The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  He forewent the alcohol, instead pouring himself a glass of water. It wasn’t nearly as refreshing and did little to calm his nerves. As he set his glass in the sink and turned toward the foyer, there was a loud knock at the door.

  Simon cringed and glanced nervously above him. He didn’t hear Veronica stirring, nor were any footsteps heard upon the upstairs landing. The Inquisitor hurried toward the door, hoping to intercept the visitor before another knock was warranted. Sadly, he fell short. The visitor knocked again, louder and more prolonged than the first. Simon scowled, at both the noise and the silhouette he could see through the refractive glass set in the door. The visitor’s hand was reaching toward the cloth rope dangling beside the doorframe, one that would sound a most annoying bell throughout the house.

  Grasping the door handle, Simon threw open the door, to the surprise of the messenger standing on his front landing. The man’s hand froze on the cord as Simon grasped his wrist.

  “Pull that rope and I swear you will lose that hand,” Simon threatened.

  The young man, who could be no more than eighteen, blanched at the sight of the angry Inquisitor.

  Simon waited a second for the messenger to say something, but the young man appeared to be in shock. “Why are you here? Out with it, boy.”

  The young man let go of the rope and Simon, in turn, let go of his wrist. The messenger cleared his throat. “Your presence has been requested by the king. I’m here to escort you to the castle… sir.”

  Simon furrowed his brow as the young man stepped aside and gestured toward an awaiting automobile, idling in front of his house. A valet was standing beside the back door, which was open. In the darkness of the car, Simon could see a robed figure, sitting opposite the backseat. Simon glanced at the boy, who seemed to have nothing else to add to his proclamation.

  “This way, if you please, sir,” the valet called from the end of Simon’s sidewalk.

  Hesitating would do Simon no good. If the request for his presence truly was from the crown, his only option was to move with all haste toward the castle. Simon’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Had the boy said that the king had requested his presence? Had he done anything wrong, especially something that might draw the ire of the throne of Ocker?

  His previous mission forgotten, Simon leaned into the foyer and retrieved his top hat from where it had been hung on the coat rack the night before. He wondered whether it would be better to leave his pistol behind as well, though he hardly had time to go back inside and properly change. With a final glance toward the stairwell, he hoped he’d be finished and home before Veronica awoke, though that possibility was looking slim.

  Closing the door softly behind him, Simon hurried down the stairs and to the black car. The valet stepped aside, granting him access to the interior. Slipping inside, Simon took his place on the backseat, facing the driver. There was a second seat in the rear of the long car, this once facing Simon. Sitting upon it, dressed in his gold-embossed robes, was the Grand Inquisitor.

  Simon froze, sure now more than ever that he was in trouble. Why else would the Grand Inquisitor be accompanying him to the castle?

  “Sir?” Simon asked.

  “You may relax, Simon,” the Grand Inquisitor told him. “Your presence has been requested because you’re being honored by King Godwin. Apparently, words of your deeds and the victories you’ve made against the mystical forces have reached his ears.”

  Simon sighed. “Well, that’s certainly a relief. I was certain we were driving toward a hangman’s noose.”

  “Not at all, unless we’re both to be hanged this day.”

  As the car pulled away from the curb and rumbled along the rough street, Simon’s gaze drifted out the window. The Grand Inquisitor seemed content to ride in silence, which suited Simon fine. As he had seen when last he drove these very streets, Simon watched the Callifax Abbey drift by the window, its massive, pointed structure looming over the nearby buildings. The car turned before the Grand Hall, its white marble dome glistening in the early morning sun. Beyond the Hall, however, Simon was far less familiar with this part of the city. A hill rose sharply to his left, atop which was the castle. Its many turrets and tall stone walls overlooked the Upper Reaches.

  It wouldn’t be long before they stopped at the lower gate, a two-story guard tower, complete with heavy, wooden doors and iron portcullis. Long before they reached their turn, however, they stopped amidst a web of traffic. Closer to the castle proper, there were far more cars, all of which were forced to a stop as vehicles attempted to merge through the busy road.

  Knowing he would have few other opportunities to engage the Grand Inquisitor without other distractions, Simon looked away from his window and glanced toward his mentor.

  “Sir, if I may?” Simon asked.

  The Grand Inquisitor opened his eyes and arched his eyebrows. Though he didn’t say anything, Simon presumed that was his acknowledgment.

  “Have you made a decision about…?” Simon paused, glancing through the small window separating the rear of the car from the driver.

  The Grand Inquisitor glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Simon. He gestured for Simon to continue.

  “Miss Hawke is eager to hear if you’ve thought more about her predicament?” Simon asked, trying to remain as vague as possible.

  The Grand Inquisitor frowned at the question. Simon knew he’d struck a point of contention, one that his mentor would rather not address at this time. Despite the man’s obvious discomfort, the Grand Inquisitor shook his head.

  “Forgive me, Simon, but I haven’t yet. There has been much on my plate since last we spoke, and issues like your wayward friend have fallen to the wayside.”

  It was Simon’s turn to frown. He leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. “Sir, she begs me daily for an answer, and I find it hard to be reproachful and tell her to be patient. She endured Whitten Hall, knowing it was a chance for you to consider her situation in private.”

  The elder statesman glanced out the window to the pedestrians walking past their stalled vehicle. “Are you familiar with what is transpiring on the southern continent, throughout the Kingdom of Kohvus?”

  “The Kohvelian Knights are fighting against a magical army that emerged from the Rift,” Simon remarked. “It’s been well publicized.”

  “Indeed it has,” the Grand Inquisitor said with a sigh, still looking out his window. “I assume you are also familiar with the reputation of the Knights?”

  Simon shrugged. “Luddites, mostly, but more than capable warriors. The Kohvelian Knights, if rumors are to be believed, have never been defeated in combat, their swords and shield defeating even more technologically advanced armies.”

  “It’s more than rumor, Inquisitor. The Kohvelian Knights are a bastion of warrior spirit, undefeated in combat, and the true first and last line of defense against the invading forces of the Rift.”

  “Yet, despite that acknowledgment, you still seem troubled, sir.”

  The older man turned toward Simon with worried creases across his forehead. “The Kohvelian Knights have failed. King Artiland is dead and his son assumed the mantle of leadership. The forces of the Shadow Lord crushed the Knights on their own lands, driving those that survived—which, if the intelligence escaping the wanton destruction is to be believed, wasn’t many—to the coast.”

  Simon wasn’t sure how to feel. He felt nearly nothing for the dead knights, having known little of them besides rumors and reputation, no matter how truthful. However, their defeat meant terrible things for Ocker. For years, the Inquisitors had protected the kingdom’s interior while the crown’s privateers protected its borders from incursions. Their missions had been light due, in large part, to the defenses of Kohvus. With the Knights defeated, there would be little to stop the army of the Rift from marching toward the northern continent.

  “The leadership of the Knights has taken refuge in the Golden Isles, a chain of islands off the western coast of Kohvus, though
their numbers are far too few.”

  “What can be done?” Simon asked.

  The Grand Inquisitor shook his head. “We can do nothing for them, not now. The nobles are suing for peace.”

  “With the monsters?” Simon incredulously asked. He found it hard to believe that anyone would broker a peace with the monstrosities from the Rift.

  “What choice do they have?” the elder man asked, stroking his beard. “Their forces are destroyed or scattered. Their ancestral home was overrun. They have only the smallest of contingents of Knights with them in the Golden Isles, but our spies tell us that the nobles fight as often with one another as they do the enemy. Kohvus is lost.”

  Simon leaned back heavily in the uncomfortable backseat. “There will be more incursions, of course. The monsters of the Rift will push north at their earliest convenience.”

  “Of course. They’ll move west as well, toward the Caliphate and south into Vox. Unchecked, they intend to conquer the world. As we speak, the king is meeting with the privateers, telling them of the need for increased vigilance.”

  The Inquisitor rubbed his forehead. It was all too much to process. He had chosen a life as a Royal Inquisitor for its simplicity – find a monster and destroy it – and the fact that it catered to his unique skill set. Global strategy was far beyond his abilities or, frankly, his interest.

  “With so much happening to our neighboring kingdoms, for what reason does the king want to see me?”

  The Grand Inquisitor smiled. “We shall see when we arrive.”

  The car lurched as the traffic began to move. The vehicle rumbled along the road, slowly passing the nearby businesses and great meeting halls of the different guilds and factions within Callifax. Eventually, the car turned and rolled to a stop before a towering gate. Armed sentinels emblazoned with uniforms of red and gold, stood guard. Though Simon couldn’t see the tops of the nearby towers, he could practically feel the devastating cannons and plethora of rifles targeting their automobile.

  A guard approached, and the driver lowered his window.

  “State your business.”

  The driver retrieved an envelope from the seat beside him. As he lifted it, Simon noted the broken red seal on the back of the parchment, the royal oak leaf and shield of Ocker. The guard unfurled the note and read it quickly before returning it to the driver. With a wave from the guard, other red-and-gold clad guards hurriedly opened the gargantuan wooden doors, revealing a steep and winding road that led in a series of switchbacks toward the castle’s main gate.

  Though absurd to drive, Simon respected the design of the winding trails. Nothing other than men on foot could traverse straight up the side of the steep hill, leaving carts, vehicles, and pack animals to maneuver the troublesome road, during which the castle defenses would rain death down upon the invaders. It was simple, yet ingenious, though Simon quickly tired of the crawling pace the car had to maintain to properly make the turns.

  Eventually, they passed beneath a vaulted entryway, the paved road turning to large cobblestones, artifacts from an ancient time before the world of modern technology. The car rocked unsteadily as it rolled through the deep ravines worn between the pavers and came to a rest in a parking spot designated by the guards nearby.

  The driver quickly exited the vehicle, once again showing the royal invitation to the guards, before opening the rear door. The Grand Inquisitor exited first. Simon was sliding toward the door when he paused and reached beneath his coat. As discreetly as possible, he removed the pistol concealed within and placed it underneath his seat, hoping it was out of view. On his first visit to the king, he preferred not to initiate an incident between him and the guards.

  They were led through the inner courtyard to the base of a two-story building resting at the heart of the castle. The stonework was far older than the rest of the city, a strange dichotomy between the modern marvels of the city below and the ancient stronghold overseeing it all. It had the same gray, weathered appearance as the Callifax Abbey, as though the two structures were the only staunch remainders of a time long past.

  Stained glass windows lined the sides of the building, recent additions after the removal of the narrow arrow slits that had once decorated the structure. As their group climbed the stairs leading into the royal chambers, Simon drank in the sight of the broad, ornately carved doors marking the grand entryway. Motifs of fairy tales—of knights on horseback fighting against fire-breathing dragons while helpless princesses cowered in the monster’s homes—were carved into the door. He frowned at the sight. Years ago, when the doors were first carved, he would have assumed they were carved reliefs of nothing more than children’s stories. Knowing now that there was a basis of truth to every tale he’d ever heard, he wondered if the original artists knew far more than even the kings of old realized.

  As the doors opened at their approach, Simon walked from the stone stairwell into the cool, tiled interior. Electric lights burned in sconces along the walls, illuminating the intricate paintings that hung upon the wooden paneled walls. Statues in varying sizes, from busts to larger-than-life men, rested in nearly every visible corner. The entryway, for that was all this was in such a grandiose structure, properly portrayed the wealth and decadence enjoyed by the King of Ocker.

  A second set of great doors stood closed before them. Their guide led them to the side of the doors and whispered quietly as he spoke. Even so, his voice echoed around the chamber.

  “His Highness is currently in chambers. We will wait here until summoned, if you please. The chamber is yours to explore as you see fit, but you will need to return at all haste once his current meeting has concluded.”

  The two Inquisitors nodded before turning away from the doors. They could have walked together, but Simon opted to explore the room alone. A few other doors led from the wide entryway, but they were closed and Simon’s curiosity was already well sated just by his arrival. Instead, he examined the paintings. They were portraits of previous Kings of Ocker, each in a regal pose with a crown, heavily laden with assorted gems, resting upon his head. Starting from the far left, which was the most faded and therefore the oldest, Simon examined each in turn, reading the small plaques beneath telling the name and dates they ruled. For as long as Ocker had been a nation, named for Ocker Godwin the Wise nearly eight hundred years before, there had always been a Godwin upon the throne. Theodore Godwin the Brave, who slew the barbarian hordes from the frozen west, stemming from lands that would later be renamed Haversham. Samuel Godwin the Divine, who destroyed the pirate armada in the Battle of Persher, nearly two hundred years ago. Simon frowned. It seemed the Godwins had a history of violence.

  Near the far right of the chamber, he found names that were far more familiar. Rogan Godwin the Pious, one of the only kings who wasn’t known for the wanton destruction of his enemies. King Rogan had wide eyes that were slightly too close together and a hooked nose. He looked surprised in his painting, as though he had heard unfortunate news just before the artist arrived. The Inquisitor knew it was far more likely that the man suffered from generations of noble inbreeding, but the result was a comical expression.

  Simon smirked at the next painting. The genetic features—specifically eyes that were far too close together—were still present, but King Yolland Godwin also suffered from a weak chin. Though shadows had been added beneath the chin to give the illusion of a jutting, proud expression, it was clear that the shadows were added after the fact.

  The last two paintings left Simon with mixed emotions. The second to last was Bruce Godwin, known only as the Vile. He was a short-lived king who had been dethroned shortly after the appearance of the Rift. He had been violent and cruel, though his laws of isolationism still held through the rein of his son Uriah, who currently sat upon the throne. Simon scowled at the painting of the inbred but ruthless despot, who had been responsible, though indirectly, for Simon’s arrest roughly ten years prior.

  It had been Uriah who usurped his father in a bloodless coup;
bloodless, Simon reminded himself, except for Bruce himself, who lost his head in the process. He hadn’t been sad to see the Vile King gone, and Uriah’s actions had immediately endeared him to the Inquisitor. Though the painting still showed the effects of long-term genetics on a very small gene pool, Uriah appeared kind in his portrait.

  A creaking of the doors opening startled Simon, and he turned abruptly as the throne room doors swung wide. He hurried back toward the Grand Inquisitor, who remained patiently beside the archway.

  A series of privateer captains exited the throne room, talking in hushed tones amongst themselves. They appeared dashing in their royal navy uniforms, red jackets with white lapels and cuffs and golden epaulets upon their shoulders. Most wore the blue sashes, upon which assortments of medals had been pinned. Simon knew little of their meaning, other than that he assumed they had been issued for defense of the kingdom.

  Near the rear of the group, as Simon waited for them all to pass, a familiar face caught his eye. The tall, bald man towered over the privateer captain with whom he spoke. Raised scars, forming pattern-like tattoos, marred his nearly black skin, protruding from underneath his collar and creeping up the back of his head. He spoke casually with the other captains, smiling broadly as he revealed pearly white teeth.

  Simon revealed his teeth as well, though in a snarl of disdain. The Grand Inquisitor noticed his markedly different posture at nearly the same moment as the captain. The dark-skinned man excused himself from the other captains and approached.

  “Simon Whitlock, as I live and breathe,” the captain said, his chest loaded with medals.