by Liam Jackson
Kiel knew and appreciated the history of the old French monastery. He reveled in its legacy and the peculiar sense of kinship that he felt with its former inhabitants.
Centuries earlier, the site had provided sanctuary for the descendents of a outlaw Templar society, the Order of Watchers. Established in the early 1200s, and comprised of survivors of the Third Crusade, the Watchers were devoted to a resurrection of the Templar code of chivalry and Christian knighthood. It was also commonly believed during that period, that the self-reliant sect had liberated vast hoards of Jewish religious treasures and holy artifacts from the Persians. The Order, of course, denied they held any such items, though the Church was not inclined to believe them. The Church eventually proclaimed them outlaw, disbanded the order, and persecuted the surviving members by imprisonment and forfeiture of all lands and titles.
Dozens of knights and their families were hunted down and murdered. Entire family lines were eradicated like vermin.
Some, however, managed to escape the long arm of the Church, and fled across the breadth and width of the known world. Despite hardship and centuries of extreme prejudice, those descendants prospered. Some even managed to make their way to the New World where they established new identities, and opened trading businesses or other profitable enterprises. Still a core of those descendants never lost sight of the Order's original goals.
The warrior-priests who once resided in this simple three-story dwelling had been among those who made new lives in the Americas while still embracing the antiquated notions of honor and chivalry. Their modern-day descendants still carried on the struggle, covertly, of course, for the Church had never abandoned hope of recovering the supposed hoard of sacrosanct treasures. This former sanctuary was all but forgotten, even to the latest generation of the Order of Watchers.
Kiel had observed their centuries-old struggle with great interest. He had even granted them aid on a few occasions. His favorite memory of the Order was also the most obscure, the details lost or distorted by the passage of time and the faulty memories of men.
Legend claimed that the Order made a valiant effort to seize power within the Church and restore the Code of the Watcher. The coup was met by great resistance from the Church, and eventually thwarted. In the year of our Lord, 1587, Pope Sixtus V issued a papal bull, demanding that the Order of Watchers be aggressively hunted down and persecuted for "crimes against God." No other reason was given, though Kiel remembered Sixtus V well, and none too fondly, for his zeal and severity as a Grand Inquisitor.
In truth, the Watchers were unlike most Templar Orders of the day; righteous warriors to a man and possessing tremendous influence among the minor nobles and common man throughout Europe. Much of that influence was attributed to an unshakable faith in God, and, of course, their possession of prized, sacred documents and artifacts taken during the conquest of Jerusalem. It was strongly rumored that Sixtus V coveted those possessions and meant to have them by any means possible.
The Watchers, according to the papal edict, were to renounce their vows and return immediately to France. Upon refusal to obey the decree, they would be excommunicated, then hunted down and summarily executed. Legend further claimed that, to a man, the Watchers refused to obey the edict. The Order scattered to the four corners of the earth, carrying with them secrets and sacrosanct items dated to the birth of Christ. Many of the Order, disguised as common soldiers, trappers, craftsmen, and even an occasional monk, traveled to the New World. It was one such group who established this site, and built the stone monastery. In the end, not even they could outrun the power of a papal bull.
Eventually, they were discovered, and French provincial authorities, eager to court favor with the Church, were all too pleased to serve the summons. A local military garrison under the command of a particularly arrogant commander named De Moire, supposedly delivered a copy of the order to this very sanctuary on a hot and arid August morning in 1588. The response from the dozen Watchers inside was expected and immediate.
Local folklore maintained that, predictably, many of the Watchers had already dispersed to other parts of the massive new country, and that only a token force of a dozen remained within the walls of the monastery. In response to the edict, they barred the doors and windows of the small hold and refused entry to the forty-odd soldiers. Enraged, De Moire immediately ordered his troops to assault the building and slay the occupants to the last man.
What happened next had long remained a point of contention among local historians. Accounts were handed down by village elders and wise women to generation after generation, but at some point in history the stories became divided, even contradictory.
Some claim that the Watchers prayed to God, not for mercy, but that justice be done. In answer, the ground simply opened up and swallowed the soldiers. Other folktales held that a fiery war band of angels descended upon the soldiers, slaying them all with swords made of molten metal. Still others claim that the warrior-priests prayed and, as a reward for their remarkable piety, were transformed into mighty golden warriors, encased in jeweled armor and branding weapons of white flame. They then set upon the garrison troops and slew them to a man.
The stories, however different, all concluded in the same fashion; the soldiers all met a terrible, but just, fate on a hot, arid August day in 1588. There was another point that all the local tribes seemed to agree; the site was said to be haunted by the spirits of the holy warriors. Entertaining stories all, and not without at least some measure of truth in each of them, Kiel mused.
Today, the Watchers still maintained their secrecy, though they maintained a global reach and influence. It was they who purchased the land and constructed a hospital atop the bruised Eye of God in order to protect it from the coming storm. It had been a noble, though futile, endeavor, and there was no shame in failing that ambitious undertaking.
Like rushing water and steady wind reshapes the faces of mountains, time had reshaped the Watchers. Kiel only hoped their once noble intent remained intact. Recent events gave him cause for worry.
Kiel shoved the thought aside. He had other matters to attend to. He gave his companion a quick glance and smiled. The two, both of a kind, yet so very different, sat at a small table made of quarry stone topped with a slab of ancient, yellowed marble. Whereas Kiel was slight of build with fair hair and light blue eyes, dark-haired Nathaniel was a towering physical specimen. Kiel watched Nathaniel work for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the task at hand, carefully crushing strips of dried bark and dark red leaves with a mortar and pestle.
Next, he measured out a small amount of the mixture into an ornate pewter cup. Sitting it aside for the moment, he rose from the bench and removed a steaming kettle from the room's large hearth. With great care, he poured a precise amount of boiling water into the cup, then stirred the contents with the pestle. Instantly, the aroma of bayberry and frankincense filled the air. Satisfied, he sat it aside to cool.
His companion, a tall, heavily muscled man, sat quietly watching the preparations while sharpening an ebony blade on an oblong piece of slate. It had been another age when Kiel last seen this weapon removed from its sheath. The long knife, called a Kiv, was made entirely of onyx, the solid tang and handle wrapped in a small fortune of spun gold. A large piece of fashioned hematite had been set into the end of the handle, serving as a pommel.
Seemingly out of place in this primitive environment, a Glock .40-caliber semiautomatic handgun lay in the center of the table, surrounded by a half-dozen high-capacity magazines or "clips." Four of the magazines were loaded with Glaziers, a particularly lethal silicone-tipped bullet. The remaining magazines were loaded with ballistic-tipped Kevlar-piercing ammunition.
Kiel finished stirring the contents of the cup, and laid aside the pestle. He peered through a doorway at a third man who lay unmoving on a crude bed.
"How long, Kiel?" asked the giant as he continued to drag the serrated blade across the slate. Kiel shrugged and shook his head.
>
"I don't know, Nathaniel, I just don't know. His wounds should have killed him long before now. You say he tried to strangle Axthiel?"
"Yeah. He was already dying, and still he went for Axthiel's jugular. I saw the scene clearly played out in his memory just before his mind closed to me. Suffice to say, Axthiel was not amused," Nathaniel said, smiling. Despite the desperation of their situation, Kiel chuckled. He knew that Nathaniel was grimly amused by anything that caused a Fallen any measure of annoyance.
Kiel sat the cup on a simple wooden tray to cool. For long minutes, neither Kiel nor Nathaniel spoke, each given over to his own thoughts. For Kiel, his priority was clear. He was concerned with healing the battered and broken man. Nathaniel said the man's name was Paul.
Lionhearted, indeed. Attacking a Domination is foolish under any circumstance. Heroic, but still foolish.
Nathaniel held the knife aloft, allowing the candlelight to play along its gleaming serrated edge. Satisfied, he placed the blade into a plain leather sheath, then strapped the sheath to his massive thigh. Next he inserted a magazine loaded with Glaziers into the butt of the Glock. Nathaniel pulled back the slide of the semiauto, then let it go, smoothly chambering one of the deadly rounds. Nathaniel slid the gun into a thigh holster and left the rig lying in the center of the table. His preparations now complete, Nathaniel stood and reached high overhead, stretching various groups of tense, corded muscle.
Amused, Kiel nodded at the gun and said, "Why go to all that trouble, Nathaniel? I know you have a certain appreciation for human gadgets, but that gun hardly compares to the other weapons at your disposal."
"It's not for me." Nodding toward the man lying unconscious in the next room, Nathaniel said, "It's his, if he lives. The gun may not help him against those like Axthiel, but it'll suffice against most of Legion. And since you brought it up, my other weapons did little enough good. Sharaiel is dead because of me."
Kiel didn't bother to reply. He knew that Nathaniel wasn't responsible for Sharaiel's death any more than he was responsible for the injuries incurred by Paul Young. But the loss was too fresh, too deep. They had lost a Herald, and that was cause enough for long and bitter mourning. Kiel felt the pain as deeply as Nathaniel, but he had no time to mourn. Later perhaps, he would give in to pent emotion, but for now. he had another responsibility, one that demanded his complete attention. He checked on the cooling tincture.
Nathaniel moved to the middle of the room and began a series of complicated exercises, stretching and twisting his massive torso. Kiel watched Nathaniel's ritual with concern, as well as with a hint of awe.
Shirtless and wearing a pair of black jeans and jump boots, Nathaniel was a magnificent specimen, his musculature nothing short of phenomenal. Seemingly chiseled from flawless granite, his physique rippled with thick strands of muscle and sinew.
Perhaps most impressive of all was the great latticework of indigo and emerald that covered Nathaniel's arms and torso. In times of conflict, the intricate battle signal glowed with energy siphoned from the very cosmos. Even among his own kind, very few possessed the raw strength and combat prowess of Nathaniel, and Kiel was very, very grateful for his companion's presence.
The perfection of Nathaniel's body was marred only by the oozing hand-sized blister, seared into the center of his broad chest. He could have healed the wound at anytime, yet he chose to leave it. It served as a painful memento of his encounter with Axthiel and the loss of Sharaiel.
Kiel, despite his lithe, wiry stature, was quite possibly Nathaniel's equal in the art of war. Yet, while Nathaniel was a divinely crafted instrument of destruction, Kiel's gifts and passions followed a different path. His purpose was that of the physician. He was a master of the healing disciplines, yet he had failed to save Sharaiel. The memory still haunted him in ways that Nathaniel couldn't begin to understand.
Current circumstances allowed precious little time to lament his failings. Neither Nathaniel nor Kiel were strangers to combat, though neither had ever faced an ordeal of this magnitude, a conclusive battle that threatened to eradicate the Heavenly Host on Earth. Despite their considerable prowess, neither harbored any illusions about their chances for success. They would not survive without some sort of miracle, and miracles were in short supply these days.
Kiel dipped a finger into the cooling tincture and dribbled the liquid onto Paul's lips. He patiently repeated the process several times over the course of the afternoon. Finally, convinced that the man had ingested enough of the tincture for the time being, Kiel set aside the cup and stepped outside into the early-morning air. He found Nathaniel sitting beside the crumbled ruin of an old well. He was staring into the brilliant desert sky, tracing constellations with the tip of the Kiv.
"Not homesick, are you?" asked Kiel.
Nathaniel chuckled softly at the joke. Their kind was at home anywhere in the infinite expanse of time and space. However, Nathaniel knew what Kiel was really asking. "I was just thinking how much I would miss this place... this world. It's going to change drastically, you know."
The declaration took Kiel by surprise. Of them all, Nathaniel was best known for unemotional displays and a stoic regard for humanity. Oh, he loved Mankind, of that Kiel harbored no doubt. Man's strength of will, indomitable spirit, and great capacity for unconditional love, Nathaniel treasured all these things. He loved man's childlike delight and sense of wonder at the great mysteries. Most of all, he loved Man's ability to cling to a faith in things unseen, despite a lack of hard evidence or the presence of overwhelming adversity.
While it wasn't in his nature to possess any degree of self-doubt, Nathaniel, like all his kind, was a pragmatist and he knew that Mankind lived in the eleventh hour. Nathaniel seldom expressed his feelings or concerns and it was an ominous sign to hear him do so now.
It pained Kiel to see his brother in such despair, but he shared the belief that chances for survival dwindled with each passing day. Taking a seat on the rocky ground at Nathaniel's side, he asked, "What becomes of this one?"
Nathaniel glanced at the old monastery and shook his head. "I don't know. He has some part to play, provided he lives through the night, though I've no idea what that part may be."
Kiel nodded, but said nothing. Nathaniel resheathed the Kiv and turned to look at his companion. "I reached again, a few moments ago."
Kiel looked at Nathaniel expectantly. "And?"
"Nothing. Not so much as a whisper. What about you? Have you sensed anything from Joriel?"
"No," replied Kiel, hanging his head. There was no disguising the worry in his voice. "I wanted to ask you if you had felt anything. I tried, too... about an hour ago. I thought I touched her, briefly. Then, nothing. I also touched Yori and Lioniel. They are making final preparations for an assault on a Brethren stronghold, somewhere in New Britain." Kiel hesitated a moment, then added, "I can't touch Uriel. I've tried twice, and each time I brush against... something. I'm sure he's still alive, but for some reason, he's shielding himself. When I reached for Baraniel, I... I found the Void, instead. He is gone. Nathan, I am afraid."
Nathaniel bowed his head for several seconds. The Void. The state of nonexistence, a condition all those without souls were destined for eventually. When he looked up again he said, "I honor his life and mourn his loss. I also know that you and Baraniel were very close and I grieve for your pain. However, I do not think you have the capacity for fear."
Kiel sighed heavily and said, "We both know that's a half-truth, pushing an outright lie, muer maistirad mac tire."
Nathaniel smiled and said, "It's been a long time since I last heard that language spoken and even longer since someone has called me the Great Master of Wolves. I've always been somewhat fond of the Gaels, you know."
"Why am I not the least surprised? There's a longstanding rumor that Asterix and his little band fashioned themselves after you. Screaming, face-painted, ax-wielding, city-sacking bunch of heathens!" Kiel said in an atrocious Celtic accent.
"Why, I nev
er once sacked a city with an ax!" replied Nathaniel with mock indignation. Suddenly, his body went rigid, and he cocked his head as if listening to some faraway sound riding along on the gentle currents of the desert wind.
"Do you hear them? Never in all eternity would I have envisioned the Fallen treating with Legion. It's... inconceivable! Angels, removed from Grace, fighting side by side with the most foul creatures in all of Creation."
Kiel glanced back toward the shelter. He sensed the man inside was resting fitfully. "They hunt for him and his kin. The packs of bottom feeders are now led by Greater Demons from Sitra Akhra. With the Fallen fighting at their side, you may believe I am afraid. For this world, if not for myself."
"Let them come," said Nathaniel. "He will intervene when it becomes appropriate for Him to do so. Until then, we shall see to it that the price of this world proves more than they're willing to pay."
Kiel nodded and laid a hand on his companion's massive shoulder. "Dia dhuit te ha I."
Nathaniel nodded solemnly. "Aye. May God be with us, muer breudeur."
CHAPTER 26
Northern Tennessee
Petey was lost. The Taint allowed him to sense the general direction of his prey, but he had no idea of how to get there from his current location in northeastern Tennessee. Axthiel had tasked him with tracking one of the bastards, and given him the gifts necessary to accomplish the task. However, knowing your destination wasn't always the same as knowing the way. He needed a map... or better yet, a guide.
He pulled into the crowded parking lot of what looked like a large supermarket. He could see that the market was closed for the night, but he wasn't interested in buying anything. Instead he was interested in the large group of teenagers that congregated at one end of the lot. A few cars, apparently spooked by the sudden presence of a police car, slowly drove away. Petey wasn't interested in them either. He was looking for just the right—
Ah, a new playmate!
