Kultus (18 page)

‘You do remember me, don’t you?’ asked Trol Snapper. ‘I’ll be offended if you don’t.’

Before Blaklok could answer, something hard hit him on the back of the head.

CHAPTER TWENTY

This was getting to be an annoyingly familiar situation – bound up tight and staring at bare muggy walls.

As Thaddeus opened his eyes he could taste blood and feel the sting of the manacles at his wrists. The aching in his limbs had only intensified and the friction burns on his palms stung like mad. A lesser man would have cried out at the pain – would have given in to the helplessness – but not Thaddeus Blaklok.

His grin grew wide.

Here he was again, stuck in a hopeless situation, surrounded by enemies, with death at hand.

Death.

His constant companion.

The monkey on his shoulder.

How much longer would their friendship last? How much longer before the reaper grew bored of their perpetual waltz and decided it was time for the dance to end?

Not long, with any fucking luck.

There was movement to his right, someone shuffling, realising he was awake and reacting in a panic. Hushed voices briefly conversed and Blaklok heard a door open somewhere behind him, allowing a little more light to encroach on the room as it swung wide.

Blaklok felt sick. Not due to his dire situation – this was far from the first time he had been bound and threatened – but an unnatural malady squirmed and roiled within his gut. He had consumed hellfire, taken it into himself, and there was no way it was going to stay in there for long. A belch worked its way up from his abdomen, and he could feel it burning his insides all the way. When it finally came it was only the daintiest of belches but it still stung his throat and mouth, bringing tears to his eyes. The stench of it hung in the air; rotten eggs and putrid meat and burned corpses.

He knew this was only the beginning. Sooner or later all hell was, quite literally, going to break loose.

Behind him he heard the click of expensive shoes against the hard floor and could guess at who had arrived.

Trol Snapper was dressed in his best again, smiling that big donkey smile.

‘So, we have you again,’ he said. ‘I was led to believe you were a resourceful man, Mr Blaklok. It appears you’re not resourceful enough to avoid
me,
are you?’

‘Look,’ said Blaklok, feeling sicker with every passing second. ‘No pissing about – you have to let me go.’

As much as he wanted Snapper and his goons to suffer, even Blaklok wasn’t vindictive enough to unleash a belly full of hellfire at living, breathing mortals.

Snapper laughed, and it was aped by other laughs from behind Blaklok’s back.

‘Well, whether you’re resourceful or not is questionable, but bright you definitely ain’t.’

Other figures stepped forward. They were big and hulking; more thugs come to join in the fun. Snapper at least had plenty of men at his beck and call if nothing else. ‘I hope you’re not expecting your little friend to come and help you again. This time we won’t be disturbed. This time it’s just you and us.’

One of the brutes stepped in and laid one on Blaklok’s jaw. Another put one in his gut. That did nothing for the boiling and roiling within his stomach and he belched again. The thugs reeled at the stench, taking a step back, and Snapper’s face contorted in disgust.

‘What the fuck is that?’ he said, lifting a handkerchief to his face. ‘You want to lay off the spicy stuff. It obviously doesn’t agree with you.’

With that, the thugs recovered, laying in with more blows. They went at it with gusto, and within a few moments Blaklok was bleeding and winded, trying his best to fight down the sickness that was churning and writhing inside.

‘I don’t know, boss.’ It was a light voice, coming from somewhere to Blaklok’s left. In the shadows he could see a diminutive figure watching from a safe distance. ‘He doesn’t look well. He’s gone all green like.’

‘Keep out of this, Geffle. In fact, why the fuck are you still here?’

The figure in the shadows went silent.

More blows rained in, just like the last time he had been at Snapper’s mercy, only on this occasion no one seemed interested in asking any questions. This time they just wanted him hurting… or worse.

And with each blow Blaklok felt the hellfire boil more intensely, bubbling up in anticipation of an almighty eruption.

‘Look, I’m not fucking kidding,’ he managed to say through a gap in the beating. ‘Do yourselves a favour and–’

He was cut off by a fist to the face.

‘All right, I’m bored with this,’ said Snapper eventually. ‘String him up, and let’s get the knives out.’

There was a hum of approval as rough hands grasped him, untying him from the chair and hauling him up.

Blood had started to run into his eyes, and one side of his face was swelling, making it difficult to see. But this was the least of Blaklok’s concerns, because it was coming, and nothing he could do would keep it in.

Not that he owed these bastards any favours.

A foul whistling began to escape from his throat, like an engine venting steam. One of the thugs took a step back, his eyes suddenly widening, but the rest kept a grip on him.

Well, more fool them.

He belched again and this time red-hot bile ran up over his lips and dripped onto the floor. It steamed and sizzled, making a seared mess of the hard granite. That was enough to ensure the rest of them let go, stepping back in horror and watching as Blaklok retched and gurgled. He could feel the unnatural heat burning in the pit of his stomach. It ran up into his nostrils, creeping up his spine and into the back of his head and infecting his brain.

It had to be now or it would begin to consume him – the foul, unnatural pestilence spreading into him like a canker, and taking him over completely.

Blaklok opened his mouth wide and vomited.

The hellfire roared as he spewed it forth, searing his lips and cracking the skin. He was protected in the most part by the fell incantations that had been said over the sigils on his body, but it still hurt like hell. As his flesh had been tarred and burned so many years ago, so his soul had been made resistant to certain aspects of the Pit. Fortunately for him, this was one of them.

Unfortunately for Snapper’s men, they did not share his supernatural resilience.

The hellfire spattered against the chest of one unfortunate, and his clothes and the flesh beneath immediately took, engulfed in a liquid flame that melted everything in its path. The poor bleeder didn’t even have a chance to scream.

More of the evil torrent splashed against another thug’s leg, melting his thigh to the bone. This man did have an opportunity to scream as his leg was slowly corroded away by the molten deluge. He fell to the floor, grasping his slimy stump and raising a racket to the rooftop of the small room.

Thaddeus reeled backwards, flecks of the molten liquid still falling from his lips, hissing as it hit the granite floor. Snapper’s eyes were wide as they peered from over the handkerchief he still had positioned over his face. The little man, Geffle, streaked from his hiding place in the corner and headed for the door, moving so fast he had to hold his flat cap to his head lest it fall off in flight.

The other thugs standing in the room were all staring at Blaklok, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He retched again, as the hellfire threatened to spew forth once more, and they all made a break for it, falling over one another as they squeezed through the exit.

On the floor, the legless thug was still screaming his lungs out and Blaklok turned to regard him… just as he belched another deluge. It covered the hapless victim, silencing his screams and melting him into the floor.

Blaklok fell to his knees, gasping for air, hoping against hope that he had now expunged the hellfire completely. He looked up and saw Snapper still staring down. As much as he wanted to get up and smash Trol’s face to a pulp, he simply didn’t have the energy.

‘You’re– you–’ was all Snapper could say before he too thought it expedient to flee from Blaklok’s presence.

And then he was alone in the room with two bubbling corpses. He was still manacled, still had the burns on his palms and torn and bloodied clothes. Still had the bruises on his face and the blood on his cheeks, only now he at least had an escape route.

All was silent as he struggled to stand, and followed the rest of the fleeing crowd out through the open door.

From the look of the corridors he wasn’t in the Cistern, which was a surprise. He would at least have expected Trol and his men to take him back to their hideout, but they obviously didn’t want to be interrupted again.

Not like last time.

As he walked through a seemingly endless maze of whitewashed passages it began to grow harder to breathe. Even walking was difficult. It seemed holding the hellfire had taken more out of him than he had anticipated.

The periphery of his vision was growing hazy and he knew he had to get himself some help, and soon. But who in the Manufactory would he run to? Where in this whole warren of the venal and the wicked that they called the City of Bastards could Blaklok find a friend? Enemies aplenty, that was taken as read, but a friendly face was taking the piss.

Finally he made it out into the open air. Looking back he saw he had exited a large building, something like a stately home but with bars on the windows. A single word was emblazoned on the front in chipped paint: Sanatorium.

Nice, he thought. It would have been quite apt had he ended his days in there.

As Blaklok made his way through the overgrown grounds of the abandoned madhouse he thought again about where he could go. Where could he flee to in the Manufactory? Who would take him in?

Only one name sprang to mind… the Apothecary.

He was neutral, and consequently his place was neutral ground. The Apothecary never took sides, never played one off against the other, never double-crossed. He valued one thing, and one thing only – hard, cold coin.

That did bring up a problem in itself, by virtue of the fact that Thaddeus didn’t have any coin, but he would have to cross that rickety bridge when he came to it. It was well known that the Apothecary took no credit, but maybe he could be persuaded to make an exception.

Not bloody likely, but what choice did Blaklok have?

He stumbled on, fighting against fatigue and unconsciousness, eventually running on memory and instinct as he hit the streets.

With a little luck he would be able to make it to the Apothecary’s before he passed out. With a little more luck, the Apothecary would be at home.

Whether he would let Blaklok in or not was another matter…

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A demon. In the Manufactory.

A real life, sulphur-stinking, fire-breathing, people-rending demon.

Here. In the Manufactory.

The halls of the Judicature were in turmoil, bodies moving swiftly and with purpose hither and thither like it was the last day on earth and they all had to finish their paperwork before the cataclysm began. Lectors barked orders, fantassins blurted requests, tipstaffs garbled reports and in the midst of it all administrants shuffled their papers from desk to desk, trying their hardest to keep on top of the clamour.

In the confusion, Amelia walked with a calm air, seeming to move in slow motion amidst the mass of rushing figures. No one would notice her amongst all this upheaval. She was merely one more agent of the Judicature carrying out her duty. No one would care if she entered the Lexiconium without the requisite authorisations. Not an eyelid would be batted if she helped herself to the confidential information held within.

It was not in Amelia’s nature to behave in a clandestine or underhand manner. She had always been an exemplary pupil, and a by-the-book operative of the Judicature. But recent events had spurred her into action that was out of character. Almighty’s sake, she had shot her own man. If that wasn’t an act unbecoming of her position, she didn’t know what was.

But things had become insane over the past few days, and she just knew it was all to do with this man Blaklok. He was the key to everything – even this infernal beast that had decided to make an appearance in the city.

She just knew it.

And if she could find out who he was and where he had come from she was sure everything else would eventually resolve itself.

The Lexiconium was the Judicature’s Hall of Records, a repository full of tomes, ledgers, essays, periodicals and every other form of script that had been set to paper. Every word ever written within the walls of the Manufactory – and even some beyond – was documented in the Lexiconium.

Amelia had always been something of a bookworm, and she knew if she was allowed long enough within the stuffy confines of the record rooms she would eventually get to the bottom of this.

She strolled in through the double doors, flashing a knowing nod at the librarian behind his high desk, piled almost to the rafters with used tomes ready to be slotted back into their places within the rows of bookshelves. Everything was ordered in the Lexiconium, it was a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the outside world. Amelia didn’t spend nearly enough time in here, but without the necessary authorisations she simply couldn’t get access. Now, with all this mass hysteria regarding creatures of the Pit allegedly being unleashed on the world, that didn’t seem to matter.

Librarians and administrants moved with purpose through the rows of shelves, carrying piles of papers or pushing trolleys rammed full of journals and codices. No one gave Amelia a second glance as she made her way towards the far end of the massive hall, her heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.

The criminal archives were towards the far end of the Lexiconium, hidden away in a shadowed room. A single gaslight burned in the corner, supplemented by a few candles spewing molten wax down their sides, and Amelia began to wonder how she would find anything in the dimness. But within minutes her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she was meticulously poring over old records and scanning through ledgers covered in dust. It reminded her of her childhood days in her father’s study, watching the old man work until late into the night, scribing his manuscripts by the light of a single flame.