by Athanasios
“Why don’t we sacrifice?” Mordecai knew Balzeer found the act distasteful. It wasn’t the blood he found unappealing, rather the work.
He had gotten lazy. He preferred to shoot someone. Where was the lovely whisper that came with the slash or stab of a knife? An especially sharp knife could make a wound seem part of the body, until the slit opened up and released its gory charge.
“No. I’ll meditate on it. We’ll find him. We have to.” Balzeer knew Mordecai was testing him. In another ten years, Balzeer saw Mordecai in his chair. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
He saw this as plainly as Nostradamus saw the birth of their Redeemer. He knew that if he tried to eliminate Mordecai, he would only hasten Mordecai’s ascent. It was a sound strategy — a strongly positioned adversary, allowing the weaker to execute a plan of action.
“But it didn’t happen where he said it would!” Balzeer sprang up and, with barely controlled anger, turned away from Mordecai.
No one could see the tremble in his hands. He held onto the shivering terror too tightly. No one had yet come to inquire about his progress, but he knew that he was lucky they hadn’t. The tattoos of his office were itching, indicating the displeasure of his superiors. Soon enough, they would be dispatching their demands. When this happened, he didn’t know what he would do.
The infant Redeemer had vanished. Some outside force, or someone outside reality, had taken him. For all he knew, the Nobility might nabbed him for themselves, not trusting their saviour to Luciferian responsibility.
He paced between his great chair and massive desk. The room was sumptuous, with the jaded elegance of a bygone brothel. Velvet fabrics covered the chairs, divans and couches, strewn along the vast room. The walls were covered in opulent paper, with worked gold leaf and baroque designs. McGrath had always loved the luxury and the extravagance of Napoleonic France. He found it especially compelling if it had become worn and faded, revealing the decadence, debauchery and corruption, which had always been below the superficial glitter and extravagance of that era.
His thoughts returned to the problem at hand and the two dullards before him.
“Mordecai, what happened to your little Greek?” Balzeer would not easily suffer Mordecai’s veiled insolence. He now recalled the intrigues and hidden meanings, nurtured by his favorite era. He continued with his reference to Mordecai’s rumored lover and the Luciferian’s dangerous liaison. “That Haggios. Where is he?”
“He’s in Brazil, Master.” Mordecai was no longer annoyed by Balzeer’s references to his supposed relationship with John Haggios. However, he continued to let him believe these little jabs still found their mark. He knew that any of his rival’s mistakes should be given strength, for he would then continue to build upon these weak, erroneous foundations.
Mordecai had his own favorite era and political maneuvering. He preferred the more open and less elaborate modern day intrigues. It provided quicker forms of communication, relying on the immediate results of the telephone, radio and television.
“Brazil? Why is he in Brazil?” The master turned his full attention on the upstart. There was something here that extended beyond a perplexing anomaly.
“He has taken a leave of absence.” These questions were starting to make Mordecai feel uneasy.
“What is he doing in Brazil? Do you know?” Balzeer sipped Mordecai’s discomfort like a welcome wine. The instincts, which earned him his position, were newly awakened and abuzz. Finding the boy was tied to finding Mordecai’s little Greek. Mordecai didn’t seem to know why Haggios had chosen that location. It was exquisite. “He is under your tutelage and you don’t know why he is there?”
“He does not have to answer to me for everything he chooses to do.” He did not know why Balzeer was berating him.
The master focused his sapping gaze on him. He had seen others falter, offering anything to turn away those terrible eyes. Mordecai had nothing to offer. He knew none of the answers, which Balzeer sought.
“However, everyone must answer to me. You will go to Brazil, find your little Greek and bring him back here.” There was no doubt in Balzeer’s mind that Haggios was planning to take Mordecai’s place. He was convinced that the little poof knew something about the location of the boy. It didn’t seem like Mordecai knew anything of his student’s plans, but a little interrogation might be in order. If nothing else, it would lift Balzeer’s spirits.
“Mossy, go with him. Do not let either of them out of your sight.” From another part of the room, behind identical black curtains, emerged the short, balding man with tulip petal lips. He plodded forward and sunk to his knees in front of his master.
“Now, where to begin?” Balzeer’s hand rubbed the baldpate backwards and forwards, mimicking masturbation. He lowered his gaze so that his heavy brows hid his eyes. He used his penetrating gaze like a weapon, but sparingly. “Mr. Aronovich, I want an answer to my question. Why has your little Greek run away?” His hands met, forming a steeple in front of his face. The wide sleeves slid down to reveal forearms, covered with sleeves of cryptic tattoos.
“To what end? An acolyte in our church is not like a student in some keg-chugging frat house. He is to be constantly watched. Never is he allowed to be out of sight.” He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he flared his nostrils. “Due to the nature of our worship, and the offerings we must give on our Sabbaths, we must have complete control over those who are prone to outside influence. Do you follow me, Mr. Aronovich? Is it clear?”
“Yes, sir. It is clear, Master. Crystal clear.” Mordecai saw that Balzeer McGrath was picking up steam. This was not going to be a good day for Mordecai. He needed to find a way to deflect some of the crap that Balzeer had begun slinging. He had to direct it so that it would stick to John Haggios. He would not take it up the ass for anyone, especially someone who was out of harm’s reach.
“So, you little insect, you worthless pile of shit, why is he there? Don’t presume to tell me that you don’t know, because, quite obviously, you are the worst fucking liar in the church!” His voice was distinctly menacing, though he had yet to raise it. Mossy marveled at his master’s well-honed vocal manipulations.
“He has left the church, Master. He did not wish to continue his studies. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t convince him to remain.”
Mordecai dropped to his knees beside Mossy and hoped for the best. This was the only explanation that would save his life. Any other and he would be implicated with Haggios. Those terrible eyes opened, shriveling most of Mordecai’s courage to nothing. If he continued to ask these questions, he would no longer be able to keep anything from him.
“He left and this is the first I hear of it?” The question hurdled towards Mordecai and he cringed, not knowing where it would go.
“He is barely in his first trimester, sir. Your knowledge of him is only because of my personal involvement.” This was going well. He did not question whether he had really left the church, simply that he had left.
“Why was he allowed to leave?” Balzeer felt that Mordecai was still pulling Haggios’ strings. He would need close supervision. “And why Brazil? His family is from somewhere in Boston.”
“We only dispose of students who have been with us past the two-year period, Master. It would raise too much suspicion and undue scrutiny if we did not allow yearlings to leave as they saw fit. It’s not good for public relations.” Mordecai didn’t dare allow himself to believe that he was fully out of harm’s way. He didn’t give in to the hope that there was any light ahead of him.
“Mossy, go with him. You are to be superior on this quest and your word is law.” Balzeer’s bejeweled hand waved both away. They might be his best hope to find the boy.
Mordecai still stung from the order, but was relieved that he had escaped with his life. Now, he must suffer under the master’s hound. He looked at Mossy with enough venom to have killed him on the spot. However, Mossy returned his gaze with a mask of i
ndifference. He was a pragmatist and usually operated from the shadows; being in the open made his job that much more difficult. There was a reason he was the master’s favorite. He would complete the assigned task and bring glory to the church.
“As you command, Master.” He chose not to reveal his reservations about the mission. He was as good at hiding his emotions as Mordecai was at betraying his. “How will we find him? Brazil is a large country.”
The question was open to anyone who could answer. Mossy would put no more effort into this than he had to. He would follow any road to which his master directed him.
“You will follow Mordecai. He knows where Mr. Haggios is.” Balzeer laid all of this at the feet of the upstart. If the mission failed, it would be his responsibility. If he succeeded, Balzeer would take the credit for sending him. “Mr. Aronovich, listen carefully.”
The Supreme Tribunal of the Church of Lucifer the Lightbringer, Balzeer McGrath, gave very specific instructions to both of his minions. “If you find our charge, bring him back to follow the path for which he was chosen. This is our Savior and Redeemer. The one who will deliver us to our destiny.” His head lay back and he spoke as if from a trance. “Any who seek to stop you, deliver them to their judge. If anyone does not help you, take their name and a piece of their person. We will mark them for a lifetime of suffering.
“Those who are our enemies will die quickly. Those who are dogs, which do not do our bidding, will die agonizingly and slowly. Find our Savior. To claim this prize, you must stop at nothing — not even death. If either of you expires, the other is to return with the body. If both of you die, then I will find you in hell and make you suffer far more than you would ever dream possible.”
These threats were certainties. The Supreme Tribunal was the human, and visible, face of others who ruled from the shadows and from afar. They wore many names and their numbers were legion. They were as ever-present as dust, which clings to everything. They could never be removed; they remained and expanded. They were at the highest levels of government, of wealth and station.
TIME: AUGUST 31ST, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Kosta went through two elliniko, Turkish coffees, without opening the Idammah-Gan. It lay ominously between the folds of the newspaper, ready to pounce. He knew that now he could open it without danger, but took his time, contemplating both it and where this past year had led him.
He was no longer the Truth, a remnant of imperial, Byzantine authority. On May 29th, he had returned to Kostadinoupoli and given his ancestor peace. That part of his life — which had ruled his imagination through his childhood and permeated all his family’s attention — was over. Now, as Kosta stared at the Idammah-Gan, he knew that his choice was his responsibility. He opened the volume to where he had left off and continued reading.
- Idammah-Gan Codex - Depth of Correction IV -
TIME: LATE SUMMER, 985 A.D. UKRAINIAN STEPPES
There were screams all around me. All varied, in an orchestra of bellows, shrieks, yells and cries. They were all voicing pain, rage, lust and death. These sounds drowned out the others, only slightly less audible — the ringing of steel, the impact of bone-crushing blows and the sounds of battle.
Along with my tribesmen, I came here to defend our land from invaders, claiming to have brought us the lord. We never asked for the lord; they could keep him. They never even offered him nicely. If they had, we might have considered it, but they tried to force him on us, in return for tribute. It was like they were expecting payment for goods that we didn’t want. How rude and boorish.
Their officers, and those who tried to sell us their savior, were called Byzantines. The rest were like us — men who simply had a job to do. They could’ve come from any of the surrounding lands. They could have done anything, but they had chosen to be mercenaries in the armies of the lord. He paid well.
It was they whom I did not want to kill. I did, mind you, but I didn’t want to. I tried to be as quick about it as their attacks, or their responses, allowed. I removed them from this world, and all this suffering, as efficiently as I knew how.
Those Byzantines, with their pretty helmets and scale armor, were a different story. With them, I took my time. They were special. Every time I split their faces open, I was also killing the beliefs, which they tried to force upon me. For some hours now, my leather armor had been splattered with their blood, as well as some of my own.
One came at me with his horse and retainers. He must be important to have a horse and yelling minions.
It was easy enough to duck under his blow, then forward in a roll that I continued, enabling me to cut the legs from under one of his men. His screams erupted as soon as my axe went through his left knee and he fell forward, landing behind me.
When using an axe in battle, the key is to avoid thick bones, where the blade could easily get stuck. Rather, aim for smaller joints, where the weight of the implement, combined with sufficient force, results in a maximum amount of damage to your victim, with a minimum amount of harm to yourself. Thus ends the lesson.
In my other hand, I had my short sword, ideal for slashing and quick thrusts. This I used to slash across a bearded fellow, raising a huge two-handed sword against me. It quickly cut through the chord of his neck and left him gurgling on the field.
The rider who had just missed me was coming around for another pass. I knew I had to distance myself from the remaining three retainers, or he would be able to easily pick me off. So I ran towards him and, once again, ducked low. This time, I took out the horse.
I do not wish to describe this. I have always firmly believed that unless you intend to eat an animal, killing it is a horrible thing. Men are a different story; they deserve to die at my hand.
As I intended, the horse pinned its rider to the ground. He hadn’t had enough sense to jump free of the falling beast. I jumped past the thrashing steed and slashed down with the axe, taking off the rider’s head. It landed before me as I hit the ground.
The lord’s remaining retainers yelled murder at me — at least I think it was murder. They were speaking Greek as they rushed to avenge their fallen benefactor. I rose to meet them, for only three remained.
It is important to note that when you are facing numerous foes — five or more — you should wait until they come to you and then respond to their attack. However, with four or fewer, it is prudent to bring the attack to them. This generally works because they don’t anticipate this approach. Also, they are far too few to hamper each other.
The first man to meet me was wielding both axe and short sword, as was I. Our axes met and ran up the shafts until their heads clanged together. He pulled his away and took mine with it. I knew that I did not have the luxury of concentrating on this; I had two others with whom to deal. As he continued his attempt to fully disarm me, I kicked at his exposed leg. He fell, but I didn’t have time to dispose of him, as both of the remaining minions attacked in unison, one from the left, the other from the right.
Without warning, the horse’s cries of pain distracted me from the fight. I didn’t care enough to waste my time dealing with these three. I wanted to go and put the poor beast out of its misery; my attackers didn’t share my sentiments. I took a few seconds to recover my fallen axe.
They did, however, change their earlier tactic of simultaneous attack. The one on the right slashed left to right at my midsection and I pushed him into his companion. They both fell in a heap and I split one’s head open at the nose and cheekbones, while the other’s hands came off with two quick slashes of my sword.
In battle, you don’t have to kill someone outright; the actual aim is to keep him from being able to fight. It didn’t matter to me if this man survived, or if he died immediately. He might live, despite the blood that spurted out of his stumps, but what concerned me was the horse, whose labored breathing was punctuated by wet gurgling. The poor thing was well on its way to death, though I couldn’t seem to force myself to approach it any faster.
I was fi
nally over it and it looked up at me with an immeasurable terror. It did not want to be there, among all this carnage. As it lay on its side, I saw confusion, terror and disbelief in its expression. Because I had been the one to bring it down, it feared me. It also knew that I intended to kill it. It still did not want to die and it did not know that it would, despite its desires.
I also saw rage in its eyes — anger, which connected to the anger in me. It screamed why. Why does all of this have to keep happening? However, the anger in me ran deeper than that which was reflected in the horse’s liquid, brown eyes. It remembered many other cruelties and brutal actions, committed knowingly, or without care.
This anger, this rage was a difficult thing to articulate, either for a beast of burden, or for a screaming savage, more familiar with killing than living. Someone must answer for all of this. God seems to be too easy of an answer. Why would I lay this in front of someone, or something, I’ve never seen, heard, tasted or felt?
An answer came from unknown depths — laziness. If I relinquished all of this suffering and pain to a higher knowledge, I would be lazy. I am responsible for my own pain and pleasure. No one else supplies me with either. I was also completely responsible for the poor horse’s pain. I lay the tip of my sword on its neck, put my weight behind it and pushed, ending its pain in a single heartbeat.
The horse died and I followed it. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the final man in the rider’s retinue. I remembered him as he pushed his sword through me and I saw the tip emerge from my front.