Maybe things would have worked out differently if your mother had lived. We’ll never know. I’ll never know. But remember that she loved you. You were the apple of her eye.
I know that you felt all the training we did here in the Underground was for naught. You argued that on more than one occasion. And when you wanted to enter the extreme sports field to glory in your physical prowess, I forbade it. That was my conditioning. As Templar, we’re supposed to remain in the shadows, live quiet lives until such time as we are needed.
Well, the time is now, my son. I feel I’m being selfish by wishing that it hadn’t happened in your time. But that would only have meant wishing this horrible act onto your children, or their children.
None of us should have to pay the blood price that’s going to be required to see this thing through to the end. But that’s what I swore to do, and I’ll see it done.
The demons have arrived, Simon. They’ve come to London through the Hellgates, magical and technological openings between our world and theirs, and fulfilled the ancient prophecies. They’re bigger and stronger than we ever thought they would be.
As I write this letter, as I prepare myself for the battle that lies ahead, I know only that you’re in South Africa. I’ve tried the phone numbers that you left, but everyone there says you’re off in bush country and won’t be expected for a few more days as yet. I knew it had to be something like that since you didn’t call when the demons first openly attacked. But several of the communications satellites have been destroyed by the demons as well.
The Templar may contact you, my son. If that’s even possible. Or perhaps other Hellgates have opened around the world. I’m afraid I don’t know. There’s even a chance, and acknowledging it makes my heart heavy, that you’ll never see this—my final letter to you. I pray that isn’t so. A father should have a chance to tell his son a final good-bye.
If the Templar do speak with you, they’ll want you back here, to fight and die in the battle to rid the world of the hellspawn. I don’t know what your answer will be. With the odds so stacked against us, I don’t know that there is a wrong answer. Fighting means dying, if not today, then tomorrow. The same for running.
I pray that there is a weakness in the demons, something they’ve overlooked, something that we may yet learn. And I pray that you stay safe and whole until I see you again.
I love you, Simon, with all my heart as I ever have.
Your Father
Thomas Cross
Templar Knight
Seraphim of the House of Rorke
The Carnagor lunged forward and snapped at Thomas. Ready for the move because that was a basic striking pattern for the creature, Thomas vaulted. His left foot landed on the Carnagor’s right tusk and he centered his balance just as it jerked its head up to snap at him again.
Propelled by the Carnagor’s efforts as well as his own, Thomas sailed into the air. The NanoDyne technology used in the armor spun through the mini-gyro systems and helped him stabilize. The armor not only increased his physical resistance, but it amplified his strength as well.
Thomas landed on the Carnagor’s head. “Anchor,” he ordered. Immediately, short spikes popped out of his boot soles and bit into the demon’s scaly hide.
The Carnagor roared, but whether in pain or just the effrontery of the human standing on its head, Thomas didn’t know. He reversed the sword, pointing it down, then rammed it home with all the strength he had at his command.
For a moment, Thomas didn’t think the sword was going to punch through the thick skull. Then, with a dull, grating thunk, it did. He bore down on the weapon, shoving it all the way to the hilt.
Blood and gore spurted out around the blade. The Carnagor roared in pain then. It reared and battered itself against St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Holding tightly to the imbedded sword, Thomas managed to stay atop the frenzied creature. He knelt, his left arm snaked around the sword to hold on.
“Knee anchors,” he ordered.
The suit responded, driving another group of spikes from the metal knees to bite deeply into the Carnagor. Further locked into place, Thomas drew his right fist back. “Right hand hammer.”
The gauntlet, powered by the NanoDyne technology memoryware, curled into a fist and became hard as an anvil. Raising his fist, Thomas bashed it against the Carnagor’s skull beside the sword over and over. Unable to hold against the unflagging effort, the demon’s skull fractured.
Bone turned sideways in the mass of ichor and gore at the top of the Carnagor’s head. Thomas unlocked his fist just as his sword slid free. He slapped his left palm against the demon’s head and triggered the anchors there. Locked into position again, holding on for dear life, the Templar reached deeply into the open cavity he’d created in his opponent’s skull.
His fist crunched through the broken bone. He tore the Carnagor’s brain out by the handful, emptying the skull. A moment later, the demon’s movements became awkward and unbalanced. The Carnagor sagged against a tree, and uprooted it from the ground before collapsing, shuddering a final time, and lying still.
Bruised and battered inside the armor, feeling nowhere near triumphant, Thomas got to his feet. “My sword,” he said.
Immediately, the HUD flicked a light on inside the 360-degree view and revealed that the sword was behind him. He released the anchors and leaped from the Carnagor’s back. His heavy weight drove his feet several inches into the blood-covered ground.
He drew the Spike Bolter as he crossed the ground to pick up his sword. He fisted it, then turned to look for his next opponent.
There were more demons than Templar remaining. In the distance, smoke blew across the urban landscape.
