by D B Nielsen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Description
SWORD: Part One | CONVERSION
SAGE | REVENANT
STONE GOD
CROSS-EXAMINATION
EVASION
MALEFICIUM
AT THE ST. JOHN RITBLAT GALLERY
RSPA 230
AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
A POISONED SEASON
THE BRETHREN
ON POISON AND PRISONERS
THE THORN IN THE ROSE
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
MIDNIGHT IS A PLACE
SHATTERED PRISON
AND ALL OUR TOMORROWS LIGHT THE WAY ...
SCHEMES, INTRIGUES AND MACHINATIONS
THE DEADLIEST SHADE OF NIGHT
WANT MORE?
About the Author
Also by the Author
Praise for Keepers of Genesis Series
Acknowledgements
BrixBaxter Publishing – Experience New Worlds
Copyright
SWORD: Part One of the Keepers of Genesis Series
Copyright © DB Nielsen 2017
First published in USA by BrixBaxter Publishing in 2017
Cover Design by XLintellect Pty Ltd
Photograph Copyright ©
Victoria Andreas/Shutterstock.com;
S.Hanusch/Shutterstock.com;
Coka/Shutterstock.com;
Captblack76/Shutterstock.com
Cover Image Copyright © A. Brix-Nielsen / XLintellect Pty Ltd
The right of DB Nielsen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form, or with any binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.
Description
“I knew that I had made a terrible, catastrophic mistake ... I had paid a price – but not the one I had expected...”
The rumours are true. Semyaza, the leader of the Grigori, has escaped imprisonment in Tartaros and covets the power of the Seed.
Enmeshed in intricate schemes forged millennia before the birth of the Wise Ones, Sage Woods finds herself struggling to control her future. Known adversaries, Louis and Finn, and new threats in a splinter faction of Nephilistic warriors force Sage to make reckless choices and daring sacrifices. And if that isn’t bad enough, Sage must decide whether she can trust the Anakim – and especially her beloved, St. John – whose devotion to their quest is often at the expense of their nobler nature.
But the real threat to Sage’s future is yet to be revealed, and when it is, the search for the Sword of the Archangel takes on a terrifying urgency...
SWORD part one is the fifth book in the Keepers of Genesis Series
SWORD: Part One
CONVERSION
PROLOGUE
Chiusdino, Tuscany, 1180 A.D.
The noonday sun fast approached its zenith, hanging oppressively overhead; an orb of hellish, blazing bright orange which dominated the unmarred, cloudless blue sky and leached away the deep ochre and verdant green hues of the Tuscan hillside till the once-serene landscape turned a dusty, bone-dry yellow-white. Carrion birds circled the crown of Monte Siepi; their plaintive, abrasive cries filling the stillness of the air, caught in the impenetrable solidity of overbearing midday heat.
Mounted on a large black stallion, Galgano Guidotti ignored the discomfort of his restrictive finery, the heavy layers of velvet, linen and silk sticking to his sweat-slicked torso, itching and chaffing against his calloused and blistered, war-roughened skin with every jolting movement his horse made. But the young knight was not unused to discomfort, having only freshly returned from battle to his homeland, though chain mail and iron plate had been replaced by the rich garments befitting his highborn station in life. The only concessions to his occupation of a life of warfare were the sheathed sword and shield which he always carried with him, gleaming in testament to their recent use in the Crusades, the steel too hot to touch under the sun’s scorching savagery.
Indeed, Galgano almost relished the discomfort.
He’d prided himself on his battle-hardened nature, his fits of arrogance and cruelty, his rowdy and dissolute ways. He had not been a sensible young nobleman – he’d had too much coin in his purse, too much fieriness in his temper, and far too much greed for worldly pleasures – and had sought out trouble the way a dog sniffs out a bone. His wild behaviour had gone unchecked – after all, he was the son of Gaetano Guidotti, the feudal lord of Chiusdino, and there were none who would dare to gainsay him. As a brash, hot-headed lad, he’d been quick to come to blows over petty disputes and rivalries, and even quicker to play fast and loose with his burghers’ and peasants’ property and possessions, as with their wives and daughters.
But such youthful follies were now at an end.
The feverish heat of the midday sun beat down upon his burnished, curly blond locks plastered beneath the rich, midnight blue velvet cap he sported, which was topped with an exotic, flamboyant, dyed ostrich feather to mark his rank, mocking his altruistic decision to appease his mother, Dionisia, and cruelly reminding him of the peaceful sanctuary of the still and silent cave he’d left behind in order to fulfil her desperate, strident request. Though once he would have been proud of his dandified appearance, he now felt ridiculous. His costly apparel was befitting the son of a nobleman, but the opulent velvet robe and surcoat with its modish armholes revealing the expensive undershirt of finest linen he wore underneath, the pointed kid leather shoes, and the heavy purse suspended from his belt by a silken cord, seemed at odds with the decision he’d made to renounce life’s pleasures and the ensuing vows he’d taken to lead the life of a hermit until his brothers-in-arms had need of him again.
The young knight sighed deeply in pent-up frustration, noting absently his stallion’s tail flick behind him in disdain as it attempted to swat away the irritating, determined flies that plagued him. Galgano’s family had not been pleased by his firm decision to lead a monastic life or at the sudden turn of events that took away the Guidotti heir from his inheritance. Concerned and curious relatives and friends had beaten a steady path to the mouth of the cave where he dwelt, shuttling back and forth, pleading with him at first and, when this had no effect, taunting and ridiculing him, with the aim of forcing him to forsake his vows, abandon his cave, and return to the civility of the role he was born to occupy as the eldest son of a feudal lord. But it took a visit from his lady mother to move him, reminding him of his birthright, of the promises he had made to his beloved, of the familial duties he was committed to carrying out. And so he’d set off before dawn had broken that morning, having donned his expensive finery, to pay one last visit in fulfilment of an obligation made.
The young nobleman sighed again, this time in resignation, wishing that he could dislodge the weighty thoughts that plagued him as easily as his horse swatted away the flies that swarmed around them in the stolid summer heat. But as to that, neither of them seemed to be having much luck. His stallion’s tail lashed out again at the pesky insects, dislodging them only briefly from his hindquarters, before they settled again in their former position. In turn, Galgano rolled his shoulders and neck to loosen his stiff
ened joints as he sat astride his beast’s immense black back, urging it towards Civitella Marittima and his fiancée, the exceptionally beautiful Polissena Brizzi, for the last time.
Distracted by abstruser musings, rehearsing the hopefully sincere-sounding, contrite speech he’d prepared in his head to perform to Polissena when he saw her, Galgano was entirely unprepared for what happened next.
With a sudden shifting of weight, he felt unexpectedly unbalanced, slipping and sliding alarmingly in his saddle.
‘Figlio di puttana!’ Galgano swore roundly as the majestic black stallion reared abruptly onto its hind legs, beginning to snort and whinny in distress, fore-hoofs aggressively pawing at the air in wild abandon.
Shock tightened the sun-kissed skin on Galgano’s face as all his instincts sang out. Martial training took hold as the young knight instantly leant forward in the saddle to counteract his horse’s actions and remain astride, keeping the reins slack and reaching around his horse’s neck to distribute as much weight as possible to the forehand. But the panicked, skittish equine continued to dance and buck, enormous eyes rolling back into its head in fright.
Striking out frantically again and again with its fore-hoofs, the black beast managed to dislodge its seasoned rider who landed awkwardly with a heavy thud onto the hot, hard dirt, jarring every bone in his body. Immediately, Galgano rolled out from under the stallion’s hammering hoofs, anxious eyes scanning his surrounds, darting from mountain ridge to plain to horizon, a blur of bone-dry earth and blue sky that smeared across his vision in an effort to locate the source of his horse’s panic. Clouds of harsh, abrasive dust choked the air, stinging his eyes and filling his lungs as Galgano gasped for breath in the wake of his stallion’s cacophonous thundering of the parched ground, making it difficult to see what had managed to spook the normally composed, battle-tried animal.
By the time his horse quieted sufficiently for Galgano to approach it, the beast’s black coat was stained with sweat, its muzzle flecked with foam. As the dust settled and his horse calmed, the knight stood, coughing and spitting up filth once or twice, and took stock. Yet, as far as Galgano could tell, all seemed as it should.
Several minutes, or merely seconds, ticked past as time stretched out in the aftermath of chaos and crisis.
Nothing stirred.
Galgano wiped away the sweat and grime from his own brow with his linen undershirt as he bent to recover his ridiculous, showy cap from where it had been trampled – coated now in a coarse powder of white dirt, its feathered plume twisted at an awkward angle – and prepared to remount his steed. But the snorting and tossing of his stallion’s head as it shied away from him once again had Galgano turning back around in raised awareness.
His insides lurched.
In the distance, a faint twisting column of dust rose from the earth. Slowly, it began to take shape, its form distorted by the rippling heat haze.
But there was no mistaking the seraphic vision before him.
The figure appeared in warlike form, in full armour with unsheathed sword. Wings of shimmering emerald green unfurled, scalloped feathered wingtips of a span far greater than twice its body length stretched towards the heavens. His body shone like a jewel, covered in the finest saffron hairs, gleaming in the sunlight a polished bronze. His face, too beautiful to behold, as bright as a flash of lightning, burned against the blaze of his fiery eyes.
Galgano Guidotti dropped to his knees in awe and fright. Of their own accord, his lips formed the psalm the knights recited before they went into battle.
‘“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.” Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy name the glory.’
The angel’s voice sounded like the roar of a great crowd, reverberating across the plain, filling every particle of humid air, everywhere and nowhere all at once.
‘Galgano.’
The inhuman beauty of the voice that held his name felled him, and the young nobleman dropped to the ground unconscious, lying on the scorching, arid earth face downwards. But a cool, strangely human hand took hold of him and raised Galgano to his hands and knees. Stunned, trembling still, he was urged to his feet.
Then the Archangel Michael said to the once-brash knight, ‘Galgano, stand up and listen carefully to what I am going to say. I have been sent to you.’
Unsteady, bewildered, incapable of looking upon the messenger of God in front of him, Galgano stared at the ground, speechless. Once more, the angel took hold of him, and a formidable will he was unable to resist forced him to look upon the rugged hillside of Monte Siepi. The mountain loomed above him and, at its pinnacle, a divine spectacle floated boat-like in the undulating waves of white desert-like heat.
Like a mirage in a desert, there appeared a round temple overlaid with gold. The walls surrounding the temple, its inner sanctuary and outer courtyards, its alcoves and projecting ramparts, were surmounted by narrow parapet openings facing inwards. They were decorated with images of cherubim, palm trees and half-open flowers, carved in relief as if blooming and spouting forth from the face of the temple’s walls. And central to this vision, against the blinding, now white-as-snow sky, Galgano saw the Lord and the Virgin encircled by the Apostles.
For Galgano, senses spinning, the world was wilting under the weight of the blinding white and golden light. The young knight wanted desperately to return to the sanctuary of his cave. He was dying for it – the safety and security of it – but he was frozen, rooted to the parched earth beneath his feet, incapable of moving.
Then the angel spoke again – a torrent of words that spilt forth from his mouth, words that glowed in the light – bidding Galgano to ascend to the summit of the mountain.
Compelled beyond conscious thought, bathed in clammy anxiety, Galgano found himself climbing the steep slope of Monte Siepi. As he did, the divine vision faded; now merely a tuft of extraordinary golden whiteness, a hazy veil, a scribble of cloud, till all that was left was the unmarred, cloudless blue sky.
When Galgano reached the peak, the seraphic voice of the Archangel spoke yet again.
‘Galgano, do you know why I have appeared to you? I have come to make you understand that you must turn from your selfish ways, deny yourself and take up your cross. The Lord gave you mind and conscience; you cannot hide from yourself. If you desire to be perfect and to follow the path of the Lord, you must give up all your possessions and renounce all worldly pleasures.’
The young nobleman opened his mouth to speak, willing and eager to embrace the angel’s pronouncements. There had been a change in him, a shift. His face was so changed that no one who knew him would have recognised him.
But before the words could be issued, the Archangel Michael fixed him with eyes blazing like fire, and continued sternly, ‘There is one thing more I must tell you. Righteousness gives life, but violence takes it away. Galgano, don’t be afraid. You must renounce your life of warfare to follow the Lord.’
The Archangel’s words were the colour of darkness. When Galgano looked up, the sky was crouching, the hellish orange orb glaring menacingly. Beyond the shimmering heat, it was possible to see the carrion birds wheeling and circling, somehow attracted to the glow.
The angel reached out and touched the young knight’s lips with his slim, bronzed fingers. Breath whistled from Galgano’s mouth, collapsing from his lungs. It puffed out, past his parched throat, between clenched teeth.
He managed to speak.
‘Sir, what you ask is easier said than done.’ Galgano’s voice was like a fist, slammed down upon a solid table. ‘I have resolved to give up the women. I gladly give up the wine. I have given up all worldly pleasures. But I am bound. I have given my solemn oath to the brotherhood. I have asked for the blessings of God, the Virgin and all the saints. I have served to retain the Kingdom of Jerusalem against all enemies. I am joined to the brotherhood by this oath, and ever shall be in the eyes of God.’
The eyes of the Archangel burned brighter still. And when next he
spoke, his voice fell away at the edges, breaking off each word to form the next, sharp like the blade of his unsheathed sword.
‘It is the Lord that commands you. You must and you shall renounce your life of warfare.’
Galgano felt the force of the angel’s argument, along with the blood pounding in his ears, and called out the futile words of the defeated but still defiant. ‘It would be far easier to split this rock with a sword than to do as you ask.’
Galgano’s moment had arrived.
As if to prove his point, the young knight drew his blade from its scabbard in one swift motion, steel ringing loudly in the empty vastness that fell away from the mountain’s summit, wielding it with all the confidence of a skilled and practiced swordsman. He lunged forward and thrust at the stony ground, fully expecting that the blade would break under the force exerted upon it.
And all the while, the Archangel of the Lord looked on impassively.
It was the young man’s legs that gave way first, knees striking the rocky ground painfully hard, though Galgano failed to notice. Still in disbelief, he uttered not a sound as the sword cut through the stone like a hot knife through butter, penetrating the living, solid bedrock to its hilt.
Galgano’s eyes opened wide in surprise with the staggered onslaught of thought. Full understanding sliced through him as he gazed upon the seamlessly embedded blade in the bedrock. Only the hilt and a few centimetres of polished steel blade, fashioned in the form of Christ’s cross, protruded from unyielding stone, transforming it from weapon to a symbol of holy might.
Time pooled then trickled forward with the heavy weightiness of a Tuscan summer’s stifling humidity.
Finally, with the restrained stiffness of recovered movement, Galgano released the hilt of the blade, sitting back on his haunches, surrendering to the divine will of God.
At this, the Archangel Michael’s voice rang out as sharp as steel, pointed as the tip of a knife blade.
‘And you, Galgano, will be faithful to the end. You will reside on this mountain for the rest of your earthly days and seek to do His will. Like all mortals, you shall strive to prove in the service of the Lord that your human existence is worthy of salvation. And though you shall be summoned by the Heavenly Host shortly, you will rise to receive your reward from the Lord at the end of time.’