by T. M. Lakomy
Estella felt her heart pounding with a primeval fear. She squeezed her eyes shut to shield herself from his baleful presence, but even the rising chants from Mikhail’s cohort could not distract her from him. She found herself fastening her gaze on the fiend in horror.
Gripped by a sudden frenzy, she laughed out madly, “I see the truth of you all!” Tears streamed down her face as she convulsed in fits of laughter. “The queen is a whore who desires men other than her husband. She lusts over someone here. I wonder who it could be?” She cackled madly at their uninterrupted chanting, aware of the presence gathering power over her. “Oswald murdered his own father, when in his dotage he turned to the sins of the flesh. Did they bathe you in purgatory to wash you clean? Answer me, damn you!” she bellowed at them.
Her slipping mind was on fire. She both wanted to break free and run to the fiend and to crawl away and die. “Mikhail . . .” she whispered in mock tenderness. “Mikhail’s mother was visited by an incubus. He fucked her hard all night and here we have a half-breed prodigy.” The fiend placed one foot in the circle and she screamed in agony; something within her rupturing mind had begun to burn into a conflagration, and she instantly knew who he was.
“And the old man looked not into the void, but too deeply into my eyes seeking answers, and so he went blind. Then he came with the knife after others.” Her voice was suave and unctuous, but like a latent poison it was underscored with menace. It was like a razor that is so fine it draws blood without pain. Only moments later does the agony tumble upon you in a deluge of excruciating fire.
Mikhail broke away from the others with his sword unsheathed, the demon within him withdrawing back into his body. “Get back, you have no dominion here, cursed one! Back, Samael, Blind God, you false aborted creation.”
Samael halted in his steps, his steel crown catching the wan light and refracting it coldly. His single eye bore into Mikhail with the vengeful malice of boundless evil. A brandished spear in one hand, he gnashed his black teeth together mockingly. Mikhail stood fast as Samael loomed over him, growing taller and taller. As he expanded, great wings emerged from his back, beating the air with such velocity that Mikhail stumbled backwards.
His deepest fears played before him, reflected back to him in Samael’s eye, regurgitated from the bowels of hell. Samael laughed loudly and a blinding light flashed across the hall. Momentarily everything was lost in the sudden blaze. Estella, shaken and filled with the impulse to flee, pulled against her chains, helplessly cursing. She sought the hidden name of metal and steel, whispering spells to awaken their essence, but nothing availed, and in that blinding light she strove to see, straining her ears for movement.
The light began to dwindle, at first subtly, then rapidly receded. A sharp intake of breath was heard in the deadened silence. Where Samael once stood there was now an angel. Oswald, who had positioned himself next to Estella to protect her, dropped his sword. To the depths of which Samael’s ugliness descended, the height of his beauty reached. It was as if he were spun of glorious, golden light. The steel crown was gone and in its place he bore a wreath of flowering stars, each pulsating with its own pure, vibrant light. His hair was long and golden, and it fell with an almost feminine allure down his mighty shoulders. Each feature on his flawless face was sharp and ruthless with the weight of pride, and his eyes were cerulean blue, glittering with repressed laughter. The putrid single eye he once had was dissimulated in a false image he projected of himself—a reflection of what he was before he was dethroned from heaven.
Samael’s mouth was shrewd, and he sneered as he imperiously cast his sweeping gaze over Mikhail and Estella. Only the old man huddled on the floor near his abandoned throne was immovable, for he was blind and therefore immune to Samael’s beauty.
“I have seen your true face, cursed one,” the Blind Sage spoke, his coarse voice almost an affront to the awed silence that Samael had inspired. “Who are you trying to fool this time around? You are ugly and foul, bereft of any godly beauty!” He spat with rancor on the floor in Samael’s direction. Mikhail was frowning, transfixed, but soon his face hardened and he resumed his incantations. Samael moved towards them, testing their strength with each step.
They were visibly losing the battle and Estella was aware that she was the prize that they fought over. She turned to Oswald, imploring him to free her, but he was too entrenched in his scriptural chanting to pay her any heed. Panicked, she plucked a silver hairpin from her hair and went to work bending it into an adequate shape. Then she began the arduous task of picking the locks, her shaking hands dropping the hairpin several times. She rocked backwards and forwards, desperately tearing her eyes away from Samael and Mikhail locked in confrontation, but her concentration failed her many times as she struggled with the lock.
“Always in a pickle, aren’t you?” whispered a sardonic voice in her ear. Estella whipped her head around, dropping the pin with a muffled scream as the androgynous demon emerged to her left. He was translucent and grave, as if his substance were being diminished in the presence of Samael. Crouching next to her, he said in hushed tones, “I’ll pick your locks before Samael burns me to death. Run with me. But first pledge yourself to me—make risking evisceration worth my while at least.” Despite the sarcasm in his tone, his one healthy eye was clouded, and he seemed uncharacteristically gaunt with worry.
Seeing the recalcitrance on her face, he sneered, “He will devour you and spit out your soul for hell to defile, till infinity finally caves in. Do you really doubt it? You’re a real treat for him—a bright light and seer. You stand at the fringes of God’s own eyes and face the aborted darkness. You stare evil in the eye, and he will consume those eyes, open to the infinity of God and the eternity of the false creation. Now come.”
Estella cast one last miserable glance at Mikhail, who was ghastly pale and groaning from exertion. Samael gripped him by the neck and lifted him skywards with a triumphant grimace on his cruel, immaculate visage. Then she scrambled to her feet nimbly with newfound courage.
“So be it, get me out of here,” she acquiesced.
The demon winced as he touched her chains and they immediately began to singe his flesh. He hissed angrily, straining the muscles of his thin body. Finally the chains crumbled into dust and he let go, sighing with relief, the odor of charred flesh lingering in the air. Grabbing Estella’s shoulders, the demon pushed her forwards encouragingly. Without even casting a look back, she fled, the sound of Mikhail choking ringing in her ears.
Estella ran with the demon down a network of underground tunnels. They were both lost and oppressed by the spells of the Templars that repelled them, activated against their forbidden magic. The demon led her deeper and deeper into the never-ending maze by the pale luminescence of his wings.
“We are lost! Where are we, you lackwit demon?” she cursed him vehemently.
“I cannot find my way that easily in this crude jail,” he retorted as they moved along the serpentine tunnels, the heat steadily becoming more and more unbearable.
But they were irredeemably lost. The main exit was blocked by Samael and the Templars. And though there was supposedly another way through the subterranean routes, they were unable to find it. The path kept twisting into an expanding network of tunnels, and the demon’s sight was crippled by the spells that gilded the halls. The walls quivered and shuddered as if they pulsated with a living heartbeat, and as they delved further, sigils and strange geometric patterns glinted in the darkness. The walls were alive and responded to their presence. Every now and then tortured faces with empty sockets would press out of the walls, their open mouths screaming voicelessly.
“Something here is preventing us from seeing a way out, a spell wrought into these walls to trap us . . .” mused the demon darkly, his one clear eye scanning the walls with distaste.
“I can feel it, too, chafing at my senses. I feel as if I touched these walls I would be cemented inside them forever. This is a bad decision we made,” she whispered
shakily. The demon nodded, careful lest his wings touch the walls.
It soon became apparent that they were in a maze of some kind. All the paths connected and intersected with no particular logic or reasoning, leading them deeper down to where the magic was culled from the air and bound to the cave walls. They sped ahead as fast as they could, oppressed by the spells that fenced them in, and dogged by the silently screaming faces mouthing supplications. After hours of being utterly lost in the dark, they felt as if the cage had closed behind them.
“This is a prison of sorts,” said the demon. “It is no small wonder Samael found it hard to pass through. These halls were built with rigid spells to suck in the magic wielded by the Twilit born and use it against them.” The demon’s words seeped into the fissures of the heavy air that hung between them.
Estella felt weakened and weary, like a fog was pressing against her mind. She stumbled and leaned on the demon for support. He was concealing a wince with each step, and even his milky eye radiated concern. He took her by the hand, and with a fiendish hiss led her faster into the tunnels, turning right and left, following his own innate instincts.
The demon stopped suddenly in his tracks, and Estella collided with him. He grasped her with unusual gentleness before she stumbled.
“Strain your ears. Do you hear that? It sounds like human voices, listen. Estella, listen! I need your wits about you, there is no time for dallying in sleepiness.”
Estella’s back stiffened and her cloudy eyes sharpened. She nodded at the demon who, with a sigh of relief, grabbed her arm, pressing her forwards.
“Don’t touch the walls and be vigilant. We are approaching human activity, and for the worse I deem.”
Fear pressed against her heart with each step as the echoes of human misery became more audible.
The source of the lamentation soon became visible under the eerie light of dozens of candles flickering in sconces. There were row upon row of them—men and women and children, bound by their ankles and necks to the walls with chains. They had barely enough room to maneuver to nearby chamber pots, their raw necks were sore and bloodied, and the stain of blood was smeared across their bodies. The miasma of human waste mingled with unwashed bodies, assaulting their senses.
Estella involuntarily retched, nearly leaning against the walls for support before the demon seized her, yanking her back.
“Fool of a woman! You want to end up chained like they are? Look at what they have done to them, look closer!”
He threw her headlong toward a row of men and women and she tripped, hitting the ground painfully. At the unexpected noise, they cowered in fear, dropping the quills they had been holding. Estella froze in horror as she looked at the prisoners. Where their eyes should have been were empty sockets carelessly bandaged with filthy linen. Infected pus mingled with blood, and their mouths were covered in sores and hung open with thirst.
“Give us water, we cannot write any longer!” came the cracked, beseeching voice of a trembling old man. He was filthily clad in sackcloth, and his sparse beard sagged against his unresponsive child as he sobbed to himself like a helpless infant.
“We cannot write any longer, have mercy for God’s sake!” a woman’s shrill cry resounded over her, and soon they were all reaching for her, grabbing in her direction blindly, and begging.
Estella covered her mouth with her hand as they ripped off their bandages to feel their empty sockets, and she threw herself at their chains desperately.
“Has the Blind Sage been keeping you here? I am Tsura of Red Fern Manor . . .” her voice broke mid-sentence. The captives pleaded louder, groping towards her wildly.
“You must free us! Look at the handiwork the Blind Sage has wrought on us. Do not just stand there watching, for pity’s sake!” The echoes of their cracked voices ricocheted against the stark walls gleaming with sigils. In answer a multitude of soundless, wailing faces erupted from the walls, mouths agape. Estella began to fear that the noise would bring their jailor upon them all.
“Please be silent, I must think!” she cried shrilly, hysteria creeping into her voice.
“What is there to think about? Have you not eyes to see what they have done to us? Where are our eyes?”
Estella recoiled as they fingered their bloodied, infected sockets and picked at their scabs whimpering.
“Free us! Let us out, by all the gods of the Twilit path, we did not deserve this fate!”
Estella dug her nails into her temples, battling the waves of nausea and shock that threatened to overcome her. The demon clicked his tongue and jostled her impatiently.
“Leave them to rot, it’s over for them. They are broken. They cannot be mended. Better to die here than rejoin the world to live as parasites on the mercy of others. Come, we must go!” he said roughly, spurning an old man with his boot.
“I cannot leave my people behind!” Estella replied. “Is there no kindness in your blackened heart? Would you turn your back on suffering because they are human?” Her angry cries rose like a tidal wave.
The demon laughed coldly, stooping to grab a thin woman with crusted blisters on her neck. He lifted her up effortlessly by the hair, smiling as he teasingly removed her bandages while she pleaded with him for her freedom.
“Look at this; human weakness, damaged vessels. Their flesh is easily destroyed beyond repair, and they breed easily and to no good purpose. You kill one, more of them breed. What value is there to these decaying organisms that live and die pointlessly?” he asked as he taunted the woman, slapping her and laughing at her resistance.
Estella threw herself at him striking him, attempting to free the struggling woman from his grasp. He dropped the woman and faced Estella disdainfully.
“Even you are worthless, though you have something you don’t deserve—something worthwhile. Your sight, stolen from the dark side of God’s face, which pierces the thinned veil right up to the throne itself. It is mine now! You are nothing more than wretched vessels of clay, dying to find a parcel of meaning in existence.” The demon wrestled Estella to the ground and pressed his forefinger onto her eyelids. “Look at what they do to your kind, these churchmen, these Templars, these men of God. Do you know what this is? They are mutilating your people for their visions, then they pass them off as their own. Ask them!” He turned her face forcibly towards the captives.
“He is right!” an old man cried. “They heard I had sight and they came for me, men dressed in church garb. They showed modest interest at first, then the Blind Sage came to interview me. He had just lost his own sight trying to peel back the veil of night. He tortured me for my visions, plucked out my eyes, and bound me to this wall to write all I could see.” The old man ripped his beard, digging his nails into his own face and heaving with tears. Estella wept alongside him.
“Worthless humans oppress themselves, there is no need for us to meddle!” whispered the demon in her ear.
“According to your own hierarchy you are also damaged goods worth nothing. Do not be so quick to judge their worth,” replied Estella coldly, unable to detach her gaze from the chained captives.
“I was something far greater than you, witch!” he jabbed his finger at her angrily.
“Let me free them at least. Perhaps they can help us out of here, since you seem incapable of doing so,” she retorted harshly.
Falling to her knees, she drove the remainder of her bent hair pins into the chain’s locks. And while the chains themselves were charmed to repel her, she persevered, the pain blossoming into her arms and numbing them. She gritted her teeth and drove her strength into the endeavor. The first chain clicked with a loud noise and it drove the captives into a frenzy of relief, that single noise heralding their freedom. Slowly she began to free them, one by one, and they encouraged her with praise. But there were many needing her succor and soon her fingers were rigid and she was unable to continue.
“Only a few more to go, lady, you cannot give up on them now,” said a man meekly. He was fair of countenanc
e and young, perhaps only just twenty, but lack of nutrition had marred his vigor.
“The magic is stalling me, I must find a way to break through it,” she said. Without hesitation she unpinned her cloak brooch and dug it into her hand, liberating blood from the fresh wound.
As she used the power of her blood to free the last of the captives, they gathered around her, fretful and weak, each whispering directions. Then, gathering their strength, they struggled forward, carrying those who could not walk on their own, the children that were famished, and the elderly whose legs had atrophied from lack of use. In a somber file, they fumbled their way through tunnels that they described to Estella. Their blinded sight guided them towards the exit path they claimed ended near the sewers.
Shuffling in the gloom, the noise they made would have heralded their escape to anyone nearby. She pressed them on with urgency, aware of the lurking dangers. And as they moved forward she thought with doubt about the sincerity Mikhail had professed and the integrity he had shown hitherto. But escaping was her most urgent need, and she pushed him from her mind.
As fresher air began to mingle with the stale atmosphere, she knew they were approaching an opening. The captives began to rejoice with hoarse voices, but she hushed them reprovingly. The intersection of pathways indicated that these halls were built on the ancient ruins of older edifices. Pagan shrines, still intact, loomed in the darkness, and near them a ladder.
“Where will you go from here?” Estella called after them, curiously taking in the underground shrines.
“We know not where to turn!” screeched one woman deliriously, who was tapping her empty sockets as if the realization was newly dawning on her. “Better to have died here,” she whispered bitterly. The rest began to murmur in assent.
“Then they have what they want,” Estella rebuked them angrily. “They have murdered your souls and left your bodies to join soon after. Shame on you. Do not let them prevail!”
Estella began to climb the ladder. It led out onto a deserted street she did not recognize. “Quick,” she called down to them. “I know someone who will shelter you. Who here knows Rosalind Constance, the bastard daughter of the pope? She is also Twilit touched, and the safest person I know of. Go to her.” Her voice rippled across them, but they did not answer. Wearily she descended the steps and pushed the closest person to her, urging them to climb up.