by T. M. Lakomy
“I suggest I lead the questioning,” said Mikhail, straightening himself stiffly. “You could provide the means to ensure he doesn’t escape us here. I trust your ways to be effective. And then maybe we can bind him here in the dungeons, beyond the reach of the cardinal.” His tone was cordial but he avoided her gaze.
“We think it is one of those that brought the pestilence,” said Estella. “There are three, from what my network gathers, but once you have one, you can easily catch the others. They tend to betray each other readily.” Estella rubbed her hands together nervously. “I will be gone tonight. We will deliver this demon to you, then I will be out for some urgent errands, then back with the dawn. If I do not return by then, you may start having cause to fear for me. But I do not think you should worry yourself about the cardinal at this moment, I give you my assurances on that.”
Estella overcame her ill-disguised fretfulness by defiantly meeting Mikhail’s eyes. For the first time since he had met her, it seemed to him that she was a total stranger, alien to him and distant. Her thoughts and mind were sealed behind hazes that Antariel had set out of jealousy.
Before Mikhail could respond, Antariel reemerged in a flurry of billowing robes and soft grey wings. He bowed mockingly to Mikhail, who stiffened with an unconcealed grimace. Antariel did not forsake his mocking smile as he deposited heavy bundles of cloth wrapping before Estella. She peered over the contents with satisfaction, casting back the covers to reveal candles and incense and strange pouches with pungent odors. Mikhail rose to his feet without meeting her gaze and Antariel vanished again.
“You should be careful to protect yourself, Estella. Do not be reckless, these ancient evils are not to be taken lightly.” Mikhail’s grey eyes burned dimly. “Aiden, Cuthbert, please wait for me outside, I require a private word with Lady Estella.” The Templars nodded deferentially and departed, positioning themselves outside the hall in plain view.
“I can see how they hold me with fear and distrust,” Estella remarked, “as if I were some demon clad in comely flesh. Are these the people you would have me serve? A maid for them? A thrall to their manliness?” Estella cocked her head, observing Mikhail’s impassive face.
“You know nothing of the suffering of my men,” he replied, “who have pledged their lives to save the likes of you. They have rescued the souls of the people of these lands at their own peril. They are holy men and given to holier vows, and they do not take consorting with the shadows as if it were play lightly.”
“But of course for me it is play, as it is also for you. But your game is one of swords and bannered victories, while ours is a dance between the two blows. We flee from one to hide from the other, and we thwart both and elude them all. You are a prisoner of this world, but we are not, and we watch you in your holy crusades speaking for a god that does not know your name.” Estella turned her back to him, seizing her bundle of candles. Mikhail pushed aside his cloak, unsheathing his sword, and Estella turned to face him warily as he spoke.
“This sword has been handed down generation to generation,” he said softly, watching the light of the hearth set the runes in the sword ablaze. He wielded it swiftly, rending the air, and crisply ripping through the smoke of the hearth. “This sword was the first of its kind, and saved from ruin many times with the blood of noble men.”
He rested the edge of the sword on his palm reverentially and faced Estella. “This sword was forged of many irons beneath the spells of the fathers of our orders. It has many souls and many names, for it has drunk the spirit of its previous masters and mixed with the dried bones of the old mages that forged it in the far regions of the ice realms. This sword was once a mage, and this mage initiated many like you in the secrets of the afterlife and the Twilit worlds.”
“Such a contemptuous admission!” Estella hissed. “Thieves you all are, and desecrators of our holy shrines. You stole our magic and wove it into your theologies and rituals, murdering our heritage so that we might blindly merge with you.” Estella’s incredulous face was a hollow mask, and she eyed the sword wildly with hatred.
“Yes, we took from you, that much is true. Even Merlin’s own sword, which we broke into fragments and blended with the spear that pierced the side of our Lord Christ. We also stole the scepter of Isis, and of it we fashioned the thrice blessed sword of the Northern Star, our holy emblem, the weapon that only Hermes himself had made before us. And here it is in my hands. It can cut through the webs and meshes that hold you to your world. I can sever you from it completely. But I don’t want to, I only want to see you rule over your gifts and ride the storm. The ways of the pagan lead too close to the clutches of darkness. For the greater good we must take over stewardship of your gifts.”
Estella’s eyes measured the sword covetously. She extended her hand and touched the hilt of the sword as Mikhail offered it up to her with a wan smile. Though she was unfamiliar with weaponry, she gripped it readily, and inspected it. In the moment that she wielded it, she pointed the tip at Mikhail malignantly.
“I can hear the voice of Merlin within this sword calling my name!” she hissed. “The oldest of our fathers, he shared his soul with his sword. And the voices of the shamans and vǫlvas of the north clamor for blood and revenge.” She traced her fingers hungrily across the edges of the blade with fascination and cut her finger. Without flinching, she sucked on the blood, then with a shriek of dismay spat it out and flung the sword at his feet.
“And you have defiled it generously with the Christian incantations that drank the blood of our people. I can taste the spear that initiated your god mingled with our holy sages. The sacrilege! You supplanted our deities and reduced their powers to vassalage! The mother goddess Isis must be wailing in despair every day, watching what abomination you have wrought.”
Mikhail stooped to pick up his sword reverently. “I don’t think you understand what we reconciled, Estella,” he said. “We reconciled the powers of the ages that could defeat the serpent and smite him on the head.” He cleaned the sword with his cloak without deigning to lift his eyes to her.
“Keep your excuses to yourself,” she retorted. “Nothing defends defiling our groves and shrines and stealing our secrets to wield against us for our subjugation.”
“You could rule by my side, Estella. Do not throw away your chance for happiness. Do you really not remember the love we shared, though briefly, before a shadow clouded your mind? The spark that brought us close and lit within us the embers of long dead fires and warmed our souls to each other and to life?” Mikhail was on one knee, and he touched the hem of her cloak gently, lifting his clear grey eyes to her, twinkling in sadness but with a faint hope.
“Do not turn me away, Estella,” he pleaded. “Leave that demon behind; take me as your man! Must I do more to prove to you that I am sincere? Am I not at your feet beseeching you to open the gates of your heart?” Estella stumbled backwards, yanking her cloak from Mikhail’s grasp, and a wave of revulsion passed over her face.
“I don’t understand your emotional ploys, Mikhail. Do I strike you as a desperate woman seeking protection? I never loved you, and you have never loved me. I do not understand what games you are playing, but this must cease at once.”
“He changed you, Estella,” Mikhail replied. “But aren’t you strong enough to break his bonds? Are you not fiercer than his petty tricks? He seeks to take you from my side where you were meant to be. All of this that you hate about us, you could change—but only by my side.”
“I see that you are also an expert crafter of lies,” Estella said. “All of this, so that you could lead me like a docile sheep. Love, Mikhail? Is that the best weapon you can wield?”
Before Mikhail could protest, a noise came from the entry hall and Estella broke away from him. Mikhail quickly got to his feet and sheathed his sword. A few moments later, the maids came bustling in. They were ushering Selene and several others who, like her, had a dreamy sparkle in their eyes and pallid visages. They narrowed their eyes on Mikhail
like a pack of vultures hunting their prey.
“I see what the angel is saying,” said a tall young woman with copper brown hair, her grey eyes slits of ice. Selene vehemently nodded, humming her disapproval as she approached Estella and gripped her arm gently.
“Sister dear, we have our own work to do. Before we hand the demon to this Templar, we must first extract our own answers and secure this abode. Let’s dismiss this knight and spare him from seeing our pagan ways.”
Mikhail bowed, turning on his heel without further ado.
“Let’s get started, for I must soon depart on my errand,” Estella said, her tone oddly subdued.
“Fear not,” Selene responded. “The angel and I have hatched the perfect plan.”
20
MADE IN GOD’S OWN IMAGE
Hold a sieve to the eye of the sun, you cannot elude its glare
It sinks into your skin and bids all things grow within its stride
And as a tyrant most malevolent its deadly beams do stare
And the true seers from sanity it does perniciously divide
“MASTER HEAR OUR SUPPLICATIONS AND DELIVER US FROM THE tyranny of the jealous god. Master, lead us to be gods in our promised earth and be the light of deliverance that we need. Morning star hear our call and preside over us in kingship, for you are the true savior of mankind!”
The oleaginous words resounded in the darkness of the empty church. The dampness and cold seized them hungrily, lending them more fervor, for the prayer was potent, and the voice commanding. Cardinal Pious was bent over a roughly hewn black basalt altar. It was unadorned except for some intricate patterns painted with a viscous substance that glistened in the flickering light of the candles. Sticky and dripping, the altar stood in stark contrast to the holy icons upon the walls, their sad visages and golden halos glinting grimly beside elaborate crosses. The smell of blood and rotted flesh permeated the already putrid air and filled the church with a dismal odor.
The cardinal rose to his feet gingerly. Lifting his malevolent countenance, he smiled at the altar where a plain glass bowl was placed in the middle of semidried blood. The guttering candlelight cast a shivering ray upon it, and the light was suddenly refracted from the numerous eyeballs filling the basin to the brim. Some were still attached to muscle and sinew, whereas others were damaged, as if plucked out hurriedly. But they all seemed eerily alive, and their gaze was fixed on the cardinal with an intense horror, as though frozen in time.
While he waited, the cardinal mentally exercised himself, trying to see if he could match the eyeballs to their victims. He could almost swear he recognized a few—the certain nuances in the shade of the iris and the petrified look it carried. Well, he mused to himself, the eyes after all were the windows to the soul. Somehow the entirety of one’s personality was mirrored in them, and no doubt that was one of the reasons they were such a potent offering to his master.
Loud thumping footsteps resounded, and a door to his right swung open. It yawned wide, a draughty darkness spilling in bearing muffled screams as two burly, hooded and cloaked men entered, roughly dragging a young man barely in his twenties. The man pulled and strained with effort, his bulging eyes wild with fear as his jailers forcefully pulled him along, kicking him in the ribs and the face. The man sobbed uncontrollably, groveling as the cardinal watched with rapture, smacking his lips in delight.
“Enough, enough now,” the cardinal commanded. “I need him to be compliant, at least for the beginning.”
The captors desisted immediately, dumping the man’s bruised body unceremoniously before the cardinal. The cardinal stooped down and wrenched the gag off the man’s mouth, holding his face as he inspected his features. He nodded approvingly, his jowls quivering.
“That’s a handsome face, too fine to spoil, in fact.” He smiled benignly at the man as if he were some benevolent father admiring his prodigious son. The man’s supplicant eyes sought the cardinal’s beseechingly. Throwing himself at the cardinal desperately, he wept loudly.
“Please holy father, I have done nothing wrong! I beg you, I would do anything for you. I would serve you for my entire life. Please don’t let them torture me further, I beg you, I am innocent!”
“Indeed you look too pretty to spoil, and I must admit I regret it has come to this, my boy.” The cardinal grabbed the man by the hair and lifted his face level to his own. “It’s true you could serve me before you go, serve me for a little while longer, if you promise to please me properly, satisfy me, take all of me . . . right in.” The cardinal’s tone was suave as he caressed the man’s head tenderly.
The man’s eyes widened with shock and disgust and he fell backwards, shrinking away from the cardinal. With an angry snarl, the cardinal kicked the man in the head, placing his boot upon his neck, and applying pressure slowly and painfully. His eyes were bulging with rage and lust, and he frothed at the mouth while the man whimpered and wept.
“Now I am going to offer you one last chance, boy, for a swift passage into the next wretched life,” the cardinal grinned, hitching up his robes to reveal his erect member. “Please me boy, or there will be a very painful transition for you when we relieve you of your life and leave your soul to slowly shiver its way to the devil, who will devour you and swallow your miserable spark.”
The cardinal grasped his member with one hand and stood astride the man. “Bring this fool to his feet, let him serve me, or else it’s the houses of lamentations again for him.”
The young man issued a low, protesting moan and covered his face as he shook while his captors marched brusquely up to him.
“Undress him now!” the cardinal barked as he pleasured himself, his lascivious eyes glinting with cruel lust.
The jailors roughly stooped down and began stripping the man, paying no heed to his protests and cries. They beat him on the head and smote his face, revealing nothing in their faces but a faint glow from dreadful, sunken eyes. The man’s naked body was covered in welts, bruises, and newly inflicted burns. The deep gashes seemed to have been reopened with repeated beatings. The cardinal hummed to himself and clicked his fingers while the jailors dragged the man to his knees. One grasped the man’s head and yanked it forwards towards the cardinal’s naked member.
“Come on, little girly, show us how good you can suck,” the cardinal smiled, revealing crooked, yellow teeth.
The man heaved and shuddered, tears streaming down his beaten face. His left eye was already closed and swollen, and as he fumbled for words, blood leaked out of his mouth.
“No, boy, it’s just you and me here,” said the cardinal. “No one shall come to your succor. So how about you place those lips of yours somewhere that’s waiting for you?”
The presence was not felt right away, for it was light and fleet. What awoke it was freshly sacrificed blood dedicated to strange stars, ripping the fine fibers of the firmament that held the dimensions of space and time together. The shredded tear in the universe bled forth energy, and out of it emerged something dreadful and fierce, hungry after its long sojourn in lonely isles. It had been summoned to find its prey, and it would do so.
Who summoned him, he couldn’t remember, only the vague echo of her voice lingered, light and delicate as the morning rain and as momentary as the passing of a fallen leaf. But the command was never gone, and her intentions not forgotten. It rode his mind subtly yet potently. Into the church he slinked, smelling his prey where it stood unknowing of its fate.
The cardinal suddenly felt a wave of dread wash over him. He sensed the predatory danger that lurked and licked his lips feverishly, searching around him with bulging eyes. He called angrily to the jailors to investigate, but they backed away, retreating swiftly to the open door and disappearing. The cardinal cursed loudly and kicked the whimpering man, who was staring fixedly into the distance.
“Shut your face, boy, we aren’t done yet. Let’s see what trickster is entertaining us tonight.” The cardinal narrowed his eyes, but could see nothing at first. Then a
loud growl resounded in the hall, cold and ravenous. It was full of hunger and hatred that could only be sated with blood. Taking a tentative step back, the cardinal blanched and shot a quick look at the altar.
“Master, master, is that you? Is this some . . . ally of yours? Master, please have mercy on your servant, I am weak of heart. Lucifer, my god, I am your humble servant. I was merely having some harmless fun!”
The faint candlelight seemed to burn brighter as the shadow loomed, its many eyes finally revealed. A wolfish hound approached, its three heads drooling in unison, and its malignant eyes fixed on the cardinal. Recovering from his initial shock, he spluttered and fell to his knees.
“Master, no, what is this? Who is this? Master?”
But the wolfish creature merely salivated, measuring him with its intent, deadly stare. The growl became louder and louder while the cardinal furtively backed away toward the door. He shrieked as he fumbled with the knob frantically, finding it locked from the outside. Yanking and pounding at it, he cursed his men who had decided to turn on him. The hound watched the cardinal with an almost human intelligence. Each howl revealed razor-sharp teeth and a baleful fire in its red eyes.
“It is not your master’s doing this time, you god-cursed wretch, but mine. This is my farewell gift to you before your worthless soul is ripped out of this life.” The voice that accompanied the hound was cold and satisfied, and Estella emerged from the shadows, swathed in a black, silken gown. Her mocking smile matched the scorn emanating from her twinkling eyes. “Tonight you are the one that shall please. Tonight you shall be the feast for something darker than your wildest nightmares—a host of hellish fiends that even Lucifer cannot save you from.”
Estella grimaced, her face a mask of wrath and revulsion. “I went to special ends to find an adequate fiend for you. Cerberus, feast on his flesh and take his screaming soul to be the toy of the wraiths in Tartarus.”
