Rembram Thule was at the platform’s centre, chanting his foul incantation. He did not stop as the four of them appeared. He was too enrapt in his ritual, too focused on the object of his rite … Gerdy.
She was staked out, her eyes glazed and staring, her mouth gagged tight with a knotted rope. Waylian saw she was naked, and thought for a moment he should do something to cover her modesty as he had done some nights before, but right now that was the least of her worries. Her main worry was the dagger in Bram’s hand.
As he saw what was happening, one of the Raven Knights bellowed, charging forward with his spear held out menacingly. Gelredida shouted something Waylian didn’t hear, a warning that was lost above the knight’s battle cry – a battle cry that only served to alert Bram to their presence.
The boy looked up, but Waylian could see he was a boy no longer. His eyes were dark rimmed and there was no colour in them, the irises now two jet pools of black hatred. As the knight charged, Bram stood fast, a mirthless smile spreading across his lips, a black mist already emanating from his clenched fists. What dark magicks he was conjuring, Waylian could not comprehend, but he knew they were steeped in evil.
Rembram’s smiling lips twisted into a silent incantation as he thrust out his fists. The Raven Knight suddenly stiffened in his charge and Waylian could hear a sickening crack from within his armour, as though every bone in his body had suddenly snapped as one. Without a sound the knight crumpled to the ground.
The second knight was more wary, circling round to the right as Gelredida held a hand up.
‘You have to stop this, boy. You have no idea what you’re doing.’
Bram only grinned. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, you old witch. I’m going to watch this place fall. I am the bringer of oblivion. The Maleficar Necrus.’
With that he raised the knife high over Gerdy’s supine body.
Waylian screamed wordlessly, a cry of fear and pain and regret.
Gelredida stepped forward, already uttering something from deep in her throat, fingers twisting into some intricate formation.
The remaining Raven Knight stepped in, raising his spear high, his arm poised to bring it down in a death blow.
As Bram’s knife thrust towards Gerdy, Gelredida unleashed her magicks in a flurry of purple light. Waylian could feel it sucking the energy from the atmosphere, from the stone of the rooftop, and it took his breath with it, as though it had reached into his chest and stolen the very air from his lungs.
It shot towards Bram, and Waylian watched as it travelled, leaving a contrail of enervating mist in its wake. The energy turned in the air as it reached Bram, seemingly drawn to the knife he gripped in his fist and drove down through the air towards Gerdy’s bare chest. Before the dagger could pierce her flesh it was consumed by the purple light, but this did not stop Bram’s strike. The dagger, now wreathed in magick, plunged into her body, right up to the hilt.
Waylian saw with horror the wound instantly turn black. Bram wrenched the dagger free in a flurry of black mist, just as the Raven Knight’s spear came down to impale him.
With preternatural speed, Bram moved, twisting aside and slicing the haft of the spear in two with the dagger. The Raven Knight barely had time to register his weapon was sundered before Bram screamed in his face. It was a fell voice: a daemonic cry that almost burst Waylian’s eardrums, and its power was enough to send the knight hurtling back over the edge of the platform.
‘What have you done?’ Gelredida cried, moving forward.
Waylian could see the wound on Gerdy’s chest spreading, turning her flesh dark and necrotic, branching out like a spider web, following an arterial path like a black flood through her veins.
‘You know exactly what I’ve done,’ Bram replied, a self-satisfied smile creeping across his lips as if he’d just beaten someone at cards rather than murdered a girl in cold blood.
Gelredida pulled something from her robe and flung it while Bram was still talking. It burst as it flew through the air, spreading spore-like dust all over the boy’s head. He reeled back, dropping the dagger and yelping like a beaten hound.
Gelredida rushed forward to Gerdy’s body. ‘Waylian,’ she barked. ‘You have to help me.’
Bram’s face began to burn, coming up in livid welts, and he stumbled back, clawing at the skin.
Gelredida knelt beside Gerdy, laying her hands on the black flesh of her chest.
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Waylian, unable to take his eyes off the dead girl.
Gelredida looked up, her eyes burning into him, into his very soul.
‘Kill him!’ she growled.
Waylian looked at Bram, who seemed to be recovering from the poisonous dust. His face was burned, his flesh peeling in places, but he was regaining some control. He stared at Waylian, then at Gelredida, seeing the Magistra lay her hands on Gerdy’s chest and begin to absorb the blackness from her body, leeching the darkness from her veins. Gelredida’s hands were already turning as black as the dead flesh on Gerdy’s chest.
‘No,’ screamed Bram. ‘You won’t. You can’t stop it!’
He rushed forward, but Waylian was already moving to intercept him. He didn’t know where his courage came from, whether he was more scared of what Gelredida would do if he didn’t act, or whether he knew Bram’s ritual had to be stopped at all costs. Either way he leapt forward, bowling into Bram before he could speak any more foul incantations.
They went down in a heap, rolling across the platform. When they came to rest, by some miracle Waylian was on top of Bram, hands clenched around his throat. Bram only smiled as Waylian did his best to choke the life from him.
Then he gripped Waylian’s belly.
It was like being stuck with hot pokers. Waylian held on for as long as he could, but the pain was too intense. He screamed in defiance, trying desperately to throttle Bram, seeing the spittle rise from his mouth, but it was no good. White hot pain was searing through his innards, and he had to pull away, to wrench himself free of Bram’s grip.
He fell back, suppressing a scream of agony, and as he writhed on the ground Bram looked down at him, his face a mask of contempt.
‘How does it feel to know you’re going to die, Grimm?’ said Bram, the black of his eyes spreading, covering what little white was left in them. His hands twisted into claws, the fingertips turning black and sharp like a hawk’s talons.
This was it. This was how it was going to end.
Something hit Bram hard on the head, sending dust flying as it bounced away. Waylian looked up to see two more figures on the platform – Greencoats, one big and hulking, the other young and fearful looking – but then Waylian could hardly blame him for that.
He tried to stand, but could only flail uselessly on the ground as the two men circled Bram, who was still reeling from a rock to the head.
‘Go on then,’ said the smaller Greencoat.
‘You fucking go on then,’ said his tough-looking friend, eyeing Bram’s claws warily.
Before either of them could act, Bram raised himself up to full height, lifting his arms above his head and screaming to the heavens before smashing them into the ground at his feet.
Waylian had enough time to register the deafening sound of the impact, before madness ensued. Cracks appeared in the platform, spreading from where Bram’s fists had struck. The dais began to split, each crack widening. In a sudden conflagration of flying bricks and dust, the floor collapsed beneath them. All Waylian could hear was a cacophony, all he could see was a grey mess of rubble as he fell towards the floor of the chapel fifty feet below.
Something hit him in the face, then something struck him in the back, knocking the wind from his lungs. It took him a moment to realise he had come to rest, a pile of fallen rock sticking in his back every which way.
As the grey haze of dust began to subside he tried to move, first his arms then his legs, relief washing over him as he found that, somehow, the only injuries he had suffered were a few cuts and brui
ses. Even the searing pain in his gut was subsiding, and he tried to rise, keen to fill his lungs with air again.
Before he could pull himself to his feet, something smashed into his chest, knocking him back to the ground. He opened his eyes, crusty with blood and dust, and could see the malevolent face of Rembram Thule glaring down.
‘You’ve ruined everything!’ he said, his words carefully measured as though he were suppressing his rage. Waylian could only hope he’d keep suppressing it long enough for help to arrive. ‘This was to be my moment of glory. My apotheosis. And you’ve fucked it up!’
His rage wasn’t suppressed any more. Those claws were growing again, his fingers enlarging into grotesque talons like black crab pincers, nebulous streams of black mist seeping from them.
‘Bram … wait,’ was all Waylian could manage.
Pitiful, even for him.
Bram only smiled. ‘The wait is over, Grimm. Time for you to go.’ He reached back, ready to strike with one black-clawed hand.
This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Waylian hadn’t even wanted to be here. Why hadn’t he stayed at home? Why hadn’t he become a scribe like his uncle, or even a farmer? Nothing bad ever happened to farmers.
Waylian’s rage burned within him. The injustice, the humiliation, stoked a fire in his chest. He could feel it filling him with strength, filling him with … power.
In that instant he spoke a word. Afterwards he would have no idea what that word was or what it meant, but it was enough. Words of power generally were.
As he spat the word from his lips, the weight was lifted from his chest. Bram was smashed backwards against the wall, shattering one of the grotesque friezes to dust and raining more rubble onto the ground.
When Waylian finally had the strength to stand he saw Bram’s body stretched in the dirt. And all he could do was stare.
Had that really come from him? That power? That magick?
It looked like it had … and there’d been no one around to see it.
Somewhere in the Chapel of Ghouls, Waylian could hear someone calling for help.
FORTY-SIX
‘It’s too quiet.’
It was the fourth or fifth time Denny had said that. The lad was right of course: it was too quiet, and Nobul should have been all the warier for it.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t wary because all he could do was look at the back of Denny’s head as they did their rounds through the lamp-lit streets and think about smashing it in with his fists.
You killed my son, you little cunt, and I should stove your fucking head in.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, but he thought about it. Thought about it a lot.
Denny had picked up on it, of course; Nobul had never been one to hide his feelings and anyone with eyes could see he was brooding over something. When the lad had asked what the matter was, Nobul had just shrugged. That had been enough for Denny; he wasn’t particularly inquisitive, or very bright for that matter, and when Nobul shrugged that was the end of it.
As they walked the streets the feeling only got worse. Nobul found himself gripping the sword at his side, wanting to pull it out, wanting to use it, to stab Denny right there in the street, to scream at him that he was a murdering shit – that he’d killed a defenceless boy and he had to suffer for it.
The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge it was an accident. A stupid mistake, made by a stupid bastard. Denny had said he regretted it, and Nobul had no reason to think he was lying. That was the only thing that had kept the lad alive – the fact that Denny was sorry. If he’d made light of it, made a joke … well, Nobul had killed men for less.
‘I’m bored,’ said Denny, like the child he was. ‘We should head towards Eastgate. See if there’s any action down there.’ Why would we go looking for trouble? ‘Nights are getting colder. It don’t do to be wandering around in the cold.’ It’s better than lying in the ground, dead as a doorpost. ‘There must be something going on somewhere.’ Shut up, just shut your …
There was movement ahead. Nobul could see figures through the dark, hear armoured men moving along the street.
‘What’s th—’
‘Quiet!’ said Nobul, sick of Denny’s constant wittering.
The figures were moving fast, and Nobul had to make a quick choice: ignore it or investigate. If only to give Denny something to occupy him, he picked the latter.
The group ahead moved with surprising speed considering some were wearing heavy armour. Nobul quickened his pace, trying to get a better idea of what he was dealing with.
A patch of light gave him the chance to get a better look.
There were four of them, two in dark armour – Raven Knights from the Tower – and two in robes, who could only have been magisters. What in the hells were they doing out at this hour, and moving with such urgency?
‘What do you think?’ Denny whispered. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’
Yes, it was obvious something was going on, but Nobul had no idea what. If it was the affairs of magickers then he could quite happily have left them to it, but there was something in their gait, their urgency. Something was happening.
‘Should we follow them, Lincon? What should we do?’
Denny certainly wasn’t helping him think. That was probably why, despite every instinct telling him to leave them to it, Nobul carried on after them.
As he followed he could see the foursome making their way towards the centre of Northgate, and Nobul knew exactly what was there – hells, everyone knew exactly what was there – the Chapel of Ghouls. The thought of where this group was heading began to worry him. Members of the Caste on their way to the Chapel could not be good.
It was with rising panic Nobul saw all four go through the open gateway, a gateway that had never been opened for as long as he could remember. Despite his fear, Nobul crossed the street after them, pausing at the gate.
Denny looked at him quizzically, grasping his sword in hand. ‘Are we going in?’
Nobul stared after the group, hearing the Raven Knights in their armour making a racket as they moved towards the chapel. If they needed help surely it was the Greencoats’ duty to give it. He was a protector of the city now, and if the legends about the chapel were right, they’d need all the help they could get.
With Denny at his side, Nobul crossed the threshold, following the cobbled path that ran up the knoll towards the Chapel of Ghouls. He fully expected to find the foursome standing outside it, wondering how in the hells to get in, but when he saw the massive stone door lying smashed on the ground and the entrance open he stopped again, apprehension winning out over sense of duty.
‘What do we do, Lincon?’ Denny asked, clearly just as spooked.
‘I’m fucking thinking!’ he snarled.
He hadn’t meant to lash out, but Denny was doing his head in, always asking questions, always on the want. Couldn’t he think for himself?
Nobul stared into the dark. He should go in after them, they might need help, they certainly looked like they were ready for trouble – Raven Knights never left the Tower of magistrates unless something was up. But something was holding him back, a dark and dirty feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was no good, he couldn’t just hang around outside all night waiting for someone to come out. With a nod to Denny he rushed inside.
They came out in a massive chamber – bigger than the Sepulchre of Crowns – and the pair of them stared in awe. Not for long, though. A shout from above pulled them both from their reverie. Nobul couldn’t make out the words, but they were loud and they were angry. Denny looked just about ready to piss himself, and Nobul was almost ready to join him. This was magister business, and it was never going to be pretty work. Surely they were better left to it. Either that or he and Denny should go and get help. From the shouting above it looked like it was all kicking off.
He turned to Denny, nodding his head, his mind made up.
‘All right. Yo
u go and—’
Something smashed into the ground right next to them, missing Denny by less than a yard. The lad yelped in fright, and Nobul was right ready to drop his sword and scarper.
It was a crumpled body, one of the Raven Knights, his limbs skewed all funny, his helmet dented in on one side, something dark and nasty seeping out of the gaps like oil.
‘Fucking hells,’ said Denny, staring at the body.
Whatever was up there had just killed one of the feared Raven Knights. Fucking hells was probably just about the right assessment.
Nobul stopped thinking. There was no time to go and get help now; there was just them. Whatever was going off could be all over soon and who knew how bad it would be if they did nothing. Grabbing Denny by the shoulder, Nobul bolted towards a flight of stairs that led up to the roof.
He took the staircase as quick as he could, and he was pleased that Denny, despite his obvious fears, was right behind him. As they climbed, there was a strange smell, almost overpowering them with the stink of something dead, something rotting.
Denny cursed, slowing his pace and shielding his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow, but Nobul would not stop. His blood was up now with the prospect of violence, of murder.
Was this what he wanted? Had this been what he’d been needing all this time since Markus had died? Something to fight? Something to kill?
He’d find out soon enough.
Denny slipped behind him, cursing again, but Nobul carried on, seeing the platform above. He could hear more shouts of desperation, screams of horror, and he knew he was needed. There was also something in the atmosphere, a metallic feeling like the air before a storm, but Nobul knew this was nothing to do with the weather. He had seen magickers in action before, experienced their fell work. He knew this could only be the cloying effect of sorcery.
Nobul burst out onto the platform to a scene of chaos.
The other Raven Knight lay slumped in a heap of black armour, and Nobul didn’t have to look twice to know he was a goner. A grey-haired witch was doing some kind of hoodoo on a naked girl who didn’t look like she was going to be up and about any time soon.