The priest mulled over these facts for some time. The Black Rider of Avignon; would he meet this fearful specter in the course of his travels? Weber's account did not differ greatly from those of other travelers. The Black Rider seemed to bring with him death and chaos wherever he went, as the new papacy's strong right arm.
Sighing, Ossian continued. “And this feast day. The Feast of the Twisted Nail. I've heard mentions of it. When is it set to occur, and what is its significance to your heathen sect?”
Real, genuine laughter graced the monsignor's lips. A swift kick in the ribs from the agitated priest was not sufficient to ward it off. Holding onto his side and snickering through the pain, Weber replied, “It is the day when Avignon's aims will be met.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the priest.
“You were sent here, by the forces of Rome, to investigate the state of the other church, were you not?” Weber continued without waiting for an answer. “You were given the task of connecting with the Avignon leadership, of cutting down heretics and purifying the Catholic faith, yes? Let me tell you something, priest; when the lights went out during that solar storm, things changed. The true face of Avignon was revealed that day, and the servants of the new church have been working tirelessly ever since to spread its influence. Its masters are the Princes of Hell, and they have prepared for this takeover for eons. These are the end times, and the Earth will have a new master very soon now. Rome will be overrun; in fact, no place on the planet will be out of Avignon's reach. The Feast of the Twisted Nail is simply the first stage. The first domino.”
Losing his patience, Ossian gripped the monsignor's collar and shook him. “Out with it! When is the feast day? What are they planning?”
Sardonic laughter rattled in the prisoner's throat. He straightened his bent glasses and gazed up at the priest impudently. “As it happens, you've made very, very good time. The feast is tomorrow night. It begins at moonrise and will continue for a full twenty-four hours. In that time, the sun will not come up.” He grinned. “Do you understand? One full day of night, on which the faithful will assume their new lives.”
“Enough of this,” shouted Ossian, drawing his weapon and pressing the blade against Weber's breast. “I will ask you again to explain it clearly. In detail. If you continue to evade with your vague talk, I'll end this interview now by skewering your heart, damn you.”
Weber was sobered by the threat and nodded, licking his bloodied lips tentatively. “It has been in the works for more years than any man could know. Lifetimes. The Feast of the Twisted Nail is the night when the followers of the new Avignon faith will be baptized en masse. A black Mass will be held, during which the faithful will have the option of choosing a new master; the devil. If they accept the darkness, then they will be reborn at moonrise, their bodies becoming hosts to denizens of Hell.”
“Freeze the saints,” muttered Ossian. “You mean to say that the goal is widespread possession?”
Weber nodded. “It's more than that, frankly. It is a night when the followers of Avignon may choose to become something more. They are not merely becoming possessed; they will become demons themselves, body and soul. The pit is teeming with dark spirits who have longed for unfathomable eons to walk the Earth. The Feast of the Twisted Nail is when they shall have their chance. They already walk among us; I'm sure you've met them yourself. But soon they will be legion. The Mass will be given, and any who accept will be transmogrified. Avignon will then have under its sway thousands... perhaps tens of thousands of new demonic soldiers that will do the devil's bidding and overrun the Earth. Tomorrow night, Satan builds his army.”
Chilled to the marrow, Ossian glanced up at the ceiling, heart racing. “How can it be stopped, then?” he asked.
Weber smirked. “The ritual cannot be stopped, priest. It has been in the works since before your family line and mine were drawn. Such a sacrament will be given tomorrow night at every church controlled by Avignon. Even if you were to kill Carnivale beforehand―and that is surely something you will not manage―the damage will have been done. Bologna is but one city of many that is under Avignon's purview. If it were spared somehow, the demon hordes come from Genoa, Nice... Marseille, would surely conquer this city given time. And Rome, too, for that matter. There is no stopping it. The age of men is over, as I said.”
Elio and Cesare were still, silent. They weren't sure how to react to this news, and exchanged sharp looks while Ossian paced like a madman. The priest raked a hand through his hair and growled. “The bishop. Where can I find him?”
“He stays in the church, the basilica,” replied Weber. “There is a hallway in the rear of the building that leads to a hidden room. He makes his home there. Though, I must recommend against trying to break in. The door is held fast by demonic magic.”
“Where, then, might I catch him unaware?” shot the priest.
With the wide-eyed wonder of the true zealot, Weber gave his rejoinder. “You will never catch the bishop unaware, because you are not his equal. You, like any other mortal man, is not fit to breathe the same air. You are an insect, priest, and he will know where you are and what you plan to do before you can even land a blow. He'll pound the sight from your eyes, the air from your lungs, and will tear your body into ribbons. I'm only sorry that I won't be there to see it.” His head slumped in laughter.
“You are right about the last,” replied Ossian. With the Grand Inquisitor locked in his fist, he reared back and delivered the killing blow, knocking the monsignor's head from his shoulders. The cut was clean and even, leaving a hemorrhaging stump of a neck, which met the floor and spewed a torrent of blood. The head rolled for some time, striking the wall, and the monsignor's limbs twitched for some moments before finally falling still.
Elio and Cesare were on their feet, wearing expressions of surprise and terror.
Cleaning the edge of the holy sword with his cassock, Ossian re-sheathed the thing and crossed himself. “May God have mercy on your wretched soul, Weber.” He then turned to his companions. “Come, let us go from here. There is much to discuss.”
21
It was decided that the best course of action would be to remain hidden. No good would come of engaging the bishop's men before the start of the feast. It would be better, Ossian insisted, that they find shelter near the Basilica of San Petronio and cobble together a plan by which they might succeed in crashing the heathen festivities.
With eyes wandering always and ears poised to listen for the sounds of hostile approach, the haggard trio found solace within a three-story office building, picked of all its useful goods, that looked out upon the Piazza Maggiore and which, for better or for worse, faced the accursed basilica directly. The old church rose starkly against the evening-painted sky, its towering shape cutting into the oranges and purples that spanned across the heavens. The day was waning. Night was soon to come, and with it, they knew, might arrive also the bishop's non-human assassins.
Holed up within a single room and seated upon the floor, the three men dug into their supplies and enjoyed a light meal. In this world, so given over to evil and ruin, one never could say which meal might be one's last. Though, as they ate that evening, soon having only the waxing moon for light, and stared out the window at the basilica whose stained glass panels glowed, they felt it a real possibility that they would never share a meal again.
“It's like our very own Last Supper,” mused Elio, knocking the dust from his curly mane and pouring himself a capful of water.
The menu was simple; berries, mushrooms and edible flowers. Hardly enough food to sustain the three of them, who were preparing for a life and death battle against the forces of wickedness. Ossian sat back against the wall, bathed partially in shadow, funneling small bits of food into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He savored the taste of the rough, wild edibles, the coolness of his remaining spring water, as though they would be his last.
“The odds, of course, are stacked against us,” began the
priest, flexing his bandaged hand. His fingers ached, and the back of his hand still burned where the torturer had torn away the flesh. “Elio, in your estimation, how many people are there in this town, total? Whatever the number, that's how many we can likely expect at the church this time tomorrow.”
Elio pondered this for a moment, crunching a blackberry between his teeth. “Hard to say. The numbers dropped real hard after the winter. There may be a couple hundred, but a lot of folks―the ones that survived―moved on from here, I think.” He shrugged. “Maybe two, three hundred?”
Cesare, his appetite nonexistent, cradled his bony arms and rocked on the floor nervously. “So... if this bishop does what he's planning on, we're going to end up dealing with hundreds of those demons? Like the ones that have attacked us before? With the... tentacles?”
Ossian gave a quick nod. “Yes, though I'd rather kill them while they're still human.” He glanced at his sword, ran a hand against its smooth, Tourmaline-encrusted sheath. “Our best chance at success―our only chance―is to kill the congregation before they can assume their transformation. I have a feeling that the bishop will give us more than enough trouble on his own. The heretics in his flock can be dispatched simply enough however.” He pointed to Elio. “Can you do it, Elio? Can you raise that hammer to smite your fellow citizens?”
It didn't take him long to make up his mind. Elio nodded. “If they're supporting monsters like Carnivale, then they're no countrymen of mine. I'll kill as many of those people as I have to. The alternative is to let them become monsters. The more of those monsters that exist, the more innocent people, like my wife and son, will have to suffer. If I can... I'd like to spare other people the pain I've faced.” He lowered his gaze and fell into thought.
“How can we stop it?” asked Cesare, breaking the silence with a squeak. “The monsignor said that, even if we succeeded in killing the bishop, this thing is still going to happen elsewhere. There will be, like... a whole army of these things to fight in a day's time. They'll be unstoppable.”
“Hold your tongue, lad,” warned Ossian, giving his shoulder a firm shake. “We've God in our corner. Don't sell us so short.” He then looked to the youth with sternness. “As for the battle tomorrow, you will not be joining us, Cesare. We will find a secure place for you―possibly in this very building―and you can reunite with us when the fight is over.”
The youth shook his head. “Uh-huh, and what if you two get your asses kicked?” he asked. “What do I do then, if I can't meet up with you afterward?”
With a firm hand, Ossian reached out and made the sign of the cross on the boy's forehead. “Then you will leave this place, go as far from it as you can, in the direction of Rome.”
Again, silence settled over the party.
When the priest finally spoke again, it was while he stared out the window at the dark shape of the church. “We can see from here what they're up to. I wonder if they will post guards at the entrances because they know we're out here. Whatever the case, we will enter the church in some fashion before moonrise tomorrow and―save for those who swear an allegiance to Christ―we will mow down the heretics and then focus our energies on slaying the king snake, Carnivale. Understood?”
Elio agreed. “That's the only way I can see it happening. There are multiple doors, but if they post guards we'll just bash their skulls and walk right in. It's no trouble.” He frowned. “The problem is what we do once we get in there. I don't like the thought of getting mobbed.”
Ossian picked up his sword and examined the blade by moonlight. “Nor do I, but this is the path before us. We either destroy a hundred―two hundred―human beings, or we perish against two hundred devils.”
“Shame we can't just drive the devils out, like in the movies,” laughed Elio. “Would save us a lot of time and effort.”
The priest, crossing his arms, gave a shake of the head. “You asked me, once, about exorcism, Elio, and I don't believe that I answered you with the utmost honesty. You, too, Cesare―I haven't told you about my experiences with the rites of exorcism, have I?” Ossian took in a deep breath. “It's important, as we set out on this crusade, that you know the kind of man you're shipping out with. I was a parish priest once, doing work in a small church. I was trained many years ago in the rites of exorcism, and in my time I cast out many low-level demons from my parishioners. I felt I was doing God's work, even if I didn't follow the church's chain of command each time. But once, I encountered a case of possession―two concurrent cases―which I could not solve.
“I was summoned to a house to inspect a pair of siblings, one boy and one girl, who were said by their parents to be behaving very strangely. The hallmarks of advanced demonic possession were present, and I wasted no time in beginning the rites. The exorcism took place in a small bedroom, and for days I struggled against the demons that bound them. I prayed and prayed, gave it everything I was worth, however it soon became clear that my methods were not effective, and that time was running out. The children, their bodies pushed to the brink by the supernatural stresses of possession, were in need of prompt relief, and so I delved into more esoteric rites, drawing upon the methods of ancient Catholic exorcists and inquisitors. I bled them, withheld sustenance in the hopes of making the bodies inhospitable to the evil spirits, and took up other controversial methods.
“Their bodies gave out. I was a fool to think that young children could ever sustain such a brutal course of treatment as I had doled out, and when all was said and done, I walked out of that house with their blood on my hands. I was taken in by the police, charged for my negligence and simultaneously thrown out of the priesthood for my deeds. I was excommunicated, in fact―shunned from the church, and was sentenced to years in prison. I never gave up the habits of the priesthood in all that time; I prayed, I sought a closer relationship to God, and I knew, in my heart, that I'd done everything possible to save the souls of those children. The guilt of their deaths has never left me, but if faced with the same decision today, I would do it all again. There is no higher calling, no nobler deed, than to force back the agents of darkness and to defend the pure of heart.
“It was some time after the cataclysm, when the prisons could no longer be maintained, that I was summoned from my cell and brought to Vatican City. I was told that the new church in Avignon had butchered a handful of Rome's diplomats, and that they feared heresy was widespread in the region. I was accepted back into the church, was given back my collar, this sword, and tasked with traveling across the land to get to the bottom of things. They knew me a rough man; prison had given me a harder edge, and my training as an exorcist made me a particularly hot commodity under the circumstances. Rather than let me rot in jail, they freed me and sent me on the warpath to Avignon. My mission is to determine the nature of the Avignon papacy and to strike from the Earth any heretical strains which might come my way. The thinking, perhaps, was that I had the right temperament for a crusade; that I was the type of man who could kill, without remorse, in the name of God―and who had the right conviction to do so judiciously. And they were correct. I feel I was born to walk this path.
“Anyhow, I tell you this because it is important that you know what kind of man has led you here.” Ossian finished.
Elio and Cesare said nothing for a long while. It was the former who finally spoke up. “That your little pre-battle confession, father? If so, I forgive ya. For whatever that's worth. The world is a fucked-up place. We all come from somewhere and we all have skeletons in our closets. Maybe you deserved to be in jail for what you did, I don't know. But what I do know is that you're the kind of person who strives always to do what he thinks is right in God's eyes. And that's a damn rare thing these days. There aren't too many people left in this miserable world who give a damn about doing what's right. At the very least, for better or worse, you're consistent, father.”
The night watch was divided amongst the three of them. Cesare, who didn't look tired in the least, chose to take the first spot. They
would rest in this room, taking periodic looks through the window and assessing the movements of their enemies, till the next evening. Their road-weary legs were much in need of rest, and they made due with their rough quarters, stretching out on the floor and taking short, restorative naps. It was hoped that this would be enough to keep them alert come the next evening, when the feast began.
Even so, as the night deepened and Ossian found himself with time to sleep, he could not but stay awake, staring out the window at the black hulk of the basilica, and gritting his teeth. He squeezed the wooden beads of his rosary and prayed under his breath. God almighty, make me your sword. Grant me your shield. Allow me the strength to strike fear into the hearts of the sinners who would desecrate your church.
Stirring in the night, Cesare rolled onto his side and motioned to the priest. Quietly, he said, “The monsignor mentioned that when the feast is complete, there will be no sunrise the next morning. A full day of darkness―of night. Right?” He cleared his throat. “Is that possible?”
Ossian closed his eyes. “In this cruel age, boy, there is no longer any telling what is possible.”
22
Into the late afternoon, the three of them sought rest. When the day had grown long and they began noticing signs of activity around the basilica, they cast off their tiredness and began to prepare for the battle ahead. They were thankful, at least, that they hadn't been disturbed for the night. No predators had entered their building, and if there had been patrols about the streets, then they'd heard nothing of them. Moreover, as the fateful day wound on and the sun began to fade, they noticed something interesting about the church grounds.
The Conqueror Worm Page 14
