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Post by longstevo on Jan 20, 2008 23:56:31 GMT -5
The mysterious path wound into the cliff offering no light from above. Castillo wondered how long it could possibly be when the turned a corner and came upon their priests, knelt in prayer.
The torches rest upon the ground, next to the holy men’s robes, their hands rest clasped upon their chest. Father Greco stood among them, head bowed with hands clasped as well. The armed conquistadors filed into the silent room. Being religious themselves, several of them knelt, joining the priests without question.
Castillo quickly surveyed the room, and found the reason for the praying quickly. A three foot high cross was carved into the rock wall. Strange inscriptions could be found underneath the figure in a language the captain could not understand.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Greco quietly. Castillo caught the bishop’s eye. “What does it say, Father?”
“It’s Farsi, a strange language for our quarry to use, but it easily fits into this strange puzzle we find ourselves in,”
With his fingertip, Greco traced the lines as he read them, “Now you rest upon the hidden island of God, Your quest is holy, but is your soul? You and our Lord will soon find out, Follow the tunnel and daylight you will find, But sacred salvation you will not,”
Castillo frowned, and in the gloomy darkness, Greco could see his confusion, “It’s a poem that rhymes in the native tongue. From what I understand of it, well, I don’t really know. Beside saying that this tunnel ends somewhere, this cryptic verse doesn’t really provide any new clues,”
Castillo nodded slightly before Greco ordered, “On your feet, men. We are close.”
The other priests and the soldiers rose to their feet. Greco took a step down the tunnel and Castillo grasped his arm. “If you would Father, allow my men and I to clear the way. It is safer this way,” With a disapproving frown, the bishop relinquished, allowing the column of conquistadors to lead the way.
Chapter 3 Darkness in the Daylight
The underground path wound left and right, but never gained or lost elevation. The tunnel was featureless for the most part. Castillo was once again wondering how far this path traveled when he was interrupted by a dead end. The path simply ended, but a wooden ladder climbing up the wall offered a way out. Looking up, Castillo could see a sliver of light high above them.
The file of soldiers and priests struggled to jam into the small alcove. Murmurs and mumblings arose from the men, but Father Greco silenced them. “Quiet!” The talking ceased immediately. Once again, the holy man knelt in prayer, followed quickly by his own priests, then shortly after by the soldiers.
“Our heavenly Father,” the bishop began, but Castillo did not join them. He loved God and Jesus both, but he was assigned to this mission as it’s military arm, and he was approaching it as such. Gottschalk sidled up next to his commander.
“Orders, sir?”
“Once the men are done, take ten soldiers, and climb the ladder. Secure a perimeter. Drop three pebbles down the hole if it is clear, one if it is not. We will follow shortly.”
“Yes, Captain.” The Lieutenant struggled to make his way around in the crammed tunnel, but he tapped ten praying men on their shoulders and motioned for them to follow him. They obeyed without question. And just as Father Greco was finishing up with his prayer, the last of the eleven conquistadors were beginning to climb the rickety old ladder, with Hans leading the way.
Silence fell upon the group, as they struggled to listen for any sign of their advance party. Aside from the shuffle of leather and the occasional clink of metal, no sound was heard. Castillo estimated it would take five minutes for his orders to be carried out. Absent mindedly, he stroked the hilt of his longsword.
The peace was suddenly interrupted by a yelp of surprise. One of the young priests jumped to his feet, stumbling backwards down the tunnel. The other priests turned to see what had startled their comrade, and they too, shrieked with fear. In seconds, the four holy men were reduced to nothing but several sniveling, babbling adolescents attempting to force out a prayer of protection.
Castillo pushed his way through his men and snatched a torch from a priest’s shaking hand. Turning, he swung the flaming club towards the corner of the alcove where they had been standing. A faint glimmer appeared from among the rocks. Castillo frowned and took a step closer.
The glint in the darkness brightened, and Castillo could see what had shaken the young men. The captain strode towards a hidden corner in the small alcove, and laying upon the rocks, sitting somewhat upright, was a skeleton. Still adorned in his battle armor, with his weapon lying by his side, it didn’t take long for Castillo to identify the remains as what was left of a Templar Knight. The white cassock, still in relatively good condition, clung to the armor. Adorned to the formerly white cassock was a still-vibrant cross, the identifier of the Templars.
Kneeling down, Castillo looked up towards Father Greco, “Looks like we’re on the right trail, Father.”
“Yes, yes. This is good. Do you see anything of interest, my son?”
Reaching forward through cobwebs, Castillo sifted through the skeleton’s belongings. Apart from his weapon and his armor, the once great warrior didn’t appear to possess anything useful. But one last glance proved him wrong. The shimmering firelight reflected off another white shape. Leaning forward, Castillo found it to be a parchment scroll.
“Father? You might find this interesting…” the captain offered the old paper to the bishop.
“My dear Father in heaven…” mumbled Greco excitedly. His fingers were shaking as he unrolled the parchment carefully. He took a moment to read the text before recited them to the men.
“This is a good sign men. God points us in the right direction,” said Greco, “Before his death, this great warrior wrote to us. He says, ‘I guard the way to the Lord. But beware, for a walk through Eden is not one for the unholy. Place thy heart in the Lord’s hands, and he shall guide you,’” Greco smiled warmly. “My children, we are on God’s path. Find your souls, and offer them to God now. Come, let us pray.”
And once again, the soldiers and priests were on their knees, offering their words towards the heavens. This time, Castillo joined them.
Their prayer was interrupted by three pebbles striking the stone floor from above.
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Post by longstevo on Jan 24, 2008 17:38:02 GMT -5
Castillo watched his last soldier climb the ladder in front of him. With a nod and a pat on the back from his commander, the young warrior slung his musket and stepped up the rungs. Inside, Castillo smiled. He knew he led the most skilled warriors in all of Europe. His men had fought many battles under his command, and many times they were outnumbered, outgunned and without support, yet they still managed to grasp victory from the jaws of defeat. These victorious battles only refined the men’s faith in God. Castillo took pride in the fact that despite their numerous battles, they had never slain a fellow Christian. All their fights were against the infidel dogs in the defense of their country, Spain.
Castillo looked at the old and decrepit skeleton lying only feet away. “Keep us safe, brother,” he said to the fellow warrior of God long gone to past. A loud voice rang down from the hole in the ground, “Praise be to God…” Father Greco’s voice was easily recognizable. The captain could only shake his head. But a sharp cry of surprise resonated down the hole. Looking up, Castillo saw the hatch in the ground slam shut, casting the crevice in darkness. With his heart sinking in his chest, he leapt up the ladder.
It took him no more than one minute to clamber up to the top. Upon reaching the hatch, Castillo pushed the heavy wooden trapdoor skywards. It opened with little resistance. Skylight blinded him as he emerged from the ground.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. As his vision returned, he saw that he was climbing out into a small grass clearing surrounded by a thick wall of trees and bushes. What he did not see is what bothered him. His men were gone. Hefting himself from the hole, Castillo stood in the cool grass and surveyed his surroundings. It was then he saw a steel Conquistador helmet laying in the foliage. Bending over to retrieve the helm, he saw fresh blood running down the steel.
Rustling leaves snapped Castillo’s attention away from the helmet. He instinctively reached for a slung rifle, only to be reminded that he carried none. Wasting no time, he grasped the hilt of his sword and yanked it from its scabbard. It almost sang as it flew from its resting place. The captain whirled towards the source of the sound.
Hans Gottschalk stumbled from the jungle surrounding them. Breathing hard, he fell to his knees at his commander’s feet.
Tears ran down his face. Looking up at Arturo, his eyes were as wide as saucers, and his normally pale skin was especially white. It was easy to see fear had this warrior’s heart in its grasp. “My lord! Forgive me!”
Castillo knelt down and grabbed his lieutenant by the shoulders, “Get a hold of yourself, man! What happened?”
The fear stricken warrior only continued to babble incoherently to himself. As a longtime friend and comrade, Castillo knew that it would take something monstrous to strike this kind of terror in the German’s soul. Something had happened, but what?
As he continued to survey the scene around him, the intensity of what had happened became clearer by the minute. There was not one Spanish helmet left behind, but a dozen or so. And that was not the only piece of equipment laying about. Firearms, swords, knapsacks and other pieces of clothing and gear were scattered all about the clearing. And something else left behind concerned Castillo especially. Blood.
“Hans. What happened here?” he asked once more, but Hans only whimpered. What had reduced his best warrior to shambles?
“Satan,” the answer came from behind Arturo. In a flash, the longsword was once again in front of its wielder, protecting yet another line in the Castillo lineage. A tall, slender form of a man pushed his way through the thick vegetation. “God protect us,”
Father Greco had his hands clasped on a large golden cross that stood nearly two feet and held it close to his chest. His face was ashen and his eyes white. He seemed to have more control of himself than Hans, but Castillo still approached with caution. “Father? What happened here?”
Greco only stared at Gottschalk. No pity, no fear, no emotion at all belied what was happening in the bishop’s heart. He stared emotionless at the fallen warrior.
“Father?”
The bishop slowly adjusted his eyes to Arturo, and he looked upon him as if he had seen the captain for the first time, “Upon our emergence from the tunnel, the devil’s own minions leapt from the trees. They tore your men apart and carried them…that way.”
He pointed towards a small path that was easy to overlook, concealed by the jungle.
The devil himself? Impossible. “What did these creatures look like?”
“Black skinned demons, wearing the bones of their soulless victims. They had no face of man, only the bleached bone of evil…” Greco stood only meters from Arturo, but was staring at something miles away. He cast down the golden cross he carried, “God is not in this place.”
Castillo was stunned. He felt the icy tendrils of terror wrapping around his own heart. He tried to remain calm, but he recognized panic beginning to set it. His breath became quick and ragged and his vision became unclear.
He looked around and stood witness to the horrors of this island. His champion warrior, in the fetal position and sobbing like a child. His lifetime bishop and friend, casting down Christ and renouncing his faith. Blood everywhere, his men nowhere, and they were so far away from anywhere in the world. Arturo had never felt so alone.
He fell to his knees, denying his bishop, and clasped his hands together, “Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior…”
“That will not work here,” Greco said coldly.
Castillo continued, “Protect us from this evil place. Wrap us in your embrace, take us as your children, as a father takes in his own. Give us courage, for we need it in this foul place,”
“That will not work here!” Greco said again, louder this time.
“We find ourselves in desperate need of you, Lord. We come to this island in the name of Christ, and find that Satan has beaten us here. He has taken my men, and struck fear into my heart. Lord, I ask for your bravery…”
“Stop it!” shrieked the bishop, “This is Satan’s realm!”
Castillo clenched his eyes shut, attempting to block out Bishop Greco, “Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with you…”
An animalistic growl escaped Greco’s lips.
“Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus…” Arturo continued. He noticed a second voice joining him in his prayer. Hans Gottschalk was on his knees, praying with his commander.
“Son of Mary, Son of the living God,” they recited.
“You fools! God is not here!! Jesus denies you!” cried Greco, “Your pleas fall on deaf ears!”
“Have mercy upon us, now, and at the hour of our death…”
Shaking from his rage, Greco bent down to pick up the fallen cross. Rearing back, he hurled it towards Castillo and Gottschalk.
“Amen.” The two finished their prayer as the golden cross missed them completely. All three men stopped and looked in amazement at the artifact. It had landed and struck the dirt in such as way that it stood upright in the soil, as straight as the cross that held Jesus on the hour of his death.
Hans muttered under his breath the words that they were all thinking, “A sign. God is with us,”
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Post by longstevo on Jan 24, 2008 22:44:57 GMT -5
Castillo knelt at the site of the cross sticking out of the ground. Golden by composition, but simple in design, the cross stood high above the jungle grass, as if in defiance of its surroundings. The small scene calmed Arturo a bit, seeing the sign of Christ stand in such a strange setting. His mind wandered a moment to the lessons of the Savior. But he was brought back quickly upon the sight of a swath of blood nearby. Nevertheless, the captain reached for the cross.
“Don’t touch it!” hissed Father Greco.
Castillo looked back towards the Father, shocked. The bishop had fallen to his knees, his face contorted in a mask of hate and rage. And his eyes, instead of peace, love and faith exuded hate and rage. The man kneeling before them was not a man of God.
“Leave it where it stands,” growled the bishop. Hans and Arturo both stood, and unconsciously took a step backwards. Greco retched once, his body convulsing. It was a terrible sight. On his hands and knees, his head hung low as he attempted to crawl forward. He choked a second time before finally vomiting. Coughing, the feeble old man attempted to stand, but he fell over in a heap. The two soldiers made no move to help him.
Mumbling in a language completely unfamiliar to Arturo, Greco quickly reached up and yanked the crucifix hanging from his neck. He tossed it aside like a piece of trash. Gagging again, the bishop began clawing at his robes, which were adorned with several Christian figures. Moaning in pain and despair, Greco curled up on the grass and vomited a vile black liquid.
Panic gripped Castillo once again. What was happening? What had gotten into the bishop? Had he fallen ill? Or was this his own way of dealing with the horrors that had just transpired? Then, without warning, Bishop Greco leapt to his feet.
He stood as a strong man stands, without wavering and tall. The misery in his face was gone, but it was not replaced by the kind, loving features of Bishop Greco. His face remaining twisted in an expression that was not his. His grin dripped with evil, his eyes still portrayed his hate. Greco spread his arms wide and laughed.
The laugh resonated loudly in the small clearing. Castillo was sure it could be heard throughout the whole jungle. It was so loud that it seemed to come from inside their heads.
“Is Jesus Christ your Lord?” Greco shouted, “Is He the one you bow to?”
Castillo and Hans stood speechless. Had Father Greco gone mad?
“I am not one of you,” Greco continued, “I hail from an ancient time, before that petty child came into this world, and I will be here long after, for I am not of mortal design,”
Greco suddenly doubled over, splaying on to the grass unceremoniously. He lay motionless for some time. Castillo and Hans, speechless, refused to assist him.
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Post by longstevo on Jan 25, 2008 20:35:41 GMT -5
They stood motionless for some time. How does one react to what they had just seen? How does one react to what had happened in the last hour? On a quest for God, they find the correct island with corresponding clues, yet some unseen force captures the men, strikes horror into the heart of the two survivors, and the bishop goes mad. What was happening?
Hans broke the silence, “We should get back to the ships,”
The idea sounded wonderful. Somewhere in Castillo’s mind, getting back to the ships meant starting over again, that this had never happened, and his men would be returned. It meant that the horror of what had transpired would reveal itself as a simple nightmare, no more.
“Yes…yes…” Arturo said quietly, “We shall return to the ships,”
Despite their convictions, neither moved. Castillo looked towards Hans, and was startled to see how much older his friend appeared. The deep grooves in his weathered face were accented, his long blonde hair seemed to contain more gray, and his eyes were exhausted. The captain wondered if he appeared the same.
For five minutes they stood. Their eyes never left the lifeless form of their bishop. “We can’t just leave him,” muttered Castillo.
“Did you see him? That’s not our man,” Gottschalk said sharply.
“But he was our man, for over seventy years. Those years of his life deserve respect and honor,” Despite his words, Arturo could not bring himself to come close to the body of his old friend. He hated himself for it. Regret and sadness clung to his heart as tears began to flow freely from his eyes.
Hans said nothing. Castillo finally forced himself to take a step towards the hatch. Lowering his leg into the darkness, the captain clambered down the ladder.
--
The opening of the rock wall shone as a pinprick in a sheet of black linen. Castillo and Gottshcalk hurried down the tunnel towards the beach they landed on, seemingly so long ago. As they approached the doorway, the scene outside brought despair crashing down upon their heads.
Things were exactly as they had left them, save one thing. The fog had lifted, allowing the blue sky to shine through proudly. The ten boats remained beached on the sand, as they were before. Many sets of footprints lay between the cave and the boats. The monolith rock wall remained standing, jutting out into the ocean mysteriously. And the ships were anchored where they should have been, nearly five hundred yards from shore.
But two thick plumes of black smoke punctuated the sky, rising from what was left of The Holy Redeemer and The Sacrifice. Orange licks of flame could be seen from offshore, flickering about the deck. The Holy Redeemer’s blaze was completely out of control. Fire had climbed to the crows nest, gnawing away at the integrity of the mast. It finally gave way, sending the sails crashing into the crystal blue water, where they were doomed to rot away for eternity. The Sacrifice had already begun to go under. She tilted at an odd angle, rolling starboard and slicing its sails into the water, allowing the icy claws of the ocean to take her. She was gone in seconds.
Castillo fell to his knees.
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Post by longstevo on Jan 26, 2008 23:35:37 GMT -5
The conquistador’s armored knees sank into the sand easily. The point of his scabbard jabbed into the ground as well, forcing the hilt of the blade into Castillo’s side. Despite the uncomfortable position, he didn’t move.
“We can save it!” cried Gottschalk. He took off running towards the shoreline, casting the armor from his shoulders. He threw aside his own sword and other equipment he knew would weigh him down and sprinted into the surf, running past the idle rowboats. Arturo did not stop him.
The heavy German splashed into the rolling waves, toiling in the current as he struggled to fight the tide. He gasped for breath as he swam farther from shore. He had never been the strongest swimmer, just being good enough to prevent himself from drowning. Plans were tumbling in his head of how he was going to save the second ship from being lost. It could be done, with enough water, any fire could be extinguished. And the damn thing sat in the ocean, surrounded by water! He was going to save it.
A tortured voice called out over the windless sea, “Hans. Come back,”
It was Castillo, lacking any emotion or urgency in his call. Hans stopped and tread water. He looked back towards the island, towards his friend, collapsed in the sand, calling his name. He looked towards the remaining ship, now completely engulfed by flame. It was a lost cause. He turned back towards the island.
Stumbling from the ocean like the walking dead, Gottschalk slowly made his way to his commander. Like his leader’s, his eyes were dry. The emotion of the day had his soul completely drained. It exhausted him, leaving him feeling like a shell of his healthy self. He came to within a yard of Castillo.
“Orders, sir?” he said with a hollow voice.
Castillo only shrugged. He looked up into his friend’s face, and noted the despair painted all across his features. His eyes were sunk into his head, his skin was taunt against his skull, and his face was ashen. Judging by the way he felt, Arturo knew that he must look the same.
Gottschalk fell to his knees in front of his old friend, “This island is our grave,” he said, his voice trailing off.
“I know,” was all Arturo could muster. The captain climbed to one knee and rested his heavy hands on his friend’s bare shoulders. Then he pulled Hans to his chest and embraced him. Hans returned the gesture with a sigh.
--
The young Arturo slaved away in his grandfather’s fields with a rake and a scythe on a hot summer afternoon. He was soaked in sweat, but that didn’t cause his swing to falter. Despite his grandfather’s passing last year, the young man still kept up on the fields and maintained crop production on par with his grandfather’s. The town was impressed by the boy’s work ethic, and the effort was not unnoticed.
For with as much time as he spent working in the fields, he spent an equal amount of time in church, dedicating his life to God. Between the farm and the church, Arturo had no time for anything else. But that changed when a new family moved across town.
Word spread quickly of the Northern family’s arrival. Northerners were not much liked here, despite the fact they really had not caused Spain many problems in the past. The church, being ever accepting, offered them in, and the German family graciously accepted. A teenage boy moved in with them, and during church one Sunday afternoon, approached Castillo, who was deep in prayer.
The tall German boy, out of nowhere, swung his fist hard into the much smaller Arturo’s chest, sending him flying out of his seat and into the next pew. Church was released for the day, so the place was empty, save for the devoted young boy.
After collecting himself and regaining his feet, Arturo asked patiently, “My dear fellow boy, what was that for?” The only response he received was an open-handed slap across the mouth.
“By Christ, that is enough of that, stranger!” cried Arturo, “Why must you come into a House of God and assault me?”
The tall German only sneered. “Very well,” replied Arturo, “Please come with me,”
He led the new boy through the halls and out its back door into the sunlit field behind the church, away from the busy street in front. Without waiting for an opportunity, Arturo quickly spun and sent his fist through the German’s jaw, flooring him on his back. The smaller boy jumped onto the German’s chest and began to pummel his face, one strike after the other, until the German began to laugh.
“What’s the matter with you?” shouted Arturo, “Can you not feel pain?”
“Not with tiny fists such as yours!” answered the boy in a heavy Northern accent. With ease, he pushed Castillo from atop him and stood. With a large grin, he asked, “What is your name, little one?”
Not letting his guard down, he answered through raised fists, “Arturo. Yours?”
“Hans,” the German answered with his hands on his hips, “Meet me under the bridge outside of town tonight after the sun goes down,” With that, Hans turned and strode around the corner of the church, leaving the bewildered Arturo alone with the singing birds. What had just happened?
--
Thirty years later, the boyhood friends clutched each other on an unknown island, so far away from everything they knew. Far from God, friends and family, all they had was themselves, and they clung to each other as if they were only seconds away from disappearing, leaving the other alone in this devil’s paradise…
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Post by longstevo on Jan 27, 2008 12:24:47 GMT -5
Castillo finally stood in time to watch the second ship slip into the sea. And so that was it. Their way home was now sitting upon the bottom of the ocean. They were doomed to remain here for the rest of their days. But, instead of despair, his heart seemed to fill with acceptance, as if he knew that God had saved them for a reason. Giving in to fear would not save them. He turned a faced Gottschalk, also on his feet now.
“Well, old friend? That’s it, eh?”
Hans only shook his head, “No, my brother. That is not it. This island may be our grave, but I will not go out on my knees,”
Castillo smiled and nodded on his friend continued, “I am sorry for my behavior. I did not mean to fail you,” Arturo shook his head, but Hans continued, “The horror of what I saw in that field was more terrifying than any foe I’ve ever faced. They came from the trees, with black skin and bare skulls,”
Hans’ voice wavered as he recounted the events, “Our soldiers all ran, and the ones who tried to stand and fight were cut violently with jagged blades and long spears. The demons were not content to strike once for the kill, but cut multiple times to inflict the most amount of pain possible,”
“Did none of our men strike any of the demons?”
“Not that I could see, they were too fast. And the quiet! They were silent as night’s shadows, never making a sound,”
“Hans, what did they look like?”
“Besides the black skin and skulls, they appeared more or less human, sir. But they moved so fast, it was difficult to see details, except in how they killed our men,”
Castillo sighed but Hans, in his newfound courage, continued to speak, “But I will not go out like the dog I’ve been portraying. I have this on my side,” he grasped a cross hanging off his neck, “He will protect me, and if it is in his will to take my life, then so be it,”
Arturo nodded, “Then lets find our men,”
A rustling noise from the mouth of the cave interrupted them. Once again, Castillo’s longsword was singing from its scabbard, pointing towards the black hole. Hans fists were balled up into heavy hammers of death, ready to smite any threat that may come forth from the darkness. But what finally emerged sent both relief into their hearts and shivers of fear up their spines.
Father Greco stumbled from the cave before falling to his knees, reaching for the soldiers, “My sons…”
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Post by longstevo on Feb 4, 2008 20:03:13 GMT -5
“Help me, my son,” the bishop said feebly to Castillo.
He didn’t know why, but the captain could see nothing was afflicting his friend any longer. He rushed forward and grabbed the old man by his shoulders.
“Father, are you alright?” The question seemed a dumb one, considering what had just happened in the jungle, but he could think of nothing else to say. Greco only coughed and nodded. “What happened?” Again, a childish question to ask.
The bishop only looked up at him with questioning eyes? “What…happened?”
“Yes, Father. You were not yourself just ten minutes ago. Do you not remember?”
A worried look overcame the old man’s face, “I’m not sure I want to,” With a deep sigh, he began to recount what memories he did have, “Upon our ascent to daylight, black demons sprang from the forest. They immediately killed five or six men, who, I cannot say. The rest of our group fled to the trees, where many were chased down by the demons. They were not killed, but captured. The demons never said a word, their silence was most frightening. As I was fleeing, my brain began to feel as if it were on fire. As I collapsed on the ground, conflicting images began to assault my consciousness. After I fought hard enough to make my mind my own, I awoke to find the clearing deserted. I came down here to see if any survivors existed. And I found…you,”
Greco coughed once more before falling to silence. While the bishop’s story enlightened several questions, it did not explain the man’s strange behavior. “My Lord, what images were in your head?” Greco only clutched tighter at Castillo’s sleeves and said nothing. Whatever he saw during that time frame, must have scared the living hell out of him…or into him.
“Come, we must do something. If some of our men may have survived, we should try to find them,” said Castillo to Hans. Nodding quietly, the large German approached the priest.
“Can you tell us where to go, Father? Have you seen anything?”
Arturo was shocked. A brilliant question, but one he had failed to consider asking. The fact that his second in command had thought of it did not surprise him, although. There were many times in the past he had decided on sending Hans to a separate unit to serve as an officer as a testament to his ability. But the old friend refused, preferring to stay amongst those he loved and trusted.
Greco moaned before saying, “There is a cave. You must go above once more, and into the trees there is a cave. There, we will find answers. That much I have seen…”
After regaining his feet, the captain breathed deeply. As a military man, he was lost in the absence of orders. Now that he had an objective, he could train his thoughts, energy and effort towards it. Tightening his scabbard’s belt and checking his blade, he took a step towards the first cave they were required to pass through. Looking back, he asked, “Will you come, Father?”
Struggling to stand, the old man muttered, “If God wills it,” As the two warriors turned their backs and started forward, Greco added, “And if the Devil doesn’t kill me,”
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Post by longstevo on Feb 13, 2008 20:22:54 GMT -5
The Key Against the Darkness - Is Death
Pushing back the branches that blocked their way with a gloved hand, Captain Arturo Castillo led the way down a rough path that wound through the thick , tropical jungle. Strange trees he had never seen sprang from the ground and nearly twisted themselves in knots before reaching skyward and exploding into beautiful displays of leaves and flowers. Those same boughs choked the sunlight from reaching the soil, but it did not seem to prevent other strange foliage to growing, however. Plants that resembled ferns covered the entire area where the trees did not grow, providing cover anywhere from two feet to six feet high for anything that could be hunting them. The trio advanced cautiously.
The path curved towards the left. Being an expert navigator, Castillo was always able to locate himself using the sun, stars and other signs of the earth. But he was completely lost here. He had no idea where north was, or the other directions for that matter. It was a strange feeling, being so lost as to not know even which direction he was heading.
He turned back to Father Greco, walking between him and Hans Gottschalk, “And this IS the path, Father?”
“Yes,” the man struggled to get the words out. Since his ordeal in the clearing, he had not spoken much, and when he had, it was forced, yet withheld at the same time, as if he were attempting not to vomit again. Arturo had seen behavior like this before, in soldiers gone mad trying to keep their insane outbursts under control. With a wary eye, Castillo turned back to their lead.
It took a moment at first, to notice things, but the scenery had changed. Most immediately noticable was the lack of the fern plants. In fact, there was no foliage surrounding them whatsoever. Instead of the thick underbrush was short, cool grass, reaching no more than five inches high. But towering above them, however, was massive pine trees of some sort. Appearing to soar to heights of more than two hundred feet, the pines also blotted out the sun, but instead of sucking in the damp heat, as the jungle did, a soft coolness came over them. The lack of shrubs allowed them to see for a hundred yards through the trees, and saw the path continue to wind merrily through the forest.
“Strange…” mumbled Hans to no one in particular as he tightened his grip on a sword recovered from the hatch clearing.
They continued down the path, taking note of the utter lack of terrain features. No hills, cuts, draws, ravines or canyons dotted this seemingly perfect landscape. Until they saw it.
Punctuating the soft green field before them sat the gaping maw of a cave. Sitting just outside the cave was a stone structure partially concealed in the grass, showing only a corner of its base. Approaching the twelve-foot diameter hole, Castillo peered inside the inky blackness for only a moment. Upon confirming that nothing could be seen, he moved towards the small fallen stone work.
As his fingertips made contact with the stone, his mind exploded for only a brief second. The image that flashed in his head was one of such intricate detail, it could only have been an image from someone’s life, as no painter could achieve that level of art. Adorned in full battle armor, a Templar Knight, complete with the crimson cross on his breastplate, knelt in front of another man. His hands clasped in prayer, held nodded to the ground, the man appeared to be praying. The standing man also wore armor, but his didn’t seem to be one of any army Castillo was familiar with. The only soldiers known to wear armor even remotely like his was the old Romans of Julias Caesar’s time. Besides the armor, one other thing was notable of the standing man.
Wings were spread wide behind him, wings of a white dove that reached nearly five feet on either side. An angel. This angel had no face, as a full-faced battle helm capped his head. He was also reaching down to the praying man. No, he was offering something. Cradled in his outstretched arms was a skull.
Then, as fast as the vision hit him, it vanished. He shook his head and blinked. Looking back to his companions, he saw they continued to stare into the dark chasm before them. The vision was his own. Pushing the thought away for a moment, he returned his attention to the small stone figure in front of him. He lifted it up, and despite the relatively small size, it was incredibly heavy.
Standing no more than three feet high, a Celtic cross rose from a sturdy base. It was simple in design, complete with the circle encompassing the center of the crossing beams. Stone white in creation, years of deterioration had taken its toll, staining the stone green and brown. Small lettering could be seen running down the base. He rose his head to call to Father Greco when something stopped him.
Breathing.
Short raspy breaths emanated from directly ahead of him. Looking up, but not wanting to see what was there, he raised his eyes. Standing no more than twenty feet away, was a black skinned demon with a skull on his shoulders that was not of this world.
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Post by longstevo on Feb 14, 2008 0:21:07 GMT -5
Standing as a man does on two feet, the demon heaved with each hideous breath. Man’s feet rose up to a man’s waist, only instead of a pigment of this earth, the skin was as black as the cave nearby. A brown loincloth hung from a ragged belt. The creature’s chest was naked, appearing as a normal human’s, save the color. The head is what struck the most fear into Castillo’s heart.
Sitting on normal shoulders, an animal’s skull of disproportionate size rested where a human head should be. The thing seemed to be a hellish mix between a horse’s skull and a lizard’s. It was about the size of a horse’s skull, yet sharp teeth ran up and down the jawline. The eye holes were set on either side of the skull and far apart, unlike a horse’s, which rest somewhat high and narrow. Small spines ran from the top down the ridge to the nasal cavity, which rest at the very front of the oblong skull. A fearsome sight, indeed.
Clutched in the creature’s right hand was a spear with a jagged point. Hanging from the other hand was a human head.
“Good Lord!” cried Hans when he finally saw the monstrosity. Drawing his sword, he rushed to Castillo’s side.
“Is this one of your demons?” asked Arturo quietly, as he gripped the hilt of his own blade.
“Damn right. Straight from the pits of Hell,” answered Hans. Father Greco could be heard in the background, offering prayers to the heavens above. “Who is that?” the German asked, referring to the decapitated head.
“It looks like William, but I can’t be sure,” said Castillo coldly.
Without warning, the demon raised the severed head high above his own head before uttering a series of guttural noises that resonated throughout the forest. The string of grunts struck a chord of fear in Arturo, but he pressed it down. Courage prevailed, and in a flash, his long sword was tasting open air once more. But this time, it thirsted for blood.
Crouching low, waiting for the first move, the two humans stared down their adversary. Reaching a height of six and a half feet or more, the demon was imposing. His behavior was curious. It obviously saw them, yet didn’t seem to act aggressively, despite holding the head of one of their comrades.
“You charge his left, I’ll flank to the right,” Arturo said in a hushed whisper, as if the demon could hear and understand his words, “We’ll meet in the middle,” he caught his friends eye and winked. Hans smirked and said, “God be with us,”
The men charged.
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Post by longstevo on Feb 14, 2008 0:21:27 GMT -5
The young Arturo ducked into an alley, just in time to avoid being seen by a passing adult. What the man would have said, he couldn’t have known. But it was best to avoid contact nonetheless. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he casually made his way down the other side of the narrow passage, and surveyed the scene.
The sun’s last rays were fading from the evening sky. Shops up and down the street closed their doors and shut their windows, and set about preparing for the next business day. Horses and mules were ushered away from the streets and into the corrals, set to be tended to, fed and shoe’d. A young boy ran down the street and knocked on a shopkeeper’s door. In less than a minute, he ran back home with a loaf of bread under his arm. The town was preparing to sleep.
But not this boy. Slinking around the corner, he attempted to keep to the shadows. He had a reputation as a good boy in town, and didn’t need to tarnish it by being caught after hours. Only bad kids were up about after hours. Strolling down the street, he made his way out of the town limits towards the bridge, where the young Hans said he would meet him. Once he was past the packed dirt roads of the town, Arturo broke into a dead run.
Barely illuminated by the dying sun, the cobblestone bridge spanned a length of a half mile stretching above the local river. The main road out of town went on to the next town, and each settlement was reliant on the other for trade. This made the bridge heavily used, but rarely traversed in the hours of darkness. Wild animals and bandits made travel risky, and people simply liked to travel safely without worry.
As Arturo leaped from the road and onto a hidden trail that led below the bridge, he saw that a fire was lit underneath. Hans had already beaten him here. The heavy kid sat with his back leaned against the stone, legs kicked out in front of him.
“Ha ha ha! You made it, you scrawny whelp! Join me!” cried the new kid.
“That’s what I’m here for, I thought,” mused Arturo, “Why did you ask me to come here?”
Chuckling, Hans reached next to him and produced a hazy bottle. He reached up and offered it to Arturo. “Drink,” he commanded. The younger boy grabbed the bottle and sniffed its contents. It smelled sweet. The liquid inside was warm, but not knowing any better, he brought the bottle to his lips and tipped the bottle up, spilling the contents into his mouth.
He immediately spat it out.
“Hey! That’s a waste of perfectly good rum!”
Arturo hocked and spat some more, “Disgusting! Where did you get that anyways!”
“I lifted it from my old man,” Hans grinned, “He drinks it all the time. Here, maybe this will be better for you,” He offered up a second bottle, “This is from my mother. She likes her wine.”
It smelled sweet as well, like strawberries, and tasted much better, despite being just a little bitter. “That drink of yours tastes horrible!”
Hans only laughed. Arturo laughed with him. With that first sip of wine, he drank down every inhibition he had against drinking. With the second gulp, he drank down any hesitation of what he was doing. And with the third, he just didn’t give a damn.
The two boys laughed into the night until their eyes got red and blurry, and until no one could understand them except themselves. Arturo passed out first, drunk from his fourth swallow. Hans didn’t last much longer, and the two boys slept as the fire died out
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Post by longstevo on Feb 14, 2008 18:53:18 GMT -5
Han’s and Arturo’s feet pounded through the grassy soil as they closed the distance on the demon. If they didn’t have its attention before, they surely had it now. With a screech that could only come from the abyss, the creature reared back and hurled the body-less head towards Hans. With a sickening crack, the skull smashed into Han’s face with such force, it knocked him clean off his feet.
Although the first strike wasn’t fatal, it allowed the demon a spare second it needed to focus solely on one attacker: the captain. Now that the assault was on, backing down would be nothing but suicide for Castillo. He needed to charge forward with all he had, and hope that his inertia was enough to throw the demon off balance, allowing time for Hans to regain his feet.
As he moved to within five yards at full speed, Arturo feinted to his right, before ducking back to the left. The demon calmly twirled the spear several times, end over end, before crouching low, preparing to strike. His posture was such as it gave no clue to where his attack would come. Castillo was rushing in blind with a scream of rage, and part fear.
He brought his sword high, and sent it crashing down at the demon. The beast deflected it easily with a flick of the spear and swiftly cracked Castillo in the back of the skull with the butt end. Arturo stumbled and collapsed onto the ground. Attempting to ignore the pain racing up and down his spine, he rolled onto his back in time to the demon raise the spear vertically, point down above his heart.
A shout rang forth from a second man, directly behind the beast: Hans. In a flash, his sword was sailing forth, cutting through the air. Silently, the demon swiveled and blocked the second blow. But it gave Arturo a moment to regain his feet. When he did, he turned to see his friend and the demon locked in combat.
Hans cut low, the demon parried. He adjusted, bringing the blade high and left, again the demon blocked. He regained himself and thrust the sword straightforward. The demon easily dodged, but brought his spear singing through the air, massive point flying towards the German’s head. Hans fell to the ground, avoiding the fatal blow.
Castillo saw his moment of opportunity. Finding his sword, he reared back and thrust the point home in the center of the demon’s back. The blade slid easily into the skin of the creature before its wielder yanked it out. The demon made not a sound, but turned to face his threat. The wound left a disgusting black film along the blade’s surface. But mixed in the black oil was blood.
Red blood.
“It bleeds!” cried Castillo. It eased it mind somewhat knowing that what they were dealing with was not entirely a heartless fiend from the Ninth Hell, “If it bleeds, it can die!”
Almost on cue, Han’s sword came crashing down into the demon’s neck and cut clean to its collarbone. Bright red blood flowed freely from the fresh cut. Once again, the creature made no sound, but fell to its knees and dropped the spear with a dull thud. Not wasting a moment, Arturo jammed his sword point home to where its heart should be and twisted. The black body jerked once.
Arturo stared intently into the dark, hollow sockets that acted as eyes. He could see nothing inside the skull. “What are you?” he calmly asked as he continued to press the blade into the demon’s body cavity. The only answer he received was gurgling as he twisted the blade inside the black body.
The demon finally lost strength and collapsed. Both warriors stared at their fallen foe. “Well, that was easy,” quipped Hans, “Now to see what you really are,” he knelt next to the fallen demon, but was hesitant to reach down and grasp the skull. The longer they stood over the beast, the more human looking it became. Finally, Hans gathered his courage and wrapped his fingers around the lower jaw and tugged.
“There’s give here,” muttered Hans. When he twisted the skull to the right, neither the body nor the neck moved. Same when he moved it to the left. He found that wherever he moved it, the body didn’t move, almost as if it were…
“A mask,” declared Greco, “Try pulling it straight off,”
Castillo and Hans jerked at the sudden interjection of the bishop, but quickly returned their attention back to the demon. Hans grabbed either side of the skull as Castillo knelt down and propped the body upright. With slight pressure, he pulled the skull up and felt resistance. With a breath and a surge of strength, he hefted the heavy skull up and away from the body.
The three men immediately wished that they hadn’t.
The head sitting on the shoulders was, in fact, the head of a man, but a horribly disfigured and mutilated one. If the skull that acting as a mask before didn’t strike fear into a man’s heart, the real one certainly did. Although there was skin stretching over the bones, the man’s face might have been a dead skull nonetheless.
Gone were the ears and nose, in their place were horrible scars, twisted and blotted skin wrinkled up and clustered around the holes they were designed to protect. The lips had also been cut away, revealing blackened teeth and gums, surrounded by more disgusting scars. There was no hair on its scalp, cut away in strips and covered by more scars. But the eyes were different. The entire face was mutilated and cut away, but the eyes were untouched. Even after death, they still possessed a ferocity that sent a shiver crawling up Arturo’s spine.
As the three men cringed at the sight, a presence behind them sent another shiver up the captains’ back.
More breathing, but there were more than one being drawing breath…
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Post by longstevo on Feb 14, 2008 19:53:19 GMT -5
Castillo, Gottschalk and Greco all turned simultaneously to find over a dozen of the same demons lurking in the trees. Heights varied in size between five feet and seven, and many of the skulls were different, yet many were the same as the fallen. Arturo wondered if they were all disfigured underneath their masks.
It was in that moment that the captain realized the demon’s tactics. He thought to how easily they overcame the single foe. And he thought back to the recollections of the initial assault in the hatch clearing. There were many of the black-skins overwhelming the human soldiers. Then it became obvious.
These demons, or men, or whatever they were, were somewhat weak by themselves. But when they grouped together, they formed a sweeping wave of death that was fast and unforgiving. Castillo dully noted that that same wave of death is what they were about to face themselves.
“Father, take this man’s spear,” hissed Castillo.
“Havens no! I will take up no arms against any creature of God, I swore it!” cried the bishop.
Hans kicked the dead man violently, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I do not think this is a creation of God, Father!”
The bishop stared intently at the fallen demon, yet refused to pick up the weapon. Castillo shook his head and fixated back on their impending death. He counted twelve, thirteen, finally fourteen ebony skinned men standing only fifty yards away. All of them cradled spears in their hands. No pieces of his comrades were present, though. He held out hope for some of his men’s survival.
Once again, as before, the black men stood motionless. Castillo wondered again why they hesitated for action. They were vastly outnumbered and would fall easily against Hell’s minions. Then suddenly, without warning, a loud and gruff laughter resonated from somewhere behind the line of demons and nearly shook the trees right out of their roots.
Castillo dropped his sword and placed his hands over his ears, attempting to block out the deafening pounding. The laughter continued, until it was long enough that it was evident no human throat could laugh that long or loud. When it finally did die down, another series of thunder pounded at their ears. But this barrage was different. Instead of methodical chuckling, the scattered explosions followed no set pattern, and it seemed to be coming from a handful of sources. It took just a short time to for Castillo to locate the source.
Muskets.
With relief flooding into his heart, he located a line of Conquistadors kneeling down just one hundred yards away from their position. Every one of the ten men he saw was firing his rifle, reloading, and firing again. The small barrage had its intended effect. Two demons fell immediately, clutching bleeding holes in their chests. Within seconds, they scattered, disappearing into the trees.
Whooping with joy, Castillo threw his fist into the air. They had won! They had stared into the jaws of demons themselves, and they had won. He knew there would be more before this was over, but he needed to enjoy their small victory for the moment.
The squad of men grouped up and hurried towards their commander. “Am I glad to see you men. Who’s in charge?”
A young soldier, from France and equally glad to see his captain, pointed behind him, “Sergeant William sir!” With a laugh, Castillo patted the boy on the armored shoulder plates and moved towards the raking individual.
“Sergeant William!” called Castillo, “Report!”
Separating himself from the pack of armor and rifles, William ran to his captain and saluted, “Sergeant John William, reporting!” Despite his attempt to retain his military bearing, the wide smile on his face belied his relief and happiness to see his commander once more. The rest of the soldiers gathered around Gottschalk, exchanging handshakes and smiles.
“A fine job, son! Where have you been?” asked Castillo, laughing.
“Hiding in the woods sir. We decided to come this way after he claimed to have seen a vision,” Sergeant William pointed towards on of the robed priests that belonged to Bishop Greco, “He said God spoke to him, and we should come here,”
Captain Castillo’s face fell. Another vision? And to another member of the ministry? Something was odd about this. There were powers at work here, strange powers. Greco had already pulled the young priest aside, and they were speaking in hushed whispers. Castillo left the sergeant and made his way to the bishop.
“Father, what is going on here?”
Greco only frowned and waved the captain away. The two were speaking in a language he did not understand. Frustrated, he discreetly grasped the bishop by the arm and pulled him close, “Lord as my witness, you estranged little man. If you do not start talking and tell me what you’ve seen, I swear that I’ll toss you both into that pit and leave you for the demons!” he hissed, “Now talk!”
It was then the sun began to fade. Nightfall was fast approaching. Greco looked to the skies, then back into Castillo’s eyes, “If you’re not afraid of the dark, you will be. Soon…”
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Post by longstevo on Feb 15, 2008 21:45:29 GMT -5
The captain’s eyes bored into Greco’s in the waning light. The bishop wore his face like a mask, hiding much and telling little. Fear danced in his eyes, and Castillo guessed it was the fear that kept Greco from speaking. The old man looked haggard, tired and worn out. His eyes drooped and the skin fell loosely off his bones. He needed rest most of all, but the captain feared that sleep would be in short supply. He squeezed the bishop’s arm harder, forcing the clergyman to wince.
Arturo’s attention was ripped away by a shout from one of his men.
“They’re coming back!”
Worried cries arose from the group of men as Castillo turned to look. Sure enough, a wave of skulled demons burst forward from the distant trees. A quick survey revealed they had doubled their numbers to about twenty. They were sprinting towards the men with reckless abandon. Movement to his left revealed a second wave of demons, close to twenty as well, were moving quickly their way. The group of humans instinctively huddled closer, inching their way towards the cave’s gaping maw.
“Defensive line formations! Give me a barrage on each group, now!” ordered Castillo, usually cool under pressure felt the fingers of fear crawl up his spine.
Instead of ten rifles cracking, he heard only four. “We’re out of rounds, sir!” “My powder won’t charge!” “My rifle is broken!”
The captain could not believe it. Without firearms, they were doomed. “Draw swords! Steel yourselves!”
Twelve blades immediately unsheathed, yet wavered unsteadily in frightened hands. The rushing beasts closed to within fifty yards, and continued running. Once again, their silence may have been the most terrifying thing. Castillo had stood against a legion of screaming Moors, outnumbered five to one, yet the enemy’s battle cries seemed to give him strength. The silent charge only stirred at a pit of uncertainty in his stomach.
So this is how it will end. Things seemed to slow for the captain. He looked to his right. Standing precariously on the edge of the cave, Hans held his sword high, waiting to quench its thirst for blood. He looked behind him. At a loss for words and even prayers, the bishop and his priest stood motionless, anxious to see the outcome of the skirmish, but their faces knew what would happen. Castillo looked back towards his impending death.
Ten scared soldiers held their blades in similar manners, all trained from the same teacher, their fighting styles were identical. And that teacher stood behind them. Standing tall, a rear command position was good in an artillery barrage. This would be an old fashioned infantry clash, so Castillo pushed his way into the center of the line.
Twenty five yards. The demons continued to approach.
Castillo held his sword high, awaiting the inevitable. A spear suddenly appeared in mid flight, apparently launched by a demon. It sliced cleanly through the air and embedded itself into the chest of the man next to him. The soldier clutched at the wooden pole and collapsed. Another spear came flying through, but missed.
Ten yards. The men could hear the demons breathing.
“Ready…” commanded Castillo. He knew that if by some miracle they survived the first wave, the second would be on them instantly. A flash of movement caught his eye, far to his right.
A third wave of black skinned demons came bursting from the trees. That was it. Death was certain. A strange sense of calmness washed over Arturo. Warmth burned away the gnawing pit of dread in his stomach. And finally, he felt at peace. His soul had endured a torturous tenure as a combat commander, and for once, all of that washed away. His soul was at peace.
The demons crashed into the men as the devastating ocean waves destroy a child’s sand castle. The men were immediately engulfed by black, oily skin. Jabbing spears, slashing claws and gnashing teeth tore at the steel armor and chain mail. Thrusting swords fought back at the primitive weapons, but it was to no avail. Men died, demons did not.
The utter force of the oncoming wave immediately knocked Castillo off his feet, sending him flying backwards. After crashing onto his back , he looked up to see a demon flying through the air towards him, spear aimed at his heart. He parried the spear point and aimed his blade at the falling creature. It fell on the blade, allowing the captain to regain his feet.
He was bumped from the side by one of his soldiers locked in combat. The jostling sent Castillo stumbling right towards the edge of the cave. He had only three feet between him and the blackness, and as hard as he tried, he could not stop his fumbling feet. He tried simply falling on his side, but it was too late. He felt the weightlessness of the fall, as he plummeted, he once again heard the demonic laugh roar through the forest.
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Post by longstevo on Feb 16, 2008 14:53:03 GMT -5
When Castillo finally came to and regained his senses, he attempted to open his eyes. Blackness. He stretched his eyelids as far open as he could until they hurt, still he could see nothing. He felt himself lying upon a cool rock surface. It seemed dry, but rough. He ran his fingers down his face. His face was dry also. He remembered sweating heavily during the attack, but his skin was now dry. He must have lay there for some time.
The attack! The memories came rushing back to him. The charging demons, his dying men, the horrible disfigured face, the possessed bishop and the burning ships all raced through is mind in the matter of seconds. That ever-so familiar sensation of dread exploded in his stomach as he realized exactly what his predicament was.
“Hello!?” he shouted into the darkness, but immediately wished he hadn’t. He had no idea what else inhabited this cave with him, or if any of the minions had fallen in and survived. Looking up, he saw nothing but blackness. He remembered the canopy of the trees blocking out the sunlight. Surely, the stars would not be visible, and depending on how long he was out, it would easily be the dead of night by now.
“Captain?” a weak voice floated from only ten yards away.
“Identify yourself,” commanded Castillo.
A groan followed by a whimper of pain before a second voice spoke, “Aye, captain. Gottschalk is present,” the voice came from his right.
“Give me a role call, sound off,” ordered the captain.
“Gottschalk,” repeated the hefty sergeant.
“William,” the sergeant replied, his voice wavering with pain again.
“Zu-bee-ev, Zebenjo,” the native African had survived. Castillo had to smile. He raised himself to a sitting position, pain shooting up from his leg.
“DeLuca is present,” one of the native Italians called.
“And I am here. Matilla,” another Spaniard.
“As am I,” the noticeable ragged voice that belonged to Father Greco sounded off, “But I am afraid our young priest is not,”
Silence followed. “Is that it?” called the captain. His question was met by silence. Seven men had survived. He sighed. Their odds were slim indeed. “What happened?”
“During the fight, most of us were pushed into the cave. The others, I cannot say,” answered Hans.
“William, what’s your status?” asked the captain.
“I can’t move my legs, and they’re on fire,” muttered the sergeant. Obviously, they were not on fire, as the soldiers continued to remain engulfed in darkness.
A sharp clicking resonated from within the circle of the group.
“What’s that?” cried DeLuca.
“Relax,” assured Matilla. Sparks began to fly from the direction of the clicking, lighting the cavern with momentary explosions of light.
“Splendid, my boy!” cheered Castillo. The clever young man was rarely seen without his pack, despite the varied length or destinations of their missions. The resourceful soldier always kept a flint and a small torch inside. He constantly received friendly hazing from his comrades, but nobody was making fun now. In minutes, a fully lit torch brightened the cavern like a small sun.
The light was a small morale booster, as even Bishop Greco garnered a small smile. Castillo saw it as an opportunity to assess their situation. Most of his men appeared in good shape. Bumps, bruises and scrapes punctured their skin. William was the worst off. His right leg was completely gone, shorn off above the knee. His left appeared as if it were not too far behind from following the fate of the right. The morale that hung precariously on a ledge completely fell of a cliff.
When Sergeant William saw his legs, he lost it, “My holy Lord! My leg! Good God! Aaahh!!” he screamed against the darkness, his voice amplified by the hollow cave. He continued to scream as his friends huddled around him. They knew he wasn’t going to live. All they could do was comfort him in his final minutes.
“Shhh…” cooed the captain. He rest his hands on the lad’s shoulders and smiled into the wounded soldier’s eyes, “My son, you’ve fought bravely,”
Fear racing in his eyes, William looked at his commander, “Will I die, sir?”
The captain’s face went grim before putting his smiling mask once more, “Only God can decide that. And if it is your time, you have a place in heaven awaiting you. Your service to God has assured that,”
That seemed to calm the young man down a bit. He stopped squirming and somebody produced a bottle and offered it to William. He downed the contents of the bottle in three swigs. He would feel no more pain, despite the gaping wounds spilling his blood onto the rocks.
William’s eyes began to roll in his head, “Have…I…served you well…Lord?”
“Aye, you have,” answered Greco, kneeling to the right of William. He stretched out his hand, making the sign of the cross of the dying soldier’s forehead, and recited his last rites. “Now go in peace, Child of God.”
William smiled faintly and sighed. His chest did not rise again. The captain brushed his fingers down the young man’s eyelids, closing his eyes for the last time.
Fighting back tears, Hans stood and kicked a nearby shield, sending it clattering into the darkness, “Damn it!” he cursed.
Nobody attempted to calm the German down, as they were all feeling the same way. How many more must die before their quest revealed itself, if there was a quest at all? It seemed now their mission was to simply survive. Bishop Greco said one more prayer over the body of Sergeant William before standing. Castillo got to his feet as well, and prepared to press the Father for more answers when something donned on him.
“Sergeant Gottschalk, what did you just kick away from here?”
Shaking his head, still frustrated and scared, the large warrior replied, “I don’t know. Some rubble or something…”
“You kicked a shield,” realization fell over the two men. Their conquistadors didn’t carry shields. Scrambling over the rocks, the captain retrieved a tower shield and brought it back to the light.
The instantly recognizable Templar cross adorned the center. Castillo and his men were not the first ones to come down this tunnel.
The remaining men gathered together to examine the artifact. The captain began reciting specifics and characteristics of the shield, but something just outside of the firelight caught his eye.
He handed the shield off to Hans, who hefted it as a Templar Knight would. It was heavy, but not so as to restrict movement. Hefty enough to deflect most sword, spear and mace attacks, it was dexterous enough to be used as a weapon in itself. “I think we’d better hang onto this, eh?” he asked a young soldier, not really caring what the soldier thought or said.
Reaching down into the blackness, Castillo was surprised to see the same Celtic cross he had been studying above before the attack. It must have been knocked in during the ruckus. It had cracked nearly in two, but the inscriptions were still readable. He hurried and brought the piece to Father Greco kneeling nearby, offering last rites to his fallen priest.
He allowed the bishop to finish before getting his attention, “Father. I found this piece above the cave, lying in the grass before we were attacked. There’s writing on the side, but I cannot read it. Can you?”
He offered the small statue to the bishop. The clergyman took a minute to study the marble carving before announcing, “It reads: ‘Before you lies a cave of sin. Upon reaching the other side, you will have proven yourself holy enough to…’ the rest is unreadable, I’m afraid.” Relief washed over the old man. At least they were still on the correct path.
Frowning, Castillo announced, “Seeing as we have no other options, we will travel through the cave. DeLuca, Matilla, you two take weapons and scout ahead,”
Within moments, a second torch was lit, and the two soldiers carefully picked their way over the rocks and down into the abyss. After they had reached the bottom of a massive rock pile, a rather worn path seemed to stretch out in front of them.
Castillo watched the torchlight dance off the walls, and slowly fade as the two disappeared behind a corner. He didn’t like sending two men off alone, and immediately regretted doing so once they were out of sight. But his soldiers would jump on a sword for their captain in a heartbeat, and many had done so in the past. He sighed, and commanded the rest of them to gather themselves and prepare to follow their scouts.
A quick inventory and search revealed each man still possessed their blade. A few muskets had fallen into the cave as well, but the stocks were broken, and none of the men had bullets, either. They were even useless as walking sticks. They would have to settle for melee weapons the rest of the way. The search also revealed other Templar equipment, including a rusty long sword. A more thorough look found the skeleton of that same knight, still wearing his armor, emblazoned with the Lord’s cross.
“Greetings, brother. Can you point the way?” joked Hans, but did not laugh. He turned instead to the path into the cave and began making his way down the rockslide, Templar shield in hand.
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Post by longstevo on Feb 17, 2008 18:58:08 GMT -5
The two scouts, Rodrigo Matilla and Rossi DeLuca, found the going relatively easy on the beaten path. They thought it was strange that such a worn trail was present at the bottom of the cave, but they took every break they could get. The strolled down the path, ever vigilant and very alert. Their torchlight only cast out so far, but they kept their ears tuned for any suspicious noise.
They didn’t speak, instead they maintained one hundred percent noise discipline. The firelight was going to give them away easily, they didn’t need their echoing voices broadcasting their position down the massive tunnel. The communicated with hand signals, and when speech was necessary, they talked in hushed whispers, as they did when they came to a fork in the road.
The path to the left curved away slightly, turning lazily into the darkness. The path on the right cut sharply away at a near ninety degree angle. Both appeared similar in look and characteristics. They spent a moment searching for clues, as they had encountered by the Templars, but none could be found.
Matilla leaned in close, “What do you think?”
DeLuca only shook his head, “Can’t say. And we’re not splitting up. Let’s see…”
At that very moment, they heard something drifting from the path on the right. A voice, it seemed, could be heard. The two men strained their ears. It could be that the path on the right circled back to where they came from, and they were hearing their captain’s group’s voices. But no, the harder they listened, they realized the voice was female. Words were indistinguishable, and it seemed distant.
“A woman?! Down here?” hissed DeLuca, “She must be in trouble!”
“Maybe she fell in and is trapped! Let’s go look,”
The woman’s voice got increasingly louder as they turned down the right tunnel, but it did not get harsher. They hurried down the path, and the woman’s voice turned to singing. A beautiful and soft melody that reminded DeLuca of a child’s song of his youth. The voice seemed to echo in their very heads, instead of the cave walls. They did not notice that the massive cavern had pinched out and instead turned into a small tunnel that only allowed for two or three men through at a time. The farther they went, they soon realized that a soft blue light bouncing off the walls could be seen. What was back here? Alarmed, DeLuca held back, concerned. All this seemed too strange, but his companion continued, so he followed.
The soft song put DeLuca’s mind to ease. He felt safe, and at peace. The soft blue light only contributed to his calmness. The two men rounded a final corner and saw the source of the singing.
A medium sized grotto opened wide, its ceiling towering above them again. A small pool fed by a little waterfall sat off to the right. Various plants and trees grew from the harsh rock, creating a sort of mini ecosystem. Upon further study, this room didn’t consist of the harsh cave rock. There was soft soil, giving the plants life. Possibly the strangest objects here were furniture.
Expensive looking, very comfortable furniture was scattered about the enclave. A lush sofa near the pool, a soft bed nestled in a grotto, and many chairs were set about the place. It looked more like a king’s garden than a lonely cave dwelling. And they noticed the warmth. It was not cold, clammy or damp like the cave, instead it was dry and warm. They were immediately comfortable. Then they noticed the source of the blue light. Torches were lined throughout the garden, but instead of the orange flame invading this place by their torch, it burned with a bright blue fire. The men thought nothing of it, instead looked on with amazement. What was this place? They were so engulfed in their wonder, they had not noticed the singing stopped.
“Hello?” said Matilla quietly. He ducked and bobbed his head to see if anything could be seen through the trees.
“Hello,” came an answer. The voice was golden, and seemed to be sung from angels themselves. They turned their head to see a woman slowly walking towards them from the direction of the waterfall. How they had not seen her, they didn’t know.
With tan skin and long, flowing black hair, she looked like a princess. She wore little more than a thin, silk robe that barely clung to her shoulders. It fell loosely to her ankles, and a thin gold chain hung from her hips, keeping the flowing garment tight. The thin material did nearly nothing to hide her supple curves, and neither did she.
At a total lack for words, the men only stammered in an attempt to speak. She only smiled warmly, and continued to meander towards them. She ran her hand along the edge of a sofa, her fingers lingering on the edge.
“What are you doing here!?” DeLuca finally blurted.
The woman’s smile only grew, “Why, I am lost, and this is where I have made my home,” the answer made perfect sense. Why, DeLuca could not say. But her answer seemed to satisfy him, “And I’m so lonely…”
“And so am I,” cooed a second woman, appearing from behind a small tree. This blonde haired beauty wore nothing save for a silk skirt, drifting freely from her waist. Her smile was made of pure gold, as her blond hair fell to the small of her back.
“And me too,” said a third, her voice dripping with sensuality. A crimson haired woman appeared just behind the men. This woman was completely naked, and did nothing to conceal it. DeLuca jumped as the woman ran her fingers through his hair. “We’ve been so lonely. Can you big, strong men keep us safe?” The woman caressed DeLuca’s face with fingers that were so soft, it might as well have been an infant’s skin.
“Well…um…” the blond hair vixen came to his right and grasped his hand.
“That armor must be so heavy…” with a slow and deliberate move, she slid her hand under the armor, and it came crashing down to the floor. The blond giggled when she ran her hand across his hard and sweaty chest. DeLuca only stammered.
A second set of armor falling to the floor revealed the black haired woman was working on Matilla. The men looked at each other and shrugged. Smiling, they brought their attention back to the women.
“Come with us!” laughed the red haired woman. She grabbed DeLuca’s hand and led him to the bed tucked inside the grotto. Incense and perfume was instantly noticeable as the blond reached up and kissed his neck. She ran her hands down his muscular back and pressed her body against his.
“We’re so lonely. What’s your name?”
He didn’t get the chance to answer as the blond pushed him onto the bed. The sheets felt like the finest Egyptian cotton. In fact, he had never even seen a bed this comfortable, much less slept it one. He struggled to adjust himself before she crawled up and straddled his stomach. She slid her hands beneath his ratted old cotton shirt and ran them up and down across his chest. The red haired woman lay down next to him and kissed the side of his face.
Wait! This was wrong! Everything about this was wrong! Why are three beautiful women living at the bottom of this cave? And why are they concerned with sexual behavior when they should be asking of rescue? He propped himself up on his elbows.
“Wait, lass. Let me know your name?”
“Does it matter?” the blond whispered as she caressed his head again. The crimson haired woman’s breath became ragged as she breathed into his ear. She was lusting for him, and made no secret of it. Finally, DeLuca’s manhood got the best of him. Reaching up and smiling, he returned the blonde’s caress and Red Hair ran her fingertips from his face to his neck.
Sighing and preparing to enjoy the ride, he lay back and let his head fall to the left. He opened his eyes. He struggled to comprehend what he saw. Squinting, he studied closer. There, tucked into a hidden corner of this room, sat a large pile of bones, sitting nearly six feet tall. Propping himself up on his elbows once more, he looked hard. Bones were not the only things stacked in the rather large pile. Skulls littered the small alcove, along with armor and weapons. A Templar shield rest against the wall with a crowned skull laying unceremoniously beside it. What the hell?
Frowning, he looked back towards the blonde sitting atop him. He shrieked as he saw her face was no longer the beautiful face it was seconds before. Twisted in an expression DeLuca could not even describe, her mouth was ripping open at the corners of her lips, her jaw and skull popping to adjust to the transformation. Her clear blue eyes changed to blood red, and the blond hair falling over her shoulders changed to twisting, writing serpents springing from her head. Perfectly formed teeth sprang up from her elongated jaw, much like a shark’s. Her well-manicured hands lengthened and sprouted vicious talons. DeLuca turned to his right, and saw the red-haired beauty had undergone the same transformation. He had no time to scream, as the crimson woman lunged forward, sinking her demon mouth into his throat.
The crimson woman was biting, twisting and tearing while the blond held him down. DeLuca felt his neck tear apart, the hot blood spilling into the back of his mouth. With his final thought, his mind wandered to a story he had heard a long time ago in school, about a famed explorer named Odysseus, and the syrens he encountered on his voyage.
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