The Sacred Knife: Book 1 of the Pegasi Chronicles (2nd Edition)

By Allan McCarville

A young boy is thrust into the timeless war between good and evil, between the forces of the Light and the forces of the Dark. He's the product of two worlds which gives him the power to destroy the immortals, evil beings who maintain their immortality by human sacrifice.
He is not aware of his powers. However, the immortal beings are and their goal is to kill the boy before he becomes aware of who and what he really is. Attempts to kill the boy fail but leave him orphaned and seriously injured. With his parents dead he's sent to live with his uncle, an emotionless man with a dark mysterious past. Neither is happy with the arrangement, and both remain unaware that evil forces are still trying to find and eliminate the boy. The large, isolated mansion provides the perfect location to enable them to assassinate the boy.
The boy's only ally and friend is another boy who calls the mansion his home.
Only problem is - that boy has been dead for over 160 years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allan McCarville
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999018368

Allan McCarville

Allan McCarville is an author and researcher who has a number of titles published in the genres of fantasy, crime thrillers and historical fiction. He and his family reside in Stittsville, Ontario where he does his best to make people think that he's normal. Apparently it's not working.

Book preview

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

YUCATAN

1799

The child died quickly but horribly, sacrificed to the Lord of Darkness.

After years of practice and preparation, Alvarez Renaldo, a practitioner of black magic, was now ready for a full communion with his Master. He was ready to surrender his soul to the Prince of Darkness. Ready to allow a demon, one of the Dark Lord’s creatures on this world, to share his body. In exchange, he would gain immortality for his physical body.

After tonight’s ceremony, he would be indestructible, immune to the ravages of disease, age, and even manmade weapons—except for one: the Sagrado Cuchillo, the Sacred Knife. The Cuchillo was an obsidian knife, formed in the fires and molten lava that churned in the bowels of the earth. It was the only thing that could destroy the demon he was about to invite to possess his human body and plunge his soul to the eternal fires of Hell.

Renaldo knew such a knife existed; he even knew where it was. However, the blade had to be wielded by one possessed by a Rewera or by one of ancient ones, the Pegasi, the servants of the Lord of the Light who had cast the Master into the pit at the beginning of time.

Renaldo was unconcerned. He knew no other servant of the dark could harm him—or at least, any more than he was capable of harming them. As for of the Pegasi, they were rare. The Pegasi did not possess the gift of immortality, hence their numbers slowly diminished over the centuries, with fewer and fewer descendants, and soon they would be non-existent, yielding the world to the power of the Dark Lord. Furthermore, Renaldo’s new powers would enable him to detect a Pegasi before one of them got close enough to hurt him. The Pegasi were not indestructible.

Renaldo knew the knife was currently in the possession of a bothersome priest, and it was Renaldo’s intention to retrieve it once he completed the ceremony and became immortal. The priest, like most followers of the Light, was not a descendant of the Pegasi, so he could do Renaldo no harm, even with the knife. There were many who followed the Light, but they were ordinary humans.

A small clay figurine, surrounded by kindling, stood on the ground in front of Renaldo. The statue was shaped like a squatting human, except that the head was that of a jackal, horns protruding where the ears should be. The arms of the figurine encircled a bowl in which Renaldo placed the child’s heart. He poured oil on the kindling and set it afire, closed his eyes, and began chanting.

He ignored the humid jungle air and the buzzing of insects that surrounded him as he continued the sacred recitation to the darkness. Then there was silence.

Renaldo opened his eyes and focused on the clay figure in the midst of the fire. He watched it slowly char, and the flesh of the heart sizzled in the heat. A blackness that Renaldo at first thought was smoke started rising from the flames, turning into a mist above the fire. The mist coalesced into a dark, transparent shape in the likeness of the statue that was now glowing red. He instinctively knew it was one of the Rewera, a demon sent by the Prince of Darkness.

Renaldo allowed his eyes to settle on the creature he had summoned. As he looked upon the abomination, he trembled—not with fear, but rather with excitement.

Why have you called me forth? thundered a disembodied voice.

Renaldo’s eyes darted around, but he saw nothing except the black entity in front of him.

Master! I wish you to come to me, to share your powers with me so that I may better serve you, intoned Renaldo.

Do you do this of your own free will? it demanded.

Yes, Master. Grant me immortality, and I will serve you for all time, shouted Renaldo.

So be it! Your sacrifice pleases me. I give to you one of my servants, who will share your body. Your soul is now mine.

Renaldo watched as a piece of the dark mist detached from the entity and launched itself at him. It moved with such speed that Renaldo would not have been able to change his mind if he was disposed to do so—which he wasn’t.

Renaldo felt the entity enter his body, and he accepted it gladly, offering no resistance. The silence was replaced by an ominous buzzing in his head, as if thousands of insects had moved into his brain. Then darkness overcame him, and he collapsed in front of the fire.

When he awoke, the fire was still burning brightly, so he knew he hadn’t been out very long. He noticed that the statue was gone; not even pieces of the clay remained. He could feel the strength he now possessed and leapt to his feet, flexing his arms and hands as the power coursed through him.

His senses were heightened, and in the dark he sensed movement: a small animal. His enhanced eyesight found it in the vegetation, and he curled his hand into a fist and sent a black ball hurtling through the darkness, striking the animal. The animal dropped dead, having time to only emit a squeak as its heart exploded.

Alvarez Renaldo, the human, no longer existed. In his place was a Rewera, a being that was human in appearance, but possessed by a demon.

The new Renaldo looked up into the night sky. He had to hurry, as that annoying priest had been making preparations to leave the seaport town of Ciudad del Carmen before Renaldo had even initiated the communion ceremony.

The human-demon was eager to begin his servitude to the Master, but first he had to retrieve the knife. If he had the knife under his control then none of the ancients—or more precisely, their descendants—would be able to use it against him.

He sprinted out of the clearing, following a path to the coastal road that led to Ciudad del Carmen. His newly acquired powers enabled him to run faster than most humans without tiring. However, he still had to run; he did not have the power to instantaneously appear where he wished to be. Even immortal servants of evil had limitations.

***

Shortly after Renaldo departed, an old man stepped into the clearing.

He looked around, tears filling his eyes, when he spotted the discarded body of the child. He had arrived too late. He knelt down beside the body and said a silent prayer. Likely a street urchin, he thought, a child befriended and then betrayed by Renaldo, used to seal the ungodly pact with the Prince of Darkness.

The old man realized he had made a mistake delaying his departure from Ciudad del Carmen. Before trailing Renaldo in an effort to prevent this unholy act, he had met with a priest who had purchased the knife and tried to gain possession of it. The priest had been reluctant to give it up, so the old man urged him to flee the port city, taking the sacred weapon with him.

He wasn’t sure if the priest had really believed him when he explained the importance of the knife, but the priest finally gave his word to sail on the first vessel he could book passage on. That delay had cost the old man the opportunity to stop Renaldo while he was still only human.

The old man would need to contact others of his kind—people who, like himself, were descendants of the Pegasi. There were still descendants remaining, but they were scattered around the world, and word had to be spread about the evil that now freely wandered amongst humanity. The Circulus Duodecim, the Circle of Twelve, the world’s Pegasi ruling council, had to be informed about Renaldo in case he failed to stop the monster.

He hoped he would be up to the task. He was old: seventy-five on his next birthday. He had been ten years old when his father had told him what he really was, and of the obligations that came with that particular knowledge. Since then, the man had confronted and defeated evil on numerous occasions.

His years in the service of the Light weighed heavily upon him. As one of the Pegasi, he had many obligations but few special powers. He sometimes felt that it was unfair; the servants of evil were granted strength, stamina, and immortality, whereas those who served the Light had insufficient powers that at times seemed ineffective against those of darkness.

This was different, this was the first time he would be confronting something that was no longer truly human—something that appeared human but had forsaken its humanity in exchange for immortality and demonic power.

His failure weighed heavily upon him. It was a day’s ride back to Ciudad del Carmen, so he knew he had no chance of catching Renaldo. With his new, unholy powers, Renaldo would arrive hours earlier.

The old man took a blanket from his pack and gently wrapped the child in it. He would take the time to dig a grave, giving the child a proper burial rather than allowing the animals to feed on the body. The child might have only been a street urchin, but to the Lord of the Light, the child was as important as any king. The old man prayed, taking some solace in the knowledge that the child’s soul was now with his kind deity.

***

Father James O’Brien stood on the rear deck of a merchantman, his body swaying gently with the rise and fall of the ship as it shouldered its way through the rolling sea.

O’Brien was at peace. He was thirty-five years old and had come a long way since his days in the orphanage in Dublin. If he was honest with himself—which he tried to be, on a regular basis—he had not become a priest because of any sense of religious devotion; rather, it had been a way out of the orphanage.

He inhaled a deep breath of the salt-laden air and watched the lights of Ciudad del Carmen slowly fade away into the growing mist. He enjoyed the sea and wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps he had missed his calling. He sighed and shook his head, no, he thought, not really. It was easy to fall in love with the allure of the sea on a warm evening like this, but the reality of a sailor’s harsh life was another matter. Climbing the rigging during a raging gale where one wrong move would send the unwary plunging to their death was anything but romantic.

Father O’Brien had come to realize he was doing what he was meant to do and acting on your destiny inevitably brought peace and contentment.

His thoughts strayed to the knife that was wrapped in an oilcloth in his tiny cabin, and to the old man.

He had been looking for a small keepsake, a reminder of his missionary time in Yucatan, when he had noticed the knife in a market not far from the mission. He was attracted to the shiny-black obsidian blade and the gold handle. Upon closer inspection, he observed that the handle was actually bronze and thus not as valuable as he first believed. Nevertheless, it was an unusual artifact and he bartered with the vendor, eventually reaching an agreement.

Two days later an old man showed up at the Mission looking for the knife, claiming it was the Sagrado Cuchillo, a sacred knife capable of destroying demons. O’Brien considered the old man as a little senile, and therefore was willing to forgive the blasphemous ideas the old guy spouted.

Nevertheless, the old man finally extracted a promise from O’Brien that he would leave immediately and would safeguard the knife. O’Brien agreed, just to rid himself of the crazy old coot, and had no intention of changing his plans.

Then, for reasons he didn’t fully comprehend, Father O’Brien felt compelled to change his plans, and sailed two days earlier than he had intended.

Father O’Brien took one last deep breath before heading to his cabin. He was dining with the ship’s captain that night, and he had a small bottle of Irish whiskey in his bag that he would share. Like every good Irishman, he believed in hospitality.

He pulled the whiskey out of the bag and then unwrapped the knife, holding it up to the light cast by the cabin lantern. A talisman? He felt nothing—it was just a knife. He shrugged, rewrapped it, returned it to his bag, and then forgot about it.

Part 1- PEI 1855

Greenville Bay

Prince Edward Island

1855

Chapter 1

Mrs. Rose Simpson accepted the tea offered by James Whitehead, the director of the orphanage, and listened to the sound of laughter on the other side of the closed door.

I’m sorry the children are noisy, Mrs. Simpson, apologized Whitehead. I fear the treats that you brought have excited them, and they are becoming a bit unruly.

Rose regarded the director pensively, studying the man standing in front of her. Whitehead appeared to be in his late forties, heavyset with a bulbous, vein-streaked nose — a testament to the man’s love of wine and rich food. Rose was aware that Whitehead was an efficient administrator, and from what she had been told, while apparently not cruel, he was still a stern disciplinarian. He reminded her of a schoolmaster she had as a child, a man who believed that a cane was as necessary in a classroom as books.

Whitehead did not have the capacity to offer comfort to a child, but fortunately, there were other people in the orphanage who actually cared about the children in their custody.

Rose forced a smile. No need to apologize, James, she said. I find the sound of children's laughter joyful, not annoying.

Whitehead looked at Mrs. Simpson thoughtfully. She was a widow; her husband, a sea captain, had been lost at sea three years ago. She was very attractive, wearing a pale blue bonnet that covered her dark hair, which was tied back in a bun. A dark blue cape was fastened at her neck to ward off the spring chill.

The widow Mrs. Simpson was very well off financially, which made her even more desirable. She was an ardent supporter of the orphanage, providing not only money but also candies and other treats she occasionally sent to the children, particularly at Christmas.

Normally, however, she did not deliver the treats in person, but this time she came herself. She intended to adopt one of the children.

Whitehead had planned to bring in select children, one by one, to allow Mrs. Simpson to question them individually. Mrs. Simpson, however, disrupted his plan.

No, James. I thank you for trying to help in my decision, but I would prefer to watch the children at play—in their natural habitat, so to speak. I’m not interviewing for employment, and I prefer spontaneity. I don’t want them to realize I’m planning on adopting one of them, as the behaviour they might exhibit if they knew may not be a reflection of their true character.

Whitehead shrugged as if the widow's desire to risk adopting other than the perfect child was illogical. Very well, Mrs. Simpson, he said, guiding her to the door. The children are assembled in the dining hall. Mary and Carol are with them, handing out the cookies and candy you brought.

How many children do you have now? Rose asked.

Forty-three, madam, answered Whitehead. Twenty-five boys and eighteen girls.

When Rose and Whitehead stepped into the dining hall, the clamour of excited children quickly subsided as forty-three pairs of eyes studied the lady with the director. Rose observed that the children were all wearing clean clothes, and none were barefoot. Obviously, the director wanted to create a good impression for their benefactor, demonstrating that her contributions were not being squandered.

Children, announced Whitehead. This is Mrs. Simpson, who is a big help to our orphanage. She is the one who brought you all the goodies you are enjoying. His eyes wandered over the children as if looking for an errant child who was not paying attention to him. What do we say, children?

Thank you, Mrs. Simpson, responded forty-three young voices in unison, although with varying levels of volume.

Rose smiled. You’re all very welcome. Now, please continue enjoying the treats.

The children did not need further encouragement; the noise quickly increased in volume as they chatted and eagerly devoured the cookies and candies.

Rose watched the children and wondered if she was doing the right thing. She and Matthew, her late husband, had planned on having children, but that dream was dashed when he died at sea. She looked at the youngsters and wondered how she could ever choose.

As she watched the children, a little girl of about seven or eight got bumped in the confusion and she dropped her cookie onto the floor. Before she could retrieve it, the cookie was trodden underfoot and reduced to crumbs. The little girl stood dejectedly, tears starting to stream down her cheeks as she looked at her lost treasure.

Rose was about to approach the little girl when a young boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stepped in front of the girl and placed his hand on her shoulder. He whispered something in her ear and then handed the girl the cookie he was holding. She seemed reluctant to take it, but he smiled, and his smile was infectious. The little girl beamed as she accepted.

Rose was well aware that the children didn’t have much, yet this boy gave up his cookie to this little girl. And that smile of his, she thought. It is so much like my Matt’s.

She turned to the director and asked, Who is that boy?

It was obvious to her that Whitehead had not seen what had just transpired. It took him a few seconds to determine which boy she was indicating, and another few seconds to remember his name.

Ah, that’s Eric, Mrs. Simpson. He’s been with us since his mother died of consumption—about five years. His father was unknown; therefore, he was sent here to the orphanage. We’ve placed him a couple of times, but they haven’t worked out. By all accounts he’s rebellious and lazy. We don’t think he’s acceptable for adoption. He paused and then asked, You can’t be seriously considering him?

Definitely, declared Rose. When can you have him ready?

Ah, well … stammered Whitehead.

Day after tomorrow, James, she said, not waiting for him to answer. I will send Henry back here the day after tomorrow to pick him up. You can send all the necessary papers to my lawyer here in town. I believe you are familiar with him.

Whitehead knew there was no point in arguing. Yes, Mrs. Simpson. We’ll have him packed and ready. Then he thought, Well, he’ll be ready, but there’s little to pack.

***

The boy, Eric, stood just inside the rear entrance of the manor, feeling the warmth of the stove as it chased out the chill of the carriage drive that had brought him to his new home. Well, maybe his new home—he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

He had been picked up at the orphanage by a man named Henry, who apparently worked for the cookies-and-candy lady. Eric was nervous, like he always was when faced with a new living situation. He had felt a little embarrassed standing barefoot on the orphanage steps, wearing old clothes and a jacket that was too small for him, his arms extending almost an inch below the threadbare cuffs, while Henry just scrutinized him.

The clothes he had been wearing when the widow had visited the orphanage had been taken from him—and from all the other children—including shoes.

Henry looked down at Eric’s feet, scowling, and told him to wait by the carriage because he had to discuss something with Mr. Whitehead. The boy couldn’t hear what was said, but it was obvious Henry was angry over something, and at one point he even thrust the handle of the whip under Mr. Whitehead’s nose. He saw Mr. Whitehead run back into the orphanage to return a few minutes later with a pair of boots.

Henry strode back to the carriage where the waiting boy stood, trembling slightly, and not just because of the chill. Eric was no stranger to an adult’s anger and the beatings it sometimes entailed.

Henry passed him the shoes and growled, Idiot!

Eric didn’t know why Henry thought he was an idiot, but not wanting to make him even angrier, he meekly replied, Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

Henry then surprised him by laughing heartily. No, not you, boy. He indicated Whitehead with his thumb. That bull’s rump is who I mean. Needs a good thrashing, he does. Sending a child out on a cold day like today with no shoes … Idiot! Now, you put those on and get into the carriage.

Eric pulled on the boots and started to climb up onto the carriage’s driver’s seat when Henry placed a hand on his shoulder. No, son. Your place is in here, he said as he opened the door to the carriage’s interior seats. You are now gentry, lad. This is where family rides.

Confused with this apparent change in his status, Eric stammered, But I don’t mind riding up beside you, sir. I wouldn’t feel right sitting in there like a prince or something.

A smile creased Henry’s craggy, weather-beaten face, and he nodded approvingly at the boy. "Mrs. Simpson was