Kultus

by Richard Ford

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ said Quickstep, not making to move from the Montserrat’s path. ‘But there’s just one thing – I’d like the Key before you go. There’s a good chap.’

  The Montserrat felt a cold chill run up his spine. How did this joker know about the Key? Something wasn’t right here, but there wasn’t time to fart around with some delusional interloper. The Montserrat pulled his snub revolver from the tiny holster at his side. It only fired two shots, but they’d be enough to see this cheeky tramp off.

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said, brandishing the weapon. ‘Now move, or you’re dead.’

  ‘I see, pressed for time are you? Well, so am I. This is your last chance. Give me the Key or I’ll have to take it from you.’

  Two thunderclap shots rang out in the confines of the tunnel, echoing down the long darkness and bouncing off the walls, louder than sin. Smoke billowed from the revolver’s barrel and the Montserrat’s ears began to ring. When the smoke cleared, he saw that Quickstep was still standing there, not a mark on him.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said from beneath his flat cap, seeming to pull himself up to full height. The Montserrat could see his eyes begin to glow with an inner fire, the flesh of his face becoming translucent. ‘I have sought the Key long enough. Now, I’m afraid Zaphiel is coming.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried the Montserrat, panic gripping him deep down, an inner terror threatening to churn from within his bowels. ‘You can have it. I was only kidding.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that,’ Quickstep replied as something large and feathery began to sprout from his back. ‘There’s nothing I can do to halt it now. Once he gets mad I just can’t stop him.’

  Blinding light struck the Montserrat, illuminating the tunnel as though it were aflame. Then he felt it, radiating forth, scorching and burning – a relentless aura of purity; the beneficence of the divine. It burned like nothing the Montserrat had ever felt before, and he screamed for as long as he could pull air into his lungs.

  Red-robed bodies lay in a heap, demonic and human alike, piled in a mass of pounded flesh. Atop them was Blaklok, a face of twisted rage, body covered in claret, but little of it his.

  ‘I’ve told you fuckers before,’ he screamed. ‘But you just don’t fucking listen, do you!’

  His ire was directed at those of the Cult of Legion that still stood on their feet, but mostly it was aimed at Julius, who stood to their fore, his face arrogant no longer. Now all he showed was fear.

  A sudden ear-piercing scream rang out from beyond the Montserrat’s huge desk, distracting Blaklok from his work. The smell of cooking flesh billowed forth in a stinking cloud, and Amelia rushed to see what the source was.

  ‘There’s a tunnel behind here,’ she said, holding a handkerchief to her nose. ‘The Montserrat is the only one who knows where the Key is. If he’s dead the trail ends with him.’

  Blaklok leaped from the pile of dead and wounded, his vendetta with the Cult of Legion momentarily forgotten. All that mattered was the Key, and it smelt like their one link to it had somehow been turned into cinders.

  Steeling himself against the smoky vapour, Blaklok headed into the tunnel. The heat was intense, and he began to sweat heavily in the tunnel’s stinking confines. But there was something else here, something more than a burning tunnel – he could feel it in his bones. It was the antithesis of demonic – it was the touch of the celestial, the host, the divine, but it only served to fill Blaklok with equal dread. As far as he was concerned the heavens meant just as much shit as the hells.

  He saw something moving up ahead, something big. It turned in the passage, churning the wispy smoke and wafting it towards Blaklok. As the pall began to clear, he caught sight of white wings, and felt the tug of awe pulling like a chord from his heart to his bollocks.

  With a rising sense of dread Thaddeus pursued it, crouching low in the tunnel, his legs pounding down the distance to his quarry. But all the while his head told him that the last thing he wanted to do was catch it.

  Then he was out in the open air of a vast cavern, lit from above by slanted sunlight. He breathed deeply, suddenly glad to be free of the cloying passage, but what he saw almost dragged the breath from his lungs.

  There, gleaming with a light so pure it hurt Thaddeus’s eyes, was the unmistakeable form of a seraph. Its white wings were spread wide, its naked body flawless from the tip of its blonde head to those perfectly formed toes.

  Blaklok looked on the face of the divine and there was a sudden spark of recognition. At first he doubted himself, surely this couldn’t be… Quickstep? But somehow he knew it was, somehow the features of this angel of unspoiled beauty were the same as the diminutive scruffbag who had saved him on more than one occasion.

  Well, this certainly explained a lot.

  As the seraph beat its wings and glided into the air, Blaklok caught a glimpse of the object he had been seeking for so long – the Key of Lunos was held within the grip of the angel as it soared skyward.

  Amelia was suddenly at his shoulder and he heard her gasp as she caught sight of the celestial being.

  ‘That’s it. We’ve had it,’ whispered Blaklok, realising there was nothing even he could do now to retrieve the Key.

  ‘That’s not like you, Thaddeus.’ Blaklok turned to see Lord Julius staring at him no longer with hate, but with a smug air of self-confidence. ‘We can get the Key back,’ he said, ‘but it won’t be easy.’

  ‘What do you mean we?’ Blaklok replied, readying himself for another fight.

  ‘Well, I have an idea where that seraph is heading, and you, quite obviously, don’t. So if you want to see the Key again, you’ll have to work with me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Julius laughed. ‘That was Zaphiel, the Lord of Thrones himself, I’d recognise him anywhere. Now, ask yourself, if anyone knows where the secret hermitage of the Fane of Zaphiel lies, wouldn’t it be me?’ Julius beamed once again.

  Blaklok thought hard, trying his best to come up with an alternative that didn’t end with him torturing Julius for the information. It was a shame, but he simply didn’t have time for that.

  ‘All right,’ he replied. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  As they made their way to the surface, Blaklok found it increasingly difficult to resist unleashing hell on Julius and his acolytes once again.

  They stood for everything he hated; they were willing to let the world burn for their own aims, but he was bound to them now whether he liked it or not. Julius was more knowledgeable about the occult and the divine than anyone else in the Manufactory, and if anyone knew where Zaphiel was headed it was him. The only problem would be intercepting the seraph before he did something drastic with the Key of Lunos – catching an angel on the wing wouldn’t be easy.

  Luckily, Julius had ample resources.

  As they reached the stinking, heaving surface of the Manufactory, Blaklok saw that their transport awaited. The huge bloated form of an airship hovered at a low mooring, its engines already humming in expectation of flight.

  They moved towards it, and Blaklok felt Amelia at his shoulder once more.

  ‘Can we trust these people?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice low enough not to be heard by anyone else. ‘They’re murderers. What’s to stop them flinging us to the ground from a great height?’

  ‘Nothing, but Julius knows he needs me as much as I need him. He’s not about to take on an errant seraph without me, even with his acolytes to back him.’

  Amelia was suddenly looking at Blaklok with a strange expression. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, seeming wary of the answer he might give.

  Blaklok merely gave a humourless grin. ‘Hope you never find out.’

  They boarded the airship and smoke billowed from the black engines, adding to the perpetual smog that hung over the vast metropolis. The mooring ropes were untied and with Blaklok and Amelia standing besid
e a group of battered and bruised cultists, the airship lurched skyward.

  ‘Never thought I’d see this day,’ said Julius. Blaklok saw he was staring at him with a maniacal grin. ‘I go to war beside the infamous Thaddeus Blaklok.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Blaklok replied. ‘What happened to making me atone with my ever living soul?’

  ‘Perhaps you already are, Thaddeus. Did you think of that?’

  ‘Look!’ Blaklok took a threatening step forward, and this time none of Julius’s acolytes, not even his demonic brood, seemed willing to defend him. ‘The only reason I’m here is to get the Key. This is a temporary arrangement. As far as I’m concerned you’re still as much of a danger as the seraph.’

  ‘Surely we can come to some accord? Perhaps we could share our prize?’

  ‘I know you only want the Key, Julius. I know you’re only bringing me along to help you take it from Zaphiel. I know a double cross is imminent.’

  ‘And yet you’ve still come along. How tenacious of you.’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Julius smiled. ‘Indeed I do.’

  The Basilica stood in the centre of a derelict wasteland. All around the ground was blasted and torn, rubble interspersed with twisted metal struts and smashed window frames. There had been a disaster here years before – the result of an experiment long forgotten in the annals of the Lexiconium. What was for sure was that no one lived here now.

  What the place was called before the great disaster was not a point of record. Nowadays they called it the Blasted Estate, nothing but rubble and toxic air for three miles in any direction. The only thing that stood on this patch of blighted earth was the Basilica.

  It was a seeming oasis in a crumbling desert of smashed brick. On any other street it would have been an unremarkable sight – a simple church like any other. But in this place of devastation it stood more majestic than the highest cathedral. Its spires brushed the pall of smog that hung over it, and its grubby stained glass windows gleamed through the soot that caked them.

  Zaphiel’s feet gently touched the ground before the great wooden doors to the Basilica, his wings beating once and unsettling the dust and grime around him. He smiled at the sight: the Basilica… his Basilica. This was it, this was the place where the Thrones would rise. They would surge forth, a relentless host of holy warriors, and bathe this city in the light of their divinity. Zaphiel smiled at the prospect.

  With a wave of one porcelain-white arm, the great doors to the Basilica swung wide and the seraph stepped forth. Where he walked, the ground seemed to churn and writhe, flourishing with life. Where his feet fell, flowering weeds sprang up from the dust, entwining the barren rock and mapping where the divine being had trod.

  He entered the shadowed confines of the Basilica and a sudden light bathed its interior, shining like the heavens and illuminating the long crumbling friezes and faded murals. Dust and grime fell from the blackened pillars and a thousand dead candles suddenly sprang to life, bright flame guttering from their wicks.

  In response to the proximity of such a place of consecrated worship, the Key of Lunos began to shine white with anticipation. Zaphiel lifted the basalt trinket, casting his divine gaze across its seemingly jejune surface.

  ‘Soon,’ he whispered, and the word was like a sudden symphony, filling the Basilica all the way to its stone wrought ceiling. ‘Soon they will come. Soon we will take hold of this place – embrace this city to our bosom and make of it a realm of beauty. Soon my brothers will soar betwixt the adulteration of this seething metropolis and make of it a thing of righteousness.’

  And, bathed in the light of the divine, the Key of Lunos purred its satisfaction, only too eager to commit to the bidding of the seraph.

  Blaklok had seen some shit tips in the Manufactory but this place beat the lot of them. It was like some vast behemoth had decided to stamp down with one huge, scaled foot and crush the heaving streets beneath until they were flat as a fart.

  ‘The Blasted Estate,’ Amelia yelled over the buzzing din of the airship’s engines. ‘No one’s been here for years. Word is the air is toxic. We must be flying above the poisonous fumes.’

  ‘Well, I reckon the price of land must be cheap down there then. I might think of investing, at least you’ll never have a problem with nosy fucking neighbours.’

  ‘And what would you do about the poisonous air?’

  ‘That’s a myth!’

  Blaklok turned suddenly at the new voice to see Julius standing right behind them. He smiled knowingly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Amelia. ‘It’s common knowledge the place is tainted. Nothing lives down there.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll find the Judicature doesn’t know everything.’ Julius seemed to revel in his superior knowledge. ‘The toxic air is merely a ruse propagated by the Fane of Zaphiel. It’s to keep people away from their most holy place.’ He gestured out of the open gantryway of the airship. ‘The Basilica!’

  Blaklok looked down, straining his eyes through the thick green pall, and he could just make out a single edifice standing in the midst of the destruction. At first its outline was obscured, but the airship began to dip, piercing the smog and descending ever closer to the building.

  It was a church, at first seeming unremarkable in the extreme, but then Blaklok noticed the bright light streaming through its blackened windows, seemingly fighting against the dark smears with nothing but the purity of its illumination.

  ‘It appears we may be too late,’ said Julius. ‘We have to hurry.’ He turned to the massed ranks of his red-robed acolytes, raising his arms high. ‘For the glory of Legion!’ he cried.

  ‘For Legion!’ answered the cultists, religious ardour suddenly springing to their features.

  Blaklok felt his loathing return. When this was all over, if he survived, there would have to be a reckoning with these fanatics. It was too dangerous to let them remain loose amongst the Manufactory.

  ‘More speed!’ Julius bellowed above the growling engines. The pilot glanced over one shoulder, a wide grin on his face as he gave a feverish nod of approval.

  The airship bucked as the pilot wrenched forward on the throttle, urging the engines to greater effort.

  Blaklok could see that the prow of the ship was aimed straight towards the front of the Basilica, directly at the great stained windows.

  ‘Hold onto something,’ Blaklok said, grasping a handrail. Amelia immediately obeyed, nodding to her tipstaff who braced himself against the side of the ship.

  Blaklok could see that none of the acolytes seemed concerned about the imminent impact, so busy were they in boiling themselves up to a fervour of violence. The few demonic cultists that remained, Castor Cage included, began howling and snarling, stamping their clawed feet in preparation for battle.

  With a last sputter of black smoke, the airship engines pushed themselves to the limit, propelling the huge flying behemoth towards the tattered monument standing amidst the desolate field of broken stone.

  The great stained glass window shattered inward as the airship struck. With a tremendous grinding and the screech of smashing glass, the ship jolted to a halt, buffeting its passengers as though they were beans in a child’s rattle.

  Blaklok tensed his arms as they were almost pulled from their sockets, but he managed to hold on, clamping his eyes shut and trying his best to block out the sounds of screaming and rending metal. Brick dust billowed, blinding him momentarily, and his eardrums rang as they were assailed by the din of the crash.

  Then there was silence.

  Blaklok opened his eyes, trying his best to see through the pall of dense smoke and cloying dust. Something was lying on top of him and he pushed it away before realising it was a shattered body in red robes.

  As he made to rise he felt hands grasp his arm, pulling him to his feet. He was about to react, and violently, when he realised it was Amelia, her pretty face smeared with soot and dirt, her eyes smudged and teary.


  ‘Let’s get to work, Mr Blaklok,’ she said, her strength impressive in the circumstances. Behind her, the one remaining tipstaff at her beck and call was staggering to his feet, and Blaklok nodded.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ he said, pushing his way out of the smashed airship.

  The dust was beginning to settle, and Thaddeus could see the airship had come to rest half-in and half-out of the Basilica. One wall of the building had collapsed, filling the rest with ancient rotted dust from the shattered stones. Blaklok’s boots crunched through debris and smashed glass as he made his way forward, hoping he could find the seraph and retrieve the Key before it was too late.

  There was a sudden billowing of great white wings, and Zaphiel soared above the settling filth. His face was beautiful to behold, but the high majestic brow was furrowed in anger. It struck a primal fear in Blaklok, a fear much worse than any demon could imbue, but again, as he had so many times before, he fought against his better nature and faced the seraph down.

  ‘Sacrilege,’ said the angel, and his voice was like the blaring of a score of trumpets. ‘You would seek to defile the Basilica of the Fane of Zaphiel?’

  ‘I’ve come for the Key,’ Blaklok replied, striding out of the dust cloud. ‘And I’m not leaving without it.’

  The frown atop the seraph’s brow suddenly faded, and a beaming smile covered his face, which in turn transformed into a laugh like a thousand church bells.

  ‘The Key?’ he said, holding the object aloft in one great fist. ‘So that you may halt the coming of the Thrones?’

  Blaklok didn’t move or speak. He knew that whatever was coming would be bad.

  ‘I’m afraid, Thaddeus Blaklok, that you’re already too late.’

  Zaphiel waved languorously with one perfect arm and Blaklok followed the gesture with his gaze. As more of the brick dust settled in the smashed Basilica he could see a beaming light emanating from between two great pillars. It was as though a doorway had been set between the colonnades, which led to a perfect vista of pastureland in the foreground and mountains behind, topped with a perfect blue sky. And from within that landscape, sweeping forth on white-feathered wings, flocked a host like nothing Blaklok had ever seen.