Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  I carefully picked my way along the row of trees to find a young birch, not terribly tall but set amidst others in a thick clump. It offered a concealment of sorts behind its flowing tresses of spring greenery.

  Under the luminescence of the new moon, the undulating lawns were bathed in a softly filtered cyanotic blue; the ghostly trees veiled like new brides proceeding down the aisle. By now, I had recovered my ability to think clearly – my headache almost gone. I breathed in the still night air. The wide, wide heavens above were a Tiffany’s display – a cache of sparkling diamonds scattered across black velvet – rich pickings for a queen. But such untouched beauty – magnificent, bewitching, pure – could never really last. The hushed and still solemnity of the landscape was short-lived.

  Borne on the mild spring breeze which made the leaves over my head rustle like taffeta, a putrid, foul odour assailed me. Like pus that oozed from incurable sores, the corrupted, foetid stench bled from the sky. Or seemed to. And my eyes were drawn slowly upwards, following the silvered line of bark, as I heard a creaking overhead.

  A monstrous dim speck blotted out the moon with its cloak of darkness and I thought I caught a glint of cruel, ember-red, inhuman eyes looking down on me, coldly assessing me from where the fallen angel perched at a neighbouring tree’s apex.

  It was right above me! My voice was locked. I could not scream. I could only let out an appalled moan. But Indy’s growling intensified, the sound growing in the back of his throat until it burst forth in a rabid bark. His fur was raised, teeth bared aggressively. He viciously pawed the tree trunk; his nails clawing, stripping away the bark in his frantic yearning to reach the creature.

  Indy’s response released me from my stupor.

  Instinctively, I took off at a run. Panic lent my feet wings but not quite the same as those of the creature behind me. Its immense, hideous feathered form, black and smoothly flowing as molten tar, descended with ease from the treetops to the ground in one fell swoop, spilling upon the grass as it resumed its shadow.

  The creature landed noiselessly, practically at my heels as if toying with its prey, enjoying the hunt, the kill, spreading like a contagion to shrivel the new blooms in my mother’s rose garden. I gave another burst of speed, feeling my lungs tighten in response.

  At the same moment, the back door of the Manor House was thrown open with a good deal of violence, suddenly streaming a welcome light to keep the darkness at bay. And my twin, silhouetted in the doorway, called out to me in a voice that held desperation, ‘SAGE! HERE! HURRY!’

  The dark shadow changed course without warning. Like spilt black ink, it swiftly spread across the manicured lawns, stretching its poisonous, nicotine-stained fingers, its filthy, tarred tendrils greedily towards Fi.

  ‘NO!’ I screamed, the terror unlocked from my throat. And I drew in a sharp breath.

  The shadow did not pause but continued its course inexorably.

  ‘No!’ I said again, my voice barely above a whisper.

  But this time, I felt it – as assiduous as the force of a tsunami and as relentless – a shifted awareness that was the Seed’s sentience. It sparked within me, tingling from the mark on my palm, rapidly running up the length of my spine like a spark to set alight a bonfire.

  Power rose like a current to my will. I felt, rather than saw, the flare of the Seed as its ancient markings writhed beneath the surface of living, hewn stone. From an inner source – way beyond my limited, mortal understanding – the rising energy seethed and coursed outwards, its passage manifested in the scorching chill that receded to a slight tingling within my veins.

  I raised my hand, opening my right palm to allow the power to flow naturally. Then spoke in the old tongue without consciously doing so.

  Immediately, the shadow twisted and writhed on the ground, convulsing, blistering and boiling, hissing and splattering like oil heated in a frypan.

  But I could not contain it.

  ‘Sage!’ Fi cried out in horror, running towards me only to find herself blocked.

  White light arced across the lawn, brilliant, blinding, and Fi threw up an arm to protect herself.

  ‘Sage! Let go!’

  The light and the voice radiated from the Anakim standing behind me.

  I gave a sob. ‘St. John, I’ve got it pinned down. We need to destroy it.’

  ‘We have no means to destroy it! Let it go!’ This time, the voice belonged to Gabriel. He had placed himself between my sister and the pool of darkness before us, shielding her with the immensity of his blue-black raven wings.

  But this thing of evil had already begun to throw off my puny attempt to contain it. It appeared to absorb the life and light and energy of all the living things it touched in order to maintain itself, leaving devastation and ruin in its wake.

  ‘Anachiel, get Saffron to safety.’ St. John directed someone who stood beyond my line of vision. Yet, from his citrusy scent as he rocketed past me to gather up my twin, I realised that it was Anak’s eldest son, here to help deal with the threat that loomed before us.

  ‘Strike quickly. Strike forcefully. When Sage releases the Fallen. Do. Not. Hesitate.’ Gabriel’s words were directed at St. John. ‘Borrow whatever strength you need, mon ami. I will bear the burden.’

  Gabriel moved closer yet, channelling energy like a conduit in our direction.

  But then the Grigori reared up; its monstrous wings spread wide to encompass the whole of the visible sky. It did not flee nor did it seem perturbed by our efforts to restrain it. This blemish of blackness that had once personified the penultimate grace of the Creator now toyed with us, sowing dissonance, harrowing order. Possessed of an ancient consciousness that hungered to be satisfied, it sought out our weaknesses, driving forward to destroy us.

  It struck. Images assailed my mind of atrocities too terrible to contemplate. Horror upon horror bombarded my unsuspecting consciousness. I reeled under the onslaught, sucking in a harsh, heartbroken breath, trying to stay upright as tears coursed down my face.

  ‘NOW, SAGE!’

  I let go.

  A backlash of energy surged through my fingertips as brilliant light cracked and crackled outwards. Shocked, I took a stumbling step backwards, crying out as I shielded my face from the scorching heat which gathered strength and lashed the ground in front of me like sheet lightning. The smell of ozone and other noxious gases suffused the air. Unexpectedly blinded by the discharge of radiance, I swayed on my feet, knees buckling, and felt St. John lock both arms around me as I almost fell to the ground, hauling me to safety.

  Hard hands caught at my shoulders and Gabriel was there before me, silver-grey eyes piercing the sudden gloom. ‘Get moving.’

  He pulled me roughly away from St. John and forced me onwards, retreating from the thick of battle.

  ‘But, St. John–’ I protested through hacking coughs and watering eyes, worried for my beloved.

  ‘Trust that he knows what he’s doing. Would that I too could do more to help,’ came the terse response which Gabriel shouted into my ear above the melee. I noted his strained expression – he was white with the effort it cost him to ward off the allure of darkness, and sweat glistened in streaks at his temples.

  The shadow roared up in a Neronian blaze of sparks behind us as St. John continued to rally against its magnetic pull. But still the evil came, surging inexorably forward. Light speared skywards like a lance; a straight arrow bolt of lightning, sizzling living flesh.

  Though it must have been no more than a stone’s throw away, the distance to the Manor House appeared unreachable. But, driven by necessity, Gabriel and I clumsily made our way to safety – despite missing my stride and stumbling once or twice, he shouldered my weight easily – just as a shattering shriek of tormented, roiling energy launched into the night sky behind us.

  ‘ST. JOHN!’ I screamed, frantically tearing at Gabriel’s restraining hands, as my head whipped round to survey the scene, searching desperately for my fiancé.

  And I fel
t the power of the Seed now, gathering like a storm around me. Crackling with raw energy, it rushed to fill all the spaces between my beloved and me.

  ‘STOP IT! STOP NOW!’

  And the symbol filled my mind. It exploded up through my bones, blood, muscle, skin – excruciating and shocking – and slammed into the weaving blackness like a sword thrust into solid flesh. It knocked the thing off balance, tore at it, raked at it as it shrieked and howled in agony. But still it would not – could not – succumb. It could not die.

  And then St. John was there. He caught at my wrist and I felt our combined power surging. He gathered himself and pressed us forward against the dark thing. Arcs of light hammered the winged shadow back, again and again. Yet, even as it yowled and cursed, it tossed us up and flung us back like ragged dolls, crashing heavily onto the ground. Darkness closed like a curtain around us, a barrier cutting us off from Gabriel and the others.

  Conscious still, I felt its icy chill impale my flesh. But even as I sensed the Fallen’s attempt to ensnare my mind, it snapped back like an elastic stretched too tight and released me, retreating in a blur of blackness against the black velvety night.

  Not strong enough to deflect its vicious counterattack, I slipped into a horrifying, flittering, murky miasma ...

  MIDNIGHT IS A PLACE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At some point during the remainder of the night, I felt that strange lassitude of a half-waking, half-sleeping state. I felt my pulse beat so quickly and heavily that I heard the pounding in my eardrums and sensed the palpitations in every vein and artery as the blood coursed through my body. Cold perspiration and damp, matted hair clung to my forehead whilst every limb convulsed. And I was disturbed by the wildest imaginings ...

  I see two stone towers rising from the earth as the many labourers work ceaselessly to reach the heavens above. Day and night, the towers rise higher. Higher than the steeple of the tallest oak. Higher than the condor’s nest at the mountain’s peak. Higher than the golden orb’s noonday zenith. They rise like the Tower of Babylon ...

  I wait ... I wait ... the seasons fly ... the crops wither ... the leaves lie blackened on the damp ground ... I wait in the harshness of the season for the seed to grow, for the blossom to open, for the fruit to ripen on the mind’s tree of thorns, its crowning glory ...

  I will not be here long ... there is a tumour in the heart of the woods ... there is a bilious frothing at the mouth of the snarling sea ...

  Time quickens as once living things are worried to dust ...

  Travelling towards the light at the end of the ocean, I am waylaid by darkness. A migration of madness. The shadow of wing.

  I approach across the searing, barren desert. My mind flounders like a fish that is caught by its own cunning. The towers are no towers. They are two rising pillars of bones ... of all the peoples of the earth ... of every man, woman and child, crushed and discarded like broken playthings ... and still there are more being piled on top by the labourers whom I now can see are things of shadow ... and the shadow has wings and limbs and gleaming red eyes ...

  Darkness arrives at midday ...

  Stars fall, time’s bright fires surrendering one by one ...

  I see the Angel and the coming war ... the universe over ...

  I see lightning rending the inked midnight blue sky apart, sullying its purity, lashing its ageless innocence ... the heavens defiled and cleft in two ... and the Fall of the brightest amongst them ...

  The longest of lives too early, too late passes by ...

  I hold my beloved in my arms but the furies attend ...

  It is no more than a dead thing and the grave worms crawl in the pleats of burnt feathers and broken wings and blistered flesh ...

  Despairing, I stare through the bones’ bars at the dying face of the world beyond ...

  I started from my sleep in horror, my head pounding. I couldn’t make any sense of where I was – and then I realised I was strapped to the bed, my wrists restrained by security straps. Against all logic, panicked, I desperately fought against my bonds, trying to get free. But they did not give and I spent my energy struggling futilely. Exhausted, I flopped limply back onto the bed, turning my head sideways to view my surroundings better.

  The room was bathed in the dim, bluish-white light of the moon which forced its way through the window shutters, filtering into my prison. The shadowy wooden slats formed crude bars upon the carpet suggesting that I had subconsciously incorporated my environment into my nightmares. But I still had no idea where I was being held.

  The door opened silently and I closed my eyes, feigning sleep.

  ‘Sage. Mon cœur.’

  The melodious voice belonged to St. John.

  Biting back a sob of relief, I croaked, ‘St. John. What happened? Where are we? Why am I tied up?’

  My throat felt savagely dry like it had been scratched raw by sandpaper, making it difficult to swallow. And my hair had never felt so revolting; so tangled and greasy. I hated that St. John was seeing me like this. Though I knew he’d already seen me at my worst, I was vain enough to want him to see me only when I was looking my best.

  ‘We’re at an Anakim safe house near Tunbridge Wells. You’ve been feverish for two days. The poison was working its way through your system,’ St. John explained as he crossed to the bed to undo my restraints. Very gently, he brushed the matted hair from my face as if my scruffy state was of little consequence and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry, mon cœur, we had to restrain you for fear you might hurt yourself.’

  As soon as the security straps were off, I sat up. Too abruptly. The room spun as I lifted my head, a kaleidoscope of vision. But I managed to lower my legs over the edge of the bed and stand.

  ‘Two days? I was poisoned?’ So that too wasn’t a dream.

  St. John held me upright as we slowly crossed to the bathroom ensuite, continuing to talk whilst I – avoiding looking too carefully in the mirror – splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth. ‘Yes, poisoned. You were weakened by the skirmish with Semyaza and with the adrenaline rush wearing off, it left you more susceptible to the poison, infecting you all the faster. Don’t worry, Sage, our physicians immediately used activated charcoal to cleanse your system – as we also did with your parents.’

  My nervous system must have been still slightly suppressed from the effects of the poison or its antidote as my reasoning and behaviour were sluggish – or maybe that was just because of the nightmare visions – but an abundance of confused thoughts and questions flitted through my mind, bombarding me, and I didn’t know what to voice first.

  What had happened to Semyaza? What was the outcome of the battle? Did St. John know about the removal of his blessing from the Manor House? What type of poison had been used? How had I been poisoned? Something I ate? Touched? What had happened during the past two days when I was unconscious?

  But emotion won out.

  ‘My parents? Fi? Jasmine? Alex?’ The words were little more than a long, low gasp.

  St. John’s hands clamped tighter around my waist, holding me steady as my steps faltered towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Fi, Jasmine and Alex are perfectly fine. For whatever reason, they were not affected. Your father’s condition was only mild. But your mother ...’

  The questions burst forth in a low growl like an animal in pain as I recalled her previous state. ‘What about her? What happened?’

  I was unable to continue. My feet remained planted on the carpeted floor and I started to shake uncontrollably, fearing the worst.

  ‘Is she ...?’ I swallowed hard. ‘Is she all right?’

  What I wanted to ask was if she was still alive but my throat closed upon the words.

  St. John must have realised this as he attempted to allay my fears, ‘She’s recovering. It will take a few more days but we managed to get to her in time.’ He paused as if balancing his thoughts in his mind and his jade green eyes held such a hard look that I felt li
ke he had turned to stone. ‘I won’t lie to you, Sage. A poisoning such as this – it can be fatal. But your mother is a strong woman–’ Didn’t I know it? I didn’t need telling. There was no one more impossibly stubborn, headstrong or bloody minded than my mother. ‘–she fought against the poison and held on long enough for us to treat her.’

  ‘But ...’ How could I voice my darkest terrors? Unbearable thoughts of the poisoned, mentally debilitated Anakim assailed me. Taking a deep breath, I braved whatever answer was to follow. ‘Is she going to be–?’

  ‘She wasn’t injected. She’ll make a full recovery. Body. Mind. Spirit.’ The firmness in St. John’s voice left no room for doubt – he assured me of Mum’s wellbeing.

  Relief made me stumble forward but I managed to find my balance before St. John lost patience and carried me – after two days in bed, I felt the need to exercise my weakened, somewhat numb muscles rather than having St. John once again act as the knight in shining armour to my damsel in distress routine.

  ‘Where is she? Can I see her?’ I asked as St. John led me down the darkened corridor to the back of the house with its large galley kitchen. A shaft of light penetrated the gloom, pouring out from the open doorway at the end of the passageway and I could hear the clatter of pots and pans and the banging of cabinet doors even before I entered.

  I paused on the threshold.

  It was a scene of pure bedlam. Gabriel was swearing in spitfire French, wildly gesticulating with hands in the air at a tall, handsome young man whom I imagined Othello to look like with his close-cropped, kinky hair and smooth, dark skin elaborately tattooed with the markings of a Nephilim warrior. Behind them, Anak’s son, Anachiel leant up against the counter, long legs stretched out in front of him, unconcernedly swigging a bottle of chilled cider whilst his father rummaged in the kitchen drawers for a roll of paper towels to clean up the spillage from the fridge door where milk leaked onto the floor.

  I blinked. Twice.

  But St. John never had a chance to reply to my questions as Fi pushed him out of the way, having spied me standing thunderstruck like a deer before the headlights, and then she was shaking my shoulders, babbling incoherently – but the barrage of words didn’t seem to matter – and grinning like an idiot.