Heresy: The Book of Mammon

Chapter 8

Chapter 8



Lady Elaine spun the disc in her hand, it was an odd little trinket. She was not familiar with the relic, though she read of the seals of the princes before. It was a beautiful thing that seemed to shimmer despite the low light of the room.

The inscription that revolved around its outer circumference was interesting. She was familiar with the language, it was the same language she was translating from the Sacrament.

“Can you read the inscription?” Valimaar crept to her side and stared down at the metal in her hand.

“For one can gain the whole world, but they shall forfeit their soul.”

It was not at all pleasant. Vanity was quite the murderer amongst the men of the world. It had always been that way, since man first walked across its green pastures. She knew of this. Perhaps the teachings of the scriptures was a lie, but the natures of men still held value to her. She knew that whatever this thing was, it spoke the truth.

She shrugged. “I will have to do some more reading. There’s a lot of reference to seals, but it doesn’t state what they are, or what they do.”
He nodded.

He was slow in his stride. He was never one for conversation, but his overwhelming silence was troubling. His shoulders were low as he stepped around the small table, and he hunched slightly as he walked. Something was clearly troubling him.
“What news has Father Papal brought?”

"He has told us of the Ecclesian Army."

Lady Elaine nodded. "What of it?"

"That it is making its way to Lokken, and that we do not stand a chance at defending against the attacks."

"Do you believe him?"

Valimaar turned to her. "Yes."

That was quite a shock. His faith in Lokken had clearly dropped, perhaps it had dropped the morning of that first attack. Watching men and women die and defenses crumble would certainly do little to raise morale, but for Valimaar's to falter was frightening.

"The General has informed me that the neighboring city states of this sovereignty have already fallen to the crusade. We are alone in this defense unless we can send word to Xalimfal."

Xalimfal? She was unfamiliar with the nation. Though she was not at all worldly, she thought she was quite familiar with the nations of the known world.

"Where is that?"

"It lies across the eastern seas. It is an island that is enshrouded in mist. They are a backward people, that have gone overlooked by Ecclesia, according to the priest."

"Can they help us?"

Valimaar shook his head. "Nothing is certain my lady, but I do hope."

She couldn't imagine an army large enough to defeat Lokken. It was a massive sovereignty, far larger than Ecclesia, with more people than she could think of. It's deserts spanned the distance of the southern world of Arlia, and its walls stood ever against its attackers. For it to simply fall was a terrible thought.

"What else?" She stepped around the table and placed her hands on his shoulders.

"The priest says that the bordering lands have been claimed by the crusade as well."

It was troubling news. How could such a force be mustered. She was no strategist or soldier, but the numbers did not work in her head. For all the sovereignties to fall was unthinkable. It bordered on madness. This however, was news coming from someone whom she thought to be an enemy. He was after all, the Monsignor, the leader of the Apostolics. He was one of the highest ranking clergy of the Ecclesiarchy. Loyalties to them, rarely shifted. They were the exception.

"Do you trust him?"

Valimaar shook his head. "I don't know what to believe. I know that there's some truth in what he says. I saw their advancements when they attacked. They don't rely on soldiers anymore, they have mechanical creations that do just as much damage."

She looked down at the disc that still sat in her soft hands. Why would he bring her this? There was an explanation to all of this. There had to be. She placed it on the table and sat beside her former bodyguard. She stared at its elegance. It shined brilliantly in the dim room. It's cold metal could be felt from where she sat. It was an amazing thing, which held a myriad of mystery.

Could this thing help them? Could it save them? Surely there was a purpose for it being here, but it was obscure to her. The sacrament must say something of it. It spoke of seals more than once, though she overlooked the pages. They did not seem to carry much weight in their situation. Perhaps she was wrong.

"I'm going to need help with this." Her soft voice echoed through the quiet room.

Valimaar nodded. "I'm not familiar with this language."

"I can teach you."

It was true, she did need help. There were thousands of pages to be translated, and the progress was slow. Distractions were ever keeping her from her work. Wounded poured into the chapel the day of the attack. Since that time, she had devoted herself to their aid. It was the least she could do for having been offered shelter and safety behind the walls of their former enemy. Perhaps it was careless for her to divert her attentions. The secrets lied within the sacrament. Father Gordon had made that quite clear to her, but what could a book possibly do to save them and the world? It was still a mystery.

His notes offered little aid, it was clear that he was just as successful as she in the translations. It was after all, a long dead language, and often times, very hard to understand. The writing was faded, and pages were missing, but he had made progress, just as she. The progress however, was not enough. She needed help.

For one can gain the whole world, but they shall forfeit their soul.

What could it mean? There was more to it than was written. The ancient text often spoke in proverbs riddled with mystery. Often times, the puzzles were the ultimate goal. Solving one meant the world to her, but riddles were not her specialty. She was a former member of the cloth. Faith was her currency, and her language. Those times were no more. She was little more than a cleric and a librarian now, one that in fact, lacked the necessary skills to match the claims. Still, she couldn't help but dwell on the fact that there was more than met the eye with the trinket that sat before her.

She rose from her seat and leaned over the open pages of the book that lay on the table. "The answer has to be here."

"I'm sure it is."

She turned through the pages, glancing over the scribbled notes of the dead priest. Nothing. He had found nothing related to the thing. She began turning large sections of the book, to her own work. Her notes offered just as little aid. She shook her head, and her hands moved slower. She turned the pages one by one, and continued to glance through the writings.

The passage stuck out to her like it was on fire. It was one that she had noticed before, but ignored. It was written like much of the sacrament, not so much a prophecy as it was a story of the past. Perhaps it was the past that she needed to understand. Knowing the past, would illuminate the future.

"Who is worthy to open the book and loose the seals thereof."

She looked up to see Valimaar's green eyes staring at the book.

"What does it mean?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, but for some reason, it stuck out to me."

"Perhaps you should read more of it."

“You Peregrine, son of Azaal, shall take this book to the earth of men, and thou shalt bury it beneath the sands of time that none may look thereof, for none are worthy."

That was interesting. Was this the book that he spoke of? Surely it wasn't. This passage spoke of something else. A book with seals. Was this one of those seals? Was it opened? There was something in this message that she did not quite understand. None were worthy to open the book. Perhaps it was another sacrament, or another prophecy.

"It speaks of several Daemons." She said, her eyes moved up and down the words. "It mentions Azaal, Ithaca, and the ninth son."

The ninth son... who could that be? She was unfamiliar with the reference. The Ecclesian scriptures mentioned nothing of it nor did the book that lay before her until now. The ninth son of who? Azaal? It was strange.

"His name was Baalberith." She said, tapping her fingertip on a line in the book.

Valimaar looked up at her. "This is the seal of Baalberith."

Surely, there had to be some significance for something like this. It was troubling that Father Papal would have brought it to them. Perhaps he knew what its purpose was. Certainly there was something he was hiding from them. He was not a historian, nor was he a librarian. He was a warrior, knowledge of such artifacts was well out of the reach of him. How could he know what it was?

“I think that he’s hiding something.”

Valimaar nodded. “As do I.”

It didn’t make sense to her, though, there was little that did. Their situations had never improved from the moment that they left Ecclesia. It was odd that the Wytches took them in so willingly. It was more puzzling that Papal managed to slip through the defenses of Lokken. Battered though they were, they were still tight. A rat could not have slipped through the nets without notice. How could someone from the greater Ecclesiarchy have managed to sneak into Veruna? How did he manage to slip past the eyes of the Expurgators, Avians, and the wall guards? It made no sense.

“Did he tell you how he managed to come here unnoticed and unchallenged?”

He looked up at her. His facial expression was grim. “No.”

***************

Adramalech eyed his surroundings. Slimy lichen that was unfamiliar to him covered the damp stone walls. The pungent scent of mold and decay hung in his nose, and his eyes watered from the foul smell. The steel shackles chilled his wrists, and the chains clattered and clanged as he pulled at his bindings.
He could not recall how he’d ended up in this place. Where was he? The orange rays of the sun stabbed through the iron grate above him, and illuminated the dense air of his prison. Cold, rusty water dripped upon his brow as he stared through the bright light.

He could feel a dry heat like no other. Surely, he was not in hell. They would not suffer his presence there, he knew that. Where was he? He looked down at himself. He found no blood – no wounds. His white robes were tattered and frayed, and the stain of dirt and mud tarnished his pale skin.
He could feel a throbbing in his head, like some beast attempting to escape its cage. It was a pain that was new to him. He’d so often embraced the feeling, as it was one of the few to which he was familiar. Still, it hurt beyond measure. It was unlikely that a human could have done this to him. Though it was certain that wherever he was, was of their design. He recognized the stench of man. It haunted his senses wherever he went.

How did he get here? Echoes of men above rang in the stone confines, and drummed in his ears. He recognized their strange dialect. He was in the sands. That would explain the dry heat that burned his skin. There was no mistaking their speech, it was unlike any other culture of men in the world.
Why was he in the sands? It made no sense to him at all. He remembered being in the north. He remembered the heat of the engines – the drumming of the clockworks. He remembered the scarlet ones, and running. What was he running from? Where was he running to?

Iron mechanisms clicked and knocked. He heard the creaking and screeching of steel against steel behind him. A door opened. Dust poured in from its wake.

He heard footsteps. Two humans. Who were they? Were they the scarlet ones? Had they come for him? The unmistakable scent of a woman filled his nostrils, and the scent of another. It was a smell that he had not taken in for nigh on a millennium. A Daemon was here. One that he would never forget. One that betrayed him – the world. Ithaca.

The white robes swished as she walked round to his front side. Her icy eyes looked him up and down. Who was she? She was not a scarlet one. Fiery locks of red hair flowed from her scalp to her bosom. Though humans were unattractive, this one was quite remarkable.

Slow heavy footsteps echoed behind him. How had Ithaca found him? How was it possible? The awakening was not supposed to have happened already. What went wrong? It didn’t make sense.

He heard the clattering of weapons – armor. He smelled black powder, and poisons. What was this thing? Surely a Daemon such as one of the nine would not resort to such primitive methods of self-defense. Black filled his vision. He was black from head to toe. Green eyes stabbed through his body, and burned into his flesh. He was human! How had he possessed a human? He could feel the energy of the air crackle around this person as he walked. This was no ordinary man. What was he?

“Father Papal.” His voice was deep and malignant like the cry of the plague.

Who was Father Papal? Was he that man?

“How did you come to be here in Lokken?”

Lokken? Where was Lokken, surely he was in the sands, the voices of the men above was clear enough, he was certain.

“Father Papal, are you alright?” Her voice was soft; enchanting. She held no malice or grace in her tongue. It was soft, and forward. She was unlike the scarlet ones. Though, he recognized the robes, she was certainly one of the clergy of men. She was one of the betrayers.

Speak. He had to speak.

“Are you not feeling well?” Even his voice held some form of compassion. Was this some sort of trickery? Surely Ithaca would not be so merciful to him. Was this a twisted nightmare?

Speak! He shook his head.

“I apologize for your present conditions Father, but Lokken cannot take any risks. They do not trust you as we do.”

He nodded.

“Can you speak?” She moved closer to him. Her steps were graceful, as though she floated rather than walked.

He felt… cold. Cold coursed through his blood. The pain came to him like a wave upon the shore. It was overwhelming. His muscles tightened and his jaw locked. This was all too familiar. He would soon be asleep once more. He knew that when he woke, he would not remember where he was, or how he got there. It was such a curse to be the servant of the scarlet ones, a servant of Celestine.

The two shot one another a look as his body convulsed and shivered in the dank air of the cell. Sweat trickled down his face, and its salty taste touched his lips. The sleep was coming to him once again.

Black haze clouded his vision. Her icy eyes faded from his view, but he would remember them. He would remember her.