II
----The Oath----
- The King’s Palace-
Silken, a shimmering robe of pearl-white glided along a floor of smooth tile. Features hidden by the low brim of a hood with embroidered strands of ruby red, a florescent figure strode past a row of pillars. The round columns cast segments of light and shadow across the marble path.
Arms folded and concealed by the length of his wide sleeves, a ghostly Priest, the leader of the nine Vessels, moved like a silent breath of wind. Coursing through the deserted passages of the rear palace—which were always empty and void of light or life—the white specter came to a dim hall.
A clatter of jars and a rasping call echoed along the stone corridor leading to the King’s chamber at the far end. The priest advanced without hesitation, but still haste did not lengthen his stiff strides.
Arriving at the doorway, his shadow fell upon the aides inside. They were occupied with the ill task of mending the grievous wound of their delirious master. The king’s voice rang out with madness and echoed along the damp corridors, calling for the Vessels. Noticing the chilling presence of the king’s man, a wave of silence washed across those in the room.
Methuselah’s pale eyes stared at the illuminant being who remained in the entrance of the bedchamber.
“Leave us!” the aged monarch ordered between guttural breaths.
The company of aides and healers exchanged quick glances of concerned fear before shuffling one by one past the ominous priest. Left alone, the still figure in the doorway came to life and tread slowly along the outside of the room. Passing the arched windows, he drew the curtains across each one until the room was filled with shadows.
The aged and weakened monarch watched in a daze as the priest stood before a table in the center of the room. Tossed aside, the wooden table splintered on the stone and its contents flew toward the wall. While bronze plates and goblets were still clanking on the floor, the priest swept a rug from the section of tile where the table had stood a moment before. A white circle of marble appeared in the dim light and Methuselah cowered before the sight of it. Retreating to the far side of his bloodstained bed, he clutched his pulsating wound.
Centering himself before the altar, the robed figure spread his arms with palms raised toward the ceiling. From within the darkness, the king could see claws—like those of a wild beast—rising from the man’s fingertips. Radiating from the marble, an eerie glow illuminated the priest’s menacing form. It seemed a continuous torrent of wind arose from the stone in waves of crystalline light, but its radiance was cold and hollow. Drawing a crescent dagger from within the folds of his long cloak, the priest pressed its edge against the grayed skin of his forearm. Blood trickled along the Vessel’s wrist and dripped in a steady stream onto the center of the circle of light.
Bending low, the priest used his bloodstained hand to smear the dark pool into the marble. Spreading the sacrament with the length of his fingers, he made three identical designs around the central splotch of blood. Once the markings were complete, the specter paused from his ritual and lifted a set of silver eyes. The molten stare fell upon Methuselah’s hunched form and peered into his soul. Before the king could blink, the priest appeared beside him and gripped him by the cloak. Dragged from his bed, the king found himself thrown to his knees before the marred sheet of marble. Dipping a clawed finger into the blood, the priest marked Methuselah’s forehead with a symbol similar to the one on the floor.
“Place your hand in the blood!” hissed the shallow voice of the priest. “Make the oath or die…”
Fingers quivering, the King obeyed and laid his palm in the center of the markings. To his surprise the fluid was cold as a frosty dew. A worming emptiness traveled up the king’s arm and into his chest. He could feel the wound close and the flesh sealed without leaving the slightest scar. A blackness crept into his soul and the radiating energy flared before dissipating with an unearthly hiss. Methuselah collapsed to the stone and the shallow dark returned.
“What have I done?” he whispered hoarsely before his mind was consumed by a deep sleep.
----°°°----
After traveling a fair distance on the run, the company fell to the soft, woodland soil. All breathing with exhausted gasps, except for the giant who seemed to be having no trouble, they sought shelter in a nearby glade. A small creek, a tributary of one of the mountain rivers, gurgled a peaceful course through the clearing. Cupping the water, they washed the sweat from their brows and drank with such a thirst that it threatened to dry the stream. Satisfied, Ohad stared blankly in the direction they had traveled. Glancing upward into the multiple layers of leaves, he tried to catch sight of the sun.
“How can we be sure we travel west?” queried the giant. “I cannot even see heaven’s guide from beneath the shelter of this dark wood.”
“Where we might be going,” interjected the pupil. “—would be a question best asked first…” The remark inflected with the intent of reaching Korien’s ears but the olden sage seemed lost in his thoughts.
Osoten slumped against a contorted willow and gazed with simple eyes at his master. He tried to ease the weighted breaths that surged in and out of his lungs but when swarming questions plague the mind it stresses the heart to beat. Osoten’s eyes fell to the silver blade in his hand. It was stained with blood to the hilt from the life it had taken that day.
Ignorant of his pupil’s feelings, Korien rose to get a glimpse of the sky through the thickened canopy above. “We must keep moving,” he said absently and walked off, heading deeper into the forest.
Osoten and Ohad exchanged worried glances—the demeanor of their leader was discouraging. Helping his friend from the ground, Ohad urged the young man to carry on. “He is right, best to run now while our feet are still unshackled.”
The High-Guard sighed and followed after the giant. “Perhaps I’d welcome a cool shackle over all this running…” he muttered.
They trailed behind the old master a ways but kept him in sight as the two walked until the forest was pitch-black and night had finally fallen.
“We must stop or we will end up traveling in circles all night,” shouted Osoten to the silhouette ahead that he knew to be his master.
A few moments after Osoten finished speaking, the old palace guardian stopped and sat on the cold, moist earth. Ohad huddled in the bushes and fallen leaves for warmth and soon was heard snoring. A few strands of moonlight illuminated patches of the forest floor and revealed Korien’s face as Osoten lay against a fallen tree and watched him with an intent stare. It was silent, for what to Osoten felt like an eternity, except for the breathing and rustling of the giant in his bed of leaves.
“You gave me life, Master,” said Osoten after long last “But now you have taken it away.”
Korien stared into the empty void of the dark woods with solemn disconcertment. “…You chose your own path.”
The young man advanced a single step and opened his palms in an offering of peace. “It doesn’t matter anymore…I request only that you tell me of your quest,” he requested with sincerity. “I can aid you in your task.”
“Go your own way!” There was no hesitation in the response. “…you cannot help me now.” The teacher spoke the words and turned—pain filling his expression as he hid his face in the shadows.
Osoten had never experienced such rejection and never did he expect it to come from the one man who had always been there. Crossing the moonlit gap between them, the apprentice plunged his master’s sword into the soft earth before him. He waited for even one glance from the man but none came.
“Tell me why I have raised this blade against my own brethren?” Osoten begged. “Tell me there is not innocent blood upon my hands? Will you not reveal to me the reason I am now marked and condemned,” his teeth barred with seething, cold fury. “…will you not, master?”
After his voice faded into the trees, the pupil stumbled away in a faint and exhausted stupor. Returning to his bed of roots and rigid bark, Osoten waited for sleep to come and numb the pain swelling in his heart.
----°°°----
Methuselah awoke with a start, a chilling sweat dripping from his forehead. Night had fallen and beams of moonlight painted arches of pale silver along the length of his chamber floor. Searching beneath the folds of his robe, the king found no remnants of the grievous wound that should have claimed his life hours ago. Drawing a hood over his head, the Monarch slipped from the bed and felt the cool tile beneath his feet.
Standing in the air of the calm night, he was gazing at the courtyard below when a shadow moved across the pane of moonlight before him. The contours of the masked silhouette were unmistakable, it was the priest.
“Speak, Vessel!” rasped Methuselah. “Why do you darken my council?”
“Be careful, oh great lord of men,” replied the shadow. “What you have been given can surely be taken hence.” Shifting, the priest moved from the direct focus of the moonlight and allowed his form to be seen. “You have sworn to fulfill the task, do not forget.”
“These events were not revealed to me!” spat the old ruler. “You said the Purim were no more!”
The priest placed a hand into the moonbeam and rolled his fingers as if he were playing with the silver strands of light. “I would feel them if they had returned. No, there is another force at work, but if we act in haste we can bend it to our will.” The Vessel’s fist clenched shut with a furious crack. “The time has come sooner than any knew…these are the days of the prophecy.”
“These are days of war!” The king strode to the farthest window away from the priest and rested his hands upon its granite frame. “The wretched dogs of Morna still plunder my land. Their forest protects them—they attack from cover and then disappear without a trace. If I am to do your bidding, you must destroy them!”
Considering this, the dark priest’s shadow swept across the length of the chamber until it came to rest behind Methuselah. “…They shall fall, but by the hands of your horsemen alone. Send the rest of your army north to prepare the siege of Havilah.”
The old ruler cocked his head to the side, afraid to turn fully and gaze into the bewitching eyes of the vessel. “Two battles at once I cannot do, I have neither the men nor the stomach.”
“Men do not win wars, nor does the sword drive them into the night—it is fear that brings all to their knees.” The specter drew close and whispered in the monarch’s ear. “Terror will claim the day.”
Methuselah hung his head. “I fear no enemy but time.” Drawing away from the window, he approached a chest of carved cherry-wood. Its bright lacquer glistened blood red in the faint glow of the moon. Flinging open the lid, the ancient lord reached inside. A chain of laced silver hung from Methuselah’s hand, a violet jewel inlayed within its engraved setting. “There are weapons greater than fear…” Hiding the necklace within his robe, he closed the chest and turned to the High-Priest. “Bring the generals to council, we march tonight!”
Surrounded by a myriad of dusty weaponry, a sickle-shaped helm rested upon a notch in a stone wall. Firm hands grasped the headpiece’s glossy frame and removed it from the shelf with reverence. Silver danced in the torchlight as the solemn figure in the armory stared into the empty visor. Gazing deeply as if he were looking into the eyes of an old friend, the man remained frozen in memory.
“Simma?” beckoned a voice from the shadowed entrance of the damp chamber.
“It calls us again, my brother.” The veteran placed the helmet at his side and lifted his gaze. “We never had the heart for war, Tyre,” he sighed. “Why then, is it we have lingered so long in its presence?”
Tyre took a step into the light, the silver armor encasing his torso reflecting the torches’ glow. “Perhaps we shall set aside our blades once and for all—Methuselah has summoned the council.”
“May it be for the last time,” responded Simma.
Abandoning the armory that lay deep within the foundations of the palace’s outer ward, the old companions ascended a dark stairwell. Winding up through the bowels of the squared towers whose balustrades looked out over the gardens, the stone-cut stairs led to a walkway supported by marble pillars. Stretching along the length of the inner-court yard, the bridge connected with a section of the domed temple—the rear most structure of the palace grounds.
A flurry of torches streaked the court below with an orange blaze. Men and armor clattered in a rush, filling the night air with their shouts of preparation.
“The scent of blood has got the dogs stirred into a craze,” remarked Tyre.
Observing the commotion below as he stiffly paced along the height of the colonnade, Simma scowled. “No word of Korien or Osoten?”
“No,” Tyre sighed. “A scouting party was sent out hours ago.” Gauging the concern creased upon his companion’s features, the warrior gathered his thoughts with care. “Our friends, why would they raise their hands against the king? It is madness…”
Simma stared dead ahead, his sagely eyes wide and contemplative. “The nature of it is amiss, there is something at work here I do not see nor understand. It lingers deep below the surface and both our brethren are now caught within its current.”
Passing through the archway and entering the temple, Tyre whispered in fear that his voice would carry along the hallowed walls. “Their lives are forfeit if they are caught!”
“How many men were sent to scour the woodland?” inquired Simma.
“How many?” Tyre’s cocked an eyebrow. “Thirty, maybe more—why?”
“Only thirty?” Simma lips curved in a sly grin. “It will not be enough.”
“I pray it is so,” Tyre muttered. “Who do you think will take command in the king’s stead?”
Simma halted and drew into the shadows away from the scattered sconces that lighted the temple passageways. “The throne relinquished?” He cast cautious glances down each end of the corridor. “My ears have caught different rumors. A physician’s aide spoke of being in the room when our lord was near death, blood filling his bed like a pool.”
Tyre stepped closer to his friend. “He survived? How is it possible…”
“The aide did not know. He said that before death the High-Priest arrived and all were forced to leave.” Simma gripped his helmet uneasily and gave the corridor another scan. “Then hours later, after the sun had passed from the sky, the aide went to tend to the body and found their master very much alive...”
The companions continued the rest of their journey in silence, their thoughts focused upon the disturbing happenings of the day. Following the torch-lit corridor led them to a broad stair lined with a scarlet runner. The dyed lace bid the men to remove their sandals and wash the dust from their feet. After utilizing the twin brass bowls beside each side of the stair’s marble frame, the High-Guards stepped onto the shimmering cloth that flowed like blood in the trace, flickering light.
The council chamber lay at the end of the elongated case that plunged deep into the foundations of the temple. Each stone upon which the soldiers now tread was considered sacred in the hollowed-out sanctum. Few were ever invited to the holy ward of the priests and, conveniently so, there was not a decent soul among men or angels who desired to venture within its dark confines. There are tales of those who have never returned after being summoned to the temple’s cold depths. Some feared the priests, or the Nine Vessels as they were known by their number, even more than some cowered before the presence of the mighty Nephilim. It was not unknown that Methuselah’s power rested not in the number of his men at arms, but in the wisdom of the priests and the strength commanded by the terror of the Spirit-Bloods.
Candlelight, with a clear-milky glow, bathed the threshold to the council chamber. Simma and Tyre entered with reverence and their eyes low. Falling to their knees, they placed their silver helms upon the floor and bowed.
“Rise,” commanded an authoritative but tranquil voice.
Both High-Guards stood and lifted their downcast eyes. A stone slab, cut to form a great triangle with chiseled symbols decorating its surface, rested in the centre of the room surrounded by twelve high-back chairs. The four closest the new arrivals were the only seats that remained empty—the other chairs were occupied by a fear-stricken company of commanders, treasurers, and advisors. Across the table and blurred by the hazy glow of the candles, sat a throne with a figure cloaked in the white and gold robes of the king.
“Your arrival pleases me,” Methuselah cooed from beneath the covering of his hood. “It is good to know not all of those who have sworn to protect me decided to break their oath and cut me down in my own palace…”
“Master, I rejoice that you are alive!” Tyre’s allegiance was even more fickle than his apprehensive companion’s but his desire to live provided a sufficient guise to pacify the king. “We are forever your servants…”
“For now,” replied the monarch while extending a hand toward the High-Guard’s place at the stone table. “Please sit.”
Tyre stared in awe, bewildered at the sight of his Lord risen from the dead. Restraining his surprise, Simma held a more solemn countenance. Glancing toward the corner of the room where there was no light, he spied the statuesque figure of the High-Priest. Arms crossed and head lowered, he was nearly made invisible by the shadows. Simma wondered whether any of the other men were aware of the priest’s presence as well…the foul wraith.
Methuselah slumped into his throne and glowered at the men assembled before him from beneath the brim of his hood. “Time is short, so this council shall be brief, but when we meet again it will be as the rulers of all Eden.”
Murmurs of disbelief erupted from the gathering, dismissing the proclamation as pure insanity. Before any could voice an objection, however, the king took the goblet from the arm of his throne and cast it toward the council. The gold chalice struck the table and then clamored to the floor, sloshing wine across the stone symbols during its hapless flight. Filling the carved grooves with auburn streams, the liquid spread like writhing serpents. “Do you dishonor me to my face? Where are your blades? Do you come to finish what your brother has failed to do—do you still not believe I am appointed by God our creator to take back his realm from the heathen?”
The General of the Army rose from his seat with a bow. “We are prepared to fulfill the Creator’s will but you cannot be suggesting we move on Havilah with the Mornan raiders at our gates?”
Methuselah laughed, his dry and sickly-deep tone mocking the council. “Do you have the mind of God? Or do you doubt his power?” Methuselah gathered his robes and stood erect from his seat. “See me now! Was I not at death’s door? I have been called back to fulfill this great task, laid before us...”
Replacing his fellow comrade at the helm of the debate, the Cavalry Commander bid his voice to be heard. “We fear not battle, but our homes require defense... or shall we leave our women and sons to the slaughter?”
“A wise sentiment, brave Varden, and that is why you will be chosen to ride to Morna and cut each man down while the rest of the army marches on Havilah.” The king’s lips curved beneath the cover his hood. “We have but seven days.”
“Do you give heed to the madness of which you speak?” spoke Varden in disbelief. “My men shall be ambushed in the woodland. The horses will get tangled in the bramble and spooked by the shadows.” He dipped two fingers into the pool of spilt wine and studied it before flicking the droplets across the table. “We will be scattered and brought down by our hidden foe’s crafty arrow and spear. There is no chance we shall even make it to their wall.”
Methuselah glowered at the man with shielded eyes of rage. His tongue stricken by the commander’s blatant impudence, the monarch let an uncomfortable silence descended upon the council chamber. Spying a cryptic form advancing upon Varden from behind, the king froze and let the scene unfold.
Moving unseen in the shadows of the walls, the High Priest had circled around the room. With the stealth of a wraith, he came within a breath of the commander without alerting the man to his presence. All eyes fell upon Varden, and the young leader grew pale but he did not turn. Straightening his stance, the commander stared with calm, passive eyes at the façade of a king before him. “The Master you serve is not my God…”
At this, the priest pulled the man into his chair with unnatural strength. There was a swift flash of a blade followed by a short, muffled cry. The long, white cloak of the priest swirled in a haze, masking the murderous deed. As abrupt as his appearance, the High-Priest departed and faded into a darken corner to wait in case his services were required once more. Varden was still alive when his assailant left him, a dagger pinning his neck to the wooden back of the council chair. The knife had no blood-drain and clogged the wound, making the commander’s death a slow one. Varden’s cold stare never left the king until he passed. Kept erect by the deeply embedded dagger, the man remained in his chair, his eyes slanted with condemnation even after the light had faded from them.
Methuselah clutched the arms of his throne with crooked fingers and lowered himself slowly down. “I suppose you are right,” he addressed Varden even though the man was clearly dead. “I will take a personal guard along with your cavalry and deduce Morna to rubble and scorched stone. Where you would not act, I shall have faith,” declared the king. Turning to the rest of the council he pointed a boney finger toward the door leading out of the chamber. “Leave and prepare my army!” he rasped. Extending an open palm to the bloodied corpse, Methuselah scowled. “…or befall the same fate as this faithless dog!”
III
----A Last Request----
-Night of the Seventh day-
The slow night lingered on as Osoten fell asleep against his tree. The silver rays from the moon trickled through the sheltering leaves of the forest and cast a heavenly glow upon the travelers that slept beneath the oaken boughs.
Osoten’s dream-filled mind was awakened when he felt someone hastily pulling on his shoulder. There was the sound of voices, and flickering lights sent shadows dancing through the forest around him.
“You must leave!” whispered Korien’s darkened and obscured figure.
Osoten peeked out from behind a root to survey the situation, the clutches of sleep still restraining his mind. There was a long line of men with torches and they were headed directly for him. The force of soldiers was stretched so wide that the only way of escape was deeper into the forest. Ducking back down, lest he be seen, the young apprentice turned to see that his master had disappeared. When his nerves and wits came to him, he crept over to wake Ohad from his oblivious slumber. The large man awoke with a great clutter as he grunted and kicked.
“Quiet!” Osoten hushed as he forced a hand over the giant’s mouth.
Torches could be seen all around them now and the numerous flames drew closer.
“Follow me.”
Staying low to the ground, Osoten crept to a nearby redwood and rested a hand against its wide trunk for balance. Ohad followed as silently as a giant could and the two progressed in a stealthy pattern, using the large forest trees as cover.
Commotion, arising from deep in the woods, rallied the Sorn and altered them to their prey’s neared presence. Crackling torches streaked toward the sounds as Osoten and Ohad hid in a dense thicket, afraid they may have been discovered. Before the hidden fugitives knew what had happened, screams and beastly roars resonated through the darkness. The two companions abandoned the brush and sped toward a small, stone cliff. Scaling above the confusion, they gained a clear vantage point of the hunting party that was advancing swiftly from behind.
Quiet as mere shadows, the two companions traveled along a steep slope while the carnage below progressed. The source of the violence remained unseen, shielded by the darkness, but the sounds were fierce and chilling. Resting at the top of the elevation, they surveyed the scene around them. Soldiers lay scattered upon the ground, their dead bodies torn and bloodied. The rest, those alive or wounded, were sparse and unorganized. Fire from the fallen torches feasted hungrily upon the dried leaves and acorns covering the forest floor. Desiring more, the flames spread in a wild fury and danced in the glow of Osoten’s eyes.
“There!” he said in a hushed tone, pointing at a dark furred beast that darted out of the shadows and chased after a man.
The soldier ran for but a moment before the predator was upon him. A muffled cry was drowned out by the crackling fire as powerful jaws sank into their captured prey.
Osoten’s gaze left the brutal sight and caught the glimpse of a familiar figure limping before the breadth of the Sorns’ search-line. “Korien!” he shouted, realizing it was his master.
The rising flames from the burning trees illuminated the crimson blood that stained Korien’s sword. He swung with fierce strokes at the figures behind him, cutting one down. The others attacked with ready swords that glimmered with the dancing orange light. Korien moved with amazing swiftness, despite his injuries, and finished off the rest with only a few precise slashes of his silver blade. A fresh onslaught of soldiers shouted as they came rushing to claim their king’s prize and avenge their fallen comrades.
“We must help him!” gasped Osoten as he started to climb down the slope.
“He left us to die friend, he is not worth it!” called Ohad, who chased after the determined man.
Osoten was already gone, his legs thrashing forward to steady his rapid descent down the steep slope. A drop off, twice his height, lay at the end of the slope and Osoten jumped, bracing his legs for impact. Rolling to lighten his fall, he came to a stop before two red jewels that stared back at him. Another pair of rubies appeared beside the second and began floating toward him in the darkness. Osoten backed toward the stone cliff behind him where a beam of moonlight passed through a gap in the trees above. The hovering red eyes followed the mortal into the silver light and presented their forms. Coats of thick gray fur covered short but powerful legs and arching muscular shoulders made the animals appear to be a mix of lion and wolf. The beasts’ hair bristled as they stalked their prey. Twin fangs, longer than the wolves’ own heads, dripped streams of saliva that created fog in the cool night air. One snapped at the mortal with large jaws, making Osoten’s skin crawl as his back met the stone cliff—ending his retreat.
With a tremendous shudder, a large form landed in-between the wolves and their meal. Startled, they hesitated at the appearance of the newcomer who had arrived in time to prevent his companion from being torn apart. Ohad’s posture was compressed from the fall, but the hungry beasts backed off as the giant rose to his full height. In fright, they scampered away in the opposite directions. Without a word of gratitude, Osoten sprinted past Ohad into the flickering light of the burning forest, pausing only to fetch a javelin that rested within the feeble grasp of its lifeless owner. His master, only moments away, struggled to escape the pursing fire and the undaunted hunters.
Korien was pinned against a tree and his weary arm shook as he blocked a downward slash from a Sorn warrior. The master’s sword-hand weakened and the soldier pressed his blade down against his opponent’s. Korien grasped his weapon with both hands but it was still not enough and the bronze edge crept slowly closer to his quivering flesh. A glint of reflected light flashed into the corner of Korien’s vision and his opponent’s strength vanished. The eyes beneath the soldier’s war helmet drained of life and the man crumbled to the forest’s soft earth.
With no energy remaining in his frail frame, the old master dropped to his knees; close enough to see the shaft of a spear protruding from the dead man’s side. Before there was time to see who had aided him, two soldiers burst through a wall of flame and rushed at their fallen prey. A limb of dried oak shattered the skull of the first Sorn and Ohad then used the broken branch to pin the second to a tree. The man gasped for air as he was lifted by the neck to the giant’s eye level. The soldier was held aloft until his legs ceased their struggling kicks.
The suppressive heat and black smoke had nearly blinded Osoten when he finally reached his Master’s side. He fought to lift the weakened teacher but both men stumbled in the suffocating fumes.
“Get up! We must get out of here!” urged the younger High-Guard.
“No, I cannot make it,” muttered Korien weakly between coughs.
Reaching into his belt, the weary old man feebly withdrew something and clenched it in a tight fist. “Take this to the Fire Mountains… follow the Gihon River.”
Osoten accepted a small leather bag from his master’s twitching fingers.
“I have wronged you my son, forgive me for laying this burden on you,” confessed the sage as he slumped back in exhaustion.
The small leather bag felt like it contained a split but smooth stone. Osoten loosed the stings to see what mysterious relic he held but Korien clutched his wrist to stop him.
“No…you must not open it—never open it!” his master commanded with desperation. “Go! You must leave before they take us both!”
Osoten resisted, he didn’t understand. The flames grew hotter and he could hear the shouts of scouting parties advancing.
“Leave me!” shouted the master, hoping his fury would urge his pupil into action.
Osoten hesitated and he lingered while his feet slowly retreated but his stare remained fixed upon his teacher. The moment his student had fully resigned to flee, Korien called out his name and gathered his final strength. The old man rose shakily, and then steadied himself against an ash tree.
The old master tossed his sword in a gentle arch through the air for Osoten to snatch from its flight before several Sorn warriors appeared amongst the flames to claim their prize. Catching the sword by the handle, Osoten fled into the darkness—hoping Ohad had already done the same. When he glanced back, the flames and smoke thickly shrouded the view of his Master and the Sorn.
The cool air of the woodland returned as Osoten escaped the heat of the forest-fire. Pausing at random, he surveyed the quiet darkness around him but there was no sign of the giant. Starting an eased run, he pushed his way through the low hanging branches and ensnaring bushes.
Stumbling over a tree, Osoten felt a slight vibration pulse from the earth into his palm. Out of the darkness, red eyes flashed toward him but then disappeared in the same instant. Osoten pulled himself up and summoned all his remaining strength in order to escape. His arms and face were cut as he stumbled blindly through the darkness. Glancing back, he allowed himself to rest against a smooth tree and his hot and heavy breaths formed a ghostly fog that comingled with the cool air. Sweat dripped from his face and his heart beat with an unfamiliar fear, the vice-grip of pure evil clutching at his soul.
Out of the corner of Osoten’s eyes, he glimpsed a passing shadow. He forced his breathing to steady and he sank down and braced himself against the cover of a thick trunk. There was a crunch of leaves behind him that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. Clenching the handle of his sword, he held it before him. Cunning, the sounds approached from behind in a steady patter, cracking sticks and crumpling leaves as they crept closer.
Ostoten’s heart raced but his mind was as frost on metal; the footsteps were now directly behind him. Overcoming his fear, he lurched out from behind the tree with his sword ready to strike. His blade cut into the empty darkness with a metallic ring. The strike was true but its edge met only air before sinking into the soft wood of the tree he had used for shelter. Baffled by the sudden vanishing, Osoten searched the blackness with frantic glances.
“Nothing!” Osoten whispered as he jerked his weapon free.
Without warning, there came a thump of galloping steps that rushed to take the man by surprise. Osoten ducked as a black phantom leaped over him. When it landed, he swung at the beast’s head—slicing it across the left eye. The animal snarled and dove at Osoten’s sword hand, dragging him to the ground with brutal strength.
The wolf’s two massive fangs hanging from the sides of its snout were relatively dull but none the less painful as they tore into the man’s flesh. Desperately, Osoten clasped a stone with his free hand and stuck the beast across the snout. The wolf let go of its prey and staggered back in a dizzied walk. Given a chance to escape, Osoten rolled and clutched his bloody hand to his chest as he stumbled to get away. He could hear the wolf snarling behind him. Blood dripped from its fur and its eyes reddened as it roared and bounded after the man. Osoten fell against another tree and thrust out Korien’s blade, pointing it at the beast that came to a halt almost within reach of the moonlit point.
The darkness of night was fading now as blood and saliva dripped from the wolf’s gaping mouth.
“Give me the Urithornium, boy!” it growled with the tongue of a rasping man.
Osoten shook with renewed fear so intense that the sword he held out wavered back and forth. In a blink, the wolf straddled to the side of the blade and lunged for the kill. Osoten clenched his eyes shut as the huge jaws of the beast rushed toward him. There was a sudden crash and Osoten rolled limply to the ground.
After a moment had a passed and silence fell upon the forest, Osoten lifted his head and risked a squinted glance. The ghastly form of the wolf’s head and long fangs appeared nigh a hair’s breadth from his face. Lodging itself into the man’s throat, Osoten’s heart lurched within his chest. Leaves shuffled and drifted to the ground around him as he frantically struggled to escape. He was restrained by the branches of a smaller tree that somehow collapsed on the beast and entangled him.
Osoten took a sigh of a relief when he beheld Ohad’s towering frame smirking above him. Staring speechlessly at the giant with wide eyes, the smaller man nodded, acknowledging his thankfulness. They both studied the beast’s motionless carcass—its red eyes fixed in a vacant stare before fading to dark.
“We must go—with haste…” Osoten rose to his feet.
The two ran off from the spot as the gloom of morning descended upon the forest. The terrors of the night were behind them for now.
----°°°----
A red mist rose out of the creature’s gaping mouth, forming a dense cloud. From within the vapor, a spirit appeared. He was a great warrior; his status made apparent by the black dragon-style wings that unfolded. The spirit-warrior appeared beautiful but, while a hidden observer watched, a ghastly form pulsed sporadically across his face.
Peering down the rows of trees, the dark spirit readied his spread wings to fly. Now was the observer’s opportunity, he arose from hiding and charged the demon. The engaged spirit had barely made an attempt to resist before this new opponent struck him down.
Growling in fury more than pain, the demon was pinned to the earth as a grayed figure rested a foot upon his chest and stared into his hollow black eyes.
Strands of dull black hair swayed in the light toss of the wind, sweeping past the attacker’s gray eyes. Fastened to a belt of silver chains, an unsheathed and golden sword hung from his waist—swinging like a pendulum before his foe’s gaze. He secured his hold on the demon using thin but muscular arms and legs protected by tarnished silver wrist-guards and greaves. Sprouting from the humanoid’s shoulders, gray feathered wings arched into the air.
“Watcher!” growled the demon. “You will burn in eternal flames, coward!”
“Shhhh, do not give me an excuse to remove your sniveling tongue,” Watcher threatened as he crouched low toward his rival’s face and spoke with seething hate. “Why were you chasing the mortal…what does your Master know of the Urithornium’s fate?” he demanded.
“More than you think…” growled the dark spirit as he writhed beneath his captor’s grip. “And soon the kingdom of heaven will have a new God and you will continue to wander forever in a world of fire and ash!”
“Hm, a peculiar plan—” Watcher loosened his grip while he sought to draw his blade. “—however, familiar to that of my own, I’m afraid.” A smile twitched across the gray spirit’s features. “Unfortunately for you and your pathetic horde, I’m already a step ahead. And soon the Urithornium will be in my grasp and you shall serve me.”
The spirit laughed in a garbled speech. “Fool!” he spat. “The Urithornium will not even leave the forest—these woods crawl with shadow!” the spirit’s whole body began to convulse as his sickened laughter grew louder. “The Sorn army is on the move and your time has finally come!” The demon screamed with rage, his black eyes wide and fiery.
With those words, the demon’s pure white skin was ripped from his body and he was transformed into a greater servant of malevolence. Scaled, with no resemblance of its prior form, the minion’s power doubled. Its head was twisted and horned, its teeth jagged and black. Two additional arms sprung from its chest and took hold of the gray spirit’s neck, lifting him into the air. As the creature rose to its full height, it unsheathed a cruel, monstrous black cleaver and held it in its first pair of scaled arms.
Watcher choked in the ravaging, clawed grip of the demon while he struggled to get free. Inflicted by a single thrust to the base of the neck, the demon howled and dropped his smaller opponent. Long black claws thrashed in a powerful rage and attempted to shred the gray warrior who parried and countered with precise slashes. A severed claw and forearm spouted oily blood and oozed with a hiss as it fell to the ground. The fierce duel continued despite the devastating injury the dark servant sustained. Filled with infuriating pain, the demon met the gray warrior’s small but sturdy sword with his own massively hewn blade. The impact shook Watcher’s legs, nearly knocking the warrior down. Thrusting his wings forward, the gray spirit glided backwards in a swift flight away from the demon’s reach.
Watcher clenched his weapon’s handle in a tight grip, its gold blade beginning to turn red and flicker with flames. The demon lowered its beastly head, revealing several large horns as it charged forth to trample the miniscule spirit. Spouting crimson fire, Watcher’s unique weapon was flung at the creature’s chest. The fiery-red sword flew perfectly, its tip pointed directly at the charging demon. Now nearly molten, the blade melted through its target and the dark spirit released a horrid scream and exploded into a red mist.
The scream continued to echo through the forest as the gray-spirit wrenched his sword from the tree where it had imbedded itself. Feathered-wings emerged at the victor’s sides and he dived into flight. He flew low, soaring only a slight level above the tree line to avoid discovery. It was already nearing day time as Watcher headed toward the Mountains of Fire in the north. He had expected the dark forces to be aware that the time would soon be at hand, but he underestimated how close they would be to the stones—there must have been a mortal who made a deal with their lord. For now though, the fate of the Urithornium no longer rested in his hands and as he looked back he could see an endless presence of torches passing below the boughs of the forest.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sample reading from dawn of darkness
Ehud’s steed trotted at an easy pace, its bulging eyes darting to and from the passing shadows that seemed to duck and hide behind the sinister trees which lined a crude path. Frail light beamed through the canopy overhead, lighting the rider’s path with filtered green and yellow rays. Ehud stroked the hide of the spooked animal, urging the stout charger onward with a soothing clack of his tongue. Three scouts flanked their leader amongst the maze of contorted trunks, ducking low branches and dodging briars as they traveled. The Sorn commander’s expression was steeled and confident, but he released a faint sigh of concern in light of the gloomy circumstances.
They had been scouring the eerie woodland all morning into the late of day. Ehud left the bulk of his horsemen at the edge of the strange forest and sent ten scouting parties to search for Joktan or any sign of the men that entered the underworld. The soldier was beginning to feel the jagged knife of fatigue stabbing into his mind and his reddened eyes begged for sleep. He had been riding for two days now. Fearing the unknown dangers of the forbidden lands, the Sorn had journeyed through the night and did not arrive until late morning.
Pelgrin, Ehud’s mount, flared its nostrils and stubbornly swung its head, refusing to advance past a tangle of brambles. The rider could smell it too—the stench of death. Dismounting, the scouts continued into the thicket on foot. Ehud withdrew an axe from his belt. It was not as heavy as a traditional Sorn cleaver and it had a convex blade instead of the standard concave edges. The veteran treasured the sleeker weapon because he had mastered the art of throwing it the same distance he could hurl a spear—a valuable skill when the moment called for it. Mimicking their captain’s example, the Sorn drew their blades with silent finesse and slipped into the vegetation. Wafting, the sickening odor of rotting flesh and spilt blood grew more suffocating the deeper the company crept into the growth. Ehud paused as a clearing allowed him to view the grizzly sight displayed before them. He forced his eyes to scan the carnage only long enough to see if his master’s body lie among the dead—it was not.
“What could have done this?” gasped one of the soldiers.
Ehud could only shake his head and nervously clutch the handle of his axe in response. While they inspected the corpses, the scouts’ ears pricked as a faint whistle carried from the Havilan desert and over the trees. Closer, a second scouting party relayed the same signal to any who could not distinguish the first. Ehud inserted two fingers past his lips and exhaled three shrill blasts, ordering any nearby horsemen to return to camp.
Hopefully, whatever news his men had discovered, it was less grim than this scene, thought Ehud.
Joktan awoke to the soft touch of a hand that tilted his head, allowing the cool flow of water to push past his dried and cracked lips. The stream of liquid cleansed his mouth and rushed down his parched throat, bringing the soldier new life. Joktan eased his eyes open to the sunlight and stared curiously at the white bearded man that hovered over him with a goatskin flask. The elderly, but tall and strong man, smiled warmly at the positive effects of the long draughts the soldier had taken.
“Senile old man!” shouted a soldier in tattered, brown leather armor that was coated with sand particles. Grasping the skin sack, the man removed a helmet that consisted of the same material as his armor and had concealed all but his eyes. Darkened brown skin was revealed as the man threw his head back and guzzled half the contents of the sack before handing it off to one of three other guards who had assembled behind him. A tarnished golden saber with a curved blade was tucked in the man’s belt and caught Joktan’s eye as the man bent backwards to drink.
“I thought I told you not to come around here anymore?” snapped the guard after he wiped the excess drizzle from his chin. “And now I find you giving aid to the enemy. Tell me why I should not toss you in the dungeons with this…spy?” demanded the brute as he gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his blade.
The old man ignored the words of his accuser and raised the shoulder guard on Joktan’s armor, revealing the jagged bite marks and darkly colored infection that was spreading down the man’s chest and up his neck. “He needs help,” the aged citizen stated as he keenly observed the wound.
“Havilah does not give aid to its enemies,” snarled the soldier who took a step closer to Joktan. “And we do not take kindly to crazed old men who say they talk to a god and predict the end of the world!”
“You still have time to turn from your ways, repent and be saved,” added the old man, who seem to be unaffected by the guard’s taunting threats.
The soldier laughed heartily while glancing at his men. After his rude display, he turned back and attempted to strike the prophet with a swift backhand. To Joktan’s astonishment the soldier’s wrist was caught midflight. Enraged, the soldier tore his hand free and drew his sword.
“Take them both to the dungeon!” ordered the captain while pointing the blade shakily at the leathery-skinned elder.
Joktan was shoved off the wooden cart he had been laying on and fell to the earth-eroded cobble stone. His left arm and shoulder erupted with pain as he landed on them. Before he was given a chance to rise, a man forced him to his feet and hurried him along behind the commoner who had helped him. Joktan was infuriated at the injustice. He understood he deserved what he had coming, which was most likely a painful death, but not this kind man who merely gave a wounded soldier a drink.
The Sorn leader took in the sights around him, the city consisted of old stone buildings that were coated with sand and worn by the passing of time. There seemed to be no order in the city at all, Joktan passed women and men being beaten or raped between the houses that ran along the winding road he was forced to walk upon. Children came out to throw stones at him and the prophet, spitting and shouting blasphemies. The atrocities continued all the way to an inner stone-wall that matched the decay of the other structures Joktan had already seen.
Wooden doors, that appeared as ancient as the rest of the city, were creaked aside and both men were shoved past the walls. A courtyard appeared and an array of balconies protruded from two towers that rose before them on either side of the tiled yard. Gold and onyx statues were scattered about the court with men and women bowed before their ghoulish shapes and faces. Bridges were built between the domed towers and formed several triangular underpasses which Joktan was ushered through.
The towers were actually a joined and elongated structure that stood on either side of them, creating a colonnade which continued on to the base of a pyramid that must have once been brilliantly gold. A single, wide staircase ascended up the face of the pyramid to its peak. To Joktan’s amazement, built into the side of the first pyramid was another, larger one that was recently constructed with a fresh coating of gold. The second had a flat top and was defined by staircases and large symbols of onyx crafted into the gold’s smooth surface.
Joktan limped forward, his eyes upward, marveling at the extent of the structures and the amount of laborers it would have taken to accomplish such feats. Two entrances on either side of the first pyramid’s staircase were open and their rugged torch-lit interior appeared welcoming to the Sorn leader. Before he reached any of the entrances, he was shoved from behind and glanced down in time to see a square hole that lay in front of the pyramid steps. Joktan tumbled into the foul-smelling darkness that was dimly lit by a scarce amount of torches. Roughly hewn and filthy steps absorbed the prisoner’s fall as he rolled in a hapless mass of limbs that tumbled farther into the blackness. Snagging a hold, he was able to stop his descent by clinging to a crack in the wall.
Laughs and mocks echoed along the narrow passage as the guards caught up to their captive and kicked him into another roll. Joktan fell again until he found his footing and hurriedly stumbled down the steps to avoid being shoved and tumbling the rest of the way. The stairs descended until directly below the pyramid and then came to a room that was fairly lit. A company of guards sat around wooden tables with scraps of food and the buzzing of flies filled the air.
“Fresh meat!” scoffed one of the fattened soldiers as the prisoners were pushed into the room. The man waddled forward and grasped hold of Joktan’s neck, tilting the wounded man’s head back so it could be better seen in the light. The man smiled with a remnant of blackened and yellow teeth while he looked the captive over with his one good eye; his other stared straight forward, grayed and lifeless. “Not bad looking for a Sorn,” said the foul smelling guard as he ran his tongue across his teeth. “Where did you find this one?”
“Riders found him lying in the desert near the west gate; he was no doubt sent to scout out weakness in our walls,” responded one of the men who had brought the prisoners down.
“You’re not the first to come sneaking about,” the large jailer said with a smile and released his grip on Joktan. “Let me reunite you with your friends.”
Two armed men rose from their table on the far side of the room and kicked a wooden type door that dropped facedown, creating a platform that allowed access to and from a lower level on the other side. Joktan and the old man were swiftly prodded from the guard’s quarters into a cold hall that was completely void of light except for the jailers’ torches. A wretched mixture of contaminated air seeped into the Sorn’s lungs, causing him to instantly vomit. It was the smell of disease and human waste with an overpowering stench of death. Joktan noticed now that the two guards that accompanied them into the darkness were each masked with a cloth dipped in what seemed to be frankincense, allowing them to withstand the putrid air. Cupping his hands tightly over his mouth and nasal passages, the Sorn captive wished to die from suffocation rather than breathe in the toxic air again.
The shifting torchlight revealed barred square chambers on the sides of the hall; each too short for a man to even sit in. The cells ran as far along each wall as Joktan could see and were stacked three high—logically because that was all the short ceiling allowed. Raspy coughs and bone chilling moans escaped from the tiny cells while Joktan hurried across the long hall to try and escape the sickening torment of the smell and noises that surrounded him.
When they were halfway across the hall, the cell walls vanished for a short section and a beam of light shown through a large circular hole in the ceiling. Ropes, suspended from a pulley, were attached to a metal grate which was fixed to prevent access to the vertical tunnel. When Joktan was closer, he noticed the hole continued both straight up to the peak of the structure and also down to the lower of the prison. There were buckets strewn about and he surmised the ropes and pulleys were an easy way to transport supplies from the lower levels.
After what seemed like an eternity in the claustrophobic hell, the jailer reached a wall and turned a corner. The prisoner noticed a square wooden door, similar to the one they had come through on the other end. The base of the door was nearly above Joktan’s head and was positioned as if it were a part of the wall, making it nearly impossible for escape—but at least he now knew there were two ways out.
Escorted along a smaller passageway, the captives were led to a staircase that descended a half-circle to the lowest level of the structure. After a long while, the stairs ended at a wooden door which led to an eerie sanctum that pleasantly offered the lingering metallic scent of fresh blood. Inside, a mangled corpse was being dragged to what appeared to a well. The two guards, who were handling the body, glanced from their work only momentarily to acknowledge the presence of the new comers. Continuing their task, the men cast the dilapidated form into the pit and after a pause the body landed with an echoing thud on the surface below. High-pitched snarls, followed by the sounds of the meal’s ferocious indulgence, resounded from the pit below. Joktan gulped and did his best to stay clear of the hole as he was brought to where a man with a crimson cloak and hood sat at a wooden table. A candle and parchment were spread before cloaked man and his eyes stayed fixed upon the work of a feathered pen.
Joktan and the aged prophet were made to stand before the table upon which lay the gruesome trophy of a severed hand. Blood from the detached appendage formed a dark puddle on a slab of clay which was used as a vile form of ink. The parchment was riddled with red scrawling of torture methods and their results. Joktan’s gaze shifted past the table in disgust and began to study the crude metal and wooden apparatuses of torture that were erected in the back of the chamber.
“Welcome, to my dungeon,” began the figure in the crimson robe. “Some may find it…unappealing but to me it is home.”
Joktan stood in silence, refusing to meet the man’s uncanny stare.
“I have been hearing rumors of Sorn advancement into our territory? You would not know of such things would you?”
Joktan remained silent.
“Of course you would not, no one likes to talk,” the man said as he rose from his seat and began to walk around the table. Stopping a breath’s length away, he leaned under the prisoner’s downcast eyes, forcing him to look at him. “But it is my skill to make people talk, and I am exceptionally good at it.”
Joktan held the jailer’s stare until the man backed away and returned to his seat. “What about him?” Joktan asked, motioning toward the circular pit at the center of the room.
A one-sided smirk creased the man’s disfigured face that was shadowed by a hood. “You see the trick is not getting information—everyman has his breaking point—it is more about being sure you have drained him of everything… And sometimes you just have to kill a man to get to that point.”
Joktan gave the man a cold stare and stood strong despite his weakened state. “Why would you tell me this?”
The old man laughed and sat again at the table, intertwining his emaciated fingers before him. “You seem like one with intelligence, there is no fooling a man who knows his own fate; death will come to you, how and when are up to you.”
Quiet infiltrated the room as grayed eyes studied the soldier from beneath the brim of his hood. “For now I have enough information,” he said after long last. Rising again, he secured the parchment in the length of his robe and paced briskly past the prisoners. Halting abruptly, he turned. “Put our guests in the special cell…together. They will need their rest before tomorrow.”
It was a risk, there was no delusion in Ehud’s mind that his plan might end with either his death or capture, but he had to try. Having convened with the reassembled search-teams, he discovered that Joktan may be alive after all. His riders, that had scoured the desert, relayed that they had found tracks leading from the forest. Following the trail, they came upon Havilan horsemen on a patrol of their borders. Hiding behind a dune, the Sorn watched the enemy scouts pull a man from the sand and bring him into their city.
Ehud allowed only ten warriors to accompany him to the desert and as dusk threatened to fall upon the land, they laid in wait. Within sight of the walls, a lone scout patrolled the rolling hills on one final sweep before the night arrived. Stripped of their horses and armor, the Sorn waited in the shadow of a hill. Ehud signaled his men to be silent as they all burrowed into the sand to hide from their prey’s sight. The commander secured a firm grip on the handle of a slender dagger. He knew they would have only one chance to sneak past the wall and save Joktan before he met his end at the hands of the enemy.
Head resting upon his palms, the gate-tower’s watchman lacked enthusiasm as his eyes followed the distant form of a rider. The rest of the west-gate’s patrols were returning for the night, and the only thing keeping the guard from some much need rest was the arrival of the final late-comer. He observed from his stony height while the scout would slip behind a mound of sand and then reappear a moment later. The watchman sighed as the dull sequence continued until the horseman disappeared in the shadow of a dune and failed to surface.
“What now?” muttered the guard.
Straightening his posture, the man wondered for an instant if something was amiss. He dispatched his concern the moment it surfaced, for the scout galloped back into his line of sight. Turning his mount, the rider headed for the west-gate.
“About time,” complained the watchman as he strode from the tower’s edge and began his descent down the spiraling steps. Too tired to question the horsemen about the delay, he ordered the gate to close after the scout had entered the city.
The doors shuddered behind the disguised foreigner and were bolted with careless haste. It was the changing of guards for the night and soldiers were busily coming and going in a fray of excitement. Ehud led his captured steed into a stable beside the gate and reined the animal in the shadowy portion of the structure. Nearby, several men huddled around the torchlight while they discussed the happenings of the day. The masked stranger knelt by his horse and fed it handfuls of straw while he inclined his ear to the banter of the soldiers.
“…Another?” asked a slim guard with raggedy long hair.
“That’s three now, you think they’d learn,” added the fattest of the company with a snort.
There was an odd cackle from a woman with grayed hair who appeared with a jar of an odorous brew. Slamming the draught on a rickety table, she gathered the men’s attention. “The stars they tell, they do!” cooed the hag. Placing her wart speckled hands on the table, she released another spell of her insane laughter.
“What have you seen, old woman?” demanded the stout soldier while he poured himself a drink in a wooden cup.
The hag’s eyes widened in a crazed stare, forcing the man to retreat before their unsettling gaze. “Blind! All of you! I have seen the deaths of you all!” She scowled.
The guards rose from the table as the woman swiped a cup and held it over her head. “Kill the prophet I told you!” she shouted as she began to pour the brown liquid upon the table. “Spill his blood in the streets!” The ale pooled and glimmered in the torchlight as it trickled from the glass. Using the remnant of the cup’s contents, the hag sprayed the men around her and hurled the mug at them. “Now the blood is upon you! Kill the Sorn! Slay the prophet!” she hissed.
Wiping his splattered face clean, the robust guard glowered at the woman. “They will be dead by the morning, witch,” he growled.
Donning a sinister grin, the hag turned to take her leave. “Ensure that it so,” she said with a laugh as she faded into the shadows.
Unnoticed, the hidden observer slipped away into the night. In search of his friend, he took to the darkened streets filled with the perverse revelry of the city’s inhabitants. Ehud knew he only had till dawn to contrive a plan to spring Joktan from this hellish place.
Pending the doom of their short sentence, the prisoners were moved to a wooden cage that had been retracted from the ceiling above the pit where the guards had tossed the corpse earlier. After being nearly thrown in, the two men were lowered into the shadows. Joktan heard the men laugh as he moved deeper into the darkened den of the monsters. A beam of light infiltrated the gloomy depths from a narrow passageway that ascended directly through the pyramids levels above and allowed the captives a limited range of sight.
Amber eyes stared at the fresh meat from below and the smell of their latest meal filled the air. The holy-man returned the gaze and whispered something quiet that caused the beasts below them to settle.
“Are you not angry that you have been put here unjustly?” Joktan asked after he could not endure the quiet any longer. “Your god has certainly forsaken you.”
“I am not to question why, just to follow and obey—man’s wisdom is folly in comparison to God’s. I am his servant; He would not lead me astray,” responded the strange elder.
“What do you call this hell then? A blessing? By the sounds of it we will both die tomorrow.”
“If that is God’s will.”
“Stubborn old man,” Joktan mumbled. “Your faith has made you blind!”
His outburst caused him to wince in pain and he tore the armor from his shoulder to get a better look. The infection had swelled, turning his skin a calloused light black that had formed over the wound and was slowly spreading.
“Nasty bite,” remarked the old man as the distant light from above beamed upon the wound. “It appears the poison is spreading on swift wings, you might turn before night has ended.”
“Turn?” questioned Joktan, who was in too much pain to express fear at the man’s words.
“That is a bite from a spawn of the deceiver, you will become a servant to the darkness,” said the man as he rested his head against the wooden confines of the cell. “You will become trapped inside your own mind as you lose control and thirst for death and blood like the Enlar.”
“Eloquent,” remarked the Sorn. “Well, either way I’m going to die in this place.”
“Death is just the beginning.”
Joktan let out a heavy sigh. He could feel the heated disease that festered inside him being exhaled from his dry mouth. “What can be worse than this world?”
“This world itself is not evil, but has become filled with evil people and our sin has tainted it. The betrayer who caused our fall will become your new master when you die and if you think this world is hell you are in for a surprise,” said the old man bluntly.
“I am not a child, I will not fall for your ancient tales,” Joktan said with a snarl. He did not know where the embittered words came from but he was beginning to feel powerless.
“A child’s faith is what is required to believe; your so called knowledge and wisdom blinds you,” explained the prophet as he closed his eyes and his lips began to mouth silent words.
“No more,” begged the physically and mentally deteriorating prisoner. He could feel the infection had nearly reached the base of his mind and the surface of his rapidly beating heart. Closing his eyes, Joktan felt his fever rise to an almost insufferable height. When the captive felt he could endure no longer, the sickness and pain vanished and the floor below him fell away. A cool, refreshing air passed his lips like sweetened water as the mortal floated; which direction he was going and how fast was impossible to tell. The flight ended abruptly and Joktan felt himself drop to a smooth surface that radiated warmth.
Although his eyes were open, he could see nothing but blackness and his own flesh. A searing sensation touched his ears but no pain was felt and instantly he heard voices.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is filled with his glory!” sang a chorus of voices together.
The ground on which Joktan knelt shook at the sound of the beautiful declaration. Then a far greater voice, like that of an army of trumpets resounded from before him. “What wickedness runs rampant upon the world I have created?”
“I cannot see,” Joktan said; his voice feeble in comparison.
“You do not see because you have no faith to see,” answered a softer voice from close by.
Then Joktan felt his eyes touched with fire and sight came to him. “Now see and have faith.” Again the spirit being, whose height was greater than that of a Nephilim, touched Joktan’s lips with a hot stone held by tongs. “Speak and be heard.”
A great chamber of a temple surrounded him, its walls and pillars reached past what his sight allowed and white smoke filled the air with a sweet essence. Great beings, like men, were cloaked in flowing robes of shimmering white with crystalline hair and they floated above. They had six wings, using only two to fly and the others to cover their eyes and feet. The Seraphim surrounded a great throne of glistening sapphire that hovered on a mist above them; the figure that sat upon it was so bright that Joktan could not rest his eyes upon him. The length of the being’s crystalline robe ran down around either side of the throne and lay at the mortal’s feet.
“Which one of you will go to save my servant and stand against the Prince of Darkness who would be risen at the call of his people?” asked the voice from the throne.
Joktan looked around at the angels that remained transfixed on their worship. He waited to see which of the great warriors would come forward, but none came.
“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” the great voice asked again.
The frail man shook in the unanswered silence that was only disturbed by the praises of the Seraphim. Suddenly red slashes of light formed a vortex around a confined area before Joktan and a figure appeared at its center. The being was more beautiful than any of the others. As Joktan stared at the new arrival, the being’s form flashed into a pale glimmer of a blackened serpent with folded wings. Horns that shimmered like obsidian curved out of the beast’s head and red breath vented from its jaws.
“This one is mine! His soul has not been cleansed!” commanded the Arc-Angel; his voice a conjugation of purity and a deep, bone chilling growl.
Joktan watched the angel’s hand reach out toward him; its movement shadowed by the form of the creature’s oily scales and curved black claws. The mortal stood and took a step, only to fall helplessly upon his face. The creature grabbed hold of him and began to drag him away from the throne.
“I will go, send me!” cried Joktan in sudden distress.
“Lucifer!” called the great voice, causing the wicked spirit to release the mortal. “I alone will say when a soul is ready to be taken; his time is not yet complete.
“…Will you stand alone against the darkness? Will you surrender your life to Me?” the crystalline figure asked with a much softer voice.
The mortal nodded, “I shall.”
“If he fails then,” hissed the great winged-serpent. “I demand claim to the earth and all its souls!”
“Let it be so,” responded the Almighty.
Lucifer smirked, and Joktan watched as the spirit vanished as he had come.
They had been scouring the eerie woodland all morning into the late of day. Ehud left the bulk of his horsemen at the edge of the strange forest and sent ten scouting parties to search for Joktan or any sign of the men that entered the underworld. The soldier was beginning to feel the jagged knife of fatigue stabbing into his mind and his reddened eyes begged for sleep. He had been riding for two days now. Fearing the unknown dangers of the forbidden lands, the Sorn had journeyed through the night and did not arrive until late morning.
Pelgrin, Ehud’s mount, flared its nostrils and stubbornly swung its head, refusing to advance past a tangle of brambles. The rider could smell it too—the stench of death. Dismounting, the scouts continued into the thicket on foot. Ehud withdrew an axe from his belt. It was not as heavy as a traditional Sorn cleaver and it had a convex blade instead of the standard concave edges. The veteran treasured the sleeker weapon because he had mastered the art of throwing it the same distance he could hurl a spear—a valuable skill when the moment called for it. Mimicking their captain’s example, the Sorn drew their blades with silent finesse and slipped into the vegetation. Wafting, the sickening odor of rotting flesh and spilt blood grew more suffocating the deeper the company crept into the growth. Ehud paused as a clearing allowed him to view the grizzly sight displayed before them. He forced his eyes to scan the carnage only long enough to see if his master’s body lie among the dead—it was not.
“What could have done this?” gasped one of the soldiers.
Ehud could only shake his head and nervously clutch the handle of his axe in response. While they inspected the corpses, the scouts’ ears pricked as a faint whistle carried from the Havilan desert and over the trees. Closer, a second scouting party relayed the same signal to any who could not distinguish the first. Ehud inserted two fingers past his lips and exhaled three shrill blasts, ordering any nearby horsemen to return to camp.
Hopefully, whatever news his men had discovered, it was less grim than this scene, thought Ehud.
Joktan awoke to the soft touch of a hand that tilted his head, allowing the cool flow of water to push past his dried and cracked lips. The stream of liquid cleansed his mouth and rushed down his parched throat, bringing the soldier new life. Joktan eased his eyes open to the sunlight and stared curiously at the white bearded man that hovered over him with a goatskin flask. The elderly, but tall and strong man, smiled warmly at the positive effects of the long draughts the soldier had taken.
“Senile old man!” shouted a soldier in tattered, brown leather armor that was coated with sand particles. Grasping the skin sack, the man removed a helmet that consisted of the same material as his armor and had concealed all but his eyes. Darkened brown skin was revealed as the man threw his head back and guzzled half the contents of the sack before handing it off to one of three other guards who had assembled behind him. A tarnished golden saber with a curved blade was tucked in the man’s belt and caught Joktan’s eye as the man bent backwards to drink.
“I thought I told you not to come around here anymore?” snapped the guard after he wiped the excess drizzle from his chin. “And now I find you giving aid to the enemy. Tell me why I should not toss you in the dungeons with this…spy?” demanded the brute as he gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his blade.
The old man ignored the words of his accuser and raised the shoulder guard on Joktan’s armor, revealing the jagged bite marks and darkly colored infection that was spreading down the man’s chest and up his neck. “He needs help,” the aged citizen stated as he keenly observed the wound.
“Havilah does not give aid to its enemies,” snarled the soldier who took a step closer to Joktan. “And we do not take kindly to crazed old men who say they talk to a god and predict the end of the world!”
“You still have time to turn from your ways, repent and be saved,” added the old man, who seem to be unaffected by the guard’s taunting threats.
The soldier laughed heartily while glancing at his men. After his rude display, he turned back and attempted to strike the prophet with a swift backhand. To Joktan’s astonishment the soldier’s wrist was caught midflight. Enraged, the soldier tore his hand free and drew his sword.
“Take them both to the dungeon!” ordered the captain while pointing the blade shakily at the leathery-skinned elder.
Joktan was shoved off the wooden cart he had been laying on and fell to the earth-eroded cobble stone. His left arm and shoulder erupted with pain as he landed on them. Before he was given a chance to rise, a man forced him to his feet and hurried him along behind the commoner who had helped him. Joktan was infuriated at the injustice. He understood he deserved what he had coming, which was most likely a painful death, but not this kind man who merely gave a wounded soldier a drink.
The Sorn leader took in the sights around him, the city consisted of old stone buildings that were coated with sand and worn by the passing of time. There seemed to be no order in the city at all, Joktan passed women and men being beaten or raped between the houses that ran along the winding road he was forced to walk upon. Children came out to throw stones at him and the prophet, spitting and shouting blasphemies. The atrocities continued all the way to an inner stone-wall that matched the decay of the other structures Joktan had already seen.
Wooden doors, that appeared as ancient as the rest of the city, were creaked aside and both men were shoved past the walls. A courtyard appeared and an array of balconies protruded from two towers that rose before them on either side of the tiled yard. Gold and onyx statues were scattered about the court with men and women bowed before their ghoulish shapes and faces. Bridges were built between the domed towers and formed several triangular underpasses which Joktan was ushered through.
The towers were actually a joined and elongated structure that stood on either side of them, creating a colonnade which continued on to the base of a pyramid that must have once been brilliantly gold. A single, wide staircase ascended up the face of the pyramid to its peak. To Joktan’s amazement, built into the side of the first pyramid was another, larger one that was recently constructed with a fresh coating of gold. The second had a flat top and was defined by staircases and large symbols of onyx crafted into the gold’s smooth surface.
Joktan limped forward, his eyes upward, marveling at the extent of the structures and the amount of laborers it would have taken to accomplish such feats. Two entrances on either side of the first pyramid’s staircase were open and their rugged torch-lit interior appeared welcoming to the Sorn leader. Before he reached any of the entrances, he was shoved from behind and glanced down in time to see a square hole that lay in front of the pyramid steps. Joktan tumbled into the foul-smelling darkness that was dimly lit by a scarce amount of torches. Roughly hewn and filthy steps absorbed the prisoner’s fall as he rolled in a hapless mass of limbs that tumbled farther into the blackness. Snagging a hold, he was able to stop his descent by clinging to a crack in the wall.
Laughs and mocks echoed along the narrow passage as the guards caught up to their captive and kicked him into another roll. Joktan fell again until he found his footing and hurriedly stumbled down the steps to avoid being shoved and tumbling the rest of the way. The stairs descended until directly below the pyramid and then came to a room that was fairly lit. A company of guards sat around wooden tables with scraps of food and the buzzing of flies filled the air.
“Fresh meat!” scoffed one of the fattened soldiers as the prisoners were pushed into the room. The man waddled forward and grasped hold of Joktan’s neck, tilting the wounded man’s head back so it could be better seen in the light. The man smiled with a remnant of blackened and yellow teeth while he looked the captive over with his one good eye; his other stared straight forward, grayed and lifeless. “Not bad looking for a Sorn,” said the foul smelling guard as he ran his tongue across his teeth. “Where did you find this one?”
“Riders found him lying in the desert near the west gate; he was no doubt sent to scout out weakness in our walls,” responded one of the men who had brought the prisoners down.
“You’re not the first to come sneaking about,” the large jailer said with a smile and released his grip on Joktan. “Let me reunite you with your friends.”
Two armed men rose from their table on the far side of the room and kicked a wooden type door that dropped facedown, creating a platform that allowed access to and from a lower level on the other side. Joktan and the old man were swiftly prodded from the guard’s quarters into a cold hall that was completely void of light except for the jailers’ torches. A wretched mixture of contaminated air seeped into the Sorn’s lungs, causing him to instantly vomit. It was the smell of disease and human waste with an overpowering stench of death. Joktan noticed now that the two guards that accompanied them into the darkness were each masked with a cloth dipped in what seemed to be frankincense, allowing them to withstand the putrid air. Cupping his hands tightly over his mouth and nasal passages, the Sorn captive wished to die from suffocation rather than breathe in the toxic air again.
The shifting torchlight revealed barred square chambers on the sides of the hall; each too short for a man to even sit in. The cells ran as far along each wall as Joktan could see and were stacked three high—logically because that was all the short ceiling allowed. Raspy coughs and bone chilling moans escaped from the tiny cells while Joktan hurried across the long hall to try and escape the sickening torment of the smell and noises that surrounded him.
When they were halfway across the hall, the cell walls vanished for a short section and a beam of light shown through a large circular hole in the ceiling. Ropes, suspended from a pulley, were attached to a metal grate which was fixed to prevent access to the vertical tunnel. When Joktan was closer, he noticed the hole continued both straight up to the peak of the structure and also down to the lower of the prison. There were buckets strewn about and he surmised the ropes and pulleys were an easy way to transport supplies from the lower levels.
After what seemed like an eternity in the claustrophobic hell, the jailer reached a wall and turned a corner. The prisoner noticed a square wooden door, similar to the one they had come through on the other end. The base of the door was nearly above Joktan’s head and was positioned as if it were a part of the wall, making it nearly impossible for escape—but at least he now knew there were two ways out.
Escorted along a smaller passageway, the captives were led to a staircase that descended a half-circle to the lowest level of the structure. After a long while, the stairs ended at a wooden door which led to an eerie sanctum that pleasantly offered the lingering metallic scent of fresh blood. Inside, a mangled corpse was being dragged to what appeared to a well. The two guards, who were handling the body, glanced from their work only momentarily to acknowledge the presence of the new comers. Continuing their task, the men cast the dilapidated form into the pit and after a pause the body landed with an echoing thud on the surface below. High-pitched snarls, followed by the sounds of the meal’s ferocious indulgence, resounded from the pit below. Joktan gulped and did his best to stay clear of the hole as he was brought to where a man with a crimson cloak and hood sat at a wooden table. A candle and parchment were spread before cloaked man and his eyes stayed fixed upon the work of a feathered pen.
Joktan and the aged prophet were made to stand before the table upon which lay the gruesome trophy of a severed hand. Blood from the detached appendage formed a dark puddle on a slab of clay which was used as a vile form of ink. The parchment was riddled with red scrawling of torture methods and their results. Joktan’s gaze shifted past the table in disgust and began to study the crude metal and wooden apparatuses of torture that were erected in the back of the chamber.
“Welcome, to my dungeon,” began the figure in the crimson robe. “Some may find it…unappealing but to me it is home.”
Joktan stood in silence, refusing to meet the man’s uncanny stare.
“I have been hearing rumors of Sorn advancement into our territory? You would not know of such things would you?”
Joktan remained silent.
“Of course you would not, no one likes to talk,” the man said as he rose from his seat and began to walk around the table. Stopping a breath’s length away, he leaned under the prisoner’s downcast eyes, forcing him to look at him. “But it is my skill to make people talk, and I am exceptionally good at it.”
Joktan held the jailer’s stare until the man backed away and returned to his seat. “What about him?” Joktan asked, motioning toward the circular pit at the center of the room.
A one-sided smirk creased the man’s disfigured face that was shadowed by a hood. “You see the trick is not getting information—everyman has his breaking point—it is more about being sure you have drained him of everything… And sometimes you just have to kill a man to get to that point.”
Joktan gave the man a cold stare and stood strong despite his weakened state. “Why would you tell me this?”
The old man laughed and sat again at the table, intertwining his emaciated fingers before him. “You seem like one with intelligence, there is no fooling a man who knows his own fate; death will come to you, how and when are up to you.”
Quiet infiltrated the room as grayed eyes studied the soldier from beneath the brim of his hood. “For now I have enough information,” he said after long last. Rising again, he secured the parchment in the length of his robe and paced briskly past the prisoners. Halting abruptly, he turned. “Put our guests in the special cell…together. They will need their rest before tomorrow.”
It was a risk, there was no delusion in Ehud’s mind that his plan might end with either his death or capture, but he had to try. Having convened with the reassembled search-teams, he discovered that Joktan may be alive after all. His riders, that had scoured the desert, relayed that they had found tracks leading from the forest. Following the trail, they came upon Havilan horsemen on a patrol of their borders. Hiding behind a dune, the Sorn watched the enemy scouts pull a man from the sand and bring him into their city.
Ehud allowed only ten warriors to accompany him to the desert and as dusk threatened to fall upon the land, they laid in wait. Within sight of the walls, a lone scout patrolled the rolling hills on one final sweep before the night arrived. Stripped of their horses and armor, the Sorn waited in the shadow of a hill. Ehud signaled his men to be silent as they all burrowed into the sand to hide from their prey’s sight. The commander secured a firm grip on the handle of a slender dagger. He knew they would have only one chance to sneak past the wall and save Joktan before he met his end at the hands of the enemy.
Head resting upon his palms, the gate-tower’s watchman lacked enthusiasm as his eyes followed the distant form of a rider. The rest of the west-gate’s patrols were returning for the night, and the only thing keeping the guard from some much need rest was the arrival of the final late-comer. He observed from his stony height while the scout would slip behind a mound of sand and then reappear a moment later. The watchman sighed as the dull sequence continued until the horseman disappeared in the shadow of a dune and failed to surface.
“What now?” muttered the guard.
Straightening his posture, the man wondered for an instant if something was amiss. He dispatched his concern the moment it surfaced, for the scout galloped back into his line of sight. Turning his mount, the rider headed for the west-gate.
“About time,” complained the watchman as he strode from the tower’s edge and began his descent down the spiraling steps. Too tired to question the horsemen about the delay, he ordered the gate to close after the scout had entered the city.
The doors shuddered behind the disguised foreigner and were bolted with careless haste. It was the changing of guards for the night and soldiers were busily coming and going in a fray of excitement. Ehud led his captured steed into a stable beside the gate and reined the animal in the shadowy portion of the structure. Nearby, several men huddled around the torchlight while they discussed the happenings of the day. The masked stranger knelt by his horse and fed it handfuls of straw while he inclined his ear to the banter of the soldiers.
“…Another?” asked a slim guard with raggedy long hair.
“That’s three now, you think they’d learn,” added the fattest of the company with a snort.
There was an odd cackle from a woman with grayed hair who appeared with a jar of an odorous brew. Slamming the draught on a rickety table, she gathered the men’s attention. “The stars they tell, they do!” cooed the hag. Placing her wart speckled hands on the table, she released another spell of her insane laughter.
“What have you seen, old woman?” demanded the stout soldier while he poured himself a drink in a wooden cup.
The hag’s eyes widened in a crazed stare, forcing the man to retreat before their unsettling gaze. “Blind! All of you! I have seen the deaths of you all!” She scowled.
The guards rose from the table as the woman swiped a cup and held it over her head. “Kill the prophet I told you!” she shouted as she began to pour the brown liquid upon the table. “Spill his blood in the streets!” The ale pooled and glimmered in the torchlight as it trickled from the glass. Using the remnant of the cup’s contents, the hag sprayed the men around her and hurled the mug at them. “Now the blood is upon you! Kill the Sorn! Slay the prophet!” she hissed.
Wiping his splattered face clean, the robust guard glowered at the woman. “They will be dead by the morning, witch,” he growled.
Donning a sinister grin, the hag turned to take her leave. “Ensure that it so,” she said with a laugh as she faded into the shadows.
Unnoticed, the hidden observer slipped away into the night. In search of his friend, he took to the darkened streets filled with the perverse revelry of the city’s inhabitants. Ehud knew he only had till dawn to contrive a plan to spring Joktan from this hellish place.
Pending the doom of their short sentence, the prisoners were moved to a wooden cage that had been retracted from the ceiling above the pit where the guards had tossed the corpse earlier. After being nearly thrown in, the two men were lowered into the shadows. Joktan heard the men laugh as he moved deeper into the darkened den of the monsters. A beam of light infiltrated the gloomy depths from a narrow passageway that ascended directly through the pyramids levels above and allowed the captives a limited range of sight.
Amber eyes stared at the fresh meat from below and the smell of their latest meal filled the air. The holy-man returned the gaze and whispered something quiet that caused the beasts below them to settle.
“Are you not angry that you have been put here unjustly?” Joktan asked after he could not endure the quiet any longer. “Your god has certainly forsaken you.”
“I am not to question why, just to follow and obey—man’s wisdom is folly in comparison to God’s. I am his servant; He would not lead me astray,” responded the strange elder.
“What do you call this hell then? A blessing? By the sounds of it we will both die tomorrow.”
“If that is God’s will.”
“Stubborn old man,” Joktan mumbled. “Your faith has made you blind!”
His outburst caused him to wince in pain and he tore the armor from his shoulder to get a better look. The infection had swelled, turning his skin a calloused light black that had formed over the wound and was slowly spreading.
“Nasty bite,” remarked the old man as the distant light from above beamed upon the wound. “It appears the poison is spreading on swift wings, you might turn before night has ended.”
“Turn?” questioned Joktan, who was in too much pain to express fear at the man’s words.
“That is a bite from a spawn of the deceiver, you will become a servant to the darkness,” said the man as he rested his head against the wooden confines of the cell. “You will become trapped inside your own mind as you lose control and thirst for death and blood like the Enlar.”
“Eloquent,” remarked the Sorn. “Well, either way I’m going to die in this place.”
“Death is just the beginning.”
Joktan let out a heavy sigh. He could feel the heated disease that festered inside him being exhaled from his dry mouth. “What can be worse than this world?”
“This world itself is not evil, but has become filled with evil people and our sin has tainted it. The betrayer who caused our fall will become your new master when you die and if you think this world is hell you are in for a surprise,” said the old man bluntly.
“I am not a child, I will not fall for your ancient tales,” Joktan said with a snarl. He did not know where the embittered words came from but he was beginning to feel powerless.
“A child’s faith is what is required to believe; your so called knowledge and wisdom blinds you,” explained the prophet as he closed his eyes and his lips began to mouth silent words.
“No more,” begged the physically and mentally deteriorating prisoner. He could feel the infection had nearly reached the base of his mind and the surface of his rapidly beating heart. Closing his eyes, Joktan felt his fever rise to an almost insufferable height. When the captive felt he could endure no longer, the sickness and pain vanished and the floor below him fell away. A cool, refreshing air passed his lips like sweetened water as the mortal floated; which direction he was going and how fast was impossible to tell. The flight ended abruptly and Joktan felt himself drop to a smooth surface that radiated warmth.
Although his eyes were open, he could see nothing but blackness and his own flesh. A searing sensation touched his ears but no pain was felt and instantly he heard voices.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is filled with his glory!” sang a chorus of voices together.
The ground on which Joktan knelt shook at the sound of the beautiful declaration. Then a far greater voice, like that of an army of trumpets resounded from before him. “What wickedness runs rampant upon the world I have created?”
“I cannot see,” Joktan said; his voice feeble in comparison.
“You do not see because you have no faith to see,” answered a softer voice from close by.
Then Joktan felt his eyes touched with fire and sight came to him. “Now see and have faith.” Again the spirit being, whose height was greater than that of a Nephilim, touched Joktan’s lips with a hot stone held by tongs. “Speak and be heard.”
A great chamber of a temple surrounded him, its walls and pillars reached past what his sight allowed and white smoke filled the air with a sweet essence. Great beings, like men, were cloaked in flowing robes of shimmering white with crystalline hair and they floated above. They had six wings, using only two to fly and the others to cover their eyes and feet. The Seraphim surrounded a great throne of glistening sapphire that hovered on a mist above them; the figure that sat upon it was so bright that Joktan could not rest his eyes upon him. The length of the being’s crystalline robe ran down around either side of the throne and lay at the mortal’s feet.
“Which one of you will go to save my servant and stand against the Prince of Darkness who would be risen at the call of his people?” asked the voice from the throne.
Joktan looked around at the angels that remained transfixed on their worship. He waited to see which of the great warriors would come forward, but none came.
“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” the great voice asked again.
The frail man shook in the unanswered silence that was only disturbed by the praises of the Seraphim. Suddenly red slashes of light formed a vortex around a confined area before Joktan and a figure appeared at its center. The being was more beautiful than any of the others. As Joktan stared at the new arrival, the being’s form flashed into a pale glimmer of a blackened serpent with folded wings. Horns that shimmered like obsidian curved out of the beast’s head and red breath vented from its jaws.
“This one is mine! His soul has not been cleansed!” commanded the Arc-Angel; his voice a conjugation of purity and a deep, bone chilling growl.
Joktan watched the angel’s hand reach out toward him; its movement shadowed by the form of the creature’s oily scales and curved black claws. The mortal stood and took a step, only to fall helplessly upon his face. The creature grabbed hold of him and began to drag him away from the throne.
“I will go, send me!” cried Joktan in sudden distress.
“Lucifer!” called the great voice, causing the wicked spirit to release the mortal. “I alone will say when a soul is ready to be taken; his time is not yet complete.
“…Will you stand alone against the darkness? Will you surrender your life to Me?” the crystalline figure asked with a much softer voice.
The mortal nodded, “I shall.”
“If he fails then,” hissed the great winged-serpent. “I demand claim to the earth and all its souls!”
“Let it be so,” responded the Almighty.
Lucifer smirked, and Joktan watched as the spirit vanished as he had come.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Upcoming Novel
This would be my first post ever on a blog site. I usually use myspace, where I have some sketches I have drawn for my first book-The Light of Eden-which should be published before the end of 2008. Deviantart is where I have a few chapters from my book and other short stories I have written-if you would like to check out my style and get a glimpse at the strange imagination God gave me. Comment please. Thanks guys.
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