Son of Perdition, p.8Wendy Alec
‘It will be done, my Lord.’ Charsoc bowed deeply.
Lucifer watched as Astaroth strode through the gates followed by Charsoc and the Dark Cabal Wizards bearing the casket that held the Vial of Sacred Progeny.
‘Sire,’ Marduk murmured, an evil glint in his jaundiced eyes, ‘once Charsoc enters the world of the Race of Men through the Portal of Shinar, he cannot get back.’
Lucifer held Marduk’s gaze.
‘He will find out soon enough.’
* * *
Michael stood on the glistening Pearl Sands of the First Heaven’s white beaches. He stared out towards two immense gates that towered far in the distance – the entrance to Eden. Yehovah’s lush Hanging Gardens and waterfalls that dropped a full mile down were faintly visible through Eden’s swiftly descending indigo mists.
Michael had ridden straight to the Pearl Sands after inspecting his battalions on the vast Onyx Plains. He was still dressed in his ceremonial war armour.
His thick flaxen mane was unbraided and fell down his broad shoulders onto his silver armour. The Sword of State hung at his side.
Michael closed his eyes and inhaled the soft fragrance of spikenard that wafted from the plains of the White Poplars in Eden, an unusual tranquillity on his features.
Jether stood at the top of the gilded stairs studying the imperial warrior.
Michael. Chief Prince of the Royal House of Yehovah and commander of the First Heaven’s armies. Jether smiled. Lucifer had met his match in his valiant younger brother.
Michael’s strong chiselled features were relaxed. Jether had caught Michael in one of his rarer unguarded moments. He hated to break the moment, but break it he must.
‘Michael,’ Jether called.
Michael raised his hand in greeting.
‘Revered Jether,’ he said, striding towards the white-haired figure descending the gilded steps. ‘Why, it has seemed countless moons since our last fellowship,’ he exclaimed. They embraced affectionately.
‘I have been many moons in Sacred Council with Yehovah, Michael.
Let us walk.’ He clasped Michael’s arm.
Michael glanced at Jether. ‘You come on grave matters.’
Jether looked into Michael’s fierce emerald gaze. He nodded.
‘Lucifer has chosen the family?’
‘A dynasty. One of the thirteen ruling families of the Grand Druid Council. There is already one son. Another is two months in the womb.’
Jether stopped in mid-stride and looked earnestly at Michael.
‘That one will be murdered in cold blood. Lucifer will put his own infant in its place. Then another, a son will be born. It is written in the Blueprints of Yehovah.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Three brothers.’
Jether nodded. ‘Even as yourselves . . . by his deliberate design.’
‘He is diabolical!’
‘There is, however, another matter,’ Jether continued, ‘a matter of extreme concern.’
They strode across the pearl sands past the twelve immense white columns of the grand gazebo.
‘Our scouts inform us that the Fallen devise a plan to enter the world of the Race of Men.’
‘That is nothing new. They violate their right of entry constantly.’
Jether turned to face Michael.
‘In human form.’
‘But it contravenes the Tenets of Eternal Law set in motion by Golgotha.’
Jether nodded. ‘There is only one means by which the Fallen’s DNA can be altered to that of matter,’ he said. ‘Our immediate concern lies with the Portals of the Fallen.’
Michael stared at Jether. Appalled. ‘But they have been sealed since our victory at Golgotha.’
‘We of the High Council have reason to believe that Lucifer may attempt to breach one of the dormant Portals. There is one that is more vulnerable than the others.’ ‘The Portal of Shinar,’ said a voice softly.
Michael turned to see Gabriel drawing up on the sands beside them, astride his winged stallion.
He held out a missive to Michael.
‘Intercepted only minutes ago by Joktan, ruler of my Revelator Eagles.’
Michael scanned it, then handed it to Jether.
‘Astaroth and his High Command surround the gates of the Portal of Shinar as we speak. I mobilize my Royal Guard.’ Michael signalled with his fingers and at once a magnificent winged black stallion flew across the sands, stopping a yard from where he stood.
Jether looked up from the missive, his wizened face pale.
Michael mounted the black stallion. ‘A thousand of my finest battalions and the Winged Lions guarded Babylonia these nineteen millennia. These past seventy years it is two hundred warriors at best.’
Gabriel laid his hand on Michael’s arm. ‘Brother, that is not the worst. Sargon the Terrible, the great Prince who is monster of Babylonia, travels with his hordes through the heavens as we speak. To meet Astaroth at Shinar.’
‘Sargon will massacre them in cold blood,’ Michael whispered.
Jether shook his head. ‘No.Astaroth leads the Black Horde. He is commander in chief. He will keep Angelic Protocol.’
‘Time is against us, Gabriel,’ said Michael. ‘Follow swiftly with my armies. I must leave with my Royal Guard.’ He lowered his visor. ‘I must leave now.’
‘Yehovah be with you, Michael,’ Jether whispered as Michael ascended into the sky on his winged black charger.
Jether sighed deeply and closed his eyes.
‘He is too late,’ he whispered. ‘I see the battle even as we speak. Zalialiel is surrounded. They surrender. Charsoc will enter the world of the Race of Men. Go, Gabriel. Marshal the armies of the First Heaven.’
Jether stared at Gabriel. ‘This is Lucifer’s new strategy. He plans to send Charsoc in human form to the Race of Men. But why?’
An icy chill of foreboding flooded his soul.
‘I go to consult with Yehovah,’ he whispered.
The Portal of Shinar
The mammoth door at the entrance of the Ascending Stairs had been ripped from its hinges. Zalialiel and two hundred warriors were lined up against the platinum walls outside the stair entrance, their ankles and wrists chained in heavy iron shackles.
The great silver stairs were hung from one gilded thread, swaying back and forth in the blue-black heavens. At the very top of the thousandth silver stair, lying on the curving arms of a spiral galaxy, rose the immense Gates of the Portal of Shinar, sealed at the base by the great golden seal of the Royal House of Yehovah.
Astaroth, commander of the armies of Gehenna, turned to Charsoc.
‘Michael will have received word of our assault. We do not have much time before his armies descend.’
His black-gloved hands grasped his broadsword. ‘Sargon of Babylonia – Champion of Gehenna!’
The great prince of Babylonia stepped forward. His coarse unbraided red hair fell below his thighs. Thick yellow saliva dripped from his thin blue lips, his red eyes glinted. Astaroth nodded to him.
‘Warriors of hell!’ Sargon cried.
The Black Horde, their black braids hanging well down their backs, held their super weapons, developed by the Twins of Malfecium, at the ready.
‘Open the Seal!’
The warriors advanced and, with their combined strength, raised their huge tactical laser cannons. As one they channelled the searing beams of the lasers towards the Seal. The air exploded beneath the huge Seal holding the Gates of the Portal. The Portal remained firmly shut.
‘Again!’ Sagon screamed in frustration and a second battalion of Sargon’s warriors stepped forward. They aimed their advanced electromagnetic pulse weapons at the golden Seal. Lightning erupted from the Seal, hurling the entire battalion to the ground.
‘Aaaaahh,’ Sargon cried as he fell to his knees, clutching his head in agony. ‘Yehovah’s sorceries!’
Charsoc walked t
‘Let me try the old-fashioned way,’ he said, removing a ruby-hued stone from his breastplate. He held it over the very centre of the Seal. It fitted exactly, then he turned it two-thirds of a revolution and waited. There was silence.
Then came a deafening blast as the pulsating copper force field of the Portal of Shinar erupted a thousand feet upward into the Second Heaven.
Charsoc smiled. It was exactly as he had foreseen. A flickering electric-blue laceration ran down the entire mid section of the force field.
The inter-dimensional force field was torn.
He looked on in ecstasy as thousands of blazing crimson electromagnetic waves ignited from the surface. The force field’s DNA converter was reactivating.
Charsoc turned. Sargon and his battalions raced towards Michael and his Royal Guard, who were locked in ferocious combat with Astaroth’s rear guard a thousand steps below at the entrance to the Ascending Stairs.
Charsoc watched intently as Sargon’s battalions reached the Gates. Savagely they waded into the fray with Astaroth and his warriors, brutally assaulting Michael’s troops.
Michael and his Royal Guard warred ferociously but Charsoc knew that they were clearly outnumbered. He also knew that Gabriel would be following hot on Michael’s heels with the armies of the First Heaven. Time was short.He must enter the world of the Race of Men with the genome at once.
Charsoc nodded to Dracul – ruler of the Warlocks of the West and ancient leader of the Time Lords. The thirteen Time Lords stood in a full circle, then lifted their black cloaks. Scorching green lightnings erupted from the fingertips of the Warlocks, striking the laceration of the force field. The Portal’s Inter-dimensional Threshold was opening.
‘Charsoc the Dark – you enter the Race of Men in their image!’ Dracul hissed.
Charsoc glanced back just as Michael was heaved savagely up the Ascending Stairs by Sargon and his thugs who flung him viciously to the ground at the base of the force field.
Charsoc rose two hundred feet into the air above Michael, where he hovered, completely immersed in the blazing crimson waves of the force field, his entire body vibrating at ultra-high frequency.
Bruised and beaten, Michael watched through clouded eyes as Charsoc’s DNA restructured before his eyes.
The blazing crimson waves passed through Charsoc’s nine-foot form. He shrank to a mere six feet three inches. His beard disappeared and his long black hair turned silver and became cropped to within half an inch of his scalp. Dracul opened the casket and carefully removed the Vial of Sacred Progeny.
Michael looked on, appalled. He had no doubt what it contained. Charsoc opened his palm. The Vial flew up into his hand just as the Inter-dimensional Threshold opened fully and Babylonia became visible to the Second Heaven.
Sargon grasped Michael from behind, his broadsword at the Archangel’s throat. He leered at Astaroth, thick yellow globules of saliva dripping from between his black stumps of teeth.
‘We finish the job,’ he snarled. ‘We massacre their Prince and Commander. Send him to the Abyss.’
Michael stared at Astaroth, incensed. ‘You break the Tenets of Eternal Law,’ he shouted, struggling violently in Sargon’s savage grip. ‘Gabriel rides as we speak with the Armies of the First Heaven. Surrender while you can.’
Astaroth stood silent, his back to Michael and Sargon.
Sargon pressed his swordpoint into Michael’s throat until a blue blood-like fluid dripped from Michael’s neck.
‘Astaroth . . . ’ Michael gasped for breath. ‘The Protocol . . . You of all . . . ’
‘Lay down your arms, Sargon.’ Astaroth’s voice was soft. ‘We have completed our task. Charsoc and the Sacred Vial have passed through the Inter-dimensional Threshold.’
He shook his head at Sargon. ‘The Chief Prince has no weapon. He has surrendered. It violates Angelic Protocol.’
Sargon stared at Astaroth with hatred. ‘We, the Fallen, do not abide by Angelic Protocol,’ he roared.
Astaroth pried Sargon’s sword from his fist and pulled Sargon upwards until the two giant warriors stood face to face. ‘We, the Fallen are not barbaric vandals.’ Astaroth spoke through gritted teeth. We are warriors. We adhere to disciplines.’
‘Your sentimentality clouds your judgement,’ Sargon snarled. ‘You will pay with your head!’ He kicked Michael savagely. ‘You were too long his compatriot!’
With one violent thrust, he threw Astaroth to the ground and turned to his battalions, an evil leer on his face. ‘We follow Charsoc into the world of Men! We would have some sport.’
‘No!’ Astaroth cried.
Michael watched in horror as two great black wings rose from Sargon’s colossal shoulders and he rose into the blazing crimson waves, followed by five hundred of the Fallen.
Astaroth stood helpless as his troops followed Sargon’s forces, until only Astaroth himself remained. He raised his gaze to the horizon. Gabriel and the armies of the First Heaven were descending towards them.
‘It is too late,’ Astaroth whispered. ‘I cannot surrender.’
He walked slowly towards the Portal.
‘You break Eternal Law!’ Michael shouted. ‘It will not go well with you. There is an addendum!’
Astaroth stood on the edge of the Portal, then turned to look at Michael.
‘My path is set.’
‘Astaroth!’ Michael reached for his arm just as Astaroth rose beyond his grasp and stepped through the Threshold of the Portal of Shinar.
And vanished into the world of the Race of Men.
Council of Thirteen
One week later, ‘The Square Mile’, North Bank, River Thames, London, England
Charsoc detested the colour black. He detested the sombreness of earth. He detested the Race of Men. But for now, he was on his Master’s business and all his options were severely limited.
He wondered how Jether was reacting to the news that he had now entered the world of the Race of Men as one of them. He dug his nails deeply into his palm. The thought of Jether, however fleeting, incensed him. How much longer must he remain in this infernal inferior human body? Its blood pressure must be rocketing. He sighed.
The end justified the means. And his Master’s ends were no doubt different from the ends of the thirteen men waiting silently in the chamber.
He leaned back in his ornately carved throne and surveyed the thirteen, dressed in charcoal robes, who were seated around the massive polished table.
The Grand Druid Council of the Illuminati.
Thirteen Warlock High Priests.
The most powerful male witches and warlocks who existed in the world of the Race of Men, their ancestral lines steeped in the most heinous forms of satanic and occult practices dating back to Nimrod himself.
By night they engaged in iniquitous occult practices, the conspirators behind thousands of satanic rituals and abuses, child abductions, blood sacrifices, drug and human trafficking, ritual murders. They were the cold-blooded architects of the countless terrorist atrocities, assassinations and bloody coups that filled the front pages of the newspapers of the world.
By day they resumed their respectable existences in London, Berlin, New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Rome, Tokyo and Zurich. They were global financiers, intelligence experts, oil barons, newspaper magnates, CEOs in the military and industrial sectors, Vatican bankers.
The controllers of the Illuminati.
Thirteen ruling families of the New World Order who answered to only one.
Their grand master – Lucifer.
Their heads were bowed, their eyes closed.
The only movement came from the flickering flames of sixty-six black candles surrounding the golden Sigil of Baphomet in the centre of the table.
‘The Race of Men and their infantile sorceries,’ Charsoc thought.
Sir Piers Aspinall, Chief of British S
He bowed to Charsoc. ‘Baron Von Slagel. If you would grant us the privilege of administering the Cup.’
‘The family has been chosen by our Master, His Excellency,’ Charsoc declared. ‘Before His Excellency’s choice is revealed, let us partake of the Cup of Diabolas.’
He removed his pale grey gloves slowly, one finger at a time, then raised his goblet.
‘As we drink the blood of those innocents that were sacrificed for the partaking at this table, we reaffirm our commitment to the Left-Hand Path. We vow to avenge Golgotha. We vow to erase the blood sacrifice of the Nazarene.’
He sipped the fresh blood of the newly sacrificed infant.
The thirteen warlocks held up their goblets.
They drank as one.
Charsoc nodded and two men in livery moved to the windows and pulled back the crimson velvet curtains revealing the characteristic grey gloom of London’s overcast skies. The men exited leaving only a strapping six-foot-six bodyguard by the door.
Aspinall glanced at the guard and raised his eyebrows to Charsoc.
‘Travis is one of us.’ Charsoc acknowledged Astaroth. ‘Special Forces.’
Aspinall nodded, then removed from his briefcase a black file marked Eyes Only with an Illuminati crest on the cover and handed it to Charsoc.
Charsoc gazed at the thirteen men around the table. Every eye was riveted to the file in his hand.
‘We have waited century after century. Finally the family has been chosen. The Prince will be placed into the family chosen by His Reverence himself.’ Kester Von Slagel smiled. ‘Into the family of one at this very table, a most devoted servant of the Fallen.’
He raised his gaze to a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties with a silver moustache who sat directly across the table from him. Julius De Vere. Chairman of the De Vere banking dynasty and the European and New York communications industry.
Son of Perdition by Wendy Alec / Fantasy have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes