was a creaking – a creaking Blaklok recognised. It was the floorboard that had saved his life the last time he had paid Julius a visit.
Spinning on his heel, Thaddeus stretched out one meaty leg and booted the door shut. He flushed with satisfaction as it hit something solid. Lurching forward he grasped the handle and pulled the door wide, reaching out with his shovel-like hands, ready to start tearing and beating, and shouting and threatening.
But what he saw made him stop dead.
The old man must have been about ninety, he leaned against the wall, stunned by the door that had just hit him in the face. Blaklok instantly felt a pang of guilt. He was more than happy to give any of Lord Julius’s underlings a pasting to get what he wanted, but not some old codger. That wasn’t what Blaklok was about.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ begged the old man, raising a hand to his bloody nose.
That didn’t make Blaklok feel any better about himself.
Grasping the old geezer firmly by the arm, Thaddeus guided him into the drawing room and sat him down in the paisley chair.
‘I can’t sit here,’ said the old man. ‘This is for Master Julius only.’
‘Don’t worry mate,’ said Blaklok, trying his best to sound friendly. ‘He won’t mind. Trust me on that.’
The old man pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his nosebleed. ‘What are you doing here anyway? This is private property you know.’
‘I’m an old friend,’ Blaklok lied. It didn’t help his guilty conscience to be spinning a yarn to the old timer, but it was better than the truth. ‘Thought I’d pay my old mate Julius a visit.’
‘Well, young Julius doesn’t get many visitors these days. I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before.’
‘I’ve been out of town until recently. I’m just here to catch up.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said the old man, reclining in the paisley chair as though he had forgotten all about having a door kicked in his face.
‘And who are you, old fella?’ asked Blaklok. He surprised himself at his interest in the man, but he quickly put it down to an uncharacteristic attack of the guilts.
‘Me? I’m old Ned, the gardener. Been in the service of Master Julius, oh, since before he was born. Took up in the service of Julius senior about fifty years ago. Been here ever since. It’s a noble calling, is gardening. These hands have pruned more bushes and watered more flowers than I care to remember. Of course the soil’s not what it used to be, what with the smog and all, but my fingers are still green enough to keep this garden blooming.’
Blaklok nodded, suddenly regretting he’d even asked.
He stood and looked around the room, wondering if Julius had left some sort of clue. ‘Do you know where Julius is now?’
‘Sorry, can’t help you there. I’m as in the dark as you. I was going to ask if he wanted
geraniums or crocuses on the beds out front but he’s not here is he?’
‘No he’s not,’ said Blaklok, walking towards the bureau at one end of the room.
‘So, you say you’re a friend of his,’ said the old man. ‘That’s nice. Julius never had many friends when he was young. And those friends he made growing up were a bad influence if you ask me. You seem like a nice sort.’
Blaklok looked up. Old Ned must have been well into senility if he thought the hulking brute who just kicked a door in his face was a ‘nice sort’. It also didn’t say much for Julius’s previous friends.
‘Yes, I always thought he should have more friends,’ continued Ned. ‘He spent far too much time on his own, looking through those dusty old books.’
As Ned prattled on, Blaklok continued searching through the room. Ned didn’t seem to notice or care, so locked was he in his bout of nostalgia.
The bureau drawers contained little of interest, nor any indication that Julius was involved with the occultists of the Manufactory. By the contents of his bureau Julius could have been just another rich aristocrat fallen from grace. That was, until Blaklok came to the bottom drawer. He slid it open, at first barely noticing something towards the back, hidden beneath a pile of yellowing parchment. Then his attention was grabbed by a flash of bronze.
He stopped dead.
Ned’s words seemed to drift off in a haze as Blaklok reached inside and took out the object, holding it in his hands as though it were an ancient and legendary artefact.
A carved bronze face stared back from the mask he held in his grip. Its edges were sharp, splaying out in a sunburst, the features were pointed and evil looking. Julius was the high priest of the fucking Cult of Legion!
‘Oh, you’ve found Julius’s mask have you,’ said Ned chirpily. ‘He likes to wear that round the house now and again. Obviously when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s all to do with the Legion. I think that’s a benevolent fund he patronises. That’s the only fun he gets nowadays.’ Blaklok had stopped staring at the mask and was instead staring at the old man in disbelief. ‘He’s always prattling on to himself about it – Legion this, and Legion that. I think he’s getting a bit obsessed, but you know young people these days. Well, of course you do, you’re one of them. Of course I don’t say much about it myself, it wouldn’t do to upset him.’ The old man chuckled to himself.
