Sword- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  Pen and Sariel began to heatedly discuss the various routes of Hampton Court Palace, weighing the pros and cons, emphasising how they had changed over the centuries as evidence to the royals residing there. Their debate centred on the over sixty acres of grounds and their defensibility; a topic that would go on long into the night.

  Examining on another tablet the lease of 1514, which transferred possession of the house from the Knights Hospitallers to Cardinal Wolsey, I gave a start when a laptop near where I was seated began to buzz with an incoming Skype call. It disrupted Pen and Sariel’s conversation; its strident tone demanding it be answered. The caller’s ID on the screen made me gasp and, unthinkingly, I moved towards the laptop to answer the call.

  ‘Wait, Sage. Are you certain you wish to answer this?’ Pen’s palpable worry made my blood run cold.

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  ‘We should turn off the webcam on our side, at least,’ Fi said, already thinking like a tactician.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Kal.

  I steeled myself for the sight of my beloved as Zeke clicked on the green video icon to receive the Skype call but, before much of an image could flash onto the screen, Gabriel slammed the laptop shut.

  ‘Putain! What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sage? What you might see will be far worse than what you experienced at the cemetery! This is personal to you! There’s no knowing how far gone St. John is or whether he is being manipulated by Isabella like a puppet as she pulls the strings in the background!’ Gabriel exclaimed. Running a hand through his dishevelled wheat coloured hair, he tried to calm down before addressing me again. ‘I’m sorry, Sage, but I must share my concerns with you, knowing how much you love my brother. If I can protect you from more pain and suffering, I have to try. Est-ce que tu m’as bien compris?’

  ‘You may want to protect her from the truth but the sooner she faces it, the easier it will be for her to accept it. She has a right to know the truth, Gabriel,’ said my sister quietly. And she retrieved the laptop from Gabriel’s hands, even as he shook his head in dismay, and lifted the screen to be viewed.

  Immediately, the Skype tone began again – and perhaps would continue all night until it was answered.

  ‘Ready?’ Zeke gently asked and, even though I would never be quite ready, I nodded.

  At first the screen displayed nothing but a red-tinged darkness with no notable features; the concrete walls similar to the interior of a nuclear fall-out shelter or bunker, as if under attack, red lights flashing. Then something moved in a blur in front of the screen, too fast for me to see what or who it was to be certain.

  Next, the sounds came. Strange bestial, animal-like noises similar to that of a wolf or hound on the prowl or hunt – growling and snarling in inhuman need – before they changed to something that sounded almost like my name being torn to shreds with guttural, plosive sounds, and harsh, laboured breathing, so distorted it was difficult to tell what was being voiced. Then, without warning, the creature sprang at the screen as if it knew, even if the webcam on my side was turned off, that I was seated at the screen, observing it.

  Mesmerised, I watched the creature move closer, crouching low – man-shaped but almost more animal than human – and the ravaged face I saw made me utter a single, strangled sound of utmost horror.

  ‘Sweet mother of God!’ Pen muttered in shock, his accent as thick as molasses, eyes widening.

  ‘Kal, get her out of here now.’ Gabriel’s order was immediate, anger coming off of him in waves. But his expression was carefully schooled to show no reaction to St. John’s changed appearance.

  Kal motioned to remove me from the terrace, but I stood my ground.

  Drawing a deep, ragged sob of breath, I stated unequivocally, ‘No, I’m staying. I need to know.’

  I felt Fi’s comforting hand on my shoulder but my eyes never left the screen.

  The creature that was St. John continued to growl from the back of his throat in a low, rumbling manner, as if trying to work out how to bridge the immeasurable distance between it and me – though, had we been in the same room, I had no doubt that it would have torn out my throat – and his grotesque, red-limned visage as it stared at the blank screen was terrifying to behold. If not for his eyes – his beautiful jade green eyes, though now twisted and warped with pain and insane rage – I might not have known him.

  ‘St. John,’ I whispered. And watched in disbelief as the sound of my voice as I uttered his name seemed to send him into an absolute frenzy. His gaze was fixated upon the blank screen as he gathered himself and slammed his body forcefully against it and the webcam. Hard enough that I could hear the dreadful, reverberating thud. It was almost like I was imprisoned in the room with him. And it was then I realised that, on his side, the screen must have been mounted upon the wall, as in a control room.

  He came away slightly bloody, it trickled down his forehead and into his left eye, but no sooner did he reel backwards and upright than he hurled himself against the screen once more.

  This time there was a sickeningly loud crunch and the surface of the screen shattered in a web of intricate, fine lines, radiating from a point which left a bloody, ghastly smear. He paused only long enough to sniff the air – as if he could smell my distress – and again he repeated his actions, and again. Till I heard bone breaking and his curdling howl of pain.

  By now, the screen in front of me was streaked with blood. His blood. And all I could see was a blurry image of a hunched, hunkering, shambling ruin behind the red-stained obstruction.

  I thought I could bear no more ... and then ...

  Tinkling, trickling feminine laughter could be heard.

  And it raised an answering insane rage within me. This was Belladonna’s doing. She was to blame for St. John’s state; his frightening degeneration.

  Through a throat tight with tears and anger, I said to the blurry image of my beloved, ‘Tu es l’amour de ma vie, St. John.’

  And, abruptly, there was silence and stillness.

  No sound emanated from the laptop. And no movement too behind the reddened barrier of blood.

  Scared and in a panic, I looked at Zeke for reassurance that we hadn’t lost the feed. He gave me a startled, confused shrug in response but indicated that we were still online, viewing events in real time.

  Not knowing what to do, I was just about to open my mouth to speak, when a fractured face was thrust up close to the shattered camera lens fixed to the bloody screen, looking directly at me – his expression one that was hollow and bottomless in its suffering and infernal darkness but his green eyes were, for the first time since the beginning of the Skype call, clear and bright.

  He hesitated. Then in a voice that was harsh and grating, and though nothing like its usual mellifluous tone, it was steady and his words unbroken, he said firmly, ‘Let be. I am beyond help.’

  And the call was abruptly cut off.

  But not before I knew – I knew – St. John was not so far gone as to have lost himself completely. He still recognised me, even if it was only my disembodied voice. He understood what was happening to him. And was still thinking to protect me – us – though this time from himself and what he believed to be the futility of our presumed planned actions. And, relieved, I felt my eyelids drift closed for the briefest of moments in gratitude.

  ‘Enough is enough.’ Fi’s voice was sharp with suppressed anger. ‘No more. This ends. This has got to end.’

  ‘But not tonight,’ Gabriel cautioned, his voice as cold and clear as ice taken from the Torne River in Sweden. ‘Tonight, we make plans.’

  ‘What say you?’ asked Sariel, yielding to his new commander.

  Gabriel braced his arms on the table and leant forward to address us all. ‘We use the intelligence provided by Phoenix and we go into battle. Belladonna has had enough time to make her plans. We have less than forty-eight hours. But needs must.’

  ‘Can we win this?’ asked one of Sariel’s soldiers; clean-shaven, pale ski
nned, black haired and equally black eyed – eyes that sparkled with intelligence and energy and the will to fight.

  Finally, as if awakening from hibernation, the Watcher turned towards us and moving slowly on thunderous thighs, he answered the warrior’s question, ‘This encounter is of the head. Not of the heart. The Wise One understands that mercy must be shown without judgement. With every victory, there is defeat. And not just for the vanquished.’

  Upon the Watcher’s words, I clenched my fists and felt my nails dig into the palms of my hands. He was right, I knew. Like the dead security guard in the museum, there were always casualties. They called it “collateral damage”. In a war, both sides lost, but one side lost more significantly than the other.

  But Sariel spoke up, his tone not so much argumentative but expressive of a warrior’s hard-headed acceptance of reality. ‘You speak true, Elijah, but “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the Valiant never taste of death but once.”’

  Shocked, I looked at Sariel in astonishment; not expecting Shakespeare to be quoted by such a one as he. But this Gibborim was increasingly surprising me, and I gave him a short nod in recognition.

  So filled with righteousness and passionate intensity, we made our plans – which, as I suspected it would, carried long into the night – and beyond. But this fight was mine – this was the endgame between Belladonna and me and, as Lewis Carroll claimed, “Queens never make bargains.”

  And so, less than forty-eight hours later, we arrived at the Privy Garden jetty at Hampton Court Palace. The boat surged smoothly against the pier and one of Sariel’s men jumped out to secure the mooring line to the bollard and ensure the vessel was moored safely.

  Kal, his burnished red-gold hair gleaming in the diminishing sunlight to mirror the colours of the setting sun, assisted me across the boarding ramp from ITB’s corporate private boat. Silently, I stood by the sumptuous Tijou Screens, admiring the twelve elaborate wrought iron panels symbolising parts of the kingdom, as I waited for the others to disembark.

  I carried the burden of the Mizrael, suspended from a back scabbard, so that I fancied myself a warrior like Aragorn who carried the sword, Andúril, Flame of the West; the ancient, fashioned wood and leather sheath with its bronze fittings, provided by the Anakim to ease my burden and allow a quicker, smoother draw. I was exhilarated and fearful at such a prospect – my training was next to nothing compared to the Nephilim. They had attempted to give me a crash course in fighting in less than forty-eight hours – caring little for finessing my technique, only caring for improving my arm-strength and aim and ability to defend myself.

  They had provided me with one of their own swords to practice with – I’m sure they would have fitted me with a child’s wooden sword if one had been available to train with – as the burden of the seraph blade was incomparable, and I had to suffer their mockery at my puny, ineffectual blows – most barely landed where I was aiming – that, according to Pen, ‘wouldn’t even put a scratch in his armour, let alone go several inches through flesh and bone to lodge in the heart of that poisonous, succubus bitch, Belladonna’. And he wasn’t mixing his metaphors or mincing his words when he ridiculed me either.

  But it was Fi who impressed them all. After months of vigorous training in what she claimed to be the “dungeon” under ITB, her swordsmanship was seriously intimidating. She was fast becoming the “badass babe” she dreamed of being. And her ability to wield sword and dagger proved her to be a natural talent.

  When we were all ashore – with the exception of Elijah whose mode of travel was not confined to planes, trains or boats, and who would meet us at the appointed time at the palace – we began to make our way carefully towards Clock Court. The conical yew trees and hollies of the formal Privy Garden failed to provide any cover for our attempted stealthy approach as they were restored to how they would have looked for William III in 1702. The geometric shapes of the topiary acted as gnomons on a multitude of tapering green sundials as the sun sank slowly beyond the horizon casting elongated shadows. The lengthening of the spring days as the season turned into summer meant that time crept sluggishly towards night and our meeting with Belladonna.

  Behind me as we walked, Pen was in equal parts admiration and critical of the changes wrought to the Tudor palace. He lamented how spectacularly colourful many of the interiors and exteriors were in Henry’s day. Nostalgically, he reminisced about the dazzling royal lodgings and extravagant celebrations that would put the present royal weddings and christenings to shame. But no one paid him much attention.

  I could see that my sister was worried. She looked pale and gaunt and there were dark circles under her eyes from the intense training and lack of sleep. I wished I could offer her some words of comfort, but I was just as worried. I briefly wondered if she feared the thought of meeting Finn again more than going into battle.

  The flickering light made me suddenly aware of how dark the landscape was fast becoming. The rosy hues of sunset had speedily given way to the night but this was no natural occurrence, and no streetlamps or lights came on to push the darkness back. Colours drained away completely and blackness descended to smother the palace grounds.

  Beside me, I heard Fi’s shocked intake of breath – it was as immediate and as sharp as my own. With a rising horror, I craned my head and saw churning gunpowder clouds, roiling in anarchy around the clock tower. No natural wind blew them or rain gathered in them. They congregated around the height of the Astronomical Clock, building in immensity.

  ‘We cannot stay here. It’s too open,’ Sariel said, assessing the strange cloud formation and its distinctive signature. ‘We’re like sitting ducks.’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Agreed. Time to go.’

  The blackness of feathered wings rushed overhead, so close they stirred the hairs on the top of my head, causing me to jump in fright – but it was only Kemwer settling himself upon a nearby branch. The Peregrine Falcon watched us indifferently from its perch, fretting and stropping his beak.

  Then unexpectedly, trembling from head to foot, my sister doubled over as if she was winded by a hard blow, clutching at her abdomen.

  ‘They’re here,’ she gasped. And, glowing through her dark clothing, the tattooed Pleiades was viewed by Sariel and his men, causing them to drop to their knees in devotion.

  But I had no need for her words or signs to recognise the reality of the Grigori’s presence – for, an accompanying pain snaked its way up my spine as the mark of the Seed flared to brilliant life upon my palm.

  ‘Get up!’ Fi gasped, straightening up as she gave the order to the Gibborim.

  Not waiting for their response, Gabriel grabbed me by the arm and ran. He made his way swiftly through the gardens, moving with such grace and beauty that none of his movements suggested the scampering, ungainly necessity of forced flight. And, I knew, as we fled down the garden paths, it was because of my vulnerability, as he could easily have taken to the skies – yet he’d spared me the humiliation of being tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even so, I was awkward and slowed him up considerably. I had trouble staying on my feet, veering clumsily left and right, tripping on uneven ground, and would have fallen more than once if Gabriel did not have a strong grip upon me.

  We reached the outer walls of the Wolsey Rooms as the others caught up to us. By now, the amassing clouds were almost directly above us, brightly shimmering with internal, electrostatic discharges, as if they were newly-forged iron under the smithy’s skilful hand.

  Gabriel released me as he examined the environment about our small group, searching the skies for Elijah’s and his Anakim brothers’ arrivals – they were to be our weapon; a greater force of numbers – whilst Pen took up a position by my side, flanked by Sariel.

  ‘What if the Watcher fails to show?’ Sariel asked, implying the possibility of betrayal.

  ‘Elijah will show,’ I said with an absolute certainty; there was an understanding between the fallen angel and me.

  The
ambiguous light made it difficult for me to see. I strained my eyes but only when the lightning flared again within the cloud formation did I notice the silhouettes of many winged creatures.

  Behind me, Fi swore.

  But Gabriel was calm. ‘I believe the time is at hand.’

  Relieved, I didn’t even need to ask Gabriel how he knew. The wall behind him had suddenly become a reflective threshold; polished to a smooth surface that was definitely unnatural. Behind the mirrored surface was Elijah; his body lit in the purity of starlight to rival the lightning above us. His wings arced wide, a fan of obsidian feathers.

  ‘I have been expecting you,’ the Watcher told us in a low, deep rumble, as if we had kept him waiting.

  He stood on what looked very much like a lowered portcullis, bridging two worlds. The scene kept shifting behind him, similar to a montage in the film; one moment it depicted a burnt-out husk of a drawing room – and from this particular angle, I could make out through a gaping hole where the windows should have been, a familiar barn and wire-mesh fence in the distance – and the next, the Clock Court of Hampton Court Palace. Already, the image depicted the lightning clouds engulfing the Astronomical Clock on the tower like Rapunzel’s hair wound around and falling in tendrils from its height. The light bled into it so that it seemed to be a lighthouse, a beacon, calling the enemy towards it. Until the image changed once more. Never holding steady for more than a moment.

  Elijah beckoned for us to enter the portal.

  And, as if waiting for a sign, the dense, towering, vertical clouds split open above us, disgorging a company of Rephaim with Louis at its head.

  ‘Bloody hell! I guess this is what they mean about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea!’ Fi cried, her words swallowed by a crack of lightning overhead.

  ‘I choose the fallen angel,’ I quickly broke in, looking up at the clouds that were now as thick as vines and the swooping Rephaim in trepidation. And, as the lightning bled its skeins into the red bricks of the Clock Tower in the image behind Elijah, I rushed into the portal, followed by the others.