Omen of Light Read online

  the first installment of

  Omen of Light is the first installment in the upcoming novel Covenant of Blood, volume two in The Chronicles of Times series. Volume one, Prophecy of the Heir, is available in print or ebook at all major online retailers.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2013 JC Lamont.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  Cover design by Caleb Havertape.

  Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved. Used with Permission.

  Trionicle design by James Cline, Kanion Rhodes Studio.

  Copyright © 2012. All rights reserved. Used with Permission.

  Map by JC Lamont.

  Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.

  Crimson Moon Press

  www.crimsonmoonpress.com

  NOTE TO READERS

  Omen of Blood, a 36,000-word novella, is an advanced reader’s copy of the first chapter of the upcoming novel, Covenant of Blood, the sequel to Prophecy of the Heir, and is subject to revision.

  SPOILER ALERT:

  Dawn of Shadows is only the first chapter of Prophecy of the Heir. To avoid a massive amount of spoilers, you need to read Prophecy of the Heir BEFORE reading this novella, because Prophecy of the Heir contains 16 additional chapters. This novella, Omen of Light, is the first chapter of Covenant of Blood, the sequel to Prophecy of the Heir.

  The Chronicles of Time

  a seven book series released in three volumes

  Volume I: Prophecy of the Heir:

  (Books One and Two)

  Available in print and e-book

  Volume II: Covenant of Blood

  (Books Three and Four)

  Coming Soon

  Volume III: Abolition of Death

  (Books Five, Six, and Seven)

  Coming Soon

  Omen of Light

  Appendix A: General

  Appendix B: Birth of Christ

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Reviews

  Other Works by JC Lamont

  What Has Come Before

  as told in

  Volume I: Prophecy of the Heir

  From the shadows, sorrow has woken,

  The curse of death all must bear;

  A blade between you and the woman,

  Against her seed, your enmity will tear;

  From your strike, a bruise shall be taken,

  Yet from his blow, you will not fare;

  Renewed shall be lives that were broken,

  Behold, the prophecy of the Heir.

  All across Mortal-earth, the Shaityrim—servants of the dark lord, Shaitan—rule from ethereal citadels that hover over cities and countries, unseen by the mortals who venerate them as spirit-lords. But not all mortals adhere to the rites of the Shaityrim. Known as defectors, those who pay homage only to King Jehuva El Elyon of Shamayim, are guarded by the Malakim.

  But all who dwell on Mortal-earth are subject to the curse, and upon death, their souls are taken to Sheol, land of the dead. While those who walked in darkness dwell in a barren wasteland, those who walked in light dwell on the island of Khayden, a botanical paradise amidst the flaming river of Gehenna.

  Only the prophesied Heir can free them from the captivity of death, for though he will suffer a bruise at the hand of Shaitan, he will rise triumphant as the Judge of Time, with the authority to grant immortality, and the power to destroy the dark lord and all who follow him.

  It all began at the dawn of Time, when Shaitan was known as Lucifer Haylel, commander of the Malakim. After witnessing the creation of the sub-natural world, Lucifer discovered the sword entrusted him bore the means to kill ethereal beings. Lusting after power, he sought to usurp the throne of King Elyon. In secret, he tamed the feral Khimara, trained legions of Malakim in the art of swordcraft, and groomed his favored lieutenant, Michael, as his second in command.

  But when Michael learned of his commander’s true intentions, he risked his immortality to defend King Elyon’s throne. Lucifer and his legions were banished, and Michael was appointed the new commander of the Malakim.

  Ever obsessed with ruling Shamayim, and desiring revenge for his banishment, Shaitan sought lordship of Time. Possessing a serpent, he tricked the sub-natural couple into unleashing the curse of death on their world. But even as all Time fell into darkness, a prophecy written in blood foretold of a coming Heir who would destroy Shaitan’s power, and break the curse of death.

  Though all Mortal-earth belonged to the dark lord, King Elyon claimed the small country of Amanah as his own. And his son, the Prince of Shamayim and Captain of the Malakim, appointed Michael as guardian of the House of Jacov—the ancestors of the Heir.

  Seeking to prevent the birth of the Heir, Shaitan set out on a relentless quest to annihilate the House of Jacov. Despite slavery, death camps, massacres, and captivities, Michael and his legions protected the sacred bloodline. But then Shaitan rose up an empire steeped in bloodlust, who sought to unite all mortal-earth under one banner. Desperate to protect the House of Jacov, Michael killed priests and kings in attempt to keep the empire of Rhòme from overtaking King Elyon’s country. But in the end, all seemed lost, for Amanah fell.

  In this, Michael’s darkest hour, the time for the Heir drew near. And just as the shadows that sought to destroy him crept ever inward, he was devastated to discover the long-awaited Heir was none other than the Prince, his closest comrade, who chose to lay aside his power and immortality to become a mortal babe.

  Forsaking his position as commander of the Malakim army, Michael now serves as the Prince’s guard. Fearing the day he must stand aside and allow the Prince to undergo the prophesied bruise, Michael is haunted by visions of a bleeding tree growing atop a blackened skull…

  Plumes of white mist drifted across the barren region of oblivion, swirling and dancing in rhythm with an unheard melody. An ethereal dove soared across the nothingness, its luminous form gliding through the miasma, leaving in its wake shimmering clouds of vapor. Across immeasurable emptiness, the dove flew, as though searching for anything beyond its own existence and that of its master and its master’s son.

  But it found none.

  Even the mist was a part of it, an extension of itself that swept into the farthest corners of the vast expanse above, beside, and below.

  From within, the dove felt a summons. Circling, it flew back through the eternity of mist, then alighted on the shoulder of the one who had beckoned it.

  A bronze being cloaked in gold, the King wore a crown embedded with twelve jewels upon his head. Before him stood another numinous presence, one who resembled him in both stature and countenance.

  In his hand, the King clenched two coarse straps, and his brows furrowed with the strain of his words. “Are you certain you understand the consequences? The sacrifice?”

  “Yes,” his son answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She is worth it.”

  The King released a sigh. “So be it.”

  He gestured with an elegant flourish of his seven-fingered hand, and a rumbling sounded. The mist between them erupted in violent churns, releasing an eerie wail of mourning and grief as it coalesced into a table of stone. The dove flew from the King’s shoulder, and perched on the edge of the newly-formed altar.

  With resolute determination, the Prince drew his sword, and held out the white hilt towards his father. Anguish etched the King’s features as he took the blade.

  In a whirlwind of light and mist, the Prince transformed into a white la
mb. A lamb with seven horns and seven eyes. A lamb devoid of mark; spotless, and without blemish.

  The creature made no sound, even as the King bound and laid it on the stone table.

  Gently, the King placed his hand on the lamb’s head.

  Then, he drew the sword across its neck.

  4,000 years later…

  1

  The hour of darkness will come.

  The dark lord’s words haunted the recesses of Michael’s mind as he stared into the flame of a solitary candle. Fear coiled within him, constricting his body like a serpent crushing the life from its prey.

  Less than three fortnights had passed since he’d killed more Shaityrim in one night than he had in four millennia. Against the Rules of Engagement, the minions of the dark lord had infiltrated the tiny village of Beth Lehem, swarming its streets, seeking to terrorize the mother of the Heir into delivering him as a stillborn. Michael had invoked the jewel of death, his onyx blade arcing in a frenzy of black light.

  But still they attacked—without fear, knowing that if they succeeded in killing the Heir, they would be released from their infernal prison. Out of the darkness, from rooftops and through walls, they came, cutting Michael off from the young woman, slashing, stabbing, thrusting. As though it were but a few moments ago, he could still sense the erratic beats of her heart, hear her panicked gasps for breath, see her clutching her belly as Shaityrim hissed to her mind that her child was dead.

  Desperation had guided Michael’s blade as he slashed at the thick ring of warriors closing in around him. At last he had broken free and rushed to her side, whipping his sword through the neck of the closest Shaityr. Barely registering the severed head flying through the air and dissipating in a plume of black vapor along with its body, Michael had advanced on another, plunging his blade into the Shaityr’s throat, until vapor issued from his mouth and he faded into nothing.

  But no sooner had the mortal woman’s breathing calmed than the dark lord himself appeared. And though he too failed to kill her child before it was born, his parting taunt echoed throughout Michael’s dreams. Unbidden, the haunting images swam before his eyes—a massive, blackened skull rising from the depths, its curved top fracturing as a white tree erupted from within, its roots slithering like serpents through the gaping sockets, with blood oozing from every crevice, cascading down the white bark, spilling onto the skull, and drenching the ground in a crimson pool.

  A hand extinguished the flame into which Michael had been staring, lost in his thoughts, and the room fell into darkness. Michael jumped, his hand on his sword hilt, but his eyes quickly registered that it was only Joseph, settling in for the night.

  Michael glanced over at the infant Heir, asleep beside his mother, Miryam. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another. If he could work his will, the Heir’s mission would be over, that prophecy fulfilled, the curse broken, and the Captain back in the numinous world of Shamayim, where he was immortal…and safe. Failing that, he would have sequestered the couple and their child in the most remote region of mortal-earth. And beyond all else, he would ensure that they never entered the city of Shailem.

  Yet that was precisely where they were headed on the morrow.

  It was only a matter of time before Shaitan made his move.

  And then the hour of darkness would come.

  2

  Wind whipped through the skull-like cavities of a hill lined with Excrucio beams. Compelled beyond his control, Michael stared across the city of Shailem at the rotting corpses nailed to the tree posts, the blood spilling down the timber, and the vacant stares of the dead. No longer able to ignore the similarities between such a vile form of execution and the bleeding tree of his dreams, he tore his gaze away.

  Pushing aside his despair, he forced his attention onto his charges, as a convoy of Malakim escorting them into the City of Peace. The irony of the name was palatable, for Shailem was more saturated with strife, riots, and chaos than any other city in the country of Amanah.

  Carried by his mortal mother and accompanied by his adoptive father, the long awaited Heir—the Prince of Shamayim and Captain of the Malakim—lay bundled against his mother’s chest, oblivious to the danger around him, and to those who hunted his soul.

  Unaware of their ethereal escort, the mortal couple meandered through the city streets towards the temple. Michael glanced up at the numinous citadel hovering over Shailem. Like the Malakim, the citadel was invisible to mortal eyes. An open-centered fortress that hovered several leagues above the perimeter of the city, it bore a low-walled, battlemented parapet lined with Malakim, who bowed as their Captain passed by in Miryam’s arms.

  An imperiel, a warrior ranked below a Malakim lieutenant, signaled that passage to the temple was safe. But Michael knew better than to lower his guard. He eyes swept the temple complex looming before them, and rested on the Rhòman garrison jutting from the northwestern corner of the outer wall. The Antonia Fortress was a constant reminder that Shailem, capital of Amanah, was controlled by Shaitan. Michael scanned the ranks of Shaityrim scowling from the numinous outpost above the fortress, but the dark lord was not amongst his minions.

  The convoy reached the temple without incident, and the couple traipsed up the steps. Michael tensed as they passed beneath the mortal soldiers stationed atop Antonia, gripping their gold eagle-mounted standards as they watched the passerby. Though they paid the couple no heed, Michael’s hand never left the hilt of his sword.

  Joseph and Miryam strode through the outer courtyard where defected goyim gathered in hushed supplication to King Elyon. Usually the sight of so many white-souled foreigners would have caused Michael great joy, but under the circumstances, he was just anxious to return his charges back to the quiet village of Beth Lehem where they dwelt.

  In the royal stoa—the three-tiered cloisters that ran along the southern wall of the Court of Goyim—Joseph purchased two doves, then led his wife into the inner courtyard dedicated only for those of Jacovite descent.

  An elderly man jerked towards them as they entered, then hurried towards them. Michael reached for his sword, and only when he saw the white smoke-filled soul within the man’s chest, denoting his status as a defector, did he release his grip.

  The man stood before them, and reached trembling hands toward the baby. “May I?” he asked, in a voice feeble with either frailty or excitement. Miryam glanced at her husband apprehensively, but he nodded. With a bit of reluctance, she handed her son to the stranger.

  Tears welled in the old man’s eyes as he took the babe in his arms. After a moment, he looked up at the sky. “Your Majesty, allow your servant to die in peace, for you have shown me the Deliverer, the light of Mortal-earth, and the glory of your people, the House of Jacov.”

  After handing the infant back to his mother, the old man wiped his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “But I have waited a long time for this day. I thought I would I would never die, and would be forced to see this city….” His words trailed off, and he gave a small laugh. “But His Majesty, Elyon, King of Shamayim, fulfills his vows.”

  An elderly seeress hobbling past them stopped when she heard the old man’s words. Her lined face lit up as she looked from him to the baby. “Can it be?” she asked. “Can it really be? Oh, what will dear Shimon think? I will have to tell him this very instant. As high priest, he will be most pleased. And I must tell Elder Joazar, and Elder Ananus, and Elder Phabi, and Elder Nebedeus, and young Helcias, though he’s not really that young, though when you get to be my age everyone is young. Well, take care, dear,” she said, barely taking a breath between words. Patting the young mother’s arm, she added. “What a day, what a day. Hail Elyon.”

  The old man laughed. “That was Anna,” he said as the seeress tottered away. “She’ll tell everyone she sees the prophesied Heir has come…though I doubt many will believe her. My name is Simeon.”

  “My name is Joseph, son of Jacob,” the young man said. “And this is my wife, Miryam. Sir, I must ask, h
ow did you know?”

  For a moment the elderly man didn’t respond. Then, “This child is destined to cause many in Amanah to fall, though he will also bring great joy to many. He has been sent as a sign from Shamayim, though I fear many will oppose him. But in this manner, the secret thoughts of mortal hearts will be revealed.” His eyes traveled from the babe to Miryam, and he added gravely, “Know this: a sword shall pierce your soul.”

  Miryam stiffened and drew back from him, clutching the baby closer to her chest. Simeon gave a bow, and moved away, muttering, “Bless you, bless you.”

  Miryam looked up at Joseph, with eyes that seemed to plead he ensure the old man’s words would never come to pass. But Joseph looked equally perplexed, for neither of them knew of what the wizened Jacovite spoke.

  But Michael knew.

  The bruise.

  † † †

  “What is the child’s name?” the priest in charge of buying back the firstborn sons asked.

  “Jeshua,” Joseph replied, handing him the two doves.

  While the priest prepared the sacrifice, Michael was joined by Gavriel, acting commander of the Malakim army during Michael’s interim as the Heir’s guard.

  Michael gripped his comrade’s shoulder warmly. “What news?” he asked. “Where is Shaitan?”

  “With Hérod, going over the Rhòman census registration,” Gavriel said. “Considering the fact that Hérod has already killed one wife and two sons whom he felt were a threat to his rule, Shaitan hopes to play on his murderous paranoia to kill anyone with a legitimate claim to the Jacovite throne.”