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

by Mark Carver

Private Chevallais’ eyebrows shot up. “He told us of no such place.”

  Corporal Baker nodded thoughtfully. “I figured as much, in case any of you were captured. He didn’t tell me the place either. He just gave me a sentence. I think it’s a clue or a riddle or something.”

  “What is it?”

  The corporal’s eyes shimmered beneath his dark brow. “He said to meet him ‘where Louis XIII’s wandering heart found a place to rest.’ Do you know what it means?”

  Private Chevallais’ face clouded with concentration. Then he grinned.

  ****

  Christine spat out a mouthful of blood.

  Claude Jeraque strained against the chains that bound him to the wall.

  “Stop!” he roared as tears streamed down his face.

  The large man standing above his daughter only sneered, then smashed his fist into her face again. Christine groaned and slumped in her chair, unable to hear her father’s sobs over the ringing in her ears.

  A door to the dark room burst open and light stabbed her eyes. Though her vision was swimming, she could make out the shape of a man marching towards her, his stride tense with fury.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the man snapped as he seized the bulging arm of Christine’s assailant and flung it aside.

  “The prisoner was being uncooperative,” the large man declared, throwing a contemptuous glance down at Christine’s bowed head. “I was merely providing proper motivation.”

  The man who had barged into the room was obviously his superior, since the large soldier was unable to meet his seething eyes. Christine could have been mistaken, but she thought she saw the initials “CMDT” on his chest.

  “I told you and your men to leave her unharmed!” the commandant snarled.

  The other man squared his shoulders, finally looking his superior in the eye. “You told us that her father would not talk if she was harmed. We told him that we had his daughter, and he spit in our face. We roughed her up just enough to let him know we were serious, let him see her for a moment, then took her away. We thought that would loosen his tongue, but it didn’t. So now we are trying a more direct approach.”

  Fire flashed in the commandant’s eyes but he found himself unable to raise an objection. He wasn’t personally interested in the girl’s safety, but he had a daughter of his own and he knew that the threat of harm was often more effective than actually carrying out that threat. But in light of Captain Jeraque’s stubborn refusal to talk, he had to consider that maybe not all fathers were created equal.

  He spun on his heel and marched past Christine. Tears and sweat poured down Claude’s face as the man approached him and wrapped a firm hand around his jaw.

  “Look at her,” the man said, jerking Claude’s face towards Christine. “Look at your daughter. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will kill her. Not my gorilla over there. Me.”

  Claude kept his eyes fixed on Christine, though his breath spurted out of his nostrils in sharp blasts. He remained silent.

  “I am Commander Deyron,” the man said. He stood up and straightened his gloves. “I know about the American militia. What I don’t know is where they are and how many. You are going to tell me.”

  He drew a wicked-looking carbon steel knife from his belt. The black unreflective blade made a metallic hiss as it pulled free from the sheath. Commander Deyron waved it in front of Claude’s face.

  “If you do not tell me what I want to know in thirty seconds, I will cut your daughter’s right eye out. And if you still don’t tell me what I want to know, I will cut her left eye out.”

  Claude stared at the man, his face quivering with hatred.

  Commander Deyron waited patiently, then looked at his watch and clicked his tongue.

  “Time’s up.”

  He turned around and walked behind Christine’s chair. She gasped as he gripped her hair and yanked her head backwards so that she looked up at the ceiling. The blade looked like a shard of darkness slicing through the light that trickled down from the naked bulb above her.

  “I’ll tell you!” Claude wailed. “Stop! I’ll tell you!”

  The knife froze, hovering in the air without wavering even a millimeter. Christine’s chest trembled with each spastic breath. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by an icy fist.

  Commander Deyron looked down at Christine for a long moment, then over his shoulder at her father.

  “You will? Wonderful. You may speak.”

  Claude’s jaw quivered slightly as his eyes flitted from his daughter’s fearful expression to the knife hovering inches above her eye.

  “I…I will tell you…”

  “Yes, you already said so. So please, begin.”

  Christine locked eyes with her father. She saw the tears sparkling beneath that heavy brow, once so stern and immovable, like an outcropping on a rocky cliff. Now it was wilted with sorrow and grief. And for a moment, she could read the words they spoke as clearly as if she had heard them from his mouth.

  I’m sorry.

  Christine drew in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The radio hooked in the belt of the sentry by the door chirped loudly. Commander Deyron looked up at his subordinate, his icy glare saying, “This had better be important.”

  The sentry swallowed uneasily and lifted the radio to his lips and gave his call sign.

  “I must speak with Commander Deyron,” came the voice on the other end of the conversation. “Now.”

  The man holding the radio looked at his commandant with pleading eyes. Commander Deyron remained still for a moment, then tore himself away from Christine with an exasperated snarl. Christine’s eyes snapped open and she gasped for air as if she had been drowning. Behind her, Claude slumped with relief against the wall. But he knew this was only a temporary reprieve. The heathen would be back to either find out what he wanted to know, or gouge out Christine’s lovely eyes.

  Claude had no illusions. He knew neither of them were getting out of here alive. And he knew that there was no way he could give up the probable location of the American force or what their plans were. This was bigger than all of them, even if they had to make sacrifices. Even if he had to make sacrifices.

  He looked at Christine. Her back was towards him and he couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was crying. His heart ached and he forgot about his own pain. The wound in his side had been hastily and carelessly bandaged and it was bleeding again. He could feel his strength trickling out of him, but it was a trifle compared the anguish constricting his heart.

  As his mind counted off the seconds, a habit from his military days, he weighed his options.

  He realized he had none.

  He wasn’t going to tell them where the American army was. Commander Deyron was going to cut out Christine’s eyes. Then he was going to kill them both.

  A furious voice inside him screamed that he should just tell the heathen what he wanted to know and he would just kill them outright. There was no reason to subject Christine to torture. Who knew what that savage would do after he carved out her eyes? Besides, the mission had failed. The dream was dead. He didn’t know how many of his men survived the attack, if any. What was there left to fight for?

  Claude’s head fell to his chest. What was there left to fight for?

  Faith. There was always faith.

  Faith that something incredible was going to happen, faith that God would draw a miracle out of the murky depths of despair. Faith that the sunlight would break through the impenetrable clouds.

  The door burst open, smacking the sentry on the arm and making him jump. Commander Deyron stormed into the room, marching past Christine without even a glance. Claude looked up, saw the murderous rage twisting the man’s face. Then he saw the gun aimed directly at his forehead.

  The gunshot exploded in the tiny room like cannon fire. Christine screamed as she watched her father’s body collapse on the cold stone floor. Blood seeped from a small hole above his left eye and gushed f
rom the jagged wound in the back of his skull.

  “No!” she cried, straining against the bonds that kept her glued to her chair.

  Commander Deyron whirled around, his chest heaving with barely-controlled fury. Even the sentry rubbing his sore arm looked surprised at this violent outburst.

  “Commandant?” he ventured cautiously. “What’s wrong? What was the call about?”

  Instead of answering, Commander Deyron loomed over Christine and pressed the warm gun barrel against the side of her head. She could hear him gritting his teeth as the muzzle bit into her skin.

  “Commandant? Commandant?”

  Commander Deyron felt the wave of anger begin to ebb. He lowered his gun and turned away from the girl. The body of Captain Jeraque lay in a heap next to the wall, and he resisted the urge to go over and kick the corpse’s ribs.

  “Commandant, please, what has happened?”

  Commander Deyron exhaled through his nose, then faced his subordinate. “We’re leaving.”

  The sentry’s eyes widened and he glanced nervously at Christine. “But…but sir, they haven’t told us where – “

  “It doesn’t matter now. Do you think I would have killed him if he was still useful to us?”

  The sentry began rubbing his arm again. He was clearly confused. “So what about her?”

  Commander Deyron looked at Christine with venomous eyes. She wanted to meet his gaze, to convey unspeakable threats with a withering glare, but she couldn’t. She could only look up at him timidly for a moment, then let her head fall back down again, unable to control her sobs.

  “I have plans for her,” the commandant said, watching her closely. “She’ll come with us.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Commander Deyron answered by sending the man a sharp look that ordered him to stop asking so many questions and do what he was told. The sentry received the message and ducked out of the room.

  Standing in the open doorway, Commander Deyron looked at Christine the way a wolf watches a sheep. His gun was still in his hand and his finger twitched on the trigger. Christine stared at him through her tears and she could feel the fires of hatred roaring to life in her spirit.

  “I will laugh when you burn in hell,” she croaked as blood trickled from between her teeth.

  Commander Deyron smirked. “Between now and then, you will have nothing to laugh about.”

  He nodded towards her father’s body. “Say your goodbyes while you still have the chance.”

  Without another word, he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Christine clenched her eyes shut, trying in vain to hold back the flood of tears. She didn’t want to look over her shoulder at the bloody body of the man who had nurtured and raised her, but she had to.

  “Papa,” she breathed as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder. He looked so unnatural, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There was no more strength in his muscles, no power in his hands.

  No light in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, sniffing loudly. “I’m so sorry…”

  She looked down at her legs, at the tears soaking through her dirty jeans. The fire blazing in her soul was a raging inferno. She could feel the flames boiling just beneath her skin.

  She was going to kill them all. Somehow – she had no idea how – but she was going to kill them.

  There would be no forgiveness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A cold, hard knot grew in Patric’s chest. He didn’t even feel the pain that throbbed in his wounded hands as he stared at the television along with Father DeMarco, Dr. Rosetta, and Sophia.

  It’s never going to end. One side rises, another falls, then rises again… And we all lose…

  He swallowed a painful lump in his throat and glanced at his companions. He realized that the people largely responsible for this chain-reaction nightmare were sitting together in this room, watching the results of their stupidity and blind faith on live television.

  His eyes fell to the ground as he struggled to rise above the wave of guilt washing over him. There were a dozen “if only…” scenarios that played out in his mind. For some strange reason, he thought back to a time when he and Tourec were just children. He was only four or five, which meant that Tourec would have been about fifteen years old. Patric had been kicking around a new soccer ball he had received for his birthday and a strong but poorly placed kick had sent the ball bouncing across the grass and into the street. Oblivious to everything except the immediate crisis of losing his ball, Patric had bounded after it without glancing around to see if the coast was clear.

  He didn’t hear the truck horn until it was almost on top of him. He turned to his left and could see nothing but the truck’s rusty iron grill looming over him like a mouthful of metal teeth. Before he could scream, he felt a powerful hand yank him back by his collar. The soccer ball exploded with a loud pop! under the truck’s wheels as Patric rolled across the grass. He came to rest on his hands and knees, and he looked up with tears in his eyes. Tourec glared down at him, but he could clearly see the fear in written across his face.

  “You okay?” Tourec asked.

  Patric started weeping. “My ball!” he sobbed, shooting a look of accusation at his half-brother. “My ball!”

  As he clenched his teeth and tried to force the memory from his mind, Patric felt a fresh surge of guilt. As he had lain there on the grass so many years ago, he hadn’t given a single thought to the fact that Tourec had saved his life. All he cared about was his stupid ball.

  Dark clouds passed over Patric’s eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if Tourec had been just a second too late, a step too far behind…

  Or better yet, if the truck had killed them both.

  But it didn’t. He had lived, and Tourec as well, long enough to publicly murder the Voice of Satan and ignite a firestorm that was consuming everything in the shadow of a church or temple.

  This is all your fault.

  Patric recognized that accusing voice deep within his soul. He didn’t bother to fight back this time. He knew it was true.

  He had tried to do the right thing, and what had it gotten him? His family was dead, his hands were useless lumps of flesh, and now the world was literally going to hell. He knew that madman who now claimed the Vatican was not ordained by God or blessed by the Holy Virgin. That vile, demonic woman was pulling his strings, just as she had manipulated Patric and Tourec.

  We’re just toys to them. Somewhere beyond this world, beyond the limitations of time and space, there were supernatural realms filled with beings of incredible power and staggering intelligence. And they were all laughing at this pathetic planet filled with squirming maggots gnashing and tearing themselves apart.

  Patric looked out the window to his left. The horizon glowed red, but he didn’t know if it was the fiery carnage at St. Nero’s Square or another scene of violence. Though to be honest, he didn’t care.

  Let them all kill each other. What purpose do they serve anyway? They’re all fanatics, and they all deserve to die. Let them die like fools for a god or devil that doesn’t care about them.

  He flinched as Dr. Rosetta switched off the television with a loud click. Sophia clung to her father’s arm, her eyes as wide as tea cups. The doctor looked down at her and smiled comfortingly, though there was sadness in his eyes.

  For several moments, no one moved or spoke. The room was as dark and silent as a crypt. Sounds of sirens filtered through the window but they seemed distant, alien. Their world was just the silence and the shadows.

  Sophia inhaled a breath that could have been a gasp, a sigh, or a sob. “Papa,” she whispered, resting her head on her father’s broad arm. “What should we do?”

  Dr. Rosetta gently stroked a strand of hair away from her eyes. He didn’t answer right away; he seemed to be wrestling with the question, pulled in different directions.

  Finally he said, “We will leave Rome. Go to my great-aunt’s home
in Veneto. We can wait until this madness has calmed down and see what comes next.”

  He turned to Father DeMarco and Patric. “You must come with us as well. It is far out in the countryside, and there are good people there. God-fearing people. I fear for my daughter if we stay here any longer.”

  Father DeMarco shook his head sternly.

  “I cannot go. I must stay here and denounce this false prophet.”

  Sophia narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, false prophet? The whole world saw the Virgin Mother herself descend from heaven with her angels and bless him. He has taken back the Vatican from the heathens, and he has the power to do miracles. How can you say he is a false prophet?”

  “Oh my child,” the priest said with sorrow in his eyes, “this is a lie. A vile, hideous lie. That was not the Virgin Mother and her angels. That man who has claimed the Vatican does not have the power of God.”

  Dr. Rosetta frowned as well. “Then with whose power does he do these miracles?”

  “The devil, of course.”

  The doctor was stunned. “You can’t be serious. The man has the power to command the sun!”

  Father DeMarco exhaled slowly and he settled back into his chair. “I will tell you what I saw. It was not the Holy Mother and a host of angels that came down from heaven to surround the piazza. It was a demon and her minions. That man commands the sun and calls down fire by the power of Satan.”

  Sophia looked at her father, who was visibly troubled.

  “Father,” Dr. Rosetta said, “think about what you are saying. You are telling us that the man who can do miracles and has reclaimed the Vatican in the name of God is actually under Satan’s control and is lying to us all. You’re saying that the devil still controls the Vatican and the man who will lead God’s church is a charlatan and a heretic.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Father DeMarco’s face was stern. “I saw it with my own eyes. Tell me doctor, do you honestly believe that that man is God’s chosen instrument on earth? That man who leads a bloodthirsty mob into the house of St. Peter and slaughters everyone in sight? That man who calls down fire from the sky to devour men who made no provocation? Is this what God wishes?”