Disciple of the Dead (Seraphim Revival Book 3)

by Jacob Holo

  “Jack feels up to the challenge, and I trust his judgment. If he’d resisted, I would have called it off.”

  “Jack wouldn’t do that in front of the others.”

  “He’d find a way to let me know,” Seth said.

  Tesset took a step closer. She pressed her face into his shoulder and looped her arms around him. Seth gently stroked her hair.

  “I’ll never be as tough as the rest of you,” she said.

  “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “But I wasn’t raised like the rest of you. Being a pilot was just, you know, thrown at me. I never expected to be one, but you were all raised to be these great warriors. I mean, I still get an upset stomach every time we go into battle.”

  “Do you really believe I don’t feel the same way?”

  “Well,” she said, grinning, “your aura does have this little flutter about it before a mission.”

  “You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, and you should be proud of that.”

  “Now you’re just saying things to cheer me up.”

  “Could be.”

  “Could be?”

  “Would you like me to continue?”

  “Nah.” Tesset shook her head. “I’d better get going. I need to get my i-suit back on.”

  She held him at arms’ length. Seth brought her close again and planted a delicate kiss on her forehead.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  Tesset slipped from his grasp and walk away. He glanced once more across the command center’s screens and holograms, then stepped out into the Judgment’s main concourse.

  Seth took a lift directly to his seraph’s bay. The waiting technician handed over his pressure suit’s helmet and bowed until he passed. Seth put the helmet on and locked it in place. He no longer needed the interface-suits other pilots wore. Injuries his seraph suffered did not echo on his own body, courtesy of its barely understood Keeper modifications.

  Seth looked up at the black angular machine. His mind recalled the oath he had taken: the same one etched into his seraph’s chaos shunts.

  Though my Lance be Splintered

  And my Shield be Sundered

  Though my Eyes be Blinded

  And my Ears be Deafened

  Though my Bones be Broken

  And my Wings be Torn

  Though my Heart be Pierced

  And my Chest be Stilled

  I Swear to Defend the Homeland

  For I am a Keeper of the Gates!

  Every word resounded with meaning and purpose.

  Seth stepped briskly across the gangplank, turned and sank into the pilot alcove. The hatch closed, and the walls pressed in, entombing him in darkness. He took a slow calming breath, closed his eyes, and let the physical cares of his true flesh fade away into nothingness.

  Something sprang in to take its place. Chaos influx trickled through him and was captured by the seraph’s neural column, magnified many times over, and fed into its fluidic conductors. Power flowed out from the cockpit, invigorating the seraph from the torso to the tips of each limb and wing. The Keeper script across the seraph awoke, burning brightly with excess energy and bathing the bay in white light.

  Seth’s perceptions of his frail human body faded into a small corner of his mind, forming a tight orb of perception separate from this new reality. He opened his eyes and the seraph’s optics activated. He saw what the seraph saw, felt what the seraph felt.

  Seth didn’t pilot the seraph. He became the seraph.

  Armored shutters underneath his feet flinched open and the rail system fired, catapulting him down. He cleared the Judgment and fell into the black void.

  Seth spread his wings, and their edges blurred with sudden power. He curved up from his initial trajectory and pulled ahead of the Judgment. One after another, his fellow pilots launched.

  Jack, Tesset, Jared, and Yonu lined up behind him, ready to dash through the intra-gate as soon as he created it.

  Seth disengaged his portal lance from one of his wing clusters and held the tip out. Through the lance, he perceived the other seraphs, saw their distortions in this universe, and recognized the linkages of energy that tied them to another realm.

  Seth spread out this sense, losing clarity but gaining a larger picture. He could comprehend all the planets and stars within light-years, all twisting space around them, all leaving a distinct mark. He selected a location amongst one of the smaller gravitational distortions.

  The lance understood. Seth didn’t know if it was intelligent in the same way a human was, but the weapon knew its master’s wishes. Power flowed out through Seth’s hand and soaked into the lance. Its Keeper script burned like a sun.

  Chaos energy traced down the shaft, and a point of light appeared just beyond its tip, no larger than a grain of sand. The point expanded, forming a flat disc of white light.

  The four waiting seraphs flared their wings and shot through the intra-gate in a rush of speed. The energy disc did not waver until Seth willed it so. Instantly, the lance unraveled the complicated weaves of energy, and the disc shrank back to a grain of sand and vanished.

  Chapter 4

  Prophecy of Vayl

  Othaniel held the light-pen delicately in her hand and painted. She enjoyed escaping into the depths of her mind through simple artistic expression. Sometimes she even surprised herself by what she painted.

  She drew the light-pen over the clear medium, and a new layer of deep red spilled everywhere. She brushed away a few locks of shining raven hair and reviewed the painting. Something needed to fill this mass of red. She tapped the light-pen through her holographic palette, selected gold, and raised it to the medium.

  The light-pen paused as if it had a will of its own. An echo of a memory protested. She brought it back to the holographic palette and cycled through the full range of colors until she found the one that felt right: a faintly reddish brass.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” She passed the light-pen over the painting in bold vertical strokes. Close up, the image was nothing but swatches of disorganized color. But step away, and the colors melted together, formed shapes, and those shapes became the painting.

  Othaniel leaned back, curious of her own creation. It looked like… a tower? Yes, a tower, definitely. A huge brass tower amidst fire, smoke, and lightning. But the scale seemed strange.

  Othaniel smiled, a pleasant expression on her youthful face.

  “But how could a tower have no top?” she asked no one.

  She selected a brighter brass hue from her palette, but paused to glance at the distant wall screen. An external camera provided the image from outside the Word of Vayl, Zophiel’s command ship. Part of the Aperture Halo’s circumference spun lazily across the view.

  “Five hundred years, Zophiel,” Othaniel whispered. “I never thought you’d finish it. Well done, Brother.”

  The Aperture Halo was a mammoth ring one thousand kilometers in diameter, situated far above infernal heat of a blue giant star. Seven huge spikes extended inward from the ring, cutting off just before they touched at the center. This made the Halo resemble a massive seven-spoke wheel of brass. Eerily aware eyes dotted its surface, slowly opening and closing.

  The positions and numbers of those eyes changed over time. Often they collected around a certain area, all blinking rapidly. At other times, they distributed themselves across the whole surface, most of them shut as if sleeping.

  Othaniel didn’t pretend to understand what they were.

  Beneath the Aperture Halo, an immense chain of gravity rings guided the star’s plasma up to a barely controlled vortex beneath the Aperture Halo’s center. Curved panels rotated around the vortex, each larger than the mightiest warship in the Disciple fleet. They spun around the glowing, pulsing heartbeat of energy, almost too fast to be seen, and somehow provided power to the Aperture Halo without any physical connection.

  Everything was built from that same red-stained brass.


  Othaniel resumed painting, and gradually the tower took on more definition: all distant angles and hinted details as it climbed through layers of fire. She added more highlights to the clouds, and something else formed in the distance. The vague shape was nothing more than a shadow beyond the closest clouds, but it gave the impression of vast black wings and long wiry limbs.

  “How enormous it must be,” she said. “I wonder what it is.”

  The hairs on the back of Othaniel’s neck stood up. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the foreign source of power striding down the corridor. Her sister approached with slow, deliberate steps.

  The door slid open, and Riviel entered Othaniel’s guest quarters. She crossed her arms and leaned against the open doorjamb.

  Othaniel continued to paint, her back to the visitor.

  “You know who it is, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Sister.” Othaniel dabbed a few details onto the tower. Bits of white and yellow reflections added such a wonderful sense of heat to the painting. It felt so right.

  “Why is it you can do that and I can’t?” Riviel asked.

  “We’re not completely identical, you know.”

  Riviel chuckled. “And thank Vayl for that, Sister.”

  Othaniel set the light-pen down and turned slowly on her stool.

  The two sisters were visually perfect. No other phrase fairly described them. From the delicate lines of their faces to the shapely curves of their bodies, everything about them evoked an almost surreal beauty.

  Riviel stood a fraction taller and wore a black uniform trimmed in red with blood rubies down the front. Her black hair was cut short, unlike Othaniel’s, which reached all the way down her back and was clasped in three places by silver rings. Both sisters shared the same young face and unusual silver irises.

  “Our brother wishes to speak with you,” Riviel said.

  “He sent you to convey such a simple message?”

  “Perhaps not so simple. Veketon has responded to our courier.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say our grandfather does not disappoint. I’d tell you myself, but I think Zophiel wants to share the news with you in person.”

  “Very well. Let me just finish the color I’m on. Zophiel is in his sanctum?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This will only take a moment.”

  Riviel pushed off the doorjamb and walked to the nearest wall. Paintings sat or hung in crooked rows, organized by theme or content. Othaniel had unpacked them earlier that day. She often felt comforted and inspired by their presence.

  “A lot of these are new,” Riviel said.

  “Well, I have been gone a while.”

  “Who’s the man?”

  “Which painting?”

  “This group over here.”

  Othaniel set the light-pen down and looked over. The painting showed a tall man in a storm-gray uniform. He wore a pleasant, if slightly sad grin, though the other details of his face were vague at best. Two unfocused white columns, possibly the legs of a seraph, rose behind him amidst a field of flowers.

  Ten other paintings featured the same man. The last one showed him within a confining mechanical chamber. Pipes and conduits and metal grating covered the spherical walls. He held a dagger of blue chaos energy in his hand, and blood drained from a cut to his forehead.

  Murderous intent filled his eyes, though the rest of his face still held little definition.

  “I don’t know,” Othaniel said.

  “Surely you must have some idea.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Memories from that creature?”

  “You mean Vierj?” Othaniel raised an eyebrow.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t say that thing’s name.”

  “Sorry about that,” Othaniel said. “In any case, I believe you are correct. The man in those paintings killed her. Or perhaps was nearby at the time. It’s difficult for me to tell.”

  Riviel nodded thoughtfully.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, something seems to be troubling you, Sister,” Othaniel asked.

  “It’s Zophiel’s plans for Veketon. I would have preferred a more… cautious approach.”

  “You? The cautious approach? I would think you’d relish a direct attack.”

  Riviel grinned ever so thinly. “I’ll admit you raise a valid point. Regardless of our plans, battles to come should be… interesting. There’s a certain thrill in knowing we face worthy opponents.”

  “Our brother seems confident, and the three of us are united once more. I’m surprised you’re worried at all.”

  “Not worried. Just anxious. We haven’t faced a trial like this since we escaped.”

  “We survived her, and we’ll survive this.” Othaniel set the light-pen down and stood up. “Will you be joining us?”

  “No, I have other duties to attend to. Zophiel wants me to coordinate our preparations with the captains.”

  “Very well, Sister. I shall see you later.”

  Riviel dipped her head ever so slightly.

  Othaniel exited her guest quarters. White hexagonal stones formed the Word of Vayl’s passages, contrasting with the red-uniformed Outcast Disciples. Light flowed from the walls, ceiling, and even the floor.

  Othaniel swept her black gown behind her and turned down the passage. The Outcasts she met bowed until she passed.

  Zophiel had positioned her quarters close to his own sanctum, and it only took Othaniel a minute to reach the entrance. Heavy hexagonal doors barred the way, flanked on either side by six Outcasts in full combat armor with ultrasonic swords and carbines.

  Othaniel smiled inwardly. As if such paltry defenses could stop her even if they tried.

  All twelve warriors bowed.

  The doorway split and slid into the walls in six equal sections. She stepped inside Zophiel’s sanctum, and the door sealed shut behind her.

  The expansive chamber was shaped like a large hexagon and stood mostly empty. Fluted columns added a sense of elegance to the space, but the bright light emanating from every surface caused foreign objects to stand out. Othaniel spotted numerous holographic emitters, wall screens, and retractable seating… but no Zophiel.

  She walked further into the chamber, her footfalls ringing out as clear notes, then spotted a small doorway to her right and decided to try that. The entrance opened as soon as she approached, and she stepped in.

  This chamber was much smaller and far more crowded. A square table stood in the center with a single place set. Her brother’s musical instruments lined one wall, from largest to smallest, most of them stringed arcs of metal or wood, all of them mastered centuries ago.

  The futon was uncurled on the floor, and—

  Zophiel lay sprawled on it, still in his Disciple uniform.

  Othaniel felt suddenly embarrassed by her intrusion. She fell to one knee and bowed her head.

  “Brother, you summoned me.”

  Zophiel did not respond. His chest steadily rose and fell.

  “Brother?” Othaniel lifted her gaze and frowned.

  She crouched next to him, gripped his shoulder, and tried to rouse him.

  Then tried again more forcefully.

  ***

  Zophiel awoke with a start, sweat glistening on his skin. He wiped at his brow and sat up on the floor.

  The world blurred around him as if viewed through tears. He ran shaking fingers over his face, rubbed at his eyes, and peered once again at his surroundings through the post-communion haze. The outline of a woman came into focus. She knelt beside him and smiled sweetly. Her silver eyes held warmth and sympathy.

  “Othaniel… I’m sorry… the c-communion… came without warning… I’m s-sorry.”

  “There is no need to apologize, Brother.”

  She offered Zophiel a hand and helped him to his feet. He ran unsteady fingers through damp locks of black hair. Small tremors plagued his hands.

  “Are you all right?”

&nb
sp; “Vayl called to me,” Zophiel said. “But I was… I was unable… couldn’t reach him… before… interrupted…”

  “I can return later if you wish.”

  Zophiel shook his head. He took three deep, stuttering breaths, and the tremors slowly subsided. The memories of pain sang in his flesh, but he forced them away with powerful mental discipline. He pulled a chair out from the room’s only table and dropped heavily into it.

  Zophiel set a hand on the table and concentrated on it not moving. Small twitches still plagued his fingers, but they slowly died away. He gestured to the opposite chair.

  “Please have a… seat.”

  “Thank you, Brother.”

  Zophiel took another series of calming breaths, each one with fewer stutters than the last. He stared off into space, trying to close away the memories of pain.

  “You wished to speak to me?”

  Zophiel looked up. “What? Oh, yes.” He took one more deep breath. The tremors died away almost completely.

  Almost.

  “I received Veketon’s reply today,” he said.

  “Riviel mentioned as much. What was his answer?”

  Zophiel snorted out a laugh. “He sent the messenger’s head back. Every Fellerossi fleet is moving to attack us.”

  “Is that not the response you expected? Even the one you tried to provoke?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Instead of us hunting him, he will seek us out. He will bring the last portal lance to us, and we will take it by force.”

  “That was your plan from the beginning, Brother.”

  Zophiel nodded absently. “True, but he will be a formidable opponent. You will stand with us, won’t you?”

  Othaniel nodded, her eyes bright and warm. “Of course, I will help. How could I not join my brother at a time like this?”

  “I’ll admit I’m surprised you answered our invitation. Riviel didn’t agree with me sending it at first. She said… well, I’m sure you can guess what she said.”

  “I will not abandon you again,” Othaniel said firmly.

  “It’s comforting to hear you say that,” Zophiel said. “You must understand it is the three of us against a cruel and thankless universe. We have no one else but each other to depend on.”