All That Is Fallen Read online

  Lemarik stared at the black bag as if it were a cobra. He reached forward cautiously and plucked it from the floor quickly.

  “There are caves beneath my palace. Make use of them tonight.” He told the Ifrit as he stood up. “Do not try to see Jasmine! I would not have her look upon your ugly face.”

  “Your hospitality is too generous!” Bombarik’s dark face grew even darker as he touched his forehead in obeisance. “I will meet you on the plain in front of your palace at sunrise. May the face of Anu shine brightly upon you.”

  Chapter Three of Twenty-Two

  Yet you sweep people away in the sleep of death—

  they are like the new grass of the morning

  Il Dolce Mio leapt lightly to one side and wheeled around with lightning speed, jabbing his short sword into the midsection of the howling, bat-like creature. It automatically folded its leathery wings forward over the source of this new pain while trying desperately to reach the elven King with the long, razor sharp claws on the top joint of the wings. The King leaned back, avoiding the claws, but held onto the hilt of his sword. He kicked the thing below the blade of the embedded sword and yanked his weapon free. The mousy gray creature screeched in his face and snapped its needle teeth mere inches from his nose before falling forward onto the stone floor of the damp corridor. Il Dolce Mio took three steps back and waited as it struggled to its splayed feet again. The diminutive copy of the Knight of Death took one step forward, dipped slightly and swung his sword in a complete circle, bringing the blade flat across the creature’s shoulders. Its last scream was cut off as abruptly as its hideous head separated cleanly from its neck and the body toppled forward again. The King used the falling body as a springboard, leaping high into the air above the creature that had been closing in behind it. He landed on the second beast’s shoulders and brought the sword straight down between the shoulder blades, putting all his strength behind it. As the second beast fell forward, he pushed off of it and brought the sword out again, adding his own shriek to its dying wail as the blood sprayed him, hot and sticky.

  The King landed lightly on his feet, slung his blood-drenched hair out of his face and crouched low, expecting another attack.

  “Santa Maria!” He exclaimed when he looked about at the carnage in the corridor. It was difficult to imagine that so much blood could be spilt in such a short measure of time. The walls and floors glistened with the dark stuff and the smell was overpowering.

  Semiramis wiped her sword on the fur of her dead adversary, and then kicked the thing, rolling it away from her. Aurora knelt beside another of the creatures and looked closely at the hideous visage. It lay on its back, mouth agape with black blood pouring from a gash on its throat.

  “I have never seen these creatures here before,” Aurora commented quietly as she stood up slowly and cleaned her own weapon on the hem of her cloak before putting it away.

  “They were not here before.” Semiramis told her as she counted the dead and dying things. Eight of the hairy beasts lay heaped around the three adventurers.

  “They did not come from the dark forest.” Il Dolce Mio shook his head and wiped at the blood on his face. “I have counted the beasts there and catalogued them for my library. These are new and different. And most unpleasant!” He wrinkled his small nose at the stench.

  “More things are leaking from the beyond.” Semiramis picked up her torch and held it aloft. The golden light made the scene even more unreal. “Come! Let us leave this place. Where we are going is very close now.”

  She hurried on down the winding cavern. Her formerly beautiful, feathered cape was spattered with gore. They had encountered much more trouble than she had expected. Things were completely out of control in the gates. Somewhere another breech had opened, and she had no doubt that the Ancient One was responsible. They were somewhere between the Third and the Fourth gate and on their way to the Fifth Gate, their destination. There were rumors from the east and the south and Lemarik’s news of the belching pits in England had done nothing to allay her fears.

  Her spies had brought more news of Queen Ereshkigal and Lord Nergal saying they had fled the Fifth Gate and gone to the overworld. News she had been waiting on. Marduk was not in the Sixth Gate, and they had avoided the Fourth Gate, the home of Shammash, by way of this obscure corridor. The last time she had been here, the corridor had been dry and empty. Now it was hot, dark and wet as if something huge and foul had recently moved through the opening, sliming and fouling the walls, ceilings and floors. The air was oppressive and numerous holes led off into the rock on either side. Homes for these new burrowing bat creatures.

  Aurora followed her grandmother closely and Il Dolce Mio brought up the rear, walking rapidly backwards half the time, on guard for more attackers.

  They rounded the last turn and Semiramis let out a sigh of relief. Nergal’s great, red gate stood before them. The heavy, metal-studded door was encased in a tangle of gnarled horns of long-dead beasts and a thicket of wicked black thorns. A very impressive display of menace and a strong warning to any who would dare enter there.

  The beautiful goddess sat down on the floor. Il Dolce Mio knelt behind her and she covered him with her fur and feather cape. Aurora took a position with her sword drawn and her back to her grandmother.

  Semiramis checked to see that the King was properly protected from the powerful incantation, and then began to speak the words that would open the gate for them. The half-elven King was very hearty and strong, but the magick was much too strong for him to endure without some sort of protection. After several long moments, the door creaked on its massive hinges and swung inward. A hot gust of noxious air struck her face, and she stood quickly, drawing her own sword. All three of them removed various articles of their clothing and dropped them on the floor before passing through the gate on the heels of the watcher posted at the door. This ritual gift would allow them safe passage as far as the guardians of the gates were concerned, and there should be no danger here with the Lord away, but the breech was somewhere nearby and she would take no chances.

  When they were inside the door, it closed behind them with a resounding crash reverberating in the depths of the caverns. The trio stood listening to the hissings and shushings of the steam and vapor vents scattered throughout the Fifth Gate. The place glowed with a ruddy light and smelled of brimstone and ammonia, sulfur and other nauseating gases. A nice haven for olfactorily challenged demons.

  “Quickly now!” The golden goddess started off at once, treading her way rapidly along a narrow ledge above a deep chasm of roiling fire. “I can feel it. We are very near.”

  Il Dolce Mio followed on her heels, trying not to glance into the yawning abyss on his right. One wrong step and it would be the last anyone would see of the King of the Center. He was not a timorous creature, but this place made his heart race and for the first time in his life, beads of perspiration broke out on his brow and he was very glad that he had left his dryads at home. They would surely have perished in this nasty place, but he felt naked without the little creatures in his hair. He concentrated his attention on the shimmering feathers and silver bootheels of the woman in front of him.

  The ledge took a sharp turn downward and away from the crack in the rock. The air grew cooler and the fumes were thinner. Semiramis stopped now and then, listening intently and sniffing the air critically, before traveling on. Her stride was so very rapid, the King had to run to keep up with her, and he was both chagrined and glad Aurora had taken the rear guard in this place. Semiramis had warned him not to come with them, but he had insisted. This journey was, after all, his idea. They needed all the help they could get and the strange story he had heard from Mockte and Baldar on their last visit to his palace, had intrigued him. He was quite certain he knew the importance of the thing that the two ‘ratboys’ had found in their wanderings in the lower depths, but he dared not come here alone or even in the company of the two faery creatures who knew these passages like the backs of their hand
s or paws as the case may be. He had sent a message to his Royal niece, Aurora, and presented his idea to her. She had relayed the message and request to Semiramis and the goddess had come at once. Mockte and Baldar had described the place to her and she had agreed an expedition was in order. He admired the courage and audacity of the two lovely creatures, but he could not possibly ask them to go alone into this place.

  Semiramis stopped again and held up one slender hand. The red light flashed on her golden wrist band and rings. She turned her head back and forth, and then slipped into a narrow opening in the rock. Il Dolce Mio followed her and then Aurora.

  The crack went on for several claustrophobic feet, and then opened into a larger chamber. Here was Nergal’s treasure house! Great piles of gold, silver and jeweled objects lay scattered about in profusion. It was a horde even the wealthiest of dragons would have envied. The walls of the chamber seemed almost translucent and glowed with reflected light from the enormous fortune, collected over eons of time. There were weapons of wondrous design, table service, armor, chests, jewelry, crowns and even furniture covered with precious metals and precious stones and crystals of immense size.

  “Santa Maria!” Il Dolce Mio stood in one place, turning about slowly. It was too much to take in with only two eyes.

  “So Nergal has a sweet tooth.” Semiramis chuckled and stooped to pick up a long strand of black pearls from the floor. She held up the necklace in front of her face and admired its beauty before dropping it back on a profuse tangle of golden chains. “I would never have thought it.”

  “Here, Grandmother!” Aurora’s voice caused them to turn about.

  Aurora was slowly circling an elaborate pedestal covered with inlaid turquoise palm trees with amber date clusters. Atop the pedestal was a filigreed casket encrusted with emerald, pearls and rubies.

  “This must be special.” Her face glowed with excitement.

  “Ahh.” Semiramis nodded. “A fitting vessel for such a priceless treasure.” She moved carefully through the tangle of treasure and laid one hand reverently on the exquisite work of art.

  “Wait!” The King caught her arm. “Shouldn’t we… Must we… Might I…”

  “What is it, little King?” Semiramis bent slightly to look in his face. She was the only one he would allow to call him by such a title without growing angry, but her tone and intent made it sound much more acceptable than others might have sounded. He could almost imagine her to be his mother or his grandmother, though he was actually no kin whatsoever to her.

  “Might I have a moment… alone?” The King sniffed and then brushed aside a single tear that had formed in spite of his resolve not to cry.

  “Of course!” Semiramis rose up. “Aurora, give your Royal Uncle a moment’s respite from your company. Let us see what lies further along these paths. Perhaps you might find something here that interests you.”

  Aurora touched her uncle’s hand, and then followed her grandmother around one of the heaps of glorious disarray. The King watched them go, and then turned to face the box on the pedestal. It was level with his chest. He unfastened the ornate hasp and grasped the lid in both hands. It was very heavy, but opened easily as if counterbalanced on its hinges. The interior was as elaborately decorated as the outside and inside the lid was a flawless mirror of polished brass. He had to think that it had once been a jewelry case for a beloved queen or princess of some long forgotten kingdom.

  The sight of the silky black hair inside the casket almost made him faint. It was far worse than he had imagined.

  “Father.” He whispered the word and stood staring at the pale face of Mark Andrew Ramsay, former King of the Center. “Father!” He said again and his voice echoed in the chamber as he reached one hand into the box. He stroked the dark hair affectionately as tears flowed freely down his face. “I miss you, my father. I regret that we must disturb your rest, but our need is most desperate and the danger great. If we leave you here, it is possible that the Great Evil may learn of you. I must believe the news of your existence did not come to me by accident, but rather by design of your great Creator. It is as my father and your Brother, Lucius, would say: the Will of God!”

  He closed the lid and fastened the hasp before kneeling on one knee at the base of the pedestal in grief, burying his face in his hands. Aurora returned and helped him to his feet. She wrapped her cloak about him and allowed him to weep on her shoulder.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Mark Andrew stopped digging in the chest in the attic of his home in Lothian and stared at the filtered light shining through the little, round window under the eaves. Something had sent a cold shiver up his spine, and he felt as if he was not alone in the dusty space under the roof of the old house. Disembodied words had buzzed his ears as if someone were talking softly, the words not quite discernible, and then he’d felt a hand on his hair. His first thought was some restless spirit had joined him there. He had never been plagued with ghosts or apparitions in the old house, but so much evil had occurred here over the past hundred years, he thought he might be developing a problem. Especially, if it were the lost soul of someone he knew. He hated such things! Konrad or Simon would have to deal with it. They were more adept at exorcism than he was.

  He had been searching in the trunks full of old books for anything that he might have over-looked that would help them in their quest to defeat the Ancient Evil. He knew many things from memory and direct experience, but he owed a great deal to the works of scribes, poets and scientists. It was also something he was doing to pass the time. He knew there was nothing here, except old memories he could have done without. Nothing pertinent to the present problem, but he could not help but feel his existence might actually be coming to an end, and like any other man faced with the thought of eminent death, he found himself engaging in a very human emotion. Two, in fact. Nostalgia and regret.

  Meredith was all over the attic. Old furniture, dresses wrapped in plastic, odds and ends from the kitchen. All her things from the bedroom they had shared from time to time. Other things were here as well. John Paul’s bicycle. Michael Ian’s tricycle. An assortment of dolls Meredith had unsuccessfully tried to give Nicole on various holidays. Luke Andrew’s bow and arrows that he’d had to take from him, of course. Older things. A small silver box covered with dust caught his eye on a shelf near the round window. He climbed over the furniture and trunks and took the box down, brushing the dirt away with his hands. He paused and looked out at the garden where Simon had planted his garden and Louis had cooked many bar-b-cue dinners for them in what seemed now like happier times.

  He refocused his attention on the little box and the tiny hinges creaked slightly when he opened it. The velvet inside was faded and stiff with age and dry rot, but the gold hair clasp was as beautiful as the day he had first made it. A gift for Elizabeth McShan, a gift that he had made for her birthday shortly before she had told him that she was pregnant. He’d never given it to her. He had been so stupid, blindly allowing Edgard to dictate his life then. And she had been so beautiful… and he had been so foolish… and she had been so innocent. His mind drifted as he allowed the bittersweet memories of Elizabeth to play out once more in his mind.

  Everything had been more innocent then. Innocent. By the time he’d met Elizabeth he had killed hundreds of people, maybe thousands, and yet, he had been innocent, all the same. The blame for his crimes had been on the shoulders of another. The cause of his behavior had been directed by forces outside his own mind and his own control. Free will was a great burden, not a gift as men believed it to be. Free will had brought him to the depths of despair, laying on thick layers of guilt, remorse, regret, self-recriminations and nights filled with questions. Could he have done something different? Should he have done something different? Would it have made a difference? One thing he knew for certain was he preferred life under the firm hand of a Master who would merely say go and he would go without thought, without volition, without doubt or question. Edgard d’Brouchart
had never really been such a master. He had simply allowed the man to take the place of the real Master. Simple. Simple. Too simple. Too easy.

  On an impulse, he took the clasp from the box and dropped it in his pocket before climbing back through the piles of crates and boxes. He’d caused himself a goodly amount of pain coming here and felt a bit better for having punished himself soundly as if God did not allow him to suffer enough without bringing it on himself.

  He bent to close the trunk in which he had been looking and heard the voice again… distinctly. But it was not his name. He heard someone call to him ‘Father!’ ‘Father!’ A child’s voice. It could not be Elizabeth.

  He had seen her off himself. Neither her soul, nor any vestige of it, would be found here. She had called him Father when she had thought him a priest… before he had…

  It was not Nicole; she was in New Babylon, still alive at last report. It didn’t sound like John Paul’s voice. Besides, John Paul had always called him ‘Papa’. And John Paul was definitely not dead. It sounded like a woman’s voice or perhaps a young boy’s voice. He shook his head and closed the trunk slowly. Whatever it had been, it was gone.