Then Hell Followed (Journeyman Book 5)

by Golden Czermak

  “I know,” Marcus replied, mindful of the rough road, “but you don't know how stubborn he can be.”

  “Oh, I'm starting to learn.”

  “I think he’ll head up there soon enough,” Marcus maintained, spotting a sign pointing down a narrow but short alley ahead. It indicated both the church and a museum were that way. “Gage likes to relax, a lot, but he also has a bit of a short attention span.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too,” Ty confirmed.

  Marcus shook his head and a loose smile formed. “With him still being sick, I'm sure the feeling of uselessness is only getting amplified; he's going to find something else to do before long.”

  “Yeah, like take those damn meds,” Ty said, directing them over the street to the bookstore, now open. “At least there isn’t too much here that he can get into trouble with.”

  The place didn’t look large at all as they approached, just like the rest of the establishments in town. However, it was jam packed; a literary treasure trove about Rennes-le-Château.

  Ty stepped underneath the striped canopy, perusing the racks and stands set up outside while Marcus ventured inside to have a look around. As he entered, he expected it to feel claustrophobic, but the store felt bigger than its boxy exterior suggested. If he didn’t know better, Marcus would have thought the shop owners had used an expansion ward. Given the mysterious nature of the town, that could be the case.

  Scanning the assortment of literature, Marcus learned the church, situated directly behind, the store was dedicated to Saint Mary Magdalene. Rebuilt a few times over the years since first constructed in the eighth century, it had been in numerous states of disrepair and ruin until the nineteenth century when it was renovated to its present state by none other than Saunière himself.

  “He sure had his fingers in a lot of things,” Marcus said as he exited the store.

  “Who?” Ty asked.

  “Our resident priest.”

  Ty’s eyes sparkled in agreement.

  “Now you see why there is so much mystery about the place. Where he got the funds, for example. Spending twelve-hundred Francs per year over a ten-year period is quite a chunk of change for a priest at such a small church in a small, remote commune.” He placed the pamphlet he was looking at – a touristy thing – back in its space on a nearby rack, opting to purchase a small postcard as a souvenir instead. He got his change back, dropping it in a donation jar on the table.

  The brothers then continued on their way north to the church. It was a very short journey to the entrance, Ty opting not to venture to the museum. Although it would have been fascinating, he was eager to get the mission underway.

  Two decorative doors were ahead, stately yet welcoming, set beneath an engraved stone archway and tan brick walls. Written over the door, below a tympanum featuring the patron saint, was an inscription in Latin.

  Ty wasn’t overly interested in the language beyond the odd spell trigger, and thankfully then it was more about the intent than proper inflection. Glancing at his brother to interpret, Marcus took over. Some of the letters had been ravaged by time, but overall the words were still legible.

  “Marvelous is this place,” he translated. “It is the dwelling of God, and the Gate of Heaven; it shall be called the Temple of God.”

  “Well that's profound,” Ty responded.

  “Seems to be a traditional entrance antiphon, blessing the place,” Marcus added.

  “You'd know more about that than me.”

  Marcus grinned.

  “So, are you ready to go in?”

  Ty nodded with enthusiasm. “Am I ever,” he said, pulling open a door; Marcus did the same. The two of them wasted no more time and walked inside.

  They were greeted by the multicolored light of stained glass windows, some forming blue orbs on the walls, and a faint scent of incense hanging in the warm air. To their immediate left was a large holy water stoup, comprised of five perplexing figures from both sides of the holy spectrum.

  Topped by four angels, there was a Latin inscription beneath them Marcus read as ‘by that sign you shall overcome him.’

  “You know what's interesting about this?” Ty asked. “That red guy down there, holding up the bowl. I mean he's fairly in your face so I'm not sure there's anything to it, but doesn't it seem like an odd choice of décor?” Ty was pointing to the figure of a horned devil, robed in blue that was holding up the stoup. He stared at it for a little while longer while Marcus carried on, captivated by the grandeur of the interior.

  He noticed that the space was devoid of people, a stroke of luck that would allow them to proceed with their investigation unhindered.

  There in the rear of the church was a rickety confessional, its wood stained a deep brown; so dark it appeared nearly black. Above it hung a fresco of the Sermon on the Mount, while four of the fourteen Stations of the Cross – an account of Jesus’ condemnation through crucifixion and burial – were placed, two per side, around the confessional.

  Marcus continued into the nave, passing between the rows of simple wooden pews and by thin stained glass to either side. Statues of various saints were set ahead of the windows, between more stations of the cross. He looked up to the high arched ceiling and saw that parts of the detailed paint and tile work were crumbling away.

  Ty startled him when he came up, his attention ahead.

  “The Altar of Saint Mary...” Ty said, causing Marcus to look that way after his heartbeat calmed down. The altar was gorgeous; large, white, and trimmed in gold. At the bottom, along with a bas-relief of the Saint herself, was another Latin inscription.

  Ty was about to ask for a translation but Marcus was distracted, looking to the statues on either side of the apse.

  “Why are there two of baby Jesus in one church?” he asked, noticing both the Virgin Mary and Joseph were holding him.

  “I've no idea,” Ty said, moving across to survey the last few stations of the cross. “Maybe he had a twin brother…”

  He was joking, but his voice trailed off as something caught his eye in the twelfth station.

  Marcus continued looking at the statues all around the interior.

  “Have you noticed all of the statues in here are looking to the ground?”

  “Marcus!” Ty exclaimed. “Come take a look at this.”

  His brother spun around and bolted over.

  “What is it?”

  Ty pointed to the sculpture of Jesus dying on the cross.

  “Do you see anything cute, out of place?” he asked.

  Marcus looked the figures and painted background over, unable to see anything out of the ordinary.

  “Right there, in the head of the nail in his feet,” Ty clarified.

  Marcus honed in and looked closely, a hand shooting up to his mouth when he saw it.

  “It's a ward!”

  “Can you make out which one it is?” Ty asked, moving to the next station to see if it was just a fluke. It wasn't; a ward faintly visible on the burial cloth.

  “It's small and faint,” Marcus replied, vigorously scratching the back of his head, “but it looks like a locking ward to me; and where there's a lock…”

  “There's a key,” Ty said, reaching the last station where Jesus was being placed in the tomb. “My God…”

  What he saw there was astounding. Within a halo painted around Mary’s head were the faint lines of a Solomon sigil; he couldn't make out which one. Also, milling in the background of gathered disciples were two distinct figures, at least to those who saw them through knowing eyes. One was wearing robes of black, a majority of his pale face obscured by a hood, while the other was dressed similarly in drab brown though his blue eyes shone brightly.

  “I found more wards painted on the tools and buildings in the other sculptures,” Marcus told Ty as he came up behind him. “What do you have here?”

  “Solomon sure gets around,” Ty answered. “Not only are his symbols in her halo, but look back there. He's standing right there next to
his good buddy Death.”

  Marcus was floored.

  “I had no idea Solomon got around this much.”

  “Yeah, I know they don't teach about that in the Academy.”

  “Do you think anyone else in the Order knows?” Marcus pondered.

  “I'm sure there were some that did,” Ty replied. “But this makes me wonder if the Solomon Six are really what they're supposed to be and what they're really supposed to do.”

  “Honestly at this point, me too,” Marcus said, heading back to the center aisle. Putting his hands on his hips, he let out a sigh. “Well, that was a lot more than I expected to find.”

  Ty joined him, patting Marcus on the shoulder as he walked back toward the confessional. He popped the curtained door open cautiously and looked inside, half expecting to find a demon or some other terror inside.

  There was nothing, which was exactly what he had for suggestions on what to do next.

  “Well, I am not sure where this key for all these locks is supposed to be. Any ideas?”

  Marcus was pretty much out of ideas too, thinking they might have to return to the Odyssey and bust out a few more research texts. The thought of that made him want to yawn if not cry for the delay in helping Joey. They were so close, he felt and he would do anything for Joey in order for him to look Marcus in his blue eyes one more time.

  Marcus perked up.

  “Blue eyes…” he whispered. “Blue. Eyes!”

  “What is it?” Ty asked, watching as Marcus got back in front of the Devil figure.

  “Its eye color matches Solomon’s,” Marcus pointed out. “Demons we know have red ones, even Hell Knights.”

  Ty came up beside him and looked at the four angels.

  “This is probably a long stretch, too, but looking at the colors of their robes I could reach and say it was a reference to the four classical elements; white for air, blue for water, green for earth, and…”

  “Red for fire,” Marcus beamed. “You mentioned something about the cup being able to perform alchemy, or did I mishear?”

  “It can,” Ty confirmed, “but I think it’s limited to transmuting whatever liquid is placed inside of it. There were no specific references so I can't be a hundred percent sure.”

  “Close enough,” Marcus replied. “Now there are also two basilisks here, below the angels above the basin. I hope that doesn't mean we have to deal with those.”

  “No, I don't think so.” Ty's words came as a relief. “You see, basilisks can also feature in alchemy and since we already have fire represented here by this lower angel’s robes, I bet they're symbolizing the immortalizing solution made by the philosopher's stone. Considering they're above the basin is a good indicator that is a nod to the Grail.”

  Everything felt like it was coming together, but they were still missing the key.

  Marcus sank down onto his knees, his ass resting on the heels of his shoes. Glancing to the stoup one last time before suggesting they head back to the ship he saw it, etched on the devil’s tongue. Solomon seal number nine, used in treating all sorts of diseases and pain.

  “I wonder,” Marcus said, the tone of his voice causing Ty to step back.

  Marcus leaned in, exceptionally close to the sculpture’s hideous head and breathed across the symbol just like one would a rune stone.

  “Aperio,” he whispered, the whole thing sparking in response to his command.

  “Well that's something you don't see everyday,” said Ty, witnessing one of the statues moving by itself as if alive. He then saw that it wasn’t the only one. In fact, all of them had changed position to point toward the center of the nave.

  Suddenly, the room filled with the sounds of a choir singing, white light beaming out from the stations of the cross to coalesce where everyone was pointing. There was a bright flash and a rush of hot air mixed with a boom that rattled the building.

  Once Marcus was able to see again, the sounds of the chorus still in his ears, there was a narrow hole in the floor and descending deep into the ground, a set of stairs.

  “No telling how long that doorway’s been sealed up,” Marcus said, stepping up to the edge as dust wafted out of it.

  “Or what's down there, waiting,” Ty said in turn, feeling a sense of promise but also one of unease. Perhaps there was even some dread mixed in, but that might have been due to his own inner turmoil about what using the Grail would entail. Nevertheless, the brothers exchanged glances, reading each other as they always had without words.

  “You ready to head down there?” Marcus asked.

  Ty started stepping down the gray steps into the dark.

  “I'm already on my way…”

  DAJJAL RETIRED TO the solitude of his room – mentally drained and somehow aching. Having wrapped up the meeting with the generals with its bloody conclusion, he then spent the last two hours with Morax in the basement levels going over his ideas on what to do for a show of strength.

  He was told of things that were quite promising; lofty yet delightfully terrifying, a lot of pieces would need to be set in place before any summoning could occur. However, Dajjal had no doubt that his subordinates could see this grand plan to fruition, especially with his distinct brand of oversight and encouragement looming over them.

  As he gazed out the diamond panes of his window to the gardens below, he could feel his body reminding him of his ailments, despite the Crown’s supposed influence. Compelled to draw another bath to relax, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was there with him.

  “Wilson, I know it’s you,” he said, addressing his host directly while continuing to stare out the window. “You're trying to take control of me again, aren't you? You may have gotten close before, but you won’t get that far again.”

  That obvious, eh? came the mental reply; terse and irate, and I think that I actually DID take control. That poor, young demon. No doubt he had a bright future ahead of him – so concerned with the well-being of his Lordly Lord. I can still recall everyone shouting ‘berserk host’ at the top of their scared little lungs just as if it were yesterday. Can you?

  With that, memories surged to the front of Dajjal’s mind, his view out the window replaced by the sight of his victim’s eyes, widened with disbelief. Then came the feel of his hand as it dug into the young demon’s face, the sounds of his skull cracking beneath his vice like grip, and the smells of gore as pieces of him went everywhere.

  Consider this payback for making me suffer… you goddamn piece of shit!

  The memories were fleeting, already yielding to the present and Dajjal’s garden view.

  “Well, you’ve managed to get cocky while locked away,” the demon replied, smelling a lingering whiff of vinegar.

  Damn right; so much so that I managed to creep back out again, Wilson whispered and there was an echoing laugh. This is fun, playing around with your little symphony.

  “It’s time for you to go back in the lock box,” Dajjal suggested, turning around quickly to face the other way. He grimaced, trying to hide the pain in his back as he leaned against the sill, but Wilson didn't need to see anything to know what was happening.

  What's the matter, Dajjal? Poor demon baby, I'm thinking that the Crown doesn't like you very much. You're still hurting - don't lie, you can't hide it from me. Isn't that thing supposed to make you immortal? Well, in your case keep you happy and healthy…

  Dajjal stubbornly stayed quiet, but Wilson could hear his thoughts.

  Was he right?

  Why would the Crown resist him?

  Was this Lucifer’s doing?

  Dajjal had to have answers. “Wilson…” Dajjal called but there was no reply. “Wilson! I demand you speak to me!”

  Little did he know Wilson couldn't answer. Instead came a deep voice, immeasurable like a great sea ready to swallow him whole.

  Your vessel has been quieted. I am surprised a grand demon such as yourself could not do this simplest of tasks.

  “Wilson? How… how can this be?
” Dajjal probed, stunned.

  Despite the greatness you profess, there are others more knowledgeable in the way of souls. I sense a lot of turmoil in you, demon, so much that you cannot even keep your host in line.

  “Who are you?”

  Many lessers have far more control over their vessels.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” Dajjal screeched. “You dare say that I’m inferior to a lesser demon? What nerve! Enough with these false observations, tell me who you are. NOW!”

  Immediately all went dark, and there was no light with which to see the walls, nor floor, nor the garden view that had transfixed his gaze since entering the bedroom. An immense coldness came, so biting that Dajjal could actually feel it gnawing at his bones. Then as quickly as it appeared, the darkness rolled back like a wave to the corner of the room. A figure took shape there, hooded in shrouds of black that billowed in a non-existent breeze.

  Dajjal wasted no time and prepared for an attack; hellfire flaming, primed to immolate the thing.

  A pale hand emerged from the wispy folds of the figure’s garments. There was a rumble and with a hurried swipe, the hellfire froze in place, then shattered. Wind rushed in from all directions, carrying away the shimmering shards of ice; the demon encased in a vortex that extinguished his kingly crown.

  When its flames had died the air calmed, sending Dajjal down to one knee. He was dizzy as the specter approached him, dread ahead of it while sorrow trailed behind.

  Gasping, Dajjal glanced up a few moments later and saw it, stoic and silent, right beside him. From below, Dajjal could see the faintest hint of light reflected in its distant eyes and at once, he knew.

  “I see now...”

  The being’s skinless hand withdrew into the layers of flowing black.

  “Death, I presume.”

  “Indeed,” Death answered. “I go by many names in many places, but that is the most succinct of them.”

  Rising, Dajjal brushed his trousers free of wrinkles and took a step back.

  “Well now that we know who’s come to visit, I suppose an even greater question is why?”