Out in the open, the air was thick and miasmic with billowing dust from the assailed Basilica mixing with the polluted atmosphere of the Blasted Estate. Amelia took no time to pause, stumbling forward and trying to put as much distance between her and the warring legions as she could.
Through the pall up ahead she could make out other figures fleeing the scene – red-robed acolytes of Legion who had somehow survived the crash of their airship and were eager to save themselves from the carnage they were partly responsible for. How Amelia would have loved to wreak retribution on them, how she would have loved to unleash her tipstaffs on each and every one, but for now it would have to wait. She had to get the Key back to the Judicature, to have it examined properly by one of their scryators and kept safe within the vaults.
Then her eye fell on one of the fleeing cultists, and she knew that she could at least satisfy herself with just one small portion of retribution.
Julius crawled along, thick sobs racking his body as he dragged himself painfully across the sharp rubble of the Blasted Estate. Amelia stopped behind him, Hodge by her side, waiting for him to look around and see who it was that cast a shadow over his pitiful, fleeing figure.
Julius slowly turned his head, horror writ in his eyes. Relief washed over him; it was obvious he had been expecting some immortal form to descend on him, to cast its divine judgment on the man who had tried to destroy an entire city – perhaps even the world.
He smiled, spittle dripping from the side of his mouth. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ he said, holding up a grazed and withered hand.
Amelia felt her fist clench within one thin, leather glove… then smashed it into Lord Julius’s face.
He squealed, holding up his arms in a pathetic defence.
‘Get used to that,’ said Amelia. ‘There’s much more waiting for you where you’re going.’
Hodge grasped hold of the mewling noble and, as the Basilica still raged with the warring factions behind them, they fled across the Blasted Estate to the relative safety of the Manufactory. From a distance, Amelia could see the final throes of the building as it relented under the onslaught of demons and angels. Whichever side was winning she could not tell, but with any luck they would destroy themselves absolutely; countering light for dark so that nothing remained.
Only time would tell what consequences the Manufactory would have to suffer from the survivors of that ferocious conflict.
She strode into the Ministry of the Judicature with as much dignity as she could muster. Her fellow Indagators stared with a mixture of disgust and amazement at her ripped and torn attire, and more than a few administrants peered over their half moon spectacles at the strange sight.
Behind her, Hodge dragged the whining figure of Lord Julius, his demented eyes now glaring wide. He had defecated himself twice on the way to the Ministry of the Judicature, and the burly tipstaff was holding him at arm’s length.
‘I need to see the Grand Overseer immediately,’ Amelia demanded, relieved that she still managed to retain some modicum of strength and command in her voice.
Fantassins and Indagators looked at one another in confusion – it was a demand that was never made, the Grand Overseer only ever saw his underlings by written appointment and seldom granted an audience even then, let alone responded to a summons. The silence was telling, and Amelia began to wonder if she might have overstepped her remit.
There was sudden movement, and down one of the antiseptic corridors strode a procession of heavily armoured fantassins. As they drew closer Amelia could see that they bore the clenched fist sigil of the Grand Overseer’s personal entourage.
Amelia smiled at the gawping administrants who had, a moment before, thought her mad. Obviously her arrival had been expected – this would show them.
She strode forward, gripping Julius by the collar of his tattered robe, eager to apprise the fantassins of what was happening in the Blasted Estate, but their commander took a step forward, his aggressive manner silencing her before she could even begin.
‘The Key,’ he demanded. ‘You will relinquish it into our care.’
Amelia stopped for a second. How could they have known? She glanced down into her open palm where the Key of Lunos rested; the simple stone key that had been the cause of so much strife.
‘Hand it over. Now.’ The threat in the commander’s voice was thinly veiled. Something inside Amelia made her want to resist, to keep the Key from him, to keep it protected, but this man was part of the Grand Overseer’s entourage, an elite custodian of justice and order within the Manufactory. What could she do against that?
Nothing.
She placed the Key of Lunos into his outstretched hand.
With no word of thanks, the commander turned on his heel and marched back down the corridor, closely followed by his heavily armoured subordinates.
All Amelia could do was watch them leave.
Instantly, as though a sudden flame had been lit beneath them, the administrants, fantassins and Indagators went about their business as if nothing had happened. They swept past Amelia as though she wasn’t there, and it suddenly seemed that all she had achieved and gone through over the past few days had been for naught.
But at least she had Julius. She would have to satisfy herself with venting her frustrations on him. But then, looking at the pitiful figure before her, she doubted it would even be worth the effort.
‘Where is it?’ came a fluting voice. Amelia turned to see a tall, well-dressed figure flaunt into the entrance hall of the Ministry, surrounded by a scurrying collection of man-servants bedecked in ties and tails. ‘I demand to know where my property is. I want it back,’ squealed the man, bold as brass. He was roundly ignored by the staff of the Judicature, who appeared to have better things to do all of a sudden.
‘It belongs to me. I demand to speak with the Grand Overseer.’
Amelia stepped back, trying to make herself inconspicuous lest she come under any scrutiny from this man and his demands.
‘I think Duke Darian Hopplite will have even less chance of seeing the Overseer than you did,’ whispered an oleaginous voice.
Amelia turned, seeing the leering face of Surrey regarding her with that scurrilous look. Somehow though, she did not feel as repulsed as she normally did. Today she was too tired to bat off his unwelcome attentions. She had done enough fighting for one day.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘But then you can’t always get what you want.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘Sometimes you have to take what pleasures you can.’
At this, Surrey raised a suggestive eyebrow.
‘Would you like to help me interrogate a prisoner?’ she asked.
Surrey glanced down at the pitiful figure of Lord Julius. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
Amelia nodded her assent, and together they dragged Julius, kicking and screaming, towards the vaults.
It might not be much of a release, but it was better than nothing.
He lay on the familiar bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. The pungent smell of disinfectant was ripe in his nostrils and brought tears to his eyes. Or were they tears of pain? Or tears of woe?
No, it was the disinfectant – definitely.
Somewhere in the room the Apothecary was pottering around, rifling through shelves packed with tinctures and gauze. He had, as usual, done a fine job of patching Thaddeus up, but it still hurt like hell. Neither was the pain helped by the knowledge that he had failed in his mission.
Yes, he had stopped an apocalyptic invasion of angels and demons. But the fact that he did not have the Key of Lunos hurt more than any of the bruises, or his broken ribs, missing finger, cracked knuckles and lacerations.
To add to his misery, it was likely he would hurt a lot more when he had to report his failure. But that one he would face when he came to it.
The light dimmed and Blaklok painfully moved his head to the side, seeing the bearded face of the Apothecary staring down at him. The old man’s face was marred with amusement more than concern, but it mattered little to Blaklok.
‘When will this all end, Thaddeus? When will it be time for your crusade to finish, and your life to begin again?’
It wasn’t much of a question, but Blaklok took a moment to ponder his reply. The more he thought about it, the less he felt he could answer.
‘For as long as the holy demand it,’ he replied. It was a poor answer, and doubtless untrue, but it was the only one he could muster.
The Apothecary laughed, his thick moustache quivering as he exuded a series of sharp guffaws. ‘You don’t do what others demand, Thaddeus. Not unless you’re sure it’s to your advantage. There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s in this for you?’
Blaklok stared into the Apothecary’s eyes, wondering if his interest was purely altruistic. Thing was, you could never tell in this city – the Manufactory was a hive of suspicion and rightly so – it was a place rife with scum willing to stab you in the back. Blaklok had learned that the hard way.
‘You might find out one day,’ he replied, closing his eyes.
The Apothecary walked away, shuffling off to another part of his rooms.
Blaklok hated himself for not being able to confide in the old man, but it was the only way.
There
was
something in it for him, and the things he had put himself through
were
ultimately for his advantage, but the Apothecary had been wrong about one thing.
Blaklok
was
beholden to someone. And until he did for them what they asked he would remain so. But then, when all the tasks were finished, or when he was spent, he would get what he wanted.
Then there would be a reckoning.
Then the crusade would be over.
EPILOGUE
Blood red curtains hung from a high ceiling, brushing the dark oak floorboards; teasing them like a maiden caressing her lover’s neck with a crimson feather. A fire roared in one corner, filling the room with an oppressive heat that only served to make the stench of rot all the more pungent.
He stood in front of a large portrait, his lambent robes made from satin, silk, ermine, velvet and taffeta. As he gazed into the portrait it was like staring into a mirror, the figure that stared back was dressed identically, the face bearing the same ebon hair and troubled brow. It pleased him that such an accurate likeness had been rendered. It was fitting that when he eventually ascended there should be an apt representation left behind for all to see. He had commended the artist heartily for his work. Then he had arranged for the man to be eliminated, so such perfect labour could never be repeated for anyone else. Well, it was only right and proper that the Hierophant of the First Fane of the Sancrarium should have no rivals of any sort, not even in image.
Absently, the Hierophant raised his hand and gazed languidly upon what it contained. The Key of Lunos sat innocently in his palm, cold and sleeping. But the Hierophant knew what it could do – what it yearned to do.
All in good time
, he thought to himself, though he did not speak it. He would not want his guest to hear of his ambitions.
‘Thaddeus Blaklok failed. What would you have us do about it?’ said the voice from behind him.
The Hierophant turned to regard his guest as it squatted on the floor, ichor dripping and mist rising from its newly summoned body.
‘What would you suggest?’ he replied, raising an eyebrow in expectation.
‘We think Blaklok should be given to us, so that we may convey him back to our plane. So that we may punish him for all his sins.’
The Hierophant smiled at the predictable response. ‘You would so readily squander such a valuable asset? So typical of your kind. Despite his failure, Blaklok has proven himself resourceful, strong, and above all, loyal to our cause. As long as we have what he wants he will do our bidding. This,’ the Hierophant held up the Key, turning it in his opulently ringed fingers, ‘was little more than a test. I could have taken it at any time. As it was, circumstances meant it was delivered to the Judicature. And I own the Judicature. So in a way, Blaklok did not fail at all. But there will be more chances for him to prove his worth.’
‘But he has allowed the Host and the Horde to be unleashed on the city. What are we to do about that?’
‘That is of little interest to me. There are enough demons wandering the streets of the Manufactory already. What matter are a few more?’
‘Your lack of concern in this matter is most–’
‘My only concern is to keep the First Fane’s involvement in all this a secret. And you would do well to remember with whom you speak. Remember whom you serve. We have the Key, we are above suspicion and that is all that matters. Now, to further business. When Blaklok recovers, there is another task I would have you give him…’
Rankpuddle squatted down, ready to listen as the Hierophant of the First Fane of the Sancrarium, wielder of the Manufactory’s faith, and moral compass by which all righteous men were judged, related his instructions.
And the demon was powerless to do anything but his bidding.
For now…
About the Author
Richard Ford originally hails from Leeds in the heartland of Yorkshire, but now resides in the Wiltshire countryside, where he can be found frolicking by the Thames, drinking cider and singing songs about combine harvesters.
For more information on what he’s up to check out
www.richard4ord.wordpress.com
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