Abomination by Gary Whitta Page A

Aethelred’s curses. It was only by happenstance that he had not been targeted and turned into some dire beast that his own comrades would have been forced to put down. Cuthbert spent most of that night throwing up, but by then his actions on the field had earned him Wulfric’s esteem, and by extension the esteem of all the men.
    Cuthbert had also proven invaluable as a curator and archivist of the many and varied forms of misshapen wretch that Aethelredhad taught himself to conjure. Many of the beasts had dispersed, in all directions, after the battle at Aylesbury, and they were now scattered far and wide throughout the kingdom, living and lurking in the shadows, masterless and wild. They had become the basis for a new folklore fast spreading throughout southern England: nightmarish stories told around campfires and to restless children about dark, malevolent, shapeless horrors that stalked their prey—animal and human alike—by night, taking whatever or whomever they could find and dragging their prey screaming into the darkness to be fed upon.
    Wulfric’s men had encountered more than a few of these feral types during their pursuit of Aethelred after Aylesbury, and after each kill Cuthbert took pains to catalogue it in his own bestiary, kept carefully in a leather-bound volume. He made detailed drawings of each species they came across, taking note of its behavioral characteristics, speed, strength, intelligence, and preferred method of slaying, thus making the next confrontation with a beast of the same type that much swifter and less likely to result in casualties. Cuthbert’s work was as exhaustive and scholarly as it was useful in its practical application, and even Wulfric admitted to finding it darkly fascinating. It took him back to his boyhood, when his father would teach him to study and identify various forms of insect life. Now the insects were twice the size of a man and could kill you from twenty feet away, but the principle was the same.
    Cuthbert arrived red faced and out of breath. He tried to speak but was too winded for words to come.
    “Take a breath, boy!” barked Edgard. “A knee, if you must.”
    Cuthbert took a moment to regain his composure and catch his breath. “I’m sorry. Sir Wulfric, you have need of me?”
    “A few nights ago you told me of another spell in Aethelred’s scrolls that you had begun to translate before his escape,” said Wulfric.
    It took a moment for Cuthbert to recall the conversation. “Oh! You mean the scrying?”
    “Yes. Can it be done?”
    Cuthbert hesitated. “I’m not sure. My translation was incomplete, and—”
    “But what you did translate, you remember precisely.” By now, Wulfric had learned that Cuthbert’s claim of a flawless memory was not unfounded.
    Cuthbert nodded.
    “Excuse me,” Edgard interjected, “but what exactly are we talking about here?”
    “From my understanding of the scrolls, scrying allows a person to see what is elsewhere,” said Cuthbert. “The spell describes the use of a reflective medium such as polished metal or a pool of still water to project the image of a distant location exactly as it appears at that moment, like a window into that faraway place. I have done my own study on this, and I believe it may be possible to go further, to actually cast an immaterial projection of oneself into that place, and to explore it remotely, just as though one were actually there.”
    “And you can do this?” Wulfric asked, intrigued.
    “In theory,” said Cuthbert. “But in matters of magick, it is often a far cry between theory and practice.”
    “I need you to try,” said Wulfric. “I need to know what lies in wait within the cathedral before I commit my men. That knowledge could be the difference between victory and defeat, or at the very least determine how many of us survive the day. Do you understand?”
    Cuthbert was silent as the weight of what Wulfric was asking began to sink in. He began to wonder what he might