The Last Days of Magic (33 page)

Packs of jackal-headed Nephilim, rabid with hunger and lust, drove the Egyptian sorcerers to develop the obelisk. Charged with enchantments and fed with sacrificial blood, it repelled most magical beings. Herodotus had been particularly interested in the metal cap the Egyptian sorcerers placed on the obelisks to magnify their power, a metal called electrum. He never learned the exact formula, jealously guarded as it was, only that it was an alloy of gold, silver, and copper, with some other elements added.

First-century Rome faced a problem similar to ancient Egypt’s. Rome’s festivals of debauchery and blood sports attracted European Nephilim as unwelcome guests. They moved into the maze of dark alleyways and warrens of sewers and tunnels that underlay the city. From there they crept up to plague slaves and nobles alike. With no
other remedy available at that time, the emperors were forced to bear the vast expense of moving fifteen of the most powerful obelisks from Egypt to Rome to protect key areas.

Caligula brought this one to Rome, the centerpiece of the obelisk polygon. Weighing 326 tons, it required the construction of the largest ship the world had ever seen in order to transport it, a ship so big it took three hundred slaves to row. The ship was later filled with rock, scuttled, and used as the foundation for the new harbor at Ostia.

When the obelisk was hauled into Rome, Caligula replaced the electrum cap with a gilded globe filled with blood drained from the corpse of Drusilla, who had been his favorite sister of the three he took as incestuous lovers. Caligula then erected it in the center of his circus, where its power would continue to be fed by sacrificial blood, including—after Nero had renamed the circus to honor himself—that of the apostle Peter, who was crucified upside down at its base. Jordan imagined he could smell the blood still throbbing in the heart of this red stone, though perhaps it was not his imagination.

When the Ring of Solomon was brought to Rome two centuries later, it proved more effective than the obelisks, and now all of them had either fallen or been pulled down, except for this one. Caligula’s obelisk had become too powerful for even the Roman Church to abandon. They continued to use it to protect St. Peter’s Basilica.

Jordan turned his back on the obelisk and resumed his walk away from the Vatican. The Roman Church was repelling the wrong creatures, he thought. While fallen angels and their Nephilim offspring were kept at bay, human devils were rising up and seizing control. Human devils—the exorcists and their inquisitor offspring—who hungered for power and lusted after women. A lust that had darkened into festivals of torture and death.

Anxious to return to Najia, Jordan quickened his pace.

18

The Isle of Man

June 1394

A
n Irish Viking longship slipped from the fog that hung like a curtain across the bay’s entrance. Fingers of white clung to the ropes and mast as if trying to pull the vessel back, then relented and were reabsorbed into the mist, which was beginning to glow in the morning sun.

Patrick, standing on the prow, glanced over his shoulder, but the longship carrying the Colmcille contingent was still hidden. He nervously fingered the Blood Bell hanging in its holster on his belt. This trip was risky, and Patrick—despite the increasing animosity between the orders—would feel better with the Colmcille force by his side. The Colmcille longship had entered the fog at the same time, but it seemed to be slower to find the bay.

Patrick looked out at Castletown, Isle of Man. Behind him he could hear the Vikings lowering the sail, relying on oars to reach the dock. He thought of his new wife, who had asked to accompany him; she had never left Ireland and was excited by the prospect. He had flatly refused, hardening himself to her rants and tears. There was too much danger. He did not trust the Roman Church.

When an offer to negotiate a truce between the two churches arrived from the legate, his first instinct had been to dismiss it out of hand, but Colmcille had insisted that it was their duty to at least try to avoid a bloody conflict. Patrick requested an update from the Fomorian spies who were keeping an eye on the preparations of the English; the message back had said the armada would not be ready for at least another nine months. Still, he wouldn’t have seriously considered the offer had Colmcille not declared that he would meet
with the Vatican’s representatives—Patrick didn’t want to appear cowardly by not offering to go as well. So he had replied to the legate with his terms: the meeting had to take place at a neutral site, the Irish Church’s delegation would be armed, and he would bring the Blood Bell. When the Roman Church agreed, Patrick found himself surprised—he had hoped they would refuse.

The Irish Church’s contingent consisted of twelve armed monks from each of the two orders, his blue-robed Order of Patrick and the brown-robed Order of Colmcille, along with Colmcille himself.

Disembarking at the Castletown dock, Patrick was met by an old priest standing beside three small donkey carts. Bowing reverently, the priest said, “Welcome, Your Grace. I am the legate’s personal secretary, here to provide transport to Rushen Abbey.”

Patrick looked back over the bay once again. Colmcille’s longship was just emerging from the fog. “Thank you, but we’ll wait for our Colmcille brothers.”

Pointing at the carts, the secretary said, “The abbey here is quite humble. They barely have enough carts to transport your own brothers. I’ll bring them back to pick up the Colmcille brothers just about the time they land.”

Patrick relented and climbed onto the front cart. His brothers, each with a short sword strapped over his robes, were barely able to squeeze into the carts for the three-mile ride northeast along a muddy track. Patrick allowed himself a brief smile when he heard small bells jingling on the donkey’s harness. They would have been blessed by the abbot to frighten away faeries and were probably completely ineffective, unlike the Blood Bell, which he touched once again to reassure himself that it was still attached to his belt.

Arriving, they were shown into the great hall of the cloister. The dining tables and chairs were pushed back against the eighteen-foot-high stone walls supporting the wooden roof. Small windows set into the tops of the walls cast rays of mild light into the gloom. The monks’
footsteps echoed as they walked into the vast, empty space, and Patrick became increasingly uneasy.

The bang of a door slamming closed caused Patrick’s monks to spin around. Seven exorcists had entered behind them. Gathering just inside, the exorcists removed their black cowls. The one in front, short, bald, and smiling, spoke first. “You must be Patrick,” said Orsini.

“Where’s the legate?” Patrick responded, his hand on the Blood Bell.

Orsini spread his arms, palms open. “He will not be joining us, which is unfortunate, as he will be missing quite a spectacle. I am Cardinal Orsini, and I will be directing the . . . events here.”

“Are we not talking truce?”

“Regrettably, no.”

Patrick pulled the Bell from its holster.

The exorcists flanking Orsini started to chant in Aramaic.

Patrick began ringing the Bell, his arm arching high, low.

Blood ran from the ears, eyes, and mouths of two exorcists, and they collapsed dead onto the stone floor. The others continued to chant.

Orsini beheld his fallen brothers and shook his head. He smiled at Patrick, who was sweating from the effort he was putting into ringing the Blood Bell. “Well, that is a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff,” he shouted over the clanging and chanting. “I will have to remember that. I am always looking for better methods to test new exorcists.”

Patrick stopped ringing the Bell, seeing that the remaining exorcists were able to protect themselves from it. “It does not matter if you kill me, for my brothers in Ireland will just elect a new Patrick, and the church will carry on as before.”

The exorcists ceased their chant. Orsini laughed. “I did not come here to kill you. I could not care less about you. I came for the Bell.”

“It will do you no good. Only a Patrick can wield its power,” insisted Patrick.

“I simply need for you not to have it. I cannot protect the whole English armada against it. But here, in this confined space, well . . . I believe I have the advantage. Of course, we will kill you, since you are here, just to save time later.”

Three of Patrick’s monks drew their swords and rushed at the remaining exorcists. One exorcist stepped forward, simultaneously making a complex gesture with his right hand and muttering indistinctly. The monks fell backward, as if they had run into an invisible wall.

“Now, you all just stay there while I invite some . . . well, just watch, you will be astounded,” said Orsini.

Two bronze vessels were placed in front of Orsini and their lids removed.

Patrick stretched his neck to look inside. They appeared to be filled with a black liquid.

One of Orsini’s men held a wax tablet for him. Orsini removed a stylus from a pocket in his robe and began to inscribe seals. “Just a second,” he said, holding up a finger to Patrick. “It has been a while since I have done this, and it is, after all, quite complex.” Orsini retrieved a small book from his pocket and leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is.” He resumed inscribing the tablet.

The liquid in the pots erupted into black mist that thickened into creatures standing in the rough proportions of a man. The edges began to firm somewhat, revealing strong legs reminiscent of those of a horse but terminating in large cloven hooves. Muscular arms sported humanlike hands with sharp claws. Small black eyes peered out from intense faces, one like an ape’s, the other with the snout of a dog, both filled with long, jagged teeth.

Orsini laughed and clapped his hands. “I love doing this. Meet Furfur, the one with the longer snout, and Nadriel. Both demons of a high order, I assure you.”

Patrick stood his ground while the rest of his brothers began to back away, swords in hand.

“They have not been unbound from their vessels for . . . oh, two or three hundred years and must be very hungry.” The demons looked around, locking eyes with Orsini. Black saliva dripped from their open jaws, became mist, and merged with their bodies.

Orsini pointed at Patrick, gave him a big smile, and spoke in a language rarely heard since the days of the Tower of Babel.

The demons leaped for Patrick. He recoiled, desperately ringing the Blood Bell. Waves rippled across the demons’ skin. They knocked Patrick onto his back and pinned him to the floor, a hoof on each of his wrists, then ripped off his robe as if it were paper. Using their sharp claws in slow, practiced movements, they began to tear off long strips of Patrick’s skin, flinging them to the side, to reach the sweeter meat they preferred.

. . . . .

With a look of satisfaction, Orsini watched the demons work. Patrick’s screams rose and fell in time with the stripping off of his flesh. Three of Patrick’s monks threw themselves against the sealed rear door, two tried to scale the wall toward the windows, and the rest tried to rush past the feeding demons. Each was knocked back into the center of the room by enchantments hurled by the exorcists.

“Bring in the other one, the Colmcille,” said Orsini.

Colmcille was pulled into the hall. “Oh, my God! Oh, God. Oh, God, protect me,” he kept saying, covering his ears to Patrick’s screams and averting his eyes. He dropped to his knees.

Orsini knocked Colmcille’s hands away from his ears and, grabbing his head, forced him to face Patrick’s agony. “You made this bargain,” Orsini hissed. “Now watch its results.”

“I never thought you’d do something like this, never thought you’d unleash demons on them.”

“I am only doing this for your benefit,” said Orsini. “Now you know what will happen if you do not honor your agreement. I have plenty more demons bound up in my storeroom, anxious to get out—and hungry. They like their food fresh and have an instinct for
keeping it alive while they feed. Livers, kidneys, and testicles seem to be their favorite bits, though they will eat any organ.”

Patrick’s screams dissolved into gurgles as the demons reached his lungs. Seeking fresh meat, they straightened up, blood dripping from their faces, looked around, and pounced on a monk trying to scale the wall, dragging him down to the floor. The lump of muscle, tissue, and bone that was Patrick twitched and then was still. Colmcille put his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard. The demons’ next meal began to shriek.

Orsini extracted the Blood Bell from the grisly pile and returned to where Colmcille cowered. “Following the invasion you will become bishop of Ireland,” said Orsini. He pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the muck off the Bell, and held it up to admire the inscribed runes. “In return you will swear allegiance to the Roman Church, and you will surrender all monasteries in Britain and Europe to our bishops. It’s that simple. I am sure you will have no trouble. Oh, and make sure you forbid all Irish Christians from fighting the English when they arrive. Now, on your way.”