Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series

by Carney, Michael

  Machkiel had been watching Ezequeel closely. If he makes the jump without me, I’ll never be able to return to exactly the same when and where we left. To distract the demon, Machkiel attempted to engage him in conversation.

  “Where did you get the pathgem? I thought that it was lost when Sanctuary fell.”

  Ezequeel was in no mood to provide any information. He simply ignored the question and began to fade back into time.

  Machkiel lunged desperately and managed to grasp a small corner of Ezequeel’s axe before the Darke Warrior disappeared completely.

  An instant later, both Ezequeel and Machkiel reappeared at the river’s edge and then their battle began in earnest.

  FORTY-SIX

  Leaning Tower of Pisa, Duchy of Tuscany, 1 p.m. Tuesday April 20 1610

  The final group of students left the top of the Leaning Tower and began making their way down the spiraling stairs. Carracci turned to Chrymos. “It’s time.”

  Chrymos froze. Finally, when it came to the moment of truth, she knew. She would not, could not, commit murder. Not even to fulfil her destiny. She confessed to Carracci. “I can’t do it.”

  Carracci had expected that Chrymos would fail and he had planned accordingly. He turned towards her and whispered several unintelligible sounds into her ear.

  “Pēḥēt rēšhēhē zayinhē. Dāletʿayin ʾālepçādē tāwʿayin lāmeddālet.”

  Chrymos instantly lost control of her own body. She tried to speak, to shout, but she could not. She could not move a single muscle. Instead, she was a helpless passenger as Carracci’s spell triggered some primal impulse and she found herself helplessly following his directions, like a marionette at the mercy of a puppet-master.

  For Chrymos, the next few seconds seemed to crawl. Her mind continued to scream ‘No’ but her body disobeyed. It shuddered forward, step by unwanted step towards Galileo, driven not by her will but by the movements of her tutor.

  Every step caused her great discomfort, her muscles driven against her will, as she fought against Carracci. The priest paced alongside her, his iron grip on her shoulder ensuring that she remained both compliant and invisible.

  As Carracci’s right arm reached out, Chrymos felt her right arm do likewise—no! no! stop! stop!—towards an unsuspecting Galileo, just as he turned to peer over the very edge of the tower.

  With every fiber of her being, Chrymos fought to reclaim her body, to prevent it being used for this heinous purpose. Catching Carracci by surprise, Chrymos did manage to wrench back control of her arm for a moment. She screamed silently to Galileo to get out of the way.

  But the spell was too powerful. Chrymos could utter no sounds, her warning went unheard and then, with another viciously snarled incantation, Carracci regained control. He quickly forced Chrymos’ arm to lash out at Galileo and propel him off the edge.

  Galileo’s hands flailed desperately at the edge of the tower, trying to stop his fall—and then he was gone.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Leaning Tower of Pisa, Duchy of Tuscany, 1.05 p.m. Tuesday April 20 1610

  Carracci turned towards Chrymos, his eyes flashing triumphantly, and spat out the words that gave her back control of her body. “ālepwāw ālepkāp hēnūnbēt hēwāw rēšhēhē”

  Chrymos rushed to the edge of the tower, expecting to see Galileo’s body lying on the cobblestones far below—and then had to brace herself to stop tumbling off the tower in shock, as Galileo somehow flew up towards her.

  No, not ‘somehow’—with someone. At second glance, Chrymos could see that Galileo was being carried upwards. Galileo’s rescuer looked surprisingly normal—blue eyes, short brown hair, and long dark robe. Oh, normal except for the impressive wings that made it possible for this angel to rescue the professor from certain death.

  But this wasn’t the dark and evil Outcast Angel of her nightmares. This rescuer’s wings were white and richly feathered, not black and leathery.

  As Chrymos stared in amazement, the angel looked straight at her—and, surprisingly, gave her a warm smile and cheerfully winked one eye. Belatedly, Chrymos realized that she was no longer invisible. She had moved beyond Carracci’s cloaking powers when she rushed to the edge. Chrymos backed out of view before Galileo himself could see her, and hid behind one of the large bells at the top of the tower. She simply could not take her eyes off the angel, who continued flying upward until Galileo could be safely returned to the summit of the tower.

  The angel lowered the professor softly to the tower surface, spoke briefly to him and then swiftly flew away, climbing higher and higher into the sky, until he was lost from view in the afternoon sun.

  If Chrymos was stunned by the turn of events, Galileo was shocked speechless. He was a devout Catholic and truly believed in angels—but to have one actually intervene to save his life in such a direct manner? That was so foreign to the usually practical academic that he immediately knelt down, crossed himself and gave profound thanks to God for his salvation.

  A minute passed. Two. Then Chrymos could hear some of the students calling from the base of the tower. “Okay, Professor, we’re ready. Fire away!”

  She looked over at Galileo. He was obviously still shaken. As far as she could tell, no-one else had observed what had just happened. Chrymos could almost guess what he must be thinking: Did I dream all that? What can I say? Who would believe me?

  None of the students would have seen either the fall or the rescue—at the crucial moment, they had all been inside the tower, slowly walking down the uneven stairs.

  Galileo shook his head ruefully, stood up and crossed to the edge of the tower—far more carefully now—and called down to his waiting audience. He had to cough and clear his throat before he could speak steadily. “Stand—cough—stand by, here they come.”

  As Galileo reached for the cannonball and musket ball and prepared to drop them simultaneously from the tower, Chrymos quietly walked over to the stairwell. Carracci was nowhere in sight—and then he suddenly reappeared, standing right beside her.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Carracci said, indicating that Chrymos should precede him down the stairs.

  “What was interesting?” asked Chrymos, happy to make conversation that wasn’t about her.

  “That angel, interfering openly like that. I don’t know how many of the students saw him—”

  “I don’t think any did,” said Chrymos. “They were all still inside the tower.”

  “In that case, the angel was extremely clever,” said Carracci as they reached the bottom of the stairwell and prepared to slip away, unseen by the students gathering around the now-fallen objects and excitedly discussing the experiment. “But not quite clever enough. He chose to oppose us directly and openly. The Consiglio dei Quattro will be very interested to learn about this development—that’s even more important than waiting around for another chance to kill Galileo.”

  “Why would the Council of Four be interested?” asked Chrymos.

  “Never you mind, girl, never you mind,” said Carracci, and those were the last words he would say as the pair of them walked back to the clearing where they had hidden their carriage.

  That left Chrymos with plenty of time to ponder the mystery of the angelic rescue—and to wonder what lay ahead. I have no idea what’s going to happen when I get back to the Academy, now that I have refused to carry out the task they gave me. I guess I’ll find out the consequences soon enough.

  # # #

  Back in her office in Hades, Nekhbet gave a shout of pure delight. “Yes!” She sent an instant mind-message to Lord Hurakan.

  replied Hurakan,

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The Margus River, Moesia, dusk, pridie Idus Iulias (July 14) 285 AD

  The Roman soldiers who had been losing the battle against Ezequeel had cheered when Machkiel had dived down and begun engaging with t
he demon. The cheers dwindled when the two had faded from sight—and then turned into shouts of horror when the demon popped back into existence a short distance from their position, with apparently no time at all having passed between the two events.

  The shouts in turn were replaced by a wary silence when the soldiers could see that the angel had returned as well.

  The two combatants stood facing each other for a few seconds, deciding what to do next. Ezequeel was heavily armored as before and once again carried his vicious barbed sword and double-bladed axe. To the Roman observers Machkiel, with a small sword and only his mail shirt to protect him, looked virtually helpless against the hulking demon.

  Ezequeel was first to speak, as he began to circle his opponent, planning his opening attack. “You look familiar. Where do I know you from?” He jabbed tentatively at Machkiel with his sword.

  Machkiel nimbly dodged out of reach. “From the Kingdom, where else? In those days, you might have known me as Machkiel the star-shaper. It was my role to reach into the hearts of stars and mold them in accordance with the Father’s wishes. To aid me in those tasks, He gave me a few special talents.” Machkiel bent down, seized a handful of pebbles from the riverbank, held them in cupped hands and began to concentrate.

  The pebbles began to glow brightly, as if being heated in a fiery furnace. Machkiel smiled and began to toss white-hot pebbles towards Ezequeel, one by one. He threw the pebbles lightly but with deadly aim.

  Ezequeel easily dodged the first few, but a couple inevitably impacted on the Darke Warrior’s armor. They sizzled angrily and might even have burned through the armor if the demon had not swiftly brushed them away with his sword. Ezequeel, a little rattled, raised his axe threateningly, intending to strike down this impudent Outcast.

  Machkiel simply laughed, snatched another handful of pebbles from the riverbank and then launched himself into the air. He hovered a half-dozen feet above Ezequeel, tantalizingly out of reach, and tossed some more over-heated pebbles at the Darke Warrior. One struck a lucky unprotected spot on Ezequeel’s left hand, burning the startled demon and causing him to drop his sword.

  That did it. Snarling, Ezequeel squatted down, reclaimed the sword and then, wings flapping furiously, launched himself at his tormentor.

  Machkiel had been expecting the reaction and quickly flew higher, further out of reach—but remained close enough to lure his opponent. I need to keep Ezequeel engaged—that thought drove Machkiel—I don’t want him to use the pathgem to escape from me or I’ll never find him again.

  Higher and higher the pair flew, leaving the battlefield far below. At first, the advantage was all Machkiel’s—Ezequeel was still wary of the white-hot pebbles and devoted as much effort to dodging them as to chasing after Machkiel—but, all too soon, the Outcast Angel’s small collection of pebbles was exhausted.

  Ezequeel, emboldened, mustered extra speed, drew closer to the fleeing Outcast and lashed out with sword and axe simultaneously. Machkiel had now drawn his own sword, much lighter than either of the demon’s weapons—but the sword, like the pebbles, now glowed with ferocious heat. As a result it was able to cut through the wooden haft of the thrusting axe, severing the blade and sending it tumbling to earth.

  The demon’s sword, facing no opposition, sliced towards Machkiel and would have delivered a killing stroke. At the last moment, however, Machkiel was able to twist his body slightly, so that most of the sword’s impact fell on—and was dispersed by—the shield fastened to the Outcast Angel’s back. Unfortunately, Machkiel didn’t escape unscathed—the sword cut through the chainmail shirt and carved a nasty slice out of Machkiel’s left shoulder.

  Blood gushed out of the open wound.

  FORTY-NINE

  The Margus River, Moesia, night, pridie Idus Iulias (July 14) 285 AD

  Machkiel reacted instantly. First he accelerated out of reach of the pursuing demon, so that there was no immediate danger that Ezequeel would land a second blow. Then Machkiel touched the flat surface of his blade to the gaping wound. The flesh was seared and blackened from the intense heat, stopping the blood-flow, but not without consequence.

  “Ahhhhh!” The involuntary cry escaped from Machkiel’s lips as the pain stabbed through his body. Ezequeel echoed the sound with his own cry of triumph.

  “Yeeee-hahhhhh! Not so cocky now, Outcast? Better fly away—or stay and die!” Ezequeel dropped the now useless axe haft and focused his mind on getting more thrust out of his wings. The virtual appendages responded immediately to the increased mental musculature, propelling the Darke Warrior forward at a much faster pace and bringing him almost within hacking distance of the injured angel.

  Machkiel rallied, banishing the throbbing pain to the furthest edges of his mind and concentrating on his own wingspeed. Pain-hampered, Machkiel could not fly as far or as fast as his best—but Ezequeel’s heavy armor reduced his maximum speed as well. They were closely matched—the angel could not outpace his pursuer but neither could the demon gain on the Outcast.

  Higher and higher the pair flew, until eventually the atmosphere began to grow thin. Neither combatant needed air to support their wings—the non-corporeal appendages interacted not with the physical surroundings but with the underlying currents of what the ancient Greeks had named aether. These were unseen energy streams that flow everywhere through the universe, providing both carriage and communications for spiritual beings.

  Air was, however, useful for breathing. Not essential, at least not for every single angel or demon—some could adapt themselves to airless environments. If needed, their metabolisms could switch autonomously to extracting the necessary life energy from the aether instead—but flying and mind-messaging capabilities would be restricted as a result. In a battle situation, aether-breathing could mean a significant disadvantage.

  Machkiel found himself gulping and gasping, the primary indication that his body would soon be forced to opt for an alternative energy source. Still, the angel continued his upward climb, hoping to lure his enemy into a wrong move.

  Ezequeel responded to the thinning atmosphere by turning away. He scoffed at Machkiel. “If all you’re going to do is run, Outcast, then you don’t need me to help you do it.”

  Ezequeel turned in a graceful half-circle and began his descent, this time at a far more leisurely pace, gliding downward in wide spirals.

  Machkiel paused for a moment and then reversed his own direction. He plunged downward but, unlike Ezequeel, actually increased his speed. Wings beating even more strongly, Machkiel aimed for a quick interception of the demon. He drew his sword in anticipation.

  Ezequeel, gliding lazily, glanced upward, expecting to see the Outcast Angel retreating into the distance. Instead, he saw an outstretched sword pointing directly at him and coming closer with every passing second.

  Ezequeel reacted instinctively, twisting and turning and diving to get out of the way of the unexpected threat. He was only partially successful—Machkiel’s sword slashed through the lower part of one wing, restricting Ezequeel’s maneuvering abilities. The demon veered away to the right and drew his own sword in response.

  Machkiel didn’t attempt to deviate from his current path but instead continued to accelerate downwards, then used his accumulated speed to loop up and around to the left. As Machkiel began climbing again, Ezequeel, tracking his opponent’s moves, adjusted his own flying to follow.

  Then, unexpectedly, Machkiel curved downwards towards the ascending demon. The two were accelerating towards a seemingly inevitable head-on collision.

  Neither seemed likely to turn away. They each raised their swords, anticipating a fight to the death.

  FIFTY

  The Margus River, Moesia, night, pridie Idus Iulias (July 14) 285 AD

  Perhaps it was the white-hot glow that began emanating from Machkiel’s sword that unsettled Ezequeel—or it might have been the undiminished speed at which the Outcast Angel bore down on his adversary. In any event, Ezequeel turned aside a moment before the exp
ected collision. Just out of reach, the Darke Warrior waved his sword ineffectually as Machkiel flashed past.

  Machkiel couldn’t resist a taunt as he channeled his downward momentum into yet another upward loop. “Losing your appetite for battle, demon? I didn’t think Darke Warriors ever turned away from a fight.”

  “Come back down and fight face to face and we’ll see who’s afraid,” retorted Ezequeel, once again altering his flight to head upwards, directly towards his opponent.

  Machkiel reached the top of his loop and re-oriented himself downward, once more aiming at Ezequeel. The angel’s wings were beating at maximum speed, driving Machkiel closer and closer to his opponent.

  Ezequeel raised his sword. “Ready,” he snarled, expecting Machkiel to slow and engage—or, if not, to be skewered as the angel attempted to pass.

  Instead, at the very last moment, Machkiel tossed his sword aside and smashed into Ezequeel at full speed, body to body. Although Ezequeel was better protected because of his armor, the demon was not expecting the impact and was momentarily stunned. Machkiel had been braced for the collision and recovered more readily. He stretched his arms around Ezequeel, enveloping him in an unwanted embrace and pinning Ezequeel’s upper arms to his sides.

  The demon’s upper arms might be held in place, but Ezequeel could still move his lower arms—in particular, his right arm, which wielded the still very-deadly sword. Ezequeel struggled against Machkiel’s stifling hold, attempting to manoeuver the sword into a position where he could slash out at the Outcast. He swung the blade once, twice, but he could only reach Machkiel’s back, still well-protected by the shield of Evalach.

  Before the demon could find a more damaging target, Machkiel reached down with his left hand and managed to grab a portion of Ezequeel’s sword blade.