Judas: The Relic (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 2)

by Roy Bright

  Azazel smiles. He pushes back with nothing more than a gentle shove that sends Malphas tumbling over the ground again.

  The Demon Lord floats back to a standing position and bellows an order, pointing his staff at the angels on the other side of the ramp. The horde attacks. Screaming, wailing, and snarling, it is as though Hell’s gates have opened up right here on Earth and its entire population has descended upon the airfield. In truth, the numbers are a mere drop in the ocean compared to what Lucifer hides within Hell’s depths but they are fearsome nonetheless.

  Michael turns to his soldiers. “Get the civilians to safety, now!”

  The angels take to the air and set about scooping up as many people as they can, intent on herding them into the hangar in which Charlotte and Gary wait.

  Azazel’s eyes dance with a blissful fury, and he smiles, turning to Judas who streaks toward him, his face contorted with the violence and vengeance he has in mind.

  Through their assimilation, a hive mind now connects Judas and Azazel into one cohesive, devastating fighting unit and using this telepathic bond, Azazel whispers, “Wield me Iscariot. Show them what we are.” He leaps into the air, transforming back into Ikazuchi.

  As Malphas regains his footing and points his staff, Judas knows that the time has come, and he sets off toward Azazel, spreading his wings and propelling himself forward, his feet inches off the ground. Ahead, he sees Azazel leap into the air, transforming back into Ikazuchi and he grins; then alters the pitch of his wings, kicks away from the ground, and rises into the air to meet the spinning sword mid-flight. He grasps and thrusts upward, rocketing into the sky, the wind whipping at his face as his speed and height increases.

  That’s high enough, he tells himself, barrel rolling, drawing his wings to his side, his entire body spear-like. He arches his back, shifting his momentum readying to launch himself back toward the ground. Beneath him, he sees a mass of demons stream across the runway, advancing like chaotic raiding party, clambering over one another to be the first in line to devour the humans and destroy Hellwatch. He extends his wings, then thrusts them back, power diving toward the ground at incredible speed, wind rippling his skin, eyes narrowed, focused on one objective – the creatures beneath him. With nothing more than a few feet to spare, he changes his dive from head to feet-first, grips Ikazuchi in both hands, and slams into the ground on bended knee, the sword slicing into the concrete and burying itself up to the hilt. Time slows as the weapon spews out demonic force and the concrete undulates outward, like water rippling from a thrown stone. Then, he pulls it free and the area explodes into a sea of high peaks and deep troughs radiating outward for 50 feet, the ground violently swelling and moving through the demonic horde, catapulting the merciless warriors into the air.

  Still on bended knee, head bowed, his eyes closed, Judas whispers an incantation and, with time coming to a complete stop, he draws back his sword arm and launches Ikazuchi at the demons.

  The sword moves outside of time and space, at a speed incomprehensible to even the Archangels caught in the time dilation; able to witness what is happening but powerless to move. It streaks through the air, cutting through each demon one at a time, exploding through their chests and splitting them in half, working its way through hundreds of them in a methodical, systematic attack.

  Judas opens his eyes, watching in real time as Ikazuchi dispatches foe after foe; he smiles a little, licking his lips, relishing the power of the sword as it obliterates his enemies, relishing the dark black viscous life fluid that now flows across the battlefield. As the attack draws to its conclusion he closes his eyes once more, holding his right hand aloft, and Ikazuchi lands within his grasp and the flow of time is restored.

  Malphas looks on in horror as three-quarters of his attack force drop to the ground, destroyed within the blink of an eye.

  How is this possible?

  His face is a mask of fear and confusion.

  How can the Betrayer possess more power than I? How could he have unlocked the demon sword so quickly? He turns to the Destructor. “End him. End Iscariot. Rip him to pieces.”

  The gigantic demon charges at Judas, the ground thundering with each step.

  Judas remains kneeling, unconcerned.

  ***

  Around Charlotte, the hangar fills up with terrified civilians deposited by Hellwatch. Their cries of confusion and terror reverberate around the massive structure, creating a cacophony of echoing, unintelligible sound. Ahead she sees Judas power into his attack and her instinctive reaction to follow him is too powerful to ignore. She sets off.

  Gary halts her advance by hooking her arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? He’s got this under control, leave him to it.”

  She attempts to wrestle out of his grip. “We need to do something, we can’t just leave it all to him.”

  He tugs on her arm with more force, putting an end to her struggling. “We will. We protect these people here, that’s our priority. Get out front and use whatever power works for you, but leave the big ones to him. Okay?”

  She stares into his eyes, struggling to find a cohesive counter argument, but she can’t. She knows he’s right, that their main concern should be the safety of the civilians and so she nods her assent and he lets go of her arm.

  She runs toward the edge of the hangar, searching for Michael, and looks up to see Judas streaking toward the ground. As he hits it she feels the force of the immense impact under her feet and time comes to a standstill around her although her own movement within it is unaffected. The Hellwatch move through the air at a crawl, the downbeat of their wings slow and poetic, each feather defined. The demons on the other side of the airfield advance in ultra-slow motion, their salivating mouths wide, tongues lolling. An object catches her attention and she focuses on it – Judas’ sword blazing a path through a multitude of demons, obliterating them one by one. Her eyes open wide and her jaw drops as the sword transforms back into its human form, smiles, and winks at her, then morphs back into a sword and continues its deadly attack. She sees it all, every person’s minute movements, every bead of sweat caught in mid-air. She could move among the time-stretched environment at will and mess with the demons if she wanted to, move them around, take their weapons, kill them without them even knowing what was happening. Besotted by the insane power and contemplating doing just that, she moves in further, closer to Judas, when out of the corner of her eye she sees movement and her attention focuses on it. Walking toward her, through a mass of frozen demons, is Abigail Fisher – Charlotte cannot believe what she is seeing. Endless questions batter her mind, one after the other. How is she moving normally through the time dilation? Why is she unaffected? Even more astonishing is the child’s face, a picture of calm and serenity amid the slaughter, and that she is carrying Charlotte’s swords.

  Abigail stops in front of her and smiles, holding up the Katanas of Destiny, presenting them to her. “You will need these I think.” She smiles once again.

  “How?” she says, her eyes wide, eyebrows raised. “How are you doing this?”

  She shrugs, looks around at the arrested scene, then back up at Charlotte and shrugs once again.

  She laughs and drops down to the young girl’s eyeline. “Well, we’ll figure this out later. Stick close to me – I have a feeling normal service is about to be restored.”

  “Oh, I’ll be okay,” she says, skipping away. “They can’t see me.”

  “Wait!” Charlotte says, reaching out to her but it is too late as time is flexing, returning, drawing her back into Earth’s reality. She raises her swords, readying herself for battle.

  Demons scream all around as they re-enter real time and she attacks, slicing through the maelstrom before they have a chance to react, her blades flashing and spinning in a dazzling display of composure guided by ultra-violence. Behind her, a Knight-Demon emerges from the horde and storms toward her, crunching over the ground as it bears down. Out of the corner of her eye she spies a jackal demon la
unch at her, its claws outstretched and so she drops to one knee, twisting under it just as it swipes at her and misses.

  It lands on the ground and skids around while rising onto its hind legs to turn faster.

  She seizes the opportunity, turning as quick as a flash and thrusting forward, piercing its chest and pushing into it while rising, scraping it across the concrete as Divinity floods out and envelops her.

  It stumbles onto its back, and slashes at her again, connecting with the mystical armor. It howls with pain as the brilliant white fire disintegrates its clawed hand, crumbling it into dust.

  She draws the sword out of its chest and with her other blade she slices at its head, cleaving it in two. She spins around, positioning herself to deal with the stampeding Knight that is almost upon her, and as she prepares to block and parry its attack, it receives a massive impact from its left as Samael slams into it, smashing it into the concrete.

  The Archangel follows up his attack, bringing his war-hammer down onto the creature’s head, exploding it into dust. He looks at Charlotte. “What?” he says, resting the massive hammer on his shoulder. “You don’t get to have all the fun you know.”

  She grins then twirls her swords in her hands and tears into the nearest demon, back into the fight.

  ***

  Trailed by a squad of six men and running down a corridor, the blood-soaked faces of Nathan Taylor and Conrad Bzovsky’s exude anger and fear in equal measures. The blood is not their own, however, but that of their fallen comrades and although they are alive for now, how long that will last is anyone’s guess; they can feel their luck dissipating.

  “Sir, we are running out of time and ammunition,” Conrad says, his breathing heavy. “What is next move to be?”

  Colonel Taylor remains resolute, commanding – in charge. “We need to find the remaining concentration of our civilian wards, Sergeant, and keep fighting. The Light is here and with a bit of luck Judas will join her. His help is something we badly need right now.”

  They reach a large metal door at the end of the corridor and stack up against it, their footsteps squeaking against the polished floor, and they ready themselves to enter the next room in a controlled manner. Nathan turns to his squad and holds his index finger up to his mouth. He beckons one of the soldiers over, indicating for him to take up position in front of the door. The soldier’s movement paints a picture of reluctance as he edges his way forward, his face beading with sweat, fear dripping from every pore, and Nathan places a hand on his shoulder to not only reassure the young man but to remind him of his duty to himself and his fellow squad members stood around him.

  The young soldier returns a nervous smile then takes a deep breath, a seriousness deepening within his eyes. He isn’t going to be the one to let the team down. He steels himself and nods to his superior officer who nods back at him with conviction, a statement that says ‘we are professionals, young man, you will be fine.’

  The soldier takes another deep breath, readies his weapon, and steadies himself in his entry breach position at the door with three other men lined up behind him, the lead of which places a hand on his shoulder to signify that he and the others behind are ready.

  Colonel Taylor looks around at his men once more and counts down from three with his fingers, his eyes opening wide as he reaches number one, indicating for Conrad to kick the door open and his men to enter the room.

  Conrad complies.

  The young soldier enters the darkened room with belligerence, as much to spur himself on and calm his nerves as to put fear into anyone or anything that may be waiting for them. The others follow in close behind him and he scans the room with the weapon light attached to his rifle creating a tense atmosphere as the beam catches smoke trails within the shadows. The three other soldiers file past and take up their positions, mimicking his actions with their lights, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

  Calls of “Clear” ring out as the men check their corners and confirm that the room is safe to enter, and Nathan, Conrad, and the rest of the squad file in. A terrible unease dominates the room, a foreboding that they all feel upon immediate entry. The soldiers raise their weapons again one by one, still scanning the room for signs of life, but there is none. Nothing moves, nothing stirs. But their keen and honed senses tell them different.

  “Something’s not right here,” Conrad huffs, training his huge machine gun left and right. “Something’s in this room. I feel it.”

  The young soldier who was first into the room shuffles to his right, his steps tentative, his breathing erratic. His heart races, pounding against his chest and in his ears. Sweat beads from his forehead and runs down over his cheeks and onto his chin. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, his movement rapid, panicked.

  Colonel Taylor notices. “Take it easy son,” he says, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, the bulk of his attention still on the room ahead. “Remember your training. Calm yourself.”

  He looks at his superior officer and manages a small smile, little more than a twitch.

  The lights on the weapons continue to probe the darkness. No one moves, awaiting orders on how to proceed from someone more skilled and experienced than them.

  Nathan sighs. He knows that they can’t stay here and if there is something lurking in the shadows, well, his men had better be ready to deal with it. He motions forward with his hand. “Okay, advance,” he says, his voice soft and low, keen to reveal as little about their position as possible. “But take it slow and stay frosty. Check your targets and if it is a Delta then put it down with extreme prejudice. We clear?”

  The men acknowledge with slight nods of their heads, then advance further into the room, stealth being their key objective. ‘Delta’ is their code for demon, and they are all ready for them.

  The young soldier edges his way forward, still struggling to maintain his breathing despite the encouragement he had received from his Colonel moments before. His nervousness threatens to overwhelm him. He blinks hard, wiping more sweat from his brow. Get a grip, Tom, he tells himself, don’t fuck this up. But it is too late, his fear has taken root much too deep, and it is for that reason he fails to spot movement on the ceiling ahead of him.

  Behind Tom, the other men come to an abrupt halt and raise their weapons as a multitude of lights appear, opening in pairs, flashing across the ceiling like stars in a clear night’s sky.

  Conrad squints into the darkness. “What the fuck?” he says, attempting to decipher exactly what it is his eyes are seeing.

  Tom turns around, a deep frown on his face, his eyes darting back and forth with panic, questioning why his squad have stopped, why they have their weapons raised and trained on an area above his head. The fear spread across their faces is nothing compared to that which boils inside him. His stomach knots up and he feels as though he might cry. He raises his head, the action slow and nervous. He doesn’t want to know what sits above, stalking him, but he can’t fight the inevitable. That curiosity that drives a human being to want to see, even when they know they should not. Looking up, his eyes open wide. Terror unlike anything he has ever experienced floods through him. He attempts to raise his weapon but it is too late.

  The Taken drops down onto him, sinking its teeth into his neck and clamping on. This one’s different to the majority they have seen, bigger with a larger mouth and claws. It bites him with such force and ferocity that it almost severs his head. Blood erupts from the wound, spraying everywhere, covering some of the soldiers who recoil in horror upon contact. The man’s screams turn to bubbling moans as his vocal cords are chewed through.

  The room explodes with the fervent screams of other Taken, whose teeth now join their gleaming eyes, illuminated by the under-slung lights on their weapons. They cascade down with terrifying howls, driving right into the men below.

  Nathan springs into action. “Open fire!” he screams, unleashing fully automatic fury from his machine gun.

  His men do not hesitate. They open up with thei
r weapons, trying their very best to keep level-headed and select their targets with care while fighting the overwhelming terror that churns inside them.

  Weapon fire fills the room, exacerbated by its narrow layout, and shadows strobe in the muzzle flashes, but for all the intensity the noise of the firearms generate, the screams of the Taken are louder, more dominant. The men who had been closest to Tom are the first to meet their end as the creatures swarm, tearing them to pieces, the soldier’s weapons discharging indiscriminate fire into the room as they are taken down. Stray rounds hit other members of the squad, ending their involvement in the fight in a kinder way than any of the Taken would’ve afforded them.

  Conrad would have met the same fate if not for his exceptional reflexes, anticipating the erratic projectiles’ trajectories and rolling away athletically, surprising for a man of his stature. Regaining his composure, he scrambles to his feet, takes aim, and fires off short three-round bursts, taking down creatures with precision. He calls out to his men, attempting to rally them into a retreat but it is no use, they can no longer hear him. Composure, positioning, and tactical decision-making has given way to sheer terror and wild panic. He looks around, the movement quick and jagged, attempting to get eyes on the Colonel. He sees him across the room, on top of one of the creatures, pummeling it with vicious punches from his massive fists, and he can’t help smiling. But now is not the time for admiration, now is the time to force the butt of his rifle into his shoulder and rest his right cheek upon its stock as he fires off another rapid volley that explodes the head of the creature about to leap onto the Colonels exposed back.

  Nathan rises to his feet and glances at the dead Taken behind him, then offers Conrad a slight nod of his head, grateful for the life-saving intervention. He looks back down at the pummeled creature beneath him, his face screwing up in disgust, then slams his right foot into its head, exploding it into dust.