Sons of God Daughters of Men

by Benjamin Reynolds

  The men quickly drew arrows, loaded and raised their bows, waiting as the mob steadily picked up their pace and shouted wildly.

  Upon seeing the enemy cross an area of white, painted stones signifying one hundred and fifty yards, Azazel lowered his hand.

  The archers released a volley of arrows high into the air. A dozen or so men in the mob stopped and lifted their heads upon hearing the whistling sound of descending arrows. One by one, the soft thuds of arrows striking flesh gave way to screams of agony. Thirty men fell to the first volley...seconds later, twenty-five to the second...thirty to the next. Men fell all around Nabal. He saw how the sight of the dead and dying coupled with the cries of the wounded were causing panic and confusion. Nabal pointed his sword into the air and ordered a charge. A large cloud of dust rose into the air as the mob surged forward.

  In unison, the phalanx raised their shields, planted their left legs and leaned forward.

  “Steady and hold the line,” Azazel shouted. He then drew both swords and clenched his teeth, eagerly, awaiting contact.

  The first column braced for impact, raising spears to their shoulder as the second column lowered their spears to waist level. The angry mob closed to within fifty yards. Caelan’s archers ceased firing and quickly changed weapons, slinging their bows over their shoulders and drawing long swords from their waist. They separated into two groups of twenty five, each group sprinting to flanking positions on the edge of the front line. Just as they arrived, the mob crashed into the front line. Blood curdling screams rang out as both lines in the phalanx drove their long spears into the mob, easily killing and injuring over a hundred men. Moments later, another seventy fell.

  “Forward!' Azazel shouted.

  The phalanx dug their spiked sandals into the sand, driving their shields forward, while simultaneously thrusting their spears. Another one hundred hapless souls fell to the ground. Mortified, Nabal stood behind the mob, bearing witness to the gruesome slaying of his men. Several hundred in the front turned and tried to retreat, only to be met by confused men surging forward from the rear. The disciplined phalanx continued their relentless drive forward, mercilessly spearing and hacking anything in their path.

  Nabal turned and faced a large group in the mob. He pointed his sword to the right in an effort to direct a charge to that side. The men broke off and sprinted in that direction with Nabal following. Screams and loud shouts soon rang out from the right. They were met by the archers, who although numbering only twenty-five, violently cut down every man in their path. They stabbed, sliced and spun their way from one man to the next, felling every unlucky opponent in their path. A few managed to grab hold of and archer, only to be quickly thrown off and dispatched by sword.

  Nabal had erred in thinking that The Sons of God were slow, lethargic giants. Ten bloody minutes of one-sided slaughter had introduced he and his men to fierce, agile and well disciplined men of war. He looked around the battlefield. Blood spurted from the necks and torsos of those cut down by arrows and unlucky enough to meet the marching phalanx head on. To his right, Caelan's swordsmen were quickly cutting their way through the panicked and fleeing. More than half of those who came with him lay dead or dying. Fearing for his life, Nabal turned to escape. A deep, loud voice called from behind. He turned to see Azazel, bloodied and with swords drawn. Nabal ran as fast as he could. Within seconds, he was struck in the back and knocked to the ground. Nearly unconscious and sensing someone behind him, he crawled several feet before getting kicked in the side and falling to his face. As he turned over to beg for mercy, Azazel stood above him with a sword pointed towards his throat.

  He thought it impossible that Azazel, a seven-foot giant, was swift enough to catch him from so far away. He was gripped by fear. The warm, wet feeling of urine moving down his thigh made it worse. Azazel stepped back and kicked his sword to him.

  “I was hoping the abuser of women would die with some dignity,” Azazel scoffed.

  Nabal held his hands up. “Please don't kill me,” he begged.

  Azazel stared at him with little remorse.

  “I'm sorry. Please. Please forgive me!” Nabal shouted as he crawled backwards.

  “When is the last time you showed mercy?” Azazel replied as he methodically followed. “Stand up and die on your feet like a man.”

  Nabal reluctantly picked up the sword. Slowly, he circled Azazel as the weapon shook in his right hand, looking for an opening. Quickly, he thrust, but Azazel was too fast and avoided the strike. He spun behind Nabal, slashed his thighs with the sword in his right hand, then across the back with his left. Nabal screamed and fell to his knees. Azazel stepped behind him, and crossed both swords behind Nabal's neck. “You should have never come here mortal,” he uttered.

  “I curse you Sons of God. May you all burn in hell,” Nabal shouted back.

  “You first,” Azazel said. He raised both swords and prepared to vanquish his foe.

  A loud trumpet rang out.

  “Azazel,” Caelan shouted.

  Azazel turned to see Caelan approaching from behind.

  “It's over brother. Let him live,” Caelan ordered.

  “What!" Azazel shouted in defiance. "He is responsible for this carnage. Allow him to live and he will bring ten thousand more men with him. No my brother, I cannot allow it.”

  “Lower your swords Azazel. If any more come, they will meet the same fate as these. This battle is over and we have taught them a dreadful lesson.”

  Caelan stepped forward and grabbed Nabal by his long, black hair. He forcefully lifted his head up. “You have learned a dreadful lesson, haven't you?” he scowled.

  “Y-yes my lord. I'm sorry,” he said and started sobbing. On his knees, he clasped his hands together. “Thank you, thank you for sparing my life.”

  Caelan flung Nabal backwards onto the ground, and then turned around to survey the battlefield. He had fought many battles against demons, but the scene around him was far different. When killed, demons left behind a cloud of black ash and a lingering smell of sulfur. Here, the dead and dying around him moaned in agony and wept bitter tears. Blood and bowels stained the sand, filling the air with a reeking smell of blood, sweat, urine, and human excrement.

  Caelan noted the reactions of his men. It was evident from the expressions of these former angels that this was not the type of war they had expected. The sullen looks that half of them had betrayed how distraught they were by the violence just perpetrated. The others seemed delighted, laughing, and bragging about their superior physical and military prowess. Caelan could not ignore the fact that his conscious was telling him that something was very wrong about this. He had never been inundated by this kind of overbearing guilt and shame. But why should he feel this way? He and the others were defending their families and their city. The others did not appear so remorseful, so why was he? Never before had Caelan felt so conflicted. On one hand, he felt that he and his men were justified in defending themselves. Those who had been slain deserved their fate for threatening his people with violence. On the other hand, it seemed wrong that they had used their physical and technological advantages to perpetrate such extreme violence. But, they had no choice. They had only done what was necessary. And besides, they were allowed to come to this world. That in and of itself justifies our actions Caelan thought.

  “Caelan, what shall we do with the survivors?” Azazel asked from behind.

  Caelan's fingers tightened around the leather binding on his ax handle. Once again, he turned and surveyed the battlefield, grasping, searching for the right choice. Taking prisoners was not something he was used to. Still, a decision had to be made.

  “Caelan, do they live or die?” Azazal asked.

  He looked into the gaunt eyes of his defeated and demoralized captives, all of whom had been corralled into a circle until The Sons of God could figure out what to do with them. About three hundred of them had surrendered. Most had tried to flee when the battle had turned against them, but thought better of i
t when they saw Azazel chase down and strike Nabal. They huddled together in the middle of the plain awaiting a decision and hoping for mercy. Caelan walked over and stopped in front of the prisoners. He was soon joined by Azazel and close to one hundred of his militia, all dispersing themselves equally on each side of their two leaders, and awaiting orders. Some of the militia spoke out, pleading with Caelan to show mercy. A dozen or so men left the plain, clearly not willing to have a hand in the execution that everyone knew was coming. Torn by the division among his own men and within himself, Caelan looked sternly over the broken motley crew of would be invaders. Some wept, others begged for their lives, but far more sat with their heads hung low, having reconciled the likelihood of imminent demise.

  Caelan's decision was sudden and unexpected. “Spare these and kill those who are beyond saving,” he shouted.

  A furious, Azazel grabbed his friend's arm and spun him around. “What have you done? he said loudly.

  Caelan snapped his arm back. He took a step forward, pausing momentarily as he glared into Azazl's eyes. "Obey the order or leave," he said staunchly.

  Save the sound of ravenous birds overhead, the battlefield quieted, everyone's attention turning to the brooding, well armed giants. Not since the first rebellion had two Sons of God faced each other with weapons of war. Having sensed the tension, both men retreated backwards.

  Still holding his icy glare, Azazel was the first to speak. "Let them live and they will return with others. We need to send a strong message today.”

  Caelan looked both ways, and then held his hand out. “Is this not a message? These broken men will bother us no more.”

  “And they should escape penalty free? These are not the rules of war Caelan. You know this.”

  Caelan sighed heavily. He turned to his prisoners. “Hear me sons of men, hear Caelan. You have made a great trespass against us. We did not seek war, but it was your own foolish pride that has brought this shame on you. For this, you must pay. Your lives now belong to us. Your wives, children, lands…all that you possess is now ours. You will supply the fifth part of your harvest and increase to us each year. The possessions of the slain now belong to us. This is the burden of Caelan. In seven days, we will come to collect all that now belongs to us. You will also add one talent of gold and one talent of silver. Be grateful that the Sons of God are merciful and you still have your worthless lives, for you deserve far worse than you have received.”

  Caelan nodded at Azazel, signifying his spited concession.

  One of the prisoners stood and ran towards Caelan. He fell to his hands and knees several feet away. “Thank you my lord for your great mercy!” the man cried.

  “What is your name?” Caelan asked.

  “Shamgard my lord,” the man humbly replied.

  “Shamgard, you are wise to give honor and respect this day. It goes far to erase your shame.”

  “Thank you my lord. You have rightfully said that we were mistaken to come here. Now we know that men cannot contend with the gods who descend from heaven.

  “Shamgard-”

  Azazel grabbed Caelan's shoulder and shook his head. Today, the legend of the gods was born and he wanted men to fear.

  12

  THE DESTROYER

  Lucifer leaned back leisurely in his throne as he read the scroll containing a plan for destroying the Sons of God. Baruch, the demonic Viceroy of the Canaanite region, stood pensively at the door waiting for permission to discuss the scheme with his master. The seven-foot, lizard like demon mistakenly thought he might easily enter. His dark beady eyes darted about as he wondered why he had been summoned to the throne room only to be denied entrance. He formed an uneasy smile as he stared at the two guards. The muscular, nine-foot demons with red scaly skin stood motionless in front of him with spears crossed. One of the demons taunted him, smiling through short, black jagged teeth as he breathed heavily through two small slits in the center of his face.

  “Let him by,” Lucifer called out. He motioned for Baruch to approach.

  The two demons uncrossed their spears and stepped aside. Lucifer watched with contempt as Baruch approached the throne dragging his right leg. He had been crippled nearly two hundred years ago fighting against angels in the land of Canaan. Lucifer had given him the title of Viceroy for his valiant efforts, but grew to detest the way he hobbled about in his presence . . . a reminder of how much the Lord of Hell abhorred all things imperfect. Baruch's greatest skill was that he was one of the best demons at persuading human beings to worship pagan gods. But for this, Lucifer might have slain him by now.

  Baruch reached the steps of the throne and bowed to one knee, lowered his head, and crossed his right arm across his chest.

  “Master. I am in your service,” the demon said with a lisp, then grimaced.

  “Have we any assets in Nirim Baruch?” Lucifer asked.

  “My lord?” Baruch replied in confusion.

  “Witches. Have any witches there?”

  “Three, maybe four my lord.”

  “Which is it?” Lucifer shouted.

  “Four my lord,” Baruch said.

  Lucifer leaned forward. A sinister grin formed on his thin black lips. “I have a mission for you.”

  Baruch looked up. “Yes my lord.”

  “Who is your most trusted witch?”

  “And elderly woman named Hilda. She has a talent for enchantments and necromancy," Baruch said. He smiled and waited for praise.

  “Excellent,” Lucifer said. He folder his arms and thought for a moment. “Send her to Nabal, the one who foolishly attacked the Sons of God. We will use him as our pawn to destroy them. Order her to entice him with dreams of revenge against those who stole his wife and humiliated him in battle. Tell her to persuade him that there are gods stronger than the Sons of God who can aid him. If he wants revenge, then he must submit to their will. When he shows interest, have her perform the rite of possession on him.”

  “Who will inhabit his body my lord?” Baruch asked.

  Lucifer erupted into loud, sinister laughter. He pounded his fist into the chair. “The Destroyer!”

  Terrified, Baruch looked at Lucifer, then around the room. “My lord, but he is beyond control. Were we not ordered to keep him bound and under constant guard?”

  Still grinning, Lucifer nodded in affirmation.

  “If released, he could be unstoppable." Baruch struggled to stand. In his plan, he had suggested using a demon possessed human against the Sons of God, but he never considered releasing a terror that other demons feared. "Master, he could destroy many of our own before we could subdue him.”

  Lucifer smiled. He walked down the steps and put his arm around Baruch. “Yes. I will use him now because his appetite for death is insatiable." Lucifer broke out into another loud laugh. "The Sons of God will never see it coming. He will bring an end to their petty plans, and hopefully to them.”

  Baruch lowered his head, hesitant to utter his next few words. “My lord, our orders were to never free him.”

  Lucifer stepped in front of Baruch and grasped his shoulders. “Baruch, the Sons of God unwittingly upset the natural balance between good and evil, natural and supernatural in the earth when they became men. Now we can interfere and introduce something unnatural of our own. They never should have involved themselves in the affairs of humanity.”

  Baruch smiled eerily. Finally, the sinister plan made sense. “Yes. Now I see my master. What a wonderful plan! But how do we transport The Destroyer from his prison to the earth? He has been in a cell for centuries. When the vault is opened and the chains are removed, he will—”

  Lucifer nodded his finger. “The chance to be free and inhabit human flesh should be more than enough to entice him to behave. If he chooses to ignore my terms, then he will be sent to the Pit of Fire. The eternal flame is enough to convince anyone. Do you not agree?”

  Baruch swallowed and nodded.

  In a field a short distance outside Nirim, Nabal sat on the ground leanin
g against a tree. He had become an outcast, passing his days drinking heavily and wallowing in wine and misery. The men of the city blamed him for many who died following him and the heavy tribute tax they were under now. They cast him out of the city and left him to fend for himself. Trying to drown away his sadness, Nabal lifted a lambskin bag filled with wine and took a long swig. Wine drizzled through his thick black, disheveled beard and down his dust covered cloak.

  “What a waste,” said a cackling voice.

  Nabal turned to see an old woman dressed in dirty goat's hair garments and long gray hair tucked under a black veil. Nabal paid her no mind and took another swig.

  “What a shame. The once mighty Nabal is no longer fit to take his vengeance,” she muttered before turning to walk away.

  “What vengeance do you speak of old woman?” asked, slurring his words.

  “Vengeance on those who humiliated you and took everything you had. You know of whom I speak.”

  “Go away and stop troubling me old woman.”

  The woman turned and pointed her finger at him. “Nabal, who once had no fear, is now full of it”

  “Nabal fears no one old woman, but I cannot contend with the gods. I have been in battle with them old wretch. They kill men as if they were flies.”

  “And Nabal thinks that he is a fly?”

  Nabal took another swig of wine, choosing not to answer.

  “Nabal once was a great man…feared by everyone in Nirim. He took what he wanted and everyone gave him respect. Does Nabal wish to be respected again?”