Canticum Tenebris (Wrath of the Old Gods Book 2) Read online

  Canticum Tenebris

  Wrath of the Old Gods Book II

  By John Triptych

  Copyright© 2016 by John Triptych

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN (soft cover) 978-621-95332-3-2

  J Triptych Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and/or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design (http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/)

  Interior formatting by Polgarus Studio (http://www.polgarusstudio.com/)

  For NB, SA, and DH.

  Lifelong friends.

  Author’s note:

  Dear reader, I would like to thank you for purchasing this book. As a self-published author, I incur all the costs of producing this novel so your feedback means a lot to me. If you wouldn’t mind, could you please take a few minutes and post a review of this online and let others know what you think of it?

  As I’m sure you’re aware, the more reviews I get, the better my future sales would be and therefore my financial incentive to produce more books for your enjoyment increases. I am very happy to read any comments and questions and I am willing to respond to you personally as quickly as I can. My email is [email protected] if you wish to contact me directly. Again, thank you and I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it!

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  Table of Contents

  Author’s note:

  1. The Conclave

  2. Prey

  3. Yokai

  4. Seclusion

  5. Fission

  6. Clues

  7. White Tops Down

  8. The Prisoner

  9. Cabal

  10. Independence

  11. The Siberian Break

  12. The Children of Ammon

  13. The Wendigo

  14. Intolerance

  15. The Raven

  16. Skyship

  17. Crucible

  18. The Recommencement

  19. The Seekers

  20. The Schemers

  21. Dialectics

  22. Stepping Stones

  23. Law of the Pursuer

  24. The Invocation

  25. The Raid

  26. Double Down

  27. Assault on the Tower

  28. Coda

  Also by J Triptych Publishing

  What a lamentable thing it is that men should blame the gods and regard us as the source of their troubles, when it is their own wickedness that brings them sufferings worse than any which destiny allots them.

  — Homer, The Odyssey

  1. The Conclave

  Vatican City

  For the fourth time that evening, Cardinal Giancarlo Buffoni knelt down in front of the small altar at the side of his office and prayed as hard as he could for the Lord to return. As he gripped the crucifix with both hands and continued his silent chanting for over an hour, he had a feeling of pending disappointment because his god was just not listening to him. Giancarlo had begun to get a gnawing sense of realization that his forty years of selfless service in the name of God had all been for nothing, as the other gods were all out there but not his own. The cardinal had a gnawing sense of realization that he had been wrong all these years. He had turned sixty-one a few months ago, and his knees were beginning to go numb as he continued to kneel on the hard wooden kneeling bench. Looking up at the crucifix that was the centerpiece of his personal altar, Giancarlo had finally had enough as he gripped the edges of the small desk on top of the kneeling bench, then pushed himself up to a stooping position before his backhanded slap sent the two-foot long wooden crucifix with the ivory figure of Christ toppling over and onto the marble floor.

  As he wiped the tears of frustration from his eyes with the forearm of his cassock, Giancarlo limped over to the tall window facing his oak desk and looked outside as circulation slowly returned to his tired legs. His office was dimly illuminated by candles ever since electrical power across the entire city had gone out weeks ago. The night was strangely quiet as the riots that had gripped Rome seemed to have taken a night off. From his office window in the Apostolic Palace, he could still see the smoldering remains of the bonfires that littered the Piazza San Pietro, the oval-shaped square that fronted the Vatican. Just last night, the rioters made one final push to get through the contingent of Swiss Guards and volunteer police units who manned the barricades. They tried for the cardinals and most of all the Pope, as they demanded to know where their god Jesus Christ was, and when he would save them from the demons, monsters, and pagan gods that were now rampaging not just in Europe, but across the entire world. The Pope himself was locked away in his inner apartments within the palace. He refused to comment at all about the growing sense of despair among the entire church and the faithful as to what was happening to the Earth. His Holiness refused to see anyone except the two nuns who faithfully brought him food and water. Meanwhile, the cardinals and priests tried their best to allay the public as to why the Pope wasn’t revealing himself and taking the lead as hell had finally come down to them all.

  Giancarlo was thankful that the Vatican compound was completely surrounded by ancient stone walls that enabled them to withstand the almost daily riots that began a week after reports of the pagan gods returning. There were still sporadic radio signals from the Italian government and private stations but the stream of information from newspapers, TV, and the internet had by now ground to a halt. When news reports had begun to filter in about demons coming into homes and slaughtering whole families, Giancarlo and the other cardinals began to express gnawing fear that the entire city would soon be a slaughterhouse. They feverishly prayed for salvation while telling the faithful to stay calm and continue to believe that Jesus Christ would return, but as the weeks went by and the killings and disappearances continued, the people began to lose faith in the Church and all of its teachings. There were hushed rumors that parts of the city had even begun to worship these pagan devils since it was obvious to them that Christ wasn’t real after all; not as real as compared to the unholy monsters they had seen with their own eyes.

  A series of knocks at the doors of his office instantly brought him back to reality. Giancarlo made his way to the large wooden door and unlocked it before pulling it open. Outside stood his secretary, Father Salvatore Rossi, a young priest from Florence who had been serving him faithfully for six years now. Giancarlo could see that the younger man’s vestments were partially torn up. There was a bruise on his left cheek and he nursed a split lip.

  “Come inside quickly,” Giancarlo said as he stood aside while his secretary shuffled in before closing the door and locking it again. “What happened to you?”

  Salvatore’s forehead was bathed in sweat as he caught his breath. “I’m sorry, your Eminence, but I just came from the entrance to the Papal Apartments nearby. I wanted to ask a question to Cardinal Martini when I heard a scream.”

  Giancarlo’s eyes squinted in confusion. “A scream? Coming from where?”

  “From within the Papal Apartments, your Eminence. It sounded like a woman screaming so I started knocking on the door to the outer chambers of His Holiness, but I didn’t see the man standing nearby because he was hidden in the shadows until he came out and attacked me.”

  “Was it someone from the outsid
e? Are the rioters here? Then we must alert the Swiss Guards.”

  “No, your Eminence, it was one of the Swiss Guards that attacked me, I think his name was Franz because I had met him before. He punched me and I fell to the ground and then he put his hands on my neck and tried to strangle me!”

  Giancarlo’s eyes were as wide as saucers now. The entire city was in the grip of this madness. “Go on.”

  “The pain was too much and I started to pass out, but I was able to grab hold of something that had fallen to the floor, I think it was a metal box or something, but took it and hit him in the face with it. Then he just fell over. I’m not sure if I killed him, but I got up and ran all the way here.”

  “If the Holy Father is in danger, then we must go to him, come on.”

  Both men walked out of the office and into a darkened corridor. Giancarlo had taken a flashlight from his desk and pointed the thin beam of light straight ahead as they started moving towards the stairway. The old cardinal sensed something was lurking in the shadows around them but he dared not point the flashlight around for a closer look, Giancarlo had a deathly fear that whatever kind of horrid things were with them might just come true if he expected hard enough for them to be present. The younger man seemed too concerned about the Pope’s predicament than sensing the things lurking around them, Giancarlo thought.

  As they ascended up the massive stone stairs and into the floor above them, they both sensed an eerie quietness, as if whatever being had initiated the brutal violence that Salvatore described had decided to take a break and prepare for an even worse orgy of terror. This feeling of dread made them silent as they both got to the opened outer doors of the Papal Apartments.

  Salvatore stepped through the open double doors first. The first room that they entered was actually a small chapel where the Pope would sometimes conduct a private mass. Giancarlo could see that several of the pews were overturned and the altar near the entrance had fallen on its side. The crucifix of Christ had somehow been turned upside down. As the cardinal pointed the flashlight at the upturned figure of Jesus, he noticed that there was real, dripping blood on the statue, and its mouth and eyes had somehow been chiseled off.

  “Cardinal Buffoni, over here,” Salvatore said as he crouched down by one of the overturned pews.

  Giancarlo made his way to where the younger man was and aimed the flashlight at what Salvatore pointed to. He noticed bloodstains that nearly blended in with the bright red carpet, some pieces of broken teeth but nothing else.

  “I swear, this is where that Swiss Guard attacked me,” Salvatore said.

  At that moment as Giancarlo swung the flashlight around in a wide arc to get a better view of the chapel, both men noticed that a door along the side of the hall was ajar. Having been to the Papal Apartments a number of times, the cardinal knew that the open door led to an inner corridor with several other doors further inside which in turn, further led to a meeting room, a small dining room, a private study, and finally the modest bedroom where the Pope rested at along with a second bedroom that the personal attendants of the Holy Father slept in. Without any further words, both men walked over to the door and opened it further before peering inside.

  That was when they noticed that the once cream-colored walls were now stained with blood. Salvatore gasped as he could see bloody handprints as well as hoof prints that seemed to have been layered onto the sides like some diabolical wallpaper. The bloody prints that looked like they were made by both man and beast extended all the way up to the high vaulted ceiling, as if someone or something had dipped their extremities in blood and just walked up and down the walls in haphazard fashion. The younger man looked around and quickly saw a used antique candelabrum sitting on top of a high table along the side of the corridor. He grabbed a hold of it by the stem and took it with him just in case he needed a weapon of some sort.

  The first door they saw led to the small meeting room. Salvatore stood to the side as Giancarlo opened the door and pushed it inwards before shining the flashlight to illuminate whatever was in there. As the flashlight’s beam illuminated the center of the room, both men shrieked in horror.

  Lying on top of the table was one of the nuns. Sister Maria Parisi, a kindly old lady who had served as a personal attendant to two previous popes, lay eagle-spread on the table, her nun’s habit had been torn loose and was on the floor in little pieces. Her mouth was wide open, frozen in a silent scream that signaled the intense agony that she went through before finally dying. But the most horrific part was that her breasts had clearly been chewed off by some unholy beast that also eviscerated her stomach. Her intestines were splayed out like an open can of giant red worms while all sorts of tools and implements had been thrust through her orifices. Giancarlo could see flies buzzing around the room as they eagerly feasted on the blood and entrails of this poor woman. The sharp, metallic smell of blood was combined with the earthy, pungent stench of excrement that hung in the air like a miasma of death and disease.

  Salvatore turned to the side of the door as he had dropped the candelabrum on the ground and began to vomit. Giancarlo remembered the atrocities he had witnessed when he was a priest in Africa during the events of the Rwandan Civil War, but nothing could prepare him for this horrific sight as he too began to gag, but he was quickly able to control himself as he stood back and turned away from the room.

  As the younger man started to get up from his knees after his near violent retching had subsided, he noticed that the blood on the floor had a definite trail that seemed to lead further down the corridor. “Your Eminence, look,” Salvatore said as he wiped the off the remaining spittle from the sides of this mouth using his wrist.

  “Come on,” Giancarlo said as he helped the younger man on his feet and both began to follow the crimson trail. As they looked in the other rooms, there seemed to be nobody else around. The path of blood appeared to have ended at the Pope’s bedroom, right at the foot of his hand-carved wooden bed.

  Salvatore carefully peeled back the bloodstained sheets on the bed. “Lots of blood, but no bodies, only Sister Maria in the meeting room.”

  As Giancarlo used his flashlight along the wall beside the bed, he noticed a slight indentation that ran along the base of the bed, there seemed to be a space between the wall and the headboard of the Pope’s bed. “Look at this,” he said.

  Salvatore placed his hand over the crack. “I can feel a draft coming from behind the bed.”

  “Help me,” Giancarlo said as he began to push the headboard backwards. “There must be a hidden alcove behind this bed.”

  Both men tried to push the bed backwards, but it seemed too heavy to move. Giancarlo caught his breath as he kept the light shined at the bed. Salvatore could see that the carved symbol on the top of the bed’s headboard seemed to be tilted partially to the right. The younger man immediately put his hand on the carving and tried twisting it. Just as Salvatore twisted it counter-clockwise, the bed began to move by itself. Both men were startled and instantly backed away as the bed slid forward into the room. Behind it was a hidden passageway.

  Without further adieu, both men stooped their shoulders and entered the barely six-foot high passageway that seemed to have been carved out from the stone blocks that buttressed the building. Giancarlo led with his flashlight as Salvatore followed close behind. As they moved further inwards, the passageway began to get larger with each step and soon both men could walk fully upright beside one another. They realized that there was a downward slope while noticing that the blood trail had once again become visible on the smooth stone floor of the tunnel.

  After walking nearly half an hour in the pitch black tunnel, they soon noticed that it had began to slope upwards once more as they could see carved steps leading up. Giancarlo’s flashlight had begun to dim due to its constant use. “I hope we find the exit soon or we shall be fumbling around in the dark,” he said softly as they kept on moving.

  Beads of sweat once again began to form on Salvatore’s forehead
despite the chilly gusts of wind in the passageway. He sensed that they were heading towards their doom. “We seemed to have gone in a westerly direction,” he whispered.

  Both men soon noticed a faint light up ahead. As they moved closer, they could see the opening of what looked like a stone block that had shifted to reveal an elaborately painted corridor. There seemed to be a rising noise nearby, as if there was some sort of orgiastic revelry going on.

  “Oh my god,” Salvatore shuddered said as he realized just where they were. “This is the corridor that leads to…”

  Cardinal Giancarlo finished his sentence. “The Sistine Chapel.”

  As Salvatore stepped out of the hidden tunnel and into the corridor, he noticed that the trail of blood continued on towards where the world famous chapel was. Although the Sistine Chapel itself was no more than one hundred and thirty feet across its entire length, its ceilings and walls were hand-painted by the great Renaissance artist Michelangelo and featured his masterpiece on the altar wall, The Last Judgment, with its complex visions of heaven, hell, and the people in the afterlife. The chapel itself was also used by the cardinals as the site of their conclave when electing a new pope. Since the entire Vatican compound had been closed off to tourists and the public since the Glooming began, both men were wondering what was causing all the noise that was emanating from the open double doors as they got closer to it. They noticed a flickering illumination similar to firelight coming from the chapel entrance as they got closer.

  Marshaling their courage, both men ran up the ramp leading to the chapel before turning to look inside. They were not prepared for what they saw. Giancarlo screamed out in horror as he dropped his flashlight and fell to his knees. Salvatore could not believe what he was seeing either, thrusting out his right forearm to cover his eyes and he began to wail.