Page 40 of Crucible of Chaos

‘We. . .’

‘Await. . .’

‘Verdict. . .’

Estevar forced himself to take in a breath and said, ‘By the laws that bindallwho tread upon this land, I judge you guilty of violating the sanctity of this abbey. You are trespassers. Unwelcome. Unsanctioned. Mercy is a gift granted only once to the ignorant, and so I give you this one chance: depart this place now, or by the authority vested in me will I rule that by lightning and fire will the foul flesh stretched over your bones be immolated, and by the will of the gods whose voices you begin to hear, your spirits will be torn apart, the scraps of your being tossed into the sea to drown beneath the waves for ever.’

Estevar said no more. There was nothing else to say, after all. He had no more power to enforce his verdict than a butterfly’s wings had to wear down a mountain. He stared into those eyes that were surely windows into hell, and saw hell staring back at him. He refused to flinch, even when the claws at the end of their fingertips quivered in anticipation of inscribing their evils on his flesh.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘We. . .’

The necklace of sharpened fingernails around his throat touched his skin, pressed, ever so gently at first. Estevar heard the click of Agneta’s pistol and prayed her aim would be truer this time.

‘. . . depart,’ the creatures finished in unison.

Estevar might have breathed a sigh of relief then, but he heard one of the demons speak a final time– a whisper so quiet it might well have been a trick of the breeze.

‘For now.’

That parting warning echoed in his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes until they opened of their own accord and he watched the creatures walking into the fog, fading away until at last he could see them no more. He stayed where he was, though, mostly because his legs would not respond even to his urging to let him collapse to the ground.

Agneta’s footsteps preceded the unexpectedly gentle touch of her hand on his arm. ‘Did you. . . did you know that would work?’ the inquisitor asked.

It took him a moment to answer, mostly because he didn’t want his teeth to chatter. At last he said, ‘Of course I knew it would work! I’m a Greatcoat. Such daring gambits are second nature to us.’

But when he looked down at the blood-soaked, unconscious body of Strigan, saw the gleaming scarlet sigils carved by unnatural fingernails into his flesh, two incontrovertible deductions tore at his confidence. First, Sir Daven Colraig’s warnings on behalf of the Margrave of Someil had proved to be more than mere hysteria: demons did walk the earth. Monsters from the depths of some unimaginable hell had violated this sacred abbey. Only a brazen bluff, mixed with whatever superstitions beings such as them might believe, had forced them into this temporary retreat.

The second deduction?

The demons would be returning, and there was always a price for playing tricks on the Devil.

PART THE FIFTH

THE SIGILS OF WARDING

The next sigils must be placed with great speed upon the skin of the arms and legs, lest those who come to devour the spirit take the body as well, and the entire ritual must begin again with a new sacrifice. What you seek is a pure vessel, stripped of every sin as well as of any will of its own. Only then can the great work truly begin. . .

CHAPTER 25

THE INFIRMARY

‘We were summoned. . .’

Those words haunted Estevar as he carried the blood-soaked and unconscious Strigan from the ruins of the statuary through the cloister’s endless colonnades, past the cathedral-like chapter house and finally into a vast building of dressed stone which Brother Agneta claimed was the infirmary.

‘It’s more of a hospital for the entire island,’ the inquisitor informed him, leading the way while Estevar struggled beneath the Wolf-King’s weight– a more slender figure than himself, to be sure, but solidly built of lean muscle and bone, and a greater burden than his own injuries could bear. There was so much blood drenching the man’s naked skin, it was like holding on to a hundred and sixty-pound eel. Worse, every stuttering breath was a warning that it might be the lapsed monk’s last.

‘Not far now,’ Agneta promised, turning down an unlit passageway where every shifting shadow set Estevar’s frayed nerves on edge. ‘We’ve had to conserve lantern oil,’ she explained. ‘Most of the supplies and food are in the Sustenacum Tower and we’ve yet to wrest that one from those delusional Trumpeters. I swear, they’ve renamed the Vigilance Tower three times in the past week, always for some new god they insist is about to arise from the ruins of the statuary like a babe ejected from the womb.’

‘You don’t place much stock in the prospect of a new divine pantheon for Tristia?’ Estevar stopped, leaning against the arched wooden frame supporting the passageway in the hope of catching his breath. The darkness was so absolute that he couldn’t make out his guide properly and was left to imagine the pistol that was surely still in her right hand, reloaded with powder and lead ball, the wheel spring wound and ready to fire. Were they to be allies now that demons stalked the abbey grounds? Or was the old inquisitor merely using him as a packhorse to get Strigan– the only person who might be able to shed light on how such monstrous creatures were made to manifest in this once holy sanctuary–to the safety of the infirmary before she put an end to the meddling magistrate once and for all?

‘I am unconcerned either way,’ she said, gesturing for him to get a move on before continuing, ‘Should the old gods return, or new ones take their place, I will happily serve them–withhumility. What Iwon’tdo is claim to know their will and raise up an army to rain chaos down on a nation already weakened from the last war.’

Estevar grunted, his whole body aching from the strain and soaked in sweat, not only from his most recent exertions but from the way his heart wouldn’t stop pounding in his chest. Had he truly faced down infernal monstrosities using the sort of bluff he more commonly employed against ignorant venal noblemen and tavern drunks looking for a fight?

‘I take it you disapprove of Mother Leogado’s militant appetites?’ he asked between gasping breaths.

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