Finally, after only a dozen heartbeats, he stood silent and motionless, gazing down at the fire-bleeding ruin of the demonic pack that lay in pieces about his feet.
“You…” the French leader gasped, eyes wide as they took in the carnage, before returning to the figure that stood like a titan amidst the destruction. “You are ze one zey call Helsing, oui?”
“Oui. Now allez. I’ve work to do.”
With that, Helsing turned and began his run once more, leaving the stunned Crusaders behind. The tall minaret of the temple loomed high before him, just a few streets away now at most, towering above the other, smaller such turrets that jutted above the cityscape. A couple more minutes of running, no more. But would it be enough? He sped up further still, willing the ring to lend him speed beyond speed. The very motes of sand in the air slowed to a crawl as though they floated through treacle as his body raced to speeds that no mortal ought ever reach. But then a sound, deep and stretched out, thanks to his enhanced pace, called through the din and caused him to slow. As he passed an alleyway, a scene before him; a cluster of civilians, terrified and cowering, and before them, a group of Saracen warriors, scimitars bared and ready. But not attacking the civilians, no; these warriors were, instead, defending them against the supernatural beast that even now reared and howled its fury to the uncaring blue sky.
Like a bear, the monster looked, only jet-black and with horns, each the length of a man, that protruded from either side of its square, bestial head. As it dropped back down onto all fours, ready to pounce, the very earth shook at its weight.
“Back, beast!” the lead Saracen shouted in Arabic. “Leave these innocents be.”
If a demon could laugh, that was the sound it made then. Then, with a build-up of infernal power beyond belief, the creature hunkered down upon its haunches… and leapt. With his enhanced eyes, Helsing could tell that the monster would be upon its prey before the Saracen could even raise his curved scimitar. The Moor stood no chance against such a foul denizen of Hell. And yet this would prove his lucky day. Helsing might have worn the white and shining steel of a Crusader knight, yet black, white, Christian, Jew or Moslem, none of that mattered a jot to him; he was a defender of mankind against the powers of darkness. And mankind knew no colour or creed. Even as the beast flew through the air, Helsing Blinked, vanishing and reappearing twixt man and beast, shield raised. A sweeping claw hit his palisade with force beyond force, shattering the wood like so much kindling and all but knocking Helsing from his feet. The zweihander swept forth in reply, but thick, coarse fur robbed the blow of much of its strength. The demon-bear roared, as if mocking him, but Helsing didn’t pause, instead, his eyes casting about the alleyway for anything that might be of use. He spied a sandstone minaret high above, and with a brief surge of mental concentration, he lashed a tendril of Mind Whip about it, tugging with all of his psychic might. The structure groaned, cracked, then finally fell into the alleyway. The bear heard the sound, glanced upwards, just in time to be smashed in the face by half a ton of rock.
Helsing slowly strode towards the groaning beast. Blood poured from a gash in what was no doubt a ruined skull. With baleful eyes it stared at him, making to rise, to lunge once more despite the mortal wound that threatened to send it back to Hell. No chance for vengeance would it have; the zweihander plunged down like a lance, spearing through the creature’s thick skull. And at last it lay still.
Helsing turned back to the Saracens, who slowly approached. The lead man’s black face was a curious mixture of thankful and apologetic.
“A thousand thank yous for your intervention, stranger,” the man told him in Arabic. “And yet, I must apologise; you wear the colours of our enemy, the Crusaders. And thus you must die.”
“I have no quarrel with you, Moor,” Helsing told him, replying in fluent Arabic, to which the Saracens looked shocked.
“Nor I with you,” the man admitted, after he’d finally regained his composure. “Yet we all have orders we must follow.”
The man swept with that wickedly sharp, curved scimitar. The blade whistled through the air and passed through Helsing’s form as though he were no more substantial than a desert mirage, leaving him perfectly unharmed.
“Indeed,” he told the stunned warriors. “We all have crosses we must bear. Fare thee well. I advise you find somewhere to hole up until this is all over.”
With that, he turned. And fled through the alleyway wall.
Emerging from the far side of the building and once more into the light, Helsing released his hold on Shadow Form with a mental sigh, before continuing to run for the temple. It drew nearer by the heartbeat. Bursting from a narrow alleyway, he emerged onto a huge, open square, before skidding to a halt. There, before him, a vast battle raged; scores of white clad Crusaders, black robed Moors and cackling, frothing demons all engaged in a life-or-death struggle. By Helsing’s quick calculation, the hordes of Hell were winning; scores of mortals from both sides already littered the square with their corpses. With a snarl, he leapt into the fray, sword lashing this way and that, taking off a demonic head here, blocking an infernal claw there, protecting Saracen and Crusader alike whilst sparing no demon he came across. The Moors weren’t his foe here, and though the Crusaders were at fault for this apocalypse, it was their leader who deserved punishment, not these poor men following orders a thousand leagues from home. Like a comet, Helsing made his way through the skirmish, leaving fallen demons and stunned warriors in his wake. Finally, after mere moments, he was at the foot of the temple.
Sheathing his sword at his back, he strode from the mid-day heat and into the cool shade, leaving the sounds of life or death struggle behind. The air felt like a caress upon his parched skin, yet when Helsing sniffed, the draught from within brought with it the reek of blood and death. Narrowing his eyes, Helsing continued on down the gloomy hallway towards the centre of the temple. Stone columns lined the corridor, their shadows perfect for concealing any ambushing foes. Helsing snorted in derision; he’d long passed the need for fear of ambush, the ring upon his finger tasting the very currents of potentiality and warning him of any would be surprise. So it was that when the first enemy leapt from the shadows, he was ready.
The man that had once been a Crusader was grey of face, lifeless of eye, his body moving with the fast yet jerky motion of a marionette, empowered and overthrown, as it was, by the incorporeal demon from Hades that now occupied it. Fast though the creature might be, Helsing was faster still, snapping the once-Crusader’s neck with a smooth motion and sending the corpse twitching to the flagstones. Several columns further on, another puppet launched from the shadows, this one earning a supernaturally powerful fist through its abdomen, causing it to collapse with a sigh as its steaming entrails spilled out upon the floor. Again and again, as Helsing made his way down the corridor, the creatures lunged forth to attack. Again and again they were beaten back, broken and torn apart. Finally, he reached the central chamber of the temple.
And there, in the rainbow glow of the stained glass overhead, he beheld Hell itself on Earth.
D’Amico’s closest and dearest, his officers, his advisors, the very priests themselves who had foolishly embarked upon the ritual, hung impaled upon the walls, naked as the day they were born and contorted into various decadent and humiliating poses. They groaned and twitched, tears streaming from their eyes as they cried out to a God that either heard and didn’t care, or else didn’t exist at all. Upon the once holy walls of this most sacred of temples, pentagrams and other foul shapes that hurt the eyes to linger upon for long were daubed in still warm, dripping blood.
Helsing stared about, wide-eyed, at the scenes of horror. Yet no fear entered his heart, no. For he was long past fear. Instead, it was merely anger that filled his breast. A groan of pain from before him and he glanced ahead; there, before the dais, D’Amico himself, stripped of his clothes and chained to the earth via hooks in his flesh, a pair of towering brass automatons from Hell standing towering sentry
on either side. Unimpressed by their stature, Helsing stalked forwards, hands curling to fists of indignation at his sides.
“Francisco D’Amico, leader of the Pope’s armies in Jerusalem, my name is Helsing. And I come bearing judgement for the crimes you have committed against mankind.”
Upon hearing his words, the man looked up, his face wracked by pain and eyes red-rimmed from tears.
“I… I didn’t know this would happen,” the man managed to croak out. “I thought… I thought we could flee before they came. I didn’t think it would all happen so quickly. My men…”
“Your men are dead or dying,” Helsing spat. “As are the Moors. As are the poor innocents of this entire city. Your foolish pride has led to death on a grand scale, knowing no distinction between colour or creed. And it will not go unpunished.”
“I know it won’t,” the man gasped. “Can you not hear it? Can you not hear the approaching Beast?”
Helsing spat.
“I hear only the beating of my raging heart.”
A single tear trickled down D’Amico’s cheek, as black veins began to worm their way across his body and his limbs began to spasm in pain.
“He’s… he’s coming…”
“Who is?”
D’Amico’s eyes turned black as night, his face suddenly twisted into a mocking smile that wasn’t his own.
“The Baron.”
With those final words, the Commander of the Crusaders exploded into a grisly mist of blood and gore, spraying the entire chamber and Helsing himself with its crimson droplets. And when the cloud finally descended to the earth to bead the flagstones with his lifeblood, something else was standing in his place. Something enormous, jet-black, and ancient beyond measure. As the brass automatons backed away and bowed to one knee in respect, Helsing eyed the new arrival, the ring on his finger howling in protest at the dark power of the being before him. Ten feet tall, possibly more, with a black carapace that seemed to be carved from some infernal iron and horns, curling from a face that was almost human, yet twisted by fangs and glowing red eyes, the demon stared down at him with disdain.
“You are the mortal that has been laying waste to my children across this city?” the creature asked in landslide tones that were felt as much as heard. “I was expecting you to be, well… more.”
“Sorry to disappoint, Baron,” Helsing replied. “But your invasion ends here.”
The being before him laughed.
“Indeed. Powerful you must be, to have defeated so many of my lesser minions. Yet your arrogance, I’m afraid, is ill-founded. Kill him.”
The brass constructs at the demon-lord’s sides rose to their feet and stormed towards Helsing, leaving sparks in their wake as axes of dark flame appeared at their hands. Helsing, if he were scared, gave no sign of it, instead, slowly reaching for the broadsword at his back. A flurry of blows, twixt demonic automatons and mortal warrior, shining German steel contesting against unholy fire. Then after mere moments, the constructs collapsed to ruin with a clang upon the flagstone floor. The titanic Baron raised an eyebrow in amusement.
“Impressive… for a mortal. Alas, all the speed and strength in the world will avail you not against such as I; I am a lieutenant in Beelzebub’s armies. Mine is power beyond all mortal comprehension. It will take more than one man and some parlour tricks to defeat the likes of me.” With that, the creature began to grow, looming larger and larger, filling the entire chamber, horns all but scraping the fresco ceiling a hundred feet overhead. “I am the harbinger of the apocalypse,” the creature roared, the very thunderous tones of its voice shaking dust from the roof. “I am the omnipotent incarnation of all that mankind fears awaits it after death. I am Baron Asmodeus and it by my hand that this world shall fall.” As those final, reverberating words dissipated, a fresh noise could be heard. Laughter. The Baron glared down in disbelief at the knight before it. “You laugh in the face of your inevitable demise? What are you? Insane?”
Helsing dried his eyes, still chuckling, and looked up at the towering demon.
“Nigh anywhere else, and you’d have been correct in all of the above. But do you know where you are?”
The demon frowned.
“I… Erm. Jerusalem?”
“Correct,” the warrior told him. “And why do you think this city is so holy, hmm? Why do you think religion after religion have flocked to this place, out of all others in the area?”
The creature stared.
“Enlighten me.”
“Cast down with that omnipotent mind of yours,” Helsing all but giggled. “Down into the Earth itself beneath our feet. What do you feel?”
The demon paused, staring at him confused, then finally did as it was bade, casting its supernatural consciousness down into the depths below. What it found there made its eyes widen in something closely resembling fear. Helsing smiled.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
“What… what is it?” the creature asked. “That power?”
“Ley-lines,” Helsing explained. “The very life-blood of our planet. Spiritual energy, pouring through the Earth beneath us in an unstoppable torrent of pure, crisp power. Where you’re standing right now is a cross-roads of such lines, where they merge and intermingle, forming a whirlpool of energies beyond even your ancient ken.”
The demon seemed taken aback, but only for an instant, before it snarled.
“Alas, such sources of power cannot help you. No mortal in creation can ever hope to channel such energies.”
Helsing grinned and raised his hand, upon which was a sovereign ring emblazoned with a cross.
“Maybe not… if it wasn’t for this.”
The demon gasped as it regarded the band upon the mortal’s finger.
“The sorceries woven into the ring… they are madness! The avarice! The foolhardiness!”
“Indeed.”
With that, Helsing closed his eyes and focussed, allowing the ring to arc the gap twixt his own chi and the unfathomable power of the Earth itself. Finally, after long moments, he opened his eyes again. And where once were ordinary, if handsome, orbs, now there were bottomless storms of raging lightning and fury.
The vast and mighty demon, impossibly, took a thunderous step backwards, face twisted with fear.
“What… what are you?”
Helsing took a step forwards.
“I am the protector of the innocent” he told the beast, in what sounded like a thousand overlaid voices speaking at once. “I am the light that stands against the darkness. I am the hope that dwells in the hearts of all men.” He took another step forwards, his sword now buzzing with electricity that spat and licked down its steel length. “I am Helsing.”
Chapter Nineteen:
Brian 2.0
Brian fell backwards onto the hard gantry with a gasp. Silence greeted his return to the present world and, for an instant, he feared he’d really been gone for those long minutes, Gertie having been torn apart in his absence by a pack of thirsting lycans. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case; time, it seemed, was frozen somehow, Gertie still crouched and ready, blades to hand, as mannequin werewolves were paused in mid-lunge towards her. Brian stared, then slapped himself on the face for good measure; everything remained frozen in place. What on Earth was happening? Finding himself with a moment’s respite, he pondered events. Had… had the visions been real? Had he really been there, occupying Helsing the First’s very body? Or had it all been some mad hallucination? If the latter, it was mightier than those induced by any mushrooms he’d ever imbibed, magic or otherwise. He looked back to the window; Helsing I was gone now, XII now standing, or more aptly, floating in his place, a strange smile on his face.
“Now you know the truth, lad; the only limits to your power are those you set yourself.”
“I… that was incredible. He was unstoppable. He was like John Wick. Only with a sword.”
“Damn straight. And so can you be, if you open yourself up to the power.”
Brian shoo
k his head.
“But this isn’t Jerusalem.”
XII laughed, as hearty and loud as any dead guy Brian had ever heard.
“Indeed. It’s little old Cornwall. But ask yourself, Brian – why do so many supernatural creatures seem strangely drawn here like moths to a flame? And why is the very Sanctum of the Helsing Order based beneath the Mount, hmm?”
“No idea.” But then he paused, remembering the exchange between Helsing and the vast Baron, the one whose skeleton, he now realised with a start, was preserved and bound in runes in the very Bestiary of their headquarters. “Ley lines…?”
“Correct, my young padawan.” XII smiled warmly. “Coursing beneath the very granite bedrock of your home, joining each other like merging streams and forming a pool of incredible power just waiting to be tapped by the right person. And that person is you, Brian. Use the ring and open yourself up to it. And be quick about it; Helsing the First’s time-freezing trickery won’t last forever.”
Brian stared down at the ring, in wide-eyed apprehension. Dare he open himself up to such power? The First had, but then he had been made of sterner stuff than Brian, as had all the other Helsings. His indecision was quickly broken; like the tearing of fabric stretched too thin, a ripping sensation across time and space as the frozen figures all about him began to slowly, glacially move. If he waited too long, then the spell would fail and Gertie would die. And so would he, though strangely enough, that was more of an afterthought. Still staring intently at the ring, Brian reached his decision. He called upon the ring, though this time rather than asking it to channel and amplify his own chi, his own life-force, he asked for something else. That of the very Earth itself. And, with the sensation of a train rolling inevitably down the tracks towards him, it answered.
And, by fuck, did it answer.
Time snapped into being, motion resumed. Gertie roared in rage, wielding her twin daggers, but her war-cry was drowned out by the bestial snarl of the first lycan as it sailed through the air towards her. Too fast, too strong. No-one could stop such a charging beast. Well… almost no-one. As Gertie squealed, knowing her time was up, a hand shot out from beside her with impossible speed, grasping the werewolf about its neck and arresting the beast’s flight with a startled gurgle.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #3: Howlin' Mad Page 12
