Rebellion

by J. D. Netto

  The sounds of drums echoed in the air once more. I wondered where they were coming from. They seemed to be all around me, but I could not be sure of their exact location.

  It was at this moment that my mind recalled the Wastelands of Tristar, the red sand of the deserted landscape, the scarlet sky painted with silver stars—the emptiness of not knowing whether I would ever leave that place. I recalled the foul shadowed creatures that tortured me as I strolled around the lonely hills.

  I have not returned to die here, I thought, filling my mind with memories that brought me strength. I remembered the Creator; Raziel informing me that Death had been conquered; Demetre being brought back to life along with me; the men of Aloisio that had aided us in the Battle of Justicia.

  No matter how intensely Lucifer’s army plotted against me, I knew it was my duty to overcome all their evil schemes.

  With a great struggle, I landed in front of the old door of the castle. As my legs sank deep into the soft snow, I stood still for a couple of seconds in an attempt to regain some of my strength. Flying still took its toll on my human body. I felt the stinging pain coming from my hands and my head; my wounds dripped with blood.

  The high towers of the castle were hidden by the storm. My wings retracted under my skin as I opened the door.

  Once inside, I discovered that the torches that had been scattered with great precision throughout the hall no longer burned; an eerie silence lingered in the air. My eyes absorbed the sight of the countless bodies of Bellatorian soldiers scattered on the floor like mere objects. Blood flowed from their wounds; their golden suits of armor were reduced to shards. Human limbs hung from the chandeliers.

  Anger stirred within me. I made my way among the bodies, trying my best not to touch them. The canvases lay broken, their pieces spread across the somber hall. I felt as though the sub-zero breeze that blew through the cracks in the windows could touch my bones.

  There was fear in me that the worst had happened to my companions. I struggled to make my way up the staircase once I saw all the decapitated corpses piled on top of each other. I tried to capture the last image these men had seen before they died, but none appeared in my mind. I sighed in frustration as a feeling of impotence tried to find its way inside of me. With every step I took, the soles of my boots touched the blood that covered the ground like a long scarlet rug.

  The hall that led to the throne room sat in darkness. Flags with the emblem of the white dragon lay on the floor, torn and smeared with blood.

  Ahead of me, amidst the destruction, was a man resting on a chair. He had his head bowed. In his hands, he held the head of a soldier; the skin around the soldier’s neck had been ripped from his body. The remnants of his victim lay against the man’s left leg.

  “Who are you?” Rage flowed with my words as I marched to him.

  The man shot me a surprised, cold stare, but he seemed unbothered by my presence as he let out a soft chuckle.

  “What do we have here?” There was a snide tone to his words. The pale man dropped his victim’s head on the floor. My eyes analyzed his flaming red hair, and green irises that seemed to have been painted on his face. His thin lips pursed into a cunning smile, revealing a set of fangs.

  “Pardon my appearance, young one. I had to feed,” he said, using his tongue to wipe the blood that was smeared across his chin. His ragged brown coat was punctured with holes, and his white shirt was also covered in bloodstains.

  I scowled at him, confused.

  “Who might you be?” I watched him with attentive eyes.

  The man cackled. “My name is Dahmian, servant of Bartholomew, King of Madbouseux.”

  “Then you serve a dead king, Dahmian.” With caution, I stepped my way to him. “We all know that the inhabitants of that kingdom vanished thousands of years ago.”

  Dahmian bit the right side of his bottom lip, taking two short steps in my direction.

  “There are always three sides to a story, boy: my version, your version, and the truth. If only our disappearance could be so simply explained.” His right eyebrow rose up to hide under his flaming hair. “We did not just simply vanish into thin air. We became…special.” His tongue caressed his fangs.

  I recalled King Demyon’s account of the blood-drinkers. Could it be that Dahmian alone had killed all these men?

  “I assume you are responsible for this doing?” My gaze was fixed on the body that lay next to him.

  “We all need to eat, young boy.” He knelt next to the headless man; his fingers trailed the blood that poured from the body’s wounds. “I must confess that I cannot wait to taste royal blood.” A cunning smile appeared on his face.

  With sword in hand, I moved in his direction. My wings once again appeared despite of my body’s exhaustion. I swung my blade, certain that it would wound his pale skin, but I was caught by surprise when I felt my sword burn the palm of my hand.

  I released it from my grasp, staring at him in disbelief.

  “What is your name?” He clasped my face with his right hand. “You are surely not ordinary.”

  I pierced his eyes with mine.

  “No matter.” He tightened his grasp and then released me. “You will answer me soon enough.” He let out a menacing laugh, turning his back to me and facing the wall behind him.

  “Now, where is that old man?” Dahmian strolled around the empty hall, humming a disturbing melody.

  “What are you doing?” My eyes followed him. Dahmian approached an iron chest that sat near the fireplace.

  “Are you in there, my friend?” He kicked the chest three times. “It is time to get out.”

  His olive eyes looked over his shoulder. “I must speak to the king. We have urgent matters to discuss.” His lips pursed into a thin smile.

  He bent down, opening the two locks on the iron chest. There was a muffled male voice behind the creaking sound.

  It was one of the Wise. His clothes were smothered in blood; his eyes and mouth were covered with black rags and his garments had been ripped around his shoulders and waist.

  With bare feet, the man crawled out of the chest. I looked for the markings on his skin, but there were none. His hands trembled as he got on his knees.

  “You know how to get us to the throne room, don’t you, old man?” Dahmian grabbed the nape of his neck, tightening his grasp as he led him near the wall. “Work your magic and get us to the other side…please.”

  For a second, Dahmian had his back to me; his full attention was focused on the wall. Without much thought, I risked another attack. I swung my sword, aiming for his right thigh. At full speed, the blade penetrated his skin. A loud scream came forth.

  I waited for Dahmian to strike back. To my surprise, he led his right hand to his thigh and covered the wound.

  “You still do not understand.” His eyebrows pressed together. “We cannot be defeated, boy.”

  He grabbed the man’s head and cocked it to his right.

  “You brought this upon him.”

  I heard the painful groans as Dahmian sank his teeth into the left side of the man’s neck. With trembling hands, he tried to push himself away from Dahmian’s grasp.

  A tingle of fear rushed down my spine as I contemplated the wound on Dahmian’s right leg, which was now closing up. The bleeding had ceased.

  “I won’t kill you…yet.” Dahmian’s lips and chin were smeared with blood. “Now, show us the way.”

  “You need to uncover his mouth.” I recalled the way the other Wise men had opened the wall earlier. With a fallen countenance, the man nodded his head in agreement with my statement.

  Dahmian narrowed his eyes, scowling at me.

  “Do you lie, boy?” His eyebrows rose. “If you are lying,” he pointed his finger at the man, “this old rag will die a very painful death.”

  “I am not lying.” I tightened my hands, bearing my eyes into his.

  He removed the rag that covered the man’s mouth. I expected him to shout, but no sound came from him
.

  “What is your name?” Dahmian knelt beside him.

  The man lifted his tired eyes, clearing his throat.

  “Othaleeon.”

  Dahmian slapped the right side of the man’s head. “Do not keep me waiting, Othaleeon.”

  “I was entrusted…to keep the secrets of Bellator safe. Do…not expect me to simply open the—”

  Dahmian’s right fist collided with the man’s face, opening a wound on his cheek.

  “Do you take me for a fool? Show me the way.”

  Othaleeon bowed his head.

  “Let him kill me.” I was startled by a strong voice that echoed inside my head. “Let him take my life away. Do not fight back.”

  My eyes turned to Othaleeon. His tongue trailed across his bleeding lips as he looked at the wall.

  “I may be of old age, but knowledge is one of my weapons, and I am afraid I cannot show you the way into the throne room.” He pressed his eyelids together, expecting Dahmian to strike him again.

  “You—”

  “This is no time for games, Dahmian.” A loud voice boomed behind me. I looked over my shoulder, finding a man of high stature standing next to a blond woman. “If we do not enter the throne room soon, our attack will be delayed. Why have you not fulfilled the task I entrusted you with?” The man marched in our direction. His tattered brown coat covered his body down to his knees.

  “Who might you be?” He scratched his chin, looking at me as if I was an insect.

  “That is none of your concern,” I replied, reaching for my sword, which was lying on the ground.

  The man scoffed and continued making his way to Dahmian. His dark hair was tied back; his crimson eyes shimmered in the dark. The woman made no effort to move from her place; as still as a statue, she watched us with her hazel eyes.

  Dahmian pointed at the despondent man. “The old man is the only one that can show us the way in, Bartholomew.”

  Bartholomew? The King of Madbouseux? Had he returned from his grave as a red-eyed killer?

  “Dahmian, how loyal are you?” Bartholomew placed his finger under Dahmian’s chin, lifting his head.

  His green eyes widened. “I followed you in your rebellion against the Creator and Elysium when you sold your soul to Lucifer. We rode together to war and to our grave, and never was I disloyal to you.”

  Bartholomew’s lips went rigid. “Make sure that does not change during this battle.” His head cocked in my direction. “The winged boy is still breathing.”

  “The winged boy might be important, my lord.” The woman spoke. Her golden locks bounced as she strolled toward Bartholomew, her hazel eyes looking at me. Her waist was strapped in a black corset. “Do you not recall Nephele mentioning that there was one who was the keeper of the Diary of Lucifer? It is clear that this boy is not ordinary.”

  “Do you take me for a fool, Nylora?” He looked at me. “Of course I remember.”

  A cunning smile appeared on Bartholomew’s face. “Old man,” he said, shifting his gaze to Othaleeon. “If you do not show us the way, we will feed on you in front of this boy.”

  “Do not help me.” Othaleeon’s voice boomed inside my mind once again. I let out a frustrated breath; my hands trembled.

  Why should I not help you? I thought, hoping he would answer me, but there was only silence.

  Bartholomew walked around the suffering man. Othaleeon’s eyes swam with tears.

  “I will ask you one last time.” The sound of breaking bones merged with Bartholomew’s voice. He crushed the man’s right leg with his left foot. Othaleeon let out a deafening scream, which turned into copious sobs. “Lead us to the throne room.”

  I tightened my grasp on my sword while I watched the horror in front of me. For a moment I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. What was this man’s plan?

  Othaleeon did not utter a single word. Nylora trailed her hands across his head, kneeling beside him.

  “Since you have denied our request, we will have to find someone else. You are becoming a burden to all of us.” A smile appeared on her face. She looked over her shoulder, bearing her eyes into mine. “I believe his lack of cooperation makes him guilty, don’t you think so, boy?”

  Tears of frustration rolled down my left cheek.

  “That makes him loyal…you beast.” My chin quivered as the words drifted from my mouth.

  Bartholomew slapped Othaleeon’s face with the back of his hand. “So keep in mind that it was loyalty that led this man to his grave.”

  The bloodbath began. They mounted Othaleeon’s body. Nylora dismembered him, pulling off his arms and drinking from the open wounds. Dahmian sank his fangs into his face, ripping apart his nose and eyes.

  “Let them kill me.” His voice once again spoke to me, only this time it sounded more like a fading whisper.

  Bartholomew tore Othaleeon’s garments from his body. With his hands, he ripped the man’s stomach open, spilling his guts on the floor. As they feasted on Othaleeon’s flesh, the wall started to melt like ice. My heart pounded as fear arose inside of me. Were my companions on the other side of this wall? Had they been captured? Were they alive?

  “I guess the old man was not so loyal after all,” Dahmian laughed, pointing his blood-covered finger at the wall. All three stood to their feet, their clothes, hands, and faces smeared in blood.

  VI

  The throne room sat in darkness. My eyes surveyed the room, searching for my companions, but they were nowhere to be seen. I did not know if I was to feel joy or sorrow at this moment. Had they escaped? Had they been kidnapped?

  “Where are you?” Bartholomew shouted, kicking one of the chairs to the ground. “We know you are here, Demyon.”

  All the furniture lay untouched. A low fire still burned in the fireplace.

  “How did you find us?” I asked Bartholomew as he paced around the room.

  “That is none of your concern,” Nylora snapped as she, along with Dahmian, approached the empty throne.

  “Well, Nylora. I can answer my own questions.” A smirk appeared on Bartholomew’s face. “We followed the Capios here. Once Xavier came to encounter Nephele and Erebos in the Heart of Elysium, we knew we had a chance of finding the book-bearers.”

  A cold shiver ran down my spine when I heard the name of the one that had brought me so much rage.

  “You saw Nephele?” My mind was polluted with memories of the last time I had seen her.

  Bartholomew pursed his lips. “Is she any of your concern?” He narrowed his eyes.

  She was of my concern. I wanted her dead.

  Bartholomew pressed his fingers against his chin, turning his face to Dahmian.

  “This boy annoys me. How come he is not dead yet?” he asked.

  “I do not think you want to kill him.” I was relieved to see Devin walk out from one of the doors behind the throne.

  “Devin,” I shouted, relieved to see him. “You are well.”

  Nylora marched in his direction; the sound of her heels clicking against the floor reverberated.

  “Well, what do we have here? If only you had been the one to have awakened us from our sleep.” Her voice was like an entrancing melody. She extended her hand in an attempt to touch Devin’s face, but he recoiled.

  “Awoken you from your sleep?” Devin asked. With sword in hand, he paced around the room, his eyes focused on the blood-drinkers.

  “Where is Demyon?” Bartholomew grew impatient. He rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “We must speak to him.”

  “What business do you have with him?” Devin pointed the tip of his sword toward Bartholomew.

  “Our business is our own, Nephilin,” Dahmian said. “Must we kill all the inhabitants of this kingdom in order to see its king?”

  “You and the other Nephilin…Nephele…you are both very stubborn.” Bartholomew said, giving Devin a half-hearted smile. “There are ten of us here in Bellator. I wish I could tell you where the others are.”

  “What bu
siness do you want with me, Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew’s jaw opened and he intertwined both of his hands.

  “Oh my,” he said with a smile. “The king walks out of his chamber.” He spread out his arms, bowing his head in mockery.

  “All my life, I thought the tales of the blood-drinkers were legend. It is repugnant to see what you and your people have become,” King Demyon said.

  “My people?” Bartholomew raised his right eyebrow. “Always so quick to judge, Demyon. Always so willing to pass judgment without knowing the truth.” Bartholomew rushed his way toward him.

  “How far have you fallen?” King Demyon looked at him in disgust.

  “Hopefully, I have fallen so deep into the darkness that no one will dare try to bring me back to the light.” He bent his neck to the left, cracking his bones.

  “May I go fetch the others?” Dahmian asked.

  “Yes. I want them all here.” He furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes at King Demyon.

  Dahmian paced his way out of the throne room, humming the same haunting melody from before. Bartholomew clicked his tongue repeatedly; his eyes focused on King Demyon.

  “I know they are here, Demyon.” Bartholomew crossed his arms. “You know of whom I speak.”

  King Demyon observed Nylora as she walked to his right.

  “Will you tell us where they are?” she asked as she grabbed the nape of his neck, licking away the blood that had dried on her lips. “I do not think it is necessary to say what will happen if you do not.”

  “Do not think we will allow you to wound him.” Devin stooped his body forward as he used both of his hands to grasp the handle of his sword.

  Bartholomew let out a snide laugh. “Let’s see what the great Nephilin is capable of.” He grasped King Demyon’s arm. “Try to stop me.” His teeth sank beneath Demyon’s skin.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Devin’s garments ripping like a veil, his dark feathered wings springing from his body. My wings slithered underneath my skin, ripping their way out of me in an instant. Like a torrential river, anger rushed through my veins. I did not hesitate. I tightened my hand into a fist and struck Nylora’s jaw.