Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood

by D. J. MacHale

  He might have done just that, if his head hadn't cleared enough to once again register the sounds of the battle that was still raging. A quick look toward the cathedral showed that it was a standoff. The figments hadn't gotten any closer to the cathedral, but they hadn't been turned back either. Press was still spinning his stave like an attack helicopter, and Coop was still sparring with the old spirit. Nothing had changed . . .

  . . . except that Damon had made his way through the battlefield and was entering the front doors of the cathedral.

  Marsh jumped to his feet, the pain forgotten. His first thought was to run to Coop and Press to let them know that Damon was inside, but he dismissed it. He couldn't afford to waste the time.

  He had to stop Damon.

  Rather than plunge straight ahead, he took the widest route possible around the battle. It took time but not nearly as much as if he had had to fight. He moved stealthily between the crumbled remnants of the garden, past broken statues and crumbled walls, dry fountains and empty trellises. He felt like a coward, but stayed focused. He had no idea how he would stop Damon from releasing Brennus, but he knew he had to try.

  Finally he reached the bottom of the stone stairs that led up to the front door of the cathedral. He waited for a moment, making sure that the banshees were too busy to notice, then sprinted up the stairs and jumped through the dark doorway.

  "I knew plenty of boys like you," Sanger spat at Cooper. "Good for nothing but trouble."

  "I'll bet you were a real prince," Coop shot back. "That's why you landed here."

  Sanger lashed out at Cooper, swinging hard. Coop ducked the punch easily, but Sanger came back with an uppercut that drove straight into his gut. Coop was surprised by the skill of the old man. In life he must have been a real battler. Coop was also surprised by how much the punch hurt. He staggered back but Sanger was on him quickly. He leaped at Cooper and tackled him, driving his knees into his chest. Coop landed on his back, and Sanger grabbed his arm and flipped him over, wrenching the arm up and behind his shoulders.

  Sanger leaned down to him and spat in his ear with vicious intensity, "You're a smart-ass, kid. I'm gonna enjoy seeing the likes of you eating dirt when the rising comes. I'll be lookin' for you in particular . . . and for the ones who killed me. You're all gonna suffer, I'll make sure of that."

  Coop's other arm was free. He held his breath, forced himself not to think of the pain, and drove his hand up and backward, jamming his palm into Sanger's nose. Sanger squealed and let go. Coop spun and was on him fast, first throwing a side kick to his head that sent him sprawling, then leaping on him and jamming his knee into the old spirit's throat.

  "I don't know who you were in life, you old dog, but this is where you belong and this is where you're staying."

  Sanger's eyes were wild as he let out a laugh that chilled Cooper. In that one second, Coop realized that if these were the kind of spirits that Damon was gathering to stage his war, Ree's Guardians wouldn't stand a chance.

  The vast cathedral was dark and quiet. The sounds of the battle grew faint as if it were miles away. Marsh stood just inside the front door, taking in the ancient, crumbled structure. The ceiling that would have been several stories above was long gone, allowing him to see the stone tower that stretched into the purple sky. A balcony ringed the space a story above.

  From where he stood, the altar looked to be fifty yards away. Marsh had been in similar colossal structures when his family had toured England, but never had he seen one that was so foreboding. So ominous. So dead. Rows of wooden pews stretched all the way to the front, defining the aisles: one directly down the center, one to either side of that, and two more along the left and right walls.

  Where did Press say the tomb was? The left aisle? The right aisle? Marsh swore at himself for not remembering. He stood quietly, hoping to hear Damon moving about but the old church was as quiet as a tomb.

  Or many tombs.

  As terrified as he was, his hope grew. Damon couldn't have found Brennus's prison, or Marsh surely would have heard the sounds of him breaking into it. All he could think to do was find the tomb and stand guard as best as he could and hope that Coop and Press would soon be there. Before moving, he picked up a broken chunk of wood that was once the leg of a chair. It was the only weapon he could find.

  He started to walk down the center aisle, feeling vulnerable. Damon could be hiding anywhere, watching him from the shadows. He chose instead to move to the far side and keep a wall at his back. He walked cautiously to his right, trying not to create too loud a footfall, but every time his toe touched the floor, it felt as though he were creating a booming echo that reverberated off the stone walls.

  He reached the far side and, with his shoulder to the wall, slowly moved forward. As with the cathedrals in Europe, he passed by several stone crypts that were built into the walls. He didn't understand the practice of creating such garish displays for the dead. A statue to a revered person would have been plenty. Why did they have to have their bodies stuck right into the walls? It seemed barbaric. Most of the crypts had ancient writing that he couldn't read. It seemed to be some form of Old English. Or Celtic. Or whatever. All he knew was that he couldn't decipher any of it. He held out hope that he would come upon one that simply said BRENNUS, but that didn't seem likely.

  Complicating matters was that there were hundreds of crypts covering the walls and the floors. If he had any hope of finding Brennus's prison, he would have to trust in what the Watcher told them. He would have to just "know."

  He remembered that Press said the tomb was in the floor. That reduced the number of possibilities by at least two thirds. He passed over several rectangular sections that were flush with the floor but were actually inlaid tomb coverings.

  None of the inscriptions were any easier to decipher than the ones on the walls. Marsh had the brief hope that Damon would have just as much trouble figuring out where Brennus was. Maybe neither of them would find the tomb before the cavalry arrived. That would have been okay.

  He didn't put much faith in that, though.

  Farther up the aisle he came upon a heaping of pews that were piled on top of one another as if they were the discarded LEGO toys of a giant. An angry giant. Some were splintered as if split in two by a massive force. Jagged pieces of wood created a sharp labyrinth for him to make his way through. It was as though the pile had been placed there deliberately as a deterrent to keep the curious away.

  Marsh felt sure that he was getting closer.

  He wove his way through the jutting points of splintered wood until he came to an area where only a few broken pieces were scattered on the floor. Marsh stepped forward and scanned the space, realizing that it was a clearing of sorts and he was surrounded by a wall made of splintered seats. The pews formed a ring, perhaps to act as a final, defensible barricade. Marsh stepped to the dead center to see that the barrier had been arranged around a tomb in the floor that looked to be about seven feet long and four feet wide and was covered by scattered pieces of broken pews.

  Marsh knelt down on one knee and put his palm on the corner of the marble slab. It was warm. He reached forward, grabbed the edge of a long wooden plank, and pulled it aside to reveal the inscription. In simple three-inch-high letters was inscribed:

  JAMES BRENNUS 1642-

  It confirmed what he already sensed: The sin eater was imprisoned below.

  His mind raced to the next step. Damon would surely find the tomb. Marsh would have to protect it until Cooper and Press got there. He clutched the splintered chair leg and looked around for something else to use as a weapon. He knew that anything he might find would be pathetic compared to the poleax, but he had to try. He grabbed another length of sharp wood off the floor, and froze. Something had dropped onto the back of his hand. Something wet. Had it started to rain? Did it rain in the Blood?

  Marsh slowly looked up to see where it had come from . . .

  . . . and saw that he wasn't alone. Leaning over the balcony raili
ng, staring down at him from above, were a dozen of the hollow-eyed demons. Drool fell from their open mouths. They had been watching him the whole time.

  Marsh clutched the chair leg, ready to fight, as the monsters vaulted over the railing.

  Outside the cathedral the figments were tiring.

  The spirits who were defending the cathedral had been spurred on by the arrival of Press, their spiritual mentor, and were finally able to push the demons back toward the river. Every inch of ground was hard fought, but the demons were losing.

  Press was attacked from behind by two of the small monsters. He spun quickly, flinging one off before rapping it on the side of the head with his stave. The second grabbed him around the throat. Press went with it. He fell into a backward somersault, crushing the little monster with his body weight and then continuing the roll to his feet, bringing the stave around again and knocking the demon senseless.

  Coop saw the whole thing and ran to join Press.

  "Nice," he declared. "I didn't think Watchers went there."

  Press shrugged. "I guess that's your answer."

  "Answer to what?"

  "To why I'm the one who gets these jobs."

  Coop was impressed.

  "Where's Damon?" Press asked.

  Their conversation ended when the banshees made a last-ditch assault, charging en masse. Coop and Press were ready, Press with his stave and Coop with the powerless black sword. Together with the spirit guards, they stood their ground and drove the small demons back to the water. Several fell in and floundered while others boarded their flat-bottom boats and paddled away quickly.

  Press and Coop stood together on the shore, breathing hard, then looked to each other.

  "Damon," Press declared.

  Coop glanced to the lake and boat the they had arrived in. The empty boat.

  "Yeah," he added. "And Marsh."

  Marsh swung the wooden chair legs wildly and managed to knock a few of the figments back, but it was a futile effort. There were too many of them. One grabbed his arm and wrenched the weapon from his hand while another threw him to the ground and held him on his back. Others quickly pinned Marsh's arms. The figment on top of him leaned in close and smiled, revealing sharpened teeth.

  Marsh struggled but the best he could hope for was to keep his mind from snapping.

  The demon opened its jaws wide and leaned in, ready to take a bite out of Marsh's cheek.

  "Enough!" Damon commanded.

  The figment snapped its mouth shut, angered that it had missed out on its snack. It jumped off Marsh's chest, revealing to him that Damon was standing on the far side of the tomb.

  "It seems your family is quite skilled at finding hidden tombs," Damon said, bemused.

  Marsh struggled to lift his head but the demons kept his arms pinned to the floor.

  "Of course I would have found it eventually," Damon said. "But it is so much more poetic that you have saved me the trouble."

  The warrior strode around the edges of the tomb, gazing down at the marble covering. He let the point of the poleax scrape across its surface. The sharp hiss of blade on stone filled the empty cathedral.

  "Interesting," Damon said thoughtfully. "I expected the poleax to slice through this effortlessly."

  "Don't do it," Marsh begged. "You're not going to prove anything by destroying the Morpheus Road."

  "I disagree," Damon replied. "I am the champion of those spirits in the Black who no longer accept the unfair judgment of supposed superior spirits. I am their redeemer. And to the spirits in the Blood, I will be their avenger."

  "But you're just using them," Marsh argued.

  "We all have something to gain," Damon said. "As does Brennus."

  "And what if he doesn't go along with your plan?" Marsh asked.

  Damon smiled and said, "Let us find out."

  He gripped the poleax with both hands, raised it high overhead, and brought the chopping blade down hard.

  The sharp metal edge hit the marble tomb, cracking the surface.

  Cooper and Press sprinted through the garden, headed for the cathedral. Alone. The spirit guards had remained by the shore to prevent the figments from circling back.

  They hit the bottom of the stairs that led up to the front door and climbed quickly. When they were nearly to the top, they were met by Sanger, who leaned casually against the frame of the open door.

  "Hello, boys," Sanger said calmly. "I'm afraid you're a wee bit late."

  Cooper ran right up to the old man and grabbed him by the collar.

  Sanger didn't fight him.

  "I'm coming back for you," Coop growled.

  Sanger gave him a smile full of yellowed teeth. "I'll be waitin'."

  Cooper threw him aside as he and Press continued on into the cathedral.

  Marsh struggled to free himself from the grip of the figments but it was futile. All he could do was watch in horror as Damon chopped away at the tomb.

  The poleax may not have had spiritual power in the Blood, but it was strong enough to break through the marble seal. Damon whaled away as if possessed. Bits of marble flew everywhere as the surface cracked and crumbled. Each strike was painful for Marsh. It was further proof that once again he had failed.

  "Stop!" Coop shouted as he and Press dodged through the piles of benches.

  The demons holding Marsh were confused. Should they stay with Marsh? Or go for the intruders?

  Coop and Press jumped into the clearing. Coop went right to help Marsh, swinging his sword, scattering the figments like cockroaches.

  Marsh rolled away, and Coop helped him to his feet. "You okay?" Coop asked.

  Marsh nodded.

  Press raised his stave threateningly toward Damon, who had stopped chopping and stood on the far side of the tomb, his chest heaving.

  "And who is this?" Damon said through gasps. "Another misguided soul who has taken pity on those annoying boys?"

  "You have no idea what you're doing," Press warned.

  "Oh I think I do," Damon said with a smile. "The question is, do you know what I'm doing?"

  With that he lifted the poleax high and brought it down hard, crashing through the last of the marble seal and sending the shattered pieces falling into the depths of the tomb below.

  The prison door was open.

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. All eyes were on the dark hole in the floor. Even the figments crowded together to stare in wonder.

  Damon stood over the hole, staring down, his eyes alive with anticipation.

  The only one not looking into the depths was Press. He didn't need to. He knew what was inside.

  "You'll regret this," Press said to Damon.

  Damon didn't take his eyes off the open tomb. "Brennus!" he called down to the depths. "Come! Take your place by my side as we—"

  A shadow leaped up and out of the hole, landing directly in front of Damon.

  Marsh took a stunned step backward.

  Coop gasped, "Oh jeez. This isn't good."

  The sin eater was free.

  21

  Marsh couldn't be sure if he was looking at the spirit of a human or an animal.

  The spirit called Brennus stood hunched over, his back twisted into an unnatural hump. Though he stood on two feet he could easily reach down to walk on all fours. Tangled gray hair fell over his shoulders, joining a straggle of long gray beard. His skin was shriveled and brown, looking more like a dried leather shoe than human flesh. He wore the clothes of a peasant farmer, with dark ragged pants and a cloth coat that hung in shreds to below his knees. His feet were bare and filthy, his toenails clawlike. His hands were twisted like tree roots with fingers that overlapped arthritically. As grotesque as he looked, he appeared frail, as if a slight breeze would knock him over.

  His eyes told a different story. They were sharp and alert. And angry.

  Damon was momentarily taken aback at the sight but quickly regained his composure and announced, "Welcome back to the Blood."

  Brennus didn't
acknowledge Damon. His gaze bore directly at Press.

  Coop looked between the two.

  "Dude," he whispered to Press. "That guy's got some serious hate on for you."

  Press returned Brennus's gaze, unwavering. "You've been given a second chance, Brennus," he said. "Make no mistake, you can end up back in there just as easily."

  Damon took a threatening step toward Press.

  "Who are you to interfere?" Damon asked with arrogance.

  "He's a Watcher," Coop said.

  Damon froze. He hadn't expected that answer. "Surprise," Coop added.

  Damon was left momentarily speechless, but regained his composure quickly and strode back to Brennus.

  "Ignore him," Damon said to the sin eater. "He has no power here."

  Press and Brennus remained with their gazes locked like two gunslingers.

  Press said, "If the spirits of the Blood wish it, you can remain free, but only if you agree to exist in peace." Brennus's response was heavy, wheezy breathing. Damon moved quickly and stood between the two.

  "You have no control here!" he shouted to Press. "I have freed Brennus to join me in my quest."

  His words finally caught Brennus's attention. The crippled spirit shuffled slowly toward Damon, the bones in his back cracking and crunching with every movement.

  Marsh winced, imagining the pain.

  " Yer quest?" Brennus asked in a soft, pained whisper.

  "I know of your failed mission," Damon said. "You have gathered many followers. I need them. Once joined with my own army, I will lead them straight up the Morpheus Road."

  "How?" Brennus asked, his voice like gravel on sandpaper.

  Damon raised the poleax and exclaimed, "I have the power to tear down the walls between worlds."

  Press leaned toward Marsh and whispered, "Go to the front of the cathedral. Tell me what you see outside."

  "What? Why?" Marsh replied.

  "Just go," Press commanded.