Disciple of the Dead (Seraphim Revival Book 3)

by Jacob Holo

  “I fell in love.”

  Riviel turned from the view and stared at her in silence for long seconds. Then she burst out laughing.

  Othaniel frowned. “I’m quite serious.”

  “Sorry,” Riviel said, fighting back her chuckles. “It’s just something I never expected to hear you say. How did that ever happen?”

  “What can I say? He was a remarkable man.”

  “Then why leave and return to us?”

  “He died.”

  “I…” The humor vanished from Riviel’s tone. “Oh…”

  “Of old age.” Othaniel stared through the window at nothing. “He died of old age. Our children, too. All of them died of old age.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then, please, don’t say anything. It hurts less that way.”

  The Word of Vayl passed deeper into Cathedral.

  “The pain I felt at their loss is what drove me back here more than anything,” Othaniel said after a long silence. “The three of us truly are alone. We only have each other. Everything else… does not last.”

  “What I think may not mean much to you,” Riviel said, “but it’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you. Truly I have.”

  “And I you, Sister.”

  Riviel put a hand on Othaniel’s shoulder and gave her a soft squeeze. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  Othaniel closed her eyes and bowed her head ever so slightly.

  The Word of Vayl slowed further, approaching the next lattice layer. Othaniel spotted a many-pointed black star built onto the surface. Their ship slid alongside one of the star’s tapered points and docked, though she felt no shudder or lurch suggesting they had even moved.

  Movement caught Othaniel’s eye. She looked up and saw a black shape silhouetted against the white lattices. It dove at them, growing until it was a huge winged humanoid that filled the sky. Its six black wings flexed behind a powerful body. Brass armor covered its chest, forearms, shins, and the upper edges of each wing. Eyes of the Ziggurat covered the armor, most of them open and searching. A brass helm obscured its face.

  The seraph settled into a docking pit atop the Word of Vayl.

  “He’s achieved so much, hasn’t he?” Othaniel said.

  “Remember when he first tried to explain Vayl to us?”

  “Oh, yes. We both thought he’d lost his mind.”

  The two sisters laughed quietly.

  “Come on,” Riviel said. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

  ***

  “We are now at war,” Zophiel said, feeling a surge of excitement and apprehension at finally saying the words. “Veketon has commenced his attack.”

  The three Disciples had gathered within Zophiel’s private sanctum. A hologram of the galactic sector floated between them, forming a small section of light in the otherwise dim hexagonal chamber.

  Swarms of red triangles and squares representing Veketon’s forces danced on the edge of Disciple space, engaging friendly blue triangles, squares, and circles along the perimeter. Further back, a circle and its cluster of triangles represented Cathedral, the Word of Vayl, and its escort fleet. Even further back from this was a blue circle with a brass ring: the Aperture Halo.

  “When will we lure him to Cathedral?” Riviel asked.

  “In three days,” Zophiel said. “By that time, his forces may have penetrated far enough to find Cathedral on their own, but we will ensure they find this place.”

  “And then I draw him out,” Riviel said.

  Zophiel turned to his sister. He wondered if he was asking too much of her. She’d be alone and exposed for a time, but this was a necessary risk. Something had to entice Veketon into the trap, and that something was a seraph equipped with Ziggurat weaponry.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I served as the bait,” he said.

  Riviel bowed her head. “Brother, you honor me with your concern, but it is unfounded. I will not fail you.”

  “Very well,” Zophiel said. “But remember that our intelligence on Veketon is extremely limited. We do not know much about his current capabilities, but he should be treated with extreme caution. He’s lived this long for some very good reasons.”

  “I am ready to do my part,” Riviel said.

  “As am I, Brother,” Othaniel said.

  “It gladdens me to hear both of you say that,” Zophiel said. With a thought, the hologram deactivated and the room’s lighting returned to normal levels. “That is all for now. The Word of Vayl will move up to support the fleet. Please find some time to rest over the next few days. I doubt we’ll have much opportunity for it afterwards.”

  Riviel bowed once more and left, but Othaniel stayed behind. She waited for the hexagonal door to close behind Riviel.

  “You are taking a lot of risks,” Othaniel said.

  “I know.”

  “Is this portal lance really so important? You have six already.”

  “We cannot make the Aperture Halo work without seven,” Zophiel said. “There are eleven lances somewhere in this galaxy. Over the past thousand years, we have found six. Veketon has one. Where the other four are, I have no idea. And so, I pursue the one I can obtain.”

  “But surely a more patient approach would serve you better.”

  “For all I know, the missing four lances could have been destroyed,” Zophiel said. “We’ve found records for seven lances, the locations of which are all known. One in Ittenrashik, now wielded by Veketon. One in Cathedral. Two within the Crystal Eyes. And three in the hands of Outcasts nations.”

  “But no records of the other four?”

  “None. Just the fact that there were eleven originals.”

  “I see.”

  “You still have doubts?” Zophiel asked.

  “The man we face is our grandfather. He is family. Maybe the last of it we have left.”

  “He also spawned that creature,” Zophiel said with more venom than he intended. “He deserves no pity from me and shall receive none.”

  “Is that why you are so eager to face him in battle. Because of Vierj?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “He is not Vierj, Brother. Veketon has never harmed you.”

  “Directly,” Zophiel said sharply, then sighed and shook his head. “It matters not at this point. I understand your concerns, but our path is set. Have faith in me, as I have faith in you.”

  “As you wish, Brother.” Othaniel bowed her head.

  It is only natural that she doubt, Zophiel thought as Othaniel left the room, for I am plagued with the same thoughts.

  Zophiel passed through a small hexagonal door and entered his private room. His hands itched with the sudden desire to pick up one of his musical instruments and play. The strings in particular always seemed to relax him.

  Instead, he knelt on the floor and closed his eyes. The room faded away. In his mind, he emptied himself of the crude senses called sight, sound, and touch. He floated through the void without a body.

  His heart began to race as memories filled that void. Emptiness was but the first step, and Zophiel forced himself to recall an instance of cruel purity. He let those memories take hold and become his reality.

  —confusion—

  “Do you mean to oppose me?” Vierj asked. She stood at ease, a hand on her hip and a calm expression on her face. Her intricate clothes were almost completely black with subtle flourishes of silver.

  “I won’t let you harm her!” Zophiel pointed his energy sword at Vierj. Behind him Riviel clung to his pant leg. The girl was barely eight years old and frightened out of her wits.

  “You are not strong enough to make such demands,” Vierj said.

  “I’m not a kid for you to push around anymore!”

  “Do you really believe that? I grow tired of these tantrums, Zophiel.”

  “You will not harm her.”

  “I won’t kill her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Vierj said. “But she will
learn her place.”

  “I can discipline her myself.”

  “You? And who gave you such authority in my home?”

  “Don’t you dare touch her!”

  Vierj closed her eyes and shook her head. “I see. Well, if you will not see reason, I will use force.”

  Zophiel pushed Riviel off his pant leg. “Stand back,” he whispered.

  The girl scampered into a corner.

  Vierj raised her arm high into the air. Black energy wrapped around her body, forming a dark aura that drank in the light. With a sharp snap, she brought her arm down and released a whip of black energy from her fingertips.

  Instinct took over. Time slowed as Zophiel infused his body with power. He dodged to the side and cut down with his sword, severing Vierj’s whip. The shorn end evaporated into black mist.

  Vierj snapped her arm up and the whip came at him again. Zophiel blocked the attack in a spray of black and red sparks. It ricocheted off and looped around his back. Zophiel saw it coming and tried to jerk his arm out of the way, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

  The whip slapped against his forearm and looped around it tightly. A second whip entwined his other arm, and Zophiel found both of his limbs pulled painfully to either side. He gasped as the energy whips threatened to tear him apart.

  Black energy crackled around him and through him. The skin of his forearms blistered and smoked. He threw his head back and screamed and screamed and then, as agony filled him, he lost himself in it. The world was gone. Sight vanished, and sound was a distant memory.

  All that existed was the pain. It filled him, dominated him, became him.

  Pain gave way to a purer emptiness, and on the edge of that emptiness, another mind appeared.

  My lord? Zophiel thought.

  I am here, my young disciple.

  —clarity—

  A black void surrounded them, but it was a moving void. It swirled faster and faster, revealing shapes and colors. Piece by piece, the spinning tornado of memory left deposits, forming a metallic floor, wide walls, and a high vaulted ceiling. Zophiel saw himself, frozen in agony, his arms pulled to either side, his clothes on fire, sparks of black energy arcing over him.

  Riviel, a little waif of a girl, huddled in a corner of the room. Vierj was not present, though she should have been. It was one of the small mercies granted by his lord and master: an edit to make him more comfortable.

  Vayl manifested as a dark, malnourished silhouette. His fathomless blue eyes gleamed with inner light.

  Zophiel kneeled.

  “Please rise, young disciple,” Vayl said, his gravelly voice full of warm compassion.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “I sense the doubt in your mind. Please share with me what troubles you.”

  “Soon I will set out for battle,” Zophiel said. “I… doubt the outcome. I know it’s wrong of me, but I cannot escape my doubts. I have never faced a challenge like this before.”

  “You fear this warrior you rush to confront?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Zophiel, you have done everything I have instructed. You are armed with my gifts and the foreknowledge that we will succeed. Take heart in these facts.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “It was inevitable that you would one day face others of your kind. Unease is only natural.”

  “I fear failing you more than anything.”

  “There is no need for such doubts. I knew you were the one I sought from the first instance I sensed your mind. Your suffering and mine are so very much alike. It binds us together, making us inseparable. Did I not promise that once the door has been opened, you will command my armies? Nothing will change that. You are my chosen disciple, and I know you will not fail me.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Zophiel bowed his head. “I promise I will not fail you. I will claim the seventh portal lance and defeat Veketon in—”

  “VEKETON?”

  Vayl’s eyes turned away, now in deep contemplation. Malignant amusement filled the infinite chasms of his eyes. Where only blue flame had been, now red fire swirled up.

  “My lord?”

  “Veketon, you say? Oh, how intriguing.”

  “You know of him?”

  “To think that he still exists. I would have thought it impossible. And yet…”

  Vayl made an opening gesture with his atrophied arms. The walls disassembled and swirled about them in a cyclone of color and thought. Images reformed, and suddenly they floated above a huge plaza. A perfectly crystal blue sky hung overhead. Tens of thousands of people stood waiting in a stone plaza.

  And seraphs, too, their brilliantly white armor adorned with black glyphs or script or symbols. They bordered the crowd, each one armed with a portal lance.

  “There must be hundreds,” Zophiel said. “Thousands! How could there be so many seraphs?”

  “An image of what once was,” Vayl said simply.

  Every person and seraph in the plaza focused their attention on one man.

  He stood on the outstretched palm of a seraph. Its glyphs were a strangely ordered mix of circles, arcs, and crescents. The seraph held him aloft so that he stood above everyone else.

  The man was the very image of male physical perfection: tall, fit, and muscular. His long black hair billowed in the wind. He wore no shirt, revealing two cruel vertical cuts on his back. Blood dribbled from the open wounds.

  He held a pearlescent sword high over his head and shouted to the crowd. The blade glistened with fresh blood that trickled down the man’s arm. Black energy crackled about him, and suddenly six translucent wings of energy unfurled from his back.

  The people cheered in response. The seraphs raised their lances in salute. A name thundered up from the masses, repeated again and again and again.

  A name Zophiel was all too familiar with.

  “Veketon?” he asked.

  “As he once was, yes…”

  “What am I seeing?”

  “A critical junction in a time long past. The start of a war.”

  “You were there?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Red light filled Vayl’s eyes from end to end. “Are you certain you face Veketon? The same man who led and nearly won a war against the Keepers? The same man whom Vierj killed twenty thousand years ago?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am absolutely certain.”

  “Do not underestimate him, my disciple. Many have made that fatal mistake.”

  “My lord, if you think it wise, I will avoid…”

  “No, my disciple.” Vayl waved the concern away. “We need the seventh lance. All of your decisions have been correct. I only advise caution. Veketon is a powerful foe, but you are more than his match now.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I will prepare a vanguard of my army on this side. It may be necessary to adjust our plans ever so slightly.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Fear not, my disciple. You will overcome this trial, just as you have overcome all those before it. The realization of our shared dream is at hand, and together we will see it happen. We will make it happen.”

  Chapter 9

  Protégé

  Quennin hurried into a small room on the outskirts of Veketon’s residence. Her boots clicked on the black-and-white tiling.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Please take a look,” Fuurion said.

  Richly carved woodwork folded into recesses, revealing scores of wall screens and holographic emitters. Images of a large white pearl in space unfolded before her.

  “What is it?” Quennin asked.

  “A Disciple base of some sort,” Fuurion said. “Though the scale is surprising.”

  Quennin brushed back some of her fiery red hair. “Do we have any clearer images?”

  “Yes. Some of our exodrones nearly reached the surface before being destroyed.”

  The array of images disappeared, replaced with a series of surface close-ups. The sharp detail al
lowed Quennin to pick out individual segments, some of which were missing, revealing a cavernous interior and more layers within. Eight gargantuan spires protruded from the surface and, apparently, extended down into the depths of this moon-sized artifact.

  “Base diameter is twelve hundred kilometers,” Fuurion said. “Those spires add another twelve hundred to the overall dimensions. Interrogations are underway with the prisoners in our possession. They call it Cathedral, by the way, though we have yet to learn anything of value about it.”

  “It’s strange,” Quennin said. “The construction looks very similar to the Gate tunnel Veketon activated on Earth. You see the hexagonal pattern? And that gold material in the segment joins? It’s exactly the same.”

  “Pardon me,” Fuurion said, looking a bit embarrassed, “but I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.”

  “Can you play the attack again?”

  “Of course.”

  The images vanished one by one, replaced by tactical views, external camera feeds, and decelerated composite images. Six Fellerossi dreadnoughts with an escort screen of twenty frigates closed around a Disciple formation half its size. The girth of a burnt-yellow gas giant hung in the background.

  The Fellerossi had the Disciples outgunned and outmaneuvered, and salvo after salvo of fusion beams and torpedoes pounded their warships. Retreat was impossible, for the Fellerossi had deployed one of their negators, which disabled all enemy fold engines within its zone of effect. The negator’s stubby mirror-polish cylinder hovered within the protective envelope of another three dreadnoughts and four frigates.

  Quennin knew the Disciples could respond in only one of two ways: accept the losses while inflicting whatever damage they could, or send reinforcements to destroy the negator and permit a retreat.

  They sent reinforcements.

  A single fold point snapped open into a watery ring of distorted light. At its center was a night-black seraph, lithe and sleek. Reddish brass covered its chest, forearms, calves, and the top edges of its six flexible wings. In its left hand was a rectangular shield almost as tall as the seraph, and in its right was a thick broadsword. The armor and weapons were covered in eyes that opened and searched its surroundings.

  The seraph flew with remarkable grace, almost like a living creature.