The Jealous God

by Brendan Carroll

  “Now who will be the sacrificial goat?” Jozsef looked about and the soldiers in the room with them looked a bit frightened. “Abaddon? What do you think?”

  “It matters little to me.” Schweikert shrugged.

  “Where are the three were here when we first arrived?” Jozsef asked the soldier at the door.

  “In the kitchen, sir!”

  “Fetch them.” Jozsef smiled and Mark’s heart sank. “They are old, but the effect should be sufficient.”

  “Your Excellency! This is not necessary,” the King protested. William Henry was ambitious. He was arrogant, egotistical and overbearing, but he was not accustomed to committing murder for entertainment purposes. His complexion had become a bit pasty, and his large eyes seemed watery as if he would cry.

  “Oh, but I’m afraid it is, Sire,” Jozsef said. “Our good Sir Ramsay needs to learn a bit of humility. He did after all volunteer to demonstrate his special talent. Otherwise, we might be willing to think, he was indeed threatening the Crown. Sometimes, it is quite necessary to put things in their proper perspective."

  "These men, all of them, are criminals of the most heinous order, Your Grace. None of them deserve less than death for the crimes they have perpetrated over the centuries. You have before you the longest running serial killer in all of history. Can you give us a tally on your victims, Sir Ramsay? Why do you think he is called King of Terrors by the Sumerians, Your Grace? Tell us, Lord Adar, how many have you killed with that shining blade? How many more have you killed without it?”

  “If you think I’m going to kill my own servants, you’re wrong,” Mark Andrew told them.

  “If the King commands it, then you will do it,” Jozsef retorted.

  “I dunna think so, sair.” Mark Andrew backed up a step.

  “You will or else you will perform your special rite on your brother, after I cut off his head in front of your eyes. What will you do?” Jozsef leaned toward him. “Kill all of us? I don’t think so.”

  The soldiers appeared at the door with Planxty, Stephano and Gil Pairaud.

  “Take them outside. We wouldn’t want to stain the rug,” Jozsef told them and took the King’s arm as the monarch swayed slightly. Abaddon pushed Planxty ahead of him and Stephano caught the rickety gardener when he tripped on the rug.

  When they were outside, the three candidates for murder were forced to kneel on the grass in front of the house. Jozsef remained a goodly distance away from them, and the soldiers formed a rough semi-circle with their rifles at the ready. The Ancient One drew his own sword and made Luke kneel in front of him.

  “Now! Choose your victim, Sir Ramsay,” he said. “And please, don’t make the King wait in the sun too long.”

  King William Henry stood on the steps watching this in fascination. He was truly horrified and could not believe what was happening, but neither he nor his soldiers dared to intervene. He had seen Jozsef’s power. He had felt the grip of darkness in his own head when they had met in London to view the head of Bran the Blessed, before it had been stripped of its deceptive covering of leathery skin and braided red hair. He was mortally afraid of the Prophet.

  Mark held the sword loosely in his right hand and walked along in front of the three men.

  “I would volunteer, Master," Planxty told him when he stopped in front of them. “Take me.”

  “No!” Stephano blurted. “Take me, Sir. I am ready to die.”

  Gil Pairaud looked about in panic. He was no former apprentice. He was not even a Templar. He was a fraud, not a Templar at all, and he was not ready to die. When Mark turned his deep blue eyes on him, he swayed slightly and then suddenly got to his feet. Mark raised one hand to stop him. There would be more bloodshed here than necessary if Gil ran.

  He needed time to think! Gil’s eyes flashed with panic, and Mark opened his mouth to say something to him, but the old chef shoved him roughly, said something in French and then bolted with surprising agility for a man his age, running toward the parked vehicles in absolute panic. An almost pitifully short burst of automatic weapons fire brought him down and riddled one of the cars with several jagged holes.

  No one made a move to go to the aid of the dying man. He tried to get up once more and then fell into the gravel. Again, Planxty swayed and Stephano caught him and stood him aright on his knees.

  “Take me, Master,” Stephano pleaded and smiled at Mark Andrew. “Planxty has a gift. The children need him to tell his faery stories.”

  “No! I couldn’t let you do it, Stevie, my boy.” Planxty shook his head. “They are all tired of me. Besides, they like your spaghetti better than mine, and we just lost our chef.”

  Mark was stunned by their reaction, but pleased and uplifted by their refusal to give this monster a show.

  “Enough!” Jozsef jerked Luke’s head back and pressed the blade closer. “Since they both volunteered and you seem to be unable to make up your mind, Sir Ramsay, take them both! See if you can take two heads with one blow!”

  “Brother!” Luke Andrew shouted at Mark Andrew and the movement caused a line of blood to flow down his neck. “You cannot do this for my sake!”

  Mark Andrew looked down at Planxty and then at Stephano. They were both smiling slightly at him, and he returned their smiles.

  “I would not want anyone else to kill me, Master,” Planxty told him. “I know you will do a fine job.”

  Mark Andrew nodded and stepped between them. The trees suddenly seemed brighter green than ever. The sky was the bluest he ever remembered seeing it and he felt light-headed. A feeling of complete peace washed over him. He turned about and touched Stephano’s head with the tip of the sword. “Raise your head a bit, my son.”

  The Italian straightened up a bit, crossed himself and then folded his hands in front of him.

  “Planxty? Are you ready?” The Irishman nodded and tilted his face toward the bright blue sky. Mark stepped up behind them and put his hand on Planxty’s shoulder, moving him slightly to the left. He stepped back again and seemed to be studying the best angle of approach. He looked at Jozsef and then at the King with a peculiar expression on his face. The King’s mouth fell open and Jozsef turned his head slightly to glance at Abaddon. Abaddon was frowning. He could not understand this at all. Even his former master had not been so cruel.

  “Remember, my sons, death is only a beginning, not an end. You have traveled this path well, and you will travel the next one with even greater ease,” he told them in a low voice. "Be still and hear the voice of God for He is calling to you."

  Mark nodded to Luke and then took a short step forward, raising the sword over his right shoulder. He dipped slightly turned completely around and brought the edge of the blade straight across Stephano’s right shoulder. The golden blade sliced through the Italian’s neck, barely losing any of its momentum, and then traveled on to the second victim. The entire event took less than three seconds and was all over. It was the first time he’d ever taken two heads at once, but it proved no more difficult than one.

  Before either body had time to fall, he was screaming and running toward his brother. The suddenness of the unexpected attack took Jozsef off guard, and Luke, still screaming 'No!' at the top of his lungs, took advantage of the moment to seize the hilt of his sword falling to the right onto his back. The general made a clumsy move to recover his master’s sword and quickly found it plunging through his stomach and out his back just below his left lung. Schweikert grabbed the hilt and fell back in astonishment, reaching for Jozsef’s arm. The Ancient Evil jerked his arm up and out of reach, turning away from the fatally injured Schweikert, at the same time, placing his back to Mark Andrew.

  Luke Matthew was up in an instance, grappling with Jozsef for a hold on the hilt of the sword protruding from Abaddon’s midsection as the dying man tried futilely to get away from them. The soldiers on the steps scattered haphazardly into the yard, leaving the King unprotected on the steps. Shouts went up in confusion and more gunfire erupted from the soldiers. B
ullets went everywhere except where they should have, as the confused soldiers tried to dodge each other and avoid shooting the Prophet.

  Mark plunged the golden sword into Jozsef’s back so hard the blade passed completely through him and sank into Schweikert’s thigh. Ernst Schweikert screamed at this new insult and then fell on his back wrenching Jozsef’s blade free of his stomach. Abaddon abandoned the hapless Schweikert as roiling gray mist and the once close friend of Konrad von Hetz, recovered himself only slightly before realizing his fate too late to prevent dying on the gravel in front of the great stone house in Lothian without his protector and benefactor.

  “Your Grace?” the dying man uttered his last question as he looked into the twisted face of Jozsef Daniel.

  The Ancient Evil continued his efforts to raise his sword against Luke Matthew's body in spite of his own injury, but he was rapidly losing ground as his blood ran out and down the golden blade onto the dead general at his feet. When Luke regained his feet, he simply twisted the hilt from his failing grip and stepped back. Mark Andrew placed one boot against his back and wrenched the golden blade free of both men. The divinely crafted blade now carried the blood of four men. Bullets continued to fly wildly about the lawn, striking the house and the vehicles parked in the drive as the soldiers abandoned the scene in wild retreat, running on foot toward the highway. Luke Matthew caught Jozsef when he fell, and then set him up on his knees in much the same position as he’d been held only moments before, exposing his neck for his brother’s blade. Mark Andrew drew himself up, stepped forward, dipped slightly and then stopped at the sound of his name.

  “Adar!” Lemarik’s voice drifted above the melee. “Stop! I beg you!”

  Mark Andrew turned slowly. The gunfire had ceased abruptly. Schweikert lay on his back staring at the sky from unblinking eyes. Dead, for all intents and purposes, but it was only the shell he had occupied. Abaddon was no longer in evidence anywhere. Jozsef clutched his stomach feebly as Luke held him up by his long hair. Lemarik stood on the steps, arrayed in his mirrored armor. A long, purple plume hung down his back and his eyes were wide beneath his helmet. He had one arm wrapped around the King’s neck, and the point of his broadsword pressed under the Royal chin.

  “Adalune!” Mark shouted at his son. "Stay out of this!"

  “Take his head, brother!” Luke shouted from behind him.

  “No! Please, my father, I beg you!” Lemarik shouted and turned back and forth looking for more dangers, causing his armor to sparkle and flash. The king’s personal guard stood on the lawn, unsure whether to join the soldiers or stay with their king. “Let him go!”

  The King’s soldiers perceived this new presence as being at least partially on their side even though he had their monarch by the throat.

  “Whattar ye doin’?!” Mark was appalled. His vision was still clouded with rage.

  “You cannot kill the Ancient One like that, and you will only destroy his body! He and his dark angel will take on new appearances and confound the hunt!” Lemarik shouted. “It is not time!”

  Mark Andrew looked about at the soldiers who had come together at the foot of the drive in a nervous group with the muzzles of their rifles pointed at them. Most of them had never seen the Mighty Djinni in any form and his sudden appearance had put a new twist on the situation. They were gradually edging back up the drive.

  “Wot d’ ye propose we do now, my son?” Mark asked the Djinni.

  “One moment.” Lemarik shifted his grip on the petrified King and put two fingers in his mouth. He let go a shrill whistle, and the King shrieked in terror. Lemarik choked him down to his knees and held him in place with one finger placed atop his head.

  Immediately, the sound of horse’s hooves filled the air. Luke and Mark looked about in astonishment as two columns of mounted Templar Knights in full battle armor rode from either side of the house and drew up short in the yard. The horses snorted and whinnied and reared in the air, pawing up bits and pieces of the lawn. They led three riderless horses, and they held their glittering array of ancient weapons in their hands. Two of the King’s guards fired short bursts of automatic rifle fire into the mounted Knights, and promptly, lost their heads before they could get off any more rounds from their weapons. The other soldiers, upon seeing this incredible sight, threw their rifles to the ground and fled down the drive toward the highway. This time, without looking back.

  “Go fetch!” Lemarik held up a red and white stick in his hand and then threw it out onto the lawn.

  The king hastened after it, barking like a dog, on all fours while the Templars looked on in approval.

  Several voices called insults after the luckless monarch.

  “We must make haste, my father!” Lemarik shouted above the noise of the horses, the baying of King William Henry and the clink of armor and chain mail. “The others come.”

  Already, two of the ATV’s patrolled the property were skidding into the gravel in the parking lot. The lead vehicle slammed on his brakes, and the one behind slammed into him. Two of the Knights rode down on the ATV and smashed the windshield with their maces. Luke let go of Jozsef’s hair, kicked him viciously as he fell to the ground and raised the sword over his head in frustration. He shouted something in Gaelic and struck the ground beside Jozsef’s head. He leaned over the prone figure and grabbed his hair again, pulling him halfway up.

  “I’ll be seeing you again, my friend!” he told him and then unceremoniously dropped him back on the ground. He walked to where Abaddon lay motionless in the grass and brought the blade down on his neck, cutting his head from his body in his rage. Ernst would not be back. He kicked the head across the grass, went back to kick Jozsef Daniel once more before making for one of the horses. Four of the Knights had dismounted and picked up Stephano and Planxty's bodies, placing their heads in cloth bags while Mark found one of the horses for himself. He brought the last horse to his son and mounted up.

  Mark galloped after the frolicking king and kicked him over in the grass. He leaned down from the horse and pressed the tip of the sword against his throat. “Yur Hoighness! I ’ope thot this afternoon’s entertainment ’as pleased ye well enough. When ye next desoire t’ see more bloodshed, feel free t’ visit me, and I will show ye some verra blue blood. Then maybe we can go on thot hunt ye proposed. I cud use a new ’ound.”

  The King’s eyes rolled up in his head as his body relaxed in a swoon in the grass. Mark Andrew rode up the steps into the house and into the parlor. He scooped the skull of Bran the Blessed from the coffee table, grabbed the insulated metal box and shoved the thing inside. His entire arm tingled at the contact. Tucking the box under his arm, he turned the prancing horse about on the rug and looked up at the portrait of his mother, smiling ruefully before riding back outside where Lemarik waited for him. The others were already galloping down the garden path toward the stables as the sound of distant gunfire echoed through the woodlands. Lemarik’s stallion reared once, and then they rode away together after the others, straight for the cairn in the meadow.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Curtis Franklin skidded to a stop in front of Omar’s desk and stood breathlessly waiting to be acknowledged. His dark eyes glittered with excitement, and his thick curly hair was tousled.

  “Curtis?” Omar looked up from the tiny golden bee, he had been perusing and frowned.

  Louis stepped back, and d’Brouchart laid another of the relics on the desk.

  “Your Grace, a thousand pardons for interrupting you, but there is news of Sir Ramsay… of the Sirs Ramsay.” The man was near panic.

  “What is it?” D’Brouchart stood up.

  “The King of England, William Henry, has issued death warrants for both of them. Something about an attempted regicide and a report of Templar renegades and another death warrant for someone called Adalune. Your father, I believe…” Curtis lowered his voice and glanced at d’Brouchart.

  “Great day in the morning!” D’Brouchart slapped the desk with one ha
nd. “Why would du Morte try to assassinate the King of England?”

  “Who knows?” Omar frowned slightly. “And my father? Who can answer for him? At least, we know that they are still alive.”

  “Of course they are still alive, Omar.” The Grand Master turned an outraged frown on the Prophet. “What else could they be?”

  “I’m quite sure there is more to this than meets the eye, Your Grace.” Omar shrugged. “I trust both my grandfather and my father enough to know they would not do such a thing unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  “Sir!” Barry interrupted the discourse. “I say it’s time we return to St. Patrick’s. If what Louis says is true then I will need to begin work on the robe. Time is drawing on to its inevitable end. We must be prepared.”

  Barry was anxious to get back home. He had barely had three weeks with Rachel after their marriage before he’d ended up in New Babylon without her. The last he had heard of her, she was expecting. For all he knew, she could have perished. Subjects of the same nature weighed on everyone’s minds. They all had family on the islands with the exception of Lavon de Bleu, but the French Knight was no less anxious to get away from Persia Major than the rest of them. Omar did not want them to go. He could not see his way to leave Prime Minister Ahmed with everything hanging so precariously in the balance, but he was determined to go with them when they left. He had made up his mind. His father had been right. This was not his world.

  “It would appear we have been gone too long.” The Master acceded and then turned to Omar. “How long do you need to make preparations for the trip?” It was quite evident the Master did not like consulting with an apprentice as to when and whither the Order might go. Omar’s reticence galled the man to no end. To d’Brouchart, it seemed the Prophet was simply wasting time here. Prime Minister Ahmed could sink or swim. There were too many things at stake to worry about New Babylon’s fate at the moment. The world no longer looked to Omar for leadership.