The Chronicles of Lucifer: An Anthology Based on the Revelation Series

By Nathaniel Connors

Six stories based on the Revelation novels: Creatures Rule the Night and Lucifer’s Legionnaire, The Chronicles of Lucifer is the bridge that leads to the third and final installment in the series.
Discover the origin of the void, the reign of Mordon and the Korzak tribe, the story of Frederick Armand, and the trials and tribulations of a god determined to preserve his bloodline.
From The Seer to The Palatine Stone, what was hidden will soon be revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Connors
• Release date: May 28, 2014

Nathaniel Connors

Nathaniel Connors is a longtime resident of New England and currently resides in Fitchburg, MA. A husband and father of five, Nathaniel met his wife in 1995 at Roger Williams University, where he studied history and politics. The Chronicles of Lucifer: An Anthology Based on the Revelation Series is Mr. Connors' third published title. His previous releases include Revelation: Creatures Rule the Night and Revelation: Lucifer's Legionnaire. Currently, Nathaniel is working on several film projects along with Director Brian Stiver. Their psychological 3 minute short thriller, Room 302 (https://www.facebook.com/Room302Film) was recently submitted to Project Greenlight. Other projects include The Salesman (https://www.facebook.com/thesalesmanmovie) and Black DayZ (https://www.facebook.com/BLKDAYZ). Both films project to be released in 2015. Mr. Connors plans to return to his novels in 2015 with the release of the final installment in the Revelation series.

Book preview

The Chronicles of Lucifer

An Anthology Based on the Revelation Series

Nathaniel Connors

To my daughter, Prudence.

Cover design by Carter Reid

Editorial assistance: Tim Marquitz

Copyright 2012, 2013 by Nathaniel Connors

Created in the United States of America

Worldwide Rights

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Seer

The Spaniard and the Storyteller

Resurrecting the Dead

Escaping Ireland: The Recruitment of Jonathan Armand

The Realm of Man and Demon

The Palatine Stone

The Seer

I

Mordon and his henchmen ransack lower Britannia, searching for the old crone with the gift of premonition. No village is exempt from their brutality, no tribe left without loss. Murder, torture, rape; Mordon sees it nothing more than a means to find the seer.

Someone knows. Mordon wipes his sword across his thigh, smearing blood on his pants.

Someone has to. Vorum plops down in the sand next to his brother. How else would the merchant have heard?

Rumors. Lamia drops her ax. The butt of it catches the back of Vorum’s hand.

He shakes his hand, wincing in pain. You bitch!

Oops. She grins.

You think that’s funny? Vorum reaches for his sword. See if you’re still laughing when I cut off your tits.

Enough! Mordon shouts. Or I will kill you both and let the crabs pick at your flesh.

I doubt they’ll eat Vorum. Lamia sniffs the air. He smells worse than the tide.

That’s not the fucking point. Mordon stands. He knocks the sand from his clothes. I don’t have time for your bickering.

Then muzzle your beast and save yourself further aggravation.

Vorum starts to rise but halts as Mordon places a hand on his shoulder.

We need to work together if we’re going to complete this task.

The moon has come full cycle since that drunken fool put you on this path.

He was no fool. Mordon glares at Lamia. That merchant knew things about our father that he should not have, truths we never speak of.

Because of some old crone? she asks.

He claims she travels this region, offering her services in exchange for food and shelter. That is how he met her, in one of these villages.

I already know the story. Lamia walks away from her brothers. I just can’t believe you’re falling for it.

Mordon gazes at his sister. She marches down the beach, relieving herself of clothing along the way.

What if she’s right? Vorum asks.

She’s wrong. Mordon watches his sister run into the ocean.

Are you sure the merchant told you everything?

He had nothing left to say.

Even so, it might have been wise not to kill him. Vorum rubs his bruised hand. Maybe he could have been of some use to us?

He knew too much about the gods to let him live.

But, brother, a dozen villages and we still have no clues as to her whereabouts.

Because they’re not telling us.

Or they don’t know. Vorum swings out his arms.

They do know! Spit hangs off his lower lip.

Fine. Vorum pushes himself up, leaving handprints in the sand. He bangs his palms together, brushing away the wet granules stuck to his skin. We’ll push on to the next village after the men get a good night of rest.

No. Mordon faces his brother. We will move on tonight, after they eat.

Terradon is five miles away.

Are you questioning me? Mordon grabs his sword’s hilt.

No. Vorum raises his hands. I’ll dispatch your orders.

Mordon relaxes and smiles. He puts his arm around his brother’s shoulders and says, The men can take shelter when we reach Terradon.

Are you expecting the chieftain to greet us with open arms? Vorum snorts.

Mordon shakes his head. Azara will die by my sword.

And his people?

Dead, Mordon pauses, but let the men have the women first.

And if one of them knows where the seer is hiding?

Then they live longer than the rest do, but not by much.

II

The void creeps over the hills and merges with the night sky. It blankets the landscape and blocks out the stars. Mordon knows it will not be long. He is a piece of it, and wherever he ventures, the void is always nearby.

The beasts will be here soon. Lamia gestures to the snarls echoing in the woods surrounding the village.

They smell the dead. Mordon wipes the blood from his cheek, its wet warmth smeared dry. Vorum, go with the men. Have them drag the bodies into the forest. Let the beasts gorge themselves away from our eyes.

And what of the chieftain? Lamia asks.

What of him? Mordon steps into the straw hut, amused to find Azara lying on the ground, his hands and feet bound with tattered ropes.

We have no need for him.

Yes, but I enjoy his suffering. Mordon kicks Azara in the stomach. He wheezes, coughing up spit.

Kill him and get it over with.

Not yet. Mordon kneels next to Azara, grabbing his long, tangled hair and pulls. I gave his wife and sons merciful deaths. I took their heads clean. Mordon slashes the air with his hand. Was that not kind of me? He pushes Azara’s face into the dirt.

Pthu. Azara blows the dirt off his lips. A clan full of cowards.

Mordon grins. Look how innocent they act, as if they’ve never spilt blood before. Mordon bounces the chieftain’s face off the ground. No, he says standing up. The Terradon have a history of brutality that exceeds our own.

You speak of days before your people, the Korzak, cursed Britannia.

Cursed? Mordon smiles. This land emanates fear and hardship. That is nothing new.

You brought the void.

We brought order and united the tribes. Mordon draws his long sword. Where were you when the Gauls attacked the coast? Where were you when Picts invaded from the North? Azara doesn’t answer. Here is the true face of a coward. Mordon presses the tip of his blade against the chieftain’s cheek. When Britannia needed her warriors, the Terradon were nowhere to be found.

Those wars did not fall this far west.

Your excuses only prove your weakness. Mordon pushes the blade through Azara’s cheek and into the ground. The metal chips the chieftain’s teeth and severs his tongue but does not kill him.

Azara squirms, kicking up dust. He moans, his eyes swelling with tears.

Just let me kill him. Lamia raises her axe.

No. Mordon shoves her. I decide when he dies.

Mordon! Vorum barges into the hut. We found a traveler.

So? Dispose of him.

He wears the same clothes as the merchant.

Mordon jerks his head. Where is he?

Out near the woods.

The two of you wait outside.

Lamia and Vorum leave the hut.

Mordon squats. He picks up the bloodied tongue and wags it in Azara’s face. You know, you might think this ends with death. He tosses the tongue aside. But you’re wrong. He sits up. Grasping the hilt, he yanks out the sword. Blood leaks from the wound. The void beckons for your soul.

The chieftain’s eyes roll over in terror. He gurgles, unable to cry for help.

Mordon steps on the man’s chest, holding him still. He places the blade in Azara’s mouth. My father will not be as lenient. He leans down. The tip cracks the vertebrae, snapping the head from the spine and killing the chieftain.

Mordon withdraws his sword and steps outside without looking back.

This way, Vorum says, leading them to the outskirts of the village.

You monster! A young girl spits on Mordon.

Lamia swings, smashing the girl’s nose and front teeth with the broadside of her axe. She falls on her back, her face mangled from the blow. The Korzak men laugh and cheer. Lamia grabs the girl’s dark hair and drags her to her knees.

Mordon wipes the saliva from his well-kept beard. You are Analise, daughter of Azara.

Her eyes swell, the pain of her loss mirrored in her tears.

Mordon sees her dress is torn. Blood runs down her inner thighs. Have you enjoyed my men? Mordon smirks.

Analise presses her dress to her crotch. Rabid dogs, that’s all you are.

Pick her up.

Vorum and Lamia raise her to her feet.

Mordon sticks his sword in the ground. Your axe, he demands of Lamia. She hands it to him.

Mother, she cries, her strength fading with her sorrow. Lamia sighs and looks away.

Oh, child. Mordon steps back. You will see her soon. He hauls back and swings, striking the girl in the stomach. The axe hacks into her flesh with a thud.

They drop her on her knees. Analise grovels in pain, clutching her wound.

Dump her in the woods. Mordon instructs two of his men.

She’s not dead yet. Lamia wrestles her axe from her brother. At least finish what you started.

Fine. He looks over at the men. Pull out her entrails.

The men reach into her wound, tugging at her intestines.

Stop. Analise pleads, her sobs bellowing in Lamia’s ear.

Enough, Lamia orders, but they do not listen. Their laughter cascading Analise’s suffering. I said enough! Lamia cracks one of the men in the temple with the haft of her axe. The blow gives separation between the two, and without hesitation, she crushes the girl’s skull.

Weak. Mordon shakes his head.

She’s dead. Lamia stares at the gray chunks stuck to Analise’s hair. What difference does it make?

You felt for the girl. Mordon walks pass her. That is the difference.

III

The man trembles. His hands are secured to his waist, a victim of bad timing.

What is your name, traveler? Mordon asks.

Alistar.

Well, Alistar, tell me why you are here?

For trade, he explains. I have furs in the sash your men took from me.

Another merchant. Mordon sits and crosses his legs. He looks at the man’s clothing; baggy brown pants and a red tunic. Just like the old drunk, he thinks. He even has familiar facial features. A son or nephew perhaps?

Mordon leans forward. You are not from these parts, are you?

Alistar shakes his head.

What tribe do you hail from?

The Coriondi.

Ireland? Vorum asks.

The man does not answer.

Mordon grabs his face. How many more of your people have come this far?

His lips squished, he mutters, I don’t know.

But they have?

Yes.

Mordon releases his grip.

Answer me this. What do you know of a seer?

The seer? You’re joking. Alistar looks surprised. No one seeks out the old crone.

Then you know where she is?

Yes, but—

Tell me! Mordon grows impatient.

A small island near my home, he explains. But no one dares to step foot on it.

Why? Lamia asks.

Fear, Mordon answers.

She’s not of this world. The merchant confesses. She’s plagued by the spirits.

Superstitious bastard. Vorum kicks him. Alistar topples onto his shoulder.

If you avoid the island, how do you know she is there? Lamia asks.

Cringing, he says, It’s not far from the shore. Sometimes we can see her fishing on the beach.

Mordon crawls over to Alistar. Where is your tribe?

Our lands are in the southeast.

Thank you. Mordon pats him on the cheek. He presses down and uses Alistar’s body to lift himself up.

What now? Vorum asks.

Let the men rest here for the night.

And him?

Kill him.

Wait. Wait, The man begs.

Up you go now. Vorum drags the merchant to his knees.

I can guide you.

Vorum pauses. What do you think?

Mordon shakes his head.

Before Alistar can plead any further, Vorum lifts his head and slits his throat. He gasps for air and is dead within seconds.

Mordon stares at the corpse. It wavers before falling into a bed of autumn leaves.

Get food and sleep, he tells his