Kultus (27 page)

But as she watched it was clear he was so much more.

The black tendrils that sprouted from Blaklok’s arm began to consume the light, coating lamps and candles and dimming the scant illumination in the reception room, right before the eyes of the thugs who guarded it. But none of them seemed to notice, at least not until the room was bathed completely in inky darkness.

Panic ensued, gruff voices rising in alarm and calling to their fellows, heavy boots stomping around in the blackness, desperately trying to find a light source. It was then that Amelia realised Blaklok was no longer beside her.

She heard the sounds of violence; muffled cries and solid blows in the dark. A carbine went off in the corner of the room, briefly illuminating the black. Something was smashed in a brief scuffle, then came the sound of someone falling to the ground. Loud voices, more carbine fire, brief muzzle flashes flaring in the dark and revealing the carnage in the shadows, but Amelia could barely make out what was happening.

Then silence.

With a sigh, the shadows lifted, dissolving into a wispy fog to reveal the chaos left behind. Blaklok stood in the centre of the room, broken furniture and smashed ornaments lay all around. Surrounding him were the prone forms of eight hulking guards; each bloodied, none conscious.

Amelia moved forward, suddenly more afraid of this Blaklok than she had ever been. He heaved breath into his lungs and she noticed that the laceration he had inflicted on his arm seemed to have miraculously healed.

‘Well?’ said Blaklok, after regaining his breath. ‘What now?’

‘Remember what we said about proceeding with caution, Mr Blaklok? Well, this wasn’t what I had in mind.’

‘Going to talk your way in were you? Rely on that old Indagator charm? Because to be honest I don’t think this bunch would have been much impressed with it.’

‘No, but now everyone beyond that door will know we’re here,’ she motioned to the huge steel portal that barred their progress from the reception room. ‘Do you have a key to open it, because I don’t think they’re just going to let–’

She stopped as the sound of bolts being released echoed from beyond the door. With a whine of heavy steel hinges the vast metal portal swung outward.

Another hulking thug stood barring the way and Amelia could sense Blaklok tensing, ready for another battle, eager to add more scars to that battered face and more victories to his tally. But the guard merely beckoned them through, moving back and allowing them access to the room beyond.

‘What do you reckon to that?’ asked Blaklok, his question posed with a smug half smile.

‘I reckon we should stay on our guard,’ Amelia replied, taking the lead and walking towards the door.

The room beyond was most out of character with the stinking subterranean tunnels of the Cistern. It was a hazy, scented chamber more akin to a colonial brothel or whore’s boudoir than the lair of a Manufactory crime lord.

Amelia walked through the room, her feet soundless on the plush rugs that adorned the floor, and followed the heavy as he led them towards a diminutive figure behind a large desk.

She didn’t know what she had been expecting. The Montserrat was infamous – a man seldom spoken of and never seen – but this strange dwarf was far from what she had envisioned.

‘You’ve made quite a mess out there,’ he said, smiling an easy smile. ‘Could you not just have knocked?’

The Montserrat reclined in his chair. There was something about his tranquil manner that put Amelia at her ease, but she fought against it. It would be foolish to relax in here, despite the sweet aroma and the Montserrat’s polite small talk.

‘You must be Indagator Amelia. And this,’ he said, gesturing towards the scarred, tattooed madman at her shoulder, ‘must be the feared and respected Thaddeus Blaklok.’

‘Feared and respected?’ Blaklok replied. ‘You don’t know the half of it, mate. Where’s the fucking Key?’

‘Straight to business,’ replied the Montserrat, his smile not straying from his lips. ‘That surprises me, Indagator, allowing a known criminal to speak in your stead.’

Amelia would have preferred to do the negotiations herself, but Blaklok’s blunt-hammer attitude to this whole affair had worked so far.

‘Just answer the question, Montserrat,’ she replied.

‘Well, obviously I don’t have it with me. But I know where it is, and I can get it for you – at a price.’

‘This isn’t happy hour at the second-hand bargain shop you little fucker.’ Blaklok took a step forward, the thug standing near them reached for a weapon and Hodge was quick to draw his carbine.

The Montserrat raised a hand. ‘Please, no funny business in here. I’ve just had it done.’ He gestured to the hangings and fine ornaments that gaudily adorned the room. ‘The fact is, I have something you want. Being a representative of the Judicature, you’re in a position to provide me with certain goods and services in return. Whether you like it or not, that’s how this will play out.’

He smiled from behind his desk, pleased with himself, but Blaklok didn’t seem to be the bargaining type, taking another threatening step forward.

‘Look, you little–’

Heavy footfalls suddenly echoed from the room behind them, like a stampede heading their way through the tight tunnels of the Cistern. With a nod of his head, the Montserrat gestured to his bodyguard and the man brandished his carbine and rushed to see what was approaching.

No sooner had he disappeared through the mist and hangings, than there was a sickening thud.

The hulking bodyguard came flying back through the room in a wisp of smoke, dragging fine silks and linen drapes with him. He landed in front of Amelia, his dead eyes staring towards the ceiling.

Figures moved from the back of the room; red-robed figures, their faces twisted in bestial fury. To their fore was a thin man, his face blackened and scarred as though he had just barely escaped from a burning building.

‘Where’s my Key?’ he demanded.

Amelia looked to Blaklok, who had an expression of consternation across his hard features.

‘Julius,’ he breathed. ‘Great swinging bollocks!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘You have stolen from me, Thaddeus Blaklok. You have hampered the plans of Legion. On your ever-living soul, you had best atone for this or the consequences will be dire. Give me the Key of Lunos!’

Obviously Lord Julius was annoyed.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have it,’ Blaklok replied conversationally. ‘But I know a man who does.’ He turned, motioning beyond the large desk that stood behind him, only to stop in disbelief.

The Montserrat had done a runner.

‘Don’t play games with me, Blaklok. Trust me, your merry quips will do you little good now.’

At Julius’s shoulder, Blaklok could see the remaining twisted acolytes; feral faces baring sharp fangs. Among them was Castor Cage, his clothes and face rent and torn by the numerous battles he had endured recently. It was obvious he was only too eager to be unleashed on Blaklok.

‘I know you,’ said Amelia. She struck an authoritative figure, despite the numbers arrayed against them, and Blaklok found himself further impressed by her strength of character. ‘You’re Lord Julius. I’ve been to your mansion! Are you telling me you’re behind all this?’

‘And I remember you, hell sow! You butchered my dogs!’

‘Yes… well,’ Amelia replied, suddenly on the back foot. ‘That may have been a misunderstanding. What’s more important is why you’re dressed like that, and who these…
people
are.’ She motioned to the demonic acolytes at Julius’s heel.

‘I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking questions.’

‘I am an Indagator of the Manufactory’s Judicature. I’ll ask any question I like. I have the authority–’

‘Please, spare me. What authority do you think you have? Is it any higher than the authority of the nobles? Do you think it will do them any good when the Legion rises to claim this city… this world? We will cut out its heart and feed it to our masters, and there is no ‘authority’ that can stand against us.’

‘Cut out its heart?’ said Amelia, her smooth brow suddenly furrowing.

‘Indeed, like we have with so many others.’

‘It was you!’ she said, her finger raised in sudden accusation. ‘You killed Earl Beuphalus!’

‘I wielded the knife. But the sacrifice was made by us all. For we are Legion.’ Julius opened his arms wide to encompass his followers as they hovered around him.

‘Right, I’ve had enough of this endless nattering,’ said Blaklok, fast losing patience. ‘Are we going to get on with the fighting or not?’

‘So keen to meet your end.’ A wicked grin stretched across Julius’s face. ‘Very well. Cage, if you’d like to do the honours.’

Without need of further encouragement, Castor Cage bounded forward, but this time Blaklok was ready for him. He had been taken unawares once, he would not let that happen again. He had seen this beast in action and knew its inhuman strengths.

But Thaddeus Blaklok had strengths all of his own.

Every mark and sigil that had been sliced, cut, pricked and stained onto his flesh had a purpose. Some were aesthetic, others looked like they had been scrawled by a blind and thumbless crone using a stick and a pot of septic ink. But each had a purpose. Dwelling in the pits of Hell were a myriad different demons, some great, some small, all diabolical. Unfortunately for Castor Cage, he was not even as potent as the weakest of these.

The tiny marks stained into each of Blaklok’s knuckles flared, their hatred for demonkind burning in a fulgurating rage. As his fist hit the half-demon full in the face, it unleashed a power of Hell that even the greatest demon would have flinched at. Cage didn’t even have time to yelp before he was flung the length of the room, blood spurting from his smashed snout and spraying the drapes that hung limp from the ceiling.

Blaklok stood, a mad grin marring his face, eyes aflame.

‘Right, you fuckers! Who’s next!?’

With a collective howl of rage the rest were upon him.

The Montserrat fled for his life. He was not a particularly brave man, having spent most of his days surrounding himself with loyal bodyguards and thick walls. But with all that gone to shit it was time to make a hasty exit.

He felt in his pocket for the Key and was conscious of it warming his thigh. He had no idea what it was for or why everyone wanted it so badly but he would be damned if he would let it go. At least not without receiving considerable recompense.

Somehow he had managed to keep his nerve when Blaklok and the Indagator had burst in. Managed to string them along by pretending he did not have the Key about his person, then fled down his escape tunnel when no one was looking. But that was the Montserrat’s strength – subterfuge, smoke and mirrors, cloaks and daggers – whatever dried cliché you wanted to put on it, that was his power. People believed the Montserrat was an overlord, a ruthless kingpin. In reality he spent most of his time scared, cowering behind the backs of stronger men. He knew though, that as long as no one suspected his craven nature he was safe in this venal, ruthless environment.

Money talked just as loudly as the blaring of a carbine and from an early age the Montserrat had spent his time amassing men and wealth and, with them, power. He was not about to let that go now just because of one stray Indagator and a back street thug.

His feet slowly came to a stop as they slopped along the damp, narrow tunnel. Up ahead, the Montserrat could see that someone was barring his way, but that was impossible. This was his personal, secret escape tunnel. It led out onto a separate higher level of the Cistern, just below the Manufactory’s surface. No one even knew it existed.

In his pocket the strange Key began to burn with a growing intensity. It became more and more uncomfortable with each passing second until it was almost too much to bear, but before the Montserrat could remove it a voice peeled out from up ahead.

‘Ey up.’

The Montserrat squinted in the stygian dark, trying his best to discern the character’s features.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, trying his best to disguise his fear.

‘Name’s Quickstep,’ came the reply, and the figure walked forward into the dim lanternlight of the corridor, revealing himself as a short, nondescript individual in a flat cap and raincoat.

The Montserrat almost laughed at his caution. This was a nobody, some vagrant off the street who had strayed into his secret tunnel by mistake. It was rare that the Montserrat was brave but he was sure even he could handle this fool.

‘Out of my way,’ he said, ‘I have pressing business. You’d do well to make yourself scarce, this is a private tunnel. On any other day I’d have you battered shitless for your intrusion, but you’re lucky I’m in a rush.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ said Quickstep, not making to move from the Montserrat’s path. ‘But there’s just one thing – I’d like the Key before you go. There’s a good chap.’

The Montserrat felt a cold chill run up his spine. How did this joker know about the Key? Something wasn’t right here, but there wasn’t time to fart around with some delusional interloper. The Montserrat pulled his snub revolver from the tiny holster at his side. It only fired two shots, but they’d be enough to see this cheeky tramp off.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said, brandishing the weapon. ‘Now move, or you’re dead.’

‘I see, pressed for time are you? Well, so am I. This is your last chance. Give me the Key or I’ll have to take it from you.’

Two thunderclap shots rang out in the confines of the tunnel, echoing down the long darkness and bouncing off the walls, louder than sin. Smoke billowed from the revolver’s barrel and the Montserrat’s ears began to ring. When the smoke cleared, he saw that Quickstep was still standing there, not a mark on him.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said from beneath his flat cap, seeming to pull himself up to full height. The Montserrat could see his eyes begin to glow with an inner fire, the flesh of his face becoming translucent. ‘I have sought the Key long enough. Now, I’m afraid Zaphiel is coming.’

‘Wait!’ cried the Montserrat, panic gripping him deep down, an inner terror threatening to churn from within his bowels. ‘You can have it. I was only kidding.’