Should a door be opened...close it. Part 6
The Small and Scary saga continues...no longer small, but one hopes it may still scare...
Previously in Part 5
Corbis shuffled onto the platform and edged out as far as he dared. The drop forced him back a step and his gut tightened as the realisation of what the other way to the Mines must be…
“Ready?” asked the Guard. Before Corbis could answer that he was not, another long blast from the horn sounded. There was keening thrumming sound in the air above him and then with a savage jolt he was suddenly airborne; airborne and screaming, his stomach and the laughter of the Guard left far behind…
PART 6
“Four birds, Sister?”
“Yes Sister. Four messages this day, and two in cypher. I sent for you at once. Foreboding touches me.”
Sister Livia Drusilla, Countess Chollerford, let the steam of the herb kettle swirl about her face. She inhaled the vapours of herbae accuitatis and waited for the sand glass to empty, willing the grains to fall; action was required and she had need of the philtre of concentration.
On the far side of the dovecot, where light streamed in from a single window, the Dove Keeper attended to an injured bird. “A bolt has clipped her, but she will fly again,” she said, tucking the dove within a pouch of her apron. “The count of our winged and missing birds grows, Sister. If they would only fly by night…”
The Countess held her flask of tea, contemplating the flecks of potent leaves within it and grateful for the scent which masked the tang of bird shit steeped into the brickwork.
Otho’s bowmen
She drained the tea, its heat adding to the burning sensation of the herbs at work. She arranged the small slips of thin parchment before her; some were in cypher and had needed ink-sour and flame to be read.
From the Charity at Vindor…
From Bannerman Garen of Stobswood, in cypher…
From The Isle, in cypher:
From the Charity at Churnsyke:
The Countess cupped her palms over her eyes.
Foreboding indeed. Troubles form in the mist. I must choose the first foe with care.
“You say four birds, Sister…Did none come from the Librarium?”
“No. I would know Sister Agate’s bird, Countess, as if it were my own child.”
“Strange… That they have not by now returned, nor sent a bird with news…”
A cloud crossed the sun and the light through the high, narrow window dwindled almost to nothing sending the hooded Dove Keeper into shadow. “Perhaps their bird was sent, but did not escape the bowman, Sister,” she said from the gloom.
The Countess inhaled long and slow, absorbing this possibility. The philtre of concentration was beginning to take effect; she could feel the quickening, the dissociation of her mind from her body. There were so many possibilities, so many agents and each with their distinct motivations. The Countess could distill from this turbulent cauldron a clear liquor, the truest path. Her intuition was legendary. It was whispered she had struck a bargain with demonic sprites that dwelt both in the Now and in the Overmorrow, so exact were her predictions, so perfect was the placement of her pieces in the game.
Whether or not her soul had been indentured to the demons, her talent served her well when need arose for her to don a different set of robes to those of the Sisters:First. Before she joined the Sisterhood, she had been schooled elsewhere.
A Librarian travels in haste to the Mines, but will surely return to the Librarium, as will Vastus. My Sisters have met some misfortune there, or on the road. Yet… Otho comes for Vastus here and with a force, thinking I do protect him. He cannot know of Vastus’s scheme, therefore …but I MUST learn it if Vastus is to have any chance of success. To the Library then? But yet…how to ensure Otho’s retinue does not despoil the Hospitium…
The Countess stood and crossed the room to embrace the Dove Keeper. “I have a message for you to send and a request that you will not thank me for…one I would not ask if the safety of us all did not depend upon it.”
“I am listening, Sister.”
“Your wing-clipped bird…is she well enough at least to fly to Vindor? There is a message that we must see fall into Otho’s hands before his company arrives…”
In the Mortuarium Hexamanene and Plen-Mellah are locked within a plague cell. The infected matriarch has stripped herself and laid upon the bare boards of the sickbed, dragging off the matting and covers. Her body is blotched and speckled like a rotten pear; there is a stink of death about her, but as with Guyzance, she has found clarity, serenity in the knowledge that her end is almost here.
“Everything infected must be burned, do you understand? Everything. And everything that has touched me. But listen well and write down every word. You will need this knowledge, and though it is dreadful, it is also powerful. It is something the Sisterhood must control.”
Plen-Mellah nodded, ordering her Sisters to fetch what Hexamanene required without pause or question.
“You must fetch a thick winding sheet. Not of linen, but of oil cloth that will hold liquid. Rest me within this and soak me, whilst I still live, in oils of amber and distillate of pitch. Have ready your torches to ignite it. Be quick, because death is coming and with it comes the horror. You must be prepared. We…were not.”
“We will of course do as you ask, but tell us what has happened. Why do you speak as though all is lost upon the Isle…surely it cannot be so?”
Hexamamnene pointed to the iron box. “Within thar is a creature; it scurries like a spider and flies like a hornet but it is not like any insect we have within the Realm. When Guyzance passed we were within the Hall of Sending, preparing him for the journey. His body…his body seemed to melt and then the skin tore…split open, everywhere.” she groaned and spasmed in pain “Then, from within him, thick black grubs crawled forth. A multitude of them, creeping from his innards as the corpse turned to liquid before our eyes.”
Hexamanene’s eyes narrowed, glistening wet with the terrible memory and her frail hand gripped Plen-Mellahs’s, the shadows of its bones showing through taut, papery skin.
“In our shock, we did not think…we did not act! And then, when the grubs began to moult their skins, unfurl and flitter their silvery wings…oh the sound of them! The terrible terrible sound!” She began to cough, black blood flecking the white cloth that Plen-Mellah dabbed at her lips.
“We tried to wrap the corpse back into the shroud to trap the creatures inside, but it was too late…” she choked, gasped down a breath, skeletal ribs pressing white through the bruises.
“Is it…is it dead?” Plen-Mellah tapped the lid of the iron box, eyes wide. A buzzing rattle came from within and her hand drew back. Hexamanene shook her head.
“They are not like bees, Sister: when they sting they do not die! And they are not like wasps, for a wasp may sting and sting again. But these? They infect…and once infected, your death is certain.”
“By the Souls…what must we do?!”
“We were fortunate that the Hall of Sending had but one door. It was closed, and I kept it so. We were fortunate, in a most terrible way, that the creatures do not seek out dark crevices to hide in –they hunt their victims out! We trapped a good many of them within the shroud, but enough had taken flight…” Hexamanene trailed off, the memory of the erupting chaos within the Hall took hold; images of whirling madness, of screaming clawing sisters as they were stung and stung again by the swarm.
Plen-Mellah brought a flask of water to her lips and dabbed her brow, bringing her back from the nightmare.
“Listen well, take down all I say,” said Hexamanene. “Once stung, the creatures infect - both with their own spawn and with some other rotting vector. The victim has perhaps a week - two hands at most, but the signs are clear - look upon me! When death comes, the rot takes full hold and the body melts. The corpse must by then, or sooner, be shrouded; shrouded well and doused in volatile oils then burnt…and fiercely in a furnace, or some place where nothing may escape the flames. This must be my end, promise me! No ceremony, no song. There will not be time.”
Plen Mellah nodded “I understand - we shall prepare… just as you say.”
“I am not yet done - but the time is close. They feast on my innards, on the fat around my vitals. I can feel them within! I’m nought more than a living larder from which they gorge until the moment they are ripe and grown enough to hatch. There is no cure save that of a quick sharp blade to sever any offended limb the moment it be stung. And yet…” The Matriarch slumped back, her jaw worked loosely, she sucked breaths in through strands of spittle, her swollen tongue working to moisten black and livid lips. Plen-Mellah offered her more water as Sisters returned to the room, bringing bolts of oil cloth and heavy green glass amphorae of oils. The door slammed and echoed in the bare chamber, sealing it again.
“...and yet…from the death of so many of my Sisters I have seen a way to profit from this… this defiling weevil. We can bring its malignancy to heel. It’s potency can be put to use, do you see?”
Plen-Mellah shook her head in bewilderment. “It is all I can do to write down what you say…such horror! How can we hope to profit from it? It must all be put to the flame, surely, Sister?”
“Hear me out! As I stood against the door of the chamber, holding back those who would in their panic flee, I saw what must be done to contain it. One by one we sickened and fell. Through cautious means we were able to receive from the few Sisters beyond the door the cloth and oils that we required to wrap the rupturing corpses and trap their foul content. And I saw that when the creatures had stung sufficiently to exhaust their spawn sacs, they became docile and could be collected - as with this one, within the box. And we saw that, when drawing blood and fluids from those in the throes of death, the rotting ichor could be seen at work - it is a vile, flesh eating poison in its own right.”
Plen-Mellah began to nod.
“You see! You see it don’t you! Who is it that takes the bodies of the sick? It is we, the Sisterhood! If it can be contained…it can be ours to use…to put within those deserving of it…” Her wavering hand clawed its way to rest upon the box.
Plen-Mellah understood and Hexamanene saw that she did.
“Now, draw my blood and ready the fire. My time is almost come.”
In a room, a long, low-ceilinged room with walls of banded metal, Telsantus, the long vanished Wizard:Alchemist, paced, shivering with cold and with nowhere to shelter from it. His mind was raddled by tortures and the toll that his crushed hopes had wrought upon his spirit. Twenty years in this other realm ground upon him: a merciless mill. The Angel had tired of Telsantus; the currency of his novelty was spent and his alien wisdom skinned and mounted like a stuffed fox set to dance by clockwork trickery. His was a hollow inferior magic to that of the Angel. His ruse with the portal had nearly cost him his life, but the Angel could not reveal Telsantus’ presence without betraying himself for his own forbidden journey across the void between worlds. Telsantus was a dangerous inconvenience, a dull and cracked ornament. But he was still of some use to the Angel, and so he still lived.
But for how long?
Telsantus rubbed at the stump of his foot. It ached in the coldness - this world seemed wrought from cold and the machines of the Angel sucked out all heat. But Telsantus was not beaten. His hope had endured and suffering was a whetstone for his wits. For all that the races of the Angel far surpassed him in knowledge, cunning had no need of magic to be worked.
To be continued….
Damn, I’ve missed part 5 somewhere. I’ll go back to read it and then catch up!
Creepy little critters...