Story: "Daredevil - Part 14 - A Terrible Vengeance"

Napoleon, a survivor from the Mutiny of the Bounty, and a demonic killer in the cobblestoned streets of Toulon, 1793.

This is Part 14 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 , Part 11, Part 12 , or Part 13 yet, please start there.

A TERRIBLE VENGEANCE 

TOULON, DECEMBER 1793

The final push had begun on December 17th under low clouds, in heavy rain.

General Dugommier had led five thousand French troops in an all out attack on Fort Mulgrave, ‘Little Gibraltar’ at l’Eguilette point.

Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte — after yet another promotion, now having advanced from Major to General in the space of less than one month — personally took charge of two thousand French troops, storming the walls, his men climbing over spiked parapets, egged on by their beloved little Corsican who himself was leading the charge, saber held high.

It was now after 2 a.m. on December 18th, and the hand-to-hand combat was bloody and brutal, musket shots in close quarters ripping through flesh and splintering bones, bayonets stabbing, sabers slicing, men yelling, cursing, crying out in agony, as their life-blood drained out.

In the dark and the driving rain, Napoleon found himself separated from his troops, and there … there he was.

Lamb.

Wearing the red coat and pale-yellow facings of the British 30th Regiment, musket raised, bayonet affixed, staring directly at Napoleon.

The rain suddenly stopped.

The battle raged on all sides, but it was as if they stood in a bubble, under glass, the two of them separated from the fog of war all around them, the two of them in their own world.

Napoleon could see Lamb clearly in the moonlight. Could see his friend’s familiar features twisted in a grimace.

“Hello, my friend,” Napoleon cried out. His voice bounced back in an odd, dry echo. “Will you not join me? Remember our deal? I am here to honor it. I am here to free you. Come, join me.”

Napoleon spoke in French. A test, of sorts, knowing that the Lamb he knew could barely follow and hardly string three words together in that language.

Yet, when Lamb answered, it was, as Napoleon had suspected, in perfectly fluid French:

“So, you have come for me to join you. Or, is it the other way around. Is it you, Emperor, who have come to join me?” The thing that lived in Lamb twisted the man’s lips into a joyless smile, a smile that left the man’s eyes flat and cold. He slung his rifle behind his back, stood ramrod straight, waiting for Napoleon’s word.

There was no need for pretense. “You are right. Yes, Asmodeus. I have come for you, come to join you.”

The demon cocked Lamb’s head at an angle that seemed, somehow, inhuman, insectile. “And what makes you think I’m done with this fine specimen of British manhood?” He stepped back, put his hands out, arms wide, palms ups.

Napoleon took a few steps closer. “Really? A mere Sergeant? You’re satisfied with him, when you could have me? At least I would think you’ve sucked all the juice out of him by now.”

The demon laughed with Lamb’s mouth. “I suppose so,” the mouth said. “This little lamb has become old mutton, tough and stringy. Yes, pretty much a husk by now. Not much fight left. A shame, really. This one was once full of vim and vigor, piss and vinegar.”

“I have a deal for you.”

“Oh, do tell.” The demon clapped Lamb’s hands together, screwed up his face in a big smile. “My favorite thing, deals.”

“Take me. I offer myself voluntarily.”

“And what do you expect to get in return?”

“Only the world.”

“Oh, is that all?” The demon’s smile widened. “Well, just so happens, that’s what I have to give. And all I want in return is a very small thing. So small, it can’t even be seen with the naked eye. Your soul.”

It was Napoleon’s time to laugh. “Do I have to believe that I have one of those? For the deal to work?”

“Frankly, no. Just as the pig does not need to understand that his pancreas exists, and nevertheless, whether the pig knows it or not, when his pancreas is cut out, harvested, it makes the most delicious sweetbreads. Though, I must admit to a preference for at least some level of understanding of what you are about to give up. I prefer my pigs to squeal.”

The small part that was Samuel Job Lamb watched from his little corner of his own vast soul, the tiny part of the immense interior castle Asmodeus had allowed him to occupy, to witness in awareness.

Through his own eyes he saw Naboleone, the man he admired and genuinely liked.

Napoleon, as he now called himself, seemed changed, somehow, larger, even in his small stature. That all-consuming fire that always radiated from him, in all directions, now seemed contained, harnessed. He was, Lamb thought, dangerous. Frightful in aspect, burning eyes, a tiger.

“Your friend, Lamb, he fears you. Fears for you,” Asmodeus said, moving Lamb’s tongue and lips and vocal chords and breath from the inside to push out the words.

“Friend Lamb, have not the fear,” Napoleon said loudly in English. “I come you to set free.”

“That you will. But his soul still belongs to me,” Asmodeus replied in English. “That part of the bargain is not so easily undone.”

“I’ll free his body,” Napoleon once again spoke in French, “and his mind.”

“That you will. And are you ready to give your body and mind over to me?”

“Body, yes. Small as it is, I think it’s big enough for both of us. My mind, my will, ah, I think you’ll find I’m a match for any man, angel, or demon. You and I will be two horses harnessed together. That’s my bargain. You will not ride me, you will not rule me. We will work together, for the glory, for the power.”

“And for this you are willing to give up your immortal soul?”

“Small price.”

“Oh, no. Infinite, eternal price, a frightful price, a terrible vengeance,” Asmodeus once again spoke in English, for Lamb’s benefit. “I shall enjoy you both in an everlasting meal. I will have my Lamb and eat my Napoleon too. Hah hah. You see, Napoleon, they will name a cake after you, a puff pastry. And a cognac. You’ll be the prince of after-dinner treats. Hah hah.” Asmodeus leaned forward, stiffly bending at Lamb’s waist, drew back Lamb’s lips into a sneer. “My little Napoleon, you will be my sweet dessert, my warming liqueur, my after-life treat, forever. And forever, as you will find, is the longest night.”

In that moment, Lamb was given the terrible gift of seeing the reality of his truly lost state, being there, fully present, his naked soul in the teeth of the demon. His mind recoiled, but not before … he felt pain as he had never imagined he could ever bear for even a minute, burning, ripping, stabbing, tearing, and knowing that it would be going on and on and on and on and on, and the utter loss of hope, and the deepest sadness beyond any consoling, and the fear.

“Do your worst!” Napoleon was defiant, but Lamb could see the quiver in the small muscles around his lips.

“Oh, you will see. You will see, and then you will believe. When it’s all to late, then. Are you squealing yet, my little pig, or do I need to huff and puff a little more? Hah hah.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

“Such a hurry. Ever the man of action, hein?”

“What you are about to do, do quickly.”

“I seem to have heard that before.” Asmodeus stepped forward, and as he did, he unslung his rifle, and with a sharp jab, plunged the bayonet deep into Napoleon’s thigh, slightly above the knee.

Napoleon let out a yell, half in surprise, half in genuine pain, fell backwards, hitting the ground hard, grasping his thigh to staunch the wound, as blood welled out.

Asmodeus was suddenly on top of him, face to face, hissing: “Say it! I know you know the words. Say them, and the deal is sealed, your power and glory certain!”

“Come in, I invite you.” Napoleon’s voice was hoarse, weak, but determined. “Of my own free will do I invite you into my heart, my soul. From this moment, I trust only in you.”

Lamb felt it as the deepest out-breath, a complete emptying, as if he had been holding his breath for days, weeks, months, years, and he had been holding back a South Seas windstorm, a typhoon rushing out of him, and then, suddenly, he was fully, completely himself, for the first time in a very long time.

Asmodeus had left, gone out of him, exited, exorcized.

Napoleon shuddered violently, his eyes rolling back in his head, bowing up, only heels and neck touching the ground, then just as suddenly relaxing, collapsing back to the ground.

“Ahhh.”

The expelled breath, like a sigh from the bottom of his soul.

Napoleon opened his eyes.

Smiled.

“Lamb,” he said simply, and it was Naboleone again, his old friend. “I not feel different. Still me.” Speaking in his familiar, endearing broken English.

“Oh, my friend, my poor friend. Why did you do this?”

Lamb embraced Napoleon, held him tight in his arms.

Then, breaking away, seeing the blood pooling by Napoleon’s thigh, he ripped open Napoleon’s jacket, tore a piece off his shirt, and tied up the wound, tight.

“How you feel?” Napoleon’s voice was weak.

“I don’t feel anything … until I smash it up.”

“What you mean?”

“I feel, even now that the demon has left me, I still feel this terrible need for violence. Like I must destroy, break something, just to know that I’m here. Does that make any sense?”

Napoleon looked up and to the right, thinking. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Difference you and me. You break window or cup of wine. Then you feel better. I must break Europe. I must break world.”

“Oh, my friend,” Lamb cried out. “It was not worth the price. You’ve gained the world, but lost your soul. If you can ever undo it, if that grace is ever offered to you, please, please, accept it, if you can.”

Napoleon held Lamb’s eyes in his. “It is too late.” And it was the voice of Asmodeus, speaking with Napoleon’s mouth. “Too late for him, too late for you. Little Lamb, when I am through with you, there won’t be anything left. And your time here, in life, is nearly over. If you happen to see Jean de Vienne, tell him I look forward to our next meeting.”

“Stand back!” The cry came from one of Napoleon’s soldiers, just arriving. “What have you done? Mon Dieu, he’s wounded. You’ve wounded him!”

“Non, non!” Napoleone yelled out, in his own voice this time, not that of Asmodeus.

But, too late.

The muskets fired, four, five of them, the lead ball ripping bloody holes in Lamb’s torso, knocking him backwards.

Lamb’s body collapsed, a bloody rag doll.

— END PART 14 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 15 (the FINAL part) of the story.