The Centaur (44 page)

“That is not an answer and you really don’t expect me to hide in the cellar… do you?” He lowered his head and looked at her from under his dark brows.

Lily sighed and shook her head no.

“Now tell me what I’m facing, and I’ll see to this… I promise,” he smiled.

“The
Clanahans,” she said shortly as if the name explained everything.

“The
Clanahans?” He asked and leaned closer to her.

“They’re bully boys!” Sean offered his opinion and was followed quickly by Richard. “They’re oafs!”

“They’re thieves and liars!” Clyde called from his corner behind a bag of beans.

“And cutthroats!” Molly, the cook, stood up and shook a frying pan at him to emphasize her words.

“They scared me out o’ me wits!” Added the maid, a young lass no more than fourteen or fifteen. “I thought me loife was ovar, sirrah!”

“And ’
ow many o’ these… bully boys air we facin’?” He asked with some trepidation. He touched the hilt of the sword so recently taken from its disgruntled master.

“Three!” A chorus of voices answered him.

“Three?” He frowned and then shook his head.

“Aye! Three o’
th’ warst scoundrels t’ evar mount a nag, sair,” old Clyde told him with conviction.

“Three,” Mark Andrew repeated the word. “And wot, pray tell, does this ‘hoard’ do when they come a’
collin’?”

“They tear all over the house, John,” Lily nodded solemnly. “They don’t take much because they don’t have any use for the fineries, but they make a mess, usually in the kitchen, taking the food off the stove and such. Then they chase the chickens and take a few hens or a rooster if they can catch him and all the eggs. They must have a taste for eggs. And sometimes, I learned that it helps if we leave out a keg or a bottle or two. They seem to leave quicker if we leave them a bit to drink.”

“I see,” Mark nodded.

“And
sometoimes they take th’ linens off th’ lines, sair,” the maid added.

“And if one o’
th’ sheep stick their noses out, they’ll take thot, too,” Sean said with obvious disgust.

“All right, then.” Mark looked back up the stairs and then squinted in the relatively dim light provided by the one oil lamp Lily held in her hands. She looked quite lovely, though terribly distressed. “I’ll go up and see what I can do. I’ll be back.”

Lily looked skeptical and the old gardener and young shepherds shook their heads sadly as if they thought never to see him again.

Mark drew a deep breath and felt a surge of excitement course up his spine. A fight! A good clean brawl. That was what he needed to clear his sinuses. He set his jaw as he heard the sound of breaking glass from overhead.

“They’re here!” Molly hissed and disappeared behind a heavy wooden shelf full of jellies and jams.

“Be careful, John,” Lily told him as he started up the stairs.

“What would be their given names?” He asked over his shoulder.

“Martin, Gerald and Percy,” Robert called after him.

“Gud, I loike t’ keep me enemies guessin’.” He smiled to himself and put one hand on the inside of the cellar door.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Abaddon opened his eyes again. At first, he could see nothing, feel nothing. He opened the second pair of eyelids and the flickering glow of firelight settled into his brain slowly. Finding himself alive was a surprise indeed. He remembered hoping mightily the dragon would devour him before he had time to recover his senses, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the pain which would inevitably accompany the double amputation he had performed on himself in his desperation.

The pain came quickly this time, and he could not help but moan as he struggled to sit up. The rock beneath him was smooth and cool and he felt the
dampness of a fine mist on his fevered brow. The mist emanated from a gentle water fall on his immediate right. A crystal pool was only inches from his right hand where it rested on the ground. The water fell from an interminable height, spreading into a thin veil of mist before touching the surface of the pool. Shimmery silver light seemed to ricochet from the sides of the steep shaft above his head as the crystalline rocks reflected moonlight back and forth from various angles bathing him in a roughly circular spotlight of sorts. He cringed at the searing pain running up both legs when he moved and felt very weak from loss of blood and sheer exhaustion. The dragon had obviously dumped him in her lair. The mist cooled and revived him somewhat, and he licked his lips before scooping up a handful of the water from the pool to slake his thirst more fully. The water was wonderful on his parched throat and even more refreshing on his face. He looked up the shaft without much hope.

He would never be able to climb without the use of his feet, and he could not fly straight up for such a distance. He had helped to further his suffering and assure his demise. And the rejuvenating effect of the water would ensure he was wide awake when the beast began its meal.

Further examination of the enclosure in which he sat, showed a rather sizable fire pit with a dancing flame in the center. Hundred of winged insects darted about over the flames, flirting with sure death. The enclosure was cool and the sound of the tiny droplets falling into the pool was soothing in spite of his dire circumstances. The dragon certainly kept a lovely lair. It was much more inviting and homey than Queen Ereshkigal’s rocky home. The light coming off the crystals embedded in the walls and the soft firelight made it much more inviting than Marduk’s home in the Sixth Gate or Nergal’s pits full of noxious gases. Two or three dark passages led off in as many directions, and from one of these, he expected death to come. After he had steeled himself and drank more of the sparkling water, he ventured an inspection of his mangled legs. The bleeding had stopped. His tremendously advanced immune system and rapid healing faculties had already kicked in and the open wounds were well on the way to repairing themselves. Of course, he wouldn’t grow new feet, but he would be ‘well’ in no time.

A number of options came to mind in spite of his dire circumstances. Tuathan healing magick could build him new feet better than the old ones. Human prosthetics could provide him with alternative modes of travel. At this, he laughed at the thought of himself being fitted in the hospital in Berne with the latest prostheses. Then, of course, there was Adar. Adar could help him find a complete new body to inhabit. He lay back on his elbow and wondered what had happened to Ernst Schweikert after Huber had cast him out of the human form. Most likely the body had drowned in the deluge created by the enraged Queen Mother.

She had stripped everything she wanted to know from his mind, along with his dignity and what little perverted honor he had left and then abandoned him to his own destiny in the ruins. It was almost comical: The Abandoner Abandoned. Sounded like one of those hokey headlines one might see on the internet.

The Dark Angel laughed aloud at the absurdity of his thoughts. He was going to be murdered here in this beautiful place. Devoured. Shredded. Torn apart, limb from limb. His mind drifted and he eased his legs into a more comfortable position. The pain subsided a bit, and he wondered how long he would have to wait, and how long it would take for the dragon to kill him. This, of course, depended on the dragon’s temperament and origins.

His mind wandered as he wondered about the dragon, and the suffering he would be forced to endure before he was finally consumed. It seemed a fitting end for him after all the havoc he had wreaked upon the world. For the first time in his life, he felt regret. Not only regret, but remorse and mental pain brought on by a terrible sense of guilt. His existence had been a whirlwind of war, devastation, death, and destruction. Never had he thought to come to such an ignominious and ignoble end. In his way of thinking, until now, he had presumed he would meet a glorious end in some magnificent conflict in which he had played a pivotal role in creating. That was his purpose. To cause dissidence and unrest. To contribute to the plight of the worthless world of vainglorious humans presuming to become godlike. Who did these wretched multitudes think they were? Did they think they could rise above the muck from which they had crawled? It was his duty! His obligation! His charge! His onus! It was what he had been created to do.
Created
. Had he been created as surely as the humans he detested? Had the same god created them both? How could it be so?

“Father, father, why have you abandoned me here? If I displeased you, why did you not tell me so? Why have you thrown down your son?” His gravelly voice echoed across the pool and he heard it resounding endlessly down the empty passages. “O wondrous Inanna, where are you, my beauteous love?” The words of endearment sounded incongruous even to his own ears and again he laughed bitterly at himself before falling into a long wail that ended in uncontrolled sobbing, which gave way to another collapse into unconsciousness.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

After the failed incantation, Luke Matthew had given up hope of finding a real source of food for the army and their rations were growing very thin in short order. They had lost their fine vehicles, most of their hi-tech weaponry and were now reduced to plodding or trudging along on foot through the rubble and debris of the desert passage. In order to alleviate some of the suffering of the foot soldiers, they had stopped only a short time the first night, and then continued on in the cooler portions of the night between midnight and dawn and had made several miles in less time than expected. Their only hope of bringing the expedition home in one piece was reaching New Babylon before the men began to starve. The Grand Master followed through with his promise to provide water. He had led them to a small
spring hidden in the scrubby foothills by way of the mysterious baculus. The Templars, two Kings and Baron de Goth rode in front of the column. What horses and camels they had, carried most of the heavier bundles of ammunition and weapons, leaving the soldiers unencumbered by field packs.

Konrad was riding behind Barry of Sussex, next to Philip d’Ornan when he received the tremendous bolt from out of the blue. He was knocked from the horse as if shot by a high-caliber weapon. He landed in the dirt on his back, knocking the breath completely from his body for several seconds while the other horses pranced and reared and tried to avoid stepping on him. When Barry, Philip and Simon reached him, he was unconscious. Lavon stood over him with a peculiar expression on his face.

“I believe he received a message,” Lavon said softly, but no one paid any attention to him as they struggled to pick up the lanky Knight of the Apocalypse.

The Master called again for a halt, and the column stalled while they attempted to revive the Knight.

When they had him stretched out on his back with a makeshift pillow under his head, they simply stood waiting for him to wake up after their attempts to wake him failed. After about fifteen minutes, Simon managed to get him to wake up enough to speak.

“The sooner we get home, the better,” he said, when he finally focused on Simon’s face.

“Where? Who’s home, Konrad?” the Healer asked him.

“
Our
ho… Scotland,” the Knight changed his tone and demeanor as he became fully cognizant of his surroundings. Several anxious faces hovered over him, and he suddenly felt very stupid as he perceived he was no longer on his horse, but lying on his back. He didn’t remember the fall. He allowed Simon and Zeb to help him to a sitting position and everything swam lazily in front of his eyes. The dizziness passed, and he accepted a drink of water from his own canteen.

“If we keep falling off our horses, we’re going to be the laughing stock of all Christendom.” Barry of Sussex tried to lighten things up a bit, but no one laughed.

“What now?” The Grand Master shouldered his way through the crowd around the Apocalyptic Knight. He had been in the rear of the convoy, trying to recruit de Goth’s officers into the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. D’Brouchart was determined to see the Order rebuilt into what it had been before the Twenty-Seven Year War. So far, he was making excellent progress, having received over thirty names of men promising to make a trip down the Italian peninsula in the fall of the following year to the Villa for something entirely unheard in the history of the Order… Open House. Edgard d’Brouchart had clearly lost his mind, not to mention the generalized aura of intimidation and fear that he had once projected, but his grandsons seemed to appreciate him tremendously, and he was never seen without out one or more of Simon’s sons tagging after him. He arrived with Philip, Dan and Izzy close behind. His apprentice, Little Barry, hurried to meet him, taking the reins of his horse as he dismounted.

“Brother Lucio sent me a… message,” Konrad told him hesitantly.

“The Golden Eagle?” D’Brouchart looked around at the expectant faces and an almost wicked smile spread across his face. “And what did our errant bird have to say? Where is he?”

“He said we should get to Scotland posthaste, Sir,” Konrad told him without amusement. “He said Sophia Cardinelli and Mark Ramsay are missing, victims of some unknown evil presence. It could be most anything, Your Grace.”