by Han, George
Of Kings and Demons
A Novel
By
George Han
Text copyright 2012 George Han
Cover Design © 2012 George Han
All Rights Reserved
Dedication Page
To my wife Rachel, for her love over the years.
To my parents for their patience and support.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1783, Newburg
Chapter 1
Initial Contact
Chapter 2
Bastion of the Angels
Chapter 3
Darkness Arising
Chapter 4
Snow in September
Chapter 5
The Chase
Chapter 6
Insanity
Chapter 7
Politicians
Chapter 8
The White Angel
Chapter 9
Primus Inter Pares
Chapter 10
Death and Resurrection
Chapter 11
The Fire Spreads
Chapter 12
Rendezvous
Chapter 13
Allies and the Ordo
Chapter 14
Encounter
Chapter 15
Battle Begins
Chapter 16
A King in the Making.
Chapter 17
No Love Lost
Chapter 18
Surprise. Surprise
Chapter 19
Briefing
Chapter 20
Firsthand Knowledge
Chapter 21
Conversation with an Angel
Chapter 22
Temptation of the Soul
Chapter 23
Mounting Troubles
Chapter 24
Darkness Deepens
Chapter 25
Unfavourable Discovery
Chapter 26
The Grinding
Chapter 27
Down the Memory Lane
Chapter 28
The Flocking Enemies
Chapter 29
Nightmare
Chapter 30
Ambush
Chapter 31
Dialogue with the Demon
Chapter 32
An Unexpected Ally
Chapter 33
Success and Plans
Chapter 34
Journey back
Chapter 35
Arrival
Chapter 36
Labyrinth
Chapter 37
Unpleasant Encounters
Chapter 38
Friends or foes
Chapter 39
Reunion
Chapter 40
Old Scores & Allies United
Chapter 41
Mayhem and Bloodshed
Chapter 42
Sacrifice and Miracle
Chapter 43
Settlement of Accounts
Epilogue
Prologue
1783, Newburg
His hands trembled, unbecoming of a man of his stature. A newly born nation now looks up to him for inspiration and leadership but he was not ready. They thirsts for his equanimity and wisdom - qualities that helped him united a fledging army and clinched victory from a grand old enemy.
His decisiveness, needed in the present moment of chaos, was now in scarcity. All he, the General of the Continental Army, had now was frail will. Hours earlier an anonymous letter was delivered to him, its contents pregnant with the threat to tear a nation apart.
General George Washington was torn asunder.
His soldiers, frustrated over unpaid salaries and delayed rewards had threatened a mutiny and hold congress hostage for their intransigency. The restive soldiers, in the heat of the moment, had suggested a restoration of monarchy, with him as King.
The proposition seductive like rich rum was intoxicating. A kingdom that provided wealth and fame for perpetuity, just like George III across the Atlantic, was too much for a mortal to resist. However the proposition will render the sacrifices of tens of thousands, lost in the defence of liberty and democracy, void and wasted.
Man had given up their property and staked their families in an act of treason to pursue a dream of a nation free of tyranny and oppression. Is he going to reverse all these in the name of his glory? One man’s vanity?
The idea was dark temptation coated with the sugar of vainglory – King, King George 1 of America. Washington tried to kill the notion but it seemed to possess the resilience of a slithering serpent, eluding his best efforts to snub it.
The General was spent. He dropped himself on the bed. He needed a respite, a space for inspiration to seed.
Washington flipped over and dropped on his knees. He prayed. Through the years of adversity, George Washington had gained a nugget of wisdom. In moments of utmost desperation, he would pray. What man failed to resolve, Providence will provide the path was what he was taught to believe; circumstances has provided that good teacher.
He needed that inspiration to salvage his torn soul today.
There was a whiff of wind that broke his concentration. Washington opened his eyes. The room was empty. He had been too sensitive. George Washington raised himself and sat on the bed. He drew a long sigh and rubbed his eyes. There was a long moment of silence. Then he felt it.
The presence.
He raised his head and opened his eyes slowly. Instantly Washington dropped to his knees. “My dear friend…” he uttered with unhidden relief. “Old friend.”
Right in front of him, by the window, the new arrival, a fount of light, smiled.
“Son of Republic.”
Chapter 1
Initial Contact
He smelled a demon.
Unbelievable. He sniffed and cranked his neck to the sky. It has been almost a century since his senses encountered the sulfur-heavy burnt odour of the inhabitants of hell. The rejuvenating scent of sunlight did little to mitigate the drifting foulness. Eugene flexed his muscles, the sunlight lent a tone of glimmer on his sinewy biceps.
The Guardian Angel, part of the vanguard of Heaven, mentor to the kinglings - the future leaders of mankind, usually spends his Sunday mornings at the Brooklyn Bridge. Seated at his favourite spot on the Bridge Tower, Eugene engaged in his favourite pastime – saving the souls who have been attrited by the rigours of life and chose to end their lives in foolish suicides.
However, this sunny September morning, instead of the emanation of heavy scent of human depression, Eugene detected the foul odour of demons.
Then a waft of ocean breeze injected lightness into the ambience. Suddenly everything seemed normal. Maybe he was just paranoid. With the increasing decadent affairs of mankind, Eugene could be forgiven from thinking the Demons had made a comeback.
Eugene leapt to his feet, his wings trembling with verve. He planned to take a flight over the entire stretch of the bridge but paused. There was a chill on his shoulders. Eugene checked to find a shower of flakes.
It was snow. Snow in September?
Eugene searched the skies, scanning every inch with burning intensity, for an answer but none was forthcoming. He was prepared to investigate when a sharp shrill seized his attention. A call of distress, a human life in jeopardy.
His senses picked up the origin of the shrill like with radar precision. Stretching his wings to full splendor, Eugene leapt into the air with athletic suaveness. He dived in like a rocket and soon spotted the falling figure. His eyes illuminated like torches as he zeroed in on the distressed human.
With steady hands, Eugene held the figure by the feet. They were only a couple of feet from the surface of the waters. With aplomb, Eugene twirled the
body over and sat the human easily in his arms.
It was a female, a teenage with disheveled hair and a pallid face, torn by fear.
“My lady, what were you thinking?”
The girl trembled in silence and choked on her words.
“Suicide. That is being careless with your soul.” Eugene rapped gingerly but the girl continued to be silent, her eyes fixated on Eugene’s wings.
“Angel?”
Eugene smiled. He placed his hand over the girl and brought on a ring of warmth.
“Do you desire death now?”
The girl shook her head.
“Death by suicide condemns you to hell. Why do you crave death? How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
Eugene shook his head and took hold of the golden cross that all Guardian Angels wore round their necks. He mumbled his prayers – Angelus Triumphanus. A yellowish glow sprouted from his palms and travelled down the shoulders of the girl.
“Find the sunshine in life, avoid the darkness. “Eugene advised, his tone carrying silk over steel “Treasure life, every breath of it. Let not the dark moods drive you to forfeit this gift.”
The girl whispered. “Yes Angel.”
Eugene gleamed, his snowy white wings in full span. He shone with rich satisfaction at his success in saving a human. Then he paused. He sensed the passing of dark vibes. Two, maybe, three hundred yards. A pair of them? A surge of odour rammed up his nostrils and triggered a klaxon on his sensory radar.
Demons!
The sheer velocity and mass told him it was a certain foe. They were a species banished from domain of Earth unless the dark vibes of humans had created a hotbed for their emergence.
He must investigate.
With a flap of his wings, Eugene churned a spiral of air and delved into hot pursuit.
Chapter 2
Bastion of the Angels
Aachen Cathedral, Germany
A figure raced down the alley of the Aachen Cathedral as the first light of dawn stole into the corridors of the historical monument. His hurried pace was out of sync with the tranquil ambience of the surroundings. The man, born with lanky limbs, made big strides with his long legs.
Father Michael Bellator seemed too bothered to care about aplomb and hide his anxiety. It was uncharacteristic of him for he had witnessed the ebb and flow of history, not least the rise and fall of many Kings of Men - Napoleon and Hitler to name a few.
The Aachen Cathedral was one of the most holy sites of Christianity in Europe. A durable witness to the turbulent history of mankind and angels, and built by the great Charlemagne, one of the greatest King of Men. Charlemagne, who brought law, order, and civilization to the disunited domain of Europe, lay buried there. His reign ended the Dark Ages when Demons roamed free and mankind was enslaved by bigotry and hatred. The greatest conqueror of his time, he stays as one of the quintessential models of Kings of Men, the pride of human civilization.
Aachen was the bastion for the Guardian Angels, forces from Heaven and soldiers of God, to coordinate and conduct their affairs in the realm of Earth.
Deep in the Cathedral, segregated from the areas open to tourists, laid a secret network of catacombs that housed the bulk of the operational quarters for the Guardian Angels.
Father Bellator soon reached the end of a long corridor lighted by huge windows. He exited on the left, through a small passage camouflaged with the ingenious use of the uniformity of stone walls. He never failed to marvel at the ingenuity behind this architecture, the ambience of ancient, the whispers of men and angels and the scent of prayers of sorts. What magnificence!
Away from the eyes of humans, Father Michael found himself staring at a winding spiral of stairs where a junior priest stood in anxious guard of the entrance.
“What happened?”
Father Colin Sands, a twenty-year-old Irish shook his head
“He ordered me out of the room! He locked it!”
“Locked?” Father Bellator repeated, intrigued. Beads of sweat had broken out over his forehead as he raised his head towards to oak door at the end of the flight of steps. He was perplexed.
“What is it, Colin?”
“The book. The Libri…”
Colin Sands was referring to the Libri, the Earth Book, a leather-bound volume unearthed by the Knights Templar when they guarded over King Solomon’s Temple in the twelfth century. Gold-framed, and seven inches thick, it was thousand-page thick. The relic of God was subsequently lost in battles of tussle and priests of the Ordo of Tutor Fides recovered in the fifteenth century.
The artifact had long held the imagination of Angels and Demons alike with its powers to manifest events of the past and future legendary. This very quality made its possession in the hands of demons too dangerous, and so the fraternity of Angels guarded it vigilantly. Despite its reputation, few had witnessed the Libri’s prowess and only the more senior of Guardian Angels were able to ‘master’ the effects of the Libri.
Despite its thickness, the pages were all blank. The book will manifest images of the future when the interactive effect of a certain factors resulted in the fundamental shift of the course of history. Should those events be benign and normal, the book remained shut and only one of the Guardian Angels could remove the crimson ropes that held the book shut. If any catastrophic event was about to happen, the book will display violent manifestations that even the most senior of Angels will find it testing to control.
The powers of the Libri were assessed to be too important to fall into the hands of the Demons, who would manipulate the book, without hesitation, in furtherance of their cause. With enormous effort, and considerable loss in lives and property, the book was brought to Aachen Cathedral, where it was held in custody by the Angels.
“The book has come to life and…” Sands was cut in midsentence by an explosion. Father Bellator was not waiting for any more answers and had sprung up the steps. In one determined search, banged against the oak door, whose deep lines spoke of age and history. His shoulder ached but he kept trying and the door gave way at his fifth try.
A burnt stench assailed his nostrils and he was greeted by a slew of thick white feathers on the floor. Then Father Bellator was stunned to witness the esteemed Guardian Angel slumped on the huge chair, in front of the leather-bound book which was sending out a trail of smoke.
“Lord Jin.”
The Guardian Angel was unmoving, like a statue. His well-chiseled face, usually tan and fine, was coated in dirt. His iris that always shines like black pearls, framed by snowy-white eyebrows, was now clouded in shock. He had never seen a Guardian Angel in such a state.
“Are you fine, my lord?”
The Guardian Angel shook his head. “The Libri has spoken.”
Bellator swallowed hard as the Guardian Angel raised himself, a grave facial expression. Jin once hailed from the southeast Europe, enslaved by the Mongolians, but he displayed unusual courage and faith in an act of sacrifice. Archangel Michael raised him from death and for fourteen centuries he had been the steadfast soldier of Michael, unwavering in the defence of human civilization.
He folded his wings which blended seamlessly into the skin.
“The book unleashed a ring of bluish flame. It was a terrible insight.”
Between intermittent coughs, Jin tried to normalize his breathing “Deaths and bloodshed. Demons—legions of them who had started a mayhem, a rampage.”
“Good lord,” the priest crossed his chest.
“Yes, you should really call for Father.” Jin looked to the ceiling in reference to Heaven. “A war of sorts between Angels and Kings is about to begin. I saw—” Jin gasped before continuing. “A fallen crown.”
“Fallen crown?” Bellator knew a fallen crown denoted a setback for the race of man, the clan of Kings in particular. The leaders of human civilization are in jeopardy.
“There are going to be terrible attacks on Kings of Men, kinglings, children of all races.”
“But there wer
e no significant signs of demonic activity.”
Jin shook his head “Precedent, Father Michael. The Demons operate with stealth and treachery. An episode of grave turmoil is about to unfold.”
Jin eyed the Libri with weariness. “Mobilize your warriors,” Jin said with calmness. “We are going to need numbers.”
“Destination, Lord Jin?”
“Please check out these numbers: 39.6 N, 75.2 W.”
Father Bellator nodded and went to the large world map that hung on the opposite wall.
“It’s the North American continent, at a location that lies between New York and Delaware.”
“United States.” Jin said.
“The new battleground?”
The Angel nodded with resignation.
“We must act before it is too late.” Bellator said.
“We might already be too late, my friend.” Jin sighed as a ripple of light emanated from his wings.
Chapter 3
Darkness Arising
Midnight. The Bond Institute of Research, University of New Hampshire was quiet like a cemetery except in the dean’s office, where there was the incessant string of furious tapping on the keyboard.
Oblivious to the late hour, Professor Leo Kenyon sat glued to his laptop. By his side, his dinner, a turkey sandwich and fries, six hours old, lay untouched. Kenyon had little care for food or any other creature comforts. Important things in life weighed more heavily than his personal welfare. Some had said Leo Kenyon was possessed by an obsession to make history.
For six years he had researched the bimolecular re-engineering technology—a field of study that he strongly believed contained the very secret for the elusive cures to the deadly diseases that afflicted mankind. His breakthrough research had already earned him international acclaim and recognition.
The Brown University medical science graduate was only thirty-five when he landed the deanship. He was a regular on the lunch circuits with congressmen and senators from both the Democratic and Republican parties. Just the previous year, the White House consulted him on the subject of medical research.
His prominence and forthright comments had earned him an appearance on the cover of Time magazine in September 2017. Some had speculated that in time to come he might switch to politics—aiming for the Senate, then the White House. It was an intriguing prospect, but Leo Kenyon preferred to focus on the present, which meant laying the foundation for building a better future.