The man gasped and sputtered. When he finally managed to get enough breath in his lungs to cry out in pain, Drimesh smashed a fist into his face, knocking him unconscious.
A woman poked her head out from one of the houses. She stared at Drimesh. "It's a thief," he growled. "Go back into your home."
She gasped and ducked back into the house.
Drimesh reached down and lifted the man. He ran back to his home as fast as he could. If the woman alerted the guards, he would have more attention than he'd like.
When he reached his house, he closed the door behind him and flung the mugs of beer and clay dishes to the floor where they shattered. He dropped the unconscious man onto the table.
The house was dark. He lit a lamp and stared down at the floor. There were sandal marks of blood. "No," he whispered.
Drimesh followed them into the bedroom, his heart racing. The flickering lamplight illuminated the room. The sheets were ripped and torn, pillows shredded. In the center of the mess lay what was left of Talnor.
His torso was gashed and ripped. His heart had been cut out. The man's head hung by thin strands of tissue. An expression of terror was still frozen on his face. The bloody gap where his penis and scrotum used to be made Drimesh retch.
He stumbled back into the kitchen and stared at the prisoner. Drimesh's eyes burned crimson. The beast wanted to be loose. The beast wanted to kill. His free hand turned to stone, long talons sliding from the fingers. His clawed feet clicked on the hard clay.
He placed the lamp on the floor next to the table. The man sputtered as Drimesh poured water from an urn on to the killer's face.
Brown eyes stared into Drimesh's crimson orbs. "I am Garaaga's child," he growled. The man tried to scream, but Drimesh grabbed his neck, cutting off the flow of air. The smell of urine filled the room. Drimesh leaned down and touched his nose to his prisoner's. "Who sent you?"
He loosed his grip on the man's throat. The prisoner took a deep, coughing breath and then spat into Drimesh's face. Drimesh wiped away the spittle with his normal hand and growled. "I just realized," he whispered. "I don't care anymore."
Drimesh raised his taloned hand in front of the man's eyes. The prisoner whimpered, muttering Yahweh's name. "Your god won't save you, fool. Because, he doesn't exist." Drimesh unzipped the man's robes with a talon and ripped them aside.
The assassin tried to scream when Drimesh castrated him. He begged when Drimesh cut off his penis. The assassin died choking on his own blood.
20
Drimesh ran with the sack over his shoulder. He had to leave the city as soon as he could. Dawn was still a few hours away, which would help him evade the guards.
Even if the woman didn't tell her husband, the bloody footprints and trails leading to his door would no doubt invite investigation. He could have stayed to try and clean the house, rid himself of the two bodies and all the blood, but it would have been pointless. The tribe knew where his home was now--they would be back.
The temple of Ishtar burned with torchlight. Even when the supplicants had left and the priests and priestesses slept, the ziggurat lit up the night sky. He slowed his pace once he entered beneath the gate and headed past the silent courtyard.
The huts were mostly quiet. He heard the occasional moan or whisper, but it seemed as though most of the holy women had gone to sleep. Drimesh rounded the corner and walked to Ishtal's hut. He moved aside the curtain and stepped inside.
Ishtal was still sleeping. She had rolled onto her side. Drimesh placed the sack down next to the door. "Ishtal?" he whispered.
She moaned something in response.
Drimesh rolled her over and stared into her blinking eyes. "Ishtal, wake up."
"Drimesh?" she asked. She rubbed at her eyes. "Why are you dressed? Come back to lay with me."
"Listen. You have to wake up. For me."
She sat up, brows furrowed. "Why is there blood on your forehead?"
Drimesh cursed and wiped his forearm above his eyes. "Some men are coming for me. They killed my guest."
"What?"
"It's not safe in Babylon anymore. We have to leave."
"They-- They killed your guest?"
"Yes," he hissed. "We have to leave."
"I'm so sorry, Drimesh."
"Never mind that now. We have to leave. The temple is not safe."
She grinned. "Of course it's safe here. Ishtar would never let men kill here. And no man in Babylon would dare try."
"You don't understand. These men do not pray to your god, or any of your gods. These men are from the tribe of Abraham."
"Abraham?"
"Yes, of Ur."
Ishtal stood and grabbed her robe. She clothed herself and walked to him, planting a warm kiss on his fevered cheek. "Come with me, Drimesh. We'll get Golnath to call Hammurabi's guard. They will protect you."
"No they won't, Ishtal. I have murdered one of the assassins."
She froze. "You killed him?"
"Yes."
"Did you have a choice?"
"Yes."
She shook her head. "Hammurabi will not protect you," she whispered.
"I know that. I know what I've done. And I shall pay for it. But not now. We must leave." He grabbed her arm and pushed her through the cloth curtains.
There was a sickening thunk and then the gurgle of blood. Ishtal fell forward and onto the ground. Drimesh ripped away the curtains.
Three men stood before him, each brandishing a ruby tipped dagger. The closest man had a fresh runner of scarlet dripping from his blade. Drimesh stared down at Ishtal. Her purple robes were dark with red blood. She coughed his name and rolled over, holding her chest.
Blood seeped through the gap in her robes and ran from one corner of her mouth. Drimesh looked up in time to see the first assailant drive the blade forward. Drimesh grabbed the man's forearm and whipped down.
The sound of the bone breaking was like a clap of heavy hands. The man shrieked in pain. The other two yelled and attacked. Drimesh flung Ishtal's attacker into the throng. The man gasped as his comrade's blade slid into his belly. He and the other assassin fell to the ground.
The last man, eyes wild, rushed forth, the blade pointing toward Drimesh's chest. Drimesh side-stepped and grabbed the back of the man's head, flinging him into the clay hut.
The man's skull shattered with the sound of breaking kindling. He fell to the clay path with a thud. Drimesh walked forward and leaned down to the other two assassins who struggled to rise. He grabbed each of their heads and twisted.
Flesh ripped and bones cracked. The two went lifeless in his hands. He threw them aside and knelt before Ishtal. Her eyes fluttered, mouth moving in words he didn't understand.
"Inanna," he said, stroking her cheek.
"Dumuzi," she croaked. A bubble of blood burst on her lips.
He felt as though he couldn't breathe. "Ishtal," he whispered.
She dragged a finger across his chest. "Drimesh." She coughed and a spray of blood coated his face.
"I love you," he said. Tears ran down his bloodied face. Her mouth moved, but there was only a soft whistle of air from her chest. She coughed once more and then her eyes turned flat. Her chest didn't rise again.
The world exploded into stars as something smashed into his neck. Drimesh was knocked over her body and to the hard clay. He looked up in time to see a large piece of olive wood swinging toward his head. He rolled sideways, catching the brunt of the blow on his shoulder.
He leapt to his feet and dodged another swing. Golnath waved the club just out of Drimesh's reach. "They weren't supposed to kill her," he growled. "Only you."
"Then you killed her."
Golnath grinned with hate. "No, nephilim. You killed her the moment you lay with her." The eunuch feinted a swing of the club and Drimesh dodged. The giant man swung the club in a flat arc and connected with Drimesh's face.
His nose shattered and the world seemed to waver before him. Drimesh moved backwards in an attempt to
get out of range. The eunuch was smiling at him, a sheen of sweat dripped from his bald pate. Golnath took another step forward. Drimesh stepped backwards, trying to give himself enough time to catch his breath. He felt his back touch hard clay.
The giant howled and swung the club downward. Drimesh raised his left arm. The club smashed into it with a bone-breaking crunch. Drimesh screamed in pain as his arm fell away. Golnath grabbed him by the throat, lifted him off the ground and squeezed.
Drimesh stared down at Ishtal's dead body. The beast had been confused by the pain and the swift attack. He looked into Golnath's smiling face and saw the large man's hateful glee. Drimesh loosed Garaaga's shadow.
Golnath's arm trembled as Drimesh seemed to gain weight. His broken arm clicked back into place, the flesh turning into stone. His face melted into a triangular shape, his maw filled with sharpened teeth.
The eunuch let the thing go, stepping back from its burning eyes. "Nephilim," he croaked.
Drimesh shrieked and flung himself. Golnath fell in a heap. Drimesh ripped through the man's chest with his talons. The rib cage snapped like twigs as he punctured the naked lungs and heart with each whip of his claw. Blood spattered his face, drenched his split and tattered tunic. Drimesh slashed a talon across the man's bared neck and pulled.
The head came free. Drimesh rose to his full height and stared into its lifeless eyes. The eunuch's face was filled not with terror or pain, but a look of confused wonder. He dropped the head and crushed it under his foot.
A woman screamed. Drimesh turned and saw a priestess backing away from him. He looked down at Ishtal's body. He reached down, took her in his arms and ran.
His feet rattled on the clay as he made for the river. Shrieks and screams of terror followed him as he made his way through the streets.
When he saw the river, he dove in, her body still in his arms.
21
Nerghur was once again at the mouth of the cave. The sun lit him from behind. He walked in, a torch lighting his way. "You are a mockery of your god," the man hissed and wrinkled his nose.
Drimesh glared at him and scratched at his arm. A large curl of stone gray flesh fell to the floor. He stared down at Ishtal's rotting corpse.
He had carried her from the river and into the desert. It took days to find the old man and his camp. By that time, he was weak and starving and walking as a man.
"We aren't meant to love," Drimesh said as he stroked the corpse's cheek.
"No," the old man said. "You aren't meant to die either."
"Did you bring what I asked for?"
The old man pulled a small bundle from his robes and threw it on the ground next to Drimesh.
"Would Ama have wanted this? For you to destroy yourself over a mortal?"
"It doesn't matter what she would have wanted."
Nerghur hissed. "Your mother kept you safe. Your mother protected you, taught you."
Drimesh nodded and stared into Ishtal's glassy eyes. "Taught me to love."
"No," the old man sneered, "she taught you to survive." Drimesh said nothing. "You are a fool, young one. The blade may not even kill you."
"No life without her," Drimesh whispered.
"Mockery," Nerghur said. He turned his back to Drimesh and walked out of the cave.
Drimesh's hand found the goatskin bundle. He pulled on the hilt. The blade slipped from the scabbard. His fingers tripped over the blade's edge, searching for the jewel. It was there. The old man had done as he'd asked.
"For Ishtal. For me," he whispered. Drimesh thrust the dagger into his breast, the point piercing his heart. The pain was a brilliant fireball that lit his mind. Garaaga's shadow screamed in fury. Life was fading. He felt the ooze of something not quite liquid from the wound. The dagger jutting from his chest, he reached down and pulled Ishtal's body into his arms, cradling her.
Drimesh reached within himself and pulled the starving, weak beast from its lair. His flesh turned to stone as it came forward and consumed him. The world darkened. He breathed one last time and whispered her name in the silent cave.
Author's Note
I first started writing this series because of a short story set in the modern era. "The Things I Do Love," no longer available on the podcast and unpublished, came into being one night while I was walking the late Indie dog. I was listening to an episode of Pseudopod and the story was boring the hell out of me.
But something magical happened. While the protagonist, a somewhat neurotic female, complained in my ears about strange things happening to her pregnant body, a voice spoke up in my mind. "Do you want to know about your father, little one?" The voice, born of some strange recess in my mind, continued speaking. I listened.
In two days, I wrote "The Things I Do For Love." The word "Garaaga" slipped out of the aether and onto the page without so much as a thought. I don't know where the word came from, I only know the succubi in the story said the word. And the word grew in my mind.
I realized very quickly that I had an entire series forming in my skull. For reasons I can't go into here, this series of tales would intersect with my other offerings and increase the size of my already unwieldy narrative tapestry. Once I accepted that particularly ominous notion, I wanted to know more about this Garaaga entity. And I wanted to know what it would mean in the future.
Instead of wandering the wilderness of modernity, I chose instead to focus and research early civilizations and the rise and fall of different religions. Having been raised in various sects of Christianity, my first thought was to place these stories during the founding of Judaism. Research, however, proved to me that was far too later to begin the tale. I needed to travel further in time to the beginnings of the written word.
The research ultimately led to the second Garaaga tale--"Hunters." Once I wrote that tale, the stories flowed out in a gush of dark laden joy. I finished up "Keepers" right behind it and then decided to set a story in Babylon. Drimesh, one of the stories included in this collection, first began life as a tale called Lovers.
Just as "The Things I Do For Love" was the first succubi story I'd ever written, Drimesh was the first incubi in my pantheon of creations. When I finished writing it, I thought for certain I was done with the main character and his forebears. But that was not to be.
While writing it, I created another character and I wanted to know more about her. Her history. How she grew up. All of it. Ama was born during the writing of Drimesh. And strangely enough, Hela was born from Ama. This is all ironic, of course, being that the actual generational lines run the other way. Well, I guess that's the beauty of being a so-called "discovery" writer.
Legends of Garaaga was published in late 2014 with a plan for this collection to hit the shelves in 2015. Before that could happen, though, I had to write Hela. And it was the most difficult of all the Garaaga's Children stories to write.
The story had to be kicked out of my writing schedule twice due to my book contract with Severed Press and The Black series. Writers better than myself probably have little difficulty jumping between works, but by the time I finished writing The Black: Arrival, my brain was so focused on monsters and science that getting back into the world of ancient history was not only difficult, but maddeningly so.
But I finished it. It's the last story in the collection and yet the first to be read. Go figure. These three stories, with their focus on family strife, alienation amongst the populace, and the nephilims' uneasy relationship with their maker, set the stage for what's to come. As with all four stories in Legends of Garaaga, these tales will be referenced again in the future.
While this series has never sold well, Garaaga's Children has found a small, fiercely loyal audience that constantly badgers me for new tales. They want to see the entire tapestry. They want to travel the world of ancient times and see how the acts of thousands and thousands of years ago affect today's relatively sterile modernity. Guess what? I do too.
Garaaga's Children will always be close to my heart and perhaps my fa
vorite creation. In between writing monster books, techno thrillers, and supernatural suspense, I'll get back to this world again. I hope you'll be waiting for me.
Paul E Cooley
The Woodlands, Texas
August 1st, 2015
About The Author
A writer, podcaster, and software architect from Houston, Texas, Paul Elard Cooley has been writing since the age of 12. In 2009, he began producing free psychological thriller and horror podcasts, essays, and reviews available from Shadowpublications.com and iTunes.
His stories have been listened to by thousands and he has been a guest on such notable podcasts as Podioracket, John Mierau's "Podcast Teardown," Geek Out with Mainframe, Shadowcast Audio, and Vertigo Radio Live. In 2010, his short story Canvas and novella Tattoo were nominated for Parsec Awards. Tattoo became a Parsec Award finalist. He has collaborated with New York Times Bestselling author Scott Sigler on the series "The Crypt" as well as contributed his voice talents to a number of podiofiction productions.
In addition to his own show, he is a co-host on the renown Dead Robots' Society writing podcast.
For more information about this series, as well as current and upcoming projects, please visit Shadowpublications.com.
Contact the author:
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: twitter.com/paul_e_cooley
Facebook: facebook.com/paul.e.cooley
Want to know when Shadowpublications.com release a new tale? Then join our mailing list. No spam, we promise.
Daemons of Garaaga (Children of Garaaga) Page 24