Airel: The Awakening (Airel Saga Book One)

Chapter XXVI

A LARGE TENT, LOW and wide, held up by castoff branches and antlers, hovered above the earth in the darkness like a putrescent bubble. A low, hideous light emanated from deep within this diseased sac, which was ringed by hundreds of other tents at a distance that suggested supreme command, fear of authority, or both.

Choking smoke soughed from the flaps of the tent as the Seer looked deep into the pulsing red of the Bloodstone. 

Intense, bloody light bloomed from the gemstone like a mortal wound in clear water. Even though it fellated and fed upon his life and will, the ecstasy it defecated into his heart and mind ensured that he could not pull away. He lusted for the hot glow—he obsessed in the same dreams night after night as it whispered improbable keys to riddles and mysteries he had never before imagined.

The seams in the tent’s skin betrayed the goings on within. The light dimmed, flared up, and then faded back to a fragment of its former self while those without watched the spectacle at their own peril. The Bloodstone might call a new name soon, which was an addictive kind of misery for any man who beheld the masked truth on which its parasitic power was founded. A host was a host was a host. New alternatives for the Bloodstone were being prepared all the time, and attrition was a parlor game in which the tokens were blood and flesh.

The camp numbered only a thousand men, hosts to their Brothers, a thousand demons. This small clan was not as strong when the men were separated, the demons manifest in their true forms. The Brothers, demonic agents of the kingdom of hell, sought lodging in the minds of men, feeding upon their life force. The hosts followed the Seer, the Supreme Host of the Bloodstone, consumed either with every filth to which they could give themselves, or to which the demons could tether them. The hosts, though erroneous, regarded the Brothers as men too—thinking they merely possessed kingly authority, which was never questioned without mortal consequence. The hosts had been blinded and cursed by the power exchange—power they thought they received from the demonic relationship, but which, in fact, they gave and re-gave time and again to the agents of hell that fed off them and eventually killed them. This deception was an addiction both parties found irresistible. All of them, Brother or man, were coerced into slavery by their fear of the Seer, and ultimately by the Bloodstone the Seer bore on a chain around his neck.

The Seer groaned, his body writhing. “Yesss … Yes, show me what you will have me do … ssspeak.” His face was consumed, his eyes became empty sockets that filled with blood, and the demon light replaced any remaining human features with something entirely different. The figure that stared into the pulsing pendant was ancient, repulsive, expressing real evil, a profane idol rotting on a plinth.

His hollow sockets blazed. His lips parted, revealing jagged black teeth. The red of the Bloodstone parted just enough to allow him a glimpse inside. An angel—no—the angel, Kreios, automaton of El at Ai, herald messenger of so many injuries to the Brotherhood over the millennia, had finally broken the treaty, had declared open war. This the Seer already knew, but being led back to it like a dog by the Bloodstone was shaming. Worse, though, was that the enemy’s offspring still lived. The Seer spit and cursed at this indictment, at the sight of his arch enemy.

In response to his unspoken question, the Bloodstone split open, at first a narrow rift of darkness, then spreading wide, bathing the Seer in hate. The old man writhed, rocking back on his heels and toppling over, sprawling in the dust. 

Arms curling into cadaverous claws, the Seer opened his mouth to scream out in pain, but nothing issued forth. The Bloodstone grew hot and burned his hand, melting the skin, filling up his mind with a vision of the future; breaking his will even further. He arched his back, thrashing against it, fought it, spewing and retching—but the torture continued.

A silken voice then spoke to him in a lost tongue. He could not have dared to try to speak these words, but here upon the cursed ground he could at least comprehend what he was being told. “Listen to me, Seer. There is not much left to you. The immortal Kreios draws near to the City of Refuge. You must kill him and seize the child before they reach the walls… or I shall have no use for you anymore.”

The Bloodstone burst into red flame, blanketing his body, enveloping him, lifting him off the ground. He hovered upright, eyes wide and knowing. He clutched at the stone and whined, a whipped dog, spittle drenching his cracked, bleeding lips.

The Bloodstone went dark, abandoning him.

He was thrown violently to the ground. Crumpled on the floor like so much waste, the Seer groaned, coming back to himself. He shook his head and regained his feet. He looked at the now-cold pendant with the dim recognition of a dumb beast, unable to recall something very important. But hanging over his mind like a ready avalanche was the certainty of the next step the army was to take. That decision was immutable.

Was it he who had made the decision? He replaced it around his neck and tucked it under his robe. He flattered himself that he was a partner with his master. But that was why he was Seer—he was so easily persuaded of his own importance. He did not dare to dream that he would be like every Seer before him: completely replaceable. 

No. His reign would be different.

He needed some clean air. He pulled back his hood, revealing the face of a young man with smooth black hair, unblemished pale skin, and eyes that were pools of black wherein death lurked beneath the ripples. 

Wickedness housed in his smile, he brooded over what he would do to Kreios. The smile pulled taut. He contested with voices in his mind about what would be done with the girl. So much enjoyment awaited him. He would try to savor it this time.

Kreios could watch.