Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood (15 page)

Damon of Epirus found himself in unfamiliar territory.

For centuries he had wielded power over his minions through fear and intimidation. As far back as his life in the Light he had cleverly twisted those with weaker minds into obeying his every command. He had merci
lessly executed thousands and cemented his dark reputa
tion by occasionally eating the flesh of his victims for the sole purpose of creating a frightening aura that made the weak shudder . . . and obey.

Two thousand years later he found himself on the verge of fulfilling the glorious destiny that had eluded him in life. He was about to assemble a terrifying and powerful fight
ing force that he would lead into one glorious battle . . . something he never had the fortitude to do in life. For that he had torn a hole between dimensions. For that he had
charged into hell. For that he found that for the first time since the beginning of his existence . . .

. . . he was frightened.

The exhilaration he felt from the cheering crowd that had so emboldened him in the Black instantly vanished the moment he galloped through the Rift. It was replaced by a powerful sense of dread that nearly paralyzed him.

The far side of the Rift was a mirror image of the vision he had left in the Black, though it was a decidedly differ
ent version of the
Flavian
Amphitheater than the one that belonged to the emperor Titus. The sky was a deep purple-black without a single star to provide light. It wasn't night, it was just . . . dark. He was hit with a putrid smell that made him gag and his eyes water. Was something burning? Or decaying? Then there was the sound. The Blood was engulfed with a constant white noise of agony, as if every last soul was in pain and couldn't help but wail in a massive chorus of despair.

The Colosseum was destroyed, much more so than the disrepair the actual stadium had suffered in the Light. Sev
eral sections had crumbled to the ground leaving only a small percentage of the circular building still intact. Sev
eral mounds of brick rubble lay scattered about, creating a snaking labyrinth that Damon had to carefully maneuver his horse through.

And he wasn't alone. Dark shadows weaved and darted through the rubble, flitting on the edges of his vision. When
ever he shifted his gaze to try and see one, it was gone.

"I am being hunted," Damon whispered to himself.

He wasn't used to being alone, especially not in a hos
tile environment without the protection of his minions. Looking back, he saw the wide gash of the Rift cut into the one remaining wall of the stadium. A soft gray light glowed from within, calling him back to the Black. Back
to sanity. He
was tempted to bring his mount around and gallop out of the nightmare, but forced himself to continue on. He had waited centuries for this opportunity. Retreat was not an option. He clutched the poleax and kicked his horse into a trot to get away from the claustrophobic ruins of the Colosseum.

His horse had barely begun to move when a shadow sprung from the top of one of the rubble piles and wrapped its arms around the animal's neck. The horse shied and whinnied in terror. Damon caught a quick glimpse of the attacker and saw a chillingly human face that was bone white with empty eye sockets. The four-foot-tall demon was covered with thick, matted fur that made it appear to be part animal, part human and all wrong. It snarled at him, showing sharp, cracked white teeth . . . that it sunk into the neck of the horse.

Damon was too surprised to do anything but freeze in the saddle.

His horse was more practical. The large animal shook its head and flung the creature away, sending it crashing into a pile of bricks where the impact caused it to squeal like an angry pig. The violent encounter snapped Damon back into the moment and gave him the presence of mind to kick the horse and get it moving. The horse didn't argue. It broke into a dead gallop, careening through the rubble, desperate to escape from its tormentors. Damon had all he could do to hold on so as not to be flung off. It wasn't horsemanship that kept him aboard, it was fear.

The horse weaved through the debris and broke out into the open beyond the shattered walls of the Colosseum. Damon gathered his wits and reined the horse down to a canter and ultimately to a stop. He glanced back at the Colosseum to observe the massive wreckage.

"Whose vision could this be?" he asked aloud.

He gazed forward to survey his surroundings. What he expected to see were the ruins of the Roman Forum and the giant statue of Nero that stood just beyond the stadium. What he saw instead was the carnage that was the Blood. He sat on his horse on the top of a small rise where he could see far into the distance. Though it was dark, he could make out some detail.

Before him lay the wreckage of multiple centuries of life. There were toppled modern skyscrapers next to mounds of broken marble statues. Cars were piled next to buggies and chariots. The sharp silhouette of a massive Saturn V rocket lay against a gargantuan, rusted cruise ship, which was sur
rounded by St. Louis's Gateway Arch.

Damon's fear was replaced by fascination. He gave a prodding kick to his horse and the animal walked forward slowly. As they moved, Damon found that they were con
stantly traveling between visions. Unlike in the Black, the transitions were seamless. Damon walked by the clock tower known as Big Ben that was lying flat on one side. The mas
sive clock face loomed above him as he passed beneath the huge, bent minute and
hour
arms. A few short steps later he found himself in front of the Egyptian Sphinx with its decapitated head lying between its front paws. Still farther along he skirted the wheels of a 747 jet that was tilted back onto its tail with its nose pointing into the air like a hungry dog begging for treats.

He trotted through nondescript suburban neighbor
hoods, jungle villages, city streets, and crumbled cathe
drals. It all looked to have been destroyed by age, neglect, and sorrow.

And there were the spirits of people. Lots of them. They walked, zombielike, through the visions, neither acknowl
edging Damon nor questioning his presence. They floated aimlessly, expressionless, moving about the visions in an
endless, useless dance. They were the spirits of the Blood . . . the souls who were banished to this vile wasteland of sorrow
ful memories for eternity. Damon saw people from every era imaginable. They served no function and performed no tasks. They simply existed.

"Wretched" was the best word he could think of to
describe them.

Seeing these pathetic spirits gave Damon new hope. These were just the sort of victims he could exploit to fulfill his quest. He would give them purpose. But to accomplish that he would need help. For that, he had to seek out the spirit who had once attempted the very same task. Between that spirit's knowledge of the Blood and his own ingenuity, Damon felt certain he would not fail. He needed to find that spirit. The one he had heard of for so long.

The spirit known as Brennus.

All he needed to do was keep from losing his mind, which was proving to be more difficult than he anticipated.

The only warning he received of the impending attack was a brief snarl, then a hiss. Damon barely had time to register the sound before his horse was set upon, this time by two of the hollow-
eyed demons. One leaped onto the haunches of his horse, making it spin in surprise. The moment it turned its head, the other demon jumped for its neck. They had learned from their previous failure.

Damon caught a brief glimpse of the demon as it opened its mouth to reveal multiple rows of
sharklike
teeth. A moment later it sunk them into the horse's neck. The horse reared up as it whinnied in pain. The move was so sudden and violent that Damon was thrown from the saddle. He landed heavily on his back, rolled once, grasped the poleax, and sprang to his feet, ready to fight. He might have been too cowardly to enter a battle by choice, but when attacked, Damon was more than willing to defend himself.

The demons were more interested in his horse. The ani
mal was on its side in the final throws of its existence. Like hyenas feasting on a downed zebra, the demons ripped into the horse's flesh, tearing it from the bone, devouring it. More demons arrived to join in the feast. It was a sick
ening display, even for Damon. Realizing that the horse was no longer of use to him, Damon staggered away, want
ing to put as much distance between him and the ravenous ghouls as possible.

He stumbled through the dark with no destination in mind. He staggered through the wreckage of a modern-day airport with a caved-in ceiling and a shattered window, through which he saw the wreckage of hundreds of air
planes strewn across the rutted tarmac. The building was alive with the dead. Many wore the tattered uniforms of pilots and flight attendants. There were also passengers, trapped in the eternal waiting area for flights that would never arrive or depart.

Shadows skirted everywhere. Damon feared that the demons had finished their meal and were hunting down their next course. He left the building and found himself in waist-deep snow on a steep hill. He fought to keep his balance but tumbled forward, falling through the white powder until he landed in a small Tyrolean mountain town that looked as though it had been hit with an earthquake. Spirits skied along the snowy streets with no apparent means of propulsion.

Damon struggled to his feet and trudged through the snow, but had trouble making headway . . .

. . . which was exactly what his pursuers were waiting for. They attacked from the depths of the derelict buildings, circling Damon, ready to pounce.

"So be it," Damon announced, breathless.

He drew the poleax and held it at the ready.

"Which of you shall die first?" he asked with bravura.

Having his treasured weapon and knowing the power it possessed gave him the confidence to make a stand.

The hungry demons weren't impressed. With a screech
ing cry the first banshee jumped at him. Damon had the wherewithal to bring the poleax around in defense. A small part of him welcomed the attack. He wanted to see the dam
age the poleax could do against a spirit, knowing it was far more powerful than any of the black spirit-killing swords that had been brought into the Black.

The demon leaped forward and was instantly impaled on Damon's blade. Damon had a moment of satisfaction, but no more. The demon squirmed on the end of the blade, obviously in pain. What it
didn't
do was dissolve into a dark cloud, which could only mean one thing . . .

The poleax had no power in the Blood.

The demons closed the circle, prepared to feast.

Damon had the stomach-dropping realization that he was powerless, and about to be devoured. He wondered if being eaten would end his existence, and if it would be painful.

"
Yaaaah
!"

An aggressive, guttural cry pierced through the high-pitched screeches of the demons. Damon sensed the warm light from a flame that reflected off the bony faces of his attack
ers. The demons backed off, including the ghoul who had been impaled on the poleax. It pulled itself off the blade and fled into the darkness, followed by the rest of the marauders.

Damon was left standing alone, still clutching the use
less poleax.

"Nasty little varmints," an unknown man declared with disdain.

Damon looked up to see a tall, thin man standing in the snow, holding a burning lamp.

"They hate the light, and the heat," he explained. "Just once I'd like to burn one of 'em just to see it shrivel."

Damon squinted to get a better look at his savior.

He wore a plaid flannel shirt and canvas pants. His hands were big and rough, like those of a
working man. What Damon focused on was his face. His cheeks were sunken and the faraway look in his eye spoke of a long, difficult history. He vaguely reminded Damon of the American President Abraham Lincoln, though his eyes showed no kindness.

"Don't look so surprised," the man said. "You been look
ing for me."

"Brennus?" Damon asked with surprise.

"Brennus?" the man repeated, and laughed so hard it made him cough. "Nah, Sanger's the name. Not sure why. Fools around here picked up on it and it just stuck."

Damon cautiously approached the stranger. "If you are not Brennus, who are you and why would you think I am looking for you?"

"How about you first thank me for saving you from them critters?" Sanger said.

Damon glanced nervously in the direction of the fleeing demons. "You have my gratitude. What are they?"

"Figments," Sanger replied. "I think they come from our own thoughts, or some such thing. Just like this whole place. It's all just a version of what we had in life. A real nasty version."

"So they do not actually exist?" Damon asked.

"Oh they're real enough. They ate your horse, didn't they?"

"How did you know . . . I mean, yes they did."