DIRE SYMBIOSIS
All Rights Reserved © 2001 by William Seagroves
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Prologue I
56 B.C., in the region formerly known as Gaul
Centurion Bartrow called the column to a halt and dismounted his horse. As the soldiers broke ranks and started making camp, he glanced to the east. In the distance he could still see the thin pillar of greasy smoke that marked the Roman Empire’s latest conquest. Bartrow felt no pride or accomplishment from the victory, his men having run down defenseless women and children.
Normally he would have marched his troops straight through the village without a backward glance, but his orders were clear—destroy all Celtic settlements. The proclamation had come from Caesar himself, the new Proconsul seemingly obsessed with the annexation of Gaul. It was policy for the empire to crush its enemies, but Bartrow wondered if Caesar’s interest was due to some other motivation.
As he moved through the activity of the encampment, Bartrow caught bits and pieces of conversation. More often than not, he heard the word ‘Druid’ muttered and always with a bit of apprehension in the men’s voices. It was obvious his men were uneasy about staying the night so close to the remains of the Celtic village. And secretly, he shared their reservations.
Not much was known about the religious sect that held the Celtic nations together. Tales of human sacrifice and creatures summoned from beyond to do the strange priests bidding circulated among the troops, but they were Romans and Romans did not retreat at the first mention of a child’s bedtime story.
Reaching his tent, he glanced to the horizon. The crimson sun cast its light across the floor of the valley giving it the appearance of a river of blood. Bartrow had never seen such a sunset and wondered if it was a portent of some kind.
Later that night, Bartrow was awakened by a peculiar moan, a bizarre ululating wail that froze his blood and caused him to shiver. He found that his hand had involuntarily seized the hilt of his sword, something he’d come to do more of late. He had barely strapped his sword on when a guard entered his tent.
“Centurion, we have movement on our left flank!” said the guard, terror-stricken.
“What is it?” Bartrow asked, stepping past the guard and out into the cool night air.
“Unknown, Centurion. Scouts were dispatched, but have not returned.”
“Show me.”
As Bartrow followed the guard through the encampment, he found that everyone was up and about. From their drawn swords, he could see they were unnerved by the strange cacophony. He too was anxious.
When they reached the guard post, they found the other sentry peering into the darkness at the edge of the camp, his sword at the ready. “What’s this?” said Bartrow, startling the guard. The young soldier whirled about, raising his sword, wild-eyed and in a panic.
“Forgive me, Centurion,” he said when he recognized his compatriots, “I thought you were one of them.”
“Who?”
The guard glanced toward the darkness. “Them.”
Bartrow followed his gaze and upon first inspection saw only stars in the night sky. Then, as he looked closer, he found that the stars were positioned in pairs—and they moved. His blood turned cold as he realized that they weren’t stars but eyes staring back at him, hundreds of them. There was a need in those eyes, a longing, a current so filled with inhuman need that Bartrow felt swept away by the river of malevolence that flowed from them. The howling, which had receded somewhat, now became more urgent and closer, then suddenly went silent.
The three Romans backed away from the night, the unearthly quietude even more frightening. Now the cool night air seemed stifling, strangled by the silence that permeated the darkness. Bartrow found his sword in his hand. Though he couldn’t remember drawing it, he was comforted by its readiness.
Suddenly there was movement to their right; a shift in the shadows followed by fleeting footfalls. More sounds came from the night, rustling grass and some sort of clicking noise. Then, an inhuman roar pierced the night and huge inky-black figures rushed from the shadows.
Bartrow’s last thought before he died was of a bedtime story his mother used to tell him.
Prologue II
May 1985: Soldeu, Andorra
The morning mist began dissipating as the sun peeked above the vast mountain range, signaling the beginning of a new day. The tiny village of Soldeu, bordered by a primeval forest of pine and birch, would make any photographer sell his soul for the picturesque quality the view provided. Red Spanish villa rooftops, still slick with morning dew, glimmered like rivulets of gold in the warming light of the sun.
Outside of town, up a steep incline, the sound of a laboring engine broke the pristine silence in the valley. Cresting another hill, the whine of the truck’s engine lessened, as though thankful for the short respite the level grade provided. François switched gears and eased the truck along the narrow path, wondering if today was the day the transmission would fall to the ground. He glanced down the side of the mountain, taking in the beautiful scenery, a sight that still took his breath away.
As the road curved, a small mining facility came into view, its most prominent feature a clapboard shack that served as François’ office. The small structure looked as though it had been pieced together with leftovers from demolished buildings and coaxed into standing erect. However, what it lacked in beauty it made up for in comfort, staving off the extreme cold during the winter months.
Parked beside the building were two cargo trucks, used primarily by his team as shuttles back and forth to town. François parked along side one of the trucks and switched off the engine. He sat a moment, listening to the pings and ticks of the engine as it cooled, trying to think of a way to tell his men that they were out of a job.
Aston International, his beneficiary company, had determined that the Soldeu expedition was no longer cost effective and would be scrapped at the end of the month. François did not blame his superiors; the vein of silver they had discovered five months earlier was all but depleted. Only traces of the element had been found in the last few weeks.
François sighed and got out. He stood a moment, breathing the fresh mountain air of the Pyrenees. Although summer was still a month away, the day was unseasonably warm. He was grateful for the rise in temperature; the past winter was a particularly bitter one.
Turning toward the office, François could hear the offbeat metallic tune that floated from the mouth of the shaft in the side of the mountain. Due to the remoteness of the location, and Aston’s small investment, the mining team was forced to excavate the old-fashioned way. Mattocks, pickaxes, blood and sweat the means by which they extracted the precious ore.
As he reached the entrance to his office, François noticed that the sounds from the tunnel had stopped. He paused, listening, expecting the clanging to start anew. When it didn’t, he checked his watch: 9:05. The worker’s break did not start for another fifty-five minutes. He began to wonder what they could be doing when the shouting started, accompanied by a low rumbling.
François glanced at the mouth of the tunnel, stunned by what he saw. The entire mining team poured from the darkness, stark terror registered on their faces. He stood dumbfoun
ded as the men scurried from the tunnel like rats escaping a flood. None stopped until they reached the office.
When the frantic workers reached him, they all began to speak at once—in Spanish. François had only a rudimentary understanding of the language from a college course he had taken years before. He could not begin to comprehend the hastily spoken words.
Raising his hands to quiet them, François turned to the foreman, Pablo. Pablo was a big, rough-looking Spaniard in his mid-fifties with long graying black hair and penetrating eyes. However, he was well spoken and the men trusted him—a clear choice as supervisor.
“What’s this all about?” François demanded.
“Evil. Ancient evil, buried inside the tunnel.” Pablo replied cryptically.
“Ancient evil? What the devil are you talking about?”
Some of the men took François’ use of the word devil as understanding and muttered ‘Diablo’ under their breath, then crossed themselves; others even genuflected.
François ignored them, keeping his gaze locked with Pablo’s.
“Markings on the cavern wall warn not to disturb the resting place,” Pablo said.
His interest peaked, François turned to the men. “Let’s go have a look.”
As he surveyed the group, he saw each man shaking his head no. Then Pablo spoke up: “No, we’re not going back in there.”
François was stunned. Pablo had never questioned his authority before. Whatever lay inside the tunnel frightened him terribly.
François glared at the workers, then said, “Fine. I’ll go by myself.”
Although Pablo pleaded with him not to go inside, François would hear nothing of it. He boldly strode into the darkness, leaving the cowering miners behind.
The temperature inside the tunnel was at least ten-degrees cooler. François silently berated himself for not bringing his jacket. He couldn’t turn back now—his men might interpret his quick return as cowardice.
Positioned at ten-meter intervals, lanterns held the darkness in the tunnel at bay. The ruddy light seemed gummy, thick, and made François feel as though he were descending into hell. He glanced at the roughly hewn walls. Inlaid with the granite were flecks of iron ore, zinc, alum and silver. Water bled from the corridor walls in spots. From his initial survey, François learned that an underground river ran parallel to the excavation.
A hundred meters in, he came to the spot where the team had been working. Taking a lantern from its stand, he shone the light on the walls. After a few minutes of searching he came upon the ‘evil’ hieroglyphs.
Tracing the marking with his finger, he cleaned the excess dirt out. As he beheld the markings something in the back of his mind sparked, he felt on the verge of epiphany, then the feeling faded. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall the inclination.
Looking closer, he could make out the vague outline of a door. In his mind’s eye, François envisioned large chests of gold, silver chalices, a king’s bounty—avarice had seized him.
Glancing around, he searched for one of the worker’s tools. He didn’t have to look far, underfoot were two large mattocks. Picking one up, he tested the weight, then drove it into the left side of the door. After two solid hits, a sizeable chunk lay on the floor. François redoubled his efforts, smashing the wall with considerable fervor.
A dozen blows later, he had a large enough hole to crawl through.
Retrieving the lantern, he knelt and held it to the opening. The darkness retreated somewhat, then seemed to reassert itself, as though trying to maintain its hold on the chamber within.
The musty sweet smell of decay assailed his senses, making him turn away and catch his breath.
From his pocket he withdrew a handkerchief. He tied it securely around his head, using it as a makeshift filter against the repugnant odor.
Armored against the vile scent, François moved back toward the opening and peered into the darkness. A feeling of foreboding came over him. Not a superstitious man, he was surprised by the strange anxiety.
From his right, he heard shuffling footsteps, then a familiar voice. “Wait, my friend. I will not let you go inside alone.”
It was Pablo.
François was relieved that his friend had overcome his trepidation and reentered the tunnel. The prospect of going through the doorway alone did not appeal to him, however, he still would have done it.
Grabbing a second lantern from the wall, Pablo went over and crouched beside François. “The warning told of demons guarding the chamber. Death to anyone who defiled it.” Pablo whispered, as though trying not to alert whatever lay inside.
“Have you seen such markings before?” François whispered, although he didn’t understand why he did so.
“I spent several years digging for an archaeological team in Great Britain. But the lore I learned from my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?” François said, shocked.
Pablo went on to explain the local folklore passed down through the ages. A Celtic religious sect, the Druids, were a strong presence in the region in the second century. Many tales were spun about a secret stronghold hidden somewhere in the Pyrenees, but until today Pablo believed them to nothing more than that—tales.
Then he explained that the symbols on the wall could be found at many places in Europe where the Druids were believed to have held power. And that the chamber he was about to enter was apparently a Druid dolmen or burial chamber. He even explained the symbols’ meaning.
The first marking represented the entrance to a mine or a cave and was symbolic of the womb and the tomb. The second was a cup design and symbolic of receptivity, or holding and containing. The third was a special sign or supreme gesture, the fifth element of Nyu or spirit—banishing.
As François listened to Pablo, he remembered the epiphany he felt earlier. He had seen the symbols before—on a trip to Stonehenge. The depth of Pablo’s knowledge of the lore astounded him. François suddenly realized that he had never really spoken to the man at any length, choosing instead to distance himself from his employees. Something he decided to change in the future.
“Do you really believe in the legends?” François asked.
“Not until today,” Pablo said, a new nervousness evident in him now that he had recalled the stories.
François took note of his friend’s apprehension, and said, “You don’t have to go inside. I can go alone.”
“No. We sometimes have to face our fears,” Pablo said.
François started to say something, but his friend put up a hand as if to say the subject was closed to discussion.
Turning toward the doorway again, François crawled through to the other side. A moment later Pablo entered as well.
Inside, the ceiling allowed for the two men to stand. The chamber was nothing more than a small blocked cell, approximately twenty long and fifteen feet wide. The light from the two lanterns seemed to dim inside, giving off a murky illumination.
François took a step forward. As he did something snapped underfoot, a wicked crunching sound. Glancing down, François gasped at his discovery. Skeletal remains littered the floor of the chamber. Moreover, the bones didn’t appear human. True, they did have a basic human shape: two arms, two legs, torso and pelvic area. However, the limbs were grotesquely twisted and elongated, ending in dagger-like talons on the hands and feet. The breastbone was uncommonly large, swollen to an impossible degree and where a human skull should have been there was what appeared to be a large, feral one—like that of a wolf. It appeared they had found Pablo’s demons.
François counted ten skeletons, lying in various positions around the chamber. If the room yielded nothing else, the bones were the find of the century.
Continuing his inspection, François noticed that the walls of the chamber were fitted with huge stone slabs. Pablo identified them as megaliths—collectively called a cromlech—used in religious ceremonies by the Druids. Etched in the stones were more of the archaic markings.
In the cente
r of the chamber was an altar positioned in front of a pedestal. François looked closely as the altar. A thick black stain covered the stone surface and ran over the sides. He held his lantern up and noticed a reddish-brown tint in the coloring. “Blood,” said Pablo.
Turning to the pedestal, François could see that a thick, leather-bound book was placed in its center as though in reverence. Moving to the podium, François saw that the book was covered in hundreds of golden runes. Again the avidity rose in him. He started to place a hand on the book, when Pablo spoke up. “Don’t touch it.”
Turning to him, François said. “Why not?”
Glancing around the chamber, Pablo said, “Look at what happened to these poor souls.”
Disregarding his friend’s warning, François plucked the book from the altar. He was surprised at how light the immense volume was, no more than a kilo. Turning it over, he regarded the fine craftsmanship. The leather surface was extremely soft, far softer than he expected given the apparent time it had spent in the chamber.
Turning to his friend once more, François began to say something. Suddenly a loud rumbling came from within the mountain. Chunks of rock and clouds of dust began falling from the ceiling. Over the tumult, Pablo screamed, “You see!”
The earth quaked as the rumbling became progressively louder. Both men bolted for the crawlspace.
Pablo shot through the opening like a rabbit down a burrow evading a predator. François wasn’t quite as dexterous as his friend and his left leg became ensnared on something. He tried desperately to pull it free to no effect.
Pablo had already turned toward the exit when François called to him. “My leg’s caught. Shine the light in here.”
Reluctantly, keeping a wary eye on the ceiling, Pablo crouched down and stabbed the lantern through the opening. What he saw chilled his blood. François’ foot wasn’t caught—it was held by a skeletal hand.
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