Airel (25 page)

“You do age, but very slowly. When you’re two hundred years old you will look much the same as you do now.” He began cleaning up the dojo, putting the equipment away.

I didn’t know what to think. This changed everything. My friends, my family would all die, and many times over. I would be alone for so very long. Just when I thought I was going to like the idea of—well, immortality—the catch landed on top of me.

Chapter VI

1250 B.C. Arabia

The horde camp was quiet. A few guards patrolled the perimeter carrying torches. It was easy for Kreios and Yamanu to creep past them into the main part of the camp, the fog moving in subtly with them. Kreios was waiting to feel the pull and drain of his power, but because of the Sword, he did not. He hoped Yamanu was doing fine as well.

His hope was not returned to him void; as Yamanu shaded them from enemy detection, he also read Kreios’s worry and reassured him.
“I think El is for us this night, my friend.”

“I count over one thousand; does that sound right?”
Yamanu agreed, and they moved on to the edge of the camp.
“We will sweep from one end to the other, killing as many as we can without drawing attention to ourselves. When we are discovered, we fly.”
Kreios wanted to break the will of the horde and see if he could turn fear upon them for a change. 

There was only one variable outside the scope of their control. If a demons that owned the men remained unmanifest—that is to say, lying dormant within the men’s flesh—then all Kreios and Yamanu would need to do would be to kill the men; the demons would follow them to hell. But if the demonic pairings of the Brotherhood
were
physically manifest, and resting alongside the men—or elsewhere—their task would become complicated. 

Kreios tossed his invisible dagger from one hand to the other and stepped silently inside the nearest tent. It was large, composed of rotting hides tied to long wooden poles. Flies buzzed about, even though it was cold. 

A cluster of men, six of them, slept snoring like wild beasts. This was the smallest component of the enemy army; a group of six that ate, slept, and fought side by side. Stench filled Kreios’s nostrils, reeking of sweat, filth, and the sweet tang of urine. The men were not clustered in pairs, which meant that the demonic controllers of the enemy men remained inside them, dormant. 

Silently communicating with his partner, Kreios took the left side, and Yamanu took the right. They moved quickly, cutting throats like butchers. The men flopped and kicked, gasping as blood poured into their throats, simultaneously bled dry and drowning. The demons within made them convulse, making one last vain effort to break free and escape as they were dragged off to Hell, kicking and clawing.

The angels had their way in the camp for a good portion of the night, despoiling and irradiating the pestilence of death and judgment. With each kill, Kreios grew more and more hopeful. Yamanu did not make a sound through it all.

Kreios turned from slicing the neck of a short man, the last in a group of four in a smaller tent, when an enormous man entered clad only in a loincloth. A tangled, matted mass of thick brown hair clung to him like a shrub to the face of a cliff. His enormous belly overhung his loincloth, the picture of sloth. 

The two angels were invisible to him, but his eyes grew wide as he realized that his comrades lay dead at his feet, their blood soaking into the ground. One, the last one to die, twitched, his left hand jumping. The giant man screamed like a wild cat, sounding the alarm.

Kreios was quick, stabbing his dagger into his throat, cutting the cry short—but it was too late. The sound of voices and angry grunts rippled through the camp. Yamanu knocked the man aside, who was dead where he had stood, and sprang from the tent.
“Time to fly!”
Kreios followed him out. Into the middle of the row of tents flowed hundreds of half-naked men, swords raised. 

Torches blazed, captains issued orders in gruff shouts, and the guards on the perimeter began running toward the noise. It was like being trapped inside an hourglass. Kreios bent his legs to take to the air but something held him back. Yamanu looked to Kreios and he nodded: he too was unable to fly.

Within the gathering mass of enemy combatants there came a thick dirty sound—flesh tearing from flesh. The men twitched and jerked as if being rent in two. Black hooded demons with glowing eyes wrenched and twisted from the mouths of the men, as if their tongues were tombstones that guarded the wretched stinking open sepulchre in each one. 

The dark forces came free. They drew black swords that dripped, wet. The earth beneath turned to boiling tar. Kreios felt distress in Yamanu. It had become too late now for them to flee. One course of action remained. Kreios erupted with a shout: “For the Sons of God and for Ke’elei!” He unsheathed the Sword of Light, blasting a shattering hole into the very heart of the night.

Kreios charged through the horde as an enraged bull. Men and demons flew in all directions, felled beneath the crush of his mighty arm. The fog vanished in an instant as Yamanu withdrew his shadow, drew his sword, and fought bravely in the light of the Sword. 

As Kreios maneuvered his way through the onslaught, he kept a steady eye on the tent of the Seer. A cry came from his left side, and Kreios could feel the pain in Yamanu’s thoughts. He turned to see a large demon standing over his friend, a curving black sword held high overhead, ready to deliver the final blow. 

Instinctually, Kreios threw his Sword, cleaving the demon into a disemboweled wreck. The Sword of Light passed through its target as if it had been nothing, lodging firmly into the trunk of a tree on the edge of the enemy encampment. Yamanu stood; the horde army closed in. Kreios sprinted for it, alarmed at his rashness. Perhaps now that Yamanu was freed, they could work together to regain possession of the Sword.

He heard a distant but immediate voice.
“Take them alive. And you, Kreios: stand still where you are, or I shall remove this one’s head from his body.”
Kreios whirled and beheld the Seer in all his evil glory, standing with a small jagged sword to Yamanu’s throat. 

He froze.

Kreios thought about so many things in that instant that only one mattered, for all its importance: he knew that he might never see his little girl again. 

The Seer burned a hole in him with malicious eyes. Was this Lucifer?—Kreios wondered—or just another piece on the game board? He locked his gaze onto the Seer’s eyes once more, determined to see if he could recognize anything at all. He held there… until the creepings of fear consumed him. He was not going to escape this time. 

Kreios turned toward the Sword that stuck out of the distant tree and noted that its light had been snuffed along with his last hope of deliverance. 

Two enemy warriors grabbed his arms in the darkness and held fast with inhuman strength, their demonic counterparts nearby, faces hooded and black. It was like firelight flickering where their eyes might have been.

He was dragged toward the Seer’s tents at the center of the camp, quite a distance away. He struggled, but it was no use. They took Yamanu somewhere else, which completed the crushing of Kreios’s spirit. Each moment was more and more draining; Kreios could feel it. His breathing became ragged and harsh. He slumped to the ground, spent, and the two enemy warrior-slaves who had been carrying him tossed him like a rag doll into the Seer’s tent. 

Kreios landed on his face, his body a crumpled rag. Bright white stars flashed before his eyes, and for an instant he thought he was going to fall out of time. The Seer materialized in front of him, hiding under a hideous dripping hood. The stench that followed him was almost unbearable; it smelled like a pile of corpses in the dark.
“I would like to thank you for bringing back my Sword. I have missed it so…”
He laughed, high and wheezing; a whine. Kreios shivered and closed his eyes. 

Kreios felt Yamanu, wherever he was, would die soon if something didn’t happen. He felt him fading from his grasp. He decided to address the evil presence in front of him. He raised his face from the dirt and said, “Why me?” 

The Seer laughed once more, wheezing and rattling.
“You think I want you? I thought you a worthy foe… but you are a dumb sheep playing with wolves.”
The laughter continued, more intense and disturbing. At last, the Seer regained a trifle of self control.
“Are you growing weak, slave? Yes… yes, you are. Perhaps amendments can be made to prolong your stay with the sentient—though you’re quite pitiful, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” 

Kreios was sucking air and filthy dirt into his lungs when a thought came to him, light and terrible. He tried to put it from his mind.
It has to be a lie!
This was a sick game the beast wanted to play; and if Kreios was to survive, he knew that he had to begin playing it. 

The Seer began speaking unclean incantations in one of the lost tongues, binding and loosing. The end result, though his ears burned for hearing such unspeakable atrocities, was that the drain on the strength of Kreios was stopped. The Seer knelt to the ground and brought his face near. Kreios nearly vomited from the stench of it, thinking perhaps the Seer would try to speak a curse over him. Instead, he spit on him as he stood and took his leave, hissing, disappearing through the folds of the tent. Kreios sighed with relief and began to pray.

Chapter VII
 

Boise Idaho, Present day

Stan the man giggled like a little girl, cleared his throat, and adjusted his sunglasses. “I am a fan of your little plan, Stan the man,” he said cheerily. He repeated it again and again. It was a stupid little rhyme, but he needed it. He wanted it. He was the
man,
especially with his latest prize knocking around in the trunk. He had the world by the tail.

It had been enjoyable, his time with Lopez. The detective had been so very trusting, after all; it made the irony so very delicious.
He had actually thought that I would let him go after he told me what I wanted to know.
That boggled what was left of his mind. 

“Let me out, you pervert!” The voice in the trunk was angry, sure. But there was fear there… and innocence, too. Stan loved innocence, loved to misuse it, turn it back on itself. 

The detective had been last—the super-enjoyment of that moment would live on in infamy with Stan. He had become engorged, not just from bloodlust, but from his poetic desire to manipulate and target the innocent. He preferred to kill first those who did not deserve to die, preferably with someone watching—someone whose pain would drive them mad before he finally showed them to the edge of the grave and turned them loose within it.

Stan giggled again.
That’s just what happened to Lopez!
He had been so
very
helpful. And Stan the man was sated now. His mind was at peace, and all was right with the world. And all was
going
right as well. The address that he had taken from the detective, the Mexican
bandito,
was just as good as gold. He had made his score all right.

The voice came from the trunk again. “You know what I am going to do when I get out of here…!” It thrashed in the trunk like a drowning kitten; all screeches and howls, nothing more. The louder she screamed the better he felt. “I’ll tell everyone; the police, my school, the news, my parents—they’ll be very interested in a middle-aged pervert that kidnapped a high school student!”

Silence. She was thinking it over. Stan drove on.

“You think you’re going to get away with this?! You’re a fool!” 

Stan was smug, and he smirked. He spoke calmly, soothingly. “Yell all you want, Kim. Where you’re going no one will ever hear you.” He spoke in a sing-song. “Screaming will only get you a slower and much more painful death!” That shut her up.
Stupid kid
.

Chapter VIII
 

1250 B.C. Arabia

Kreios was laid out where he had landed, eyes closed. He entered deep into the part of his mind where he knew it lay in wait. It might help him—or it could take his soul—leaving him to wander, forever lost. He could still hear the Seer, the guards, other sounds from the outside world. But they were far away, as if they were in another time and place.

Heavy darkness filled his vision. He felt his life wavering. Kreios knew that if he did not do something decisive soon, he would die along with Yamanu. At the far end of the maddening blackness that reached for him, Kreios saw a glimmer flickering in his mind. He moved toward it. As he moved closer to the light, he knew what he would find there, before he actually saw it: the frameless door. 

Kreios, like anyone, had seen many doors, had walked through them. He had been faced with them both at journey’s end and at inception. He had been invited through them into warmth and fellowship, had banged on them in the cold of winter and bellowed to be let in. Doors had stood in his path as open gateways to his furtherings, but doors had also stood in opposition to him on his pathway as well. Some he had never passed through. 

What was beyond it? Was it good or evil, and why did he feel that whatever lurked behind it might kill him? He didn’t know, and as he circled around it, he noticed that only one side of the door was pierced with a hand hold—the other side was smooth, unblemished. 

Kreios could feel Yamanu feebly projecting his thoughts toward him. The time was short. He would have to risk his own life in order to save that of his friend—he would pass through the door. All of his options had been reduced to this choice.

The door changed color as well as shape from the corner of his mind’s eye. Reaching out with a strong hand, Kreios grasped the handle and turned it. It yielded smoothly to his touch, swinging open of its own accord, as if there was a pressure difference, and he could feel the gentle rushing of wind passing by him from behind. 

The slight breeze that pulled at his robes made him think of the long autumn weather he loved. Memories of his courtship with his beloved wife flowed over him in cool, refreshing rivulets. The smell of orange-red leaves, of pines dropping needles, filled the air . Kreios stood before the open door breathing in deeply. A small smile took the right corner of his mouth. 

Beyond, the sun was shining. The beauty of the place called aloud to him. Kreios peered in without stepping over the threshold. There, lying on the grass only a few steps beyond the open door, was a sword. He glanced back and took a tentative breath. He looked in again, knowing already: the sword lying naked on the grass was the Sword of Light. It reflected liquid sunlight off its blade.

There was no more time for wonder. He leapt forward, dove to the earth, and rolled to his feet with the Sword once again in his hand. His back to the door, he was becoming overwhelmed. His will to return diminished with each breath of pure, sweet, perfect atmosphere. The memory of his sweet Eriel called him back.

He turned and in three powerful strides made it to the threshold. He could hear voices calling to him, begging him to stay with promises of undying happiness, and it caused him to stumble. Kreios knew one of the voices in the sea of calling. It was his departed love. Tears streamed down his face as he felt her tugging on his heart, pleading for him to stay.

“NO!” Gripping the door edge he pulled himself through and almost dropped the Sword. As soon as he crossed over, the door slammed shut powerfully, with finality. 

He became aware of his limbs again, his heart beating, and he felt the soreness of his face. The sounds of his attackers came from afar, in the distance. He lay motionless, taking care not to betray the change within. He projected to Yamanu his plan, and could feel the life and power from the Sword fill his body once again. 

He did not understand how he could go into his own mind to a place he had seemed to have imagined, and retrieve the Sword of Light. Nevertheless he was sure that when he opened his eyes he would be holding it in his hands. He was ready to risk his life, the life of his friend, ultimately the life of his daughter, on that. 

The smell of dirt and sweat filled his nostrils. He kept his eyes closed tightly, waiting for the right moment. He soaked it in, felt peace fill him with power. The strange thing to his mind was how he could feel the Sword at hand—and yet as he flexed his fingers it was not there. He wondered how long it could balance in between realities before it was lost completely. 

Yamanu must not have been far, because as the Power filled Kreios, he could sense his friend and warrior brother rising up. The Shadower’s gift was augmenting and he was storing it, damming up the potential, making ready for a massive flood. He and Kreios were walking a narrow edge as they coordinated the timing of their one and only opportunity to break with the doom that the Seer desired to visit upon them. 

Kreios opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. He was the embodiment of the Angel of the LORD, that enigmatic identity before whom prophets would fall down and kings would tremble. His body was awash; waves of spiritual power rippled throughout. He did not look to see if the Sword of Light was indeed physically at hand but he clenched his fist and he could feel its grips, more real ever. His only hope was that his faith was strong enough to
make it real.
He swung it high and held it there.

The tent exploded, ripped asunder and dissolved in light as demons and their pet slaves were thrown like toys. Simultaneously, Yamanu arose, swift and terrible, and though Kreios could feel him near enough, he could not locate him precisely. No matter: crippling cold and inky darkness descended upon the enemy camp with such ferocity that even the demons trembled. 

Contrary to conflicting with the gifts of the Shadower, the Sword complimented and increased them, and heavy black fog exploded over and through the enemy camp, throwing the Seer’s horde into wincing grief. Some of the men became mute with it and could not remember why they were there or what they were doing, wandering helplessly. 

Kreios stood at the epicenter of what was left of the travelling residence of the one he hated. He looked for the Seer, vengeance ripping through his veins. The demonic horde army was scurrying every which way. There were screams of incomprehension, vague orders and countermands as the enemy attempted to gather itself together out of confusion. He searched urgently, kicking bodies out of his way, hacking through obstacles, stirring the wreckage, but the Seer was not there. Kreios filled his lungs and reared back, raising his voice to the heavens with a roaring battle cry, calling out the Agent of Darkness.

“Come out and fight me, Seer!” The cry did not produce the intended result. Kreios and Yamanu, now standing side by side in the wreckage of the Seer’s tents, were faced not with a sporting contest with the disobedient deserter, but with a wave of filthy demonic infantry bearing down upon them. 

Yamanu recovered his stolen sword from the ruined body of one of the guards, and with weapons raised at the ready, their eyes blazed with holy fire. 

They became encircled by enemy forces, rallying against the battle cry that Kreios had delivered. The enemy could not perceive beyond the vagueness of the upside-down hope they had where they were going—where they were being driven. 

Kreios and Yamanu waited to spring the trap. The enemy drew nearer still, their pikes deployed horizontally, pointing inward at the angels. When they had drawn within a stride or two, Kreios launched himself from his defensive position, smacking aside enemy combatants’ weapons with the flat of the Sword, which flowed fluidly back around to the attack, slicing with ease through muscle, bone, marrow. 

Whirling angrily through their midst, Kreios downed enemy after enemy with his Sword, arcing high, then low. He swung upwards, slicing a demon from groin to chin, producing a horrible truncated shriek. 

Yamanu moved independently but kept close by, hacking and slicing at demons and evil men. He waded through them, swinging his weapon like a harvester, growling and screaming maniacally only once—at the onset of battle—from then on he was silent, concentrating, and all the more deadly.

The angels worked steadily through the advancing enemy army, simply cleaving its members in two, drenching themselves in acrid blood that stank and burned. Sparks of black and red flew from demon mouths. 

Soon the angels had run through the initial wave of attackers. They stood, panting gloriously, drenched in their own sweat comingled with the rank blood of the vanquished. They awaited the second onslaught, and as they did, Kreios closed his eyes and probed the invisible realms for his opponent. 

As he searched, he beheld the tree into which the Sword had been lodged. The Sword was not there, which was absolutely perfect. Kreios held his hand high, and there, manifest before him, was his weapon: the Sword of Light. He clenched his hand around it, felt its heft, spun it deftly, and the blade hummed and buzzed through the air. Now victory was assured to him.

But it did not take long to assess the outcome of battle: the Seer had fled, had sensed the coming battle when Kreios had been filled with the holy fury that fueled him. The skirmish the angels had just endured was sacrificial; a diversion away from true intent—that the Seer, coward and dog, was rallying elsewhere, gathering more and more thousands to his side.

Yamanu sensed all of this as well, yet they hedged on the side of caution, standing at the ready in the midst of Yamanu’s icy pure black fog for quite some time, awaiting some new treachery. But it did not come. 

At last, on toward the dawn, the angels relaxed their vigilance. Setting fire to the remains of the enemy camp, which burned vigorously, they advanced to the lake to bathe and to clean their weapons and clothing. The Sword of Light was clean already. The acid blood had dripped from it as it was being used—it was like mixing water and oil. Nothing could cling to it. 

When they were clean, they came ashore and sat under a tree in the broadening sunshine of midmorning. Yamanu lit his pipe luxuriously and puffed at it, sending strongly scented smoke curling into wreaths in his lap and spilling onto the ground, dissipating. “So,” he concluded, “that went well…” His words fell off, and Kreios could see a grin on his face.

Kreios never did have much of a sense of humor. All he had on his mind was the mission, and how they would complete it. “We must kill the Seer or all is lost.” He did not give much time to vain things, including the typical victory strut—no matter how small.

Discomfort moved in on the pair. At length, after Yamanu was finished with his pipe, Kreios gave a sigh. The enemy horde would be on guard from now on. Surprise attacks would require more… creativity. Kreios took to the air, hovering at treetop height, waiting for Yamanu to follow him. 

“What now, chief?” Yamanu asked as he joined him.

Kreios was stone-faced again. “We make camp. Then we find a way to persuade our brothers in Ke’elei to help us. I believe I know how to convince them.”