by Libby Doyle
If I jumped, perhaps I would become as senseless as the rocks that broke my body. The Council should have killed me. It is cruel, to deprive me of purpose. It is dangerous.
Barakiel did not want to leave Ireland. He loved this wild, green place, but he feared for the brothers who had welcomed him. The monks of Corcomroe Abbey led quiet lives in harmony with nature. Barakiel had tried to do the same, but he felt Destruction growing within him.
I admired these brothers once. Now I envy them their purpose. Now I dream of wringing their necks.
Even if he cast his body on the rocks below, he would not die, and he refused to die at the hands of a demon. He stared at the storm-laden clouds as a harsh wind drove them south, hiding then revealing the sun.
You will not claim me, father. I do not want to hurt anyone. I will meet the Stream.
The Stream was the boundary of the Creative Realm. The Covalent believed this realm was their place of origin, but they understood little about it beyond a sense of constant motion and furious power. To enter—to meet the Stream—was to be absorbed by its fearsome energy, never to return. Those who did were usually far older or weaker than Barakiel, but anyone would think his choice a valid one given his aimlessness and isolation.
“What in the name of Balance are you doing all the way out here?” Pellus raised his voice to be heard over the wind as he crested the top of the hill. “I was looking all over for you. You were supposed to meet me in our usual spot.”
Barakiel snapped his head to stare at the adept. Pellus stopped a few feet away, concern etched on his face.
“The agitation. No better?”
“It is worse.”
“I suspected as much. You grow more powerful each phase.”
“Power?” Barakiel laughed bitterly. “More like impotent rage.”
“Remember what your mother taught you. Like all warriors, you have a compulsion toward violence, an innate need to take up your sword. And you are a Warrior of the Rising. The blood of the Guardians pounds through your veins. Your subconscious is on fire with their memories. You are a born weapon.”
“A useless weapon!” Barakiel shouted, looking about wildly before fixing his burning blue eyes on the sea. “A weapon that will turn upon the innocent. You must take me to the Creative Realm, Pellus. I will meet the Stream.”
“What?” Pellus said. “You are mad. I would rather meet the Stream myself than allow a warrior like you to waste himself.” He grasped Barakiel’s arm. “Look at me! I know you are struggling with your power in a way that I cannot understand, but give me a chance to help you. The Stream is for ancient Covalent who are weary of life. For weak Covalent who are a burden to the citizens. Not for you.”
“I am like him, Pellus.” Horror swept Barakiel, a chill along his skin. “I am just like my father.”
“You are not.” Pellus strode toward the edge of the cliff. When he turned back his eyes were bright with anger. “You have been deprived of Balance. If you were home, you would wield your sword in service to the Realm. Selflessness, honor and duty would channel your energy.”
The cawing of a distant flock of birds came over the sea, carried by the wind. Barakiel watched them fly. He wished he could lose himself among them.
“When I was small my mother taught me about The Rising,” he said, his eyes never leaving the birds. “She told me how the Guardians used their collective power to bond Creation and Destruction, to raise up the Turning. How they gave their lives. She told me that without their sacrifice, the elemental forces would have crushed us. I know their blood runs in my veins, Pellus. They are the highest of heroes. I feel ashamed when I think of them.”
“Do not feel ashamed. Your exile is not your fault.”
“It makes no difference whose fault it is. How long before I lose control and turn to violence for amusement? I am Lucifer in waiting.”
Pellus searched Barakiel’s face, his emotions seemingly shoved back wherever he kept them. “Your father was a great leader before he was consumed by Destruction,” he said. “You could be as well.”
Barakiel picked up a piece of shattered limestone and flung it out to sea. It traveled so far he couldn’t see where it fell to the water.
“My mother could always make him laugh,” he said. “His laughter would shake the walls of our chambers.”
“We all grieve for Lucifer,” Pellus said. “He was laid low by his own arrogance and impatience. Before the war, he argued that the Covalent should seek to conquer other worlds, or build new ones. Some members of the Council agreed with him. Some agreed that we should subjugate the Earthly Realm.”
Warriors of the Rising suffered from a terrible malaise at the time, Pellus explained. The demons that streamed nonstop from the Destructive Realm were not challenging opponents, but more sprang from the soil each turn. The warriors grew bored with the pedestrian task of killing them. They fought each other, sometimes to the death. Many met the Stream or became addicted to haze or dire essence. Lucifer saw exploration and conquest as a way to renew the warriors’ purpose.
“If only he had waited,” Pellus continued. “If only he had let his allies on the Council work with the others. Some compromise could have been reached. Instead, Lucifer moved to win the Travelers Guild to his cause. The Council tried to arrest him, as if anyone could succeed in taking such a warrior into custody. Your father resorted to war. He thought nothing could stop him.”
Barakiel had heard all this from his mother. He didn’t know why Pellus was rehashing it now. It made him feel worse.
“If my mother had not spent all her effort protecting me, she could have gone to him,” he said. “She could have convinced him to lay down his arms before Destruction poisoned him beyond reason. If I had never been born, the Realm would be at peace.”
“Do not be ridiculous. You are not that important.” The adept’s harsh words were belied by the compassion in his eyes. “Your ego is feeding your despair.”
“I know the answer to my despair. Take me to meet the Stream.”
“I will not,” Pellus said. “I will help you. I knew it would come to this. I have spoken with the Council. I have asked whether you could return home to take up your duty. They flatly refused, but I will press them.”
The warrior stood there with his mouth hanging open, not knowing if he should let himself hope.
“I have been thinking,” Pellus continued. “With Ravellen’s help, I may be able to persuade them to let you fight from exile. If your father can sense your presence, Covalent City will be safe so long as you return here to the Earthly Realm after battle. And your continued exile will allow the Council to control you.”
The adept explained his proposal. Unless he was in battle, Barakiel would remain home for only a fraction of a turn, a Covalent measure of time slightly longer than an earthly day. He would join his fellow warriors just before they marched through the city gates into the Turning, where the battle with Lucifer’s forces constantly raged.
Pellus would propose that Barakiel fight a few times each phase, a period equivalent to about six earthly weeks.
“My only worry is that your father will concentrate the Corrupted against you. You will be in greater peril than any other warrior.”
“Who cares?!” Barakiel strode across the layered rock. He wanted to howl with excitement. “Let that be a selling point! The Council can use it to their advantage.”
“You want to make yourself bait.”
“Better to be bait than useless.”
“All right.” Pellus gave him an admiring look. “I will ask. We have a good chance, I believe. The war has not been going well. The Council needs your sword.”
Barakiel spun around and slapped Pellus on the back. “Oh, thank you, my most excellent friend!”
“You are welcome. You should return to the abbey. Meet me at our usual spot at dawn three days from now. I need to secure an audience. The Council needs to see for themselves what you have become.” Pellus nodded to the warrior, then
bounded down the hill to the kinetic rift.
For Barakiel, the world was transformed. The mighty ocean that seemed to mock him with its crashing now called to him, offering its energy. He took a lungful of pure Irish air and charged across the rocky hills of the Burren so fast that he was little more than a blur, not even caring if he were to encounter some random monk. If he were to stop, he would seem to have walked out of the air.
The dawn bathed the layered gray hills of the Burren in pink light as Barakiel waited for his traveler. When Pellus appeared he wore a grin, so Barakiel knew the Council had granted them an audience. Pellus reported that Abraxos and his allies had fought hard against the proposal, arguing it would be foolish to give Lucifer’s son an avenue to power by allowing him to fight beside his fellow warriors. The adept had countered, making his case about Barakiel’s strategic value. With Ravellen’s support, Pellus had prevailed.
The two Covalent slipped into the rift, emerging onto the Great Plaza a few pulses later in a flash of ultraviolet light. As the energy of the Covalent Realm flowed into Barakiel, he threw his head and arms back, breathing deeply.
I thought I felt strong in the Realm in my youth. Little did I know.
When Barakiel stopped luxuriating, he noticed Pellus staring at him.
Little did you know either, my friend.
With a glance toward a few citizens who were also staring, Pellus walked off toward the Keep, gesturing for Barakiel to follow. In the anteroom of the Council Chamber, the warrior tried to focus as the attendant swung the doors wide. The power was intoxicating.
He strode into the Chamber. The members did not seem as they had so long ago. He had been frightened when he faced them last and tried to cover his fear with impertinence. Now, he felt no fear. Pellus said they needed to see what he had become, so he concentrated on the strength he could feel running through his veins and the energy that coursed through his limbs.
This power is what I have become.
The huge table shimmered before Barakiel like a moonlit lake. The Council members gaped at him, some clearly apprehensive. He was, after all, the progeny of Lucifer and Yahoel, two of the most powerful Warriors of the Rising the Realm had ever known.
The Council invited him to make his case, then voted. He would be permitted to fight from exile. Barakiel tamped down the urge to throw the attendants into the air like confetti. He realized the fight had happened well before he set foot in the chamber. Gratitude flooded his heart. For Ravellen. For Pellus. The adept’s wisdom and skill lent his opinion great weight.
On behalf of the Council, Ravellen described the terms. Barakiel was not to fight on a regular basis as the other warriors did, although he would be attached to a battalion. Instead, he would appear randomly, so that his appearance could not be predicted in case they ever needed to use him strategically. He would remain in Covalent City for only a fraction of a turn before and after a battle so that Lucifer would have no time to react to his presence.
“Thank you, Madam President, and members of the Council,” Barakiel said, bowing low. “You have my deepest gratitude. I will fight well.”
“I have no doubt, warrior,” Ravellen said.
They rose to recite the Covalent Pledge. Barakiel remembered.
We are Covalent.
We stand between Creation and Destruction.
To bond them, to bind them.
Our blood we pledge to this.
To Balance, preserver of life.
Covalent City, Phase 14238, Earthly Year 1465
Gratitude danced in Barakiel’s mind as he marched at the rear of a formation of Covalent warriors, a thousand strong. He held his new sword at the ready. Forged by a master artisan, it was the finest blade Barakiel had ever encountered. He hefted it now, relishing the way the grip fit his hand, admiring the sword’s dull blue gleam and its perfect symmetry and balance.
As they approached the Turning, his body throbbed and flashed with power. The lesser warriors on either side of him stole fascinated glances, but they were suspicious. They were not friendly.
Barakiel had been assigned to serve under Commander Remiel, whose warriors seemed to hang on her every word. He counted this as a good sign. She’d explained that their battalion would be one of three that held the Turning at any given time to prevent Lucifer’s forces from storming the city gates, a typical tour of duty. Then she’d sent him to the rear of the formation where his lack of experience would do the least damage. He didn’t blame her. Any good commander would have done the same with an untested warrior. But he grinned as he marched.
After this turn, my place will never be in the back of the formation again.
The battalion advanced into the wall of silver and amethyst light at the edge of the Turning. Barakiel had passed through it on his ill-fated journey to save his mother, but he was still staggered by its shimmering beauty, and by the power that welled up within him from the contact. Warriors had been fighting in the Turning since the Guardians created it by fusing their minds to bond the elemental forces, an event known as The Rising. Unfortunately, the bonded Destructive Force had given birth to the demons. With Lucifer’s mind now directing the beasts, keeping them at bay was hardly a simple proposition.
A short march later and the demon swarm was upon them, all snarls and spit and swinging axes. Barakiel drew his sword from his back sheath and launched himself at the largest beast he saw, his blue steel moving so quickly it seemed like nothing but a luminous streak had taken the demon’s head. Barakiel turned to the next brute, and the next, pivoting from side to side, sweeping with his blade while he kept its edges perfectly parallel to the ground. He was far too fast and strong for the demons to mount a defense.
When he noticed a fellow warrior surrounded by a slobbering crowd, he leaped into its center with a yell. He thrust his sword so forcefully into the torso of the nearest demon that it traveled through and wounded the arm of the one behind it. Barakiel crouched and pushed up his blade. Half the demon’s body fell away. He burst over the carcass, brought his sword up to his full height and then down in a sweeping arc. He took the second demon’s head clean off and whirled to face the others. They fled. The warrior to whose aid he had come regarded him with amazement.
“Who in the name of Balance are you?” he asked.
“I am new.”
CHAPTER 5
Philadelphia, Earthly Year 2014, Phase 18997
THE YOUNG MAN at Century Lounge who took Barakiel’s money had a full bushy beard and tattoos all over his neck. Barakiel was glad he had dressed for the club, in jeans, motorcycle boots, and a black T-shirt. People always stared at him, but the right clothes sometimes helped.
The upstairs room where the bands played was dark and crowded. A tall, lanky man moved about on stage, hooking things up and staring out at the sound technician while he said, “check, check” into the microphones. Barakiel bought a beer and leaned against the back wall. Nearby he heard two men talking about the band.
“Oh, you’ve never seen these guys? They’re great. Loud and high energy but better musicians than most bands. And the lead guitarist is fucking hot.”
Barakiel smiled to hear it.
That she is.
The room grew more crowded as people came in from the bar downstairs. Barakiel noticed a trim, brown-haired woman sizing him up. While everyone stared at him, the quality of her scrutiny was different. He wondered if she was security. She was older than the rest of the crowd and held herself like she might make everyone line up against the wall at any moment.
I really wish this show would begin.
Zan sat on the thrift-store couch in the green room at Century Lounge tuning her Les Paul Goldtop. Scott, the bass player, came in from checking the microphones, picked up his half-finished beer and sat drinking with Mikey and Jason, the drummer and the rhythm guitarist. They were all talking about the setlist again when Mel burst into the room.
“You’ll never guess who’s here, Zan.”
“Who?”
“That guy. The weapons guy.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Boy, you were right. He’s way better live. The man is impossibly fine. Just seriously, impossibly fine.”
After she digested the news, Zan left the room. She charged in a minute later.
“It’s him. Oh my god! That’s Rainer.”
“Who’s Rainer?” asked Scott.
“This handsome man I met on the job. Like a true professional, I hit on him by inviting him to come see us play.”
“He must be something special. You never like anyone,” Mikey said.
“You’ll see,” Mel said.
Zan danced around, rubbing her hands together. “I’m going to show off.”
Mikey gave her an oh-please look. “You always show off.”
“I’m going to show off like I have never shown off before.”
“Shit. I guess we’re in for it tonight,” Jason said.
About twenty minutes after Barakiel arrived, the lights went down, the canned music ceased and the crowd got noisy. The band appeared. Zan took her place at the center front of the stage, the bass player to her right, another guitarist to her left, the drums behind her. Her hair fell loosely over her face as she lifted the strap of her gold-toned guitar over her head.
“Hello, we’re Sawtooth. How’s everybody doing tonight?” The crowd responded with a chorus of hoots.
Although Barakiel wanted to hear Zan play, he wished she’d waited a few moments before she obscured her form with the guitar. Her thick black hair was free and wild and she was dressed in a pair of low rider jeans, a wide leather belt, and a black tank top. He wanted to linger on the way her waist curved beautifully into her hips.
The lead guitarist is fucking hot.
He chuckled to himself. A second later, Zan played a muddy, ominous riff and began to sing in a rich mezzo-soprano. After the first verse, the other instruments kicked in. When the song got to the bridge, she played a blazing lead, throwing her guitar around with a total lack of self-consciousness, like it was part of her body. Her precision and speed were astounding.
