Rise Of The Nephilim
Chapter 18

The fighting had been intense.

Maxine instinctively grabbed the side of her neck and gasped at the sound of the sword when it swiftly cut across the neck of the unfortunate Epoch.

She watched his head roll toward her, blood trailing behind it. For reasons, she did not understand, she’d felt the weight of the sword when it landed. She imagined her head being cut away from her body as if her life had no meaning.

The room fell silent when Āmand descended to the middle of the square. He neglected to acknowledge the victor as was expected after a great battle was won. But for him, an Epoch’s life was worthless, and no Epoch victor could demand such respect.

Maxine’s gaze remained fixed on the head; its eyes peered up at her through the holes cut into its face armor. She swallowed hard.

“I hope that you enjoyed that little demonstration, those of you who are new,” Āmand said. Maxine and Zeda looked at each other. They’d been the last to arrive in Babylonia―Zeda only six weeks earlier than Maxine.

Āmand paced slowly around the room, making eye contact with his Nephilim.

“For after your training is completed, within eight weeks, each of you will face an Epoch in a death battle such as this.” He stared down at Maxine. His words traveled cold and hard like ice through her veins. She felt her heart skip several beats as she swallowed, thinking that she could lose her head in just eight weeks.

“There will be no mercy. It’s time to prove your allegiance to my Dominion. Prove that you are worthy to call yourself Nephilim, worthy of my might, and to be counted amongst the denizens of my city,” Āmand pronounced, his wings extended wide. “The last offspring has come home to join us―number six-million and five-hundred thousand―the final numbers sanctioned for all of Babylon, including those of my brothers. And so, the waiting is over. The time for retribution has begun, and the day of The Reckoning is near.”

Maxine did not realize that she was the plus one, after four hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine. She should have felt some measure of insult. Instead, that feeling of being a count in some larger plot eluded her.

Āmand pointed a finger toward an Epoch, signaling for the training to commence.

The Epoch entered the battle zone, sword in hand. He walked along the perimeter of the tables, trying to decide whom he would select for the challenge.

The closer he got to Maxine, the more she felt as if she would leave her body. He dragged the sword along the tables as he walked by. There was no escape. Nephilim all would, at some point, cross swords with an Epoch.

“I would like to be the first,” Maxine said, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, the trembling of her feet and hands. She stood up. “Pick me. I’m ready,” she insisted. She figured that being the first to go would be best, for at least if she survived, her fear of dying would cease to exist.

Zeda whispered, “Are you crazy? Sit down. Sit down.”

The Epoch approached her and stood before her, eye to eye. “You will get your chance soon enough, Nephilim.”

“But, I’m―”

“I will choose,” the Epoch insisted.

Maxine sat down reluctantly, all eyes piercing through her.

“You, stand up,” he ordered.

Zeda stared up into the eyes now bearing down on her.

“Why? I’m not ready.”

A current of air stormed through the room, causing strings of hair to flutter and shivers to blow through the Nephilim.

“There is no room for cowards here!” Āmand said as he stood before Zeda.

Zeda garbled her words. “I’m sorry, Father. I only―”

Āmand smiled. “You will fight the Epoch or face the blades of my wings.”

Zeda swallowed the knot in her throat, her eyes burning down on the table before her with the shimmering edge of the Epoch’s sword. “I choose to fight, Father.”

“You have chosen well, daughter.”

Maxine, very gingerly, grabbed Zeda’s hand and squeezed it. After all, Zeda had gone out of her way to make her feel welcome, and now she felt that it was her duty to be of some comfort.

Āmand shifted his eyes to Maxine before he ascended back to the top of the cave. Maxine ignored his gaze, turning instead back to Zeda.

“Be brave,” she whispered. “Kick his ass.”

Zeda’s breath was uneven as anticipation and anxiety surged through her.

“Easy for you to say after what you did last night,” she said.

Maxine had not been able to fathom her ability to have made such a fatal blow on Balthazar. The heaviness of the sword had left its imprint in the palms of her hand. The smell of blood was fresh in her mind.

“I will wait no longer, Nephilim,” said the Epoch as he walked to the center of the battle arena, running his gloved fingers against his blade.

“Go. You can do it,” Maxine said as she stepped away from the table to allow Zeda a path to the arena.

Zeda walked slowly toward the center, her eyes fixed on the Epoch, who stood impatiently with his arms folded across his chest, his sword resting on his shoulder.

The image of the Epoch’s head rolling across the floor during the demonstration flashed like a nightmare in front of her eyes. There was still a trail of blood left on the ground.

A sword slid across the stone floor towards Zeda. She picked it up. Before she had a chance to take her proper fighting stance―a slight squat, one leg forward, the other back, the sword in one hand, the other supporting it and eyes trained on her challenger―she felt the force of her sword knocked out of her hand, almost bending her wrist back. The Epoch had brought his sword down to meet hers.

She squealed at the surprise attack, her eyes clouding with tears.

After the initial shock and a unified gasp, some of her Nephilim siblings, including Maxine, stood up and began to cheer her on. “Zeda . . . Zeda!”

Zeda cleared her eyes with her free hand as she bent to retrieve the sword, this time keeping her eyes on the Epoch.

She stepped back quickly when the Epoch charged toward her, swinging his sword wildly. Everything in her wanted to run, but she held her ground, this time using the strength of both hands to meet his sword. With the sheer force of his well-built frame, he swung her around. But the sword remained in her hands.

“Zeda . . . Zeda!”

She tried her best to fight back and to not be a disappointment to the others. However, when the Epoch’s sword met the side of her neck, the blade just barely pressing into her skin, it was clear that she was no match for him. And it would be weeks, maybe even months before she would be ready for the final test.

Every muscle in her body felt paralyzed. She felt as if she’d died.

A hush permeated the room. They all knew that had it been the final battle―the battle to the death―her head would have been cut away from her body, left to roll like some hollow thing not worthy of remembrance or even tears.

Āmand swooped down in the middle of the battle arena, his face stern and emotionless.

“Epoch, remove your sword,” he ordered.

He moved closer to Zeda, “I hope for your sake, daughter, that you will be ready at the end of this.”

She saw the disappointment in his eyes as he looked at her.

“Remove yourself.”

“Yes, Father.”

She returned to her seat with tears clouding her vision.

“You’ll do better next time; I promise you,” Maxine said, gently squeezing her hand.

“Sarai, come here,” Āmand commanded, his hands clasped behind his back.

A flash of regret for her bold act earlier rushed through her. Now she wished that she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Since you were in such a hurry earlier to take your turn at the Epoch, here’s your chance.”

Maxine did not hesitate, though every nerve, every muscle, and vein felt weak and flaccid. But she kept her resolve, refusing to cower in front of them.She walked to the center of the arena and claimed the sword given to her.

Āmand did not disappear into the darkness at the top of the cave this time. Instead, he retreated to a corner of the room with his arms folded over his chest.

Maxine took her fighting stance, her eyes trained on the Epoch and her heart pounding swiftly. The room echoed with her name, “Sarai . . . Sarai!” as her siblings chanted, their feet stamping down hard on the floor.

Now, her anxiety became raw exhilaration. She smiled as adrenalin shot straight to her head. I can do this. I can do this, she kept telling herself.

The Epoch charged at her. Before the expected impact, she quickly moved out of his line of attack. With the Epoch’s back to her now, she jammed her feet into it with all her strength. A burst of cheers filled the room. The Epoch stumbled, almost falling to the ground from the weight of her push.

She maintained her stance and waited for the Epoch to recover.

Filled with rage, the Epoch charged again, this time knocking Maxine to the ground and dislodging her sword from her hand; it landed with a clang. Her head hit the floor with a hard thump. There was a gasp.

Images fogged and moving, flashed in her mind. She heard voices; they called to her.

“Maxine . . .”

She reached out to touch the face of a woman. A woman she did not know but felt a warm connection to. “Mom?” she called out. The images began to disappear, drowned out by the voices in the room telling her repeatedly to get up.

She shook her head and widened her eyes just in time to see the Epoch coming toward her again. She looked to each side for her sword. And when she saw it, she rolled towards it, retrieving it just in time to meet the Epoch’s blade as it descended upon her.

The sound of blade against blade sent power surging through her. Her audience exploded with exhilaration and cheers.

The Epoch brought all his strength down on her. Maxine felt herself weakening, her elbows beginning to buckle. She kneed him in the groin. He yelped but did not hold back. She drew her feet in and plunged them into his knees, causing him to lose his balance.

The room erupted once more. “Sarai . . . Sarai!”

Āmand stood in his corner emotionless, arms still folded over his chest, even as exhilaration coursed through him.

Maxine regained her stance as the Epoch recovered. He rushed toward her again, this time, landing his sword just centimeters away from her neck. She gasped, as did her siblings. Everything became still. Maxine’s face split into a triumphant smile.

“Not bad for your first test,” the Epoch whispered, for he’d realized that her blade was also at his throat.

Āmand walked toward the center of the arena, his face still emotionless. None of his Nephilim had ever matched an Epoch without a great deal of training.

“It’s a draw,” he said, breaking the standoff. “But not good enough,” he said with his eyes trained on Maxine.

The power, which burned through her, was suddenly extinguished. Now she felt deflated as if she’d failed. She turned her eyes away from Āmand and looked toward the Epoch, who stood only inches away from her. She noticed something different in his eyes. Compassion. She’d figured Epochs to be cold and lifeless.

There will be others who will pledge their allegiance to you. Mathias’s words resonated in her mind. She wondered if maybe her encounter with Mathias had not been a dream after all. That her true name was Maxine and not Sarai. And that this Epoch, and maybe others, were there as her protectors and allies.

Night had fallen, and all newly arrived Nephilim―fifteen in all―had been tested against an Epoch.

“Today was a test of your will. Tomorrow your real training begins. There is no room for weakness or failure. Our future, the future of our empire, hinges on your ability to defeat the Humans who dare not bend their knees to Babylon. The fight will be fierce. And because it will be fierce, I will not tolerate failure,” Āmand said, pacing slowly in the center of the arena as he addressed his Nephilim. “Go. Rest tonight, for tomorrow, will be a test of your resolve.”