Kultus (16 page)

You reap what you sow
, someone had once told him. Of course, Blaklok had beaten the shit out of that fucker, but it still didn’t make the adage any less true. The sentiment was clear – Blaklok was cursed – and current events were only reinforcing that sentiment. Well, he would fight this curse, just like he fought everything else. And like everything else he came up against, he would win or he would die.

Just let them try and stop him.

Blaklok suddenly noticed that the airship was slowing down, the steam engines that powered it growling less intensely as it slowly turned, aiming itself towards one of the grasping towers that clawed up towards the heavens.

The acolytes had ceased their chanting, much to Blaklok’s relief, and he turned to face them, seeing that Arkwright still had his revolver aimed and ready.

‘Well, Mr Blaklok. We appear to have arrived.’ Arkwright smiled.

Blaklok didn’t think he had ever wanted to break someone’s teeth more.

The airship cruised low over the tower, and slowly came to rest. Blaklok could see more cloth-of-gold clad acolytes securing mooring ropes on the ground. With a screech of rusty wheels, a set of metal steps were pushed toward the side of the airship and clanged against the gaping hull.

Arkwright wafted his revolver at Blaklok.

‘Shall we?’ he said.

Thaddeus had little choice but to obey.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The grinding engines of the airship powered down, dying out like the last breath of some wheezing, cankerous monster. As they silenced, Blaklok could hear more chanting, the droning litany of President Valac being repeated, ad nauseum.

When he reached the bottom of the metal stairs he was immediately surrounded by a dozen acolytes, their golden robes glinting in the bright sun. Some held carbines while others brandished hand weapons: knives, clubs, one even bearing a knuckleduster. While the acolytes’ weapons looked effective enough, their faces told a different tale. They were nervous, bearing little conviction behind the eyes, and Blaklok doubted they would bring themselves to use their weapons in anger. Unfortunately, he couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t use them out of desperation, and a shot fired in fright would kill him just as dead as one fired in anger.

‘Take Mr Blaklok to the chapel,’ ordered Arkwright, closely following him down the stairs from the airship. Blaklok glanced back, noting the revolver still trained on him.

He was ushered away from the great grumbling vessel, and across the wide flat rooftop, high above the Manufactory. The sun was warm against his face and a fresh wind blew gently against his skin. Even in this moment of endangerment, Blaklok still appreciated the fact that he was, for once, high above the cloying streets, up in the relatively clean air and bathed in sunlight.

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Arkwright. Blaklok resisted the temptation to reply. ‘This is one of the towers of House Westowe. Pledged to us by its former owner. Truly magnificent what money can buy these days, wouldn’t you agree?’

Blaklok’s fists clenched tighter. Money didn’t give them the right to this. Fresh air and the beauty of a cloudless sky should be the right of every citizen in the Manufactory, not the exclusive privilege of the rich.

‘Soon it will all be His.
Valac dominatus
. You should be proud that you will bear witness, Mr Blaklok. It is the dawning of a new era. A golden age, ruled over by a god. And we will be his lieutenants.’

‘You’ll be his fucking entrées, you ignorant prick,’ replied Blaklok.

Some of the acolytes stared at him, shock written on their faces, but Trajian Arkwright merely laughed.

‘You are the ignorant one, Mr Blaklok. We have been promised a seat at his right hand. It has been foretold. Valac is beneficent with his rewards, and we will bathe in the shadow of his reign.’

Now it was Blaklok’s turn to laugh, which seemed to compound the nervousness of those gold-clad acolytes that crowded around him. ‘You lot really have no idea, do you? You’re just pawns… less than pawns, you’re not even on the fucking chessboard!’

‘No!’ screamed Arkwright, suddenly enraged. Blaklok felt the tiny cold barrel of the revolver pressing into the back of his head. It appeared he had finally managed to hit the spot. ‘Valac loves us. He cherishes his followers, and we will be rewarded. We will stand by his side for eternity.
Valac serviam!
’

His last words were repeated by the surrounding acolytes, and Blaklok realised he was wasting his breath. There would be no reasoning with these fanatics. He could only hope there would be a way to stop them before it was too late.

He was led to a staircase that swept down to the floor below. Here Blaklok could immediately see that the followers of President Valac had already busied themselves with their preparations. The wide, circular chapel was surrounded on all sides by huge glass windows set in carved frames, depicting their demonic master. He seemed almost benevolent; a striding figure with the requisite horns and forked tail, but his face was serene. On every facet Valac was depicted performing some kind of gracious act – anointing his followers, blessing the land, sitting atop a gilded throne watching over his kingdom.

Blaklok almost guffawed at the naivety.

In the centre of the room had been carved a summoning circle. It was set into the marble floor, the pentacle carved in relief, the chthonic symbols gilded in silver leaf. Blaklok had never seen such ostentation in honour of a demon before. Communion was usually made in dank and dirty cellars, with charcoal sigils streaked across blood-spattered floors. This place really was fit for a king.

Then he realised, with rising panic, that there were no safeties in place. No guards against a hostile summonation, no salt, no lead, no standby sacrifice. When Blaklok had been forced to make a dry conjuration it had been out of pure desperation, but this… this was simple madness.

One of the acolytes secured Blaklok’s manacles to a stone pillar, as Arkwright sidled up beside him. ‘I hope you will enjoy the show, Mr Blaklok. I’ll see if I can put in a special word for you when the President arrives. Perhaps he will allow you to be his pet.’

Blaklok stared, and for the first time he spotted the glint of insanity behind Trajian Arkwright’s twinkling eyes. ‘You’re all going to die,’ he said.

‘Not us,’ Arkwright replied with complete conviction. ‘We are about to begin our lives anew. Lives that will last an eternity at the right hand of our master.’

Arkwright turned, stowing his revolver inside his golden robes, and raised his arms high. Blaklok could see the Key of Lunos clutched tightly in one raised hand.

‘We are moments away from apotheosis, my friends.
Valac patrem!
’

‘
Valac patrem
,’ cried the acolytes in a single voice. Even now they were assuming their positions, faces twisted in glee, smoothing their robes and preening their hair as though they were keenly awaiting a secret lover.

Arkwright strode to the centre of the summoning circle and was surrounded by his acolytes, each of them joining hands with their neighbour and beginning the droning chant.

‘We have been gifted,’ said Arkwright spinning on his heel and showing the Key to the assembled circle, as though blessing them all with the sight of it. ‘We have the means. We have the will. Nothing can stop us.’

Blaklok began to strain against his manacles. They were padlocked to a bracket that was secured to a stone pillar. Though the manacles themselves were of good quality, there was a chance he could pull the bracket free of the pillar if he worked quickly enough. His muscles strained as he pulled with all his might. The grip of his left hand was not as strong as he’d have liked due to a recently lost finger, but he put that to the back of his mind. The manacles cut into his wrists but still he wrenched at them, staring at the bracket and willing it to move. There may have been the most minute of movements but it was no use, he was still tightly secured.

In the meantime, the chanting had grown louder. ‘
Valac dominus. Valac patrem. Valac omnipotentum. Valac invicta
.
Valac serviam
.’ The chant was almost joyous as it was sung through bewildered smiles, gleaming from the hooded golden robes of the acolytes. And in the midst of them was Arkwright, his eyes locked with steely intent on the Key of Lunos.

Blaklok silently scolded himself again. He should have taken the fucker out when he had the chance. Should have snapped that neck like a twig before he could do any harm. Well that would teach him to show mercy when it wasn’t warranted, but it was too late to castigate himself now. He had to do something. But that wasn’t going to happen with him trussed up like a sacrificial goat.

He pulled again at the bracket and it began to move. A little dust at first, just a tiny spray dislodged from the pillar as the bolts that held the bracket began to loosen. Blaklok took some heart in this, trying to block out the droning chant, trying not to panic. With another tug, the bracket began to wobble, but the manacle about his wrist was cutting deep. The flesh was parting and blood was starting to run in rivulets down his arm.

He had to ignore it; there were more important things at stake.

By now, Arkwright had joined in the chanting along with his followers. His voice was raised higher than the rest, shrill and loud, as though he wanted the limelight all to himself.

It was starting to get hotter, and that was never good. A warm wind was blowing straight through the chapel, but there was nowhere it could be coming from.

Nowhere on this earth, anyhow.

Blaklok turned his attention back to the manacles. The pain was getting more intense, even for him. His wrists felt like they were ready to split right off, and that wouldn’t have been an altogether bad thing. He reckoned that even handless he could have taken down these wet bastards.

‘Come, Valac!’ Arkwright’s voice peeled out above the din, momentarily diverting Blaklok’s attention from his painful task. ‘President of Hell. Lord of the Eighth Gate. Master of Serpents. Keeper of Hidden Secrets. We are ready to receive you. We have toiled long and hard for the means to offer a guiding light to the teeming masses of this foul city.’

Blaklok was annoyed at that last comment. Especially since he was the one who had done all the toiling to retrieve the Key of Lunos, but he had little chance to complain. A blinding light suddenly glared from the Key. It looked like it was burning white hot, but Arkwright appeared to feel no pain. This was it, the demon was coming.

Thaddeus strained once more, desperately pulling at the bracket, feeling it give a little more with each agonising tug, but it simply would not come all the way.

‘Yes!’ screeched Arkwright. ‘He is here!’ With that he placed the Key of Lunos down in the centre of the pentagram and stepped back from it, retreating all the way to the edge where he joined the rest of the chanters. He joined in with their endless litany and they all looked on eagerly as the light emanating from the Key intensified.

Blaklok had to close his eyes as he kept tugging. The blood now covered his arms, but he knew he had loosed the bolts that secured the bracket to the wall. He was almost free, another few seconds and he would be able to stop this before it was too late.

Then he realised that a disturbing hush had descended on the room.

Slowly he opened his eyes and felt the cold, unnatural chill that told him he was in the presence of the unearthly. The gold-cloaked acolytes were now standing in silence. Some gawped, open-mouthed and astonished. Others smiled dumbly, a pall of orgasmic glee having fallen across their faces. The rest could only weep, but whether from fear, happiness or some twisted sense of accomplishment, Blaklok couldn’t tell. Arkwright himself merely looked victorious, his eyes burning with intense madness.

And in their midst, rising from a crouching position, a sulphurous miasma emanating from its bare flesh, was President Valac.

The demon was twice the size of a man, maybe more, naked and matted with thick, wiry fur. A huge hairy cock dangled flaccidly between its legs, denoting it as male, but Blaklok knew demons bore nothing that could be described as gender. This thing was an
it
from the tip of those wicked horns to the bottom of its massive cloven feet.

It embodied every stereotype and myth ever written about demons – the horns, the snout, the hooves, the skin. But its face was not ferocious. Indeed, it seemed almost limpid, and imparted an aura of calm throughout the chapel. Part of Blaklok wanted to stop struggling against his bonds and merely stare in awe, but he knew better. He knew the odious, deceptive nature of the unworldly creatures that resided in the Pit, and before things could go tits up he resumed his straining against the bracket.

From the corner of his eye he saw one of the acolytes lurch forward, dropping to his knees before Valac. ‘Master. We beseech your blessing,’ he pleaded, tears straining from the corners of his eyes.

President Valac reached down with its huge, hairy hand, a faint smile playing across its fat red lips. It gently rested the hand on the acolyte’s head, as though anointing him, and the man closed his eyes, tears of joy running across his wide smile.

With a final wrench, Blaklok dragged the bracket from the wall, six-inch bolts lurching from their housing within the stone pillar. He almost cried in triumph, but the pain in his wrists cancelled out any sense of accomplishment he might have felt.

Thaddeus turned to the gathered acolytes, their demonic master standing in their midst.

The President’s face regarded its congregation with an ambivalent stare. Then it looked down to the one at its knees. Valac’s blank stare suddenly took on a ferocious sheen. Its teeth bared in a half-grin, half-leer as it reached down with talons that had a second before seemed so innocuous, grasping like a vice, piercing gold robes and flesh. The man screamed in pain as he was lifted, just for a second, before his head was crammed into the demon’s maw and snapped off by powerful jaws.

A scream rose to the ceiling of the chapel as panic ensued.