AFTERMATH (Descendants Saga)

by James Somers

  I found this process extremely interesting. In the physical, Liam would simply appear to become better. Bones rejoined and fused. Bruises and swelling faded. Cuts and scrapes were left alone as the healers poured more energy into the more serious injuries.

  Suddenly, Sadie turned. Her chanting stopped as something happened in the room. Streams of light emerged from another dimension, taking form as two human men and one woman. Another larger cascade became non-human. Our luminescence returned instantly to our bodies as Sadie and I opened our physical eyes.

  Brody and Sophia had been brought with Redclaw through a dimensional pathway by the Shade King’s advisor, Connic. Sophia gasped when she laid eyes on Donatus. Brody’s expression had been grim as he materialized. He had evidently been told the situation already. Still, seeing my grandfather like this brought tears to his eyes.

  Havoc

  Black walked along the plate glass roof of London’s newly rebuilt Crystal Cathedral. The imposing edifice had been destroyed by an explosion ten years ago. An event where he, unfortunately, had not been the cause. Below, in the building, he watched as exhibitioners drew crowds showcasing new inventions and technologies they hoped would become all the rage in the coming decade.

  All of London felt alive with hope and renewed prosperity. Britain had new goals and a powerful prime minister leading the way with encouraging speeches. Gladstone had managed to rebuild the damage done a decade ago. And he had big plans for Britain’s future. None of which interested Black in the least.

  He had plans and the angel meant to see them through. There’s nothing like a good war to shake things up, he thought.

  The Shade King evidently meant to make peace with Brody West and his Descendants squatting in Ireland. “I never should have used that spineless Leprechaun,” he muttered.

  The cherubim had stopped speaking to him in his thoughts some time ago. They did not engage him, even though they did feed him power and take from his villainous mind for their own pleasure. No matter. Black had found them rather dull conversationalists anyway. As long as he had power, that was all he required.

  Having the ability, now, to change his physical appearance at will, Black had abandoned the form of the elf. Instead, he had assumed the form of Ishbe again. After all, this lump of flesh had originally been the Lycan soldier anyway, and he found that he enjoyed the handsome young man’s look more than others. What did it matter now? He had revealed himself, and that meant it was only a matter of time before Lucifer got wind of him.

  Besides, with the cherubim connected to him, he was virtually invincible. What he was about to do would draw all sorts of attention world wide. If Lucifer attempted to attack him, he would have little chance of success. His mortal host could be sustained almost indefinitely. And even if attaining a new one did become necessary, he had the cherubim to anchor him in the mortal world while he did so.

  Black teleported from the roof of the Crystal Palace to the floor below. Startled tourists stood gawping at him. He had not taken the care to hide his sudden appearance seemingly from thin air. Why bother? All of these good people would be dead in seconds.

  Never one to pass up an opportunity for the melodramatic, Black spread his arms in a magnanimous way toward the pedestrians around him on the exhibition floor. “Citizens of London and travelers from afar,” he began, “though you have slighted me in the past, I cannot remain angry with you. Remember my name when you come into torments. Tell them below that Black sent you.”

  A powerful surge of pent up energy erupted from Black’s mortal host like the sudden discharge of a volcano. Those standing nearby, within earshot, were incinerated immediately by the resulting blast. Others would experience a slightly slower demise as the heat and pressure rocketed throughout the structure of the Crystal Palace before ultimately exploding forth upon Hyde Park.

  Windows were shattered several seconds later two miles away. Tiny shards of the Crystal Palace’s plate glass walls and ceiling would rain down upon London for several hours. The iron skeleton of the Palace had been flattened onto the surrounding lawn like the petals of a dying flower.

  Local hospitals were filled with victims who had been enjoying their morning in the park. Some had been blinded by the initial blast. Most others had sustained some degree of hearing loss along with broken bones, lacerations, burns and multiple contusions.

  Quite a few surrounding trees had been set ablaze during the conflagration. And not a few squirrels, birds and chipmunks had combusted on the spot. Hyde Park had been left with a huge blackened crater. Britain had been left in terror. And Ireland would soon be left with the blame.

  Gladstone

  William Gladstone sat at breakfast within the large dining room of his home in Kensington. A heaping plate of eggs, bacon, sausages and beans sat before him. He sipped at a cup of strong black coffee in one hand, holding the London Journal in the other. His picture sat on the front page in the foreground of a new munitions plant called Clockworks.

  Gladstone had rebuilt London from the ashes of a Descendant conflict ten years ago. However, he had never envisioned a return to the status quo. Britain had gained a reputation as a waning power in the world, particularly as the Americans gained ground. He intended for this perception to change radically, and Clockworks was the key to his success.

  However, the recent catastrophe upon the spiritual plane had hindered his plans more than he let on. While work continued at the enormous plant, built along the Thames in order to make use of this natural resource, one factor remained—one problem that had to be solved. How to power his new army of metal automatons.

  He lowered the paper to the table, feeling not a little frustrated by his predicament. Steam power had been attempted before with limited success. In some countries, steam powered machines had begun to be mass produced. America was one. After all, the locomotive had paved the way successfully. But, despite the success of the iron horse, successive efforts at war machines had proven to be accidents waiting to happen.

  Reports of boiler explosions and scalded pilots were more frequent than engineers liked to admit. Steam automatons were too big and heavy, lumbering hulks that tripped and stumbled, out of balance. Electrically powered automatons were simply out of reach at the moment. There was no way to keep power to them without umbilical cords that tied them to a power station. Gladstone required something better.

  He sighed, looking up to find someone sitting two chairs away at his table.

  “I like mushrooms with my eggs, personally,” Black said nonchalantly.

  Gladstone started, dropping his cup onto the table, spilling his coffee into his lap. “Ow! Oh!” he cried, hopping up from his chair, attempting to wipe the steaming liquid away.

  “Don’t get up on my account,” Black said with a sly grin.

  Gladstone stared at his guest, looking slightly bewildered, as well as wet across the lap of his trousers. It took him only a moment to realize who was sitting before him. “Black,” he whispered.

  “Lord Black, if you please.”

  Gladstone remembered himself then. “Yes, of course, my lord.” He couldn’t help staring. Black remained where he was sitting, waiting. Finally, it occurred to Gladstone to ask the obvious question. “Lord Black, why are you here?”

  Black grinned. “So glad you asked. By all means, William, sit down. I find your gawping an irritating distraction.”

  Gladstone immediately obeyed. It would have been terribly unwise to do anything else. Fallen angels were prone to expecting their way. If they were discouraged, they tended to kill people.

  Black fixed his gaze on the prime minister. “The time has come to fulfill your obligation to me.”

  “What would you have me do?” Gladstone asked. He had no intention of arguing the obligation.

  “I want you to go to war with Ireland, specifically with the Shade King,” Black said.

  Gladstone waited for a punch line. No, evidently the angel was serious. “War?” Gladstone stammered. The angel
did not speak. Evidently, he had expected such a reaction. After all, war is no light thing to a mortal. Since they can die, they like to avoid danger. Black rather enjoyed it, personally.

  “Why, my lord?” Gladstone asked, attempting to tread this subject lightly. “The Leprechauns have done nothing to us—”

  Black’s fist slammed down onto the table top, splitting the wood. “They have slighted me! Brian Shade denied me my vengeance upon Brody West and those accursed refugees. But I will have it. Shade made peace with them, so you will send your army to crush them.”

  Gladstone considered what he was being told. “My lord, if I were to send my entire army, an army of humans, they would surely be destroyed by the Leprechauns, especially if West and the other Descendants fight with the Shade King.”

  Black sat quite still, saying nothing in reply.

  Gladstone built upon this silence. “It’s not that I wish to deny you, only that I cannot give you victory, my lord. Perhaps, if you simply killed them all yourself—?”

  Darkness closed in upon the room, shutting out the sunlight. Even the fire burning in the hearth dimmed until it was barely a flicker. The surrounding walls creaked and groaned as Black’s face became more and more angry.

  Gladstone stopped speaking, trembling in his chair. Surely he had said too much. Black would kill him momentarily. Should he attempt to strike first? As a spell caster he might—no, that would be even worse. Black might then make him suffer horrible agony before the end finally came.

  “I cannot simply kill them myself,” Black began to explain calmly but sternly. Still, the darkness in the room had not abated. “I am forbidden to touch those to whom the Almighty extends his protection. I have certain boundaries that mortals, like you, do not necessarily share. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the flaming swords that West and his daughter possess nullify my power. So, Gladstone, it must be you and your men. And if every one of you dies in the attempt, then so be it.”

  Gladstone swallowed hard. He glanced at the table as a grisly shadow hand moved toward him across the split wood. His eyes fell upon the front page of the London Journal. His picture in front of Clockworks.

  Clockworks?

  “My lord!” Gladstone shouted before Black’s anger consumed him. “I have the answer!” Gladstone held the paper before him so that the angel could see the front page.

  “Your ridiculous picture in a news rag is supposed to keep me from killing you?” Black asked.

  “No, my lord,” Gladstone said. “The factory is the answer—my army of metal automatons.”

  The darkness began to recede from the room. The fire sprang back to life in the hearth. Sunlight invaded through the windows once more as birdsong carried to them from outside.

  Black looked up at Gladstone. “Explain.”

  “I have created three hundred automatons through my Clockworks enterprise, my lord. However, I have been unable to power them because of what happened on the spiritual plane. I had planned to utilize the Forge at Xandrea in order to animate them as an army unmatched by any in the world—to rebuild Britain as a superpower.”

  “And?”

  Gladstone smiled devilishly. “You might not be able to attack the Descendants under West directly, but surely you can provide power to an army of automatons to do the deed under my command.”

  Black took the paper from Gladstone, smiling now. “I do believe you’ve managed to save yourself from a most unpleasant death, William.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” he replied, feeling much better about the situation now. With Black’s power he could have his army of automatons after all. And he would fulfill his obligation to the angel while testing his army on the forces of Brody West and Ireland’s Shade King.

  Black stood. “We should begin right away,” he said.

  Gladstone stood as well, scratching at the stubble on his face. “There’s just one matter that I’m unsure of, my lord. As the Prime Minister of England, how can I declare war on Ireland without a cause?”

  Black smiled. “Oh, I’ve already taken care of that,” he said.

  He drew a pistol from his suit jacket, kicking the table over as he moved toward Gladstone. Black began to fire rounds haphazardly, hitting Gladstone’s chair and a priceless Renoir as the elf dove out of the way. Gladstone cried out as a round ricocheted off the tile next to his head.

  “You’ll soon find out that London’s glorious Crystal Palace was blown to smithereens this morning,” Black explained. He fired another two rounds—one into the wall as he waved the gun around animatedly and the other into Gladstone’s left thigh.

  The Prime Minister screamed in pain, clutching his wounded leg.

  “Of course, you will tell everyone that the Irish have committed this vicious act of terrorism on British soil,” Black continued, unconcerned with Gladstone’s injury. “In addition, Brian Shade sent an assassin to your house this very morning in an attempt to end your life and throw England into chaos.”

  Gladstone could only groan as he looked up at the angel who seemed to have gone mad. Black looked down at him, still waving the gun like a finger at him. “Are you getting all of this, William? I would hate to have to repeat myself.”

  Struggling, Gladstone nodded as tears cascaded down his cheeks. His servants were calling throughout the house, his security personnel attempting to get into the room. However, Black kept the doors fast with his mind. He wasn’t quite ready to let them in.

  He produced, from another pocket in his coat, a grenade. With a flick of his thumb, the pin was pulled, dangling on the lone digit. “These Irish fiends even attempted to blow you up at your own breakfast table by hurling a grenade into your home,” Black said with a wicked grin.

  The angel tossed the grenade over his shoulder where it landed against the far wall with all of the high windows looking out upon the pools of water in his decorative garden. “Now, don’t forget what I’ve told you, William,” Black reiterated. “I would hate to have to come back here and explain it all again. When London has witnessed these things, you will declare war. And when you arrive at your factory for your army, I’ll be waiting.”

  The grenade exploded across the room, blasting away a goodly section of the wall with its windows in the process. The thunderous boom, made Gladstone’s ears ring as he was showered with debris. Still, when his guards and servants came barreling into the room, searching for him, he was still alive. Wounded, but alive.

  “Sir, what happened?” the captain of his security asked as his servants knelt beside him, attempting to staunch the bleeding leg with a tourniquet.

  Gladstone gritted his teeth against the pain as his cook’s belt was cinched up at the top of his wounded thigh. “It was the Irish!” he cried. “An assassin from Brian Shade.”

  Differences

  “How is your son,” Brody asked.

  Brian Shade stood by a window in Brody’s study in Highmore Castle, looking out over the town recently built by the Descendant refugees in Ireland. The sun beamed through the plate glass, filling the room with ample light. The sounds of children playing in the streets beyond the meager castle wall could easily be discerned. Only he and Brody were in the room.

  He sighed heavily. “Liam will be fine, I think,” Brian said. “That is, if he can keep his pride in check. He’s prone to foolish boasting.”

  Brody stood across the room with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He wore a matching brown vest buttoned over a cream colored dress shirt and brown leather shoes. “He’s just a boy,” he offered. “They often do foolish things.”

  Brian Shade turned to him, meeting his eye. “Kings are also known for foolish pride,” he said. “I fear I’ve been a good example of that since you and your people came to us.”

  Brody did not immediately reply. Instead, he stood still, waiting. It had been a week since Donatus’s death at the hands of Black. If Shade had something to get off of his chest, then Brody wanted to hear it.

  “Donatus wished for us to have pea
ce between us, Brody,” Brian said. “Now, I think that we must have peace.”

  “In order to go to war?”

  “Not only for that,” Brian replied. “Although, certainly, the news coming out of London suggests that Black is making good on his threats.”

  “If I know anything about him, he’s had Gladstone in his pocket for some time,” Brody said. “Sophia and I suspected this when we came to our home in Highgate only to find Gladstone’s soldiers waiting for us. Our property in Britain was taken, our homes seized, our funds stolen outright.”

  “An injustice I really didn’t understand when we first met,” Brian said. “It was Black in disguise who counseled me to move against you and your people. Unfortunately, I was foolish enough to listen to him. I do apologize for my actions.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Your Majesty,” Brody replied. “I have apologies of my own to make, as well. I reacted harshly when I should have been more patient.”

  Brian Shade crossed the study floor, offering his hand. “Let’s forgive one another today,” he said. “A threat to all of Ireland looms on the horizon now. We should work together, from here on, to protect all of our people. Clearly Black means to see us all dead, if he can.”

  Brody nodded, taking Shade’s hand. “I agree, Your Majesty,” he said, smiling.

  “Please, call me Brian. There’s no need for formality. You are a king also, no matter what happened to your kingdom on the spiritual plane. We’ll finish what Donatus started between our people. From today forward, you and yours are welcome within Rockunder.”

  “I thank you,” Brody replied, releasing the Shade King’s hand. “From what little I’ve seen already, it truly is glorious.”

  “Unfortunately, it will have to become our fortress in the days ahead.”