Ashes to Ashes Read online

  The Scribing of Ishitar

  Ashes to Ashes

  By

  Carrie F. Shepherd

  THE SCRIBING OF ISHITAR: ASHES TO ASHES

  By

  Carrie F. Shepherd

  Copyright © Carrie F. Shepherd 2014

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2014 by Novel Idea Design

  Published by Mythos Press

  (An Imprint of GMTA Publishing)

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.

  Contact:

  GMTA Publishing

  6296 Philippi Church Rd.

  Raeford, NC 28376

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  ISBN-13: 978-0616006733

  ISBN-10: 061600673X

  LCCN: 2013908871

  Dedication

  For my parents, Jerry and Carolene Shepherd,

  with all of my love.

  “Like the moon, a mother of light guiding me from above.

  I sang words of your praise, incantations of love.

  Conversations late into the night filled me with wisdom.

  But in a moment of rage, I unleashed a plague of malevolence.

  My tongue, a scalpel sliced deep into your heart.

  Death took you into his arms and away from me.

  Words are magic, speak them with care.

  Once uttered a spell cannot be undone.

  Think twice before you utter an oath.

  That will leave you with only the memories of ghosts.”

  - Wade Nicholes

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHARLIE

  PART ONE: THE FEAST OF LIGHT

  PART TWO: FALLEN HEROES

  PART THREE: WORDS MISSPOKEN

  AZRAEL

  CHARLIE

  LESSON ONE

  LESSON TWO

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgements

  The greatest lesson that I learned during the publishing process of the first installment of The Scribing of Ishitar, Fall From Grace, is that, while an author might have a great idea, no one person can see the bigger picture. Such was true with Ashes to Ashes.

  I would like to thank Brooke Funk and Gabby Raines, among others who have asked to remain anonymous, for providing me with their feedback and building the story to make it stronger.

  Matthew 5:4

  Blessed are those who mourn,

  for they will be comforted.

  Charlie

  After climbing the hill on the north side of the pond at Liberty Park, Charles Hamilton lowers himself to the ground and removes his shoes and socks. Despite the fact that this has been one of the warmest spring mornings on record in years, the grass is cool on his feet.

  It eases his troubled mind and calms his tattered nerves.

  As do the sounds of the people on their paddle boats on the pond and the children running to and fro around him, their parents calling after them to mind their feet lest they fall.

  The laughter of one particular child brings a smile to Charlie’s face. It is a young boy’s laughter and it reminds him, overwhelmingly, of his nephew, Mason.

  In the distance, the peacocks are calling, screaming at those park goers who have ventured into Tracy Aviary. The chorus raises cries from the golden eagle which, in turn, excites the exotic birds in the surrounding cages.

  To Charlie’s left, his service dog—a long haired golden retriever named Rocky—pants in his ear as he sits patiently at Charlie’s side. An old friend, Charlie finds comfort in Rocky’s constant companionship. He knows that, with Rocky on guard, danger will have a difficult time should it decide today was the day it would seek him.

  The week has been invigorating. It has also been overwhelming.

  On Friday, he went to the bank to peruse the contents of his safety deposit box. He has a standing monthly appointment to do so and rarely finds anything within it that he didn’t place there himself. During this particular visit, however, Charlie discovered that an old friend had visited the bank and added a puzzle box to his many treasures.

  As luck would have it, a gentleman happened to be visiting the bank that day who made his living by studying ancient theologies. The man had recognized the puzzle box at once and proclaimed it to be an extraordinary archeological find. Upon sight, he had vehemently insisted that, should Charlie be able to open the box, he must show him what was hidden inside.

  As curious about the man as he was the puzzle box, itself, Charlie had spent the afternoon with his strange new friend, working the puzzle while conversing on many subjects both large and small. In fact, he came to know the man well enough that, by the time the puzzle was solved and the box sprang open, he wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Joshua Silverstone recognized the tome buried inside it for what it was and that he had studied the ancient symbols making up the language in which it had been written.

  As excited about the find as Charlie, himself, Joshua pleaded with Charlie to allow him to translate the tome. Eager to know the secrets he held in his hand, Charlie more than willingly complied.

  Though Charlie was certain the words within the pages were little more than the myth of the peoples of its time, Joshua insisted that the characters which made up the fascinating tale were littered throughout thousands of other tomes written in the same symbolic prose. And, interestingly enough, this tome, seemingly insignificant when you took the library of Raziel’s Tomes—which was the name of this antiquated series—as a whole, had been missing since time out of mind.

  In fact, it was believed that the copy in Charlie’s hands was the only one ever bound. Because of this, the tome, according to Joshua, was priceless and needed to be preserved at once. “I will pay you whatever sum you like for this tome. If only to complete my collection. I shall even read you all of the rest, if that will entice you.”

  Charlie wasn’t willing to sell Mr. Silverstone the book. Not at any price. Though he chose not to share this with Joshua Silverstone lest he received additional books and required the man’s future assistance in translating them.

  Now, Rocky lets out a long, low sigh, shifts slightly and lowers himself to rest his muzzle on his forepaws. As he does so, he growls low in his throat, warning Charlie that someone is approaching. That Rocky doesn’t bark tells Charlie that he doesn’t consider this person to be a threat.

  Grinning, Charlie reaches forward and buries his hand in the fur between Rocky’s ears to give him a good, hard scratch. It is as he is pulling his hand away that he, himself, senses the presence.

  The scent surrounding the approaching party is blindingly familiar and it takes Charlie completely by surprise. It is the same essence which permeates from the letters and puzzles that he receives from time to time. It is the smell of the mud pots at Yellowstone National Park, though much fainter and more pleasing in its earthiness.

  “Does the A stand for Azrael then?” He teases as his old friend lowers himself at Charlie’s right to sit beside him. “Is this the riddle in the book which I am meant to solve?”

  “It does.” There is a smile to Azrael’s soothingly deep voice. It forms itself around a strange accent, which Charlie is unable to place. It is similar to Joshua Silverstone’s; yet, in a strange way, different. Though very heavy, it is melodic t
o the ear. “And it is.”

  “Have you come for me, then?”

  More teasing. Azrael, in the story, is the archangel of death.

  “Not today.”

  Charlie finds himself chuckling at this cryptic response. “Well then. After a lifetime of playing cat and mouse with me, why have you finally made yourself known?”

  “To see if you enjoyed the spin of my yarn.” Charlie feels him shrug. “To see if the secrets buried within it intrigue you.”

  “How was I to read it?” Charlie asks, grinning to himself. “The text, from what I understand, was more symbols than words. And certainly it wasn’t in Braille.”

  “Let’s not play unnecessary games with one another.” Azrael chuckles under his breath. “I’m well aware that you had help with the translation.”

  “I did.” Charlie admits, though how the man touting himself as the archangel Azrael would know this compounds the mystery and increases Charlie’s curiosity. He wonders if Joshua Silverstone’s sudden appearance in his life was truly coincidental. Feeling rather silly, he realizes that this is a thought that should have occurred to him before. “My new friend tells me the tome is invaluable.”

  “It is.”

  “Why, then, would you give it to me?” He asks.

  Azrael considers him for a long, almost torturous, moment. Finally he says, “Because you remind me of myself.”

  “Do I?” Amused.

  “Yes.” Azrael replies. “Myself before I was cursed by Noliminan to bear such heavy magic.”

  Charlie’s brow furrows as Azrael says this. The sheer conviction behind the sentiment is overwhelming. He could almost believe that Azrael is speaking words of truth rather than playing a game with him.

  Almost.

  The tale is far too fantastical to actually believe.

  “I don’t trust myself anymore, you see.” He explains. “I don’t trust my true hearted opinion. I know too much and am stretched too thin. I am going . . .” he shudders, “insane.”

  “How am I able to help you?” Charlie asks, not dissuading his old friend from this contemplation. “What do you need from me?”

  “My motives are uncertain to me.” He admits. “Although I believe that sharing another piece of my history with you may ease my troubled heart.”

  “Perhaps.” Charlie crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly chilled. “Or, this could be a monumental waste of your time.”

  “You may be right about that.” Azrael agrees. Then, with an obvious smile around his words, “But, you are curious as to what happens to these characters in my tale? You do wish to know what secrets the remaining tomes—in the least those which hold any import—contain?”

  Charlie is unable to deny this. Though Joshua has offered to read the tomes, he understands that he will learn more from listening to Azrael speak of the events within them than merely listening to Joshua reading them.

  A lifetime of the pair of them playing at puzzles has taught Charlie the true depths of his friend’s mind.

  “I am.” He admits. Then, teasing, “Though, this King of Lords bloke; I shouldn’t like to stumble across him in a blind alley.”

  Azrael titters slightly at the pun and begins running his fingers through the grass. The sound of this simple gesture is oddly comforting to Charlie. “Nor should I.”

  “Which manner of God is he?” Charlie wants to know. “Which people worship him?”

  “All people.” Azrael mutters. “As to whom he represents, I should think you could consider him Zeus or Odin or Ra.” Azrael raises his hand and sets it upon his own thigh. It is a lightly made gesture which is nearly impossible for Charlie to detect. “But if you paid even a small bit of attention to the telling of the tale, then you know the status of all three of these Gods is base and not at all as important as the mythology of this world would demand you to believe.”

  Charlie nods. He heard mention being made of a smattering of Gods and angels whose names he knows. Even Azrael’s name comes from Charlie’s Catholic based teachings.

  “What does become of Loki after he eats Ishitar’s pie?” That Azrael knows the answer to this query bears no question in Charlie’s mind. He would have read the other tomes. Charlie is certain of it. “And what becomes of the young Prince of Providence?”

  “You ask for the end of a story before you know the middle bits.” Azrael’s deep laughter is low and respectful. “What about this new book you are reading? The story of Gilles de Rais?”

  “It’s chilling.” Charlie admits. He wants to puzzle over how Azrael knows he is recording that book, but understands the answer to this question will have to come later. “Do you believe—or I should ask, given who you are, I suppose—know if the events described within it are true.”

  “You know I cannot tell you.” Azrael sighs. “I can only speak of what others have told. Not what I, myself, bore witness to.”

  Then it’s a game he still wishes to play. Charlie thinks, wearing a smile.

  “If you lost your voice,” Charlie asks, very haughtily, “how is it that you are talking with me now?”

  “Am I talking with you?” Azrael asks him. “Or am I merely making you believe that I am talking with you?”

  Charlie starts. It is true, given he is blind, that he cannot tell if Azrael is moving his lips. Nor has he heard even the faintest sound of his friend’s breathing.

  This is madness. Nonsense! Merely another riddle to add to the seemingly unending layers of the game.

  “We digress.” Azrael mutters, turning his face away. “And the day is getting away from us.”

  “Very well.” Charlie’s lips grow thin as he bites back a smile. “Tell me of all that came to pass after the revolution ended.”

  “The same thing that always happens.” He shrugs. “Another revolution.” Charlie is unable to suppress his smile. “But the revolution, itself, had little impact. It was the aftermath which, irrevocably, directed the course of history.”

  “By whose hand?” Charlie asks him. “Lucias’ or Loki’s?”

  Azrael shakes his head. “Neither she nor he.”

  “Noliminan?”

  “Not that worthy either.” This time it is Azrael who smiles. “No. The events that changed the course of the worlds came at the hands of a most insignificant creature.”

  Charlie’s smile grows. “A hobbit?”

  “No.” Azrael laughs at this Tolkien reference. The sound of it rattling between them brings Charlie an odd sense of peace. “But near enough to be the point. It was an elf.”

  “An elf.” Charlie snorts and rolls his eyes.

  “The first of his kind.” Azrael’s tone grows serious again. “And, at the time, he was little more than a child.”

  “I’m intrigued.” And, much to his surprise, he is.

  “Shall I tell you then?” Azrael asks, still smiling around his words. “The next bit of my story?”

  “If you have the time.” Charlie’s voice sounds eager to his own ears.

  “My dear, Charles.” Azrael titters. “Must I remind you that I have nothing which I might call my own but time?”

  “Then yes.” Charlie nods at him. “Tell me the next bit of it.” Then, remembering Raziel’s words to Azrael at the beginning of the last story, “And leave not a single sordid detail aside!”

  Part One:

  The Feast of Light

  -1-

  Iladrul awoke with a start.

  Someone was screaming in horrific agony.

  At first, he was confused regarding where the cries were coming from. He realized, quickly enough, that they echoed through the open doors which led from his bedchamber to the long balcony that stretched along the full length of the castle.

  His father had warned him time and again not to sleep with the doors open, but it was the middle of summer and the evening had been sweltering. Iladrul, who had just seen the end of his seventy fifth spring, was still young enough to be overly confident where his immortality was concerned. As such, t
he adolescent elf had assumed that his father—who bordered on paranoid when it came to the boy’s wellbeing—was behaving overly controlling.

  Now, terrified, he sat upright in his ornate bed, clinging to his blankets as he pulled them under his chin. His emerald eyes, wide as saucers, stared wildly toward the marble which made up the balcony’s floor. Two heinous shadows danced within the moonlight, black against the white marble of the tiles.

  At first the silhouettes—both with bodies of men or elves, but sporting great wings that sprang from their shoulder blades—hung in the air, facing each other. The thunderous beating of those wings drove an arrow of terror through his heart.

  With a great cry, the shadow on the left bent swiftly forward and began charging at the shadow on the right. Iladrul watched as one of the winged creatures flew past his open doors, its long blonde hair streaming behind it and its great black, feathery wings horizontal to its long, lithe body. Its arms were outstretched with its white fingers curled into claws. The expression on its shadowed profile was ugly with the twisting rage and murderous intent that it wore clearly upon every line of its face.

  Once it was past the open doorway it crashed into the second figure. This one joined with screams of its own.

  Iladrul watched with wide eyes as the two shadows collided. He wondered which of his father’s friends would die defending him from the blonde haired demon. He was helpless to look away as the shadows twisted and turned in a clawing, fighting rage.

  Soon the shadows loomed closer. As they passed Iladrul’s open door, the young elf’s fears intensified.

  It wasn’t an angel that the blonde haired demon was fighting. It was one of his kindred; another demon.