Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck

by Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  “I would love nothing more!” Vincenzo called out, as he drew his sword and set to running. A moment later, the sound of steel clashing midair filled the tomb as Blake parried Vincenzo's strike, forcing his blade to slide off along the blade of his katana. Each knew that for one of them, this would be the final battle. From here on, there would be no more. Once cut down in Shades by a blade that had been blessed by either of their masters, the best the vanquished could hope for was nothing. As Blake parried the blow, Vincenzo momentarily lost his balance. Making the most of it, Blake elbowed Vincenzo in the side as he moved past, sending Vincenzo to his knees to avoid falling flat on the floor.

  “I would have thought you'd practiced, but it seems you're no better than when I last cut you down to size.”

  “I believe you mean when you cut down your girlfriend,” Vincenzo sneered, getting up to face Blake. “That delicious whore whom I had the pleasure of watching drift into Shades at the tip of my blade.” Vincenzo grinned. “This time I will not be hindered by the unfit body of a common slattern, and when I have finished with you, I promise you that I will go and find her for a second helping.” He raised his sword overhead before stepping towards Blake, striking down as he did. Their blades met, sending sparks flying into the air before they dissolved into nothingness, just like anything else in Shades dislodged from its being. As their swords came to rest against each other, they found themselves face to face and Vincenzo bared his fangs, his eyes blazing at the mere prospect of sinking them into a Hunter.

  “I promise that this will be the end of you!” Blake said, straining to keep the vampire at bay with his blade. As Vincenzo leaned into him, Blake moved on an impulse and bit Vincenzo's face. Vincenzo screamed and pushed Blake away with an unearthly force that sent Blake sliding across the floor. Blake felt the immaterial flesh come undone in his mouth, vaporizing into a wisp of smoke before ceasing to exist. As he looked up, he saw Vincenzo holding his face, the look of disbelief in his eyes quickly changing to hatred.

  “So, you have listened to what I said, after all,” he cried as he took his hand from his face, revealing a deformed visage to Blake. In place of his nose and upper lip, Vincenzo had only a dark gash from which a trickle of immaterial flowed down his lip and chin, dripping onto his chest before disappearing in discrete wisps. “You see. We're not all that different,” Vincenzo said with a maddened grin, the gash twisting and writhing as he spoke. Blake could feel the power welling up inside him. It was a feeling that he immediately knew would haunt and tempt him for eternity. “Now, get up!” Vincenzo yelled, wiping his face with his sleeve. As Blake got up, Vincenzo bounded towards him and raised his sword to strike, driving the sword with hate and spite. Despite being caught off balance, Blake managed to save himself by raising his sword in one hand to parry Vincenzo's while throwing himself to one side. But as the blades met, Vincenzo's sword slid along the length of Blake's katana, cutting through the cross-guard and severing two of Blake's fingers from his left hand. Even before the sword hit the floor jangling, the fingers that had held it dissipated into thin air together with Blake's screams of pain. When Blake regained his composure a second later, Vincenzo already stood looming above him, his sword ready to strike. “Now I only have to decide whether I offer you a clean peace or not.”

  As Blake lay beneath the tip of Vincenzo's sword, he noticed a shadowy figure moving towards them from behind Vincenzo.

  “If you want to plead for mercy, now is the time, Beck.” The figure closed in, moving silently.

  “I . . .” Beck started, biding his time.

  “Yes?” Vincenzo smiled, the tightening muscles distorting his deformed face. Blake eyed his sword lying on the ground merely a foot away. He thought he could do it. Just as Astrid reached them, Blake moved to grab his sword. Preparing to strike, Vincenzo saw the silhouette of a woman standing right behind him reflected in Blake's eyes. He immediately turned to defend himself, seeking to strike down his newfound enemy. Armed only with a pointy rock she had picked up outside, Astrid saw Vincenzo turn and strike in one swift movement. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the end. Then she heard Vincenzo cry out, and as she opened her eyes, she saw Blake's sword passing through Vincenzo from waist to shoulder. The vampire writhed in pain as he began to dissipate and disappear into nothingness, his final words ringing out across the tomb among his cries of pain. “You still lost, Beck!”

  Astrid stood paralyzed as the sound died out, her feelings overwhelming her as she desperately tried to shake the image of Vincenzo's severed body and deformed face from her mind. As Blake wrapped his arms around her, she felt her soul tremble. Then she began to cry and Blake let her, holding her in his arms. A few minutes later she emerged from his bosom and dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Come on. Let's get out of here,” he said, and Astrid made no objections. As they walked through the doors into the moonlit night, she took Blake's hand.

  “What did he mean that you lost?” she asked, and Blake began to explain.

  VII

  The ritual was nearing its conclusion and the barren stone innards of Hel's tomb had been completely transformed. In accordance with the ritual, Bahij had covered the stone slabs of the floor with a labyrinth of intricate patterns and sigils drawn in lines of white chalk and black ink. Robe-clad noblemen lined the walls chanting in low, deep voices or playing lamenting tunes on the bladder pipes. The torches that were carried in the procession had all died out, but massive wax candles now burned in a huge circle around Bahij in the middle of the room, filling the chamber with a warm light. Looking Mr. Ferre straight in the eyes, Bahij signaled for Him to step forward. As He walked slowly towards Bahij, halting just beyond the circle of candles, three noblemen stepped forward, each carrying a symbol pertaining to one of the three patron saints found in Notke's altar. The nobleman to the east held in his hands the anchored cross of Saint Clement. Across from him, a nobleman held a silver scallop shell filled with water, a symbol associated with John the Baptist. Finally, the nobleman to the south held a heavy tome, a typical symbol of Saint Anna. Bahij turned to the east and held out his hands towards the anchor of Saint Clement. Then, as was required of the sermon master, Bahij called out the first of the three prayers that he had written to the saints.

  “As we ask the one lost to return to us on this night, we beseech the martyr Saint Clement to raise the anchor of her soul so that she may pass freely into our world! We do so with hope of a new beginning, praying that she may return from the dark depths into which she too has been cast!” As he spoke, the nobleman to the east raised the anchored cross so high above his head that it nearly touched the low stone arches overhead.

  Across the room, Teresa stood by the wall. She looked around the chamber, examining each of the noblemen that lined the wall, trying to discover which mask hid the Earl. As her eyes swept the room, she heard Bahij's voice ring out over the chanting and wailing pipes.

  “By the dark waters of the river, we seek to cleanse the soul of the past and ask for it to step into our world from the wilderness. In this, we call upon the powers of Saint John the Baptist, and we ask him to herald her return from the Grey!” As Bahij spoke, the nobleman before him raised aloft the silver shell, the water inside appearing jet black in the sparse light. Teresa spied the hint of a smile across the chamber and she knew it was the Earl. She saw suspense and joy in his eyes and realized what the Earl’s smile hid. A profound sense of loathing welled up inside of her as she finally realized that he had been right. She had been the one to betray Bahij's confidence. She had willfully aided the Earl in setting the stage for this play without considering the costs, let alone her own role. As much as she despised the Earl, she found that she loathed herself even more. From the corner of her eyes she could see Bahij turning towards the last of the noblemen that stood by the candle circle. “We call upon the will of Saint Anna to ask her daughter to implore the lamb to abolish any sins of the one we summon. As we summon this soul, we abate the past
and wipe clear the pages so that she who is summoned here may henceforth become the divine author of her own story.” As he spoke, Bahij looked at Teresa over the shoulder of the nobleman holding the blank tome. When he caught her eyes, Bahij saw her doubts and pain, yet failed to recognize their true nature and origin. The three noblemen laid their symbols down on the floor amidst the chalk and ink lines and stepped back to the wall. Still searching his mind for answers to what would merit the doubt he found in Teresa's eyes, Bahij stepped out of the circle, allowing Mr. Ferre to take his place. Standing in the middle of the chamber, He began to speak. His voice seemed to fill the entire world, threatening to tear down all of creation if his will was not done.

  “Pipers! By my power and the powers called upon this night, I bid you keep your breath and leave your reeds to the wind. You will cease your playing so that Death will halt his dance and the one we summon may break free from Death's embrace. Tonight Death will dance alone, and the fires of Hel will burn again as I demand Death to honor his agreement with the minstrels that play to his dance. I demand that she whom we summon tonight be returned to us, and in return we shall once again voice our pipes so that the dancing may carry on! I demand that she will once again be free and that she will return to us from the moonlight beyond, transforming this tomb to a place of birth. By my word, let coffin and crib become one.” As his voice died out, so did the wail of the pipes, leaving the chamber bereft of sound.

  VIII

  Blake and Astrid had put several miles between them and the Emperor's Tomb, riding south towards the borderlands between the Medieval and the Entrance. There was no longer any rush. In fact, they had the better part of eternity to fill and Blake was still trying to explain things to Astrid. He decided to not hold anything back. He figured she had a right to know what had cost her her chance of life and possibly the opportunity to earn an afterlife.

  “So Vincenzo was only after Notke's secret and you were meant to keep it from him?” Astrid asked.

  “Yeah. But I failed, which probably means that all hell is going to break loose very soon, from what I understand.”

  “Because of this ritual?”

  “Mmhmm. From what Dæth shared with me, my best bid is that a war is coming.”

  “But you said that Vincenzo needed both the verses of Notke's Totentanz from the tomb and the names of the three saints from the altar.”

  “Yeah, so? He needed them and he got them,” Blake said, looking at Astrid. She took a moment to think while stroking the mane of her mare.

  “I'm not sure,” she said.

  “You're not sure of what?”

  “I'm not sure that he got it right, I mean.”

  “Astrid, you were there,” Blake replied. “You saw him in the tomb where he had all the time in the world to send word of the verses to Bahij Khaleel, and you were there in the cathedral in Aarhus. It's pretty clear. He must have overheard you at the concert when you told me about the saints. Otherwise, how on earth would he have known to kill you to get to me?”

  “But . . .”

  “Astrid!”

  “Blake! Shut up for one second, will you?” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “I showed you the altar and you asked me about the three central figures, so I explained about Saint Clement, Saint Anna and Saint John the Baptist.”

  “Yes.”

  “But those aren’t the ones Notke was hiding! I'm sure of it,” Astrid said with a self-satisfied smile, certain that she had finally found the answer that had eluded her for so long.

  “What?”

  “Look, it was bugging me the whole time I was writing my thesis. In the predella, Notke painted a scene depicting the mass of Saint Gregory when Jesus manifests on the altar before Pope Gregory and the congregation as divine proof of the doctrine of transubstantiation.”

  “The doctrine of transubstantiation?” Blake asked.

  “The Catholic doctrine that the substance of bread and wine changes into the body and blood of Christ. But that doesn't matter. What matters is how Notke depicted it. In his version, a doorway in the background leads into a garden where the sky is gilded and a peacock sits alone on the garden wall.”

  “A peacock?”

  “Yes. A symbol of resurrection and eternal life sitting under a gilded sky, which was Notke's way of showing the importance of this scene. I've never understood why it was so important, but I do now! You see, the altar in the painting of the Gregor's Mass is made to clearly resemble the altar in Aarhus itself – I mean, even the ornamentations are the same. However, this painted altar is without the wings or anything, so there are only three figures in this altar and they are definitely not Saint Clement, Saint Anna and John the Baptist.”

  IX

  Halfway across Shades, Hel's tomb lay silent, and all those within stood with their gazes fastened on the entrance from which their queen would return. Only in Teresa's eyes could a shred of doubt be seen. As the seconds passed, the doubt began to spread among the noblemen like a contagious disease. Finally, it reached the middle of the tomb where He stood and awaited the return of his queen consort, his love and his revenge. Bahij looked around in despair, desperately searching for answers, when he noticed the Earl’s eyes glimmering with excitement behind his gilded mask. As Bahij turned his eyes to Teresa, he finally realized what had caused her doubts and pain. Bahij's attention was torn away from Teresa by the smoldering patches forming on Mr. Ferre's back, and then Bahij saw his master’s countenance shift. Every muscle in Mr. Ferre’s body began to tighten as the rage welled up inside Him. His clothes were set ablaze, draping Him in a robe of fire as his flaming wings burst from the scars on his back and flooded the chamber with fire and light. All around, the noblemen shielded themselves, cowering by the outer wall of the chamber. They all heard his furious cry.

  “BAHIJ!!!”

  X

  Dæth sat alone by the drawing room fireplace savoring the sight and sound of the crackling fire. He ran his fingers along the black lapel of his red silk dressing gown before turning to the table next to his chair to pour that night's last cup of tea. Allowing the tea to cool, he picked up his pipe and drew smoke, the tobacco smoldering with a warm red glow. Then he picked up a pen and dipped it into the inkwell on the table before turning his attention to a small piece of paper. With perfect penmanship, he wrote “King F2 to E3.” He knew very well that this would press a draw, but he found eternity lying before him, and he knew that they would certainly play again.

  EPILOGUE

  - THE GREAT PRETENDER -

  I

  Blake parked his silver Aston Martin by the curb and walked up the stairs to his front door. As he opened the door, the smell of roasting duck, caramelized potatoes and other traditional Danish Christmas dishes hit his nose.

  “Is that you, Blake?” he heard Astrid call, imagining that she was probably still busy in the kitchen.

  “Yes!” he said, setting down a small plastic bag on the credenza beneath the hallway mirror before bending down to untie his shoes.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yeah. Half a liter of double cream and a bag of potato chips, right?” As he stood up and kicked off his shoes, he saw Astrid coming towards him from the kitchen.

  “Yes. You're a dear! Now go relax, and in about half an hour you will have the best Christmas dinner of your life.” She gave him a quick kiss and picked up the plastic bag.

  “Well, technically . . .” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “OK. Now go sit down, Blake,” she said as she headed back to the kitchen.

  “Don't worry, I will. I'll be upstairs!”

  Blake walked up the stairs to his study. He picked up a bottle and a glass from the bar cabinet and placed them on the table next to his leather armchair. Then he poured himself a drink and walked over to the collection of vinyl LPs that Virgil had thoughtfully included as part of Blake’s home. Blake slowly flipped through them, unable to decide until his fingers fi
nally made the choice for him. He lifted the cover from the shelf and removed the black vinyl disk. Reverently, he blew on it to remove as much dust as possible before placing it on the turntable. Then he pressed play, causing the pin to be slowly lowered into the groove while Blake lowered himself into his chair. He picked up his glass, closed his eyes and took a drink. All his shortcomings and the image of Marie filled his mind, just like the sound of the sorrowful saxophone filled the room as the band began to play. Then, as the chorus began, the needle skipped, mockingly reminding Blake over and over again that he was the great pretender.

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  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thank you to the following people:

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