Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  Peter looked up to Uriel. The statue was on a slight area of high ground that increased the effect of the sculpture’s height. The marble was awash in a strange and unnatural light, more so than the ambient illumination of the Garden could explain. He concluded that the strange glow must have been coming from the statue itself.

  “He was outnumbered three to one,” Hannibal said, pointing to the three vacant areas amongst the salt-stele side of the valley floor. “Today, after a multitude of lifetimes, we have the power to change fate and fulfill his promise to free the Garden.”

  The company listened to Hannibal’s words, nodding and approving the valiant deeds done by a hero long gone.

  Peter listened as well and tried his best to visualize what Uriel’s final moments must have been like. He found himself swept up by the angel’s bravery and wanted nothing more than to aid the company in any way he could.

  “Fellow warriors,” Hannibal called out to the group, “we have sacrificed much: our friends have fallen, our souls have been made forfeit, and yet our resolve has never been greater!”

  The mercenaries cheered Hannibal’s words and Peter followed suit with a stirring round of applause.

  “We are strong!” Hannibal yelled. “But strength is not enough! Courage is not enough! Our destiny demands a new weapon in this war against evil—one that will make the she-devil herself recoil in fear!”

  The group rejoiced in Hannibal’s inspiring speech.

  “I vowed I would not fail you!” Hannibal exclaimed. “Today, I give you the means of our glorious victory!” He extended a stern finger and pointed at Peter. “The book-bearer! He will level the battlefield and bring us our much-needed salvation!”

  The company fell silent.

  “Me?” Peter replied, backing away from the gathering.

  “You carry with you something the world has never seen before,” Hannibal said. “The divine words of the Creator himself—sent here to save us all.”

  “You believe that?” Peter asked, knowing there was a good chance the ancient manuscript was nothing more than a jumble of incoherent gibberish.

  “We believe in nothing else,” Hannibal replied, guiding Peter to the back of Uriel’s statue. A stone stele, similar to the others but much less worn, was the object the angel protected behind his right wing. The slightly worn rock encased an unremarkable man wearing a rough-woolen tunic. His facial expression was one of staunch determination.

  Peter studied the man’s face. “He’s better preserved than the others.”

  “You will read from the book,” Hannibal directed, “and tell us his name.”

  Chapter 15

  A detachment of guards ambushed Isla Dora while patrolling a chokepoint between two heavily built-up districts. The area was a narrow alley with high walls and a small, diamond-shaped courtyard at its midpoint. The long, confined space and lack of exits made it the ideal location to corral wayward animas. Asmodeus’s henchmen were under orders to apprehend anyone or anything that traveled through the passageway. The two men held the frail woman pinned to a wall while Asmodeus looked on.

  “Release me!” Isla Dora hissed at the demon standing a few feet away. She lashed out sprightly with her legs and tried in vain to bite the hand of one of the demon’s henchmen. Her wispy hair whipped through the air as she swung her head from side to side in a failed effort to weaken her attackers’ hold.

  “Tell me of Hannibal’s intentions and I will consider your freedom,” Asmodeus ordered.

  “Hannibal—who’s he?” Isla Dora mocked. “Sounds like a nice fellow if he got under your skin.”

  “Don’t test me, old woman!” Asmodeus yelled as he struck Isla Dora’s face with the back of his hand. “You and your ilk of animas are merely perpetuating a calculated illusion designed to give us pause. Nothing escapes you—least of all Hannibal’s feeble attempts.”

  Isla Dora adjusted her jaw, contorting her weathered features in an effort to mitigate the pain. “Even if I knew of whom you seek,” she stated, staring unflinchingly into the face of the demon, “my fate would be no different.”

  With one hand, Asmodeus snatched Isla Dora away from his guards and held her aloft by her throat. Red energy enveloped the old woman and she shook violently as jolts of electricity echoed throughout her ancient frame. The demon held the torturous force steady before letting it subside. “Perhaps you did not understand my question?”

  Isla Dora turned her head to one side and fought feebly to free herself from the demon. Her hair covered her face and she blew it away, casting a wary eye at the demon. “You seek that which would destroy your own destiny?”

  Her words startled Asmodeus and he stepped back. He did not want to fall prey to her guiles, but she was among the most ancient of the animas. He thought for a moment and shook it off. If Isla Dora knew something he did not, then it was all the more reason to break her now. Asmodeus reasserted himself. “I have no time for riddles, witch.”

  Isla Dora’s respiration labored as she struggled against the demon’s hold. “Do you believe your queen tells you everything?”

  The old woman’s assertion again caught Asmodeus off guard. Lilith rarely informed him of anything. He simply did her bidding, and failing or questioning the queen brought severe punishment.

  Before the demon could respond, Isla Dora added, “Does Lucifer tell her?”

  Although Lilith could contact Lucifer, she seldom did. The effort required was not inconsequential, and oftentimes, there was little need. Only a few standing orders existed between the demons of the Garden and Lucifer. They mostly dealt with casting down souls into the waiting clutches of the demon king and his fellow Fallen. Troublesome and rebellious nephesh were to be sent, with Hannibal high on the list of those Lilith sought to bestow this pleasure upon. At odd intervals, Asmodeus witnessed scores of newly-arrived souls being delivered, but paid no attention to her behavior and reasoned that Hell was in need of new entertainment, nothing more.

  Once in a great while, Asmodeus unknowingly interrupted clandestine sessions between Lucifer and Lilith that seemed to serve no purpose. The demon wondered if he had ever been the topic of conversation and whether his ongoing performance was being judged. It was no secret that there was tension between Asmodeus and his queen. He was a stalwart ally of Lucifer and had been there for him at every turn, but once Lilith became involved, the dynamic changed. Asmodeus thought he would be the ruler in Eden, but the directions from Lucifer were clear. Once the nephesh started arriving, he became subordinate to Lilith in all respects.

  Asmodeus became wary at the thought of his dismissal. At any time the queen wished, she could cast him out the same as any other human. Once an individual was cast down, be they demon or human, there was no possibility of return. Hell existed in its own space and the Garden of Eden, suspended just outside of Creation, proved to be the only conduit to access its vile depths. Over the millennia, the Garden of Eden had become a complex organism in its own right. Lilith needed Asmodeus, and he knew that she could not run the city without him.

  Isla Dora saw the demon’s distrust. “Hannibal is not the one you should fear.”

  Asmodeus’s rage flared at the old woman’s continued attempt to cast doubt at the demon trio’s loyalties to each other. A deep red aura emanated from the demon and brightened to a blinding hue. The two guards covered their eyes and backed away from the spectacle.

  Isla Dora screamed in agony. She began morphing her shape in an effort to escape. Her human form gave way to an inanimate broom. From there she changed to a small rodent and then went on to several other objects, both large and small.

  At each turn, Asmodeus countered the old woman, holding her with increasing amounts of energy. His anger flared and his resolve to break her grew greater than ever. “Tell me of Hannibal’s plan,” he commanded.

  Isla Dora stopped resisting and changed back into her human form. She raised her arms skyward and elongated her body, growing tall and thin. “I will do no bidding of you
rs!” she cried out and exploded into a blinding iridescent cloud of mist. The concussion knocked the demon backward and threw his guards to the stone floor of the courtyard.

  Asmodeus’s sight reeled in a kaleidoscope of color. He flexed the hand that had firmly held Isla Dora and found it empty. He stumbled a few steps and attempted to focus on the surrounding area. The old woman was gone. The demon grabbed the guards by their necks and yanked them to their feet. “She tricked us—find more men and search the area immediately!” he ordered, pushing them in opposite directions, toward either end of the alleyway. “Stop any animas—let none escape!”

  The guards hurried off and disappeared into the darkness.

  Asmodeus scoured the diamond-shaped courtyard for any sign of the old woman. Satisfied that he had not overlooked anything of significance, the demon leapt into the twilight sky and flew in low circles over the courtyard. He increased his search pattern with every pass until he disappeared out of sight.

  The mist settled on the surrounding stone and formed a thin layer of shimmering water vapor. Almost imperceptibly, the damp rock shone with rainbow hues reminiscent of oil mixed with a light summer rain. The liquid drew together, retreating from the rock and gaining volume until it formed a pool on the floor of the courtyard. The pool flashed through a series of colors, growing in density until it solidified into the form of a silver-white rat. The rodent contemplated both passageways and then climbed to the top of the wall where it scampered away.

  Chapter 16

  “Rise,” Hannibal ordered, kicking Peter in the chest. “We have much to do.”

  Peter awoke and rubbed his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the sheltered confines of the space between Uriel’s statue and the stele he was studying. What seemed like an entire day came and went during which he tried to read the ancient manuscript—attempting to understand its nuances, but ultimately, the long bouts of prolonged boredom finally settled in, causing Peter to lay his head in the ash and fall into a deep slumber.

  Hannibal loomed over Peter. “I hope the progress you have made is enlightening for us all.”

  Peter hoisted himself up to a sitting position and adjusted his glasses. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue across his dry lips in an effort to replenish their lost moisture. “I could really use some water.”

  “So could we all,” Hannibal mocked. “It is time to introduce you to your benefactors,” he said, striding off to join the company gathered in a clearing near the edge of the small valley.

  Peter leaned back on Uriel’s statue and brushed the ash away from the manuscript. He looked up to see the face of the stele and stared into its unblinking eyes. The test to see if Peter could gain insight into the man frozen inside of the rock had failed miserably. Translating the manuscript was a futile task. The mysterious tome was as indecipherable now as when he obtained it from Edda’s trinket shop. He did not know how to tell Hannibal and others about his shortcoming, let alone the truth about how he came to possess the book. Peter was drowning in guilt. The band of mercenaries seemed intent on helping him, but there was nothing he could do to reciprocate their gesture. Despondent, he rose to his feet and ambled off in the direction of the gathering.

  The individuals of Hannibal’s group assembled loosely along the edge of the field of steles. Some stood while others sat on rocks or on the soft ashen ground. The mood was light with laughing and chiding amongst its members. Peter weaved his way around the steles toward the group but failed to make out what the levity was all about.

  At some point during Peter’s slumber, the members had removed their cloaks and stowed them into the personal satchels each carried. Without the burden of their outerwear, he was able to see their faces clearly for the first time and was struck by the diversity of the group. Altogether, there were seven men and three women. Three of the company were of Asian or Eurasian descent; one was African, with the remaining individuals, aside from Thomas, being of far-flung European heritages.

  Peter attempted to gauge their ages, an extremely difficult task since each and every one of the men and women gathered was in exemplary physical condition. They exhibited the muscular structures and defining characteristics of athletes in the prime of their lives. Never before had Peter glimpsed a group of middle-aged men and women with such awe-inspiring physiques.

  In his early twenties and easily the youngest of the group was Thomas. Beyond that Peter guessed the next-nearest age to be roughly early forties, with most of the group ranging into their fifties. Hannibal, by far, seemed to be the oldest of the bunch, perhaps in his early- to mid-sixties.

  Peter recognized the various historical uniforms they wore. Most donned armor covering some sort of underclothing, but each was wearing a wholly different version depending on the origin and context of the particular member. Some wore ancient leather armor, replete with embossed filigree and shoulder spaulders, while others sported a more recent mixture of materials, such as chain mail and metal plate. The women’s version of armor, for all intents and purposes, was of the same quality as the men’s with one woman having a standout exception. The mercenaries’ footwear ranged from sandals to heavier enclosed shoes, again, each depending on the historical context of the individual. Aside from Peter, the only deviation to the warrior dress code was Thomas and his 1950s greaser garb.

  Peter closed in on the gathering and could finally see the cause of the amusement. At the group’s center was Thomas, clumsily wielding a sword to attack the largest member of the assembled warriors. Dressed in leather armor over a dark-green silk robe, the defender was Chinese and a brute of a man. At well over six-and-one-half feet in height and close to three-hundred pounds in weight, the man dwarfed all who opposed him, but his physical size was not his most distinguishing attribute, as that honor went to his facial hair. Roughly two-feet long, the warrior’s coarse beard fluttered through the air as the man easily deflected Thomas’s haphazard blows.

  Hannibal acknowledged Peter’s approach and gestured to the large Chinese man, “This is Guan.”

  “Guan,” Peter said, bowing his head.

  Without giving the fight a second thought, Guan reciprocated the bow with sincerity and then continued to amuse himself with Thomas’s innocuous assault.

  Hannibal pointed to two men standing off by themselves. “Godfrey and Verus.”

  Godfrey was European, French from what Peter could deduce. Covering the man’s aristocratic and slight frame was a fanciful thigh-length tunic emblazoned with a Cross of Lorraine. Under the tunic, Godfrey sported a full complement of steel armor along with a broadsword at his side.

  Standing next to Godfrey was the gladiator Verus. He was a little taller and much stockier than the Frenchman. Dressed in minimal clothing, he donned a leather manica on his right arm with a large metal galerus as a high shoulder guard. A short sword in a scabbard hung on Verus’s hip secured by a wide belt around his waist. A knee-length leather skirt covered the gladiator for modesty.

  Peter raised his hand in a friendly gesture to the two men. They smiled curtly in response and promptly returned to their conversation.

  Hannibal put his arm around a beefy man of Norse decent standing next to Peter and gave the Viking a manly hug. “This is Gunnar.”

  Gunnar picked Peter up in a bear hug. “Welcome!” the Viking said loudly. “You must forgive me as I had my doubts, but Hannibal never wavered.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Peter responded, gasping for breath while extricating himself from the strong man’s embrace.

  In his forties, Gunnar was a big man with unkempt blond hair and a scraggly beard. Everything about him was rough. He wore a long, rusted chainmail shirt cinched in at the waist by a tattered belt. His leggings were in need of mending and his boots were open to the air in places. Gunnar carried a halberd-type weapon for combat and a round wooden shield. Both needed repairs, making Peter wonder if they were able to take more damage before falling apart.

  Hannibal motioned to a Japanese man alongside the Viking. “Mus
ashi.”

  Peter bowed deeply and flourished his arms. “Konnichiwa.”

  Musashi chuckled at Peter’s dialect, but bowed in response, replying, “Yōkoso.”

  “Sorry,” Peter said sheepishly, “that’s the only Japanese I know.”

  “You honor me,” Musashi said, smiling.

  Musashi, in stark contrast to Gunnar, was compact and lithe. The only one of the group wearing no outer protection, Musashi was impeccably dressed in a samurai Kamishimo. His linen robes were all white with a red, wing-like shouldered vest. Carried in scabbards at his side were two samurai swords paired in the traditional daishō style. Musashi’s balding head, spotted with tufts of graying hair, lent the man a trusting, grandfatherly air, but his keen eyes gave away the ruthlessness of his true nature.

  After the introduction, Gunnar and Musashi went back to the fight before them. Both pointed at Thomas’s footwork and mimicked his lack of proper technique. They shook their heads when Thomas was in danger and yelled at him to retreat before Guan could spank him with a sword. Gunnar and Musashi found comical relief in Thomas’s failure, but they also offered encouragement and praise.

  Peter was surprised to see the camaraderie between the two men. Gunnar and Musashi seemed as different as night was to day, but their rapport was one of admiration, respect, and family.

  Hannibal guided Peter to the last three members of the assemblage. The women sat in a tight group conversing amongst themselves and paying little, if any, attention to the duel between Thomas and Guan.

  Hannibal bowed. “Ladies,” he said with the utmost of graciousness.

  Almost in unison, the three women nodded their response.

  Watching uncomfortably, Peter could not help but notice some form of political concession happening, but for the life of him, he did not know what it could be.

  “Peter, the book bearer,” Hannibal said. “Please extend him every courtesy.”

  The three women snickered at the request.