Of Kings and Demons

by Han, George

  It was a matter that could be easily settled, Chris Bates assured Victor. An out of court settlement was proposed by Maxi Oil—a ten-million grant to the environmental research institutes.

  But the meeting was botched up and the environmental group engaged a tough lawyer in Patricia Fletcher from New York. The case had to be referred to the federal courts, as a judgment was required. Maxi Oil had to bear the costs of the environmental damage. The oil company was ordered to pay $550 million in damages. The judgment cast a grey cloud over everything in Victor’s life, including his rising political fortunes.

  Although his shares in Maxi Oil were registered under his half-brother’s name, it was only a matter of time before the press began pounding his door for an explanation. Moreover, the sheer size of the damages would be a fatal blow to the financial health of Maxi Oil. It had just committed over half-a-billion in drilling concessions in Africa and Asia.

  Despite his usual façade of confidence, Victor was disturbed the issue would cast blight on his illustrious career. Chris has assured him the problems would be ironed out in due course. It was not the most reassuring of answers and the Senate session break gave him the opportunity to focus on resolving the budding problem himself. He needed to get Maxi Oil out of the way, out of his political career.

  His aides had suggested a brainstorming session over dinner, but solitude was all he needed and so he had all of them sent away. He had to clear the clutter in his mind and find the solutions.

  On the eve of the Senate break, Victor was back at his countryside house at Richmond. He had inherited the property from his father, a successful broker on Wall Street. It was one of those things in life that he was truly grateful for, a beautiful property. In fact, Victor had many things to be thankful about.

  He never remembered that he had to work very hard for anything he craved— academic honours, his first car, his first job, a beautiful wife, and a booming political career.

  On the Hill, he had earned a strong reputation by cleverly positioning himself a budget hawk, anticrime toughie. On foreign policy, Victor Palmer earned the nickname of warrior for his tough stand on the military deployment in Central Asia and Japan. Inevitably, being strong and compassionate on domestic policy and experienced on the foreign front had invited suggestions of him being a forerunner for the Republican presidential nomination in 2020.

  Victor had the track record and pedigree that the party needed in a strong candidate. He had the experience of a middle-of-road conservative who would appeal to the middle class and senior age groups that looked for stability in a president. After twelve rocky years of Democratic presidency, the country looked set to hand the keys of the White House to a Republican.

  Now before he considered putting up a serious bid, Victor knew he had to handle the immediate political toxic called Maxi Oil before it consumed his career. The presidency seemed remote, if not beyond him, for now.

  Victor had washed up and was headed for a quiet dinner when his aide, Jean, reminded him of an appointment.

  “You must be joking,” he said. “It’s my break. I thought I said I wanted the evening free?”

  “Actually, Mr. Joe Bianco has been calling you for the whole week. I reminded you on Tuesday and you asked him to come over.”

  Victor slapped his forehead. “How could I forget? It’s Joey.”

  Joe Bianco was an attorney and worked for Victor when Victor ran for Congress. That was more than a decade earlier. Joe left Palmer’s staff in the second term to pursue a career in the corporate world. Irregularly, Victor had heard from the man, but nothing more than dinners every few months or so. Victor had to deliberate hard before he remembered their last meeting was the Democratic convention meeting, twelve months earlier.

  “Bring him in,” Palmer said.

  “Do you want me to take notes?”

  Victor shook his head. “Leave us. I don’t expect anything substantial.”

  Victor met his old-time subordinate in the living room, a spacious, oak-paneled hall with a high ceiling. The walls were donned with oil paintings of scenery; there were pictures of his father and the family perched on the fireplace mantel.

  Victor eyes popped when Bianco was ushered in. The man had put on some weight, and there was some grey in his well-oiled hair.

  “What happened to you, Joey?” Victor looked pointedly at the man’s waist.

  “I can only attribute it to the dining and wining, all done in the name of entertainment and business,” Joey explained. “But enough said of me. Let’s talk about you, Senator. You are going places now. I’d read of your new appointment. It must have kept you glued to Capitol Hill.”

  “I am soon taking up residence there,” Victor joked. “Joey, can I get you a drink?”

  Joe nodded, and after drinks were mixed, the pair took seats on a couch.

  “So what brings you here?” Victor asked.

  “I am in DC for business and so I decided to drop by to see you.”

  “You have been in and out of the capitol, but I don’t remember you dropping by.”

  “I beg your imperial pardon, Senator.”

  “What have you got yourself into this time?”

  Joey chuckled. “You sound like I am busy with some clandestine scheme, selling arms to Iran or lobbying for some terrorists front organizations.”

  “You know better, Joey.”

  “I take that dig as a compliment, Victor.”

  “Is it true? I’d heard you are running for president?”

  Victor paused. Why did he ask? Taking it in stride, Victor continued in an unflappable tone “Joey, in this country, the press has become the harbinger of the next president even before the politicians can decide.”

  The pair laughed before Joe pushed the question again.

  “You seem very interested about my presidential plans.”

  “You are the most eligible around, old friend,” Joe said, touching the senator’s arm. “You should seriously think of it. You are only fifty and don’t you want to run?”

  Victor flashed a cynical smile. Where are we heading? Victor paused before responding. “Why are you interested if I run? What has my interest in White House be a concern, Joe?”

  Joe’s smile disappeared. “I can understand if you are interested. But Maxi Oil has probably frayed your nerves and blunted your ambitions.”

  “Joey, I welcome friends but I do not appreciate them talking to me in riddles. You obviously came with something. I don’t like this. You can have another drink if you want. Excuse me.” Victor stood and made for the door, but Joe’s next words held him back like a magnet.

  “I can help you with Maxi Oil.”

  Chapter 17

  No Love Lost

  As Maganus trekked into the depths of the forest, he smelled darkness, a stench of sulfur after clearing yards of virgin forests. He neared the trail which would lead him to a known sanctuary in the woods.

  The location used to be a disused parish that once served a community of faithfuls that stayed in the wilds of the woods, away from civilization. After the population dwindled and the younger ones moving into the city, the village faded into memory.

  However the parish remained a point of congregation for forces of the good and many a time Maganus had used the sanctuary to spread the message of good through the animal kingdom at the location. It had always made him feel good when he travel to this part of the forest. In sharp contrast, those vibes are scarce today.

  He made his way down the winding trail and paused when he noticed the ruffled landscape with patches upturned indicating possible scuffles. Then he saw the traces of red and bits that looked like torn limbs.

  Maganus paused. As he prayed for the lost souls, he bit his lips. Anger has been roused and surged through his veins like a shot of heat.

  He swore to get even with the author of the chapter of bloodshed and murder.

  A scream, distant but distinctive, sucked his attention away. Maganus clasped his hands and murmured a
prayer, within seconds, the glimmering golden battleaxes materialized in his hands.

  Grip tightened around the weapons, Maganus sprinted forward.

  He halted when he saw a body of darkness heading his way. He squinted and realized it was a body of crows – the manifestation of demons’ presence.

  “Angelus Triumphanus!” he roared and the decibels torn the darkness asunder.

  As he raced towards the parish, he noticed the crumpled façade of the sanctuary, with the fallen debris. There have been some rough scuffles and besides artillery, only demonic power could inflict such damage to the church.

  Maganus saw a few figures. In the corner, he saw the survivors of the combat – a tall lanky man and a lad who stood, hands stretched like a protective hen over a younger girl.

  The tall man was clad in the familiar black tunic of the Order. Despite being badly battered, bloodied cheeks and lips, he bowed when he saw Maganus.

  “Father Thomas Bellator?”

  “Good day, Lord Maganus.” The priest replied casually.

  “It has been hard on you.” Maganus remarked as his thoughtful eyes fell on the children.

  “Those whom I was instructed to protect.” Bellator said.

  Maganus noticed the sandy-haired lad and was about to cast a question when he was rudely interrupted.

  “I supposed you can postpone your reunion?”

  The voice was tantamount to a knock on his temples, and Maganus was startled. He turned and found a malicious flow of darkness heading towards him. The shoulders, the limbs and the curled upwards moustache on a skinny face, and that permanent smirk belonged to the other side.

  “Maganus, I am surprised on your sudden appearance.”

  The Guardian Angel rubbed his beard at the unexpected foe.

  “Count Raum? Ivan Raum!”

  There was momentary iciness before a surge of unpleasant memories surged into his mind

  “What brings you here?”

  Maganus edge forth.

  “Is this the way you greet an old acquaintance?”

  Count Raum jabbed his pointer finger at Maganus

  “You mean this?” Maganus raised his battleaxe.

  “Of course. What were you thinking? Talking about your beard?” Count Raum hissed. Then there was a long pause as reminiscence sets in.

  It is common for friends to find meetings sweet, and enemies find encounters bitter. It was bitter-sweet for Maganus when he saw the Earl of Hell, Count Ivan Raum. He was unprepared for the reunion after their last encounter, a bloody battle.

  It has been a long time, countless earth years. Maybe it was the fifteenth or sixteenth century. Where was the battle? Sea, land, or mountain? Europe, South America, or Africa?

  Maganus had forgotten, and selective amnesia was both his forte and weakness. Forgetting the painful part especially miseries of past battles that he had lost, made him a happier man. That was the good part. Having a weak memory, however, made him vulnerable to repeating his foibles, like forgiving enemies and trusting too easily.

  Count Ivan spoke first. “How have you been, Maganus?”

  “No worse off than you are on your worst day.” Maganus winked. “Or always better than you were on your best day.”

  The Count winced. “Your sense of humor has not depreciated with time.”

  “You will excuse me, Ivan.” Maganus said abruptly and then turned to Father Bellator and the siblings who had now shifted backwards.

  “Thomas, I need to compliment on a good job. You found them!” Maganus eyed the children.

  “Lord Maganus. God willing, but one of my men, Father Paul has been sacrificed.”

  Maganus lowered his head.

  “A sacrifice and we will remember this warrior!” Maganus bowed slightly and crossed his chest.

  “Now, back to some real business. Do Pardon me.”

  Magnus turned to his foe.

  “When was it that we last fought? Westphalia?”

  The Count laughed. “Maganus, your memory is failing. Does your immortality carry an expiry date?”

  “I hadn’t lost anything!”

  “The Philippines,” Raum said with a smirk.

  Maganus’s bushy eyebrows danced like white caterpillars as the realization hit home. The intelligent eyes narrowed into glints of cold light. Like a gushing river, the smell of blood, sight of dismembered bodies, and howls of prayers in calls for mercy flowed back to him. The folly of mankind, unfathomable and whimsical, that led to the death of one of the greatest of mankind—Ferdinand Magellan. The recollection began to burn his heart and brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Maganus remained emotionless, too proud to allow his weakness to show.

  Memories of Magellan had never left him, only tucked away in a quiet corner of his mind. Magellan had been entrusted to Maganus’s tutelage when he just lost his parents as a ten-year-old. Despite his ordinary looks, Maganus could feel his pure faith, bursting energy and willingness to sacrifice—the qualities that would make him a giant amongst men. He went on to be the first man to circumnavigate the world; the first evolution of Magellan, from ordinary sailor to explorer extraordinaire, was an inspiring revelation.

  The final destiny of Kings was cloaked in secrecy, which enhanced the enigma of the Kings, a special clan of humans. Even the Guardian Angel was not always privy to that information. It was meant that way. The process was kept spontaneous with the Angel watching over the shoulders of the Kings. They guided and mentored but intervention was kept to the minimum to allow the natural growth of the Kings.

  God planned it that way; the destiny of every King had to be decided by the individual. Through the process of sealing that destiny, the advancement of human civilization was achieved.

  The secrecy made the process of watching over a King special. It was as mysterious as it is thrilling, and always a source of joy for Maganus, despite the occasional subversion by the Demons. There were so many moments when he lost heart, at the success of the Demons, when the Kings succumbed to greed, cruelty, and selfishness. But he never failed to regain his faith because the Kings of Men always impressed with their resilience and faith.

  Maganus was with Magellan when he began the historical circumnavigation in September 1519. There were untold dangers and every opportunity to capsize and sink the campaign in the seas. Magellan held on and impressed his crew with his courage.

  During the navigation, the losses in lives were high and Magellan wavered. Even the toughest of Kings faltered at times and Maganus was forced to appear in a revelation to the explorer. Maganus’s decision boosted Magellan and the intrepid explorer continued till he reached the island of Homonhon, in the Philippines.

  It was the crowning achievement, something that secured a page in the annals of history for Magellan. All that was needed was for Magellan to make a timely replenishment of food and water, then return to Spain to get his due rewards by the King and cement his position as one of the greatest explorers of human civilization.

  However, the Demons sniffed and located Magellan, and trouble began. Count Raum was ingenious with his tactics in filling the locals with hatred and suspicion. In an armed conflict, which was to go down in history as the Battle of Mactan, Magellan was killed.

  The death was a heart-shattering event for Maganus. It the loss of a King of Men pained him like the unspeakable anguish from the loss of a child. Tears failed to assuage his pain and he had sought out Count Raum and they fought for a full day. Their encounter churned a wild storm that engulfed the islands for the next seven days. The trial of destruction would be remembered by the locals as an angry act of the gods—not quite that but close enough.

  The day was etched in the landscape of Maganus’s memory. Time was treacherous terrain, but with Count Raum’s prodding, the gush of pain returned to his mind.

  Ugly screeches of crows snapped Maganus back from his recollection. He was glad that the reminiscing was short. It was too painful already with those few minutes of recollection. Magellan was one of h
is favourite Kings.

  “Reminiscence is a worthy exercise only if there are honours to recollect, not defeats. Your defeats,” Maganus taunted.

  The Count retorted. “And probably your failings too, Maganus.”

  “At least our motives were noble and correct.”

  Raum spit in disgust. “Noble and correct? Who is to judge? Angels have the cursed habit of lecturing us. Why don’t you pause for a second and reflect on the stupidity of the human race. Their foibles are embarrassing, and their future is sealed by their self-destruction.”

  “Leave them to decide their fate. They have proven they can chart their own course without undue interference from you side.”

  “Come on, Maganus! They will never learn. Are you not tired? One defeat after another and the human race never seem to learn from their mistakes.”

  Emotional disequilibrium affected his usual eloquence. Maganus clenched his fists, but only put up a grim silence. “I guess defeat will seal your lips, Ivan!”

  “When you cannot win employing logic, using fists will not secure the victory you desired.” Count Raum hissed and flashed his sharp-pointed teeth. His narrow eyes mutated into balls of fire. Raising his hands, the Count summoned his ravens. Within seconds, a halo of darkness circled over the Count’s head.

  Maganus grinned, then rubbed his palms and slowly raised them. In an instant, a pair of battleaxes that glowed like ancient gold materialized in his palms. The Guardian Angel wielded the weapons, the trusty golden battleaxes of Heracles, with fluency.

  “You could still fight, Maganus?” the Count asked in a booming voice.

  “It has been a while, Count Raum,” Maganus remarked but he remembered something. He turned to the priest. “Bring them away. It is going to be a hazard.” Thomas Bellator nodded and harried the kids to a corner between the trees and a boulder.

  After the Demon and Guardian Angel were alone, Maganus shut his eyes in quiet prayers. Count Raum darted a taunt. “You are frightened?”

  “No chance, Ivan! I will give you the fun you’ve been asking for.”

  Saying that, Maganus charged at Ivan Raum like a bison but the Count quickly summoned his ravens and formed a shield.