Vol.7, Ch.3, P.7
There it is. Not philosophy. Not theology. Not an idea, nor an intuition, but a simple speaking of the truth. So was this saint asserting; that his is a “sermon” to be heeded as History itself.
“…Say what you will,” I argued, “men may yet live unyoked from any god.”
The cartaphilus slowly shook his head. “Nay,” he said, “nay, they may not.” And with his hands splayed yet wide, he strutted some more steps hither. His sabatons echoed coldly across the stonen hollow. “Save for you, Rolf the Godless,” he said on. “You are the sole exception.” And just like that, he halted; and his smile once so sure now vanished, leaving behind a flat and dead-serious face as he resumed: “He whose heart yearns even the slightest for God shall be swayed by the Roun of Orisons. But what of him who yearns not at all? Nay. Nay, nay, such a soul exists not. He ought exist not.”
“Well, too bad about that,” I remarked swiftly.
Rolf the Godless? The Sole Exception? Nothing of the sort. I daresay not even a speck of me was so special. It was merely that this nearsighted snake hadn’t conceived aught that anyone could walk without his “God”. But such is the mistake oft made about the “weak”: the mistake of underestimation.
“‘Too bad’? Do you not think yourself damned, my man?” pressed the saint. “Forsake not faith, O bless! Rather embrace it, love it—and I assure you it shall requite.”
“When did I forsake it?” I answered. “Free ought be any man to live as he likes. That is my ‘faith’.”
This man afore me, on the other hand, fancied not the faintest faith in humanity, seeing us instead as lambs bleating ever for a shepherd’s providence; that absent some heavenly light, we could not tread a single step—that being of minds ingrained with “god” since times untold, men could never hope to part from their deities and idols.
“Why, put your way,” I added, “God Himself should be the Firstmost Sin.”
And to that, the lips of the cartaphilus curled up again. “…Hm hm… mhah hahahah!!” he burst out laughing. And very mad was his new mirth, that one would never have imagined a holy man’s mouth behind it. “Ah, you delight me…” he sighed at length, “—very, very much, indeed.”
“Now that molests the mind to hear,” I objected. “Any more, and I might vomit.”
“Oh, swallow it,” giggled the beguiler.
But curse this. I’d got little time for prattle. At least one question loomed large yet. So far, I’d roughly guessed as to what he’s been whipping this world towards. But the “why” of it remained out of reach.
“Back to the beginning,” I thus said sternly. “What’re you trying to achieve?”
“I’ve said it before, have I not?” returned Rakliammelech. “Much like all the world, it doesn’t matter aught.”
“…”
Frustrated, I strained my eyes upon his face, seeking for the slightest answer. But at that moment—
—Gunngh…!—
—a great and groaning noise thronged through all this cavernous void. It was echoing from far above, to judge also by the hiss and rain of dust now falling. And frightfully was it familiar. The steeple, the blast—such a sound now returned to resound not once, but over and over again, burst after burst, roar after roar, causing this croft to quake in crescendo. And then pebbles and stones began to pelt all around, and the many-vaulted ceiling itself to moan.
“Behold! The last course!”
So answered the saint my astoundment. Bombs had gone off, like as not; bombs of such scale and quantity as to crumble all this college to its foundations.
“Why destroy this place?” I pressed the puppeteer amidst the tumult.
He laughed again. “Can’t let all my poor ordnance go to waste, now can I?”
And just as he spoke, some columns deeper inside snapped asudden to pieces, and a span of wall and ceiling came crashing down in a great, black cloud. This croft for all its size hadn’t got long left, nor the building above, for that matter. All this historicality, this craftsmanship, only to be worsted by one man’s whim—not that something like “history” had ever really mattered to him, I must think.
“‘Waste’? You’re sick to the soul,” I growled, backing cautiously towards the doorway.
“Consider it another ‘table-setting’,” came the ringleader’s response. “You’ve got here one more meal, Godless—with a guest that’s been banging on the board all day to dine with you. And rest assured: none shall interfere with the feast.”
“More a mad playwright than a cook this false saint seems…”
“’Tis a fine performance, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Fine, indeed. You’re missing your muse, Rakliammelech, if battles amidst blaze and debris should be your bread and butter.”
And speak of the devil: more of the ceiling then sundered and came smiting to the ground. The earthen wreckage smouldered redly; timber, brick, and flame were fast finding their way down.
“Ah, of course. Balasthea, was it?” uttered the saint, even as chaos increased all about him.
“You know, and yet so drably’ve you dressed the scene,” I chode him. “That’s a third-rate playwright for you.”
“Hahah!” he cackled again. “Then let us hope the actors shall compensate!”
More and more the croft crumbled and crashed. And I had come upon the doorway when a ream of red rubble hurtled down and spilt itself between myself and the saint. Only his face now was to be seen behind the burning barrier. But his voice rang clear as ever.
“I enjoyed our little luncheon, Rolf Buckmann,” he said. “Meeting you was the right call after all.”
“…”
This place was lost. And so giving Rakliammelech one last glower, I turned and dashed through the doorway.
“Yes, fly!” echoed the conniver. “God be with you!”
But even as I heard him behind, I deigned him no answer.
∵
The flight of stairs, too, had begun to fill with fumes. Flaming smithers and broken stones were belching down from the entrance above. But braving these as best I could, I continued to clamber up the steps.
It must’ve been cache after cache of quickfire, indeed, that had wrought such ruin. What is it that that snake of a saint had said? That bombing this building down is but an afterthought to the steeple, or somesuch? Well, it certainly seemed this place’d been fed the lion’s share of the explosives, to say the least, no doubt to burn and bury every trace of this intrigue—his men included, even as they yet walked the halls above. Nay… not “men”; “bit players” more like: mere pawns for that puppeteer’s repugnant play.
“Agh…” I groaned, faltering over the steps. My flank gripped with pain. The long climb was taking its toll. But the entry hole ought not be far off. And so up and up I strove. The end seemed finally at hand, though as with many battles before, I was none too happy to come out of it so scathed.
But come out I did, out of the choking staircase at last. Coughing and squinting, I scanned about, peering through raging brume and burning rubble, and all the while wondering if Björn himself had fled safely. I should be very glad even to see again that codger’s stern and scolding face.
“No good…” I uttered aloud.
Howling blazes barred both ends of this hallway, and there were no windows to exit with. Hastily, I broke through some doors to the side; taking the long way out seemed now the only escape. And after a deal of dashing, I emerged into the grand foyer many floors hollow. The flames hadn’t infiltrated too fiercely where I emerged, but alas, the same couldn’t be said of one end of the space, whence stood in utter devastation the vestibule itself. Elsewhere, there ran upwards some swerving stairs, but with the higher storeys seeming much destroyed, they were my last resort. Nay, better I risked the hallways on the other side of the foyer.
Wasting no time, I began racing for a doorway far opposite, only to stop in my tracks halfway. The doors—they were swinging open. And revealed thereat was a figure framed in the glowing fire. And looking straight upon me, it spoke.
“’Ey up.”
“…Well, that solves it,” I grumbled. “So, you’re the one. Splendid.”
There was no mistake. This figure was the “guest banging on the board”, as Rakliammelech had described. And to judge by the rutilant silvermaul in its hand and the intent teeming in its now-nearing steps, the figure was fain for a fight—murderously so.
“Pray whilst ye can,” it snarled. “I’ve come to mince ye fine… muscle-pate.”
The figure soon sauntered into visibility. And it was none other than Raakel Nyholm, the hammer-dame in all her smiling menace.
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