by Thomas James
Angie shouted, “Enough, Necromancer!” Bowing her head, Angie raised her hands. The animated corpses halted their shambling gait, swaying on rotted legs. Angie clapped her hands together, producing a thunderous roar. The corpses fell to the earth, like puppets with their strings cut, lifeless husks once more. Sophia pointed a finely manicured hand and the corpses burst into vibrant ebony flames, consuming the carcasses in seconds.
Tomas let out a raspy shriek of rage, his scrawny frame shaking violently. Raising his claw-like hands yet again, he gestured frantically, shouting his incantation. On either side of the necromancer, the rotted floorboards erupted in a shower of dirt and splinters. Two huge monstrosities pushed up out of the despoiled earth, resembling a hybrid between man and beast.
Calmly Angie extended her right arm and a sword cloaked in viridian flames appeared in her outstretched hand. White radiant light engulfed Angie as dove-like wings expanded from her back, reaching above her head and descending to the floor. A dark, murky light encased Sophia as she too held a similar sword. Bat-like wings expanded from Sophia’s back, comparable in size to her companion’s wings.
“Necromancer, you have been judged and found wanting,” said Angie, her once lilting voice now icy cold.
“We, the Angels of Retribution, condemn you,” said an equally icy Sophia.
Together, the angels quoted, “As above, so below.” Melodious bells rang out.
The necromancer snarled and gestured to his undead pets. Bellowing rage and hate, the undead beasts leapt for their intended victims. Calmly, the angels stepped forward and eviscerated the cursed creatures, obliterating them. The angels advanced on withered wretch.
Cowering in terror, the necromancer screamed his defiance. Shrieks of agony soon replaced the screams of terror, as the twin flaming swords pierced his ancient flesh. The viridian flames decimated the body, leaving little more than ash that drifted down to the ground. Fires consumed the dried worm-eaten boards of the ruins. Angie and Sophia calmly walked out of the blazing edifice.
When at last the fires died down, the angels raised their swords above their heads and sheathed themselves in cylinders of viridian flame. A low moan rose into the night and then with a sudden flash, the blue-green flames vanished. Angie and Sophia stood as before, clothed in their form fitting leather.
Sophia said, “You do realize that we still have another assignment to do, and no car to get there.”
“As you said, ‘everything happens for a reason’.”
“That’s easy for you to say, it wasn’t your car.”
“You’re right. If it was my car, it would still be operational.”
“Why you sanctimonious, little ─
An impish smile played on across Angie’s lips and she said, “Happy Halloween.”
Sophia gritted her teeth and stalked off, trailed by Angie’s laughter.
###
Of Pagan Gods
I
History will show that in December of 1952 for a period of four days, all of London was covered by a cloud that deposited 5 tons of grime and soot on the city, causing the deaths of over 240 persons and doing millions of pounds of property damage. What history will not show is that I, William S. Seaborn, Englishman by birth and historian by trade, am the catalyst. I set these words to paper with the hope that it shall assuage my soul. Would that I had heeded the advice of my contemporaries rather than the desires of my heart. May God forgive me for my arrogance and for attempting to revive that which should remain forever lost.
My decline began June of that year. My academic studies at Eton College were finally complete and I was jubilant at the prospect of beginning my term as an instructor at the very same college. As I walked through those hallowed halls, my steps ringing against the oaken floors, the echoes rising up to the cathedral like ceiling, I could feel the history of the place weighing down upon me. All around me, history permeated every niche and crevice, from the paneled walls, glowing with years of polish, to the heavy doors and window frames. The very air was saturated with it. Ah history, if only I had pursued another venue, the tragedies I have witnessed might never have occurred.
My steps had taken me to the college library where I, like so many of my colleagues, spent many a night perusing the works of past historians: Polybius, Herodotus, Gibbons, von Ranke and Macaulay. As I wandered about my second home, motes of sunlit dust swirling in my wake, my gaze settled on the busts’ of several of these historical giants. Oh, how I yearned to be as they, my name and image immortalized for all of eternity.
I continued into a little used section of the library, of interest only to historians as myself. The immense oaken shelves ran from floor to a height whose upper reaches could only be accessed with the aid of a ladder.
I ran my hand along the worn and cracked leather bindings, my fingers leaving trails on the dusty surfaces. The familiar, musty, scent of ancient tomes filled my nostrils. All about my person, I sensed the ghosts of historians past and pictured myself among them as an equal. During my narcissistic musings, I inadvertently dislodged a book precariously balanced on the fourth shelf and sent it crashing to the hardwood floor. I was thankful that it was Saturday, for the resounding crash would have drawn the harsh reprimand of the Eton College librarian, an elderly gent whose countenance and demeanor were second only to his voice, which in of itself was reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. Still, I could not help but hunch up my shoulders and guiltily peer about. Having assured myself that I was indeed alone, I knelt down along the shelving to retrieve the fallen volume. It was then that I noticed what appeared to be an empty spot on the lowest shelf. Upon further investigation, I discovered the slot was not empty, but contained a tome set back in the recess.
Having retrieved and replaced the fallen volume, I knelt once again and withdrew the recessed book. As the tome slid into view, a sense of excitement and wonder filled me. Obviously, the book had not seen the light of day for quite some time judging by the layer of dust and cobwebs attached to the tome’s surface. Oddly, though as I carefully brushed away the debris, instead of a worn and faded binding, the tome glistened like a newly waxed floor, almost as if the leather binding absorbed the oils from my skin.
No title embossed the tome; however, the lower right hand corner displayed a rather curious symbol: a lightning bolt, crossed at the top, and a small circle on the right arm of the crosspiece. A small dash lay horizontally near the bottom of the bolt and a similar line, this one lying diagonally beneath the circle. Gently I opened the tome, desiring not to destroy any fragile pages, only to be amazed once again, for the irregularly cut pages, although yellowed with age, were as supple and pliable as a new born babe’s skin.
Eagerly I perused the volume, noting the script within, written in a hodgepodge of Latin, Greek, Arabic and an unknown language (unknown to me at least). Along the borders of the pages were symbols of runic origin. Odd sketches placed throughout the tome, both delighted and repulsed me. The ink was a vibrant red and black, almost like blood, fresh and old at the same time.
Shadows climbed higher in the library as the sun began its descent. I closed the tome, with the intention of returning it to the niche, when I felt an overwhelming desire to take the volume back to my lodging. I abhor thievery of any sort, but I could not prevent myself from absconding with my discovery.
Tucking the volume beneath my arm, I left the library and hastily walked back towards my lodgings. As I passed the statue of King Henry VI, the founder of Eton Preparatory School, a waxen moon hovered over the campus, creating a black and silver landscape that was devoid of life, for which I was grateful for, as I did not wish to explain my illicit behavior. Having gone no more than several steps, I halted. Ahead I could discern the sound of movement coming towards me out of the shadows. I hid myself in a heavily shadowed doorway.
I waited, motionless, when who should appear moments later, but the Eton College librarian and his cocker spaniel; a rambunctious dog with the unlikely name of Vulcan. A more unwa
nted meeting I could not imagine. I attempted to press myself into the heavy door behind me and held my breath, lest I give myself away.
The librarian paused and produced from an inner jacket pocket a large cigar. All the while Vulcan strained at his leash in a vain attempt to pull his master in my direction. The librarian bit the end off the cigar, spit it into the street, and then gave a gentle tug of the leash, admonishing the spaniel to desist. Vulcan ignoring his master’s command, began straining more vigorously, accompanying this with fervent barking. Sweat appeared above my clean-shaven upper lip, my heart racing and the blood pounding in my ears. I could see the librarian peering into the shadowed recess. I prayed silently, hoping against hope that the darkness and his failing eyesight would be enough for my continued concealment. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the old fellow lit his cigar and pulled the annoying pet away from my hidden location, all the while reprimanding the dog to be silent as there was nothing there.
I delayed my departure for several moments to ensure that I would not encounter anyone else. Shaken by the thought of almost being discovered, I very nearly ran all the way home, but with great restraint, I managed to contain myself. I have never been so joyous of viewing the front door of my Berkshire flat, as I was that night. Quickly, I unlocked the door and just as quickly entered. Refastening the bolt, I then rushed into my study.
I placed the stolen volume on my maple wood desk, amid other lesser books and notes. Lighting candles and an oil lamp (preferring the somber glow to that of the harsh electric lights), I then drew the heavy drapery, closing out the outside world. I moved to the bar and poured myself a healthy amount of apricot brandy, my nervousness apparent in the clinking of decanter and glass. I took a small sip, and relished in the burning but yet soothing sensation of the amber liquid.
Although I reside alone, thanks to a substantial inheritance, I secured the study against intrusion. Having at last recovered a modicum of safety, I made my way back to the desk and sat in the large, comfortable, leather chair. For some time I could only stare at the unknown tome. My mind raced between thought of my illegal activity and the belief that this book was somehow meant for me. I sipped slowly on the brandy, contemplating the tome. Where had it come from? What did the odd sigil mean? Who was the author of this magnum opus?
Reverently, I stroked the tome, running a finger over the embossed symbol. Thoughts of other lost writings entered my mind: the original ‘Sibylline Books of Prophecy’, the books of ‘Vennii’, the ‘Olgathi Manuscript’, the ‘Scrolls of Alexander’ and that most infamous of books, the ‘Necronomicon’. Mayhap the tome I now possessed could belong to one of these legendary compositions.
Opening the tome, I examined the intricate design of the ornamental lining, which while books of modern day may contain, seemed out of spec with the writings within. However, after constant scrutiny, the visage of a demonic leering imp revealed itself. I reached out a trembling forefinger and traced the imprinted pattern, marking a cold tingling sensation as it progressed from page to hand to arm. I withdrew my hand and sat in abject terror, for as I did so, the lining returned to its former design. I rationalized this disturbance as being under the influence of stress and alcohol.
Having justified my brief imaginative delusion, I once again set to translating the bizarre writings. Although I am literate in Latin, Greek and to some extent Arabic and excited at the prospect of the task before me, the process of translating such text was tedious and difficult owing to the lengthy passages and the unknown language dispersed throughout the pages.
The hour having grown late, I closed the tome, extinguished the candles, picked up the oil lamp and headed for my bedchamber. However, as I began exiting the study, I was overcome by a sense of panic. I rushed back to my desk and snatched up the unknown tome. Only then did my panic subside. I resumed my trek to my bed chamber, pondering the intense feeling of loss brought on by the thought of being parted from my ill-gotten treasure.
I placed the stolen volume and oil lamp on the nightstand and prepared myself for sleep. I climbed into the four-poster bed and slipped beneath the light covers. A slight chill racked my body and I was seized once again with a moment of panic. It was some time before the stress and alcohol wearied me enough to allow sleep to come. That was the first night of the dreams.
II
In the ethereal world of dreams, I found myself floating high amongst the clouds. I have had fanciful dreams of flight before, however I felt this to be something of far more significance. A pervasive tugging sensation began in the midst of my abdomen and I felt myself drifting. Below me, the shadowed streets of Berkshire fell away, my momentum increasing as the coastline drew near. Soon I was soaring out over the opaque, turbulent, waters of the Atlantic and I exulted in the freedom of unfettered flight. All too quickly, my avian experience ended, as I alighted upon the shores of a mist-covered isle.
I could see before me a foliage-choked path; winding its way through a dense tropical jungle. Having no other recourse, I followed the trail, noting as I did so the preternatural silence. Unnerved as I was by the quiet, I could no more resist the incessant pull than I could resist gravity in the waking world. Shortly I arrived at a small glen, containing an entrance to a dark cave. A warm, damp, breeze, coupled with the cloying scent of musk and decay billowed out from the inky darkness. Hesitantly, I took a step forward and immediately I was struck by what I can only describe as a wall of evil, the force so strong that I was driven to my knees. Breathing became difficult as the pressure mounted. After some minutes, the presence vanished. Frightened, I bound to my feet and turned to flee, only to discover that the trail was no more.
Desperately, I attempted to awaken but to no avail. A torrential rain arrived as if called up and then to my utter horror the trees and vines blackened and began encroaching upon the glen, forcing me to seek shelter in the ominous cave. With my first step into the cave, a great shaking and rumbling occurred and very nearly beneath my feet, a great maw opened in the earth, revealing a rock-hewn stairwell, the walls covered by a phosphorescent moss. The width of the stairwell was such that with my arms fully extended to both sides, I could just touch the walls with my fingertips.
The insistent pull drew me onward. I began my descent into the earth, the bioluminescence lighting the way. Along the moss-covered walls, I could vaguely distinguish various pictographs and glyphs. A droning, unintelligible whisper drifted up to meet me, the voices filling me with anticipation, the earlier sensation of evil forgotten in my excitement. I continued my descent, counting the steps as I went, but upon reaching 500, I gave up the task as a hopeless endeavor. Finally leg-weary and foot-sore (odd for a dream) the steps ended at an immense obsidian door, its glassy surface carved with intricate bas-relief characters. As I reached out to touch the frozen faces, torches set in corroded, iron, wall sconces flared to life, momentarily blinding me. Once my eyesight adjusted to the brightness, I sought a way to open the door, yet I could not locate a way to do so.
The voices continued to whisper, drawing me onward. Gently I ran my hands over the rough textures, marveling at the detailed features and gaunt characters, which were somehow familiar. A sudden throbbing vibrated through the glass-like barrier, matching the beat of the pulse in my wrist and I was astonished to see that the door appeared to be . . . breathing. The flaring torches sputtered and sparked, causing shadows to dance across the bas-relief surface. Mesmerized, I was unaware that my right hand had begun to sink into the door, until all of my fingers were submerged. Panicked, I attempted to remove my hand, but the door held it fast. I struggled mightily, yet I was drawn further into the obsidian surface.
I suddenly awoke screaming in terror, my heart beating so hard that I thought it would erupt. Gradually I calmed after realizing that I was lying tangled in my sheets. A powerful thirst and a desire for nourishment decided my next course of action. Freeing myself from the sweat-soaked, tangled mass, I stood and my legs were seized by a severe cramp forcing me to sit
until the pain subsided. Afterwards, I went to the window and drew aside the drapery. I peered out the window and could see that dawn was still a faint blush on the eastern horizon. Once again, feeling the pang of hunger, I turned from the window, when I heard the familiar sound of milk bottles rattling. Turning back, I opened the window and thrust my head out. I could see the local milkman making a delivery next door. I called out a greeting.
“Since when do you make deliveries on Sunday?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“Sunday?” came the reply, “Monday it is, Mr. Seaborn. Lost a day ‘ave you?”
Dumbstruck, I pulled my head back in, closed the window and returned to my bed, sitting on the still warm edge. How could I have slept a full day and night? My eyes drifted towards the unknown tome. Suddenly, the dream of what I presumed to be the previous night returned with a vibrancy of an electric shock; my trek through the jungle, the rain, my descent into the earth and that strange door. A shudder danced up my spine as I recalled how the door seemed to breathe with a life of its own.
The image of the bas-relief door struck a chord of familiarity and I picked up the tome, scanning its pages. There near the center of the book was an engraving of the very door. Perhaps I had seen the same engraving earlier and incorporated the picture in my dreams. On the opposite page, mention of the door appeared throughout the strange text. What I read terrified me to my inner soul. I was correct in assuming the door to be a living being, or rather an entity. The door was in actuality a daemon, one of four guardian daemons of a school of magicks. What I, in my ignorance, assumed to be stylized, bas-relief carvings were in truth those unfortunate souls, whom lacking the proper turn of phrase to appease the guardian, instead became entrapped, and tormented for all eternity.
From the passages that I could partially translate, I discerned that Dom-Daniel, the school of four-thousand steps, was created by the arch-magi Hal-Il-Mau-Graby as a training ground for those willing to surrender their immortal souls in exchange for supreme, godlike power. The school was thought destroyed by the caliph of Syria, al-Mansur. It was instead, shifted in time and place. My nerves danced on edge. Was Dom-Daniel a place of substance? Could my dreams be a gateway to this school? If so, then the importance to history, not to mention my career, would be tremendous.
