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.
They trudged up the incline towards the first gate, refugees milling about their trail with a vague curiosity. Four soldiers in full battle regalia exited their small stone station and marched out towards them, their swords drawn.
‘Sele of Jamur,’ muttered a man with rat-like features. The others formed a casual line alongside him, eyeing the cultists with deep suspicion.
Dartun was silent.
‘We’ll need to see written reasons for entry,’ the soldier drawled, ‘and any associated medallions, before we can permit you through to the second gate.’
Dartun stepped closer and the soldiers held up their swords.
‘Remain where you are,’ the soldier cautioned.
Dartun chuckled without saying a word. He moved further forward and the soldiers slipped through the mud to intercept him; their swords clattered into his arm, pinging off its surface. They didn’t know what to make of his immunity to their blows.
With the guards in a state of surprise, Dartun grabbed the nearest one, placed the palm of his hand on the man’s back and the armour began glowing red hot. While the other guards looked on dumbly, the man screamed: his skin was burning, his face reddening and then, with a muted burst, the soldier exploded within his armour. Dartun discarded the bloodied armour to one side and, with a grin on his face, regarded the other soldiers.
*
Vuldon, with all the dignity of a drunk, lumbered groggily to his room. He lived abstemiously, never wanting to accumulate much these days. There was a bed, a chair, a cupboard of identical uniforms, and a desk, which he’d insisted on having installed. He sat at his desk, lit the lantern, and pulled sketches from a hidden compartment.
It was, more or less, the final scene.
MythMaker was about to defeat the king of the underworld, the crude parallel to Caveside, with a series of magical creatures he had summoned. This had been the culmination of the entire story, and Vuldon was wondering if he could say everything he wanted to say in the last picture. Moreover, ever since Ulryk had discussed with him the potential of actually bringing drawings to life, Vuldon had been struggling to incorporate this into his work. He wasn’t even sure if what the priest said was true. Still, there was nothing to lose in trying.
MythMaker had been Vuldon’s perfect coping mechanism. Ever since his withdrawal from public life, these picture stories had helped him to stay in touch with the essence of who he was — someone who wanted to do good, to please people. That’s what I am. I just want to please, to be accepted. On these sheets of vellum, which were nailed to the various noticeboards and school-room doors about the city, he could continue saving imaginary lives. After he had pinned one up, he watched from a distance the reaction of children as they herded around to read the latest part of the story. Before the end of the day, youths might be re-enacting some of the scenes. He’d hear their innocent cries as they play-acted the defeat of Doctor Devil or the Unicorn Queen.
Now the city was falling down around them, it seemed that MythMaker could be the one way of genuinely helping the children. If he was to protect the Emperor in these desperate hours — if he was to be away from the streets and unable to help people — then he would find a way of saving them: through MythMaker and using the priest’s advice. Assiduously, with a remarkable speed that only practice could bring, Vuldon inked down the final acts of MythMaker.
A couple of hours later, Tane knocked on his door. ‘Vuldon,’ he called, muffled through the wood, ‘time to go.’
Fucksake. ‘I need more time,’ he grunted. ‘I need to head out before we see the Emperor.’
He heard Tane sigh. ‘There’s going to be no stopping you, I suspect.’
‘Damn right there isn’t.’
Vuldon opened the door with a bundle of the sketches under his arm and a purse of nails in his pocket, slipped past Tane, out of the building and into the night.
Snow was drifting across the city in thick flakes, but at least it wasn’t raining much. He wore a cloak and a scarf across his face. For years he had paid others to do this job for him — that was, until the money ran dry, so he had taken to posting the work himself. Given his recent fame, he felt he had to be especially cautious not to be discovered.
Across the city — under bridges and viaducts, past the shadows of wrecked taverns and behind military lines, Vuldon pressed a nail through dozens of copies of MythMaker, fixing them to doors or noticeboards or any sheltered surface he could find. This sketch was special, he knew it, and had to be seen by as many of the city’s children as possible.
The city was a depressing vision. Walls had crumbled, blocking paths, whilst militia groups prevented him from gaining access to certain roads, but he managed to target all the main thoroughfares on the levels farthest from the attacks. He couldn’t get to the crude Caveside plazas, though, which was of concern — he wanted all children to have equal access to these sketches. Once he had finished he dashed back across the city to his headquarters. Two hours late, but I don’t give a fuck.
When he came in he found Tane slumped on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Ah, the traveller returns. What were you up to?’
‘Never mind. Let’s go babysit the Emperor.’
*
As they ascended the steps of Balmacara, past one unit of soldiers and heading towards another, they were
