Angels and Djinn, Book 3: Zariel's Doom

by Lewis, Joseph Robert

  “Thank you.” She paused, her eyes darkening as her brow wrinkled. “They’re all saying there’s a battle in the city. Will we be safe here?”

  He managed a smile. “Maybe. Maybe not. It would be better if you headed south with the others, as far as you can go.”

  “Okay.” She moved as though about to stand up. “Are you coming too?”

  “Well, I mean… If you have her, then I…” He stood and backed away, his eyes fixed on Nadira. His hand bumped the handle of his sword, and he gripped it to steady himself. His arm felt light and empty now, and Talia looked so frail that he almost took the girl back, but instead he managed a lopsided smile and helped her up. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Outside the cavern, the sun blazed in his eyes and he turned back toward the shade where saw a familiar eagle perched on a ledge just to the left of the entrance. “Nyasha?”

  The martial eagle squawked and bobbed her head. Woodenly, he pulled on his heavy glove and let the huge bird glide over to him and land on his arm. He stroked the back of her head. “Good to see you too. Funny, you feel lighter now.”

  Talia stepped out into the sunlight with Nadira on her hip, and they turned to walk on down the beach with the stream of refugees. Zerai tried not to glance at Nadira too often, but still he did, reassuring himself that she was still there, still all right, even though she was no longer in his arms.

  It’s going to be okay.

  It is.

  Somehow.

  He glanced back at the mouth of the cave, hoping to see more people leaving, but instead something bright caught his eye, a trail of fire falling from the sky. No, it was racing down the distant face of the cliff back near the gates of the city, a figure of fire, running and leaping so fast that only the burning red wake behind it made it visible at all.

  And then he saw a second one following the first.

  And then he saw a third one.

  Djinn!

  “Djinn!” he screamed as he drew his sword and hurled Nyasha into the air. “Djinn!”

  Chapter 32

  “Djinn!” Zerai waved his sword at the refugees. “Run!”

  The people around him screamed and wailed as they looked all over for the enemy, and one by one they saw the three figures burning down the cliff face and they began running wildly down the beach, shrieking as they threw down their bags and baskets and food.

  Zerai grabbed Talia and hurried her back up the slope to the mouth of the cavern where dozens of people were now poking their heads out to investigate the panic on the beach.

  “Get back inside!” He waved violently at them to move back into the shadows. “Get back! All the way back!”

  Most of the gawkers pulled back, but some remained and these the falconer grabbed by the arms and shoved back inside, out of sight. He saw Talia crouching against the wall, not far away, with Nadira in her arms, and he paused, his mind racing.

  Am I doing the right thing? Should I get them out of here, or push them farther in? Can I really protect them? Do they have any chance of living through the next few minutes?

  Do I?

  He was almost going to call out to the young mother, almost going to beckon her forward, almost going to try to sneak her and her daughter out before the djinn arrived. But then…

  “Look out!” a man shouted.

  Zerai whirled, more on instinct than anything else, and he whipped his short sword across the throat of the djinn standing right behind him. The flame-haired warrior gaped back at him in surprise as dark, watery blood spilled from his neck and he collapsed to the ground where his blood-and-copper hair spilled across the sand.

  “Fire, fire!”

  Hands were hitting him and Zerai looked down dumbly to see three people trying to beat out the flames on his jacket where the djinn had touched him. He dropped his sword and threw off the jacket, hurling out onto the sand, and then he picked up his sword and looked at the dead djinn.

  Maybe I can… Maybe I can save them.

  All of them.

  He peered out from the cave to survey the beach and saw the other two djinn racing up and down the sand, striking down the screaming refugees one by one and leaving trails of red fire from body to body. Zerai grimaced as he watched the innocents die, gripping his sword tighter, wanting to charge out into the sunlight, screaming and slashing, doing something, anything, to save them.

  But he stayed still and silent, gesturing for the people behind him to stay back, to stay down, to stay quiet.

  When the second djinn streaked toward the mouth of the cavern, Zerai was crouched in the shadows and watching the trail of flames to try to guess where exactly his swift enemy was. And when the moment arrived, the falconer lunged up from his hiding place and swung his blade where he knew the djinn’s neck would be.

  And missed.

  The djinn ducked and leaned to dodge the sword, throwing out his hand to keep his balance, and so it was only this hand that Zerai hacked off the warrior’s body. The djinn shrieked and gasped, clutching his severed wrist as it poured thin black blood on the sand. Zerai spun back and sliced again and again at the wounded djinn, but each time the warrior managed to dash or leap or stumble just out of reach as bright red flames growled and flashed around his feet and hair. With every desperate swing of his sword, Zerai felt himself getting a little more tired, a little more desperate and unfocused. The enemy was wounded and off balance, but his uncanny speed kept him safely out of reach, and the seconds were ticking by.

  Have to kill him now! Have to be ready for the third one! No time for this, no time!

  Nyasha slammed into the djinn’s back without warning, sinking her massive talons into the flesh of the warrior’s back and stabbing his neck with her beak so she could tear out whole shreds of muscle and unleashing a fresh torrent of black blood that sprayed into the air. The warrior’s eyes went wide as he spasmed and flailed, but Nyasha’s powerful wings beat the air, dragging him backward as he bled to death on his feet.

  When the djinn finally fell dead on the beach, Nyasha perched on his chest and squawked, blinking her huge golden eyes. And then she began to feed. Zerai stared in amazement for a long moment.

  Maybe there is a God after all.

  He turned back toward the cavern and a burning blade slipped in between his ribs. He froze, staring into the dark red eyes of a young woman with hair that flashed crimson and gold as tiny red flames danced up her arms and floated in the air over her head. He gasped as the air flooded out of his lung and the entire side of his body seemed to burn and freeze all at once. She smiled, her eyes flaring brighter as she pulled her knife from his chest and stepped back to watch the flames blacken his shirt around the bleeding wound.

  Zerai couldn’t feel the fire. He couldn’t feel his legs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talia in the shadows of the cave, but he couldn’t call out to her, couldn’t tell her to run or hide.

  No, no, no…

  Slowly, clumsily, awkwardly, he raised his sword arm as high as he could, which was barely waist high, and swung sideways at the djinn’s belly. She slipped back out of reach, and then smacked the sword from his hand, sending the blade clattering on the rocks at the mouth of the cave.

  Zerai didn’t feel his legs collapse, but he felt the beach smash into his knees, and then felt the sand smash into his arm and face. He could feel the flames on his shirt now and wanted to scream, but there was no breath in him. Tears poured from his eyes as the djinn stepped forward and kicked him once in the belly, spreading new flames on his clothes. And then she turned away.

  She turned toward the cave.

  She turned toward Talia. And Nadira.

  Zerai lunged, kicking and wriggling and pushing with his broken, burning body and wrapped his fingers around the djinn’s ankle, and he pulled.

  The djinn fell flat on her face, sprawled on the sand.

  Zerai tried to yell, but nothing came out of his mouth. But Talia saw, and Talia knew.

  The mother ran forward out of the cave, he
r little daughter still clutched in her arms, and she snatched up Zerai’s sword from the ground and struck off the djinn’s head with a single stroke.

  He saw the head roll away.

  He saw Talia drop the sword.

  He saw Nadira staring at him.

  And then he didn’t see anything at all.

  Chapter 33

  Azrael knelt over the ashes of her love. The city of Ramashad stood silent and gray around her as the sounds of battle roared and quaked above her. She could feel them, the angels, warring in the streets of Shivala. Sophir and Juran, Tevad and Arrah, and Zariel. So much rage, and fear, and sorrow.

  Sorrow.

  She touched the ashes. Already cold. And soft, softer than sand or powder.

  “Help me,” she whispered. “Someone. Somebody help me.”

  Then the sobs came again, shaking her, yanking loud gasps and moans from her raw, aching throat. And she screamed, “Somebody help me!”

  Her voice echoed through the empty city.

  “Somebody help me!”

  Her body became a single nerve of pain, burning and shaking.

  “Somebody help me!”

  A hand touched her shoulder, and a voice said, “I’m here.”

  She looked up into the beautiful crystalline face of Raziel as he floated in the air beside her, his six lovely wings spread wide and motionless around him.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “Iyasu.”

  “Oh sister,” he said. “I’m sorry.” The Angel of Life leaned down and kissed the head of the Angel of Death. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Bring him back,” she said with a clear and steady voice.

  “I can’t. You know I can’t,” he said gently.

  “I know. Not him. Just… this.” She touched the ash. “Bring it back. Please.”

  “Of course.” Raziel folded his many wings and stood on the ground beside her, and then knelt down and touched the white ash. The powder glowed softly as every grain scattered across the stones began to shift and flow together, pooling and rising, quickly taking shape and then the light was gone and the ash was gone and Iyasu lay cold and pale on the ground between them. His skin wasn’t burned, and his two eyes were perfect and whole, and closed.

  Azrael touched his cheek, kissed his lips, and wept in silence for a moment. “Thank you.”

  Raziel looked up at the ragged hole in the ceiling of the cavern, at the ragged patch of sky and cloud and sun far above them. The roar of the fires and the groans of the earth echoed down to them, punctuated by the screams of “No!” and “Please!”

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “War,” she said as she gently arranged Iyasu’s hair around his face. “Death. So much death.” The faces of the dying poured through her, the same as they always did.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Why ever?”

  He nodded. “But this is different. Our brothers and sisters are fighting. That hasn’t happened in a long time. A very long time.”

  They both gazed up as a brilliant column of blue fire roared across the hole in the roof, followed by a storm of ice and what appeared to be a large section of the city wall hurtling through the air.

  “Zariel,” she said. “He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t captured, wasn’t tortured. He joined the djinn. He changed them. And now he wants to change everyone. Including us. To be like him. To be like God, I think.”

  “Oh.” Raziel paused. “No. I don’t think we can have that.”

  The Angel of Life rose to his feet and spread his six beautiful wings, and flashed out of sight. Azrael felt her brother arrive in the city above, felt him moving with blinding speed, felt him healing the injured.

  Faces of clerics and djinn washed through her mind, the faces of the dying, courageous young people, full of surprise and regret as they fell. A twinge of memory struck her. It happened from time to time. After enough living, she knew that eventually she would see and even recognize the deaths of people she had once known in life. This time the memory was faint and it took a moment to remember the name of the djinn cleric who had just fallen to the burning blades of nearly a dozen of Zariel’s acolytes.

  Samira. I think her name was Samira…

  She leaned down and brushed her lips over those of her love. “I have to go now. I love you. I’ll always love you. And if I ever can, I will find you again, wherever you are.”

  Slowly, painfully slowly, she stood up, her eyes still on his face, and then she looked up at the tiny blue sky overhead. Her wings unfurled from her shoulders, black as midnight, and she felt her skin grow warm as she let her divine light pour outwards, transforming her sight so that the world appeared to her all in shades of molten gold.

  She looked over at Hadara, still crouched beside her Rahm. “Is he alive?”

  “He had a burn, but now… now it’s gone, I don’t understand how,” the princess said. “I think he’s going to be fine.”

  “Raziel healed him. He’ll come and find you again when it’s safe to go up into the city. Stay here for now.”

  “No, take me with you!” Hadara stood up. “I can help, I can fight.”

  “No,” the angel whispered. “You can’t help me now. Stay with him. Stay with your love. Stay alive.”

  Azrael rose up from the ground, streaking into the air in a storm of black and amber flames. Her world expanded suddenly from the dark and narrow confines of Ramashad to the wide open spaces of Shivala, but it was a Shivala that hardly looked like a city at all. Walls and towers lay in broken piles of stone and dust, huge craters dotted the ground, jagged spires of ice gleamed with reflected flames, and great black scorch marks covered everything in streaks of soot, ash, and cinders.

  And everywhere she saw bodies, bodies running and grappling, bodies writhing in agony, and bodies lying still. Red and brown and black and gray, men and women, humans and djinn, everywhere.

  As she hung in the sky surveying the chaos and carnage below, yet another familiar face flashed by her mind’s eye.

  Zerai?

  The falconer had died in horrible paralyzing agony, his heart overflowing with regrets and unrealized dreams, a vessel full to bursting with frustration and confusion and sadness, all but for one tiny thread, one small feeling in his heart. That feeling was joy and comfort and hope, and its name was Nadira.

  And then he was gone.

  Azrael looked down. The walking mountain that was Sophir stood in a field of shattered stones, surrounded by djinn in white robes that moved faster than the angel could catch them.

  The frozen flames of Juran stood side by side with the watery form of Tevad, who was shaping and reshaping the land around them, distorting the ancient walls and towers of Shivala into shields and rams against the whirlwind of flame-haired djinn hurling waves of fire faster and faster. And in the distance, the blinding column of Arrah glared against the southern wall, no doubt also beset with fleet-footed attackers.

  And everywhere in between she saw the bodies of the clerics, burned and crushed and discarded in the madness. That’s where she found Zariel, strolling calmly through the violence with his long red wings trailing on the ground to either side, and wherever they touched a cleric who was not quite dead, the man or woman would gasp and sit up as their hair blazed like bloody gold and they eyes shone with new power and new purpose, and one by one the transformed magi rose to their feet and began to follow their new master through the blasted streets of Shivala.

  Azrael streaked across the sky and crashed down directly in her mad brother’s path, sending waves of dust and flame blasting outward from her feet. She stood tall in the shattered boulevard, her black wings raised, her eyes blazing with golden fire.

  Zariel paused and looked at her with disdain and disappointment. “Another time, maybe. After I’ve claimed the city of the magi, after I’ve turned our other brothers and sisters, then, maybe, I’ll take the time to deal with you. When your mind is less… fractured.”

  “No. This ends now.” Her voic
e boomed across the thoroughfare, and the flame-haired clerics winced at the power of it.

  “Azrael, poor little sister.” Zariel paced toward her. “You may be Death, death for all things with souls, perhaps even death for angels. I can’t say. But you can’t kill. And the only way you can stop this is to kill me. So you can step aside, or I can cast you aside.”

  “No.” She thought of Iyasu cold and gray on the ground. “I can’t kill you.” And she held out her empty hand to him.

  He looked at her hand, thoughtful and skeptical. Then he looked up at the rampaging angels and djinn battling with fire and earth and steel all around them. “I was going to start with Tevad,” he said. “But maybe it would be more illuminating to see what will happen to poor little you first.”

  He took her hand and a thunderclap shook the earth as a blast of red flame erupted from his hand and washed over her body. But Azrael let the flames pass over her, ignoring the flashes of crimson and gold in her hair as it whipped in her eyes. She pushed through the firestorm with a wave of her own darkness, her own divine essence, roaring down her arms like a flood of cold steel, a single terrible razor more subtle than any other in creation.

  That was who she was. No, it was what she was. The blade that severed the soul from the flesh. Her most basic truth. Her original and eternal purpose. To be that blade. That perfect tool to cleave the immortal from the mortal.

  Zariel gasped and shook, his flames guttering and growling as his body shuddered against the sensation of that blade, sharper than anything that could be described in terms of flesh or steel.

  But he straightened himself, stood taller, spread his wings wider, and poured his red flames upon her with even greater fury. And she felt him burning her, tearing her body apart, just as any fire transforms wood or cloth into ash and cinders, he was changing her immortal flesh from what it was to something else, something new and different. Something not her.

  And she couldn’t stop him. Her dark blade could not cut his bright fires, could not sever his soul from his body. Azrael closed her eyes, groping through the darkness of her mind for answers, for guidance, but all she saw were the faces of the dead marching on and on through her.