Hold The Dark by Frank Tuttle

Author:Frank Tuttle [Tuttle, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), Fantasy
ISBN: 9781605044941
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2009-04-13T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Four more church mainholds.

My visit to Clathis might as well have been a replay of Wherthmore, aside from the pawing and fawning I was subjected to after only a single mention of Encorla Hisvin’s name. I was led from office to office and treated to denial after denial by every mask in the structure. I gather Hisvin had made some offhand comment critical of Clathis some years ago and the reverberations of terror had yet to die down.

Enrolt proved a much more resilient bastion of faith. I was actually made to wait, cooling my newly shoed heels while I was peeped at, discussed and finally ushered into a dusty alcove. I watched mice play beneath the tattered crimson curtains until I tired of waiting and marched myself right past a startled pair of white-masked priests and into the biggest office I could find.

I slammed the heavy door behind me.

That woke him up, at last.

“Encorla Hisvin isn’t pleased,” I said, by way of greeting and introductions. “When Encorla starts asking for names, shall I give him yours?”

The priest—who by the size of the mask he groped for may have been The Priest—gobbled and blanched.

I pulled back his company chair, spun it around and sat.

“My name is Markhat,” I said, holding up my hand for silence. “I work for Encorla Hisvin. I’ve been here for an hour getting the run-around about this.”

I held out the silver comb.

“How dare you—”

“I don’t dare, Father, but Hisvin does. Want to call the Corpsemaster on his manners?”

The name sunk in. All the way in.

The priest reached out, took the comb.

I laid out the whole spiel, crates and lead boxes and sunken barges and all.

And got not a hint of guilt for my troubles.

What I did get was the usual parade of denials and badly concealed indignation. And another denial that the comb had been Cleansed, though Father Gillop was less than impressed by Father Foon’s estimate of a Cleansing’s longevity.

“It might last ten years, perhaps fifteen. But no more.”

Which did nothing to help me at all. Convinced I’d sowed as much terror as I could at Enrolt, I bade the red-faced Father Gillop a heartfelt farewell and ambled happily outside.

Halbert was there, brushing his ponies. But before he saw me, the street began to clear, Watchmen’s whistles rose above the din of street noise and I heard the first of the screams.

I turned.

Charging down the street was a monstrous black carriage.

No horses. Just a carriage.

People dived and ran. Dogs barked, but dared not nip at the wheels. Along both sides of the street, horses reared, cabmen cursed and grabbed and dodged.

Crows wheeled and swung above the carriage. Something like a cloud rode above it, around it.

Though there were no horses, a driver perched atop the thing. His grin was too white and too wide. As it drew nearer I understood the source of the screams, because the driver was a corpse, had been for too many days of sun. As I watched, a crow darted down, alighted on his shoulder, and tore away a scrap of grey flesh from the side of his skull.

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