Part IV
Arthur moved quietly in the direction of the screams. His arm and side were wet where the bullet had struck him, and it was getting harder to keep his footing, but he knew he was getting close now. The voices were louder and the words more recognizable.
The words were being chanted in Latin, though he didn’t recognize any particular prayer or incantation. He did recognize enough words to understand that it was a summoning of sorts. Whatever it was, he knew enough to know that it was nothing good.
He made it to the entryway of a large circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling. It wasn’t part of the original manor but looked to have been added recently. Symbols honoring various demonic entities and fallen angels from a multitude of pantheons hung just inside the earthen room, and thirteen people stood around a table wearing black robes and chanting. Their hoods were pulled low to conceal their faces. They looked like a scene out of any horror movie, an exaggerated ritual of honor and faith to some dark entity.
Arthur had witnessed a few different rituals in his time, though nothing like this. It was too practiced and too precise, which meant whoever they were calling out to expected perfect obedience.
None of them acknowledged his arrival. He couldn’t see what was on the table inside the ring, but he heard the crying and whimpering of a little girl. At the head of the congregation stood a robed figure wearing a crimson neckband to distinguish himself from the others. He was leading the chant with his arms outstretched toward the heavens.
None of them looked to be armed, but that didn’t mean much in a situation like this. Arthur was already badly injured, and if even one of the cultists in this room was possessed, it would be more than he could handle right now.
Maybe it would have been better to wait for backup. This unsettling ritual was making his skin crawl and sent shivers down his spine. His little escapade had gone smoother than he’d ever imagined. By now, Frieda would be in the building, and it would only be another ten minutes or so before the other Hunters arrived to deal with this threat.
His decision was made for him, however, when the girl on the table screamed in agony. The combined voices of the cultists rose several octaves and the chanting intensified.
Whatever they were doing, Arthur realized, they were almost done.
He couldn’t wait. He closed his eyes and took several breaths. There was a sense of finality in his decision that was simultaneously terrifying and reassuring. Maybe if he stopped the ritual Frieda would be able to rescue her. He tested the weight on his sword, readied his revolver, and charged into the room.
The cultists, if they even noticed him coming in at them, didn’t acknowledge him. He stabbed out with his blade, cutting through the cloth and chest of one cultist. The robe tore away, and he saw that the person beneath was naked and his entire body was shaved. A line of blood flew through the air, splattering another cultist in the face who was still chanting. The blood didn’t stop him, nor the death of his compatriot give him pause.
Arthur cut through that one with the backswing, slicing off an arm and digging into the man’s side.
Both cultists fell to the ground screaming, but the others continued chanting. Their voices flooded the chamber, drowning everything else out. Arthur stabbed again, moving around the ring of cultists clockwise, and another cultist went down. This one was a woman, likewise naked and likewise perfectly shaven and hairless. Each attack took a little bit more out of Arthur, and he could tell he was losing motion in his wounded arm.
He closed the distance to stab a fourth cultist, but this one was ready for him. Arthur stabbed and the cultist threw his robes up, catching the blade on the cloth. Arthur’s sword was stuck. The cultist stepped around the robe, naked now, and lashed out with his fist at Arthur’s face.
Arthur dodged the attack and tried to pull his sword loose, but another cultist stepped up behind him and grabbed his arms, pinning them in place. The first cultist punched again, and Arthur was unable to dodge. He took this blow to the face and he felt blood run down his cheek from the blow.
He threw his head back, hitting the man holding him in the nose with the back of his head. He felt warm blood pouring onto his neck and knew he’d broken it. Then he kicked forward, hitting the first cultist in the stomach and jerking his arms free.
He spun, slicing his blade against the calf of the cultist behind him to hamstring the man and then he head-butted the first one again for good measure. More cultists were approaching now, encircling him and all rushing in at the same time. They were still chanting, but now their focus was on him.
They had blades in their hands, short knives with jagged edges, and jeers on their faces as they shouted out their Latin ritual. They were calling to something, summoning and awakening it, though they were speaking too fast for him to make the words out.
Arthur still had his sword, but he was moving slower as his body continued to shut down. He could hardly breathe anymore, and his vision was starting to close in. Each attack was slower than the last, and he knew if he didn’t do something fast they would overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
The cultists all approached as one, stabbing and screaming. Arthur swung, slicing a man’s stomach open and then stabbing another. He managed to avoid most of their attacks, but a few slipped past. One jagged blade cut his right hip and another stabbed deep into his left leg.
The blade hurt more when it was ripped back out than when it went in, leaving a jagged wound on his thigh. He stumbled, cutting down another cultist and shifting his body around the table to put a barrier between him and the cultists. They were naked and defenseless, but their sheer numbers evened the odds.
There were four left, he knew, plus the one with the crimson band around his neck. That man hadn’t moved from his spot at the head of the table to help the others. He stood as still as a statue, arms raised to the ceiling and chanting.
The ritual wasn’t stopped yet, even with so many dead. Arthur knew that he had to get to that man if he wanted to rescue the little girl.
One of the four stabbed at Arthur, overextending. Arthur’s sword took the man’s arm off at the elbow and then he kicked him in the chest, sending him down to the ground.
Another cultist managed to stab him in the shoulder, and he responded in kind, putting his blade completely through the man’s chest. He jerked it loose and stabbed behind him as another rushed in, dropping this one as well.
The last one cut him on the back with a long gash, but Arthur managed to shift his weight and avoid the brunt of the attack. He spun, swinging wildly, and took the cultist’s head off.
Blood spurted from the wound and the body slumped slowly to the floor. Arthur stood there in the room, panting and barely able to stand. It was quiet now, and it took him a few seconds to realize that all of the chanting had stopped. The only sound other than his breathing was the girl on the table moaning.
The last cultist stood at the head of the table, gently caressing the girl’s cheek. She was around seven years old with black skin and hair and a plethora of bruises covering her face and body. She was wearing torn and tattered clothing, and Arthur wondered how long she had been a prisoner of the cult. She was caked in dry blood – far too much for all of it to have been hers — and crying wildly, barely conscious.
The cult leader slowly removed his hood. His face was torn to shreds with jagged lines running across it. His eyes were blood red orbs in the sockets with irises. Arthur could feel the presence of the man and knew he was dealing with something terrible: a creature of pure evil.
Part of him wanted to run away. He might still have the energy to escape and get away from the demon. He doubted it would pursue him and abandon its prize on the table in front of it, even with all of its dead cultists surrounding it.
But he couldn’t do that.
Arthur made the sign of the cross on his body and squared off against the demon, falling into a fighting stance. His body was failing and his breath was coming in short and shuddering gasps, but he wasn’t about to quit and leave the girl helpless.
The demon laughed at him, dropping the black robe and crimson band to the ground. He, like the others, was completely naked, though that was where the resemblance ended. This body was covered in rips and gashes from thousands of knife cuts and lashes. Whoever the vessel was, he looked to have been tortured horribly before being handed over to the demon.
Or, maybe the demon just enjoyed the pain. It walked forward completely unhindered and without pain.
“You are too late,” the demon said, picking a ceremonial knife up from the table beside the crying girl.
“You haven’t sacrificed her yet,” Arthur replied. “So, I beg to differ.”
The demon pursed his lips. “Never my intent. I wouldn’t dream of hurting her.”
“Your ritual is ended. Your cultists are dead.”
The demon shrugged. “You’re right. I cannot continue, but that is alright. There is always tomorrow.”
“There will be no tomorrow for you. You’ve been here too long,” Arthur said, his voice cracking as he fought back the pain. “Let me rectify that.”
Arthur stepped forward, swinging wildly at the demon, but he was slowed because of the pain and exhaustion. The demon easily sidestepped the blow, almost mockingly, and kept circling him.
“You’re the one, aren’t you?” the demon asked. “The one whose family we killed.”
The words hit Arthur like a punch to the stomach, and he felt his grip tighten on the sword.
“Shut up,” he said.
“Yes, I knew it had to be you,” the demon continued, grinning at him. “The things I did to your daughter before I murdered her. We made your wife watch. Would you like me to tell you about them? Would you like me to tell me which of them broke first?”
He knew the demon was goading him, but Arthur didn’t care. He rushed forward, swinging his blade wildly. His rage gave him new energy, and his cuts were clean and powerful.
But, they came nowhere near to landing. The demon danced away, avoiding each attack with ease, and through it all it continued to laugh wildly.
“First I stabbed your wife in the stomach and let her taste her own blood,” the demon said.
Arthur roared and sliced again. Another miss.
“And then I made her watch as I sliced your daughter to pieces.”
Another attack from Arthur, but this time the demon counterattacked. It dodged around Arthur’s blow and then stabbed him twice with the ritualistic blade, once in the shoulder and the second in his stomach.
“I made the entire experience as painful and excruciating as possible. I wanted them both to feel it,” the demon said, stepping away and circling around Arthur. “I wanted them to know that they were helpless and under my control.”
Arthur shifted his weight, facing toward the demon, but he was having a hard time keeping his feet. He collapsed to a knee but forced himself to stand back up.
“Why not just surrender?” the demon continued, voice softening. “After what I did to your family, you must seek release. Release from this world. Let me give it to you so you can return to your family. You did your best and killed many of mine; now, let me end it for you and give you the penance you seek.”
The offer hung in the air, enticing in its weight. Arthur missed his wife dearly. He missed his daughter as much as if she were the very air he breathed. He didn’t want to keep fighting, and there was nothing left for him here.
The demon was right. It was time to go.
Yet, in that moment, the only thing he could focus on was the small and helpless girl strapped down to the table. He could see her shivering in terror. She was barely a child, and she hadn’t asked for any of this. She didn’t deserve what was happening to her any more than his daughter had.
Arthur’s family was dead because of decisions he had made. He failed them.
What decisions had this little girl made?
“You’re right,” he said. “I do want to die. I want it all to end and just let go.”
“Then just let go.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I have business to attend to first.”
He forced his mind to empty of everything except the little girl and the demon. He squared off against the demon and ignored the rest of the world. He let go of his emotions and pain and focused only on his training. No more wild swings, no more anger. He knew how to fight, and he knew how to kill, and he fell into that other part of himself.
He saw the demon’s lips moving as it continued to taunt him, but he no longer allowed the words to even reach him. He became an extension of his sword and he let it guide him.
The demon cocked its head back to laugh again, and Arthur used the opening to rush forward. He moved with practiced precision, and it caught to demon off guard. He stabbed, but this time it was a feint. The demon took the bait, dodging to the side, and Arthur followed through with his actual attack.
The blade cut through the demon’s arm and into its chest. The knife fell to the ground, and Arthur felt his blade chipping against its ribs.
The demon roared in anger and punched out at him with its remaining hand, connecting firmly with his chest. Arthur flew back from the impact, landing hard on the ground five meters away. His sword went flying and the demon pursued, leaping on top of him.
It kept punching, launching inhumanely powerful blows against his face with its remaining hand. Black ichor was flowing from the other stump, covering Arthur’s shirt and skin.
Arthur fell into himself, ignoring the pain from each impact and focusing his energy. It didn’t matter if the demon broke his bones or destroyed his body. He didn’t need to survive this anyway.
He didn’t know where his sword had landed, his gun was out of bullets, but he did have a blade in his boot.
A punch landed, cracking the bones in his face. Arthur rolled, sliding the demon off of him, and drew the dagger from his boot. The demon hissed and pounced back at him, but Arthur was ready. He caught the demon with his left arm and plunged the blade into the demon’s eye.
They landed in a heap, the demon falling limply atop him. The weight threw him to the ground, jarring his head painfully against the marble floor. The demon twitched violently, shuddering in its final moments and then stopped moving. The blade was sunk deep into its brain.
Arthur felt all of his energy seep out. The piece of himself he’d tapped into was completely expended and he had nothing left. He knew he was going to die, but the girl was safe.
The world turned hazy, and Arthur entered a dreamlike state. In the dream he saw Frieda kneeling overtop him, a look of fear on her face as she was calling for help.
And then the world was gone.
Lincoln Cole
