Leviathan
The Fallen series, book 2
Thomas E. Sniegoski
PROLOGUE
Amidst the south Serbian Mountains, nestled within the gorge of the Black River, sat the Crna Reka Monastery. The wind howled piteously, like the sad wails of a mother mourning the loss of her child, as it blew across the high rocks and sparse vegetation surrounding the holy hermitage.
It was a lonely place, a place for reflection and absolution. The church itself was constructed within a large cave during the thirteenth century—an homage to the Archangel Michael. The hermit monks soon built their cells around the church, and a small drawbridge was erected over the Black River. By a great blessing of God, the river disappeared underground just before the monastery, and then reappeared several hundred meters later, sparing the monastery the deafening roar of the water’s noise.
The repenter knelt upon a worn, wicker mat in a cold, empty room of the monastery in the rocks, and listened to the prayers of the world. No matter the time, be it day or night, someone, somewhere, searched for the aid or guidance of the Divine. A woman in Prague prayed for the soul of her recently departed mother, a man in Glasgow for the continued health of his wife stricken with cancer. A farmer in Fort Wayne asked for relief from a fearsome drought, and a truck driver parked alongside a road in Scottsdale begged for the strength to live his life another day. So many voices, a cacophony of cries for help—it made his head spin.
He tried to lend them all a slight bit of his own strength, and asked the Creator to listen to their pleas. Does the Lord of Lords hear me? he wondered. The penitent hoped so. Though others would have him believe that the Holy Father had stopped listening to him a long time ago, it did not prevent him from speaking on behalf of those who prayed—a conduit to Heaven.
Eyes tightly closed, ears filled with the sounds of benediction, the kneeling man smiled. A six-year old named Kiley prayed with the passion of a saint for a brand-new bike on her birthday. Had he ever prayed with such fervor for anything? The answer was obvious—it was the reason he continued to wander the planet, searching out the most sacred places, hoping to quell the burning turmoil at the core of his being.
The sinner sought forgiveness—forgiveness for the evil he had wrought.
The sound of tiny claws scrabbling across the stone floor wrested him from his concentration, and he opened his eyes. A mouse stood on its hindquarters, nose twitching eagerly toward him.
“Well, hello there,” the penitent said softly, his voice filled with affection for the gray-furred rodent. He and the mouse had become good friends since his arrival at the monastery six months before. And in exchange for bits of bread and cheese, the little animal kept him abreast of events outside the hermitage.
From within the long sleeves of his robe, the repenter produced a crust of bread from the previous night’s supper and offered it to the small creature. “And how are you today?” he asked in a language only it would understand.
“Others here,” the mouse replied in a high-pitched squeak as it took the bread in its front paws.
For the last two months he had sensed something growing in the ether, building steadily over the past few days. Something with the potential for great danger—and yet also wondrous. He had his suspicions, but did not want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces again.
“Others like you,” the mouse finished, nervously gnawing on the piece of bread.
Suddenly the repenter was glad that he had sent the Crna Reka brothers to town for supplies this day. If what the mouse was telling him was true, he did not wish to risk the well-being of anyone else. The brothers had been quite gracious in allowing him into their place of quiet solitude, and he did not want to see any of them suffer for their charity.
He listened, focusing on the sounds of the monastery around him: the muffled roar of the Black River flowing beneath the structure; the creak of the bridge outside, jostled by the winds blowing into the gorge from the mountains above; the rumble of thunder.
No, not thunder at all, something far more ominous.
The penitent picked the mouse up from the floor and placed it in his palm as he stood. “And where exactly did you see these others?” he asked.
“Outside,” it answered, continuing its nibbling. “In sky. Outside in sky.”
It was then that the repenter began to feel their presence. They were all around him. The floor of the monastery began to shake, as if in the clutches of an angry giant. Rock, dust, and wood fell from the ceiling, and the walls began to crumble. He clutched the tiny life-form to his breast to protect it from the falling debris. An explosion, filled with sound and fury, rocked the monastery, and the walls before him fell away, sliding into the Black River Gorge to reveal the Serbian Mountains, and those who awaited him.
They hovered there, at least twenty in number, their mighty wings beating the air—the sound like the racing heartbeat of the wilderness valley surrounding them—and in their hands they held weapons of fire.
The repenter stepped back from the jagged edge of a yawning precipice and held the trembling mouse closer. He did not take his eyes from them. He was not afraid. Some bowed their heads as his gaze fell upon them, remembering a bygone time when he had commanded their respect—but that was long, long ago.
“Lift your heads,” ordered an angry voice in the language of messengers. Their numbers began to part, and he who led them moved forward. “The time for this one to be shown reverence passed when the first seeds of the Great War were sown.”
The penitent was familiar with he who spoke: a wrathful angel in the Choir called Powers. His name was Verchiel, and he bore the scars of one who had recently fought a fierce battle. The repenter wondered why they had not healed, and almost asked the angel—but decided this was not the time.
“We have come for you, son of the morning,” Verchiel said, pointing his sword that burned like the heart of an inferno.
With those words, the angels of the Powers glided closer, their weapons raised for conflict.
“Your corrupting time upon God’s world has ended,” Verchiel said with a gleam in his deep, dark eyes of solid night.
“You’ll receive no fight from me,” the repenter replied, looking from the fearsome Powers drawing inexorably closer to the mouse still held in his hand against his chest. “Just keep your voices down,” he continued as he ran a finger along the soft, downy fur of the trembling rodent’s head. “You’re scaring the mouse.”
“Take him!” Verchiel cried in a voice that hinted of madness, scars hot and red against his pale flesh.
And they flew at him.
The repenter did as he imagined he must. No weapons of fire sprang from his palms, no powerful wings unfurled to carry him away. He slipped the fragile creature that had become his friend inside the folds of his simple robes, and let himself be taken.
Shackles of a golden metal not found on this world, their surface etched in an angelic spell of suppression, were slapped roughly upon his wrists, and he felt himself immediately sapped of strength by their inherent magic. Some of the Powers, but not all, clawed at him, striking him, beating him with their wings—even though he offered no resistance. The penitent could understand their resentment and did nothing to halt their abuse.
“Enough!” Verchiel bellowed, and the angelic soldiers stepped away from the repenter’s prone form on what remained of the room’s floor.