Page 73 of Crucible of Chaos

No, Estevar thought, turning away from her to the statuary where the demons had assembled. Their snivelling moans were increasing in both pitch and volume, becoming hideous groans of pleasure, while the ground at their feet swelled like a pustule being squeezed.

‘What’s going on?’ Mother Leogado demanded, but without waiting for an answer, she raced to her troops, shouting at them to continue advancing. They were looking confused and uncertain as the storm built in strength– then the site where statues of the six gods had once towered over the abbey began to blaze with an unearthly light. She had bound her followers to her with promises that a new god was coming to Tristia and it would be their duty to serve this new deity–whoever it might be.

At the centre of the ruins where the demons danced in triumph, occasionally pausing in their whirling to shudder in sudden, uncontrollable ecstasy, a hand, sickly white and skeletal, was erupting from the uneasy soil.

It reached up to the heavens.

One of the demons, taller and less ill-favoured than the others, with most of its grey robes still intact, turned towards Estevar and nodded in recognition, as if the two had been engaged in a long debate that had just been settled in the demons’ favour. Brother Syme–or what was left of him after his transformation–also bore markings on his leathery white skin. He had kept them hidden– and not only from Estevar.

‘Little shit,’ Brother Agneta swore. ‘I should have known anyone so flattering to an old woman was only playing the part.’

‘What in every hell is happening?’ Strigan asked.

As if in answer, lightning burst forth from the clouds to strike the withered hand stretching for the sky. A gaunt arm appeared, the blackened earth parting as the corpse of Abbot Venia rose from the grave for the last time.

‘I cannot speak to the peculiarities of this particular phenomenon,’ Estevar said, leaning against Imperious because he could no longer stand on his own. His breathing was laboured, his head felt slick and far too hot. ‘Nonetheless, a rudimentary deduction of the relevant facts would suggest that Brother Syme’s repeated interring of the abbot’s remains was not, in fact, meant to lay him to rest, but rather to prevent the soil of Isola Sombra from rejecting this poisonous seed.’

The lightning struck again and the cadaver stepped out of his unquiet grave to stand among the crooning, admiring horde. One of its hands continued to reach upwards, but the other was pointed to the ground where tiny, glittering flecks of ore fluttered like fireflies trying to escape, only to be snatched from the air by the abbot’s bony fingers. When the sky erupted in light a third time, Venia’s hand grabbed hold of the bolt before it could touch the earth. The lightning writhed in his hand like a snake trying to free itself, the thunder roaring over and over, as if enraged at the indignity.

‘Impossible,’ Mother Leogado murmured, her military mind, so linear in its thinking, not able to conceive how such an enemy might be fought.

‘What do we do know?’ Strigan asked. ‘How are we supposed to—?’

‘Trattari!’ Malezias shouted, in despair, rather than anger this time, for Caeda had collapsed at his feet.

Brother Agneta’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is she doing here?’

Estevar tried to speak, but his knees gave out and he collapsed over Imperious’ back. He’d taken brutal blows during the battle as the demons had fought for the privilege of punishing him, but it was the older wound sapping his strength. Even through his greatcoat, he could feel the stitches had given way completely and blood was dripping down his side.

Someone hauled him upright and spun him around. ‘Please,’ Malezias begged, holding him upright. ‘Please– you must save her!’

‘Saveher?’ Strigan demanded. ‘How about the rest of us?’ He jabbed a finger towards the statuary where a naked figure, shaped like a man but now nearly ten feet tall, gazed up into the sky as if inspecting a piece of land about to be handed over to him. The demons were fighting each other, trying to get closer to him, shivering in delight when they touched him. ‘That’s our new fucking god over there, and judging by his followers, life is about to get pretty gods-be-damned miserable for the whole world!’

Malezias ignored him, pleading, ‘Help her– youmusthelp her.’

‘He can’t help anyone,’ Brother Agneta said acidly, trying and failing to shove the big brute out of the way. ‘Look at him. He was half dead when he came to this island and now the other half isn’t long for this world.’

Estevar was hanging limply in Malezias’ grip. The only thing keeping his back straight was the sturdy leather of his greatcoat, which stubbornly refused to give way, when a lesser garment would have ripped long ago. He decided to take that as a positive sign, since all the other omens were rather bleak.

‘Brother Agneta is right,’ he croaked, trying to find his voice; he would need it if the last gambit remaining to them all was to stand any chance. ‘Strigan is right, too: none of us have long left.’ He looked bleary-eyed to where Caeda was climbing unsteadily to her feet.

‘Ah, Piccolo,’ Estevar croaked, ‘how fortuitous.’ When she stared at him as if he were insane, he elaborated, ‘Would you be so kind as to escort us to one of those clever secret passages of yours?’

The lightning struck again, and this time the Trumpeters abandoned their weapons and started walking towards the statuary to praise their new god alongside their demonic brethren.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Caeda asked. ‘The causeway is still under water—’

‘The prayer caves below the abbey,’ Estevar replied. ‘Assuming they aren’t flooded, that seems an appropriate place.’

‘Appropriate forwhat?’ Mother Leogado asked. ‘If the demons corner us down there, we’ll have no means of escape.’

‘Hmm?’ Estevar asked, not sure if he’d heard her.

‘I said, appropriate for what?’

‘Ah, yes, my apologies, I thought that would be obvious. We need the prayer caves for the trial.’

‘Thetrial?’ Brother Agneta asked in disbelief.

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