The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  We trailed the center aisle, each one of us numbed by fear, and struggling to accept the craziness of the situation in which we found ourselves. Still, though, we continued on, hands linked, eyes locked on the doors beyond the altar. A posse of George Smokes walked beside us, escorting our march to safety. Young Peter seemed baffled, though also reassuringly amused by this gathering of duplicates ushering us toward freedom. Each George offered words of encouragement to our party, whispered assurances that the trailing, fizzing, whining archons would hunt us no more.

  “Just one moment!”

  Anat’s cry was unexpected, and in unison we halted. Turning our attention back to where the archon stood alongside our George.

  “What is this?” Old George asked, turning to face the creature.

  “I just can’t bring myself to do this.”

  “What?”

  She closed the space between them. Expressing a tenderness I hadn’t expected, she placed her left palm on George’s chest, her other hand moving upwards to trace the backs of her fingers on his cheek. “It’s all just a game, Old One. We both know this. It’s only ever a game…and even the likes of us must comply with certain rules; but, these things…these…such worthless toys. We had already claimed them. They are ours to break.”

  From where we were standing I could only see the back of George’s head, but his enraged words carried through the hollow venue. “Then your word is as invalid as ev –”

  A scream reverberated around the hall as Anat’s fist connected with George’s chest, punching clear through his shattered ribcage. Her arm extending out through the hole in his back, cruel fingers stained carmine and still clutching the fading heart just ripped from the body of this man I considered a friend – and yet my mind could only focus on one obscure fact; during the throes of his death, George Smoke had soiled himself.

  Anat wrestled free her prize, pulling her closed hand back through the splintered wound she created, allowing his defiled corpse to slump to the floor.

  Even amid all the craziness already witnessed, this moment induced a bizarre sensation within me; I had just watched this proclaimed angel, willfully ripping a man’s heart out with her bare hands – a man who I had met this same day, and yet whom I’d known for years, and considered a friend. I lost myself then, to a feeling of disassociation sweeping over me. I remained aware, but it was as though I were no longer present. Instead I watched events unfold, though from a safer distance, no longer able to grasp – nor directly affected by – the true relevance of anything I saw. It was a partition of my senses which probably lasted little more than a few moments before, thankfully, and yet horrifically, I once again understood just how dire the situation was.

  My face streamed a river of tears for George Smoke. I realized Roz was hysterical, though her cries seemed as much of rage as in horror. Everyone was screaming – and it occurred to me then, that should we by some miracle survive this place, how the hell could Peter ever recover from such terrors witnessed…how would any one of us ever heal from this?

  Even before I fully gathered my senses, carnage erupted throughout the room. Anat’s attack on George acted as a beacon call to arms for the archons’ and their hoggish.

  Screams of pain sang out like off-kilter church bells, each and every George Smoke becoming a target for the ripping teeth and sharp claws of the hoggish. I realized that each of these doppelgangers bore arms, carrying axes or pitted blades similar to my own. Now, with weapons in hand, the army of Smokes battled valiantly against porcine foes, though quickly they began falling to violent destruction, mobs of angelic orbs descending to engulf then devastate their flailing bodies – each interaction resulting in an explosion which also served to decimate the encompassing archon.

  But the archons did not fear annihilation for their cause, and their number was many.

  “Jesus,” I said, as our little group of survivors began retreating from the carnage.

  “Hold your ground!” Young George barked at us, “All is not yet lost!”

  A dozen or more doppelgangers moved closer, forming an outward facing circle around our diminished group, though still I noticed they kept at least an arm’s distance between themselves.

  “How is this not lost?” asked Joseph, placing Peter in Cathy’s arms. Positioning them behind him, he prepared for what he understood would be the last stand. “These damn monsters are going to shred us!”

  “Hold your ground!” Young George pleaded, again. “Just stand your ground.”

  “Frank?” Roz was wide eyed and begging for reassurance which I couldn’t provide. Nevertheless, I embraced her with every ounce of my being.

  “I love you, Tub.”

  “I love you too, Hub,” she brushed her lips against mine, a tearful kiss. “Are we going to try and kill some of these bastard things before we die? I really want to murder something.”

  Her words struck a chord in my heart, providing a fluttering jolt of strength, and endorsing everything I admired about this woman. “God I love you, Tub! What say we start bashing these creeps, eh?”

  Off to our right, and perhaps forty feet from us, the air again began to crackle and distort, much as it had before the Georges’ arrival. This time the shimmering vortex which unfolded proved even more substantial, creating a portal large enough to accommodate the passing of a double-decker bus.

  “Here we go!” shouted Young George, and it was obvious that whatever was occurring here, it had been expected.

  “What is happening?”

  He managed a smile, though it is fair to say his words lacked providing reassurance. “Just hold your position. Nobody move. And whatever you do, link your bloody hands and keep them linked. Stay behind us.”

  The thing that arrived, it part-slithered part-dragged its way through the portal, carrying with it a reek like black water stink; this worm-thing, easily the size of three juggernauts, was an obscene and hideous abomination. Its gray body resembling a blancmange left outside in the elements to rot, its form quivered ungainly as the monster hauled itself into the room. The huge head, if such a blunt termination could ever be termed a head, was layered with dozen-upon-dozens of stalks, each stem topped with a solitary golden eye, and centered by an onyx-black pupil. The stems weaved patterns in the air as it moved, its eyes wavering like maize on a summer breeze, and as it heaved itself across the floor of the cavernous room, I realized it was hunting.

  Roz raised an arm to her face; each forced movement of the undulating fiend releasing more of its foul smell. “What the hell is it?”

  “No idea, Tub. But it’s absolutely rank. Jesus. My eyes are burning.”

  “Quiet!” Young George urged, and the fear in his voice was obvious. “Stay as still as you are able.”

  I glanced at Peter and was relieved to see him positioned between Cathy and Joseph, his eyes clenched shut as though this single act might be enough to ward off whatever new evil this behemoth was. Joseph gave a wide-eyed, quizzical shrug, as if to say ‘Here goes. I think the shit’s hitting the fan!’

  It occurred to me that something had already hit the fan, judging by the gaseous stench overwhelming this place; I could have struck a match and likely seen the end of all this. A pitiful squeal of hurt confusion drew my attention back toward the new arrival, and I realized my early assessment had been correct.

  The thing was hunting.

  An orifice opened which – judging by its location in relation to the abomination’s head – I could only assume was a mouth, though the opening more closely resembled a bruised and puckered asshole than anything I’d ever want to kiss. One of the hoggish had somehow become entrapped within this sphincter, and it was this creature’s death throes which echoed through the chamber. Its body was being broken down by the acidic spittle dripping from the abomination’s immense maw; its juiced remains absorbed into the beast as easily as milkshake through a straw.

  The archons were staying busy, launching explosive assaults against the heaving, gelatinous body o
f the behemoth, and failing miserably as each wound they inflicted leaked a volcanic emission of the same acidic agent leaking from the beast’s mouth. The expulsions of gunk slimed the attackers with devastating consequence, the acid sizzling through their shell layers, turning them to whirling dervishes as the volatile liquid assaulted them with the same fury as had decimated the grounded hoggish.

  Unable to slow either its progression or continued culling of their numbers, the hoggish and archons maintained their vain attack on the transgressor. Their numbers remained substantial, though I could not see them overcoming this heinous fiend. And whether or not they did succeed seemed a moot point, for surely this slithering thing would end us as readily as it would them.

  “I think it’s time we made our exit.” I barely noticed Young George’s hand on my shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Time to go,” he repeated, and there weren’t any of us who needed telling twice.

  I grabbed Young George’s sleeve. “What the fuck is that thing?”

  “Not now. I’ll explain back at the cottage.”

  “Say again?”

  “George’s cottage on the hill, I’ll be better able to explain once we get you there.”

  I nodded acceptance.

  The archons would have had their hands full just battling this latest arrival, but they also had to contend with a furious mob of George Smokes seeking retribution against them. The furor gave us our opportunity, though we continued coming under sporadic attack from the hoggish as we strove for the exit. As we closed toward the doors a half-dozen of our protectors peeled away, forming an armed barrier between ourselves and those seeking to follow.

  The bulk of aggressors remained occupied by the bulbous slug, with more still battling a phalanx of George Smokes. The great and grim hall remained a picture of carnage, violent exchanges between the differing factions occurring against a backdrop of ruination. And yet, for the first time in a long time, I began to believe we may yet achieve salvation – though at what long-term cost?

  Chapter 38

  It had taken an age, but at last we seemed on the verge of reaching an exit. The lack of lighting continued to restrict our speed of movement, but Young George urged us to hurry in reaching the end of the hallway. He remained adamant that we should not unlink our hands, and so some rearranging of our circle had taken place for swifter travel. Those of us in the lead; Young George, Roz and myself, we turned about face so as to be better positioned to guide the way.

  We knew the archons were too occupied to attempt halting our passage, but we also realized they could not be trusted. Another George, this one of swarthy appearance, about forty years of age, and dressed in some type of Roman centurion uniform, he assured us in barely legible English that he and his cohorts were capable of protecting us; though once again it was stressed that our chain remain unbroken. I had no understanding of the need for this oft-repeated stipulation, but I was way beyond questioning any instructions given.

  We continued on, none of us daring to speak as we listened for porcine squeals – an early warning sign of closing pursuit, or potential threats ahead. Soon we came upon a decidedly narrow staircase, only passable when mounting the steps sideways on. This passage smelled like crap and was almost as daunting as the stairwell we climbed earlier. We were forced to break our circle, the tightness of the ascent making it impossible to remain linked. Nevertheless, we maintained the holding of hands. As we snaked our way up the stairs, the restrictive climb induced a gnawing claustrophobia that tightened my chest. With a worried gaze I turned to Roz. She had never been at her best in confined spaces. The steep climb was barely illuminated, with only a handful of overhead pendants offering a bleeding drip of light that shone just bright enough to reveal sneaking glimpses of the concern haunting my wife’s face.

  Finally we reached the summit of the stairs, and young George assured us there was now just the length of the corridor remaining between ourselves and freedom. Moving swiftly, we soon reached a door leading to the rear of the property. It led out to a large patio, with steps dropping away onto manicured lawns…and overhead, a blood-red sky.

  Beyond the grounds where we stood was the now familiar range of mountains which circled this place, a daunting amphitheatre climbing skywards, and of such magnitude that many of its summits were lost in cloud.

  Relief at having found an exit overtook me, and I attempted a breath of cool night air. Only then to realize there was an unpleasant parched dryness filling my lungs. I forced a second deep intake, flushing away the stench of death and decay which seemed to permeate my soul. Even though the air was cooler out here than it had been inside, nevertheless, it remained drier than any desert I ever had misfortune to visit. Standing under this maroon sky, forced to breathe this rank atmosphere, it enhanced the unpleasantness of everything I was feeling. It seemed as though the foul building we just vacated, it was continuing to haunt the very fiber of my being. I turned around and a sense of relief struck me. Roz was smiling; tears trickled her face, but I could see a glow of relieved optimism in her eyes.

  “Is this it?” she asked. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “I think we made it, Tub.”

  Our group became a babble of self congratulatory relief, though mixed in with a healthy dose of concern lest the archons launched further assaults on our diminished band. We were so wrapped up in our own affections; it took a shout from a tuxedo wearing George Smoke to stifle the noise of our conversation. His jacketed arm outstretched, and still clutching one of the pitted blades, it was with some urgency he directed us to keep moving.

  Perhaps three-hundred meters distant across open lawns, an array of torches flickered against the raw sky. Flames from the pyre licked upwards, illuminating the heavens and revealing the monstrous black sun, its mass blighting the overhead, the orb loosing dark tendrils in searing thrashing bursts that whipped the heaven’s carmine canvas.

  Lit beacons drew us like moths to a flame. Even though we moved toward the unknown, I doubted I was the only one sensing the promise of sanctuary. As we closed the distance, we could see that the light was coming from hundreds of flaming torches, each placed atop a silver pole, staked and positioned around the perimeter of a large circle. At the center of the circle more torches had been set to burning, staked down in an ordered manner. It occurred to me that these beacons had been laid to form an image on the ground, though its form and purpose remained undecipherable from our current standing.

  Like a chorus in unison, the Georges remained unfaltering in their urgings that we once again linked to complete a circle, and then moved with haste across the manicured lawns. The torches shone like beacons of hope against the wine sky, and yet, as we closed to within eighty meters of our destination, the air temperature began rising. Currents of boiling air started seeping up through the lawn beneath our feet, warming my soles to a worrying level. Members of our party squealed indignant cries as the rising heat scalded at their feet.

  “What the hell is going on?” cried Roz, her knees dancing toward her chest, the heat boiling her soles.

  “George?” I looked to our young escort. There was concern in his eyes unmatched by anything the archons or hoggish had induced. “What is it? What is this?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Trouble. This is bad trouble.”

  Even as he spoke the ground temperature settled as rapidly as it had risen. Within only moments, Roz, along with the others of our group who wore light footwear, were able to stop skipping.

  The relief on their faces proved short lived, as a mighty wind fell upon us which buckled our knees. A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, and as one we balked at the sounds of torturous death which I suspected would make my ears bleed.

  We watched in fear and confusion, as ahead of us a breach cracked open in the sky. Twenty-feet or more in the air, the rupture painted our surroundings with a preternatural glow. One that superseded the anomalous red tinge natural to this place,
and projected a luminescence so strong we were forced to shield our eyes.

  “What now? What the fuck is this?”

  The query came from behind me, a male voice within the group, though the source of which I never identified.

  It was Joseph who responded. “Whatever this is, that’s happening, it’s blocking the direction we need to travel.”

  I could feel it; reality was being ripped open.

  What started as a flake of impossibility grew rapidly worse. The wind continued slapping our faces and beating our chests, and through squinting eyes I watched the fissure widen, as it emitted thunderous bangs which sent us ducking for cover. The thunderclap left a tear bridging heaven and earth. And even as our escorts positioned themselves for action, blades drawn as they moved to form a phalanx, I could see a daunting figure step through the rend, and I realized our problems were far from being over…

  Chapter 39

  “What is it?” asked Joseph, hands shielding his eyes against the unearthly glow before us.

  “We’ll have to try and go around,” Young George responded, raising his voice above the gusting wind.

  “Yes. But as Joseph asked, what is it?”

  Young George wore a grimace as he turned to me. “It is the Storm Lord, Baal Hadad, First Born to the Son of Chaos, and High Hand to the Ancient of Days.”

  “Oh shit. This sounds bad.” I had always had a propensity for stupid comments.

  “It’s not good,” responded a chorus of Georges.

  “Bugger!”

  “Bugger indeed,” Young George agreed. “We are short on time, and need to get moving, quickly. We must reach the sigil.”

  I recognized the term sigil. After all, George had earlier painted one on my chest. I understood then, realizing I had been right about the pattern of lights. The torches set down as markers, their arrangement suggesting some type of protective enclave positioned within the center of a huge sigil. I began assisting the Georges, ushering our group to continue on, moving forward but also around whatever it was that waited ahead.