Page 51 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Where are we going next?’ she asked.

He stepped out into the passageway. ‘You and I must follow Venia’s footsteps into those dark places his fractured mind led him before his death.Thatis the means by which we will uncover how demons came to tread upon sacred soil.’

CHAPTER 29

THE WRECKAGE

‘You’re talking in riddles again,’ Caeda complained, the brass lantern swinging back and forth as she chased after Estevar. ‘Why start here, of all places?’

Their journey had taken them past the refectory, where dozens of broken plates–smashed, no doubt, by those who’d come seeking food after the pantries in the Sustenacum Tower had already been laid bare–had turned the floor into a treacherous terrain of clay shards. From there, an equally harrowing trip through the abandoned East Gardens, where every glint of moonlight brought visions of pale, leathery demon-flesh and claws eager to appeal Estevar’s earlier verdict. The faint slap of sandals a discreet distance behind them would have added to their disquiet, were it not for the tell-tale heaviness on the left foot.

Estevar had taken to referring to their unwanted companion as ‘the Mouse’ for the way he scurried off every time Caeda–who had limited tolerance for being spied on–would suddenly spin around and go chasing after him. To the Mouse’s credit, he made great haste on such occasions, disappearing into the darkness while Estevar called out to remind Caeda that they had morepressingconcerns.

‘Pressing,’ she repeated. ‘Why are we visiting the winery?’

‘Not the winery itself,’ Estevar said, leading the way down some narrow stone steps. ‘The wine cellar.’

‘Oh, well that explainseverything.’

A pity her talents for investigation did not include patience, Estevar thought.And a greater pity that yours lack heeding your own advice!

On the perilous journey across the causeway, Estevar had recounted to Imperious his old case of the Dancing Plague, which had been attributed to everything from demonic sorcery to divine retribution. Estevar had been intent on soothing his mule’s frayed nerves, not really considering he might be dealing with something similar in the Abbey of Isola Sombra.

‘What are the monks of Isola Sombra famous for?’ he had asked Imperious rhetorically, trying to distract him from the storm raging overhead. ‘The potency of the liquors they brew from crops grown on that very island.’

Distracted by his ruminations, Estevar failed to notice a damp patch on the step and lost his footing– only by painfully slamming his palms against the next step did he keep himself from sliding the rest of the way down on his arse.

‘Perhaps you should pay more attention to your feet,’ Caeda suggested as she helped him up, ‘and spend less time mumbling to yourself.’

‘I was not mumbling,’ he insisted, trudging carefully down the last few stairs. ‘I was merely. . . wordlessly vocalising my contemplations.’

‘Well, the rest of us call it mumbling, and you can stop now since we’ve arrived.’ She held out the lantern as they stepped through the arched doorway and into cavernous cellars– and nearly dropped their only source of illumination.

‘Seven Hells! What happened here?’ Her question reverberated against the granite walls rising twenty feet into darkness.

Estevar worked out his bearings: the underground wine cellars were directly beneath the main keep, just inside the northern curtain wall. Unlike the rough-hewn prayer caves below the courtyard and the narrow, confining storm tunnels, the spectacular architecture housing the abbey’s wines and ales evoked the majesty of a cathedral.

Vaulted ceilings ascended high above a clay-tiled central walkway between six main chambers, each lined with sturdy iron racks meant to hold the weight of huge oak barrels– the shattered remains of which lay strewn across the floor like a field of corpses after a battle, their blood the shallow pools of spilled wine.

‘How many barrels should we expect to find here at this time of the season?’ Estevar asked.

Caeda swung the lantern round to illuminate the damage. ‘The harvest was three months ago, the wine-making completed seven weeks after that. The new barrels are supposed to be kept down here for at least two years before being sold. When they are ready, they are shipped in the spring. . . so now, every rack should be full.’ She pointed to the empty alcove near the entrance, where a sign written in archaic Tristian warned,Quo moderatio festivas, qui exedio calamitas.

‘With moderation comes joy, from excess, calamity,’ Estevar said quietly.

‘That’s where the barrels for the brethren would usually be,’ Caeda said. ‘The abbot was very strict about how much his monks were allowed to indulge.’

There were no barrels in the house section, nor any detritus beneath those particular racks. Estevar glanced around the other sections of the magnificent cavern, calculating in his head.

Five hundred, he decided at last.At least five hundred barrels. Yet there do not appear to be that many amid these smashed remains.

‘Why would anyone destroy the abbey’s entire supply of wine?’ Caeda asked, sloshing her bare foot in one of the shallow pools of red wine, then kicking a small chunk of wood across the chamber.

Estevar took the lantern from her before kneeling to investigate a piece of barrel that held some of the purplish-red liquid. He lifted the improvised wooden cup to his lips and drank.

Notes of blackberry and peach blended amiably with the earthier flavour that was a characteristic of the island’s legendary grapes. The full-bodied wine soothed his throat as he drank, leaving a velvety sensation on his tongue.

Outstanding, he judged, discarding his improvised ladle before going in search of another.

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