Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  Dajjal strode up to the motorcycle and fondly caressed its lines. He found the key already in place and carefully mounted the seat, pulling on the clutch lever before starting the engine. The bike rumbled deeply in reply, gracious to be reunited as the rear wheel spun ferociously before he sped into the parking lot.

  Ahead, the steel fence peeled apart like wrapping paper, the cycle zooming through the gap onto the road. The clubhouse continued to wail and burn, receding out of view as distant sirens barely rose above the engine’s growl.

  The road ahead was clear, disappearing into the long night of the west. Dajjal let loose to full throttle, jets of flame erupting from the black pipes as the bobber rocketed along the highway, roaring so loudly that Lucifer himself could have heard him coming.

  CHILLED DEW UPON an endless sea of grass glimmered in the pale light of the misty Irish morning. Quiet and tranquil, the Mourne Mountains rose up from the land like giants while a dark silhouette made its way across the landscape studded with purple and red heather.

  Fenran hadn't been in Ireland for a while. Quite a long time if his recollection was correct; the endless duties of the Council kept him far too busy for frivolities such as personal time. In addition, it seemed the elves were able to hold their own a lot better than the other member species, stemming drama long before it ever needed the Council to haughtily weigh itself in.

  Since his departure from New York was so sudden, Fenran chose to be more cautious – here in the mountains to utilize a lesser known entrance to the kingdom. It was one of several hidden passages into their magical realm, rarely stumbled upon by unwanted eyes due to its remoteness and used in only the most dire, or abhorrent, of circumstances. As day grew brighter while he wandered those rolling foothills, he began to wonder if he was even in the right place. The land was unyielding of any secrets.

  “In Erevan’s name!” Fenran shouted, growing irritated. He felt like he had been wandering in circles for the past hour. “Where is that damned entrance?”

  He continued to ramble through the gentle sidhe and the air grew wintrier, despite the sun coming up. Glancing at his arms, they were covered entirely with his earthen robes, but a naked chill was on them. When he looked up again, he discovered that he was no longer alone.

  There ahead of him, floating about twenty feet away, was a frightful old woman with long, unkempt hair. Her skin was pale and curdled like rancid milk and her eyes glowed red, the same color as her tattered dress which wafted unhurriedly in the breeze.

  Fenran stood his ground, reaching for a small dagger that was sheathed on his waist. “Be gone churl,” he stated, raising the blade aloft. The Elvish script along the steel glowed faintly.

  The wretched creature undid her mouth as if to speak and it sank disgustingly low and wide. Her black hair roiled like a nest of serpents, the sound of crunching bone and crackling skin a prelude to her imminent shriek.

  “So be it,” Fenran said.

  The banshee flew right at him and he swiped. The blade struck her arm, a green aura rippling out from the wound. “I do not have time for your premonitions, harbinger!”

  They fought beneath the lightening sky, exchanging blows while moving like dancers across the countryside. Their fight eventually settled atop a large mound, where Fenran landed a powerful blow across her neck. Her malformed head fell from her body and shriveling in a cloud of dust and chilling wails, she vanished.

  Sighing and panting, Fenran felt much warmer now as his heart raced. As luck would have it, the scuffle brought him exactly where he needed to be, recognizing the area right away, like some memory block had been dissolved.

  He proceeded to the base of the mound and circled it, finding a wooden door tucked in perfectly along the sloping surface. It was locked of course, a brass latch firmly and magically sealed. Using the very same dagger that killed the banshee, he placed the tip of it in a small indention on the clasp. There was a soft click, followed by a few groans of aged wood, and the door opened.

  Stepping inside the shadows beneath the mound, Fenran found himself in a woody glade on the other wise. It was still dark there, time being set differently. He took in a deep breath of the floral air and despite the ominous feel of the place with its gloomy fog, his heart was happy that he was home.

  Fenran had entered the fabled land of Tír na nÓg, loosely translated in Familiar, the common language across the Order species, as ‘Land of the Young’. It was the largest of three distinct regions of land that comprised the Otherworld, the other two being Tír na mBeo (or ‘Land of the Living’) in the south and Tír na Ciallmhar (‘Land of the Wise’) to the east. Off in the far flung west was the Endless Sea, a vast ocean rarely visited by the common elf. It was said that their deities resided there in serenity to ponder the universe, away from the qualms of everyday affairs.

  “Where is it?” Fenran muttered in frustration as he slinked around the overgrown plants, zealously looking for something. “Why is nothing where I left it?”

  “Poor eejit, lost something have we?” came a voice from the shrubbery. It was deep and rough around the edges, though mischievous, too.

  “Who dares address me in such a manner?” Fenran demanded, his expression harsh just like his tone.

  “Aye, aye, calm down!” the voice retorted. “Don’t be going off your fecking nut just yet!” With a pop and a sprinkle of golden dust, a leprechaun appeared.

  He was a little man no taller than three feet, perhaps closer to two and a half. He wore a red square-cut coat with seven rows of golden buttons, matching breeches and a bicorne hat. His tiny feet were fitted with shiny black shoes, adorned with bright buckles.

  Fenran rolled his eyes at the ludicrous sight and began his search again.

  “Whatcha looking for?” the leprechaun asked inquisitively, setting off for the bushes himself.

  “It’s no concern of yours, sprite,” Fenran quipped, whipping out his arm to grab the tiny creature. “This is big people business.”

  “Ouch!” the leprechaun yelped, yanking himself free. He furrowed his brow, face getting closer to the shade of his coat. “Who dares address me in such a manner?” he asked mockingly in a high pitched, hoity-toity voice.

  “Since you must know, Fenran is my name.” He stood upright and looked across into the deep woods, thinking that he had heard a rustle. There was nothing he could see, though he remained on guard. “And with that, please, I must to be off to Dún Gorias with haste.”

  “Fenran, eh? Why does that name sound familiar? Mine’s Brennan,” he replied, tipping his hat politely.

  “Charmed.”

  “I’m sort of the doorman here,” Brennan continued, tugging at the front of his coat, “finding out what business bigger folk have in our lands and such.”

  “Well… Brennan was it?” Fenran asked. “Though it has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life to meet you, as I said, I must be off to the capital.”

  “Why?” Brennan prodded.

  Fenran groaned, his voice raucous. “None of your concern! Is this some kind of joke? Since when did the great land of Tír na nÓg have need of a doorman, anyway? Especially one of such diminutive stature.”

  Brennan was miffed, crossing his stubby arms. “Listen here, langer, I’ll have you know that this diminutive soul’s been in this role for years.”

  “Well that explains it then; I have not been here in years.” The elf looked around conceitedly before continuing, “By chance did Celedran instigate, I mean implement, this new routine?”

  Brennan nodded though suspiciously. “Aye, he did.”

  “I suspected as much. Celedran was notorious for devising many useless ideas.”

  Brennan was starting to steam, close to venting from his ears.

  “So tell me, little man,” Fenran added snidely, picking up on the leprechaun’s short fuse, “what happens if multiple entrances to the kingdom are used at the same time? Do you have to split up? That would be quite unfortunate as there doesn't seem to be enough of
you to go around to one, nevertheless more .”

  Brennan might as well have painted his face red, his tolerance for him now well past its limits. His little ginger mouth raced, beard a virtual blur, as a stream of profanity spilled out. The trickle soon became a raging river of insults.

  Fenran’s eyes opened wide in response to the barrage – he didn’t know whether to laugh or be highly offended by all the swearing cast his way. He decided not to be either, for fear of spooling the wee creature up again.

  “So feck off!” Brennan finished, shooting up a stubby middle finger before he vanished in a puff of gold dust.

  Fenran was glad that little annoyance was out of the way, resuming his hunt in the bushes. At last he found what he was looking for: a short flute of silver peeking out from from a tiny fissure. Pulling it out of the ground, he dusted off the excess dirt and brought it to his lips, playing a gentle serenade.

  As the beautiful notes sounded, the vegetation was charmed into receding, some new vines rising up from the soil to form a portico out of their thorny tendrils. Beneath the arch of plants, a new path faded into view, leading out of the woods to a main road beyond. Fenran stepped across the verge, passing through a curtain-like shower of hot air. Once on the other side, the Otherworld spread out as far as his eyes could see, welcoming him in all its enchanted glory.

  THE ODYSSEY WAS moored above its normal spot off Front Street, the distant luster of a New York evening casting pale colors through its typically white sails. All its lights were off, except for a strip of warm yellow along the aft of the ship. An unofficial meeting was underway in the galley, though the topics being discussed were far from mundane.

  “Fuckin’ Noctis!” Gage shouted as he shoved a piece of juicy steak in his mouth, swallowing a chew later.

  “Well nice to see your appetite isn’t tired,” Adrienne observed as she plucked some veggies off his plate with her fork.

  “It’s because I know how to cook a mean piece of meat,” he replied as a waft of delicious aroma confirmed his proclamation. “Just ask them.”

  Laughter rounded the table as he pointed to the rest of the occupants. Adrienne was to his left, trying to ignore his antics as best she could, while Marcus and Joey sat next to each other along the adjacent side of the square table. Their expressions were full of merriment, as were those of Jane Carter and Quileth, positioned directly across from Gage with their backs to the sink and stove.

  The big man lanced his last helping of medium rare, coupling it with a piece of broccoli as he looked across to the two Councilors. Seeing them in the modest surroundings of the ship’s kitchen was odd, yet somehow reassuring; that those in such high positions were humble enough to attend such an unceremonious gathering.

  “Gage is certainly quite the chef,” Jane replied as she took a sip of water, eyeing him courteously. “A man of many talents. I would put him up against Marie over at the café for sure.”

  “Most agreed,” Quileth approved, purring slightly.

  Joey scoffed, followed by a grin. “The last thing we need is Gage growing more of an ego.” There were subdued giggles around the table as Gage, in typical fashion, shot across one of his trademark eyebrow raises. Joey caught it and stuttered, then coughed, snatching up his glass of orange juice as a distraction.

  The team proceeded to relay their experience upon arriving at the remains of the Lodge, emphasizing the extent of the damage they witnessed.

  “No, whatever this was is child’s play compared to that,” Marcus responded to Quileth’s assessment that it had to be something like the Herald. He spread his arms wider. “It covered a much bigger area than that, plus Gage’s house wasn’t incinerated along with all of its wards by the red spire.”

  Quileth nodded, yet remained at a loss.

  Jane’s stoic face didn’t show it, but she was growing more troubled with each additional word about this event and its aftermath. “I have never heard of such a weapon before,” she declared, a finger tapping gently against her temple. “The Journeymen have existed for over three thousand years, encountering all manner of beasts and magic, yet this is different and frightening. Quileth, I know we don’t have anything remotely that powerful in the Vaults, so what in the worlds can this be?”

  Quileth produced a small brass vaporizer from his pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked of Marcus. “I don’t want to be discourteous in Om’s home.”

  “It should be fine,” he replied. “I’ve seen Om partake in a… few different herbs over the years.”

  “I am sure it was just a few,” Quileth replied with a smile, difficult to see under that tiger-like fur. Tilting up a small hatch on the device, he pressed a tiny button to light it and a smell like cinnamon filled the air. “Jane, I sadly have no idea,” he replied with perfectly formed rings of radiant smoke. “The Noctis seem to have us across the barrel with this one. However, we do have something in our favor. Judging by the power behind this attack and the effects it left behind, I do not think this will be something they can do again, at least for some time. Magic of this nature is deep and ancient, requiring skills and proficiency far beyond the standard mage. Even if Lucifer himself cast it, he would not be able to again until he was well rested and whatever ignited the blast was refueled.”

  “Do you think Lucifer…” Joey began apprehensively.

  “Nah,” Gage said hurriedly to alleviate Joey’s nerves. “I’m thinkin’ it’s someone new, like another Hell Knight or high level demon, but definitely not the boss. Hell would quite literally be on Earth if that were the case.” He slid his empty plate toward the middle and braced his elbows on the table. “I gotta say though, I’m glad whatever this is has to take some down time.”

  “Have there been any specific, notable signs?” Adrienne asked in the hopes that the council members might have a clue as to the new threat’s identity.

  “Nothing much,” replied Quileth. “The demon threat as a whole has overtaken any of the standard signs – they get lost in the constant movement of their forces. The Sea of Galilee did retreat by a meter or so recently, but that could be attributed to any number of factors, supernatural or not.”

  “Well, at least we have a chance to plan,” Adrienne responded confidently, “but we have no idea how long we have. We’ll still need to act quickly against them.”

  Jane acknowledged with a head nod. “That may be possible,” she asserted, “as the Noctis’ alliances are showing signs of weakening. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they are on the cusp of some kind of change.”

  “Change?” Marcus enquired. “How so?”

  “Like a regime change,” Quileth inserted. “We know Keli was present in Peru to stop your team and while the demons continue to attack field operatives and outposts, there’s never been a lot of carnage.”

  “Until now,” Jane said. “While Keli was away, someone took it upon themselves to launch a brutal attack in Tennessee. Fifteen bikers were incinerated, traces indicating that it was hellfire. It can only be wielded by a Hell Knight or higher ranked entity… or you of course, Gage, with the amulet.”

  Unease settled at the table, an unwanted guest.

  Quileth couldn’t bear the silence. “So while Keli is indisposed,” he continued, “it seems like internal strife is rampant within the Noctis. Let’s be frank: Journeymen have thwarted them at every turn so far – collecting half of their precious items from right under their sulfur filled noses.”

  “A true testament to the Assembly’s success,” Gage conveyed, massaging Ady on her shoulder.

  “And to you, Gage,” Jane wasted no time adding. “We would be nowhere near as prepared as we are today, if not for you and your teammates.”

  Everyone present was in agreement and their moods were high, despite the destruction that had been wrought over the last few days.

  Joey scrunched his forehead, twizzling some of his hair around a finger. “Something confuses me. Why was Fenran so opposed to the Assembly being called?” he asked Marcus. “B
eyond the obvious answer that he was an asshole.”

  Marcus shook his head; he had so much that he wanted to say about that elf, none of it nice, yet he too couldn’t fathom why there was so much resistance against something so good.

  Quileth purred softly. “Our pointy-eared fellow seems to have had ulterior motives – that was quite evident. Yet what it is evades me. We could certainly ask him about it, but unfortunately he is no longer here,” Quileth stated, whiskers bristling.

  Jane settled back in her seat while the others fell quiet, eyes dropping disappointedly.

  “Oh really now?” Gage asked, shoving himself back from the table. He grabbed the glass of water jostling to his left and took a swig. “Where’s he scurried off to?”

  Quileth chuckled at the notion of elves, especially Fenran, scurrying anywhere. “He left with much haste,” the beast continued, “coincidentally, not long after your airship reappeared on the horizon earlier today.”

  “‘Coincidentally’ indeed,” Jane replied. “Given that, do you have any insight on where he could have gone?”

  “Indeed so,” Quileth answered. “I have a contact based in Ireland that spotted Fenran arriving in Kinsale – a port town off the Southern coast. That was in the last report I received just before coming here, but I should have more information by first light.” He looked directly to Marcus and Joey, who stared back at him with puzzled expressions. “His name is Brandon Byrne, one of our own, a quirky fellow partnered with another Journeyman that goes by the codename Hammer, though his real name is Dax Wallace. I recommend that you meet with the both of them and get some first-hand information on what the wayward Councilor is up to.”

  “Yeah…” said Marcus, glancing to Joey, still wondering why he had singled them out. “Thanks for that…”