by N. J. Mercer
Clouds slipped in front of the moon again, and the feeble light bulb barely illuminated the scene. Boyd heard the new arrival come to a halt at the foot of his bed; then he saw him for the first time, a tall man who was unlikely to be either of the two that had been harassing him earlier. This fellow was a little taller than the big, curly-haired Glaswegian, far slimmer, and more athletically built.
Boyd carefully watched the man, intrigued by his strange dress. He was draped from head to toe in long, black robes, heavier than those worn by the two who were here previously. It was the mask that made this Disciple’s appearance particularly terrifying; a long piece of rectangular leather hanging in front of the face, tied around the circumference of the head with a strap. Boyd glimpsed grey eyes looking out through two large holes bordered by rings of silver metal. Above this mask, Boyd could see the man’s white hair, neatly cut and combed backwards. Confronted by this menacing individual, Boyd had to quell the mild panic that arose within him. What is going on in this house? Who on earth is under the mask? Will I be able to overcome this mysterious adversary? He looks like a big guy. He had been in tight situations many times before and knew fear was a healthy response when faced with a threat as blatant as this.
The Pharmacist reached into his robes and produced a black leather case with a zip; it was the size of a large wallet. Boyd diverted his attention for a split second to look at Rachel and make sure she was ready; she remained in the corner, crouching, with both hands tightly clutching the lead pipe. He could also see that she was holding some sort of jewellery, maybe a necklace. She’s got to do it, he thought; he was relying on her.
The masked Pharmacist unzipped his case and retrieved an item from it that Boyd initially thought was a pen. Closer observation revealed it to be a syringe; a surge of adrenalin accompanied this realisation. Light reflected off the device’s glass body and flashed across its long protruding needle. The masked man carefully regarded the tip as he gently squeezed the plunger, releasing a jet of fluid. Boyd considered attacking him now; he was still standing at the foot of the bed, too far away for an effective strike. Boyd decided to wait. Satisfied with his preparation, the Pharmacist walked to Boyd’s side and lowered the syringe to his already exposed left forearm; just before the needle touched his skin, Boyd exploded into action. His right arm flicked out of the loose rope and knocked the syringe to the floor; the mask may have covered the face, it could not, however, hide the astonishment in those eyes, something that Boyd savoured. Now he had to press home the advantage. He swung his leg around, aiming it at the robed man’s kidneys, making good contact. The kick would have bowled anyone over; the Pharmacist just staggered sideways a few steps. Boyd was dismayed that his adversary had felt so solid against his foot. He got off the bed quickly and stood up, aiming a kidney punch at the same spot; before his fist landed, a hand chopped at the side of his neck, jolting his entire body so that he only hit air. The Pharmacist’s strength and speed had caught him off guard. The Disciple grabbed Boyd’s shoulders in an attempt to grapple him onto the metal bed frame. Boyd wrestled to release himself from this grip; it was like trying to escape from a vice, and he was slowly pushed backwards. Using his body weight to keep Boyd pinned down, the Pharmacist reached into his robes and pulled out a long dagger. With one arm pressing Boyd against the bed, he stood up straight, ready to plunge the weapon. There was a blur of movement behind the masked man, then a thump. The Pharmacist’s head rocked forward violently, the dagger clattered on to the floorboards, and Boyd rolled sideways as his would-be killer fell onto the metal bed. No longer was it a terrifying Disciple of Disorder that was standing before him, only a petite dark-haired girl, panting fiercely, with her lead pipe ready for another strike. Before he could congratulate Rachel on a job well done, Boyd was instead shocked to hear movement and moaning from his downed adversary on the bed beside him; a blow like that should have killed a man, or at least caused unconsciousness. Tough bastard, thought Boyd. He turned around in time to see the Pharmacist attempting to get back onto his feet and looped the rope that still hung loosely around his wrists twice around his neck before pulling on the ends, choking him. The Pharmacist grabbed at the rope, attempting to ease it away from his neck; Boyd pulled tighter. The masked man started to slide from the bed and onto the floor; he was making a strange sound and his body rocked up and down. Boyd thought he was witnessing his death throes; he soon realised, to his horror, that it was actually choked laughter. The Pharmacist fell silent suddenly, and then, with a cry, he stood up. Boyd, caught by surprise, was thrown backwards; he managed to keep his grip on the rope. Rachel, still holding the lead pipe, was frozen with fear and unable to get a clean swing as the two combatants were struggling so closely now. The Disciple was tall, well over six feet; Boyd, hanging on to the rope, was lifted off the ground. He was swung to either side and did not dare to let go. Almost a minute later, the Pharmacist, weakened, started to stagger and slowly collapsed to his knees. Boyd gritted his teeth; muscles and veins bulged on either side of his broad neck, and his face took on an inhuman visage as he used whatever strength remained in him to garrotte his opponent. The Pharmacist slumped forwards, his head hit the ground with a crack, he twitched violently for a few seconds and then lay still with Boyd straddling him. The victor cautiously released his grip on the two ends of rope in his hands; the vanquished did not move. Breathing heavily from the exertion of his struggle, Boyd turned to look at Rachel, and she gave him a feeble smile which barely hid her terror.
“Thanks,” he said, and Rachel just nodded.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned about the effect of the violence she had just witnessed.
“I’m fine,” replied Rachel.
“That was one hard bastard; let’s see who he was.” Boyd rolled the dead body onto its back and pulled the mask off. The face was contorted in its final death throes. Lying in front of him was an older man with rather distinguished features. He had thick, white hair that receded at the temples and remained neatly brushed back over the scalp despite the mêlée. Boyd baulked at the thought of what the outcome would have been had he fought this man in his prime.
Rachel took a few steps towards the body and gasped at the wide open and bloodshot eyes that stared back at her. Boyd sensed it was not purely the shock of seeing the corpse that was responsible for her surprise.
“Have you seen him before?” he asked.
“Yes, he was a friend of my foster father’s; some sort of business acquaintance, a very important man if I remember correctly.”
“Mr Devilliers has friends in high places,” said Boyd. “Well, I’ve got a few friends too, and with any luck they’re on their way,” he added under his breath. He looked from the dead man to Rachel. “What’s that in your hand?” he asked, pointing to the amulet dangling between her fingers.
“I don’t know; something Martin gave to me.”
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
Boyd took the amulet; it was an amber sphere, its surface carved with runes, and a black metal skull was embedded at its very centre.
“By the Grimoires, you have a Qrwshan. We may stand a chance yet! Where did Martin get this from?”
“I don’t know.”
Boyd returned the amulet to Rachel.
“What shall we do?” she asked.
Her question was met with a frown. Boyd silently considered the situation. There was significant danger in heading outdoors, there would be search parties out looking for Rachel; therefore, it seemed that the safest place to be was somewhere in this house. He decided the best thing to do was to find a place where the girl could hide while he tried his utmost to sabotage the plans Edward Devilliers had made for tonight, and do whatever damage he could until Johnny and company arrived … if they arrived.
He explained his plan to Rachel, only hinting that he had friends on the outside that might be able to help. He did not want the girl to be in a situation where she knew too much information; informa
tion which she could potentially be forced to divulge. Rachel was in agreement with what he proposed; having run out of options, she would have agreed with any plan that might give them a chance of surviving this night.
Boyd gestured at the robed figure on the attic floor, “Let’s get out of here before this lad’s friends turn up.” His attention shifted back to Rachel, “Show me a place we can hide you, preferably somewhere you can escape from quickly should the need arise.” He gave Rachel some time to think of a suitable place.
“We can go back the way I came in, to the old coal cellar. It’s a pretty horrid place. I’m sure nobody will find me inside it. We can pile up some of the junk so I could use it to climb out through the window again if I have to.” Rachel suggested.
“Can we get there easily?”
“Yeah – I mean, that’s how I got here.”
“Sounds good – let’s go.”
She started to walk.
“Wait! Just a few things to do before we leave our friend,” Boyd said, returning to the body of the Pharmacist. He fumbled amongst the dead man’s robes and found a bunch of keys in various sizes secreted amongst the folds of voluminous black material. Crouched over the body, he saw the long ceremonial dagger and syringe lying on the floor. The glass of the syringe was broken and its fluid spilled, he ignored it and took the dagger which remained in his hand. The keys went into one of the many zipped pockets of his motorcycle leathers. Boyd noticed that Rachel had left the lead pipe in the corner where she had been hiding; he picked it up and held it out towards her.
“Don’t leave this; I thought you were pretty good with it.” He offered her back the makeshift weapon.
“Thanks.” She took it from him for the second time.
“Have you seen any more masked freaks?” Boyd asked before they left the attic.
“No, I’m quite sure they’re around though,” Rachel replied. “Judging by the cars I saw in the nearby field, I think there are a lot more.”
“Where are they all now?”
“I would say they are wherever the doors lead to.”
“What doors?”
“My foster father is a strange man; there are doors throughout this property and its land. There is at least one in this house; there are others in the outbuildings and some in the fields around the house which are more like trapdoors. All of them are locked and kind-of hidden, but not totally, if you know what I mean. I don’t think he is really concerned about us knowing about them, we certainly can’t go through them. I have seen my foster father use them many times, and other people too. I see strange cars in our driveway and people in the fields at all hours of the night, and yet, the house seems to be empty; it never made any sense.”
Boyd thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin, “I’m still wondering what all this has got to do with you, Rachel?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Martin told me if I stayed then I was in big trouble. My foster mother is part of all this too; she brought me this ridiculous outfit to wear.” Her hand swept disdainfully over the front of the dress.
“She’s Martin’s sister, isn’t she? Elizabeth Devilliers.”
“Yes.”
“As soon as we hide you in the cellar, you must tell me where these secret doors are. I need to find that foster father of yours and his friends. Okay! Let’s move! I’ll go ahead just in case there’s any danger; you follow close behind and tell me where to go.”
Under the teenager’s instructions, Boyd hastily led the way out of the attic. They moved through the hatch by which the girl had entered earlier and into the box room on the topmost floor. He turned every corner ready to thrust the long knife into any would-be attacker, determined to keep the girl safe. There was still the entire empty wing of the house to negotiate before they reached their objective in the disused coal cellar. They did not know it, but deep underground the summoning of Orbok had begun, and already, unspeakable entities from the realms of Disorder were materialising around them.
Chapter 32
Having successfully warped himself and Baccharus through space–time, Johnny was about to enter the motorhome again, eager to be reunited with the friends he had so grudgingly left behind. He gripped the door handle; sensing trouble on the other side, he paused suddenly.
“Baccharus, stay back,” he whispered.
“What’s going on?” the familiar asked.
“Quiet now! Just stay back.”
Baccharus drifted away from the vehicle.
“Sascha! Boyd! It’s Johnny and Bach, we’re coming in!” Johnny thought it wise to not only project a shield but also announce his arrival before entering; it turned out to be a good move. On hearing the door unlock, he slowly opened it to see his oldest friend clumsily aiming Boyd’s heavy revolver straight at him. Johnny had psychically pre-empted danger; he had not, however, expected to see Sascha sitting there, ready to blow the head off whoever walked in. There was a split-second standoff.
“Johnny! Bach! I didn’t think you guys were going to make it back! I mean, what the hell kept you?!” exclaimed Sascha in a release of pent-up anxiety. A beaming smile had replaced his frown, and he lunged at his two friends with a welcoming embrace. Sascha explained that his equipment had picked up colossal psychic energy fluctuations, making him nervous enough to pick up the gun. Realising what had happened, Johnny described the space–time warp he had initiated and apologised for not thinking about the alarm its energy field would have caused. There was an excited exchange between the three friends, and Baccharus started to recount the events in the valley for Sascha’s benefit.
The crew together again, thought Johnny. “So, where’s Boyd?” he asked, interrupting the energetic chatter, half expecting the errant Irishman to appear from the bathroom or the pile of bedding on one of the bunks.
Sascha looked grave and shook his head. “He went off, Johnny. You know Boyd; he was getting edgy and restless. He reckoned he would go and scout around … he’s not back yet, and if I told you I wasn’t concerned, I would be lying.”
“How long has he been gone?” Johnny asked.
“Over an hour … it’s too long,” was the deflated reply.
It was followed by silence.
“Damn! He should have waited!” Baccharus said eventually.
“Boyd can look after himself; I bet he’s giving those Disciples hell already!” Johnny said, putting a more positive spin on their friend’s absence; it brought a smile to everybody’s face. “He’ll find a way to catch up. We, on the other hand, have got to get moving,” he added, and there was a sense of finality in his words.
“Is it time to confront them?” Sascha asked nervously; Baccharus turned to look at Johnny expectantly. All they got was a nod; it was enough – the order to go over the top.
“I’ll fire her up then,” said Sascha, taking the driver’s seat. Johnny settled into the front passenger seat, and Baccharus perched himself beside his headrest as the diesel rumbled into life for the last time before they faced the Disciples of Disorder. The friends set off.
Johnny listened as Sascha told him about how he and Boyd had been studying maps of the region together; it was reassuring to know that at least one of them had a good working knowledge of the local routes. Sascha went on to explain that after Boyd left, all he could do was work on his Disruptor device to keep himself from worrying excessively.
As his friend talked away, Johnny remained quiet, contemplating the task ahead; this didn’t last for long though, because Sascha wanted some answers. “Baccharus told me a little about what happened out there, Johnny,” he started, referring to the meeting with Theodora, “he said only you could explain the events.”
Johnny considered his response, “It was the next stage, Sascha; the next stage of a journey I originally started with you.”
Johnny went on to recount his experiences with the old woman. First, he narrated the story of the Earth witches and the summoning of Orbok, and then he went on to describe his personal journey of psychi
c realisation. Baccharus was quick to add in odd details that Johnny neglected to mention. Sascha listened in wonder; he did not say a word until Johnny had finished, at which point there was no restraining his enthusiasm.
“So now you can use your will to manipulate matter on a larger scale than ever before, that’s great! Propelling yourself within a wave of warped space–time … wow! That’s all so amazing! Who knows what else you could be capable of?!”
“You’re right, Sascha, I can do more now than ever before, although there is a limit to what can be accomplished. The whole art of psychic manipulation works on the visualisation of what you want to achieve. If you cannot create the task in your own mind with some degree of accuracy, then you cannot perform it. I mean, look at now for example, that’s why we’re driving. I can’t just warp us to somewhere I have never seen, or been, before because I can’t visualise the destination. Another problem is that I’m still pretty raw. It takes unwavering concentration to perform complex feats, and that, believe me, is pretty exhausting.”
“So from what you’re saying, I suppose it will be a few years before you really get to grips with your new skills?”
“It might be more than that; to be honest, I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s hope you’ve got enough in you to sort out these Disciples before the Demon King himself appears.”
“Thanks for the reminder!” said Baccharus.
It was a sobering thought; the possibility of confronting a major demon from the worlds of Disorder. It negated the good news of Johnny’s enhanced abilities. As ever, the moment of elation that had dared to present itself was promptly cut short by the reality of their situation. They drove on.