Kicking Against the Pricks
by Steven L. Shrewsbury © 2007
“I hear the cries of long dead heroes whistling in the void, and the
shouts of forgotten gods. To each being there is an appointed time,
and even the gods must die…”
ROBERT E. HOWARD
THE TWILIGHT OF THE GREY GODS
Moonlight thrust itself into the small chapel as the long doors swung open. The heavy boots of big men who entered alerted those in the sanctuary of danger. In the dim, lunar radiance and the flicker of many candles, those cavorting upon the altar froze in their actions. Jagged smiles from these men in priest's robes spread fast at the echo in the sanctuary. A new sound emerged in the church, one that was alien to most places of worship. This sound from the intruders wearing armor was that of swords being unsheathed.
Never did a metallic visor rise on any helmet as the intruding knights ran forward. Roughly, under the power of many hands, the frolicking monks exited the altar. Their unholy acts abandoned, many shouted for mercy. Quite a few, though, laughed at the action.
One of the ruddy skinned Clerics shouted, “So, you caught us then, well, damn you all! We have defiled this church under the cross of Christ itself. You are too late, swine.”
The men in armor said nothing as they stripped the counterfeit monks of their frocks. Under their religious clothing, the naked bodies were painted and tattooed with wicked, myriad symbols of long forgotten gods.
More knights sporting crosses on their chests dragged other false men of God into the region near the altar. A Baptismal fount fell over in the scuffle over and it shattered on the hard floor. One knight noted that inside the basin the water ran yellow and stank.
Each primal man wore religious vestments of Roman Catholic Priests or Monks of the order of St. Benedict until they were unclothed. Sans their garb, each flushed skinned man swore and spat at the knights.
“So, you have us, curse you, each and every one,” the man from the tryst on the altar snorted with great arrogance. “We are not monks, warriors of Christ! I see your crosses and know that by your armor you have just returned form the so called Holy Land. Bah! I spit on your cross and your new sect of a carpenter! We here still worship the gods of the oak as our ancestors did in Gaul before the time of Rome.”
The tallest of the knights backhanded this uncouth speaker, breaking the nose of the invader of the church. Blood spattered on the altar, but this never stopped him from speaking further.
“You will never get us to accept your cross. We call down the dark forces of night on you, no matter what you may promise or threaten.”
The Crusaders said nothing, but hauled the nude men down the aisle of the church. One of the pagans put up quite a struggle and the Crusader in the rear confiscated his head. The geyser of blood shot far, tainting the urn of holy water near the doors. The head bounced on the floor and rolled to a stop by a kneeling bench. The knight picked up this object by the jaw and carried it, pulling the twitched carcass behind him by the right ankle.
Once outside in the light of the moon, the six knights assembled in a semi-circle around the heretics who dishonored the church. Still silent, they took many deep breaths and forced the evil men down to the ground.
The mouthy leader of the pagans stood up, though, and blinked, staring at the wooden cart that accompanied the Crusaders' horses. “What have you for the King of France? Is it gold or booty from the Holy Land ? Is it a relic so precious that none may see it for free?” One knight gave him a shove, but he persisted. “There is a black case! Do you bring religious articles for foolish pilgrims to fawn over?”
Five of the Crusaders wrestled the last of the nude men down and made them get on all fours. The sixth man who wore the Cross of Christ on his chest walked to the cart and opened up the long, slender casing of ebony wood.
Again, the director of the pagans laughed and taunted them, saying, “Do you not give us the chance to convert? Are you going to behead us all and never offer us Heaven? Many found heaven on this spot before you fools placed a church here! You are a joke even unto your own god.”
From out of the artifact case came a long, gleaming treasure. At last, the voice of the lead Crusader resounded in the French countryside. “Death to the unbelievers, such are the words of God.”
The face of the pagan registered confusion as the moon shone on the relic, and the odd curve of the object that sparkled so in the light. The accent of the Crusader was alien to the defiler of the church.
When the knights raised their visors, the heretic swallowed hard. It all became real to him just who had him at a disadvantage. Leering at their dark skin and black hair, the pagan shouted, “You are not Christians! You are Saracens! You are not our enemy!”
The man in Crusader armor said, “The holy words say fight and slay pagans where you may find them. I care naught for your ancient gods for they are not mine. With this, the sword of Mohammed itself, I shall kill the King of France. With this divine instrument, the Christians will know terror. For as the words of the prophet say, I will inspire terror into the hearts of the unbelievers.”
The Saracens dropped their swords and the heads of the pagans rolled onto the grasses of France . Again, the soil of Gaul drank blood.
As the night deepened, those in Europe under subversive means dined on the communion wafers and wine. Consuming their fill, they looked up to the Heavens.
Under the light of the crescent moon, their leader declared, “God is great.”
THE END
STEVEN L. SHREWSBURY is the author of over 350 tales published online or in print. His horror novel BLACK RIBBON OF JOSEPHINE will bereleased soon as a DELIRIUM BOOKS EXCLUSIVE.His epic novel THRALL will be released late in 07 from ELDER SIGNS PRESS. His fourth novel, GODFORSAKEN, is nominated for Foreword magazines book of the year. His fifth book, THOROUGHBRED, was released in 06 by Carnifex Press. He is currently writing new books and co-authoring projects with Brian Keene, Maurice Broaddus, and Peter Welmerink. His stories can be read in HARDBOILED CTHULU, DEATHGRIP: EXIT LAUGHING, and HELLS HANGMEN.