When the Ring of Solomon was brought to Rome two centuries later, it proved more effective than the obelisks, and now all of them had either fallen or been pulled down, except for this one. Caligula’s obelisk had become too powerful for even the Roman Church to abandon. They continued to use it to protect St. Peter’s Basilica.
Jordan turned his back on the obelisk and resumed his walk away from the Vatican. The Roman Church was repelling the wrong creatures, he thought. While fallen angels and their Nephilim offspring were kept at bay, human devils were rising up and seizing control. Human devils—the exorcists and their inquisitor offspring—who hungered for power and lusted after women. A lust that had darkened into festivals of torture and death.
Anxious to return to Najia, Jordan quickened his pace.
18
The Isle of Man
June 1394
An Irish Viking longship slipped from the fog that hung like a curtain across the bay’s entrance. Fingers of white clung to the ropes and mast as if trying to pull the vessel back, then relented and were reabsorbed into the mist, which was beginning to glow in the morning sun.
Patrick, standing on the prow, glanced over his shoulder, but the longship carrying the Colmcille contingent was still hidden. He nervously fingered the Blood Bell hanging in its holster on his belt. This trip was risky, and Patrick—despite the increasing animosity between the orders—would feel better with the Colmcille force by his side. The Colmcille longship had entered the fog at the same time, but it seemed to be slower to find the bay.
Patrick looked out at Castletown, Isle of Man. Behind him he could hear the Vikings lowering the sail, relying on oars to reach the dock. He thought of his new wife, who had asked to accompany him; she had never left Ireland and was excited by the prospect. He had flatly refused, hardening himself to her rants and tears. There was too much danger. He did not trust the Roman Church.
When an offer to negotiate a truce between the two churches arrived from the legate, his first instinct had been to dismiss it out of hand, but Colmcille had insisted that it was their duty to at least try to avoid a bloody conflict. Patrick requested an update from the Fomorian spies who were keeping an eye on the preparations of the English; the message back had said the armada would not be ready for at least another nine months. Still, he wouldn’t have seriously considered the offer had Colmcille not declared that he would meet with the Vatican’s representatives—Patrick didn’t want to appear cowardly by not offering to go as well. So he had replied to the legate with his terms: the meeting had to take place at a neutral site, the Irish Church’s delegation would be armed, and he would bring the Blood Bell. When the Roman Church agreed, Patrick found himself surprised—he had hoped they would refuse.
The Irish Church’s contingent consisted of twelve armed monks from each of the two orders, his blue-robed Order of Patrick and the brown-robed Order of Colmcille, along with Colmcille himself.
Disembarking at the Castletown dock, Patrick was met by an old priest standing beside three small donkey carts. Bowing reverently, the priest said, “Welcome, Your Grace. I am the legate’s personal secretary, here to provide transport to Rushen Abbey.”
Patrick looked back over the bay once again. Colmcille’s longship was just emerging from the fog. “Thank you, but we’ll wait for our Colmcille brothers.”
Pointing at the carts, the secretary said, “The abbey here is quite humble. They barely have enough carts to transport your own brothers. I’ll bring them back to pick up the Colmcille brothers just about the time they land.”
Patrick relented and climbed onto the front cart. His brothers, each with a short sword strapped over his robes, were barely able to squeeze into the carts for the three-mile ride northeast along a muddy track. Patrick allowed himself a brief smile when he heard small bells jingling on the donkey’s harness. They would have been blessed by the abbot to frighten away faeries and were probably completely ineffective, unlike the Blood Bell, which he touched once again to reassure himself that it was still attached to his belt.
Arriving, they were shown into the great hall of the cloister. The dining tables and chairs were pushed back against the eighteen-foot-high stone walls supporting the wooden roof. Small windows set into the tops of the walls cast rays of mild light into the gloom. The monks’ footsteps echoed as they walked into the vast, empty space, and Patrick became increasingly uneasy.
The bang of a door slamming closed caused Patrick’s monks to spin around. Seven exorcists had entered behind them. Gathering just inside, the exorcists removed their black cowls. The one in front, short, bald, and smiling, spoke first. “You must be Patrick,” said Orsini.
“Where’s the legate?” Patrick responded, his hand on the Blood Bell.
Orsini spread his arms, palms open. “He will not be joining us, which is unfortunate, as he will be missing quite a spectacle. I am Cardinal Orsini, and I will be directing the . . . events here.”
“Are we not talking truce?”
“Regrettably, no.”
Patrick pulled the Bell from its holster.
The exorcists flanking Orsini started to chant in Aramaic.
Patrick began ringing the Bell, his arm arching high, low.
Blood ran from the ears, eyes, and mouths of two exorcists, and they collapsed dead onto the stone floor. The others continued to chant.
Orsini beheld his fallen brothers and shook his head. He smiled at Patrick, who was sweating from the effort he was putting into ringing the Blood Bell. “Well, that is a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff,” he shouted over the clanging and chanting. “I will have to remember that. I am always looking for better methods to test new exorcists.”
Patrick stopped ringing the Bell, seeing that the remaining exorcists were able to protect themselves from it. “It does not matter if you kill me, for my brothers in Ireland will just elect a new Patrick, and the church will carry on as before.”
The exorcists ceased their chant. Orsini laughed. “I did not come here to kill you. I could not care less about you. I came for the Bell.”
“It will do you no good. Only a Patrick can wield its power,” insisted Patrick.
“I simply need for you not to have it. I cannot protect the whole English armada against it. But here, in this confined space, well . . . I believe I have the advantage. Of course, we will kill you, since you are here, just to save time later.”
Three of Patrick’s monks drew their swords and rushed at the remaining exorcists. One exorcist stepped forward, simultaneously making a complex gesture with his right hand and muttering indistinctly. The monks fell backward, as if they had run into an invisible wall.
“Now, you all just stay there while I invite some . . . well, just watch, you will be astounded,” said Orsini.
Two bronze vessels were placed in front of Orsini and their lids removed.
Patrick stretched his neck to look inside. They appeared to be filled with a black liquid.
One of Orsini’s men held a wax tablet for him. Orsini removed a stylus from a pocket in his robe and began to inscribe seals. “Just a second,” he said, holding up a finger to Patrick. “It has been a while since I have done this, and it is, after all, quite complex.” Orsini retrieved a small book from his pocket and leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is.” He resumed inscribing the tablet.
The liquid in the pots erupted into black mist that thickened into creatures standing in the rough proportions of a man. The edges began to firm somewhat, revealing strong legs reminiscent of those of a horse but terminating in large cloven hooves. Muscular arms sported humanlike hands with sharp claws. Small black eyes peered out from intense faces, one like an ape’s, the other with the snout of a dog, both filled with long, jagged teeth.
Orsini laughed and clapped his hands. “I love doing this. Meet Furfur, the one with the longer snout, and Nadriel. Both demons of a high order,
I assure you.”
Patrick stood his ground while the rest of his brothers began to back away, swords in hand.
“They have not been unbound from their vessels for . . . oh, two or three hundred years and must be very hungry.” The demons looked around, locking eyes with Orsini. Black saliva dripped from their open jaws, became mist, and merged with their bodies.
Orsini pointed at Patrick, gave him a big smile, and spoke in a language rarely heard since the days of the Tower of Babel.
The demons leaped for Patrick. He recoiled, desperately ringing the Blood Bell. Waves rippled across the demons’ skin. They knocked Patrick onto his back and pinned him to the floor, a hoof on each of his wrists, then ripped off his robe as if it were paper. Using their sharp claws in slow, practiced movements, they began to tear off long strips of Patrick’s skin, flinging them to the side, to reach the sweeter meat they preferred.
. . . . .
With a look of satisfaction, Orsini watched the demons work. Patrick’s screams rose and fell in time with the stripping off of his flesh. Three of Patrick’s monks threw themselves against the sealed rear door, two tried to scale the wall toward the windows, and the rest tried to rush past the feeding demons. Each was knocked back into the center of the room by enchantments hurled by the exorcists.
“Bring in the other one, the Colmcille,” said Orsini.
Colmcille was pulled into the hall. “Oh, my God! Oh, God. Oh, God, protect me,” he kept saying, covering his ears to Patrick’s screams and averting his eyes. He dropped to his knees.
Orsini knocked Colmcille’s hands away from his ears and, grabbing his head, forced him to face Patrick’s agony. “You made this bargain,” Orsini hissed. “Now watch its results.”
“I never thought you’d do something like this, never thought you’d unleash demons on them.”
“I am only doing this for your benefit,” said Orsini. “Now you know what will happen if you do not honor your agreement. I have plenty more demons bound up in my storeroom, anxious to get out—and hungry. They like their food fresh and have an instinct for keeping it alive while they feed. Livers, kidneys, and testicles seem to be their favorite bits, though they will eat any organ.”
Patrick’s screams dissolved into gurgles as the demons reached his lungs. Seeking fresh meat, they straightened up, blood dripping from their faces, looked around, and pounced on a monk trying to scale the wall, dragging him down to the floor. The lump of muscle, tissue, and bone that was Patrick twitched and then was still. Colmcille put his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard. The demons’ next meal began to shriek.
Orsini extracted the Blood Bell from the grisly pile and returned to where Colmcille cowered. “Following the invasion you will become bishop of Ireland,” said Orsini. He pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the muck off the Bell, and held it up to admire the inscribed runes. “In return you will swear allegiance to the Roman Church, and you will surrender all monasteries in Britain and Europe to our bishops. It’s that simple. I am sure you will have no trouble. Oh, and make sure you forbid all Irish Christians from fighting the English when they arrive. Now, on your way.”
Orsini traced along one of the runes with his finger. “If I can divine which demon is bound into this Bell, I will be able to redirect its power. Oh, well, time enough for that after the invasion.”
Colmcille was pulled to his feet by an exorcist. As Colmcille edged toward the door, a young novice monk boldly charged the demon Nadriel, thrusting his sword into the demon’s chest. It had no effect. Nadriel knocked the novice to the ground, pulled out the sword, flung it away, then grabbed the novice’s left arm just as Furfur grabbed the right. The demons began arguing, in their ancient tongue, about who was going to eat his organs, as he was too small to share.
Colmcille, tears running down his cheeks, croaked, “Are you going to kill them all? Have you no mercy?”
“Not me,” said Orsini, keeping his eyes on the carnage. Nadriel had dragged the novice off to a corner, leaving Furfur holding only a torn-off arm, which he angrily threw down, and then began inspecting the remaining monks. “It is you who is killing them. You are the one who came to us looking for control of the Irish Church.”
Colmcille took another step toward the door. “And what of the Vikings who brought us here?” he asked. “They may tell the Celts about all this.”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” replied Orsini. “They have been paid.”
ACROSS THE SEA in England, Richard’s personal residence, Sheen Manor, sat on the south bank of the river Thames nine miles upstream from the Palace of Westminster. Outside on the riverbank, in the warmth of the early-afternoon sun, children danced in a circle singing:
A ring, a ring o’ rosy,
A pocket full o’ posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
Inside, Richard, with his fists clenched, stood over Anne’s bed, where she lay uncovered from the waist up. Her chamber was filled with smoke emanating from a brazier containing a mixture of powdered amber, balm-mint leaves, camphor, cloves, labdanum, myrrh, rose petals, and storax. Posies of herbs hung from the bed canopy.
As de Vere and Chaucer watched, a physician cut loose the silk scarves that had bound Anne’s arms above her head to keep her from rupturing any more of the apple-size, black, bulbous inflammations crowded in her rosy-ringed armpits. More buboes climbed up and blackened the left side of her neck. In the five days since symptoms first appeared, most of these had burst, leaving a spiderweb of red and black under the pale skin of her face. The physician gently placed Anne’s hands down by her sides, the ends of her fingers black, the few remaining fingernails curled up. One nail caught on the sheet and fell off. Anne’s dead eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Tears fell from Richard’s eyes. De Vere tried to hold him, but Richard shook off the embrace.
“How can this be?” Richard screamed at the physician. “There has been no plague in London for more than four years. How could you let her die?”
Richard grabbed a dagger from de Vere’s belt and awkwardly lunged at the physician, who darted behind a table. “Your Royal Majesty, I assure you—”
Chaucer stepped in front of the physician. “Your Royal Majesty,” he said softly, “it must have been a curse that inflicted the plague on Queen Anne.”
“Then We shall burn Jews in retribution.” Richard threw down the dagger and turned to de Vere. “Burn a thousand Jews. Then round up a thousand more and burn them as well. Have their ashes blessed to keep them from their Jew heaven.”
Chaucer held up his hands. “I am sure it was not the Jews this time. It must have been the Sidhe. They are angry at your invasion plans.”
Richard swayed on his feet, gave one long scream, and fled the room. De Vere followed.
Richard ran out the front gate, scattering the dancing children. De Vere caught up to him just before he reached the river. Richard collapsed into his arms, and they slid down onto the grass.
“Come with me,” de Vere whispered, stroking Richard’s hair. “Come with me to Ireland, and together we will kill all the Sidhe.”
Richard wiped futilely at his eyes and nodded. “We shall never come here again,” he said, looking back at Sheen Manor. “No one shall. Tear it to the ground.”
ON THE COAST of Wales, the high king of the Fomorians, his sable cloak stained with blood and beginning to take on a green mildew tinge, sat on a rock in the garden of Conwy Castle. His two ever-present female attendants squatted at his feet, gnawing on the remains of a stag leg, their English hosts having refused to provide them with a Welsh prisoner to dine on.
“All of the Fomorian clans have pledged their lives to me,” he growled. “What do you bring to the fight? War draws near, and I question if it is you who should lead.”
Kellach reclined in a low oak bough, gazing west toward the setting sun, toward
Ireland.
“Come here,” he snapped. Three barefoot Dryads, wearing baggy rough wool tunics over tattered trousers, scurried up and bowed. Peaking at two feet tall, Dryads were the smallest of the Sidhe clans and easily able to hide their slight frames in the bellies of the Irish Viking trade ships still running between Dublin and Welsh ports. Another variety of tree Sidhe, Dryads lived only in oaks and were treated by the Skeaghshee as something between slaves and pets.
“All the Skeaghshee are preparing for my return. My Dryads here tell me that the Grogoch and Wichtlein have pledged to fight for me. Do not worry—my forces will be strong when we arrive,” Kellach assured.
“They better be. You promised to keep the Morrígna at bay.”
“The Celts continue to put their faith in Aisling, but she is not the Morrígna. Soon you and your people will be able to return to the land that once was yours. That is, the tracts we agreed to.”
“I do not trust the English, and I hate the Celts and the Christians,” grumbled the Fomorian king, grabbing the meaty leg bone from his attendants and biting off the end.
“Once I return to Ireland and the Celts and the Irish Christians have been killed, the rest of the Sidhe will rise and follow me. We will turn on the English and drive them back out.”
“What of Oren, the English’s faerie traitor? What if he sniffs out the plan?”
Kellach turned toward the garden doorway to the castle. “What of Oren?” he echoed in a loud voice.
Oren dragged himself out of the doorway and along the grass, propping himself up against a tree. “I vouched for your credibility to the English, though I could tell that you were plotting something. That I have finally betrayed my tormentors brings a lightness to my heart that I have not felt since I was a boy.” Oren turned his blind face toward the warmth of the setting sun. “With it has come a renewed hope that if there is an After Lands to journey to, I have earned my place there. There I will be whole again. Once I am rid of this miserable life.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 24