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

by Mark G Heath

  “Go. You shall have the white blood in one day. Be thankful, I have not changed my mind.”

  Lancaster hurled the dagger at the herbalist. A tendril sprouted from the fingertips of her right hand, moving with speed and swatted the weapon out of the air. The apothecary raised the green extension of herself, making as if to crack a whip.

  “Go!”

  “One day, Alyssia, it had better be one day,” said Lancaster as he staggered to the door and pulled the bolts back all thoughts of purchasing the Carpathia forgotten in his attempts to secure more white blood. The door slammed as he left the apothecary, leaving Thorne to retract the tendril and place a tender hand on the slain creature, which lay slumped on the floor.

  Lancaster walked down the wooden steps, now layered with snow and held onto the rail, not wishing to end up in a heap on his backside at the bottom. As soon as his feet touched the cobbles he heard the familiar flutter of thin, leathery wings.

  “ Hello again,” said the well-spoken, reedy voice to his left.

  “ You can fuck off,” cursed Lancaster in no mood to suffer the jibes of the devilkin.

  “ Potty mouth. That was quick, could you not get it up eh?”

  Lancaster ignored the jibe and began walking back towards the Last One Inn. His footsteps from his journey to the apothecary had already been covered by the snow, which was falling in a heavier quantity now.

  “ That’s what happens when you take too much of the green stuff you know. It will fall off.” The devilkin swooped down and floated next to Lancaster’s hand. The creature reached out and tapped its talons against Lancaster’s thigh, causing him to walk faster.

  “ So, going to select some drunken whore at the inn instead are we? You know what your problem is? You do too much rutting and not enough searching.

  Lancaster stopped at this remark and looked at the hovering devilkin.

  “ Meaning what you turd?”

  “ Good one. Thought long and hard about that didn’t you, adulterer? What I mean is you spend too much of your time lying between the thighs of women and not enough searching for the white blood.”

  “ Like you know anything about me,” snorted Lancaster and resumed his walk westwards.

  “ Cyon Lancaster. A very rich man. Left-handed. Carpathia addict. Claims to have a wife, although nobody has ever seen her. He has a variety of mercantile interests ranging from land to spices to wine, wool and grain. Lives in the City of Lancester but spends an excessive amount of time in Aftlain,” stated the devilkin formally as if reading an announcement in church.

  “ I’m right-handed,” snapped Lancaster.

  “ You use a weapon with your left.”

  Lancaster waved a hand dismissively.

  “ I watched your tussle with the forest woman. I thought you two were friends. Still, your mind is probably addled isn’t it? What happened to the Earl of High Bovey eh? Where is he now?”

  “Go back to your master and clean his crevices, you odious little runt,” sneered Lancaster.

  “My master can assist you with the provision of more white blood,” said the devilkin.

  Lancaster stopped on the edge of the square. He looked up at the devilkin.

  “ Your master will seek too high a price.”

  “ Too high a price for the richest man in Durenor? I hardly think it will be beyond your reach.”

  “ When?” asked Lancaster.

  “ As soon as my master grants you an audience. Shall I convey to him that you request one?”

  Lancaster paused, considering the devilkin’s offer.

  “ Come find me in one day’s time and I will give you my answer then,” he announced.

  “ A day? Got some more rutting to do have we? I told you, you spend too much time doing that.”

  “ In one day pest, now fly home and cease bothering me.”

  The devilkin hovered for a moment as Lancaster kept on walking through the snow towards the inviting lights of the Last One Inn and then it darted upwards, making for its master’s residence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “ What have I done? Please, just tell me what it is I am supposed to have done,” begged Ilberd Grimoult as he was dragged down the aisle of the church. Flanked by two of the Manfurian acolytes, Salamas Tuelsin and Belgorin Kassine, the alchemist was whisked toward the altar. Minutes earlier he had opened his door to Oliver Strivelyn. Grimoult was in the middle of an experiment. As he opened the door, on hearing Strivelyn announce himself, the alchemist had turned back to keep an eye on the boiling liquid in one of his many receptacles. Accordingly, he did not see the other men who had arrived with the sexton. Strivelyn had said something about someone called Novac wanting to see him, but the sexton’s words had been lost when two dark-robed men seized Grimoult by the arms and hauled him from his house. A third man also clad in black but wearing some chain of office watched his removal without comment. Frail and aged, Grimoult was in no position to offer any resistance and he was carried, legs flailing, out through the cold evening and hurled into the back of a carriage. The two men, silent and features set in grim repose clambered in and sat either side of him, forming a human wall. The third man sat opposite him and stared at him the whole time, but maintained a silence. Strivelyn had climbed up beside the driver of the carriage and with a vicious jolt they had set off. Repeatedly the alchemist had asked the men what they wanted, but they ignored him, the two beside him neither speaking nor looking at him. The third man sat glaring at him and never once took his eyes from the alchemist. Grimoult was left watching the village pass by and felt a degree of relief when he realised that the carriage was heading to the bridge and not away along the Widow’s Way.

  Grimoult tried to gather himself as they made the short journey across Tallow Bridge and up the rise to the church. His keen mind raced as he sought to establish the reason why he had been plucked from his house and bundled into this carriage, but no answer presented itself. Eventually, the carriage rolled to a halt at the end of the lane, which led to the church. He was roughly pulled from the carriage and manhandled through the churchyard and now found he was being held in two firm grips, his feet scraping the flagstones of the church as he was carried along the aisle.

  Strivelyn followed, trotting in order to keep pace with Grimoult and his captors.

  “Try not to worry, Ilberd, he only wants to talk with you,” said the sexton over the shoulders of the two Manfurians. They swung to the right and through a doorway into a corridor, which narrowed and the two men squeezed against the alchemist who was wheezing. A further right turn was made and the office holder, who led the way, opened a door and they burst into a room. He was thrown to the floor, striking the hard stone with a slap. He felt a hand on him and saw Father Thomas looking earnestly at him.

  “Ilberd, I am sorry about that,” the priest looked away and glared at the two clerics who had deposited Grimoult in a heap.

  “There is no need to treat him like that,” said Campion.

  “Father, what’s going on?”

  “This is Arch,” continued Campion but he was cut off.

  “Silence Campion, you have had your opportunity to explain,” said a voice from somewhere above the alchemist. He did not recognise the voice nor did he welcome the tone in which it spoke. Campion helped Grimoult to his feet and moved him to a chair allowing him to sit.

  “You are Ilberd Grimoult, the alchemist?” asked the voice. Grimoult looked up and across from him, sat at the desk, was a silver haired and bearded man wearing ornate black robes and a highly decorative chain around his neck.

  “Yes, I am he. Who are you?”

  “I am Arch Priest Syed Novac of Manfur. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Which name? You gave three,” replied Grimoult regaining some composure.

  “Any of them.”

  “ I recognise the name, Manfur. It is familiar to me from my studies. Father Thomas has also spoken of it many times.”

  “ Has he now and would you care t
o explain in what context?”

  “What’s going on here? What have I done to deserve being taken so roughly from my home and dragged up here without explanation or reason? This is no way to treat an elder of this village. I shall raise this with the Brother Knights, they will not tolerate such ill-mannered behaviour.”

  Novac raised his right hand for silence.

  “Just answer my questions, alchemist.” Grimoult looked about the study. Stood beside the desk was the other chain-wearer. He had his arms folded across his chest and continued his malevolent staring. The two brutes that had manhandled him stood next to the starer. Campion and Strivelyn stood to his left; both looked anxious.

  “Tell me how you know about Manfur,” invited Novac. Grimoult swallowed and tugged at his robe.

  “I know he is regarded by the High Church as one of the dark gods, the god of night and all matters dark,” answered Grimoult.

  “His symbol is the crescent moon, adapted to depict a face.”

  Novac nodded.

  “Go on,” pressed the Arch Priest.

  “Father Thomas explained that we were expecting a visit from some followers of Manfur. He explained to me that these visitors are extremely important and that it was paramount that we provided every assistance to them. I assume that you and these three,” Grimoult waved to the other black-robed men, “ are these visitors?”

  “Yes and did Priest Campion explain the purpose of our visit to Aftlain?”

  Grimoult looked again at Campion who gave a slight nod.

  “He told me that you were coming to the village to create the Philtre of Awakening. Though he did not tell me for what purpose the Philtre was to be made.”

  “That’s right and tell me, did Priest Campion convey to you, what your part is, with regards to this Philtre?”

  “He did. He explained that I needed to concoct an Elixir of Calling as it formed an integral part of the Philtre.”

  “Good. So, let’s see. I am here, along with my brethren, now ready to create the Philtre, having travelled many miles to Aftlain, but wait, where is the Elixir of Calling?” Novac looked about the desk as if searching.

  “Where is the elixir Master Grimoult?”

  Grimoult put his hands to together nervously.

  “It is not ready,” he said softly.

  “It is not ready,” repeated Novac.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Grimoult glanced at Campion who was now staring straight ahead.

  “Well as I am sure you will appreciate, the elixir is a creation of considerable complexity. The ingredients are rare. In addition, the manner in which they are brought together takes inordinate amounts of skill and attention .It can take months to acquire the correct ingredients, they must be handled properly, kept free from contamination and so forth. The elixir is a most potent, powerful concoction. I could list the component parts and detail to you how each must be treated and then how they interact with one another, although it will take quite some time. It would of course, enable you to comprehend just what is involved in creating the elixir.”

  “I understand all that Master Grimoult, but you are a highly skilled alchemist, indeed, I am led to believe one of the best in the kingdom. I am not asking some apprentice, fresh from his guild examinations, his balls barely dropped, to create it am I? I am addressing a specialist, an expert, a pioneer in fact, in the field of alchemy.”

  “You flatter me with those descriptions.”

  “Not at all. I merely speak the truth.”

  “Even for me, the task is difficult and complicated. You cannot rush its creation.”

  “ How many times have you attempted to make the elixir?”

  “Five times,” answered Grimoult.

  “Five times?” cried Novac, “five times. A halfwit should be able to create it with that amount of attempts. Are you a fool, Master Grimoult or are you just intent on treating me as one?”

  “ No, no, you do not understand just how delicate the measurements are, the finessing of the ingredients and the exactitude of the methodology.”

  “ No Master Grimoult, you do not seem to understand the pressing need for this elixir. You do not understand that its lack of appearance will grind to a halt all our other preparations. Those preparations have taken many moons and many lives. It seems to me that you need some considerable encouragement to get it right.”

  Novac rose from his seat and walked around to stand directly before the alchemist.

  “ Tell me Master Grimoult, when you are attending to these delicate measurements and the finessing of the ingredients, which hand do you use?”

  Grimoult frowned, perplexed by the change of tack.

  “ Which hand?”

  “ My right,” replied Grimoult holding the hand up as if to reinforce the point.

  “ Juren,” said Novac stepping aside.

  “ Seize him,” ordered Tsangarides. The two acolytes grabbed hold of Grimoult and shoved him face first onto the desk.

  “ No, no,” shouted Grimoult. One of the acolytes wrenched his left arm forward and splayed his left hand, pinning it down on the desk. Strivelyn shrunk away from the desk towards a corner of the study.

  “ Please, your eminence, there is no need for this,” said Campion.

  “ There is every need. Perhaps this will ensure that your next attempt is the final and correct attempt,” said Novac. He nodded to Tsangarides who produced a long, sharp blade from a scabbard on his belt. The knife was unusual, for instead of a point; it ended in a crescent shape. Almost like an arrowhead on a knife.

  “ Please, please no, I beg you,” cried Grimoult, his body shaking.

  Tsangarides brought the blade down in one swift chopping movement and Grimoult screamed as the index finger on his left hand was severed, blood spraying from the precise wound made by the Underpriest. The alchemist sagged but the acolytes still held him against the desk as he screamed.

  “ I can’t finish the elixir because there are no berries and no book,” sobbed Grimoult.

  Novac glanced up at Tsangarides and leant lower to the quivering alchemist’s head.

  “ What was that Grimoult?”

  “ I can’t finish the elixir because we have run out of Lucerne Berries. I have had to use them all up in the five attempts. I’ve had to try so many times as I haven’t been given the book that contains the precise instructions as to the preparation of the elixir, so every attempt I make is based on trial and error.”

  “ What is this book you speak of?” asked Novac.

  “ The Grimoire of Beckoning,” said Grimoult in between pain-filled gasps.

  “ And who was meant to give it to you?”

  “ Father Thomas.”

  “ Really?”

  Novac straightened up and faced Campion. The Arch Priest brought his hand across Campion’s face causing the priest’s head to snap back.

  “ You idiot. You lazy, self-absorbed idiot,” seethed Novac. “ How in Manfur’s name can he create the elixir if he does not have the primary source for its creation?”

  Campion raised a hand to his cut lip.

  “ There was no time to acquire the grimoire, your eminence, I was otherwise engaged obtaining the tome which enabled me to find the crown. Locating that tome alone was a costly and time consuming enterprise.”

  “ Nonsense!” exploded Novac, “ you found time to impregnate the local whores though didn’t you?”

  He slapped Campion again.

  “ Please, your eminence, show some mercy,” begged Campion trying to back away from the angered Arch Priest, but merely bumping into the sideboard behind him.

  “ It appears it is you that needs to be better encouraged,” spat Novac. “ This elixir must be completed without any further delay. I do not care how; I am not interested in the cost, see to it that it is brought into being. You and only you are personally responsible for the creation of the elixir, Campion. Should you fail, you will be executed. Now, in order to ensure that you and Mas
ter Grimoult fully comprehend the immediacy of our need, I shall take another finger, but from whom, you or him?”

  “ No, no,” groaned Grimoult still pinned to the desk.

  A scream then rose from one of the blood maidens who stood nearest the door.

  “ What in Manfur are they?” questioned Novac.

  The homunculi burst like a tidal wave into the study. The blood maiden screamed again and fell backwards, toppling onto her companion. The two women a confusion of cloth and limbs. The grey surge of tiny men leapt at the acolyte who still held Grimoult’s left arm out across the desk. Campion scrambled away, shoving past Novac who stood staring at the appearance of the tiny men. All twelve of the alchemist’s underlings surged forward, a grey mass of hands and feet, tumbling and springing over one another in their bid to get to their master. Like a pallid column, they raced up the back of the acolyte nearest to them A homunculus scampered up to the rear of the acolyte’s head and reached around plunging his tiny hands into the cleric’s eye sockets. Blood trickled from the eyes as the acolyte screamed in agony. He released Grimoult and reached up to try and pull the small yet powerful hands away from the injury they were inflicting. His howl of agony suddenly became a bloody gurgle as a second homunculus leapt onto his back and reached around to his neck. With a fluid movement, he gripped the neck of the acolyte and tore it open sending a gush of blood over the horrified Novac. The second acolyte had already released his grip on the alchemist, falling backwards in his haste to retreat from the sudden movement of the homunculi. Tsangarides grabbed him by his robes, hauling him away from the assault. The twitching corpse of the first acolyte slumped to the floor of the study, blood still pumping from the wound torn in the neck.

  Everyone else in the room had backed off as soon as the homunculi had pounced and seemingly satisfied that they were under no immediate threat, the tiny men made for their master. Jumping onto the desk, they reached under his arms and lifted him like a puppet, tilting him onto his back where the remaining underlings waited to take hold of their injured master. Grimoult moaned, half-conscious, his bloodied stump of a finger glistening as borne on his back, the homunculi carried him away, meeting with no opposition from the stunned occupants of the study.