Commandment (42 page)

As the nave was deserted as well, she headed toward the chancel. As she waded through the wreckage, she could not help but feel that the debris was but stepping stones across a gentle stream. At the door to the undercroft she paused. A faint light shined up from below, accompanied by subdued murmuring.

“Torkoth?” she called out in a hoarse voice.

“We’re down here!” the Half-man called up.

We’re? Bael!

She lost no time skipping down the steps. The cellar was illuminated by mounted lanterns. The Acaanan was surprised to find the room virtually cleared of rubbish. Only a couple of wooden crates remained, serving as makeshift seats. Bael and Torkoth sat on the floor near the open trap door. Both smiled at her appearance.

“You’ve risen!” Torkoth announced with a look of relief. Lakif immediately studied Bael, who was disheveled.

“What happened?” Lakif grumbled, as she nursed her forehead and flopped down on the lowest step. “I feel like I have a hangover.”

“Drunk with power you are,” Bael quipped. “I have only been up for a spell myself, and my skull is split as well.”

“I remember something overcame me.” Lakif rubbed her temples. She struggled to piece together what had happened, but it hurt even to think.

Her thoughts boomeranged to the present. “How did I get upstairs?”

“We can thank our ever-vigilant guard,” Bael complimented Torkoth. Lakif turned to the Half-man for an explanation.

“I had grown accustomed to your soft murmurings,” Torkoth began, “so I left to investigate the remainder of the church, mainly to determine with whom else we shared this place. Later, when I returned, an eerie silence greeted me at the hatch. I wasn’t particularly worried and didn’t want to interrupt, so I was about to turn away when I heard the noises—hissing and scurrying sounds. Needless to say it sounded suspicious, so I investigated. The cellar was a lagoon of darkness. But by lantern light I found you both sprawled out in the dirt. The furnace had run cold, as I feared you had. I sensed I was too late.”

“Too late?” Lakif asked. Bael threw the Acaanan a grave look. Without waiting for an explanation, Lakif seized a lantern and scrambled through the trapdoor. This time, the light didn’t fizzle out as before. Perhaps the open hatch had allowed whatever poisoned air that had clogged the cellar to seep out. In addition, the lab’s icy feel had somewhat thawed under the blanket of familiarity.

She looked around the cellar, as if expecting to find something out of place. Carefully, she approached the antique furnace. It looked every bit as defunct as before. She gazed deep within, wrestling to remember clearly the events of the ritual. As she swayed, her boot crunched something. Below, broken shards, discarded vials from the ritual, dusted the floor.

Lakif choked on a breath when she noticed the broken corpses nearby. Several bloodied forms lay in a matted heap of hairy arms, claws, and yellowed teeth.

Goblins! One twisted, gnarled claw was poised an arm’s length from where Lakif imagined she had fallen. The abominations must have been drawn from their nest in the tunnels below. She could picture them crawling on their elbows, eager to devour the two interlopers who lay unconscious and defenseless. Strangely, during her spectacular dream she had perceived the goblin as a vague form crawling toward her. This was peculiar. Perhaps the goblins had heard the activity in the cellar, or perhaps they were drawn to the warm, fresh aroma of sweat. But Lakif had the unshakable feeling that they had somehow been summoned by the sinister furnace. The call was the malignant metal’s last-ditch attempt to punish the pair before it returned to dormition.

Gaping wounds on their torsos revealed that the creatures were slain by a sword. But their arms were denuded to the bone, as if their corpses had been feasted on. Had other goblins been attracted to the stench of death and enjoyed the flesh of their brothers? Or had the furnace played a role? Denied its thirst for the warlock’s flesh, was it forced to settle on the slaughtered troglodytes?

Lakif returned to the undercroft, the image of the mangled goblins seared into the slate of her mind.

“Even now, the alchemist continues to furnish his stores,” Lakif noted, appraising the carnage. “Newest on the ledger: black blood of goblin.”

“Better than virgin blood of Acaanan,” Bael replied.

“Absolutely,” she mumbled.

“Violence flourishes here,” Torkoth added nonchalantly.

“Maybe that,
violence
, was the last essential ingredient to the ritual,” Bael philosophized. “Thank you, Torkoth.”

“Think nothing of it.” The Half-man cracked a knuckle. “There were only four to deal with. The others scurried back into the tunnels.”

“Others?” Lakif echoed dully. She wasn’t sure what haunted her more, the lingering image of the lacerated, grotesque goblins or the thought of what almost happened down there.

“I thought you would be safer recovering upstairs,” Torkoth added.

Lakif scrutinized her guard skeptically. It seemed he had carried them to safety. But she wondered how the Half-man had managed to carry Bael up the narrow stairs. It would be like a child carrying the father.

“Yes, thank you,” Lakif said, shaking her head in disbelief. In the excitement around the ritual, they both had virtually forgotten about their lone sentry above. In spite of their demand for privacy and their assurances that they could manage by themselves, the two had landed in the most defenseless position imaginable. And in spite of their success with the furnace, it was Torkoth who had saved them both from the subterranean cannibals.

Lakif produced a pocket mirror to examine her head. Yellow blotches spattered her hairline. Goblin blood! The critter had been so close that Lakif had been showered with its blood when Torkoth butchered it. Also clearly visible was the wound where she had banged her head on fainting. Fortunately, there was only a scrape.

“How long was I unconscious?” She examined the scab from different angles.

“This is the third sun since you descended down there.”

“Three days!” Lakif and Bael stammered in unison.

“I feared I had intervened only to save two corpses,” Torkoth explained. “I tried to revive you, but you were locked in a mystical sleep. And I couldn’t feel a pulse, so had all but sworn you off for dead. But I hoped for the best.”

Lakif didn’t know if she could believe the Half-man. While Bael looked sleepy, only the faintest facial growth had set in. Lakif would have expected heavier shading to his chiseled chin. Furthermore, she didn’t feel especially hungry, nor had she the urge to empty her bladder. If Torkoth spoke sooth, the two had been so comatose that their bodily functions had virtually arrested for three days. But how could they have been suspended insensate for such time? Surely potent magic had been invoked, locking them into its custody. Lakif’s thoughts spun to Torkoth. She could only wonder how the Half-man had passed three whole days.

The trapdoor slammed close with a clang. As it did, Lakif couldn’t help but feel that she was leaving something down in the alchemist’s laboratory; something trapped forever along with the broken corpses and the ghastly oven. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that part of her was entombed there.

The three left the church the very way they had entered, through the priest’s quarters and out along the alley. Although she had braced for another assault by a hurricane of gnats, none was forthcoming. The lot was largely vacant of vegetation, and with it the gnats had dispersed. Torkoth had evidently cleared the area in his downtime, which had been ample.

As promised by the brilliance within the church, the day was profoundly glaring. It was the kind Lakif was rarely accustomed to, and its harshness forced her to glue her eyes to the ground. She felt that their exit from the alley was noticed, perhaps by local indigents camped out in the neighboring slums. She looked for them but only spied empty windows.

The avenue fronting the cul-de-sac bifurcated, forming a Y-shaped intersection. Torkoth began walking back in the direction they had come by, but Bael stopped to look around as if he had just noticed something unusual about their environment.

“What is it?” Lakif asked.

“The church occupies a crossroad.”

Lakif wasn’t sure what to make of the fact. Bael went on to explain.

“They say that suicides are buried at crossroads. Hecate rises there to devour them. How appropriate it is that we interred our old lives at such a place.” Lakif found it curious that her friend named the infamous deity of witchcraft, the same one alluded to by Lucretia.

“Let’s go. I’m hungry,” Lakif urged. Her natural processes were starting to kick in from her most unnatural slumber.

They set out north, the wind in their faces. With solemn strides, they left the church far behind.

Their route, although unplanned, seemed to lead back toward the direction of the Leviathan. The river Cocytus could be occasionally seen peeking between structures to the east. Those green waters seemed to be tracking them.

It was midday, and their walk was marked by stony silence. It seemed that there was an unspoken agreement among them that putting as much distance between themselves and the infamous church was essential. Furthermore, Lakif personally felt spent. Any words she could muster would be so weak as to be lost in the wind.

But she did not ignore her surroundings. In fact, she frequently stopped to look around her. The feeling that they were being spied on was unshakeable; it continued well after they left the vicinity of the Lucent. She began to feel that someone was following them from the alchemist’s abode. But try as she might, she never spotted a soul.

She soon revamped her suspicion and decided that they weren’t being tailed. Instead, it now seemed that they were under constant inspection from the other pedestrians whose paths they crossed. It was not that she actually caught anyone red-handed. Pedestrians would invariably be looking away when her eyes fell on them. But she felt that the moment she diverted her attention, their gaze once again welded to them.

At first, she assumed that the peculiar attention was due to the group’s heterogeneous composition. Clearly, a Half-man, a Kulthean, and an Acaanan traveling together would naturally arouse interest. But she didn’t recall attracting this level of attention on their trip to the Lucent.

She then shifted her train of thought. There must be some change about them that earned the scrutiny. If so, it was lost on her. The Half-man, who was leading, appeared as he always had. Bael trudged in stride with Lakif. He appeared marginally unkempt in tune with his three-day slumber. But Lakif couldn’t imagine how that would kindle such interest. Then she had the unpleasant feeling that it was she who was the cause of the scrutiny. But the behavior of her companions didn’t substantiate this. They offered no hint that the Acaanan had changed in some measurable way.

The sense of scrutiny began to unnerve Lakif so much, in fact, that she would purposely stare down those who passed by. She hoped that by catching them red-handed, some clue to their curiosity would be revealed. But passersby kept their heads bowed. She never once saw the dull white of their eyes. Try as she might, the Acaanan couldn’t catch a single one in the act. Nevertheless, she was certain they were actively spying on the trio.

At one point, Lakif felt the weight of dozens of gimlet eyes drilling her from different angles. But she admitted that this was ridiculous. There weren’t that many pedestrians in the vicinity.

She felt that she may be imagining all the interest, as if she were experiencing some sensory aftershock of the spectacular drama of her dream or of being in a coma for three days.

L
AKIF SLOWED HER PACE, ALLOWING THE
H
ALF-MAN TO MARCH AHEAD.
The Kulthean slowed his step in turn, keeping pace with her. After Torkoth was out of hearing range, Lakif addressed her friend.

“Bael, there is something…”

“Yes?” he replied quickly, almost as if he had anticipated the question.

“In the alchemist’s cellar, when we fell unconscious, I had a dream. I use that word for lack of any better choice, for this dream was unlike any that I have yet to experience. It was as if for a period I was drawn into the furnace’s inner world. The ground was seared dead like the lifeless belly of that metallic hulk. Its ancient fires burned in the heavens. Tears from the countless slain smote me as rain. The air from the billows roared across the plains like a typhoon, and the groaning of the heated metal crackled like distant thunder. The sensation was so vivid, my psyche was so charged! Now, all here seems like a flat, dull painting in comparison. I mean to say it was like seeing truth, and my life here is but a dream. Did you experience something similar?”

The Kulthean took a deep breath and nodded. He seemed visibly relieved at the confession.

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time, so I kept my tongue.”

“What’s your impression?” Lakif begged to hear his opinion.

“I felt as if I were standing on the brink and shoal of time. We were granted an epiphany to a landscape dominated by raw, elemental forces, just as you described. The eye of man has not heard, nor the ear of man seen such a discordant drama. I felt like I was seeing the end of something, or perhaps the beginning.”

“Our beginning?” Lakif mused. She recalled how Bael had once claimed that the kingdom of magic was a foreign country that they would foot together. Had they been blessed with a fleeting glimpse of that nation?

“Perhaps. Could we have brought an iota of that world back with us? Did we steal a pebble from that awesome landscape? Snare a spark of lightning from that tumultuous sky? Drink a dram of that damned rain? Do we now hold a faint echo of that distant thunder in our breast? What exactly did we bring back? I believe that primordial storm is the source of Arcanum.”

“I feel like a thief who stole a sliver of that incalculable magic, a single silver coin from the boundless treasury of a forbidden kingdom,” Lakif reflected.

“Thieves we are, for all power is stolen. And as thieves, we must now and forever dissemble our nature from our fellow man. Our old lives are swept away, buried at the crossroads, and we can begin anew. We are fortunate, Lakif, that we can
die
into life. By abandoning our former selves, we can become agents of import.”