A Tale of the Cult of Lordruu by Scott Bennie

Women who were ignored, for this was the hour for manly pastimes. "Two pair. Kings high," Loftgren said, getting ready to collect the pot with his huge Nordic hands.

"Sorry," John K. Stevens smiled. "Full house."

Kurt Loftgren moaned. It had been a long and tiring night of heat and poker for the Columbia University students. Eight students had come to Ethiopia as part of an archeological and anthropological expedition, along with three faculty members and a pair of security guards. An archeological expedition with a hidden agenda.

"You and your frigging luck." Loftgren shook his head and was about to let his fellow cultist collect his reward, when his voice caught on something in the back of his throat and squeaked in protest. "Hey! Those aren’t playing cards?"

John K. stared at the pair of Towers, one Spade and one Club, that lay before him on the table. "What the…" he muttered. The handsome college football star was not a man given to obscenity, but sometimes circumstances can tempt even the mildest demeanors.

"First Decomo, now this." Loftgren didn’t even consider the prospect that John K. was pulling some sort of stunt. Loftgren, was no master of the tarot, but he knew the symbology well enough.

"Something’s really wrong here." John K. said in almost a whisper.

"Is it my imagination, or is it getting hotter in here?" Loftgren said, wiping his forehead and picking up the deck to shuffle.

"It’s about to get hotter," an older woman’s voice boomed out from behind them. "Put those cards away at once."

"But Professor Richardson…" John K. protested while managing to maintain a deferential voice to someone who was frequently compared with a walrus in drag.

"At once Stevens. Save it for your football team." Richardson snorted. John K. knew she hated him for being a jock. "You’re American citizens on foreign soil. Try to act like one. They don’t like card playing in this part of the world."

"But Ethiopia is a little less Muslim than the rest of Africa…" John K. attempted to argue.

"Put them away. Now!" The voice that could silence a lecture hall with a single word was just as effective in hotel rooms. Having given her bravura performance, Richardson turned to leave.

"Bitch…" Loftgren muttered.

"That’s Professor Bitch to you, Mr. Loftgren." Richardson’s large frame filled the doorway with operatic dimensions. "And I have no idea what bribery allowed such an undistinguished student such as yourself to be invited on our expedition, but rest assured that I will find the professor responsible and have him slapped."

"How do you know it was a guy who invited me?" Loftgren yelled.

"Because while most of the female faculty at Columbia are dim, they do have standards."

"Eight thousand calorie per day standards." Decomo snickered when Richardson was safely out of hearing distance. He was getting out of the shower, and pulled in his gut slightly. He was a little self-conscious about his weight too.

"Not all of them." John K. smiled. "There’s Professor Willis in African-American studies. She’s about as lean and tender as they get."

"That’d be useful for me if I wasn’t such a frigging Viking. I think that department would take one look at my tan-proof snow-white skin and shoot me." Loftgren grinned, and then he turned to Decomo, who had just gotten out of the shower. "Did you get all the blood out?"

"Think so." The rent-a-cop shook his head, and had to unconsciously remind himself that he wasn’t allowed to smoke on this expedition. He started chewing gum. "I gotta admit, when the shower water turned into blood…"

"What did you say?" Another professor had entered the room, slimmer but just as intense as Professor Richardson. This was Professor Wixted, an extremely serious archeologist, known to students and faculty alike for his dislike of social activities. He sat down in a chair and took out a pipe.

"How come you get to smoke?" Decomo asked.

"The locals expect academics to smoke their pipes." Wixted smiled. "But what did you say?"

"Nothing, sir." Decomo shook his head.

"I have dabbled in the occult from time to time." Wixted said. "More than a few professors in the Anthropology department do. Not to mention Native American studies, or even the Psychology Department. I’ve even heard there are several magical cults on campus."

"Yeah. John K. eats the hearts out of rival school mascots to improve his football playing." Loftgren joked. Stevens rolled his eyes and did a mock jab on his friend, who laughed and blocked it. Kurt was one of the few people on campus that John K. figured could hand him his head in a serious fight. Loftgren was a powerlifter and an Olympic hopeful, and he was big enough that the police actually suspected at one point that he could be the supervillain Mastiff. "Yeah, and you could get laid with some of their cheerleaders to sap their sexual prowess." Loftgren added.

"Don’t laugh." Another member of the faculty had joined them, the anthropologist, Dr. Weathers. He was younger than the two other colleagues who had made the trip to Axum; Weathers was an energetic and brilliant Jamaican with an Oxford English accent. "Both are legitimate sympathetic magic techniques." He sat down next to Wixted. "Where have you been?"

"Alone. There’s a piano in the upstairs lobby. Not a finely tuned instrument, but good enough to let me practice my Bach." Wixted replied, taking a puff.

"Professor Weathers?" Loftgren asked. "You ever do any voodoo?"

"Yes son." Weathers replied. "I am a practicing hougan."

The room was suddenly silent. Wixted’s brow arced. "Samuel, I had no idea."

"I do not advertise it, Lawrence." Weathers sighed. "Even though the university accepts the existence of magic, the practice is not condoned."

"They train lawyers." Loftgren quipped. "Why not sorcerers?"

Weathers smiled, but Wixted rolled his eyes. "Sir…" John K. turned to them. "When we were playing cards, a pair of Jacks suddenly turned into tarot cards."

"Which cards?"

"A pair of Towers."

Weathers visibly gulped. Wixted’s eyes narrowed. The archeolology professor shook his head. "A few hours ago, I saw a flock of crows descend on the marketplace. They swarmed down on a pair of old women, and when they alighted again , there were two old skeletons left in their place.

"Carnivorous crows?" Loftgren asked.

"Crows are meat eaters." John K. snapped back. Loftgren blushed.

"Chalice Green examined the bodies." Wixted explained. Chalice was a medical student who was also part of the expedition, although she roomed with Professor Richardson’s cadre. "She said the remains appeared identical to corpses that had been dead for decades."

"Chaos magic." Weathers speculated.

"This is supposed to be a fortress of law, not chaos!" Loftgren spat. John K. gave him a dirty look.

"You’ve been taking in the local legends." Weathers smiled. If either Wixted or Weathers were disturbed by the comment, neither showed it.

"The history of the region is what attracted me to this expedition." John K. stated. "Legends of the Queen of Sheba, the hiding place of the Ark of the Covenant…"

Wixted laughed. "So you think you’ll find what archeologists haven’t found in twenty-five hundred years?" He puffed on his pipe.

"Well, people say I’m lucky." John K. smiled and cupped his hands behind his head.

"In this case, Mr. Stevens, that’s a bad thing." Weathers frowned. "Any sort of probability disturbance could attract the forces of chaos. Playing a game of chance probably enhanced it."

Wixted rose from his chair. "I think this situation warrants far greater attention than I can give it. I’m calling for the professionals."

"Who?" Loftgren asked.

"Avalon." Professor Wixted replied.

There was a single airstrip outside of Axum, a single weathered strip of dirt suitable for small four propeller jobs at best. John K. brushed away the flies, as he had done all afternoon, and watched the passengers disembark. Twelve passengers, and no one in costume.

But there was a girl of power. She was short, a little plump (at least by American standards), but not at all unattractive, about seventeen years of age. She took one look at the "Merlin" sign that John K. held to identify himself, and laughed, stumpy legs breaking into a burst of speed, pigtails whirling like propeller blades in the hot mountain wind.

"Oooo…" She said in Austrian accented English that made her sound like a dainty Arnold Schwartzenegger (which was not entirely inappropriate, given that much of her bulk was muscle, not fat). "You have power."

John K. was suddenly glad his dark skin was good at hiding it when he blushed. "I’m Celia Tagelohn." She told him.

"Tagelohn. I’ve heard that name. But where’s…"

"Avalon? He has… plans." Celia broke out into an inexplicable snicker. "But he… well, my family is contacted and normally we stay out of these things, but I’m not one to allow the forces of chaos to go unchecked. And nobody really looks after Africa; a few local sorcerers and priests, and most of them are a long way from here, on the west central coast. I figured I’d do my duty and bust their chops. Metaphysically speaking."

"Africa. A good place for the forces of chaos to get a foothold." John K. said.

"Yes, that’s what I was saying." Celia continued to examine him carefully. "Why have you been casting curses?"

John K. held himself erect; though he could not hide the fact that he was nearly floored by the question.

"Ma’am?"

"Three women." John K. began to shake under her gaze. "In positions of authority."

John K. worked hard to compose himself. The accusation began to anger him. "Ma’am, have you ever been discriminated against because of the color of your skin?"

"Not really." Celia said. "Though I’ve heard a lot of short jokes. But I won’t work someone who consorts in the darker arts."

"Darker. That’s just it." John K. snapped. "Not evil. Not vile. What does color have to do with it?"

"I really don’t care about semantics. Drop the curses or I go home."

"That’d take a long ritual." John K. noted.

Celia sighed. "Give me permission and let me cut the palm of your hand so I can expose your blood to the wind. Although I hate this kind of magic."

John K. shrugged and complied. Celia spoke some words, and the cut flared and vanished. "That it?"

"Yeah." Celia said. "Watch yourself kiddo. You obviously take care of your body. Your soul requires just as much upkeep."

"And how do I do that?" John K. said.

"Whenever you get really angry, ask yourself if it’s useful anger, whether it’s helping you to solve a problem. If it isn’t, let it go." Celia said.

John K.’s eyebrows arched. "That’s it?"

"Well, there’s also meditation or prayer, listening to good music, reading inspirational literature, etc. But I’ve always found the ability to forgive is the foundation of a healthy soul…"

There was a crackle of lightning, punctuated by the clarity of thunder. "Oh dear." Celia said.

"Lightning out of a clear sky."

"No, it’s something else. Take me there."

"We’re on foot from here, Miss Tagelohn." John K. said.

They ran. John K. found that he didn’t need to hold back very much; Celia had strong legs and was a good runner. Still, it may have been a run to disaster.

They found the lightning. It was not just thunder in a clear sky; it had become a constant stream of lightning, which fed a fire that was consuming a house. And it was not an ordinary fire. The blaze was shaped like a woman, a huge female demon, which closely resembled a womanly version of the demon Chernobog from Fantasia. A circle of imps flew merrily around her head. About them was smoke, ash, and burning pitch, lodged in old building stone. Celia gazed at the scene intensely.

"Okay Pippi Longstockings." John K. said. "What next?"

Celia said nothing for what seemed like minutes. John K. inched closer. There was something in the back of his mind, urging him ahead. The fire woman flailed her arms, stroked her naked breasts, but did nothing. No blasts of demonic fire, no attacks. The imps continued to dance.

Celia gave a good natured laugh, and the imps stopped; several imps collided into each other. The fiery demon-woman began to disperse. "Oh, shoo!" Celia finally laughed, threw up her arms, and dispelled the circle. The demoness quickly vanished into a lump of charcoal, accompanied by a faint whiff of brimstone.

"What was that?" John K. asked.

"Just imps having ‘fun’. The demoness wasn’t real, just a fire sculpture." Celia stated. "You know, imps can sometimes be more trouble than the bigger stuff. And by the way, if you ever call me ‘Pippi Longstockings’ again, I’ll turn you into a toad."

"Sorry." John K. said. "But whatever happened to forgiveness and no curses?"

"I didn’t say I’d keep you as a toad forever." Tagelohn joked. "So when do I meet your Professor Wixted?"

"Actually, there’s someone more important that you need to meet." Stevens responded.

Dusk evaporates quickly at Ethiopia’s altitude, revealing a sward of night stars and the ribbon of the Milky Way. There are few street lamps in Axum, giving the city, by North American standards, a dead appearance.

And in one of the dark basements of this dead looking city, there were six students and two security guards, who wore red robes and knelt with bowed heads. John K. escorted Celia down a pathway marked by candles to their leader, a man in a gold serpent mask and a dark three piece suit.

"I welcome you, Celia Tagelohn." The Golden Face stated, voice booming. "May no chaos touch you."

"What is all this?" Celia’s face had the disposition of someone who had swallowed something unexpectedly sour.

"Do not be confused by our demeanor." The Face remained straight, still, and dignified. "Ours is a society of law. The destruction of chaotic threats to humanity is our goal. We wear the robes of discipline to keep our minds focused on the mystical and to help us conduct our rituals in an orderly manner."

"Uh, yeah." Celia wondered. She attempted to read the Face, but the Golden Mask stopped her. There was great power in it. About the only thing she could determine was that the Face had never killed anyone. At least that was an encouraging start. "Why the serpent?"

"You are probably viewing the serpent with a western perspective." The Face said. "But in the East and in Africa, the serpent is a creature of wisdom and benevolence."

"This is true." Celia said.

"But you can judge me later," the Face added. "And if I warrant punishment, I am certain to receive it. Only a fool or a madman would want the Tagelohns as his enemies."

"That is very true." Celia stated. "Now let’s get started. Show me your power."

"Lady?"

"I need to determine the strength of my allies. Let’s see you conduct a ritual. Find me the center of the chaos that’s affecting this town."

The Face bowed, his stoic face still. "The circle is small, but we shall make do with it. Mr. Stevens, Miss Green, step forward."

John K. and Chalice Green stepped forward. Chalice seemed extremely anxious. "Hi, Miss Tagelohn. Are you related to Dr. Milo Tagelohn, by any chance?"

"Uh…well…" Everyone noticed that Celia was suddenly very uncomfortable --everyone but Chalice.

"I love his beard. He’s sooo cute and sexy. By the way, my name’s Chalice."

"I’m Celia." Celia was suddenly glad for an opportunity to change the subject. "Chalice, that’s an unusual name. Where’d you get it?"

"The superheroine Chalice saved mom’s life back in the 60s, when she was a teenager. It was her way of thanking her. I also think she wanted me to become a superhero and figured it’d be a good start if I took her name."

"It’s almost as cool as ‘Moon Unit’." Kurt Loftgren snickered.

"Names do have power. You’d be surprised how much power they can have." Celia scrutinized Chalice carefully. This name had certainly struck true. She could sense the power in her blood; perhaps she had even more than raw magical talent than John K. Stevens. Like a maestro, the Golden Face knew who had talent in his assembly; he had chosen his two soloists well.

"Chalice, we don’t have all night." John K. finally interrupted the conversation. "Every moment we delay someone could get hurt."

"Oh, I’m sorry!" Chalice blushed.

Celia turned to Stevens and gave him a penetrating glance. He was an egotist - self-absorbed, self-centered, and he spoke mostly out of annoyance over an uninteresting conversation - but his concern for others was genuine. John K. felt her glance. It felt like he had been poked repeatedly with a scalpel. He ignored the experience without comment. There was an electricity in the air, an odd sensation of awakening. A ritual was about to begin.

"I now proclaim the Covenant!" the Golden Face cried, and the assembly shook into place. Celia watched the ritual carefully. She watched for signs of dark magic in the liturgy. They called upon someone called "The Stalwart God", and the "Constrainer of Inquities", but never named him aloud. Celia thought that curious, but not necessarily a sign of deceit - the ritual suggested they were calling upon the Babylonian deity Marduk; he was the slayer of the Chaos Goddess Tiamat and one of the more benign entities of the ancient world.

The ritual continued for long minutes. Stevens and Chalice, still robed, began to dance around a fire. The dance was exacting, and the chant that accompanied the dance was complex, a testament to the discipline of the disciples. These were not just college students who were into the occult for a lark, they had to be serious about their avocation. The delivery of the ritual was nearly flawless. A couple of times, an acolyte faltered and the Golden Face’s mask took on a subtle shade of anger. But most ritual magicks are forgiving, at least for a few syllables.

"Enough!" The Golden Face suddenly shrieked, his voice booming. "Have we not proclaimed our faith? Have we not spoken sacred words? Are our vessels impure? Are our words ill-spoken? Are our bodies unclean? Bring down your wrath upon us, or grant us a boon that will permit us to serve you better! Come forward, and lead us to our enemies!"

The room began to tremble, and several hundred adders began to swarm into the chamber.

The Golden Face was definitely smiling - the cultists had never seen the mask contort so dramatically - and the snakes wove around their feet. Celia almost panicked, but she closed her eyes and concentrated. Either this cult had brought her to her destruction, or she would go into battle this day. She could not afford to lose her nerve.

"Nice snakes." She told the Face, slapping herself for the lie even as she said it..

The Golden Face was too busy to notice her remark; snakes were whispering in his ear. He nodded, and the serpents scattered as quickly as they came.

"The Serpent of Law wishes us well." The cult leader announced. The cultists rose to their feet and began to make jubilant sounds.

Serpent of Law? Celia thought, and then she put the name into the back of her mind. After all, that didn’t sound particularly evil.

The Golden Face turned to Celia. "I have determined the center of the Chaos. The serpents shall lead us there."

"How nice of them." Celia blurted.

"What assistance can you offer?" the Golden Face asked.

Celia sighed, and produced several necklaces. She displayed them to the cultists. "These are only on loan. Is that understood? A loan. Two weeks and we start collecting fines."

"Yes. Without equivocation." The Golden Face said, examining them. "An interesting charm."

"It proofs the wearer against chaos magic." Celia explained. She then pulled out a rod from her gown with a large bulb on each end: one silver, one cold iron. "I can also use this to normalize the effects of chaos in a small area, provide a… bubble… of… I guess you’d call it normalcy."

"Most useful." The Golden Face’s gaze was suddenly transfixed on the device and did not move.

Celia placed a charm on Chalice, DeComo, and finally on Stevens. "Stop looking at me like that." John K. said, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Once again, he got the impression that his soul was being scraped, rubbed like sandpaper.

"It’s going to be awhile before I don’t." Celia responded.

DeComo edged close to the Golden Face and took him aside. "Boss, I noticed you looking at the rod."

"Yes. It is a prize."

"I was wondering if you wanted me to lift it. I’m sure we could arrange for an accident to happen to Miss Tagelohn."

The Golden Face scowled - at least the mask seemed displeased. "She is not our enemy. We are not Apocalypse Now. We don’t kill indiscriminately. And the Tagelohns would be dangerous enemies."

"Yes sir."

"Of course, if she happens to fall in battle, it would be in our best interests to retrieve the device for our own purposes. But we must play no part in her death, not even by neglect. The Tagelohns must have no cause to blame us."

"But wouldn’t Lordruu protect us?" Decomo wondered.

"Lordruu does not protect fools. Rather, they are brought more quickly to judgment."

Decomo shrugged. "Yes sir."

The Golden Face’s voice was grim. "Remember our true goal, Mr. Decomo. I have waited for twenty years and traveled hundreds of thousands of miles to get my hands on the Ark of the Covenant and what it contains. I will not allow the Tagelohns or even an army of demons to stop me now. Today, the world moves closer to its lawful judgment."

"Uh… yeah." DeComo says. "So if she gets in the way of the Ark?"

"She dies." The Golden Face pronounced.

Decomo smiled. "By the way, I brought the guns."

"Good. We expended a great deal of magic to conceal them on our journey. Hopefully, the cold iron bullets will prove effective against what we’re about to face."

There was a large obelisk outside Axum, an old and weathered monument that was believed to have been built sometime in the 5^th Century BC. Celia and the Cultists gathered at the obelisk at midnight.

"I never realized there were so many stars in the sky." Loftgren’s gaze lifted upward. New York was not a good city for stargazers.

"It’s a beautiful night. I do envy superheroes who can fly." Chalice said. "Just thinking about going above the clouds, getting a really good look at the stars. I could watch them all night."

"Provided you can hold your breath." Celia said. "Most superheroes who fly can’t survive at those high altitudes for very long."

"Like Milo?" Chalice asked.

Celia gulped and avoided the question. "By the way, this obelisk is a fraud," she quickly blurted.

"A fraud?" The Golden Face said.

Celia looked hard at the stone, whispered a few words in Coptic Greek, and the obelisk’s form shifted and transformed into a large boulder.

"Reminds me of a menhir." The young Tagelohn mused. "Did you ever read Asterix and Obelisk?" she turned to Chalice. Chalice nodded and they began to discuss their favorite childhood stories.

"The passage is underneath." The Golden Face stated, an intentional interruption. "But how to move the boulder? It’s set in too deeply for a lever to affect it."

"Stand back, sir." Loftgren smiled, rubbing his hands. "This looks like a job for… Expendable Man!"

"That’s got to weigh at least a ton." Chalice scoffed. "You try lifting that and we’ll be changing your name to Captain Hernia."

"She has a point, Mr. Loftgren." the Golden Face said, and he turned to Celia. "Can you assist him? Magically enhance his strength?"

"Not very well. There are a few rituals I know." Celia pondered. "If he swallowed the heart of a lion…"

"You’re joking, aren’t you?" Loftgren laughed, and suddenly found himself surrounded by silence.

John K. slapped him on the back. "Just give it a try. Okay?"

Kurt Loftgren removed his shirt and began to slap his chest and biceps to get the blood rushing. He looked at the boulder and growled and roared at it. It was a comical ritual, but one which Loftgren found necessary. He swung his arms wildly, manicly paced around the rock ten times, and shouted at it; when he finally felt he had the right amount of adrenaline pumping through his body, he abruptly encircled the rock with his arms, dug in tightly, and screamed.

John K., seeing the rock begin to move, rushed to Kurt’s side and did his best to give him a hand. So did Celia - the Pippi Longstockings analogy was not entirely inappropriate. They strained for long seconds, and inch by inch, the rock shifted and began to be pulled from its foundation.

"Let it topple!" John K. shouted at Celia, seeing that the rock had shifted enough to be moved. "Let it go, Kurt!"

"Mmrrrphrrrrargh!" Kurt shouted, unable to focus on anything except moving the boulder.

John K. shook his head and directed Celia to slowly move to the side; the rock’s own weight would be Loftgren’s wake up call. Kurt barely managed to let go. He probably would have been beamed by the toppling menhir had it not been for a spell that Chalice had cast at the last moment, an invisible tug to get him out of the path.

"Idiotic Viking." Chalice told Loftgren.

It took Loftgren a few seconds to regain his composure, not to mention his breath. "Geez, Chalice, either save my life or insult me, one or the other. Doing both just confuses the hell out of me."

"Basic arithmetic confuses you." John K. smiled.

Loftgren laughed. "Yeah. But at least I know how to use a calculator."

"Another sign of the decline of civilization." The Golden Face stated. "Are you hurt, Mr. Loftgren?"

"No sir. Actually, that was actually pretty cool."

"When your body aches for the next week, you’ll reconsider." The Face noted. "But these trials build character."

"And does he ever need character!" Chalice smiled.

"Remind me to come up with a real clever insult when I start breathing again." Loftgren retorted. The company found themselves encircling a large hole, which had been made when the boulder had been removed. There was a shaft leading down into the Earth. It was also strongly magical.

"You need help?" John K. asked. Loftgren shook his head. "Let me know if you do. I’m here for you."

"Right." Loftgren liked John K., but there was a side to him that he didn’t entirely trust. John K. was strong, smart, and likable; he made for good company. But he was also self-absorbed, bitter, and manipulative. He had watched him really screw over his roommate several months ago - it was necessary for the cult’s survival, but Stevens played the part too well. John was a great guy when you accepted that he was in charge. He suspected that if they ever got into a conflict he’d be a real son of a bitch.

"Mr. Loftgren, I’m impressed with your strength." Celia Tagelohn had come up to him, much to his surprise.

"Thanks. Must be the Icelandic in my bloodline." Celia grabbed his bicep and kissed it. Kurt’s eyebrows arced. "You know, you’re not so bad yourself. You must take vitamins."

Celia laughed. "You know, for a gathering of cultists, you’re pretty atypical. No offense intended, but most of the characters who join up with these things are pretty somber."

"And I’m a laugh riot?" Loftgren said.

"You make me laugh. Of course I laugh at almost anything." Celia responded. "But what’s your angle? Why’d you join?"

"Because the world’s pretty screwed up." Loftgren spat. "You had nutcases dropping poison gas on Disney World, and do you know what people did? They shrugged, said it was another terrorist attack, and went back to their lives. And this sort of crap has been going on for years; as long as the economy’s good and it doesn’t happen to them, they don’t care. People have just gotten too blasé about evil."

"You might be right." Celia nodded.

*Frigging right I am." Kurt stopped short for a second. "My parents died five years ago in a plane crash caused by Fireball."

"I’m sorry."

Loftgren shook his head. "You know, I keep hearing that platitude, and it always rings hollow. Every time they catch Fireball, some demon forms a portal, grabs him, and he gets away. Every frigging time. How do you think it feels each time when that bastard keeps getting away like the Energizer Bunny? Something has to be done to bring him to account. And every time the world shrugs off another atrocity just makes it worse. They’re just as bad as Fireball."

"And what do you intend to do about it?" Celia asked.

"Give myself enough hernias until I can’t lift a golf ball without screaming, or until I get strong enough to do the job myself. Or until Judgment Day comes and somebody sits on the bench that he finally can’t get away from."

"Judgment Day?" Celia sighed. "Please tell me you guys aren’t another bunch of millennial wackos."

"Actually, I’m more like Yakko." Kurt smiled. "But no, we don’t go in for the Year 2000 metaphysics bug. After all, two thousand years after the birth of Christ was probably between 1994 and 1996; if the two thousand years thing meant anything, the big one should’ve happened a few years ago. Of course if you get enough of these chaos cults thinking that the Year 2000 is the Big One, and it turns from millennial wackos into self-fulfilling Prophecy."

"Actually, there has been a lot of speculation in some occult circles that the date of the Christian calendar was meant to symbolize something other than the birth of Christ. Something a lot darker." Celia answered.

"Mr. Loftgren, Miss Tagelohn." The Golden Face sounded annoyed. They were ready to descend into the opening.

"Come on, Celia. Tag along." Loftgren said.

Celia’s face reacted as though she’d been hit in the stomach. "I’ve never heard that one before," she snarled sarcastically.

A long narrow shaft wove its way into the earth, a sixty foot drop into a stone chamber. Decomo, who was the first to hit the ground, pulled out a small flashlight and started surveying.

"Stone floor, wall carvings. Writing looks weird." Decomo reported.

"He’s a real expert." John K. snapped. The Golden Face motioned for John K. to proceed. John took a deep breath and started down the hole.

The Golden Face was next, struggling slightly with the climb. He was not an indolent man, but it had been some years since he had climbed so great a distance. They had landed in a narrow antechamber: pots, urns, and other treasures had been placed in a corner, and the air still had the hint of ancient spices, funereal perfumes. But the leader of the Cult of Lordruu was less interested in smells than in sights.

"And she gave unto the king a hundred and twenty talents of gold." The Golden Face quoted as he gazed on the chamber’s treasures. "And of spices very great store. And precious stones. There were no more abundance of spices as these the queen of Sheba gave to king Solomon."

Decomo gave the Golden Face an odd look. "The Bible, Mr. Decomo. First Kings, Chapter Ten, Verse Ten."

"You get that from the carvings?"

"No, merely an old memory." The Face replied. "As for the inscriptions, the language of the Queen of Sheba has never been translated."

"So it’s that old?" Celia, who took his side

"Nearly three thousand years." The Face said.

"I can’t believe they never found this place before." John K. said.

"Mystical concealment." Celia answered. "The Obelisk was just part of a larger enchantment."

"That doesn’t make sense." Chalice said. "Why hide it under an obelisk? That’d attract more attention than a boulder?"

"Except that a boulder is more likely to be used for building stone than a monument." The Golden Face answered. "Though I’m as fascinated with the motivations of the ancients as you, I have larger concerns at this moment."

"This place is almost undoubtedly trapped." Decomo said. "Lady, you got a trap detector on you?"

"Not tonight." Celia answered. She had just climbed off the rope and was limbering her neck.

"If only Mr. Smith had chosen to accompany us. Ancient architecture is a particular specialty of his." The Golden Face shook his head.

"The Marie Sacre really spooked him." John K. said. Almost as much as it spooked me, he might have added, remembering the female water spirit that he’d met during the failed expedition, and briefly loved.

"Yeah, he didn’t get laid, like some people." Decomo snickered. John K. flashed him a very dirty look, and stomped away into a corner. Celia was surprised by the reaction. A very painful emotional wound had been opened. She wondered what story was behind the remark. Loftgren, who was the last of the cultists to descend, had a few quiet words with him.

"Let’s not try to stumble around and curse the darkness." The Golden Face brought out a mirror, and he began to chant. After a minute of slow deliberate speech, the mirror began to glow. Or was it the mask that glowed, and its reflection captured in the mirror? It was hard to tell.

The Golden Face began to run the mirror along the writing that lined the wall. What appeared to the naked eye as untranslatable ancient pictograms was English in the mirror. "Not much of immediate benefit." The Golden Face said. "Some record of the Queen’s accomplishments, and the names of her children. And graffiti."

"Is this really the tomb of the Queen of Sheba?" Chalice asked.

"We’ll find out when we penetrate this area more deeply. I suspect it’s more akin to Roman Catacombs than an Egyptian tomb - a grave with multiple bodies."

"Does that -"

"Quiet, child!" the Golden Face said. "The ancients are trying to speak to me."

The Golden Face spent several long minutes reading the messages, then rose to his feet. "This place was the ancient Sorcerer’s Vault of the Kingdom of Sheba," he pronounced. "It should go without saying that the forces at work in this place are ancient and terrible. We should be cautious. A single act of sin could bring judgment down upon all of us."

"Judgment?" Celia wondered.

"The Kingdom of Sheba was destroyed in such a judgment, millennia ago." the Golden Face proclaimed.

The Golden Face’s mask quavered for a moment, but he said nothing.

The passageway continued downward, sloping at a ten degree angle, which made it a slightly uncomfortable descent. Periodically, Decomo stopped the party and checked for traps, consulting with the Golden Face and Kurt Loftgren. Despite his jovial exterior, the huge weightlifter was a student of history, though his knowledge was limited here. Even the experts knew little about the culture that once inhabited ancient Axum.

The passage certainly showed signs of being part of a network of catacombs. There were jars filled with old spices, and bowls of gold, and bird figurines with opal eyes. Decomo lifted several treasures while Celia wasn’t looking - part of his search for traps, he grinned.

But the search was not completely a pretense, and it made for a slow journey. After ten painstaking minutes, the company reached a fork in the passageway, a long stone passageway on the left, a hard descent on the right. "Should we divide our forces?" Decomo asked.

"That trick never works." Loftgren retorted.

"And it’s not necessary." Celia took out a snowglobe, shook it, turned it upside down, flipped it over again and placed it on the floor near the fork. The left side of the snowglobe was covered by a raging blizzard, but the right side was calm.

"This is one of my favorite items." Celia gave a child-like laugh. "We head right."

"Right? But that’s the calm side!" Chalice exclaimed.

"It is natural for a snow globe to be full of motion." The Golden Face explained. "Therefore, the still part of the globe indicates the direction of chaos. Almost amusing."

Celia picked up the globe, whistled a jaunty tune, and proceeded down the corridor.

The journey continued. The corridor widened, and damp places appeared in the wall. The expedition paused, and Decomo began to examine depressions in the floor. John K. beckoned Loftgren over to a series of holes in the wall. Loftgren took out an army knife and pried a dart from the wall. "Missed me." Loftgren snickered.

"Too bad." Chalice snickered, and she began to examine one of the damp spots.

"What the…" Chalice stopped short when she heard a slight click.

Suddenly, there was a clang, and then a second clang, and a noise that sounded like grinding stone, and two slabs came crashing into the corridor, one ahead of the group, the second behind them. That’s when the real grinding sound began.

The walls began to close in on them.

Decomo muttered an obscenity. The expedition was close to panic. A sound that was half-boom, half-howl was everywhere, nearly deafening them.

"This is not magical!" Celia shouted.

"It must be a mechanical trap." The Golden Face discerned. "We’ve seen water… of course, steam! A primitive steam engine."

The walls were getting tight. Loftgren held out his arms and legs and fought against the grinding walls.

"If it’s a steam engine or a water pump… they need a supply of water." The Golden Face continued to think aloud. "Probably a small reservoir restored every year during the rainy season."

Loftgren was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the walls were holding.

Chalice had been chastising herself for her mistake, but Loftgren’s screams had awakened her. She had been examining the sides of the wall, now she was certain that the Golden Face was correct and the reservoir was nearby. She began to cast an enchantment, speaking a language that Celia recognized as Old French. Water to steam… water to steam…

Kurt Loftgren was nearly spent; his eyes were bloodshot, veins beginning to hemorrhage. He tried to concentrate, shut out the pain.

Water to steam… Water to steam…

The pressure on the walls finally began to relent. Kurt’s arms collapsed. He struggled to put them up again… but it was no longer necessary. The walls had stopped closing. The reservoir of water that powered the steam engine was exhausted.

"Well done, Mr. Loftgren." The Golden Face said. He turned to Chalice. "What caused this?"

"I did, sir."

"How?"

"The water was accumulating on some sort of pressure point. Touching it released it."

"There are other pressure plates on the floor." Decomo reported. "Those mechanisms are broken. The one on the wall wasn’t."

"An accident of the centuries." The Golden Face said. He did not seem inclined to rebuke Chalice, but instead he turned to Celia. "I trust you have something to heal Mr. Loftgren?"

"Yes." Celia said, taking a balm from a pocket and applying it to Loftgren’s eyes.

"I can see! I can see!" Loftgren shouted in his best Southern Baptist voice. John K. shook his head and suppressed an urge to spit - he liked Loftgren, but sometimes his parodies cut too close. Chalice also shook her head and kicked a stone. Kurt rubbed his eyes for a few moments, noticing that the pain had vanished. "I really can see. Uh, thanks Miss Tagelohn."

"You’re welcome." Celia said.

"Can you do something about fixing what comes out of his mouth?" Chalice snapped.

Celia laughed. "Actually, I like people who have a sense of humor."

"Can we continue this another time?" The Golden Face was clearly irritated at the repeated digressions.

"You know, I can’t think of a better way to enter a battle with the forces of evil than with laughter." Celia told the Golden Face.

"I can." The Golden Face retorted. "With focus, discipline and conviction."

Celia shrugged and threw some sparkling dust into the air. The dust turned blue and began to form a trail down the corridor, gradually turning red as it shot into the distance.

"Doppler effect?" John K. wondered at the color shift.

"No. Demon detection."

"Form a circle." The Golden Face instructed his acolytes. The followers quickly obeyed. The Golden Face walked around the circle seven times, chanting. When he completed his walk a viper, a bright coral snake, slithered out of the Golden Face’s robe and bit each of the disciples on command. They cried aloud. Celia’s eyes grew wide.

"The magic is unpleasant, but necessary." The Golden Face explained. "The venom will not hurt them, but strengthen them against the demons. Mortal man is not meant to combat such vile powers. They require some additional power in their blood. Now my followers are ready."

"They won’t die?" Celia could discern no ill effects from the venom. This was not unlike radical Christian snakehandlers, but she’d also expect that ritual from black magicians who worked with snakes.

"Lady, killing them would hardly serve any useful purpose." The Golden Face chuckled.

"We’ve taken the venom before, many times." Chalice explained. "We’re immune to its effects."

"It still hurts though." Loftgren grinned.

"Pain is instructive. It tests the mind." John K. added, in almost a chant.

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Decomo quoted.

Celia’s gaze came down on Decomo for the first time. Unlike the other acolytes, whose souls were relatively clean, his soul was encrusted with blood, both ancient and fresh. He had a carrion face, a jackal’s eye glinting in moonlight. The sight of it nearly sickened her. She turned aside. The Face touched her cheek and drew her gaze to his.

"The war against chaos requires many weapons and many sacrifices." The Golden Face stated. "I am sorry that you had to witness that unpleasantness."

"So am I." Celia suppressed an urge to shudder.

"We have spent too much time in debate." The Face proclaimed, sweeping his red robed arm out in a grand gesture. "Come, Celia. The venom’s effects last only a short time. Our window of opportunity is very small. And I have waited long enough!" The Golden Face’s stiff, proud walk led the way into the final chamber. Once again, Celia wondered about the people with whom she was now involved.

In the center of the room, directly beneath the sun, there was a great stone pedestal. It was in the shape of a airy cloud lined hand, supported by thunder, brighter than the shadow of the mountain.

Beneath his mask, something turned in the pit of the Golden Face’s stomach. He wanted to scream.

"This is the source, but I do not see -"

Celia’s observation was interrupted by the flicker of torchlight, a shudder of light to shadow to light again, and the room became alive with demons. Little demons, big demons, demons in the shape of naked women and anguished men. Demons in the shapes of eight headed men with butterfly wings, wings barbed with teeth. There were demons in the shape of streams of fire and water, which drowned and burned their victims at the same time. There were demons with no shape whatsoever, but contorted between forms that were like a hybrid between a living scream and the weirdest imaginings of a fever dream, felt and heard, not seen. And they moved with one thought, danced to the tune of one dark musician.

For upon the pedestal there danced a shadowy thing, reed thin and slightly smaller than a man, but so imbued with black sorcery as to ooze despair. Looking at its eclipse-black countenance made you believe that you had arrived at the moment of your death, while reminding you at the same time of your life’s greatest moments of pain and failure. Even Celia could not bear the sight of it for more than a second.

But Decomo could. The most thuggish member of the cult drew his pistol and began to empty it into the Shadowmaster’s face. The Shadowmaster laughed and vomited, and the vomit took the form of three men and two women, drenched in blood and deathly features. They rushed at the security guard, whose face was frozen in unaccustomed terror. He recognized the zombies, and the feeling of imminent death around him increased fivefold.

"Agonistes!" Celia shouted. Her cute girlish face suddenly looked old, as worn as Mother Tagelohn’s, and she drew the rod of Order and held it high. The demons stopped for a moment; a wave of doubt suddenly rolled through its ranks. Celia continued yelling a blessing in ancient Greek, and a bubble of Order formed in the room.

"Spirits, begone!" Chalice, seeing an opening, held up an orb, a fist sized glass of clear crystal. Soul light suddenly erupted from the sight of the five approaching zombies, and streaked into the orb. Chalice’s hand began to burn, and she dropped the orb. The zombies fell to the ground and disintegrated. Chalice looked at the orb fragments and shook her head at her loss. "And to think I was using it for a paperweight," she smiled.

Decomo began firing again at the head demon, realized that he was out of ammo, and abruptly changed his clip. John K. and Loftgren were wrestling with two of the larger demons. Loftgren was winning his match, but the demon who was fighting John K. forced him down and plunged his hand into his chest, ripping out his heart.

John K. screamed, but so did the demon. Something emerged from John K.’s heart, a serpent in the form of water. It dove straightway into the demon’s mouth. A faint woman’s voice could be heard, a sweet French whisper which filled the room accompanied by the scent of rosemary. Every part of the demon’s flesh and sinew was suddenly drenched in holy water. The demon gave a soundless scream, its mouth growing wider and wider until its jaw broke off from its face, and it exploded, leaving behind a spray of water and echor. The spirit-snake continued to weave its way around the room, attacking the fire spirits. John K. rose to his feet, nearly naked but seemingly unhurt; there were not even the slightest sign of a scar on his chest. But his eyes were glazed, and he didn’t seem to be seeing the room very well.

"Marie," he said weakly, but it was loud enough that a stream of imps that encircled him fell to the ground and writhed in agony at the sound of his voice. "Marie…"

The Golden Face and Celia both stared at him. What on earth was that about?

Meanwhile, Decomo was firing madly around the room. One demon was hit in the face and divided in two demons, but instead of threatening the foreigners, they felt the call of the Rod of Order and began to consume each other. There were other signs of discord among the demons; the eight headed demon was fighting with itself, its heads spewing fire, poison, and insults at each other.

Loftgren had his demon by the throat and was bashing its head against a wall, almost a comical sight, though the demon had managed to elbow his face with a barbed limb and opened a very nasty gash on his forehead. The other cultists held their own, some with guns, some with spells; Alex Rossini, a senior member of Columbia’s fencing team, was dispatching demons with a bright steel blade; he had gone to Celia’s side and was guarding her back. Celia paid little notice; she was tearing apart the horde with devastating spells.

John K.’s spirit, seeing no other flames to quench, took a lamia’s form and hovered in front of him. Celia wondered at this; the woman-snake-water spirit was certainly very beautiful, nor did she wreak of evil, as did most of that kind. Stevens quivered, his chest opened again, and the spirit dove into his heart. His chest closed again, once more showing no scar. John K. Stevens collapsed to his knees and fought against a sob.

The Golden Face was standing back and watching the fight at the edge of the chamber, chanting softly. He had seen larger breakthroughs of chaos during his many travels around the globe, but he had never seen such a large gathering with this degree of organization. Without Celia’s assistance, they’d surely have been overwhelmed. But for the moment, the Golden Face was safe. And as long as the demons were occupied elsewhere, the Golden Face would have time to be effective.

Chalice also recognized Celia’s effectiveness, but did not quite require as much time for her rituals as her mentor. She took out a spool of silver thread, and began weaving her way around the chamber, dropping string behind her like Arachne. She cast a ward around herself as she walked, and slowly formed a pentagram. She saw John K. rise from the ground and wipe the tears from his cheek, get back into the fight. She wanted to cheer, but dared not break the ward. The demons were ignoring her. They had another, far more important, target.

Celia was fighting like a demon herself, nearly alone in the heart of the heartless horde. She controlled a flying silver dagger which swooped like a bird of prey around the room, screaming as it tore into the demons, spraying echor about the chamber. But the dancing shadowlord on the altar, recognizing Celia as the greatest threat, directed his minions to kill her at all costs. The demons began to swarm around her. Rossini fell, bludgeoned by one of the larger demons, and Celia no longer had a rearguard. Decomo noticed a huge demon, like an orange skinned goliath covered in barbs, rising out a pool of echor behind the young Tagelohn, about to encircle her neck with pincered hands. The rent-a-cop had a good line of fire, but decided to hold back. Celia had been useful long enough….

However, Celia caught sight of the huge opponent, and managed to dodge most of the blow at the last moment. The demon wound up for a second strike - when it was abruptly sandwiched between two attackers, John K. on one side, Loftgren on another, doing simultaneous tackles. There was a loud crunching sound.

"Isn’t that a roughing penalty?" Loftgren grinned.

"No ref." John K. winced and held his shoulder. Even with the demon cushioning the blow, Loftgren was a Mack truck with legs. "We’ve really got to get you on the squad."

Celia turned toward her huge adversary as it struggled to its feet, and the flying silver dagger cut the groggy demon into ribbons.

The Golden Face finally finished his ritual, and the room began to glow. Sparks kindled in the center of the altar, and then a bright light shone. The Shadowmaster began to be consumed by it.

Chalice completed her pentagram, and spoke the final words of her enchantment. It fed into the power of Lordruu’s light, and became magnified. It resounded within the sphere of Celia’s bubble of law, and it became transcendent. And it felt the power of the Artifact of God, and it became Holy.

The room was suddenly engulfed in light, a light far brighter than Chalice expected. There was a chorus - no, not a chorus, a chord, a single chord that was greater than a symphony, the true music of the empyrean heights revealed to mortal man for a single instant. Perhaps if Celia were not of the Tagelohns, she would have gone mad. Perhaps if the venom of Lordruu did not flow in the veins of the cultists, they would have gone mad too. But the note of the celestial anthem was pure torment to the demons. They turned on each other, clawing and biting, and like some infernal black hole, began to shrink into a whirl of echor and fury as they were consumed. There was a faint moan from the Shadowmaster, almost a pitiful thing, as it felt its power fade. It would be sorely punished on its return to Hell.

"Good." Celia smiled as the demons completely vanished.

Then there was the sound of heavy breathing and moaning. "Is everyone okay?" Chalice asked.

"I think the demon bwoke my nose." Loftgren said, wiping the blood off his face.

"Good." Chalice smiled.

"And the rest is silence… and bandages." The Golden Face stated. Chalice inspected Rossini and a few of the other badly injured cultists. The Golden Face’s attention was elsewhere. "That’s quite a tool, Miss Tagelohn. You wouldn’t happen to know the location of others like it?"

"You’d have to ask the family elders," Celia responded. "And I doubt you’d ever get to ask another question to anyone again." She turned to John K. and Loftgren. "You two. Thanks for helping me back there."

"You’re welcome." John K. said, a little coldly.

"Just the best part of a really bad day." Loftgren added with a blood-soaked grin.

The Golden Face sat on the pedestal, his face quite gloomy. "What’s the matter , boss?" Decomo asked.

"It’s not here. It should have been here!" The Face spoke with quiet emphasis.

"The Ark?"

The Golden Face nodded.

"What’s the problem?" Celia turned to the Golden Face, a little suspiciously.

"The strength and organization of the demons." The Golden Face said. "They should not have been so formidable."

Celia pondered the truth in his words. There was certainly a lot of truth in them. And yet - their spells should also not have been as effective as they had been against such a horde. Indeed, even with the snake venom running through their veins, Loftgren should not have been able to physically subdue demons of that size and puissance. And then there was the watery spirit-snake that burst from Stevens’s chest. Somehow, his soul seemed a little cleaner now, a little purer. The place was a gallery of riddles, and this cult of the Serpent of Law was an enigma. But nonetheless, they had done good today, a very great good, and it was difficult to be suspicious of that. By their deeds you shall judge them…

The Golden Face, however, was disconsolate. Another long quest for nought. They had tweaked the nose of the face of chaos, and for what? The Ark was gone, gone, gone well beyond his reach. He could feel the anger and judgment of Lordruu upon him. He could not afford to fail Him again.

"I will be back, I promise." The Golden Face stated. "And in Lorduu’s name, the Ark will be mine, or I will be damned."

Addis Ababa. The expedition had made their way through long mountain roads to Ethiopia’s capital, the city of the great Selassie himself. There, they would catch a plane to Athens, and then back to New York City itself.

"The airport in Athens is intolerable." Richardson stated, punctuating her sentence with a snorting noise not unlike a dog’s woof.

"Perhaps we’ll have some entertainment. A terrorist or two." Wixted quipped. Richardson repeated the snort-woof.

"So Chalice." Loftgren asked. "When we hit the States, how about going out with me?"

"With you?" Chalice asked.

"Yeah. As we say back in Sweden, ‘when you’ve got a Swede on your shoulder, you’ve got a little piece of heaven with you."

Chalice spat. "You’re from Jersey, Loftgren!"

"And both my parents are Swedish." Kurt boasted. "So how about it? I’ll show you the night life in Poughkeepsie."

"Sorry. John K. already asked."

Loftgren’s eyes lit up, and he advanced on his fellow cultist, grabbed him by the shoulders, and lifted him about two feet off the ground. "You lucky black bastard!"

"That’s African-American bastard." John K. managed a smile.

"I don’t give a damn if it’s bastard of color. You know I like her. What are you frigging doing?"

John K. shook his head. "Put me down. We can settle this like adults for a change."

"You mean fight?" Loftgren began to shift into a crouch.

"I mean talk." John K. landed on his feet and slapped Loftgren on the back. "I owe you my life. I’m not screwing you. In fact, if I can help bring you guys together, I will."

"Really?" Kurt asked.

"Uh huh. Even though we’re only supposed to have platonic relationships." John K. said

"I’m a little more Aristotlean than Platonic." Loftgren muttered, trying to joke.

"Well that’s your business." John K. said. "But I think any girl who insults you as much as she does either really, really likes you, or she really, really hates your guts. So I figure you’ve got about a fifty-fifty chance."

"But why are you going out with her?" Loftgren had calmed down, but pain had replaced anger on his face.

"Strategy session." John K. said. "The Face can’t be pleased with what happened, and neither can the… the you know who…"

"The Judge." Loftgren was finding this conversation even less comforting than the discussion of his romantic life. "Oh boy."

"We gotta start scoring soon, or otherwise we won’t be able to get into the game at all." John K. hated sports metaphors, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. "You heard what the Tagelohn girl said before she took off. If these chaos cults are as well organized as she thinks, they may destroy the world before we get a chance to save it."

"You’re right." Kurt said. "So what does Expendable Man do next?"

"He takes a nice long rest. He’s earned it, and so have the rest of us."

"We’ll be staying in Greece tonight. How about some poker?"

"Sure." John K. laughed. "But let’s not invite Decomo. He cheats."

"Some people are lucky, some people make their own luck." Loftgren replied. "Luck. Just another part of the natural order."