snatched away into a limbo, a separate dimension insulated totally from all that was real and touchable. The lightning was still visible, flashing behind the stained glass, but now it seemed unable to pierce the panes, stopping short of them as if held at bay by some invisible barrier. The roaring of the storm could still be heard, but it was muffled as if somebody had closed a padded door.
A great light began to fill the hall. It grew and grew in brightness until every standing figure, every icon, statue and column became nothing more than a cardboard cutout, lit dazzlingly from one side and lost in a void of absolute blackness to the other.
Omally shielded his eyes and squinted into the glare. Pooley dragged his cloak over his head, dropping his cherished half brick to the floor. Professor Slocombe stood transfixed. From the side of the hall, amid the blinding glare, figures were beginning to appear, moving from the realm of dream, or nightmare.
The congregation were shuffling backwards, forming themselves into a great arc stretching from the side enclosure to the raised dais of the golden altarpiece. The figures were moving forward in a slow methodic rhythm. Omally could make out their silhouettes, sunspots upon the solar disc. There were four shapeless stubby creatures bearing upon their shoulders something enormous upon a kind of chair. Before this procession a lone being moved unsteadily, gaunt and bowed, a golden censer swinging from his clasped hands.
Omally widened his eyes; the figure was that of Captain Carson. He nudged the Professor but the old man put his finger to his lips and whispered, “I know.”
The Captain was dressed in rough sacking robes, a golden sash knotted about his waist. His head was shaven and his feet were bare. His face was as vacant as those of the congregation.
Behind him trod the four red-clothed and dwarfish figures, the identity of which was well enough known to the three watchers. Upon the shoulders of these creatures they supported a gilded travesty of the Papal throne, carved from a rich red timber of exotic origin, inset with many precious stones. The arms of this throne terminated in large gilded bulls’ heads, as did the very crest upon the chair’s high back.
The eyes of these bovine spectres were great red rubies, glittering flawlessly in the pulsating light which flowed from the being who lounged on the velvet cushioning of the fabulous chair. He was enormous, a titan; his great hands rested upon the bulls’ heads and one could have passed a copper penny through any one of the rings he wore. He was clad in the richest of crimsons, his gown smothered in jewels. These were woven into cunning arabesques, symbols of cuneiforms, diamonds, spirals and trapezoids, each complete of itself yet playing an integral part in the overall design. The gown swam in the throbbing light which surrounded the giant and appeared to pass through several dimensions, shrinking, growing and moving forwards and backwards as if alive. It was belted at the waist by a broad golden cummerbund and heavily quilted at the sleeves. Over his massive shoulders the giant wore the holy mantle and upon his head the papal mitre, cloth of gold and set again with priceless gems.
The three men shrank back into the shadows that they might not meet the gaze of the giant as he passed. Never had they seen such a face, surely the very face of death. It was terrible, but it was also magnificent in its perfect control, absolute power and supreme arrogance. The great hawk of a nose, the prominent chin, the high cheekbones, the broad forehead, and the eyes two flaming red fires of hell.
The throne halted at the dais of the altar. The being who called himself Pope Alexander VI stepped from it on to the platform. The four creatures lowered the great throne chair to the floor and prostrated themselves before their master. Captain Carson stood ghostlike; the censer swinging from his gnarled and tattooed fingers suddenly ceased its movement in mid swing and hung in the air in defiance of all the laws of gravity.
Outside, great peals of thunder burst overhead, the lightning flashed and fought with the heavens and the rain smashed deafeningly upon the Mission roof. Within was silence: the flames of the candles upon the torcheres stood absolutely still and offered little light.
The giant slowly folded his herculean arms and gazed down upon his congregation, who stood immobile, heads bowed, before him. He spoke, and his voice echoed cavernously about the great pillars and filled the dome.
“My people,” he said, “my own people, to you is granted the supreme honour, to you my first chosen; this night you will bear witness to the consecration of the new Holy See. You are my disciples, and I, the born again, the logos, the master, I grant you this honour. You will spread word of my coming across the world, that all might know my power and marvel at my return.”
The words rolled on and on, a litany of terror. In the shadows of the pillar Professor Slocombe closed his hand about his silver crucifix. Omally bared his teeth and fingered his half brick. Pooley wondered whether there might be a back door open somewhere near at hand.
“For centuries mankind has awaited my return, and now I am here to fulfil the prophecies and to reclaim my throne. You who stand before me are my vessels, into you shall I pour my powers. You will be masters of men, none shall stand before you, through you shall I regain what is rightfully mine.”
Professor Slocombe held his breath; so this was it, there were easily four hundred people in this hall and if each received only a portion of the giant’s powers they would be virtually unstoppable.
“Kneel before me,” roared the giant, “prostrate yourselves before me.” The congregation threw themselves to the floor, pressing their faces down into the cold mosaic. Omally turned his head away.
“Kneel, I say!”
Omally’s eyes flashed back to the figure upon the dais, the face was contorted, twisted into a snarl, and the eyes were blazing.
“You will kneel!”
Across the hall, some ten or so yards from the three hidden figures, two men were standing defiantly amid the sea of fallen bodies. Omally had little difficulty in recognizing one of them. This individual was clad in a dark silk kimono, his head covered by an elaborate Japanese wig. His oversized eyebrows had been dyed the very jettest of blacks and were twisted at their extremities into short spikes.
It was Archroy. As Omally watched, the samurai’s companion coolly divested himself of his dufflecoat to reveal a clerical collar and the vestments of a priest. It was Father Moity.
Omally turned to the Professor, who shrugged helplessly. Pooley whispered, “This is going to be good, what odds the Chinee then, John?”
“You will kneel before your Master.” The giant knotted his fists and drew himself up to even greater heights.
Archroy curled his lip and Father Moity drew from his raiment a shining crucifix. The congregation were still, their faces pressed to the cold mosaic floor. They would not have dared to rise even if they could. Before the dais the four creatures were shambling to their unearthly feet.
The Professor drew his two cohorts further back into the shadows. “If the opportunity should arise,” he whispered, “I trust that you will employ those two poorly concealed bricks to good advantage.”
Omally winked, Pooley said, “In for a penny.”
The rain lashed down upon Brentford and Pope Alexander VI raised his massive arm and pointed towards Archroy and the young priest. “You, I will make an example of,” he roared. “You will know the exquisite agonies of lingering death.”
Archroy thumbed his nose. “Balls,” said he.
The giant gestured to his four hooded cardinals. “Bring them to me, spare only their lives.”
The grotesque creatures turned upon the two men, forward they came upon their twisted legs, murmuring and whispering. They had lost their fifth brother to a son of mankind and yearned only for vengeance upon the entire race. Their beaked mouths opened and closed, dripping vile slime. Closer they came, steering their way amongst the prone figures; slowly they approached the man of the cloth and the student of Count Dante. Archroy watched them come. “My bloody beans,” he said, nudging the young priest.
Suddenly they were upon him, their clawlike hands reaching out, knobby, crooked appendages displaying wicked barbs. Father Moity held up his cross and said the words of the rosary. Archroy pivoted upon his heel and swung about, his foot curling through the air in a blurry arc. He struck one of the creatures a devastating blow, sweeping it from its feet and propelling it through the air. It tumbled to the floor several yards away and came to rest beneath one of the great pillars, silent and unmoving. Its unholy brothers slashed at him but Archroy leapt high into the air above their heads, dropping to the floor behind them.
As they turned, the master of Dimac let out a mighty yell and drove forward an iron fist. He
