Kultus (21 page)

Blaklok was sure there had been a time when he’d faced a tougher task, but it didn’t spring readily to mind.

Fact was he had no lead. No one seemed to know anything about the Legion or where their coterie might be based. He had scanned a copy of
The Chronicle
that morning, and despite several articles on demons and their followers, which were obviously influenced by the score of sightings of a rampant demon President in the city, there was nothing that would lead him to the whereabouts of the Legion.

Though he hated to do it, Thaddeus was going to have to retrace his steps and return to Lord Julius. He was the only one who seemed to have any idea at all what was going on. If he didn’t know anything about the Legion he may at least be able to reveal more about the Key, such as where it might best be used for the most potent effect. It was tenuous, but any lead was better than none.

After managing to purloin some clean clothes, Blaklok had made his way across the city, using the usual less trodden byways. With news of a demon on the loose, the streets were quieter than most days, and it did not take him long to reach the affluent district in which Lord Julius resided.

This time as he trod across the gardens of Julius’s estate there were no hounds to come bounding across the lush grass. Blaklok found it curious that the manor’s resident safeguards were not as vigilant as they should be, and rather than accept the absence of guard dogs as simple good luck it made Thaddeus even more cautious. He stole into the house more carefully than he had done before. Once inside there were no sounds or smells, no chatting servants, nothing cooking in the pot.

The place appeared all but deserted.

In the drawing room where Blaklok had been forced to give Julius’s bodyguard a pasting, all was quiet. The same pictures lined the walls, the paisley armchair sat empty and a clean ashtray sat by its side on a small table. There would normally have been nothing untoward about this whole situation, but something was niggling at Blaklok – something was wrong.

Even if Julius was simply out and about there should at least still be someone at the estate looking after the holding. Then again, Julius was an ostracized member of the aristocracy… where would he go? He couldn’t exactly make house calls on old friends when he had been excised from every social circle in the Manufactory.

Had he been kidnapped perhaps? Maybe the same set of goons who had sliced open Earl Beuphalus had come for Julius. Or maybe the Judicature had decided to clamp down on dabblers in the occult since a rampant demon popped up and started eating people off the street.

Either way, his pursuit of the Key was at a dead end.

This wasn’t good. Not only had he found himself defeated – a fact that galled him more than anything – but the parties he was working for would not look kindly on failure. Even Blaklok might find it a struggle to get out of this one with all four limbs still in working order.

There was a creaking – a creaking Blaklok recognised. It was the floorboard that had saved his life the last time he had paid Julius a visit.

Spinning on his heel, Thaddeus stretched out one meaty leg and booted the door shut. He flushed with satisfaction as it hit something solid. Lurching forward he grasped the handle and pulled the door wide, reaching out with his shovel-like hands, ready to start tearing and beating, and shouting and threatening.

But what he saw made him stop dead.

The old man must have been about ninety, he leaned against the wall, stunned by the door that had just hit him in the face. Blaklok instantly felt a pang of guilt. He was more than happy to give any of Lord Julius’s underlings a pasting to get what he wanted, but not some old codger. That wasn’t what Blaklok was about.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ begged the old man, raising a hand to his bloody nose.

That didn’t make Blaklok feel any better about himself.

Grasping the old geezer firmly by the arm, Thaddeus guided him into the drawing room and sat him down in the paisley chair.

‘I can’t sit here,’ said the old man. ‘This is for Master Julius only.’

‘Don’t worry mate,’ said Blaklok, trying his best to sound friendly. ‘He won’t mind. Trust me on that.’

The old man pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his nosebleed. ‘What are you doing here anyway? This is private property you know.’

‘I’m an old friend,’ Blaklok lied. It didn’t help his guilty conscience to be spinning a yarn to the old timer, but it was better than the truth. ‘Thought I’d pay my old mate Julius a visit.’

‘Well, young Julius doesn’t get many visitors these days. I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before.’

‘I’ve been out of town until recently. I’m just here to catch up.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said the old man, reclining in the paisley chair as though he had forgotten all about having a door kicked in his face.

‘And who are you, old fella?’ asked Blaklok. He surprised himself at his interest in the man, but he quickly put it down to an uncharacteristic attack of the guilts.

‘Me? I’m old Ned, the gardener. Been in the service of Master Julius, oh, since before he was born. Took up in the service of Julius senior about fifty years ago. Been here ever since. It’s a noble calling, is gardening. These hands have pruned more bushes and watered more flowers than I care to remember. Of course the soil’s not what it used to be, what with the smog and all, but my fingers are still green enough to keep this garden blooming.’

Blaklok nodded, suddenly regretting he’d even asked.

He stood and looked around the room, wondering if Julius had left some sort of clue. ‘Do you know where Julius is now?’

‘Sorry, can’t help you there. I’m as in the dark as you. I was going to ask if he wanted geraniums or crocuses on the beds out front but he’s not here is he?’

‘No he’s not,’ said Blaklok, walking towards the bureau at one end of the room.

‘So, you say you’re a friend of his,’ said the old man. ‘That’s nice. Julius never had many friends when he was young. And those friends he made growing up were a bad influence if you ask me. You seem like a nice sort.’

Blaklok looked up. Old Ned must have been well into senility if he thought the hulking brute who just kicked a door in his face was a ‘nice sort’. It also didn’t say much for Julius’s previous friends.

‘Yes, I always thought he should have more friends,’ continued Ned. ‘He spent far too much time on his own, looking through those dusty old books.’

As Ned prattled on, Blaklok continued searching through the room. Ned didn’t seem to notice or care, so locked was he in his bout of nostalgia.

The bureau drawers contained little of interest, nor any indication that Julius was involved with the occultists of the Manufactory. By the contents of his bureau Julius could have been just another rich aristocrat fallen from grace. That was, until Blaklok came to the bottom drawer. He slid it open, at first barely noticing something towards the back, hidden beneath a pile of yellowing parchment. Then his attention was grabbed by a flash of bronze.

He stopped dead.

Ned’s words seemed to drift off in a haze as Blaklok reached inside and took out the object, holding it in his hands as though it were an ancient and legendary artefact.

A carved bronze face stared back from the mask he held in his grip. Its edges were sharp, splaying out in a sunburst, the features were pointed and evil looking. Julius was the high priest of the fucking Cult of Legion!

‘Oh, you’ve found Julius’s mask have you,’ said Ned chirpily. ‘He likes to wear that round the house now and again. Obviously when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s all to do with the Legion. I think that’s a benevolent fund he patronises. That’s the only fun he gets nowadays.’ Blaklok had stopped staring at the mask and was instead staring at the old man in disbelief. ‘He’s always prattling on to himself about it – Legion this, and Legion that. I think he’s getting a bit obsessed, but you know young people these days. Well, of course you do, you’re one of them. Of course I don’t say much about it myself, it wouldn’t do to upset him.’ The old man chuckled to himself.

‘And do you know where this benevolent fund is based?’ Blaklok asked, trying to stay calm. He was really chancing his arm here, the old man probably knew nothing more, but it was about time he was afforded a break.

Ned frowned, staring up at the ceiling as though the answer might be written there. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I do.’

There was a pause.

‘And could you tell me?’ said Blaklok, straining to hide his impatience.

‘I can do better than that,’ replied Ned. ‘I can show you.’

He struggled from the depths of the armchair, and Blaklok was about to follow him from the room when the old man turned and walked towards the wall behind him. This was great. Most likely the old git had made all this up as part of some demented fantasy.

‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to one of the pictures that hung on the wall. ‘I’ve seen Julius whispering to it, sometimes late at night. Don’t tell him I told you that though, he might get annoyed if he thought I was spying on him.’

Blaklok moved to Ned’s side and stared at the picture. It was a rendering of a tower; Blaklok recognised it as being somewhere in the Spires. Though it wouldn’t have stood out as being spectacular amongst some of the other structures in that area, Blaklok was sure he would recognise it if he saw it again.

‘Thanks, Ned,’ he said, throwing the mask back onto the bureau, and making his way to the door.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Ned replied. ‘Oh, and if you catch up with Julius be sure to ask whether he wants crocuses or geraniums, will you?’

Blaklok didn’t answer.

When he finally did catch up with Julius, flowers would be the least of his worries.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

There was forbidden ground in the Cistern onto which not even the most brutal of the Chambers dared encroach. It lay at the apex of the mass of sprawling subterranean pathways, easily accessible to those who knew how to gain entry, but known to only a privileged few. Seldom would any of the gang leaders of the Manufactory’s underworld even contemplate entering to seek an audience with those who dwelled within this aegis unless the reason was of the direst import.

Trol Snapper was hoping that his reasons would be considered just so dire.

He wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of: the man who he was traversing sanctified ground to see, or the fire-spewing madman who was responsible for the hideous deaths of his crew.

Either way, he knew he had to do this, had to tread these hallowed walkways to the inner sanctum of the Cistern to see the man who controlled the Chambers, the man who was shown fealty by even the most brutal and insane criminals of the Manufactory.

Trol had very little left in the way of a crew now. Three men flanked him, relatively green newcomers to his gang who, after their recent experiences, looked ready to flee at any moment. And of course there was Geffle, who had decided to tag along for… well, Trol didn’t actually know why, but he allowed the little shit to accompany him, because even a coward like Geffle was better back-up than nothing at all. Anyways, if things turned tough when he was presented to the Montserrat, perhaps he could divert all blame onto the thieving little bastard.

It was always worth having a back up plan.

As the four men moved further into the bowels of the forbidden tunnels they were met by two of the biggest, nastiest looking men Trol Snapper had ever seen. Neither spoke, even when Trol gave his best and most winning smile. They simply opened the huge metal door that barred the way and joined Trol and his three men as they tramped through the dripping passage. With one of the hulks at the front and one at the back, the narrow tunnel darkened somewhat as they moved through it. Though Trol could see little, he could feel the intermittent drip of water as it splashed against his tailored suit. From the smell he could tell this water was far from clean, but it would have been foolish to complain – it wasn’t like either of these titans was suddenly going to provide him with an umbrella.

The tunnel wound on, until they came to a massive reception room. More troglodytic guards stood vigilantly at the room’s edge, brandishing carbines and all manner of vicious looking hand weapons. Behind him, Trol could tell his remaining crew were beginning to get nervous. His three bodyguards were glancing around skittishly, and Geffle was dancing from foot to foot, his eyes darting around, looking for the nearest escape route in case things started to turn nasty. But there was no escape route down here; this place was more secure than the Church of the Sancrarium itself. If things went badly there would be no escape.

One of their brutish guides walked forward and smashed his meaty fist against another massive metal portal. The sound echoed around the reception room like the tolling of a death knell. Trol could feel his insides turning cartwheels. He was about to meet the Montserrat, and his excuse for the intrusion better be a good one or he wouldn’t be leaving here with the same number of appendages he had arrived with.

The door swung wide, and Trol could see a massive bull-like head peering through. There was a terse conversation, and bullhead nodded, his face grim, his eyes looking up to fix on Snapper and his crew. He beckoned them forward, and Snapper fought to retain control of his legs, pressing them forward despite their reluctance to move.

When he walked through the door he saw that the bull-faced guard was even bigger than the two brutes who had brought him here. How that was possible he did not know. There were certain drugs one could obtain in the Cistern, and some speculated they were used by the Militia of the Manufactory to increase the size and aggression of its fantassins, but Trol had never seen a man this big before. If this meeting went well, he would be sure to ask the Montserrat what he was feeding his men and use it on his own crew. They might have better luck in the future when they had a lone, bald thug tied to a chair. Instead of being beaten by short flat cap wearing intruders and melted by corrosive vomit they might actually be able to give a good account of themselves.