by Toby Bennett
Both Akna and Ilsar’s eyes were blurred by helpless tears by the time they reached the fountain and clearly saw the distraught ghost beyond it. The phantom's features had degenerated over centuries into a mass of livid burns but the infant, which lay, half immersed in the muck of the fountain, was perfect, unblemished by flame or time and held solid by the ferocity of its mother's love. The terrible tragedy of the scene lay in the fact that the child had escaped the flame because his mother had immersed him in the waters of the fountain to protect him, she never knew if it was the smoke or her failure to keep her child’s head above water that had killed him. That loss was as potentially deadly as any of the decayed blades and assassin’s daggers that might have found them if they had stayed on the forgotten streets and it had drawn them here, that they might grieve with her forever.
Akna did not have any idea when he had fallen to his knees nor how long he had wept next to the incessantly wailing ghost; had he been more susceptible to grief he might never have risen again but deeply ingrained survival instincts overrode the waves of loss. There was something moving in the courtyard, his hand reflexively stole to his sword hilt and the grief was locked away in some corner of his mind. His eyes tracked the erratic path of a silver wasp as it hummed through the ruins of the courtyard. It seemed a petty distraction, almost an insult that he should become distracted from his grief by the buzzing of a simple insect, he let his hand fall from his sword hilt and began to return his eyes to the child, except it wasn’t just the strange insect that was moving in the overrun garden. There was no breeze to speak of behind the courtyard’s sheltering inner walls but the vines were swaying back and forth in time with the grieving mother’s cries, even as he watched, a thin black creeper curled over the toe of his left boot.
Chapter 21:
“Now is all the world set on its edge,
And each nerve stretched to breaking.
We fear the truths for which we dredge,
And know them on their waking.”
Gilash watched the hunt from the top of the hill. As usual his face was impassive and his mind was sealed so tight that not even the most sensitive of his brothers, might catch a hint of what he was thinking. If the chaos in the darkened ruins below disturbed him, neither of his two aides could tell, they could only sit and wait patiently for the orders, which they would relay to their brothers. It was a risky business to slip into the veil so close to the phantoms teeming through the Ghosts, but both men had risen far in the House by taking risks.
“Tasken and his squad have made it to the old court houses,” Hultek murmured as loudly as he could without disturbing his partial trance.
“No contact with Zurox’s group,” Avid echoed.
Gilash fought to keep his frustration from trickling through, it would not do for his subordinates to know that he felt that there was something wrong.
“Find Barbik and Quin see if they have seen anything,” the Patriarch said calmly
“As you wish My Lord. Zurox asked me to report that he has lost several brothers and that the decoys with the torches have all been slain.”
“Casualties were to be expected but the prize we seek will prove worth it.”
As long as we find it Gilash added to himself. With Lothar gone the power structure of the Asylum would be in flux. The Bishops and Cardinals would be begging for him to back their claims and each man he lost made him weaker. Not to mention the fact that time would be getting short, he doubted that the higher echelons of the clergy would even wait for the official ceremonies to bury Lothar to be complete before they began trying to carve up his legacy. Strictly speaking, he should be in the Asylum even now, taking the measure of factions and making it subtly clear that Asemutt had brought ruin even to a tyrant like Lothar. With so much in the balance it, cost a spider like Gilash much to be away from the centre of his web, even for a few hours.
The soul stone would be worth it though, with such an artefact his dominance would be assured. First he would drain every secret he could from Takiaza then, when the time came and his mortal body failed him, he would replace the Hierophant as the dominant spirit in the gem; he could rule indefinitely from behind the thrones and palaces, the first Lord of Niskar capable of truly creating an empire in a thousand years. If he gained the stone, his agents would not confine themselves to the shadows of Niskar; to the hells with Akna’s talk of daemons, the old masters were never coming back and with immortality, he might be able to raise himself as a new master for a world that had almost forgotten what it was to accept the goad of a higher power. Gilash allowed himself a smile at that thought, son or not Akna had served him well, his only flaw seemed to be that he had learned the lesson of survival a bit too well.
A low droning announced the return of one of his spies; with no time to waste the Patriarch opened his mouth and allowed the silver wasp to slip onto his tongue. The unrefined honey burned as it dripped onto his tongue, numbing the rest of his palate to the cold touch of the wriggling insect. The images that flooded through his mind were raw and distorted but he had no time to wait for the hive to make sense of them, short of risking himself by entering the veil and going down into the city, the wasps represented his best way to get first hand intelligence on what was happing in the Ghosts.
For fleeting seconds, Gilash was flitting over rooftops, past the roil of battling ghosts and summonings. The pale light from the Kings' Hill was a constant distraction in the blurred corners of the wasp’s vision and Gilash felt an echo of the insect’s unreasoning attraction to the light. The wasp was used to flying in almost complete darkness and the brightness was so disorientating that Gilash almost didn’t see the daemonic shape loping through the shadows. At first Gilash couldn’t fathom why the wasp had paid any special attention to the hunched creature, scuttling away into the shelter of another street, until it hit him. The creature was neither phantom nor summoning, it had taken no part in the conflict, instead it had hurried past, trying to stay hidden. If it were not involved in the fighting, Gilash could only think of one other reason for such a creature to be moving about through all the mayhem. It was looking for something, or someone, despite himself Gilash’s mind turned to Akna’s talk of daemons. It seemed impossible that such a thing could have been hidden for so long but even through the referred sight of the wasp in his mouth, Gilash could tell that the grizzly interloper was something beyond his experience. That led him to the inevitable conclusion that he had unexpected competition for the stone.
The dull hum of another scout returning broke into his thoughts. The new wasp was moving fast and giving off every sign of urgency, the resident wasp barely had time to clear his lips before the newcomer had barged in and was trickling images into his mind. Gilash choked down the bitterness, which had grown almost intolerable, with two messages so close together. Lights played over his vision, while his brain tried to make sense of the competing images, abruptly the wavering images resolved themselves into a single image of Akna and his companion kneeling in darkness.
Gilash did not wait for any more of the image to crystallize, the pain had reached levels, threatening to overwhelm his senses and because of the latest revelations he could not risk losing consciousness or disorientation.
“We must waste no more time,” Gilash yelled out abruptly, spitting out the crumpled body of the wasp and reaching for a glass of chilled water. The pain barely eased but the distortion at the corners of his vision receded. He wiped his eyes and regarded his two aides. Avid had snapped out of his trance when he heard his lord’s tone but Hultek was still unmoving, his eyes half open. Gilash did not bother to ascertain whether Hultek was merely deeply in trace or if he had the tell tale glassy stare that would indicate one of the phantoms below had detected his presence beyond the veil and severed him from the waking world.
“My Lord?” Avid studied his master for some clue as to what had prompted his outburst. Water rolled unheeded from one corner of the Patriarch’s mouth and with an effort of will, he spoke.<
br />
“We are not the only ones seeking the stone.”
“Who else could have learned of it so quickly or known where the fugitives went?” Avid wondered aloud.
“It doesn’t matter why or who,” Gilash rose from his canvas field chair and obedient hands folded it away. The Patriarch made a few gestures to the shadows beyond the light of the lanterns and black clad figures began to coalesce. Avid's eyes widened, the men now kneeling before his lord were from his personal guard, if Gilash was calling them from their posts guarding the perimeter, it could only mean that they were moving.
“Surely my lord does not mean to risk himself by going down there?”
“There is no choice, I know where Akna can be found and I know that our competition is close. We can’t simply hope that he will run into our arms, if my last vision was correct, he will not be moving at all and that means our time is short.”
“Who could find the traitor before our own men? Simply let me relay your orders and they will bring Akna and the stone to you.”
“I would accuse you of some form of cowardice, Avid but by now you cannot fail to have noticed Hultek’s condition.”
Avid swallowed hard, it was as he had feared, his friend was dead, still breathing but vacant, worse even than they said the traitor was. Avid had only seen a death beyond the veil a few times but watching the victim fail over days without food or water was a terrible thing.
“With your permission, My Lord?” Avid’s dagger was out, almost as soon as Gilash had given his nod and Hultek’s unprotesting body was slumped on the ground, the lungs still trying to draw strong unhurried breaths, through the frothing ruin of his throat.
“The risk was anticipated, My Lord, only let me know where I should direct my squads and I will do so.”
“No, they will screen us as we enter the Ghosts.” Gilash made a gesture to forestall Avid’s response. “We have no time to waste in debate.”
The Patriarch shot a glance at the men and women gathered around him and nodded with satisfaction to see that all his operatives had gathered. These were his fastest and his best, each one should easily have been a match for the wayward acolyte, who had somehow managed to escape him twice already.
‘We are going into the Ghosts after the traitor, we must be quick for something hunts our prize even now.’ The words were not spoken, the elite of House Asemutt did not need such primitive forms of communication. To everyone but his guard, Gilash’s mind was a steel trap, but to the few deemed worthy of being closest to him there was no barrier between his will and their minds. The rituals that had ensured the bond between the Patriarch and his chosen had also robbed them of much of their autonomy, Gilash need never worry about betrayal by one of his own, those linked to him could hide nothing from him, his whim was their whole world, his life their own. Gilash felt his guard respond to his desires, as soon as the thoughts formed in his mind; like hunting dogs they snuffled and howled over the fleeting image of the thing that was hunting their quarry. Daemon or nightmare, nothing could be allowed to stand in Gilash’s way, fifty minds echoed with the Patriarch’s resolve.
Avid watched as the killers around him melted back into the shadows, seemingly moving as one body and reading their master’s intent through a bond so well controlled that, close as he was to them, he could not detect the slightest disturbance in the veil. It appeared that the Patriarch strode down the hill alone but in reality he was as secure as a lord in his tower, it wouldn’t do to be left out of that bubble of safety, Avid realised, and he rushed to keep up with the long strides of the Patriarch, leaving behind the cooling body of his childhood friend and following Hultek’s lost soul into the dark.
*
Varkuz revelled in his growing strength, with each loping stride through the Ghosts, the flesh he moved in, warped further becoming stronger and more deadly. With the mask of humanity removed and no need to wrestle with another mind to ensure every action, the imp was re-living some of what he had once been. He might not have been great by the measure of his kind but he had always been quick and he had probably spent longer on the wrong side of the veil than any other daemon. He had outlasted even the greatest daemon princes and their reigns of blood and flame. Their high temples were ruins now, a few might even be found in the wreckage of the palaces and villa’s around him.
The imp would never admit it to himself but he had grown used to his solidity, the prospect of rejoining his kind beyond the veil was not one that he relished, as he once had. If he had not found the girl, he would have been drawn back into the shifting realms of his masters. A place where he was of so little substance, that even the weakest dreamer might cage him and shape him to their whim. Varkuz could no longer imagine why he had set so much store in subtlety or felt such loyalty to his ancient lords, as each atom shifted to his will, the imp saw the possibility of a different future. The priests had stolen the worship of the old ones, why would it not be right for the old order to be renewed? He was no daemon prince but he was more than any priest; it seemed right that men should once more bend a knee to daemon kind and if his masters had decided to abandon this realm, then there could be no harm in him acting as caretaker.
There would be plenty of time for sacrifices while they waited for the greater powers to return. Varkuz’s second stomach growled and he strained to focus beyond the need to gulp down fresh blood, some part of him was distantly aware of the dangers of becoming trapped in the monstrous form he had shaped for himself. The thing he inhabited now was no priest or human weakling, it was a creature born out of his rage and as it developed, it threatened to overwhelm him. The daemonic muscles bulged, the daemon’s snout shifted yet again and scents became sharper, almost colours hanging in the air. The scent of the assassin filled the daemon’s mind, blocking any inhibition, revenge was what mattered, revenge and ensuring that the stones the thieves has stolen were hers again. As the daemon ran, its hips began to shift, allowing for longer, loping strides but also to allow for more efficient reproduction. Blood would not be the only sacrifice the transformed daemon anticipated, she would spawn a brood to enforce her will throughout the world. It was madness that she had never thought to use such power as she now felt lying dormant in her new body. No man could offer her the capability she had now. The daemon let out a scream and plunged down an alley after her prey.
The courtyard was silent when the daemon entered; large sections of vegetation lay strewn on the ground. The smell of the assassin was strong here, something had spilled his blood in this very spot. Varkuz ground her teeth unconsciously, it didn’t matter if the thieves were already dead she reminded herself, the power of the stones they carried was what mattered, with them she could rebuild what Lothar had begun but this time there would be no need for subterfuge. Varkuz could not think why she had even tried to hide before; a single flex of her thickly muscled arms and the answering squeal from the stones as her steely claws scraped the stones, was all she needed to know that she need not fear any opposition.
Varkuz crept closer then stopped. It was a subtle scent, easily missed thanks to her obsession with finding the thieves and it was coming from all around her. Varkuz shook her head, unable to come to terms with what her senses were telling her, that someone had had the temerity to try to ambush her. It couldn’t be the assassin, he was running, trying to put as much distance between himself and his former masters as he could. A figure stepped out from behind the statute, at the same moment it entered Varkuz’s mind.
“You can imagine my surprise when Akna tried to tell me that there was still a daemon this side of the veil.” The Patriarch of Asemutt said, running his eyes over the perversion before him, there were only the vaguest clues that the body before him had once been human and in spite of the presence of his guards all around him, Gilash found himself suppressing a quick surge of fear.
“Gilash.” The inhuman jaws struggled with the word and Varkuz swelled with rage.The Patriarch of Asemutt had often foiled to his designs, when he played the r
ole of Lothar, it was even he who had sent the assassin.
“I should have killed you long ago.”
“Should is meaningless, daemon, you served Lothar once, now you will serve me.” Vurkuz coughed on a rattling giggle.
“Lothar served me, Gilash.”
“Save your deceptions, imp, you think I do not know of the daemon stone?”
“You have it?”
“I will soon enough and then you will serve me.”
“I will kill you now and then I will have the stone!”
“You hide in flesh, daemon, but I promise you only pain for your defiance. Agree to serve me and things will go easier.”
Varkuz did not bother to try to debate further, her body surged forward almost of its own accord. Quick as the daemon was, the assassins watching from the shadows were quicker, quarrels lanced into her sides, spreading poison through her veins. Still the daemon came on, ignoring the pain, new muscles swelled on her already impressive frame and her talons tore the old mosaics, that had decorated the ancient garden into a cloud of jagged stone and glass. Quick figures darted in, thrusting daggers at her flanks and drawing yet more blood. Gilash had not even flinched, instead he opened his hand and the sound of sobbing filled the courtyard. The dishevelled vines quivered at the sound and uncoiled from around the walls and fountain.
The vines had already sustained many wounds but they were strong and hungry and the cries of the ghost, now bound to the gem in the Patriarch’s hand called them to feed. Varkuz was inches from her target, when she found herself encased in leafy tendrils, her muzzel sharpened and strained, the muscles beneath the skin boiled, as she fought to reach her enemy, but her venomous fangs snapped together in front of the Patriarch's face, without even eliciting a blink from the impassive master of assassins.
