“What…” Ginger-beard cleared his throat. “What business?”
“Something was stolen from the abbey. I believe it’s been taken to the city.”
“You’ll not get out again. Sure you want to chance it?”
“Don’t see I have much choice.” The Gray Abbot was ailing fast. Without the amber eye set into his Monas he’d be lucky to last out the week. And besides, Callixus needed to be dealt with. Evil like that couldn’t be allowed to roam free.
Shader pulled the Liber from his coat pocket. “But first, may I pray for your dead?”
The soldiers exchanged looks, muttering to one another. Ginger-beard fixed Shader with a sullen stare.
“Best save your breath; don’t reckon they’ll listen.”
* * *
Within the hour, Shader strode through the empty streets of Calphon, Sarum’s northernmost suburb, the weight of recollection heavy upon him. Calphon had been his route into the city the last time the Gray Abbot had sent him. That was when his belief in non-violent resistance had been beaten out of him outside the pub. He could almost feel the fists hammering his face to pulp, the kicks smashing his ribs. He could still taste the vengeance, brutal and demonic, eating at his faith until he’d assuaged it that night in the Mermaid.
The outer suburbs had altered little since the Reckoning: squat buildings, broad avenues, empty plazas. Many of the roads were divided by islands and flanked by colossal metal posts topped with glass globes, some of which glowed orange in the gray dusk. Tawdry eateries, taverns, and stores lined the great concourse leading to the central district, many of them shuttered, some doors daubed with black snakes, the Sahulian symbol of death.
Shader headed for the one place in the city he knew well: the Templum of the Knot.
He walked for perhaps an hour along streets piled with shrouded bodies, passing masked figures lurking in doorways or scavenging like rats.
Just beyond the metal bridge spanning Wharf Way, Shader came to a crossroads. There was a hastily parked cart in Martyr’s Street, lone horse stamping and snorting outside a looming wooden townhouse. The facade was in poor repair, flecks of greenish paint peeling from the timbers. A rusty lantern hung above the open doorway, swathed in cobwebs.
The cart was laden with books and musical instruments. A few hessian sacks had been placed towards the front, the fabric torn and spilling dried herbs and what appeared to be powdered mushroom. Shader stroked the flanks of the cart horse, rubbed its ears.
“Hector?”
Nostrils flaring, eyes wide, the great beast tried to move back from the building, but was restrained by its tether.
What was the Bard of Broken Bridge doing in Sarum? Shader had never known Elias Wolf to travel further than the Griffin.
Moving to the entrance, he became aware of a rhythmic whisper drifting down the hallway like a malignant prayer. He stepped inside, keeping close to the wall, clumps of spiderweb clinging to his coat. A tottering hatstand stood back from the door, a pile of scuffed and filthy shoes at its feet. He inched his way along the narrow corridor, the walls stained with damp, plaster hanging from the ceiling to reveal the slats of floorboards above. The air was thick with sulfur, and dust motes swirled in amber beams spilling from the cracks of a door at the far end.
As Shader crept closer, the susurrus took on more clarity: four words in a language that could have been Aeternam, but accented strangely, repeated without variation, seemingly coming from within his skull. Libera nos a malo. Libera nos a malo. Deliver us from evil. Other sounds came from beyond the door: guttural growling, sharp hissing, and a voice dripping with malice clamored above the urgent calling in his head.
“Leave your clothes, human.”
A mawg—grinding out words ill-suited to its thick tongue. As far as Shader could tell, it was a female.
“We’ll find what we need once we’ve feasted on you.”
Typical mawg. They’d maul their prey, ripping flesh and grinding bone, disgorging anything they couldn’t digest. Once sated, the creatures would search through the regurgitated mess and pick out jewelry, coins, and anything else of value.
Another voice, quavering yet lyrical, sounded from the other side of the door. A voice Shader knew, swiftly cut off.
“Mouth! Shut it! That’s better. Yours is puny magic to a shaman.”
Shader had encountered mawg shamans during his liberation of Oakendale: sorcerers of awesome power, revered by their tribe as avatars, links to their dark and distant god.
Fearing he might already be too late, Shader drew his swords and kicked the door open.
The first thing he saw was Elias Wolf shining like a small sun, amber effusing from his coat. The bard was cowering at the center of a pack of mawgs, lumpy hides tufted with coarse hair, knuckles scraping the floor. A huge female towered above them, long black tussocks braided with gut; bare breasts, flaccid and empty, drooping to her midriff. Her snout was pierced with shards of bone and rusty iron rings.
The mawgs turned snarling to face Shader, the shaman crouching and making strange clutching movements with her hands. Elias fumbled for something in his pocket and then all eyes were back on him as he raised the statue of a snake above his head; it was bursting with amber radiance. The shaman let out a gasp and pointed with a clawed finger. The mawgs pounced but were met by a blast of light that slammed them back. At the same time, Shader heard a chilling caw that seemed to come from another place entirely. Elias must have heard it, too, for he thrust the statue back into his pocket and turned to flee.
The shaman let out a curse and Elias slipped, tumbling in a heap. Baying like wolves, the other mawgs surged towards him. Shader bellowed and charged, his longsword glancing from the back of one creature, the gladius skewering another through the neck. For an instant there was confusion enough to allow Shader to pull Elias to his feet and drag him towards the doorway. The shaman roared dark spells that blurred the entrance hall and filled it with gouts of flame. Elias’s clothes caught fire, but Shader was spared, not even feeling the heat. He lunged at the shaman, striking air as she sped towards the ceiling in the form of a bat.
Elias threw himself to the floor, rolling to smother the flames. Shader took up a position between him and the mawgs.
Ducking beneath a vicious swipe from a claw, Shader spun on his heel and slammed the gladius into a mawg’s belly. Sensing movement behind, he back-slashed with the longsword, which bounced from hide as tough as a cuirass. Enraged, the creature grabbed his coat and wrenched. Shader lost his footing and skidded towards it. In desperation, he rammed the gladius to the hilt in the mawg’s chest. It released its grip, black blood bubbling over Shader’s hand. He regained his feet, hacking down with the longsword and cleaving the creature’s skull. His left hand snaked out, ripping the gladius free.
A quick glance showed him Elias was still alive, eyes glazed with shock, clothes charred and smoldering.
Shader rolled beneath a bludgeoning arm, slicing into flesh and sinew with a back-swing as he passed. Something swooped down, the shaman suddenly reappearing behind the mass of mawgs, weaving her hands through the air and barking strange words. Shader was thrown against the wall by a blow from behind. Another mawg raked at his shoulder, claws bursting the links on his chainmail and gouging the skin beneath. Vision blurred with pain, Shader flailed lamely about with the longsword, the gladius thrusting and cutting with a mind of its own. He was tiring, his shoulder burning as if acid, not blood, gushed from the wound. He’d no idea how many he’d killed, but, undaunted, the others piled on top of him. As he went down, he glimpsed another figure enter the room and pass unhindered through the flames. The shaman froze in mid-spell, and the mawgs fell away from Shader, turning to face the newcomer. Panting for breath, Shader peered through the milling mawgs and saw a short burly warrior in a white cloak, gray hair trailing beneath a horned helm, eyes of violet lightning glaring from his thickly bearded face.
Pushing back his cloak to reveal bands of iron armor underneath a
brown habit, the dwarf raised a huge war hammer and brought it crashing down with a clap of thunder. The mawgs broke and fled to the rear of the building. The shaman squatted down and ground her claws together, spitting and hissing. “Curses on you, Fallen. I’d suck the flesh from your bones if that wasn’t what you desired.”
Darkness swirled about her, and then, as a black rat, she scampered away.
A white-robed woman, thick-set and middle aged, moved to stand beside the dwarf.
“See,” he said, “thou shouldst trust thy senses, Mater. Thou art graced.”
Mater Ioana. How could she have—?
Ioana frowned. “Did you not hear it?”
The dwarf tapped the head of his hammer, faced the woman and shrugged. “I am lacking in grace.”
“Mater Ioana,” Elias said. “How did you know?”
Shader approached the trio, swords trailing beside him dripping black blood.
Ioana’s eyes lighted on him even as she replied. “Something called me, bard, but it wasn’t you.”
“Whispering,” Shader said. “Words I should have recognized.”
Ioana pursed her lips and rolled her eyes—it was that old familiar expression that said she didn’t fully understand, but she had an inkling. “Prayer,” she said. “Prayer for deliverance.” She shook her head, brows knitting in a frown. “Deacon Shader. I didn’t expect to see you in Sarum again.”
The dwarf cocked his head to one side and studied Shader. He covered his mouth with a beefy hand, tapping his cheek with one finger. Shader switched his gaze to Elias.
“Something was stolen from the Gray Abbot—an amber eye set into a Monas.”
Elias put his hand in his pocket. “One of the Eyes of Eingana?”
Shader nodded and turned to Maldark. The dwarf was squinting at him, looked like he was going to say something, but gave way as Shader spoke first. “Thank you … Maldark, isn’t it? Maldark the Fallen?”
The dwarf sighed. “So “tis said. I hath borne the epithet a long time.”
Ioana placed a hand on his shoulder.
“A dwarf of the Dreaming—or should I say Aethir, the world dreamed by the Cynocephalus?” Elias circled him as if inspecting a prize bull. He dipped his head and raised his eyebrows for Shader’s benefit. “Funny how much truth there is in myths.”
“Not everything on Aethir was dreamed,” Maldark said.
“Ah,” Elias wagged a finger at him. “Sektis Gandaw. So, tell me, what creatures did he cross to make you lot?”
Maldark’s violet eyes smoldered beneath heavy brows.
“Why were the mawgs afraid of you?” Shader asked.
“I know them of old. I was not the only one to arrive from Aethir.”
“Come,” Ioana said. “Let’s go back to the templum. There is someone there, Frater Deacon, you should meet. What about you, bard, do you still wish to leave?”
“Plague gives me the creeps.” Elias plonked himself down on the body of a mawg. “But mawgs scare the proverbial—Ugh!” He leapt back up and dusted himself down, stepping away from the corpse and wrinkling his nose. “Well, I think I’ve got a phobia. Call me a pusillanimous old codger, if you like, but the sooner I get out of the big smoke the better.”
“You plan to use statue to get past soldiers?” Huntsman appeared where before there had only been cobwebs. “I warned you, music man, not to use its power.”
Elias went white. “It won’t happen again. I’ve got ways and means of my own, you know.”
The Dreamer stood in front of him and held out a hand. “It begins. He comes. Give statue to me.”
“No!” Elias backed away, tripped over the dead mawg and fell flat on his backside.
“Yes!” Huntsman commanded. There was a moment’s resistance and then Elias handed over the black serpent, which was still veined with glowing amber.
“You do not know me, Deacon Shader,” Huntsman said, turning away from the bard, “but I know you. Take this. Eingana wills it.”
A fist-sized lump formed in Shader’s throat. “Why? Why me?”
Huntsman thrust his weazened face towards Shader. “It is what statue wants. Your friend said this would happen—bald meddler. He said statue would choose you. You carry Archon’s sword.”
“Aristodeus? But how—?”
The statue dropped into Shader’s hand. The sibilant voice in his head returned for an instant. Deo gratias. Deo … Wasn’t that one of the forbidden words, a blasphemy punishable in the Judiciary’s dungeons? Shader thrust the statue back as if it were on fire, but Huntsman was nowhere to be seen.
Breathing deeply to calm his nerves, he turned the serpent over, running his fingers along the stony scales. Its mouth gaped wide as if about to strike, but it had no fangs, just dustings of ash that spilled out onto Shader’s coat. Above the mouth there were only empty sockets for eyes.
Something moved in his peripheral vision, and Shader spun to see a large spider scuttling across the floor and squeezing through a crack.
“Great!” Elias said. “Ter-bloody-rific! Without the bleeding statue I’m up shit creak.”
“Thought thou had powers of thine own,” Maldark said.
“Ha shogging ha! Remind me to book you for the panto next Christmas—not that you bloody Philistines would have any idea what a panto was. Nor Christmas, for that matter. Come to think of it, you probably don’t even know what a Philistine is either!”
“Thou wouldst be surprised at what I know.” Maldark’s voice had dropped to a whisper. His shoulders sagged, and some of the fire went from his eyes.
“Well, if you’re not going,” Ioana said, “perhaps you could give us a lift back to the templum. All this excitement has quite worn me out and I’m about ready for bed.”
“And another thing,” Elias said. “How come I’m the only one to get burnt?”
Shader wondered about that, too. Of the three, Elias was the only one not dressed in the white of Nous, though the dwarf’s cross symbol could hardly be described as a Monas. Divine protection? Not likely, he thought.
“Perhaps there’s evil in your heart,” Ioana said, with a cheeky grin. “Or lack of faith.”
“Not evil,” Maldark said, drawing Ioana’s gaze. “That cannot be the answer.” The priestess seemed about to say something, closed her eyes briefly, and patted him on the arm.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elias asked as Ioana led the dwarf from the room.
“Maybe the power was focused on you.” Shader stood aside to let the bard go first. “Perhaps they saw you as the greatest threat.”
“You think?” Elias said, cocking his head and rubbing his chin.
“Either that, or the mawgs thought you’d be more palatable toasted.”
“Hilarious. No wonder you couldn’t hack it as a knight, copped out of being a monk, and screwed up with Rhiannon.”
Shader glared, fingers tightening around the hilt of the longsword. Elias seemed oblivious, flouncing past as if a sword thrust in the back was the last thing on his mind.
“Ain had it all mapped out from the start.” He waved his hands about in mock awe. “You’re a shogging comedian!”
THE BLACK HAND
The Gray Abbot lay curled in the fetal position sobbing like an infant. His cell was a coffin, cramped and airless; the fire depicted in the great painting a foretaste of the Abyss; the dragons malefic demons eyeing his remains. Clumps of white hair came away in arthritic fingers with skin the texture of ancient parchment. If only he’d still had the Monas he could have kept mortality at bay, stopped the disintegration of his body.
He winced as his tongue dislodged another tooth and salty blood oozed from his gums. His eyes blurred with tears. Was this how it would end—the immortal Gray Abbot putrefying in a pool of his own fluids, flesh wasting, bones crumbling?
Panic gnawed at his stomach like rats eating their way out of a corpse. How could he even consider himself the Gray Abbot anymore? That man had perished the moment the Monas was stolen, leav
ing behind an echo that should have been long-since dead: Alphonse LaRoche, born in the Old Faith ghetto in the South of France—back before the Templum had renamed it Gallia; Alphonse the founder of Pardes in the days leading up to the Reckoning; Alphonse the old man who had watched the cataclysm and would have died in the aftermath had Huntsman not come to him with the eye of Eingana. Alphonse: the seed from which the Gray Abbot had grown; the carcass to which he returned now that time fed inexorably upon its rightful dues.
The brothers took it in turns to stand outside his cell, knocking every few minutes, ostensibly to offer reassurance, but the Gray Abbot knew they were checking whether he was still alive. The decay was progressing with frightening rapidity and he knew he had only hours to live. Almost a thousand years of existence and still he couldn’t face the thought of death. With the Monas, he’d been supremely at ease, the consummate Nousian; but for all its benefits, it had eroded his faith. There had been no need of faith: once he’d achieved immortality, Alphonse La Roche had outgrown his dependence on the unseen god the Templum knew as Ain. The thought had never previously crossed his mind, but now, as the cells of his body returned to their constituent parts, he realized he’d unwittingly lived a godless life since the time of the Reckoning. Since the man, LaRoche, had become his own god. The wiser you were, he thought, the longer you lived, the greater the capacity for self-deception.
“Ain! Ain! Forgive me!” The prayer started as a whimper, but ended as a mental echo.
Ain!
Was it the Gray Abbot who pleaded or Alphonse LaRoche, striking for the surface of his mind like a drowning man? Could Ain hear his distress? Did Ain even care? With a creeping chill inching up his spine he realized with appalling clarity that there was no Ain; and in that instant his loss of faith was joined by the failure of hope, the corrosion of love. All that remained was the Void.
The Gray Abbot let out a long groan of utter hopelessness, prompting the monk outside to knock on the door with renewed vigor.
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