Page 70 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Hell is a garden,’ the artist had told him, ‘with infinite variations of blooms, but a single fragrance–that of damnation.’

‘They are. . . tending their garden,’ Estevar told Caeda now, drawing his rapier from its scabbard.

But not all the monks were being killed outright. Those who had called themselves ‘Wolves’ and bore the sigils haphazardly copied by Strigan from his own, were suffering a different fate. Estevar and Caeda watched the demons playing with one of the Wolf-King’s followers, first destroying the woman’s robes, frayed to tatters by their talons, then setting to work on her body, tugging her arms to unnatural lengths, splaying her fingers wide. With their claws, they sculpted the bones of her head until ivory ram’s horns sprouted from her temples.

‘Venia tricked Strigan into imprinting the sigils of theSacrificia Purgadisonto his followers,’ Estevar said grimly.

The wind was picking up, the clouds gathering overhead. Her red hair whipping around her face, Caeda cried, ‘But thePurgadisis supposed to purge the sins of a community by inscribing them onto the skin of the sacrifice, that’s what Venia said!’

‘Sin is not so easily banished,’ Estevar replied, his hand shaking so badly his grip on his rapier was threatened. He wished he was stronger, younger, faster, but above all–and for the first time in his life–he wished he possessed more faith. ‘ThePurgadisdoes not expunge the sins of others, but instead transforms the victim into the embodiment of those crimes.’ He forced his sword arm to rise until the tip of his blade pointed to the woman whose screams had turned to laughter as she grinned, displaying long, twisted teeth, at her demonic companions. ‘Thatis the result!’

Caeda only now noticed the rapier in Estevar’s trembling hand. ‘My Cantor, you can’t mean to fight them!’

‘Why not?’ he asked, summoning every ounce of courage to lend his words at least the illusion of confidence. When that failed, he drew strength from a deeper well: the arrogant bluster he had long tried to purge from himself. Now it was all he had left. ‘I see nothing new here,’ he bellowed over the screaming, the laughter and the chaos, ‘no hellish conjurations from which to cower in fear. Killing and depravity are no evidence of diabolical genius, just the base acts of cowards.’

‘Estevar, don’t!’ Caeda cried as the demons began turning towards his discordant defiance.

He shrugged off her hand. ‘Two nights ago,’ he shouted, ‘I rendered my verdict. That you have returned means you wish to appeal that ruling in the old way, with steel and blood.’

‘Please, my Cantor,’ Caeda wept, clinging to his coat, ‘please don’t do this.’

He hesitated a moment and smiled at her, though they both knew it was masking the despair underneath. ‘Weep not for me, my Piccolo. I am under strict orders from the First Cantor not to engage in any duels unless I am certain I can win.’ He glanced briefly up at the Vigilance Tower. The windows were darkened by the dozens of armed monks in yellow surcoats peering out from them. He let them see the terror in his eyes, if only for an instant. ‘Though I have been known to disobey such commands.’

His hour having come, Estevar adopted a formal guard, his sword arm extended three-quarters towards the nearest of the demons, his back arm curved gracefully upwards, just as his old fencing master used to insist. To his enemies, he said, ‘I will now accept your surrender.’

Many of the demons dropped their victims to join their unencumbered brethren in enthusiastically clapping his performance, before the nearest of them, clawed hands outstretched and jaws opened wide, raced towards him.

CHAPTER 40

THE CRUCIBLE OF CHAOS

At first, the demons toyed with him.

‘They desire only to play,’ the blind artist had told him all those years ago. ‘We are no more than dolls to them, and some children love nothing more than tearing apart their dolls.’

The diabolically transformed monks surrounded Estevar and Caeda like cheering boys at a schoolyard brawl, giving way to one of their number, allowing him the privilege of attacking first. This particular monstrosity was dragging one of his former brethren behind him, strangling the poor man with fingers so long Estevar counted seven knuckles on each. The giggling creature pranced and twirled as he approached, lifting the terrified monk up high as if intending to use him as a club to beat Estevar to death.

Estevar gave no ground. His rash boldness was clearly entertaining the creatures enough to keep them from getting bored, but at any moment, they would likely decide to join in the fun. He raised the tip of his rapier up high and back in preparation for a cut.

Some might argue that the rapier is suitable only for thrusting, claiming the narrow blade lacks the heft of weapons such as longswords, whose heavier cutting edges are the only ones capable of chopping down one’s enemies. Experience had taught Estevar otherwise: with the full strength of his shoulder and arm, he slammed the edge down on the demon’s wrist, hacking it off in a single blow.

The near-strangled monk flopped to the ground, gasping as Caeda tore the unnaturally long fingers from his throat until he could breathe again. The pale-skinned creature stared at the stump at the end of its forearm and began to weep. The others laughed at his misfortune.

‘Demons and devils do best to pursue us in our nightmares,’ Estevar warned them. ‘When you hunt on our soil, you are made flesh.’

‘What are you doing?’ Caeda whispered furiously at his side, the little hatchet with which she was threatening their enemies inducing them to paroxysms of laughter. ‘You’re acting like this is some kind of game.’

‘Not a game–a performance.’

She glanced warily at the creatures encircling them. ‘For who? These monstrosities?’

Estevar looked up towards the Vigilance Tower.

Descend from your garden, Mother of Trumpeters. What use will your army be in fending off the Margrave of Someil if the island is already overrun by even fouler invaders?

The second demon who came for Estevar was the one with the long corkscrew horn, now dripping with the blood and viscera of slain monks. Its powerful legs ended in hairless white hooves, which were currently pawing at the ground as it dropped its head low, preparing to charge him. Estevar unceremoniously shoved Caeda aside, squatted and rolled onto his back. When the monster leaped on him, Estevar planted his boot heels on its thickly muscled torso before kicking upwards with all his might. The creature flew high– then crashed back down, landing head-first on the flagstones.

The sickening crunch silenced the courtyard. Estevar had got to his feet; he turned to see the demon’s horn had been driven through the back of its skull.

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