by D B Nielsen
The insidious words wound themselves around my mind, my will, and I trembled.
But it was not only I that shook.
‘Come, Wise One. It has begun,’ Elijah decreed, and reached out towards us as the catacombs above us, under us, all around us started to quake uncontrollably.
Silt sifted down from the chamber’s ceiling, gently at first, and then with increasing force as the ground heaved and buckled beneath us. The tumult reverberated through my body; my sister and I had only enough time to be swept up by the fallen angel before I felt the surface of what had once been solid rock and stone break apart, spreading across the pentagram, obliterating most of its markings.
‘What’s happening?’ Fi shouted, her words ending in a fit of coughing as clouds of dust made breathing difficult and obscured vision.
Elijah brought his enormous wings over us, interweaving the flickering glow of the still upright, still burning torch with air and substance.
‘I have been imprisoned in the Valley of Hell, encased in the earth, for almost two millennia. Centuries have passed and the bone repository grew. Men died and hollow men came, and bones were piled upon the others. And still they dug the earth, and still they buried the dead, and the dead kept me company.’ The Watcher’s scalloped feathers created a canopy to keep the worst of the falling grave dirt and debris from us. ‘But the punishment delivered by man has been served. It is finished. And for that I must thank you, Wise One.’
And now I understood.
The cavern had been built and the pentagram fixed to the earth to encase the fallen angel forever, like Snow White’s glass coffin, keeping him trapped in suspended animation. Once entombed, he could never leave. Centuries of captivity, without hope of freedom, had come and gone.
The cavern was tied to the Watcher. But we had set him free – we had unbound his shackles and released him from his eternal punishment. And now, with his freedom, the entire underground structure had become unstable – the catacombs and bone chamber were uprooted, unmoored, with nothing to anchor them to their place. The fallen angel was their marker, their anchor, a conduit for all energy and purpose.
The sinuous pure white source of energy that moved through the Watcher’s body made it appear to pulse and dance. It dominated everything around us. Dust and debris started to lift from the ground against the pull of gravity. It could not shed its kinetic energy until, like the spark that ignited the flame, it was released. Without the fallen angel, the whole edifice was ready to collapse. A house of cards. On us.
Already the fissures appeared, running from the ground like wild roots up the skeletal walls of the chamber and spreading wider still across the ceiling. It squeezed the energy from the air. Enlarging and growing like a hanging tree, the cracks formed holes, ever-widening gaps, until a vast roaring could be heard – a noise like a hurricane – and the channels began to fill with rushing water, pouring forth out of the crevices in the earth to fill the empty void. The monstrous roar and growl of thousands of tons of water was absolutely deafening.
The subterranean stream flowing from the Aniene River which had fed the ancient Roman aqueducts, canals, locks, and the bathhouse above us, was now overflowing and flooding into the chasm. Water snarled at us, ferocious, ready to devour, to guzzle and suck us under. I shuddered with the spray of wet and cold. The flame of the sulphur-lime torch remained brightly burning despite being plunged into water – just as St. John had foretold.
But it was not the only brightly burning thing in the cavern.
The fiery fallen angel was lit with an inner radiance as the walls caved in and bones were snatched up like broken toys in the jaws of the devouring snake-like weir of water as it coiled around the room. I clutched at Fi tightly, held up as we were by Elijah, and the sky darkened as, between his fanned feathers, I could see huge clefts where the earth had caved in. A bolt of lightning descended and struck the once-powerful pentagram markings, slicing through water and electrifying the ancient grotto, rending it asunder.
Fi and I screamed. And it was all-consuming. It was the collective anguish and fear of the dying. And it was all around us, echoed within every skull and bone of the long-dead and forgotten. A darkness opened up in front of us as the scream went on and on, driving the last of the air from my lungs.
‘It is time.’ At Elijah’s words, the mark on my hand flared brilliantly golden and the amulet about Fi’s throat seemed to me to throb silver-violet in time with a distant thudding. And then I realised the thudding emanated from Elijah’s vast wings beating against the thick night air.
The Watcher then thrust against the weight of the darkness and the water, his brightening strength driving through the muscle of earth, and we were caught in the maelstrom and lifted into the air.
I no longer had the strength to breathe. I no longer had the strength to fight. I no longer had the will.
A strange confusion and lassitude filled my mind and limbs. It seemed somehow that the world was drowning, the night sky rippling, wavering under the fading stars. The moon seemed to sway and undulate in the endless ebb and flow of time. My head fell back against the strong muscle of Elijah’s forearm and the wind whipped my hair into a frenzy the higher we ascended.
Briefly – and rather vaguely – I remembered my sister, Fi. Somehow, I still managed to retain hold of her hand. I had a distant, hazy recollection of being like this in our mother’s womb and smiled with a melancholy happiness. But the knowledge passed quickly like a trick of the light.
Our ascent was swift. The concussion of air seemed to press down upon me. Above me, the Watcher’s masterful onyx-black wings beat back the oppressive air. But the eddy and current of time bore us forward inexorably, even as it ceaselessly bore us backwards – and the galaxies sparkled like cut gemstones, casting out brilliant rainbow colours. Shooting stars surrounded my head in slow-falling showers, spinning fast like a dancer’s flared skirts in a whirling dervish. And, all bemused, I closed my eyes which were filled with equal parts light and dark as I succumbed to the unearthly beauty of the cosmos. Wheeling in the airy gyre, my mind was washed clean and – mortal, frail – I felt myself drift in the abyss of the fallen angel’s all-knowing eyes.
ARKHANGELSK
CHAPTER TEN
It was the bracing cold that slapped at my cheeks and roused me from my nearly dormant, somnolent state. I must have swooned in the arms of the fallen angel because, when I came to, I was lying down on the dewy ground, bereft of the protection of Elijah’s close embrace, and my practical clothing was insufficient to keep me completely dry or warm. It was still dark – chillier than it had been in mid-spring in London and much colder than Rome – and, half-frightened, instinctively feeling desolate without the Watcher’s strangely reassuring presence, I futilely tried to get my bearings. The moon seemed to have all but disappeared behind a veiled mist and I felt equally oppressed in turns by the sensations of the biting cold and the impenetrable darkness.
‘Careful.’ My sister’s voice cautioned me and I started at its sound, seemingly loud and piercing amongst the endless gloomy solitude. ‘Don’t move too quickly or you’ll be violently ill. It’s the aftereffect of ... I don’t know what you’d call it ... angel teleportation, perhaps?’
‘Where are we?’ I asked, very slowly moving my head to focus in the direction of her voice. ‘What happened?’
I heard her snort as she replied, ‘You mean after the scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Let me see ... well, after the cavern split apart and Elijah got us out of there, we arrived here. Look, don’t ask me. I think I must have fainted. Or something. Because the next thing I know is that we’re here in Russia.’
‘Russia?’ Abruptly, I spun around to confront her. And was almost instantly heaving and retching what little remained in my stomach.
‘Epic fail. I told you to take it slow. You just never listen.’
Bracing my hands on the dewy grass, I groaned in misery then looked up as a strange and wondrous sight diverted
me from my tense, pathetic situation, and so I failed to respond to my sister.
Approaching at inhuman speed, a being which held the shape of a man, taller than average, excited my absolute astonishment and bittersweet delight. His physique was taut and muscular. His skin, pale and smooth, but not diaphanous or iridescent. I watched his swift progress until the golden god was almost upon us.
He seemed to gracefully glide forward as he walked, coming to stand not three feet away from us; a jumble of slightly curly, overlong locks – the colour of polished brass – the flattering width of his broad shoulders and chest, semi-naked and barefoot, clad only in a pair of hipster black jeans. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I beheld this golden vision, my heart palpitating hard and fast.
His beauty was heartbreaking – even more so as I lifted my eyes to gaze upon him fully and fastened upon irises not the jade green of Tahitian seas but the startling, lustrous black of the raven’s wing and as deep as the devil’s pit. But for his eyes, the fallen angel was the spitting image of his son.
‘Elijah,’ Fi addressed the Watcher, being least affected by his unearthly splendour, ‘The Anakim. Gabriel and the others. Are they–?’
‘The battle rages on. The eternal game plays out until Judgement Day. Though neither side will claim victory.’
Fi’s sharp intake of breath was followed by her statement, ‘We have to help them. You must–’
Elijah surprised us. ‘It is not for you to tell me what I must do, though you be the Wise One. I have no purchase over the Nephilim. The behaviour of water, earth, air and fire is easier to predict and control.’
‘But they’re your duty! They are the children of the Grigori! Your kin and blood!’ my sister protested, emphasising his shared responsibility.
Amused, the Watcher cast his fathomless gaze upon my twin. ‘They are born warriors. It is in their blood. But they are no more children than I. The only children I see stand before me.’
Fi winced under his cold dismissal. ‘I’m not a child!’ she told the Watcher stiffly.
‘Maturity and wisdom are not the same thing,’ he replied enigmatically.
The air around the fallen angel seemed to glow. And the eerie glow made this encounter with Elijah seem somehow surreal. And Fi, finally recognising the dire nature of our situation and the gravity of our need, decided to let the issue of the children of the Nephilim go – for now, at least. Besides, she would never win against this angelic, immortal being.
‘It is a most splendid night for flying. It has been so long. So very long. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.’ Elijah raised his luminous face to the night sky as if drinking in his freedom.
Fi’s voice lacked her usual sarcasm when she spoke, perhaps feeling pity for the fallen angel. ‘I’m glad that you have your freedom and enjoyed yourself. It must have been hellish to be imprisoned in that tomb for so long. But we’re pressed for time, Elijah. Did you manage to find the seraph blade?’
‘The seraph blade of the Archangel is here.’ His voice was rich and mellifluous, passionately stirring my blood. He looked past me, out into the darkness – made all the more dense and solid as the Grigori’s vivid presence caused an instant power shortage in the neighbouring area – and I wondered at what he saw with his mystic vision.
I regarded them both with a troubled expression. ‘Where’s here? Where are we?’
‘Arkhangelsk in Russia, on the banks of the Northern Dvina River, nearest the White Sea.’
And now I understood why it was so bitterly cold.
We were in northern Russia, in a city that was fittingly named “Archangel”. It used to be a chief trade and seaport before Peter the Great founded St. Petersburg, with frequent Viking raids on the area – though, ironically, five months of the year saw it icebound. Whilst Fi and I had visited St. Petersburg as children with our mother when she insisted on improving our appreciation of fine art at the Hermitage Museum, we had not travelled beyond the city’s boundaries. As such, I knew very little about this part of Russia – and I definitely didn’t speak Russian, despite my interest in learning Cyrillic.
‘Finally! At least something’s going our way. So where is it? Is it hidden in the monastery? Or the cathedral?’ my sister asked, hungrily.
I wondered later if she had jinxed us.
‘Ahhh. It disturbs me. You request the seraph blade of the Archangel Michael; this is no small task,’ the Watcher said with a solemn fervour. ‘Be prepared, Wise One. You are not Joshua and this is not Jericho. The Lord’s Treasury will not easily be opened to you.’
‘What does that mean? I’m sick of these riddles,’ demanded Fi. I noted her clenched jaw. And her clenched fists. She didn’t like the Grigori very much – but then, I couldn’t exactly blame her, not after what she’d been through.
‘It’s in the bible,’ I explained patiently, finally finding my balance and fortifying myself against the Watcher who reminded me – at least physically, now that he had decided to take on much more of the semblance of a mortal – of my beloved St. John. ‘It’s in the text of Joshua’s account of the fall of Jericho. Joshua “looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand”. When Joshua demanded of him which side he was fighting on, the man answered, “Neither. I am here as the Commander of the Lord’s army”. So you see, the man was, in fact, the Archangel Michael. Later, God gave Joshua the city of Jericho to raze to the ground but told him to collect all the silver, gold, bronze and iron in the town and put these into the “Lord’s Treasury”, which is what he supposedly did. I’m guessing that this is the same Treasury that Semyaza once safeguarded as the Guardian of Hidden Treasures.’ I looked to the Watcher for confirmation – but he neither confirmed nor denied my words.
Instead, Elijah raised one imperious brow. ‘I believe we have concluded the history lesson for now.’ I blinked – I’d never thought of anything much in the bible as actual history. If I’d thought about it at all I would have said that what was written was just a collection of stories like the myths and legends of the past. But I gathered that all stories had grains of truth in them – and, according to the Grigori, the bible had more truth than most. ‘The seraph blade of the Archangel is the only treasure of immediate concern.’
He was like a dragon guarding his horde – and I quailed before him, afraid to incur his wrath. Fiercely protective of the Hidden Treasure, I wondered how it was that a warrior in exile from his homeland should still show fealty to the king who had banished him. But then I realised that he had been endowed with free will. The paradox of Elijah was exposed to me then – a virtuous fallen angel, if there ever existed such a thing. Real virtue was rare and, as such, was balanced against the purest of evil. Elijah. Semyaza. The universe was meant to be in balance.
‘Wise One. There is great power and danger here.’ The Watcher looked back down at us. ‘The monastery and cathedral are sanctified and safe. Beyond its walls is ... unclear to me.’
‘The monastery and cathedral?’ Twice now I had heard it said. Turning in a complete arc, my eyes finally adjusting to the dark, I finally saw what my sister and the Grigori were talking about – the Archangel Michael Monastery and Cathedral.
The immense white structure loomed in close proximity on a steep incline, elevated on a high base as if to be closer to the divine. Its five onion domes and spires rose into the dark heavens – the misty veil of night illuminating details I might not normally have been able to see – and the monastery’s white tower and high earthen walls stretched away into the darkness beyond, fading as if an illusion.
‘Can we find the seraph blade hidden within the monastery or the cathedral? Maybe it’s built into the structure itself?’ Fi asked, her tone demanding a direct answer.
‘The seraph blade is not in either of these structures. Both were built by human hands less than a thousand years ago.’ His voice was neutral but something flickered in the blackness of his eyes. ‘But it may be found within these grounds.’
‘It is not in my power to do so,’ the Watcher admitted without apology. ‘The seraph blade was forged in silence. It may only be discovered here by the will of the Creator.’
There was something ominous in his words.
‘Seriously? This is like the worst – deal – ever!’ grumbled Fi, each of her words punctuated like a punch. And I could tell she thought Elijah’s help to be practically useless.
The Watcher waited. As if this was a test, an assessment of our character and spirit. Or as if everything Fi and I did from this moment would be a trial of divine design. And our reward, the seraph blade of the Archangel Michael, only to be bestowed upon us by divine will.
‘The trial is not yet done. It has only just begun.’ I shivered – and, this time, it wasn’t from the cold. ‘You have been chosen by the Seed. Your trial began when you sought to possess the Scroll. Now you must prove yourself worthy to wield the Sword.’
I became aware that my teeth were chattering with shock as much as with the cold. But I clenched my jaw and told myself that I must find the strength to prove myself worthy – for the sake of the Anakim and St. John who had risked much to aid Fi and me in our desire to retrieve the seraph blade.
The Watcher looked at us long and searchingly, his expression immutable. ‘That which will access the seraph blade is not visible to mere mortals. The keeping place lies where wisdom is to be found. The path lies in the past. And much of it lies in darkness, until illuminated.’
My sister’s gaze widened and she said quietly to me, ‘What does he mean about the past? And the keeping place? I don’t have a clue what he just said.’
