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

by Mark G Heath

  “ Yes Berwick, have you gathered news on matters from the village?” asked Sir Joshua.

  “ Yes my lord,” responded the steward.

  “ Thaindire is at the residence of Captain Reznik ?” asked Sir Simon.

  “ My lord, I am in possession of four matters which must come before your lordships' attention,” said Berwick as he produced his book and opened it, turning the pages until he had found the one he needed.

  “ Four eh ? Well, best get on with it man, don’t keep good news from me,” encouraged Sir Joshua. Berwick glanced at the two knights apprehensively.

  “ Firstly, Thaindire is not in the custody of Captain Reznik.”

  “ How so? Where is he then ? Don’t tell me Reznik let him escape?” said Sir Joshua.

  “ The pilgrim, Novac sought the assistance of his brethren and between them they have taken Thaindire to the church.”

  “ Ah, so Novac executed the arrest with some of his chaps did he? Excellent. No matter, we shall have Thaindire brought down from the church tomorrow,” said Sir Joshua.

  “ What is your second matter?” asked Sir Simon.

  “ Captain Reznik is missing,” explained Argadone.

  “ Missing? What do you mean?” questioned Sir Joshua.

  “ Well, and this addresses the third matter, your lordships, the report brought from the village is that an associate of Thaindire appeared and engaged in the conflict.”

  “ An associate, who?” asked Sir Simon.

  “ I believe he is called Gabriel Vindicta.”

  “ Vindicta. Vindicta ? Remind me, do we know him?” queried Sir Joshua.

  “ Yes, he was in the village a few weeks past. Tall fellow with short cropped white hair. Came sniffing about saying he was looking to purchase a home in the village,” explained Sir Simon.

  “ Ah yes, now I remember. He is an associate of Thaindire?”

  “ If the reports are correct, your lordships, yes.”

  “ And where is he now, this Vindicta?” asked Sir Simon.

  “ He fled the village. Taking your steed, your lordship.”

  “ He did what? I wondered where it had gone, I thought that one of the lads had taken it back to the keep. The impertinent rascal. Still, I have others,” said Sir Simon.

  “ Well, if he is out of the way, so much the better,” commented Sir Joshua.

  “ I’ll second that,” added Sir Simon.

  “ So, if this Novac fellow arrested Thaindire and the Vindicta chap fled the village, what was Reznik doing?” asked Sir Simon.

  “ Vindicta kicked him off the bridge into the river and he has not been seen since,” explained Argadone gravely.

  “ Hmm, anyone looking for him?” muttered Sir Joshua.

  “ Yes, a number of the villagers have been down to the river’s edge, by the mill and also further along by Master Ringthane’s residence, but nothing has been reported so far.”

  “ Damn inconvenient. Still, he’s a resourceful fellow is Eustace, he will show up,” said Sir Joshua.

  “ Most likely,” added Sir Simon.

  “ And the fourth matter?” asked Sir Joshua before taking a final bite of his apple.

  “ Father Thomas has been slain. His body was found in the basement of the apothecary. It is likely to be the work of the demon, Thaindire,”

  “ The One True God preserve us,” said Sir Joshua.

  “ That is terrible news,” said Sir Simon. The room fell silent as the Brother Knights digested this revelation.

  “ Berwick, make a note please,” announced Sir Simon. The steward walked over to a table and placed his book down before seating himself before it. He took a quill from an inkpot and looked over to his masters expectantly.

  “ One, ensure that the charge of the murder of Father Thomas Isaiah Campion is added to the charge sheet that will be read to Thaindire tomorrow,” instructed Sir Simon.

  “Yes your lordship, “ said the steward and began scratching away at the page of the book.

  “ Two, organise for a message to be sent to Bishop Steelpike in Lancester that his priest has met his demise and that he is to send a promising, young priest as his replacement without delay. We cannot be without our pastor.”

  “ What about Novac? Might he not want the position?” asked Sir Joshua.

  “ My brother makes an excellent point,” said Sir Simon. Sir Simon fell silent as he debated the suggestion and Argadone waited, quill raised.

  “ We shall ascertain Novac’s willingness to fill the position, on a temporary basis, pending the arrival of a new priest from Lancester. If he wishes to retain the position permanently, we can decide between the two,” said Sir Simon.

  “ An excellent idea,” said Sir Joshua.

  “ Third, make arrangements for the burial of Father Thomas. You had best check with Talvace when this can be achieved, bearing in mind all this early snow. We may have to cremate him instead,”

  “ Yes your lordships, is there anything else?”

  Argadone continued writing as Sir Joshua looked to his brother.

  “ Anything else?”

  Sir Simon pondered a moment.

  “ No, that is everything. Thank you Berwick.”

  “ Thank you, your lordships.”

  Argadone rose and carrying the book still open made his way from the chamber, leaving the two brothers.

  “ A new priest, I wonder what he will be called?” wondered Sir Joshua.

  “ Something like Allard or Blakely I imagine, lacking tradition some of these names for the younger ones.”

  “ Yes, you are probably right. Shame about Father Thomas, he was an excellent servant to the villagers and ourselves. We must give him an appropriately commendable eulogy.”

  “ Oh, the very least,” said Sir Simon.

  “ And an exciting day dealing with the murderous demon tomorrow. The sooner he is clapped in irons the better,” said Sir Joshua.

  “ Quite so.”

  The brothers fell silent, each peering into the roaring fire, content with their own thoughts as opposed to speaking further.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Ilberd Grimoult had spent the early part of the morning reviewing his notes from his previous attempts to create the Elixir of Calling. Peering through his spectacles, he had read and read again, his neat handwriting, occasionally adding a note as he strove to ensure that the next attempt would be successful. There was no issue in respect of the constituent parts needed to bring forth the Elixir. He knew he had those correct. He was also content that he knew he had the relevant weights and measures that would be required of each ingredient. He had read out each item that was required in its manufacture and each time, one of his tiny helpers, headed to his extensive stores and returned with either a bottle, a packet or a box, containing the appropriate substance. The alchemist had checked the variety of powders, liquids and archaic materials going through the list once more, until his finger lingered over the words, “ Lucerne Berries”. He had closed his thick notebook at the point, lowering it to the counter and wondered whether Alyssia had managed to acquire a further bottle of white blood that was necessary for the creation of the fruits. She had sent no word and he had assumed that she remained unsuccessful. He had offered up a silent prayer to Perrin in the hope that he would give them the knowledge to locate the precious substance. The alchemist had no desire to be subjected to the wrath of the Manfurians and he knew that this time, it would be more than a finger, if he did not have the Elixir ready and perfected for Novac.

  He wondered how much of the berries, Alyssia would be able to harvest. He would welcome at least double the required amount, as a safeguard. Aside from lacking the berries, he also lacked the certainty that his methodology was the right one. He had made several attempts, and, such was his way, ensured that he kept a copious record of what he did with each preparation to ensure that in the event of a failure, and there had been several, indeed they matched his attempts, he would not repeat any error. He felt a confidence t
hat this next attempt would be the successful one, but it never did any harm to have a contingency.

  Unable to progress the creation of the Elixir, Grimoult had left the assembled materials and instead shuffled to one of his bookcases. He selected a tome, pulling it from its place in alphabetical order and considered the wording on the spine,

  “ Guidance for the Creation of the Infusion of Melding”

  It seemed so straightforward when written like that. As with the list for the Elixir, he had methodically worked his way down the list of components. The homunculi scurrying back and forth selecting the necessary parts from the stores and placing them on a separate counter to those earmarked for the Elixir. Steadily, a pile of rare and fascinating items accumulated; a small jar containing the first tears of a child, a pot with the ground bone from a forest giant’s thigh, a box of dried strips of wyvern wing and a bottle of blood from a high born. Those were just a few of the items he required to create the Infusion. Similar to before, his finger halted at one ingredient,

  “ A two finger bottle of the essence of a hunter of witchery, the white blood”

  There was no complication with the Infusion. The author of the book had, according to his own boast, made the infusion on three separate occasions. Further, Grimoult had concocted the infusion previously. Thus, the measurements of each unusual item was clear and the methodology precise, yet still he remained frustrated. Grimoult rubbed at his neck, recalling the terrifying grip from Redway’s hands. He had seen the grim urgency in the blacksmith’s eyes and the alchemist was in no doubt that if he failed in the production of the Infusion he would be feeling those massive hands about his throat once again. Grimoult cursed, why could he not be left alone to his own devices and concentrate on his own experiments? That was why he came to Aftlain, to be able to explore the world and its mysteries, not to be beholden to the machinations of the power-hungry. Novac’s ambition was clear; total hegemonic domination in the name of Manfur and the bringing about of the Philtre of Awakening was a stepping-stone to him achieving his aim.

  Grimoult gave a sigh and lowered the tome, placing it on the counter. All he wanted was to pursue his own curiosities. Still, his master repeatedly shielded him in the past when the High Church had come from him, or more precisely, their zealous evangelical wing, the Order of Allsaints. He had traded this protection by agreeing to undertake certain works for his master, each moving towards the ultimate aim of his master. Until now, the crescendo of his master's mission drew nearer and he, Ilberd Grimoult, was the lynchpin in making it happen. Grimoult comforted himself with the thought that once it was complete, they would be destroyed. They would know what it was like to be hunted, to be persecuted. This would then ensure Aftlain truly was a sanctuary and he could return to his own works. Yes, he would soon be free to do as he pleased, beholden to nobody any longer. He would not fear the sound of splitting wood or worry about being hauled from his bed in the dead of night by azure clad witch hunters. He would be safe, truly safe. The alchemist stepped towards the black cloth covered jar and carefully removed it.

  “ There you are my child,” said Grimoult. He held a hand up to the jar, but not quite touching it. Inside the glass, the growing foetus remained suspended in the viscous liquid that nourished it. Intermittently, the foetus would twitch, a spasm causing it to shift its position inside the jar. The limbs had grown longer since its incubation in the jar, the back lengthening also with the head altering shape, so the brow extended above where the eyes were forming. The hands bore three long fingers each, that curved inwards at the extremity. Its feet were long, six toes splayed at the end, shorted than the fingers. Entranced, Grimoult stood watching a smile playing on his lips.

  “ Let them try and dictate to old Ilberd eh, when you are ready, my son,” said the alchemist. He watched for a while longer before replacing the black satin drape, obscuring his creation once more.

  “ Abalam, Beleth, Carabia, Dantallion?” said Grimoult. Four of the homunculi appeared by his feet, they looked up impassively at their master.

  “ The ingredients, save two, are organised, so you must return to your duties down the well. It will not do to neglect our work there, especially after our recent discovery.”

  The four little men nodded in unison and made for the front door. At the damaged door, Abalam halted and allowed Beleth to clamber onto his shoulders. Carabia then jumped onto the shoulders of Beleth and reached the door handle easily. He turned it and pulled before jumping down. All four underlings slipped through the slightly ajar door. There was a pause and then the door was closed.

  Grimoult toyed with preparing some breakfast, although he was not used to eating this early. No, he would do some reading for a while before summoning a homunculus to make him something to eat. The alchemist shuffled from his laboratory to the living area when a sudden scraping and fluttering sound emerged from his fireplace, or more accurately his chimney. The eight remaining homunculi immediately ran towards the fireplace and formed a semi-circle, their silver eyes reflecting the fire that burned. A cloud of soot billowed from the fireplace, causing the homunculi to wave their arms in an attempt to dispel the sooty intrusion. A devilkin appeared, hovering above the flames, seemingly unaffected by them, in fact it seemed to be enjoying the sensation of heat. The homunculi bristled at the appearance of the creature, but could not go towards it, beaten back by the flames.

  “ Ah there you are old, old man. My, you look terrible. Have you been abusing your creations? Tut, tut, I thought you had given that up some years ago. Ever the addict aren’t we?” scolded the creature. One of the homunculi shook a fist at the creature.

  “ You have a message devilkin?” asked Grimoult ignoring the taunt.

  “ Not wanting to talk? Experiments failing again are we, you has-been.”

  A homunculus hopped onto the arm of Grimoult’s chair and picked up an apple from the nearby small table. It hurled the fruit at the devilkin and caught it square in the face. The rest of the tiny men jumped up and down silently, waving their arms in delight.

  “ Do that again jar dweller and I will pluck out your eyes,” shrieked the devilkin, fluttering from side to side above the fire.

  “ No wonder fools like you serve that old idiot,” it continued.

  “ Have you a message or must I throw some mustard powder on the fire?” asked Grimoult.

  “ Your request for an audience has been agreed to. My master will see you now. Though why he bothers with a doddering old man such as you I will never know. Honestly, who prefers the company of these tiny, wretched creatures to real people? A clapped-out, lonely, smelly alchemist, that’s who. You couldn’t brew beer never mind elixirs,” scoffed the devilkin.

  “ Forneus, fetch the mustard powder please?” said Grimoult.

  “ Bastard,” spat the devilkin and shot up the chimney.

  “ That’s quite enough of that. Well, time to see Antagonia, my friends.”

  Forneus appeared by the side of the alchemist holding a pot.

  “ He’s gone, but let’s take that with us, in case he and his like return, eh?” Grimoult picked up his stick and then collected a stiff leather satchel from near the door.

  “ Ready,” he declared and opened the front door. The eight tiny men followed him outside onto the doorstep.

  “ Perrin’s teeth, it is cold,” commented Grimoult as he produced a large, iron key and secured his property. He turned and waited as the homunculi arranged themselves about their master. Carefully, he lowered himself into a sitting position and then the small, but strong homunculi took his weight and began carrying him across the path from the house, with Forneus bringing up the rear, mustard pot in his two hands.

  “ Pathetic!” shrilled a voice from above as the devilkin hovered, keeping a respectable distance from the group, having seen Forneus bearing the pot.

  “ Ignore him, lads, on we go,” announced Grimoult. The troop of tiny men carried him along the path besides the carpenter’s home and out onto the square.
The devilkin continued to dive and swoop, hurling its insults at Grimoult and his underlings. They passed the well and trotted across the other side of the square heading for the gap in the encroaching forest that signified the pathway to the house of the Simulacrum. They emerged from between the trees, to follow the well-maintained path that skirted the lawn. The noise from above increased as the devilkin’s companions continued to berate Grimoult.

  “ How much coin have you made this week eh?” yelled one.

  “ He will have been raking it in, he always does, the greedy fool.”

  “ Ah, but how many children will he have killed to get his hands on that gold eh? Let’s ask him that?” shrilled another.

  “ Fraudulent chemist, who lies dead at your hands this day?”

  “ Come on, charlatan, those concoctions got out of control again didn’t they? And you didn’t care did you, just so long as you got your coin.”

  “ I heard it was a hundred gold marks for each corpse,” taunted another devilkin.

  “ No, I heard it was a great hundred, though he can’t spend it, the stench of death is too great on the coins,” harangued the nearest devilkin.

  The alchemist gave a smile, used to the insults. He was pleased to have remembered the mustard. The creatures hated it and would do almost anything to avoid it being near them. Its presence would at least stop them from haranguing his underlings. The group approached the elegant, yet imposing house as the devilkin sailed and whirled above. Halting before the door, the homunculi pushed Grimoult into a standing position and then turned to watch the swooping devilkin. The alchemist reached out to knock at the door, but it opened and his replica was stood looking at him, save his replica wore far more expensive robes. It still unnerved him, looking at his double, although this double wore a thick gold chain around its neck, a large ruby set in a gold circle, hanging at the end of the chain. A hand rested on the handle of the door, the three of the fingers adorned with chunky rings, precious stones set in the gleaming metal. A fine looking purple hat, sat atop, his, its, head, a plume of feathers, no doubt from some exotic bird, sticking up from the velvet. The Simulacrum shifted the thick, fur-trimmed magenta robes and lent on a thick cane. The cane was polished and beautifully carved, contrasting with the rather gnarled one that Grimoult held. The opulent display was at odds with Grimoult’s well-made yet humble looking attire.