“Still, they have numbers Azazel,” Caelan interrupted.
“Yes, but we are better trained and better armed,” Azazel replied defiantly.
“Assemble the council Hemanes,” Caelan ordered. He did his best to remain calm, trying his best to bury his anger about the attack.
“What!” Azazel yelled and then pounded his fist to the table.
“I said assemble the council!” Caelan yelled back.
“Why are we discussing this in council Caelan?" Azazel yelled. "Call the men to arms and crush this peasant army like the insects they are. We must teach them this lesson so they understand who their betters are.”
Caelan jumped up and glared angrily at Azazel. “Do not forget who we are," he yelled. "We did not come here to destroy humanity. We came to help and enlighten them. What is gained by butchering them? No. We will assemble the council and discuss a diplomatic way handling this mob.”
“Caelan, this is more than a mob," Azazel pleaded. "They intend to kill us and take everything we have built. Mark my words brother, war is on the horizon.”
Caelan sighed. He did not want to give up pleading his case. “Perhaps, but we will put this to a council vote. If the vote is for war, then we go to war. Hemanes, go quickly and tell the council members to assemble here in one hour.”
Azazel eyed Caelan and sighed heavily as Hemanes ran out the door.
The ten council members arrived promptly within the hour and took their seats at the large oak table. The Great Hall was constructed as a place for the Sons of God to meet and vote on serious matters. This would be the first time they assembled to discuss war. The council consisted of ten voting members, with Caelan serving as President and Azazel as Vice President. Non-council members sat in two rows of ten long benches in the center of the building with a long, fifty-foot aisle separating them in the middle. All nine council members sat on a raised platform twenty feet in front of the benches in nine large, Victorian styled chairs with red cushions elaborately decorated with ornate gold and silver patterns. The chairs surrounded the council’s large, circular table in the center of the platform.
Just behind the council table were two additional, elaborately decorated chairs. The chair on the left was for the council scribe, while the chair on the right was reserved for the wife of the council president, designated The First Lady. The position of First Lady did not have a voting role, but addressed the concerns of the city's female residents. Behind the council’s scribe were six steps covered with red carpet leading to another platform containing a large, elaborately designed throne overlaid with gold and precious stones. Caelan, as the council president, sat in this chair. His vote counted twice that of other council members. He also rendered final decisions and cast the deciding vote when the council was deadlocked.
Caelan's appearance was vastly different from when he had changed from angel to man. He looked kingly in his long, flowing white robe trimmed in gold decorative patterns that extended just past his knees. About his waist, he wore a thick black belt with a gold buckle and black leather sandals trimmed with gold on his feet. He looked older, now wearing a full, thick beard and his black hair extended down to his shoulder, intricately tucked under a simple gold crown adorned with an eagle in the center. He was flush with gold jewelry; wearing several gold rings with and inlaid jewels on each hand and a thick, gold plated vest hanging around his neck.
As the meeting began, Caelan rose from his large, high backed chair to address the council. He stamped his golden staff into the wooden floor several times to get the council's attention before addressing them, causing loud echoes throughout the hall. Most members were busy in earnest conversations among themselves. Caelan's imposing demeanor spoke of royalty and commanded authority. The other nine council members were also finely dressed in long, expensive robes, yet none looked as magnificent as Caelan.
“Brethren, hear me," Caelan cried loudly. "In the several months since we came here, we have labored with our hands to build a better world. We have imposed ourselves on no man, yet the threat of war is now upon us. Our brother Hemanes has reported than an army of one-thousand men is on the other side of the mountain marching toward us as we speak.”
There was a stir among the council members and those assembled in the crowd. The council recorder paused and looked nervously toward Caelan, before continuing to write on his scroll. Carissa placed her hand on her belly. She looked down for a moment, before straitening up and staring straight ahead, careful to avoid eye contact of any kind. She was the informal mother of the city and respected highly by men and women alike. Caelan ensured that she was always dressed in the finest apparel to show her royal status. She was dressed in a long white robe, open just above her chest and down her back, trimmed in gold decorations. Her hands, neck and ears were adorned in gold jewelry. Her long black hair wound down her back, entwined with gold lattices and topped by a gold tiara, which all accented her full lips, gleaming with bright red lipstick.
At three months pregnant, Carissa feared for the safety of her unborn child, and for her husband. She worried about the invading army, but she sat stoically, refusing to show any signs of fear.
Caelan slammed his spear to the ground several more times, causing loud echoes to reverberate throughout the hall. “Calm yourselves!” he shouted. “War may be upon us, but we will extend the hand of peace. Let us remember why we came to this world . . . to bring peace and prosperity. I propose that we send a delegation to try to reason with them. Only if they refuse reason with us do we go to war. What say ye?”
Azazel sat at the head of the council table, near Caelan’s throne. He checked if any other council members wanted to speak. Gadriel raised his hand.
“Council recognizes Gadriel,” Azazel said in a loud, serious tone.
“If they desire war, then let us give it to them and be done with this pretense. Now is not the time to show weakness,” Gadriel stated angrily.
Penemue raised his hand. Azazel nodded in his direction for him to speak.
“Brethren, now is a time to show mercy. If humanity is to learn peace, justice and wisdom, we must set the proper example,” Penemue said with impassioned fervor, trying earnestly to persuade the council members. “Has the Almighty sent men to reason with men? Nay. He allowed the Sons of God to descend and bring the wisdom of heaven. Let us not visit this world with war.”
Chazaqiel spoke out. He began in a reserved tone. “It is my duty to watch the clouds and the sky, predicting the weather and coming of seasons. I, Chazaqiel, can tell you that I see the clouds of war.”
Five of the council members nodded and pounded their fist on the table. "Yea," several of them said in unison. Azazel looked up at Caelan, who took a deep breath. He stamped his staff again to calm the yelling and arguing among the council members and others in the hall.
“Council," Caelan yelled. "What say ye? Shall we have peace or war? Those who desire war, raise the hand”
Five of the council members, including Azazel, raised their hands. Azazel, looked at the others in angry disappointment.
“Five to four,” he yelled to Caelan. "What says our leader?"
Caelan took another deep breath. “Aye. I cast my vote for peace."
Azazel huffed, along with several other council members who had voted for war.
Caelan frowned, and then looked around before speaking. "By my decision, tomorrow we will present terms of peace. And if these men will not hear reason, then may God have mercy upon their souls.”
11
THE CRIES OF WAR
Caelan rose just before dawn the next day to check with his scouts about the current position of the invaders. He hoped the men would come to their senses and turn back. A war now might hinder his plans and objectives, so Caelan wanted to avoid conflict if possible. Every life in Bethyir now depended on Caelan being able to defend the city. The uncertainty of what might happen to the souls of his comrades in the afterlife if they died in battle troubled him. Now that they were m
ortals, he was uncertain whether the slain would rest with the righteous or the damned.
The Sons of God did not have official sanction to join humanity. They simply made the decision to leave. This weighed heavily on Caelan's mind as he walked from his home to the edge of the city. The more that he pondered losing everything . . . his family, friends and the city they had built, the angrier he became. Who were these mortal men to try to rob him of everything that he had built . . . to rob him of the things he loved so much? He knew that vile men of this ilk might one day come, but still he hoped reason, or sanity or maybe even fear would keep them away. Yet, here they were . . . in the mountain . . . hiding, creeping, waiting to descend like vermin to take what he and his brothers had worked so hard to build. No, not a shoe latchet or a single life would be lost to mortal men today.
Caelan arrived outside the city and found Azazel gazing at the plain facing the mountain. His eyes were intense and demeanor anxious. He had the look when he hungered for battle. Few angels loved war as much as Azazel. He and Caelan had fought side by side many times reinforcing other Watchers and Guardians needing support to fend off overwhelming numbers of demonic forces. Both were highly skilled and valiant fighters, but Azazel was far more ferocious when fighting against demons. He fought with a fury and intensity unmatched by few other angels, often taking great pleasure in striking the fatal blow and watching his enemies dissipate into black smoke and ash. There were also rumors that he had tormented captured demons for information about their plans and activities. His behavior was unquestionably on the fringe of acceptable behavior, but there were few others Caelan preferred having on his side in battle, especially now. Still, he hoped that his friend’s lust for battle would not ruin a chance to negotiate peace.
Azazel held a three-foot battle-ax in his left hand, which seemed strange to Caelan. Azazel's usual weapons of choice were two curved scimitar swords, which he also carried today, strapped across his back.
“Azazel, what are you doing with that ax?” Caelan asked.
Azazel turned around. “For you brother. I asked Hepastae to forge this for you several weeks ago.” He lifted the ax and presented it with both hands to Caelan.
Caelan's eyes gleamed as he took the ax and looked it over. He ran his fingers along the edges, testing the smoothness of the blades. Next, he took a step back, swinging the large weapon effortlessly several times horizontally and then vertically.
Caelan patted his friend's shoulder and thanked him. “It has good weight and balance. I like it. Let's hope that I don’t have to use it.”
“Let's hope that we do,” Azazel replied wryly.
Hemanes came running across the plain and over to where Caelan and Azazel stood. After running nearly two miles at full speed from the base of Mount Carmel, he paused momentarily to catch his breath.
“My lords. The enemy has arrived!" he said between quick breaths. "One thousand men are now on the plain and marching this way.”
Caelan sighed heavily and looked to Azazel. “God help them. Azazel, assemble the men,” Caelan said grudgingly.
Azazel smiled, not bothering to hide his excitement about the looming conflict.
Two hundred of the newly formed militia assembled on the plain a half mile outside of Bethyir to meet the oncoming mob. One hundred and fifty men stood in a tight phalanx formation two rows deep with seventy-five men in each row. Each had a ten foot spear tipped with a steel blade. They carried long, square shields made of thick wood, which protected them from shoulder to knee. Bronze helmets and plated armor covered their torso and back with knee length robes and special sandals with short spikes on the bottom for gripping the ground. Each man in the phalanx also had short swords strapped around their waist. The remaining fifty men were adorned in similar fashion and stood less than fifty feet behind the first group armed with bows. These archers also served as a reserve guard in case the invaders made it past the first line of defense and tried to get into the city.
The enemy mob arrived with a great deal of fervor, shouting loudly and yelling curses. As they drew closer, a hush came upon every man as they witnessed the formidable array of silent giants, shields lowered, spears to their side, standing in a well-disciplined formation and waiting to meet them. The mob stopped two hundred yards from the awaiting phalanx and the two groups spent several tense minutes staring at one another. Caelan and Azazel walked out from the group to the center of the plain to begin a parley. Two men emerged from the mob and slowly walked forward to meet them. As they drew closer, Caelan immediately recognized the leader. It was Carissa's former husband Nabal.
“You have got to be kidding,” Azazel muttered. “The nerve of that-”
“Let's see what they want,” Caelan instantly chimed, his voice full of reserved disgust.
Seeing Nabal confirmed his suspicions. This incursion was an attempt to reclaim the hundreds of women and slaves who had come to Bethiyr after fleeing the surrounding areas. While some had come in search of work, hundreds had fled the surrounding areas and come to the city as refugees, seeking protection from the mistreatment of husbands, slave masters, and family members. They were drawn by widespread rumors of Bethiyr as an advanced city of wealth, culture, equality, and opportunity. Most of the women eventually married one of the Sons of God, started families, and began new lives. Dozens of former slaves had also begun their own trades and prospered rather well since arriving in Bethiyr. All of this served to create tension and jealousy between the Sons of God and the inhabitants of the half dozen cities surrounding them. Caelan was well aware of the growing trouble but chose to ignore it. Now, he had to confront this malignant issue.
The four men came to a stop midway between their two groups. Caelan and Azazel towered over the two smaller men. They psychological advantage was theirs. Subtle signs of fear were more than obvious in those standing before them and among the others in the mob. Nabal, reeking of wine, managed to hide his fear better than the others did. Caelan attributed his apparent fearlessness to drunkenness and confidence in superior numbers. Did he know that they were facing well a trained militia, filled with giants and skilled in war? Caelan wondered. He decided to speak after several uneasy seconds of silence.
“What do you want here Nabal?” Caelan asked, his tone full of intimidation.
“You know what we want," Nabal replied, daring to make eye contact. "You so called Sons of God have come into our land and taken our wives, sisters, daughters, and slaves. You have dishonored us by showing no respect for our customs and laws. You will return what you have taken. Know that we mean to bring them back...by force if necessary.”
Caelan's eyes widened and nostrils flared. “No one has taken a thing Nabal. The people of this city are free men and women, not slaves. Whether they leave or stay is their choice, not yours.”
“How dare you!” Nabal erupted, pointing his finger at Caelan. “They belong to us as long as they live. Do you hear me giant? They belong to us, not you.”
Azazel remained calm, silently glaring at Nabal as they talked. Caelan, raised his ax upon his right shoulder and leaned down into Nabal's face.
“I will say this one time Nabal. Go home. If I swing this ax today, it will not stop until many have fallen. There is no reason for you and your men to die on this plain.”
The man standing next to Nabal grabbed his arm and whispered into his ear, but Nabal shrugged his arm away.
“We will go home with our women, slaves and your gold added,” Nabal replied defiantly.”
A cold, eerie chill run down Caelan's neck and back. He furled his lips, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Very well Nabal. But remember these words when the blood of your friends spills on these plains. Remember my words tonight when they drag your pathetic soul through the gates of hell and into the fiery pits. When they chain you to the ground and worms eat your decayed flesh...when the fires of hell burn you throughout eternity. Remember that you had a chance to live and you chose death.”
Caelan turned and char
ged towards his men. Azazel spat on the ground. He backed away slowly, grinned and let out a short laugh before following Caelan.
“Did you feel it brother?” Azazel yelled forward to Caelan as they walked back.
Caelan stopped, giving Azazel time to catch up. “You mean the Reapers?” Caelan asked.
“Yes. And plenty of them," Azazel replied. "I sense that many souls will perish here today.”
Caelan nodded and then sighed. As they began walking, he put his arm around Azazel's shoulder. “Let us pray none of the fallen will be us.”
“There is nothing to fear Caelan. We have experience, training, superior weapons, they...”
“We are no longer angels,” Caelan interrupted, disdaining his friends lightheartedness. “Our mortal bodies will not heal quickly and there are no reinforcements if the battle turns against us. If we fall today, who will raise us? All we be lost.”
“Caelan, trust in yourself and your brothers. These weak mortals do not stand a chance," Azazel boasted. "We are the Sons of God. Before us are drunken fools, with no training, purpose or fear of the Almighty. We have not come to perish in these lands, but conquer them." Azazel grabbed Caelan's arm. He stopped, turned his friend around, and looked into his eyes. "Today, you must fight for Carissa, fight for your unborn child...fight for all that you hope to do in this life. Uriel did not stop us. The Almighty did not stop us. Who are these men to take from us what God has given?”
Encouraged, Caelan nodded and placed his arm on Azazel's shoulder. “You are right old friend. The stakes are too high for us to lose today." He turned and looked at Nabal and his mob once more, then back at Azazel. "Ready the men brother. Let us put these dogs to slaughter.”
Caelan waited for what seemed like forever, standing quietly behind the bronze wall of armored giants as they faced the awaiting mob, shields raised and spears to the front. He turned around to see the archers arms to their side, with bows in their right hand and staring strait ahead and awaiting orders. It was good to see that living as mortals had in no way diminished their readiness for battle. Caelan was thinking that the weekends they had allotted for military drills had paid off when suddenly, curses and insults rang out from the mob as group moved forward. Azazel raised his left hand and shouted, “Archers ready.”
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