Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (11 page)

The infant Redeemer had vanished. Some outside force,
or someone outside reality, had taken him. For all he knew, the Nobility might
nabbed him for themselves, not trusting their saviour to Luciferian
responsibility.

He paced between his great chair and massive desk.
The room was sumptuous, with the jaded elegance of a bygone brothel. Velvet
fabrics covered the chairs, divans and couches, strewn along the vast room. The
walls were covered in opulent paper, with worked gold leaf and baroque designs.
McGrath had always loved the luxury and the extravagance of Napoleonic France.
He found it especially compelling if it had become worn and faded, revealing
the decadence, debauchery and corruption, which had always been below the
superficial glitter and extravagance of that era.

His thoughts returned to the problem at hand and the
two dullards before him.

“Mordecai, what happened to your little Greek?”
Balzeer would not easily suffer Mordecai’s veiled insolence. He now recalled
the intrigues and hidden meanings, nurtured by his favorite era. He continued
with his reference to Mordecai’s rumored lover and the Luciferian’s dangerous
liaison. “That Haggios. Where is he?”

“He’s in Brazil, Master.” Mordecai was no longer
annoyed by Balzeer’s references to his supposed relationship with John Haggios.
However, he continued to let him believe these little jabs still found their
mark. He knew that any of his rival’s mistakes should be given strength, for he
would then continue to build upon these weak, erroneous foundations.

Mordecai had his own favorite era and political
maneuvering. He preferred the more open and less elaborate modern day
intrigues.
 
It provided quicker
forms of communication, relying on the immediate results of the telephone,
radio and television.

“Brazil? Why is he in Brazil?” The master turned his
full attention on the upstart. There was something here that extended beyond a
perplexing anomaly.

“He has taken a leave of absence.” These questions
were starting to make Mordecai feel uneasy.

“What is he doing in Brazil? Do you know?” Balzeer
sipped Mordecai’s discomfort like a welcome wine. The instincts, which earned
him his position, were newly awakened and abuzz. Finding the boy was tied to
finding Mordecai’s little Greek. Mordecai didn’t seem to know why Haggios had
chosen that location. It was exquisite. “He is under your tutelage and you
don’t know why he is there?”

“He does not have to answer to me for everything he
chooses to do.” He did not know why Balzeer was berating him.

The master focused his sapping gaze on him. He had
seen others falter, offering anything to turn away those terrible eyes.
Mordecai had nothing to offer. He knew none of the answers, which Balzeer
sought.

“However, everyone must answer to me. You will go to
Brazil, find your little Greek and bring him back here.” There was no doubt in
Balzeer’s mind that Haggios was planning to take Mordecai’s place. He was
convinced that the little poof knew something about the location of the boy. It
didn’t seem like Mordecai knew anything of his student’s plans, but a little interrogation
might be in order. If nothing else, it would lift Balzeer’s spirits.

“Mossy, go with him. Do not let either of them out of
your sight.” From another part of the room, behind identical black curtains,
emerged the short, balding man with tulip petal lips. He plodded forward and
sunk to his knees in front of his master.

“Now, where to begin?” Balzeer’s hand rubbed the
baldpate backwards and forwards, mimicking masturbation. He lowered his gaze so
that his heavy brows hid his eyes. He used his penetrating gaze like a weapon,
but sparingly. “Mr. Aronovich, I want an answer to my question. Why has your
little Greek run away?” His hands met, forming a steeple in front of his face.
The wide sleeves slid down to reveal forearms, covered with sleeves of cryptic
tattoos.

“To what end? An acolyte in our church is not like a
student in some keg-chugging frat house. He is to be constantly watched. Never
is he allowed to be out of sight.” He rolled his head back and closed his eyes,
taking a deep breath as he flared his nostrils. “Due to the nature of our
worship, and the offerings we must give on our Sabbaths, we must have complete
control over those who are prone to outside influence. Do you follow me, Mr.
Aronovich? Is it clear?”

“Yes, sir. It is clear, Master. Crystal clear.”
Mordecai saw that Balzeer McGrath was picking up steam. This was not going to
be a good day for Mordecai. He needed to find a way to deflect some of the crap
that Balzeer had begun slinging. He had to direct it so that it would stick to
John Haggios. He would not take it up the ass for anyone, especially someone
who was out of harm’s reach.

“So, you little insect, you worthless pile of shit,
why is he there? Don’t presume to tell me that you don’t know, because, quite
obviously, you are the worst fucking liar in the church!” His voice was
distinctly menacing, though he had yet to raise it. Mossy marveled at his
master’s well-honed vocal manipulations.

“He has left the church, Master. He did not wish to
continue his studies. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t convince
him to remain.”

Mordecai dropped to his knees beside Mossy and hoped
for the best. This was the only explanation that would save his life. Any other
and he would be implicated with Haggios. Those terrible eyes opened, shriveling
most of Mordecai’s courage to nothing. If he continued to ask these questions,
he would no longer be able to keep anything from him.

“He left and this is the first I hear of it?” The
question hurdled towards Mordecai and he cringed, not knowing where it would
go.

“He is barely in his first trimester, sir. Your
knowledge of him is only because of my personal involvement.” This was going
well. He did not question whether he had really left the church, simply that he
had left.

“Why was he allowed to leave?” Balzeer felt that
Mordecai was still pulling Haggios’ strings. He would need close supervision.
“And why Brazil? His family is from somewhere in Boston.”

“We only dispose of students who have been with us
past the two-year period, Master. It would raise too much suspicion and undue
scrutiny if we did not allow yearlings to leave as they saw fit. It’s not good
for public relations.” Mordecai didn’t dare allow himself to believe that he
was fully out of harm’s way. He didn’t give in to the hope that there was any
light ahead of him.

“Mossy, go with him. You are to be superior on this
quest and your word is law.” Balzeer’s bejeweled hand waved both away. They
might be his best hope to find the boy.

Mordecai still stung from the order, but was relieved
that he had escaped with his life. Now, he must suffer under the master’s
hound. He looked at Mossy with enough venom to have killed him on the spot.
However, Mossy returned his gaze with a mask of indifference. He was a
pragmatist and usually operated from the shadows; being in the open made his
job that much more difficult. There was a reason he was the master’s favorite.
He would complete the assigned task and bring glory to the church.

“As you command, Master.” He chose not to reveal his
reservations about the mission. He was as good at hiding his emotions as
Mordecai was at betraying his. “How will we find him? Brazil is a large
country.”

The question was open to anyone who could answer.
Mossy would put no more effort into this than he had to. He would follow any
road to which his master directed him.

“You will follow Mordecai. He knows where Mr. Haggios
is.” Balzeer laid all of this at the feet of the upstart. If the mission
failed, it would be his responsibility. If he succeeded, Balzeer would take the
credit for sending him. “Mr. Aronovich, listen carefully.”

The Supreme Tribunal of the Church of Lucifer the
Lightbringer, Balzeer McGrath, gave very specific instructions to both of his
minions. “If you find our charge, bring him back to follow the path for which
he was chosen. This is our Savior and Redeemer. The one who will deliver us to
our destiny.” His head lay back and he spoke as if from a trance. “Any who seek
to stop you, deliver them to their judge. If anyone does not help you, take their
name and a piece of their person. We will mark them for a lifetime of
suffering.

“Those who are our enemies will die quickly. Those
who are dogs, which do not do our bidding, will die agonizingly and slowly.
Find our Savior. To claim this prize, you must stop at nothing — not even
death. If either of you expires, the other is to return with the body. If both
of you die, then I will find you in hell and make you suffer far more than you
would ever dream possible.”

These threats were certainties. The Supreme Tribunal
was the human, and visible, face of others who ruled from the shadows and from
afar. They wore many names and their numbers were legion. They were as
ever-present as dust, which clings to everything. They could never be removed;
they remained and expanded. They were at the highest levels of government, of
wealth and station.

TIME: AUGUST 31ST, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

Kosta went through two
elliniko
, Turkish
coffees, without opening the
Idammah-Gan
. It lay ominously between the folds
of the newspaper, ready to pounce. He knew that now he could open it without
danger, but took his time, contemplating both it and where this past year had
led him.

He was no longer the Truth, a remnant of imperial,
Byzantine authority. On May 29th, he had returned to
Kostadinoupoli
and
given his ancestor peace. That part of his life — which had ruled his
imagination through his childhood and permeated all his family’s attention
— was over.
  
Now, as
Kosta stared at the
Idammah-Gan,
he knew that his choice was his responsibility. He opened
the volume to where he had left off and continued reading.

-
Idammah-Gan
Codex
- Depth of
Correction IV -

TIME: LATE SUMMER, 985 A.D. UKRAINIAN STEPPES

There were screams all around me. All varied, in an
orchestra of bellows, shrieks, yells and cries. They were all voicing pain,
rage, lust and death. These sounds drowned out the others, only slightly less
audible — the ringing of steel, the impact of bone-crushing blows and the
sounds of battle.

Along with my tribesmen, I came here to defend our
land from invaders, claiming to have brought us the lord. We never asked for
the lord; they could keep him. They never even offered him nicely. If they had,
we might have considered it, but they tried to force him on us, in return for tribute.
It was like they were expecting payment for goods that we didn’t want. How rude
and boorish.

Their officers, and those who tried to sell us their
savior, were called Byzantines. The rest were like us — men who simply
had a job to do. They could’ve come from any of the surrounding lands. They
could have done anything, but they had chosen to be mercenaries in the armies
of the lord. He paid well.

It was they whom I did not want to kill. I did, mind
you, but I didn’t want to. I tried to be as quick about it as their attacks, or
their responses, allowed. I removed them from this world, and all this
suffering, as efficiently as I knew how.

Those Byzantines, with their pretty helmets and scale
armor, were a different story. With them, I took my time. They were special.
Every time I split their faces open, I was also killing the beliefs, which they
tried to force upon me. For some hours now, my leather armor had been
splattered with their blood, as well as some of my own.

One came at me with his horse and retainers. He must
be important to have a horse and yelling minions.

It was easy enough to duck under his blow, then
forward in a roll that I continued, enabling me to cut the legs from under one
of his men. His screams erupted as soon as my axe went through his left knee
and he fell forward, landing behind me.

When using an axe in battle, the key is to avoid
thick bones, where the blade could easily get stuck. Rather, aim for smaller
joints, where the weight of the implement, combined with sufficient force,
results in a maximum amount of damage to your victim, with a minimum amount of
harm to yourself. Thus ends the lesson.

In my other hand, I had my short sword, ideal for
slashing and quick thrusts. This I used to slash across a bearded fellow,
raising a huge two-handed sword against me. It quickly cut through the chord of
his neck and left him gurgling on the field.

The rider who had just missed me was coming around
for another pass. I knew I had to distance myself from the remaining three
retainers, or he would be able to easily pick me off. So I ran towards him and,
once again, ducked low. This time, I took out the horse.

I do not wish to describe this. I have always firmly
believed that unless you intend to eat an animal, killing it is a horrible
thing. Men are a different story; they deserve to die at my hand.