Messiah: The First Judgment Page 2

  Beyond Megiddio.

  Beyond the termination of the world of the Race of Men.

  Culminating in one final battle. Between my brothers.

  Michael and Lucifer.

  A thousand years in the future.

  At the White Gorge of Inferno, on the eastern shores of the Lake of Fire.

  But it was here, aeons before, that our tale begins...

  ...For it was to be a different dusk...

  Chapter One

  Prince of Perdition

  4 BC

  Two Thousand and Seventeen Years Earlier

  Lucifer flung open the colossal sapphire doors of his throne room and walked out onto the eastern portico of the Black Palace, overhanging the very edge of the bloodstone cliffs of Perdition. He raised his face to the skies as the twelve magenta moons of Perdition set in the pale amber horizon over the desolate smouldering lava wastes of hell. The enormous flaming star was still fixed in the night sky between the Second Heaven and earth.

  He gazed at the nova for a long time. Silent.

  Miles below, in the shadowy crypts of the sinister Shaman-Kings, the slow, pulsating throb of hell’s sinister war drums resounded throughout the lower penitentiaries of the damned.

  A lingering smile spread across Lucifer’s mangled features as he watched the steady grey-robed throng of ghoul-like men and women pour through two monstrous black iron gates that towered a thousand feet above the glowing red ground – the Gates of Hell.

  Hundreds of jaundice-eyed, demonic gorgon seraphim nested on top of the immense black iron gateposts of hell’s perimeter, their gigantic scaled brazen claws slashing at the posts, and red-hot flames issuing from their nostrils and ears. The gorgon’s wings were of beaten gold, their wingspans measured a hundred feet, and across their scaled heads, inscribed in ornate script, was written ‘The Souls of the Race of Men.’

  Lucifer pulled his violet velvet cape tightly around him. His gleaming raven hair, plaited in thick braids and interwoven with diamonds, fell over his broad shoulders, blowing in the scorching tempests that blew from the stark onyx crags of Perdition. The diamond satanic crown of state rested on his head, and his glistening white silk robes trimmed with werewolf fur fell to the floor, half concealing his jewelled sandals. The once-exquisite countenance had been scarred almost beyond recognition in the torrid inferno at his banishment from the First Heaven. Yet still, in the rarest of moments, the haunting beauty of aeons past was strangely evident: the wide, marbled forehead, the high imperial cheekbones, the passionate crimson mouth, the imperious sapphire eyes now shadowed deep in thought.

  He held out a sweetmeat idly to his favourite hellhound, the pampered five-headed Cerberus, who licked his master’s hand with his coarse tongues. Then Lucifer returned to his contemplations of the star.

  Balberith, his chief attendant, stood in the doorway.

  ‘Your satanic princes are returned from earth, Your Excellency.’ He bowed deeply.

  Lucifer nodded and, tearing himself away from his stargazing, strode through the doors towards the monstrous black onyx throne, the seat of Satan. He sat directly beneath the black crystal vortex that soared overhead. Araquiel, his courtier, held out his sceptre on a velvet bolster. He took it. Directly behind the throne lay the Golden Gates of the Black Necropolis which housed the great golden Ark of the Race of Men, manacled to the Black Sepulchre with monstrous iron chains. Lucifer’s trophy.

  Ahead of Lucifer towered the massive black iron gates of the throne room. His forbidding satanic guard, the Black Horde, stood at attention – a thousand of Lucifer’s dread elite generals of his High Command, fallen from the First Heaven in millenniums past with their renegade king. After their banishment, the glory of their bravery and honour had swiftly been reduced to a depraved and relentless savagery. The corridors of Perdition reverberated with dark muttered tales of their bloody torturing and butcheries. The terror of the inmates of hell’s penetentiaries. Their pale straw coloured eyes stared pitilessly out from their scarred mangled faces. Their black braided hair hung well below their thighs. Alongside the fallen horde, a pack of snarling black yellow eyed jaguars paced, chained to their depraved masters, their poisonous black fangs visible.

  Dagon, commander of the Black Horde, stepped forward, helmet in hand, his black-gloved hands on his sword and bowed. ‘I announce His Majesty’s satanic chief princes, the rulers of the dark world.’

  The iron gates to his throne room opened, and two monstrous princes entered, followed by ten regents and their guards. The gates slammed shut, leaving the twelve regents alone before Lucifer and the Black Horde. They fell prostrate before the gates.

  ‘I announce His Royal Highness, Prince Belzoc, champion of Perdition and satanic regent of the dark world from the kingdom of Persia,’ Dagon declared.

  The menacing Belzoc, satanic king of Persia, rose from his knees to his full nine feet, then strode across the gleaming lapis-lazuli floor towards the throne. He was stopped twenty feet away by six of the Black Horde, who held up their broadswords.

  The chief magus of the Darkened Council walked forward. ‘You may address your emperor.’

  Belzoc fell to one knee, then pushed his coarse mane of matted black hair away from his craggy face and raised his glinting red eyes to his emperors. ‘I return from Persia, Your Majesty,’ he rasped, glutinous yellow saliva dripping from his thin pale lips. ‘My dark slaves of the Race of Men have executed your command. Every newborn prince and royal in the kingdom of Persia is slain.’ His dark demonic tones echoed throughout the chamber.

  Lucifer stared at him, grim and silent.

  The chief magus spoke again: ‘I announce His Royal Highness, Prince Merodach, regent of the kingdom of Babylonia.’

  Merodach fell to one knee, trembling.

  ‘Every royal house, every palace, castle and pavilion in the kingdom of Babylonia has been ransacked – all of royal lineage are slain.’

  Lucifer stood, strode over to the east side of the chamber, and flung open the heavy velvet curtains.

  ‘Yet still the nova burns flaming in the heavens,’ he cried.

  ‘He lives!’ He spun around in fury.

  Marduk, head of the Darkened Councils and Lucifer’s chief of staff, entered the gates. Marduk slunk towards the throne and bowed, then raised his hooded face to Lucifer’s.

  ‘I bring news of the nova,’ he wheezed, his sibilant hiss echoing through the throne room. He bowed again deeply. Only his jaundiced, straw coloured eyes could be glimpsed under the fawn cassock hood. Lucifer waved his hand to the magi and his regents. ‘Leave us.’

  Immediately the twelve regents scattered to the outer court. Marduk moved closer to the throne and lifted his hood, his ravaged, sallow features now clearly visible.

  ‘The star moves east, Your Majesty, to the Mideastern regions of Planet Earth.’ Lucifer stared out beyond the hunched Marduk, past the enormous sapphire doors, to where the star still hung, ‘Our battalions have scoured Persia, Greece, Babylon, sire – he is not to be found.’

  Lucifer slowly turned his gaze onto a tall sinister form who now stood at the gates’ entrance.

  Charsoc the Dark had well earned his name among the fallen as Lucifer’s Dark Apostle. Before his fall from the First Heaven, he had been one of the High Council of Yehovah’s eight ancient high elders, one of the great angelic monarchs of heaven, keeper of Yehovah’s sacred mysteries, second only to Jether the Just. But the treacherous Charsoc had effortlessly degenerated to the blackest and foulest of Necromancer Kings, now reigning as Chief High Priest of the Fallen. Governor of the Grand Wizards of the Black Court and the dreaded Warlock Kings of the West.

  His iniquitous, wizened sallow countenance was now framed by a veil of jet black, poker-straight hair and beard. Where his eyes had been, two seared, white gaping eyeballs stared sinisterly out minus both iris and pupils. An ever-present reminder of the day and the hour that Christos Himself had visited the penitentiaries of the damned. His voluminous harlequin sorce
rer’s gown was of the finest taffeta and tasselled, tied in the middle with a thick vermillion satin sash. His bony, pale fingers were covered in gold rings set with sapphires, opals, and emeralds. Charsoc vanished from the gates, then rematerialized directly before Lucifer’s throne bowing deeply, his hair sweeping the floor.

  ‘Your Excellency, great Prince...’ Charsoc’s voice was both sinister and cultured in tone. ‘The nova heralds a newborn prince; this infant king to be born of the Race of Men is one of great royal lineage.’ He caressed the fire opals on his thumb ring. ‘A star of this magnitude signifies a royal house of immense power.’ He moved his head closer to Lucifer’s. ‘One so powerful that his kingdom could destroy our own...’ An uncharacteristic dread fell across Charsoc’s face, and he lowered his tone. ‘...and hasten the judgement...’

  A terrible silence descended on the throne room.

  ‘Where is the infant king to be born?’

  Lucifer’s words hung in the chamber. He swung around to Marduk.

  ‘What of the Black Murmurers?’ Lucifer hissed.

  Marduk raised his head, his voice tremulous. ‘Sire, they have been traversing the borders of the land designated Israel in the land of Men. The legions of your royal brothers, Chief Princes Michael and Gabriel, surround the area; we cannot infiltrate.’

  ‘Michael!’ Lucifer snarled. ‘This infant king will be born in that parched tract of dust. I sense it.’

  He was silent a long moment, then turned to Charsoc, his eyes narrowed. ‘The Warlock Kings of the West ... they foretell this infant has a connection with Christos?’

  Charsoc stared at him, trembling. Silent.

  Lucifer pointed his sceptre at Marduk. ‘You will seek it out, Marduk.’

  He rose, resplendent in his robes. ‘Yehovah continually vexes me through that spawning ground of prophets, patriachs ... and now rival kings ... And now I shall vex Him. Relay my royal edict.’

  Lucifer raised his sceptre high. ‘Dagon – dispatch the Black Horde. Divert my brother Michael to the West. Release the reconnaissance legion of the vulture shamans from their hell cages. To fly east.’

  Lucifer strode back through the great jewelled doors of the eastern portico. He continued his staring out at the flaming pillar of fire that blazed in the black heavens, the nova that heralded his adversary – the infant king.

  Chapter Two

  Aretas of Petra

  The small party of magi journeyed on horseback for weeks across the treacherous, rocky terrain of the main Persian trade routes, following the Euphrates River, led by the strange flaming pillar of fire that hung high in the heavens. At the fringes of the Syrian desert, they met with an ancient caste of monks, who exchanged the magi’s horses for ten camels.

  The aged magus Balthazar led the caravan, his posture erect and regal, seated astride the leading camel. Behind him rode Gaspar, the youngest magus of the Chaldean order, next to the older, more sedate Melchior. Balista, Balthazar’s manservant and six magi rode behind, their camels weighed down with massive bags of fine spices, provisions, and astronomical instruments.

  Their destination, Petra.

  The city had housed the ancient relics of the Hebrew king, Solomon, for generations; the relics to be presented to the newborn king.

  Days on end had melted into nights, and twilights into dusks as the magi pushed themselves to the limits of their endurance, beaten mercilessly by the scorching desert sun as they traversed the ferocious Syrian wilderness. Stopping for neither rest nor sleep, exhausted from the gruelling heat, magnetised forward by the furiously flaming nova, across the harsh and desolate wilderness, past Damascus, until the terrain transformed into a paradise of lush green valleys and babbling streams. Gaunt and weary, Balthazar lifted his hand.

  ‘Ride ahead, Balista. Let the king’s royal guard know that we are but a day’s journey away. The relics of Solomon await us!’ he cried, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, his eyes burning bright with exhilaration.

  The caravan rounded the final mountain that dawn. There she lay, nestled in the remote, all but inaccessible valley in the mountains south of the Dead Sea: the mysterious ancient Nabatean city of Petra.

  The city was surrounded by the towering rugged rose-coloured sandstone hills that rose from the desert plateau to protect the noble Arabian inhabitants from invaders. The party stared, enthralled, at the great chasm before them.

  ‘The Shiq,’ murmured Melchior in awe, ‘the great cleft in the earth.’

  One by one, led by Balthazar, the magi rode the long, narrow, winding route through the lofty cliffs until they rounded a bend. There, towering in front of them, was an immense thirteen-storey high, ninety-foot wide columned monument chiselled from the pale rose sandstone cliff.

  ‘Al Khazneh, the eighth wonder of our world,’ Balthazar whispered in awe.

  Then his head slumped onto his chest in sheer exhaustion and he collapsed forward, losing consciousness into blissful oblivion.

  * * *

  Balthazar, now bathed and manicured and with three full nights’ rest behind him, was magnificently attired in his embroidered priestly robes. His black skin gleamed like ebony, and his silver hair and beard glistened after being meticulously trimmed and anointed with perfumed oils by one of the king’s personal stewards. Why – he hadn’t felt this young in most of his eighty-seven years.

  He rode on horseback across the royal palace courtyard, keeping up with the handsome young king who rode ahead of him on his fine Arabian stallion, his crimson robes billowing, his steel-blue eyes clear and full of purpose.

  Although only in his late thirties, the young monarch exuded a power and authority far beyond his years, one normally attributed to great and ancient rulers. Aretas IV, king of Petra and Southern Arabia, was pragmatic and decisive in temperament. His lean six-foot frame was burned brown by the harsh Arabian sun, his sinewy hands hardened from manual work. Long, dark ribboned locks framed his strong, dark features and quicksilver smile.

  Balthazar studied him. He was different from his father, Balthazar’s old and trusted compatriot, the judicious old Nabatean king. The younger Aretas was a proud king, fiery and hot-blooded, on occasion overly imperious and leaning towards inflexibility. He would mature in time, as his father had before him; Balthazar was certain of it.

  He followed Aretas and the royal guard down the colonnaded street, captivated by the beauty of the ornate royal tombs and lesser palaces. Aretas pointed proudly at his newly built amphitheatre, which could easily seat three thousand. They rode through the narrow, dusty streets bounded by the towering stone walls of Petra. The stench of rancid goats’ milk mixed with incense and spices invaded their nostrils as they rounded the corner to the open-air lower markets. Hundreds of Chinese, Arab, Indian, and Roman tradesmen jostled across uneven pavements, haggling boisterously at hundreds of stalls over the price of incense, silks, and spices. Balthazar stared in wonder at the paradisos, Petra’s magnificent ornamental pool and gardens.

  Ahead of them loomed the imposing triple-arched Temenos gateway, decorated with sculpted busts and ornately engraved inscriptions.

  Aretas veered right and dismounted outside the imposing Temple of the Winged Lions. Balthazar stared up at the exquisitely carved winged lions and griffins that decorated the limestone capitals of the colossal temple pillars. Aretas led the way up the temple’s wide, gilded steps, striding up the nave, with Balthazar and the other magi behind him, until they reached the silver-clad pillars of the inner sanctuary. A huge magenta veil hung from gold rods above the darkened stone altar. Aretas, uncharacteristically solemn, dropped to one knee. Immediately, two high priestesses draped in gossamer white robes reverently opened the purple veil, then flung themselves prostrate on the marble floor, followed by the magi.

  Aretas slowly rose, and the high priest drew open the gossamer inner veil. Facing them on the dark, damp stone altar was an ornate silver casket carved with cherubim and seraphim. Aretas turned to Balthazar and nodded. Slowly he lifted the great silve
r lid to reveal a golden cup, a small stone box and a golden rod. He stared in undisguised awe.

  ‘Daniel’s wonders...’ said Balthazar.

  ‘The cup of frankincense, the alabaster box of myrrh...’ Aretas murmured.

  ‘And the gold rod of Aaron...’ Balthazar raised his head to Aretas, his countenance radiant. ‘The relics of Solomon’s temple...’

  ‘It has been over half a millennium since the Hebrew Daniel entrusted them to our royal house for safekeeping.’ Aretas hit his golden staff twice on the ground.

  The stewards rose immediately.

  Balthazar turned to Aretas, tears welling in his eyes, overcome with emotion. ‘The prophecies of great magus Daniel must be fulfilled. We must present the relics to the newborn king.’

  Aretas nodded. The high priest clapped his hands, and immediately six priestly stewards reverently placed the casket onto their shoulders.

  Aretas walked slowly back through the temple. He stood on the steps, staring out over the Nabatean city, deep in contemplation. ‘My father’s house looked eagerly to this day,’ he murmured.

  Balthazar nodded. ‘Your father, my old and trusted compatriot.’

  ‘Revered Balthazar, you know that I do not share his religious sentiment.’ Aretas turned to Balthazar, an unusual vulnerability on his face. ‘But for my father’s name’s sake, I would accompany you to Jerusalem.’

  Balthazar nodded, moved by the offer.

  ‘Who knows, old friend?’ Aretas smiled. ‘If this babe is the future king of the Jews, I could make an alliance with him and stop the eternal disputes over our borders.’ Aretas stopped as his royal household chariot drew up outside the temple steps. Four royal maidservants alighted.

  A toddler struggled vigorously out of her royal maidservant’s arms, ran over to Aretas, and flung herself headlong into his arms. ‘Papa, Papa! I go with you...’