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

by Mark Carver

  PART I.

  For where God built a church, there the Devil would also build a chapel.

  - Martin Luther

  CHAPTER 1

  The wind made a crackling sound as it rustled through the raven’s black wings. The bird angled its left wing upwards and banked sharply to the right, swooping towards the ground. Moments before impact, it pulled up out of its plummeting dive and glided effortlessly over the expanse of stones and corpses.

  Dark, sinister clouds hovered above the ruins, and they seemed to be pulled up into a funnel of some kind, as if something massive had just receded into the sky.

  The raven’s sharp silhouette sliced through the wind and its oily-black eyes scanned the desolation stretching beneath it. No sounds came from the mangled, bloody bodies strewn across the square. The cracks widened as the raven approached the center of the devastation which yawned into a great chasm where the Cathedral of Our Lady once stood majestic and invincible.

  Now only a crater remained.

  The raven flew into the gaping hole, and it emitted a piercing cry that no one could hear. As it swooped over the broken statues and shattered pillars, a slow, rippling streak of lightning flashed in the sky above. The ruins were bathed in a harsh white glow that seemed to twist and lurch, and the bird cackled again. Its squawk was answered by a snap of thunder that cracked like a whip.

  With an abrupt flick of its wings, the raven halted in the air and landed among the stones. Heavy raindrops began to splash down upon the ruins. The bird shook its head to fling away the falling water, and it began to spring lightly among the shards of rock as another bolt of lightning split the sky.

  The raven hopped through the maze of rubble for a few moments, then stopped. A nameless saint gazed down at the black bird with lifeless stone eyes. The raven squawked again, then jerked its head towards the base of the statue.

  It stared at another pair of lifeless eyes, but these were not made of stone. Blood trickled through the gorgeous black hair and seeped over the beautiful face. As the blood spilled out onto the stones, the rain water quickly washed it away.

  The raven hopped closer, leaning forward and peering intently at the girl’s face. A hand, porcelain white, protruded from beneath the statue’s crushing weight. The bird regarded the delicate hand, then stepped forward and pecked it lightly. It waited a moment, as if expecting a response. Then it pecked again, this time more aggressively.

  Lightning seared the swirling clouds and thunder rumbled as the raven’s pecking became vicious. It gouged and gashed the lovely hand, and blood began pouring from the savage wounds. The raven shrieked with bloodlust as it stabbed the hand with its razor-sharp beak again and again and again…

  “Isabella!”

  Father DeMarco bolted upright, gasping for breath. His chest heaved violently and he was covered with sweat. His hands clutched the bedsheets in a death grip. Each breath burst from his lungs and every muscle in his body was tense.

  “Father! Be still!”

  The voice was gentle but firm. Father DeMarco turned towards the darkness, and his eyes slowly focused on a face shrouded in shadow.

  He was surprised to find himself unable to speak. After several moments, he managed to whisper, “Who…who are…”

  “It’s me. Donatella.”

  The priest frowned for a moment, struggling to clear away the fog that smothered his mind.

  Donatella...

  Father DeMarco could hear the blood surging through his ears. He forced himself to take a deep breath and he struggled mightily to slow down his pounding heart.

  “Donatella…” he breathed.

  “Yes, Father. It’s me. Now please, lie down. You need to rest.”

  Suddenly, like the lightning in his dream, a blast of pain raced through the back of his skull, swarming over his entire body like a wave. The pain was paralyzing, and the air was literally sucked out of his lungs.

  He moaned and collapsed onto the bed. Donatella dabbed his sweaty brow with a damp sponge.

  “Isabella…”

  The name escaped his lips like a sigh. Donatella looked down at him with tearful eyes.

  “Shh, Father. Don’t speak. Just close your eyes and rest.”

  Father DeMarco stared up at the ceiling that he couldn’t see. The blackness that nearly swallowed his vision when he was awake began to spread like an infection over his mind, and everything began to dissolve…

  He heard a word. A name.

  “Paris.”

  Instantly, the black mist vanished and he sat up in the bed, frightening Donatella. He jerked his head towards her, even though he could barely see her.

  “Tourec…” he gasped.

  Donatella swallowed nervously. “Please Father, lie back down…”

  “What has happened?” the priest demanded. Rest was now an impossibility.

  Donatella looked over her shoulder at the figures congregating in the next room. She turned back towards him and placed an insistent hand on his shoulder. “This is not the time, Father. You need to lie down. You almost died out there.”

  “What…has…happened?” Father DeMarco spoke each word through clenched teeth. A sickening feeling began churning in his stomach as he struggled to make out what was being said in the next room. He couldn’t decipher the words but he could hear from the tones that the news was urgent.

  And terrible.

  Donatella started to say something but she was cut off by an approaching figure. Father DeMarco squinted up at the man, trying to make out his face. All he could see was the faint outline of a beard.

  “Nice to see you awake, Father,” a deep voice said with warmth and sympathy. Yet the voice also quivered with fear, perhaps even terror.

  Father DeMarco recognized the voice. Lorenzo, Donatella’s husband. He kept his gaze riveted to the man’s shrouded face and he asked, “What is going on?”

  The man placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder as Donatella had done, but his gesture was much more forceful, and Father DeMarco had no choice but to lie down on the bed.

  “Easy, Father,” Lorenzo said. “Someone assaulted you outside the monastery. Donatella stitched you up. It’s a miracle you survived.”

  Father DeMarco’s hand instinctively reached to the back of the skull. He winced as his fingertips brushed over the fresh stitches.

  “What has happened?” he asked again, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing deeper and blacker.

  Lorenzo glanced back towards the room full of agitated people, then exhaled heavily. “There was an attack. In Paris.”

  Father DeMarco’s heart lurched into his throat.

  Paris. Tourec…

  He must have spoken the name, because Lorenzo nodded his head. “His face is all over the news.”

  Father DeMarco swallowed roughly. “Let me see.”

  Casting a doubtful glance towards Donatella, Lorenzo left the room and returned after a moment with a small television. He plugged it into the outlet and connected the satellite cable, then switched it on.

  The bright glare from the TV set burned Father DeMarco’s eyes and he shielded his face with his hand. The words coming from the television seemed distant and hollow, and he leaned forward to catch what was being said.

  “…Thousands of mourners are gathering around the Temple of the Dragon as the city of Paris struggles to quell the violence that has claimed at least a dozen lives and appears to be spreading towards the fringes of the city. Riots and arson have flared up across the city as supporters of the Satanic church have taken to the streets following the gruesome murder of the Voice of Satan, who was killed in the middle of a ceremony intended to usher in a new age for the Satanic Order.”

  The sick feeling suddenly multiplied and the priest doubled over with pain.

  “Father!” Donatella cried.

  He waved her away, gasping for breath as he concentrated his attention on the broadcast.

  “Authorities are still trying to determine how a Christian assassin m
ade his way into the sanctuary undetected and shot His Worship as the pontiff was about to begin a consecration ritual. The Voice was thrown into a pool of burning oil, which quickly consumed the pontiff and the seven girls who were to take part in the ritual, as well as several members of the congregation who were unable to flee in the chaos that followed.”

  Father DeMarco watched in horror as the news broadcast showed the Voice of Satan, the most powerful man in the world, standing frozen with his back towards the congregation. Seven girls were bound in front of him, and they were all looking up at him with fear in their eyes.

  Then there was a loud crack, and the pontiff twisted and fell into the burning pool of oil beneath him. The flames washed out over the girls’ robes and they shrieked with agony as the fire consumed them. Like a demon bursting from the flames of hell, the Voice of Satan sprang up from the fiery pool and tumbled towards the congregation. Screams of terror arose from the audience, and the platform that supported the camera tipped and crashed to the ground.

  Just before the camera jerked towards the vaulted ceiling of the temple, the broadcast froze the image. Father DeMarco peered through the painful haze that was swarming over his eyes.

  There, behind the girls that blazed like torches, a man in a white t-shirt was preparing to flee. His features were blurred, but his face was unmistakable.

  Tourec.

  Father DeMarco felt his spirit crumble within him.

  The news anchor spoke in a dark, almost angry voice. “This is the man who perpetrated this horrific deed. He was killed in a vault beneath the temple by police forces as he was attempting to flee the scene.”

  Father DeMarco gasped. The television displayed Tourec’s body sprawled out on the cold stone floor, the front of his shirt soaked with blood. The camera focused on the vivid cross tattoo etched onto his forearm.

  “The assassin’s identity is unknown, but authorities are convinced that he was a member of the terrorist organization that paralyzed Europe in recent weeks before a raid in northern Italy effectively decimated its ranks. Yet despite their best efforts, authorities were unable to prevent this man from entering the Temple of the Dragon and killing His Worship, the Voice of Satan, in cold blood.

  “In response to this tragic event, Satanists around the world have taken to the streets, and several major cities have been rocked with violence, looting, and arson. Christian churches and individuals are being targeted in retaliation for the pontiff’s assassination, and authorities are struggling to restore order. The Satanic Order in Vatican City has not yet made a statement, but it is believed that the church will address the public soon. Meanwhile, millions across the globe struggle to make sense of this tragedy, and authorities and citizens around the world are bracing for what could be the spark that ignites a full-scale war between the Christian and Satanic churches.”

  The air in the room seemed frozen. Father DeMarco stared at the flickering images of horror, but he saw and heard nothing.

  How... In the name of God, how...?

  A second man entered the room and stood beside Lorenzo. “It was him, your friend, wasn’t it?”

  Father DeMarco turned and looked at the man, whose name was Antoni, and his eyes sparkled with tears.

  “Yes,” he breathed.

  Antoni’s face was grim. “I recognized him almost immediately. When he told us he was going to Paris, I had no idea he was planning something like this.”

  Father DeMarco lowered his gaze to the floor. “None of us did...”

  “We have to leave, Father.”

  Donatella’s voice was urgent, and her kind face was creased with worry. “You heard the news... The whole continent is going to explode. Christians all around Europe are rising up now that the Voice is gone. They are not fleeing anymore; they are taking a stand against the heathens. But the enemy is also on a rampage. It will be a war, Father, perhaps one that will spread throughout the entire world.”

  “If that is so,” Father DeMarco said as he took her hand, “where can we go that will be safe?”

  Donatella gazed into his shimmering eyes for a few moments, then sniffed back her tears. “I don’t know...”

  Lorenzo stepped forward. “No one is going anywhere until you have recovered, Father. Now please, lie down and get some rest. We are safe for now.”

  Father DeMarco nodded reluctantly and eased himself down onto the crumpled sheets. His soul was seething with rage, sorrow, and perhaps a flicker of joy, but his body felt as if he had just tumbled down a rocky mountain. He knew Lorenzo was right; he didn’t want to be a burden if it became necessary to flee.

  After the priest obeyed his command, Lorenzo left the room with Antoni. Donatella smiled at Father DeMarco with eyes that shone with fear but also with hope.

  “Get some sleep, Father.”

  Father DeMarco nodded and closed his eyes. He heard Donatella’s footsteps shuffle out of the room and the door closed behind her.

  In the blackness of his mind, he saw the raven again, thrashing the hand of his beloved child Isabella. Gritting his teeth, he pushed this image from his mind, and a new picture took its place.

  The Voice of Satan bursting from the oil and fire. The screams of terror. The seven maidens writhing and twisting as the flames lapped at their robes. Tourec turning to flee.

  Father DeMarco’s eyes snapped open.

  Tourec.

  Tears flowed from his eyes, spilling down his face and onto the bed. He made no sound as he sobbed, but he felt as if his heart was cracking like glass.

  “Oh, my son,” he whispered to the darkness, “what have you done?”

  ****

  Vatican City

  St. Nero’s Square was in chaos.

  The circular plaza was completely packed with people, and the pitifully small police force was powerless to stop the crowd from burning crosses and effigies of Christ, despite the safety hazard. The anguished mourners huddled around the base of St. Nero’s Obelisk, begging their Great Lord to ascend from the depths and punish the Delusional cowards.

  Their leader was dead, and they craved the blood of vengeance.

  Julian Rosa Monte stood on the fringes of the melee, watching the crowd ebb and throb like a giant black wave of grief and rage. It was a miracle that they didn’t tear down the grand colonnade that circled the square which had once been dedicated to St. Peter, but now bore the name of the bloodthirsty emperor who crucified Christ’s closest disciple on an inverted cross. Julian peered across the sea of bodies at the towering obelisk, the same stark monument that had stood in the arena where St. Peter was executed.

  There had been a time when Julian would have accepted the same fate, had his God demanded it. He would have gladly given up his life for his faith, and in fact, he had taken many lives in service of that faith.

  The problem was that it had all been a mistake.

  Julian felt the weight of the pistols tucked beneath his coat. Small, compact – like himself. Julian was somewhat short and unassuming, despite the ominous figure he presented: dark brow, eyes hidden in shadow, black coat whipping around him with the wind of the approaching storm. Perhaps on a different day in a different city, people would have taken notice of him. But here, today, he was just another black-clad phantom, presumably here to honor the beloved Voice of Satan.

  He buttoned his coat tightly around his torso, exhaling a frustrated breath through his nose. He had indeed come here because of the Voice, but he had expected to find him alive and well. In fact, he had been expecting a private audience with the venerable leader, since it was Julian who had provided the authorities with the location and time when the Brotherhood would convene in Bussoleno. Julian’s friends and brothers, assassins in the name of God, had been slaughtered in a firefight with police.

  Julian felt no remorse or guilt at the news of his brothers’ demise. They were, quite simply, fools. He had been like them once, even recently. He could still hear the screams of horror as he had slaughtered the clerics in the temple i
n Brussels, could still see the red mist spraying from their bodies, spattering the altar and candles. He had truly felt God’s power coursing through his veins, infusing him with invincibility. It was intoxicating, and he had never felt more alive.

  Of course, that was before the deal.

  Julian hunched his shoulders against the oncoming wind. He felt tired, deflated. His thoughts drifted back to his brothers-in-arms.

  It had all been a lie. Their “mission from God,” as that pompous bishop had called it, had been a waste of time. The Christian church didn’t rise up as he had said; in fact, just the opposite happened. The churches became empty and the congregation fled like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

  As quickly as it had ignited, the fire that burned inside Julian’s soul was snuffed out. He loathed the refugees that cowered in the airports and train stations, holding them in even greater contempt than the servants of Satan who fell before his gun.

  In Jerusalem, it was different. In that turbulent land, the Christian church was vibrant and invigorated to face the enemy in combat. The battles weren’t fought simply for land and sacred sites. The chapels and relics were merely symbolic; the violence dealt from their hands was an expression of the righteous anger that burned in their hearts. As they were battered by and repelled the enemy’s attacks, the flames of their faith grew brighter and hotter.

  When Julian and his comrades had returned to Europe at Bishop’s Valenti’s bidding, they were more eager than ever to bring the fight to the devil’s doorstep. In Jerusalem, they had merely been fighting the symptoms. Now they were going after the source.

  But what good is a strong immune system within a body that is weak and despondent? Instead of rising up and standing with them, the Christian church rejected the Brotherhood as terrorists, and the few who took up arms were labeled in the same category and shunned. Some even went so far as to adopt a favored practice of the Islamic fanatics that had paralyzed the world decades ago: suicide bombing.

  Julian felt anger rising inside him at the very thought. How in God’s name is blowing yourself up a useful combat tactic? It was cowardly, a cop-out. Those who employed this method were simply saying, “We don’t have the strength for a prolonged fight, so we’re just going to pour all of our feeble energy into one self-destructive action and hope it takes out a few heathens as well.”