Requiem by TBA

Author's Note: This work of fiction is the sole property of Necromancer Publications. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is prohibited by law. If consent is given, all rights, both primary and proprietary, remain the sole property of the author and the author reserves the right to request that all reprinting of this work be removed or discontinued at any time. All reprinting or use of this work must contain this entire note, under penalty of law.

I. Kyrie

The fire, while illuminating the finely furnished couches on which the three now sat, did little to relieve the gloom that still pervaded the corners of the large sitting room. The room was supported by vaulted wooden beams that reached twenty feet into the air above them, the room itself filled with beautiful tapestries and sculpture. The fireplace itself was no small work, its immense stone facade embellished with gargoyles and other fanciful beasts. One of these creatures, whose demonic features were given a strange sort of life by the flickering firelight, caught Lydia's eye. Its pitted face both repulsed and aroused her curiosity. Its eyes seemed to glow with an inner intelligence that, while great, was also evil. Its appendages were twisted and deformed, ending in cruel claws. It looked a menacing thing, even in cold stone. She was struck by the similarity between the gargoyle and the man with whom her husband was now speaking. He was a small man, in his forties, and rather rotund. His features were soft, fleshy, as of a man who was well-accustomed to life's finer things. But his clothing was very plain, the unadorned red robes of a High Inquisitor. It was his eyes that made Lydia liken him to the grotesque on the fireplace. The man's eyes were hard and predatory, like a lone wolf that endlessly looked for the weakest member of a herd, the member that would be most easily brought down. The Inquisitor often visited the young couple, usually unannounced and uninvited, for what he liked to call "a breath of air." He came from a large city, far to the south, and complained incessantly about the lack of civilization and refined company in the harsh and cold Northlands. So, when Lydia Sandista moved to the outskirts of the large village with her husband Timorean, he had been delighted. The Sandistas had also come from lands in the south, Timorean from his father's lands in Padua and Lydia from a convent school for young maidens in Castrovillari. They had been married by a High Cardinal of the Church, at the Cathedral of St. Paul the Great. He was twenty three and she had just seen her fifteenth year pass. Timorean's father was very wealthy, and so was able to afford the services of such a prestigious man of the cloth, as well as the use of the world-renowned Cathedral. Since Timorean was the eldest of four sons, his father felt that it was his duty help the boy make something of himself. Thus Timorean had no trouble receiving the money to finance his move to the wild north. He had chosen the remote village of Genthin, on the southern border of the vast Black Forest, or "Schwartzwald" as the locals called it. He acquired lands near the village, on which he built an impressive manor of wood and stone. After its completion, he and his young bride left the familiar vineyards and rolling hills of their beloved country for the dark woods and jagged mountains of the wilderness. Not long after their arrival, the High Inquisitor had made his first visit. The word had spread quickly, even in so large a village, of the nobles that were living in the newly-constructed manor. Rumor had, of course, taken its normal course. By the time it had reached the ears of the Inquisitor, the young couple had been transformed into a prince in exile with his mistress/concubine/wife. The Inquisitor had immediately gone to investigate the possibility of royalty in his domain, especially royalty that was living in sin and would pay handsomely to be absolved of that sin. The couple had received that first visit with cordial curiosity. After all, what could such a man want with two of the faithful? After ascertaining that they were indeed married and newly arrived from his own motherland, the small man had warmed to them, a warmth which had felt like a slimy cloth on their flesh. He had visited with them far into the night, reminiscing about places familiar to each of them, speaking about the great works of art to be found in the South. The Inquisitor had left, thanking them for their hospitality and, once again, expressing his delight at finding two such people in a land filled with savages. The couple had thought nothing of the visit, except perhaps how pleasant it had been to speak of the South, and were rather surprised to see the Inquisitor in their sitting room the following week, having been admitted by one of the servants. He cited his reason for the visit as "a need to associate with fellow people of breeding and taste." And thus had begun the tradition of the Inquisitor's visits. The irony of the little man was that, while very opinionated about anything and everything, he was not terribly educated or knowledgeable about that which he spoke. Timorean was often reduced to tears of laughter and pity at his expense when, after uttering his opinion about something or other with the authority reserved for a royal edict, the Inquisitor was unable to hold his position under his barrage of logic and facts. The Inquisitor took this disrespect with good humour, preferring it to his previous solitary existence. A man who brings the errant to God through pain should be grateful for what friends and pleasant associates that he can find, or so the Inquisitor had come to believe. Lydia did not find the Inquisitor's visits nearly as amusing as did her husband. She too often felt his gaze on her, looking at her in a way that did not befit a man of God. Too often, he took her glittering eyes to be a sign of her lust, instead of her barely concealed rage. She would have gladly seen the man stretched on his own rack. But both she and her husband realized the necessity of humouring the man. The High Inquisitor, while a somewhat annoying visitor, would be a much more annoying enemy. "The common man has always been obsessed with anything forbidden," the Inquisitor sipped wine from his goblet, "He is fascinated with the idea of violating tradition, of living by his own code of morality, instead of God's. That has ever been the downfall of man, from Adam down to this time." Timorean grinned. "Man must be allowed the freedom to live by his own code,Inquisitor, or God becomes a tyrant." The Inquisitor insisted on being addressed by his title, even when among friends. He said that it "reinforced the idea his calling was his identity". He also maintained that it was "only proper". The Inquisitor frowned in thought for a moment, then answered. "I agree, for only through sin are we purified. Man must be allowed to make his mistakes and see how his morality is flawed, so that he will accept God's willingly. But God's morality, God's will must be enforced at all costs. If not, think of all of His children that would be irredeemable, doomed to Hell." Seeing that his position in the conversation was drawing dangerously close to heresy, Timorean merely murmured an unintelligible response. The Inquisitor took this to be assent, and nodded in approval. "This really is excellent wine. From where did you say it was?" Once again on safe ground, Timorean replied, "From my family's vineyards, near Modena. Grown and bottled over a half-century ago, by my grandfather in the month of my father's birth." He brought the glass to his lips. Bored by the conversation and tired of watching the Inquisitor try to peer through her skirts, Lydia rose. "I should see if the maids have finished in the kitchen. They always leave a mess, and then the cook complains to me. Excuse me." Timorean watched her leave, a smirk on his lips. 'So, you are leaving me to deal with him alone, eh?' he thought. The Inquisitor turned to him. "Your wife is very beautiful, I wish I had such a creature in my life. But, alas, God has decreed that all of his servants must remain celibate, so that we may remain focused on our callings." Timorean took the Inquisitor's comment with a calm that he did not feel. He felt his anger rise but pushed it down. He should be used to the man's backhanded compliments by now, as frequently as he gave them. Like Lydia, Timorean noticed that the man's eyes strayed to his wife far too often for his liking. But he allowed it, rather than anger the man. He did not relish the thought of a few nights in a prison cell, or in the stocks, to remind him of the Inquisitor's office. He knew the Inquisitor was capable of such malicious mischief, he had seen it countless times. The Inquisitor ruled his domain ruthlessly. He used his network of "faithful" spies to root out any heresy or sin as soon as possible, and often, even if not guilty of the accused sin, the person was kept in a cell for a night or two as a warning and an incentive to remain righteous. After a night or two of listening to the screams of those being interrogated or purified, a person would emerge from the House of Mercy, the fortress of the Inquisitors, his penitence renewed. Suddenly aware of the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them, Timorean glanced at the Inquisitor, only to find the man staring at him with his predatory gaze. Timorean quickly drained the remaining wine from his goblet. The Inquisitor glanced out of the glass window, its frame decorated with ornate ironwork, and saw that the moon was already riding high in the night sky. He also finished the last of his wine, and rose. "Well, this has been an enjoyable evening, as always. I should take my leave of you, though. It is several miles to the House of Mercy, and I felt a chill in the air as I was riding out to your manor." Timorean smiled in concordance. "These northern nights are bone-chilling, even in the summer. I hope that you are safe, until you reach the fortress. Good night, Inquisitor." He motioned for a servant to show the man out and another to fetch his horse from the stables. The Inquisitor bade him good night and followed the servant out into the courtyard. Timorean watched him go, then turned his gaze to the fire. He was still gazing at the fire, watching the logs as they were gradually consumed by serpentine tongues of flame, when Lydia returned from the kitchen. "The High Inquisitor left?" "Yes, my dear. He decided that he is not going to get a look at your smallclothes this evening, and returned to his quest for "children" with heretical minds. Was the kitchen in order?" Lydia nodded and narrowed her eyes at his remark. "You had better watch your tongue, husband, or the Inquisitor will not be the only one retiring to bed unsatisfied." "While your offer is enticing," Timorean grinned, "I have some correspondence to finish in my study. But I will be happy to make amends when I do come to bed." He rose and took her in his arms. "Don't be too long, or I may fall asleep," she retorted, smirking. He walked out of the room, toward the staircase, keeping his arm entwined about her waist. They climbed the stairs together, Timorean calling to the servants that they were retiring for the night. They reached the second level of the manor and separated. As he was opening the locked study door, he turned to look at his wife. She was standing across the hall, in the doorway to their bedchamber. She was turned toward him, the torchlight outlining her profile against the dark doorway. Her waist-length blonde hair spilled down her back and curled around her. Her piercing blue eyes looked darker, yet shone in the wavering light. Her creamy, white skin and sharp features were definitely Nordic, unlike his own Latin features and olive skin. She was nearly as tall as he was, her statuesque figure the perfect compliment to his own body, corded with muscle. He could see why the Inquisitor envied him so, his wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She pressed a finger to her lips and kissed him, by proxy. As she closed the door, she heard the click of the lock on his study door. She sighed, and her face became tired, drawn. He did this every night, and every night she puzzled over it. They would walk up the stairs together, and then instead of going to their bed, he would go to his study and she would enter the cold, dark room, made worse by his absence, and fall asleep, alone. Why? Am I not desirable to him any more? What is wrong with me? With him? It was the one cloud in their, otherwise, perfect marriage. They had more than enough money, Timorean's father and his own lands had seen to that. They had a beautiful manor in which to live, filled with all of the comforts that they could want. They did not feel isolated from civilization, even though they had few friends that lived within a fortnight's journey; they both preferred solitude to the cosmopolitan life. She had studied music in the convent and was very proficient at it. Now she practiced regularly and had even composed a few arias, so she did not feel unfulfilled, or unproductive. So then, why do I feel so unhappy? The question went unanswered, as it had for countless nights before, as she undressed and slipped beneath the several heavy quilts and blankets that were needed to fend off the chill in these upper rooms at night. She thought back to her childhood, what comfort there was to be had there was scant, and cold comfort at best. She was born and lived the first years of her life in a small fishing village on the northern coasts. The sky was always either as brightly blue as her eyes, or slate grey against the dark mountains that rose steeply up from the fjords. She had only the vaguest memory of her parents, smiling faces that were red and raw from the constant cold, and her father's beard, long and thick as the grass in the lowlands. The Vikings had come when she was still very young. She remembered their eyes, fierce and proud. They had been giants, towering over even her father, who she had been sure was the tallest man in the world. They had razed the village to the ground, killing every inhabitant and taking anything of value back to their long ships. She had escaped in the arms of a priest who had been visiting the village. She learned later that he had been trying to convert the village when the Vikings had attacked. He had found her lying outside the family's hut as it burned. He had looked around for her parents and had seen only corpses. Then he had fled into the mountains with the her cradled in his arms, hiding until the Vikings left. Then he had returned to the coast to find his boat miraculously untouched. The priest had then returned home, to Castrovillari, and, not knowing what else to do, had given her to the sisters in the nearby convent. Lydia remembered nothing of the priest or their flight into the mountains and all she remembered of the voyage on his boat was being cramped into a tiny room that swayed back and forth for what had seemed like eternity. The only way she knew anything about her past, other than a few vague memories, was that the priest had written her a letter, after she had been in the convent for several years, that told her what had happened. The priest had written that she was truly a child of God, now that her parents were dead. The priest had never asked her name, and so had never told the nuns. The sisters had named her Lydia and she, still dazed by the loss of her parents and being in a new country, had not argued. Soon, with all around her calling her Lydia, she forgot that she had ever been named anything else. In the convent she had become a woman, had studied her one passion, voice. The sisters were adamant that all in their care should be immersed in the artistic traditions of the South and many wealthy families sent their daughters to the convent to be instructed by some of the finest music and art instructors to be found, so Lydia was far from alone in the convent. She became cultured through the sister's instruction, and through the company she kept, and studied music and voice constantly until Timorean's father had visited from Padua. The convent had become widely known as a repository of the finest young women in the country, and Timorean's father had come, searching for a bride for his eldest son. He had been entranced by Lydia, by her blonde hair and blue eyes, rare in the South, and her beautiful singing voice. He had arranged a marriage at once, and she and Timorean had been wed eight months later. Timorean was a good husband. He was caring and attentive, he was very affectionate toward her. He did not drink to excess, did not beat her as she had heard that many husbands were wont to do. She was not even able to say that he was unattractive. Even after several years of marriage, he was still very slim and strong. Why then? Why do I feel cold every time I hear the click of his study door? Why does he never share my bed? Why am I feeling this way? She fell asleep, the last question still echoing in her mind. The dream she had was strange, and did little to help her state of mind. She stood at the gates of Genthin, staring at the town in the moonlight. She began to walk toward the town, her feet in strange, black boots that made heavy sounds on the road. The town seemed to be gathered in the square, looking at her in fear. She raised her hands out in front of her, and began to chant strange words, words that twisted and disappeared in her mind. Black bolts shot out of her fingertips, striking townspeople and turning them into charred corpses. She strode up to a woman that was trying to flee, the woman's face was a mask of terror. She grasped her by her hair and pulled her back, made her kneel down on the road. Then she tore the trembling woman's throat out with her teeth, tasting the hot, coppery blood as it spurted onto her cheeks and into her mouth. She saw a child, possibly one of the dead woman's own, staring at her with eyes that were wide and bright with shock. "Don't worry," she thought, "I would never hurt a child. You're safe. I couldn't hurt a...." She watched in shock as she brought down the heel of her boot on the child's face, felt the crunch as the child's teeth smashed into the hard leather, the flesh turning to pulp and staining the ground with oozing red and yellow. She began to scream as she brutally savaged the townspeople one by one, helpless to stop herself, unable to close her eyes to the carnage that she was causing. She killed mercilessly, men, women, children, all falling underneath the heels of her boots, crushed, torn, broken. She sobbed in horror and disgust. "Why can't I stop this?" she shrieked to herself. "What have I done?" She could not shut out the screams of the dying. Lydia awoke, drenched in sweat despite the freezing room. Her throat felt raw from screaming and she felt physically exhausted. She realized that she could still hear the screams, the moans from her dreams. They would not fade like the rest of the dream, but continued to ring in her ears. But they sounded different from the screams in her dream, lower, less panicked and pain-filled. She gradually realized that they were coming from across the hall. They were coming from her husband and another woman. She crept across the room, to the door, the cold stone floor making her gasp and grit her teeth. She reached the door and opened it, looking across the hall. The sounds were louder now and faint light was coming from the cracks between the door and the doorway. She wouldn't bother trying to open the door to the study. It was always locked. Whether Timorean was in his study or not, he always locked the door. Now the sounds were becoming more urgent, more frenzied. She went to the study door and put her ear to it. The other woman, whoever she was, said something in a hissing voice that Lydia could not understand. Her hand went to the knob. It will be locked it's always locked please let it be locked i don't want to know don't want to see them But the door was unlocked. Lydia slowly opened the door and saw why her husband and this other woman were moaning, saw why the door was always locked. They were having sex. Her mind registered that fact as calmly and as objectively as it saw the rest of the study. In one corner was a desk, carved from some sort of black wood. There were shelves along two of the walls, and a large black book on a gold stand near the middle of the room. There was no rug on the floor, it was bare stone. On the stone, Timorean had written many symbols in white chalk. The chalk seemed to stand out, even in the dim light that was given from four candles at opposite sides of the room. The fire in the fireplace was out. As Lydia tried to understand the things written in chalk, she found that they wouldn't stay in her mind, they twisted and disappeared like the words she had spoken in her dream. Inside the strange symbols, there was a circle, also drawn in chalk. There were more symbols drawn inside the circle and next to it. Also inside the circle were Timorean and the other woman. They were having sex. Her mind registered this a second time, decided that it still was not important enough to dwell on, and moved to the woman. She was the most beautiful woman that Lydia had ever seen, ever imagined could exist. Her eyes were green, shot through with red and gold flecks, the black pupils were large and liquid. Her lips were unnaturally red and full, her hair flew like fire down her back. The woman was inhumanly proportioned, huge, round, firm breasts that seemingly defied natural law, waist that was impossibly thin for her figure, hips that flared petulantly, and legs that were long and luscious. Her entrance disturbed the proceedings immensely. Timorean's head pistoned toward her, his face a picture of surprise. "Wha?" The woman smiled a secret smile and changed. Her legs, which had been wrapped around Timorean, began to run like hot wax. The flesh pulled back to reveal muscle and sinew, then bone. The bone stretched itself into teeth. The flesh between her legs parted to reveal a huge maw, saliva running down the creature's buttocks and on to the floor. Timorean did not even have time to scream; the creature closed its legs/teeth on his midsection and ripped him in half. With a slurping sound, it sucked Timorean's legs into it's mouth, chewed and swallowed them. While it was busy with Timorean's legs, he frantically crawled to the edge of the circle on his hands, dragging his abdomen behind him. His intestines left slimy trails of red, yellow and green behind him. A thin line of blood appeared on his lips as he reached the edge of the circle. Timorean lifted himself up with his muscular arms and somersaulted over the circle, careful not to smudge the chalk. His intestines whipped through the air, like some insane tail. One end of them struck Lydia on the cheek, leaving blood, pus, and some sort of brownish-green substance. Her nostrils were filled with the stench of decay. Timorean had collapsed on the floor, twitching and frothing bloody foam. Lydia saw that he was looking at her. She looked him in the eye, her lip unconsciously curled in disgust. Their gazes locked, and Lydia felt a sensation of rushing wind. Her mind reeled, and she felt herself falling. She tightened her grip on the study doorknob and steadied herself. She looked at her husband again and saw him lying still, eyes glazed and staring. Fluid was still running from the hole that the woman-creature had ripped in him. She looked at the creature, who was now wholly woman again. It was pacing around the circle, Lydia had the impression of a wild beast that had been caged against its will. She walked toward the woman-creature, intending to see what exactly she was trying to accomplish by patrolling the edge of the circle in such a fashion. The woman-creature saw her approaching and smiled that same secret smile. Then she looked into Lydia's eyes. There was another change in the woman/creature, this one, while not physical, was just as shocking and even more instant. The woman-creature cowered against the far edge of the circle, gibbering unintelligible words. She was trembling with fear, shaking so violently that she blurred against Lydia's vision. Lydia continued walking toward the woman-creature, determined to unravel this mystery that her mind could not seem to grasp. Her foot touched the chalk-drawn circle, smudged it the slightest bit. The woman-creature saw this or, rather, sensed it, and drew a symbol in the air. Then she was gone. She did not evaporate or dissolve, she just wasn't there. Lydia was still puzzling over this latest shock when a battering ram hit her in the temples. Or so it felt to her. Pain exploded from the sides of her head, and she saw a strange light on the edges of her now-closed eyes, like a torch being lit just out of her line of sight. Once again vertigo threatened, and she had nothing with which to steady herself. She collapsed in an untidy heap on the chalk-decorated floor. She felt something running down her face and lifted her hand to wipe it off. The hand came away red from the blood ran in a small and sluggish line from her nose to her chin. LET ME OUT, a voice in her mind boomed. The very resonance of the voice threatened to shatter her mind and body. She clutched at her head and winced at the pain as her hands touched her throbbing temples. Much more of this and my head will explode. She felt a presence inside her head, a presence that was not in any way part of her. It was something utterly alien to her experience. She could not fit it into her view of reality anywhere, it just would not fit. LET ME OUT, again it spoke and the world shook. She moaned, her voice low and rasping. She thought that the voice, and the being to whom the voice belonged, must be male. Not only because the voice was so low-pitched that it was almost out of the range of her ears, but because the voice was very primal, very visceral. The voice lived to kill, to eat; it lived for pleasure, especially pleasure through pain. She sensed the monstrous malevolence of the creature behind the voice. It pulsed through her now, like a living, breathing thing. She felt an urge to hurt, to maim, to murder. But that was too close to the dream that she had just had, and she fought the urge until it did not seem so overpowering. She felt the creature push against the walls of her mind again, saw the light at the edge of her eyes. She felt the slackening flow of blood from her nose resume, then double in speed and volume. She cried thinly, her voice as thin as the wire inside a pianoforte. Stop this, I beg you. Stop before I go mad. The thing inside her head laughed. The sound of its laughter made her close her eyes against tears of despair. She had never heard laughter that was so cruel and inhuman. What are you? I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE BOOK OF REYSH'AL, THE BOOK YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. She opened her eyes and they fell on the large, black book that was on the gold stand in front of the bookcase. She walked around to the other side of the stand, so that she could read the book. The letters swam and writhed in front of her eyes, and then, unlike before, they became clear. The page was titled "THE SUMMONING AND ENTRAPMENT OF SUCCUBUS AND INCUBUS" The page then began describing the exact procedure for the summoning; the magic circle, the protection runes, the incantation. Even with the letters and words readable, Lydia did not understand most of the page, but one part in particular seemed to jump out at her. "If the wizard plans to enter the circle with the demon, he must concentrate on keeping the demon at bay. The circle will ensure that the creature will not escape, but if the wizard's concentration is broken, he will be at the mercy of the demon..." The voice sounded in her head again, but it no longer had the same destructive potency. You disturbed his focus, that is why the succubus was able to devour him. She felt no remorse at the realization that she had facilitated her husbands death, she felt no grief at his death, she felt a strange kind of numbness, a distinct sense of unreality. A gust of wind suddenly blew into the room, extinguishing all but one of the candles and blowing Lydia's hair into chaos. The pages of the book were also caught by the wind and, when she looked again, the book was on a completely different chapter. This time the text did not cease swirling, but some fragments of it were decipherable. "Demonic Possession can be used as a protective measure, especially for spellbooks. The demon may be entrapped in a word, or series of words, and may be released into the victim upon the reading of that word or phrase..." "In rare cases, Demonic Transfer has been accomplished through prolonged eye contact, when the host is at the point of death..." "If released, the demon must be forced out of this world, else it will be free to wreak destruction and vengeance on its captors and all of humanity..." "If not released, the demon can not escape and will remain with its host until death, at which time it is forced back to its plane of existence. So it will remain, tormenting the host until he is forced to free it...." The words swam in front of Lydia's eyes once more, this time not of their own accord. Two phrases repeated in her head, she gingerly put her hands to her ears in overwhelmed agony. Remain with its host until death...tormenting... free to wreak destruction and vengeance ...tormenting... ....tormenting... destruction....until death..... She saw a phrase on the page which, while it did not swim, was written in a language she did not understand. Then, the world tipped on its side and blackness enveloped her.

II. Sanctus

"Well, well. What have we here!" Lydia awoke from a dark, dreamless sleep, her eyes unfocused and sluggish. She had the vague idea that she had had a horrible nightmare, one too horrible to be remembered on the daylight side of sleep. Then she felt the ache in her head and knew that the nightmare was real. Disoriented, she tried to ascertain the owner of the voice that had awakened her, but found she could not. Whoever it was seemed to be speaking a language she did not understand. "Murdered her husband in some pagan rite, by the looks of it. Chopped him right in half." As her eyes began to focus, she heard a guttural grunt and a thick splash. She realized that the person had vomited, just as the stench reached her nostrils, making them quiver. Her eyes focused on the offending party, a young man in a worn, leather tunic. He was looking directly in front of him, at what remained of Timorean. As she looked across the floor to where her husband lay, her own gorge rose. She had an excellent view of the hole the creature(succubus) had left, after tearing off and consuming his lower half. His stomach and intestines had become somewhat dislodged as he had somersaulted across the circle and now sat on the stone floor in a pool of half-congealed fluid and bile. She looked at his face and was shocked by what she found there. Having died in such a violent manner, Lydia expected his face to be contorted into a mask of agony, but his features were calm, serene. He looked as handsome as the day she had met him. She remembered how he had looked that day with absolute clarity, without the distortion and haziness that usually accompanies memory. She had been introduced to him in the garden of the convent. It was late spring, so the flowers and trees were in full bloom, their fragrance filling the air with perfume both common and exotic. She had been sitting on a low stone wall, admiring a white lily, when he and his father had approached. His father had introduced them and then had excused himself, blustering about needing to speak with Mother Superior about something or other. Then, he had sat down beside her on the wall, looking at the garden and avoiding her gaze. He had been young and so full of life that she was infused with energy by just being near him. He had night black hair that came to a widow's peak, dark olive skin and dark eyes that flashed with mirth. His features were proud and regal, the face of a Titan. As he sat, looking across the garden to the fertile fields that lay beyond the convent walls, the sunset giving his profile an ageless cast, she marveled at how he seemed so at ease, how his lithe body seemed to remake his surroundings to fit it. She had sat in awe of the sun, the fragrance of the flowers, and his profile against the hills. She had not fallen in love with him that day, but it not been long after that. Now, as Timorean lay dead amongst the arcane scribblings on his study floor, she saw that same agelessness in his face. And she found that she still loved him, and it made her feel like her insides were being sliced with sharp knives. She looked up at the man standing next to the one in the brown leather tunic and recognized him right away. It was the Captain of the Guard, a tall, thin man, responsible for keeping law and order in Genthin and the surrounding countryside. He is going to arrest you, a voice in her head whispered. He will take you before the Inquisitors. She trembled at the thought of the Inquisitors, at the idea of their interrogations. Why would he take me to Them? I have committed no heresy, I am guilty of no sin. The voice whispered in her head again, and she knew it was not her voice. It was the voice of the thing trapped inside. Look around you girl, the thing's voice was enchantingly silken, like an assassin's garotte, All they can see are symbols they don't understand and a body, killed in such a way that their minds are barely able to comprehend it. "Look, she's awake!" The young man jumped back, frightened of her. The Captain of the Guard walked across the study floor to where she lay, heedless of the magical symbols and visceral remains that decorated the floor in a kind of gruesome tapestry. He looked down at her, at the blood that stained her face and matted her hair, his expression carved from stone. "Madam, I am afraid I must take you to the House of Mercy for questioning. You will please come with me." The voice spoke in soft syllables, Kill him. He is taking you before the Inquisitors; your only hope is to kill him and flee. I can aid you. Free me. But the voices words were as alien to her as were the Captain's. The numbness that she had felt last night returned, the sense of unreality. She realized that she could not rationally cope with the events of last night, the fact that there was a creature inside her head. She would have to accept them and continue with life, or what was left of it, or she would go insane. She swallowed, trying to quell the numbness as it churned and bubbled in her chest. The Captain of the Guard ordered the young man to make her ready for the ride, then strode silently out of the room. The young man approached her cautiously, careful to avoid the marks on the floor. His eyes kept darting from one place to the next, obviously worried that Lydia might perform some feat of black witchcraft that would leave him in a state similar to her husband's, or worse. The young man was several years her junior, with sandy brown hair and large green eyes. He spoke in a voice that stammered and stuttered. "Muh, Madam? I need you to stand uh-up slowly, keeping your hands in front of you." He tried to make his voice sound authoritative, but only succeeded in making it sound forced, his voice cracking on the word "hands". Now is the time, now while the Captain is gone. Escape or you will be taken before the Inquisitors!!!! FREE ME!!!!! She tried to shut the voice out of her head and found that she could not, it continued to whisper and she felt herself beginning to listen. Gritting her teeth and putting her hands out in front of her, Lydia pushed herself on to her knees. The pounding in her head resumed, beating out a rhythm that coursed between her temples and made her want to scream. The young man continued to watch, wary. She sat like that, on her hands and knees, for several minutes, the whispers in her head becoming more insistent. The young man started forward to help her to her feet, then reconsidered, thinking that this could be no more than a clever ruse. Her breath was coming in short gasps, in time with the pain that pulsed in her head. Slowly, pushing backward and upward against the stone floor with all her strength, she rose, unaided. The young man quickly reached into a small sack that hung from his belt and retrieved a length of dirty grey cloth. He walked behind her, holding one end of the cloth in each hand, and passed it over her head. "Oh-oh-open your muh-mouth, m-m-ma'am." She did as she was instructed, the young man gagged her with the cloth, tying it tightly against the back of her head. The cloth was bitter in her mouth, tasting like dirt and tangy sweat. She heard him rustling behind her, searching for something in the belt-sack. "P-P-Put your hands together, behind your back." Once again, she complied with his stammering order. As quickly as he could manage, the young man bound her hands together at the wrists. He bound them so tightly that Lydia could feel the circulation stopping almost instantly, tiny tingles in her fingertips. He led her out into the hall, her bare feet flapping on the stone floor. Sunlight streamed in at both ends of the corridor, lighting it, but not conferring any of its warmth to the chill hallway. As they approached the stairs, she passed a mirror, and glanced at her reflection. She immediately wished she hadn't and quickly looked away. The blood that had seeped from her nose had continued to flow throughout the night and now made dark red clumps in her blonde tresses. Her thick wool nightgown was spattered with several colours of fluid and streaked with chalk dust. But neither of these things bothered her as much as the strip of cloth in her mouth. It forced her to realize what she was, a prisoner. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks, colouring them with shame. They walked down the stairs, the young man keeping an uneasy distance from her. She looked down at the landing and saw the houseservants gathered there. They looked up at her, fear and anger in their eyes. They look betrayed, she thought, as though they had been tricked into living with a monster. They parted as she descended to the lower level, not wanting her to touch them. She bowed her head under the weight of their accusing silence, unable to protest her innocence or reproach them for their hasty judgement, the cloth firm between her teeth. You don't understand. I didn't do anything. I am a victim, not a monster. From behind her, she heard a low, spiteful voice. She recognized it as the cook's, a thin, dour woman who had taken the couple's compliments with the same indifference as she had their reprimands. Lydia realized that, if any of the servants had alerted the Captain of the Guard, the cook would have been that servant. "Ye ought to be burned at the stake. Sure an I'll be watchin' if they do, witch." Lydia turned to face the woman, eyes flashing in anger. The woman stepped back as if struck, gasping. "She's put the evil eye on me!!!!" The woman crossed her self, eyes looking to heaven. The servants erupted into chaos, crying "Witch!!!!" and pushing her and her young captor out of the great oak doors that led to the courtyard of the manor. The newly formed mob pummeled the two, hissing curses and epithets at their former mistress. Their eyes were no longer fearful, they gleamed with animal bloodlust. "Stop!" The Captain of the Guard's voice echoed in the courtyard, clear and cold. He stared at the mob of servants with eyes that were as blue and as chill as ice. His jaw was set, the sword that he wore at his side drawn and gleaming in the sunlight. "This woman will be taken to the House of Mercy for questioning in this matter. You have no right to deal with her. Disperse or I will disperse you." The Captain of the Guard's voice was a splash of cold water on the servants. They abandoned the courtyard for the safety of the manorhouse. Lydia looked at the Captain and was reminded of the Vikings that had slaughtered her village and forced her to flee. His eyes had the same fierce independence, the same ruthlessness. He walked toward her, sheathing his sword. "Madam, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but the gag and restraints are necessary to ensure the safety of myself and my man-at-arms. Follow me." He led her to a wagon with a long, wooden bed and iron wheels. The draft horses stamped impatiently, eager to leave the manor. The Captain of the Guard extended his hand, helping her into wagon's bed. Once inside, she sat with her back braced against the side and looked at the manorhouse. When it had been newly built, Lydia had thought that the manor looked out of place against the dark trees that surrounded it, too new and bright. Now, after a decade of wear and weather, it looked as dark and mysterious as the forest. The long upper windows were shrouded by dark curtains, the grey stone facade was beginning to be usurped by moss and clinging vines. The looming architecture cast shadows in the courtyard even at noon and gave the entire demesnes a ghostly gloom that was disquieting during daylight hours, terrifying after nightfall. Lydia supposed that the manor had looked this way for several years, but she never noticed it. Even though she left the manor almost daily to ride in the forest, she had somehow remained oblivious to the place's increasingly haunted appearance. As the wagon started down the road towards Genthin, the manor was obscured by a line of trees. She would never see it again. So now you go, bound, gagged, and helpless as a newborn kitten to await your fate. Have you always been so spineless? The voice in her head sounded cruelly amused. She pursed her lips in annoyance. Why do you continue to bother me? I am sure there are others upon whom you could inflict your presence. Actually, no there isn't. Your foolish husband made the transfer before he died, for which I am grateful, and now I exist within you alone. It was quite possibly the one mistake he ever made in his entire miserable existence. She remembered reading about demon Transference in the black book the night before. She tried to remember the exact words that she had read, but could not. Each time she tried to envision the page, a phrase repeated itself in her mind. CHE'SEKHARAH UNDIMENTIORUM XAL'HENNEDUM QHEK She did not know where it came from, or what language it was written in, felt its power, power that smelled like parchment scrolls and desert winds. What do you mean, "mistake"? Lydia narrowed her eyes in anger and resentment, her husband may have not been perfect, but it hurt to hear this creature desecrating his memory. Your husband, while being weak in many ways, had a strong mind. I would have remained within him for many years before forcing him into freeing me. You, however, are much weaker. I will break you in no time at all. Maybe so. But, maybe you do not have to force me at all. You said that you would aid me in return for your freedom, was that a lie? What can you do that would possibly be of any use to me? The answer exploded in her head with murderous force. She convulsed into a ball in the wagon bed. I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE BOOK OF REYSH'AL. I AM THE MASTER OF BLACK MAGIC. YOUR ENEMIES WOULD BE AS DUST UNDER MY FEET. DO YOU DOUBT ME? No, her mind whispered. just don't do that again. The woods were beginning to thin, manors and their accompanying serf's huts dotted the landscape. Soon, they would be within sight of the city walls. Your time is growing short, woman. Free me, and you shall be safe. Still gasping from the effects of the demon's voice, Lydia felt her heart chill. It would be so easy to free it and let it save her from the Inquisitors. But each time she heard its voice, felt the ancient evil and immense hatred infuse her when it spoke, she became that much more resolved to keep it inside, where it was seemingly harmless. It is irrelevant anyway. Even if I chose to free it, I wouldn't know how to go about it. The strange phrase swam to the forefront of her mind once again. But what does it mean? But, deep in her heart, she knew the meaning of the words. When the demon's voice again insinuated itself into her stream of thought, the words echoed her own instinct. That is the incantation to release me from my prison inside your mind. Simply whisper those words, and I will be free; free to rid you of those who would do you harm.... But again she heard the malicious eagerness in its voice, again felt like her soul was being coated in slime. While its promise was still enticing, she found it increasingly easy to resist. Yes, now your resolve is iron. But will it be as strong under the scrutiny of the Inquisitors? She could not tell if the whisper came from the wraith inside her, or if it was her own frightened voice, but neither possibility held any comfort. The Captain of the Guard turned his gaze from the road ahead to the woman behind him. She lay on the bottom of the wagonbed, curled in a tight ball, her eyes shut. He looked at the leather cord that bound her wrists, saw that it was already beginning to chafe the skin raw. Her mouth hung slightly open, the gag forcing her teeth apart. She appeared to him to be screaming, teeth bared in pain. His glance returned to her closed eyes and was surprised to find her staring at him. Eyes as blue and as crystalline as glacier ice looked into his own, boring into his head, through it. Shuddering, he returned to looking at the walled village as it approached. Lydia righted herself in the bed of the wagon just in time to see Genthin, before it became too large to take in at a glance. The town was built, as most towns of the time, on a hill, so that it was able to watch the approach of any who wished entrance, friend or foe. The wooden walls had recently been replaced with stone by the moneys of the Church and the backs of the local serfs; high walls with arrow ports and battlements enough to withstand a reasonably determined siege. The citizenry, while thankful for the safety that the walls provided, usually regarded them with smirks and eyes rolled skyward. There were few bands of highway brigands or local tyrants who would dare attack a town or city which contained a House of Mercy within its walls. The Church would retaliate against such aggression with its full might, sending legions of the King's own soldiers to quell it. While none of this was known to Lydia as she approached the city, and likely she would have cared little had she known, she did see the great stone walls with archers and guardsmen patrolling atop them, with the forest and huge grey mountains behind them. Since this day was market-day, the road leading to Genthin was clogged with carts, both coming and going. From this distance, it looked like an emplacement of swarming, war-like insects. The cart wheels continued to roll forward, the rutted road bouncing its passengers about, until the town loomed large in Lydia's vision. The sounds of the market, which had been little more than a murmur a mile before, was now loud and raucous in her ears. The smells of quickly ripening produce mixed with sweat and the faint but thunderous odor of animal refuse assaulted her nostrils, making her wrinkle her nose. Lydia looked up as they passed under the great stone gate and portcullis. The stone which had looked so clean and white in the sun now was dark and covered with green lichen. There were things growing in the shadows under the gate and the faint drip of water could be heard, making it seem dank and miasmatic. The mortar between the stones was rotting and the capstone would soon give way. the gate crumbling, if not repaired in the near future. The streets were filled with carts filled with fruits and vegetables, the few that grew in the harsh Northern climate, as well as grains and cooked animal carcasses. These were traded for shoes, candles, and other things that could not be had in the country. Part of each of these goods had to be given to the local magistrate and a larger part given to the Church. What was left was traded to keep the serfs out of abject poverty. The result was a cacaphony of bargains, sales, merchants advertising their wares, and cries of unfair dealing that happened once a month, which was far too often for most of the town's weathier inhabitants tastes. As the cart with the Captain of the Guard and his prisoner emerged from under the portcullis, market day was in full swing. But as more and more people were forced to move aside for the large cart, interest about the cart's passengers increased. People began to whisper and stare at the lovely woman that sat bound and gagged in the back of the wagon. Most recognized her, the city was not large enough to provide its nobles with any sort of anonymity, and speculations began to form. Being home to a House of Mercy, the inhabitants of Genthin had seen countless similar processions, but rarely was it a woman, and never had they seen a person of nobitiy treated in such a fashion. Lydia turned her head forward, pretending to be oblivious to the stares and whispers, and saw the House of Mercy at the end of the street. A shining white building, carved from great pieces of granite, hauled from the slave quarries in the nearby mountains, the House of Mercy stood out from the buildings surrounding it, a jewel among unpolished stones. It was a tall edifice, rising several floors above the dusty road. The House of Mercy housed the local clergy as well as the Inquisitors, but the cathedral, where weekly services were held, was located elsewhere. Apparently, the Church architects felt that the "kyrie"s and "agnus dei"s voiced by the choir would not mix well with the screams voiced by the Inquisitioned. The entire populace of Genthin looked upon the House of Mercy with mixed feelings. They were all loyal servants of God, and the House of Mercy was his most powerful tool for bringing his wayward sheep back to the fold. And they liked the presence of so many of God's chosen in their town, it made them feel closer to Him by proxy. But at night, when the bustle of the merchants and the clank of the guardsmen could no longer mask the horrible sounds that came from the white building, the citizenry shuddered in their sleep, wishing that the House were somewhere else and profoundly glad that it was not them within its stern granite arms. Lydia looked upon the great building and prayed that she would be shown the attribute after which it had been named. She knew that she had committed no crime, but the Inquisitors were notorious for their skepticism and extremely zealous about their duties, preferring to think that they were too rigid in administering the Lord's purification than to have missed one faltering Child of God. Seeing the wagon approaching, several figures dressed in red emerged from the House of Mercy. The Captain of the Guard halted in front of the doors. He breathed a tired sigh. While he recognized the necessity of his task; if any needed the justice and mercy of the Inquisitors, it was the creature before him, he wished that it were otherwise. She was too frail, too beautiful for the ordeal ahead of her. But he reminded himself of the circumstances in which he had found her. After being summoned by a servant who had given him a wild tale about murder and black sorcery, he had ridden hard to the manor, only to find the wild tale true. He had seen the woman, lying on a floor dark with strange symbols and the blood of her husband. The Sandistas had always been a reclusive couple and so he had no real precedent for evaluating the scene. Was it not conceivable that she could have hidden her satanic practices from her servants and her husband for ten years? Or maybe they had been partners in it, and he had paid the ultimate price for his dealings with the Devil. The second possibility felt much truer to him, but it mattered little. The matter was in the hands of the Inquisitors now, as it should be. He confirmed his decision to himself for the hundredth time since leaving the manor. He sighed again. Yes, he was doing the right thing, but he did not have to like it. Oblivious to the dilemma that was raging a few feet from her, as it had been the entire journey, Lydia pursed her lips and told herself to be brave. They will see that I am innocent, that I had nothing to do with my husband's death. I will be spared purification and allowed to return to the manor, to see to my husband's burial. The thought was oddly comforting and liberating. She reprimanded herself for feeling such a sense of relief, of freedom, at her husband's death. It was not proper or human to feel so, it must be the stress that made her feel this way. The Captain of the Guard slid down from the wagon seat, ordering his young companion to wait outside and walking to the back to assist Lydia in her descent. She took his hand, felt his strong grip, as though he was trying to transfer some of his strength to her. She looked down into his eyes, eyes that were so like her own, and saw only firm resolve in them, no pity, no compassion. She returned his gaze with a strength she did not feel. She would not let this man, with his strong hands and Viking eyes, see her break. She stepped down from the wagonbed and walked calmly through the doors of the House of Mercy, hands bound behind her, trying not to look as though she was being led. Behind her the doors clanged shut, the sound reverberating in the long hallway. She was led to a large audience hall, the Hall of Questioning, and made to stand in the center, facing the far wall. Sitting there, behind a large table of polished dark wood, sat the Head Inquisitor and two other solemn men in unadorned red robes. Thye sat, looking at her disheveled appearance, their faces expressionless. The Head Inquisitor spoke, his high thin voice made richer by the large room. "Thank you for your co-operation in this matter, Captain. I'm sure we can resolve this quickly and return you to more important duties." The Captain of the Guard nodded, acknowledging the High Inquisitor's comment. "Lydia Sandista, you have been brought before us, a child in need of guidance. We will help you to receive that guidance and will help you purify your soul, so that you may again stand unspotted before God." Lydia had no idea how to respond to this. From the bored way that the High Inquisitor had spoken it, she supposed that it was a uniform liturgy, said to all who came to the House of Mercy. She responded in the only way she knew, the words were distorted and almost completely muffled by the gag. "Thank you, High Inquisitor." "Captain of the Guard, please give us your testimony, so that we may be knowledgeable of this woman's needs." "Yes, High Inquisitor. This woman, Lydia Sandista, was found this morning, lying in a room with the body of her husband, Timorean Sandista." He crossed himself, as was customary when speaking the name of a person deceased. "Master Sandista was apparently cut or torn in half, his lower parts were nowhere to be seen." The three Inquisitors exchanged looks of surprise. This was rather out of the ordinary for such an isolated province. The High Inquisitor was pale as he spoke. "Captain, in your opinion, could this woman have been responsible for such a crime? She does not appear capable of such strength, or cruelty for that matter." "There were implements and indications of witchcraft in the room, High Inquisitor." The Captain of the Guard's voice betrayed the slightest tinge of disgust. All three men in red robes gasped in horror. "It is my belief that the woman employed the Black Arts in her husband's murder. Or, possibly they were both engaged in the practice, and only she survived." The High Inquisitor nodded, the flesh under his chin compacting and wrinkling. "Either way, this woman is implicated in murder and consorting with Satan. This is much more serious than I had thought. Captain of the Guard, have you anything further to say about this matter?" "Only one thing, High Inquisitor." His face flushed, betraying some inner conflict. "Well, there are no witnesses to the actual event. I happened on the scene well after it took place and none of the Sandista's servants were witness to it either. The only person to have seen it is Lydia Sandista." The High Inquisitor frowned. Why had the Captain brought this up? It only made things complicated and the Inquisitor did not like complications. They did not fit in with his plans and often turned into problems. The Inquisitor decided it would be better to dismiss the Captain, before he could make any more statements that might turn into complications. "Thank you, Captain. That fact is duly noted and will be considered. You may leave the House of Mercy. Thank you again for your assistance." Realizing the dismissal for what it was, the Captain of the Guard stared at the High Inquisitor, anger written plainly on his face. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the hall, not looking at Lydia as he passed. As soon as the Captain of the Guard had walked out of the door, the High Inquisitor returned his gaze to the woman that stood before him, still bound and gagged. He motioned to one of the attending men, also in Inquisitor's robes, and he approached Lydia from behind, swiftly cutting the cloth that was tied at the back of her head. The restraint released, Lydia closed her mouth, her jaws aching from being forced open for so long. She licked her lips, wetting their cracked surface for the first time in several hours. It had been late morning when she had been awakened so abruptly, now the sun's rays slanted in through the windows, belying the time, now several hours after noon. "That's much better, isn't it?" The Inquisitor's voice was as whining as it had always been. "The Captain was smart to protect himself from any spells that you might try to cast upon him, but we are protected by the hand and eye of God, we have nothing to fear from you. Now, you will please give us your testimony, so that we may temper the justice of our wisdom with mercy." Now They will see that I was no more than a victim, that I had no part in my husband's murder. Now I will be set free. "Yes, High Inquisitor. I awoke last night, hearing strange sounds coming from the room across the hall. When I investigated, I found my husband engaged in.....sorceries. He was in the midst of a circle that was drawn on the floor, and he conjured a creature that was responsible for his death. I was no more than a helpless witness to the atrocities." "And did your husband often "conjure" deadly creatures?" The High Inquisitor's voice was patronizing. "I don't know, High Inquisitor. He was often locked in his study. He might have done so any number of times without my knowledge." "What kept this deadly creature from also devouring you?" "I don't know, High Inquisitor. It devoured my husband and I fainted. When the Captain of the Guard woke me the next morning, it had disappeared." "I see." The High Inquisitor's voice had changed from sweetly patronizing to one that was cold as the winter wind. "This tribunal of Inquisitors has heard many fabricated defenses, many excuses for sin and heresy in the Hall of Questioning. But we have never heard a tale as fantastic as yours. You expect us to believe that your husband was been ensnared in the Devil's Art without your knowledge? That he practiced his black sorceries right under your nose? That he conjured up a creature whose sole purpose was to kill him and, once the task was complete, to return to wherever it had come from without causing further mayhem?" The three Inquisitors looked at Lydia accusingly, as if expecting an answer. She had none to give. How can I tell them that I knew that my husband was engaged in some evil, but I only have my feelings as proof? How can I tell them that the emptiness that I have felt for the past few years is the proof of my innocence? That I had never disturbed him in his study because I was afraid of seeing the reason for my sleepless nights on the other side of the door? Most of all, how can I tell them my suspicion as to why the demon had not devoured me; because it was driven away by a more powerful creature of darkness, a creature which now resides within me? She had said none of these things. They would not have understood any of them, and would not have believed them if they had. Instead, she had simply looked the High Inquisitor in the eye and said "I expect you to believe those things, because they are the truth." The Inquisitors had leaned in toward each other, conferring. To Lydia, they looked like small boys plotting mischief. They sat that way for several minutes, whispering in soft tones. Then, they turned again to face Lydia, faces once again expressionless. The High Inquisitor rose up from his seat, joints creaking. "Lydia Sandista, you are charged before God with witchcraft and consorting with Satan. You may or may not have murdered your husband, but even that charge pales in comparison to your known sins. You have displayed no remorse for your sins and thus are doubly guilty. You must confess your sins to again be unspotted before God. If you do not confess, you must be purified by pain until you reach state of penitence where you will confess. Do you confess?" Lydia's chest burned in anger. This was not a trial, it was a mockery of justice and of God. She would not uphold it by confessing, no matter the consequences. For the first time she could remember, she did not feel empty and aching. She was strong and perfect. She stood up straight, head high and chest thrust out in defiance. Her eyes glittered in the waning light, seeming to glow with their own fire. She felt a thousand years of proud Norse blood flowing through her veins like molten steel. When she spoke, her voice shook the hall. "I am guilty of no sin. I have committed no heresy. I confess nothing." The High Inquisitor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had not expected this. The woman had truly looked beaten, he had expected her to throw herself on his mercy, weeping. Then he would have shown her mercy and love; the love he had carried for her silently for the past ten years. He had not expected complications. These were the thoughts that ran through his head, but something deeper in him was terribly frightened of the woman that had appeared before him. She did not look beaten, she looked strong and deadly. In a vague, unfocused way, he thought it was true heresy for a person to look the way that Lydia Sandista looked now. If they had been wolves, the High Inquisitor would have rolled over and bared his throat, tail between his legs. He shook off the fright. It was ridiculous, after all. He was the High Inquisitor and she was a convicted prisoner. He smiled slightly. He was going to enjoy breaking her.

Dark Angel