The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs

By Glenn Dale Bridges, Jr

Something is coming to kill Thane Connally; an angel told him so . . .

Visited by earthbound angel Armaros, the young prison guard finds himself a pawn of prophecy thrust into the middle of a feud that predates human memory. Thane has little hope and even less time. For hidden deep below the rock of a mountain, an army is growing. Azazel, brother to Armaros and bane of the ancients, has escaped his desert purgatory of 8,000 years and thirsts for retribution. Only together can Thane and Armaros, along with a small group of improbable allies, hope to thwart the enraged Azazel, whose madness threatens to unravel the very fabric of humanity.

Blending Jewish folklore, the apocrypha, and oral tradition from the dawn of humankind, The Peacock Angel is a thought-provoking tale of an ordinary young man plunged into extraordinary circumstance—with the fate of humanity lying somewhere in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Dale Bridges, Jr
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301567706

Glenn Dale Bridges, Jr

Glenn Dale Bridges lives in Ponchatoula, La. with his wife, daughter, and son. He is currently working on the second book of the Peacock Angel series tentatively titled Og the Giant.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

5799 BC

Eastern Turkey

Run. Run. Fast. Fast.

Only the one camel kept pace.

So far. Farther than anyone ever.

But it didn't matter. He could not outrun the water.

For five days Armaros tried, racing across the land without a moments rest, but the swollen gulf would not waiver. Eventually the sea claimed him—chased him down from behind like a great cat. Each of his lengthy strides now ended in a splash of ankle deep runoff.

Still, he ran.

The mountains must be close.

If only he could reach them . . .

He didn't know where else to go. Instinct alone urged him to push for higher ground. He hoped the peaks to his north would offer refuge from the flood. They must. He had run out of any other options.

The river he followed overwhelmed its banks; its current reversed from all the water forced upstream. Soon, it would merge with the rising waters from the lakes and seas surrounding him, along with the gulf expanding behind him, and blanket all the dry land he had ever walked upon. And even some he hadn't.

Still, he ran.

Much, much higher ground.

Above him, the skies began a sudden and ominous change. Terrible storm clouds rolled in with unnatural speed, blocking out the sun and darkening the land. Cold air awoke his exposed skin. A bolt of lightning, as thick as a tree, struck the earth ahead of him with deafening force. He stumbled, but he did not break his stride.

And then it began to rain.

Droplets, frigid and heavy, forced his head down and his eyes closed. His back and shoulders went numb quickly. The sky had broken, and the assault from above proved unforgiving.

To his right, the camel dropped. It had kept pace with him for half a day. The big bull's eye went white as its heart burst from exhaustion. Soon the water would take it away. It had purged the land of every other living creature trying to escape the deluge.

Except for him.

But wasn't he supposed to survive?

He continued to run.

All alone now. Higher ground. The mountains must be close.

Leave these lands, his teachers had told him. Leave now and live. You will walk with man.

He didn't hesitate. He took his sword and the parchment given to him by the scribe. They were the only two things he would ever need. Judgment was coming. Once they let him leave, he never looked back.

Not even when the screaming started.

His brothers received no clemency. Retribution was swift and chaotic. The cries for mercy, the shouts of hate, and the sounds of battle still rang in his ears. The memory would haunt him for as long as they allowed him to remain.

The water continued to gain on him from behind; to his east and west, it advanced even quicker. Through his half closed eyes, the area of dry land ahead narrowed.

Another massive lightning strike shook the earth. This one was closer than the last. A bit of the surge traveled up the flesh of his leg. He continued to run.

And then the mountains.

They were beautiful. Two massive white peaks erupted from the plain, and both reached thousands of feet into the heavens. Their volcano like shapes made them easy for him to climb. They were taller than he remembered.

They would need to be.

Still, he ran.

The water reached mid calf. He picked his knees up higher as he ran in order to make any progress. But he would not lessen his effort.

So close. Almost.

And then he stopped running.

He began to climb at once. The rock, strong and cold in his hands, seemed to welcome his touch. This mountain would be his protector, his home, and his sanctuary. There was comfort in the knowing. He continued to climb.

I will live brothers. Beyond that, I know nothing. But I will live.

* * *

The darkness was absolute. Azazel could see things at night or in poorly lit places, but not now. Here, deep in the bowels of the earth, light feared to tread. The shine did not visit. All black, all the time.

A giant slab of hot stone pressed against him. The rock crushed his body and held him motionless, but he could not see it.

The pain was unbearable. His bones, crushed by the weight of the rock, fought to heal themselves. His perfect flesh, seared and torn by the burning and jagged stone, would not die. His body raged against itself-trying to repair something both broken and eternal. A cruel combination no doubt, but he would endure. He must learn to numb himself to the agony, and embrace the hurt. Then the hate could sustain him.

It consumed him; the sting of his brother's betrayal remained fresh. No forgiveness. Not ever. His heart, dark and twisted even before the reckoning, pumped only loathing and revenge throughout every particle of his being. Thoughts of retribution filled his mind constantly—he envisioned those that had put him here, and then he imagined them burnt, dying, and dead. Countless times and in many different ways he had watched their demise. But always just in his mind. That would change though. Of this, he was certain.

Thoughts of freedom calmed him somewhat. A kind of melancholy washed over his tortured body. He even tried to smile, but the rock would not allow such a thing. His face, pinned sideways and distorted by the stone, would not respond to his mental commands. Even the tiniest of movements remained forbidden.

The hate rushed back in. They had done this to him. They deserved whatever they got. And they would get it.

He had not accepted his fate.

Never.

He would not wait here to die.

Like cattle.

He did not know about the others. Who lived? Who died? Who lay imprisoned beneath the desert, discarded and forgotten?

Not forever.

No matter. He would know everything soon enough.

They left him with his mind and his magic—all that he would need. In their arrogance, they had left him with the very tools he would use to escape from here. They had underestimated him. They had underestimated his will. He would get out of this goddamn hole.

It would not be easy. This process would, however, take quite some time and involve no small amount of pain. This pain-new, deep, excruciating-would be a welcome change. He looked forward to the hurt. Most of all he looked forward to seeing the faces of those that had put him here. When he rose up, free and powerful, he would end them. He would end them all.

With only a thought, he began the intricate process of disassembling himself. He could tell nothing at first, but he remained confident. He was certain tiny, individual pieces of himself were leaving his body and beginning their journey to the surface. There were many, many of these pieces. This would take quite awhile.

Time I have. Nothing but time.

CHAPTER 1

1970 AD

Ravenna, Italy

The night air awakened Mikhael's skin as he moved across the field. Above him, a third quarter moon beamed down against the fog and illuminated the land in patches—some areas bright as morn and others dark with shadow. Despite his enormity, he was confident no one noticed him walking through the murk.

The pungent smell of the sea confirmed its nearness, and the soft soil beneath his feet felt rich and fertile. A light breeze blew and the temperature remained mild but cool enough to be refreshing.

He had never been to this part of the world before. The land seemed easy and restful. The surroundings were unfamiliar but pleasant.

A land fit for kings, he whispered to no one and everyone.

As he continued to walk, another more subtle feature of his surroundings began to emerge.

This place had a soul.

From the townspeople sleeping on the other side of the old city walls to the ancient bones buried all about, he could sense the elemental nature here. A strong history of faith prevailed in this region. Mikhael drew in a breath of their devoutness and savored it. He liked it here.

A grin spread across his face as he started to understand. He now had a new appreciation for choices made by another.

A nice place to rest, Brother.

With his eyes forward and a surprising lightness to his step, he continued onward through the damp grass and thick fog. After only a few minutes, the fog thinned and soon after it broke completely. Here the moonlight reached the earth in an enormous swath, and it focused on a large, domed structure standing a mere stone's throw directly ahead of him.

He stood staring at the front of the monument from his current position. There were two door shaped holes, each about eight foot tall by four foot wide and stacked one directly above the other, serving as entrance ways to each floor of the structure. As he circled the exterior of the building, he found the bottom floor had ten sides as did the top floor. The upper section was a little smaller than the lower.

The entire structure was built out of large blocks of smooth white stone. The most impressive of these stones, a dome shaped monolith that probably measured upwards of forty feet in diameter, served as the roof of the entire edifice.

Every stone in the structure, regardless of size, cut, or function, absorbed moonlight from the night sky. The resulting effect gave the building a soft yellow radiance. It appeared to glow in the dark.

He found the monument curious but not overly impressive. He supposed it must be considered old by those who consider such things, but he judged antiquity on a much different scale. His walk around the outside completed, he ducked his head and casually stepped into the bottom entrance of the building.

It was much darker on the inside. Even though he could see in the absence of light, he rarely did. He took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The main floor was unspectacular. It stood completely bare and undecorated. Only a stair leading to the upper floor remained within the lower walls.

He didn't linger here; up the stairs and to the second floor he went.

Square holes cut into the rock up high on the walls let in moonlight from all directions. The upper floor looked very much like the lower, only brighter.

The sole content of the room was a circular porphyry tub located near the center of the floor. The igneous rock of the tub appeared a deep brownish purple sprinkled with fine grain crystals. He walked over and peered into it.

A royal tub. Empty. Not surprised. I've missed something . . . somewhere.

Back down the stairs he went. Almost immediately he found what he was looking for—a niche in the western wall leading down into a room that the moonlight would not enter. He submerged himself in this new darkness, paused a moment to get his bearings, and found himself in a cross-shaped chapel with a ceiling too low for him to stand erect.

For certain his earlier intuition had been correct. This whole place served as a grand burial chamber of some sort. Services were probably held in this room, and at one time a person of some importance was undoubtedly laid to rest in the big, purple tub upstairs. He smiled to himself at this newest revelation. How amusing. He continued his search.

After missing the niche earlier, he let nothing escape his gaze as he scanned this latest room. Not even the four stones near the bottom of the chapel's front wall went unnoticed. They seemed the slightest bit different to him for reasons he couldn't decipher. Dropping down on all fours, he pushed on the top two stones.

The stones moved.

He continued pushing until they slid loose from the wall and then dropped onto what sounded like muddy ground below. He pulled the other two stones out of the way and a hole in the wall just big enough for him to squeeze through remained.

With no hesitation, he turned around onto his abdomen and pushed himself feet first through the opening. It was almost a perfect fit—only the grandest of his wing feathers scraped the loose mortar of the hollow as he squeezed his shoulders through.

He let his body hang over the ledge on the other side of the wall as he passed through the hole. He held onto the ledge with his colossal hands until solid ground received him. Letting go of the chapel floor above, Mikhael turned to explore what he hoped would be his last hidden chamber.

Further examination revealed a large cavity almost exactly the same diameter as the tomb above. A number of marble base pillars resting on a huge foundation platform supported the entire structure. The earthen walls of the great hole were inundated with sand and moisture, and the whole place smelled of a nearby river. The air, heavy and wet, left a brackish aftertaste on Mikhael's tongue as it passed over.

He could see the far side of the dirt wall by looking through the rows of pillars holding the structure aloft. The cavity looked identical all the way around. Still, he must search down here all the same.

He placed his first step onto the foundation platform, and then he placed a second step. He was just before walking amongst the columns, beneath the crushing weight of the monument above, when a most unexpected thing happened.

Mikhael . . . Is that you, Mikhael? a voice asked.

The question surprised him. A figure stood behind one of the far columns from the direction the voice had come. The pillar could not conceal the hulking frame, and he knew at once who it was. He had expected to find his quarry at rest-not standing and speaking.

It is, he answered.

Have you finally come to kill me, Mikhael? the voice asked.

No, Armaros, Mikhael replied. The question hurt, saddened him, but he expected it. Come from the shadows and talk with me.

Have you come to take me home then? I've strived for redemption Mikhael . . . through my works here.

No, Armaros, Mikhael replied once again.

Armaros stepped from behind the column; Mikhael continued standing just off the foundation platform. Armaros walked over to where he stood. They were almost of the same size. Neither of them spoke for some time.

Something about Armaros unnerved him. Well aware of his former student's capacity, it troubled Mikhael to see that defeat now darkened his eyes and his mannerism radiated disregard. He looked the same as he always had on the outside—perfect and powerful.

Yet your soul is weary and your heart has forgotten.

Why do you sleep in graveyards Armaros? he finally asked. Do you fancy yourself a vampire? Are you going mad? This all seems a bit morose to me, Brother.

His attempt to inject a bit of comedy into what would undoubtedly turn into a serious meeting was not lost on Armaros. His brother's eyes narrowed as if he wanted to ask a thousand questions, but then softened.

Above us is the Mausoleum of Theodoric, Armaros explained. Theodoric the Great was king of the Goths, ruler of Italy, and the last friend I will allow myself. Some time back, silting from a nearby river that had caused the mausoleum to sink was drained and excavated. This chamber was the result of that excavation. All who knew of its existence have long since passed. I am left alone and at peace here, Mikhael. Theodoric, along with others I have known, still resides here in spirit. They provide the only companionship I require nowadays.

Mikhael opened his mouth as if to speak, but chose to remain silent as Armaros continued.

And no Mikhael, I would never fashion myself after a vampire. I was old before the first of Lilith's daughters tasted the blood of man.

A poor attempt at humor Armaros, Mikhael said. I meant you no insult.

Expression crept onto the countenance of Armaros for the first time in a long while; a weary grin spread across his face.

I know brother, he responded. But there is truth in your words . . . about the madness I mean. I have been in exile now for almost eight thousand years. Such a juncture takes its toll on one's psyche.

Is that a great span? Mikhael asked. As the passage of time is measured.

Most would say yes, Armaros answered. His eyes narrowed once more.

Excruciating . . . being sucked into linear time, Armaros went on. It's like being pulled down into the maw of a maelstrom. Seconds, minutes, hours, and days pass by me never to return. I have lost all sense of eternity Mikhael. I lie down undisturbed and dream of the time before in order to lessen the hurt of living with a past, present and future. And that is the nature of my madness.

There may be a way out of your maelstrom, Mikhael said.

What way? I have walked a thousand different paths since the reckoning. The Elect and the Sons of God ignore me, demons loathe and fear me, and so I cast my lot with man. But man is short lived, and all those I loved . . . I watched die. Some so long ago even their bones are no more. No, there is neither love nor redemption left in me. I am the accursed one, and I fear that is all I shall ever be.

There is the prophecy, Mikhael announced.

Of Enoch, Armaros asked, sudden interest leaping into his eyes.

Yes, Mikhael answered. Pain welled in his chest. The regret in Armaros' voice still lingered. He had been naive thinking theirs would be a joyful reunion.

Only words Mikhael, Armaros said. Just words written during a time of immense chaos. Nothing more.

A dream brother. You know better.

True prophesy always finds a way Armaros.

His words seemed to strike his brother like a stone thrown from a sling.

What's wrong? Mikhael asked.

Everything, Armaros answered. First, you're here because the prophecy is real. Secondly, I'm afraid my part in all of this is more than I can bear. And finally certain events, one of which I cannot imagine even in my most violent nightmare, must have already transpired.

A coldness ran across Mikhael's shoulders and shot down into both his arms. His mind wavered and first his hands, then the rest of his body, went weightless. His heart on the other hand was heavy. The mass of the entire mausoleum seemingly crushed down upon it. He hated doing this.

Why are you so certain the revelations of Enoch, son of Jared, will bear fruit? Armaros asked.

Because the second son of the seventieth generation will be born soon, Mikhael answered. A boy. His parents will name him Thane.

And.

The coldness returned throughout Mikhael's entire body and into the space behind his eyes. He hesitated before answering. And there is an empty hole in the sands of Dudael.

Armaros' mouth was agape. A single tear found its way down his cheek.

I know what's been buried deep in the desert, Armaros said. I know what crawled up through the jagged stones and out of the opening in the Negev. Another tear fell from his cheek.

I've never seen you weep before, Armaros.

I weep for mankind, for the beasts of the earth, and for the angels on high, Armaros replied. I know the ancient, furious evil that will soon be unleashed upon them all. God has broken his promise, Mikhael. There is no escape.

CHAPTER 2

1970 AD

Mitzpe Ramon, Israel

Something squeezed Jibril's shoulder. He turned to cuff Nadim, his roguish camel, for nipping him, but he was mistaken. This was no camel.

He didn't hear the giant man approach. And he wasn't even sleeping—not soundly anyhow.

Fear took hold; he could not move. He tried. An unintelligible moan escaped his lips. The stranger didn't seem to notice.

The big man was odd—white skin uncolored by the desert from which he came, and his features sharp and unfriendly. He was also completely naked. And tall. The boy had never seen anyone from his village or from the surrounding tribes as lofty as the white haired stranger squeezing his arm.

Your goats are fat boy, the stranger said as he released his grip on the young man. You must know all the best lands to graze.

The fear ebbed with the big man's words. Pride replaced it. The stranger was right—he did know all the best places to feed his goats. His father had taught him, just as his father's father had taught him a generation before. On his tenth birthday he began looking after the goats of his people, almost a full year past.

I wasn't asleep, the boy said. The stranger needed to understand this. The sun is bright though, my eyes burn.

Of course, the man agreed. An accomplished goat herder like you would never leave his flock unattended. What's your name boy?

Jibril. What's yours?

The stranger did not answer. He stared ahead at the goats and the grass and the trees in the distance—things Jibril found quite unremarkable. He seemed unconcerned with his nakedness.

Where are your clothes? the boy asked.

They rotted away long ago. I suppose I need some new ones.

What's your name? Jibril asked again.

I have many.

Well what do I call you, Jibril pushed.

Azazel will do. You certainly are full of questions. Long ago such behavior would have angered me.

And now?

I haven't decided yet. But you'll know soon enough.

Jibril understood. He forced his mouth shut. His curiosity sometimes angered his father too. His eyes, however, remained open, and he inspected the man beside him closely. The differences became frightfully clear to Jibril rather quickly.

He almost ran away. No one could fault him for leaving the sheep behind and rushing to tell the village a devil was amongst them . . . or a god. Therein lay the problem—the unknowing. Jibril's curiosity trumped his instincts like always. He stayed put and continued to stare.

Take me to your village, the stranger said.

Corded with lean muscle, Azazel's back seemed cut from stone. His front appeared no different. He stood at least as tall as the top of Nadim's hump, and Nadim was the largest of his father's camels. Jibril shifted his gaze to where he last recalled the animal and found him there still, chewing his cud and completely unconcerned with the stranger.

His hair was grandfather white, but his face and body were young. The skin of his flesh was pulled taut and without a blemish. It too remained ivory white. His eyes, however, were dark and too big for his long face. Jibril couldn't muster the courage to meet their gaze when Azazel turned.

It's not really a village, Jibril answered. Just a camp. You can see the tents from here. Look.

The boy pointed ahead and skyward. Azazel followed with his eyes. Jibril was relieved to have the stranger looking elsewhere. The Bedouin tents of his people were scarcely visible atop the northern ridge of the massive crater where his goats grazed lazily.

The men will not be there, Jibril said. They are all working on the road to Eilat. But grandfather will be. He is very wise. You must talk with him.

Yes, Azazel agreed. I would like to talk with grandfather.

Jibril grinned. He wanted to rid himself of this stranger. His grandfather would know what to do with Azazel.

Azazel waited beside the large rock where Jibril had been resting as the boy gathered his sheep and started them on their trek back to camp. He did not act impatient nor did he complain when a few goats strayed away and Jibril and Nadim took some time to right their course. The stranger seemed in no hurry. He filed in line behind Jibril, who sat atop Nadim, as they began their ascent to the Bedouin camp.

They had not gone far when the burial place of a nomad became visible from the well- worn trail. Bedouin resting places were exceedingly simple; an ordinary stone sat at the head of the grave and one at its foot. Nomadic tradition decreed that the clothes of the deceased remain atop the grave to aid needy travelers. An idea came to Jibril as they neared the gravesite.

There are clothes if you wish to dress, he said.

Perhaps it would be best if I did, Azazel agreed. He walked over to the grave and removed only a large white cotton tunic from the pile. The garment was fashioned to fall near the ankles of an average person, but it ended just below the knee when worn by Azazel. The rest of the fit seemed passable though, and Azazel returned to the trail seemingly satisfied and undeterred. Jibril grinned. Azazel didn't stand out as much with the tunic on. At least now it wasn't sinful just to look at him.

Jibril's sheep followed the trail uphill without further incident, and the group entered the camp a little quicker than usual by the boy's estimation. Relief washed over him when they found the encampment as relatively empty as it should be at this time in the afternoon. Nobody would see him bring the stranger into their midst. He penned the goats and beckoned Azazel to follow him.

His Father's tent was the largest in the camp, and it sat centrally located amongst the other shacks, huts, and tents of the encampment. His grandfather the Sheikh, along with his father, had the most goats in the camp.