One Agent of Shadow remained. A river of blood and bodies lay between the two opposing men from the massacre that transpired. The man aimed both pistols at the priest with a cold stare set upon the sights.
“Are you empty yet?” the priest taunted.
“I saved a few just for you, Cunningham,” the man answered with heated coolness. “Or more appropriately, Senior Arnett.”
“What are you waiting for then, boy? Do it.”
The man narrowed his stare. “This is for Father James.” He fired two shots. One at the priest’s knee, the other at his shoulder.
The priest remained still, unaffected by what should have been a destructive impact. Megan sat dumbfounded as the stone wall behind Father Paul gave off tiny explosions of fragments, as if the man had completely missed his target.
“How kind of you,” the priest jeered. “Only trying to wound me? You must need me for something.”
The man fired three more times, still aiming for non-vital areas, but with no greater success. With one final round in his right-handed pistol, he took a shot at center mass. Again the wall directly behind the priest took the blow. Father Paul only smiled. “Now that’s more like it!”
The man lowered his weapons, simultaneously pressing the magazine release on both. “Nice trick,” he complimented sarcastically. “Transparency. Pretty high-level.”
“You expected less?” Father Paul replied. “I am the head of the Primary Circle.”
“Very proud of you,” the man snapped back. “Except, it looks to me like you have to remain still while pulling that off.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the priest shrugged. “You’re empty now.” He slowly drew from under his long, dark sleeve an evil looking sword. Its shape and design was identical to the silver dagger he and his cohorts were using during the ritual, only this was full sized. A longer hilt decorated with skulls.
“Besides,” he continued as he drew, “even if you reload, I’ll reach you before you can hit me.”
“You’re a confident one. I guess that’s why you’re not turning tail and running like your two buddies.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the priest laughed. “If my colleagues wish to miss out on this wonderful event that we’ve worked so hard to put together, it’s their loss. I however will be completing tonight’s Cycle, and I’ll not be thwarted by the likes of a has-been like you. I’ve come too far, and I won’t be denied again!”
A sudden growing anger arose in the priest’s tone, as if the very thought of someone tampering with his precious plan fueled his wrath, but within seconds he recovered, and the mocking smile on his face returned. “But since we’ve seem to come to a short respite, I’m curious. Father James… so you knew my church’s prior pastor. My my, you’ve certainly come to represent tonight, haven’t you boy? Is there anyone else on whose behalf you wish to avenge? Your mother? A distant cousin perhaps?”
The man holstered one pistol back inside his jacket and immediately removed a full magazine for the remaining one in his right hand. “I come here on behalf of every man, woman, and child who has suffered at your sinful hands, priest. For every boy and girl you’ve brainwashed in your orphanage’s education program. For every patron in your church who you’ve led like sheep to follow your every whim with your poisonous tongue. I come to avenge every young woman whom you’ve placed upon that deadly altar for your dark purposes.” He quickly slammed the fresh magazine in his pistol. “For every soul you’ve destroyed, you’re going to pay, you son of a bitch.”
He raised the reloaded pistol and aimed.
Gripping the evil looking sword with both hands, the priest’s smile grew into a terrible laugh, so bone-chilling that Megan, still cowering behind the altar, wanted to cover her ears again. When he finally stopped, he replied simply: “Very well.” He suddenly darted toward the man.
Gunshots followed. The man let loose without holding back, but the priest moved in such an inconceivable way, as if he were almost gliding along the stone floor with unlikely swiftness. His body zig-zagging and spinning as he approached the gunman, dodging every bullet shot in his direction. Within less than three seconds he was upon his foe, delivering a swift, diagonal stroke toward the man’s midsection.
Just as the sword fell towards him, the man leapt to his left and rolled along the floor, somehow holstering his now empty pistol in mid-roll. As he returned to his feet a few yards from his previous position, he drew a completely different looking blade from behind his back, underneath his leather biker’s jacket.
The hilt was wrapped in a royal blue cloth-like material. Upon a white blade of steel with an icy bluish tint, tiny runes of unknown origin were engraved. Megan dared to watch from her place of cover. The sword in the man’s hands, though similar in size and shape to that of a katana, was like nothing she had seen before, as if an energy pulsed from the blade, giving off its own white glow in defiance to the reddened illumination from the black candles that overwhelmed the room.
The priest paused his attack. “Where did you get that?” he demanded with a sudden, slight uncertainty in his voice.
“Spent a long time collecting special artifacts like this one,” the man answered.
Father Paul recollected himself. “You’ve certainly spent too much of your life planning this moment haven’t you, boy?”
“You have no idea, priest.”
A snarl of fury formed on the older man’s face. “Then you’ll find yourself to be quite disappointed. You won’t stop me from seeing this through. I will absorb the girl’s life-force tonight and obtain unlimited power at the Dark Year’s end! And I will sever your arms and legs from your miserable body so you can watch the transgression as you drown in your own blood!” He charged again with madness in his eyes.
The speed and ferocity of the priest’s attack defied natural expectations of a man of his physical status, as if his body were not affected by the typical limitations of middle age. Again and again he pounced and thrusted with intense aggression.
But with each attack, the younger of the two parried, blocked, and countered with poise and precision. At one point he stumbled back as he fought off a combination of strikes from the elder, but quickly regained his balance just in time to dodge a swift strike toward his midsection.
Two opposing swords clashed. Sparks flew from the edges of the blades after each clanging wail of steel upon steel. It was a visual representation of rage against rage. The rage of one whose life’s dedication was being threatened, and the rage of one whose life’s dedication led to this very moment. The former would not be denied his prize. The latter, his vengeance.
Once more the younger man erred as he countered an attack, not realizing the priest meant to bait him. As he returned a thrust, Father Paul, ready for the move, blocked with his sword as he moved it in a clockwise rotation, trapping the man’s blade in the motion and causing him to lose his grip. The priest pulled back, and the mystical sword fell to the floor behind him.
There was a quick, silent moment of tension as the priest sneered victoriously at his foe. “It’s over boy,” he declared as he moved in to deliver the killing blow.
The priest was fast, but the boy was faster.
Instead of retreating or dodging, he utilized the element of surprise by darting forward towards the attack in mid-swing. Father Paul had no time to adjust the direction of his stroke as his opponent had made his way up against his body, using two knife-handed strikes against his inner arm to stop the swing from completing its follow-through. Then he performed a spin-move around the priest’s left side, shooting a left elbow to his temple in the process. All at once, the young man made his way behind him.
Father Paul was quickly stunned from the blow to the head, but his adrenaline, along with whatever dark powers he possessed, kicked in, and he recovered in no time. But given the younger man’s own incredible speed, no-time was just enough for him. As soon as the priest had spun around to take a second strike at the boy, he was stopped by a
sharp pain below.
Weakness began to dominate him like a poison spreading quickly, and his hands dropped his sword against his will. He dared to look down at the source of his pain, and his fears were confirmed as he saw the man’s hands gripping the hilt of his own sword, which was pressed against his stomach. The blade had been run through him. He looked back up and saw that the man’s cold, blue eyes were merely six inches from his own, and they were alive with ferocity.
Silence overcame the room as the storm had passed. Letting go of the hilt, the man left the blade impaled in Father Paul’s gut and watched him fall to his knees, then to his side. Without a word, he removed one of his pistols from his holster and inserted another fresh magazine.
“You… ruined everything,” Paul gasped with labored breath. “And for what? What have you accomplished… except another delay? This is… far from over.”
“I know,” the man replied. “I’m far from done.”
“You alone? What can you do? Nothing… nothing can stop us. We’re everywhere. And now that… you’ve resurfaced… interfered again… you’ve only made yourself a target. There’s nowhere you can hide… where we won’t find you. The Agency will not stop… hunting you now.”
“I’m counting on it. Saves me the trouble of finding them.”
The priest let out a weak laugh as he coughed up blood. “You’re delusional, boy. You know how we… operate. Everyone… you care about… is now… fair game. Especially since… you’re apparently so… formidable. But everyone has… a weak spot. We know yours.”
The man did not flinch. “Brave words. Especially since you’ve just witnessed what I’ve done to your two highest circles.”
Father Paul, realizing his taunting was not inflicting the man with doubt as he had hoped, changed subjects. “We were right… you know. You’re no Keeper of White. Not… anymore. You may have some… remnants of skills… clinging to your spirit… but you’ll never have… true gifts again. I know your ways. If I’m not… mistaken, there’s a… particular code you Keepers adhere to. I believe… you’ve disobeyed several parts of it tonight. No engaging directly… against anyone. Even… even us. No taking lives…” He coughed again. “That’s a big one. If you don’t follow your… sentimental code, your gifts diminish.
“I suppose…” he added as an afterthought, “…it doesn’t matter… in your case. Your strengths were already… compromised after what we… did to you. But all the same… how will you continue on this impossible quest, knowing that… you’ve defected from your precious order?”
The man gave him a look as if regarding his words agreeably. He squatted down to meet the priest, still on his knees, at eye level. “Do you know what one of my collateral duties was before my faction was… disbanded?” he asked simply.
“You mean… massacred?” the priest returned with a weak smile of satisfaction.
The man ignored him. “Even before I joined with them, I had in my possession quite a few old, unpublished documents and passages. Historical accounts of the Order of White. Going way back. They were entrusted to me by Father James to use as a reference. To keep safe. And to one day pass down to the next worthy Keeper.”
“You… attended… the orphanage here…” Father Paul concluded, “…under Father James.”
“I learned a great deal of historical accounts,” the man continued, “as well as secrets of our kind. And of yours. Did you know, priest, that many centuries ago, when the Keepers of White maintained order and balance in the world, back when they were many in number, there were active factions everywhere. And you’re right. They used their talents to only help others. To heal. To guide. To give people hope. They did not change society by force, nor did they ever use aggression against another.
“But they did use their gifts to search for and discover any activity that presented great evil. You know, your kind of thing. And did you know that there was another sect that the Keepers utilized? Usually one man or woman, maybe two depending on the size of the faction they were part of. This one person was not an official Keeper of White, but still part of that faction. He, or she, had some gifts that the Keepers had, but nowhere near as focused or powerful, but he had… other talents. He would be the one they would send when they discovered or foresaw a great evil. He would set out to stop it. The Keepers entrusted these men and women to apprehend those involved in such dark meddling… or dispose of them if need be. Did you know this, Father?”
Father Paul whispered in amazement, as if an old memory locked away deep inside had just resurfaced for the first time in forever; “The Paladins…”
“You have heard of them. I’m impressed, priest. Not many have.”
“Because…” the priest retorted, “…it’s just a legend. A fable. No actual… record of them.”
“None that you or any Agent of Shadow has seen.”
“And you think… yourself to be… one of them? Even if that were true… you’d be the first… in ages. And you’re still no match… against us. Personally, I think… you’re delirious…”
“Like I said,” the man responded, “that remains to be seen. But back to the matter at hand…” He returned to a standing position and aimed his pistol at the priest’s head. “You’re dying. Very slowly of course, and I’m sure it’s painful. It’s nothing less than you deserve, but I’m willing to make it quick. You know, speed things up for you.”
“How gracious… of you,” he answered cynically. Then after a moment he added, “What… do you want?”
“The boy in the message your people sent me. Tell me where he is and I’ll put you out of your misery.”
The priest returned the man’s gaze, intrigued by his demand. Then a gruesome sputter of laughter mixed with bloody coughing escaped from the depths of his throat. “And that’s why you wanted to wound me only,” he said when he recovered from his fit. “That’s the information… you seek. Self-proclaimed paladin indeed. Once again… you’ve proved that… what drives you more… than anything… is revenge.”
“Where is he?” the man repeated.
Father Paul sneered. “‘Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter… ere long back on itself… recoils.’ John Milton, Paradise Lost. Good book. You should read it. ‘You know… how to read… you ignorant fuck?’” He stifled another cough. “That’s a quote from Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption.”
The man knelt down again and pressed the barrel of the pistol against his knee. “I don’t have time for games, priest…”
“Here’s another one… for you,” the priest interrupted. “‘What trances of… torments does that man endure… who is consumed with one… unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with… clenched hands… and wakes with his own… bloody nails… in his palms.’”
The man fired the pistol. The priest drew breath in a deep gasp and let out a painful scream. He spat and cursed as his body writhed from the newly open wound, where bone fragments and torn cartilage were stained with fresh blood.
When he regained himself, Father Paul took several breaths laboriously as the man waited patiently. Finally, he slowed his breathing. “Herman Melville. Moby Dick.”
“Last chance priest,” the man warned.
“Would you… care to try… my other knee, boy? It won’t do you… any good. As you’ve said… I’m dead either way. You’ve taken away… the one thing… I desire most. Why do I care whether I die quickly… or slowly? I have… some strength left. I can… numb my own pain.”
“Really?” the man replied. Then he fired his weapon again at his other knee. Again, the priest screamed and hacked. Fresh blood spilled from his mouth as he turned to his side. It took some time for him to recover himself.
But when he eventually did, he smiled weakly but defiantly at the man. “I should… tell you… what you want to… know. I really should. You’re… no match… for him. Even… as strong and quick… as you are… he is far greater. Far deadlier. He has… no conscience… no fear. Nothing… would please me more… th
an to have you… use all of your wit… and energy… to track him down… only to fail… to be beaten mercilessly… and to die… more slowly and painfully at his hands… than I at yours.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“Only… because… you want me to. Why make it easy for you?”
“Then there’s nothing left to discuss.” The man stood again and stepped back. With no hesitation, he raised his pistol and aimed it at the priest’s head.
“Choosing… to be… merciful… after all?”
The man cocked the hammer. “Just so I don’t have to hear any more of your annoying references.”
“One final quote… for the road then,” Father Paul answered in a raspy voice. “from Machiavelli’s The Prince. ‘If an injury… has to be done… to a man… it should be… so severe… that his vengeance… need not be feared.’ In other words… consider how great we are… in number. How many ties… we have… how many… follow our path. Consider… how much of society… we control. If you take… your revenge… for the wrongdoings against you… do you think… it will end there? Is it even possible, paladin… that you can complete… your quest… so thoroughly… that you will never… have to face… a return blow? You know… you can’t. It will be a blow… from which… you will not recover. Are you really… prepared for that? Are you really prepared to spend… the rest of your days… in paranoia… never resting… as you wait… constantly in fear… of retaliation?”
The man momentarily lowered his aim and turned his gaze from the priest’s hateful eyes, regarding his warning pensively. Within a few seconds however, his own eyes squinted with resolve as he returned to stare down the decrepit old man, aiming his pistol again. “‘I’ll be thinking about that while I’m pissing on your grave.’”
Father Paul raised an eyebrow at him.
The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2) Page 32