Descent (Rephaim Book 1)

by C. L. Roman

  “If you two are finished with the laughs and love play,” Phaella teased from a shelf of her own below, “you might want to attend to the task at hand.”

  From below came the clash and clamor of a new fight beginning. This time, they knew the combatants would be Molek, Volot, Jotun and Adahna. When the three on the rear wall heard Adahna scream and Jotun’s cry of pain, their grins faded.

  Phaella’s voice shook slightly as she continued, “It doesn’t look like the mighty trio down there are going to be able to give us as much time as we had hoped.”

  Gant nodded and eased to his feet. He ran his fingers carefully over the join between the capstone and the next tier of rock, prying here and there until the rock began to give.

  “Just melt it, already. What are you waiting for?” Phaella’s voice rose and then dropped abruptly as Sena twisted around and hissed at her to be quiet.

  Gant, however, appeared perfectly calm. “I could do that, but if I do, I run the risk of softening the keystone. And if I do that – well, let’s just say our little perches would become suddenly and irrevocably useless.”

  “You’re joking, yes?” Phaella’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You told Fomor you had practiced this.”

  Gant held his voice low and steady with obvious effort as he continued to work, “And I have been, but there are limits. I can control it pretty well, but it isn’t an exact skill. Besides, I’m not entirely sure…” he stopped.

  This time the faces of both females showed their surprise, but it was Phaella who spoke. “You aren’t sure which stone is the key?” she gasped.

  “I am,” he began, “well, at least, I know what row it’s in. And stop looking at me like that. Fomor didn’t even know.”

  Phaella inhaled, ready to unleash a torrent of sisterly irritation but Sena hissed at her again.

  “Hold your tongue Phaella. He is doing his best and this squabbling is going to attract attention.”

  Whether it was Sena’s admonition or Gant’s soft exclamation of victory that stopped her Phaella herself probably couldn’t have said, but as he lifted the capstone free, she had no more complaints and smiled at him instead.

  “I knew you could do it,” she assured him.

  Giving her a wry glance, Gant stepped off the shelf, wings out to act as brakes and descended to the ground in a controlled, silent plunge. He was back in seconds without the stone. “Now all that remains,” he said, dark eyes scanning the row of blocks before him, “is to find the keystone.” He pressed against first one, and then the next block, alert for the tiny tremor that would tell him what he wanted to know. The third stone shifted and the ziggurat trembled; Gant smiled. “There it is,” he said, and laid a glowing hand on the black surface. When he lifted his palm away, the imprint remained.

  The trio looked at each other with expectation.

  “Who’s going first?” Phaella reached up to the rim of the opening left by the capstone, clearly intent on answering with action.

  “Hey,” Gant protested, placing a hand on her arm.

  Seeing another bout of sibling rivalry on the horizon, Sena ended the argument before it could start by vaulting past her beloved and dropping lightly into the hole. Left with no other choice, the remaining two angels followed her with as good grace as they could manage.

  Sena’s descent was nearly silent, broken only by the whisper of her cupped wings against the black air of the vault. She could sense, more than see, the walls taper away from her as she dropped. The hole at the top was small, and what little light it admitted faded as she went further down. By the time her feet touched bottom she was wishing fiercely for her cat’s eyes again, but, mindful of the noise it made, she did not change.

  Above her she could hear the susurration of her companions’ wings as they made their own descent. At least I am not alone. It was her last thought before the burn of Benat’s knife ripped through her chest. She barely had time to cry out a warning to Gant and Phaella before the darkness claimed her.

  When the two touched down seconds later, their battle glow lit a grim scene. The room was empty, the torches dark. Sena lay lifeless on the altar, wings and arms outstretched, blood bathed and still.

  Dumb and deaf to all but her, Gant knelt and cradled Sena’s broken form in his arms. With gentle fingers he tried to push the ragged edges of her chest wound together over the gaping hole below.

  “Sena, Sena,” he whispered, as if to call her back from some dark abyss.

  Gently Phaella pressed him back so she could examine the injury.

  “Lay her down. Let me see the damage.” She bent over Sena, fingers probing, tracing the edges and depths of the wound, only to jolt back a moment later, gasping.

  “What?” Gant demanded. “Why does she not wake?”

  Phaella looked at him with pity and horror. “She won’t – she can’t.”

  “No, no, look, the wound heals. She will live, she has to.”

  His sister shook her head, reached out a hand to touch his arm, brace him. “He’s ripped out her heart Gant. She may heal but she cannot live without it.”

  Her brother wrenched free and scooped Sena’s delicate form into his arms, cradling her once more against his chest, tears streaming down his face. She hung there, wings unfurled, trailing lifeless, eyes closed. He felt no breath, no movement but his own. Gant shook his head again. “No, she is not destroyed.”

  “Gant,” his sister pleaded, “please.”

  “No,” his voice crashed against the walls and back into her ears, compressing the air into a nearly solid mass, pushing her back against the wall as he repeated, “No!” and again, “No!” He glowed like the heart of a dark fire, his wings outstretched, he pulsed with anguish, groaning his rage, but Phaella could not comfort him, could not even approach him.

  The sudden release of pressure when he vaulted into the air sent her sprawling even as she cried out to him, “Gant, stop! Where are you going?”

  He made no answer but shot up and out of the temple, streaming light and blood and pain.

  Regaining her feet, Phaella looked around the blackened chamber. A glimmer of light led her to Sena’s sword, forgotten where it had fallen, on the stone floor near the altar. Shoving the blade into her belt, she followed Gant, shooting upward, reaching their exit only seconds behind him. Once there, the noise of the battle at the front of the temple reached her and she hesitated, hovering above the apex.

  Looking down, she could see Adahna, covered with cuts, raise her sword to fend off Molek’s strike. Jotun labored to rise, cradling an arm nearly severed. Volot lay senseless behind the three, blood streaming from a cut above his eye.

  Phaella stared at Molek. There, there was the cause of all of this; of Sena’s death, Gant’s pain and the sacrifice of Sabaoth only knew how much innocent blood. This will end now.

  Her shriek of defiance split the air and she sprang out of the glimmer of her shift. In one instant she was atop the temple, in the next she had appeared between Adahna and Molek in a shower of sparks, slashing, stabbing, pressing her attack with a ferocity that surprised even the demon. He stumbled backward, caught himself and grinned as he parried her blows.

  An instant later the grin faded. Molek stared down at six inches of celestial steel sticking out of his chest. “How,” he muttered, staggering, his knees nearly giving way.

  “Die, you hell spawned son of Shaitan.” Volot’s voice was gravel and sand. The demon tried to twist his head, to look at his opponent, then stopped and faced Phaella once more.

  Molek’s grin returned. “No,” he replied, and with a great wrenching heave, lunged forward and shifted, leaving only a haze of black smoke and Volot’s bloody scimitar behind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The slap of thirty-three pairs of sandals pushed miniature puffs of sand along the floor ahead of the ragged group as they hurried toward the orange glow ahead. After so long in near blackness, even the murky light of the altar room appeared bright to their eyes. Fomor lifted the
little girl higher in his arms, her black tresses curling around his neck and arm, but he kept his knife hand ready. The priest in front of him felt the weight of that blade without ever looking back.

  Jacob brought up the rear, supporting an elderly woman and encouraging the rest to move when they might have stopped out of fear and weakness. Fomor’s battle glow had been their only light for long minutes but none were eager to cross into the light ahead. Several of the children began to whimper as the stench of blood wafted across their faces on the sluggishly moving air. Two of the women stopped cold, and the children they had been guiding with them.

  Fomor raised his blade in the air, calling a halt. He handed Brigid to Jacob and motioned them all to silence. Grasping the priest’s skinny arm, he hauled him forward toward the light.

  “No, please Captain. Please, I must not enter the holy place without being cleansed. The god will destroy me. Please.”

  “He is no god, and though he can kill you, he has not the power to destroy. Let’s go see if Lord Molek is at home, shall we?” Fomor mocked without the slightest hint of true humor, dragging the old man forward when his feet refused to carry him.

  The room was empty. The torches flared and guttered in the rank breeze skirling around the walls. Their uncertain light was enough to reveal stone archways giving access to a series of corridors that led to unknown destinations. A blood soaked altar took center stage with a cleansing basin to one side and a table of knives on the other. The blood on the recently used altar menaced wetly red and Fomor stiffened at the sight. Who had he been too late to save?

  Nostrils flaring, the angel dropped the weeping priest several feet inside the entrance. Fomor crossed quickly to the altar and reached out, grazing the blood with two shaking fingers. He rubbed the still warm fluid between his fingers once before wiping the stuff off on his tunic. It was enough. At a distance all blood smelled the same, bitter and coppery. Touch it, and there was no mistaking angelic blood for human.

  Looking at the amount of blood he knew at once that at least one of his own was likely dead. He could not take the time to consider which it might be or to let the grief of such grim possibilities shake through him now. His plunged his blood tainted hand into the basin to rid himself of the last traces and curled his fingers into a fist.

  “Priest,” he said, his voice a mere thread of sound, “lead us out of here. Lead us out of this accursed place now.”

  Whimpering and crying, the priest struggled to his feet and staggered toward an archway on the opposite side of the room. Fomor beckoned to Jacob who led the people forward.

  “Cover the children’s eyes,” Jacob warned his fellows, “there is no good in their seeing this. I wish that I had not seen it.”

  Fomor took up the rear guard and hurried the last members of the group forward into the next passage. Moments later they all stepped through the front doors into clean moonlight and sent up a ragged cheer that scratched at Fomor’s heart like a skiver across leather.

  Fomor crossed to Jacob and grasped his hand. “The priest is yours as I promised. Remember though, Sabaoth’s justice, not your own.”

  Jacob nodded, his lips tight and eyes dark. “As I promised. But I do not think in this case there will be a difference between the two.”

  Fomor nodded curtly and turned away. He leapt down the steps and onto the sand, taking in the blood, and the remnants of black smoke tainting the air.

  Jotun’s arm was nearly healed when his captain helped him to his feet. Adahna brushed impatiently at the blood on her forehead and Volot stood, looking helpless and ill at ease. Fomor looked a question at his second-in-command. Volot answered with a single shake of his head. Still unaware of her captain’s arrival, Phaella sobbed between them.

  “Snap to Lieutenant,” Fomor said gruffly. “Report. Where are Gant and Sena?”

  Biting back sobs, Phaella stiffened, dropping her hands to her sides and jerking her feet together at rigid attention. Tears continued to stream from her eyes as she spoke, “He killed her – he killed her, Sena is dead!”

  A cacophony of voices erupted, volume increasing, as the seconds ticked away. To Jotun it seemed as if the sky itself had fallen in. Sena had been like a little sister to him, though he thought now that he probably had never shown her his affection. How can she be dead? He could feel his knees giving way beneath him, felt himself sinking slowly to the sand again.

  Then there was a coolness, a slim white hand reaching to support him, a strength he had only felt in the presence of Sabaoth himself. His legs lost their weakness and he stood erect once more. Looking down, he saw Danae smiling up at him with kind concern. He returned her smile automatically. Once he regained his strength she turned to the group and in a soft voice they should not have been able to hear, spoke.

  “She is not dead; she sleeps.” Her words were a sheer veil of sound, deep and hollow, but cut through the confusion like an axe cleaving timber. Every eye focused on her. The shouting ceased and even the birds were silent.

  She stood a little apart from them, palms lifted and outstretched, long black curls unbound, the breeze tugging at her white tunic, surrounded by a halo of pure, soft light. “To him who has ears, let him hear the word of the God of many names: “behold, I, even I, shall bring a flood of waters upon the Earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under Heaven; everything that is in the Earth shall die.” Danae took a shuddering breath and a single, bloody tear traced the curve of her cheek before she continued.

  “Thus says Tsidkenu, our righteousness, to the kinsman, Noah, who is even now, building an ark of gopher wood at the command of Jirah, our provider.” Danae swayed on her feet, blood tears falling freely now. Fomor reached to steady her, but she held him off with a look. Visibly gathering her strength, she went on in that same voice that was somehow both hollow and full at once.

  “And last, to the Rephaim, Rapha, our healer speaks. Behold, the warrior, even she who sleeps, shall be protected until she is awakened by fire and blood. Her beloved shall search and mourn without ceasing until he brings her heart back to its home. Then shall she find justice and in righteousness shall she save many of the children of men.” Silence greeted her words until the luminescence surrounding her faded and she folded into a heap. Fomor leapt across the sand and caught her in his arms. Fear and hope drove him to his knees as he cradled her close.

  “Danae,” he rasped, pressing two fingers to the artery in her throat and sighing with relief at finding the pulse there strong and steady. Using the edge of his tunic sleeve he wiped at the blood on her cheeks, smiling grimly when he saw the healthy pink color of her skin beneath it.

  “She needs to rest Fomor.” Adahna laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And we need to find Gant.”

  Fomor nodded once, his eyes never leaving his wife’s face. “Phaella? Are you well enough for duty?”

  Shaking off her grief, a fierce light of hope shining through her eyes, Phaella snapped to attention. “Yes, sir. Awaiting orders.”

  Fomor gave her a tight smile. “See if you can find Benat’s tracks.” At her look of confusion, he explained what Danae had seen before the attack had begun. His eyes darkened as he spoke, “We should have found a way to warn you about him, I should have…”

  Phaella held up a hand, but her own voice shook as she interrupted, “What, Fomor? How were you to warn us? Call off the whole attack? By the time you knew of this – this Benat,” she spit out the name as if it spawned a foul taste in her mouth, “it was too late for that. We knew Molek probably wasn’t alone. We did what we could to guard against it. It isn’t your fault that it wasn’t enough.” She stretched her neck first to one side, then the other, and flexed her hands into fists and then straightened them again.

  “Your orders, sir?”

  Fomor breathed a heavy sigh, “Well enough. See if you can pick up Benat’s trail. It seems he carries a jewel that does not belong to him.” He stared at her a moment, then continued, “But get this straigh
t Lieutenant, you are to find his trail, no more. You will not go after him on your own. Is that clear?”

  Phaella’s brow contracted and she opened her mouth to protest, but he didn’t let her speak.

  “We have little idea of his age, of his strength. Without that information we have no idea whether it is even possible for one of us to take him alone.” He looked at her sternly, but she could see the grief lurking behind his eyes, “You are not to put yourself in unnecessary danger. Is that understood?”

  She swallowed hard, then jerked her chin down once in acknowledgement and took to the air in an ever widening circle, looking for some trace of the fled demon.

  Fomor turned to the others. “Jotun, are you well enough for duty?”

  Jotun stepped forward. “Yes, sir.”

  Fomor looked at his training officer narrowly. “You aren’t, but since this is reconnaissance rather than battle, you’ll do. Volot, go with him. Find Gant. If you see Molek, you are not to engage. Is that understood?”

  Volot’s lips tightened, but he gave a terse nod nonetheless. “And if we find Gant?” he asked.

  The captain turned his eyes back to the woman in his arms. “Talk to him, bring him back if he will come.”

  “And if he will not?” Jotun’s question was quiet but it rang in their ears like death knell. They all knew the cost of disobeying a direct order.

  “This is a request, not an order if he needs time.” he turned his gaze back to Danae and ran gentle fingers over her hair. “We could all use a rest. Locate him. Come back and report, then go to your own homes. We will regroup in four hours at my home.”

  He looked up at Adahna. “That goes for you too Lieutenant.”

  Her gray eyes were steady on his as she replied, “With your permission, sir, I’ll stop in the village and inform Nephel,” she hesitated, cleared her throat. When she went on her voice was unsteady, but determined, “of recent events. He will need to be on his guard in case of a counterattack.”