The Veritas League and the Quest for the Tome of Tangiers: In The Talon's Grip.

The coarse ropes wore harshly at Fumolatro's wrists. Hours of struggling against their hold had served only to gnaw at his skin like hungry fire ants at a fallen beast.

He was bound to the base of iron column that supported a section of an elaborate array of catwalks and scaffolding upon which rested crates and cartons and the engine of a massive crane, the great neck of which swung out over the cavern floor. Attached to the crane by metal cables was a large flat bottomed cage. It appeared to be the only means of reaching the catwalk.

The interior of the cavern was vast, the smooth walls betrayed the history of its formation. For uncounted millennia the ocean had swept through the fissures in the porous rock, and eviscerated the interior. Eventually through other more dramatic geological forces the land mass had been driven up to it's current elevation to the point where the sea was barely level with the cavern floor. Only one connection to the Atlantic remained - the pool into which Fumolatro had fallen and from which he was so ingloriously rescued by his captor, The Silver Talon.

 

The space was illuminated by torches suspended from the iron frameworks. Stationed around the interior the professor could see sections of roughly constructed flooring, on which stood machinery, tarpaulins, tools, cases, tables and cabinets; an entire workshop's worth of equipment. Many items he recognized immediately, others the purpose of which he could only speculate. What horrible deeds did the man he had once called a friend have planned? For what dark purpose could these devices be destined?

 

By all evidence, he was alone. The only sound beyond his own stressful breathing was the rhythmic slosh of the ocean as it entered and withdrew from the wide orifice in the cavern floor. In the hours he he'd spent writhing in vain attempts to free himself he seen the sea water retreat completely from sight and slowly rise again. Clearly the daily action of the tides caused the waters to completely vacate the tunnel that connected the cavern to the sea, and then slowly return.

 

Above him, on the iron scaffold that supported the crane, he spotted a walkway that terminated at another opening on the cavern wall - an exit.

 

Voices came from the far side of the where a wide arch led out into a darkend passage. Shouting, struggle, the conversants were at odds... seconds later he spotted the all to familiar 'silver talons' that had been horrifically grafted directly to Emil's fingers - they reached out into the air in front of him for balance as he dragged another prisoner behind. The Professor's heart fell. There, battered but conscious, was he dearest friend, the Reverend Oryza.

 

Like a valueless sack of refuse Reynard dropped the poor cleric on the floor aside a large worktable. He was bound with same rough black ropes that held the professor.

As Reynard moved into the glow of the torchlight, the professor could see that the horrible surgery that had permanently affixed the dreaded talons was not the only unnatural alteration to his body. A framework of iron surrounded his left leg up to his thigh, where it appeared to be attached to an articulated joint and from there bolted straight into his pelvic bone. A sickening feeling ran through the professor's innards. Reynard was limping. Clearly the weight of the frame was great. On his right arm a similar structure was mounted, this though, was partially covered in plates like some horrid metal skin. The hand, if it still was a hand, appeared more as a trap such as would be used to snare wolves. It was this harsh 'claw' he had used to drag the priest through the passage.

 

Reynard was working at a something. Several small engines were set in motion. The sound of pumps began competing with the noise of the sea. He climbed aboard the cage at the base of the crane and with the thrust of a lever it began to climb - up over the pit of swirling sea water pit and onward up to the scaffold. There he unpacked several crates. He was gathering small items into his metal claw.

 

"Emil", the professor called out.

 

Reynard stopped moving. His hunched form breathed in deeply. "EMIL IS DEAD!" he shouted without turning. "'All that he was is gone!"

 

"Where is Metalica?!" the professor demanded.

 

Reynard turned staring down at Fumolatro, and with a slight tilt of his head, smiled. "Patagonia... She left more than week ago on the request of an old friend to come visit. Sadly for her, the old friend is at school in Kroenenburgh. Angelus, you look puzzled."

 

The professor slowly began to realize the extent of the deception. "The woman on The Borealis.... and at the Opera?" He asked.

 

"Angelus you really are tragically dim" Reynard returned to his work as he continued to speak. "That was my consort, Belladonna Aconite of course. She is quite gifted isn't she?"

 

Oryza, still on the cave floor, called up. "And you have no idea of the whereabouts of Gunther Wasserstrom do you?"

 

"Ah the monk shows some wits after all!" Reynard replied snidely as he reentered the cage and descended from the higher level. "Of course not. Do you really think I'd have involved any of you if I already had the old man?"

 

"I'm not a monk, Emil. I'm a priest of an Institute of Consecrated Life, technically."

 

The professor, still cringing at the term 'old man' being used for his dear friend and mentor Wasserstrom, spat out the question, 'What is it you want?"

 

Oryza rolled to his side. Managing to prop himself up on an elbow he looked across the room at the professor, "He wants us to locate him...and the book."

 

"Bravo! Oh Bravo Padre. But you're only half correct. I want Angelus to find him." Spinning on his metal heel Reynard limped across the room, then after spilling the items he'd collected onto a nearby work bench, heaved the Reverend off the floor and onto a large wooden table, and staring into his eyes said, "I have other plans for 'his holiness' here."

 

The professor, his mind filling with rage, shouted back, "I will never help you!"

 

Reynard answered by looking down at Oryza saying, "Oh but will Angelus... or the priest dies."

 

"No!" screamed Fumolatro, "No! You fiend!"

 

Seemingly unshaken, the Reverend, unblinking, looked into Reynard's eyes and replied, "I'm willing to die if it will serve God's purpose for me to do so. But may God have mercy on your soul, Emil."

 

"GOD?" Reynard shrieked, "I AM GOD!! I am the new creator! My own creator! I have torn down the faulty shell of YOUR God and remade my self in a new image! Stronger! Better! A new being! I am the Neo-Homo-Superioris!" Reynard, in his madness, was screaming to unseen masses.

 

“Now, Angelus…" He shouted as he limped his was across the floor.

 

The professor’s eyes grew wide as Reynard threw back his cloak to reveal the velvet sheath of a pulwar hanging from his belt. His twisted grin revealed several sharp and shining metal teeth as he withdrew the ancient weapon, its polished blade shimmering in the dull torchlight of the cave, and lowered it dangerously close to the professors throat.

 

From his vantage point on the table Oryza watched in horror as with one deft move the blade was drawn upward like an executioner’s ax. Sure that Reynard in his madness now intended to kill the professor, the priest braced himself for the gruesome sight that was to follow. Sparks flew as the blade, scraping down the back of the metal column against which the professor was tied, passed straight through the ropes that had bound him. Reynard lifted the blade and examined it, as if admiring its usefulness. “…you will assist me.”

 

What is this? the professor asked himself. Is he really so mad as to free me AND expect me to assist him somehow?

 

Using the sword as a pointer, he directed the professor to the table supporting Fr. Oryza. “Bind him!” Reynard commanded.

 

Fumolatro was horrified to see the filthy wooden table on which his friend lay. It was actually a primitive surgical bed. The sides were fitted with brass rings used for holding the leather restraints required to keep patients immobilized while surgeons made swift work with their blades and saws.

 

Reynard awkwardly manuvered his way to the Professor’s left side and began to uncoil the upper restraints. The Professor was sickened at the prospect of willingly assisting the monster his former friend had become. As he moved to wrap the first restraint under the Reverend’s calf his hand felt the outline of a long metal object in the hem of the priest’s robe. ‘Allon’s dagger!’ he though to himself. (A flawless weapon forged in Toledo, it had been a gift from the devoted staff of the Cathedral at Salamanca following the Affair of the Spanish Wraith.) His captors had failed to discover it!

 

With as much stealth as he could manage, the professor obscured his actions as he slipped the blade from the hem the robe. Oryza, sensing the professor’s action cautiously met his eye. Without a word the two conceived a plan and set it in motion.

 

Knowing he must distract Reynard into a position of vulnerability, Oryza closed his eyes and quietly, but audibly, began to pray: “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen.”

 

Reynard leaned in slightly, snarling in Oryza’s face. “You waste your breath holy man.”

 

His eyes opened, and looking Reynard in the face asked: “Do I?”

 

The professor, with the dagger gripped firmly in hand, was agonized by the act he was about to undertake. He drew in his breath, raised the blade above his head and whispered: “May God forgive me.” Down went the knife into the back of their captor!

A scream! Reynard fell forward dropping his weight upon the poor priest. Another scream as he rose up. Then… laughter. Screeching, twisted, evil laughter.

 

With an animalian roar and one swing of his massive metal craw Reynard struck the professor square in the chest throwing him back into the cave wall. Like a magician flourishing his cape, Reynard tore off his cloak and ripped the shirt from his chest.

 

Their blood ran cold at the sight.

 

Upon his chest and back, no skin shone. Where there should have been flesh and muscle was metal, fused to his body as if melted into wax. On his back, layered sheets of iron and on his chest a gleaming sliver breastplate. How far had this horrid perversion of man into machine progressed?

 

Seething and spitting with each breath, he retrieved the dagger from the floor. Then grasping it in all that remained of his ‘human’ hand, hoisted it over the Reverend’s chest, he looked down at Fumolatro and whispered…. “My turn.”

 

 

(the story continues - here)

Done