by C. L. Roman
“I cannot chain you to me that way,” she heard Sena insist, “you will regret it and eventually you will come to resent me.”
Without meaning to, Danae found herself peaking around the corner into the emotion charged room.
“How can you think me so selfish? But,” the big angel hesitated, “perhaps you will regret our marriage. If you cannot give me children, neither can I give them to you. Maybe there is someone—”
Sena stepped up to him and placed tender fingers against his lips. “Don’t,” she pleaded, resting her forehead against his chest as he gathered her close in his arms. “There is no one else for me but you, ever.”
“Well,” Danae said as she bustled back into the room, tray in hand, “that is settled then. When shall we have the wedding? You can use our canopy and—”
Gant burst into laughter, but Sena did not smile. “Danae, you cannot be serious. I told you it has never been done.”
“There is always a first time, my love,” Gant’s quiet tones were hard with determination. “We have not been forbidden.”
Danae was well aware that they had forgotten her again. She sat down quietly and nibbled on a piece of cheese.
“We’ve not been given permission either,” Sena argued.
He brushed aside her misgivings. “I have only one question – do you love me?”
“I do, you know I do.”
“Then consent to be my wife and we will overcome whatever obstacles may come.”
Smiling, she stood on her toes, offering her lips for his kiss. He lowered his head to meet her, then caught her up and spun her around until she was helpless with laughter.
Danae sighed contentedly and popped a berry into her mouth. She loved happy endings.
Chapter Fifteen
The eastern sun rose behind the four, casting long, deep shadows on the path ahead as they walked to the village. Birds called to one another in the tree tops and small, green lizards skittered through the underbrush, heard but not seen.
“Did Nephel say why our presence was needed?” Fomor asked Volot.
The latter shook his head. “Something about a message from a neighboring village. Seemed like there was some kind of conflict there, but he didn’t say what.”
“Well enough, I suppose we will find out when we—” his words were interrupted by the sound of shouting coming from Nephel’s house as they entered the village proper.
“You must return them both! The god demands it!” The male voice was harsh and commanding, tinged with desperation.
“I cannot give you what I do not have! I told you, both were destroyed on my command directly after the ceremony.” Nephel’s hoarse protest grated through the air, punctuated by a dull thud and the ring of steel. Volot glanced at Fomor, but his captain was already running, sword drawn, for the house.
The four burst into the main room of Nephel’s home, filling it with battle glow and the smell of steel. The room showed signs of the short struggle, pillows scattered, the brazier overturned and smoking fitfully on its little patch of earth. Gant righted it; shoving the spilled coals back in quickly before they could fire the carpets. He dusted off his hands, scarcely noticing the rapidly healing burns.
“You dare attack me in my own home,” Nephel shouted, his arm around the messenger’s neck, the man’s sword on the floor.
“Nephel – stop! If you kill him there will be war,” Naomi’s frightened pleading fell into a sudden silence and Nephel looked up to find himself surrounded by four glowing warriors. Slowly he eased his hold on the messenger and dropped him, gasping, to the ground.
He stared at the man for a long moment before speaking. “You come into my home under the guise of a messenger, you accept food from my table, and then you dare threaten me,” his voice built to a roar and he spat on the floor next to the man’s hand.
“Forgive me great Nephel. We are desperate. Our crops are destroyed by locusts, our women and children sicken and die before our eyes.” Prudently ignoring the sword that lay within easy reach, the man raised his hands to beg, “The god is angry that we left him with unbelievers. If we do not bring him back, he will kill us all.”
The four angels looked at each other and sheathed their swords. Jotun reached down and picked up the stranger’s blade, cocking an eyebrow at Fomor. “In case he is overcome again,” he said, tucking it into his belt, where it resembled a long knife rather than the short sword it was.
Nephel grunted and turned away. “I cannot give you what I do not have,” he repeated, but his voice held a new note of grudging sympathy.
The messenger leapt to his feet, hard faced with fingers flexing as if in search of a weapon. “The god says the idols are not destroyed. He demands that I bring them home.”
“If Nephel says that the things were destroyed, they were destroyed. My husband does not lie,” Naomi said through lips stiff with anger.
“Then he has been lied to,” the man insisted.
“Our people do not—”
“Naomi, my love, the heat has made me parched. I find myself in need of drink, and food.” Nephel placed a gentle hand on her cheek. In a lower voice he continued for her ears only, “He is desperate, his children are dying – I am his only hope and I cannot help him. We must not add to his sorrows.”
Casting a smoldering glance at the stranger, she lowered her head and left the room.
Composing his face in stern lines, he turned back to face the room. “Sit. We will eat and discuss this as men should, without anger. We will reason together and find a solution.”
The messenger collapsed into his seat and buried his face in his hands. “There is no solution. If the gods have been destroyed we are finished.”
Fomor and the other angels took places around the empty brazier, each watching the stranger intently. Volot’s hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Jotun appeared more relaxed, but crouched rather than reclining on the hastily arranged pillows. Gant remained standing near the door, his hands folded carefully behind him, his hazel eyes continually scanning the room.
Ignoring the other man’s words, Nephel made introductions. “Fomor, Volot, Jotun, Gant; this is Zephere. He is come from the village of Lamesh. You will remember Naomi’s brother by marriage and her sister, Mara?” The angels nodded and Nephel continued. “Zephere, these are my sons by marriage. Magnus and Zam are hunting but a runner has been sent to locate them.”
“There is no point,” Zephere scrubbed a weary hand across his sweaty face. “If the idols have been destroyed my village is without hope. I will try to explain to my people what has happened, but you should understand the nature of the hopeless.”
“I do.” Nephel’s face settled into grim lines.
“Perhaps a way might yet be found,” Fomor said. “Tell us all that has happened and I promise you, we will do our best to help.”
“The telling of this tale is no more painful than the living of it, I suppose. Mara and Lamesh came back from the weddings early. Mara wept and Lamesh raged about the disrespect shown to the god. That night Lamesh wanted to make an offering, but the priests refused him. They said the god was angry, that if Lamesh approached the altar he would be consumed with fire for his sins.
“What sins?” Lamesh railed. “It is the giants who should pay. It is the Nephilim who have insulted the god. I have done nothing!” He knocked the priest aside and carried his offering to the alter but before he could place it on the stone a column of red fire flashed out of the heavens and enveloped him in flames. His shrieks of agony filled the night as the villagers ran to see what was happening. We could see his form writhing within the flames, and his suffering was plain, but his flesh was not destroyed though no one could approach him because of the heat. Clouds gathered, black and red over our heads and a voice came from them.
“Behold,” it said, “the fate of the blasphemer! This one would profane my sacred name by leaving my icon in the presence of unbelievers.”
“Mara rushed out of the crowd an
d would have run to her husband but the priests held her back.
“Please,” she screamed. “Please, we did not know! Please release him oh Lord of the night. We will bring back the idols, we will! Please!” She threw herself on her face before the human flame that was her husband and covered her ears against his screams of torment.
“Release him and you will bring back my icons from the pagans? You ask me to be merciful, oh Daughter of Eve, and so I am. I will release him from his pain.” The column of fire glowed white and Lamesh’s shrieks rose high on a wind so hot it burned our lungs. In an instant the column had disappeared but all that remained of Lamesh was a pile of bone and ash while Mara writhed on the ground in an agony of grief and terror.
“Thus is the fate of all blasphemers,” boomed the voice of the god. “Bring back my icons or know my wrath. Your crops will wither in the fields, your women will waste away and your children become ghosts. There is no escape from my anger and no appeal. And so that you will know my power—” a flash of red light struck Mara’s head and her scream was enough to turn blood to water. The ragged sound cut off as suddenly as if someone had cut her throat. “Punishment awaits all who defy me. Obey me.”
“The clouds dispersed as rapidly as they had come. Moonlight flooded the worship grounds, still it was difficult to see until some brought torches. We came to wish they had not. Mara lay on the ground, struggling as if gripped by some terrible, invisible foe. We turned her over as her struggles grew weaker and some of us turned away to be sick in the bushes. Others ran, shrieking in horror while a few wanted to turn away but were held as if chained to the ground by terror.
“Moon and torch light revealed the god’s punishment to us. He had taken her face. The skin was hideously scarred, but healed over with neither mouth nor nostril for her to breathe. She clawed at the places where her mouth and nose should have been but could make no opening. In moments it was over and she lay still. We burned her body on the altar to try and appease the god, but it did no good.
“The next day an unnatural cloud formed in the northern sky, rapidly growing, shifting its size and shape faster than I have ever seen a cloud do. From it came a sound as of a thousand stones clicking together. It was a locust swarm and though they were in our fields for less than an hour, they left neither stalk nor stem to sustain us. The ground was green with their bodies and then black with their refuse. They left us nothing.
“That night the first of our women took sick. Her husband discovered her at dawn, pale as milk and too weak to rise from her bed. She said the god had come to her demanding her blood and she could not resist him. The next night it was a little boy of three years and though the woman lived, the boy did not.”
Fomor looked around the room and noticed that, at some point during the story, Magnus and Zam had entered and taken seats in silence, each accepting their mother’s offer of cold drinks with a nod of thanks.
The captain and his lieutenants exchanged glances. “Do these attacks continue?” Fomor asked.
Zephere looked up, startled. He seemed to have forgotten where he was and who he spoke to. “They do. We have tried everything we can think of. We have placed bowls of blood on the altar, increased our sacrifices until there is not an animal left in the village – thank you Lady,” he said to Naomi when she handed him a cup of cool water.
He sipped it gratefully as he continued, “We block our doors and close up our windows but it changes nothing. The women live, usually, but the children almost never do. The god descends at least once every week, sometimes twice or even three times and no house has been spared.”
Shahara entered with a tray of food for the men. Nephel offered the messenger refreshment while asking further questions about the situation in his village.
Fomor went to Gant and spoke softly, “Go and tell the others what has passed here.”
“It is hard news you send me with.”
“Yes, and harder for this village of humans who thought they were serving Sabaoth.”
“We could leave them to the consequences of their actions.”
Fomor gave him a long look. “We could not.”
“Fomor, this is what we left Par-Adis to avoid. We will be fighting our brothers.”
The captain’s face settled into lines of granite, grim and cold. “The Fallen are not our brothers, not anymore.”
When Fomor turned back to the room, Zephere was speaking again.
“Please, you must give us back the statues. The god demands it. If you do not…”
Nephel shook his head. “Sadly, my friend, I cannot. As my wife told you, I do not lie. I know that it is hope that leads you to insist, but I cannot give you what I do not possess.”
The two men stood to face each other as the atmosphere in the room became cold and tense.
“Some of our young men warned of this. They said you would not return items of such value. They wanted to come in force, burn your village and take back the gods. But I told them no, that you were a reasonable man, a good man.”
Nephel raised his empty hands, palms up. “You may search the village, you may look anywhere you like, they are not here.”
Zephere clenched his hands in rage. “The men of my village will not believe you any more than I do. The god says the idols are here. The god does not lie. If you do not return them I cannot hold back the tide of blood that will drown you.”
“Be careful that this tide does not leak from your own veins,” Magnus’ voice was calm and quiet, his body relaxed, but the threat was plain. He made no move to rise, but pulled his dagger from its sheath and used it to clean his nails.
“Killing me will avail you nothing,” Zephere spat. “If I do not return within seven days with the idols, the warriors of my village will come.”
“Let them come,” Zam’s words were as quiet as his brother’s. “We are ready.”
“You are fools. We have nothing left to lose and everything to gain. Such men are not easy to defeat.”
“And we have everything to lose – our homes, our families. For such things we will fight and I promise you, we will not die easily either.”
“Well, you gentlemen seem to have reached an impasse. Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Shahara strolled into the room with her hands full. “I believe I have something you want Zephere.” Shahara set down her burden and lifted off the plain white cloth that covered it. Evil red eyes winked up at them above the idol’s wicked grin.
Shocked silence vibrated through the room followed by an eruption of sound. Questions and accusations shot like arrows and Shahara tugged her cloak more closely around her. She took an involuntary step back before she planted her feet and held her ground. Beads of sweat sprang out around her hairline, belying her confident expression.
“Shahara, what is the meaning of this!” Nephel raged.
“Father, we tried to obey your command. The first idol was burned with fire. For seven days and seven nights I stoked the flames around it, until the very stones of the fire pit began to melt. Finally the idol succumbed to the heat and burned with a red flame. As it melted a great mist arose from it and a deep voiced cried loudly in a language I did not understand. The mist hovered over the second statue and then disappeared.”
“And why was this idol not destroyed as well?” Fomor demanded, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
“When I tried to place the second idol in the fire, it burned my hands, but I managed to place it in the flames but the voice called again in the strange language and I – I do not know what happened after that. It was as if I had fallen asleep. When I awoke, the fire was out and the idol sat among the ashes, unharmed.”
Jotun tossed some wood into the brazier and lit it. “One wonders – Nephel, didn’t I see you telling two of your sons to take the idols beyond our borders and destroy them?”
Nephel turned suspicious eyes to his daughter. “That is true. How is it, Shahara, that you came to have the idols in the first place?”
Volot stepped up next
to his wife and put his arm around her. She snuggled gratefully into his warmth and then looked back at her father. “I – I was in Nera’s valley, cutting reeds and I found them in one of the caves.” She licked her lips before plunging on. “I don’t know how they got there but I didn’t want to get Abram and Dan in trouble so I decided to destroy them myself and then…”
“We know,” Jotun waved her to a stop, “the mist, the voice. We heard.”
Volot bristled. “My wife does not lie, Jotun.”
The tall angel spread his palms and shrugged. “Did I say she lied?”
“You implied it,” Volot grated, and stepped forward, hand on hilt.
Fomor stepped between them. “Enough. Regardless of how it came to be, one of the idols is destroyed,” he paused and looked at Shahara questioningly. She dropped her eyes, but nodded. “And only this one remains. We need only destroy it and—”
“No!” Zephere shouted in anguish. “You cannot. You must let me take it back to my village. We will pay anything you ask.”
“It is not a matter of payment,” Nephel refused.
“For a reasonable price we might” Shahara accepted.
“Shahara!” Volot herded his protesting wife from the room.
“There is no other option Zephere,” Fomor said. “Do you not feel the cold? Look into its eyes – can you not see its malignance? Will you truly take such evil back to your village?”
Zephere sent a nervous glance at the idol and then jerked his gaze away. “I see that it is powerful and my people are dying.”
“We will come back to your village with you. We will help you.”
The messenger looked around the room, his breath puffing white on the rapidly cooling air. The chill emanating from the idol intensified, overcoming the heat of the brazier despite Jotun’s third addition of fuel.
Six men faced Zephere, each at least half again taller than his own four cubits. The three strangers had the look of warriors with their long swords and well-muscled bodies. Magnus and Zam he had known since childhood as fearsome hunters. True, he did not think they had much practice against human quarry, but a bow would kill a man as easily as it did a stag.