The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two Read online

  THE POWER

  BERKELEY BLACKFRIARS • BOOK TWO

  J. R. MABRY

  Apocryphile Press

  1700 Shattuck Ave #81

  Berkeley, CA 94709

  www.apocryphilepress.com

  © 2013 by John R. Mabry

  Revised and corrected edition, 2017.

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-947826-00-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover graphics by Milo at www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  CONTENTS

  Claim Your Free Book

  Reviews

  Other Books by J.R. Mabry

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements & Caveats

  Prelude 1

  Prelude 2

  Prelude 3

  Prelude 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Epilogue 3

  Epilogue 4

  Claim Your Free Book

  Reviews

  Untitled

  Prelude 1

  Prelude 2

  Prelude 3

  Prelude 4

  CLAIM YOUR FREE BOOK

  To find out more about the Berkeley Blackfriar’s universe, download your free copy of The Berkeley Blackfriar’s Companion. Includes short stories set in the Blackfriars’ universe, photos of main characters, a complete glossary, a walking tour of the Blackfriars’ Berkeley, recipes from Brian’s kitchen, a short history of Old Catholicism, a Q & A session with author J.R. Mabry, links to music and videos associated with the books and more!

  Click on BookHip.com/DXDCAS to get your free copy!

  REVIEWS

  If you enjoy the Blackfriars books, please help other people find them by leaving an honest review on amazon or kobo or wherever you buy books. Thank you!

  OTHER BOOKS BY J.R. MABRY

  The Berkeley Blackfriars Series:

  The Kingdom

  The Power

  The Glory

  The Christmas at Bremmer’s Series:

  What Child is This?

  The Temple of All Worlds Series:

  The Worship of Mystery

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to three friends who have gone before us

  into perpetual light, each of whom inspired a portion of this story:

  PAT CROSSMAN

  RICHARD STEVENS

  J. W.

  Et lux perpetua luceat ei…

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS & CAVEATS

  Grateful thanks to all of my friends who encouraged me in the writing of this novel, especially my wife, Lisa Fullam, who heard every chapter as it emerged and offered invaluable encouragement and feedback. Special thanks are due to those who read the first draft carefully and made invaluable suggestions, especially: Lola McCrary, Liza Lee Miller, B.J. West, and Kate Gladstone. Thanks also to my editor, Jason Whited, for making the second edition sparkle.

  Special thanks to Josephine McCarthy, whose fine The Exorcist’s Handbook provided wonderful inspiration. It was she who introduced me to the Sandalphon (and I hope you will thank her for it, too).

  Liturgical rites are adapted from the Roman Catholic Ritual for Exorcism, the 1979 Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, and the United Church of Christ Book of Worship. To shield myself from possible litigation, I have changed the names of some institutions, especially in the Gourmet Ghetto neighborhood of Berkeley in which the friars live and work. Those familiar with the area will no doubt sort out, fairly easily, what is what.

  Love is the opposite of power.

  That’s why we fear it so much.

  —Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram

  And our faith is a power

  which comes from our natural substance

  into our sensual soul by the Holy Spirit,

  in which power all our powers come to us,

  for without that no one can receive power,

  for it is nothing else than right understanding

  with true belief and certain trust in our being,

  that we are in God and he in us,

  which we do not see.

  —Julian of Norwich, Revelations of

  Divine Love, 54th chapter

  A QUARTET OF PRELUDES

  PRELUDE 1

  THE FIFTH CRUSADE AGAINST THE MUSLIMS

  AMID THE SHRIEKING of the dying and the stench of the dead, the Ong Khan Toghrul crested the hill and reined back his mount. His eyes burned from the smoke. He squinted, trying to assess the scene. Behind him were five hundred men, all of them Mongol warriors, faithful Nestorian Christians ready to lay down their lives in the cause of the Savior.

  His nostrils twitched at the stink, and his horse shied with impatience. “My Khan,” said his lieutenant from behind him. “What are your
orders?” But he was not ready to answer. His eyes flicked to the city walls, which were still holding against the Crusader army. Although this is hardly an army, he thought, taking stock of the wasted might of Europe before him. Most had been slaughtered. Here and there, living soldiers were clustered—no, huddled—apparently without leaders.

  His lieutenant moved parallel to him, and touched his elbow with a mail-gloved hand. “Jahn?” he said. “Jahn, the men need direction. This is a killing ground…”

  Toghrul nodded his assent. “Yes, but it will not be ours.” He turned to face his lieutenant. “Tsogt, send messengers to these soldiers of Europe—those that are left. They can die or fight under our banner. It is their choice.” Tsogt nodded briskly and began barking orders.

  Toghrul watched as horsemen sped off toward small pockets of soldiers spread out across the battleground. With a grand gesture, he signaled an advance. He watched the Christians of Europe gawk with wonder at the great Christian army of Mongolia speeding over the hill to save them.

  Within the hour, the Christians of Europe had either been assimilated into his ranks or dispatched by the sword. Fortunately, only a few had objected, and they were those who pretended to leadership. Jahn Toghrul spat. Leaders in name, perhaps, he thought bitterly.

  Only one of their so-called leaders had joined them. The khan summoned him, and when the man appeared before him, he sank to his knees instantly, though it was obvious he was a noble. Here is a man who knows the intrinsic hierarchy of warriors, Jahn thought, and dismounted to speak to the man without shouting. “I am the Ong Khan Toghrul, king of the Kerait Mongols, called Jahn at my baptism. You are?”

  “Sir Philip of Longacre, of England, sire.” The man’s tunic was torn, his hair matted with filth. He kept his eyes on the dirt.

  Wise man, Jahn thought. “I have heard that you who follow the Bishop of Rome consider us heretics,” Jahn said, a testy edge to his voice. “Is this so, Sir Philip?”

  “I…I know nothing of this, my lord.” The man looked quickly from side to side, but he did not look up. Jahn fingered the Talisman of Amitiel, which hung on a cord from his neck. It grew cold. “You lie.”

  The man looked down at his knees, and his face turned beet red. He nodded furiously. “That is what they say, my lord.” He held his breath, but then blurted out, “But it is not…my own opinion, sire.”

  Jahn’s eyebrows raised. A bemused smile crossed his lips. “Really, Sir Philip, and are you in the habit of questioning the teaching of your bishops?”

  Sir Philip’s face was so red that it seemed ready to burst. “Um…no…”

  There was no way out of this, Jahn knew. He did not suffer fools, but he was not entirely without mercy. “Tell me what has happened here.”

  The man nodded, visibly grateful for the change in subject. “Two weeks ago, we laid siege to the city. Twenty thousand of us.”

  Jahn scowled. “Twenty thousand?”

  “Yes, my lord. The Egyptians fought well.”

  “I see that they have.” There were scarcely four hundred men left. Together with his own horsemen, they would hardly make a thousand. “How did they accomplish this?”

  “They…they are charmed bowmen,” Philip said, spluttering for an explanation. “They have demons shooting at us. And then, there are the raiders.”

  “Tell me about the raiders.”

  “They attack us at night. They attack when we are besieging the city—when our backs are to the hills. They are led by a sultan, Al-Kamil, they call him. He is like a ghost.”

  The khan grunted and stepped away, surveying the sandy hills. “Sir Philip,” he said, “you will not be false with me again. Tell me, will your men follow you?”

  THE SIEGE WAS HARD, and doubly so since half of his men were wasted guarding the army’s rear flank from a Saracen army that might or might not appear. They did not, and by midday, the tower door folded in on itself with a booming crack that the khan heard from half a mile away. The European Christians swarmed into the tower. The slaughter was quick.

  Tsogt rode to him, fierce and breathless. Blood stained much of his mail, the khan noticed, but was relieved to discover that it was Saracen blood, not his lieutenant’s. “We have the tower, my khan.” Jahn nodded curtly. “Many of the Saracens laid down their arms,” Tsogt continued. “I thought…you might want to talk with them.”

  Jahn smiled grimly. “You know me well, Lieutenant. Lead the way.” Within minutes, the khan was striding through the tower door, which was splintered beyond repair. Before him, Saracen soldiers knelt as he passed, averting their dark eyes. His own men stood behind them, swords at the ready, drunk on the victory of the day.

  But the khan knew better. A tower is not a keep, he thought to himself. We still have much to do. When he came to the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned regally. He looked down on the Saracen before him. “Tsogt,” he asked, “how many are they that live?”

  “Exactly a hundred men, my khan.” Tsogt answered quickly and with confidence.

  Jahn drew his sword and with one swift motion, severed the Saracen’s head from his body. “There!” he shouted at the men on their knees. “Now there are ninety-nine, one for each of the ninety-nine names of your heathen god.” The Saracens quaked, but they dared not raise their eyes to the Mongol king. Some of them mumbled prayers in Arabic.

  Jahn stepped over the body, its blood spilling over the stones of the floor, creating a slick crimson pool. He faced the next Saracen, who was visibly shaking. Jahn clutched at the Talisman of Amitiel and spoke, a note of kindness entering his voice. “You, Egyptian, what are you called?”

  “Mohammad, Sire.” A spreading stain on his breeches betrayed that the man had just wet himself.

  Jahn sniffed. “I dare not say the name of your heathen prophet, for it is offensive to the Lord of Heaven. Tell me, Egyptian, where is Al-Kamil?”

  The man’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing. The khan placed the flat of his broadsword at the man’s neck and slowly turned it so that its razor-sharp edge came to bear. “You will answer,” Jahn said quietly.

  “I…I do not know.”

  The talisman grew cold in Jahn’s hand. “That is a lie,” he said over his shoulder to Tsogt. “Egyptian dog, called by the name of the blasphemer prophet, you are lying, and the cost for lying to the Lord Khan is death. But I am a merciful king, and I will give you one more chance to live before you see Hell. Where is Al-Kamil?”

  In answer, the man squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head. With a flourish, Jahn cut his throat, the blood of his neck creating an arc in the air as the sword flashed past. “How many are left, Tsogt?”