The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  What do I do? his soul cried out in panic. What do I do?

  A soothing wave of bizarre calmness washed over him, and a small voice inside whispered, First, get down from these deadly stairs.

  Patric took a deep breath, then followed the command. Once on solid ground, he glanced up again, afraid of losing sight of his destination. He felt a palatable sense of comfort when he saw the temple spire, like a lost child finding his father again in a crowd.

  He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then flung his wet hair away from his eyes and melted into the streets of the Latin Quarter, which was rapidly filling with people being summoned by the continuously thundering bells.

  I’m going to find you, you bastard, his spirit snarled within him. His rage began to boil and his face became dark with fury as he quickened his steps. Perhaps even more than wanting to save Natasha, he wanted to find his brother and break that son of a bitch’s teeth.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Give me strength,” Tourec breathed, “give me strength....”

  His sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel as he navigated the blighted streets, searching for a way out the mire of pulverized buildings and rotting piles of garbage. Yet it wasn’t his lack of direction that fueled his anxiety; his heart thundered within his chest as he realized that every moment drew him closer to his destiny. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, he didn’t know what would happen afterwards, but he knew that he was going to silence the Voice of Satan.

  And the world would watch.

  Then, like the sun bursting through the clouds, the road opened out onto a large, swooping roundabout. Tourec rejoiced, even though he was trading a maze of ruins for an impassable swamp of cars. The traffic on the roundabout was at a virtual standstill, but Tourec took heart as he saw the sea of metal and glass, since this meant he was close to the center of the action.

  A glance out of the passenger window confirmed this: the blasphemous spire of the Temple of the Dragon rose high in the air, soaring over the expanse of humanity that was gathering in its shadow.

  Tourec’s nerves started to tingle with anticipation. Amazingly, he found a place on the curb to park the car, and he was thankful for the vehicle’s small size as he squeezed it in between two delivery trucks. As he stepped out and joined the throngs on the sidewalk, he glanced back at the car, unsure if he would ever come back to it. He made a mental note of the surrounding buildings and landmarks, just in case.

  An image of Patric suddenly flashed through his mind.

  You left your brother on the side of the road. In the rain.

  Tourec inhaled deeply and winced as he felt the painful expansion of the muscles encasing his bruised ribs. He flipped his hood over his head and gritted he teeth as he walked.

  He made his choices. He chose darkness instead of the light, and now he reaps what he has sown. Allegiance to God is more important than family....

  His restless spirit raised no counter-argument and he continued towards the temple. The bells rang out at seemingly random intervals, sending shockwaves reverberating through the streets below.

  Tourec kept his head low but occasionally ventured a glance at the incredible chaos surrounding him. Police barriers held the traffic back one hundred meters from the temple and the streets and sidewalks weaving around the temple were absolutely clotted with people. The atmosphere was festive and riotous, with every manner of music and song ringing out over the crowd. Revelers were clad in eye-popping outfits— some sinister, some outlandish, some outright ridiculous, and some were clad in nothing at all besides spatters of paint or stickers slapped onto bare skin.

  The air reeked of alcohol and exotic smoke flavors, and Tourec had to step carefully around numerous bodies passed out on the ground or engaging in hazy, frantic intercourse.

  Have mercy, he prayed, recoiling in horror at the new depravities that each moment revealed to him. The crowd was dotted with numerous police officers who looked on with solemn faces but made no efforts to interrupt the revelry. Surprisingly, no one seemed to pay Tourec any mind, and he realized that his silver crucifix was hidden in the folds of his robe. He guessed that people mistook him for one of the numerous Druids skulking amongst the crowd.

  He felt like an exhausted swimmer lost at sea. Glancing around for any kind of direction, he spotted a rather somber looking woman clad in relatively ordinary attire and approached her.

  “Excuse moi, mademoiselle,” he said.

  The woman turned and gazed at Tourec with glassy eyes. Tourec suppressed a gasp of surprise. The right side of the woman’s face, which had been hidden from his view, sported dozens of gold rings piercing the skin in every conceivable place.

  “Yes?” she answered in a smooth, chocolate voice, and her eyes continued to stare through Tourec as if he were a window.

  Tourec cleared his throat. “When does...His Worship arrive?”

  The woman stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “He is in the city now.”

  She pointed a long red fingernail towards a large fabric screen that had been erected a short distance away. It displayed live footage of the pontiff’s motorcade crawling through the streets of Paris amidst a shower of flowers and other tokens of adoration. The Voice himself, wearing a flowing black robe and miter, was perched atop an ornate golden chair mounted on the back of an ancient yet pristine black luxury sedan.

  Tourec hastily thanked the woman and elbowed his way through the crowd, struggling to get closer to the images. As he approached the screen, he noticed a distinct change in the crowd’s behavior. The primal excesses of those gathered on the outskirts began to fade away, replaced by authentic reverence and worship offered by genuine devotees to Satan. Tourec could feel a very real presence, something oppressive and dark that seemed to permeate the crowd like an invisible fog. People were chanting in bizarre tongues, feverishly clutching Satanic icons and books and staring up at the looming screen in tearful adoration. The drunken revelers on the fringes of the crowd seemed like rambunctious children free from parental supervision, but these who huddled close to the temple belonged wholeheartedly to the Prince of Darkness.

  Tourec wiped his brow, surprised that he was sweating despite the cooling temperature. Although it was only late afternoon, a chilling breeze began to sweep through the city. Flags flapped and fluttered nervously, and the trees trembled. The dark presence that surrounded him weighed heavily on his spirit, and his heart cried out for heaven’s strength. He kept his gaze focused on the giant screen that tracked the pontiff’s progress through the city streets.

  A chorus of voices rose above the din of the crowd, and Tourec turned his attention away from the screen. He strained to hear what was being said, and he began moving towards the voices. He stopped in his tracks as he saw a cross hoisted above the crowd and a cluster of Benedictine monks chastising the crowd and exhorting them to turn from their imminent damnation. Those closest to the monks hurled profanity and insults at them, but the monks were largely ignored, by pilgrims as well as police.

  Tourec stared at the brave men for a moment, trying to decide if he should join them or melt back into the crowd. Before he could make a decision, one of the monks spotted him and reached out his hand.

  “Come, brother,” he said in a voice that was soft yet stern. “Stand with us — raise your voice against the devil!”

  Surprised that he could be distinguished from the hordes of other hooded figures in the crowd, Tourec stammered incoherently as he was pulled into the group that clustered together like pioneer wagons circling to fend off hostile attackers.

  “Repent, ye wayward souls!” the monks shouted, raising their fists and crosses in the faces of the revelers. “The gates of hell are quaking, and the lake of fire burns hotter with your sins!”

  Tourec watched in amazement as these brethren assailed the forces of evil with boldness in the face of scorn and humiliation. Several irritated members of the crowd threw water, beer, or food at the monks, who made no att
empts to dodge the missiles. Tourec soon found his robe stained and soiled in several places, but he found the abuse strangely invigorating. For a moment, he forgot about the miraculous gun tucked beneath his robe and joined in the calls for repentance.

  An eruption of cheers and applause from the farthest fringes of the crowds grabbed Tourec’s attention. In the distance, as if he were floating over the heads of the crowd, the Voice of Satan himself drifted through the ocean of outstretched arms, his black garments shimmering in spite of the overcast sky. Tourec couldn’t see his face but he imagined a smug smile and arrogant eyes looking down in masked contempt upon the legions of loyal devotees. Tourec clenched his fists and his heart burned with anger. Unconsciously, his hand brushed against the heavy weapon buried within the folds of his robe.

  While every eye in the plaza was fixed upon Satan’s emissary creeping through the crowd, Tourec turned his face towards the heavens and closed his eyes.

  Almighty God, show me the way.

  ****

  The sound of the bells crashed against Patric’s heart. Fighting against the press of the crowd, he scanned each face that he passed, though a sinking feeling in his stomach was starting to convince him of the futility of trying to locate his brother in such a vast crowd. Once, he even thought he spied Natasha, but a second glance convinced him of his foolish error.

  As he searched the countless faces, despair began weighing heavily on his shoulders. What if Tourec wasn't even in the crowd at all? And if by some unbelievable coincidence he found his brother, what then? Where was he supposed to go?

  Patric’s desperation was beginning to reach a fever pitch. He had no idea what to do. A suffocating sense of hopelessness began to squeeze his soul. His eyes whipped through the crowd, recognizing no one.

  A roar of excitement in the distance grabbed his attention. Patric was a couple of inches taller than most of the people in the crowd, but he still had a hard time seeing the cause of the commotion through the forest of signs, inverted crosses, effigies, and other obstructions.

  “What is it?” he asked a woman who seemed so giddy, she looked like she was going to faint.

  “I think it’s him!” she squealed.

  Patric elevated himself on his toes and craned his neck to peer through the obstacles.

  It was him.

  Patric’s nerves tingled, and even though the Voice was a distant figure, he could feel otherworldly power radiating from the pontiff like rays of sunlight. He couldn’t make out the man's face, but the way he sat upon his throne, the way he glided through the crowd like a black sailboat, struck Patric with a profound sense of awe.

  A loud concussion made him jump, and he ducked instinctively. The bursts continued, and they seemed to come from overhead. He looked up towards the gray sky and saw fireworks explode. This was apparently forbidden, since several scowling police officers thrust their way through the crowd, seeking the source of the pyrotechnics. The aerial display, however, excited the pilgrims even more and a great chorus of cheers arose from the crowd.

  For a brief moment, Patric’s hopeless burden seemed a bit lighter. These people all around him were his people, and though they were separated by nationality, language, and even degrees of devotion to their Great Lord, here they were, all of them, gathered in the shadow of the Temple, esteeming their master’s Voice. Even with the dire consequences dangling precariously over his head, Patric felt heartened by the energy surrounding him. This was his church; this was where he belonged.

  His Worship’s motorcade came to a halt, and the pontiff rose up from his throne. He seemed invincible, as if all of the powers of hell had been poured into him. Patric knew he had to get closer and began threading his way through the sea of bodies.

  As stone-faced security forces held the crowd at bay, the Voice stood above the crowd, his arms outstretched, absorbing the adoration and praise. Patric kept his eyes fixed on him as he inched his way closer and closer. He felt as if it was the Prince of Darkness himself, spreading his hands wide to welcome all who dared submit their souls to the flames of hedonism and indulgence.

  Suddenly, a dreadful thought pierced Patric’s mind like a bullet. This would be the perfect moment for an attack. He searched the crowd in a panic for his brother; his heart seized with fear.

  At that moment, he heard a terrifying shriek. About ten meters away from the police barriers erected around the motorcade, a black-clad figure vaulted himself over the heads of the crowd and fired a desperate shot at the pontiff. The crowd gasped, and the Voice ducked just as the bullet ricocheted off the pentagram that topped the golden scepter he held in his hand. Several bodyguards jumped back and circled His Worship’s vehicle as others pressed against the surging crowd, while two of them leaped up to the pontiff’s perch and shielded him with their bodies.

  The would-be assassin tumbled to the ground and the enraged crowd fell upon him. Patric couldn’t see what was happening but he could hear the screams of agony as the mob thrashed and tore at the man like sharks in a feeding frenzy. After a few moments, the screams of pain died away, and the bloodstained attackers backed away and melted into the crowd. Patric couldn’t see the man’s body but his imagination filled in the details.

  Police immediately swarmed the area, pushing the crowd away from the assassin’s mangled corpse, while others circled His Worship’s vehicle and beckoned for him to come down to safety.

  Instead of descending, the Voice regarded the ugly gash across his scepter, then raised it high over his head. The crowd erupted in riotous applause and the Voice grinned triumphantly. After a few minutes of exultation, he finally heeded the police officers’ insistent pleadings and stepped down from the car. His black robes billowed in the wind and he swept through the plaza on the path that had been cleared through the crowd. He was trailed by a train of anxious clergy members and several voluptuous priestesses clad in black robes and hoods, then by a dozen members of his personal security detail. His arms remained raised towards the sky and he gripped the unconquerable scepter, an invincible symbol of his master’s might.

  As he approached the cavernous doorway of the Temple of the Dragon, he turned and looked out over the impassioned crowd, then thrust his fists into the air. With a ground-shaking roar, great bursts of flame erupted from the double towers and the pentagram window overhead glowed red like the devil’s eye.

  The crowd recoiled in shock, then broke out into cheers. His Worship beamed with satisfaction, and then disappeared into the temple, followed by his priests, priestesses, and bodyguards.

  Patric watched him enter the building, then scanned the crowd again, hoping for a miracle. Evening was approaching and the feeble light filtering through the heavy clouds began to dim with each passing moment. As darkness fell, so did Patric’s hopes. The thrill of the pontiff’s grand arrival had passed, and his thoughts were consumed with images of Natasha. Where was she now? Was she here, in Paris? Was she hurt? Was she even alive?

  Patric felt weak with helplessness. He sought out a broad stone chain post and sat down, suddenly feeling sick. He clutched his stomach and doubled over, retching violently but expelling nothing except saliva. He coughed and spat, disgusted with himself. A small but shrill voice in his mind cried out in anger.

  You smile and sing when the Voice of Satan arrives, yet Natasha is being held captive by the master that both he and you serve. Are you a fool?

  Patric spat again and sat up. He was oblivious of the rivers of people streaming towards the temple and towards the large screens set up throughout the plaza that would broadcast the service to the masses outside. He didn’t even care anymore. There was a black abyss inside of him, swallowing his soul.

  It was too late now.

  ****

  Tourec had witnessed the assassination attempt from the edges of the crowd, and his heart sank when he realized that the assailant had failed. Anger flared inside him as he saw the blasphemous pontiff revel in the praise and adoration from the heathen masses, and the cheers and
applause followed him into the giant temple. As the Voice disappeared into the cave-like portal, Tourec was gripped with panic. It was going to be impossible to get inside the temple, and even more impossible to get close enough to cause any harm. He wrung his hands with worry as he searched around for an answer.

  In the sea of black clothes and robes, a gleam of white caught his eye. He turned and saw a woman, her face both beautiful and severe, dressed in a flowing white gown. She was staring right at him.

  Tourec peered at her in amazement, and she beckoned him with a delicate hand. He looked around to see if he might be mistaking the direction of the woman’s attention, but no one else seemed to notice her. He looked at her again, and again she bid him to come towards her. Enchanted and perplexed, he took a step forward. With sparkling eyes and a chilling smile, the woman turned and glided lightly through the crowd, and Tourec felt compelled to follow her. He was baffled that no one took any notice of this angelic figure, whose dazzling clothes and stunning beauty were in extreme contrast with the rest of the crowd. She seemed to float through the crowd like a dove in the midst of crows.

  Tourec somehow felt drawn to her, feeling an almost magnetic pull that guided him through the crowd. He wasn’t even aware that she was leading him away from the temple until they had nearly reached the edge of the plaza. The crowd was somewhat thinner, though there was still a crush of people.

  The woman stopped and turned abruptly towards Tourec. He froze.

  Like oil separating from water, the crowd moved away from the woman, creating a circle of open space around her. No one looked in her direction.

  Watching this bizarre behavior, Tourec gasped and jumped back. A chill shivered through his body, and the crowd’s zombie-like oblivion to the woman’s or Tourec’s presence was baffling. Tourec stared at her as a mouse regards a cat, but the tranquil expression on her face strangely soothed his uneasiness.