Saligia

by Gerard A Whitfield

  Although his upper chest was man-like, his torso sported stick-thin legs and a serpentine tail, which lashed from side-to-side, spinning his strange chariot as he moved.

  Tiers of seats were set around the stage, their perfectly circular shape cut by the twin sets of stairs leading up to the marquee’s opening. The singing started, the music powerful, the words non-sensical yet conveying a desperate need and subtle and silky promise all at once. They did not fail, men and women, the survivors from the battlefield, stepped zombie-like through the entrance and took their seats. Other tantalising smells issued from the lit braziers to either side of the stage and they too drew in their prey. A final person tripped and fell through the opening, the sides of the tent sliding together behind him and the show began.

  *

  Meaker felt the wind, it roared deep within his mind, blowing his weakened senses from side to side mercilessly. It was strong, twisting his emotions and lifting them to new heights, with each gyration of the capering performers on the stage. A tantalising glimpse of flesh, a curious curve or hidden shape, stirred him further. He knew that he was not alone, his fellow unfortunates suffered by his side, their ecstacy a pain almost unbearably strong, and still the wind blew.

  The Captain half-lay in his seat, his arms and legs spread wide, as if in prayer or waiting for some divine gift; yet it did not come.The slinking, shivering familiars moved closer, infiltrating his nerve-endings with their implied pleasures. The succubi stealing his life-force, passing it langorously to their male counterparts through lazy and playful kisses. Slowly, desiring more of their deadly touches, Meaker faded into oblivion.

  *

  Geriond had felt the call, his bashed and broken body still strapped to the now twisted frame. He struggled to respond to the siren song, yet there had been nothing he could do. Trooper after trooper stolidly and unknowingly marched forward, towards the strange marquee that appeared from amongst the leprous mist. The Leftenant had instinctively known that the overwhelming lust, the passions aroused by the invitation had been unfulfillable. It did not matter, every fibre of his being strained to respond to the emotional magnet, and his despair and loss had been crushing, especially when the entrance flaps closed.

  Now he stared, tears of shame running down his bloodied cheeks and cried out for help. There was the roar of a descending craft and he felt rough hands pull him free from his prison. He crashed unceremoniously to the floor, the pain of recirculating blood tremendous, causing him to block out the shouted questions. It was only the cold, hard and amazingly focussing muzzle of the pistol, which brought him back to his senses.

  Looking up, he saw the metallic armour, which blocked out what little light that remained. His eyes fixed on the stylised angel, spread across the Immortal’s chest, and for a moment he thought that Lucifer had returned, but a quick glance upwards showed him an open and almost beatific face.

  “Who are you?” he coughed, whooping in great breaths of sticky mist.

  “I am Raphael, of the Angels,” replied the man simply, “I am here to repair a little the damage caused by my brothers.”

  Geriond stared at him suspiciously, the Angels had already proven themselves prideful and headstrong, this man looked nothing like them. Although his armour mirrored that of the other Immortals, there was a bulkiness to it, that was disconcerting and a strange, sulphurous smell hung around him. Looking more closely, the Leftenant saw the now holstered pistol and a strange tubed arrangement which clung to Raphael’s arm and ended near to his closed hand. Wisps of bue flame snaked around his fingers and finally Geriond recognised the smell of liquid fire.

  A smile played across Raphael’s face and he nodded briefly, congratulating the Leftenant’s recognition of his weapon.

  “This is the hand that smites the unworthy. It is the red-hot iron of purification, casting down the heretical and purifying their souls.”

  Unbidden, Geriond’s mouth dropped open, the sheer certainty of delivery and the righteous gleam in the Immortal’s eyes, had overwhelmed him. This one was worse than Lucifer, the other had been prideful, flawed in some way, Raphael was purity and belief itself, and Geriond knew that this could only end badly.

  “Come!” commanded Raphael, grasping the Leftenant’s uniform collar and ignoring his whimpers of pain, “It is time to take the cleansing fire to the heathens!”

  *

  Flames ripped through the marquee’s entrance, sending gouts of burning cloth high into the tent’s billowing roof, where the sparks stuck and propogated. Asmodai bellowed his anger, the wheels on his carriage spinning uselessly as he skittered across his stage. His familiars, leapt away from their hapless victims; high they flew, their robes floating alluringly behind them as they glided sinuously towards their master.

  “They are mine,” roared Raphael, pointing at the stage, “and this is yours,”he said, pulling a thin metal rod from his belt. It terminated in the shape of a letter P, which the Immortal now held in the spurt of flame which jetted between his fingers.

  Geriond saw the letter turn red-hot and watched incredulously, as a cheerful Raphael slapped it against the forehead of the nearest trooper. There was a sizzling sound, the stench of burning flesh and a plaintive cry, as the already near-dead soldier was tormented just a little more.

  “Mark them for me!” demanded the Angel, “I will then pass them through the Holy Fire!”

  With that, he strode forward, his loud voice calling out the Prelate’s name, as the roar of ignited fuel signalled that his work had begun.

  The Leftenant started to throw away the iron, which still glowed hotly, but instead became transfixed. Its colour changed ever so slightly as its temperature dropped and child-like he revelled in the simplicity of this act. He knew that he was postponing his decision, whether to follow the obviously demented Immortal’s order or to ignore it and accept the no doubt fatal consequences.

  Whilst he dithered, creatures burned, their screams of terror mingled with something that almost sounded like pleasure.

  *

  Raphael stood in front of the stage, his hand held forth, fingers splayed wide, as he poured holy fire onto the corrupt and unworthy. He chanted prayers, but these became more and more disjointed as his religious ecstacy overpowered him. A manaical gleam sparkled in his eyes as he watched succubi roast before him, their bodies revealed by the all-consuming fire. Limbs twisted and flesh melted as the purifying heat reduced them to a fraction of their previous size.

  All through this his laughter threatened to break free, but it was only when he took his purging fire to Asmodai that he gave it its head. A lustful laugh escaped its restraints and he sent small bursts of flame towards the now helpless thing. Its wheels spun, its tail lashed, but he did not care. First he torched its legs so it could not move, then watched it roar from each of its heads in pain, before finally opening the full force of the flamer onto what remained of Asmodai.

  The Immortal’s skin was flushed not just from the heat but also the excitement of the experience. Finally, he drew himself clear and saw the Leftenant, standing exactly where he had left him. Angrily he stamped towards him, tearing the now cold iron from Geriond’s hand. He placed it in the flame, waiting until it was white-hot and then thrust it back into the shocked man’s hand.

  “Do it!” he screamed in righteous rage, and he smiled in satisfaction as the weakling’s hand began to move.

  *

  Geriond was truly lost, he had been beaten, shot and abused and his mind was hanging to reality by the thinnest of threads. This crazed maniac had demonstrated that he was as bad, if not worse than the demon-like creature that had called these troopers to their deaths.

  When the hot metal rod was slammed into his awaiting palm, he could not have made any voluntary decision and it was the Immortal’s shouted command which galvanised him into action. Not only that, it snapped his last vestiges of sanity and it was, with a grin matching that of Raphael’s, that Geriond raised the shimmering metal.

&nbs
p; “Repent!” he giggled, spearing the incandescent letter into the unexpecting man’s forehead and cackling as it stuck there. He let go, taking advantage of the surprised Raphael’s pain to pull free the holstered pistol.

  “Cleansing fire!” he crowed, as he pulled the trigger, emptying the pistol into the Angel’s body. The exploding rounds twisting Raphael away from him and impacting onto the flamer’s tank.

  With a whoosh the tank exploded, igniting the tent, purifying the unholy creatures within and burning clear the last vestiges of mist.

  Chapter Four

  Invidia

  O father Zeus, how fierce a heart hath Zelos! Him hast thou made, O lord, mightier than nature to behold and has given him the bitter force of fire, and in his right hand hast vouchsafed to him to wear a sword of adamant. He preserves not, when he comes, dear children to their loving parents, he knows nor comrade nor kin nor cousin, when he intervenes grievous and unspeakable.

  Oppian, Cynegetica 3

  Four they were, strong and tall, their very bones woven from the sinews of the mighty. No man could face them and live, no demon-spawned monster could look upon their divine faces; they breathed fire and smote with thunder and of them all Cratos was paramount, in strength and power.

  For centuries they had crushed their foes beneath their respective feet and shown no preference to prey nor rank; their faith was their guide and the bastion on which others broke.

  Now they were ready, their armies ranged behind him, chafing to be released from the chains of indecision. Only one force stood against them, that of Leviathan.

  *

  Private Chaps gazed in awe-struck wonder at his commanders, they even looked undefeatable. He was one of the newer replacements, drafted in after the last battle, when the regiments had been decimated. The veteran soldiers still talked of the ferocity of the encounter and the destruction they had wrought. All he knew was that many had been taken to the Great One’s bosom, and those left bragged how the enemy would once again pay heavily.

  The dice had fallen clearly on his side; to be placed into General Cratos’ command, from all that he had heard the best of the best. Even now he could see the General on the hillside, his pose heroic as he pondered the disposition of his troops. His fellow Generals were also there, but it was clear that although mighty, they were just pale reflections of his greatness.

  *

  “Just look at him!” muttered Zelos to himself, as his brother officer primped and posed, “It’s not as though he even knows what he’s doing!”

  “Quiet,” whispered Bia, her stentorian stage whisper, doing little to hide their conversation, “he might hear you!”

  Zelos spat in disgust, the viscous fluid splattering the polished boot of Nike, their other companion, who was staring somewhat starry-eyed at Cratos. She failed to notice the new tarnish, so recently added to her uniform as she eagerly squirmed under the General’s gaze.

  *

  Cratos looked with pride over the troops arrayed all around him, his requests for reinforcements had been quickly, almost fervently, filled. Smoke plumed from the exhausts of the tanks, their engines snarling in anticipation, their growls like that of a pack of hunting beasts, eager for their restraints to be slipped. Troops crouched in line, staring up at him, waiting for his order to advance; he knew that he was the one they looked to, rather than his brother and sister Generals, but that was only right in his eyes.

  He deliberately turned into the sun, letting the early morning rays flash off the many medals adorning his tunic jacket and raised his hand slowly into the air. It stayed there, unmoving for a moment, then slashed downwards. Instantly a great roar rang around him, as soldiers leapt to their feet weapons brandished skywards, cheering with all their might, “Cr-a-a-tos! Cr-a-a-tos!”

  *

  Leviathan heard their petty cheering, their insignificant cries of approbation and grumbled slightly, his sleep disturbed. His men too waited for orders, but they were not forthcoming. Snorting at the temerity of the Churchmen, Leviathan rolled over, in so doing blithely crushing some of his own soldiers, and dozed once more.

  *

  Zelos slammed his sword into its belt sheath and brought his boot crashing down onto the small stool next to his camp bed. His rage was colossal, foam flecked the corners of his mouth and a baleful light glowed from deep within his eyes. Cratos’ name still echoed around in his head and drove him to this excess. The pompous ass had done nothing except get men killed and it had been he, General Zelos, who had stopped the rot. He had led his men into the teeth of the enemy and crushed them, saving the foolish Cratos’ neck.

  No-one recognised this, all held Cratos in a sort of reverential awe, as though he was divinely-blessed. His followers acted as though they were under some spell, as though…. Suddenly Zelos stopped his wild gyrations and stared sightlessly into the distance. That would explain everything, he had been exposed to the Tauran front line, had been with them long enough. Perhaps, he, Zelos, had unwittingly brought a parasitic infection into the camp! He was overwhelmingly convinced of the truth of his thoughts, there was no room for doubt, it would also explain why Nike and Bia were so mindlessly willing to follow Cratos’ every word. His indecision gone, he ripped his sword free, releasing it in a smooth, practised motion and strode purposefully from his tent.

  *

  In his dream-like state, Leviathan was content; all went to plan. It was ever so, these humans were so malleable, easily swayed. All he needed was the slightest of touches and then they were his. Emotions could be played like the strings of some musical instrument, and he was a maestro.

  Something pricked his consciousness, and roused him to a state of at least half-wakefulness. What was that which stung him so?

  *

  Cratos had climbed onto the running-board of an air car and hung there one-handed, his troops cheering as he made his way forward. Behind him came two of his generals in another vehicle, the fourth curiously absent. Private Chaps had noticed this and wondered, but than he saw the running man, sword waving firecly above his head, his shouts ringing out loudly, and he grinned. That would be Zelos, he thought, as had many, he had heard the General’s envious mutterings and dismissed them as the whinings of a small-minded man, whose gifts were not to the level of their beloved General Cratos’.

  What was he shouting? It sounded like he was calling out the General’s name, but there was something else. Now he could hear it, each time more clearly as the frantic man closed on his position, “Cratos! Heretic!”, he screamed, pointing his sword at the General.

  In panicked disbelief, Private Chaps unslung his rifle and took aim, many of his fellow troopers copying his actions.

  *

  The hill awoke, shedding soldiers, guns, tanks and trucks. Cratos could not believe what he saw, nor felt, as the ground heaved upwards. They had only just reached the flatter part of the valley, as the earth erupted. Still clinging on with one hand, he swung himself round and gasped in dismay. A cloud of dust and fire radiated out from what had been his command centre, a deep blackness swallowing all light. Stripes of green and molten orange permeated the area, their pattern indistinct amidst the turmoil, as destruction reigned.

  He saw the former ridge of the hill flow like water, as a scaly serpentine back seemed to plunge into the very midst of the disaster. His transport screeched to a halt and he jumped down, pulling his pistol clear and roaring for his troops to regroup and face the new threat.

  A jagged chasm split the nightmare scene, its sharpened edges snapping in anticipation of the human morsels falling indiscrimnately into its depths. There was a kind of gelatinous, hanging curtain, which pulsed evilly with each further aftershock, and Cratos suddenly realised that this thing was truly alive, just as two great orbs ignited in all of their horrendous splendour.

  His rallying cry roared out across the valley and frightened men turned, their faith in their General overcoming even their fear. Smiling, he hauled himself up to where the pintle-mounted ca
nnon waited and began to fire. The rounds spewed outwards, their actual physical effect ineffectual, but their mental worth priceless.

  Squad after squad skidded to a halt, almost in tandem, their officers rallying them to the cause. Their leader, his example almost prophetically pyrric, urged his vehicle back towards the monster rising before them. Shame, rage, envy and even love turned them and with a cry of faith, they too faced the beast and fought.

  *

  “No!” screamed Zelos, as he saw the General work his magic, the men rush into death’s ugly face, and his fellow tear-stained peers urge them on.

  “Wait!” he pleaded, as he saw the rifles levelled at him, his hands protesting feebly, the sword now discarded onto the mud-churned floor.

  “Here…!” was all he had left, as the volley of fire ripped into him, as his body blossomed with the flowers of repentence, and as soldiers’ boots, pushed him beneath the non-resisting earth.

  *

  Private Chaps picked up the sword and held it in wonder before his face, his companions’ cries breaking his adulation as they raced to be at the General’s side. This was not right, he thought, had not he led them against Zelos jealous rage? With a growl of anger, he dropped his rifle, the sword swinging wildly before him, as he cleaved his way through those who had instantly become his rivals.

  *

  Leviathan was now truly awake, and thoroughly enjoying himself. He had felt Zelos’ envy, it had been that which had awoken him, a strong and vibrant emotion. Before him now were those paler forces of Faith and Prayer, some Love, but much Anger; which again stirred him. Of them all though, it was Envy and Jealousy that he hungered for, whose flames he fanned and whose exquisite bouquet he yearned for. Then he felt the merest flicker, fanned it and encouraged its conflagration. This was, in truth, the reason for war and he would expend almost all that he had to experience it further.