by N. J. Mercer
Remaining higher up on the mezzanine level had protected Johnny from the full impact of the psychic explosion; this had also spared Mr Kreb, who was rapidly closing in on him. Johnny attempted to repel the demon-man’s advance with a lance of energy that singed flesh and clothing. Kreb was powerful enough to absorb most of this attack, and before Johnny could launch another assault, psychic or otherwise, he was held in a crushing bear hug. He struggled for breath as he was shaken from side to side so hard that it looked like his head would disconnect from his body, and then Kreb released him, hurling him across the stone floor. As Johnny lay there winded, he tried to focus his mind on another psychic weapon; the demon quickly followed up his first attack with a stamp aimed at Johnny’s sternum. Johnny rolled to one side and narrowly avoided the crushing injury; he looked back to see a crack in the stone floor where the demon’s foot had landed. Kreb stamped again; Johnny stopped the foot with a psychic barrier and bought himself enough time to stand up, only to be on the receiving end of a fist. He managed to move his head quickly enough for the blow to merely brush his cheek. He retaliated by sending a psychic shockwave at the figure in black, an attack he was becoming quite adept at delivering. Kreb was thrown backwards, and Johnny pressed home his advantage by launching a psychic javelin that sent the demon burning and sliding across the floor. Johnny had recovered well from his earlier psychic exertions against Edward Devilliers. This was all new territory for him; prior to meeting Theodora, he could never have imagined operating at this level of psychic proficiency.
Mr Kreb, whose strength was not human, got to his feet and advanced once more, seemingly oblivious to his smoking clothes and flesh. Johnny began to muster an even more powerful attack; at the very last moment he sensed an incoming psychic force and urgently redirected his willpower into an impromptu shield which was just strong enough to absorb the energy beam Edward Devilliers had fired from the cathedral floor.
Upon recovering from his opening duel with Johnny, the leader of the Disciples had taken the opportunity to set the ceremony back in motion and left the warp phantom Lord Arkkun to preside over the summoning of Orbok. It was a double blow for Johnny. Not only had Devilliers returned to face him – the chanting had started up once more. Johnny didn’t dwell on this unfortunate turn of events for too long, mostly because he couldn’t – Mr Kreb had started projecting a chaos field, just like the one from their earlier battle. Johnny was suddenly overwhelmed by his own brain’s neurological activity; the flood of sensations and emotions to which he was subjected threatened to cripple him – and then things got worse. Edward Devilliers levitated up to the mezzanine level to launch another attack as Johnny lay sprawled on the floor. Even in his weakened state, Johnny managed to fire random psychic bolts that struck light blows at both Edward Devilliers and Kreb, buying him just enough time to create another psychic shield against the inevitable onslaught coming his way.
Edward Devilliers pounded Johnny with psychic weapons: spears, beams, bolts – everything he had. He did this while Mr Kreb projected the chaos field. Each attack was absorbed by Johnny’s shield; the effort of fending off so much energy was weakening him. Devilliers and the demon Kreb knew this, and they were happy to continue with what was now a battle of attrition. Johnny sat on one knee, locked in deep concentration; he was hardly visible due to the psychic activity flashing and exploding all around him. The enemy gloated, knowing it would only be a matter of time before Johnny’s psychic shield caved in. The ceremony under Arkkun’s direction was in full flow again. Soon Orbok would arrive, and to the Disciples of Disorder a favourable outcome looked inevitable. But they had made a mistake … they had forgotten about Boyd.
Chapter 41
It was not in Boyd’s character to stand idly by while all hell broke loose around him. After his chains were slackened he had waited for the right moment to act, and now, with both Edward Devilliers and Mr Kreb attacking Johnny on the upper level, it was time for him to make his move.
Whilst bound, he had thought of a way to save Rachel and her sisters from the horror of the Disciples’ ceremony; whether they knew it or not, his friends would be playing a pivotal role in the rescue. They had not let him down so far, and he hoped they would maintain that record.
Shaking off the last loops of chain, Boyd, still dressed in motorcycle leathers, slid his body unnoticed to the edge of the wooden cart. He looked around carefully; just as he had calculated, most of the Disciples were distracted by the brilliant pyrotechnics from the combating psychics, and many were making their way to the mezzanine to aid their leader in destroying Johnny.
Boyd leapt onto the floor and shifted stealthily to the edge of the wormhole. He moved around the low wall that surrounded it until he reached the suspended sedan chair on which Rachel sat in her trance. He crouched near the long handles that held it over the spinning purple tunnel, all the time keeping a close eye on the glowing form of Orbok manifesting in the air at its centre a few feet above him. He could not resist looking down, beyond the lightning, into the black depths of the wormhole. From this close it was both a truly spectacular sight and a feast of sensation. The multiple wavelengths of energy that radiated from it caused his skin to crawl and his hair to stand on end. Its emanating pulse could be felt through his entire body, and the wind that blew from its centre was strong enough to buffet him. He looked up towards the serene figure in the chair.
“Rachel,” he called. She did not respond. Even with the background noise, she should have heard him; he suspected her trance was too deep. It was time to put his plan into action and remove her from the chair. He would have to work quickly because the wormhole was the central point of the chamber and the distraction from the psychic battle taking place overhead would not last forever. Boyd hoped that when the time came, his friends would notice him first, even though it was more likely to be the enemy who did so. He stood up from his crouched position, stepped onto the wall and stretched over the wormhole, reaching out towards Rachel with one hand while the other held the long handle of the sedan chair to support his body in this precarious position. Boyd glanced down quickly to steal another look at the spinning purple maelstrom that formed the impossibly long tunnel beneath him. He was closer than he would have liked to the forked lightning that crackled and discharged below and dreaded to think what one of those bolts would do if they made contact with him; he was pretty certain that the effect would be quite different from the one they had on Edward Devilliers. “Rachel!” he called one more time above the sound of rushing air, and still she did not respond. With great effort, he extended an arm and grabbed the girl’s wrist. He did all this with toes barely touching the low perimeter wall. His other arm tightly grabbed the sedan chair and supported most of his body weight. He gently eased Rachel’s flaccid body to one side until she leaned out of the chair. From here, he gripped her around the waist and pulled her slight frame onto his shoulder. Boyd was now hazardously supporting his own body weight and also that of the girl.
“Stop him!” came the inevitable cry – he had been spotted. Disciples started to gather around him, most of them in long capes and leather robes. He had been observing the chamber long enough to work out that these were the ones who carried the knives and guns, unlike the naked ones, who were mainly involved in the chant. Close to him was a man with a cowl and leather mask through which puffy, sore eyelids were visible; he had his fingertips placed on each temple, a sure sign of psychic intent. Boyd surmised that so long as Devilliers and Kreb, the most powerful of the Disciples, continued to focus their attention on Johnny, he was in with a chance. Entirely exposed in the middle of the hall, hanging over the deadly wormhole with the unresponsive girl, and barely able to hold on to the sedan chair, it would have seemed to any onlooker that he had miscalculated, but it was this moment that he had willingly gambled everything upon. “Back off, motherfuckers! If I fall, then she falls,” he sneered at the Disciples who slowly did as he asked whilst exchanging anxious words with each other. “No girl, no cer
emony, right?” he said with a taunting smile which he managed to summon despite the burning pain in his arms. The nearby psychic initiate, with his swollen, scabbed eyelids, could only stand and watch – poised to strike; unable to take any action.
With Rachel positioned so dangerously over the lethal spinning wormhole, the Disciples of Disorder could do nothing. If they lost even one of the girls then the events of this night that they had planned so meticulously would be worthless. None had the stomach to risk being blamed for the premature ending of the ceremony and facing Devilliers’ infamously labile temper; maybe he would forgive them, or maybe he would damn their souls for eternity – it wasn’t a chance worth taking. They decided to wait, realising the intruder could not hold on forever. And if he became too tired, they did not know whether he would allow himself and the girl to fall and die or if he would claw his way back to the floor again and into their hands.
It was all as Boyd had planned. He was banking on a rescue by his friends. The worst outcome for him was either Devilliers or Kreb appearing on the scene: both were powerful enough to lift Rachel away from the trap and remove him permanently. He guessed that Arkkun could, until recently, also have dealt with him; as a warp phantom though, he was far too unpredictable and not an immediate threat. All Boyd could do was hang on. If help did not come, even he did not know if he could stop himself and the girl from falling into the depths below. But help did arrive, and few could have guessed the form in which it ultimately presented itself.
Of the cultists that had gathered around Boyd, most failed to notice the improvised weapon descending from above, and for the few who did there was little time to react. The main earthly source of light for the cathedral was from numerous, massive inverted metal cones filled with solid fuel and flame; they were mounted high up on the walls. One of these had detached and was floating through the air with intent to where Boyd was. It moved as if held in a pair of giant invisible hands. Once it was close enough, the massive torch was thrust into the heart of the throng surrounding Boyd; it whipped from left to right, scattering and felling many Disciples. Anyone foolish enough to approach Boyd and the wormhole drew the unwanted attention of this fiery death trap. The torch’s movements were wild; it jerked at every conceivable angle, and its unpredictability made it even more terrifying. There were screams of pain; clothing and robes were set alight once again, and on witnessing their flaming brethren, the exposed Disciples were grateful for their nudity. It took only seconds to disperse the enemy from around Boyd as he hung over the wormhole with Rachel still on his shoulder. Another of Lord Arkkun’s few remaining initiates tried to halt the thrashing torch with his will; he was brave – he was also far too inexperienced to overcome the momentum of the attack. The reward for his effort was to be struck on the head so that he was unconscious when his robes were set alight – most of his comrades had burned alive.
Boyd watched the confusion around him with some satisfaction; he knew his friends had a hand in all this. It was becoming increasingly painful for him to hang over the wormhole with Rachel’s dead weight on his shoulder. His muscles were so fatigued now that to even consider clawing his way back to firm ground was a waste of time. His grip started to falter, and he found himself morbidly wondering what being swallowed by the wormhole would feel like. Soon enough, only his curved fingertips maintained any purchase on the chair, and he could feel himself sliding a millimetre at a time towards the spinning purple oblivion. It became painfully obvious to him that there was no point in hanging on any more; he would have to use any remaining strength in his overstretched muscles to try and throw Rachel clear as he fell in. But he wasn’t quick enough. Boyd grunted as he lost his hold on the girl and her weight came off his shoulders.
“Hang in there, tough guy,” implored a familiar voice unexpectedly. From the corner of his eye he could see a pair of hands with a firm grasp on Rachel; gently, they pulled her away from him and the terrible fate below, the relief he felt was indescribable. Boyd himself was not out of danger yet. The sensation in his arms and hands had disappeared from hanging on for so long, and he was not even aware of it when his tired fingers finally released their grip on the chair. His upper body swung down towards the wormhole and then slammed into the side of the wall where it hung suspended. The same hands that had lifted Rachel to safety were now grabbing one of his legs and the waist of his trousers. He was pulled slowly and with great effort back over the low wall until he finally came to rest on the hard stone floor of the cathedral where he collapsed, panting. He shook the sensation back into both of his tired arms before extending a hand to his rescuer, who helped him back onto his feet.
“I thought I told you to hang on!” said Sascha with a grin.
“You took your time didn’t you, sunshine?!” Boyd replied as he winced in pain from one of his many injuries. “How’s the girl?” he ventured.
“Appears generally unharmed. Although she’s not particularly responsive I’m afraid.”
Boyd nodded with concern at this.
“Let’s find somewhere a little more discreet,” suggested Sascha. They were in the middle of the cathedral and far too exposed at the moment; Boyd followed him without any argument. The floating torch, still lit, its flame dying, provided cover for the rescue. The friends moved away from the wormhole, and they found shelter behind one of the immense stone pillars that supported the upper levels and the vaulted ceiling. The torch burned itself out and crashed to the ground. Soon, Boyd and Sascha were joined by Baccharus.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” said Boyd with a massive grin and a high five aimed at the familiar.
“Guilty as charged,” Baccharus replied, returning the high five. The flaming torch had been a lethal manipulation. Disciples were sprawled everywhere; some were burning and others lay groaning.
“Where’s Johnny?” asked Boyd.
It was a chance for Sascha and Baccharus to give him a quick update. The familiar described how they had become separated following Sascha’s fall from the mezzanine. “Once I reached Sascha, we could both see that you and Johnny were in trouble,” Baccharus explained. “After racking our brains, we decided to help you and Rachel first. We concocted the plan to use one of those great torches as a weapon.”
Boyd nodded appreciatively.
Baccharus continued, “Regarding Johnny’s whereabouts, as far as we know he’s still on the mezzanine holding off Devilliers and Kreb.”
“So he’s still in trouble?” asked Boyd.
“I suppose so,” said Sascha with a sad look.
Boyd was thoughtful. During the drama of Rachel’s rescue he had paid little attention to the progress of the ceremony; now, sheltered behind the pillar, was an opportunity for him and his friends to catch their breath and reassess the situation. Opposite to them, on the other side of the wormhole, was a hard-core group of chanting Disciples focused on keeping the summoning of Orbok alive. They stood together, a naked choir conducted by none other than Lord Arkkun. A defensive line of guards stood in front of these chanters separating them from the wormhole and the intruders. Most were armed with the familiar long knives; a few carried pistols, and they took occasional pot-shots at Boyd’s small group behind the pillar to keep them at bay. Sascha retaliated by returning fire sparingly with the revolver. Boyd watched him handle his weapon and was impressed; he was doing a good job considering the circumstances, and so Boyd did not ask for the handgun to be returned.
Boyd had to concede that overall things were not going well. The persistence of Arkkun’s choir was showing frightening results. The pulsing vibration from the portal was rapid and the glowing light hovering above its centre was massive now; its height reached halfway to the ceiling, which was at least six storeys above them. The light formed the shape of a large muscular humanoid with a head that might have been from a wild animal. The Disciples took heart from the apparition materialising before them. A chilling cry made Boyd’s heart skip a beat.
“Chant on!”
It was
the warp phantom of zealous Lord Arkkun. Even though Rachel was no longer sitting in her chair above the wormhole, Boyd could see that so long as she was present in the cathedral the Disciples believed there was a chance their ceremony might reach completion.
Everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to a particularly large explosion from the psychics fighting on the mezzanine.
Sascha stopped firing and looked at Baccharus and then at Boyd. “Johnny is pretty stuck up there. We should really try and find a way to grab the other girls … and someone should leave with them,” he said.
“Well, then let’s think of a way to do just that,” said Boyd, knowing it was going to be no easy task. He directed a few quick questions at his companions and established that the way back was a mystery. None of them, Rachel included, had entered the cathedral through conventional means, each having been either transported by space–time warp or unwillingly brought in as an unconscious prisoner. With this in mind, Boyd looked around for a possible way out. His attention was drawn to five large, ornate archways nearby. They had been worrying him for a while, mostly because he could see that if any Disciples were to enter the cathedral through them then their little group would be surrounded; however, they also presented the tantalising possibility of an exit from this underground hell. As much as he wished to explore these arches, the gunfire from the Disciple guards was successfully pinning them all down and preventing any closer examination. For now, they would have to remain behind the pillar.
“Keep chanting!” urged the warp phantom of Lord Arkkun, his piercing voice audible over the psychic combat. Boyd turned from the five archways to look at him.
