Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

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Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 156

by David Dalglish


  Lallia never once took her eyes off him. Her mouth hung open and all the blood had drained from her face. She swooned and Cadman grabbed her with a skeletal hand, fearing she was about to faint. Lallia pulled away and then vomited all over his jacket.

  “Ugh!” Cadman leapt back, struggling out of the jacket and flinging it in the corner.

  Yuk! Bodily fluids. I’d probably throw up myself, if I still could.

  “You’re…” Lallia coughed up some more sick, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re a … monster!”

  Cadman tried to frown, but then realized he had no facial muscles with which to express himself. “That might be putting it a bit harshly.”

  “Help!” Lallia screamed at the top of her voice.

  Cadman slipped between her and the door, holding his hands behind his back. “Now look…” he started, but Lallia wasn’t listening.

  A shadow detached itself from the opposite wall and drifted towards her. She stammered something and dropped like a stone as Callixus took on some semblance of solidity, red eyes smoldering through the slit of his great helm.

  “I brought you these,” he said, unrolling a cloth bundle and dropping fresh meat to the carpet: a pallid breast, a blood-drenched heart, and a succulent hunk of flesh that could only have come from a buttock. “Seems you won’t be needing them after all.”

  “What?” Cadman snapped, wondering how he was going to get the stains out of the carpet before his next appointment. “No, you imbecile, she’s not for eating! She works here. She’ll be missed.” He crouched down to pick up the buttock flesh and tore out a strip with his teeth. “Where’d you get this?” he asked with his mouth full.

  “Calphon.”

  Cadman half expected to gag, but then gave a shrug. There wasn’t much chance of him catching anything from prostitutes. When you were a virtual cadaver with a burning hunger, one meal was as good as another—as long as the flesh was human.

  “It is another mark against your soul, Doctor, using me thus.”

  Cadman spat out a gristly bit. “Just do as you’re told. Trust me, Callixus, things can get a damn sight worse for you. And besides, it was an emergency. Do you think I’ve the time to wait around for the ghouls to drag something in?” And slobber all over it before I get a bite?

  Lallia stirred and groaned. Cadman dropped the meat and helped her to sit. She was initially dazed, but as soon as she focused on him the terror returned.

  “This is not what it seems,” he said, instantly regretting the cliché. “I’m still Dr. Cadman, it’s just that I’m … How do I put this? I’m not very well.”

  Lallia looked like she was about to scream again. Cadman clamped a bony hand over her mouth.

  “Shh!” he said, releasing the pressure a little when she nodded. “Now I realize this is distressing. Believe me, I go through the same thing every morning when I wake up. I don’t expect you to understand, but I would appreciate your discretion.”

  Lallia’s eyes narrowed at that.

  “Good,” Cadman said. “That’s better. Now, then, what’s this going to cost me? I have money, antiques, the finest wines from Quilonia.” He took his hand away from her mouth and leaned in closer. “I even have some very potent pills from Aeterna that would heighten your pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Lallia pushed herself to her feet and brushed the sick from her shirt. “I wouldn’t be too sure. I have some pretty wild dreams.”

  Cadman’s joints creaked as he moseyed over to the desk and rummaged about in the bottom drawer. “Here,” he said, tossing her a jar of tablets. “Take one half an hour before and the earth will most definitely move.”

  “It better,” Lallia said, thrusting the jar down her top and trying the door handle.

  Cadman waved the key at her, crossed the room and inserted it in the lock. “Absolute discretion,” he said as Callixus drew alongside.

  Lallia’s eyes flicked from the wraith back to Cadman. “Deal,” she said.

  Cadman turned the key and let her go. “A plate, Callixus.” He locked the door and strode back to the meat. “Next time bring me a plate and utensils. I will not be reduced to licking my meals from the carpet like a dog, or those infernal grave-robbing ghouls.”

  Callixus followed him like a shadow, eyes flaring, the black mist of his body rippling with what Cadman had learnt was nervous anticipation.

  “You don’t need to ask me today, Callixus,” Cadman said, biting into the heart and reforming the illusion of fleshiness. He rubbed his restored girth with some satisfaction. “I have decided to awaken the Lost.”

  “My Elect?” hissed Callixus with a rush of what sounded like excitement.

  “The time is right,” Cadman said, savoring a particularly moist morsel and wiping the blood from his mustache. “I know how long you’ve waited, but without the power of Eingana I couldn’t raise them. First we must go to Gaston Rayn. There are things I must discuss with him whilst he’s still receptive. His knights and yours will make a most complementary team, don’t you think? Meet me at the tumulus after dark.”

  Callixus gave a shallow bow before walking straight through the wall.

  Cadman retrieved the eye and the fang from his discarded jacket. They’d returned to a dull amber, cold and lifeless. He slipped them inside his waistcoat pocket and frowned down at the gore staining the carpet.

  “Lallia!” he called, rushing over to the door, fumbling with the key and tearing it open. She should have been long gone by now, but Cadman knew she’d be eavesdropping.

  “Yes,” she said a little too eagerly, looking like she was about to knock on the door opposite.

  “I wonder if you might be a dear and help me with this mess.” Cadman beckoned her inside. “I’m such a butter-fingers, I’ve dropped some specimens, and there’s also the spillage from your little accident with the tea tray.”

  Lallia blanched when she saw the half-eaten flesh. Cadman moved to one side in case she was sick again, but she just grimaced and swallowed. “It’ll cost you more.”

  “Naturally,” Cadman said. “I’ll have a rummage around. I’m sure I’ve got something else just to your liking.”

  Filthy little trollop, he thought as he left her to it and decided to call it a day.

  MALICIDE

  The refectory was rather a drab affair, the walls bare except for a coat of flaking magnolia and a couple of battered cupboards, the floor a jigsaw of cracked and filthy terracotta tiles. Rhiannon was hunched over a steaming cup of tea at one end of the karri-wood table, whilst Soror Agna fiddled with a dusty oil lamp she’d set upon the worktop. The basin was piled with dirty crockery, a sodden cloth draped over the side and smelling like rotten fruit. The failing sun peeked through smeared windows, its sickly light giving the left side of Rhiannon’s face a jaundiced hue.

  Shader lurked in the doorway, wishing Agna would leave Rhiannon alone for just one minute. As if sensing his thoughts, Agna turned her head, thick spectacles crooked on her sallow face and making one eye look bigger than the other.

  “Oh,” she said with a mixture of surprise and disdain.

  Rhiannon looked up mid-sip, rolled her eyes and slurped. “What d’you want?” she asked, setting down the cup with a clatter.

  Shader half-entered the refectory and stopped, feeling awkward and self-conscious—how he usually was around women, but never Rhiannon. She’d always made him feel … all right, whatever he did or said. She just took everything with a pinch of salt, accepted him for what he was, let him move on from his mistakes. And it was so natural, not like the priests in the confessionals trying to view you with the eyes of Ain and all the time letting slip a slight air of condescension, as if they thought you were something they’d just trodden in.

  Agna stepped back from the lamp, raised her hands and looked like she was about to chastise it. Her shoulders touched her ears as she drew in a whistling breath through the gaps in her teeth, and then sagged as she gave an exaggerated sigh.

&n
bsp; “Savages.” She shook her head. “Can’t even make a working lamp. That’s one thing you can say for Aeterna: at least there they know how to make stuff. Heathen rubbish.” She took a swipe at the lamp, stopping a hair’s breadth from hitting it and giving it a flick with her finger. “Naughty light,” she said in a voice like a little girl reprimanding a truculent doll. “Come in, come in.” She waved Shader to a seat opposite Rhiannon. “I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.” The tone was friendly, but the eyes were hard.

  “Thank you,” Shader said, sitting and offering Rhiannon a feeble smile.

  “Can I get you some tea?” Agna asked.

  “No thank you, Soror, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “It’s no bother.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  Agna stuck out her bottom lip. “Oh, well, suit yourself.” She patted Rhiannon on the head as she hobbled toward the door. “Shout if you need me. I’ll be in the chapel.”

  She gave Shader a final look, nodded to herself with a decisive grunt, and then left them in peace.

  “Rhiannon,” Shader began, his mouth dry. “I—”

  Rhiannon stood unexpectedly and went to a cupboard. “You acted like an arse. Want some bread?” She took down a loaf and tore off a chunk, cramming it into her mouth. She winced and touched a hand to her jaw. “Shog that hurts. Bloody cock-sucker.”

  “Rhiannon!” Shader stood and closed the door. “This is a—”

  “A templum? Yeah, I know. I’m the one in the poxy alb. What, you don’t like the swearing? Not Nousian enough for you? Least I don’t go round with a couple of bloody swords strapped to my waist.”

  “Fair point,” he conceded. “We are what we are, I suppose.” He crossed the room and hovered at her shoulder.

  “Lame,” Rhiannon grunted, spraying him with crumbs.

  Shader made a show of wiping them from his face, doing his best to look stern.

  Rhiannon’s lip showed the barest curl at the edge, and then she guffawed, bent double and clamped her hands over her mouth to stop the bread from spewing out. Shader chuckled, feeling some of the tension leave him, but when Rhiannon straightened up her face was streaming with tears. He felt an urge to hold her to him, to ease away her pain; to reconnect with whatever it was they’d lost; but as he leaned towards her she flinched.

  “I’m sorry.” He backed away. “I was only—”

  “He stabbed him, Deacon.” She held onto the edge of the table for support. “Gaston stabbed him … Dad … a sword in his chest.”

  Shader sat back down. “Yeffrik? Gaston…?”

  Rhiannon nodded and returned to her seat.

  Shader put a hand over his eyes and tried to think, but nothing was making much sense. The idea sounded crazy: Gaston killed Yeffrik…with the sword Shader had given him? Barek hadn’t said anything about… Shader grimaced. He’d not exactly given the lad a chance.

  “How is your mom taking…?”

  Rhiannon shook her head, her chin trembling with the effort to hold back more tears, to stop her from breaking down completely.

  “Is she…?”

  “Someone hit her.” Rhiannon’s voice was shrill, like a distraught child’s. “Might’ve been Elgin. She fell. There was blood…” She indicated her mouth with her forefinger. “Gaston tried to blame Elias.” She looked at Shader like she wanted to make sure he believed her. “Tried to blame him for what he did to me. Dad didn’t believe him; went for him.”

  Shader slammed his fist against the table. The skin of his face was stretched taut and his head was starting to pound.

  “You mustn’t fight him.” Rhiannon put her hand on top of his. “We’re Nousian, remember. Please tell me I haven’t done this for nothing.”

  Shader almost scoffed at that. He might have been a Nousian, but he was no luminary. He doubted his anger could be contained by any impossible ideas of forgiveness. Gaston was going to die for this; more than that, he was going to suffer. “Rapists don’t deserve second chances,” he said through gritted teeth. “And neither do murderers. He’s not walking away from this.”

  “You can’t kill him.” Rhiannon gripped his hand so tightly her nails pierced the skin, drawing blood.

  “It’s what you do to evil.” Shader pulled his hand away and licked at the scratch. “Luminary Berdini called it malicide.”

  Shader winced: he’d openly condemned Berdini’s argument in Aeterna. It was the sort of justification of opposites that gave Nousianism a bad name; and it had played no small part in his decision to leave the Order. The problem was, he now realized, Berdini’s paradox was also his own: a man torn between peace and war, held together by a uniform and symbols that defined his behavior and provided the frame through which he viewed the world. It was no different to gazing at a painting and only seeing what the artist intended, the view truncated, forcing a singular perspective. Shader’s frame was obviously rotting, he thought, the painting spilling beyond the edges to where everything was that much more uncertain.

  “Bullcrap.” Rhiannon glared at him. “Besides, there’s no time for pissing around with Gaston flaming Rayn.”

  “Rhiannon!” Shader couldn’t believe the language she was using, especially with her sitting there in the white alb of a postulant.

  “Will you shut up about my swearing! I couldn’t give a damn if these dried up shogging prunes hear me. My brother’s missing, don’t you see? My little Sammy!” The tears were flowing unchecked now, her eyes wide and pleading.

  Shader stood, hands resting on the table. What was it Barek had said? Huntsman had him. Surely the Dreamer wouldn’t have… “I’ll find a horse,” he said. “Go look for them. You coming?”

  Another voice answered: a male voice, deep and thickly accented. “No need. Boy is close by.”

  Shader started and half drew the gladius, backing away from the table. Rhiannon was staring at a large spider by her feet. It had a smooth, segmented body and long legs twisted forward like a crab’s. The air about the spider shimmered and the creature began to grow, thrashing and warping until it attained the stature and form of a man—a dusky skinned man in a cloak of feathers, his nose pierced with bones.

  “Huntsman!” Shader slid the gladius all the way out of its scabbard.

  The Dreamer made a claw of his left hand and held it before Shader’s face, fixing him with an unblinking stare. His eyes swirled like yellowish whirlpools and Shader felt a compulsion rising up from the depths of his mind and forcing him to re-sheathe the sword.

  “It was not my wish to frighten you.” Huntsman lowered his hand and perched on the edge of the table. “I follow you here.” He swiveled his head to take in Rhiannon. “I came to say sorry, and to tell you boy is safe.”

  “Sammy?” Rhiannon shoved her chair back and stood. “Where is he?”

  “Near,” Huntsman said. “But not for long. There is somewhere I must take him.”

  Rhiannon came round the table at him. “You bring him here, right now!”

  Huntsman didn’t flinch; he merely eyed her calmly as if he considered her something of a curiosity, but not interesting enough to hold his attention. He switched his gaze back to Shader. “Eingana is safe?”

  Shader felt the statue in his pocket shudder in response.

  Huntsman gave the slightest of nods then faced Rhiannon. “I am sorry you suffer for her sake. Know this, though, it was bald Clever Man, not Eingana, who told me you must not be joined.”

  “What?” Shader almost spat the word. “Aristodeus planned this?” He looked from Huntsman to Rhiannon, noting how she turned away. “You knew?”

  “Only what he told me.” She indicated Huntsman with a jab of her thumb. “But he never said anything about Aristodeus. He made me swear not to say a word about it. Said there was too much at stake. Otherwise I’d have told you. You have to believe me, Deacon. This isn’t … isn’t what I…”

  Shader clenched his fists, turning from si
de to side in the need to find something to hit. Suddenly, his hand snaked out and grabbed Huntsman by the throat.

  “You did this, Dreamer. Why?”

  Huntsman’s hand came up, the fingers once more curling into a claw, but Shader was ready. He slammed it to the table and held the wrist tight, all the while choking the Dreamer with his other hand. Huntsman’s eyes were bulging and drool trickled from his mouth.

  “Deacon!” Rhiannon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Deacon, stop. You’ll kill him.”

  “Good! It’s what he deserves. Interfering … bloody … savage!”

  Rhiannon’s grip grew firmer. “But Sammy. He knows where Sammy is.”

  Shader released Huntsman, shoved him so hard in the chest his head cracked against the wall.

  “Not my choice,” Huntsman said hoarsely, rubbing his throat and gingerly probing the back of his head. “Bald fellah came; told me things no one should know. Said my people all die; your folk, too—all people. An enemy comes, Deacon Shader. Enemy of my gods. He hunt them for many lifetimes. Them and grandmother of my gods, Eingana. Statue you now protect.”

  Shader was still lost in thoughts about Aristodeus. The more he heard about the philosopher, the more he realized he never knew him. Why keep Shader from Rhiannon? How did that benefit him? Did he see her as a distraction? An obstacle in the way of whatever he had planned? Surely it had nothing to do with sanctity, not if Aristodeus were concerned.

  “Purity and focus,” Huntsman said, guessing his thoughts. “Makes you his secret weapon. Thinks you are our best hope.”

  “Best hope for what?” Rhiannon asked, hands on her hips, breasts heaving with each intake of breath. Shader looked away.

  “Keeping back dark.” Huntsman’s pupils narrowed to slits.

  “And you,” Shader said. “What do you think?”

  Huntsman pulled his cloak around him like a cocoon. “At first I believe him. My gods have hidden in fear of this enemy for a long time. What they feel, I also feel, and bald one played upon this fear. He means well, but acts like a god. He tries to squeeze all worlds into his head and one day his head crack like a nut. Other powers there are, powers he cannot control. Not even enemy control them. Not yet.”

 

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