Absence_Mist and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  They followed in quick succession, but lacking her fearless grace they were forced to crawl across the ridge tiles. Ormis jumped down and found Suula standing over the watchman’s lifeless body. He was reaching up to help Kye off the gable end when another man appeared around the corner; the drum of booted feet signalling more on the way. He left Kye to scrape down the wall and went to meet them with Suula. ‘Go now,’ he called back, ‘And keep the girl safe.’

  Kye helped Della off the roof, then they jumped a wall together, taking off along another alley.

  The man at the corner was joined by four more. They advanced with glinting knives and confident smiles; but their courage wavered when they saw the watchman laid out behind Suula. They drew up and weighed up – looking into the faces of the two they had been hired to detain. The exorcist was dressed like a beggar now, but his eyes were as cold and sharp as a frontier guard. And his tracker no longer looked like the insignificant waif they had assumed her to be. She was poised like a wildcat and there was a suggestion of explosive energy gathering in her frame. All at once they turned and fled, bumping into the walls as they tried to get in front of one another. The Night Earl had given them this contract, but they had decided he wasn’t paying enough. Better to face his fury, than mix it up with these two.

  Ormis jumped the wall with Suula and they set off along the other alleyway in the opposite direction to Kye and Della. ‘We need to get out of the city,’ he said as they ran. ‘I need to get word to Lord Beredrim and there’s an old tunnel in the graveyard that runs beneath the Black Tower.’

  Suula frowned. It wasn’t just the implausibility of such a tunnel, it was the way he said it – as if the idea had jumped into his head. She hadn’t heard the whispers back at the inn and she didn’t hear them now as they followed them along the alley.

  Mausoleum

  They left by the West Gate, doing their best to blend in with a bunch of revellers as they passed the guards; Ormis leaning on Suula as if suffering from too much sunshine and ale. The road outside was clotted with visitors and there was a queue of slow moving wagons that stretched away for almost a mile. At first they made slow progress, moving as part of a trickle of out goers; fighting through a tide of people coming the other way. But they soon turned onto a quieter road that ran around the back of the city and delivered them to an ancient graveyard.

  ‘The entrance to the tunnel is hidden in the tomb of the first High Exorcist,’ said Ormis, ‘But I don’t know where it is. You go west and I’ll go east.’

  They walked beneath a rusted archway, separating where the central path was intersected by an aisle. Suula went west in a light jog, stopping almost immediately to read the legend beneath the marble statue of a grieving wife. Ormis went east, head turning left and right as he checked names, slowing up whenever his eyes struggled with worn inscriptions. But when his aisle was intersected by another he was suddenly imbued with a strange certainty that it would take him where he wanted to go, and he turned onto it without hesitation. His confidence growing, he went on at a jog, no longer slowing to check names on headstones. He took two more turns and came to what appeared to be the last two tombs in the northeast corner. But then he saw a set of steps between them. He ran to the top and stared down at a wedge of land. A single tomb brooded in the depression – an ivy besieged mausoleum with a crumbling façade, depicting scenes of witch burnings and exorcisms. This was it, he thought with cast iron certainty. The tunnel was hidden inside.

  He pursed his lips to whistle for Suula, but was struck by a moment of thoughtlessness after which he decided against it. He hurried down the steps and read the inscription on the mausoleum wall:

  Here lies a visionary,

  who challenged superstition and formalised the craft.

  Here lies a saviour of souls,

  who forged order from chaos and gave us hope.

  Here lies the founder of the Caliste,

  who is finally at peace beyond the Membrane.

  Jagh Yorrvin - First High Exorcist of the Caliste

  He pushed the iron door and it swung inwards with a squeal - the bottom edge catching on the stone before it reached the full freedom of its hinges. The sun was right behind him and his shadow leapt inside, draping an ancient stone coffin. He stared into the musty interior; feeling suddenly unsettled. He had never seen the tunnel he was seeking – nevertheless he knew it was inside the coffin. But there was no context to his knowing. He puzzled over this before going in, trying to recall an experience on which to hang his knowledge of it. He searched himself for information regarding the tunnels origin, its builders and its purpose. Had he read about it in a book, or seen it in a picture? Or had it been described to him by another exorcist? But there was nothing in his mind other than the certainty of its existence. Some instinct took control of his feet and began backing him away, but he was struck by another moment of thoughtlessness that made him stop. When he came back to himself he was no longer concerned about the origin of the information and all he could think about was finding the entrance.

  He went to the coffin and placed his hands on its granite covering. Then he walked his feet back and drove against the floor. The slab shifted in a stuttering groan and the faint redolence of long deserted bones rose from the wedge of blackness it left behind. It was more than a third open when a man stepped into the doorway behind him. Another shadow was cast, but this time it draped his straining back. The door whined shut and clanged in its housing, plunging the chamber into darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Ormis said, spinning around and whipping his sword out.

  ‘Izle Rohn!’

  The whispers that were speaking to the unconscious part of his mind spoke now to the conscious part and it was like a septic membrane vibrating in his head. He lunged forward, swiping with his sword.

  ‘Drop your weapon Ormis. Hear my voice and remember our bond!’

  He felt a mental expansiveness - each syllable throwing bolts and lifting latches in his mind – opening doors to memories that had been locked away for years. His arms dropped to his side and his sword clanged to the floor, his violent intentions gushing from him like blood from an amputated leg. He collapsed against the wall and when he looked up there was a pair of mist poisoned eyes looking down at him.

  ‘There’s no secret tunnel Ormis... I brought you here only to test our bond… Let the man inside you step forward and become himself again.’ His words made no immediate sense, but they were silky and disarming. They went straight to the vault where his noble emotions were locked away and sprung it open. ‘Let him come Ormis… let him come.’ His stony exterior fractured on a rising bubble of emotion and he groped the wall for support. ‘Remember yourself as a boy and see your parents standing before you.’

  At first nothing happened, but then he was gripped with terrible longing as the image of them crystallised in his mind: first his mother with her glowing cheeks and big brown eyes and then his father, with his unruly hair and big hands; the honest angles of his face crumpling with a proud smile.

  ‘Recall how a spirit demon possessed your mother and remember the beastly roaring that tortured her throat.’ The words penetrated the blackness in the back of his mind like shovels; exhuming long buried memories and turning them into the bright scrutiny of his mind’s eye. ‘Your father trusted you to guard her while he rode to the Caliste, but you broke your promise and let her out.’ He felt his fingers falter on the cold metal of the cellar door and his promise to his father shooting up his arm like an electric shock. ‘You were so happy the next day as you skipped beside her, thinking about how pleased your father would be to see her all better again.’ He felt the sun on his face, the lightness of his feet and the joyful anticipation of a family reunion. ‘But the spirit demon was wearing your mother like clothes and she threw you into the gorge; bludgeoning your little fingers when you tried to climb out.’ He felt her rough hands on his back; the sharp shock of his icy plunge and the ringing pain of his battered fingers. ‘Your
father arrived with help, but when you told him you let her out, it was as if you’d stabbed him in the heart.’ He saw the terrible disappointment in his father’s eyes, saw him dropping to his knees and pulling at his hair. ‘You disobeyed him one last time and followed him to town where men were crowding around the baker’s doorway - trying to get a better view of your mother’s kicking legs as they forced her into the oven. Your father was slumped against the bakery wall, waiting in death to blame you with his eyes. To tell you it was all your fault for letting her out...’ He saw it all again and it wrung his heart out for a second time. He heard his mother’s spiralling screams and smelt her burning flesh. He tasted porridge, jam and acid and remembered vomiting on his boots. ‘The nightmares plagued you in the orphanage and you woke every night in a soaked bed with your mother screaming in your head. Dreams so bad they kept you separated from the other children. You blamed yourself and burned your arms as penance - holding them over candles as long as you could bear - needing to feel her pain.’ His fingers went to the raised scars on his forearms. His mouth quivered, though he generated no sound. ‘But I saved you Ormis. Kass Riole told me about the boy he met on the Cragg and I came to the orphanage to help.’

  ‘You lie…’ he managed to say, for he now knew the truth of it. He tried to get up, to run for fresh air; but the voice was endowed with great weight and it anchored him there.

  ‘You told me about what happened to your parents and your wish to avenge them by joining the Caliste. I filled the hollow inside you with purpose and direction and brought peace to your mind... Remember me and remember our bond!’

  He remembered; but it was a version of events his younger self had been blind to. Izle had scoured him to assess his suitability for the order and he had submitted to it with enthusiasm. But as soon as they were joined he began speaking into his head, soothing his mind and locking his painful memories away. Izle visited the orphanage for many months afterwards, using a succession of deep scours to bury his emotion and reshape his personality to serve his nefarious designs.

  The illusion of his life shimmered like a scene viewed across a desert and then it was gone, revealing the dark reality behind it. His character was contrived and the realisation was like a mental thunder storm - every jolt of lightning toppling the fake pillars on which he was built. Horror and indignation rose from the rubble and he wept tears of despair.

  ‘Easy now Ormis… I want you to remember only so you can forget again.’ His voice was divine and paternalistic now – an audible salve that brought a teetering stability to his crumbling mind. ‘Accept my voice and all will be well.’ A cold hand reached out and took his weeping face in a scour grip. ‘You were the first of sixteen. Your tutors taught you the craft, but I laid your foundations long before you set foot in the Caliste. I didn’t know if you would respond to my voice after all this time, but it pleases me you did. You were the one I left behind Ormis... The one no one would suspect. Open your mind and remember me!’

  He could do nothing else and as a result his physical symptoms abated. And soon there was nothing left in his head but a cold anticipation of Izle’s next command and an eagerness to comply - the wheels of their minds turning on the same poisonous axle.

  ‘Our reunion would have been much sooner, but your toruck protector killed the shape shifter that was bringing you my voice. You were to locate and kill the exorcists working outside the city and you would have saved me much trouble. But no matter. Stand now and do my bidding.’

  Ormis did as he asked.

  ‘The tracker girl who accompanied you – call her to this tomb and kill her. It will serve as proof of our bond.’

  ‘She’ll smell you.’

  ‘Then you must convince her you are alone. Do it now. I’ll wait nearby.’

  The iron door swung open and he was blinded by a wash of sunlight. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and when he lowered it, Izle was gone.

  Suula was reading a faded inscription on a marble dog when she heard Ormis whistle. It was a familiar two toned signal that informed her he had found the tomb. He didn’t repeat it, but she had no problem marking its origin and she ran off in his direction.

  As headstones and tombs rushed by she reflected on Ormis’s strange behaviour over the past few days. Something was wrong with him. A year ago, he would never have taken Kring through the Wall or let his charges out of sight. Then there were his lapses in focus – periods when he would stare into some other reality, snapping out of it with some uncharacteristic decision or command. And on the way to the graveyard it was much worse. He stopped frequently to tip his head, listening to something she was never able to hear – a strange glaze coming over his eyes. She inquired about it the first few times by raising her brow and when she finally asked him what he was listening to, he just shook his head and hurried on as if nothing had happened. Very Strange.

  After Ormis exorcised the spirit demon that once possessed her, she had developed a certain attachment to him. She had no family or friends and he was the only person who ever visited her in the asylum. She understood his interest was purely professional, but she had rebuilt herself around his visits and learnt to find peace in his presence. He helped her to engage with the mindsetters who taught her to supress her latent animalistic urges – to walk instead of crawl, to repress snarls and to sleep on a bed instead of under it. Most of all they taught her to deal with the sensory overload of the city. The day Ormis brought her back to Irongate she lost her mind, breaking away and running through the streets on all fours, attacking vendors and smashing their stalls, before climbing into the second floor window of The Black Witch and terrorizing its patrons. She spent a week in Irongate Gaol before Ormis found her a space in the asylum. When she was well enough to work again, he encouraged her to do so. The work was fulfilling, but only if she was assigned to him. In some strange way, she had come to love him.

  She picked up his scent, between damp earth and wildflowers. But as she neared the north east corner another aroma hit her and she ducked behind a headstone to scan the graveyard. It was faint - too faint for Ormis to smell it; but it was the unmistakable odour of the glass tunnels.

  She went on in a half crouch, keen eyes lancing between the tombs, fingers gripping the hilt of her dagger. She came to some steps leading down to a large mausoleum. Its iron door was open and Ormis was standing in front of it. She twisted her wrist with her index finger extended – the signal for hostiles in the area. She expected him to step back into the shadows and look around. But he showed no concern whatsoever. He signalled back instead – telling her the sunken area was safe. She regarded him sceptically and skipped down the steps on light feet.

  ‘The tunnel’s inside,’ he said with no inflection. His eyes were red and it looked like he’d been crying. She stepped back from him and turned a full circle, her instincts on fire. The smell of the Eastland was stronger down here and she could almost see it billowing from the tomb.

  ‘They were here. I can smell them.’

  ‘Then we must be quick,’ he said and went in. There was a stone coffin inside and its granite lid was rotated slightly, revealing a triangle of sleeping blackness. ‘There’s a false bottom beneath the bones. It hides an iron ladder that drops to the tunnel…’ He trailed off when he realised she hadn’t followed him in. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She stared into the dark corners of the tomb. The chamber reeked of the passages beneath Joebel. She drew her dagger and entered, circling around the coffin in the belief she would find someone hiding there. ‘They were here only a few minutes ago,’ she said when she was back around front.

  ‘Then they must know about the tunnel. May even have used it to get to Beredrim… Come on, help me push this clear.’

  She didn’t like it - his tone and demeanour didn’t match the circumstances. She had just alerted him to the possibility that Izle’s men were in the area and he had turned his back to the door and set his shoulder to the cover stone. Her senses were ringing like bells, but
her love and trust of him pushed them into the distance.

  ‘Come on. Before they return.’

  She looked around a final time then put her weight against the lid. They pushed the great slab in bursts; grating it open inch by inch. When it was half way over and close to toppling, he called a stop. She looked inside and saw nothing more than a set of ancient bones, wrapped in mouldering rags.

  ‘Can you see the handle behind his right shoulder?’

  She couldn’t. But she was much shorter than him and had to go up on tiptoes to look. She was at full stretch when something sharp and cold penetrated her side, just below her bottom rib. She screamed and arched back in reflex, just as someone lifted her legs and pivoted her over the hard lip of the coffin. The bones were old and brittle and they snapped as she fell onto them. Holding her wounded flank, she grabbed the side and tried to sit back up, shocked at how easily someone had sneaked up on them. There were no sounds in the tomb and she hoped Ormis had dealt with their assassin. She was relieved when his face appeared over the side. But he didn’t offer help. He looked down at her without expression, then bludgeoned her fingers with the hilt of his dagger. She yelped and fell back amongst the bones. He watched while she writhed in pain and coughed bone dust. Then he disappeared from view and the cover stone began to grind back into place.

  When Ormis was done he turned to find Izle silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘Very good. Our bond is proven and now we must return to the city.’

  ‘The girl you left for dead in Joebel – she’s here. We saved her from your monster. Karkus is dead and the girl is awake. She knows you’ll attempt a reading tonight and she intends to stop you.’

  There was a long silence and he could feel Izle’s displeasure as if it was his own.