The Conqueror Worm

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Cesare interrupted, helping himself to his daily ration of berries and mushrooms. Their stock of food was running perilously low, and the youth stuffed his cheeks like an animal preparing for the harshest of winters. "If we kill the bishop, you think all of the others will get the idea and run?"

  Ossian polished his blade against the hem of his cassock. "What's this 'we' talk, again? I thought we settled that, boy. And moreover, it's impossible to say how the congregation might react to such an event. Killing that demon, Carnivale, won't be such a simple thing. It isn't as though we can just walk into the basilica and chop his head off without protest. The creature we fought last night was a low-level grunt. The bishop is sure to show us a level of fight we've never seen before."

  Elio cracked a smile, patting the wooden handle of his sledge. "Wonder how he'd like a crack in the noggin' with this motherfucker."

  Ossian stood and paced, taking a small sip from the canteen. The cool water brought his parched throat much comfort, steadied his mind. "That mongrel who ambushed us last night never made it back to his master, so Carnivale knows we're still at large, and still within the city limits. He'll keep looking for us even if it means coming out himself. In the meantime, we can continue intercepting his assassins, send a strong message that we're unwilling to stand down. And when we've handled his most trusted servants, like that insufferable monsignor, Weber, we can infiltrate the basilica and seek out the king snake in its lair."

  "You said something about that feast day, the Twisted Nail thing. It's coming up, ain't it?" chanced Elio. "What if we drop by while they're having their little celebration like you said earlier and hit them before they know what's happening? We could seal all of the entrances, lay some kind of trap and burn 'em out, yeah?"

  The priest folded his arms. "If this were an action film, your plan might just work, however I don't believe we'll have any way to keep those degenerates locked inside. I've been to the basement level of that ancient building, and there are many doors. Who's to say that there aren't other escape routes within it?" Sighing, Ossian continued. "I've no qualms about kicking in the doors and interrupting their black Mass, however we risk antagonizing them when they're at their most powerful. It's risky."

  Rather than discuss the matter further, the three of them turned almost in tandem to the third-story window to their backs, listening as the sounds of trotting hooves reached their ears from below.

  "The day's first patrols have started," muttered Ossian, starting quickly for the door. "Cesare, stay well-hidden. Elio, stay close and be prepared to strike them down as they come. They may be armed with guns, so stay sharp. The only way we'll win if that's the case is to hit them before they see us."

  Hobbling to the door, sledge locked in his meaty fists, Elio nodded solemnly.

  "Today, we make war," said the priest, slipping silently down the hall and descending the stairs to the first level.

  They were four, the men on horseback. Three of them carried guns; old hunting rifles that'd seen better days. The first in their group, who took special care in surveying the streets for signs of recent occupancy with a knife in his waistband and a rudimentary spear in hand, was Monsignor Weber. They had ridden at a leisurely pace for miles and stopped to let their horses graze in an open field before continuing into the ruins of Bologna.

  And now, outside of an empty apartment building some five stories high, they spied something in the road ahead that made them stop in their tracks.

  A leather satchel.

  "Open it. Inspect it," ordered the monsignor, waving one of his armed men over to the bag.

  The grunt dismounted his horse and carefully approached the satchel, opting to nudge it onto its side with the stock of his rifle, a worn-out Remington. Inside, a few glass vials clinked against one another, and when he felt reasonably sure it was not a trap, he undid the clasp and had a look inside. Except for the glass vessels, a Bible and some other mundane materials, there was nothing else. "Looks like it might be a priest's things, I guess," said the man, turning to his superior.

  The words had only just left his mouth when, from the nearest doorway, came a swinging hammer. Stepping out into the sunlight just long enough to land his blow, Elio sank the sledge into the back of the ruffian's skull, jettisoning both eyes from their sockets and leaving a crimson crater in the back of his head. At that same moment, Cesare made a mad dash out the door, wresting the Remington out of the dead man's grasp and rolling into a nearby alley, where the priest stood in wait. Elio backed away into the apartment building, ready to smite anyone who wandered within swinging range.

  "It's rude to tamper with other people's things, monsignor. A man of your standing in the church ought to know basic manners, at least," mocked Ossian, examining the rifle. It'd been some years since he'd fired a gun. Once, as a young man, he'd been taken out on a hunting trip and had had a chance to fire a rifle not unlike this one, a .35 Remington Model 8.

  Unlike that other gun however, this one lacked ammunition. There wasn't a single cartridge within.

  From the main drag, only the whine of the horses broke the silence. If one listened hard, it was possible to hear the seepage of the dead man's cerebrospinal fluid dripping onto the warm pavement. For a long while the haughty monsignor did not dare to speak.

  Stepping out from his spot in the alleyway, Ossian raised the empty rifle and aimed it at the Monsignor's center of mass. Hitting the trigger, it clicked impotently. "What's this, now? Your men are carrying empty rifles, are they? What, doesn't your boss have any ammunition for you?"

  The riderless horse began wandering as the other three were made to back away from the priest. Though the other two men carrying guns made a show of taking Ossian within their sights, it soon became clear that they were bluffing. Neither of them fired on the priest despite having ample reason to do so.

  "As it happens, our ammunition was exhausted early on. The hunting of large game, of silencing our critics, ate into what little we had to begin with. Pleased with this small victory, are you?" The monsignor stared down the length of his pallid nose at Ossian, hands tightly wrapped around the reins. "It matters not. Bishop Carnivale does not require firearms to handle you. He'll crush you like the insect you are, priest.”

  Ossian, though, was in another world. Chuckling darkly and reaching out to pet one of the horses on the snout, he teased the Grand Inquisitor from its ebony shell and propped up its shining length in his open palm. "You know what I like about swords, monsignor? Aside from the fact that, in an analog age like ours, they never lose their efficacy?" He shot the pale man a sharp look. "There's something delicious about cornering a heretic and driving a blade into his heart with a single, righteous thrust. When you run a man through with your sword, you can feel him writhe through the hilt, can give it an extra turn if you wish, to add to the suffering, or else end things quickly for more merciful dispatches."

  The monsignor frowned, his already white face blanching. He drew his horse away from the priest and looked ready to send the beast of burden into a full-on gallop. "If I'm not mistaken, it's a sin for a man to take such joy in killing. You and Bishop Carnivale are more alike than you think."

  "It is no sin if God wills it!" shouted Ossian, raising his sword in the air. "Elio, come out from there. These men have no ammunition. We'll kill them where they stand."

  Startled, the horses began to buck and bump into one another. Rather than let the monsignor escape, Ossian chose to focus his efforts on disabling his horse, running the Grand Inquisitor along the animal's knees and severing enough vital material to send the animal to the ground. If the other men escaped his wrath, it was just as well; they could run back in terror and report this slaying to their master, could describe the power of this wild Black Exorcist.

  As Weber's horse fell onto its side and began to flail in pain, the monsignor attempted to break free of his saddle. In the fall however, his left leg had been pinned beneath the animal and by the time he managed to loose himself his attacke
rs were upon him. Calls to his underlings went unanswered, and the two remaining horsemen took off for everything they were worth.

  Before Ossian could stop him, Elio burst onto the scene with his sledge, dropping the weapon's concrete tip on the monsignor's forearm with such force that the ground beneath it shook. The resultant sound was like the smacking of a butcher's meat mallet against a steak, with the added noise of shattering bone as the radius and ulna were pulverized. Weber screamed, clutched the tip of the hammer with his good hand as it pressed into his flesh and drew blood from the spots where broken bone now jutted out to meet the open air.

  "No!" Barked Ossian, pushing Elio away. "No, don't kill him! Not yet. Me and the monsignor here, we're going to have a talk." He reached down and plucked the knife from Weber's waistband, tossing it into a nearby gutter.

  Weber's arm began to swell immediately, growing hot and red. With tears in his eyes, he looked up to meet the priest's sturdy gaze and immediately shrank against the pavement. "I'll do whatever you ask. I'll..." He winced. "I'll tell you anything, but please... please don't... don't kill me."

  Ossian used the tip of his sword to ease the monsignor's chin upward. "That's the spirit. Beg for your life, monsignor. Let me hear you say it. Let me hear you beg... unless, perhaps, you'd prefer that I staple your mouth shut, hm? Would you prefer to weather this silently? We've a lot of ground to cover, and when we're through I will send you to meet your maker."

  "N-no, no!" pleaded Weber, sobbing now. "Please, no!"

  "Come to think of it," corrected the priest, "your maker likely wants nothing to do with you. Your lord and master the Devil, however, will meet you with open arms, I'm sure." Taking the man by his greasy hair, Ossian nodded to Elio. "Come, let's take him away from here before the bishop sends a search party."

  The trio began walking down the street, but not before Cesare turned to the bleeding, suffering form of the horse. Ossian's blow had wounded it severely, and it would die a slow death on that street unless one of them intervened. "Ossian, please... we can't just leave the horse. He's hurt real bad."

  The priest halted. "You're right." Leaving Weber in Elio's care, Ossian turned and knelt beside the horse, running a hand through its mane. "I'm sorry you got wrapped up in this, dear fellow." With a quick swing of the sword, he dashed the creature's brainstem through and watched as it took in its final breaths. Wiping the blood from his blade, Ossian returned to his captive, giving him a kick in the ass to get him moving. "The animal didn't deserve that, Weber. But its sacrifice will not be in vain. When all is said and done, you'll be wishing that your execution was as swift and merciful as that of the horse you rode in on."

  20

  Their prisoner was dragged through the streets for some distance, forced into silence under the threat of immediate execution. One of Elio's beefy hands took hold of Weber's collar and he was drawn along like a sack of garbage. During one instance, when the sounds of horses seemed particularly close, the group had paused, taken shelter within an empty house, till the commotion passed into the distance. At that time Ossian had revealed to the fidgeting, blubbering monsignor the blade of his weapon, promising to slit his throat should he even think to call out to the bishop's patrolmen.

  Weber made not a peep.

  Leading the march, Ossian had said little since they'd made their capture. He was interested in building some distance from the bishop's men and hoped to stumble upon some well-hidden spot where they might set about extracting information from the monsignor. Half an hour had passed when they found a spot they deemed suitable for such a purpose.

  It was a single-family home, quite weatherbeaten but structurally sound. The front door proved in working order, and so Weber was hauled inside and cast onto the dirty floors of the main room and the door bolted behind them. There were a few high-set windows in the space which brought in a goodly bit of sun, and which gave them also a vantage point into the surrounding alleyways.

  Elio, setting down his sledge in the corner, sat down in front of the door, crossed his arms and gave a crooked smile. The hulking man had some trouble catching his breath, and he wrenched his deformed foot in his hand, complaining of a minor soreness for his exertion. Cesare, who hadn't said a word since Ossian had put down the monsignor's horse, wandered quietly about the abode. The realities of battle had upset him, clearly, though his sullen demeanor seemed to stem also from the changes in the priest's manner.

  Ossian paced before his captive in the main room of the house, cracking his battered knuckles and tonguing his molars. He was a different man now than he'd been even that very morning. He was something wickeder, something energized by clear and savage purpose. His gaunt face was hung in what looked to be a permanent scowl, and his brow was furrowed, adding depth to those shamrocks of eyes that had about them already such a boundless and penetrating energy.

  He was not playing the role of priest this day. His was the role of inquisitor.

  Weber backed against the wall, clutching at his ruined arm. The bleeding had slowed, but the inflammation and pain had evidently not. Wincing, the monsignor pawed at his split flesh, drew in shaky breaths as he appraised the jagged lengths of bone which had been unearthed in the making of those wounds. His nasally voice, ordinarily so repellant and annoying to the priest, took on something of the childish and pathetic as he made a craven request for mercy. “Father McGregor,” he began, lips trembling, “I will tell you anything you wish to know. I will do what you ask. But please, please... spare my life.”

  In the priest's bandaged grasp was the Grand Inquisitor, which he presently unsheathed and carried towards his gibbering hostage. With one quick movement, Ossian bent down and buried the butt of the great sword's hilt against Weber's nose, snapping it and sending a splash of blood across the wooden floor. “I make no such promises,” he said gravely.

  Cesare, seeing this ruthless display, turned and looked away, facing the wall for a time. Elio stretched out his lengthy legs, unbothered at the sounds of the monsignor's sobs.

  Cowering, Weber did not so much as raise his gaze to meet that of the priest.

  “Let us begin,” said Ossian. “I want to know about that bishop, Bishop Carnivale, that you've been serving. Where has he come from? Tell me what you know of his provenance.” He stood firm before the monsignor, staring down at him with plain impatience.

  Weber sighed, attempted to stymy the flow of blood from his flattened nostrils, and replied tremblingly. “I know very little, priest. Much has been said, but... but of the bishop's true nature I don't think any man on this Earth can truly give insight. I... I was introduced to him in recent months. He came on horseback, brought here by a rider in black with detailed instructions. He carried with him a hand-written document signed by Pope Urban himself, decreeing that Carnivale was to revitalize the churches of Bologna, starting with the Basilica of San Petronio. I was an aimless priest then, had been doing my best to serve the citizens, when Carnivale first arrived. He brought with him great wealth. Some weapons, horses; things of that nature, and he dispensed them among the faithful. He must have seen something in me, because he decided I was to become his disciple, and I was given the title of monsignor.

  “But of course, his rites; the rites of Avignon, draw their power from another source. Carnivale serves another master, and is the kin of the dark things that now hold sway over the papacy in Avignon. Creatures of darkness.” The monsignor tensed. “My conversion to this new faith was simple enough, priest. I saw results. Carnivale could summon up animals from the wild, could stir up fish in bodies of water where none had been known to previously exist. He was a miracle-maker―more so than any 'holy man' I'd ever known in the old days. I decided early on that I would follow him, that I would dedicate myself to his cause.”

  “His cause is devilry. His aim is to topple the church and to bring the era of man to an end, damning as many souls as possible in the process,” interrupted Ossian.

  Despite his fear, the monsignor laughed. “The age
of man is already over, priest. I threw my lot in with Carnivale, as did we all, so that we might survive a bit longer. That is all. When the disaster struck, I prayed to God for clean water, for food, for the health of my parishioners. But God did not dispense those things. No, He left us to suffer. And so, when Carnivale came to town and promised of a newer, brighter age, I put my faith in him. He was more deserving than your God ever was, priest.”

  Ossian grit his teeth. “You put your faith in the spawn of Hell, Weber. You forfeit your eternal soul.”

  Anger welled up in the monsignor's breast, and he barked, “I don't care if Carnivale is Satan's own brother! His power is something real, something substantial. And you will see it for yourself very soon now.”

  The priest nodded. “I'm sure that I will.” Pacing about, Ossian offered the captive another question. “This rider in black. I've heard tell of such a person. What can you tell me about them? What role does that rider play in all of this?”

  The monsignor chuckled, his greasy hair matted to the edges of his face with sweat and blood. “That black rider... is the Servant of Avignon. The pope's right hand, it is said. An edict leaves Urban's lips, and it is the rider who sets out to make his decrees real. He rides a large, black horse and wears a curious armor like something from the Middle Ages. I don't know where he came from, though I doubt very much he was born anywhere on this Earth. He carries a mighty sword with him, and is possessed of exceptional strength. I watched him kill a dozen men upon his arrival in Bologna, in fact. Certain of the townsfolk, you understand, were not fond of Avignon's brand. And so, when they found their city under the rule of Carnivale by Avignon's decree, they tried to kill both the bishop and this black rider, calling them―not unreasonably―devils. They all died where they stood, killed before they could lift their primitive clubs and knives.”