by Diana Estell
Abyss of the Fallen
Diana Estell
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
ASHES OF THE FALLEN
Chapter 27
About the Author
ABYSS OF THE FALLEN BY DIANA ESTELL
Published by Brimstone Fiction
1440 W. Taylor St. Ste #449
Chicago, IL 60607
ISBN: 978-1-946758-31-6 © 2020 by Diana Estell
Cover design by Elaina Lee, www.forthemusedesign.com, Interior design by Meaghan Burnett, www.MeaghanBurnett.com
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: www.brimstonefiction.com
For more information on this book and the author visit: www.dianaestell.com
All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Brimstone Fiction, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Abyss of the Fallen by Diana Estell published by Brimstone Fiction. Used by permission.”
Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Brimstone Fiction may include ghosts, werewolves, witches, the undead, soothsayers, mythological creatures, theoretical science, fictional technology, and material which, though mentioned in Scripture, may be of a controversial nature within some religious circles.
Brought to you by the creative team at Brimstone Fiction: Rowena Kuo, Meaghan Burnett, and Jessie Andersen.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Estell, Diana.
Abyss of the Fallen / Diana Estell 1st ed. Printed in the United States of America
To my parents
Who believed in me.
To my daughters
My muses.
To my husband Ryan
For everything.
And finally
To the memory of K.C.
Acknowledgments
How do I thank all the people who have been very influential in my life and with my writing? By pausing and giving thanks to God for bringing life into my soul and redeeming my voice by the written word.
To all the people I’ve crossed paths with, transected or intersected with, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for enriching my life, both personally and professionally.
How do I thank those no longer on this earth? By pausing and giving thanks to God for my father, Glynn Ray Leeka, whose presence still resides in my soul. Some of his personality are woven in my main character, Dagon. I like to believe he knows about my novel and would be deeply proud. I can almost hear his voice, “What took you so long!”
My character Mary’s strength, love, and patience are in part from my mother, Renate Leeka. The love story in my novel is a tribute to the love my mother still carries for my father.
To Scott and Doug Leeka, I love you both very much. These are two great encouraging men, I’m proud to have as brothers.
I thank my husband, Ryan Estell, and my two daughters, Ashton and Darien, for putting up with the creative process. I’m sorry for the times I may not have been present. I hope when you read my story, it will be clear just how present I was. Some of Dagon’s personality is from Ryan. My girls will always be my creative muses. Ashton: riding on a white horse, wearing silver armor, and wielding a sword. Darien: my mini me in writing. Your sword is art.
To all my family and church friends, thank you for all your love and support. I thank my friends who believed in me from the beginning, even before I did: Kelly Clark, Diane Lacoppola, Yoko Bradford, Dianne Ortense, Jen Pulins, Jennifer Nelson (a great creative editor), Alice Fong, Cyndi Proffitt, Rachel Okrey, Anne Walchshauser, Dan Aldrin, Barbara Will-Henn, Pastor Marty Schoenleber, Stephanie Schoenleber (who encouraged me to begin writing. “You don’t have any more excuses!”) Pastor Marty Voltz (A great inspiration for one of my characters), Pastor Frank and Stephanie Taylor (for listening to me about my story), and Dakota Hietikko, whose creative vibe will always be with me.
I thank Colleen Robins for her friendship, guidance, and helping me learn the craft of writing. Your knowledge and wisdom are awe inspiring. Thank you for helping me see there are no age limits with fantasy. Thank you, my Dungeons and Dragons master! I will forever chase dragons.
To WriteOn Joliet, the best writing group on the planet, or on any other planet. Thanks to everyone for helping me learn about myself as a writer and the craft of writing. This group is soul family.
To Joel Pommier, for believing in the “Empire” and helping me with all my computer needs. You’re a great key to my success. I thank my beta readers: Joey Fong and Nija Bradford. Your comments helped me be bold in my writing for the young adult market.
I would like to thank my Brimstone Publishing house team. Rowena Kuo, you’re the best editor on earth and a wonderful friend. Thank you for all your hard work editing my novel. This book could not have been polished without you. To my literary agent, Cyle Young, thank you for seeing something in my work worth investing your time and energy in. You’re the best agent any writer could have. To Meaghan Burnett, thank you for all your hard work on my website. To Elaina Lee, for bringing my characters to life.
Finally, to everyone I didn’t mention by name, thank you for crossing paths, transecting and intersecting my life.
Prologue
Bequeathed
“Dreams are a gift to the young, to burn bright and long, bringing hope and light into the deepest darkness.”
Thundering gallops split the skies. Magethna, upon her horse of wind, charged through the clouds, her friend and kin, Dorian, astride beside her. Two other Seraphs, Mystil and Raglen, followed in their wake.
The friction from their horses whirled the air around them. Victory’s gleaming, pearled hooves and Triumph’s sapphire eyes glinted in the setting sunlight as Magethna’s hair whipped around her face in brown waves. Exhilarated, she encouraged Victory to go faster. A strand of Dorian’s golden highlights flicked across her peripheral vision like a comet.
“Let’s race to that farthest cloud.”
Dorian said nothing, but his posture said everything as he leaned into the wind.
Neck and neck, the horses sailed through the air. The finish line approached with Victory in the lead. Pawing the air, her horse glided through the cloud, winning the race.
It really wasn’t much of a race. As Dorian pulled up short, he became still. She caught the edge of a thought about science and creation but b
acked out to respect his musings. The air continued to sail past her when the other Seraphs’ horses stopped next to her.
“Triumph wishes your attention,” said Magethna.
“He most certainly does.”
“If you don't mind, could you please read the scroll?”
“Patience is a virtue, you know; a virtue some lack,” he said with a wink.
The winded horses panted silvery mist, hovering in place with each other when Dorian rolled out the scroll. As he opened it, she noticed the gauzy paper and how stiff it was in the wind. It remained resolute and statuesque in its purpose. Emboldened words written in ink of light rested upon the document’s fibers. As Dorian read the ancient text, she hummed, following the flow of writing on her sword drawn from its golden sheath. Words appeared and disappeared onto the blade, offering hope and a glorious restoration. After the reading, she was refreshed yet pensive, for these words would also seem hostile to humanity.
Triumph lifted his head and shook his mane while Dorian patted his neck. “Yes, my dear one, the words were a river of love, spilling out from the One Voice of time.”
Carrying on with her humming, Magethna smiled in response to his words. Her eyes continued to gaze upon the living writings on her sword.
With their mission at hand, Magethna prompted Victory to resume their journey. Fetlocks glistened over powerful haunches pawing the wind even faster around them. The other Seraphs followed her lead, their movements synchronized with Dorian’s. From her sword, lethal double-edged flashes of silver arched in choreographed beauty. Words streamed across the swords at a steady pace and never fluctuated. In a fraction of a blink, all swords shot up, arms fully extended as the immortals sang with an ear deafening shout, “To glory!” The horses flew ever faster to their destination: Oak Park, Illinois.
Pearled hooves alighted softly on the black pavement, casting an ethereal shadow under the moon and streetlights. Shimmering rays bounced off each hoof like points of a crown. Dismounting, the Seraphs viewed their surroundings. This, for a while at least, would be home. Silhouetted houses rested on tranquil, well-manicured, generationally-owned lawns. Budding trees swayed, and passing cars chilled the air as they drove by.
“The black path upon which we stand is called Chicago Avenue,” said Dorian, pointing to a street sign above him. “And over there is our chosen destiny, Forest Avenue and the house we have come to protect.”
Anything needing protection meant danger was afoot.
“Is it not peaceful here?” said Magethna, taking everything in, not paying attention to the tour guide. She didn’t care about details. She wanted to see it all. “So quiet and welcoming. I know the house as well as you do, but just look at where we are.” She waited for the lecture on imminent peril.
“Perhaps it is peaceful, quiet, and welcoming.”
“No doom and gloom? For a stoic analytical type like you, this is indeed a compliment.”
She wasn’t sure if he smiled or twitched at her comment. A wet nose poked her back for attention. Time for the horses to leave. Stroking wind-swept manes and patting noses, the Seraphs stepped away and waved their steeds back to the Golden Land. Caught up in a gust of wind, strong legs pushed higher and higher upward. In a twinkled blink, they were gone.
Not even peaceful welcomes last. Fog began to congeal; stealthy fingers spread out on all sides, overtaking the lawns of the houses lining the path. The fog moved toward them with directed purpose.
Both sides of Forest Avenue balked at the presence, and a heated hiss emanated from the concrete. An old, inimical, villainous specter slithered into their midst.
“Servants come willingly into my dominion or are made by my will,” hissed the shadows to the Seraphs.
This was no idle threat. Even Seraphs can be swayed to change allegiance.
Undeterred, Magethna led her companions toward the whispers along the battlegrounds toward their appointed assignment.
Swashes of silver arched across their bodies. Lethal blades took aim at a faceless presence, and Magethna stated a fact of intent. “We are not leaving.”
Surrender was as foreign as the concrete beneath their feet. The whisperings moved with a murmured hush across her hair, rustling a few strands. Dorian’s footsteps matched her own, their swords held with restraint at the attempts that tried to frighten them into retreat, or worse, into submission.
Rolling pavement moved toward them like tidal waves, an attempt to knock them from their course. Could they cave to the powers of this land? Yes. But in weakness, they were made strong, not by their own strength but by the strength of the One Voice who had sent them.
The sidewalk moved against them even harder, trying to knock them over and crush them. Wave after wave pounded them, but Magethna withstood the onslaught until the tides abated. Imperceptible ripples moved over the sidewalk, leaving no effects of erosion behind. Undaunted, the Seraphs faced the old brown house in front of them.
“It is time, for the boy sleeps,” said Dorian.
A black, wrought-iron fence wrapped around the house. The Seraphs, who needed no key, passed through the gate.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” said Magethna.
“Our purpose in this land commences,” said Dorian.
Just like the fence previously, the Seraphs misted through the front door and glided up the stairs into the bedroom of their young charge, 13-year-old Mark Bennett. Sure enough, Mark was fast asleep in his bed, his legs dangling over the edge. His patchwork quilt half covered one side of his face. Even in slumber, rapid movement pulsed behind blue veined eyelids. Brunette hair stuck out from his quilt like a lopsided porcupine.
“What side do you want?” Dorian asked. “Ladies first, as it is.”
“In that case, I’ll take the right.”
“You know, you always take the right.”
“That’s because I am always right.”
He only shook his head and smiled.
Raglen’s lithe frame moved next to Dorian, long blond hair falling across his face as he peered out the window. Mystil laughed at Dorian’s comment and stood next to Magethna, like a pale shadow. The Seraphs turned their attention to Mark who was still asleep.
A book lay on the nightstand, words as fresh as when they were first breathed into existence. Fingerprints smudged the black, leather cover. With this discovery, Magethna glanced at her companions, for the reader would witness their homeland in the measure that could be expressed with ink.
Magethna placed a gentle hand on Mark’s forehead, paused for a moment, and then waved her other hand through the air, transforming the room to the land in his dreams for the Seraphs to witness.
A cadence of musical beauty never ceased. Sometimes the music softened, and other times, it deafened. The voices of the realm sung in unison, a sweet soothing song gliding with crescendos of power. Every spoken word was a melody. The land filled with never-ending light. Rivers of pure glass flowed with silvery, shimmering water, orchestrated by a mighty One Voice. The streets of glass glistened, delicate and fragile.
Enchanting wildflowers grew in the meadows and tiny white flowers nestled in the thick carpet of grass, intermingled with blades of silver. Mountains glowed with a glittering golden hue, surrounded by lush thick forests.
“This is our homeland. It is good to remember former events to keep them fresh in our thoughts,” said Magethna. She and her companions surrounded Mark as he stood among the trees in the forest. Mark picked up a green stone and used it to carve “MB” inside a heart on the trunk of a tree before pocketing it.
“I wonder why he did that. Is this common to write on trees? Does he not use parchment?” Mystil asked.
Dorian drew closer to the trunk of the tree, motioning for them to follow. Peeking out between the branches, they scanned the distance.
“The breeze whispers, listen,” said Dorian, easing back one of the black branches. He murmured to Mark, “There is to be a new guardian in the Second Land or ‘Earth’ as humanity wi
ll later call it. A ceremony of investiture will start soon for the last guardian to be knighted by Savila. In this ceremony, the guardian receives a special title. The only other guardian to bear a title is Savila herself.”
Four golden-haired Seraphs chorused in the clearing, their voices communicated like an opera with dramatic vibrato. Many more similarly-haired Seraphs interrupted the four, speaking with angry gestures. Their speech sharp and dissonant, they threw their fists in the air. Some of them did not talk at all but fold their arms and nodded in agreement.
Another golden-haired Seraph joined the fray. This one wore a vibrant, white-hooded cloak over a long white garment. The Seraphs grew silent in her presence. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful of all. She carried herself with grace and confidence.
She waved long, dexterous fingers as she drifted among the other Seraphs. Her voice and mannerisms persuading calm. She leaned toward the tallest of the four original Seraphs, who seemed to be the leader.
“That is Savila as she was,” Dorian whispered to Mark.
As if hearing him, Savila directed her attention toward Dorian and Magethna, all eyes following in the direction of her gaze.
One blink and Magethna stood before Savila, Dorian beside her. Magethna glanced over her shoulder at Mark, wide-eyed, flanked by Mystil and Raglen.
