Hannibal waved his hand across the three from left to right. “Khutulun, Amanitore, and Elizabeth.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Peter said, mustering all the charm he could.
Khutulun was a trim woman from the Asian Steppe region. In her early forties, she had long and dark wiry hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She wore leather armor over a more colorful blend of billowy pants and a blouse. Aside from a dagger, Khutulun carried a longbow with a quiver of arrows slung over her back. She nodded at Peter, but he could tell right away that she felt him unworthy of being in their company.
Amanitore was African, probably Ethiopian from what Peter could tell. She was in her fifties and sat with all the grace and poise of a Nubian queen. Amanitore was dressed similar to everyone else, with the exception of a very short skirt peeking out from under her armor plate. At her side was a curved, sickle-type sword and slung across her back was a longbow. Amanitore held her head high and reluctantly acknowledged Peter with a wry smile.
Even among the strong, the brooding, and the calculating, Elizabeth stood out like no other. The woman was a petite, raven-haired beauty, but her physical appearance was not what set her apart from her peers. She wore a shimmering, sleeveless dragon scale dress made of solid gold. It ended just above the knee and was held in place at the waist by a silver belt. Covering her arms were jewel-encrusted gauntlets that ended in grandiose rings gracing every finger. An ornate hilt protruding from behind Elizabeth’s neck signaled a sword and scabbard that rode high on her back so as not to interfere with her range of motion.
Elizabeth’s demeanor was more welcoming than the other two women. She seemed curious about Peter and made unflinching eye contact. She rose to greet the newcomer and performed a respectful curtsy. “Welcome indeed, book bearer,” she said in a playful, almost flirtatious Eastern European accent.
Surprised at the overtly sexual greeting, Peter nervously adjusted his glasses and clumsily stammered, “Um—thanks.”
Elizabeth took Peter’s hand and turned it over to study his palm. She carefully felt along his arm assessing his physical strength. “Unspoiled,” she judged, winking at the other two women. “Tell me, Peter, what did you do in life?”
“Do?”
“Your trade—your profession.”
“I’m a—” Peter started, but then corrected, “I was a professor.”
Elizabeth grabbed Peter by both shoulders and pulled him close to her. She sniffed the air around his face and chest. “I knew many professors as a child,” she said, eliciting giggles from the other two women. “I study many subjects,” she purred. “Which is your preference?”
“History, actually,” Peter answered, respectfully trying to pull free of Elizabeth’s grasp.
“I love history,” Elizabeth teased, using her superior strength to immobilize Peter and forcing a drawn-out, sloppy kiss upon him.
Peter turned his head away. “I’m sorry—I don’t know you.”
“You want to though, yes?”
Peter looked to Hannibal for guidance.
Hannibal sneered at the woman’s undisciplined behavior. “You are interfering.”
Elizabeth released Peter. “I just want to speak to him; he knows history.”
“I do,” Peter interjected, straightening his glasses. “In fact, I recognize most of you.”
Elizabeth dropped her alluring charade. “Tell me.”
“Your last name is Báthory,” Peter responded. “History remembers you as the Blood Countess.”
“Lies!” Elizabeth spat, diverting her eyes from Peter.
Peter gestured to Hannibal. “You’re the great general from Carthage.” He motioned to Guan who was still sparring with Thomas. “He was also a general—China still reveres him.”
Guan was paying more attention than he let on and said to Hannibal, “I told you.”
Peter waved his hand across the entire group. “You’re all there—in the pages of history.” As he processed the ramifications of their respective careers, a feeling of dread came over him. He sat down on a rock next to the three women and without thinking, mumbled aloud, “You’re all killers.”
Collectively, the members of the company released a heavy sigh and murmurs filtered through the stagnant air.
Guan laughed at the news. “I told you that as well,” he said, then used his sword to slap Thomas’s butt, eliciting a yelp from the younger man.
“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No,” Hannibal said loudly so the others could hear. “We cannot run from our past. Every one of us endures today because of who we were.”
Peter cast a quizzical glance back to Hannibal.
“The queen,” Hannibal answered. “She pulled us from the multitude of new souls and gave us a purpose—without which, we would have been turned to stone.”
Although he was curious, Peter did not reply. He could tell the mere mention of Hannibal’s previous actions was too unpleasant for any conversation. It was simple enough: these individuals were saved from the queen’s wrath because they could serve a purpose. There was no one better to oversee thousands of new arrivals than trained mercenaries and battle-hardened military personnel. They were good at what they did, and the queen appreciated their unique skill set.
Peter’s thoughts went back to the day he arrived. He found it odd at the time that the young hoodlum, Butch, was plucked from the incoming flow of souls. Now Peter knew why. The queen was rewarding his lack of deference to the law. Butch would find a position within her guard that suited his capabilities. He would be free to continue his reign of terror while good people were turned into building materials.
“Ouch!” Thomas screamed and dropped his sword into the ash. He hopped around the center of the gathering holding his finger all the while being laughed at by the others. “It’s not fair—he’s too tall.”
Hannibal retrieved the sword and thrust it back into Thomas’s injured hand. “Do you believe you will be able to choose an opponent on the battlefield?” he asked, staring into the young face of the trainee. “Life is unfair; death is even more so.”
Penitent, Thomas shrugged. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” Hannibal said, holding his hands up in a surrender position. “Strike me.”
“You don’t even have your sword out.”
“Strike me!”
Not wanting to hurt the old general, Thomas swung his sword lazily through the air.
In one swift motion, Hannibal pulled his weapon and blocked the young man’s weak attack. He sheathed his sword and ordered, “Again.”
More serious, Thomas took another more energetic swipe at his opponent, but the older man simply stepped out of the way.
“Concentrate,” Hannibal instructed.
Attempting to catch his teacher off guard, Thomas turned his body slightly to mask his attack and swung forcefully at Hannibal. The old warrior drew his weapon late and the upward trajectory of the incoming sword nearly cleaved through Hannibal’s throat. The awkward impact was enough to push Hannibal off balance, forcing him to fall backward into the ash. Seeing his opening, Thomas pressed the advantage and thrust his sword in for the kill. Expertly and with little wasted motion, Hannibal swept Thomas’s legs out from underneath him causing the young trainee to fall into the ash.
“Well done!” Hannibal congratulated. “Your awareness is greatly improved!”
Thomas picked himself up and in a hopeful voice, asked, “I’m better, right?” Immediately, he could see the frown on Hannibal’s face, so he followed with, “I’ve been training—I almost beat you this time. That’s got to be worth something.”
Hannibal got to his feet, loosened a strap under his breastplate, and handed Thomas a sheathed knife. “This has been with me since the beginning.”
Thomas studied the knife with disappointment. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“In the proper hands, a knife can be a formidable weapon,” Hannibal sai
d, but seeing that Thomas’s feelings were hurt, he added, “Your unique gift to move the stones is what has made our success possible. Without you, our endeavors would have failed years ago.”
Disappointed, Thomas handed the training sword back to Guan and took a seat at the far edge of the gathering.
Peter followed the interaction closely. He felt for Thomas but could see the lesson Hannibal was trying to teach. There was no rule of law in Eden. To exist here, as Hannibal and his group had done, you needed to fight. You must be able to defend yourself and lend aid to those around you. There was no place for someone who would be a hindrance during battle. Resources needed to protect a weak link were resources lost toward the advancement of the final goal.
Peter knew all too well where he stood in the scheme of things. He was no fighter—no warrior. He was dead weight around the necks of the entire group. If a battle were to break out, Peter would have no recourse except to seek shelter. Hiding was something he could do. His only use up to this point had been to carry the ancient manuscript: a simple task recently burdened by the pressure of actually reading it.
Hannibal extended an arm in Peter’s direction. “Tell us, what news from your examination of the book?”
Peter now understood the reason behind Hannibal’s intention of bringing the book into the presence of Uriel. Hannibal hoped the manuscript would reveal something, but nothing, as of yet, had presented itself. Peter hoisted himself upright from the rock and stood before the company. He scanned the expectant faces and lowered his gaze in shame. “I have nothing to report. I’m sorry.”
The mercenaries let out a collective breath and looked to their leader for support.
Hannibal met their stares and asked Peter, “Is there nothing you can do?”
Peter’s courage retreated even further. The appropriate words to articulate his failure vanished from his mind. He struggled to find a balance between what he knew and what this world wanted. He felt lost, like a ship foundering on a tumultuous sea. The problem at hand required a thorough investigation. Parameters needed to be set, guidelines published, and a clear goal established. Peter could not work in the dark and he could not make progress by guessing. Then, as if by chance, he found what he was looking for: a direction. His scholarly instincts kicked in. Moving the problem forward required more data, something he was lacking but was more than eager to discover. If Peter could frame this problem in an academic fashion, he stood a better chance of finding the resolution. His posture straightened with his newfound confidence. “I don’t know enough about the book,” he said. “If I had a primer—somewhere to start—it would help immensely.”
Hannibal considered Peter’s words. “The first time I heard of that book, I was in the presence of the demon-queen herself. She referred to it as the Book of Souls.”
Peter recognized the name from historical references and various religious texts. The Book of Souls was a variation on the Nice List. If your name appeared in the Book of Souls, you were considered a moral person and allowed to enter Heaven. Peter’s thinking all along had been that the Book of Souls was a fictional story meant to keep wayward individuals in line. Even with that knowledge, encountering the real manuscript simply provoked more questions about its purpose. Skeptical, Peter asked, “Why would God need a physical book—I mean, doesn’t he know who’s been good or bad?”
The contemporary reference elicited a small chuckle from Thomas, but the rest of the group remained stoic and looked to Hannibal for answers. This gave Peter the impression that the mercenaries were in the dark when it came to their actual objective.
“It contains more than a mere list of the righteous,” Hannibal responded. “The volume is powerful beyond measure. Used properly, it will end this wretched existence and restore the original paths to salvation,” and after a moment of hesitation, he added, “or damnation.”
Peter absorbed every word Hannibal had to say about the book. The ancient manuscript could rectify what was happening in the Garden by unfettering the souls in their journey to the afterlife. He hefted the tome and turned it over in his hands. “And if it’s used improperly?”
“I remember the day Lilith received news of the book’s existence. She was jubilant,” he said with disgust. “The queen believes the words written within will destroy the gates of Hell and allow her brethren to invade Creation.”
“And you wanted to stop her?”
“We,” Hannibal started and then paused for a moment. “I have done many things in my life I wish to atone for, deeds so despicable I can scarcely recall the warrior who committed them.”
A chorus of sympathetic affirmations murmured through the group.
“It is said that the book was dictated to the monk Nicholas by angels,” Hannibal said. “He was entrusted with its secrets because he was pious, because he was worthy.” He motioned to the assembled mercenaries. “We want to be found worthy as well. We cannot change the past, but we can proceed more enlightened into the future. Our goal is to deny the queen her prize and release these souls to their rightful place—to whatever outcome awaits each of us.”
Although he had lingering doubts, Peter found Hannibal’s words compelling. He had assembled a team of like-minded individuals willing to sacrifice everything for a chance at redemption. They wanted to live on in the afterlife without fear of retribution from their wrongdoings.
“Can you not help us?” Hannibal asked.
Peter scanned the group to find every set of eyes upon him. “Of course,” he responded, “but I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
“Surely, Nicholas must have given you some instruction?”
Peter thought back to the day in the antique store basement. “I found it,” he confessed.
“He did not give it to you willingly?”
“He was there,” Peter answered to a swell of relief from the group. “He never said anything, but he wanted me to take the book—I’m sure of that.”
From out of the crowd, Musashi broke the awkward silence. “Perhaps it was not bestowed properly?”
Hannibal mulled the samurai’s idea. “Perhaps.”
Peter asked the obvious question. “How would we know?”
“The Book of Souls would manifest itself with the power of Creation,” Hannibal responded. “Only a true believer or divine soul may wield it.”
Peter’s enthusiasm along with his newfound courage waned. Even when confronted with the reality of the Garden of Eden, he still had a difficult time believing that an almighty being created everything. Deep within his subconscious, Peter held out hope for an ending that found him waking from an injury-induced coma. His belief system was taxed enough already and he was certain the failure existed not in the book, but in himself. Peter considered his options. The only person in Eden that could use the ancient manuscript was Nicholas. The monk was there when Peter had arrived at the Gate; surely, Nicholas must know all about the old tome. With that in mind, he asked, “What about Nicholas?”
“He is guarded at every hour,” Hannibal replied. “The queen seldom leaves him unattended.” The old warrior withdrew in thought. He was a fierce leader, but hearing that his initial plan had been for nothing affected Hannibal’s confidence noticeably. The men and women of the company respected him and relied on his absolute knowledge of the inner workings of Eden’s political structure to succeed in their operations. Proof of Hannibal’s leadership was all around them. The company had managed to snatch Peter away from the demon queen and leave the city—a feat none of them had thought possible.
Hannibal thoughtfully measured all the facts before him. “It is a risk, but if Nicholas were to possess the book, his actions should be swift. The operation would require a diversion of sufficient length—something we could provide.”
A series of groans elicited from the company. They spent days traversing the relative safety of the countryside to find Uriel’s Vale. Although there was only one city, it was massive. Any attempt to approach Nicholas would mean up to a we
ek of crossing enemy territory to covertly seek out the monk. The odds of the mercenaries being captured would grow exponentially with each step they took.
No one knew the odds better than Hannibal. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Would you stay here?”
The members of the company looked to each other for support and nodded.
“I understand your fear,” Hannibal said. “It is pleasant to dwell on these surroundings. We are known, but not yet hunted. The queen would find a way to reach us in this place. It is a fact that she will not rest until we have been found. We cannot hide here forever.”
The mercenaries looked away to conceal their guilt.
“The queen will never suspect something so rash. If we can find the monk, we can end this. All I ask is for a small amount of the support you have already placed in me.”
One by one, the members of the company nodded their approval. Some detested the idea of running away, while others murmured their preferences of being the hunters and not the hunted.
“My friends, gather your belongings; we will move into the city,” Hannibal said.
The group rose to standing and begun the task of stowing their gear.
Peter scanned the area for anything he might have dropped. He checked his glasses and placed the book in his shoulder bag. As the group got ready to leave, he was still curious about the stele of the man behind the angel and asked, “Who was Uriel protecting?”
“Adam,” Hannibal responded. “The first of us all.”
Chapter 17
Peter’s body was still in the first stages of acclimation to the Garden. His physical fatigue remained, but his thirst had quelled somewhat over the previous days. The march back to the outer wall of the city was not as difficult as the initial trek out to Uriel’s Vale, and Peter found the time very therapeutic. The burned landscape was calming, almost serene, especially compared to what awaited him inside the city.
Hannibal’s approach to the wall was cautious and took nearly two days. He stopped the group well short of the fortifications and sent Elizabeth and Khutulun ahead to reconnoiter the area. Godfrey and Musashi were set as sentries, rotating out with Gunnar and Verus. The remainder of the company simply bided their time. The entire operation played out according to Hannibal’s exacting and overly-deliberate plan.
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