by C. L. Roman
She smiled and punched his arm playfully.
I ought to tell her now, he thought. Instead he asked, “What is this “turning” you speak of?”
She glanced up at him, startled. “Do your people not keep track of seed time and harvest? A turning is a full cycle. We plant, the earth produces, we reap and we allow the earth to rest. One turning.”
“Oh yes, I see, we separate it into seasons. Planting season, reaping season, and so on.”
“A season?” She turned the word over in her mind, trying it soundlessly on her tongue, but a few steps further on her attention was distracted.
“Here we are! I told you, the sweetest apples anywhere.” Ahead of them lay a small stand of apple trees. Beyond the grove a stream wound its way through tall reeds. “We may see Nera here, my sister.” Danae giggled. “She thinks there is a place here that no one else knows about. In truth, my father keeps it “secret” for her.”
“He favors her?”
Danae nodded, “A little. She is the youngest of my mother’s children and the smallest. Besides that she is – well, we say she is simple.”
Fomor hesitated, “There is something wrong with her?”
“No, not really,” Danae’s reply was hasty. “She is just,” the young woman stopped, at a loss as to how to explain. “She doesn’t see past the surface, she—”
A scream ripped the air and Danae stopped, shocked. “Nera,” she whispered. And then she was running, sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her, pushing through the brush, heading under the tumbling falls. Fomor reached her, grabbed her arm, brought her up short.
“Where are you going?”
Another scream shredded the peace of the stream. “That’s Nera! She’s hurt! Let go!” Danae twisted free and he let her go as yet another scream exploded from somewhere beyond the falls. Danae spun and ran, slipping and sliding through the spray, stumbling down the stone hall and out into the valley even as the screams continued, gaining volume and intensity, guiding the couple to the mouth of the cave.
“Nera,” Danae shouted.
Fomor’s head jerked upward, his nostrils flared. His years among an increasingly violent human race had taught him the stench of fresh spilt blood. He reached out with one hand and pushed Danae behind him, with the other he drew his sword. “Stay here.” His voice was an ocean in dead calm, fathomless and nearly undefiable.
He stepped without hesitation into the cave and she thought, he knows what he will find and he is not afraid. The thought barely had time to register before she heard another voice, low and deadly, like a snake hissing.
“Fomor, what are you doing here?” The words came from inside the cave, live gravel skittering over cold stone. Unable to stop herself, Danae crept to the mouth of the cave and peered inside.
“Let the child go Bansh. Let her go or I will destroy you where you stand.”
“By what right do you threaten me?” the shadowy form demanded. “I am Bansh and no one commands me now.”
“I do not threaten – you know this. I promise, and I always keep my promises. Let her go.”
The thing looked over Fomor’s shoulder and laughed, if such a sibilant cackle could be called laughter. “Take her then, I have finished with her and yours looks tastier anyway.”
Through a burst of light and movement Danae heard Fomor’s roar of “no!” As if time was stumbling to a halt, the frantic motion in the cave seemed to slow to a crawl. Danae saw her sister float through air suddenly thick with flame and ash and the smell of burnt flesh.
“Nera,” she cried in anguish, catching the small form to her. The women fell to the ground. Ripping strips from her tunic, Danae pressed the cloth to her sister’s wounds. So many, too many, she thought. She couldn’t bind them fast enough, and Nera was growing weaker by the second. Crying, frantic with her own helplessness, Danae tried to staunch the flow from Nera’s arms, legs and neck. Blood, so much blood!
The air around her screamed with the clash of metal on metal. Bursts of light revealed flaming swords in a rapid flurry of thrust, slash and parry. She recognized Fomor easily, but the creature he fought seemed scarcely human. Behind it flapped great ruined appendages that might once have been wings, but were now misshapen and torn so that they must be worse than useless. The thing bared its fangs in a rictus of rage and hate so brutal that Danae shuddered but could not look away.
A thin thread of sound dragged her attention to the small form in her arms and Danae clutched her sister closer. “Nera, love, breathe, please breathe,” she whispered, shredding more of her dress to bandage the wounds, frantic with the realization that she could strip naked, and still be unable to cover them all.
Nera moaned, “hurts.” Her pale features contorted against the pain; her hands brushed against Danae’s hold without effect.
“I know love, hold on Nera. Hold on.” Danae wept as the battle raged. She began pulling her sister toward the cave opening.
Fomor parried a vicious thrust and slammed his opponent backward into the cave wall with a right cross to his chin. A dry, cracking signaled the further wreckage of already brittle wings. Dust showered over the combatants and sparks lit the enclosure as sword slid across sword. Slapping aside the fallen one’s weak counter-thrust, Fomor pinned him to the wall, the crunching screech of sword on bone complimenting the demon’s scream of pain.
“Mercy,” Bansh whimpered, “mercy, oh righteous one!”
“As much as you had for the child.” The captain pulled his weapon free and raised it for the killing blow, but hesitated as the creature continued to beg.
“I need it, the blood,” Bansh hissed. “It heals, takes a little time, but by morning I would be healed. Sabaoth did this to me, it is only right that his favored ones should pay. I had no choice,” the last slid out sullenly, the burned, misshapen face assuming a sly expression.
Fomor’s glance went to the damaged claw inching toward the fallen sword, “There is always a choice,” he replied. In one clean sweep, he struck the fallen angel’s head from his shoulders. The creature collapsed to the ground and dissolved into dust.
Fomor turned and ran from the cave. He found Danae kneeling in the reeds, cradling Nera’s broken form in a hopeless embrace. In one continuous motion, the angel’s wings sprang free, he scooped up the two women and was flying. In the space of a single breath he had set them down on the edge of the village, his wings folded once more into a tattooed image hidden by his tunic.
With all the tender care of a man holding his newborn babe, he took Nera from Danae’s arms. She sprinted ahead, screaming for help. Fomor looked down at the human in his arms and felt like weeping. It was already too late.
***
Belly down in the reed bed, the creature hid, salivating over his imminent victory, watching as Bansh lured the human inside the cave.
Finally! Benat has you now. Enjoying your final feast you are, though you don’t know it. Betrayer! Worm!
The scaly skin was partially healed now. Weeks of dining on human and animal blood had seen to that, but the hands and feet were still little more than withered claws. The wings, though functional, were still tattered and damaged. Benat, Lucifer’s hunter, would be glad to end the chase successfully.
Shouldn’t let you eat, grow stronger. Besides, you never leave anything and Benat is hungry.
The creature slithered through the shadows, intent on gaining the cave without the thing inside detecting him. He reveled in the broken screams of pain floating to him on the breeze, then froze into stillness when a new cry that was healthy, strong and enraged, assaulted his ears.
“Nera!” A slender, dark-haired female burst from behind the falls. By the blood, look at her! Is it only one? Perhaps a banquet may be had instead of a simple meal? A furious hiss escaped his lipless mouth as a male followed closely upon her heals. The demon scuttled back into the shadows and sniffed the air, suddenly rich with a familiar scent. He recognized instantly that this one was not human.
What i
s one of the Host doing here? He watched from the shadows until all was over. He felt Bansh’s destruction even as he watched the warrior emerge alone from the cave, scoop up the two human women and take to the air. Rising up into the hunched, half-crouch that served as a standing posture in his wounded condition, Benat wondered what to do next. There was nothing left for him to do there, except be sure that he was not caught. He lifted his foot, set on shifting directly back to the Master, but then hesitated.
What is one of the Host doing here? Its actions are plain. Any of the Host would have done the same upon finding a human in danger. But why is it here in the first place?
The Master will not be pleased with the news that Bansh is destroyed and beyond his reach. He will be angry, perhaps enough to allow the tide of that anger to wash over Benat. The creature shivered in painful anticipation. The Master has a very inventive mind when it comes to punishment.
Benat thought again of the unusual height and beauty of the woman, the unhesitating swiftness with which the angel followed her. He scratched a dry patch of scales under his arm and hummed. Something interesting here. Something important. The charred points of his ears twitched as he mulled the situation over. Maybe something the Master will want to know. Curiosity and self-preservation had him nodding his head.
A grimace twisted the mangled visage; his attempt at a smile opened a crack in the brittle, burn-scarred flesh beneath his right eye and a drop of thick, black blood trickled down his cheek. He brushed it away absently, absorbed in a new train of thought. Whatever is happening here, the Master will be pleased to know of it. Maybe pleased enough to reward instead of punish.
Hidden, Benat will hunt, will discover. He hummed again, debating the question of how best to remain safe from discovery. He scratched as he thought, then grimaced in delight. It is perfect. Not only will Benat be well hidden, silent, unseen, but the Master will be honored. The demon shrank, elongating, melting into a new form and then slithered off, hissing, toward the village.
Chapter Seven
That night’s campfire crackled merrily, as if to mock the silent anguish of those around it.
Adahna spoke first, in a voice thick with repressed tears. “You were right Fomor. We should have gone long ago. We have brought destruction upon the innocent.”
Jotun brushed her shoulder gently. “None are innocent since the fall, Adahna. You know that.”
“So that child deserved to die?” Adahna jerked to her feet. “Like an animal, for another’s what? Pleasure? Convenience?”
Fomor made a calming gesture and stared around the circle at his unit. Adahna subsided, head hanging, despair gathered over her like a wet cloak. Volot sat with his head in his hands, silent for once with no plans or schemes to offer. Sena sobbed softly into Gant’s shoulder as he gazed, unfocused, into the distance. Phaella stood to one side, tear stains still evident on her now dry cheeks. All blamed themselves, he knew. And they did not yet understand the extent of the catastrophe. He nearly smiled at the irony of the situation, but grief weighed too heavily on him, and responsibility, strangling the smile before it could be born. He stood, though his legs felt weak.
“The decision was mine. The responsibility is mine.” He shook his head when Jotun would have spoken. “No, Jotun. What will you say? That you wanted to stay? So did I.”
“That is the point Captain. None of us wanted to leave. We did everything we could to convince you to stay.”
“And would you have disobeyed if I gave the order to move out sooner, or would you have been packing to go upon my command?”
The training officer stared at the ground without an answer.
Volot lifted hot eyes to meet Fomor’s icy gaze, “Bansh was a scout. More of the Fallen will follow. We must go before more damage is done.”
Jotun hunched forward while Phaella wrapped her arms tight around her own waist, fresh tears hanging in her lashes. Gant and Sena clung together as if for support in a high wind. Despite their grief, each one nodded, except for Adahna.
“It is too late. We cannot go now.” The logistics officer had been the first to meet him upon his return from the village. Now her calm eyes were grim with the memory of his face as he had told her of Nera’s death.
Fomor winced, his eyes flat and weary. “Adahna is right. We cannot leave them unprotected.” He held up a hand when Phaella would have protested. “I do not believe Bansh was here as a scout. He made it clear that he had severed ties with—” The captain’s lips twisted as if even thinking the name put a bad taste in his mouth. “Well, I need not say the name. We all know who Bansh must have sided with in the war. The point is, he was not looking for us. He was surprised to see me, asked what I was doing here.”
Fomor looked again around the circle, squared his shoulders and continued, “Nevertheless, Bansh remains one of the Fallen. We knew they were in the world. What never occurred to us is that they would somehow manage to break the prohibition against harming humans.” There was a collective hiss of indrawn breath as the group realized the implications.
“They cannot have,” Phaella sputtered to a halt, appalled by the difference between what could happen and what had been done.
“But Bansh did,” Volot muttered, “he could not, but he did.”
Phaella tried again, “Perhaps Bansh thought he was defending himself. If Nera was frightened, if she attacked him…”
Fomor shook his head. “You knew Nera. She was too small, too simple and helpless for any of the Host to believe her a threat. Even had she been, the prohibition should have held. No, somehow the Fallen have escaped the rule of the Law. I do not know how, but they have. And there is worse to hear. He did not simply kill her.” Fomor stopped, sickened by the pictures that rushed through his mind. The wounds on creamy skin, the broken human body, the sharp, bloody teeth of his enemy. “He was feeding on her, drinking her blood.”
Six faces went pale and Phaella sank to the ground on shaky legs. “But blood is sacred, holy unto Sabaoth. It is forbidden,” she whispered.
“Blood is power,” Volot spoke through gritted teeth. “We all know that. Obviously Bansh was able to break the law. And if he found a way…”
Fomor nodded grimly, “He was burned, horribly maimed. Before he died he said that the blood would heal his wounds. That was his excuse for…” Fomor broke off, unable to complete the thought. “If Bansh found a way to break the law written into the marrow of his bones, then it is certain that others of the Fallen can do the same.”
“Then it is true – we have no choice.” Gant spoke for the first time. In a voice dry and barely above a whisper he continued, “We must stay. We are their only defense.”
“But if we stay, we may draw more of the Fallen here,” Sena choked out. “We may bring more harm by staying.”
“We cannot leave them defenseless,” Jotun replied.
“And there we are.” Volot’s grin was painful and strained. “Damned if we do, damned if we do not.”
Chapter Eight
“So, you wish to settle here?” Nephel asked the question though Fomor had already given him the answer. “Even after…?” the big man’s dark eyes closed momentarily against the pain of loss which the past two weeks had done nothing to diminish. “Even after Nera?”
The two reclined on cushions in a windowless inner room of Nephel’s substantial home. The morning meal had long been cleared away, but tea steeped on the low table between the two men. Deep carpets woven of goat and sheep wool covered the floor except for a small square of hard packed earth in the center of the room. A small brazier glowed there, the thin smoke curling up and out through a hole in the roof. The dim light suited their mood.
“The beast that killed Nera is dead, Nephel. I saw to that myself. But even if it lived, you cannot think us so cowardly as to run from such a thing? There are beasts everywhere.”
Nephel nodded grimly and stood to pace the room. Clasping his hands behind his back as he walked, he thought over Fomor’s request. “You wish t
o settle where your encampment now stands, near the lower pools? There are better areas. You will not be able to plant there.”
Fomor shook his head. “There is space for a small herb garden, some vegetables perhaps, but we have no wish to plant more than that. We are merchants and shall remain so. The home we left behind holds no welcome for us now.”
Nephel’s black brows rose in question but Fomor remained silent. Nephel grimaced slightly and lowered himself back to the cushions. “You ask me to allow you living space next to my family, next to those I love and am responsible for. Despite your defense of Nera, it is no small thing you ask. Will you tell me nothing of your past? Of your home? You do not make it easy my friend.”
Fomor rocked stiffly to his feet and began his own circuit of the room, his tall form casting long shadows against the walls in the dim light. Finally he came to a halt and stood gazing into the banked glow of the brazier.
“It is difficult,” he began, “and much of the story is not mine to tell. There was a battle, a war within our family. My companions and I chose not to fight. We did not want to risk harming our brothers on either side, but few understood or approved our position.” The captain paused a moment, scrubbing weary hands across his face. It was wrong, and risky, to continue sliding across the surface of the truth. Sabaoth only knew when the ice would break and drag him under. “We left just before the final battle. And now we cannot return.”
Nephel’s eyebrows drew together, “So, the “bandits” you spoke of were—”
“Not entirely a fabrication. They were intent on stealing power.”
Silence stood between them a moment as Nephel digested this. Then he asked, “And how do you know? How do you know you cannot return?”
Fomor raised eyes as bleak and cold as the north wind. “There is no doubt,” he said. Hearing the stark finality of Fomor’s words, Nephel didn’t press him, but accepted the explanation given and returned to the original request.