Reign of the Rebel, Chapter 3 (of 4)

in #story6 years ago (edited)


The following is a sample from a forthcoming novel by Alexander Lawrence. If you like what you read, please visit the Kickstarter campaign for Reign of the Rebel.

The first four chapters are also available in audio format at https://soundcloud.com/user-243061771/reign-of-the-rebel-chapters-1-4

Click here if you missed chapter two.

CHAPTER THREE: AFTERMATH

It took a great effort, but Raamah and Ditanu eventually extricated themselves from the brawl and made their way through throngs of upset and confused people back to the Forum, stopping only to dunk their faces and drink greedily from the water of a animal’s trough.

They found Kush just where they had left him, but alone. He sat hunched over on the lowest tier of the benches that filled two opposing sides of the hall. The Forum had emptied out once the fighting began. Everyone had since returned to their homes, where they no doubt tried to determine what to do next.

Without straightening, Kush lifted his eyes to accuse his son. “I heard what you did,” he said flatly. “Havilah saw it.”

“But you do not understand why,” said Raamah.

“No. How could I? You went to rescue the man, not kill him. Without Kainam—”

“Take heart, Father,” interrupted Raamah. He reached to the belt of his kilt, gently removed with his fingertips the map which had belonged to Kainam, and gave it over. “Opportunity is at hand.”

Kush unfolded the square-shaped hide and examined it. The drawing on its inside surface had been made in ink, a resource not found in Shinar.

“I recognize this,” Kush said. “It is a map of the earth like the ones my father preserved from the Flood. Why did he draw a star near the Nile?”

Raamah didn’t answer the question. “Now look at the back,” he said.

Kush flipped the hide and saw a river sketched as if from ground level, and near it a resting lion. A giant lion, based on the neighboring trees which did not reach even to the clavicles. Perhaps it was a statue. Behind the lion was a hole in the ground. It dawned on Kush that this rudimentary drawing was what Kainam had seen at the place marked with a star on the map.

Kush started, “This map is—”

“—directions to the records of the Watchers,” finished Raamah excitedly, “the place that Kainam discovered. This was the only document that Kainam hid in his garments as he tried to escape the Tower.”

Kush took a deep breath. Now he understood Raamah’s power play, and he also understood what his son was capable of. The boy had become formidable.

Kush looked the two young men up and down. “You could have gotten yourselves killed. Both of you are bruised horribly. And your hands… sahla zahni!”

“We will heal,” said Ditanu through swollen lips. “But hopefully not too quickly. I am enjoying this less pretty version of your son.” When he wasn’t battered and marred, Raamah was sickeningly handsome.

“How quickly you have regained your humor,” said Raamah.

“Let no one else know of this map,” Kush commanded them. “If they press you regarding Kainam, tell them you thought to appease the gods with his sacrifice, since Kainam was the man most obsessed with entering the astral plane.”

“Yes, Father. You speak wisely.”

“At almost three centuries old, I should hope so.” Kush tugged at his substantial gray beard. “And you, though young, are not without wisdom. By removing Kainam, you have freed us from our dependence. As soon as we find the writings of the Watchers, all men will look to us as the keepers of the Secrets.”

Raamah lifted his chin. “Noah’s God has thrust humanity into darkness, and our family can be the one to save them from it.”

“There is only one problem with your plan to use those writings,” said Ditanu, crossing his arms.

“What?” asked Raamah.

“We can no longer read them.”

===

Mastema stood upon the fronds of a date palm in the plain of Shinar, staring pensively at the ruins of the Tower. The fronds of the tree did not bend under him, and if any mortal had been present they would have seen naught but a palm swaying in the wind.

The Dark Seraph had mixed feelings about the day’s events. A part of him believed that every catastrophic judgment upon mankind further cast into question the strategy of the Anointed One, thereby strengthening Mastema’s own case against him. But the other part was full of bitterness at being temporarily bested. Mastema had dismissed his entourage so that he could fume in private and think carefully on this turn of events. Later, he would inflict pain on some of his subjects to make himself feel better. At the moment it was more important that he reflect on his failure and form the beginnings of new plans. Plans involving Raamah, son of Kush, perhaps, for he had shown promise, relatively speaking. It was impossible that any of the milk-sucking vermin offspring of Adam would ever impress Mastema, but a few were capable enough to be used as surrogate rulers. Kainam had filled that role adequately until today.

Mastema had not been relying solely upon the success of the Shinareans, of course. The Tower-builders’ quest to pierce the veil had been a nearly certain dead end from the start, not for lack of ingenuity or persistence (traits which the vermin unfortunately did possess, thanks to Mastema’s older brother), but because no one likes uninvited guests, especially ones who are villainous skunks. The mortals had gotten the idea of ascendancy in their heads of their own accord, and Mastema had seen no reason to stop it, so he’d invested in it instead. But it was the city, not the Tower, that excited Mastema. All cities were breeding-grounds for filth, but a metropolis whose very foundation was laid in defiance of God? That had potential! He had immediately set into motion a campaign to sway the leaders and blind the followers. Meanwhile, in Urartu, where some of the descendants of Shem and Japheth yet remained, the outcast seraph had continued his subtle work of turning children against their elders and uniting the youth in a spirit of superiority. By encouraging disdain for old ways, he had opened them to lies about the future.

The Enemy’s attack on language had undone most of that work. Dividing the tongues of men had been an unexpected and efficacious move (and fitting, considering that the Sons’ tongues were literally forked). Mastema chided himself for not anticipating it. And not for the first time, he hissed at the unfairness of his impotence before the Council, that he could never withhold the truth from them when asked directly, and yet he himself possessed no such advantage.

Mastema’s meditation was interrupted when the archons of Empyrean showed up unexpectedly. All one hundred twenty of the Sons had returned to Empyrean as soon as the Tower fell, maybe before, as there had been no sign of them when the storm clouds dissipated. Mastema had assumed there would be no further punishments this day, yet here they were again, returned on the threshold of twilight. They descended one after another on the transplanar axis over the rubble of the Tower—it had been built in that spot for a reason—then came down from the ruins to march as a group towards Mastema. It surprised him to be approached instead of summoned.

He would not, he decided, allow them to perceive the foulness of his mood.

Seven chief archons with their tens of subordinates had come to stand before him. Those in attendance were Susarakh, Agadoth, Yaedrith, Astaphaos, Dahmo, Kalidae, and Tobeleth. The date palm under Mastema’s feet was no throne, but he took pleasure in having his brothers gather beneath his perch as if it were.

“Bravo on a wonderful display of wrath,” Mastema said with an inauthentic glyph of approval. “Job well done. I daresay you could have spiced it up with a dash of burning sulfur or some earth-rending tremors, but who am I to quibble?”

“Hail, Mastema,” said Susarakh, facetiously adding, “Lord of wit.”

“And many such excellencies. Brothers, have you come to gloat? If it be so, why count I but seventy of my kin? Perhaps some among you have begun to see as I see and are not quick to take glee in my misfortune.”

“We are those of whom you speak. We have not come to gloat, but to negotiate.”

The Dark One was momentarily lost for words. Long had he imagined a day when the members of the Council, however few, would begin to respect his perspective and his plight. After the creation of Adam, a third part of the heavenly host had defected with Mastema, but that fact consoled him little so long as he remained a pariah to his own brothers. But while he had hoped for change, he had never truly expected it to manifest. It strained credulity that more than half of the seraphiym were allegedly ready to talk.

Mastema looked into the faces of the other chiefs before looking back at their spokesman. Flatly he said, “Pardon my reticence, but a measure of suspicion is warranted whenever an opponent extends the hand of peace.”

“Deception is your faculty, not ours,” said Susarakh. “This is no trick. Give us your ear.”

“Proceed, then. I wish to know what you seek.”

“We seek cooperation. Recent developments forced us to reconsider our position. We perceive now that you were wise to question the methods of the Anointed.”

Mastema’s first inclination was to mock them for being so slow to arrive at the obvious conclusion about humans, but he thought better of it. “If it be so, then this is a welcome surprise,” he said, showing genuine delight. “What convinced you?”

“The Anointed One’s unwillingness to acknowledge the fact that humanity is a hopeless cause, a failed experiment. We have approached the Most High with our concerns and were rebuffed. ‘Revere the Elder, lest he be wroth,’ Father said unto us. ‘Blessed are they that trust in the Lord,’ he told us. Either the Almighty approves the decisions of his firstborn, or he shows favoritism.”

“Father claims to respect all alike,” Mastema said with a dismissive waggle of his fingers. “Nevertheless, know this: the Firstborn has great love for the mortals, a love that blinds him. He loves them more than he loves us.”

“We agree. What else could we think, when the Anointed withholds judgment on a corrupt race for the sake of a tiny remnant in each generation?”

“Moreover,” Dahmo contributed, “the souls of the deceased righteous remain trapped in the Paradise of Sheol by the law of justice. They cannot make restitution for their sins, so they have no hope of entering Empyrean. We cannot fathom this. In the meantime, Torment feeds its never-ending appetite with the souls of the damned. This is madness.”

“For the sake of the whole Creation, a better solution must be discovered,” said Kalidae.

Mastema nodded in agreement. “And what better solution may be found than genocide? We must annihilate humanity and start anew. Then the unborn souls reserved in Sheol may be assigned to a new and undamaged species.”

“No,” said Susarakh, “for further attempts at genocide will come to naught. The Anointed One will intervene afresh, ad nauseam. We propose action of a different sort.”

Mastema hated the idea of letting mankind continue, but he couldn’t deny that further attempts at extermination were likely futile. He had already corrupted humanity on three occasions, and each time, the Anointed had worked out a way to prevent total loss. “Continue,” he told Susarakh.

“We wish to bring suit against the Anointed.”

The idea was familiar, and Mastema waved it off. “Do you think that I have not already considered it? We have no basis for litigation. Everything he has done, while distasteful, has been well within his rights. Do not be obtuse.”

Susarakh’s feathers flared out. “You err, thinking us simple. You are not uniquely gifted of intellect.”

Mastema concealed a smirk, not of smugness, but amusement. Susarakh had always been a hothead; he respected the pride in that one.

“Susarakh, if I may?” said Agadoth, ever the diplomat. Susarakh gave leave, and Agadoth addressed the seraph in the tree. “Do you consider litigation impossible for lack of victims among the spirits?”

“That is precisely the reason, Agadoth. Where there is no victim, there is no crime. The Maker cannot be sued unless he is responsible for endanger—” Mastema trailed off as understanding dawned on him. He abruptly turned away from the group to think.

His brothers were right, the situation was different now. The citizens of Empyrean had become potential victims because the mortals had shown themselves capable of entering the astral realm, sooner or later. Humanity was a legitimate threat, and the Anointed One had only stalled the problem, not eliminated it. His refusal to end mankind amounted to transgression against the spirit world. His righteousness had just been thrown into question. So, yes! The Sons had a case! Acting as a single plaintiff, they could indict the Anointed One on behalf of all Empyrean. The seven spirits before God’s throne could be made to try the proceedings. The trial period could be—never mind that, all the details could be hashed out later; what mattered at the moment was the idea’s potential.

Mastema felt his heart lift, his vigor renew. If any among the seventy Sons could prove that the Anointed was neglecting his duty, then the king would be forced to step down regardless of whether or not he had the Father’s favor. And after the Anointed had been forced by God’s own justice system to relinquish custody of the cosmos, the fight for his replacement would begin. With the Firstborn found guilty, Mastema would be able to seek pardon on the basis that he foresaw where his older brother’s folly would lead, foresaw that the Anointed One’s unchecked love of the mortals would bring disaster. Who knew? Perhaps he could even break the glory of the Most High and compel him to leave Empyrean. After all, Father claimed omniscience. Wasn’t he aware that the Anointed One erred? Wasn’t it his responsibility as Righteous Father to correct his eldest son, not enable him? Mastema believed that he might actually have a shot at proving either nepotism or indiscretion, and the glee of the thought made thin ribbons of smoke escape from his nostrils.

He was getting ahead of himself. Mastema first needed to understand what drove the would-be defectors to turn to him. How did they suppose he could help? He could guess, but he needed (and wanted) to hear it.

With his back still toward the seventy seraphiym, Mastema carefully verbalized his query. “You say that you seek cooperation. To what end? I cannot take part in your lawsuit, for I am no citizen of Empyrean. What, then, do you desire of me?”

“Permission to divide amongst ourselves the mortals of your kingdom,” answered Susarakh almost too eagerly. “We must demonstrate empirically, not theoretically, that mankind is better off in our hands than the hands of the Firstborn. It must be shown that a nation can be brought into submission without depriving them of free will. Therefore each of us should receive a collection of heathen with which to experiment.”

“That request is easily granted,” said Mastema. “Yet I would retain for myself a single nation, that I may receive worship.”

“Of course. We also desire the use of your workforce. We few can in no wise rule over the ever-increasing progeny of Adam without assistance. We must have servants if we hope to prove our case, and where else would we get them? A third part of the heavenly host are at your disposal.

“And there is another matter: when we become adversaries of the Lord of Empyrean, where will we go to dwell? What will we eat? We, like you, will be outcasts, the manna of heaven withheld from us.” Spirits could not starve to death, but they could feel hunger, the pain of which would increase over time.

Slowly, Mastema faced about, a prolonged turning until he once again looked upon his brothers. “God will take the light from you as he has from me,” he said, reminding them of the weight of their decision. “Think carefully before you embark.”

In response, the seventy serpahiym all displayed sober blue sigils of conviction. Evidently they had already thought it through before making their approach.

“Then I shall give you what you desire, under these conditions,” said Mastema, “that you respect my rule and the laws of my kingdom. You shall enjoy fine dwelling-places, and ride in chariots, and travel freely. You shall sup at my table and be filled. In return, I require your allegiance. Whatsoever men are given into your hands whereby to prove your case, you may exercise full dominion over them, but in all other matters you will defer to my will.

“And if you prevail at court, you must endeavor to restore me to Empyrean and its Council.

“Susarakh, what say you? Are you prepared to accept these terms on behalf of your brethren?”

The spokesman bowed at the waist, saying, “I am.”

Mastema spread his arms. “Then let us swear an oath in the presence of witnesses.” His unfeathered wings unfurled and beat the air so that he hovered over the palm tree. As he flew, a mesmerizing sound emanated from six holes at his ribs. At once droning and shimmering, it was a chorus of voices intoning a single, perfectly harmonious chord. Darkness materialized as a cloud about Mastema, and as the chord he sang swelled in volume, the darkness spread, like blackest ink dropped into clear water, until it had encompassed the whole group of seraphiym. No light could penetrate the cloud, and the spirits within it could see each other only by infrared.

Nearby fallen ones, beckoned by the call of their master, arrived quickly and in number. They surrounded the Sons, curious as to what would transpire.

“Behold,” said Mastema to the attendees, “for you are witnesses today that these seventy seraphiym forsake the service of the Anointed One and do pledge fealty to me. Hear therefore the words of the covenant which I establish with my brethren.” And he repeated publicly the conditions and promises to which they had agreed. He declared also the penalties that would befall either party should one break the covenant.

And when the deed was done, Mastema took his brothers south from Babili to the coastal spot which had once hosted Eridu, the city built by Iyrad, son of Chanok, son of Cain. Not a trace remained of Iyrad’s city, drowned by the Flood and buried deep beneath the marsh, nor did Mastema care about it. The site was important because of its aquifer, or more precisely, what came up to meet the aquifer: a route to the Underworld, to Sheol. Only a handful of other routes existed anywhere in the world. In the land of Mesopotamia, Eridu alone gave access.

The Dark Lord led his new followers down through the spring of fresh water that fed the marsh, down through the water-filled fissures in the crust of the earth, and down through the great ocean beneath the rocks, until at last they arrived at the mouth of the Abyss. There, in the unlit waters covering the entrance to Sheol, the city of Leviathan lay.

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