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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2014 19:56:13 GMT -5
We've captured a Fritz traitor, sir,” Lieutenant James “Jim” Waters said, appearing within the makeshift office of Captain Balfour's trench. Water dripped from the rim of his helmet, every drop splashing against the already sodden ground. Even under cover, the trenches oozed with mud. “Blabbering on about some evil afoot. Want to tell everything he knows to the commanding officer that has the power to stop it. I think he sadly thought that was a description of Field Marshal Haig.” Captain Alfred Balfour's mouth turned upward as he bounced upon his heels. “That sounds almost treasonous, Lieutenant Waters.” “Oh, I don't think so, sir. It's nothing to what's being said on the trenches. One man said Field Marshal Haig couldn't unlock his own drinking cabinet, let alone the German's defensive position.” “That is scandalous,” Alfred barked, his moustache bristling as he reached for his own helmet upon a hook by the bunk beds. “Who said that, Waters?” “You did, sir,” Jim said, his lip not even trembling. Alfred laughed, dropping the metal cap over his black hair. “Right you are, Jim. What is this evil afoot?” “Well, that's the strange thing, sir. What do you know about the Occult?” The captain, once again, allowed a hearty laugh to erupt from deep within his portly belly. "The Occult, you say? Pixies and demons and the like? Bugger it. But anyone that would turn on the Krauts is worth having a gab with, don't you think?" Lieutenant Waters shrugged, "S'pose so. That's why you're in charge, sir." Captain Balfour's cherubic smile came to his face again. "Take me to him, Lieutenant." Rain pounded like God's artillery on the men, so much that each drop made a sharp tinging sound on their hard helmets. At least the sky is gray as far as the eye can see, thought Balfour. It was comforting to know that the Germans would also be getting bombarded by Providence. They came at last to a small bunker built into the trench's walls, supported with beams and boards. A rat scurried underfoot as they entered the dank, dark hole. A young man, he couldn't be more than thirty, sat with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. His hair was dark, and slick with wetness. "On your feet for the captain," barked Waters. The German apparently hadn't heard the two men enter. He rose sharply to his feet and saluted. Balfour waved his hands dismissively. "At ease, at ease." Balfour reached into his pocket, and produced a small, bruised orange. "A gift, from the British Empire." He tossed it casually to the soldier, who caught it with both hands. "Thank you, sir." The German man tore into the fruit greedily, the yellow juice running down his dirty fingers. "You speak English, Fritz?" "A bit, sir," came the heavily-accented reply. "Bully." Captain Balfour grabbed a chair from against the wall, and spun it around to face in front of the German. The captain peered at the man while he ate his orange. When the rind was picked clean and tossed aside, Balfour cleared his throat. "Alright, let's get straight to the point. Lieutenant Waters here tells me you wanted to see someone, to warn about... er... something?" Picking a bit of yellow flesh from his teeth, the German nodded. "They've captured... something. I do not know what, sir. I do not. But it is hungry. Always hungry. I have heard it said those bastards dug it up in Tunisia, but..." Captain Balfour slapped the man, firmly, but not hard. "Enough rambling. I am humoring you, and you are on my time. You value my time, do you not?" "Yes, sir, I-" "Then get to the bloody point. Do not pussyfoot, Fritz. Say what you have come to say, you may find me more amenable to your situation than you expect." Lieutenant Waters narrowed his gaze, peering down at the Captain with curiosity. The German nodded, "Yes. Sir. Well, I cannot say what it is. An angel. Or perhaps a demon, more like. I have heard its voice, though. Its terrible, terrible voice. It is so... so... joyful. The war, it likes the war, sir. The killing. It, it, it.... Climaxes after a battle, sir. L-like a... like a woman, you know." The German was flushed and blushing. Captain Balfour, however, only stared at him sternly. "Vampires, cultists, lycanthropes. I can handle those. This, though, this is something else." Captain Balfour arose to his feet. "Thank you, sir. Now, you must return to your camp forthright." Fear flushed onto the German's face, "What? No! No! I cannot go back there, you cannot make me." Another slap from Balfour. "You came here, risking death or worse, to warn me of this. Why?" The German was silent, but Balfour continued on and answered for him. "Because deep down, you're a good man. We are but distant cousins there Fritz, your people and mine. Now, if you want to stop being brave, then fine. I will throw you in a POW camp, and let you rot. Or perhaps I will kill you right here - tell them that you came at me. Waters saw it, didn't you Waters." The Lieutenant nodded. Grinning, Captain Balfour gestured at the Lieutenant. "See? He saw it." The Captain let his words hang in the air for a moment. "We can do it that way, or you can go back to your camp, be my eyes on the inside. You can help me stop this." Silence, and then the German stood up and saluted. "I will do this. I will return." Balfour beamed, "Bully. Recruit any other good men on your side that you can. Even if they may not necessarily believe you, as long as they are trustworthy and good. I shall do the same here. How many are involved with the creature?" The German shrugged. "I have seen dozens and dozens of men go there at night, to that great pit beneath the trenches. I have never gone in myself - my mother would never forgive me... But I have peered around, seen the light, heard the noises, the chanting. Dozens and dozens," he finished again. "It isn't hundreds, is it?" Balfour smiled. "I guess not," finished the German glumly. "All right. Now, you need to get out of here. I will have two men escort you to no-man's land, from there you're on your own. We won't fire at you from this side, or at least my men shan't." "Well that is a small victory, I suppose." "You're a real bundle of joy, you know that Fritz? What's your name, son?" "Hitler, sir. Gefreiter Adolf Hitler." "Go with God, Hitler," replied Balfour, clapping him once on the soldier. As the exited the barracks, Balfour commanded two soldiers to escort Hitler out of the camp. When it was done, he returned to his own quarters, Lieutenant Waters in tow. The two men sat across from one another. Balfour poured two glasses of whiskey, about three fingers worth in each, and handed one over to Waters. "I am sorry you had to learn about it like that, Waters. About me. About what goes on beyond the Veil." Waters shrugged, "I always knew something was off about you, sir." Balfour erupted with laughter, "Bugger that, Waters. Look at the world, at the human race. Look at the darkness. It's the ones who go along, accepting only the truths that don't demand anything of a man, who are 'off.' If the darkness is real, and pernicious, and capable, then fighting it is the only sanity there is to be had in this vale of tears." Once more, Waters shrugged, "I am still annoyed that you pretended to not know anything about the Occult, sir. Why?" "Because I wasn't sure I had to play my hand yet. That Kraut could have been all he initially appeared to be. While the Darkness is real and nearly omniscient, it doesn't always manifest itself. Sometimes, Jim, a Kraut is just a Kraut." "But not this time." Balfour drank deep. "Not this time." "So you believe he is telling the truth?" Balfour smacked his lips together. He sat momentarily, staring at his youthful charge inquisitively. "This all settles rather easily with you, Waters. I spent almost a decade in denial when I found out." Waters smiled, "But you found out before you had to live in these trenches, no? Takes a bit more to shell-shock me, these days." A guffaw from Balfour. "Fair enough, fair enough. To answer your question, yes. Yes, he is telling the truth. I have suspected this to be the case for quite some time. I had suspected I was being lied to." "Lied to, sir?" "I did not send poor Hitler back to the Germans on a whim. Would that I had kept him. Being so close to that... being... cannot be easy on anyone. It pained me to send him back, Waters. But I need a man on the inside. I thought we had one, but it would appear he's turned traitor." Waters shrugged, "Then perhaps you could tell me his name." "Perhaps I could. Aliester Crowley. You may know of him. His Majesty had Crowley cozy up to the Germans, or at least certain elements within them. He's been writing for them, the man is mad but he can write a piece of propaganda. I was against this from the start, but His Majesty thought it prudent." "And how do you know this - Crowley, did you say? - betrayed you?" Waters took a sip. "Betrayed us," the Captain corrected sternly. "We suspected something was afoot. We suspected the Darkness had been slowly seeping into positions of power within Germany - indeed, within Europe. So we sent Crowley. He's been feeding us information, yes. Valuable information. Troop movements, morale on the home front, politicking. Hell, he brought the Yanks into the fray by intercepting that Zimmerman message." The lieutenant almost spit his liquor out. "That was him?" Nodding knowingly, Balfour responded, "That was him. But he never spoke a word about this creature." "Perhaps he did not know?" "It would be the first thing he'd know. Besides, you heard Hitler. Tunisia, they found it. Crowley was with the Germans in Tunisia. It's all too much." Waters took another sip, as if to mull it over. "Then what is our next step, sir?" "Why, we wait to hear from Herr Hitler." * * * * * * *
Unflinchingly, the rain continued to pound down, even on this side of no-man's land. Hitler nodded at the two guards as he entered the trench, his jackboots splashing in the growing puddles. There would be more cases of trench-foot come morning. But now was not the time to worry about that. He was going to see him. He entered the bunker, and smelled the stench of sex. Sweat, candles, even a bit of blood. It often smelled like that in here. It was a bunker in name only. Dug out into the side of the trenches, it was lined not with wet, dingy boards but with black sheets of fabric, with foreign symbols etched into them. The all-seeing Eye, the Eye of Horus, the mark of the Beast, the unicursal hexagram. And standing there, as if some ancient desert deity come to life, he stood. Magnificent and beautiful. "Master Therion," Hitler intoned, falling to his knees. Aleister Crowley stepped forward, wearing a long, shapeless black robe. A triangle hat sat upon his head, and a golden cross hung from his neck. "My servant has returned to me. And not a moment too soon. He hungers, our friend. Deep within his pit, he whispers to me even now. Flesh and blood he desires, seasoned with mustard and strife. Did you plant the seeds?" "The seed has been planted, Master Therion. The fool Balfour knows, and will come as soon as I tell him to, with all of his strength." A rare moment of confusion spread on Crowley's face. "Balfour? I thought the marshal was called Haig?" Hitler shrugged, "He is, my lord. But apparently he is nothing but a drunkard and an imbecile. Make no mistake, Master, Captain Balfour holds the power there." "I do not like this. Haig was known to me. Who is this Balfour? I have not heard of him." He began to wring his hands nervously. Hitler furrowed his brow. "M-my lord," he stammered. "The seed is planted, that is what you wanted. Bloodshed and carnage shall come, and our angel shall drink his fill." Crowley nodded. "Yes. Yes. You are right. Thank you, my sweet servant. Now, disrobe. I require a level IX invocation to prepare for the coming battle, and you shall suffice." Swallowing nervously, Hitler winced. "L-level IX, Master? But you j-just did that to me this morning... It hurts-" Crowley removed his robes, the mass of black fabric falling softly onto the dry wooden floor. He stood, naked, his flesh pale like a ghosts, splotchy and flabby. "Disrobe and get on your belly, my Serpent." Shivering, Hitler fiddled with his belt buckled. "Yes, Master Therion. * * * * * * *
Even in the midst of what many were now calling the "Great War," some modicum of peace could be had. Here, out in no-man's land, between two trenches garrisoned mostly by the sick and infirm, was one such place. Balfour and Waters emerged from the darkness, and met their informant. Gefreiter Hitler was already there waiting for them, with five other men. "These your allies then, Hitler," Balfour questioned, gesturing at the men. One of the German's answered for him. "We are." Hitler nodded the affirmative. "Bully," said Balfour, "and here are ours." Nearly half a hundred men emerged from the shadows, from prone positions on the ground, from tree-tops. Young, but battle-hardened boys and grizzled veterans whose continued survival had next to nothing to do with mere luck. Balfour's best men. "And the demon?" "It is two in the morning," said Hitler, "worshipers gather there at 3 o'clock. They call it 'the witching hour'. We should be able to kill most of them before they even notice what is happening. And then, kill or capture the rest. Do you know how to contain the demon?" Balfour nodded. "Kill whoever summoned it. Demons can't just manifest willfully, not easily anyway. It has a 'host', a source of possession. Do you have any idea who that might be?" Hitler thought for a time, his men looking around warily. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't." "Then pray to whatever gods you believe in that we kill the host in the initial surge. Because if not, if they've been feeding that thing... then it won't be pretty." * * * * * * *
Pvt. Keir O'Connell took out the first German guardsman with a shot from his rifle. Two other Canadian privates surged forward, bayoneting the guards who had turned, ever so briefly, to look at their fallen brother. The bunker was open to them. The British soldiers and their six German allies moved into the bunker. When he saw the symbols on the wall, Pvt. Bolland made the sign of the Cross. "Blessed Mother, this is a dark place."
"Why'd you think we'd come here?" whispered Captain Balfour. "Stiff upper lip, lad. We're going deeper into the belly of the Beast. Keep up that praying, though, we need all the juice we can get, but do it in your head." The men shuffled in quietly, until all fifty-six of them stood in the one, cramped room.
Pvt. O'Connell sniffed the air. "Smells disgusting in here."
"Smells like a whore house," laughed another.
"Quiet," spat Balfour sharply. He turned to Hitler, "Where is the tunnel?"
"The sheet behind the altar." Balfour gestured at two of his men. They quietly slipped over to and pulled down the black sheet of fabric hanging on the back wall. A wide, dug-out pathway when deep into the earth.
"Two-by-two, lads," whispered Balfour.
As they moved down the dank tunnel, they began to hear noises and see the flashing of light.
Then came the voices. A lone voice, chanting some sort of strange language. And then the response in German.
When asked, Hitler translated the latter."Ba'alhammon, enter into this, your abode. Enter here and make your presence known. Feast upon the flesh we have offered up for you."
Pvt. Bolland blanched. "I cannot go down there, I cannot, I cannot."
Balfour slapped him, "Shape up. You knew you might have to die for your country." Bolland whispered something in French. Balfour couldn't make it out, but heard the word "roi". Let the Quebecois whine, as long as he was here and fought well, Balfour wasn't going to get into colonial politics with him here of all places.
They pressed on.
The chanting became louder and more ecstatic, and the path became darker and deeper. Finally, they came to a massive cavern, lined with rock and stone. Torches burned in sconces, and thousands of worshipers stood, still in their German army fatigues, before a grand altar. And then Balfour noticed them. Some had the Union Jack on their shoulders, the Canadian Red Ensign, the French flag and even some Russian flags. The Stars and Bars of the United States of America could be seen, too.
"Ah, Captain Balfour, I presume? I am Lord Therion," came a voice from atop the altar. The thousands of men turned around, and Balfour raised his gun.
Crowley smiled, "You will be torn to pieces if you attack us. And you know it. Besides, Ba'alhammon is almost awake for the evening. Spilling this much blood will only hasten that. Do not misunderstand me, I fully intend on awakening him, with your blood. But why hasten the Apocalypse?"
Balfour stepped forward, but slung his rifle back over his shoulder. "Why, Crowley? Why did you betray us? Why did you betray him? He is your king, you bastard."
"George is but a man, like you. Like I was, once upon a time. I serve a higher order. How much distance is there from a speck of dirt to a locust? How much between that locust and a fish? The fish to the cat, the cat to the lion, the lion to the baby, the baby to the woman, the woman to the man. It is foolish to presume that we are the apex. We can learn much from Ba'alhammon. We can traverse the stars, unlock the secrets of immortality, harness pleasure and power in a way that humanity never has before. The Age of Osiris is at an end, my good Captain. Let the new age, the Age of Horus, begin."
Balfour shook his head. "Never. I am a Knight of the Round Table, through and through."
Crowley's head rolled back and he roared an uproarious laugh. His fellow worshipers joined in, and soon the cavernous hall was awash with laughter. Aleister Crowley raised his pale hands for silence, and when the din finally settled, he began again. "A Knight of the Round Table? So that is whom you serve?"
"I serve the Crown, the realm. The realms of men."
"You serve a weak, impotent king and a dead god. Where is your Holy Grail, Lancelot? Where is your 'true cross'? I ask you, where is your god? How many men, how many good, Christian European men have died here? You serve the Prince of Peace, show me His peace. I am about to show you my god, it is only fair you show me yours?" Crowley began to pace down off of the sanctuary, down into the aisle between the standing worshipers. Though they must be hundreds of feet deep, the banners bearing his six-pointed star still blew in some sort of wind.
Balfour was silent. "Very well. You cannot. At least be man enough to admit that, Sir Knight. Admit that your Round Table is a sham, a sham lie. A bunch of weak-willed sheep."
Again, Balfour was silent. Then, he drew his pistol from his hip holster, and took aim.
Chaos erupted. The crowd surged forward toward the fifty Allied soldiers. Crowley screamed and to his knees, and Hitler drew a blade and thrust it between the shoulder-blades of Balfour, before his five companions grabbed him and began to rush him toward the throng of worshipers.
The worshipers were mostly unarmed, and the Allies began to open fire, slaying them by the tens. But the numbers were too great, and soon, the Ba'alites were upon them, biting and scratching and tearing them to pieces. Arms were pulled out of sockets, heads bashed and kicked and stomped on. And the screams echoed in the chamber.
Lieutenant James Waters crawled on the ground, grabbing his superior's hand in his own. "Captain Balfour," he cried beneath the din. "You need to get up. Get up and walk out of here, let us go."
Balfour shook his head. "No... You run. Back to camp. The steel tacklebox... 'Neath my desk. Inside, my knightly seal. Inform the Round Table. Inform His Majesty. The war," he coughed up a massive glob of blood, which sprayed sticky and hot on Waters' face. "The war has just begun."
Waters nodded, and arose. He began to run, back up the tunnel, out of there, out of the chaos. He didn't look back once. Captain Balfour groaned on the ground, the screams fading away. Then, came Crowley's voice. "Enough! Enough!" It seemed like an eternity, but eventually silence filled the room. "Thirteen," he cried out, coughing. "Thirteen interlopers remain. We shall feed them to Ba'alhammon. Bring them forth." It didn't take long for Balfour to realize he was not among the thirteen. They think me dead, he thought. They were more or less correct. "Bring them forth!" Crowley demanded again. Hitler, his five, and seven other men brought the subjects forward. Balfour recognized all of them. "Ba'alhammon, awaken. Break your fast on these low slaves, and prepare for the feast!" screamed Crowley. One by one, the captives were brought forth, and Crowley would slit their throats with a stone knife, their life's blood flowing over the stone altar, running down rivulets hewed into the stone into copper bowls below. The seventh captive was Pvt. Bolland. He was wimpering and praying, and Balfour felt his heart break. "He didn't want to come down here..." he whispered to no one in particular. None of them did, though. Still... Crowley sneered, "Your prayers shall not save you. Did you not see your Captain wither beneath my questioning, beneath Ba'alhammon's? Fool." Crowley slapped him, and then slit his throat. The chamber trembled, dust and pebbles tumbling down. A deep, low, gutteral voice echoed from... everywhere. "CROWLEY YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FAGGOT RAT BASTARD WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU FUCKING FED ME!?" The noise was so low that Balfour thought he might void his bowels. Those assembled fell to their knees, shaking. "My Lord, they are captives... they work for..." "I KNOW WHO THEY WORK FOR! AND YOU HAVE BROUGHT HIM HERE! YOU HAVE MADE ME EAT OF HIM! I SWALLOWED, HIM CROWLEY! I CAN NOT- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGH!" Larger rocks and stone bricks began to tumble, and the blood on the altar was suddenly alight with fire. Crowely fell to his knees, and began shrieking nonsense. His hands began to tear and claw at his own face, shredding it into ribbons. The worshippers began to run for the exit, many of them trambling over Balfour, bringing him closer to his inevitable death. A few escaped, but then a huge chunk of stone and brick fell down and blocked the gate. The screams of Crowley and the screams of Ba'alhammon filled the room, and Balfour smiled. It sounded like victory. He thought of Bolland, that froggy French bastard. What had he done? Why had the demon reacted so to him? It didn't make sense. Bolland was no different from the rest of them. And then, Balfour burst out into laughter. Tears rolled down his face, and he pictured Pvt. Bolland, rising early every morning, before the sun, to make the long trek down the trenches. Balfour could see the young Quebecois now, his sandy-blonde hair blowing in the wind, his uniform as pressed and immaculate as a trencher's uniform could be. He could hear his boys joking, and, aye, even his own voice joining in, poking fun at the lad. "Where are you off to today, Private?" Balfour could hear himself ask this morning, though it felt like an eternity ago. Bolland blushed, "I don't really believe it that much... I mean, I do... but... It's ma Mère. It... makes her happy when I go." Balfour had slapped him hard on his back, "Well, enjoy your popery, Private." Bolland had lowered his head and nodded shyly. "I shall, sir." Smiling, Balfour began to finally fade into unconsciousness. He hoped Pvt. Bolland would put in a good word for him. |
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Post by Kaez on Jun 19, 2014 14:16:43 GMT -5
“We've captured a Fritz traitor, sir,” Lieutenant James “Jim” Waters said, appearing within the makeshift office of Captain Balfour's trench. Water dripped from the rim of his helmet, every drop splashing against the already sodden ground. Even under cover, the trenches oozed with mud. “Blabbering on about some evil afoot. Want to tell everything he knows to the commanding officer that has the power to stop it. I think he sadly thought that was a description of Field Marshal Haig.”
Captain Alfred Balfour's mouth turned upward as he bounced upon his heels. “That sounds almost treasonous, Lieutenant Waters.”
“Oh, I don't think so, sir. It's nothing to what's being said on the trenches. One man said Field Marshal Haig couldn't unlock his own drinking cabinet, let alone the German's defensive position.”
“That is scandalous,” Alfred barked, his moustache bristling as he reached for his own helmet upon a hook by the bunk beds. “Who said that, Waters?”
“You did, sir,” Jim said, his lip not even trembling.
Alfred laughed, dropping the metal cap over his black hair. “Right you are, Jim. What is this evil afoot?”
“Well, that's the strange thing, sir. What do you know about the Occult?”
That goddamn word again, Jesus. Alfred was sick and tired of "occult" and "spiritualism" and "new thought". Gullible buffoons made voyages to the Orient, chewed on poppy tears, stumbled into some quack's temple and listened to his mystic babble for a few hours -- and came home a convert to some ancient nonsense belief. People started believing in magic and spirits and spiritual energies and every other kind of bullshit imaginable -- and then came the War. Throw these lunatics onto the battlefield where pale from blood loss, matted with mud and shit, rattled from shock, half the damn soldiers looked like the walking dead. Ghosts were everywhere if you wanted to see them. And so many of these young imbeciles very much did. In the War, the strange was suddenly very ordinary, and the mundane was always infused with danger. Death was constant, the senses were bombarded. Supernatural beliefs offered succour, maybe. Helped them make sense of what was happening.
Only really seemed to make them mad, really.
"New Though babble," Balfour groaned. "Every other naive mo-ron thinks he's seen his dead brother resurrected in the flesh and floating across the Front. Or, better yet, have you heard the story where the Angel Gabriel descended from the clouds and stopped the Ottoman bullets mid-air?"
"I fear, sir, this might be something a little... different. Should I... well, he's here. Should I invite him in?"
The Captain sighed. "Is he safe?"
Jim stuttered for a second. "He seems safe to me, sir. He's actually just been... well.."
"Well?"
"He's been sitting there... smiling..."
The Captain's brow contorted and a hard swallow crept down his throat. "Send him in."
Jim gave a quick nod and salute, spinning on his heels and finding his way through the muddy doorway and out of sight. The Captain drew a long breath, resting his weight on the heels of his hands, leaned over the small trench desk. A gnawing suspicion began to arise that this would be a right proper madman, smiling and babbling, feeding off of the bizareness of the situation and glad to cause as much chaos as he could. Evil afoot? Hardly. Hardly.
The traitor came in, his jacket in shambles, grey cloth torn in straps and patches dangling here and there, exposing mud-stained skin. He was a tall, lanky man -- hunched, maybe crippled, staggering through the doorway with a neck craned and... a smile. A strange, hidden smirk of a smile, thin lips curled tightly to the side. Two bulging brown eyes blinked rapidly. "Hallo, Captain Bal-four. Wir treffen uns hier am Ende aller Dinge. So nice to meet you."
The traitor extended a wide, long-fingered hand to shake.
Captain Balfour eyed the dirty hand, raised his chin, and dropped himself into his chair. "What's your name, German?"
Retracting his hand, the traitor made a slight bow. "If I told you, Mensch, surely you would not believe me."
The Captain's eyes lit with hellfire. That would be plenty enough of all that. Growling, lip snarling, the Captain's voice fell dark and low. "Now you listen to me!" he barked. "You asked to speak with an officer and, by God, you're speaking with one! Now unless you have something extremely prudent to say, I'll have no Heinie babbling in my office for a single moment longer!"
The traitor's smile faded. "Captain Bal-four, there is a group of individuals in Deutschland called the Thule-Gesellschaft who have been performing, er.. Zeremonies? Ritus? For many years now awaiting the new Deutsch, mm, der Messias? Prophet?"
The Captain's grizzled look turned sour. "A German messiah?"
The traitor's strange grin returned. "Messiah! Ja, ja, messiah. They are in possession of a great many artifacts and have performed the proper, ja, ritus, and they have geborn -- er, einberufen? Nein, was das Wort? -- they... Captain, they found a dark, dark thing. They brought it from... death, ja? Brought it into life. Gave it human life where before it was... nothing. Nothing, nothing."
Balfour struggled with the German's poor English and strained to find the appropriate words to question. "What did they find? Who found it? Where is it? What is it?"
The traitor sighed. "Wie kann ich es sagen... they, Thule-Gesellschaft, Dietrich Eckart, he found ein... ein Dämon. Does the Captain know this Wort?"
The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way. Straightforward and simple. A stating of facts. There was no hint of madness or falsehood on the traitor's tongue. "I know that word... yes." The Captain's eyes fell to his desk, contemplating the weight of the situation at hand. This was not the kind of thing to report to Field Marshall Haig without a full understanding of the proof to support it. God only knows what would come to some captain babbling about demons to the Field Marshall without a damn good reason. "Why should I believe anything you're saying to me?" the Captain inquired.
The traitor's grin grew so wide he nearly laughed. "You have no reason, Captain! Of course you don't, this is the way of things, nein? If we could all foresee die Zukunft, the mystery would be over, nein? Nein, Captain? You cannot know if what I say is true and only you, Captain, ja, only you can decide. But I tell you now that Dietrich Eckart von der Thule-Gesellschaft has found a very dark thing, Captain, most dark and sinister and... cruel of things. And he has given it ein Mensch, a human, a body. And this is all I can tell you! Should you believe mich? Das ist das Geheimnis für sich zu entscheiden."
"Lieutenant!" the Captain hollered into the doorway behind the German before letting out a great exhale. Jim quickly turned the corner and gave a quick salute to his superior. "Lieutenant, this man says that the Germans have summoned a demon -- someone named Dietrich Eckard -- and-"
"Eckhart, Dietrich Eckhart," the traitor corrected. The Captain gave him a stern glare.
"Dietrich Eckhart is apparently the name of a German man presently possessed by some sort of dark force, so-"
"Ich habe nicht gesagt d-"
"That's enough out of you!" the Captain barked. "For all I know, you're a raving lunatic who woke up shocked and awed from the trenches and took his nightmare for the truth. Now quiet your lips and Lieutenant James will escort you to safety. If I don't decide to have you thrown in the madhouse."
The traitor smiled widely, this time unveiling two rows of crooked, yellowed teeth. "Also! Das Rad des Schicksals nimmt eine seltsame Wendung! How strange the mysteries, how grim the smallest choice!"
The Captain's expression sunk. "Get him out of here, dammit. And Lieutenant? Report the name of Dietrich Eckart to Base. If anyone knows anything about him -- or if he's even real -- let me know. The madman thinks he's the devil in the flesh."
Lieutenant James grabbed the traitor my the shoulder and pulled hard, nearly tripping him through the doorway. "On your orders, Captain."
"Die Briten haben keine Ohren!"
The lieutenant forced the traitor into a seat just outside of the Captain's office in a long, narrow stretch of trench tunnel. The sky above was full of fuming, churning grey clouds which soon began to release heavy drops of rain that pelted and soaked the German's torn clothes. "Die Briten haben keine Ohren, die Briten haben keine Ohren..."
"Quiet," James said, hunched over prisoner of war paperwork, shielding it from the sudden downpour. "We could have you shot just as easily, you know? I've little doubt that if I went running to the Fritz yelling about devils they'd put a bullet in my skull as soon as any!"
"Hah!" the traitor laughed. "If you think the Deutsch are heartless now, wait until der Dämon nimmt seinen Thron."
"Quiet about demons already, dammit!" James yelled, the rainfall getting heavier and heavier, pelting the mud into a slurry of black water. "No one believes in any of that anymore, don't you know?"
"People will know one when they see one, Lieutenant. Sie werden sehen." A great clasp of thunder. Walls, sheets of rain, pouring with dramatic force. "Oh, mein Kampf. Mein ewiger Kampf." |
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