Knights of Enmity: The Barons Have Fallen (Descending Fires Book 1)

by Sedrie Danielle

  Callan looked around watching the many students of the Alchemical order walking in all sorts of directions heading to classes. Each wore a uniform of slacks, a short sleeved buttoned up shirt and a cape reaching no longer than the back of their knees. The uniforms were either solid black, white, yellow or red; colors indicating the ranks of their order.

  Callan put out the torch and walked up towards the castle doors when someone shouted “Intruder!” The students stopped in their tracks, looking out of windows and doors of the castle towards the defenseless Dactyl. Callan raised his hands to indicate he was weaponless, but the students sent a barrage of swords and arrows his way.

  Callan shouted as the weapons enclosed him in a cage, giving him no room to turn; pinning him by his clothes. A man with tattoos covering every inch of skin on his body, apart from his face, laughed at the struggling Dactyl.

  The red, silk robe he wore was unlike that of the students; its gold trimmings glimmering in the sunlight. His short, black hair was spiked; his green eyes roofed by a pair of thick brows having a slight arch. He had a perfect, square jaw bone which facial hair would be a disservice to; his smile devious to the eyes of the beholder.

  He took a sip of coffee as Callan stared at him, struggling to get free. “What is a Dactyl doing on the Upper Earth? Better yet, what is a Dactyl doing here at Panchrest?” he asked, in a soft nonchalant voice.

  Callan was paralyzed with fear as he stared into the soulless, emerald eyes of the Alchemist. “I -- I have come to speak with Solon,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “Solon? What is your business with him?” the man asked.

  “It’s my own thing. Unofficial business. I have an issue I seek guidance on,” Callan said.

  “Hmm. Interesting,” he replied as Callan stared at his torso.

  The open robe revealed hundreds of Alchemical sigils upon a nicely toned set of abs; a sign of mastery and rank. The man waved his hand and the cage of swords and arrows melted. “Well come on Dactyl. My coffee is getting cold,” he said, leading him into the castle.

  Callan received weary stares from the students, but they didn’t act upon him, and he was grateful. The great hall of Panchrest’s main entrance was elaborate and old; losing none of its Medieval flair. Banners hung in the tall ceiling bearing the faces and names of the many Alchemists that have come and gone.

  Callan looked down to see that the long, red rug they walked upon had seals of the order etched in gold, silver, and other metals; appearing to run for miles. On the walls, colossal paintings of the twelve past Grand Alchemists hung in the order of their reign: Hermes Trismegistus, Abram the Chemic, Paracelsus the Great, Philastophenes, Aliester of Troy, Avicenna of Persia, Morintus the Black, Nicolas Flamel, Rhasis the Arab, Mr. Bacon, Michel Colonna, and Alexander Seton.

  The Alchemist led Callan to a sitting room at the end of the hall that appeared to be a library as there were hard, leather-bound books on every shelf lining the walls. It smelled of coffee and myrrh; the light of the sun sat bright over the sitting area of antique chairs.

  “Sit and tell me why you're here. It’s a curiosity which I must appease,” he said.

  “I can only tell Solon. He is the only one that can help me.”

  “Well you're in luck. I am he,” he said. Callan looked shocked as he was taken back, but went along with it.

  “How is it you're Solon? He is said to be over a thousand years old,” Callan said, staring at a man who appeared to be no older than thirty. Remembering the paintings of the past Grand Alchemists, he noticed they all had one thing in common; they looked old. Solon laughed.

  “The eyes don’t deceive. What kind of Alchemist would I be if I allowed myself to age?” he asked. Callan cleared his throat to settle his discomfort.

  “I need healing. An elixir,” he started.

  “Then go to the Blue Palace. Healing is their department,” Solon responded, showing no care for his plea.

  “Those whores cannot help me. I wouldn't allow it. I have come across this book, and it has given me reason to believe you can cause a man to grow back amputated limbs. I have something that could use your skill,” he said. Solon stared at him and waited for him to go into detail.

  Callan sighed and looked away as he began to disrobe. Solon sat up, shocked by this, as a member of the pious Order of Dactyls would never do such a thing. Callan's robes fell to the floor and Solon placed his fist on his mouth; grunting at the sight.

  “Poor thing,” he said looking at Callan's embarrassed face. “This will be a challenge, but I love challenges,” Solon said grabbing Callan's crotch. “I will help you. The process is somewhat simple, but it will cause you great pain. I’m sure that a man like yourself can handle such a thing. But there is something I wish in return,” Solon said smiling.

  “Sure. Anything. Just tell me what to do.”

  “I will need you to sign a pact. But before we do that, there is something I need,” Solon said.

  “What's that?”

  “Your gift of foresight. There is something I wish to see. Whatever I ask of you, you are not to question it. Do we have a deal?” Solon asked. Callan nodded as two men entered the room. The first was a tall man with long black hair, the other shorter and broader with short red hair and a thick beard; both wearing the red robes of the order.

  “And what do we have here? I thought the students were just yanking my hair,” said the beautiful man with long, shiny black hair. Solon rolled his eyes and looked away as he stepped closer to Callan.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Callan, though I do not know your name,” he replied.

  “This is my –,” “Husband. Cornelius Agrippa. And this is Johnny Dee,” he said, interrupting Solon’s introduction.

  “That’s strange,” Callan replied. Cornelius shot a cold look at him.

  “Strange? How so?” Cornelius asked.

  Callan cleared his throat, trying not to look any of the men in the eyes.

  “Perhaps, I am not familiar with the ways of Ordo Magnum Opus. In fact, in all honesty, I’m sure I have no understanding of your magic and how it works,” he replied.

  “Cornelius, since you are feeling so hospitable, why not show him what it is we do?” Solon said, with a look of disdain on his face. Cornelius smiled, placing a kiss on Solon’s cheek, but he pulled away.

  Solon hated public displays of affection and was quick to remind Cornelius of that fact. “Get to it. And bring him back here once I’m done with my morning coffee,” he ordered.

  Cornelius scoffed, but motioned for Callan to follow him. Callan found their relationship to be quite strange, but kept silent. He followed Cornelius and Johnny Dee around the castle to a classroom on the lower floors. When Cornelius entered the room, the chatter amongst the students ended, but he waved his hands for them to continue.

  The classroom was small, lit by sconces lined along the stone walls. The wooden tables were full of beakers, flasks and books; looking much like a common chemistry class. The students watched as Cornelius and Johnny Dee made their way to the front of the class where Dosos, the teacher, stood aside.

  “See here, this is a Nigredo level class where they are learning the foundations of alchemy. Before any magic can be attempted, we Alchemists must learn the properties of every metal and element on this planet. Because alchemy, at its root, gives us the ability to do three things. Can anyone tell this ignorant Dactyl what those three things are?” Cornelius asked, as a few students raised their hands.

  “Alchemy gives us the ability to turn any base metal into another,” a student said as Cornelius picked up a tin mug.

  “For instance,” he said, turning it into gold. “What else?”

  “Well, depending on how powerful the Alchemist is, some are able to turn any carbon based items into any organic or inorganic object he is skilled enough to create,” the student went on.

  “Such as,” Cornelius said, grabbing the student’s phone and turning it into a scrub brush
.

  “And since your so astute, can you tell me what this is?”

  “A scrub brush sir,” he answered reluctantly.

  “And who will be using it?” “Me?” “Smart you are. Nigredos are not allowed to have electronic devices of any sort. Phones, music players, laptops, none of it! In fact, all Nigredos are on kitchen duty with Madam Triga for the next month. Just so all of you will remember that fact,” Cornelius said, handing the brush to the student.

  Everyone began throwing wads of paper at the culprit for having their entire level put on punishment. Cornelius laughed, flipping his hair and leading Callan out of the room. Johnny Dee remained in the class with Dosos to reestablish the calm order amongst the students.

  Cornelius pinned Callan to the wall, grabbing him by the throat; his long black nails digging into his skin. “Tell me, why is it you are really here?” he asked, in a tone that was too harsh for the young Dactyl to maintain confidence. Callan was choking, and clawing for Cornelius to release him.

  “I- I came for his help,” he answered. “With?” Cornelius asked, as Callan lifted his robes showing him his affliction.

  He laughed at the much shorter man, releasing his grip.

  “Come on, let’s get you back,” he said laughing. Callan’s face was as red as a tomato, but followed him back to Solon’s sitting room. Cornelius sat on the couch, curious as to why Solon agreed, but he motioned for him to leave.

  “Leave? You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What do you two have to hide?” he stormed. Solon stared at him angrily until he got the message. Solon turned to Callan, motioning for him to sit at a small, circular table.

  “So let's get to it. Do not tell me what you see, write it on this,” Solon said, placing a small piece of parchment and a pen next on the table.

  “Why sir?” Callan asked, receiving a hard stare from Solon. He took Solon's hand, shaking off the emotions he felt, and allowed his mind to go deep. Callan began to tremble and his nose began to bleed; his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Solon sat curiously watching as Callan released his hand and began writing.

  He rolled the parchment like a scroll and handed it to Solon, who in exchange gave him another. Callan looked at scroll and read the requirements of the pact.

  “You can't be serious? This is insane,” he said.

  “Sacrifices are needed for the manifestation of one's will. Things just don't appear out of thin air. Not even Magia can do that. You Dactyls have the gift of foresight, yet know nothing about the laws of magic. For every manifestation, there must be an equal and opposite sacrifice. If you wish to grasp your wand, the branch you choose must be able to sustain your power,” Solon said. Callan nodded and folded the paper in his inner robe pocket.

  “You must sign it in blood. It doesn’t matter whether you do it here or back at the Parthenon, but the terms will be the same. The first night of Mars' reign shall bring favor to your endeavor, but you must be quick about it. However, before you can receive these gifts, you must allow me to unlock your ninth gate. It is the only way to open your spirit for that which you desire,” Solon said. Callan stared somewhat confused.

  “Oh, don't worry dear Dactyl. Your confusion will be transmitted into understanding,” Solon said, giving Callan a devious grin. Callan was beginning to feel uncomfortable but knew there was no way out of this.

  “Before we do that, tell me of any visions you Dactyls have had concerning the Order of Magia Chaotica,” he asked, quickly changing the subject. Callan gulped hard. He knew that if he presented Solon with the visions of others, he would be breaking the protocol of his order, but nevertheless, he needed Solon's help and would do what was necessary to see it done.

  “I have not had any visions of them personally, but I know of something forthcoming. The Prophet and his Order have planned a gathering near the Obelisk of the West, and intends on breaking bread with the angels,” Callan said. Solon smiled and leaned back in his chair. “It was also seen that The Prophet will summon you. And ask you to open the seven prisons; the Oubliette of Smyrna in particular,” Callan continued.

  “Really now?” Solon asked smiling.

  5

  the order of the blue goddess

  Strange as it was for a Dactyl to be seen in the Upper World, the unusual calm which set across the skies caught the attention of all the Hidden. Lancelot stood on the balcony of his high-rise condo looking out into the world which was oblivious to the impending doom he felt. It's just like before, he said to himself, as he took a sip of coffee and puffed a cigarette.

  The icy breeze sent forth by the Sons of Ragnarok reached the region of Atlanta, teasing his thick, curly hair. Lance was always well groomed; often finding pleasure in having facials, teeth whitening, and eyebrow waxing. His goatee trimmed to perfection, set as an outline for his perfect smile.

  With his magical eyes, he could see the bits of snow twirling in the morning breeze; Godi Thorklid’s way of saying hello. “Yeah good morning to you too Thorklid,” he said, throwing his cigarette off the side of the balcony.

  His thoughts, thinking of the warm touch of love's embrace, brought him to great sadness as it was something he missed. His body, defined to perfection like the other Knights of his Order, brought pleasure to many yet, he spent his days alone.

  Goosebumps began to rise upon his skin as the wind met his bare back; his senses feeling the presence of another.

  “Fear of the unknown keeps the brightest of men in the dark of discovery,” a man said, coming from the inside of his place.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my house?!” Lance yelled as he reached for the gun stuffed in his underwear. The man was dressed in a red cassock, with a white collar around his neck covered by a long red coat. His hands, cupped together, as though he were there to make thanksgiving.

  The man's eyes, dark, face bare of hair and towering presence made it obvious he, was a Borgia.

  “Did I teach you to use such language?” he asked, as he began to walk around.

  “You didn’t teach me anything as I recall. Remember? You decided Cesare was your favorite son, and gave the rest of us the middle finger,” Lance said, cocking his gun, aiming at his head.

  “Are you going to shoot me son?” he asked.

  “I’m not your son Luis. Now get the fuck out of my house!”

  “Hmm. Funny how you're not my son now, but you were three years ago when you and your bastard siblings stormed my dinner and forced the Spanish royals to embrace you. Now, you live like kings, all upon my dollar.”

  “Boo hoo. Your secret's out! You have a bunch of half Black bastards running around with your last name. We simply took what was ours, are you mad about it?” Lance asked, laughing and throwing money on the floor.

  Luis grunted. His large, dark brown eyes glared at Lance; the deep clef in his chin deepened with the grimace upon his face.

  “The only thing that makes you a Borgia, Lancelot, is your is name,” Luis said, sticking his thumb in Lance's cleft dent. Luis, like his sons was tall with broad shoulders and a face which many women found difficult to deny attention.

  Lance slapped his father causing him to fall to the ground. As the barrel of Lance’s gun pressed into the side of his face, Luis laughed.

  “I haven’t come here to play games. I have come because I need your protection. The protection of the Magia.”

  “No. We don’t serve sheeple orders. Now get out,” Lance said pointing.

  “See, you must understand something Lancelot. You have made it known that you are a Borgia. And with that comes seven hundred years of bad blood with families who also have awakened ones on their side. If you do not protect our name, then all would have been lost. When you and your brother were working for me, you left some stones unturned. Now, things have begun to crawl from beneath them,” Luis said.

  “I don’t really care. I have my life. And you have no part of it. Never again will we be your slaves.”

  “N
o? See, you misunderstand. My problem is your problem. There is a faction going around committing deeds in the guise of my Order, the Order of Mopses. If they know of me, then they know of you, and by extension; your mother, your sister and precious nephew,” Luis said.

  Lance stood up and looked over at a photo of him and little Devin. He would do anything in the world for the little guy, and having danger fall upon him because of his own actions was something he couldn’t risk.

  “So do you do this with your “legit” kids? Or just the Black bastards you’re ashamed of?” Lance asked, not blinking a wink. Luis stared silently.

  “You and your brother were trained in the art of combat.”

  “No thanks to you!”

  “Vivian. How is she?” Luis asked, trying to defray answering the question.

  “You keep mom out of this! Tell me who's after you,” Lance said, regretting opening the door to the conversation.

  “Not who. What. Sources at the Vatican have predicted that we are living in the period of the Fourth Reckoning. It’s only a matter of time before the angels began to fall from Heaven and agitate war with humanity again. There are those humans who wish to see this done and will aid the angels in the demise of our entire species. Especially, the sheeple who believe these beings are benevolent creatures sent by God to carry them to Heaven. They will welcome death into their homes. As the head of the Order of Mopses, I have a target on my back. I just ask that you keep me safe when the time comes.”

  Lance scoffed. Luis never did anything more than buy him a pencil growing up, and he wasn’t about to start being the good son today. He grabbed Luis and drug him to the door; throwing him out. Luis fell to the ground as Lance slammed the door.

  He screamed apocalyptic ramblings, only to be silenced as he caught a glimpse of a pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark end of the hall. Luis stood up, grabbing his heart as it was gripped with fear. He banged on the door as the pair of eyes inched closer; being accompanied by a low growl.