05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “There’s our man,” cried Braun, pointing out a young priest fighting his way through the crowds towards them. “I’d never forget that face.”

  Fabian raised his eyebrows as the slender youth neared the coach. The boy’s appearance certainly was memorable. His head was shaven, as with any other novitiate, and his vestments were simple and unadorned, but his face seemed to have slipped to the sides of his head. His broad, watery eyes were closer to his ears than his wide crooked nose, and his broad mouth was so big it seemed to hinge his whole head as it broke into a broad smile.

  “Brother Potzlinger,” cried Braun, shoving the door open and fighting his way down to embrace the youth. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Potzlinger gave a hyena laugh and patted Braun’s back enthusiastically. “And you too, brother.” He turned his head to one side with an odd, bird-like movement and looked up at the Wolffs with one bulging eye. “Welcome to Altdorf,” he cried, struggling to make himself heard over the cacophony.

  Hieronymus climbed down and took his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Brother Potzlinger,” he said waving his hand back at the coach. “This is my wife Margarethe, and our sons Fabian,” he paused for dramatic effect, “and Jakob.”

  “Ah, yes, Jakob,” said Potzlinger, reaching up to take the boy’s hand. “We’ve learned so much about you from Brother Braun’s letters. I feel as though I already know you.” He looked around at the square and grimaced. “We should find somewhere better to speak though. Konigplatz is like this every Aubentag. I’m not sure what the river wardens do with their time, I’m really not—it seems like we let any old riffraff into the city these days.” He shrugged. “Well, we may as well make straight for the cathedral. We can have a little peace there. I believe the Arch Lector has arranged some accommodation for you.” He held a hand up to Margarethe. “It’s probably easier if we walk. Your boys will see more of the city that way anyway.”

  “Oh no, Fabian isn’t accompanying us,” explained Hieronymus hurriedly. “He’ll be staying with his Uncle Jonas. The driver knows the way to the house.” He narrowed his eyes as he put his head back inside the coach. “Just sit tight until you get there, Fabian. We’ll only be gone for a few days I should think, so try keep your head down and not cause your uncle any trouble.” With that he slammed the door shut, cutting out at least a little of the racket from outside.

  Fabian watched his family struggling across the square, as Brother Potzlinger pointed out the various landmarks to his wide-eyed brother. Then, as the coach began to edge cautiously back towards the narrow streets, he sat down and hissed through his teeth. “What a place,” he said, pressing the handkerchief to his face and shaking his head in disgust.

  He soon lost track of their route as the coach bounced and clattered through the labyrinthine maze of streets. The houses pressed closer and closer overhead and just as there seemed barely enough room for the coach to squeeze any further, they reached their destination. They had left the noise of the market place far behind, and as Fabian climbed down onto the grimy cobbles, he felt oddly nervous. The townhouses that surrounded him were all four or five storeys tall and as they leant out over his head, leaving just a narrow slit of sky, their small, deep-set windows peered down hungrily at him.

  “It’s that one,” muttered the driver, nodding towards the last house on the street. It was even taller and more asymmetrical than the others. A mixture of architectural styles had been piled on top of each other to create a haphazard column of crumbling render and gnarled timbers. It looked to Fabian like a stiff breeze would send all five of its crooked, gabled storeys tumbling to the ground. There was a sign over the gate, beautifully painted in gothic script that announced enigmatically: The Unknown House.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Fabian, turning back to the coach, but the driver just gave him an odd smile as he dropped the luggage at the gate and climbed back onto the coach.

  Fabian sighed, hefted his bag onto his back and climbed up the flagged path to the front door. There was a large iron knocker in the shape of a snarling wolf, and he clanged it three times, before stepping back to wait for a response.

  No one came, and after a few minutes he pressed his ear to the door and listened for footsteps. He heard another sound instead: a mournful, unearthly moaning that throbbed gently through the wood. Fabian felt a tingle of fear. No mortal being could make such a noise. He stepped back again and turned to speak to the coachman, but he was gone. The coach was already turning a corner and disappearing from view. I wonder if I could find the cathedral, he thought, looking back down the winding street.

  With a screech of rusted hinges, the door opened.

  The eerie droning sound flooded out onto the street and Fabian turned to face a towering, fur-clad giant of a man, who had to stoop to fit his broad shoulders out through the doorframe. “What do you want?” he growled, through a long, shaggy beard. He spoke in such a thick Kislev accent, though, that it sounded more like: “Vwaht do you vwant?”

  “Uncle Jonas?” asked Fabian, doubtfully.

  The giant’s eyes narrowed beneath his thick brow. “I’m no one’s uncle, child,” he said. “I’m no one’s anything, thank the gods.” He eased his massive bulk back in through the doorframe and stepped to one side, signalling for Fabian to step into the gloomy interior, “Jonas probably won’t return until tonight. You’d best speak to his wife, Isolde. Come inside.”

  Fabian hesitated, looking wistfully back over his shoulder at the street, before stepping into the house. He found himself in a muddle of narrow corridors, cramped staircases and sombre, dark panelling. The Kislevite had to remain stooped as he led the way beneath the low, beamed ceilings. Strange objects pressed in on them, crowding the shelves and cupboards that lined the walls: china dolls and stuffed birds crowded every available space and crooked pictures shook on the walls as the man stomped across the uneven floors. The whole place was filled with the odd, whirring buzzing sound and as they approached a door at the far end of the hallway, it grew louder. The only light came from a single, filthy window, and it was hard to see clearly, but Fabian thought he could make out two large sentries flanking the door. As they reached it, however, he realised he was mistaken. The bulky figures were actually the stuffed carcasses of two massive bears. They were an imposing presence, despite their dusty, moth-eaten fur and Fabian found it hard to look at their snarling faces as he hurried though the doorway.

  They had entered another narrow hallway that ended in a rickety spiral staircase. The Kislevite waved one of his meaty fur-clad paws at it. “She’ll be in the Tapestry Room. Second on the left.”

  Fabian nodded, and squeezed past the man towards the stairs. “Thank you…” he said, waiting for the man to supply his name.

  The giant gave a low chuckle and nodded back. “Kobach,” he said, in an amused nimble, before stomping away.

  “Kobach,” repeated Fabian quietly to himself; not sure if it was a name or an insult. The stairs shifted unnervingly beneath his feet as he climbed up to the next floor. There was another door at the top, and as he pushed it open and stepped onto the landing, the droning chorus grew even louder. As Fabian looked down the long twisting hallway, he thought he could discern some kind of melody in the noise, as though the house were humming a lullaby to itself.

  As he passed the first door, he noticed that it was open and squinted through the gloom to see if the room was empty. It wasn’t. His pulse quickened as he realised at least two of the shadows in there were alive: a couple of hooded monks were sat close together, whispering to each other in hurried, urgent tones. They looked up angrily at Fabian’s approach and one of them leapt to his feet and slammed the door shut. Fabian only caught the briefest glimpse of his face, but it was enough to unnerve him even more. The man’s pale, narrow features were beaded with sweat and his bloodshot eyes were running with tears.

  He hurried onwards, towards the awful sound. Finally he reached the next door. There was something strang
e about the frame. At first he struggled to see what exactly it was in the half-light, but after a few seconds he realised the entire structure was carved from the jaw of some monstrous leviathan. With a grimace of disgust, he saw that its bleached teeth were still in place, surrounding the door with rows of jagged canines.

  This close, the sound was really quite terrifying and Fabian looked back down the corridor, wondering if even now it might be possible to escape. He could imagine how amusing his brother would find it though, if he arrived at the cathedral, having been too scared to wait in his own uncle’s house. I’d never hear the end of it, he decided and after taking a long, hitching breath he tapped gently on the door.

  The noise stopped immediately, as though the house were holding its breath.

  The door opened slowly, flooding the hallway with smoke and warm, yellow light. A beautiful woman looked out at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. Her pale skin was flushed with warmth, or alcohol and her thick black tresses were tousled and unkempt, as though he had woken her from a deep sleep. She gave him a languid smile and stooped to place a long, moist kiss on his forehead, as though they were old, intimate acquaintances. As she leant back again, Fabian’s eyes rested briefly on the expanse of ivory cleavage straining at the emerald-green velvet of her dress. He blushed as he realised she had noticed the direction of his gaze and the woman’s smile broadened as she stepped back into the room and signalled for him to follow.

  It was a large room, but every inch of it was crowded with crates, chests and piles of books. The walls were lined with thick, faded tapestries depicting a gaudy multitude of creatures, both mythical and real. There was a large, canopied bed in one corner and next to it an oil lamp was quietly hissing, filling the room with soft, shifting shadows. The light also picked out a haze of scented smoke that was hovering at about the level of Fabian’s face. He couldn’t place the aroma, but as he inhaled the fumes he felt a pleasant heaviness in his limbs and suddenly realised how tired he was.

  “Take a seat,” said the woman in a soft voice, waving vaguely at the jumble of furniture that cluttered the room. Then she yawned, reaching up in a slow, feline stretch, obviously conscious of how flattering the light was as it played across her curves. As the light shimmered over her hair, Fabian noticed it was bejewelled with dozens of tiny, yellow flowers. Once she had finished stretching, the woman curled up in a large, leather chair and rested her chin on her hands, gazing through the smoke at Fabian’s discomfort with obvious amusement.

  He finally found a chair and perched awkwardly on the edge of it, looking everywhere but at the woman. “Your servant told me it was best to wait here,” he muttered, “until my uncle returns.”

  “Of course,” she replied, nodding sagely. “And who is your uncle?”

  Fabian frowned and finally met her eye, wondering why on earth she had kissed him so fervently if she had know idea who he was. “My… my uncle is Captain Jonas Wolff,” he stammered, wondering if he had come to the wrong room.

  The woman flicked her ebony hair back from her face and looked up at the ceiling as though trying to recall something. “Jonas Wolff is my husband’s name too,” she said, seeming a little confused. “How odd.”

  Fabian waited for her to continue, but she just frowned up at the ceiling in silence. He took the opportunity to admire the long, pale curve of her neck and as he did so, he noticed a silver chain that pointed enticingly to the neckline of her dress. The chain ended in a small, ivory figurine of some kind, but Fabian could not quite make it out through the heady fug. After a few minutes, the silence began to seem a little odd. “Then, are you Isolde?” he asked.

  The warm smile returned to her face and she looked back at him. “Of course I am, silly boy.” She rummaged down by the side of her chair and lifted a strange contraption up onto her lap. It looked like an oversized violin, but it had a cranked wheel attached to it and the soundboard was covered with a row of small teeth-like keys. “Are you a fan of the wheel fiddle?” she asked. Before he could reply, she began to turn the handle, filling the room with the awful whining buzz he had heard earlier. As she played, the woman closed her eyes and mouthed a stream of silent words. She seemed to quickly forget all about her guest.

  As the droning notes washed over him, Fabian felt his head growing lighter and his eyelids growing heavier. He tried to keep himself awake by studying the animals depicted on the tapestries, and to his delight he realised they were moving, dancing across the walls of the room in time to the music and fluttering gaily across the ceiling. Scale seemed to have no meaning for the crewelwork creatures. Rats pounced viciously on horses, wrestling them to the ground with their teeth, and monkeys rode on the back of goldfinches, waving little flags above their heads as they circled the light fittings and skipped around the doorframe. Fabian laughed to himself, thrilled to think that Jakob had missed out on this incredible carnival, just so that he could be lectured by a bunch of sour-faced old priests. The music eddied and swelled, enveloping his thoughts with its odd, serpentine phrases. After a while, he slipped gratefully into unconsciousness, dragging the creatures down with him into his dreams.

  “Isolde, what have you done?” cried an angry voice and Fabian woke with a start. For a moment he could not place his surroundings. The oil lamp had burned itself out and the only illumination was a few shards of moonlight knifing through the gaps in the wooden shutters. He saw the dark-haired woman curled up on her chair, fast asleep, but still clutching the strange instrument to her chest. With an inexplicable feeling of guilt, Fabian remembered what had happened and lurched up from his chair. His head spun sickeningly and he felt as though the floor was giving way beneath him. He turned towards the door, to see the owner of the voice.

  An elderly gentleman was stood in the doorway, and Fabian immediately realised it must be his uncle. He had the same regal bearing and aquiline features as his father, but if anything, they were even more refined. He was obviously much older than Hieronymus: in his late seventies possibly, and he had to support himself on a long, delicate cane; but his clothes were perfectly tailored. His doublet, jerkin, and hose were all jet black and embellished with delicate silver needlework, and he wore a high, ermine-lined collar, ribbed with sparkling leaves of silver. His long, grey moustache was waxed in a flamboyant curl and as he took in Fabian’s slender form, he dipped his head in a graceful bow. “Fabian, I presume?” he said, annunciating each syllable with the soft, precise tones of a poet.

  “Yes, my lord,” gasped Fabian stumbling through the chaos and taking the man’s hand. “I was instructed to wait here by your servant, but I was tired after the journey and—”

  “I can imagine what happened, child,” interrupted the old man, giving Fabian a kind smile. He eyed the sleeping woman with concern. “My wife has been a little unwell of late.” He placed a hand on Fabian’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “Don’t give any credence to anything she might have told you. The poor thing has become slightly confused. She inhabits a strange fantasy land half the time.” He gestured to the wheel fiddle. “She finds it helpful to indulge her passion for music.” He chuckled. “But it’s not always so helpful for everyone else.”

  He steered Fabian out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. “As you have no doubt guessed, I’m your Uncle Jonas,” he said, leaning on Fabian’s shoulder for support as they headed off down the corridor. “I had hoped to be here to meet you, but I got caught up in a dispute with some rather disreputable foreigners.” They entered a smoky, book-lined study. A small, cast iron fireplace filled the room with light from its merry, crackling blaze and Fabian helped the old man into a seat beside it.

  “Did you mention a servant?” asked Jonas, signalling for Fabian to sit next to him and handing him a small glass of thick, ruby liquid.

  Fabian eyed the glass suspiciously, still feeling unsteady from his unexpected nap. “Er, yes,” he replied. “Your butler, I think. A large Kislevite man. He showed me to your wife’s chambers. I think h
e was called Kobach.”

  Jonas leant back in his chair with a snort of amusement. “So, Kobach Ivanov has returned to Altdorf!” He shook his head. “That man is bound for either greatness or the executioner’s block, but I wouldn’t like to bet which.” He noticed Fabian’s look of confusion and patted his knee reassuringly. “I’m sorry, lad—I’m not laughing at you. You should learn not to make such quick assumptions though. If Kobach had realised that you mistook him for a servant, I wouldn’t like to imagine where you’d be now. This house is a refuge for some of the city’s more interesting visitors; many of them are very powerful men in their own countries, but they’re all a little dangerous in their own way.” He drained his glass and waved at the drink in Fabian’s hand. “Drink up, son. We have a whole city to explore and you’ll need little fire in your belly to survive your first night in Altdorf.”

  Fabian looked out through a small leaded window at the darkness outside. “We’re going out now?” he asked.

  Jonas shrugged. “Well, you can retire to your bed if you wish. There’s one all made up for you if you’d like an early night.” He leant forward, so that the flames flashed mischievously in his eyes. “I just have a feeling you’re a little more adventurous than that.”

  No adult had ever spoken to Fabian in such conspiratorial tones before and he was unsure how to respond. He realised that despite the physical similarities, this man was nothing like his father. There was a hint of danger in the old man’s voice that both troubled and excited him. It did not take him long to make up his mind. He emptied the glass with one hungry gulp and as the potent drink filled him with warmth he grinned. “I’m not really that tired,” he replied.

  “They call this the Street of a Hundred Taverns,” explained Jonas as they fought their way through the jostling crowds of revellers. He was leaning heavily on Fabian for support, but his eyes sparkled with excitement as he waved his cane at the array of inns and clubs that surrounded them. Despite the late hour, the street was ablaze with light and crammed with people: lame beggars grasped at their legs as they passed; drunken dockhands hurled red-faced abuse at each other; nobles barged past in gaudy, flamboyant palanquins and sinister, hooded figures watched attentively from the ill-lit side streets. Despite his fear, Fabian felt more alive than he could ever remember feeling before.