by Richard Ford
‘And do you know where this benevolent fund is based?’ Blaklok asked, trying to stay calm. He was really chancing his arm here, the old man probably knew nothing more, but it was about time he was afforded a break.
Ned frowned, staring up at the ceiling as though the answer might be written there. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I do.’
There was a pause.
‘And could you tell me?’ said Blaklok, straining to hide his impatience.
‘I can do better than that,’ replied Ned. ‘I can show you.’
He struggled from the depths of the armchair, and Blaklok was about to follow him from the room when the old man turned and walked towards the wall behind him. This was great. Most likely the old git had made all this up as part of some demented fantasy.
‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to one of the pictures that hung on the wall. ‘I’ve seen Julius whispering to it, sometimes late at night. Don’t tell him I told you that though, he might get annoyed if he thought I was spying on him.’
Blaklok moved to Ned’s side and stared at the picture. It was a rendering of a tower; Blaklok recognised it as being somewhere in the Spires. Though it wouldn’t have stood out as being spectacular amongst some of the other structures in that area, Blaklok was sure he would recognise it if he saw it again.
‘Thanks, Ned,’ he said, throwing the mask back onto the bureau, and making his way to the door.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Ned replied. ‘Oh, and if you catch up with Julius be sure to ask whether he wants crocuses or geraniums, will you?’
Blaklok didn’t answer.
When he finally did catch up with Julius, flowers would be the least of his worries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There was forbidden ground in the Cistern onto which not even the most brutal of the Chambers dared encroach. It lay at the apex of the mass of sprawling subterranean pathways, easily accessible to those who knew how to gain entry, but known to only a privileged few. Seldom would any of the gang leaders of the Manufactory’s underworld even contemplate entering to seek an audience with those who dwelled within this aegis unless the reason was of the direst import.
Trol Snapper was hoping that his reasons would be considered just so dire.
He wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of: the man who he was traversing sanctified ground to see, or the fire-spewing madman who was responsible for the hideous deaths of his crew.
Either way, he knew he had to do this, had to tread these hallowed walkways to the inner sanctum of the Cistern to see the man who controlled the Chambers, the man who was shown fealty by even the most brutal and insane criminals of the Manufactory.
Trol had very little left in the way of a crew now. Three men flanked him, relatively green newcomers to his gang who, after their recent experiences, looked ready to flee at any moment. And of course there was Geffle, who had decided to tag along for… well, Trol didn’t actually know why, but he allowed the little shit to accompany him, because even a coward like Geffle was better back-up than nothing at all. Anyways, if things turned tough when he was presented to the Montserrat, perhaps he could divert all blame onto the thieving little bastard.
It was always worth having a back up plan.
As the four men moved further into the bowels of the forbidden tunnels they were met by two of the biggest, nastiest looking men Trol Snapper had ever seen. Neither spoke, even when Trol gave his best and most winning smile. They simply opened the huge metal door that barred the way and joined Trol and his three men as they tramped through the dripping passage. With one of the hulks at the front and one at the back, the narrow tunnel darkened somewhat as they moved through it. Though Trol could see little, he could feel the intermittent drip of water as it splashed against his tailored suit. From the smell he could tell this water was far from clean, but it would have been foolish to complain – it wasn’t like either of these titans was suddenly going to provide him with an umbrella.
The tunnel wound on, until they came to a massive reception room. More troglodytic guards stood vigilantly at the room’s edge, brandishing carbines and all manner of vicious looking hand weapons. Behind him, Trol could tell his remaining crew were beginning to get nervous. His three bodyguards were glancing around skittishly, and Geffle was dancing from foot to foot, his eyes darting around, looking for the nearest escape route in case things started to turn nasty. But there was no escape route down here; this place was more secure than the Church of the Sancrarium itself. If things went badly there would be no escape.
One of their brutish guides walked forward and smashed his meaty fist against another massive metal portal. The sound echoed around the reception room like the tolling of a death knell. Trol could feel his insides turning cartwheels. He was about to meet the Montserrat, and his excuse for the intrusion better be a good one or he wouldn’t be leaving here with the same number of appendages he had arrived with.
The door swung wide, and Trol could see a massive bull-like head peering through. There was a terse conversation, and bullhead nodded, his face grim, his eyes looking up to fix on Snapper and his crew. He beckoned them forward, and Snapper fought to retain control of his legs, pressing them forward despite their reluctance to move.
When he walked through the door he saw that the bull-faced guard was even bigger than the two brutes who had brought him here. How that was possible he did not know. There were certain drugs one could obtain in the Cistern, and some speculated they were used by the Militia of the Manufactory to increase the size and aggression of its fantassins, but Trol had never seen a man this big before. If this meeting went well, he would be sure to ask the Montserrat what he was feeding his men and use it on his own crew. They might have better luck in the future when they had a lone, bald thug tied to a chair. Instead of being beaten by short flat cap wearing intruders and melted by corrosive vomit they might actually be able to give a good account of themselves.
Trol took several steps into the room, following the guard, until the man stopped and stood aside. Shifting his bulk from Trol’s view, he revealed a large, lavishly decorated room covered in drapes and hangings. Burners stood in every corner exuding a sweet spicy scent and the carpet beneath him was thick and lush.
‘Wipe your feet,’ said the bull-headed thug.
At first Trol didn’t realise he was being addressed, until he looked down and saw the filth that he had accumulated on his shoes during the walk. Quickly, he, Geffle and the three gangers started to vigorously wipe their feet on a large mat in the doorway. When they had finished, the guard beckoned them further into the room. ‘Through there,’ he rumbled.
Gingerly, Trol made his way through the drapes and hazy mist given off by the burners, and moved into the depths of the room. As he penetrated further he could just make out a massive wooden desk that almost ran the entire width of the room. To each side of it was another guard, each one looking identical to bull face. And at the centre of the desk, sitting within the confines of a massive leather chair, sat the Montserrat.
He was tiny, his black hair slicked back from a high forehead, his shirt collar high and crisp, his jowls sagging over the top of it. The tiniest wisp of a moustache was drawn across his top lip, and from above his plump cheeks two beady eyes stared at Trol as he approached.
‘Ah, Snapper,’ said the Montserrat, a toothy grin crossing his face as he recognised Trol. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
Trol felt relief wash over him. The Montserrat was in a good mood. This might go a long way to making his admission of incompetence and the loss of his crew not seem half as bad.
‘Well, boss, there’s been a bit of a problem on our manor,’ said Trol, sliding into a low wooden chair opposite the Montserrat. It made it a little more difficult to see the little man perched at the other side of the huge desk, but Trol’s feet were killing him.
‘Oh, yes?’ replied the Montserrat. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well, first we got shaken down by the Judicature.
But that wasn’t our fault. We were set up, put in the frame by some roustabout. Isn’t that right Geffle?’ Geffle nodded so hard Trol thought his head might pop off. ‘So, like you’d expect, we went off to find the fucker – and we did – gave him a good pasting too. Ain’t that right?’ This time, Geffle and the three members of Trol’s crew nodded in unison as though their lives depended on it. ‘But then we got ambushed. This bloke must have had friends in high places. We were attacked from all sides. There must have been twenty of them, all tooled up they were.’ He glanced back at the four men behind him. They still nodded at the lie, but this time it was with somewhat less conviction. ‘So anyway, he got away, and some of the boys ended up buried. But that didn’t stop me, boss, oh no. We found him again.’
This time it was the Montserrat’s turn to nod, showing he was keeping up with the tale.
Spurred on by such encouragement, Trol continued. ‘And we had him again. But this time it was a demon. Like the one in the papers. Spewing gluey death all around. Me and the boys barely made it away with our lives, we did. That’s the gospel, just ask the lads.’
Trol turned to face the ‘lads’ and saw that each was staring wide-eyed. He was going to get little support here but hopefully he wouldn’t need it.
‘So you see,’ he implored, ‘my crew’s gone and that bastard’s still out there. I just need to borrow some crew, until I can get new lads in. Otherwise my manor’s going to be vulnerable. And this bloke, this Blaklok bloke, he still needs some payback.’
The Montserrat hadn’t moved during Trol’s oration. He waited, until he was sure Snapper had finished, then waved his hand lazily towards one of his huge guards.
Before Trol could move, one of them was on him, a huge hand lifting him and slamming him to the ground.
‘Who said you could fucking sit?!’ he bellowed right in Trol’s face, spitting phlegm into his eyes.
Without pausing he grabbed Trol’s suit jacket and wrenched him to his feet. Trol could hear the thread of his suit-lining tear as those huge hands pulled him from the ground, but tailoring was now the least of his cares. It appeared the Montserrat was pissed off with him after all.
‘You know, Trol, I’ve always thought you were a bit of a cunt,’ said the Montserrat. ‘But this just proves it. Tell me, do you think I’m fucking stupid?’
‘N-no. Of course not.’ Trol could barely suppress his panic.
‘Do I look like some fucking wino off the street, who doesn’t know his arse from his tit?’
‘No, boss, no–’
‘Then why are you fucking treating me like one?’
Trol didn’t have an answer.
‘My eyes and ears are everywhere in this cesspit. I know you had trouble with some man named Blaklok. I also know he escaped you – twice – with nothing more than a flat cap wearing midget and some vomit. There were no hordes of ambushers nor any fucking demons. Trust me Snapper, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. But luckily for both of us, I do.’
There was a sudden movement from behind, but Trol did not dare take his eyes off the Montserrat. To show such disrespect might mean his balls in a champagne flute – and he didn’t have to guess who’d be drinking it down.
‘It’s time to bring out the big guns. You’ve made a complete hash of this, Snapper, but I know a few friends who are perfectly suited to resolving such piles of dog shit.’
Someone moved in closer, to stand almost at Trol’s shoulder. There was a whirring, ticking sound, like they were carrying a huge grandfather clock. He couldn’t resist anymore, he had to look. What he saw made him almost loose his bowels.
‘Meet the Hounds, Snapper. I take it you’ve heard of them.’
Of course he had heard of them, who hadn’t?
Standing beside him were the Hounds, the legendary mercenaries of the Cistern. They were rarely called upon to do their grisly work, and when they were, they were never seen. It was only in the direst circumstance that the Hounds were summoned, and it was only now that Trol Snapper realised what a mess he had made of things.
This Blaklok must be big trouble indeed if the Hounds had been called.
There were five of them, each very different in their own way, but they were all obviously of the same ilk. The closest was birdlike in look, his head twitching from side to side, the top half of his head covered in a metal cap with eye holes set in the side. His body was covered in sheaths housing an array of different knives.
To his right was a hulking brute, smaller than the Montserrat’s bodyguards but twice as wide, his arms impossibly thick.
Behind him was the source of the ticking and whirring – a clockwork warrior, tall and straight, his head a long, thin funnel.
Next to him, a woman of unbelievable beauty but for the piercings and tattoos that covered every inch of her body.
And finally, smiling insanely – a smile that would never leave his face because he had no lips – was a slashed and haggard figure. Flense; the legendary leader of the Hounds and the man everyone in the Cistern feared, for when you saw him, it meant your doom.
‘Say hello to the Hounds, Trol Snapper. And be grateful I don’t fucking set them on you.’
Trol was very grateful. So grateful he made a little bit of water in his underpants.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The run to the Spires had taken a damn sight longer than his flight in an airship. Neither had it been as comfortable – Blaklok looked and felt out of place every step of the way. Despite trying to remain out of sight of prying eyes, he was still spotted by several of the well-to-do dwellers of the Spires district. People like Blaklok – hulking, bruised, menacing people – simply didn’t walk their streets and it was inevitable he would draw attention. Luckily he managed to avoid the notice of the Judicature. They must have been far too busy looking for the rampant demon that was on the loose. Well, hopefully if they didn’t get in his way, Blaklok would be able to halt the arrival of more demonic intruders… but only if he was quick about it.
He found the tower in question with ease, recognising it from the rendering in Julius’s study. It was not the tallest or most resplendent of the vast skyward constructions of the Spires, but it did seem to stand out the most.
Its main body soared upward, like all of its neighbours, a red and black shaft rising up to the heavens. But towards the top it expanded outward, the sides curling round until its summit resembled the head of a vast toad. Large round windows ran around the perimeter, leering down hungrily, and great steel appendages jutted at random angles from the tower’s head, like thorny spines set to deflect airborne predators.
Blaklok moved in. He had no plan of attack, no modus operandi for such an occasion. As usual he would develop his strategy on the hoof.
The base of the tower had a single door for entry, and it would undoubtedly be locked. He didn’t fancy having to scale the sheer sides of the tower all the way to the top. It may not have been the highest tower in the Spires but, even so, Thaddeus was no bleeding spider.
He took the stairs up to the entrance three at a time, using the momentum of his approach to power his boot as it struck the door. Briefly he wondered if turning the handle might have worked just as well, but it mattered little as the door burst inward, surprising the two red-robed acolytes who were idling inside.
They both had carbines, but didn’t seem overly confident in their usage. One of them fumbled his weapon, almost dropping it, and Blaklok decided he could wait. The other acolyte was much less clumsy, but nowhere near quick enough. A firm fist to the jaw and he was down, but the blow gave the second acolyte time to compose himself. He brought the carbine up, and Blaklok could see he was almost about to soil himself. With a lightning fast snatch Blaklok had grasped the carbine from the acolyte’s grip before he had a chance to get a round off. The stunned cultist stared for a second, shock and fear rooting him to the spot, before Thaddeus gave him the butt of the carbine around the side of his head.
Easy enough!
As he made his way up the tower stairs he dropped the carbine. Blaklok was in no way averse to using a shooter when necessary, but in dealing with the occult he found it usually did more harm than good. Besides, he had a more effective plan of assault than a few rounds from a carbine.
He took the stairs quickly but carefully, always looking, always listening for that telltale shadow or that errant sound that would herald an attack, but it never came. Lax security would usually put him on edge; make him more wary of his approach, but the time for that was past. This was a situation that required speed above all else. There was no telling how far along this bunch were with their ritual. And one thing was for sure – with Julius at their head, they were already much more dangerous than Valac’s mob. That being the case, the conflagration they were planning to inflict on the Manufactory would be much worse than a single president of the Pit.
Higher he went, round the circular staircase and ever upward until his lungs were straining for air, and then he started to hear it – that bloody sound, so familiar yet so alien at the same time. Chanting, but not the fell language of the ancients, this was so very different.
This was the language of the Pit itself.
The air seemed to grow thicker as he climbed higher, and nausea set in. The sound he was hearing was like no human voice, it was as though the sound was too paradoxical for mortal ears to hear. It was a cacophony and a whisper, a raging scream and a lover’s scented sigh. The one thing about the chant that lacked contradiction was the wrongness of it. It stank of the forbidden, and Blaklok knew it had to stop.
