by Damien Black
‘Adelko!’ he bellowed, ‘Just where do you think you’re going? Come back here at once!’
Horskram’s tone brooked no argument. He was already found out anyway: his future in the Order hung by a thread. Adelko shuffled fearfully back over to where his mentor stood, the Abbot gazing incredulously over his shoulder.
No sooner had he done so than Horskram grabbed him, yanked him inside the Abbot’s private study, and pinned him up against the wall.
‘How long have you been listening?’ His voice was lower now, but twice as menacing. Adelko could barely summon up the wherewithal to respond.
‘N-not long. Maybe a couple of minutes... I didn’t hear much – nothing at all really!’
‘How much! What did you hear? Tell me every word, now!’ Horskram demanded, raising his voice. His tanned face was pressed up close to the novice’s, and his eyes burned with a strange light that Adelko found frightening.
‘N-nothing! Just some things about... some fragment of evil that should’ve been kept in the sacristy being pinched from the Abbot’s private chambers upstairs, and something called the Purge, and the Temple perfects not liking us much – that’s all!’
Horskram relaxed his grip on Adelko, his careworn features slipping from anger into despondency. Shaking his head he sighed and said wearily: ‘So in other words, you’ve heard far too much already.’
‘No – really, I haven’t! And I can explain everything about why I’m here...’
Adelko’s voice trailed off, because the truth was that he couldn’t explain at all. Out of nothing more than sheer curiosity he had gotten himself into huge trouble.
But Horskram paid him no heed in any case. ‘How did you get in here?’ he demanded, the sternness returning to his voice.
‘The door was unlocked. I was over by the well returning the pail after fetching water when I saw you at the window. I decided to come – ’
‘Yes, yes, spare me the foolish reasons behind your intrusion for now.’ Letting go of Adelko the grizzled adept rounded on the Abbot. ‘Sacristen, you blasted fool! How could you have been so careless? Leaving your front door unbolted, tonight of all nights! It’s no wonder… it has been stolen from us!’
The Abbot was gazing dumbfounded at the pair of them, his round eyes wide open, his jowls quivering with consternation. In different circumstances Adelko would have been tempted to burst out laughing.
‘But... I’m sure I locked it,’ he stuttered. ‘Ordinarily I never... oh Redeemer’s wounds, what a week is this!’ Sacristen made the sign and raised his eyes to the heavens.
‘The Redeemer only helps those who help themselves – preferably by not being as simple-minded as a village idiot,’ said Horskram roughly. ‘Adelko, I take it you didn’t bother to lock the door behind you when you decided to pay us your surprise visit?’
The novice shook his head sorrowfully and looked at the ground. Horskram turned back to the Abbot and looked at him disdainfully.
‘Well, go and bolt the damned thing, Sacristen – before half of Ulfang decides to join us!’
The hapless Abbot blinked and shuffled off to do as Horskram bade him. Adelko’s master turned to look at him again. ‘So tell me the rest,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘What were you doing up after curfew in the first place?’
Reluctantly Adelko told his mentor the whole story. By the time he had finished the Abbot had returned – holding the now-lit candelabrum that had betrayed him. Shutting the door behind him he locked it with a key that he kept with several others like it on a chain about his waist.
Adelko had read about locks: clever, new-fangled devices that originated in the Empire but were rarely used in the Free Kingdoms, save perhaps in the cities where the merchants guarded their wealth jealously. He had never seen one up close until now, apart from the one on the door to the common library. The keyhole had escaped Adelko’s attention before because he had simply not thought to look for it – otherwise he might have been able to peer through it, he reflected.
The study was another well-kept room. Like the antechamber it had several windows, the largest of which was directly opposite the door. That was the one Adelko had seen his master standing at. Unlike the other windows it was not covered with bone, but two wooden shutters stood flung open to either side of it – the chamber felt unusually hot and Adelko guessed that his hardy master must have hankered for the cold night air. Two more braziers burned brightly – clearly Sacristen did not share his master’s opinion of the benefits of chilly weather.
The room was well lit: several lanterns hung from iron hooks set into the walls. Two chairs and a long low table of oak were set in the middle of the chamber, whose walls were lined with creaking shelves holding more than a hundred books and scrolls and assorted bits and pieces of paraphernalia used for study and prayer.
The overall effect was one of homely disorderliness: however tightly he ran the monastery’s finances, the Abbot certainly wasn’t personally tidy. The right-hand side of the chamber’s semi-circular wall was given over to another spiral staircase leading up to the next floor.
Adelko absorbed all these details peripherally: most of his attention was taken up with fielding his master’s scrutiny and wondering what would now become of him. He found little solace in Horskram’s flat-voiced declaration when he had given a full account of his misdemeanours.
‘Adelko, you have twice broken the rules of our Order this night,’ the old monk said. ‘The first infraction of being abroad unsupervised after curfew is a forgivable offence, albeit not without punishment. But the second is far more serious: no one, novice, journeyman or adept, is permitted to enter the inner sanctum without the Abbot’s express permission. You have presumed to do so, for what precise reason I have yet to fathom. Our Order is founded on discipline and a respect for authority, which you have broken with. As such I cannot intercede on your behalf, and it falls to Prior Sacristen, whose precinct you have unlawfully entered, to determine your fate.’
Horskram turned to look at the Abbot with a deferential gesture. Only a moment ago he had been the one in control, but in the blinking of an eye he had reversed the situation, and authority was in the portly prior’s hands again.
Adelko held his breath as he looked at the avuncular Abbot, who stared back at him and did his best to look stern and authoritative as he barked: ‘Adelko, of all the foolish games you might have played this is surely the worst you could have chosen!’
Adelko’s head slumped – he must surely be finished now.
The Abbot continued: ‘Such behaviour would ordinarily warrant instant expulsion from the Order. But tonight is no ordinary night, as you have doubtless begun to fathom.’
Adelko raised his head to look at the Abbot, whose eyes were sparkling in the lantern light. He felt hope return to him as Sacristen continued: ‘You are devilishly bright, young novice, and far too curious for your own good – but I believe that the Redeemer has sent you here for a purpose, though I cannot divine as yet what that may be.’
Adelko saw the Abbot glance sidelong at Horskram, who nodded imperceptibly to indicate his assent. The novice felt his pulse quicken.
‘And so, by the power vested in me, I shall waive the usual punishment and withhold your expulsion from the Order – provided you swear on the Holy Rood that you shall not breathe a word of what you have heard here tonight to anyone!’
Both monks were looking keenly at Adelko. The novice felt the sweat trickling down his back as he realised he must have stumbled onto something big.
‘Of course, Master Sacristen! I won’t tell anyone, I promise!’
Adelko hoped he sounded sincere. At that moment in time, he certainly was – but whether they would believe him was another matter.
Sacristen turned to look at Horskram, who turned to look at Adelko. Producing his silver circifix from the folds of his habit, Adelko’s master bade him kneel. And there, in the name of the Almighty and His Prophet and the Seven Seraphim, Adelko swore to keep secret everything
he had seen and would see that night, on pain of immediate expulsion from the Order if he broke his troth.
‘Your time in Purgatory where Azrael weighs the souls of all the dead shall be lengthened by days beyond count if you break with your oath, Adelko,’ warned Sacristen, ‘for the Unseen do not take kindly to those who break promises made to them on consecrated ground. Remember that! For it is not just your future in the Order of St Argo that is at stake now!’
Hearing this Adelko had to fight back tears. The night had proved more emotional than he had expected, and he felt his nerves stretched to breaking point. Why oh why did he have to go and be such an intrepid fool?
His face must have betrayed his anguish, because Horskram placed a calloused brown hand on his shoulder and said in gentler tones: ‘Now then lad, don’t despair. The Almighty knows you’ve done a foolish and disobedient thing tonight, but as Prior Sacristen says there may well be some divine purpose in it. Now get up and pull yourself together. If you keep to your word no evil will befall you.’
Snuffling back his incipient tears Adelko did as he was told. He wondered what his friends would be thinking now, and hoped he hadn’t gotten them into too much trouble. He felt bad about having dropped them in it – but what else could he have done?
He had no time to mull this over, because just then Horskram turned to Sacristen and said: ‘Well, Master Abbot, I think it is time you showed us the scene of the crime, so to speak.’
Taking up the candelabrum once again Sacristen motioned for them to follow him up the stairs. Adelko felt his pulse quicken again, his old thirst for adventure and natural curiosity quickly subsuming his guilty feelings.
The next floor was the Abbot’s bedchamber. Again Adelko was surprised to see a certain amount of opulence, with hangings, furs and carpets decked about the room. As men given up to spiritual service of the Almighty, the monks were supposed to lead austere lives, and Adelko knew that the buildings housing the journeymen and adepts were divided into cells that afforded few creature comforts. At least Sacristen’s pallet was a simple affair, and half the room was given over to a personal shrine, with a great rood of painted hardwood dominating it.
Looking at the Redeemer’s gaping wounds in the eerie candlelight, Adelko felt himself less reassured than usual by the image of his spiritual saviour. There was so much evil in the world, even one of the Unseen descended to earth in mortal form had fallen foul of it.
The Abbot led them up another flight of stairs. This emerged into another circular chamber, with a lower ceiling than the others; the two older monks almost had to stoop. This room was windowless, and a foul musty odour of dankness permeated the cloying air. The wavering light from Sacristen’s candelabrum fell on dozens of books stacked up around the walls, some of them piled in rotting wooden boxes, others standing free.
Seeing this Horskram turned to look at the prior. He was frowning, and his aquiline features looked ghostly in the candlelight.
‘Sacristen, some of these books are very... you know what some of them contain. They should not be kept so freely!’
‘What would you have me do?’ snapped the other monk, his eyes suddenly flashing. ‘Waylay every passing merchant for his strongbox? Is their presence in the inner sanctum not enough?’
Sacristen’s voice trailed off as his eyes fell on Adelko. ‘None of them contain the kind of... knowledge you are doubtless referring to in any case,’ he said sullenly. ‘They would have been burnt long ago if so.’
‘If they contain the other kind of “knowledge” as you put it, they should have been destroyed regardless,’ replied Horskram testily. ‘In my opinion there’s no such thing as good – ’ He cut himself off abruptly as the novice caught his eye too. ‘Never mind. Is this where you were keeping it too?’
The Abbot shook his head emphatically. ‘Redeemer’s wounds, no! A fine night’s sleep I would get with such a thing directly above my pallet! The sanctum has one final chamber. It’s this way.’
Adelko listened to this exchange in silence, but his mind was racing. What secrets did the inner sanctum hold? He was already beginning to fathom what some of them might be, but dared not believe he could be right.
While the elder monks bickered he tried to make out the tomes they were arguing over in more detail, but the light from Sacristen’s candelabrum was quite weak and all he could see was that many of them looked very old indeed.
But where his eyes failed him, his other senses were picking things up.
Beyond the dank smell to be expected from an airless stone chamber was something else: a more profound foulness permeated the air and put him instantly in mind of the room where poor Gizel had lain possessed. His sixth sense had ratcheted up another notch, and he felt an insidious dread creeping through his entrails, growing stronger with every passing moment. Looking at the taut expressions on the older monks’ faces, he could well believe they felt it too.
Sacristen led them through the piles of books to another flight of stairs leading up in a diagonal line from the centre of the chamber and terminating in a trapdoor. Sacristen held up the candelabrum to give a clearer view of the latter: like the other doors in the sanctum it was made of oak, but this one was bound in iron and had the Wheel carved into its surface. The Abbot glanced sidelong at Horskram.
‘Everything you need to see lies beyond yonder trapdoor. If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to go up there again.’
In the wan candlelight Adelko could see beads of nervous sweat on the Abbot’s pudgy face. Even Horskram looked visibly perturbed. Adelko’s feeling of creeping horror had increased, as had the foulness of the stench. Both were undeniably coming from beyond the trapdoor.
Reaching into his habit Horskram produced his circifix and began intoning a prayer to the Redeemer. It was the same one they had recited before beginning their assault on the evil spirit at Rykken, and without thinking twice Adelko found himself doing the same. Then, taking the candelabrum from the Abbot, Horskram began slowly to ascend the stairs to the trapdoor. Again without thinking, Adelko followed. That Sacristen preferred to stay alone in the dark surrounded by all the strange books barely crossed his mind.
The trapdoor was as heavy as it looked and with some effort Horskram pushed it open one-handed. As he did so a gust of foetid air rushed down into the chamber. Both monks recoiled at the reek; for an instant Adelko feared one or both of them would lose their footing and tumble down the stairs. The air was hot, far too hot for the season or circumstances, and Adelko felt himself break out into a cold sweat that confused his senses horribly. As the hellish draft passed through the room it rustled the dry leaves of the old books, which seemed to whisper eerily in the half darkness.
Then all was silent again, although the increased stench lingered. Horskram pushed back the trapdoor with a dull thud and entered the uppermost chamber. Adelko mouthed another quick prayer and followed before his courage failed him. He could hear Sacristen below him in the dark, reciting psalms in a soft voice that quavered.
Looking about him Adelko was almost disappointed. The room he was in was no bigger than the last one, and almost empty. There was no obvious manifestation of evil, but its lingering presence was undeniable. Down in the chamber below the smell had been unpleasant; up here it was enough to make him gag. Even the monastery’s latrine could not smell so awful: indeed there was something profoundly unnatural about the putrid odour that now set his gullet heaving and forced him to put the sleeve of his habit across his mouth.
Horskram was casting about in an agitated state, the candelabrum clutched in one hand and his circifix in the other. The ceiling of the uppermost chamber was no more than a man’s height above their heads. A rusty iron ladder affixed to the far wall led up to an aperture that presumably led onto the turreted roof where the flag of the Order perched. The ruins of another trapdoor hung loosely from its one remaining hinge; Adelko gawped as he realised the thing had been made of stone. In the flickering candlelight he now noticed shards and splinters s
cattered about the foot of the ladder. The night skies peered down at them as they stared up at the mangled stone block dangling precariously above them.
‘Very clever,’ breathed Horskram in a low voice. ‘Right at the summit of the tower. No one from the outside would notice – you’d have to be a thaumaturgist to see this!’
‘A thaumaturgist? What do you mean?’ Adelko breathed. He had unconsciously lowered his voice to a half whisper. The air was still oppressively hot.
‘Only someone capable of flying would be able to notice that there had been a break-in,’ Horskram clarified. ‘None of the other brothers at Ulfang would ever spot it from the ground. You wouldn’t even see it from the hills around the monastery.’
That made sense, Adelko supposed. Thaumaturgy was the school of magic that gave a warlock power over the elements in defiance of the natural laws of the world decreed by the Almighty. Skilled thaumaturgists could bind Elementi to their will, including air spirits or Aethi, enabling them to fly.
Horskram’s gaze involuntarily flicked downwards as he answered Adelko’s question. The novice wasn’t sure whether he was thinking of the Abbot, the strange books, or both.
Slowly they perambulated the chamber. Horskram handed the candelabrum to Adelko and produced his phial of holy water, sprinkling it about the dusty floor and intoning the Psalm of Reconsecration as he went, just in case Sacristen had neglected to do so in his fear.
The flickering candlelight fell on the only item in the room: a large strongbox, at least half the size of a man, wrought of solid iron. Adelko glanced over at his master, who had just finished the blessing, but he seemed unsurprised.
Putting his holy water away the older monk took the candelabrum back and stepped over to examine the chest, still clutching his circifix.
As the light fell on it directly Adelko nearly gasped out loud. Given his childhood days spent at his father’s forge there could be no mistaking his eyes.
Something had melted more than half the side of the chest.
