ANCIENT AWAKENING
The Ancient: Book One
By Matthew Bryan Laube
Copyright 2011 by Matthew Bryan Laube
For more go to:
www.ancientawakening.com
Seven are they! Seven Are They!
In the Ocean Deep seven are they!
Battling in Heaven seven are they,
Workers of evil are they,
They lift up the head to evil, every day to evil
Destruction their work.
Of these seven the first is the South Wind
The second is a dragon with mouth agape
From which flames leap
The third is a grim leopard
That carrieth off children
The fourth is a terrible serpent
With many heads
The fifth is a furious beast
That none can restrain
The sixth is a rampant
against god and king
The seventh is an evil windstorm
That none can with stand
Baleful are they, baleful are they.
Seven are they, seven are they, seven twice again are they.
May the spirits of heaven remember, may the spirits of earth remember.
- The sixteenth tablet of the “Demon Series,” translated from Sumerian, dated 3100 BC
Chapter 1- Miller
Oculus ex Inferni – Symphony X – Paradise Lost
Outside of Vannes, France - 1908
The monsters were out there, just beyond the bonfire's light. Dallas strained his eyes to make them out at the top of the hill in front of him. He counted six werewolves at least, prowling just out of view. For any other group of men this would be something truly terrifying; for Dallas’ group of soldiers, it was Wednesday. They were “The Terrible 13th,” a unit that didn't strictly exist in any army. Instead, the unit was made up of various volunteers from around the world. Most of the men were English, a few were French, and two were Russian. For the first time last year, an American had joined the group. They had the dangerous and highly classified job of dealing with those things that were not supposed to exist-werewolves, vampires, demons. The list was long and not particularly pleasant.
“At least six of the wolves,” Dallas said to the old man.
The old man was staring up at the night sky. That mad grin he always wore was plastered to his face. “Seven,” he said, “but those are not the ones we need to worry about.”
That bothered Dallas. When the old man was nervous, it meant something. Dallas had been working under Joseph Miller for about a year now. Because of him, Dallas had seen some terrible and wonderful things, none of which he had believed possible just a short twelve months ago. Dallas had been recruited as an explosives expert. Miller and Dallas had hit it off. Something about the Texan’s hard-living manner seemed to mesh well with the old man's point of view on life. Although he kept no second in command, Dallas had quickly become Miller’s go-to man.
“Dallas, there is a demon out there, one of the Fallen. You might say the king of them all.” Miller looked directly at Dallas, his face suddenly becoming grim. “When you see him, you pull these men back. This is not something that you can help me with.”
“Yes sir,” Dallas responded, glancing back up the hill. “Well, do you think we look enough like a tasty doggy treat?”
“Oh I think we will do.” Miller’s eyes lit up at Dallas' attempt at humor. He was a big man with long white hair, wrapped into a ridiculous looking ponytail, and a white beard. He looked maybe 60 years old to Dallas, but moved like a man in his 20s.
The Thirteenth had made camp directly at the base of a hill. This was, tactically, an unwise move, but then they were not fighting a traditional war. Behind them, they had built a huge bonfire that lit up the night. In front of them, they had hidden an extra surprise under a tarp. Dallas was never sure how the old man knew where to set up, but he was never wrong. Sure enough, a few short hours after making camp, he began to notice the hulking shapes of wolves shifting in the dark.
“All right lads, listen up,” Miller shouted. His accent was almost Scottish but not quite, like he was pretending. “There are some big bad beasties out there tonight. They will be down here shortly for dinner. You know the drill at this point. Stay sharp. The big one, leave to me. You will know him when you see him.” The twelve nodded in agreement and readied their rifles. They had done this before.
As if the monsters knew they were ready, they suddenly attacked, seven wolves running down the hill, side by side. Dallas could see them clearly now under the moonlight, six males and one female. Looking at the figures running at him, he couldn't help but struggle again with the question. Why did they call them werewolves? The huge figures, while covered with thick black hair, looked nothing like wolves. Rather, they reminded Dallas of the apes he had seen in a book he had once read about Africa. They looked like immense men with huge claws like five large knives sticking out of each hand. Even the one that had been a woman was at least twice the size of Dallas. She still wore the remains of what appeared to be a pink dress. Most disturbing, though, were their eyes, black and empty things, reflecting the light from the bonfire.
As the werewolves bore down on them, Miller shouted, “Now!”
Dallas brought the plunger down, igniting the explosives he had set into the hillside just hours before. The hilltop seemed to jump under the wolves, tossing them into the night sky. Three of them appeared to come apart in the air. A fourth crumpled into a ball and skidded to a stop. The remaining three carried on down the hill, undisturbed by the deaths of their comrades. Dallas could clearly see the white foam streaming out of their mouths.
“Shields!” Miller shouted. The men grabbed their huge metal shields, the likes of which Dallas was sure had not been used since medieval times. They drove them into the ground just as the wolves reached the first row of men. Not even this form of protection could slow the wolves down, however. The lead wolf's claws knocked three men aside with a single swipe. The female pounced on one of the fallen men, tearing at his shield.
“Down!” Miller yelled. The rest of the men dropped, covering their bodies with their shields. With one smooth motion, Miller removed the tarp in front of him like a magician revealing his next big trick, and lit the fuse to the short-barreled cannon. Dallas covered his ears and opened his mouth to better handle the shock of the blast. The wolf-man in front of the cannon seemed to pause for a second, as whatever remained of its human mind recognized the device. Then it vanished in a red mist as, with a huge boom, the pellet-shot fired on it almost point blank. The force of the cannon made Dallas’ teeth ache. The she-wolf was caught by the edge of the blast. She spun around, her arm a mangled mess, and fell to the ground. Several pellets bounced off the men's shields, which were now covering their bodies as they lay flat on the ground.
The remaining wolf seemed to pause for a second to note his missing siblings. Seeing Miller, the only man standing, he dove at him with a howl. The old man was ready though, and simply side-stepped the beast, drawing a large and ancient looking broadsword from a sheath on his back. Using the momentum of his step, Miller spun around and brought the sword through the wolf-man’s neck, slicing his head clear off his shoulders. Black blood spurted from the wound as the head hit the ground and the wolf's huge body toppled over. Then the she-wolf was on her feet again, managing to tag Miller in the back with three of her claws. Miller stepped forward, away from his attacker, but tripped over the newly-dead wolf’s head on the ground. Recovering in mid-fall, he spun to face his new opponent, drew a pistol from his belt, and fired
one clean shot before landing on his back. Dallas heard the old man grunt with the pain as he landed on his shredded back. The she-wolf stepped back. The bullet had passed straight though her eye, leaving a gaping black hole. For a second, the wolf rocked back and forth on her heels, stunned. Then, with a sickening “pop”, black fluid seemed to leap out of the wound, reforming the missing eye.
Dallas was back on his feet. Tossing his metal shield to the side, he drew a saber from his hip and slashed at the she–wolf’s back with all the might he could muster. The blade struck the creature’s shoulder and stuck. Freddie, an Englishman from London, was in front of the wolf. He drew an axe and drove it deep into her chest. She screamed with rage and gored Freddie with one huge claw. The man fell back, a large chunk of his face torn open. The she-wolf then turned to face Dallas, moving fast enough to rip his saber from his hands. He cringed and backed away. She was a truly terrible creature. The fact that she had at one point been a woman, maybe even an attractive one, made it somehow worse. Here was a creature of beauty, twisted and misshapen into the stuff of nightmares, and she was hungry. It took all his strength of will not to turn and run, which he knew would mean certain death. Instead, he continued to step back as the wolf advanced, arms in front of him as if trying to calm the creature. “Um, sorry about this miss. I'll just be going,” he joked. She wasn't listening.
“The head, man, go for the head!” Miller’s voice came from behind the creature. A second later, the edge of Miller’s broadsword flashed though the wolf’s neck. The wolf seemed to freeze for a moment and then her head simply rolled off her shoulders, dropping at Dallas' feet. “It is the only way to kill them. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Miller seemed to stumble a bit, as if the sword he always carried was suddenly too heavy. Turning away from Dallas, he shouted to the men, “It is a fine start, people, but our work is not done. Time for clean-up. Make sure that they stay down. Medic, take a look at Freddie.” Responding to his words, several men pulled axes from their packs and went at the messy work of dismembering any werewolf that looked like it might still get up. Staring at Miller's back, Dallas noted the blood flowing freely from the new scratches. “James can look at that for you, sir,” he said, referring to their medic. “It’ll be fine. The big one is still out there.”
Miller grinned at him. “Trust me, it takes a lot more than such scratches to slow me down.”
At the sound of a woman's voice, Dallas’ attention snapped back to the hill.
“Oh thank God, those beasts were about to kill us.” The woman was speaking in French, walking briskly down the hill towards their group. She had an almost eerie sense of calm about her. Even in the dim moonlight she was striking. Dressed in fine silks, she appeared to be a noblewoman or at least a rich man’s wife. The men all stopped, distracted by her beauty. Everyone, that is, but Miller, who raised his pistol and shot her.
Dallas was stunned for a moment. The woman, however, did not crumble as the bullet struck, only missing a step before quickening her forward pace. Miller fired three more shots and broke into a jog. “Get away from it!”
The men were sluggish, as if coming awake from a dream. At last becoming aware that something wasn’t right about this woman, they began to raise their axes. Closing in, the woman shrugged off Miller’s bullets and opened her mouth wide as if to scream. Instead, a huge black tongue snapped out of her mouth like a lizard’s. It wrapped itself around one man's throat. Instantly, the man stiffened and then appeared to shrink as the woman sucked the life from him.
“Vampire!” Miller shouted, “Vampire!” The woman’s arm seemed to double in size. She used this club to swat aside a man who was trying to save his friend. More bullets struck her, and then an axe, but she simply grinned an unearthly smile as she finished her meal. Then Miller was there at her victim’s side. With one smooth motion of his sword, he sliced the tongue in two with. The man dropped to the ground as the vampire screamed, black blood gushing from her mouth. In an instant, several men were upon her, chopping away with their axes. Her shrieking ended with a gurgle.
Miller strode past the men exacting their vengeance and up the hill into the darkness. Dallas did his best to follow. Several feet beyond them, a man was waiting in the dark. In the moonlight, Dallas could not make out his features. Keeping in mind what had happened with the woman just moments before, he unsheathed a long dagger with his left hand from his belt.
“So you are the Ancient One,” the man said. His voice seemed to shake in fear. Dallas raised his pistol. He knew it would do little good, but it made him feel better. His other hand still held the dagger.
“I am,” Miller said, stopping before him. “And you are the demon Asmodai, the last of your kind. I have searched for you for many long years. Tonight, I end this.” Miller towered over the strange man in the darkness.
“You may be right, old one, but know this: I can never truly die. Even if you win this battle tonight, in time I will rise up again...”
“Yes, yes I know!” Miller cut him off. “A great evil that will retake the earth from the filth that is humanity, and not even I can stop you. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard this speech? Demon, you need a new line!” Miller raised his broadsword and lunged at the smaller man, who sprung backward and out of reach with an incredible leap. The man seemed to smile, although Dallas could not be sure in the darkness.
“It is not that easy, old one.” With that, the man seemed to explode. He tore at his chest, ripping through both cloth and his flesh, revealing dark black scales. His mouth opened impossibly wide, his jaw seeming to melt, and a huge black head rose out of his throat, snout first, followed by a long neck. It tore the remaining flesh of his face to shreds. Huge black wings emerged on his back and his hands exploded into massive talons. The monster seemed to stretch and stretch, tripling its size in seconds.
Dallas pulled the pistol’s trigger, backing away from the still-growing beast. Although Miller had called it a demon, it looked more like a dragon from an old storybook, complete with wings and snout but oddly missing a tail. It stood like a man on its massive legs and must have been 10 feet tall! Miller seemed unimpressed.
“Aye, you are a big one. Good, I like a fair fight.”
Miller charged the beast, not flinching for a second. He dodged the first swipe of its massive talon, rolled between its legs, and slammed his sword into its back. The dragon roared in pain and leapt into the air, with Miller still clinging to the embedded sword. The two figures rose high into the air over the hill.
Dallas stood below, watching in terror. He did not notice that he was still pulling the trigger on the pistol, although he had long ago run out of bullets. Several men raced to his side, raising rifles at the sky, trying to track the monster.
“My God, was that really a dragon?” he asked no one in particular.
The demon reappeared, swooping low over the camp. Miller was still hanging on. In fact, he had somehow managed to move up its back toward its head. The monster was spinning madly, trying to shake him off. Then they were gone again, disappearing into the darkness. Belatedly, several of the men fired their rifles.
“No! You’ll hit Miller!” Dallas shouted, becoming aware of his surroundings once more. The men lowered their guns.
“Follow me, back to the cannon. Once Miller gets clear, we're going to need to hit that thing with something big!” Dallas ordered. The chain of command after Miller was a bit unclear, but no man argued with Dallas and they all took off, heading back to the base camp at a run.
Somewhere in the darkness above them, the beast screamed. The sound of it made Dallas's head ache. Everyone froze, looking up at the night sky, trying to find the source. Then, the monster dropped out of the sky, smashing into the ground like a cannonball. The troop of men again reversed course, racing back up the hill to the crash site.
Something gr
abbed Dallas's leg as he ran by. A werewolf, blown farther away than the rest of his pack by the initial explosion, was still very much alive.
“Help me. Please help me,” it begged in French. Dallas reached for the now-empty pistol and paused. The werewolf's eyes were a bright and very human-looking grey, instead of the pitch black that they normally were. Dallas pulled his leg free but did not strike the wolf, suddenly unsure of what to do. Instead, he ran on up the hill to check on Miller.
Arriving at the crash site, he pushed his way to the front. The monster was most certainly dead, its head attached to its neck by only a few strings of flesh. Black blood still pulsed from its trunk. Miller must have somehow managed to cleave its head off in mid-flight. But where was he?
“He’s here!” someone shouted. The men turned toward the voice. Miller had been crushed underneath the demon’s massive bulk. Blood ran freely from his mouth. He laid still, eyes staring blankly at the stars above in the night sky.
Chapter 2 – Arrival
Trouble In Paradise (Variation on a Theme) – Unkle – End Titles…Stories for Film