The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

“In the year of our Lord, eight-hundred and sixty-five, almost fifty years after the tomb of St. James was ‘claimed’ to have been discovered by Pelaio, the Arabic manuscript tells of a church expedition that went missing in the north of Spain. Its objective was to survey an ancient Celtic route that ran the entire length of the mountains, and to map any potential sites where strongholds might be built against the ever advancing Moors.

“The leader of the expedition was an Asturian priest and cartographer by the name of Gutierrez de la Cruz.

“Hours before dawn, while deep in the mountain wilds, Gutierrez and his expedition were said to have been overtaken by a potent demonic force; one that came upon them at the bottom of a dark valley, on the shore of a fog enshrouded lake. The party, it is said, heard the tortured cries of two children coming from out on the lake, but the evil that accompanied these cries was such that all but Gutierrez fled into the night, never to be seen again.

“Gutierrez then mounted a raft and followed the cries until he had landed on a small island. There he was overcome by a deep slumber, and witnessed the apparition of two angels in a dream. They had taken the form of a boy and a girl, and they appeared hovering over a gaping fissure at the centre of the island. From within this fissure there was said to have come great flames, and a chorus of wailing.”

“A gateway to hell,” said Gabriel, swallowing despite himself. “Nice dream.”

The Bishop looked down at the journal, passing his hands over its worn cover, and remembering what he had read therein.

“The legend goes on to say that the angels then spoke to Gutierrez about the fissure, referring to it as
The Portal of Ahreimanius
.”

“Ahreimanius was a Zurvanite god,” said Natasha, frowning. “A very evil one. He originated in the Sassanid Empire of Persia, around 400 B.C.”

Gabriel locked eyes with Natasha, and then turned to the Bishop.

“But what about Gutierrez?” he asked. “How did he find the Cube?”

“The angels told him where it was,” replied the old Bishop with a shrug. “When Gutierrez awoke, he followed their directions, and arrived at a tomb. It was in this tomb that he found the legendary Cube, and it is here where the manuscript begins to take some unexpected turns. The tomb that Gutierrez supposedly found was said to have belonged to St. James the Just.”

“The brother of Jesus Christ,” said Natasha. “I can see the connection now. There were two St. James’ in the bible. One was Jesus’ famous apostle, but the other was James the Just. He was the biological brother of Jesus. The church has always tried to leave him in the shadows. Some historians believe that James the Just was the person Jesus chose to lead the church after his death. They claim that the Jewish high priests murdered him before he could take control.”

“Alright,” said Gabriel. “I get how there were two St James’, but so what? What does any of that have to do with the Cube? And why would the church make up a story that would put a lost tomb of St. James in the north of Spain to begin with? It’s not like it was just around the corner from Jerusalem. It doesn’t make sense.”

“The church legend is a fabrication,” said Natasha. “It states that after Herod beheaded St. James –the apostle, not the brother of Jesus– his body was put into an unmanned boat that made its way to the north of Spain under the guidance of angels. They say that a fisherman found the body at sea, and buried it in the mountains, where it stayed lost until Pelaio found it eight centuries later.”

“Definitely a fabrication,” said Gabriel. “But what was the church’s motive behind the fiction, and what’s more, how could the Cube have been found with the body of James the Just? The Cube is medieval. I’ve got it right here in my pack. It’s plain to see. A relic from the time of Christ could never have looked like that.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Bishop, “the Cube is what Gutierrez is said to have found in the tomb of James the Just. The true motives behind the church’s legend of St. James, and indeed the truth behind all of this has yet to be fully revealed.”

For a while the three remained silent, Gabriel and Natasha trying to digest everything they had learned thus far. There were so many questions; so many loose ends.

“Uncle Marcus,” said Natasha at length. “Earlier you mentioned that the Professor had been very concerned with the similarities between the Egyptian myth, and the births of Gabriel and myself. Even if all this is true, and we are somehow connected to this artifact, why would the Professor need to be so concerned?”

The Bishop looked up at Natasha, his silvery brow furrowed.

“Because of what the prophecy relates, my child,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel, bending closer.

“It states that the coming of the Two will be marked by a great, world altering cataclysm. One that will mark the end of an aeon, and the beginning of a new one.”

“A metaphorical cataclysm, is what you mean to say,” said Gabriel. “A mythical, and extremely symbolic, destruction of the earth.”

“The Professor believed that it would be very real, my son,” said the Bishop, “and that it would take place on the winter solstice of the very year that we now find ourselves in.”

“But that whole doomsday thing belonged to the Mayan calendar,” said Gabriel. “That winter solstice came and went, remember? Nothing happened.”

The old Bishop only shrugged.

“The myth tells of how Osiris and Isis attempted to escape from the Great Labyrinth during this cataclysm, and save the world from destruction.”

“The winter solstice is less than two weeks away,” said Natasha. “It is on the twenty-first of December.”

“The day we both turn thirty-three,” said Gabriel. “What exactly is going on here?”

“I have no idea,” said Natasha, a fear coming over her, “but thirty-three seems to be an important age in this prophecy.”

She turned to the Bishop.

“The hermaphrodite was one full moon away from being thirty-three when he died.”

“Indeed, he was,” said the Bishop slowly. “Jesus was also thirty-three when he was crucified.”

Gabriel shook his head and frowned.

“Genetically speaking, thirty-three is also the age when a human being reaches its full development. After that, our DNA begins to develop errors during mitosis.”

The old Bishop looked down at the tattered journal, his face growing dark.

“The prophecy admonished that if the corpse of the hermaphrodite were taken to the portal before the day of its thirty-third birthday, and buried there in a special ceremony, the Fourteen Emissaries would not be able to enter onto the earth sphere, and humanity’s transition out of the fifth age would be made less catastrophic. This was what both of your fathers died trying to do. They failed.”

Gabriel pushed back his messy hair and gazed into the flames of the hearth.

“So what you’re saying is that their deaths were no accident.”

“It would appear not,” said the Bishop. “Something caused their plane to crash, and I believe that it was a supernatural force that did it; a demonic force to be more specific.”

Natasha looked at the Bishop, her big eyes filled with fear. She had felt that same demonic force in her workshop. She was certain of it.

“What did the myth say would happen if Osiris and Isis failed to find their way out of the labyrinth?”

The old Bishop cringed at her question, and just then the catacombs seemed to close in around them. A frigid draft had suddenly entered into the chamber. It sent chills through them all.

“The myth spoke of perpetual night,” he said solemnly. “It spoke of a
Great Dying
, and the loss of all hope.”

It was at this moment that Shackleton rose from his resting place in front of the fire. He approached the door with stealth, his nose raised and sniffing and the hair on his back on end. He turned and focused an intense look at Natasha, just as Fra was opening an eye and cocking his head to listen.

“Someone is coming,” whispered Natasha. “I think they have found us.”

Amsterdam, North Holland.

Christian awoke with a start,
his heart racing from the remnants of a nightmare. After the Steering Committee meeting he had retired to his room to drink a bottle of wine. He had fallen asleep and dreamed of the four hooded figures. He could still hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind.

“Heed the Zurvanites! Heed them! Heed them!”

Christian passed his hands over his face. He was drenched in sweat. The telephone rang, giving him a start.

“Yes?” he said dryly, picking up the receiver before the first ring had ended.

“Christian,” came the Prince’s brittle voice. “Proceed to the Vanderhoff suite immediately.”

“Bloody Christ,” groaned Christian. “I’m taking a nap.”

Prince Vladimir coughed angrily.

“There is no time for your insolence!” he hissed. “The Nautonnier has summoned you!”

Christian heard the line go dead.

The Vanderhoff suite was located in the same wing as Christian’s penthouse, and it was not long before he found himself stumbling there, a tumbler of wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He recalled what his uncle had told him of the Nautonnier earlier that day.

“He is a figurehead,” the Prince had said, his voice tinged with hatred for the old man. “He is a remnant of old traditions and outdated superstitions. In all my life I have never seen him do anything of any importance. Your father feared him. Why, I do not know.”

Christian thought back to the first time he had seen the Nautonnier. It had been at his father’s deathbed, and a sinister power had radiated from the man, one that he could still feel. The Nautonnier’s sudden appearance on the lawn earlier that day had only increased Christian’s trepidation. The old man had been standing directly where the hooded figures had appeared; as though he and they were somehow connected.

Christian drained his glass and tossed it away. If his father had feared the Nautonnier, it must have been for a good reason. He made his way along the plush corridor, feeling the tyrannical presence of his father more poignantly than ever now. It settled around him like a cold fog; pressing down on him; suffocating him.

All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.

Christian arrived at a pair of towering doors, only to see them open of their own accord before him. The light from the hallway was doing nothing to illuminate the room within.

“Come in, Christian,” said a brittle voice, and in that moment, Christian was filled with a deep and inexplicable dread.

“Fear me not, boy,” came the voice again. “I am no stranger. Be so kind as to close the door behind you. Your eyes will soon grow accustomed to the darkness.”

Christian did as he was told, shutting the door and waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was not long before an ancient man materialized before him. He was seated at a small table, the light of a dim candle illuminating his strange and unsettling features. He sat regally, his brittle white hair as thin as cobwebs, and growing from a pasty grey head that appeared to be moulting.

With the exception of his long, hooked nose, the Nautonnier’s bone structure was almost reptilian. He had no eyebrows or facial hair of any kind, and his tripe coloured skin was like newly grown scar tissue, thin and brittle like old parchment. He reminded Christian of a pagan oracle; powerful and merciless, and almost skeletal. The hard line that was the Nautonnier’s mouth transformed into a slit when he began to speak.

“I have summoned you here so that you might fulfill the final part of your inheritance,” said the Nautonnier. “In order to do this, you must be made aware of certain facts that have been kept from you. After this, you must make a special pledge.”

“A pledge?” asked Christian, arriving at the table. “What are you talking about?”

“Sit down, boy.”

Christian obeyed, lowering himself slowly into a chair.

“You are of an ancient linage, Christian,” said the Nautonnier, his voice like dry leaves. “Your family has always held power over others. It is no coincidence that things have been this way. Many attempts have been made to usurp your family’s control, but there has always been a force that has kept it intact.”

“Yes,” said Christian. “It’s called ruthlessness.”

The old man smiled crookedly, and it seemed to Christian that his skin could be heard cracking as he did so.

“Yes,” he replied. “And the driving impetus behind this ruthlessness has always been granted from below.”

Christian cocked an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“I am speaking of Ahreimanius,” said the Nautonnier. “The Dark Lord of Matter. The highest servant of Lucifer.”

Christian stared into the Nautonnier’s reptilian eyes and then began to rise from his chair.

“I’m leaving.”

“Sit down!”
came a sudden hiss, but it had clearly not been the Nautonnier who had uttered it.

Christian felt as though something invisible were pushing him back into his seat. His head swelled dizzily. His father was present. He denied it.

“You need not be fettered as you are, boy,” continued the Nautonnier more urgently. “Forfeit your will to that of the master’s, and you will be more powerful than any man alive.”

“You will assume your responsibilities,”
hissed the voice.

Christian scanned the shadows. There was no denying it now. The voice was clearly that of his father’s. His mind reeled. His father was dead. They had buried him.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The Nautonnier smiled dryly, holding up a wrinkled hand in a gesture of peace.

“I am a fair man, Christian. I will answer any questions you might have. When you are satisfied, you may proceed with the pledge, or you may choose to abstain from making it. Is this acceptable?”

Christian could feel the hold on him lessen in intensity, and he took the opportunity to reposition himself in his chair. Whatever it was that was happening, he would have to play along. The man before him was obviously his superior. His father had feared him. He was beginning to understand why.

“What kind of a title is Nautonnier?” he asked. “What makes you so important?”

The old man nodded.

“Nautonnier is the title given to the leader of our ancient society. It means,
The Great Navigator
. It is a lifetime position, and one that has been held by very important personages throughout the ages. It is a position that is held until it is taken away, for there can only be one Nautonnier.”

“And who is Ahreimanius?”

The old man gazed into the flickering candle, his eyes betraying a deep fear.

“He is the greatest demon of the Luciferic Order. He is a son of Lucifer, and was first called Ahreimanius by the followers of the ancient prophet Zoroaster. He is his father’s arm and fist on the earth sphere. Ahreimanius is merciless and terrible.”

“And why can’t Lucifer be terrible himself? Why does he need Ahreimanius?”

“Lucifer cannot access the earth sphere in his bodily form. He can exist here only in spirit. For this reason Lucifer bestows great power onto Ahreimanius, along with all the souls who are loyal to him. We are such souls, you and I.”

Christian scanned the shadowy room. All the shutters and drapes had been drawn tight. Not a sliver of light could be seen anywhere.

“And what is there to gain by serving Ahreimanius?”

“By serving Ahreimanius, we serve ourselves,” said the old man. “In exchange for our loyal acts we receive power over others, and great dominion over the matter that he is the master of. Everything that you have in this life, Christian, you owe to Ahreimanius.”

Christian was not a spiritual person, yet he could distinctly feel a dark and sinister presence around him. He was certain he must be imagining things
.
The doses of his medications required altering. He would call his psychiatrist when he was done.

“Your soul is much older than you realize, Christian,” continued the Nautonnier.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his fear and confusion mounting. “What are you talking about?”

“The soul of every being that inhabits this planet is ancient, to be sure, but whereas most of these souls are lowly, and of no importance, your soul has been in league with Lucifer since the time of the Great Fall. You are a Prince among the Fallen Angels, Christian. It has always been so, and just as in each of your many previous life incarnations, the time has come when you must renew your pledge to the master once again.”

Christian locked eyes with the Nautonnier. As irrational and superstitious as it seemed, he sensed that this was no trivial request.

“Have you any more questions?”

Christian remained silent in his confusion.

“Very well,” said the Nautonnier slowly. “There will be other opportunities for you to learn more. As I promised, I shall now permit you to decide how you wish to proceed.”

“I choose to sleep on it,” muttered Christian, rising slowly from his chair. “I’ll get back to you after the conference.”

The Nautonnier gave a dry chuckle.

“Oh no, Christian,” he said. “I made no mention of giving you time to deliberate. That is not an option. You must decide now. You are free to take any decision you choose, but know this: Should you decide to abandon Ahreimanius, your special place at his table will naturally be taken from you. You are free to decide, but you must decide now and forever. Be sure not to err. Ahreimanius knows not the meaning of forgiveness.”

Christian could feel the psychic tentacles of his father worming into him again.

All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.

“Follow your heart, Christian,” whispered the Nautonnier. “What is it telling you to do? You are free to decide.”

Hearing the old man speak had a great effect on Christian. He suddenly felt as though it were still not too late. A sense of urgency filled him. Around him the room had begun to warp and twist.

“What do you want me to do?” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“Merely to sign a contract,” said the old man. “It is but a symbol of allegiance to Ahreimanius. A formality. It states that you align yourself with him, and offer up to him all that you possess.”

The Nautonnier placed a large book on the table and opened it. It was ancient and brittle, and Christian could see that it was a ledger of sorts; a record of all who had signed their souls into the service of Ahreimanius and Lucifer. The Nautonnier took Christian’s hand and pricked his thumb, filling the quill of a pen with the blood that emerged. He laid the pen next to the open book.

“You may sign it here,” he said, his crooked finger pointing to a spot at the bottom of the page.

Christian took up the pen and watched his hand move the quill to the age old parchment. A mark was made, and knowing that it was done, he quickly finished the stroke.

Christian felt a dizzying surge of dark power flow into him, and then shuddered unexpectedly. Something was awakening in him; something that should never have been disturbed. He looked up to see that the Nautonnier was watching him intently now, an expression of cold malice spreading across his repugnant features.

“It is done,” he hissed, blowing out the candle.

“Wait a minute,” said Christian as the room plunged into darkness.

A sudden realization had flooded into him.

“What have I done? What have you made me do?”

“The way to Ahreimanius has been opened,”
came his father’s hiss.
“Behold the newborn son of Lucifer!”

Christian staggered through the darkness, finding the door to the suite and jerking it open. The light from the hall filled the room, but the Nautonnier was nowhere to be seen.

“What’s happening to me?” he gasped, squinting into the shadows, his eyes wide with panic.

In the corner of the room he could see the shapes of four hooded figures, their bodies jerking violently from side to side, and coming in and out of existence.

“The Cube!”
they hissed in unison.
“The Cube!”

“No!” gasped Christian. “This is impossible!”