Should a Door be Opened - Close it: Part 7
A continuation of a tale begun for the Small and Scary project...Paths begin to converge in this dark fantasy series.
Previously in Part 6
Countess in exile, Livia Drusilla, is troubled by confusing messages and must decide on a course of action…
Hexamenene, Matriach of the Sisters:Always, lies stricken in the Mortuarium, riddled with infestation but with a last, critical message for the Sisterhood…
Telsantus, the lost Wizard, lies trapped beyond the portal, his plans thwarted by the Angel but his hope is not yet gone…
Episode 7
Corbis dangled from the cable above a massive balcony jutting like a monstrous hand erupting from the cliff face. He slowly regained his composure; the flight, at first, had riven shrieks of terror from him, but these had transformed to whoops of delight. The speed at which he flew, the majesty of the looming volcanic walls and his impossible height above the blue, steaming eye of the lake thrilled his senses. Then, at the midpoint, terror returned: a stone counterweight hummed towards him, whistling past on another wire mere feet away, forcing shut his eyes in the certainty of obliteration. His journey came to an end as violently as it had begun with a shuddering jangle as another cable braked him to a stop. He had arrived at the entrance to the Mines of Amiata.
A guard with a long, hooked pole dragged him down and began to unbuckle his harness. Once free of the strappings, the guard sized Corbis up and sniffed.
“Shit your breeks then?”
Corbis drew a long breath and exhaled. “The cock may well have cried a tear or two on the ride,” he said, gripping at his groin, “but the saddle is clean.” The guard roared and punched his shoulder.
“That’s the spirit! Welcome to the Mines. State your business.”
“I am Corbis, Discipulus of the Librarium. I have a message, letters from the Inquisitor Belsay, my maestre,” he thrust forward the papers with the black seal foremost. “For the eyes and ears of the Wizard:Alchemist Ogune, and him alone.” He leaned in towards the Guard, “If you will keep this between us –and I sense you are a man to be trusted –the Inquisitor is stricken. He’s got days to live at most. Can you see me to the Wizard by the fastest route so that I might have a chance to beat death back to his side with the Wizard’s reply?”
The guard grunted. “A bird did come for the Wizard, two days back. We’ve been told to watch for a messenger. Come with me.”
He led Corbis towards the gateway; a group of guards passed them, hauling a huge stone ball on a rumbling sled. Corbis watched them over his shoulder as they hooked the ball to a thick chain hanging from the cables above. With billhooks, they dragged it to the edge where one guard leapt upon it, grasped the chain with one hand and with the other swung his hammer down to smack the stone, sending himself into the void with a battle cry.
“Changing the guard, see?” said Corbis’s escort.
They approached the sheer cliff face and Corbis drew back as a sheet of blue flame crawled down the rock towards them. The guard hauled him on towards the entrance, oblivious to the descending fire. Above them, a transparent crystalline portico, fused to the rock, baffled the descending flame, quenching it to a hissing mist that condensed to oily liquid, pooling within the glassy structure.
“What is that?” marvelled Corbis.
“Sulfur water,” said the guard, as they entered the mountain. “Turn a man to gravy in minutes. Mind your steps now; walk where they tell ‘ee, and don’t touch nothin’.”
Through a long tunnel and past several pairs of hammer-wielding guards they marched, until another gatehouse was reached and Corbis was ushered inside.
“Pass your letters to the Draftsman in there; skinny fellah; grey smock; monocular on ‘is ‘ed. Can’t mistake him. He’ll see you right from here on. By th‘ammer.” The Guard saluted with a raised fist and bid Corbis farewell with a nod.
Inside the barrack, the Draftsman was exactly as described. He greeted Corbis cordially and from a leather belt drew out a pen with which, Corbis surmised, he would write within a broad ledger on the table between them.
“Sir, if I may interrupt,” Corbis jabbed forward the letters of introduction again. “These must see their way to the Wizard Ogune. Could you attend to that first and the ledger after?”
The Draftsman stopped, pen in hand. He took the letters from Corbis. The brass eyepiece about his head clicked and extended outwards, its lens enlarging his right eye as he examined the black seal.
“They are to be read by the Wizard alone. At least one life depends on his swift reply…will you hurry?” Corbis urged.
The distorted eye did not move but the other flicked up to regard Corbis for a moment, then the Draftsman twirled the pen between his fingers and sheathed it on his belt. “Very well,” he said. He pulled from the wall a tube and spoke into a funnel at the end of it; his voice was muffled and metallic, but Corbis made out the name “Ogune”. There was a hiss and a jet of steam and from the same wall, a pipe emerged. From a drawer beneath the table, the Draftsman pulled a brass cylinder into which he slid the letter before inserting it precisely into the pipe. With another hiss of steam and a loud thupp, the canister vanished and the pipe retracted into the wall.
“But now…the Ledger…all must be to the order,” said the Draftsman. His monocular clicked and his eye shrank behind the lens.
Fighting growing impatience, Corbis indulged him with clipped answers of his own, all the while taking in the baffling, pipework and machinery within the room. Questions of his own formed, but he kept them to himself. A whistle of steam interrupted the interrogation and the Draftsman pulled the message funnel to his ear; his frustration was replaced with an expression of surprise. “Discipulus Corbis, may I take your cape?” he said, with a slight bow, “I must fit you with smelting leathers. The Wizard is coming to escort you through the mine.”
Countess Livia Drusilla entered the secret chamber in which dwelt her other life. It had been years since the Varkine siege and the power vacuum that followed it; a time when she had lived that other life; a time of delicate, poisoned blades. The machinations of the Torkem Regis had failed then; their battle had been lost, but the war? The war had not ended: it slept lightly.
Something wakes and I will greet it.
Her robes of the Sisterhood fell to the floor and she wound herself in the cloth of the Torkem Regis: one single length black silk covered her body, the tying of it a ritual in itself. Beneath it, across her chest, a crimson band flattened her breasts and held narrow ampoules of the Three Poisons she had trusted the Hortolana to prepare: Malleusomnus, Azurmortis and Furosanguinus. To make such a request had been a step of faith; to one that knew the art of poisonery, they were an unmistakable signature of a Torkus. It took only one swift meeting of their eyes for the Countess to know her instinct had been true; the Hortolana was an ally.
Now dressed, the Countess armed herself: on her left hand, a glove of witchfingers and on her right forearm, a bracer with a spring-loaded needle-blade. What poison will be needed first? She loaded the blade with an ampoule of Azurmortis.
Nobody could know of her departure and so, from her window, and by means of subtle hand holds in the stonework, she ascended to the roof; from there the stables and then beyond to the pastures. Her steed, Kermarie, had been left out, unstabled, in readiness; she came to the Countess’s call and the two disappeared into the pre-dawn mist. The Countess had set her path: the Librarium was where the confluence of possibilities swirled and she hoped her ruse with the weakened dove would sow enough confusion with Otho to spare the Hospitium and her Sisters from his ravening attentions. Just as she sensed stirrings afoot in the world, her instinct told her that Otho and his bestial swordsmen might be emboldened to act with less caution; wolves catching the scent of blood. As she rode, she felt the twinge of passing years and lack of practice in the muscles of her arms.
Corbis could not disguise the surprise on his face when Ogune removed his helm; the Wizard:Alchemist was a woman.
“By the Hammer, “ she said, raising a fist, still gloved in smelting leathers. The Draftsman returned the salute.
“Welcome, Corbis of the Librarium. Does the Fornax Magnus Artifex meet you well?”
Corbis caught a dip of the head from the Draftsman whose fist was still raised, and Corbis raised his own with a jerk and stammered “By the Hammer. A most gracious welcome. Yes.”
The Wizard looked him up and down, “The leathers fit well enough. Come, haste is your pet word I’m told and Belsay’s letters do not gainsay that.”
Corbis moved as if to speak but could not find words.
“What is it man? Speak now! In the mines, with this on, “ she rapped the blue glass on the front of the leather helm, “there’ll be no chance for conversation until we’ve crossed the Volcanorium.”
“How may I… should I… address you…my…Lady?”
Ogune snorted. “Strong minds and strong arms are all that count, Librarian. No lords or ladies here, only “Comrades”, one and all. What we do is what we are; through aptitude and actions. Now follow me.”
Count Otho sweated in his slow, rumbling carriage. It was almost too wide and heavy for the roads once the company trundled beyond the city limits of Vindor. The black paint and ironmongery, though menacing, sucked up the sun’s heat. It would be a league or more before the route found the shade of the forest and Otho rolled and lolled in sticky discomfort, temper simmering. Scented towels and sweetmeats were no comfort and the mere thought of the exertion that cruelties or pleasures of the flesh would require in this torpid state were intolerable. He imagined the cool, dark halls of the Hospitium…the tearing of robes and despoilment of young Sisters. These were the thoughts that distracted him.
With a jolt that rocked his bulk into the side of the carriage, the convoy came to a sudden stop and voices from ahead announced that a rider approached. Weapons were drawn and horses snickered and stamped.
“What fuckery is this?” Otho shouted, slamming open a shuttered window and squinting into the sunlight.
“A bowman, my Lord Count, and with a message.”
“Bring him!”
The swordsmen urged their horses to part and let the rangy bowman approach the carriage in his tatter-robes, threaded with twigs and greenery. A hound loped at his heel.
“My Lord Count,” he said, bowing his head and offering up the limp dove in one hand and its message pouch in the other. Otho took the pouch, pinching it with distaste between one slug-fat finger and thumb. The Bowman rocked from one foot to another, one hand outstretched and quavering in the hope of a gold piece, but the window shutter slammed closed. Grunting came from within then Otho called for guards to help him alight.
“Tell me,” said Otho, once he had descended from the carriage to a carpet placed upon the dirt of the road, “Is this not the second bird that you have plucked from the skies for me these past few days?”
“Yes my Lord Count, and proud to serve ‘ee.”
“And tell me…to where flew this last bird? Would you say?”
“I were nearest Vindor, my Lord, so…either to Vindor, or per’aps the Librarium.”
“And where did you shoot the first bird…?”
“Gamm, my Lord. Name’s Gamm. Bird was took in Yeavering woods.”
“And where might that bird have been on its way? Do you think…Gamm?”
Gamm shifted on his feet, his head twitching left and right, searching for some reassuring nod or gesture from the troops that were gathered about, but none came. Otho stared at him, head tilted in question, eyes narrowed to beads. Gamm hesitated to answer and began to sweat. His hound, sensing the rising nervousness of his master, began to whine so Gamm dropped the dove which the dog pounced upon and was quietened by the softness of prey in its mouth.
“You see…” said Otho, with a sweep of his arms, “...my dilemma?”
“Not sure as I do, my Lord Count.”
“First you bring me a message from the Sisterhood that directs my attention one way…but then… no sooner am I upon the road than you bring me a second message. From the Sisters. One that would divert me to another place entirely.”
“I…I…wouldn’t know about what they says, my Lord. I just brings ‘em…in the hope of findin’ your favour.”
“And how was it that you knew to find me upon the road…with this second message?”
“I was returnin’ ‘ome my Lord. T’ was just good fortune…
“Good fortune? Good fortune! For whom, bowman? Not for your Lord. By thine arrows I am brought to ground and into quandary! Which message is true? It cannot be both; and yet both were brought to me by you. Where should my trust lie?”
Gamm shrank into himself. He lowered his hopeful hand then removed his cap and held it in both hands, wringing it before him. His head sank, trembling, unable to meet the tormenting gaze of the Count any longer. A fear-filled bile rose in his gorge.
“Good fortune favours only your hound, Bowman.”
“My Lord..?”
“Well…It is you that brought this message, Bowman, not the dog.”
Gamm shook his head, the implication lost upon him.
“Either you have played the trick, Gamm, or the trick has been played upon you. The truth of it I have neither time nor tools to find, here upon the road. There is but one certain way to guarantee your hands bring no more trickery.”
Otho gave a curt nod to a guard standing behind Gamm; he knew the signs and had readied his spear. He drove it into Gamm’s back. Gamm cried out only once then coughed and choked. The tip of the spear erupted from his chest and his eyes bulged, his head lolled back, blood gushing from his mouth. The guard rived the spear further through him, lifted him so that his feet almost left the ground. The dog leapt at his master’s assailant, clamping it’s jaws over one spear arm, but the hound’s fortune was not long lived. Another guard severed the lurcher’s head from its scrawny neck with a single sword blow, leaving it to hang, drooling blood, from the spearman’s arm.
Otho burst out laughing at the scene before him: the headless hound spurting gore across the guards’ feet; Gamm’s corpse twitching on its grisly skewer and the two guards cursing each other. He flicked a gold coin at both of them, applauding the show.
“‘Tis a pity we are no longer headed for the Hospitium,” he said, pointing at the spearman who was clawing at the jaws of the dog and groaning in pain. “Turn us about! We journey to the Librarium.”
Two leagues away, on a forrester’s trail, Baron Chollerford rode with Tark at his side. behind them rode two Bannermen: Garen of Stobswood and Cambo of Harbottle. Conversation had been sparse; the Baron did not trust them, not since Tark had spied Garen set free a bird at dawn the day before, away amongst the trees where he thought he would not be seen.
The trail opened out onto a broader road and the Baron called them all to halt.
“There is a change of plan. We will make our way direct to the Librarium from here.”
“What of our third man?” said Garen, exchanging a glance with Cambo.
“Time is short; our journey has taken longer than hoped.” the Baron said And I prefer the odds with one less of you.
Scarcely a league from where the Baron had emerged, two Sisters:First picked their way through the trees a few yards from the road. The drum of approaching hooves —two of Count Othos’ men —had driven them to hide within the undergrowth and scrubby trees that lined it. Their journey to the Hospitium was slow, their robes torn with briars and stained with mud and moss from frequent falls.
“Shhh! They return!” Sister Agate hissed and motioned her Sister to the ground as the sound of hooves and the jangle of brasses approached. The women flattened themselves into the loam of the forest floor, but a thin dead branch snapped just as the horsemen passed. The sharp sound of it brought the horses to a stamping halt and the two guards dismounted and crashed through the undergrowth. The Sisters tried to flee but were quickly caught and dragged to the road. The men slapped them brutally, roaring at them to silence their screams. One at a time, the Sisters were thrown to the ground their capes removed and torn to strips with which their hands were bound behind their backs. Once securely tied, the Sisters were dragged to their feet.
“Count said to bring a Sister back, if we should happen upon any on the road. But here we are with two pretty birds. What is a man to do?”
The Sisters stayed silent, faces red from the beating. The men guffawed.
“One of yous must come with us, and one of yous…will not,” The horseman went on, grasping the face of one Sister by the chin, turning her head left to right then grabbing the face of the other to do the same. “Which one of you will it be then?”
“One you got ‘old of is fairer, but t’other one looks…younger,” said the other man, his voice thick with suggestion.
“I was thinkin’ they might…‘elp us make up our minds, brother. We ‘aint in no rush after all. What say you? Which one first…your choice. What is it, age afore beauty?” They both laughed again but their mirth was cut short at the sound of hooves. Looking about them, they reached for their swords as a riderless horse clopped steadily towards them along the road.
Exchanging puzzled glances they half drew their weapons and walked towards the approaching steed.
“Steady now, brother…” said one of them, in a low growl. “Keep your wits.”
“Aye…right you are.”
They circled each other, squinting into the trees as they went. “That ‘orse, you know it?” said one of them.
“Not one o’ the Count’s stable; look at it - too fine. Woman’s ‘orse that. Noble —look at the halter on it.”
The men drew closer and the horse stopped and snorted, tossing it’s head. They looked about, but seeing no threat, sheathed their swords.
“Two pretty birds and a fine ‘orse to boot! Quite a day, brother, wouldn’t you say!”
“ ‘Orse like that…fetch us a half a year’s silver, I reckon.”
One of them took up the loose rein and they turned to walk back to where the sisters had been left. The women started to shuffle away as the men returned, wanting to flee but knowing there was no chance of escaping. The terror of what was to come became too much for Sister Agate, and she began to run.
“That one’s mine!” roared one of the men, “I love a spirited lass.” He dropped his hold of the reins and started after the fleeing woman but a wet, gargling cry from behind him stopped him dead. He turned swiftly and saw his companion beginning to crumple to the ground, knees buckling under him. His head was pulled back and a spout of blood jetted from a deep crimson slash across his throat. One hand clawed at the air, the other at his neck, his own hot lood spraying through his fingers and showering the stunned horseman who faced him, staring in disbelief.
A yell had barely begun to form in his mouth when his blood-soaked companion was propelled towards him and as the body fell forward, a black-clad figure was revealed behind. He reached for his sword but the Countess was swift as a cat. She leapt forward, spinning in the air. There was whisper of spring steel as the hidden blade was triggered and as she completed her full turn, the length of the hollow spine slid straight into the side of his neck, delivering its poison and retracting in less than second. As she landed to his left side in a crouch, she punched up into his groin with her left hand - once, twice, three times —the witchfingers flashing under his armoured skirt, finding their delicate target. She sprang up again as he began to slump, pivoting on her left foot, climbing up and around his body, using her right hand on his right shoulder to propel herself up and above him and pushing down. Then, with a single punch of the left hand, powered with a hissing exhalation from the diaphragm, she drove the witchfingers into the small of his back, below the buckles of his breastplate, severing his spine.
She kicked herself off him and landed, ready to strike again but there was no need. Her second victim collapsed like a doll to his knees and fell face forward onto the body of the first. The Countess circled then knelt to watch the poison rising, turning his face blue. His dying breath rattled out, one eye bulged then clouded to milk , fluttered and was still.
Satisfied, the Countess rose and approached the Sisters, unwinding the cloth from her face so that they would recognise her.
“Did they touch you?” They shook their heads.
“Are you fit to ride?” They looked at each other and nodded.
“Then take their horses and return to the Hospitium. Stop for nothing…the roads fill with danger!”
To be continued….
I should like to thank
for the inspiration to try and write brutal fight scenes as well as he does in the Shieldbreaker Saga….
This seems to get better with each episode! There are some great lines in this one, especially the one about the cock crying a drop or two. Then Otho with his 'what fuckery is this'. This is just the sort of fantasy writing I love. Kind of like the best bits of Game of Thrones, when it's both exciting and funny at the same time.
And yes, that was a very well executed fight scene at the end there. Bravo!
🖤 you’re a legend.