Authors: Brendan Carroll
As a result of battle strategy gone awry, he had burned Ptolemy’s sister’s precious library. Her ire had been soothed only by the subsequent placement of the crown of Upper and Lower Egypt on her own Greek locks. Very, very few people alive knew of the contents of these vaults and even fewer knew where they had come from. Here were the complete works of the classical Greeks, ancient scrolls and papyri from Egyptian scholars and pharaohs, entire manuscripts from Arabian, Indian and Chinese poets, priests and emperors, all forgotten and lost in time. Some of them were from the ‘mythical Atlantis’ and, if one looked close enough, some of them might closely resemble Aztec and Mayan hieroglyphs. But best of all, in Gambrelli’s opinion, were the esoteric works of mostly anonymous authors dating back to the time of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Some even older and more obscure, written in now forgotten languages, translated and transcribed in total secrecy by the Roman Church over the centuries and kept in complete obscurity. Gambrelli fervently and prudently believed the tales whispered in the halls of the Vatican about certain scribes who had met with unfortunate accidents after too much tongue wagging. The Holy City was not nearly as holy as the modern world would like to imagine.
The works of Hermes Trismegistus was here. The Keys of Solomon. The almost complete Emerald Tablets of Thoth. The Egyptian, Sumerian and Babylonian Books of the Dead. There were more than a few grimoires which had been ripped from the hands of black magicians before they had been arrested and burned at the stake. Their bodies and souls may have been forfeit, but their works were much too valuable to burn. Much, much too valuable.
Gambrelli backed away from the circle carefully avoiding the lines and then rushed back to the ornate podium where the crumbling leather-bound, handwritten
grimoire of one Guiseppi Apolonio di Napoli lay open to a beautifully illuminated chapter heading and an equally beautiful, handwritten page full of Latin script. Gambrelli had no idea who this unfortunate man might have been or even if the author had been a man at all. The author could have been a woman. Or something even more sinister… a demon. Guiseppi Apolonio. Not a real name of course. Whoever had made this manuscript had been a very powerful magician or witch, combining the Wisdom of Solomon, Kabbalistic ritual and Celtic Druidic magick. The Romans had accused the Celts of barbarism because they did not read and write and when Julius Caesar had set upon them and made it is his personal hobby to wipe them out part and parcel from Gaul and Briton; he had literally driven the Druids to the brink of extinction. But there were certain Druidic works to be had if one knew where to look. The Druids were very well educated and not the silly, earth-worshipping, tree-hugging simpletons the Romans claimed, writing and reading Latin and Greek with great alacrity. Whoever had written this particular work had also been fluent in Latin and Greek, schooled in the Kabbala and other esoteric works of the early Judaeo-Christian eras. Guiseppi Apolonio’s work was Gambrelli’s favorite. He or she or it also wrote of Nostradamus and his methods of predicting the future. Even more impressive was his interpretations of Sumerian and Babylonian texts and obscure references to King Nebucchadnezzar and Hermes Trismegistus as if he had known them personally. An impossibility, but… then, of course, nothing was impossible.
He ran his finger down the page and then frowned. The negative confession? Part of the
Egyptian Book of the Dead
. A dreadful heresy! But he was on a mission, inspired by none other than God, himself, for he was a servant of God and everything he did was for the greater glory of God. He picked up the small golden bird, the Ani, and placed it in the center of the circle.
(((((((((((((
Lucio was beside himself with irritation, anger, fear, and every other unsettling emotion that could plague a man. He walked slowly up the stairs in order to put as much time and space between the chaotic cacophony in the library and himself as possible. Nicole was awake according to Bari.
Galipoli was all wrong. Something was dreadfully amiss with the Captain. His soul fluctuated rapidly between orange and red as if the two colors were fighting one another. Bari, of course, was unreadable in that respect. The soldiers were telling the truth; they knew nothing. And
Barshak!
Santa Maria!
The man’s… if he was a man… the man’s soul was a swirling rainbow of colors ranging from ultraviolet to infrared. He’d never seen anything like it. But Barshak’s soul was not what had irked the Italian most. The strange character was wearing the ring he had given to Nicole when they had married. Furthermore, he or it seemed bent upon waving it under his nose every few moments as if he knew exactly what it was doing to the Italian temper. That ring had cost a fortune, but even that really didn’t matter. He had transcended all of the petty jealousies associated with the material world. He had made a step up in the evolutionary ladder and the sight of the pretty trinket served only to remind him of his not-so-far-distant past when he had been obsessed with material love. That was all it was. A nasty reminder of a terrible mistake. That was all. He would meet with Nicole on a purely business level, necessary, distasteful, but necessary. That’s all.
He reached the top of the stairs and drew up short at the sight of the two entities Gregory had warned him about. Of all the creatures hemmed up in the old house, Gregory was most sane. Lucio liked Gregory. Gregory had substance and humor…
“Halt, little one!” A deep voice emanated from a blank, dark space in front of him, which was vaguely human in shape. “Whither goest thou?”
“I go to the room of Nicole,” he answered. Gregory had warned him that it was best to cooperate with these two.
“The fancied daughter of the Dove?” A wavery voice asked from a greenish shape. The green was the soul, nothing else was present. Of the blank spot, he could tell nothing. It was as if a void existed between himself and the wall beyond.
“
Si`,
yes, whatever. I need to speak with her, if you don’t mind.” He tried to smile and felt stupid.
“You are an initiate of the highest order,” the heavy voice told him.
“Thank you, I try,” he said blandly.
“You are welcome,” the other answered him. “You may pass, but beware of the evil one.”
“The evil one? Is there evil in this house?”
“There is much evil in this house,” the thin voice answered and chills ran up Lucio’s spine. “Some from times long past and some from the future.”
“Ahhh, yes, well, it does have a story,” he agreed somewhat relieved by the answer.
“A long story stretching from years past when it was built up into the future when it will be torn asunder,” the stronger voice intoned gravely. “Many have died here. Creatures such as yourself. And now another evil comes within its walls.”
“And who is this other evil?” Dambretti had to ask.
“He calls himself by many names and none are true. He wants what he has wrought. That which has been taken from him. He has thrown the Dove into the void and the child. Woe unto the Dove. Woe unto those who would oppose him! Woe, woe, woe….”
“Hold on, please!” Lucio held up one hand and the spirit fell quiet. “We can sort this out later. Do you understand later?”
“Yes, of course, later is not now nor is it before, but rather the after of now,” the
wavery voice answered with a bit of indignation.
“After I speak with Nicole,” Lucio told them as he stepped carefully between them. He felt a breath of cold air from the empty spot and tingling warmth from the greenish form.
“We will be here,” the deeper voice called after him as he started up the stairs to the third floor.
(((((((((((((
Luke opened his eyes and stared at the full moon just as it reached the zenith of the night sky. At first the sight made him smile and then he felt a sore spot on the back of his head. He reached for the spot and discovered that his hand and arm were entangled in some sort of heavy material. With a growing sense of panic, he yanked his arm free and struggled out from under the trap. Dust and dirt and small rocks flew as he scrambled away from the edge of the heavy silken tent flap. With growing chagrin, he realized that he had been lying on the ground with his head sticking out of Semiramis’ tent. The sore spot on the back of his head had been caused by a small rock on which he had been resting. Chagrin turned to embarrassment as he further discovered his lack of clothing. Looking around quickly and finding no one in sight, he ducked back inside to look for his clothes. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping on her door mat, nor did he know where everyone had gotten off to. He did, however, remember with great satisfaction Semiramis had applauded his resolve to make her forget his father before he had apparently gone to sleep, but how he had ended up in the doorway, he had no idea.
Omar would be furious. She was, after all, Omar’s grandmother, for Pete’s sake. Lemarik would not be happy… or would he? Somehow he didn’t think Lemarik would care one way or another, but Omar…
He dressed quickly and then tried to leave the area as calmly as possible. He did not want to attract more attention than necessary. He could see the beautiful dark-haired goddess through a gossamer veil, sleeping peacefully in her sumptuous bed full of pillows in one of the rooms. Two armed men stood on either side of her pavilion and he wondered if they had noticed him sleeping in the tent flap. Neither of them glanced his way when he passed between them.
When he had finally slipped by the last of the gold and white tents housing her enigmatic army, he ran toward the purple and white banners of Omar’s command tent.
The command tent was empty. As he searched about the interior of the purple and white concoction, looking for Omar, the truth sank into his head. He’d seen no one on his way over. The camp was abandoned. He walked back outside and stopped under the canopy. The wind whistled through the tethers and ropes forlornly and here and there the sounds of clinking pots and pans were the only noises. Even the horses and camels were gone.
“Great Scot,” he muttered and began to run along the long row of tents housing the Fox troops. He exited the encampment and the plain spread out before him desolate, all the way to the walls of New Babylon. The once lush gardens that had once lined the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers had long since withered under the reign of Jozsef and Huber, the land growing barren and dark under their oppression.
The only signs of life were found in front of Queen Ereshkigal’s black and yellow pennants. What looked like their entire combined forces milled around aimlessly. Boggans leaned on their pointed sticks and clubs, humans gathered in tight knots, armed elven archers and lancers mounted on ponies and Templar Knights in full battle regalia on prancing stallions. Every one of them fixed his or her attention on the plain stretching out in front of them. Luke stopped again and tried to focus on what was so very interesting. Nothing seemed changed about the beleaguered city.
The townsfolk had streamed out of it for days leaving the surrounding areas virtually untouched by the siege. Spires and hi-rise buildings still stood near the center. The roads and bridges were all intact. Only the white onion-domed silhouette of Omar’s palace was missing. It had once been the most interesting item on the skyline, gleaming gold at sunrise and sunset, but it had been completely destroyed during the bombardment. He was about to make his way down to where the Templars sat on their steeds, when something not quite right caught his eye. A dark stain seemed to be spreading like a shadow near the towering city gates Omar had built on the main highway leading into the city from the south. The gate had only been ornamental in nature, never closed, meant to welcome all who would come to take advantage of the Prophet’s great benevolence.
Luke stumbled toward the Templars without taking his eyes off the spreading flood. It was impossible to tell what it was. Some sort of liquid, no doubt, but there was no guarantee that it was anything as innocuous as water.
He bumped into one of the horses and it snorted, prancing sideways from him. The bearded rider looked down at the apprentice from dark expressionless eyes.
“What is that, Brother?” Luke asked and pointed toward the disturbing sight.
“That would be the plague of the dark one,” the Templar intoned grimly and turned his attention back to the sight.
“Is it water?”
“Tis so, but none too clean I fear, Brother.”,
Luke snapped out of the trance-like state and looked around. There was no sign of any of the commanders. The armies had become disorganized and mingled together without leadership.
“Where is the Prophet? Who is in command here?” Luke asked no one in particular. Alarms going off in his head.
Two of the Templars raised their arms and pointed toward the city.
“Where is the Djinni?” His panic was rising.
Again, they pointed toward the city.
“Where is Queen Ereshkigal? And Semiramis?” He almost shouted this last question.
“The women meet with the Light-bringer in the camp of the dark Queen.” The nearest Templar jerked his head and turned his horse about.
He held down one armored arm, offering to help Luke onto the horse behind him. Luke did not wish to take him up on the offer of a ride. These guys gave him the creeps, and he couldn’t figure out if they were alive or dead, but necessity demanded speed and there was no vehicle in sight. The rider in front of him felt real, but he had no smell.
They never perspired
. They never bathed and yet, they never got dirty. Their Templar uniforms remained pristine white. At least, they were a far cry better than regular soldiers when it came to upkeep. They never tired, they never became ill, though they were capable of being destroyed. Luke wondered briefly where they went when they ‘died’. The Templar stopped in front of Ereshkigal’s command tent and gave him a hand down.