Sword- Part Two

by D B Nielsen

  Unfortunately, the transition wasn’t smooth; instead, it was extremely demanding and disorientating. For a few moments, I felt consciousness start to slide away from me as I moved through what appeared to be an impenetrable barrier, which felt like millions of shards of ice or licks of fire passing through my flesh and bone, the searing pain of pinpoints of starlight needling their way beneath my skin. The portcullis spun around me crazily and I ended up on my hands and knees, dry retching.

  Fi was beside me in a parallel position, barely holding onto her last meal.

  ‘Sage.’ I could hear Gabriel’s calm voice reassuring me. ‘It’s all right. It’s over. Stay with her, Pen.’

  Recovering first, Fi was assisted to her feet by Zeke and Kal, who appeared unaffected by the motion.

  ‘Sage, just keep moving,’ Fi said, still gasping as she bowed low with her hands braced on her knees next to me. ‘Listen to me. It’ll wear off in a minute.’

  Around us, I could hear the conversation of the Gibborim – it was the sound of a football team celebrating scoring a goal. The transition had infused them; giving them some kind of huge rush.

  The portal closed behind us, plunging us into semi-darkness. But, as I found my sea legs, the shimmering glow from the Watcher’s skin and the outer opening of the tunnel lit our path.

  ‘Prepare to move out,’ Gabriel commanded, bringing the Gibborim back to order.

  ‘Wait, Wise One,’ advised the Watcher. He blocked our path out of the passageway. ‘You must decide. You must fight where you are most needed.’

  Confused, I paused. I could see the swarming Rephaim behind him through the open portal. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They have divided their army in order to conquer.’

  ‘Well, that’s not an issue, is it?’ I asked, afraid at the amount of time we were wasting with this discussion. ‘We follow Belladonna.’

  Elijah watched me. His unbroken gaze was disconcerting.

  ‘What is it? What do you know that we don’t?’ Fi demanded, fully recovered from her ordeal.

  ‘Belladonna is with Semyaza,’ the Grigori replied. ‘And my son.’

  Gabriel looked at Elijah. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the British Museum.’

  Pen swore. In Gaelic.

  ‘And the others?’ The sharp whip of Gabriel’s voice held only hostility.

  ‘The Fravashi are split between the two camps. The Rephaim are here at Hampton Court Palace.’ Nothing I didn’t already know. Until Elijah said, ‘They are holding Professor Woods hostage.’

  I heard Fi’s sharp intake of breath. But nothing could have prepared me for the Watcher’s words. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it meant that the Anakim had lost more of their men who would have given their lives to protect my family, but I just couldn’t get my head around what Elijah had said.

  ‘Dad?’ My voice sounded faint, even to my own ears. ‘They’ve got Dad?’

  Gabriel’s expression was extremely grim. ‘Putain! Fils de salope!’

  ‘We must fight with the head, not the heart.’ These pragmatic words from Sariel who was quick to challenge the Watcher’s earlier battle philosophy.

  It had the effect of snapping me back to focus. ‘You are wrong, Sariel. We fight with both. That’s how we will win.’ My voice was firm and I now took charge.

  ‘Fi.’ I turned to my twin. I should have been afraid. For St. John. For my father. For us all. Instead, I was in a white hot rage. ‘I’ll take Pen, Sariel and two of his finest warriors with me. I’m going after Belladonna. You take the others, meet with the Anakim, and go after Dad.’

  ‘Wise One, this is not a good idea,’ Sariel said, his voice rising. I had expected the Anakim to protest, not the Gibborim. But then I remembered the cautioning of Gabriel – that the Gibborim would follow orders unless they felt we were endangering ourselves and feared for our safety.

  ‘It is not an idea,’ I contradicted sharply. ‘It is an order. You may either follow it. Or you may leave. If you choose to leave, I shall release you from your vow and you may have your freedom. Make your choice.’

  Sariel frowned. His eyes darkened until they were blacker than black. ‘I meant what I pledged, Wise One. I am your own, to command at your will.’

  ‘Even so, you cannot face Semyaza on your own. Even with the fiercest fighters. Bad enough that you must face Belladonna. But both? Together? You do not have enough experience or training yet, Sage,’ Gabriel cautioned. And I knew that he was right.

  Elijah turned to the others. His expression was impassive and shuttered. ‘I will face Semyaza.’

  I froze. When I spoke again, I spoke slowly and carefully. ‘So, it is settled.’

  Her voice equally resolute, Fi said, ‘Yeah, it’s settled. I’ll get Dad back. Alive.’

  But just to prove that this would be no simple task, thunder roared as, through the open portal, the image of Clock Court tore apart as if it were at the core of a maelstrom.

  CRUSADE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was no time for prolonged expressions of goodbye or good luck, and no time for sentiment. Instead, there was a blur of activity at the edge of my vision as those Nephilim committed to following my sister raced towards the open portal and out into Clock Court. Between one breath and the next, my sister’s face vanished from my sight as Gabriel snatched her up in a vortex of movement and they disappeared from view, swallowed by the strokes and branches of lightning that now seemingly grew from the bricks of the tower itself.

  Then the image slid and vanished to be replaced with others. They randomly shuffled as in a pack of conjurer’s cards; the sleight of hand faster than the eye, playing tricks on the mind. Then it settled on a familiar sight, though I knew it would not last long.

  Dazedly, trying to gather my wits, it seemed that I had been waiting for this moment since first meeting the Ice Queen, though now that it was upon me, I felt unprepared.

  ‘We must go now, Wise One. Bring forth the Mizrael.’ The Watcher’s words were sternly spoken, his dark eyes seeing into beyond.

  It was as if a sluice of ice water had been poured over me as I drew out the long, heavy seraph blade that was now a part of me, at least in spirit. Grimly, I strengthened my resolve as it slid free from its scabbard. Its light dazzled the eyes in the dim confines of the portal, seeming to draw energy from the Watcher’s starlit form. The fallen angel began striding towards the open portal, his gait like booming thunder, and I hurried to catch up to him – but then was forced to slow down at the weight of the seraph blade as it banged against my hip as I ran.

  Again, the transition between the two planes of existence was confusing and testing. I ended up on my knees, trying very hard not to throw up. I could only be grateful that it didn’t require me to travel through it naked, though it would always remain for me a less favoured mode of transport; both vile and cursed.

  Yet, this time, the transfer was equally as difficult for the Nephilim. But not for the same reasons. The portal’s transference point was a cuneiform tablet, containing a unique map of the Mesopotamian world. The cuneiform inscription composed the top section of the tablet whilst, underneath it, was a diagram featuring two concentric circles. The outer circle was surrounded by triangles at what seemed to be random distances. The inner circle held more geometric symbols and cuneiforms. A rectangle in the top half of the inner circle in the centre of the tablet represented Babylon. Assyria, Elam and other cities were also depicted.

  It was the same cuneiform tablet I had been fixated on when I’d first met St. John.

  But what had made the Nephilim’s journey through the portal difficult was its damaged state. The tablet and its inscription were by no means complete as it had been reassembled from the broken pieces found by archaeologists – and so the portal’s opening, beamed from the hollow central axis within the concentric circles, was not the smooth reflective surface that they expected to pass through and, instead, caused them as much difficulty as it caused me.
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br />   The only one of our group to remain unaffected was the Watcher. He wasn’t even in the least bit fazed by the transference. Standing remote and stoic, he watched me cope with my undignified, nauseating entrance into the British Museum. As we all slowly recovered, he bent to offer me his hand when I could finally raise my forehead from where it rested against my whitened knuckles, clutching the hilt of the seraph blade.

  The others were quicker to recover. I only grasped the Watcher’s proffered hand when I felt it was safe for me to stand up – and that was only when the room had stopped spinning and my stomach had stopped churning.

  Pen waited at a polite distance. ‘Well, I think we’ve lost the element of surprise.’

  Sariel raised an eyebrow in his direction. ‘Are you certain we even had it?’

  Pen shrugged, his expression grim yet battle-hardened.

  Not wasting time, Elijah turned and indicated, with a curt nod in the direction of the children of the Grigori, that they were to follow. On slightly shaky legs, I fell into step behind the Watcher. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to lag far behind, despite the heaviness of my burden. Willing the heavenly fire of the Mizrael to remain dormant for a while longer yet, I followed the path of the fallen angel, letting him take over my role as museum tour guide.

  We emerged from The Raymond and Beverly Sackler Gallery, Room 55 into the adjoining Room 56, known to me from my guided tour groups, where the museum housed rare Mesopotamian artefacts. At night, the museum was a silent tomb; empty save for the security guards. Ruthlessly suppressing thoughts of both my father and the dead security guard, I glanced about at my companions, noting Sariel’s curiously blank expression as he gazed ahead into the distance, as if contemplating which path to follow. Following commands rather than giving them was at odds with his nature, I could tell. The deep scar etched on his face seemed to glow in the light cast by the Watcher within the dimness of the gallery, yet it also illuminated a bearing filled with keen warrior pride. The firm jawline and brow of the Gibborim possessed authority and a determined yet quiet strength and arrogance. I still wasn’t too certain I could trust him but he was earning my grudging respect.

  Suddenly, from somewhere below us, a terrifying clamour and commotion, equal to a tornado, tore through the lower galleries, and the air simmered and crackled with energy. My hand reflexively latched onto the hilt of the seraph blade, grasping Mizrael for all I was worth, with a strength and tension that seared the hilt onto the mark on my palm and made me cry out in rising pain. Instinctively, I knew of only one form of relief. I opened my mouth on a resounding scream and out poured living flame to rival that of the Watcher’s starlit form.

  All rational thought vanished as the pain swelled within me and built to a peak. It was an icy burning sensation that attacked every cell and nerve ending in my body, infusing blood with heavenly fire, so that I understood I was to become an instrument of divine will. Like Arthur’s Excalibur, the blade an extension of the man and the legendary king, I found the inner strength to wield the blade and carry the burden of humanity.

  Sariel and his men had dropped back, prostrating themselves before me, and the tears on Pen’s face, shimmering as he observed my transformation, were as crystals in the silver-violet and golden light.

  Dust particles started to lift from the ground and I felt the quickening of the Seed in my blood. I felt the awakening of the Lamassu. And I was not afraid. I could feel the fire of impending battle building in the air. Building inside me.

  Bounding up the stone stairwell from the Great Court below, every harsh footfall a deafening cacophony, the Lamassu roared in response. The pair of stone mythological guardian figures that once flanked one of the entrances into the throne room of Ashurnasirpal II, slouched forward on cold, deadly thighs to flank me on my left and right sides; here to protect me from demonic forces.

  Overlooking the Great Court, the fallen angel spoke the true names of the winged guardians. The Lamassu responded. The colossal figures met. The Watcher had impassively observed the arrival of the Lamassu, neither expectant nor surprised at their coming.

  The passage of time and the fall of the Grigori had not loosened the bond between them. These complex, composite creatures embodied the strength of the lion, the swiftness of birds, and the intelligence of human beings. Their helmets, complete with horns, and their enormous wings indicated their mysticism and angelic ancestry.

  ‘I shall now leave you,’ the Watcher informed me; the dark eyes regarded me intensely, yet stayed veiled.

  ‘But you promised to help me save St. John.’ The protest fell from my suddenly dry mouth.

  ‘My promise stands. I owe a debt to the Wise One. I shall be present at the final battle.’ His words served to anchor me. ‘Listen well, Wise One. The universe must be in balance. Use Mizrael well. It is your salvation and your bane.’

  ‘Are you abandoning us then?’ demanded Pen, his voice laced with the bitterness of betrayal.

  ‘Do you believe so, child? Then you are mistaken,’ Elijah revealed to the offspring of the Grigori, point-blank. ‘You are young, so I shall let your offence pass.’

  ‘What is it that you must do?’ asked Sariel quietly, understanding.

  ‘I offered the Wise One protection from the forces of chaos which is only made possible through the Keeper of the Seed, my son.’ At this, the Lamassu bent towards the brilliance of Mizrael. ‘In order to fulfil my vow, I must meet my brother. The silver-eyed child was correct – the Wise One is unprepared to face Semyaza. He is an enemy to the Keeper and a danger to the Wise One. We are ancient. Chosen to be the right arm of the Creator and to wield His sword against the mighty foe. We have seen whole worlds reduced to little more than the neutrons of a dying star. When the trial is over and the Wise One is ready, cities will fall and crumble to dust and, from their ashes, we will rise again.’

  I shuddered at the sound of his voice like piercing music, sharp and jarring. It wove its way cunningly into my mind.

  ‘Hear me, Wise One. If you cut off the head of the beast, the body will fall.’

  He moved then – or, rather, the air moved around him, rippling with a liquid brilliance that barely disturbed the floating dust motes – and then he was gone. Such as was the case with the Cherubim on the train – from one moment to the next, once present and then vanishing into thin air; a trick of the light, no more.

  ‘We should keep moving,’ Pen immediately stated upon the Watcher’s leave-taking.

  But Sariel caught my shoulder just before I began to cross the stone and glass spanned walkway to make my descent to the Great Court.

  ‘Something,’ he warned in a low voice, ‘is not right here. I sense them.’

  His men nodded, darkly feathered wings bristling in alert response.

  ‘Sense what?’ My skin was tingling with awareness from the Seed’s conjoined sentience with Mizrael. It was difficult to distinguish with my sight what my Gibborim protector meant – but I knew not to trust what I saw.

  ‘In the shadows. My past,’ was his quiet reply.

  Softly, Pen said, ‘We must proceed with utmost caution, Wise One. But we must move.’

  We skirted the Great Court restaurant – now silenced and devoid of diners – and, moving stealthily to the left, made our way to the summit of the wrap-around stairwell that encircled the stately Reading Room. There, the Lamassu paused on the first step. I waited for them to move forward but, determinedly, one blocked my path, whilst the other shielded me from behind.

  Soundlessly, Sariel lifted a muscular arm, drawing my gaze higher – up towards the billowing glass ceiling. Moonlight and starlight failed to make an appearance behind the curved, crisscross-patterned dome – no hint of silver, no midnight curtain broken by the glint of stars and luminous moon – choosing to remain hidden in the all-consuming blackness as if afraid to watch the fearful acts that would transpire this night.

  Edging around the impressive build of the Lamassu, Sariel’s tread was sure as he softly a
nd stealthily descended the stone stairs, never for a moment letting his gaze stray from the glass ceiling. He motioned for us to follow before moving forward down the curvature of the stairwell and disappearing from sight.

  The Lamassu opened its human mouth and a deep, rumbling sound built in its belly and came out as a roar – there would be no furtive approach but a declaration of war. It lifted its massive head to the heavens as the sound expanded to shatter the silent spaces of the museum, making the glass ceiling vibrate with its frequency, then it abruptly stopped with a snap of its jaws. Enormous wings unfurled from its back as it prepared to hunt down the darkness. As if in response, Mizrael burned brightly with its preternatural light to illuminate the surrounding gloom.

  ‘Get down! Incoming!’ screamed Pen as, instantly, a multitude of incensed, wild black wings surged from the liminal spaces within the British Museum.

  Reflexively, the Lamassu’s enormous wings swelled expansively in protection over our heads and shielded us from the enemy’s onslaught. Under their defensive winged shield, we fled down the stairwell, adrenaline flooding my veins as I braced myself for battle.

  Flying at a high angle of attack, they rocketed towards us at a speed so great, it defied vision and created a shock wave in front of their falling bodies. Like meteorites falling to Earth, like the incomparable heat from atmospheric friction which burnt up space debris, the unintelligible horde of poisoned Rephaim and Fravashi warriors encountered the Lamassu’s winged shield and a multitude of sparks and feathers flew. Like rebounding hail, upon striking the Lamassu’s diamond-hard wings the horrid fiends vaulted in all directions, landing unceremoniously wherever they fetched up upon the hard, marble ground.

  As they gathered themselves off the museum floor to make another mindless attack, I felt the seething energy of the Seed surge and roil within me. The sword of the Archangel was drawing upon currents which normally would have left in its wake the devastation of the repeated lightning storms inflicted by the Nephilim conflicts – yet, instead, to my heightened senses, the sword burned brighter still in the astonishing telescoping of space within the Great Court.