Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (9 page)

Nobody they eliminated was ever missed — at
least publicly. If they were, those whom objected too loudly were also
eliminated. They just disappeared. The ten years he spent learning his sacred
calling went by without notice and he found himself a full member of the
Brothers of the Temple. He rapidly rose in the ranks of the Brotherhood. In the
order, he encountered none of the joviality he had despised in his life before
the Templars. Everyone took their responsibilities seriously. However, there
was a time when this dedication went too far.

Almost thirty years before, the order had splintered
into their present form, obliterating the Teutonic Order. The Teutons followed
the then-rising wave of fascism. In Italy, the Vatican watched as the country
was taken over by fascism. The Templars used violence, but only in the service
of scripture. Both the fascists in Italy and the Nazis in Germany used force
for temporal gain. The Teutons were more loyal to their country than they were
to their church. The schism was small, hardly worth noting, but was dealt with
harshly.

Tino Quentin was the brother given the task of
smoothing out the knick in God’s armor. He gathered a select team of devout
militants and removed every one of the five hundred and twelve Teutonic
members. None of them felt anything beyond a sense of satisfaction. They had
successfully put their house in order. None of them sought reward, pride or
recognition and none was given.

He laid down the volume he was studying and scanned
his notes. He looked for a mention of the damned child — a baby boy, born
to rule the earth for Evil. References were present in a number of scribbled
passages that he had carefully copied into the black notepad he always carried.

He closed the pad and placed it on the table in front
of him. Then he removed his glasses, folded them and carefully centered them
directly in front of the pad. Folding his hands, he placed them on the book and
straightened in his chair, looking forward.

He sat this way for some time, waiting. The initiate
who had retrieved brother Tino’s requested volumes stopped abruptly in
mid-stride when he saw his Seneschal so still. He continued forward at a brisk
pace and placed the books he carried beside the earlier pile.

Quentin turned and regarded him. He did not refer to
the initiate by name. Until he became a full brother, he had no name, merely a
function. He had been with Quentin for the past five years and had done a
competent job.

“Little brother, what is it that we are doing here?”

The initiate stared back at him. “We do God’s work.”

“The work of Satan is also done here.”

“I don’t understand, sir. How do we aid Satan with
what we do?”

“We do not aid, per se. We are playing our part in
the drama that is unfolding.” Quentin motioned for the initiate to sit in front
of him. “The codices, the volumes you just set before me,
Idammah-Gan Codex, Le Menace D’Ours D’Enfer,
the
Sangrael Gospel,
and the
Tome De Les Parfaits
, all speak of the
son of Satan, the opposite of our own Christ. If we do not fulfill our
function, his plans cannot proceed. It is our participation that justifies the
passages I transcribe from these books before me.” Quentin saw that the
initiate did not understand his cryptic explanation.

“You live in important times, young man. Important,
indeed.” He picked up his black notepad and used it to gesture emphatically.
“You do believe in the reality of evil, don’t you?”

“In the physical reality. Yes, I do.”

“The actuality of it, however, is quite different
from the physical to which you refer.” He proceeded carefully as he continued.
“Evil has no comparison in our lives. It does not fit anything with which we’re
familiar. It will not resemble a hierarchy in any sense of which we are aware.
It isn’t like the opposite of our church.”

“I don’t quite follow sir.”

“Satanists, Luciferians chose whatever name they’re
using at the moment. They base much of their order, symbols, and hierarchy on
the inversions even perversions of our own order, symbols, and hierarchy. The
most obvious examples are the inverted cross and Antichrist for our Christ.”

“And how does that pertain to evil being unlike any
of that. Satanists are evil versions of the Catholicism. Isn’t that what you
just said?”

“No I said that true evil does not follow the
obvious. It is not so easily seen as the blatant parlor tricks and bold
impudence of LaVey’s pranksters.”

“Are you telling me that evil is invisible? That we
cannot be aware of it?” The nameless initiate was still perplexed.

“No, I’m saying that evil does not fit into our
— or anyone’s — perception. It is not the two-dimensional entity,
or force, about which we read in all these volumes. The writings here, through
which we go, are merely important clues. Much as a psychiatrist asks a
disturbed patient about his childhood, so we look to evil’s past to help us understand
it.”

“Why do you say ‘might,’ master? Will we not see
evil’s intentions in the scriptures? In the holy volumes we have here?” The
question came out as uncertain and cautious as the lips that delivered it.

“We may not. All we may find here is insight into
direction. These texts were written by flawed, imperfect men, such as us, they
but give us possibilities of action.” Quentin paused.

“Whose?” The initiate was trying hard to follow what
the respected Seneschal was attempting to explain.

“Evil doesn’t have a single mind.” He continued, “In
fact, I don’t think that Satan is plotting in hell. He’s reacting to what is
happening on earth. He follows plans that were set in motion by another, or
others — just as God, through the Church, is helping us do His work on
earth.”

“You sound so convinced, master. How can Satan not be
plotting against God? Isn’t that his nature?” He seemed certain of that fact,
though his certainty was decreasing.

“Satan or, rather, evil, isn’t some beast, following
its own biological, instinctive or preordained path, young man. It is
simplistic to think thus, as well as very dangerous.” Quentin hoped that the
initiate was following. “There are many on earth — normal human beings
— who are misguided enough to do the work of evil. In their own desire
for power, they strive to give evil prominence.”
 
Quentin stopped for a few moments, pondering if the initiate
was capable of internalizing everything he had to share. He finally decided to
share everything he understood; he hoped it would not unsettle the young man.

“Currently, we are seeing things progress toward more
centralized governments. Those who work for this final one-world government
— the New World Order, as it is coming to be known — are, mostly at
any rate, working for noble ends. The true architects of this final end-plan
are not. They are the ones who manipulate history, finances, governments and
reality, itself, to fit their final goal of world dominance.” Quentin knew that
he had lost his audience when he saw the initiate’s face go blank. “I am sorry,
my lad. You were not able to accept that with which we work here. You will be
taken care of, as a good soldier always is.”

Quentin got up and went to a waiting black telephone
receiver. Picking it up, without dialing, he spoke directly to another. “I
would like someone to come and take care of the initiate who has been helping
me.” He listened intently and finished. “Yes, a quick end would be best. I
don’t think he intended any harm; most likely, he was curious and read the wrong
things. Thank you.”

Quentin replaced the receiver and went back to the
slack-jawed young man. He had not moved from where they spoke. He informed the
initiate there are certain things that cannot be viewed by everyone. Terrors
and evil reside everywhere. Sometimes they are in words, between breaths and
around thoughts. They remain that way until they are unlocked by a gesture or a
conversational turn. Usually their terrible power and destructive potential
remain dormant.

- Idammah-Gan Codex - Depth of Correction I -

TIME: AUGUST, 480 B.C. THERMOPYLAE, ELLATHA

The sweat inside my helmet makes it smell like the
taste of blood — tinny, coppery and acrid. This same blood repeatedly
spills around me and, more importantly, in front of my brothers as we lock
shields and hold firm our line.

There are only 300 of us, standing against thousands.
We told the rest of the Greeks to go and raise the alarm with the rest of our
patriotes,
while
we buy them as much time as our lives are worth. Every one of us was given the
choice to go with them and save ourselves, but none of us accepted the offer.
If one of us stood and fought, we all did. Even the soldiers behind us, those
with the crested helmets, all knew they would die on this field. My helmet
bears no crest, neither does anyone else’s on the front line. Our spears are no
less heavy, or sharper, than those of our crested nobles. Our armor is also as
heavy and our shields as strong.

On this field, we are equal. Thermopylae has
successfully united 300 men, creating one man with a single will. We are all
Spartan and we will all die before the end of this day. The other Greeks who
fled will sing paens of our sacrifice here, just as we sing paens of other
fallen heroes. We sing to keep our spirits up as we face such daunting foes.

The Persians shoot at us from afar with their bows;
some even find a manner of mark in our ranks, though the only openings are the
eye slits in our helmets. At various intervals, someone falls and yet another
takes his place. At others times, when someone falls, he gets back up and
fights on. He knows that soon enough, he’ll die and then he can rest.

I saw others fall, but resumed fighting, because when
our foes saw that their arrows had little effect, they sent their footmen
against us and they crashed against our shields. Those who made it through were
killed by our rear ranks.

We braced ourselves for their cavalry assault. They
sent their horsemen against us, but we threw them back; the terrain was with
us. The horses could not maintain their footing on the rocks and loose gravel
around the field.

Two days of fighting passed. We began the battle
outnumbered, the entire Greek army thousands strong. We held the hot gates
against Xerxe’s host, until one of our own, Ephialtes, an Athenian, most likely
gave us up.

Now, we fight alone — 300 men, with a few
Thespians. This final day dawned with the inevitable sunrise and deathly
struggle. Today, nearly every man I had ever known would die with me.

Leonidas fell early on. He had chosen to be in the
front lines. He was three down from my right and we fought fiercely to recover
his body. He would not die among the
xenous,
rather with us. Once he was safely at our
rear, encircled by all his men, we were able to turn our attention back to the
business of dying.

Again, they came at us in waves of footmen and
arrows. Initially, none had any real effect, but after repeated entries they
wore us down. Once we had broken our spears against them, we beat them with the
shafts. When we could no longer use our shafts, we drew our swords and used
them, until useless. It was at this point that an arrow caught me in my right
eye. I grunted and fell to my knee, but kept my shield raised.

The Immortal that faced me thought I was an easy
kill, but became mortal, indeed, when I slashed up and cut him from groin to
neck. He screamed like a woman and fell, his blood making my footing slippery.

I could not see to my right, so from that direction
came my end. I think it was more arrows, but I didn’t notice. I knew that even
when our swords were useless, we would fight on with whatever we could find
— rocks, our shields, our bare hands, even our teeth.

This struggle awakened a dormant part of me. Our 300
men will go down, along with 20,000 of our opponents. Yet, still will there be
an endless supply of enemies, attempting to kill the spirit we showed to our
last breath.

We never surrendered. We were beaten. We would be
remembered.

“Go stranger, and to the Spartans tell,

That here, obedient to their laws, we fell.”

I did not fall because of obedience, rather, because
I supported my brothers. For the same reason, I knew they would stand with me.
Each of us stood shoulder to shoulder in defense of the other. We did not stand
to defend any rules or laws. We stood for each other. In the end, nobody stood
for principle. Whoever stands, stands for the people they hold dear, for those
who matter. Principles and laws are just so much air and smoke. At Thermopylae,
I saw past this. I hope to remember it.

TIME: AUGUST 16TH, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

Mesmerized, Kosta read on. The lives spoken of
touched him and tugged at his consciousness. There was no doubt about the
reality of the record. The emotions and attention the stories evoked were
enough to confirm its authenticity. The author’s visceral telling of thoughts
and passions exposed a longing. A need to stop the unending battles —
battles where the foe never mattered, for it was never the same. The fight went
on and on. The author wished to be able to stop, to not only live a life, but
to also enjoy living it.