Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“Would you like this castle, angel?” Tyranus asked. He held out his goblet, waiting for the servant girl to attend to his needs. She scurried over, filling his cup, careful not to spill a drop.

Remiel pulled his eyes from the mesmerizing flames and looked at the Pope.

“This castle,” Tyranus stated again. “Would you like it? I could make it yours.”

“I have no need for a castle.”

The servant girl was now hovering beside Remy, eager to refill his goblet.

“I am fine, girl,” he told her, and she bowed her head and scurried off.

“Certainly a place to call your own would not be a bad thing,” the Pope continued, as he drank his wine. “A place to settle down . . . a place to call home.”

“This could never be home,” Remiel said grimly. He gently sipped what little drink he had remaining in his cup.

“Do you actually have a place in this world, soldier of God?” Tyranus asked. “What would drive one such as you from the Golden City of Heaven to this place of such turmoil?”

Remiel felt an odd compulsion to tell the holy man of the Great War, but he managed to suppress the urge, rising from the chair to stand before the fire. “Tell me of this necromancer,” he said instead, changing the topic. “The more I know, the swifter will be his defeat.”

The angel leaned upon the stone mantel, staring into the roaring flames, waiting for the Pope’s answer. When he did not respond, Remiel turned to see him reclined on his throne, his goblet of wine resting in his lap. He was watching a young boy, dressed in Vatican finery, setting an ornate wooden box down upon the table between the two chairs.

“What is this?” Remiel asked.

“You wish to learn of the necromancer,” Pope Tyranus replied. “This will tell you all that you need to know.”

Remiel approached, observing the boy as he began to unsnap metal latches that held the box closed. He then pulled the two sides of the box apart to reveal what was inside.

The head was ancient, the skin like parchment stretched taut over the bald pate and the angular bones of the face. The eyes were squeezed tightly shut and sunken in, the orbs of sight behind the withered flesh a long time ago food for the worms and beetles.

“Let me guess,” Remiel said. “One of the ways you fight fire with fire.”

Tyranus smiled dreamily, multiple goblets of wine at last having their effect. “If you are suggesting that the oracle is an object of supernatural power, then you are correct,” the Pope admitted. “Through it I first learned of the necromancer’s existence, and that he possessed Solomon’s sigil.”

Remiel continued to stare at the disembodied head. “What does it do?” he finally asked.

With those words, the boy reached beneath his fine garments and produced a small knife. He stared at his master.

“Pay the oracle,” Tyranus proclaimed as he drank once more from his cup.

Remiel watched as the boy raised the knife to his index finger, slicing the pad with a pained hiss. As the scarlet fluid bubbled out from the slash, the child brought his finger to the head’s pursed lips, smearing the blood there.

The child’s blood beaded upon the dry, leathery flesh, before slowly being absorbed. At first Remiel believed it be a trick of the flickering light thrown by the fire in the stone hearth behind him, but came to realize that the lips of the corpse were swelling, and then a tongue, dried and withered like a piece of tree bark, snaked out from between the engorged lips to partake of the boy’s offering.

The boy squeezed his wound to bleeding again, and brought it down to the writhing mouth.

The head opened its awful mouth eagerly, and the boy stuck the bleeding digit into the gaping mouth, where it was at once suckled upon.

The child gasped as the head continued to suck greedily.

“That’s enough, boy,” Pope Tyranus ordered from his throne. “Make the oracle work for its sustenance.”

With a growing revulsion, Remiel watched as the child withdrew his finger from the corpse-head’s eager mouth. It began to emit a horrible, high-pitched keening.

“Silence, oracle,” the Pope commanded.

The head ceased its noise, its nose twitching as if attempting to locate the scent of the one who commanded it.

“You have been fed, and now you will tell us of what we ask,” Pope Tyranus proclaimed.

“The payment has been made,” the head spoke in a weak, high-pitched voice. “You will be told what the oracle knows.”

The boy had removed a lace handkerchief from somewhere within his robes, swathing his bleeding finger in the finest material.

“Tell us of the necromancer,” Pope Tyranus stated. “You will tell us of the necromancer called Hallow.”

The oracle considered what was asked of it, the lids covering the empty sockets of its eyes moving as if there were something beneath them, something squirming around to eventually be free.

“One of twins born of human, and protohuman,” the oracle wheezed. “They were to be the guardians of magick, one representing the light, and the other, the dark. They were to maintain the balance, to keep one power from overwhelming the other.”

The oracle stopped talking, its mouth moving hungrily.

“Go on, oracle,” Remiel commanded.

“So dry,” the head hissed weakly. “So very, very thirsty.”

“Finish your tale and we shall see about quenching that thirst,” Tyranus stated cruelly.

The oracle noisily smacked its parched lips together, building up enough moisture that it could go on.

“One power believed itself stronger than the other, throwing the balance into turmoil. The light would take from the dark, both powers amassed in one . . . but the darkness would not stand for this and a great battle was fought—the light versus the darkness . . . brother against brother. . . .” The oracle’s voice trailed off.

“And this battle,” Remiel said. “The light versus the dark—it continues?”

“Yes,” the oracle replied. “The opposing forces collect their objects of magickal power in the hopes that one will eventually triumph over the other, and claim the might of the opposition.”

“The necromancer . . . Hallow. He has Solomon’s sigil?” Remiel asked.

“Yes,” the oracle hissed. “A prize coveted by many who know the ways of the weird, and especially by one who serves the light. This will be the prize most viciously sought, for it will upset the balance once and for all, and the power of magick both black and white will rest in the hands of . . .”

“We are done,” Pope Tyranus proclaimed, empty chalice clattering to the floor as he stood up from his throne.

Remiel stared at the Pope, curious of the interruption.

“The oracle is a tricky creature,” the Pope said. “It will continue to prattle just to hear itself if it believes it will be fed.”

Tyranus gestured to the boy. “Put it away.”

The child snapped to it immediately, going to the case, his bloody finger still wrapped in the dainty handkerchief. He started to close up the sides, eliciting a reaction from the oracle.

“Wait!” it squeaked. “You promised me more. . . . You promised to quench this unbearable thirst!”

The boy considered the head’s request, turning to gaze at his master for confirmation.

“Close it up, boy,” Pope Tyranus ordered.

“Please,” the oracle begged as the two sides of the case were slowly brought together. “The thirst . . . It hurts so badly. . . .”

The oracle’s pleas fell upon deaf ears as the case was closed, and the latches were refastened.

The sound of muffled cries of sorrow trailed off as the boy carried the box from the room.

Having already been to the Newport mansion, Remy was able to locate it again.