‘There is a vague—something,’ Mishrah spoke slowly. He looked at the film. Whatever was left of his eyebrows was starting to frown. There was something wrong here, something wrong with the film. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a bit of truth in what this young man was saying. Somehow.
‘I need your help, and I need it now,’ Adri said. ‘There isn’t too much time.’
It was coming back to Mishrah, gradually, but yes. He dwelt on it, pulling facts out and hiding other things he did not want to see. He heard the young man’s voice next to him, but he did not hear the words; he was someplace else, playing his thoughts like a piano. The film was everything; that was all there was to it. That was the purpose, but then, it wasn’t—he was supposed to think it was the purpose. He was trapped. Somewhere.
‘I’m . . . dead,’ he said after a while.
Adri gazed at him, at how hideous he was. ‘Yes,’ he said finally.
‘I’m not supposed to be here. Why am I here? Wait, there is something here. Something binds me here.’
Adri let Mishrah continue. The dead man was in a daze.
‘There is a pull. It forces me to stay here. It whispers in my ear and tells me to watch the film.’
It was useless to tell Mishrah to fight it. He would not succeed. Adri remained silent, but sneaked a glance at the film. There was still time.
‘And now you come here. You ask me to help you,’ Mishrah said. ‘You confuse me.’
‘I need your help with a corruption,’ Adri said.
Mishrah’s eyes focused immediately and Adri knew he would know about this. The Wraith had been correct.
‘Which corruption?’
‘Whisper of Dread,’ Adri said, his heart beating faster. ‘Does it have an antidote?’
The reply came almost instantaneously. ‘Tricky, tricky corruption. No antidote. Never has been. You can slow it down with the Dreamer’s Brew, but no cure, no.’
Adri stared at the man. He had come here hoping for not just knowledge about the antidote, but also for a list of its ingredients. He had thought that he could, perhaps, reconstruct the antidote. Maybe visit some hidden street vendors Mishrah could tell him about. And everything, every single thing had just been dashed to the ground. He remembered the first time he had been handed over the recipe of the corruption. He had always wanted the most powerful corruption and had come across a mention of the Whisper of Dread. His father, Victor Sen, used to call it ‘undeniable’. And now Adri realised why. He felt stupid, cheated. Everything had failed. Everything was lost. His father had been kidnapped; Death was after him; and now his responsibility would die because of his personal choice of venom; and her brother would not only hate Adri for life, but would probably put the Angels on his tail—if Kaavsh got to know about this, which he inevitably would. He might as well give up right now. But then again, there was something else. Something new. The dead man hadn’t stopped talking.
‘You are asking for a cure because someone is afflicted, eh?’ Mishrah asked for the second time.
‘Yes.’
‘Someone you care for?’ Mishrah asked further.
Adri hesitated for a second. But there was no time to ask himself questions. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
‘Then you must weigh your love in ounces.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning yes, there might just be a way to save her; but sometimes being dead is better than being alive—like that.’
‘Come to the point, healer.’
‘Something was here, among us dead. But now it walks among the living. It is spreading, and spreading fast. And it might just be the key to saving the one you care for—if you can call that saving. What I’m referring to, of course, is a Devil Mask.’
Adri’s eyebrows narrowed. ‘A Devil Mask has escaped?’
‘From our side, yes. And it’s on the loose, if I’m not wrong.’
‘I would not call that a solution. But thank you.’
Mishrah’s eyes glinted in the light. ‘We will soon walk the earth. Perhaps we shall meet again.’
Adri was about to get up, but he paused.
‘The Apocalypse is on its way,’ Mishrah continued. ‘The dead hear it coming closer and closer. Like drums. We wait for our summons.’
Adri took one last look at Mishrah, then he turned around and walked back down the aisle and out of the hall. The last fight sequence in the film was underway; he had made it out in time.
Well that was informative, the Wraith said.
‘This Doomsday business is also getting to me,’ Adri said as he walked back down the corridors. ‘I’m hearing about it more and more, from the living as well as the dead.’
Load of crap if you ask me. We’ve always been fascinated by the idea of our own deaths. It’s romanticism, nothing more. And you are a bloody idiot if you’re concentrating on this rather than what Mishrah had to say about the corruption.
‘You can stop with the spirit vision now.’
A plan was already forming in Adri’s mind. Something devious yet exciting, something that involved risks, and if everything went absolutely, absolutely right, then maybe Maya could be saved. Everything hinged on the bloody Devil Mask; it had chosen a good time to cross the River. The last one had entered about a hundred years ago. He had read stories about that one. If Mishrah’s information was correct—and the healer did not really have any reason to lie—then yes, Maya could be saved. And he was doing it again, he realised—endangering too many lives to save one. Adri waved these thoughts aside. Useless, come to obstruct the present. First things first, he needed to explain things to Gray. It all depended on Gray’s decision now.
‘So what? So there’s no cure?’ Gray asked ten minutes later. Adri had just begun to explain.
‘No antidote. But there’s something else,’ Adri said.
‘What? What something else? What can we do?’
Fayne was sitting behind Gray, looking at Adri silently. The assassin’s charge was more important to the assassin than his life; such had constantly been the teachings of Ahzad. Nothing had changed. The assassin was deciding his next move. Adri looked at Fayne and then at Gray. ‘Have you heard of something called a Devil Mask?’
Fayne sat back, leaning against a wall. He had understood Adri’s entire plan.
‘My grandmother,’ Gray said after a moment of silence. ‘She used to tell me stories when I was a child, because I was a little Demon who refused to sleep. She had a tale in which there was this word. Devil Mask.’
‘It is a dead-puppeteer. It raises revenant, controls them, spreads them like an infection. It is a Necrotic, a being from the other side, a vicious devourer of life. Yes, it exists for real; but rarely do they cross the River. Yet one has, and is loose in Old Kolkata, if I’m not wrong.’
Gray nodded, waiting for Adri to continue, unsettled by the description of the creature.
‘But every Devil Mask needs a host. Like every other parasitic entity, it cannot survive without one. And my point is’ —Adri looked into Gray’s eyes—‘that the host is always kept alive by the Necrotic. Always, no matter what condition the host might be in.’
Gray nodded slowly. ‘Even a host under the influence of the Whisper of Dread?’
‘Yes. Even that.’
‘Then what?’
‘The Devil Mask heals the host and keeps it in a perfect condition; the irony being that this undead creature needs a living thing to survive, a heart if you will. And then, if we can remove the host from the Necrotic—’
‘Then we will kill it and Maya will live,’ Gray said, a new light starting to dawn in his eyes.
‘But there’s something else,’ Adri said.
‘What?’
It was Fayne who continued. ‘Killing a Devil Mask,’ the assassin said, his voice dead calm. ‘The damn thing can only be killed by penetrating it and killing the host, thus forcing the creature to die. And men have been lost on it, good men. Lots of men. As for killing the Mask and getting the h
ost back alive, it has never been done.’
‘Doesn’t mean it can’t be done,’ Gray said. ‘Right?’
‘If you walk down this path I will go with you. I go with Maya Ghosh, you know that,’ Fayne said. ‘But you should also consider the alternative, brother of Maya.’
‘Do you mean—’ Gray started.
‘Once she is inside the mask, it is a tortured existence, a damned thing. Each breath is a little more not worth taking than the one before. And the pain, it is supposed to be unbelievable. If we do not succeed in freeing her, it is the greatest injustice we could ever be doing to her,’ Adri said. ‘The choice between such an existence, Gray, and a painless death is up to you. You are her family and thus you alone will decide.’
‘There is a chance, right?’ Gray said, shaking his head gently.
‘It has never been done before, as Fayne said,’ Adri replied.
‘But do you think you can do it, Adri?’
Adri looked down the road. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said.
‘That is good enough for me. Do you not understand, Adri? If there is even a sliver of hope, a mere sliver, then I will see this to the end before I let my sister die.’
Adri looked at the unconscious Maya. ‘We’re not going to let her die, Gray,’ he said firmly. ‘If we need to find the Devil Mask, we need to find MYTH. If it’s really on the loose, then they will know where it is. But before that, we have to stabilise Maya. The healer told me of a brew that could do it. I’ll make it. Shouldn’t take me too much time.’
‘This is just getting so complicated,’ Gray mumbled. ‘I should’ve just stayed back in New Kolkata.’
‘Your sister had an agenda,’ Adri said, starting to rummage around in his bag.
‘I don’t know what she could have been looking for,’ Gray said. ‘I already told you that.’
‘The assassin could put light on that,’ Adri spoke. ‘But he’s got his code to think about.’
‘Apologies,’ Fayne said.
The Dreamer’s Brew wasn’t hard to make, but it involved some rare ingredients. Adri was sure he had most of them, but there was always the highly elusive Aujour that needed worrying about. Adri hoped he would have it, but a quick search revealed he did not. He decided to search more thoroughly.
Gray walked up to where Fayne was sitting, close to the unconscious body of his sister. ‘Can she hear us?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Fayne replied. ‘The corruption forces one into a coma. She will remain trapped within her recent thoughts, she will be reliving them in a loop.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Rashkor. It is painless right up to the last breath,’ Fayne replied. ‘Do not be concerned.’
‘You have a strange way of saying things,’ Gray said, shaking his head.
‘You have said that before. I am direct. But some people, they prefer this quality in a contract killer. If I were to be sarcastic and rude, I doubt I would have access to the clientele that I do now.’
‘You could make a lot of my doubts go away if you just told me who you’re working for now. It would really help, man.’
‘Apologies, again.’
Gray looked at Fayne. ‘Can I take a photograph of you?’
‘No,’ Fayne said.
‘Why do you wear that mask?’ Gray asked.
‘Stop asking questions,’ Fayne said.
Adri swore loudly.
‘I do not have Aujour!’ he exclaimed angrily when they looked at him.
‘Wait, so my sister is going to die because you shot her with something that has no cure, and now you don’t have some ingredient which could’ve at least slowed down the effect of the poison?’ Gray exclaimed, incredulous.
Adri looked at his watch. ‘There’s still time. I’ll have to go and find a dealer. It won’t take long.’
‘I’ll come along this time,’ Gray said. Adri knew he couldn’t refuse, not after having put himself in another false position. They hurried off towards where Adri knew a few dealers lived; Fayne remained behind to guard Maya.
A map of Old Kolkata lay open on the table, a burning candle next to it. Small, carefully modelled wooden pieces lay strewn all over the yellowed parchment, giving it the semblance of a board game, except for the goblet playing paperweight at the edge, filled with a dark red liquid that suspiciously resembled blood. There were markings on the map, infinitely spread notes and arrow marks and circles. The table also supported dozens of books, all thickly bound. The candle was not the only source of light in the room. There were a few glowing crystals in a corner, where they had been disregarded. Near this heap of crystals was a human skull. It had been cleaned and the top had been sliced off; something now burned in the brain cavity amidst hot coals, releasing veils of thin reddish smoke that filled the room. The walls were cold stone, bare, apart for a couple of magnificent shields, mounted rather occasionally. In another corner stood a mannequin. It had once been a human, but now he was long dead, and his body had been stuffed and impaled on a stand. It wore a suit of armour that looked rare and rather frightening, but it obviously wasn’t the owner.
No, the owner sat silently on a small wooden stool, between two large windows, their curtains billowing against the assault of the wind. His eyes were closed, and yet he did not seem relaxed; his body was taut, ready.
‘Commander!’ came a cry.
Demon Commander Ba’al’s eyes fluttered open. His red irises pierced through the semi-darkness of the room, and he looked at the messenger.
‘Speak,’ he said in a voice hard with experience.
The messenger was a gargoyle, an ugly creature made completely of stone, with huge bat wings protruding behind him. However, it chose to wear its inner skin in front of Ba’al, as a gesture of respect. Not that it made the gargoyle any less ugly. ‘A Demon has come from Hazra, Commander, bearing certain news.’
The Demon Commander nodded, and the gargoyle continued, ‘There were two Demons—warriors—patrolling one of the roads there when they were attacked. One of them was killed; the other one managed to escape his negative circle and has just reached us.’
‘Necromancers?’ Ba’al asked, an involuntary growl starting to build within his throat.
‘Yes, Commander. But just one. He had allies. The Demon who escaped, however, he has something to tell you in person. He requests an audience.’
‘Send him in.’
‘Forgive me, Commander, but I doubt he will fit.’
‘Ah yes. I will meet him in the courtyard then.’
The gargoyle bowed and exited the room. Ba’al got to his feet and turned around. He walked up to one of the large windows in the room and stepped off. Five floors down, he landed on his feet. Recovering from the drop, he looked around. The inner courtyard was empty as it should’ve been—the guards on the battlements were vigilant. Torches burned in brackets along the walls, casting light on the Demon before him. The Demon was evidently nervous; its tail was between its legs and it hung its head low in respect and anxiety. It towered over the Demon Commander with its size, but refused to impress. Ba’al surveyed it closely.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Gnu Shi’l Un Aishth, Commander,’ the Demon replied.
‘And your deceased partner?’
‘Garth Ol Eshan.’
‘Do not mourn him. He will be prayed for, if not remembered,’ Ba’al said. ‘What did you have to tell me, Gnu?’
The Demon lifted its eyes ever so slightly to look into the eyes of the Demon Commander. Meeting his burning gaze, it dropped its eyes again, immediately. ‘They were not MYTH. Of this I am certain, Commander.’
‘Not MYTH? Then who could they be, wandering around Old Kolkata with the power to end Demons?’ Ba’al mused.
‘I do not know, Commander. There were three of them. I took on the Tantric, but before my escape, I saw Garth under siege by three assailants. Magical arms by the sounds of them. I also saw some red blades fly, of the kind I haven’t seen before.’
‘Forgive me, Commander. I thought it best to live with the information of this enemy.’
‘Nothing you have said has been of any help so far. Unless—’
Ba’al approached Gnu, who immediately shrank back a little, looking tremendously scared. The Demon Commander stopped right in front of the Demon, however, and sniffed. His eyes opened ever so slightly as he sniffed again, and then again.
‘I do not have many Demons, Gnu. My forces are hardly as vast as MYTH’s,’ Ba’al said. ‘This war must be fought though, and the Old City cannot fall to the hands of the Necromancers. It is for this reason that I will let you live. Go and rest.’
Gnu trembled and sniffed as he slowly bowed before the Demon Commander before walking away as commanded, the ground moving under the weight of his footsteps. Ba’al stood, watching him go. After the giant creature had passed out of sight, he turned around and walked, but not back towards his tower. Instead, Ba’al chose to walk towards the hall he called the Septaranium, where his great collection of books was herded by the old man Hermlock. The great doors of the hall swung open as he approached, and they shut after he had passed through. Even though he was preoccupied, Ba’al remembered to tread lightly; he was barefoot and his claws could easily damage the Septaranium’s carpets. Hermlock saw him coming and shuffled towards him, but Ba’al waved him away as he passed. The old man understood; the master was going to his secret chamber.
It was behind a bookshelf. Ba’al was one to uphold certain clichés he felt were amusing, and secret passages behind bookshelves had existed since time immemorial. Nothing was amusing, however, about the passages beyond—all the richness and grandeur of the great library melted away into darkness and a tunnel made of dirty stone. A flame burst into existence in Ba’al’s open palm as he walked into the darkness. He could see in the dark; the fire was meant for things lurking in the darkness, so they would not think him for some treasure hunter.
Tantrics Of Old Page 22
