Sword- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  Stanley gave two more gasps. A couple of panting breaths. Shallow. Then his eyes dulled. I turned to look at Pen, but his expression told me there was no more time for questions.

  My stomach roiled and wrenched with an almost overpowering sense of pity and loss. But I set my jaw and stood up. There would be time to mourn the dead later.

  One of Sariel’s men spoke up, his voice concerned, ‘If there’s a woman in labour, she won’t live through it – not if our brothers follow the Grigori’s orders.’

  I looked at Sariel, amber coloured eyes flashing. Stanley’s passing and all the needless death aroused a white-hot rage within me. Determinedly, I stated, ‘We need to stop this. This must be stopped. We need to intervene now.’

  The other soldier spoke. ‘How can it be stopped? If this woman is already in labour, it’s already too late.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  ‘We may have to kill her,’ Pen said, bleakly. ‘She will die no matter what we do. Better for her to die at the hands of the Wise One than to die at the hands of the Grigori.’

  I knew what Pen implied though he did not know that St. John had told me the full, unvarnished truth and so thought to spare my feelings.

  ‘Even that may not prevent the demon spawning,’ Sariel stated, pragmatically. ‘This monstrous birth may still transpire. She is a breeder. The infant may also need to be killed once birthed.’

  Every nerve ending felt raw, as if dipped in acid. I gasped, horrified, ‘I can’t! The mother is human! The baby is ... just a baby! You’re all children of the Grigori, would you have me kill you too?’

  Sariel swore. ‘Do not confuse this monstrosity with innocence, Wise One. We are conceived in knowledge and born knowing. This abomination is bred for battle from the loins of the Fallen. It is a creature born into this world but is a spawn of the other. This filthy creation cannot be allowed to live.’

  ‘You’re not actually condoning this, are you?’ I threw at Pen, knowing how he tried to protect Ellen Jacobi.

  The burly Anakim’s expression was grim. ‘Let Mizrael be the judge.’

  ‘Wise One,’ Sariel said, firmly, ‘Consider it a mercy – as mercy is an attribute of the Creator – and holiest when seasoned by justice.’

  I closed my eyes briefly. So many deaths ...

  I had thought knowledge would make my task easier. It did not.

  I had thought the dead needed avenging. They did not.

  I had thought I needed to be the one to deliver it. I did not.

  I had failed to appreciate that I was the Wise One; I was to be the instrument of divine justice, not vengeance.

  ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’ I replied, flatly; feeling the enormous weight of responsibility on my shoulders to match the weight of the sword in my hand. ‘I have to do it. I have to be the one to do it.’

  The pause was slight, but I marked it. The Nephilim let their gaze fall away, dropping their eyes in both sympathy and respect. The burden of the Wise One was not something they could share. And, at the moment, the isolation of the museum was almost tangible.

  ‘All right, then. Let’s get it over with,’ I said, straightening up.

  But the Lamassu were quicker still – they strode forward against any evil. Valiant. Undaunted. The ropes they wore slapped rhythmically against their girths with their steady gait and, unhesitatingly, the rest of us fell into step behind these protective spirits, ready for battle.

  Around me, the museum seemed a sealed tomb; a cold lifelessness wrapped its core. As we moved further into the network of galleries, we prepared to meet the Fravashi.

  But what we were unprepared for was the second onslaught. A yellow fog crept forward with insidious intent. Unnervingly, a stinging chill pervaded the air, and the air now reeked of damp decay and pestilence warning of inevitable danger. If not for the Lamassu’s gritty focus, I would have easily lost direction in a place which was as familiar to me as my own home. The thick fog draped like an impenetrable shroud, closing the path before us – and objects no more than one solid stride of the Lamassu were suddenly invisible to sight, merging into a foul darkness.

  Sariel’s hand shot out and clamped my wrist. ‘Don’t move!’

  The menacing fog had not yet reached our feet but roiled like thunderclouds upon the marble floor ahead. Then abruptly stopped as if hitting an unseen barrier.

  Alarmed, I held my breath. The heavy, reassuring burden of the sword of the Archangel was the only thing that kept me firm and still as stone – as the ground beneath me, for no sane or obvious reason, seemed unexpectedly unstable and precarious.

  I listened. Nothing. Perhaps if Fi had been present, she would have heard what I could not. An eerie quiet held the portent of disaster. Troubled, I stifled speech, resisting the urge to ask what was wrong – because I knew.

  The Lamassu spread their wings but did not take flight; they made a militant gesture like warriors rattling spears in the air against their foe. Feathers rustled; wings ringing out, bell-like, as metal vanes spread open and wide, almost touching the vast ceiling.

  Yet the seeping cold and swirling fog held no character. In this alone, it was suspect. Pent amid cloisters dim, we waited. The fog held its surroundings enthralled.

  The tension that gripped us snapped with a finality.

  The nearest Lamassu gave a leonine roar in response to something supernatural that it alone could perceive. In the merest blur of an eye, too quick for me to respond, Sariel tossed me unceremoniously onto its back and quickly leapt up behind me. Half-seated, winded, I was held closely around my waist in Sariel’s vicelike grip, preventing me from falling, as the Lamassu sprang into a gallop. Immediately, the yellow fog changed into a smelted viscous pool, the black substance oozing like tar.

  ‘Pen!’ I screamed, watching the others diminish in the distance as we rapidly retreated. Momentarily, I caught a sparkle of silvery wing and the lash of the twin Lamassu’s tail as the others sprinted in the opposite direction, splitting our party in twain – but Sariel’s bone-crunching hold hauled me up so I could sit astride the majestic beast and when I threw another desperate look back and over my shoulder, they were gone.

  Jerked and jolted as we barrelled into a cross gallery, the stone walls clapped out the speedy rhythm of the Lamassu’s hoof-beats, slapping them back with a vicious echo, and the shadows chased us down, closing over us like treacly black ink.

  The divine warding in Mizrael became active and flared to brilliant life, practically searing my eyes. I would have screamed or cursed but breath came too fast for speech and the Lamassu spun in a half-turn, slamming to a halt.

  Radiance speared the gloom, radially emanating from the blade in my grasp, dissolving darkness in a shimmer of heavenly fire. In brilliant white heat.

  The oozing substance fizzed and hissed; shrieking in scorching, chaotic commotion as Mizrael exorcised. In that fast-fading flash, I perceived a thousand foul things – ghostly creatures hidden within; wild, lurid, forgotten things – leering with malice, with vicious ferocity before they were forever extinguished from existence. Beyond the gallery where we made our stand, the black tar-like matter transmuted back into dense yellow fog, which steamed and shrieked in roiling recoil.

  Sariel and the Lamassu who had shouldered my weight during the onslaught, helped me dismount. ‘Let go, Wise One.’

  ‘What was that?’ I gasped, unbalanced by forces beyond my wildest imaginings.

  Sariel shook his head. Perplexed by a change to the gameplay, he said, ‘A thing wrought of malice, a corruption of numerous spirits, from a world beyond this one.’

  The Lamassu maintained a charged stillness.

  I whispered, ‘I’ve seen its image before. In the British Library. In a book. RSPA 230.’ And I remembered the central image with clarity – the covetous toad and the captive entities in the Underworld, bound in hatred and envy, waiting for release.

  But these were puzzles for another time. Our immediate situation pressed upon us �
� and a cry from the galleries beyond alerted us to the needs of our friends.

  Gritting my teeth, I quickly remounted the Lamassu, Sariel behind me, and we hunted the cry down. Retracing steps, we galloped into the fray. Bright light flashed. Unforgiving, searing. The sword of the Archangel flared brighter still, a beacon of hope to push back the darkness. Slashing through the yellow fog with a spray of gold white sparks; a fountainhead of pure light met and chased down the retreating darkness.

  No longer leashed, Mizrael’s power radiated from the blade, from my being, until the air simmered with blazing light. A dazzling display of almighty power too piercing for mortal endurance and relentless in its judgement of our foe. If not for my conjoined awareness to the Seed, I would have passed out, yielding to Mizrael’s supremacy. The light of the blade reflected blindingly off the Lamassu’s wings, picking apart and rethreading the fabric that stitched the world together. Stone, stream, sky rang with a communal resonance, a tangible and profound energy – a living, cosmic current so vast that it caused the Earth to sing in exultation.

  When all was done, the entity left no sign of its presence. The yellow fog had dissipated – but had not been completely vanquished. It remained beyond the known world. A thing unnamed. A convergence of collective beings. It had crossed over to sow discord, to create chaos. An unknown evil of immense proportion had rent the fabric of natural order whilst the sword in my hand had mended the evil deed.

  It was too much to comprehend. And despite the efforts of both Sariel and the Lamassu, I wound up on the hard floor, crumpled at the knees in the aftermath of being a divine conduit.

  But I was not done yet. And neither were my companions.

  Pen bellowed, emerging from where the three Nephilim had taken up position to make a last stand, ‘God in all his mercy! We’re alive!’

  The twin of the Lamassu, who had no reason to hide – being of stone made flesh and easily reversed – stalked forth; a low rumbling sound emitted from the back of its throat. If it could speak, it chose not to – instead, achieving with a narrowing of its fierce eyes, a deep communication without the necessity of words.

  Move. You are needed.

  It was now or never. A rush of adrenaline hit hard and I jumped up and ran to the entrance of the gallery and into the next, hearing Pen yell but ignoring him. My puny strides were easily outstripped by the Lamassu and, together, we ran down the hall, sidestepping and jumping over the ancient relics in our path.

  The others caught us up, loping beside me with their superhuman agility, as Pen tried questioning again, ‘Sage! What are you doing?’

  But there was no time to explain. I just kept moving – as the Lamassu had commanded. Without hesitating, knowing the others might question the need, I sprinted in the direction of the Special Exhibition Room.

  And was brought up short.

  A harsh scream came from the Special Exhibition Room beyond – male or female, it was hard to tell – it was simply a voice crying out in untold terror and suffering, and was abruptly silenced. Tremors rushed through my body at the sound of such intense anguish. And the thought that it could be the woman used for breeding in the pangs of an appalling labour or, worse still, the torment of my own beloved chilled me to the core. But despite my surge of pity, I felt no fear at confronting the monsters behind these heinous acts – the sword of the Archangel and the Seed flooded me with a pure energy, and gave me a nobility and strength such as I had never known.

  I was so close to the entrance that all I had to do was concentrate on my forward motion and I would have been through in a matter of steps. But it wasn’t so easy.

  My companions and I had to face down the mob of Fravashi fanatics outside the room – their faces hideous, their eyes bulbous and glazed, their expressions animalistic and so far gone beyond human that there was no awareness evident; just slack-lipped, bestial fervour. I scanned their faces – but nothing remained of the Nephilim they used to be – just these empty vessels, obedient to Semyaza’s will.

  Pen drew himself up in readiness to fight but I placed a restraining hand on his arm. The Fravashi soldiers from the recesses of the room started forward as if manoeuvred by invisible strings by some ruthless puppet master; they surrounded us but did not move to touch us, and they did not speak. I fleetingly wondered if they were even capable of speech.

  Instead, it was their leader whose dark, soulless eyes glinting with malice, stood to bar the way. He issued a terse, disdainful command, ‘La Belladonna has been expecting you. We’ve been instructed to let you pass. Go through.’

  I hated the familiar manner with which he mocked us: the cock of his head and his wicked sneer. The right arm that dangled uselessly by his side was a raw reminder of the depth of his evil and the Seed’s punishment – and, in turn, I felt heartsick for Pen’s heroic loss as I felt his muscles flex beneath my restraining hold.

  Now was not the time, I cautioned myself. I hoped the others would trust me to see this through. But it was Sariel whom I feared would be provoked to retaliate. This was his once loyal comrade, his brother-in-arms whom he faced down, now in charge. And his men had been turned and were little more than the walking dead, empty husks of their former selves – neither beautiful nor imposing. I did not fear them. I did not hate them. There was a cancer at their heart. It would be utterly moral to kill Belladonna now with an easy conscience – with the might of Mizrael – or be damned for allowing the monster to live to do more harm.

  Sariel surprised me – though perhaps he shouldn’t have as he was, in many ways, the same calculating captain that he had always been – as he kept his expression neutral, schooled to cool stone, never hinting at the seething thoughts and emotions within. I was certain he would have liked nothing better than to tear his former comrade’s throat out, to launch himself across the small distance and reassert his primal authority. Instead, he stood completely still and watched the Fravashi like a hawk – a hawk that was tracking its prey.

  Banking my righteous anger, I gave a sharp nod in response to the snide Fravashi’s directions. The newest Fravashi leader started towards the entrance of the Special Exhibition Room, and I followed him, feigning a passive submission. This was the same room where I’d first met St. John. There was something fitting in its cyclical nature. Beginnings and endings. Alpha and Omega.

  Walking forward, there was a dark substance coating the ground, seeping into stone. Congealing, sticky underfoot, I realised it was blood. Impossible to avoid the bloody spillage, I continued forward as if I didn’t notice it. The toe of my boot came down heavily upon a small, solid object in its midst and, pausing momentarily, I looked down at the golden loop which caught the soft glow from Mizrael’s sharp edge.

  Distressed beyond the ability to speak, my defences slowly unravelling, I stooped to pocket the priceless possession which lay abandoned in a vast pool of blood. The signet ring, bearing a seal in the form of a winged lion – a representation of St. John himself, my very own protector – had been given as an exchange of love and commitment. Not for one moment did I believe that St. John would willingly have removed it from his own finger.

  Schooling my feelings behind a cool mask, I strode forward with renewed vigour. Clearing the doorway of the large room, my eyes scanned our surroundings, adjusting to the oppressive gloominess. Yellow fog, like gauzy drapes, clung insidiously to the ceiling and walls – the evil entities we encountered previously moving miserably within, too vast to number individually.

  A crude stone altar was placed against the far wall. The room was virtually empty but for a figure lying upon the altar, curled into the foetal position, partially covered in filthy rags. Beside it, a woman with the palest blonde hair, reaching down to her waist, stood upright with her back to us. But the first thing I took in were her wings. Black like her heart. Black like the belladonna berries. The feathers gleamed in the dim light; each feather shaped like the sharp edge of a blade in readiness to cut.

  The hair on the back of my neck began to
rise, and I froze.

  The woman laughed cruelly, and her wings suddenly spread wide as she pushed herself off the ground so quickly that it seemed she barely occupied her former space. The air was pulsing and alive with her like darkness making its presence known in the absence of visible light.

  And then she turned to face us.

  ‘We have waited for you,’ Belladonna said, and I flinched.

  She was beautiful and terrifying. Her skin gleamed; it had the patina and hard shine of alabaster. It was so pale that I could see her bluish veins underneath like striations in stone or marble markings. Yet she wore a gossamer thin gown that fell to her pale feet and barely covered her nakedness.

  Belladonna proudly displayed her undressed form in all its appalling glory. Her figure was distorted; her belly grossly, dreadfully distended. Under my horrified gaze, an unborn infant kicked and stretched within Belladonna’s swollen abdomen.

  She smiled serenely. Monstrously. ‘Isn’t it magnificent? Twins. Two children of dark and light. Look upon your beloved St. John’s progenies, Wise One, and know that you have failed.’

  THE SIMPLICITY OF EMPATHY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Fear and fury coiled through me, and fierce, hateful words hovered on my lips, waiting to spill over. Then died there. Because that was what Belladonna wanted; what she thrived upon. She was sadistic in her desire for pain and terror and misery. She lived to create the dark and desolate void that would consume us all: the Anakim, the Gibborim, my family, St. John and me. So I would deny her this – I would starve her from feasting upon my most intimate suffering.