Red Serpent: The Falsifier
Copyright © 2010 by Delson Armstrong
Art by Maciej Rebisz
Book Design by Steven Peterson
Photo by Michael Turino
All rights reserved.
Published by 9ine Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblances to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of 9ine Inc.For information regarding permission, write to 9ine Inc., Attention: 9ine Inc, 1710, First Avenue, Suite 169, New York, NY 10017
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010912377
ISBN 978-0-9829523-2-0
Printed in the U.S.A
9ine Inc. Release: October 2010
For Mom, Dad, and Baby
Thanks for your support, your commitment and
for being the way you guys are. I love you all very much!
This book would not have been made possible without the following people whom I’d like to acknowledge.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my editors, Kenneth Brosky and Daniel Kenyon for their advice, ruthlessness, and complete faith in this work.
If it were not for Sidhesh Sarda and Rudraksh M. Kulshreshtha, this book would have never been as it is now. They’ve been and remain my constant critics.
In India, they say that the most important person in your life, more than your parents, is the guru, the teacher. And I tend to follow that view because I have been blessed by such teachers while I was actually in the writing process. It was because of them that I was able to get a broader view on life which, at the time, I desperately needed. Those teachers are:
Sandeep Sehgal, for nourishing my mind with some great literature and practical wisdom.
Dr. CVL Srinivas, for helping me to advance spiritually and broadening my creative abilities.
Cmdr. D.N. Joshi and his family, for making me a part of their home.
Nishanth Nagavar, for his constant help and insights on life and for the fun times we had.
Pritha Mukherjee, for helping me with the historical and political basis of this book, without even knowing it!
I also want to acknowledge Luke Sequeira, for those crazy times in Bombay, the love and support of a true friend and just for being the way you are and helping me more than was ever required!
And of course, there are so many people out there who’ve touched my mind and heart in a way that’s helped to go on with the mental journey of completing a book that took a total of almost nine years. There are literally hundreds of people that I’ve met along the way who’ve shaped my views on life. I’d like to thank those nameless faces who’ve done so.
Darkness eclipsed all of Migra and its people as they waited. “This is a damn waste of time!” said the beefy man, as he looked up at the window of the highest tower of the castle.
His wife was three feet shorter than him but almost as plump. She looked at him, her eyes widened and glistening with relentless fear. “Don’t say such things, Kalev,” she scolded him.
“Good riddance to the wretch,” he said, continuing his steady gaze.
The surrounding crowd pushed and shoved, awaiting news. Some hoped for good, but most for bad. The ones who wanted him to die waited eagerly for the word. They looked up to the window, wondering when the hour of his death would arrive. Those who supported Anaxagoras XXIX wept, praying the king would escape from this fate.
A man nearby, skinny and fraught with a noble arrogance, said to Kalev, “You’re wrong, you know. Mind your tongue or I’ll report you to the commander.” His beady eyes pierced at Kalev.
“Will you now?” the large man said. His fuzzy mustached face reddened. “Do you know what he’s put us through? We’ve suffered four deaths in the family.” He boldly pointed to the castle, “He threw my son into the dungeons. It’s been thirty years since we last saw him! Not a day goes by that we don’t think of him.”
The scrawny man scrutinized Kalev’s wife and then turned his eyes back to Kalev. “What does it matter,” he scoffed, as people shoved harder to hear what news would arrive from outside the castle. The crowd almost pushed the man and those in front to the filthy edge of the moat. The man gesticulated, “Look around you. The majority here wants him alive and we’ll stand by him.” His vicious smile revealed dirty yellow teeth. Kalev said nothing and kept his eyes on the tower. His frightened wife stood closer to him and looked at this stranger, so loyal to the crown.
Suddenly the three of them turned their heads as the crowd made way, separating in two halves. Kalev and his wife walked to one side, while the noble ran across to the other.
A cloaked figure appeared on the middle path between the crowds, his face hidden within the shadow of his hood. He glided through the air towards the castle, where he demanded with a gesture of his hands to be let in.
The bridge dropped over the moat with a loud thud. On the other side, where the spectators stood, the large gates opened, making a deep and hollow moan. Hushed whispers and gasps erupted from the crowd. From inside the walls of the castle, came the sound of stamping feet. The marching amplified by the moment until shadowy figures could be seen. The shadows formed into men with spears and shields. Their armor shone silver and gold.
This small militia was led by a portly commander, bearded and bald except for a few oily black wisps of hair that sprung out on the back and sides. “What do you want?” the commander barked. The figure remained silent and the commander asked him again, this time more impatiently. Again, the figure remained silent. “I think,” said the frustrated commander, “I asked you a question. What is it you want?” Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. The figure raised his right hand and snapped his fingers and the commander and spectators froze in time.
A moment passed and everyone snapped out of the trance. This time the commander spoke in a softer tone, “Let this man in; he wishes to see the king, and says the king orders it done. So be it!”
Inside the king’s room, the cold dark walls seemed to express death. A little light flickered around the room, from the dancing flames of torches, and yet darkness seeped through everything.
The king slept fitfully. As the hour of his demise drew near, he felt the haunting presence of his surroundings. He felt it in every ounce of his soul.
The large wooden door croaked open and the cloaked figure sashayed across the room. The king opened his eyes. He looked up at the intruder and frowned. “Don’t you know I want to be alone? Let me die in peace. Don’t tell me you are my blood for I have no one left–”
“You, my dear king, will soon be of my blood,” the figure said in a frosty tone. He faced the king, the darkness of his hood still hiding his face.
The king was sure that the intruder was the manifestation of death; this was the end.
“No,” the figure read his thoughts, “I am not your death, Anaxagoras. I am your life, eternal and everlasting. This is what I have come to offer.”
“Why?” Anaxagoras’s pale face looked on weakly. “I’m nothing. I know I deserve death.”
The figure said, “And what would happen if you died? There would be anarchy.”
“It’s already like that,” the king replied.
“But when you come back from the dead, they will praise you.”
“I have such powers already. What does it matter?” The king looked at the figure, his filmy eyes trying to uncover the face within the cloak.
“But the power I give you will make you a king of kings, the royal leader of all leaders of this universe.” The dark one hissed, “You will make this universe a part of our undying power, a part of a new and immortal race.”
“What do you mean?” The king coughed.
“I offer you that which Christ offered to his people one thousand years ago. I am giving you my blood. When you drink from the fountain of real life, you shall become part of me. You shall be like me. You will be immortal and invincible forever.”
“Truly I want this,” the king said, his eyes widening.
“But,” the figure said, holding out a long-nailed, pale finger, “I warn you. The road to immortality is difficult. You will come and live with me for some time and I will show you everything. When you come back from the dead you must bend the people to your will. They will be like you in all ways but one. They will die by silver, the one thing that they will abhor. So long as you are with your people, treading the same ground that they do, no harm and no death shall come upon them.
“They will acquire powers beyond anything imaginable but they must feed on blood. For it is written: the blood is the life. When you return, the blood will be yours and your people’s life. They will no longer produce kin to take over their welfare. But those they wish to inflict slavery upon they may do so by spilling blood from their victims and making them feed on the blood of our race.” The dark one paused, waiting for Anaxagoras’s reaction. The king was mesmerized. “So do you choose life or a death with no glory or honor?”