Uriel: The Inheritance (Airel Saga Book Five)

Chapter VIII

Mountains of Hijaz—Present Day

THE HOST WERE VERY old. They were among the first of the angelic creatures created, and they swore fealty to the Maker of all things. El gave them orders and they carried them out with all their being.

They were the guards of old, from legend and myth. Hidden beyond the sight and reach of man, Eden grew more lush and beautiful than on the day it was created. The Host did not only guard the entrance, they also tended the garden and lived on the sands of its shores and among the fronds of its jungles.

Only once had anyone dared challenge the gates of Eden. This one was spared his life, but only because El himself held their swords.

For thousands of years, they lived in peace, made strong by constant training and wise by council with El. They made their homes in a small city near the gate of Eden and prepared for the war that never came. Some of the Host grew tired of the stories, of the threat that never materialized. They were the Host of the Most High—lethal, and created to wage war. Why did they train, and why had they been made, if war would never come? The waiting was harder than the Host imagined any war might be, but things as of late were changing.

"Do you feel it, the darkness?" Some called him 'lord', as he was the head, but in all things, the Host thought as one. Separate names and identities were of no use.

"Yes, my lord. It is as if the world beyond is dying. The gate is as strong as ever, but I feel the ground it stands upon is growing weak."

Both stood atop the city wall overlooking the garden, the city at their backs and the darkness beyond.

"The Tree of Life must be protected at any cost. The time of our created purpose is at hand, though this, I fear, is not the war we once thought we would fight. Something more evil is coming. Something we may not be able to overcome."

***

Glasgow, Scotland—Present Day

JORDAN WESTON STOOD ALONE in a cluster of trees at the south edge of the Necropolis in Glasgow, looking over the monuments to the dead toward the gothic Glasgow Cathedral's corroded green roof.

He was trying to concentrate, but the pain in his un-good hand, the pestilent pattering of the rain—these were distracting him. This mausoleum, which was the final resting place for the bones of one Major Archibald Monteath, was only one of many convenient access points to the spirit realm. A thin place. Most of the British Isles are thin now, he thought. Once an empire upon which the sun never set. "Until, of course, it did." He didn't laugh at his joke because he never laughed. And he didn't joke.

He strode forward under drooping skies of clay toward the pedimented door of the tomb. Through this thin place were the walls, the very gate to Eden. Beyond that stood the Tree of Life. The Tree had never been taken by the Brotherhood.

The door to this place had only been used once, only by Jordan, and long ago. He held his un-good hand and rubbed the tips of his dead fingers. There is a cost. There is always a cost.

Jordan turned and took stock of his army. Ten thousand regulars of the Brotherhood horde, half of it humans, half demons—and all gathered for him. He wasn't Seer, but he knew how wars were won. "Brothers." His voice boomed over the men and beasts before him. "Today will mark the beginning of a new world, a world where we rule from the shadows cast by the light of a red sun."

His army cheered and roared as demons sounded their approval.

"Now bond with your Brothers and take back what is yours." Wings flapped and tails whipped as the men and demons merged into five thousand. Their commander remained and bowed before Jordan.