The Conqueror Worm

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The Conqueror Worm

  Ambrose Ibsen

  Copyright © 2017 by Ambrose Ibsen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  * * *

  Cover by Lou Harper

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  A Note (And Warning) From The Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank You For Reading!

  About the Author

  A Note (And Warning) From The Author

  I’ll make this very brief.

  The world of the Black Exorcist is a dark one. It is a dystopian world packed with savage violence, unrestrained lust and incredible depravity.

  A world that is not meant for the faint of heart.

  To alter a famous line of Dante’s:

  “Abandon all hope (of happy endings and warm feelings), ye who enter here!”

  You’ve been warned.

  If you decide to charge on ahead anyway, I hope like hell you’ll enjoy it!

  Cheers.

  —Ambrose Ibsen

  March 4th, 2017

  1

  It was late in the afternoon when a bearded man clothed in rags approached the priest. Nodding at the leather satchel he carried like so many others had done, the beggar extended an open palm in the hopes of receiving food. “Please, Father, I'm so hungry. Three days have passed since my last meal. In the name of God, I beg of you―some food, please.”

  Father Ossian McGregor stopped, reaching into his bag. “You're in luck,” said the priest. “I've just received a bit of food from a man in your city and should have enough to share. God has blessed us both this day.” Rifling through his personal effects, he unwrapped two small pieces of bread for the man. “This city of Florence is in an awful way. I've just been for a tour of all the churches south of the Arno, and most of them have been terribly defaced if not given over completely to ruin.” His days on the road had made him a lean man. He cut a tall, jagged figure like a scarecrow made of corded muscle. The recent gauntness of his cheeks lent his eyes a new sharpness, making them look like two shamrocks on the verge of igniting.

  They were on a shaded city street, standing in the cover of a cracked arch. Clouds of dust were sent ambling about by the breeze. This far out in the city there were hardly any living souls to be seen. To the right, within an old building that'd once been a cafe, was the room where the beggar made his home. The window was covered by a faded blue tarp and there were evidences of an old fire clearly visible outside it.

  “Yes,” replied the man in rags, eyes fixed firmly on the leather satchel. He scratched at his wiry beard and drew closer to the priest. “It is as you say. I long for the day when this city returns to its former glory.”

  Drawing out the bread, Ossian smiled, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. “I hope that this will prove a satisfying meal. It was baked fresh in a wood-burning oven--” Suddenly, the breath was out of his lungs. Reeling, the priest clutched at his gut and sucked air.

  The beggar had struck him, planted a set of bony knuckles in his stomach, and was now grasping at the straps of the leather satchel. He pulled at the bag for all he was worth, very nearly wresting it from the priest.

  When he'd managed to regain his footing, Ossian's smile promptly faded. Giving the satchel a yank, he took a step away from the handsy beggar. His other hand moved reflexively to the weapon at his side; a sword housed in a black scabbard. Fist locked around the hilt, the priest grit his teeth. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Falling back, white in the face, the beggar's gaze was drawn to the sword. Eyes widening in terror, he begged for forgiveness. “I'm sorry, father. I'm very sorry. I... I don't know what came over me.” Backing away from the priest, he bumped into the wall of a nearby building, the bricks in it loose.

  Slowly, the sword was eased from its sheath. Catching a bit of daylight on its broad blade, the sword's tip found its way to the vagrant's throat, where it sat mere inches from his skin. “On your knees,” barked Ossian. “Now.”

  Hands raised in the air, the beggar dropped to his knees, lips quivering. “S-sir, I... I apologize. It's just that I... I thought that...”

  “You thought what? That I should like to be separated from my things? Or that a man of the cloth would not be willing to defend himself? Whatever the case,” said the priest, “you seem to have miscalculated.”

  Shaking, the beggar closed his eyes. “P-please, sir. Have mercy. H-have mercy!”

  Combing a hand through his blonde hair and knocking from it a bit of dust, the priest seemed to consider. But then, with a grin, he replied, “You want to confess? For me to absolve you of your sins, child?”

  The beggar nodded profusely. “Y-yes, anything!”

  Ossian lowered the blade. “Well, get to it, then.”

  Lips dry and eyes watering, the man started. “Forgive me f-father, for I have s-sinned.”

  “And how long has it been since your last confession?” asked Ossian.

  The beggar hesitated. “It's been... some time. I... I don't remember.”

  “And what of your sins, child? What have you done?” continued the priest.

  Gulping, the beggar said, “I... I have tried to steal from you, sir. And... I have stolen from others.”

  “Oh, the sin of theft is not one to be taken lightly,” offered the priest, admiring his blade. He turned it slightly in his hand, letting the steel reflect a bright light into the beggar's eyes. “And you've stolen from other travelers, is that right?”

  “Travelers... my fellow citizens... all kinds, sir,” sobbed the man. “P-please forgive me, father. I know I have sinned.” Any time the priest moved, the beggar would flinch as if he expected the sword to find its way into his heart.

  Ossian shook his head, his clean-cut face contorting in evident disgust. “And why did you do it, child of God? Why have you so resorted to theft pray tell?”

  Tears streamed down the man's dirty cheeks. His greying beard trembled as he spoke. “I did it because I am hungry, sir. I am so very hungry.” He lowered his head and drew in a shuddering sigh. “P-please forgive me.”

  “Hunger, yes,” replied Ossian, unamused. “Hunger is serious business, but you can see it is no excuse for barbarity.” He took to pacing. “I will recommend the recitation of ten Our Father's as penance. And also,” he said, reaching out and taking a handful of the man's beard, “I shall leave you with a permanent reminder of your sinfulness.” Leveling the sword against the right side of the man's head and inciting him to weep like a child, Ossian deftly cleaved off h
is right ear, catching it in his palm and giving it a little squeeze. This he stuffed into the beggar's mouth. “You claim to be hungry, yes? So, eat,” commanded the priest.

  Sobbing so awfully that he could barely remain on his knees and shying away from the priest's blade, the beggar began to chew on his detached ear.

  “There we are,” uttered Ossian, sheathing his weapon and making the sign of the cross upon the man's forehead. “Not so hungry now, are we?” He stepped past the man, who was still a shaking, crying mess, and started down the street, only to pause a moment later and turn back to him. “Oh, and I suppose this means I absolve you of your sins, child. Go in peace,” he said with a smirk.

  The beggar fell to the ground and spat out his ear, lips dripping in blood and spittle. Turning his teary eyes upon the priest, he said, “Are y-you not a man of G-God? Have you n-no mercy?”

  With a wild grin, the priest replied, “Is it so wrong for a solider of God to revel in punishing the wicked?” With that, he straightened the strap of his satchel and walked on.

  2

  “Christ on His throne.” The priest stopped in his tracks.

  Looking at the remnants of the playground, one could almost hear in the breeze the laughing of the children who'd once played on it. But the fact remained that those children were likely dead and gone now, and besides, laughing and fun were no longer much in fashion among humankind. The season had changed.

  On the sturdier limbs of nearby trees he spied weatherbeaten nooses where, prior to winter, hopeless souls had chosen to end their lives. Like so many others, they had probably decided that death was a favorable alternative to famine. The corpses, or at least what remained of them, had been reduced mostly to bones, however the recent thaw had unearthed scraps of clothing, locks of hair and other stubborn items yet to be carried off by the elements. Human remains were scattered about the edges of the playground like potpourri.

  May God have mercy on their souls, he thought.

  He chewed on a long piece of grass and gave his tired legs a chance to rest. His feet were pounding in his leather boots and the edges of his cassock were flecked in mud for the day's trek. Taking in the scenery of rusted monkey bars and toppled swing sets, the priest drew out a sigh. The sword hanging at his side had grown heavy, and the emptiness in his stomach was getting to be unbearable. He'd been more than an hour in this tiny village but had yet to stumble upon a sign or landmark by which he could identify it.

  The Nameless Village. How many of these must exist across this forsaken planet?

  He was off again, glancing up at weathered street signs, looking into broken windows, and attempting to ignore the growing fatigue. From his canteen he allowed himself a mouthful of water―just enough to wet his lips and tongue―before tucking it back into his leather satchel. There wasn't much left in it, and he wondered if the wells in this forgotten town would provide for him. With a hand in his pocket, he took to thumbing the chunky beads of an old, wooden rosary, uttering prayers under his breath.

  Emerging from a thicket of trees onto a little tread dirt road, the priest began his nightly errand of seeking shelter. Houses in the village were staggered, and in the nooks and crannies between each the dusk was rapidly breeding. Very soon now night would engulf the Earth, and if there was anything his weeks on the road had taught him it was that the night made one vulnerable, gave free reign to certain dangerous elements.

  The forces of evil came out to play when the sun was down.

  Ossian was happy to be out of Florence, to have made it out of that city whose former grandeur had been traded for festering ruin, but feared he had since lost his way. This village, with its empty, shadowed houses and overgrown plots of land was but the latest stop in a tour of destitution, and no matter how many times he referenced his map, he never drew closer to pinpointing his exact position. At this rate, he would never make it to his destination.

  The road to Avignon was a long one. Coming from Rome, it would take him a minimum of six weeks to arrive there by foot. His superiors had given him a stock of food and numerous supplies for his journey, however the hike had taken its toll and his rations were dwindling. If not for the generosity of an old man in Florence, who had given him several days worth of food in exchange for his menial labor, he might have run out completely.

  If this village was well and truly abandoned, then he would have his pick of the houses for the night. He walked amidst the rows, carefully seeking out the tenements that were most intact. Unbroken windows and sturdy doors that would keep out the cold, and hearths in which he might build a hasty fire were his most important considerations. Still, even if the town could only offer him a ramshackle house, it was much preferable to sleeping outdoors.

  When sleeping in the woods, one had always to keep their wits about them. To fall into too deep a sleep was to risk an ambush. More than once he had been approached in the night by doubtful figures, and it had only been by God's grace and the might of his sword, the Grand Inquisitor, that he'd managed to escape with his life. Having a few walls with which to separate himself from the wilderness held great appeal.

  The squat little houses along this stretch were tottering things to begin with. Judging by the rare abandoned cars of common make throughout the village and the rustic signage of empty shops, it hadn't been an especially affluent area even before the crisis. No matter where he looked, there were no signs of recent occupation. The only corpses he'd found were those of people long-dead, and there were no footprints to follow on the muddy road. Probably this village had given up the ghost over the winter.

  He'd been walking a while longer when he suddenly became aware of a smell to which the noses of travelers are much attuned.

  "A fire," he muttered, quickening his step.

  At the end of a row of houses was a basic one-story home whose front window glowed with the orange hues of a well-kept fire. Situated at the flank of a dense and sprawling wood, the sight of the house brought him no little excitement. Starting towards it, he caught the eye of its presumed owner, a pale woman in dirty brown garb, who was in the process of removing clothing from a laundry line. She froze at the sound of the priest's footsteps, but calmed immediately at the sight of his collar.

  "Good evening, father," said the woman, her voice harsh and throaty.

  "Good evening, ma'am," replied the priest. "I don't suppose you could tell me the name of this village, could you? You see, I've been on the road for some time on the way to Avignon, but fear I've gone astray from the planned route." He drew his map out of his pocket and began to unfold it.

  Draping dry pieces of clothing over her shoulder, the woman gave him a curious look. At this proximity he could see her more clearly, could make out the streaks of grey in her otherwise black hair, the flaking state of her skin and her absolute gauntness. She was severely malnourished. "A name?" Glancing at her surroundings as though it were the first time she'd ever laid eyes on them, she shrugged weakly. "What difference does it make? It had a name, once, but since the world ended I rather doubt its name is of any consequence. I've heard it said that all roads lead to Avignon, so you're probably on the right path."

  “All roads lead to Rome, you mean?” Ossian offered a gentle smile. "The world has not ended yet, in my estimation. She's some life in her yet. One mustn't lose faith that tomorrow will bring a brighter and kinder world. What is your name?"

  The woman, who introduced herself as Gianna, did not take so kindly to his talk of faith, and tried on a wry smile. "Faith? Yes... quite a lot of good that faith has done us." Her eyes settled on the long sword he wore on his right side.

  From the house there arose a weak vocalization. "M-mother... where have you gone?" chirped a voice from inside.

  Gianna stole a glance through the window. "Be still, child. I'm outside, gathering the laundry." Turning to the priest, she added, "It is my son, Cesare. He is not well, has not been for some time, and he worries whenever I'm out of his sight."

  "I see," replied the
priest, "and what is it that ails him? Might I be of assistance?"

  "I'm unsure." Gianna bit her lower lip, continuing, "He's been sick for a long while now. His father and brother were taken by the same illness, and I fear that very soon he will follow suit. What a world we live in where a young man should be forced to fight for his life. If only there were a doctor who could assess him..."

  "I can't claim to be a doctor," said the priest, "but I've some medical training. I would be happy to take a look, even if only to bring him some comfort."

  She hesitated. "I... I suppose that you could come in, Father...?"

  "Father McGregor. Ossian McGregor."

  "Please excuse me for my reticence. The world is a cruel place these days, and it can be difficult to trust strangers―even those who wear the collar." Approaching the front door of the abode, Gianna straightened out the clothing in her arms and nudged it open. "Please, come in. You've been on the road for some time, I can tell, and could use some rest. I have little to offer, but the night will be warmer in this house than outside of it, and any insights you might give as to my son's condition would be welcome."

  Ossian accepted this invitation, stepping into the house behind his hostess and setting his leather satchel down on the floor. The scene was dire, mirroring the state of most of the homes he'd entered in Florence.

  The carpet had been pulled up, leaving only tarnished wood flooring. Like others he'd run across, this family had probably cut up the carpet, stewed it and subsisted temporarily off of the glue in desperation. The lively fire, which bumbled in the corner, contained several chunks of spent carpet along with smaller bits of foraged kindling, and emitted a comfortable, if not foul-smelling warmth. Blankets, soiled and torn, were scattered about the floor in front of the hearth, and through a hallway on the opposite end of the room he could make out what appeared to be a kitchen. The counters teemed with broken plates, pots long licked clean, and other things that couldn't be eaten. Among them were strewn old electronics; a broken smart phone, a tablet computer.