The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn) Read online

  THE AGE OF APOLLYON

  TRILOGY

  by Mark Carver

  THE AGE OF APOLLYON TRILOGY

  The Age of Apollyon

  Black Sun

  Scorn

  Includes three bonus short stories

  based on The Age of Apollyon:

  THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES

  Volume One: The Manifestation

  Volume Two: The Revolution

  Volume Three: The Persecution

  Books by Mark Carver:

  THE AGE OF APOLLYON

  BLACK SUN

  SCORN

  INDELIBLE

  CYN

  BEAST (with Michael Anatra)

  NIKOLAI THE PENITENT: A NOVEL OF

  THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE CROSS -

  Coming Summer 2016

  THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES (short story series)

  FOREWORD

  Two pieces of writing advice stick out in my mind, and they were given to me by two people who are no longer with us.

  The first was told to me by a dear friend of the family. His name was Mark Hutchison and he was a gifted photographer. When I mentioned that I was making a serious attempt at writing, he said, “Write what you would like to read. That way, you’ll do your best work.”

  The second piece of advice came from the late Bram Stoker-award winning horror author David B. Silva. After I completed my first novel, The Age of Apollyon, he was kind enough to read it. He gave it a five-star review, though I suspect he was being generous. He sent me an email with his thoughts, and in the message he said that it would be helpful if I wrote more emotively.

  My first reaction was, Emotively? I’m writing violent Gothic action stories here, not historical romance. But I had a feeling he knew what he was talking about, so I filed this nugget away in my mental suggestion box.

  When I started writing The Age of Apollyon in autumn of 2012, I fed myself a steady diet of atmospheric classics, such as The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, The Monk by Matthew Gregory Lewis, and of course, Bram Stoker’s Dracula. But in the interest of broadening my literary horizons, especially since I was attempting to break into the writing world, I felt it would be wise to read and analyze mainstream fiction and bestsellers to see if I could learn something from them as well.

  And learn something I did. I had never been aware of it before since I had only been reading as a reader, but now I realized that all of the bestselling books I picked up were written very emotively. The authors wrote with snappy, fast-paced styles that matched the tones of the books, as if we the readers were reading the author’s thoughts themselves. I felt that emotional connection that David B. Silva had told me about, and I realized that I had a long way to go in that department.

  When I wrote The Age of Apollyon, I was very excited to bring my ultra-Gothic vision to life, and I paid special attention to atmosphere, scenery, the pitch-black tone of the story, and the hyper-violent action. There were certainly plenty of emotionally-charged scenes but I realized that I didn’t write as emotively as I could have. I was good at describing, painting a picture, setting the stage, but perhaps it was the influence of all those classics that gave my prose a heavy, weighted feeling, at least compared to the bestsellers of the day.

  I had always envisioned The Age of Apollyon as a sort of homage to the Gothic classics, albeit with a modern flair. Like the cathedrals that frequently appear in the story, I wanted the prose to be ornate, detailed, and extravagant. However, at the time I wasn’t experienced enough as a writer to do this and write emotively. I did a lot of telling rather than showing, relying heavily on adjectives and descriptive passages. The truth was, I didn’t trust the readers enough to see in their heads what I saw in mine, so I tried to help them out as possible. I noticed this in a lot of first books by rookie authors as well, and I realized that it was a hindrance rather than a help. Readers need to feel an immediate emotional connection to a book, since this is what engages their imaginations and makes reading an enjoyable experience. Otherwise, it can feel like a story-style lecture.

  So, armed with this new knowledge, I set out to write the other two books in the trilogy, Black Sun and Scorn. The story ventured into some unexpected territory as all sagas do, but I was a bit surprised to watch the story become more intimate, more personal. And more emotional.

  I had already set the stage with The Age of Apollyon, so I didn’t need to devote as much time to describing scenery and setting the tone. The story became more focused as well. Whereas The Age of Apollyon was very broad in scope with a few main characters at its core, the following two books became increasing focused on the struggles that Patric Bourdon and Father DeMarco were forced to endure. The story maintained its dark and epic feel but the characters, rather than the atmospherics, became the axis around which the story revolved. And as the story became more emotional, so did my writing style.

  As you read these books, please pay attention to the shift in style. I believe that all three books are a coherent unit, though there are shades of differences among them. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what they are and how they affect the story, but I certainly notice them when I go back read these books from time to time.

  And when I do, I realized that I took Mark Hutchison’s advice to heart. I really enjoy these books. They are the kind of books that I wish more authors would write, so I took it upon myself to do the job. Writing them took tremendous effort but it was an exciting journey, and even now, several books later, I still enjoy picking them up and reading a chapter or two.

  I know I still have a long way to go, but I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve learned a lot in just a few short years. When I first started writing, I made a promise to myself that I would complete thirty novels. So far, I’m seven books (and numerous short stories) into that promise, with new stories coming out every year.

  I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know one thing: by the time I get to number thirty, I’ll still have much to learn. A good writer knows that they never reach the end of the journey.

  And that’s the way it should be.

  M.C.

  May 2016

  THE AGE

  OF

  APOLLYON

  Copyright 2013 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  In memory of my father

  PART I.

  Praise you, and bless you the Lord and give thanks to God,

  and serve God with great humility.

  —St. Francis of Assisi, Canticle of the Sun

  ——————————

  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

  —Aleister Crowley, The Book of the Law

  CHAPTER 1

  Florence, Italy

  The members of the congregation trembled like withered leaves shaken by the wind.

  Father Gregori spread his crimson-robed arms wide, his hands appearing to slice through the quivering audience like blades. His eyes flashed and a supernatural fury filled his soul.

  “I look around this sanctuary...and I see liars! Hypocrites! This temple is despoiled by imposters and pretenders! Have you forgotten what is demanded of you? Do you so easily forget the majesty, the grandeur of our Great Lord when he manifested himself upon our world? Do you forget who gives you life?”

  A shudder passed through his body and h
e gasped a wheezing breath, as if inhaling a spirit to fuel his liturgical tempest. His voice exploded through the Gothic nave as statues and gargoyles gazed down upon the cowering flock.

  “You say you believe, yet you continue to doubt! How easily are his children led astray! The enemy would have you put your trust in Him, but where is He? Where are the demonstrations of His power? Where are the signs and wonders that were promised?”

  Father Gregori’s eyes darted across the sanctuary in accusation, challenging anyone brave enough to meet his gaze for even a moment. He slammed his hand upon the pulpit as he poured out his torrent of condemnation.

  “Lies! All lies! They call our lord a deceiver, yet it is they who deceive! Do not let their poison corrupt your ears! Do not let the acid dripping from their sanctimonious tongues burn and scorch your soul. Remember whom we serve! He is the supreme lord of this world, the Almighty! Those who swear their life to him shall reap the rewards...those who do not shall suffer torment and anguish!”

  The priest’s portly frame trembled with valiant restraint, and he raised his clenched fists in the air.

  “Fall down on your knees!”

  With a whimper, the members of the congregation jumped from their seats and knelt down upon the cold sanctuary floor, their penitent voices swirling and twirling together into a chorus of sorrow and shame.

  Father Gregori’s eyes rolled white and he opened his hands as he began the concluding rite to mark the end of the service. As his ghostly voice soared through the nave, a somber procession of black-robed monks appeared from the side aisles in dual streams that converged at the center aisle. Their deep, haunting chants intertwined with the priest’s rapid-fire incantations as the congregation wept and repented.

  The hooded monks revealed neither their hands nor their faces. As the dark parade approached the altar, the stream split again, and the monks began to assemble themselves in the choir stalls behind the priest.

  With a deep exhaled breath, Father Gregori closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest.

  “In nomine Satanas...”

  The last monk in the procession lifted his hooded visage just enough to reveal a strong unshaven chin and clenched jaw.

  “...Dominus Terra...”

  The monk’s arms, twisted with muscles and emblazoned with tattoos, emerged from beneath his black robes as he walked with slow, measured steps towards the altar. In his hands, he clutched two black automatic pistols.

  “...Dominus Inferi...”

  The assassin raised his weapons.

  The priest spread his hands before the congregation.

  “Amen.”

  The silenced barrels spoke forth tongues of fire.

  Father Gregori’s eyes snapped open and his outstretched hands exploded with crimson blossoms. The congregation shrieked and cowered behind the pews.

  The assassin brought his pistols close together and stitched two parallel lines down the priest’s chest. The inverted golden cross that dangled from his neck shattered like fireworks and his massive, lifeless body was propelled backwards into the altar, sending ancient texts, candles, and unholy icons crashing to the ground.

  The black-garbed monks scattered like startled crows in the choir stalls, some sprawling amidst fountains of red as the assassin’s bullets cut them down. The screams of despair from the terrified congregation filled the sanctuary like a requiem, while the grotesque carvings of demons and monsters grinned down upon them in fiendish delight.

  With a whirl of his black robe, the monk spun about to face the cowering faithful, who were all but invisible behind the pews. He knelt on one knee and aimed his weapons toward the nave walls, unleashing a succession of rapid bursts that exploded two massive suspended lamps. As sparks and glass showered the sanctuary, the monk sprinted towards the rear of the nave, his hood falling back to reveal a shock of disheveled shoulder-length blond hair that gleamed like gold.

  He burst through the giant sanctuary doors and the sounds of violence disappeared with him into the dark street, leaving behind a chorus of shock and terror.

  ****

  Limoges, France

  “Double.”

  The bartender nodded, and Patric Bourdon sought out an empty barstool. His silver pentagram necklace clinked against the marble bar top as he leaned forward and took a seat on the cracked leather stool. The double shot slid down the bar and he quickly downed half of it.

  The sharp liquor burned his throat and he disguised his instinctive wince of pain by opening his mouth wide in a silent yawn, like a cat awakening from its nap. He glanced around the dismal bar, chastising himself for choosing such a dreary place with hardly any women in it, and certainly no attractive ones.

  “Do you know what that thing means?”

  Patric turned in the direction of the half-growled, half-wheezed question. A sunken, withered face with wiry white hair creaked towards him. Two listless grey eyes glared at his pentagram necklace and Patric swallowed an uneasy lump of hesitation.

  “Of course,” he answered as he looked away with annoyance. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  The rotten visage leaned closer, tendrils of liquor slithering through gaping teeth. “No, you don’t. Not like I do.”

  Patric curled his lips in contempt. “What are you talking about?”

  The old man’s creviced face drew nearer still. His words were like a moan.

  “I was there.”

  Patric looked confused for a moment, then he gasped and his eyes widened. “You mean at—? “

  “Yesss!” the old man hissed suddenly. He tottered dangerously backwards, then leaned close and spoke with a snarl.

  “I watched the Dragon appear...I heard the voice proclaiming the Age of Apollyon the Destroyer. I watched the Cathedral of Our Lady fall to the ground, and I watched the legions of hell spring forth from the abyss and enslave the people in the square. I tell you, boy, not a night goes past that I don’t awaken from my sleep in a cold sweat.”

  The old man’s skeletal hands were quivering, and his few remaining teeth grated and creaked.

  “I watched the damned turn on each other, clawing and gnashing and slashing...then feeding.... I barely escaped the mob, and I fled the city with my mother, God rest her soul. I never went back...no one should have ever gone back....”

  Patric didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the old man’s horrifying countenance, but he couldn’t. His hands instinctively clasped the symbol dangling from his neck. Then his brow furrowed.

  “So what did the Dragon—“

  The old man seized his collar with startling strength. Patric gasped and looked around the room for help, but no one was looking in his direction. Against his will, he felt his gaze being pulled towards the old man’s eyes, and he was instantly seized by paralyzing dread.

  The old man’s face twisted with menace and scorn. He brought his reeking lips close to Patric’s ear and whispered. Then he flung him away and turned back to the bar to down his shot of vodka. The old man slammed the empty glass on the marble bartop. The glass shattered loudly. The surrounding patrons turned with a start, just in time to see the old man scowl out the door. After he had disappeared, everyone glanced at Patric for a moment before resuming their conversations.

  Patric slumped against the bar, feebly motioning for the bartender to fill his glass, even though it wasn’t empty. The old man’s hoarse whisper echoed in his mind like a deafening bell.

  Trouver votre frère.

  Find your brother.

  ****

  Brussels, Belgium

  The dark-haired man craned his neck to get a better view through the sea of onlookers. Scattered sobs and curses against God arose from the crowd, and this caused his blood to boil.

  Heathens.

  He gazed up at the Temple of Belial, a magnificent building that had once been a cathedral dedicated to St. Michael and St. Gudula. Now it was a tower of blasphemy, its altar despoiled with satanic icons and its once-sacr
ed walls ringing with infernal chanting every evening.

  But there was no chanting tonight.

  The man smiled to himself. It was an incredible feeling to be used as a weapon in the hands of God. He and his brethren had bathed the continent in heathen blood tonight. Paris, Cologne, Prague, Florence. And here in Brussels. He had literally felt God’s wrath pouring out of him, cleansing the violated cathedral. He cocked his head as memories of that moment rushed over him like warm sunshine.

  Had he actually been singing while it was happening?

  The crowd gasped and the cries of sorrow intensified as the coroners began wheeling several stretchers out of the temple. Upon each was a human-shaped mass draped under a bloodstained white sheet. The corpses were steered towards waiting ambulances, and the sobbing onlookers reached out pleading hands.

  Save your tears, the man thought to himself as he turned his back on the temple and wriggled his way through the crowd. Once he was free from the crush of people, he exhaled gratefully. As he stepped off the curb into the street, he glanced down and caught his reflection in a black pool beneath the street light.

  He recognized himself, of course, but there was something different. Something new in his eyes. A fire that hadn’t been there before.

  The man grinned.

  He liked it.

  ****

  Someone had once told Patric that “liquor oiled the gears of time.”

  This was certainly true, because the hours had flown by like seconds. After a seemingly endless parade of shots, he finally lurched out of the bar, catching the brass door handle just in time to keep himself from sprawling in the street. A light mist muffled the air and a thin film of moisture clung to everything. Patric rubbed his eyes, which ached slightly for some reason. He took a few cautious steps forward, and when he was confident in his ability to walk, he strolled out into the night.