Chapter CLXII: Natasha/Katja/Lilith
17 June 1643 – Somewhere near Oslo
Lope addressed Íñigo's tender bruise lightly. The young boy winced as Lope inspected the wall-smashed flesh, but agreed that it was not particularly serious. His eyes, however, gazed back at the back of Belmont who stood at the edge of the staircase that led to the tower up ahead. Lope stole yet another glance at the dead bodies on the floor, remarking once more at their faces.
Belmont's explanation had been a lengthy one: or so it seemed to the disoriented Lope. Diego was listening intently as well while Amatallah and Alia, off to the side, did not seem at all interested: as if this whole affair was no revelation to them. Lope grunted as he stood up again and helped Íñigo to his feet. He was unsatisfied with the explanation. It seemed as if the whole thing was a contrivance, but nothing else seemed to explain the replicated faces on the floor. Diego gave him a glance which he returned tentatively.
“What do you think?” Lope asked the other soldier as Diego stepped closer.
“He expects me to believe witchcraft with more witchcraft,” Diego replied gruffly as he fitted his parrying dagger back onto his left hand.
“It is not witchcraft,” Amatallah broke in sideways into their circle, “he speaks the truth: albeit in a form that I would not have been able to describe.”
“And how do you know about this, Amatallah?” Lope asked with a mixture of surprise and frustration, creasing his face painfully.
“A comfortable life in the Netherlands can be bought by trading secrets. I know things even Madrid would be surprised about,” she replied from behind her black veil.
“Madrid is exactly where we should be if he is telling the truth about... his kinsmen,” Lope nearly hissed to the two.
“Regardless, if this Lilith person has Matthijs in that tower, I have to go to him,” Diego gripped his weapons tightly.
“It is too late now, even for your boy,” Amatallah enjoined, striking her eyes at Íñigo. “We can only move forward and finish this. We must face the 'witch' herself.”
The Spanish cavaliers had their armour sparkle in the afternoon sun like a sea of quicksilver. Their helmets, ornate with the designs of eagles and lions rose high into the Belgian sky: a golden parade of noble creatures menacing their claws and talons. “Form up! Form up!” the commander's voice roared as his steed sped through the front of the cavaliers, saber held high in desperate resolve. His lieutenants, and the colour guard hurried behind him as he inspected the front line of his division. The banner of Spain and France snapped tightly against the wind like a martial drum.
Wheeling around, the commander laid his saber forward like the setting of an ancient ballista ready to be unhooked. He watched, steady with his slanted arm in the air: the flower of Iberian horsemen steady behind him also looking onward at the struggle ahead of them. Kevin van der Kooi, commander of the third horse division waited with arm raised to the heavens. His steady wall of men with their sharpened blades behind him barely moved as cannonball after cannonball began to fall around them, setting up a flurry of dirt and smoke on their hill. A half dead horseman rose up from the bottom of the hill to him, holding the tattered banner of a messenger.
“Now, young master,” was the breathless courier's shout, “the General says it is time.”
Kevin's eyes narrowed against the afternoon light. He followed the waving banners until the four crowns of Schenkhuizen's personal flag could be seen deep in the field. The four lions of Frederick Henry were directly opposite the master's banners. The opening had occurred: the crack of the whip must accompany. Kevin turned around quickly to his aligned men.
“Sons of Spain, France, and the Low Countries!” he shouted as his horse reared up in the air. His saber seemed like it was piercing the veil of the sky. “The hammer is falling! The world is coming to an end today! You who do not survive will continue riding until Judgment! See the sparkle of fear in the enemy's eyes! Cut it down like a newborn flower! See the halt of hearts as your hooves thunder! Beat it until it fertilizes the red earth! We ride for the glory of a crown that will give you riches beyond your imagining! We ride for the power of a nation that keeps the world from cracking open! Today you fight your final battle to determine the fate of this rich land. Glory to God in the Highest and may your sabers bring irresistible peace to the people of this Earth!”
Kevin turned to the enemy and his boots hit the side of his horse like flint against stone. His steed sparked forward followed by the thunderbolt of his unleashed division. The rush of men onto the fertile land of Belgium's shallow hills pulverized the earth underneath them into mud and clumps of grass. Sabers, glimmering like shooting stars, were turned forward. A cloud of dust: the origin of this equestrian thunderbolt, rose vehemently behind the deadly crew.
As metal and muscle struck against the Dutch line, the pang of metal against spear and the crush of bone against flesh rippled across the battlefield. Screaming like the desperate cry of hatred distilled by courage conjured a chorus of commotion. Swords and sabers catapulted against each other. Pistols and Arquebus joined infernal sounds as dust covered the path of the chargers.
Pikemen from the left: cannons from the rear. The concentration of energy seemed to well up at the very centre of the field. Fields of spears gravitated towards this point and it seemed as if the whole earth was brimming with this crop of war. Horses circled round once and then again before finding some entry into the melee. Explosions heaved onto the centre did not discriminate from friend or foe. The sound of boots against the earth threatened to crush the surface of that plain into the very cavern of Hell below.
The trembling hands of man after man held up their division banners. The cross of St. Andrew against checkered backgrounds swayed back and forth desperately. Banners on both sides began to fall: their carriers succumbing to the shot of pistols or the thrusts of pikes only to rise again defiantly. No one retreated. No one budged from the now engaged line on all sides. What had started as a tactical dance now entered into the unwavering cataclysm of hand to hand combat.
Divisions were cut in half. Men fell by the hundreds. The centre of gravity had to move to the next flank and then back again: the tally of men and armour and horses along the field started to make natural barriers between the combatants. Dutch dragoons marched in. Spanish Arquebusiers returned fire. Pikemen charged: Orange infantry stood their ground. Turenne's guard advanced: Enghien came to meet him.
---
Arturo breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth which bubbled the crude water washing inward towards Brighton. The rest of his body, stayed perfectly still in the water. Woodhouse shivered in the cold water as he passed the threshold of air to liquid. Arturo descended next and the rest of Woodhouse's team followed behind them quietly as they treaded the Brighton bay's waters. Slowly, they moved underneath the piers until they approached that ship which they had marked earlier that afternoon: the ship that did not sway with the tossing of the waves.
Starting with Woodhouse, the men descended into the dark nightly water and followed the edge of that boat until the bottom opened out. As they passed underneath the wooden threshold, their eyes adjusted to a terrifying sight. Even in the darkness of the night, the blackness of the submerged boat ahead of them seemed like a portal into some endless void. Woodhouse turned to his fellows and pointed upward identifying the hidden pier next to the metal construction.
As their heads ascended past the watermark, their hands reached for the chafing wood of the loading platform attached to the side of the hollowed out ship. As the water drained from their ears, they could hear the steady movement of men above passing with booted steps from one end of the hidden pier to the next. Woodhouse could see through the slits in the planks heavy crates and other supplies that were being carried transiting between a small portal at the top of the metal boat's tower and then over the platform to the stairs above.
“It won't be long now,” Arturo whispered, “the men we set outside will start the distraction and then--”
There was a commotion and screaming in German accompanied a rush of feet. “Just in time,” Woodhouse smiled as he waited for most of the officers to ascend the staircase on the far left. He stealthily moved from underneath the platform and climbed the side of the metal boat. The others followed him and they quietly approached the black tower where a small set of handles led upward. “I'll go in first,” Woodhouse said as he took hold of one of the handles. Arturo was the next to ascend the metal bars.
“We'll be right behind you,” Fawkes reassured him as he started going up as well. “Whoever's left inside should start saying their prayers,” he smirked as he adjusted his pistol strapped to his belt.
“
Play time's over, little Fawkes!” suddenly came from the platform-side of the hidden pier. All eyes turned towards the four individuals standing on the loading platform.
“Hmm, I think I'll torture you all for a while” a Frenchman cackled amongst the four. Immediately, Fawkes's breathing quickened as he recognized O'Donnell and his mercenary team—including that fat traitor the Greek Pygmalion...
That Greek, almost as if recognizing the blazing hatred in Fawkes's eyes showed his dark teeth as he grinned and muttered: “Your daddy screamed
real good before he died.”
The fourth of the group: a rough looking ruffian with his sideburns menacing down into a rough beard raised a finger at Woodhouse directly. “You'll be sorry you crossed us!”
“Good,” Fawkes suddenly announced as he hopped off onto the pier, “just who I wanted to see.” Falconi, the Toad, and Peregrin formed up behind him as well. Woodhouse was about to descend from the tower when Arturo grabbed his boot and pushed it back upward.
“Let them work this out themselves: we have a mission to accomplish,” the cold Spaniard stared upward at the conflicted Woodhouse. Swords were drawn in the background as Woodhouse flashed his gaze from the platform back to Arturo's changeless expression. Bevan grit his teeth as a brawl started to erupt, but he knew Arturo was right.
He climbed the last bit of the dark tower with Arturo quickly following. He hopped into the tubular opening and slid his way down. Arturo followed, but paused a moment to close the hatch above. Woodhouse looked upward as the light dimmed to a shadow but pressed on. His feet finally hit solid bottom to the surprise of two or three men dressed in uniforms. “Alarm!” one of them shouted as another drew what seemed like a pistol.
For a second, Woodhouse stood there perplexed in the midst of the metal machinery all around him hanging about and piping around like the dark innards of some synthetic beast. In his disorientation, a shot discharged. It was only then that he realized that it was Arturo shooting from the hole leading up to the top. One of the officers twirled dead while the other two fled.
“Stay alert and don't hesitate,” Arturo chided as he hopped down onto the metal deck. “Draw your sword: we'll have a small advantage being inside and in close quarters. Just stay away from the long corridors and we can ambush anyone--”
Another shot discharged and Arturo immediately pushed Woodhouse to the left while Arturo's own body jolted right. Crashing behind a console, both were now hidden from the source of the gunshot. “If you're looking for that troublesome brother of yours, he isn't here,” a German accented English growled from the portal. Arturo was already reloading his pistol. Woodhouse steadied himself behind the console and pressed his ear up against it as he unsheathed his saber. A second discharge of the enemy pistol rang through the metal interior and Woodhouse recoiled painfully from the noise.
Arturo quickly moved his hand to one of the consoles and depressed some of the levers. A jolt, like a small tremor, tugged all of them to one side. Arturo took the opportunity to stand up and discharge his pistol. The German officer let out a growl as he stepped back into the portal's shadow, holding his shoulder firmly. There was a string of German profanity erupting down the hallway.
“What did you just do?” Woodhouse looked at Arturo in surprise.
“I released the docking clamps,” Arturo explained as he quickly began reloading his pistol.
“You know how to operate this thing?” Woodhouse demanded. When he didn't receive an immediate response from the one reloading, he asked, “How?”
“There are lots of things that little rat knows,” the voice from the corridor grunted out painfully. “Are you really so naïve, Woodhouse, that you believe this Spanish pawn is being honest with you?” was the snickering addendum.
“If you go backward through that hatch behind us,” Arturo began to relay instructions, “you'll find the objective we came here for.”
“I thought we were here for my brother and to find out about my father?” Woodhouse expressed his confusion openly.
“You will find all of that in what we came here to procure: in that next room,” Arturo replied coldly as Woodhouse's expression continued to sour.
“More empty promises,” the man at the doorway challenged. “Do you really think that he brought you here to help you, Woodhouse? He's just here to get what
he needs. He's just here for what
Spain needs!”
Woodhouse's eyes searched Arturo's only to find his gaze reflecting off those cold pupils. Woodhouse was about to speak, but Arturo's mouth moved first. “You don't need to like me or my methods, Mr. Woodhouse,” Arturo grimaced, “but I have not yet led you to information or evidence you did not find important or relevant. Now get to that next room.”
Woodhouse continued to stare for a few more seconds until his lids narrowed over his glance at Arturo. A small nod from Woodhouse and Arturo lifted a hand over the console and discharged the pistol once more. Woodhouse simultaneously vaulted behind some of the other consoles towards the open chamber behind the two of them. Shots rang out from the hallway in pursuit, but he ducked into the sidechamber in time.
The compartment that he had jumped into seemed like a monk's cell. Compressed against the side of the boat, the wall rolled along with the curve. A simple desk was fitted against the wall while a chair was slightly off-center and rotated open. Papers were strewn along the tabletop which was barely illuminated from a small lamp bolted above it on the bulkhead. “What am I looking for exactly?” he asked suddenly aware that he didn't even know what it was he was supposed to retrieve.
There were three more gunshots and the sound of a metal clang. There was a low groan and then a thud before Arturo, almost with an irritated sigh, yelled out: “The metal box!” Immediately, Woodhouse's attention focused on the small tin container near the leg of the table. His hands grappled for it, but as soon as his flesh touched the metal sides of the small box, his entire body recoiled and a short yelp escaped his mouth. His hands buried themselves in his armpits and for a moment he contemplated the strange object.
“So cold!” he was shouting.
“Try not to touch the metal itself—it can be quite... uncomfortable!” Arturo conveniently warned him ex post facto.
Quickly unfastening his leather jacket (still a bit wet from the underwater journey), he wrapped it around the metal object careful not to touch the exposed portions. He could already feel the transfer of heat moving from his clothing, but he was able to comfortably lift it onto his chest. With the cargo in hand, he slammed his back against the edge of the portal without exposing himself for fear of the strange, quick weapons of the enemy. “So now what?” Woodhouse shouted into the main hall. A short pang of bullets shocked the air right next to him.
“What do you mean?” Arturo clinically replied.
“I mean... how are we getting out of here?”
“And how exactly are you going to spring me from this prison?” Julian Belmont snidely remarked as he put his arms behind his head and leaned back until his forearms bumped against the wall.
For a moment, Juliana reached into her briefcase and, with the detachment of a young lady looking for a pencil during class, she pulled out a pink translucent piece of paper and handed it over with the clipboard to Julian. “I was told not to give you my pen so you'll have to sign it outside,” Agent Andriessen instructed quietly.
Julian eyed the bright piece of paper suspiciously before sliding one of his arms out from behind him and pulling the clipboard to himself. He scanned the paperwork, rolling his eyes around the imprinted seal and motto. He looked at where his name was specifically listed and to the agent his custody would go to. He looked up to Juliana as if to challenge here with his eyes. “Release me into your custody? This is some kind of entrapment--”
“In the back of my car, I've set up some saline, an IV, and a small dialytic pump. I also brought your whip,” she interrupted as if she was reading an invisible shopping list.
Julian leaned forward almost menacingly and widened his grin. “Do you really think that just providing me with some tools will be enough to do the dirty work you're asking me to accomplish?” Julian cocked his head to the side as he spoke. “Do you know what it is you're fighting against, Agent Andriessen?”
Juliana just stared at the Belmont boy clinically as if she was watching the mutation of some bacteria before her eyes. His violent smile crashed against the steady foundation of her expression. Juliana's even lips remained unchanged even while she spoke the words: “What are we fighting against, Mr. Belmont?”
“We're fighting against the owl of the night,” Belmont hissed through his teeth. “Lilith: the first wife of Adam.”
“Natasha?”
“Yes, that is her name, but they are all Lilith. We are born from Adam, Agent Andriessen. Eve was from Adam's rib: we all come from him. But the Lilith: they were made from the same primordial earth that we were made from.” Juliana's eyebrows ruffled slightly at the cryptic explanation. Belmont could sense her confusion and continued. “What you have to understand is that they are our equals. They do not come from somewhere as a part of this world like Eve came from the rib of Adam. No, they were also made from the ground up: at the beginning of time, God created two bodies. They have their own Eden, Agent Andriessen. This is why we call them Lilith because these intruders into our world are not from the toe of Adam or the forehead of Adam but from a different body altogether...”
Chapter CLXIII: The Body (coming soon)