Wrath "Rise of the Fallen"

By Derrick Smith

Long ago, the Creator declared that angels not meddle in worldly affairs. With one caveat: If the legions of Hell were to seek advantage or in some way try to extend their influence, then it would be the angels’ duty to protect the people of Earth. But even the powerful angelic host will be severely challenged. However, unbeknownst to all but the Creator, an unlikely assortment of heroes will soon band together to stand against the armies of darkness. These heroes may not know where they come from, but they soon will know the truth about their own existence. With the angels behind them there is hope for gods and men. Dayhak is rising and the darkest hour of all creation is fast approaching, but a mighty light is beginning to shine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derrick Smith
• Release date: Jul 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463954171

Derrick Smith

Thirty-Two years old and recently married to my beautiful wife Tiana. I was born in California and recently moved to Dallas, Texas. I have always had a passion for new creative art in all forms. An avid gamer and a former college football player. My passion to design worlds for people to interact with and discover new mysteries in original concepts lead me to become an owner of a small startup video game company called First Eye INC. It was in 2008 where I taught myself how to develop video games. Soon through networking and ambition, I was introduced to amazing knowledgeable industry professionals that guided my first game title Aries all the way to Los Angeles to present to the Sony Online and Qualcomm development team at the E3 convention in 2012 & 2013. Events recently put my focus on a particular new science-fictional concept that provided an immersive experience for the viewer. I have been working on this new Series called Wrath since 2015. With the help of several artist and editors remotely, I finally have finished my first short story series called Wrath "Rise of the Fallen.

Book preview

Wrath

Rise of the Fallen

D. W. Smith

Copyright © 2018 by D. W. Smith

I dedicate this book to my family and friends.

"I was blessed with a creative mind and I am very thankful to the Lord for it." I dedicate this book to all of my friends, mentors, fans, and family who supported my creativity.

I urge anyone who has a creative thought to just, begin on it. Don’t wait. Get ideas from others and just, START. As long as you do not quit, you will eventually hit your goals. Take it from me, it is well worth it.

Surround yourself with positive and motivated people. I say listen to the negative, because they are just providing you information to overcome obstacles to a unique idea. You are that unique creator, and your creative mind adds originality to this adventure we call, LIFE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Dayhak, the One Torment, is rising. His army of darkness, demonic legions, are finally ready to march. Finally ready to slaughter the Olympians and all of Greece, right down to the last bawling whelp. Those ignorant godlings and insignificant Grecians will encounter an ancient enemy horrific in its power and utterly single-minded in its depraved purpose. Millennia ago, Dayhak was vanquished by a short-lived alliance of Titans and Olympians in a war of absolute destruction that resonates even today in the blackest corners of nightmare and deepest sickness such that some might feel Dayhak’s coming without grasping what it means.

Long ago, the Creator declared that angels not meddle in worldly affairs. With one caveat: If the legions of Hell were to seek advantage or in some way try to extend their influence, then it would be the angels’ duty to protect the people of Earth. But even the powerful angelic host will be severely challenged. However, unbeknownst to all but the Creator, an unlikely assortment of heroes will soon band together to stand against the armies of darkness. These heroes may not know where they come from, but they soon will know the truth about their own existence. With the angels behind them there is hope for gods and men. Dayhak is rising and the darkest hour of all creation is fast approaching, but a mighty light is beginning to shine.

Prologue

The warrior squeezed through the trees, following the hoof prints in the mud and fading snow patches. Beads of moisture rolled down his scuffed leather breastplate, dripped off the hood of his black cloak, gathered in his beard. His breath escaped in white billows to whip away like lively ghosts in the thin mountain air. His breathing, the delicate crunch of his boots, the sigh of a morning breeze through the branches just starting to leaf out in the earliest heartbeats of spring. Sunlight splashed down in lemony pools.

The smallest crumple of leaves drew his attention to the left. And there it stood against a backdrop of currant and juniper. A giant. Unseen for centuries even here in this most spirited of forests. Silver fur sparkled in the dawn sun, and golden antlers spread off its head like the crown of a massive, leafless tree. Its hooves were like polished gold boots. It nibbled at some young pink primrose, long brush-like tail swishing to and fro, shimmering like copper weave. The warrior unslung his bow and knocked an arrow. He drew and the bowstring sang. The huge stag looked up suddenly, white eyes flushing red with alarm. Just in time to see the arrival of its death.

Dragging the deer on a makeshift sling, the warrior found his way back to the trail he’d been following, considering the luck at spying the deer’s tracks. Or was it luck? Things tend to happen for a reason. Either way, it meant venison for a while. While the warrior had been dressing the deer, clouds had swept in as they do in the mountains and soon fat drops of rain were falling through the trees and smacking the cowl of his cloak. Morning trudged along and, despite the rain, birds chattered from the trees and bushes. The warrior took heart at the birdsong and the thought of a hot meal of fresh meat waiting for him when he stepped off this mountain.

The music stopped abruptly, leaving only the anxious tap of rain against the tree branches. The warrior stopped, dropped the sled, and pulled his bow off his shoulder. A dozen swordsmen exploded out of the bushes from all directions, bellowing war cries and waving swords and daggers.

Like twin bolts of lightning, two arrows slashed through the air, spiking two of the attackers in their left eyes and dropping them like stones. The warrior knocked another arrow while whirling to his right and pierced another attacker in the throat. Continuing to turn, he killed a fourth attacker with a fourth arrow then dropped the bow because the other eight men were closing in. Men he didn’t know nor care about. Men who certainly didn’t know him. For if they did, they wouldn’t be anywhere near these mountains.

Slowly, he drew his double-edged daggers with golden handles and wavy two-foot steel blades shimmering with an ivory light. Etched into the flat of each blade was a simple feathered wing.

He charged at the two attackers before him and slashed with such ferocity that the blades hardly slowed through armor, flesh, and bone. As each man slid into two separate pieces, he spun, parried a sword stroke with a thunderous clash of his right dagger, and took off another attacker’s head with the left blade. Still moving, he closed the distance on swordsman number five. The attacker’s battle cry became a thick gurgle as the warrior slipped a wild sword thrust and drove both daggers in with a two-handed strike to throat and gut.

The swordsman clutched frantically at his ruined throat, panic and pain in his eyes. The warrior shoved him roughly to the wet ground and danced toward the last three attackers, daggers whipping so fast they whistled through the air. The left blade caught an attacker full in the face, cleaving him with enough force to shear most of his head off at the nose. On the right, the swordsman decided too late that his participation was ill-advised and tried to peel away from the assault. For his efforts, only half his neck was sliced neatly by a black, winged blade. He flopped to the ground, blood pumping out in a torrid eruption that foamed and spit as his last breaths left his lungs.

The last attacker quit charging and squared up for a proper swordfight. The warrior flicked his blades and they buried themselves to their ivory hilts in the man’s chest with enough force to knock him back near the bushes he’d first crept from.

Hot plumes billowed from the warrior’s mouth. He walked over to retrieve his daggers and stood over the dying man, just watching for a moment with a strange mixture of disgust and sorrow that angered him. The man grasped for the warrior, who reached down and pulled out one dagger with a spew of steaming blood. He slit the man’s throat to end his suffering before yanking out the second dagger. He wiped both blades on the man’s heavy trousers, stood up, and sheathed them.

The sound of a bow being drawn spun him around. He snapped his cloak with a whip crack and deflected the arrow sizzling toward him. There at the tree line, a thirteenth man trying to knock another arrow. So fast did the warrior cover the ground between him and the archer that the man fell back against a pine and gasped as if confronted by a ghost.

But he quickly sat up and hid his fear behind a snarling grin. Looking around at the bodies of his comrades, he nodded his head appreciatively and chuckled in a way that sounded more like a growl. Nicely done, he said in a long-dead language and with a voice like metal and rock being ground together. But it is not enough. Not nearly so. Master is coming. And master is no mere man who will walk into your blades like an idiot lamb to slaughter. His eyes were huge and completely black.

The warrior stared down impassively, the ancient Sumerian words, the black eyes, making clear now what squatted before him.

He will destroy everything, the demon-infested man snarled.

From beneath his cloak, the warrior unfurled the concealed wings that had protected him from the arrow. They snapped open wide enough to reveal white feathers shining like the inside of seashells. The warrior’s eyes lit up white within his hood as he closed the wings around the man like a fence.

This cannot be! the man cried. An angel! Who are you? Tell me! He flung a