The Conqueror Worm

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The figure in black gave a nod so minute that it nearly went unnoticed in the murk.

  15

  "And you are the servant of Rome." The voice that met Ossian's ears came from serpentine lips, shrouded in veil and shadow. Even such words as these were tinged in profanity; a voice like that one, with its malevolent edge and controlled delivery like the hiss of poisonous gas being freed of a sealed container, was capable of no more. At the sound of his voice, everyone in the room save for Ossian looked away in exaggerated reverence, as though they might otherwise burst into flame.

  A man of firm and vocal faith, the priest found himself not a little shaken for his current predicament. The creature with which he was now faced gave off the calm and sophisticated energy that he had learned to associate over the length of his career with the malignantly demonic. He said nothing, his arms instinctively trying at his restraints. Though old, the metal would never give. The priest could have flexed his arms and raged at them all day only to die a tired man.

  "Identify yourself," ordered the bishop.

  "I'm Father Ossian McGregor," replied the priest in as firm a tone as he could muster. If in fact this veiled man was a demon, then he could not stand the thought of showing his fear. Such creatures subsisted on the fear of strong men and the priest sought to deprive his captor of such delights.

  Carnivale eased his head to one side as he worked over this new information. "Mcgregor? Did I hear that right? Sprung from the Irish seed, have you?"

  Ossian nodded.

  Even though the bishop's face could not be seen, that his reply came with a smile was never in the least doubt. "Oh, I do love the spirit of the Irish. A fiery people, they are. Nothing in the world tastes like Celtic blood." Rubbing his white palms together pensively, the bishop continued. "And what brings you to Bologna, father?"

  At this, Ossian lost his temper. Thrashing against his restraints, he barked, "I am on a holy crusade on the orders of the pope."

  "And which pope is it you're referring to?" asked the bishop.

  Chuckling indignantly, Ossian replied, "The true pope, of course."

  The bishop shook his head. "A shame, that. You aren't the first of that old strain to show up since the schism. Of course, we have our way of dealing with the old guard, as well as many opportunities for conversion. What has Rome sent you for, father? What hopes have the fools at the Vatican heaped on the shoulders of one man?"

  "I have been sent as God's scalpel to carve away the rot that ails Avignon," the priest triumphantly replied.

  This dragged a loud laugh from the bishop, who suddenly stood and waded towards the priest, out of the murk. As he drew nearer, a foul smell became immediately apparent. It was something like the smell of warm carrion. Standing before the bound priest, Carnivale reached up and tugged at his veil with a pale, pudgy hand, revealing his eyes.

  Never before had the priest seen such large, black eyes as these. To meet this ebony gaze was to glimpse the very cold of the pit, and before he could stop himself, Ossian recoiled violently, lowering his eyes to the ground. "I wonder," said the bishop, standing upright and replacing the veil, "will you carve me away, priest?"

  "So," muttered Ossian, "the bishop of Bologna is a monster after all. I suppose that explains the debauched rites you practice in this once hallowed space."

  The demon in black laughed. "Not fond of our alterations to the traditional Mass? You're a harsh critic, priest. Far too harsh. But you're in some luck, because I've found myself in a giving vein this day. It's not often I extend the olive branch to men like you." He motioned to the monsignor, who until that moment had skulked against the wall with the rest. "I love nothing more than to watch men recant their faith. So, father McGregor, I'm prepared to spare your life despite the disrespect you've shown me." The monsignor and a cloaked associate of his carried over the large and familiar crucifix he'd seen earlier in the church, which boasted a detailed porcelain statue of Christ. "Here, a representation of that savior you love so much. Spit on this cross and recant your vows as a priest and I shall allow you to serve my congregation."

  Ossian's first instinct was to balk. "You can't be serious." Even with his neck on the chopping block, there were some things he was unwilling to do. Forfeiting his faith to save his miserable life was one of them. "I would rather die," he replied flatly.

  Carnivale clicked his tongue. "Keep it up and you may just get your wish, father." Instructing his men to lower the cross to the dirty floor, the demon placed one foot against the wood and gave it a nudge. "I ask you again; will you throw away your faith to save your life?"

  Ossian fixed the bishop in his sights and grimaced. "Fuck you and your degenerate church, demon."

  The cross was removed with a wave of the dark one's hand. "Do you see this, gentlemen?" said Carnivale to his men. "This man is a true Christian, a man whose faith is unshakeable. Is he not an inspiration to all of you? Likely to be canonized someday for his virtue, this one. Yes, what a noble soul he is, sticking to his vows. So, what shall be his prize, then?" He chuckled, reaching out and running a chilly finger against the priest's stubbled chin. The demon's flesh reeked of rot. "You've earned yourself a night to remember, priest. We will get you to betray that God of yours yet, will wring the words from your bloodied lips before finally ending your blessed life. How does that sound?"

  "It is an affront to God," was Ossian's rejoinder.

  "Haven't you heard?" asked the demon. "Your God is dead."

  The priest spat. “You shameless animal. Was it you who was behind the slayings of a local boy and his mother? Your men brought me in on suspicion of murder, but it was you who did the slaying, is it not?”

  “They are merely the latest in a long list,” was the bishop's reply. “Trifles, their lives. Don't torture yourself over them. I advise you to worry about your own life instead.”

  Rather than give any indication of the fear that now coursed through him, Ossian pulled against his restraints in futility and began to pray loudly. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy--"

  "No, no, that won't do," interrupted the demon. Motioning to another of his henchmen, a portly bruiser with a large metal toolbox in his hand, Carnivale accepted a large industrial stapler, which he pressed suddenly to Ossian's lips. With the assistance of two cloaked men, the priest was subdued, his lips pulled taut and stapled together in several places.

  The pain was incredible as the metal pierced his skin. His lips gushed and the sounds of his pain were caught up in his mouth, unable to escape. Trying to hide his anguish, Ossian dug his fingers into the armrests, his nails quaking against the wood grain.

  "There we are," continued Carnivale, handing the stapler back to the man with the toolbox. "The only sounds I want to hear this day are your sobs, priest. Tomorrow, we will have you hanged and burned in a public execution, but today you will entertain me with your suffering. You really make the perfect subject, you know that? No one knows how to find the joy in suffering like a devout Catholic, isn't that right?"

  Steadying his breath through his nose, Ossian rested his head against the back of the chair and leveled his hateful gaze on the demon. Though unable to speak, that look transmitted an abundance of murderous intent. If I manage to break free of these restraints, I will delight in killing you, he thought.

  "Horace," said Carnivale to the man with the tools, "bring out the rest of the instruments. It is time we begin."

  A number of boxes teeming with dangerous-looking implements were carried out and placed on the floor before Ossian's chair. The portly man gave the demon a low bow before rummaging through the boxes in search of a dull knife.

  "Truthfully," admitted Carnivale, returning to his chair and watching intently from the shadows, "I am pleased that you chose this path." He gave the signal and Horace began his work.

  16

  The portly torturer was a craftsman.

  His hands, hands made to do the devil's work, moved with supernatural deftness as he work
ed the knife against Ossian's skin. The backs of the hands were the first to taste the kiss of the blade, and a layer of flesh was scraped away neatly in long, even lengths. The exposed areas began to seep red almost instantly, and when he'd taken the outermost layer of skin from the priest's right hand and each of his fingers as though it were the skin of a potato, the torturer brought the shavings to the bishop in his cupped hands.

  The runny segments of Ossian's skin were brought beneath the veil and tasted. An unseen tongue slurped up every trace of blood from them with delight. "As expected, your blood is exquisite, father. Horace, you must hurry. I should like to taste more of what this man has to offer."

  Faithful though he was, Ossian was only a man, and the defined limits of his endurance were insufficient to cope with the pain he was being dealt. His hand burned, the naked subdermal tissue exposed to the air. Please, God, send me a way out of this, he prayed.

  The torturer, going about his job stoically, produced a large pair of needle-nose pliers with sharp tips. These he used to first slice the skin beneath the priest's fingernails. Then, gripping the nails, he steadied himself against Ossian's chair and pulled for all he was worth, loosing them one by one. The nails were removed in quick succession, and the pain was so severe that Ossian couldn't help but scream. The staples couldn't hold it back.

  Lips contorted in a shout, the staples in them were worked loose and the torn edges of his mouth loosed a pent-up scream that bounced for some time about the walls of the darkened subterranean space. The bishop clapped his hands and pointed at the captive, signaling to his torturer that this was not to stand, and soon thereafter the stapler made a reappearance. This time, twice the amount of staples were applied to his bloodied lips and the seal was tighter.

  The naked flesh where the priest's fingernails had once grown was prodded with all manner of sharp objects, pierced till the tips of nails protruded through the pads of his fingers. His wrists were bloodied for his struggles against the restraints, but no matter how he moved there was no escape, no way for him to lessen the pain. Those writhing fingers of his were soon subjected to a new and more hideous torture; that of a hefty hammer.

  The joints in Ossian's fingers were bashed at random; the knuckle to his left pointer finger was crunched beneath blunt steel till the bone gave way and a pocket of red-hot inflammation blew up beneath the skin. Another joint was similarly broken, and this time the torturer pressed the hammer into his flesh and ground it down like he was putting out a cigarette, lengthening the pain.

  Meanwhile, Carnivale slipped a pale hand into his black garb and began to pleasure himself. Black eyes fixed on the form of the suffering priest from his spot in the shadows, the demon's unseen lips curled in an orgiastic moan that mingled with the sounds of Ossian's muffled screams. He stroked himself with gusto, increasing in speed and intensity whenever the priest's suffering reached a crescendo, and could be heard to smack his lips even from across the room.

  With his hands a bruised mess, Ossian's feet became the next target. His boots were yanked off of his feet and his bare soles brought out to meet the air. A handful of wooden sticks, their tips sharpened to a needlepoint, were carefully inserted into the soles of his feet. With the utmost care, Horace bent the priest's foot back, placed the wooden spike in its desired place, and then took up his hammer, driving it nice and deep. This he did four times, till the most sensitive parts of the left foot had been run through. He then turned his attention to the right great toe. To this appendage the torturer leveled a large steel nail, which he drove in through the toenail. The sharp tip of the nail grazed the stone floor beneath and a small torrent of red came with it.

  Time lost all meaning to the priest. The only currency he had was pain, and just when he thought the suffering had reached its zenith, the jackals in his midst introduced him to new heights of depravity. The septum of his nose was pierced by a length of splintery wood, bringing about a serious nosebleed. He gasped for air through the torn slits all about his mouth but could scarcely get enough to fill his lungs. The tastes of blood and metal pooled in his mouth, inciting tremendous nausea, and when he vomited, the wave of bile streamed from his nose and from the tears along his lips, leaving broken flesh singed and raw.

  "How do you like it, father?" asked the demon from the shadows. "Was it worth it? Where is your God, anyway? Here I thought He might've stepped in to assuage your pitiful suffering."

  Ossian lowered his head to hide the tears that spilled forth.

  Leaving his seat, the demon walked towards his captive with haste and grasped his chin, raising the priest's face to meet his own. Then, from beneath the edge of the veil came a length of warm, black flesh, a tongue, which traveled the length of Ossian's face, scooping up tears and blood alike. The priest was so dazed that he barely had it in himself to resist, though the nauseous sensation prompted in him an agonized cry that his joined lips could not free.

  "Rome is losing this war," said the demon, black eyes boring into the priest's. "My brothers rule the kingdom in Avignon, and soon enough their influence will spread. The Church of Rome was foolish to send a single man to meddle in our affairs; if they were to send an entire army of crusaders it wouldn't be enough! How does it feel to have thrown your life away in service of that church, hm? Was it worth it?"

  He could not speak, he could not move to strike the bishop, but raising one of his fractured hands off of the armrest, Ossian managed to extend a middle finger; one of the few which hadn't been broken.

  The black bishop laughed, patting Ossian's head condescendingly. "My dear boy, we're just getting started, you and I." Catching a glimpse of a silvery chain around the priest's neck, the demon drew up what appeared to be a flat, rustic crucifix. Holding it in his palm, Carnivale gripped it and yanked it off of his person. "How precious. It would be awful if you were parted from this trinket, no?" Taking a freshly-lit taper from Horace, the demon held the crucifix above the dancing flame until it grew hot. "I will give you a mark so that you will never be without it again."

  Turning the crucifix upside down, Carnivale pulled the collar of Ossian's cassock aside and thrust the hot fetish against his bare breast, where it began to singe the flesh. The priest thrashed, his heart pounding in protest, and when the devil finally stepped away, casting the crucifix onto the floor with small traces of his skin stuck to it, Ossian found he was left with a red brand over his heart in the blasphemous shape of an upside-down crucifix.

  Having tired of this spectacle, Carnivale ordered his men to restrain the priest and drag him out to his cell. "You'll be jailed in a public cage, priest. Come morning, you will see your death in the Piazza Maggiore. How does that sound?" Placing a finger against Ossian's chin, he added, "You'll have a fine view of old Bologna during your last night on this Earth. Do try to enjoy it."

  Barely conscious, Ossian was dragged from the chamber, up the stairs, through the candlelit nave of the church, and out across the Piazza Maggiore where a large steel cage had been set up for him. He was tossed into it roughly, hitting the pavement. The door was locked behind him and he was left, shaking and handcuffed, within the cell.

  As his captors disappeared back into the church and he rolled over to take in his surroundings, he found the sun had fully set and a cool chill plagued the evening air. Staring at the new moon, Ossian let the tears flow, wringing his damaged hands till they bled anew.

  Have you forsaken me, Lord? he wondered, running raw fingertips against the staples in his lips. Is this how it ends?

  God chose to remain silent on that matter.

  17

  The night was a ceaseless stream of memories and hallucinations. Ossian's wounds began only tentatively to heal, his blood dried, but the damage to his mind was only just beginning. Laying out across the dirty ground and staring up through the ceiling of his cage at the starless night sky, he was tortured by hallucinations, both visual and auditory. Every passerby, every far-off animalistic noise was to him the very image of Satan, the baying of so
me distant Hellhound.

  He thought he heard his mother speaking to him, thought he could hear the dulcet tones of her voice reaching out to him from across the chasm of years. She and his father had died in a car accident when he was just old enough to understand what'd happened, and his memories of his parents were held up mainly through old photographs. Nevertheless, the sounds of their voices had never really left him, haunted the cellars of his brain like phantasms that would sometimes reach out during dreams.

  "You've done well, Ossian," said his mother again and again. The tortured priest wanted to believe it, but he met the ghostly voice only with a broken sob.

  Throughout the night, townspeople would sometimes approach the cage, coming to rattle its bars or to spit on him like a detestable beast put on public display at a zoo. One, a stooped old man who happened by out of sheer curiosity was transformed by the shadows of the night so that he took on a more familiar cast. Looking at him through the bars was the unshaven face of an old parishioner of his, a man called Otis.

  The shadowed facsimile of Otis ran his fingers about the bars and sighed his wine-soaked breath into the priest's face. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned," he said.

  Back in Rome, during the priest's earliest assignment, Otis had been one of the first to confess his sins to Ossian, then an impressionable and inexperienced clergyman. The sin he had confessed to, displaying only the barest blush of remorse, was that of murdering a neighbor of his."Forgive me father, for I have sinned," said the ghost through the bars.

  Otis had died not long after that, killed by his own hand. In keeping with his vows, Ossian had chosen not to go to law enforcement to turn the man in, and had instead urged him to go to the authorities himself. Instead, the man had chosen to blow his brains out as penance; a second mortal sin with which he damned his soul.