CHAPTER 1
1970 AD
Ravenna, Italy
The night air awakened Mikhael's skin as he moved across the field. Above him, a third quarter moon beamed down against the fog and illuminated the land in patches—some areas bright as morn and others dark with shadow. Despite his enormity, he was confident no one noticed him walking through the murk.
The pungent smell of the sea confirmed its nearness, and the soft soil beneath his feet felt rich and fertile. A light breeze blew and the temperature remained mild but cool enough to be refreshing.
He had never been to this part of the world before. The land seemed easy and restful. The surroundings were unfamiliar but pleasant.
"A land fit for kings," he whispered to no one and everyone.
As he continued to walk, another more subtle feature of his surroundings began to emerge.
This place had a soul.
From the townspeople sleeping on the other side of the old city walls to the ancient bones buried all about, he could sense the elemental nature here. A strong history of faith prevailed in this region. Mikhael drew in a breath of their devoutness and savored it. He liked it here.
A grin spread across his face as he started to understand. He now had a new appreciation for choices made by another.
A nice place to rest, Brother.
With his eyes forward and a surprising lightness to his step, he continued onward through the damp grass and thick fog. After only a few minutes, the fog thinned and soon after it broke completely. Here the moonlight reached the earth in an enormous swath, and it focused on a large, domed structure standing a mere stone's throw directly ahead of him.
He stood staring at the front of the monument from his current position. There were two door shaped holes, each about eight foot tall by four foot wide and stacked one directly above the other, serving as entrance ways to each floor of the structure. As he circled the exterior of the building, he found the bottom floor had ten sides as did the top floor. The upper section was a little smaller than the lower.
The entire structure was built out of large blocks of smooth white stone. The most impressive of these stones, a dome shaped monolith that probably measured upwards of forty feet in diameter, served as the roof of the entire edifice.
Every stone in the structure, regardless of size, cut, or function, absorbed moonlight from the night sky. The resulting effect gave the building a soft yellow radiance. It appeared to glow in the dark.
He found the monument curious but not overly impressive. He supposed it must be considered old by those who consider such things, but he judged antiquity on a much different scale. His walk around the outside completed, he ducked his head and casually stepped into the bottom entrance of the building.
It was much darker on the inside. Even though he could see in the absence of light, he rarely did. He took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The main floor was unspectacular. It stood completely bare and undecorated. Only a stair leading to the upper floor remained within the lower walls.
He didn't linger here; up the stairs and to the second floor he went.
Square holes cut into the rock up high on the walls let in moonlight from all directions. The upper floor looked very much like the lower, only brighter.
The sole content of the room was a circular porphyry tub located near the center of the floor. The igneous rock of the tub appeared a deep brownish purple sprinkled with fine grain crystals. He walked over and peered into it.
A royal tub. Empty. Not surprised. I've missed something . . . somewhere.
Back down the stairs he went. Almost immediately he found what he was looking for—a niche in the western wall leading down into a room that the moonlight would not enter. He submerged himself in this new darkness, paused a moment to get his bearings, and found himself in a cross-shaped chapel with a ceiling too low for him to stand erect.
For certain his earlier intuition had been correct. This whole place served as a grand burial chamber of some sort. Services were probably held in this room, and at one time a person of some importance was undoubtedly laid to rest in the big, purple tub upstairs. He smiled to himself at this newest revelation. How amusing. He continued his search.
After missing the niche earlier, he let nothing escape his gaze as he scanned this latest room. Not even the four stones near the bottom of the chapel's front wall went unnoticed. They seemed the slightest bit different to him for reasons he couldn't decipher. Dropping down on all fours, he pushed on the top two stones.
The stones moved.
He continued pushing until they slid loose from the wall and then dropped onto what sounded like muddy ground below. He pulled the other two stones out of the way and a hole in the wall just big enough for him to squeeze through remained.
With no hesitation, he turned around onto his abdomen and pushed himself feet first through the opening. It was almost a perfect fit—only the grandest of his wing feathers scraped the loose mortar of the hollow as he squeezed his shoulders through.
He let his body hang over the ledge on the other side of the wall as he passed through the hole. He held onto the ledge with his colossal hands until solid ground received him. Letting go of the chapel floor above, Mikhael turned to explore what he hoped would be his last hidden chamber.
Further examination revealed a large cavity almost exactly the same diameter as the tomb above. A number of marble base pillars resting on a huge foundation platform supported the entire structure. The earthen walls of the great hole were inundated with sand and moisture, and the whole place smelled of a nearby river. The air, heavy and wet, left a brackish aftertaste on Mikhael's tongue as it passed over.
He could see the far side of the dirt wall by looking through the rows of pillars holding the structure aloft. The cavity looked identical all the way around. Still, he must search down here all the same.
He placed his first step onto the foundation platform, and then he placed a second step. He was just before walking amongst the columns, beneath the crushing weight of the monument above, when a most unexpected thing happened.
"Mikhael . . . Is that you, Mikhael?" a voice asked.
The question surprised him. A figure stood behind one of the far columns from the direction the voice had come. The pillar could not conceal the hulking frame, and he knew at once who it was. He had expected to find his quarry at rest-not standing and speaking.
"It is," he answered.
"Have you finally come to kill me, Mikhael?" the voice asked.
"No, Armaros," Mikhael replied. The question hurt, saddened him, but he expected it. "Come from the shadows and talk with me."
"Have you come to take me home then? I've strived for redemption Mikhael . . . through my works here."
"No, Armaros," Mikhael replied once again.
Armaros stepped from behind the column; Mikhael continued standing just off the foundation platform. Armaros walked over to where he stood. They were almost of the same size. Neither of them spoke for some time.
Something about Armaros unnerved him. Well aware of his former student's capacity, it troubled Mikhael to see that defeat now darkened his eyes and his mannerism radiated disregard. He looked the same as he always had on the outside—perfect and powerful.
Yet your soul is weary and your heart has forgotten.
"Why do you sleep in graveyards Armaros?" he finally asked. "Do you fancy yourself a vampire? Are you going mad? This all seems a bit morose to me, Brother."
His attempt to inject a bit of comedy into what would undoubtedly turn into a serious meeting was not lost on Armaros. His brother's eyes narrowed as if he wanted to ask a thousand questions, but then softened.
"Above us is the Mausoleum of Theodoric," Armaros explained. "Theodoric the Great was king of the Goths, ruler of Italy, and the last friend I will allow myself. Some time back, silting from a nearby river that had caused the mausoleum to sink was drained and excavated. This chamber was the result of that excavation. All who knew of its existence have l
ong since passed. I am left alone and at peace here, Mikhael. Theodoric, along with others I have known, still resides here in spirit. They provide the only companionship I require nowadays."
Mikhael opened his mouth as if to speak, but chose to remain silent as Armaros continued.
"And no Mikhael, I would never fashion myself after a vampire. I was old before the first of Lilith's daughters tasted the blood of man."
"A poor attempt at humor Armaros," Mikhael said. "I meant you no insult."
Expression crept onto the countenance of Armaros for the first time in a long while; a weary grin spread across his face.
"I know brother," he responded. "But there is truth in your words . . . about the madness I mean. I have been in exile now for almost eight thousand years. Such a juncture takes its toll on one's psyche."
"Is that a great span?" Mikhael asked. "As the passage of time is measured."
"Most would say yes," Armaros answered. His eyes narrowed once more.
"Excruciating . . . being sucked into linear time," Armaros went on. "It's like being pulled down into the maw of a maelstrom. Seconds, minutes, hours, and days pass by me never to return. I have lost all sense of eternity Mikhael. I lie down undisturbed and dream of the time before in order to lessen the hurt of living with a past, present and future. And that is the nature of my madness."
"There may be a way out of your maelstrom," Mikhael said.
"What way? I have walked a thousand different paths since the reckoning. The Elect and the Sons of God ignore me, demons loathe and fear me, and so I cast my lot with man. But man is short lived, and all those I loved . . . I watched die. Some so long ago even their bones are no more. No, there is neither love nor redemption left in me. I am the accursed one, and I fear that is all I shall ever be."
"There is the prophecy," Mikhael announced.
"Of Enoch," Armaros asked, sudden interest leaping into his eyes.
"Yes," Mikhael answered. Pain welled in his chest. The regret in Armaros' voice still lingered. He had been naive thinking theirs would be a joyful reunion.
"Only words Mikhael," Armaros said. "Just words written during a time of immense chaos. Nothing more."
A dream brother. You know better.
"True prophesy always finds a way Armaros."
His words seemed to strike his brother like a stone thrown from a sling.
"What's wrong?" Mikhael asked.
"Everything," Armaros answered. "First, you're here because the prophecy is real. Secondly, I'm afraid my part in all of this is more than I can bear. And finally certain events, one of which I cannot imagine even in my most violent nightmare, must have already transpired."
A coldness ran across Mikhael's shoulders and shot down into both his arms. His mind wavered and first his hands, then the rest of his body, went weightless. His heart on the other hand was heavy. The mass of the entire mausoleum seemingly crushed down upon it. He hated doing this.
"Why are you so certain the revelations of Enoch, son of Jared, will bear fruit?" Armaros asked.
"Because the second son of the seventieth generation will be born soon," Mikhael answered. "A boy. His parents will name him Thane."
"And."
The coldness returned throughout Mikhael's entire body and into the space behind his eyes. He hesitated before answering. "And there is an empty hole in the sands of Dudael."
Armaros' mouth was agape. A single tear found its way down his cheek.
"I know what's been buried deep in the desert," Armaros said. "I know what crawled up through the jagged stones and out of the opening in the Negev." Another tear fell from his cheek.
"I've never seen you weep before, Armaros."
"I weep for mankind, for the beasts of the earth, and for the angels on high," Armaros replied. "I know the ancient, furious evil that will soon be unleashed upon them all. God has broken his promise, Mikhael. There is no escape."
The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 3
