Chapter 9: Preparations

The robed figure stared out of the window and watched in silence as the large truck slowly unloaded the massive crate they had been transporting. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in watching the bed of the truck visibly spring up after the huge metal and plastic crate had been removed. There was no way of underestimating the tremendous weight that had been unloaded. Everything about the task, from the squeal of the crane to the slight tremor in the earth as the crate came down, spoke of the weight of the massive load being delivered. The men worked quickly, setting up the crane, moving the crate, then disassembling it all, packing the parts back onto the truck and then driving away.

Such was to be expected, after all, the firm hired for this task was renowned for its efficiency and discretion. There were no questions, no hanging about, no delays, just the optimum amount of work needed to accomplish the task before them, and then a speedy exit. Yes, they had been every bit as discreet as could have been hoped for. The magic-user made a mental note to ensure that a generous bonus was paid to the company for their excellent work. After all, it was always good sense to reward those that you might need to use again someday

“Is that it?”

The question came from the scarred man, who had emerged from the stone chamber some time ago. His spells were largely self-operating at this point. He could leave them unattended for hours at a time. Periodically he would return to see if they had managed to build sufficient power to locate the agent of the Heavens, but aside from that there was little need for his presence. A fact that allowed him to indulge an interest in the artefact that had been delivered.

“Indeed.”

The robed figure’s response was curt, their attention focused upon the new contents of the warehouse rather than upon their companion.

“So, are you going to tell me what it is?”

“No, but you can see for yourself in a few minutes if you wish.” The fellow acolyte of their patron replied, as the two of them began to make their way to the warehouse.

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Still, he had patience to spare. After all, anyone with hopes of a future in the mystic arts had to be practised in patience. When dealing with such forces incaution or haste could prove lethal.

“How go your preparations for when we locate our target?”

He would soon be able to find their quarry again, regardless of the measures she had taken to obfuscate her location. However, once that had been found they would have to move swiftly. If they hesitated too long then it was possible the agent would move once more, and then they would be forced to begin all over again. That meant that once they were certain of the agent’s location they would have to immediately strike with decisiveness and overwhelming force.

Given that they were facing a foe that was quite literally divinely empowered they could not afford to underestimate her. As such appropriate steps needed to be taken.

Appropriate measures such as awaited in one of the artificial caverns beneath the castle.

The thought of what he had seen there was enough to bring a tight smile to the lips of the scarred man. All of those warped and inhuman bodies, so many of them and all waiting in a deep sleep, waiting in long rows as though they were simply statues left in the dark. Each of them had been carefully summoned by his robed ally weeks ago; each of them had been bound into service and ordered to wait in hibernation until they were called upon. So many of them, and each of them so strong.

He was unsure of how they would be able to fare against a chosen servant of the God of the Outer Heavens, but he knew that against others they had proven fearsome and formidable in the past. If fortune was with him and his host then they might prove as formidable on this occasion. And if not . . . well, quantity could make up for a lack of quality if needs be.

His host had descended a flight of stairs and was now making their way out of the main gate to the renovated castle. As the gravel of the courtyard crunched beneath their feet the scarred man had to bring up a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the light of the summer sun that burnt down upon them. He was now clad in a simple white sleeveless shirt, but even so, he could feel the heat beating down upon him. He could only imagine how his host felt, given the thick and heavy robe worn even in the summer heat.

Still, he knew the vestments would not be removed, even if their wearer was suffering. Those robes were not mere vestments of common cloth, rather they were ancient vestments woven by the hands of gods and monsters alike. Heavy and cumbersome though they were, the robes drank in the ambient magic of the world that would normally go untouched, and then funnelled it into their wearer. The process was slow, uncomfortable and even painful on occasion. But in exchange, those that wore the robes could greatly increase the speed at which their magic developed. In these times, only months after the return of the magic that had once left the world, anything that granted an advantage to one’s development was a boon.

In times long past rare mortals that wielded magic had been able to stand as peers to the gods, perhaps not their equals, but not a force that could be ignored or dismissed. Every culture had its legends, the British had Merlin, the Irish had Gwydion fab Dôn, and eastern legend was rife with monks and priests that possessed powers even the gods would respect. As things stood in the present, the gods and other divinities had the clear advantage in the world. Mortals were almost devoid of any sort of protection against them. The only ones able to oppose them were the demigods and resurrected souls. Without aid, it would take mankind centuries, possibly even millennia, before they could once more see to their own defence.

That was why he had thrown his lot in with their patron. The scarred man had known magic was real even before the Black Sun, having encountered one of the few remnants of magic that had lingered in the world when the legends had been in exile. He knew how wonderful and ghastly it could be, and he wanted that power. He wanted it to control and protect, and he was willing to accept certain compromises to get it.

Still, that was the past, the present was growing interesting as they entered the warehouse that had been built in the castle’s large bailey. The point of interest being the enormous crate that had been set upright in the middle of the warehouse’s open area. The massive metal and plastic crate was easily over twelve feet in height, and at least half that wide and deep. It didn’t so much resemble a shipping crate as it did a bank vault that had somehow come free.

“So . . . are you going to tell me what is in there?”

Rather than answer his question, the robed figure held out their hands and extended their fingers towards the huge crate. He could feel magic rolling off them as they extended their power. The scarred practitioner might not be able to match their raw strength, but his ability to sense and analyse magic was unquestionably superior. He could practically see it as the magic reached out, wrapping around the crate, and then, in an impressive display of multitasking dexterity, every screw and bolt holding it together came undone.

In a single instant, the sides of the crate all fell outwards as though built to do so, the metal making a loud crash as it hit the concrete floor. The only exception to this was the top of the crate, which slid off to the side in a rather haphazard manner. All this though, was of minimal interest to the scarred man. Instead, his focus was upon the now revealed contents of the container, which was . . .

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A massive mound of straw?

The robed figure let out a grunt of annoyance and made another gesture, and the straw burst into flames. The fire burned fast, supernaturally so. All that straw, as tightly packed as it was, should have continued to burn for a few minutes at least, instead, it was all gone in less than ten seconds. And what was revealed . . .

The scarred man found himself taking a step back out of pure reflex at what he saw. He was a worldly man, someone not easily impressed. Even so, there was something about what the flames bared to his sight that made him want to flinch back.

What he saw was some sort of statue, but never had he seen one like this. It was a huge figure, wrought most artfully in both stone and metal. Though, perhaps the word ‘huge’ didn’t do it full justice. He himself was at least six feet in height, but this sculpture of metal and stone towered over him as though he were nothing more than a child. It was humanoid in shape, but the proportions were . . . beyond human. The shoulders and sculpted muscles were huge, the feet massive enough to trample a full-grown mortal man beneath them; each hand was an enormous vice of thick fingers large enough to crush cannon balls with ease. Atop the shoulders was the head of the figure, a massive helmeted affair, with a visor beneath what seemed to be a crown of iron spikes welded to the helm itself. Beneath the visor was no mouth, rather there was simply a crude and jagged slit, strangely out of place given the clear craftsmanship that had gone into the rest of the statue.

“A magnificent statue, but how do you intend to use it?”

The robed figure stepped forwards and waved their hand at the head of the statue. Again, the scarred man felt the magic ripple out, this time focusing on the helmet-like face of the statue. There was a high-pitched squealing noise, that of metal long in place being forced to move once more. As he watched the helm and visor of the figure split apart, the layers of armour peeled away in a mechanical manner that spoke of its intricate design. Before long half the head had opened in an almost flower-like manner, revealing a smooth face at the very centre of the statue's head, a face that had a single word inscribed in characters that he did not recognize. One thing that was clear though, one of the characters had somehow been scuffed to the point it was no longer readable, and that was enough to let him know just what he was seeing.

“Is that a golem?”

Golem creation was one of the oldest forms of Hebrew magic, and they're most famed. At its core, the discipline was an attempt to emulate the actions of the Abrahamic god when he fashioned Adam, the first man, from mud and breathed life into him. Many masters of the mystic arts had tried to imitate the creation of the first mortal for a vast array of reasons. Some sought to learn the craft as a stepping stone to learn how to create a ‘perfect’ human, one that would be free of the flaws and frailties that dogged humanity. Others wished to create slaves, mindless automatons that obeyed orders without thought or hesitation, servants that felt no emotion, endured no pain, listened to no conscience. Still others wanted a protector, someone that could be trusted to never be swayed by bribes, seduction, or fear.

“Not ‘a’ golem, this is ‘The’ Golem.”

There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his ally’s voice.

“What?”

“This is not just any golem created in the workshop of some alchemists hiding from the world. Centuries before the birth of Christ a king in the lands that would become Arabia, lured several Hebrew mystics into his service with promises of gold and fame. He ordered them to create a golem, a masterwork surpassing all made before. He provided them with all that they needed, the rarest resources, the most skilled servants, knowledge thought lost, it didn’t matter. He wanted them to create the greatest golem ever, a servant that could defend his kingdom from demons, pagan gods, even the angels of God himself.”

The acolyte gestured to the massive figure.

“This was the fruit of their labour, one of the strongest of all golems, possibly even the strongest of all!”

Magic flowed through the air, growing visible as it concentrated around the exposed word. The scuffed character glowed with orange light, the damage to it seeming to fade until a clear symbol was visible in its place. In response, there was a deep thudding noise from within the golem’s metal and stone chest, a heartbeat so loud that even from where he stood the scarred man could hear it.

“What have you done?”

Even as he asked the question the formerly statue-like form of the golem was visibly altering. A dull internal glow began to emanate from the seam and joints, as though the internal parts were molten. Even so, he could feel no heat radiating from its form. The face closed, the layers of armour folding back into place until only the face of the helmet remained, once more crowned in iron. Then, with a sound like tortured metal, the form of the statue moved. The hands clenching, the spine straightening, its centre of balance shifting slightly as its posture adjusted. Lastly, the visor was lit by an internal light, as though the eyes that it protected had been replaced with fresh embers from a fire.

“It was defeated, but only through powerful magic being used to change the word inscribed upon its head,” The robed figure explained, their hands still extended, magical power feeding into the golem as it came alive. “Without that word to give it life, all of the magic within it drained away, leaving it little more than a finely crafted sculpture which was buried away. My own magic is enough to repair it and replenish it to full functionality.”

Yes, the scarred man could indeed feel the amount of power that his ally was feeding into the construct. It was daunting in a way, he knew that he was powerful by the standards of the mortals of this world, but the amount of raw power that was being channelled into the golem would have taken him weeks or even months to accumulate. That his ally had been able to muster such power from their reserves with such ease made him wonder just how much of it was their own talent, and how much of it was due to their patron’s interference. And a small part of him wondered if he could persuade their patron to impart the same upon him. Well, that was something to think of later.

“Can you control it?”

In response to his question, his robed ally shouted out some words in a language he didn’t understand. The golem must have heard them because its head rose and its visored eyed seemed to focus upon the speaker. For a moment there was a tension in the room, a sense of violence only just restrained. All that was needed was a trigger, a slip, just one word in the wrong place. For his part the dark-haired man was frozen in place, feeling as though an avalanche was poised just above him, and any action however slight would bring it crashing down upon him.

Power, that was the only way he could describe it. Despite having been as alive as a block of granite just a few moments ago the golem now seemed to radiate an aura of barely pent-up strength. The only time he had ever faced anything similar was when he’d met with his divine patron, but that had been different. Facing their patron had been like staring into a furnace, he’d been well aware that what was before him could consume him utterly. Just a touch could wound, just a fraction of their power could reduce him to nothing. The Golem. . . that was more like standing in front of a train that was getting ready to move, you just knew that if you got in its way then you would be flattened.

Then the glowing eyes seemed to flicker, and any hint of menace left it as it knelt on one knee, one fist pressed down into the base of the crate that it still stood upon.

“Wh-what was that?”

The robed figure stepped forward to run one gloved hand down the side of the kneeling golem's shoulder. Had the construct been flesh there would have been something almost sexual about the caress, but instead, it seemed to be possessive, covetous.

“I spoke the words of the king that once commanded it.” The figure explained. “Finding them was difficult, even with the magic. I had to wade through most of my library of old tomes for clues, and once I found the words I learned that the copy I had was corrupted by centuries of flawed translations. Fortunately, a ritual of Truth was sufficient to reveal their correct form. Now, I command it!”

The figure stepped back and seemed to admire the sight of the towering figure kneeling before them.

“It should make a fine addition to the force we shall be sending after the agent of Heaven, do you not agree?”

The scarred man had little love for the agents of Heaven. In his view, they might have been less malicious than the forces of hell, and they might be more restrained than many of the gods that now roamed the world, but even so, they were still just another power seeking to exert their will upon the fate of mankind. This Maiden of Orleans was a mortal that had thrown her lot in with them, so he had no particular regard for her either. She had chosen their side, so she had to accept the consequences of that choice.

Still, as he looked up at the mass of stone and metal that towered taller than him even though it had knelt, he could not help but feel a certain level of sympathy for the returned saint. They had no idea of what was coming for them.