Page 38 of Crucible of Chaos

SOME THINGS CANNOT BE FOUGHT

Estevar’s crusade against the ivory-skinned demons infesting the abbey grounds was doomed from the start. He opened with a slash of his rapier as fast as any he’d delivered in all his years of judicial duelling– only for the creature nearest him to dance effortlessly out of the way, all while suspending one of Strigan’s legs in the air.

Estevar’s next attack was a double-feint to the left, then to the right, this one against the ram-horned demon closest to him, before pivoting on his back foot to lunge at a different target entirely, this one sporting three curved goat horns. Again, his efforts were foiled so utterly that the monster he’d missed let go of Strigan’s arm long enough to applaud the sincerity of his efforts before once again grabbing the screaming monk’s wrist and yanking it with such force that Estevar feared the limb would be torn away.

‘Please!’ Strigan screamed. ‘Save me, Eminence!You must save me!’

His confidence in Estevar’s abilities was admirable, especially given the lack of success thus far. But he’d faced apparently superior opponents before, and he knew that creating the impression of being untouchable was itself a kind of ruse.

Speed, he thought, preparing his next move.Along with their unnatural strength, they move with such speed and grace as to make fighting them like trying to stab raindrops out of the air.

The analogy proved useful, as it reminded Estevar that if you know where the raindrop will fall, you need only place the tip of your blade in the way.

Let us see how well you handle this little concoction, he thought, and hurled himself into the fray once more.

A diagonal downwards cut prompted one of the demons, whose long, narrow jaw displayed double rows of curved fangs dripping with something green and vile, to tilt its entire body backwards at a sharp angle that should have sent it sprawling to the ground. Instead, the monster’s spindly legs remained perfectly balanced. This latest violation of physical laws might have been unfathomable; nonetheless, it wasn’t unexpected. Even before his blade was halfway down its trajectory, Estevar shot his own rear leg back into a reverse lunge so deep his left palm went to the flagstones to support him while his rapier blade swung back to slash at the demon’s leg. With a giggle, the creature hopped up in the air, easily evading the cut. Estevar smiled right back, remained in his low position and lifted his point straight up in the air. As the demon came back down, the forearm holding Strigan’s ankle descended right onto the point of Estevar’s rapier.

The shriek the creature emitted wasn’t one of pain or fear, more outrage, as if Estevar had broken the rules of whatever game it thought they were playing together. This struck him as an important clue about the creatures, but right then, he had more pressing business to attend to. Twisting his blade as he yanked it out of the demon’s forearm, he rose up to grab for Strigan’s momentarily freed ankle. His hope had been that he might now force the other creatures to release their captive, or else he could use their intransigence against them by stabbing freely with his sword.

Seven Hells!he swore silently as he fell back, Strigan once again under their control and Estevar’s right arm and leg both gashed by claws so long and sharp he counted himself lucky his limbs hadn’t been severed entirely.

If only he had his damned coat! The bone plates would have offered him a modicum of protection,enough that he could risk more elaborate swordplay without the prospect of sudden amputation. With the hidden tricks and traps, he might have given the unholy creatures more trouble– tiny spiked caltrops to hurl at their feet, amberlight to spark sudden flashes of light to disorient them, hells, even a pinch of rusting powder to give that leathery white skin of theirs a decent itch.

If only, if only, he told himself, mocking the impulse to blame defeat on some minuscule disadvantage rather than cold hard reality. On his best day, armoured in his greatcoat and wielding his own rapier, Estevar was an excellent swordsman and a formidable tactician, but even among the Greatcoats, he’d never been the most skilled duellist. And here he was, wearing borrowed, ill-fitting garb, gripping a rapier that lacked the familiar heft and balance of his own, and fighting gods-be-damnedactualdemons? This was very far from Estevar’s best day.

‘Face me, damn you!’ he shouted as the monsters began to lead him on a distinctly un-merry chase through the statuary. They never laughed, though,merely grinned at him as they paraded the helpless Strigan among the lightning-blasted ruins of the statues of dead gods. He chased after them like the unwanted child in a game of keep-away. Sometimes they’d let him catch up to them for a moment, only to hoist their victim effortlessly above his head before running past him in the opposite direction. Other times two would break away and watch poor Strigan as their foul brethren hurled him through the air in a hideous game of jester’s juggle. Estevar began to despair, though not nearly so badly as the man he was trying in vain to rescue.

‘Kill me,’ Strigan began to beg. All the while this hideous game had unfolded, the role of scribe had shifted from one demon to another as they took turns tracing the sigils tattooed onto his skin with their claws, leaving bloody tracks all over his flesh. The oozing of his blood lent the sigils a twisted, distorted aspect as if they were coming alive. ‘Please,’ he pleaded again, ‘please, kill me!’

Even had Estevar been so inclined, the demons would never let him reach their captive. Perhaps if a dozen of the Trumpeters armed with crossbows had taken up his cause they might have put up a decent fight, but the yellow of their habits had proven to be a disheartening metaphor for their lack of courage as they’d fled back inside the Vigilance Tower. Estevar could almost feel their eyes on him from the safety of their fortress.

Suddenly, a shot rang out– and Strigan screamed. A bright red gash had appeared from nowhere across his ribs. A woman’s voice swore somewhere in the shadows to Estevar’s right and he turned to see the grey-stubbled head of Brother Agneta bent over her wheellock pistol, pouring powder into the flash pan in preparation for reloading.

‘Damn thing hasn’t shot straight in years,’ she complained.

There would be no time for a second shot. Whatever obscene formula the demons had been inscribing into Strigan’s skin must now be complete, for they were laying him down amid the ruined statues.

Venia’s grave, Estevar realised, watching in horror as the demons placed taloned feet on Strigan’s limbs, pinning him to the ground, then raising their arms up high, the six-inch-long nails of their fingers aimed at his chest as they prepared to drive them like daggers into his heart. Most perversely of all, the fifth demon stood over the screaming Strigan, palms pressed together as it—

By every saint cruel or kind, Estevar swore silently,the creature is. . . praying! Why do they pray whilst shedding blood over the grave of a dead abbot?

Estevar was about to rush the demons once more, though it would be a fool’s errand. No amount of amateur heroics could save Strigan now. The lapsed monk was convulsing beneath the feet of his tormentors. Was this the result of blood loss, or fear? Or was something far more malignant happening inside him?

Leave the investigation for later, he reminded himself, furious with his own reckless lack of strategy. He hurled his rapier aside– what good was a sword against demons? He might as well have sinned his way to hell and challenged every devil there to a duel!

No, he told himself, focusing his mind once more.Don’t be distracted by supernatural mummery, however powerful it might seem.

There were other magistrates and lawmen across this country who, whether by choice or by chance, found themselves involved with mysteries that delved into the occult. What had always made Estevar different was that he treated such cases the same way as he did the mundane ones. He was neither a believer nor a sceptic; all that concerned him were the facts, not if magic was or was not involved. Murder was murder, whether committed by a warlock’s spell or a poison any cook could brew in their kitchen. The only thing that mattered was bringing the killer to justice.

Furthermore, as his encounter with the irritatingly precocious Chalmers had reminded him, a Greatcoat’s job wasn’t to prove themself the best duellist, but to see their verdicts enforced by whatever means were at their disposal.

A bluff is as good as a blade when you can guess your opponent’s fears, he thought. He had neither the means nor the time to investigate what struck fear in the heart–assuming they had them–of a demon, and yet, he wasn’t without clues to work with.

He strode up to them, standing barely six paces away from their unholy ritual. ‘Desist!’ he commanded, letting his voice rumble deep within his belly. He raised his fist high in the air as if he were holding a magistrate’s sceptre and was about to bring it crashing down upon the bell to bring the trial to order.

The creatures paused, their unspeakable chanting suddenly quiet. They swivelled their heads in unison towards the source of the outburst. One by one, their mouths twisted into even more hideous grins. Estevar felt as if those fangs were already tearing at the stitches in his side. His throat tightened, unable to keep from imagining those long, distended fingers wrapped around his neck.

It took every bit of his will to unclench his jaw and summon forth all the sternness he could muster. ‘Gaze not impertinently upon he who judges you!’ he said, imbuing his words with a smouldering rage.

---