The Mark of the Angels

By Mehrzad Van Gieson

Xhaiden.
A demon assassin who's
betrayal has just been
discovered. He is blackmailed
into hunting down one last
target before his death.
Harth.
A poor street thief who
struggles to care for his sick
grandfather. When medicine
becomes increasingly harder to
obtain, he must go to new
lengths to secure it.
Kalea.
A young girl who wanted
anything other than the life she
was born into. She struggles to
distance herself from the
identity that is stuck to her.
Their paths are combined and
intertwined by a single mark,
and the result could shift the
balance in power between the
angelic beings and the demons,
possibly ending a war that has
been raging since the beginning
Mehrzad
of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312115323

Book preview

The Mark of the Angels

The Mark of the Angels is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Mehrzad K Van Gieson

NOTE:

This novel was written as a part of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, in which the participants must write 50000 words in 30 days to win). In the time between November 1st and 30th, 50166 words of this story were written, and in the following few months the last 30618 words were written. This is also my literary debut, the first time I have attempted to write a book. If the writing seems novice, that is because it is. Thank you for reading!

For all my friends and family

who supported me

The Mark of the Angels

Chapter One

T

he clap of thunder was nearly tangible; its booming force felt like the shove of a giant hand. The rider tightened his grip on the reigns and urged his mount faster despite the torrential downfall bombarding them.

The land was dark, details hidden by the thick night and the rider’s hood, which was pulled low over his face to shield it from the icy rain. Without warning, a streak of lightning rent the sky in two, blasting the ground with harsh light and stinging the rider’s eyes. An instant later, it had vanished, descending the world into shadow once more. Blinking away the afterimage of the forest road he was traveling, the rider ground his teeth and snapped the reigns again. We must hurry, he thought to himself.

The clacking of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled path and the pounding of the rain on the dirt were shredded into oblivion by the storm as another thunderclap shook the earth. The rider swayed in his saddle, clutching his head as it pounded and his ears rung. It seemed as though the Angels themselves were trying to stop him, to crush his feeble existence into oblivion with the insurmountable forces of nature.

The next fork of lightning revealed that they had escaped the trees and were on an open road, with wide fields on either side. Even better was the sight of a huge black gate on the horizon, barely visible against the dark sky behind it. Relief surged through him; they were going to make it.

Before he realized it, the hulking gates towered over him, and the silhouettes of guards approached him from their base. He tugged back, slowing the animal beneath him to a halt. He leaned forward, exhausted, and the horse’s head sagged as well. Its sides moved rapidly in and out as its breath puffed over and over.

A soft growl prompted the rider to look up, directly into the reflective black eyes of a Wyzaba guard. It looked down at him despite his seat upon a horse, and its scaly lips rose into a sneer, revealing its carnivorous teeth. The lantern in its claws revealed its lizard-like body, grey on its chest and black on its back, like a shark. When it cocked its head to regard him, the light caught the thick cluster of spikes protruding from the top of its head and trailing down its back and tail, ending in a barbed tip.

Without flinching, the rider held its stare and smiled as he lifted the hood off his head, allowing the Wyzaba to see his very human features—with only his crimson hair, pupil-less eyes and serrated teeth to betray his demonic nature. The creature grunted and stepped back, gesturing with his snout that the rider was free to go. He smiled wider and prompted his horse to move forward, through the now open gate.

Horse and rider continued onwards, the elemental onslaught swirling around them and forcing the rider to once more don his hood, yet having apparently no effect whatsoever on the Wyzaba, which resumed their positions beside the gateway. Directly past it stood a small obsidian structure, no more than six feet high and four across. The rider guided his horse to the stable beside it and dismounted, tethering the animal before stepping back into the rain for a moment. He walked up to the iron door and hesitated, his hand pausing just before the doorknob. I’ve done this dozens of times, he told himself. Why does this feel different?

Shaking his head, he opened the door and entered. A long stairway spiraled down before him, sparsely lit with a few torches, which caused his shadow to dance and flicker wildly. With a deep breath, he proceeded down the steps.

As he descended, the intervals between torches grew greater and greater until he was plunged into complete darkness. He struggled onwards, wading through the oppressive, suffocating lack of light. At last, his outstretched hand felt the cool metal of a tall set of double doors. He knocked twice, and the door swung open.

As always, the immenseness of the cavernous throne room took his breath away. It was square, with sides over a quarter mile. In each corner stood a rough marble pillar, stretching from the rocky, uneven floor to the jagged ceiling above. Two stone archways, shrouded in darkness, were dug into the two side walls. Stalactites of various lengths hung down over the chamber. The walls and ceiling were speckled with jewels and precious metals that glinted in the light of a huge fire pit sitting directly in the center of the floor, which obscured the rider’s view of the opposite side of the room.

Gathered all around the fire were hundreds of demons. Each one was completely unique, creating a bizarre blend of colors and shapes and appendages that rippled in the firelight. Lining the walls were twice as many hellbeasts, from tall reptilian Wyzaba to four-legged bearlike Ythru, all standing absolutely still, awaiting orders.

All conversation slowed to a halt as everyone’s eyes turned to the rider that had just entered. He stepped forward into the room and allowed the doors to shut behind him. Taking a knee, he bowed his head and waited.

A moment later, a deep bass voice rumbled in the chamber, reverberating and echoing off the walls. Xhaiden…

The rider, Xhaiden, swallowed. Why in the Earth Mother’s name am I so nervous? Yes, my Lord? He replied.

Another pause. A bead of sweat wormed its way down from Xhaiden’s forehead, forcing him to wipe his eyes.

How went the mission? The voice drawled.

It was a success, my Lord. Xhaiden answered. The target you requested was assassinated, quietly and undetectably. His body will never be found, and he no longer poses a threat to us.

Is that so? A hint of thinly veiled amusement could be heard.

Xhaiden wasn’t sure what to say. Before he could open his mouth, however, a scraping, scuffing noise betrayed the Lord’s movement. A tingling cold spread through Xhaiden’s body as he sensed that something was terribly wrong.

The clack of footsteps grew louder as he approached. Xhaiden’s view of him was still blocked by the dancing flames. Xhaiden could not move; his instincts were screaming at him to run, to escape, but his body would not obey.

The clacking of feet on stone turned to the crunch of wood splintering, and the fire shuddered. In the depths of the flame, a shimmering outline appeared of a hulking form, three heads taller than Xhaiden and far thicker. The silhouette grew more and more defined as the being stepped out from the flame, stopping a few hundred feet from Xhaiden.

Lord Vortan…I don’t—is something the matter? Xhaiden stuttered out.

As Xhaiden gazed at Lord Vortan, standing stoically in front of the fire pit since his emergence moments ago, he couldn’t help but tremble slightly as a vise of fear squeezed his heart. The Lord’s body was covered completely in spikey, chitinous shells, black as pitch. The few gaps revealed dark blue flesh, which rippled with even the slightest flex of his thickly corded muscles. Where his face belonged was simply a collage of pointy spikes, smooth black shell, and azure flesh so mixed that no facial features, not eyes nor nose nor mouth, could be recognized. Around his right wrist was the circular band of obsidian, etched with the glowing white runes of an ancient spell lost to time, that symbolized his position as the Demon Lord.

His arm rose, and the band’s runes flared up by some unspoken command. Xhaiden gasped and clutched his head as an invisible blast of power radiated through the room. In front of him, his fellow demons were similarly incapacitated, whereas the hellbeasts on the walls straightened up and snapped to attention.

From the stone archway on the left wall emerged two Wyzaba, holding a thrashing prisoner between them. His face was covered with a brown sack, but the bag could not suppress his screams and cries of terror.

Tell me, my brethren, Vortan hissed, "does this human look dead to you?!"

Shouts of anger and fury rose from the demons behind him.

No…Xhaiden thought, It can’t be…

Yet his worst fears were realized when one of the Wyzaba reached down and pulled off the burlap sack and his target’s face—whom he was supposed to have killed— was revealed. I have to get out of here! Xhaiden screamed in his head. He turned to run, but somehow four Wyzaba had managed to get behind him. He tried to draw his daggers, but the guards snarled and lunged, grabbing him and restraining him in a fraction of a second. He struggled for a moment, but then quickly realized the futility of his situation.

You have betrayed me, Xhaiden. You have betrayed your people. Vortan said quietly. Choosing to spare a human at the cost of demon lives? You disgust me.

Xhaiden said nothing.

Vortan walked closer, and stopped just before Xhaiden. He reached down and grabbed Xhaiden’s face in his massive hand. Xhaiden winced as the rough, serrated contours of Vortan’s fingers sliced his flesh. Is it because you resemble them so? Tell me Xhaiden, enlighten me. Why?

Closing his eyes, Xhaiden softly said, You would never understand.

He groaned as the pressure from Vortan’s hand increased. Very well then. You know your punishment; treason means death.

Xhaiden gasped, Do it then. Kill me.

Surprisingly, Vortan laughed, releasing his hold on Xhaiden and stepping back. Not yet, he chuckled. Don’t get impatient.

Xhaiden’s brow furrowed in confusion. Not yet? He asked.

Turning to face the fire once more, Vortan stated, You are the most human looking demon spawned from the Chasm in centuries. Your talents as a spy in enemy territory are invaluable. Because of this, I have one last mission for you. Then, you will die.

The splat of Xhaiden’s spit hitting the ground was amplified by the chamber. No, Xhaiden snarled, I’m done doing your bidding, Vortan, especially now that the game is up. Kill me now, I refuse.

Yet Vortan simply laughed again. Xhaiden racked his brains to try and understand; He can’t force me to do it by threatening me with death, I’m already slated to be executed. He has no hold on me! Why is he laughing?

Raising his arm, Vortan let loose another blast of power that set Xhaiden’s head pounding. From the other arch emerged two more Wyzaba, holding between them another prisoner, this one limp and unresponsive in their arms.

Who is…The poor lighting and the distance of the figures made it difficult to recognize the prisoner. Yet suddenly they stepped before the fire, and Xhaiden’s soul fractured.

The soft blue fur he knew so well was matted with blood, the four loving arms that had embraced him all those times hung unmoving, the beautiful green eyes he had stared into for years were swollen shut…

No! Xhaiden screamed, thrashing wildly in the hold of the Wyzaba, slicing his arms on their claws. Let her go!

Vortan’s laughter doubled. Xhaiden screamed and screamed, his heart aching with the horrible pain of seeing the one he loved hanging broken before him.

Ittini!! Oh Earth Mother…I’m here Ittini! Xhaiden cried as tears ran down his face. What have I done?

Ittini lifted her head slightly, and he saw her mumble his name before one of her Wyzaba captors hissed and smashed her stomach with its elbow, causing her head to drop once more.

I’ll do it! I’ll do it… Xhaiden whimpered. Please, just…don’t hurt her…

Vortan walked up to him again. That’s good, I’m glad you’ve decided to cooperate. When you return, she will be released in time to see your execution.

With a glance back at the blue demon behind him, he said, If you fail, I’ll kill her myself. Understood?

Xhaiden only had the energy to nod. Ittini…Forgive me…

Now, Vortan continued, your task…

He turned back to face the human prisoner, who hadn’t stopped begging for his life during the entire exchange.

I did nothing wrong! I swear! Please, I have a daughter! He wept. Vortan continued to approach.

The two Wyzaba held him up in the air, and Vortan stopped just before him. The man stopped his screaming to draw in a gasping breath, but what exited his mouth next were not more words, but rather a spray of crimson. He gurgled softly once, and then fell silent as the life faded from his eyes.

The guards released him and stepped back, but the man remained suspended off the ground. Xhaiden then noticed he was held there by Vortan; or, more specifically, by Vortan’s arm, which punctured through the man’s abdomen. The room erupted into the cheers and howls of demons as the man’s blood dropped down Vortan’s forearm and onto the floor. Xhaiden simply looked away and fought to choke down bile.

With his other arm, Vortan pulled the corpse off and threw it into the pit beside him, where the flames set to work turning the body to ash and smoke. Holding a handful of entrails, Vortan walked to the nearest wall, where the hellbeasts parted to expose an open expanse of rock. Using the man’s blood, Vortan began to draw.

Xhaiden stared intently, wiping the tears from his face so not to obscure his vision. A picture began to take shape: A seven-pronged star, with a circular hole at its heart. When he was done, Vortan stood back and allowed Xhaiden to see. The image seemed to tremble with some unknown power, and its meaning, though clearly of great significance, eluded Xhaiden.

The one who bears this mark. Raising a single, blood-soaked finger, Vortan pointed at the dripping paining, looked at Xhaiden, and uttered a single command: Bring him to me.

Chapter Two

"G

et him!"

Harth didn’t dare pause, didn’t dare look back. Panting, he continued to sprint, pushing and shoving his way through the crowded market square. Behind him he could hear the lawmen right on his heels, yelling for him to stop.

All around him merchants were calling out their wares, men were haggling prices, women with babies were talking, and children ran and laughed. Colorful rugs hung from stalls, grabbing the eye with their elaborate patterns, and the air was suffused with the sweet smell of fruit and the tingling scent of spices.

Clinging tighter to his bag of stolen goods, Harth struggled to go faster. He cursed at himself, thinking, How did I get caught? I’m always undetected!

With a shake of his head, he thought, No, there’s no time for that now. Right now, my first priority is getting away.

He suddenly darted to the left, straight at a meat seller. The man’s eyes widened, and he hurriedly tried to grab and protect his products. Jumping up, Harth used the cutting table as a platform to hop onto the canopy. The tarp sagged a bit under his weight, and he straightened up to find his pursuers. Before he even turned around, there was a loud thunk and the fracturing of stone beside his head. A silver crossbow bolt protruded from the wall of the building next to him, and one of the lawmen paused to reload. Harth was frozen with terror. They mean to kill me!

Another lawman raised his own weapon to take aim, and Harth moved, taking off down the row of stalls by using the tarps as makeshift trampolines. The air whipped around him as he quickly picked up speed. The lawmen tried to keep up, but the thick crowds impeded their progress. One of them fired a last shot of desperation, which soared far over Harth’s head. Laughing, he reached the end of the marketplace and took a flying leap to land softly in the street. Too easy, he thought.

Looking around to make sure he had really lost them, he saw countless people wearing nice cloths out for a midday stroll, carrying young ones and holding hands. It was all smiles and happiness, as though they all had not a care in the world.

Harth tucked his bag into his ratty coat and ducked into a nearby alleyway. The stark contrast was, as always, saddening. It was as if he had stepped into a different world; the tall buildings cut off the sunlight, leaving the space dark and cold. Garbage lay strewn about, and the smell was not sweet like the market square, but sweet like a rotting fruit. Two people lay in the shadows, one alive and one clearly not. Their unkempt hair and filthy cloths resembled his own.

He paused for a moment before walking up to the unmoving corpse and crouching down. With his long fingers, he gently shut the old man’s eyes, and pulled a piece of discarded newspaper over his face. When he looked up, the other person was staring at him intently, clutching his cloths as though he feared Harth may rob him of what little he had. Harth couldn’t help but smile sadly. I’ve been there, friend, he thought to himself. Standing up slowly as to not cause alarm, he reached into his purse and felt three coins and a bill. He pulled it all out and handed it to the man.

T-thank you, son…May the Angels bless you! The man stuttered in a raspy voice.

Harth smiled and nodded, then started jogging down the alleyway. At its dead end, he clambered up the wall with footholds he learned many years ago. The edge of the roof scraped his forearm as he pulled himself up.

Getting to his feet, he looked around and saw the expansive capital splayed out before him like an elaborate carpet. Warenpoladver, the capital of the Kingdom of the Angels, Harth thought to himself. My home. He was on the west end, near the outer, wealthier section of the city. Looking to the east, he saw the graceful marble spires and towering parapets of the King’s castle, appearing impossibly white in the bright midday sun. Conversely, the building far to the south, just outside the city’s borders and resting on a high plateau, looked even darker in the sunlight; its onyx domed top capped with gold and its grey towers seemed visibly shrouded in mystery. Far to the east, behind the great castle, lay the skeletal remains of the old city. He heard the faint whistle of a train leaving the station north of the castle, and the puffing of black smoke from the factory smokestacks near the center of the city, pouring liquid waste into the river that bisected the metropolis.

Looking at the center, where most of the poorer citizens resided, he spotted a familiar neighborhood. Smiling fondly, he ran down the rooftop and took a flying leap to the next, progressively getting closer to home.

Grandfather! I’m back! Harth cried as he ran up the steps of their ramshackle house at the city’s heart. The windows had no glass and the garden had no flowers, but Harth still loved it more than anywhere else in the world. He threw open the door with a grin, and saw his grandfather sitting on one of their two chairs at the table, eating a piece of bread. The structure had only one room, with their two beds in one corner, a pantry and ice box in another, a table and chairs in the third and a single sofa—Harth had a difficult time stealing that one, but it was very worth it—against the wall.

The single not-dismal thing about the room was Grandfather. His long, wispy white hair hung down to his shoulders, an even longer beard dangled from his face, and both were set a dancing by even the slightest gust of wind. His crisp blue eyes glowed from their position sunken into his face, and thick wrinkles adorned his cheeks and forehead. His frail limbs appeared nearly transparent in the sun.

Grandfather smiled warmly and gestured for Harth to come sit with him. Taking the seat, Harth took one of Grandfather’s hands and squeezed it gently. The pale skin was laced with visible veins, causing Harth’s heart to skip a beat. He’s doing worse…

Have some bread, Grandfather offered, but Harth shook his head. I already ate, he lied, and winced at having to do so. Grandfather has done so much for me, the last thing he deserves is dishonesty, Harth thought. But it’s for his own good.

Harth, you’re a growing boy, you should have a bit, he insisted. Shaking his head, Harth quickly changed the subject by pulling out the paper bag from his coat and placing it on the table. Reaching in, he pulled out a box labeled with numerous instructions and ingredients.

Grandfather fell quiet. I got your medicine Grandfather! This should last you a few months, Harth told him with a smile. Grandfather reached for it, then stopped, and withdrew his hand.

Harth…how did you get this?

Harth closed his eyes. Another lie…

I told my boss about your condition, and he decided to purchase the medication out of the kindness of his heart, Harth said, repeating the scenario he had rehearsed. Grandfather didn’t know that he had no job, no employer.

Grandfather smiled sadly and pushed the box away. I’m not a fool, Harth.

Harth opened his mouth to defend himself, to shout, It’s true! But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He slumped back in his seat wordlessly.

Return it, Grandfather instructed. No, Harth thought, I can’t!

Please, Harth begged, Grandfather…this is the last time, I swear it…just take the medicine…for me?

They were both silent for a few minutes, staring at one another, willing the other to change their mind. Please, please, please…

At last, Grandfather lowered his head and reached for the box, opening it and taking out a single pill. Without looking at Harth, he swallowed it. Harth squeezed his hand again. I…I just don’t want to lose you, Harth whispered.

One day I won’t be here any longer Harth, you can’t control that, He replied softly. Harth resisted the urge to plug his ears; he didn’t want to hear this.

Standing up, he said, I’m going out to find Kalea. I’ll be back this evening.

Grandfather nodded, saying, Be safe.

Harth turned and quietly walked out the door.

Chapter Three

X

haiden rode into the small town, making sure his hood concealed his features. Taking a quick glance around, he identified the closest inn and approached it. He dismounted and paid for a room, then guided his horse to the stable and passed it off to the stable boy.

Stepping back out onto the sidewalk, he glanced down the road that bisected the town. Little shops and businesses lined the gravel path, sad and lonely in the fading light. A group of boys played with a ball, their soft laughter the only sound drifting on the evening air. Far off on the horizon, nothing but plains stretched out as far as the eye could see, discolored by the pinks and purples of the sunset.

With a sigh, Xhaiden pulled out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. On it he had sketched the image that Vortan had drawn on the wall before sending him away. The image