Chapter 22
In the Grande, Nathaniel had just been told the
extent of the problem. He stared at the invigilator who had brought
him the news, his hands tightening into fists. ‘What do you mean
she isn’t there?’
‘She’s gone, sir. The woman must have taken her.’
‘What?’
A bead of sweat formed on the invigilator’s brow as Nathaniel’s
look became fiercer. ‘They must have crept out earlier in the
night, sir. It looks as if she’s packed her things.’
‘Then find her, damnit! And bring back Chastity. I don’t want her
harmed.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The man snapped a clumsy salute and hurried
away.
Nathaniel turned to Whisperer as soon as he had left. ‘I am
surrounded by incompetents,’ he muttered. ‘I have guards patrolling
every inch of this town and two girls are allowed to slip
away?’
Whisperer said nothing. He was a silent presence in Nathaniel’s
wake as the occultist stormed down the hall. Nathaniel searched in
his pockets as he went. ‘Damn it!’ he hissed.
‘She took the key?’ Whisperer asked.
‘She took them all.’
He stopped outside the locked room where the money was stored. The
door was still locked and Nathaniel rattled the handle in
frustration. He could not understand how things had gone so wrong
after all his careful preparation. He stormed back towards his
study and, on the way, met the man he had sent to check on Shane’s
cell.
‘He’s gone, sir. And the guard’s been killed.’
Nathaniel swore vehemently. With Shane and Chastity both gone, he
had no leverage with which to bargain with the Fastest Guns.
‘Where’s Buchanan?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well find him!’
The man glared at Nathaniel insolently but he voiced no argument.
He turned on his heels and walked away.
‘Buchanan has gone to kill Shane.’ Whisperer observed.
‘Then we’d better find him first.’ Nathaniel hastened to his study
and began rifling through his books. There had to be something that
he could use to buy some time.
Whisperer lingered in the doorway. ‘Your men are no match for the
Cordites. They will abandon you.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ He walked to the window and peered
out. ‘Damnit, have the wards been lit?’
‘It’s too late. The wards will not offer any protection. Not
now.’
‘Well there must be something we can do.’
‘Against the Cordites, nothing.’ Whisperer said flatly.
Nathaniel resumed flipping through his books, refusing to accept
that there was not some course of action that could snatch victory
from this mess. He looked at page after useless page of magical
formulae and circles of conjuration, seeing nothing that looked
like it would work. ‘This shouldn’t be happening,’ he raged. ‘You
said that they weren’t ready to manifest yet. You told me that they
wouldn’t come until Chastity and Ennis fought.’
‘I said many things.’
‘That’s right, you did. And I’m beginning to think that I would
have better off listening to Buchanan.’
‘That would have been wise.’
The tone of his voice suddenly made Nathaniel feel very
uncomfortable. He turned to face him. ‘What do mean by that?’ he
challenged.
Whisperer ran a finger along the top of the sideboard and inspected
the dust as if it mattered more to him that Nathaniel’s
predicament. ‘Do you remember the first lesson I taught you?’ he
asked.
Nathaniel thought back to the day he had first struck a deal with
Whisperer, back at James Point.
‘I warned you,’ Whisperer reminded him. ‘That you can never trust
what a demon tells you. I told you that from the beginning, so that
you would understand our agreement. You should have taken heed of
what I said.’
Nathaniel stared at him, dumbfounded. He felt icy fingers crawling
down his back. ‘I bound you to me!’ he said fiercely, but Whisperer
only laughed.
‘A binding is a contract, Nathaniel, and a contract that is poorly
written is not worth the blood you sign it in. I warned you about
that as well,’ he added.
‘So this is your doing?’ Nathaniel said, angrily waving a hand at
the window to signify the massacre that was taking place in his
town.
Whisperer shook his head. ‘No. Ennis escaped from his cell of his
own accord. I suspect he persuaded the girl, Madison, to assist
him. The Fastest Guns value him too highly to allow him to escape,
so they have taken it upon themselves to stop him.’
‘That’s all?’ Nathaniel had never understood why the Fastest Guns –
and Buchanan – attached such importance to Shane when he had always
thought it was obvious that Chastity was the better
fighter.
‘Ennis has a strong will.’ Whisperer explained. ‘He has the power
to resist the gun’s allure. If he Descends and becomes a Cordite,
he may become the first man to ever do so whilst still alive. All
of the others killed themselves in the process. Or each other. A
living Cordite would have greater freedom to come and go in this
world. He would have more power than any of the others possess. He
might even replace Priestley as their leader.’
‘And Priestley accepts this?’
‘Priestley does as his gun commands.’
‘And Chastity?’
Whisperer shrugged. ‘She will only ever be a puppet to
them.’
‘But she would have won the tournament!’
‘That has yet to be proven.’ Whisperer reminded him.
Nathaniel slumped, his will gone out of him. ‘So what happens now?’
he asked.
Whisperer regarded him emptily. ‘You came here to bargain with the
Cordites,’ he said. ‘You can still try, if that is what you
wish.’
‘But they are not bound.’
‘They are as bound as you could ever make them. You may not have
the power to force their co-operation, but you may still strike a
deal with them if you have the wit. And the courage,’ he added
slyly, goading Nathaniel slightly. He gestured towards the door.
‘Shall we?’
Nathaniel did not see that he had any other choice.
They were waiting for him outside the Grande.
All seven of them had gathered in a semi-circle facing the porch.
The secret inner core of the Fastest Guns: the six triumphant
contestants from the first tournament and the unholy messiah
himself, Jacob Priestley.
Nathaniel’s courage faltered at the sight of them. Despite that
they had been human until only a few years ago, their Descendence
had left its mark upon them and they radiated power like the smoke
they seemed to sweat.
The bodies of his invigilators lay scattered upon the streets for
as far as he could see, the grey mist curling around them, exposing
torsos that were shot full holes, heads that had been split open.
It was like a battlefield. In the distance, Nathaniel could hear
the voices of survivors calling out to one another, re-grouping,
trying to find shelter or escape from town.
The Cordites had allowed a temporary ceasefire in which to face
him.
Nathaniel could not see their eyes for they wore their hats tipped
low, concealing the upper half of their faces in shadow, but he
could feel the chill of their gaze. He looked back to Whisperer for
support but the ancient sorcerer offered him none. He was on his
own.
He took a hesitant step forward and called out to them:
‘I, Nathaniel, created in the image of God, constrain you by the
sacred names of God: Tetragrammaton, Adonai, Agla, and Jesus
Christ; that the might of Hell be now conquered by the power
of–’
‘Do not threaten us in His name.’ Priestley rasped.
‘It is you who has come to our world. We have not come to yours,’ a
second Cordite said.
Nathaniel felt his confidence waver. He summoned another passage
from the lines he had memorised: ‘By all the things beneath the
heavens, I offer you your wayward brother, Shane Ennis, and the
girl, Chastity, who is worthy of your kind. I offer this tournament
to you in your greatness, and the souls of those who have died. By
this offering I invoke you powerfully in the name of those that
strike fear and terror in you, that you shall grant me the power
that is yours to grant. Grant me the power of eternal
life.’
They stared up at him resentfully. Nathaniel could feel the waves
of their hatred assailing him like a psychic battering
ram.
‘There are none who strike fear and terror in us,’ one said. ‘We
will take Ennis for ourselves. He is not yours to offer.’
Another spoke: ‘We will take the girl. You have nothing to offer
us.’
Not to be outdone, Nathaniel stepped to the edge of the porch and
called out in a powerful voice: ‘By all your princes, kings, lords
and superiors–’
Priestley cut him off. ‘Their word is not heard here,’ he said. ‘We
have no masters.’
Nathaniel was taken aback. He finally understood what Whisperer had
meant when, during the early stages of their preparation, he had
warned that the Cordites were a young cacophony of demons, newly
formed. At the time, Nathaniel had assumed that he had meant they
were weak and easily-exploited; that had been his inference. But
that was not the case at all. The fact that the Cordites were young
simply meant that Hell’s legions had not yet figured out what to do
with them. They were a minor power, as yet unclaimed; and so there
was no one a sorcerer could call upon to constrain them to his
will.
Nathaniel’s heart sank. With despair, he finally grasped just what
a mistake he had made.
The Cordites began to move, the three on either side of Priestley
retreating, forming a corridor down which Priestley faced Nathaniel
in a stand-off. ‘If you want to join us,’ he said. ‘You will have
to prove yourself.’ He beckoned Nathaniel down onto the
crossroads.
Nathaniel balked at the idea. ‘But I can’t beat you.’ he said. ‘My
bullets can’t hurt you!’
Priestley’s lipless mouth stretched in a grin. ‘That,’ he said in a
voice that dripped with sadistic intent. ‘Is not my
concern.’
He took his mark on the crossroads and waited for Nathaniel to join
him. Nathaniel twisted his neck around and glanced imploringly at
Whisperer, who merely shook his head. There was no backing out
now.
Nathaniel swallowed nervously. His throat felt painfully dry. He
walked down the steps with heavy feet and stepped out to take his
place. As he passed between the first two Cordites, one of them
hissed at him between its teeth, the sound like steam rising from a
hot gun barrel. Nathaniel flinched away from it and the Cordite
leered. In all other regards, they were eerily silent. They let him
take his place opposite Priestley and Nathaniel kicked the dirt at
his feet, levelling it. He shook his hands to try and hide the fact
that they were trembling.
He had never been very good with a gun. He could hit a target but
he was no gunfighter. He could not draw fast and he could not shoot
well. He stood no chance of winning.
Perhaps they just want to test your mettle, he thought hopefully.
See if you have the guts to stand-up to them.
But again he was deluding himself, and he knew it this time. The
Cordites did not respect courage; they only respected
skill.
Nathaniel’s courage deserted him. He turned and ran but had only
taken three steps before Priestley’s shot thundered out over the
crossroads. It hit him in the knee and Nathaniel fell to the
ground, screaming. He rolled over and went to clutch at his wounded
leg but one of the other Cordites shot him in the elbow. He howled
in agony and rolled onto his back.
The Cordites closed in to surround him. There were seven of them.
They each fired a single shot and killed him one piece at a
time.
With smoke curling from the barrel of his gun,
Jacob Priestley looked up from the Nathaniel’s bullet-riddled
corpse and turned to face the Grande. Whisperer stepped slowly down
off the porch.
One by one, the Cordites parted before him, giving him leave to do
as he pleased with Nathaniel’s body. ‘Take him.’ Priestley said.
‘And the others that we have agreed.’
‘Take them and leave,’ said another.
Whisperer bowed his head to them in thanks. He crouched at
Nathaniel’s side and reached out with one hand to brush the air
above his chest. In his mind’s ear, he heard Nathaniel’s scream of
outrage.
Behind him, Priestley watched with darkly burning eyes. He said
nothing and made no signal but the other Cordites sensed his mood
and they closed in to surround Whisperer on all sides. This was the
moment of betrayal that Whisperer had anticipated. He tightened his
grip on Nathaniel’s soul and tore it from his cooling
flesh.
‘We had a deal,’ he reminded Priestley.
‘Did you get it in writing?’ the Cordite replied
sardonically.
Whisperer reacted at once. Splitting the barrier between worlds
with his bare hands, he pulled forth a dozen struggling figures,
who were bound to him by ethereal chains. Their bodies were like
smoke and he weaved them about himself like a shield.
The Cordites’ guns thundered and the shield was stripped apart, the
wraithlike bodies that composed it flying into tatters. But their
sacrifice spared Whisperer any lasting harm and he reached again
into the space between worlds and yanked out more of the naked,
emaciated creatures and set them upon the Cordites like rabid dogs.
They charged in ghostly silence and leapt upon the Cordites and
tried to strangle them with their chains. Gunfire blazed and the
ghostly figures were cut down in seconds, but during that time
Whisperer was able to break clear of the melee and
escape.
Lowering his smoking gun, Jacob Priestley extended his senses out
through the town, feeling for Whisperer’s presence the way a spider
feels for vibrations in its web. He could not find him; the
soul-monger was somehow able to conceal himself, hiding his aura
amongst the surviving invigilators.
‘Kill them all.’ Priestley demanded. ‘Find him.’