Of Kings and Demons (13 page)

The Guardian Angel responded Father
Bellator’s cries and found him racing towards a real and stark
threat
. The menace was not immediately visible, but Maganus’s
sharp senses picked up the presence of Demons. He took the cue from the
Bellator’s wary glance and gauged the location of the lurking danger. It was a
ball of fluid darkness, and Mathew was just next to it.

As Maganus raced over, the youth
was abruptly pinned to the ground by a violent force. Matthew yelped as slices
of red appeared on his shielding arm. The Guardian Angel raised his hands over
the boy and cried his prayers. An umbrella of light fell over Mathew, and the
illumination brought Mathew’s attacker into form, inch by inch.

The Angel watched agape as a three-headed
canine—the Cerberus, guardian of the gates to Hell, materialized in full
pouncing rage with rage-inducing eyes.
The demonic beast was guardian of the
gates of the underworld. It must be Raum who brought them to earth!

 “Shut your eyes, Mathew!”
Maganus instructed. “Don’t look into theirs. It will turn mortals insane.” Then
he murmured his prayers and yielded his shimmering battleaxes. The Cerberus, demonic
canine stood at ten feet in height and twenty feet long, with each limb
powerful as war hammers, sauntered over to Maganus.

“How have you been?” Maganus
teased as his battleaxes kept the beast at bay. The pungent vapor of death that
emanated from the creature’s mouth reminded him of their first encounter.

It must have been in the eighth
century, if his memory had not failed him. At the battlefields near Tours,
France, there had been a bloody war. The monster had roamed the battlefields
and fed on the souls of the fallen knights of the Frankish kingdom. Their first
exchanges were bruising and, despite Maganus’s victory, he received a body of
wounds that required the healing powers of the Archangels.

Before the Guardian Angel could
utter a word, the beast, like a ton of steel, knocked him over. One battleaxe
flew off but Maganus, in a swift motion held the creature by its neck, with his
bare hands.

It was just inches away from
his chest.

“Ah, what did they feed you in Hell?”
Maganus grimaced as the razor-sharp teeth neared. A droop of the beast’s saliva
soiled Maganus’s chest.

“That’s disgusting.”

With one thrust of his powerful
legs, Maganus sent the creature rolling away.

However, before he could get
back on his feet, the snarling jaws returned and the Angel parried it with arm.
Father Bellator dashed over with a blow on the beast’s shoulders but was thrown
off balance by a robust paw.

Maganus sensed another dark
presence behind him. There was another canine! He sniggered.
How could I
forget?
They always operate as a pair.

Mathew ran to him and placed
himself in front of Guardian Angel, his right hand holding a short sword, his
sword that might have dropped during the combat.

“Don’t be a hero, lad.”

“I just want
to help.” Mathew said but Maganus nudged him.

aside. He raised his hand and his battleaxe
flew into his palm. Maganus struck his warrior pose, stout chin and stiffened
shoulders.

He sparred with
the pair of Cerberus and their six snarling jaws with skill and

agility. In a corner, Mathew stood in awe
of the Angel’s agility. The brutal strength of the Cerberuses soon had the
better of Maganus. In one lunge, one of the heads knocked the battleaxe from
the Angel’s grip. Maganus leapt backward, and dealt a heavy blow to that head with
his fist. The creature whimpered like an unwanted hound, but it was no ordinary
hound. It gritted its teeth, the mouth overflowing with bloodthirsty mucus,
ready for another bout.

Maganus tried
to turn but the Cerberus quickly pinned him to the ground. In

the background, the trees swayed and a
cacophony of noises rose, seemingly to herald an impending danger.

Maganus
shut his eyes and prayed. He had to kill the fear rising within him. To

Angels, fear was a poison that sapped their
prowess. He whistled hard with his strength in hope some of his animals friends
will hear him.

Like if his ally had
materialized, the mauling stopped and the creature froze with its blood-red
eyes dimmed. Maganus felt wetness on his thigh and looked up to realized, much
to his horror, Mathew had stabbed the Cerberus in the belly. Blood and body
tissues had spewed everywhere, creating a grisly mess.

The demonic beast unleashed a
long groan before collapsing by Maganus’s side while the other Cerberus backed away
with a trailing whimper. Mathew extracted his sword, unthinking move and was
hit by gush of gas.

Maganus cried caution but it
was too late.

“You should never do that,
Mathew,” Maganus complained.

“I was only
trying to help and ...” Mathew paused and begun to shake uncontrollably.

“By Divine’s Grace.” Maganus
said as his eyed the surviving Cerberus. He knew he did not do more. The
surviving beast circled its fallen companion and sniffed over the carcass. The
fallen Cerberus, after a series of spasm, drifted into death. The carcass disintegrated
and vaporized into a dark mist. Within seconds, the surviving Cerberus turned
away and disappeared into the darkness, leaving a trail of long wisps.

 Sensing the danger has gone,
Maganus turned to Mathew.

“The impact of attacking a
Demon of those proportions, like the Cerberus, will take its toll on your life
force. Man does not fight Demons head on.” We belong to different arenas and
are sustained by different life forces. The soul of Man is constructed from the
five elements of nature—water, wood, fire, metal, and earth. Demons are
constructed from the fires of Hell and sustained by the breath of cruelty,
decadence, and greed—the oxygen of Hell. When Demons are on Earth, amongst men,
they sustain themselves on the darkness of mankind. To fight the Demons, you
need to draw on your reserves of your life. Killing the beast will deplete the
sustenance of your life.

Mathew had grown pallid and strained
to hear Maganus. “What is it?”

“I need to heal you.”

Maganus had barely finished
when Mathew fell, head first. Maganus caught him in time as anxious Sarah sprinted
over.

“What is happening, Maganus?”
she cried.

“Calm, my girl.” Maganus said and
turned to Mathew. “Shut your eyes, Your brother has been hurt.”

“Will he be fine?”

“Of course.” Maganus was
emphatic, his eyes widened.

Maganus checked Mathew’s pulse
and found it irregular and weak. He looked skyward. “Dawn will be breaking soon,”
he muttered.

“Anything I can do?” It was
Father Bellator.

“I need to heal Mathew. Please
stand guard.”

“Yes, Lord Maganus.”

Maganus noticed Father Bellator’s
arms, which had been badly bruised. The right shoulder looked as if it needed a
good bandage. A piece of skin size of an orange had been ripped off and blood
trickled free. “Your wounds require immediate attention as well.”

“I shall be fine,” Bellator
said. “This is not the first time I had a date with a Cerberus. Attend to the
boy, Lord Maganus.”

Maganus stretched his right
palm. “Raise a holy shield with my golden cross.” The priest acquiesced and held
the cross close to his chest. In deep and rapid tones, his chant brought out a
solid umbrella of light that formed over them.

The strain was growing as Maganus
struggled to maintain his composure. He knew it would be hard to fight if the
Demons return.

The Angel dug into his bag and
extracted a vial of holy water and gently sprinkled over the wound. Then he forced
a drop of holy water through Mathew’s lips, which were sore from dehydration
and his face carried a sickly grey.

After a long moment of
suspense, warmth returned and there was colour in Mathew’s cheeks. Maganus
crossed his heart.

“My brother is fine now.” Sarah
had walked over, her voice terse.

“Let him sleep. Rest is the
best nourishment for his weakened body. I wished there was some sunlight; the
essence of day would do much good for Mathew. This stuffy grey,” Maganus eyed
the surroundings “the pervasive evil in the air will hamper his recovery.”

“Pray Mathew will be fine.”
Sarah clasped her hands.

“He will be.” Maganus winked.

Sarah sat closer to her
brother, massaging his arms, in search of sighs of life. Meanwhile Maganus staggered
to a corner for a quiet moment. He longed for some company, the presence of a
comrade. His mind turned to Gwyneth and Jin, and felt an acidic worry crawling
in his chest.

 
Triumphus ut Angelus.
Maganus
crossed his heart.
Pray they are fine.

Maganus needed Pologus. He
stood up and wolf whistled. A distinctive and sharp shrill soon elicited a
response.

Victor Palmer lay alone in bed,
unable to sleep. He cursed Joe Bianca for setting up the meeting with Boris
Komorov.

Victor had never suffered
insomnia. He had strutted the corridors of Capitol Hill long enough to acquire
the aplomb and stomach for brutal encounters and marathon meetings. On the
Hill, Victor Palmer enjoyed the reputation of being the seasoned master of
compromise and deal-making. However, the meeting he had earlier with the
Russian
whatisname
and Joe Bianca had made him feel inadequate and
powerless.

He wished his wife was with him
now. She was the reluctant politician’s wife but always an excellent confidant.
Victor Palmer finally gave up on sleeping and got out of bed. Selective amnesia
had failed, and his mind had taken on a life of its own. It was almost 3 a.m.,
and Victor walked down to the kitchen and got himself a glass of warm water.

He shuffled to the study room
but balked initially for the sight of it reminded him of the blue-eyed Russian.
However, he walked in anyway. It was his house, his dominion, the place where a
hundred plans had been conceived.

He flicked on the switch of the
table lamp and sat down on the leather chair. He sipped from the glass and
tried to gather his thoughts.
Maxi Oil. $5
0
0 million. Russian. Bloody Russian. Ah yes…Komorov? Joe Bianca, idiot.
The nonstop repetition was like a
spiraling chain that could implode his mind.

He took a piece of paper and on
which to scribble words, a habit that dated back to his high-school days. His
tutor, Madam Catherine Forster, was an impressive woman of education and
religion. She has inculcated in him the key values of discipline, industry, and
passion—qualities that had stood him in good stead later in life. One of the
things she had taught him was to control the mind and the thought processes.

As she had so aptly put it, “Control
your thoughts, you control the habits, you master the character, and you steer your
actions. That is how you weave destiny.”

Victor never forgotten the
cliché.

He had a peculiar habit. When
his mind was cluttered and jammed with thoughts, as they always do as he had to
juggle different roles, Victor jotted them down on paper. Then he wrestled with
the ideas and systematically struck them out on the paper.

It was a tedious practice but
had the effect of imposing honesty on oneself. It helped in clearing the
clutter and defined the critical information. Victor had to do exactly that at
that moment. He took a pencil and started scribbling.

Komorov is a pain.
He smiled at that.
So is Joey
.
Maxi
Oil. Millions. Damages.. Company insolvent.
His writings were getting ugly
and the scribbling intensified as his anxiety grew.
Money. Liabilities.
He
struck out those words instantly.
Lawsuit. Penalty. Insolvency.
He did
not strike those words out.
Publicity. Voters. Trouble.

Victor dropped his pencil and
stared at the repetition. He rubbed his eyes like a bad-tempered child denied
his sleep, but Victor figured that he would not find any answers in bed.

He picked up his pencil and
continued to write.
Congress. Senate. Chairman of committee.

Victor pondered that and
nibbled at the pencil’s end like an uncertain child. Then he wrote.
Gone!

He stopped again. Something was
happening. He tried to be objective. He smelled anxiety and fear. Victor picked
up the pencil and circled the sentences he had written so far.

He wrote something.
Calm,
with
a huge and fat exclamation mark.

Victor knew he had to weed the
seed of fear that Komorov had planted in him. He could visualize the sapling
growing.

Victor slammed his fist on the
table. He was a four-term senator and chairman of the Appropriations Committee.
He had nothing to worry about. Maybe he should report it to the FBI, or maybe
the chairman of the Republican National Convention.

He jotted those thoughts down.
Then he wrote
Honesty
.

He had to let the Maxi Oil saga
unfold.

Then more ideas materialized in
his brain.
Embarrassment. Political future.
Family.
He shied away
from the last word. The thought of his family suffering his folly on Maxi Oil
was crushing and mind-blowing, unbearable. Victor scratched out the word.

He had to tackle Maxi Oil. He
had to reach a settlement before it enveloped his life, family, and career.
However, Bates had told him it is in their interest and his voters’ interest
that the issue be settled as soon as possible. Allowing the issue to go through
federal courts would hurt his chances of reelection.

Victor dropped his head into
his hands. He needed a drink, a real drink. He stood and, from that standing
position, he saw the scribbling mess he had created. His mind was indeed in a clutter.

Then he saw the root cause of
his worry - Maxi Oil. He could not continue the pretension that everything was under
control. Once, the press investigation start in earnest the resulting publicity
tsunami will bury his entire political career.

Then the words resonated in his
mind
“We can help.”

“Help me? How about helping
you?” he repeated the words out loud.

Victor sat down, picked up the
pencil, and continued his scribbling.
Russia. Government change. A better
partner
.

He leaned forward and jotted a
question:
His role. Place in history.

He smiled and relaxed for a
moment. It was egoistic, but which senator or congressman would not want to
make his mark on history? That desire and hunger is not solely the prerogative
of the president of the secretary of state.

He circled
Komorov
again, and again. The words came to his mind—partners for the future?

He leaned back and paused a
long time before bending forward and writing the word
Presidency
.

He paused. He circled the
P-word repeatedly.
Yes, Victor.
The presidency had mattered much more than
he had imagined. His mind went back to the presidents who had made an impact:
Kennedy, Johnson, Roosevelt and Reagan. A rousing warmth, warmth of dreams
awakened, stirred in him.

He aspired to step in their
footsteps and leave his imprints on the trail of history. He had wanted to
seize that destiny, and that moment was nearing.

The meeting with Komorov has
surfaced the critical issue of running for presidency, and forced him to focus.
The worry over his political future fully mushroomed in his mind. Victor
scanned his scribbling, and his eyes stopped at the big bold words of
Maxi
Oil
. That was the bug issue he has to settle, better sooner than later.

His eyes rolled over to
Komorov
.
He had written that word six times, thrice by the words
Maxi Oil
, twice
by the word
money
and once next to his name. Should he make a contact?

He felt a sudden chill and
found the curtains disturbed. He frowned, then stood and walked to the window.
When had he left it open? It was a night in autumn, and he was sure he had
closed it. He looked around.

It must be fatigue. There is
nobody in the room.

Victor Palmer returned to his
desk and the words he had scribbled on.

He picked the ideas up, bit by bit, and
pieced together an action plan like it was a jigsaw puzzle. Palmer was
satisfied with his plan, but he was missing a critical piece though.

He had to
act fast before it is too late before that bit of jigsaw slipped away.

#

Lord Barbatos, who was by the
window, was amused by Palmer’s behaviour. Invisible to humans, he had begun his
surveillance of Victor six months earlier during the senator’s reelection
campaign, although his interest in the man really started when Victor was in
college. Barbatos had followed the man’s growing-up with keen interest. Victor
was one of those pious, intelligent lads who had everything going right for him
in life—looks, family, friends, career; he was so golden.

The man looked every bit the epitome
of the goodness of mankind. He had achieved so much in life. Barbatos had searched
through the chapters of the man’s life, from school to the army, where he
served for four years, to the corporate world and eventually to politics – and
the pages were illuminatingly perfect.

However, therein lay the factor
that aroused Barbatos’s interest: Victor Palmer’s perfection. The challenge to
turn such a beauty of a man to the dark side was too tempting, always so, to
pass over. Victor Palmer was a critical chess piece on the board, but he was on
the wrong side.

Victor Palmer will be the
perfect piece in Barbatos’s scheme as the front man of the Demons. Victor could
provide the façade of acceptability that the Demons needed to subvert human
civilization.

The Duke of Demons had enjoyed
the evening spectacle, watching human beings trip over by their contradictions
and pretentiousness; like cat chasing its tail or becoming entangled in a ball
of string. Barbatos enjoyed Victor’s scribbling. It is sheer entertainment just
witnessing the strange and ridiculous things humans do when they are
vulnerable.

He had witnessed bizarre
behaviour ranging from nail biting to putting a pistol to one’s temple.
Palmer’s act fell somewhere in between, closer to the nail-biting part. He had
witnessed the biting anxiety that Senator Palmer experienced. Maybe one day the
sense of insecurity would swing Victor to him.

Victor Palmer had been an
interesting subject, Barbatos thought. Morally strong and politically correct.
However, beneath the shining armour of a patriot, there was something in Victor
Palmer, like a chink in the armour that appealed to Barbatos. It was the man’s
greed for better things and vanity for perfection. There was a hunger to
achieve greater goals, which along with it was a deep-seated fear of losing
those achievements, of losing the glory and everything else.

The man’s raw fear for his
political future thrilled Barbatos. Mirroring that fear was the hunger to climb
higher in life. It is a desire that Barbatos could leverage to the fullest. The
deep-seated ambition for the presidency served as the perfect door of
opportunity for Demons to subvert and enslave the soul of man. It had happened
before, in so many potential leaders of men—Julius Caesar, Nero, Napoleon, Mao
Tze Tung, the English Kings, emperors and countless more. Towering in stature
but their egos and greed provided the soft underbelly that allowed Demons to
bring them to their knees and turned them away from the Angels.

Palmer was so much like them. Victor
Palmer looked to be that perfect target.

Moreover what would be a better
weapon to use against the Angel than a corrupted King of Men.

Barbatos left after he was
satisfied with his observation of Victor Palmer. He had no doubt Palmer would
stand on the right side—his side.

Lord Barbatos returned to the
woods that lined Victor’s residence. Within seconds, he heard the familiar
beating of wings. Eberhard descended from the dark skies, looking beaten and
jaded, the usual streak of hatred missing from his murderous demeanour as he
kneeled before the lord of darkness.

Barbatos rested his hands at
his waist like an arrogant hunter pissed that his hound failed to return with
the game, and queried. “What happened?”

The creature shook his head and
instantly received a slap on the cheeks.

“Fool! You did well for Leo
Kenyon. How could you fail with Walter Johnson?”

The creature snorted in feeble
weeps as Barbatos strutted around him. There was a long pause as the monster
whimpered.

“Eber, I will give you a chance
to make amends,” Barbatos said and stroked his pet on the head. “I have good
news for you.”

“What is it master?”

“Our pawn, our key piece on the
chessboard, is falling to our side. We are going to seize the most important
institution of the humans.”

The gargoyle grunted a chuckle.

“Someone we could count on,”
Barbatos continued, but his lips quickly straightened in a thin line of
aloofness. “Save your celebration until he will do our bidding.”

Eberhard nodded and returned to
his one-knee kneel.

“Don’t fail me again.” Barbatos’s
soft whisper was like a crack of the whip and Eberhard nodded eagerly.

“There are critical battles
ahead,” Barbatos continued. “You have an important mission, my friend.”

“What is that, Master?”

“Ambush.”

“Who is the target?”

Barbatos sniggered, and then
uncontrollably chuckled.

#

“Governor, I am ready,” Guardian
Angel Jin said as his eyes engaged the governor’s.