Dark Sight

by T. G. Ayer

  He sang in Gaelic, the timbre in his voice thick and strong. The chant was rhythmic, almost lulling the acolytes into a trance.

  As he recited the lyrical words, the drumbeats increased in pace, in intensity, transforming his words into something much more powerful. Soon, the acolytes were swaying from left to right, echoing his chants with rising passion.

  The effect was quite eerie, and Langcourt had to admit he enjoyed the power he held over all these souls.

  At last, when he’d worked them into a frenzy, Langcourt signaled the boy’s guards to bring him over.

  The seer struggled against her shackles, trying to shrug off her guards, trying to grab onto the boy’s arm to prevent the two men from taking him away.

  Of course, her attempt at stopping them was useless. Yet she still fought and struggled anyway.

  Langcourt could see it in her eyes, that she knew how impotent she was. That she knew however hard she fought, she’d be unable to do anything to stop the sacrifice.

  As the guards led the ‘lamb’ to the slaughter, the boy paused and turned to look over his shoulder at Allegra.

  From this distance, Langcourt was unable to hear the words he uttered. He made a mental note to check with the guards later. Whatever the boy had said to the seer had made her skin go ashen.

  She stared at the child, a strange expression on her face. She allowed her hands to fall, ceasing her battle with her guards. He spoke for a little too long, and Langcourt became impatient.

  He was about to wave at the guard when the boy nodded at the Pythia, then faced the stage. The Oracle did nothing to stop the boy as he turned away from her and walked toward Langcourt.

  There was no longer a need for the guards to guide him.

  The child was tiny for his age, his stature barely that of the average two-year-old. A short life with so much potential, soon to be a sacrifice beneath Langcourt’s eager hands.

  But it was necessary. Langcourt was fed up with the recent rise in mutations. The abominations appearing over the last few decades had reached unacceptable numbers.

  The skills these mutants possessed were unnatural. They did not belong in the world. Those abilities gave them far too much power over the rest of the population, placing normal humans at their mercy.

  And Langcourt was determined to ensure that such a situation never came to pass.

  The child, a perfect example of such unnatural, abominable power, came to a stop in front of him, lifting his chin and meeting Langcourt’s eyes, solemnly defiant. They’d dressed him in a little white cloak, a tiny version of Langcourt’s own majestic one.

  In a sea of black, and in the darkness of night, the two of them would appear as beacons of hope.

  Langcourt turned to the table and reached for a bronze bowl. He lifted it, careful not to spill the holy water within. The water, blessed under a full moon within the temple of Hermes, would sanctify the sacrifice.

  He dipped a finger into the water and ran it across the boy’s forehead. The child didn’t flinch, merely stared at him with those strange blue eyes.

  Langcourt waved at two of the acolytes standing by to take the boy and lay him on the table. He didn’t need to speak.

  They’d all been here before, performed the same ritual so many times over that it wasn’t really necessary for him to give direction. And yet he did it anyway, steps to the ritual which provided him with calm, and provided the brotherhood with peace and confidence.

  The guards laid the boy on the table, belted his thin arms down—the straps located at the elbow, leaving his wrists free.

  The purpose of the ritual was to obtain the power of the one sacrificed through access to their blood.

  Langcourt would have much preferred a more gory ritual, perhaps the removal of the still-beating heart; something more macabre than a minimalist bloodletting ceremony, but it wasn’t necessary.

  Besides, Langcourt suspected at least half of the members of the brotherhood would be too squeamish for such a display.

  Many of the acolytes now seated along the rows of the amphitheater would be relatively new to the brotherhood. As green as they were, shocking their sensibilities might backfire on their master.

  Not yet ready to enjoy a more ghoulish ritual, they might rethink their decision to join, thus endangering the secrecy of the brotherhood.

  So Langcourt would have to keep the most dramatic ceremonies for the inner circle.

  He wondered what the seer would think, should she discover Langcourt’s more macabre inclinations. With any luck, she herself would soon experience them herself.

  Langcourt almost licked his lips at the thought of the power contained within the Pythia’s heart.

  He shook his head and concentrated on the boy. He knew how he’d appear to his acolytes, the sad, reluctant father figure. They’d remember him that way far longer than they’d recall the boy’s death.

  The child lay on the table, completely still. He didn’t struggle, he didn’t fidget. Just lay there staring at the dark sky, his small face a picture of serenity, his chest rising and falling as he took his last breaths.

  Langcourt ruffled the boy’s hair, smiled and then turned to the trestle table. He made a fuss over the dagger, picking it up with great care, turning it just so for the light to reflect back into the watching audience.

  With a somber expression he returned to the boy’s side, listening as the gathered brotherhood took a simultaneous breath of eager anticipation.

  Long ago, Langcourt had learned the best places in which to make his incision, the best spot to encourage strongest blood-flow.

  He proceeded to make incisions into the boy’s wrists and ankles, cutting neat slices into veins and arteries.

  The child didn’t even flinch.

  Langcourt was reluctantly impressed. He himself knew the pain that such an incision could cause, especially without any form of painkillers.

  The child shifted his gaze and looked directly at Langcourt. He knew the child was likely listening in on his thoughts. But Langcourt didn’t care. The victim’s death was a foregone conclusion, and his telepathic ability would tell him so.

  Probably why he was so acquiescent. There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop his fate.

  His death was inevitable.

  From behind him, Langcourt could hear the Pythia’s renewed struggles. One of her guards held a knife to her neck, likely the only reason she didn’t scream or shout in protest. When Langcourt looked over his shoulder, he met her tear-filled, furious gaze.

  Dismissing her, he returned his attention to the child and watched with glee as the blood drained out of his body. This was the part of the ritual which infused Langcourt with excitement, where he grew high on the power of the ritual.

  And on the anticipation of what was to come.

  The Seer’s presence had served only to dampen that excitement, contrary to his expectation, but he wouldn’t allow her to spoil his fun.

  The boy’s eyelashes fluttered as life drained out of him. Langcourt waited impatiently for the moment when death would claim him.

  The pale golden glow of the child’s skin slowly faded. The blue eyes, staring out above him, faded to a dull gray. The slow rise and fall of his chest ceased.

  Langcourt’s fingers had formed into fists of their own accord. His entire body was strung tight. It was crucial that he partook of the blood at the right time. Too early and the power transfer wouldn’t happen. Too late and he wouldn’t receive enough of that power.

  He beckoned and one of his acolytes brought a pure white stone chalice to him.

  Just as he was about to kneel and release the faucet, a commotion behind him drew his attention.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he scowled at the sight of the seer collapsing. She lay half on her chair and half off, supported by her two guards. Her eyes were wide open, and Langcourt suspected she wasn’t looking at anything that he could see with his human eyes.

  Her voice echoed around the, now strangely si
lent, amphitheater. It had a gritty power to it, almost ghostly, and the sound of it seemed to entrance his acolytes. Langcourt was furious at the influence this woman exerted over his brotherhood, but at this point he was more curious as to what she was about to say.

  “You have a month in which to prepare. There will be nowhere that you can hide. Nowhere that you can run. The child will be avenged.”

  She paused to take a struggling breath, and Langcourt could almost feel the gathered acolytes lean forward to hear if she had anything else to say.

  “Your end will be horrible, for you will suffer a worse death than the pandemic even now drawing near. Prepare yourselves, for retribution is coming.”

  A ripple of unease filtered through the gathered acolytes and some even got to their feet. Their brothers pulled them back down, and Langcourt was glad he could see all their faces. He’d have them dead before they rebelled against a High Priest.

  It infuriated him that the Oracle wielded such power over his acolytes, but he refused to allow his growing anger to control him. Langcourt expelled a long breath and turned on his heel to face his brethren.

  He waved at the seer’s two guards, indicating they should take her away and do it fast. Dutifully, they hauled her off the stage, ensuring she remained out of sight of the seated brothers.

  He lifted his hands urging his followers to calm down.

  “There is no need to panic. By doing so you are giving in to the power that these mutants hold over us. These abominations should not be allowed to have any influence over disciples under Hermes’ protection. Steel your spine, harden your heart, and do not give them the power.”

  His words rang out around the amphitheater, and the rumble of discontent steadily faded away.

  Still furious, Langcourt returned his attention to the dead child. The window in which he’d needed to consume the child’s blood was quickly closing. The longer he waited, the weaker the transfer of power would be.

  And what a waste it would be, to have the boy’s burgeoning power be lost to the ether.

  He strode back to the table, realizing only then that he still held the stone goblet in this grip, his knuckles so tight he’d have to peel them off the stem one at a time.

  Langcourt knelt on one knee, throwing his cloak around him in a dramatic flourish. He leaned forward slowly and opened the faucet, allowing the rich red liquid to slowly fill the goblet.

  He took extra care not to spill a single drop.

  The gathered acolytes watched in awe as he bent slowly and placed his lips on the rim of the stone goblet. A great sigh ran over the amphitheater as he sipped from the goblet, gorging on that power that was almost a tangible thing.

  Langcourt was infinitely glad that his acolytes, even his fellow priests, had little idea of the true intention behind the ritual. He’d long ago managed to convince them that the ritual was necessary. For each and every one of them. That understanding, that the ritual imbued them all with divine energy, kept them glued to their seats.

  That belief kept them silent and in awe as they watched child after child being sacrificed.

  It had been Langcourt’s most enjoyable part of the indoctrination process. He wasn’t ashamed to see the similarities the brotherhood bore to a cult.

  If it got him success it was enough.

  And so they all watched closely, believing their presence at the ritual would empower them, imbue them with the strength to continue the fight.

  Little did they know that in reality, they received none of its power. That the sweet reward of the ritual was concentrated solely on Langcourt himself.

  He tilted the goblet, emptying the last of the blood into his mouth, slightly annoyed that much of the warmth in the liquid had already dissipated. But he couldn’t complain. He’d already begun to feel the power of the child coursing through his veins.

  Energy sang through his limbs as Langcourt reveled in the process of the energy transfer. It not only gave him strength, it also bestowed a longer life upon him.

  A part of him had begun to tire of the need to participate in this ritual, but absorbing that power was essential if he was to continue his mission.

  Without him, the abominations would take over the world.

  He’d already spent two hundred years fighting the fight, and he would spend that long again if he had to.

  Chapter 34

  Allegra shivered with fury and horror as the door shut behind her.

  She'd never in her life thought there would be a moment in which she'd be glad to be locked up inside a cell.

  Her hands shook, and her stomach churned. That poor child. He’d known what was going to happen. And yet he'd allowed the high priest to complete the ritual without a hint of resistance.

  Allegra hated that she'd been restrained and unable to stop the horror. She'd have gladly broken the old man's neck.

  What benefit would killing a little child get them?

  The high priest had possessed an air of power and arrogance. But Allegra had found, in her experience, that often those who appeared to be powerful were the ones who felt the most powerless.

  She swallowed hard, trying to keep the contents of her stomach down. She was so riled up, so angry that she could not keep still. Pacing back-and-forth along the carpet helped, very slightly, to help keep both her anger and her dinner at bay.

  Who were they, these men of the Order of Hermes? Allegra knew enough to know that cults existed in every country, pandering to every god, or non-god. She doubted very much that Hermes would be impressed with that vicious high priest and his infanticide.

  What did they expect to achieve by murdering an innocent child?

  Considering the depravity of people like the high priest and his followers, Allegra had to wonder why she and Max should even bother to save humanity. The coming epidemic would sweep away all such horrors.

  Granted, most people were not like the high priest and his heartless acolytes. But humanity would be much better off without monsters like them.

  Still, the little boy and other infants all over the world did not deserve to die. But there’d been something extraordinary about that child. Had the Order of Hermes seen that quality in him and deemed him dangerous?

  In fact, when he’d spoken to her, there had not been one word of revenge. Instead, he’d tried to inspire her with a new passion for saving humanity.

  But his words warred with the actions of the high priest, and Allegra's grief at the child's murder overshadowed his advice.

  She wasn’t ready.

  Not yet.

  The tears began to flow and Allegra did not even try to hold them back. She'd never seen anything so horrible in her life. Even visions of the pain-filled, bloody deaths of the people closest to her had not come close to seeing an innocent life deliberately snuffed out in front of her.

  But the more she thought about it, the more the boy’s words made sense.

  He'd told her to remain calm, his voice sweet and gentle. He'd said he knew her powers and the struggle she had with them. He'd told her that there was nothing she could do to stop what going to happen to him.

  He’d said if she got a chance to leave she should take it. And he'd told her that once she was free she needed to do everything in her power to stop the end of the world.

  Allegra had been shocked, and a little dazed. The boy had spoken quickly, and with such maturity that she was a little bit confused, listening to him, while looking at the face of a three-year-old.

  Just before he left, he'd met her eyes again and given her a gentle but sad smile. "I am not afraid. You should not be, either. Everything we do is destined, but destiny can be changed if you are willing to do what it takes."

  Allegra shook her head, scraping tears from her eyes. Agitated now, she settled into her exercise routine, pushing her muscles until they burned.

  Two hours later, just as Allegra was wiping her neck and forehead with the miniature towel, the door shushed open and the high priest entered her room.
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  As her eyes met his face, her vision blurred. Only for a moment, but it was enough.

  He stood over her, his face purple with fury, perspiration dotting his brow. In his raised hand he wielded a whip.

  Had Allegra's powers increased, so that she could now see future scenarios without touching? Or maybe that was just a part of her wild imagination.

  Allegra wasn't certain that she was strong enough to withstand any form of torture. Still, she'd endure whatever was coming, do whatever it took to survive this, because if she didn’t live through it humanity would die.

  That the little boy had displayed such strength in the face of certain death, only fueled Allegra's determination to survive and avenge him.

  The high priest stood in the doorway, watching her with his beady eyes, his hands folded at his back. The muscles in his neck were bunched tight.

  His face was the picture of supreme Zen, a total lie considering the tale his body told. Fury simmered beneath his affected calm. Perhaps fury at Allegra for what she’d said in front of his followers.

  Allegra didn’t care. It was about time they knew the truth. If she’d had the chance, she would’ve told them much more.

  The high priest drew closer, followed closely by a burly guard. He held a small silver case, the sight of which turned Allegra's stomach.

  The high priest folded back the sleeves of his cloak, revealing pale arms, his skin wrinkled and papery.

  For all his public oration a few hours ago, the man certainly didn't waste time with words now, standing still and fuming while the guard dropped the case on the dresser beside Allegra and turned on his heel.

  He unclipped a gun from his belt and aimed it at Allegra. She’d contemplated an escape; subdue the two men and run, but doing so with a gun pointed at her head was impossible.

  “Hands,” said the guard briskly.

  Allegra lifted her hands and wasn’t surprised when the older man bound them tightly with zip ties.

  Satisfied she was securely bound, he disappeared out of the door and returned within a few minutes, a metal foldout chair in his hand.

  After settling the chair in a position facing the dresser, the guard gripped Allegra by her shoulder and pushed her toward the seat. When she resisted, he gave her a light shove, the message hidden in the movement that he wouldn't be averse to shoving her harder.