by Mark Carver
“I don’t understand....”
“He’s ignoring us,” Patric declared forcefully. “He allows His enemy to run rampant in this world, unchallenged, except by His church which, pardon me, Father, has become quite impotent.”
Father DeMarco cleared his throat as he gazed down at his folded hands. “I admit that you are right, at least in part. The Christian church has become quite impotent. It was meant to be God’s hand of justice and mercy upon the earth while we awaited His return, but fear and internal strife tore it apart, and the only challenges we can muster are sporadic acts of violence like those your brother has perpetrated.”
“So why do you continue in this way? Clearly, your God has abandoned you; why not abandon Him?”
Father DeMarco gazed firmly at Patric and spoke in a low, measured tone. “Because if I give up God, I am left with my own emptiness, and I have experienced the abyss of aimless existence, long before I took my vows. The other alternative is to swear allegiance to your master, and that is quite plainly out of the question.”
Patric met his gaze as he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want to offend you, Father, but it looks like my side is winning. You may not have a choice soon.”
Father DeMarco smiled dryly. “My son, there is always a choice.”
Patric shifted in his chair. “We’ll see.”
The storm outside had dissipated, and the room was starting to feel stuffy.
“What happens now?” Patric asked, eager to change the topic.
“I have contacted some brothers and sisters who live close by. They will come at dawn with some food and other supplies, and they can take both of you where you need to go.” Father DeMarco coughed uncomfortably. “They will also help me bury the bodies.”
Patric had almost forgotten the horrific event that had brought him to this monastery. The image of the pale, glistening bodies lying in the mud flashed through his mind.
Father DeMarco tilted his head, his eyes lost in the shadows as the candlelight flickered across his weathered face.
“You still haven’t told me why you came here looking for your brother.”
Patric heaved a weary sigh. “I’m sorry Father, but that is my business. Coming here was an act of desperation anyway.”
“One that God saw fit to bring to fruition.”
“I don’t care how it happened; I’m just glad that my brother is alive, and we’re going to leave together.”
“We aren’t going anywhere.”
Patric and Father DeMarco looked up in surprise. Tourec’s figure formed a dark shadow in the even darker doorway, and his eyes shimmered with the glow of the candle.
“Tourec,” Father DeMarco said as he rose to his feet and moved towards the door, “you shouldn’t be up. You need to rest and recover your strength.”
Tourec took a step forward and masked a grimace of pain. “I’ll live.”
He looked down at his half-brother, and there was harshness in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the grateful, even warm expression on his face when he first saw Patric. He gingerly stretched out his arm and brought a chair close and sat heavily upon it.
Seeing that there was no way to convince Tourec of the necessity of bed rest, Father DeMarco returned to his seat next to the desk. For a few moments, the three men sat in silence, their shadows twisting and jerking on the walls.
Patric glanced sidelong at Tourec, and his eyes fell on his brother’s bandaged left hand. The white bandage was fresh yet it was already stained with blood. Tourec looked at Patric and saw where his eyes were directed, and he tucked his hand under his right arm.
Father DeMarco regarded the two brothers for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked Tourec.
“No, thank you,” Tourec answered, still looking at Patric.
Patric exhaled, causing his necklace to sway against his chest. He looked down at the gleaming pentagram, then back at his brother.
“What are you doing here, Patric?” Tourec demanded coldly.
Patric licked his dry lips and said nothing. Father DeMarco immediately sensed his discomfort and excused himself.
“I’m sure you gentlemen have a lot to talk about, so I will leave you two alone.”
He lit a second candle and slipped noiselessly out of the room.
The silence in the air was so thick that the flickering candle flames seemed to shout. Patric kept his eyes on the floor, while Tourec kept his eyes on Patric.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
His icy words hung in the air like a chilling fog. Patric locked his fingers and straightened his spine.
“I came looking for you.”
Tourec’s face transformed into an expression of complete surprise. “Looking for me?”
Patric nodded simply.
Tourec looked about the room in bewilderment. “We haven’t seen each other or spoken in years. Why would you suddenly want to find me?”
“We need to go to Paris.”
The room was silent again, and the candle flames trembled.
“Paris?” Tourec blurted loudly. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t explain it right now. But it is very, very important that you come with me to Paris.”
Tourec’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s in Paris, besides sin and death?”
Patric looked at his feet. “I’m not sure,” he replied quietly.
Tourec peered at him in utter confusion. “I don’t know what is going on, Patric, but you had better give me some answers.”
Patric stared into the candle flame.
…Or the child dies....
“Someone told me to bring you to Paris.”
“Who told you this?”
“I don’t know.” The lie stung Patric’s tongue.
Tourec slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “This is ludicrous. If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He turned and wrenched open the door, then stopped and looked back at Patric. “Why did you come here?” he asked sharply.
Patric shook his head, his eyes still resting on the floor. “I told you, I came looking for — ”
“Why did you come here, to this monastery?”
Patric looked up at his brother. “Mother told me.”
Tourec slowly closed the door and sat down again. “You saw Mother? When?”
“Two days ago. Just before....”
Patric caught himself before he said too much. Tourec leaned closer.
“Before what?”
“Nothing.”
“So how is Mother?”
“Sick. And disappointed, in both of us.”
Tourec stiffened with indignation. “I wasn’t the one who turned my back on our family’s faith and pledged my soul to the King of Hell.”
A quarrelsome fire roared to life in Patric’s heart. “And I’m not the one leaping into temples during mass and slaughtering priests in front of their congregations!”
The brothers glared at each other, fuming in silence. Then, as quickly as it had flared, Patric’s fighting instinct wilted, and he hung his head.
“When I saw the look in her eyes, that look, I almost felt ashamed of my faith.” He looked up at Tourec. “But I make no apologies for what I believe. I chose this path, and I may not like where it has taken me, but I have no choice but to continue.”
Tourec frowned. “What do you mean?”
Patric sniffed and gazed at the candles in silence. Then he looked up at Tourec. “So what happened to you? Why…why all of this?”
Tourec exhaled in a slow, measured breath. “When I came here many years ago, I was so full of zeal; I wanted to be more than just a scholar or minister. Father DeMarco can tell you what a hard case I was.”
Patric smirked. “He did.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “He also told me about Isabella.”
Tourec stifled a gasp. He looked at Patric with sorrow in his eyes. “Well, then I
guess you know what sent me over the edge. After she…after that day, my anger, my rage was so intense, I had to unleash it somewhere, on someone.”
“Jerusalem,” Patric said quietly.
Tourec nodded. “The things I saw there…I lost myself in that place. But I knew my mission was righteous.”
His eyes flickered with a glint of accusation. “Those animals I fought were your compatriots.”
“Listen, I claim no loyalty with them,” Patric replied. “Just because we are on the same side does not mean we are alike. I just wanted to live my life in freedom and indulgence; I never wanted to hurt anyone who didn’t share my faith, and I certainly didn’t want any kind of war like we have now.”
His last sentence returned Tourec’s accusatory tone. He looked at his brother and narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come back to Europe, and what the hell made you start this terrorism nonsense?”
Tourec didn’t know how to respond at first, and his mouth gaped open but no words came out. He looked at his hands like he was reading a book, and his reply was robotic, as if he were rehearsing lines for a play.
“I could no longer defend a distant land while my home was falling to ruin and decay under — ”
“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense!” Patric cried. “Why did you start murdering priests?”
“Because they deserve it!”
Patric recoiled at his brother’s outburst. Tourec’s face was a mask of primal, savage fury, and his eyes flashed with murderous fire.
“They all deserve it!” he roared. “You go to those services; you’ve see the debauchery, the filth, the mutilations and lewdness, and you all love it! I know; I’ve seen it with my own eyes! I saw them....” His voice vanished, and he turned away.
Patric leaned forward cautiously. “What did you see?”
Tourec hastily wiped his eyes, hoping Patric didn’t notice. “In Jerusalem, I attended a Black Mass service. I wanted to see what exactly I was fighting against, so I disguised myself and joined the congregation inside the temple. It was…a consecration service.”
Patric had witnessed several consecration services, in which a virgin pledges her body to the church of Satan. He had even once taken part in the ceremony, and though Natasha never said anything about it, it was clear from her mood afterwards that she was clearly uncomfortable with his participation.
“I saw them bring the girl to the altar,” Tourec went on, “and those…those animals, climbing over her, violating her again and again…it was horrifying. After it was all over, the girl came down from the altar, bleeding, humiliated, ashamed. I could see it in her eyes. And then, I swear to my dying day, she looked right at me. Her eyes bore so much sorrow; I couldn’t stand it, and I left. After that day, I knew my efforts had been directed at the wrong targets. It wasn’t enough to stand guard at the foot of Golgotha or fight off pillagers at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher; I knew I had to cut off the source of this evil: the temples. This is where the ideologies come from, and that is what inspired those heathens to attack us and our holy places.”
He glared at Patric, proud and unapologetic.
Patric kept his eyes level with his brother’s gaze.
“So what happened?” he asked.
“I met an Italian bishop and conveyed my wish to take the church of Satan head-on. He told me that he was assembling an elite force for just such a task. I was taken to a training camp and was taught the art of combat by retired members of the Foreign Legion. Then we made our way back to Europe, and now here we are.”
Patric snorted in contempt. “Well, great job you did. You only succeeded in bringing down the guillotine on the neck of your precious ‘Body of Christ.’ Did you honestly think the Christian church was going to rise up against the forces of Satan and prevail against us in some kind of grand Armageddon? You started a war, Tourec, and you are going to lose, and your God doesn’t even care.”
“If there is any fault, it is with us, the believers. God’s will is always perfect, but He entrusts His will to us, and sometimes, perhaps often, we distort it or simply screw it up. But He does care, Patric. I can feel Him in my heart, always, wherever I go. He hasn’t abandoned His children.”
“Then why hasn’t He done anything to help you?”
Tourec stared directly into his brother’s eyes. “He will.”
The door creaked open and Father DeMarco timidly poked his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but I figured since Tourec was up and about, I would fix us a bit of a midnight snack. If you’re hungry, please join me in the cellar for a bite.”
He glanced at Tourec. “I imagine we have a lot to talk about.”
The brothers looked at each other for a cold moment, then rose to their feet and followed the priest out of the room.
****
The Voice closed the book of incantations and gazed solemnly out upon the assembly of monks, priests, priestesses, and other assorted clerical nobility.
“My friends — tomorrow, I, and several of you, embark on a sacred pilgrimage to the birthplace of our faith. Many have asked, ‘Why now, especially in these turbulent times?’ To such questions, I say, ‘What better time than now?’ What better time to show the strength of our order than to journey, in the open, defiant against any threat, to that hallowed city from whence the chasm of hell opened and spewed forth Satan’s fury and wrath upon a complacent and docile world? Ah, what a day, what a glorious day that was! My skin trembles at the memory, watching the monument to the Delusionals’ folly crumble like melting snow before the blazing sun! The legions of hell swarming over the masses, turning men into maniacs, in a glorious symphony conducted by our Great Lord — may his wrath consume the nations! May the hearts of the proud and the self-righteous wither before the flames of damnation! Let him who boasts, boast not of his wisdom, or riches, or strength, or status, but let him boast that he is a servant of the Almighty Dragon, who subdues the kingdoms of man!”
“Ave Satanas!” the congregation responded.
Blood pumped furiously through His Worship’s veins and he couldn’t help but smile as he gazed out across the soaring sanctuary, every seat filled with black-robed servants of the Most High Master of Darkness. He closed his eyes, soaking up the energy rising throughout the great hall.
“My brothers and sisters, we shall go to Paris and declare to the world that the Jesus Christ is dead! He raised not a finger, He spoke not a word, to help His deluded children in their adversity. Even now, we mock His name, and no judgment befalls us! What manner of God is this, whose impotence becomes more apparent with each passing day?”
The Voice of Satan picked up a silver crucifix from the pulpit and held it high for the congregation to see. The assembly hissed like a brood of vipers, and the Voice grinned, his gleaming teeth like fangs. He turned the cross upside-down, to cheers and applause. He then raised his eyes towards heaven, and after muttering an unintelligible prayer, spit upon the crucifix.
The cries emanating from the crowd increased dramatically. Fists rose in the air, and the name of God was blasphemed in countless ways. Holding the crucifix like a dagger with which to stab the earth, His Worship closed his eyes and dropped the silver cross into a shallow red pool that lay beneath the altar. Blood splashed upon the steps, and great cheers arose from the assembly.
His Worship spread his arms, welcoming the adoration of the congregation.
“My friends,” he proclaimed, “my family, we go to Paris to proclaim the second age of Lucifer. Let the black sun rise upon the Kingdom of Hades, and let the doubters tremble with mortal terror. This world belongs to Satan, and we are his children.”
“Ave Satanas! Veni, Agio o Infernus!”
Immediately, the sanctuary was filled with a low, droning sound, like the hum of a giant machine. The great chandeliers looming above flickered momentarily, then dimmed. The members of the congregation began whispering amongst themselves, then gasped as their eyes turned towards the Voice standing with his arms spread above
the altar.
His eyes were black as oil and blood streamed from his fingertips, falling in large drops upon the pristine marble floor. As if tethered together by one giant leash, the congregation knelt in unison, some uttering whispered prayers to their Prince of Darkness. Their heads were bowed, but their curiosity overcame them, and they timidly glanced up at the pontiff, who was crucified against the air.
His mouth opened, and a voice came out that was not his own.
“The proud shall fall, and the mighty shall weep. Woe, woe unto those who hear but do not hear. The temple shall be cleansed with blood and fire, and the damned shall reap the harvest of their own deception. Woe, woe unto those who hear but do not hear.”
Several bulbs in the chandeliers exploded in a shower of sparks, and the congregation gasped and hid their faces. The buzzing sound quickly vanished, and the light returned.
The Voice of Satan felt as if his body had been hurled down a mountain. His knuckles were white as he clutched the pulpit for stability. He looked out over the congregation with wide, terrified eyes.
A flash of movement at the rear of the sanctuary caught his attention. He leaned forward, peering across the massive hall.
The woman in black smiled coldly, then opened the colossal doors with ease and disappeared into the darkness.
****
Patric felt himself begin to slip out of sleep. He was on the verge of waking, as if emerging from a mist-shrouded path. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open and he jerked upright in his chair.
“What — !”
Tourec smiled and put a finger to lips. “It’s all right, brother. It’s morning, and Father DeMarco says that some friends of his will arrive soon. We must get ready to leave with them.”
Patric rubbed his eyes and nodded blearily. He was shocked that in spite of his wounded state, Tourec had not only awoken before him, but seemed quite refreshed and energetic.
“Yeah, okay…” he mumbled, fighting away the last foggy tendrils of sleep.
Tourec gave his shoulder another squeeze, then left the room. Patric watched him leave, studying his measured steps and his stocky, stiffened shoulders. His arms were perpetually cocked like weapons ready to be used. This image contrasted sharply with his childhood memories of his brother as a lanky teenager with searing eyes.
