Brethren

by Shawn Ryan

  "Personally, I don't like the term witch or warlock," Stephen said. "It implies something evil. That's not true. There's nothing evil about the power. You're simply born with it. It's an ability, a genetic trait, like the ability to throw a football one hundred yards or to figure vast sums in your head. You've either got it or you don't. I prefer to see it as a gift of God, a wonderful and powerful gift that can easily be abused, but a gift nonetheless."

  "So are you saying that witches and evil don't exist?" Alex asked. "That it's just good people doing bad things?"

  "Not at all," Stephen said. "Evil definitely exists because Satan exists. It's his method to make basically good people do evil things, things that make them turn away from God. Misusing this power falls into that category. In that way, people lose faith in themselves, in right and wrong. Eventually they lead to their own downfall, sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Leading someone into misusing this power is one of the things Satan can do.

  "As for witches, it's sort of a matter of semantics. To some, the power that I have, that you have, Jason, is horrifying. They don't understand it, so they seek to define it in generalized and inaccurate terms. In that sense witches do exist, but only in the minds of those who don't understand the true nature of the gift."

  "How do you know Satan isn't making you think this power is a gift from God?" Jason asked. "All the good you've been doing may have been satanically directed."

  "Good point," Stephen said. "One I've thought a lot about. The only answer I have is that I believe in my faith and I believe in the goodness of the lord. The times I've used the gift have all been for righteous and legitimate purposes. I've never used it to further my own wealth or position in life. I've only used it to help others and, in helping those others, I believe I've done the work of God."

  "Sounds like massive rationalization to me," Jason said.

  "Could be," Stephen said. "But the only way I'll know is when I die and stand before God, or Satan, as the case may be. I believe in the former. Your mother did, too. That's why she stayed. That and her love for me."

  Stephen looked at his son. "It was your mother who put in the strongest vote against telling you. She didn't want you to know unless it was necessary."

  A faraway expression entered Stephen's eyes.

  "She convinced herself it wasn't right up to the very end. Then it was too late."

  "Mom knew all about it?" Jason exclaimed.

  "Of course she knew," Stephen said. "The same as Alex knows now. My father told me about the gift before he died. But I didn't tell Maureen until after we were married. She wouldn't leave me. She even knew about Moloch, but she wouldn't leave. It would've been so much better if she had."

  "Moloch?" Alex said. "You mean the Phoenician god of death? The one who demanded child sacrifices?"

  "Precisely," Stephen said, impressed. "That's the name of the creature that attacked you last night. How did you recognize the name?"

  "My father was a nut about Egyptology," she said. "That naturally spilled over into the history of the entire Middle East.

  "And if I remember right," she continued, "Moloch demanded firstborn sons as the children of sacrifice."

  "Exactly," Stephen answered.

  "Getting back to the matter at hand," Jason interrupted. "What is this Moloch? Where does it come from? Is it really the same god that the Phoenicians worshipped?"

  "I doubt it, although I don't really know what he is. He's strong; his powers rival our own. In some ways they're stronger, because he has no mercy, no conscience to rein him in.

  "As to where he comes from, my guess is he lives in a parallel world, an alternate universe to use an old Outer Limits term. Whatever you want to call them, they're real. It's my opinion that most demons, hobgoblins, and other supernatural creatures come from alternate worlds."

  "So where does this Moloch enter into the picture?" Jason asked. "Why does he want to kill me? Why does he hate me?"

  "Moloch doesn't hate just you. He hates me, too. He wants to hurt anyone associated with the Medlocke family," Stephen said.

  "Why?"

  "Because for almost five hundred years, the Medlockes have kept him from establishing a foothold in this world. Once he did, it would only be a matter of time before he would be powerful enough to start bringing over more of his kind."

  "You mean he wants to rule the world?" Alex said. "Isn't that a bit of an outdated, grade B movie concept?"

  "Ask Hussein," Stephen said. "If Khomeini, Hitler, Napoleon, and the Roman emperors were still alive you could ask them."

  "Why did we get the job of keeping Moloch out of this world?" Jason said.

  "Because we're the ones that brought him here in the first place."

  Stephen cleared his throat.

  "It goes something like this," he said.

  Chapter 24

  « ^ »

  Glendon Medlocke fell backward onto the dirt floor of the blacksmith shed, exhausted by his efforts. For a few moments after he opened them, his eyes were foggy and unfocused as his strength regenerated. When his sight returned, he looked at the forge and his mouth dropped open.

  Reaching easily to the ceiling, a huge, blood-red chrysalis stood in the middle of the forge. Glendon watched in amazement as the chrysalis expanded and contracted like a living lung. Then with a meaty ripping sound, four fingers pushed through the pulsating skin, each finger topped by double-bladed nails with glinting, sharpened edges.

  A beast from nightmares stepped out, standing directly on the red-hot coals, but apparently unfazed by the heat. Tall, dusky gold skin rippled with muscle as the creature looked about. Huge fists clenched and unclenched. Bright eyes squinted with anger and amazement, and its large, elongated head scanned the strange creature sitting before it.

  A quiver ran through the creature's body and it rubbed its arms, legs, and torso, a grimace of pain on its mouth. Dozens of needle teeth sprang into view.

  Then the beast spoke.

  "Aridiach carchron bynidria?" it said in a guttural hiss. The words sounded like a question, but Glendon didn't understand.

  The beast repeated the same phrase. Glendon shook his head.

  Its brow furrowed and its throat growling low, the beast leapt off the forge and stalked toward Glendon. As the beast's fingers touched him, a blue aura sprang up around Glendon and the smell of charred flesh filled the shed. The beast howled in pain and backed away, shaking its hands.

  Caught in amazement, Glendon still managed to clamber to his feet and flee backward into the shadows. Just as he disappeared in the darkness, the front door to the shed was kicked open.

  Three soldiers burst into the shed, swords and pikes ready. They took only a few steps before confronting the beast inside. Their faces went slack and their weapons drooped useless in numb hands.

  "What are you stopping for?" bellowed a voice from outside. "Kill him! Kill him!"

  William Morven strode into the shed, chest thrust out, a sneer on his face. Shoving his way through his men, he fumed: "Where is Medlocke? Is he not here? I heard someone scream. He must be in…"

  His voice trailed off as his eyes fell on the beast. He tumbled against the wall and small choking noises emerged from his throat.

  Before the soldiers could react, the beast grabbed the nearest, driving its fingernails into the man's temples until its fingertips rested on his skull. The man screamed, while blood gushed down the creature's fingers, drenching its arms until the liquid threatened to drip off at the elbow. Before one drop could fall, though, the creature's skin became spongelike, absorbing the blood, wasting none.

  The creature stared intently into its victim's eyes as a greenish glow enveloped the pair. The glow lasted for several seconds, then disappeared. As the light faded, the beast tossed the man into the corner where he lay limply, a used-up washrag.

  The creature turned to face the rest of the men.

  "Ah, that's better," it said. "Now I can speak your language."

  It looked around
the shed.

  "Where am I? What world is this?" it asked. "Why does my skin burn as if it had been dipped in liquid hellfire? I don't like it."

  The beast held up its hands before its face. Crimson wetness still covered them until it was sucked through the skin.

  "How interesting," it said. "The fluid from your bodies alleviates my pain."

  It eyed the soldiers a few feet away. One had fainted, the other stood paralyzed by terror. The beast eyed them, then the blood on its hands. It smiled and grabbed the conscious soldier, clutching him by the throat. Spying the row of tools hanging from nails in the overhead rafters, it plucked out several nails with its left hand. Tools fell to the floor with dusty thuds, but the beast ignored them.

  Carrying the soldier to the nearest wall, the creature moved its hand from the man's neck to his right wrist. "Open your hand and press the back to the wall," the beast said.

  The man did as he was told and the beast's left hand slammed down, thrusting a nail through the man's palm and pinning him to the wall. The same was done to his left hand then the beast stood back to admire his crucifixion.

  "I don't think you'll be going anywhere," it said and bent to lift the unconscious soldier.

  Holding the man's head between its hands, the beast wrenched quickly to the right. The head snapped off as blood spurted from the stump of the neck and the body crumpled to the floor. The beast casually tossed the head away and hoisted the body, holding it so the neck pointed in its direction. For several seconds, the man's heart continued to beat, pumping flumes of scarlet onto the beast, which sighed in pleasure as its skin soaked up the fluid.

  Disconnected from the brain, the heart soon quit pumping, long before the body was drained. The beast stared in confusion at the body and shook it like a baby trying to get the last drop out of a bottle. When no blood came forth, it dropped the body to the ground.

  "Apparently I need to keep the head connected to the body for a bit longer," it said. "Well, one lives and learns."

  Three feet from the door, hidden in shadows, Morven squatted like a statue. His pants were wet from his emptied bladder and the seat of his pants was full. He knew his mind was close to snapping and if he were to escape it must be soon.

  Stars twinkling in the velvet sky beckoned outside, symbols of freedom if only they could be reached. One hand in front of the other, he crawled a foot, then two. His right hand went through the open doorway, then his left. As the rest of his body entered the doorway, the light spilled across him.

  "Here, here," he heard a guttural voice say. "What's this? Trying to leave so soon? Before all my questions are answered?"

  Like a striking cobra, the beast's right arm snapped out and grabbed Morven by the right leg. Whipping its arm upward, the creature slung Morven through the air like a rag doll. His neck landed in the left hand of the beast, which raised him above its head, flattening his back against the shed's roof.

  "Please, please," Morven whimpered. "I'll answer any question you want. Tell you anything you want."

  "I know you will," the beast said. "Let's start with something easy. What world am I in?"

  "You're in Scotland," Morven stammered.

  "Scotland? Is that the name of the entire world?"

  "No, no, Scotland is a country," Morven said. "A part of the world. We call this world Earth."

  "Earth," the beast said. "Ah yes, I have heard of it. Others from my world have been here before. But it has been a long time."

  It looked at Morven. "Is your race the main inhabitant of this Earth?"

  "Yes, we rule the planet," Morven said.

  "A weak race to rule an entire planet," the beast said. "But it is obvious you have knowledge of the power."

  Morven shook his head. "I don't know what you mean."

  "The power, fool," the creature said. "The ability to bring me here from my world."

  "No, not all of us have it. It was him," Morven cried, pointing into the shadows behind the creature. "It was Medlocke who brought you here."

  The creature turned around, still holding Morven above him. "You are Medlocke?"

  "I am Glendon Medlocke," Glendon said, stepping into the reddish light of the forge.

  The beast was worse than anything Glendon dared imagine. An inhuman, amoral demon. Was he capable of controlling such a devil? Whatever he did, he knew weakness was something he must not reveal.

  "What are you called?" he asked.

  "Hmmm, that is a good question," the creature said. "I am known by many names, but I will use the one that others of my race have been called when they visited this world. Call me Moloch."

  "Well, Moloch, I am the one who controls you," Glendon said. "It is my orders that you will obey."

  A high-pitched cackle erupted from Moloch.

  "Control? Obey?" it said. "Strong words for such a little man. You do not control me. I take no orders from you. If anything, it is the other way around. If you are the only one capable of bringing me here, then this is a weak world indeed. I think I'll stay."

  "Yes, yes, stay, and I can help you," Morven cried.

  Moloch glanced upward.

  "Why should I need your help?" it asked.

  "This is a strange world, with strange customs," Morven said. "You will need a guide. I can be that guide. I can teach you the ways of our world."

  "Are you a man of power? Of status?" Moloch asked.

  "Yes, yes, I am. I have both and I can give them to you."

  "If a weak, sniveling worm like you is evidence of the power in this world, then I'll need no guide. What I need is your blood."

  With a flick of its left wrist, Moloch's fingernails slit cleanly through Morven's throat, shredding the windpipe and the major arteries of the neck. Morven gurgled as his life gushed from his body. Moloch stepped under the river, letting it wash down over its head and shoulders. It opened its mouth to let the liquid flow down its throat.

  "That feels much better," it said when Morven's body was drained. Then it faced Glendon.

  "So, you control me, Glendon Medlocke?" it asked sarcastically. "And what exactly am I supposed to do, master?"

  Glendon looked at Morven's white-skinned body. A wave of nausea crashed over him. There was no feeling of victory, no feeling of vindication, only a sickness in his heart that would never completely disappear. A part of him had been ripped out and now lay on the floor with Morven.

  "You've already done it," Glendon said.

  Moloch glanced at Morven. "Oh, a little vengeance in your heart?" it said. "Perhaps there is hope for your paltry race after all."

  Glendon looked at Moloch with a stern stare.

  "I see now I was wrong to ever have called on you," he said. "It was a grave mistake. My soul may already be damned, but I command you to return to wherever it is you belong."

  "I don't think so," Moloch said, smearing the blood over its body. "It seems to me that this world is ripe for harvesting. My world is dying. All that could be done has been done long ago. I seek new adventures. Your world offers them.

  "You, however, are a problem. Since you have the power, it would be foolish of me to let you live. You would undoubtedly become an adversary. But I promise to make your death quick and merciful."

  "I think you will find it harder to kill me than you expect," Glendon said, although he felt none of the confidence his voice contained.

  "We shall see," Moloch said.

  Its left hand whipped up, the index finger aimed at Glendon, and a green flash shot from the fingertip. Glendon knew time was too short to prevent it from striking. He closed his eyes, prepared to receive a death blow.

  It never came.

  He felt a jarring thud and opened his eyes. The blue aura enveloped him. Instinct had taken over, rejecting the creature's assault.

  "Very good," Moloch sneered. "You aren't just a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. But you're still too weak to defeat me. I don't need my power. I can kill you with my bare hands."

  Moloch took a step forward,
its toes landing with a squish in the blood-drenched mud. Glendon searched desperately within himself for the power to repel the attack, but couldn't channel his thoughts. He was too unfamiliar with the breadth of his powers and there was no time to learn.

  His eyes flickered frantically around the shed and landed on the handle of the M-shaped brand still sticking a few inches above the lip of the forge. Glendon leapt for it, grabbing the iron without considering the possibility that he might brand himself. But when his hand wrapped around the metal and pulled it from the forge in a shower of sparks and coals, he felt no pain. The halo once again protected him.

  Holding the brand like a sword, he stood his ground as Moloch advanced.

  "You expect to kill me with a metal stick?" Moloch asked. "Give that to me before you hurt yourself."

  Glendon sprang forward, shoving the head of the brand into left side of Moloch's face with all the force he could muster. A blistering hiss arose and smoke poured from the beast's flesh. The creature roared in pain and wrenched the brand from Glendon's hand, slinging it across the shed. With a horrible chucking sound, it speared the soldier crucified to the wall, piercing his heart, and emerged dripping on the outside wall of the shed.

  The beast paid no mind and instead gingerly touched the bubbling wound on its face. When it looked at Glendon, a hideous grimace split its face.

  "You'll pay for that," it said quietly. "No longer will your death be quick. I will kill you slowly, tearing off one limb at a time, bathing in your blood and listening to you beg for mercy."

  Glendon retreated around the forge, keeping it between him and the beast. If only I can get to the door, I can escape and have time to think. I can get away into the night and…

  "Papa?" a sleepy voice said from the doorway. "What're you doing?"

  Glendon spun around in horror. Cameron stood there, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his fists.

  "Are you all right, Papa?" the boy asked.

  Glendon turned to face the beast, which stopped its attack. A smile cut across its face.

  "A little one," it said silkily. "Yours, I presume? How delightful. I love children."