B00N1384BU EBOK

by Unknown

  Then I would remove Matthew and rule over The Black Fang, as my father had deserved to.

  ***

  As my plane circled over Atlanta before coming in for landing, I thought over the mission that lay before me. The Old Man had given me a tough mission, one worthy of choosing a successor. I was headed into the enemy's den, to do battle with a mighty warlock of the order of the Feathered Serpent and recover a florin from an ancient coin that was in his possession. The Feathered Serpents were renowned for their aggression and prowess in combat, and their use of spell and potions that had perhaps no equal among those who practiced the Dark Arts. As if that was not bad enough, this warlock had hidden himself behind a shield that made it even harder for me to get to him. The photograph that had come with the letter showed a smiling, broad face, of a man called Jerry Torma, dressed in the uniform of the United States Marines. He was stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia, and getting to him on his base would normally be all but impossible for a civilian like me. I had tried to read up on this Jerry Torma and what I had found made it clear that this mission would be anything but easy. He had not just used the uniform to camouflage his true nature, but also to add to his repertoire of skills. He had fought in Iraq, earning various decorations for valor, and if the grapevine among warlocks was to be believed, secreted out a medallion from an ancient tomb in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a medallion that once had been in the possession of Zul the Malevolent, which gave the wearer immense strength and power. The Old Man had sent a tarot card along with the letter, supposedly a hint as to how I could defeat this adversary and take the florin. It showed a man, or perhaps an angel, grappling with a lion, prying open its mouth with his bare hands. Above the angel's head was a symbol, which seemed to be infinity. There was only a single word at the bottom of the card.

  Strength.

  Another of the Old Man's mind games. Given how ruthless he had shown himself to be, I did not put it beyond him that this whole mission was an exercise designed not to get the damn florin, but just to see who would be strong and ruthless enough to survive.

  If the Old Man and his pet poodle Matthew thought I was lacking on that front, I was going to prove them very wrong.

  ***

  The Benning Brew Pub had a reputation for bad service and overpriced beer, but neither of those really were my concern. I was barely sipping from the mug of draft beer in front of me, pretending to look at the UFC fight playing out on the large screen in the corner, and trying to get a better measure of my adversary now that he was just feet away from me. If Jerry Torma had looked like a nice, all American boy in his photo, he was even more so in person. He was big, standing at least three or four inches taller than my five feet nine, and built like an ox, but he seemed to have an easy, almost gentle, way that put everyone at ease. He was in civilian clothes, surrounded by young men, who with their cropped hair and toned bodies, could only be fellow Marines. They were joking and laughing near the pool table. Just another group of young off duty soldiers having a drink. Except one of them was a powerful and dangerous warlock.

  I had done surveillance many times before operations, and had been trained by the best of The Black Fang Masters, so I was not overly worried about being discovered. What worried me however was the fact that there did not seem to be any easy way out of this. I had visited this pub three times in the past ten days and realized that this was Torma's favored watering hole. That sort of predictability usually got a warlock killed, but then he never came alone. There was no way of getting to him without making a real mess, the sort that got the police and newspapers involved. Much better to have a single Marine found dead in a back alley after a robbery than to have several of them killed. The Black Fang were big on patience, and normally I would have just waited—perhaps get a job, maybe in the bar itself, and then bide my time. But time was something I was not sure I had. There were other warlocks out there, looking for their florin, and I could not risk them getting to Old Man Phillips ahead of me.

  According to the Old Man's letter, the guardian warlock would give his life to keep the florin safe and hidden.

  So be it.

  ***

  How quickly the tables had turned and the hunter had become the prey. I sensed the blade hissing through the air and ducked, feeling the blade pass through the air where my head had been a split second earlier. I had been stalking Torma for the last two nights and when I'd spotted him leaving the base with three fellow Marines for another night at the pub, I had decided to lie in wait for the darkened alley they'd have to pass through to get to the pub. I had been waiting for half an hour when I had sensed I wasn't alone, and my instincts saved me as my attacker circled around, bringing his axe around for another strike. I felt the blade cut through my left forearm as I moved back, slower than I would usually have, stunned by the fact that my attacker was not Torma but an old man wearing a large cross around his neck.

  A witch hunter.

  Covens like The Black Fang and Feathered Serpent had been waging a battle for millenia, largely in the shadows, largely unseen and unknown to humans. But not all humans, for some, the witch hunters, were sworn to destroy all warlocks, and now one of them found me. I did not have time to contemplate how he had found me—had Torma been on to me and leaked my presence to the witch hunters, or indeed had I been betrayed by one of my own?

  The blade swung down and I moved back much faster this time, now fully in control of the situation.

  "Old fool, have you come here alone to die?"

  The man hesitated, hearing me speak in the guttural tongue of the ancients, a language that was spoken by warlocks of yore, from as long ago as when some of them had presided over the ruin of ancient human civilizations such as Sodom and Gomorrah. They had corrupted those humans through sins that attracted them, leading them to ruin, so the coven could rule over what remained. We did much the same today, but flesh no longer was temptation enough—we used the lure of stock markets, easy loans and financial returns to lure more and more men to their ruin, to corrupt their souls even as they thought their lives were being enriched. The old man hefted the axe in his hands, as if weighing what to do now that he was faced with a real warlock, and no longer had the advantage of surprise.

  I did not kill him. Well, not at first. First, I made him talk, and you'll be surprised at how much a man will talk when you know exactly which body parts to cut off, and in which order.

  ***

  I had survived the previous night, but it was a strategic defeat, a potential catastrophe. The man had confirmed my worst fears—Torma had somehow known who I was, and had passed on word through his underground contacts to ensure that witch hunters would be on my tail. Defeating Torma was a challenge enough, doing so while being in turn hunted by witch hunters made it even more difficult. Word of my escape must have got around, because Torma had hunkered down, and I had not seen him for three days. Inside his base, he was virtually impregnable, or so he thought.

  I barely slept that night in my hotel room, dreaming again of corpses of those I had killed, and then I sat and prayed to all the Dark Ones, for darkness to take over my mind, to blank out conscience, to drown out the voices of those who had cried to me for mercy in vain, and most of all, to help me forget my mother's words. To do what I had been trained to do, to achieve the goal that had defined my entire life, I would need to forget all of those, and I would need to unleash my Dark Powers on a scale I had never done before. I knew my strategy would work, because I had used the last couple of days to read up more about my adversary, and as cunning and powerful as he no doubt thought he was, his actions had betrayed a weakness, a fatal weakness that I would now make him pay dearly for.

  ***

  The two Marines at the gate were kneeling, emptying their assault rifles at the oncoming truck. Bullets pinged off the truck, shattering the windshield. I had to admire their aim, and their bravery. They did not flinch, and did their duty in protecting their base from the oncoming threat. I shook my head as I sna
pped my fingers and the truck accelerated. Had there been a real terrorist at the wheels, he would be dead and these Marines would have likely averted this attack, but no human hands were on the steering wheel. Instead, the truck was being guided by me through the powers I had gained in years of training under the Dark Masters. I was standing several hundred meters away, near a coffee shop, amid dozens of screaming bystanders who were now riveted to the scene unfolding before them. The Marines changed clips and fired again. I had to admire their bravery, but that did not prevent me from crushing them under the truck as it smashed into the gates of Fort Benning.

  The gate was reinforced to withstand attacks and had been closed when the truck had been spotted driving at speed towards it. However, it began to give way as the truck hit it at close to a hundred miles per hour. Dozens of Marines rushed out, fanning out with rifles drawn. Two police cruisers pulled up, and the scared and confused looking cops began screaming for people to go indoors. I wondered if Torma knew I was coming for him. Either way, he had chosen this path. By hiding inside his base, he had forced me to draw him out, using his one weakness against him. You see, Jerry Torma may have been a powerful warlock but years of living with his fellow Marines had made him care for his comrades, had made him to some extent perhaps follow their code of honor. I had done my research, and two of his gallantry awards had been earned for going into the line of fire to rescue injured comrades. That same dedication to his brothers in arms would now draw him out, unless he wanted me to lay waste to the base and everyone in it. If he so desired, I was perfectly happy to oblige.

  I saw a passing fuel tanker several hundred meters away and gazed at the driver. I closed my eyes and focused as I had been taught, and his mind was mine. He jumped out of the tanker and it accelerated as I clenched my fist. The Marines were now backing away, their Officer screaming orders at them to hold their fire. If they hit the tanker, the explosion and resulting inferno would likely consume hundreds of civilians in the area. I waited till the truck was barely fifty meters from them, and slowed the truck down till it stopped. The Marine Officer took a tentative step forward and as I snapped my finger, the truck exploded. Every Marine at the gate was incinerated in the fireball and I felt windows shatter all around me. There was blood seeping down the side of my face, but I allowed myself a grin. I turned to the two bleeding cops near me.

  "I'm a doctor. Let's get there and help out!"

  With those words, I ran towards the base, followed by one of the police officers. Once we were at the gate, and obscured in the smoke and fire, I reached out and broke his neck. It took me less than a minute to slip on his uniform and then I was inside the base.

  ***

  There was utter mayhem inside. People were running everywhere, trying to comprehend what had just happened and several fully armed Marines were hanging around, waiting to see what kind of threat they were facing. I ran towards an officer.

  "There are three men out there with guns."

  Galvanized into action, the Officer and ten of his Marines ran towards the gate while I ran deeper into the base. I had to find Jerry Torma and finish this while I still had a chance of getting out. I was now in the main administrative building and as two Marine guards rushed to ask me what was happening outside, I took out the two blades I had kept at my belt and swung out. Both men went done, blood spraying from their slit throats.

  "Jerry Torma of the Feathered Serpent, come and face me or I will slaughter these friends of yours."

  When nobody answered my bellowed challenge, I kicked down a door, finding three civilian staff cowering inside. One of them, an old lady, tried to shield herself with a folder but I tore into them, cutting them to ribbons and left their bodies there.

  A door opened to my left and without looking I swung a blade in an arc, hearing gurgling sounds of the dying Marine as I continued down the hallway. Two more died by my hand when I began to tire of this. I couldn't just keep slaughtering them one by one and hope Torma showed himself. I could already hear the sirens of approaching police cars.

  It was time to bring down the house.

  As per protocol, most of the staff were hiding in sealed safe rooms, as they had been trained to do in the face of terrorist attacks. The whole idea was for them to stay safe while police or additional troops came in and secured the area. No doubt, SWAT teams were already outside, watching for attackers and securing the perimeter, but nobody had bargained for someone like me roaming free on the inside. The same safe rooms they had sought sanctuary within would now become their tombs. I kicked open another door and entered a long corridor, cutting down two more Marines who started to raise their rifles, and then paused on seeing a man in a police uniform before they realized their fatal error. The closest safe room was now right in front of me, and I shouted at the top of my voice.

  "Police! Everything is clear out here. You can open the door."

  I waited for a second and then repeated myself. It was then that the thick metal door began to swing open. A face peered out, belonging to a young woman who looked terrified out of her wits. Huddled behind here were several others, mostly civilian staff by the looks of it. I looked her in the eye, and her blue eyes widened in horror as her gaze met mine as she perhaps realized she was looking at someone who was not quite human. She would have seen my pupils dilate and then my eyeballs fold up so that only the whites of my eyes were visible. My face would have been stretched, my mouth open in a silent scream as I brought to bear the Dark Powers I had been taught so well. Cracks appeared in the wall above the safe room and the woman screamed, trying to get out, but it was too late. The section of the building they were in collapsed, burying them underneath. A cloud of dust was sent rushing towards me, and I turned my face away as the dust, and debris hit me. I didn't mind a little more blood—I was beginning to get in the flow of things. All other voices were now silenced. When you summoned the Dark Powers, it was said the darkness took hold of a part of you, almost seeking its pound of flesh (or soul?) for allowing you to use its powers. Now, I was one with the darkness, and all I saw around me were enemies, standing in the path of my mission.

  I went outside, and saw helicopters circling the compound. I stared at one of them and its rotor stopped, and it careened to the ground, exploding in a fireball. That was when I heard a calm voice behind me.

  "It's me you want."

  I turned to see Jerry Torma, in full Marine dress uniform, wearing the lion shaped amulet of Zul around his neck.

  ***

  Sentimental fool, I thought as he ran inside the building and out into an exercise yard. He was still bothered about saving his precious comrades. Now he would have to face me alone. He stopped running and turned to face me, and I was puzzled to see a smile on his face.

  "Torma, give me the florin of Abramelin the Mage that you have and we can spare these people further death."

  "The florin, indeed. Do you believe I don't know why you came here, warlock of The Black Fang? The moment I spotted you, I read your purpose, thanks to my lord Zul and the powers he has conferred upon me."

  He took a step towards me, and the smile was gone. His eyes were blazing with fury.

  "You are in well over your head, warlock!"

  I threw a blade at him, and it flew straight and true. Without so much as missing a heartbeat, he sidestepped it. I had expected that—I certainly did not expect to kill a warlock who wore the amulet of Zul with a simple knife throw, but I followed it up with a large metal beam from some nearby repair works that I brought flying towards him. Torma grabbed the amulet with his left hand and held out his right and the beam stayed suspended in midair between us. I could feel sweat streaming down my forehead from the exertion of trying to will the beam to continue to its path, but Torma was just smiling. I felt my will weaken and I dove aside just in time as the beam hurtled towards me and smashed into the wall behind me, shattering windows.

  Before I could regain my footing, I felt a vise like grip on my neck. God, he was strong. I stabbed a
t him with the other blade and felt myself drawing blood, but he didn't even flinch. I felt myself being bodily lifted and he looked up into my eyes, speaking in the same ancient tongue I had used in the alley with the witch hunter.

  "Zul the destroyer of cities, the bringer of ruination, the shape-changer, the devourer of souls, demands sacrifice. A soul ruined, damned to be what it detests. Prepare yourself."

  I struggled against him, but he was just too strong, and I felt myself blacking out and my hands fell limp by my side. Had I come this far to be killed like this? Had it all been for nothing? It was then that I saw the amulet around his neck, a lion's head hanging by a golden chain.

  The lion's head. The tarot card. It had not been about my strength, but about how I could not use strength to win this battle.

  The lion's mouth.

  I summoned every last reserve of strength I possessed and grabbed the lion's head with my left hand. A light began to glow where the lion's mouth was, and I felt the pressure on my throat ease. One of Torma's hands went to the amulet, and I used the window of opportunity to smash my head into his face. Weakened and disoriented, I probably hurt myself more than I hurt him as I hit his forehead instead of the bridge of his nose, but the impact rocked him back and made him loosen his grip. As I fell, I was focused on one thing, and one thing alone.