Ancient

The mural on the cave wall was the key. Find me... A powerful waterfall veiled the mouth of the cave as it cascaded down into the deep pool below. Mist rolled skyward away from the violently churning water as the Watcher’s stiff broken body lay pinned against jagged rocks on the bottom of the deep pool. Engulfed by a crimson cloud, he tried again and again to move but could not. Every muscle was locked, completely paralyzed. He was trapped in his own body, pinned by the crushing force. His own sword was a skewer through his wrist, pinning it like a piece of meat against his shoulder. His left wing was folded awkwardly behind his back as the right wrapped stiffly around a large tooth-shaped rock. His entire body throbbed, the pain accentuated by the cold of the water. He felt the powerful suction of the rip-tide yank one of his eye patches off his face. His vision was filled with the swirling blue light of the tumultuous bloodied water. It was the life-glow that could only be seen through spirit eyes. Darius tried to move once more, but to no avail. He had been expertly paralyzed by one of his own kind. Drakon … that demon. Darius knew that without precise care, his condition would be permanent. Noah … find me. Darius felt the last bit of air leave his lungs. His mind began to flash colorful visions of the mural that was in the cave above. Find me … Find her … the purple flower … the hyacinth... The mural was the key. Starved of oxygen, his sight, the life-glow, began to wane black. Help me … Elohim … As reality began to fade into the swirling chaos his last thought melted away into the blackness. Hyacinth … ________________________________________________________________________ Soon. So very soon. Nothing will be impossible with the acquisition of immortality. The mirrored irises of Ertael reflected the sprawling City of Cain as he sat introspectively in the east window of the highest sanctum of his tower. He sat on the sill sideways, legs crossed, back ridged. The long stately wings of the Watcher Lord were out stretched, one inside the tower, one outside. A long wound in Ertael’s left wing that had been a debilitating gaping slice, was now a lengthy stretch of countless black stitches of boar hair. Ertael knew that in two days’ time, the wound would be nothing more than a scar that would serve as a reminder to return the favor tenfold. Torture is far too shallow of a word to describe what he will do to Darius when Drakon finally delivers. He will destroy Darius. Soon. Seething ire raged in Ertael’s black soul as he glared out over the city. If Drakon finds Darius … when he finds him, the Eden Scroll will be at his fingertips. He was beginning to wonder if the satisfaction of killing Darius would merit the sacrifice of the secret location of the Tree of Life dying with him. Eternal life … what power! Ridding his enemies – those Elohim-fearing nuisances who make it arduous to build an empire, would be only the beginning. The knowledge he would gain from years of uninterrupted advancement would make him the greatest lord of all time. The greatest. The god. But what of Cain ¬- that decrepit cursed human man? He was the embodiment of the curse that imprisoned his soul, his very presence plaguing the earth … like an annoying thorn infecting Ertael’s dominant hand. “Drakon …” Ertael quietly growled, interrupting his own contemplations, as he continued to stare out the window. Behind him, Drakon’s dark form stood motionless in a shadow on the opposite side of the room. It was not the sound Drakon made coming through the window; he was perfectly silent. Nor was it a rush of wind from his wings; the air was deathly still. Not even was it the smell of fresh blood that ran down Drakon’s leg onto the marble floor; the room was overwhelmed with the strong fragrance of incense, but it was the sudden spiritual gloom that saturated the room’s already dark atmosphere, that alerted Ertael of Drakon’s presence. Ertael turned his head to see the silhouette of the one whose presence he felt. Drakon stepped out of the shadow, his wings folded, standing silhouetted against the colorful western sky through the window behind him. “I am ready for you to cede our agreement.” Drakon’s voice was low and raspy as if his very own darkness had clawed for years at his vocal cords. “Did you fulfill your part?” Ertael hissed. “I do not see Darius or Noah.” Drakon pulled a scroll from the inside of his black leather robe. Ertael eyed the scroll’s every movement as Drakon lifted his hand and stretched it out toward him, his long dark nails curving outward from his hand. “Our agreement was not for another one of Enoch’s scrolls,” Ertael said scathingly, snatching the parchment from Drakon’s veiny hands. “It was for Noah or Darius.” “What about The Scroll?” Drakon said. “Would that suffice?” Ertael did not believe him. “The Scroll?” “It is what you ultimately desire, is it not?” Ertael unrolled the scroll, laid it flat on a table, and in the light of a large orange candle began to read it. “Flip it over,” Drakon said. He did, and what he saw captivated his attention. The characters were inverted. Instead of black ink on light tan parchment, the scroll was dyed black and the characters were inkless. With every ink-surrounded word, his eyes grew wider with intrigue. Drakon stepped forward, looking over Ertael’s shoulder. Ertael slid his hand on the handle of his sword without taking his eyes from the ever-elusive scroll that finally lay before him. “Still do not trust me?” Drakon hissed. “I trust you as far as my blade will reach,” Ertael said, then continued to scan it. “It does appear to be the Eden scroll.” “Good,” Drakon growled. “Now, your agreement … at least the part you can give me until you find the Tree.” Ertael opened a small alabaster box that sat on the table. Pulling something out of it, he held it tightly in his fist. “Where – is – Darius?” His eyes locked onto Drakon. “He securely awaits his demise.” “Define securely.” “He is in a paralytic state at the bottom of a deep pool.” Ertael smiled at the irony of Darius helplessly imprisoned under water. If anyone could undertake a feat like that, it would be Drakon. “Tomorrow, you will take me to him. My wing should heal enough tonight to fly by morning.” Only then did Ertael held out his fist to give Drakon the contents. Drakon stepped forward, palm outstretched. The two locked eyes with the intensity of a duel, their gaze of steel mirroring the other. “Meet me here at first light or else you will never receive the other half of our agreement. In fact, if you do not deliver him to me, I will see to it that you are given the exact opposite of eternal life.” Drakon gave an evil grin, full of sharp jagged teeth. “What makes you think I need to receive anything from you?” Ertael ignored the intimidating comment and opened his fist. A large ring dropped into Drakon’s palm. “This ring that once belonged to Armers, confirms you the new Lord of the Isle of Verus. If steward Zeror gives you trouble, just show him the ring and this scroll.” Ertael said as he picked up a small scroll from the table and handed it to him. “And Drakon … don’t kill him. Utilize him. He is skilled in sorcery. You will have plenty of others to do with as you wish.” Drakon slid the gold ring onto his bony middle finger and gazed into the entrancing red facets of its huge dazzling ruby. “And do not be stunned if the palace lies in shambles. No Watcher has lived there since Armers … since the Rebellion,” He explained. “Do with it as you please.” “And the prisoners?” “I fear you must conjure up a bit of patience in that depraved soul of yours. As I told you, I will send to you every prisoner that is in the Dark Hall, and from now on, all prisoners will be sent to Verus. But first things first …” Ertael gazed at the Eden scroll sitting on the table. The evil grin never left Drako