Hellgate London - Exodus Part 1

h.e.l.lgate London.

Exodus.

By Mel Odom.

This book is dedicated to my sons Shiloh 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 Flagship 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 Flagship Studios(www.flagshipstudios.com) 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, unleashing 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 shine 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?"

"Just...just trying to catch my breath...is all. It's...been an eventful...night."

Thomas put his left palm against the other man's breastplate. Deep grooves showed where a demon's claws had almost penetrated.

"Scan," Thomas ordered.

As soon as the connection was made, information pulsed into Thomas's HUD. Medical readouts about Thomas and Guy pulsed across the screen. Guy's heart rate was up but the blood pressure was dangerously low.

"What happened?" Thomas surveyed the other man, turning him slightly and finding two deep slices that had penetrated the armor covering Guy's back. Something had cut through the armor and deeply into the man.

"Carnagor." Guy sagged against the wall. The Spike Bolter dropped from his nerveless hand.

Thomas knew about the Carnagors. They were fierce monsters, as large as an elephant and as strong and unstoppable as a rhinoceros. They were equipped with tusks, hundreds of teeth in a gaping maw, and hands-not paws.

"Came up out of the ground behind me," Guy gasped. "By the time I saw it, I was too late. It...killed Davy, Wallace, and Morton."

All of those men had been friends as well. Thomas's heart ached with the loss. For a moment tears blurred his vision. He had not been friends with these men all of these years to lose them in one night. It wasn't fair.

"See you...on the other side." Guy slid down the wall to a seated position.

Thomas didn't need his armor's...o...b..ard systems to tell him Guy was dead, but he used them anyway. Leaving someone behind wasn't something he was prepared to do.

All of Guy's life signs were gone. Thomas's HUD showed flatlines across the board.

Pushing his grief aside, Thomas turned back to the battle. There was still his own death to attend. He scooped up Guy's Spike Bolter to replace his own lost sidearm.

He hadn't gone more than a few feet when he felt the ground trembling. Sprinting toward the corner of the cathedral, he turned back and watched just as a Carnagor burrowed up from the ground only a few feet from Guy's body.

Mounds of displaced earth formed and tumbled aside as the demon burrowed up. Thomas knew what it was because he'd seen them throughout the battlefield. Such demons could easily dig up through the pavement and buildings of Central London's High Streets.

Cautiously, the blunt snout shoved through the hole and scented the earth. A snake-like tongue whipped out as it licked its eyes. Thomas didn't know if the demon had continued to track the other Templar by sound or if it was another Carnagor that had just arrived.

Satisfied that it wouldn't be attacked at once, the Carnagor heaved itself up from the ground. Earth fell away from it in clumps. It shook and shivered for a moment like a dog.

The creature was huge, taller than Thomas at the shoulder and as broad across as a lorry. The hideous mouth between the tusks gaped open large enough for a grown man to step into. Moonlight and reflected weapons fire glinted off the rows of razor-sharp ivory teeth.

Thomas didn't know where the demons truly came from. That was one of the things the Templar researchers, the Ophanim-which were the intelligence agents within their ranks-tried to find out with all their investigations. With the disparity between the creatures, there was some conjecture that they didn't come from the same world. Some of the older Ophanim suggested that many of the creatures were subjugated species, ones that had been altered by the demons' awful magic.

The Carnagor sniffed the air again for an instant, then launched itself at Guy's still body. Its gigantic hands raked at the dead knight's armor, stripping it from him as if he were a sh.e.l.lfish. In the time it took Thomas to lift the Spike Bolter, the Carnagor had gulped Guy's remains down as if they'd only been an appetizer.

Then Thomas held the trigger down. The Spike Bolter fired, the six barrels whirled, and spiked bullets whistled into the side of the demon's head.

The creature turned toward Thomas, snuffling in fear and anger. It raised a stubby arm in front of its huge, ugly face. b.l.o.o.d.y gashes opened up in its scaly flesh. Roaring, it jumped toward Thomas, taking away half the distance between them in a single bound.

Thomas felt the earth shake when the ma.s.sive beast landed. Throwing its head back, the Carnagor loosed an echoing roar. Its fiery eyes fixed on Thomas.

Steeling himself, trusting his armor, Thomas holstered his sidearm, then took a two-handed grip on his sword. With a fierce war cry of his own, he raced at the beast, unwilling to let it go unchallenged after watching its unholy repast.

October 31, 2020.

My Dearest Simon, First of all, I want you to know how much I've always loved you. I know I've been a harsh taskmaster. There are days, I'm sure, that you were certain I'd never be satisfied in your training. But you mastered everything I'd taught you. In fact, you surpa.s.sed me in your skills. I knew you would. You've always had more than a little of your grandfather's strength in you. And he was a fierce, grand Templar.

But you outstripped my skills long before I thought you would. Perhaps that was the reason that we had so many conflicts over the last few years. It was hard, my son, letting you grow up, seeing you go out into the world to make your own mistakes. The world was a far harsher environment at your age than it was at mine. These days, it seems there's no forgiveness for the unwary.

Now there may not be a hope for survival.

At the time I'm sending this, we're preparing to go into battle against foes that all of us have trained to stand against all of our lives, but few of us truly ever expected to see. We won't be returning unless there's some miracle from Providence.

Tonight, I'm afraid. Truthfully, I'm afraid for myself. I always told myself that when the time came to lay down my life to protect those I swore to defend, that I would do so gladly. Tonight, I find that I am not glad, and that I'm more fearful than I should be. But I'll go forth when Lord Sumerisle leads us into battle.

Mostly, though, I'm afraid for you and for this world. What we knew of the demons pales in comparison to what we have learned. And we still don't know everything we need to know.

Simon, I don't know how this news will reach you. Or when. I know only that it will come at an ill time. Bad news always does.

I remember when you left, how angry and proud you were. So full of yourself. I wasn't at my best. I apologize for that and hope you'll one day choose to remember the good times rather than the bad.

Just know that I don't begrudge those feelings. They're a young man's feelings. Most of us, myself included, have to feel wronged in order to separate from our parents. I know I did.

Maybe things would have worked out differently if your mother had lived. We'll never know. I'll never know. But remember that she loved you. You were the apple of her eye.

I know that you felt all the training we did here in the Underground was for naught. You argued that on more than one occasion. And when you wanted to enter the extreme sports field to glory in your physical prowess, I forbade it. That was my conditioning. As Templar, we're supposed to remain in the shadows, live quiet lives until such time as we are needed.

Well, the time is now, my son. I feel I'm being selfish by wishing that it hadn't happened in your time. But that would only have meant wishing this horrible act onto your children, or their children.

None of us should have to pay the blood price that's going to be required to see this thing through to the end. But that's what I swore to do, and I'll see it done.

The demons have arrived, Simon. They've come to London through the h.e.l.lgates, magical and technological openings between our world and theirs, and fulfilled the ancient prophecies. They're bigger and stronger than we ever thought they would be.

As I write this letter, as I prepare myself for the battle that lies ahead, I know only that you're in South Africa. I've tried the phone numbers that you left, but everyone there says you're off in bush country and won't be expected for a few more days as yet. I knew it had to be something like that since you didn't call when the demons first openly attacked. But several of the communications satellites have been destroyed by the demons as well.

The Templar may contact you, my son. If that's even possible. Or perhaps other h.e.l.lgates have opened around the world. I'm afraid I don't know. There's even a chance, and acknowledging it makesmy heart heavy, that you'll never see this-my final letter to you. I pray that isn't so. A father should have a chance to tell his son a final good-bye.

If the Templar do speak with you, they'll want you back here, to fight and die in the battle to rid the world of the h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n. I don't know what your answer will be. With the odds so stacked against us, I don't know that there is a wrong answer. Fighting means dying, if not today, then tomorrow. The same for running.

I pray that there is a weakness in the demons, something they've overlooked, something that we may yet learn. And I pray that you stay safe and whole until I see you again.

I love you, Simon, with all my heart as I ever have. Your Father Thomas Cross.

Templar Knight.

Seraphim of the House of Rorke.