SOIKOS: Into Thine Hands

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The motley crew manages to stop the ritual, but at what cost?



The body of the Imam was almost casually tossed into the centre of the ritual. He had managed to stop the ritual by forcing the hyperthymesitic mnemonic parametric array of the ‘Grail Cantos’ ritual against the highly specific diffraction of Alamut’s long hidden Book of the Vishanti. But the cost had been his life, and he had collapsed as the ringing sounds of the Grail Cantos died away. The scattered Templars tried to get to their feet, but those who made a move towards the circle were shot quickly by the Kharijite men who had followed the Opus Dei into the great catacomb and slaughtered them.

Kane shook his head, struggling to clear the sound that had seemed to hammer itself through every cell in his body. As he looked up, a figure stepped forward, to where Calysee Neramani was lying. Instead of the vacant gaze that she had held before and throughout the ritual, still trapped in her own mind by Emma Frost’s psionics, now her eyes where pure white, moving like pearls from those around her, and finally back to the man who had appeared.

“Arise Nephthys; Deathbird.” He atoned quietly, and she smoothly stood.

Farouk could feel the blood dripping heavily and wetly from his torn scalp. Like any head wound the flow was strong, but thankfully it did not get into his eyes, running down his face and splattering its intricate designs on the floor of the crypt instead.

"Do you know me, child?"

Neramani stared in a placid almost ethereal way that reminded Farouk of a yogi's trance. "Yes, Lord."

Kane was gathering himself. Amahl could see him grasping the wall, leaving crimson trails as he was attempting to pull himself up and failing.

"Do you understand the choice?"

"Yes Lord."

There was a humming in the air, a tension of something so great that it defied his grasp, as if his mind was shying away from looking too closely for the danger of buckling and breaking. Inside him the Shadow King was screaming, screaming.

The figure raised its cowl, his visage still hidden from Farouk but now fully revealed to Calysee. Her eyes were filled with wonder and... tears?

"I am En Sabeh Nur. I bid thee - choose!"

*I knew it,* Amahl thought distantly. *I was right. I was fucking ri--*

The woman in the center of the defiled church, surrounded by death and fire strengthened. "I am Deathbird reborn. I am She who banishes the Darkness. I am the echo of the Gods. But I was once a Neramani. AND I SHALL DO MY DUTY."

The existence compacted and expanded all at once, something clicked with a tangible finality in Farouk' backbrain, in his animal mind and he could see Kane's eyes roll back as the man collapsed.

The Kharijites started but had no time to react as their heads exploded, blood and brainmatter coating the room and the two figures at its center. Farouk was crying unaware if himself, his hand clawing at his face. The universe was screaming, or perhaps it was himself...

"Come then, we do not have much time."

"Yes, Lord."

"Wait--" Hampshire was on her feet, the mutant hardness of her skin obviously had an equal effect against the psionic keen that Deathbird had uttered. She darted forward, but Calysee's hand moved at a blinding speed, snatching her by the throat and holding her aloft easily. Her fingers gleamed and she ascribed a neat semi-circle with her other hand, catching the Red Rook across the torso. Leather, skin and muscle parted like fog under her nails, and Hampshire gasped in pain as her invulnerable form was rent open.

"You will live." En Sabuh Nur said, stopping Deathbird's second blow with his quiet words. "You will remember, and when the time comes, you will serve." Hampshire was tossed aside like a ragdoll. There was a long moment as the only other person standing was regarded and then dismissed. Stick's blind eyes tracked the pair, but the man made no movement, watching silently.

Nur nodded regally to him an economical, regal gesture of recognition and respect. And then he gestured blandly with his hand. The air in the chamber crackled and then parted, the very fabric of being rent asunder just wide enough for the pair to step through.

"It begins."

As the portal closed behind him, the strange bonds that had laid them all low faded, and they could move again. The first on his feet was Tremont. He looked to the others, and then Stick. The old man motioned with his chin, although when the Templar moved to collect one of his brothers, there was a slight shake of the head in response. The message was clear; you can go free, but the others are now mine. Tremont fled.

Kane's eyes snapped open. He was in pain, having been shot at least once, but his healing factor and omni-skin were combining to control the damage and make it manageable. He pulled himself to his feet and ran over to Hampshire, pulling her hands away from the stomach wound to examine it. It was bad, but not immediately fatal. He pulled a shirt from a nearby corpse and pressed it to her.

"Just- hurg- just what a girl always wanted." Jane said, smiling at him through bloodstained teeth.

"Oh, shut up." Kane muttered. "Farouk, Stick- she needs medical attention as soon as possible."

Stick's communicator was predictably out of commission, the device having proved too fragile to withstand the rigors of the metaphysical conflagration that erupted in the crypt only seconds before. Farouk's telepathy almost proved to be useless as well, for much the same reason but finally he sighed with relief as he felt the link with Mary.

The survivors remained in the crypt, the silence enveloping with a strangely comforting embrace, as they waited for the tell-late sounds of the convoy. There was always a possibility that Saddam's police would reach them first, but oddly they could not find the strength to worry too much about it.

What they had witnessed in the crypt was simply too large and too recent. It was as if the memory of it had crowded out everything else. Leaving no space for fear, or anger or hope.

So they sat, four people strangely and irrevocably connected by the events that made the blood and horror of the abattoir that the crypt had become all around them insignificant and puerile in comparison.