The Rising

by Temple Mathews

  Abdul-Aziz felt confident as he entered the iron cage—a huge ball forty feet in diameter—carrying a massive spiked war club. Milanokov, too, felt emboldened as he made his entrance to cheers wielding a tri-blade sword and shield. Then the cavern erupted with a sound like tearing metal as Rocco stepped into the ring holding two roaring, thirty-two-inch Craftsman chainsaws.

  A throng of demons crowded around and crawled onto the cage as the match began. Milanokov faked a hit toward Rocco and, whirling, swung his tri-blade at Abdul-Aziz, cutting a gash in the giant’s left leg. Abdul-Aziz responded by charging Milanokov, cursing and swinging his juggernaut club. He was twice as fast as Milanokov had expected and succeeded in blasting his club into the Russian’s shield, knocking him backward, spewing a string of Slavic demon curses. Rocco stood waiting, patient, as Abdul-Aziz and Milanokov sparred, with the giant Nigerian landing another blow that broke the Russian’s shield in half. But Milanokov wasn’t done—he leapt up, flipping over Abdul-Aziz and landing behind him, then lancing the towering man through the shoulder. Bellowing like a sacrificial cow, Abdul-Aziz turned and swung his club with all his might. The Russian ducked and was preparing a counterstrike when he felt the hot blade of Rocco’s chainsaw pass through his left arm, lopping it off. Blood spurted from the stump, and Milanokov had only a moment to reflect on his plight before Rocco’s other chainsaw blade raked through his legs, severing them both.

  As Milanokov toppled into the dirt screaming, Abdul-Aziz attacked Rocco, who ducked and whirled and counter-attacked with his big churning saws. The first cut into Abdul-Aziz’s battle club and then seized up, surprising both demons. But Rocco was quick and used his opponent’s surprise as an opportunity to drive an uppercut into Abdul-Aziz’s torso, carving out his beating heart. As Abdul-Aziz fell sideways, Rocco lopped off his head for good measure. The cage floor flooded with blood. Rocco held the chainsaws aloft and the demons went wild, screeching like baboons on fire.

  The cavern echoed with a sustained chant: “Rocco! Rocco! Rocco!”

  Rocco’s chest puffed up as he gassed the chainsaws, keeping them throttled to the max until finally their engines overheated and they exploded. The cheers grew louder. This guy was a showman.

  Then a mighty roar shook the cavern. Debris rained down.

  The Dark Lord was standing in the vault doorway.

  He had morphed larger, into his baddest, most monstrous demonic self, and he was seething with fiery rage. He spit a stream of fire that arced toward Rocco, who, thinking quickly, dropped and grabbed Malinokov’s battered shield in a defensive move. The crowd was ecstatic. Their leader was back!

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” they chanted, lusting for the immediate and gory death of Rocco at the hands of the grand evildoer.

  Rocco, his hands, arms, and feet badly burned, bravely rose up, ready to accept his fate. But the Dark Prince, now greatly weakened, instead of finishing him off, fell sideways. A group of loyal shedemons lifted him up and carried him hastily back into the vault as the crowd began to rumble their shock and dismay. Now the backbiting began in earnest.

  “He’s old!”

  “He’s ill!”

  “He’s not fit to lead!”

  “He’s finished!”

  A mass mutiny was only seconds away. The wounded Prince of Darkness had emerged from his vault intending to quell all such notions, but instead—by showing his weakened state—had only succeeded in adding fuel to the fires of dissent.

  Rocco and his cohorts took up swords and lances and stared at the shedemons guarding the vault entrance. The shedemons pulled their daggers and stood, ready to fight to the death.

  But then a deafening noise rang throughout the massive cave: a high-pitched whistling that grew more and more intense until all assembled were covering their ears. The awful noise ceased as quickly as it had begun, and a blessed silence took its place. As the demons and demonteens and shedemons caught their collective breaths, they heard a voice.

  “The Dark Lord is not finished!”

  All heads turned to find Loreli, clad in a striking blue hooded duster, holding the blood valise.

  “I have what is needed!” she shouted, lifting the valise up for all to see. “With this . . . the blood of his first-born son . . . I will cure him!”

  The shedemons wasted no time rushing out and surrounding Loreli and whisking her toward the vault. The assembled throngs were confused and uncertain.

  Fueled by a sudden swift rage, Rocco jumped on a boulder and yelled, “You’re not curing anyone, you little bitch!” He was poised to attack.

  And then he was lanced—run completely through—by a hooded shedemon who had been lurking behind him in the crowd. Rocco looked down at the blade sticking out through his torso, realized that it had pierced his heart, grabbed at it, and then fell over dead, his body convulsing and then disintegrating into sparks.

  Another dissenter made a move to intercept Loreli, but the shedemons quickly dispatched him in a flurry of nail and dagger slices, and by the time they were done the offender was in a pool of his own blood and Loreli was well down the tunnel to the vault.

  She approached the Dark Lord as he lay on the marble slab, his chest heaving. He was clearly in bad shape. His body parts seemed to be, rather than working in concert, engaged in some kind of repulsive internecine battle as his skin morphed from scales to flesh covered with pustules and back again. His patchwork body was bulging at the seams where the healing worms had done their work.

  He was sweating, and his head tossed back and forth as he fought the pain that was engulfing him. In his brain, he saw goodness and light, acts of kindness projected on an inner wall. He saw a small child kissing the snout of an adorable puppy. He saw a man and woman at an altar exchanging vows of eternal love before God. He saw an elderly couple walking on a beach, smiling, gnarled old hands clasped together. The images of goodness and radiant love tormented him. If this is death, he thought, then bring it swiftly!

  Loreli placed a hand on his forehead. “Don’t worry, Father, it’s going to be okay. I’m here now.”

  He opened his evil yellow eyes and stared up. It took him a moment to recognize her. When he did, he was not pleased.

  “I do not wish to die with your face as the last thing I see.”

  “But because of me, Father, you’re not going to die.” She extracted the necessary equipment from her duster and went to work. “You are going to rise up and be stronger than ever!”

  The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed as she jammed the needle into his arm. He grabbed her wrist with a mighty claw. He could crush it easily. But he did not, because she began pumping the blood of Will Hunter into his veins. He briefly lost consciousness as the blood spread throughout his body. The effect was completely euphoric. The Dark Lord experienced a rush greater than he’d ever felt before. Minutes later, when the transfusion was complete, he stood up and let loose a powerful roar that echoed throughout the entire Under City. Then he cast his gaze upon his daughter.

  “Come to me.”

  She did. He held her shoulders and then pulled her close to him in a fatherly embrace. Her nostrils flared. He smelled of death and decay, like the carcass of a beast of burden. She was repulsed, and yet . . . this was her father, the being whom she’d spent so much time fantasizing about, yearning deep in her heart for his acceptance. Even as waves of disgust washed over her, she forced herself to remain still.

  He lifted her chin with a finger. His eyes were like pools of boiling saffron. She felt dizzy. His voice was a low, husky whisper.

  “You have done well, my daughter.”

  “All in service of you, my Lord.”

  The Dark Lord felt a surge of pride and smiled at his offspring. “Now,” he thundered, “we will celebrate!”

  The Dark Lord was in the huge cavern standing upright on a rise, a roiling sea of his minions spread out before him. He was tall, strong, and powerful; no sign of illness remained. As for his worshippers, they were an adoring group, flush with the joy
that their great leader had returned. Many of them reveled in the rumor—which had now become a belief—that he had in fact died and then risen again like a truly invincible being, cementing their faith that he was, indeed, a deity worthy of eternal, unquestioning worship. And to show their spirit, their great joy, they drummed a thousand drums. They beat congos and madals and dholaks, and hammered on ashikos and bodhrans, leaping up and down, working themselves into a frenzy.

  A behemoth wielding a massive hammer struck a gong, and from out of the vault came Loreli adorned in a black and red velvet cape. She was flanked by shedemons and they all marched slowly, a royal procession. The shedemons had done the impossible—they’d helped make her appear even more beautiful than she naturally was. She was radiant. She was beaming. She exuded tremendous pride. She was led out to the ledge where her father was waiting, and the assembled crowd whispered amongst themselves. This mysterious girl, this savior, who was she and why was she being presented in this manner to them? Some said she was the Dark Prince’s daughter. Others said no, she was his lover. Would she be the princess? Or the queen? The excitement was building.

  The shedemons presented Loreli to the Dark Lord, removing her cape, revealing a stunning outfit underneath. She still wore her blue duster, but underneath was mesh and leather and lace combined in a mind-blowingly sensuous manner to create the perfect ensemble, beautiful and bad woven together like night and day.

  The Dark Lord approved. Taking her hand, he twirled her around once, twice, three times, and raised his other hand to the crowd, exhorting them to empty their lungs. And they did. They cheered as though their team had just won the Super Bowl, their army the battle, their kind the war. Whoever this girl was, she was to be granted the utmost respect.

  “I give you my one and only daughter,” said the Dark Lord. “Loreli!” He stretched the word—her beautiful name—out into three distinct and lengthy syllables. LORE! ELL! EYE!

  And the demons screamed even louder. “Lor-el-i! Lor-el-i! Lor-el-i!”

  Blood rushed into Loreli’s face as she bathed in the adoration. She could feel her entire body tingling. Her blood was hot and fast as it raced up and down her legs and arms, through her torso, swirling around her spine, driving her wild with delight and desire. She could hardly stand it; the intensity lifted her into a state of drugged euphoria. The Black Prince gazed at her once more.

  “Tell me, dear daughter, how do you feel?”

  “I feel . . . ecstatic . . . wonderful!”

  “Pride for others is not an emotion that comes easily to me. Yet here you are. And I am so very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  He pulled her close again. He smelled even worse, sweat rolling off him like rain from a roof. He was rancid, toxic, and repulsive. But she didn’t care. She had dreamed of this moment for years. They were reunited. They were powerful. They would stand together as immortals! Her cheeks were flushed. Every cell in her body buzzed with delight as her father spoke to her.

  “You will be a great asset in the coming Armageddon. Together we are doubly strong. Invincible. Thanks to you, your brother, the traitor, has no chance now. No chance whatsoever.”

  Loreli smiled because she knew this was true. Will Hunter was soon to be dead and gone, forgotten, his pitiful soul wiped from the face of the earth.

  Will pulled his BMW into the garage and got out. He could hardly contain himself, was nearly mad with joy. He had done it. He no longer had the blood of the Dark Lord running through his veins. He had lifted the curse, and could now live his life on his own terms, as a normal human being. Of course, he still had much to accomplish, but with the curse gone he would be stronger, no longer allowing anger to pollute his thoughts. He was pure. He would kick ass like he’d never kicked ass before. He looked forward to meeting his adversary on the field of battle.

  But first, Natalie. He’d subjected her to far too much pain in the last few weeks, but now he would make it all up to her. Once he held her in his arms, all would be forgiven. He realized now that he would have to tell her everything about Loreli. No more secrets. He would tell all and deal with Loreli when the time came.

  He entered the old stone mansion and climbed the stairs, his heart pounding with anticipation.

  “Rudy? Emily?” he called.

  He got no response, so he moved up the stairs and headed right for her room. He could picture her rushing into his arms.

  The door was closed. He knocked.

  “Natalie?”

  When she didn’t answer, he opened the door.

  As he crossed the room he heard a roaring in his ears. And all at once, he started to feel weak. His skin felt flushed and yet, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he thought he looked pale. What was going on? He was sweating. He didn’t feel good. In fact, he felt wretched. But then he saw her—Natalie. She was lying on her bed, splayed out, looking so beautiful. She was, in her own way, perfection. He moved toward her, the world now in slow motion. All the hours, the days, the weeks, the months that he’d loved her—it all added up to now, this moment, this time.

  “Natalie . . . it’s me, Will.”

  She stirred, moaned (oh, how delicious a simple sound!), but did not open her eyes. Words began to spill from Will’s mouth, straight from his heart.

  “I know you’ve thought about these words before. At least, I’m hoping you have, because I have, I’ve thought of them a thousand times a day, every single day since I first met you. I’ve wanted to say them to you forever but . . . the way things have been, all that’s happened, I was afraid. Not for me, but for you. I was always worried about you getting hurt, or worse. As much as I’ve wanted you, I’ve also known that, until now, we could never truly be together. Not the way we wanted to, needed to, forever. Because I was . . . who I was . . . because I carried his blood, I couldn’t risk letting go, letting you know how I really felt.”

  Again she stirred, shifting slightly on the bed. Her fingers reached out for his hand and Will knew she could hear every single word he’d said.

  “Every time I see you,” he said, “every time I’m near you, my heart sings. It sings your song. And it sings only for you.” He took a deep breath, and then uttered the words that would free his soul. “Natalie . . . I love you. And I will love you forever.”

  There. He’d done it. In no uncertain terms, he’d proclaimed his love for her. Will was so happy, so free, he felt like he could fly.

  And then, suddenly, he was paralyzed with fear. Natalie had opened her eyes.

  They were liquid black.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Author/screenwriter/filmmaker Temple Mathews, a graduate of the University of Washington and a producer at the American Film Institute, has written dozens of half-hour animation TV episodes and several animated and live action features and direct-to-DVD and video films. Mr. Mathews has sold scripts and/or worked for hire at every major studio in Hollywood. His credits include the Walt Disney animated feature films Return to Neverland and The Little Mermaid II, and the MGM feature film Picture This! Mr. Mathews lives in Santa Monica, California, with his daughter, Manon.