The Rending Veil
The First Installment of the Semyaza Cycle, introducing our heroine Cirice Hartvigsen.
It was raining when Cirice returned, and she dearly wished to escape it. A drizzling rain like in the north, misting down from the cloudy night sky, shimmering ghost-like in the soft glow of the street lamps. It was the 13th of November, and she hadn’t slept since the 10th. Cirice had just recently returned from a trip to Wallachia, looking for an old friend of hers who’d run into some trouble. Now, after an hours-long ship ride across the North Sea and a long ride in a coach, she was finally walking along the familiar, cobble-stoned streets of London.
She pulled the collar of her long black coat up, hunching her shoulders against the cold night rain, which still managed to leak in, feeling like small icy trickles down her neck and shoulders. All was quiet except for the pattering rain drops and the dull clicks of her boots on stone. Her style of dressing was considered eccentric by some as it did not conform to the fashionable trends most women of the time adopted. People thought it unusual, but Cirice had to admit that no one gave her much trouble. Instead of dresses, bonnets, and skirts, Cirice donned more utilitarian, durable garments. She had to, given her profession. One couldn’t pursue strange rumors and slink through abandoned places in long dresses and petticoats. Her boots came halfway up her shins, her drab trousers tucked into them. She wore a supple corset under her shirt, the undergarment serving both for fashion and protection purposes, as she didn’t loathe all of the feminine fashion trends of England. Her outer garment was a long, black coat that trailed to below her knees, and today she sported a tri-cornered hat, its edges helping keep the worst of the rain from dripping down her clothes.
She shivered, feeling a cold breeze splatter rain against her pale face. Another few minutes and she would be home, thank God. She was used to cold climates, having grown up in Norway, but that didn’t mean she liked it by any means. Her recent sojourn in the warm countryside of Wallachia served to only further make her resent the bleak London downpour. Her pace increased, her desire to be free of this cold wet intensifying. In the distance, a church bell was heard giving a single, resounding dong. An hour past midnight. Turning a corner, she strode down the street, its cobbles cracked and old, and the buildings shabbier than those of the posher areas of the city. Cracked windows and crumbling foundations were some of the more common sights here. This was the poorer, more disreputable area of the city, so Cirice made sure to keep her wits about her. Pulling her coat tighter against the rain, she had to admit that internally she was grateful that the damp interrupted the stench of downtown London, which could only be described as a sulfurous and feral rot.
In this area, most knew her as nothing other than a somewhat odd Norwegian immigrant. A sort of mercenary investigator, one who specialized in strange occurrences. Most importantly, they knew she carried four pistols, concealed in various, easily accessible locations in her clothing. Cirice didn’t complain about this reputation. It kept her out of the public sphere, which she appreciated. She both had no love for people, nor any reason to be involved with them. On the contrary, she had very real, secretive reasons to stay out of the public eye. Let people ignore her, only a small minority reaching out to her for services. She welcomed the obscurity.
After rounding a few more corners, she finally came to Erebus Street where her flat was. The stone building was largely abandoned. Her flat was down a short flight of stairs, below street level. Coming to the green wooden door, she inserted her key into the lock. It turned with a loud clunking sound, and the old door swung inward with a groan. Sighing contentedly, Cirice entered her place of residence, closing the door behind her, and sliding the heavy bolt home. A few beams of sickly yellow light filtered through the window high up on the hall, though from the perspective of those above it touched the ground of the street below.
Fumbling in the faint light, she found the oil lamp in its wall sconce. In another few seconds, it was lit and bathed the room in its warm glow. The brick walls were cold, a small hearth in the wall opposite the window. A straw-filled single mattress lay beneath the window. In the middle of the small room sat a small table with chairs, and shelves of old books and obscure trinkets lined the walls. Near the hearth was a small doorway. Through it was a small dark hall that led to another small room. In there was the latrine, a hole going deep into the sewer, and a water-pump, connected to an independent line. The room wasn’t much, but it was her home. Sometime she wished that she lived in a nicer place, free from the despair and gloom that surrounded her life and her work. But, Cirice knew that she was fated to suffer this existence, so she found no use in bemoaning it.
Cirice removed her hat and let her dark red hair fall down her shoulders, framing her steel blue eyes and thin mouth. She hung it on a hook in the wall. Taking off her boots so she wouldn't track water all over the thin carpet, she noticed a slip of crumpled paper on the floor by the door. Someone had shoved it under her door sometime earlier. She picked it up and flung it onto the table. She would look at it later; first, it was time to get out her wet traveling clothes. Moving sluggishly from exhaustion and the chill in the air, she removed her other clothes, going to the water pump. There, she splashed her face with water, trying to refresh herself before changing into a simple nightgown. A cool splash of refreshing water made her feel much better.
Once she’s changed into her nightgown Cirice picked up the note. Holding it up to the oil lamp in its wall sconce, she mumbled the words, “Potential job. Meet me at the cistern to the London sewers near Riley Street, November 14th. Price is not an issue. Please come. E. B.” The words were scratched out in quill, the paper damp and crumbled. Cirice sighed. Perhaps she would, perhaps not. Tonight, she only wanted to sleep.
Snuffing the lamp, she slid under the covers of her bed, shivering slightly against the cold. Her eyes soon grew heavy, the sound of the heavy rain on brick lulling her into a deep slumber.
* * *
“Here is where he was last seen,” The dark-robed priest muttered, pointing a bony, crooked finger at the gaping black mouth in the wall. Kyra nodded as she examined it. Above her, the sky was a field of stars, the moon a vaguely orange color. She took in the scene, alert green eyes taking in every detail. The tower was old and long-abandoned; nothing unusual in this part of the city of Wyckneth. The Old City it was called, for it had been built almost a millennia before the Blood-Rift heralded the coming of the foul, eldritch god-things that now ruled Lothoril.
Her black ponytail slid off her shoulder as she advanced towards the shoulder-high hole in the crumbling, derelict tower.
“Well?” The priest said with annoyance. He was a stoop-shouldered, hook-nosed man that reminded Kyra of a predatory bird. She guessed that he was of Kyrunith blood. His bald head and beady eyes were covered by a black cowl. On the front of his black robes were two crossed white hands, the symbol of the diety Zarhir, the Pale Watcher. “Will you look for him?”
Kyra put her leather-gloved hands on her hips and turned her face to the priest, giving a glimpse of the ugly, twisted scar that wound up on the right side of her face. A gift from a rogue Athalonic Wolf-Knight she’d tangled with years ago. Kyra wore a brown cloak, a typical garment for those of the dusty frontier province of Irakos, where she hailed from. “Why does he need to be found so direly?” She asked, arching a curved black eyebrow. “What’s one acolyte among the legions of ministers of the Church?”
The dark priest’s eyes narrowed. “The Church values all her clerics, from the lowly novice to the High Vicar himself. All those who dedicate themselves to the Bloody Triptych are promised protection. You will find him unless you want me to add your name to the Black List!"
She sighed. Again, with the damned Black List. Almost unconsciously, she cast a baleful glare at the cruel spires of the Crimson Temple. The massive, ornate headquarters of the Church of the Blood Moon, the theocratic religion that ruled all Lothoril. The priests of the Church wielded ultimate authority in the name of their three demonic gods: Kthar-Lhur, Zarhir, and Shadara. If you were added to the Black List, you were deemed an enemy of the Church, which was a fate one wanted to avoid at all costs. Even Kyra, one of the most infamous Nightstalkers in all Lothoril, wouldn’t survive long while on the Black List when the Church sent its otherworldly and lethal Bloodhunters after her.
“Why did he go in here?” She asked, gesturing at the dark mouth in the wall. The Church was known for having a strong liking to esoteric practices and a worship of the grotesque, but even this seemed a little suspicious. Why would a novice be venturing into the supposedly haunted ruins of the Old City?
“Upon initiation, all acolytes venture into the foundations of the Old City. There is a sacred chamber, where they must keep vigil at a shrine to the gods. In the dark, they must pray until dawn arrives. When they do so the gods will grant them a vision, completing their initiation. This one went in last night, but this morning when I went to collect him, he was gone,” The priest recounted gravely.
Kyra considered this. She knew of the old foundations. Back when the Old City was constructed, the ancient race that constructed it had built a network of tunnels and chambers for various purposes. Now, they lay dark and dank, home to the rats and the shades. “I’ll do it, but you must go with me.” Kyra didn’t trust the ministers of the Church of the Blood Moon and she wanted this dark priest where she could see him at all times, lest he attempted some trickery. It had happened before.
“It would be impossible otherwise,” The priest said simply, tucking his arms into the sleeves of his black robes, “I am not so foolish as to allow an uninitiated into one of our sacred places.” She inhaled, muttering a soft incantation under her breath. Her green eyes flashed white for a split second, and there appeared an orb of soft glowing light, hovering about her head.
The priest cleared his throat sharply. “I assume you have registered your magical abilities with the Church?’ He asked shrewdly. Magic was rare and elusive, jealously hoarded by the Church. The priests worked dark and eldritch sorceries via bloody and unholy rites, but fortunately there were other, more rudimentary, strains of magic in the world. Kyra had been lucky - or unlucky, depending on how one viewed it - to tap into one of these strains. When she had been trained in the ways of the Nightstalkers, elite assassins and hunters second only to the Bloodhunters, her masters had fully augmented her powers, allowing for an arsenal of spells she could cast without preparation. But, as good as the Nightstalkers were, the Bloodhunters were the official assassins of the Church, and if she were added to the Black List, that would guarantee she would be hounded by them for the rest of her natural life. So, she answered the priest’s obnoxious question.
“I have,” Kyra said crisply, stepping through the hole, having to duck under to enter. Once inside, she could stand up straight. Kyra was never one for talking while on an assignment unless necessary. She needed to concentrate. A shadowy, run-down tunnel sloped downwards, the walls bare and dirty. Drawing her twin scimitars she kept in her belt, she slunk down the hallway, the priest behind her.
“There’s nothing in these halls, I assure you,” The priest said with an air of superiority. “Else we would not send acolytes here. If there is some threat in these tunnels, it must lie lower and deeper within, in some long-forgotten place below.”
“What sinks must rise, and what slumbers must awaken,” she said softly without turning. An old Irakosan proverb. She could sense the priest’s frown. The clergy were not used to being talked back to, given that doing so could constitute a crime if they wished it. But Kyra didn’t care; she was on the hunt, and that was all that mattered. Guided by the orb casting a pale, frosty light, the duo soon entered a circular chamber. The floor was of dirt with a grotesque altar in the center of the room. Atop the altar were three idols, each representing one of the gods.
To the left was Shadara, naked and drenched in blood, a sword in one hand and an axe in the other, a mound of skulls at her feet. To the right was Zarhir, his gaunt, skeletal figure unnerving to behold. In the middle was Kthar-Lhur, the Mother of Abominations. She was a wide, scarlet moon, a revolting array of eyes, tentacles, and mouths protruding from her craters surface. Dark bloodstains covered the altar, dried and old.
“You are the first non-initiated to ever set foot in this chamber,” The priest declared with an air of solemnity. “I certainly hope that you appreciate the special favor you have received to glimpse this hallowed ground.”
Kyra turned to hide her smirk. She cared not for the bloody Church and her “hallowed grounds.” Upon turning, she at once noticed the hole in the ground. Squatting, she willed the orb of light to move closer, illuminating the hole. Part of the base of the wall and the floor had crumbled away, revealing a shadow so thick that it almost seemed to smoke into the room.
There was a sharp intake of breath behind her. On pure reflex, she glanced up. Her eyes widened when she saw what was on the wall. Now that the pale light of the orb was upon it, she saw a strange, cryptic symbol inscribed on the wall. What it was specifically she could not decipher as it suggested such shapes as a pentagram, a spiral, a hexagon, and had various concave and convex angles. Just gazing at it made her head start to ache dully, as if her very eyes could not handle beholding such a complex image. Slowly, Kyra rose, feeling a strange feeling of “otherness” emanating from the inscription. Her eyes flicked across it as she mentally ran through the volumes of arcane, esoteric, and sorcerous sigils she knew of. Aggravatingly, this symbol was reminiscent of many of them, yet didn’t quite fit any of the ones she could recall.
“What is this?” The priest growled. “This holy shrine has been desecrated! When I find out what heretic has committed such a foul act, the inquisitors will strip every inch of flesh from his body, I swear…”
“Deal with such problems later,” Kyra interrupted the priest, the presence of the sigil bothering her and giving her less patience than usual. “We have more pressing matters.” She pointed at the hole. On the rim, there lay several drops of fresh blood. “Did you not see this before?” She asked.
“No light is allowed in here during initiation vigils,” The priest said, all pious outrage gone from his voice. “Do you mean to say we must go down there?” He asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
Kyra smirked. “You have your gods, don’t you? I thought they thrived in the dark.”
“They do…” The priest began, but she eluded his catechism by sliding down into the hole, the movement agile from ample practice. She fell in total blackness for a couple heartbeats, the globe not even managing to illuminate the darkness, before hitting the ground hard, her head striking something rough and brittle.
* * *
Tangled in the sheets, Cirice awoke with a start, her heart racing in her breast. Blinking at the harsh sunlight streaming into the room, she pushed herself up onto one elbow. The strangeness and vividness of the dream vaulted her into full wakefulness. She sat up and stretched, looking around. The dream was already starting to fade, but what lingered was a sense of profound unease. Cirice suppressed a shiver, untangling herself and standing. Looking about the room, she spied the crumpled piece of paper on her table. Walking to it, she read it again. She would see what this “E.B.” had to say. She sighed, her muscles still a bit sore from her trip, but she didn’t have anything to do otherwise. Heading to the washroom, she splashed cold water into face. The feeling blew away the worst of the unnerving feeling, but she still had a small inkling of the dream remaining. It was now formless and without image, but she did remember a sensation of impending dread.
After washing up, Cirice dressed, putting on clothes similar to what she had worn the day previous, and sliding on the same jacket and boots, but decided to leave the hat. A glance out the window revealed clear blue skies. Checking her silver-chained pocket watch, a gift from an old mentor, she saw that it was a half hour until noon. That meant she had some time before she had to meet “E.B.” She decided that going to the meeting place first seemed wise. Cirice always preferred to scope things out first before a potential contract. A life such as hers had taught her strong instincts of self-preservation, while her brother preferred to call it “disagreeableness.”
Tucking a pistol into its hidden holster and fastening her dark auburn hair into a bun, Cirice was ready to leave. Opening the door of her flat was like stepping into another world. In one step, she transitioned from a quiet, small, tidy apartment to the loud, ample, cluttered city. The cacophony of sounds that was urban London greeted her. Carriages clattered along the old stone streets, their horses plodding along, accentuated by the crack of a riding crop from time to time. Men and women walked along the sides of the streets, either conversing or hurrying along silently. Newspaper boys hollered, butchers and grocers called out and haggled from the market around the corner. Turning onto the street, she almost ran into Mr. McDowell as she walked in front of a small bakery. He was her old, cantankerous landlord. A scowl on his wrinkled face, he blocked her path, tapping the end of his knobbed cane on the cobblestone one.
“Ah, so there you are,” The Scotsman growled, his rheumy eyes looking up into her pale, blue-eyed face.
Repressing her annoyance, she forced herself to smile. “Good morning, Mr. McDowell. How are you?”
“My bones ache and my purse is too light,” He grunted. “You owe me your monthly rent, girl. Where is it?”
“I will have it for you soon,” She said, taking a small inconspicuous step around him. “In fact, I’m on my way to collect some money right now.”
The shrewd old-timer didn’t miss a beat and grabbed her elbow as she tried to move around. “The longer you wait, the more you are going to have to pay, and if you can’t pay, I’ll have to turn you out,” He said in an even voice. After that, he let her go and shuffled down the street. Resisting the urge to clobber the disagreeable man, Cirice continued down the street. The smell of rain intermingled with the smell of the city. She wrinkled her nose at the aroma. Hiram McDowell was almost always grumpy, but not truly a mean man. The building only had three tenants including herself. She didn’t know the others as most of her time was spent away. Mr. McDowell wouldn’t truly turn her out as long as she kept paying him something. A few shillings every now and then would grease his palm enough. Her rent was overdue, but a lot of that money had gone into her trip to Wallachia to help her friend out of some trouble.
It took about ten minutes to reach Riley Street. Tucked away in a quieter part of the city, there wasn’t much to see. On the corner was a small brothel that never saw much business, a couple shops, and some apartments. Tucked between the brothel and a closed-down cobbler’s shop was a cistern at the end of an alley. Instead of leading straight down into the labyrinthine city sewers, this cistern was at a diagonal angle, cut partly into a wall. It had a stone floor that one could walk down easily if it wasn’t wet. However, last night’s rain had made it quite slick by all appearances. Some crates were stacked against the alley wall, so Cirice sat on one, stepping around the stream of muck that led into the cistern like a trail. A chill breeze wound through the alley, making the weather uncomfortable, but not freezing like the night before. Cirice would take it.
Removing her small knife from her pocket, she withdrew an apple from her coat and began eating it, using the knife to peel it and cut it into slices. She checked her watch, 11:48. She had a dozen minutes. Eating the fruit leisurely, she watched the street, gazing at the passersby. Riley Street was less traveled and there were comparatively few people about. A carriage rattled by once, a few dozen pedestrians, and a stray dog sauntered by. She wondered what life was like, being a “normal person.” From what she’d seen, it must be very different. Cirice’s life consisted of meager dwellings, secrecy, and intermittent clashes with the otherworldly and the deadly. While such a life had made her tough, and she’d been places most poor Londoners only dreamed of seeing…she nevertheless sometimes imagined if she’d lived as a mundane woman for a day.
The sounds of footsteps, purposeful footsteps, withdrew her from her musings. A glance at her watch revealed a minute past noon. Looking out of the alley, Cirice picked him out instantly. He walked along in quick, nervous strides, the collar of his tan-colored jacket pulled up, the brim of his top hat pulled low. His trousers were creaseless, his shoes shiny black. Obviously, this mam was not the sort to typically stroll down a place such as Riley Street. Not watching ahead of him, the man turned into the alley, alternating between glancing over his shoulder and glancing down at his expensive pocket-watch. His nervousness and obliviousness served to reassure Cirice that this man was likely not a threat. A bit stupid, perhaps, but not dangerous. Probably.
“You’re late,” she said, moving in front of him before he noticed her. He gave a slight startle, but quickly recovered. He was slightly taller than six feet, although his top hat created the illusion of adding a few inches. His face was clean-shaven, with brown eyes and light brown hair poking out from his hat. “You said noon, it’s now two after.”
“My apologies, madam,” The man said, “I was unsure if you would even answer my summons. When I originally delivered the note, you were not there.” He clasped his hands behind his back, eyeing her with a mix of desperation and curiosity.
“I was on a holiday,” Cirice explained, tossing the remnants of the apple away and tucking away her pocket knife. “Now, we are both busy people, so if you could please tell me why you have requested my services.” Cirice was never one for pleasantries. She suffered it when she had to, but with clients, she was in control. What she wanted to know was if this potential job was worth her time or not.
“Of course.” He furrowed his brow. “Well, allow me to explain the nature of my problem…”
She held up a slender hand, stopping him. “First, your name, and don’t be giving me an alias. I can spot one quite well.” Despite the non-threatening nature of the man, Cirice made it practice to find out who she was dealing with. Subverters weren’t the only problem, she’d also had a couple pranksters and lunatics in her day. She had to sort them out somehow.
“Oh,” He faltered, “Of course. I am Edward Breech II,” He tipped his top hat, “if it pleases you, madam.”
“Well met,” Cirice said, crossing her arms. “Well, out with it, what is the problem?”
Edward cleared his throat. “My…niece,” He repeated the action and she knew that it was not a ‘niece’ of which he spoke. Likely a secret mistress instead. “Her name is Natalie. She is almost twenty years old. We live in a house near the Tower. Often, we would go out for walks, particularly in the evening. She’s always been quite fond of them; she often says that London at dusk is one of the loveliest of God’s creations.” Edward stopped and gave a brief smile, most likely at the remembrance. From what Cirice could gather, the sentimentality on his face was genuine, so it was evident that whatever had happened, it was important to him. At this point she had all she needed to be assured he wasn’t lying about whatever happened, although that did not necessitate that whatever story he was about to divulge was true.
Cirice shifted her weight, waiting for him to continue. Above them, a dove cooed. “Well,” Edward continued, rubbing his small nose. “I suppose it began last October. On the 30th, we walked particularly far, coming as far as this street.” He gestured up and down Riley Street. “We had gotten turned around a bit, otherwise I would have never taken a young lady down this street,” his face suddenly gained an alert expression, “no offense intended, certainly.” Cirice motioned for him to continue, successfully hiding her amusement at his slip-up. “It was dark and Natalie was tired from the long walk. We stopped for a moment,” he recalled with a grimace. “She sat on that crate,” he pointed to the crate that Cirice had been sitting on earlier. “I left her alone for a moment, walking down the street to see if I could hail a carriage back but I couldn’t see any. When I came back,” He shuddered. A dark look seemed to fall over his visage, almost clouding his features. “I couldn’t see her, but could hear a splashing and muffled yelling from down there,” He nodded in the direction of the cistern. “Somehow, she had fallen into the sewer. Naturally, I climbed down to save her. I can’t tell you how awful it smelled down there,” He gave a shudder, as if cold, “but I pulled her out.”
“A traumatic experience,” Cirice remarked in a dry tone, politely poking fun at the dandy man’s aversion to the part of London where she dwelt. Edward Breech didn’t notice and kept talking.
“She was wet and muddied, but otherwise alright. A few days later, however, the trouble began,” He swallowed. “Over the next few weeks, strange spells of lunacy would afflict her. Most lasted only a few minutes, but some would stretch as long as an hour!” There was a mixture of worry and weariness in his voice. Obviously, these occurrences had taken place for quite a while now with no hint of a solution.
“What was she like during these spells?” Cirice asked, cocking her head to one side.
“Natalie seemed almost like she was in another world,” he recounted. By now there was no hiding his distraught mentality. Edward’s hands shook and gesticulated as he spoke, his eyes wide as if the very memory caused him fear. “Her eyes would grow vacant, her speech garbled and nonsensical. One day,” he hesitated, “some police brought her to me late at night, saying they’d found her sleepwalking…on Riley Street. Now, she’s gone missing. I woke up two days ago and she was gone. I am convinced that she has gone down there!” He said hoarsely, pointing an accusing finger at the cistern.
“If you think so,” Cirice replied, gesturing to the cistern with a nod, her arms crossed, “then why haven’t you gone down there? You obviously have yet to, because if you did, you wouldn’t be theorizing that she was.”
The man blanched. “Me? Go down there alone!” Edward scoffed. “Pardon me, but while that may be like a walk in the park to you, its quite frightening for me to be crawling through those black tunnels!”
“How do you know she went down there?” Cirice asked coolly. “I’m sure the sojourn you two had down there was just as frightening for her as it was for you, especially since it seemed to give her fanciful spells as you have described. Why on earth would she go back down there?”
Edward Breech’s face seemed to freeze up for a bit. Cirice could almost see his thoughts, him grasping for an explanation or reason, only to be met with emptiness. “I…” he stammered, taking his hat off and running his hand through his hair, “…I don’t know…”
Cirice sighed, walking over to him. “I investigate strange cases, Mr. Breech. Cases to strange for the local authorities. Incidents with some sort of supernatural or inexplicable element to them. True, your Natalie has acted strangely but most women do on occasion, even I’ll admit that. Every case I take I do it for a higher good. If the incident does not seem to be a significant threat to me, then I do not take it. Again, I bid you good-day.” She turned again, picking up her pace again. Secretly, Cirice was very interested, but people had attempted to con her on many occasions, but there were rules put down by people above her that she had to follow. Thus far, while Edward’s story had been intriguing, it didn’t meet them.
“Wait!” He called again and Cirice sighed. It sounded like it was in frustration, but it was in satisfaction. She learned early on that act like you are disinterested, and in response people will reveal the most interesting piece of the puzzle.
“Call the police, why don’t you…” She called, turning to him slowly. As she did, he thrust a something flat and rectangular in her face, causing her to flinch and take a step back, her eyes trying to focus on the object.
“On the night she vanished, I found this drawn on her wall in charcoal,” he said, his voice wavering. Cirice took it from him and examined it. What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. It was a grainy photograph print of a wall, flowery wallpaper covering it. The image quality was less than desirable, but only the very richest could afford the best photographic cameras. Drawn on the wall was a large, incredibly complex sigil that almost defied comprehension. With dozens of angles both concave and convex, curves, lines, zigzags, circles, and other shapes, the symbol almost seemed like it couldn’t exist in a three-dimensional world. In fact, her vision blurred and a brief but white-hot flash of pain streaked across her temple.
Seeing the baffling image caused a fragment of a forgotten dream to come rushing back to her. The scene of her…no, some other woman…holding a magical orb of light up to a similar symbol in a black chamber, a robed man gesticulating in outrage, as if at a desecration. She blinked, suddenly dizzy, as she saw herself…no, not herself, Kyra, jump down into a gaping hole in the floor.
Cirice looked the man in the eyes. “I’ll do it,” she said firmly.
* * *
“Mother of Abominations have mercy!” The priest hissed harshly upon seeing the grisly and bloody scene. Kyra, herself a veteran of violence and death, couldn’t suppress a slight grimace. Her profession involved killing people and delving into magic, yet even she was disturbed. The grimacing motion caused the knot on her head to pulse sharply, and she winced. She had clipped her head on a pile of rubble that had been strewn about the passages of the underground foundations of the Old City. The priest had called upon his blasphemous gods and he had landed unhurt. Kyra had resisted the urge to sarcastically thank him for the help. Once within, she had found that the derelict, stony passages seemed impossible to navigate. Fortunately for them, she had found for the trickle of blood that had led through the tunnels. Kyra and the priest had followed, creeping through the dusty tunnels of ancient stone.
After delving deep into the long-forgotten foundations of the Old City of Wyckneth, the trail had led into a strange tunnel under the foundations. Unlike the upper tunnels, which were made of crumbling stone and rotting brick, this tunnel was very smooth, a tube of pressed dirt and natural clay. Even stranger, it possessed an odd a smell, an aroma reminiscent of leaf decay and excrement. Down in that smooth, dirt tunnel, they had found the body of the acolyte. Evidently, he had been laying there for a while, his mouth unnaturally wide, all the tendons and muscles in his neck and face taught as if he’d died in the middle of an impossible shriek. His robes were in tatters, a large, congealing pool of dark blood covered the floor of the strange tunnel.
But by far the most gruesome feature of the scene was that the cap of the acolyte’s skull had been removed, not torn or hacked off, but cleanly detached. Almost as if by a precise and careful hand. Inside, naturally, was the man’s brain. Kyra had seen brains before, but not like this one. It was shriveled and pale, looking almost like a wadded-up rag.
“What could have done this?” The priest asked, his eyes wide in fright. Kyra took care to notice that. If a priest of the Bloody Triptych, a pantheon that hosted all sorts of horrors, was frightened, then this was serious indeed.
“Why so afraid?’ Kyra said sardonically, masking her own fear. She had certainly never encountered anything like this before. “Your Church welcomes any monsters or strange creatures, claiming they are children of the Bloody Triptych.”
He stiffened. “Anything that would kill an initiated member of the clergy like this is not the spawn of Kthar-Lhur.” He shook his head. “This is beyond me.” It was then that she noticed the shape lurking in the darkness behind him.
“That’s truer than you believe,” Kyra said, jolting upright, pointing one of her swords behind him. The priest whirled, and howled in fright when he saw what was lurching down the tunnel.
* * *
Far away, muffled through the walls of her flat, she heard the clock tower boom ten times, causing her to awaken from slumber. It was two hours away from midnight. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, the strange dream echoed in her consciousness. This was second time such a vivid dream had come to her, and she was beginning to wonder if it meant something. As she rose from sleep and proceeded to the latrine room to wash up, she mused over the happenings of it. It was obviously a continuation of the first one she’d had the other night. Due to this being a repeat occurrence, her reaction wasn’t so violent as the one she had to the first dream
Now wide awake, the details were growing fuzzy, but the actual dream remained largely intact. After drying, she returned to her main room and dressed. Shaking her head slightly, she pushed the dream to the back of her mind. She’d re-examine it later. She pulled out one of her bookshelves, revealing that it was in reality a hollow box with the concave part facing the wall. Within the concave space of the false shelf was a strongbox. Withdrawing the heavy iron box, she opened it. Within were several handheld firearms and an array of straps and harnesses. Cirice withdrew two .50 caliber breechloaders, their barrels longer than the smaller guns she carried with her when traveling. The guns were in holsters attached to a set of leather straps. Sliding them over her head, they lay in an X shape across her chest and back, dozens of small slots for bullets along them, all of them filled with the proper cartridges. She slid the two pistols into the slings built into the straps near her waist. Next, enclosed in a leather sheath that went around her thigh, she withdrew a dagger and donned it. After strapping that on, her preparation was almost complete.
Replacing the strongbox in its hiding place and sliding the false shelf back against the wall, Cirice examined the map spread across her table. Old and yellowed, it showed the London sewers. True to her estimate, the approximate location of her latrine shaft led to a corridor that connected to the cistern on Riley Street, negating any need to walk about in public armed as she was. A knock came at her door, and she knew who it was. Pulling the heavy bolt back, she opened the door to allow Edward Breech to enter. He walked inside cautiously, carrying an unlit lantern and a broken chair leg.
“I brought what you asked me to,” the man said, “although why I needed to bring a broken chair leg is a bit beyond me, madam.”
“If the need for it comes you will understand,” Cirice said evenly, moving back to study the map. Edward set the lantern on the table and looked at the map too.
“I hope you have a good plan?” Edward asked.
Cirice smirked despite herself, her steel-blue eyes meeting his. “We will navigate the sewers to the place Natalie originally fell down. If we can find any sign of her, we’ll go from there.”
“What if there are large rats…or…or criminal hideouts!” Edward asked. “And not to mention the matter that you said you don’t take cases unless there’s a strange element to them. Well, what if there’s a ‘strange element’ down there?”
Cirice sighed. “Do you want me to find Natalie or not, Mr. Breech?”
“I do,” The man said.
Cirice nodded curtly. “Then we do this my way, by my rules. Do not question me. Do not disobey me. Do not doubt me, and this might just go over semi-smoothly, do you understand me, sir?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Edward nodded.
“Excellent,” She replied. “Light the lantern, we’ll need some light down there in the shadows.” After the man had done so, and a bright yellow glow bathed the meager flat, Cirice and Edward made their way to the latrine room. The woman had thrown a rope down the dark, smelly tunnel, tying it to the iron shaft of the water pump.
“Give me the lantern,” She ordered, and he did as she bid. Cirice hooked it to a loop on her harness. Slowly but surely, she rappelled down the rope into the shaft. The lantern bobbing against her thigh, she worked her way down the dank, narrow stone shaft. Her fresh but not bleeding cuts pained her as she shimmied downwards. She descended about twenty feet before landing in a sewer passage below. The air was foul and wet, the smell of decades of waste assaulting her.
“Come on down, Mr. Breech,” She called up to him. While he anxiously inched down the rope, Cirice tied a cloth around her nose and mouth to help filter out the stench. Holding up the lantern, she waved it around steadily. The tunnel was of old brick, slimy with filth. It was simple and unadorned, about eight feet in diameter. Down the tunnel, she could see a few other smaller holes in the ceiling, leading up to other latrines and water closets. Revolting, sludgy water rippled around her ankles.
Breathing heavily Mr. Breech reached the bottom, trembling slightly, and his face ruddy with exertion. Withdrawing the broken chair leg from under his arm, he put the back of his hand over his nose. “What a foul-smelling place!” He moaned, looking ill.
“Tie your handkerchief around your face and be quiet,” Cirice said briskly. Fumbling, Mr. Breech did so. Cirice handed him the lantern, and withdrew her two breechloaders. Mentally reviewing the map, she slowly and steadily made her way through the winding sewer tunnels. Edward followed her closely, the lantern casting flicking shadows upon the old tunnel walls. After what Cirice supposed was a half-hour, they came to a specific tunnel.
“This should be it,” Cirice said, her voice muffled from the face-cloth. Beckoning for the man to angle the lantern better, she saw a shaft coming in diagonally from the side of a tunnel, near the ceiling. She could feel a slight breeze drifting in from above. Beneath the shaft, a small maintenance ladder extended the remaining seven feet or so. Oddly enough, this tunnel was more or less dry. “Is this where you found her?” The woman asked.
“A few yards down the tunnel, but generally speaking, yes,” Mr. Breech said, his voice sounding a bit strained.
“There’s a ladder here,” She observed, waving one of her pistols in its direction. “You’re saying she was unable to climb out herself?”
“She was quite distraught,” Mr. Breech said, his brow furrowing. Despite his brown handkerchief covering his lower face, she could see that he was grimacing as if in pain.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Breech?” She asked.
“A headache,” He waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing more…it’s the smell.”
Nodding, Cirice continued down the tunnel. She didn’t need to go very far before it stopped. Rather, it disintegrated, because that’s what it looked like. At the intersection of four tunnels, the brick ground had collapsed giving way to a space underneath.
“God above!” Edward said. “This wasn’t here when Natalie fell down!”
“Was this the specific place where you found her?” Cirice asked, turning on him. He nodded, and cautiously stuck the lantern out over it, but the glow couldn’t penetrate the gloom. “Give me your chair leg,” She ordered. With a confused expression, he handed her the stick. Cirice holstered one of her pistols and took the leg. Asking Edward to hold her other pistol, she withdrew several oil-soaked rags from her jacket pockets and wrapped them around the thicker end of the chair leg. Opening the lantern Edward held, she lit the end of the stick, making a torch.
“You can borrow the pistol,” She said, withdrawing the other one she had holstered. Leaning out over the hole in the floor as far as she dared, Cirice let the flaming torch drop down into the blackness. The torch fell about ten feet before hitting the floor. The flickering flames didn’t give enough light to truly see what was below, so against her better judgment, Cirice slid down into the darkness, small rocks and brick fragments clattering as she did.
Her boots planted firmly on the ground, Cirice picked up the torch and gazed around. She was in another tunnel, but this one was of earth, smooth and round and dry. A slight acrid odor tinged the air. Suddenly, she felt a sense of foreboding creep up on her. Despite the torch giving a radius of light about half a dozen feet in any direction, blackness danced seductively outside the wavering glow. She cocked her pistol.
“What is it?” Edward whispered from above.
“It’s nothing…” Cirice gasped as her temples began to pound. Squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden pain, she shuddered as she had another vision, this one hazy and fragmented within her mind. She remembered the strange woman (or was it herself?) in the tunnel with the priest, a horrible shape lurching towards them. The priest screamed, she saw white flesh, smelled an acrid odor, heard gibbering…heard Kyra call out several words in a foreign tongue…and then it was over. “…come on down,” She finished, panting, the pain in her head gone.
Edward slid down less gracefully, clutching the lantern to his chest so as not to break it. He landed on the ground with a thump. “Bloody hell…” He breathed, climbing to his feet, his lantern illuminating more of the tunnel, “What is this?”
“I’m not sure,” Cirice admitted. “But whatever it is, it wasn’t man-made.”
“So, it’s natural?” Edward asked. “Perhaps a dried underground river?”
Cirice shook her head. “Just because something isn’t man-made doesn’t mean it isn’t natural. This most certainly isn’t a natural place.”
“Oh,” Edward said softly. Then, again, more loudly, “Oh!” He cried, doubling over, almost dropping the lantern. “My head!” He groaned, his voice thick with pain, collapsing to his knees.
Cirice glanced about, her own head starting to get a dull ache. “Stay the course, Edward,” She said, tensed. Something was in the tunnel with them. She could feel it.
“Damn,” He hissed. After several long moments of panting and grinding his teeth, he was able to stand once more. He faced Cirice, his face pale from the sudden pain. “Why does my head keep pounding?” He asked. But Cirice wasn’t paying him any heed. She was looking over his shoulder, at what was creeping down the tunnel stealthily. “Cirice?” Edward asked, his face fearful and confused.
Cirice, poised like a lioness about to spring, said only one word, crisply and sharply, “Down!” After a half-heartbeat’s worth of hesitation, Edward saw Cirice bringing her pistol up, and he ducked. The blast from her breechloader resounded deafeningly loud in the small space, the flash momentarily lighting up the tunnel like a lightning bolt.
A pained, squealing shriek of agony and rage raked Cirice’s mind as her bullet struck the hidden creature that she had sensed stalking down the tunnel towards them. Edward, crouching, whirled about, and screamed in terror upon seeing the creature come into view. It was stark white and vaguely translucent, a quivering, jelly-like worm. The slimy worm was almost as wide as the tunnel, and although she couldn’t see exactly how long it was, Cirice knew that it was very, very long. Falling on his rear, Edward cried out and howled like a madman, apparently unable to function properly before such a maddening creature.
Cursing, Cirice flung the torch at the creature, the burning brand striking it in the face. It gave a strange, chirping grunt as it bounced off its clammy white flesh, flinching reflexively from the flames. It had no eyes to speak of, and its mouth was the size of a grapefruit, absurdly small compared to the huge bulk of the monster. Cirice wrenched her other pistol from the man’s hand, kicking him to snap him out of his fear-paralysis before the great worm got too close. Edward reflexively jerked back, the lantern rolling, casting wild shadows about.
Cirice pointed her other pistol at the worm’s small mouth and fired. The abomination jerked and emitted another grating squeal, but only surged forward faster, coming upon the screaming man in a flash. Cirice backpedaled, furiously reloading her two breechloaders. She felt a cold flash of horror as the worm’s small mouth widened several times its size, stretching as large as a wagon wheel. Rows of teeth, surrounding an awful, squid-like sucker in the middle of the mouth dribbled and oozed acidic saliva as Edward began to scream and laugh at the same time, his mind totally broken before the maddening horror.
A low, almost imperceptible thrumming noise began to resonate throughout the tunnel as the thing fastened its vile sucker on the scalp of Edwards’ head, its teeth almost gently caressing the areas around it. Cirice staggered, the thrumming making her dizzy. Edward began to shriek, high-pitched and horrible, an animal sound, as the creature worked its sucker on the man’s head. Having loaded both pistols again, Cirice fired them, one after another at the creature, not so much intending to hit as to blot-out the horrible sound that it emitted as it fed.
The worm detached itself from the now dead man. Blood and slime dripping from its mouth, it began to lurch towards Cirice as she backed away, reloading her pistols. The thrumming had stopped, but the smell of coppery blood washed over her. The smell triggered her vision to temporarily blur, and for a moment she was in two places. To her mind, it was like she was two different people in two different worlds, and it became hard to distinguish who was who. Cirice was standing in the tunnel, pistols in hand, backing away from the worm, while at the same time, Kyra was backing away from the worm in her world, dual swords in hand, the priest lying dead.
Kyra began to loudly call out in strange words that Cirice didn’t understand, even though she found herself unaccountably speaking them at the same time. In both worlds, the worm began to writhe and squeal, as if in pain. Kyra’s eyes glowed purple as the incantation worked, as did Cirice’s. Then, the vision left, and Cirice was solely in her world. Her limbs were like lead and her head swam. Falling to her knees from sudden exhaustion, she watched as that maddening symbol materialized before her, impossible in its geometry. Shrieking in rage, the worm plunged into the symbol, vanishing into thin air as its long, heavy bulk slid into it. After it had gone, the symbol remained for a moment, floating in mid-air, and Cirice saw terrible and wonderful images of other worlds and times, before the symbol winked out, and the woman collapsed, face-first, into the dirt, unconscious.
* * *
Kyra gasped, dropping her swords and putting her hands to her temples as the throbbing pain receded. Before her, the tunnel lay dark and empty, the smell of blood cloying in the air. She rarely used a spell that powerful. Even thinking about it too seriously was very dangerous and had the potential to harm the caster. That spell opened a sort of dimensional gate, forcing the creature it was cast upon to enter it. Once within, the creature was whisked away to anywhere. The worm could have gone to any time, any world, any dimension, there was no telling. If the caster wasn’t careful, it would do the same to them, but somehow Kyra, with the help of whoever that other woman had been, had managed.
A Khugash. That was what the creature had been. Worms that fed on psychic energy and could “burrow” through realities. Kyra had almost lost herself in the process, and she still trembled from the effort it had taken to save herself. She blinked several times, and the vision of the other woman, dressed in strange garb, her hair red, eyes steel-blue, began to fade. Somehow, in casting the gate, Kyra’s energy had bled into another world, one where another Khugash or possibly the same Khugash had been in another time. When the worm had revealed itself, she had realized what the strange symbol on the wall had represented. Those whose minds were preyed upon by the inter-dimensional Khugash often had visions of cosmic gates. Eventually their minds broke and they sought out the worm, becoming its meal.
Kyra shuddered. Delving into the mystical, often contradictory webs of space and time was not for the faint of heart. It would rend one’s mind if one wasn’t extremely careful. Her headache subsiding, she picked her swords back up. The priest was dead, his brain drained by the Khugash, and so much the better. The dark priests were treacherous, and there was no telling what he would have done if they had both survived. The Church had enough power as it was, the last thing the world needed was for them to start harnessing inter-dimensional beings. With a sigh, Kyra began to follow the trail of blood in reverse, back towards the surface.
* * *
The awful odor of the sewer coating her mouth, Cirice awoke with a groan. She felt drained, her head throbbing dully as if from a hangover. Despite this, her mind remained actually very clear, as if she had come to a new understanding of things. Standing up shakily, wiping grime from her coat, she gazed about in the blackness. A faint smell of rot and coppery blood wafted to her nostrils. Fearing some threat, she reached for her pistol, only to find that it was not on her person.
“Damn it all,” she hissed, withdrawing a few matches, and lighting them on the wall. In the dim flare, she could see for a few feet, thick blackness flitting about. Her weapons must have bounced away in the darkness. She could hear water trickling faintly from the sewer above. It was likely raining. Advancing forward, she found her pistol…right next to the dead body of Edward Breech. His jaw was slack, his eyes blank, his face twisted in an expression of terror. Picking up the pistol, she scrabbled about some more until she found the lantern. After managing to have a proper light going, she could take in the scene. All she saw was an empty, old tunnel. No massive worm, no strange black-haired woman, just dust and darkness.
Stepping over the body of Edward, she propped the edges of the section of tunnel. With a small sigh of sadness, she saw that there was one other body. Already well-decayed, was the body of a young woman in a flowered dress. The top of her skull was neatly removed, the brain gone. Of the two, Edward had been the lucky one. He had died from madness before the eldritch beast could do to him what it had already done to this poor girl.
Cirice did not know what specifically had happened, she only knew that it was not of this cosmic sphere. Whatever that monster had been, it had drawn Natalie to it like a magnet, tormenting her mind until it could feast on it.
“A waste of a youthful life,” Cirice said. Hooking the lantern to her coat, she jumped and grabbed the crumbling ledge in the ceiling. With a grunt, she hefted herself up. Glancing back down, she wished the souls of Edward and Natalie well. Some would think it cruel to leave them to rot…but Cirice felt that their bodies were safe in this lonely, forgotten corridor. She turned away and let them be.