by Vox Day
The World in Shadow
Eternal Warriors Book Two
by Vox Day
Published by Castalia House
Kouvola, Finland
www.castaliahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
This book was originally published in trade paperback by Pocket Books in 2002.
Copyright © 2002 by Theodore Beale
All rights reserved
Cover Design: JartStar
Version 004
Table of Contents
Cover
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Ides of March
Chapter 2: Those Who Stalk the Night
Chapter 3: An Evening Run
Chapter 4: The Geek Squad
Chapter 5: Bullet the Black Sky
Chapter 6: Abominations and Altercations
Chapter 7: Gangbang Oft Agley
Chapter 8: The Beautiful Game
Chapter 9: The Sweet Taste of a Soul
Chapter 10: Immortal Kombat
Chapter 11: Where is Father Brown?
Chapter 12: Broken Wings
Chapter 13: Akkadian Psycho
Chapter 14: Shattered
Chapter 15: Smoke on the Waters
Chapter 16: Dreams Can Come True
Chapter 17: The Stolen Heart
Chapter 18: Blood Magic
Chapter 19: Something Wicked This Way Comes
Chapter 20: The Dog That Gets Beat
Chapter 21: River of Fire
Chapter 22: Forked Tongues, Bitter Mouths
Chapter 23: Blue Monday
Chapter 24: Ctrl-Alt-Delete
Chapter 25: Confrontation
Chapter 26: Steal, Kill, and Destroy
Chapter 27: The Power of Two
Chapter 28: The Court of Winter
Chapter 29: Playground of Illusion
Chapter 30: An Evening of Destiny
Chapter 31: Exit Light, Enter Night
Chapter 32: Decisions
Chapter 33: Red Screen Tilt
Chapter 34: Restoration
Chapter 35: A Verdict is In
A THRONE OF BONES
SWAN KNIGHT'S SON
New Releases
Prologue
The white-haired pastor lifted the purple stole from around his neck, folded it carefully, and gently placed it in the cabinet drawer. He drew his robe over his head, and as he did so, he noticed that its thick cloth looked faded and yellow beneath the overhead lights. It was time to get a new robe; how long had it been since he’d bought this one, six years ago, maybe even seven?
He glanced at the clock on the corner of his desk. Nine thirty-six, and he’d missed dinner again. Ah well, it wouldn’t hurt him to miss a meal, he thought as he ruefully patted the round curve of his paunch. Vanity, my goodness, but everything is vanity. He stared at his reflection in the dark window that looked out over the parking lot. Even past the promised three-score and ten, a man might cling to the tattered shards of his vanity, to the sagging, wrinkled remnants of his youth.
He might, but it would be foolish of him. The pastor frowned at his reflected image and picked up the telephone. There was a single ring, and an answer.
“Hello?”
“Marjorie, it’s me.”
“Gerald, where have you been?” His wife’s voice was neither accusing nor concerned, only mildly curious. “I thought the board meeting was going to be over at eight-thirty.”
“So did I.” He manfully resisted the temptation to share the uncharitable thoughts that were still flowing rancorously through his mind. “Ed and Linda are concerned about the associate pastorship. They didn’t come right out and say it, of course, but they may as well have. It seems that the general view of the congregation is that I’m liable to drop dead at any moment!”
His outrage was apparent to his wife of fifty-one years, but she betrayed no hint of the knowing smile that crossed her lips to the other side of the telephone line.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she told him sincerely. She listened patiently as he vented his wounded feelings before weighing in with her own opinion. He paused to take a breath, and she seized her opportunity. “But they do have a point, you know.”
“A point?” Pastor Woodhouse stopped his pacing at this attack from an unexpected front. “You think… I mean, you agree with them? You think I’m too old?”
His wife chuckled. “Not for me, Gerald. And surely not for God. But I always knew the day would come when it would be time for you to step down from the pulpit, and I knew it would be hard for you. Now, maybe that day isn’t here yet, but it is something you need to think about. And pray about.”
Gerald was silent for a long time. Then his wounded sense of pride abruptly disappeared, like a balloon popping before the pinprick of his wife’s gentle wisdom. He laughed suddenly, the same hearty, rolling laugh that had won her heart so many years ago.
“Of course, you’re right, Marjorie. What was I thinking? This church needs new blood, a young man with spirit and energy, not a tired old Methusaleh like me.”
He heard Marjorie make a clucking noise over the phone line.
“Now don’t you be writing your resignation tonight either, Gerald Woodhouse!” She knew her husband very well, and his thoughts were transparent to her. “Come home, I’ll put a log on the fire, and we’ll talk about it over a nice hot cup of tea.”
“Okay,” he agreed ruefully. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Drive carefully, my love. That nice young woman on Channel Nine says the roads are rather slippery tonight.”
“I will,” he promised her. “Be home in a bit, honey.”
“Bye, dear.” There was a click and the line went dead.
In like a lion, out like a lamb. Those words sounded nice enough, but whoever wrote them never lived through a March in Minnesota, Gerald thought critically, as he fumbled for his keys under the parking lot lights. It had been fifty-six degrees only two days ago, but the temperature had dropped below freezing again, and the misty rain of the early evening had hardened into pellets of ice that now pelted his exposed face and hands. It felt as if he were being bombarded by a barrage of invisible needles, tiny jabs that stung but did not penetrate.
A sudden tightness gripped his chest, like a massive hand grabbing him over the left shoulder, and he dropped his keys. As they struck the pavement with a jangling sound, the invisible hand squeezed, and Gerald grunted, first in surprise, and then in pain. He clutched the roof rack of his Oldsmobile to steady himself, and he tried to inhale, but found that he couldn’t, for the pressure on his chest prevented him from taking any but the shortest of breaths.
“Heavenly Father, be with me!” he gasped aloud, and the cold, and the wind, and the pain abruptly disappeared. A peaceful warmth enveloped him, as if a pair of strong arms were holding him from behind, offering gentle support and strength. He closed his eyes, leaning back into those restful arms, and then he smiled.
“Ah, how great thou art,” he silently praised the God he had served for so many years. “How great thou art!”
Chapter 1
The Ides of March
In my eyes, indisposed
In disguise as no o
ne knows
Hides the face, lies the snake
—Soundgarden, (“Black Hole Sun”)
Jami stared intently at her Bible, but she was not reading any of the words on the tissue-thin paper. She was instead trying to keep a surreptitious eye on her brother, who was sitting on a couch two people over and looking as if he was just about ready to explode. Christopher’s social skills had improved a lot over the past few months, but he still forgot to keep his mouth closed sometimes, especially when he was running out of patience.
She winced as she saw that his eyes were closed, and his head was slowly moving from side to side. This was not a good sign. Christopher did that whenever he was trying not to listen to something, and she knew tonight’s aimless discussion must be driving him up the wall. It was hard enough for her to sit through it all, and she could listen to one of Holli’s endless lectures on the importance of eyeliner without even blinking.
“…so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power.”
Asako finished reading the verse. She was a cheerful Asian girl with long, ravens-black hair. “I don’t know, I just think that’s really neat!”
Christopher’s eyes snapped open suddenly. Oh, please help him keep his temper, Jami whispered under her breath.
“You think… what?”
Her brother’s voice was low and controlled. Too controlled, Jami thought to herself. She could hear the venom lurking beneath his polite tone.
“Well, I just think it’s really neat. You know. What the verse says, and all.”
Jami had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when she heard Christopher groan, and saw him put his head in his hands. She could understand if he was feeling frustrated tonight, because she was too. The last hour had been nothing but a repetitious circle of readings followed by agreeable, but meaningless responses. It would have been almost funny, if it wasn’t so painfully boring. Christopher smiled briefly, and for a second, Jami thought they were past the danger zone, but she was wrong.
“I mean, don’t you think so?” Asako looked to the rest of the group for support.
There were several nodded heads, and a few voices mumbled assent in one form or another. Jami desperately shook her head at her brother, but he ignored her as he closed his leather-bound Bible with an audible snap and rose to his feet.
“Yeah, it’s really neat,” Christopher echoed sarcastically. “It is the eternal Word of the Creator Lord of the Universe, and it’s neat, you say? Well, that’s tremendously insightful. How deep! We can all agree on that, can’t we? The Bible is neat! It’s really, really neat!”
Now it was Jami who had her head in her hands. She didn’t have to look up to know that there were ten shocked sophomores, juniors, and seniors all staring at her brother with open mouths. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone off like this in public.
Mr. Maples, the youth pastor who led the study group and was the only adult there, tried to defend poor Asako, whose cheeks were bright red.
“Really, Christopher, it’s important that everyone shares their feelings—”
“No, it’s not!” her brother interrupted impatiently, his brown eyes blazing. “How many times do we need to repeat this nonsense? Look, we’re all Christians here, right? And this is a Bible study, right? So can we just, once and for all, agree that all of us think that everything in the Bible is really, really neat? Then no one has to mention it ever again! Yes, it’s all neat and it’s all good and it’s all important—so what? Can’t we just forget about how it makes us feel, and for once talk about what it says we should do?”
“Sure we can,” Mr. Maples assured him. “That’s what we’re here for, after all.”
“Then why don’t we ever do that?” Christopher asked, his voice suddenly soft. He pointed towards one muscular senior, a football player. “Blaine, you were asking why our prayers don’t get answered, like when we prayed for Jim’s shoulder and it didn’t get better. Well, maybe it’s because we don’t do what we’re told, or maybe it’s because we really don’t have enough faith. That could be all it is, you know? Either we have enough faith or we don’t, and the evidence would seem to suggest that we don’t!”
The youth leader frowned. He was a friendly, good-looking red-haired man, whose only flaw, as far as Jami was concerned, was the cheesy mustache which appeared to be some sort of occupational hazard. But, she realized, he wasn’t really equipped to deal with her brother, at least not in this argument.
“I don’t know, Christopher, I think you’re treading on dangerous ground there. I mean, the last thing you want to do is question someone else’s faith. Suppose there’s a person who had a car accident, and they’re in a wheelchair now. Is it fair to blame them for being in that wheelchair, to tell them that if they had enough faith, they could be healed? That’s being pretty judgmental, and I don’t think you’d want to go there.”
Christopher smiled thinly.
“Is it judgemental or is that just how it goes? Tell me, how many times in the gospels does Jesus come right out and tell people that they had too little faith, Mark?”
Mr. Maples frowned, and scratched at his mustache. Jami sighed, knowing Christopher wouldn’t have asked the question if he didn’t know the answer already.
“Why, I don’t know.”
“Twelve times, Mark. Twelve times. And he said, according to your faith will it be done to you. And he also said that nothing was impossible for us. Nothing. So I don’t understand where the problem is. If the mountain moves, you’ve got enough faith. If it doesn’t, you don’t, end of story.”
No one responded right away, not even Mr. Maples, to Jami’s surprise. Christopher shook his head, in sheer frustration, Jami thought.
“Look, I’m sorry, everybody, but I just don’t see any point in what we’re doing here.” He reached behind the couch and retrieved his blue jacket. “I should probably go. I’ll see you all later.”
Most of the girls were too surprised and upset to say anything, but Jami saw that Rick and Michael, the bible study’s two seniors, were more amused than offended. Mr. Maples, though, looked worried as he walked her brother to the door, and softly told him to take care.
“Well,” the youth leader said as he returned to the living room. “That was certainly interesting! Does anyone want a can of pop or anything before we go on to verse six?”
Jami thanked Mark’s wife for having them over, then walked out into the darkness as the door closed behind her. It was cold, and she could see her breath floating before her. The night sky was dull and dark as the clouds lingered overhead, threatening more snow, and she could not see the moon or the stars. But she was not afraid of the night anymore, not as she’d once been afraid of it. Although she couldn’t see her guardian angel any better than she could see the moon right now, she knew that Paulus was just as real and that he was somewhere nearby, watching over her and keeping her safe from evil.
Sometimes, she thought, it was easier to remember you were a Christian than others. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in Jesus anymore or forgot who He was when she was at school or in the middle of living her normal life. It’s just that it was so easy to fall into the flow of things, to just go to school, hang out with your friends, and live your life. Sometimes that was really all you did. Was that such a bad thing, when you were fifteen years old? What was she supposed to do anyhow? She was a freshman, after all, not a superhero. What was she supposed to, like, save the world from itself?
Her boots made squeaky, crunching noises as she walked over the icy snow that had fallen the day before, and as she passed the last of the study group’s parked cars, she saw her brother standing under the pale yellow glow of a lamp post on the other side of the street. His back was to her, and despite the cold, he was still holding his jacket in his folded arms. She knew he could hear her approaching, but she didn’t call out to him. Instead, she stopped a few feet behind him and waited for him to break the silence.
“I know what you’re
going to say,” he told her. “And I will go back and apologize to everyone. But not now. Not tonight. I need to think first, and I can’t think around those people.”
Okay, she nodded thoughtfully, feeling a little relieved at his relaxed tone. That was fair enough. Except that he was wrong about what she was thinking.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say at all,” she told him.
He turned around, and she saw a brief flash of amusement in his eyes.
“Well, thanks for not getting on my back and all, but you’re still telling me I’m wrong, right?”
“No!” she said, just to be difficult, and he rolled his eyes.
“Hey, I understand why you’re so frustrated,” she told him, as she reached out and punched his shoulder. “At least, I understand some of it. But what I don’t understand is why you, of all people, expect them to be any different than they are?”
And she didn’t understand. What they both knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, to be true, was mostly hypothetical to everybody else. How could you blame people for doubting what, to them, was poetic-sounding words on a thin piece of paper? Most of them knew the truth, but they just couldn’t believe in it the same way that she and Christopher could. They hadn’t seen it for themselves the way they had. She knew her brother understood this, but he still seemed to hold something against their newly made friends anyhow.
“They should believe,” he told her. “I know they say they do, but it’s just words, that’s all. What bugs me is that even if you haven’t seen Jesus face to face, or haven’t personally sliced up an angel with a sword of fire, any reasonable reading of the Bible makes it quite clear that there’s a heavenly war going on, right? But you’d never know it by what’s going on back in there!”
“But they fight in their own way, you know that. They pray. They sing and praise God. The war isn’t the same as it was on Ahura Azdha, Christopher, it’s different here.”