has continued for thousands of years with no victor thus far. The Souls of Sordarrah hope to tip the balance in favor of their Lord by winning over the mortal realm for him, a feat Lucifer has never managed.”
Vain stared blankly at Priest from the bed where he still lay shackled.
“What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?” He mouthed the words slowly, scorn dripping from every syllable. “Wars with gods in Heaven and Hell. Are you an idiot, or do you simply take me for one? Undo these straps now so I can choke you to death and piss in your mouth for talking such crap.” Vain looked away disdainfully.
“Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell is irrelevant Dark Man,” continued Priest with a note of irritation. “The result is the same. The Souls of Sordarrah will kill the boy with the coming of autumn unless you save him.”
Vain sighed and wondered if he would ever be the same again. Although he had never truly enjoyed his former life, it had been blissfully empty of petty things like emotion and conscience. Unfortunately, deep down, what Priest said rang true–regardless of the religious babble. He didn’t care why these people wanted to kill the boy. He didn’t care that Priest believed the youth was some Christ-reborn blah, blah, blah. He cared only for the child, and he knew that if he had a chance to save him he would try.
“Undo my bonds, Priest,” Vain said quietly. “Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll kill you today.”
After a moment, Priest nodded and moved to comply. He undid the strap restraining the assassin’s right arm. Proceeding to the left, he instantly found himself choking in the vice-like grip of the Dark Man.
Vain drew Priest’s ear to his mouth and whispered, “Just don’t forget, black man, your death rattle will sound once this is all over.” He flung the man away from the bed like a rag doll, unfastening the remaining straps himself.
Priest lay stunned on the floor of the cell. It wasn’t so much the actions of the Dark Man that surprised him, but rather that he hadn’t anticipated them. All he had sensed from Vain had been empathy for the child. Even now, when Priest tried to probe the Dark Man’s mind, he could see only the faceless image of the boy. His powers seemed blocked, and he wondered what the assassin’s next move would be.
Vain sat unfettered on the edge of the bed, staring at Priest while he gathered himself from the floor. He appeared completely at ease, with no sign of tension in his being. If somebody walked into the room at this moment, they would find it hard to believe that up until this point the man on the bed had been a virtual prisoner in this white cell.
“Get up black man, and tell me everything I need to know.”
Priest took a few moments to compose himself before gradually recounting everything he knew of the Souls of Sordarrah. Existing in secret for centuries, the cult revolved around a man named Empeth. He had organized the group into a deeply hidden society of demon worshippers, following a set of commandments similar to those of the Catholic Church. Entitled the Plekshaw —roughly translated as The Words of the Demons —the edicts were carved into Pope John IV’s tombstone after it was stolen from Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The Plekshaw were also said to have been soaked in the blood of thirteen catholic priests who were kidnapped and forced to carve the ancient words before they were killed. Additionally, thirteen demonic rites were recited in an ancient language over the tablet before the speakers too were killed and drained of blood.
Vain looked on impassively while Priest listed the thirteen directives of the Souls of Sordarrah. Roughly translated from their original Romanian, the stone read:
The blood of the innocent must flow free.
The pure must be made to suffer.
Beauty must be unmade.
Hatred shall rule your heart.
Weakness must be destroyed.
None shall be spared to love, except to love Sordarrah.
Sordarrah
Vain stared blankly at Priest from the bed where he still lay shackled.
“What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?” He mouthed the words slowly, scorn dripping from every syllable. “Wars with gods in Heaven and Hell. Are you an idiot, or do you simply take me for one? Undo these straps now so I can choke you to death and piss in your mouth for talking such crap.” Vain looked away disdainfully.
“Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell is irrelevant Dark Man,” continued Priest with a note of irritation. “The result is the same. The Souls of Sordarrah will kill the boy with the coming of autumn unless you save him.”
Vain sighed and wondered if he would ever be the same again. Although he had never truly enjoyed his former life, it had been blissfully empty of petty things like emotion and conscience. Unfortunately, deep down, what Priest said rang true–regardless of the religious babble. He didn’t care why these people wanted to kill the boy. He didn’t care that Priest believed the youth was some Christ-reborn blah, blah, blah. He cared only for the child, and he knew that if he had a chance to save him he would try.
“Undo my bonds, Priest,” Vain said quietly. “Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll kill you today.”
After a moment, Priest nodded and moved to comply. He undid the strap restraining the assassin’s right arm. Proceeding to the left, he instantly found himself choking in the vice-like grip of the Dark Man.
Vain drew Priest’s ear to his mouth and whispered, “Just don’t forget, black man, your death rattle will sound once this is all over.” He flung the man away from the bed like a rag doll, unfastening the remaining straps himself.
Priest lay stunned on the floor of the cell. It wasn’t so much the actions of the Dark Man that surprised him, but rather that he hadn’t anticipated them. All he had sensed from Vain had been empathy for the child. Even now, when Priest tried to probe the Dark Man’s mind, he could see only the faceless image of the boy. His powers seemed blocked, and he wondered what the assassin’s next move would be.
Vain sat unfettered on the edge of the bed, staring at Priest while he gathered himself from the floor. He appeared completely at ease, with no sign of tension in his being. If somebody walked into the room at this moment, they would find it hard to believe that up until this point the man on the bed had been a virtual prisoner in this white cell.
“Get up black man, and tell me everything I need to know.”
Priest took a few moments to compose himself before gradually recounting everything he knew of the Souls of Sordarrah. Existing in secret for centuries, the cult revolved around a man named Empeth. He had organized the group into a deeply hidden society of demon worshippers, following a set of commandments similar to those of the Catholic Church. Entitled the Plekshaw —roughly translated as The Words of the Demons —the edicts were carved into Pope John IV’s tombstone after it was stolen from Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The Plekshaw were also said to have been soaked in the blood of thirteen catholic priests who were kidnapped and forced to carve the ancient words before they were killed. Additionally, thirteen demonic rites were recited in an ancient language over the tablet before the speakers too were killed and drained of blood.
Vain looked on impassively while Priest listed the thirteen directives of the Souls of Sordarrah. Roughly translated from their original Romanian, the stone read:
The blood of the innocent must flow free.
The pure must be made to suffer.
Beauty must be unmade.
Hatred shall rule your heart.
Weakness must be destroyed.
None shall be spared to love, except to love Sordarrah.
Sordarrah
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