Another man ran from the side street in a swirl of smoke.
‘Here’s Altho now,’ said Kass, hoping for some good news but fearing more bad.
As the young exorcist ran towards them he was struck by an invisible force that bent him into a C shape and sent him sprawling across the cobbles. It was a spectacle with only one possible cause and they raced to his aid; Hayhas in a full bloodied run and Kass falling behind in a rolling hobble.
Altho jerked up in single movement and his arms snapped out to the sides, giving him the look of a scarecrow. It was a sight that wronged nature and the crowd recoiled from him.
‘Stay back!’ Kass shouted. ‘Do not touch him!’
His command was unnecessary as the crowd was already backing way. Some were half turned and ready to run, but they remained in place for now; transfixed by morbid curiosity. Altho’s eyes opened and flicked between Kass and Hayhas - a movement that was disconnected from expression, giving him the look of a frightened puppet.
To be invested in the order all exorcists had to demonstrate they could fight free of a possession. It was a dangerous test and one nearly everyone failed on their first attempt. Kass had taken dozens of exorcists through the test and was familiar with the early signs of break out. The pupil would usually regain some function that reflected his inner struggle – a twitch, a punch to the air or a string of babbled words. But Kass was seeing no such thing now. The spirit had complete control of Altho and had given him use of his eyes only to project his fear. But at least it was contained and all they needed to do to initiate their collective exorcism was get their hands on the young exorcist before the spirit discarded him.
Altho whipped his dagger out and lifted his arm to the position of a fiddler; elbow up high and the blade ready to play the tendons of his neck. His eyes widened and someone in the crowd screamed. His other arm suddenly broke free of its scarecrow pose and started pulling the knife away. But the blade jerked back and the cycle repeated several times. Finally, his arm snapped down by his side and the blade was left to rest among a dozen nicks that were weeping crimson tears onto his shirt. But again, this was no sign of an inner struggle that had temporarily gone Altho’s way. It was showmanship of the most appalling order; the spirit giving him use of his arm only to make a spectacle of him.
Altho took a step backwards and began staggering away - the clomping of his boots on the sooty cobbles the only sound above the roar of the inferno. The exorcists started after him but drew up sharp when the spirit turned the knife, placing the point to Altho’s throat. The crowd around him was swelling, people drifting in from nearby streets and pushing forward to see what was going on.
The young exorcist stopped where the heat grew strong. Behind him the fire was devouring a butcher’s shop; tendrils of smoke swirling in the breeze and reaching out for him like arms. Altho spoke, but his vocal cords were being operated by his possessor and his voice was an abomination of the air. ‘SAVE ME KASS RIOLE, HIGH EXORCIST OF THE CALISTE… SA-’
His voice tore off as something gave in his throat.
Kass stared in a paralysis of impotence. Altho was only nineteen and full of enthusiasm – a charming young man who still lived with his mother and blushed in the presence of girls. The eyes of the city were all around him now, willing him to act. But what could he do? He could almost hear the spirit mocking him: They will call on you and you will fail them.
He jumped when a city guard spoke at his side. ‘Lord Riole. May we be of assistance?’ There were three guards altogether, blackened and worn from firefighting. The one who spoke had a flat nose and the markings of rank on his shoulder.
‘He’s possessed sergeant. We need to get hands on him, but his possessor has threatened to kill him if we try.’ The guard nodded grimly. Kass saw the ash bow slung over his shoulder and it gave him an idea. ‘Our only chance is to get rid of that knife. How good are you with that bow?’
‘Best in the garrison,’ he said, puffing up.
‘Do you think you could shoot the knife from his hand?’
He looked at Altho and shook his head. ‘It’s too close to his throat. But I could take his arm. He’ll let go of it then, no matter what’s inside him.’
‘Okay. Do it now, but leave these two with me. His possessor can only see what he sees, so it’s best if you move back through the crowd and come at him from the side. As soon as you get the shot, take it. We’ll be ready.’ When the sergeant left he turned to the remaining guards. ‘As soon as the arrow strikes we’ll rush him. Take care of the knife and hold him down while we draw the spirit.’
But as they waited for the sergeant to get in position, the spirit began walking Altho towards the flames again. Kass stood on tip toes searching desperately for his bowman, no longer caring if he gave him away. He spotted him off to the right. His arrow was levelled, but now Altho was moving he was struggling to get a shot. But then he released his bowstring and the arrow flew across the street in a swirl of smoke, skewering Altho’s forearm. His hand opened in a reflex the spirit couldn’t prevent and the knife clattered to the ground.
Kass and Hayhas raced over, but they were too late.
The spirit walked him into an invisible wall of heat and they were soon forced back with their hands raised to their faces. Altho began to scream. Perhaps the spirit thought it would make a better show if the young exorcist was permitted to communicate his pain through his ruined throat. It was the worst sound Kass had ever heard. And if that wasn’t enough, the spirit gave him the use of his arms. They reached forward to escape as his face blistered and his hair caught alight. All the while his legs continued to walk him into the inferno.
‘Again sergeant!’ Kass cried. ‘End his pain!’
Two arrows flew in quick succession, their flights catching fire the moment they pierced Altho’s neck and chest. His screams ceased and his arms dropped limply to his side. But he remained on his feet – his whole body blistering as he was transformed into a charred statue. It wasn’t until the fire died down that they were able to take him away. But by then, most of the city had been by to see him.
From a window of the Black Witch Tavern, Raphe looked out to where the smoke lifted into the morning sky. He felt the spirit gathering behind him and turned to a patch of shimmering air.
‘Is it done?’
‘Yes. I killed one of his men while hundreds watched.’
‘Good. But no more destruction. What we want now is fear and testimonies.’
A triple knock sounded on the door.
‘Go now. The city will provide food and shelter for those made homeless by the fire. Find out where they’re based and report back.’
The spirit left and he opened the door to find a plump barmaid holding a tray of steaming food. She was flushed and a thin layer of perspiration covered her face and cleavage.
‘Sorry it took so long sir,’ she said, flustered. ‘Only the cook lives in the market quarter and what with the fire an’ all…’ She started in, but he blocked her way.
‘Don’t worry I’ll take that.’
‘Oh… Alright. If you’re sure,’ she said, handing him the tray. She frowned as she got her first proper look at his face. ‘Are you feeling alright sir? You don’t look very well.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Some’s died they say. And many houses gone to cinders… Some’r saying it was a ghost got it all started, tearing up houses an’ all.’
‘Well let’s hope the exorcists can put a quick end to it.’
‘Terrible business though,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘And on the same day as such sad news of the King.’
‘The King?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘You don’t know?’ He looked past her into the corridor as if fearing to be overheard. ‘It might not be common knowledge yet,’ he went on in a whisper. ‘But I had a walk earlier and couldn’t help overhearing two of the city guards…They’re saying the King is dead.’
Her eyes widened.
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‘Dead? Surely not. It can’t be true, can it?’ She looked at first incredulous, then alarmed.
‘Look. I can’t be certain. It was just two guards running their mouths. But if you hear talk of it, be sure to let me know?’
‘I will.’ she said, studying his face again. ‘Well if that’s all.’
‘Thank you,’ he said and shut the door in her face.
The maid started down the stairs in a daze. But she was quick to recover and by the time she reached the ground floor she was busting to spread the news. She had one fleeting thought before she reached the first of many receptive ears: despite his denial the guest in room two had looked more than ill - he looked green.
Knuckle Spikes
The sun was low in the west when Argol brought them to a halt by raising a tattooed arm. They were deep in jungle now; the torucks dwarfed by hulking trees that knitted together in a high canopy. Karkus pulled Della close and used a hand on her neck to walk her to where Argol was standing. Griglis joined them and they stood in a tight knot looking into the jungle.
‘What do you see?’ Karkus asked.
‘A dogape,’ said Argol. ‘Up there in that tree.’
Della saw it then; a thing that moved along one of the high branches on all fours, thickly muscled and covered with black fur. It lumbered to the edge of the branch and sprung away, disappearing in a thrash of foliage. They remained in position for some time, watching and listening until Karkus saw fit to continue. But only a few minutes later they saw another one, or perhaps the same one, edging along a low branch only fifty yards away. This time it spotted them and froze. In the shade of the canopy it was little more than a silhouette, its green eyes shining like poisonous grapes. For a while it simply observed them. Then it tipped its head back, shredded the air with a series of high pitched whines then slunk away. Before the foliage settled they heard the same sound repeated back from several directions.
‘Bollocks,’ said Karkus, his face darkening as he yanked Della onwards. ‘It’s alerted the pack… We’ll make a stand at that tree.’ They bolted towards the huge tree trunk and Karkus pressed Della into a nook between two chest high roots. He gave her leash to Griglis and grabbed his shirt. ‘Your life before hers,’ he said and forced him down beside her, a hundred threats gathering in his eyes.
‘Of course,’ Griglis said, wrapping the leash around his hand and wedging himself into the space next to her. He was so close she could smell his panting breath. And it was the smell of decay – the smell of lungs poisoned by mist. The torucks planted their feet in front of them. They took knuckle spikes from their belts and fitted them to all four hands before drawing their blades: swords above and daggers below - eight fine points and sixteen keen edges held out to the jungle.
They listened to the dogapes thrashing through the foliage and glimpsed them darting through the shadows. They organised behind two huge trees and came at them as a tight pack; shoulders pumping as they beat the ground with clawed fists. Della watched them approach from between the toruck’s thick calves, but it wasn’t until they drew up in a lace of weak sunlight that she fully appreciated their features.
They were apes, but with the jaws and snouts of dogs. Sleek black pelt clothed their muscular bodies, running to a deep bronze where it tufted around their necks and stubby tails. Their faces were crossed with prominent blood vessels and covered with a bat wing skin, stretched so tight it screamed. And this close their eyes were distinctly reptilian – split grapes with a rich midnight filling.
They rose onto hind legs, looking more like dogs than apes as they whined excitedly and sniffed the air. The sound spiralled and narrowed to a pitch that pierced Della’s ears like a pencil and ordered every hair on her neck to stand up. She clamped her hands to her head and shrunk further into the nook. It was a weaponised sound – an aural assault that set every bird within a mile radius to the wing. But the torucks withstood it with a stoical grimace; confidence and resolve carved into the jut of their chins.
All at once the sound ceased, replaced by a strange vacuum that made Della nod in the direction of the pack. If she had been standing, she would have fallen flat on her face. And as mighty as the torucks were, they were not immune. As her head nodded they jerked a stabilising foot out; weapons dipping in the air.
It was what the pack were waiting for and they rushed forward, springing up in a solid wave of snapping mouths and swiping claws. The giants swung their swords and stabbed with daggers. The swords cut into the pack, slicing several dogapes in half. But once the power of their strokes was spent, the blades were lost in the surge of bodies; stuck like axes driven too far into wood. The torucks had expected this and before the beasts could bite at their extended arms they relinquished their blades to the black tide and began pounding the front ranks with knuckle spikes. As the collective weight of dogapes drove forward they were forced against the tree, squashing Griglis on top of Della and sealing them in a cocoon of raging flesh and fur. The toruck’s arms worked like pistons - spikes and daggers, spikes and daggers. Each spike was two inches long and the row of four on each fist did as much damage as their daggers, especially when followed with a twist of the wrist that opened huge holes in the beasts. One bit at Karkus’s neck but he butted it away, breaking its skull with a crack that could be heard over the howls and snarls of its brethren. When another got close to Argol’s face he twisted away and bit its ear off, spitting it back in its face and ending it with a dagger between the ribs.
Della was cowering in the nook when a yank on her hair lifted her face. She screamed, thinking one of the dogapes had got through; but it was Griglis and his eyes were blazing with anticipation. Whatever desire had been in his mind when they stopped at the gorge was back again and she could see he was about to act on it. He clamped her in a scour grip and thudded her head against the tree. And before the pain could register, his mind was plunging through hers. Ormis’s scour had been unpleasant, but this was far worse. What she was feeling now was nothing less than a violent rape of her mind and she screamed and squirmed under his grip, trying desperately to push him away. But she was wedged in a nook with little wriggle room and his hand remained fastened to her face.
The shadow had been waiting for Griglis to attempt this very thing and when his scour reached the place where it was hiding and began to draw, it didn’t resist. It rose like a wind, shifting Della into Absence and funnelling her into him. As her soulless body slumped Griglis released her with a cry of surprise. He had tried to suck a stain from a piece of cloth and had swallowed the cloth instead.
The shadow expanded Della into Griglis and all at once the whole ensemble of his sensation was upon her: the position of his limbs, the dampness of his shirt and even the throb of his arthritic knee. But more than this, she felt his dawning horror as he realised what was happening. The violent scour had rendered her dizzy and disorientated and she could only watch through his eyes as the shadow turned him to look through Argol’s legs. At least a dozen dogapes lay dead and dying at the torucks feet, but one of them was working its way forward beneath the melee; split grape eyes glowing above a canine snarl. The shadow forced Griglis onto his belly and crawled him through Argol’s legs to meet it. Della felt some resistance, but it wasn’t hers. She was still in a paralysis of shock. It was Griglis; trying to take back control of his body. But he was too late. His defences were flooded and his efforts were quashed.
The shadow insulated Della to his sensation like a second skin. What did get through was distant and dulled, but it still felt like she was crawling towards the dogape and not him. As they came together it bit his neck and pulled him back through the pack in a series of jerks. She felt its teeth and those of the others that set about him. And although the sensation was dulled, the pain was immense and she screamed with each new perforation of his flesh – a sound that was two parts him and one part her. She felt claws separating his ribs and teeth behind the muscles of his thigh, scrapping over bone. There was a searing pain in his sh
oulder then a terrible yanking, over and over again, until his arm came off. Then they were all over him. One moment it was like falling through a barrel of broken glass, the next like being pulled apart by fish hooks. Then all at once she felt nothing and knew he was dead.
Triumphant howls split the air and the assault on the torucks fizzled out as those on the front line rushed to join the feeding frenzy. Most were too late, unable to get anywhere near the spot where Griglis’s rapidly disintegrating corpse was being fought over. When they realised this they turned back to the torucks, reassessing them with narrow eyes. They watched for trembling hands and swaying bodies. And they watched the blood flowing from their wounds and how easily they drew breath. But mostly they watched their eyes and sniffed the air, hoping for signs of fear and panic.
But nothing in their assessment gave them any encouragement.
The four armed giants were glaring at them over a heap of dead and twitching bodies, feet set firm and huge frames braced for another attack. Both were marred with several deep wounds, but most of the blood dripping off them wasn’t theirs. They watched with interest as the giants moved their arms through a succession of poses that lined up strange markings on their blood slicked skin. They had no idea what it meant, but their primitive intelligence was able to discern that the giants were not only ready for another fight; they were inviting one. After several minutes of silent study two of them crawled forward on their bellies. But they didn’t attack. They sunk their teeth into one of their fallen instead, dragging it to a clot of thick ferns where they were helped by others to cannibalise it.
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