Eyes of Death: Mortlake Series, #5

By David Longhorn and Scare Street

Ancient mythical evil haunts the modern world…

Marcus Mortlake has dedicated his life to battling evil. And in doing so, the paranormal investigator has ignored his professional responsibilities for far too long. When his college brings him to task, the weary professor finds himself facing an enemy he had no chance at defeating… The college bursar.

Before he can face the music, both the troublesome administrator and one of Mortlake's disgruntled students disappear, leaving only a pile of crumbling dust behind. Mortlake suspects supernatural forces are to blame. But even he is shocked to discover that the culprit may be a mythological terror, whose very name is synonymous with fear…

Mortlake struggles to track down the malevolent entity while dodging inquisitive college officials and law enforcement out for his hide. And upon realization that someone close to him has become possessed by the ancient spirit, he must call upon every ounce of his supernatural knowledge to bring an end to their reign of terror, before more blood is spilled.

But a shadowy figure is manipulating events behind the scenes. And they're determined to make sure their existence stays hidden.…

Until it's time to reveal their cause.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Mar 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224364961

David Longhorn

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC’s Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result.He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It’s been that kind of life, really – a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

Book preview

Prologue

Put it on, lad, and stop whining!

Nikos did as he was told, though the woolen robe was scratchy and lice-infested. It was a hot day, and he felt self-conscious, changing clothes in front of a dozen or so grown men. He was, by far, the youngest of the group. But he needed to belong, to be part of a greater whole. And the Master had promised him a better life.

He would no longer be Nikos the Timid, Nikos the Small, and definitely not Nikos the Dung Carrier. He would become Nikos the Disciple, a follower of the Master. In the city, many derided the old man as crazy. The Master didn’t care. He told his disciples that they would soon be in touch with the primal god, the first deity, the one that had existed long before the other gods.

Even the Sky Father or Earth Mother, the Master said, had not existed forever. Everyone knew Zeus and the rest of the Olympians were born of the Titans, who in turn had their progenitors, and so on. The world had been created. Therefore, it must have had a creator. This was the mysterious, all-powerful force the Master sought to contact. It was nameless and bore all names. It was mysterious and embodied all mysteries.

It was, when Nikos thought about it, more than a little scary. The other disciples didn’t think about it much and instead just did what the Master told them. And he told them to prepare to invoke the primal god and bring about a new world.

According to the Master, even the humblest of his followers would be guaranteed dominion over earthly kingdoms. They would be powerful beyond the dreams of any warlord or king. They would have more treasure than the fabled Minos of Crete. They would enjoy the pleasures of the finest foods and the most voluptuous women. It would all be quite magnificent.

More to the point, Nikos would never have to carry dung again.

And that was the kind of religion he could get behind.

It had taken him a while to be accepted by the cultists. He had first stumbled upon them one night when, lacking food and lodging, he had been driven out of the city gates. This was routine treatment for the poorest of the poor. Beaten and mocked by the king’s guards, he had collapsed by the roadside and felt as if he’d never get up again. What, after all, was the point of being a pariah, one without family or friends?

Then he had heard the sound of voices chanting in a nearby grove. There, he had found the Master preaching to his flock. And, though some of the faithful had wanted to shun Nikos, the Master had invited him to join them at their feast around a good, warm fire.

We need new blood, the old man had said. Let the boy follow if he seeks the truth. Even the lowest of the low can seek the truth. And, who knows? The arrival of this poor boy might well augur good for us all. For are we not outcasts, all of us? Do we not seek refuge from the injustice and stupidity of the world?

This was immediately hailed as another example of the Master’s wisdom. Within minutes, Nikos had been accepted. In the days that followed, he had learned a few basic phrases to repeat during gatherings, responses to the Master’s declamations. Now he watched in awe as the Master stooped and, supporting himself with a staff, set off into the cave. His followers padded on unshod feet behind him. Two strong, young men were carrying a large burden between them, a bundle that had sometimes squirmed. A pair of small, dirty feet protruded from one end. The rest was wrapped in cloth, bundled up like the dead in distant Egypt.

Nikos did not like to think about the bundle. He had been ordered not to concern himself with it. Earlier, he had drunk of the sacred wine and felt the warmth of the strange aromatic brew course through his veins. The captive had been given a far stronger dose earlier in the day. Like Nikos, she was one of the city’s outcasts, the unwanted child of some slave or another. And, like Nikos, she was deemed of value by the Master. Only men could seek the truth. But women, the old man declared, could serve their great purpose in other ways.

That made sense. Everyone knew women could not be trusted with secrets or power. But it still troubled Nikos that the girl was necessary to the Master’s plan. He struggled to still his concern, which mingled with fear. Doubts were bad, the Master said, but Nikos was weak and doubted a little. What if it was all nonsense? What if they were caught? Certain practices were deemed barbaric and forbidden by royal decree. What the cult was about to do fell into that category.

Behind Nikos, the light faded, and he stumbled on the rough floor of the cave. He bumped into the man just ahead of him, and the acolyte cursed him. Then they were inside the grotto. The light of a dozen smoking torches threw dancing shadows across walls and ceiling. The men carrying the girl put her down on a stone altar, a rough-hewn slab. Then they unwrapped her.

The girl’s naked body looked fish-belly pale in the torchlight. Her eyes, huge and gleaming, looked around in confusion. Strands of dark, greasy hair fell over her thin face as she tried to sit up, moaning and shaking her head. She was forced to lie flat again by two followers while the Master took up position beside the slab.

The Master’s words echoed around the cavern as he invoked the primal powers. Now and again, he paused for the cultists to respond. Nikos did not understand half the things the old man said because there were a lot of long words. But he still tried to go along with the others. Nikos heard a humming noise growing in his ears and wondered if it was due to the sacred wine. Then he felt a twinge of nausea and panic as the chief acolyte reached under his robe and produced a bronze dagger.

No, Nikos thought. No, they can’t be doing this. A goat, yes, or a cockerel. But it is forbidden to sacrifice any human, however lowly.

He had only half-believed it would happen. He realized that now. But it was happening, slowly, remorselessly. The old man took the dagger in trembling hands and raised it high above his head. The girl began to make pathetic noises, trying to wriggle free. But by now, the two acolytes had bound her, hand and foot, to the altar.

Hear me, all men of the faith, intoned the Master. With the blood of this girl, we invoke Chaos from which all sprang and the Thousand-Faced God of creation. In this place of mysteries, where once that power was invoked in elder times, we return to shed blood and claim the glory that only we deserve! Come to us and grant us all earthly powers, O Great One! Accept the blood, the heart, and the soul of this mortal!

The others cried out to Chaos in their excitement, but Nikos closed his eyes. They did not hear his whimper. They did not suspect his silent hopeless prayer to Artemis, the virgin huntress, to save the girl. Nikos knew he had made a terrible mistake and suddenly wanted to puke. But then the group fell silent. And after a moment, he opened his eyes.

Nothing had changed. The Master was still standing, the knife held aloft in both palsied hands. The robed acolytes were standing around the altar. The girl was still wriggling and sobbing. But no, something was different. Above and behind the altar, about ten feet up on the cavern wall, something had appeared. The air itself seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pond stirred by a breeze. It was not from the heat of the torches, Nikos grasped, but something stranger.

A breeze blew through the cavern. Torches flickered.

Chaos! proclaimed the Master. The primal Chaos from which the first god was born!

But there was something about the old man’s voice that suggested doubt. The dagger, however, finally started to descend, its gleaming bronze point aimed straight at the girl’s breast. But it never struck home in the soft, pale flesh. Instead, a shaft of dazzling blue-white light shot through the air. All, including the Master, reeled back, covering their eyes. Nikos could see nothing but swirling patterns of orange and green for a few moments. When he recovered his sight, everyone was backing away from the altar.

The girl had broken her bonds. She was sitting up, no longer trembling in terror. Her face bore an uncanny expression, one Nikos had never seen before, at least not on a woman. It was pride and anger commingled. Above her head, the strange vortex in the air continued to grow and shimmer. More sparks, like lightning, jumped from it to the girl.

But that was not the strangest thing.

The girl’s hair was moving of its own volition, strands lifting and writhing in the air like feelers. Several torches had been dropped in the confusion and gone out. In the weaker light, the girl’s eyes seemed to glow like reflections of the sun, like golden yellow orbs. She smiled. At that point, Nikos turned and ran.

Behind him, he heard shouts of panic, urgent commands, and then screams. He had never heard men scream before. The sounds echoed along the cave as he ran, cutting his feet on errant shards of rock. By the time he reached daylight, there was only silence. That frightened him even more than the screaming had done.

His head swimming from the drugged wine and lack of food, he pounded down the trail toward Aspida. The city soon hove into view, columns of smoke rising from dozens of hearth fires. The walls seemed suddenly inviting, not forbidding. He really needed to get inside them. At the gates, the guards sneered and taunted him, but his panicked attempts to tell them what he’d seen eventually got through. He was taken to the palace.

Boy, if you are lying, you will be stoned to death, the king warned him. If I’m feeling merciful, that is.

Nikos, who had recovered enough to tell a coherent story, tried to look virtuous and brave.

I tell only the truth, great ruler, he insisted. It is a thing of terror, a creature of darkness! It might come for us all.

The king, bald and potbellied, turned to the priest of Zeus, a tall, thin man with piercing black eyes. The representative of the Sky Father looked troubled. Nikos listened as monarch and priest exchanged words. It became clear that both saw the Master’s cult as a threat to their power. Neither seemed to give much credit to the strange events that had prevented the sacrifice.

I will send a detachment of picked men to the hills, the king finally announced. They will round up the blasphemers. Or kill them. Either is acceptable.

The warriors did not return. By sundown, dozens of people had gathered near the city gates, where the bulk of the royal guard stood ready with spears and shields. The king himself oversaw the scene from horseback, with the priests of Zeus and Hera in attendance. Nobody seemed to know what to do next.

Then a small group of peasants from one of the outlying villages came rushing through the gates. They jabbered of a hideous creature, swift and deadly, that had come down from the hills. They claimed most of those in its path had been slain at once. They gave a fantastic and yet oddly convincing account of what the monster did to its victims.

Close the gates! the king commanded, though more people were clearly visible in the distance, heading toward the city.

The gates were shut, and the king seemed to relax. He called up to the men in the gate towers to tell him what they saw. At first, all the guards reported were more peasants fleeing in terror. Then, as twilight silvered the sky, one warrior said something else was coming. It was roughly human-sized, moving very fast, and seemed to pounce on the villagers as they ran.

The king ordered archers to the walls. But then one tower guard gave a strangled yell and seemed to fall down, out of sight of the courtyard. Then the second guard collapsed. Nikos realized he had no faith in the king’s warriors or the city walls now. He began to run, thinking of escape routes. Something struck the gates with a tremendous blow, but he didn’t look back. Wood splintered with more strikes. Behind him, he heard shouting, all too familiar in its nature. Commands, yells of panic, screams. And above it was another sound, a wailing that was almost that of a woman in deep despair. But it was too loud, too piercing, to be the cry of a human.

Nikos reached the small archway where the stream passed under the wall. It was an open sewer, bubbling brown with filth. But as the clamor behind him grew closer, he knew he had no choice. He flung himself into the fetid stream and, eyes and mouth closed, half-swam and half-scrambled under the wall. Once outside, he ran and kept running until the screaming of the people of Aspida faded like a nightmare in the sweet light of dawn.

Many years later, when he had found a new home and built a new life, Nikos would tell the tale of the dead city. His grandchildren would look up at him, eyes wide with wonder. Some of the womenfolk would tut and roll their eyes at the same old story they had heard so often. And, now and again, a man would be skeptical and hint that the old man was a mere fantasist, spinning yarns for attention.

Go to the dead city, then, Nikos would say, smiling at the doubter. Go to Aspida, and see what might dwell there, and then come back to tell us what you have seen.

Once or twice a year, a man took up the challenge, but none ever returned. With every venturer who did not come back, the legend won more believers. And, like all legends, it began to accrete other stories around itself, much as a dark pearl might form around one tiny grain of sand in an oyster. There were stories of heroes and kings, of love and war among the gods. But looming in the background of all of them was the creature that Nikos, by his own admission the most unheroic of men, had seen and survived.

Eventually, the Fate that presides over all cut the thread of his life. Nikos made his last journey, the one every man must make. When he was lying as if in sleep with a coin in his mouth to pay the ferryman, some spoke of Aspida. But as time passed and kingdoms rose and fell, fewer and fewer folk recalled the dead city.

But it was never quite forgotten.

Chapter 1

Why Orlando?

Marcus Mortlake looked up, frowning. The student sitting opposite him was proving problematic.

I’m sorry, why what?

Your middle name.

Nigel Yaxley leaned back in his chair, looking smug. The set text for the course lay on the desk in front of him, unopened.

Oh, Mortlake said, glancing at the other three students in his tutorial group. My mother liked it, apparently. Italian form of Roland. ‘Orlando Furioso’, as I’m sure you know, is a major Renaissance poem by Ariosto.

Mortlake did not like Yaxley. The boy—he was still not quite nineteen—was lazy and arrogant. He talked a lot because he wanted to be the center of attention. But he seldom had much, if anything, to say beyond shallow, snide remarks.

Did you ever ask her why she didn’t give you an English name? asked Yaxley.

Mortlake felt a