Kultus

by Richard Ford

  Eventually the stairs led up to a wide, bare reception floor. Here it was plain why security had been so scant on the way up – there were almost a score of acolytes barring the way to a raised level above. Blaklok might be able to break through this bunch but he would be riddled with bullets by the time he reached the mezzanine, and then he would have no chance of stopping the ritual. Even now he could hear the chanting emanating from atop the raised level.

  Blaklok retreated further down the staircase until he came to a huge clerestory window. Gritting his teeth against the inevitable sound he elbowed one of the panes as hard as he could manage. The glass gave, raining shards onto the ground far below. From above there came nothing but the sound of further chanting, and Thaddeus breathed a sigh of relief that he had not alerted anyone to his vandalism.

  Strong winds blew in, whipping his face as he took a step out onto a thin ledge. To stop the ritual he would need the element of surprise – and what better surprise than to attack from above in a tower hundreds of feet in the air?

  Thaddeus was not particularly scared of heights, but neither was he the kind of bonehead who would intentionally put himself in harm’s way. As much as he tried to resist the temptation to look down as he climbed up the side of the building, the yearning to see how high he actually was overcame him. He instantly regretted it as he saw the teeming streets below. A primal fear gripped him, a fear that screamed at him, scolding him for his reckless actions but, as usual, Blaklok fought against his natural urges and stubbornly continued on his way.

  It was a relief to find his missing digit was no longer paining him. If he survived this he would have to remember to thank the Apothecary for whatever nostrum he had used on the raw stump.

  On he climbed, and several times the winds tried to pull him from the side of the building, but on each occasion Blaklok was defiant. Twice his fingers slipped on the smooth surface of the tower, and he felt the cold sweat of fear cloak him as he teetered on the brink of oblivion, but both times he managed to hang on. And all the while, shielded as he was by the hard stone walls of the tower’s summit, he could still hear the fell sound of summonation from within and feel its aberrance seeping through the cracks in the mortar.

  With bile rising in his throat, Blaklok finally made it to the tower’s summit. A large airship pad stretched out for a hundred yards and Blaklok flopped onto its cold hard surface, panting for breath after the exertion of his climb.

  Get up, he told himself, scolding with that bully’s voice, the one he used to push his mind and body beyond the boundaries any normal man could endure. This is no time for resting. This is the time for smashing heads! And he stood on shaking limbs – limbs starved of oxygen, powered by muscles that were strained to their limit.

  He ran to a stairwell that led to the ritual below, reaching into his pockets for the surprise he had in store for the Cult of Legion – a surprise he had been given by the Apothecary. That was something else he would have to give thanks for, if he survived.

  He stole to the lip of the stair and peered over. The ritual was in full swing, and there was the high priest, Julius, the lying little shit. He would be the first to die.

  Blaklok examined the device he held in his right hand. It was spherical, made of brass or some other alloy, studded for added grip and with a single bolt on the side. Blaklok unscrewed the bolt and pulled. Instantly he heard the hiss of a wick being ignited by flint. It was at this point he realised he should really have asked the Apothecary how long he would have before the wick burned down, but he supposed it was too late now.

  With a flick of one powerful arm he sent the incendiary bomb flying down towards the mezzanine, and the chanting high priest. Though Julius now held the Key of Lunos in one hand, Thaddeus reckoned one small, fiery explosion wouldn’t do it any harm. If it had survived on the surface of the Moon for untold aeons there was little chance of one piffling incendiary damaging it.

  Before the device could go off, Blaklok was already unscrewing the bolt from the second. He looked down. The chanting was still droning on, but Julius had noticed the device as it had bounced noisily off the surface of the mezzanine at his feet. He took a tentative step forward and Blaklok almost laughed at his stupidity, bracing himself for the coming explosion.

  There was a sudden flash of red, as something moved across the floor below like a meteor. It wore red robes, and parts of its bulky torso were visible through the cloth; leathery, spiky flesh protruding through the material.

  Then the device went off, blowing the thing apart.

  Bastard, Blaklok thought, one of the demon-touched acolytes had thrown itself on the incendiary.

  Panic ensued as the cultists, no longer chanting their fell invocation, looked all about for the source of the incendiary. Julius had fallen back, shaken but uninjured by the muffled blast, though there was little left of his demonic follower.

  Thaddeus didn’t wait, flinging his second device down the stairwell, just as he was spotted by a screaming, pointing cultist. The rest barely had time to look up towards what their fellow was gesticulating at before the incendiary went off, showering them with molten fire. As the screams started to peel out, Blaklok was already making his way down the stairs. His priority was the Key. If he could retrieve it now in the confusion and make his escape, this summoning would be over.

  The mezzanine was in flames, and several cultists were lying still, their red robes and the flesh within now charred black. Through the smoke, Thaddeus could just make out the prone form of Julius, his high priest’s mask now skewed across his face. In two strides he was standing over him, instantly regretting his decision to discard the carbine. Never mind, there would be time aplenty to deal with Julius later.

  Blaklok bent down, reaching for the Key at Julius’s side, but before he could grasp it something smashed into him. It was like being hit by a steam engine; all the wind was instantly blown from him as he was bowled over the side of the mezzanine.

  He fell down to the next level, his shoulder crunching against the granite floor. There was a weight atop him, something heavy and hard. Blaklok opened his eyes, and saw a familiar face staring at him with wicked intent.

  Castor Cage’s bestial features gazed down, his jaws open, drool dripping forth in expectation of a feeding frenzy.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Julius, with a timely, albeit unexpected intervention. ‘It’s only fitting he should see this. Do you hear, Thaddeus? Your attempts at sabotage have been in vain.’ Julius slowly descended the steps from the mezzanine level. ‘It will take more than a thug with toy bombs to halt our becoming. You cannot stop the inevitable. Soon the Legion will walk this plane, and you, Thaddeus Blaklok, will have the honour of witnessing their arrival.’

  With that, Blaklok was grasped by strong hands – hands with a strength borne of demonhood.

  He gazed at Julius, whose wan features seemed more alive than he had ever seen them. ‘Love the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Julius?’ he said, unable to stop a sly grin creeping across his face.

  ‘Oh, we’ll see how funny you find it when the Legion arrives,’ Julius replied, his own grin creeping across his lips.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Blaklok doubted he would find it even slightly funny.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  No mortal should have been able to speak the language of the Pit. It was an ancient and forbidden tongue, spewed forth by creatures that needed no vocal chords – not even mouths – to speak it. But here were the Cult of Legion, calling out to their abyssal lord in his own foul argot like they were natives of the Pit themselves.

  It could only be the Key of Lunos that allowed them to shout across the planes, it was the only explanation.

  As Lord Julius held the Key of Lunos in one tightly clenched fist, it glowed with a hellish light, black smoke effusing from its surface. He had discarded the mask now, and his face was twisted in rapture. Blaklok wanted to do something, anything, but he was held fast by the clawed hands of the two demoniac
acolytes that flanked him. He could smell their fetid breath and the stench rising from their infected bodies, and it sickened him. The lengths they had gone to please their foul deity were loathsome in the extreme – they had allowed themselves to become energumen; infected by the evil of the Pit itself.

  And less than ten feet away stood Castor Cage, staring at him with unbridled hatred. Had it not been for Julius’s orders he knew Cage would have tried to rip him apart piece by bloody piece. Right now, Thaddeus only wanted him to try it.

  The language of the Pit rose up as Lord Julius’s voice seemed joined by a myriad others. But it was not the voices of his fellow cultists that raised the call to a crescendo. Something else was joining in the dirge… something infinitely more evil. These were Pit-spawned voices, and they came from the depths of Hell itself.

  A pall began to fill the tower’s summit, a black haze that started to coalesce. It pulled the light from the air, tainting it, twisting it into a corrupt blackness that manifested into a doorway. It was a doorway that Blaklok knew could only lead to one place.

  Julius was smiling now.

  ‘They hear the call, Blaklok,’ he said, his maddened eyes growing wider as they stared at the black portal. ‘They will be here soon. The Legion. It is coming.’

  With that he pointed, and immediately Blaklok realised the true horror that was to be unleashed on the Manufactory. Julius was opening the way to the Seventh Gate. It was not to be a single demon that rose from the Pit. The Legion was indeed named well.

  Through the gate, Thaddeus could see an army of twisted demonic shapes, running, flying, loping and slithering towards him. It was a frenzied horde, teeth gnashing in their corybantic rampage, each fell voice raised high in an infernal requiem. Blaklok felt the inevitable terror consuming him, but this was no time to succumb to it. Something had to be done.

  Suddenly he could smell them, the musky stink of wet dog and rotten eggs filling the room with its overpowering aroma. A cry of pained terror went up from somewhere behind him, and Blaklok at first thought that one of the Cult of Legion had succumbed to the overwhelming aura of the Pit. It wasn’t until a mutilated body was flung into the midst of the ritual that he realised the Legion of the Seventh Gate wasn’t the only demonic presence that had decided to crash this vile party.

  A roar filled the tower, and instantly the focus that had been on the hell gate was diverted to another fiendish presence. On the floor below the mezzanine Blaklok could see a confusing rush of red robes and the spatter of fresh body parts. Julius rushed to the lip of the raised platform and looked down agape.

  ‘He has found us,’ he spat, gesturing to two of his demonic cultists. ‘Deal with it.’

  The twisted creatures bounded forward and disappeared over the lip of the mezzanine, as Thaddeus strained to see what was going on. He was torn between the horror fast approaching through the gate and the battle going on below, which seemed to grow ever more fevered as the seconds passed.

  Heralded by a gout of scarlet and torn guts, one half of a demonic cultist flopped onto the platform, still flailing as it desperately tried to stem the flow of its innards as they disgorged onto the marble floor.

  Every fibre of Blaklok’s being screamed at him to flee, but he was held fast in the powerful arms of two cultists. Even they were beginning to look uncertain, as something approached up the stairwell to the raised area.

  Castor Cage rushed forward, fangs bared as he moved on all fours, but before he could reach the edge, a huge demonic visage rose into view.

  President Valac had come.

  Its face was twisted in fury, its jaws still moist from the cultists on whom it had so recently dined. As Cage moved forward it batted him off with one languid motion of its powerful arm.

  ‘No!’ Julius screamed. ‘It must not be allowed to interfere!’

  But Blaklok had a feeling it was not the Cult of Legion that Valac was here to interfere with. Its tiny baleful eyes swept across the collection of figures that stood on the mezzanine, its nostrils flaring as it picked up a familiar scent.

  Then those eyes fell on Blaklok.

  A flicker of recognition flashed across Valac’s features as its visage turned from hunger to fury to hate in a single heartbeat.

  Blaklok was helpless in the iron hold of the demonic cultists but he could feel their grip loosening as they saw the demon prince approaching.

  Valac stormed forth onto the mezzanine, and all the while Julius bawled at his men to stop the creature as it approached. Castor Cage was the first to respond, bounding to his feet and leaping forward. The cultist holding Blaklok’s right arm was quick to follow, releasing Thaddeus and leaping the ten feet to fight off the demon. To Blaklok’s left, the other demonic figure stepped back and, with a theatrical sweep, two great wings suddenly unfurled from beneath the tattered robes at its back. Thaddeus felt a billowing of air as the cultist took to the wing and joined its fellows in the fray.

  With snarling fury the demons set about one another, and Blaklok turned his attention back to the portal. The Legion was almost upon the gate, sweeping forward like an evil tide ready to submerge the mortal plane.

  Blaklok leapt forward, hands stretched out and eager to wrest the Key of Lunos from the grip of Lord Julius. The high priest saw his intent but there was nowhere for him to go, and before Julius could utter a word Blaklok was on him. Julius fought with a surprising desperation as Blaklok gripped him – even a punch to the face did not persuade him to release the Key. As they grappled on the ground the demons at their side roared, the three smaller figures rending great swathes of flesh from the back of Valac. All the while, the President of Hell crawled ever closer to Blaklok, ignoring its assailants in favour of reaching him.

  Grasping Julius by both arms, Blaklok bore down with the full weight of his body, smashing his forehead into the Lord’s face. Immediately he went limp, releasing the Key of Lunos into Blaklok’s waiting grasp.

  Thaddeus stood, feeling the power of the Key and its inextricable link to the arcane portal that was even now in danger of being overwhelmed by the torrent of fiends that were bearing down on it.

  He held the Key in both hands, allowing its secrets to fill him with their knowledge, allowing the link between Key and portal to reveal itself. He could suddenly see the intricate threads of arcane power that the Key held and with a single thought Thaddeus severed the connection as if he were shredding a single leaf of parchment. Before the first of the demons could reach the burgeoning portal, it began to fade, enervating back into a wispy cloud that no demon would ever cross.

  There was a howl of fury, as though the hordes of Hell were screaming out in their entirety. Then, with a wink of dusty light, the portal was gone.

  Heralded by a vile stench, a torrent of hellfire engulfed one of the twisted cultists. Valac had summoned forth another gout of its molten bile and its victim was even now bubbling and melting across the mezzanine, its surface liquefying beneath the unnatural ooze. The winged cultist retreated, desperately beating its wings to move out of range of the demon prince, and leaving a clear path straight to Blaklok.

  As Valac took its chance and bounded towards him, Blaklok leapt, gripping the ancient Key between his teeth. Before the winged cultist could manoeuvre out of the way Blaklok had gripped the twisted being by the shoulders. The cultist thrashed in midair, gnashing its teeth and flailing its arms in a vain attempt to dislodge Blaklok, but he held fast to its back. Gripping one of the leathery wings at its shoulder Blaklok wrenched backwards, intending to guide the cultist’s flight. Unfortunately his grasp of aerodynamics was rudimentary at best, and with a squeal the cultist was sent spinning straight through one of the tower’s high windows.

  In a shower of shattering glass, Blaklok and the winged cultist were flying into empty air. Again, Thaddeus could see hundreds of feet down to the stone-hard ground below and, despite the powerful leathery wings of the cultist, he was plummeting towards it. The creature beat its wings but they were not strong enoug
h to power its body with Blaklok’s additional weight.

  Thaddeus gripped the Key in his teeth, holding onto the cultist for dear life as they fell, the sides of the toad-like tower shooting past them at a rate of knots. He could hear the cultist screaming, desperately beating its wings. Every now and again they would hit an updraft, halting their descent for a split second, but they were being inextricably pulled to the ground below.

  With a sickening thud Blaklok hit the street.

  He opened his eyes, tasting fresh blood, and realised he no longer gripped the Key in his mouth. He spat a tooth and slowly opened his eyes. Beneath him was the winged cultist, his body smashed and broken, having cushioned Thaddeus against the impact.

  Blaklok staggered to his feet, scanning the ground for the Key of Lunos. Blood dripped from his mouth and it was likely he would need some extensive dental work, but at least he was alive.

  He spied the Key, seemingly undamaged after the fall, and he took a tentative step towards it.

  Suddenly the ground erupted as something heavy smashed into the earth, throwing Blaklok off his feet.

  President Valac slowly stood, having flung himself from the tower hundreds of feet above. It appeared impervious to the fall, having created a crater in the ground where it landed.

  Blaklok glared up at the infernal creature. It was relentless in its pursuit of him, and he realised that whatever he had done to offend the beast was about to be paid back in spades.

  He struggled to his feet once more as Valac lurched forward, clawed hands flexing, razor claws extended to rend his flesh. Thaddeus barely had time to dodge aside as a great inhuman arm swept past where he had stood a second before.

  Above all else, he had to get the Key – he could worry about escaping later, but as the thought passed through his mind he was struck a blow to the ribs and thrown to the ground. Though he had avoided being eviscerated by Valac’s talons, his left side was numb from the pain.