Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Dartun seemed to consider these words seriously. ‘No. No of course not. It is not safe out there — it is no place to be alone.’

Dartun stepped over Tuung and marched up the stairs. Verain rushed to crouch beside the prostate cultist, examining him for any injuries. ‘Did he hurt you?’ she whispered.

Tuung grunted his response. ‘No, lass — he exhausted me, is what he did. He… found my tracks and… hunted me until… till I couldn’t breathe. Then he dragged me by my feet across the snow. Took an almost manic pleasure in it.’ Then, ‘My arse hurts like you would not believe.’

Verain slumped against the wall beside him. ‘We’re trapped, aren’t we?’

‘Indeed,’ Tuung said. He pushed himself up alongside her, grunting and groaning all the way.

‘He’s desperate to get us to Villjamur,’ she said. ‘What do you think he’s got planned?’

‘I have not a fucking clue, but I doubt it’s going to be fun.’

Fulcrom couldn’t purge his sense of failure. He liked to finish what he started: complete cases, write up the notes and file them with his superiors. The fact that he would never find Shalev and never complete his mission was somewhat irksome.

No, it pisses me right off.

He was nearly done with Villjamur and only had a few final matters to sort out, but without having hunted down the troublemaker behind all the recent acts of terror he would never shake the feeling that he had let people down. It went against all his better qualities to walk away from it all; but, somehow, he felt he was doing the right thing.

Fulcrom approached his apartment building but could sense that something wasn’t quite right. Opposite, he loitered in the shadows of an alleyway, watching a little longer as two of his neighbours scuttled out with urgency, peering behind them as they were leaving on some illicit business. Where they were going wasn’t important; Fulcrom realized that someone had put them in this agitated state.

All I want to do is get back, pack, wait for Lan, and clear out of here. Now they have come for me.

Fulcrom heard a movement behind. Pretending not to have noticed, he reached down to his boot, as if to adjust the laces, though in fact drew out a blade. He felt a boot come down on his back and he tumbled forward across the cobbles, grazing his chin. He reached for his knife and leapt up, narrowly missing a moving fist…

Five figures in long grey coats, hats and scarves had him circled.

‘There’s no way out, not now, Fulcrom.’ He couldn’t tell which one was speaking, because of the scarves, and because they all seemed to blend into one unit without a hint of individuality.

‘Just come along quietly,’ another said. Maybe another, maybe the same one.

Fulcrom laughed. ‘I know how you guys work. You think I’m stupid?’

‘We only want to ask questions.’ They inched ever closer, tentative steps, waiting for a response. Each was gripping a dagger.

‘Sure you do.’ Fulcrom spun his blade in his hand. Maybe bravado would buy him another minute or two. His tail became perfectly still in anticipation of their next move. At the end of the street, a small family had gathered to watch the scene.

Two of them attacked. Fulcrom slid to the floor and kicked the back of the nearest one’s knee, sending the figure sprawling forwards. It was a dark-haired woman, and he grabbed her hair, tugged back her neck, held his blade to her throat. She pressed both hands to the floor, trying to push herself up.

Using her as a hostage, he gently hauled her up and positioned himself so the rest of the agents were one side of him.

‘You’re not an idiot, Fulcrom. Let her go.’

‘I’ve killed for less,’ he replied, breathing heavily through his teeth.

‘No you haven’t. You’ve no capacity for evil.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ another said. ‘You’re cut from a different cloth.’

Fulcrom’s back pressed against the wall. With no direction to go, no exit available, there was no point in wasting a life. ‘What do you want — really?’ Fulcrom released the woman and pushed her forwards. He dropped his knife to the floor with a clatter.

‘We just have some questions regarding a missing Knight,’ one of them said.

‘I thought you might,’ Fulcrom replied.

‘You can help us then?’

Fulcrom looked down, sighed, shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’

‘We thought you might say that.’ One of them lunged forward with a flash-punch to his stomach, but he’d tensed to absorb the blow. He didn’t hunch, didn’t show them the pain they would enjoy delivering. Another came, then one to his jaw, and one on the other side. He staggered forwards, and felt a blow to his head. He dropped to his knees on the wet stone.

They bound his hands and his mouth, hauled him to his feet and shoved him along the street. The only fear he felt was that he wouldn’t see Lan again.

*

Vuldon regained consciousness and could hear Tane warbling away to someone in the distance. He noticed the curved brickwork typical of either a cellar or the cultist zones back in their own quarters. The background humming seemed to confirm this.

Breathing was a struggle. It felt as if he could only take in a fraction of the air he was used to. His muscles… they were numb. He expected some deep ache, but there was nothing to feel.

Cultists have treated me, then. Explains why I’m not burning on some fucking funeral pyre.

‘Vuldon, old boy — you’re awake then.’ Tane approached him, his fur dappled in the lantern light. His claws gripped the end of the metal-framed table on which Vuldon was lying.

‘Barely,’ he replied. ‘The fuck did I get here?’

Tane explained — with apparent glee — how he personally climbed down the wreckage to find him. Vuldon did not fall directly down because a rooftop had broken his fall. Instead, he burst through two floors of the house, which suffered minimal damage from falling masonry, due to its sheltered positioning against a support.

‘You’re rather lucky, I’d say.’

‘If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have fallen, idiot.’

‘Well, we’re out of front-line action anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’ Vuldon demanded.

‘As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll be offering our fine powers to aid the Emperor in Balmacara.’

‘I might just stay here and pretend to be dead then.’ Vuldon glanced up at the brick ceiling.

‘Now don’t be like that, old boy,’ Tane replied, as patronizing as he could manage. ‘The war has meant we’re rather ineffective down below. There’s nothing we can do to help the civilians — that’s in the hands of the military.’

‘So we’re to be nanny to Urtica.’

‘On the contrary — it’s a huge privilege. We’re going to be there, guarding the inner sanctum.’

‘That’s not why we were given powers. We’re to help people, not one person.’

‘Orders are orders,’ Tane replied.

‘There’s nothing else we can do?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘When do we go?’

‘Whenever you’re fit to work.’

*

Through gusts of snow, the cultists from the Order of the Equinox approached the gates of Villjamur by foot. Verain couldn’t feel her legs any more. Each time she collapsed to her knees, Dartun would place a hand on her back and she would recover just enough to march on for another few hours. By now everyone realized they were prisoners and that there was no means to escape. It was futile. Verain barely noticed the conditions of the refugees outside, the mud-baths that had frozen up, the small pit fires, the skeletal dogs that trotted around the paths between crudely constructed tent homes. The place stank of excrement. But she would have given anything to join them right now, to be free again. Her memory was failing her. Her existence was being lost to a mental fog. The names of her fellow cultists were fading slowly from her mind. Verain was following Dartun — that was all she could do.