If you liked what you read thus far. . .

. . . find the rest of "Conqueror; the First Seal" on authonomy.com.

X

Prologue

PROLOGUE

  Pergamum, Ottoman

REBIRTH OF EVIL Empire.

Mid 1600’s AD

     A tall, lanky figure of a man hovered over the ancient script, studying the inscriptions with fascination. His azure eyes burned with astonishment. He was well aware that he had made the greatest discovery of Forbidden Archeology of all time.

     Holding his breath, the Frenchman brought out several other ancient scripts and oracles, placing them in order on the wooden desk. His eyes grew distant, deep in contemplation. Pushing back his long hair that was now slick with sweat from the desert heat, he opened a small, palm sized amulet. With shaky fingers, he snatched up his quill pen, dipping it in the black ink. Tirelessly, his pen scratched on the yellowed parchment, calculating the star points, the locations of the secret underground ritual chambers, the reigns of Rome, Greece, Persia, and Babylon, Daniel's feast of weeks, the location of the Temple Mount . . . yes, yes, YES! He was right! The vision was right! The man pumped his arm in victory.

   Now, he had one last piece left to his discovery. His quest to find this real, raw power that existed so many, many years ago, in the days of Nimrod, was coming to an end. More sweat broke out on his brow as an odd exhilaration flooded his chest. Long had he waited for this day. For years, he had waited. Since he had received the vision, he waited. Since he graduated at the Universitas Studii Salamanticensis in Spain, he waited. Since he traveled to South America, he waited. Now this was it. No longer would he have to wait, his discovery was at hand. A discovery of an ancient ‘evil’ that once possessed the earth of old. A wicked smile played on the man's lips. In France, he was raised as a Roman Catholic, to be a priest. But as a boy he never accepted his parent’s religion. Well, it wasn't like that that was a problem, the religion itself was fake, it held no power, no zeal whatsoever. Nothing to make his bones chill. Or cause his hands to tremble. Nothing to make his heart thump out of his chest. Christianity was dead and dull. No power. No life.

   But this, this was alive. It possessed raw power, real life! Something he new to be real ever since he began his quest.  From all of his discoveries and experiences, he knew that this was no myth. But this ancient 'religion' was lost over the years, locked out from this world.  In his vision, it started to become lost ever since this other dead, inferior religion called Christianity came out. And yes, he, Philip of France, was chosen to—

    “Father.”

     The man swung around, snapping out of his mustering, to see his fifteen year old son, Moses.  Moses wasn't tall a kid, but he wasn't short either.  Neither was he husky or lanky. His hardened skin was a dark olive color, his hair was slightly more brown than black, and intense blue eyes set above an aquiline nose. His handsome, yet slightly awkward face from his teenage years was caked with dust, as was his tan, leather armor, and archer equipment from riding across the desert. Why, what would the boy's mother say seeing him so filthy? The man frowned, Moses took too much after his Jewish mother in his looks and acts, why, he practically could be one of the local natives with that olive skin and dark hair. The only leaning side to his French father was the sapphire blue eyes.

  "Hello Moses, did Henry evacuate the shaft?” He asked putting away the scripts and artifacts away into a wooden chest.

   Moses nodded, "Yes father, all is ready. Abraham and Edmund have returned from the caravan, they await for you in the mountains."

   “Good, good, good . . .” the man began to pack several items and equipment into a carpet bag.

   “Father?”

   “Hmm?”               

   “I found something in our diggings. Something I thought might interest you," Moses brought out a smooth slab of rock from his leather pouch, "There are writings on it. I can't read it, but I identified it as Egyptian."

Moses' father didn't seem impressed yet, "It bears that symbol, the circled star, the one on all the objects of your Discovery."

  Now the man stopped, his eyes widened, and then snatched the stone from his son's grasp. He studied the inscriptions intently. It was a prophecy.

SIX WEEKS LATER

     The French archeologist, Philip and his amateur son, Moses descended the flight of carved steps, deep within the underground labyrinth. Their path was lit only by oil lanterns and torches, which were hooked on the moist, cavern walls. Their hasty steps echoed through the limestone archades, adding to the constant sound of water dripping off the walls, and the shrieks of a bat or two. Their black shadows slowly moved across the horrific drawings of the sons of the gods and carvings of ancient, violent wars with strange disks flying across the sky were painted on the walls around them . . . with blood.  The two turned left and still descended deeper into the dark chambers. They came to a cedar door, a gargoyle's face carved onto it. Moses pushed the door open for his father, who entered into a magnificent gallery. There, five other men and their sons, all about Moses' age, awaited their hosts.  Moses’ father stared at the men, all loyal to the Cause. Powerful men, governors, generals, princes, and advisors to kings and such; one was even related to the King of England himself. Each individually chosen by their Master for the Task. Of course they didn't exactly know it yet, but they would soon find out. For now, they had to fulfill their Master's commands.

   “Welcome, my esteemed Brothers,” Philip’s voice purred, as he drilled the guests with a confident stare, “My Master thanks each of you personally for attending.”

    Governor Johannes of Germany, spoke, “Philip, forgive me if I seem rather disrespectful seeing how much this means to you, but what could be so imperative, that you would insist that I come all the way from Germany?” Two other men nodded in agreement.

     Philip’s face held a slight amusement, “Gentlemen, I am well aware that each of you are important men with weightier things to do, than to be gathered in some abandoned, ancient, underground labyrinth by a mere archeologist, such as my myself for . . .” he smiled again, letting the sentence drift off. He changed his approach, “But you see, gentlemen, you ought to be actually very honored to be here at such a significant point in history. A point where the world, as we know it, will begin to change. And each of you will be part of this reformation of the globe. Today, gentlemen, you, and your sons are fulfilling ancient prophecy, just by being here. Did you know that?" They stared back at Philip, waiting for him to continue. "From all over the world, prophets, priests, sorceresses, warlocks, the ancient cultures, Nimrod, the gods foretold of us. Foretold of you, gentlemen, of this day, and the future to come.  Many are called to implement the Grand Plan, fabricated by Heylel Ben Shachar, but you, noblemen, and your descendents are chosen.  This interests you yet?"

   A Japanese man with shabby black hair sighed, “And how do we know if you're not bluffing, Monsieur?”

    Philip blinked slowly, as if he didn’t expect such a ridiculous question.  Of course, he wasn’t bluffing!  What did this man think he was?

    Philip folded his hands behind his back, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. He never liked it when people questioned his judgment. Nonchalantly, he walked around the ten, no eleven persons, including his son, circling them.  Like a wolf. He chuckled softly as if something was funny, “Well, Funato, you’ll just have to decide that for yourself won’t you?” He stopped circling them once he reached a hand carved, stone alter. He stood in front of the altar, his hands behind his back. Studying the men intently with probing eyes, “I have a proposition for each of you,” he hissed, “But first, let me explain myself. This prophecy I’ve told you about, I haven’t told you what it is. Would you like to find out, gentlemen? Hmm?”

   All of them glanced at each other, and then finally nodded.

   Philip smiled thinly, “Thought so. The prophecy, or I should say, a message from my Master, is an enlightenment of the reality. The reality of a better world that we can make it to be, if we a make a decision this very night to take the next step into this enlightenment. If you so chose to come into covenant with him, he will grant you power, reward you with great riches.  The power to control, determine the future of this planet,” he shook his fist with passion, “You will become as God, possessing raw power, in your soul.  Power you never could formulate in your wildest dreams.  It is power that controls the world. Power over the masses, power over the kingdoms, the economic systems, the kings, and emperors, over their subjects for all generations.  Your sons, and their sons, and their grandsons, going down to the date of early 2000’s A.D, we shall bring forth and control the One World,” he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, as they all stared at him in astonishment. It was too good to be true. He continued, speaking in low, soothing tones, “All this . . . you can be a part of this world reformation. And it’ll be you holding the reigns, you influencing the people of the world, if you commence the Crown of the Druid Council, if . . .” he brought out a dagger from his sheath. Instantly Moses walked up to him, holding up a silver goblet, with pentagram sealed on it. “If you take a vow of secrecy to the ways of Heylel Ben Shachar, and swear your very soul to Satan, the one who’ll grant you and your descendants, the authority to exceed above all others,” he sliced his palm and let the red blood run into the goblet.

   “Pah! What a vilification! I will not be a part of such nonsense,” a man shouted, he grabbed his son’s arm, “Come, Alexander, let us return to Italy.” The two began to head for the door.

   A coy grin spread on Philip’s thin lips, “Of course Adonis, you are able to deny the fact that everything that I have spoken does truly exist and is open to the ones whom Satan chooses,” he paused for effect, “But that isn’t tolerated.” 

  The husky man stopped in his tracks, Adonis swung around, glaring at Philip, “Don’t admonish me, Monsieur. This is nothing other than plain nonsense. What? You’re going to wave a magic wand at me and turn me into stone? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

   Philip chuckled, “Would you care for a demonstration?”

   Adonis didn’t answer. Philip took a few steps nearer to him, still wearing a mischievous grin on his lips. His sapphire eyes glinted with malice.  Without warning, Philip swung his arm and Adonis flew backwards by a hundred feet. His body slammed against the stone wall, his rib cage, and humorous bones shattering. Philip then snapped his fingers, and the man clutched his throat with his good arm, gasping for air. Everyone stared at Philip, in awe, gawking, lost for words. Even Moses.

   Philip watched him suffocate insensitively for moment. Then went back over to the altar and set the goblet down onto its surface.  Philip held his sliced hand up in the torch light.  Instantly the wound on his hand from the blade healed, even the blood dried up. Every one gasped.

  “Of course,” he crossed his arms, “I have already embraced the metaphysical power in the lower crypts of this labyrinth.” He then walked over to Adonis, and sat on his haunches. Glaring into Adonis’ tortured face. Adonis, still laying on the floor, now stared in terror at Philip’s unblinking stare.  Philip’s blue eyes were no longer friendly, yet not entirely hostile either. More like a lion’s impassive gaze, intently watching his doomed prey.    

     “Do you wish for more examples of this,” he paused for effect, and then snarled, “Nonsense?”

      Adonis managed to screech out a hoarse no.

      Philip stood up abruptly, “Good.” He inhaled sharply through his nose. A faint, iniquitous smile touched the corners of his cruel lips. Closing his eyes slowly, he spoke, it was as if two voices emitted from his vocal cords, “I have a vision!” He cried maniacally.

“A vision that’ll make all that exists come to what it was meant to be!  A future where death is unknown! A world of paradise, that which,” his voice grew soft and filled with remorse. Choked with emotion, “Of which was stolen from us by powers beyond our comprehension.” His eyes flew open, glinting black with malice, “It’s time we avenge Golgothae. Time to take back the power El-Milah stripped from the sons of Adam since the origins of life.”  Philip turned and walked to the edge of the chamber to a massive, sealed gateway. The Lost Portal of Babel.  This is where conquest began, eons ago.  And this is where it would begin again. “I am the voice crying out in the wilderness,” he whispered softly, half to himself, “‘Make straight the way of the Lord.’”  In his hand, Philip held an amyst amulet tightly in his quivering fingers.  With his free hand, Philip lightly touched the engravings above the serpentine seal engrossed in the portal.  Mesmerized.

MANY MOONS HENCE

TILL A HORSE THAT IS WHITE

IS BIRTHED AT NIGHT

MIDNIGHT— FIVE OF ONE, ONE OF FIVE COMETH

THE HORSE OF WHITE, THE SON OF LIGHT

IS GIVEN.

IN THE WEST— HE RIDES TO CONQUER . . .   

Chapter Zero

CHAPTER ZERO

     OVER FOUR HUNDRED FIFTY YEARS LATER 

 IsRAEL.

                                                                    

    A sixteen-year old boy lay restlessly on his bed; his math text book lay open on his bare chest. A silverish blue light shone its bright hues and lit half of his handsome features. His green eyes stared into space, unwavering, unblinking . . . nearly lifeless. It was almost midnight and it was the night of a crescent moon.  To tell the truth, he was scared. Very scared. What if she was right? What if my life changes tonight?  What if something terrible happens? What if what if . . . Get a grip, man! Don't be a complete idiot; it was just dumb, stupid words that were concocted in her insane brain. They don't mean a thing! But what about that freak he saw? The things he said. He prayed that it was a mere hallucination, but half of him wanted, no desired for what he said to be true. Raw desire. He shook his head. What was he thinking? It totally made no sense to him.  He tried to convince himself that it was meaningless, yet deep within his plagued soul; he sensed that the words did have power.  The mixed emotions boiling inside his veins only made him more confused.  Probably because the 'prophecy' was senseless. Then again, he wasn't even sure what prophecy she was talking about, she only mentioned, 'Daniel prophecy.' He had read the whole book of Daniel that night, but it was too confusing. Why, there had to be several prophecies in that book!  The young boy ran his long, tanned fingers through his long black hair. Gosh, he had to get a hair cut; he thought distractedly, I'm starting to look like a hippie. He rubbed his sore eyes; he dreadfully needed sleep, for Pete's sake he hadn't slept for a whole week! But he couldn't, not with that fortune teller's words slamming in his ears. Or the freak's. It was entirely terrible and exhilarating all at once. Maybe more terrifying. He swallowed, trying to convince himself to stop this nonsense at once. His mind traveled to the memory, just from a week ago, he and his family had traveled to America on their tour.

Where the nightmare began . . .            

                                                                                    

ONE WEEK EARLIER

SHAKOPEE, MINNESOTA USA

     It was Sunday night, in Minnesota and the event was Valley Fair. A humid June night wind brushed his nearly shoulder-length black hair from his intense eyes as he walked along with his two other brothers amongst the excited crowd. It was really quite a Fair. Popcorn, and the smell of hot-dogs drifted throughout the air, everything was loud and noisy, one could hear people screaming as they rode on dramatic, wild roller coasters, silly teenager girls were chatting, laughing and munching on chips and ice cream, several people were taking pictures and making videos, others were just simply walking around.

   “Guys, I ^___I don't like this, it’s not a good idea,” fretted his youngest brother, who was only nine. His other brother, a preteen, made a mocking face at him,

   “Sheesh, grow up man! Its not like she's a warlock or somethin’,” he snarled, “What'd you think she gonna do? Sell you to a sea captain ^___with Super Granny, and her peach cat? Besides, if she does, I got your back,” the preteen lifted up his sweater sleeve and flexed his muscles. He couldn't help but smile at his younger brother; at twelve he was almost as tall as he was. And weighed like one hundred forty pounds.

    “Mom's not gonna like this, she's gonna worry, and we’ll get grounded,” the little boy continued, while walking beside him, “And it’s going to be all your fault!”

   He smiled at him and ruffled the boy's brown hair, “Aw, take a chill pill, in twenty-years you won't even remember this night.” The boy scrunched his nose at him,

   "God will! And Jews aren't supposed to be involved with witchcraft.”     

  The preteen rolled his eyes, “God’s stupid, you idiot. He can’t even prove He exists. Much less condemn you to hell for eating fortune cookies,” the preteen sneered, “And ‘witchcraft’ doesn’t truly exist. Get a grip, dude.” The little boy seemed offended with such talk. Him, as being the oldest brother tried to explain, as they continued to walk past the Farris Wheel, “What he means, pal, is that the fortune teller doesn't really have supernatural powers, or have contact with minions and such. It’s just a pretend thing, something she just pulls out of a hat and you just have to be lucky to get the best. It’s nonsense really. Just something to get a kick out of,” he slugged down his soda as they passed a group of teenage girls; he caught one of the girl’s eye and winked. She smiled bashfully and winked back before going in line to get on a ride.

    “Aw,” his younger brother nudged him teasingly, “You got her attention, bro!” He smiled back at him, shaking his head. The three brothers rounded a corner and stood before an ancient looking reddish orange tent.  The Sorceress the trying-to-be-spooky sign read.

    “Well,” he sighed, “Are we going to do this or what?” Now, actually standing here, it was becoming rather freaky, he thought. He didn't want to imagine what his old man would say if he found out, but it wasn't like it was actually a bad thing.

   “I say we do this,” his brother shouted, removing his so-totally-awesome-brand-new-just-out-in-style-tinted sunglasses, actually he thought of them rather absurd. With that, he suddenly found himself inside the creepy tent. Three other boys, similar to their ages shoved past them, laughing and boasting amongst each other. Sheesh, Americans, such wannabes! He thought, rather critically.  They all just stood there, waiting for someone to do something. For how long, he didn’t know.

   “Maybe the witch is gone,” his youngest brother suggested. He was about answer him back when a strikingly young woman parted the tent's curtains. He heard his preteen brother whistle. She was nothing like he expected, he had imagined her to be middle aged, bright red hair, and horn rimmed glasses over a sharp, hawk nose. But the woman was probably only twenty or twenty-five, no older than that definitely. She seemed to be of an Indian culture, perhaps a gypsy, black hair that was plated with jewels, dark creamy skin, and large glazy brown eyes above her high cheekbones. Lovely was definitely the right adjective.

    “You boys wish to damper with such spiritual things?” Her silken voice slithered, as she slowly let her spidery arms fall to her side, she scanned the three boys before her, as if reading their minds. Her eyes lingered on him, boring right into his eyes. He looked down from her beguiling gaze suddenly feeling nauseous. He faintly heard his younger brother explain to the woman, but his voice sounded distant.  He touched his throbbing head as sharp pains pierced through his brain. He tried to shake it all away.

   . . . Then come,” the woman said in her Eastern accent, slinking back into the other room.  His head suddenly cleared, as he and his two brothers followed her and sat on the three purple pillows that lay on the floor, before a bamboo mat.  With out knowing why, he felt that this was a terrible mistake, he shook his head again, don't be ridiculous! Magic doesn't exist! They watched her, her back facing towards them, as she lit a bloody red candle.

    “The knowledge of your future you seek, eh?” she swung around to them, “Then a prophecy you shall receive.” The brothers exchanged glances. She placed the lone candle in between them, her eyes never leaving their faces, she smiled, “Three brothers . . .” she whispered, seemingly half to herself. “Tell me; is there any more of you?” She sat down on the bamboo mat.

     The eldest’s eyes narrowed, “We have two other siblings, so there are five of us. Why?”

    She didn’t answer, at least not in English, “Pān̄ca kē bāhara ēka bhā'ī kī bāta ātī hai.” The Indian woman closed her eyes and crossed her legs into a lotus position. None of them closed their eyes, afraid what this creep would do next as she droned the eerie tune, jingling the crystal beads that intertwined her dark fingers. He glanced at his preteen brother who sat in between him and the nine year old; noting that even mister-tough-guy was being freaked out also.

     The witch suddenly opened her eyes, black shadows veiling her features. She took in deep breaths, hissing like a serpent. Bewitchingly, the woman stood to her feet, her long back bent into an arc.

    “Electus tria,” her growly voice rasped. No longer silken. All their eyes widened, practically horrified at her voice. What was 'electus tria' supposed to mean? Like a panther, she circled them, enticing. Three pairs of eyes watched her every move, taken back by the sudden insane display. In the corner of his eye, he could see his youngest brother shuddering terribly. Poor kid. 

    Still circling them, she softly hissed, “I feel a strong energy coming from you three . . .” she crookedly stretched out her jeweled hand, as if anointing them or something, “Your blood is that of the Druids. Yes?” she barred her teeth, “High priests of the Fallen.”

   The preteen cleared his throat, “You do know you're not scary, right?” She smiled, laughing softly, almost seducing she ran her fingers through his thick hair, “Of coarse,” she slowly withdrew her hand, “Answer my question,” she hissed.

   “We don't have to answer you nothin',” the little boy shot back, crossing his arms.

   The witch cocked her head, and smiled, glaring, “Is that so?” the sentence ended in her feathery breath, “I see a traitor amongst you. A traitor of brothers, a betrayer of love.”

    The eldest’s eyes widened in fear and awe. This was a lot different then from the movies. He straightened his back, sensing the itchy fingers of fear chill down his spine as the woman sat back down in front of them,

    “You are that traitor,” she glared pointedly at the youngest.

   “Hey! Whach ya doin’!” His brother shouted angrily.    

 She ignored him and continued to prophecy over the young boy, “To your name you shall not live up, you'd be but a curse. A shame to your household.” The preteen glared darkly at the woman, with a look he never saw on his brother before, but he was thinking the same thing. This wasn't some friendly wizard of oz, blessing them with such. She was cursing them!

   “I see shame on you,” she whispered cunningly, as the little boy’s eye widened with fear. He gulped, trying to act brave like his brothers. The sorceress pointed a crooked finger at him, still hissing her words at him, her hand stretched to touch^___

   The preteen grasped her spidery arm in vise like grip, his jaw trembling with uncontrollable fury, “Don’t you,” he said through gritted teeth, “ever touch my brother!” The eldest seemed surprised by his younger brother’s sudden action, but he was grateful that he did, someone had to stop her. The witch stared back into his fierce eyes, neither smiling nor frowning. But a strange, unexplainable fire burned in her sharp eyes. They seemed to burn the kid's courage. Slowly, the kid let go of her arm, trembling and gasping for air. His bravery had wilted. He was actually backing down!

      He wanted to shout at her and drag his younger brothers out of here, but his words were stuck in his throat.  C'mon get a grip man! Getch your brothers outta here! But he remained frozen to where he was. Like as if he was chained to the ground.

   “And you, dear boy, are a father who is childless,” she spat at the preteen, “Your children's days are short. Your life will be filled with tragedy and sorrow,” she smiled wickedly, she brought her face closer to his, so that she could feel his trembling breath on her cheeks, “Your first shall die,” she whispered sharply, “Her death shall be on your head,” she giggled softly withdrawing like a snake. For a while, she remained silent, still grinning that poisonous smile. Then in slow motion, her head turned on its axis, her gaze zeroing on him. His heart thumped wildly, as a fleet of panic rose in his chest, making his head swim. 

  “Daniel's prophecy,” her bizarre eyes widened, “your eyes shall be opened o’ Son of the Damned. Midnight, the night of the crescent moon . . .” she reached out a crooked hand and touched his forehead. Blinding flashes of electric bolts exploded in his vision! Terrible pain screamed through his violently jolting bones, his green eyes were wide with fear but totally unseeing. All that he could see was the explosions of lightning and wisps of darkness.

   . . . Chosen!” More pain, “CHOOZENNN!!!” Her shrilly cry hurt his ears, he felt himself screaming but he couldn’t hear his own voice.  The white lights died down to a mystical blue, and even darkened to black, only with faint hues. He figured he must have died, killed by sheer terror.

    A man stood from the darkness. He gasped. Why, he had to be at least eight feet tall!

  The man outstretched his massive seraph wings, an evil smile spread upon his thin lips. His features were hidden under a white hood, which drooped over his face. The man hissed. Stretching out long, taloned—

  “SHUT-UP . . . you . . . witch!” He heard his brother scream. Suddenly in his mind everything, all the darkness zoomed out, and his normal vision returned and he was still in the fortune teller’s tent. Numbly, he watched his brother tackle the woman and lift her by the scruff of her dress. Knocking down the candle and slowly the floor began to kindle. The youngest came to his aid and pulled him away from the brewing flames.

     “I told you this was mistake!” 

     The preteen pinned the woman against the wall, “I had enough you, you evil, lying pig!” Still shaking miserably he watched as his brother turned from being a silly preteen to a violent man of steel. He stood; his knees trembling like jello, the image of the mysterious man still loomed in his mind.

   The preteen flicked open his pocket knife, “Now you shut your filthy lying mouth before I cut your tongue out!” He bellowed, oblivious to the flames, “And DON'T you dare call my brother a traitor or some insane lunatic. All RIGHT?!” The woman's eyes opened; except they weren't brown . . . they were pure black.

   “The death warrants are signed,” her mouth foamed, “Kyōṅki tuma mujhē para hamalā kiyā hai, tuma rōga sē mara jā'ēgā,” her body writhed like a serpent. The kid backed away from her, completely horrified at the sight. This woman became the devil himself. Evil personified. 

   “C'mon bro we gotta get outta here!” The youngest screamed. To add to their terror, suddenly an object came flying through the air; the woman moved her hand and a burning chair flung at them. They screamed, dodging the thing as dozens of other objects flew all around them. 

   “You can't run from this,” she wheezed, “The curse will follow you!” The preteen grabbed a vase and hurled it at her; the woman dodged it calmly, her eyes never leaving them. The whole place became a chaotic war zone! Objects still flying madly, the red flames licked all around them, the witch grasped a stuffed, faceless doll, while her black eyes glared darkly at the preteen. Her eyes filled with glee, she stabbed the doll with a needle.

   He clutched his arm, roaring in pain. She stabbed it again, barring her white teeth like fangs. He gasped desperately, trying to catch his breath as the raw pain burned through his bones.

   “Stop it! What are you doing to him?” The nine year old hollered in horror. She moved her hand, and the knife that his preteen brother clutched in his own fingers sliced his chest. Blood soaked his hoodie. Not able to take it any longer the eldest charged at the witch, knocking her and the doll to the ground. Like a tiger, she bit into his arm so hard it drew blood.  He reached for the doll and removed the needles from it. Without waiting, he grabbed his other brother's bloody sweater and pulled him up off the ground. All three of them making a dash for it! Neither of them remembered running so fast before in their life, but with all their might they did. They watched as people ran away from the burning tent as noisy fire alarms screamed!

    He slowed to a stop, while he couldn't believe what his eyes saw. There was that man, his hood pulled down. He was still smirking evilly, but his features were beautiful, stunning actually. The long beaded, dread locks fell below his broad shoulders, but it was his eyes . . . sapphire green, blazing with loath that caught his attention.

   Follow me, and I'll make you Ruler of men.

  He shook his head incredulously. No way had he heard the man's thoughts! He was only hallucinating. A strong hand touched his shoulder.

  “C'mon man, we have to run!” He stared into his brother's eyes, seeing the overwhelming fear and pain in them, as he gasped for air. He looked back to where the man stood. He was gone.

   His brothers grasped both his hands and ran; he staggered after them, panting. They came up to a huge maple tree away from all the chaos. Trembling, he collapsed to the parched grass, his face pressed against the grey dirt. But he was too scared, too tired to care of the dirt getting into his mouth. He only wanted to wake up from this surreal nightmare. It was just too impossible to be real! Simply too . . . too . . . evil. He could hear his youngest brother sobbing behind him. But he was too much in a shocked state to comfort the little boy that he should have listened to.

   He lifted his gaze to see his younger brother still standing, and holding the bloody pocketknife. Breathing as if he had just came up from after fifteen minutes being underwater. He noticed something different about his countenance. It was fierce, masks of anger raging through his eyes. It wasn't the look you'd see on a silly twelve year old boy, it was a seriousness you'd see on a brutal soldier at war.

   The preteen's eyes narrowed, his jaw set, as if there was no way he was going to allow anything more happen.  A hand from someone behind him grasped his shoulder. Roaring like a savage, he thrust the knife into his attacker's thigh with so much force that the blade broke from the handle! His attacker roared also, but in agony as the attacker buckled over. Slowly the attacker raised his face to be even with him. His azure blue eyes glazed with pain.

  The knife's handle slipped out his fingers and fell to the yellow grass. He took a step back shocked, "F-Father," but it came out more as a question. The man reached out and yanked the blade out of his own thigh.

    “Tragedy,” the little boy whispered, remembering the witch's words.

Their father looked at each of his sons, then at the fire blazing at the Fair and back at them, “What did you boys do?” He growled, just as a beautiful, young woman ran up to them, their mother, who was holding their two or three year old sister in her arms. Her grey eyes widened with horror as the blood leaked through her husband's hand, “What happened?”

   The preteen backed away from his mother, despair and shock etched over his features. He suddenly turned and ran away from them. His mother called after him, but he didn't stop.

  His older brother watched him run . . . as he ran passed the black haired stranger.

  Midnight. Crescent moon. Your identity shall be made known. Then he vanished into thin air.

                                                                                                                       

* * *

     Tunk, tunk, tunk . . .

The young man's eyes reverted, completely alert. He closed the math book and listened intently.

     Tunk, tunk, tunk . . . It was that sound on horror movies when the serial killer is coming. Knowing where you are, knowing who you are, knowing where you’ll go and hunting you down no matter what. And if you run, he'd suddenly be there.

    Cold, unrelenting terror filled his veins as the sound got closer. He realized it was footsteps coming up, coming closer to his room. Like lightning he jumped out of bed.  He snatched a pair of shorts and clumsily put them on. He had to run! Flee from whoever or whatever that was coming after him! Frantically, the steps got closer, as he searched for a shirt. But then decided he didn't need one. It then it occurred to him that it might just be one of the servants. He stopped and listened again. But all he could hear was the beating of his own heart. C'mon heart! Shush it down! He took a deep, steady breath; suddenly his long hair blew fiercely. Winds blew all around him, causing him to stagger, but what was strange was that, all the windows were closed, and nothing else blew around him. 

    Hrrrrrgg . . .

The kid knew it wasn't one of the servants. It was an obscene monster, hexing evil magic on him. Then, as quick as it came, the wind stopped. The growling continued. In dread, he locked the door, and dead bolted it with a chair.  Then, in a moment’s notice he ran to the window.  Shaking like a leaf, he unlocked and pushed it open.  He stuck his leg out and turned his face, hearing a grutal voice. His heart stopped . . . the door knob began to turn. Panicked, he reached out and grasped a gnarled branch off the tree. He swung himself, and used his legs to lift himself up on the large bough. He broke out in sweat, the jitters taking over his limbs as he tried to climb down the tree. Terrible noises echoed all around him.  Because of his tremors, he let go of a branch, and his foot slipped. Stifling a scream, he landed on the manicured lawns with a thump. The wind had knocked out of him, but he got up and dodged for it. The shrieks continued, laughing in mock. He wanted to scream and just get of here. Broken rib and all, he jumped with all his might over the wall and raced down the drive way. The security sirens wailed, but he didn't care, he just ran. Ran until he didn't even notice his own chugging, painful breath.

     A black shadow flew by.

     He stopped in his tracks, panting, and looked behind him. He didn't see his stalker anywhere. An owl hooted. He jumped nervously. He studied his surroundings, the crescent moon and the millions of stars made it extra bright so he could see the Palestinian landscape clearly. He wondered if he was just so freaked out that he had just imagined all those things.

   Tunk, tunk, tunk . . .

The kid gasped. Those footsteps! Tears blurring his vision, he fled from his unseen stalker. Perhaps it was the witch herself or the freak. He raced out of the road and tore into the palm tree woods, weaving in and out. He tripped and fell on his face. His broken rib screamed in protest as he scrambled to get up, but failed. Sharp rocks scraped his bare chest, knees and face.

   Tunk, tunk, tunk . . . The steel boot’s got closer. Yet the lone steps seemed to be coming from all directions. 

   Huff . . .

   The kid felt the sticky breath steam on his neck, tingling his spine. He shrieked and ran like a frightened lamb. His confused, tortured mind, told him, insisted that he was running. One bleeding bare foot in front of the other. Yet he felt he was running on a conveyer belt. The sky turned into a bloody red then to a deathly pale. Echoing snickers and the beating of wings surrounded the kid as he raced out of the woods.

   The man stood right in front of him. The kid skid to a stop. And froze.

   Then everything became silent.

   The imperial, nine foot form stood in the kid's pathway. His two, massive, grey seraph wings outstretched, twenty feet in wings span. His bearing was kingly, and his golden breast plate was studded with royal gems and metals of honor. His steel, piercing eyes were fixed on the youth before him, who stared back at him in awe and non-belief. The kid’s pale fingers trembled terribly.

   He gulped, and whispered with trembling lips, “Who are you?”  

   Lucifer drew closer to him, slowly removing his toga’s hood, revealing the shockingly beautiful features in the silver moonlight. Black dreadlocks fell little below the broad, muscular shoulders.  His intense eyes burned with fervor.

   “I am Lucifer,” he paused, looking affectionately at the youth, like how a father would to his son, “king of heaven.”

The teenager shook his head in unbelief. A strange peace washed over him, soothing his mind and— he stopped, not believing that he was thinking such things.  He should be running away from this devil! Yet he felt an odd desire flood his chest, a peculiar sensation of mixed emotions. Somehow, for some unexplainable reason, he felt connected with the being who claimed to be Satan himself. A flood of longing, unexplainable desire welled within him as he gazed into Lucifer’s eyes that seemed to glow a luminous purple.

   “What do you want with me?” He struggled to regain his composure, wiping the sweat from his brow.

   Lucifer turned around, looking at the crescent moon hanging in the indigo skies. His broad back to the youth. A grin touched the corners of his lips, the moonlight bathing his noble features, “Behold,” he dropped to his knees, raising his muscular arms to the heavens, “Oh that such a day would occur, that the Time would come. Heralding the end of the Era. That a king would arise, in the world of men, one of great power more than any other would. Oh who is like him, and who can make war against him?” he stood there, minutes at a time, muttering a strange, unknown tongue. His arms dropped to his sides, in slow motion, “When the end of the rule of Men draws nigh, their rebellion is at height, a fierce king, who understands the mysteries of the dark, will arise to power. By the power of the Light-bearer, he will become mighty. He will cause astounding devastation and shall prevail in everything he does. He will destroy influential leaders and wrought devastation on the chosen people. He will be a master of deception and shall magnify himself in his heart. By peace, he will annihilate the race of men. He will even fight against the Prince of princes.”

     Suddenly he looked up towards heaven, his eyes filled with loathing, “The Seed of the Serpent. Tonight the one I promised to my followers will embrace his destiny. Establishing my kingdom on earth as it should be!” Lucifer turned around and pointed directly at him, “You, son of my spirit . . . is HE.” The sixteen year old stared blankly back at Lucifer, speechless. His eyes widened with wonder, as he straightened to his full height of six feet, his hands still holding a slight tremor. But the tremor was no longer from fear. It was from the intoxicating desire, the sheer exhilaration of it all, the energy coming from Lucifer’s lips. 

   Lucifer walked closer up to him, dangerously close, his seductive voice soft, compelling, “I have brought you to this world at such,” he came even closer to him, just inches away, towering three feet over him, “at such a time as this. Born to be king of this world. A conqueror of not only the nations, but of the souls of men. To bring the end of these days and the beginning of a new world. With the sword you ^___son of perdition^___ will take your destined place as ruler . . . at the Battle of Armageddon.” He began to walk backwards, his head swaying, “My kingdom, is yours, oh prince. The Fallen at your high command. If, you worship me. Second in power, of the entire host of Hell. Only I will be greater.” Lucifer's eyes narrowed, “And . . . as the Seed of the Serpent, you shall rule the entire world. They shall worship you, as the son of God,” he paused. “Now bow. Worship me,” he said in a low, gravely voice. Moments went by, as they stared into each other’s eyes.                                                                                                                                                  Lucifer's green eyes transformed into a solid black, as a malicious smile played on his lips. He watched in utter pleasure, as the boy . . .  dropped to his knees.

HEAVEN

Hours later . . .

      A grave, resplendent being walked up the treaded down path, winding his way through the lush, tropical forest. He stopped walking once he reached the edge of the cliff, where a whole sheen of crystal was embedded into its side. Jophiel, Captain of the Third Legion. Angelic warrior. He stood nine feet tall, his white, transparent, seraph wings folded behind his back. His handsome features were visibly at peace, but his eyes . . . grim. Deep in contemplation.  They were a fierce emerald green. Just like every angelic creature, his eyes reflected the color of life. Green.

     He stared in wonder at the miles of amyst waterfalls that dropped dramatically down into the rapid river gorge that emptied into the glimmering sea beyond.

      He closed his eyes in rapture, smelling the intense aroma of exotic flowers that hung low over the rushing waterfalls on heavy laden bows. The emerald sea before him glinted red, reflecting the blazing sun now setting behind the horizon. But it was beyond the sea that intrigued him. On Jophiel’s left, at the eastern horizon, stood the grandest palace of Heaven, its splendor beyond description. High up on the Mount Tziyown, was the home of God. An enormous waterfall, that came from the throne room itself, its hues changing every second, dropped dramatically a hundred miles down, splitting into seven rivers. The rivers that watered Heaven. The throne room itself was the size of Jerusalem, its walls forever aflame with white fire and the thundering of the pillars never ceased to echo beyond the palace. No matter how many times one saw it, it will always be as the first.                                   

     Jophiel turned, hearing the thundering sound of hooves. To see Chamud, Prince Gabriel’s lieutenant, sitting astride on a dappled grey stallion galloping toward his direction. Chamud slid off his horse and Jophiel bowed in reverence to him.

      “What service may I be to my Prince’s lieutenant?”

      Chamud gripped Jophiel’s shoulders, “Prince Gabriel had not sent me, Jophiel. I come on other matters.” Chamud gently led Jophiel away from the cliff’s edge. He sighed, “I’m not sure you realize the full extent of what’s going on, but things are not looking good,” he paused. “General Raphael had sent word to the Elders.”

      Jophiel frowned. “The Elders?”

      Chamud nodded gravely, “It’s almost time, the Electus— as we speak the Wizards of the North ride for Milky Way galaxy to set the Black Portal in motion. The Iyries have reported that Gahal’s legions have already lined up on Israel’s shores. Zechariah’s knights are already on their way. Lucifer had . . .” Chamud’s regal countenance hardened.

      “The son of the Damned?”     

       Chamud brought out a missive from a pouch that was belted to his armor. “Yes. He will be crowned eleven moons before El-Milah unleashes the First Seal. The Books verify it.”                                         

The lieutenant handed Jophiel the missive, sealed with the general’s insignia.  Moving the brown locks from his face, Jophiel grasped the missive from Chamud's firm grip. Breaking the seal, he scanned the linen paper.

     Jophiel whistled sharply and a large, red stallion appeared from the thick forest. With surprising ease, Jophiel swung his leg over its bare back and grasped the reigns. For a moment, the warrior just sat there. But long enough to cause Chamud to wonder.

     “Is there something wrong Captain Jophiel?”

      Jophiel shifted, “Lieutenant, I am only a mere captain. This task, surely it is meant for someone wiser than I. I do not see any kind of worthy service I can accomplish that—”

     Chamud put his hand up to silence him. “Never doubt the ones Eloah had selected to do His work. He knows who is best for His missions, not us. Most of all,” Chamud brought his horse closer Jophiel’s and it seemed that his piercing green gaze bore right into Jophiel’s soul. “Never think yourself incapable to serve Eloah’s purposes. If you entertain such thoughts you will fail, Jophiel. Mark my words.” Jophiel said nothing. “You have exactly one hour to prepare the Third Legion, before the four moons arise. I suggest you make haste Captain.” 

     Before Jophiel could reply, the lieutenant kicked the stallion’s rear and the horse started to trot down the trail. Suddenly Chamud pulled the reins, five yards away from Jophiel.  

     “Captain, there is one more thing.”

     “Yes?”

     “Prince Michael— the Commander— summons you to his palace. Now.”

      Jophiel blinked.    

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER

                                                                

   Let me tell you what I know for sure. My name.

     Ahava . . . 

     I am standing before a massive portal, its magnificent gates ascending into the galaxies beyond. The watery seal looked so thin, so fragile; it seemed that even at the slightest touch, it would shatter the entire gateway to Earth. The dazzling blue lights the portal emits are almost enticing. They seem to draw me in, beckoning me to enter the light and fling my spirit into the depth of the unknown. One choice and I’ll never be the same. My heart beats frantically in my chest, longing to embrace the destiny that had been written for me since the beginning of time. I can almost hear His voice of melody, fumbling at my spirit, as players at the keys. . .

    I turn around, the gentle winds blowing my black braids in front of my face. I see my past, my present, and my future in eyes of China blue belonging to the One whom I can’t live without.

    A strong, bronzed hand touches my shoulder and I look at my three friends, all standing beside me. Ramiz who touched my shoulder smiles at me reassuringly and I force a weak smile of my own.

     I am not afraid to leave this place I call home. Fear only exists in places, in people that have forgotten love. 

     I turn my gaze back to my creator, Jeshua, to see Him walking towards us and we bow prostrate before Him. 

     Then Jeshua spoke, “Rise.”  In unison, all four of us stood to one knee. He stares at us, as if reading our very souls for what seemed to be an eternity.

     “The fate of the Gathering will depend on every choice each of you will make,” He murmurs so very softly. “Once you enter the world of men, you will have no memory of the life you have lived in paradise. Each of you will have your chance to see the truth, unlike anyone in history. But none of you will have the benefit of knowing your destiny. You won’t have any knowledge you’ve gained in this life.” Jeshua pauses, and drills us with a stare, “Does you all understand?”

      I try to grasp the meaning. But does it matter? I won’t remember this anyways.

     Ramiz on my right gazes into our Maker’s face, his voice confident, “We can take that risk, Jeshua.”

     “It’s much more dangerous than you realize, son. On earth you can be used for good or for the purpose of evil and the risk is beyond any of you.” Jeshua sighs, unusually grave, “this will be a war,  the world of men or angelic has never seen or will ever be again. Every choice you make will have inconceivable consequences.”

    The four of us remains silent. Only the brief winds stirred the emptiness. I look up at Jeshua’s face, who stared off into the starry night. His lips moving in a quiet prayer. I remember the days before He had become a human. His name had been El-Milah. Strange how I no longer think of Him as El-Milah. Maybe because He truly is Jeshua, savior.

     “You will eventually change everything,” He said. A flicker of a smile touched the corners of his lips, eyes sparkling with mirth.

     “For better or for worse?” The other asks.

     “It depends.”

     “On what?”

     “On each of you.”       

     Ramiz besides me abruptly stands to his feet and my surroundings slowly fades . . .

     I am gazing at the magnificent Portal, its majesty indescribable but incomparable to the One who is standing beside me.

     “Where—

     “Two of your friends have all ready left for earth, Ahava. It is time for you to go.” He said before I could finish. He smiled at me but His eyes are moist with tears as if He’s sad to see me go to the other side of eternity. The place of destiny that resides in the moments of time.

 ‘Ani ohev otkha’ I whisper through my mind to Him. His smile widened, that same beautiful, magnificent smile that never ceases to stir my heart. He tenderly moves my raven lock away from my sapphire blue eyes, “I love you too, Ahava. Be strong, it’s a dangerous world— the world of men,” He gently placed a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll never forsake you, Ahava. Now go.”

     I determinedly approach the portal’s gates and I take one last look at Him, not knowing when I will see that face I love again.

     Then I dive.

     Deep within this living Portal.

     

     Ahava’s senses were utterly consumed by the colossal wall of roaring light and sound that seemed to invade every fiber of her being.  With each burning shaft, every atom of her being was like newly invigorated as the glowing purity passed through her. Amidst the thundering, she heard the voice.  The voice of God.

    “REMEMMBER ME AHAVA! REMEMBER MEEEEEEEEIEIIEI!”

    

   And then, it was as though she was dead.