by Logan Keys
Some tried to fight her, but it was no use, her rage increased her already formidable strength, making her nearly invincible. She knocked back their feeble attempts to strike out at her, descending upon each guest who dared an offensive attack with brutal efficiency. This is for you, my beloved.
The night she learned of his murder, she had vowed to herself that those responsible would die screaming. And they did die screaming, with horror in their eyes.
Their blood soon soaked her gown; the blood mingling with its scarlet color. When the last scream faded into silence, Sofia stood in the center of the ball room, calmly surveying the bodies that littered the floor.
“You have done well,” she said, as her allies approached her, flushed with sated bloodlust.
Her human servants entered the ballroom, their eyes lowered, quaking with fear at the sight of the massacre. They worked together to move the bodies, but she held up her hands.
“No,” she said, “leave them.” She wanted the surviving members of the Order to know what happened to those who had killed her beloved. It would serve as a warning of what was to come. “Prepare my things. We leave at dawn.”
Her delight and glee over the night’s vengeance were already fading, descending into the hollow emptiness of grief. She would have to replenish her heart with more vengeance.
“Where to next?” asked Lazlo, his eyes wide and eager. He had a knack for killing; she suspected he would do it no matter the cause.
“London,” she replied. There were Order members in London; she would personally dispatch them.
Sofia moved through the ball room one last time, inhaling the scent of the traitors’ blood and their lingering fear, before returning to her room.
She only reluctantly allowed her servants to bathe her; she enjoyed the slick feel of blood on her body. But she couldn’t go into London covered in blood; she needed to lure more traitors to her.
At dawn, as the sun began its leisurely ascent above the horizon, Sofia’s carriage clattered away from the estate she had turned into a tomb. Eagerness coursed through her body at the thought of what lie ahead for her in London.
Soon, there would be more vengeance. More blood.
THE AGE OF BEASTS AND MEN
Nadia Blake
—1—
Translated from original Latin to English by Barnaby Charles Gower, aged twelve years and eight months, Castello de Ambrogio, Switzerland, 1965
At the top of a hill in the distance sits a boarded up church. Storm clouds have gathered in the night and a whipping wind funnels up the hillside. The heavens open and a deluge of rain pelts down dragging any warmth away.
Twelve apostles, led by the elderly Father Ernesto, drag the beast in silver chains. The monster is larger than any man, as large as the giants of old. In the beast’s true form, the eyes glow red, it has claws for hands and feet, fangs for teeth, and gray flesh.
The chains trap the beast’s massive wings. The metal burns wherever it touches the skin leaving trails of open wounds across its body. The stench of burned flesh pervades the air.
Father Ernesto chants the rites of exorcism as thunder and lightning crack over head. The priest’s voice is almost lost in the noise of the weather. We need his words for they belong to the Lord and are our greatest weapon against the devil in our midst.
As the cold of the night increases, some of the people moan their fear. This is unnatural. We are witnesses to heaven and hell at war.
The priest coughs and carries on with his lament, but as we near the crest of the hill, the beast shakes its head and moans. The devil knows what fate awaits it. As if to delay the inevitable, the monster digs its claws into the earth made soft from the rain.
The soil plows up in furrows until man and beast slide in slickened mud. “Liberty,” it growls and then roars, “liberty.”
Its fangs drop and protrude out of its open mouth. Some of the apostles draw back in fear for these are the beast’s instruments of evil. It tore through the village sinking them into people and leaving no one unharmed. Men, women and children, old and young, abled or infirmed – none were spared.
All fell to the sickness the beast brought. It turned families against one another until those few left fought back with wood and fire. It was our last stand against the evil that came in the night on giant wings and hunted.
We learned from bitter experience that the enemy of night and evil is day and our Lord. While it slept in its coffin surrounded by other foul creatures in the daytime, the villagers trapped the beast in his lair. The other creatures fell to wood and fire, but the beast did not.
Even the power of the sun did not kill the monster. The beast did scream and yell as it was dragged from shadow into the sunlight. Its flesh flaked off in pieces, ash floating away on the wind, but still it did not die.
Mayhap nothing can kill it, but it was then that Father Ernesto had a vision from the Lord. This church could serve as an eternal coffin. The Beast would be bound by our Lord’s words and starved of the blood it needed to survive. All that is left of the villagers swore to the Lord that his will shall be done.
The beast thrashes and rages in a language all of its own. Swinging its monstrous body from side to side, it lashes out with talons and teeth. His claws cut through an apostle separating his head from his body.
Blood fountains in gushes. The headless torso remains upright for a few seconds, jerking and twitching before it falls to the ground. The apostle’s blood and bone mingles with rain and earth.
Stringy flesh hangs from the beast’s claws. He brings it to his mouth and sucks. The demon’s eyes pulse red and fear beats in human hearts.
Father Ernesto and the remaining apostles try to bring the beast under control with chains and stakes. It does not yield to metal or wood. Human sustenance has given the monster supernatural strength.
The apostles strain under the weight of their tasks. Some lie on the ground trying to contain the beast with chains stretching tight to breaking point. When all feels lost, a young boy from the village stakes the beast through the chest.
Falling to its knees, the beast howls blowing blood and poison out of its mouth. Villagers take up the task with Father Ernesto and the apostles. All crawl and drag the beast through mud until the doors of the sanctuary are reached.
The beast is chained inside to the walls. It’s a punishment for all the evils he afflicted on the world. Wood covers the church and no cracks remain that can be seen through from the outside.
As lightning strikes, the beast’s silhouette appears. He moans one word over and over —
—2—
“Blast it.”
The tip of my pencil breaks on the last line of translation and leaves gray streaks across the page. I blink the blur out of my eyes, but the dull lights of the castle’s library leaves spots in my vision. I was supposed to be in bed hours ago and worse, I’m not even supposed to be here.
My Sire, August Valentine Glower, explicitly forbade me from entering this room. He was quite clear on that. Alas, it just made me want to do it more.
My hand runs across the cover of the book. It’s old and worn, the cover cracked from old age leaving little holes where the black leather once was. The title is smashing: Aetas Hominis et Bestiae. Loosely translated, it means: The Age of Beasts and Men.
If only all school work was this interesting. Imagine if teachers filled Latin translations with monsters, devils, beasts, plucky priests, villagers, and a bit of mystery. I dare say more kids would be interested in studying a dead language.
My hand cramps and there are large red indents on the inside of my fingers. Shaking my hand out doesn’t ease the numb, but the pain is worth it. This was a cracking good yarn and I had to know how the story ended.
Frustration knots in my stomach. And a fat lot of good that did. Now, I’ll never know what happened.
We leave first thing tomorrow morning. Our trip abroad of boring castles and churches is finally at an end. I’ve spent the last two
weeks hating every minute of it.
It’s just my luck to find something of interest on the last day and have to leave it. I swallow hard. I could take the book.
Surely, no one would miss one old book? There are hundreds in here. Maybe thousands.
Opening the book up, the paper on the inside is yellow. Oily residue clings to my fingertips. I take a whiff and draw back.
It smells like sour milk. No amount of washing is going to get that stink off. I wipe the grease on my trousers and flick over the pages.
Faded images of beasts and monsters jump out at me. In comparison, the heroes who defeated them are small. Father says it’s never about the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.
Maybe he has a point. Those brave men won against all the odds. If I were there, I’d want a sword and a horse. Maybe even a shield with a noble family crest on it. I’d ride with my fellow knights, sword in hand and arm outstretched to rid the world of evil.
Reality comes to visit and my shoulders slump. I’ve heard of one-armed or one-legged knights, even ones with great scars they wore proudly, but not ones with scoliosis. In those days, I would’ve been put to death or sent away out of sight to die quietly.
If I were lucky, I might have been allowed to get some quiet position in a monastery. That is, if I lived past childhood. But priests and monks could be heroes too, right?
They were in this story. They chained up a bloodsucking demon in a church for eternity. “Huzzah.” I jab my pencil at the air. “Take that.”
The lights flicker above me, wink on and off, and then go out. It’s the downside of living in an ancient castle in winter when the snow is falling outside. It’s amazing how light changes something from ordinary in the daytime to sinister at night.
Five minutes ago, this place was a musty sort of cozy with its dusty settees and moth eaten rugs. In the pitch black, everything has a supernatural feel. Candelabras, artwork, books, crevices, rickety ladders and staircases – anything could lurk there.
It’s a good thing I’ve come prepared. Scuttling towards the end of the table, my hand knocks into the lantern. I’m inelegant at the best of times and sitting for hours translating ghost stories hasn’t helped.
Dread fills me. The walls feel as if they have eyes. Muttering a prayer, I strike the match and drop it onto the wick.
The smell of kerosene hits my nose and I hold my breath as the flame stutters. Just when I think the flame is going to go out, it catches and holds. It’s a tiny light against a darkness that now pinches.
My body jerks as I swing the lantern around, but everything is as it was. “You’re being stupid, Barnaby. You’re a lot of things, but you’re not a coward.”
The noise bounces back at me in the empty room. It feels like an invisible presence repeating my own words. The echo is overtaken by lumbering groans. Bar-ump, pff-pff-pff, ooooom.
It’s reminiscent of someone with an upset stomach or a person without talent attempting to play a wind instrument. It sounds like the death knell of the castle. “It’s the pipes,” I mutter, but I can’t stop the dread.
If I close my eyes and strain really hard, I can imagine the sounds shape into a word. Liberty. A beast with stringy flesh hanging from its claws spits blood and poison is in my mind’s eye. The lantern shakes in my hand.
I’m a bloody idiot to think of that, especially when I’m on the other side of the castle away from safety. Grabbing my papers and the lantern, I stuff the book inside my jacket and limp to the door. I’ll be running the gauntlet from the east side of the castle to the west.
Taking a deep breath, I nod. My father has already been saddled with a cripple for a son. Neither of us had a choice in that, but I refuse to be craven.
The lantern swings from side to side with my rolling gait. I’m as steady as a ship on a stormy sea. The endless hallways are stale and dusty, dry and fetid.
It’s as if nothing living has ventured here in eons. Whatever is swirling catches in the back of my throat. My back hurts, courtesy of the brace that keeps me upright and straightens my spine.
The darn thing’s metal and silver, a torturous contraption that Father had specially made for me. It goes from neck to pelvis and is screwed on tight with bolts. I’ve never seen anything like it, but that’s my father for you.
He’s a director of antiquities for some boring museum that is filled with Tally-ho types (like my father) and jolly hockey-sticks wives (thankfully, not like my mother). The job sees him sent to all four corners of the world to retrieve rare objects.
Usually, Mother and I remain in England, but this time, he brought us with him. Something about wanting to immerse me in the family business. Strange, considering he yells at me not to touch any of his precious objects.
A set of stairs appears before me. They funnel into a bottleneck that spirals onto a landing. Dark doors are left and right, and they suck my limited light away.
If my internal compass is right, I can cross through here and reach my destination quicker. A low hum starts in the walls sending a chill up my spine. The sound evolves into hissing.
My skin crawls. I have the urge to slap and scratch myself. I imagine a plague of locusts devouring all before it. Gnawing and chomping stalk and stem, me included.
Every part of my body aches, but I press on. Surely, there has to be an end to this journey. Mother says to focus on positive things, but she’s not in the mines of Mordor.
I think of England – the land of The Beatles and Rolling Stones. How I long for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on Sundays. And live in a land where everybody speaks English.
Stomach growling and mouth watering, I beat back fear with food. Trifle with lashings of whipped cream, custard and jelly. Devon fudge…
An archway appears out of the gloom. The passage narrows and I can’t see two steps in front of me. I wipe a hand across my forehead.
The gloom blankets my senses until I think I’m going to suffocate. I hold the lantern above my head, even though my back is killing me. My blurry vision latches onto faces.
My screams echo down the narrow passage. Thrusting the lantern in front of me, I confront my enemy. Portraits line the stone walls on either side of me.
Grim faced people in strange costumes, dark haired and dark eyed with something cruel about their mouths. Their eyes bore into me. I’m pretty sure it’s the fear talking, but I sense a hunger and a history of unspeakable acts.
Shaking my head, I mutter. “They’re just paintings, Barnaby. Get a grip, man. They died years ago and can’t hurt you.”
I trudge on or in my case, limp past the terror in paint. If I don’t look, they’re not there. My heartbeat decreases as I gather my wits.
The creak of a door freezes me in my tracks. There are only three of us inhabiting this castle: Mother, Father, and I. Three living that is.
Flattening against the wall, I dare not breathe. I listen for footfalls, but there are none. Maybe it’s because I can’t hear anything over the hammering of my own heart.
A red light glows in the darkness, a small sign of something ominous. I stick the lantern out in front of me and push the words past the fist in my throat. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”
“Barnaby Charles Gower,” Mother shrieks and her voice sends shudders down my spine. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”
She snatches the lantern off me. The red of her cigarette glows in the dark and smoke billows toward me. Narrowed kohl-ringed eyes, red lipstick, and a blonde beehive, Mother is clearly unhappy.
“Well.” She chomps on the end of her cigarette. “Explain yourself.”
I don’t know what’s worse: the trek of doom, the portraits, or this.
“Melinda Elizabeth Gower,” I splutter. “I nearly soiled myself. You shouldn’t sneak up on people in the dark, especially in this horrible place. I called out to you and you didn’t answer.”
Mother elicits an unladylike sno
rt. “Stop being vulgar. What have you been doing? Whatever would your father say?”
Lots of things and none of them complimentary. I scratch my ear. “It was just a figure of speech. If you must know, I was in the library practicing my Latin translation.”
Mother eyes me, but keeps her own counsel. Originally from the North of England, she has a no nonsense quality that I appreciate. She can also smell lies from a hundred miles away.
Taking my hand, she leads me away and back through the door. “Good boy. Did you find anything of interest?”
The stolen book, my guilty cargo burns underneath my jacket. “I did, actually.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but heat licks along my face. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to take a look at my notes tomorrow.”
Mother stands taller. She’s fluent in something obscene like six languages and has a passing knowledge of many more, including the arcane. It’s not a talent I’ve inherited.
“I’d love to.” She beams. “But we won’t tell your father about your excursion, will we? The works in that library are priceless, Barnaby. You know how serious he is about his work.”
Boy, do I ever. I squirm. If Father finds out about my petty larceny, my bottom will be as purple as a rock star’s trousers.
Squeezing Mother’s hand, I take the gift on offer that this will just be between us. “Thanks, Mummy. You’re the best.”
Hissing starts in the walls on either side of us. It turns into chittering and then a staccato crunching sound. I imagine a hundred insects with gnashing teeth.
Mother moves closer to me. “I’ll be glad to leave this place,” she mutters. “I don’t know about you, but sometimes it gives me the creeps. These noises are dreadful.”
She speaks for me. The journey goes faster with the two of us. I feel safer with Mother’s solid presence.