Leviathan

EPILOGUE

It was a dream—but it felt like reality.

The night was cool, although she could feel the heat from the sand, warmed by the day’s relentless sun, beneath her bare feet as she fled across the ocean of desert.

It seemed so real, as if part of a life lived in the past. Long, long in the past.

Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, and she turned back to gaze at the city burning in the distance—somehow she knew that its name was Urkish. The sky above the primitive desert-city had turned black, as smoke from the burning buildings of straw and mud rose to hide the stars.

She could hear a sound, a high-pitched, keening sound, and even at this distance, she had to cover her ears against it. It was like the cries of birds—hundreds of angry birds. and she found she was beginning to fear sleep. She would have given anything for a dreamless night of rest. But it wasn’t to be.

Someone called to her, and she remembered she wasn’t alone. Eight others had fled Urkish with her—eight others had escaped from … from what? she wondered. A girl no older than she was, wrapped in a tattered cloak and hood, motioned frantically for her to follow. There was fear in her eyes, fear in all their eyes. What are they afraid of? What has driven us from the city? She wanted to know—she needed to know.

“Quickly,” said the girl in a language the dreamer had never heard—yet could comprehend. “We must lose ourselves in the desert,” the girl said as she turned back to the others, her ragged cloak blowing in the desert breeze. “It is our only chance.” They started to run, fleeing across the dunes—but from what? the dreamer wondered again.

She turned her attention back toward the city. Was the answer there? The fires burned higher, and any semblance that a civilization had once thrived there was lost—consumed in the rising conflagration.

The others called to her, their voices smaller in the distance, carried on the wind. They pleaded for her to follow, but she did not move, her eyes fixed upon the city in flames.

Sadness enveloped her as she watched the city burn—as if Urkish was somehow important to her. Was it more than just a place she dreamed about? Did it actually have some kind of a special meaning for her?

She stamped her foot in the sand, frustration exploding within her. “I want to wake up,” she shouted to the desert. “I want to wake up now.” She closed her eyes, willing herself to the surface of consciousness, but the world of dream held her in its grasp.

The horrible cries again rang in her ears, and she opened her eyes. She saw them flying up from fires of the city, their wings fanning the billowing black smoke as they rose. There were hundreds of them, and even from this distance she could see that they were clad in an armor of gold.

She knew what they were. Ever since she was a child, they had filled her with wonder and contentment. She had fancied them her guardians, and believed they would never let any harm befall her.

Breathlessly she watched them fly now, dipping and weaving above the burning ruins of the city. She knew she’d been in this dream before, but for the life of her, could not remember why the heavenly beings had come to Urkish.

“They’ve come to kill you,” said a whisper from the desert, and she knew the voice was right.

They were flying beyond the city now, out over the desert waste—searching. Searching for her.

She started to run, but the sand hindered her progress. Her heart hammered with exertion as she attempted to catch up with the others. She remembered now. She remembered how the creatures had dropped from the sky, fire in their hands—and the killing. She remembered the killing. Her thoughts raced with images of violence as she struggled to climb a dune, the sand giving way beneath her frantic attempts.

They were closer now—so very close. The air was filled with the sounds of pounding wings, and the cries of angry birds.

No, not birds at all.

She reached the crest of the dune. She could just about make out the others. She cried out to them, but the sound of her voice was drowned by the beating wings. She turned to look at them—to see how close they were.

And they were there, descending from the sky, descending from Heaven—screeching for her blood.

Angels.

How could she have ever loved creatures so heartless and cruel?

Vilma awoke from the nightmare, a scream upon her lips. She could still feel the wind on her face as they carried her up into the night sky, the swords of fire as they pierced her flesh.

She began to sob, burying her face in the pillow so her aunt and uncle would not hear her. They had already caught her crying twice this week and were beginning to worry. She couldn’t blame them.

Getting a hold of her emotions, Vilma lifted her face from the pillow and caught something from the corner of her eye. Outside her bedroom window was a tree, and for the briefest moment there was something in that tree, something disturbingly familiar, and it had been watching her.

It was then that Vilma was convinced her aunt and uncle were right: She did have some kind of mental problem, and should probably seek help. Why else would she be having such horrible dreams—

And see angels outside her window.

His body covered in armor the color of blood, Malak the hunter crept through the beast’s lair, searching for the scent of his prey. He removed the gauntlet of red from his hand and knelt before the ashen remains of the sea monster. Malak plunged his bare hand into the remnants of the beast, and just as quickly removed it. The hunter sniffed at the residue clinging to his fingers—his olfactory senses searching for a trace of the one his master sought. He hunted a special quarry, one that had meant something important to him long ago, in another life—before he was Malak.

There was a hint of the hunted upon his hand—but not quite enough.

He sensed that there were magicks in the air—spells to mask his enemy’s comings and goings, but not enough to hide him from one as gifted as he was. His master Verchiel had blessed him with the ability to track any prey—and the myriad skills to vanquish them all. He was the hunter, and nothing would keep him from his quarry.

Malak stood and walked around the cave. He tilted his head back, letting the fetid air of the chamber fill his nostrils. His powerful sense of smell sorted the different scents, until he found the one he sought.

The hunter moved across the cavern, zeroing in on the source of the prized spore. He found it upon the wall of the cave, the tiniest trace of blood. He leaned into the wall, sniffing, but the blood had dried, which had taken away some of its pungent aroma. Malak leaned closer, his tongue snaking out from within the crimson facemask, to lick at the stain—his saliva reviving the blood’s sharp, metallic stench.

The smell flooded his preternatural senses, and the hunter smiled. He now had the scent.

It was only a matter of time.