Ruairí didn’t respond, seemingly absorbed entirely by what he read. Argyll went to speak again but held his tongue. This was an important moment for the Human, he reasoned, so best to let him have it. For a few minutes, anyway.

Ruairí continued to read, lips moving silently. Every so often, he’d shake his head in disbelief and flick the page. Or often he’d flick the page back, to re-read something, then move a few pages forward.

Then, abruptly, with the turn of another page, Ruairí screamed.

This was no scream of fright, or of excitement, but a disturbing, high-pitched wail that resounded through the room. With the tome still clutched in his hands, and his eyes locked onto it, Ruairí fell to his knees.

“Nooo!” he cried, prolonging that howling syllable until his voice broke. His face contorted into a twisted expression; his eyes shut tight and his mouth fell ajar. He gasped, trying to catch a breath that would not come, and when it did, he inhaled with another maddening note. Once his lungs were full, he shrieked again, louder this time, with the faint impression of no-no-no-no behind the inhuman screech.

“Ruairí!” yelled Argyll, still stationary and seated across the room. “What’s wrong?”

But only a deranged barrage of sobs answered him, which spluttered out of Ruairí’s heaving chest.

“They… found Him,” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “In the Glenn….”

“Ruairí,” said Argyll, in a softer tone now. He held out a hand. “This was a mistake. Put the book back and let’s return to the others.”

“In that valley,” whimpered Ruairí. “They found no god.”

“Yes,” said Argyll. “It’s just a book, we don’t need to take it with us.”

“We were created… we were created only to find Him….”

“Come on, Ruairí. Let’s go.”

“Only to find him, and to aid him…. He created the Tapestry… and the Godslayer… her purpose is only… only to….”

To Argyll’s relief, Ruairí put the tome down. But with horror, he saw that the zealot now held a firearm in his hand.

He pointed it at Argyll.

“They knew!” rasped Ruairí. “This whole time… they kept this from us!”

Argyll raised his hands in submission. “Put the weapon down, Ruairí,” he said. “Please, we need to return to the surface. Now.”

“He is not a god,” said Ruairí, with a weak, breathy laugh. “There is no god. There is no… purpose.”

“Ruairí, please.”

“There once was a purpose,” he said, looking back at the book. He turned another page, his armed hand lowering the weapon slightly as he did. “But we served it. We served it long ago, and life was meant to end when we did.”

“Ruairí.…”

Abruptly, he aimed the firearm at the ceiling. “We studied the plans of this place, for so long. So long. Do you know what is above, Argyll? Directly above us?”

Argyll shook his head.

“The stores… the stores of focus crystals, blues and reds and greens and whites. The power to mend, and the power to break. The strength of fire, of the earth, or water and of ice. But our people are looting those that produce ice. Those that chill the air.”

Where is he going with this? Argyll frantically looked around the room for a means to help, but found only dusty old artefacts of a world long left behind.

“With the blue focus-crystals taken, we’ve left an imbalance… now the fire crystals above us are unstable. What would it take, to cause them to expel their force?”

“No,” said Argyll. He gripped the thin steel sheets that covered the tops of the chair’s wheels.

“One bullet,” said Ruairí, pointing the firearm at Argyll again, then back to the ceiling. “If I shoot, the fire crystals would catch alight, and in the absence of the ice to chill the room, they’ll come crashing down upon his heretical place!”

Ruairí, keeping the firearm pointing upwards, turned his attention back to the tome. He muttered as he flicked through the pages with his other hand, shaking his head in disbelief.

He underestimates me, thought Argyll. Slowly, he went to work. He reached beneath the steel sheets of his chair and undid a mechanism holding them in place. Daring not to blink or take his eyes off Ruairí, Argyll removed both steel plates, revealing the full circumference of the wheels on either side of him. They rose over his seat, just as he had designed them to. And running around the outside of each wheel, was a raised rim.

Not making a sound, Argyll stretched both hands outwards, the steel plates clenched tightly in both. He knew any sudden movement would be enough to cause the madman to shoot.

Therefore, he had to make this one sudden movement count.

Just as Ruairí leafed through the book again, Argyll threw both steel plates up into the air.

Before they fell back towards the ground, Argyll gripped the rims of both wheels of the chair, and pushed as hard as he could.

The chair propelled forward under his force, and Argyll pushed again. With a crash, the steel plates hit the ground, and Ruairí quickly turned towards Argyll. Upon seeing the Simian darting towards him, Ruairí pointed the firearm forwards.

But Argyll was already too close.

With one hand, Argyll pushed his body from the chair, and with the momentum he had already attained, he leapt through the air. With his other hand, he reached for Ruairí’s throat.

Argyll fell upon the Human, Ruairí’s neck wrapped firmly in the Simian’s fingers. Ruairí coughed and spluttered and attempted to fight off his attacker, but Argyll was far too strong. He added another hand, and Ruairí’s face turned from red to purple.

After a moment’s struggle, Ruairí stared up at Argyll through maddened, dead eyes.

Argyll sighed, rolled off the Human’s body, and crawled back towards his chair. With some effort, he re-seated himself in it, and took a moment to catch his breath.

Before making a move to leave, he looked behind him. Next to Ruairí’s body was the book. The Truth. For a moment, Argyll considered it. Thinking first he should leave it, then second that he should read it.

Instead, he picked it up, tucked it into his coat pocket, and turned himself around to roll back towards the cargo lift.

Chapter 20:

The Truth

We are here because we have seen too much yet learned so little. Only by sharing the sights of our Seeings can we truly know the way of the Lord. Some of our brothers and sisters have gone mad from their revelations, but it is they who should feel sorry for us, for only they have seen the face of God.

Sermon of the Sons of Seletoth, from God’s Blood, 4:21

***

The door closed behind Fionn with a slam. Faced with a darkened corridor, he flared the fire in his fingers, and stepped forward.

He’ll help us, he thought, his heartbeat pounding in his skull. He must.