Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (12 page)

The string of horses and camels started to move faster, and the Arab steeds whinnied with fear.

A second great thundering was now coming towards them from the opposite side of the desert. The white steeds of the caravan now panicked visibly as the camel riders struggled to keep their beasts under control. Joseph and Ayeshe, chilled with fear, watched the desert plains, as the two waves of invisible moving sand converged towards the caravan. Aretas galloped over to where Joseph rode with Mary and the babe.

‘Some strange magic is afoot,’ he cried. ‘Surround the infant King!’

Immediately Aretas’ royal guard surrounded Mary and the sleeping infant. ‘Full speed – make haste!’

Aretas rode next to Mary, keeping a grim eye on the infant. Jesus slept peacefully.

* * *

Belzoc and his ferocious hordes closed fast, riding from the west, gaining ground on the now galloping caravan. But suddenly a small white throng appeared ahead of them on the eastern horizon, Michael and his lone company of warriors advancing towards the caravan from the east.

Michael stood tall in his flaming chariot pulled by twenty winged seraph stallions, racing along a full league above the stark desert plains, leading a hundred angelic warriors astride their white steeds.

Belzoc pulled the reins brutally, bringing his vicious black steeds up short on the desert plain, and turned hell’s monstrous black chariot to meet the oncoming Michael head-on. They faced each other on the sweltering sand, less than a length apart.

‘Belzoc, prince of Persia,’ Michael cried, ‘prepare to war!’

Belzoc stared in relish at the empty sands yawning leagues behind Michael, then turned to the hundreds of thousands of his black-armoured Persian angelic legions behind him.

‘Michael, chief prince of Israel ... Your armies are late!’ Belzoc spat, giving Michael a menacing grin, then swung his six-foot black blade savagely in the air, ‘Prepare to die!’ Immediately his savage hordes let out a bloodthirsty roaring, stampeding towards Michael’s angelic warriors. Thousands of the savage hordes of darkness rained blows on the ferociously fighting warriors of the First Heaven, broadsword against broadsword.

Michael’s and Belzoc’s chariots thundered across the sand towards the caravan, their flaming wheels grinding against each other as they raced neck and neck.

‘Your swordsmanship has grown soft, Michael, since our last skirmish over the Hebrew Daniel!’ Belzoc shouted derisively. He pushed his filthy braided hair away from his face. Caked with dirt, it hung down past his brawny thighs.

‘You have never forgiven me for defeating you in front of your armies, Belzoc!’ Michael cried. Sparks and rivets flew from the princes’ chariot wheels, the stallions straining to breaking point as, all around them, the violent battle played out.

‘This time you shall pay with your life, chief prince of the royal house of Yehovah. I shall exhibit your head on the gates of Hades.’ Belzoc spat on the ground, wiping his mouth with a grimy arm.

‘By the setting of eleven moons, you shall be banished to the penitentiary in Tartarus!’ Michael yelled, never taking his eyes off his enemy. He followed Belzoc’s gaze far in the distance, to Mary and the sleeping infant.

Michael stood still, all senses alert, his gaze fixed on Belzoc. Belzoc moved suddenly and, with his immense strength, jumped across from his chariot onto Michael’s, ploughing his sword through the air at Michael’s neck. Michael neatly evaded the stroke and slammed his sword down across Belzoc’s chest, catching him off guard and knocking him, winded, to the floor of Michael’s chariot. Enraged, the demon prince thrust savagely at Michael. Belzoc thrust. Michael thrust back. Belzoc rose to his feet, leering. The ring of steel on steel resounded across the desert, as the chariot veered furiously ahead.

‘I shall feed Christos’ tender flesh to the wild dogs that roam these mountains...’ Belzoc smirked. He thrust his sword through Michael’s thigh, then drew it out savagely as hundreds of small curved barbs tore Michael’s flesh to shreds.

Michael fell to the chariot floor, collapsing to his knees in pain.

‘My latest addition – rips to the very bone,’ Belzoc leered lecherously. I shall tear Christos limb from limb.’ Sweat poured from Michael. Incensed, he attempted to stand but collapsed, overwhelmed by the excruciating pain.

Belzoc shoved him to the floor, towering over him triumphantly. ‘This day – you go to the Abyss, Michael!’

He raised his broadsword over Michael’s neck, then turned his head to follow Michael’s gaze over to Raphael’s war chariots thundering towards them, now visible on the horizon. In that instant, Michael grasped Belzoc’s tangled black mane hanging at his thighs and wound it in his fist in an iron grasp, savagely wrenching Belzoc’s head down onto the chariot floor with his great strength, then swung his sword across and through Belzoc’s neck in one clean thrust, severing his head from his body. Thick black blood spurted up in twin fountains.

‘Till the great judgement!’ Michael kicked the body off his chariot onto the sand. Belzoc’s head vanished. Then his body followed, disappearing straight to the Abyss.

‘The Messiah’s kingdom come,’ Michael cried, saluting grimly at Raphael overhead.

* * *

Jether hovered at the cusp of the ordinances of the heavens and the treasuries of the hail, the scorching luminous white waves of the seventh sea of wisdom churning beneath him, at the very edge of the wake of the Universes, his silver robes billowing in the tempests, his long white hair and beard flying in the rushing hail blizzards. His face was burning in ecstasy. His veined hand clasped a burning azure sapphire the size of a duck’s egg. In its epicentre burned a fierce crimson flame – the seventh stone of fire.

Jether reached into the folds of his robes and produced a silver amulet. He opened the case, placed the stone of fire within, and closed the clasp, then placed it around his neck on a silver chain. And mounting his white-winged charger, he rode the colossal flashing thunderbolts of hail towards Alexandria.

* * *

Michael turned his monstrous chariot around to follow the disappearing caravan that held the infant king, then looked back to the West. Stampeding straight towards Michael on their headless winged chargers rode the legions of the sinister Necromancer Warlock Kings of the East, followed by their vast armies of living skeletons. These were the foulest, most depraved and feared of all Lucifer’s armies, their sorceries vile and potent. This he well knew. And he was trapped in their pathway.

He glimpsed Gabriel out of the corner of his eye, racing towards him from the left through the skies, with a hundred legions of archers. The only way to destroy a Necromancer King’s power was with a silvered arrow drenched in sacred ointment from the censer on the white altar of the labyrinth’s sixth spire, sent straight through the heart. This Michael also knew.

‘We shall eat you alive, Prince Michael!’ cried Nakan, iniquitous Warlock King of the East, as his headless charger raced alongside Michael’s thundering chariot. Michael felt a sharp pain and clutched his wrist. A tiny silver barb had penetrated the skin. He stared at it in dread: Necromancer poison. ‘First, I shall peel the skin from your torso,’ Nakan hissed, his foul oiled tones reverberating strangely in Michael’s head as his demon magic began to take effect. Michael grasped for the poisoned barb, flailing at it clumsily. ‘Then I shall sip your thick, glutinous blue blood from my goblet.’

Nakan held a golden goblet high in his left hand. Sweat poured from Michael’s temple down his cheeks, his eyelids grew heavy ... far too heavy. Nakan smiled a slow evil smile. ‘Once your eyelids close, Michael my pretty,’ he hissed, ‘you have only five seconds before the Abyss.’

There was a sudden dull thud. Nakan stared down at his chest in disbelief; a second later, his head turned to green vapour before Michael’s eyes. A thousand more arrows found their marks among the horrified Necromancer company.

Gabriel thundered through the skies towards the chariot, his gaze locked on the fast weakening Michael, now collapsed, his head flung down on the chariot floor. Gabriel’s huge seraph wings billowed behind him as he rose through the skies and landed directly in Michael’s chariot. He wrenched Michael’s head from the chariot floor, just as Michael’s eyelids closed heavily.

Gabriel grasped for the tiny steel barb in Michael’s wrist and pulled it from his flesh, deliberately forcing Michael’s eyelids open with his free hand. Instantly, the effects of Nakan’s demon magic started to drain from Michael’s limbs. Gabriel exhaled in relief, gently pushing the thick blond hair matted with sweat away from Michael’s temple. The recovering Michael grinned sheepishly and saluted feebly from the chariot floor. ‘Close shave!’ he mouthed, then he stared frowning beyond Gabriel.

Gabriel turned to follow Michael’s gaze. Rakkon, Jatir and Obadiah led by an exhilarated Xacheriel on his flying white charger, were launching hundreds of flying iron cannonballs towards Hera and the flying demon witches. Directly behind the younglings a pack of drooling demon werewolves headed straight for the dramatically gesticulating Xacheriel. Xacheriel, blissfully unaware of the impending danger, was lambasting Jatir on his erroneous co-ordinate calculations. Gabriel saluted to Michael, then thundered back into the skies towards the ancient elder. Michael staggered to his feet, clasping the stallion’s reins. He glanced back to see the vast company of the Black Horde led by Dagon thundering on the horizon towards Raphael and Uriel’s battalions. He swiftly loosed his lead charger from the chariot and jumped astride its back, then thundered across the desert after the disappearing caravan.

Then Michael’s blood ran cold, for he sensed a terrible evil, a malevolent presence. He turned.

There, only three lengths behind, stampeding towards him astride his monstrous winged stallion, his broadsword lifted high, his six black seraph wings extended, raced the king of hell himself. Lucifer ... escorted by the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West.

Chapter Ten

Alexandria

The caravan travelled across the sweltering desert plains, the ancient granite walls of the Monastery of Archangels becoming visible far in the distance on the horizon. The walls were thirty-five metres tall and three metres thick, carved from the huge mountain behind the monastery fortress.

Mary gazed up towards the formidable stone monastery, then looked questioningly across at Aretas, who smiled gently. ‘The Monastery of Archangels,’ he said.

‘He will be safe there.’

* * *

Michael and Lucifer raced bareback on their stallions, thundering neck and neck across the desert. Overhead flew the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West, astride their monstrous dark winged Leviathan racing towards the Monastery of Archangels.

‘I shall yet see you to the Abyss Michael, my brother.’ Lucifer drove his rapier savagely into Michael’s wounded thigh tearing the wound freshly open. Michael clasped at his leg in agony, incensed, the blood spurting over his palm gushing down his thigh.

‘But I have come for a greater prize than Michael. I come for the supreme trophy...’ Lucifer spat. Michael grasped for his bayonet with his free hand.

‘Your supreme trophy awaits you, brother...’ Michael thrust the bayonet brutally straight towards Lucifer’s right shoulder. ‘In the Lake of Fire!’ Michael cried. The bayonet found its mark, ripping Lucifer’s flesh savagely. Lucifer erupted with an agonized roar. He glared at Michael venomously, then raised his javelin with his left hand. With one last desperate thrust, he savagely ripped Michael’s leg from thigh to knee, sending him hurtling violently onto the desert sands.

A sadistic smile of triumph spread across Lucifer’s face as he thundered past his maimed brother, catching up to the Warlock Kings. Michael pulled himself to his knees, blood pouring onto the sand, then staggered in agony to his feet and remounted his stallion. In the distance, he could see the caravan already drawing up outside the monastery gates.

* * *

The caravan drew up outside the formidable black iron gates of the Monastery of Archangels. At the crest of the gateway, a sign was engraved in gold Arabic script. The towering gates slowly swung open revealing ten priests of the ancient caste of the Archangels, dressed in simple cassocks who stood at the entrance. The great caravan began its entry through the towering iron gates.

Jether turned to face the desert.

Lucifer and his stallion were thundering towards Jether over the desert sands. Above him, the thirteen dread Warlock Kings of the West raced through the skies, their long black capes billowing, their pale green parchment like skin and hooked noses visible underneath their crimson hoods, as they rode their monstrous scaled dark-winged Leviathan. Searing crimson flames erupted from the monsters’ enormous jaws as their powerful black webbed seraphim wings beat the air in a frenzy.

Jether strode over to Mary, her attention riveted on the babe nestled in her arms. He lifted the infant from Mary, never taking his eyes off Lucifer and the approaching Warlock Kings. Removing the silver amulet from under his robe, he unclasped it, revealing the seventh stone. Deliberately, he raised it high in the direction of the oncoming Leviathan.

Fierce crimson lightnings forked from the stone towards the mammoth winged monsters, striking their flaming yellow eyes. The pack of Leviathan screamed in unison, a blood chilling eerie high-pitched screaming. Seething black smoke spewed from their nostrils, then one by one, the creatures plummeted like lead to the ground, hurling the Warlock Kings violently onto the desert sands.