The Centaur

by Brendan Carroll

  He would never be able to climb without the use of his feet, and he could not fly straight up for such a distance. He had helped to further his suffering and assure his demise. And the rejuvenating effect of the water would ensure he was wide awake when the beast began its meal.

  Further examination of the enclosure in which he sat, showed a rather sizable fire pit with a dancing flame in the center. Hundred of winged insects darted about over the flames, flirting with sure death. The enclosure was cool and the sound of the tiny droplets falling into the pool was soothing in spite of his dire circumstances. The dragon certainly kept a lovely lair. It was much more inviting and homey than Queen Ereshkigal’s rocky home. The light coming off the crystals embedded in the walls and the soft firelight made it much more inviting than Marduk’s home in the Sixth Gate or Nergal’s pits full of noxious gases. Two or three dark passages led off in as many directions, and from one of these, he expected death to come. After he had steeled himself and drank more of the sparkling water, he ventured an inspection of his mangled legs. The bleeding had stopped. His tremendously advanced immune system and rapid healing faculties had already kicked in and the open wounds were well on the way to repairing themselves. Of course, he wouldn’t grow new feet, but he would be ‘well’ in no time.

  A number of options came to mind in spite of his dire circumstances. Tuathan healing magick could build him new feet better than the old ones. Human prosthetics could provide him with alternative modes of travel. At this, he laughed at the thought of himself being fitted in the hospital in Berne with the latest prostheses. Then, of course, there was Adar. Adar could help him find a complete new body to inhabit. He lay back on his elbow and wondered what had happened to Ernst Schweikert after Huber had cast him out of the human form. Most likely the body had drowned in the deluge created by the enraged Queen Mother.

  She had stripped everything she wanted to know from his mind, along with his dignity and what little perverted honor he had left and then abandoned him to his own destiny in the ruins. It was almost comical: The Abandoner Abandoned. Sounded like one of those hokey headlines one might see on the internet.

  The Dark Angel laughed aloud at the absurdity of his thoughts. He was going to be murdered here in this beautiful place. Devoured. Shredded. Torn apart, limb from limb. His mind drifted and he eased his legs into a more comfortable position. The pain subsided a bit, and he wondered how long he would have to wait, and how long it would take for the dragon to kill him. This, of course, depended on the dragon’s temperament and origins.

  His mind wandered as he wondered about the dragon, and the suffering he would be forced to endure before he was finally consumed. It seemed a fitting end for him after all the havoc he had wreaked upon the world. For the first time in his life, he felt regret. Not only regret, but remorse and mental pain brought on by a terrible sense of guilt. His existence had been a whirlwind of war, devastation, death, and destruction. Never had he thought to come to such an ignominious and ignoble end. In his way of thinking, until now, he had presumed he would meet a glorious end in some magnificent conflict in which he had played a pivotal role in creating. That was his purpose. To cause dissidence and unrest. To contribute to the plight of the worthless world of vainglorious humans presuming to become godlike. Who did these wretched multitudes think they were? Did they think they could rise above the muck from which they had crawled? It was his duty! His obligation! His charge! His onus! It was what he had been created to do. Created. Had he been created as surely as the humans he detested? Had the same god created them both? How could it be so?

  “Father, father, why have you abandoned me here? If I displeased you, why did you not tell me so? Why have you thrown down your son?” His gravelly voice echoed across the pool and he heard it resounding endlessly down the empty passages. “O wondrous Inanna, where are you, my beauteous love?” The words of endearment sounded incongruous even to his own ears and again he laughed bitterly at himself before falling into a long wail that ended in uncontrolled sobbing, which gave way to another collapse into unconsciousness.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  After the failed incantation, Luke Matthew had given up hope of finding a real source of food for the army and their rations were growing very thin in short order. They had lost their fine vehicles, most of their hi-tech weaponry and were now reduced to plodding or trudging along on foot through the rubble and debris of the desert passage. In order to alleviate some of the suffering of the foot soldiers, they had stopped only a short time the first night, and then continued on in the cooler portions of the night between midnight and dawn and had made several miles in less time than expected. Their only hope of bringing the expedition home in one piece was reaching New Babylon before the men began to starve. The Grand Master followed through with his promise to provide water. He had led them to a small spring hidden in the scrubby foothills by way of the mysterious baculus. The Templars, two Kings and Baron de Goth rode in front of the column. What horses and camels they had, carried most of the heavier bundles of ammunition and weapons, leaving the soldiers unencumbered by field packs.

  Konrad was riding behind Barry of Sussex, next to Philip d’Ornan when he received the tremendous bolt from out of the blue. He was knocked from the horse as if shot by a high-caliber weapon. He landed in the dirt on his back, knocking the breath completely from his body for several seconds while the other horses pranced and reared and tried to avoid stepping on him. When Barry, Philip and Simon reached him, he was unconscious. Lavon stood over him with a peculiar expression on his face.

  “I believe he received a message,” Lavon said softly, but no one paid any attention to him as they struggled to pick up the lanky Knight of the Apocalypse.

  The Master called again for a halt, and the column stalled while they attempted to revive the Knight.

  When they had him stretched out on his back with a makeshift pillow under his head, they simply stood waiting for him to wake up after their attempts to wake him failed. After about fifteen minutes, Simon managed to get him to wake up enough to speak.

  “The sooner we get home, the better,” he said, when he finally focused on Simon’s face.

  “Where? Who’s home, Konrad?” the Healer asked him.

  “Our ho… Scotland,” the Knight changed his tone and demeanor as he became fully cognizant of his surroundings. Several anxious faces hovered over him, and he suddenly felt very stupid as he perceived he was no longer on his horse, but lying on his back. He didn’t remember the fall. He allowed Simon and Zeb to help him to a sitting position and everything swam lazily in front of his eyes. The dizziness passed, and he accepted a drink of water from his own canteen.

  “If we keep falling off our horses, we’re going to be the laughing stock of all Christendom.” Barry of Sussex tried to lighten things up a bit, but no one laughed.

  “What now?” The Grand Master shouldered his way through the crowd around the Apocalyptic Knight. He had been in the rear of the convoy, trying to recruit de Goth’s officers into the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. D’Brouchart was determined to see the Order rebuilt into what it had been before the Twenty-Seven Year War. So far, he was making excellent progress, having received over thirty names of men promising to make a trip down the Italian peninsula in the fall of the following year to the Villa for something entirely unheard in the history of the Order… Open House. Edgard d’Brouchart had clearly lost his mind, not to mention the generalized aura of intimidation and fear that he had once projected, but his grandsons seemed to appreciate him tremendously, and he was never seen without out one or more of Simon’s sons tagging after him. He arrived with Philip, Dan and Izzy close behind. His apprentice, Little Barry, hurried to meet him, taking the reins of his horse as he dismounted.

  “Brother Lucio sent me a… message,” Konrad told him hesitantly.

  “The Golden Eagle?” D’Brouchart looked around at the expectant faces and an almost wicked smile spread across his face. “And what did o
ur errant bird have to say? Where is he?”

  “He said we should get to Scotland posthaste, Sir,” Konrad told him without amusement. “He said Sophia Cardinelli and Mark Ramsay are missing, victims of some unknown evil presence. It could be most anything, Your Grace.”

  “So he’s gone off and gotten himself in trouble… again?” The Grand Master commented sourly and let out a long sigh.

  “It is not the Golden Eagle who is in trouble, Sir,” Konrad said and stood up. He was a good foot or more taller than the new and improved Grand Master. “It is… Sir Ramsay’s son, Mark.”

  “Now that’s a good one. Du Morte has a son named Mark? Do I know him?”

  “I believe the Ritter is referring to the man we sent to Scotland, Your Grace.” Louis Champlain seemed at first to be patiently explaining the reference to Mark Andrew’s son, but one look at the Frankish King’s face told another story.

  “Ohhhh, that fellow, yes, I suppose that would be an accurate description of his relationship to our Knight of Death.” D’Brouchart turned on his heel and made his way back through the throng which had gathered around Konrad. Konrad pushed his way through the elbows and shoulders to catch up with him.

  “What do you intend to do about Sir Dambretti’s request for aid?” Konrad asked him none-too-respectfully.

  “Did he ask for help?” D’Brouchart turned on him.

  “He asked for help and more.” Konrad did not back down.

  “How can we help him? We are a long way from home, and we have a long road ahead of us, sir,” d’Brouchart said without emotion. “If Dambretti had stayed where he belonged, here with us, then he would not be needing our help.”

  “That makes a great deal of sense, Your Grace,” Konrad nodded his head briefly. “In other words, you subscribe to the doctrine of what you don’t know won’t hurt you?”

  “Yes, I do, but I prefer calling it crossing one bridge at a time. Surely Dambretti knows our plight here. He has a great deal of gall asking for our help, don’t you think?” The Master asked and swept one hand back toward the straggling army.

  Again, the Master left the dark Knight standing in the midst of his comrades and made his way back toward his horse. Konrad stared after him in disbelief until Luke Matthew took his arm.

  “Brother, tell me what you felt,” Luke told him in a low voice as the crowd broke up. “You may find sympathetic ears yet.” Apolonio caught his grandfather’s eye as he fell in beside the King of the Brits.

  “There was something else.” Konrad frowned and tried to brush the dirt and dust from the sleeves of his black shirt. He was not used to being filthy and he hated the feel of the grimy clothing. His beard was full of sand and bits of debris. He would have sold his soul for a long hot bath, a shave and a good haircut and the use of a real water closet with plush four-ply tissue. His comrades were hardly recognizable now, and, if he had not been with them as they grew uglier and dirtier, he would not have known them at all. None of them had been able to clean up since they had left the Ark, and none had cut hair or beard since setting foot in Arabia. Konrad walked back toward the Frankish king who stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Louis caught his other arm when they passed and continued on with them.

  “I saw the General.”

  “General? Schweikert?” Louis urged him to continue. “I thought that Lucifer took care of him.”

  “Nothing was ever definitely said about it one way or another.” Apolonio looked about nervously. He knew all about the General. He had studied the archives extensively when Michey had been busy elsewhere, and his grandfather had told many more stories of the General’s atrocities.

  “Then he is not dead?” Luke asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Konrad said and tried to clear his thoughts. “I saw him in the desert. He…”

  “What? He what?” Louis tightened his grip on the Knight’s left arm. The Frankish king never ignored the visions of the Apocalyptic Knight, not this one, nor the one before him.

  “He was lost. He called for help from…” Konrad felt disoriented and uncertain. What he had seen had been very disturbing. Even more puzzling than the loss of the people in Scotland and Lucio’s plight.

  “From who? Joszef Daniel? The queen mother?” Luke prompted him.

  “From God.”

  Both Louis and Luke Matthew let go of the lanky Knight and stood frowning at him. Their wild hair, scraggly, unkempt beards and dirty faces made them look like terrible visions from hell themselves.

  “He was begging God to help him and he mentioned my name,” Konrad told them and shrugged. It was what he had seen.

  It never ended. Never, never. Nothing had ever prepared him for the outcome of Armageddon. The whole thing had been a farce, a joke. They had come all this way for nothing!

  The Knight of the Apocalypse began to cry silently. The only thing he had left in the world was his son Apolonio and his father-in-law, Lucio Dambretti. He didn’t even have an apprentice to help him with his horse and equipment. He had to saddle his own horse and pitch his tent by himself. The thought of replacing Vallen Martin after his death, had been too depressing to consider. Never before had ever wished more than to be dead and buried in the crypt in Lothian alongside the sparse remains of his beloved Lucia.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Lucio sat on the back steps of Mark Andrew’s old house as he had done so many times in the past. He pulled his collar up around his neck and shivered, and then relaxed his mind. He allowed the cold to slip away and envisioned a bright midsummer’s day to take its place. In the brilliant greens and blues of Simon’s flowers, he saw Lucia and Marco come running toward him, holding hands and laughing. They stopped in front of him and smiled up at him.

  “Poppi, look what Uncle Stephano brought me from Naples!” Marco said and held up a fanciful water blaster. The bright-eyed boy showed him how it worked by squirting his sister with it. Lucia squealed and then took the pistol away from her brother, returning the squirt. Marco wrested it away from her and ran shouting and laughing back down the sidewalk toward the pool.

  Lucia sat down next to him on the steps and took one of his hands in her cool, wet ones.

  “Daddy? Who do you love more? Me or Marco? Marco says you love him more because he looks like Mommy, and you love her most in all the world! Is it true? Do you love him more than me?” She screwed her lovely little face into a serious scowl.

  Lucio smiled at her and shook his head. “That is nonsense, la mia dolce. You look like your poppi. How could I not love you as much as I love Marco? I love all three of you. All the same.”

  “But can’t you love me just a little bit more than you love Marco? He’s a boy!” Lucia held up her thumb and forefinger very close together. “Puh-lease? Just a little, tintsee, wintsee bit?”

  Lucio gave in and glanced around the yard as if he would tell her a great secret.

  “Only if you don’t tell anyone,” he held one finger against her lips and she leaped onto his lap, hugging him tightly and planting a very cold, very wet kiss on his cheek before running off to find her brother. She would tell him first and then the others.

  The vision faded and the cold returned with a vengeance, almost freezing the tears on his face. Such a scene had never occurred. Would never occur. The sunny climate of Southern Italy was still preferable to Scotland, and he wondered what a happy life he might have lived with a little money and a lot of wine during the Middle Ages, if he’d never gotten mixed up with the Order. By now he would have lived another life or two and might have omitted these terrible things, weighty decisions and responsibilities.

  He was not constructed to bear such burdens. His mind, in his opinion, was much too weak and prone to making the worst decisions possible. Catharine had reminded him of his ‘destiny’ repeatedly in the short time that he had been with her even though he had asked her not to worry about such things in light of the precious ‘little’ time before he had to leave again. She had refrained, but then just before
she had kissed him goodbye, she had reminded him once more that he had to keep his thoughts focused on the future when he and she would go back to the east, to Egypt and start a new Kingdom of Khem based loosely on a blend of Alexandrian and Cathar Christian doctrine.

  Lucio did not want to think about it at all. The idea of founding an entire nation seemed beyond his imagination. Certainly Catharine would do most of it. She seemed to have it all planned out, and she had been writing letters to Oriel and other officials in the Frankish Empire. Catharine had established quite a web of useful political, clerical and financial advisors. Well, she could do it; he trusted her completely. What he did not trust was the information Nicole had wrung out of Lugally or whatever his name had been. Something had been very wrong with her incantation. He’d seen her father at work many times and never had he seen such a mishmash of overlapping rings and echoes. She had argued against his reasoning that her magick had not been strong enough to be reliable and had inevitably lost her temper and gave him a piece of her mind. By now he should have collected her entire mind from all the pieces of it he had received. The Italian wondered briefly why he could not seem to get along with females in general and decided it was their fault, not his. Even his own daughter, whom he had loved beyond endurance, had rejected him. If she were there with him at that instance, he would have asked her to forgive him. For what? For being himself? For being alive? For loving her beyond measure? This made him smile in spite of the cold wind blowing across the lawn into his face.