by Mark Carver
With his feet planted in a deep puddle, he stared out at the city that held the key to finding his brother. There were no modern buildings to be seen— only quaint, classic constructions crammed together in semi-regular rows. Above the humble rooftops arose the grand and ominous Temple of Set.
Patric shuddered as he gazed at the fearsome spire atop the temple tower. A seam of scorching electricity split the clouds behind the grim, almost menacing tower, and a deep, shuddering bell rang out in unison with the pounding thunder. Patric’s heart trembled with the powerful sounds, and he set his teeth firmly in determination.
Where are you, you bastard?
CHAPTER 7
“Tourec!”
Tourec rubbed his eyes and turned around with an impatient glare. “What is it?”
A young man named Adrien approached the table where Tourec was sitting. “Have you seen the news?”
Tourec’s fingers migrated from his eyes to his temples. “Yes, Adrien, everyone has seen the news.”
“Well....”
“Well what?”
Adrien shifted his footing. “Do you think it was one of us?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Tourec scoffed. “Something that sadistic and theatrical could never have been carried out by one of the brethren. Our attacks are supposed to be quick, clean, and above all, not blasphemous, and I can’t think of anything more blasphemous than crucifying a priest on a pentagram.”
Adrien shifted again. “You think burning the heretic priest in Vercelli wasn’t theatrical?”
Tourec stared at the table with cold eyes. “That was....”
His voice trailed off as the priest’s tortured screams echoed in his mind.
“That was a statement,” he declared firmly. “In fact, all of the men we execute deserve such a fate. Those who receive quick, clean deaths are receiving mercy.”
There was silence for a moment, then Adrien cleared his throat. “Of course, brother. Thank you for putting my mind at ease.”
He left without saying anything more.
After Adrien’s footfalls had dissipated down the hall, Tourec glanced around the room, studying the bleak, clammy walls and stacks of books and furniture. He didn’t know why, but he felt uncomfortable, perhaps even anxious. Of course, this was the first time the brethren were convening since this war had ignited, though not all members of their order were able to be present. God had indeed blessed their endeavors, and thus far, none of the brethren had been killed or captured. He was actually a bit surprised how easy it had been to carry out their attacks, given the state of paranoia that gripped the continent. There were security checkpoints everywhere, surly-faced policemen patrolled the streets in droves, and all major Satanic temples and facilities were fortified with guards. Yet despite these obstacles, the brethren continued to pour out God’s wrath and vengeance upon the heathens with little resistance.
Tourec scowled. So why didn’t his heart rejoice? The blasphemous shepherds leading their flocks astray were being culled like dead branches, and the Christian faithful who did not flee were becoming emboldened, according to reports of increased demonstrations and protests. There were even unconfirmed accounts of congregations barricading themselves in their sanctuaries and refusing to leave when the authorities came with eviction notices. This was what he and his brethren had hoped to achieve, and now it was becoming a reality.
Tourec clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He recognized the heaviness weighing down his heart: the unbearable weight of sin. He felt it shrouding his soul from the light of God. In fact, this burden had been with him since he had returned from Jerusalem, though he had stubbornly denied it until now.
Why? he cried out to heaven. I have helped cleanse the earth of the scourge of Satan’s shadow and faithfully defended Your name and Your church for many years. I have not given into the temptations of lust, pride, or complacency, and I have been merciful when I felt Your leading.
Tourec threaded his fingers together and pressed his clasped hands to his forehead. So why do I feel no peace in my heart? I know it is not the violence and the killing, because I felt Your divine comfort during the battles in Jerusalem. But now, in this hour of crisis for our church, I have had to take more drastic actions, but my motivations have remained pure. I only seek to exalt Your name and be Your hand of wrath upon the earth to punish those who would blaspheme against You, and I have upheld my commitment without compromise.
I ask that You set my soul at ease, O Lord. I know Your grace is sufficient to provide for any need and overcome any challenge, for myself and for my brothers and sisters who are going through such tribulation. Please, show me Your will, for I know that by following Your path, I will find peace.
Tourec opened his eyes and stared at the table surface. He heard and felt nothing. The gaping void deep within his heart stretched wider and blacker than before. An ember of frustration began glowing inside him, and he gritted his teeth.
God remained silent.
The door behind him creaked open, and Adrien peeked into the room. “Everyone is here.”
Without a word, Tourec rose to his feet and followed Adrien out into the hallway.
They descended a rusting staircase that led down to the warehouse floor. Holding a secret meeting in a sprawling abandoned industrial building seemed a bit cliché to Tourec’s sensibilities, but he was grateful that the “secret” part had been preserved thus far.
They made their way across the oil-stained concrete floor to a dark corner of the building, where several dark-clad figures stood around a rickety wooden table. Adrien slipped in amongst the group, while Tourec slowly marched around the table, taking his place at the head.
A single cone-shaped light cast a scorching white glow upon the faces of the brethren, all of whom fixed their eyes on Tourec. There were about twenty of them, and he looked at each one in turn, then closed his eyes.
“Our Heavenly Father, please anoint us with Your grace. Guide our hands and feet, and may we never waver in our commitment to Your kingdom. Amen.”
“Amen,” the brethren echoed.
Tourec raised his eyes to the smoldering bulb above them. “Brothers, I don’t know what to say. We have followed the Lord’s leading and brought the fight to the enemy, and persecution began to rain down upon our church, as we knew it would. Many, if not most, have fled, which we also knew would happen. And now, the governments of Italy and France, and undoubtedly more soon, have passed laws that threaten our church properties, though we know that the church of Christ resides in our hearts, not in stone and mortar.”
“Amen,” many of the brethren said.
Tourec exhaled. “But I fear that our mission is failing. From what I have heard, many churches are becoming invigorated by our boldness, but it seems that for every believer who rises up, ten recede into the shadows. Christian leaders have disappeared behind closed doors, and the only ones left carrying the banner are the members of the congregations, but they have no leadership.”
A low, heavy voice spoke from the shadows.
“That is about to change.”
Tourec whirled around, and the rest of the brethren craned their necks to get a better look at the robed figure quietly approaching.
“Bishop Valenti?” Tourec exclaimed.
The bishop stepped into the light. “Yes, Tourec. I am sorry to show up unannounced like this, but in these difficult times, utmost secrecy is a necessity.”
Tourec squinted in surprise, then stepped aside and motioned for the bishop to take his place at the head of the table. Bishop Valenti studied the nervous and confused faces of the brethren who were all whispering anxiously among themselves.
He rapped insistently on the table, and the murmuring ceased. Tourec stood by his side, clearly uncomfortable with this unanticipated interruption.
“My brothers in Christ,” the bishop began, “I want to thank you for your steadfast commitment to our Lord and our church. The blood of the heathen priests is a sweet smell to our Fathe
r in heaven, and I know you shall be richly rewarded in the everlasting kingdom.”
A few among the brethren smiled to themselves.
Bishop Valenti opened his mouth but kept silent for a moment, mulling his words carefully. “But, as brother Tourec just said, our mission is faltering. We have angered the enemy, but our church has shown that it lacks the boldness of the men around this table. We know that time is short and the end is upon us, but our church remains fearful, and we must purge this sin from our congregation. This is why I have come here today. It is time to bring this order out of the shadows, and into the light.”
The brethren gasped, and Tourec’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”
Bishop Valenti glared at them with piercing eyes. “The world has labeled you as terrorists, and thus far, you have behaved like them. You kill in secret, with a few exceptions; your identities are a mystery; you make public statements through grainy Internet videos. But that is all going to change. I have already met with the Council and discussed this with them.”
“Discussed what, Your Grace?”
“A blasphemer sits on the throne in Vatican City! For ten years, we have stood by and tolerated this abomination. Well, no more. You, all of you, are going to take back the Vatican in the name of God.”
The men couldn’t believe their ears. Tourec’s heart was pounding, and his veins surged with excitement and terror. “Can it really be done?”
Bishop Valenti turned to him with flashing eyes. “It will be done, my son.”
A terrifying concussion shook the floor, and the doors to the warehouse exploded as great gouts of smoke gushed into the building. Machine gun fire rattled like jackhammers and the air filled with whizzing bullets, some of them tearing through the brethren before they had a chance to react. Tourec didn’t fall, and he leaped like a rabbit as soon as the doors blew in, grabbing Bishop Valenti by the collar and sprinting across the warehouse floor towards an exit.
The other men scattered like mice, and once they had sequestered themselves in nooks and shadows, they drew their weapons and began firing upon the unseen enemy. The warehouse, though broad and expansive, quickly filled with smoke and the air was choked with the sounds of gunfire and the ricochets of bullets.
Tourec clutched his pistol tightly as he and the bishop crouched at the foot of a flight of stairs, warily eying the door they had just come through.
“What’s happening?” Bishop Valenti gasped, his eyes wide with horror.
“I don’t know,” Tourec growled, rising to his feet and lifting the bishop as well. “Someone obviously found out about our little rendezvous.”
He glanced again into the large room where his brothers bravely squared off against the attackers, and he offered up a prayer for their safety.
“We have to get you out of here, Your Grace,” Tourec said, seizing Bishop Valenti’s arm and pulling him into a dark corridor.
“What about the others?”
Tourec swallowed his guilt. “God will protect them. You are my priority now, bishop. You are much too important to risk. Now stay close to me.”
They crept down the dank, moldy corridor, and the sounds of battle began to grow faint. The way was illuminated by naked light bulbs, and Tourec was dismayed to discover that he could only see about thirty feet ahead or behind them. He took comfort, though, as he realized that his enemies would have the same problem.
The corridor split, leading to the right and to the left, but the left branch was punctuated with a glowing red “Exit” sign. Tourec and the bishop fled down the hallway, then stopped suddenly.
“What is it?” Bishop Valenti hissed.
For a moment, Tourec did not move a muscle. Then, as silently as a shadow, he crept back to the fork, sliding against the moist wall and clutching his gun to his chest. Bishop Valenti was frozen in terror, except for his lips which trembled with silent prayers.
Tourec inhaled deeply and soundlessly through his nose, though his heart seemed to boom and echo through the halls like a sledgehammer. Every ounce of his concentration was dedicated to listening: water dropping, the bishop panting, the creak of his leather boots. He sucked in an action breath and his spine stiffened.
He heard the footsteps approach, then stop just before the hall forked. There was a rustling sound just around the corner, then silence. Tourec blinked away a drop of sweat that streamed into his eye. His fingers clenched the pistol grip, and his teeth tightened. An infinite moment passed, the silence roaring like a howling wind.
The devil-red exit sign flickered, and Tourec whipped the pistol out with lightning quickness, ejecting the magazine around the corner. It bounced once on the ground, and there was a crack of gunfire and the magazine jumped across the floor. Tourec flung himself around the corner with his gun held out, one bullet in the chamber. The assailant had just a fraction of a second to stare into Tourec’s pistol barrel hovering in the air. There was a bright flash, then a burst of red against the wall. Tourec crashed against the opposite wall and fell to the ground in a heap, while the other man’s lifeless body crumpled like a marionette.
His shoulder screamed with pain, but Tourec wasted no time in gathering the magazine, which thankfully wasn’t damaged, and rounded the corner again to find a quivering Bishop Valenti crouching against the wall in frantic prayer.
He gasped when he saw Tourec. “Is he — ?”
Tourec nodded once and yanked the bishop to his feet. “Someone will have heard that. We need to leave, now.”
Bishop Valenti quickly crossed himself and followed Tourec down the corridor, his feet flailing wildly. Distant voices filtered down the corridor and chased them like ghosts.
“Hurry, Your Grace!”
Tourec pulled the terrified bishop like a reluctant dog. A glowing red light burned like a sinister eye about twenty meters ahead, and Tourec gave Bishop Valenti another commanding yank.
“There’s the exit!”
“Praise God!” Bishop Valenti panted as he struggled mightily to keep up with Tourec. The voices behind them became louder, echoing crazily like bullets.
Tourec crashed into the metal doors, but they were locked. He flung his shoulder against them again, and he snarled in pain, but the doors remained adamantly shut.
“Get behind me, bishop!” Tourec commanded as he aimed his pistol at the door handle. Bishop Valenti gasped and crouched on the floor, covering his head with his hands.
Tourec squinted and aimed his pistol.
Please, God.
He fired three rapid shots into the locking mechanism, then barreled into the door again. It broke open with a loud crash, and Tourec grabbed the bishop.
“Let’s go!” he shouted as they fled through the open doors into the darkness outside. Tourec hadn’t even considered whether there might be men and guns waiting on the other side of the door, but thankfully, only the crisp night air confronted them.
Gunfire erupted at their backs, and Bishop Valenti cried out.
“Tourec!”
Tourec turned, then felt the ground vanish beneath him. Both men fell headlong down a dew-slick grassy hillside, tumbling and bouncing over brush and stones. Every impact sent jarring knives of pain screaming through Tourec’s muscles, and he heard one or two sickening cracks. They crashed into a dense thicket at the foot of the hill and lay amongst the brambles, moaning in agony.
After a long moment, Tourec found the strength to roll onto his side. White-hot pain seared through his body. He winced through gritted teeth and clawed his way through the brush to the bishop. Shouting voices sounded above them at the top of the hill, and he crouched low as jittery flashlight beams scratched through the leaves and briars, then disappeared.
Bishop Valenti was lying a few meters away from Tourec, and he wasn’t moving.
“Your Grace!” Tourec breathed.
Bishop Valenti feebly raised his hand, and Tourec scrambled by his side and took his hand.
“Your Grace,” he repeated, grimacing as he cough
ed painfully. “Can you move?”
Bishop Valenti’s eyes gazed through the leaves at the starless sky above them, and his lips spoke silent words. Tourec hoisted the bishop into his arms, then gasped as he pulled his hand out from beneath him. It was slick and warm with blood. He looked in horror at the bishop, who turned his head like a creaking gear.
“Tourec…” he rasped through bloody teeth.
With tears in his eyes, Tourec glanced up at the hilltop as agitated voices reached his ears. “Your Grace,” he whispered, “we have to get you out of here.”
Bishop Valenti smiled and shook his head.
“I’m finished, Tourec. I’m....“
He coughed abruptly, spewing blood over the front of his robe and silver crucifix.
Tourec cradled his head. “Don’t speak. Just be still.”
Bishop Valenti coughed again, desperately clinging to Tourec. “It’s okay, my boy,” he wheezed, clasping Tourec’s hand with surprising strength. “You must leave me here. There’s nothing you can do for me. You have to go; you have to complete your mission. You must silence the Voice.”
Tourec sniffed back a heavy tear. “But how? Our brotherhood is finished. I don’t even know if anyone else is still alive.”
Bishop Valenti closed his eyes, then opened them again. “God will guide you.”
Tourec set his jaw and squeezed Bishop Valenti’s hand. “I know He will.”
Bishop Valenti smiled, then slumped in Tourec’s arms. Tourec exhaled heavily and crossed himself. He closed Bishop Valenti’s eyes and laid his head down gently, then crept out of the brush as silently as he could.
Shouts continued on the hilltop above him, and in the murky darkness he could make out a few figures cautiously inching their way down the hill. Pressing his hand to his throbbing ribs, Tourec scurried into the nearby forest and disappeared among the trees.
****
Patric flinched as lightning crackled overhead, splashing the gates of the monastery with a ghoulish glow. He stared through the pouring rain at the rusty iron bars that flickered in and out of existence. This was where his mother had told him to go, but all he saw was a sprawling hulk of ruin and decay. Another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the shattered and boarded windows, the spires topped with broken crosses, and the front door chained and padlocked.