The Righteous Whisper of Allsaints (The White Blood Chronicles Book 2)

by Mark G Heath

  “ Please convey my apologies, I have chosen to apply my endeavours to the task I have been set by our master and have overlooked the need to send word of my progress to him,” answered Grimoult.

  “ Our lord will similarly apologise when you are cast out from the village,” threatened the voices.

  “ Ah no, no, my contrition is genuine,” said Grimoult panicked by the suggestion of his expulsion from Aftlain.

  “ As will be our lord’s sorrow when he is forced to punish you for your failure.”

  “ There shall be no failure. Tell our lord that I have all necessary parts for the infusion, bar one. Their sourcing has taken time but such is the rarity of the infusion that he requires, it is inevitable that there will be delay.”

  “ When do you expect to possess all parts?” questioned the voices.

  “ In a matter of a day or two and then I can create the infusion. I have done so before and therefore there is no risk of failure,” assured Grimoult.

  “ No risk?” repeated the voices.

  “ That’s right. Please inform our lord that completion is very close at hand, very close indeed,” implored Grimoult.

  “ Your words will be conveyed to our lord. You understand the consequence of failure do you not?”

  “ All too readily,” replied Grimoult.

  “ Perhaps a lesson is required, to focus your mind,” said the voices.

  “ No, no lesson is necessary, thank you, I don’t think you could terrify me any further than you already are,” said Grimoult holding up his hands.

  “ Very well Master Grimoult, we shall convey your message to our master. We shall return,” said the voices. The two swaying, black figures dissipated and the heat returned to the room, although a shaking Grimoult, did not feel it.

  “ I sincerely hope not,” he said once the two figures had vanished. He reached onto the chair, taking deep breaths. He shuffled round and slumped into the seat, taking up his goblet and slurping down the balance of the wine it contained.

  “ Can this day get any worse?” he said aloud and re-filled his goblet from the bottle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Campion stood in the v-shape created by the forest at the end of the Widow’s Way. Strivelyn, the sexton and Talvace flanked him, albeit stood two paces behind the priest. Campion wore a black cassock, each cuff of his sleeves ringed by three scarlet bands and a blood-red surplice hung from his shoulders. A thick, black cloak, with a hood, was draped behind him. Strivelyn was clad in scarlet, his official uniform and Talvace was attired in black, the gravedigger appearing unusually presentable compared to his normal dirt-smeared self. Campion’s attendants held poles, from which lanterns dangled, casting two pools of orange light across the edge of the square. Behind the two men stood four young women from the village. Like the sexton, they were clad in scarlet, their dresses flowing from neck to their wrists and onwards down to the ground. Although the dresses clung to the contours of the women, the usual inviting flesh that they would display was coyly covered. Like their priest, they had black, hooded cloaks wrapped about them, in an attempt to keep the cold at a distance. They wore only one piece of jewellery; a pendant that each lady had about her neck. A silver chain lay against their chests from which a solitary teardrop shaped ruby hung. The women shivered in the cold but made no complaint.

  Snowflakes fell from the starless sky. No moon was on display, for it was shrouded somewhere above by the unbroken cloud. The snow floated downwards, alighting on the shoulders of Campion and his acolytes, as they stood waiting or gathering on the cobbles of the square, gradually creating a white film. There was no breeze and the tavern was uncharacteristically muted, the usual singing and shouting that often spilled from the inn was absent. Silhouettes could be seen at the ground floor windows of the tavern as the villagers looked out over the square, happy to do so from the warmth of the inn, rather than be stood in the increasing cold in the square.

  From the alleyway beside the carpenter’s store, an orange light flared and then dimmed as a pipe was sucked on. A thin pall of fragrant smoke rose from the chimney bowl of the pipe and the silver band that connected the pipe to the bowl, reflected the glow. Captain Reznik stepped away from the wall that he had been leant against, removing the pipe from his mouth. From beneath his hat, he stared across the square, watching Campion and his entourage.

  “ Now it begins,” he muttered to himself and replaced the pipe in his mouth, drawing deep on it.

  “ Here they are,” announced Campion as he stared into the darkness of the road ahead of him. Two yellow glows swung into view, swaying slightly and then the noise of horse hooves and wheels became audible across the still, chill air. Gradually, the glows grew in size, until the lanterns fixed to the sides of the carriage, became apparent. Closer it came, the commotion of galloping horses and trundling carriage combining. Nearer moved the carriage until the solitary rider sat atop it was visible. He wore a large coat, the collar upturned, a scarf wrapped across the lower part of his face, so only his nose and eyes were visible beneath the black, top hat that he wore. Four horses pulled the carriage into the square, steam rising from the backs of the stallions. The lantern light flashed on the polished black wood that the carriage had been built from. Campion could not help but admire the craftsmanship that had been utilised in the making of the carriage. The horses wore plumage, black feathers atop a silver headpiece that bobbed and weaved as the horses rolled their heads. The driver tugged on the reins, the horses slowing from a trot and then halting altogether. Their hooves clashed with the stone cobbles. A second carriage and then a third arrived in the square and drew up to the side of the first. The occasional snort from the horses mixed with the creak of the carriage’s suspension, the tumult of noise that marked the carriages’ arrival, now reduced.

  Campion waited, the snow cascading down before him, flakes landing on the glass window, which gave no hint of who sat on the other side of it. The silver handle on the door turned and the door opened. A moment passed and then a leg emerged, stepping onto the footplate. Campion clicked his fingers and Strivelyn burst forward, holding out his hand. A gloved hand took that proffered by the sexton and a figure alighted from the carriage. It wore black, hooded robes that were fitted tight to the chest of the wearer; the shoulders of the outfit were ridged and accentuated. Only from the waist downwards did the robes extend away from the body, a swirling mass of black fabric that surrounded the legs. On both upper arms a trio of silver stars was stitched. The new arrival wore an ornate silver chain of several layers that hung low on the chest. Campion stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “ Welcome to Aftlain, I am Priest Thomas Campion,” he said.

  “ Juran Tsangarides, Underpriest of Manfur,” replied the arrival. He raised his gloved hands and pushed the hood back showing him to be a man, probably a score and a half in age, with short cropped black hair.

  “ It is our pleasure to receive you,” added Campion with a dip of his head. Tsangarides turned and looked back towards the carriage. A second figure emerged from its dark recess. This time, the gloved hand that rested on that held up by Strivelyn, wore two chunky silver rings, both set with large diamonds. The figure climbed down from the carriage. Its attire was similar to that of Tsangarides, save that the three ridges on the shoulder were edged in silver. Furthermore, three stars were emblazoned beneath a twisted crescent face on the upper arms. The symbol was fashioned in the style of a face so that a slash into the crescent became a cruel mouth; another part a sharp nose and one eye stared malevolently from the moon. This person wore a chain made of silver that had large links interwoven, before ending in a circular pendant, at the centre of which was another diamond. The figure stepped onto the snow-kissed ground, the leather boots highly polished and unblemished.

  “ May I present his eminent darkness, Arch Priest Syed Novac,” said Tsangarides. Campion stepped towards Novac and descended to one knee. The ringed hand was extended and Campion took it placing a kiss on each ri
ng, before the hand was withdrawn. Strivelyn and Talvace bowed and remained in that position, the women all adopting a curtsey. Novac reached up and slid his hood back, revealing a silver-haired man, the hair smoothed back tidily and a neat silver-white beard around his thin-lipped mouth. His dark eyes regarded those subservient before him.

  “ We are blessed to be in Aftlain at this most auspicious time and we give thanks, in advance, for the co-operation of our Selnian kin,” he said.

  “Momentous change will emanate from this village, change that we have striven for, for years. Many souls have been sacrificed to achieve our aim and it gives us great comfort to know that not one soul has been lost in vain. We come here to further the magnificent undertaking that has been commenced by our brothers and sisters and wish for you to know, that you shall all be rewarded for your loyalty and commitment. May Manfur cloak you.”

  Novac’s words hung in the snow-filled air for a moment as the Archpriest looked to each of the genuflected Aftlainers in turn.

  “ You may rise, Priest Campion,” advised Tsangarides. Campion stood up his face wrought with joy.

  “ We are hugely honoured by your eminence’s arrival here and may I add, that it is a personal privilege to work alongside you in this grand design,” said Campion.

  “ Your honour is very much noted, Priest Campion,” replied Novac. “ Now, what are our lodging arrangements?”

  “ We have lodgings prepared for your eminence and your acolytes at the church, across the bridge and up the rise beyond. Gregory Talvace,” Campion motioned for the gravedigger to step forward, “ shall attend to your acolytes with two of our Blood Maidens.” Talvace moved closer, bowing once more.

  “ Greetings Master Talvace, the acolytes are in the other two carriages. There will be room for the ladies inside, if you do not mind sitting atop with a driver?” explained Tsangairdes.

  “ By all means,” replied Talvace. He turned away and waved for the women to follow him around to the other two carriages.

  “ You and Master Strivelyn may ride with his eminence and I,” intoned Tsangarides.

  “ As you wish,” replied Campion. They waited as Novac climbed into the carriage, followed by his Underpriest, then Campion and finally his sexton. Novac sat in the direction of travel, the other three men squashed in besides one another facing him. Tsangarides slapped on the wooden panel behind him and there was a jolt as the horses moved forward.

  The four men sat in silence as the trio of carriages passed through the square watched by a host of faces at the windows of the tavern and the houses that looked onto it. From the first floor of the tavern, Kathryn Dromgoole looked down at the passing procession.

  “ Well my beautiful Samael, they have finally arrived?” she remarked, turning away from the cold panes of glass to Thaindire who was sat in a chair.

  “ Who has finally arrived?” he asked.

  “ The Manfurians.”

  “ I see.”

  Kathryn smiled at Thaindire’s nonplussed reaction, noting how different he would have responded to her declaration if he had not been in the throes of her enchantment. Were he free of her influence, she had no doubt that he would now be making his way to the church to confront the dark archpriest and his underlings. Instead, Thaindire remained seated, his dulled eyes reflecting the flames in the fireplace.

  “ Mind you,” continued Kathryn, “ I am pleased to see that they have maintained their reputation for opulence. They are a wealthy church and I expect to see a great reward offered now I have you to hand since you will be integral to their plans.”

  She placed a hand on Thaindire’s shoulder and he lifted his own hand, tenderly placing it over Kathryn’s. She leant down and placed a kiss on his snow-haired head.

  “ Some great reward?” said Thaindire.

  “Oh yes my darling and of such size that we will be able to leave Aftlain and make our own home far from these fools, attended upon by our own household and without a want or care,” she said enthusiastically crouching beside the witch hunter. Thaindire smiled.

  “ So long as I remain with you,” he said.

  “ Always, my love, always,” replied Kathryn.

  Robert Wheelams stood at the window of the bar room at the Last One Inn. He quaffed from his flagon and turned to Michael Boylan who was stood next to him, face pressed against the glass.

  “Looks like they have arrived then,” commented Wheelams before wiping his mouth.

  “Fancy carriages mind. They will have some coin,” replied Boylan as he moved away from the window.

  “I bet they have good teeth as well,” added Aindrew Ackerley as he also moved form the window.

  “Bound to have. I’ll wager they have their own barber with them. Did you see how well turned out they were?” replied Boylan.

  “Bastards. They had better not have brought someone with them. I’m the only barber in Aftlain,” said Ackerley.

  “Calm down Acker,” said Pula Broor as he sauntered up to the three men, “you are just in a bad mood because Stefan has dropped you from the scufflefoot match.”

  “I’ve yet to speak to him about that, my long track record speaks for itself.”

  “He’ll be busy with the Manfurians I daresay,” said Wheelams.

  “Aye he will and he will need to have his wits about him, “ cautioned Boylan, “I should imagine those night worshippers to be more slippery than the trout you tickle, Rob.”

  Wheelams scratched his temple before he nodded in agreement.

  “They will have to wait. I want back into the team,” muttered Ackerley more concerned with his position in the team than with the arrival of the Manfurians, “I’ve been in that team for years.”

  “Something tells me that these Manfurians don’t wait for anything,” replied Boylan ominously. Wheelams gave a confirmatory nod as the four men moved to sit at a nearby table. Broor motioned to a serving girl to bring them more ale as the men began to discuss the arrival of the Manfurians, just like every other occupant in the Last One Inn.

  The carriage made its way up the rise to the church as the snow fell more heavily, the flakes larger and more numerous. Campion lurched forward as the carriage stopped. He was sat in the middle opposite Novac and almost landed in the Archpriest’s lap, but fortunately Strivelyn grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back. Strivelyn clambered out of the carriage and waited to help down the remaining three men. The second carriage pulled up behind and Talvace hopped down from the elevated seat besides the driver. Both doors opened and the Manfurian acolytes emerged. They courteously assisted the Blood Maidens as they alighted from the carriages.

  “ Please follow Gregory, he will take you to your lodgings,” said Campion to the assembled crowd.

  “ Archpriest, if you and Underpriest Tsangarides would come with Oliver and me, we can go to my study, “ he added.

  “ This way please, your eminence,” said Strivelyn motioning for the Manfurian to head through the gate. Campion let the three of them move ahead of him when a figure sidled up beside him.

  “ Hello Thomas.” Campion turned and saw a tall woman, wrapped in a red cloak

  “ Vickory?” questioned the priest. The woman pushed her hood back and revealed a broad smile from a wide mouth.

  “ Here I am.”

  “Where did you appear from?”

  “ The Arch Priest offered me carriage back to the village. My work elsewhere was done so it made sense to accept,” she explained. Campion glanced over to the Arch Priest as he made his way through the church yard, the snow swirling about him and then back to Vickory.

  “ I am a little preoccupied,” he said apologetically.

  “ Yes, I realise that. Great things are at last happening. You go.”

  “ Listen, why don’t you join us?”

  “ No, no, you see to his eminence. I am going down into the village. There is someone I really must see. We can speak presently.”

  “ Very well, please excuse me. It is good to see you back in the village.�
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  “ Until later, sweet Thomas,” replied Vickory and she walked away down towards the bridge and the village beyond. Campion stood and watched the scarlet-cloaked lady pace through the snow, moving with her customary grace, surprised and delighted by her return. Despite walking in the darkness, her stride was sure-footed and firm. He waited until the darkness had absorbed her and then hurried to catch up with his guests, scurrying to the church, the windows now aglow with light.

  Campion entered the main hall. Talvace and two blood maidens led seventeen of the Manfurian clerics plus the three carriage drivers off to the left, to take them to the dormitory below the church. The natural cavern beneath the church had been fashioned into comfortable living areas with plenty of beds for their guests and more, should that prove necessary. Strivelyn was passing through the door that lead from the right-hand side of the main hall, leading to Campion’s private quarters, Novac and Tsangarides pacing behind him, the other two blood maidens bringing up the rear. Campion finally caught the group up in his study and found that Novac had positioned himself in Campion’s chair behind his desk. Tsangarides stood warming himself at the fire, Strivelyn waited by the opposing wall and the blood maidens poured drinks for all four of the study’s male occupants. Novac waited until the goblets had been filled and the two ladies moved to the wall behind Campion, awaiting their next command. Novac motioned for Campion to sit and the priest obliged.

  “ Now, let us talk,” said Novac.

  “ How may I be of assistance, your eminence?” asked Campion.

  “ Well, let us begin with the reason for my attendance in this far-flung village,” Novac gesticulated across the desk, “ I see no crown.”

  Campion stood and walked to the sideboard and picked up a rectangular wooden box with both hands. He placed it on the desk, inserted a key and unlocked it. He spun the box around so it faced the waiting Novac and lifted the lid. The Arch Priest’s stern face broke into a smile as he looked at the box’s contents. Campion retreated, returning to his seat. Novac reached out and lifted the golden crown, the firelight reflecting in the polished metal, the emeralds shining as he held the priceless object aloft. A gasp came from one of the blood maidens and she placed a hand over her mouth as if to acknowledge her error in making a noise.