You waste your efforts, Zahariel of the Order. You cannot harm us with the weapons of this realm…
The voice echoed within his skull, and Zahariel cried out at the sound, the voice resonating as though the speaker was directly in front of him.
‘Who are you?’ he cried, regaining control of his senses and casting wild looks around the clearing. He saw nothing of his interlocutors, but spun his horse in a circle, his sword leaping to his hand.
‘Show yourselves!’ he again demanded. ‘I grow weary of these parlour tricks!’
Very well…
No sooner had the words registered in his consciousness than he caught sight of one of the unseen speakers.
A figure stepped from the darkness of the trees. It was no more than a few feet in height, and was swathed from head to foot in a hooded hessian robe that obscured every inch of its flesh. The darkness beneath its hood was more complete than that which surrounded Zahariel, and he had the conviction that were he to see the truth of what lay beneath its cowl, he would be driven irrevocably mad.
Its hands were clasped before it, each sunken in the opposite sleeve. Its posture was servile, though Zahariel detected no servility in its demeanour.
‘What are you?’ asked Zahariel. ‘Are you the Watchers in the Dark?’
That will suffice as an appellation for our purpose.
‘Purpose? What purpose?’ asked Zahariel.
Communicating with you in a manner you will understand. Humans require labels upon their world to make sense of it.
‘Humans?’ said Zahariel. ‘Such a word implies you are… not human, yes?’
Correct, we are of a species unknown to the majority of your race.
‘Then what are you?’
That is unimportant, but what is important is that you leave this place.
‘I cannot,’ said Zahariel. ‘I am sworn to hunt the beast that killed my friend.’
This creature you seek is not here, though it is close.
‘You know where it is? Tell me!’
Very well, but you must swear to leave here and never come back. These woods are corrupt and no good can come of humans being here.
‘Corrupt? Corrupted by what?’
The diminutive figure shook its head.
No, such things are not for humans to know. Your race already knows too much and seeks to tamper with things that should never be.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Zahariel. ‘What are you doing here?’
We are members of, a brotherhood, much like yourself… a cabal dedicated to thwarting the most ancient evil.
‘What evil?’ asked Zahariel. ‘You mean the great beasts?’
No, they are but a symptom of a greater ill. I will not name this evil, suffice to say it is the bane of your race and will one day consume you.
Zahariel felt a chill steal upon him at the mention of this great evil the creature spoke of, a bone-deep knowledge that it spoke the truth. Its words carried the weight of ages within them, and though such a thing was surely impossible, Zahariel felt that this creature might very well be thousands of years old, if not older.
‘This evil. Can it be fought?’ he asked.
Of course, all evil can be fought.
‘Then let me help you defeat it!’ he cried.
The figure shook its head, and Zahariel’s spirits fell.
Evil such as this can never be defeated. It can be held at bay for a time, but so long as there are humans, it will exist.
‘Then what can I do to help?’
Leave. Go far from this place and never return.
Zahariel nodded, only too eager to be away, but unwilling to leave without discovering more about these… aliens.
‘How did you come to be here?’
Again, the figure shook his head, and Zahariel saw two more small figures emerge from the trees, their attire and posture identical to the first.
He asks too many questions!
His race is curious and that will be their downfall. We should kill him.
He had no idea which of the three was speaking, for their voices were multi-layered and swirled around his head like water draining through a sinkhole. Though the speakers were small, and in any physical contest Zahariel knew he could best them easily, he had no doubt that they possessed powers beyond his understanding and could snuff out his existence as easily as a guttering candle.
‘Why should you kill me?’ he said. ‘What harm have I done you?’
Individually, none, but as a race, your kind threatens to doom the galaxy to eternal suffering.
Zahariel’s mind spun with the implications of the creature’s words, that humans existed beyond the confines of Caliban and that an entire race of humankind inhabited the stars above. The sensation was exhilarating, and to know that many of the old myths must be true was like the finest wine dancing upon his tongue.
Emboldened by this new knowledge, he held out his sword and said, ‘I have already sworn that I would oppose evil to my Order, but I swear I shall do all in my power to stand against the same evil you stand against.’
He sensed the creatures’ approbation and knew that they had read the truth beyond his words.
Very well, Zahariel of the Order. We accept your oath. Now it is time for you to go.
Zahariel had a thousand more questions for these watchers, but contented himself with the knowledge he had already gleaned, sheathing his sword and turning his horse, as the Watchers in the Dark melted back into the undergrowth.
As the outline of the watchers blended seamlessly with the darkness, one last question arose in his mind as he recalled something one of the watchers had said.
‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘What did you mean when you said the taint was in me?’
At first, he thought he was to be denied an answer, but in the moment before they faded from view, a voice whispered from the shadows.
Look not to unlock the door that leads to easy power, Zahariel of the Order. Ride back to the lightning tree and you will find what you seek.
Then they were gone.
ZAHARIEL RODE FROM the depths of the forest, his spirits lifting, the leaden weight that hung upon his soul on the way in, growing less with each kilometre that passed on the way out. Something terrible had happened in this part of the forest, something so awful that guardians from another world had come to Caliban to watch over it.
Whether the evil they spoke of was still on Caliban or had left echoes of its malice behind, he didn’t know, and he suspected he was better off in his ignorance. He recognised that the danger of this part of the forest was more than just what might threaten his body, but was something of an order far more dangerous.
He had been made privy to secret knowledge, and if there was one thing the Order prided itself on, it was that its members could keep a secret. The things he had learned and the things he believed would remain locked in his heart forever, for no earthly means of interrogation would force him to divulge those secrets.
Zahariel thought back to his conversation with the Lion atop the tower and how the great warrior had wondered about the existence of Terra or any other inhabited world. He alone on Caliban knew the answer to that question, and the singularity of his position thrilled him.
His journey from the forest’s dark heart passed swiftly, his horse’s step light as it picked an easy path through the tangled weeds and closely packed trees. Even the shadows that had closed in on him before seemed to be lifting, as a diffuse glow of warm, afternoon sunshine broke through the canopies of the forest.
Eventually, the thick underbrush gave way to the beginnings of a hard-packed earth path, and Zahariel smiled as he recognised the track that he had ridden along many hours ago. His horse took the path without need of his command, and he rode through leafy arbours before emerging in the clearing with the blackened, lightning struck tree.
Lost in contemplation, the beast caught Zahariel almost unawares.
The creature sprang at him as if from nowhere.
It had hidden in the shadows behind a stand of twisted and ancient trees near the clearing’s edge. At first, as it charged through the foliage towards him, it was as though a monstrously spined rock had come to life.
Zahariel saw a dark, swift shape bearing down on him. The creature was huge and moved with impossible speed. Terrified, his destrier gave a sudden start and reared up in panic. He fought to stay in his saddle, gripping the reins tightly.
A Calibanite lion, and it was nearly on top of him.
Another second and it would tear him apart.
EIGHT
IN ONE FROZEN, fear extended instant, Zahariel saw a host of the beast’s anatomical details as it charged. Its body was wide and powerful, leonine only in the fact that it was a quadruped with a mane of blade-like spines growing from behind its armoured head. Each of its limbs was sheathed in glistening plates of natural armour that had the quality of rock, yet the pliability of flesh. Claws like knives extended from its front paws, and twin fangs, like the mightiest cavalry sabres protruded from its upper jaw.
Zahariel had wondered if the figures of how many people the beast had slain were inflated to better convey its horror, but in one terrible moment, he knew differently.
Only his instincts, honed by long hours in the shooting ranges of Aldurukh, saved his life.
Zahariel lifted the rotary barrelled pistol that the dying Amadis had given him and fired a rippling salvo of shots, sending every bolt towards the centre of the lion’s mass as his teachers had taught him.
The bolts struck home, but the lion appeared not to feel the blasts as they hit its thick hide. The rounds from his pistol had explosive cores designed to detonate deep inside a target’s body, and had enough stopping power to kill almost anything, even a creature of such startling appearance and shape.
The lion shrugged them off as though it barely felt the impacts.
Roaring in fury, the lion lashed out with a bladed paw as it leapt.
The blow struck Zahariel’s destrier, punching through the animal’s side with an awful, bone breaking crack. The destrier buckled as the lion eviscerated it, and Zahariel was flung bodily from his saddle, landing in a heap in the mud of the clearing.
Zahariel scrambled to his feet quickly as his horse collapsed, its innards spilling from its ruptured body in a flood of hot viscera. Distracted by such an easy kill, the lion’s attention was fixed on Zahariel’s dying mount.
Zahariel fired his pistol again, sending another fusillade at the lion as it took a bite of the screaming horse, the swords of its fangs tearing a great slab of meat from the beast’s rump. The armoured plates around the lion’s body slithered across its body, sparks and chunks of resinous material flying as each bolt struck home without effect.
His gun clicked dry as he emptied the last shots from the magazine, and the lion let out a deafening bellow that was part roar, part howl. Zahariel hurriedly reloaded his weapon, as he backed away from the monster, horrified at the sheer power of it.
The lion prowled around the edge of the clearing, its eyes serpentine and coloured a vivid orange with black slits at their centres. The mane of blades at its neck pulsed with protean motion, each one cutting the air with lethal intent.
Zahariel kept moving, taking sideways steps in opposition to the huge beast. Its throaty growls and the ropes of drool that hung from its opened jaws spoke of its terrible hunger, and he tried not to think of being ripped apart by its fangs.
Though the creature was an aberration, a monster from his worst nightmare, he had the impression that it was glowering at him with dark amusement. Fighting back the onset of fear, Zahariel was reminded of the winged beast he had fought long ago, remembering the spider and fly analogy he had used to describe how the beast had made him feel. This creature displayed the same malicious enjoyment of the hunt, as though he were a meaty morsel to be savoured before being devoured.
His training told him to keep the lion at a distance and use his pistol to full effect, but his knightly code told him to charge the beast and meet it in the glory of close combat.
Keeping his pistol trained on the prowling lion, Zahariel drew his sword as he considered his options. Counting the magazine he had just loaded, he had two clips left for his pistol. There was more ammunition in a pannier hanging from the saddle horn of his thrashing mount, but it was out of reach. Assuming he did not charge into close combat, he had twenty-four shots at hand with which to kill the lion.
Ordinarily, he would have considered twenty-four rounds enough to defeat any foe, or any other creature in the universe, but the great beasts of Caliban were chimerical monsters, combining the worst aspects of several different species of animal into one foul body.
A sticky red liquid stained the front of the lion’s body where it had been hit by the bullets, but he did not know whether it was blood or some vile secretion.
Even the chunks blasted from its rock textured hide seemed to have closed over.
Without warning, the lion pounced across the clearing towards him with extraordinary speed. He dived to the side, bringing his sword around in a low arc to deflect the creature’s attack. Whirring teeth sliced into the creature’s hide and splattered Zahariel with gore.
The lion roared and twisted in mid leap, its heavy hindquarters slamming into Zahariel, pounding him to the ground. He rolled as soon as he hit, keeping his sword extended upwards to avoid being torn apart by his own blade. The lion’s spines flared, and its heavy paws tore up the ground where he had fallen.
Zahariel stabbed with his blade, the whirring teeth cutting through the spines at the beast’s neck. Drooling fluids sprayed from severed blade spines, spattering his armour with hissing, acidic blood.
The lion spun and snapped at him with its enormous maw. Zahariel hurled himself to the side as powerful jaws slammed closed within centimetres of his torso. He fired as he dodged its attack, putting several bullets into its side. Again, the beast gave no sign of pain or shock, apparently immune to both.
Zahariel’s skin was already slick and dripping with sweat, and he could feel a tightness across his shoulders and down the length of his calves. His armour was equipped with mechanisms designed to keep him cool and support his movement, but they were no match for the exertions of his fight against the lion.
His life lay balanced on a knife’s edge, and the next few seconds would decide whether or not he lived to see another sunset. The time for caution had passed.
Sweeping his sword in a wide arc to gain a few moments of breathing space from the roaring fury of the lion, Zahariel suddenly leapt forward. Rolling as he hit the ground, he came up with Amadis’s pistol blazing, firing another salvo of shots as he ran screaming towards the lion.
For the briefest instant, the lion seemed almost surprised, opening its mouth in a loud bellow of rage. Zahariel and the lion charged towards each other, crossing the no-man’s-land between them in moments.
His proximity to the beast made his gorge rise. There was something loathsome, almost leprous about it. It was surrounded by a sickly scent of decay that he was not really sure was a scent at all, as though the creature’s inherent vileness was transmitting itself to every object in its vicinity.
Zahariel felt as if the beast’s aura of foulness had managed to seep into his pores through his armour. More than ever, its presence felt like a cancer at the heart of the world, a source of vile contagion that must be destroyed.
His hatred gave him strength.
Zahariel was at close range, standing toe-to-claw with the monster. He pumped two more bolt rounds into it at point-blank range in the instant before they met in a melee. Then, as the lion swiped at him with its claws, Zahariel slipped nimbly under their clumsy grasp and thrust hard with his sword towards the creature’s wide chest.
The lion bellowed and as its mouth opened. Zahariel fired his pistol into the yawning chasm, angling his shots towards the roof of its mouth.
He thrust again and again, the blade skidding as its whirring tee
th cut through the armoured outer layers of the lion’s hide. The lion’s slamming head hit him a thunderous body blow, and he crashed to the ground, hearing the horrific sound of bones breaking within his body.
Zahariel hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs as the beast smashed its front limbs down on his chest. Blade-like talons punched through the outer layers of his breastplate, and he screamed as the tips pierced the skin and muscle of his chest.
He could feel the pressure of the lion’s weight, its head centimetres from his own and its thick, acrid drool spattering his face. He could barely breathe.
The hand holding his pistol was still free, and he fired several shots into the lion’s belly at point-blank range.
He heard an ominous cracking noise as the seals on his armour gave way. The lion stood atop him, knowing he was pinned and powerless, and content to watch him suffer a slow, agonising death as it crushed the life out of him.
Zahariel felt as though there was an iron band around his chest, stopping him from breathing. The lion’s claws lifted him from the ground towards its mouth as it prepared to bite him in two. The great maw opened, and the waiting gust of corruption that blew from its impossibly wide gullet was the foulest thing Zahariel could imagine.
The long tusks of its upper jaw extended from its mouth, each one like an organic sword blade, hauling him towards his doom. He struggled uselessly in its grip, the talons of its paw wedged in his breastplate holding him stuck fast. He screamed in anger and fear, feeling his hatred of the beast coalesce in a bright ball of furious energy at his core. He spat into the creature’s mouth as the fangs descended upon him.
He closed his eyes as the fangs bit down, and felt an outpouring of his hatred explode from his body in a glittering halo of light.
Everything stopped.
Though his eyes were closed, he could see the shimmering outline of the lion, its every bone and internal organ laid bare to his sight as though lit from within by some strange pellucid sun. He could see the blood pumping around its body, the pulse of its heart and the foul energy that had brought it into existence.
Descent of Angels Page 12
