by Han, George
“Shut your eyes, Mathew!” Maganus instructed. “Don’t look into theirs. It will turn mortals insane.” Then he murmured his prayers and yielded his shimmering battleaxes. The Cerberus, demonic canine stood at ten feet in height and twenty feet long, with each limb powerful as war hammers, sauntered over to Maganus.
“How have you been?” Maganus teased as his battleaxes kept the beast at bay. The pungent vapor of death that emanated from the creature’s mouth reminded him of their first encounter.
It must have been in the eighth century, if his memory had not failed him. At the battlefields near Tours, France, there had been a bloody war. The monster had roamed the battlefields and fed on the souls of the fallen knights of the Frankish kingdom. Their first exchanges were bruising and, despite Maganus’s victory, he received a body of wounds that required the healing powers of the Archangels.
Before the Guardian Angel could utter a word, the beast, like a ton of steel, knocked him over. One battleaxe flew off but Maganus, in a swift motion held the creature by its neck, with his bare hands.
It was just inches away from his chest.
“Ah, what did they feed you in Hell?” Maganus grimaced as the razor-sharp teeth neared. A droop of the beast’s saliva soiled Maganus’s chest.
“That’s disgusting.”
With one thrust of his powerful legs, Maganus sent the creature rolling away.
However, before he could get back on his feet, the snarling jaws returned and the Angel parried it with arm. Father Bellator dashed over with a blow on the beast’s shoulders but was thrown off balance by a robust paw.
Maganus sensed another dark presence behind him. There was another canine! He sniggered. How could I forget? They always operate as a pair.
Mathew ran to him and placed himself in front of Guardian Angel, his right hand holding a short sword, his sword that might have dropped during the combat.
“Don’t be a hero, lad.”
“I just want to help.” Mathew said but Maganus nudged him.
aside. He raised his hand and his battleaxe flew into his palm. Maganus struck his warrior pose, stout chin and stiffened shoulders.
He sparred with the pair of Cerberus and their six snarling jaws with skill and
agility. In a corner, Mathew stood in awe of the Angel’s agility. The brutal strength of the Cerberuses soon had the better of Maganus. In one lunge, one of the heads knocked the battleaxe from the Angel’s grip. Maganus leapt backward, and dealt a heavy blow to that head with his fist. The creature whimpered like an unwanted hound, but it was no ordinary hound. It gritted its teeth, the mouth overflowing with bloodthirsty mucus, ready for another bout.
Maganus tried to turn but the Cerberus quickly pinned him to the ground. In
the background, the trees swayed and a cacophony of noises rose, seemingly to herald an impending danger.
Maganus shut his eyes and prayed. He had to kill the fear rising within him. To
Angels, fear was a poison that sapped their prowess. He whistled hard with his strength in hope some of his animals friends will hear him.
Like if his ally had materialized, the mauling stopped and the creature froze with its blood-red eyes dimmed. Maganus felt wetness on his thigh and looked up to realized, much to his horror, Mathew had stabbed the Cerberus in the belly. Blood and body tissues had spewed everywhere, creating a grisly mess.
The demonic beast unleashed a long groan before collapsing by Maganus’s side while the other Cerberus backed away with a trailing whimper. Mathew extracted his sword, unthinking move and was hit by gush of gas.
Maganus cried caution but it was too late.
“You should never do that, Mathew,” Maganus complained.
“I was only trying to help and ...” Mathew paused and begun to shake uncontrollably.
“By Divine’s Grace.” Maganus said as his eyed the surviving Cerberus. He knew he did not do more. The surviving beast circled its fallen companion and sniffed over the carcass. The fallen Cerberus, after a series of spasm, drifted into death. The carcass disintegrated and vaporized into a dark mist. Within seconds, the surviving Cerberus turned away and disappeared into the darkness, leaving a trail of long wisps.
Sensing the danger has gone, Maganus turned to Mathew.
“The impact of attacking a Demon of those proportions, like the Cerberus, will take its toll on your life force. Man does not fight Demons head on.” We belong to different arenas and are sustained by different life forces. The soul of Man is constructed from the five elements of nature—water, wood, fire, metal, and earth. Demons are constructed from the fires of Hell and sustained by the breath of cruelty, decadence, and greed—the oxygen of Hell. When Demons are on Earth, amongst men, they sustain themselves on the darkness of mankind. To fight the Demons, you need to draw on your reserves of your life. Killing the beast will deplete the sustenance of your life.
Mathew had grown pallid and strained to hear Maganus. “What is it?”
“I need to heal you.”
Maganus had barely finished when Mathew fell, head first. Maganus caught him in time as anxious Sarah sprinted over.
“What is happening, Maganus?” she cried.
“Calm, my girl.” Maganus said and turned to Mathew. “Shut your eyes, Your brother has been hurt.”
“Will he be fine?”
“Of course.” Maganus was emphatic, his eyes widened.
Maganus checked Mathew’s pulse and found it irregular and weak. He looked skyward. “Dawn will be breaking soon,” he muttered.
“Anything I can do?” It was Father Bellator.
“I need to heal Mathew. Please stand guard.”
“Yes, Lord Maganus.”
Maganus noticed Father Bellator’s arms, which had been badly bruised. The right shoulder looked as if it needed a good bandage. A piece of skin size of an orange had been ripped off and blood trickled free. “Your wounds require immediate attention as well.”
“I shall be fine,” Bellator said. “This is not the first time I had a date with a Cerberus. Attend to the boy, Lord Maganus.”
Maganus stretched his right palm. “Raise a holy shield with my golden cross.” The priest acquiesced and held the cross close to his chest. In deep and rapid tones, his chant brought out a solid umbrella of light that formed over them.
The strain was growing as Maganus struggled to maintain his composure. He knew it would be hard to fight if the Demons return.
The Angel dug into his bag and extracted a vial of holy water and gently sprinkled over the wound. Then he forced a drop of holy water through Mathew’s lips, which were sore from dehydration and his face carried a sickly grey.
After a long moment of suspense, warmth returned and there was colour in Mathew’s cheeks. Maganus crossed his heart.
“My brother is fine now.” Sarah had walked over, her voice terse.
“Let him sleep. Rest is the best nourishment for his weakened body. I wished there was some sunlight; the essence of day would do much good for Mathew. This stuffy grey,” Maganus eyed the surroundings “the pervasive evil in the air will hamper his recovery.”
“Pray Mathew will be fine.” Sarah clasped her hands.
“He will be.” Maganus winked.
Sarah sat closer to her brother, massaging his arms, in search of sighs of life. Meanwhile Maganus staggered to a corner for a quiet moment. He longed for some company, the presence of a comrade. His mind turned to Gwyneth and Jin, and felt an acidic worry crawling in his chest.
Triumphus ut Angelus. Maganus crossed his heart. Pray they are fine.
Maganus needed Pologus. He stood up and wolf whistled. A distinctive and sharp shrill soon elicited a response.
Chapter 24
Darkness Deepens
Victor Palmer lay alone in bed, unable to sleep. He cursed Joe Bianca for setting up the meeting with Boris Komorov.
Victor had never suffered insomnia. He had strutted the corridors of Capitol Hill long enough to acquire the aplomb and
stomach for brutal encounters and marathon meetings. On the Hill, Victor Palmer enjoyed the reputation of being the seasoned master of compromise and deal-making. However, the meeting he had earlier with the Russian whatisname and Joe Bianca had made him feel inadequate and powerless.
He wished his wife was with him now. She was the reluctant politician’s wife but always an excellent confidant. Victor Palmer finally gave up on sleeping and got out of bed. Selective amnesia had failed, and his mind had taken on a life of its own. It was almost 3 a.m., and Victor walked down to the kitchen and got himself a glass of warm water.
He shuffled to the study room but balked initially for the sight of it reminded him of the blue-eyed Russian. However, he walked in anyway. It was his house, his dominion, the place where a hundred plans had been conceived.
He flicked on the switch of the table lamp and sat down on the leather chair. He sipped from the glass and tried to gather his thoughts. Maxi Oil. $500 million. Russian. Bloody Russian. Ah yes…Komorov? Joe Bianca, idiot. The nonstop repetition was like a spiraling chain that could implode his mind.
He took a piece of paper and on which to scribble words, a habit that dated back to his high-school days. His tutor, Madam Catherine Forster, was an impressive woman of education and religion. She has inculcated in him the key values of discipline, industry, and passion—qualities that had stood him in good stead later in life. One of the things she had taught him was to control the mind and the thought processes.
As she had so aptly put it, “Control your thoughts, you control the habits, you master the character, and you steer your actions. That is how you weave destiny.”
Victor never forgotten the cliché.
He had a peculiar habit. When his mind was cluttered and jammed with thoughts, as they always do as he had to juggle different roles, Victor jotted them down on paper. Then he wrestled with the ideas and systematically struck them out on the paper.
It was a tedious practice but had the effect of imposing honesty on oneself. It helped in clearing the clutter and defined the critical information. Victor had to do exactly that at that moment. He took a pencil and started scribbling.
Komorov is a pain. He smiled at that. So is Joey. Maxi Oil. Millions. Damages.. Company insolvent. His writings were getting ugly and the scribbling intensified as his anxiety grew. Money. Liabilities. He struck out those words instantly. Lawsuit. Penalty. Insolvency. He did not strike those words out. Publicity. Voters. Trouble.
Victor dropped his pencil and stared at the repetition. He rubbed his eyes like a bad-tempered child denied his sleep, but Victor figured that he would not find any answers in bed.
He picked up his pencil and continued to write. Congress. Senate. Chairman of committee.
Victor pondered that and nibbled at the pencil’s end like an uncertain child. Then he wrote. Gone!
He stopped again. Something was happening. He tried to be objective. He smelled anxiety and fear. Victor picked up the pencil and circled the sentences he had written so far.
He wrote something. Calm, with a huge and fat exclamation mark.
Victor knew he had to weed the seed of fear that Komorov had planted in him. He could visualize the sapling growing.
Victor slammed his fist on the table. He was a four-term senator and chairman of the Appropriations Committee. He had nothing to worry about. Maybe he should report it to the FBI, or maybe the chairman of the Republican National Convention.
He jotted those thoughts down. Then he wrote Honesty.
He had to let the Maxi Oil saga unfold.
Then more ideas materialized in his brain. Embarrassment. Political future. Family. He shied away from the last word. The thought of his family suffering his folly on Maxi Oil was crushing and mind-blowing, unbearable. Victor scratched out the word.
He had to tackle Maxi Oil. He had to reach a settlement before it enveloped his life, family, and career. However, Bates had told him it is in their interest and his voters’ interest that the issue be settled as soon as possible. Allowing the issue to go through federal courts would hurt his chances of reelection.
Victor dropped his head into his hands. He needed a drink, a real drink. He stood and, from that standing position, he saw the scribbling mess he had created. His mind was indeed in a clutter.
Then he saw the root cause of his worry - Maxi Oil. He could not continue the pretension that everything was under control. Once, the press investigation start in earnest the resulting publicity tsunami will bury his entire political career.
Then the words resonated in his mind “We can help.”
“Help me? How about helping you?” he repeated the words out loud.
Victor sat down, picked up the pencil, and continued his scribbling. Russia. Government change. A better partner.
He leaned forward and jotted a question: His role. Place in history.
He smiled and relaxed for a moment. It was egoistic, but which senator or congressman would not want to make his mark on history? That desire and hunger is not solely the prerogative of the president of the secretary of state.
He circled Komorov again, and again. The words came to his mind—partners for the future?
He leaned back and paused a long time before bending forward and writing the word Presidency.
He paused. He circled the P-word repeatedly. Yes, Victor. The presidency had mattered much more than he had imagined. His mind went back to the presidents who had made an impact: Kennedy, Johnson, Roosevelt and Reagan. A rousing warmth, warmth of dreams awakened, stirred in him.
He aspired to step in their footsteps and leave his imprints on the trail of history. He had wanted to seize that destiny, and that moment was nearing.
The meeting with Komorov has surfaced the critical issue of running for presidency, and forced him to focus. The worry over his political future fully mushroomed in his mind. Victor scanned his scribbling, and his eyes stopped at the big bold words of Maxi Oil. That was the bug issue he has to settle, better sooner than later.
His eyes rolled over to Komorov. He had written that word six times, thrice by the words Maxi Oil, twice by the word money and once next to his name. Should he make a contact?
He felt a sudden chill and found the curtains disturbed. He frowned, then stood and walked to the window. When had he left it open? It was a night in autumn, and he was sure he had closed it. He looked around.
It must be fatigue. There is nobody in the room.
Victor Palmer returned to his desk and the words he had scribbled on.
He picked the ideas up, bit by bit, and pieced together an action plan like it was a jigsaw puzzle. Palmer was satisfied with his plan, but he was missing a critical piece though.
He had to act fast before it is too late before that bit of jigsaw slipped away.
#
Lord Barbatos, who was by the window, was amused by Palmer’s behaviour. Invisible to humans, he had begun his surveillance of Victor six months earlier during the senator’s reelection campaign, although his interest in the man really started when Victor was in college. Barbatos had followed the man’s growing-up with keen interest. Victor was one of those pious, intelligent lads who had everything going right for him in life—looks, family, friends, career; he was so golden.
The man looked every bit the epitome of the goodness of mankind. He had achieved so much in life. Barbatos had searched through the chapters of the man’s life, from school to the army, where he served for four years, to the corporate world and eventually to politics – and the pages were illuminatingly perfect.
However, therein lay the factor that aroused Barbatos’s interest: Victor Palmer’s perfection. The challenge to turn such a beauty of a man to the dark side was too tempting, always so, to pass over. Victor Palmer was a critical chess piece on the board, but he was on the wrong side.
Victor Palmer will be the perfect piece in Barbatos’s scheme as the front man of the Demons. Victor could provide the façade of acceptability that the Demons needed to subvert
human civilization.
The Duke of Demons had enjoyed the evening spectacle, watching human beings trip over by their contradictions and pretentiousness; like cat chasing its tail or becoming entangled in a ball of string. Barbatos enjoyed Victor’s scribbling. It is sheer entertainment just witnessing the strange and ridiculous things humans do when they are vulnerable.
He had witnessed bizarre behaviour ranging from nail biting to putting a pistol to one’s temple. Palmer’s act fell somewhere in between, closer to the nail-biting part. He had witnessed the biting anxiety that Senator Palmer experienced. Maybe one day the sense of insecurity would swing Victor to him.
Victor Palmer had been an interesting subject, Barbatos thought. Morally strong and politically correct. However, beneath the shining armour of a patriot, there was something in Victor Palmer, like a chink in the armour that appealed to Barbatos. It was the man’s greed for better things and vanity for perfection. There was a hunger to achieve greater goals, which along with it was a deep-seated fear of losing those achievements, of losing the glory and everything else.
The man’s raw fear for his political future thrilled Barbatos. Mirroring that fear was the hunger to climb higher in life. It is a desire that Barbatos could leverage to the fullest. The deep-seated ambition for the presidency served as the perfect door of opportunity for Demons to subvert and enslave the soul of man. It had happened before, in so many potential leaders of men—Julius Caesar, Nero, Napoleon, Mao Tze Tung, the English Kings, emperors and countless more. Towering in stature but their egos and greed provided the soft underbelly that allowed Demons to bring them to their knees and turned them away from the Angels.
Palmer was so much like them. Victor Palmer looked to be that perfect target.
Moreover what would be a better weapon to use against the Angel than a corrupted King of Men.
Barbatos left after he was satisfied with his observation of Victor Palmer. He had no doubt Palmer would stand on the right side—his side.