by Alan Baxter
He went upstairs and searched. There was nothing, no one. He headed back downstairs and searched the rooms again. Still nothing.
What’s wrong? You seem agitated.
Petra was keeping in close contact, just as she had said she would.
I’ve fucked up. I didn’t leave someone to watch the house and they’ve all gone.
What are you going to do?
I’m going to search this place from top to bottom. I’ll contact you shortly.
Take care.
I will.
He had reached the last of the downstairs rooms. Something was there. It felt like the remnants of previous magic and a large part of it probably was. But that made it the perfect place to hide. If a mage was going to conceal himself, best to do it where MageSign was thick and fresh.
He opened the door and a dark, black room yawned before him. Of course, the Gather. He had wondered where the Sanctum was in this house. Maybe a part of this room. As he stepped in, all thought left his mind and he switched to instinct.
As a fist flew out of the darkness he turned, his hand coming up beside his face. The fist grazed along it and he grabbed and twisted. He pulled the owner of the fist heavily on his other elbow, a satisfying grunt and expulsion of breath bursting from the darkness. As he pushed the winded assailant aside, his right foot shot out in a side kick and cracked against the skull of another man, coming at him from the opposite side. The man dropped like a rock and Isiah tucked and rolled into the centre of the room, gaining space and adjusting his eyes to the dark. MageSign built around him and he shot up a barrier of crackling energy as bolts of similar energy flew at him from several directions at once. The man he had winded was clambering to his feet again, the one he had kicked was out cold. Another two approached purposefully from either side. Another moving in from behind. Isiah felt them all.
He took the offensive to them. Gathering his own energy, he let a wall of pressure fly out. They were good, all maintaining their feet, but they staggered. He chose one side and leapt across the room. He kept the presence of every man logged in his mind, feeling their energy and their rage, using it to keep them alight like beacons in his brain. He hammered a shower of blows at superhuman speed into the head and chest of the tall, dark haired one before him and simultaneously drove a kick back into the stockier man approaching his blind side. They were good and determined, they certainly had power. Isiah could sense the blood in the air as their knives flashed, cutting themselves for power then trying to cut him. They were good, but not good enough. He began to drop each of them with ruthless efficiency, his blows firing out in every direction, the slap and crunch of flesh and bone punctuating almost every strike. Then he felt three heavy punches thunder into his chest.
A fraction of a second later the sound of the thunder made his ears sing. Stunned into a moment of inaction, he looked down and saw three wide, dark flowers blooming across his shirt. His eyes travelled up and he saw Filthy Frank, there right in front of him, grinning, a smoking barrel raised triumphantly in his hand.
Isiah gathered his will, directing his attention internally, considering nothing else but closing these gaping wounds that had torn through his flesh and organs, blowing them out through his back. Frank stood there, staring and grinning. Isiah stared back, his mind wandering, his will weak. He had no strength to repair himself, the damage was too great. Where had he come from? Frank and his gun. Isiah had not felt him at all, anywhere in the room. He had been a ghost. Isiah felt his face get very cold, his limbs become lead. His vision swam. He was shot. He was dead. Darkness flooded his mind.
In the cover of darkness and large plastic industrial waste bins outside a cheap hotel in suburban Sydney Petra screamed a piercing, soul-tearing wail. Collapsing into the arms of her Master she began to pant and rambled incoherent words. Cai Wu, at a loss to what had caused such sudden distress, but aware that something serious was happening, dragged her away from the building. They must not alert the group inside, or anyone else for that matter.
‘He’s gone! He’s gone!’ Petra’s voice cracked, tears choking her.
Cai Wu supported her, almost carrying her whole weight as he dragged her down streets, through shadows. ‘What do you mean, child? Who’s gone?’ He turned them into a small park and dropped into the shadows beneath a low, wide tree. He gathered his energy and pulled a tight cloak down over them both.
Petra fell into his lap, sobbing. ‘Isiah, Master. He’s gone. I just felt him torn away.’
Cai Wu knew what she meant but was loathe to admit it to himself. ‘Gone?’
Petra looked up into his eyes, her own eyes pits of despair. ‘I felt him die, Master! I felt him go. He was ambushed.’
Cai Wu stroked her hair, comforting her, using his mind as much as his hand to calm her. She let him, taking solace in his concern, his love. ‘My dear child, I’m so sorry. This is not what we expected at all.’ He knew Petra well enough not to question her certainty.
‘Have we lost? Losing him, have we lost everything?’
‘No, that is not the case, nor is it what he would have wanted. What choice do we have? We must carry on.’
Petra looked up into her Master’s eyes again. Her pain was naked. ‘A dark god will gain enormous power,’ she whispered. ‘Innocent blood will soak the earth and an immortal human will be the only hope of salvation.’
‘I know.’
‘Is our only hope of salvation gone?’
Cai Wu stroked Petra’s face and smiled. ‘We must assume not. We have to assume we were wrong about him being the only salvation.’
‘But we weren’t wrong.’
Cai Wu’s expression was hard. ‘We have to assume we were.’
‘Mission accomplished, Dominus.’ Lars’s face was exultant, even through the swellings and bruises.
In the baking heat of the outback valley, the Sorcerer looked carefully at his disciple. ‘You’re sure?’
Lars could feel the pressure of his Master’s scrutiny, visual and mental. ‘Yes, Dominus. It was hard, that man, whatever he was, he was powerful. Immensely powerful, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.’ Lars’s eyes were lost, looking back in time, reliving the fight. ‘He was fast, strong, like a machine. Truly impressive.’ His eyes snapped back to the present. ‘But we six together are stronger than anything, Dominus. We took a beating, but we were able to keep him occupied and Frank crept right up into his face and bang! Point blank range.’
‘You’re sure he died?’
Lars shrugged. ‘Well, I was right behind him when Frank shot. Most of his back blew out with the exit wounds, dragging bones and guts with it. I thought for a second I was gonna get shot too, but the bullets missed me. By luck more than judgment, I might add. Fucking Frank is a liability sometimes.’
‘He was focussed on the most important part of the job. He does have focus, brother Frank. And when this bastard was shot, you watched him drop dead?’
‘Yep. He stood for a moment, incredible strength, then he blanked out and dropped like a sack of shit.’
The Sorcerer nodded. ‘And his body?’
‘Vanished.’
‘What?’
‘He dropped to the ground and lay there. He was gone, just a corpse. Then as Frank leaned over him, I think he was going to pop a couple more rounds through the bastard’s head to be sure, there was this rushing sound. Energy like a static storm in the room and everything seemed to twist and flash for a second, then he was gone.’
‘Gone?’ The Sorcerer sounded suspicious and intrigued at the same time.
Lars nodded. ‘Yeah. You know in those old movies when someone stakes a vampire and the thing collapses then turns to ash and blows away? It was a bit like that. Only it was more like a dusty residue that was left behind. And it didn’t blow away.’
‘Dust?’
‘Yeah. Kinda glittery, sandy dust, like a drawing of his body on the floor.’
The Sorcerer stood thoughtful for a few moments. Who, or what, was this per
son anyway? For now, at the very least, the threat was removed and they had to assume it was finished. As Lars had said, mission accomplished. He nodded once, decisively. ‘Good lad. All of you, well done. Where are the others.’
Lars smiled. ‘They are not as gifted as I am at travelling long distances, as you know. They’re on their way out here now.’
‘And the Channel?’
‘On the way too. The lads will catch up with the Channel and my other close members and all come in together. They’ll be here sometime before dawn with any luck.’
‘Good. We need to keep moving on this now. Time is building up behind us and our Lord grows impatient.’
Lars nodded. ‘I have to admit, I am getting nervous. My excitement is tempered only by my concern that I have done all that you have asked of me.’
The Sorcerer put one hand on Lars’s shoulder, walking him through the camp. Members of all ranks, all ages, all walks of life and nationalities, paused to watch them pass. For many it was the first time they had ever seen the man that was at the heart of it all. The Sorcerer was aware of their scrutiny, could feel their adoration and awe. He enjoyed it, soaked it up. But he was also perturbed by it. It reminded him that, if everything went to plan, this would not be his thing any more. Instead of being the supreme ruler of a global society of anarchy, chaos and blood magic, he would be more like the High Priest of a new order. Certainly he would be the highest serving human, he would still command the respect of everyone here. He would command the respect of many more as their Society grew and took hold of the world. But he could not help feeling like he was giving something away. Letting something slip through his fingers.
He reminded himself of the truth of that situation. It was not as if he really had a choice. He had always worshipped blood. He had used blood as he had been taught to use it for countless years, always devoting himself and his actions to the blood, the gore, to life born of it. To Cruor. He had built around himself a world spanning Order that had developed a momentum of its own, carried along by his vision, barely maintained under his control. And his worship, his ministrations, had culminated in something he could never have imagined. His efforts had awakened an ancient god. The God of Blood itself. The primary divine force of slaughter and birth, older than any of these watered down faiths that permeated the world today and corrupted men. Over countless decades he had proven himself worthy and a god had spoken to him. What was letting his Order slip away in comparison to that? He looked at Lars walking patiently, obediently beside him. ‘You worry that you have not done enough, Optimates?’
Lars grinned ruefully. ‘All my life, Dominus, I have strived to live up to the example you set. I am always concerned that I am not enough.’
The Sorcerer patted his shoulder as they walked. ‘Look around you, son. This is a camp of hundreds, possibly thousands. See there, even now more are arriving. These people are Gathering, as our Order has never Gathered before, for a truly wonderful event. And this is all your doing. You made this possible. You have not let me down.’
‘Thank you, Dominus.’
‘And I asked you to remove a dangerous threat to us, you and your brothers. And you did that too.’
Lars nodded silently.
The Sorcerer smiled. ‘And I asked you to find and prepare the Channel. You have done that. I have asked a lot of you, Lars, and you have risen to the challenges. I have asked a lot of Frank, and of Chris and Jake. All of you have served me without question, served me completely. Raul and Dieter too. To reach the Eighth Degree in our Order is something very few people have ever done. There are six of you now and all six of you deserve that position for one reason alone. Do you know what that is?’
Lars looked at his Dominus, his brow knitted. ‘We have followed the teachings, practised diligently, developed our abilities. We have followed the Order of Degrees as laid down by you.’ His look betrayed that he thought there was more to the Sorcerer’s question than this.
‘There are several members at the Seventh Degree. You know them all well. What’s the difference between you and them. Do you really know that much more than them? Are your talents really that much greater than theirs?’
‘Every one of us has different talents, Dominus. You have said yourself that different people are disposed to different areas of expertise.’
The Sorcerer nodded. ‘Exactly. So what makes you six so special? Special enough that you are granted the Eighth Degree?’
‘I don’t know, Master.’
‘It is simple, really. The only true difference between an Optimates of the Seventh Degree and one of the Eighth Degree is the lack of questions.’
Lars frowned again. ‘Lack of questions?’
‘I’m sure you talk among yourselves. I’m sure you have questioned my motives, my methods, my reasoning, within your own mind as well as with each other. But none of you have ever questioned me directly. What I have asked, you have done. You have enquired when your mind is curious, all of you, but never questioned my orders. Absolute faith, Optimates Lars, is what makes someone capable of reaching the Eighth Degree.’
Lars looked surprised by this revelation. ‘I would never dream of questioning your actions, Dominus. I may not understand, I may talk about it with my brothers, but I would never presume to know better.’
The Sorcerer smiled. It was a predatory smile, but tinged with genuine affection. It was like one Death Adder smiling at another. ‘Precisely.’
Faith sat in a motel room on the outskirts of Sydney, staring at a television set but not really watching. She wanted her mobile phone back. She wanted to talk to her mum. She wanted to walk away. She wanted to see Lars. There were a lot of things she wanted, but most of all she wanted to be less confused. She felt mildly drunk, or doped. Maybe she was sick or something. Those high level brothers of Lars were due any time now and she sat here with four other members from the Sydney Gather. Lars had promised her that he would be waiting for her when she arrived at this camp thing, whatever it was. But she wanted him here now, or she wanted to go home.
In the middle of the night Lars had woken her, packed her off with these four ONC members and told her to trust him. The whole big event was approaching and she felt carried along by it, regardless of her own will. Why the sudden exit? Why the complete lack of warning and hurrying away in the middle of the night? It was getting harder and harder to be excited by all this.
Her loyalty was still there. When she thought about it, her brain refused to think ill of the Order. It was everything it claimed to be and it was headed for greatness. And she was going to be standing there, right alongside one of its highest members when the greatness came. But something... something was nagging at her mind. Something was wrong. Almost as if there was something she was forgetting to do.
It was like when you’ve been walking around with a bag all day. You get used to carrying the bag. You get used to not leaving it behind. Then you do get to leave it somewhere, maybe at home, whatever, you know it’s safe. But no matter how much you know that, no matter how intellectually aware you are of the fact that your bag is perfectly fine, you can’t shake off the feeling for the rest of the day that you should be carrying something. Every few minutes there’s a quick double heartbeat, Where’s my bag? It was irrational, but it was real. She felt like that now, except it wasn’t a bag she’d left behind. That was the irritating thing. She didn’t know what she had left behind, but it certainly felt like there was something she should have. Or something she should do. Or something she should have done.
The motel door opened, without any warning knock. The men around her jumped up, skittish, nervous. Frank, that greasy brother of Lars, strode into the room. ‘You lot, out.’ He gestured with one thumb over his shoulder. ‘There are cars outside. You lot get in the car with Optimates Raul.’ He grinned a feral grin at Faith. ‘You’re with me, sweetie.’
‘Where are we going?’ Faith didn’t want to be anywhere near this guy.
‘To change the world, baby, th
at’s where we’re going. Don’t worry. Jake, Chris and Dieter will be in our car too.’
Faith stood up, slinging her small backpack over her shoulder. ‘I just wondered,’ she mumbled.
‘Yeah, right. You were terrified that it was going to be just you and me going for a long drive in the night, weren’t you?’
Faith looked up with defiant eyes. ‘Truthfully? I don’t want to go on any kind of drive with any of you. But the choice isn’t mine right now.’
Frank grinned again. ‘Good girl.’
She walked out into the bright, hot day. Two of those big cars that were so popular these days, people carriers, were parked right outside. The four junior members were climbing into one, with Raul sat in the driver’s seat. Faith gasped when she saw him. His face looked like tenderised beef. She looked at the other car and saw Dieter in the passenger seat, equally bashed. Jake and Chris were side by side in the back, but she could not see in the shadows if they looked as bad as the others. Frank headed for the empty driver’s seat of the second car as Raul pulled away and roared off down the road. ‘Get in,’ Frank said roughly.
Faith went to the side door of the car. She looked at Jake and Chris sitting in the back as she took a side seat and slid the door shut. They had bruises too. They certainly didn’t look as bad as the others, but they were bruised and not happy looking. Why was Frank the only one without a scratch? Perhaps any blows had slid off his greasy face. ‘What happened to you lot?’
Jake smiled at her, but there was little humour in it. ‘We had ourselves a little rumble, love. Just a bit of exercise, that’s all.’
