Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'Yanos. I am Brother Cassraw. I have come for you. The Knights of Ishryth need you.'

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  Yanos started back from this sudden and strange confrontation.

  'Who the hell are you?’ he demanded angrily.

  Cassraw took advantage of the movement to step purposefully through the doorway, causing his involuntary host to step back even further.

  'Brother Cassraw, as I just told you,’ he replied simply but with the same power. He could see the young man properly now and he was not a prepossessing sight. Tall, but with a slouch that sacrificed height for menace, Yanos was blessed with an oval face that might have been good-looking were it not for the surly eyes and a mouth that apparently spent most of its time sneering. The whole was topped by long black hair which hung, dank and neglected, about his face and shoulders.

  Cassraw awaited no ceremony. If he was to use this man, he must tame him in his own lair, and to that end he must be totally committed. Keeping his gaze fixed intently on Yanos's face, he reached behind himself, took hold of the door and swung it shut. It closed with a dull thud. Strangely, Cassraw felt a tremor of excitement at the sound of his escape being sealed.

  There were two other young men in the room. They stood up. Like Yanos, they were both taller than Cassraw and, he presumed, more than a match for him physically.

  'Ah. Your lieutenants, I presume,’ he said, turning his intimidating gaze towards them. ‘I was told you'd probably be here. That's good. You may sit.'

  The two men looked at one another in disbelief then started to move towards him. Cassraw held his ground, however, and with his already staring eyes widening further, he barked, ‘SIT!'

  Neither man did so, but they both stopped and looked hesitantly at Yanos who, baring his teeth, lunged forwards to seize this unwelcome visitor.

  'You dare to lay hands on a Preaching Brother?’ Cassraw's hand shot out and levelled an accusing finger at him. Years of preaching had given him considerable vocal skill and in the confined space of the room his powerfully projected voice seemed to come from every direction. Yanos froze.

  'Sit down!’ Cassraw repeated fiercely to the two others. ‘It remains to be seen whether you two are worthy.'

  Still the two men did not do as they were bidden, but the ebb of such determination as they had could be read on their faces as clearly as if they had dropped on to their knees. Whatever their ultimate destination in life, most Madren were strongly touched by the church in childhood, and this pair were too young to have developed the layers of indifference and worldly hurt that were necessary to oppose anyone with the skill and the will to work this rich, deep vein. They looked again to their leader.

  But Cassraw was not going to allow anyone an advantage.

  'You are loyal Madren, are you not?’ he demanded of Yanos.

  Yanos scowled uncertainly. Cassraw repeated the question, slowly but with a subtly menacing undertone, as if he was beginning to suspect that he might be in the presence of treason.

  It squeezed a reply out of Yanos. ‘Yes, but ...'

  'And you believe in His holy word, as enshrined in the Santyth?’ He held out his copy.

  Yanos, the hero of many a sneering denunciation of the church amongst his peers, floundered openly in the face of Cassraw's massive insistence. He made an effort to avoid the issue. ‘Get the hell out of my place, you ...'

  'Your place, Yanos Yanoskin? Your place?’ Cassraw's gaze moved airily around the sparsely furnished room as he spoke, then snapped back to his faltering antagonist.

  With great disdain, he reached up and delicately tapped one of the iron bars that tied together the shallow brick arches forming the ceiling. It vibrated with a low hum.

  'You have attested documents of right of domain?’ he said, eyes wide again. ‘Or a Keeper's indulgence? Or perhaps you've got deeds of possession somewhere?'

  'I ...'

  'You are a loyal Madren, aren't you?'

  'I ...'

  'A true believer in His word?'

  Cassraw bent forward, keeping his burning gaze fixed on Yanos. Like a hunting dog, he could sense his prey about to stumble and fail. But this was no fleeing doe, this was a dangerous man, still capable of reaching for that last resource and turning to fight; and fight for his very life. He had to be unbalanced.

  Cassraw's manner softened abruptly. He took hold of Yanos's arms in a grip at once firm and supporting. ‘Yes, you are,’ he said, the accusation in his voice becoming a fatherly reassurance. ‘Of course you are. There is no doubt about that. Many things I've heard about Yanos Yanoskin of late, and not all good, I'll admit. But that he was a traitor to his country, a godless heretic, never. And Canol Madreth needs you.’ He turned to the others. ‘And men like you, to face the trials ahead.'

  'Who told you...? What...?'

  This time Cassraw did not interrupt, but stood patiently waiting, the benign elder, ensuring thereby that Yanos, unable to support himself by offering opposition, finally fell. The young man's unformed questions stumbled to a halt, leaving a gaping silence hanging in the room.

  'May I sit down?’ Cassraw said regally as he felt one of the others about to speak. ‘We've a lot to talk about.'

  Unexpectedly released from his interrogation, Yanos found himself peculiarly anxious to appease his tormentor. He responded to the opportunity for action like a fish swallowing bait, and with exaggerated enthusiasm he kicked some rubbish out of the way, snatched up a chair and planted it firmly in front of the crude table that the group had been sitting around before Cassraw's explosive entrance.

  Cassraw sat down as though the battered chair were a throne and, with an authoritative gesture, motioned the others to sit also. Surreptitiously he swung one leg under himself. Sitting thus, he would be the tallest there. As the others sat down, he slammed his copy of the Santyth in the middle of the table, making them jump. He noted with some relish the uneasy glances that this caused.

  Now would be the testing time.

  For an instant his confidence wavered. He had heard of Yanos from members of his Knights of Ishryth. The man was undoubtedly a hero to some of them, and held in sneaking regard by many others. Tales abounded of his fighting ability and courage, his defiance of authority and his general refusal to accept the hide-bound norms of Madren society. Cassraw's immediate reaction had been to denounce such tales, to dismiss them scornfully as idle fancies for the amusement of children, or to dash them into nothingness with arguments full of cold reason. But he had felt a spark being struck within his Knights that he could well use to ignite them. So, instead, he chose not to condemn, but to listen. The very absence of censure ensured that he was drawn into the confidential heart of the tales and, by discreet questioning, he had formed his own assessment of this would-be mythic figure. A leader of some kind, without a doubt, and cunning also, though neither educated nor given to reasoning.

  But he saw too, a man already turning sour under the unwritten restrictions that hedged Madren life. A man who, left to his own devices, would eventually overstep the mark and draw down the weight of the Keepers on himself in earnest. It came to Cassraw that Yanos had the qualities that could be used to transform his Knights of Ishryth into the kind of group that he was going to need, and for some time he had been toying with the idea of recruiting him. He had been at somewhat of a loss as to how to achieve this however, until, flush with his success with Toom Drommel and Privv, he had felt suddenly that this was the moment, and that he must seek out a confrontation unhindered by any form of pre-arranged plan or argument. He must have faith: faith in himself, faith in the future, and faith in the inner voice that even when unheard was surely guiding him.

  As he looked at the three faces, now focusing on him with expressions that displayed bewilderment, curiosity and irritation in more or less equal parts, all of his doubts passed. Had he not just drawn into his web the leader of the Witness Party and one of Troidmallos's most influential Sheeters? These three before him were chi
ldren by comparison, almost literally so. All that need trouble him now was exactly what he was going to do with them.

  'Before I begin, we'll say a short prayer,’ he said powerfully, taking up the Santyth and looking down on his congregation. ‘Then I'll tell you about the Knights of Ishryth and the part you will play when you are one of them.'

  * * * *

  Later, as he walked back towards the Haven Meeting House at a pace markedly more relaxed than the one that had carried him away from it, he mused on the day's happenings. So much so fast. Of course, it could only be thus when he followed His guidance, but nevertheless he marvelled at the changes that had occurred in the passing of so short a time. He took in a deep breath. The wind had dropped and the night air was tainted somewhat with the smell of the burning street lamps, but it was still cool and luxurious after the dank staleness that had pervaded the cellarage and which still clung to his clothes. Still, a little water, a little toil, would remove that, while nothing would remove the seeds he had sown in the minds of Yanos and his two henchmen. For a moment his thoughts soared again into a distant and glorious future, but he reined them back almost guiltily, suddenly afraid that the very consideration of such rewards might in some way jeopardize them. The path forward could only be long and hard, because that was His way, and nothing lay ahead for those who lingered on it, indulging in idle speculation. He must occupy his mind now with guiding the events that today's endeavours would set in train. Only in a ploughed field could new crops be grown.

  Then, on an impulse, he changed direction.

  He walked for some time without noticing where he was going, his head working out plans, conjecturing on possibilities, considering contingency arrangements, on and on, round and round. There would have been little point in his going home and attempting to sleep, so preoccupied was he.

  Abruptly, almost as though he had been struck a violent blow, his thoughts evaporated and he halted. For a moment he stood motionless and bewildered. Where had he wandered to? He looked about him slowly, trying to find some identifying landmark. It was not easy. The street was deserted and the lighting poor. High walls hemmed him in; they were simple and functional in appearance and, at first glance, windowless, although after a moment he noticed some windows well above the street level. They were sealed with bars and heavy iron shutters.

  Warehouses. He knew where he was now.

  He cursed himself softly for his lack of attention. It'd be a long walk back home now and he'd better set off right away. Yet for some reason, he was reluctant to move. Something was holding him there—something troublesome.

  Then he remembered that it was near here that the murder had occurred. He felt a sudden surge of terror. Brought forth by the darkness around him it rose up from his own inner night, primitive and ancient, effortlessly setting aside all reason, religion, and the other trappings of civilization. Transfixed, he could do no other than stare wide-eyed into the dark shadows that waited between the pools of light thrown by the flickering street lamps.

  Gradually, his reason regained a tentative foothold. It told him that he knew where he was, and that all he had to do was walk. Broader, well-lit streets were nearby, and people going about their evening's affairs. In any case, whatever had happened here a few weeks ago was unlikely to recur in the same place, was it? Yet his reasoning lacked power, and still his feet refused to move.

  Go to the place.

  He started. Was this the Voice within him speaking, garbled and indistinct—or was it some bizarre whim of his own?

  Go to the place.

  He began to sweat. He could not risk interrogating something that might be the command of his god; he must simply obey it. Awkwardly he began to move forward.

  'We've put extra men on patrol round there, of course.’ Albor's words came back to him. They should have been a relief, but for some reason they added to his alarm for, even as he moved, he felt impelled to avoid discovery. His hands were shaking now. Surreptitiously he slipped into one of the shadowed parts of the street. At least there he could see without being seen—could collect himself a little.

  As he felt the shade close about him, however, he realized that he did not know exactly where the body had been found. But even as the thought came to him his eye was drawn to the dark maw of an alleyway directly opposite. It was like a gateway into another world—so dark that even the puny lights around him seemed dazzling.

  Go to the place.

  Shaking, and scarcely master of himself, he moved forward. As he reached the alley, its darkness seemed almost palpable. Unsteadily he groped for his small lantern; whether he would be seen or not, nothing would possess him to enter that gloom without light. It took him some time to strike it into life, then he found himself oddly reluctant to open the shutter. A blaze of light would not only expose him like a beacon but would deepen the darkness about him tenfold. He had a fleeting vision of himself surrounded by a dome of blackness punctuated by pairs of glistening eyes. He clenched his teeth and forced the image from his mind.

  Yet he must see.

  Tentatively he eased the shutter back to release a narrow beam of light, carefully avoiding looking at it as he did so. The darkness receded a little and the walls and cluttered floor of the alley began to appear. He stepped forward hesitantly, moving slightly sideways and keeping close to the wall on one side. Every few steps he turned and looked back at the dim outline of the entrance to the alley.

  What was he doing here? he eventually began to ask himself.

  Go to the place.

  It was as though some unseen hand were guiding him further and further away from the street, deeper and deeper into the darkness gathering about him as though to crush out the flimsy light of his lantern and leave him alone and howling.

  'Lord protect me.’ Neither threat nor reward could have restrained his whispered prayer.

  There was a pause that might have been the darkness holding its breath, then it was all around him. A silent shrieking filled his mind, tearing at his nerve ends like nails drawn down glass.

  It was here!

  Cassraw's legs gave way under him. He fell to his knees, then slumped forward on all fours. The lantern slipped from his hand and rolled over, sending a brief dance of shadows across the walls of the alley before going out. Cassraw scarcely noticed however, for as the cold touch of the flagged ground impinged on his hands, the sensations clamouring at him increased manifold. There was lust, primitive and all too human; grasping, possessing, devouring. And mingling with it was a breathless terror—terror such as even a nightmare could not contain—a terror full of dreadful flickering images, glinting steel and glaring eyes, and teeth, clenched in a terrible smile. Then there was another sensation. His mind tried to shy away from it, but deeper desires drew him inexorably into it until he could no longer deny the echoes that were ringing out within him in recognition.

  It was bloodlust—a singing and ecstatic joy at the destruction of another life!

  Cassraw cried out in horror and shame and, with an almost unbearable effort, tore his hands from the ground. He tumbled over heavily. Vaguely aware of the stone flags cold against his cheek, he clung to the solidity of the contact, sensing that it was all that kept him here; should he lose it, he would be plummeted into some other place and lost forever.

  He could see shadows dancing all about him, luring him on. He closed his eyes, but it was to no avail. They were all about him, as they had always been. The alley and the shell of the man that lay huddled there became a vague and distant memory from some other time. Here were the entrances to the worlds he should roam. Here was truth. Here was...

  But he was not alone...

  Someone was watching him!

  'Another priest,’ a voice said. The accent was strange and the tones clipped and sharp. Cassraw blinked as if that might clear the shadows from him, but nothing happened. Yet now he could see the figure, although he could not tell whether it was near or far.

  Lean and crooked, it bent forward
to examine him, lifting a long bony hand to its eyes as it did so.

  'Why would I want another?’ it asked itself. Then a shining black stick swung from behind its back and into its other hand before pointing at Cassraw. ‘Have I given you a name, night eyes?'

  But before Cassraw could reply, the figure seemed to be immediately in front of him, peering into his eyes—into the very depths of him.

  'Ah,’ it breathed out, a sound full of terrible anger and withering contempt. ‘You again, you abomination. Well, I don't need you. I know my own soul well enough by now. There's nothing else to be learned, no depths I've not plumbed while I've been here. I need no more demon guides such as you.’ The stick was suddenly at its mouth and biting music was ringing in Cassraw's ears. Then the figure was far away, dancing manically. ‘I won't have you here again, with your horrors and your blood-letting. I won't have you. I renounce you, priest.'

  Then close, a high shrieking note, rasping and awful, and the wild-eyed face filling Cassraw's vision.

  'GO!'

  And Cassraw was in the alley again. Breathing heavily and fearfully, but alone in the Troidmallos darkness. Echoes of the frightening images of the last few minutes, if minutes they had been, hung about him and filled his mind with tumbling questions, but relief swept through him as he took in the stale odour of the alley and the cold touch of the flags under his hands. Whatever had just happened to him, it was over. He must get up and get himself home, away from this dreadful place and the awful memories that seemed to be lingering in the stones here. He could ponder all this at his leisure.

  He looked around in an attempt to orientate himself. The dim street lighting marked out the narrow entrance to the alley.

  And close by, black against this feebly-lit background, stood a figure.