Prologue:
Prague, 1508
The armored rabble assailed the castle, most charging through the gaps in the walls left by the cannons of the besiegers. Arrows, crossbow bolts and musket balls cut a swathe through their numbers, but the survivors charged onward. The attackers wore mail shirts with a surcoat bearing an upside down cross. They were the Order of the Beast, formerly a division of the Teutonic Knights which had turned to evil and become apostates. The shortest of them stood at six feet four inches tall, while the tallest was a seven foot six juggernaut armed with a massive war hammer used to pummel his foes to the ground with a single blow.
The defenders wore either the red or black armor of the Jesuit order and were a collection of Catholic warriors who had been hand-picked by the Pope himself to protect the castle at all costs. However, their numbers were few compared to the onslaught of infidel soldiers, whose ranks were bolstered by demons and vampire allies. Yet, they grimly contested each inch of the ground yielded to their merciless foes, inflicting vast losses. Their commander, a young, dark-haired Italian with an unshaven beard fought ferociously with a falchion and flail, and struck down his opponents with ease. His brown eyes stared into the yellow ones of his next foe, a vampire armed with a saber. The undead creature slashed at him with his blade, which the Italian quickly parried and then bashed the vampire on the head with the flail and promptly decapitated him with the force of the blow. Although no one had bested him, the man knew it would take a miracle to save the beleaguered Jesuits and prevent the Beasts from seizing the precious Key. He fell back to the keep and ran through the door, then down several flights of stairs into the dark and dankly smelling dungeon.
The prisoner stared at his captor with a feeling of intense hatred, since the swarthy inquisitor had been torturing him for at least three years with all manner of fiendish devices. Now, he heard with amazement his captor's desperate appeal for help, which he promptly replied with a loud guffaw.
"Priest, you never had any use for me but torture, so why do you even want my help? Or do you even trust me?"
"La Morte, I apologize for my previous wrongdoings, but I had no way to determine if the ritual had been completed in its original form, and you were a servant of the Beast! Now, will you fight with us and save the world?"
"Looks like I have no choice, priest," replied the emaciated captive.
With considerable trepidation, the commander hesitatingly freed his captive and handed him the captive's bastard sword. The immense blade seemed to flicker a reddish hue when its master seized it.
"Ah- thank you priest, now show me where the Satanists are, and I shall dispense with them," commanded the fiery prisoner, whose unkempt beard and long black hair which cascaded down from his shoulders, to the priest.
Nervous and fearful that the vengeful La Morte would obtain revenge against him, the priest motioned upstairs and the prisoner quickly donned a suit of armor. He charged up the stairs, yelling an inhuman cry in some language unknown to mortal ears while the commander seized an arquebus from the weapons rack, loaded it with great precision, and steadily crept up the staircase, anxiously expecting a horde of demonic soldiers to rush at him and then it would be over.
But his fears never materialized, instead his greatest hopes were. He watched in awe as the black armored man drove the invaders back, slicing his way through their ranks with a glowing red blade. The scythe swept aside any foe, whether knight or demon or vampire and not one successful resisted even the slightest of wounds, for even the foes who escaped with the slightest scratches fell dead soon after.
Finally, the battle rested on one moment as a seven foot two inch man crept forward from the bloodied ranks of the attackers. He doffed his horned helmet and revealed his face, twisted with rage and violence. His name was Sir Hugo Peabody, a disinherited English Duke who had seized control of the Knights of the Beast and transformed the order from an underground society to a disciplined, formidable and ravenous horde in the steps of Russia. His eye fell upon the Key, whose location he had discovered by raiding the churches in Eastern Europe and tormenting the local priests to squeeze whatever information they knew from them. Now, his goal was in sight, for the keep loomed before him and he knew it was only a few steps till he reached the altar which held the Key, and then he could summon the master. Once the master came, it would be paradise for his followers and doom for the pathetic worshippers of the weak and impotent God. But only one resolute defender stood in his path. A man whose eyes glowed the same crimson red hue as his gigantic sword and whose black armor was covered in the blood of his slain foes.
The giant guffawed with laughter and he raised his gargantuan battle axe capable of hewing through a charging knight and his horse in one hand while in the other he carried a long kris, a jagged blade dipped in poison.
"Do you expect to challenge me, La Morte? You're nothing but a pathetic abomination of Angel, Mortal and Demon, how do you expect to defeat Lucifer's personal champion, the scourge of hell, I, Hugo Peabody?" Howled the giant with bursts of laughter and he lumbered towards his foe, swinging both the axe and kris in a fluid motion.
La Morte stepped aside to avoid the blows and swung his sword in a powerful blow which knocked the kris from the giant's hand. The infuriated Knight then sliced upwards using all of his strength. His nimble foe, although standing more than a foot shorter than him, ducked and avoided the sharpened edge. The black armored man then turned his back to the giant, hoping Peabody would take the bait, which the overconfident blackheart did. His scarred face in a sinister smile, Peabody ran towards the retreating La Morte, raising his axe in anticipation to finish the coward who dared resist him. But that chance never came as the black armored man suddenly turned and run up the side of the castle wall parallel to Peabody and laid a powerful kick to the giant's side, forcing him to reel back in pain and breaking the bone. His momentum shattered, the knight stumbled backwards in an awkward fashion, his head raised in time to witness the red blade come crashing down upon him, entering in the front of the face and then exiting in a quick thrust then a second slice cut him into perfect symmetry. The corpse's halves fell in a bloody heap while the victorious La Morte said nothing but instead immediately attacked a group of gaping demons, astonished at their leader's demise.
The few remaining Jesuits and the red robed monks who guarded the Key let out a resounding cheer and fired a volley of missiles into the ranks of their foes, who promptly retreated in complete disorder. Not one survived the bloodlust of La Morte, who hacked his way through the horde, sparing no one and was joined by the castle's commander, who forgot their earlier differences and joined each other in brotherly combat.
It was a great victory for the forces of life, the precious Key had been protected, the vampire and demon strength depleted in Eastern Europe and the dreaded Knights of the Beast decimated. Count Dracula, who had masterminded the attack, fled to the mountains of Translyvania, where he hid and lived a life of fear, always hunted by eager vampire hunters. The slayer failed to reveal herself at that battle, since she was at the time in isolated, Shogun-era Japan, fighting against the forces of the Japanese kami and demon shoguns. But Eastern and Central Europe would be protected by the forces of the Jesuit Order, the Gypsies and the man known only as the Godslayer or as a precious few in the Vatican and the Watcher's council knew him, Lord Robert La Morte. His power would never be equaled by a slayer, and clearly matched those of a hellgod, but yet his nemesis, the indomitable Dracula always eluded his attempts. The Key remained protected until 2000, when the hellgod Glory attempted to sacrifice the human manifestation of the Key for her own greedy schemes.
La Morte, whose activities had been mostly relegated to the Old World, promptly boarded a Boeing 747 with one destination in mind: Los Angeles, California. His mission was to find the Key, protect her and terminate the dark slayer with extreme prejudice. He was also to join up with the forces of Micah Luke, an evangelist crusader who had been spreading his faith throughout the world. His oratory preached for a crusade against the demons and the forces of darkness, a cleansing of the world from evil. Even the Pope had fallen under the man's zealous fervor, and began supplying funds and soldiers to aid his cause. La Morte had once heard the man speak, and had been awed by his messages of an end to the demon afflicted world and a holy war upon darkness.
Little did any of Luke's followers realize that their savior possessed rather ulterior motives behind his meritorious work, and his connection with a fellow student at a catholic seminary, before Micah had become dissatisfied with papal dogma and joined the evangelical church. His seminary friend's name was Caleb, but he kept the secret hidden from anyone and with the demise of him at the hands of slayer, Micah vowed to seek retribution upon the slayer and her friends who had meddled in his affairs. Yes, he would teach them a lesson, they would all see, especially the traitors Angelus and Spike. He rose from his kneeling position in front of the altar and prayed silently to the objects resting on the altar. One of them appeared to be a Christian cross, until one could realize that it had been tilted a hundred and eighty degrees, leaving it pointing downwards. Micah claimed to worship the God of heaven, but in reality he worshipped the darkness he claimed to fight against, only he planned to usurp the power of the old ones and claim his own among them. But first he would need to convince them all.
Prague, 1508
The armored rabble assailed the castle, most charging through the gaps in the walls left by the cannons of the besiegers. Arrows, crossbow bolts and musket balls cut a swathe through their numbers, but the survivors charged onward. The attackers wore mail shirts with a surcoat bearing an upside down cross. They were the Order of the Beast, formerly a division of the Teutonic Knights which had turned to evil and become apostates. The shortest of them stood at six feet four inches tall, while the tallest was a seven foot six juggernaut armed with a massive war hammer used to pummel his foes to the ground with a single blow.
The defenders wore either the red or black armor of the Jesuit order and were a collection of Catholic warriors who had been hand-picked by the Pope himself to protect the castle at all costs. However, their numbers were few compared to the onslaught of infidel soldiers, whose ranks were bolstered by demons and vampire allies. Yet, they grimly contested each inch of the ground yielded to their merciless foes, inflicting vast losses. Their commander, a young, dark-haired Italian with an unshaven beard fought ferociously with a falchion and flail, and struck down his opponents with ease. His brown eyes stared into the yellow ones of his next foe, a vampire armed with a saber. The undead creature slashed at him with his blade, which the Italian quickly parried and then bashed the vampire on the head with the flail and promptly decapitated him with the force of the blow. Although no one had bested him, the man knew it would take a miracle to save the beleaguered Jesuits and prevent the Beasts from seizing the precious Key. He fell back to the keep and ran through the door, then down several flights of stairs into the dark and dankly smelling dungeon.
The prisoner stared at his captor with a feeling of intense hatred, since the swarthy inquisitor had been torturing him for at least three years with all manner of fiendish devices. Now, he heard with amazement his captor's desperate appeal for help, which he promptly replied with a loud guffaw.
"Priest, you never had any use for me but torture, so why do you even want my help? Or do you even trust me?"
"La Morte, I apologize for my previous wrongdoings, but I had no way to determine if the ritual had been completed in its original form, and you were a servant of the Beast! Now, will you fight with us and save the world?"
"Looks like I have no choice, priest," replied the emaciated captive.
With considerable trepidation, the commander hesitatingly freed his captive and handed him the captive's bastard sword. The immense blade seemed to flicker a reddish hue when its master seized it.
"Ah- thank you priest, now show me where the Satanists are, and I shall dispense with them," commanded the fiery prisoner, whose unkempt beard and long black hair which cascaded down from his shoulders, to the priest.
Nervous and fearful that the vengeful La Morte would obtain revenge against him, the priest motioned upstairs and the prisoner quickly donned a suit of armor. He charged up the stairs, yelling an inhuman cry in some language unknown to mortal ears while the commander seized an arquebus from the weapons rack, loaded it with great precision, and steadily crept up the staircase, anxiously expecting a horde of demonic soldiers to rush at him and then it would be over.
But his fears never materialized, instead his greatest hopes were. He watched in awe as the black armored man drove the invaders back, slicing his way through their ranks with a glowing red blade. The scythe swept aside any foe, whether knight or demon or vampire and not one successful resisted even the slightest of wounds, for even the foes who escaped with the slightest scratches fell dead soon after.
Finally, the battle rested on one moment as a seven foot two inch man crept forward from the bloodied ranks of the attackers. He doffed his horned helmet and revealed his face, twisted with rage and violence. His name was Sir Hugo Peabody, a disinherited English Duke who had seized control of the Knights of the Beast and transformed the order from an underground society to a disciplined, formidable and ravenous horde in the steps of Russia. His eye fell upon the Key, whose location he had discovered by raiding the churches in Eastern Europe and tormenting the local priests to squeeze whatever information they knew from them. Now, his goal was in sight, for the keep loomed before him and he knew it was only a few steps till he reached the altar which held the Key, and then he could summon the master. Once the master came, it would be paradise for his followers and doom for the pathetic worshippers of the weak and impotent God. But only one resolute defender stood in his path. A man whose eyes glowed the same crimson red hue as his gigantic sword and whose black armor was covered in the blood of his slain foes.
The giant guffawed with laughter and he raised his gargantuan battle axe capable of hewing through a charging knight and his horse in one hand while in the other he carried a long kris, a jagged blade dipped in poison.
"Do you expect to challenge me, La Morte? You're nothing but a pathetic abomination of Angel, Mortal and Demon, how do you expect to defeat Lucifer's personal champion, the scourge of hell, I, Hugo Peabody?" Howled the giant with bursts of laughter and he lumbered towards his foe, swinging both the axe and kris in a fluid motion.
La Morte stepped aside to avoid the blows and swung his sword in a powerful blow which knocked the kris from the giant's hand. The infuriated Knight then sliced upwards using all of his strength. His nimble foe, although standing more than a foot shorter than him, ducked and avoided the sharpened edge. The black armored man then turned his back to the giant, hoping Peabody would take the bait, which the overconfident blackheart did. His scarred face in a sinister smile, Peabody ran towards the retreating La Morte, raising his axe in anticipation to finish the coward who dared resist him. But that chance never came as the black armored man suddenly turned and run up the side of the castle wall parallel to Peabody and laid a powerful kick to the giant's side, forcing him to reel back in pain and breaking the bone. His momentum shattered, the knight stumbled backwards in an awkward fashion, his head raised in time to witness the red blade come crashing down upon him, entering in the front of the face and then exiting in a quick thrust then a second slice cut him into perfect symmetry. The corpse's halves fell in a bloody heap while the victorious La Morte said nothing but instead immediately attacked a group of gaping demons, astonished at their leader's demise.
The few remaining Jesuits and the red robed monks who guarded the Key let out a resounding cheer and fired a volley of missiles into the ranks of their foes, who promptly retreated in complete disorder. Not one survived the bloodlust of La Morte, who hacked his way through the horde, sparing no one and was joined by the castle's commander, who forgot their earlier differences and joined each other in brotherly combat.
It was a great victory for the forces of life, the precious Key had been protected, the vampire and demon strength depleted in Eastern Europe and the dreaded Knights of the Beast decimated. Count Dracula, who had masterminded the attack, fled to the mountains of Translyvania, where he hid and lived a life of fear, always hunted by eager vampire hunters. The slayer failed to reveal herself at that battle, since she was at the time in isolated, Shogun-era Japan, fighting against the forces of the Japanese kami and demon shoguns. But Eastern and Central Europe would be protected by the forces of the Jesuit Order, the Gypsies and the man known only as the Godslayer or as a precious few in the Vatican and the Watcher's council knew him, Lord Robert La Morte. His power would never be equaled by a slayer, and clearly matched those of a hellgod, but yet his nemesis, the indomitable Dracula always eluded his attempts. The Key remained protected until 2000, when the hellgod Glory attempted to sacrifice the human manifestation of the Key for her own greedy schemes.
La Morte, whose activities had been mostly relegated to the Old World, promptly boarded a Boeing 747 with one destination in mind: Los Angeles, California. His mission was to find the Key, protect her and terminate the dark slayer with extreme prejudice. He was also to join up with the forces of Micah Luke, an evangelist crusader who had been spreading his faith throughout the world. His oratory preached for a crusade against the demons and the forces of darkness, a cleansing of the world from evil. Even the Pope had fallen under the man's zealous fervor, and began supplying funds and soldiers to aid his cause. La Morte had once heard the man speak, and had been awed by his messages of an end to the demon afflicted world and a holy war upon darkness.
Little did any of Luke's followers realize that their savior possessed rather ulterior motives behind his meritorious work, and his connection with a fellow student at a catholic seminary, before Micah had become dissatisfied with papal dogma and joined the evangelical church. His seminary friend's name was Caleb, but he kept the secret hidden from anyone and with the demise of him at the hands of slayer, Micah vowed to seek retribution upon the slayer and her friends who had meddled in his affairs. Yes, he would teach them a lesson, they would all see, especially the traitors Angelus and Spike. He rose from his kneeling position in front of the altar and prayed silently to the objects resting on the altar. One of them appeared to be a Christian cross, until one could realize that it had been tilted a hundred and eighty degrees, leaving it pointing downwards. Micah claimed to worship the God of heaven, but in reality he worshipped the darkness he claimed to fight against, only he planned to usurp the power of the old ones and claim his own among them. But first he would need to convince them all.