Part 1 (1/2)
h.e.l.lgate London.
Exodus.
By Mel Odom.
This book is dedicated to my sons s.h.i.+loh and Chandler, who play video games with a vengeance.
(They get that from their dad.).
Can't wait till h.e.l.lgate: London comes out so we can kick b.u.t.t together!
Acknowledgments.
Thanks to editor Marco Palmieri, who helped me figure out the world and how best to approach the novels.
And to the novel review guys at Flags.h.i.+p Studios: Bill Roper, Chris Arretche, Matt Householder, Tyler Thompson, David Brevik, Ivan Sulic, and Phil Shenk, who have helped me stay on the path and provided encouragement.
Thanks also to Steve Goldstein at Flags.h.i.+p Studios() for shuttling the material along.
Historian'sNote.
This story begins eighteen years prior to the events depicted in theh.e.l.lgate: London video game.
Prologue.
LONDON, ENGLAND ALLHALLOWS' EVE, 2020.
The winged demon sped out of the darkness without a sound until it was almost on top of its prey. Then it screamed, a bloodcurdling, high-pitched shrill of terror. The razor-sharp claws of its lower appendages were open to grasp and slash. It looked like a cross between a wedge-headed cat and a flying lizard packed into a vaguely feminine form. Glittering silver-gray scales covered the creature from head to tail. Sulfurous odor trailed in its wake.
The demon was a Blood Angel. And the prey was Thomas Cross, who had witnessed a similar such creature-maybe the same one-gut a fellow Templar standing beside him only a few moments ago.
Thomas stood in the shadows of St. Paul's Cathedral. He kept the stone wall to his back as he turned to face his h.e.l.lish opponent. If he hadn't been walking so close to the structure, the demon probably would have taken him on its first pa.s.s instead of missing by inches.
The trees blotted out some of the moon, blunting the full moonlight that would have made him easier to see in the night. The heads-up-display (HUD) inside Thomas's helmet made the adjustments to bring his opponent into sharp relief.
”Lock,” Thomas commanded.
Instantly the computer-augmented systems built into the armor tagged the demon. Even as the creature flew away, the helm's viewplate kept it marked, tagging it with a blinking red triangle that indicated direction. Digital numbers relayed the distance between the demon and Thomas.
”Target locked.” The computer's voice was that of Thomas's father, copied from records Thomas had of Tregarth Cross before he'd died. The voice was the most calm Thomas had ever heard.
All around Thomas, his fellow warriors fought and died. Dozens of Templar littered the ground already, their armor beaten and broken and shredded. Hundreds more would join them before morning came.
When High Lord Patrick Sumerisle, the Grand Master of the Templar, had called them to action tonight, none of them had believed they would survive. In fact, survival would have meant failure.
Even though he'd prepared all his life to shed his blood to protect the world from the demon hordes, as his father and grandfather before him had, Thomas still hadn't been prepared to watch his brothers-in-arms die. His own likely imminent death left him shaken despite his grim resolve, but the b.l.o.o.d.y carnage that lay where brave men and women he had known had once stood attacked his very faith.
And they had died. Singly, and-now-en ma.s.se.
As the demon came at him, Thomas threw himself to one side, hitting the ground and rolling back to his feet. The armor thudded against the ground, absorbing the shock so that he barely noticed the impact.
The Blood Angel's claws raked the cathedral's stone side, unleas.h.i.+ng a torrent of sparks, and its wings rustled above Thomas. Wheeling, Thomas brought the great broadsword up before him. Emerald-green energy, a blending of NanoDyne technology and arcane forces, sparkled along the blade.
The demon flapped its leathery wings and heeled over, coming back on target with the speed of a swooping falcon. The bigger ones, and more powerful, had taken out some of the British special forces jets within hours after the h.e.l.lgates had opened two weeks ago. Thomas had watched in helpless horror as the aircraft had dropped into Central London and taken out whole city blocks. Only carnage and rubble had remained.
Come on, you blackhearted h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n. Tonight's a dance of death, and devil take the hindmost.
Thomas knew he'd never live to see morning. They'd known that-all of them-when they'd left the Underground to bring a final battle to the demons that had invaded their earth.
But Thomas hadn't been able to turn away, not even knowing that. He was a warrior. More than that, he was a Templar, a knight who had pledged to follow the Rule. He was Seraphim of the House of Rorke. As the First Guard of the House, his loyalty and courage were unquestionable.
He stood clad in the armor his father had helped him make in the eldritch forges beneath London, in the hidden tunnels of the Underground the Freemasons had started building back in the seventeenth century. Pewter-gray and black, the armor yet sparked with the arcane energies Thomas had pounded into the metal when he'd cast it. He'd also layered in NanoDyne upgrades that turned the armor into more of an exoskeleton, powering him up rather than merely protecting him. He'd forged his sword as well, crafting a Negotiator.
Made from an arcane alloy of palladium, strengthened by the holy energies Thomas had called to his cause all those years ago, the sword was a fierce weapon. It was light enough to be employed with one hand and sharp enough to slice through an engine block.
Yelling, Thomas raced forward to meet the beast, hoping to strike quickly enough to throw the Blood Angel's timing off. Thomas attacked, swinging with all the considerable strength the armor lent him.
The demon stretched forth one of its lower extremities, intent on seizing Thomas's head. The sword met the demon's clawed foot in a spray of green sparks. The keen blade sliced through the demon's leg, lopping the limb off near the body. Black ropes of blood hit the ground and cathedral wall. The dark, viscous liquid hissed and smoked.
Angry and in pain, the Blood Angel squawled and turned toward the dark sky.
Thomas followed the creature, moving to take advantage of the scant cover afforded by the trees along the outside of St. Paul's Cathedral. Fires already danced along the top of the building, promising complete destruction if they weren't put out.
A few weeks ago the London Fire Brigade might have been able to arrive in time to save the cathedral.
But most of those brave men and women were dead now, and the ones that hadn't fallen in battle or to a disaster had other tragedies to deal with tonight. Death walked through the city on cloven hooves and clawed feet.
The Blood Angel glided to the high branches of one of the nearby trees. It held the stump of its maimed leg in its taloned hands. The crimson runes burned into the demon's skin glowed fiercely. Abruptly, the severed stump stopped bleeding. Turning its baleful gaze on Thomas, the nightmarish creature launched itself into the air and attacked again.
Spinning to his right, raising his armored left arm to provide some protection from attack, Thomas took a fresh grip on his sword.
”Down, Thomas!”
Thomas reacted instantly to the familiar voice of command, dropping into a crouching position. Armor sc.r.a.ped against his own as someone took up a position at his back. Then he saw the squat, ugly body of the six-barreled Spike Bolter thrust before him. Instantly, the pistol barked and jerked in the mailed fist.
Palladium bullets with sharpened tips erupted from the barrels as it whined to life. The rounds impaled the Blood Angel, opening up b.l.o.o.d.y craters and furrows in the scaly flesh. Crossing its arms before its head, seeking to protect its face, the demon veered away and gained alt.i.tude. The Spike Bolter kept whining. Holes opened up in the demon's wings and allowed the moonlight to s.h.i.+ne through.
Relieved, Thomas turned to the Templar behind him. He instantly recognized Guy Wickersham's distinctive royal purple-tinted armor. Guy was older than Thomas, in his sixties now, old enough to be Thomas's father. He had helped train Thomas, and had even helped Thomas train his son.
Thomas grinned but didn't dare lift the faceplate on his helm. ”Thanks, Guy.”
The older Templar nodded. He leaned heavily against the wall behind him. ”Don't mention it.” ”Are you all right?”