by N. J. Mercer
Chapter 18
The ratcheting of a lock woke Martin with a start. With a sharp intake of breath he regained consciousness, just as his cell door was opened. He expected light would flood into his room and replace the absolute darkness he had been lying in for the past few hours; all he got was the dull, flickering glow from a distant fire somewhere in the gloomy corridor beyond. He was unsure how long he had been incarcerated, and he had lost count of the number of times that he had slipped into unconscious sleep; on this last occasion, he did not feel that he had been out for very long. He felt stronger than before; not strong enough, however, to tackle the three sinuous naked men who entered his prison cell. Martin observed the figures through heavy-lidded, half-closed eyes; they moved slowly, warily towards him and only the pad of their footfall on the stone floor was audible. He tilted his head upwards slightly and could see that each wore nothing except for a tightly-fitting, black, leather mask. One of them, taller than the rest, closed the cell door and opened a slat that was housed within it so that the little room continued to receive some of the faint orange firelight. The tall one remained standing while the other two knelt over him. One of the figures used a thumb to lift each of Martin’s eyelids in turn, looking at him carefully all the time, as a doctor might examine a patient; this gave Martin the chance to see who was present more clearly. The dim light of the cell, to which he had become accustomed, could not hide the pale blue skin of the pair now crouched beside him, and the leather masks could conceal neither their misshapen heads nor their beady yellow eyes. Their abnormal appearance was complemented by the foetid odour that hung around their bodies. It was only the figure by the door that actually looked human. The masked beings prodded and poked Martin, and after a final look at the wound on his leg they dragged him across the floor and placed him sitting upright against the cold, stone wall of the cell. In this new position, he was afforded the best view yet of his prison; he could see that it was very similar to what he had envisaged whilst lying alone in the darkness, using his hands to feel his surroundings. The floor was uneven and cobbled; the walls were of smooth stone and windowless. The entire chamber appeared as if it had been carved into a single rock edifice. The only place he could liken it to was a medieval dungeon; he was closer to the truth than he could have imagined.
Their inspection completed, the two non-humans left the cell, closing the heavy timber door behind them. The open slat continued to allow in the mere suggestion of light from the corridor beyond, just enough to see the single figure that had remained behind; more importantly, it was enough light for that figure to observe Martin.
“Who are you? What do you want?” challenged Martin.
“Defiant to the last,” a voice he knew only too well replied. The man slowly peeled off the tight leather mask and Martin could just about make out his high cheekbones, aquiline nose and strong angular jaw. These distinct features were emphasised further by the dim, uneven lighting in the cell; it made the eyes and cheeks appear like hollow sunken pits. Martin looked into the face of Edward Devilliers. Even though it appeared more terrifying than ever here in the basement, he was past the point of experiencing fear, so resigned to his fate was he.
“What are you doing here, Martin?” enquired Devilliers calmly.
“Where’s Peter?” demanded Martin, ignoring the question. Just as Edward Devilliers had mentioned, he was feeling defiant.
“Who?”
“Peter! That thing had his leg. How is he?” Martin suspected he knew the answer already.
There was gentle laughter. “Peter’s dead, Martin. Tonight, the Bar-Shiyq has feasted.”
“The Barsheek? Is that what you call it?”
“It is its name; it has been here for a long time, Martin, long before you and me. I believe one of my predecessors put it here. It knows who is welcome and who is not; it is all the security I need.”
“So what are you going to do with me then, you bastard?”
“How rude, Martin. I mean, we are family after all.” He said this with a broad grin. Edward Devilliers was considered by the few who knew him personally to be eccentric in his manner, Martin, on the other hand, always sensed a hint of aberration in the way his brother-in-law spoke and conducted himself; it was apparent now more than ever.
“I know what you’ve been up to behind my sister’s back, you sick fuck!” Martin said.
“Sick fuck?” Edward quietly repeated to himself. “Sick fuck? I always wondered how you found out, Martin. I always thought Louise had told you before she died. I imagined her coming to you crying when she should have been flattered by the attention wasted on her.”
“Louise never went crying to anybody, Edward; she was made of sterner stuff than that.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now really, does it? My Disciples searched your apartment and found these.”
Edward held out his hand. Clutched within it were scraps of paper, barely visible in the poor light of the cell. Martin knew exactly what they were.
“Where’s the rest of it, Martin? Were there any more juicy details in there? Is that why you tore these pages out? Did they excite you? Maybe you are a true Disciple of Disorder after all.”
“You sick bastard,” groaned Martin as a spasm of pain shot up his leg. “If you’re going to kill me, I want you to bring Elizabeth here first. I think it’s time she learned exactly what you’re all about, Edward. Bring her to me if you’ve got the balls or just sneak around like the coward that you are.”
Edward Devilliers laughed arrogantly. “Martin, you don’t understand a thing, do you? I love Elizabeth, and I do not sneak around. I had high hopes for you – such a fine young man. Your mind is just incapable of grasping the beauty of what I bring to Earth; not like Elizabeth who understands fully. If you wish to see her you may – only at a time of my choosing. Tell her anything you like; she has become a very worthy Disciple, Martin. Outwardly she looks like her old self, but if you were to scratch the surface you would hardly recognise what was inside her now.”
“Bullshit, Edward! Just bring her to me – if you dare. The things I could tell her about you … I should have told Elizabeth before; she would have walked away a long time ago. You’re no good for anybody.”
“Don’t bore me, Martin, I already said I will bring her. You tell me something. Why are you here? I feel that you wish to hinder my work in some way.”
“You’re fucked up – you sick bastard.”
“Don’t ignore the question, Martin. Why are you here?” Edward asked again, raising his previously calm voice. It was his turn to be angry. He loomed over Martin, and when no answer was forthcoming he kicked the large, stitched gash on his injured leg. Martin was in agony. The wound slowly started to ooze blood through its stitches, and he screamed until, strangely, his scream turned into a laugh. Edward, furious, kicked again. There was more pain. Martin’s laugh turned to a scream once more, and he collapsed from his sitting position onto the stone floor.
“Why are you here? Do you want to take Rachel away from me?” snarled Edward Devilliers angrily, only to be confronted with more laughter from Martin. This time Devilliers too laughed until tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. The impromptu laughter faded until silence gradually dominated the cell; the mania that had gripped its occupants had passed.
“Is that why you are here, Martin? To take Rachel away from me?” Edward asked; his voice was sad. Martin panted, his body felt weak and limp although his mind was strangely exhilarated by the torture.
“What do you want with Rachel?” Martin managed to ask through struggling breaths.
“I think you might know,” was the reply, the voice calculating. “That is why you’re here, is it not? You must be aware that we have the ceremony tonight; after all, I nearly made you one of the brothers didn’t I? I think that despite our secrecy you might have found out something about Rachel’s part in all of this. Tell me, Martin, is that why you’re here, to take Rachel away?”
Martin lay on t
he floor of the cell with his eyes closed. Edward was half-right, he thought, he was here for Rachel; despite his efforts he still did not know what her role in the ceremony was to be. The Disciples had kept it a well-guarded secret. Let him speculate. Him not knowing for certain why I am here might give Rachel and Boyd the edge they need.
“Edward …” Martin said.
“Yes?” asked Devilliers earnestly.
“Put some fucking clothes on, will you.”
There was a silent pause; rage filled Edward Devilliers’ face and disappeared as abruptly as it had arrived.
“No thanks, I’m comfortable as I am.”
Then it happened for the second time. It was what Martin had been expecting; the only surprise he felt was that it had taken so long. Edward Devilliers’ fingers wrapped around his head; they squeezed and stabbed and an icy coldness gripped his brain. Pressure steadily increased in his temples; it was as if his skull was being pressed in a vice. He gritted his teeth and moaned at the pain he felt, pain that far exceeded the agony of his injured leg. The source of Martin’s distress was the mind probe Edward Devilliers was subjecting him to. Martin felt information slipping from his mind, images from the past, memories he did not know he possessed; Devilliers was shuffling through them all as if he was looking through a giant filing cabinet. Martin’s moans turned into a scream, he started to bleed from his nose and ears, and he could taste the metallic blood in his mouth. The searching became more intense, he saw his life flashing before his eyes and was not sure if it was because he was going to die or whether this was the effect of the probe. Mercifully, his consciousness and vision faded until all he could perceive was the sound of his own breathing filling his ears, and vaguely, in the background, there was the voice of Edward Devilliers questioning him maniacally as his probe failed.
“Why are you here, Martin, you bastard? What do you know? Did you come for Rachel? Is anyone else coming? Did you only bring one moron along to help you? Who else knows?”
Under normal circumstances, Martin’s mind would have caved in under Devilliers’ persistent mental assault and conceded all its secrets to this master of the psychic way; now, his weakness had become his strength – just as it had done in earlier attempts at probing him. The blood loss from the leg and his injuries meant that the pressure of the psychic probe only caused him to lose consciousness and thereby retain his secrets. As he blacked out, Martin managed a feeble smile at his minor victory. He had realised some time ago why the Disciples had gone to the trouble of patching his leg up, it was to prevent what was happening now. With his mockery and his laughter he had enraged Devilliers enough to re-open his wound and weaken him again. Before everything went black, he could just about perceive his brother-in-law screaming and slapping his face, trying to keep him awake.
**
With a scratch of his bare buttocks, Edward Devilliers turned around to leave the cell while Martin lay limp on the floor. Other nude, masked figures that had been waiting outside opened the door for their leader who walked out silently, pondering his captive’s fate. After he had left, they shut the door of the small room once again. For a few moments, dim light from the opening high up in the door fell on Martin’s unconscious face, and then its wooden slat was closed with a slide and a click, engulfing the prisoner in darkness.
Chapter 19
“We have an address; what we don’t have very much of is time,” Sascha said to Johnny as he drove to the rendezvous they had arranged earlier with Boyd and Baccharus.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Johnny replied. “A few days observing the house would be really useful, just to see who’s coming and going. I mean, there could be anything in there, like a whole pack of those Firehounds.”
“Considering that all our information points to the shit hitting the fan tonight, a few days is a luxury we don’t have,” Sascha concluded. The elation they had felt on obtaining the location of the Disciples’ lair was tarnished by the reality of the situation; they still did not know what they would face once they got there – if they even got that far. “Why don’t you try and psychically look inside the house?” Sascha suggested as an alternative.
Johnny nodded. “I could give it a go. We’ve got to get a lot closer first; with all this aberrant, chaotic energy about it will be difficult. I reckon the Disciples chose this location as their base precisely because it seems to disturb Presarium waves.”
“Are you saying that the Disciples aren’t the source of the disturbance and this location is?”
“I don’t know. The disrupting energy is so strong that I can’t believe it could be generated by any psychic, human or not. There’s something else out there.”
“Well, if we don’t know what’s lying in store for us then I suggest we send in Boyd with guns blazing; shoot first and ask questions later. I’m sure it would make his day,” Sascha said, laughing.
“Yeah! Can’t argue with a bullet!” chortled Johnny, reaching for his mobile phone.
“I’d better check on his progress.”
Boyd and Baccharus were already at the rendezvous, a car park beside a nature trail popular with tourists. Sascha had found it earlier on an Internet map and chosen it in the belief that a leisure vehicle such as the motorhome would fit in discreetly there.
On the phone, Johnny asked Boyd if the familiar had been behaving himself, and it seemed that they were getting on famously. The motorhome was still a short drive away, and Boyd cheekily suggested that Johnny and Sascha take their time so he could enjoy a few more smokes with Baccharus.
While Sascha drove, Johnny took the opportunity to look around and enjoy the breath-taking mountain scenery. For an uncanny second he thought he recognised the view, when an intense pain suddenly struck at the very centre of his forehead, making him feel ill. It didn’t take Sascha long to notice his friend squinting and massaging his head with his fingertips.
“Johnny, are you okay?” he enquired with a concerned look. Johnny nodded and tried to make light of the way he felt; eventually, he could no longer suppress his discomfort. With an apology, he moved from the front of the motorhome to lie on the cushioned bench seat beside the dining table in the rear. His friend’s attention kept shifting from the road and back to him. On a couple of occasions, Sascha asked if he ought to stop; Johnny told him to continue.
Johnny had suffered hangovers and migraines in the past; never had they been as intense as this. He attempted to rationalise why he should feel this way. Could it be stress? Or lack of sleep? he asked himself.
As he lay there, with his head resting on the seat, something strange happened. Every time he blinked he glimpsed an image, and so to allow this image to remain in his point of view he closed his eyes altogether. Once again he was confronted by the three prominent sugar loaf-shaped mountains from his dreams and yet he was not asleep. He knew this because he was able to open his eyes and find himself in the motorhome again, lying beside the dining table with Sascha in the background, still asking him if he was okay. Johnny reassured his friend that he felt better now and closed his eyes to let the images play themselves out.
“Earth expires, the children broken,
Chaos fires once more awoken.”
He flew above the mountains with the same chant echoing through the air around him. The now familiar words were louder than before and even drowned out the usually dominant noise of the wind. Nestled in the valley was the camp of the old woman with milky grey eyes. She sat cross-legged in the woodland clearing while the children in their bright clothing huddled tightly around her. Johnny was watching the ever-present decay closing in on the small party when he heard another unexpected voice over the existing sounds of the dreamscape.
“Johnny, can you hear me?” it asked, and he recognised it instantly.
“Yeah, I hear you, Sascha,” replied Johnny, his eyes remained closed.
“Just making sure you’re still with us,” said Sascha as he drove, satisfied that his friend was still conscious and responsive.
Johnny’s attention returned to the dream. He could not understand how it was able to force itself into his waking consciousness.
“What do you mean?” he found himself whispering to it.
“Sorry, Johnny?” asked Sascha. This time, Johnny ignored his friend; his concentration was solely on his own internal world where, behind closed eyes, in the realms of mental imagery, he could see the tiny woodland clearing again from his vantage point high up in the air.
He descended towards it in a slow spiral, the children’s voices chanting without a break. The old woman was looking high up into the sky, her neck arching backwards, and Johnny could see that she was staring right at him. “Find us here …” she called to him over the chant. “Find us here …” she kept repeating.
As he spiralled closer to the ground, he could see that the grey tide of decay had crossed the woodland, draining it too of life and colour. It now surrounded the group in a shrinking circle, threatening to swallow the tiny island of brightly coloured people and intensely green grass forever. Johnny descended quicker, he didn’t spiral any more, he dropped from the sky like a stone, accelerating ever faster while the old woman and the children huddled together to escape the decay closing in around them. He was going too fast. Surely, the impact with the little group as he fell from the sky would kill them all, he thought. The wind rushed passed him, the group squeezed together tighter, the children chanted desperately, Johnny plummeted. He could clearly see the face of every child now, full of fear, staring out towards the creeping decay. The old woman alone looked up at him, silent. Just as he was about to land right on top of them, he thrust his arms out in an attempt to protect himself. At the point of impact his eyes opened, and he awoke with a start.
Looking down at him were the three faces of his companions. He blinked a few times to see if the dream was still there and saw nothing. The images had gone and so had the headache along with them; in fact, he felt quite refreshed. He sat up within the familiar confines of the motorhome while his friends watched on with concern. I must have fallen asleep before we reached the rendezvous, he thought.
