Blood of Kings

by Kenneth Glenn Simmons

     "Blood of Kings"

     A Novel by Kenneth Glenn Simmons

     Copyright 1996: Kenneth Glenn Simmons Canadian Intellectual Property Office Copyright Registration 484096 Date of first publication: February 1, 2000 ( All Rights Reserved)

     Put $1.50 (US) or $1.90 (Can) into an envelope with adequate postage and mail to:

     Kenneth Glenn Simmons P.O. Box 683 Timmins, Ontario Canada P4N 7G2

     A protracted war. A disenfranchised people. Not unusual circumstances in the middle-east, but for the commanding officer of a United Nations Peacekeeping detachment in Lebanon, the discovery of two strangely mutilated bodies brings him face to face with his own past...Opens a future that he could not have imagined in his wildest nightmares... And finally, forces him to take sides in a war that is nothing like what it appears to be...

      PROLOGUE - - The First Kingdom - - 5237 B.C.

     Servants averted their eyes as the King's Councillor passed. On another day, G'Brael might have taken this as a gesture of respect, but not today. A sense of impending doom pervaded the palace, and it had little to do with the approaching storm.

     Although it was hours before the sun would set, the corridor down which G'Brael walked toward the King's chamber was lit by ragged pools of torchlight, reflecting off the polished stone of the walls and floor. Dark clouds had been gathering on the horizon since midday, and the palace lay cloaked in an unnatural twilight.

     It seldom rained in this part of the kingdom, but as he neared the inner sanctum of the King, G'Brael clearly heard the sound of thunder in the distance. An ominous herald of the deluge to come.

     Perhaps, the death of a Queen can make even the heavens weep, he thought. Unsettled, both by the unusual absence of light this early in the afternoon, and his unscheduled summons to an audience with the Great King.

     He was forced to wonder once again if the King himself might have had something to do with the strange illness that had struck down his sister, the Great Queen A'Shira, the day before. Her awesome power to heal was apparently rendered useless by the sickness, but that would not explain the inability of her children to effect her cure. Her daughter, S'Tann, the Heir Designate, was especially powerful in the healing arts, but her efforts to save A'Shira's life had, so far, proved futile.

     Was it a simple coincidence, or were there more sinister forces at work within these sacred walls? Forces more powerful even than those of the Great Queen's own daughter?

     Surely, he thought, such vile machinations were beneath the consideration of a Great King. Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, was many things, but he had proven himself over the years of his rule to be a good and just King. Then again, would any being, especially one as powerful as the Great King, willingly give up his rule? As he was obligated to do upon the Ascension of the Great Queen's first-born son.

     G'Brael did not know the answer to that question. Nor was it within his mandate to ask it. He was Grand Councillor to the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, and would continue in that capacity at his Lord's whim. His loyalty was absolute. Whatever the wishes of the Great King, the Council of Thirteen would make those wishes law.

     At least, he thought, until the Ascension of A'Shira's son was formalized. Then there would be a new King to whom G'Brael and the Council of Thirteen would owe their allegiance. Assuming of course, that S'Tann was allowed to assume the throne after her mother's death. There could be no Ascension without the Great Queen's formal decree, and if there were no Great Queen...

     The thought hung there, overwhelming in it's implications. Should such a vacuum of rule develop, the Royal House would be divided for the first time in generations. Who knew where such a change in the intricacies of the succession might lead? The possible consequences were truly too terrible to contemplate.

     Could a wise King unleash such a thing on his unsuspecting subjects, G'Brael wondered? As the senior member of the Council, and premier advisor to the King, he was deeply troubled by the role he might have to play if his lingering suspicions proved correct. Did his sworn obligation to the King extend into the realm of usurping the rights of the Queen's legitimate Heir Designate? And by association, A'Shira's entire bloodline, to it's last generation? Again, he simply did not know the answer to his own question.

     "Let my conscience be the rock, upon whose foundation I build my life," he whispered, coming at last to the threshold of the King's chamber. The ancient mantra rolled easily off his tongue, providing some small comfort to his soul, if nothing else. He was, in the final analysis, the King's man. And he would do his King's bidding.

     The massive wooden doors leading to the Great King's inner sanctum slid back soundlessly at his approach, spilling light into the corridor. As always, G'Brael felt exposed by this sudden transition. As if the unnaturally bright illumination of the King's chamber was intended to penetrate his very soul. Revealing his most secret thoughts, so that the King might examine them at his leisure.

     He knew it was a childish notion. Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, for all his greatness, could not truly know what lurked in the deep recesses of G'Brael's heart. And for that, the Grand Councillor to the King was grateful. For his doubts were many, loyal servant though he was.

     "I obey your summons, Great Lord," G'Brael said, pausing on the threshold, impaled between the darkness and the light. "What is your wish, that it might become Law?"

     "G'Brael, Grand Councillor to the Great King, come forward and be recognized."

     The room seemed to reverberate with the sound of the King's voice as G'Brael stepped forward into the sanctum itself. His eyes carefully downcast so as not to be blinded by the gaze of the King. Whose brilliant blue orbs could bring darkness in an instant, even to one of the inner circle.

     "It is I, Lord. G'Brael, Grand Councillor to the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds!"

     "And so it is," G'Brael heard another voice respond. A voice he recognized instantly as the one belonging to the King's General, L'Kynvir.

     His uneasiness at the unexpected summons to the King's chamber increased. The General of the Host, although a member of the Council, rarely succumbed to the temptation to speak to G'Brael directly.

     "I stand ready to serve, Lord," G'Brael said, ignoring L'Kynvir, and moving forward until he stood directly before the raised dais on which the King's throne was mounted.

     "And it is your service that I will require, G'Brael," the King replied. "There are trying times ahead, for all of us..."

     "As always, Lord... I am yours to command."

     Surprisingly, it was L'Kynvir who responded to G'Brael's declaration. "The task will be difficult, Councillor. Perhaps, you would do well to consider carefully, before swearing your undying fealty to the Great King!"

     What was this? A warning from his enemy? G'Brael's confusion increased. Since when had L'Kynvir given any thought whatsoever to his well being? Or was there another, more malicious, aspect to the General's words? "Is my loyalty in some doubt then, Great Lord?" he asked, a cold knot of fear beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. Was it his own end that was being plotted here, he wondered?

     There was no immediate answer to his question, which only served to add to his disquiet. Instead, he heard the distinctive sound of Y'Hoveh's visor sliding into place. It would now be possible to look upon the face of the Great King without losing one's sight in the process. This prospect did nothing to calm G'Brael's fears. If anything, it multiplied his trepidation a thousandfold.

     "Raise your eyes, G'Brael. And gaze upon the magnificence of your King," Y'Hoveh ordered, his voice stern and formal. "I must look into the eyes of my Grand Councillor, and measure the honesty in his heart. The weight of the task I set before you is great. There must be no doubt in the mind of your King, but that you are up to the life I am about to grant you."

     His guts turned to stone, G'Brael did as he was bid, slowly raising his eyes until he was staring directly at the King's terrible visage. Cast from solid gold, the mask covering Y'Hoveh's face was awesome to behold. It seemed to be lit from within by the horrible blue fire of the Great King's eyes. Leaking out from around the edges, and causing G'Brael's own eyes, in spite of the visor, to water painfully.

     He felt as if he were about to melt under his Lord's scrutiny, so intense was the power that emanated from behind the King's shield. And then, mercifully, it was over. The aura surrounding Y'Hoveh's face slowly shifted, from a malevolently deep sapphire, to a more subtle shade of blue. Cooler, and more restrained. A single filament of the aura drifted toward G'Brael's face, licking dry his wet cheeks with a liquid fire that did not burn, and soothing his aching eyes with a soft caress that lingered ever so casually, before finally withdrawing.

     "It is done, G'Brael," the King intoned. "You stand before your Lord with a true heart, and the courage of a righteous man! In you, I am well pleased. And through you, I shall found my dynasty!"

     "My Lord?" G'Brael stammered. "I do not understand... What is it that you would have me do?"

     The Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, responded with a single word. "Ascend!" And lifted his golden mask...

     ****

     The agony was exquisite. G'Brael felt as if he had been cleft in two by a hot blade. All thought, even his awareness of self, was obliterated. There was nothing left to him but the pain. And so, left nothing else, he embraced it, consumed it, even as he was being consumed by it. Finally regaining some measure of consciousness after a time, and an awareness of the power that flooded through him with every touch of the blue fire streaming from Y'Hoveh's unshielded eyes.

     As if he were an outside observer to his own torture, the small part of G'Brael's mind that was still functioning, catalogued his reaction to the physical act of the Ascension. First was the pain, numbing in it's intensity, and all encompassing. Then came the power, passing through him, and to him, from Y'Hoveh. Until he himself began to feed the fires of his own Ascension; giving strength back to his Lord, even as he took strength from him. And then the third and final stage; the ecstasy, consummate, undeniable, and utterly exhilarating.

     Every nerve in his body was left vibrating by the experience, but when full awareness was returned to him, G'Brael was suddenly mortified by the honor his Lord had done him. Y'Hoveh's words rang in his ears like an ancient curse, and as he looked without fear upon the face of his King for the first time in his life, his first utterance gave voice to a new found fear.

     "A dynasty my Lord?"

     Y'Hoveh nodded slowly in affirmation. "It will fall to you, my trusted servant, to sire a King at a moment of your choosing."

     It was true, G'Brael thought, the Great King was indeed the best of plotters. "And in whose belly shall I plant this seed, Lord?"

     The Great King shrugged dismissively. A gesture that G'Brael sensed would reverberate down the generations. "It does not concern me. My essence will breed true, no matter how lowly the vessel in which it flowers."

     The King's words, despite his premonitions of disaster, brought G'Brael some small measure of relief. For a moment, he had been afraid that his Lord might order him to mount S'Tann, the Heir Designate, thus cementing the Royal Houses together. It was a prospect that held little appeal. Although she was undeniably beautiful, her powers were also undeniable, and G'Brael seriously doubted that he could survive any violation of the Queen's daughter. No matter the resilience bestowed upon him by his Ascension, S'Tann was said to have the ability to kill with a single thought, and G'Brael had no desire to test those abilities.

     There was another question that needed to be asked, but he sensed that he already knew what the answer had to be. "And what of the Great Queen, Lord?"

     It was L'Kynvir who answered G'Brael's query, and when he turned to face the General of the Host, he noticed for the first time that L'Kynvir stood on the dais beside his unmasked King. He too, bore the mark of the Ascension, and stared back at G'Brael from behind eyes of liquid sapphire that mirrored the Grand Councillor's own.

     "The lady A'Shira is dying," he stated matter-of-factly, with a kind of calm arrogance that G'Brael found deeply disturbing.

     The assuredness with which L'Kynvir spoke left little doubt in G'Brael's mind, but that the General of the Host was all too familiar with the cause of the Great Queen's affliction. "But what of her great and awesome powers, Lord?"

     It was almost a smile that played at the corners of Y'Hoveh's mouth as he answered, confirming G'Brael's worst fears. "A'Shira's powers will be buried with her, as tomorrow's dawn will bare witness. Her's, and those of her whole line as well!"

     There was no longer a shred of doubt then. The line of succession was to be irrevocably changed, and G'Brael himself would be the ongoing instrument of that change. For good or ill, it was decided. The wishes of the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, as always, would become Law...

     ****

     The Great Queen's bedchamber smelled like a tomb. Which it would be soon enough, S'Tann thought bitterly, able to visualize the ritualistic razing of the Queen's palace, even without the benefit of her under-developed sense of future. Her mother was dying, and all the skill that S'Tann possessed could not save her. That much was certain.

     As for the rest... S'Tann could glean only a vague sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate the ether surrounding the palace. It was nothing she could put her finger on exactly, just an unpleasant atmosphere that did little to lessen her state of agitation, and increased the anxiety she felt over her mother's imminent death.

     She wished she could strike out at someone or something. Purge her soul of the frustration that had been building within her ever since A'Shira fell sick. Cleanse herself in a bolt of blue fire that would wash this atrocity from her mind. But there was no one to blame, no one on whom she could wreak her terrible vengeance, only a nagging suspicion that she dare not voice aloud.

     By this time tomorrow I will be Queen, she thought, desperately wishing it could be otherwise. But the signs were clear, her mother was unlikely to last through the night. It would be S'Tann who greeted tomorrow's dawn, taking the sustenance of the morning star to feed the powers of the Queen. Lucifer, herald of the sun, would strengthen her as it had strengthened A'Shira, and all the Great Queens before her.

     It was an obligation that must be endured if she was to be strong enough to command the Ascension of her brother, A'Shira's first-born son, and future King. S'Tann would need to be able to sustain the fire that would feed his Ascension at the moment of his maturity, lest they both be lost to the flames.

     He was the only brightness in her life on this bleakest of days, and she would take on the duties of Great Queen for him, if for no other reason. So that he might become the most powerful of the Ascended. A Great King, trueborn, and ready to mount his throne.

     S'Tann watched him now, sitting on the other side of her mother's couch. Surely too young to be King, she thought, although it was less than a year away. But even so, the spark of power was there, reflected in the deep blue eyes which he turned on her now, sensing her attention.

     "She will not live, will she, S'Tann?"

     "No, D'Vyyd," she answered truthfully. "The Great Queen dies... even as we speak I can feel her getting weaker."

     The boy nodded his acceptance, a thoughtful expression on his young face. "Then... you must take her power now, S'Tann. While it is still her's to give."

     S'Tann was shocked by the idea. The power of the Queen must be freely given, or captured upon her death, she thought. To do otherwise would be like rape! A violation of the worst kind!

     "I cannot do such a thing, D'Vyyd!"

     "You must," he replied serenely. "You feel the sickness as I do, S'Tann. And as I, you know there can be but one explanation. Y'Hoveh has betrayed our trust. He has killed our Great Queen, and he will plot our end as well!"

     S'Tann felt the truth of her brother's words deep in her belly, giving solid form to the suspicions that she had dared not voice. We are lost, she thought, dismayed by the potential of the forces arrayed against them. Convinced that there was no way out, her power no match for the King's.

     "He is right, S'Tann," A'Shira croaked, struggling to open her eyes against the affliction which sought to close them forever. "You must become Queen! It is the only way!"

     S'Tann was startled by her mother's voice, as weak as it was, believing the Great Queen to be past the point of speaking hours ago. It was a measure of A'Shira's character that she could rise from the depths, even briefly, to give them her counsel, she thought. But it mattered little at this point. If the Great King's intention was to do them in, there was no real defense that they could mount.

     S'Tann looked into her mother's eyes, their luminosity dulled by pain, fired by iron will alone. She thought she saw a question there, reflected in the blue orbs that were a match for her own.

     "Where is thy spine, daughter?"

     It came to her quite clearly, the mind-voice of the Great Queen. Speaking now, not as her mother, but as righteous sovereign. Ordering her to defend the true succession, and the trueborn King!

     "Do not let them break you, S'Tann! You are the most powerful of the female line, and from your loins, and yours alone, shall come forth a new Great King! It is your duty... a sworn obligation that cannot be dismissed simply because the odds are against you!"

     S'Tann bent her head, ashamed of her moment of weakness in the face of such courage, and unable to meet the challenge in her mother's steady gaze. "I will do as you command, Great Queen. The line of succession will be defended with all the powers that I possess!"

     Reaching up and putting her hand under S'Tann's chin, A'Shira tilted her daughter's face upward until she could look into her eyes. "I named you well, daughter," she said. "S'Tann... the adversary! This day was written in my mind long before you were born. I know you are equal to this task, even if you do not!"

     The Great Queen smiled up at her from the deathbed then, her face full of the love she felt for this slip of a girl on whose shoulders the fate of a kingdom rested. "In you, I believe Y'Hoveh has met his match, S'Tann. His sense of future was never as strong as mine, and he does not have the memories. This miscalculation will be the end of him."

     "But what of the Host, Great Queen?" I cannot defeat L'Kynvir's army with my power alone, no matter how well augmented by the Transformation."

     A'Shira actually managed a small laugh. "Do not even try," she advised. "That would be folly. You must defeat the forces of the King with guile, S'Tann, not brute force. L'Kynvir is a man, men can be manipulated. Use your guile to turn the General of the Host against his King. Let him be the instrument of Y'Hoveh's destruction. And then deal with the General himself at your leisure. Revenge, after all, is a dish better served cold. Is it not?"

     S'Tann wondered if it were true. There was something to be said for striking at your enemies while the rage was upon you, the blood hot in your veins, feeding the sweetness of victory. Or so she had always imagined, but perhaps A'Shira's way was best. Revenge, sweeter yet, because of it's long maturation, and skillful, unexpected execution.

     "I will accept your counsel in this, mother. Although," she admitted, "I would rather strike now, before the King can launch his treachery against our House."

     "You cannot move against the King without a provocation that will be accepted as such by your subjects, S'Tann," A'Shira cautioned. "That too, would be folly, and irrevocably undermine your position, and that of your brother."

     A'Shira turned to D'Vyyd, sitting quietly while the two women had been discussing a future in which he was to play a pivotal role. He looked troubled, and as the Great Queen reached up to lovingly stroke his cheek, he said softly, "I would gladly give up the throne, in exchange for your life, my Queen."

     "No, you would not!" A'Shira replied sternly, leaving little doubt that she would never tolerate such a capitulation to Y'Hoveh's treachery. "You are my chosen one, D'Vyyd," she murmured. "From the moment of your birth, I sensed the future greatness within you."

     A'Shira switched to the more intimate mind-speech. "In you, I have foreseen the greatest of the Great Kings. It is your name above all others that your subjects will come to revere most highly. My memories hold the pictures of your future, my son. A thousand generations will lay their lives at your feet. Holding you as shining example of kingly virtue. Those, who in future will aspire to your throne, will do so with your name upon their lips, as proof of their legitimacy..."

     D'Vyyd's troubled expression deepened. "But how can that be, mother? It will be S'Tann's son who mounts the throne in my place upon my abdication. My line will take their rightful place as loyal retainers to the new King, nothing more, surely?"

     The Great Queen slumped back on her couch, the sickness that wracked her body once again reasserting itself. She dismissed D'Vyyd's question with a weak flutter of her hand, speaking out loud once more. "The future, my son, keeps some things to itself..." was the only explanation she could offer.

     ****

     A'Shira closed her eyes for a moment, conserving her strength for the trial to come. S'Tann's transformation, from Heir Designate to Great Queen, would be no easy thing to accomplish, and she would need every ounce of energy she possessed.

     She wanted to give her daughter much more than just the essence of the Queen's power. She would give her the memories as well if she could manage it, she thought. S'Tann would have need of them before long. Her daughter's future sense had never been well developed, but the gift of prophesy was an essential one, and unlike some of the other powers, could not be captured upon her death. She would have to manipulate the Transformation, so that this essential aspect of her character became S'Tann's as well. And that would take strength. A strength she did not presently possess...

     ****

     "Mother?" S'Tann queried fearfully, afraid that A'Shira would sink to depths she could not be aroused from.

     The Great Queen's eyes flew open, scattering blue fire across the room, obviously stronger, as if she had plumbed some reserve of energy previously untapped. "It is all right, S'Tann," she breathed, trying to soothe her daughter's fears, while conserving as much energy as possible. "Calm yourself, daughter. I am just resting. A brief respite, before the travail to come."

     "You are too weak for the Transformation, mother," S'Tann said. "It will kill you!"

     A'Shira again managed one of her feeble smiles. "I am finished, S'Tann. Your Queen would do this one thing, and embrace the void happily afterwards. Would you deny me that?"

     S'Tann shook her head negatively, unable to speak through the wave of emotion that washed over her. Iridescent tears spilled down her cheeks, evaporating as they rolled off her chin. A'Shira reached out and caught one of the droplets on a fingertip, bringing it to her mouth to taste S'Tann's essence. Her eyes brightened for a moment, this nectar of a virgin Queen to be, the sweetest of gifts, not tainted in the least by the burdens of power, only the joys.

     A'Shira sighed deeply, closing her eyes once more, seeming to savour the moment of ecstasy brought on by that one drop of clear fluid. When she opened them again, her eyes were pure blue fire!

     "Take me now, S'Tann!"

     The order was imperious, the command of the Great Queen. Not to be denied or considered in any way, simply to be obeyed. Absolutely, and without question!

     D'Vyyd sprang off the Queen's couch as if burned. Getting as far as possible from his mother and sister, without actually leaving the Great Queen's chamber. He watched, fascinated, as S'Tann began the Taking. Awed by the raw power flowing through the room. The cold blue flame wrapping around them both, encasing them, as the deadly coupling was completed. Their bodies entwined more intimately than any of their common, unascended, subjects could possibly imagine.

     ****

     S'Tann almost lost herself in that first passionate embrace, her lips meeting A'Shira's in a shower of sparks that careened around their faces like cold lightning. Her mother's physical strength surprised her, shocking in it's intensity, as A'Shira drew her down onto the couch, wrapping her legs around S'Tann's waist in a grip that could not be broken. The fire poured from the Great Queen's eyes into her own, and in those first few seconds it was S'Tann who almost gave in, allowing A'Shira to draw from her, rather than she from the Great Queen.

     A'Shira's mind-voice was shattering in it's volume. "Bare down, S'Tann! Assert yourself or we will both be lost!"

     The order of the Great Queen could not be ignored. S'Tann responded, pressing herself even closer, clasping the back of A'Shira's neck in an iron grip and tilting her head back. The Great Queen's mouth opened then, inviting, and S'Tann slid her tongue between A'Shira's teeth, tasting her, hungry, seeking the precious moisture. Drawing it in to herself to sustain the Transformation.

     She felt her own power as a physical weight, growing heavy with it, as A'Shira weakened. And then the memories came; of a life lived, and lives yet to come. The fire was her's alone now, and S'Tann used it to crush her mother's will, making it her own! Entering A'Shira's mind and stripping it of it's secrets!

     She released the grip on her mother's neck, allowing her hands to roam freely over the body writhing beneath her. Blue flame dripping from her fingertips, as she sought out every orifice, every crevice where some of the invigorating fluid might lie hidden. S'Tann grew slick with it, impaling herself on the dying Queen's power, feeling the flames crawl up inside her, dissolving the last of her inhibitions in a crest of unrestrained pleasure.

     ****

     D'Vyyd watched, both mesmerized, and horrified, as S'Tann slid off his mother's still twitching corpse. Her Transformation from Heir Designate to Great Queen now complete. She wore the power like a cloak, the deep blue aura surrounding her from head to foot. The gossamer gown she had been wearing was burned away, and as she struggled to her feet, she stood before him as naked as the day she was brought into the world.

     Trailing liquid fire behind her, the Great Queen glided toward him, and for the first time in his life, D'Vyyd was deeply afraid of his sister. Of the arrogant look on her face, and the careless way she displayed herself to him. S'Tann was powerful, he could see that immediately, more powerful than A'Shira had ever been! And this too made him cringe in genuine fear at her approach...

     ****

     S'Tann almost took him as well. In those first few moments, as she struggled to contain the awesome power that threatened to erupt uncontrollably, she saw him cowering in a corner of the room. Without any conscious thought whatever, she moved toward him, the hunger still strong within her. Knowing only that he was one of the Chosen, and could therefore give her sustenance. A flick of the energy that surged through her drew him to his feet, a waiting sacrifice for the freshly transformed Great Queen!

     It was the rain that stopped her. The sound of it, that finally penetrated the wall of raw power surrounding her, bringing her to a halt a mere foot from the terrified boy. S'Tann's head snapped toward the sound of the deluge battering the ground outside the open window, concentrating on it, letting it wash over her. Her aura shrank to more manageable proportions, extending but a few inches from her glistening skin. Changing colour, the deep blue becoming transparent, ephemeral, and less intimidating.

     D'Vyyd dropped to his knees in front of her, released from the grip of her power, and S'Tann's eyes were drawn to him, his fear a palpable presence in the room. "Do not be afraid, Beloved," she mind-spoke to him, trying to soothe him, reaching out with her fingers to lightly stroke his face. Now fully in control of herself, and her faculties, awesome as they were.

     "I am yours to command, Great Queen," D'Vyyd replied in a tremulous voice, his whole body shaking with the depth of his dread.

     "Then I command you to rise, Beloved," S'Tann said out loud. "Rise, and welcome your Queen properly."

     D'Vyyd did as he was ordered. Slowly getting to his feet, his knees obviously weak. S'Tann took him in her arms, her embrace gentle and comforting. Raining in her passion, the urge to take him still strong.

     The boy responded to her touch, folding himself against her, leaning on her strength. S'Tann pressed her lips softly to his mouth, letting him taste her with his tongue, feeding him just a little of herself. D'Vyyd was instantly aroused, and this amused S'Tann, even as it tempted her, bringing up the moisture from deep in her loins. "Not yet, Beloved," she whispered to him, breaking the lingering kiss. "You are not strong enough for that... yet. But soon," she promised. "Soon..."

     ****

     The slaughter began with the risen moon, strangely bright, after the unholy gloom of that dismal day. Illuminating the carnage below in it's pale golden light. The King's Host descended upon the House of the Great Queen with a vengeance, L'Kynvir at their head, directing the massacre with his typically brutal efficiency.

     The A'Shishem, the palace guard of the Great Queen, fought valiantly. But they were no match for the superior numbers of the Host. By mid-night, it was all over. The body of the Great Queen, A'Shira, was dragged from her palace, the corpse's eyes plucked out, and crushed under the hooves of L'Kynvir's war-mount, as the Great King had ordered. The body was then drawn and quartered, the pieces burned on the pyre of her desecrated temple.

     D'Vyyd, A'Shira's first-born son, was captured alive and brought before the Great King, naked, and bound with chains. Made to abase himself by swearing allegiance to his uncle's House, in the presence of the Council of Thirteen, so as to make his oath binding under the Law.

     It was an oath he would uphold for all the years of his life. What little honor remained to him, demanded no less. And S'Tann, from that terrible night onwards, would be his sworn enemy. D'Vyyd, throughout the long years of his life, would never forgive his sister for not attempting his Ascension on that first day of her Transformation. From that day onward, he was a haunted man. Even after he became the first of the non-ascendant Kings, his bitterness toward his sister was unabated.

     The name of the last of the Great Queens, A'Shira, was obliterated from the public record. Her temples were torn down, her palace razed, the ashes scattered to the four winds. The overwhelming presence that she had maintained in the lives of her subjects, faded into obscurity. Spoken of only in awed whispers, in the dark of night, far from the prying eyes of the King and his successors.

     S'Tann's name survived only in legend. The Adversary, the evil one, who sought to depose the Great King from his rightful throne. Linked forever with the ancient name of the morning star. An association that was to reverberate down the generations. Just as the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, had intended. For after all, the Great King was indeed, the best of plotters...

     ***

     CHAPTER ONE -- A'Shishem -- July, 1982 A.D.

     Flashes of artillery fire on the horizon provided the only illumination, marking the limit of the Israeli advance on Beirut. Hanging heavy in the night air, the smell of burnt flesh, and scorched concrete, caused the A'Shishem's nostrils to flare as he sampled the light breeze, distracting him as he moved through the war-ravaged streets.

     The abandoned Palestinian positions had been worked over by Israeli fighter-bombers that afternoon, and the civilian casualties had been high, but this was not what had disturbed the A'Shishem. It was, rather, the fact that the stench of death that surrounded him would mask the scent of an enemy. He usually gave little thought to any deaths, except those he inflicted himself, but the corpses in the shattered buildings around which he moved presented a problem, eliminating one of his most important assets, an acutely developed sense of smell. And this caused him to hesitate for a fraction of a second...

     ****

     "Target up," the sniper team leader breathed into the microphone pressed close against his lips, centering the telescopic night-sight of his long barrelled rifle on the stationary target two hundred yards away.

     "Positive identification?" a voice queried softly from the commlink pressed into the sniper's right ear. Sounding like the disembodied voice of God Almighty.

     Shit! The sniper cursed silently. How the hell am I supposed to get a positive I.D.? The bastard fit the target profile; Let's waste him and get the hell out of here!

     Before he could decide whether or not he should ignore the controller's question, a man who was no doubt safe and sound in some reinforced concrete bunker, the target eased himself closer to the ground, as if sensing the sniper's scrutiny. It was still an easy shot, but if the target moved much more they might have to reacquire. "Target is moving, control. It's now or never..."

     There was very little hesitation on the other end of the commlink. "Take him!"

     He didn't need to be told twice. The weapon in his hands barked once, and... he missed! The target had disappeared! He hadn't moved, he just disappeared! One second centered in the crosshairs... the next, gone!

     "What the hell...?"

     "You fucking missed!" his spotter stated unnecessarily, his voice anything but understanding. "You asshole..."

     The sniper ignored him, searching the rubble through the night-sight, vainly trying to reacquire a target that seemed to have vanished into thin air. "Where the hell is he?"

     "How the fuck should I know," the man beside him hissed. "He was your fucking target!"

     And it's your job to keep the target acquired, you little asshole, the sniper thought, knowing that this was definitely not the time to start an argument.

     "Alpha team, control, sitrep?" came blaring through his earpiece as he was trying to decide what to do next.

     "Uh... standby, control..." he responded, twirling the knob on the top of his sight that would increase it's amplification, while still searching for the target that must be hiding somewhere in the rubble down the street from his position.

     "Alpha team, target status?" the voice on the other end of the commlink demanded.

     "Uh... target has gone to ground, control. Am trying to reacquire now... standby!"

     "Alpha team, control... abort! Repeat... abort acquisition immediately!"

     Panic? From a rear echelon puke? That was odd, the sniper thought. They usually sound so goddamned bored. Besides, what did control, safe in his bunker, two hundred miles from the action, have to panic about?

     He was still trying to pick up some movement from the target, when he heard the soft gurgling sound. It seemed to originate from a couple of yards to his right... just about where his spotter should be... In the half second it took him to fully appreciate the implications of that sound, two things went screaming through the sniper's mind; One, that he had screwed the pooch big time when he lost the target in the first place. And two, he was almost certainly within a few seconds of getting taken out permanently himself. As it turned out, he was right on both counts...

     ****

     Sheathing the black-bladed knife he held in his left hand, the A'Shishem spared a moments contemplation for the two dead men lying at his feet. Soldiers, he thought, with a kind of clinical detachment. No strangers to quick and violent death, but if the stunned looks on their dead faces were any indication, obviously surprised that such a fate had been visited upon themselves. He wondered how many kills these two had between them? Not as many as the A'Shishem himself, that much was certain. But then, he had been at the trade for a considerably longer length of time.

     No doubt these two fools had known the risks, known what they were dying for, or at least thought they did. But the A'Shishem knew better. Sacrificial lambs is all they truly were, he thought, pitying them. Sacrificial lambs... led to a slaughter that was centuries in the making, and of which, they had no real understanding whatsoever.

     It saddened him in a way. If he would have had a choice, this was not the life he would have chosen to lead. And yet, these two had voluntarily taken up the profession of death. And this was their reward, he thought... pointless death, in pursuit of an objective that was beyond their ability to comprehend.

     The A'Shishem's eyes glowed a faint blue in the darkness. It was a good thing they were not fully aware of the capabilities of their prey, he thought, or he might be the one lying dead at the feet of the hunter. The glint of the sniper's weapon in the moonlight had alerted him to their presence before the shot had been fired, giving him time to move out of the line of fire. Obviously, no one had bothered to brief the sniper team on the A'Shishem's exceptional night-vision, or the speed with which he was able to move. A critical bit of intelligence that might have saved these men's lives.

     The fact that they had been here at all was another matter entirely, and one which troubled the A'Shishem deeply. There had been a breach in security, and that breach could only have come from within the Society of Assassins itself. There was a traitor in their midst, a situation that could not be tolerated, their work was simply too important to be compromised.

     A message would have to be sent, he decided. One that would not be misconstrued by their enemies. The A'Shishem quietly drew his knife from it's sheath, bending over the dead man that had been carrying the rifle, and then carefully, with surgical precision, carved out both of the man's eyes...

     ****

     The Israelis had ignored his repeated attempts to make contact. Their armour was poised for a final push into Beirut, the United Nations observer mission to Lebanon was in a shambles, and things in general had gone for a shit since he had been posted here four months before. But Major William "Mad Bill" Carter, still had a job to do, and was trying to accomplish something useful, in spite of the crap that was going on around him.

     He wasn't really surprised that the Israeli commanders hadn't bothered to allow his detachment's passage through their lines, considering the fact that those same commanders had ordered their units to run right over the U.N. checkpoints on the border a few days before. But nonetheless, it pissed him off, severely! Mad Bill knew that if he had a division to back him up, or even the serious threat of one, instead of the pitifully under-equipped ten man detachment that he was technically in command of, he might actually have had a chance to get the Israelis attention. But that wasn't going to happen, and he knew it, which did nothing at all to improve his outlook on life, or more particularly, the status of his current assignment.

     Nor was there a snowball's chance in hell of him seeing any support from the American carrier battle group steaming off shore, two hundred miles from the Lebanese coast. The Israeli air force controlled the skies over Lebanon, as they had proven quite conclusively to the Syrians the day before. And according to his latest intelligence brief, the Americans weren't even running combat air patrols within fifty miles of the coast. So much for freedom of navigation in the Med, he thought, thoroughly disgusted with the typically timid American reaction to the crisis. The Israelis had them, and the rest of the world as well, scared shitless!

     With good reason, he supposed. After all, they were threatening to reduce by fire a whole metropolitan area. And it sure as hell didn't look to him as if any hero was going to step forward to try and stop them.

     Mad Bill shook his head in irritation, the look on his face telegraphing what he thought about this whole stinking mess. "Peacekeeping," he muttered to himself. "What a crock of shit!"

     Combat tourism... that would have been a better description for what they were doing in the Lebanon, he thought. Let's go watch a war, up close and personal, but not so close we might actually have to choose up sides. No... that would be much too messy for the limp-wristed little shits on the Security Council! And now this... as if he didn't have enough problems!

     He stood in the middle of what had once been a city street, but was now a meandering pile of rubble, with a thin trail winding through the middle of it. The trail was barely wide enough for his APC, and this made Mad Bill a little nervous. It was ambush country, plain and simple. Easy for an opponent to toss a molotov cocktail, or grenade, right down on top of his head, with little or no chance of him having any time to react.

     For this reason, he had deployed his security detachment in a loose perimeter out about fifty meters from the two APC's under his command. Aside from the muted voices of his troopers, it was surprisingly quiet, the only other sound coming from the faded blue United Nations flag fluttering from one of the antenna masts on his command track. And the light wind, occasionally whining eerily through the shattered facades of the buildings which lined the street. Thankfully, that same wind carried away some of the stench from the two rotting corpses at his feet.

     There was something terribly wrong here, Mad Bill thought. The bodies themselves were nothing unusual; just two more dead people in a country full of them. But the condition of the bodies, the mutilations, that was something entirely different. He had never seen anything quite like it, and Mad Bill had seen a lot of weird shit in his time. But this... no, this was a brand new experience, definitely!

     "Any idea who these guys are, Jacques?" he asked of the French paratroop captain, who was acting as the detachment's intelligence officer.

     "The equipment's all American," the Frenchman observed casually, as if that somehow magically explained everything.

     Mad Bill scowled. "I can see that for myself. Tell me something I don't know, for Christ's sake! Who the hell's been operating in this sector? The Phallange, the Druze, the PLO, the FPLM... who?"

     "Up until two days ago, this was a PLO controlled sector," the Frenchman replied slowly, totally unimpressed with Mad Bill's obvious irritation. "Rumor had it, that some of the PLO's general command council was located in this area... Which is probably why the IDF blew it to shit."

     "Did they get any of them?"

     The Frenchman smiled. "We should be so lucky..."

     No kidding, Mad Bill thought. If the Israeli Defense Force did manage to take out some of the PLO's top people, it would make everybody's life in this whole country a hell of a lot easier!

     "Could this be some kind of recovery team?" he asked, convinced even as he said it that the profile was all wrong. Why send in two guys, when you could just as easily chopper in a whole company to secure the area, and do a thorough search for the bodies of the people you were after?

     Jacques shook his head, confirming Mad Bill's thoughts. "Unlikely, the Israelis always take their dead with them, and the IDF never operate with teams this small."

     That statement led naturally enough to Mad Bills next question. "Who does?"

     The French captain looked off into the distance, apparently contemplating the question, before answering. "The Americans, occasionally. But I don't think these two are American..."

     "Who else?"

     When Jacques turned to face him, he looked strangely uncomfortable, as if he didn't really want to answer. "The Swiss train as two man sniper teams, and so do the Soviets... But I think the most likely suspects in this case would be my own people, DGSE... the secret intelligence service."

     Mad Bill wasn't sure how he should respond to that. France had, in the past, been heavily involved in Lebanon, and it wouldn't be that shocking to find out the French government was pursuing some agenda of their own now. Taking advantage of the Israeli invasion to settle some old scores perhaps?

     But that left Mad Bill with a more immediate problem. Namely who was Jacques himself really working for, and more importantly, how far could he be trusted to serve the interests of the United Nations, rather than those of his own government? The french had the largest U.N. contingent in country, and if they were using the United Nations flag as a cover for their own parochial interests, it put him and the rest of the foreign observers in serious shit!

     "Of course," the French captain continued, with a condescending little smile, as if reading his commanding officer's mind, "the Canadians also train two man special operations teams. Perhaps they're one of yours..."

     "Yeah right," Mad Bill replied shortly, all too aware of the veiled insult hidden behind the remark. "And the French army has won it's last four wars without anybody else's help!"

     That comment struck home Mad Bill thought, watching Jacques expression change as if he had been slapped in the face. Serves the slimy little shit right; If it weren't for the Canadian, American, and British armies, you'd be speaking german as your first language you little asshole!

     Serving with the United Nations as a peacekeeper wasn't exactly what Mad Bill had in mind when he joined the Canadian Army, but it was the only action around, so he had learned to live with it. Frustrating as it sometimes was, it had the advantage of boosting his adrenaline to a comfortable level. Which meant it was far better than sitting on a base back in Canada going through an endless training cycle, with no prospect of any action whatsoever.

     Like a lot of professional soldiers, Mad Bill was honest enough to admit to himself that he was a bit of an adrenaline junky. He needed the action to keep himself sane. Stress had never been a problem for him, boredom on the other hand, had caused him considerable discomfort over the years.

     In fact, it had been boredom more than anything else, that had been the impetus for Mad Bill getting saddled with his nickname in the first place. On one of his infrequent mandatory rotations back home, he had decided to liven up a training exercise by making it a little more realistic. Much to the horror of his superiors, for whom the mighty god of absolute predictability was to be worshipped above all else.

     His method of instilling realism was, he thought at the time, inspired. Assigned to a training company with the Canadian Airborne Regiment, Mad Bill had been mightily disappointed by the lackadaisical attitude displayed by some of the troopers they were paying him to train. Deciding that, for their own good, they all had to be dummied up fast, he laid on a drop exercise in which the company was to be parachuted into a remote area, and then forced marched back to the base. All pretty standard stuff, except for the fact that Mad Bill spent the evening before the drop selectively sabotaging some of the troop's primary parachutes. The ones he had decided needed a hard dose of reality, if he was to turn them into anything approaching the caliber of soldier he wanted in his unit.

     It was all very meticulously planned. He went over in great detail during the drop briefing the emergency procedure for cutting loose a fouled chute, and deploying the secondary. If the troopers in question had a little more on the ball, they might have clued into the fact that something out of the ordinary was about to happen to them, but they didn't seem to be especially impressed with his briefing style. Because of that, Mad Bill went over the procedure again, individually, with every man taking part in the exercise, just to satisfy himself that the dumb little shits actually did know what to do if their primary parachute became fouled after they exited the aircraft.

     Having done all he could to prepare the men for the fate that was about to befall them, Mad Bill led them out to the waiting transport aircraft, being very careful to load them in a specific order. Giving the ones with the 'special' chutes the lead position in each stick. The rational being, that the first ones out of the aircraft in each jump group would be falling ahead of their comrades, and would not go plummeting through the men who had already successfully deployed their parachutes.

     That was the plan, at any rate. Unfortunately, as Mad Bill was only too aware, military plans had a nasty habit of going to shit in a hurry once an operation actually began, and this one was no exception.

     When they reached the drop zone, the first man out of the aircraft made a classic mistake that Mad Bill had not allowed for, he fell in love with the ground that was rushing up at him, losing a precious few seconds that would have been better spent getting his shit together and cutting his fouled primary loose. When he finally did get himself free of the primary chute, and emergency deployed the backup, he was only three hundred feet off the ground. To his credit, the trooper recovered surprisingly well, but he nonetheless hit the landing zone a lot harder than he should have, and broke his leg in two places.

     The leader of the second stick, having seen what had happened to his buddy, categorically refused to leave the aircraft. This had the effect of further screwing up Mad Bill's well laid plan, resulting in a delay that dropped the second stick late, and more than half a kilometer from the drop zone. One of the men in the second stick ended up hanging from a tree instead of landing on the ground, and almost strangled himself attempting to get free of his harness, before two other troopers found him and cut him down.

     Mad Bill then ordered the transport to the alternate DZ, and dropped the third and fourth sticks of the company with relative success, ordering the commanders of those units to force march their troops back to the primary DZ to link up with the rest of his force. The two soldiers in the third and fourth sticks who had 'specials', performed exceptionally well, cutting their fouled chutes loose within seconds of leaving the aircraft, and landing right in the center of the alternate DZ with no problem at all.

     He then told the transport's pilot to return to the primary DZ and, after giving his insubordinate trooper one last chance to redeem himself, which was refused, jumped himself. Perversely, Mad Bill's own chute became fouled a few seconds after it deployed, causing him to wonder ironically if someone was trying to send him a not so subtle message. The second thought that occurred to him, was that perhaps one of his men had sabotaged his equipment, and was actually trying to kill him. If so, he knew that in all likelihood his emergency chute would not deploy properly either, and it was with a great deal of trepidation that he pulled the emergency rip-cord after cutting himself free of the primary parachute. He had no doubt that, as lackadaisical as they were, his men would be professional enough to successfully frag him if they had a mind to. Thankfully, the secondary blossomed out above him as perfectly as it was designed to do, relieving him of that worry at least.

     When he reached the ground, Mad Bill was pleasantly surprised by the activities of his platoon commanders. The wayward second platoon had made it back to the DZ in good order, and as soon as he freed himself from his harness and policed up his equipment, never having raised his head higher than ten inches off the ground to do it, he spotted the commander of the first platoon running up to him. The young lieutenant gave him a concise situation report that would have made any grizzled veteran proud, and informed him that the men of first and second platoons, including one stretcher case, were ready to move out.

     Mad Bill took a quick look around the LZ and found that this was indeed the case. The two units were deployed in a temporary defensive perimeter which effectively utilized the sparse cover available, and was designed to direct mutually supporting fires to both teams in the event they were to come under attack from any direction. Apparently, the unexpected fouling of the first man's chute had the desired effect, the troopers weren't taking any chances, and were beginning to treat the exercise as if it were an actual forward deployment into hostile country. That is, with the possible exception of first platoon's lieutenant, who had come running across the open landing zone as if there weren't the slightest possibility that someone might want to shoot his silly head off.

     Deciding to put the lieutenant on notice that he wasn't going to win any brownie points by needlessly exposing himself, the first words out of Mad Bill's mouth were probably not the ones that the young officer expected to hear.

     "Colour yourself dead, Lieutenant! An enemy sniper in those trees over there just put a round through the front of your skull!"

     The stunned look of disbelief that greeted this reprimand was priceless. Just the memory of it could bring a smile to Mad Bill's face, even after all these years. That alone, he thought, was worth all the other shit he had to face when the unit finally made it back to the base in Petawawa two days later.

     The base commander had been absolutely horrified by the realism of the exercise. The refusnik leader of the second element brought formal charges against Mad Bill, in answer no doubt to the courts-martial proceedings Mad Bill initiated for insubordination the moment he returned to base. The little shit had actually accused him of attempted murder, which as Mad Bill told the board of enquiry, was laughable. If he had really wanted to kill the little bastard, he could have thought of a much better way to do it. He probably didn't do himself any good when he proceeded to list several possible methods he could think of right off the top of his head.

     When all was said and done, Mad Bill was demoted one rank, the leader of the second element was sent back to his regiment without completing the Airborne training program, and Mad Bill's superiors began referring to him amongst themselves as "that mad sonuvabitch". This reference was immediately picked up on by the enlisted personnel who worked in the various administrative offices of the base and, in typically efficient fashion, was shortened simply to "Mad Bill".

     Mad Bill himself only became aware of his new handle by accident. He was in the administration building one day during the processing of a new group of trainees, when he overheard a staff sergeant telling one of the recruits that he was very sorry, but.... "I hate to be the one that has to tell you this corporal, but you've been assigned to Mad Bill's company. May God have mercy on your soul!". This statement was accompanied by an evil grin that no one but a career non-com could duplicate, and presto, a Canadian army legend was born!

     Such were the consequences of Mad Bill's frequent bouts with boredom. There had been other, equally legendary, incidents throughout his career, which only added to his status as a kind of cult-hero among the troopers who had gone through the Airborne program under his command. There was a saying in the ranks, "If you can survive twelve weeks with Mad Bill, you can survive anything!". It wasn't quite true of course, but it made a hell of a saying. And when Mad Bill thought about it, which wasn't often, he thought that having been the inspiration for such a saying might have been the most important thing he had ever done for his country. Then again... maybe not. There was another saying he had heard more than once, this one bandied about by his fellow officers, which went something like, "Mad Bill's got them for twelve weeks, and it takes the rest of us two years to whip the cockiness out of the bastards!". So much for espirit de corps...

     ****

     From the fourth floor of what remained of an office building, three hundred meters from where the corpses of his latest victims lay rotting in the summer sun, the A'Shishem watched the United Nations soldiers as they surveyed his handiwork. That they were puzzled by their find was obvious, their body language alone told him that much, but his sensitive ears were able to follow the conversation between the two senior officers of the UN detachment with relative ease, and so the depth of that puzzlement was clear to him as well.

     He almost smiled when he heard one of them describe the dead men as probably being French. And he couldn't help but smile when the Canadian major made the comment about the French army winning it's own wars. It had been centuries since the French had raised a decent army, the A'Shishem thought, all their claims to the contrary notwithstanding. And it had been the French King, Philip IV, who had ultimately destroyed that best example of French military prowess. The hated Knights Templar finally falling victim to their own successes in the field, accused of being in league with the Devil, their riches confiscated, and all but a few of their secrets following them into the flames.

     Justice, the A'Shishem reflected, was often slow to mature, but eminently satisfying when it did. Had the Templars only known the truth, they might saved themselves, but they had decided to follow the path paved for them by the Serpent. And, as usual, he had fed his loyal retainers to the wolves at the first opportune moment. Choosing, as always, to save himself at the expense of others.

     As he watched the United Nations detachment, the A'Shishem became intrigued with the man who was obviously in command of the unit, focusing his highly developed senses exclusively on the Canadian officer. He seemed to stand out from the others for some reason, his voice carried more clearly on the slight wind that was blowing toward the A'Shishem, his stance was a little bit too alert, even for someone in his exposed position...

     And then, as the Canadian major turned toward him, the A'Shishem got his first close look at the man's eyes, and felt an electric tingle run down his spine... They were blue! Not the washed out blue of the humans, but the deep brilliant blue of one of his own race! Could it be possible, after all these centuries? Could this man really be one of the lost ones?

     The A'Shishem shifted position ever so slightly, intentionally making a small sound by scraping his fingertips against some of the rubble piled around him...

     ****

     Mad Bill hit the deck, alerted by some sixth sense that they were in danger. A few seconds later, an Israeli F4-Phantom, came screaming over their position at rooftop level. So low, that the vibrations from it's two powerful engines caused some of concrete hanging from the surrounding buildings to fall into the street around them.

     One of the trooper's in the security detachment shrieked, his leg suddenly crushed under a hundred kilogram block of reinforced concrete, pinning him to the ground. As the rumble of the big jet died away, the soldier continued to wail uncontrollably, reminding Mad Bill of the sound a child might make if it were badly injured. It was a sound he had heard all too often, the sound of a brave man being turned into a squealing infant by pain and terror, the cockiness of the professional soldier being replaced by the immediate knowledge that death, or even worse, the possibility of being permanently maimed, were the constant companions of their chosen profession.

     "Fuck this shit!" Mad Bill grunted. He knew that fighter-bombers usually travelled in packs, and he wasn't about to wait around to find out if the Israelis were going to paste this area with high-explosives or napalm. "Police up this equipment, Jacques," he ordered. "Leave the bodies, there's nothing we can do for the poor bastards now anyway."

     His second-in-command didn't have to be told twice. The words were barely out of Mad Bill's mouth as Jacques, quite literally, sprang into action. Stripping the webbing off the two corpses, and gathering up their scattered equipment in record time.

     Nothing like a little fear to motivate people, Mad Bill thought bitterly, thoroughly disgusted with the morning's events. Castigating himself for exposing his detachment in such a worthless investigation. They were really no closer to knowing what the hell had happened here than they were when they first arrived, and all he had to show for half a days work was a badly wounded trooper, and a mystery, that in all likelihood, would never be solved.

     He would write a report, that's what he seemed to do the most these days, and file it with the proper United Nations authorities in New York. Where, no doubt, it would join the thousands of other such reports he had filed over the years... read only by some nameless UN bureaucrat whose job it was to do such things. Left ultimately in some basement archive, where it was never likely to see the light of day again...

     ***

     CHAPTER TWO -- The Twelve

     The report had taken a very circuitous route, through New York, and a half dozen European capitals, before finding it's way onto G'Brael's desk in Zurich. It only confirmed for him what he had already suspected; their mission had failed. The entire invasion, an elaborate cover for the real objective, had been a pointless exercise. And the price of that failure had been high. The Council of Twelve would not be pleased.

     G'Brael spun his sumptuously upholstered chair so that he could look out the large window behind his desk, the magnificent view of Lake Zurich always able to soothe him, and sighed deeply. The oldest of the A'Shishem was still alive, that was the most important information concealed within the pages of the Canadian officer's report. There was no mistaking the message, the ritualistic removal of the eyes, sending them notice that the Great Queen had not forgotten the desecration of her mother.

     Will it ever end, he wondered? The bitterness still fresh after all these many centuries. The pain of the betrayal weighing on his conscience unabated. The memories still clear, not eroded in the least by the long passage of time.

     So many memories to contain, he thought. What must it be like for her? Able to remember the future as well as the past, how hideous must that power be?

     He could still envision her as he had last seen her, the beautiful young girl, powerful even then. Able to bewitch with a glance, every male who came in contact with her falling hopelessly in love in an instant. Once captured, never able to forget the smile that could light a man's nights for years. But the love always tempered by a deep-rooted fear, the knowledge of her awesome power impossible to ignore. Power that must have increased a thousandfold since her Transformation.

     What did her memories tell her, G'Brael wondered? Would she someday bring forth a true-born King? Was there anyone left who could sire such a prince? Only a handful of the Chosen still roamed the earth, and none so far as he knew, had the temerity to seek out their Queen. Was that about to change?

     Something shimmered at the periphery of G'Brael's consciousness, some inkling of what might be, but it was fragmentary, and he was unable to comprehend it's meaning. Only the strong sense that something unusual was about to happen. The lack of clarity was frustrating, there was nothing concrete on which to base this fluttering in his bowels, and yet...

     He would make the trip to Jerusalem himself, he decided. Brief the Council in person, and accept the responsibility for their collective failure. He was not afraid of the Twelve's judgement, there was little they could do to him in the way of sanction. He had become far too powerful an instrument of his dead King's will to fear their wrath. None of the present Council was his equal, only one on earth was his equal, and the Serpent had not been heard from in centuries.

     But was he truly dead, G'Brael asked himself, or was he just biding his time? It was not like L'Kynvir to hide in the shadows when there were armies to be led, and kingdoms left to conquer. The General of the King's Host, disgraced and hunted after the great betrayal, had taken pride in flaunting himself and his powers, daring the Council to meet him in open battle. It was not a dare that G'Brael had been willing to take at the time. A decision that he was to regret bitterly, as over the centuries he was forced to watch the slow disintegration of the Great Kingdom. Helpless to prevent the erosion brought on by L'Kynvir's ceaseless attacks on the Host. The barbarians he commanded making up for what the lacked in quality by the sheer overwhelming force of their numbers. And the superior tactical skills of the warrior who led them.

     There was not the least doubt in G'Brael's mind that L'Kynvir was the finest battlefield commander who had ever lived, which made his defection all the more bitter. And made his absence from the world stage at this particular time in history all the more peculiar. The largest wars of all time had been fought in the past one hundred years, surely a soldier of such skill would not have been content to simply sit on the sidelines of history while the fate of nations hung in the balance?

     In all the world, only S'Tann would know the answer to that question, he thought. And he was sure that if she did know the fate of the Serpent, it would not be information that she would share willingly with him. The Great Queen had been the one who had unleashed the General of the Host on his unsuspecting King, her first act of revenge for the betrayal of her House, but by no means the last. Perhaps, G'Brael reflected, she had finally disposed of him. The Great General brought down by the girl Queen he had once thought to possess. It would be a fitting death for the one who, in the end, had betrayed them all!

     G'Brael got up from behind the desk and walked across the spacious office to the washroom that was located discreetly in the far corner. He wet a cloth with ice cold water, removed the darkly tinted glasses he habitually wore, and wiped his face and the back of his neck, allowing the water to trickle under his collar and down his back. The water evaporated almost immediately, and G'Brael repeated the entire process, enjoying the feel of the cool water against his skin. For a moment, able to forget who he was in this simple pleasure. Forget what he was...

     The reflection of his own face in the polished steel mirror above the sink instantly destroyed the illusion. It was with a mixture of wonder and disgust that he stared at himself, remembering a time when his reflected image did not have the power to stir him so deeply.

     I was just a man then, he thought. Chosen, but just a man. With an ordinary man's face, and an ordinary man's eyes. Not so now, the Ascension had changed everything in the blink of an eye, and the face that stared back at him from the mirror was in no way that of an ordinary man.

     What could ever have prepared him for this? This stranger's face that peered back at him from the polished steel, framed in dark oak. Like some manufactured photograph, a bizarre composition of the impossible. Hard to describe the shock of that first reflection, caught out of the corner of an eye as he returned to his rooms after the Ascension.

     So many centuries ago, but it seemed like only yesterday. G'Brael could still recall his human face, traces of it were visible even now if one looked closely enough beneath the mask of his Ascended form. But the... what was it? Loathing... he supposed, of that first encounter with his new image, was written far too deep in his consciousness to ever be erased by the simple passage of time.

     He was able to view himself less critically now, could recognize a certain majesty, even beauty, in the hard angles of his jaw beneath the squarely trimmed beard. The chiseled features that human females found so compelling had served him well in the mission he had undertaken for his long dead King, and so could not be quite as disgusting as he had first imagined them to be. But the eyes... the eyes were something no human, male or female, had ever been able to ignore. Irradiant blue orbs, seeming liquid, with neither pupil nor iris, nothing on which a human could focus, interrupting their smooth contour, the flawless uniformity.

     And then of course, there was the last, most distinguishing feature of the Ascension. The one which irrevocable separated himself and the other Ascended ones from their human cousins. Above each luminescent blue eye, almost, but not quite hidden within the thick black hair that hung to G'Brael's shoulders, were the small, curving, ebony black, vestigial horns of his race. Devil horns... that's what the humans called them.

     And I am the devil incarnate, he thought, and smiled at his own despicable joke. Bitterly amused that the myth the Chosen themselves had saw fit to create, had come back to haunt them. Perhaps we have only ourselves to blame afterall, for the slaughter visited upon us since the fall of the First Kingdom. We betrayed our own survival, in the same way that we betrayed our Great Queen, and this is our just reward. To be hunted, almost to the point of extinction, by the barbarian tribes we once dismissed in our arrogance as inconsequential!

     Until now, there were only a few hundred of the Chosen left. No longer hunted openly, but that could change if the humans really understood the depths of the differences between us, he thought. And if they were to become aware, once again, of the reality of our existence.

     Humanity, he had learned, seemed to have an infinite capacity for carnage. They had made a science of death. And their political systems had developed in such a way that there was an inherent need to promote the idea of an adversary. Throughout their history, the great civilizations that they created inevitably fell, not during times of war, but during times of relative peace. As long as their peoples could look outward, toward some perceived threat, the regimes were stable. But as soon as there were no more enemies to crush, no more aggressors left to protect themselves against, their nations crumbled from within.

     And of all the enemies, of all the nations that humans had created over the centuries, none fit the ultimate definition of enemy better than the Chosen. For they were more different, more definably alien, than any other race of people on earth.

     And that's what they were, G'Brael had come to realize. The Chosen were another branch on the human tree of evolution. A different race of people, like the Africans were different from the Europeans, but more so. For within the genetic structure of the Chosen, they carried the power of Ascension as a dominant feature. That they could breed with humans was a proven fact, so they were not so very different. Just different enough that they could be killed with impunity. Killed with the illusion that it was morally acceptable to murder the Chosen because of those differences. Afterall, all one had to do was look at them, they weren't, couldn't possibly be, human, could they?

     There were of course additional elements to the story, elements that would make the present political leadership of the human race more than willing to exterminate the few Chosen that were left, if they had any inkling of their existence. And that was the power they wielded within the nations in which they lived, immeasurable, and automatically suspect if it should become common knowledge.

     Over the centuries since the fall of the First Kingdom, the surviving Chosen had accumulated vast wealth, and were now using that wealth to protect themselves. Forced to live in the shadows, G'Brael and the other members of the Council of Twelve, presided over a huge corporate structure. International in scope, and encompassing every aspect of the world's economy. Though few in number, their influence was enormous, penetrating the very fabric of human society at all levels. Whole countries were shaped by the decisions made by their secret Council. Used as pawns in their unending war with the Great Queen. A war that had raged unabated for seven millennia, with no conceivable end in sight.

     Who am I to criticize them, even in the privacy of my own thoughts, G'Brael asked of his conscience? I, who consider humanity so violent, but have been waging war for far longer than any human could possibly imagine. And against the Sovereign to whom I once pledged my unswerving loyalty!

     We are all hypocrites, every one of us... What right do we have to expect mercy from the rest of humanity, when we have done nothing but manipulate them for thousands of years?

     But it was too late to go back now. G'Brael sensed that the final battle was at hand, and it was a battle that the Council of Twelve must win! Or all the bloodshed, all the prophecy on which the Chosen had based the righteousness of their cause, all of it would have been for nothing! And that was too dismal a prospect to contemplate!

     Lurking in the back of his mind, G'Brael had a plan, both bold in conception, and dangerous to execute. But he believed it to be the best chance, perhaps the only chance, his people, all of his people, had for survival. And survive they must, any other outcome was unthinkable...

     ****

     They came like ghosts in the night. Slipping through the United Nations perimeter in the still hour just before the dawn, the morning star at their backs. There were five of them, travelling as a pack this night, a rare occurrence for these mostly solitary predators. Too dangerous usually as individuals, to much appreciate the company of others of their kind. Preferring instead to work alone, the profession of death considered to be a sacred thing, a communion between hunter and prey. But the prey was to be taken alive this night, and it was that, even rarer thing, that brought them together.

     The oldest of them, the white haired one called Mir'a'Da, was in the lead. Using the darkness, silence, and speed, to good advantage. Breaching the inner security cordon without detection. Able to focus all of his considerably developed senses on the prey itself, his own security left in the capable hands of those who accompanied him. Their tactic of maneuver like an intricately choreographed ballet. The silent dance of death personified, in the form of five black shadows against the night.

     At the entrance to the officer's billet, the leader paused, taking time to identify each of the individuals asleep inside. Concentrating his seeker-sense, until he was able to identify the breathing patterns of each of them. The others melted into the deeper shadow against the building, alert, and invisible.

     The most dangerous part of the mission was at hand. An inadvertent step, the creak of a floorboard, could destroy the noise discipline that his team had exercised since beginning the assault. So he moved slowly now, cautiously easing himself past the doorway, and into the room itself.

     He timed his movements to coincide with the small sounds the men made as they slept, effectively concealing any extraneous noise he himself might make as he crept toward his objective. The prey was in the third cot, on the left hand side of the long room. Identified easily by one who knew what to look for; the shallow breath, and inherent alertness, that even deep sleep could not totally eliminate. A kind of unconscious expectation that marked the man as one of them.

     It took him nearly three minutes to cover the last ten meters of the approach. But finally, he crouched beside the sleeping man's cot, studying him through the fine mesh of the mosquito netting that hung from the ceiling.

     One of the lost ones, the leader marveled. He had never in his long life expected to see such a thing. Chosen, but unaware of the uniqueness of the blood that flowed through his veins. The sacred blood of their common ancestors. The blood of Kings...

     And villains as well, the leader thought, remembering with bitterness the great betrayal that had shattered the unity of the Royal House, and led them all down the path to destruction. No time for that now, long life had taught him that justice had it's own kind of inevitability, and sooner or later, justice would be served. The Serpent would be held to account for his crimes in due course, and in the meantime, the A'Shishem would do the bidding of their Great Queen. As they had always done. And the Great Queen had bid them capture this man alive, and so they would. The larger considerations could wait for their proper moment.

     The blue eyes flared briefly in the darkness, as the A'Shishem concentrated his power. It was a tricky thing this, using the power to do less than kill, an unusual thing for the one who was the greatest of the great assassins. Only a few times before, had he found it necessary to capture a live prey, and the last had been centuries ago.

     A brief touch to the sleeping man's temple, that's all it would take to induce the deep state of unconsciousness that they needed to make good their escape. But it was almost certain that the prey would sense the A'Shishem's presence before the touch could be made. His reaction, or lack thereof, would finally determine the outcome of tonight's exercise.

     It would be a great pity, the A'Shishem reflected, to undertake this kind of effort, and then have no choice but to kill the man they had come here to save. But, if necessary, he was prepared to do exactly that. The A'Shishem were too few in number to risk having one of them killed, or worse, captured. That, he could not allow under any circumstances. And so if it came to a choice that had to be made, he would ignore the wishes of his Queen that this man survive, in order that the greater necessity would be achieved, the survival of the A'Shishem and the Great Queen that they were sworn to protect. That he would die for disobeying her express wish, meant nothing to him. Death was something with which he was intimately familiar, and it held no fear for one such as he.

     The moment was at hand, he thought, no sense in delaying any longer. He reached forward, balancing himself carefully, the index finger of his right hand poised for the strike. The long bladed knife was in his left hand, the point angled down toward the prey's throat. If it became unavoidable, the death would be swift, painless, and silent, as all his deaths were. He took no pleasure from another's pain.

     As expected, the hunted came awake swiftly, fully aware of the presence looming over him. Perhaps it was the whisper of the mosquito net parting, a flicker of blue flame rending it, as the A'Shishem's had passed through the soft material. The impossibly bright blue eyes flew open, as the prey tried to defend himself, with a speed that the A'Shishem found astonishing, even for one of the Chosen. Reaching unerringly for the hunter's throat!

     It was that mistake that saved the man's life. The sapphire aura that surrounded the A'Shishem deflected what would have been a killing blow to an ordinary human throat. Allowing him to complete the thrust that rendered his prey blissfully unconscious in an instant. Neither of them had made a sound during the brief confrontation, and all around them, the rest of the United Nations detachment slept peacefully. Unaware of the silent tableau that, had it gone badly, would have meant the end of all of them.

     The A'Shishem reached down and dragged the unconscious prey from his cot, slinging him carelessly over one shoulder, and made for the door, still timing his movements to coincide with the night sounds of the barracks. The rest of the strike team joined him as he exited, forming up silently, no need for any verbal commands to pass amongst these professionals.

     They did not retrace the route of their infiltration, that would have been far too obvious a tactic. Rather, they turned as a unit, and made for a point exactly opposite the one where they had initially breached the encampment's perimeter. A silent, five pronged, phalanx of death.

     They were not challenged during the exfiltration, and made no contact with any of the patrols which were supposed to see to the camp's security. Disappearing into the night as swiftly as they had come. Leaving without anyone having had any idea that they had ever been there...

     ****

     Jerusalem! Even it's squalor appealed to him. No matter how much time he spent in other cities, and his time away from this place was sometimes measured in centuries, this would always be home to him.

     Long before the Judeans considered themselves a people, the Chosen had roamed these hills, and ruled from the ramparts of the ancient city buried far beneath the foundations of this relatively modern metropolis. G'Brael could almost smell the scent of those times on the wind if he tried hard enough. Could almost imagine himself back there, one of the privileged few who was called upon to serve the Great King.

     And served him I have, he thought, not without a trace of bitterness. Through all these many centuries, I have kept my trust with the Lord of the Worlds, as I pledged to do on the day of my Ascension. And my reward has been to watch each of my son's die, because of the blood that ran through their veins, and the essence of the Great King that was passed to them through me!

     The last of them to die was forty years ago, during the massacre that had swept eastern Europe on the heels of Hitler's blitzkrieg. Shot in the back of the head, so he had been told, before reaching his fourth year. He, along with his mother, and stepfather, the victims of an all too human pogrom. His life snuffed out, long before the unique genetics that might have saved him could assert themselves. A single tragedy among millions, but no less tragic for all that. The death of a single child the reflection of an entire generation's horror. And G'Brael, the most powerful of the Ascended, had been powerless to stop it. For him, that was the greatest tragedy of all!

     As he walked the streets of east Jerusalem, caught up in the memories of ancient times, allowing his old grief for long dead sons, and lost Kingdoms, to surface for the first time in decades, G'Brael considered the missed opportunities of his life. What was it that really bound him to this path? Others had walked away, why couldn't he? Was the love for his dead King so all encompassing that it compelled him to honor the Great King's command even now. Or had he, at some point decided, for purely selfish reasons, that Y'Hoveh's final commission must be carried out? That the Great King, with his gift of prophecy, had foreseen the destruction of the Chosen, before he unleashed the Serpent upon the House of the Great Queen, and made G'Brael the instrument through which their race would survive?

     Again, he felt the vague shimmer at the very edge of his consciousness, as if there were a filmy curtain before his eyes that he had only to part with his hand to see the truth lying behind it. But it was beyond his reach, the prophecies were the exclusive domain of the Royal blood. Blood that G'Brael, for all his power, did not possess. He was the carrier of the King's essence, but he was not of the Royal blood, not directly. The future was closed to him, and always would be. He had only the past, and the present, on which to base his judgement of what was to come. A handicap he had learned to live with, and for which he was, for the most part, grateful!

     Many of his contemporaries had disappeared into the fabric of human existence, never to be heard from again. But it was a choice he himself had been unable to make. For whatever reason, and no amount of self-analysis could accurately assess his own motivation in the matter, he had stayed the course laid down for him by his long departed King. That he was capable of great courage, he had proved to himself long ago, but no measure of heroism had been enough to erase the stain of betrayal that he carried as a cloak wrapped around his soul. S'Tann had not forgiven him, and he could not forgive himself.

     That was his penance. He lived his life in hopes of redemption. That by salvaging his race from the prospect of extinction, perhaps he could salvage his self respect as well. That alone, had become the driving force of his existence. To make amends for the treachery that he had been a party to, for the sins he had committed, all in the name of the Great King.

     And the lies that he had helped to perpetrate on the rest of humanity. He had that to answer for as well, but in that at least, he was not alone. They had all done it, all been willing participants in the contriving of the myths that drove humanity to slaughter each other. The better to distract them... all of the Chosen afraid, lest they become the exclusive subjects of mankind's paranoia.

     And now the final act in this drawn out drama was at hand. He could feel it, feel that some pivotal moment had been reached in the affairs of his species. Was mankind about to expose them once and for all, he wondered? There were a few members of the human race who had always known that the Chosen walked among them, zealots of one persuasion or another, that spent their lives gathering the snippets of myth and misinformation that, with diligence, could be woven into a tale approaching the truth. On occasion, G'Brael himself had spoken to these individuals, usually in a vain attempt to dissuade them from their work. Others of his kind had taken a more direct approach. S'Tann's A'Shishem killed such people whenever they found them, preferring to follow the ancient maxim -- dead men tell no tales.

     Perhaps, G'Brael thought, mankind had finally reached the stage of maturity where they could accept the Chosen for what they were. Different, certainly, but not intrinsically evil, as their forefathers had universally believed.

     Afterall, he thought, weren't there great movements afoot throughout the world to save those species considered at risk of extinction? Would not the Chosen qualify for protection under those criteria? There are less than three hundred of us known to be alive, if that didn't make them an endangered species...

     The thought hung there, incomplete, as he perceived where his wanderings had taken him. There, looming over him, was the Wall. The last remnant of the Temple of Solomon. The most sacred place on earth for the people of Israel, a place of pilgrimage, and hope. The focal point of all their longing during the endless centuries of the diaspora, the exile from the land of their ancestors.

     How appropriate, G'Brael thought, that my musings should lead me here, to this place of all places, to the place where it all began. For beneath the foundations of Solomon's Temple, was the much older, first temple of the Israelites. And far beneath that, it's splendor lost in the dark recesses of time, lay the temple that had been desecrated on that terrible night, so long ago. The temple of the Great Queen, A'Shira, whose very existence had been expunged from any historical record of this sacred soil!

     It was called the Wailing Wall, and G'Brael thought that too, was appropriate. For on this spot, the dreams and aspirations of many peoples had been shattered. And renewed also, he conceded in the privacy of his own mind, but always at great cost. Figuratively at least, every building that had ever stood on this ground, had been built on the bodies of the sons and daughters of the people who possessed it at the time. Their blood, the mortar which held the edifice in place, so that later generations could worship here. In that, the Chosen and the rest of humanity, shared a commonality that superseded their many differences. And perhaps, that would ultimately be the key to their mutual survival.

     The soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the courtyard eyed him warily, but he was not challenged as he stood there quietly, reflecting on the history of this place, and the conflict yet to come. G'Brael had long ago mastered the ability to cloak himself in an aura of normality, so to the soldiers, he did not look any different than any of the other people making their way toward the Wall. But Israel was at war, and he could not completely quell the natural alertness of these men, who took their job of guarding this most sacred site with deadly seriousness. So he chose not to linger here.

     He had wasted too much of his precious time already, and there was work to be done. He spared a last glance for the edifice where so much history had been made, and then moved off. Quickening his pace as he moved deeper into the old city, his mind turning to thoughts of strategy, and toward his rendezvous with the Council of Twelve...

     ****

     There was no need to announce himself. They were well aware of his approach long before he ducked into the doorway, located in a nondescript alleyway, in the heart of one of the most heavily populated Arab neighborhoods.

     Few people knew of this place. Like most houses in the middle-east, it's exterior in no way advertised what lay beyond it's graffiti covered walls. The splendor of the interior courtyard somewhat shocking at first, located as it was, amongst so much poverty. It had been fifteen years since G'Brael had last stood in this shaded oasis, with it's central fountain spewing forth water as clear as crystal. Lined with small potted datepalms, and a profusion of carefully tended flowers lending their heavy scent to the overall atmosphere of absolute tranquility.

     It was at least ten degrees cooler here, and G'Brael paused for a moment, taking a few seconds to appreciate the beauty that surrounded him. Steeling himself, for the confrontation that was sure to come, when he walked through the open doors of the sanctum, beckoning to him from the other side of the courtyard.

     They were waiting there for him, patient, the other eleven members of the Council. He could sense them, the self-styled Lords of all they surveyed. Confident of their power, and their place in the great scheme of things. How arrogant they seemed to him! Had they no idea how fragile their existence was, that for all the power and wealth they wielded with such impunity, a single missed step could destroy them all?

     Only one among them had any real sense of the potential doom that stalked them all. M'Quael, the quiet one, who more often than not, kept his own counsel. Preferring to speak privately with individual members of the Council, rather than air his thoughts in open session. It was a trait that G'Brael valued. M'Quael was a deep thinker, a strategist in the truest sense of the word, and that made him a precious asset. And G'Brael's only real ally among the other members of the Council.

     As he walked through the doorway, and into the chamber itself, G'Brael's eyes were drawn to M'Quael, sitting quietly as usual, always the observer. He could tell that there was important news by the look on his friend's face, and gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, signalling that he understood, and that they would talk privately later. M'Quael returned G'Brael's gesture with the barest flicker of his luminescent eyes, while projecting a thought that stopped G'Brael in his tracks.

     "The Serpent lives!"

     It was with the greatest effort of will, that G'Brael kept his expression neutral in the face of this momentous news. It was obvious that this information had not been shared with the other members of the Council, and he briefly wondered at the reason M'Quael would choose to keep this a secret from the Twelve? No doubt, his motivation for this had been well thought out, he was not a person who was in the habit of embarking upon a course of action without analyzing the full implications. And so, G'Brael would trust his judgement, in this, as he did in so many other things.

     M'Quael was the only one of the eleven seated at the long table that even peripherally acknowledged G'Brael's entrance into the room. The others stared forward, their auras tightly contained, their thoughts carefully masked. They might have been ten statues carved from brutal granite for all the emotion they projected.

     G'Brael sensed danger here, and as he settled himself in the empty chair, halfway down the table, the door at his back, he allowed his full aura to manifest itself. Those, seated closest to him, stirred uneasily, wary of the raw energy permeating the room.

     No need to hide his true face here, G'Brael thought, satisfied by the reaction he caused with his presence. Much better to allow his power free reign, the easier to intimidate the others, and bend them to his point of view. Or break them, if that became necessary!

     The one seated at the head of the oblong table was the first of the Twelve to speak, gracing G'Brael with a cold smile as their eyes met. "It has been a long time since you have honored this table with your presence, G'Brael. To what," he continued, his voice tinged with sarcasm, "do we owe this rare, and dubious, pleasure?"

     G'Brael ignored the condescending tone. He would not allow himself to be drawn into a personal contest of wills just yet. When he replied, his voice was cool, measured, matter-of-fact, addressed to the table at large, rather than specifically to the one who sat at it's head. "It is a great pity that R'Phael, in seven millennia of existence, has yet to master the concept of simple courtesy, as a tool of diplomacy. Perhaps," and here G'Breal paused for effect, giving special emphasis to his next words, "It is time that his place at the head of this table was re-examined, and another of us appointed in his stead, to chair this Council of Twelve..."

     ***

     CHAPTER THREE -- The Serpent and The Queen

     Mad Bill awoke to the sensation of brilliant sunshine striking his face. Streaming through open floor to ceiling windows which led to a balcony that overlooked what he assumed to be the Mediterranean Sea. As usual, the transition from sleep to full consciousness was instantaneous. And he immediately sensed that he was not alone.

     He closed his eyes for a moment, reaching out with that special sense he'd had since childhood, trying to determine just how much danger he was in. That he was not restrained was an unexpected discovery. He had obviously been kidnapped, and the factions in the middle-east who did such things were not known for their gentle treatment of prisoners...

     "You are not a prisoner... exactly," a soft voice murmured to him from somewhere across the room. An extremely feminine voice, that seemed to pick the thought from his mind. "But then again... you are not exactly free either." This was accompanied by a gentle sort of laugh, which made Mad Bill think of the way a cat played with it's prey, just prior to devouring it in a feral display of savagery that belied it's supposed domestication.

     "Not a very apt metaphor," the voice said. "I am really quite civilized... when I need to be..."

     She is reading my mind, he thought, incredulous. A little surprised that there was anything left in the world that could surprise him. He opened his eyes then, sitting up on the backless couch, and turning his head toward the place where the voice originated.

     "Who are you?" he asked, trying to muster as much indignation as he could under the circumstances, but with care. Not knowing whether or not the silly bitch could have him killed for speaking out of turn.

     His question was greeted with a stony silence, and his own voice echoed weirdly in what he now saw was a very large room. Constructed of solid rock, with an arched ceiling in the Arabic style, and elaborately carved fretwork, framing brilliantly painted frescoes that covered the ceiling and all six walls of the hexagon shaped chamber. It was like something straight out of the Arabian Nights. And although sparsely furnished, fairly dripped of opulence and elegantly restrained power. The floor was a solid sheet of red granite, highly polished, with finely detailed mosaics spreading out from the center in a pattern that was at once unique, and at the same time strangely familiar, the whole edged in black marble where it met the walls.

     The ceiling was supported by six fluted pillars. And the mysterious female voice emanated from the shadow cast by one of these intricately decorated columns.

     "At least come out into the light, so that we can speak face to face," Mad Bill said, trying to coax her into the open. "I dislike playing these kinds of games... You obviously want something of me, I'd like to know what that something is?"

     "Perhaps my face would offend you," the voice responded, teasing, ignoring his question altogether.

     "Let me be the judge of that! Are you really so ugly? Is that why you hide in the shadows?" She didn't sound ugly, he thought, knowing that such things could rarely be judged accurately from the voice alone. But if he used that alone as a criteria, he would have suspected her to be quite beautiful. There was only one real way to find out, wasn't there...

     ****

     His movement was swift, totally unexpected, and absolutely exhilarating! S'Tann barely had time to snap the visor down over her face before he was standing in front of her, eyes wide, sweeping her from head to toe, taking in at a glance every detail of her perfect form. She smiled under her mask, taking a step backward, doing a slow pirouette for him, so that he might better appreciate the perfection hung in transparent silk that stood before him.

     He is more than I expected him to be, she thought. Much more! My mother's memory in no way did him justice... Beautiful beyond words, and fearless besides!

     She could read that in him, puzzlement, but no fear. Confronted by this mere girl, her face clad in a golden mask, whom he towered over, his face evinced nothing but a carefully constrained kind of confusion. And the question... projected as if spoken aloud, "Who is she?"

     "My name is S'Tann," she said by way of answer. Pronouncing it in the old way, with the emphasis on the second syllable, feeling the power surge up inside her as the ancient language rolled off her tongue.

     It meant nothing to him, she saw. No flicker of recognition lit his eyes, no connection was made in the deep recesses of his memory. In a way that disappointed her, that she no longer had the means to inspire terror in the hearts of the Chosen by the mere mention of her name. But then, he did not know that he was Chosen, did he?

     Not that it would have made a difference. She sensed this as well. Abject fear was an emotion beyond his comprehension. Although he had witnessed it in others, and wondered at the reason he had never felt it himself.

     "Why am I here?" he asked warily.

     "Because I have chosen to bring you here," she replied truthfully, liking the directness of the question. "No more... no less."

     "That doesn't cut it for me, lady!"

     It took S'Tann a moment to grasp the modern idiom, and when she finally did, it brought another smile to her lips. "Too bad... so sad," she responded with a laugh, experimenting with the modern speech.

     He made as if to grab her by the arm then, and she gave him a small taste of the power. Enough to rock him back from her personal space, but not so severe that he might be permanently damaged. The shock instilled by that single touch amused her, he had obviously never experienced anything quite like it.

     "Do not ever do that again," she warned, unable to contain another small chuckle at his expense. The stupefied expression on his face impossible to ignore. "I am not a woman who can be violated so casually," S'Tann continued. "But you will have plenty of time to learn that lesson... We are going to be together a long time, you and I."

     He simply stared, either unable or unwilling to speak, but this did not concern her so much. He would recover eventually. Actually, she had rarely seen one of the unascended ones who appeared so able to withstand her touch. When the time came, she thought, she would have to careful with this one!

     "In the meantime, it would be best if you exercised some control over your impulsive nature, my Prince. Others in this House are not so restrained in their teaching methods. You could easily be hurt, even killed," she cautioned. "And then I would be forced to avenge your death. A stupidity I can ill afford, considering the difficulty involved in replacing servants whose loyalty is absolute!"

     S'Tann had let her anger show, but this too seemed to make little impression on him, which pleased her. She could already feel the hunger for him building inside her. A dull ache spreading out from her loins that she quickly suppressed, exerting her own will over the passion that could easily destroy them both if she gave in to it now.

     He is not clean enough for the Taking, she thought. Like most humans, he has defiled himself with the flesh of animals. But I have waited centuries for this one, I can wait just a little longer. We must purge him of that carnivore smell before proceeding any further, no matter how the thought of him consumes me...

     ****

     "You stink like a wolf," the woman who called herself S'Tann said to him, wrinkling her nose in obvious disgust, the mask that covered her face duplicating the expression of the woman beneath perfectly. More like an extension of her own skin than a mask.

     Who was she? For than matter, he thought, what was she? No woman he had ever met could do the things she did, and no metal that he had ever heard of could mold itself so perfectly to a person's skin! And those eyes... the eyes of the mask were two glowing blue jewels. How could she see him?

     He rubbed his arm, still tingling from that one brief touch. Electric, like grabbing the frayed cord of an appliance while standing in a pool of water. He had done that once as a child, and after his mother had rushed him to the hospital, the doctors had all been amazed that he was still alive, let alone conscious. There was that same taste in his mouth now he remembered from that childhood incident. Like battery acid, metallic, and acrid.

     "I don't know who the hell you are, and I don't much give a shit," he said finally, able to put his thoughts into words once more. "But you're holding a United Nations officer against his will, and that is a criminal act under international law... I demand to be released at once!"

     "So..." she said in response. "You are able to speak."

     "Of course I'm able to speak! You're little trick was impressive, but it didn't hurt all that much! I was more surprised than anything else," he added in a less strident tone.

     "No doubt... that much was obvious," she responded, smiling. "As for your demands... they are irrelevant to me. As far as your comrades are concerned, you simply disappeared. It is unlikely that they will waste much time looking for you," she continued. "And even if they do, they will not find you. So you might as well... I believe the term is... make the best of it?"

     "I have no intention of 'making the best of it'," he replied in irritation. "I'm a professional soldier!"

     "Are you really," she asked, taking a step toward him. "And what campaigns have you fought, my Prince? What trophies have you taken, to lay at the feet of your Queen?"

     "My country is not at war, that doesn't make me any less a soldier!"

     "Doesn't it? A warrior without a war is no warrior at all! You do nothing but play at being a soldier! What use have you been to your country? And more importantly, what use has your country been to you?"

     Mad Bill took a step back, not allowing her to get any closer. Her words had a familiar ring. Hadn't he himself thought much the same thing not so long ago, disgusted with the endless pointless exercise of policing a peace that none of the warring factions in the Lebanon had any interest in accommodating?

     "That's not the point," he said, the words sounding lame, even to himself.

     "I disagree," the woman responded. "That is exactly the point! If you do not believe in the objectives of your ruler's, how can you serve them? Or yourself?"

     "It's the only life I have," he said. "If not this, then what?"

     "You are one of the Chosen," she stated cryptically. "You have options the like of which you cannot even dream!"

     S'Tann stepped back from him then, showing for the first time that she could respect his own space. Was willing to give him the room to make his own choices. He wondered if it were some kind of a test?

     "A test? No... but the choice is yours, make no mistake," she said, again picking the thought out of his mind without him having any conscious awareness that he had posed the question to himself.

     "But know this," she continued, "You who consider yourself to be a warrior... I can give you a war. A war that will test all of your skills, even ones you do not know you possess!"

     How could he explain it to her in terms that she would understand, he thought? This woman who was doubtless born in the middle-east, a place where treachery, no matter one's religious or political persuasion, was as natural as life itself. What would this girl, as strange as she was, know about the commitment he felt for his country?

     "I took an oath a long time ago," he said. "To serve my country... It is one I will not break!"

     She laughed at him then, bringing his anger to the boil. He was about to continue, but she held up her hand, imperiously, in the universal gesture for silence. When she spoke, her voice had softened, with a note that Mad Bill thought sounded like... what? Sadness?

     "I wonder if the men you've sworn to defend take their oath as seriously as you seem to?" she asked him, and then before he could respond continued, "What if I were to tell you that the country you serve with such unstinting loyalty, will no longer exist thirty-five short years from now? That it's eventual disintegration is being plotted even as we speak?"

     "Nonsense!"

     She stared at him with those astounding blue jewels that covered her eyes, and he thought he saw pity reflected there, as she slowly shook her head. "For someone who has seen so much, you are incredibly naive. I assure you, it is not nonsense, it is the absolute truth. My memories do not lie... your nation's betrayal is a foregone conclusion."

     She spoke with such certainty, as if speaking of an event that was already a matter of historical record, it chilled him! He felt the truth of it as a tingle down his spine, even as he tried to dismiss the whole thing as the wild ravings of a very strange teenage girl. But he knew, deep in his heart, that she spoke the truth. That this was not some elaborate lie. That this girl knew in some inexplicable way, what the fate of his nation was to be...

     ****

     S'Tann wondered for a moment if she had said too much? That it was more than he could be expected to absorb at their first encounter. She had not meant to be so blunt. But there was something about this one that forced her to a degree of honesty that, up until this moment, she hadn't been sure she still possessed. So many lies we've had to tell to protect ourselves over the centuries, she thought, suddenly saddened by the necessity of it all. But I will not lie to him! I take this vow to myself here and now-- I will never lie to him!

     She watched him struggle with her prophecy, come to terms with it, with the truth of it, that no matter how much he wished to deny it, he felt as a certainty deep inside himself. It is not easy to find the cornerstone of one's life crumbling beneath you, my Prince, she thought. But it will strengthen you, and strength you must have, if we are to survive!

     "I am sorry that I must be the one to shatter your illusions, W'Liam."

     His head came up as she said his name, his expression puzzled. "What did you call me?"

     "W'Liam... That is your name, is it not?"

     He nodded slowly, the puzzled look on his face beginning to deepen. "Yes... that is my name. But no one has called me that for years. Not since my mother... my real mother..."

     Do not push him too far, S'Tann thought, suddenly cautious of the deep emotions that she could see bubbling to the surface. She caught flashes of memory from him, fragments from his unconscious, long buried beneath the burdens of his adult life. A windswept field, the scent of smoke, someone whimpering in fear, the sound of gunfire in the distance...

     She moved toward him, using his own bewilderment to cover her approach. And before he was aware of her proximity, reached up and stroked his temple. Her gentle touch calmed him instantly, washed away the unsettling images with her light caress.

     "You are tired, my Prince," she whispered. "Sleep now... we will speak again later, after you are rested."

     He offered no resistance as she led him to the couch, pushing him gently down onto the silk, her small hands on his shoulders, guiding him to a sitting position, his face on a level with her breasts. S'Tann could feel his hot breath on her skin through the light silk of her gown, and her hunger for him flared once more, but again she brought herself under control. In the state he was in, her passion could easily kill him, and that she could not do, no matter her own need.

     This was to be her life's mate. He would come to her as a Prince should come to his Queen, clean, purged of his vile carnivorous stink. Strong and healthy. Ready for the Taking, as an equal, not a victim to be used casually. When she finally mounted him, as her fantasies made her weak to do... she would do it properly, and with the proper preparation.

     She gently pushed him away from her, reluctantly relinquishing the seductive heat of his breath on her flesh, forcing him back on the couch until he was lying there, staring up at her with those captivating blue eyes that had been seared into her memory at the moment of her own Transformation.

     Such a long time to wait, she thought, feeling the tears welling up beneath her mask, suppressing the emotion angrily, her outrage at the betrayal not diminished in the least! Her victories, such as they were, no compensation for what she had lost. What they all had lost...

     S'Tann reached out to him, her touch light and soothing, willing his eyes to close. His breathing slowed, and he drifted off to his dreams. Dreams that S'Tann could not reach him through, even if she wanted to. A defense mechanism shared by all the Chosen, their dreams impenetrable, even to one as powerful as the Great Queen.

     She did not begrudge him this privacy. It was a necessary thing, one she accepted without qualm. It was another of the powers that stood them apart from the rest of humanity, this ability to cloak themselves in sleep. Another example of the uniqueness of her people, another reason they were born to rule. The lowest among them the equal of the greatest that the humans could produce.

     And now we are scattered to the four winds, she thought bitterly. Our powers, as great as they are, no match for the overwhelming numbers of the barbarians. All because of L'Kynvir's treachery we have been brought to this, a shadow of our former selves! The glory of the Royal House shattered by the scheming of a single individual!

     He has not paid enough... not nearly enough, for what he has done to our people! As crippled as he is, it is still not enough to assuage my rage!

     S'Tann's aura flared as she thought of him. Fueled by her hatred of the one who called himself the Serpent. Safely contained for the past forty years in the dungeons beneath her sanctum. Blinded now by darkness, his power sapped by her denying him the sun. At her order, a eunuch, never again able to plant his insidious seed in the belly of some unsuspecting girl-child. But his pain was still not sufficient to quell her thirst for vengeance!

     G'Brael and the others, she thought... They were just fools, manipulated into doing their King's bidding. But L'Kynvir was different. There was the true evil!

     S'Tann recognized the capacity for cruelty within herself. Had, at times, indulged it as something necessary to her own survival. A venting of the rage that sometimes threatened to consume her. But even her cruelty was not singularly malicious, it was always tempered by a deeper purpose, it had to be... Not so with the Serpent, she thought. He enjoyed the torture he had inflicted on others over the centuries for it's own sake. So warped was his ambition, it was possible he enjoyed the torture he himself was experiencing, might be using it even now to fire his own thirst for revenge!

     The prophecies betrayed her where the Serpent was concerned. She carried no memories of his ultimate fate. And, not knowing, could not simply dispose of him, as she wished with all her heart. He might yet serve a purpose... if not to her, then to the ones who would come after her. She could not take the chance, the risks were simply too great!

     And so she kept him. Caged in darkness, as a serpent should be caged. But for all that, still dangerous! A permanent thorn in her side, unable to be excised, lest the extraction cause more pain than the thorn itself!

     As she looked down upon the sleeping Prince before her, she felt a flutter of terrible, terrible fear. "You must live long enough to give me the Heir Designate, my Prince... Do that, and I will gladly die for you in the battle which is to come!"

     ****

     He lived mostly in the dreams now. Dreams in which, invariably, the sun's warmth played a major role. He remembered the sun, remembered the soft play of the morning light on his face. Remembered the warm mist coming off the river at dawn. The scorching heat of midday, when the reflection of the sun's rays off the desert sand turned the sky the palest shade of blue, fading to almost white. But it was a distant memory, readily accessible only when he allowed himself to drift into the dreams. And so that was where he spent most of his time, drifting on the dreamscapes that his own mind created. Not happy exactly, but content.

     Contentment, he had learned, was a relative thing. In the circumstances in which he now found himself, he took joy wherever, and whenever, he could find it. Contemplation of his current situation was pointless, and so he did not indulge himself with the despair of his predicament. His torture, such as it was, would someday end, of this he was completely confident. And when it did, he would wreak his vengeance on all concerned in a manner appropriate to the crimes they had committed against him. And his vengeance would be terrible... of this too, he was completely sure.

     Even in his darkness, the darkness that she had committed him to, he was not completely without faculty. Deprived of the light, his once awesome power shrunk to near human dimension, other senses had become more acute. His hearing, always extraordinary, was even more so now. His sense of smell, developed to a degree he would not have thought possible a few short decades before. And so he was able to sense her approach long before she actually appeared, her magnificence blinding him, though his eyes were shut tightly against the predictable pain.

     He did not speak. Did not move from his perch against the far wall of the cell. His confinement had taught a patience that he previously lacked. He would not give her the satisfaction of being the first to break the silence between them...

     ****

     As much as he has endured, S'Tann thought, he is still not broken. In obvious pain, but not broken. And she seriously doubted that he ever would be. In another, such strength in the face of adversity would be an admirable quality, one she could honor, enemy or not. But with him, she could not afford such charity. He, as cunning as he was, would see it for what it was, a weakness to be exploited. And that, she would not allow!

     Never again would she be placed in the position of having to grovel to this one, as she had shortly after the death of the Great Queen, A'Shira. Debasing herself, in order to gain his protection for her brother D'Vyyd.

     D'Vyyd, the first of the non-ascendant Kings. D'Vyyd, who hated her until the day of his death... cursing her from the deathbed when she tried to give him that which he had always craved. Rejecting in death, what he could not have in life.

     You have much to answer for yet, Serpent, she thought. I could have forgiven you perhaps, for following the orders of your King, but my skin still burns from your touch, a defilement which will linger long after you are but a distant memory! That she should have given her most precious gift to this one, still rankled. All for the sake of a brother who hated her. A brother who never knew what she had done for him, the depths to which she had to sink, to protect him. And eventually, to put him on the throne that he deserved by right of birth!

     Through D'Vyyd, she had taken her revenge on the Great King. And, as her mother had predicted so many centuries ago, it was his name that was now inextricably linked with the throne upon which he once sat. The name itself had been taken by another, lesser, much later King. But D'Vyyd's legacy, although it's true nature was lost in the sands of time, lived on nonetheless...

     So perhaps, it had not been for nothing that she had given up something so precious to her. But then again, what had she really gained for her sacrifice? The chance to watch seven millennia of history unfold? Most of it written by foolish humans, whose conception of history was fleeting at best, and whose view of time was colored more by wishful thinking than any rational exploration of the truth...

     Is that what I will tell my children when they ask why, she wondered? Is that enough to justify what we have put our people through?

     ****

     He had forgotten about her. Forgotten about their contest of wills that was more a figment of his imagination than anything else. Lost himself once again in his dreams of the sun. Her voice, when it came, was a voice out of his dream. Disembodied, seeming to come from nowhere, and everywhere, all at once. Mocking him...

     "You do not look well, Serpent. Is your cage not to your liking?"

     He could not find his own voice, it was lost as well. And when he tried to speak, he could only manage a thin croak, unintelligible, mocking himself, as she had mocked him. "Arggh..."

     "Ah... the voice that once shook the ramparts of our cities to their foundations," she mused, her voice reflective. "Do you regret your crimes now, my faithful Serpent?"

     He suffered a moment of gut-wrenching clarity then, her voice penetrating his self-induced, delusional, state of calm. The voice of his beloved Princess. The one who had betrayed him with her firm flesh, and hypnotic eyes. The one that he had sacrificed everything for! Destroying the Host on her behalf, killing his King to win her favors, losing himself in the ecstasy of her caress! And finally, putting her half-wit brother on the throne of the Great Kingdom. Only to watch him turn it over to the Council of Twelve, thereby sealing it's destruction!

     He opened his eyes against the brilliance of her aura, bracing himself for the agony, and when it came, using it to feed his own fire, as pitifully weak as it was, still burning somewhere deep inside. It was like looking into the sun, dizzying, but within his own torment he found his voice. Surprising both himself, and her, with it's strength...

     ****

     "I regret... nothing!"

     That he had the strength to speak at all, astounded S'Tann! No, she thought, definitely not broken. Far from it, if she were any judge of such things. She had the sudden urge to kill him then and there, to rid herself of this enemy once and for all, and damn the consequences! But even as she thought about it, she knew that it was impossible. There was no way of knowing what future use she might have for this pawn, as slippery and unpredictable as he was!

     Of all of them, the Serpent had the most allies amongst the ranks of ordinary humanity. He had turned the manipulation of the barbarians into a science. Whole political systems had grown up around his lies. With his own hand, he had written much of the theology that drove them to slaughter each other with such reckless abandon. And it continued unabated, the system created in such a way that he need not be present in the flesh to control it... Religious dogma would make sure that events unfolded exactly as the Serpent would have them unfold!

     And so the rest of them had been forced to participate in the great lie, if for no other reason than to counterbalance the Serpent's power. And counterbalance it they had, S'Tann thought. Fighting their war by proxy, using the barbarians to further their own aims, while the barbarians themselves died by the millions. It had it's own sort of elegance, she supposed, this war in which others died on their behalf. Never knowing what, or who, they were truly dying for!

     "You planned it all very well," she said to him, this huddled thing cowering in the corner, only the dimly glowing eyes reflecting his continued defiance. "But then, you were the General of the King's Host... How could we have expected any less of you?"

     "I did what my King expected of me... no more, no less," the spectre that he had become replied from his perch. "And what you expected of me, Princess... But you betrayed me!"

     It was an accusation turned into a shriek by the intensity of the emotion lying behind it, and S'Tann found it to be eminently satisfying. She was glad of the pain she caused him. Although it in no way made up for the pain he had caused her, it was enough, for now...

     "I did not betray you, Serpent," she hissed. "I betrayed myself... with you!"

     ****

     And then, as suddenly as she had come, she was gone. In a whirl of white silk, and blue fire. The brilliance of her presence faded, leaving him to his darkness, and his dreams of the sun...

     ***

     CHAPTER FOUR -- A Hunter of Demons

     The sun was low in the sky, dusty orange light slicing through the half open slats of the venetian blinds, when the Jesuit came to see him. The knock on the door startled Jacques, no one in the small detachment ever bothered to knock on his door before barging in. An irritating habit, but one he had been unable to break them of in the two days since becoming their commanding officer.

     The Canadians, who made up the bulk of his force, such as it was, had several irritating habits that would not have been tolerated in the ranks of his own army. But given their reputation, he had decided to tread lightly with them, at least for the time being. It was all too easy to disappear in the Lebanon, and he was not about to become an accomplice to his own misfortune!

     "Enter!" he yelled, an automatic reflex, looking up from the report he was preparing on the day's patrol activity in his sector, to see which of his troopers had suddenly developed manners. The report was a brief one, and not very important anyway. The Israelis would not let the UN into the parts of the city they controlled, and there wasn't much happening elsewhere at the moment, so if the report was delayed a few minutes it wouldn't matter. Nothing much they did in the Lebanon mattered these days...

     He was surprised to see the priest standing at the door of his office. The black cassock looking very out of place, both in the United Nations compound, and in Lebanon at large. Jacques didn't imagine priests were too welcome anywhere outside the Presidential palace these days.

     "May I have a word with you, Captain?" the man asked, leaning forward slightly so that his head was actually in the office, while the rest of his chubby body remained in the hallway. The expression on his face was one that indicated his whole life might be predicated on Jacques affirmative answer to his plea.

     Jacques was not terribly impressed with clergy of any persuasion, and he held a particular dislike for Catholics, a holdover from his days at school as a child. But there was something about this man that was immediately intriguing. And so, without quite knowing why, he nodded a positive response to the priest's query. Accompanying it with a curt, "A brief word..."

     ****

     "I won't take up much of your time, Captain," Father Carlos assured the United Nations officer as he entered the office, grabbing a rickety chair from next to the door and plopping it down in front of the Captain's desk.

     "I would like to ask you a few questions regarding the disappearance of Major Carter," he explained as he sat down. Carefully testing the ability of the chair to carry his weight, before surrendering himself completely to the luxury of getting off his feet, if only for a few moments. It had been a long journey, made in haste, and Father Carlos was not that fond of travelling. As he settled himself into the relative comfort of the hard-backed chair, a small sigh escaped his lips. It really did feel quite glorious to sit down.

     "I wasn't aware that Major Carter's disappearance was common knowledge," the Captain stated quietly.

     "Oh... I assure you, it is not, Captain. Quite the contrary. Outside the United Nations itself, and of course, the Canadian government, very few people have ever heard of Major Carter, let alone know he has disappeared under rather... mysterious circumstances."

     "And what, exactly, is your interest in all this, Father...?"

     "Oh... excuse me, how impolite! My name is Father Carlos Cardenza," Father Carlos said, leaning across the desk to offer the UN officer his hand. "Of the Society of Jesus."

     The Captain smiled coldly as he shook the proffered hand. "Mad Bill didn't strike me as the type that would have too many Jesuit friends, Father."

     "Mad Bill?"

     "It was the name his soldiers used," the Captain explained with a shrug.

     "Ah... I didn't know."

     "That doesn't surprise me," the Captain replied, leaning back in his chair, as if he were beginning to enjoy this unexpected interruption. "Perhaps, you could answer my original question... What has Major Carter's disappearance got to do with the Jesuits in general... and you in particular?"

     This was the most delicate part of any investigation, Carlos reflected. Giving away too much would destroy what little credibility he had, while being too circumspect would give the Captain the mistaken impression that he was wasting his valuable time. Although, truth be told, Carlos couldn't see how the UN could be very busy under the circumstances, no-one in Lebanon seemed to be paying much attention to them.

     "Actually, Captain... the Major's disappearance itself is secondary. I am actually more interested in the mutilated corpses the Major detailed in his report to the UN on July 13."

     "You've obviously come a long way for nothing then, Father," the Captain stated, a strange little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Those men's souls are beyond any hope of your salvation..."

     ****

     What in the world could this priest be up to, Jacques wondered? Since when did the Society of Jesus start taking an interest in dead soldiers? For that's certainly what they were... dead soldiers. Whose soldiers, was anybody's guess at this point? But it was a pretty good bet they weren't Jesuits! His smile broadened at the thought. A good joke indeed, snipers employed by the Catholic Church!

     "Salvation wasn't quite what I had in mind, Captain," the priest said, his tone serious.

     "And what exactly did you have in mind, Father? Aren't the Jesuits in the business of saving souls any longer?"

     "Yes, of course," the priest replied, his voice taking on a note of exasperation. "But my role within the Order is not, strictly speaking, the saving of souls."

     "What is your role? Strictly speaking?"

     "I am an investigator, Captain," the priest responded. "An investigator of both the mundane, and the miraculous."

     "I see... and which is this?"

     "That is what I hope to determine, Captain. With your help."

     Jacques glanced out the window at the wreckage of the city, still visible in the fading light. A jungle of jagged concrete and broken glass. "There's nothing miraculous going on in the Lebanon, Father. Unless it's the fact that there is anyone left alive at all in this hellhole..."

     "I've often found that miracles can occur in the strangest of places, Captain. Even in the middle of the carnage brought about by a civil war."

     "I wish I could believe you, Father," Jacques replied. "This country could certainly use a miracle. But I don't see how the deaths of two soldiers could possibly qualify as, in any way, miraculous."

     "Are you sure they were soldiers, Captain?" the priest asked. "I mean... absolutely sure?"

     "What else could they be? They were carrying guns, wearing uniforms, in the middle of a war zone. That kind of automatically makes them soldiers, doesn't it?"

     "Not necessarily," the priest said, his voice taking on a kind of a cryptic edge. "Perhaps they were simply tourists, hoping to blend in."

     Jacques was rendered absolutely speechless for a few seconds, trying to absorb the totally unexpected remark. And then he leaned farther back in his chair and burst out laughing... He laughed so hard he thought for a moment he might actually piss himself... This was the strangest priest he had ever laid eyes on, or heard of, for that matter! Hoping to blend in! Obviously, Jacques thought, they had blended in a bit too well, and got themselves killed in the process! The joke was really on them, wasn't it!

     Father Carlos just sat there while he laughed himself silly, an indulgent smile on his face, no doubt thinking him some kind of blathering idiot for making such a spectacle of himself. It didn't matter. He really couldn't care less what this priest thought of him, or his sense of humor...

     ****

     The laughter caught Carlos by surprise. He wasn't trying to be funny. Indeed, he thought that his comment was, if anything, sarcastic. But apparently the Frenchman thought otherwise. There were actually tears rolling down the man's face, he was laughing so hard!

     It was a defense mechanism, he supposed. This black humor of the professional soldier. Understandable perhaps, given the fact that their profession was death. And Carlos had no doubt at all that the man across from him was good at his job, a shining example of his chosen profession!

     No inkling, obviously, of what he was dealing with. No suspicion, that the deaths they were discussing were in any way out of the ordinary. That was to be expected, he thought. After all, in this place death and suffering were commonplace. Even, dare he think it, normal!

     It was in these sorts of places that Carlos' faith was most tested, and he had been to many such places. Invariably, his work led him to the middle-east, and the whole region was like this, to varying degrees. Squalor and suffering were normal here, no matter how much one might wish to deny it. It was a fact of life. Only his absolute faith that this darkness would pass sustained him. That in the end, the forces of light would triumph, even here. In the meantime, if the innocent must suffer to further God's divine plan, so be it.

     It was a rationalization. He knew that, but how could it be otherwise? There must be a rationalization of the irrational, or none of them would be able to go on, to function. In that, this soldier and he, were not so very different, he realized. The just dealt with the horror they were exposed to in their own way. Faith was the cornerstone of Carlos' sanity, who was he to judge how another man, in similar circumstances, held on to his?

     "Excuse me, Father," the Captain finally said, taking a dirty handkerchief out of a pants pocket and wiping his face with it. "It has been a long time since I laughed at anything in this place."

     He stared at the handkerchief, little more than a rag actually, and then tossed it into a waste basket beside the desk, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Frankly, Father Carlos, I'm a little confused... what have these two dead men got to do with you?"

     "The mutilations detailed in Major Carter's report were quite specific," Carlos began. "The eyes, cut out of their sockets with an almost surgical precision... Have you ever seen such a thing before?"

     "No," the Frenchman replied. "But that doesn't mean it isn't some family's trademark. Blood feuds run deep in this part of the world, Father."

     "But both men were killed with a single knife thrust to the back of the neck, correct? A thrust which severely damaged the spinal cord, and then continued through the front of the throat, cutting both the carotid artery, and the jugular vein... Causing more or less instantaneous death, true?"

     The Captain nodded. "That's correct... What is it you're getting at Father?"

     "Just this, Captain... If these men were soldiers, as you say they were, and were indeed snipers, as Major Carter's report hypothesized... How could anyone get close enough to them, to kill them both with a knife?"

     "I see what you're saying, Father. But the answer to your question is really quite simple. Snipers are notorious for their single mindedness. They focus on their targets, to the exclusion of all else... that makes them highly vulnerable to just the sort of ambush we're talking about. That's the way most of them die..."

     "I see. And do most of them die from knife wounds, Captain?"

     "No," the Captain admitted. "That is unusual, but I'm sure it does happen."

     "No doubt, but not so often that Major Carter didn't find it necessary to comment on the unusual method of the killing, as well as the mutilations afterward?"

     "I can't speak for Major Carter's motivation for including that in the report, Father. He was a very thorough man, very professional. And he had been in peacekeeping for a long time. As I'm sure you're aware, that's almost all the Canadian army does these days."

     "So, you are saying he might have included that in the report, even though he might not have found it to be that unusual, just to be thorough?"

     "As I said, Father... I can't speak for Major Carter."

     "No, of course not. I understand completely, Captain. But it would not be an easy thing to do, sneak up on two armed men, and kill them both with single knife thrusts to the back of the neck?"

     "No," the Captain agreed. "It would not be an easy thing to do."

     "Could you do it?" Carlos pressed. "Ambush a two man sniper team in this manner I mean?"

     The Captain shook his head emphatically. "I wouldn't want to try it, Father. And I wouldn't want to be placed in the position of having to try it, either!"

     Carlos nodded in agreement. "Yes, Captain, you bring up an interesting point. With all the weapons available on a modern battlefield, why would anyone need to kill in this manner? Unless, as you say, he had no other choice..."

     ****

     Why indeed, Jacques wondered? And why was anyone in that area in the first place? Especially someone who was deemed to be important enough by someone else to assassinate? A question with no good answer that he could see. And he still had no idea what all this had to do with the Jesuits? What in the hell was this priest after?

     That he was after something was obvious. As was the fact that he knew something, or at least thought he did, about these killings. Jacques was suddenly struck by the thought that he would like to interrogate this priest. To find out exactly what he knew, or didn't know, about this whole incident, including the disappearance of Major Carter. He had a sneaking suspicion that Father Carlos might be able to shed some light on that subject as well!

     Mad Bill's desertion had come as quite a shock, especially to the Canadian members of the detachment. Although he had not had the chance to get to know Mad Bill well, from what he had been given to understand, Major Carter was something of a legend in the Canadian military. And his loss, especially under these circumstances, had been devastating to the men who had, quite literally, been willing to follow him anywhere.

     That kind of confidence placed in a commanding officer was rare, and when it was shattered it tended to be shattered completely, making the entire unit dysfunctional. Which was why Jacques had recommended replacing the Canadians immediately. The troopers no longer had his confidence. They were disrespectful to the point of insubordination. And if they were to find themselves in a tense situation, not an unlikely circumstance, Jacques had serious doubts they would follow his orders at all!

     He smiled to himself as he imagined the reaction in New York, if he were to place a Jesuit priest under arrest, and then subject him to harsh interrogation.

     "You find something amusing, Captain?"

     "Not really, Father. I was just thinking how one sided this conversation has become. You seem to be asking a lot of questions, but volunteering very few answers. I've been contemplating a method of rectifying this problem..."

     ****

     The smile that accompanied the Captain's casual comment was absolutely chilling! Carlos could easily imagine the man behind such a smile doing almost anything to get what he was after. An implicit threat was what it amounted to, he thought. Not that he hadn't been threatened before, he had, but never so... politely. And it was this very politeness, that made the perceived threat all the more acute! Yes, thought Carlos, there was no longer any doubt whatsoever, this man was very good at his job!

     "My Canadian friends are not too happy with the loss of their commanding officer, Father," the Captain stated casually. "As you can well imagine. Desertion is a despicable offense, a betrayal of the worst kind..."

      "And you believe Major Carter is a deserter?" Carlos interrupted.

     "What else could he be?"

     "He could be many things, Captain. But the most likely, the simplest explanation, is that he is a victim of circumstance."

     "And to what type of circumstance would you be referring, Father?"

     "It was his name on the report that was sent to New York," Carlos replied. "That would make him an obvious target. Would it not?"

     "Are you trying to imply that Major Carter was kidnapped?" the Captain sputtered, his voice betraying his incredulity.

     "Knowing what I know of these people... yes, that would be my assumption."

     "You understand that Major Carter disappeared during the night... that there were at least six other people in the room with him?"

     "And that he was sleeping in the middle of a heavily guarded United Nations compound... Yes, I understand all that, Captain. Which only makes my theory all the more plausible as far as I'm concerned."

     "That's the most ridiculous theory I've heard yet, Father," the Captain said dismissively. "And who are these people that you refer to? Who could get in and out of a fortified perimeter, kidnap a United Nations officer, and get away without leaving any trace of their ever having been here? Ghosts?"

     The Captain was getting angry, Carlos saw. He obviously didn't like what he was hearing. That wasn't too surprising. No soldier liked having his well designed security arrangements criticized, especially by a civilian. The fact that it was a priest doing the criticizing, must have been doubly galling to a man who considered himself to be a thorough professional. Carlos could well understand the Captain's attitude, in some respects it was one he shared, after all, he too was a soldier of a sort. A soldier of God...

     "No, Captain. Not ghosts. But very capable beings nonetheless. Murderers of a very particular nature, who have operated in the Lebanon for centuries. In fact," Carlos continued. "The first written record of this type of murder, the ritualistic removal of the eyes, dates back almost fifteen hundred years!"

     ****

     Jacques stared at the priest, as if seeing him really for the first time, finally coming to some understanding of what this strange little man was all about. He was one of those Catholics! One who actually believed the foolishness taught by the church to frighten people into accepting the existence of God. What a colossal wast of time, he thought bitterly! Angry at himself for being drawn into this charade.

     "Don't disappoint me, priest," he said, unable to keep the mockery from his voice. "Tell me that the devil did it..."

     ****

     He had lost him. And now it was Carlos' turn to feel the anger rise up inside him. How dare this man dismiss him, and his faith, so casually! It was pointless to continue, Carlos knew that look in the Frenchman's eyes. The arrogance that lay behind it. The superiority of attitude that came with the conviction that the supernatural did not exist, could not exist! Foolish, foolish man, Carlos thought. If only you could see with your own eyes the things that I have seen...

     Carlos stood up quickly, not wanting to prolong what had turned into a fiasco. "I will not waste any more of your precious time, Captain."

     "Good," the French officer replied sarcastically.

     Carlos turned just as he was about to go out the door. There was one more thing he needed to know. "One last thing, Captain... What colour were the Major's eyes?"

     The question obviously took the UN man by surprise. He looked up from the paper he had been reading before Carlos had interrupted him, a curious expression on his face. "Blue... Mad Bill's eyes were blue."

     Carlos nodded, the Captain's answer confirming something he had already expected. "Thank you, Captain. May God be with you."

     ****

     "I have no need of God," Jacques muttered, as he watched the priest walk out the door. He got up from behind the desk and walked over to the window overlooking the main gate to the UN compound. A few seconds later, the fat little priest scurried across the open courtyard to the gate, where he was joined by a large blond man. Obviously some sort of bodyguard.

     Well, he couldn't fault him for that. The Lebanon was a dangerous place, even for a catholic priest. The two of them climbed into a battered citroen, and Jacques continued to watch as it rattled off. Finally losing sight of it as they rounded a corner a few blocks from the compound.

     A curious encounter, Jacques thought, wondering if he should report it. At the very least, someone should look into the leaking of Mad Bill's report to New York. The fact that the Jesuits had a copy, illustrated some fundamental flaws in UN security. Flaws that should be corrected. Who knew what else the Vatican might know about the United Nations deployment in Lebanon? And who might they be feeding that information to? As far as he was concerned, the Christian phallangists were as big a threat as the Muslims or Israelis, perhaps more so. They tended to switch sides more often than most of the factions fighting for control of the country.

     What a nightmare this country has become, he thought, remembering a time, not so very long before, when Beirut was considered the jewel of the middle-east. A city that had seemed to defy all the stereotypes, defy the conventional wisdom that Muslims, Jews, and Christians could never co-exist peacefully.

     And now look at it! Shattered beyond any hope of repair. Divided, occupied by foreign armies, a city of refugees and warlords! And priests as well, apparently. Like all the others, stirring up their own particular brand of shit...

     ****

     "How did it go?"

     "About as I expected," Carlos sighed, the truth tasting bitter on his tongue.

     "That's not too surprising, Father. Very few people have seen the things that you have, or are given access to the kind of research materials the Vatican possesses."

     "True enough," Carlos admitted. "It almost makes one wish for the simplicity of the middle-ages, when a priest's word was taken as the gospel truth, no matter how outrageous."

     "Surely you can't be serious?" the man driving the car asked, turning his head to look over at his passenger in disbelief.

     "No, of course not! But I do sometimes wish that people weren't quite so jaded in their disbelief of things miraculous!"

     "Murder is hardly miraculous, Father," the driver pointed out reasonably.

     Carlos laughed ruefully. "The United Nations man said much the same thing, Klaus."

     "He's a soldier, Father. Soldiers are, by nature, conservative human beings. Besides which, he's a Frenchman, the French take their republican ideals very seriously."

     "Secular ideals you mean?"

     "It amounts to the same thing."

     "Does it?"

     "For them it does!"

     Carlos wondered if that were really true? He had always been of the opinion that democratic principles, and the Christian Faith, were not necessarily mutually exclusive ideals, and there were still a lot of Catholics in France. But obviously, the French Captain was not one of them.

     "Do you believe in miracles, Klaus?" Carlos asked quietly, never having had the temerity before to put the question directly to the Swiss commando who acted as his bodyguard, and who was also his friend and confidant.

     There was the briefest of hesitation, before the younger man replied. "I believe there is something very strange going on in the middle-east, and has been for some time. Whether or not it is miraculous... well, that's what we're here to find out, isn't it?"

     Carlos nodded, accepting the other man's reply for the truth it was. "Yes," he said. "That's exactly what we're here to find out..."

     ***

     CHAPTER FIVE -- The Twelve Divided

     "You dare to challenge me!" R'Phael gasped, his voice a mixture of shock and outrage.

     "Why wouldn't I?" G'Brael replied, secretly pleased with the nervous reaction he could see rippling through the other members of the Council at this totally unexpected development.

     "It is your failure we have come here to discuss, G'Brael, not mine!"

     "I freely admit that the plan was less than successful, that it's objectives were flawed, that manipulating the invasion was a mistake. What of it?"

     "What of it?" R'Phael repeated in disbelief. "The A'Shishem is still alive! Their base in the Lebanon is still active... They are within striking distance of Jerusalem!''

     "Haven't they always been within striking distance of Jerusalem?" G'Brael pointed out reasonably. "Nothing has really changed. We may not have gained any advantage, but neither have we lost anything."

     R'Phael looked as if he were about to spit blood, and G'Brael readied himself for a possible assault, although he didn't really think the leader of the Twelve would dare something so forceful. R'Phael liked to pretend that there was no war, that they could all go on as if there were no Great Queen, as if that were all in the past, an unhappy memory. That was the real crux of his outrage, G'Brael thought, the A'Shishem's message had shattered their delusions, and now they were forced once again to recognize the peril of their cozy existence. They had been served notice that their isolation from the world beyond their own gates was over. There were choices that needed to be made. Now that the war was upon them once again, they might have to take some responsibility for their own safety.

     "Not lost anything..." R'Phael said. "An interesting idea, G'Brael, but not very accurate. We have lost the opportunity to kill Mir'a'Da, and strike at the heart of S'Tann's house. Do you think such an opportunity will present itself again?"

     "Whether it does or doesn't is irrelevant," G'Brael replied. "What is relevant is the fact that you are ill equipped to deal with this situation as it now stands, R'Phael. That is all that really matters, and that is why I have chosen to come to Jerusalem, or as you put it, honor you with my presence at this table."

     "Then you've come a long way for nothing, G'Brael. I have no intention of giving up my place as head of the Council of Twelve. How could you imagine I would just blithely step aside and watch you usurp my authority?"

     "I would never presume to imagine such a thing, R'Phael. Far from it, I expected you to act much the way you are acting, putting your own selfish interests before that of the Council as a whole, as usual."

     "How dare you! Who are you to come here after all these years and attempt this? I lead the Council of Twelve! You are no longer Grand Councillor to the Great King, G'Brael! The King is dead!"

     "That may be true," G'Brael conceded. "But I have not forgotten why this Council was brought into existence, R'Phael. Unlike you, I choose not to forsake my solemn oath to the Great King!"

     G'Brael stared at each of the other eleven members of the Council in turn, forcing them to meet his level gaze, judging them, his eyes finally coming to rest on the one which occupied the place of honor at the head of the table. Yes, G'Brael thought, you have led this Council for a long time, R'Phael. And yes, I am no longer Grand Councillor to the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, but I doubt that makes much difference to S'Tann and her assassins.

     He said as much to the Council at large. "You have sat around this table, all of you, pretending that the war is over, but knowing deep in your heart of hearts that is a delusion. Do any of you doubt that S'Tann plots her revenge still? Do any of you honestly believe that she has forgiven us?"

     His words were greeted with stony silence. Of all of them, only M'Quael would look him directly in the eye, accompanying the look with a tightly focused warning directed at his mind alone. "Be careful, the Serpent's status changes everything. You push them too far!"

     It was a warning that G'Brael took seriously, giving him pause. Could he really control the Council from his base in Zurich? None of them could afford to take the Serpent lightly, especially G'Brael himself. And if, as M'Quael suggested, he pushed R'Phael too far, might he not push him right into the embrace of the greater enemy? S'Tann at least was rational, but L'Kynvir? Something much darker drove the former General of the Host, and that darkness would relish the opportunity to fragment the Council of Twelve. No, he thought, that we cannot afford!

     "Do you even know what the intentions of Great King were, G'Brael?" R'Phael asked. "Do any of us really know what was behind A'Shira's assassination?"

     It was a question G'Brael had asked himself many times, but he was surprised to hear the same doubts issued from the lips of the one who led the Council of Twelve. Were Y'Hoveh's actions governed by prophecy? Or was the thrust of the plot simply to put his own House on the throne, permanently installing his descendants, and his alone, with the mantel of leadership? And why was I chosen to spawn his dynasty, G'Brael wondered?

     Perhaps, because I was the only one foolish enough to accept the burden, he thought, and the Great King foresaw that as well. "We all served the King willingly enough when he was alive, R'Phael," he said. "Do not the same reasons still apply? If he deserved our loyalty in life, does he not deserve it in death?"

     "I am no longer sure," R'Phael replied honestly.

     It was an opening that G'Brael had been waiting for, and he seized upon it. "Perhaps, our strategy all these many centuries has been flawed?" he began. "All the while, we have been seeking out the A'Shishem to kill them, might there not be a better way?"

     "What is it you suggest, G'Brael?" M'Quael interjected. "Our actions have always been predicated on the rational that we have been defending ourselves. How can that be changed unilaterally? No matter what we may think, the A'Shishem are committed to the course that S'Tann has laid out for them. They will not stop trying to kill us, just because we have decided to stop killing them."

     All true, my friend, G'Brael thought gratefully. But thank you for pointing it out to them. "Obviously... Which is why we must seek out the Great Queen herself."

     "If she were that easy to find, we would have been finished with her centuries ago," one of the others pointed out.

     "All true," G'Brael replied. "But I believe that she can be contacted."

     "How?" This from R'Phael.

     "Through the A'Shishem..." M'Quael said quietly, obviously disturbed by the mission G'Brael was offering to undertake on behalf of the Council. "That is what you intend, isn't it?" he asked.

     "Is there another way?" G'Brael responded to his friend's query.

     M'Quael shook his head. "Not that I can see," he admitted, his tone subdued. "But it will be very dangerous. None of us has had direct contact with the A'Shishem in nearly two thousand years."

     I remember, G'Brael thought, wishing it could be otherwise...

     ****

     ...The Romans were at the gates of the city. The Council of Twelve were gathered in the same house, in the same room in fact, as they were now. And then, as now, were discussing their options. Should they stay? Riding out the Roman occupation as they had others over the years. Or should they flee? Not risking themselves and their cause to the tender mercies of the city's conquerors.

     As usual, the members of the Council were of two minds; R'Phael was for staying, while G'Brael was in favor of moving the Council's base to one of the unoccupied lands to the east. It was while they were in the midst of this argument that the messenger had arrived.

     The man was just an ordinary beggar, a drunkard, and the Council's servants almost turned him away without granting him the opportunity to deliver the scroll he carried gently in his grubby hands, insisting that he be allowed entry to present this treasure of fine parchment. But luckily enough, M'Quael had chosen that exact moment to glance out the doors of the room and see the commotion by the gate. "It would seem we have a visitor," he observed casually, causing the others to pause in their argument and peer over their shoulders in the direction he was looking.

     "Just a beggar," R'Phael grunted, dismissively, irritated at the interruption.

     "I think not..." M'Quael countered. "This particular beggar carries momentous news."

     "What is it, M'Quael?" G'Brael asked, his own power to read the human mind at that time somewhat limited.

     "This man believes he has seen an angel... a white haired angel, with brilliant blue eyes, and glowing skin."

     Panic swept the room then, all of them except M'Quael looking to their backs, convinced it was some sort of diversion. Cover, for an assault of S'Tann's assassins.

     "Calm yourselves," he continued, mildly amused. "The wolf is not at the door. It is only a message, and I cannot take it from this human's mind because he is unable to read it. No doubt the reason it has been committed to parchment."

     One of their servants turned and looked toward the room, as if called by name, and then took the scroll from the messenger's hands. Another poured a fistful of coins into the man's outstretched hand, pushed him quite firmly out the gate, and closed it behind him. "Don't worry, he won't remember this place even exists," M'Quael said, seeing G'Brael's uneasy expression. "By tomorrow, he will think it all nothing more than a pleasant dream."

     They watched, as the servant who had taken the scroll from the beggar's hands hurried across the darkened courtyard toward them, picking his way carefully, eyes downcast, as much to keep from tripping on the flagstone path as out of respect for the power of the individuals he was walking toward. None of the Twelve were as powerful as their dead King, and so could not bring blindness to the people who served them, but all of the servants who came in direct contact with the Ascended ones were leery of them, and so, took no chance that they might inadvertently offend one of them.

     As was his right, as head of the Council, it was R'Phael who received the parchment scroll from the servants hands. The man bowed gracefully, and backed out of the room, leaving the Twelve alone, to ponder the mysterious document lying on the polished table before R'Phael.

     The scroll was tied with a cut piece of black silk, and R'Pheal severed the binding with a look, the silk parting in a small puff of cold blue fire that did no damage to the parchment it bound. He reached forward and picked it up off the table, unrolling it, scanning it with a quick glance, before reading aloud...

     "I would not deny myself the pleasure of your deaths by my own hand, and therefore, I grant you this warning. The legions at the gates of the city are led by one of the Serpent's minions. If you value your continued existence, until the day I myself can put an end to you once and for all, flee this very night. Unless the gates are opened, the Romans will force them tomorrow at dawn. They know where, if not what, you are, and have orders to take you..."

     R'Phael slumped back into his chair. "It is signed... Mir'a'Da."

     "A trick?" one of them had asked.

     M'Quael shook his head. "I doubt it. If Mir'a'Da knows where we are, he has no need to draw us out into the open. He would simply climb the walls and murder us in our beds."

     "Why would he, of all of them, choose to warn us?" asked R'Phael. "It makes no sense!"

     "It makes perfect sense," G'Brael had countered. " If we take him at his word, and he really intends to reserve for himself the pleasure of killing us all."

     And so, after some debate, they had decided to follow the A'Shishem's advice, and flee Jerusalem, taking only what they could carry. It was the last time any retainer of the Great Queen had made any effort to contact the Council of Twelve directly...

     ****

     Ahh... that night was one not easily forgotten, G'Brael thought sadly, remembering the killing that had to be done to get them all safely out of the city. None of his nights were easy to forget, but there were some that stood out, and that one was one of them.

     They were not the only ones attempting escape that night. Hundreds of people had packed the streets leading to the eastern gates, and the Twelve had killed them all... There could be no obstacle to their passage, no witnesses left to tell the tale to the Roman commanders, and so they had done what they had to do. Striking down men, women, and children, so that they might clear the way for their own people. The Chosen had passed safely out of the city, still numbering a few thousand then, and into the night. Shielded by the Ascended ones among them, they fled through the desperate hours of darkness and the following days, without stopping for food or rest until they reached sanctuary.

     And that was when our downfall began, he thought, without any real bitterness, but sadly. That was the beginning of the end for us as a unified people. Over the centuries that followed, the Chosen had scattered to the four winds, until most of them were lost, or absorbed into the greater mass of ordinary humanity.

     Until finally, we are all that is left of a once proud Kingdom. We twelve, bitter, unwilling, band of brothers. No one left to protect, except ourselves, and our fantasies of power!

     Well, that was not really true, he supposed. There were others, out there somewhere. Even some of the Ascended ones that had once sat at this very table might still be alive, lurking in the shadows of civilization. Or at the centers of power, protected by their special nature, and a retinue of awed barbarian servants. But the A'Shishem would still hunt them, and if they refused to pledge their allegiance to the Great Queen, kill them without a moments hesitation. And so it was for them as well, that he would undertake this dangerous task. None of them could afford any more killing, and he had to convince S'Tann of that fact, or all of them were doomed, and the Chosen would cease to exist as a race.

     ****

     "Do you honestly expect Mir'a'Da to welcome you into his camp?" R'Phael asked him, and G'Brael thought he detected a trace of suspicion in the way the question was phrased.

     "I do not intend to give him the opportunity to deny me entry," he replied. "Once I am at his gate, I intend to prevail upon his hospitality as a matter of honor. As I'm sure you're aware, R'Phael... The A'Shishem set great store by their reputations as honorable men. Mir'a'Da will not sully that reputation by killing a guest at his own table."

     "I hope for your sake you are right," M'Quael commented. "If you are not, this Council loses a valuable asset, for no appreciable gain."

     "Then let me reassure you, M'Quael. I have no intention of being lost, particularly through an act of stupidity."

     "Before you leave on this fool's errand," R'Phael said. "It might be best if you briefed one of the others to take your place in Zurich... In the unhappy event you fail to return safely."

     G'Brael was not surprised by this; In a way, it was a justifiable request. If he were lost, the Twelve would still need access to their accounts in Switzerland. But, he had no intention of turning over the keys to the safe, as it were, to R'Phael himself. "And who do you suggest to take my place?" he asked. "Or are we going to ask for a volunteer?"

     "I was thinking that M'Quael might be well suited to the task," R'Phael responded. "He has travelled more than any of us, and has much more experience blending in with the barbarians."

     Although pleased with R'Phael's suggestion, it would not do to let him know that, and so G'Brael could not resist goading him, just a little. "Cloaking oneself in a human aura is an easy trick to learn, R'Phael. It would do all of you some good to get out in the world, at least occasionally."

     "I have seen all I need to see of the world, G'Brael. Besides... we have access to the communications devices that the barbarians set such store by. Why should I go out into the world, when I can bring all I need of the world to me?"

     "It is not same," G'Brael replied. "Your views of the life going on outside these walls is skewed if all you rely upon is the information provided to you by the humans themselves. You, of all people should know better. Weren't we the ones who came up with the technique of controlling the barbarians by controlling what they thought? You fall victim to a trap of your own design, R'Phael."

     "It is not as if I believe everything that I see on the information networks, G'Brael. But this isolation, as you call it, has it's uses. Unlike you, I do not overly sympathize with the 'human condition'. In my opinion, you have lived among them far too long. It is you, who has lost his perspective, not I."

     Was there something to that, G'Brael wondered? Am I too caught up in the lives I see around me everyday? It was possible, he supposed, although he didn't think it too likely. His opinion of ordinary humans was not that high. In fact, life among them had, if anything, reinforced his apathy toward them as a race. Considering the state of their society, there was little to admire about the way they conducted themselves. But, did that necessarily mean that the two races could not co-exist?

     Was that the crux of the King's prophesy? That the whole point of the exercise was to see the barbarians exterminated? If so, he thought, we are in for a long fight. If it should come to pass that the Chosen themselves were not fractured into opposing camps, they were still horribly outnumbered. And that the humans could kill them without qualm, had been proven quite conclusively over the centuries. Even the Ascended ones were not immune to the modern weapons that the barbarians wielded with such abandon.

     In answer to R'Phael's criticism, G'Brael replied, "My time among the humans has taught me the fragility of our species survival. A lesson that the Twelve would do well to take to heart. Our perceived superiority will not save us from their explosives."

     R'Phael actually smiled at this. "But that is the whole point of the Council's existence, G'Brael... It is we who exercise the ultimate control over those explosives, for precisely the reasons you state."

     "The control, that you seem to put so much faith in, is also fragile, R'Phael," G'Brael pointed out. "Do not make the mistake of underestimating their sophistication. Barbarians they might be, but dangerous barbarians nonetheless."

     "Not nearly so dangerous as I am, G'Brael," R'Phael said in response, the underlying warning clear.

     "Not as individuals, perhaps," G'Brael replied, choosing to ignore the threat directed at himself. "But as a race, far more dangerous. If they weren't, there would be no need for us to hide in the shadows, would there?"

     "It is not the humans we hide from," one of the others said. "It is our own kind that terrifies us."

     "And that is exactly what I wish to change," G'Brael said. "It is time to bring this war to a close, once and for all!"

     "And what of the Serpent?" M'Quael asked G'Brael silently. "Do you think he will be so charitable? We all know how he cherishes the power to inflict death."

     "We will speak of the Serpent later."

     "There is much to speak of privately, before you embark on your quest for peace."

     "I will allow you to attempt this, G'Brael," R'Phael said. "Although I don't believe that the A'Shishem will acquiesce to your request, it is, as you say, worth the attempt. Besides which," he continued, "I do not value your life very highly. If you wish to risk it, that is your affair."

     "Thank you, R'Phael. On that point at least, we can agree wholeheartedly. My life is my own to risk."

     R'Phael nodded in acknowledgement of the point, before saying, "But our lives are not yours to risk, G'Brael. Before you make any compact with the A'Shishem, or S'Tann herself, if it should get that far, the Twelve must be in total agreement."

     "That goes without saying," G'Brael replied.

     "Nonetheless, I am saying it, to remind you of your responsibilities to this Council."

     G'Brael was about to offer a hot retort, when M'Quael voice once again entered his mind.

     "Leave him to his fantasies of power, G'Brael. It is not worth the effort, not here, not now."

     And so it was in a much calmer tone of voice that he replied, "I am aware of my responsibilities, R'Phael. I have no intention of acting alone in this, or any other thing, in which an ultimate decision rests with the Council as a whole."

     "That is good. Now... tell us about the state of our accounts in Zurich. I have been thinking that this might be an opportune moment to liquidate some of our assets, particularly the large land holdings in southern Africa. That region is becoming more unstable with each passing day, and now that our own war has once again come knocking on our door, it may be advisable to have ready cash available."

     "Are you still thinking of abandoning Jerusalem, then?"

     "We will never abandon Jerusalem, but thanks to you we may be forced to relocate, temporarily."

     "A moment ago you were stating quite eloquently how unnecessary it was to venture out into the world, and now you are talking about a wholesale move to another base of operations."

     "We have always had contingency plans for such a thing, G'Brael. I for one, do not relish fleeing like a thief in the night again."

     "And where is it the Council intends to move?"

     "If, and only if, it becomes necessary, we have made arrangements to relocate to the United States."

     This came as a surprise. G'Brael couldn't imagine a less likely place for the Council of Twelve to function from. The United States, of all the barbarian nations that R'Phael and some of the others so despised, was also the one most likely to despise them and what they stood for, in return. He had to admit, there was a certain elegance to the plan. With enough cash, one could buy anything in America, including absolute seclusion. It was an interesting proposition, very interesting indeed...

     ****

     M'Quael did not bother to knock before entering the room, the Twelve had no tolerance for such human conventions. They were unnecessary, the Ascended ones always knew when one of their own approached, provided the one approaching did not intentionally cloak his presence, and so it was with G'Brael. He knew of M'Quael's presence before the door to his room swung open.

     "When do you intend to leave?" M'Quael asked him.

     "As soon as possible. For all we know, the A'Shishem are as nervous as we, and have already left the Lebanon."

     "That seems unlikely... Mir'a'Da is not the nervous type." This was said with a smile. "Perhaps the King should have offered to make him one of the Twelve."

     "If that had come to pass, M'Quael, it would have been you who led the A'Shishem in his place. And the two of us would be enemies."

     "And perhaps, we could have brought this horror to an end centuries ago."

     "Perhaps," G'Brael acknowledged. "But I think not."

     "You're probably right." M'Quael hesitated before speaking again. "Do you remember what it was like... before all this began, I mean?"

     "Isn't what you're really asking; do I remember her?"

     He nodded. "Yes, I suppose that is what I'm asking. How could it have happened, G'Brael? How could she and I ever become enemies?"

     "Callous circumstance, nothing more," G'Brael replied, moved by the other's pain. "She has done what she thought necessary, M'Quael... to defend herself, and her House."

     "And was I not a part of that House? She did not give me the choice!"

     "She knew you too well, your oath to the Great King was not one made lightly, my friend, she knew that, and so refused to force a choice from you."

     "Given the choice, I would have gone with her, my oath be damned!"

     It was the first time M'Quael had ever admitted such a thing to him, but G'Brael did not think it politic to mention that now. He had always known that M'Quael had loved the princess S'Tann; they had all loved her, in their own way. But only M'Quael had ever had that love returned in equal measure by S'Tann herself. How bitter it must be for him, he thought. No wonder he hates the Serpent with such passion. A passion he once reserved for a beautiful young girl, now turned vengeful. A flower, turned to thorn.

     "Which was why she never gave you that choice," he said in response to M'Quael's admission. "She would not dishonor you by the asking."

     "To be given the choice would have been no dishonor. Besides which, my honor, such as it is, has suffered greatly during the course of this war, as you are only too well aware."

     It was true, G'Brael knew. M'Quael, of all of them, had been forced to do much evil in the name of the long-dead King, and that weighed heavily on his conscience, obviously. But would it have been any different had he gone with S'Tann? Mir'a'Da was also an honorable soul, and yet he too had to do much that could be considered evil during the course of this war. G'Brael did not think M'Quael would have been any better off as a member of S'Tann's faction, in fact, he might have died on the first day of the war, and that would have been a far greater evil to G'Brael's way of thinking. What would it have been like for me, all these centuries, deprived of M'Quael's counsel, he wondered? Without him, none of us might have survived so long!

     "It is pointless to dwell on 'might have been', M'Quael. An exercise in futility at best, overwhelmingly depressing at worst."

     M'Quael smiled, but there was a bitterness behind it that G'Brael found distressing. "After so many centuries of existence, it sometimes seems that 'might have been' is all I have left to sustain me," his friend said quietly. "I grow weary of this war, G'Brael. You are right, it is time to finish it, once and for all!"

     "That is what I hope to do, my friend. With your help."

     "You wish me to come with you to the Lebanon?"

     G'Brael shook his head. "No. I need you in Zurich, just in case it becomes necessary for me to operate outside the confines of the Council."

     "You do intend to break with R'Phael then," M'Quael replied, intuitively grasping what G'Brael had in mind.

     "I see no other choice," G'Brael stated simply.

     "That might be premature," M'Quael said. "If things go badly in the Lebanon, you may have need of allies, even R'Phael."

     "I'm willing to take that risk."

     M'Quael said nothing in response to this, he simply stared at G'Brael, his expression unreadable.

     "What is it?" G'Brael asked.

     "There is the matter of the Serpent, G'Brael. He too, may be in the Lebanon."

     "Do you know this for certain?"

     M'Quael shook his head, frowning. "No, it is just speculation on my part. But he is close, of that, I am certain!"

     "How do you know that he is still alive? Nobody has heard from him in centuries."

     "I have heard he was captured by S'Tann nearly forty years ago. And lives still, in a dungeon beneath her sanctuary. It may be that she uses him for special tasks."

     "That's ridiculous! How could she control him? As soon as he was out of her sight he would disappear. He alone, of all of us, has allies among the humans who know who and what he is."

     "S'Tann used him once to destroy the King, do you not think it possible that he could be persuaded to help her again? He is obsessed with her!"

     That was true, G'Brael had to admit. L'Kynvir had lusted after S'Tann since she was a child. That might be enough, that powerful passion, to twist him to her will. But wasn't it also true, he thought, that S'Tann despised L'Kynvir as much as the rest of them. It was he, more that any other, who was responsible for the downfall of the Great Kingdom.

     "How did you come by this information, M'Quael?" he asked.

     "A story, told by a priest, in a small village in Poland. Of a battle between two demons, one male, the other female. We know S'Tann was in Poland at that time; does it not also fit, that the Serpent might have been there as well?"

     "And so was I..." G'Brael murmured, remembering the fruitless search for the woman who bore his son, and then disappeared into the maelstrom of war.

     "Yes," M'Quael said. "I remember your quest... and your pain at it's lack of success."

     It was G'Brael's turn to say nothing. The past was past, there was nothing to be done about it now. We all have so much past to carry around with us, he thought. Is it any wonder some of us grow so sick of it we wander off, never to be heard from again?

     "This priest I speak of was very old, G'Brael. At death's door in fact. I doubt that he would have made up such a story."

     No, G'Brael thought, priests in Poland were not known for their vivid imaginations. If the man told such a tale, chances are there was an element of truth to it at least. And if the Serpent were alive, and could be drawn out...

     "Whether or not the Serpent is alive or dead changes nothing," he said. "If anything, it makes a dialogue with the Great Queen that much more appropriate. I will continue with my plan to go to the Lebanon. The Serpent be damned!"

     "It was not my intention to dissuade you," M'Quael said. "Knowing you as I do, I realize that too would be a pointless exercise. But be careful. In spite of R'Phael's attitude, the rest of us can ill afford to lose you."

     "I am always careful, my friend," G'Brael replied softly. "It is how I have managed to live so long..."

     ***

     CHAPTER SIX - - A Prince Ascending

     He awoke to a sky of pale violet, barely visible through the windows of the balcony across from him, and ravenously hungry. It had been at least two full days since his last meal. Although the days were beginning to get a little fuzzy, so this was, in reality, just a guess on his part. Nevertheless, the rumbling sounds coming from his stomach told him he had better eat something soon.

     As if in answer to his pangs of hunger, rising from the couch brought him face to face with the very thing he had been craving, a table laden with food. Not exactly what he would have ordered himself, given the choice, but food nonetheless. There were a wide variety of fruits, raw vegetables, bread, cheese, and if his nose weren't deceiving him, an open decanter of a heavy looking red wine as well.

     The thought struck him that some of this bounty might be laced with poison, or some other drug. Something to loosen him up for the interrogation that he had been expecting since his rude awakening in this palace of a prison. But a quick sniff of some of the closer items put this fear to rest. He didn't know why, or how, he was able to determine that the food wasn't drugged, he just knew. Another of the mysterious senses that he seemed able to exercise without any conscious thought, so without thinking any further about his long range predicament, he dug in.

     Something at the back of his mind toyed with the idea that this type of food was probably good for him, he wasn't big on fruits and vegetables under normal circumstances, and had never been one to follow the faddish diets that seemed to be all the rage these days, even among the professional militaries of the world. He knew that the crazy woman he had spoken to the day before was most likely responsible for the choice of epicurean delights he was now enjoying. What was it she had said? Oh yeah, that he smelled like a wolf. How the hell she would know what a wolf smelled like was a big puzzle; As far as he knew, there hadn't been wolves in the middle-east for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

     He knew enough not to gorge himself, as hungry as he was. There wouldn't be much point to eating, if he chucked it all up twenty minutes from now. But it was good, that much he had to admit, and it was with real reluctance that he forced himself away from the table after consuming a sizeable plateful of dates, olives, and other things, some of which he had never tasted before, all washed down with two crystal goblets of clear fresh water that he had found in a decanter beside the wine. He thought about tasting the wine as well, but that would be pushing it. It wouldn't do for him to be in the least befuddled when the real interrogation began, as it undoubtedly would any second now.

     He wondered who it would be, the woman, or the strange old man who had captured him in the first place? He didn't know which would be worse, but if it were up to him, he'd choose the woman. There was something intriguing about her, her beauty, her strange electrical touch, even the way she spoke English, with that vague, indefinable accent. Not Arabic, or Israeli, something altogether different, but hauntingly familiar. It was an accent he felt he should recognize, but didn't, and that was another irritant to deal with, in this increasingly irritating situation he found himself in. Who the hell were these people? And more importantly, what the hell did they want with him?

     "So," he whispered to himself. "Let's get this show on the road."

     He got up and began a slow circuit of the six-sided room, looking for a way out, even though he suspected that they, whoever they were, would have taken care of that eventuality. His search proved fruitless, as expected. There was no door that he could find, although he knew there had to be one. That left the balcony, and the open windows leading out to it.

     He moved as quietly as possible, instinctively reverting to his training. He didn't know if they had him under continuous observation, it was certainly possible, but if not, he hoped to take anyone out on the balcony itself by surprise. One never knew when an opportunity for escape might present itself, and if it did, he was fully prepared to take advantage of it. It might have been a palace where they kept him, but it was still a prison, and he wanted out!

     There was nobody on the balcony, there was no need he saw rather quickly. The view was spectacular, but bleak from the standpoint of someone seeking a way out. Below him, stretching away to the horizon was the sea, dotted here and there by a few isolated islands of pinkish gray rock. And above him, and to both sides, was a sheer granite cliff, one hundred meters high, and stretching away from him in both directions till it curved out of sight a few kilometers down the shore. His prison was built on a headland then, obviously. And from what he could see, he came to the instant conclusion that this wasn't the Mediterranean after all. The water was the wrong colour, as were the cliffs, and the sun was in the wrong place. Unless he were in Gibraltar, which he seriously doubted, the sun should not be coming up off the water. The balcony faced east, and if he were still in the Lebanon, it would be facing west. Not only that, he didn't think there were any cliffs like this in Lebanon, they were just too high!

     "Where the hell am I?" he asked the wind, blowing down the cliff above him.

     "You are home, my Prince," said a voice from behind him, her voice.

     He whirled at the sound of her speaking, irritated with himself that she could sneak up on him so easily. He, a trained commando, and she, just a girl, strange and beautiful, but a girl nonetheless. Still wearing the golden mask, he saw immediately, the newly risen sun reflecting off the burnished metal, making it look like her face was wreathed in a golden halo of purest light.

     "This is not my home," he replied, thinking of the Airborne's training ground in Petawawa, the only place on earth he had ever really felt at home. "My home is covered in snow six months of the year, and buried in bureaucratic shit the other six months."

     She shook her head, as if trying to fathom what he had just said. "You are one of the strangest men I have ever met," she said. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were teasing me. My memories of you did not prepare me for this strange way you have of speaking. I'm not sure I will ever get used to it."

     "You won't have to," he assured her. "I have no intention of staying here. No matter what you may think, I am not your Prince, and never will be!"

     "In that," she countered, "You are quite mistaken."

     Am I really, he thought. We'll see about that...

     "Yes," S'Tann said, "and eventually you will see that I am right, and you wrong."

     She could tell that her ability to read his mind intrigued him. It was easy to follow his thoughts as he wrestled with this aspect of her, something no amount of military training had ever prepared him for. How naive they are, she thought. How easily impressed by what, for the Chosen, was no more than a simple parlor trick when compared to some of her other powers. The power to kill with a look, or cure mortal wounds by the laying on of hands, those were impressive. But this, this was something she could teach him to do in a matter of hours. She was better at it than any of the other's, true. But that had more to due with the simpler aspects of genetics than any great ability. She was after all, Great Queen, and so carried certain of her powers to their logical extremes just as a matter of course, without any real thought on her own part.

     "Does it bother you?" she asked, knowing already that it bothered him a great deal, but wondering if he would give her an honest answer.

     "You reading my mind, you mean?"

     S'Tann nodded, watching him carefully.

     "It's a neat trick," he replied, and then surprised her by smiling.

     Could he have taken that from her, she wondered? Slightly shocked by the idea. Impossible, no one can probe the mind of the Great Queen, no one outside the Royal House at least. It had to be a simple coincidence! She was the last of her line, and the King had left no heirs to carry on his own. Only members of the Royal Houses themselves could pick up the thoughts of a Great Queen, or Great King. Chosen, he might be, but of the Royal blood? No, that could not be. Surely she would remember such a thing? He was watching her intently, S'Tann noticed. Almost as if...

     ****

     A parlor trick? Now where did that come from? Mad Bill asked himself. It had just popped into his head... a simple parlor trick, like somebody had said it to him. He watched her, wondering if he could do it again, suddenly convinced that the thought had come from her, and that it had been unintentional. Her expression alone told him that his answer to her question had startled her. Although she had recovered quickly, he had seen that brief flash of surprise cross her face quite clearly.

     It didn't work, no startling revelations came to him as he watched her, perhaps it was just a coincidence, after all...

     ****

     "Yes, my Prince," S'Tann said. "It is a neat trick, as you put it, but little more. The reading of unshielded thoughts is just one of my powers, and not a very impressive one. But I have others, as you will find out soon enough."

     "Is that what I'm here for?" he asked. "To be a kind of guinea pig in some sort of weird little experiment?"

     "Guinea pig? What in the world is a guinea pig?" S'Tann asked, genuinely mystified. Things were not going at all as she had envisioned them.

     "A guinea pig is like a lab rat," he replied, and then, reading the obvious confusion on her face, went on, "you know, an experimental animal... something you do tests on, something expendable."

     S'Tann was horrified. How could he think that of her? He was the most important thing in the world for her right now, and if she understood correctly, he believed that she had brought him here to be some kind of expendable commodity. Something to test, and then dispose of!

     She moved toward him, convinced suddenly that she must show him what she meant to do, before there were any more misunderstandings between them. She had not intended it to be this way, in her mind she carried fantasies of a leisurely seduction, but that was a luxury she could not afford.

     Still no fear, she thought, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, so that they stood face to face. He towered over her, and although there was a tenseness there, an alertness, she could see that he was not intimidated.

     "You are worthy of my love, W'Liam, and I will give you everything that it is in my power to give. But trust me now, because this gift will cause you much pain before it is over, and the everlasting pleasure begins between us..."

     ****

     The voice in his head shook him. It was so loud, so insistent, that for a moment he just stood there, inches from her, looking down into the two glowing blue jewels that formed the eye sockets of the mask. There was heat coming from her in waves, intensely arousing, so strong he almost thought he could see it. Her breasts gently brushed his chest, and he felt it as an electric shock coursing through him. He could feel the sound of his own heart drumming in his ears, and behind it all her voice, sweet and sensual... "...everlasting pleasure between us begins."

     ****

     She reached up to him, and he was powerless to stop her, sliding her small hand behind his neck, and drawing his face down to her own, bringing her mouth up to his and gently brushing his lips with her tongue. Everything that he knew, everything that he thought he was, disappeared in the blinding flash he felt behind his eyes at that first erotic touch between them. Her tongue continued it's probing, sliding between his teeth, as her hand made it's way from his neck to the small of his back, drawing him in closer.

     The strength she displayed amazed him, he didn't think he could break away from her, even if he wanted to, which he most definitely did not. Whatever thoughts he once had of escape were purged from his mind. As if they never existed at all, as if his whole life had been nothing but a long wait for this one kiss, this one glorious embrace...

     ****

     She could feel the heat building inside her, and S'Tann knew that her life would never be the same. The urge to take him now was almost unbearable, but she held back. Feeding him, stroking the latent power he had locked inside him, bringing it to the surface so that he could survive her touch.

     And what power it was! She could feel him growing, his heat almost at the point of reaching her own. None of the Chosen that she had taken over the centuries had ever come close to matching this one for the raw energy he had bottled in his soul! Even the Serpent would not be a match for him, she thought incredulously, unable to believe that such a one as he could really exist!

     "Who is the Serpent?"

     The voice of his mind, released from it's bondage, shattered her concentration. That he was able to speak to her on this level already! What might he be capable of when the Ascension was completed?

     She let go of him, taking a step backward, breaking the kiss that held them both enthralled. S'Tann could feel the thickness of the aura surrounding them both now, her skin glistening with little sparks that danced between them like fiery insects. She looked into his eyes, and saw the deepening of the colour, the washing out of the white, so that he looked back at her from behind two solid pools of blue. Not yet lit with the fires of the Ascension, but able now to stand the fierceness of her unmasked stare without irreparable damage being done. No longer could the threat of darkness come between them...

     ****

     He felt as if there were a fire burning deep in his belly, and he could feel the sweat breaking out on his skin, gloriously cool after the furnace of her embrace. S'Tann, the woman who had done this to him, had backed off a pace, and as he looked at her, it was if he was seeing her truly for the first time. What exactly had she done to him, he wondered? He felt like a new person, not a different person, a new person. He turned away from her and looked out over the sea, stunned by the brilliance of colour he could now perceive. What once looked like washed out pinks, and greys, he now saw as deeply striated bands of colour, each striation standing out as a separate and distinct colour of it's own. He found that he could even count the layers of rock if he put his mind to it, and he spent a few seconds doing just that. It was as if his eyes were suddenly capable of infinite focus. He was able to look out over the water, and see shoals and outcrops of rock just beneath the surface, lying in wait for unsuspecting ships that might try to force their way ashore on the rocky headland. His gaze ranged outward, and he could pick out the sails of ships that were miles away, with only the sails themselves above the horizon, the rest of the vessel hidden below the curvature of the earth.

     "You will be able to look farther than that, once the Ascension is complete, my love," S'Tann murmured. "But I need to rest now, you are much stronger than I imagined."

     "You did not answer my question," he said aloud. "Who is the Serpent?"

     "There will be time for that later," she replied. "We will have all the time in the world once your transformation is complete. For now... all you need to know is that the Serpent is your enemy."

     "What have you done to me," he asked, quietly, without the least bit of remorse for the life he was about to leave behind forever.

     "I have started you down the path to immortality. But be warned, this life I give you is not without it's dangers."

     "All life has it's dangers," he said, in that same quiet, almost introspective, tone of voice. "I am a soldier by profession... I never intended to lead a safe life."

     "Then you should be well pleased with this one," S'Tann responded. "Because safety will not be an inherent part of it. But neither will it be boring, of that, you can be assured."

     No, he thought, already believing it without question. I doubt that boredom will be much of a problem with her to occupy me. He looked at her with his new found sight, and found her even more beautiful than he had supposed. The mask that she wore did nothing to detract from that beauty, it followed the perfect contours of her face like a second skin, and like the skin underneath it, was just as expressive. He reached out for her, needing to touch her, and she allowed it, bending her cheek to his hand, kissing his fingertips as they brushed her mouth. He felt the thrill of her again, that small jolt of electricity that accompanied every touch of her tongue against his skin, tiny blue sparks careening around in little circles on his palm...

     ****

     S'Tann rested her head against his hand, content, the taste of him exquisite on her tongue. After centuries of waiting her prince had arrived, and nothing could spoil this first moment of intimacy between them. There would be time enough to burden him with the realities of the war they would fight together. For now, it was enough the he was here with her, not yet Ascended, but ready now for the final stage of the journey that had been so long in the making.

     She could still smell the carnivore on him and found, much to her surprise, that this too was intoxicating in it's way. Something forbidden to her, the deeply animal scent stirring her in way that was totally unfamiliar, the very unfamiliarity making it all the more exciting. She flicked out her tongue, tasting him, and feeling the little thrill go through him at her touch. He was her's now, she thought. Not yet at the point where he would do anything for her, but soon he would be beyond refusing her, would grant her anything she wished to sustain her touch.

     What surprised her was the power she could feel him exerting over her own will. She felt as if, even now, she could refuse him nothing, and wondered what spell he had cast on her that could sap her resolve so completely. She wanted nothing more than to stay here in his arms, and wished with all her heart that it could be the only thing between them, this closeness, without the burdens of conflict interceding in their lives. If only the war could be pushed aside, she thought, if only for a little while, so they might cherish this closeness between them, keep it just for themselves. Was that too much to ask?

     Perhaps it was, because she could already hear the footsteps of Mir'a'Da, too light for any but her to detect, as he approached the sealed entrance to the chamber beyond the balcony. S'Tann sighed. Their little island of tranquility was about to be shattered.

     She moved back from him, brushing her hand across his chest as she took a step backward, toward the open doorway to his chamber. "Reality approaches, my love. Come, it is time you meet he who is first among the A'Shishem." S'Tann then took him by the hand, and led him back into the chamber, stepping through the doorway from the balcony just as a section of the opposite wall of the chamber slid back revealing a secret passage into the room.

     And standing there, silhouetted against the light streaming down the passage, was Mir'a'Da, the oldest of the A'Shishem, the one who had been with her since the beginning of it all. The one she trusted above all others, without reservation. He looked from her to the man who stood beside her, his glowing blue eyes narrowing, but making no comment regarding the obvious intimacy between them.

     "What is it, Mir'a?" S'Tann asked, unable to completely hide her irritation at the interruption.

     "I bring news of the Twelve, my Queen," he replied, making no apology for doing what he was required by oath to do. "They are again based in Jerusalem, and once more they exert themselves as puppet-masters over the rulers of the city of light."

     Whatever pique S'Tann might have felt at her time with W'Liam being interrupted, disappeared. "Are they reachable?"

     The A'Shishem smiled, but it was not a pleasant expression, more like the smile of a wolf scenting it's prey. "Their arrogance has also reasserted itself, my Queen. They have returned to their old lair in east-Jerusalem."

     S'Tann's smile mirrored the A'Shishem's own. "Their arrogance will be the death of them. How soon can you launch your assault?"

     "At your command, my Queen."

     "Then consider the command given, Mir'a."

     "Do you wish any of them taken alive?"

     It was an interesting question, she thought, examining her memories for some reason to spare any of them. She thought of M'Quael, the one who had once held her heart in his hands, the memory sweet and bitter at the same time. And then she looked to W'Liam, standing calmly, an observer only, and realized that some of her memories were best left in the past. M'Quael was not the one who would father her children, as a smitten girl princess had once thought. She was that girl no longer, the Princess S'Tann died at the moment of the Transformation, and had no time now, or inclination, to spare one of the Twelve because of a childish fantasy that princess had once held close to her heart.

     "Spare none of them, Mir'a. My vengeance must be complete."

     The A'Shishem bowed. "As you command, so it shall come to pass, my Queen." He then turned on his heel and strode down the passageway, the great door, carved from the solid rock of the wall, sliding soundlessly shut behind him.

     "What was that all about?" W'Liam asked from beside her, pulling her effortlessly toward him so that they were face to face.

     She allowed herself to be spun around, enjoying the novel sensation of having a man beside her who was not afraid of her power to crush him at will. There is no fear in him, she thought again, pleased beyond words at his audacity. As he comes to know my power, will that change, she wondered? Hoping with all her heart that it wouldn't, that this man, among all the Chosen, would choose to be her equal. Would never quail before her as so many others had done in the past. I could not take that, she thought. To see fear in your eyes, W'Liam, that would be the final blow in a life that has seemed nothing but tragedy for so long.

     His gaze was steady as he searched her face for the answer to his question, and she loved him for that as well. Here was a man she could trust with her life, not as a servant bonded to it's master, but as an equal whose loyalty was given without expectation of reward. What a rare specimen, she thought, getting an inkling from her future-sense that much of the prophecy she had lived with every day of her life, for seven millennia, had hinged on this man coming into her life. It was as if a great wall across her path had suddenly come tumbling to the earth, it's rubble creating a ramp to a future that only now could come to pass.

     Their first child would be a daughter, she knew, able to see her quite clearly in her memories of the future. A daughter, an Heir Designate, with long golden hair, and the startling blue eyes of her parents. And the whole earth would lie at her feet...

     "You haven't answered my question," he prodded her. "What was that all about?"

     "It is about the war I spoke of, Beloved. Mir'a'Da is the leader of my assassins, the A'Shishem, and he has found the lair of our enemies. A lair which I have just given him leave to destroy."

     "Will that end the war?"

     "Perhaps. But there are others, besides the Council of Twelve, who seek to destroy us. It is very complicated, complications which, for the most part, have been our own doing. All seemingly necessary at the time, but coming back now to haunt us, like a bad dream."

     "I see," he replied, wondering what role he could play to support her in this. After all, he was a trained soldier, wasn't it possible that he could bring his own knowledge of arms and armies to bear in this endeavor? These people seemed to him to be an odd combination of the modern and the ancient, might he not use his expertise in the tactics of modern warfare to their advantage?

     "This war you speak of... it is not, I take it, fought in the conventional sense?"

     "What do you mean, conventional sense?"

     "I mean, it is not fought by armies engaging each other in the field, utilizing the modern doctrines of warfare, combined arms operations, strategic targeting, that sort of thing?"

     "On the contrary," S'Tann replied. "We use all of those methods, and others besides. Our war with the Council of Twelve has been fought by proxy, utilizing the armed forces of many nations, to assault them and the territories they have controlled. At times, we have come very close to destroying them, only to see the Twelve themselves slip out of our grasp. And at times," she added, " we have aided in their escape from other, greater threats, which endangered ourselves as well as them."

     "I don't understand?"

     She sighed. "No, I suppose you do not. It is a perspective that you cannot grasp until the moment of your final Ascension. Then you will come to realize just how different the Chosen are from the rest of humanity."

     He thought about that, realizing for the first time that he had begun to think of himself in terms that, up until a few hours ago, he would have thought preposterous. Looking at her, it was easy to see how very different she was, and if she weren't lying to him, and he didn't believe that she was, how very different he was as well. It was strange, he had always thought of himself as an outsider, different than the people around him in an undefinable way, but it had never occurred to him that there might be an explanation other than the obvious one.

     He had always supposed that his intolerance for the foibles of other people was just a reflection of his character, a personality flaw of his own making. The result perhaps of being an only child, an adoptee who was always secretly wondering if he might have been better off with his real parents. Though he loved his adoptive parents with all his heart, there was always a distance between them that was not easily explainable, some part of him that kept other people, even ones he loved, at arms length.

     Was this the reason, he wondered? If, as S'Tann said, he was a member of their race, the Chosen, didn't it follow that his real parents must also have been Chosen. And if so, did they know of their special heritage, or were they, like him, oblivious to their own genetics, never having had the opportunity to meet one of their own kind?

     Immortality! It was a concept that he found hard to believe. That there were a race of people, seemingly human, but with the capacity to live for centuries! A race of people that shared much with their human cousins apparently, including an inability to solve their disputes without resorting to violence. That alone told him that they weren't really superior, just incredibly different. Frighteningly different perhaps...

     ****

     W'Liam seemed lost in thought, but S'Tann left him to his privacy. She could tell that he was having some difficulty in absorbing his new reality, and that was not terribly surprising to her. She could not imagine thinking of herself in any other way than as one of the Chosen, but he had lived most of his life thinking himself a member of ordinary human society. To suddenly find out he was not human at all must have been quite a shock to his psyche. She hoped it was not too much of a shock. If it were, his Ascension could be tainted. There were rare instances of Chosen males, unable to handle the reality of the physical and mental changes they underwent at the moment of Ascension, who went completely insane, striking out with their newfound power at all who got in their path. These pitiful specimens were usually put to death immediately, there was really no other option, but some had been able to fight off those who sought to restrain them, escaping, and wreaking havoc in their wake. Some of them, their delusions taking hold of some primitive carnivorous aspect of their personalities, became blood drinkers, giving up the sun altogether to feed their despicable craving. Another of the human myths we are responsible for, she thought, but this one not a myth at all!

     She didn't imagine such a fate could befall W'Liam. He was so strong already, his personality so well developed, that she doubted there was anything on earth he couldn't handle, including immortality. Although perhaps she had intentionally misled him in that one regard.

     Under normal circumstances, one of the Ascended would live virtually forever, but that did not mean they were totally immune to death, especially now. They could be killed, by accident or design, the newer weapons of recent human history all too effective and indiscriminate in their abilities to kill large numbers at long distance.

     Unlike the A'Shishem, and at one time, the Twelve as well, the humans found no great benefit in the concept of looking your enemy in the eye as he died. In fact, it appeared exactly the opposite, they much preferred not to see the faces of the dead and dying. Not to examine at close perspective the damage done by their actions. Able to delude themselves perhaps that their explosives did not rend flesh from bone, but only obliterated the edifices of concrete and steel at which they were invariably aimed.

     At least the A'Shishem, S'Tann thought, killers though they were, faced up to the act of killing. They were not ashamed of what they did, did not have to hide behind any artificial facade of what their art actually meant in real terms. They looked into the eyes of their victims at the very moment, and knew intimately the reality of death, the special congress between hunter and prey that distance could never bridge. In that at least, they were honorable men.

     And yet W'Liam himself was a product of that very thing she despised most about the humans. A professional soldier, wasn't that what he called himself? One of the ones who invented the concept of killing at a distance as a way to sanitize the process of destruction. The profession of death, one step removed from the consequences of war, how convenient for them!

     But she sensed that W'Liam himself was not like that. A product of that sort of thinking, yes, but not corrupted by it. Amazingly, not corrupted by it... How was that possible? How possible, when she herself had been forced to embrace that which she despised in the interest of self-preservation? There was something that separated him from those he lived with, she thought, something beyond the fact of his genetics, something much deeper that she must discover. He was to be her life's mate, she must know everything there was to know about him, and that could only come at the Ascension, as she brought him fully into her world...

     ***

     CHAPTER SEVEN - - The Hunter and The Prey

     "This place makes me nervous, Father. Very nervous."

     "It is just another shattered street, Klaus. In another shattered city," Father Carlos replied, slightly amused that his friend should succumb to the oldest of human conditions, fear of the unknown. That the thing they sought was dangerous went without saying, but he seriously doubted they were about to be confronted by one of the Devil's demons in this particular place, at this particular time. The middle of the afternoon, on a deserted street, in the middle of a city under siege, did not strike Carlos as a likely spot for such a thing happening. There were far too many human devils cruising these streets to make it worthwhile for one of the supernatural kind to make an appearance.

     Of course, thought Carlos, perhaps it was the human devils to which Klaus had been referring when he voiced his state of mind. That would have been more in character for the Swiss soldier who acted as his assistant, bodyguard, and confidant. If so, it might be best to reassure him on that score as well.

     "I doubt that any of the factions fighting for control of the city are staking out this territory now, Klaus," he said, looking at the horrible damage done to what had once been a prosperous business district. "There isn't much worth fighting for here, now."

     "You'd be surprised at the things men will take other men's lives over, Father," Klaus replied, his voice taking on a hard edge, illustrating his disgust.

     "I'm sure your right, my friend. But we won't be here long. I just wanted to see them with my own eyes."

     "That's the place," Klaus said, pointing. "In front of that building is where we should find the bodies."

     Father Carlos followed the imaginary line that extended from Klaus's fingertip to a pile of shattered concrete lying in front of a ten story office complex that looked as if it had been bombed quite thoroughly, whether from the air, or from land-based explosives was anybody's guess. According to Major Carter's report to the UN, this whole area had been hit extensively by the Israeli airforce, but in all likelihood it was probably not in much better shape before the invasion than it was now. The Lebanese civil war had been going on for almost eight years before the Israelis arrived, and the damage inflicted on Beirut by the various factions was truly extraordinary.

     What a tragedy... He had visited here once, the Church used to have a retreat in the mountains outside the city, and he had been enchanted then by Beirut, the Paris of the middle-east, but that city was gone forever. Sunk in the quagmire of factional fighting that did not look as if it would ever end.

     Steeling himself for what he knew lurked in the shadow cast by that pile of rubble, Carlos walked slowly toward it, across a terrain that looked nothing like the city street that was buried somewhere beneath the debris of civil war. He was still more that twenty paces away from his objective when the stench engulfed him, and he was forced to stop for a moment to collect himself.

     Seeing the priest's predicament, Klaus offered to do what they had come here to do for him, "I can do this, Father."

     Father Carlos waved his friend away, taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and holding it over his nose. "No, Klaus, I'm all right. This is something I have to do myself. But get ready with the camera, I want the site fully documented."

     "As you wish," Klaus replied, pulling the lens cap off the expensive german camera hanging around his neck, using a light meter to get his exposure right, and setting the f-stop on the camera to take maximum advantage of the natural lighting.

     The two of them, the priest in the lead, then proceeded the final few meters to their gruesome quest. It looked much as Father Carlos had imagined, the mediterranean heat tended to make short work of the process of decomposition. The two corpses were laid out side by side, nude. Carlos remembered from his reading of Major Carter's report, that the UN detachment had collected all of the men's effects, including apparently their clothing, right down to the underwear they had been wearing.

     The flesh was already beginning to peel away from parts of the skeleton of one of the men, long strips of putrefying flesh hanging open, exposing the entrails underneath. The other corpse was horribly bloated, and looked as if it might explode at any moment. Carlos wished to spare himself that sight if possible, but if it happened while he was standing there, so be it. He wasn't about to cut his investigation short, in the interest of saving his lunch.

     He did a slow circuit of the site, trying to picture in his mind the final moments of the two dead men. They were lying in the same position that Major Carter had found them, one of them face down, the other face up, as if the second man had a chance to see his assailant before he died. Was that the reason for the removal of the eyes, Carlos wondered? Some ritual whereby the dead, deprived of their sight in the afterlife, could not identify their attacker?

     "This one died first," Klaus said, pointing to what was left of the man who was lying face down behind the pile of rubble. The Swiss soldier than looked off into the distance, along the line of sight that must have represented the sniper team's kill zone. "And their target was down there somewhere, probably within four hundred meters. That would be optimum for a sniper, at night, with the moon as it was on the night they died."

     "Do we know exactly when they died?" Carlos asked.

     "Based on the UN report, it had to be within twenty-four hours of them being on the scene. Major Carter was quite specific, the bodies were beginning to smell, but not so much that they could have been out here any longer before they were discovered."

     Carlos nodded, remembering reading the same thing. Who were these men, he wondered? And what did they hope to accomplish here, in the dark of night, on their mission of death?

     He bent down to take a closer look at the body that was lying with it's horribly disfigured face to the summer sun. What were you thinking in the second before you died, child? As death took you, did you see the face of your killer? Those were questions that, in all likelihood, would never be answered, Carlos thought. These two would join the countless ranks of the dead, unknown to all except their God. He made the sign of the cross over them, though death had most certainly been their profession, they were beyond the vengeance of man now, and Carlos would not deny them their right to be judged by God. He didn't even know if they were Christians, but that did not matter to him either. As much as his opinion might put him in conflict with the Holy Mother Church, Father Carlos held very different views on the subject of Salvation, than most of his brethren within the Jesuit community.

     Out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something metallic shining in the sun. He looked over and saw a cartridge casing lying on the ground a few feet away, dull black, except for a single scratch exposing the polished brass beneath. He walked over and picked it up, turning it over in his hand, and Klaus, seeing him bend over to pick something up off the ground came over to him.

     "May I see that, Father?"

     Carlos handed it over, deferring to the soldier's expertise in these matters, and watched as Klaus examined the thing, taking out a small magnifier and holding it up close to his eye, looking for a moment very much like a detective from the popular cinema Carlos had been so fond of as a child.

     "Well inspector," he joked. "What's the verdict?"

     Klaus smiled ruefully, and placed the folding magnifier back into his pocket, continuing to examine the cartridge casing with his naked eye. "It's a large calibre, Father. Such a bullet would have a very flat trajectory. Ideal for the type of work these men were doing."

     "Why would there be two of them, Klaus?"

     "A spotter, and a shooter, Father," the Swiss replied. "The spotter's job would be to keep the target acquired, feed the shooter range information, and keep his eyes and ears open for any potential security problems. Obviously... he didn't do his job very well."

     Carlos nodded in grim agreement with Klaus's assessment. But there was something else he was curious about. "Does this mean that the shooter actually fired at something?"

     "These type of men don't generally expend ammunition for nothing... I'd have to say yes, he shot at something."

     Carlos looked speculatively toward the area where Klaus had said the sniper's target must have been, wondering if they would find anything over there? Klaus followed the priest's gaze, apparently guessing immediately what he had in mind.

     "Poking around here too much wouldn't be advisable, Father."

     Carlos smiled at his friend's warning. After all these years together, Klaus still didn't really understand what it was that drove his investigation, or why, at times, he had such a careless disregard for his own safety. Although he had been with the Vatican security service for a long time, Klaus was not a catholic, and therefore could not really imagine putting himself, as Carlos did everyday, into God's hands. Trusting that God would protect him was a fundamental part of Father Carlos' belief system, if he lost that, what would be the point of it all?

     "Come along, Klaus," Carlos said, beginning to walk toward the place where the sniper team's target must have been. "The truth shall set us free!"

     The Swiss soldier shook his head, accepting the fact that in some things, his charge was not to be dissuaded, even if the course he was embarking upon might seem foolhardy to someone with less faith in the protective powers of the Almighty. Putting the cartridge casing in his pocket, he sighed, and meekly followed the priest's lead...

     ****

     The A'Shishem scowled as he watched the two men approach, the smell of them offensive. The one in the lead blundered ahead without the slightest inclination that he was being observed. But the other one... he was more wary, with the look of the professional about him. That alone singled him out as the primary target, should it become necessary to eliminate the two human interlopers. After centuries of hunting humans, the A'Shishem had developed a healthy respect for their soldiers. Weak, they might be, but dangerous as well. And he had no intention of becoming the prey of a human hunter.

     The A'Shishem had been in his position for two risings of the sun, ordered there by Mir'a'Da himself, instructed to observe whoever came to gawk at the kill a few hundred meters away. It was not the first time he had taken on such an assignment. Mir'a'Da was a careful leader, and it was always his policy to keep a kill under observation for a time, in case the enemies of the Great Queen came sniffing around it. Keeping track of one's opponents was a critical aspect of their work, and one he and the rest of the A'Shishem took very seriously.

     Overall, the A'Shishem thought, these two did not look as if they posed much of a threat. Perhaps they were just reporters, out after another war story to regal their readers with. Many of the 'war correspondents' as they called themselves, were former soldiers. Such might be the case here, in which instance, his anxiety over their approach was probably misplaced. But he had a bad feeling about these two, one he could not readily explain away. A tenseness in his belly that he had learned to take seriously, one that made him overly cautious perhaps, but he had learned the hard way that it was best not to underestimate the humans. Many of the Chosen had made that mistake, and not lived to regret it!

     And so he watched carefully, quietly, as the two men got closer and closer to his hidden observation post, senses heightened, expecting the unexpected, as he had been taught by the Master himself. They were not talking, he noticed, and the one in the lead had his head down, as if searching for something on the ground. The other one, the careful one, was more circumspect, choosing his footing carefully, alert to the potential danger of wandering around a combat zone. Yes, the A'Shishem thought, most definitely a professional. Without question, a human who was familiar with the business of death. But that would not save him...

     ****

     There was nothing, as far as Carlos could see, to indicate that anyone, or anything, had ever been here. Aside from the destruction of course, that was obviously artificial, only man could destroy such massive artifices as these buildings with such careless abandon. It was eerie, Carlos thought, feeling a chill go up his spine, in spite of the hot summer sun beating down on him.

     That people had once worked in these buildings, led ordinary everyday lives, all gone now, in this orgy of destruction. It was incredible really. That such greatness could be brought so low by the baseness of man, he thought sadly. What a pity... And what struck him even more was the knowledge that, at the very center of this horror, lay the religious fervor that distinguished man from the rest of God's creatures.

     Yes, he thought, the Holy Mother Church has much to answer for, as he knew only too well. Unlike most men, including most priests, Carlos was intimately acquainted with the more horrifying episodes in the history of the Catholic Church. It was all there, deep in the archives hidden beneath the Vatican, the whole sordid story. The corruption of his Church, a corruption that continued in some respects to this very day. How it happened though, there was the real question? What had driven the leadership of the Christian Church to such depths of depravity? It was a true puzzle to a man such as he, one he hoped someday to find the answer to.

     In the meantime, he would continue his search, hoping to find the physical proof that the modern world demanded. Although his faith in the power of God was absolute, he knew that others did not share his view, that they would not accept with blind faith the things he accepted without question. It was not God who was the problem, Carlos reflected, it was the fragile men who spent their lives interpreting God's message. That's where the blame, if any was to be found, had to be laid. It was them, the leaders of his Church, who so disgusted some people that they turned their face from the true faith forever, and it was these lost ones that Carlos hoped to help bring back into the fold. No, he thought, God cannot be blamed for the foibles of man. In that, the world's anger has been misplaced.

     "There's nothing to be found here, Father," Klaus said, interrupting Carlos' ruminations on the state of his Church. "We have seen what we came here to see, I suggest we leave. As I said before, this place makes me very nervous."

     "Alright, Klaus," Carlos replied, wishing they had found something, anything, that would give credence to his theory that there was something very odd about the deaths of these two poor souls. No one, Carlos reflected, should die like they had died, no matter their profession. And then to be left to rot, without benefit even of burial? Well... that was just... inhuman, as far as he was concerned. Surely they could at least take the time to bury these men, they deserved that much, didn't they?

     "I want to bury them, Klaus. No matter which God they prayed to, I can't countenance simply letting them rot in this heat. Any man deserves better, and if I'm right about who killed these two, they deserve a decent burial more than most."

     "You realize that Lebanon is at war, Father? That this area could be bombed at any time, by almost anyone?"

     "I know, Klaus. And if you don't want to stay and help me in this task, feel free to leave. But this is something I must do. I am, afterall, a priest..."

     Klaus looked as if he were about to argue the merits of Carlos' decision, but then he stopped himself with an obvious effort of will. Carlos could see the conflict in him clearly, on the one hand, his experience as a professional soldier telling him that the sooner they were out of this place the better, and on the other, his loyalty to Carlos and his cause, and the deep respect he held for the priest's beliefs, as much as he might disagree personally with many of them.

     "I have no intention of abandoning you now, Father. If you feel you must absolutely do this thing, then we will do it together."

     "Thank you, Klaus."

     "Don't thank me, Father. I still think it is a foolish idea, no one can help those men now, and I doubt they care much what happens to their earthly remains."

     It was as far as he would go with his criticism, Carlos knew, but even that little statement illustrated quite clearly how strongly Klaus felt, and it forced Carlos to wonder if he were doing the right thing. Sometimes, he knew, he was guilty of forgetting how dangerous his work could become. These streets, seemingly populated by only the dead, could suddenly come to life with a whole range of dangers that Carlos himself could only speculate upon. Klaus, with his vast experience as a soldier, both with the Swiss army, and as a mercenary for hire, was eminently more qualified than he to determine how much real danger lurked on these deserted streets. But, Carlos thought, if he were to blindly follow his bodyguard's advice, he might never leave his rooms at the Vatican, and that would not accomplish anything, would it? No, he had to do this one thing for these poor men, he would not be able to live with himself otherwise.

     "Then I suggest we get to it my friend. The sooner we are finished, the sooner we can follow your advice, and remove ourselves from this godforsaken country."

     If Klaus was surprised by Carlos' reference to the Lebanon as a godforsaken country, he kept it to himself...

     ****

     When the two humans walked off, the A'Shishem felt a moment of relief, perhaps it would not be necessary to kill them afterall. When they returned a short time later, carrying spades and a pickaxe, his frustration with their obvious stupidity was fully restored. What in the world did they hope to accomplish? Was it really necessary for them to bury the two rotting pieces of offal that had been lying out in the mediterranean sun for nearly five days? Why in the world would they do such a thing?

     The A'Shishem shook his head in disgust. A dead body was just that, a dead body, with no intrinsic value whatsoever, except perhaps as bait. The fact that someone would waste their time actually handling such a thing appalled him no end. He couldn't imagine doing such a thing himself, and the fact that the humans would, was just another indication of their absolute inferiority as far as he was concerned. How could they stand the smell?

     Nonetheless, his job was to watch the dead prey, and so watch he would. He wasn't sure if Mir'a'Da had considered this eventuality however, and once the humans completed their grisly task, he assumed that his assignment would be effectively over. Afterall, once the prey was buried, there would not be much point in watching the graves, would there?

     At least he hoped not. It was not a very stimulating assignment, sitting in these ruins, hour after hour, day after night after day. And considering the attraction these particular corpses apparently had, he could conceivably be at it for weeks, or at least until the bodies were nothing but skeletons. And even then, he thought with real revulsion, hadn't he heard somewhere that the humans were fond of digging up the skeletal remains of their dead as well? What a truly disgusting habit that was!

     As he watched, the two humans disappeared behind the pile of rubble where the prey lay, and shortly thereafter, his sensitive ears picked up the sound of chipping and scraping that he assumed was a result of their digging a hole for the two bodies. Oddly, these sounds caused his feelings of unease to return with a vengeance, forcing him to reach out with his special senses, seeking the source of the danger he felt as a palpable presence. He detected nothing that would explain the tingle running up and down his spine, the uncontrollable clutching in his bowels, which only served to increase his agitation, making him wish that there was some precipitous action he could take to alleviate this anxiety. When the source of his unease was finally revealed, he was as shocked as the two lesser beings he watched...

     ****

     "This is hot work, Klaus," Father Carlos commented, leaning on his shovel for a moments rest, hoping to ease some of the strain that he could feel between them, knowing that Klaus felt this to be an unnecessary and unacceptable risk they were taking.

     "You're right about that, Father," Klaus grunted shortly in reply, continuing his work with the pickaxe, breaking up the loose pavement of the street to dig the grave.

     Carlos tried another tack as he got back to work with the shovel, cleaning out the area that Klaus had already broken up. "I suppose you've buried a lot of men over the years, haven't you?"

     Klaus looked up from his work, his expression grim, the eyes focused on some distant memory. "Yes, quite a few... too many, actually. Women and children as well. Unfortunately, war does not often restrict itself to combatants alone, Father."

     Carlos nodded gravely. That much was clear, he thought, staring at the chaos that surrounded them, and knowing that this carnage was repeated block after block, across the length and breadth of Beirut, and throughout the whole of Lebanon. The fundamental inhumanity of mankind illustrated all too clearly, each individual tragedy a microcosm of the entire tragic history of the human race as a whole.

     Did we really deserve this, Carlos wondered of his God? Were our crimes against you so heinous that you had to put us through this to teach us the fundamental lessons? Could there not have been a better way?

     "We did not think so at the time..."

     Carlos and Klaus both whirled around at the sound of the voice beside them, shocked to their very core by what they beheld...

     ****

     Simpletons, G'Brael had thought at first. Who else but an idiot would waste their time digging graves for two of the hundreds of bodies that littered the streets and buildings that surrounded this spot. But when he listened to the thoughts of the one called Carlos, he reassessed his initial opinion. Not simpletons afterall, simply misguided. And perhaps that was not really their own fault, but then again...

     They were staring at him with incredulous looks on their flat human faces, as if he had just stepped out of one of their nightmares. The bogeyman, come to awe inspiring life before their eyes. It wasn't surprising, he supposed. This was exactly what the Chosen had intended at first, to inspire such a state of shock and fear by their simple presence that they could do with the barbarians what they would, without fear of reprisal. And it had worked for a time, right up until the Serpent had gotten the inspired idea of using the barbarians against the First Kingdom. That was the day the human nightmare had become one the Chosen themselves had to fear. And had feared ever since.

     G'Brael did not bother to cloak himself in a more human looking form, he let his full aura manifest itself without restraint. Let the humans see the majesty of his Ascended self, unadulterated, awesome, the power flowing from him in waves, exquisitely intimidating.

     "My name is G'Brael..."

     ****

     The A'Shishem watched the three of them, surprised that one of the Twelve would be so bold as to come here, to this place, of all places on earth. Now he knew what his special senses had been trying to tell him, and he was not pleased that one of the enemy could approach so closely without detection.

     I have been too long without a kill, he thought. My skills atrophy from lack of use. The only saving grace to be found in the situation, was that the enemy had not detected his presence either, little comfort really, but it was something at least. Something that he could use.

     The question was, what should he do now? Should he attempt the taking? Or wait, quietly, gather what information he could, and report back to Mir'a'Da? It was an interesting question, but his instincts told him to make the kill while the opportunity presented itself. The humans would have to die as well, but that was of little consequence to him.

     He was no match for G'Brael's power, in that, G'Brael was first among the Twelve. But the A'Shishem believed, had predicated his life in fact, upon the premise that brute force was not necessarily the best way to accomplish a killing.

     He analyzed the relative positions of the prey, knowing now that G'Brael himself would have to die first, by the simple virtue that he posed the greatest threat to the successful completion of the kill. Unfortunately, the former Grand Councillor to the Great King, from a purely tactical standpoint, was also in the best position to defend himself. That fact, when coupled with the special senses that would enable him to detect the A'Shishem long before the thrust could be made, made him a dangerous adversary indeed. One that would test all of the A'Shishem's skill.

     But, in spite of his own feelings of inadequacy, the A'Shishem felt he had no choice but to make the attempt. Here before him stood one of the first enemies of the Great Queen, how could he deny her, and himself, such a trophy?

     ****

     G'Brael was not terribly surprised that the two humans seemed to be struck mute by his presence. Afterall, even the Chosen themselves were intimidated by the Ascended ones among them. How could it be any different for these two, suddenly come face to face with a being that they could not possibly have imagined actually existed.

     What was surprising, and also amusing in it's way, was the fact that his reading of the one called Carlos, told him that he, or someone very much like him, was indeed exactly what the man had been looking for his entire adult life. Slightly amusing, yes, but not so amusing that it lessened G'Brael's annoyance at finding them here.

     A Jesuit priest of all things, what a strange place to find one of those, G'Brael thought. The very last thing he had expected to find on the bloody streets of Beirut. But here he was, looking shocked, standing as stupidly as G'Brael had first found him, holding a shovel in his hand, two rotting corpses at his feet. But then again, given the history of his church, perhaps that was not too inappropriate afterall.

     "Well," G'Brael prompted, "Have you nothing to say for yourselves?"

     ****

     Carlos had never been so frightened in his life. This thing that stood before them was much more than he had ever hoped to see. Suddenly, the danger of his life's search had come crashing down on them, in the form of this being of shining skin, with a face that seemed carved from granite. Impossible to look for too long at that face, the glowing blue eyes somehow forcing him to look away, and the horns... My God, he thought, horns! Just as the ancient manuscripts had said!

     "My... my name is Carlos," he finally stammered. "Father Carlos Cardenza, of the Society of Jesus." And then, tapping some reserve of strength that he never knew he had, he demanded, "What do you want of us, devil?"

     "I know who you are, priest," the thing that called himself G'Brael replied callously. "I know all about you, and your quest for demons. It would seem the reality is more than you had hoped for, am I right?"

     Carlos made the sign of the cross, a gesture he wasn't consciously aware of making at all. A reflex, nothing more, but one that nonetheless gave him the courage he had to have, if he and Klaus were to survive this encounter. "I say again, devil... What do you want of us?"

     "What could I possibly want with you?" the devil asked in reply, flippant, dismissive.

     It was impossible to tell in what direction the thing was looking, Carlos realized. Those terrible eyes seemed to focus on nothing, and everything, all at once. Again, just as had been described in the ancient texts, buried in the vaults far beneath the Vatican.

     Although, unlike some of his contemporaries, Carlos had always believed in the basic truth contained in those old and crumbling documents, in absolute terms, the devil was right; The reality was more than he had ever really expected!

     He took a furtive glance at Klaus, who looked as if he were planted on the spot he occupied, absolutely still, not even a muscle twitching. But Carlos knew better, the Swiss soldier was like a tightly coiled spring, ready to lunge at any moment. For both their sakes, he hoped his friend would not do anything prematurely. Now that he had gotten himself somewhat over the initial shock, Carlos was beginning to realize what a truly unique experience they were having. For the first time in hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, a human was actually conversing with a being that was truly supernatural!

     "What were these men to you?" he asked.

     He thought for a moment that the thing looked down at the corpses, but it was impossible to be sure. And something, some expression passed over it's face, a momentary flicker, no more. But Carlos was convinced that it was regret that he saw there, in that single instant when the thing seemed to let down it's guard. Was that possible, he wondered? Could the devil feel sadness at the corruption of two ordinary men? How intriguing this thing was!

     ****

     "How perceptive of you," G'Brael responded to the priest's question. "That you would understand on some level that these two dead humans and I were connected. In answer, I would say that they were tools. A means to an end, nothing more. And yes, I do regret their deaths, the necessity of it. That too, was very perceptive. Surprisingly so."

     The priest did not seem to be terribly shocked by the fact that G'Brael could read his mind. And did not react at all to G'Brael's admission that he felt some remorse over the deaths of these two men lying at their feet. He was very good at hiding his true feelings, this one, G'Brael thought. He had a very inhuman perception of the truth. Faithful to the old myths, while at the same time questioning the historical interpretation of those myths. A hunter of demons, not the first of those that G'Brael had met, but unlike the others, not a slave to the ideology of that occupation. A thoroughly unusual man.

     And the other one, unusual also, but for a completely different reason, G'Brael thought, looking at him. This one was ready to explode into action if given the least opportunity. A wariness behind the eyes, but little in the way of outright fear, almost as if he had half expected something of this nature to happen to him sooner or later.

     No, he thought, again reconsidering his initial opinion, definitely not simpletons. And not really misguided either, only committed to their work. Their lives dedicated to the supreme task of proving beyond any shred of doubt the existence of their God, and his Devil. And here, unknown to any but themselves, they had, in a very real way, succeeded in their quest.

     G'Brael wondered what these two might say if they knew the whole truth, wondered if that knowledge would shake the priest's commitment to his church? He decided on the spur of the moment to find out.

     "I am not the one you seek, priest," he said. "Although he is one of us, the Serpent, the one that you have read about in your crumbling texts, is not my ally. Indeed, he is my mortal enemy. But he is a friend of your church. In fact, he once sat at the right hand of the Roman Emperor Constantine. It was he, and he alone, who advised the Pontiff of Rome to embrace the christianity that you hold so dear to your heart."

     ****

     Blasphemer, Carlos thought. You seek to hide your true nature with lies! Do you think me such a child that I would ever believe such a thing?

     "Like most of your kind," the devil continued, as if in answer to his thoughts. "You do not like the truth. It offends your tender sensibilities, your carefully constructed preconceptions of history. Believe me, you know nothing of the true history of this world, or your church. Nothing at all!"

     "Liar!" Carlos shouted. "It is your words that are a construct, devil, not mine!"

     "Feel the truth of what I tell you, priest," the devil continued. "You have that ability within you, unlike some of the other humans I have dealt with over the centuries, you can separate the lies from the truth. Isn't that why your Father General picked you, of all the possible candidates among the Society of Jesus, for this task? To find the truth, in spite of what it might mean to your faith? Do you think the hunt for the Serpent began with you? Are you really so naive?"

     That gave Carlos pause, remembering his first glimpse of the secret archives, and the warning of the Father General; "What you find here may shock you, Carlos. And it will certainly test your faith. But our church has strayed from the true path, and somewhere in these texts lies the reason why. It is your mission, your sacred duty even, to discover that secret..."

     Could it be true, he wondered? Could the Church have been corrupted from the very beginning? And it was in Rome, in the year 276 AD., that the first documented case of this particular type of ritualistic murder was discovered, and reported upon to the Emperor. Carlos had read that report with his own eyes, in it's original Latin, the first clue in a trail that had led him from that day to this.

     And in that same report, an afterword, the clerk-scribe who copied it referring to other copies, one of which had been sent to one of the Emperor Constantius's close personal advisors, a man referred to only by code; je Serpens -- the Serpent. And it was Constantius who was the father of Constantine I, the first Christian emperor of Rome.

     But wasn't it also true, he thought, that the scriptures stated, in quite unequivocal terms, that the Devil himself could quote the gospels to serve his own ends? Could this not be the very circumstance for which that warning was perfectly tailored?

     "Tell me what you know of the Serpent, devil," Carlos demanded.

     "Why do you refuse to call me by my name?"

     "Because I do not believe that is your name, devil," Carlos shot back. "G'Brael is the name of one of our Lord's archangels. You do not look like one of those!"

     "Don't I? How odd you are, priest. Do you think by calling me by my given name, you will somehow be corrupted?"

     "The thought had crossed my mind that I am already am corrupted," Carlos said. "Simply by listening to you, some in my Church would accuse me of consorting with the Devil."

     "But I am no devil, priest," the thing replied. "I am just a being, in some ways very much like yourself, in that I wish to survive, and have my progeny survive as well."

     "The devil talks of children as if he were a loving father, that's rich!"

     ****

     At that last remark, G'Brael seriously considered killing this irritant then and there. What would a Jesuit monk know of children, or the pain G'Brael had felt at their loss? How dare he! How dare he dismiss the memory of my sons so flippantly! The urge to kill this man, to take some revenge for all the Chosen that had been put to death by men such as this over the centuries, was almost too strong to ignore. What would your church think, priest, he wondered, if they found your corpse lying beside these two, with your eyes and entrails cut out? Would your Pope scurry back to his apartments in the Vatican to hide? And pray to his long-dead God for salvation from my wrath?

     G'Brael controlled himself with some difficulty, mightily tempted to let the rage take him, and damn the consequences! But he knew that would be a poor excuse for killing this fool, and wouldn't solve any of the Twelve's problems, immediate or otherwise. No, he thought, the best policy would be to let this priest's faith take him where it would. Perhaps he could be used to good effect. If it is the Serpent he seeks, might he not be just the one to find him? In this, we have a common interest, and the Jesuits have resources that the Twelve, with all our power, do not. Let him do the work for us. He does not know of S'Tann's existence. If what M'Quael suspected was true, and S'Tann had L'Kynvir, this priest might be able to find them both. G'Brael would continue his attempt to make contact with S'Tann himself, but if that failed, it would not be a bad idea to have an alternate strategy prepared. The elemental question remained however, could he convince the Jesuit to embark on this mission. He was about make his case for co-operation to Father Carlos, when the A'Shishem attacked...

     ***

     CHAPTER EIGHT - - Assault on the Twelve

     Mir'a'Da listened closely, running the count in his head, as the seconds ticked down toward the diversion's execution. His count was perfect, but the diversion itself was off by one second. He reached zero, and then there was a pregnant pause, before the earth shattering roar of the explosion two blocks away shook the surrounding buildings to their foundations.

     He hefted the sheathed long-sword he carried by it's scabbard in his right hand, hoping that it's blade would taste the blood of the Twelve before this night's work was done. The sword was ancient by human standards, of Japanese manufacture, perfectly balanced, and honed to fine edge. It was the type of weapon the A'Shishem much preferred for this type of assault. Rare was the individual who could slip under the sword's killing arc, and Mir'a'Da, like all the rest of the A'Shishem, was a master of the long-sword.

     He unsheathed his instrument of death gently, as a lover might caress the limb of a paramour. The soft whisper of the blade against the oiled leather, a poignant counterpoint to the brutal task it was designed for. Counting to fifty before moving in against the wall that surrounded the Twelve's compound, taking cover in it's shadow.

     He wanted the Twelve awake for their killings, one of the reasons he had arranged for such a spectacular diversion, and so he gave them time to rise from their beds, before leaping to the top of the wall in a single bound. He balanced there, listening, immobile, hardly even breathing, and heard... nothing. The only conclusion he could make, was that they were either being extremely circumspect, or they were... gone. But it was necessary for him to make sure, absolutely sure, and so he continued, moving off the wall and into the silent courtyard. Every step a calculated one, just as it would be if he were facing an armed defense of the compound.

     That he was alone became apparent almost immediately, but he proceeded with his sweep nonetheless, moving out of the courtyard and into the building itself, every sense tuned to detect the slightest movement.

     The Council's chamber, doors gaping, was as empty as the courtyard, the ancient table at it's center giving mute testimony to the Twelve's recent presence. There was nothing here to draw his attention, no spark of life, human or Chosen, nothing on which to vent his quietly controlled rage at being deprived of his night's work. Once again, the Twelve had managed to escape their fate.

     He moved passed the Council chamber itself, and into the larger part of the villa. Carefully searching each room, probing with his senses, the cold blue aura that surrounded him flicking out to test the nooks and crannies where someone might hide. But even as he proceeded with his task, he knew the search would prove fruitless. His blade would be quenched with only his blood this night, no sword drawn by him ever put back in it's sheath without the taste of blood, even if that blood had to be his own.

     It did not take him very long to complete his chore, and when it was finished, he returned to the table in the Council's chamber, taking the seat at it's head.

     He drew the thumb of his left hand slowly, and lightly, down the blade of his sword, leaving a fine trace of his precious blood along it's edge. It would have to do, he thought, taking a silk cloth from beneath his tunic, sliding the cloth gently down the blade, using the blood from his own body to polish the hardened steel to a fine luster. The sword was fifteen hundred years old, one of Mir'a'Da's most precious possessions. A reminder of better times, and lost opportunity.

     It's name was Dragonslayer, and the name was embossed in the tiny ancient script of the First Kingdom, along the top edge of the blade. The handle, made from ivory, wrapped in three layers of leather, and molded to his two hands from centuries of use, was black. The sword had been given to him by a woman that he had once loved. A human female, who had granted peace and tranquility for a time, to one who had made death an honored profession, and taken the art of the assassin to a level unequalled in all of history.

     For that reason alone, he would have cherished the sword he handled so lovingly. But the blade itself, he had found, carried with it a personality all it's own. One he had learned to appreciate greatly over the centuries he had owned the instrument. It would be hard to describe to someone who did not know of the special relationship that developed between a hunter and his weapon, but he viewed the sword more as an old, and dear friend, than as simply a piece of polished steel with a deadly edge. Dragonslayer was much more than that to him. It was a part of his past, true, but he had come to believe that this great sword, this instrument of powerfully contained death, held the secret to his future as well.

     The Great Queen, for all their closeness, had never enlightened him as to what the future held in store for the oldest of her A'Shishem. And he had never asked her directly what his fate would be. Never requested that she share her memory of his death. Sometimes, when they were alone together, comfortable in the special silence between them, he had been tempted, mightily tempted. But something had always stopped him, prevented him from asking the critical question.

     And now that she had found her prince, he doubted that there would be many nights spent alone with his Queen any longer. She would seek him out for his skill, his advice, even to unburden herself, but there would be a change between them, unavoidable, and perhaps for the better. It is time I considered disappearing, he thought, surprising himself that it would come to mind as he sat here, at this table, this very table from which the Great Kingdom had once been ruled.

     He looked down it's length, at the empty chairs on either side. Not meant for human proportions, obviously, the high backs and wide-set arms would dwarf any human who sat there. And he remembered sitting at this very table, a long time ago, during the rule of A'Shira. When, as commander of her palace guard, he too had been a member of the Council of Thirteen. And across from him, had sat the General of the King's Host, L'Kynvir, now known throughout the world as the Serpent.

     They had been friends, companions in the hunt, comrades in battle against the barbarians who at times threatened the Great Kingdom. L'Kynvir had stood by his side at the naming ceremony of his first-born son. A son long dead, killed on the night of the great slaughter, aiding the escape of S'Tann. The newly transformed Great Queen, needing his youth to sustain her on the long retreat, had Taken him. But only after he, seeing her desperate need, had offered to make the supreme sacrifice on her behalf.

     He remembered how, after catching up with them, S'Tann had come to him, precious tears that she could ill afford to shed, streaming down her face, to tell him of the death of his son by her hand. It was the only time he could recollect seeing a Great Queen prostrate herself before one of her subjects, begging their forgiveness. He remembered asking her if his son had died well, and her reply, "It was the best of deaths, Mir'a. Your son died in ecstasy, in the arms of his Queen."

     And for that, he had loved her even more, if that were possible. Not because of the honour she had granted his son, but because she so deeply regretted the act of necessity that no-one could ever fault her for. Would that all of us could embrace such a death, he thought, knowing that such a honour would never befall him.

     Yes, he thought, sitting at this table brings it all back. All the bitterness, all the pain. Too many comrades lost, too many close friends become mortal enemies, too much history for one being to absorb. It is time to end it, and this was to be the night of that ending, but once again I have failed. One failure too many!

     He could simply disappear, it would not be that hard. Others had done it, some of them alive still, no doubt. Leading lives of meaningless boredom, perhaps, but lives at least! Not this endless game of stroke and counterstroke that has occupied us for far too long.

     There had been victories, both great and small, over the long years of his life and service to his Queen. The retaking of Jerusalem by Saladin had been one of them, and he had been there, riding by S'Tann's side as she had re-entered the city of her youth, although it had not been called Jerusalem by the Chosen. Those were days when it seemed as if final victory would be their's. But alas, along with the victories, came setbacks. The Roman Empire, once thought defeated, had resurfaced in a new, more insidious form. And even though driven from the Holy Land, as it came to be called by the barbarians who fought over it, the power of Rome continued to expand throughout the newly discovered lands of the west.

     And some of the Chosen who had taken refuge there thousands of years before, were once again forced to flee from barbarian fanatics. Abandoning their beautiful cities, built with such care to mimic a part of history long since forgotten by the barbarians themselves. Their monuments to their own culture, torn down stone by stone, replaced by the repulsive architecture of the Europeans. Until, there was little left to remind anyone that his people had ever been there. The history of that place, along with so many others that the Roman Church had claimed for themselves and their non-existent god, rewritten by the conquerors. Whose texts of those times concentrated only on the blood rituals that so horrified them, ignoring completely the more mundane aspects, and brilliant accomplishments, of those who chose to make their lives in the so-called New World.

     And to add insult to grievous injury, they had the audacity, these unwashed, ignorant, christian monks, to call the cities that the Chosen had helped to build with such care, the work of the Devil. It was almost comical, in horribly tragic sort of way, he thought. That the ones who were burning others of their own kind for holding congress with the Devil, were being led, manipulated, and horribly used by the very Serpent, whose minions they were supposedly hunting with such fanatic zeal!

     How he must have enjoyed that irony, his old friend. How sweet must have been his revenge on those he had thought wronged him so terribly. Does he think of those past glories now, Mir'a'Da wondered? Is that what keeps him alive still, in his stinking dungeon beneath the sanctuary of the Great Queen? A lesser spirit would have succumbed years ago, but L'Kynvir could never be accused of being anything but stubborn. Willful, that would be a word that could describe him, and it was will alone that kept him alive in his dark cell.

     Mir'a'Da did not think the Serpent's fate an honorable one, and would have much preferred to put his old friend out of his misery, once and for all, but S'Tann forbade any such act of compassion where the former General of the King's Host was concerned. Why, he did not know. And it was not his place to disagree publicly with S'Tann's decision, but even the Great Queen could not prevent him from having an opinion on the subject. Nor, knowing her as he did, would she, even if that power were her's to command. Like all Sovereigns, S'Tann demanded the respect of her subjects, but the concept of abject acceptance of her views would be abhorrent to her, as it had been to her mother, A'Shira.

     That attitude might have been what caused the break between A'Shira, and Y'Hoveh, Mir'a'Da thought. The Great King had demanded blind obedience of exactly the kind that A'Shira had found repulsive. And so he had murdered her, it was a simple as that, no matter what the Council of Twelve were led to believe. That was the truth, and their accommodation of that heinous act, above all else, is what made them fit to feel the sting of his blade on their tender necks...

     ****

     The two humans lay in an untidy heap in one corner of the burned out office. What had once been a travel agency, if G'Brael had his terminology right, which was by no means certain. He did not need the methods of transportation that the humans were fond of, and so had never bothered to find out much about them. The thought of relying on someone else to make one's travel arrangements struck him as being extremely risky.

     The priest and his companion were mercifully unconscious, both slightly, but painfully, injured in the A'Shishem's attack. And G'Brael was not sure exactly what he should do with them. If he left them here, some uncharitable soul might find them and put them to death for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. On the other hand, he did not want to stay here, wasting his precious time protecting them from something which might, or might not, occur.

     If only their powers of recuperation weren't so damnably slow, he thought in vexation. It is a wonder that any of them survive into adulthood! They had already been unconscious for hours, and showed no sign of waking up anytime soon.

     Perhaps it is the shock of what they have witnessed, he thought. Scarce able to accommodate themselves to the notion of one demon, and then forced to accept the reality of watching two, in a battle to the death no less. That must have been difficult for them, but surely not so bad that they would retreat into unconsciousness as a method of protecting their well entrenched views of existence?

     The A'Shishem's attack had come as a nasty surprise, in spite of the fact that he had journeyed to the Lebanon specifically to make contact with Mir'a'Da. I should have known, he thought, Mir'a'Da was much too careful a tactician to deny himself the opportunity to gather intelligence by keeping a kill under surveillance. That was a mistake that he would not make in the future. He had no intention of giving the A'Shishem his head as a gift! If there was to be peace between S'Tann and the Twelve, she would have to give up on the idea of taking revenge on them for the acts committed by the Great King!

     If it weren't for the fact that he was always alert, the A'Shishem might have accomplished his task. But his senses were tickled by the rage driving the attack, and he was able to strengthen himself at the last second, deflecting the sweeping strike the assassin made with the short knife. Using his power in it's most brutal form, overwhelming his opponent by the sheer force of his aura. Taking him, purely as a matter of survival, as he struggled to regain the initiative.

     It had not been pretty, G'Brael reflected. He had disgusted himself with the necessity of it, not by nature a killer, but possessing a strong survival instinct, honed all the sharper by centuries of being hunted. The humans had been caught in the first discharge, as he and the A'Shishem struggled for supremacy, and so he did not know how much they had actually seen of the assassin's final moments of life. Enough, no doubt to astonish them. Even a man such as this priest was, could not help but be astonished by such a struggle.

     In the final throes, just before relenting to embrace the void, the A'Shishem had bled thoughts like blood, giving G'Brael more than he had ever hoped for. He now knew where S'Tann's sanctuary was located, not that the information did him much good, she was beyond his reach still. Protected by her servants, and a modern army, equipped with the latest tools of death that an inventive humanity could devise.

     Like the Twelve, she used the humans as pawns, and G'Brael wondered if she, like him, ever gave any thought to how they all had misused the barbarians over the years of their war? Why can't we make it stop? We, who consider ourselves to be so superior in every way, why can't we just make it stop? Bring the war to close. I would gladly give up the mandate of my King, he thought, if only she would welcome us back to her service...

     But the thought was futile, and he knew it. How could S'Tann ever forgive them for what they had done? And G'Brael could not predict the future, he did not have all the answers. Although he would be willing to see the reunification of the Royal House, he was not so sure the others would agree to such a thing, and unless all of them could agree, there would be no peace. Besides which, how could he predict how the last of his sons, born only five years before, would react to his father giving up what might be considered his birthright? And if it were true that the King's essence G'Brael carried, inexorably bound to his genetic codes, bred out as dominant feature, as the Great King had predicted, might not his own son grow up to be as despicable as his dead King?

     For the Great King, Y'Hoveh, Lord of the Worlds, had been despicable, of that there was little doubt. None of G'Brael's sons had ever reached Ascension, so he had no way of knowing what they might have been like had they lived. And although he had loved his King, for his strength, and for his wisdom, he recognized that Y'Hoveh had a dark center. A secret soul that had, at times, overcome his better judgement. G'Brael would not wish to take responsibility for unleashing such a being on the world, but if it were to happen, the responsibility would be his, and his alone.

     Thinking about the little boy, he could never believe that such a beautiful child could grow up to be anything but what he wished him to be, strong, resolute, and compassionate. But didn't all fathers wish that for their children? And in spite of their best intentions, didn't some children grow up to be despised by the very same parents who had held such high expectations of them?

     What would S'Tann, childless for all these millennia, think of his sons had she met them, or even known of their existence? Would she, even now, send her A'Shishem to kill his child before he reached an age that he could pose a threat to her? Because a threat he would be, his son, but also the son of the last of the Great Kings. Heir to the throne of the First Kingdom, as would S'Tann's son be, if ever she were to have one. And if our sons were to meet, he thought, on some distant day, that G'Brael could not see but S'Tann probably could. Would they kill each other? Or would they embrace each other, cousins of the Royal blood, letting the past die, a new generation, able to dispense with the bitterness and agony of the old?

     If only that could come to pass... If only...

     "You are still here, devil?"

     It was the priest, he saw, struggling to a sitting position, checking to make sure his friend was still alive, before once again turning to confront G'Brael. His recovery, though not miraculous by any standard, was just the same surprising. Not the fact that he had recovered, G'Brael had known immediately that the priest's injuries were not life threatening, but that he could calmly converse without giving away any of the deep turmoil he must be feeling. That was surprising. Whatever else he was, this Jesuit monk was not one that was easily intimidated. And for some reason he couldn't quite fathom, this pleased G'Brael. He had never appreciated weakness, even in himself, and he could see that this priest was no weakling...

     "Well, devil... What do you have to say for yourself?"

     "That I am not a devil," G'Brael replied, slightly amused by Carlos' projected attitude of strength, though he knew the man, if he were at all typical of his species, must be nearly frightened out of his wits.

     "So you keep saying," Carlos retorted, amazed that he and Klaus were still alive, though trying his best to keep that to himself. But this devil could read his mind, couldn't he? So maybe the pretense was more for his own benefit than anything else. If he could convince himself that he was being brave, the devil might be convinced also. "But if you are not what I think you are, then tell me, what are you, exactly?"

     "I am one of the Twelve," the thing replied, standing easily a few meters away, not a muscle twitching that Carlos could see.

     It was almost as if it were a statue standing there, again, very much as the ancient manuscripts had described. The only animation coming from the eyes. Those incredible eyes! Liquid, like staring into the depths of a tropical sea, that was the colour that might best describe them. And if viewed from just the right angle, the aura was visible as well, little flickers of light, similar to the colour of the eyes, but not quite the same. Where the eyes looked hot, like liquid fire, the aura gave a perception of coolness. What must it be like to be touched by this thing, he wondered? Heaven or hell, agony or ecstasy?

     And then Carlos realized what it had said, that it was one of the Twelve, and he was shaken once again. Could it have taken that from me, from my mind, or was it the truth? How does one test the truth of such a thing, he thought, without any rational way to judge what is coming from it, and what it is taking from one's own thoughts?

     In the archives beneath the Vatican, a place where he had spent months, and where all manner of rare and interesting artifacts, both Christian and Pagan, were kept, he had read the story of the Twelve. It was considered to be a work of fiction, by an author unknown, detailing the life story of a supernatural being named N'Quelar. Who claimed to be a surviving member of a lost race. It was a remarkable work, just the kind of manuscript that the more fanatical elements within the early Roman Church had destroyed by the thousands, bringing the reign of the dark ages. When much of human knowledge, science, and philosophy had been lost. But even then apparently, there had been those who, working under the severe constraints of the times in which they lived, had sought to preserve something of the pagan past. Making the heretical judgement that not all of human history prior to the coming of Christ was automatically evil. Most of those brave souls had paid with their lives for that kind of independent attitude, but because of them, something of those dark times was preserved to be passed on to later generations.

     Unfortunately, Carlos thought, those documents that did survive were in the hands of the very Church that had once thought to destroy them, and although recognized as of historical significance, they were never, ever, to be released for the consumption of the general populace.

     He, of course, disagreed with this policy completely. But his views on the subject carried little weight with the College of Cardinals, the men who actually ran the day to day policy making apparatus of the Vatican Council. He remembered thinking, after his first reading of the N'Quelar manuscript, that the Twelve, as described in that document, were closely patterned after the Vatican Council itself. Secretive, the decision making authority limited to a chosen few, on behalf of the worldwide catholic congregation. The members of the Council remaining, for the most part, anonymous. To him, it was as if the author were making a comment on the organization of his Church, through the vehicle of a fictional character. Could he have been wrong? Might N'Quelar have been a real entity, who dictated his account to the manuscript's anonymous author, perhaps a captive author?

     "Tell me about the Twelve, devil," Carlos said, and then, deciding to test the thing that called itself G'Brael, "Tell me something I don't know..."

     G'Brael smiled at the priest's bravado. "I wouldn't think you know anything at all about the Twelve, Father Carlos," he said. "Although you might think you do, you would be severely mistaken in that impression."

     G'Brael was treading into unknown and dangerous territory, and the implications of confiding in this Jesuit priest were vast, but perceived on some level that this man might prove valuable to him, and to the Twelve. Although, to G'Brael's way of thinking, his use to the Council was of secondary consideration. Somewhere along the line, G'Brael had made the decision to work on behalf of all the Chosen, not just the few who, to a large extent, controlled the destiny of all the others. It might mean an irretrievable break with R'Phael, and he wasn't completely sure that even M'Quael would support him in this. But here lay a golden opportunity, he thought. What right had he to deny his race the potential benefits of such an association? Besides which, he sensed this priest was not happy with the direction his Church had taken over the centuries since it's birth, and G'Brael was in a unique position to tell this man the source of all his misgivings.

     "I will tell the story of the Twelve or, to be more exact in our definitions, the Council of Twelve. For that is what it is, a council, with all the trappings that word implies, both good and bad."

     "As I said, devil," the priest replied, "Tell me something I don't know."

     G'Brael smiled again, beginning to like this human, in spite of the fact that he was everything the Chosen feared most about humanity. "Did you know that the Council of Twelve was once called... the Council of Thirteen?"

     "No," the priest said softly. "I did not know that..."

     A chill went up Carlos' spine. Why would that simple statement make such an impact on me, he wondered? Is it because of the implication that a Council of Thirteen, become a Council of Twelve, indicates that one of it's original members was cast out? There was something in this that seemed all too familiar, he thought, suddenly afraid of what this devil was about to tell him. Afraid that he already knew where this conversation might be leading!

     "And this thirteenth member of your Council..." he said quietly, leading into the question he knew he must ask, "He is dead?"

     The thing called G'Brael shook it's head slowly. "No... Not dead. Although, just recently, we have come to learn that he is not really alive either. Not in the sense that he can exercise his power freely."

     "I don't understand," Carlos said. "Isn't everything, including you, either alive or dead?"

     "You surprise me, priest," the devil replied. "It is an odd question, coming as it does from someone who is supposed to believe in an afterlife, one in which all manner of reward is supposedly available but for the asking."

     "Don't bother to quote theology to me, devil," Carlos retorted. "It would be pointless."

     "No doubt," G'Brael conceded. "But perhaps you have more questions about your church's theology than you have answers?"

     "That is irrelevant."

     "Is it now... I wonder? Could it be that you are simply, like most of your kind, afraid of the truth? Afraid that your carefully constructed ideas of reality will come crashing down, and you will never be able to recover from the loss?

     "If I thought my faith was that fragile, devil... I would not be having this conversation with you. You said you were going to tell me about the Twelve, get on with it!"

     This thing knows too much, Carlos thought bitterly, and he is using that against me. He said a silent prayer, hoping it would give him the strength to withstand the assault on his faith, and his commitment to his church, that he could feel was coming. There was something about this thing that struck him as too real, too knowledgeable. Something that told him the ancient manuscripts, the crumbling parchments that he had held with his own hands, were not the pagan fantasies his Church would have the world believe. That perhaps, as the Father General of the Society of Jesus had believed when he gave Carlos his mission, the real truth might lie in those ancient documents. A truth the Roman Church had kept to itself for centuries!

     The thing looked at him now, as if it could see right through him, beneath the layers of flesh and bone, right to the soul of the man. And it knew how troubled that soul was, he could see that as well, there was no mistaking the look, even on the face such a creature as this. In spite of the fact the eyes could tell him nothing, the thing gave off subtle clues, of expression, and posture, that told him as much. But, considering what the thing claimed to be, that shouldn't come as a surprise should it? No wonder then that the battle raging within his conscience would be so obvious, if he were really one of the Twelve, as described in the N'Quelar manuscript, the ability to read minds might be only the least of his powers. What others might he be keeping to himself, he thought, what secrets of magic might this thing produce if encouraged properly?

     "I am not a trained animal, here to produce entertainments, for your amusement," the thing said, proving once again that it could read Carlos' thoughts. "And my magic, such as it is, is something that you would be well advised to treat with respect. Many of your kind have felt the sting of our magic in the past..."

     It was a clear warning, and Carlos accepted it as such. This thing, whatever it was, could not be casually trifled with. In that as well, the ancient texts had been clear. What was the old saying, he thought... Play with the devil at your own risk?

     "Yes..." G'Brael responded, "Good advice indeed. Although, as I keep telling you, I am not a devil."

     Carlos let that pass, beginning to see that G'Brael did not really fit into such a simplistic terminology. It would be best to reserve judgement, he thought. Let the beast tell his tale, and then make the conclusion, letting his faith, as fragile as it might be, lead him where it would...

     "That is all I ask of you, Father," G'Brael said, in response to the thought the priest projected with such ease. Making him wonder for a moment whether or not the human was actually attempting to manipulate him by that means. No, he concluded, that would be beyond the powers of most of them. And there was no reason to suspect that this man was anything other than he appeared.

     "As I started to tell you," he continued, "The Twelve were once the Council of Thirteen. And in those days, my race was united, our rule over the lands we controlled, absolute..."

     G'Brael paused for a moment, remembering how it was, and wondering if his memories of those times had not been clouded by nostalgia. Could it have really been so peaceful, was my life ever so content? It was hard to imagine now, how simple life had been then, how... ordinary. In many respects, he thought, we were but children, only playing at maturity. So content in our power, that we had no idea the reality of the world outside our Kingdom. No concept of what real brutality could be like.

     Not so very different than this monk, he thought. Childishly accepting of our existence, of our place in the great scheme of things. Never knowing that our world could be so easily shattered. Unable, in our naivete, to conceive of such a thing happening to us! How foolish we were, not to see the evil in our midst, the capacity for evil that we thought was the sole purview of the barbarians! The brutality that we didn't know existed, coming easily, once the path had been chosen.

     Yes, he thought, how quickly we learned the lessons of our barbarian cousins...

     "We were ruled, although that is not exactly the proper word... but I will use it for want of another you would understand. We were ruled," he continued, "by a Great King, named Y'Hoveh... And a Great Queen, named A'Shira. They were brother and sister, and the line of the Royal succession was always through the Queen's House. Her first-born son would be become King on the day of his Ascension, and her daughter, the Heir Designate, would become Queen upon the death of her mother."

     "What do you mean by Ascension?" the priest asked, leaning forward slightly, his attention riveted on G'Brael.

     G'Brael stared at him, wondering if, for all his apparent willingness, this man could actually handle the truth. There would be no point in editing the story, he finally decided. He would tell it all to this Christian monk, and leave it to the man himself to determine the truthfulness of his words.

     "The Ascension is what makes us who we are," G'Brael said softly, almost a murmur. "It is what distinguishes us, from you ordinary humans, and from other animals that inhabit this world. Unlike some of your genetic traits, the Ascension has no equivalent outside of our own kind. No animal that I am aware of, or have ever heard of, has this power within them. Although we too had our myths, myths which describe a time when this was not the case, most of them have been forgotten. As you will see, we have had other things on our minds since the fall of the First Kingdom." "It is not miraculous," he continued, "it is just what happens when our King or Queen calls upon us to Ascend. For our Royalty, unlike your own, were truly powerful. Holding sway over the forces of life and death itself. No pretend power, this... Real power, power such as you cannot imagine. The power to kill with a thought, or heal wounds by the laying on of hands, these are the kind of things I speak of... but not all. Their rule, and the reasons we allowed ourselves to be ruled, were much more complex than a simple measurement of power could explain."

     Had we ever adequately explained it, G'Brael wondered, even to ourselves? Why was it a King, dead for millennia, still exercised an element of rule that bound us to him today, as surely as if he were still alive? A form of mass insanity perhaps?

     That might not be as far from the truth as he would have liked, he thought, a sardonic smile accompanying the insight...

     "You speak of those times with a smile," Carlos said.

     "It is a bitter smile, priest... Do not be deceived, there is nothing amusing in what has happened to my people, or..." and here the devil paused, as if considering his choice of words carefully. "Ultimately, to yours. For our paths are inextricably linked, those of your race and mine. And it has not been the best of relationships, for either of us!"

     Again, Carlos felt the chill, as if he knew where this conversation was leading, but was unable to turn back. Almost as if... an element of preordination was at work.

     "There was, of course," G'Brael went on, "more fundamental reasons for the rule of the Royal House. And the crux of this was the Royal Blood itself... The sacred blood that flowed in the veins of our King and Queen, and all their descendants... The Blood of Kings..."

     They were both suddenly distracted by a groan coming from Klaus's direction, and Carlos moved quickly to his friend's side. His mind working over what G'Brael had been telling him. It was a different tale in some respects than the one in the N'Quelar manuscript, he thought, as he gently turned Klaus over onto his back, checking to make sure his breathing was alright. Different, but close enough that the similarities were obvious. And divergent enough to convince Carlos that the thing calling itself G'Brael had not taken the story from his mind, but was in fact, telling one of it's own.

     That did not necessarily make it the truth. But there was truth here, of what kind, he did not yet know. But the devil's tale was sufficiently intriguing, that Carlos wished it to continue.

     "He is coming around," he said.

     "Your friend is not that badly hurt," G'Brael told him. "The discharge, luckily enough for the two of you, was not so close as to do irreparable damage to either of you."

     "That thing that attacked us," Carlos ventured, "That was one of your own people?"

     "One of the Chosen, yes. One of the Ascended ones, yes. One of my people... that is a more difficult question. He was an A'Shishem, and as such, was my sworn enemy."

     Seeing Carlos' look of obvious confusion, G'Brael continued, "I have not yet reached the point in my story where these distinctions will become obvious. Because, you see, the Royal House was divided by an act of treachery. And it is that act of treachery, which happened centuries ago, before any of your race could make even the rudimentary claim of civilization, where the plot to my story really begins..."

     ***

     CHAPTER NINE -- The Queen's Prince

     She came to him again shortly after dawn, and found him pacing, agitated. He is making the change himself, S'Tann thought, surprised and a little daunted. Never having heard of one of the Chosen who could achieve the Ascension spontaneously.

     Who is this Prince? What genes, lost to us for so long, have made him what he is? What bloodline of the Royal House could he carry within him, that would make him so strong?

     It frightened her a little, a feeling that was so totally foreign to her, she felt thrilled beyond belief. She ached for him, this wild Prince, the life's mate who could make her loins moist with just his presence. She paused for a moment, before he was aware of her, and just stared at him, allowing her fantasies free reign, feeling the heat build between her thighs. Delicious heat, the anticipation almost unbearable. The slightly wolf smell of him, not in the least disgusting she found to her surprise, but instead driving her nearly mad with desire, the tender wetness between her legs suddenly becoming a flood! It was time, she could wait no longer...

     She glided toward him slowly, careful not to startle him. Shadowing his movements so that the two of them began a kind of dance, an intricate ballet in which first he, and then she, led. A mating ritual, both ancient and seductive. His pace slowed, and then stopped altogether as she slid against him, containing her electric touch to the bounds of a smooth caress along the line of his chin, sharpened since the last time, now that the Ascension had begun. The dark blue eyes widening in surprise, and then softening as the pleasure of her touch lifted the natural wariness he carried like a shield.

     He is like a wolf, S'Tann thought, pressing closer to him as his arms came around her, his embrace strident, impatient, his desire as wild as her own. She could feel the passion of his soul, and knew for a certainty that she was the first woman who had touched him so deeply. The knowledge pleased her, and as she took his face into her hands, she allowed her aura to penetrate him for the first time, gasping at his reaction, the flare of light that suddenly struck his eyes. She used the fire of her fingertips to slice through the shirt he wore, peeling it back from his shoulders to reveal the heavily muscled flesh beneath. Her arousal almost to the point of pain now, unable to exercise any restraint, she allowed the real fire to come. Using one hand to rip the golden mask from her face, she slid the other up from his chest and drew him to her, both their eyes wide, as their open lips met, and the hunger that consumed them was allowed free reign...

     ****

     Mad Bill was gone forever, that was his last conscious thought, before the fire took him. In those first few seconds, he came to know the meaning of real, unrestrained, passion. Passion so hot, it scalded you! Passion you might die from, if left too long in it's embrace! The passion of first love, multiplied a thousandfold by this Great Queen, this woman who was not really a human woman at all, with the perfect body of a teenage girl, and the soul of an ancient!

     He felt as if his skin was splitting open, every muscle contracting spontaneously in waves that followed the trail of her fingers against his flesh. His eyes, locked to hers, disbelieving at first, and then accepting the liquid fire that poured from them into his own. And with each jolt of her touch, each burst of electric blue lightning from her eyes, the man that he had considered himself to be receded further and further. Until finally, there was nothing left of him, except a memory, as if that person had never existed at all! As if he had always been the thing he was now, one of the Chosen, one of the Ascended ones, the consort of the Great Queen S'Tann, the future father of her children, the sire of a Royal Bloodline!

     And with this acceptance, the pain disappeared. He felt exhilarated, virile, powerful beyond belief. The scent of her was intoxicating, and without any real thought of the possible consequences, he wished her gown gone, and it was gone, in an airy puff of lightly scented smoke. The firm, willing, flesh beneath, his for the taking, her grip on his body urging him on. Her voice in his mind almost a scream, "Yes... do it now, my Prince! Finish it! Hold back nothing from me!"

     ****

     S'Tann mounted him with all the savagery of a tigress taking down her prey, filling herself with him, flesh and spirit combined. She could sense that he considered himself the aggressor, and deep inside her mind she smiled a secret smile for herself alone, before the ecstasy carried her away completely. The power of him sliding deep inside her, hot and firm, waves of pleasure spreading out from her center, but still not enough to sedate her passion. As fast as his fire poured into her belly, she poured it back into him, continuing the taking and the giving, until even she could stand no more... Finally collapsing on top of him, draining him of his seed with the powerful contractions of her sex, sustaining his fire with her own until an equilibrium was reached between them. Blissful exhaustion taking hold of them both. Entangled in each other's arms, they fell asleep on the polished tile of the floor, unconcerned that their consummation bower was not the soft silk one might expect, but hard granite, in places scorched by the power of their exchange.

     ****

     It was there that Mir'a'Da found them a few hours later. So... he thought... it has begun. The Great Queen had not wasted any time, he saw. But that was to be expected. After all, she had been waiting centuries for her Prince, and even S'Tann, for all her patience, could not be expected to wait indefinitely. Especially when the object of her heart's desire was finally within her grasp!

     They both came awake upon his entrance to the room, the Great Queen stretching languorously, putting the A'Shishem in mind of a satisfied feline. As always, the sight of her, the brief glimpse of her naked sex, aroused him. But he was one of the assassins, not given to relent to his desires, always in absolute control, and so he dismissed it from his mind. The Great Queen did not know of his hunger, nor would she ever, this secret part of himself something that Mir'a'Da would take to his grave. Telling no one, this particular demon too personal to ever share with another. Even a loyal servant, whose love for his sovereign knew no limit, must keep some things to themselves...

     ****

     "What is it Mir'a?" S'Tann asked, rising to her feet, not bothering to cover herself. As always, careless of the arousal she provoked among the Chosen with her simple presence. Giving little thought to the animal desire she inspired. Truth be told, she secretly enjoyed the reaction. Even Mir'a'Da, the most resolute of her servants, was not immune. But she in no way acknowledged the fact that she knew his little secret. If only you knew, Mir'a, she thought wistfully, how many times over the centuries I wished it were you who was fated to sire my King.

     "Great Queen," Mir'a'Da responded, "The Twelve have escaped my blade... again."

     It was said in the most matter-of-fact means, giving little indication what Mir'a himself thought of the Twelve's escape. But S'Tann knew he must be outraged that they had slipped through his grasp. Again... as he had put so bluntly. How many times has he come to me with the same news?

     "Is there any way to determine where they have gone?" she asked, knowing already that the question was probably pointless.

     Mir'a'Da shook his head, the great mane of long white hair trailing across his broad chest with the movement, the ebony black horns standing out brilliantly against the white hairline. "No, my Queen," he replied, not flinching as a lesser individual might, but holding the Queen's stare with an equally steady one of his own. The flashing blue jewels of his eyes subdued, but unapologetic.

     "Well... That's that, then!"

     "My Queen?" Mir'a queried, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his chiselled face.

     S'Tann smiled at him, this her most trusted servant, her confidant and friend. The one who had been with her from the beginning, who had forgiven her so much. She could not be angry with him, not Mir'a, he had meant too much to her for far too long. Besides, she thought, how can anything really spoil this day? Today, I will put even the Twelve from my mind. I will not... I refuse, to let their ancient treachery deprive me of this joy!

     She looked at W'Liam, standing quietly, as naked as she, but obviously less comfortable with his nudity. A holdover no doubt, she thought, of being raised among human society. He stood as a silent witness to the exchange with her A'Shishem, his arms folded casually across his chest. She could feel the unrefined power he tried so hard to restrain, finding it difficult to look at him and not take him again, then and there, witnesses be damned!

     But that would be pushing even Mir'a'Da's legendary restraint to an unheard of limit. And she would never do something that would hurt him so deeply. And he was hurt, she saw, no matter how brave a face he put up for her to see. The fact of W'Liam's presence, bearing mute testimony to the power of their coupling. And Mir'a'Da, with his assassin's gifts, could see things from the past by touching inanimate objects. What was he seeing now, she wondered? Was he replaying in his mind the savage mating of her and her Prince?

     S'Tann hoped not. She would spare him that if she could, but her tolerance would extend only so far. W'Liam was a part of all their lives now, the Prince Consort to the Great Queen, the first and only consort she would ever take. He would sire the Heir Designate, and if the fates were kind to them, the son who would become King. Her subjects, even Mir'a'Da, would have to accommodate themselves to that fact...

     ****

     W'Liam watched the interplay between S'Tann and Mir'a'Da, keeping his thoughts to himself, unsure of the role he was to play in their lives. He could read S'Tann desire as she glanced at him, the hunger that lurked just beneath the surface, and his response to it was automatic. He wanted to take her again, or let her take him, beginning at last to realize that she would set the pace of their relationship. That he was her consort, but not her equal in anything but the passion they shared between them.

     He could tell at a glance that the A'Shishem also hungered after his Queen. As calm a demeanor as Mir'a'Da projected, W'Liam could sense the turmoil his presence caused within the assassin's heart. He loves her, he thought, unsure of what emotion that should provoke in him. Surprised finally, to discover that he was not in the least jealous of, or threatened by, this quietly efficient killer. He recognized that this was the one who had captured him, brought him here. Was responsible to no little extent for making him what he was now. And what he was now was... wonderful!

     There was no other way to describe it. He felt simply wonderful! And so the thing he felt most for Mir'a'Da was gratitude. Uncompromising, undying gratitude. Whatever else happened between them, and W'Liam could easily see the potential for disaster lurking between them, he would always be grateful to the A'Shishem for bringing him to his Queen. That would never change...

     ****

     Mir'a'Da felt the Prince's scrutiny as a soft brush against his senses, and wondered what, if any, danger might lay ahead. He too could feel W'Liam's power, and wondered at the source of it. What strange combination of events, or ancestors, had produced such a genetically dominant specimen. For it was quite easy to see, now that the Ascension was complete, that this was a prime example of that sort of dominance at work. No half-breed weakling this... No, here was one of the Chosen that might have sprung from his own seed! But how could that be? How could any of their race survive outside the protection of the Great Queen, or the Council of Twelve? It was an intriguing mystery, he thought. How many other lost ones might there be? Unaware, that within them, locked deep inside their genetic code, prowled this exotic and powerful creature waiting to be born...

     Perhaps it is time we took measures to find out, he thought. Our numbers grow less with each passing century, even the Chosen not completely immune to the effects of time, the unascended among them greatly outnumbering the Ascended Ones. The Great Queen, for her own reasons, resisting the temptation to bring more of the Chosen into their Ascended form. Preferring to replace the ones lost to the battle with the Twelve, or the barbarians, only as they fell. Never wishing to make the attempt to overwhelm the Twelve with numbers alone.

     It had to do with her memories, he believed. Something that she knew for a certainty, but was unwilling to divulge to anyone, her most trusted servant included. What that something could be, Mir'a'Da did not know. But in this, as in all else, he would trust S'Tann's judgement.

     And that extended to her choice of a Prince also. Looking at W'Liam, there could be no doubt in anyones mind, but that he was a good match for their Great Queen. He would sire her children, and their progeny would be powerful, as they were powerful. A new generation to take up the cause of the Chosen, but one that he suspected would be much different from the old. They would be the first of the Royal Blood to be born into the modern age, and because of that simple fact, it went without saying that their attitudes and perspective would be different. Never knowing the Great Kingdom, would they really be that interested in preserving the traditions of his race, he wondered? Or would they, like so many children, dismiss the dreams of their parents to follow their own path? Perhaps preferring to accommodate themselves with the modern world beyond the point of simply exercising some measure of control over it?

     It was possible, he thought, that the Great Queen already knew the answers to these questions. And had known the answers since the moment of her transformation. But Mir'a'Da knew also that there were some things, some areas of the future, for which S'Tann's memories had not prepared her. And it was these things that it was his job to protect her against. The unforeseen circumstances in which the A'Shishem could operate to defend their Queen in a pre-emptive manner. As in the case of the Twelve, whose final defeat was not a part of the Great Queen's memory of the future, as she had once admitted to him.

     Was it the same for the Serpent? Was that why she didn't dispose of him? It was pure speculation on his part, but it made sense didn't it? If S'Tann could not see the final death of the Serpent, might that not mean that he had some further role to play? That she could not kill him, because he might yet prove of some value to her?

     If that were truly the case, it would explain much, he thought. But what of the Prince? S'Tann had told him many times of the appearance of the Prince in her memory. And how she must wait for him. But did she really know how it would all turn out? Was she absolutely sure that this one would not betray her?

     As he watched, W'Liam moved protectively toward S'Tann, as if some inkling of these thoughts had reached him. Which no doubt they had, if he were as powerful as he looked. He trusted S'Tann, but Mir'a'Da did not necessarily have to trust her Consort, and although he had never found fault with her judgement in the past, this was the first time that his Queen had fallen in love. And for that reason alone, Mir'a'Da resolved then and there to watch her Prince carefully. He would allow him to sire the Heir Designate, but if W'Liam showed any sign whatever of betraying S'Tann, Mir'a'Da would kill him without a moments hesitation...

     ****

     S'Tann felt W'Liam brush up against her, his touch heating her flesh, and leaned back into him, allowing a feeling of contentment to wash over her.

     "If the Twelve have escaped again, Mir'a," she said, "We will find them, eventually. Their treachery will not go unpunished forever. Did you get no sense of where they might have run? None at all?"

     Mir'a'Da shook his head. "No, my Queen," he replied, his gaze still steady, despite his obvious misgivings about W'Liam. "But my touch did reveal one interesting development."

     "And what would that be?"

     "G'Brael is, or at least was, among them again. I could feel his aura at the table of the Council."

     "That is interesting. From all reports we've received over the centuries, G'Brael has distanced himself from the day to day councils of the Twelve. What has happened that was so important that he decided to attend a meeting of the Council in person?"

     "I do not know for certain," Mir'a responded. "But it may have something to do with W'Liam or..." and here he paused thoughtfully. "The kill in Lebanon."

     S'Tann's feeling of contentment was suddenly replaced by a cold fear. "How could they know?" she asked, her voice subdued.

     "I was a United Nations officer," W'Liam volunteered. "Although my disappearance would not usually be widely reported, the United Nations itself would launch some kind of an inquiry. Even if it were just a courts-martial investigation initiated by the Canadian military, it still might become more widely known."

     Mir'a'Da nodded. "That would make sense. And the Twelve have their tentacles everywhere. Although I doubt they would suspect a missing United Nations soldier could be one of us."

     "So... you think it more likely that G'Brael's presence has to do with the kill?" S'Tann asked.

     Mir'a'Da nodded. "That would be my assumption. As usual, we have kept the kill under surveillance... The reason we became aware of W'Liam in the first place..."

     "You were there?" W'Liam inquired, making the connection between what they were referring to as 'the kill', and the two bodies his detachment had discovered.

     "Yes, W'Liam," the A'Shishem replied. "I was there. It was I who first took notice of your special nature."

     S'Tann wondered if Mir'a was simply trying to calm her fears over W'Liam's safety by linking G'Brael's presence with the kill in Lebanon, or if he actually believed that was the most likely explanation. In either instance, it meant a shift in the thinking of the Twelve's most powerful member. Was G'Brael plotting to launch a new assault against her? Or had his presence in Jerusalem more to do with calming the notoriously nervous R'Phael?

     It was a question in desperate need of an answer, she thought bitterly. The fact that the Council of Twelve would move out of Jerusalem on the very same day that she found out they were there, struck her as more than just coincidental. Ominously more! And, coupled with Mir'a'Da's suspicion of a traitor within the A'Shishem, it made it all the more reasonable that she should be especially prudent.

     What if G'Brael did know of the Prince? No one really knew what powers the former Grand Councillor to the Great King could manifest. Wasn't it possible that he had foreseen the coming of the Prince? And if so, was even now taking steps to liquidate her beloved W'Liam? Wasn't that just as likely an explanation for his presence at the table of the Twelve in Jerusalem?

     For the first time in many centuries, S'Tann felt trapped between two evils. She and her loyal retainers had been safe here for more than six hundred years. Through all the changes of government that the lands surrounding the sanctuary had suffered through, S'Tann and the Chosen had prospered. Able to accommodate the rulers of the day to the fact of the power the Great Queen wielded over them, without ever divulging the true nature of that power. To the local barbarians, they were, and always had been, an extremely rich and powerful family who controlled these mountains, nothing more. And that disguise had worked well, the power of the family protecting the humans that lived around them, and the humans in turn keeping any strangers away from the sanctuary itself.

     S'Tann was loathe to change locations. They had become comfortable here, but perhaps that very level of comfort was about to become their undoing. And that she could not allow. No matter how she might hate to go out amongst the barbarians again, she would do it to protect W'Liam!

     ****

     W'Liam could see that S'Tann was worried. Could feel her conflict as a physical sensation that rippled between them where their skin touched. And he knew also that his safety lay at the root of her fear. He needed more information, he thought. If he could just get a handle on the real nature of the threat, he could promulgate a strategy to help in his own protection. He had been a professional soldier, and that knowledge was still with him. He was not helpless, and it angered him somewhat that both S'Tann and Mir'a'Da considered him to be!

     "Who is G'Brael?" he asked S'Tann, testing the mind speech now that he knew he could do such a thing.

     S'Tann's reply was in the same intimate manner. "G'Brael is one of our enemies, Beloved. The most powerful of the dead King's retainers. And not one to be trifled with!"

     "He is the leader of this Council of Twelve?"

     "Not exactly... He is the one who leads them, but he is not officially at the head of the Council. That position is held by one named R'Phael. Not so powerful as the other, but in some ways even more cunning, and therefore more dangerous. G'Brael at least has some measure of honor left to him, the same cannot be said of any of the other members of the Council. With the possible exception of M'Quael... But M'Quael is a special case..."

     She did not elaborate, but he sensed that she and this M'Quael had some history, that she preferred not to talk about. It was still not enough to satisfy him. He felt as if he had been put into a game of which he had no knowledge of the rules. Or even who the real players were. Or why the game was being played at all! Surely all this was pointless, he thought. If he understood correctly, the Chosen were almost at the point of extinction. Didn't that mean that this war between the Great Queen and the Twelve had already, to all intents and purposes, been lost? It was a poor waste of limited resources in his opinion. Strategically, a formula for suicide!

     But he was not so sure it was his place to voice such an opinion aloud. S'Tann and Mir'a'Da had spent their lives in this conflict, perhaps they did know better than he how it should be fought, or if it should be fought at all. Who was he, among them less than five days and nights, to criticize a cause to which they had both devoted their whole lives? You are the Queen's consort, a small voice at the back of his mind answered for him, and by that alone, you do have the right to be heard.

     "What is the purpose of this war?" he asked aloud, boldly putting forth the question that needed to be answered for any of this to make sense to him.

     Both Mir'a'Da and S'Tann seemed taken aback by his query. As if such a thing had never occurred to them, that their war with the Twelve needed to be defined in terms of it's ultimate purpose. "The purpose of the war, Beloved," S'Tann said aloud. "Is to eliminate the threat that the Twelve's continued existence poses to our House. No more... no less"

     "And then what?"

     "And then... there will peace among the Chosen for the first time since the King's treachery was visited upon us," Mir'a'Da replied.

     W'Liam persisted, risking S'Tann's wrath perhaps, but needing to take a proactive role, never one to sit on the sidelines and let others make decisions without putting his own opinion forward. It had gotten him into trouble in the past, superior officers rarely appreciated having their orders questioned, but this was not the same, was it? Here, he was not just some officer, expected to obey a superior's whim, he was the Prince Consort to the Great Queen, and he assumed that was more than just a title! "And what of those among the Chosen who support the Twelve? Are they just going to disappear? Switch their allegiance because it becomes convenient to do so? Are the deaths of twelve of the Ascended ones really going to make that much difference?"

     ****

     Well put, Beloved, S'Tann thought, understanding now why the memory of W'Liam had so obsessed her, why his appearance in her life had seemed such a pivotal event within the realm of the Prophecy. She knew that there were members of her race that, not only did not support her, but did not even know of her existence. How would killing the Twelve change that, she wondered? And after the Twelve's final destruction? There would still be the barbarians to consider, wouldn't there? The Serpent had worked his magic far too well in that regard! Throughout the whole realm of humanity, the Chosen were considered evil, even by those who believed them to be nothing more than a myth. How would they react if the myth came to life before their very eyes?

     Predictably, she thought, in same way they have always reacted when given the opportunity. They would hunt us down and kill us! That is their way of dealing with things they do not understand. They know no other...

     But W'Liam brought up an interesting point, one that in all these centuries she had not truly considered. What would the result of the Twelve's demise really be? It wouldn't really change anything, would it? The Chosen would always be outsiders, forced to live in the shadows, never able to walk freely among the barbarians without putting their lives in jeopardy. That was the crucial aspect of victory that none of them had considered!

     Until now, until this Prince had come among them. Raised in the modern era, among humans no less, who could be more suited to devise a strategy under which the Chosen could prosper? Understanding the humans as he did, W'Liam was unique. The only one of the Ascended who had actually lived in their world. The Serpent was the only other of them who had ever worked closely with large numbers of barbarians, and he could not be trusted to advise her, that was certain!

     But W'Liam was one of the lost ones, she thought. He might be the only one that they knew of with this kind of experience, this ability to move with ease through the society that the barbarians had created. But chances are, there were others. There might be many, many others, besides him.

     S'Tann was immediately captivated by this idea. There could be thousands of Chosen, she thought. Living their lives in blissful ignorance of their true nature. Might they not be persuaded to the cause of the Great Queen, if made aware of her existence? But how could they be found? What mechanism could be put in place to discover that which they did not know themselves?

     She glanced toward Mir'a, and saw that W'Liam's questions had made an impression on the A'Shishem as well. "There is no good answer for what he asks, is there Mir'a? It is something we have not considered before. What to do in case of final victory?"

     Mir'a'Da's expression reflected the inner conflict she could sense, and then his mouth softened, the beginnings of a smile she had not seen very often turning up the corner of one side of his mouth. He spoke to her directly, a soft whisper for her mind alone, "What is your wish, my Queen? That I abandon the hunt for the Twelve?"

     "No Mir'a, but I think that W'Liam cannot be the only one of us that is lost to their heritage. He brings a unique perspective, does he not?"

     "That much is a certainty!"

     S'Tann smiled at her old friend, appreciating his sense of humor, the lightening of his mood. "This perspective can be of great benefit to us, Mir'a. He is a product of the modern age himself, he may know a way to bring the lost ones to us."

     "I think that a worthy mission for a Prince, my Queen. But how is it to be accomplished? We cannot simply send him forth to scour the world!"

     S'Tann looked to W'Liam himself for the answer. "You are right, Beloved. We have not given much thought to the end of our war. And perhaps you are right also in your perception that the war itself is what has brought the Chosen to the point of extinction. But we are not solely to blame for that. The barbarians have always tried to hunt us, but when the Great Kingdom was alive, they did not have the strength to stand against it. That all changed when the Serpent became their ally. He gave them the means to destroy us, and they have not looked back. It has been the one consistency in all of human history, their hatred of the Chosen!"

     "And your hatred of them, as well," W'Liam pointed out.

     S'Tann nodded, acknowledging that there was some truth to his words. "But we did not seek to exterminate them, as they did us, Beloved," she said. "There are humans who have lived under our protection for centuries, without knowing who and what we are. We have not tried to hurt them. Do you think they would suffer any of the same qualms, should they find out what we are?"

     W'Liam shook his head. "Probably not..."

     "I am glad you understand my point, Beloved," S'Tann responded, reaching up to lovingly stroke his cheek with the back of her hand. "But you are right too, in the respect that for all our power as individuals, we are weak in numbers, and that this must change for there to be any hope of our continued survival..."

     S'Tann paused, allowing what she was saying to sink in for a moment, watching as W'Liam contemplated her words. "But we have found you, Beloved. The one I have been waiting centuries to embrace with my love. And your discovery was made in a most unexpected manner. I did not foresee that you would be one of the lost ones of legend. But finding you, makes me think there might be others like you... and you are uniquely qualified to seek those others out. And to help us survive in this modern age..."

     "The land here is ancient," she went on. "And the prophecy of our return to rule this land will come to pass. But our enemies are as familiar with the prophecy as we are, and will seek to prevent it coming to pass. So... for your protection and mine, we must leave temporarily, as others of our kind have left in the past. We must find the lost ones, Beloved. Gather them, like the precious flowers they are, and bring them under our protection."

     "And this task will ultimately fall to you, W'Liam" Mir'a'Da declared. "Among all of us, you are the only one who is comfortable with human society. The only one whose Ascension is not colored by being the prey of the barbarians for centuries."

     ****

     W'Liam was taken by surprise. He had not expected the A'Shishem to endorse S'Tann's plan. Had in fact expected him to oppose it vehemently! It was another example of why he needed to understand these two better, this extraordinary relationship between them, a relationship that had developed over the course of centuries. For someone who, up until a few hours ago had expected to live a short life, even by human standards, it was mind-numbing to contemplate. To be functionally immortal... what did it really mean?

     Will I be alive a thousand years from now, he wondered? And after so much time has passed, what sort of being will I come to be? After all the history they must have witnessed, all the pain and suffering that had so incensed the man that he used to be seemed pale by comparison. And to have this power that he could feel coursing through his veins with every beat of his heart, he could make a real difference now, couldn't he? He could change things that had been beyond his power to change before. No more would he be an ordinary witness to the history, the misfortune of others, the misery of the human race that these two, for all their power, were not moved by in the least. He could use this power to make history, rather than just observe it!

     And he could use it to make the human race accept the Chosen as well, he thought. He would gather the Chosen for his Queen, accept the responsibility for bringing the lost ones like himself their heritage. And he would try to make them all into a great force for good in the world. A world in which both species could live in peace, could prosper together, as once they had suffered in separation.

     "Command me, my Queen," he said, sensing that this must be a formal pledge, the idea taking firm root in his mind. "I will do anything for you... anything, and everything..."

      CHAPTER TEN -- The Demon's Tale

     It had gone on for hours, and Carlos could barely contain his shock at the tale the demon told. It was too familiar. And for that reason alone, his suspicions would normally be aroused. But in this instance at least, the very familiarity of the tale seemed to illustrate some truth, some historical accuracy, uncluttered by the necessities of theology. History, very different from any he had been taught, before or since joining the Church, but history nonetheless!

     The one who called himself G'Brael knew too much to be dismissed as a conniver, a teller of half truths. Some of his statements were simply too outrageous to be taken as anything but what he believed to be the truth. If he were attempting to intentionally mislead him, Carlos thought, surely he would be more circumspect in the telling of his story.

     A'Shira, the great queen that G'Brael described so eloquently had been unknown to the world until quite recently. An archeological research team in Israel was currently working on a dig where they had discovered evidence of a hitherto unknown goddess. Named, strangely enough, Asura...

     Was that a coincidence, Carlos wondered? Or were A'Shira, and Asura, one and the same? Not a goddess, as the Israeli archaeologists assumed, but an ancient queen who once ruled the lands presently occupied by the state of Israel!

     And the daughter that G'Brael described with such passion? The beautiful princess named S'Tann, taking on the mantle of queen at her mother's death, exiled from her kingdom upon her mother's demise, and working ever since to avenge that death. Could it really be true? Could such a being exist even now, plotting her revenge, not just on The Council of Twelve, but on the human race, the barbarians as he called them, as well?

     Looking at G'Brael, it was all too easy to imagine! For here sat some of the proof before his eyes! In the form of a supernatural presence whose powers were unquestionable!

     The question was, Carlos thought, what in the world was he supposed to do about it? How could he bring this tale, even if it were the absolute unblemished truth, back to the Vatican? He was suddenly struck by a vision of himself being locked away in some dungeon, declared a dangerous threat to the Faith. Excommunication, he knew, was a relatively tame punishment when compared to some of the other things his Church had done to people in the past. And he had a terrible suspicion that the Vatican Council was not beyond enacting some of those brutal solutions to a perceived problem even in this modern day. It was a startling revelation for a Jesuit priest who had spent his life defending the Church!

     ****

     "...and then we come to one of the most important players in my tale," G'Brael said, his voice soft and haunting. "The Serpent, whom you have heard of from your ancient manuscripts. The story N'Quelar told being but one of many that your church has had, and then destroyed."

     He paused then, and if Carlos had to guess, he would suspect that the demon, although his perception of the thing was shifting with each passing minute, was contemplating some scene from it's past. Reliving some traumatic incident that no passage of time could soften...

     "The Serpent's real name was L'Kynvir," he finally continued. "He was the General of the King's Host, and as such, a very influential individual..."

     "What was the Host?" Carlos asked innocently.

     "The Host... was the King's army," G'Brael replied. "A hundred thousand strong troop of cavalry. To say the least, a formidable force in those times. The most formidable in fact... no barbarian tribe could stand against them, and their tactics of maneuver would be considered sophisticated even by today's standards. I would hate to see what the Serpent could accomplish, if given command of a modern armored formation," he added quietly, almost as an afterthought.

     This last statement had peaked Klaus's interest, Carlos saw, and smiled. Always interested in the profession of arms, in that one thing at least, his friend was predictable. Carlos was glad of his presence, sitting quietly beside him, alert for danger as usual, but allowing G'Brael to speak without interruption.

     "L'Kynvir was a member of the Council of Thirteen, the King's Council, although one of it's members was appointed by the Great Queen, his closest advisors. But, in point of fact," and here Carlos thought he could detect a small smile on the things face. "... he often ignored our advice, as most rulers are prone to do on occasion. L'Kynvir was much admired, both inside the Council, and among the general population of the Great Kingdom as well. He was a warrior, with all that implies. Courageous, cunning, a military strategist beyond reproach. All these things and more..."

     "But L'Kynvir had a secret passion," G'Brael continued. "And that secret passion was the Heir Designate, the princess S'Tann. None of us realized at the time the depth of that passion, the lengths to which he would go to win her. The Serpent you see, never had any intention of following the Great King's command where the Great Queen's daughter was concerned. The Great King had ordered that she be put to death before she could accomplish the Transformation from Heir Designate, to Great Queen."

     "I cannot say with any certainty what L'Kynvir truly intended to do with her, but it is now certain that he did not intend any harm to come to her. Perhaps, he thought that she could be captured before the Transformation. Afterall, she was young, far too young to become Queen, or so we all thought..."

     "But S'Tann was powerful, even as a child. We should have known better. The Great King committed a grave error by underestimating her, an error that would eventually cause his own death, and the death of the Great Kingdom as well!"

     It was with real sadness that G'Brael spoke of the death of his kingdom, Carlos saw, inexplicably moved by the pain he saw reflected in the demon's face.

     "After the death of A'Shira, and the desecration of her temples that the King thought so necessary, S'Tann was nowhere to be found. And this drove Y'Hoveh to distraction for months afterward..."

     Yes, Carlos thought, I can see why it would. A King, believing himself to be the true King, can never allow any pretenders to the throne to survive. And if what G'Brael was telling him were true, the princess S'Tann obviously posed an incredible threat to the King.

     Y'Hoveh... could that name be a simple coincidence, he wondered? Or was that too a part of the overall bastardization of human history that the demon spoke of? Y'Hoveh, Jehovah, the names were too similar to be mere coincidence, surely? Carlos was no linguist, although he spoke four languages, but he didn't think one needed to be to see the similarities.

     Was it all a lie? His faith, his Holy Mother Church, nothing but a political mechanism as G'Brael suggested? Conceived eventually by the one the demon referred to as the Serpent? Impossible, he thought! His Church had changed the world!

     But was it a change for the better? Objectively, he could not say with any certainty. And that was the crux of his dilemma...

     "...Y'Hoveh ordered the Serpent, although he was not called the Serpent then, to scour the known world for S'Tann. And, true to his oath as General of the Host, L'Kynvir set about to follow his King's command."

     "At some point," G'Brael continued, "he found her... But rather than bring her back to his King, either in chains or in pieces, as he had been ordered to do, the Serpent apparently struck a deal with the girl Queen. Sparing her life, and her freedom."

     "None of us in the Council were aware of what had happened... Until it was too late..."

     "He killed your King, didn't he?" Carlos prompted.

     G'Brael nodded, a strangely human gesture Carlos thought. A gesture which imparted a pathos to the chiselled features of the creature that anyone with a heart could read easily.

     "Yes... he killed my King. As only one who was well loved by the Great King could... driving a knife between his ribs, and carving out the beating heart within. And then..."

     "Yes?"

     "And then... eating it whole. Using the blood of the King to increase his own powers, as only one of the Ascended could do, and live!"

     Carlos' mouth dropped open in horror. It was an unexpected climax to the story G'Brael had been telling up to this point. How vile a creature was this Serpent, to do such a thing? It was barbaric beyond words!

     ****

     G'Brael smiled a bitter little smile at the priest's shocked expression, the disgust he could see written on both the human's faces, even without benefit of his powers to probe deeper into their minds. Ahh... yes, he thought, do not be lulled into the impression that the Serpent is another one like me. Of the same race, yes. But worlds apart in our hearts! An unbridgeable gap in point of view, a chasm of intellect and morals that can never be spanned between us!

     In actuality, L'Kynvir had eaten the King's heart in a gesture of respect, not as the barbaric orgiastic feast these humans were imagining in their minds eye. But they did not need to know that, did they? If given the chance, truthfully, G'Brael might have done the same thing. The ancient rituals dictating that the heart of a Great King could never be allowed to putrefy within the cavity of the body. That the organ responsible for the pumping of the Royal Blood was a sacred, powerful thing, that must be passed on to one who would use that power for the greater good of the Great Kingdom.

     Under normal circumstances, it was the Great Queen who consumed the organ while standing watch over the funeral pyre. The one circumstance where the Great Queen could indulge a carnivores instinct. And in that, L'Kynvir had, of course, shattered the ritual beyond recognition. But there were exceptions known to have happened in the long history of the Chosen. A King, killed on the field of battle, often set forth in his per-combat commandments what was to be done with his heart should such an eventuality occur. And, truth be told, those commandments usually stipulated that it would be the General of the Host, if he still lived after the battle, who would honour the King by the eating of the heart.

     G'Brael wondered what this priest would think of some of the things his human ancestors, the barbarians of old, did on a regular basis? Cannibalism had been one of their lesser evils, he thought, remembering the filthy savages that some of the Chosen occasionally tried to civilize to the level of competent slaves. Usually without success. How horrified would you have been Father Carlos, if you had to live among your own people of those times, and been forced to watch their antics of casual brutality, for even a little while? The eating of the Great King's heart was tame by those standards!

     But G'Brael could see that was something that would never occur to these two, raised as they were amongst the more civilized societies their species had created. They thought that this place they were in now represented the absolute depths to which the human race could sink... How wrong they were!

     "Is that why he was cast out?" the priest asked finally, almost choking on the question as he tried to get the terrible image out of his mind.

     "Yes." G'Brael answered, not bothering to make the distinction between the image in the human's minds, and the fact of the Great King's murder, which was the true cause of L'Kynvir's disenfranchisement.

     Both of the humans shook their heads in disgust, predictably, but from G'Brael's point of view usefully as well. It was important that they see the Serpent as an enemy without peer, an adversary worthy of all the contempt they could heap upon him.

     "And this one still lives?" the soldier, the one name Klaus, asked quietly.

     G'Brael nodded in the affirmative. "He is the one I seek to destroy, the one who is presently the guest of the Great Queen, S'Tann."

     "Then she is an ally of this beast still?"

     "Not exactly... As far as I know, S'Tann hates the Serpent with a passion that makes my wish for his demise seem little more than a passing fancy..."

     "Then why would she tolerate his presence?" Carlos asked, wondering where all this was leading?

     "I do not know... Perhaps, you should ask her that question yourself, priest."

     Could he be serious? The idea was intriguing, but he didn't imagine such a creature as G'Brael described would invite him into her parlor for tea! More likely, she would have him killed before he ever laid eyes on her!

     He needed to know more of the demon's story, before he would ever agree to even attempt such a thing. It still wasn't clear what this all had to do with him, and his Church. The fact that the Serpent might have been an advisor to a Roman Emperor meant little. There had to be a key to why this demon had chosen him to speak to. What was that key?

     "Your church is the key, Father Carlos," G'Brael replied to his unspoken query. "For your church has been most responsible for the destruction of my race."

     Yours, and many others besides, Carlos thought. His conscience heavy with the knowledge of the past brutalities of his Church, and his Faith.

     The demon nodded sagely, in silent acknowledgement of Carlos' contrition. "Yes... But don't you realize who it was that put your church on the path you so bitterly regret?" he asked.

     Carlos made the connection immediately, but his mind would not allow him to accept what G'Brael was saying. It was impossible! God would never allow such a thing!

     "But that is the crux of the matter entirely, priest," G'Brael continued. "Your god is a fantasy of our creation..."

     ****

     Night patrols... Jacques hated them, especially now. Who could predict who might be sneaking around in the dark at the best of times in the Lebanon. And with the Israeli army only a few miles from the center of the city, in all likelihood the chances of getting caught in a firefight between them and one of the factions who had been fighting amongst themselves until the recent invasion, were growing exponentially by the minute!

     He, and the five man recon element he was leading were on foot tonight. The armored personnel carriers they usually travelled in were far too noisy for this type of work. Much too inviting a target for ambush. Besides which, the point of tonights excursion was to map the latest obstacles to their day patrols, and scout the positions of the opposing forces. A necessary evil, he supposed, but one he did not appreciate having to do.

     The former commander of this unit had relished this type of work. Mad Bill deserved his nickname, Jacques thought. What sane person would actually like this kind of stupidity? Only a madman...

     Every little noise he heard brought his heartbeat to a new rhythm, every shadow caught out of the corner of an eye loosened his bowels a little more, every glint of moonlight reflected in the shattered glass strewn along their patrol route made his breath come a little harder. At this moment, he thought bitterly, he would much rather be anywhere else on earth!

     And he wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for the fact that he needed to prove to the damn Canadians that he wasn't the gutless wonder they all suspected him to be! It was the Canadian peacekeeping contingent in Cyprus that had started this type of activity back in the sixties... And since then, it had become SOP among all United Nations detachments, but under normal circumstances, Jacques would not have had to participate. It was only when one of the detachments NCO's informed him that the troops weren't going to take orders from a man who wouldn't put his balls on the line alongside them, that he had been shamed into accompanying this patrol. As far as he was concerned, it was a complete waste of time! He was a firm believer in the tools of remote recon that modern combat could provide. What the hell was the point of crawling around in the dark, when there were perfectly good satellites orbiting overhead that could detect a human heat signature with pinpoint accuracy? It was ridiculous!

     They were presently hunkered down beside the burned out shell of an office building. And Jacques was struck by how much more sinister the scene became without the sunshine. Like something out of a futuristic horror movie, one he would never spend his hard earned money to see... but here he was, living the damned nightmare most people only contemplated in their darkest dreams!

     And to make matters worse, if that were possible, the commlink earpiece in his left ear kept falling out, forcing him to screw around with it every few seconds... A distraction that he definitely could do without right now!

     He had just managed to jam it back into his ear when he heard, "...to the front," in a harsh nervous whisper.

     Jacques felt himself twitch, a totally involuntary reaction that accompanied the sensation of his testicles shrinking up into his belly, and his heart beginning to pound uncontrollably. He resisted the temptation to scream the obvious question into the microphone he had pressed against his lips...

     ****

     The demon paused, cocking his head to one side, as if listening to something, reminding Carlos incongruously of a spaniel he had once owned. The same look of curious concentration...

     "What is it?" Klaus asked quietly, presumably picking up the same impression as Carlos.

     At first, G'Brael did not reply. Carlos could see the aura that surrounded him quite clearly now, as if his state of concentration was related to the form in which it manifested itself. What had only been barely perceived flickers before, like sparks of static electricity, the same kind one sees coming off a blanket in the dark, now looked like waves of blue light shimmering around him. Rippling and swirling, becoming more and more substantial, until his entire form was cloaked in it, almost as if he were encased in some strange electric mist.

     Carlos could tell that Klaus was sensing something as well. A soldier's instinct perhaps. A warning from the subconscious that something was about to happen. Carlos could see a subtle tension come to his friend's eyes, an involuntary shallowing of his breathing, that told him that the mercenary was also listening for some hint of danger.

     "We are not alone," the demon said quietly, moving toward the blasted out front of the office in which they were. His steps undetectable, as if he floated over the debris beneath his feet, rather than crushing it underfoot.

     Carlos made as if to follow, but Klaus's hand on his arm held him back. Urging him away from the front of the building, and deeper into it's interior. His friend held a finger up to his lips, cautioning silence. Advice that Carlos took reluctantly, his mind filled with questions in need of answers.

     When next Carlos heard G'Brael's voice, it was coming not from the position that the demon had moved to, but from inside his own head. Astonishing him with the ease that this thing invaded his most secret places...

     "I must leave you now, Father Carlos. The human hunters of my kind are afoot, and it would not do to have them discover you here with me. Take your companion and go. You will find a path through the rubble behind this building that will lead you to relative safety... it is the best I can do for you now."

     No, Carlos thought desperately, there is so much more I need to ask. So many questions left unanswered...

     "We will speak again, you and I. We have need of each other. Our quests follow the same path... It would seem that fate has seen fit that we follow it together..."

     And then he was gone...

     ****

     Jacques felt as if he were about to puke. He choked down a mouthful of bile, trying not to gag. Trying not to do anything that might give away his position to whomever was lurking out there in the night. He desperately needed to piss all of a sudden, and his aching bladder throbbed with every beat of his heart, feeling as if it were about to burst if he didn't relieve himself. He couldn't even piss in his pants, he knew, because the smell of it might be detectable on the faint breeze that was blowing away from him. The smell of urine, especially from a frightened man, carried a long way to anyone acquainted with the scent. And he was sure that anybody who was moving through the night in the middle of a combat zone would be intimately familiar with the stink of fear!

     He kept his eyes moving over the ground in front of the position, trying to pick up some movement. The commlink had gone ominously silent after that single, half heard report, and Jacques did not think that was a very good sign. The Canadians that accompanied him were not a chatty bunch at the best of times, but he would have expected to be given a follow-up situation report by now. The fact that one did not seem to be forthcoming could not be considered promising!

     Not knowing the danger was the worst part, he reflected. Movement to the front could mean almost anything. From a group of civilians out scavenging for supplies, to an armed group laying an ambush, to some poor forgotten bastard lying on the street slowly bleeding to death. There was no way to know... and his initial fear at the contact report was beginning to turn into a smoldering anger. It was time these bastards learned who was in command here, he thought, coming to the conclusion that he should go forward and check out this supposed movement for himself!

     He raised his head up for an instant to get a better look around, and was promptly rewarded by the crack of a high velocity round whistling past his ear. That answered one question at least... whoever was out there wasn't friendly! He glanced over at the man lying next to him, a corporal, who slowly shook his head from side to side...

     "Not a good idea, Captain..." the corporal whispered, without taking his eyes off the sector to the front that he was responsible for watching.

     Well, thought Jacques, this is just fucking great! Not only was he in the company of a bunch of soldiers that wouldn't shed any tears to see him blown to pieces, on a mission that he considered pointless, but now they were all pinned down here, and none of the troops under his command seemed very inclined to move an inch. This was totally unacceptable in his opinion! He was not about to let a bunch of rag headed arabs piss on an officer of the French Army!

     "Corporal..." Jacques hissed in reply to the man's warning. "I want you to get off your ass... n'est pas? We are going to begin a flanking maneuver to the right..."

     The man did take a second to look at him then, and if looks alone could kill, Jacques had no doubt that he would be dead that very same instant.

     "I don't think that's a very good plan... Sir," the corporal replied belligerently.

     Jacques wondered what the UN command in New York would say if they found out one of their officers was seriously considering shooting one of his own troopers through the head? If this were a French unit, that is exactly what he would do under these circumstances... Disobeying an officer's orders was not something that was tolerated in his own army, and he was not about to tolerate it here either!

     Jacques reached down and unclipped his web harness, cursing to himself silently at the necessity of the risk he was about to take. His father had been right afterall... only fools joined the military! His two brothers, both of whom had joined the foreign service, were at this moment safe and sound at some embassy party in Paris no doubt, the extent of the life and death decisions they had to make was which of the myriad bored diplomatic wives they would seduce before morning! And here he was, about to embark on a idiotic exercise, just to prove to a bunch of surly soldiers that he would likely never see again after this assignment, that he was a man who could be counted on. A soldier that was worthy of leading them...

     Getting out of his webbing, while lying flat on his stomach, trying not to expose himself to fire from whoever had them pinned down, proved to be a more difficult task than he had first imagined. The bulky flak jacket he wore didn't make things any easier, so he decided to dispense with that as well. I really am insane, he thought, as he prepared himself. If the fucking Canadians couldn't be ordered into a flanking movement, perhaps he could shame them into following one he began himself. That was the plan at any rate, but as he looked at the grim face of the corporal lying beside him, he wasn't so sure it would work. The man seemed singularly unimpressed by Jacques preparations, as if he were just waiting for a stray round to find it's target, so he couldn't be held responsible for the loss of a second officer from this detachment in as many weeks.

     As Jacques was just about to begin his scurry to the right, in his attempt to flank the opposition, whomever they were, his commlink squawked to life, the harsh whisper sounding loud in his ear... "I'm fucked... they have me cut-off..."

     The corporal grimaced, a look Jacques was hard pressed to interpret. The man pressed his microphone against his lips, whispering back, "Identify targets... strength, disposition... over."

     Jacques supposed he should have been the one to ask that question, but the corporal seemed to know what he was doing, so he let him continue. Listening with a great deal of interest for the pointman's reply.

     "Count six... no seven... one hundred meters... thirty degrees left of your position... wait one..."

     Flanking to the right was no longer an option, Jacques thought, they would have to go left, which meant they would have to cross the street at a point that offered little in the way of cover. He wondered casually how many of them were about to get killed?

     Strangely enough, the paralysing fear he had felt earlier wasn't quite so debilitating now that he had an objective in mind. Something to concentrate on, other than his own imminent demise...

     ****

     G'Brael watched the movement of the opposing forces with detached fascination, from a rooftop with a good view of the street in both directions. He hoped Father Carlos and his friend were out of the danger area by now. But if they weren't, there was little he could do to help them.

     The Druze militiamen who had the United Nations unit pinned down on the street below were old enemies of the Chosen, allies of the Society of Assassins, the secret cabal of death merchants that had terrorized the middle-east for centuries. And through them, allies of the A'Shishem as well, although the modern Druze had no idea that they were associated with the minions of the Great Queen. Many people thought of the Druze as Muslim, as evidenced by their association with the Society, which was supposedly a fundamentalist Islamic sect. But the primary motivation of the Druze, and their predecessors, had been, and always would be, the suppression of outsiders in the territories they controlled. Although they cloaked their activities in a supposed tolerance for other religions.

     They were in truth, a secret society themselves, neither Christian nor Muslim really, more in keeping with certain pagan sects than any of the modern religions of the region. Which is exactly why they were so dangerous. They knew of the Chosen, not as a myth, but as historical fact, passed down generation after generation among the ajawid , their most learned sages. Most of the Druze, like most humans, had no idea what the true history of their sect was, but the ajawid knew all. G'Brael wondered if Father Carlos had ever considered talking to one of them, not that he expected one of those secretive sages would talk to a Jesuit, but they could certainly give him more information in one hour than all the manuscripts buried beneath the Vatican could provide.

     These days, who was labelled an outsider was of course dependent upon the political affiliation of the day, and the term 'outsider' was used in as broad a definition as possible, but if one of the men below saw G'Brael, they would know what he was... the ultimate 'outsider'.

     It was odd, G'Brael thought, for them to come down out of their mountain strongholds, into the city. And even stranger for them to challenge a United Nations unit. They were usually more circumspect in their hunting, which could only mean that there was something here that they were after, something, or someone, quite specific. Worth the risk they were taking by firing on the supposed peacekeepers of the United Nations in the Lebanon. What could that something be, he wondered?

     ****

     Jacques was now determined that he was going to bring his isolated trooper back under the detachments protection, as slight as that protection was... under the circumstances. Chances were quite good, he thought bitterly, that they were all going to be killed. Nevertheless, there were some things that the UN could not tolerate, and watching one of their number slaughtered by one of the militias was definitely at the top of the list as far as he was concerned!

     "Are you with me, corporal?"

     The Canadian nodded, not exactly a glowing endorsement, but progress nonetheless. Now, if they could only accomplish what they were after without dying in the process, maybe they could get out of here and back to their base, without compounding tonights stupidity!

     The thought occurred to him that it might be a good idea to try and get some backup before proceeding. But the sad truth of the matter was, there was no back up to speak of that he could call on. Not one that would be any use at any rate. The United Nations peacekeeping force relied more on the goodwill of the various combatants, rather than any credible threat of retaliation, as it's modus operandi. A system that would have to change if the UN was to have any future, Jacques thought. Although his own army kept a battalion whose job it was to rescue peacekeeping units that got themselves into trouble, he doubted that they would arrive in time, even if he bothered to call them. No, he thought, they were definitely on their own!

     "Alright, corporal... we move left, keeping as much cover as we can between us and the raggers..."

     "No shit..." the man muttered under his breath, but loud enough to make sure Jacques heard him.

     Not that there was much cover...

     ****

     The United Nations team broke cover, and sprinted down the street toward the building from which G'Brael was watching the entire drama unfold. The Druze militiamen opened fire immediately, but luckily enough for the peacekeepers, there aim was typically poor, and none of the UN soldiers were hit. At that moment, the Druze began taking fire from a point behind their position, and G'Brael could clearly see the confusion this caused. They began firing wildly in all directions at once, allowing the UN team to reach a position of relative safety.

     G'Brael lost sight of them as they entered the building on which he was standing. He watched the militiamen with some interest as the firing died off. Two of them were digging something out of the ground he saw, while the other five provided security. Focusing his powerful seeker-sense on the object they were pulling out of the ground, G'Brael was mystified. It was a large oblong box, almost the same size and shape as the plain wooden coffins that were used in this part of the world. But, as far as he could tell, there was no body in this box that he could see. Besides which, it was a little too small for a coffin. Unless... it was the body of a child. But why would they go to all this trouble to retrieve the body of a child? And what would a Druze child be doing buried in the middle of a Beirut street?

     It was a curious state of affairs to say the least, G'Brael thought, that curiosity finally getting the better of him. He walked over to the opposite corner of the building on which he stood, so as not to be seen by either the Druze or the UN soldiers, and jumped off. Using his aura to reach out to the street below like a tautly stretched mechanical spring, arresting his downward momentum, slowing his descent until he touched lightly onto the scarred pavement at the side of the building.

     As soon as he landed, he realized his mistake. While he had been absorbed with the antics of the militiamen, the UN soldiers had moved through the building, using it's cover as protection, and come out a doorway on the same side as that where G'Brael had come to ground. He was behind them, less than ten meters from where they crouched in the shadows cast by the piles of rubble laying in the street. They were unaware of his presence, their attention focused exclusively on the Druze, but that would not last indefinitely. Soldiers, G'Brael reflected, had a habit of sensing danger that an ordinary human would not. And he was sure that the hackles of the soldiers in front of him would rise any second. Their reaction, if his experience served him correctly, was liable to be violent in the extreme!

     No, he thought, the better part of valor in this instance would definitely be withdrawal. The mystery of what the Druze militia were doing so far from their traditional hunting grounds could be solved on another night...

     ****

     Jacques was pleased that they had gotten this far without anybody being killed. The position they occupied now was much improved from the last one. In fact, if he chose to give the order, the recon team was in an excellent posture to liquidate the entire force opposing them. That would be, strictly speaking, he thought, a gross violation of their stated rules of engagement. But then again, he wasn't sure he could get his lost man back without killing all the raggers, or at least, killing enough of them to drive the others off.

     It was a delicate situation. As far as he could tell, the opposition had no idea that they had been effectively outflanked. And, although his team still needed to cross the street to complete the maneuver in a textbook manner, he was pretty confident they could do the job from here if they chose to. The problem was, he didn't have the legal authority to start killing people in cold blood, even though those same people had tried to kill him, and had cut off his pointman, presumably with the intention of doing him severe bodily injury as well.

     The Canadian corporal, who since the sprint from cover had been sticking to him like glue, clarified the situation for him in his typically no nonsense manner.

     "Are we gonna take these fuckers, or not?"

     Another dilemma, thought Jacques. Do we, or don't we? Fuck it, we do!

     "Pick your targets... left to right... command shoots first..." he whispered into the mic.

     "Point, you there?"

     Jacques heard the faint double click of a mic switch, signalling that his pointman was still alive, and relatively well. "You take the two diggers, point... acknowledge." He was rewarded with a further two clicks from his earpiece, signifying that his soldier out in no mans land understood his instructions.

     "Okay... here we go."

     ****

     The eruption of fire was surrealistic, sadistically bright, suddenly and overwhelmingly violent, and mercifully short, if terribly brutal. His ears rang with the staccato burst of gunfire, reminding G'Brael of the short sharp sound of rending cloth.

     And then it was over. Silence descended once again, as if there had been no interruption in the stillness of the night's warmth. As if seven men had not died a horribly brutal death, mere meters away from where G'Brael was crouched against a wall, using his aura to blend in with his surroundings. His camouflage complete, as he bore silent witness to the complete annihilation visited upon his Druze enemies.

     He watched the steam rise from opened entrails. Smelled the coppery scent of freshly spilt blood, the raw sewer stench of offal, drifting on the currents of the summer night. Bringing back memories of other nights, other slaughters seared into his memory. This one would join all the rest, one more incident of brutality, in a lifetime of them. An endless array of images that he could bring back if he wanted to, like some gruesome plot from a modern cinema play. This one, for all it's violence, mediocre when compared to some of the others...

     *** CHAPTER ELEVEN -- The Artifact

     For most of the Canadians it was their first kill. And the aftermath was anti-climactic, to say the least. The sudden rush of adrenaline that had accompanied the burst of automatic weapons fire, had been replaced by a kind of 'at loose ends' feeling that none of them had really expected. Realistically, Jacques knew, they were all in deep shit. How much shit exactly, still remained to be seen, but he was pretty sure the next few days, if not weeks, were going to be unpleasant for them all, as they tried to justify to the bureaucrats in New York the killing of these seven men.

     In retrospect, Jacques himself was having second thoughts. There was nothing quite so pitiful as looking at the splayed out corpses of men who had died at the hands of others. And these seven Lebanese, whoever they were, were no exception.

     They were all standing around gawking at their handiwork, the sliver of moon glowing in the night sky giving them just enough illumination to see the horrendous damage done to human flesh when it was impacted by high-velocity bullets. Yes, Jacques thought, feeling the washed out aftermath of combat for the first time since his tour in Chad, we are in deep shit, no doubt about it!

     "They don't look so tough now, do they?" the Canadian corporal commented, his voice sounding uncharacteristically gleeful.

     "No," Jacques replied tiredly. "Just dead... all they look is dead."

     It was a plain statement of truth, no more, no less. But for him, it summed up everything, those two words... 'just dead'. That's how he felt sometimes, dead on the inside, oblivious to the suffering he saw every day. He didn't suppose that was a good way to be, but he had no idea what to do about it. Didn't, in truth, really want to do anything about it. That would take too much energy, analyzing why he felt this way, it wasn't worth the trouble. It wouldn't change anything, so why bother?

     It occurred to him then, probably for the first time, that his entire professional life had been a colossal waste of time and effort. When he was younger, the idea of defending the Republic had seemed a noble one. But now? Now, he thought, after twelve years in the military, he saw it for what it really was, pointless. He wasn't defending his own country, except in the broadest sense, if you considered the protection of France's strategic political interests in the third world as defending one's country. And he didn't, not really, not anymore.

     It was all terribly depressing, the endless peacekeeping missions, afterwhich nothing ever changed. It was enough to drive a person to contemplate a change of career...

     "What the hell's in this box, I wonder?" the Canadian corporal mused aloud, forcing Jacques mind back into the here and now.

     It also brought back to him the fact that they were out in hostile territory, acting like a bunch of kids who had just won a soccer match, instead of professional soldiers looking out for their own safety. "Whatever it is, we aren't going to open it. It's probably rigged to explode."

     "What do we do with it then?" the corporal asked. "It's probably a weapons cache... we can't just leave it here."

     True enough, Jacques thought. They couldn't just leave it here for the phallangists, who in all likelihood would use whatever was in the odd shaped box against them or somebody else in the Lebanon. Jacques was tempted to open it, but he knew that was a foolhardy notion. Then again, they couldn't sit here all night watching the box either. Besides which, he wanted to put some distance between himself and these bodies. The fact that he had to report this incident to the UN command in New York, didn't mean he had to advertise tonight's activity to the locals, who no doubt would be outraged that the UN peacekeepers had taken it upon themselves to execute seven of their countrymen. The Lebanese, Jacques knew, were believers in that ancient arab maxim, 'me against my brother, me and my brother against my cousin, me, my brother, and my cousin against the world'. Which meant that, regardless of the fights going on between them, the Lebanese would be united in their condemnation of Jacques decision to fire on these people, no matter the justification.

     The smartest thing to do would be to blow the box in place, destroying it, and whatever was in it. But Jacques was a little curious about the box's contents. More than likely it was full of arms or ammunition, one of the thousands of weapons caches located throughout Lebanon. But Jacques was a firm believer in the notion that a person, especially a soldier in an isolated outpost, should take nothing for granted. And if it was a weapons cache, who knew but they might have need of those weapons themselves. His was a small detachment that could easily be cut off from any outside supply, it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a few extra rounds available if the 'shit hit the proverbial fan' as Mad Bill used to say.

     He rationalized his decision, even before he was quite conscious of having made a decision, by replaying the firefight in his head. The phallangists had been moving the box around when they died, so it made sense that they could move the box as well. If it was rigged to explode, more than likely it was in the event that the box was opened, not if it were moved.

     "We'll take it with us..."

     The rescued pointman, who had the best view of the action, nodded his head in agreement. "The rag-heads were knocking it around pretty good, I don't think it'll go off if we carry it back to base."

     The corporal, ever the practical one, didn't seem so convinced. "Why don't we just blow the fuckin thing? If we blow it, it'll look like these fuckers got wasted by their own shit, and not us..."

     The corporal left unsaid the elemental reason for not wanting to be associated with tonight's escapade. If they could make it look like these men blew themselves up while digging for weapons, they wouldn't have to report the incident at all, they could just 'stumble' across the bodies on tomorrow's patrol, and pretend the UN didn't have anything to do with it. When he thought about it, the corporal's unworded suggestion made perfect sense to Jacques. Why bother jeopardizing their careers, to take responsibility for killing these little assholes, who had been the ones who tried to kill them in the first place?

     However, Jacques still wanted whatever it was that was in the box. He would take the corporal's suggestion, up to a point. But the detachment would still take the box with them when they left...

     "Rig some plastique in the hole that they took the box out of... We'll make it look like they got killed trying to dig up a mine, so they could plant it somewhere else. The box comes with us."

     The corporal just grunted, a hard sound to interpret, but Jacques wasn't foolish enough to think that it was a grunt of approval. Oh well, he thought philosophically, there was just no pleasing some people...

     ****

     Father Carlos and Klaus were a block away by the time they heard the sound of gunfire. Carlos was immediately tempted to go back, but Klaus had vetoed that idea in the strongest possible terms. It was probably a good thing too, Carlos reflected, for after the initial burst of fire, there had been a slight lull, and then the unmistakable sound of more fighting. Strangely enough, Carlos found himself hoping that the being who called himself G'Brael had not been caught. There was so much more he wanted to ask him, so many questions left unanswered...

     "We should be safe now, Father," Klaus said, slowing his pace slightly.

     "Safety is a relative term here in Lebanon, my friend."

     The Swiss soldier nodded emphatically in acknowledgement. "You're right about that, Father. But Lebanon is not so very different from anywhere else in the world in that regard."

     Carlos wondered if that were true? It almost seems as if I've lived my whole life in a kind of blissful ignorance, he thought. Seeing, but not really seeing. Feeling, but not really feeling. He had never before considered the world a very dangerous place. Oh, he knew there were dangerous parts to it, but he had always believed that those places were the rarity, not the norm.

     But just imagine what life must be like for G'Brael, demon or not. To live in constant fear of discovery, hunted for centuries... not just by one human tribe, if his story were to be believed, but by them all!

     And, Carlos suddenly realized, by telling us his story, he has made us potential targets of the paranoia he spoke of, hasn't he? The same feeling of dread gripped him that had taken hold of him as the demon told his story. The frightening suspicion that no one, inside or outside the Church, would thank him for bringing this being's tale to light. That in fact, there were forces active within the Church, who would go out of their way to discredit the story G'Brael told. And to what lengths might they go, he wondered?

     He was not convinced that G'Brael had told him the truth. Could not in truth believe that his faith was a fantasy made up by the ones G'Brael called Chosen. But that the Chosen existed, that could not be denied, could it? Carlos had spoken to one of them, had the beast invade his own mind, had himself heard the sound of the voice that was not human. Seen with his own eyes the glittering blue pools of light the demon used for sight, witnessed the aura that surrounded him, the glowing skin spoken of in the ancient texts. And the horns, he had seen the black horns of the devil sprouting from beneath the things hairline!

     But it was not the devil, Carlos thought. Of that too, he was quite certain. Perhaps it was because the thing had not claimed to be the devil, that he knew it was not. Nor one of Satan's servants, either.

     As he walked along, wrestling with his faith, and his long-held assumptions of the Church he loved, he noticed Klaus staring at him out of the corner of his eye, as if his friend wanted to ask a question, but did not know quite how to start.

     "What is it, Klaus?"

     "Do you believe him, Father?" the Swiss blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer.

     "I believe some of what he has said," Carlos replied, knowing immediately who it was Klaus referred to. "But there are things he has not told us, my friend. Many things..."

     "Is he what he says he is?"

     "You saw with your own eyes what he is, Klaus. Or, more importantly, what he isn't. I don't think there can be any doubt that the one who calls himself G'Brael is not human... What he is... that I can't say with any certainty."

     Carlos could see the hesitation in his friend's eyes, even in the pale illumination cast by the crescent moon. "Don't hold back, Klaus... What is it you are thinking?"

     "It did not strike me as an evil thing, Father. Different... yes, but not evil, not in the sense that I understand it."

     Ah, Carlos thought, that was the crux of it! His impression of G'Brael was the same... not evil. When you took away the obvious resemblance to the ancient accounts, this thing bore no relation to the accepted description of the demon, did it? Like the being described in the manuscript of N'Quelar, G'Brael did not come off as intrinsically evil, far from it in fact. If anything, it was exactly the opposite. Carlos had rarely been more moved... this thing, whatever it was, inspired... not fear, but sympathy!

     But that could be the trap, he thought. It might be that it is just manipulating us to achieve it's own ends. But it too hunts the Serpent, as I do. Would it be wrong to ally ourselves with this thing in the short term?

     "I would tend to agree with you, Klaus... it does not seem to be evil."

     "He is what you have been searching for, Father. Tangible evidence of the supernatural."

     I wonder, Carlos thought. If G'Brael was to be believed, he did not consider himself to be supernatural, exactly the opposite in fact. How did he describe himself? A being, just a being... like other beings, with some of the same hopes and aspirations. That didn't strike him as the words of an all powerful demon. And his stories of his race being hunted... didn't that mean that the Chosen must be a part of the natural world, just as G'Brael described them?

     But G'Brael's alternate view of history was too much for Carlos to contemplate seriously. He couldn't make himself accept the idea that his Church, the centerpiece of his entire life, was a sham. A political mechanism, with no intrinsic value, except as a method of controlling large numbers of people through fear. That couldn't be true... it just couldn't be!

     "Father?"

     Carlos shook himself out of his reverie. "I'm sorry, Klaus. This thing has put far too many questions in my mind, and provided far too few answers. I have a feeling that his motives are not what they appear to be, but I cannot say exactly why."

     "Because of your faith, Father," Klaus replied quietly. "Your faith blinds you to any other possibility. And how could it be otherwise? You are a Jesuit priest."

     It was almost an accusation, Carlos thought. Not quite, but almost, and that surprised him. Throughout their long association, Klaus had never given any indication that, although he might not be a believer himself, he felt that Carlos belief system itself was suspect. A more faithful servant had never journeyed forth on behalf of the Jesuit cause, or so Carlos had always believed. But now he realized that the cause Klaus served was not the same as the one he himself embraced. If fact, the service that Klaus rendered was more because of friendship than belief, he understood finally.

     "Do you think me a fool because of that, my friend?"

     "No, Father, I think you're a product of your education, as we all are. I do not judge you for your beliefs, any more than you should judge the rest of us." And then Klaus smiled. "Even though you suspect that the rest of us are galloping down the path to eternal damnation."

     "I don't really believe that at all! Surely, you could not think that of me after all the time we've spent together?"

     Klaus shook his head, still smiling. "No, Father... But in that, you are the exception in your faith, rather than the rule."

     Perhaps you are right, my friend, he thought. But my faith is all I have to sustain me...

     ****

     Jacques sat on an pile of sandbags, staring at the thing they had dragged back to the UN compound, wondering why he had been so enthusiastic about retrieving it the night before. It didn't look like much in daylight. An old wooden box, no more. Probably very old, he could see now, it's edges crumbling at the corners. Not the type of thing he would choose to store anything important, but he was not a Lebanese...

     He was also convinced that whatever was inside the box, was not arms or ammunition. It was simply too light. Neither was it likely that there was an explosive device lurking beneath the rotting cedar, the thing looked as if it hadn't been opened for a hundred years, and anything other than plastique would have added it's own weight to the box, and plastique was a relatively modern invention. To add to the mystery, there was writing on the lid. Latin writing, of all things... very strange.

     The Canadian corporal, who since the night before had seemed to have attached himself to Jacques, walked up to him, and saluted. Jacques was absolutely dumbfounded by this gesture, it was all he could do to keep his mouth from dropping open in surprise. When the man slept he had no idea, but ever since their little escapade last evening, Jacques had been pleasantly surprised by the instant change in attitude of his Canadian troopers, none more so than the corporal. But saluting? That was completely unheard of!

     "What is it, corporal?" he asked neutrally, returning the salute in as offhand a manner as he could muster. He wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize his new found popularity, and so he wasn't about to change his arm's length command style, in case it gave the Canadians the impression that he wanted to be their friend, instead of their commanding officer. That would not do, at all!

     "We've found the priest, Captain... He's being escorted in now."

     "Very good, corporal. Dismissed."

     Of all the people in the world to have to go begging to, Jacques thought. The priest, Father Carlos, was the last one he wanted to see. But, if he wanted to get an inkling of what was in the box before he popped open the lid, he didn't have much choice but to find someone who could read Latin. And Father Carlos was the first one that came to mind. He was making the assumption that Jesuit monks still understood Latin.

     When they had first shined a light on the box, after bringing it back to the compound, his soldiers had all looked at him expectantly. No doubt thinking that he could read the obscure lettering, under the false impression that all frenchmen read and wrote a dead language, he guessed. Well, they were wrong, he could no more read Latin than he could read Chinese, and frankly, he would consider the ability to read Chinese much more useful!

     He glanced toward the gate, some sixth sense kicking in, and saw the fat little monk, and his bodyguard, pass through the checkpoint, surrounded by three of the Canadians. The Father didn't look too happy, and that suited Jacques just fine. He wasn't here to win any popularity contests! The sooner they could get this over with, the better!

     ****

     Carlos didn't like the rude summons, or the fact that he and Klaus were being treated almost as if they were defacto prisoners of the United Nations soldiers who had escorted them from the hotel. It was an uncomfortable experience, and Carlos had been uncomfortable far too often since arriving in the Lebanon, both physically and mentally!

     What in the world could be so important that they would drag us out of our beds at dawn, he wondered? Not that he and Klaus had been in their beds for much more than a few minutes before the UN troops arrival. They had to abandon their car the night before, and return to the hotel on foot. A long walk at the best of times, and last night was definitely not the best of times. A circumstance which had turned a long walk into a kind of ordeal that Carlos was hoping he would not have to repeat any time soon!

     Through a gap in their escort, Carlos saw what it was they were walking toward, and his knees turned to jelly. A coffin...

     ****

     "Good morning, Father Carlos," Jacques greeted the priest. "I trust we haven't disturbed you too much with our mysterious summons?" Not that I much care one way or the other, he thought.

     "Good morning, Captain," the priest replied, not commenting either way on whether or not Jacques summons had disturbed him.

     "We have a little problem which I hope you can help us with, Father. This box has come into our position, and we would like you to read the inscription on it's lid."

     "Why don't you just open it," the priest replied, a little flippantly in Jacques opinion.

     "As I am sure your friend can tell you, opening a mysterious package in a place like this can be... How should I put it? Dangerous to one's health?"

     "No doubt..."

     "Well then, you see my dilemma. I thought it might be helpful if the Latin inscription could first be translated... before using a more direct method of determining what's contained inside."

     "What makes you think the inscription has anything at all to do with what's inside the box?"

     A good point, Jacques thought, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the priest's caution. "I don't necessarily think that at all, Father. But I am curious as to what this inscription means... and it may, just may, give some hint to us about what the box actually contains. For that reason alone, I believe it prudent to read the inscription before proceeding any further."

     "I see..."

     "Good! Now please get on with it..."

     ****

     Up until that point, Carlos had studiously avoided looking at the coffin. He noticed that the Captain had not bothered to volunteer any information on how the United Nations had come into possession of the object. Which made him wonder if there was more going on here than the Captain was telling him. He wished that he could talk privately with Klaus before going any further, he got the strong feeling that this wasn't the way things normally happened within a United Nations peacekeeping force. But he was in no position to say with any certainty. What struck him as being a very odd way of doing things, might be standard operating procedure for all he knew. Klaus, having served in military units, would know for sure...

     But it didn't look as if the UN captain was about to let him have a private conference with Klaus before proceeding. The man had a decidedly impatient look on his face, as if he couldn't wait for Carlos to complete the task he had been brought here for, and then leave as soon as possible. So be it, he thought, glancing down at the faded carving on the top of the coffin.

     It was a curse, he saw immediately. Written in an obscure ancient form of Latin. No wonder then that the Frenchman couldn't read it. He doubted that many priests would have been able to decipher the writing either. Because of his recent forays into the Vatican's archives however, Carlos recognized the script at once, piquing his curiosity.

     "Where did this come from, Captain?" he asked, hoping his voice was not betraying his sudden sense of excitement.

      Jacques studied the priest's face, wondering at the sudden interest he saw reflected there, before replying, "That's not really at issue, Father. How we got it is irrelevant. What is relevant... is whether or not you know what is written on the top of this object? If not, then we shall try and find someone who does."

     "It is a very ancient script," the priest responded. "Not many people would know it."

     "But you do... correct?"

     The priest nodded. "Correct... up to a point. Some of the letters are so badly faded, they are impossible to make out. I will have to paraphrase..."

     "Please do..."

     "Very well... It says, to paraphrase... Let no man not of us trifle with this thing, on penalty of eternal damnation." It is signed, although that's not really the term I'm looking for, Hakimyah."

     Who in the world was Hakimyah, Jacques wondered? More mystified than ever. Was he some backwoods, Lebanese prophet?

     "But it doesn't say what is in the box, Father?"

     The priest shook his head negatively. "No, Captain, it doesn't."

     Damn! Jacques cursed to himself. No more ahead now than we were an hour ago. He had hoped that the lettering would give them a clue to the box's contents, but apparently that was not to be the case.

     "Are you going to open it, Captain?" the priest asked, his voice hushed.

     Jacques looked at the fat little monk again, and saw that, although he was doing a fair job of hiding it, he looked quietly excited. Why would that be, he wondered? He decided to give Father Carlos a little test...

     "Actually, I think we're just going to blow it up..."

     Carlos was horrified! "Without opening it?"

     The UN captain smiled his cold little smile, before replying, "I don't like to open things without knowing what's inside them, Father. As I said earlier, that sort of thing can be bad for one's health in this part of the world."

     "But surely you can't just destroy an artifact like this out of hand?"

     "What artifact, Father? All I see is an old wooden box. A box that might be filled with explosives for all we know." He then waved over one of his subordinates. "No... I think the safest thing would be to take it out to a safe distance, and then blow it."

     Carlos' blood began to pound in his ears. He couldn't allow this, it was too much! "Please... Captain... if you are concerned for the safety of your men, allow Klaus and I to take this thing away from here," he said, his desperation barely concealed. "Even a simple wooden box, so old as this one, could be of considerable historic significance."

     "And you would like to see what's inside it, non?"

     Of course I'd like to see what's inside it, you philistine, Carlos thought. Astounded that anyone could be so cavalier about destroying an object that might be hundreds of years old! Besides which, he had an inkling of what might be inside the box. And if he were correct, it could be exactly the type of proof he was looking for...

     ****

     Jacques studied the priest's face carefully. It was interesting that this stupid little priest, a student of the miraculous and the mundane as he called himself, would express such an interest in an old wooden box seized from a group of phallangists. The priest had failed the test, he knew something about, or had at least inferred from the curse on the box's cover, what it contained. Father Carlos was fairly dripping with anxiety at the prospect that he might blow the thing up without looking inside it.

     Well, he had no intention of doing that in the first place, and the priest's reaction made him even more reluctant to do so. No, he thought, there was definitely something worth exploring here. It made him feel a shade better about killing the seven men the night before. Maybe they thought that whatever was in the box had been worth dying for... and whether they had or not, it was too late for them now.

     "Who is Hakimyah?" he asked, to see if the priest recognized the name.

     There was a pause, as Father Carlos seemed to be considering his answer, or more likely, Jacques thought, whether he was going to answer at all.

     "Not who, Captain... so much as what."

     "I have no idea what you're talking about, Father Carlos. Please be more specific."

     "The Hakimyah is a thing roughly equivalent to the Bible for Christians, or the Koran for Muslims, although not the same at all... It is a series of teachings... secret teachings, given only to the initiate class of Druze sages. Actually, it would have more in common with the Kaballah... a combination of religious teachings and magic. That was the reason I was hesitant to use the term 'signed'. Hakimyah is not, strictly speaking, a signature."

     "But what does it signify?" Jacques asked.

     "Ah... exactly," the priest replied. "Signify, rather than signature... A good question."

     "Then please answer it,"Jacques said, his irritation at having to rely on this priest barely controlled.

     "It would seem to signify that whoever opens this box should be an initiate of the Druze sages. But I think it goes even further... I believe that only an ajawid, the highest class of sage, should be allowed to open this box."

     Well, Jacques thought, that was completely out of the question! He wasn't about to ask the Druze for their help under any circumstances! But it occurred to him that this posed a whole new set of problems for him. If the men they had killed the night before were phallangists, what were they doing digging up a Druze religious artifact, if that was indeed what the box contained?

     "So you believe, that whatever this box contains, it would be considered valuable to the Druze?"

     "Undoubtedly," the priest replied. "But more than that, it is obviously something that the government of Lebanon would consider valuable as well."

     Turning anything of value over to the Lebanese government, if the term government even applied to the idiots who supposedly ruled Lebanon, would be an absolute guarantee of it disappearing for ever, in Jacques opinion. They could barely agree among themselves what time of day it was at any given moment! No, he thought, turning it over to the Lebanese government, such as it was, was also completely out of the question!

     That left him with the same elemental question, should he open the box, or destroy it? He had to admit that the priest's drooling over what the box might contain had peaked his own curiosity as well. An artifact, he had called it... maybe so, but Jacques was not an archeologist or an anthropologist, his interest in whatever the box might contain was more fundamental... Would it be a help or a hindrance to his getting out of Lebanon alive?

     ****

     Carlos could see that the UN officer was in a quandary. He imagined that the Captain would have to report this incident to his superiors, before he took any action. The UN, as far as he had been given to understand, was fond of micro-managing their peacekeeping operations, and so he doubted that a fairly junior officer would take it upon himself to make a decision either way. Carlos had made it as clear as he could that this might be a major find, and if the Captain, boor that he was, decided to destroy the artifact anyway, Carlos was quite prepared to exert as much pressure as he could manage on the United Nations. The pressure of the Catholic Church could be considerable, he thought. And it would be a rare officer in the French army who could withstand the type of scrutiny that would come about, if Carlos and his Church should announce publicly that a rare artifact had been found, and was in the possession of the United Nations. In his mind, he was already composing the letter he was intending to send to the Vatican's observer mission at the UN, in New York.

     So it took him completely by surprise when the captain walked over to the box, and unceremoniously pulled off the wooden lid...

     ***

     CHAPTER TWELVE -- The Queen's Dilemma

     S'Tann was walking toward him across the balcony, when she stopped suddenly, and W'Liam saw her whole body shudder. A second later, he too felt a cold chill wash down his spine, as if someone had run an ice cold hand slowly down his back, beginning at his neck, moving downward, and then wrapping it around his testicles. Gasping involuntarily, the premonition was that strong, he reached out for the balustrade to steady himself.

     "What is it?"

     "I don't know," S'Tann murmured in reply. "...something has happened."

     He could tell from her tone of voice that, whatever the something was, she did not think it boded well for them. "Are we in danger?" he asked, his aura taking on a deeper, dangerous shade.

     S'Tann smiled at him then. "Always, my Prince... the Chosen are always in danger. The two of us most of all!"

     Is there no way to end this, he wondered? Aching to put a stop to her suffering, to follow through on his promise to gather the Chosen to her. The most powerful being on the planet, and yet she lives in fear, of my life and her own. It was abominable!

     "Yes... isn't it though?"

     "Do you have any idea what it was that we just felt?" he asked, beginning to get used to the idea of her answering questions he never voiced aloud. So much so, that in only twenty-four hours, it was second nature to him, this unique aspect of their relationship, he never gave it a second thought.

     S'Tann shook her head slowly, a look of deadly concentration on her face. "No, Beloved. But it has to do with us, that much is certain. I do not remember this feeling, the prophecies fail me here."

     Her admission did nothing to soothe him, and his aura rippled in response. For the most part, the pain of his Ascension was past, drowned by the passion of his coupling with S'Tann. But he still suffered a dull ache through his chest, and if he concentrated the least little bit, he could hear the rapid thumping of his heart. Could almost visualize in his minds eye the arteries and veins expanding and contracting, the powerful contractions forcing his newly thickened blood through the organs of his body, granting him the power that he felt as a physical sensation coursing through every fibre of his being.

     He felt a sudden urge to test this power, the craving for action that his human self had always found so hard to resist resurfaced with a vengeance. The feeling that he was bottled up, and needed to get out. A type of claustrophobia, the perception that the space he occupied was too small to contain him, or that he had grown to large to be contained by it. Even the sky seemed too close, as if it might be a tent that would suffocate him if he didn't keep moving. He understood all at once the Chosen's preference for wide vistas, for large rooms, sparsely furnished, the clutter of human domicile an intolerable restriction.

     S'Tann came to him and gently placed her hand against his chest, merging her aura with his own. "Not even the sky can contain your spirit, if you do not wish it to, my love," she whispered. "There are no restrictions for us..."

     S'Tann knew as soon as she touched him that this place would never be able to contain him. He would stay with her here, out of love, and desire, but he would never be content to wait as she had waited. This Prince needs a kingdom to wander, she thought, vowing that it would be so. She would give him that which he needed, the freedom to exercise the power that had grown spontaneously since his Ascension. She could see the heart beating beneath the powerful chest, could hear the flow of thick blood through veins and arteries, could sense, with absolute certainty, that he would live far longer than she. That under normal circumstances, he was without peer in the perfection of the vessel that contained the unruly spirit beneath. Was there ever a one of us so perfectly proportioned, she wondered?

     That alone was a mystery worthy of discovery, the special circumstance that had developed one of the Chosen so exquisitely suited to mate his Queen. With an army such as you, W'Liam, she thought, I could rule this world and a hundred others besides!

     "Is that what you want?" he asked quietly. "Is that the final objective?"

     She honestly didn't know. And after all these centuries of plotting the Twelve's demise, that was troubling in the extreme. W'Liam had been right, the destruction of the Twelve would not really change anything. But once the lost ones were gathered to her, then, and only then, anything would be possible!

     It surprised her in a way, how fast he had developed the ability to read her unshielded thoughts, an indication perhaps of the true uniqueness of his bloodline. Only someone of the Royal blood could accommodate themselves to the Ascension so quickly. But how was that possible? How could W'Liam, born only forty some years ago, carry within him the genetics of a bloodline that had died out centuries before?

     Unless... The bloodline had not died out at all! Could the Great King have somehow passed on his line, in spite of the fact that he had no known progeny? Some servant, dismissed casually, who had gone on to whelp the King's heir? And that bloodline, dormant from that day to this, come to fruition in the form of her Prince? What other explanation could there be?

     And if that were the case, she thought, might he not carry the same capacity for evil as her uncle, the Great King, Y'Hoveh? That too, was troubling, causing her to frown uncertainly.

     She was still lost in thought when W'Liam bent down and kissed her, his taste on her tongue washing away her doubts in a wave of passion. She could not get enough of him, and for now, whatever circumstance had led to his birth was irrelevant. She loved him, completely, with every ounce of her being, and that alone was what mattered!

     ****

     Mir'a'Da watched discreetly from the doorway, many of the same questions that had been bothering the Great Queen, running through his own mind. The Prince was much too powerful to have any human blood running in his veins, his body and mind had accommodated itself far too easily to the agony of the Ascension. He himself had been weak for days afterward, and it was only when he had fed on the aura of one of his servants, that he reverted back to his energetic self. Of course, he thought, I did not have the luxury of being loved by so powerful a personage as the Great Queen. That could explain W'Liam's inexplicably quick recovery. But then again, it did not explain everything!

     Perhaps my suspicions are misplaced, he thought. Driven by jealousy, rather than reason. But he didn't think so. His love for S'Tann had been tested before. In that respect, W'Liam was not the first whose Taking he had been forced to witness.

     Of course, she did not love the others, he thought, knowing full well that her love might be blinding her to the obvious. That perhaps his discovery of W'Liam was not the happy accident they had up until this point assumed it to be. Might not the Twelve themselves have planted this one here, knowing S'Tann's desperation for an Heir Designate, and the Prince who could sire her?

     If that were the case, he knew that W'Liam himself was not aware of any such plan. That much was obvious as well. His love for the Great Queen was not contrived, as far as Mir'a'Da could tell. No, he thought, if that were the case I would sense it. Even after all these years, surely my powers have not degraded to that extent?

     And he had pledged to support her in all her endeavors, had given her his word that he would help to gather the other lost ones like himself to the Great Queen's banner. And whatever he was, Mir'a'Da could sense that W'Liam was not the sort who gave his word lightly, or treated a solemn vow frivolously...

     ****

     S'Tann sensed Mir'a's presence at the doorway, but for a moment, allowed herself to ignore him, caught up in the feel of W'Liam against her skin. The taste of him in her mouth, so deliciously carnivorous that it was hard to break away from him. She would have much preferred to give herself up to the moment, to couple again, and again, until they both succumbed to the ultimate exhaustion. But she knew that her responsibilities had not ceased just because she now had someone, and something, she would rather be doing. Even though she sensed that a conflagration was at hand, and they might not have the lifetime she once assumed they would have together.

     What it was that had disturbed her a few moments ago was still unclear, but some event was unfolding that would have repercussions for them all, she was convinced of that with all her heart. She broke away from W'Liam slowly, prolonging the touch of his lips against her's for as long as possible, before finally parting from them, and acknowledging Mir'a'Da's presence.

     "Is it bad news or good?" she asked quietly, not bothering to turn around, not wishing to deprive herself of her Prince's face for even an instant if she didn't absolutely have to.

     "Neither, my Queen," the A'Shishem replied. "I have just come to tell you that the preparations are complete. We can leave the sanctum at dusk this evening, the route has been secured."

     "And the ship?"

     "Also secured, my Queen. Luckily enough, there are still some of us who know the oceans. It is a luxury yacht as you requested..."

     "But you would prefer a faster method of transport, would you not?"

     "Yes..." he admitted. "Even modern ships are abysmally slow, and time may be of the essence."

     "What has happened?" she asked sharply, reluctantly turning to face him. "I thought you said the news was neither good nor bad?"

     "One of the A'Shishem is missing."

     "The traitor?"

     "I do not believe so..."

     "Go on, Mir'a... I despise long drawn out stories, as you well know!"

     "I had ordered the kill in the Lebanon to be kept under surveillance... the one assigned to that task in no longer in his assigned position."

     It was a simple statement of facts, no more, no less. But it gave S'Tann much to consider. A'Shishem were notoriously patient, if one of them were ordered to observe a kill for weeks at a time they would not deviate from that order. Neither discomfort, nor starvation would compel them to give up their task, only death! It was apparent from what Mir'a had not said, that only the death of this A'Shishem could explain his absence.

     "Then he has been killed, and it is likely that only one of the Twelve could accomplish such a thing," S'Tann responded.

     Mir'a'Da acknowledged his agreement with the Great Queen's assessment with a slight bowing of his head. "It could only have been G'Brael... only he is strong enough."

     "Which means that G'Brael, in all likelihood, now knows where we are, and can mount an assault against the sanctum if he chooses to do so."

     S'Tann understood why Mir'a would consider their method of transport to be a dangerous choice. If G'Brael and the Twelve knew where they were, then they could also deduce any likely escape routes, and have their allies among the humans out looking for them! Her sanctuary might well become a trap with no way out...

     ****

     "Why can't you use a helicopter to get to the ship once it has reached open water?" It seemed an obvious solution to him, W'Liam thought. If the Twelve were as unaccepting of modern methods of transport as S'Tann and Mir'a'Da seemed to be, it would make sense that they would not have thought of such a simple tactic for avoiding any shore based spies that might be watching for the Great Queen and her entourage.

     "Mir'a?" S'Tann asked the A'Shishem, turning to look at W'Liam over her shoulder with an odd expression on her face.

     The A'Shishem hesitated, and for a moment W'Liam thought that he would disapprove of his suggestion, but once again Mir'a'Da surprised him by agreeing. "An excellent suggestion, my Queen. There is only one problem... where can we find a pilot who is trustworthy? None of my A'Shishem can fly a helicopter."

     "I will fly it," W'Liam said. "I've had my pilots license since I was sixteen."

     S'Tann smiled at him, a smile that lit the room, and clapped her hands in excitement. A girlish gesture that he found captivating. At times, he thought, it was impossible to believe that this woman had lived for so long.

     "My Prince comes to the rescue," she giggled. "Now... where can we purchase such a machine? And who shall we send to make the purchase?"

     "I know nothing of such things, my Queen," Mir'a'Da murmured. "It would be best if W'Liam himself undertook this task, but he cannot go out until he has mastered the art of cloaking himself in human form, and that might take weeks."

     "Weeks we do not have, Mir'a," S'Tann said. Then, turning once again to W'Liam, asked, "Can you master this thing, Beloved, in the short time we have left here? You must imagine yourself human once again, and keep that image in your mind as long as you are among them. It is a thing that some of the Chosen never learn to do well, and you must do it perfectly if you are to accomplish this task."

      "Is that all there is to it?" he asked quietly. "Just imagine myself to be human, and others will perceive me as such?"

     S'Tann nodded. "Yes... But you cannot let the illusion slip, even for an instant, Beloved. Your concentration must be absolute."

     He tried it, then and there, and found that it was not hard to do at all. Perhaps because he had been Ascended for such a short time, a part of himself still made the connection with humanity instinctually. He turned to look at himself in the mirror across the room, and there stood Mad Bill, as if he had never left at all. As if all the rest were just a dream that he had suddenly woken up from...

     ****

     Mir'a'Da was shocked by the ease of the Prince's transition! It was something that he himself had never been comfortable with, although he had mastered the trick centuries before. But, he thought, I have never considered myself as human, and that was bound to make a difference. W'Liam, unlike any of the rest of them, had lived his whole adult life among humans, and humans alone. He was one of them in every sense of the word. It would make sense then that he would be able to imagine himself human with greater ease than the rest of them, wouldn't it?

     This is valuable, he thought, beginning to see the extreme tactical advantage the Prince brought to their side. The Queen was right, of all of them, W'Liam was suited to move among the humans with ease. He was intimately familiar with their arcane customs, and even in the most taxing of situations, was not liable to raise any suspicion, so perfectly could he assume human form. Even the Twelve, with their deep associations in human society had resisted this ultimate step, the ability to merge themselves completely in the human reality. Something that came to the Prince as naturally as breathing!

     W'Liam could be the Queen's eyes and ears, as none of the rest of them could, because although they could all move through human cities undetected, only he could interact with his human counterparts. The Prince would not suffer from the same misgivings that all the rest of them had. Not having had any experience of being hunted, although that would probably change shortly, he would not be subject to the overwhelming fear that most of the Chosen felt when surrounded by ordinary humans.

     Yes, he thought, a valuable tool indeed. But how best to use it?

     ****

     S'Tann too, was shocked by the seeming ease with which W'Liam assumed human shape. But unlike Mir'a'Da, she could detect the stress this put upon him. His personality could barely be contained by his Ascended form, she thought. How could he maintain control for any length of time in this lesser manifestation of self?

     "How long will you be able to hold this form, Beloved?"

     "As long as I need to," he replied casually, but her sensitive ears could detect the slight strain with which he formed the reply.

     "We will have to test this ability," she said to Mir'a. "It would not do to have him lose control in a crowded bazaar, and frighten half the country to death!"

     "That would be unfortunate," the A'Shishem replied, projecting a picture for her mind, of the natives running thither and yon with looks of abject terror on their flat human faces, that brought a smile to both their lips.

     "As always, Mir'a, a master of understatement," S'Tann said, still smiling. "But it would not be so frivolous a picture, should it actually come to pass!"

     "No, my Queen..." the A'Shishem agreed stoically.

     After seeing the majesty of his Ascended form, S'Tann could barely stand to look at W'Liam in his human shape. How must it have been for him to live his life trapped inside this shallow vessel? No wonder he had been so restless!

     "Beloved... once we can be sure that you can maintain your human aura for a considerable length of time, Mir'a will take you to purchase this helicopter, and you can fly it back here."

     "There is a place where such a transaction can be made close by?" he asked.

     Mir'a'Da nodded. "There is an army garrison a short distance from here. The commander of that garrison has been known to treat the equipment he has been issued as if it were his own property. For a suitable exchange of American dollars, I am sure he can be persuaded to part with one of the base's helicopters." Then he continued, "I don't suppose you understand the local dialect of Farsi?"

     ****

     That answered one question, W'Liam thought. He was in Iran. Probably on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea. "No, I don't speak Farsi."

     "Then you will have to learn," S'Tann said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

     "How long will it take me to learn a language..." he began, and then realized that both her and the A'Shishem had begun to think in Farsi, the main language of the Iranian people, although there were other languages spoken in the region. What was most astonishing, was that within a few seconds, he began to understand the thoughts they were projecting at him!

     "You seem surprised, Beloved? The gift of languages is innate within all the Chosen, we have only to hear it, and it becomes ours."

     "Besides which," the A'Shishem chimed in, "most of the human tongues spoken today, particularly the so-called Indo-European language groups, are closely related to our own native speech, and the tongue of the Persians is closer than most. You will find eventually, that there is very little that we cannot learn, if we put our minds to it, including languages."

     That might be, W'Liam thought, but it was still astounding! And if it were true, why did these people seem so stagnant in their thinking? Or was that an illusion also? Truth be told, this part of the world had not really changed that much in the last thousand years. Aside from electricity, which had not reached some parts of middle-east until the late seventies, life here was much as it had been under the rule of the first Islamic caliphs. Was their ability to learn predicated also on the absolute need to learn, before they put in the effort? Not that it seemed to take much effort, he could already understand this new language, having been exposed to it for less than two minutes! Could he speak it as well, he wondered?"

     "Do I sound like a native speaker already?" he asked, quietly amazed that the words coming out of his mouth sounded right!

     "Not quite, Beloved," S'Tann replied. "But then, you do not look like a native either. However, one thing at a time..."

     And then he realized what she was talking about. Not only could he take on human form, he could take on any human form he chose! He was not limited by how he used to look, only by how he could imagine himself looking! This notion was something he couldn't resist...

     ****

     Mir'a'Da thought his eyes might leave their sockets the second W'Liam performed his latest trick, the young arab girl popping into existence before his eyes, and then just as rapidly transforming into an Arab man of about forty human years. It was not perfect mimicry, but it was exceedingly accomplished nonetheless!

     He learns fast, Mir'a'Da thought. Too fast, perhaps! He has only been Ascended for two days! Would he develop the other powers just as quickly? A few days from now, will he be able to kill with a thought, or heal mortal wounds?

     The same things that made W'Liam so valuable, could also make him dangerous. His ability to move through human society with ease, because of his long immersion in that society for instance, could also cause him to have too deep a relationship with humanity. Might in fact cause him to embrace the humans, and have them embrace him in turn. How many of our kind have succumbed to that temptation over the centuries, he asked himself? Too many! The histories are full of saints and demons that the humans have worshipped, and then burned, many of them Chosen, too caught up in their fantasies of civilizing the human race to recognize the fundamental differences between them. Differences that could never be bridged! And if W'Liam were to fall into that trap, he thought, it could mean disaster for them all! N'Quelar had been such a one, the first of the Twelve to abandon his own kind, and seek a life among the humans. And look where it got him, abandoned by the Crusaders he had helped to conquer Jerusalem, locked away in a monastery to dictate his pitiful memoir to the mad monk who had been designated his keeper. And for what? Eventually burned at the stake, blamed because of his gifts for the loss of the holy land, as the fanatical Europeans called it, dying in agony and rejected by both the humans and the Chosen!

     Mir'a'Da had been in the crowd that day. Watched the gleeful mob gather for the feast that accompanied the burning of a demon. And who among them had any doubt that N'Quelar was a true demon? One look was all it took to confirm his status as one of the devil's own. The burning blue eyes had lost some of their fire at the end, the ebony black horns had lacked the natural lustre, as meekly he was led to the stake.

     As he watched the pyre begin to consume one of those who had been his enemy, Mir'a'Da had been so enraged by the barbarity he had tried to rally N'Quelar. Tried to make him fight, but to no avail. How well he remembered that day...

      "...Do not let them do this to you," he had begged. "Fight them! And my A'Shishem will stand by you to defeat the greater enemy! Between us, we can slaughter all these fools! Let them tell the tale of how powerful their devil can be! If they wish to call us devils, let us show them the power they so fear in the flesh!"

     But Mir'a'Da's pleas had fallen on deaf ears. N'Quelar had lived too long among them, was too caught up in the religious philosophies the monks had spoon fed him with his supper. To the point where, at the end, Mir'a'Da wasn't sure if N'Quelar actually remembered who and what he was at all! It seemed at the last, as if he actually the believed the stupidity the christian monks preached, forgetting obviously that it was the Chosen themselves who had given the humans their gods in the first place!

     In the end, he had ordered the deaths of the villagers. He, and five of his A'Shishem had crept through the village, slitting the throats of every man, woman, and child present for the feast of the burning, some two thousand in all. The local bishop they had left alive to discover his murdered flock, taking only his hands as he slept, and using the gifts to prevent him bleeding to death. It was the only time he could ever recollect appreciating the suffering of another living being...

     ****

     "Do not even think it!" the mind-voice of the Great Queen warned him, intruding on the memory, an intimate thought projected for his mind alone. "W'Liam is not so gullible as that fool!"

     "I hope you are right, my Queen," he replied. "But I would be remiss in my oath to you, if I did not think of all the possibilities... even the ones you find unpalatable."

     "Do not try my patience too far, Mir'a. Not where the life of my Beloved is concerned... I have waited too long for this Prince. He is the one, there is not a shred of doubt in my mind! This is no weak-minded individual that the humans would make a saint standing before us... Look at him!"

     He tried to see him with her eyes, just for a moment. Tried to appreciate the longing with which his Queen had greeted the arrival of this prodigy, wishing for once that her gift of prophecy was his as well. But try as he might, he could only see where the Prince had been, not where he was going. And even then, he could barely scratch the surface... the early part of W'Liam's life lay cloaked in a fog that he could not penetrate, no matter how deeply he tried to look. As if...his birth was a dark secret, never revealed, and so, unreachable. To the Chosen, and to himself...

     ****

     W'Liam was so caught up in his little experiment, that at first he didn't notice that he could no longer hear the thoughts of S'Tann and Mir'a'Da. When he did become aware of the strange and sudden silence in his mind, he turned to look at them, and grasped immediately that they were communicating with each other. That they were intentionally keeping him out of their private conversation was also obvious. Which made him reach the obvious conclusion, whatever it was they were discussing, it must have to do with him.

     For the moment, he didn't much care one way or the other. This newly discovered ability, to shift his perception of self at will, was too distracting an experience. The thought that S'Tann and her A'Shishem were discussing his future, without his being able to participate in that discussion, did not overly concern him. He knew that Mir'a'Da was not completely trusting of him, but he was not disturbed by this. Indeed, as he understood it, the A'Shishem's job was to be suspicious, and so he couldn't fault him for taking that job too seriously. It would be much more unusual, he thought, and more cause for concern, if Mir'a'Da had accepted him without qualm.

     Afterall, the A'Shishem's suspicious nature had kept his Queen alive for centuries, so W'Liam could only be thankful to him. Otherwise, he would never have met her, never known of the unique bloodline he carried within him. Never reached this peak of evolution where he now found himself. Ascended, powerful, the closest thing to a god the human race would ever truly have!

     But wasn't that presumptuous? Even if true, what right did he have to think of himself in such lofty terms? The right of the Chosen, he thought, in virtually the same instant. The right that came to him through ancestors unknown. The right passed to him through this thick rich blood pumping through his body... the blood of Kings... his birthright!

     "Do not become too enamored of it, Beloved," S'Tann cautioned him, as if once again she had picked the thought from his unconscious, which she probably had. "Because the humans think us gods or demons, does not mean that we can afford to think of ourselves that way. In the final analysis, we are just different from them. Superior... yes, but not extraordinarily so. Pity them, or despise them, as you will... But it is not the barbarians whom we seek to rule. They are, and have always been, nothing but an inconvenience to our kind. Dangerous... yes, and so we gave them their myths to protect ourselves. But it was never our intention to rule them, or help them, aside from those instances where by helping them, we helped assure our own survival!"

     "I understand," he replied quietly. Although, even to himself, he did not sound terribly convinced.

     "Do you?" she asked, her voice taking on a subtle, but nonetheless demanding, tone. "Mir'a and I were just discussing this very thing, Beloved. Too many of our kind have succumbed to this love affair with humanity, with the idea of civilizing them... We cannot afford it! On that path lies disaster!"

     W'Liam lost concentration, and his aura reasserted itself in a sudden flash of blue flame, as he considered her words. No, he thought, more an order... from Great Queen to subject, and he understood that this was one area where she would brook no argument, not even from one she loved...

     "Would you kill me if I disobeyed you in this?" he asked her, his voice gentle and disbelieving.

     S'Tann was thankful that Mir'a answered for her. "She would not have to, W'Liam. I would kill you, with or without the Great Queen's approval!"

     ****

     Could Mir'a be right, S'Tann wondered? Might he have lived among them for too long, relate to them too well, to ever be completely apart from them? She hoped not, with all her heart she hoped not! Because she knew, that if W'Liam decided to embark upon this dangerous course, she would order him to be put to death... and her cause would die with him, because without him, she would have no wish to live...

     S'Tann sought the comfort of her memories then, and could see without difficulty her children in the arms of their father, and was reassured that all would come to pass as it should. That the prophecies, although not written in stone as some of her subjects, and enemies as well, had long thought, were sufficiently strong to be the truth. They would have to be, she thought. Otherwise, it has all been for nothing!

     But before anything could happen, prophecy or otherwise, they must safely leave this sanctuary, and travel to the new world. As Mir'a had said, the arrangements had all been made, they had but to leave. But the premonition she and W'Liam had both felt a few minutes ago could not be ignored. And she did not think it had to do with Mir'a's missing A'Shishem. No, she thought, something else has happened, something profound, that will have repercussions for all of us! But what could that something be...

     ***

     CHAPTER THIRTEEN -- The Blood of Kings

     Carlos took a reflexive step backward as the French captain ripped the fragile wooden lid from the coffin, or whatever it was, respecting the ancient curse that he had been brought here to translate, even if he did not necessarily believe in such things. Although, truth be told, he had a healthy respect for the wisdom of the ancients, as it was sometimes called, and would not have taken such a foolish chance with the artifact if given a choice in the matter!

     The UN officer did not seem to suffer any such qualm, however, and neither, apparently, did any of the troops under his command. As soon as the captain had the thing open, they all crowded around to look at their prize. As the first of them began to stagger away, Carlos couldn't quite believe what he was witnessing. His mind refused to accept what he was seeing with his own eyes, until he too was struck by a wave of nausea, and realized that whatever it was the captain had unleashed, it was deadly...

     ****

     Jacques lay where he had fallen, paralyzed, although his mind as far as he could tell was still functioning quite well. Too well, he thought bitterly! The knowledge of his own imminent death was a certainty, no one could feel this way and survive, and he cursed the circumstances that had led him here with all the vehemence he could muster. Silently, of course, he was unable to speak, so no one could hear his damnation of all those who he held responsible. The Canadians, the United Nations, the phallangists or Druze his unit had taken out the night before, everyone that he could think of. But he reserved his most heart-felt curse for the Jesuit priest he could just make out a few yards away, on his knees now, apparently stricken with the same toxin that was killing the rest of them.

     He was glad that Father Carlos would suffer the same fate as he, glad beyond belief. That was petty, he supposed. But he had always hated priests, and the fact that he might be responsible for the death of one of them gave him a satisfaction that, under other circumstances, might have brought a smile to his lips. But he could no longer smile either, and he noticed his vision was beginning to fail as well...

     ****

     Klaus was tugging on his arm, but Carlos shook him off, as another wave of nausea took hold of him, bringing him down to his knees. How appropriate, he thought, that I should meet my God in this position. He didn't doubt that he was dying. Whatever it was that the box had contained had performed it's ancient magic with admirable results.

     He wondered how far the contagion would spread? And in those last seconds before losing consciousness, became obsessed with the need to see, to witness first hand what it was that had been so important to some ancient magician that he had felt compelled to protect it in such a way. He began to crawl toward the gaping coffin, dragging himself along the ground, fueled by willpower alone. He had to know...

     ****

     Through a pink fog, Jacques watched the priest drag himself along the ground, inching toward the open coffin that he was collapsed upon. He wondered what could drive this priest to go toward the thing that was so obviously killing them all?

     It was odd, in a way, he thought, as he silently watched the priest's struggle with failing limbs... his own death did not seem to be the tragedy he had always assumed it would be. In truth, he didn't feel much of anything, not fear, not despair, nothing... It was as if by mentally cursing all those who had a hand in his being in the Lebanon at this particular place, at this particular time, he had somehow purged himself of the things he had always thought he might feel at the prospect of his own death. And as the pink fog began to go quietly gray, he simply waited for the end...

     ****

     G'Brael watched the little drama unfold from a rooftop, across the street from the UN compounds front gate. He knew now what it was that the coffin like box he had seen the night before contained. And he cursed the stupidity of the men in the compound for treating it in so cavalier a manner. But how could he have expected more? They really didn't know very much about the world in which they lived, and some of the things that G'Brael knew for a certainty, they considered nothing but tall tales told to frighten children. How rude an awakening they had been given, he thought. It was too bad really that none of them would ever tell any of the other humans on the planet what they had learned by their experience!

     His once high hopes for an alliance of convenience with the Jesuit priest were now dashed, he supposed, watching him crawl toward the coffin in a futile quest to see the object of his own destruction. It would almost be worth it to save him, just to see the look on his face when he saw what the old wooden box contained. Would he recognize it for what it was, G'Brael wondered?

     How odd, to find the treasure of the Templars here. The booty of one war, long since lost, become the instrument through which another faction, in another war, would seek to triumph. The instrument through which another wild-eyed messiah would try and unite the factions within the Druze camp. It was unlikely that the Templars themselves had actually known what it was they found buried beneath Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem, and how it had ever come into the possession of the descendants of Hakim, the sixth Fatimid Caliph of Egypt, was a mystery that would never be solved.

     Nor did it really matter, G'Brael thought. Once the death throes of the people in the compound had reached their inevitable conclusion, G'Brael would do what he should have done long ago, scatter the treasure to the four winds, where no human could ever again seek to possess it...

     ****

     He was getting weaker, but only inches from his goal, Carlos refused to succumb. He began to pray as he reached out for the lip of the open coffin, which seemed to get farther away as his eyesight began to dim, and wondered why he had not thought to pray before the UN officer had ripped the lid from the box? Perhaps, he thought, my faith in God has been tested too much.

     But the prayer seemed to give him strength enough to haul himself up over the edge of the coffin. He looked once into the dead eyes of the Frenchman sprawled crookedly on the other side of the box, and felt no pity, felt nothing at all but contempt for the man who was responsible for all their deaths, before catching sight of the coffin's contents...

     ****

     G'Brael admired the priest's fortitude. The man's strength was truly admirable. Of all of them, only the priest had survived long enough to reach the coffin. He found himself holding his breath in anticipation. Would he recognize the means of his own salvation? Might this strange little monk yet survive?

     It was painful to watch, he thought, but he would not interfere. If Father Carlos was to survive, he must do it himself. G'Brael would not help him, not in this. He refused to take the responsibility for unleashing this!

     ****

     It was a simple cup, two handled, in the Roman style, made of beaten silver, lying on a bed of straw. And beside it, a small amphora, labelled in Aramaic, Greek, and Latin, stoppered with clear bee's wax. The two objects looked old, very old...

     At first, to Carlos befuddled mind, the inscription made no sense. The Latin was the same arcane script as was on the lid of the coffin... Nectar of the Kings. The Greek inscription was different... Wine of Olympus. And the Aramaic, barely visible through a heavy layer of dust, was even more mystifying... Blood of the Prophet. What could it mean, he wondered?

     His whole world beginning to go dark, he used the last of his strength to reach for the amphora, and as his fingers wrapped themselves around the neck of the ancient vessel, he was surprised that he could feel heat emanating from the simple ceramic container. His eyes widened with the depth of his shock, as a strange tingle began to creep up from the tips of the fingers around the amphora, radiating up his arm in a very pleasant sort of rhythm. His eyesight cleared for a moment, and without really considering what it was he was about to do, he dragged the thing out of the coffin.

     It cost him the last of his strength, and he rolled off the side of the box on which he had propped himself, cradling the bottle in his hands, landing on his back, with the thing held between the hands lying on his own chest. It was hard for him to breath, but he found that the heat coming from the amphora was now spreading across his chest. He realized that this was probably an after effect of the poison rushing through his system, a kind of physical hallucination, and that when the heat reached his face, he would in all likelihood lose consciousness for the last time, and die...

     ****

     G'Brael leapt from the rooftop, and landed on the ground just outside the main gate of the United Nations compound. The men manning the gate were all dead, with expressions frozen on their faces that ranged from blissful acceptance to horrid dread. He supposed it was a matter of how the individuals looked at death itself, that determined the mask they finally wore upon reaching the threshold of the great void. But, never having given it much thought before, he had seen so much death, he paused for a moment to stare at them. To try and remember their faces as individuals. He didn't know why this seemed important to him... perhaps it was because he felt deep in his belly that humanity was about to undergo a major change, and these were the last of the barbarians to die before witnessing that change. And so, their deaths represented a kind of turning point in the affairs of men, and because of that alone, they should be remembered.

     He avoided turning toward the center of the compound for as long as possible, hoping perhaps to avoid having to witness what he suspected was taking place, as he imprinted each of the dead soldiers faces on his memory.

     How many times in the past had he been forced to watch as dumb fate played out it's hand, he reflected? A hundred? A thousand? Impossible to count how often the prophecies were overtaken by seemingly unrelated events. But he knew, with a certainty bordering on the absolute, that this would be one of those times. No matter how ingenious the plot, he thought, the trivialities of ordinary existence often overtook events. Giving them a life of their own, far beyond the plots, and counterplot, of Chosen and barbarian alike...

     ****

     He wasn't dying... In fact, he was beginning to get some feeling back in his arms and legs, and Carlos found this to be mysterious in the extreme. How could he alone have survived this long, when all around him had perished moments after being exposed to whatever it was that had been released by the opening of the coffin?

     Perhaps the Lord had intervened on his behalf afterall? His prayers, for once, not falling on deaf ears. But Carlos knew that, no matter how he might wish it were so, it was too simple an explanation. No, he thought, there were other forces at work here. Forces more mysterious perhaps than the Christian God taking pity on one of His poor servants.

     What those forces could be, he had no idea. But he was convinced that it had much to do with the fragile clay vessel he held between his hands. Trying to sit upright, Carlos found that he was still too weak, barely able to raise his head off the ground, and he slumped back down, grateful that he was able to do that much. I am alive, he thought incredulously... I have survived this torment, whatever it was...

     "Not for long, my naive friend," a voice said from somewhere off to his right. "Not unless you finish it..."

     Carlos turned his head, sucking down a wave of nausea, and gasping at the sharp pain that accompanied the twisting of his neck. It was G'Brael, he saw. From this angle, towering over him, more overwhelming even than when he had last seen him the night before. "Do you come to torment me, devil?"

     "You have no need of my torment, Father Carlos. Your own torment will be more than adequate, I think."

     The demon was standing over the corpse of his friend Klaus, Carlos saw, making no attempt to minister to him. For that alone, he found G'Brael's attitude, and presence, contemptible. "Have you come to gloat?"

     G'Brael shook his head, astounded at the monk's attitude, sorely tempted to just walk away. Leave this stupid priest to his own devices through the trials that were to come. But he couldn't do that, could he? He would not help him, but once the thing was done, he would not abandon him either. That was something his conscience would not be able to stomach.

     "I have not found any of your deaths especially pleasant, Father Carlos. And the prospect of your demise gives me no joy... How could you think such a thing of me?"

     "I no longer know what to think, G'Brael," the priest admitted, calling him by name at last. He supposed that was progress of a sort.

     "Why do I still live, while the others have perished?"

     G'Brael wondered how he should answer? Despising the fact that he was placed in such a quandary of conscience once again. If only the thing had remained where it was, buried and forgotten! How much easier might it have been, for both you and me, Father Carlos, he thought. But that wasn't to be, and no matter how much he might loathe the prospect, the nightmare was at hand once again. The question was, what should he do about it?

     "Do not fear, priest. Your death is but delayed, not postponed. Soon the weakness will return, and then the void, where all questions of faith are finally answered for all of us, Chosen and barbarian alike."

     "I am thirsty," Carlos said, projecting a thought of a cool mountain stream where he had swum as a boy.

     The ease with which the priest projected this thought was, in G'Brael's view, a further complication to his dilemma. For some reason, this human already possessed a more gifted mind than most of his contemporaries. What might he do with that gifted intellect if he survived this day?

     He silently damned the conscience he was born with! The conscience that his long life, and sometimes despicable actions, had never been able to eliminate entirely. Some small measure of the person he used to be before his Ascension, still beat within the heart inside his chest, and it had never been more of a burden to him than it was at this very moment!

     "If you are thirsty... then drink. The vessel you hold so gently is full. It has not been tainted by it's long sojourn beneath the soil of this bloody country!"

     Carlos had forgotten about the thing he held. Had, in fact, not given much thought at all to the contents of the amphora lying warmly on his chest. He looked down, wondering at the tone he thought he detected in G'Brael's voice. A mixture of despair, and anger, combined it seemed with an odd kind of acceptance. As if he had come to some kind of intellectual decision, one he did not especially like, but was willing to acknowledge as inevitable.

     What could this thing be, to inspire such feelings in a being such as G'Brael? Carlos could feel the thing pulsing between his hands as if alive, but that was an illusion he knew, imparted by the pulse of his own rapid heart. But the warmth, that was no illusion, whatever the vessel contained was warm, hot even! What could cause that, he wondered?

     "Yes... warm," he heard G'Brael mutter. "As warm as the day it was taken from him..."

     The devil was reading his thoughts again, Carlos realized. Strangely enough, not begrudging him that powerful gift any longer. What must it be like for him? Able to read men's minds, all their silly thoughts, their petty grievances. One might have to think of it as a curse, rather than a blessing. How overwhelming it must be...

     "I thought you said you were thirsty, priest," G'Brael said, his voice reflecting a growing irritation. "If you are going to drink, then do it!"

     Carlos could feel himself beginning to slip again into the darkness, G'Brael's voice sounded farther away, although he knew that he was standing in the same spot. His contact with the old amphora had imparted some sort of resistance to the affliction or toxin that had killed everyone else, he now understood. But it was not salvation. Simple contact with the thing was not enough for that... he had to break the seal and drink from it's contents if he wished to live. That was what G'Brael had, no matter how reluctantly, been trying to tell him.

     "Drink and ye shall be saved..." he whispered, like a murmured prayer, not to his God, but to himself. Then reached for the top of the amphora with his thumb, and tried to push through the waxen seal. He was too weak, he couldn't force his digit through the age hardened wax. And the effort weakened him even further, forcing him to once again rest his head on the ground, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. The last sky he would ever see...

     ****

     G'Brael found himself becoming more and more agitated as he watched the priest's hopeless struggle. He cannot do it himself, he thought, which once again left the ultimate decision for what was about to happen in his hands, and his alone. If only I had the power of the King, instead of just his essence, I might be able to see into this man's heart and judge him. But that capability was beyond him, he had only his own instincts to guide him, and never had he felt the lack of that power more acutely than he did at this moment!

     One way or another, he had only minutes, at most, to make up his mind. What is it to be for you Father Carlos, he thought bitterly, darkness or light? It was within his power to save this man, but then it would also be his burden to bare the responsibility for what the man did with that salvation. And that was a question he could not divine the answer to!

     As if of their own accord, his feet took him closer, until he was staring down into the priest's eyes. The eyes of a man on the brink of death, he thought, growing dim as he silently watched. A kind of vigil, but not one he had ever hoped to participate in again. The choice was, at it's essence, a simple one... Do I let him live, or do I curse him to the void, and bury this abomination with him once and for all? A simple question perhaps, but unfortunately, no simple answer came to mind!

     The die had been cast the moment he had entered into conversation with this Jesuit monk, he thought. And wasn't it a maxim of existence that the simple choices are almost never the right ones? There was really no other choice that he could make, was there?

     ****

     Carlos saw G'Brael's face looming over him, the fiery blue eyes curiously cold, dispassionate, reminding him of a scientist examining a laboratory subject. He wasn't sure he could still speak, but he tried... In this last moment before death claimed him, and he found his answers once and for all, he tried to tell this strange being how much he appreciated the opportunity, however brief, of knowing him...

     "... thank you,"

     G'Brael made no reply, verbal or silent, just stared down at him with that same odd expression on his face, cold and calculating. As if trying to keep himself apart from Carlos at the moment of death.

     Then surprisingly, the expression changed, and G'Brael's face was lit from within by a subtle glow. And Carlos could perceive now a mixture of hope and loathing reflected there. It was not something he could understand, and he blinked his eyes, trying to clear them of the fog that made G'Brael's face suddenly blurry. It was no use, the end was at hand...

     ****

     If the priest had begged for mercy, G'Brael would have let him die, and let the death eat at his conscience as it would. Not the first death lurking in his subconscious, the memory of which he occasionally had to deal with as something reminded him of a day or night long past. But such would not be the case today! The priest's thoughts, and brief words of gratitude, had sealed G'Brael's decision. Although he had been leaning toward saving the man in any event, Father Carlos had provided the justification. G'Brael might not have the power of the Great King, to look into a man's heart and see his true nature, but Carlos himself had the power to open that heart, and give G'Brael the briefest glimpse of the soul that lurked beneath. And that was enough...

     He reached down and took the amphora from the priest's hands, glancing at the script in the three different languages of the barbarians. He could read them all, but none of them really conveyed the power of the thing contained inside the small vessel. No one would think it terribly valuable, at least not then, although now he didn't doubt that some human collector would pay handsomely for the vessel itself. Never knowing, and caring even less perhaps, about the treasure contained within.

     The Serpent's work, he thought, but for all that, no less powerful. He melted the waxen seal with a thought, briefly intoxicated by the heavy scent of the precious liquid contained within the amphora. Yes, warm still, after all these centuries underground...

     ****

     Struggling with the grey fog that threatened to overwhelm him, Carlos was still conscious enough to feel himself being lifted, and realized that it could only be G'Brael who was performing this service. Raising his paralyzed body so he could meet death on his feet perhaps? What other answer could there be?

     But the movement stopped before he was brought to his feet, and through his increasing confusion, he knew that he was sitting upright, supported in that position by a strong arm around his shoulder. The thing was touching him, and he could not really feel it, only perceive the fact that he was upright, and so it could only be G'Brael who was near enough to do such a thing. Hadn't he once wondered what it would be like to be touched by this demon? And now, it was happening, but he was too near death to really appreciate the experience... what a pity.

     His lips were also numb, so when the vessel was raised to them, he could only feel the pressure of it against his skin, not the vessel itself. But there was a smell, strong and pungent, that penetrated the foggy haze that his brain seemed to be operating under. A delicious scent, reminding him of the warm spring days he had spent in the Black Forest as a young monk. The smell of new growth, and sap rising through mature trees. And then the liquid poured from the amphora onto his tongue, and the whole world changed...

     ****

     G'Brael was not sure how much would be enough, so he poured slowly, wondering if perhaps he had waited too long. The priest did not seem to be any stronger. He pulled the amphora away from Father Carlos' slack jawed, open mouth, and looked deep into the eyes. He saw immediately that there was an effect, the eyes were clearer, beginning to lighten, almost imperceptibly at first, and then it was like watching a gas flame come to life in the darkness. They did not change colour, he hadn't expected them to, but there was a fire there now, one that could no longer be extinguished very easily!

     "Swallow slowly, Father Carlos," he whispered. "Savour the taste, the sweet joy, the other will be yours soon enough... You will come to know what it is like to lead my life, if only for a little while. And for that, I pity you more than you can ever know."

     The enormity of what he had done was not lost on him. For the first time in a thousand years, the barbarians would have a true saint to worship if they chose to do so. One who knew of the Chosen's existence, as few others had before. A man with the intellect, and thanks to G'Brael, the power, to inflict untold damage on his kind. Perhaps to wipe them off the face of the earth altogether!

     But, he reflected, that could be an advantage also. The Chosen, if they were to survive, must come together! Too few now to stand alone, as a single entity, unified once again, they just might be able to carve out a new kingdom for themselves. His ambition had always been to bring the Royal House together, and this christian monk, naive though he might be, could provide the means to accomplish that lofty goal as no other, human or Chosen, had been able to do in the past...

     ****

     Carlos' limbs were on fire! But it was not the fires of death that consumed him, he knew that with a certainty! He could feel the glory of life coursing through him with every breath he took! G'Brael's face loomed out of the fog with a brilliant clarity, and Carlos found that he could pick out details which he had previously never imagined. For the first time, he noticed how sharp the small black horns really were, tapering to razor points as they curved back along the line of his skull. The eyes that had seemed so terrible, suddenly looked at him with a compassion that he had missed before.

     And the fog itself was disappearing just as rapidly. He could hear things far beyond the confines of the United Nations compound, itself silent as the tomb it had become. The sound of vehicles on distant boulevard leapt into his mind with a volume that was extraordinary! And the sound of gunfire, that too was heard easily, although a long way off.

     What was this elixir that G'Brael had spilled down his throat? What magic of God or the Devil was it that now consumed every fibre of his being?

     From close beside him, G'Brael answered, his voice soft, in deference to Carlos' newly sensitive ears. "It is the blood of my son. Taken from him, as he hung from a Roman cross... The blood of a true-born King..." Carlos was horrified! "What have you done?" he demanded.

     G'Brael looked deeply into his eyes, and replied solemnly, "I have saved your life. And now you must finish it... Drink to the last drop, I will not have it wasted!"

     "I cannot! I would rather die than do such a horrid thing!"

     "What is so horrid about it, priest?" G'Brael asked, his tone quietly sarcastic. "Isn't your whole faith based on this very thing? Doesn't your church conduct endless rituals, re-enacting this very thing?"

     "But it is not the same!"

     "In that... you have been misinformed! It is exactly the same! It was the Serpent who told my son about the power of his blood, and it was the Serpent who controlled your church from it's very inception! Do you wish to hear the words he spoke in the ear of the Emperor Constantine, priest? Would you like to know the exact motivation that led to the conversion of Rome?"

     Before Carlos could respond, G'Brael continued, his voice taking on a different timbre, mimicking someone else. "...it is such a small thing, Pontiff. Do this one small thing, and the power of Rome will rule unabated for centuries to come! What difference does it make what they believe, as long as they believe in you? And the power you wield will be increased a thousandfold, for now you control their souls, as well as their bodies! Finally, they are yours to do with as you will!"

     ****

     And then, before Carlos could say another word, G'Brael gripped him by the neck, forcing his head back, and pushing the amphora between his lips. It was impossible to resist him, and he had no choice but to drink the liquid! He tried to let it fill his lungs, but it did no good, G'Brael's hold prevented that, and the warm liquid spilled into his belly.

     To his dismay, he reached a point where he no longer was resisting. Instead, he swallowed greedily, relishing the warm taste washing his tongue and the back of his throat. Little convulsions of pleasure radiated out from his center, making him feel that whatever this glorious liquid was doing to him, it had to be a sin, if felt too extraordinarily wonderful to be anything else but a sin! And at the same time, a small, secret part of himself, relished that as well. The sinful nature of the thing, of the fleshly pleasure of it, that he had denied himself his whole life.

     And then it was over, the vessel emptied down his throat. He found himself licking the rim of the amphora, as a hungry dog might lick his master's plate, greedy for every last drop that he could wring from the simple clay jug.

     Carlos slumped back on the ground, released finally from G'Brael's iron grip around his neck, and watched out of the corner of his eye as G'Brael silently and efficiently crushed the amphora into powder beneath his heel. It was then he noticed for the first time that G'Brael wore form fitting boots of soft supple leather, high boots that disappeared under the folds of the light blue cloak he wore. The devil wears shoes, he thought, thinking that outrageously funny, and then he lost consciousness...

     ****

     It is done, G'Brael thought, irreversible. For good or ill, it is done! He walked over to the wooden box, sparing but a brief glance for the unconscious priest. He will wake up soon enough, and then we will see what sort of stuff the illustrious Father Carlos is made of!

     G'Brael reached down and picked up the silver cup, the chalice that so many humans had sought to possess over the centuries. Such a simple thing, to cause so much grief. An ordinary cup of beaten silver, but the symbolic value of the thing was immeasurable. He tucked it beneath of fold of his cloak for safe keeping. He had no doubt that Father Carlos, when he awoke, would want to know what had happened to it, and so he would keep it for him.

     As for the rest... His brutal gaze turned the ancient coffin into a pyre. It burned quickly to ash, leaving no trace of it's existence. The corpses he would leave where they fell, he thought, after a moments contemplation. They would be just one more mystery, in this country where mysterious and agonizing death were commonplace. Let the barbarians investigate what they would, it was impossible, even with the state of their forensic science, to determine the exact cause of these men's deaths. No doubt it would cause much consternation in the capitals of the world, to find this many of their peacekeepers dead on a single morning, but they would get over it. Their capacity for getting over the deaths of their soldiers seemed infinite. Why should these be any different...

     ***

     CHAPTER FOURTEEN -- The Prophecy

     S'Tann's nerves were on edge. W'Liam and Mir'a had been gone since early that morning, having left just after dawn. Surely, the simple purchase of a flying machine could not explain why they were so late? She tried to see them in her minds eye, but failed, W'Liam was becoming very adept, too adept perhaps, at screening her probes into his mind. She knew he was alright, his death would have shaken her to her foundations, and so that was not at issue. But it irritated her that he and her A'Shishem should disappear for so long without a thought for her very real concerns about their safety!

     Mir'a'Da should know better, she thought, her continued annoyance manifesting itself in a subtle shift in the colour of the aura that surrounded her. He knew perfectly well that soon she would have to decide what to do about the Serpent, and his advice would be of paramount importance when she made that decision. They were leaving tomorrow, or even as early as late this evening, what was he thinking taking the whole day to accomplish something that should only take minutes?

     S'Tann knew that Mir'a had real concerns about W'Liam. It was something that could easily come between her and her A'Shishem. But in all honesty, she admitted to herself that she had her own concerns about the true nature of her Prince. That he was the Prince of the prophecy, was not in doubt, at least not to her. Although Mir'a might have a different opinion. But how he came to be what he was, that was a question in desperate need of an answer!

     He is so strong already, she thought, after only three days! How strong might he become if he lived for centuries, as in all likelihood he would? And he does not believe in our war, there was that as well. But then, how could he? In that respect, he was an outsider. As much as any human was an outsider to the conflict that the Chosen had waged among themselves for millennia. How could she expect him to understand? Especially considering, she was no longer sure she understood herself...

     ****

     For some reason he could not immediately understand, his dreams had become desperate. It had begun in the last few hours. No longer could he conjure up his pleasant pictures of the sun at will, instead he was plagued with images of destruction. Memories perhaps, of the times when he rode at the head of the King's Host, or of other times, the later times, when he had led barbarian armies against that same once proud Host.

     But these images were different somehow, they did not feel like memories, it was something else he was sure that brought these scenes of destruction to his mind. Something outside of his prison that the small shred of power he still contained within him had latched onto, as a drowning man might latch onto a piece of drifting wood caught in the torrent with him, knowing even as he did it that it would only prolong his suffering.

     His confinement had become intolerable to him for the first time in decades, and he was at a loss to explain why, after all this time, this should be so. If only I could get to the Blood, he thought, picturing it in his mind. The wonderful elixir that G'Brael so despised him for taking. The Blood, the precious fluid that G'Brael's son had no need of any longer as he hung upon his cross, squealing his pitiful cries for divine intervention. Cries that his own father refused to answer, although it had certainly been within G'Brael's power to do so.

     It suddenly occurred to him that he was thinking rationally, shocking him really, he was so used to his life of dreams and calm acceptance of his imprisonment. Why now, did it seem so deplorable to be locked away in this dank dungeon? What has happened, he wondered?

     Tentatively, he reached out with his mind, tried to see beyond the walls of his cage, roused finally from his sleep of the damned. Inexplicably aware once again of the power he still held deep inside his soul. A power that the Princess S'Tann, for all her attempts, had not been able to take from him completely!

     He was weak, too weak to see very far, but just at the edge of his consciousness he perceived the shift in S'Tann's aura, could read the worry there, as if written on a page in clear speech. But who or what was worrying to the Great Queen of the Chosen? What could cause the most powerful being on this world such deep consternation?

     He slumped back against the wall of his cell, exhausted by the attempt, but marginally stronger. His brief and subtle contact had been enough to strengthen him just a little, enough perhaps to think about removing himself from this dungeon once and for all. A small spark of hope, born of this desperate agitation that had come upon him so suddenly. Something had happened in the world beyond the confines of these damp walls, he thought. Something wonderful, but what could that something be...

     ****

     S'Tann was becoming more disturbed by the minute. A few seconds ago, a cold chill had run down her spine, for no apparent reason. It was the same feeling one might have on waking up and discovering that you have shared your bed with a large carnivorous insect for most of the night. Or... a lizard, she thought, the brief chill turning to cold dread. Could the Serpent have roused himself from his stupor long enough to make such an attempt, she wondered?

     No... that couldn't be. He is far too weak for that. That last time she had seen him, he could barely open his eyes against the muted brilliance of her aura. Surely, he could not have strengthened so much from that one brief contact? It was impossible! Unless...

     Could something else have happened? The feeling that had assaulted both her and W'Liam the day before? Might that be the something that finally gave the Serpent strength enough to journey with his minds eye beyond the confines of the dungeon that held him?

     Where were they, she asked herself for the hundredth time that hour? What could be taking them so long? For the first time in six hundred years, her sanctuary, this place where she felt safe and protected from the outside world of the barbarians that surrounded them, began to feel like a prison. She paced back and forth across the polished granite floor, a tigress confined too long, about to explode, and pity the poor fool that was in the way when the eruption occurred!

     S'Tann's sensitive ears detected a harsh sound in the distance, clattering and obnoxious, even so far away. It must be W'Liam and Mir'a, she thought, returned with their days booty. She ran to the open doorway leading onto the balcony of her chamber, looking up into the distant sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the thing that W'Liam set such store by as an aid to their escape.

     There! A small speck, far out to sea, growing larger as she watched. And noisier as well, she thought with a scowl. How will any of us be able to stand the racket, she wondered?

     "We will all be as deaf as the barbarians if we spend much time in the company of that thing!" she exclaimed, putting her hands to her ears in a vain attempt to block out the earth shattering noise as the thing in question swept low above her head, making a slow circuit over the compound, before flaring to a hover just off her balcony. She could see W'Liam at the controls, a pleased grin on his face, Mir'a beside him, looking not pleased at all, which brought a brief smile to S'Tann's own lips.

     "For you, my Queen," W'Liam thought to her. "A chariot without equal!"

     "A noisy chariot, my Prince. Please come down, we have much to discuss!"

     ****

     It was not exactly the greeting he had expected, and he was a little perturbed by S'Tann's sharp tone, detectable even in the voice of her mind. She is angry, he thought, and wondered why that anger should be directed toward him?

     "As always, my Queen, your wish is my command," he thought to her. Bringing the helicopter up from it's hover off the balcony, and turning back out to sea to make another approach to the compound. Everything had gone exceedingly well, he thought. He had been able to maintain his control without any problem whatsoever. And the colonel in command of the local Iranian airbase did not seem the least suspicious during the transaction. In fact, the man had attempted to sell them more than one helicopter! Trying to convince he and Mir'a that a family as rich, prosperous, and large, as their's supposedly was, should have access to more than one paltry flying machine!

     W'Liam couldn't help but smile at the memory of it. And finally, it had been Mir'a'Da who had put a stop to the endless negotiation with a simple, "enough!"

     The colonel had acted as if he had been slapped in the face. Lapsing into silence immediately thereafter. Obviously, the man had dealings with Mir'a before, and had developed a healthy respect for the A'Shishem's temper. As mild as that temper might appear to an outsider, Mir'a had the aura of a dangerous man, W'Liam reflected. It was an image many professional soldiers he had met tried to cultivate, but in his experience, none of them had managed to pull it off with the quiet assurance exhibited by S'Tann's assassin.

     W'Liam glanced to the side, where Mir'a was sitting quietly, apparently unperturbed by the motions of the machine in which they flew. Yes, W'Liam thought, definitely a dangerous man...

     ****

     In actuality, Mir'a was anything but content. He found that he disliked this machine of W'Liam's with an intensity that surprised him. It was noisy, it smelled of distilled petroleum, and human sweat, and it was an altogether unpleasant and jarring experience to be tossed about, seemingly at the whim of the air currents around them. W'Liam was supposedly in control of the craft, but after a gut-wrenching series of sudden bounces, Mir'a was not terribly convinced this was actually the case!

     Allowing his Queen to ride in such a contraption seemed, to him at least, the epitome of folly. He had not spent centuries in S'Tann's service, protecting her from Chosen and barbarian alike, to see her life snuffed out by the perils inherent in putting their trust in the complexities of a human flying machine! The thing might still be of some use, but if the Great Queen asked his opinion of the matter, he would definitely advise her against following W'Liam's plan for her escape. On the ground, Mir'a could protect her. But in the air? In the air, they would all be at the mercy of dumb chance!

     No, he thought, there had to be a better way to insure that S'Tann's journey to the ship was not marred by the unexpected. Another way must be found to avoid any of the Twelve's spies that might be lurking on the route or in the port where the Great Queen's ship was docked. A diversion perhaps...

     ****

     S'Tann herself was not too impressed with the thought of taking to the air in W'Liam's flying machine. It looked to her as if it would be an uncomfortable and risky mode of transport. Not that any of the human methods of transportation in use today were much better, she thought with a scowl, her golden mask rippling unpleasantly with the expression beneath. The barbarians seemed especially enamored of noisy machines that stank of the internal combustion engines used to power them. It was a love affair that S'Tann had never understood, having watched it sweep the earth in the last two hundred years, the last hundred being the time when the humans had adapted their entire culture to fit the new inventions.

     It was another example of the fragility of human society, she thought. Having embraced their infernal machines, what would the barbarians do if they suddenly found themselves without them? Did they really think life in their smelly cities was better than it had been for their ancestors? Of course, the cities of their ancestors, at least most of them, had been just as smelly. Although the smells in question had been of a more natural variety, and in that sense, at least to S'Tann's sensitive nose, less offensive because of that fact.

     She would much rather be surrounded by the tolerable scent of natures by-products, than the chemical stench prevalent in the barbarian cities of the present day. Were they really so stupid that they actually believed such toxins wouldn't have an adverse affect on their health? Not that it made much difference to her, the sooner they were all dead, the better off the world would be in her opinion!

     The clatter outside grew less jarring as W'Liam turned the helicopter back out to sea, and S'Tann, with a last look at the machine he was so proud of, turned her back on it, and moved inside. She would be leaving all this soon, she thought, probably never to return, and that saddened her in a way she had not expected. This had been her home for nearly six hundred years, her sanctuary from all that occurred beyond the confines of this compound. She would miss these cool granite walls, and the view of the open sea beyond her balcony. Of all the places she had been forced to seek refuge since the great betrayal, this was the only one that had been hers, and hers alone. And she had spent more time here than any other place on earth. It's familiarity was comforting, a comfort that she was not likely to find again, even with W'Liam by her side.

     What will the new world hold for us, she wondered? Is that where our war will finally come to it's inevitable end? That the end was near, in relative terms at least, she didn't doubt for an instant. But what conclusion would be reached, that was still lost to her. She wished desperately for a prophecy, but the dream would not come by her wishing for it, she knew that for certain. Prophecy, like everything else, could not be called at whim. It would come when it came, and not a moment before. And if past experience were any predictor of the future at all, it would come unexpectedly, inconveniently perhaps, but it would come when she was most in need of it!

     S'Tann sensed once again the cold chill that seemed all of a sudden to permeate the room. And once again she was forced to wonder if the Serpent had finally roused himself from his long stupor. There were only two real choices that could be made where he was concerned, she thought. She would either end his life, or take him with them. Either choice carried it's dangers, but at the moment she was forced to the same opinion as had been long held by Mir'a'Da. The Serpent was more trouble than he was worth!

     No matter what the future might hold, eliminating him would be a blessing, a relief for her, a closing of an old and festering wound. Could she really deny herself that?

     ****

     His world of perpetual shadow had begun to lighten. Whatever had happened in the great spaces beyond the confines of his prison, it had given him a strength not possessed since his capture by S'Tann decades before. He found that he could see again, not clearly, but his own aura had grown substantial enough for the walls of his dungeon cell to loom out of the mists of his mind.

     His contentment had vanished with the coming of the light. No longer could he sit here and lose himself in memories of warm days under brilliant skies. It was no longer enough. The once mighty General of the King's Host was risen once more, and no dank cell could contain him for long! His liberation was at hand, he was convinced of it! How else explain this strange transformation? If he tried, he could see her clearly now, the Great Queen, who in his own mind would always be the Princess S'Tann. The one great love of his life, the one who had used and betrayed him, to further her own plot against the House of the Great King. But she would pay, he thought, a feral grin stretching thin lips across aching teeth. She would pay dearly for all her slights...

     ****

     They found her pacing the room, reminding W'Liam of a lion he had once seen at a zoo, stalking it's cage in nervous agitation, it's muscles quivering in indignation at it's confinement. She was the lioness, he thought, or perhaps a tigress, the more solitary feline being a more apt analogy for this woman who had spent most of her time alone. Centuries alone, he realized, appalled by the reality of it, the depth of that sort of solitude!

     Waiting, he thought, waiting for me to appear. Her prince, the one who would father her King. It was an awesome responsibility, one he would not shirk, no matter the perils the two of them were to encounter over the course of their life together. He hoped it would be a long life, one they and their children could share for centuries. But she would know better than he whether or not that would come to pass. And watching her, this too long confined beauty, pacing her cage, sent a chill down his spine. One he was at a loss to explain...

     ****

     She felt them watching her, W'Liam and Mir'a, and felt their love as well, their passion for her. These two, so different, but much the same. Killers both, each born of a different age, but so similar in outlook. Natural predators who, without her to hold them together, might just as easily tear each other apart. Only their common fear for her safety drawing them together as allies.

     What will happen to them if I am no longer here to perform that duty, she wondered? A sudden premonition perhaps, bringing the thought to the forefront of her mind...

     She stopped suddenly, and whirled around to drill them each with an odd, almost angry, glare. The expression on her face reflecting something that looked like disappointment, little tendrils of cold blue flame dancing around the edges of her golden mask, her obvious disapproval striking them both with the power of a blow.

     "I require a pledge from you," she said, her tone hard, matching the expression on her face perfectly. "A solemn promise to your Queen, that will bind you both for all the days of your life."

     Her words were greeted with silence, at first, and then W'Liam was the first to speak. "I will do whatever it is you wish... How could you ever think otherwise?"

     "And you, Mir'a?" S'Tann asked, arching an eyebrow...

     ****

     He almost refused, which shocked him. He, who had devoted his entire life to her service, and protection. He, who had never refused her anything, in that first pause after the question was posed, contemplated the unthinkable. And he had no idea why! Why his unquestioning loyalty should be suddenly tested, at this most inopportune of times? Why he was suddenly assailed with a deep doubt about this pledge she required of him?

     "Do not try my patience too long, Mir'a!" the voice of her mind warned him. The harsh voice, the one seldom used to address him in all their centuries of association. The voice of the Great Queen that no servant could refuse...

     His apprehensions vanished with the power that voice had to move him, and when he spoke, he found himself choked with the depth of his feeling toward this, his one and only Queen. He had served her mother, as truly as any of the A'Shishem who came before him, but it was S'Tann, and S'Tann alone who had held his heart for all these many centuries.

     "I pledged my sword, and my life, to your service on the day you were born... nothing will ever change that my Queen! Whatever it is that you require... you have it!"

     S'Tann nodded, satisfied with his reply. Relieved perhaps, if he read her expression correctly. And he was seldom wrong in reading the emotions of his Queen...

     ****

     He is tired, S'Tann thought. Tired of this war he has born the brunt of for far too many centuries. She should have suspected it sooner, she supposed. Even the A'Shishem, with all their gifts, were not immune to the effects of fatigue, both of body and spirit.

     "I am sorry, Mir'a," she apologized. "I did not realize what a burden this conflict has become for you. I should have never questioned your commitment to me."

     "You do only what I have done myself, my Queen," the A'Shishem replied honestly. "I grow weary of this war... more weary than I thought possible."

     S'Tann nodded in sympathy. Yes, my loyal friend, we all grow weary of this war, but what else is left to us? The barbarians have taken everything we once were, bastardized it, and made it their own. Our war is the only thing we have that we can still claim as our own!

     But that wasn't quite true either, she thought. Even their war had been taken over to a large extent by the barbarians. She and the Twelve had both, because of the numerical weakness of their respective forces, been coerced into using barbarian armies to pursue their objectives. And as often as not, the barbarians, no matter how well they were initially manipulated into battle, made those wars their own. Ultimately, pursuing their own agendas, not the ones the Chosen had so scrupulously laid out for them!

     Perhaps, W'Liam's perspective was the proper one, she thought, not without a trace of bitterness. The entire exercise had become pointless!

     But she couldn't really afford to believe that, could she? Down that path lay irrelevancy, and that was one thing she could never allow herself to tolerate! Between them, S'Tann and the Twelve controlled most of the worlds economy, albeit through proxy. But control, no matter the means through which it was exercised was still control, was it not?

     She began to see the advantage that could be gained if she and the Twelve were to come together to form an alliance to preserve their race. A bastion against the hordes of barbarians that surrounded them. And if their barbarian proxy's, many of whose wars were mere reflections of the conflict raging between the Chosen themselves, could be brought peacefully out of the slaughter? What might they accomplish together then?

     S'Tann felt the slow chill of realization crawl up her spine, the certain knowledge that the Prophecy was upon her. As usual, the timing of the waking dream was not very convenient...

     ****

     It took W'Liam completely by surprise. The only hint that something very strange was about to happen was the suddenly odd look on S'Tann's face, and then immediately after, the fire came. Erupting without control in all directions, pushing both he and Mir'a'Da back against the wall of the chamber. Pinning them there, like mosquitoes fighting a hurricane!

     He found that he could not move, that even drawing breath became a labor, the maelstrom seeming to suck the very air from the room. He watched in agony and awe, as the Prophecy came to fruition before his eyes. The pictures of the Great Queen's waking dream shaping the fire into solid shapes, a panorama of the Prophecy itself, like a vivid three dimensional play acted out within the confines of the six-sided room. A spectacle without beginning or end, in places gruesome, at others benign. Impossible for him to make sense of it, and at the back of his mind, almost lost in the cacophony of sight and sound before him, he heard the voice of the A'Shishem beside him, "It is not our place to make sense of it, my Prince. That is the purview of the Great Queen, and her's alone!"

     It reassured him, the soft mind-speech of the Great Queen's assassin. The voice of the one who, in all the world, knew her best. The one who must have witnessed this very thing many times before. And then the voice was there again...

     "Actually, this is the first time I have been in the same room with her when the Prophecy came, but throughout the world, all the Chosen are seeing what we are seeing! All the Ascended Ones know when the Prophecy comes, and all of them are as we, shattered by the experience!"

     How long would it last? He desperately wanted to ask that question, but he found that he had lost his voice, even the voice of his mind...

     ****

     Like all the rest, he sensed the fire erupt, and knew that his one chance for escape was at hand. The Prophecy might distract the Great Queen for hours or days, no one could predict how long the dream would last, and along with her, the rest of the Chosen as well, her A'Shishem included! With an effort of will that was truly herculean, he ignored the pictures flashing through his minds eye. He would remember them, none of the Ascended Ones could ever forget a Prophecy, dissect them for their hidden meanings when he could afford such a luxury, but now was not the time for that! His freedom, that was the paramount consideration! All else could wait for it's proper time!

     He stood up slowly, testing limbs too long curled beneath him during his four decades confinement, resisting the urge to scream in agony at the waves of pain the movement caused him, the nausea that threatened to overwhelm his fragile senses. On some level, he was aware still of the Prophecy flashing through his brain, a part of him unable to resist toying with possible meanings for the images he saw there. But his iron will forced him onward, even as the pictures of the Great Queen's dream unfathomably gave him hope. There was something contained within the tableau being played out in the back of his mind that he quite unconsciously latched onto, some hidden act meant for his eyes alone.

     Wobbling to the door of his cage on feet still unsteady, he concentrated his power, as feeble as it was in comparison to what he could once accomplish, and managed to burn through the latch. The effort almost making him collapse, but he persevered, dragging himself through the door, and up the steps at the end of the dank hallway. He spared one last glance for the dungeon that had contained him for so long, and then moved on, through the final doorway at the top of the steps, and beyond, the smell of the sea strong in his nostrils, drawing him outward through the labyrinth, slowly, painfully, until he could actually taste the salt air on his tongue! He found a rough carved window cut out of the solid rock, the sill nearly two meters deep, and at it's end, the glimpse of pure dark blue water!

     Crawling to the end of the short ,cramped passage, he found his way blocked by rusting gridwork, softened by it's exposure to the salt air. It was not enough to hold him now, and with the last of his strength, he blew it to pieces with a thought, his eyes widening, drinking in his first glimpse of the sun! There was no hesitation, no concern on his part that he might not survive, with a look of pure bliss plastered on his gaunt features, he flung himself out over the sea fifty meters below. Sailing into the air with all the confidence of a bird taking wing, plummeting into the cold depths of the sea, and freedom...

     ***

     EPILOGUE

     G'Brael came out of the trance slowly, the pictures flowing through his mind gradually dissipating, like a thick pile of leaves blown apart by a strong autumn wind. He, like all the Ascended Ones throughout the world was left shaking and disoriented by the Prophecy of the Great Queen. Twice before he had experienced such a thing, and each time had left him sickened and bewildered. He could not get the images out of his mind, he had but to close his eyes to bring them screaming to the forefront of his consciousness in brilliant hues of orange and red. It was the darkest of the Prophecies that he could remember, and that, more than anything else, left him feeling as if he should run. Run away from all of it, as far and as fast, as his special gifts could take him!

     As his senses returned, he looked at Father Carlos, sitting across from him at the long table, dwarfed by the chair in which he sat. The chair in which M'Quael usually sat, G'Brael realized, wondering why it had not occurred to him before, and why it should strike him with such poignancy now? He felt a chill flow down his spine, and for some reason he could neither fathom nor deny, he knew that he would never see his old friend again.

     Father Carlos was looking at him oddly, his expression a strange mixture of rapture and loathing. "What was it?" he asked. "What have we just seen?"

     Ahh, G'Brael thought with sudden understanding, the human saint has seen the Prophecy as well. The blood of the true-born King granting this human interloper in the affairs of the Chosen that power along with the others. It was not something he had planned for, but then, none of this had been planned, had it?

     "What do you remember, Father Carlos?" G'Brael asked quietly, genuinely curious as to how exposure to such a powerful thing would affect a purely human mind. "What was it you saw in the waking dream?"

     The Jesuit hesitated, as if marshalling his thoughts to give adequate expression to that to which he had been a witness. When he finally did speak, his voice took on a strange timbre, an exact match for the look in his eyes, a curious blend of longing and fear...

     "A desert on fire," Carlos said in answer to G'Brael's question, unable to get the image out of his mind. "Day turned to night by black smoke blotting out the sun... But what does it mean?"

     "It means that this thing will come to pass, exactly as she has foreseen it," G'Brael said in reply. "But the context of the Prophecy... the context is beyond our comprehension... Only those of the Royal Blood, and they alone, can truly understand the meaning of it all..."

     THE END OF BOOK ONE THE BLOOD OF KINGS TRILOGY

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     Copyright 1996: Kenneth Glenn Simmons Canadian Intellectual Property Office Copyright Registration 484096 Date of first publication: February 1, 2000 ( All Rights Reserved)