With a sparking snap of his fingers, the enchantment that had been placed on the clearing fell away, like cascading water upon glass, revealing a small contingent of elven soldiers beneath the tree line.
A few were mounted on domesticated cockatrice, much smaller than their wild relatives but no less ferocious. Their membranous wings were folded against their scaly sides while the famed eyes on their bird-like heads – known to cause instant death to anyone looking directly at them – were shielded by leather blinkers affixed to their bridles.
The soldiers were all dressed in regal attire: chainmail beneath elegant plate armor. Mounted ones had armor that was inlaid with diamond, armed with precision long bows and rune-tipped arrows. The remaining troops marched lightly on foot as the they encircled Marcus and Joey, their own armor trimmed in gold while armed with deft swords and opulent shields.
“Gents,” said Brennan. “Let’s be on our way; Meriden is waiting for you.”
BRENNAN AND HIS entourage made their way through the fantastic realm, unfazed by what they were seeing as it was commonplace to them. Marcus and Joey on the other hand were both drinking in the sights, knowing damn well that few in the Order would ever have an opportunity to see such things.
What they had seen thus far was reminiscent of a mystical rainforest, similar to the ones back home but far more splendid. Tall trees reached skyward while vines crisscrossed the canopy, the sounds of a nearby waterfall tumbling into a lagoon working its way to them from the darkness beyond.
Amid the high leaves were fairies and woodland sprites, twinkling in wonder alongside many other aerial creatures right out of lore. It was like a childhood dream had come to life above them and Joey was amazed.
Marcus had taken an interest in what was happening below, their footsteps leaving radiant tracks that quickly faded from view. The flowers he noted along the path they walked were similarly bright, glowing with a luminous energy that danced in the breeze. He was amazed by it all, swearing that he saw a puca peering out from the luscious foliage before it scurried away into the dark.
After many miles they left the woodlands, entering the base of a large valley. Off in the distance, a mountain range loomed, dark and brooding against the shimmering sky. There was a faint glow at its base, from the shining aura of the capital city.
“That’s where your friend Fenran has taken up,” Brennan detailed, “in the great city of Gorias. The main gate lies about ten leagues north, while Abhainn Alainn, the river that flows down from the high mountains in the east toward the Endless Sea in the west, is about eight leagues out.”
Joey leaned in, whispering in Marcus’ ear. “How many miles in a league again?”
“Hmmm, just shy of three and a half, if I remember,” he replied, smiling.
“We have clearance,” Brennan interrupted. “Welcome!”
Three of the mounted troops took flight and in perfect harmony, pulled back their bows. They fired at the same time toward a seemingly empty tract of land beneath them, arrows converging on a single point; they struck each other with a dazzling display of sparks. As they wafted down toward the ground, faint ripples trailed behind them and beyond the iridescent wakes, tents shimmered like pavement on a hot day.
A narrow gap had formed in the protections around the encampment, allowing the company to enter. As the last sparks faded away, the trio of riders that had opened the door swooped inside just as it closed up, the barrier once again sheltering its contents from undesirable eyes.
Inside, the scene was much different than the serenity presented by the illusion barrier, the hustle of just over five-thousand soldiers preparing for battle energizing the very air.
The camp’s tents were large and made of hide, set in back to back rows. Stored along this center line were weapons and armor, the units spaced far enough apart so the stakes didn’t overlap. This allowed easy movement between them when needed, especially should the camp be attacked.
Out of the commotion a horn bellowed and Brennan looked northward, the crowd parting along the makeshift avenue as a strong woman approached. It was Meriden, wearing a gossamer gown that was more suitable for a banquet than a battlefield, though somehow it fit her presence. Upon her head was a thin crown of gold inlaid with shining laurel leaves, a telltale sign of her status as Princess.
“Greetings, friends from the Order,” she said to them, her honey eyes passing effortlessly between Marcus and Joey. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, like at the Assembly, but the worlds are in grave peril and not all things are good and pure these days.”
“It's our pleasure, your Highness,” Marcus replied, bowing graciously.
“Ditto,”’ said Joey as he bowed, too, Marcus less than impressed by his demeanor.
However, Meriden giggled and her fair skin glowed while her golden hair bounced joyously. “Folks of this realm long for the days of innocence,” she said softly to Marcus, “just like your friend here. It is well worth fighting for.”
Marcus looked over to Joey again and found that he couldn't agree more with what she said.
“Onto what you are here to learn,” Meriden said as she turned around, looking to the north herself. “Fenran has convinced the King to keep the Ring of Dispel here in the Otherworld.”
Her short sentence packed a long punch, Marcus blinking several times as he recalled Fenran's body language. “Of course!” he muttered. “So let me guess, he believes the elves can withstand the Noctis and their power alone?”
“That is correct,” she replied. “His ego and pride have swelled large enough to fill several realms. Thankfully, there are still those of us, a lot in fact, that believe in the old ways and the bonds of friendship our races have shared for millennia. I will not sit idly by as Fenran tarnishes our people and causes our beautiful cities to burn. The Ring will be reclaimed and given to the Order.”
Joey spoke up, “How is it you plan on doing that?”
“By force,” she said, raising her arms confidently.
Marcus was suitably impressed. “And we would gladly receive it, though I must ask: what help do you need from the Journeymen?”
Meriden’s confidence softened with hints of chagrin. “Nothing,” she said plainly. “This plight is something we must resolve ourselves.”
Marcus thought to argue the case for aid, but could tell in her eyes her mind was closed to further debate. Joey saw it as well, looking solemn.
“The pride of elves working both ways.” She simpered, tempted to giggle again but fell just short of it. “I suppose it would be funny if things weren't so intensely ironic.”
With nothing more to gleam, Marcus sighed knowing that he and Joey would have to return to HQ and report what they’d learned. “Princess, thank you so much for your time and accommodation. We know that you have lots to prepare for. Be safe… and we will see you on the other side.”
“Yup,” Joey said as he hiked a thumb behind. “We’ll be on our way then.”
Marcus smirked at his innocence and Meriden managed another healthy laugh.
“Do not take me wrongly; I'm not throwing you out. You are more than welcome to take some time to rest before you depart,” Meriden offered wholeheartedly. “You both have come far and I want you to know, personally, that we appreciate the offer made by the Journeymen. Not all elves are like Fenran… or my Father.”
With that, her head dipped and she turned away, heading back to her tent to continue planning the next course of action.
Marcus looked over to Joey as she left, already thinking about the trip back across the Atlantic. “By the way, Joey,” he said quietly, “when we head back, this time I'm going to be the one tossing those stones in the water.”
FOR HIS INTRODUCTIONS to subordinates within the Whittingham compound, Dajjal chose to go with his host’s original look: scuffed up jeans, a black wife-beater, and a dark do-rag to round out the look. It was certainly an oddity, the attire being a far cry from any of his grandiose visions. Yet, someth
ing about it felt more relatable…
More real…
Him…
Something that never seemed to get any easier, no matter how many times he did it, was the pain of teleporting. Once the horrible cramping in his stomach subsided, along with the aching in his legs and ringing in his ears, he was able to focus. Ahead of him was nothing but a barren construction yard replete with aged equipment and machinery, but he knew better.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he muttered, extending a hand forward.
Like a satisfying fist flying into Gage Crosse’s face, a force punched its way through both the illusion barrier and the force field at once. The edges rippled as if the air itself were molten, dripping like shining glass. As he looked through the gaping hole, the stale red walls of the sanitarium loomed, displayed like a moldy shrine to a bygone era. The look that fell upon his face was very telling, his disappointment immeasurable.
What. A. Dump.
Dajjal composed himself from the assault on his vision, stepping across the threshold where the barren dirt became studded with grass. Barely living shrubbery was interspersed across the land and a few tall trees stood as proud monuments above the decay, though their branches were barren and sharp like spikes.
A commotion came from the right as three figures in robes came charging at Dajjal, kicking up all kinds of dust behind them. They threw binding runes toward him with the intent of capturing, not killing. That was a mistake.
Dajjal countered and a quick flash of silver lashed out, striking the six stones in a clean sweep. They all erupted into a shower of blue sparks while the split halves fell to the ground with a clatter.
“Now, what to do with you?” Dajjal said insensitively, flicking his wrist. With a surge like a squall, the three demons were flung in different directions. Two were thrown straight back, crushed against the wall of a storage building, while the third soared straight into one of the sharp trees.
That particular inconvenience dealt with, Dajjal marched down a path toward the sanitarium, the crunching beneath his feet loud with each step. As he went, he noticed a church sitting off to the left. He knew it well, two heads still impaled on each side of the shallow stairs leading into the place. Finally, he thought, some appropriate decorations.
His mind then meandered back to his first encounter with Keli, within the walls of that very stone building.
Do not continue to toy with me, little girl, Dajjal recalled with the same level of malice he had felt at the time. I am the bringer of pain and death, born to make you suffer.
Oh and suffer she did, to her end.
Dajjal’s thoughts returned to the present, once again staring at the craggy church and its decayed roof. He thought that it would be so much grander here at Whittingham, that the entire place would have been… more. What he saw wasn’t a testament to demonic power at all. It was more a hovel, meant for the weak to hide themselves away while they bided their time for more worthless endeavors.
He made it to the sanitarium’s entrance and was not surprised to see no door set upon its double hinges. Sighing at the continued levels of depravity the Noctis had set up for themselves, he stepped inside the mottled brick building. The light quickly fell off from behind him as he made his way straight down the hall toward the old cafeteria. He knew exactly where he was going, even though he had never set foot in the dreary place before. The thing about demons and many other supernatural beings is that they could be, in essence, heard if one knew how to listen. Dajjal heard plenty from the cafeteria, where a mass of worried beings huddled, bathing themselves in the one thing Dajjal held most sacred: fear.
At the entrance arch, a barricade had been sloppily assembled. Flimsy at best, with no supplemental wards – none powerful enough to stand against him at least – Dajjal could have just pushed the whole thing over with his hand. Instead of the easy way, he chose to make his presence known in impressive fashion. A second later, the wooden barricade was obliterated, sending a hailstorm of debris into the command center.
Dajjal stepped over a few of the loose boards saying, “I hope nobody was standing right next to that when…”
As he glanced down to make sure he wasn’t going to trip, he saw that someone had been. “Oh… shame.”
As he strolled inside, Dajjal observed ergonomic desks lining the walls on both sides, demons in the room all cowering and afraid to do anything. They couldn’t flee but didn’t want to stay, Dajjal blocking the only way in or out. He was pleased to see them all dressed in some form of corporate office attire, taking it as a symbol of hope things were not all in vain.
Suddenly, a lesser rose from his station, disturbing the awkward silence. He issued a challenge to Dajjal's authority, standing there in his prim and proper suit while quaking at the knees. This one was either incredibly brave, the next to rise up in the ranks of demon kind as a legend who stood against tyranny, or incredibly stupid.
Dajjal bet on the latter.
“I don't care who you think you are,” the demon said, sniveling, “you can't just barge in here and make…”
Dajjal snapped his fingers and the man promptly popped, delivering a healthy coating of vinegary juices and chunky gore to the décor.
Without a word he moved forward into the ‘famed’ circle, imagining Baal and Astaroth and Paimon gallivanting toward it, likely arguing since that's all Hell Knights seemed to do. The grim reality of this great magical symbol was that it was nothing more than a ring of flakey residue with barely enough sticking power to stay on the floor. A meager pittance when compared to the grandeur of the ones of old.
“Now, all of you lessers, I don’t want us to get started on completely the wrong foot. Forgive me for the mess but it would seem, at least to me, that you all have forgotten your place.” He said all of this tactfully, beginning a slow pace back and forth. Some demons took the opportunity of an unblocked entrance to scurry away, their departures promptly met with snaps of Dajjal’s fingers.
“Now that was very rude. Where was I? Oh yes: things are going to be a little different from now on. Well, if I am honest, a lot. I know that many of you will not like it. From what I see, it would seem that most of you were swayed by my predecessor’s venomous words. Well, she's gone now, along with her ideals. Ding dong, the bitch is dead.”
He spied a cushy ergonomic chair not five feet from him, flushing the lesser that was occupying it out of the seat. Taking in the command center for the first time as a whole, he slid himself into the chair, kicking up his boots on the desk.
“What is it with the Noctis and their love for all of these dank accommodations?” There wasn’t a reply, except for the shuffling of uncomfortable feet. Hearing it, Dajjal tapped one boot against the other in a steady beat. “No, this won’t do at all,” he said with a beard stroke. “The entire thing must be moved.”
The gathering murmured in disbelief.
“I beg your pardon?” came a voice from the corner.
“I didn’t think that I stuttered,” Dajjal retorted. “This entire operation will be moved out of this dump. I’ve even scouted the new location, an estate I found just outside Warminster. There is a mansion that sits on the property that is far more suitable than … all of this.”
“Move the entire Noctis headquarters?” another lesser said with an impertinent bend to their words. “I expect you want this done yesterday.”
“Oh for the love of…” Dajjal said, snapping his fingers and ending that demon. He looked around to the faces of all that remained in the room. “This is not open for a fucking debate! You are demons for Hell’s sake, start acting like it! I have already taken the liberty of appropriating the place for our use.” He rose out of the seat. “All you need to do is stop questioning me, follow my orders, and just MOVE SHIT.”
The intensity of his words, or perhaps the threat of getting smited, drove well over half of them to snatch things off their workstations and vacate the room. More followed suit and before long, the relocation proc
ess had begun.
“See now,” Dajjal said as he sunk back into the chair. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
As the hours passed, word spread quickly around the Whittingham compound and beyond, spoken in dark corners where Dajjal would not be listening. The rumors were true that Keli was dead and something much more malevolent had risen up in the vacuum left behind. The opinions were mixed, some relishing a final return to the glory days, while others were simply scared for their own existence.
Despite the constant threat of fear Dajjal had instilled, things were at last abuzz again. This time however, there would be no tolerating weakness.
At last the room had grown quiet, the hour late. Dajjal had simply sat in the command center the entire time, even with all the activity going on around him. Now, his finger gently tapped against his forehead as he finally had a chance to breathe, to think, to plan.
The moment it seemed, like all else, ended before it even began.
“Excuse me, my Lord. I’m here with the reports you requested.”
Dajjal rolled his eyes; he couldn’t even remember asking for any reports. Going nonstop since the time he had arrived on Earth, after a forced possession and all, he had yet to take time to rest.
Though he was probably going to regret it, Dajjal gave the demon the go ahead and he began to deliver accounts on the alliances the Journeymen had been forming, which were including a wider range of monsters to fight at their side. They had even successfully attacked a new werewolf pack in Seattle just the night before.
Now feeling the pressures of a ticking clock, Dajjal made some drastic decisions. “I want a team working on ways of tapping into the prisons that house the remaining Knights.”
“My Lord?”
“I know they’re guarded by powerful magic, but instead of just chatting with them, I want to skip the line and have them brought straight here to Earth. With their expertise and their loyalty, we will be able to rekindle the Infernal Tide.”
Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3) Page 12