Book and Blade: Book One of the Hand of Perdition (5 page)

There were other photos, all of a family lost to him. Taken, rather, by this Ambros fuck. Until now—this moment of walking through his family's sanctuary—he had been sort of numb. He had spent the last week in a subconscious state of denial. Now, looking at these pictures, he could feel it, like scabs ripped from a wound. The pain seemed fresh and everything that had happened over the last week came rushing at him. Waves of grief pounded at him.

The strength gone from his legs, he sunk to the floor at the end of the hall and curled up into a ball as the tears streamed down his cheeks. He was a man, but at that moment he felt like a child again, living in a world so out of control that everything could be taken from you in an instant. He wanted to hate everything, to lash out at everything, especially this Ambros that had destroyed his life. But he was also afraid.

It was this fear, more than anything, that alerted him to the sudden change from below. A noise had brought him out of his despair by grating on his frayed nerves.

It was a loud plink sound followed by a loud grunt, another plink sound and then what sounded like a chair falling over.

With cold certainty, Christopher knew they had come after him. Why was he so valuable dead? A simple college kid. In the end, his death wouldn't be much of a statement.

He had no time to think. He jumped up and ran to his room. Once there, he looked around futilely. There was nowhere to run, no escape out the window here. It was too far of a drop and nothing for him to land on but concrete. Down on the street he could see Lee's car with him asleep behind the wheel, but Christopher knew he was not asleep.

Noise from the hallway spurred Christopher into action. He could hear them coming up the stairs, loudly. They were laughing, all pretense of stealth gone. They were just outside his door.

He dove under the bed. He wasn't a small guy, but his mom had liked big, grand furniture so the bed was fairly high off the ground. Enough for him to fully squeeze under just as the door opened. Christopher froze.

Boots clicked as two men entered the room slowly. Christopher couldn't see above their ankles. On the floor on the other side of the bed was the book and pocket knife. Somehow he had knocked them off the bed.

"Listen Chris, don't make this hard. Just come and we’ll make it quick," one of them said. He had a low voice with a slight German accent.

"Yeah don't make it so hard on yourself," the other one said. He had a higher voice.

"Your mother, your sister, they made it hard on themselves," Low Voice said.

High Voice chuckled.

"Hard is the operative word there," High Voice said and laughed harder.

Low Voice joined in laughing. "Yeah, we had some real fun with those two. I tell you if the boss hadn't told me to fuck'um I still would’ve."

A mixture of rage and fear shook Christopher's body. Every part of this body screamed at him to do something, run or fight, anything, just do something other than listen to these two men. But that same fear kept him from moving. Once again he saw the book and knife and his body let him move, just a little, enough to reach out quietly and pull the book and pocket knife toward him.

"Maybe the closet?" Low Voice asked.

Christopher heard his closet door slam open.

"Nope, college boy is out of the closet," Low Voice said and they both burst into laughter.

"Guess that narrows down our choices doesn't it?" High Voice asked.

"Yep, guess there’s only one place left," Low Voice answered.

Christopher saw them start walking towards the bed slowly, continuing to mock him. He looked at the book, it was now or never. Whatever it was, if it was anything at all, it was all he had left. It was stupid to think that a book could be of use at a time like this, but what could it hurt? He looked at the book again. It had changed now, it said
Dante's Inferno
. Christopher almost laughed.

Filled with a painful mixture of hate and fear, Christopher opened the book.

The words 'THAT WAS A BAD IDEA' were written on the inside.

The words started to blur and shake like he was reading through an earthquake, and then the pain started.

CHAPTER NINE

The words pulsed on the page and then seemed to leap forward into his eyes, burning into his skull. The searing pain was worse than any gunshot wound. It felt like his whole body had exploded into a giant fireball. Organized thought was impossible. Every thought, each piece of knowledge, anything that was once him was scattered instantly into chaos. He was formless and void. There was some vestige of self-awareness, he was able to understand that this was happening to him, although he no longer remembered who 'he" was.

In moments he was everywhere, somehow he engulfed the universe. He was everywhere, he knew everything. Countless civilizations and wonders throughout the universe were his to experience, without any judgment or bias of his mortality. Like a god, everything was open to him, but it was useless. With no purpose, no sense of self, he did not know what to do with it. He was an observer, an experiencer, and he could not act, could not direct any action. For a moment he was the Watcher Over All, and then he began to shrink. He collapsed in on himself, his awareness and sense of self came flooding back. And so did the pain.

The fire flared up, burning through him, this time in reverse. Every nerve ending in his body woke with that touch of intense pain. He longed like a mad man for the nothingness he just was to free him from this purifying fire. He imagined his body a burnt out shell. Gone were the billions of worlds and cold stretches of space and time. He was the left with the charred remains of his soul.

It took him a few minutes to realize the pain was gone, even if the memory of it was only just now starting to fade. He was lying face down on a cool stone floor. He didn't want to move. He didn't care what happened to the two guys about to kill him, or how he ended up on a stone floor even though his room had a wooden floor. He just wanted to enjoy the cool stone against his face as he waited for the memory of the pain to recede.

His mind tried to grasp what had just happened, but understanding slipped away from him like a dream only vaguely remembered in the morning. He felt different, his thoughts refused to hold together for more than a second.

As the memory of pain became more distant, it felt like a gap was left behind, a hollowness that almost ached. But slowly he realized it wasn't hollow. There was a seed, a little spark of something that was starting to grow in the empty space left behind. At first he did not know what it was that grew there, then he understood. What started to fill him back up slowly, but surely, was anger and purpose.

"Well... yes, I suppose it would be a rough trip for a mortal," said a voice from above him.

It took Christopher a moment to realize he was being spoken too. Slowly, he tried to push himself to his knees. Every joint ached and his muscles vibrated with exhaustion. His whole body felt bruised and battered. After a moment he found he could sit back on his knees and look at the person addressing him.

He was impossibly tall, maybe eight feet, dressed head to toe in a hooded robe. His arms were held low in front, but his hands were lost in the sleeves. His face, if he had one at all, was hidden in the darkness of the hood which held blackness so complete and deep it seemed to stretch back farther than his hood would suggest. The blackness of its robes shifted about in different shades, giving it varying depths and textures. To Christopher it looked like a gathering of shadows draping themselves over a very tall man.

"Who... where, where am I?" Christopher asked.

"You are in the Library and I am the Librarian," it said.

Christopher was in a cavernous room, surrounded by shelves overflowing with books and stretching up to the ceiling several stories above. Row after row of shelves stretched off into the distance. It did indeed look like a monstrous library, though very unorganized and unkempt. Books and stacks of papers piled on the shelves and the stone floor in messy stacks. The walls, at least the ones Christopher could see, were of old stone, making the library look like a medieval castle. Light came from lanterns in sconces along the wall and a strange glow emanated from the ceiling, like the moon was shining through.

"What is this place?" Christopher asked.

"This is the place of all knowledge. All thoughts, ideas. Every answer to every question that has been or ever will be. To know this place is to know the mind of God. No, even more, it is to know the mind of gods and men."

"Where are we? I mean like what city or... or country are we in?"

"This place is nowhere really. It is a concept. What you see around you is just your interpretation of the idea of this place. For someone else it would look different, it would
be
different. But you are the Master of the Book and Weapon now, so it becomes what it needs to be for you."

Christopher tried to stand, but he was still a little weak and settled for leaning back against a shelf. He could not quite grasp what this thing said. They had to be somewhere.

"No. I mean, what is outside the door if I were to leave?"

"A door to an outside?"

"Yes, if I stepped outside where would I be?" Christopher asked again, his confusion making him impatient.

"There isn't one," the Librarian answered.

"There's no door?"

"There's no outside," the Librarian answered again. "Honestly, if I have to repeat myself every step of the way, this is going to go very slowly. I have all the time in the world, but I was led to believe mortals were more impatient."

Christopher paused and tried to collect himself to ask the right question.

"Okay, let's start at the beginning. What the hell happened to me?" Christopher asked.

"Well that is hardly the beginning, but I will answer you the best I can. Understand that some of this is new to me also. There has only ever been one Master of the Book and Weapon.

"You opened and started to read the Book given to you by The Beast, The Hunter of Lost Souls. He has other names, the Devil, Satan. He was an aspect of the Devil, the part of Satan allowed to roam free on the earth so that he could collect escaped souls and perform other services for Hell."

Christopher was feeling a little stronger, so he stood up on shaky legs and tried to make sense of what the Librarian was telling him. As soon as Christopher was on his feet, the Librarian turned and started walking off into the stacks.

"Hey, wait..." Christopher started, but the Librarian ignored him and kept walking. Although it seemed more like gliding than walking, like he was floating a little off the ground. He was still talking, so Christopher had no choice but to follow him.

"For whatever reason the Beast chose you as his successor," The Librarian said.

"Well actually, it was my father he chose, but he’s dead," Christopher paused for a moment. It was the first time he had said the words out loud. "The same guy that killed him sent some guys to kill me. They were just about to grab me, I had no choice, I had to try the book. I had no idea..."

Christopher trailed off when he realized the Librarian had stopped in front of him, he almost bumped into his back.

"The Beast did not choose you?" The Librarian asked. He spoke quietly, and Christopher thought he detected a hint of concern.

"No," Christopher said and then remembering, continued reluctantly, "in fact he specifically told me not to open the book. He said I was too weak."

"Oh?" said the Librarian. "That could be a problem."

The Librarian continued moving. He turned at the end of an aisle and it opened up into a large space with several desks scattered about. They were large ornate wood desks. Pictures and symbols were carved along the side and legs of each desk. There was a rug, a large fireplace (the chimney of which stretched off into the invisible ceiling), and several very comfortable looking chairs. Christopher could imagine himself surrounded by 19
th
century businessmen smoking cigars and drinking their after-dinner brandy, while their women folk were gathered in the drawing room.

"I have a question before we move on. It’s been bugging me for a while."

When the Librarian made no response, he continued.

"I heard voices warning me that I was in danger. Were you that voice?"

"No. At least, not exactly. It was the book, and I am part of the book, but I was not consciously part of its communication."

"What exactly is it that you do here anyway?" Christopher asked.

"I am here to assist you in learning what you need to learn and knowing all that it is you would know. I am your assistant, so to speak."

Christopher sat on one of the chairs. He was still weak from his journey to the Library.

"So you think I’m supposed to take over for this Beast thing? I’m supposed to hunt down evil souls and somehow take them back to Hell?" Christopher asked.

"I do not
think
this is the case. I know."

"But what if I don't want to? I mean, nobody asked me. I'll just turn it down and go back to my normal life. I'll just give the Book and Swiss Army... I mean Weapon back to you, and you can give it to somebody else."

The Librarian stepped closer, looming over him as he sat on the comfy chair and suddenly he wasn't so comfortable. The room seemed to grow darker, more oppressive. Christopher had the distinct feeling that the Librarian was angry.

"When you chose to open that book, for good or ill, worthy or not, you inherited the seed of Hell into your being," the Librarian said. "You are damnation on earth with all the power of Hell at your beck and call. You are a reaper of souls, judge of eternity. Knowledge of all things in one hand and a power that can unravel the very fabric of the universe in the other. You don't get to just pick and choose these things, Mortal."

As the Librarian spoke, growing louder and louder, Christopher buried himself deeper and deeper into the chair.

"The Beast was right, I am not the right guy for this," Christopher said, wishing it had sounded less like a squeak.