Shadowmancer

by G. P. Taylor

  Sarapuk gave out a sharp squeal, tears filling his eyes, lip quivering. He reached out with a shaking hand for the beetle. Demurral snatched the cockroach back towards him. With a sharp squeeze he crushed the creature in the palm of his hand. It gave out a gratifying crunch as its hard shell crumpled in his fingers.

  That night was twenty-five years ago, and the wickedness of Demurral’s heart had grown with each passing season.

  *

  Raphah hid in the damp cellar of the Vicarage, among some stored apples that had been stacked in wooden trays and covered in sackcloth. He had wedged himself between two crates, and covered himself with the musky cloth. He had been there for several hours, trying to breathe as quietly as he could, hoping not to be found. In almost complete darkness, he had listened from his hideout as Demurral and Beadle had searched for him. They had returned after many hours to slam shut the metal door that led from the cellar into the tunnels, and to curse the fact that the young invaders had not been captured.

  Raphah had no way of telling if it was morning. From the kitchen above he could hear the clanging of pans and the footsteps of the cook as she hobbled across the floor. He listened to each footfall. From the way she walked he could tell she had a severe limp and was of a great weight. He could hear the uneven steps that she took across the floor, and the straining of the floorboards above his head. He knew it was a woman from the high-pitched voice that screamed at Beadle to get out of her kitchen and never to darken the door again. All this had started about an hour before, so Raphah presumed it must be early morning. He had spent most of the night trying to stay awake and pray. He had inwardly cried out for Thomas’s protection from Demurral. Their plan had worked; he was inside the Vicarage, but Thomas’s fate was unknown. The last he had seen of him, Thomas was running down the tunnel in the light of the doorway, being chased by Demurral. Raphah had then slipped into the cellar and hid.

  In his hiding place he thought of what he had to do. He knew that recovering the Keruvim would not be simple. It was far too precious an item for things to go well. He also knew that Demurral’s desire to possess the Keruvim would mean that he would stop at nothing to keep it in his grasp.

  He couldn’t tell if the door to the cellar was locked; he had not heard a key being turned. He realized that at some point soon he would have to venture forth and find the Keruvim.

  Raphah slid his hand into one of the apple boxes and pulled out a large firm apple. He took a bite, but it had the taste of damp wood. He spat it out and put it back in the box. Crawling along the side of the wall he made his way in the darkness to the doorway. He could see a chink of light flooding in from under the door. There was no key in the lock. Raphah took hold of the metal handle and slowly pressed down. The door gave a loud clunk as it jumped off the catch.

  Outside the cellar a flight of ten stone steps went up to a bright passageway. He climbed carefully, stopping and listening on each step. He could still hear the woman’s voice moaning about her life and wishing all the ill luck on Demurral that her thoughts could muster. At the top Raphah could see that the doorway to the kitchen was open. The smell of boiled fish and cabbage filled the air, as steam swirled around the dark oak kitchen door. He could see the back of the cook. She was facing a tall window, washing up pots in a stone sink. She was large and round and wearing a dark blue frock and grey pinafore tied at the back. He crept past the door and slowly walked along the passageway. At the far end he could see the large front door. Above the door, stretching from the lintel to the ceiling twelve feet above him, was a gold-framed mirror with a large statue of a raven carved into the frame. The raven was at least six feet tall. Its long, sharp talons gripped the mercurial glass, and its even longer outstretched wings swept down to each side. It had green painted eyes that seemed to follow Raphah as he walked towards it along the passageway. Raphah looked up again, unsure if he had seen the raven move. For a moment he thought the bird had shaken its golden feathers, then frozen again into its position. He felt as if at any moment this great bird could swoop down and grasp him in its thick, spiked talons.

  Raphah continued to edge his way along the passage. He knew that in an instant one of the dirty oak doors could open and Demurral would catch him. He listened for the smallest turn of a handle, and the slightest squeak of a floorboard. Far behind him he could hear the sound of the cook as she moaned, and threw pans across the kitchen. He got to the front door, the raven dominating the wall above his head and looking down on him as if to strike. To his right was a doorway, and to his left a stairway that led to an upper floor and then sharply twisted back upon itself. Raphah closed his eyes, and slowly and purposefully breathed in. He began to calm himself and softly spoke out.

  ‘Riathamus, lead me.’

  He opened his eyes and looked across the passageway. From beneath the door opposite there was a billowing of thick dust, rising up like a small cloud. He knew that he had to try the door. Putting his hand to the large brass lock, he pressed against it and the door began to open. He didn’t think for a moment that there could be anyone inside the room. He just knew that this was where he was being led.

  Inside was a large desk. Pieces of bread were scattered across the floor, a flagon of wine was standing on the side table, and several old books were lying across the desk. A large bay window with faded green curtains dominated the room. From the doorway he could see the sea, and in the distance Baytown. It was a bright day, and yet the room was in dark shadow.

  It was a beautiful room made dull by neglect and by the possessions of the owner. He scanned it quickly for the Keruvim, but it was nowhere to be seen. He searched the drawers of Demurral’s desk, and a large sea chest that was set into the alcove of the fireplace. It was not there. Suddenly, Raphah heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He knew there was no escape. A second set of footsteps could be heard coming along the passageway. They beat out a pace on the hard wood boards as each heel dug in with each step. They were purposeful, long, confident steps, and they were approaching the room quickly. Raphah knew he had only seconds to hide.

  The door was flung open. Demurral entered the room and went to his desk. He sat in the chair, put his long, thin feet on the table and leaned back. He pulled the silk dressing gown around him and shrugged his shoulders. Beadle arrived and, like an obedient dog, stood by his side waiting for his instructions. The mud from the night before covered his boots, and he rubbed his grubby unwashed fingers as he waited impatiently.

  ‘You lost them, Beadle. Now we will never know who they were.’

  ‘Or why they were here,’ Beadle replied.

  ‘On the contrary. They were here for the Keruvim. They wanted to steal my little golden angel.’ He rubbed his chin and looked around the room. ‘They will try again, so we must find out who they are, and who has sent them.’ He kicked the table with his foot, sending papers scattering across the floor.

  ‘Where shall we start to look? We searched all night and never found them.’ Beadle spoke as he tried to pick up the papers.

  ‘They will not be too hard to find. No one should know what we have here, unless you have been talking again.’ He looked at Beadle in an accusing manner, raising one eyebrow. ‘Drunken talk will cost your life. What we have has to be protected and little people can be sacrificed for the cause.’

  Beadle gave a visible gulp. He knew that Demurral would be a man of his word, that he would not hesitate to kill him by whatever foul means he could think of.

  ‘Bring the scrying bowl. Perhaps Pyratheon will be able to guide us.’ Demurral dropped his feet to the floor, stood up from the chair and rolled back his sleeves. Beadle went to a small table and from the drawer took out a black bag. From inside he took out a green china bowl, engraved with serpents that coiled around the base, circling upwards to the rim. He placed it on the table. Demurral reached into the top drawer of his desk, took out a crystal bottle of clear fluid, and poured it into the bowl. He looked at Beadle.

  ‘Blood, Beadle. We need bloo
d.’ Beadle looked aimlessly around the room then cast a worried, blank look at Demurral.

  ‘Your blood, Beadle. I need your blood.’ He beckoned for Beadle to step closer.

  ‘But I only have enough for myself – I can’t spare any – I’ll dry up,’ he pleaded as he took a step back away from Demurral.

  From the drawer Demurral took out a small knife and held it towards Beadle.

  ‘I don’t want a bucketful, just a drop. I promise this won’t hurt.’

  He made a sudden grab for Beadle and managed to get hold of him by the arm. He pulled him to the desk and held his right hand over the bowl, stabbing the small sharp tip of the blade into Beadle’s thumb. He squeezed two large drops of blood into the bowl and with the knife blade, swirled them around in the water. The shocked Beadle jumped back from the table and screeched like an owl. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked the wound, looking like a large fat baby.

  ‘You lied. It hurt! And you took it all,’ he squawked at Demurral, thumb in mouth.

  ‘Come, my friend, and look into the water.’

  Demurral placed his palms over the swirling water. Closing his eyes, and in a deep voice that was not his own, he began to speak.

  ‘Pyratheon-Kaikos-Theon-Anethean.’

  As he spoke the words, the water began to turn black and whirl in the bowl like a captured storm. ‘Show me Pyratheon, Dark Lord from above, show me,’ he intoned loudly as the water turned to dark silver, and froze like thick ice. In the reflection Beadle saw a house appear. It was a small cottage, set in the woods by a stream.

  ‘Look, Beadle, they are here – or, rather, they will be. Do you know this place?’

  ‘It’s the miller’s cottage, where the Boggle lives.’ He looked again into the bowl. ‘This is two hours’ walk; how can it be seen here?’ Beadle shuddered as he spoke.

  ‘This is magic, it comes from Pyratheon. I lost so many years following the wrong way. I tried so hard to understand all that I had been taught as a child, but in the end it was useless. There was no power, no glory, only empty words. I wanted God to give me one sign. To change water into wine just for me, but I got nothing. I was taught to love my neighbour as myself, and love God with all my heart. But how can you love someone who is against the true prince of the world? How can you love your neighbour when you don’t even love yourself?’

  Beadle looked dumbfounded by his words. Demurral continued to speak, staring out of the window.

  ‘One day you may understand, but in this small sign of blood and water I now know where they are and I will stop them. There is only one thing in this world worth dying for, and that is power. Power over people, power over the elements, and ultimately the power to be God. With the Keruvim I can control the elements. When I have them both I will change the world, and I will bring about the death of God. This time he’ll be nailed to the tree for ever.’

  He smashed his fist hard into the desk. The water in the bowl jumped. It was no longer ice and there was no vision of the cottage. The reflection shimmered as Demurral dipped his fingers in the water, crossing himself in the sign of a pentagram. He flicked the last few drops of water at Beadle. Then Demurral suddenly stopped and looked at the sea chest. He shuddered, and the dark voice returned.

  ‘Beadle, take the chest out of here, lock it, and burn it.’ He looked sharply at Beadle. ‘Do it now, Beadle.’

  His servant crossed the room and took hold of the brass handle on the side of the chest, trying to slide it across the floor. It was heavy and hard to move. Beadle struggled across the room, sliding the chest over the wooden boards. Demurral came to his aid and together they shoved and pushed it through the door and into the passageway. They dragged it through the front door and on to the steps. Beadle began to lose his grip, the weight of the chest pulling at his hand. He let go and it tumbled down the flight of stone steps, crashing on to the driveway below.

  Raphah, stunned from the fall, spilled out of the chest and into the mud. Demurral quickly pounced upon him, grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.

  ‘There is nowhere to hide from me. Do you think I would put the Keruvim where you could find it?’

  Raphah could not reply as the priest squeezed his throat harder and harder, lifting him from the ground at the same time.

  ‘You’ll kill him, master,’ Beadle cried out to Demurral.

  ‘He was dead the moment he stepped into this house. But perhaps now is not the time or place. You never know, Beadle. He may be more useful alive.’

  He twisted Raphah around and threw him to the ground.

  ‘You have some explaining to do. Now get to your feet and don’t think of running. We have dogs that would catch you within minutes.’

  Raphah got up from the mud and was dragged by Beadle towards the door of the Vicarage. He didn’t speak to his captors and tried not to look at them as they hauled him back into Demurral’s study. Beadle locked the door and from a large empty plant pot took a cane walking stick. He twisted the shaft and pulled a long sharp blade from inside the cane. Demurral sat in a battered leather chair and looked at Raphah. His eyes scoured every inch of Raphah’s body, taking in every detail of his appearance, searching each line or contour for some clue as to who he was, and why he was there. After several minutes of his staring, Demurral finally spoke.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded. Raphah made no reply. ‘It won’t harm you to tell me who you are. Then we can at least be civil to each other.’ He tried to smile. ‘I can tell from your skin that you are not from these parts. Are you a slave?’

  Raphah stared at the floor. The room smelt of sweat and damp books. It was messy, cold, and brutally unfriendly. The floor was several years unswept, and littered with pieces of broken glass, pottery and dry bread. In the corner by the door were the scratch marks of a large rat that had torn at the wood, and eaten the edge of the skirting board. On every surface the dust lay winter-thick like a covering of grey snow. The beauty of the room had been overlaid by years of neglect that provided Raphah with a wonderful distraction from Demurral’s questioning.

  ‘Come on, man, tell me who you are,’ he barked at Raphah, the smile gone, the deep, dark voice rising from his stomach like the outflowing of a sewer. ‘I can get you to talk in ways that you wouldn’t like. If there is one thing I hate it is the arrogance of silence. Are you here to steal the Keruvim?’

  Raphah took in a deep breath of the stale air. He looked up at Demurral, who sat protected by his desk in front of the empty fireplace.

  ‘Steal? I have not come here to steal, but to take back that which belongs to me. That is the truth.’ He stared at the priest, and for the first time noticed the man’s thin bony face and sharp features.

  ‘Truth. What is truth? It is all relative. You are here, hiding in my sea chest, spying on me. The only thing of value I have was brought to me by one of your kind. And I’ll have you know I paid a fair price for it,’ Demurral snarled. ‘So I can only presume that you are here to steal it from me. Did Gebra Nebura tell you it was here?’

  Demurral reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a knife, pointing the blade towards Raphah.

  ‘Nebura is a thief. He stole his name, and he has stolen the Keruvim. There will be no rest for him, not even in death,’ said Raphah. Beadle jumped at this sharp reply and lashed out with the swordstick, missing Raphah by a fraction of an inch.

  ‘Don’t play games with me,’ said Demurral. ‘We hang people for stealing, and there is plenty of rope still left on the gallows to go around your pretty little neck. Now tell me the truth. Who are you, and what do you want in this place?’ Demurral stabbed the blade into the desk.

  ‘I want what’s mine and will leave you to whatever you are planning to do. Just give me the Keruvim and I’ll be gone. You will have no more trouble from me,’ Raphah replied.

  ‘You, my friend, are not going anywhere. You will be here until you die. That may be tomorrow or the next day, but it will be soon. One Keruvim is now min
e, and before long I will have the other. At that time the world will be changed beyond your wildest dreams.’ He pointed out of the window to the sky. Since the storm it had glowed with strange colours that billowed out of the sea to the north. The horizon was tinted with orange and green that shimmered in the first light of morning.

  ‘Look at that, my friend. Even now the world is beginning to change. The Keruvim has a power that you would never understand. We are coming to a time when the sky will grow dark and the moon will turn to blood. There will be signs in the sky that will make the strongest of men fear for their lives. Not even your God can stop what is about to happen.’ Demurral got up and walked from behind the desk, past Raphah, to stand in the bay window. ‘And it is all because of me!’

  Raphah continued to face the fireplace, and Demurral’s empty chair, as he spoke.

  ‘You flatter yourself. Don’t you know that you will never understand the power of the God whom you fight against … Don’t you realize he is just allowing you this tiny piece of vanity? You talk about rope, but the only one who will hang is you. God is coming, but he is coming to judge, and you have been held in the balance and found wanting.’

  Demurral picked up an empty bottle and in two paces crashed it into the back of Raphah’s head. The blow came silently and unexpectedly. Raphah dropped to the floor, hitting his head against the side of the desk and landing in the dust and dirt, amongst the dry bread and mouse dung.

  ‘Get him out of here, Beadle. All this talk of God makes me sick. Get me the branding iron: we’ll leave him with a mark that he will never forget.’

  Brimstone and Cold Cabbage

  IT was the intense smell filling his nostrils that convinced Raphah that he was not dead. It was a caustic, tear-bringing smell that inflamed his eyes and tore at his throat. As he breathed he could feel himself being choked by the rotting fumes welling up around him. It was the smell of brimstone and sulphur, burnt seaweed, and dog pee.