Hidden Elements: The Devil's Bible, #2

By Michael Bolan

It is 1646 and the Thirty Years’ War is raging. While Europe teeters on the brink of annihilation, the mysterious cabal known only as The Rapture enters the final apocalyptic stage of their plan to bring about the Second Coming of Christ. 

Only the Sons of Brabant, and their bawdy Irish allies, have the skill and daring to stop them. But first, the companions part ways, each seeking a piece of the puzzle that has set Europe aflame. For they must gather and destroy the Seals of the Devil's Bible before the Rapture can unleash their cataclysmic force. Whoever holds the Seals controls the future of the planet...

Can Willem, Isabella and Leo put an end to their brother’s madness, or will Reinald achieve his perverted goal, destroying mankind in the process?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bolan
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540118028

Michael Bolan

It took Michael Bolan over two decades of running in the corporate ratrace to realise that all he actually did was tell stories. There was no Damascene revelation for Bolan which caused him to pen his first work of fiction, "The Sons of Brabant". An avid reader, he simply felt that he could do as good a job as many of the authors he read and decided to put his money where his mouth was.  Living and working in many countries left him with smatterings of a dozen languages and their stories, and his love for history focused his ideas on the Thirty Years War, the most destructive conflict that the continent has ever seen.  Now living in Prague (for the second time), Michael brings alive the twisted alleys of the 17th century and recreates the brooding darkness of a fractured Europe, where no-one was entirely sure who was fighting whom. Michael writes while liberally soused in gin, a testament to Franz de le Boë, who was mixing oil of juniper with neat spirit while the thirty Years War raged around him.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Seeing

The noise woke the entire household. Part wail, part bellow, it was a bestial sound, a sound of searing agony. It echoed for several long minutes through the long corridors of the luxurious manor house, more palace than hunting lodge, until servant and master alike were left cowering, convinced that the End of Days was truly upon them. Such was the fear engendered by the screams that not a soul moved to investigate their source.

The hellish noise disappeared as suddenly as it had started and Reinald, Duke of Brabant, opened his eyes to find that he hadn’t been transported to some nether hell; his chamber was exactly as it had been when he had retired the previous evening. Staggering to his feet, he lifted the water basin from the nightstand and upended it over his head. The cool water helped bring him back to his senses and he stood up, shaking his long chestnut hair back out of his eyes.

He did not stop to dress, but rushed out into the corridor in his underclothes, pausing only to grab his pistol and beltknife. The ornately-panelled hallway was silent, thick carpets soft under his feet as he ran towards Janssens’ room. Thinking that such a noise could only be divinely, or infernally, inspired, the God-touched priest was likely involved. His frantic pounding on the door was met with silence, so with a strength born of desperation, he kicked open the door and rushed into the cleric’s chambers.

The room was a mess, as if a wild beast had been loosed. Furniture was scratched and broken, lamps lay toppled, their oil seeping into the expensive carpets. The bedsheets were strewn across the floor. On the bed, Corneille Janssens lay flat on his back, unmoving, his mouth frozen in a deathly rictus. His eyes stared fixatedly towards the ceiling, or rather they would have done, had they still been in his head. Instead, his eye sockets were two pools of blood, rivulets of which trickled down the cleric’s cheeks onto the bed. Reinald stopped still, stunned by the violence of the scene.

As he moved closer to the prone visionary, he fell to his knees and retched the meagre contents of his stomach. For clutched firmly in each of the cleric’s bloodied hands was an unseeing eyeball.

*****

As the eldest son and heir of one of Europe’s oldest noble houses, Reinald had weathered a long and intensive upbringing designed to prepare him for the rigours of ruling. Nothing he had seen on the battlefield or in his medical lessons had even approached the horror in front of him. He coughed as he felt his stomach heave again, but clenched his teeth and pushed himself up to one knee. Still battling with the gory tableau, he was peripherally aware of others outside the cleric’s chambers, although none dared enter the room without leave – to interrupt their master and provoke his anger was a prospect even more terrifying that what lay in the room. Slowly rising to his feet, Reinald forced himself to stare at Janssens’ body. The cleric’s muscles were corded and tense, as if he were straining under a great burden, or as if he had died in a seizure. Janssens’ face was destroyed, the very sight of it enough to set Reinald’s stomach to heaving, but he made himself stare.

He had no idea how long he stood like that, unthinking, his entire being consumed with shock. Suddenly, as if someone had struck a firestick, his consciousness exploded with thoughts. Dozens of scenarios played themselves out in his mind at the same time, each ending in failure and loss for Reinald and the Rapture. With their visionary gone, hope had suddenly been released from Pandora’s box and was fled.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to still his mind and work out what his immediate actions should be. The darkness was comforting, and he felt his breathing slow and his brow relax as the tumult in his head began to clarify into a plan. Lost in that train of thought, he almost missed the noise, the barest hint of a sound. Reinald opened his eyes to the same stark scene as before and thought he was dreaming. But the sound came again, little more than a whisper. He tried to place the noise and found his gaze drawn to the cleric’s corpse.

The noise came again, its volume increasing, and Reinald felt himself start as he realised that Janssens was not indeed dead, as he had feared, but was alive and seemingly possessed. The cleric started to mumble, his voice becoming louder and clearer as Reinald looked on with a perverse fascination. He moved towards the bed, as the voice came again, gathering energy, rising in volume. Legion… it said.

Legion. Legion! LEGION! Janssens roared, his body still, bloodied eye sockets staring heavenwards. As Reinald reached the bedside, and bent over to touch the cleric, Janssens suddenly sat up and fixed his baleful stare on Reinald. Brabant, he said. I see it. I know now. We are so many! We are legion! We cannot fail!

With that, Corneille Janssens, former Bishop of Ieper, visionary leader of the Rapture, swung his legs off the bed and stood as if nothing were amiss. He moved towards the door, no hesitation in his steps, no sign of his new sightlessness. As he reached the hall, he turned his head to face Reinald, whose mouth was hanging open. Oh come now, Reinald. Let us adjourn to the salon. I could use a drink.

*****

Reinald was struggling to calm his frayed nerves. He was usually able to imagine his situation from an external viewpoint and process his thoughts rationally, but today his wits had deserted him and he sat staring mutely at Janssens, unable to formulate a single coherent thought. Across the dimly-lit salon, seated in a high-backed, padded armchair, Corneille Janssens, renowned Catholic scholar and priest, founder of the Rapture, watched him curiously with his ruined eyesockets. The blood had dried and crisped on his thin face, the brownish streaks accentuating its angularity. What was most unnerving was the cleric’s lack of concern about his self-mutilation.

This was the clearest vision yet, my friend, broached the priest. I could see everything, more detail than ever before. I just need to fully consider what it means, he mused.

Reinald raised the dark sweet wine to his lips, glancing at the liquid as he did so. Imported at great cost from Xeres in the south of Spain, it was exactly the colour of dried blood. He set his expensive crystal goblet down, the wine untouched. Tell me… he said.

Janssens straightened in his chair, reaching behind his back to adjust the small cushion. When he was comfortable, he inhaled deeply and began to speak.

It was so clear. I floated in the air, moving, like a bird might fly, but without effort. His arms raised almost involuntarily, as if to illustrate the scene. "I could see for leagues, but there was nothing to see. The earth that moved beneath me was a barren desert, desolate, devoid of any life. Nothing broke the monotony of the view – I cast no shadow, despite the burning sun overhead.

"In the distance a hazy mist appeared, as if a great cloud of sand had been swept up from the ground. I felt myself continue undeterred, oblivious to any danger, direction unchanged. Slowly the haze faded and I espied vague shapes within the shadow. The only point of clarity was a pinprick of light which, though tiny, swirled and coruscated like a newborn sun.

"Further still and the shapes took on form. Illuminated by a light so white and so pure that I knew it must be divine, were ranged armed legions, thousands of bodies standing in military formation, stock still. Their numbers were beyond count; it seemed as if all men stood there.

"At the head of the company stood four terrifying figures, mounted on writhing skeletal horses. The faces of the four could not be seen, but each was distinguished by a unique feature. Hordes of flies buzzed through the sickly green miasma that surrounded the first horse, upon which sat a slim figure, crowned as a king, holding a bow. I knew him for Pestilence, who strikes down his enemies from a distance. On a red horse beside him sat the powerful figure of War, poised for action even as he rested his great sword across the saddle of his beast. Famine sat astride a horse the colour of the deepest night and held a set of measuring scales in his uplifted hand. The last Horseman could only be Death, who exuded patience, knowing that all would come to him in the end. Bleached of all colour, he was a horrifying vision of shadow and darkness.

"Standing clear at the head of this host was a beast of nightmare, a great serpent with seven heads, each crowned with horns. From each mouth came a different form of death: fire, ice, poison, acid; its body heaved and shuddered with each rasping breath. This was our champion, the form of the Beast, known as the Antichrist. The beast’s eyes were focused on one thing alone – the light in front of it, which burned as if it housed the energy of the cosmos.

The cleric leaned forward in his chair, his voice full of wonder. "Either the light dimmed, or my eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, as I was able not only to perceive the source of the light. I could see a massed horde ranged on one side, opposed by a paltry few on the other side of the light.

"This small group consisted of three humans at the forefront of a ragtag gathering, each of them glowing with a soft radiance. Beyond them were four shifting flames: green, blue, white and red, weaving in and out of each other. Their army, such as it was, consisted of a handful of random figures, some human, some animal, with no sense of cohesion or unity. Despite the obvious imbalance, the two sides were locked in motionless combat, neither side gaining ascendancy, nor able to retreat.

"I understood that the light that separated them was indeed on the wane, as if whatever source of power fuelled it was nearing exhaustion. Reinald, I saw that the source of the light was a great book, bound in wood and leather, with metalwork along its edges.

The cleric raised his hands, his fingers talons as he swept them downwards between the two men, forcing Reinald to recoil in shock. "The beast clearly sensed an advantage as I saw it attack with all seven heads, fire and ice mixing with bile and poison. I saw the three humans somehow shielded from this attack, but that shield was a fleeting thing. It started to fray, the centre wavering and buckling, caving back in on itself.

"Just as it seemed that the beast must have its victory, the blinding light returned. Not a point as it had been, but as a column of light, pure energy that shot towards the sky from the boss in the centre of the book, a beacon to the heavens. At the same time, a wave of energy exploded outwards, obliterating the two armies, turning matter into pure energy, leaving nothing behind.

"As the pillar of light climbed towards the limits of the sky it began to spin, slowly at first, but rapidly gathering speed. Its rotation created a wind, little more than a breeze to begin with, but soon it became a gale. The wind howled louder, and clouds, heretofore unseen, began to materialise out of the ether, whirling in a vortex around the incandescent column. The clouds banked higher and higher, becoming heavier until they burst, shedding their tears on the barren soil. Each drop was absorbed hungrily into the earth and where the raindrops fell, plants began to spring up. Seconds became years, and seedlings grew until they became shoots, which waxed in turn into grass and plants and trees.

As suddenly as it started, the rain ended, warm sunshine chasing away the last vestiges of cloud, its rays falling gently on a lush verdant landscape, which was now filled with the noise of birdsong and animal noises.

The Duke of Brabant, Horseman of Death, leader of the Rapture, a man intent on bringing about the Second Coming of Christ, looked at his colleague, confusion plain on his face. What does it all mean? he wondered aloud.

Reinald, I saw the Garden of Eden, reborn.

CHAPTER TWO

On the Road Again

The former Swedish military camp stood in planned disarray as thousands of soldiers packed up the tools of war and prepared to move to more hospitable surroundings. Their victory over the Imperial forces at the nearby village of Jankov had been decisive – the road to Vienna, the Imperial capital, lay undefended.

In the general hubbub, a small troop of men saddled their horses, ready to depart, an island of efficiency in an ocean of disorder. Willem, second son of the late Duke Henry of Brabant, smiled wryly as he teased his Irish friend. But your countrymen are going with Leo! Fergus, Hugh and Cian will all see Prague, one of the finest cities in all of Europe. Why on earth would you want to miss that?

Conor O’Leagaire, of the Fianna of Ireland, looked at Willem, wondering how to answer the mercenary leader. I’m asking myself why I bothered saving the life of a nosey, miserable Brabantian nobleman such as yourself. Just to be asked endless questions, was it? I should have left you to that boar! he huffed, his exasperation plain.

Ha! laughed Willem dryly. I haven’t forgotten my debt, and well you know it! But there’s no need for you to babysit me all the way home, you know. I do have a few people accompanying me. He looked around at the warband, or rather what was left of it, as the battle had cost the lives of many of their friends. The Sons of Brabant were still forty-strong, and had gathered half as many in new recruits. Willem would ride back to their Ardenne camp at the head of some sixty men, enough to guarantee his safety. He continued, What’s more, Leo would be better with four companions rather than three. Willem’s younger brother, Leo, was bound for Prague to deposit their earnings with bankers there, and Willem couldn’t fathom why Conor would not join them.

Conor’s eyes sparkled, enjoying the badinage. Ach, sure, those three, while they’re lazy, smelly and good-for-nothing, are still the equal of a dozen normal folk each! Your brother is safe in their hands. Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, he can swing a sword himself. Leo’s fighting skills had improved dramatically under the tutelage of the different Irishmen, learning how to use his bulk and speed in different fighting styles.

That’s as may be, countered Willem, but it still doesn’t explain why you want to return to camp with me. It can’t be for the creature comforts. You are aware that we live in a cave, are you not?

Indeed, and a finer cave would be hard to imagine. Conor bent over to tighten the cinch of his saddle, slapping the beast hard on the side to stop it sucking in air. Loose saddles made for uncomfortable journeys. He went on, It’s soft, warm and homey. When you have lived outside as much as I have, a cave system is not far from heaven on earth. He paused, then looked directly at Willem. And there are other reasons.

Willem grinned, enjoying the Irishman’s admission. I think we’re getting close to the truth now, aren’t we? But just clarify things for me a little, please? These other reasons?

Conor smiled, a hint of rose dusting his cheeks. Actually, there’s really only one reason. A reason with hair like corn glistening in the sunshine. A reason with eyes that sparkle like a king’s ransom. A reason with a voice that opens up spaces in my mind, creates thoughts that I couldn’t come to on my own. I think about her every day; every moment, if truth be told. He stopped abruptly, bowing his head. When he finally raised it once more, fixing Willem with his stare, he smiled. She is the reason I draw breath, my friend.

Willem beamed. He was enjoying himself. What a lot of words to describe one reason. Are we still talking about camp? Or perhaps about this fine mare? he quipped, slapping Conor’s horse on the rump.

The tension broke and Conor laughed, his face flushed. By Danu’s tits! You can be a real arse sometimes, Willem. I want to see Isabella. Simple as that. He looked down again, busying his hands with the bridle straps. I… We… Something happened before we left. I want to know if that meant anything.

Willem looked at the strange Fianna warrior. I’m not sure how things are done where you come from, but should you wish to pursue matters, do so in the knowledge that you have my full blessing. His face and his tone darkened. But Conor, I will say this. You have seen how viciously our family guards its honour. If you hurt her, I will dedicate my life to striking you down. And when I am finished, Leo will start. He smiled again. Just so as we’re clear on that matter.

Conor smiled at the thought. I hear you. Chances are that she’ll have forgotten all about me anyway.

Well, shall we go and find out?

*****

Their homeward journey was uneventful. The size of the warband deterred any unwarranted attention, and their habit of travelling with their own supplies meant that they could camp each night far from any settlements. Of the sixty men travelling, more than half were nursing wounds, some serious. Hugh had packed several of the most serious wounds with a powder that he carried on a small pouch round his neck. Willem had been shocked when he found out that it was bread mould, but had been even more shocked when he saw the results. Instead of the angry orangey-pink redness around the wounds that usually led to blackness and rot, the wounds seemed clean and healed quickly.

Most of the men were long-time companions and were used to the discipline of setting up camp at night. They had, however, attracted some newcomers from the ranks of the Swedish army. The bulk of the additions were Swedish, but there were also several mercenaries from other lands: a Hungarian, two incomprehensible Finns, a wayward Scot and two Irishmen from the port city of Dublin. For the first week of their journey, these outsiders created havoc, getting in people’s way, not performing their tasks correctly, and disrupting the warband’s smooth processes.

Things came to a head when Conor had told the two Irishmen, both big bearded blonds, descendants of the Norse invaders of Ireland, to dig a latrine ditch. They had taken umbrage at the menial task and had refused. The argument escalated until one of the Dubliners launched a vicious jab at Conor’s head, following up with a well-practiced hook. Neither blow landed.

Conor simply sidestepped the jab and ducked under the roundhouse, before straightening and thrusting the rigid fingers of his right hand into the diaphragm of his compatriot. The force of the blow and its positioning drove the air from the man’s lungs like an inflated pig’s bladder being burst. The man dropped to his knees, his face turning purple as he struggled for breath. The men watching were confused as Conor dropped to his knees with his opponent, but realised that in doing so he had avoided the crushing bear hug of the other Dubliner. In a tight ball, Conor rolled backwards, between the legs of his assailant, rose to his feet in a fluid movement and jabbed his fist twice into the man’s back. He too collapsed, his kidneys on fire.

Conor looked at the two men, sprawled in the mud. In this group, we obey orders. It keeps us alive. If you can’t do so, there is no place for you here. You get one warning, and you have both just had yours. He spat on the ground. That said, you snivelling shits, we never ask anyone to do anything that we would not do ourselves. With that, he picked up one of the shovels and started to dig. Slowly, the pair roused themselves. Looking around, they expected to see faces grinning at them, but the other men had already moved on to their own tasks. Without a word, they slowly picked themselves up and started to dig.

*****

Spring was approaching by the time Willem and his men started the slow ascent into the hills of the Ardenne, where their camp was located. Their homeward journey had been much slower than their outbound one, despite the improved weather. The horrors of Jankov began to fade, dulled by both time and distance, and the men’s spirits lifted as they looked forward to being reunited with those who had stayed behind. Their pace was gentle as they walked their horses between the trees. In the distance, they could hear a series of horns blowing and were happy that the sentries and watchers were still taking their job seriously. Knowing they were but a league from home spurred the warband forward but it wasn’t long before they were challenged.

Who are you? And what do you want in these woods? This is the King’s private range, and it is death to trespass here! shouted a voice from the trees ahead of them.

Willem stopped his horse. Ho! he shouted back to the trees. The King’s private range? Tell me, he shouted back into the trees, does anyone believe that?

With a whistling rush, an arrow burst from cover and struck his horse on the top of the head as it was snuffling in the leafmould. The animal went down as if poleaxed, throwing Willem off to the side. Immediately all the men dropped from their horses, arming themselves and preparing for a fight. Conor, however, just laughed, the only man to remain where he was.

It’s a fowling blunt, you eejits. Whoever shot it doesn’t want to hurt us.

Willem leapt to his feet, his face red with anger at the taunting of the voice, whose tone was beginning to sound ever so familiar. I am Willem of Brabant, and I swear you will pay for this! He knelt by his horse, somewhat mollified to see that no harm had been done; the animal was just shocked.

A laugh greeted his words, the silver tones splashing down like meltwater in a stream. A warrior swung down ahead of him on a rope, jumping forward to land nimbly on his feet. Doffing his cap, the warrior shook out waves of lustrous golden hair.

Bella! cried Conor and Willem in unison.

Well met, brother, said Willem’s sister, Isabella, but her eyes never left Conor. Clad in a thick linen bodice and tight-fitting leather trews, she stood stiffly, unsure of her reception.

The Irishman felt short of breath as he gazed at Isabella, feeling for all the world like a lovelorn youth. Months had passed since he had last laid eyes on her, but he could still feel her arms tight around his chest as she implored him to return. He jumped down from his horse, cursing himself as he stumbled in the soft earth. Isabella returned his gaze with a proud half-smile as her fingers lightly brushed his arm. Well met, Irishman, she whispered.

She turned to the others, as more sentries reached them and came forward to greet the newly-returned warband.

Come. You must be starving. And tired. Let’s get back to camp and deal with that. Then you can tell us exactly what happened. Isabella turned on her heel and marched away. Her voice was prim, full of sugar and innocence, but there was an undercurrent of anger in her tone.

Willem noticed it immediately and reached out to grab her arm, stopping her in mid-stride. I’m sorry. We have just spent months in the field, lost almost half of our men, and this is all you can say by word of welcome?

Isabella rose to her full height, staring Willem in the face. Yes, brother, it is. I know you have been fighting – who couldn’t with the stories of Jankov everywhere? – but believe me, it has been no fun here, sitting and waiting, wondering if you would ever return, how many men we had lost. Her eyes filled with tears. News of Jankov abounds – how the Swedes won a massive victory, but how they still lost thousands of men. Tales of cannon killing men by the hundred. Ambushes. Destruction. Death. And we knew nothing, we just sat and waited, driving ourselves half mad. So yes, that is all the welcome you get!" Her voice was shrill with anger, her face flushed with the heat of the moment.

She softened her stance and wiped her eyes. I’m sorry. That’s not fair. You are indeed welcome home. It’s just that it has been nigh on unbearable, not knowing if I would see any of you again. She looked around at the warband, who had recovered from the shock of her earlier attack. Good Lord in Heaven. Is this what’s left? She looked at the faces of the men, her voice trailing off into a tiny whisper. Where’s Karl? Maarten? Dries? Are they…?

Willem walked slowly forward and enfolded his sister into a strong embrace. Yes, Bella. They’re gone. They fought bravely and died as heroes, but they’re gone. And not just them – almost half of our men fell. He cursed and spat. It was a crazy scenario – we’ll tell you all. As it stands, we have tired horses, tired men, and I for one, would love a drink.

Bella’s eyes were wet with unfallen tears, but she summoned a smile. Now that we can help you with. She raised her voice so that all could hear her. We have been joined by a monk called Theodosius from Chimay, who spent almost two decades in the brewery there. He has just finished a batch of beer, which is waiting in the Mootkammer. Anyone interested?

*****

The evening had been a blur of laughter and tears; a mix of relief, happiness and sorrow. It was clear that the acquisition of Fra Theodosius, or Brother Theo as he liked to be known, was a major coup for Isabella. He had risen to the rank of master brewer in Chimay, but had felt stifled by the ascetic life behind the monastery walls and left to wander the roads as a mendicant friar. When Bella came across him, she immediately decided that their camp could do with both pastoral care and good beer. The men had agreed, at least with the latter thought, and had attacked his first full batch with the same ferocity that they had heretofore reserved for their enemies.

Willem was in the thick of things, leading the mourning for their fallen comrades, telling stories of their feats in the field of battle, and re-integrating the warriors with those who had stayed behind. As the beer started to flow, and the evening’s potential for mania started to become apparent, Conor slipped away. He wanted fresh air, a rest from the noise and smoke of the Mootkammer. Most of all, he simply wanted some peace and quiet. He was an excellent raconteur, a gifted musician and storyteller, but he also appreciated the calm that only solitude can bring. He wandered outside, walking up the incline that led to the top of the tor. When he got to the top, he was surprised to find himself not alone.

Bella was sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to her chest, wrapped in a heavy blanket against the night’s chill. She smiled winsomely at him. I wondered if I would see you tonight. I have wondered the same every night for the past few months. Conor crossed over to her, and joined her on the ground. When you left with the warband, I watched you from here. And I came here every evening to watch for your return. I feared I would not see you again.

Conor looked out over the heavily forested hills. It’s so different here than in Ireland, so much richer. Our animals and plants grow slowly, carving out each year almost as if fighting with nature. It makes us hard, it makes commitment difficult, but it makes us true and loyal. He glanced sideways at Bella. When I said I would return, I meant it.

Isabella turned her head to look at him in profile, reaching out to drape her arm and the blanket around his shoulders. Don’t worry Conor, I am sure you will see Ireland again.

He turned his face to hers. Will I? I’m not so sure. After all, there’s nothing for me there. There was a catch in his voice, and everything for me here.

Isabella looked into his eyes, seeing the struggle that he had gone through, hoping that he would stay. She leaned closer to him, their gazes still locked together, and gently brushed her lips on his. She pulled away slightly as if she had received a shock, but he leaned forward to kiss her once more. Her mouth opened slightly as his lips met hers and he responded, his lips parting and his tongue touching her lips tenderly. He tasted of hard spirits and suffering, of sweet tenderness and hope.

He slipped his hand around her back and lay on his side. His lips were