Ezequeel attempted to twist and turn his sword to cut Machkiel’s hand to ribbons, but the Outcast ignored the cuts and concentrated, sending intense heat through the demon’s blade and hilt until Ezequeel was simply unable to maintain his hold on the weapon.
As soon as Machkiel felt the sword go limp, he released his own hold on the blade. The deadly weapon instantly dropped away and was soon lost from sight.
What remained was a spitting, snarling, kicking bundle of demon, struggling to get free from Machkiel’s clutches. The Outcast Angel could feel his own strength ebbing, the combined effects of the slashed shoulder and the still bleeding wounds on his hand taking their toll. I can’t hold Ezequeel much longer.
Concentrating as best he could against the pain, Machkiel sent heat energy surging into Ezequeel’s armor. As the metal grew hotter and hotter, Ezequeel knew exactly what was happening and struggled violently, trying to escape. He reached out, managed to grab hold of Machkiel’s left wing and began tearing at its feathers. Then, leveraging his hold, Ezequeel reared back and slammed his helmeted head into Machkiel’s unprotected skull.
Close to blacking out, Machkiel took the only action he could, the final step that he had thus far avoided. He sent a white-hot burst of energy surging through his hands and into Ezequeel’s armor, scalding the demon horribly and knocking him out.
Ezequeel’s wings vanished as he lost consciousness and Machkiel found himself bearing the full weight of both angel and demon on his own set of wings.
Desperately, Machkiel wrestled the wristband containing the pathgem off the arm of the unresisting demon and slid it onto his own wrist. If I can get to Nowhen, then our wounds can be healed.
Machkiel mimicked the action he had seen Ezequeel taking, touching the blue gem with a finger.
Nothing happened. Machkiel had no idea how to make the pathgem work. He tried again, increasingly agitated—one finger, two fingers, the whole palm of his hand. Still no effect. He sent a prayer skyward to the God he had rejected long ago, but it went unanswered.
Head groggy, pain still flooding through from hand and shoulder and with one wing damaged, Machkiel desperately struggled to stay awake and make a safe return to the ground far below.
It was an impossible task. Before Machkiel could descend even a hundred feet, he could feel himself blacking out.
He tried desperately to hold on, but his efforts failed. Machkiel lapsed into unconsciousness and his wings also vanished. The two bodies, angel and demon, plummeted to the earth below.
FIFTY-ONE
Outskirts of Pisa, Duchy of Tuscany, 3 p.m. Tuesday April 20 1610
Chrymos and Carracci arrived back at the clearing where the Academy’s carriage waited for them. What Carracci did next came as a surprise to Chrymos, who had expected the silent treatment again throughout the journey back to Naples. The priest indicated that she should walk with him over to a fallen tree several feet away from the carriage. He sat down on the trunk of the tree and beckoned her to join him.
Once she was seated, Carracci began to speak. “You know, Chrymos, originally I had such high hopes for you.”
Naturally, Chrymos looked surprised, given the disdainful manner in which he had treated her, almost from the very first day that she had met him. Carracci was quick to explain further. “Oh, I don’t mean when you arrived at the Academy in January. I meant five years before that, when you first came to our attention.”
“What do you mean?” asked Chrymos.
“In 1605, the Contessa arranged for you to be brought to the Academy. You were in chains, kicking and screaming threatening to kill us in a thousand different ways. I was most impressed.”
Chrymos could only stare at Carracci in disbelief. “I don’t remember any of that,” she said.
“Of course you don’t,” said Carracci. “Nor should you.”
Chrymos grew increasingly puzzled, but Carracci wasn’t finished with his revelations. “The Contessa told us that you are the daughter of the murderous Hungarian Count Ferencz Nadasdy, known as the ‘Black Knight of Hungary’, and his wife Countess Erzsebet.Bathory, the ‘Blood Countess’. You would have grown up in Čachtice Castle in Transylvania, surrounded by the bodies of the very many peasants and servants that your parents slaughtered over the years. Such a shame that you can’t remember it now.”
“No, it’s not true, it can’t be true,” denied Chrymos, horrified.
Carracci gave her a broad smile. “Oh yes, it certainly is. And you know who they are, don’t you? It’s public knowledge now, but it was mere rumor and speculation back then, that between them the Black Knight and the Blood Countess killed hundreds of their workers over the last twenty years. By all accounts, your mother was worse than your father—after he died, she killed more of her people than ever.”
Carracci sighed. “On the day we first met you, you were so vicious and violent we were definitely glad you were in chains. We were so sure you would be a great soldier—perhaps our greatest ever. Like mother, like daughter.”
Chrymos shook her head. “No, no, no.”
“We thought we were onto a winner,” said Carracci. “The problem we had was that you didn’t believe in our cause. Your family was heathen—Protestant. And your parents were high up in the nobility of Royal Hungary. Naturally, you had no interest in fighting for us. Not for the Spanish Empire—and certainly not for the Catholic Church. So we had to do something about that.”
Chrymos gave up protesting—she was wasting her breath. And, for all she knew, Carracci could be telling the truth. She remembered nothing of her life before she woke up in Florence in early 1605. She listened to Carracci with morbid fascination as he continued his tale.
“We concocted a special mixture that took away your memory. Don’t blame Doctor Odaldi, he did the mixing but to this day he still doesn’t know whom it was intended to treat. You wouldn’t go quietly—it took a dozen men to hold you down so that we could force you to swallow the drink.” Carracci smiled at the memory.
“Once we’d wiped your memory clean, we dropped you off in a nunnery in Florence, so you could get exposed to the true faith. We also wanted to see if the ‘new you’ still had the necessary attitude to survive on your own on the streets. For some time, we had people watching you to see what you would do.”
Chrymos felt momentary vindication of her decision to leave Florence and re-settle in Naples. So I was being watched! I was right.
Carracci brushed some dust off his breeches as he continued. “To be honest, if you had failed we wouldn’t have saved you. We want warriors, not weaklings. You surprised us—not only because you were able to survive but also because of the manner in which you did so.”
He smiled. “Based on your lineage, we fully expected you to lie and steal and kill your way through Florence. We even had a plan to rescue you if you were arrested for any crimes you committed.”
Carracci shook his head sadly. “As far as we could tell, you didn’t do any of that—no stealing, certainly no killing—which frankly was a great disappointment to us. All that time and effort wasted—we really drew the lemon with you.”
Carracci’s obvious displeasure brought the first smile that Chrymos was able to summon all day. Great—whatever annoys you makes me happy.
Carracci continued. “We were about to move in and pick you up, to wipe your memory and start again, when you vanished. Our people scoured Florence but there was no sign of you.”
Chrymos then realized how narrowly she must have escaped. She gave a quick prayer of thanks for her deliverance.
“We didn’t find you again until earlier this year,” said Carracci, “when the Contessa predicted that you would be picked up in Naples by one of our recruitment raids. You led Henricus and his team on such a merry dance that I was sure you must have changed. Perhaps the streets of Naples had stiffened your spine.”
Carracci went on. “Sadly, that wasn’t true. You're still the same mollycoddling girl we saw in Florence, nursing every little st
ray that comes along. Argumentative, yes, self-opinionated, indeed, even bloody-minded. But you are certainly not a killer.”
Chrymos nodded.
“And that,” said Carracci, raising his voice at last, “is what the Academy needs right now. A hardened killer, someone willing to do whatever it takes, now that we’re on the brink of the Lost War.”
Carracci stood up. “I wouldn’t even bother sending you back to the Academy, but the Contessa still believes that you have a part to play in the war.” He spat on the ground. “Sure, if we have some babies to nursemaid.”
At that moment, another horse and cart arrived and drew up near the Academy carriage. Carracci had apparently been expecting it. He looked over and nodded to the driver, a nun from Father Carracci’s order. Then he turned back to Chrymos.
“I don’t have time for you now, I have business in Paris. Sister Maria Benedetta will take you back to Naples.”
“Okay,” said Chrymos, “I get it. You’re not going to let me take the Exousía potion. You might as well leave me behind here in Pisa, then.”
“I'm afraid that’s no longer an option,” said Carracci. “You know too much. Now, ṣāmek lāmedhēhē pēnūnʿayinyōd tāwyōdlāmed yōd ṣām ekʾālepyōd.”
This latest spell caught Chrymos off-guard. She immediately lost interest in everything around her.
Carracci summoned the newly-arrived driver and issued appropriate instructions. Then he turned once again to Chrymos.
“I’ll deal with you when I get back, once I’ve had a chance to talk to the Master and the Contessa. A word of warning, though. You should prepare yourself, Chrymos. Whatever your fate, you won’t like it.”
Chrymos simply sat on the tree trunk, unmoving, until Sister Maria Benedetta escorted her to the cart. She watched incuriously as Carracci climbed into the other carriage and left the clearing, heading to an unknown destination. If at that moment the Lost War had broken out around her, she would not have noticed.
Nor did Chrymos give any thought to Carracci’s revelations about her parents. Her mind was completely blank.
Chrymos remained in this nearly-comatose state for what was a fourteen-day journey back to Naples. When instructed by Sister Maria Benedetta she would mechanically eat, sleep, or perform necessary ablutions. Otherwise, Chrymos had absolutely no awareness of the days passing by.
FIFTY-TWO
Fourteen Days Later
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Early Evening, Tuesday, May 4 1610
“bēthēgīmlʿayinnūnhē.” With that single incantation, Master Della Porta removed the spell from Chrymos and she found herself back at the Academy, in the Master’s office. It was as if the journey from Pisa back to Naples had never happened.
Della Porta turned to Sister Maria Benedetta, who had nursed Chrymos throughout the journey. He issued brief instructions. “Take her to her room. After she has climbed down remove the ladder. She can help in the kitchen each day but she must stay locked up in her room every night until Father Carracci returns.”
# # #
Within a few minutes, Chrymos was indeed restored to her room. She barely noticed when the ladder was withdrawn and the entry hatch closed. She didn’t even feel the usual panic attack at her claustrophobic surroundings.
Her mind, quiescent for a fortnight, was now racing.
Chrymos tried and failed to summon up any memory of the Black Knight and the Blood Countess who were supposedly her parents. If Doctor Odaldi truly did manage to wipe memories of people like that from my mind, then I must congratulate him—he did a fantastic job.
Eventually, Chrymos abandoned any attempt to remember the past. Instead, she tried to consider her options for a new future.
They all seemed desperately grim.
FIFTY-THREE
The Margus River, Moesia, early morning, Idus Iulias (July 15) 285 AD
Marcus Augustus, Diocletian’s deputy commander, was the first on the scene. He had attempted to watch the battle between angel and demon—although in the darkness he could only see the occasional flashes of fiery red and blue-white—and had heard the final impact as the bodies hit the ground. He had gathered a hand-picked squad of soldiers, along with a wagon carrying burial cloths and spades, just in case. Together Marcus Augustus and his men had ridden through the pre-dawn hours, carefully making their way along the riverbank, their journey guided by flaming torches.
Not long after dawn, the squad arrived close to where Marcus Augustus thought the bodies must have fallen. They dismounted and climbed the hillside. After some time spent searching, one of the soldiers shouted, “Over here.”
Two bodies lay smashed and broken on the uneven ground. The demon was largely unrecognizable, smeared across the rocks, but at least some of his body still held together thanks to his armor. The angel, on the other hand, looked surprisingly undamaged, given the height from which he had fallen. Marcus Augustus spotted one of his soldiers waving his hand, sketching out a crude cross shape over the body.
“What was that all about?” demanded the deputy commander.
The soldier, horrified to be observed, stammered out an explanation. “Sir, the Bishop—Bishop Januarius—told us that the shield would preserve our champion. Look—he’s still in one piece, not like the other one. You would think he was only sleeping.”
Marcus Augustus had to admit that the soldier had a point. “Still dead, though,” he added. “Tell you what, you, you, and you—” The deputy commander indicated three of his men, including the soldier who had administered the blessing. “—take some of the burial cloths we brought, wrap up this one and take him quietly to Januarius. Tell the bishop that we don’t want it known that Machkiel is dead. Such news would weaken our soldiers’ morale. Ask the bishop to bury the body somewhere in total secrecy.”
Marcus Augustus looked around at all of his troops. “And if any of you so much as breathes a word about this to anyone, then may you be accursed in your blood and eyes and every limb and have all your intestines eaten away. As far as any of you know, the angel triumphed over the demon and then flew away. Is that clear?”
A chorus of “yes, sirs” followed, the others carefully looking away as the designated soldiers completed their task and carried their cloth-wrapped burden down to where the horses were tethered. Marcus Augustus waited until he could hear the three men riding away. Machkiel’s body—the pathgem still firmly attached to his wrist—would be taken away for a decent burial. More importantly, mused the commander, what our men don’t know and don’t see won’t diminish their fighting spirit.
Next, the commander turned his attention to what remained of the demon. “This one,” he said with a great deal of satisfaction, “this one goes on display so that our brave men can see what happens to those who oppose the true emperor!”
The cheering was instant and prolonged. Marcus Augustus waited until the noise had subsided and then added: “And we’ll parade the creature in front of that pretender Carinus and his lily-livered troops as well. That should teach them not to trifle with the true Roman Empire!”
Shouts and cheers continued to ring out through the morning, as the soldiers happily lashed the remains of the demon—now more armor than flesh—to a cross roughly assembled from nearby tree branches.
Diocletian’s men had their new standard, and it would lead them to victory against their soon-to-be-thoroughly-demoralized human foes.
PART THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
23 Rue de la Ferronnerie, Paris, France, Early Morning, Friday May 14 1610
Ravid arrived in Paris early in the morning after a relatively uneventful night flight. He skimmed the note that awaited him. “Impressive,” he remarked to his Outcast Angels colleague Archimedes, “Bishop de Richelieu hasn’t had much luck encouraging the palace guard to increase King Henri’s protectors, so he’s dreamed up another little ruse. He’s put the fear of eternal damnation into the king’s carriage driver and convinced him to stay away from the Les Halles area
of Paris in general—and, of course, from this street, the Rue de la Ferronneri, in particular.”
“If that doesn’t keep the king safe, at least today—” said Archimedes.
“—then nothing will,” finished Ravid. “I agree—and yet Jesse has not advised me of any change to the king’s fate. He is, as far as we know, still destined to be assassinated on this street this afternoon. Our presence here is still essential, even if—” Ravid glanced around the overcrowded room. “—it’s a bit of a squeeze in here.”
Ravid, Archimedes and the five new recruits brought over from the Stonehenge training facility were currently crammed into the small upstairs bedroom of a two-level Paris appartement at 23 Rue de la Ferronnerie, the only accommodation they could find that had a clear view of the Rue de la Ferronnerie itself. The appartement itself was not officially available for rent, but earlier in the week its owners had felt a sudden urge to visit a sick aunt in Toulouse, many days’ travel from Paris. This humanitarian gesture came as a result of an overwhelming compulsion planted by team member Elias. Hopefully, thought Ravid, our business here will be concluded before Monsieur and Madame Gombaud realize that neither of them actually has a sick aunt, in Toulouse or anywhere else.
Ravid looked at Archimedes. Time was running out. “Okay, Archimedes, introduce me to your team.”
Archimedes called the recruits to order. “We’ve talked about him on many occasions, now you finally get to meet him. Gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Ravid. Like me, of course, he is an Outcast Angel. Before the Rebellion, he was the leader of the Kingdom Guards, responsible for protecting the Kingdom of Heaven. In that role, he was blessed with superlative fighting skills and with enhanced hearing and vision, abilities he retains to this day.”
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 16