Kultus by Richard Ford Page A

inside.
    When he was within twenty feet he could hear a droning chant emanating from within the wooden confines. It was a dolorous sound, and immediately Blaklok’s skin began to bristle in anticipation. A ritual was taking place, and by the sounds of it there were plenty of people present.
    He crept round the back of the building, his breathing as shallow as possible lest the stink of the river made him balk. The building was in a terrible state of disrepair, and it was unlikely he would be able to make a stealthy approach due to the creaking wood. Oh well, it would just have to be an un stealthy approach then, wouldn’t it.
    Black boots stomped up onto the porch that surrounded the rickety building. The chanting was growing louder, and Blaklok could only hope that it disguised the sound of his approach.
    A door was set in the side of the storehouse and it hung almost off its hinges. It must have once been a sturdy barrier, but now it was merely an annoyance, a troublesome obstacle and heavy with it. Blaklok muscled the door inwards and stepped over the threshold, immediately surrounded by blackness. The droning voices were echoing all around, but Thaddeus could not yet see anyone.
    He moved further inside until he saw a weak yellow light emanating from around one corner. As he stole forward he tried his best to be light footed, but, as predicted, the weak floor creaked under his weight. Despite the noise, no hooded acolytes came screaming from out of the dark, nor were there baleful eyes staring at him from the shadows.
    As Blaklok reached the corner, he could see the first of the congregation. They wore robes of cloth-of-gold and nodded their heads as they chanted, rocking back and forth.
    ‘ Valac serviam. Valac dominus. Valac patrem. Valac omnipotentum. Valac invicta .’
    And so the chant went on, endless ramblings to a dark god. Blaklok had heard of Valac, a minor President of Hell, but who were this bunch of pretenders? Real demonists didn’t wear gold robes and they certainly didn’t gather in places like this where anyone could just waltz in.
    Blaklok couldn’t see Tarquin Bates anywhere in the room, he must have donned one of those ridiculous robes and joined in with the droning. Well, the least Blaklok could do was let them finish their worship before he introduced himself to the flock.
    After several minutes it seemed that they were going to carry on forever, and Blaklok began to reconsider his generous offer of allowing them to finish. Just as he was about to introduce himself, one of the robed figures at the front strode forward, taking centre stage. The mantra to Valac suddenly stopped, leaving an annoying ringing in Blaklok’s ears.
    The one at the front held up his arms, his hood falling back to show his face. A short, well-trimmed beard followed the line of his chin, and Blaklok was sure he had eyeliner on. The man didn’t say a word. From a side door appeared two more of the gold robed acolytes, guiding someone between them. From the shadows at the rear of the room, Thaddeus could see it was a small boy, most likely a street urchin from his scruffy garb and filthy face.
    In silence, the bearded leader circled the boy three times, then the child’s arms were held out by the two figures who had brought him to the stage. There was a murmur of sound from the assembled crowd, they seemed excited, anticipating what was to come, and Blaklok started to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut. Perhaps this bunch was a rabble of pretenders, but they obviously thought they were the real deal. Things were going to get nasty in a minute, and Blaklok was not just going to watch.
    Quick as a flash, the head man pulled a knife from within his robes. There wasn’t enough time to cross the room, too many people in the way. Thaddeus looked around for something, anything to use as a weapon. Lying next to his foot was a rusted canister, and he swiftly knelt to pick it up. Liquid sloshed around inside it. Good, he