“You’d be well served to call him Ty, not ‘it,’ Your Grace. Ty is bound to serve me. I rescued him from a witch of the High Coven.” Jordan delivered his prepared lie.
“A companion, how nice for you. Now, please ask . . . Ty . . . to wait outside so we can proceed with our business.”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself, Your Grace.”
The legate looked into Ty’s solid black, barren eyes and decided it was best to ignore the thing.
“As I said, you did well, showing exceptional leadership during great adversity. This office has need of a marshal of your skills and promotes you to the position. Let us hope you fare better than your namesake.”
Jordan showed no surprise at the offer. “What office is this, and under whose authority shall I act? What rights and income go with the position?”
“This office has no title or charter, and you shall act solely as I direct. Here you receive no rights and privileges and only that income I deem necessary to carry out your missions. However, once you have served faithfully for a period of time I see fit, you will be awarded the title of Grand Marshal of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem of Rhodes, along with the lands, livestock, and slaves appropriate to that position. On Rhodes, of course.”
“Your Grace honors me.” Jordan gave another curt bow. “Shall I have this offer in a written bond?”
“No. The only bond you shall receive is a share in the great burdens of this office.” He handed Jordan a vellum page with the pope’s red wax seal at the bottom.
Jordan read it quickly. “What’s this? An order of excommunication and death . . . by fire?” Tossing the sheet at the legate, Jordan gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped back. A low growl emerged from Ty and reverberated in the room.
The legate spoke rapidly, jamming his words together. “A similar order hangs over my head, as it does over all who serve this office. To know what we must know, to be exposed to Satan’s own family, puts us at risk of suffering and death at the hands of the Church should we become corrupted, which would be but a pale foreshadowing of what awaits us in the fires of hell.”
The growl grew louder.
The legate raised a hand, a concerned look on his face. “A copy of this order is being held in trust at the Vatican and will not be released so long as nothing you learn during your duties to this office slips from your lips and that you execute those duties faithfully. Also in trust is a papal indulgence, already signed and sealed, granting your immortal soul forgiveness for all your actions from this day forth. Which of the two orders is released and which is destroyed is up to you.”
“And if I decline this honor?” Jordan dropped the “Your Grace.”
“That is not for you to choose.” The legate leveled his gaze at Jordan.
. . . . .
Jordan let his laughter bubble privately in his chest for a moment. He had known he would accept the position the moment he heard the offer; he just wanted to make the legate work for it. Threats were unnecessary. This is what he had been striving for his whole life, a position of power that could even eventually lead to nobility.
Deciding he had kept the legate dangling long enough, he nodded in acceptance of his new position as marshal of the Vatican. Ty’s growling died away.
“Good. Marshal Jordan, you stand with me on the threshold of a new world. Now that the Church has been restored in Rome, it’s time to prove to all other churches, to every king and peasant across all civilized lands”—the legate’s voice grew louder, and he pointed at the ceiling—“to prove to God himself that the Roman Church is the one True Church by eliminating the last of the Nephilim. God has been waiting for a church strong enough and holy enough to realize such a feat.
“What do you know of the history of these unholy creatures?” the legate asked.
Jordan shrugged, his face unreadable. Those words—“the last of the Nephilim”—dampened the thrill of his new position, reminded him it came with a personal cost.
The legate’s secretary, a dour old priest, fished around in a cabinet containing large parchment rolls and returned with one. “Ever since Adam and Eve were ejected from the Garden for Eve’s transgression, their descendants have been at war with legions of fallen angels to see if our world will become the second Garden or the next hell. These fallen angels cast their seed widely in the weak-willed and malicious daughters of Eve until their unholy Nephilim offspring so thickly populated the earth that God was forced to send the Great Flood to wipe them out, sparing Noah’s family. At the last second, God decided to also spare one in ten Nephilim in order to continue to test the faith of his human creations. Achieving a final solution to that test is the charge of our office, to sweep all trace of the Nephilim, in all their forms, into hell. To fail would be to fail God’s very purpose for all of us here, I assure you.”
The legate unrolled the parchment to reveal a chart of Europe, the Mediterranean, Britain, and Ireland. “As a Vatican condottiere, you’ve already fought some of these Nephilim bloodlines, Trolls and Goblins, simply because you were ordered to. Now, as marshal, as the military leader of this office and the one giving the orders, you must come to understand them.”
He placed a finger on the chart at the location of Rome. “Five centuries before our Lord Christ’s birth, Rome set about conquering the known world to create a pagan empire. Their false gods had migrated from Egypt, fabricated religions of mystery and magic. Even though they didn’t align with Satan directly, they were able to divine enough sorcery to be triumphant, for a while.
“The Roman Empire’s expansion forced a particularly crude branch of Nephilim, the Elioud, to seek sanctuary in caverns, caves, hollows, and dark woods.” The legate glanced at Ty, who remained silent, his solid black eyes unblinking.
“Fearing Rome’s increasing power,” the legate continued, “a clan of cave-dwelling Elioud went to their ancestor Azâzêl, once a strong Archangel until the second fall, to plead for protection. Azâzêl made a pact with an emerging human warrior race in Central Europe, the Celts, granting them the knowledge of working with iron in exchange for protection of his Elioud. Iron—the very word means ‘God’s metal.’”
The legate unlocked a drawer in his expansive wooden desk and removed a book with a blank leather cover. “This is the Book of Enoch. Written by Noah’s great-grandfather only seven generations after Adam’s creation, it describes the world before the Great Flood and the origins of your foes, their powers and their weaknesses.”
Undoing the two silver clasps that held the book closed, the legate opened it to a page marked with a black ribbon and began to recite: “‘And Azâzêl taught men to make swords, and knives, and shields, and coats of mail, and made known to them the metals of the earth and the art of infusing a desire for death into metals, and working beauty into them also. And there arose much godlessness, and they committed fornication, and they were led astray, and became corrupt in all their ways.’”
Flipping through the pages, the legate explained to Jordan, “Semjâzâ, one of the most powerful of the fallen Archangels, taught the Celts enchantments and potions. You can imagine how much better off the world would be today had he stayed obediently in heaven.
“And there’s more here you’ll find useful: Armârôs taught the countering of enchantments and of potions; Barâqîjâl, prophetic astrology; Kôkabêl, the signs of the stars; Ezêqêêl, the knowledge of the clouds and seasons; Araqiêl, reading the signs of the earth; Shamsiêl, the movement of the sun; and Sariêl, the path of the moon. Of course, all of these Archdemons, as well as the others, produced their own Nephilim bloodlines, bloodlines you’ll have to eliminate.”
The legate closed the book and handed it to Jordan. “No one must see this book. Lose it, or let anyone else read it, and your life is forfeit.”
The Vatican is not as good at keeping its secrets as it thinks, thought Jordan, who kn
ew well the results of Semjâzâ’s indiscretion. He accepted the legate’s offering with feigned gratitude, having read the book no fewer than three times since taking it from the witch Marija. He wondered if it was a better strategy to reveal or to hide this information from the legate.
“With their knowledge of iron and witchcraft,” said the legate, interrupting Jordan’s thoughts, “the Celts were able to rise up from their foul hovels to conquer a large swath of Europe.” He swept his hand across the chart.
“And were the first to sack Rome. I know this history,” interrupted Jordan.
“They were the only ones to sack Rome while it was the capital of the empire, the next time not occurring for eight centuries, when legions were no longer garrisoned there. That shows the strength they gained from the knowledge shared by Azâzêl and Semjâzâ,” stressed the legate.
“Finally the Roman emperor Constantine received the grace of the Holy Spirit in the year of Our Lord 313 and merged the old Roman religions of mystery and magic with the new, true religion of man: Christianity. Christianity, fortified with small doses of necessary and purified sorcery, was able to overpower the witchcraft of the Celts. The Christians’ new capability was wielded by a select group of holy sorcerers.”
“Exorcists.” The word rolled through the room like distant thunder. “Ty hate exorcists. Jordan, no exorcists.” Ty shuddered and took a step toward the legate.
Jordan reached up and placed a hand on Ty’s chest. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with them again, as long as you keep me alive.” Seemingly comforted, Ty returned to his motionless state.
“Please continue,” said Jordan, gratified by the look of fear that had appeared on the legate’s face.
“Yes . . . uh, thank you,” the legate said, regaining his composure. “The newly Christian Roman Empire drove the bulk of the pagan Celts, those who wouldn’t convert, and the Nephilim out of Europe and Britain until they found sanctuary here,” he said, tapping on the chart. “This is where the battle drew to a stalemate in the mid-fourth century.”
Now things are getting interesting, thought Jordan, as the legate’s finger rested on Ireland. No Roman legionnaire had ever set foot on Ireland—or Hibernia, as they called it—and lived. Nor had any exorcist.
The legate ordered his secretary to bring them wine, then continued, “Ireland was, and still is, controlled by a particularly strong race of Nephilim, known as the Sidhe, faeries that are of Samael’s bloodline through Cain and Lilith. The Sidhe are not like the crude Elioud you’ve encountered. They live in a highly structured society and are intelligent and skilled at making weapons as well as strong enchantments. They’ve manifested a kind of land for themselves that spans Ireland and the Otherworld. Celts call it the Middle Kingdom.”
“Is this an accurate chart of Ireland?” asked Jordan.
“No. This is just a fabricated shape. No one knows what Ireland really looks like. That is, no true Christian.”
Jordan looked at the corner of the chart for the maker’s name: Ptolemy of Alexandria. He suppressed an urge to laugh out loud. “Wasn’t he the one who provided the Church with a mathematical proof that the sun and stars revolved around the earth?”
“Ptolemy was always helpful with that sort of nonsense, as long as he was paid enough gold. We needed to discourage captains from trying to sail to Ireland, so we had him add a ring of dangerous rocks to the chart and remove anything interesting from the interior, like the capital city, Tara. Uncorrupted Christians cannot enter Ireland without the consent of the Sidhe, and once they do, they become corrupted. Not that an accurate chart would do anyone any good. The forces that protect the coast are not natural. And a sea-dwelling race of Elioud called the Fomorians—nasty creatures—attack any ships that don’t have permission to approach.”
“I suppose that’s why only Viking ships carry trade with Ireland,” said Jordan, accepting an ornate silver goblet of red wine from the secretary.
“Not just any Viking ships—only the Irish Vikings are allowed to land. They’ve retained their pagan ways. Ireland has become a refuge for every unholy group that continues to resist the spread of Christianity: Scottish Gallowglass, Welsh Woodwose, Norsemen. All of them are now fortified on this one island.” The legate stabbed his finger into Ireland on the chart.
“Not to mention the Irish Christian Church,” suggested Jordan, half smiling at the legate. “I’m sure they come into this somewhere.”
The legate cleared his throat. “Of course. It and the French Church are the only two left with enough size and power to challenge our True Church. But the Irish Church is in league with the devil and his spawn. They have formed an alliance with these pagans and Sidhe. We’re going to take over the Irish Church and allow the followers of Patrick and Colmcille the opportunity to become true Christians.
“His Holiness the pope has sanctioned a plan developed by Cardinal Orsini: invade and drive the Sidhe from this world, killing any that remain. This will cause the magic of Ireland to die away, taking with it the abilities of the Celtic druids. Then there will be nothing to stop our True Church from finally controlling that elusive island.”
“You think eliminating the Sidhe will get rid of the Celtic sorcery?” Jordan asked. “I understood magic to be a natural phenomenon arising in Ireland, not the result of the Nephilim.”
The legate looked at Jordan with a puzzled expression.
Jordan handed him back the Book of Enoch. “Thank you, but I have my own copy. And a few other grimoires I gathered to learn about my adversaries.”
“That would have been a dangerous admission an hour ago,” said the legate. “I clearly have chosen the right man.” He returned the book to his desk drawer. “‘Natural magic,’ as you call it, is as natural and as unholy as original sin, and it arrived in much the same way. It was brought to earth by fallen angels and is still present because their bloodlines are still present. It began to fade in Europe as the Nephilim here were eliminated, an effect first noted by the Romans, then by the VRS League. But it has not gone entirely.
“Ireland is the Nephilim’s last major sanctuary. I believe it acts like a beacon, a lingering source of magic for the rest of the world. When we destroy the Sidhe and strip Ireland of its natural magic, the last of it will necessarily disappear from Europe as well, leaving only the exorcists of our True Church to wield enchantments. And all they need to do so are the words of God.”
“Other than the High Coven,” added Jordan.
“Their magic is unnatural and perverted. We will eliminate them soon enough.”
Jordan doubted that the High Coven was going to be that easy to deal with, but he returned his attention to the chart. “Given the forces protecting Ireland, how do you plan to invade?”
“We’ll have the English do it,” said the legate, a smug look in his eyes. “Their little island always leaves them hungry for more land, and the Scottish and French haven’t been very accommodating.”
Jordan laughed. “The English will never go. Not after what happened last time—Strongbow’s entire armada was wiped out. Not a single ship returned.”
“Last time the Vatican made the mistake of placing its trust in the deposed Irish king of Leinster, a human who claimed to know the secret to landing an armada. He was too weak a sorcerer. This time we’ll have a Sidhe king lead the invasion. This, my new marshal, is your first mission.”
“And how do you expect me to do that?” asked Jordan as the legate rolled up the chart and handed it to his secretary.
“Fortunately, there are some Irish Vikings, high within their nobility, who have secretly come to fear Christ’s judgment and, frankly, love gold more than they love Ireland. My Viking spies have discovered that one group of Sidhe, a clan of wood faeries known as Skeaghshee, have rejected the ancient treaty with the Celts and attempted a rebellion. I have passed word to the Skeaghshee that the restored Roman Church does
not share its predecessor’s desire to conquer Ireland. Instead we share a common enemy: the Irish Christian Church.
“I’ve made a proposal, using the Irish Church as a ruse: if the Skeaghshee help us conquer the Irish Church, the Roman Church will help them conquer the Celts. We’ll receive all the Irish Church’s monasteries across Europe and Britain, and they’ll regain all of Ireland.”
“Unlikely that they’d believe Rome would agree to that.”
“It’s your job to convince the Skeaghshee of our sincerity. Or lead them to think they can easily betray us after the Celts are defeated. We will, of course, make our move against the Skeaghshee when they least expect it.”
The legate turned to his secretary. “Please bring in Prince Ruarc and his . . .” He waved his hand in the air. “His attendants.”
After the secretary left, the legate added, “Just remember, my new marshal, that breaking a promise to a Sidhe wouldn’t be a sin. Keeping one would be.”
Jordan carefully maintained an impassive air as he finished his wine and considered the consequences if the Vatican and the English were to conquer Ireland, that last fully magical land. When the secretary returned, he was followed closely by a lean and weathered man dressed in journeyman’s clothing and a frail woman wearing a flowing red robe. A tall faerie entered behind them, moving slowly and deliberately into the room.
“Marshal Jordan d’Anglano,” the legate said, “this is Prince Ruarc, eldest surviving son of Kellach, king of the Skeaghshee, future high king of the Sidhe.”
Instinctively, Jordan started to bow, only to hesitate and finish with less flourish than he would for a human prince.
“With him,” the legate continued, “are Dary Fitz-Stephen, direct descendant of Robert Fitz-Stephen, marshal to Strongbow, and his wife, Eithne.”
Jordan’s eyes stayed on Ruarc. “How is it even possible for you to enter Venice?”
The Last Days of Magic Page 8