The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  Well, at least the eyes hadn’t changed.

  Patric rose to his feet and swayed dangerously on wobbly legs. He looked down in confusion, then winced as the blood began rushing through the lethargic blood vessels in his legs and a thousand fire ants scurried through his muscle tissue. He put one hand on the table to steady himself and he gritted his teeth, enduring the pain in silence. After a few moments, the worst had passed, and he took a few ginger steps. After assuring himself that his legs were functional again, he followed Tourec’s path out of the room.

  He found himself in a dark corridor which he had not seen before. The air was dank and musty, and there was no sign of Tourec. He called out his brother’s name, but there was no answer. He frowned, feeling confused, then proceeded down the dimly lit corridor. He searched for any sign of a door, but saw none.

  “Tourec!” he called out again, feeling bewildered at his brother’s seemingly magical disappearance.

  Finally, at the end of the corridor, he spotted a slender wooden door almost completely hidden in shadow. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, its hinges creaking in complaint.

  Tourec whirled around but did not rise. Patric stepped into the dingy chapel that somehow still exuded a sense of serenity and perhaps even warmth. Tourec was kneeling in front of an embarrassingly simple cross and an icon of the Blessed Virgin. A single arched window allowed the cloudy morning light to filter in, and the room was bare except for a few tables that lined the walls, their surfaces entirely covered with melted wax and the corpses of expired candles. A few candles burned at the feet of the Virgin, and an ancient Bible was spread out on the altar.

  “What are you doing here, Patric?” Tourec asked without hostility.

  Patric glanced about the room and stifled a sneeze. “What is this place?”

  Tourec looked up at the melancholy statue. “I used to pray here every morning when I was a pupil at this monastery.” He gestured at the wooden cross standing erect upon the altar. “I carved that myself.”

  Patric stepped forward and examined the cross. “What did you use, a butter knife?”

  Tourec smirked. “I’m no artist, but my heart was in it. Honestly, I was a bit shocked to see that it's still here.”

  Something compelled Patric to kneel next to his brother, and a flicker of surprise flashed across Tourec’s face, though it vanished quickly.

  Patric looked up at the cross and the Madonna behind it. His eyes narrowed, studying the statue’s expression.

  “You know, I always wondered why she always looked so sad. She doesn’t seem to have the ‘joy of the Lord’ you Christians are so fond of talking about.”

  Tourec followed his brother’s gaze and chuckled. “You’re right. I don’t know…I think she feels the weight of the sins that her son will soon bear. How could any mother smile with knowledge like that?”

  “Hmm,” Patric shrugged. He instinctively fingered the pentagram dangling from his neck.

  Tourec noticed the gesture.

  “Is there anything you need to pray about?”

  Patric stared at the cross in silence. “No,” he said firmly, then rose to his feet and turned to leave.

  “Patric.”

  Patric turned around and gazed steadily at his brother.

  “God doesn’t hate you,” Tourec said.

  Patric looked at the statue of the Virgin for a moment, then back again at Tourec.

  “He should,” he said as he opened the door. “And He should hate you too.” He slipped out of the chapel and closed the creaking doors.

  Tourec exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. His heart felt heavy as a stone as he raised his eyes to the statue. It looked down on him with sorrow and comfort.

  And forgiveness.

  Tourec lowered his head and began to pray.

  ****

  As the morning sun attempted to pierce the blanket of clouds that stretched across the horizon, the crunch of tires on gravel was heard outside of the monastery. Father DeMarco peeked through a shattered window, then hurried down the corridor into the cellar where Patric and Tourec were waiting together in silence.

  “Our friends are here,” he announced.

  The brothers rose to their feet as a dismal, battered van backed up close to the open cellar door. Two gruff-looking men with heavy beards got out, along with two stocky women. A second car pulled up behind the van and another equally formidable man stepped out. Their faces all bore mournful expressions, and Patric was soon reminded of the reason as the men ducked into the cellar and disappeared around a corner without a word, then reappeared hoisting a body-shaped burden covered in a bloodstained sheet.

  Tourec watched the gruesome work with keen eyes, but Patric had to turn away. Father DeMarco stepped close to Tourec and whispered, “They are martyrs; they paid for a crime that was not their own. A priest and two priestesses were executed in horrific fashion at the Temple of Set yesterday.... I know that you were not involved, but please tell me that your brethren did not commit that vile deed.”

  Tourec turned to the priest with cold eyes. “No. It was not us.”

  Father DeMarco smiled gratefully.

  The van doors closed, and the two women presented Father DeMarco with a basket of food.

  “Thank you, Father,” one of them said. “After we bury my sister and her family, we will be leaving. I have some relatives in Austria…it is not safe here anymore. Please...please come with us, Father.”

  Father DeMarco smiled warmly and clasped her hands. “Thank you for your invitation, Donatella, but I must remain here. There are still some believers left in the town, and even if everyone is gone, I will continue to be God’s light in this dark place. But it is wise for you to leave. Gather together with other believers; keep each other strong, and encourage one another. When the time is right, the Lord’s hand shall wipe this stain from our continent and we shall have nothing to fear again.”

  “I fear it is going to get worse before it gets better,” one of the men said as he sauntered over.

  “What do you mean?” Father DeMarco asked.

  “The Voice of Satan’s pilgrimage to Paris. He is on his way now. He will hold a special mass tonight to usher in a ‘new age’ for the Church of Satan.”

  Tourec looked thoughtful.

  “Paris….”

  The man looked at Tourec. “Yes, Paris. Many people in the Christian underground think the Church of Satan is going to declare Paris a ‘Mecca’ of sorts. Their occupation of the Vatican has always been more of a slap in the face of Christianity rather than a statement of faith, but Paris holds special significance for them. The city is already a cesspool of filth — the perfect place for them to set up their ‘Mecca.’ Many believe that the Voice is going to declare Paris as the new throne of the Satanic Order.”

  Tourec glanced at his brother, and Patric saw a curious light flash in his eyes.

  Father DeMarco gestured at the two brothers standing behind him. “Forgive me. These are my friends, Patric and Tourec. Tourec was a pupil of mine here at the monastery many years ago.”

  The bearded man extended a ham-sized hand and Tourec shook it firmly. The man eyed his tattoos warily but did not say anything. His face froze, however, as he shook Patric’s hand and noticed his pentagram necklace. The women also noticed the ornament, and one of them gasped softly.

  Father DeMarco immediately detected the change in the room’s climate and he cleared his throat loudly. “Patric helped me bring the Assantes here last night. I am very grateful to him.” He patted Patric’s shoulder to emphasize his point.

  The bearded man grunted and released Patric’s hand, though he still stared at him with piercing eyes.

  “The father tells me that you two are in need of transportation,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. “Where is it that you would like to go?”

  “Paris,” Tourec answered.

  Patric stared at his brother in surprise. “Tourec — ”

  Tourec silenced him
with his eyes. “I trust you, Patric.” He turned back to the man and the women. “I know you cannot take us all the way to Paris, but we will greatly appreciate any help you can give us in getting there.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have identification documents with you?”

  Patric nodded, but Tourec shook his head.

  The man frowned. This was going to be a problem.

  Father DeMarco perked up. “Wait here — I have an idea!” He fled out of the cellar with startling swiftness and vanished up the stairs.

  The two bearded men approached the group, and the five of them lined up in front of the brothers. Patric felt as if he was being sized up by a family of bears who were deciding if he was meaty enough to feast upon.

  Thankfully, Father DeMarco returned after only a couple of minutes, waving a small, dusty booklet which he pressed into Tourec’s hand.

  “I knew you reminded me of someone when I saw you again, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until now.” He snatched the booklet out of Tourec’s grasp and flipped it open with excitement. “Look!”

  He pointed at a faded picture of a smiling face that bore a strong resemblance to Tourec, who scratched his head in surprise.

  “Father Patrelli,” the priest explained. “He came after you left and was only with us for a short time. He died almost three years ago, God rest his soul. His personal identification was given back to his family but his clerical documents remained here. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to get you through checkpoints. With your scarred face, you can explain that you barely escaped a riot and lost your identification in the process, and now you are fleeing the province. From what I hear, security forces are so eager to push the Christians out, they barely give a second glance at people’s identifications.”

  Tourec held the booklet gingerly as his stomach twisted, but he looked at Father DeMarco with grateful eyes. “Thank you, Father. If it is God’s will, this will be my key.”

  Father DeMarco smiled slyly. “Rahab was rewarded for lying, so it has to be forgivable in some circumstances, right?”

  “What about him?” one of the men asked, carelessly gesturing towards Patric. “Won’t people be suspicious if someone carrying a priest’s ID is found in the same car with a Satanist?”

  He spoke the last word with venom, but Patric ignored his tone. “I will tell them the truth. I will say that I’ve come to collect my brother and that I’m taking him to a safer place. After all, family is more important than faith.”

  He looked at his brother with determination, and Tourec nodded. “It’s our only chance. Besides, they’re in such a hurry to get us all out of here, they won’t pay too much attention anyway. Having my brother with me actually gives credibility to our story.”

  The others did not look convinced but raised no objections. One of the men fished a pair of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Tourec. “He’ll need something to wear,” he said to Father DeMarco.

  The priest glanced at Tourec’s decorated arms. “Right!” he declared as he spun around and hurried off in search of monastic apparel for Tourec to disguise himself.

  Tourec looked down at the keys in his hand. “What about your car?” he asked the man, who shrugged.

  “It was a loaner from the father anyway. It’s been rusting in my garden for six months now; the wife’s glad to get rid of it.”

  One of the women shot him an icy glare.

  Father DeMarco returned with a dingy robe reeking of mildew, and he apologized for the undesirable state of the garment.

  “It’s fine,” Tourec said as he slipped the robe over his head and secured the belt around his waist.

  Patric raised an eyebrow. “Wow, you really look like a priest, instead of — ”

  Tourec looked at him. “Instead of what?”

  Patric realized that the others didn’t know Tourec’s true vocation. “Instead of…my brother.”

  Tourec smirked. “You’d be surprised how easily I fit into any disguise.”

  He turned to Father DeMarco and clasped the old priest by his shoulders. “I’m afraid we must be off, Father. We have troubled you long enough.”

  “Not at all, my son,” the priest replied. He took some food from the basket on the table and handed it to Tourec. “Seeing you again has brought me hope that things can change. No one is lost, no matter how far from God they think they might be.”

  Tourec nodded affectionately, then embraced him. “Thank you, Father.”

  The priest looked deep into Tourec’s eyes. “Go with God, my son.”

  He then turned to Patric and offered his hand, which Patric took. “Thank you again for everything.”

  Patric tried unsuccessfully to hide his discomfort. “Um, well, I am glad to be of service,” he stammered.

  Father DeMarco looked at each brother in turn. “Take care of each other.”

  The brothers exchanged glances. “We will,” they answered in unison.

  Father DeMarco nodded and took a step back.

  The brothers thanked the men and women for their assistance, then squeezed past the van and stepped out into the morning sun. Tourec let out an ironic chuckle.

  “What?” Patric asked.

  “Nothing,” Tourec said as they ducked into the Volkswagen. It was the same make and model as the one Tourec had crashed into the river less than twelve hours earlier.

  Patric turned the key and the car sputtered to life. Tourec grimaced.

  “Are you all right?” his brother asked.

  “Yeah,” Tourec grunted, pressing his hand carefully against his side. “Feels like a mule kicked me in the ribs.”

  Patric shook his head. “Maybe now you’ll think twice before pretending to be ‘God’s Assassin.’”

  Tourec fastened his seatbelt and stared grimly through the windshield. “Perhaps.”

  Patric shifted the car into gear and guided the vehicle up the driveway that coiled around the side of the monastery, then drove out onto the road. He pressed the accelerator firmly and the car sped down the hill towards the town. He was very eager to get away from that ruined building.

  CHAPTER 10

  The plane shuddered violently, then a swelling sensation of calmness washed through the cabin as the aircraft pulled away from the clutches of the earth. Rays from the rising sun stabbed through the cabin windows but quickly vanished as the plane penetrated the bank of clouds that hung low over the horizon. The sickening shaking resumed and the Voice of Satan clutched the leather armrests.

  The woman in black smiled crookedly to herself. “Flying is the safest mode of transportation in the world,” she said in an oily tone. “There are a thousand other ways to die that could sneak up on you at any moment.”

  “Thank you for that reassurance,” the Voice muttered as he stared out at the wall of clouds.

  “Are you sure everything has been arranged?” he asked after a moment. “This whole trip has been so rushed because of the terrorist threat…I’ll be heading directly from the airport to the temple without a moment to catch my breath.”

  The woman smiled. “Do not worry, Your Worship. Everything has been planned to the utmost detail. The security, the routes, the transportation, everything. Paris is filling with pilgrims as we speak. You will receive quite a grand reception.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so. This is not the time for last-minute mistakes.”

  The woman sat back in her chair and crossed her long legs. “Worry is unbecoming of a man of your position.”

  The Voice glanced around, even though the two of them were alone in the jet’s private chamber. “You know, sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t respect my position.”

  A look of confusion with a trace of hurt came over the woman’s face, though the Voice couldn’t decipher whether it was real or feigned.

  “Your Worship,” she said with a tone of surprise, “I have the utmost respect for you, as a man and as the head of our order. If I sometimes seem aloof, it is simply because I st
ill see human weakness peeking through your armor.”

  The pontiff bristled at her frankness, but he couldn’t deny that she was right. After all, he was just a man, though a man cloaked in the mystery and power of the Prince of Darkness.

  “We are all works in progress, are we not?” He smiled coolly and sipped his wine.

  The woman raised one eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  The Voice set the crystal glass down and peered at her closely. “So tell me what awaits me in Paris.”

  The woman’s other eyebrow rose. “I do not understand.”

  The Voice narrowed his eyes at her. “I know this is not going to be an ordinary ceremony. I can feel it in my bones. What is going to happen?”

  The woman opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. Finally, she said, “I am not omniscient. I am simply a messenger, same as you.”

  The Voice frowned. He knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. “You’ve been very insistent that this ceremony take place at this specific time. Why now, why this full moon?”

  She didn’t answer; she just stared at him in silence. The Voice cocked his head and leaned forward. His voice was low and urgent.

  “Is our Great Lord going to appear again?”

  An expression of genuine shock came over the woman’s face. “Are you serious?”

  Her reaction made the Voice feel somewhat embarrassed. “I…I was just…just wondering, since it’s been so long since he....” His words trailed away and he slumped back in his chair like a disappointed child.

  The woman continued to stare at him but her icy expression softened. “I do not know what will happen, but I can tell you that the world will never be the same after this full moon passes.”

  His Worship looked away, his face still clouded with annoyance. The woman in black slid out of her chair and sank to her knees in front of him. She placed her hand on his knee and her claw-like fingers slid over his legs.