Airel: The Discovering (Airel Saga Book Two)

Chapter VI

Arabia—1250 B.C.

THE HORDE CAMP WAS quiet. A few guards patrolled the perimeter, carrying torches. It was easy for Kreios and Yamanu to creep past them into the main part of the camp, the fog moving in subtly with them. Kreios was waiting to feel the pull and drain of his power, but because of the Sword, he did not. He hoped Yamanu was doing fine as well.

His hope was not returned to him void; as Yamanu shaded them from enemy detection, he also read Kreios’ worry and reassured him. I think El is for us this night, my friend. I count over one thousand, Kreios projected. Does that sound right?

Yamanu agreed, and they moved on to the edge of the camp. We will sweep from one end to the other, killing as many as we can without drawing attention to ourselves. When we are discovered, we fly. Kreios wanted to break the will of the horde and see if he could turn fear upon them for a change.

There was only one variable outside the scope of their control. If the demons that owned the men remained unmanifest—that is to say, lying hidden within the men’s flesh—then all Kreios and Yamanu would need to do would be to kill the men; the demons would follow them to hell. But if the demonic pairings of the Brotherhood were physically manifest, and resting alongside the men—or elsewhere—their task would become complicated.

Kreios invisibly tossed his dagger from one hand to the other and stepped silently inside the nearest tent. It was large, composed of rotting hides tied to long wooden poles. Flies buzzed about, even though it was cold.

A cluster of men, six of them, slept snoring like wild beasts. This was the smallest component of the enemy army; a group of six that ate, slept, and fought side by side. Stench filled Kreios’ nostrils, reeking of sweat, filth, and the sweet tang of urine. The men were not clustered in pairs, which meant that the demonic controllers of the enemy men remained inside them, dormant.

Silently communicating with his partner, Kreios took the left side, and Yamanu took the right. They moved quickly, cutting throats like butchers. The men flopped and kicked, gasping as blood poured into their throats, simultaneously bled dry and drowning. The demons within made them convulse, making one last vain effort to break free and escape as they were dragged off to hell, kicking and clawing.

The angels had their way in the camp for a good portion of the night, irradiating the pestilence of death and judgment. With each kill, Kreios grew more and more hopeful. Yamanu did not make a sound through it all.

Kreios turned from slicing the neck of a short man, the last in a group of four in a smaller tent, when a house of a man entered, clad only in a loincloth. A tangled matted mass of thick brown hair clung to him like a shrub to the face of a cliff. His belly overhung his waist, the picture of sloth.

The two angels were invisible to him, but his eyes grew wide as he realized that his comrades lay dead at his feet, their blood soaking into the ground. One, the last one to die, twitched, his left hand jumping. The giant man screamed like a wildcat, sounding the alarm.

Kreios was quick, stabbing his dagger into his throat, cutting the cry short—but it was too late. The sound of voices and angry grunts rippled through the camp. Yamanu knocked the man aside, who was dead where he stood, and sprang from the tent. Time to fly.

Kreios followed him out. Into the middle of the row of tents flowed hundreds of half-naked men, swords raised.

Torches blazed, captains issued orders in gruff shouts, and the guards on the perimeter began running toward the noise. It was like being trapped inside an hourglass. Kreios bent his legs to take to the air, but something held him back. Yamanu looked to Kreios and he nodded; he, too, was unable to fly.