by C. L. Roman
“Agreed,” Fomor replied. He stood, lifted Danae into his arms and spread his wings.
“Wait!” Jacob trotted up, on his face a mixture of hope and anger. “You cannot go yet. You promised.”
Fomor looked past him at the black face of the temple, its bronze doors hanging wide and vacant now, a vile stench drifting from the opening. “What have you done about the wives?”
“There were only two left. The others…” the younger man swallowed hard and fought without success to keep the horror from his face as he continued. “The priest said they were pregnant – we found – we found…” he stuttered to a halt, searched for words, “they didn’t survive the births.”
“And the…” now it was Fomor’s turn to hesitate, “the progeny?”
“Gone. We don’t know where or how.”
“What of the two women? Where are they?”
“The survivors refuse to leave their rooms. Miriam wants to leave, but she is terrified. Mara—” Jacob stopped, his face hardening in remembrance of the harridan’s reaction.
“She spat at us, laughed at us. She said Molek was the god made flesh and that we would all be sucked dry before burning in his fires.”
Fomor’s tightened into a flat, grim line. “A true believer then?”
Jacob nodded, “Or a mad one. Miriam won’t fight us, but we will pay dearly to move Mara.”
“Take two women in with you and get Miriam. If Mara chooses to leave as well, so be it, but don’t force her. Tell her…” he thought a moment, then looked hard at Jacob. “Tell her that I am Captain Fomor of the Host of Sabaoth and I always keep my promises.”
The villager nodded and spun on his heel. Gathering two women volunteers, he entered the temple for the last time. Moments later the trio returned with a richly dressed but clearly terrified young woman between them.
Once outside she fell to her knees, looking around frantically, as if expecting to be struck down at any moment. When she saw that Molek was indeed gone, she began to wail and rip her clothes. Falling to her knees she grabbed fistfuls of sand and poured them over her head.
Volot spit on the ground in contempt. “She mourns the loss of her god.”
“No.” Danae’s voice surprised them. It was weak and tired but filled with certainty and compassion nonetheless. “She mourns what she thinks is her sin. She did not go to him willingly, but she did not fight either, after he threatened her child. She must be watched carefully or she will die by her own hand. I have seen it in the waters.”
The women who had helped her from the temple surrounded the woman. One knelt before her and used the hem of her own dress to wipe the tears from Miriam’s face. The other stroked her hair and the two put their arms around her, helped her to her feet and supported her sobbing form into one of the houses surrounding the village center.
“It is empty now, but for Mara.” Jacob’s voice was shaking, though from anger or grief, Fomor couldn’t tell.
“You are certain?” At the other man’s nod, Fomor turned to Volot, “You know what to do,” he said, jerking his chin to indicate the apex of the temple. Volot spread his wings and vaulted into the air. At a gesture from their captain, Jotun and Adahna took up positions on either side of the monstrous black pyramid. Leaning his barely conscious wife against the side of the well furthest from the temple, Fomor strode to a position perhaps five cubits from the entrance and lifted his hands.
“Remove the key stone Volot,” he called out.
Dipping down from his position above the hole Gant had made, Volot thrust his hands into the stone vertices on either side of the palm marked key stone, reforming the stone as he went. Curling his fingers into a loose fist, he poked them back through the polished stone surface, formed two perfect handholds and let them harden. Muscles straining, wings thrusting, hands gripped tight around the stone handles, Volot pulled. The temple groaned, but held fast.
Resting a moment, the sweat standing out on his face, Volot renewed his grip on the obsidian block. His skin began to glow and the muscles along his arms and back knotted in preparation. He leaned in close to the temple surface and breathed deep, feet braced, knees bent and paused, readying every sinew until, with a great backward thrust of his wings he pushed out with his legs and pulled hard. The stone block gave a scream like a wounded animal, and finally grated free. Volot’s groan of exertion erupted into a cry of triumph as he lifted the block overhead.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the stones to either side of the gap began to shake and fall in on themselves. In seconds the entire structure was trembling.
“Hold it steady now. Volot, take up your position,” Fomor shouted to the others as the small rumble rolling from the building built to a roar. Stone after stone tumbled from its bed, each one depriving the adjacent blocks of support. With all his might, Volot heaved the key stone down into the quaking structure, hastening its self-destruction with outside force. He dropped swiftly out of sight behind the building and took up his position on the forest side.
The angels stood, arms lifted, muscles chorded against the strain, wings outspread, drawing in a barrier of compressed air to keep the rock and dust from falling outward and damaging the village. Suddenly a shriek of rage and terror split the air. Instinctively, the four angels flexed and shifted the air cushion, stopping the building tide of destruction. Adahna shot her captain a desperate glance.
“She is human, one of Sabaoth’s beloved,” she pled.
“Hold,” shouted Fomor, “contain it,” but he shook his head, unmoved. “It was her own choice.” On their sides of the pyramid Volot groaned and Jotun’s wound reopened, dripping blood into the sand.
“She thought she was serving Sabaoth,” the lieutenant argued.
From the depths of the wreckage they heard another terrified wail, “Molek! Save me.”
Fomor turned to Adahna with a bitter grimace, “Did she?”
“It is not for us to judge her,” Adahna insisted. “With the walls down I can shift in and pull her out.”
“Three of us won’t be able to hold this thing together, you’ll both be crushed. I won’t lose another—”
“Not to interrupt,” Volot panted, “but we aren’t going to be able to hold this much longer.”
“It is done, she made her choice,” Fomor said flatly. “Let it go – contain it but let it go. The rumbling slide of stone on stone began again as the other three obeyed their leader. Absorbed by the task at hand, none of them saw the blaze of light fall from the sky until it had nearly reached the wreckage. Before they could do more than register its presence, the glowing form had descended directly into the dust shrouded heap of stone.
An instant later a grey-black figure rose out of the still crumbling wreckage. In his arms he bore the weight of an unconscious woman, her belly grotesquely distended in an enormous pregnancy.
“Gant!” Danae cried, struggling to her knees beside the well. “Think what you do, what you carry!” Her eyes shone luminous in the morning light and she blinked them rapidly as if to clear her vision.
Hovering above the rubble, a haze of dirt and dust rising about him like smoke from an unnatural fire, Gant turned tortured eyes on the prophetess.
“She carries a monster’s son, and Sena’s only hope.”
“You carry destruction in your arms Gant, a plague of unimaginable sorrow. I have seen it.”
Tears made dirty tracks down the angel’s dust caked face, but he shook his head. “I won’t let that happen, but he took her heart, Danae. He left her an empty shell. If I have his son, he will have to come for him. He will have to give back her heart.”
It was Danae’s turn to shake her head, “The babe she carries is not Benat’s. It belongs to Molek. Benat will not come for it.”
Confusion chased despair across his features before his eyes hardened and he rose higher above the destroyed temple. The air grew silent and heavy.
“But Molek will, and he will bring whatever he has to, to save his child. I kno
w he will. He must.” And in a shower of sparks he shifted in midair, leaving nothing behind but the smell of stone and desperation.
All eyes focused on Fomor and he closed his for a moment, breathed deep and then opened them again. With a hard glance at the pile of black rubble smoking before them, he gave the three remaining angels their orders.
“Bury it deep. Danae and I will find Gant and try to reason with him.” Returning to his wife, he lifted her into his arms. Moments later the two disappeared over the tree tops.
The three nodded and began the work. Forming a rough circle around the pile they concentrated, transforming the obsidian into a black, bubbling mass that sank, inch by stinking, fuming inch, into the earth below it. At first it was a struggle to keep the lava liquid, while containing the resulting heat to prevent it burning down the entire village; but the deeper they sent the obsidian flow, the easier it became.
When nothing remained but a smoking black pit, the three shaped air currents into invisible shovels with which to fill the shallow hole with sand and rock. Then Volot and Jotun stood back, faces gray with exhaustion. Looking at the barren heap, Adahna shook her head.
“We cannot leave it like this,” she said and turned to Jacob. “Bring me a bag of grain.” He complied and she reached a hand in, broadcasting the seed onto the open ground where the temple had stood. Closing her eyes she looked into the Earth, searching out and finding underground water sources. Pulling, coaxing, she brought them to closer to the surface through fissures in the cooling rock. Then she reached into the seed itself, awakening the growth commands embedded in its essence, accelerating the growth cycle. In a few moments a haze of green appeared, covering the damp ground. The villagers stood in the shadows of their huts and watched in awe.
When it was finished the trio trudged over to the well; a simple circle of squared stone with a lever system above for raising and lowering the bucket. Volot pushed aside the stone cover and lowered the bucket for water. After Adahna and Volot had drunk their fill, Jotun emptied the remaining liquid over his head. Drops of blood trickled from his wound, falling to the ground without sound. He turned and sat on the low ledge provided by the well stones and cradled his head in his hands.
Adahna was the first to speak. “Fomor’s orders were to return home. I will stop on the way and warn Nephel. You two should…” her voice trailed off at a low moan from Jotun. She watched in horror as he slowly toppled sideways.
Volot leapt to catch his friend before he hit the ground. Adahna crouched next to them and began a swift assessment of the training officer’s condition.
After several moments she sat back on her heals, “Exhausted,” she pronounced. “He continues to heal, but he needs time and rest to recover from the blood loss and exertion.”
“Yeah,” Volot spat, “bringing down a pyramid after nearly being destroyed by the enemy will do that to you.”
Adahna looked at him in surprise. “What was the alternative?” she asked. Gesturing to the villagers, half hidden in the shadows, “leave them to fend for themselves? Let Molek continue to deceive them,” her mouth twisted as her voice rose, “to eat them?”
“Of course not,” he admitted, “but Molek nearly destroyed us. Razing the temple almost completed the job.”
“So we should have – what? Left the temple in place so that Molek could come back and continue business as usual? At least this way we’ll know if he returns before he has time to do much more than assess the damage.”
Volot dismissed her reasoning with an impatient wave of his hand. “What would he come back for?” he asked, gesturing to the shivering remnants of what had been a bustling village. “There is little enough left for him here. But where was Fomor when we needed him? Off chasing down the very creatures who invited Molek in. Off rescuing humans.” The last came out in a hiss, as if the very word itself tasted bad.
Adahna gave a snort of humorless laughter, “Humans? Like Shahara, you mean?”
Volot squirmed, but his voice was hard as he pressed his grievance, “Not like Shahara. She is no servant of Molek.”
The logistics officer lifted one sandy brow with an ironic grin. “Really?”
“You forget yourself Lieutenant,” Volot snapped, his face dark with anger. “My wife’s behavior is not the issue here. Fomor’s leadership is.”
“I forget nothing, Lieutenant,” she replied, emphasizing the title. “But I think you do.”
The two stared at each other over Jotun’s sleeping form, neither giving way as the seconds stretched into minutes. Volot’s gaze was the first to falter. He looked down at Jotun grimly and muttered that he would take their friend back to his home.
Seeing his concern for the fallen officer, Adahna softened. “This has been a difficult mission for all of us. Losing Sena…” she faltered and Volot looked up.
“Yes, losing Sena.” He said nothing further, but stood, hefting Jotun to his feet with difficulty. Adahna rose as well and reached out a hand to steady the pair. Volot shook her off impatiently and a second later the two were gone into the Shift.
Adahna watched the sparks drift to the ground and sighed. He is just upset, hurting as we all are, she consoled herself. He does not – he cannot mean what he says. She stood a moment, lost in thought until a sound at her side caught her attention. She turned her head to see an old man patiently waiting.
“Yes? The priest, aren’t you?” Adahna looked away, struggling to control her features.
“I am,” he replied, clearly pleased that she remembered him, completely missing the disgust in the single, cursory glance she allowed him.
The man stinks of evil and corruption, she thought.
The priest hesitated, started to bow, caught himself and shifted anxiously from foot to foot. “I just wondered where we should begin building.”
Startled, Adahna turned and looked at him more closely, “Building?”
“Of course,” he gushed, “We’ll need to start right away if the temples are to be ready before the harvest. Now should we lay the ground work for four structures, or will two be sufficient?”
Adahna stared at him blankly. “Two?”
“Yes, I think that would be best, considering our time constraints. One for the gods, the other for the goddess,” he smirked at her and gave a little half bow. “We can build individual temples as time progresses. Now as to the formation of the new priesthood…”
Adahna’s closed fist caught him on the left temple, stopping his prattle abruptly and sending him senseless to the ground.
Jacob walked up slowly. “I tried to warn him, but he would not listen.” The angel stared at him until he began to fidget uncomfortably. “Well, I did.”
She shook her head and bit back the snort of weary laughter threatening to escape. “I’m sure you did your best,” she said finally. “And what will you do with him now?”
He flashed gave a quick, grim smile. “The others have seen his actions. He will not trouble us much longer.”
She looked at him closely, suddenly uncomfortable. “You let him come on purpose. You wanted me to reject him.”
Jacob said nothing.
She stared at the village, her eyes seeking those of the slowly gathering inhabitants. They were a pitiful group; the ragged, emaciated remnant of a once prosperous village preyed upon by evil both from without and within. They were mostly male and adult. Precious few women and children had survived Molek’s reign here. Still, given time, they might yet rebuild and prosper again. A sudden memory of Danae, prophesying, assaulted her mind. Would they have time? She looked back at Jacob and started at the coldness in his eyes.
“You were going, yes?” He phrased it as a question, but the tone carried more than a hint of demand.
“We are not of the Fallen. We are not Molek,” she responded, needing him to understand the difference. He did not look convinced.
“You are not Ahba and you are not human.”
“We helped you.”
He gestured to the wounde
d priests Fomor had battled, to the gaunt captives. “In your own and time and in your own way,” he acknowledged.
She made a gesture of your own, to the field where the temple had stood, the barley now knee deep. “In ways you could not have accomplished for yourself,” she clarified.
He had the grace to look ashamed. “Still…” his eyes pleaded with her for understanding.
She looked at the unconscious priest, into the awestruck faces of the villagers and smiled sadly. “We are too much of a temptation, aren’t we?”
He scuffed a sandaled foot across the dirt and looked out over the field. “We are grateful for your help. You have other concerns that must take precedence now.”
She was silent another moment. “You know where to find us. If Molek should return, do not delay. Send a messenger immediately.”
He nodded, saying nothing as she spread her wings and launched upward. She completed a quick surveillance of the area before heading for Nephel’s village and felt Jacob’s gaze upon her, even when she knew his human eyes could no longer make out her form.
Chapter Nineteen
Gant dumped the woman unceremoniously on the sand. Her soft cry of pain went unheard, as did the ones that followed. He crossed the dim cavern and knelt next to the rock ledge on which he had laid Sena’s body.
“Sena?” he whispered. Taking her limp hand in his, he stroked her cheek and breathed a sigh of relief. Her skin remained warm, soft to the touch. A particularly desperate cry from behind him penetrated the haze of grief. He turned slowly.
“Please,” the woman begged, “the baby is coming. I need help.”
Gant snorted in derision, his mouth twisting harshly as he spoke. “Like the help you gave her?” he asked, gesturing to Sena.
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, “I wasn’t even there. I have never seen her before.”
Ignoring the human, Gant turned back to the form on the ledge, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. Another pain ripped through Mara’s abdomen and she gasped; the agony showing clearly on her pale, sweat damp features, but Gant wasn’t looking at her.