by N. J. Mercer
“Sure.” Sascha wandered off to find a fallen Disciple whose physique approximated his. Johnny closed his eyes again; he had not yet commenced the mind probe. His subject was already muttering away nervously. Johnny dug his fingers into the man’s scalp, firm contact made the process much more effective. As his concentration increased, the Disciple started to struggle.
“Hey! Get off me! What’s going on?” mumbled the man in feeble protest; Johnny’s focus did not waver despite the objections. It was not long before he had subdued the subject’s mind, and the Disciple resisted no more. Johnny poked and prodded the various memory regions of the man’s cortex, learning how his wild childhood and tragic personal circumstances had pushed him towards the occult and eventually into Edward Devilliers’ hands where he had found liberation through a love of chaos with its forever changing principles and an appreciation of the beauty to be found in anarchy. This was not the information Johnny was after so he searched further through the maze of thoughts and mental images; the longer he searched, the more discomfort the subject experienced. The Disciple started to shake and twitch with steadily increasing ferocity. Sascha, now dressed as one of the robed guards, noticed blood dripping from his nose and urged Johnny to hurry the process; Johnny knew that if the man died it would be a moral disaster, especially if he did not yield any useful secrets. Relevant images finally presented themselves to Johnny; a network of halls, rooms, tunnels and stairways, identical in architecture to their current location. Johnny rapidly flashed the images back and forth in his mind, studying them and noting every detail.
“Come on, man! You’ve got to stop there; he can’t take any more!” Sascha warned.
The nosebleed was gushing now, and the Disciple lay there with eyes, teeth and fists clenched tightly. Johnny eased his mind away from the subject and decreased the pressure he exerted from his fingertips, finally releasing the man both physically and psychically. The Disciple’s body went limp, he was breathing steadily and any signs of distress had passed. He even managed to half-open his eyes; it seemed his brain might have survived intact.
“So did you get anything?” Baccharus asked.
Johnny nodded. “Time I got changed too,” he said and started to strip a dead Disciple’s leather robes; wrapped up inside was a portly young woman, he had assumed it was a man.
Once in disguise, Johnny briefed his companions on what he had seen. He described the corridors and chambers that lay in this underground complex, and most importantly, he pinpointed the location of the ceremony – the subterranean cathedral where they would have to confront the Disciples. Sascha and Baccharus listened to all of this very carefully, without even speaking a word, and when Johnny went on to describe the plan he had formulated for the final assault they absorbed every detail and nodded along with what he was telling them. Johnny warned them that soon they would truly be entering the heart of this enemy stronghold. The only certainty was that they would be outnumbered … very outnumbered. He also gave them hope; Johnny believed that he had seen memories of Boyd in the mind of the Disciple. Their friend was probably still alive somewhere in this very complex. When he had finished, Johnny gave his companions a few minutes to reflect on everything he had presented to them, and when they voiced no objections he knew it was time to move on.
“Okay, boys, stay close. Bach, you stay low,” Johnny ordered.
“Are we going now?” Baccharus asked, his voice sounded uncharacteristically nervous.
“Yup, now that I have accurate knowledge of where we have to go, there is only one worthwhile way of getting there.”
“A Warp?” guessed Sascha.
“That’s right.”
“Let’s go and find some Disciples!” declared Baccharus.
Chapter 38
Consciousness returned gradually. Even before he opened his eyes, Boyd could feel that his body was incapacitated. He tried moving an arm and then a leg but found he could do neither. Fuck’s sake, not again was the first thought to enter his mind.
A strange vibration which he could not explain pulsed through him at regular intervals, and then he noticed the cold; he felt so very cold. His last memory was of the icy mist, how it had engulfed him and sapped him of life and energy. Maybe he was dead now and that was why he could not move his limbs. The weird whispering and moaning mist had killed him with its cold embrace.
What is that noise? Some sort of singing and chanting? Cherubs perhaps, just like Baccharus … Am I in heaven?
At first, the chanting had seemed distant; as he became increasingly lucid it was clearer and louder … and the most fearful thing about it was its omnipresence.
There was relief when he felt himself shivering and his chest heaving – both confirmed he was still alive; he had survived the mist after all. His moment of relief only lasted for as long as his eyes were shut. On opening them, he thought he was dead once more, and judging by the scene around him, it wasn’t heaven where he had ended up … this was definitely hell.
Boyd lay in a wooden ox-cart, wrapped from head to toe in layers of heavy chain that formed a giant metal cocoon around him so tight that he could barely lift a finger. He looked out through the links that covered his face onto a great Gothic hall which was poorly lit by lanterns and flaming torches fixed to its walls. A purple glow tinged the whole scene and indicated an alternative source of light that he could not see; this puzzled him. Even more puzzling were the twisting, gyrating figures that crowded the peripheries of this strange place and the balconies higher up. Despite years of confronting Disorder and witnessing the peculiarities of its followers, he still found himself watching the dancing Disciples with disbelief. Most were naked except for leather masks that tightly gripped their entire heads; others were dressed in black outfits covered by capes, they wore leather masks which were a little different. Theirs were plain and long and hung in front of the face so that their wearer looked out onto the world through two large, metal-rimmed eyeholes. It occurred to him that this second lot were dressed like the man with the syringe he had killed earlier. Further examination of the Disciples revealed the anatomy of a few to be non-human; some were like the blue-skins he had encountered earlier with his friends.
Even through his chains, he felt the very hall itself resonating to the Disciples’ chant, which he recognised as being recited in the tongue of Disorder (it was like the language of the Grimoires, only twisted). Its vocals ranged from the complex and intricate to the guttural and bestial; somehow, the legions around him remained in chaotic harmony with each other. He had heard this language before, all over the world, and it only confirmed what he knew already: that he was a prisoner of the Disciples once more. Whispering, Boyd recited memorised lines from the Grimoires, a ward of protection. He was interrupted when a nearby moan followed by a nudge startled him – there was somebody else in the ox-cart! His bonds ensured that he could not turn around to see who it was. Was it the girl, Rachel? Surely, they wouldn’t treat a child the way they were treating him now. He felt helpless and angry; if anything happened to Rachel, he swore by the Grimoires that even if it was his very last act in this world, someone would pay. The chanting proceeded unhindered for what seemed like an age to the trussed-up Boyd. Despite the depravity around him, he was grateful for the flaming torches and the multitude gyrating reprobates as their combined heat had almost restored his body temperature.
Then the chanting stopped; there was a tense silence, shuffles echoed around the chamber here and there. “Prepare the first prisoner,” boomed a voice, cold and authoritative; it sent an unexplainable shiver through Boyd, who had never considered himself to be of a nervous disposition. He heard people moving around in response to the disembodied order. Footsteps made their way towards him as he lay helpless. Hands grabbed his chain cocoon and rolled him onto his side, affording him a better view of what was going on through the links around his face. It was not him they had come for; from the corner of his eye, he could see that they were in fact after the figure lying behind h
im, the one who had been groaning and was also wrapped from head to toe in chain. He watched as four leather-robed Disciples carried this unfortunate away on their shoulders. Was it Rachel? he asked himself again. Can’t be – too big. It looked like another man; it was difficult to tell through the chain. The captive barely moved. Boyd watched carefully to find out who it was bound within those chains; he realised that whatever fate befell his fellow prisoner would probably be what he would have to look forward to for himself.
While the attention of the hall was diverted away from him, he silently struggled against his bonds; twisting and turning, he tried to free himself. His cocoon rocked to either side, and more details of the underground cathedral were revealed, he even saw the wormhole. Flabbergasted, he watched the ethereal spinning tunnel of purple light and gas, and he flinched whenever lightning crackled through its substance. So engrossed was he by this sight that he even forgot his bondage whilst he observed. For what it was worth, he now had an explanation for the purple glow that engulfed the chamber and the deep vibration that pulsed slowly through its walls and floor. Never in all his years of confronting rogue psychic forces had he seen such a bizarre and breathtaking sight as this spinning region of energy – the focus of this grotesque ritual he was caught up in.
The cold voice bellowed more of its chilling orders. “Bring forth the vessels!” it commanded. The strange audience turned to another section of the great hall so Boyd took the chance to further adjust his position. Caterpillar-like, he brought his knees up and then down together until he was able to see the tall, fierce figure that stood at the wickedly carved lectern. He carefully observed the daunting physical presence of the man who was master of this ceremony; he noted his great height, angular nose, square jaw, lean build and thick black hair brushed back over a large forehead. Despite lacking any notable psychic ability, Boyd could sense energy radiating from this distinguished individual like prickly heat on his face, uncomfortable and unpleasant, quite unlike the aura of calm he felt around Johnny – maybe he was not as blunt as he thought. He suddenly felt the urge to turn away; it was beyond his conscious control, as if there was something offensive about observing this chief of the Disciples for too long. He knew it could only be Edward Devilliers standing there – the Warlock.
When a steady drumbeat started to echo around the hall, Boyd’s heart leapt. He followed the collective gaze of the gathered Disciples to a wall with three pointed archways and watched as separate processions emerged from each one with great pomp and solemnity. Two giant, muscular Disciples at the centre of each group carried a sedan chair on their shoulders. They were masked and naked like many of their fellows. All the chairs had a passenger who was draped entirely with a large black sheet that reached all the way to the floor, giving the appearance of three great cones making their way towards the wormhole. The processions marched in time to the slow drumbeat, and when each one had entered the cathedral completely, a collective whisper started amongst the Disciples. This new sound, superimposed upon the deep background pulse of the vortex, had an altogether more sinister and unnerving quality than the previous chanting. It was made even more disturbing by the fact that the Disciples all wore masks, which meant there was no evidence of any moving lips amongst them. The whispered mantra adversely affected the minds of sane balanced men, Boyd included, and he wished for them all to stop. Fear and irrational thoughts afflicted him, and he had to fight hard to prevent these primeval instincts from overrunning his consciousness. Such was the effect of hearing one of the spells of Disorder, and to resist it he uttered to himself more of the words he had memorised from the Grimoires, thus fortifying his sanity.
Female Disciples pulled at the corners of each black sheet, revealing the occupants of the sedan chairs; three young girls, all clothed in long dresses of white silk and lace. He felt his stomach clench; just as he had dreaded, one of the girls was Rachel. The three sat there impassively, staring into space without even blinking, oblivious to the madness unfolding around them. Boyd looked at Rachel carefully; her breathing was agonisingly slow. He had no doubt that she and the other girls were in a trance, possibly drug-induced, maybe hypnosis; he had seen both techniques used by rogue psychic elements before. He flexed every muscle in his body against the chain, his efforts now driven by an intense anger; it did not loosen, even a little. He could only continue to watch what was happening from inside his metal cocoon.
The sedan chairs and their processions came to a halt at three points spaced equally apart around the low wall that encircled the wormhole. With nervous glances at the spinning maelstrom beneath them, the muscular Disciples who carried the girls lowered and then fixed the long poles from their chairs to large ornate metal brackets that formed an integral part of the wall structure. They did it in such a way that each chair with its occupant was held suspended over the edge of the rapidly spinning energy tunnel. Throughout this manoeuvring, the girls had remained unresponsive; their eyes blank, their bodies still and upright. They did not even acknowledge the immense electrified purple region that lay beneath them, even though the wind that blew from it ruffled their clothes and hair.
A distant rumble became gradually louder; something massive was approaching from a fourth archway. Boyd watched and shuddered at what came slowly into view. Four burly, topless Disciples with muscular bodies, leather trousers and leather face-masks of the steel eye-ringed type strained to roll in an enormous wooden scaffold on wheels. A long, sturdy cross arm reached out from the device, and from it hung a row of heavy chains with cruel-looking meat hooks dangling at their end.
The crude, medieval appearance of the contraption made it appear more sinister than anything he had seen thus far. It was pushed ominously towards the wormhole; the size of its beams and the rippling muscles of the masked men who moved it so ponderously left no doubt as to its great weight. Even from inside the cart, Boyd could feel the stone floor tremble under the scaffold’s bulky metal-rimmed wheels, and as it got closer the clinking of its hanging chains could be heard alongside the rumble of its progress.
He watched with morbid curiosity and the hope of finding a weakness amongst the enemy. What was the meaning of the sedan chairs? What was the strange scaffold and hook device? Like everything else in this hall, their purpose seemed to lie around the wormhole, so central was it to this vast chamber. The baleful wooden frame came to rest at the edge of the spinning dimensional tunnel along with its bearers. Boyd had decided the device resembled a portable gallows. A rope would be more inviting than those three meat hooks, he thought to himself.
Now that the structure was closer, he could see that its wooden framework was spattered with dark stains. He had been around long enough to recognise old blood when he saw it, and it took all his inner strength to fight off the panic that threatened to grip his mind as he lay there helpless before those hooks. In this apparently hopeless situation, bound and terribly outnumbered, there were only his friends left to rely on. Knowing that he was in the presence of psychics who could read his mind, he did not dare to dwell on thoughts of his comrades. To give them away now would be to lose everything. What he did not realise though was how close they already were.
One of the four burly Disciples who had rolled in the scaffold swung its cross beam around by tugging on the thick, frayed rope attached to its far end. This brought the hooks to hang over the stone floor of the cathedral where they swayed slowly back and forth. Again, Boyd wondered what twisted purpose these careful preparations were designed to serve. Not being one to lie back and accept his fate, he struggled against his bonds intermittently, just in case, by some fluke, they had slackened; there was no such luck. He would keep trying though because except for watching the ugly scenes before him there was nothing else he could do.
“Entroth etta faistanor paphomet erra phicaedes – Orbok! Start the summoning!” shouted Devilliers from the lectern.
The ambient whisper became a full-blown chant again; the Disciples repeating the words of their leader … wo
rds from the warped tongue of Disorder. The phrases used in this particular chant were chilling to listen to, particularly as the repetitions steadily increased in volume. Except for the name of Orbok, Boyd could not understand what they were saying. He had dealt with Disciples who worshipped this strange deity before, and lovers of Orbok were notorious for performing secret rites noted for cruelty and depravity that surpassed those practised by Disciples of Disorder affiliated to other deities.
Another command from the lectern echoed around the hall. “Make the offering!” The ones to respond to this order were the robed cultists who were still patiently holding the chained man who had been lying beside Boyd upon their shoulders. They took up the chant, louder than the others, and their deep voices added a new terror to the already chilling chorus. Two of the four muscular scaffold-bearers took the chained man from their robed fellows and carried him back to their device. They held him high and braced themselves as a third scaffold-bearer took firm hold of one of the hanging meat hooks, raised it above his head and swung it towards the prisoner. The force with which he did this was enough to drive the hook between the layers of wrapped chain and into the body beneath which it penetrated just under the ribs. Boyd gasped at the moment of impact, he had expected a scream of agony – there was only the quietest of moans, as if the prisoner was too weak to muster any stronger protest. The scaffold-bearers released their grip. The location of the hook meant the victim’s body hung freely, leaning at an angle of almost forty-five degrees. Disgusted by the evil perpetrated before him, Boyd now considered his own fate; there were two more hooks, and there was little doubt left in his mind regarding whom they were intended for.
Two scaffold-bearers started to unravel the chains from around the victim; a steady stream of blood dripped through the links and splashed their bare chests, some of it landed on the stone floor of the chamber and some on the wooden scaffold frame adding to the stains Boyd had noticed there earlier. He watched, horrified. Whom had they sacrificed? The chain was unwound from the head last, and on seeing the face, Boyd filled with impotent rage. It was the face from the photograph in the apartment. Hanging naked from the hook was Martin. Another feeble moan indicated that he was still alive – barely. On his body were other, older injuries, the most noticeable being a deep gash in his thigh. Martin’s eyes were closed and his face appeared pale and drawn. He looked as if he had been in bad shape even before this atrocity. Boyd cursed what he thought was the Disciples’ incompetence: they had failed to kill him with the hook and now he was suffering. What Boyd did not know was that the Disciples were too skilful in their abhorrent methods to make errors; they needed Martin to live just a little longer.