Read Online Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) by Wendy Alec - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendy Alec
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scorching black pitch plains inside the monstrous iron gates of hell, as though it were yesterday.
He had vowed by the dark Codices of Diabolos to embrace eternal winter until his allotted time was up according to the Tenets of Eternal Law.
Until the Final Judgement – The Lake of Fire . He shuddered.
His slumber had been fitful these past thirteen moons.
Marred by strange and sinister nightmares.
Charsoc the Dark had plied him with myriad sleeping potions of belladonna, mandragora elixir and hellbroths, furnished by the Warlock Kings of the West.
But nothing had eased the menacing spectres that tormented his dreamings.
He pulled his velvet gown tightly around his form and stared bleakly past the ice-capped crags of Vesper.
Since Golgotha, his power in the land of the Race of Men had been greatly curtailed by the Tenets of Eternal Law. His presence on their futile mass of mud and vapour was illegitimate. The Race of Men was plagued with infirmities . . . beleaguered by vanities . . . contemptible. But he had no alternative. He had to use the craven masses.
His time was running down. He sensed it.
Armageddon drew nearer.
And with it a thousand years incarcerated in the bottomless pit before his demise in the Lake of Fire.
His nails dug harshly into his palm.
At Golgotha his fallen armies, ranged against Michael’s warriors and the Nazarene’s sorceries, had been vanquished with ease. It would never happen again.
This time there would be no error. Deep beyond the Vaults of Vagen, his scientists had been building super-weapons and manufacturing vast armies of monstrous hybrids these past thousand years – preparing for Armageddon.
Lucifer raised his face to the skies.
He would conquer the Nazarene. But there was still one more addition to his ambitious scheme.
The ice blizzards tore the hood from his head, exposing the once-exquisite imperial countenance, now scarred almost beyond recognition in the torrid inferno at his banishment from the First Heaven.
He would produce a super-legion of the Fallen.
A two hundred million army.
He smiled malevolently.
To defeat the Nazarene in the Great Battle.
Armageddon.
His contemplations were interrupted by the thunderous pealing of the monstrous bells of Limbo, echoing across the bleak ice plains.
A thousand jaundice-eyed demonic gargoyles soared from the Citadel’s spires into Gehenna’s skies, screaming maniacally, their scaled wings beating like giant bellows, their great horn claws slashing the skies.
Lucifer swung around to the shadowed figure standing at one of the hundreds of hideous stained-glass windows lining the Eastern Wall.
‘Who summons me at this infernal hour?’ he hissed.
Balberith, Lucifer’s chief of angelic courtiers, bowed deeply.
‘Your Excellency,’ he said, trembling, ‘Charsoc the Dark requests an audience with you.’
‘Charsoc the Dark,’ he scowled. ‘Bearing yet another ineffectual potion !’
A tall bony form moved from the shadows and stood in the Portico entrance.
Charsoc the Dark, Chief High Priest of the Fallen, bowed deeply. Charsoc’s fall from the First Heaven had been second only to his nefarious Master’s. Formerly one of Yehovah’s eight High Elders of the First Heaven and second only in rank to Jether the Just, Charsoc had sunk effortlessly to become the most depraved of Lucifer’s Necromancer kings. He was Governor of the dreaded Warlock Kings of the West and the Dark Cabal Grand Wizards.
Cold-blooded and scheming, he ruled from the Catacombs of Gehenna, second in rank only to Lucifer.
‘My Lord, Esteemed Excellency, it is no potion that I bring.’
Charsoc smoothed his vermillion taffeta gown. ‘It is tidings. Pleasant tidings.’ Charsoc grasped Lucifer’s sleeve with pale jewelled fingers.
‘What, Master, if your reliance on the Monarchs of the Race of Men were at an end?’ Charsoc moved closer. So close that Lucifer could feel his hot breath on his cheeks, ‘What if you could
He had vowed by the dark Codices of Diabolos to embrace eternal winter until his allotted time was up according to the Tenets of Eternal Law.
Until the Final Judgement – The Lake of Fire . He shuddered.
His slumber had been fitful these past thirteen moons.
Marred by strange and sinister nightmares.
Charsoc the Dark had plied him with myriad sleeping potions of belladonna, mandragora elixir and hellbroths, furnished by the Warlock Kings of the West.
But nothing had eased the menacing spectres that tormented his dreamings.
He pulled his velvet gown tightly around his form and stared bleakly past the ice-capped crags of Vesper.
Since Golgotha, his power in the land of the Race of Men had been greatly curtailed by the Tenets of Eternal Law. His presence on their futile mass of mud and vapour was illegitimate. The Race of Men was plagued with infirmities . . . beleaguered by vanities . . . contemptible. But he had no alternative. He had to use the craven masses.
His time was running down. He sensed it.
Armageddon drew nearer.
And with it a thousand years incarcerated in the bottomless pit before his demise in the Lake of Fire.
His nails dug harshly into his palm.
At Golgotha his fallen armies, ranged against Michael’s warriors and the Nazarene’s sorceries, had been vanquished with ease. It would never happen again.
This time there would be no error. Deep beyond the Vaults of Vagen, his scientists had been building super-weapons and manufacturing vast armies of monstrous hybrids these past thousand years – preparing for Armageddon.
Lucifer raised his face to the skies.
He would conquer the Nazarene. But there was still one more addition to his ambitious scheme.
The ice blizzards tore the hood from his head, exposing the once-exquisite imperial countenance, now scarred almost beyond recognition in the torrid inferno at his banishment from the First Heaven.
He would produce a super-legion of the Fallen.
A two hundred million army.
He smiled malevolently.
To defeat the Nazarene in the Great Battle.
Armageddon.
His contemplations were interrupted by the thunderous pealing of the monstrous bells of Limbo, echoing across the bleak ice plains.
A thousand jaundice-eyed demonic gargoyles soared from the Citadel’s spires into Gehenna’s skies, screaming maniacally, their scaled wings beating like giant bellows, their great horn claws slashing the skies.
Lucifer swung around to the shadowed figure standing at one of the hundreds of hideous stained-glass windows lining the Eastern Wall.
‘Who summons me at this infernal hour?’ he hissed.
Balberith, Lucifer’s chief of angelic courtiers, bowed deeply.
‘Your Excellency,’ he said, trembling, ‘Charsoc the Dark requests an audience with you.’
‘Charsoc the Dark,’ he scowled. ‘Bearing yet another ineffectual potion !’
A tall bony form moved from the shadows and stood in the Portico entrance.
Charsoc the Dark, Chief High Priest of the Fallen, bowed deeply. Charsoc’s fall from the First Heaven had been second only to his nefarious Master’s. Formerly one of Yehovah’s eight High Elders of the First Heaven and second only in rank to Jether the Just, Charsoc had sunk effortlessly to become the most depraved of Lucifer’s Necromancer kings. He was Governor of the dreaded Warlock Kings of the West and the Dark Cabal Grand Wizards.
Cold-blooded and scheming, he ruled from the Catacombs of Gehenna, second in rank only to Lucifer.
‘My Lord, Esteemed Excellency, it is no potion that I bring.’
Charsoc smoothed his vermillion taffeta gown. ‘It is tidings. Pleasant tidings.’ Charsoc grasped Lucifer’s sleeve with pale jewelled fingers.
‘What, Master, if your reliance on the Monarchs of the Race of Men were at an end?’ Charsoc moved closer. So close that Lucifer could feel his hot breath on his cheeks, ‘What if you could
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