Kultus (3 page)

At the end of the torch-lit passage stood a heavy steel door and, as he reached it, Castor pulled a rusted iron key from within the confines of his flowing robes. There was a small grille set in the centre of the vast portal and Castor could see nothing but blackness through it. Soft whimpers emanated from within and he felt a sudden pang of pity for the cell’s occupant. Castor was by no means cruel, but he understood that he and the other acolytes might sometimes have to perform acts of cruelty to attain their ends. It was a burden he was more than willing to bear.

He slotted the key into the lock and turned it. Despite the age and condition of the rusted metal door, the lock itself was well oiled and the key turned easily, sliding the bolt mechanism inside with a resounding click. Castor pulled the door open and allowed the light from the wall’s bracketed torches to bathe the cell, revealing the wretch within.

‘Earl Beuphalus,’ said Castor with a smile. ‘The time is now. Please come with me.’

The Earl cringed in one corner. Dried blood stained his torn clothing and he looked gaunt, two hollow eyes staring from within a pallid face. At first he shook his head and backed away from Castor’s brothers as they entered the cell, but there was nowhere for him to go. As the robed figures reached out for him, Beuphalus began to whine and mewl like a puppy being gelded. All the pity Castor might have felt for the man suddenly vanished. This was a Highborn noble of House Westowe. Where was the dignity he had been taught to expect from such aristocrats? Besides that, this man was also a prominent member of Valac’s coterie. Where was the fearless edge, the arrogance in the face of the enemy? Castor knew for a fact that were the tables turned he would be sure to give a much more august account of himself.

The acolytes deftly bound the Earl’s hands and secured a gag to his mouth. It served to muffle the pitiful grousing somewhat, but Beuphalus still managed to make an annoyingly loud racket. Castor led the way as they dragged their prisoner back along the corridor, through the tunnel of flickering light.

When they reached the end, Castor could hear that the chanting had already started. Butterflies began to beat gossamer wings within his stomach as he mounted the stone stairs to the upper sanctum. Near the summit, the bright yellow light from the corridor’s torches mixed with that of a thousand crimson votive candles, throwing an odd titian hue against the walls. As he stepped out into the huge red-lit hall, a hundred hooded heads turned to greet him.

Beuphalus was dragged up behind, and when he saw what awaited him he began to scream behind his gag. The sound was truly awful, and must have caused the Earl great pain, but the congregation gave no response.

The sanctum rose high, a hundred feet, perhaps more, Castor could not really tell. It was bare but for the four-foot altar that rose in its centre and the pit of fire that stood to one side. Lining the walls, standing on racks reaching almost to the ceiling, were thousands of scarlet candles, giving off a baleful light. Even the glow of the fire pit seemed to burn an angry red.

Castor stood, his brothers holding Beuphalus between them, waiting for the High Priest to appear. They did not have to wait long.

From a dark alcove to the north of the hall strode a tall, thin figure. He was adorned in satin, just like the other brothers present, but the robes he wore were black as ebon and his face was not hidden by the shadow of his cowl. A burnished bronze mask adorned his head, at once beautiful and grotesque. Its edges were sharp, splaying outwards like a sunburst and wickedly pointed. There was no mouthpiece but the nostril and eyeholes were like slits; lacerations in a face of evil. From within the sharp eyeholes burned two blue orbs, intense and focused. Castor could see those eyes even from this distance, and it made him shiver.

The High Priest paced slowly to the altar, and with one long arm, beckoned his acolytes to bow. This they did, humming as one as they stooped towards the altar, accompanied by the sighing sound of a hundred satin robes moving as one. Castor took this as his signal, and led his brothers as they dragged Beuphalus towards the altar.

To his credit, the Earl seemed to realise that his end was near, and chose this moment to begin a valiant struggle. Alas, his resistance was for naught – the acolytes chosen to bear him forth were not selected for their weakness of arm. Strong hands held on tight to him, and the squeak of bare feet being dragged on the polished marble floor made Castor smile within the shadow of his hood.

As the Earl was shackled tightly to the stone altar, the High Priest held out one of his arms in silent demand. A hooded acolyte shuffled forward, his head bowed, holding out a worn leather tome, which the High Priest grasped in a claw-like hand and held aloft for all to see.

‘Earl Beuphalus of House Westowe,’ the High Priest began. His voice was distorted behind his mask, but his words remained clear, echoing throughout the massive hall. ‘Heir to vast fortunes. Keeper of slaves. Dweller in towers.’ The gathered mass of acolytes tittered at the joke. ‘Your plans are known to us. Your intentions clear. As self-professed Guardian of the Codex of Valac you would presume to leech us of power. To use us, our entire order, as a sacrifice to your weak master.’

The congregation muttered disapprovingly. It was as though they sat in judgement of the Earl as he lay trussed to the altar, a jury of a hundred robed acolytes, baying only for blood. Castor doubted there would be any clemency.

‘How could you ever presume to overcome us in the service of such an inferior eidolon as President Valac? How could you hope to defeat us, when you are but few, and we are Legion!’

At his words the hooded mass began to chant louder, a buzz of forbidden words, both mundane and demonic. It was all Castor could do not to join in, but his own task was more important. The Earl had to be held steady. Despite the chains that shackled him he was still able to struggle, and the High Priest’s aim must be true. With his two brothers, Castor pressed the Earl down on the hard stone.

‘This foul tome must be consigned to the flames,’ said the High Priest, his voice growing feverish and harsh. With that he flung the heavy book into the fire pit. The flames leapt up, hungry to consume the leather cover and ancient leaves, flickering higher in a frenzy of carmine light.

The High Priest stepped towards the altar, reaching within one gaping sleeve and producing a wickedly curved dagger. At the sight of the blade the Earl’s eyes widened and he began to scream anew, but his words were lost behind the gag, now moist with his spittle. His body writhed, straining against the chains that bound him, but it was little use. Castor pressed down, feeling the Earl’s thin ribs beneath his taught flesh. Beuphalus had little strength left and his final attempt at resistance subsided into muffled sobs.

Echoing chants resounded around the hall, and it became almost deafening. The acolytes brayed as one, their resounding voices seeming as a single call. But then, that was the point.

With a deft stroke, the High Priest brought the dagger down, its point easily piercing the Earl’s sternum. Castor could hear the crack of bone as the High Priest deftly twisted the blade, splitting the flesh and cracking the rib cage apart.

Beuphalus went limp.

Expertly, the High Priest wielded the curved dagger, drawing the flesh apart and prising open the Earl’s chest. Long, deft fingers searched keenly within the cavity as the razor sharp blade cut away sinew and cartilage, until finally his hand reappeared, holding the Earl of Westowe’s moist, red heart.

Castor could see a stream of blood beginning to flow from the body, now still beneath his hands. It pooled in gutters carved into the stone, its flow guided to small holes that would channel the still warm lifeblood from the altar. His eye followed the trail as it led between his legs, running fast to gather within a pattern carved in the marble floor. As the blood began to pool within the carved sigil it became clearer. The red stood in contrast to the light grey marble, marking out the sign of Legion, his score of limbs spreading wide, his thousand eyes staring, seeing all.

Looking back to his High Priest, Castor saw that the figurehead of the Cult of Legion was standing in triumph, holding aloft his enemy’s heart, allowing the blood to run down his arm in streams.

With a flick of his wrist, the High Priest sent the heart spinning into the fire pit. This time the flames grew even higher than when they had consumed the infernal codex. It was like oil had been flung on the flames, giving them an almost lifelike vigour. All at once the chanting stopped and silence fell over the hall.

‘Legion!’ cried the High Priest. ‘We offer the heart of your enemy, and we ask for your boon that we may better effectuate your needs. We await our benefaction that your glory might once more be seen. That you might be liberated from your execrable detention. Bestow your numen upon us!’

Silence.

Castor stood back from the altar, watching the High Priest. The Earl’s blood still continued to drip from his body but it was now beginning to congeal, and did not flow down the channels of the altar quite as well as it had.

Seconds passed, and still the assemblage waited. No one dared move, least of all Castor. Everything hinged on this, everything they had worked for and believed in. Should this fail the High Priest would have much to answer for. For the first time in a while, Castor was thankful that he was only a simple acolyte.

A sudden shocked sound came from within the congregation. A group of red robes moved aside, revealing one of their number, bowed in discomfort. Men were murmuring with disquiet as one of the acolytes began to make choking sounds. Before Castor could react, another sound alerted him to more movement in another part of the hall. Then, right next to him, one of his brothers suddenly fell to the ground as though he had been hit by an eight-chamber carbine. The man writhed on the floor, and Castor found himself backing away in disgust and fear.

All the while, the High Priest stood impassively, as more and more acolytes were suddenly afflicted, some screaming, others falling silently in violent spasms.

Some acolytes fled in panic, others backed away from their writhing fellows, knocking over candlesticks and grasping their brethren in fear. As Castor watched, wondering if he would be next, he realised he was standing in the centre of the sign of Legion.

The blood had congealed within the furrows and he could feel it beneath the thin soles of his sandals. He looked down and saw a faint glow, as the outline of the sigil seemed to reverberate with unnatural power. A strange sensation was beginning to consume Castor, a feeling of inculpable elation and blood curdling terror all at once. He looked up, and saw that the High Priest’s steely gaze was upon him.

‘Accept the gift of Legion,’ he said, his voice but a whisper. Despite the noise in the hall, Castor heard the words clearly; they reverberated in his head like the sounding of a bell. And then he felt the pain.

Searing heat, or was it freezing cold, wracked his body in an instant from the tips of his extremities to his very core. Castor wanted to fall, to land on the ground in a heap, curl up into a ball and moan and whine and weep. But he could not. The sigil of Legion on which he stood seemed to hold him in place, filling him with an eldritch light, consuming him and nourishing him, changing him but reaffirming his very being. He felt sinew strengthen and grow, felt his senses heighten. Knowledge forbidden to mortal men flooded into him, and in an instant Castor Cage was one with Legion. He was all of them, and only himself at the same time.

In the end there were a mere dozen acolytes who had been granted the boon of Legion. The rest of the congregation stood at the fringes of the sanctum, those who had not fled anyway. The High Priest looked at his chosen few from within a sunburst mask of bronze. He did not need to speak. The Legion knew their task as one mind, and with their boon they could now accomplish it with ease.

This was just a taste of things to come; Castor knew it instinctively. Soon the Legion would be free to spread its power throughout the Manufactory, and beyond.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thaddeus knew the quickest way to get the information he needed. It might not be the easiest, or indeed the cleanest way, but it was by far the quickest.

The estate of Lord Julius was set a ways from the Spires of the Manufactory, where most of the Highborn dwelt in their sequestered towers. Not the sky-borne grandeur for Lord Julius, oh no. He demanded something even more exclusive.

To an outsider, a visiting dignitary or a travelling merchant-baron, the Manufactory might seem like a huge stinking machine, constantly moving, perpetually churning and writhing within itself. But there were places – secret and cloistered places – that were a world apart from the filthy streets and slime encrusted alleyways of the city. Walled off from the bustle and rancour of the Manufactory were sanctuaries of green, lined with bright blooms and home to fauna other than the usual scurrying vermin.

It was within one of these cloistral retreats that Thaddeus Blaklok would find his answers.

Obviously the grounds had security. Lean hounds patrolled the gardens, snuffling at the foliage, docile until they sighted an intruder. But Thaddeus had always had a way with animals. At first ferocious, the guard hounds had soon been licking his chin and rolling on the ground, whimpering for their bellies to be scratched.

When their play had ended, Thaddeus stole away from his new found canine friends, clinging to the shadows as he approached the great manor. He was all in black, neck to foot. A thigh length greatcoat covered his torso, while the black trousers and boots that he always wore finished his attire. Despite his size, Blaklok moved with the grace of a skulking cat. He had never considered housebreaking as a career, but as he made his way silently towards the well-lit estate, he suddenly considered that he would make a quite excellent second-storey man.

The porch light shone brightly, and Thaddeus moved round to the side where the light was dimmest. There was a door to the cellar, sealed with a simple latch and it took no effort to prise it apart. As he entered the building, Blaklok could only wonder at the naivety of the rich. Did they really think that hounds and reputation alone would keep out a determined intruder? It was true, that for most ordinary footpads, the repercussions of encroaching on the domains of the rich were dire indeed, but Blaklok feared none of that. Let them try and take him if they could. Besides, this Lord Julius was of no named House. He had few friends in high places. His reputation, and consequent deterrent to intruders, was built from what he knew of the dark arts and the occult. For many, that would be reason enough to give him a wide berth, but not for Thaddeus Blaklok. That was the whole reason for him being here.