Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan] Page 51

  Vredech arrived quite early at the PlasHein. As Cassraw's haste had wrought havoc with the protocol of the proceedings and thrown the PlasHein officers responsible for organizing such affairs into disarray, Vredech needed only the authority of his cloth to gain access. The chairs which lined the walls of the Debating Hall at the Witness House had been brought down during the night and placed in front of, but with their backs to, the podium from which Cassraw was to speak. This, at least, the officers had remembered, but only when carts began to appear bearing the chairs. The chairs were arranged thus so that the Covenant Member's words, passing over the heads of the Chapter Members, were deemed to be those of the whole church.

  Vredech took a seat to one side of the podium so that he would be able to stand up and move to the lectern where Cassraw would be standing, in a straight, unhindered line. He went through his proposed intention over and over. There were three steps up to the podium. From where he was sitting it was perhaps four paces to the lectern.

  One, two, three, four...

  One, two, three, four...

  Over and over.

  Darke's advice stuck horribly in his mind.

  Clear your mind of all doubts before you come close...

  Come close before you draw the weapon...

  Don't hesitate—not for the blink of an eye...

  It's the only way—for both of you...

  Over and over.

  Could he do it?

  How could he not do it? Cassraw was not Cassraw any more. He was a creature of Ahmral's—a vessel, a harbinger, come to prepare the way for His coming. This was not a matter where he had any choice.

  But...?

  The word hung about him like a pleading child, clawing at him, bringing back to him long-forgotten memories—of growing up, of his time as a novice, of the time when he had supported Cassraw's promotion. And, most cruelly, came thoughts of Nertha, his sister who was not a sister. Who was now...

  Somehow he put the longing aside. It was not easy.

  Don't be afraid to look to tomorrow.

  But...

  He looked around at the people arriving. The public galleries were filling, rumbling footsteps echoing along the wooden floors overhead and mixing with the confused babble of voices. Heinders were drifting in and manoeuvring with practised familiarity for places on the long tiered benches. And Preaching Brothers were arriving also. Many of them Vredech knew, but he gave only the most cursory acknowledgement of such greetings as he received. The merest glance at their faces told him of the church already riven. There were smiles, frowns, looks of distress, of anxiety, of ambition, of conspiratorial neutrality. Studying them would serve no useful purpose. Very soon all these concerns would be changed.

  One, two, three, four...

  He did not know whether to be surprised or not that he could see no sign of Horld or Morem and others whom he would have expected to stand against Cassraw. Perhaps they had not heard of what was happening. After all, he had only heard by chance, and there had been no time for formal notification. It was appropriate, he mused. When ignorance and bigotry superseded reason, then gossip was as accurate a medium for its transmission as anything else. He gave their absence no serious thought. On the whole he was quite relieved when the seats beside and in front of him were filled with people he either did not know, or knew only casually. He wanted no debate with close colleagues now. He wanted Cassraw to arrive so that this horror could be ended. But more than that he wanted to be through to the other side of the awful fear that was consuming him. Through the darkness and into the light, whatever it revealed.

  Then the place was full.

  As he had surmised earlier, almost every Heinder was present and the public galleries were packed with curious spectators. From snatches of overheard conversation he learned that, despite the continuing rain, a large crowd was also occupying the square. Many people were wearing their militia uniforms underneath their cloaks, and he could see that almost everyone was armed in some way. It's your hearts and heads you'll need armed today, he thought, not your bodies. Then he laid his hand on the knife again.

  The atmosphere quivered with a mixture of agitation and expectation. The government was teetering, the militia was being levied to face a belligerent neighbour, and a new spirit was spreading through Troidmallos which must surely spread across the whole of Canol Madreth and then beyond; the words ‘United Gyronlandt', with their special magic, were frequently to be heard. And, above all, strong men were emerging from unexpected sources in this time of need. Toom Drommel from the Witness Party, of all places, and this powerful Preaching Brother who had suddenly risen to become a Covenant Member and who was seemingly possessed of miraculous powers.

  Ishryth sided with the righteous.

  It was good.

  Vredech felt sick.

  Then, in response to some unheard signal, the eyes of the crowd turned to the far end of the chamber and the hubbub fell through a cascade of hissing shushes to a low, buzzing murmur.

  Vredech had to force himself to breathe.

  Silently, the Heinders stood. The Preaching Brothers remained seated.

  Vredech found his vision shrinking so that the aisle along the centre of the chamber seemed to taper into a vast distance. Along it, moving towards him with painful slowness, he saw various officers of the PlasHein, resplendent in ancient liveries full of great constitutional significance. Then down each side of the aisle came two lines of the Knights of Ishryth, their faces covered with the blank masks that had been worn at Bredill, and their red sashes garishly counterpointing the more sober splendour of the PlasHein officers. They lent an alien menace to the scene.

  Then Cassraw was there, dressed as he had been the previous evening—was it truly such a short time ago?—with Dowinne walking a few paces behind him. For Vredech, Cassraw was at once distant and very close, completely filling his intensely-focused vision. He began to tremble uncontrollably.

  Strangely, this involuntary movement of his body released him from the hypnotic effect of the slow procession approaching him. In an effort to still himself, he forced his calves hard against the legs of his chair, and pressed his elbows down on to the arms until he was in pain. The action further cleared his vision. Now there were just men moving towards him, performing their kind of ritual as he had often performed his. Soon it would be over and Cassraw would be at the lectern.

  One, two, three, four...

  Suddenly he panicked at the thought that his trembling legs would not carry him so far; that he might simply go sprawling across the floor, the knife clattering guiltily from his hands to come to rest at Cassraw's feet.

  He must walk slowly, deliberately. With an insight that frightened him a little in its coldness, he realized that a slow approach towards his victim would, in any event, be less likely to provoke a hasty response from Cassraw or anyone around him, than some reckless dash.

  Yes, he would walk carefully, deliberately.

  And do it without hesitation.

  It was the only way—for both of them...

  Strange, snarling emotions began to filter into his mind. Cassraw looked ridiculous in that crown thing he was wearing. What was it supposed to mean, for pity's sake? And he'd always been an ambitious bastard, more interested in his own aggrandizement than serving the church or his flock. What's more, his grasp of theological principles had always been weak; no wonder his beliefs had lapsed into a crude, not to say, grotesque ingenuousness.

  These thoughts disturbed Vredech. It was as though part of him was trying to lessen the significance of what he was about to do, justifying it by reducing the victim to something akin to an irritating, perhaps loathsome nuisance. But the wrongness of it offended him. The thoughts were both petty and untrue. And it was not necessary that Cassraw be demeaned in order for Vredech to do what he had to do. Indeed, it was essential that in so far as such a deed could be honourable and done with dignity, then this should be. To kill Cassraw in meanness and spleen was a true obscenity. The
act must be one of...

  Of?

  Love.

  The word jolted him.

  But it was correct. He must kill Cassraw for a good that transcended them both. For the good of the people of Canol Madreth and who could say how many others across Gyronlandt and beyond? And he must kill him for the sake of the true Cassraw that surely lay bound and blind within the heart of what he had become.

  He felt sick again.

  Cassraw walked to the lectern. Dowinne stood behind him and a little to one side. The Knights were ranged in an arc behind them both. Vredech turned and looked again at the route he was to follow.

  One, two, three, four...

  The trembling that had possessed him seemed to have moved from his limbs and become a shimmering force radiating through him.

  Cassraw looked slowly around at the public galleries, then at the Heinders, then he closed his eyes and lowered his head as though he were praying. After a moment he looked up again. His eyes were bright with a fearful intensity. Slowly he extended his arms as if to embrace the entire chamber.

  'My flock,’ he said. The words echoed through the chamber as a thunderclap rolls across a stormy sky. Vredech felt the hairs on his arms stirring; there was such power in Cassraw's voice. He had always been a fine, commanding preacher, but the hypnotic quality of these two simple words was tinged with an unnaturalness that jarred as much as it thrilled.

  'We are faced with dark times. The beloved leader of our church has been taken prematurely from us. The army of the unbelievers of Tirfelden will soon be turned against us in reckless aggression. Evil forces have conspired to weaken our government, leaving the people without guidance in worldly matters.'

  Vredech watched the audience as he listened. Such was the power in Cassraw's voice that each word was having an effect. And with each further word, more and more of those present would fall under his spell. The trembling within Vredech was growing relentlessly. It was as though his planning for this moment had gathered a momentum that could not now be stopped, and would destroy him if he did not move with it.

  'But, my children, I bring you good news. I bring you news of the light that will shine through this darkness. The light that will blind and scatter your enemies. The light that will show you the true Way. His Way. The light that is the One True Light...

  Enough!

  Vredech did not know whether this inner cry was at the physical distress he was suffering or at Cassraw's mounting rhetoric. He became aware that he was standing up. Then, slowly, he was mounting the podium steps and moving towards Cassraw.

  One, two...

  He was aware of the eyes of Cassraw's guardian Knights, uncertain, and looking from one to the other for guidance behind their blank-faced masks. But none were moving.

  Three, four...

  Vredech's hand closed about the knife.

  Don't hesitate—not for the blink of an eye.

  As Vredech's grip tightened about the knife, Cassraw turned towards him. Their eyes met.

  Vredech hesitated.

  'Allyn,’ Cassraw said softly, with a slight smile. ‘I'm so glad you've come to stand by me.'

  Vredech found himself looking into the familiar face of his old friend.

  'You must kill him! Now!’ cried out voices within him, desperately.

  KILL HIM!

  But his hand would not move.

  Cassraw turned back to his audience. ‘My friends,’ he said, his voice less powerful but filled with emotion, ‘you must forgive me if I am suddenly a little unmanned, but Brother Vredech has rightly sought to question the revelation I have received, and question it sternly. To have him by my side now moves me ... more than I can say.’ He paused then held out his arms again. ‘And Brother Vredech's public reconciliation is yet further testimony to the guiding presence of His hand...'

  'No!'

  The cry, high and shrill, and loaded with frenzied desperation, filled the chamber, crackling through the tension that Cassraw had built and shattering it. There was not one person present who did not start at the sound.

  Then all was confusion as everyone sought to see who had cried out. It was not immediately apparent, but Vredech was amongst the first to see who it was as his eye lit on a commotion in the public gallery at the end near the podium.

  A figure was clambering over the balustrade.

  'No! No!’ the cry continued frantically.

  Vredech recognized the figure. It was Mad Jarry. With a nimbleness that belied his size and his normal lumbering gait, he dropped on to the tiered seats beneath the gallery and began scrambling over them, heedless of the bewildered Heinders in his way.

  He was moving towards the podium and Vredech knew his intention even before he heard Jarry's new cry.

  'No! No! You mustn't listen! He's Ahmral! He's possessed! He came in the darkness! I've seen His dreams! I've seen His dreams!'

  Then he saw that Jarry was wielding a large knife.

  At the same time he became aware of Cassraw's Knights recovering themselves and beginning to move forward to intercept this unexpected threat. To little avail, however. Drawn from Troidmallos's more troublesome youths, secretly schooled by Yanos at Cassraw's behest, and hardened at Bredill, they were not unused to violence, but few could have withstood Jarry's demented charge. Those who came within reach of his massive flailing fists were dashed brutally to one side. A couple managed to seize hold of him, but he paid no heed to them, dragging them along like paper streamers. Another stood directly in front of him only to be lifted bodily and hurled into a group who were running to help him.

  And all the time Jarry was crying out.

  'Ahmral! Ahmral! I've seen His dreams!'

  Vredech, his body trembling again and his mind numb from his failure to strike Cassraw down, watched the whole scene as though it were being performed by street players as a mockingly slow ballet. He saw Cassraw's mouth dropping open at the sight of this approaching nemesis. He saw Dowinne's hands rising protectively and he heard her begin to scream. For no reason that he could have analysed, he reached out and seized her, dragging her roughly away from Cassraw and placing himself between her and Jarry.

  He heard the words, ‘No, Jarry,’ forming in his throat, but even as the sounds began to emerge he saw Jarry reach Cassraw and drive the knife into him. At the same time Jarry disappeared under a writhing mass of figures, stabbing and beating. Glittering blades, red sashes and bloody gashes began to blur, mingling with the nightmare cacophony of screams and groans, panic-stricken cries and grunts of appalling effort. And the trembling that was shaking his body threatened to master him completely.

  Then one sound dominated the others and he became aware of a powerful hand turning him round. His entire vision was filled with Dowinne's face. Yet it was scarcely recognizable, so contorted with fury was it. Raking through him, he heard, shrieking and awful: ‘Damn you to hell, Allyn. What have you done?'

  He gazed at her, shocked and helpless, but almost before he had a chance to register what she was saying, a blow shook his entire body and plunged him into gasping darkness.

  * * *

  Chapter 37

  In the hasty preparations for the ceremony at the PlasHein, Skynner had been only too willing to agree to Cassraw's Knights forming the honour guard for their leader. His own men had more than enough to do at the moment and he personally wanted to keep as far away from Cassraw as he could. Thus he was present with only a few Keepers, forming in effect a small honour guard of their own for the Chief Keeper and other senior officers seated in the public gallery.

  On seeing Jarry's reckless descent from the balcony, Skynner's long-instilled sense of duty had swept aside his misgivings about Cassraw and he dashed immediately for the stairs, a single command bringing his men close behind him. In the few seconds it took them to reach the Debating Chamber, however, Jarry had stabbed Cassraw and been brought down himself. The place was in uproar, with everyone shouting or screaming, half those present trying to flee the chamber while
the other half was struggling towards the podium to see what had happened. He had a vivid, kaleidoscopic impression of people being crushed against walls and the fixed furniture, and being trampled underfoot. Even as he watched, he saw bodies tumbling from the public galleries on to the Heinders milling about below. For a moment he was paralysed as memories of the panic in the PlasHein Square flooded back to him. Then the deep fear and anger that he had been nursing since his interview with the Chief and Toom Drommel burst out, releasing him. He could do nothing about the crowd, but he could get to the podium and take charge of whatever was happening there.

  This was no easy task, and even though he was not gentle about the matter, it took him and his men some time to shoulder their way through the clamouring onlookers. In the course of this advance, several political worthies received baton blows that took the edge off their curiosity, not the least of these being Toom Drommel, who ‘accidentally’ received a back-swinging elbow just below the arch of his ribcage.

  Skynner's satisfaction at this however, was dampened by the sight that greeted him as he reached the podium. Cassraw, covered in blood, lay on his back. He was not moving. Across him sprawled the equally motionless body of Jarry, his rough tunic covered with blood-streaked rents and gashes. Nearby lay Vredech. Several of the Knights, under the frantic command of Dowinne, were struggling to lift Jarry's body off that of his victim, while others were just milling around.

  As the labouring group finally succeeded and Jarry's great frame rolled over on to its back with a thud, Skynner grimaced. He had been terribly injured.

  Dowinne, seemingly in a state of shock, knelt by her husband and began nursing his head. Skynner reached down and gently took her arm. There was no quiet yielding, however. Dowinne swung round, her free hand lifted with the obvious intention of striking him. Reflexes brought his own arm up to block the blow but immediately the other hand attacked him. Without ceremony, he grasped both her arms and yanked her roughly to her feet.