Å vlon helped Sieme adjust the oxygen mask on his face, pulling it from a niche next to the
pilot's seat. The angel woman slowly opened her eyes, her silver hair falling over her face.
face. The Renegade Angel picked her up.
— I'm going to take her back there and lay her on the floor — he told Aziel. — Stay here and watch the space
aerial. You never know what could happen.
The seraphim began to cough when the general placed her on the ground, a sign that she was regaining consciousness. To the
few, he got better and leaned against the wall of the jet. Ablon went to the small kitchen, behind the cabin, and
filled a glass of water with sugar.
— Drink this. We don't need to, of course, but our avatars sometimes appreciate these little quirks.
You'll feel better.
She swallowed the contents as if it were medicine. Afterwards, she became quiet, and the warrior noticed that she was
sad, I almost cried.
—What happened, Sieme?
She was reluctant to respond, but in the end she gave herself to help.
— Those images... I can't get them out of my mind.
The renegade imagined what it was.
—These are the memories of the man in the control room, aren't they? By reading his mind, you embodied
also your emotions.
— I don't know how to deal with them, general. I feel the pain of the deaths of people I never met, I hear the
I cry like children I never gave birth to, I fall in love and hate every moment.
He smiled, condescendingly.
— Most people take a long time to accept these things, and you held them all in at once. AND
It's natural to be confused.
— I am a celestial, a seraphim, the noblest of the castes. I had never tasted these sensations before. AND
I also didn't think we angels were susceptible to them.
—It's the meat, Sieme. This body that we materialize makes us like them, like humans. In our
avatars, we are receptive to the deepest emotions. All beings, physical and spiritual, are capable of
of feeling love and hate, but passion, desire and pain are carnal properties — and in saying that, the
renegade remembered Shamira and how she had made him feel so human. — And these emotions don't
they are all bad. It's instinctive. And how to follow our caste nature. Sometimes there's nothing we can do to
avoid the call of the heart.
Sieme listened to the cherub, and with his advice he felt better.
— Over time — continued Ablon — you will know how to deal with the impressions you recorded. AND
You will meet others if you stay at Haled. And the Master of the Mind. You will make it.
—The mind is logical, general — he replied. —The heart is irrational.
He thought carefully about what she had said and understood her point of view. Practical intelligence and perception
emotional are two very different things.
— You're right, Sieme — he agreed. — You're right.
Landing
Several hours passed in complete tranquility. If they were human, they would have slept, but,
Since they didn't need to, Ablon, Aziel and Sieme spent the time talking. The Renegade Angel
told about his adventures on earth, and the Sacred Flame and the Master of Mind spoke everything they could
they could about celestial politics. They narrated the fight for the sovereignty of Castelo da Luz, the epic fortress
of the cherubim in the Fourth Heaven, which was taken by the Messenger's forces.
Since the sounding of the Third Trumpet, nothing had been heard. Judging by the interval between the last two
bombs, Ablon imagined the danger of the attack that was to come. The opponents were certainly
buying time to analyze positions, prepare your missiles and launch a withering offensive and
decisive against the enemy target. The fighter feared that the blast of the Fourth Trumpet would take with it part of the
of the world.
A button in the cockpit beeped, and Sieme knew it was time to return to the pilot's seat, as they were
arriving and needed to take control of the aircraft. The general sat down next to him, in the armchair.
copilot, although he didn't understand the panel very well. Aziel sat right behind, in a recliner chair.
tractile. It would already be almost midnight in Brazil, but in Israel the clocks showed five in the morning,
with time adjusted to the zone.
Sieme put on his headphones and turned on the radio. Minutes later, the conning tower
called:
— Aircraft prefix PR-PJI — contacted ground control, and the voice spoke in English. — We are with
you on our radars. Proceed with the journey instructions.
The angel woman looked to Ablon for moral support. He would have to convince the controller to let him
land them, and maybe that wouldn't be so easy. It was too far away to influence his mind, but
fortunately the seraphim are born diplomats, which would suit the moment. The renegade trusted Sieme,
He knew she would be able to persuade the operator, so he motivated her with a brief smile.
— Land control — began the Master of the Mind, more good-naturedly. The impersonal emotions that
were no longer so latent — we asked for permission for an emergency landing.
— We are only receiving military planes. Our suggestion is that you divert to Jordan... — the rest
transmission was lost in the static.
The celestial had to think quickly.
— We have a special visa from neutral countries for transporting refugees. I'm sending the codes
now.
Communication remained silent during the transfer, but continued immediately afterwards:
— Land on runway 2, PR-PJI. Who is your crew? — Only two pilots and one
on-board engineer — he replied. Ablon whispered in the seraphim's ear:
— Tell him the flight will go to Africa — most African countries were neutral in the war,
as well as almost all of Latin America.
— Ground control — Sieme called again —, I ask for a commander and a co-pilot to be summoned.
My crew needs to rest, and we want to hand the plane over to someone who can guide it. We have
order to take refugees to Africa.
—Wait a moment, commander — asked the operator.
About two minutes passed.
— The request was authorized. There are volunteer pilots here, and a group waiting for exile.
— Thank you, control — she finished and removed the phone.
Ablon looked proudly at his officer in action. Aziel put his hand on his companion's shoulder,
commending his effort and his cunning.
— You did well, Sieme. Knows how to bend people.
— And my nature.
— Military planes must be taking hundreds of people to Africa — commented the ishim.
— Some, it's true — agreed the general — but not so many. Arabs and Jews are too much
persistent. I bet most of them would rather stay on their land until death comes.
The aircraft began its descent, and the pressure pressed on the ears. Sieme released the landing gear and wheels
of the device have downloaded. In a matter of minutes, dawn would dawn in Jerusalem. The Renegade Angel would enter,
Finally, in the Holy City.
This time, who could stop him?
A Killer in the Shadows
The plane landed at Ben Gurion International Airport, in Israel, at 5:28 am. Installing the
The airfield is located in a place called Lod, halfway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, some
45 kilometers from the Holy City. It was still night when Sieme taxied the device and took it to
landing platform. Ablon looked outside and noticed the military mobilization. Soldiers in
tanks and jeeps defended the area; helicopters and fighter jets watched from the air.
"As if that would help anything," he commented.
— Do you know where we should go after here? — asked Sieme, anticipating the next step.
— Let's go to Jerusalem. From there we will try to rent a car with which we will take the road to
Sinai peninsula. We also have to get a map of the desert. I know the old trails, but
we need to have a plan for modern highways. Do you know exactly where the mountain and the
portal for or ethereal?
— It would be easy to find it on the map — Aziel explained. — The archangel Gabriel showed me the entrance. He me
he also said that religious mortals often confuse Horeb with Mount Sinai. But the
The real mountain we are looking for is a little further north. I know how to locate the cave, I just don't know
right how we get there.
— This part is up to me — replied the general.
The aircraft parked on the platform, and employees brought the ladder. Sieme turned off the engines
and depressurized the cabin.
When they opened the door, the biting cold of dawn stiffened their muscles. It was the month of March,
early spring, but the season still carried the legacy of winter. Ablon closed his coat, and the
Seraphim replaced his parka, but Aziel didn't worry, as he could produce heat himself. It was a
ishim, and its master province was the element of fire.
With his heightened senses, Ablon explored the scent of the earth. He remembered the exact day he had been
there, for thousands of years, to confront Gabriel. There are aromas specific to every corner of the world, to
those who know and can understand them. The icy wind took him back in time, to the days of
caravan of the Greeks, with which he crossed the desolate eastern plains and the immensity of Arabia. THE
The nostalgic image of the Chinese girl invaded his mind, as did the memory of his friends,
Tommaso, Polix and Thales.
Sieme, once again, mentally outwitted the guards, and the choir fled out of the airport. Already
on the road, they were waiting for the first bus of the day when the Renegade Angel sniffed the air. Your sense of
danger, which had never let him down, was frantically warning him.
— Is there a problem, general? — asked the Master of the Mind.
He did not respond immediately and remained silent, scanning his surroundings with his skills.
and the desert that stretched below.
— For now, I don't think so.
Aziel was going to offer to search the district, but the bus arrived, and the matter died.
Climbing over one of the airport buildings, a figure hid in the shadows. He was a hunter and,
like Ablon, he knew how to hide his aura. In fact, he was not just a hunter, but the greatest of all
killers from hell.
In the spiritual world, Apollyon had the face of a monster, with eyes as black as the abyss and teeth.
spikes that stuck out of the mouth. On the physical plane, however, he looked like a mortal, because that's how he looked.
of the avatars of angels and demons when materialized. At Haled, therefore, he pretended to be
man, a sullen, sullen guy, with dark hair and a very strong body. Just like your enemy
A renegade, Apollyon was a ruthless fighter and had stealth skills. He was stronger than Ablon,
but much slower. The Malikis, the warrior caste of demons, were brave, undisciplined and
uncontrollable, exactly the opposite of their celestial adversaries, the cherubim.
But what did Apollyon intend by spying on the general? Did he want to carry out a personal revenge, or
would he be in the service of the Dark Archangel himself? Would Lucifer have decided to eliminate the Renegade Angel, in
response to his refusal to agree, or was it Deathstroke who wanted to confront the warrior and end the
duel that had begun fifteen thousand years earlier?
The last time they met, at the entrance to the Devil's cave, Ablon had challenged him to combat.
The hunter had not forgotten the call.
A Theoretical Guide * Shamira in Sion
It was already daylight when, from the bus, Ablon saw some modern buildings in the distance, outside the walls of the city.
Old City. It was the new part of Jerusalem, occupied mainly after 1860, with the
overpopulation of the historic center. At that time, districts were planned for immigrants, and the
periphery has become an eclectic, multicultural place, which reflects the architecture and customs of its inhabitants.
founders.
The road, flanked by hills and olive plantations, was blocked by a gate, defended
by a guardhouse and several army soldiers, in jeeps and tanks. That was a checkpoint,
one of many that blocked highways throughout Israel. The renegade knew that many Israelis and
Palestinians, who lived far away, worked in the Holy City, and imagined that the roads would be
crowded at that time of day, but he was wrong. The highway was practically empty. He assumed that the
example of Rio de Janeiro, commerce was at a standstill and all attention was focused on
world war that was ravaging the planet.
Listening to a lady in Islamic clothing talking beside him, the cherub understood that the majority
of the outsiders on the bus was not made up of workers, but of believers, who were heading to the temples
in Jerusalem to pray and wait for the end of the conflict. Muslim, Christian and holy shrines
Jews were crowded with people. Few stores remained open to the public, only grocery stores
food and small supermarkets.
A soldier, armed with a pistol and rifle, entered the bus door and began checking documents.
Sieme disguised his appearance and that of his friends with mental tricks, and the guards did not stop him.
nobody.
The soldier signaled the sentry to raise the gate and commented to his partner:
— I remember seeing a tall, blond man and a woman with silver hair.
The colleague was amused by the curious illusion.
And... — he mocked. — They must have hidden in the old ladies' purses.
The bus in which Ablon, Aziel and Sieme were traveling went around the New City, passing through the main
neighborhoods of modern Jerusalem, crossed Mount Zion, crossed the Kidron Valley, bypassed the center
historic route from the south and went up the Mount of Olives, finally stopping at Rua Jericó. Behind them I die
Above was the Jewish cemetery, with its centuries-old tombs, including the graves of the prophets
Zechariah and Malachi and the burial place of Absalom, the rebellious son of King David. Ahead, the valley of Jehoshaphat, a
Today, a shallow depression separated them from the walls of the Old City.
After millennia, the Renegade Angel returned to his point of duel, to the place where he had fought the epic
combat with the archangel Gabriel. From there, from the top of the hill, the three angels contemplated the Old City,
with its old houses and narrow streets, giving color to a landscape of uniform tone, half
brown, half gray. The area next to the Mount of Olives, delimited by the ancestral wall, had sheltered,
years ago, the Temple of Solomon and then the Temple of Herod.
For more than half a century, the esplanade rested in ruins, until Muslims recovered the site
in 691, building the Dome of the Rock, a magnificent mosque with a golden dome, which to this day is the
Jerusalem's main postcard. The entire area is considered sacred and has other buildings
famous ones, such as the El-Aqsa Mosque and the Museum of Islamic Art. To the west, a section of the wall separates
the esplanade of the temple in the Jewish quarter. This wall, known as the Western Wall, is
currently the most beloved reference in Judaism, because it is the only part that resisted the fire that
devastated the Second Temple. Ahead, the general saw the Muslim quarter and, beyond it, the
Christian and Armenian, full of churches, patriarchates and hostels of the various Christian denominations of the
city.
Ablon could see, with his eagle eyes, that the historic center was curiously crowded. Around
from the Dome of the Rock and in front of the El-Aqsa Mosque, thousands of Muslims prayed in the open air,
while Orthodox Jews prayed before the Western Wall. In the Christian neighborhood, a procession
followed the Via Dolorosa — the streets traveled by Christ in his martyrdom — and headed towards the Church of the Holy
Tomb. The dozens of temples in the Old City were packed with people, who gathered in that
unscheduled holiday. And there were soldiers, hundreds of soldiers from the Israeli army and police,
scattered all over the place. Two combat helicopters glided in the sky.
Sieme found what he had already expected: the fabric of reality, in the old part of Jerusalem, was
extraordinarily thin. The Master of the Mind also observed that the astral plane was uninhabited by
angels. The Holy City, being close to its ethereal counterpart, the Fortress of Sion, had been occupied
by Michael's legions after the Savior's resurrection, when Gabriel and his cherubim
left. Since then, the old center had been watched by agents of the Prince of Angels, but
On that March morning, on the eve of the Day of Reckoning, no celestial was hovering around the
perimeter.
— The last time I was here — Ablon confided — tireless celestial patrols
guarded the astral plane, and Gabriel's troops surrounded the city, waiting for the attack of the
Miguel's soldiers, in the first major offensive that, from what you told me, started the war
civil.
— It was a holy day — added Aziel. —The Savior perished on the cross, and the legions of the two archangels
they clashed. We fight to defend the soul of the Enlightened One. Two days later, he was resurrected.
Our mission was accomplished. We rejected the enemy army and left Haled, taking refuge in
First Heaven, where we had safer bases.
"Indeed, general," agreed Sieme. —Everything now seems so desolate. Jerusalem has always been
a pit of ghosts, and still is — he noticed — but there isn't a single celestial wandering around.
region. It doesn't even seem like the Fortress of Sion is so close to here, on the ethereal plane. Don't you think a little
Is all this apathy strange?
The warrior pondered:
— If Miguel is preparing for the greatest of battles, he certainly needs all his angels
alerts. Luckily they can't see us from the ethereal. But there can always be a stray —
he warned, remembering the feeling of danger he had experienced when leaving the airport.
The choir went down the path towards St. Stephen's Gate, cut into the ancient wall, which
accessed the Muslim neighborhood. The closest passage would be the Golden Gate, which led to the
temple complex and the Dome of the Rock, but the threshold had been closed by the Islamists in the 7th century.
— Do you think we can get transport here? asked Aziel.
"I'm sure," replied Ablon. — I brought some money with me, maybe enough to
let's rent a car.
It was almost eight o'clock when the three arrived at the gate, built by Sultan Suleiman, the
Magnificent, in 1538. As he crossed the stone arch, the First General smelled the unprecedented aroma of a
new city. He looked at the ground, at the walls, at the houses and alleys and at the people in the streets. In
Jerusalem, the marks of history are everywhere, in every corner, on every corner. The impressions of
an ancient location, for an angel with refined senses, they were as incredible as they were nostalgic. And he
He also noticed the tenuity of the fabric.
—The membrane here is... is... — he murmured.
— It's as if the entire Old City were a huge sanctuary — added Sieme.
Exactly for this reason, it was not difficult for the celestials to see the specters of the dead from many ages
past, who hid in alcoves and wandered along the sidewalks, without mortals noticing them.
They were harmless and melancholy, like all ghosts. They remained trapped in the astral plane, but
always observing the physical world, looking for solutions to the issues that prevented them from heading
to the sky.
— Finally, we're here — Aziel congratulated himself. - And now?
— Now we're going to need a car, preferably a sturdy one, to cross the desert. And yet
We have to get a road map.
— Do you have any idea where we can get all this? — asked the seraphim.
— Commerce is closed, but perhaps there are some sales open in the central souk, a free market in
intersection between the three neighborhoods.
Aziel appreciated his general's decision.
— For those who have never been to the city, you're not a bad guide — he joked.
Ablon smiled. It was true—he had never been to Jerusalem. But I had read everything about it. And the memory
of the renegade was the richest thing he had, besides his virtues. Martial skills came in
second place.
In the outermost courtyard of the Fortress of Sion, upon the hundred levels of the tower, the Enchantress of En-Dor
she was still chained to the black marble pillar. The icy wind punished his skin, and the
strands of hair whipped across his face. Even tied to the spine by iron ties, she could see the ground
under the parapet, thousands of meters below, and the mountain ranges that, in the distance, defended the fortress, like
a ring surrounding the plain. Behind her, also in the distance, beyond the mountains, was the disturbing river
Styx, with its murky red waters. All the divisions of Michael's army were ready and
positioned, awaiting the assault of Gabriel's rebel legion, camped 350 kilometers away.
Shamira knew that, even alone on the terrace, she was being watched by invisible spies. Either way
Either way, there wasn't much of a way out of his suffering. His incantations, even if he could invoke them
them, they would be useless against their captors, unless they had an object or a feather from the victim - and she
I didn't have it.
He tried to rationalize what he would do next. I could just relax and wait for death, but still
held hope. He had been in difficult situations before and had managed to extricate himself from them all, most of the time.
sometimes on its own merit. I didn't know what had happened to Ablon. I wanted to believe he was
way, but I shouldn't count on it. In a way, a part of her didn't want him to come in
his rescue, because now, upon seeing the Tower of a Thousand Windows up close, he recognized the quality of the patrols and the
voracity of its guardians. He trusted the renegade and his swordsmanship, but he feared that he would
could not overcome the enemies that inhabited the dark rooms, including the sinister Dark Angel and the
merciless Miguel.
In the midst of conflicting thoughts, the sorceress focused on her potential. It felt
bad. She had always been active, smart and energetic. But he found comfort in understanding that many who
I admired that they had also gone through this. He remembered Ablon again and how he, once,
he had escaped from hell, after being captured and taken to the most terrible of dungeons.
On that occasion, the Renegade Angel obtained help, otherwise he would have died. It was the friendship of an old
confrere who saved him from certain condemnation at the hands of the Lord of Sheol.
Would she have the same luck?
IN THE BASEMENTS OF HELL
County Exmoor, southern England, 1231 AD.
The Old Oak
It happened in those dark days, during the so-called Dark Ages. Bloody times were
those, when men of honor went to war with their armor polished, while the
Hungry peasants worked the land, subjugated by idle tyrants. It was the time of the great
castles and knights, of feudal lords, of the heyday of the Church and also of the Crusades, gigantic
military journeys set in motion to expel Muslims from the Holy Land,
It was on a freezing winter morning, when the snow accumulated on the branches and covered the soft grass,
that the Renegade Angel, staggering and wounded, crossed the forest, called the Cone Forest, for its
pines with pointed crowns. He stopped, leaning against a log, and took two breaths. On the back, under clothes
thick, an immense gash punished his body. More like a sword strike, but the hemorrhage was
minimal, because the wound had been cauterized, as if struck with a boiling object. The strength
He was wavering and his legs were shaking, but he couldn't stop. There was little, very little left. I could already see the
border of the wilderness and the limits of a settlement beyond. Maybe they had water, food and a warm bed,
everything he needed to put his avatar back together.
Ablon was hungry and tired, but he didn't give up and continued running over the snow, stumbling and
falling sometimes, but never letting himself be defeated. He went up and down a hill, crossed a corridor of
pine trees, skirted the shore of a lake and arrived at an avenue. At the end of it, he found what
was looking for.
The forest trail opened into a snow-covered field, the central area of which was home to a complex
monastic, with a series of buildings of typically Norman architecture, made of light and brown stone,
arched passages and high windows at a safe distance from the ground. Beyond the monastery, the forest disappeared, and
a dirt road continued straight to a village, a kilometer away, around which
they cultivated wheat and barley. Ablon couldn't see the town very well, but the monastery was at his disposal.
forward, within your reach. He noticed that the land was surrounded by walls, but at the entrance, under a tower
small, there was no vigil. And, close to the wall itself, there was a long house, which the general knew to be the
charity wing, where monks fed and medicated the poor. Next, after the frontal square,
stood the abbey church, flanked by two front towers and decorated with colorful stained glass windows. To the
side, other buildings stood, including the cloister, the dormitories, the abbot's house and the chapter, a
chamber where the monks met daily to deliberate on various matters.
The renegade advanced through the arched portal and entered the courtyard, occupied by men in dark cassocks.
A dozen of them surrounded a large oak, while two others, with axes in hand, tried to
accomplish the task of bringing down the tree. Ablon didn't worry about them, when his sense of smell
predator picked up the smell of drinking water. He turned around and saw a well, with a full bucket resting in it.
in the snow. He ran and swallowed everything he could, all the water he had deprived himself of. It was safe now. If
If he fell, he would be helped.
Four monks, young novices, approached the strange wanderer, but did nothing.
— Every day is a surprise — commented the youngest, indifferently.
— Where is this one from? — asked a second.
— Could be a deranged peasant from Seaport — ventured a short man, with a shaved head.
— You're too strong to be a peasant, you mule — replied the oldest, with a certain malice.
The other three, intimidated, remained silent. They had curious and unfriendly eyes. The warrior angel
He dropped the bucket and tried to make a cry for help, but his throat hurt. Staggered forward, stepped
on a rock and, already dizzy, fell.
— He must have been asking for food — the shaved head inferred.
— Yes, but the charity doesn't start for half an hour. They haven't even heated the bread yet," the voice explained.
dominant.
—Should we carry him inside? — asked someone.
— No, the prior said we should cut down the tree. Always one thing at a time. Without protesting, the others
agreed.
Ablon was the victim of a small faint. He was injured, tired and hungry, but he was not going to die. That one
The gash on his body did not constitute a mortal wound, just a setback that weakened him.
terribly and delayed him in his endeavor.
He woke up to the pleasant warmth of the environment, as he was stretched out on a bed of straw. Coughed often
and coughed up some blood. His fingers were frozen, his back burned and his head throbbed.
He sat down on the bed and from there he saw many others, some with sick peasants, throughout a room
long, with narrow windows, through which the golden rays of the winter sun shone. Two
elderly men, one thin and the other very fat, offered the unfortunate pieces of bread, distributing the
food along with a bowl of water. They were Benedictines, certainly, a monastic order
devout of the teachings of Saint Benedict of Nursia, the "patriarch of Western monks". The precepts
Benedictines were taken to England by Saint Augustine, an Italian who, in the 6th century, came to
become archbishop of Canterbury, the most important religious center in the country. They bore the nickname
"black monks" because of their dark robes.
An old man with a slender body, blue eyes and a gentle expression handed the food to the renegade, who took it.
voraciously. The monk, far from being impressed, knew the attitude of the hungry and limited himself to
show a kind smile. Despite his advanced age, Brother Thomas was just a nurse, a
of the most timid positions in the monastic hierarchy. He was not and never had been a priest. In effect, the rules of
Saint Benedict proposes that the majority of monks should be lay people, and that only a few should be
ordered.
Busy with satisfying his hunger, Ablon didn't even pay attention to the philanthropist, who stood still and watched him for the rest of his life.
the entire course of the meal. He seemed to want to speak to him calmly, so he was waiting for him without rushing. THE
celestial only understood this when he finished his piece of bread.
— I told the prior that I was here — surprised the old man, with a certain weight of guilt.
—Did you? — the renegade was surprised. — Am I an honored guest? — he joked. The monk, embarrassed,
realized that the patient did not have an accent and immediately begged for forgiveness, as if he had committed a mistake.
mortal sin.
— I... I beg your forgiveness, good knight. I thought he was French.
The renegade found the comment amusing, especially the title by which he was called.
— He's not the only one. They're always confusing me, everywhere I go.
"Still, it would be good if you talked to the prior," he insisted. Ablon liked the idea. The prior was the
second in command of the monastery,
below only the abbot. Maybe it could help him find the person he was looking for in those
southern lands. A few months ago, the cherub had met one of his renegade officers, Yarion, Asa
of Wind, on the high outskirts of Scotland. From then on, they decided to wander the world together, and
established a mission: to regroup the Brotherhood. To organize the action plan, they took refuge in the
Saint Luke's Abbey to the north, disguised as clergy, and there they found the peace they needed to
establish the search journey. But the tranquility was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a
hellish killer. Wandering in the night, the demon Apollyon invaded the monastery and, with his sword of
black fire, hit the general in the back. Dying, Ablon witnessed the Terminator defeat
Yarion and take him still alive to the depths of hell. The cherub still didn't know very well
How Malikis had managed to carry his renegade friend beyond the fabric of reality, but he hoped
for Shamira to enlighten him.
Ablon knew, in passing, the whereabouts of the Enchantress of En-Dor. I knew she had settled in
Exmoor, then followed its trail from Bristol, through Bath, Glastonbury and Ilchester, to
finally arrive at the county.
— I am at your superior's disposal, whenever he wants — he offered.
— He'll call you later. We have to fulfill the duties.
For the Benedictines, the structure of the day is determined by the hours of worship, which Saint Benedict gave the name
of opus dei, the eight daily masses sung in the monastic oratory. They are: the divine office of the night, or
vigils; the office of the first hours of the day, or matins; the canonical hours that follow Matins,
the lauds; and the next seven canonical hours, prime, third, sixth, ninth, vespers and compline.
— I can wait — the renegade collaborated.
The old man picked up the empty bowl of water and declared, before leaving:
— Get some sleep, then. And regarding what I said, know that, for the members of our order, the
hospitality is a solemn obligation. Here, visitors are welcomed like Christ himself.
Ablon nodded, but then remembered the novices' impassive reception in the courtyard.
As long as they didn't crucify him, everything was fine.
In Wine the Truth
In the monastery, surrounded by the countryside, everything was very silent. The most introverted ones had a great time
part of the time in silence, in the calm of the cloister, except during services, when they declaimed
prayers in Gregorian style. The church they worshiped in was on the other side of the courtyard, but Ablon could
hear them singing psalms and praising the Lord. The soft melody woke him up completely,
and he had a wistful glimpse as he remembered the Peace Bench, one of the many pavilions of the Sixth
Heaven, where three hundred celestials wove honorable symphonies in tribute to the sleeping God.
It was almost lunchtime, and outside the snow was falling nonstop, targeting the fields and woods. The renegade
He got up, already feeling better. He circulated around the room while the other patients slept and
He risked climbing onto the bed to look out the window at the interior square. The central oak was actually
had been cut, but the trunk still rested on the ground. It was so beautiful, so old, so strong. It was a tree
full of life, even with the branches defoliated by winter. Now it looked more like a corpse
fallen, which would soon return to earth. For the ancient Celts, the oak was a sacred plant,
but many Christians did not attach importance to ancestral cults.
He heard footsteps on the floor and sat down on the straw bed. The skinny old man walked through the door.
—Couldn't sleep? — he ventured a deduction.
— Yes, I did, but I've already woken up. The heat from the fire and the snowflakes hitting the window are the
best sleeping pill for a tired man.
The monk seemed satisfied.
— Can you come with me now?
It was exactly what Ablon expected.
"Perfectly," he agreed, getting up from the bed.
He followed the old man through dark porticoes and vast halls. The cold was frightening and the two walked
away from windows. They crossed an arched passage that led to an atrium and then to the abbot's house.
The soft snow stuck to the boots.
They reached a stone hallway that ended in a two-section wooden door. The brother
Thomas tapped the ring three times on the board.
— Our abbot is on a trip to Canterbury, but Prior John Marc will receive him. And a young man
and smart. He was ordained a priest at Westminster.
In general, the Benedictine rule stipulated that monks always stayed in the same community, but at times
Sometimes there were exchanges, which were unusual. Westminster Abbey was — and still is — in
London, to the east, a long way from there. Ablon's desire was to confer with a local man, who
get to know the region and its inhabitants. Would the prior alleviate their doubts?
The wooden door opened, and a distinguished man, less than 40 years old, with a healthy body and height
superior, summoned the visitor. He wore the regular black habit, but over it he wore a second garment,
of cotton and velvet, luxurious by the rustic standards of the monastery. From inside the room, a
pleasant heat, mixed with the smell of different foods.
— You can come in — he invited. He had a firm voice, and Ablon knew from his expression that he was an educated man. THE
Old Brother Thomas turned, and the cherub advanced through the door.
The abbot's house, then occupied by the prior, was the largest private area in the monastery. There was at least
three bedrooms and a common space, where an extensive table stood out, on which a
delicious afternoon meal. There was no meat, but lunch included black bread, boiled eggs and a
succulent onion and pea soup. Two vases decorated the table, one with water and the other with wine.
At the deepest end, a fireplace burned, warming those present.
The prior sat down and, with a wave, encouraged the visitor to imitate him.
— Make yourself comfortable, young man — he began, indicating the food on the table.
Ablon accepted the offer and thanked him for his kindness with a silent bow.
He relaxed his back against the seat and followed the priest to his meal. He separated for himself a piece of
bread, while the host helped himself to the onion broth.
— Bread is life, it is meat — said the host, happy to see that the traveler had modest habits and
taking the opportunity to, at the same time, amend a religious metaphor.
He must be a soldier, he thought, and it was exactly a soldier he needed.
— At least for me, the symbolism is coherent, Father — replied the renegade, analyzing the irony.
He needed to eat, drink and sleep to rebuild his physical body.
The man was encouraged by the answer.
— And Christian?
— I must admit that I haven't been going to church much — Ablon was already doing better with these
sudden questions.
The pastor's expression did not change. She was elated to have found her man, and she was going to use him anyway
who was not Christian.
— Forgive my lack of etiquette — he scolded himself, when the subject died. — I am Prior John Marc,
responsible for the monastery until the abbot's return. And you, where do you come from?
— I'm not your enemy, much less French.
The cleric noticed that the guest did not address him as "brother" or "sir", a sign that he was not a peasant.
Serfs, in general, respected feudal formalities more. He assumed he was a nobleman, a knight or
mercenary, but his evasive stance irritated him inside. Determined to get the truth out of
guest, the prior filled the celestial's glass with wine to the top, simulating a kind act.
— But he's a warrior, I imagine — he pressed, and then Ablon understood the malice of the thing.
— In vino ventas — the general ironized, in Latin, and from then on Marc saw that he was not dealing with
any man. The proverb "Truth is in wine" alludes to the practice of getting a third party drunk
to make him more likely to articulate confessions. Only scholars knew the saying.
Even so, the angel sipped the drink from the cup — he certainly wouldn't get drunk. He turned to his
inquisitor:
—What do you want from me, Father? — he asked, putting an end to the subterfuge.
The priest's face straightened, returning to its serious posture. The oratory with which he deceived
the nobles at the London court had failed.
— First of all, I need to know if you have war experience and a minimum knowledge of the forest. I want
make sure you are willing to carry out a specific task.
Ablon saw the intent in the man's eyes.
— You are looking for a mercenary.
The prior was embarrassed. Such an attitude, of hiring soldiers of fortune, was not a very Christian custom.
He trusted, perhaps innocently, in the guest's secrecy, but from then on there was no turning back.
— We have had some political problems here at the monastery — he confided.
The Renegade Angel said nothing, waiting for the monk to make his report.
— The abbey is supported by Baron Peter Madog — he conceded — who is also the lord of Redmill, the
2 q
village that lies ahead, beyond the wheat fields. Must have seen him at some point.
— I saw the fields, but not the village.
— In the blizzard it probably covered the landscape. Madog has wanted to build a road for a long time
which would link Exmoor with Glastonbury, but the route passes through the middle of an old forest, the forest
Red, to the east.
— Why don't you order your monks to cut down the trees? I think they have some experience
on the subject — he sneered, remembering the unpleasant sight of the fallen oak.
— Monks are not woodcutters. In fact, the forest is big. We would need more men for that.
— And that baron? Don't have money to finance workers?
The host gave a nervous smile. Not even he, enlightened and literate, liked playing in that
subject.
— And of course it does. The baron has a lot of money, but the problem is that not even the hungry peasants
they want to get into those wild parts. Since the Romans, people have said that the forest is haunted by
elves and fairies.
The renegade let out a skeptical laugh:
— You're not going to tell me that you believe in these things...
— I believe only in God, and only in him, outsider — the priest was more aggressive —, but the poor still
are very superstitious, a profane legacy left by barbarian sorcerers — he was referring to the
druids, ancient priests who inhabited England during the time of the Celts. — The woodcutters said
to the baron that they would only enter the forest if it was first visited by a Christian group. A year ago,
I convinced a monastic delegation to visit those wildernesses. We walked to the trees, but some
Men heard strange noises, heard laughter and saw a woman with black hair and dark skin.
alva, whom they called the Witch of the Red Forest.
The general stopped eating. The Witch of the Red Forest could only be Shamira, whom Ablon so much
was looking for. He was well acquainted with the witch's habits and knew that she enjoyed the wilderness. THE
Necromancer was never one to mix with orders or councils of wizards, preferring a solitary life.
Maybe that's why she remained alive.
— Upon hearing those horrible sounds — continued the priest — horror gripped the entourage, and my
mission failed. Since then, laypeople have been convinced that that place is the home of the Devil and that
refuse to go back there. And with that, also the lumberjacks.
— What a delirious story — exclaimed Ablon, incredulous about the belief in fairies. It was possible,
however, that Shamira had used basic charms to scare away the invaders. And the cherub was
convinced that she was really the forest witch. The description left no room for doubt.
— Abbot Paul, head of our parish, went to Canterbury to try to buy time with the bishops. While
So, I have to think of a way to discredit my men about this irritating fable, in order to
take them to visit the forest. If the party crosses the woods, the workers will be encouraged to enter. AND,
If the road is not built, Redmill and this monastery will be doomed.
— It's curious that they've resisted until now.
— The abbey was financed by the baron's parents, as was the settlement of the village. At the time, the
needs were lower, but now the demand for cereals has increased. Sacks of wheat and barley
they need to be sold outside of here, so that the property continues to be profitable.
— What the baron wants is to fatten his coffers even more.
The cleric did not deny the statement, but he did not encourage it either.
"Still, Lord Peter Madog is our patron.
Ablon finished the bread, drank a glass of water and took a ladle of soup.
—And why exactly do you need a mercenary?
— All I want is a man of courage, who is free from these beliefs that disturb the people.
If an honorable knight spends a night in the Red Forest and returns alive and sane, the
monks will understand that all the mysticism surrounding the forest is nothing more than pathetic folklore. And there
I will be able to organize a new entourage, bless the area and open the way for the woodcutters.
—And that's all? — the renegade was surprised.
The host got up and went to a corner of the room. He took a small wooden chest and placed it on the table.
table. It had iron reinforcement and was closed by a solid padlock.
"Of course the payment is satisfactory," he whispered and, opening the lid of the box, revealed a pile of
of silver coins. In the midst of the treasure, gold objects and artifacts encrusted with gold stood out.
precious stones, such as crosses and necklaces. The celestial despised the futility of men and did not even want
imagine how the objects had been acquired.
—Save your money, prior. Luckily for you, our goals intersect. The Red Forest
it had been my destiny since I arrived in the county, although I didn't know it very well. I'm going
venture into the forest, but it may take more than a day inside.
— Your words are incongruous.
— I also want to find this witch. But don't be scared, I'm not a wizard.
The priest closed the chest and examined the celestial from head to toe. Slowly, he moved away and
He put the box back on the floor. For a moment, he terribly regretted trusting him with the situation.
from the monastery, but he was desperate.
— Do as you wish — he determined, with no way out. —But try not to delay. We can pay you very well.
— I already said that money is not the issue — he repeated, sipping the last spoonful of soup.
The priest turned his face away and made a mental note, repeating to himself that he should no longer touch
on financial matters. I couldn't let go of the good opportunity I had got - a soldier
willing to enter the Red Forest and charge nothing for it. He was like one of those heroes from
mythological Britain, like the knights of Arthur's time. Imagine the propaganda you could do
about his epic exploits and set aside some titles in his mind, such as Dragon Slayer and
Holy Knight. Perhaps, in the future, he could still transform him into a saint.
— When do you think we can leave? — the parish priest was in a hurry. — The charity ward nurse said
who was injured.
— I'm almost well — and it was true. On a rest day he would be in great shape. The angels
Warriors heal quickly, even when the wounds are inflicted by mystical weapons. — We can
travel tomorrow, but I don't know the way to the wilderness.
From then on, John Marc already had all the planning outlined, with well-defined steps.
He had worked on it for a long time before the cherub appeared at his door. That was all that came
thinking for months on end.
— Later today, before vespers, I will call for a procession. I will leave just a few novices to
guard the abbey, and the others will accompany you, including me. We will camp on the outskirts of the forest and
We will await your return.
Ablon did not want to frustrate the prior, even though he did not agree with his progressive intentions. Not that
was contrary to the expansion of human civilization, but the destruction of the forest would respond to greed
of feudal nobles. There were other routes for building the road, but these were longer and
would compromise trade and profit.
—I can't promise anything about that, Father. I already said that our objectives intersect, that's all.
The baron logically had a body of warriors, but they only obeyed him. What the cleric needed
it was of a solitary hero, a brave and clever knight. I preferred him to be a Christian, but I was aware
that not everything is perfect. In fact, I wasn't even sure what he was or where he came from. But,
truly, what difference did it make?
His hero's identity would be assembled, created, reinvented. If everything went well, the road could be
ready at the end of summer. The county and village would prosper, and with them the church and monastery. With the
In time, John Marc would take over as abbot. Who wouldn't support a man who helped a knight
to defeat the Devil?
And the Devil was precisely who Ablon intended to face.
The Red Forest
The next day, Ablon woke up from the last night of sleep necessary for his recovery, already practically
they are. The snow, which had been falling all morning, had stopped, but the cold had increased. Even so, the prior
John Marc had managed to summon the entourage, a procession of fifty monks, equipped with
tents, supplies, warm clothing and all kinds of Christian icons, such as rosaries, crosses and incense.
They carried, in a sedan chair protected by glass, an image of Saint Benedict of Nursia and the banner of the
Anjou family, to which the then king of England, Henry III, belonged. Some pilgrims were
excited, but most, especially the younger ones, seemed incredibly bored and were shaking
of cold.
Already planning such a pilgrimage, the prior had separated a military outfit for his hero. He suggested to the warrior that
throw away the rags he was wearing and put on a beautiful coat of mail, underneath a
quilted cotton, which went up to thigh height. The fabric was also of exceptional quality,
dyed black and with a red cross printed on it. The uniform was complete with a pair of
steel gauntlets, but the priest hadn't had time to buy a sword, so he wrapped a piece of
wood on a tarp and asked Ablon to take it with him. The renegade had not signed any contract
with the priest, much less had he guaranteed that he would complete the indicated mission, but he felt that he should
something to the man, for having fed and welcomed him — even if it was out of interest
own.
The monks had no horses, just four pack mules. With that, they walked eastward all the way.
day, following an old dirt road, covered in snow. They reached the outskirts of the Red Forest
at dusk and there they set up camp in the icy hills, a safe distance from the trees.
Many let their terror show, intimidated by the diabolical stories surrounding the forest.
But Marc and the older men encouraged the fearful, reciting Bible verses and saying
sermons.
The Red Forest was called that because of its trees, unique red-barked oaks,
that did not shed their leaves even in the cold of winter. These plants no longer exist, and scientists
modern people do not know about them because they were already rare in ancient times. They were completely extinct in
Middle Ages, and that was perhaps the last forest.
The forest area was extensive, the celestial realized, larger than he had imagined at first. He calculated that the
lumberjacks would have to work hard to make their way through the trees, because the trunks were
stiff and wide. Furthermore, looking closely at the forest, Ablon had an ominous impression, similar to
to the one he felt when he saw the bamboos of the Tin-Sen forest.
Before sunset, the cherub went to the Red forest, to the sound of the slow singing of the
monks. The prior offered him a torch for the hours to come, but the renegade had no need for it.
He carried the object to the edge of the forest and, when it was already far away, he dropped the stick in a corner.
It was still daylight when he reached the tree line. Within minutes, twilight would dominate the landscape and
then the night would swallow the scenery. Ablon thought it wise to take advantage of the light to investigate the
foliage — even though he could see in the dark — and maybe find a trail. I was looking for
a specific trail, by a special scent that he would immediately recognize: that of the Sorceress of En-Dor.
All the way until dusk, Ablon searched the woods, investigated the trees, and sniffed the air, but
found nothing. He began to imagine that his assumptions about the necromancer were wrong. THE
The forest was large, but with his keen sense of smell, he would have surely picked up such a familiar smell.
Tired of searching, the renegade paused and sat down on the protruding root of a large
red-barked oak. It was then that, suddenly, a fabulous phenomenon began. When the
The last ray of sun set, the fabric of reality thinned, stretching like rubber to a fire.
Immediately, the Renegade Angel went on alert and surveyed the terrain. He noticed that, just ahead, the
membrane was torn, at the end of a path through which the treetops met,
forming a tunnel of branches. Without hesitation, the cherub walked there, alert to the dangers that
they could be lurking in the shadows.
Even with all his experience in spiritual and worldly matters, Ablon had never witnessed
an event of the same nature. I didn't know if that path led to a trap, if it was an invitation,
or whether the passage opened independently of his presence. I had no idea where I was
following nor the luck of creatures he would find there. He was no longer sure if the sorceress lived there.
forest.
With each step, the strangeness emerged. Still somewhat confused, the renegade continued through the tunnel and, suddenly,
noticed that the winter trees became more alive, and their frozen leaves gained the warmth of the winter.
summer. A fine mist filled the air, carrying the scent of wildflowers. Under your feet, the snow
it had melted, and now the angel stood on soft grass. It was almost night, but there was light, a bluish glow that
emanated from above, brightening the forest corridor. The animals, previously hidden, flew, ran and
they jumped, indifferent to the walker's passage. A lark chirped, and the cicadas sang.
A hare jumped into the middle of the passage and, with cunning eyes, looked at the visitor. Still dazzled by the
fantastic spectacle, the cherub did not realize that, in that innocent expression, there were intentions
resolute. The animal took off and disappeared into the foliage.
When Ablon reached the end of the passage, he came across a wide clearing, very beautiful, flanked by
by huge oaks. The ground was like a magnificent garden, full of colorful flowers and mushrooms.
reds. Particles of pollen danced in the air, and in a niche a deep pool held the water that
came down from a stream. A bee buzzed, prowled the space and flew upwards.
The mists that filled the clearing dissipated, and it was with amazement that the renegade found himself surrounded. Put
On all sides, a group of incredible beings analyzed him, with faces more hostile than curious. They remembered
human beings, but they were far from being so. They were shorter and thinner than men
common; the pointed ears captured everything, and the almond-shaped eyes defied the deepest of
darkness. The skin was delicate and white, and the countenance was cold and insensitive. They wore clothes and cloaks
multicolored, made of very fine fabric. Most carried splendid silver bows, with arrows on the string, but
One of them held a long, single-edged sword. The celestial also noticed that the females had
two pairs of translucent wings, just like dragonflies.
Who were those creatures? Where did they come from? How could they have surprised such a shrewd fighter? Ablon
He was unable to deduce the answers, but he understood a shocking fact. The fabric of reality, of
From one moment to the next, it no longer existed. But how was that possible if he was tied to the physical world?
He remembered his combat in the Tin-Sen Forest. He remembered the moment he entered the temple
pagan, encountering the three ancient spirits. The meeting was only viable because that point was a
vertex, where the physical and spiritual worlds intersect. These places, these vertices, are disappearing
every day. They are a legacy of ancient days, when fabric did not exist and the two worlds were one.
In some rare places, full of mysticism and magic, the vertices continue to exist — it is banality
of the men who destroy them.
Those humanoids were ethereal figures, and Ablon concluded that they could only be...
— My name is Mercurion, of the fairy people — announced the sword bearer, arrogantly. — What does the
bring here, heavenly? You know that your people are not welcome in our domains.
The goblin who had approached him was a spiritual entity and could feel Ablon's aura, the energy
characteristic of angels. He would not be deceived or persuaded. But the warrior did not seek confrontation.
— My people? I'm not really a celestial, Mercurion, I'm a renegade angel. I'm looking for the woman who
scared the monks, the Enchantress of En-Dor — took a chance. Maybe the witch wasn't Shamira, and then he would have
problems. How would he prove he wasn't a spy?
The figure with sword in hand signaled for the others to relax their bows.
— You claim to be a renegade celestial — he wanted to confirm, still cautious.
— I'm an old friend of the sorceress.
A little creature, which at first Ablon thought was an insect, came from behind and landed on his head. Before
that could scare away the interloper, the strange animal took off and took with it two golden strands of
general's hair.
The figure landed on Mercurion's shoulder, and Ablon understood that it was not a wild animal. As in
legends, that was a tiny fairy, with blue and red wings, similar to those of butterflies. THE
tiny body glowed with its own light, like the belly of fireflies. In a bizarre move, the
luminosa chewed and swallowed the intruder's hair, then opened her tiny eyes wide.
— What do you think of our visitor, Serena? — asked the chief of the goblins.
— He's cute — replied the fairy. There was no malice in his heart or in his actions.
—And what else besides that?
"You have nice hair," he said, swallowing the last strand.
With this, strangely, the elves felt safer and more comfortable. The general did not understand how
that little figurine could have such influence over the greater fairies, but the fact is that Mercurion
sheathed the sword.
— And my guest, Renegade Angel — decided the elf, opening a smile. — What's it called?
— Ablon, of the cherubim — he replied, amidst the surreal reception.
— Ablon, of the cherubim... — the other repeated, considering the sound of the name. — The Sorceress of
En-Dor is our guest. I'll take you to her.
The chimeric guards broke up the circle and formed a line.
— Guest... — Ablon thought aloud. — It's as I had imagined.
The warrior angel followed the trail of elves through the forest, in the blue light of the trees. The cold
The freezing cold of winter did not penetrate those parts, only the heat of summer.
— She told us about you, but only superficially — commented the goblin. — It is one of the few
people who know us closely. Most men come to destroy our homes.
— Your houses? — he was surprised. Until then, there was only dense forest and no huts.
It was at that exact moment that they arrived at a second clearing, more spaced out, where the roots gave way to
life to even bigger problems. Holes in the trunk simulated doors and windows, through which people could enter and exit.
fae beings. Some flew with their insect wings, others climbed the stem, and a group played
and skipped on the grass. Among the miscellany of beings, there were those that looked like the animals of the
forest, but most fairies were like human beings, but in miniature, and endowed with
fantastic features. The Renegade Angel fell into contemplation.
— Your domain is fascinating, Mercurion — I have not found such beauty even in the fields of paradise. AND
There was also a kind of warm feeling in the air, a unique, invigorating energy.
— In every oak tree lives a fairy. Whenever a tree dies, the fairy dies too. That's why
we are leaving this world.
Ablon continued to observe the clearing and, for a second, he forgot about his commitments, absorbed
in fantasy.
— Come on — called Mercurion, pulling the fighter by the arm. — The way to the sorceress is this way.
The Lake of the Pure
Angel and elf headed down a narrow path, bordered by blackberries, raspberries and painted mushrooms, and
They reached a place where, fixed to the ground, there was a silk tent, with one of the canvases open. Node
Inside, a woman, sitting at a table made of natural roots, studied parchments and magical objects, at the
yellow light from fireflies. And at his side, as guardian of the place, rested an extraordinary being,
with a long, reptilian body, fiery eyes and huge teeth. It was as big as a lion, and its tail
it duplicated the frightening silhouette. The skin was protected by snake scales, and from the back grew
two dark wings. The monster looked like the mythological dragons, so well portrayed in Viking and
in the drawings of the northern barbarians.
"Sorceress," called Mercurion, and Shamira turned around immediately. The girl's pupils shone brightly.
perceive the presence of your heavenly friend. He left everything aside and ran to hug him.
—Ablon! — she exclaimed, moved. — I'm not even going to ask how you found me — he joked.
— I was lucky this time. The men of the monastery helped me, and then the elves. Can I consider myself
a fortunate traveler," he smiled.
Shamira was a beautiful woman, but at twilight, in that fairyland, the warrior found her still
more charming.
— And what are those clothes? — he asked, noticing the chain mail and shirt he wore, with the
Church cross embroidered on the chest.
— I just wanted to return the favor to the guy who guided me to these woods.
Understanding that there was total complicity between the two, the elf decided to leave. I was convinced of
that Ablon was no threat.
— I'll leave you at ease — and he addressed the general. — The sorceress knows the paths of the forest. She
will guide you.
When Mercurion was already moving away, Ablon, still fascinated by the wonderful Red forest and its
inhabitants, approached her friend.
—Who are these creatures? What is this place, Shamira? Everything is so beautiful, so rich, so abundant. It looks like a
I dream, although I rarely dream.
She was also enchanted by the sublime setting.
— You may have already noticed that we are in the center of a vertex. As the tissue thickens, these
areas survive as pockets, alien to the world of men. I've been coming for a few months now
studying the fairy folk. Mercurion and the high elves are part of the elven court, and are the most
solemn. They are the last of their kind that remain on earth. Fairies and chimeric creatures are
spiritual entities. As the membrane thickens, they become weaker.
The necromancer pointed to the dragon that rested with its eyes open inside the tent. I was attentive,
despite being immobile. Many dragons have the ability to remain inactive for days, years or centuries.
Sometimes they use sorcery to take the form of blocks of stone or tree trunks, so that the
humans cannot identify them.
— Gorigath was appointed as my guardian during the time I was in the fairyland —
continued the woman. — He is also the last of his race, he is the youngest child of Margath, one of the dragons
elders, who lived in this region before the arrival of the Roman usurpers.
— He doesn't seem very threatening to me, despite his fangs and claws.
— Dragons are like fairies. They are beings of nature, with an ethereal essence. Some can
materialize where the fabric is very thin, but such places are a rarity nowadays. Come — she
pulled by the hand. — Come with me. I will take you to the Lake of the Pure.
Alone, Ablon and Shamira walked through the red trees, and all sense of time was lost to them.
erased from the mind. Suddenly, the general smelled the pleasant aroma of fantastic raspberries, the smell
tastiest I've ever tasted. The fragrance awakened his taste buds, and he identified, at the corner of the trail, a
fruit branch. He separated the pommel from the branch, intending to take it to his mouth, but the witch stopped him.
— Don't eat this unless you want to stay here forever.
- Like this? — he was surprised, putting down the raspberry.
— The glimpse of fairyland fascinates all the senses, but it is nothing comparable to taste. If
you were trapped by the vision of the oaks, imagine what would happen if you tasted the faerie tastes.
They say that those who taste the chimerical delicacies are eternally tied to this world.
— It's better not to risk it — he agreed.
They ended their walk on the edge of a small lake, over which floated the same icy mist that
it covered the first clearing, at the entrance to the forest. Aquatic plants stuck out of the water like fingers
giants, and the frogs croaked over the water lilies.
— The Lake of the Pure is, like the corridor of trees, a passage into the vertex —
clarified the woman. —Beyond it there is an exit from the Red flower, which only opens at dusk.
— And this mist? It's so strange, so cold.
— It is an ethereal manifestation. It marks the limits of the area shared by two worlds. Shortly,
I believe, this vertex will disappear, and fairies will be limited to the ethereal plane. It was like that with the island of
Avalon, that one day could! achieved by both men and elves. Now, it only exists beyond the
tissue. On a clear summer afternoon, when the membrane stretches, sensitives can still see the
brightness of your headlights. Soon, even the lights will go out.
— And what will happen to the elves?
- I don't know. Probably some, like Mercurion, will stay here forever, wandering the ethereal, to
watch the plants die, the rivers dry up and the grass burn. But most of them have already returned to Arcadia,
which is your home dimension. It's always summer there, and the heat never goes away.
— It's a sad story — admitted the angel. — Is that why you came here? To mark the final course
of this saga?
— I'm probably the only human they still have direct contact with. I am a bridge
between the chimerical realm and the material plane. Druid priests, who worshiped elves, were
exterminated by the legionnaires of Rome. And today the Church condemns pagan rites. How traditions
Celtic traditions were almost all oral, there are no reports left about fairies and their connection with primitive people.
Ablon lamented the tragedy of those little ones, but even if he wanted to, he couldn't help them. There was also
their own mission to fulfill, and the cherubs are obsessed with completing their demands.
Shamira sat on the shore of the lake, and her face saddened as she looked at the night mirror. THE
joy of receiving his friend was gone, and, in his heart, he remembered that he still didn't know why
of that visit.
—What happened, sorceress?
— I'm happy to have you with me, Ablon, but I also sense a great emptiness. Whenever you come
even me is to warn me of a danger, or to ask me for something absurd. What will my fate be this time?
The cherub understood the woman's distress, and she was right in her feelings. So he preferred to go
straight to the point, because waiting only prolonged the pain.
—In early autumn, I met one of the renegades again, Yarion, Windwing, in the highlands of
Scotland. Together, we found refuge and peace in the Monastery of Saint Luke and there we decided to begin a search for the
around the world to regroup the surviving renegades. But our plan was thwarted. Apollyon
came on our trail and captured Yarion. Then, he dematerialized, with the renegade defeated in the
arms.
— How did he do it? I thought the renegades were trapped in the physical world. Even though Malikis
could disperse his avatar, he could not have carried a fugitive with him.
— I was also impressed. I don't know how he did it, I just know that Deathstroke took Asa de
Wind, indeed, to the dungeons of hell, and I am determined to save you. But I have no means
to travel to Sheol, unless with the aid of a portal.
Shamira understood her friend's wishes and for a moment she didn't believe what he intended.
—Do you have any idea what you're asking me?
— She's the only one I know who knows how to manipulate magic and who has the knowledge to open the connection
spiritual. My celestial powers do not allow me to perform magical rituals. I need your help,
Shamira.
— And what do you have in mind? Invade hell, defeat Apollyon, Lucifer and their hosts and then
free your friend? Even if I open the mystical passage, Yarion is out of your reach now. You
He even told me once that the Dark Archangel is omniscient in his domains. He will know as soon as
you set foot in his kingdom. And he will come to confront you.
— You underestimate my powers.
— No. More than anyone, I know your value and your powers. But neither you nor anyone else could
face so many demons. Furthermore, Lucifer is as strong as any archangel, and practically
invincible in its territory. Not even Miguel would try something crazy like that.
— Because Miguel has no friends to worry about.