‘Whose story is it?’
‘The MythMaker,’ three of the kids said at once insistently.
‘And what is the story about?’ Ulryk asked the redhead, who was on tiptoes, glancing between the eager heads.
‘Saving the city,’ the kid snapped despairingly. ‘Legends, and that kind of shit. You know, like creatures from the past and all that. The hero is saving Villjamur from the evil monsters out in the country.’
Ulryk beamed at Fulcrom, his eyes creasing in delight. ‘Such joy in these innocent young minds.’
‘Indeed,’ Fulcrom said, and contemplated hauling down the artwork because it blocked an official noticeboard. But he noticed an older child explaining the story to a younger one who clearly could not read, so decided it was perhaps doing no harm.
Eventually, Fulcrom and Ulryk ended up standing by the rear of a bakery. Warmth from an oven was melting the previous night’s snow from the roof, and water dripped down in a gentle trickle, into a gutter, then down a drain.
Fulcrom stood with his hands in his pockets as Ulryk withdrew a heavy book from his satchel. It was more than a little battered, crafted from brown leather, and the pages inside seemed blighted by mould and damp.
‘Watch the water,’ Ulryk cautioned, ‘and place your fingers in your ears.’
Fulcrom did as he was told, chuckling to himself at the absurdity of his situation. Well, at least with Special Investigations, or ‘weird shit’ as the other investigators whisper, I’m no longer staring at corpses.
Ulryk began to intone from the book, as if preaching. His mouth became contorted, shaping word forms that were clearly not of Jamur origin. Fulcrom regarded the dripping stream of water, and waited patiently.
Slowly — remarkably — the water began to alter its course… yes, it reversed itself, sloshing up from the drain and back up into the gutter, then spouting up onto the roof.
Ulryk guided Fulcrom’s hands towards the water. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged, ‘it’s quite all right to touch it.’
The water struck his hand, which interrupted the upward flow, and he could feel the force of it against his palm. Fulcrom was staggered, withdrawing his hand to dry it, whilst watching the flow continue once again. ‘How did you do this?’ he asked.
Ulryk held up the book. ‘It is the power of words, investigator. I had to show you something incredible, so that you might have faith in me. Do you believe some of what I say now?’
‘What is that?’ Fulcrom indicated the book.
‘This is merely one of many powerful texts that I have recovered — perhaps the most powerful of all.’
Fulcrom simply watched the water flowing in reverse, against the forces of nature, in thick upward slops. He had considered the story in great depth, and now added this new variable into his thoughts. If he’s a man of magic, he could have harmed me. His story seems strange, but he’s not asking for much… ‘You could have a relic up your sleeve.’
‘Do you see any? You may search me if you wish.’ He placed the book in his satchel and held his arms open. ‘Though later, when I have found my way around the city, I can show you more magic. Consider this a deposit of sorts.’
‘A search won’t be necessary. OK, I can help you out where I can, though I’m not sure what I can do. If you need special passes or protection, I can see to that. I’m afraid I’m a little stretched for time these days.’
‘I simply need one man of influence to help me on my way about the city!’ The priest suddenly leapt up and down, a vision of joy upon his face, and Fulcrom wondered what he was getting himself into.
FOURTEEN
Ulryk’s Journal
I arrived in the great Sanctuary City, the city of legends, Villjamur, and it is most claustrophobic. People drifted about with their heads down low among shit-sodden streets. They navigated islands of ice. There was little joy to be found in the old, winding lanes, and once one saw past the veneer there beat a heart of darkness.
After speaking to Fulcrom, I took lodgings in an innocuous hotel at the base of the city. There were no other guests to my knowledge, and my small, sparsely furnished quarters seem perfectly located — the back of the building, with no other windows looking on mine. From here, one could see the street below and for some considerable distance any lines of approach to the building.
Finally I once again commenced the evening rituals after so long a gap.
I locked the door of my room. A rapid pulse revealing my nerves, sweat trickling down my neck, I set several candles around the fire, with certain powders arranged in neat, spaced and intricate piles, as the Book denotes. I unwrapped it, laid before me on the floor my copy of The Book of Transformations, and lined up the pages of woodcuts and made the appropriate offerings.
I bathed in warm, yellow light, I read aloud the script that only I can discern.
*
I am his protege and apostle. I am the only one who has solved His questions thus far. He said He had found me, altered the elements of the world so that I would find the first book, buried at the heart of Regin Abbey. A man who could read the scripts of old was required to be worthy enough for blessings from the real God, the real Creator and I am that man. I am His chosen one. He came to me, almost two years to the day, in that distant corner of Regin Abbey, in that hidden room, where I was the first to walk in thousands of years… Oh how his presence warmed my bones and rekindled my spirit.
He came to me first as a dream, then a ghost, then something more. After I was translating one particular ancient text, something seemed to happen to me: whether or not something existed within the lines of that book to cause a momentary trance, I will never know, but it felt as if I had lost a day in my mind. I thought I was going mad. Then I felt an urge to explore further books within the library. My dreams guided me, and then He made himself known to me. His words, which were present directly within my head rather than through my ears, were like nectar. I felt instincts and urges to head to barren regions in the library in Regin Abbey, through storerooms and secret rooms until I stumbled into a room I later discovered was for banned texts. There The Book of Transformations was to be located. I studied it for days. I was not born for such a destiny, He told me, I earned it through my assiduous nature.
At the time I was not aware of the power of the Book. It was mysterious and frustrating, though I could fathom few of its secrets. I discovered more and eventually found that with this book I could communicate with Frater Mercury. He then guided me to discover the secret history of the Boreal Archipelago, the many thousands of years of lies.
If I was to be His tool for greater things then so be it. I would find His other book and remake Him here, as He wished.
*
With The Book of Transformations in my hands earlier today, I spoke to Frater Mercury.
It had been weeks since I was able to open the channels of communication and He seemed most annoyed at first, because I used methods that were not fully approved, but I managed to calm Him, and reassure Him. I asked Him — or His hazy, smoky form — of His requirements, if He could offer any further guidance, and what the situation was now like in His own world.
He said terrible things would happen, were happening, and would be made worse if I didn’t help Him. The situation was clear. The other race, Pithicus (our corruption of the word Akhaioi) are stationed outside His city, and sent someone back into our world. The enemy had done things to this figure, transformed him beyond recognition, and sent him on a path here — to Villjamur. The Pithicus had become a devastating force: they had caused more deaths than he could count; more than He can regenerate. His civilization of the Dawnir — those we once thought to be our gods — had to resettle in the Boreal Archipelago, the land in which many of their ancestors were born, as soon as was possible.