The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Before Uri knew it, he felt a wet hand grab his wrist, and then the other one. He responded immediately, locking his hands around Ferguson’s wrists as tightly as he could.

  Grunting with the effort, he rocked backwards on his heels, drawing Ferguson slowly upwards.

  Uri was strong, but his build was more slender than Ferguson’s. The pain in his shoulders and arms was excruciating.

  He could feel his vision starting to blur from the intense effort, when suddenly the weight on the other end of his arms fell away, as first one then another hand appeared on the well’s stone lip.

  He leant forward and grabbed Ferguson under the arms, hauling him out.

  Ferguson collapsed onto the cobbles, gulping in air. He rolled over onto his back in a wet heap, his sodden clothes making a slapping sound as they hit the stones.

  “I owe you one,” he croaked to Uri.

  “Mazel tov,” Uri thumped his shoulder. “We can’t stay here.” He grabbed Ferguson by the upper arm and helped him stand.

  “Your waistcoat,” Ferguson whispered, nodding towards the well.

  Uri shook his head. “Not my colour.” He was glad to be rid of it. “This way.” He pointed towards the tower he had come from. They could not risk entering the building through the north doorway. Ferguson would leave wet footprints, or they might run into someone leaving the ceremony.

  They moved swiftly into the shadows beside the building, and made for the south-east tower.

  “In here.” Uri opened the door and led Ferguson back down the corridor to the storeroom.

  Ushering him inside, he sat him on a chair and looked around. Beside the door was a set of hooks on which some gardening and decorating clothes were hanging.

  “I take it you’re not with them, then?” Ferguson asked.

  Uri did not answer. He pulled a checked shirt, some tatty jeans, and a jumper off the pegs. “Put these on,” he threw them to Ferguson. “You’re no use to me with hypothermia.”

  As Ferguson began peeling off his soggy clothes, Uri turned to the small kettle on the windowsill and flicked it on, spooning a hefty mound of coffee into a mug.

  “While you drink this,” Uri explained, adding two equally large teaspoons of sugar, “I’m going to tell you what I need you to do.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  107

  The ‘Gruft’ Vault

  Wewelsburg Castle

  Büren

  Paderborn

  North-Rhine Westphalia

  Federal Republic of Germany

  As Malchus stepped onto the stage, his mind and body were exulting.

  This was the night!

  The one he had been waiting for all these years.

  Tonight it would all come together. After all the training, all the privations, the arduous path—tonight would be a night like no other.

  He had performed the three days’ preparation exactly as the manuscript instructed—washing his hands in salt, only eating and drinking water once a day, bathing and praying as instructed, and carrying around a piece of leather with the ancient inscription.

  Frater Perdurabo, his guiding light for all these years, had never achieved anything this great. He had unlocked the door for Malchus and shown him the way—but he had never been able to cross the threshold himself. The Englishman’s life had been a preparation, like John the Baptist—a lone voice readying the world for what would come.

  And tonight was going to be that night, when it would all come to pass.

  The work the Englishman had done at Boleskine House had been invaluable, as had the many discoveries of the great magus Dr Dee centuries before.

  But Malchus knew that tonight there would be only one adept who would bring it all to fruition.

  Him.

  His heart sang. Tonight he would join the ranks of history’s greatest.

  And what more fitting place in which to achieve such an accomplishment than in the inner sanctum of Himmler’s twelve select SS grail knights, where he and they were all to have been buried.

  Crossing the stage, he glanced over at the woman who had become such a menace to him—a constant thorn in his side.

  Not for much longer, he smiled to himself.

  It incensed him that Saxby could have thought her worth anything. It had been he who retrieved the Ark, who had lovingly reassembled Dr Dee’s Table of Practice with its sacred components, who had acquired the Vatican’s Menorah medal, and who had located the manuscripts of The Sword of Moses. It had taken years of his life to acquire the skills necessary for the success of the plan.

  And now Saxby was giving her credit for having “filled in the gaps”. Malchus could feel his anger rising. He had given her the Menorah medal to save time—that was all. Surely Saxby could see that?

  He sneered. Well, tonight would be his night. He would set all wrongs right. After tonight, she would not be able to trouble him any more.

  And what a night it would be for her.

  At first he had been livid when Saxby had interrupted his long-anticipated pleasures with her at Boleskine House. He had been revelling in having her all to himself, of enjoying her exquisite death in a private moment of ecstasy. He had wanted to treasure the memory. It would be one he would relish replaying in his mind many times.

  But as he heard the older man’s plan for the ceremony, he realized he liked it even better. He had so much enjoyed watching the final terror in her eyes as her panicked brain understood she was dying. And now, thanks to Saxby, he would have the pleasure all over again. Even better, her death tonight would not only be dazzling, it would add a whole new power to the ritual—one that he had not dared to consider.

  A human sacrifice. A burnt offering—just like Jephthah’s daughter.

  He smiled broadly under his hood.

  It was perfect.

  The ignorant hypocrites never read their own holy book.

  Well, tonight, on this most auspicious of nights, there would again be the offering of a young woman.

  Reaching the Table of Practice at the same time as Saxby, he surveyed it closely, verifying that the objects were all properly laid out.

  Good. All was in place.

  In addition to the Mirror of Tezcatlipoca, everything he would need was there.

  He took a deep breath, and readied himself.

  There was a strict order to what had to be done.

  Side by side with Saxby, together they began.

  Saxby first leant over the table and picked up a deep silver bowl filled with a pungent minty infusion of hyssop. He passed it to Malchus, who took hold of it with his right hand, lifting out the silver handled asperges brush with his left.

  He flicked the scented water first onto himself, and then onto Saxby, who bowed his head to receive the blessing.

  “Asperges me hyssopo. Exaudi orationem meam, et clamor meus ad te veniat.”17 Malchus intoned the words clearly and slowly, his deep voice resonating across the stage. He did not need to read them —he knew them by heart.

  Carrying the bowl, he stepped towards Ava. She had been unconscious when he had tied her to the stake earlier. But now her eyes were open, and staring widely at him.

  Dipping the brush in the bowl, he flicked water onto her three times. He knew she understood Latin. “Ego te linio ut habeas vitam aeternam.”18 He was sure she would see the irony.

  Returning to the table, he handed the bowl back to Saxby, who had meanwhile lit the charcoal in the goat’s head thurible.

  Malchus gazed at it again. The dealer in Budapest had excelled himself. He could not have asked for better. It was sublime—the Goat of Mendes itself.

  Saxby reached into a small basalt bowl on the Table of Practice and took out several dark crystals of incense resin. It was Malchus’s Exodus recipe, the Temple qetoreth incense—stacte, onchya, galbanum, and frankincense.

  It would be perfect for tonight

  He lifted the macabre lid off the thurible, and dropped the crystals onto the w
hite-hot charcoal. Almost immediately, the bitter-sweet smoke began to belch out from the skull’s charred eye sockets and nostrils.

  Replacing the lid, he handed the smoking censer to Malchus, who held the silver chain high in the air with his right hand, pinching it lower down with his left, and swinging it in the direction of each of the Guardians of the four quarters, censing them in respectful greeting.

  He inhaled the smoke deeply, satisfaction spreading throughout his body. “Dirigatur oratio mea sicut incensum in conspectu tuo.”19

  He had always been moved by the power of incense. It was one of the oldest practices of the adepts in existence—known from Greece, Rome, Egypt, and all over the Middle East, symbolizing invocations rising mystically to the Powers.

  It was also for blessing and consecrating sacrificial offerings.

  Stepping across to Ava, he slowly circled her three times anticlockwise, bathing her in the pungent spicy smoke.

  He could see her blinking away the thick stinging clouds as he intoned the necessary words. “Suscipe hanc immaculatam hostiam, quam ego indignus famulus tuus offero tibi.”20

  Arriving in front of her again, he saw a look of panic as she registered the words.

  Good.

  Now she knew it was real. She was going to die.

  Tonight.

  He genuflected in front of her, locking his eyes onto her face. “Ab illo benedicaris in cuius honore cremaberis.”21

  Now he could again see the terror deep in her eyes as she began to struggle, trying to pull her hands clear from the ropes and writhe her body free from those strapping her to the post.

  He turned away.

  She could struggle as much as she wanted. If she was worked up, it would only make the ultimate pleasure more exquisite.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  108

  The ‘Gruft’ Vault

  Wewelsburg Castle

  Büren

  Paderborn

  North-Rhine Westphalia

  Federal Republic of Germany

  Every cell in Ava’s body was screaming to get away from the mounting danger—a panic further stoked by the memory of that afternoon at Boleskine House, when she had left it too late.

  Pulling wildly against the ropes for all she was worth, she tried to drag her hands through the loops binding them firmly to the post.

  She did not care who saw. She just needed to be free.

  But however hard she scrunched up her knuckles, the ropes remained welded to her wrists. The knots had been pulled tight, leaving no slack in them at all.

  Time was now running out. Malchus and Saxby’s obscene ritual was under way, and it would not be long before they turned their attentions to her.

  As the ropes started to cut deeply into her flesh, the logical part of her brain told her she was getting nowhere. But she was not paying it any attention. Instead, she was listening to a wild and desperate voice, deep inside, telling her that if she could get free of the ropes, then she would have a chance. If she could get the element of surprise on her side, perhaps she could get past Malchus and Saxby. Dealing with the rest of the men in the room would not be straightforward, but maybe she could take Malchus or Saxby hostage. Perhaps that would buy her an exit from the castle.

  As her mind raced through the myriad possibilities, she pulled herself up, stopping the uncontrolled trains of thought.

  All in time.

  She could work the details out later.

  First, she had to get her hands free.

  Summoning up a reserve of stamina from somewhere deep down, she tugged at her wrists again, harder this time—grimacing as she crushed the bones in her hand and felt the rope scything deeper into the raw flesh around her wrists.

  But nothing moved.

  Her lower arms remained securely bound to the stake.

  Overcome with frustration, she resentfully bowed to her body’s signals, and stopped. It was pointless. She was hurting herself needlessly.

  Looking up, she could see Malchus had handed the smoking incense thurible back to Saxby, and was now walking over to the far side of the stage.

  It was difficult to see in the dim light, but he appeared to bend over and open a trapdoor in the stage floor, before leaning over and lifting something out.

  At first she thought it was a dark holdall bag, but as he stepped away, cradling it in his arms, she saw to her horror it was a young black goat, with immature short growths of bone in place of the horns that would grow in adulthood.

  But from the way Malchus was walking purposefully with it towards the grate, she had a sickening feeling it would not see the night out, let alone another season.

  Arriving at the front of the stage, Malchus reached up and took hold of a slim black chain hanging in the air. She had not noticed it before, but could now see it clearly, suspended from an iron bolt set into the stone ceiling.

  Pulling the chain towards him, he deftly looped it around the goat’s quivering left hind leg, leaving the bleating animal suspended upside down, barely a foot above the smoking coals.

  He raised his hands in the air. “Offero hanc hostiam viventem ut sit placens in conspectu tuo.”22

  She watched with mounting revulsion as he knelt down and took up a ceremonial knife from behind the grate—the burnished steel glinting as it caught the light from the coals.

  It was a vicious looking weapon—long, angular, and asymmetrical, with deeply curved edges and a series of holes in the flat metal decreasing in size as they ran the length of the blade towards its tip.

  “Haec dicit dominus, maledictus qui prohibet gladium suum a sanguine.”23 He touched the lethal blade to his lips, before reaching forward and holding it against the young animal’s slim throat. Ava could see the goat had been somehow stunned or sedated, but from its wide-eyed stare it was plainly still conscious, in accordance with the requirements of ancient rabbinic law.

  She turned away in disgust. This was not something she wanted to watch.

  She knew exactly what would happen. Malchus would draw the blade across the goat’s throat, severing the carotid arteries and jugular veins, leaving the animal to bleed out—slowly. If he was skilled, he would also slice open the windpipe to stop the screaming.

  She could hear his voice. “Hic est sanguis foederis,”24 as the goat fell suddenly silent, and he stood again. She heard a hissing sound, and at the same time a salty metallic smell filled the air as two scarlet fountains pumped out of the glassy-eyed animal’s neck and spurted onto the hot coals.

  “Et effundetur sanguis eorum sicut humus et corpus eorum sicut stercora,”25 he recited, as some of the blood landed in a shallow silver bowl he had placed onto the grate, while the remainder splashed straight into the spitting coals.

  The sharp coppery odour of the blood was overpowering, making Ava’s stomach heave.

  She looked at the hooded figure, repelled by what she saw, feeling a chill pass through her as she tried to blank out the increasing thoughts of what he intended to do to her.

  Within a few minutes, the goat’s blood stopped flowing, and the animal hung motionless. He undid it from the chain, and laid its limp body onto the floor.

  She looked with pity at the lifeless exsanguinated animal.

  Was that what he intended to do to her?

  Drain her of all blood from her neck like an ancient Temple sacrifice?

  Turning back to watch Malchus, she saw he had deftly sliced open the goat’s abdomen, and was following the biblical rules exactly. He had already exposed the steaming entrails, carved off the surrounding fatty sheath, and was now dexterously cutting out the long lobe of the liver and the kidneys.

  The pungent smell of the animal’s guts made her gag.

  When he had finished disemboweling the carcass, he placed the fat and offal directly onto the hot bars of the grate, where they immediately began to give off a hot greasy bloody smell.

  Raising his gore-smeared hands skywards, he gazed upwards, dedicating the me
at. “Offero holocaustum in odorem suavissimum domino.”26

  His voice was pregnant with excitement.

  Ava thought she was going to be sick.

  Leaving the entrails charring, Malchus returned to the Table of Practice and took a seat behind it, hunching low over the Mirror of Tezcatlipoca, gazing into the smoky black volcanic glass.

  Saxby meanwhile added more dark incense crystals to the thurible and moved over to the grate, where he began to process anticlockwise around it, blending the spicy-sweet fumes with the acrid smoke of the goat’s burning innards.

  At the Table, Malchus had begun chanting quietly, reciting a list of names.

  “… Bael, Agares, Vassago, Samigina, Marbas, Valefor, Amon, Barbatos, Paimon, Buer, Gusion, Sitri, Beleth, Leraje, Eligos, Zepar, Botis … .”

  Sitting completely still, his voice dropped lower, and Ava struggled to hear clearly.

  “ … Berith, Astaroth, Forneus, Foras, Asmoday … .”

  His voice eventually trailed off, muffled by the all-encompassing hood, until all she could see was an occasional flutter of the material as his jaw moved, softly mouthing the names.

  The room was deathly silent—mesmerized by what was happening on the stage.

  Eventually Malchus was still. Then he stood again, raising his hands and gazing ahead. “Vastata est sancta domus tua, et ceciderunt portae sanctuarii tui.”27 He rang a small hand bell solemnly three times—the high-pitched tinkling echoing eerily around the room.

  Side by side with Saxby, he moved silently across the stage to the objects covered by the heavy black cloths.

  Ava’s pulse quickened. The ceremony was progressing, and if she was right, this is what she had been waiting for—the unveiling of the Menorah and the Ark.

  Standing either side of the taller of the two objects, Malchus and Saxby each took hold of an edge of the thick cloth, and slowly slipped it off.

  There was an intake of breath around the room as the material fell away, revealing what was beneath, leaving the lights from the braziers and the coals under the grate to reflect off the hand-hammered gold surface of the seven-branched Menorah, turning its shiny metal a deep lustrous orangey-red.