The Conqueror Worm Page 15

  “It doesn't look like they're setting up any guards,” said Elio as he watched a number of townsfolk shuffle into the edifice.

  Ossian looked out, nodding. “There were no serious patrols last night, either, so far as I could tell. It seems that the bishop has given up looking for us.” He hesitated. “Or rather, that he's waiting to see us tonight. He must know what became of the monsignor and that we're planning on paying him a visit during the festivities. Demons are prideful things, and he probably doesn't think it necessary to take any precautions. He will find he has made a grave mistake by not throwing all of his resources at us.”

  From all quarters of the ruined city there crawled members of the congregation. They came in bursts, filed in from buildings that had seemed perfectly empty, and from spaces deeper into the city that Ossian and the rest had not much explored. Dressed in their rags, they wandered into the church furtively.

  The sun was drooping in the sky when Ossian decided it a good time to make a move. “We're going to set out shortly,” he said, strapping the sword to his side and straightening his cassock. “The church is sure to be packed, but now is our best chance. Cesare, you are to stay here and keep an eye on our things. Answer the door for no one else, and keep watch through the window. Do not move from this room, understand? If something should happen to Elio and I, then you are to flee to Rome. However, we've no intention of dying this day, and so I urge you to stay put. Understood?”

  The youth reticently agreed, plopping down onto the floor beside the priest's satchel. He removed one of the empty glass vials from it and took to spinning it on the floor like a top. “That's it, huh? Well, good luck, I guess.” He watched the other two nervously as they started for the door.

  Elio, hammer slung over his shoulder, gave the boy a wave. “Stay safe, kid.” Then, turning to the priest, he nodded. “Let's give them hell.”

  Ossian opened the door and started out of the room. Closing it softly behind them, the pair started down a dark hallway and to a stairwell, which led them to the ground level of the abandoned office building they'd made their home in. Pausing in the lobby for some few minutes and peering through its windows in search of any leering eyes, they advanced towards the main exit; a broken glass door through which the cool breeze could be felt.

  “Elio,” uttered the priest as they prepared to march on the basilica, “have you any sins you'd like to confess before we go?” He donned a seasick grin. “If we're bound for Heaven, then we ought to pack light. The extra baggage will weigh us down.”

  The man, his hefty frame casting a long shadow across the room, considered the priest's offer thoughtfully. “A confession? No, nothing like that. I've always aimed in my life to live without regrets. They drag you down, you know? But... try as I might, there's one thing in this life, one single regret I've just recently picked up, that I don't think I'll ever be able to let go of.”

  “And what's that?”

  “The world has gone to pieces, and I was one of many who let it get this way. While we weren't looking, these things moved in and stole some ground. Now they're everywhere, and they've taken everything from me. My wife, my son...” His voice caught in his throat and he had to clench his teeth to force the rest out. “But today, I'm going to take some of that back. I may not be able to kill them all; hell, maybe I'll drop dead the minute we walk in there. But today, I'm done making excuses. The world is shit because we let it become shit. It's time we take some personal responsibility and kick at the darkness, no?”

  Ossian chuckled. “On that much we agree.”

  Taking a final scan through the nearby windows, they exited the building, emerged out into the open of the Piazza Maggiore, and started for the Basilica of San Petronio, whose windows were glowing with a ghostly candlelight.

  What awaited them on this sacrilegious occasion was uncertain. It was the night of the Feast of the Twisted Nail, and as they approached the large, wooden doors of the grand old church, the time for wondering, for hesitance, was done.

  Feeling the full weight of the Grand Inquisitor at his side, Ossian kicked in the door just as the sun vanished from the sky.

  23

  The candles in the basilica's chandeliers were burning brightly, rendering the depravity within the church in a warm, flickering light. Two hundred or more bodies had been packed into the edifice, filling the pews and the surrounding open spaces. All of them, with their stick-thin hands raised and eyes closed, swayed from side to side as if in a dream. A mass prayer.

  But it was not to God that they prayed.

  No longer were the artworks at the church's rear covered by cloth. Instead, they'd been defaced by a clumsy hand, with all manner of occult scrawls and hateful messages inscribed over the images of the saints. About the altar, which featured not a scrap of Christian iconography, were assembled a small group of thin men in black cloaks―the very same Ossian had seen in his torture chamber. These, he figured, must be Carnivale's closest associates, gathered there so that they might assist in delivering the forbidden sacrament.

  There was more. The wooden cross, with its porcelain effigy of Christ, hung upside down from the ceiling of the nave, and the sculpture had been defaced in a similar fashion to the murals. The face had been blackened with paint, and hateful words had been scrawled all over it in chunky, black letters. On the ancient stone walls, written also in thick ink, were several messages intended perhaps as inspiration for the convocation.

  GOD IS DEAD, SATAN LIVES, read one.

  HAIL YOUR NEW MASTER AND ACCEPT HIS GIFT, read another.

  The one that most caught Ossian's eye was the one that read, WELCOME PRIEST.

  Elio and Ossian waited at the entrance, the door falling closed with a loud thud to their backs. Not a soul stirred at the sound of their entry; if the congregation did hear, then they'd been instructed beforehand not to react. They continued their swaying, their silent worship, and the cloaked men around the altar did not so much as look up, giving them the appearance of hooded statues.

  But at the back of the church, something shifted.

  Ossian noticed the presence of the gaudy, metal-plated cathedra, obscured somewhat by shadow.

  On it sat a cloaked figure with white hands and an air of mocking superiority.

  Carnivale.

  Overwhelmed at the sacrilege that surrounded him, Ossian sucked in a deep breath and shouted at the backs of the assembled hundreds. “What is the meaning of this, you animals? This is God's house! What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  From the high cathedra there erupted an obnoxious laugh. The black bishop stood and pointed with his pasty finger at Ossian. “Come now, is that any way to behave in a church? Screaming in that way? We've been expecting you, father.” He threw out a cloaked arm, motioning to the messages on the walls. “You're our guest of honor.”

  At the sound of Carnivale's voice the congregants opened their eyes, turned around, and sent daggers at the priest and his hammer-wielding companion. Their hostile gazes were nothing new to the priest; since he and Cesare had first set foot in the city they'd been faced with nothing but looks like those. The roomful of people had been left gaunt by famine and were dressed in tattered clothing, and each looked pale, as though they made a habit of avoiding the sun.

  Perhaps in preparation for the dreaded sacrament they'd been groomed to live as creatures of the night.

  Walking to the altar, where he ran one of his flabby hands against a round, metallic vessel, Carnivale bellowed from behind his veil. “I knew you would come. A small victory, like killing my monsignor, wasn't enough for you. It never is, for a fool who thinks himself an instrument of God. You learned about the nature of our celebrations, yes?” A low chuckle rumbled in the bishop's chest. “I don't suppose you'd like to be the first to partake in the sacrament, would you?”

  Ossian dragged the Grand Inquisitor out into the open, holding the blade straight out before him. There was a concerned murmuring in the pews as he did so, and the nearest wor
shippers shied away, not wanting the sword pointed in their direction. Looking briefly to Elio and giving him a nod, Ossian shouted, “I ask you all this question but once. Will you reject the devil, or will this church be your grave? Let any who accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their savior leave this accursed place now and never look back. As for the rest... your time on this Earth is done.”

  In this den of the unholy, surrounded by men that would be devils themselves, the priest provided a single shred of mercy, one path by which they might escape the kiss of his blade. He was not at all surprised when, several silent moments passing, none moved to leave the basilica. Rather, in their heathen eyes was reflected the same animosity that'd always been there, along with a fevered desire for the power Carnivale was offering them.

  The sacrament had not yet been doled out, however the souls of these people had already been claimed by the darkness for some time. They were beyond saving.

  Carnivale, doubtless pleased at the loyalty of his flock, doubled over in laughter as Ossian seethed.

  The priest nodded, taking a step forward, bringing his companion with him. “God as my witness, they have chosen their fate. Elio, don't hold back. There is not one soul in this church who is fit to live.”

  Elio lifted his hammer and took the fore, ready to go about his grim work with the quiet focus of a farmer. Like the plowing of an acres-long field, he would mow down the heretics before him till none stood, knocking them to the ground like blades of grass.

  “Will you make war with these peaceful people who turn their backs on your impotent faith, priest? Is your offense really so great that you would commit murder in a place of worship?” The bishop paced down the center aisle, the congregation shifting to allow him passage. “Perhaps you should convert,” he offered with a laugh. “You and I have quite a lot in common, if that is the case.”

  “Hold your tongue, you snake!” belted Ossian. “Tonight, by the light of that moon you so waited for, you will know the extent of God's fury―and His judgement!”

  Without warning, Elio let loose, springing forward on his crooked foot and giving the sledge a wide swing. The tip of the blunt instrument caught the rearmost pew, converting it to splinters on impact and crushing the leg of a scowling bystander.

  The assembly was plunged immediately into chaos.

  As many white, ill-fed hands reached out to grasp the murderous priest and his comrade as did fly out in search of the nearest exit. With bestial fury and complete abandon, Ossian cast his sword into the crowd, catching arms, legs and necks with each swing. Men and women who moments before had been in league with the devil now clambered about on the floor, seeking to evade his monstrous blows. Those that lost their nerve began to leap over their brethren, pushing the pews out of place and rushing towards the doors.

  Ossian didn't notice, was in a killing trance. Hands gripped him from every direction, but with a solid effort he shook them off and began to rake limbs off of the Satanists wholesale. Skulls were cleaved by the great holy sword; groping arms lopped off so that they came to spasm on the centuries-old stone floors of the basilica.

  The cement-covered sledgehammer coursed through the wall of bodies with ease, pulverizing ribcages and rupturing pleura. Men were joined to the wooden pews upon which they climbed, married in a cloud of splinters with the hammer as their minister. Blood-soaked divots in the stone floors became common as Elio worked his way through the crowd, and in those instances when heretics tried to swarm him, he would swing his lengthy arms and kick his tree-thick legs, dispersing them with all the ease of a colossus.

  Blood rained down on the men as they cleaved through their enemies, and clouds of dust were sent surging through the air for the destruction they wrought. All the while, Carnivale and his hooded men watched from the other side of the church, not lifting a finger to prevent the carnage, but seeming to watch in curiosity. On some level, even though the congregation being slaughtered was his own, the demon Carnivale must have enjoyed the grisly spectacle.

  Parting a fleeing parishioner from his intestines with a well-struck blow to the gut, Ossian turned in time to bury the hilt of his sword in the eye of an oncoming heretic. Behind him, the panting Elio set down his hammer in the remnants of a pew, staking a quivering corpse to the floor in the process. From all around came the screams and moans of the dying, as well as the frantic footfalls of those who had decided to escape with their lives. The doors of the basilica were thrust open and dozens burst out into the night at full-tilt.

  How many lay dead at their feet, the priest could not say. He wore their blood, could taste it in his mouth, and his eyes took in the human tatters that he'd sent all about the ground. Behind the coppery notes, the blood of the heretics, he found, possessed a sublime sweetness.

  As the basilica was emptied, Ossian and Elio found themselves faced with only a handful of waiting adversaries. Carnivale, along with his lot of four cloaked men, were all that remained. To kill them would be to strike the blight of demonhood from Bologna. Wiping the blood from his face with his cassock, Ossian pointed his sword at the bishop. “Your flock is gone. Now who will you hide behind? Those men in cloaks?”

  Carnivale stood behind the altar and waved one of his hands dismissively. “And forego the rare pleasure of murdering the two of you myself? I think not.” Upon the altar was the metal container Ossian had spied earlier. From this distance, through the haze of dust, it looked to him like an urn. “There is still time, you know,” began the bishop. “I can bless the two of you, who've so much blood on your hands. Give you a stupendous new life. You need only come here and accept it.” He lifted the lid off of the vessel and buried one of his white hands into what appeared to be a pile of black ash. “Come, and I will give you the mark of the devil on your foreheads with this ash. For some time now I've hunted the people of this city. After sampling what their bodies had to offer, I collected their hearts. These ashes are the spoils. Hundreds had to die in order to produce this much. This ash is the ink with which we will write the demonic pact upon your brows. Come, receive the dark lord's blessing,” he said, giving the cremains a stir. “There may be someone in this urn you know,” he added with a chuckle.

  Elio, his wild curls matted in dust, took a step back. He glanced at the priest, then back to the cremains, his sturdy frame showing signs of weakness. Pawing at his face, he called to the bishop furiously. “Y-you... you were the one... you killed my wife. You murdered her days ago, at the stream. And my son, in the woods!” Searching absently for the handle of his sledge, his jaw tensed and his eyes began to water. “This was what you did to them? You stole their hearts for use in this fucked-up ritual?” He picked up the hammer. “You goddamned monster...” Hot tears cut trails through the grime and blood that covered his face.

  “Elio, wait―don't...” urged the priest.

  Carnivale clapped his hands and walked around the altar, fronting the four hooded men. “Oh, were those your loved ones? Why, yes, I did in fact take their hearts. The boy's, I recall, wasn't up to snuff, though. I threw it out.” The veil hid what must have been a monstrous grin. “The woman, though... yes, I remember her. Down by the stream the other morning. Yes, yes... she had a great flavor to her, that one. I took her slit for a spin, too, while I was at it; emptied myself into her womb. I could tell it was the first time she'd ever known real pleasure, but... it makes sense now, seeing that her husband is a cripple.” The bishop chortled, motioning to Elio's club foot. “Is that cock of yours as crooked as your foot, you gimp?”

  Stepping over a pair of broken bodies, Elio took up the hammer and started for the altar.

  “Elio, wait!” shouted Ossian. “Stop right there. He's saying these things to distract you, to make you drunk with anger. Don't listen to him!”

  Hammer gripped tightly in both hands, Elio barked, “You... I'm going to cleave that smart mouth off of you, and then I'm going to spend the rest of the day hammering you to the ground. You're a monster... a fucking devil, and I'll make sure that
you can't hurt anyone else ever again!”

  “So noble,” came Carnivale's reply.

  “Elio! Stop!”

  Ossian's warning fell on deaf ears.

  24

  As though a switch had been flipped, the four hooded men suddenly sprang to action. While Elio lumbered forth with his sledge, weighing his first maniac swing, the four cloaked individuals rushed him. One, acting as a shield to the bishop, absorbed the tip of that hammer with his own body, while two others hurriedly claimed Elio's arms and the other stood behind him.

  They moved with dazzling quickness and efficiency.

  Even before they began to change, Ossian knew them to be demons.

  Like the late-night visitor that had attacked them while Ossian had been on the mend, these four creatures were demons of a lower caste; malefic beasts who lived only to do the bishop's bidding. As they surrounded Elio, their pale arms morphed into thick tentacles. With these they began to wrench at the man's limbs.

  Dropping the hammer and failing to have killed the creature that he struck, Elio found his arms pulled in opposite directions by two sets of tentacles. From behind, a third ebony limb found its way around his neck, and he was promptly squeezed till he could no longer breathe. Face red and trembling, his tired arms sought to resist the pull of the tentacles, but when he found he could no longer resist, the joints gave and the sound of a shoulder dislocating resounded through the empty church.

  The priest had no choice but to intervene. To wait even a moment was to risk Elio's death. Leaping over a fractured pew and brandishing his sword, he slipped past Carnivale and buried the Grand Inquisitor in the back of one of the cloaked men. The blade dripped with dark blood as he wrenched it up and out through the shoulder, and the body fell in twain upon the floor. The other three, their efforts tied up in torturing Elio, could not react quickly enough to evade the blows that Ossian then landed upon them. Those monstrosities that threatened to tear Elio's arms apart were dispatched forthwith, decapitated in quick succession. Their heads rolled to the floor and Elio's battered arms fell slack to his sides.