The Old Church 16
The Tower And The Dragon
This story is part of The Old Church series.
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The Tower And The Dragon
† † †
THE ANGEL AWAITS HER MARTYRDOM WITH PATIENCE
LIGHTER NIPPLES
GIVE ME A SECOND TO THINK, OK?
INDECENT DESIRE
MATTI
A DEMON IS LITERALLY REDUCED TO JELLY
SPINE COMPRESSED, EXPLODED
ANGRY FINNS
† † †
THERE’S NO TIME. DEATH, FINALLY.
† † †
In the Stygian abyss, the sky is a grey hair shirt. The clouds are ablaze and rain down blood, blood, blood. Thick, full-bodied, reeking.
Some greater demons circle the Tower, but they take no interest in the petty violence of the bipedal creatures below.
Cartilaginous wings, nearly transparent, pearlescent spines.
Their cries terrorise the inhabitants of the Styx valleys, but inside the Tower the clamour reigns, and we cannot hear them.
The Angel awaits her martyrdom with patience, the Demon drawing near, ravenous.
The ogre is in his own way chaste: he is not visited by the sinful thoughts of the degenerates around him.
The Demon wants the Angel’s suffering, not her sex.
Look at his lackeys. Petty succubi, small-time criminals, depraved. Naked bodies of anthracite grey, lighter nipples, heavy piercings all over, horns.
Old Didrik appears before me.
You know, don’t you, that they didn’t tie you to that rope: they only hung you from it. If you want, you can free yourself.
And then what happens, if I free myself?
Nothing. They’ll shoot you. Won’t make much difference. But you could try.
Give me a second to think, ok?
Ok.
Old Didrik leaves, the dickhead vanishes and forces me to watch what is happening here, in the Tower of the City of Dis.
The Demon tosses a spike at the Angel’s feet. The first spike in his left hand, the hammer in his right.
Penetration, flesh. Lines of fate: the line of life, of the head, of the heart. I’ve tangled all of mine together, and so here I am, dangling from a forklift.
The Demon harbours a secret, indecent desire, and he holds enough power to satisfy his impulse: he uses words.
He dares to speak to the Angel.
— I imagine that in your mind you must be thanking your father, right about now.
Oh.
I burst out laughing.
I laugh like a hyena, like a jackal. I’m afraid I might vomit again, this time my own innards (it happens, in Hell), but it doesn’t matter.
They all turn, look at me.
I draw the Demon’s attention too. Clearly his soul is accustomed to the world of spirits and secrets: he has understood that something is happening.
He tries to put on his mask, his imperturbable sneer. He looks at me and asks: and what the fuck do you find so funny?
I don’t need to answer. I don’t need to say a single thing. The answer arrives on its own, it is shown when he turns his gaze back toward his prey.
The Angel smiles. A sweet smile, tender, almost embarrassed.
Then she holds his eyes, and that is where terror invades the ogre’s heart. He lets the hammer fall, takes a step back, as if confronted by something even he cannot understand.
That is the moment.
The Angel takes a half-step forward, peels her wings from the wall just enough. She turns her palms skyward, as if drawing down the energy needed for the reckoning.
Something is happening. The air is dense, electric. Vibrations arrive, consequences. Small disturbances of electricity, restless spirits, souls of the dead.
The dead had tried to warn the demons of their fate.
— There’s no answer from the gate, something’s happened.
Still the demons have not understood. They still have hard cocks, they still believe they can feast on the Angel’s body.
That is the moment.
From the cool darkness sliding through the Tower’s entrance, a sound arrives.
Distant.
The bellow of an enormous leviathan.
The two-tone horn of a truck.
Distant.
But this is already more than enough.
It is as if all the madness, the ambition, the delirious abandon of the demons is sucked back inside their hollow souls in an instant.
They understand that this is no safe refuge for their perversions.
This is a trap.
They feel the gears of the machine, the pistons burning diesel, and Surma’s incandescent heart: they feel it like a metallic taste between their teeth. In their own way they anticipate the smell of exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of carnage.
They turn.
The Angel has vanished.
Old Didrik reappears beside me.
What the fuck are you waiting for, New Year’s?
He vanishes immediately.
I throw myself to the ground just in time to feel in my bones the two-tone horn drawing closer with ever greater force, ever greater roar. It sounds, sounds, sounds.
Explosion, earthquake, the Tower trembles.
The sound of rubble, screams.
The muzzle of the Black Dragon smashes through the entrance door.
Its rider skilfully brakes, leaving the Dragon’s body halfway through: otherwise it might have killed us all.
Though there are already bodies caught in its jaws.
The bastards at the gate.
The demons try to shoot at Surma. Such fools, using bullets against an immortal being? Of course, they put a few holes in it, but you can imagine how the wise rider must be laughing now, old Timo. From the slit in the heavy bulldozer blade they mounted in front of the windscreen, he must be thinking: poor fools.
Hunters’ weapons. Bullets spent.
Poor fools.
Figures emerge from behind the bales of hay. They emerge slowly.
But everyone watches one of them in particular.
Matti.
They were already inside. Through where, the sewers? A window?
It doesn’t matter.
The strongest warrior, the most feared.
Yes, it has to be him first.
Matti has seen everything. I don’t even dare imagine his rage. In his left hand he wields an enormous wrench, smeared with Surma’s grease. Swinging his arm back behind his shoulder, he breaks a demon’s head, literally makes it explode like a watermelon.
In his right hand he holds something: he points it at more demons, fires. A sawn-off double-barrel. Four are already dead, without even having had time to move.
Pelle.
His agility is remarkable, given his size.
Given the weight of his rifle.
He takes aim, fires. A demon is literally reduced to jelly by the fireball.
Old Didrik appears again beside me.
Well, aren’t you going to go have a little fun too?
Can’t you see I’m unarmed?
Turn around.
Oh.
The forklift.
Yes, what a beautiful idea.
I put my shoulder against Anja’s pubis. She stirs a little: still alive, thank God. I heave her onto my shoulders, drop her onto a bale of hay. She hits her head a little hard, but I think that’s the least of her problems.
I jump onto the forklift, take the driver’s position.
It’s electric, it’s running. I try pressing the accelerator: it moves forward and back.
With a lever I put the forks to about a metre’s height.
There he is.
Milos.
I accelerate.
Hey Milos! Here I am! Do you remember me?
What a hit.
I go straight into the wall.
Spine compressed, exploded.
Broken ribs, clothes.
Milos’s torso is separated from his lower half.
Someone grabs me by the neck and hauls me down hard.
† † †
Angry Finns.
Adrenaline, forced reuptake, mitigation of dissociation generated by stress and withdrawal.
Welcome back to reality, Old Didrik tells me, beside me.
Oh, thanks.
That Dante Alighieri delusion had really been doing my head in.
True. I used to read it at Sonia’s place, in Genoa. It wasn’t bad.
Focus, better that way.
The Leather Man is behind me. He has me by the collar and is pointing the Makarov at my back.
His men are all dead.
All of them.
In front of us, a crowd of enraged people, led by a tall girl with golden curls, completely naked.
She has an axe in her hand. None of that Conan the Barbarian nonsense: one of those axes you buy at the village hardware store.
Behind, in the last row, the Serpent. She is here too. Her scaly body towers over the heads of her people. She looks like an enormous anaconda, the kind you see in science fiction films.
Pelle is missing.
But everything is fine. They’ve destroyed the jammer, everything is fine.
I ask Old Didrik: they destroyed it, right?
And how would I know?
Well. You always know everything.
I know what you know.
Ah, right.
I feel the Leather Man’s heart pulsing in his chest, beating hard.
Rikku takes a step forward, axe still in hand.
Murder murder murder.
Listen, Old Didrik says, you know perfectly well he’s going to shoot her, just to do something. Are you going to step in or are we going to be here all night?
And what can I do?
Put an end to this farce once and for all. I really can’t take being here anymore.
Fine. Let’s do it.
Yes, let’s do it. This poor bastard thinks my life is worth something. And now I’m going to play a nice little trick on him. Old Didrik is right: let’s close this comedy, because night is falling here.
Only, I don’t want to leave just yet. No, I’ve earned the right to see how it ends, at least.
I turn unhurriedly but decisively, and while I look at that scumfuck in his little pervert’s eyes, with both hands I stop him from raising the pistol too high, so that he shoots me in the belly.
My legs give way, I collapse like a sack of potatoes.
SZOC.
Fortunately, as I turn, I have just enough time to see Rikku’s axe bury itself exactly in the centre of his forehead. The left eye is crushed like a grape, the right one flies out and hangs by the optic tendon.
It dangles in a funny way ha ha ha ha.
Old Didrik lies down here beside me. I’d like to talk a while about Caterina, but no: I won’t do it, there’s no time.
Death, finally.
© 2026 Grimelight. All rights reserved. Don’t be a dick. Good luck, and godspeed.
A bullet to belly, they can work with that. Don't go just yet, Didrik.
Vivid, man! Gripping. Is that the end?