by A Werner
Right now, in his mind, inside the Bellerophon Crystal, Sinibaldus was pursing the exiled knight of Capua, Pero de Alava.
Sinibaldus had linked himself to the humungous bear chasing Pero. The Magician spurred the lumbering creature forward, urging it to terrorize and kill. He had been in the skin of the wolves, and the eyes of a hundred other watchful creatures. He was everywhere.
The bears, aptly named Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, as well as the other animals of the forest, were his slaves, touched in the mind by the unearthly influence of the Bellerophon Crystal. They were ever compliant to their master’s wishes. They had given good chase. But what was most compelling and thrilling to Sinibaldus about this particular pursuit, was the manner in which the Spaniard refused to accept his fate. He didn’t draw out his sword and fight. Pero somehow managed to break and run, escape. This was new. None had ever done this before. And for reasons the Magi still could not explain, the wolves lost the rider’s scent for a spell. There was a bit of mystery surrounding this hunt but still, in the end, it was just another hunt. The trail had been reestablished and the final kill seemed inevitable. That was until Ursa Major abruptly slid to a halt outside a single family homestead surrounded by magically-infused torches. Ursa Major refused to enter the hallowed sanctuary and maul the Spaniard.
Sinibaldus tried everything humanly possible to prod the bear forward but it would not go. He tried to extend his gaze through the crystal and hypnotize the shaken victim who was lying on the ground inside the lighted clearing but the distance between the bear and Pero de Alava was simply too great to overcome. Sinibaldus’ powers, formidable as they were, could not bridge the gap and finish the deed.
Narrowing his eyes into thin slits, Sinibaldus erupted and unleashed a barrage of heated words in French and Latin which caused the humungous bear he was linked with to yelp in pain and growl in distress. The conjuror refused to give up. He was determined to get inside the sanctuary and kill Pero.
Ursa Major was, however, at a crossroads and in spiritual distress. It was frightened and hurting and wished to comply with its master’s request but could not. The Magician was commanding it to defy the restriction he himself had placed on it. Sinibaldus had enchanted the bear, as he had enchanted most of the beasts in this part of the forest, to avoid the sanctuary of torches on pangs of death. All his spit and venom could not undo what had been done. The bear could not forsake its deeper programming. It could not enter the sanctuary.
Sinibaldus breathed deeply through his nose, pursed his lips, and kissed his resolve goodbye. He closed his powder blue eyes completely and allowed his mind to go blank; successfully separating the bond he had with Ursa Major. The colorful light show that had been flowing out of the Bellerophon Crystal swiftly backwashed without a sound and the tent went completely dark. For a long minute, Sinibaldus sat there in the emptiness of the small tent before whispering, “Merde.”
Pero de Alava’s successful escape and his discovery of the secret hamlet was an unforeseen miscalculation. Sinibaldus had failed to carry out the task he so assertively assured the Grand Duke he would accomplish. It was a sincere promise that he still had the best intentions of making true. He knew he could delay the truth, lie to Gherardus Fabbro and prolong matters until reality readjusted itself and Pero really died.
The real frustration lay within himself, his ego. Sinibaldus felt slighted, defeated. He was not accustomed to losing, not where the crystal was involved. When he used the Bellerophon Crystal, he was a god. Thus, he was unwilling to blame himself for the failure. Age and health had nothing to do with this fiasco, he told himself. He was not losing his foresight. This was simply a matter of willpower. Somehow, someway, the exiled knight exerted more fortitude than expected. This battle was not over.
Since the day he first discovered how powerful the Bellerophon Crystal was, Sinibaldus had been wasting scores of people, men, women, children and beasts. He had forgotten what failure looked like, felt like; even smelled like. He came to believe he was immortal, above and beyond sin. He was a winner and no soul he wished to possess, taint and destroy ever escaped his grasp; not until today. There had to be a reckoning. The event was already haunting him and he hadn’t left the small tent yet. If there was one thing Sinibaldus knew for a surety, it was fate. He knew he would eventually catch up with this Pero-person he had never actually met; and when he did, he was going to make sure the Spaniard suffered long and cruelly. He was going to make Pero de Alava squirm.
It had been years since Sinibaldus enjoyed making a person squirm. Torture had become a formality. It was his court appointed duty to torture people. He terrorized them on a daily basis, gathering information, destroying people’s faith, executing rivals and foes. He had become so accustomed to discovering the darkness lurking in human souls, nothing was challenging and nothing brought him joy. People were sinners, cruel and dishonest, and this truth bored the old magician to no end. Sinibaldus secretly wished to find a true competitor, a worthy challenger, a soul with purity to give him purpose again. Now he believed he had one. There was hope for joy again.
Life had been hard for the magician. His flesh and bones were worn and tired and required a daily dousing of liniments and other restorative aids. He hardly ever ate solid food anymore. Herbal teas and root-and-berry brews were all his stomach could process. Sinibaldus was old and bitter and few things made him smile. Killing Pero was going to be a treat.
The albino giant rose up slowly from the stool he had been resting on, his legs weak from the enchantment he had just performed. Before he could reach the flap that served as a door to the tent, he felt a brazen little lizard dash over the top of his boot. He hated and despised these cold blooded devils for they were the one thing in God’s creation he could not read and manipulate. He considered reptiles to be soulless, mindless creatures with no visions or memories worth reliving. He tried to kick and crush the agile invader but missed. Just like Pero, the lizard got away and Sinibaldus could feel himself getting angrier.
The little tent was raised inside a much larger tent. It was brighter in the larger tent, four great poles rising skyward, hefting up the roof nearly twenty-feet above the ground.
Sinibaldus’ home, known to the world as Sin Circus, was a seventy-acre maze of pitch black tents raised on volcanic ash several miles southeast of Parthenope. There were tents erected inside of tents erected inside of tents, like this one. It was colossal and confusing to those who did not know the hidden pathways - and very few knew the hidden pathways. Sinibaldus kept everything about him and his tent-home a secret. He was a conjuror, herbalist and a warlock with a long history of murder and theft. Spies and assassins everywhere sought him out. They knew in theory where to find him but they couldn’t lay a hand or eye on him. Gherardus Fabbro shielded him. Sinibaldus felt a tad bit indebted to the Grand Duke for this kindness. He had never felt such a debt to anyone else in his life, no one that is but his mother, Claire.
Sinibaldus did not foresee the creation of Sin Circus before its time. It just evolved. At one time, Sinibaldus was a cutthroat, thieving and murdering his way through the forests and mountains of Western Europe. In Cumae, the ancient Sybil gifted him the Bellerophon Crystal, warning him that the talisman would be the death of him. He didn’t care one iota for her counsel. As he began to unlock its mysteries, his abilities increased. The deformed and disfigured, the criminal and insane, even the loathsome creatures born of enchantments, wizardry, cross-breeding and chance, were drawn to him. Sinibaldus gave them sanctuary. The Magi was their protector, their lord, their king. A vagrant community had suddenly spawned to life.
The point soon came where a critical decision had to be made. To most outsiders, this wandering rabble took on the appearance of a barbarian horde. The community attracted unwelcomed attention even when they did nothing evil or wrong. Priests and prophets foretold doom for anyone offering them aid. They were ostracized. Sinibaldus saw his kingdom dying before it really started. The only way this band of misfits was
going to survive was through entertainment. They had to mock themselves thus ensuring the self-righteous, civilized folk that they were not a threat to them and their children.
Thus, Sin Circus was born. Sinibaldus used the supernatural magic of the Bellerophon Crystal to charm any who wished to remain forever in the service of the circus-community and be a member of his troop. This enchantment ensured peace and order within the ranks. Everyone did what they were told to do. There were no disputes or clashes. There were no opinions beside his own. Everyone did exactly what they were programmed to do by their self-styled king.
As time passed, Sinibaldus grew tired of haggling with petty administrators who expected enormous favors for the right to set up tents in their towns and cities. The Church had placed a large bounty on his head. He had to take greater precautions to protect himself and his people. Fatigued, his age was becoming a factor. His giant body had been worn down by years of scarcity and hunger. The magic ate at him spiritually. The Bellerophon Crystal was draining him. Every time he used it, it sapped his vitality, stealing from his life-force precious energy that could not be replaced. Sinibaldus suddenly wished to do something he never imagined he would want to do, plant roots.
That is when Gherardus Fabbro entered his life. The Grand Duke of Campania had recently taken power of Parthenope after the untimely death of his parents, Tancred and Meliore. He had need of a special advisor who could extract information from people unwilling to part with it.
Sinibaldus had no interest in ruling a kingdom of civilized men. He merely wanted to secure an oasis for his community of beasts and live-out his final years in luxury and excess. Gherardus Fabbro provided him this opportunity, allowing him to set up his tent-city permanently on the sooty, black plains east of Parthenope, nearing the great Mount of Vesuvius. The spectacle that is Sin Circus became a permanent addition to the landscape as well as a thorn in the side of the Church.
The giant lived in luxury now.
Today he sported a soft, casual robe made from white mink, the hood dangling down behind him. Over the place where his heart should be was an emblem, a bright blue eye, thin black mascara on one side, gradually growing wider and thicker on the other side.
Barefoot, Sinibaldus floated gracefully through his tent-city, pushing aside several flap doors until he entered the heart of his empire, the majestic cathedral known as Clairedon. Clairedon was a massive, impenetrable structure, sixty-yards-long, thirty-yards-wide, mountainous ridge poles ribbing upwards some six-stories high, roofed and walled by thousands upon thousands of yards of weathered black canvas. Dozens of cauldrons of fire, lit and heated the great room. It was like walking in sunshine. It was always daytime, always warm in Clairedon. There were no dark corners.
Eagles roosted on beams near the top of the structure. Beneath them, the domed sky was filled with dozens of species of multicolored birds. Down on the dirt-packed floor, herbivores and carnivores strolled together without care, without fear of being harmed. Misshaped individuals strolled at ease as well among the animals, performing various duties, all bowing politely to the magician as he passed them coldly by. Even the beasts kneeled in his shade. They had all been programmed to do so.
The king of Clairedon took a seat on a huge black throne. Over the back support, two vicious, marbled ravens stood, their angry beaks open in screaming fashion, their arched wings extended as if ready to pounce.
Sinibaldus scanned Clairedon. Lions laid with lambs. He could feel his heart pounding hard in his chest, his breathing increasing and shortening as he fixated more and more on his failure to kill Pero de Alava. ‘Failure. Failure.’ Although no one else knew he had failed, he was embarrassed and insulted nonetheless. He feared the longer the knight lived, the more his anger would become an obsession, blinding him to other important matters. Sinibaldus refused to be blind. Something had to give. Something had to be done. Something had to die.
Forming a deviant scowl, Sinibaldus winked at a leopard resting comfortably near his throne. Without hesitation, the animal dashed a few short yards to its right and pounced upon a timid fawn grazing on a short nip of grass. The fawn cried and died, torn to shreds in a matter of seconds. The other animals and workers in Clairedon paid no attention to the violence. None stopped to look. They all continued to do whatever they were doing without the slightest hint of curiosity or dread.
Sinibaldus watched with great enthusiasm and relief, nearly drooling over himself, as the leopard disemboweled the hapless fawn, tearing its flesh off its bones and casting aside its limbs. The leopard ate none of the meat. It wasn’t the least bit hungry. The leopard was simply obeying its master’s command. It needed no other reason to kill.
“I’m going to eat you, Pero de Alava. You will die, slowly and painfully. I will learn all your secrets. You will choke on the guilt. And then, just before you expire, you will hand me your heart. I will devour your soul. Everything you love and hold dear will become a part of me.”
The leopard, sensing the king’s newfound contentment, rose to its feet, loped back to the throne and proceeded to clean itself. Another innocent fawn, oblivious to the fate of the last fawn, approached the short nip of grass and started nibbling. Sinibaldus stared at it and felt his fixation returning, building, swirling violently through his bloodstream. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he winked again.
Chapter 40 – A Late Night Meal
Deep gashes, dark bruises, Pero de Alava was wounded. His red face with day old stubble had several nicks and scratches. Everywhere his flesh was exposed, there was a wound. The branches and thorns that had punished the wolves during the chase from Eagles Pass, had whipped, thrashed and injured him as well.
Druda placed a warm bowl of water on the table next to Pero’s elbow in addition to several clean cloths. “You should see to those wounds quickly, before an infection develops. You’ll catch fever and be laid up for a spell, if it takes hold.”
Tenderly Pero began to cleanse only the most superficial wounds along his face and hands, grimacing with each light patting.
Druda wore her frustration. The stranger’s daintiness was staggering. She placed her hands on her hips, sighed loudly and shook her head. Finally, having seen more than she need to see, Druda picked up a smaller wooden bowl with a tan, odorless paste from her prep counter and returned. She straddled the bench beside him. “This is powerful medicine,” she declared, snatching the towel from Pero’s hand. “You may want to look away. I won’t be gentle with you. I’ll treat you like I treat my rock-head boys.”
Pero de Alava did not shun her kindness, rough as it was. The cream she applied was not clotting or bitter. It was quickly absorbed into the skin leaving only a thin, translucent film.
“What manner of concoction is this?” Pero asked.
Druda continued dabbing the cream on a particularly frightful looking gash across his right forearm, the same place he had been gouged by a bull in his youth. “This is an old family recipe, a special blending of ingredients including onion, garlic and my mother’s favorite, yarrow. That women was never sparing with the yarrow.” She blew lightly on the wound to hasten the drying process before wrapping it beneath a thick cloth bandage. “That poultice will alleviate some of the pain but not all of it. Time is still the best medicine. Leave it on through the night and I’ll re-wrap it in the morn. Patience and prayer, son. If we don’t have time for those, we deserves what we get.” She turned Pero’s right hand over and held it with her left.
“Father in heaven,” Druda began to pray. “Heal the wounds of this passing stranger, both physically and spiritually, so he might continue his journey and do thy holy bidding.”
Druda lifted up from the bench, brushed down her frock, gathered up the bowls, wiped down the table and carried everything back to the counter on the other side of the room.
Rather large for a rural dwelling, the family homestead was nothing more than a large open space with an empty hearth built into the north wall for cold days. There was a ladder bolt
ed to the wall beside the hearth leading up to a second-story crawl space.
With the curative cares completed, Turstin, who had remained on his feet the whole time, sat at the table opposite Pero, an ivory smoking pipe dangling from his lips.
Druda marched out of the building carrying a cast-iron pot.
The two men studied each other without uttering a word. This was a seminal moment, a trial, a testing period.
Pero confessed to himself that he was both impressed and confused by what he was seeing. Turstin was no common laborer, nothing like any forest dweller he had ever met. Turstin was noble and not intimidated by Pero’s knightly bearing. He wore a red robe over a white lacey shirt. All four members of the family were wearing old, faded clothing that still carried evidence of formerly bright colors. The building was constructed of quality lumber. There was a tiled roof and grey stone flagging. There was a large bookshelf with volumes of literature against one wall and a bulky black armoire with gold filigree beside it. They had polished tools, shiny utensils and cast-iron cookware. Three silver candelabras strategically located around the room provided ample light. There was an abundance of affluence here and it all seemed out of place.
Turstin, who had been rubbing his chin, extracted the pipe from his lips and pointed the butt end at the embossed image on Pero’s cuirass. “If it be no state secret, might I know more about the crest you bear? This one is unfamiliar. You are not from around here, are you?”
Druda returned, the cast-iron pot she carried now steaming.
Pero de Alava could not help himself. Muscle memory forced him to touch the scarlet emblem. “This is the light of my house, the Velez family, caballeros of Penafiel, Cielo Diamantes and Espana.”
