“I daresay that they had no need to revert, my dear Sergei,” Gambrelli muttered. “There were confirmed reports of cannibalism in some of the remote islands as late as 1965. That is hardly more than a century ago and then they were hiding it very well. There is no doubt that they would have continued the practice. They were like an endangered species, living under the protection of the government. Pretty much allowed to do as they please like wild animals on a game preserve in Tanzania. Even the Church was forbidden from sending missionaries among them after 2025 when their numbers had dwindled to only a few thousand. We have drifted far in our little wooden coffin, Sergei. New Guinea. Papua New Guinea. Ever heard of it?”
Sergei did not answer but turned his attention to the sparsely clad wild men and women dancing under their very eyes. The tribesmen had spent the afternoon after their disastrous meeting, digging a huge hole in the ground. This they had filled with leaves and vegetables gathered by the women and children. As the sun sank below the treetops, they had begun to dance around the campfire, building it greater and greater. Lieutenant Spruiell and Captain Martin had been taken first. Their legs had been broken with clubs, and then they had been tied to the trees for ritual stoning. There they hung still in their fancy decorations, also supplied by the women and children.
“Why do you suppose they didn’t kill all of us?” Sergei asked softly as he watched two men cut the bonds that held the bloodied body of the lieutenant.
“They are probably not gluttonous. One sin doesn’t always mean that others are practiced equally.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sergei said and closed his eyes tightly as they began to dismember the corpse with the sharp bamboo knives. They cut off the arms and then went to work on the meatier parts of the legs. Sergei was very glad that he’d not eaten in quite some time.
“I’m afraid not. We’ll probably be on the menu tomorrow or even next week,” the Pope said gloomily. “They’ll not wait too long because we’re too expensive to keep. They won’t want us to lose weight and they won’t want to feed us.”
“That’s comforting,” Sergei squinted toward the darkness under the nearby trees and swatted at yet another bug that tried to carry off his nose. “I wonder what happened to the others.”
“Escaped into the jungle,” Paolo continued. “They won’t make it. The jungle is unforgiving. I doubt that any of them ever set foot in a real jungle before.”
Sergei made a choking noise and scratched the back of his neck. He would have given his right arm for drink of cool water, but then he would probably give his left arm and his right arm as well and not get the water for either. He watched in horror as the women began to layer the pit with coals, leaves, vegetables and Lieutenant Spruiell.
(((((((((((((
“Ho, Adar!” Lemarik called to Mark Andrew as he knelt behind the trunk of a yew tree, watching the festivities in the meadow beyond.
“Shhh!” Mark placed one finger to his lips. “For Christ’s sake!”
Lemarik took on a look of contrition and then fell in behind the tree with him, peeking out the other side.
“What have we here?” the Djinni asked after observing the lively game of horse shoes going on not more than twenty-five yards away.
“Looks like a damned party!” Mark hissed and then looked back over his shoulder toward the dimness of the forest. “I dunna see Nicole or Luke Andrew, nor do I see me brother, Luke Matthew or ’is woife. This is some magick trick dreamed up by me daughter t’ trap ’er brother, no doubt.”
“These people seem real enough to me, my father.” Lemarik frowned at the sight of Oriel laughing. “Hmmmm. The Healer’s daughter! I can smell her fragrance even here. No, no, no. This is no dream, Adar. We are truly somewhere and they are truly here with us or vice versa, either way, same same.”
Mark frowned, rolled his eyes and turned a look of consternation on his son.
“Perhaps this is the reunion gathering that her royal highness, Queen Merry, spoke of,” Lemarik continued without noticing his father’s chagrin. “Miss Merry has always had a fine intuition and she respected me from the very first as was most fitting, but even though she was afraid of me then, she knew that I was special. And she also discerned your place in these things most quickly. Did she not intuit the fact that you were, indeed, Myrrdyn, the magnificent?”
“Merry Ramsay is a floighty woman, lost in a fairytale ’alf th’ toime and th’ other ’alf, she’s lost in space!” Mark snorted. “She ’as been th’ author a few lucky guesses. Thot’s oll.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it, Sir,” a voice from above them, startled them both out of their wits. They were both up in an instant, with their swords drawn, waiting defensively to remove the head that spoke to them as soon as it could be successfully located.
A small yellow flake drifted down between them, trailing a stream of yellow smoke. They kept their eyes darting back and forth between the strange missile and the darkened branches above. When the leaf-like object touched the ground, a great deal more smoke spewed from it, causing them to step back recklessly in view of the people in the meadow. A shadowy shape took form in the smoke and was immediately attacked by Lemarik, who threw himself bodily on the figure, bringing it to the ground behind the tree trunk. Mark leapt in to help him subdue the man dressed in yellow and black clothing.
“Seularik!” Mark pulled his head back by both ears. The Ifrit yelped in pain as his turban fell from his head into the leaves. Lemarik got up and retrieved the turban before it rolled into the meadow.
Mark let go of his ears and shoved him roughly against the tree trunk. Lemarik jammed the turban on his head and leaned into his friend and enemy’s face.
“What are you doing here, spying on us, my friend?” He asked.
“I am not spying on you, my old friend,” Seularik gasped and rubbed his abused ears. “I am merely seeking knowledge as you are. These people are oblivious of the fact that they are in the Fifth Gate.”
“The Fifth Gate?” Mark repeated and peeked around the tree again. “What is Nergal up to?”
“It is not the Lord, but the Lady, your Grace,” Seularik told him as Lemarik backed off of him slightly. “The Queen has set a gracious table for her guests. The finest meats, wines and delicacies. Honey from the Islands. Mead from the Alpine meadows. The freshest, thickest buttermilk, crusty brown bread made by the hands of the elf-maidens. Great blocks of mellow cheese. Toasted locusts. Everything a heart or a palate could desire is here. The most wonderful brews. Savory sauces. Spicy barbecue from the far west. Peppers to make your eyes water. Creamy sweet cakes and chocolate! Chocolate… ummmm, my favorite.”
“Enough!” Mark cut him off. “I don’t need a menu to see that something is dreadfully wrong here.”
Lemarik’s stomach growled loudly and he ran one hand over his mouth.
“Hmmmm. That is very tempting board, my friend,” he said. “But what is the purpose?”
“I am here because the Lady Jasmine is suffering fiercely,” Seularik continued. “When her heart breaks, so does mine.”
Lemarik grabbed the Ifrit by his loose shirt collar.
“A thousand pardons, my friend,” Seularik begged. “I cannot help my feelings for your wife. But she mourns for her husband, she mourns for his return. She is concerned by the loss of his daughter and his son and I have found them for her.”
Lemarik let go of him.
“My son is here? And Dunya?”
“Yes, they are and many others including the prophesied babe, Michael Emmanuel.” The Ifrit cast a nervous glance at Mark. “Angels are yonder as well. Faery folk. The little king, himself and many of Sir Ramsay’s Brothers.”
“But have you any idea why?”
“The Queen wishes it.” Seularik shrugged. “I have observed this place for some time. I have no idea how long now… and have learned much and nothing. They do not know why they are here. The Queen only recently brought in the mystic healer, Simon of Grenoble,
who was injured somehow, but judging from the festivities, I would say that he is expected to recover. Also I have seen a demon here.” He lowered his voice and looked from one of them to the other.
“What sort of demon?” Mark Andrew had to smile slightly. It was small wonder one might see something that could be classified demonic in the Abyss.
“He was most powerful. Great leathery wings, dark. Dark he was. Great black eyes on red which glowed with a devilish light. Hooks and horns and smoke! And he walked with a dragon!”
“A dragon?” Mark’s face lit up. “Abaddon!”
“You know this demon, your Grace?”
“Most likely,” Mark grumbled and then walked forward quickly to embrace Louis Champlain as the Frankish Knight ran toward him, shouting his name.
The general uproar in the meadow lasted for more than an hour as everyone dropped everything to welcome the three new arrivals. The tearfully sweet reunions between Lemarik and his two errant off-spring lasted at least half an hour, and then he was taken over by King Il Dolce Mio and Vanni who demanded to know everything that was happening in the center. Mark was taken away by his Brothers, who demanded the same of him and there he found that Luke Matthew and Merry had also come this way, bringing with them the unfortunate general who had been immediately clapped in irons by the Boggans at Konrad’s command and taken away to one of the queen’s dungeons.
The Dove was also here with his Sophia and his son, Michael. Surprisingly, they also found among the revelers, Lord Kinmalla, several Tuathans, including one princess and, of course, Lily Ramsay, who fought her way through the throng to take hold of Mark’s arm where nothing less than dynamite could have torn her away. The only missing persons appeared to be the Lord and Lady of the Gate, Marduk, whom everyone assured him was around… somewhere and Simon of Grenoble, whom everyone assured him was fine, but resting in the Queen’s bower. Even Abaddon came out, in a less demonic form after a time and asked to be allowed to negotiate the release of Ernst Schweikert. Inanna accompanied him, gracefully holding his right arm close to her as the milling crowds broke apart for them. The elves were mystified by these two newcomers.
Abaddon in his less intimidating form resembled Ashmodel and Lucifer, though his hair was dark like Mark Andrew’s and his eyes were like onyx. Inanna’s own dark beauty was highly complementary and together, they made a most regal pair. Mark greeted the former queen of Sumer with a hug and kiss and then sent for Konrad von Hetz who had finished his greetings, inquired after Lucia and taken his leave to other parts quite early on when he’d again been disappointed to learn that she was not with them.
Konrad arrived shortly and eyed the enigmatic couple doubtfully.
“Konrad,” Mark nodded to him and drew him aside. “You know who this is?”
“I am told the man is Abaddon,” he answered in a low voice. “But who is to tell? Who is to believe here? All of this is but an illusion.”
“No, Konrad, this is no illusion.” Mark said and put one arm around the Knight of the Apocalypse’ shoulders. “You have locked up Ernst Schweikert. I remember a time when you and he were inseparable. Ernst is not Abaddon. He is not responsible for what happened, Konrad.”
“He must be held accountable,” Konrad said stubbornly.
“Then why not direct your anger at the true target?” Mark asked him and turned him to face Abaddon. “Here is your old enemy, my friend. Kill him, if you must.”
Abaddon’s mouth fell open slightly and Inanna tightened her grip on her consort’s arm.
Konrad stood facing the angelic being without a flicker of emotion showing in his dark features. If never before had he resembled his father, the Ritter, now he looked exactly like his father as he drew the dragon-hilted sword slowly from the long, black leather scabbard.
“Is this the way of your Lord?” Abaddon asked him as he shoved Inanna away from him. “Does revenge fit with what you profess to believe, Sir?”
“I profess to believe nothing except that you stand for everything evil I have come to loathe over the course of several lifetimes,” Konrad answered, lowered his head slightly and began to circle the Angel of Destruction, the Angel of the Abyss. Abaddon, the Destroyer. The Holder of the Key of Death.
“Do you know who I am, Sir?” Abaddon drew his own sword. A magnificent blade forged in the Time before Time.
“You are the Angel of the Bottomless Pit,” Konrad said. “And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails: and their power was to hurt men five months. And they had a king over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon. The Scorpion Lord! Even as you held sway over my Master’s son, so you took also my friend and my companion!”
“We all have our jobs to do, Sir,” Abaddon said and glanced toward Mark Andrew as if for permission to strike, but Mark Andrew shook his head minutely. Negative. “Would you slay me for having done my job, Sir? My Father in Heaven does not make mistakes.”
“You are not your Father,” Konrad reminded him and then lunged forward with the great sword he had inherited from his own father.
Abaddon avoided the tip of the blade and allowed the Knight to step past him. Inanna started forward from the edge of the growing crowd of spectators, but Mark Andrew caught her arm, holding her back. Konrad came around again and Abaddon parried the blow easily, stepped back and waited. The dark Knight was beyond reason. He charged in again and again as the angel ducked, parried and avoided each and every attack without even striking a single blow in defense. Still Mark gave no permission to strike back.
They fought, or rather Konrad fought the dark angel all across the meadow. The one-sided fight went on so long, many of the spectators turned away, embarrassed to watch. When Konrad wore himself down and fell of his own accord on his hands and knees, Mark drew the angel aside and whispered something quickly in his ear. The angel’s expression changed and grew very dark. He took up his position again, waiting patiently for Konrad to recover his feet stubbornly, intent upon continuing the futile struggle.
Konrad staggered forward, the weight of the great broadsword almost too much now for him to lift in his exhaustion. The crowd had ceased to call out encouragement or discouragement as the case may have been, but stood quietly, watching as if hypnotized by the scene before them. Apolonio had ceased his attempts to quell his grandfather’s anger several minutes earlier and now turned quietly to make his way through the crowd in disgust. Konrad would not stop. His intemperate wrath was quite equally matched by his obstinate nature.
“Give over, Sir!” Abaddon spoke to him for the first time since the combat had commenced. “You are exhausted. Your anger has undone your resolve to kill me, my friend. Perhaps another time.”
“You mock me?” Konrad gasped and then glanced around at the grim faces of his audience. “You won’t even fight me. You make a jest of my honor, sir, as is befitting of your reputation. You will kill me here and now and allow me to join my forefathers for I have nothing left but my hatred.”
“Konrad!” Oriel shook loose of her husband’s grasp and went to take his left arm. “Please come away. You cannot defeat him. It is obvious that you are no match for him. You’ve made your point. We all feel the same pain as you, but he has made his point as well. Nothing is done that is not God’s Will!”
Konrad shoved his sister away roughly and stood up straighter.
“God’s Will then shall it be that I die this day in front of all these witnesses as a martyr to my father’s memory and of all the good men, who have died at the hands of this beast,” Konrad said, fending her off again. “Kill me and make your day’s wages.”
Abaddon turned his head slowly and looked pointedly at Mark Andrew. The Knight of Death looked up as if he did not notice Abaddon’s silent appeal. Konrad, on the other hand, chose that moment to ma
ke his last and greatest effort so far. He brought the sword up quickly and used the very move that he had learned from his former Master so many years earlier during his brief apprenticeship to the Chevalier du Morte. He stepped forward, dipped slightly and brought the sword full around, fully intending to cleave Abaddon’s head from his shoulders. Abaddon recovered his attention in time to catch the blade in his hand before it made contact with his neck. The blade sliced his hand and continued on as he turned, the momentum taking it directly into his chest and through his body. Abaddon sank to his knees amidst many outcries of “Foul!”amongst the crowd. Konrad stood looking at him in surprise.
Inanna shrieked and ran forward to Abaddon’s side, unsure of what to do, if anything, for him as his stood on his knees looking down at the black dragon’s bejeweled red eyes on the hilt of Konrad’s sword. The blood ran from the wound, down the blade and poured onto the grass. The crowd fell back as Lucifer and Ashmodel and made their way to the forefront. Both angels rushed forward to his aid, but saw that it was too late. Ashmodel held him as Lucifer pulled the sword from him. Abaddon collapsed into Inanna’s arms as the crowd quickly dispersed. No one knew what to do.
Only King Il Dolce Mio seemed able to snap out of the trance. He stood in front of Konrad with both hands on his hips, scowling deeply.
Konrad picked up his sword and wiped it on his sleeve before placing it back in the scabbard.
“You Sir, have allowed your hatred to consume you,” Il Dolce Mio told him as the Queen made her way through the departing elves. “What good have you done here, but added more blood to the cauldron?”
“You overstep your bounds, young king,” Konrad grumbled, and then met his mother’s angry stare.
“Konrad!” Queen Ereshkigal stopped in front of her son and assumed very nearly the same pose as her smaller counterpart with her hands on her hips. “You are ruining the festivities! Why have you attacked my servant?”
The Wayward Godking Page 27
