02 - Sacred Flesh

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  As his loyal warriors drew back the iron gates to admit the Theogonist’s procession onto the temple grounds, Manfried’s heart thudded, in delirious joy. He looked for Father Eugen, then remembered he was occupied elsewhere, preparing the Theogonist’s quarters. Poor planning, really: no one had more right to gaze upon him in his triumph than good old Eugen. Manfried would make it up to him—he would assign him the lavish apartments Ragen now tenanted. Manfried chuckled. He bounded down the steps to shake the mailed hand of Esmer, Grand Theogonist of the Empire, prince of the church, the earthly avatar of divine Sigmar himself.

  A worker had left a pickaxe in the hollowed catacomb beneath the cathedral; Angelika picked it up and whacked its haft against the stone, searching for the hollow reverberation that would signal a hidden tunnel on the other side.

  “I’m very sorry to rush you, but there’s no time for that,” said Eugen, who fretted at the foot of a narrow stone staircase. It led up two dozen-feet to a small door of newly painted pine. “I’m supposed to be seeing to the Theogonist’s living arrangements.”

  “You have a right to fret,” said Angelika. “I understand the risk you took, sneaking us in here.” She moved a few steps along the wall, and again whacked it with her pick handle. Tiny chips of rock flew from the point of impact, but the wall sounded good and solid. “But the Theogonist might not be in need of living arrangements of any sort if Ivo Kirchgeld bursts through his hidden entranceway and does what I think he’s going to do.”

  They were gathered in a largish chamber beneath the cathedral’s nave, hewn from rock and lined with marble shelves, on which the caskets of wealthy donors would some day lie. The shelves lined three of four walls, stacked six high. Manfried had made provision for a great many benefactors. Angelika leaned in across a shelf to tap at the wall behind it. Nothing.

  Franziskus slipped the tool from Angelika’s hand. “Heed him, Angelika. As vile as he may be, Ivo Kirchgeld is no more than a distraction to your true aim.”

  Richart who stood a few paces behind Franziskus, stoutly crossed his arms. “I’ll take care of Kirchgeld.”

  Angelika cocked her head at Father Eugen. “And Manfried—you consider him your protégé, you say?”

  Eugen could not meet her eyes. “As a son, since his father passed away.”

  “Explain to me again why you’re betraying him.”

  Eugen’s gaze returned to the door, as trumpets blared above. “I am saving him, just as you intend to save Mother Elsbeth. Perhaps it would not be such an odd thing, to inter a Shallyan holy woman in a Sigmarite temple—if it were done for righteous reasons. Manfried, though, has given into his pride and his vengefulness. This place of worship would be forever blighted if such motives were consecrated along with its altars and fonts. That’s why you must take the body far from here—so that this church may be a true beacon, and that Manfried may return to the path of selflessness and sacrifice.” He cleared his throat. “It was the girl’s words—no, her eyes—that convinced me.”

  “Where is she?” blurted Franziskus.

  Eugen tugged uneasily at the phoenix clasp that held fast the collar of his ceremonial cassock. “Manfried will be introducing her to his holiness.”

  “And when he does, you should act,” said Eugen. “Young Devorah has a… mesmerising effect. She will rivet the attention of all. She is your distraction.”

  “I don’t care for this,” said Franziskus.

  “He’s coming in now,” said Eugen, ears perked. He mounted the first of the stairs. “I must go to join the ranks. Wait until the line’s fully formed for his holiness’ inspection. We’ll be facing toward the altar and away from Elsbeth’s crypt. The only one who might spot you is Esmer himself—and it’s my understanding that the great vicar is… somewhat short of stature. It’s my hope that those of us in the inspection line will block his view—”

  “We know the plan, Eugen,” Angelika said. “The key.”

  “Oh yes,” said Eugen, nodding like a pigeon, as he fumbled in the front pocket of his blindingly decorated cassock. He found a small shiny black skeleton key and tossed it to Angelika. His throw fell short, causing the key to bounce off a step and onto the floor near Franziskus’ feet. He stooped to take it. The thick-browed priest rushed up the steps, the heavy fabric of his robes fluttering like a flock of winging birds. Eugen heaved open the door at the top of the steps, leaving it slightly open.

  Silence descended. Angelika regarded Richart. “Don’t you have to be up with the others?”

  The short man snorted out a laugh. “I’m no priest, let alone a grandee of the church.”

  “You aren’t going to be a problem to me, later?” she said, claiming the key from Franziskus. “You were unhappy with us, when last we met.”

  Richart’s shoulder twitched dismissively. “My hands have an appointment with Ivo Kirchgeld’s throat.”

  “Manfried pays your hire. He’ll feel you ought to stop us from making off with his prize.”

  “It’s been a problem all my life—only being able to think of one thing at a time.”

  Angelika crept up the stairs with Franziskus close behind her. Richart grabbed the pick handle and took up where she’d left off, tapping the walls.

  Tensing her shoulders, Angelika pushed gently on the door, widening by an inch or so the space between it and the doorway. She exhaled, silently, thanking its hinges for staying quiet. Peeking out, she saw a line of priestly backs pointed at her, some clad in plated armour, others in colourful cassocks like Eugen’s. There must have been three or four dozen of them, more than a hundred paces to her right. About eighty paces to her left, a raised dais displayed a sarcophagus of lead and crystal, in which Elsbeth’s body stretched out in deathly repose. It was draped in a rich blue silk she’d never have worn in life.

  Angelika watched the backs of their heads, which moved almost imperceptibly, in unison, following the approach of a figure that remained unseen to Angelika, except for the top of the staff he carried. The Theogonist. Now was the time.

  Franziskus clutched her shoulder. A young woman in a sister’s habit stood in the middle of the line. The priest beside her—the confidence of his carriage identifying him as Manfried—stepped from the formation, pulling her reluctantly with him.

  “Devorah!” Franziskus said.

  Ignoring him, Angelika embarked on a crouching sprint, heading away from the array of priests and lectors, toward Elsbeth.

  Franziskus stood frozen in the doorway. His head turned to Angelika, then to Devorah, then to Angelika.

  The unhappiness of Esmer, the Grand Theogonist, always manifested itself in the form of phlegm that clogged the back of his windpipe. This, he supposed, was why some of his erstwhile colleagues, now inferiors, referred to him, behind his back, as phlegmatic. And as this Manfried fellow, the ambitious man who he, Esmer, sight unseen, had elevated to this important lectoric, broke from the line of inspection, to present an unexpected thing to him—an unexpected thing in the shapely shape of a young woman in a sister’s habit—the ball of phlegm increased suddenly in size, so as nearly to choke him. Esmer hocked to dislodge it. But his attempt gave rise to a rasping, guttural crack that was magnified to a humiliating degree by the cathedral’s merciless acoustic.

  In short, the Grand Theogonist was displeased.

  Esmer—a wrinkly, stubble-headed man cursed with pudding-soft features that he laboured mightily to harden, practising daily before a shining mirror—advanced on Manfried and the unknown girl. The fabled robes and accoutrements of his office fought to impede him, but Esmer charged on all the same. He paused to clear this throat again, and in this brief moment, Manfried, obliviously smiling, inserted his words of introduction.

  “Your divine grace,” Manfried began, “I beg the indulgence of a small surprise. This is—”

  “Haacccck,” interrupted Esmer, completing the clearing of his throat.

  “This is—”

  Manfried continued, slightly discomfited by the sounds e
merging from his pontiff’s larynx. “Permit me to introduce to you a puissante new ally in the battle against Chaos, the heir to the legendary healing gifts of—”

  “I am here against my will!” Devorah cried.

  The Grand Theogonist reared back, unbalanced by the weight of his jade phoenix breastplate. His throat-blockage expanded exponentially.

  Manfried grabbed Devorah by the wrist. “Graceless wretch!” he spat.

  Devorah jerked on his offending hand, pulling it to her face. She bit him, drawing blood.

  The line of priests and warriors broke. Some rushed to pull the girl from Manfried; others, to place themselves between this strange new threat and their Theogonist. Eugen edged to block Manfried’s view. But Manfried spun and saw a figure hunkered at the foot of Elsbeth’s sepulchre, working away at the lock that secured its crystal lid.

  “Angelika Fleischer!” he screamed.

  Franziskus ran three strides from the doorway then halted. He looked to Devorah, then to Angelika.

  Behind him came a crash of collapsing rock. He heard Richart Pfeffer’s piteous screams. Franziskus turned, into a billowing cloud of granite dust. An inhuman shriek emanated up from below, so piercing that he felt it in his marrow.

  He swallowed and rushed into the dust, toward the terrifying cries.

  Manfried ran at Angelika but Devorah jabbed a delicate leg between his, tripping him, sprawling him headlong across the cathedral floor. She fell, too, landing on his back.

  Angelika’s head darted back, to take in the commotion behind her. She twisted the key in the lock. It snapped. Cursing, she withdrew its twisted, broken end from the lock mechanism.

  Franziskus bolted back down the narrow steps into the catacombs, stopping himself desperately short, almost toppling. The flooring of the catacomb level had collapsed. It gave way to an open maw of a hole, dozens of yards in diameter, revealing an entire second basement below it.

  The new chamber was hard to see, amid the dust that filled the air, but it seemed roughly hewn, with a dirt floor and walls shorn up with bending timbers. A carpet had been rolled out in its centre, and on this plain white rug was marked a pentagram limned in a brownish dried-blood hue. On the edge of the carpet, Ivo Kirchgeld howled and gesticulated, reading from a hefty, yellowed tome bound in cracked and mottled leather.

  Richart Pfeffer dangled from the bottom of the stairs, his fingers scrambling for purchase, his legs kicking directly above the sweeping claws of a horrible apparition that rose from the pentagram’s borders.

  The creature was ten feet tall and growing. Its screams emerged from a flattened, wide-jawed head that combined elements of bear and lizard. With a trio of long, multi-jointed arms, each of its seven fingers tipped with a dripping, dagger-like nail, it reached for Richart’s frantic legs. A fat, warty belly jiggled over wide hips, from which flared stubby, toad-like legs. A tail lashed furiously. Ivo, still chanting from the text he held in his wildly trembling hands, ducked each of its swipes nimbly but nervously.

  Franziskus covered his mouth, choking, as the beast’s stench assailed him. Bulging warts covered the creature’s hide. As it expanded, fissures parted on its flesh, exposing a layer of fungal black flesh, which then bubbled and fizzed until it hardened into leathery scar tissue. The thing was still gaining mass. It became eleven feet tall, then twelve, thirteen…

  Finally swollen large enough to grab Richart, it did so, wrapping slimy fingers around one of his legs, and dashed him into the stone wall. It held Pfeffer’s limp form in front of its face. It bit off his right foot, spat it out, then tossed him over its shoulder. Richart’s body landed behind Ivo, who concluded his chanting, snapped the book shut, and dropped it unceremoniously at his feet. He grabbed Richart’s head by the hair and bobbled it up and down like a puppet. “You thought I couldn’t, didn’t you?” he yowled. “Who’s the fool now, hah? Hah? Who’s the fool now?”

  Franziskus ran down to the last extant stair, drew his sword, prayed to Shallya for protection, and leapt down into the hole, on a trajectory he hoped would bypass the creature’s swinging arms and gnashing mouth.

  Up on the cathedral floor, Angelika had her dagger out, using its pommel to smash the lock open. So far she had only bent its thick loop of metal shackle.

  Manfried fought his way out of Devorah’s restraining grip and up to his feet. He kicked her in the face, stunning her, he tore his warhammer from his belt and ran bellowing toward Angelika.

  A knot of war-priests bunched themselves around the protesting Theogonist.

  “Haacccckkk!” Esmer’s phlegmy throat rattled.

  Others, mostly Manfried’s loyalists from his months of banishment, bolted after their commander.

  In the basement, Franziskus bounced off the creature’s back. It swam through the dusty air past him. He landed in the sub-basement beside Ivo, who still maintained his grip on Richart’s head.

  He raved: “Finally, I’ll be rich! Unimaginably rich! And can you stop me? You can’t!”

  “I can,” said Franziskus, slashing down at Ivo with his sabre. Ivo rolled under the blow, staggered back, ducked under a second sabre-swipe, and snicked his rapier from its scabbard. “You’ve no cause to be butting in!” he protested. “I don’t even have a grudge against you!” He thrust at Franziskus with his sword tip. Surprised by the move, the young Stirlander barely managed to deflect it.

  “Then why did you accuse me of your crimes?”

  “I had to accuse someone, didn’t I? To take personal offence is unjust!” He lunged forward with a new vicious thrust. “Besides, your partner —she kept making sport of me!”

  “I’ll make more than sport of you, Ivo Kirchgeld!” Franziskus exclaimed, pressing on with a new flurry of wild swipes.

  “Again,” fluted Ivo, “what business is this of yours?”

  Their swords smashed together, forming an X. They pushed against each other, muscles straining.

  “You’re a minion of Chaos!” sputtered Franziskus.

  “No, no, no!” rebutted Ivo, aggrieved. “I just need the diversion!” He kicked the legs out from under Franziskus and whipped his sword down at him.

  Above, Manfried reached Angelika. She stood with her back to the sarcophagus. She was crouching, ready, with a dagger in each hand. Manfried was bigger and stronger than she was, and he swung a formidable weapon. One good hit could kill her. She was faster than him—perhaps. It would be her only advantage.

  Oh, but wait. There was one other: taunting.

  “You don’t want to swing that now,” she said. “And risk smashing up your prize.”

  He swung his hammer. She ducked. It banged against the thick crystal dome shielding the holy woman’s body. A tiny crack appeared in the crystal. Manfried swung the hammer again. Angelika rolled acrobatically away from him. Springing back up, she tossed a dagger. He intercepted its trajectory with the haft of his weapon and then stomped after her. She leapt up onto a pew, where she balanced, cat-like.

  “These benches are expensive, aren’t they?” she cooed. He charged her. She stepped onto the back of the pew behind her. He raised his hammer to smash through it, but reconsidered. Instead he rushed down to the end of the row. He looked back to see where his men had got to.

  They engaged the Chaos daemon that had burst through the doorway to the catacombs, leaving a huge hole in the wall behind it. They thumped at it with their hammers, but it grabbed them in its arms and picked them up in its claws. It dashed heads against walls and lashed throats open with its razor tail. It stomped torsos until they squished.

  Eugen joined a covey of lectors hustling the Theogonist behind the high altar. They cowered behind the rooster-like foot of a towering bronze griffon. Devorah hid behind them, at a remove.

  “Truly, this is the end!” quailed a stalwart of Esmer’s entourage. “A daemon in a high temple of Sigmar!”

  Esmer bristled and hacked. “Idiot. It isn’t a temple until I consecrate it!”

  The offending functionary blushed and sub
missively bowed his head. “I profusely apologise for any offence my ignorance has—”

  Esmer smacked his sceptre on the floor. “And if it was anything more than a lesser daemon, you’d be bleeding from the ears by now!”

  “Of course, your holiness! A lesser daemon!”

  “And I may have only recently been installed as Theogonist, but I’m still the living legate of Sigmar on earth and a lesser daemon is something I am fully capable of exorcising!” He aimed a stubby finger at a book, which rested on a stand about twenty feet away, on the cathedral pulpit. “Get me that text, one of you!”

  The assembled pontiffs of the church looked at one another, to see which of them would rush from hiding to seize the book.

  Angelika ran from pew to pew, as Manfried raced along the rows.

  “Don’t you want to join your men, in battle with that thing?” she taunted.

  “And leave you to steal the holy Elsbeth?” With his hammer, Manfried broke apart the pew she stood on. It sent her tumbling back and smacked her head on the pew behind her. He lumbered at her as she sat dazed on the floor. She recovered as he reached her; she lifted up her knees and caught him just the right way, using his momentum to hurl him over and past her. He crashed into the side of a pew. She dragged herself clear of the seating. To her left was Elsbeth’s coffin. To the right was an exit onto the cathedral grounds. Ahead of her was the opening to the basement, where she presumed Franziskus was trapped. She ran that way.

  The warriors backed the creature up against one of the cathedral’s great columns, where it hissed and lashed at them. Some held it at bay with their hammers while others ran for crossbows and blunderbusses. The creature mewled and backhanded the column, shattering it. Stones fell, crushing warriors. The cathedral’s domed roof groaned and shifted.