The Hour of Revelation

The man smiled icily at her as she approached. ‘You’re too late’, he smirked. ‘The incantation is complete, and the sacrifice proceeds. The Demon will come. Your world is over.’ ‘Thropez’, responded Modesty, equally coldly. ‘I have come for you.’ The cardinal laughed. ‘But of course you have’, he said, amused. ‘I wish you joy of it!’ Despite his exhausted appearance he rose powerfully from his seat and glared at her. ‘You stole our box’, he seethed. ‘Our precious mahogany box, with its irreplaceable contents. You took them away from us and gave them to your mistress, the accursed Shenaria Calvert.’ ‘The accursed Shenaria Calvert’, he repeated to himself, an unbidden sob entering his voice. His body trembled for a moment, then he recovered himself. He leered at her. ‘I will enjoy killing you’, he finished. ‘And you’, replied Modesty. ‘You tricked the Twelve into attacking my friend Matthias. You caused the devout and holy Lady L’ucilya to die a painful and premature death. I will enjoy killing you - but not before you explain what you mean by ‘the Demon will come’’. ‘Your world is over’, repeated Thropez in answer. ‘The sacrifice proceeds. The Demon will come. L’vylaethazs will come. The Saviour-King will be overthrown. Your world is over.’ ‘And so is yours’, said Modesty. A lethal punishment-needle flew from her fingers faster than the eye could follow. It spun towards Thropez’s heart. Another deadly needle whipped towards his throat. Her aim was perfect. They collided with nothing an inch away from him and shot back towards her. She had to dodge to avoid being impaled. He smiled at her condescendingly. Two more needles cannoned towards him, this time heading for his eye and his stomach. They were repelled in the same manner, but Modesty had not waited for them to return. She rolled and cartwheeled towards him, evading the deadly spines that flew past her, and smashed her heel into his windpipe with lethal force. He should have fallen to the ground, his neck broken, but somehow her foot twisted at the last minute, and she went crashing down instead. She was up immediately, blades on the edges of her hands chopping into his neck, face and back. He stood, unblemished, and caught her left wrist in his feeble-looking hand. Then he crushed it. She yelled as her bones and tendons snapped. He did not let go, but spun her round and gazed into her golden eyes. He smiled horribly, flecks of white foam from his mouth spattering her face. ‘I hate you’, he leered filthily. ‘I hate you for being one of Calvert’s. You will suffer my revenge for her.’ He threw her harshly to the floor. She landed heavily, but a vial appeared in her good hand and she flung it at him with all her might. It burst as it reached him, covering him in a slimy yellow liquid. His clothes began to burn and sizzle as the violent acid dripped through it. But his face and skin did not. The acrid liquid poured down him harmlessly and noxious vapours rose into the air. Modesty groaned. Thropez gazed at her, almost pityingly. Then he kicked her in the ribs. She doubled up in pain. ‘You’re good, I’ll give you that’, he said, ‘almost as good as Lady L’ucilya herself. But she didn’t succeed, and neither will you.’ He smiled once more, then turned to the wall behind them. He walked towards the shimmering sword that hung there. Vile energies danced along its evil blade, and Modesty knew what it was. Thropez took the weapon down and nodded at her. ‘Yes’, he said. ‘This is the blade that killed your precious Lady L’ucilya. And you deserve a similar death.’ He marched towards Modesty and towered over her, brandishing the sword above her head. ‘It will hurt’, he whispered, ‘like nothing has hurt before. And the pain will grow and grow until it is all you can think about and all you can feel.’ He swung the blade at her with a cry, stopping it just before it reached her forehead. She did not blink or cower. He withdrew the weapon, then brandished it over her once again. ‘You’re a brave one’, he admitted. ‘I dearly wish it was Calvert here instead of you. I’d have liked to see her beg for mercy.’ ‘You…you hate her, don’t you?’ managed Modesty. ‘She frustrated your plans, didn’t she?’ Thropez’s face went blotchy. His cheeks turned purple. His eyes grew bloodshot and his whole body quivered. ‘You dare?’ he exclaimed. ‘You dare taunt me in this manner? She may have destroyed the Temple, but I will still win!’ His voice began to screech. ‘I will still win!’ Modesty smiled up at him, and an air of peace descended on her eyes. ‘I knew it’, she breathed. ‘I knew Shenaria had a reason. Thank you for confirming it.’ Thropez bellowed in apoplexy and stamped on the ground in rage like a child having a tantrum. Then he recovered himself and bent down towards the injured woman. Cold fury was in his eyes. ‘You might think you’re so clever, gaining that information from me’, he snarled. ‘But it won’t do you any good. I’ve finished with you, and you can rot in Hell.’ He pushed the end of the demonic weapon onto Modesty’s stomach. ‘This is for Calvert and all who oppose me’, he declared. His arm lunged forward, forcing the tip of the diabolical blade to pierce her skin. She cried out. Then he carved the vile sword across her stomach, leaving a neat six-inch incision. Modesty’s body lurched and blood bubbled out of the shallow wound onto the mosaic floor. The physical pain was bad enough, but this was as nothing compared to the anguish of her spirit. It was as if the warmth of her soul had been sliced into, leaving great gashes of numbness in those precious places where feeling and faith resided. She could sense all her love and compassion and hope folding in on themselves and shutting down. The blankness began to spread and everything that made Modesty who she was started to disappear under a deep veil of nothingness. An immense shroud of deep, despairing emptiness wrapped itself around her essence and began to suffocate it bit by bit. Slowly, inexorably and irreversibly, Modesty began to die.