17 Keeper of the Stone

STORIES OF SKIRMISHES between Nephilim factions had begun to circulate by the evening of the day after Og’s funeral. There were minor clashes and some deaths, but nothing which suggested open civil war. Not yet, at least. It was likely the eldest brothers were preparing their factions, entering negotiations with the clans and the youngest brothers, although the latter didn’t include the youngest of all.

Desool walked along a winding street lined with businesses of every type including a goldsmith, silversmith, stonemason, an ironmonger, and a pottery shop. There was a jeweller on the corner he remembered from when he was an imp. They made small animal figurines from coloured molten glass, which had always fascinated him. Each premises, however, was shut and boarded, the owners involved in the chaos about to be unleashed or waiting for it.

He spotted his sister some distance ahead, but made no attempt to catch her up. They had agreed that being seen together outside was a bad idea. Gog had his spies, and no doubt Anak had them too, if fewer. It was growing dark, and with his hood up, no one should recognise him. Sure, they’d see a young Rephaim, over eight foot tall, but there were many of his clan within the city.

Nanel turned right and down a smaller street, which sloped down towards the docks. When he reached the turn, he spotted her entering a nondescript building. He waited five minutes, and then followed. As he reached the door, it opened.

He stepped inside and Nanel began to remove his cloak, but he resisted at first. ‘You don’t know him like I do,’ she hissed. ‘You’ve been gone for too long, remember? He doesn’t appreciate rudeness. Just do as you’re told.’

‘Is this how it’s going to be when I’m king?’ he whispered back.

‘Well, now that depends,’ said a voice from the doorway ahead. A tall Nephilim at near eleven feet – but stooped over so it was more like nine and a half – shuffled into the corridor. He was ancient in appearance, and Desool realised he must have shrunk in height as he’d gotten old. He’d once been twelve foot tall.

‘On what, exactly?’ Desool demanded, already feeling irritated, and they’d hardly begun. His relationship with his uncle had always been fraught.

‘Ah, your true Rephaim self is still in there, after all. I thought you might have lost it with all your ludicrous travels among the little people.’

‘I am who I am.’

‘And as ever, making pointless statements.’

‘I am here for a reason, uncle.’

The older Nephilim nodded, and gestured at another door for them to enter. Desool did so and stared about the over-large room. Its walls were covered in every type of Nephilim weapon, from grond and harog, to scarap, and many Desool had never seen before. Those must have been from a long time ago. There were four large wooden chairs, a round table, and a wide hearth with a fire blazing bright.

Their host gestured for them to sit, and then a Nephilim entered with a tray containing mugs of foaming molv root beer. The servant was of the Horim clan, nearer human height. It was the custom among Nephilim to use the weakest and smallest to serve; a custom Desool despised and planned to change. In fact, the idea of becoming king was growing on him each day. The more he observed of his father’s touch on the Nephilim world, the more he wanted to fix things. The Horim attendant kept his gaze downward, never once looking at them.

Their uncle, whose name was Volo of Baal-Hazor, took a mug and settled into the chair nearest the flames. Nanel took the one opposite, leaving Desool to take one somewhere in between and furthest from the heat. He didn’t mind, truth be told. He took a draught of the beer and sighed.

Volo smiled. ‘Been a long time since you’ve had one of those, I’ll bet.’

‘Too long. Human ale doesn’t compare. Too weak.’ Nephilim imps were introduced to molv root beer at an early age, a fact he supposed might horrify some of the humans he’d met.

‘And how does serving humans compare to serving your own?’

Desool lowered his mug and stared right back at the elderly Nephilim. ‘I’ve not come here for a battle of words, uncle.’

‘Why not?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A battle of words, a battle of wits, it’s all the action I see these days. These old bones are not much use for anything.’ He tapped his forehead with one long finger. ‘This is all I have left, and I like to use it.’

Volo paused to glance at the fire. ‘My wings fell off just last year, you know.’ He snorted. ‘Disintegrated would be an accurate description, though they’d been unwell for some time. Turned to dust. What is a Rephaim without his wings?’ He then turned and once more gave Desool a long searching stare. ‘Yours should soon present themselves. You know what they signify, don’t you?’

Desool didn’t like the direction of this conversation, but he’d come here for a reason, and he had to play this old man’s game. ‘Our angelic ancestry.’

‘No.’

‘Wait,’ said Nanel, ‘every Nephilim knows the wings of the Rephaim prove our angelic blood.’

‘No. I did not ask you why we possess them. I asked you what they signify.’

Desool nodded, understanding what their uncle was getting at. ‘Power.’

The old Nephilim thumped the arm of his chair with a fist. ‘Yes, power. Your wings are missing, son of Gog. Do you mean to challenge your eldest brothers, and do you think you could even win? Without wings?’

Desool sighed. He’d known this wouldn’t be straightforward. ‘You are the Keeper of the Stone. This is why I am here. I need your help.’

The old man gave a dismissive wave, slurped from his mug, and said, ‘No Stone, no Keeper, my boy. A technicality, but there it is. I’m out of a job and almost on the pyre.’

‘I have it.’ A risk, saying those words aloud. In truth, he had never trusted his mother’s brother, but Volo was who he was. If I must become king then I must take risks, or it will never happen.

The Keeper of the Stone rose from his seat, and glanced from Desool to Nanel, asking her, ‘Is this true, my dear?’

She nodded. ‘It is, apparently. He says it’s in the keeping of a human female.’ She frowned as she said those words, perhaps also not liking the flavour of them. Nephilim had a lot of prejudice towards humans. Something else he wanted to change.

‘What?’ Volo sat back down, shock in his face. ‘How could you?’ This last was directed at Desool. ‘How could you leave our most cherished artefact, the legacy of our people in the hands of, of a ...’

Desool grimaced, knowing there was no going back. ‘The humans have as much right to that artefact as we do.’ Volo almost choked on his beer. ‘I’ve seen angels in the flesh walking among them, uncle.’

‘Impossible,’ the old Nephilim spluttered, flapping a hand. ‘Lies!’

‘Not walking among us, their children, but among ordinary small, and yes often intolerable humans. I served one for many years before I learned what he was. Adal has returned to our world, and has walked it for centuries, and he’s not alone.’

Volo looked shaken. ‘You ... you’ve seen Adal? The Bright One?’

Desool grinned, thinking back to his time serving under Crawl and Davard Tystrus, two of Adal’s many disguises. Back then, he’d suspected, and only after his brother’s invasion of the human imperium had he gotten confirmation. He could hardly tell his uncle that the greatest and oldest angel known to Nephilim kind was an old fat cantankerous glutton with a sharp tongue and a penchant for dirty politics, when he wasn’t posing as a crime lord.

Instead, he said, ‘I have, and I’m telling you now, the Seraphim Council have decreed I must be the next king. Not Gog and not Anak. They sent me to retrieve the Shathra Stone. Uncle, I’ve held it in my hands, as few of us ever have.’

The Keeper glanced down at his own hands. ‘Holding that Stone is a dangerous and precious experience. You survived with your soul intact I take it.’

‘As far as I know.’

Volo nodded. ‘Then, it may be that you tell the truth. However, I must see the Stone myself, and then we must approach Gog on the matter.’

‘What?’ Nanel’s face went pale. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘My dearest chid,’ said the Keeper. ‘I have kept you from harm all these years, shielding you from your brothers. Do you not trust me?’

Desool had no idea she had been in contact with Volo at all, let alone having been in his care, but it made sense. Gog had long ago vowed to kill her. It had to have been the Keeper’s intervention that had kept her alive this long.

‘I thank you, uncle,’ he said, ‘for all you’ve done for her.’ He glanced at his sister, and reached out to take her hand. ‘She is all I have left. My brothers were never mine.’

‘With murder and mayhem on their minds,’ said Volo, ‘I should think not. Gog is not a fit king and neither is Anak, but you cannot defeat them. There is just one way this can go.’

‘Which is?’ demanded Nanel eagerly.

‘The Stone itself must choose its Guardian.’ He raised a finger to forestall any argument. ‘I warn you now that the price for not being chosen could mean death. This ritual is dangerous.’

‘Very well,’ said Desool swallowing his fear. It would do no good to show it. A Nephilim could be nothing but brave, a warrior from head to toe. ‘I am ready.’

‘Why do we need to bother with Gog?’ Nanel persisted. ‘He’ll just kill us on sight. We can’t trust him.’

‘Gog is not king, but he is the heir, and he must agree to the ritual. If he refuses, there isn’t much I can do.’

Then, thought Desool, we’re going to have to make him agree, whether he wishes to or not.