Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “I found her rambling frantically. Most of her raving was incoherent. But one word rang out repeatedly—the furnace.

  “A throng gathered around, trying to calm the frenzied girl and align her ravings into understanding. At length, she focused enough to relate that she had fled from the Lucent, where she had been held captive. With each word, the assembled crowd grew more incensed.

  “Galvanized as much by her tale as by her deplorable state, the mob broke from the inn. It swelled as it rumbled down the street. With each corner, it augmented its force with fresh recruits drawn into the swell. I tailed in the wake, for a fervor had seized my heart as well, making it captive to the moment.

  “The mob descended on the Lucent, breaking against its doors like a tidal wave upon the rocks. The portals, however, were bolted. They creaked and moaned, resisting at first. But the angry juggernaut would not be denied, and finally the portals splintered under the assault.

  “The mob burst into the church and charged down the nave. Many fanned out to scour the other wings of the church. But those who had spearheaded the riot formed a small nucleus and breached the bishop’s personal chambers.

  “Within, a pipe burned lazily, and a lukewarm meal lay on the table, half-consumed. Darmedes had vanished, having fled a heartbeat before.

  “Determined to enlighten this travesty, some of the more steel-hearted descended to the undercroft beneath the chancel. Again, I cowered in their shadows. There, under a rug, we found a trapdoor set in the floor. It opened into a crypt below the church. As we descended those stairs, I thought we were trespassing into an unholy realm.

  “What we found in the crypt chilled even the most jaded man present. There was a laboratory, the extent of which we had never seen or could have imagined. Those first few men were witness to the inner workshop of a man who lived beyond the most remote extreme of compassion.

  “Pits were dug into the earth like cooking vats. Within, we found a congregation of a different sort. They were all children. Some were dead, mere bony vestiges. From the state of their remains, they must have welcomed the end. Others were alive, bound and gagged as much with terror as with straps. And still others were unearthed in some intermediate state, a profanity that assailed the senses and churned the bowels.

  “But beyond the vats we saw it—an iron furnace, its mouth gaping, greedily awaiting its next victim. Before it lie a dolmen bathed in gore, the sacrificial alter to the angry, metal god.

  “When news of the horrors filtered up to the church proper, the crowd exploded into insanity. They rioted and looted the church, unleashing complete destruction. To my green eye, it seemed a bag of devils had been freed to run amok within the princely place. The Lucent teetered in the wake of our assault. Wooden pews, ornate tapestries, majestic colored windows; nothing was sacrosanct, nothing immune to our bitter scourge. Men who had once chanted faint hymns now belched blasphemous curses. Those who had touched the cool holy waters now urinated on burning tapestries. Those who had admired religious relics now smashed them with maces. A great fire was set in the nave. No act of destruction was too foul. The sounds of broken glass, splintering wood, tearing fabrics, and shattering vases—all were the cries of the dead cheering us on.

  “There were many less concerned with condemning the damned site than with blatant looting. Rioters ran by cradling religious statues as one would protect a baby from harm. Many others simply stuffed their pockets with anything eye-catching.

  “All day, the rioters stormed. The pillaging and desecration ran unchecked by the sun’s trek, which was much slower back then. For every soul who left, either having satisfied his thirst for destruction or filled his pockets with enough spoils, a fresh new face appeared and dove into the orgy. When dusk finally settled in, the Lucent’s ravaged carcass was abandoned. What remained of the church was boarded up and condemned.

  “Before the fires had smoldered, however, all manner of stories surfaced concerning the place. There were whispers of missing local children last seen in the affectionate company of the bishop. Whispers of an alchemist laboring in his cellar shop. Whispers of a madman who concocted all manner of elixirs for the wealthy who could stomach his exorbitant fees. Whispers of strange occurrences linked to the church; cries of anguish oft heard howling in the still of the night. Whispers of lights flashing through colored windows in the inky night. Whispers of a hellish smoke belching from the chimney to poison the sky.

  “The rape of the Lucent was the beating of the butterfly’s wings that caused a typhoon to sweep across the district. As news of the offense spread, it ignited a deep-seated antipathy toward alchemists that had smoldered for centuries. Universal cries denounced the vicious technicians. Vengeance and fear combined into the deadliest of elixirs. Mobs swarmed through the streets, fueled by mania. The outraged populace was hell-bent on wringing the blood of alchemists from the fabric of the district. Charged throngs burst into alchemical shops and staved down doors to their homes. The practitioners were summarily executed. But their deaths were no judicious process serving public justice. Indeed, most were literally ripped apart by the hands of their neighbors. Butchered practitioners were tossed out of windows and set on fire. Most were never even aware of the reason for their untimely demise. Their death rattles were a paean to murder sung across the district.

  “A few alchemists were fortunate enough to have advance warning and fled, escaping the public’s wrath. Routed from Grimpkin, they scattered like leaves before a tempest. To where they fled, who can say? But the Diaspora, the great scattering, was complete. As a doctor cleanses a feverish patient by bleeding the tainted body, so Grimpkin purged itself of its alchemical blood.

  “A massive crime wave ensued, the kind that this district has never known before or since. Looting, pillaging, and outright assault were the order of the day, all committed in the name of discovering covert alchemists or suspected sympathizers. The father of an acquaintance of mine, a pharmacist, was bludgeoned to death by a mob who mistook him for one of those scientists due to his medical satchel. Of course, his shop was sacked and burned. It was Grimpkin’s darkest hour.

  “The storm of slaughter and pillaging lasted many days. In its bloody aftermath, countless shops and homes lay gutted. Scores of alchemists and untold innocents had been sacrificed on the altar of hysteria.

  “Soon the mania subsided, but it never completely died. The pogrom continued, although in subdued form, for some weeks. Thereafter, life in Grimpkin, purged of the foul blood of the alchemists, returned to an eerie quiescence, as if nothing had passed.

  “It wasn’t long after that the waters dried up. Perhaps it was the alchemist’s parting curse levied on the faithless Grimpkin. The springs that nourished the district ran dry as Gjoll withered. The water that did remain turned bitter. The alchemists, Grimpkin’s towers of light, had been toppled. In tune with this, the stars began disappearing from the night. Those heavenly lights were closing their windows to our world!

  “I could see then that Grimpkin’s doom was sealed. The alchemists were our very blood. How can a body function without that life-giving essence? Yes, life in Grimpkin continued, but not with a confident march. It is safe to say Grimpkin has limped along ever since, her former glory forever elusive, like a shadow on the wall. She has never healed from her mortal wound.

  “I’m sad to admit my heavy hand also left its mark on the Lucent. But I came to realize something in the dull years that followed. I was taken on as a junior partner at a local law firm, but never showed any aptitude for that trade. Despite my tender age, my mind was preoccupied with the holocaust. I knew the memory of the genocide would soon be extinct. It was then I decided to dedicate my life to telling the true story.”

  The Bard poignantly summed up his tale with this critical epilogue.

  “There are no alchemists in Grimpkin, lads,” the Bard averred. “Their breaths, that most intoxicating potion, have been expunged from our air. The holocaust was complete in spurring their flight into the nei
ghboring districts. Although gone, Grimpkin will never be free from their legacy. Their specters still haunt our hallowed halls, grim galleries, and brooding balconies. Ten score years and more I have watched thunder past, within the scope of which I have witnessed a host of things dreary and foul. But the memories of that sore day are surpassed by none.”

  “And the church?” asked Bael.

  “It’s boarded up now, for the better. But the boards can’t keep buried the horrors of that place. I don’t know the full truth of it, but one fact rings true. The Lucent existed in a different realm, one beyond the pale. It truly was a cancer on the face of Grimpkin—a place of unrelenting malice.”

  Long after the tale weaver’s voice had whistled off, the three sat in profound silence, speechless in the wake of the story. A shiver rippled Lakif’s spine. She had eagerly devoured every word of the narration. Torkoth had sat down during the story, obviously enthralled. The force of the narration had drawn in an audience of another sort. There seemed to be more skulls dotting the walls now, as if the tale had pulled them from their bony tombs. Petrosal stares registered their enthusiasm.

  Although Lakif was chilled by the sight of the narrator, the Bard’s anamnesis had all but crystallized the Acaanan’s blood. Lakif, who naturally shouldered a hyperactive imagination, could almost see lurid images of the holocaust, as if she were recalling a vicious dream. The recounting had awakened something buried deep within her conscious, although she was unable to precisely pinpoint it.

  What was curious was how so little was spoken of the atrocity in this day and age. Had it been forgotten as the Bard had feared? One facet of the tale troubled her, however. She could hardly reconcile the emotional, turbulent populace of yesteryear with the dull, docile citizenry she had come to expect in the district. Perhaps their spirit had been executed when the light of the alchemists had vanished from the towers.

  It was now clear why Cawjul was called the Bard. He was the sacred purveyor of all that transpired within the district, a deity chronicling Grimpkin’s violent past. He was the consummate raconteur. The Bard had spoken of Grimpkin’s mechanical Titan, but Lakif suspected that it was he who was the true goliath of Grimpkin. She suspected that the Bard was the very embodiment of the district, a withered shell limping along without the soul it had lost—the soul it had murdered. He had made a decision to bequeath on mankind a forbidden gift. It was a kind of stolen fire—the knowledge of man’s own heinous past. As punishment for the transgression, this Prometheus was chained to the immovable rock of life. The offense doomed him to suffer an eternity of torment. She suspected that his body would continue to waste away until only his voice remained. But Lakif knew the Bard could not really die. He had to live on, to continue to tell the story.

  “Where is this church?” Lakif was almost afraid to ask.

  “Acaanans are a ghoulish lot, so fascinated with such horrors.”

  “Please…” Lakif began.

  “You don’t have to fumble for some excuse, Acaanan. It’s easy enough to find. If ye must quench your curiosity, go south until the buildings mold, then east until they crumble.”

  With that said the Bard again smiled, for now he could appreciate the melodious music of the concert below. The Octave must have been playing the whole time, but the notes couldn’t penetrate the supernatural sphere conjured up by the tale.

  The three stood and shuffled out of the cave without much of a parting word. For the Acaanan’s part, she felt that to jar the narrator from the museum of music would only besmirch the tale, like a perfectly executed play mired by a lousy ending.

  As she descended the slope, she could see the Octave encircling the bonfire. Several assorted types had straggled in and flopped down on the earth to enjoy the concert. The Acaanan found their music muffled behind the curtain of the Bard’s drama.

  It was an easy matter to navigate back through Ixion and out into the Fornix. As expected, the normally shunned area was simmering with activity. The Acaanan was in little humor to enjoy in festivities that couldn’t hope to crown this fateful day. Judging from the demeanor of her companions, they felt likewise.

  Lakif checked her timepiece and found it was half past six. The others questioned this, and she realized that she had again referred to her broken pocket watch.

  Overhead, the Fornix’s fireworks exploded in the air. The brilliant, chromatic flowers warded off the falling darkness.

  XXX

  The Deal

  THERE WERE NUMEROUS OTHER INNS CLOSER, BUT LAKIF CHAMPIONED returning to the Goblin Knight, even if it was out of the way. She claimed that such a night of import mandated nothing but the finest inn, the nearest of which was most decidedly the Goblin Knight. This struck a chord with her erstwhile friend.

  The Half-man, however, equivocated, citing near poverty. In addition, he reasoned that in light of the Bard’s story, they had yet untold expenses on the horizon and that the path of economy was the wise choice.

  Lakif laughed at the pseudo-explanation, offering to splurge for a room. Before the Half-man could object, Lakif silenced him with a raised palm, broadcasting that the subject was settled. She carefully studied his reaction afterward, which by any interpretation was one of concern. Clearly, there was a solid reason he resisted returning to the Goblin Knight.

  The trip back to their old haunt was surprisingly enjoyable. Normally, the dusk hours would greet them with pedestrians hastily making for home. This night, the avenues were alive with activity. The celebration in the Fornix had spilled out into the byways at large.

  By a stroke of luck, the grand gates were wide open when they arrived. This was amazing because Lakif was convinced it was past Vesper. The chief warden had bestowed his own honor on this auspicious day. It was almost too heretical to believe—a gate ajar after Vesper! Lakif wondered if such an event would ever unfold again in the future. This day was unyielding in its marvels.

  The common room, as expected, was buzzing with banter. Lakif strutted in with smug inner satisfaction. No circulating story could hope to best the Bard’s riveting narrative.

  As promised, Lakif shouldered the cost of Torkoth’s room. In fact, while the guard wasn’t looking, she specified that she wanted two rooms close in proximity. Based on the Bard’s account of the Lucent, Lakif was more than ever convinced that Torkoth’s aid would be indispensable there. Something about the fellow’s cool demeanor always eased the Acaanan’s anxiety, and she wanted to keep him close at hand. Moreover, Lakif was certain that something was amiss between the Half-man and the inn, and she wanted to maintain a close eye on the swordsman. The chief warden wasn’t able to oblige her wishes with adjacent rooms, although the two were sufficiently close together. This was fine with the Acaanan.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll canvass the neighborhood for gossip about this church,” Lakif informed the Kulthean as the trio rounded the steps. She was resorting to familiar tactics, namely, mining the locals for news on the church before committing herself to a trip.

  Bael nodded with a yawn. He stated that he was bushed and headed off to his quarters. As they navigated the inn, Lakif was surprised at all the patrons milling in the halls.

  In her room, the Acaanan unlaced her boots and flung them off with a jerk of her legs. One of the boots banged into the Penate. The statue was of a mouse lugging a trunk. Once again she wondered about the inspiration for the various deities that protected each room.

  Her eyes flirted with the bed, which looked arrestingly attractive. But fatigued as she was, she wasn’t mentally ready to turn in. She needed a distraction from the inviting sheets.

  Rummaging through her sack, she groped a rolled up scroll. It was the parchment she had rescued from the book’s binding. She had forgotten all about it in the scramble to locate the Bard. She again scanned the bizarre lettering, hoping that some new feature would leap out to explain its importance. But once again she was frustrated by inscrutable symbols. Nevertheless, she was strangely attracted to the find, if for no other reason than
the mystery it posed. She considered tossing the parchment in the trash bin. For starters, she had no idea how to decode the language. In addition, now that the Bard had directed them to the site of a potential alchemical laboratory, she would have many other considerations to occupy her thoughts.

  She was about to discard it when a bolt of insight struck her. In her mind’s eye, an image of the friar leapt out. Had she unconsciously spied the fellow amid the patrons below, or was it just her imagination? She snatched up the scroll and bolted from the chamber.

  Before she could count to twenty, she was skidding down the stairs into the common room, nearly knocking over a startled patron in the process. She scanned the crowd exhaustively.

  There he was!

  The more Lakif looked at the pedantic friar, the more she was convinced that this was the ideal candidate for the task. She had sporadically seen him lingering around the inn over the past days but had paid him no further heed. Apparently, the scribe was involved in some serious research here, and circumstances had kept him around for a while.

  As expected, he was seated in the same spot where the Acaanan had originally spotted him. As per his custom, he was immersed behind a bulwark of parchments and scrolls. Lakif confidently marched up and buttonholed the scholar.

  “Excuse me. We had words many a day back,” Lakif harried the scribe.

  “Shoo!” The reader flapped his fingers. “I’m occupied.”

  “Thanks for the minute.” Lakif threw herself down before him. She slapped the tabletop with her palm as if to adjourn a court session.

  “You have some nerve!” The scribe’s nostrils flared.

  “Do you remember me?” Lakif asked.

  The fellow threw down the quill. “I’ll be unable to forget for some time.”

  “Jonas! That was your name?” Lakif snapped her fingers. It was then she noted the plates stacked neatly on the floor, cleared off to provide space for the paraphernalia. Jonas apparently had his priorities straight, prefacing any endeavor with a hearty meal. The leftovers were scraps of in vitellina elixam, a type of boiled veal that was a specialty of the inn. There also was residual scilla in cream sauce. Without a doubt, Jonas lived large.