Fearsome Magics

by Jonathan Strahan

  “The matter was not referred to our principal chapter by my predecessor,” said Withra. “She merely reported that the trouble with the Hag was ‘settled’. By the time I came here, it had become tradition. It seemed... I believed it to be...”

  “I see,” said Mister Fitz. “I suspect if I took your blood, the striations would show the influence of Yeogh-Yeogh. However, it is not our duty to chastise you for weakness and poor choices. It is our duty to dispose of the Hag.”

  “Now, now, let’s not rush into things,” said Sir Hereward in alarm. “Just remember our current resources! And we have a very important job in hand, you know, the cannon and... we must get to Jeminero as soon as we can.”

  “That does not alter our principal duty,” said Mister Fitz in tones that brooked no discussion. “The only question that remains is how we might best perform said duty.”

  “I can not let you try,” said Withra hotly, her lips tight. “Our survival depends—”

  “On the contrary,” interrupted Mister Fitz. He raised his voice, and spoke to the air at a point above Withra’s head. “I call upon Lanith-Eremot and all her followers to assist us against the intruder godlet known as Yeogh-Yeogh the Two-Headed.”

  “I speak for Lanith-Eremot here!” said Withra. “I say what she approves or does not—”

  The words died in her throat as the pearly nimbus came back with a crack like a thunderclap and she suddenly levitated several inches off the ground. Her head jerked to the left and right, and back again, and a loud, brassy and inhuman voice screeched out of her mouth at an impossible volume.

  “I do not approve! I cannot see everything all the time, but now I do, I most emphatically do not approve of what you young ladies have done and I require you to put matters to rights. Help the puppet and his knight, you hear me!”

  To punctuate this speech, blood gushed from Withra’s nostrils. She fell back to earth, staggered to a cushion and collapsed on to it. The nimbus blinked off again, leaving the distinctive smell of newly-printed Ghashiki banknotes, whose ink-makers used a special mixture of gall-black and balsamic vinegar. Twenty seconds later, a dozen armed priestesses rushed into the room, but they had not drawn their weapons. Instead they looked at Hereward and Mister Fitz wild-eyed, then bowed their heads and shuffled into a form of repentant choir, no one wanting to stand out among their sisters.

  “Your archimandress will come to her senses in a moment,” said Mister Fitz, indicating Withra. “It is a difficult thing to be the vessel for a god. How long do we have before the Hag rises?”

  “I do not know, Lord Puppet,” said the eldest of the priestesses, a woman with a white stripe through the greying hair atop her head, and a scar that continued on from that stripe down the side of her face. “We begin the feast at the eighth hour, and at some point soon thereafter, a black shape arises in the Hall.”

  “Less than an hour,” mused Mister Fitz. “Possibly far less, if the Hag is already present enough to feel the momentary intervention of Lanith-Eremot. Where are your prisoners? The ones to be sacrificed?”

  “We have a number of cells for penitents that are temporarily put to use for these men,” said the priestess. “They are treated well.”

  “Until you feed them to the Hag,” said Sir Hereward sourly. He turned to Mister Fitz. “I trust you have a plan, because I fear I do not.”

  “I have the inkling of a plan,” said Mister Fitz. He tilted his head and slowly looked up and down the length of the knight.

  “I already dislike this inkling,” said Sir Hereward. “But tell me.”

  “I am formulating it,” said Mister Fitz. He looked at the scarred priestess.

  “What is your name?”

  “Emengah. I am the Bursar of this convent.”

  “You heard Lanith-Eremot?”

  “All within this house heard the Goddess. We stand ready to aid you, Master Puppet.”

  “Good. First of all, those men must be released and sent away, as quickly as possible. Give them food and money, and tell them to run as if a demon is at their backs. Which might well be true.”

  “As you command,” said Emengah, though not without a glance at Withra, who was showing signs of returning to consciousness, her fingers twitching and part-formed groans issuing from her slack mouth. “I will see to it now.”

  “Good,” said Mister Fitz. “Take your little novice too, and make sure the young ones are all safely out of the way.”

  Emengah indicated to two of her followers to pick up Parnailam, bowed to Mister Fitz and Sir Hereward and exited, the other priestesses following so swiftly they almost trampled over one another in their eagerness to go out the door.

  “You intend the men to be a distraction?” asked Sir Hereward. “But we have already been told the Hag can hunt them down... oh I see... not a distraction, but a concentration, no doubt. On the one man left close at hand. That is to say, me.”

  “Yes,” said Mister Fitz. “We must focus the Hag upon you, so that you are the one she pursues when you flee this house.”

  “Into a trap,” said Sir Hereward. “But what trap could we make in so little time, and you with only one needle?”

  “We have the cannon,” said Mister Fitz. “And the old dagger.”

  Sir Hereward narrowed his eyes.

  “Pray continue.”

  “I will go outside now to prepare,” said Mister Fitz. “The Archimandress will take you towards the Hag as she manifests, as if you are the first sacrifice. You will break free and flee outside, into the mouth of the cannon—”

  “The mouth of the cannon!”

  “Please pay attention, Hereward. We have little time. You go into the mouth of the cannon. The Hag will follow. You race from the muzzle to the breech, and at the open chamber, you must turn and throw the dagger, instructing it to kill the Hag. You remember the words?”

  “Of course I remember the words, but—”

  “Next, you leap out through the open chamber, which I will then rotate and close using sorcery. I will have cocked the firing pistols already and will pull the cord as I jump—”

  “I am to crawl down a fully-charged giant cannon with the firing pistols cocked and a carnivorous godlet screaming after me?”

  “Are you not paying attention? As I close the breech, you must run and take cover as best you can. Behind a moklek if one is near, I will endeavor to call them. Timing will be of the essence, if the Hag is close enough to escape out the breech before I can close it, or you are too slow with the dagger...”

  “Why even use the dagger? Surely the cannon blast alone would destroy the Hag?”

  “I fear that the explosive power of even that quantity of special powder will not be enough,” said Mister Fitz. “We would need the proper projectile as well. However, the dagger might be strong enough to overcome the Hag in combination with the explosion. If we are fortunate, they will destroy each other.”

  “And if we’re not?”

  “Our destiny has always been to walk the knife-edge,” said Mister Fitz obliquely. “It is a narrow way.”

  “Is this Hag, this relict of Yeogh-Yeogh, so important?” asked Sir Hereward slowly.

  “It was a godlet of the first order of malevolence,” said Mister Fitz. “It grew strong very quickly before, invading the essence of Ryzha. It must be dealt with before it can grow as strong again.”

  “Why couldn’t it just be one of those little annoying things that sour wine in a single tavern or make people sneeze at a crossroads,” said Sir Hereward, with a melancholy sigh. But he was already reaching inside his shirt to retrieve the brassard. Sliding it up his arm to sit above his elbow, he watched Mister Fitz follow suit with his own armband, and then together they recited the words they knew so well, and had spoken so many times, generally immediately before intense periods of mayhem, destruction, pain and death.

  “In the name of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, acting under the authority granted by the Three Empires, the Seven Kingdoms, the
Palatine Regency, the Jessar Republic and the Forty Lesser Realms, we declare ourselves agents of the Council. We identify the godlet manifested here as the malignant relict of Yeogh-Yeogh the Two-Headed, a listed entity under the Treaty. Consequently, the said godlet and all those who assist it are deemed to be enemies of the World and the Council authorizes us to pursue any and all actions necessary to banish, repel or exterminate the said godlet.”

  Faint symbols began to glow upon the brassards, ancient heraldic marks that identified empires long lost, kingdoms divided and broken, regencies ended and lesser realms grown even more insignificant. Yet still the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World endured, and still its executive agents prosecuted their work. And perhaps, just perhaps, the world was made a little safer...

  “I would not help you, save the goddess commands,” croaked Withra from the floor. “It is mad vainglory, and we will all be slain by the Hag.”

  “I have heard far worse plans, and taken part in many more badly-executed ones,” said Sir Hereward, offering his hand to help the priestess up. “It offers a chance to right a wrong, where there was none before.”

  “If you had taken your bath the herbs therein would have made you simply sleep through the night,” said Withra. “We thought your puppet would play for us, and honour the Hag, and keep his counsel, as such players do. No harm would have come to you. Now we are all doomed and the weed-stealers next season will laugh at the fallen house of Lanith-Eremot.”

  “A faint heart and a weak eye sees doom in everything,” said Sir Hereward. He brought the priestess close and spoke with some considerable menace. “You do your part and stay true to Lanith-Eremot, and perhaps we will all survive, and you can go on chasing the weed-stealers across your shallow lake for years to come.”

  “I have no choice but to obey,” said Withra bitterly. “The Goddess’s command sits heavy upon me. Come, I feel the imminence of the Hag.”

  “Be sure you do as Sir Hereward instructs,” said Mister Fitz sternly. He turned to the knight. “I will ensure the gates are open for you, Hereward. Need I say that you must be careful not to trip and stumble, and make the best speed you can?”

  “An unnecessary warning,” said Sir Hereward. “My mind is well-focused upon the matter. Please ensure you do your part equally well.”

  “Indeed,” said Mister Fitz, and he was gone, moving so swiftly it seemed as if his shadow could barely keep up. There was no pretense now, no clicking, jerky movements. Just the empty air where he had been a moment before.

  “Come,” repeated Withra sourly, her manner hangdog. “If we are all to die, best we get it over with.”

  “You will die all the sooner if you do not play your part better,” snapped Sir Hereward. He unhooked his sabre and weighed it in his hand for a moment, considering if he could somehow hide it on his person, before reluctantly laying it down and moving his two pistols and the old dagger around to the back of his belt, where they could not be so easily seen by the Hag. “You walk ahead. We will gather some of your soldiers as we go, they can march around me, and I will cross my wrists as if they are bound.”

  “I hear and obey,” muttered Withra. She wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve and stalked from the room, Sir Hereward following very close behind. Despite the command Lanith-Eremot had laid upon the Archimandress, Sir Hereward thought there was a good chance Withra would try to betray him, and he must be ready for that, or any other development.

  There were a large number of the armed priestesses at the end of the passage, muttering together. They fell silent as Withra and Hereward approached.

  “Fall in to guard the ‘prisoner’,” snapped Withra.

  The priestesses didn’t move, bar some shuffling in place. Withra’s fists clenched at her sides and Hereward heard the hiss of her deeply in-drawn breath.

  “Do as she asks,” said Hereward quickly, before Withra could speak again. “It is a pretence, no more. When the Hag moves towards me, I will break free, and you must spring away and let me go. Do you all understand?”

  The priestesses nodded, but with little certainty. They seemed unclear what to do and there was still only confused shuffling until the scarred bursar Emengah pushed through from behind them.

  “You all heard the Goddess,” she said sternly. “We are to obey this Knight, and the Puppet. We must assist them to the full extent of our abilities and resources.”

  “So you fancy yourself Archimandress now, Emengah?’ asked Withra. “We will do as Lanith-Ermot commands, but I still—”

  “You can sort out all that later,” said Sir Hereward impatiently. “For now, you will do as I command. You lot, form up around me as a guard. Withra, you go ahead a few paces only. Emengah, have the weed-stealers been released?”

  “They have. I have rarely seen such splashes made across the Shallows with their running.”

  “Then please make sure I have a clear path to run from the hall to the gates and outside.”

  “The Puppet has already commanded the gates to be held open for you,” said Emengah.

  “Make sure they are,” said Hereward. He crossed his wrists and held them low in front, and began to walk in step with the priestesses who now moved to surround him. “It’s the kind of detail I like double-checked when my life depends upon it.”

  Withra snorted. “Your plan cannot work, Sir Hereward. We will all be—”

  “Silence!” snapped Sir Hereward. “Do not speak hereafter, unless I give you permission.”

  The Archimandress cast a look of burning hate over her shoulder, but her mouth stayed shut. Walking faster, she led the group of priestesses and their ostensible prisoner along the passage, through the door and out into the hall.

  There were only gold-clad priestesses there now, no novices in silver. They sat at the tables, eyes scared, the food and wine untouched. Heads turned as Withra, Hereward and his guards entered, then turned again, towards the tall stone dais at the other end of the hall. Hereward had only glanced at it when they’d passed through before, and had seen nothing unusual. Now, there was a pool of shadow there, an unnatural glob of darkness that defied the light of the lanterns hung above, and the candles in the many-branched candelabra on the tables.

  Withra kept walking towards the stone dais. Hereward followed, eyes flickering to the door on the far side, calculating where he would run, the potential obstacles... he could feel his heart speeding up, the familiar surge of nervous energy that came on the brink of combat, that must be directed and controlled lest he give way to irrational fear or blustering foolishness.

  Ten feet from the dais, Withra stopped and raised her arms. There was a moment of tense hesitation, before all the sisters in the hall save the guards around Hereward threw up their arms as well.

  “The Hag!” shouted Withra. “The Hag!”

  The third time she shouted, the Archimandress’s voice was lost in the swelling roar from her sisters, who took up the chant.

  “The Hag! The Hag! The Hag!”

  Sir Hereward’s flesh crawled as the chant was answered by the shadow atop the dais. It spread wider and then began to rise up, a column of intense darkness. Tiny arcs of lightning flashed around it, and a ring of fog began to form around the base of the dais, drops of dirty water or perhaps diluted blood dripping from the stone.

  Withra advanced forward several more steps and knelt down, dropping her arms. As she did so, the chant stopped. There was total silence in the hall. It was so quiet Hereward could hear his own heart beating, beating far faster than he liked. He had to choose his moment exactly, too fast and the Hag might not pursue, too slow and it would catch him—

  He started as the dark column moved again, suddenly sprouting four long tentacles and a misshapen lump atop it that perhaps was a head. The tentacles came questing down the dais and advanced across the floor, writhing and turning, emitting small puffs of fog and mist with every coiling movement.

  “We bring you a sacrifice!” shouted Withra. “But hear me, Hag!
It is—”

  Hereward drew, cocked and fired his pistol before Withra could complete her warning. The sharp report was shocking, seemingly louder than any pistol he had ever fired before. But he paid it no heed, nor did he hesitate to gauge the extent of Withra’s wounding. He’d hit her he knew, and she had gone down, the situation assessed in an instant even as he drew his second pistol and fired it straight into the shadow-stuff of the Hag. She was sliding off the dais, her tentacles racing across the floor towards him, moving in sinuous esses like a sidewinder across sand.

  The silver ball was swallowed up to no obvious effect, but again Sir Hereward hadn’t paused to see what it would do. Throwing the pistol aside, he jumped to the closest table, ran across the middle of it, kicking dishes, cutlery, drinks and food aside, and leaped for the door.

  Tentacles lashed the air behind his back as he raced through.

  “Make way!” roared Hereward, throwing himself forward, putting all his strength into his legs. “Make way!”

  Guard priestesses flung themselves against the sides of the passage as he sped past, turning their faces to their wall and praying to Lanith-Eremot as the darkness that pursued him enveloped them. But their prayers were not answered. Bleached bones, shreds of human flesh, strips of leather and the metal parts of their weapons fell to the floor behind the Hag. When enraged, it seemed she was not particular about only devouring men.

  Hereward ran as he had never run before. He pulled at the very air ahead of him as if he could use it to lever himself faster forward, and his knees rose almost to his chest. He skittered around the corner and through the inner gate, and for a fatal, awful second almost tripped on the first blood gutter, only just recovering his balance enough to transform a fall into a diagonal leap forward. Tentacles lashed where he had been, and a priestess behind screamed a death cry so hideous that in normal circumstances it would have galvanised Hereward to run faster still, but now there was no faster. He ran the race of his life.

  Water exploded as he burst outside and into the Shallows, great sprays going up with every footfall. It was dark outside, much darker than Hereward had expected, for storm clouds had gathered over the house, blocking out the moon and stars. Yet he could not stop to get his bearings, but instead ran on, trusting to instinct, with an awful sloshing and boiling noise too close behind him the mark of the Hag’s closing.