Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  My voice was grave as I asked, ‘So you think these Nephilim belong to another ancient sect?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I believe I know which one,’ St. John replied, holding my gaze with his own. ‘The mark of the Faravahar is often that of the brotherhood of the Fravashi. You may have seen the image of a feather-robed archer seated atop the winged disc in your research. Some of our brothers chose to bear this mark; the mark of the Fravashi. It symbolises their allegiance to an ancient order.’

  ‘Oh my God! It’s exactly like what Finn told me about the Janissaries,’ Fi interrupted, her hazel eyes flashing. I nodded in agreement until she lowered the tone with, ‘You know, I think they made a film out of this. These Fravashi sound like the Medjai in The Mummy. Well, except that the Megjai were protectors of good and the Fravashi seem to be in league with the bad guys.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘No. Better yet ... maybe the Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. But they were also supposed to be good too. Well, I know for certain that Hydra in Captain America was definitely an evil secret organisation.’

  Throwing my free hand in the air in a gesture to get her to stop, I barked, ‘Fi, please! How is this helping?’

  She quirked a brow in my direction. ‘Yeah ... about that ... it’s not so nice when you’re on the receiving end of irrelevant information, is it? Just bear it in mind the next time you feel the need to deliver a lecture on boring details.’

  We both chose to ignore her.

  ‘So you believe that the Nephilim who attacked me are members of the Fravashi?’ I quietly asked, turning back to face St. John, not knowing whether I felt glad at the knowledge as it spurred on my revenge or afraid at the amount of banked anger waiting to be unleashed.

  St. John gave a strange and mysterious smile in answer to my question. ‘It is the only explanation. And Fi is right to point out the similarity to the Janissaries.’ In response, she shot me a smug look. ‘You see, whilst they prefer to call themselves the Fravashi, they were once known to all Nephilim as the Gibborim. Long ago, the Gibborim were Mighty Ones, but they were selfish and easily seduced by the darkness within them and, in turn, became utterly corrupted. They thought of themselves as invincible and adopted the mark of the Fravashi as proof of their might. It is a case of how the mighty have fallen. At their height, they were an elite class of the hierarchy of Nephilim warriors but they turned mercenary, becoming known as swords for hire, motivated to take part in any battle purely for private gain and not because they were idealists or fundamentalists. This was a far cry from the original philosophy and teachings of the Zoroastrians who believed that the Fravashi protected family, settlement, tribe and nation.’

  I heaved an ominous sigh. ‘So they once numbered amongst the Anakim? Did they join with the Rephaim or Emim after they were corrupted by greed and pride?’

  ‘No, they are a unique race. The Gibborim are voluntary exiles or outcasts – they wish to have nothing to do with the Anakim and the other races of the Nephilim. They consider us weak and sentimental as we cling to the past, the brief history and tradition that we know. They are now coldly diabolical creatures – calculating, cruel beings without conscience.’

  ‘Worse than the Rephaim?’ Fi asked.

  ‘Not quite.’ St. John shook his head, his blond hair catching the sunlight, highlighting his angelic origin. ‘But they do share a similar bloodthirsty, violent ancestry which is evident from their extraordinarily pale appearance. You wouldn’t have been able to see their pale beauty beneath their helmets, Sage, but they often use it to lure their victims to their ruin or death.’

  ‘It figures. There’s a lot of that in the natural world ... like Wobbegongs and certain types of snakes,’ my sister volunteered. ‘Not unlike what happened to poor Eve in the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘They willingly sell their martial expertise to anyone who can pay,’ St. John continued without pause, ‘and I don’t simply mean monetary or material payment either. In the Zohar, it is said that they “erect synagogues and colleges, and place in them scrolls of law with rich ornaments, but only to make themselves a name.” Their philanthropy is a fraud. The Fravashi choose to profess their loyalty and conviction to their secret sect, as shown by bearing the mark of their order. Indeed, they believe they have been born or selected for exaltation. They believe that they are heroes, sent out into the world to fight in the battle of good versus evil. Again, this is a corruption of the Zoroastrian dogma. But whose side they are fighting for in this war – considering they have had almost nothing to do with other Nephilim for many centuries – is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘Their side, of course!’ Fi’s cynical statement was shot out between clenched teeth. ‘And even if they were working with the Grigori, it’s the expediency of temporary alliances!’

  ‘But why didn’t we know of the Gibborim or Fravashi or whatever they call themselves sooner? Why didn’t you tell us of their existence? And why is the feather-robed archer facing away from evil and towards the good in all the images and sculptures then?’ I reminded St. John, my voice accusing.

  ‘Because they have had nothing to do with the rest of us for longer than I can remember. Anak is, perhaps, one of the few who might be able to give you details of their transgressions. They share the same ancestry as the Rephaim. However, they are mercenaries. It may have been short-sighted of the Anakim, but we believed that the needs and desires of the Grigori would be of no interest to their rebellious children who have only shown an interest in themselves. Indeed, this has proven the case until now,’ he stated, staring fixedly at the hand that remained encased within his own. He seemed to be measuring his words. ‘And, yes, it is true that the feather-robbed archer is facing away from evil and towards the good, but the world isn’t composed of moral absolutes. There are always shades of grey.’

  At his words, Fi stiffened beside me. I could see that St. John’s argument had cut too close to the bone, reminding her of what the Anakim were also willing to sacrifice in order to win their brutal war.

  Quickly diverting a war of a different kind between the two people I loved most in the world, I asked, ‘What happened to the bodyguards who were poisoned by the Fravashi? Have they recovered yet?’

  I could feel the tension and fury in St. John, communicated as his hand gripped mine in reflexive response to my questioning. ‘My injured brothers have yet to recover. The poison is insidious. It has taken root in their minds and withers their souls. They grow worse by the hour.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of poison was used?’ Fi had managed to rein her feelings in and her voice held none of the animosity she must have previously felt towards St. John.

  ‘Deadly nightshade.’ His reply was unexpected. I had thought that the poison would be more common and readily available over the counter or with a prescription from pharmacies, but my guess was wrong as St. John explained, ‘It’s one of the most toxic plants found in the eastern hemisphere. All parts of it are dangerous – the consumption of its berries, which are sweet to eat and look quite appetising, can be fatal for human adults and especially for children; as is ingesting just a single leaf. But the root is the most toxic part.’

  His voice trailed off as he looked down at his empty coffee cup for a moment. It was difficult to talk about such a subject. More difficult to avoid thinking about it.

  ‘The poison was administered with a hypodermic syringe behind the ear at the base of the skull, so it went straight into their bloodstream and flooded their nervous system.’ St. John paused. He related these facts stiffly, as controlled as ever, his eyes suddenly hard and sharp. ‘Better they should have died than to suffer as they are.’

  I looked up into jade green eyes, frightened by the depth of their vehemence.

  ‘There isn’t a cure, is there?’ I asked St. John quietly. But the question was rhetorical as I already knew the answer.

  ‘Not that I know of and not for Nephilim,’ St. John admitted, his voice held equal parts anger and sorrow. �
�It’s because the poison for humans normally disrupts part of the nervous system. It leads to convulsions, paralysis, hallucinations and delirium. Yet the physical symptoms are not an issue for Nephilim as we heal quickly. You know of this yourself, Sage.’ He paused again, sighing wearily. ‘But their minds are slowly unravelling and, in this state, they cannot defend themselves. You may liken it to a suppressed immune system as it is the poison’s corrupting influence upon their will that they cannot fight against. It taints their very nature, calling to the darkness in their blood. It is slowly driving them mad.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’ asked my sister; interrupting my inner turmoil as I felt in some way responsible for these poor men who were assigned to protect me.

  ‘Once completely afflicted, if it does not destroy them, they will be unable to control their darker impulses. If this happens, they will be similar to the Rephaim.’

  My hand trembled beneath St. John’s but he did not seem to notice my agitation, consumed by his own thoughts and emotions.

  Fi blinked slowly, her breath catching, as if absorbing this horrific information and finding it as unpalatable as I did. She asked flatly, ‘What do you mean by the poison destroying them?’

  St. John took his time replying, his eyes unfocused, seeing who knew what horrors.

  ‘They become hollow men. Shadows of their former selves,’ St. John replied sombrely. His words had a terrible finality about them. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I cannot tell you which alternative is better – I don’t believe there is such a thing as better in this case. Either they will be like wraiths or they will be psychotic killers. Their minds are being ravished by the poison and by the darkness within them. If my brothers cannot fight the poison and purge it from their system to regain control of their own wills, they are surely lost. But time is not on their side. And I personally believe that it may already be too late to save them.’

  And then I realised the whole awful, brutal truth. St. John had fought with these men. He trusted them because they had proved their loyalty and honour on and off the battlefield. They had faced hardships and adversity together. They were his brothers in all but blood. And he had hand-picked them, chosen them specifically to protect what he valued the most – me.

  ‘Semyaza has to be behind this.’ I protested, narrowing my eyes in sudden hatred. ‘These Fravashi must be in league with the Grigori.’

  St. John did not respond, his eyes were distant still.

  ‘We need to take down Semyaza. He’s a monster. I think it’s about time we stepped up things a little. I need to get my hands on a seraph blade,’ stated Fi, in a voice that brooked no opposition. Neither St. John nor I gave her an argument.

  Incredibly, her violent outburst drew only silence. I studied the sunlight playing on the paving stones of the beer garden and silently asked forgiveness for the past. Then I closed my eyes, trying to calm my erratic emotions.

  The front door of the tiny café banged. My eyes flew open and, startled, I hastily withdrew my hand from St. John’s.

  A handsome, blond young man clad in a paisley shirt and black skinny chinos ushered in his partner, taking a seat at the bar. I watched them like a hawk, fearful that they were Fravashi spies. As they placed their order, I relaxed my muscles, realising that I was as taut as the string on the bow of a violin.

  Stop it! I scolded myself. My imagination was running riot. There was no point trying to deny it. I really was becoming as paranoid and delusion as Catherine Morland.

  ‘The sword of the Archangel Michael,’ St. John said softly, breaking through my anxious thoughts.

  Gaping in astonishment, I heard the uttered words but it was as if I couldn’t comprehend them. Bewildered, I looked at first to St. John then to Fi. Her clear hazel eyes met mine and I suddenly felt like we had simultaneously experienced a “eureka” moment. Fi confirmed this with a nod but did not speak.

  ‘The Hidden Treasures.’ The words closed like a snare, trapping the moment within.

  Taking a steadying breath, I allowed myself to remember what I had learned. Together, after Fi had managed to retrieve the Scroll from the Underworld, Gabriel and St. John had apprised us of the existence of the Hidden Treasures. There was a time when Semyaza was beloved of the Creator, conferred with the title “One whom God strengthens” and was so mighty that he even held the knowledge of the Explicit Name of the Creator. Along with Moses’ staff and the Ark of the Covenant, the sword of the Archangel Michael numbered amongst the Hidden Treasures – believed to hold the key for humankind to find a path back to Paradise and, ultimately, to the Creator. It would have been in Semyaza’s safekeeping when he was amongst the Creator’s elite, but taken away and hidden from him after the Fall.

  ‘But where are they now? Where are the Hidden Treasures?’ Fi asked, puzzled. ‘And, more importantly, where is the sword of the Archangel Michael?’

  I looked back up at St. John and saw the concern etched on his face mirror my own.

  ‘The Hidden Treasures were dispersed around the globe. They are presumed to be missing rather than hidden. Some may be in private collections or forgotten in bank vaults or in salt mines. Others may even be on display in museums without an understanding of their true, celestial worth. Some even number amongst the fallen monuments of any vanquished civilisation. A rare few may have yet been discovered – not as impossible as one might suppose considering that we still have yet to find the Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World.’ St. John smiled mysteriously. ‘Unfortunately, Renauld was quite correct in establishing that there has been an increase in art and antiquity crime since World War Two. Hitler and the Nazis were obsessed with art and antiquities – particularly those of mythic significance to their organisation – but they weren’t the only ones.’

  ‘But we must find a seraph blade in order to fight Semyaza,’ Fi said, growing perturbed. ‘I don’t suppose the Fallen still have their weapons?’

  ‘No, they have no seraph blades of their own, though they have the ability to forge new weapons,’ St. John said calmly. ‘Most of the seraph blades belonging to the Fallen were broken, melted down, or rendered useless after the rebellion. According to legend, when cast into Tartaros, the Grigori were stripped of their armour and weapons by the Archangels Gabriel and Michael. Any weapons they might be able to forge now will not have the same celestial power as given by the Creator.’

  Fi sighed deeply and leant back in her seat, defeated. ‘Great. I guess that means we’re stuck – unless we can locate the sword of the Archangel Michael.’

  Jade green eyes were filled with a gentle mockery. ‘Elijah holds the answer to the sword’s disappearance.’

  Astonished, I felt my heart skip a beat. ‘Elijah? Your biological father?’

  ‘Yes, my biological father.’ The quickness of his response gave evidence of the strong emotion that lay between them still. ‘My father knows where the sword of the Archangel Michael is hidden. Why do you suppose his human captors made a travesty of him by turning him into an effigy of the Archangel of the Final Reckoning? Yet he would tell them nothing – as a celestial being he answers to no man.’

  ‘Then there must be a way to find it,’ I said, understanding the full extent of my sister’s desire to possess the seraph blade. ‘I suppose it would be too much to ask for your father’s help?’

  His lips compressed. ‘You wish us to deal with the devil?’

  ‘I want to fix this situation.’ My voice was stubborn. ‘I want us to have a life together – and we can’t truly start our life together until this thing is finished.’

  ‘There will be a price.’

  ‘I will pay it.’

  St. John reached out and I felt his long, lean fingers bite into my arm uncomfortably. Not enough to actually hurt me but enough to force me to listen. ‘Do not think you can make a promise to a fallen angel lightly, Sage. You will be forced to keep it.’

  My breath caught. His eyes held mine.

  ‘I will keep it.’

 
He let me go abruptly. ‘It is not you who will pay.’

  The directness of his statement, as sharp as the seraph blade we were seeking, gave me pause.

  But not so my sister.

  Fi’s hazel eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Shall we discuss moral relativism then? Back in Oxford – the car chase – all you do, the Anakim, everything you do, is rooted in the belief that the whole of creation is more important than the individual, more important than you or me, more important than the Keeper of the Seed or the Wise One. Does your brotherhood draw the balance – so many lives sacrificed and so far along the road? Or do you simply adhere to what was said in the Bible by some dead white guy – what was his view? – that it’s better that one person die for the many instead of having the whole of creation destroyed?’

  St. John’s head reared back as if she had struck him.

  Shocked, I looked at my sister. I knew the passage she was referring to – The Gospel of John which went something along the lines of “You know nothing at all, nor do you take into account that it is expedient for you that one man die for the people, and that the whole nation not perish.” – but I had no idea that she knew of it nor that she would challenge St. John’s ethical laws so forcefully.

  ‘You wish to bind our futures to the will of my capricious, trickster father?’ St. John asked, his voice shaking with emotion, which was easily identifiable as a white hot wrath.

  ‘I think–’ I began without knowing what exactly I thought or was about to say, but I was interrupted by my sister’s strident, inflexible argument.

  ‘We’re going to fix this. No matter the cost.’

  And St. John, the man I loved more than life, the Keeper of the Seed, measured her words and nodded curtly. ‘If that is your will, Wise One. So be it.’

  THE BRETHREN

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fi didn’t budge, causing me to sigh in frustration.

  We were standing near the sporty-looking metallic blue Toyota Prius Hybrid, which we’d received as a reward for graduating from high school and was now parked out the back of the Manor House, with Fi insisting that I get in the car – ‘NOW!’. But I was still too upset to comply with her demands – though I supposed it was lucky she wasn’t ordering me to climb onto the back of the Ducati again – and remained belligerently fixed beside the closed front passenger door.