Descent of Angels

by Mitchel Scanlon

  But those who repeat such things are liars. Luther always loved Jonson like a brother.

  I know Luther well, and you may be assured I am well-placed to comment on his secrets. Luther is the key to understanding so much of how our world came to be where it is today, but it is better if we do not speak too much of Luther now. It will only work to the detriment of my story. To begin a tale with too many secrets tends to cause confusion after all. In my experience, it is always better if you build towards these things more slowly.

  Poor, poor Luther: we will get to him in time, you may be certain of that point. We will get to it all in time. I will account for everything in time.

  For now, though, the stage of my story is set.

  It is the tenth year of Jonson’s campaign against the great beasts. Nearly all the beasts have been killed, and only a few stragglers remain in the less hospitable and more thinly populated regions of the planet.

  Once the last of the great beasts are gone, we will all be able to build new lives. We can found new settlements. We can clear the trees for fuel and lumber, and plant new fields. For the first time, we will have control over our existence in ways we never had before.

  A golden age beckons our people.

  It is before the Emperor came to our planet, and before the time of angels, but the old ways are already dying. The world of our childhood will not be the world of our future. Many are unhappy at the prospect, but it is entirely possible that the world we inhabit tomorrow will be like nothing we could have foreseen.

  Change can bring out the worst and best in us, or something of both qualities at the same time. Some look to the horizon and fear the future, while others look and see it shining in welcome.

  It is the tenth year of Jonson’s campaign and the world turns beneath our feet. Unknowing, we stand on the brink of a bright new age of progress. We stand on the brink of learning of the Emperor, of the Imperium. We stand on the brink of becoming angels, but, as yet, we know nothing of these things.

  On Caliban it is a time of innocence, but already the storm clouds gather. It is said that a man should be wary of weeping angels, for wherever their teardrops fall, men drown.

  This is the shape of our lives. These are the days that made us, that formed our conflicts and decided our future. This is a time of which much will be written, but little understood. The histories created by those who follow after us will be riddled with falsehoods and fabrications.

  They will not know why we turned from the Lion.

  They will know nothing of our motives, but you can know them. You can know it all. Come listen, and you will hear my secrets. Come listen, and we will talk of Luther and Lion El’Jonson. We will talk of schism and civil war.

  We will give voices to the dead.

  Come, listen, hear my secrets.

  Let us talk of the Dark Angels and the beginnings of their fall.

  BOOK ONE

  CALIBAN

  ONE

  IT BEGAN IN darkness. Zahariel’s eyes snapped open an instant before Lord Cypher’s men came for him. He awoke to find a hand descending to clamp across his mouth. They dragged him from his bed, put a hood over his head and tied his arms behind him. With that, he was hauled blindly down a series of corridors. When at last they came to a halt, he heard one of his captors knock three times on a door.

  The door opened and he was pushed inside.

  ‘Who is brought before us?’ asked a voice in the darkness.

  ‘A stranger,’ Lord Cypher said beside him. ‘He has been brought here bound and blinded. He comes seeking entrance.’

  ‘Bring him closer,’ said the first voice.

  Zahariel felt hands at his arms and shoulders. He was propelled roughly forward and forced to kneel. A shock ran through him as his bare knees met the cold stone floor. Unwilling to let his captors think he was afraid, he tried to suppress a shiver.

  ‘What is your name?’ he heard the first voice again, louder this time. Its tone was rich and deep, a voice accustomed to command. ‘Who are your people?’

  ‘I am Zahariel El’Zurias,’ he replied. In keeping with ancient custom, Zahariel recited his full lineage, wondering if it would be the last time he ever spoke the words. ‘I am the only living son of Zurias El’Kaleal, who in turn was the son of Kaleal El’Gibrael. My people are descended from the line of Sahiel.’

  ‘A nobleman,’ said a third voice. In some ways this voice was more arresting than the others, its tone even more magnetic and compelling than the first. ‘He thinks he should be allowed among us because his father was important. I say he isn’t good enough. He isn’t worthy. We should throw him from the tower and be done with it.’

  ‘We will see,’ said the first voice. Zahariel heard the telltale rasp of a knife being slid from its sheath. He felt the uncomfortable sensation of cold metal against his skin as a blade was pressed to his throat.

  ‘First, we will test him,’ said the voice in the darkness. ‘You feel the blade at your throat?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Zahariel.

  ‘Know this, then, a lie is a betrayal of our vows. Here, we deal only in truth. If you lie, I will know it. If I hear a lie, I will cut your throat. Do you accept these terms?’

  ‘Yes, I accept them.’

  ‘Do you? Understand, I am asking for an oath. Even when I take the knife away from your throat, even when I am dead, even when this knife is rusted and dull and useless, the oath you make by its edge will still be binding. Are you prepared to make an oath?’

  ‘I am prepared,’ said Zahariel. ‘I will make the oath.’

  ‘First, tell me by what right you have come here? Who are you to claim entrance to our gathering? By what right do you claim to be worthy to stand among us?’

  ‘I have completed the first portion of my training and I have been judged worthy by my masters,’ said Zahariel.

  ‘That is a start. But it takes more than that to be welcomed among us. That is why you must be tested.’

  ZAHARIEL HAD KNOWN they would be coming for him. Master Ramiel had told him as much the previous day, though, as usual, the old man’s words were cloaked in shadows, concealing as much as they revealed.

  ‘You understand I cannot tell you much,’ Master Ramiel had said. ‘It is not the way we do these things. The initiation ritual is ancient. It pre-dates the Order’s foundation by thousands of years. Some even say our ancestors may have brought it with them from Terra.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Zahariel.

  ‘Do you?’ his master asked.

  He turned to stare at Zahariel with quick, hooded eyes. In the past, Zahariel might have felt the need to look away under the intensity of his gaze, but now he met the old man’s eyes directly.

  ‘Yes, I think you do,’ said Master Ramiel, after a short pause. A smile creased his weathered face. ‘You are different, Zahariel. I noticed it in your face when you first joined our order.’

  They were sitting in one of the many practice halls inside Aldurukh, where knights and supplicants spent their days honing the skills they needed to survive on Caliban. The practice hall was empty, the hour so early that even the supplicants were not yet awake. Ordinarily, Zahariel would also have been abed, but a message from Master Ramiel had brought him to the practice hall an hour before daybreak.

  ‘In the course of the next night, you will attend your initiation ceremony into the Order,’ said Master Ramiel. ‘During the ceremony, you will swear your oath of loyalty and will begin your journey to becoming a knight of the Order.’

  ‘Do you wish to take me through the procedures for the ceremony?’ asked Zahariel. ‘So I know what to expect?’

  Ramiel shook his head, and Zahariel knew the old man had other things on his mind.

  ‘Despite the claims of some of our rivals, the knights of the Order are not entirely immune to the lure of tradition. We understand the vital role it can play in our lives. Human beings crave ritual; it gives meaning to everyday life and adds gravity to our deeds. More than that, it
can even help us to understand our place in the world. Granted, we disagree with those who hold a religious view of such things. We see no supernatural significance in tradition, whether our own, or anyone else’s. In our view, the most important function of ritual and tradition is not to achieve any effect in the outer world, but to create stability and balance in the inner world of the mind. If tradition has any outer function at all, it is to create a sense of social cohesion. It might almost be described as the glue holding our society together.’

  The old man paused again. ‘You are looking at me strangely, Zahariel. Have I touched a nerve?’

  ‘No,’ said Zahariel. ‘I’m just tired, master. I hadn’t expected a lecture on tradition at this hour in the morning.’

  ‘Fair enough: you’re right, I didn’t bring you here to discuss the social aspects of tradition. I am more concerned with the symbolism of some of the Order’s rituals. I want to make sure you understood their significance before they come for you.’

  Master Ramiel rose to his feet and walked into the middle of the room. In accordance with the Order’s traditions, there was a spiral design inscribed into the floor of the practice hall, stretching from one end of the room to the other.

  ‘You know why this is here, Zahariel? The spiral?’

  ‘I do, master,’ said Zahariel, rising to join Ramiel. ‘The spiral is the foundation of all the Order’s sword work, as much a part of its physical doctrines as the Verbatim is the cornerstone to our mental disciplines.’

  ‘Indeed so, Zahariel, but it is so much more than that. From your first day, you have been made to walk the spiral on the practice hall floor, launching pre-set routines of attack and defence at different stages of your journey. Do you know why?’

  Zahariel hesitated before answering. ‘I assumed it was an ancient sword ritual of Terra. Is that not so?’

  ‘Possibly,’ admitted Ramiel, ‘but by rigorously practising the spiral, endlessly repeating its patterns day after day for years until the movements become second nature, you will master an unbeatable system of self-defence.’

  Master Ramiel began walking the spiral, his staff moving as though in an elaborate ballet of ritual combat. ‘The knights of the Order regularly defeat representatives from the other knightly orders in tourneys and mock duels. The spiral is the reason.’

  At last, Ramiel reached the centre of the spiral and indicated the lines encircling him with a wide sweep of his staff. ‘Look at the pattern laid out before us. This room has been here ever since the monastery at Aldurukh was founded. You see how smooth the edges of the spiral are in places, worn down by the feet of the thousands of warriors who have walked its path since it was put here. But what is the spiral, Zahariel? What do you see here?’

  ‘I see attack and defence,’ Zahariel replied. ‘It is the path to excellence, and to the defeat of my enemies.’

  ‘Attack and defence?’ Master Ramiel slowly nodded his head as he spoke the words, as though considering them. ‘It is a good answer, as far as it goes. Spoken like a true warrior. But a knight must be more than just a warrior. He must be the guardian and guide of our people. He must protect them from all their enemies, not just the human and bestial ones. It is not enough to protect our people from the beasts, or from predatory warlords and bandits. The path to excellence is a far harder and rockier road than that. No, we must try to shield the population of Caliban from every threat that assails them. We must do our best to protect them from hunger and want, from disease and malnutrition, from suffering and hardship. Ultimately, I grant you, it is an impossible task. There will always be suffering. There will always be hardship, but for so long as the Order exists, we must strive to defeat these evils. The measure of our success in this case is not so much that we win the battle, but that we are willing to fight it at all. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so, master,’ Zahariel answered, ‘but I do not see how it relates to the spiral.’

  ‘The spiral is an ancient symbol,’ Master Ramiel said. ‘They say it was found carved on some of mankind’s oldest tombs. It represents the journey we take in life. You are young, Zahariel, and so your experience of these things is limited, but I will tell you of a mystery of life that is revealed to a man as he gets older. Our lives repeat themselves. Time and time again, we face the same conflicts. We take the same actions. We make the same mistakes. It is as though our lives circle the same fixed point, repeating similar patterns endlessly from birth to death. Some call this “the eternal return”. That which is true for individuals is also true for the mass of humanity as a whole. One need only look at history to see that repeating the same mistakes is hardly the folly of individuals alone. Entire cultures and nations do exactly the same thing. We should know better, but somehow we never do.’

  ‘If this is true, if the spiral represents our lives, where does it lead?’ asked Zahariel, looking at the design on the floor beneath them. ‘The spiral never comes to an end. Every place where its lines should end, they turn back on themselves, creating a repeating pattern.’

  ‘What does it remind you of?’ asked Ramiel.

  Zahariel cocked his head to one side and said, ‘It’s like a serpent swallowing its tail.’

  ‘An ancient symbol indeed,’ nodded Ramiel, ‘one of the oldest.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It is a symbol or rebirth and renewal,’ said Ramiel. ‘A symbol of new beginnings and immortality.’

  Zahariel nodded, though the sense of much of what Ramiel was saying was lost upon him. ‘If you are saying that our lives repeat themselves, isn’t that the same as the teachings of the religious diehards? They say after death our spirits are reborn in new bodies. They talk of their own spiral as well. They say it exists in the underworld, and that by walking it we choose the path of our rebirth. Is that true?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Master Ramiel.

  Seeing the expression of Zahariel’s face, Ramiel smiled again. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Zahariel. I know it is commonplace among supplicants to view their masters as the font of all wisdom and knowledge, but there are limits even to my insights. I can only comment on the paths we walk in life. As to what happens after death, who can say? By its very nature, death is an insoluble mystery to us. No one has ever returned from its lands, at least not to my knowledge, so how can anyone define its nature? Are we simply a collection of physical processes that begins with birth and ends with death, or is there more to us than that? Show me the man who claims to have the answer to that question, and I will show you a liar.’

  Without waiting for him to comment, Master Ramiel continued ‘We are digressing, however. I called you here because I wanted to emphasise the symbolism underlying some of our traditions. I told you earlier that I couldn’t reveal too much about your forthcoming initiation ceremony. It would not be seemly for me to do so. It is better you experience the ceremony without preconceptions. I simply wanted to ensure you had some inkling that the outer circumstances of the ceremony, the ritual and its accoutrements, have a significance that extends beyond their mere physical aspect. All these things are symbolic. Remember, this is not just an initiation, but a ceremony of rebirth. Symbolically, you will be reborn from one state into another. You will make the transition from supplicant to knight, and from boy to man.’

  ‘Tomorrow, the old Zahariel will be dead,’ Master Ramiel said finally. ‘I wish my best to the new Zahariel. May he live a long and worthy life.’

  IT WAS MORE an interrogation than a test.

  Zahariel knelt on the stone floor, his head hooded, his hands bound, and the knife still at his throat. He knelt, while his unseen captors hurled rapid-fire questions at him one after the other. At first, they questioned him at length about the Verbatim. They insisted he recite entire passages from memory. They made him explain each passage’s meaning. They asked him about his sword work, whether it was better to respond to a two-handed descending strike by evading the blow or by meeting it with a parry.

  ‘What kind
of parry?’ the first voice asked after they had heard his answer. ‘Your opponent is right-handed and his blow comes at you on a high diagonal line. Do you deflect to your left or right? Do you follow with a riposte, a counter-slash, or a punch with your free hand? Should that hand even be free? Where is your pistol? Answer quickly.’

  So it went on. They asked questions about warhorses, about hunting beasts, about pistols, swords, lances, strategy and wilderness survival. They asked him about the dangers of sweetroot flowers, the most secure places to seek shelter in the forest during an unexpected storm and how to recognise the difference between the tracks of a mellei bird and a raptor. They asked him to explain the decisions that needed to be made in setting up an ambush, what warning signs a commander should look out for when adopting a defensive perimeter, and what was the best way to attack an enemy who had the advantages of both higher ground and a fixed position.

  ‘What are the accepted grounds for challenging a knight from another order to a duel?’ the second voice, the one he knew was Lord Cypher’s, asked him. ‘What form should the challenge take? How do you choose your seconds? What about weapons? Where should the duel take place? Is honour the only consideration, or should there be others? Answer quickly.’

  There were more men in the room, he was sure of it, but only three of his captors contributed to the interrogation. They handled it smoothly, as though each was well practiced in these situations, swiftly following every one of his answers with yet another question.

  At times, attempting to confuse him, two of them would ask different questions in tandem, sometimes all three at the same time. Zahariel refused to be flustered or intimidated, he refused to let his confidence be undermined by the off-putting conditions. It did not matter that he could not see or that his hands were tied. It did not matter that there was a knife against his throat.