A Brotherhood of Crows.
Chapter 23

Getting into the Archives had been easy - an unguarded entrance, a quick glance around us to check we weren’t being observed, and we were in.

Finding what we needed was going to be a damn sight harder.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Zularna.

The Archives of the Ministry of Theological Justice seemed to exist outside of any reasonable bounds of time and space. The central hall after the entrance ended abruptly in a sudden drop - shielded only by a thin guard rail - that showed us that the archives ran in tiers as far as the eye could see, and plunged down into the depths of the earth below us in floor upon floor of bookcases. The vertigo inducing drop was only countered by a neck craning rise, for above us the archives rose and rose in floor upon floor, so that neither of us to could see the ceiling. Each floor was identical rows of densely packed bookcases, linked by metal catwalks that snaked between floors like like branches. The only lights were great bulbs, wrapped in metal shades, dangling from the ceilings of each floor, casting pale circles of light surrounding by deep pools of shadow.

“Haven’t these people heard of computers? This place must go on for miles!” I said.

Zularna approached the nearest bookcase. Each one was identical - made of sparse metal, running floor to ceiling, and densely packed with thick books and box files. “None of these are in alphabetical order,” she said, running her finger over index titles scrawled in minute writing, “ ‘Gnosticism & the Soul’, ‘The Testaments of Abelard, Lord of Sightless Eyes’, ‘Catechism of the Purging Chapel, Vol II.’ - some of these are Holy Books, some of these are just...look, this one’s just a list of prayers for children to something called ‘the Decaying Dragon’...” she glanced back at me, worried. “There’s no order or anything here!”

I smirked. “What, religious people not doing things logically or sensibly? Never.”

Blinking, I saw, in Elsewhere I saw Red shaking her head at me vigorously. In reality, Zularna eyes were flaring at me. I realised my mistake. “I’m sorry,” I said, quickly, “I didn’t - I wasn’t trying to say -”

“You know what’s worse,” Zularna said, slowly, “Than people who can’t respect my beliefs? People who pretend they can. Badly. We both know what you were trying to say. You believe what you want, I don’t care. All I’m asking is for you to do the same for me.”

She turned back to examining the nearest bookcase. I opened mouth to say something, but thought better of it, so instead I blinked back into Elsewhere, to escape my guilt if nothing else.

“You got any ideas?” I asked Red.

In the grey fog of the Elsewhere archives, Red was leaning nonchalantly against a bookcase, her crimson form a shock against the monochrome background. “Maybe.”

“As endearing as your vague answers are, can you just answer the damn question?”

Red rocked her hair from side to side, mulling the question over, causing her vermillion hair to cascade like leaping sparks. “She’s not entirely right about there being no order. Think of it like Dante’s Divine Comedy.”

“Like what now?”

“It’s a poem. A very old one. In it, Dante travels to Hell, and Purgatory then Heaven. Hell is at the very bottom of the world, and as he gets closer to God, he climbs higher and higher until he finds God at the highest point of heaven. Think about it. This archives is a bit like that.”

I considered what she’d said. “So...records about God, or Gods, would be at the top? So that would be Holy Books, Bibles, things written ‘by’ God? And if we wanted to find records on Churches, which are supposed to be the homes of Gods on earth, we’d need to go down, down to the level of people?”

A faint smile spread across her lips. “Very good, chicka. You’re learning.”

I blinked back into reality. “We need to go down.”

“Hmm, what makes you say that?”

“Gut feeling. You got a better idea?”

She shook her head. We set off, our footsteps unnaturally loud on the grilled metal floor. We crossed a catwalk slung over that great central drop, and plunged deeper into the archives. Very soon, I lost my sense of direction, but was drawn only by the feeling of descending, following spiral staircases lower and lower. As we progressed, I felt a growing sense of unease. Maybe it was the eerie silence that smothered the spaces between the sound of our steps; maybe it was the lights, surgical, and spaced out, leaving pools of shadow as deep and dark as a night without stars. Whatever it was, it set me on edge, and I instinctively loosened the clip on my holster, letting one hand rest on the butt of my revolver as we walked.

“What was the front church called again?” Zularna asked.

“‘The Cleansing Kiln’...whatever that means.” I glanced at the titles of each bookcase we passed: “This is looking promising - ‘Constitution of the Cathedral of Silence,’ ’First Edicts of the Temple Militant…”

We came to a place where the long lives of shelves and bookcases formed a corridor that ran on the length of the archives, its beginning and end lost in shadow. Zularna was scanning the titles of ledgers and box folders and ancient tomes, while I stood a few steps back, scanning the dark. I swear I kept seeing movement in the depths of the gloom, rippling the surface of the shadows.

“Here!” said Zularna suddenly. She grabbed my hand and dragged me into an alcove between two bookcases. “I think I see it - can you give me a boost?”

I knelt, and cupped my hands, and Zularna climbed over me and began to scale the bookcase, using the shelves as handholds. I checked my fob watch. We had thirty minutes until we needed to meet Crucius. I clicked the watch shut, and felt very cramped amidst the high cases.

There was a faint thump as Zularna came back to earth, with a box held under one arm. We were away from the nearest lamp in our little alcove, and in the faint glow that did reach us, I saw the words “Cleansing Kiln,” written on the side in scratchy hand.

“Nice one,” i said, “Let’s crack it open,”

We laid the box on the floor between us, and knelt beside it. Zularna undid the latches that held the lid on, and with a little effort pulled it away. Inside, resting lightly against the bottom, was a small, black book.

Hesitantly, I reached down and cupped the book in my hands. It was usually light, and the cover felt soft, its material bristling gently against my fingers. It took me a moment to realise why: “It’s bound in feathers,” I breathed, turning the book over a few times, “I don’t see any title or anything…”

I opened the book, gingerly, for it felt very delicate, and frowned at the unfamiliar symbols on the yellowing, dry pages. “I...this is gibberish.”

“No,” Zularna plucked the book from my hands, “It’s aramaic.”

“What now?”

“Aramaic. It’s an Ancient Semitic language, linked to modern Hebrew and Syriac,” Zularna caught my enquiring gaze, “What? Languages are my thing. I speak English, French, German, Arabic, Hebrew and Wenzhounese…” she traced her finger along the symbols on the page, her lips moving silently as she did so. “ ‘These are the words of Black Wings, the Creed of Crows. Let those who read here know their truth. In the beginning is the end, and in the end is the beginning, for everything created must end, and everything that ends must be created.’ Cheerful… ‘Those who would follow our path will no longer walk, but will soar in heaven upon Black Wings…’”

Something caught my ears, a little metal tap from some distance. As Zularna continued to read, I rose to my feet, and padded over to where our alcove opened into the main line of bookcases. My hand strayed to my revolver.

“ ‘Those who follow these words may see the world with sober senses for the first time. We have seen the darkness in the morning sun, we have known the madness in the day, we have seen all meaning roll itself up into a ball, before slowly falling away…’”

I poked my head around the corner: a long line of shelves, the cones of light from distant ceiling lamps, the deep pools of shadow. And I saw movement.

“’We do not turn away from the horrors of life. We will not turn away from the hell we have seen at the heart of Candlelight. We are one Brotherhood, one creed -”

“Shush!” I hissed.

“ ’We are - what?”

I lunged back, and seized Zularna and pulled her as far back into the alcove as I could. She opened her mouth to object, but clamped a hand down over her mouth. My other hand drew my revolver, and cocked it. I caught her eye - sparking with anger and also concern, and mouthed at her: “We’re not alone.”

We pressed as far back against the wall that we could, making ourselves as small as possible, trying to blend into the shadows. My gun arm extended, and one thumb lightly cocked back the hammer.

The noises I heard grew louder; the tapping of metal on metal, reaching us over the sound of our own panicked breathing. And then something passed our alcove. It moved very, very slowly, putting one foot in front of the other as lightly as possible. It was a man, clad from head to toe in jet black combat armour. His face was entirely concealed by shaded visor, beneath a domed combat helmet. Held out before him, with a stock locked firmly in his shoulder, was a slim assault rifle. He slowed to a halt near our alcove, the barrel of the rifle shifting as he looked up and down the corridor of shelves. I checked my aim; I had a perfect headshot lined up, and at this range, there was no missing. But unlike him, my weapon wasn’t silenced, and if I did pull the trigger, an almighty roar would blast through the archives, giving us away to any more armed men who lurked in the shadows. I bit my lip, and tried to slow my breathing down to a point of silence.

The man checked out the surroundings with his weapon, scanning around him from behind his visor. I saw him removed a hand from the weapon’s foregrip, and press a finger against the side of his helmet.

“Level twenty two clear. Heading back.”

I watched him turn, swearing he would see us, but instead he began to move slowly back up the corridor, to the sound of fading footsteps.

For the first time in what seemed like an age, Zularna and I breathed. I kept my gun up; the armour had been unmarked. He - whoever he was - wasn’t a Listener, or even Met. I’d noted the silenced assault weapon, the weapon’s mag with another duct taped onto it for swift reloading: that was military grade tech. I glanced at Zularna; she was unpacking her crossbow and was noticing a bolt.

“Grab the book,” I whispered, “We need get out of here,”

We slipped back into the corner corridor. I took point, revolver out, hammer cocked. Zularna came behind me, her crossbow at the ready, training the sights on the path behind us her case set with grim determination. The book, bound in feathers, poked out of the pocket of her coat. Holding my revolver one handedly, I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped out a message to Crucius: Gone south. Need to get out of here. Now.

We reached a crossroad of sorts in the high shelves and crammed bookcases, illuminated by stark strip lighting. No sign of movement in the gloom.

“Do you remember which way we came?” hissed Zularna.

I didn’t. Fuck. I lowered my revolver for a second, and felt a brief wave of panic, the realisation that we were lost in a labyrinth full of angry, armed men , and that -

There was a flurry of movement in the shadows to our left. “Contact!” a voice bellowed.

We threw ourselves against the cover afforded by the bookcases as a the sudden dull phut of silenced machine gun fire filled the air, and the crack of bullets striking wood shattered the quiet. I blind-fired around the corner, the report of the revolver like a bomb blast in a library, and peeked out: two men in combat armour were advancing on us, firing.

Zularna leaned out and sent a bolt from her crossbow whistling through the air. “Who are these guys?” she screamed over the gunfire.

I fired two rounds at our assailants, causing them to duck, and come up firing. “Dunno, let’s find out,” I stuck my head out of cover, “Oi, you there. Who are you?”

I yanked my head back as bullets filled the air where I had been a second before. “I got Trigger Happy and Shooty McShootface, you?”

Zularna rolled her eyes at me, and fired another bolt. I saw one of the men stagger as the bolt ricocheted off his body armour.

“Time to bug out?”

“Amen,”

“I’ll cover you. Ready? GO GO GO!”

Zularna broke cover and I threw myself into the corridor, dropped my revolver to my hip, and fired, emptying the cylinder at our attackers. The first rounds went wild, but my last struck one of the lamps, causing it to shattered into a storm of falling sparks and broken metal. The gunners threw themselves aside as the remains of the lamp came to earth.

I fled after Zularna, reloading as I did in a practised move - up end the revolver, flipped out the cylinder, let the spent shells fall behind me, slammed a speedloader in, and with a twist of the wrist, knocked the revolver closed. I heard a shout behind me. Zularna, just a few paces ahead, spun, brought her bow to bear, and fired twice. One of the pursuers fell back, screaming, bolts sprouting from his visor like thorns.

We hit the end of the line: before us, the drop we’d seen earlier. There were series of desk lying in an open area, feed into by multiple paths - a cataloguing zone of the madness of the archives. Zularna reached it first, and with a firm move, kicked over one of the desk to give us cover. I was a dozen paces behind, and put on a burst of speed.

Out of one of the other corridors, a masked man lunged. He hadn’t been expecting me and I caught him in a rugby tackle. I saw the flash of a combat knife, wicked and jagged in his hands. My body moved faster than my mind. My katais snapped out and rammed into the man’s chest; ceramic blades punctured through muscle and bone and met no resistance. I hit him with the full momentum of my blow and he tumbled over the edge into the drop, screaming as he plunged into oblivion.

“What happened to no killing?” shout Zularna, as I threw myself next to cover next to her. Bullets pounded into the upturned desk in a bassline.

“Loopholes,” I snarled, and fired over the desk. I counted half a dozen men advancing on us, pinning us down with suppressing fire. The desk was heavy, made of thick oak, but would only protect us for so long against military grade ammunition. I blind fired over cover, and tried to assess our options. We were pinned down, with no way out.

“Can you climb?” I shouted over the gunfire.

“In general yes, but right now? Tricky!” Zularna fired over the desk, catching a man in the groin. I winced, involuntarily.

“I’m gonna try and break the line,” I snapped in a speedloader and shook away empty casings, “When they duck, climb over the bookcases - you can cover me from the gantry. I’ll try and draw them off, give you time to pick them off.”

Zularna nodded, and squatted on her haunches, ready to run. I raised my revolver to my lips, and whispered into the chamber, “Shredders!”

The round in the chamber glowed green. I took a deep breath, bolted up, and fired.

The bullet exploded in midair, shattering into shards of shrapnel. The advancing men stumbled and staggered, screaming as spinning fragments struck their flesh and ricocheted off their body armour. I broke front and Zularna broke behind, climbing the bookcases and vaulting her way onto the gantry running over head. I ran, past the writhing gunmen, and plunged into the dark.

*

Crucius came to a halt in the main concourse of the Ministry of Theological Justice, and knew, instantly, that something was wrong. It had come to the hour, and there was no sign of Zularna or Elijah. More importantly, the hustle and bustle of earlier had died, and those civil servants and clerics that were still present were huddled together, speaking in whispers.

There was a flurry of motion, and a dozen men, black clad, armoured, running in tight formation with assault weapons in hand, headed past him, cocking their weapons as they went. Crucius followed them with his eye, as they broke away from the main concourse, and headed for the archives

Had anyone been standing close enough to Crucius, they might have witnessed a small muscle under his right eye twitch, violently.

He checked the other devices in his pockets, slim little things, of shiny chrome, which he made sure to always have on his person, and then began to walk slowly, but forcefully, towards the archives.

*

I had four of them behind me. I kept periodic fire over my shoulder, as I weaved and ducked through bookcases and vaulted desks. Two more had been in pursuit, but had broken off. They were trying to catch me in a pincer move, I knew it. I snapped out my derringer and kept it cocked in one hand, while my revolver roared with fire in the other.

I came to an open area. More desks, different paths shooting off into the gloom again. Shit. I heard gunfire from above me. Zularna. They must have had men on the floor above. Shit. Shit. Fuck. I skidded to a halt, spinning slowly, arms out, guns primed.

Something lunged at me from the gloom and a heavy blow caught my right arm. I cried out in pain and fired blindly. The shot went wild, and another blow knocked my revolver clean away from my hand. I swung the derringer around to bear on my attackers - three of them now, each one holding a sparking stun rod. I emptied the derringer into one man’s chest, and weaved as the other two came in on the attack. I lost balance, almost fell, and one of the rods swept into my shoulder. It was like being hit by a power pylon.

My vision blurred from the pain, but something caused my body to span up, my katai blades flying free from their sheaths. I parried an incoming blow and plunged the other blade into an attacker’s chest. Copper smelling blood erupted from the wound and he screamed and fell. His friend kept his rod up, feigning left and right. He came at me with a hammer blow, aimed for my head, but I was faster, and stabbed at his head at point blank range. The katai burst out of the back of his helmet with a wet thud.

Other men emerged from the gloom, training weapons on me. The same four from before, but joined by others, ten men painting my body with laser sights. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I stood with my katais out, pain from the stun rod arching through my shoulder. I felt blood on my face, though whether it was mine or the gunmen’s I didn’t know. I heard the sound of many guns being cocked.

“What are you waiting for?” I bellowed. “You want to shoot me? SHOOT ME!”

“No!” a new voice pierced the dark, “No, do not shoot him!”

Someone was approaching from the deep shadows of the archives. The circle of gunmen drew back, allowed him to walk into the meagre light. He was tall, very very tall. He wore a finely tailored suit, his hands hidden beneath leather riding gloves, and his shoes were polished and shone even in the meagre light. And he wore a mask; layers of steel interwoven into a long face that ended in a wicked curved beak, beneath deep, empty eye sockets, framed by a shock of real feathers. It was the head of a crow. In Elsewhere, what approached me was a man made out of the purest, darkest fires. I stayed tensed, ready to strike at the newcomer.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” the masked man said. His voice rang, metallic, steely, “This.. this should not have happened. My name is Gorcrow. At long last, we meet, Sleepwalker.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You actually said -? People actually say that? Did he actually say that?” I asked the gunmen, who continued to keep their weapons trained on me. “No? Am I the only person who find it weird that people actually talk like that?”

“I owe you an apology, Sleepwalker,” Gorcrow advanced slowly, hands spread wide. “My men were under instructions to take you alive. I fear they became overzealous.”

I swung a katai blade round, to keep the point between me and him. “You might want to fire your captain, then,”

“No need. You just stabbed him in the head.”

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“Your humour does you credit,” he continued to advance as he spoke. Every syllable was punctuated by a small metallic click, as the beak opened and shut in time with his words, “But now you must come with me.”

“Kind offer,” I said. I brought my other katai up to level of my head, setting my guard. “Terribly busy, got dinner plans. Apparently I’ve got a cat now. Should feed him. How about, instead, you all, drop your weapons, turn around, walk off home and I’ll be on my way.”

“No, Sleepwalker,” Gorcrow intoned, and closed in. “Come quietly and your woman friend won’t be harmed,”

“Something tells me she wouldn’t like being called that,” he was unarmed, as far as I could tell. If I could take him, I could make a break for it, try and lose the gunmen amidst the bookstacks before they had time to fire if I ducked into Elsewhere, “Besides my plan is better. We all get to walk out of here and also, I don’t end up stabbing you in the -”

Gorcrow lunged at me in a movement too fast to be natural. His fist caught me square in the chest before I had a chance to block. The blow was a sledgehammer, lifting me clean off my feet and sending me flying back. I landed on my feet, eyes watering, as he came in again. I just dodged a fist that sheared past my head, and tried to riposte with a cleaving slash. He caught the blade, with the palm of his hand, and knocked me to one side. I fell to my knees, tried to rise but he was on me. Blow after blow stuck my back, neck, his foot delivered kick after kick. Pain seared through my body, and blood poured from my mouth.

Suddenly, I was rising, being hoisted up by the collar. Through a word of agony, I saw Gorcrow, lifting me with one hand, the other one drawing back to deliver a blow. And I gazed into the depths of his empty eye sockets, and I saw, in his real eyes, madness.

“It is over, Sleepwalker. I had hoped for better. Now it is time for you to wake up.”

His fist came at my face, and then I knew nothing but darkness.

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