Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: Leonardoverse Books
ISBN-10: 0615870767
Type: Fiction
Pages: 408
Copyright: 2013
ISBN-13: 9780615870762
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
A sequel to Dante's Inferno, Haven of Dante follows the generational war between the family line and the nine circles of hell who have penetrated society at every level.
A Speculative Supernatural Epic!
Haven Irena Dante, seventeen, struggles with a dysfunctional family. Her workaholic father is never there, but his absence is filled by a loving mother harboring the secret and mysterious past of their family. The Dantes are inheritors of a centuries old legacy stretching back to Dante Alighieri himself. They fight to contain the nine circles of hell described in the classic literature "Dante's Inferno."
Today, the nine circles have infiltrated the world at every level, operating as a secret society known as "The Aristocracy." The only thing stopping The Aristocracy from world domination is the Dante family line.
And now its Haven's turn to carry that torch.
Combining literary fiction with fantasy, this action-packed young adult adventure races through dimensions of paranormal, science fiction, and the supernatural.
Excerpt
It was the year of our Lord Thirteen Hundred and Six and amid the hues of dimming red and rising vapor from the darkness of the pit below him, came the foul stench of things wicked and vile. The rock face on which he climbed would soon bring the robed man to freedom, but not soon enough. His marred and swollen knuckles hurt as he clung to the steaming rock face. His brow dripped with sweat and muck. The blades of rock cut across his fingers and kind face like paper and the dripping blood made his grip unsure. Gusts of ash and cinder replaced the air in his lungs and his chest collapsed deeper and deeper on each exhale. When the waters of Coctycus met the scorching rock, steam rose to envelope the very walls of this realm. Robed in red, the traveler carried his trusty guisarme sword on his back and a worn, tattered satchel over his shoulder. Between quick bursts of panicked breaths, his eyes fluttered in quiet desperation to reach the top. In one burst of frantic strength, he pulled himself up the steep, rocky terrain knowing that his very soul depended on it. Not because of the bottomless pit beneath him but because of the beasts that place of torment housed. No human being had ever escaped from Hades. The Lords of the Nine Circles who resided there would not have their reputation tarnished by what they had come to revile in centuries past: the despicable and arrogant abomination known as man.
Despite the absence of light, he could sense the presence of the creatures below enough that his visions of them hastened his pace, his sword rocking back and forth on his back as he climbed. Angst added to his dread as his thoughts filled with her . . . his beauty . . . his beloved. As it is with all good men, his strength was fueled by the memories of his true love. He lost Beatrice so long ago. He had first laid eyes on her at the age of nine, but did not speak to her until nine years later. As a man who loved well, he felt robbed because he had been betrothed to another as per tradition, and he would never belong to his crimson-haired angel, except in his dreams. This fate was sealed upon her death. The sting of that grave loss moved him to take this journey; a journey to soften a hardened heart by looking into the eyes of God. If he could only arrive at this place of solace, he would find rest for his aching soul. Even his morals would he forsake to achieve his goal, as proven by the act of thievery from the Lord of Hades himself.
As the robed man advanced upward he lost his footing; his scabbard slammed against his back. In a frantic rush to his friend, the robed man’s companion and master swiftly reached out his hand. He could barely keep his own footing on the crumbled rock beneath his feet.
“Cling fast!” his friend cried.
A voice from the wall of the pit rumbled, and then worked up to a high-pitch.
“Nnnoooo! Youuu will never leeeeaaaave thisssss placcce!” the voice screeched. A deeper growl emanating from the darkness followed in suit, “With impudent arrogance, you have desecrated our realm.”
Worriedly, the man gazed up into the waiting eyes of his faithful friend. Virgil reached out with his other hand towards a sturdy boulder just beyond his reach. Virgil had accompanied him to this dreadful place as his master and guide through each trial and each victory along every step of the way as a good friend would.
“Cling fast . . . hold,” said the master, panting wearily. “For by such stairs it behooves us to depart from this evil!” Virgil’s footing shifted on the fragile rubble that gave way beneath him.
The robed man looked down into the abyss and then up again in resignation at Virgil.
“Should the evil consume me my master, the pain of loss may be no more!” he cried.
“Think not on this path, my brother. For should this evil be thine, it shall surely be thy master and replace your pain with a greater torment!”
Virgil hastened and managed to grab his hand.
“Aaaaahh!!” cried the robed man, almost losing his grip. Virgil strengthened his hold on his brother’s hand and pulled, the weight of his friend taxing him. He secured his feet behind sturdy rock and used his legs to pull harder. Virgil stretched his freed arm toward a surer hold and pulled.
“Come nigh unto me,” he prayed.
Virgil quickly decided that the rock was indeed too far and instead focused his attention on his grip joining one hand to the other.
“Strength, I pray thee bestow upon my unsteady hands!” cried Virgil.
He pulled harder still.
The robed man managed to grab hold of the ledge just above him. Virgil scurried onto his feet and pulled his robe off. Ripping it and his sash into a long cloth, he tied it around the boulder and went back to his friend. “Take hold!” He threw his end down. As he did, his eyes wandered into the abyss. Two glowing eyes on the inside wall of the abyss stared with great contempt at the ones who dared to taint their domain. Two more eyes appeared in the darkness . . . then four eyes became looming shadows moving towards the trespassers.
“Oh heavens above and angels beware,” whispered Virgil.
“What is it?” asked his panting friend.
“A beast has departed the ice lake of Coctycus and demands a feast! Haste! Pull!!”
The robed man pulled with all of his might as the crusts of rock fell into the darkness. In a short burst of energy, he was able to stand to his feet on solid ground.
Still panting, they both turned away from the abyss and saw what they came looking for; the doorway that led to the splendor of ages known simply as The White Rose.
No human had ever descended into The Nine Circles of Hell and as such no human had ever laid eyes on the beauty of The White Rose. A doorway leading into the next realm and away from the dread and hatred that permeated The Nine Circles, The White Rose floated humbly and stalwart in a shower of glimmering light, waiting for one who would be worthy to gaze upon it and smell its freeing fragrance.
As his master fearfully approached The White Rose, the robed man was more hesitant. “Approach The White Rose, my friend,” ordered Virgil. “Let peace be your guide.” While the screeches and squeals of the monsters below quickly approached, the pupil humbly stepped forward.
“Hold the rose,” ordered Virgil. “For death shall be a pleasure if you should not unlock the door.”
The robed man held out his hand in trepidation knowing that there was no turning back.
As he drew cautiously near, drops of light bounced off of his hand as they went into the light. He paused just short of The Rose, which responded by floating towards his hand. He gasped.
The White Rose found its home in the hands of the robed man.
The robed man drew it closer to him. As it left the light, petals began to slowly fall, but not to the ground.
The petals floated gently and surrounded the master and his friend, bathing them in light as if caressing a long-lost friend who had just come home. Swiftly, the petals left them and began to create a circle directly in front of the travelers. Faster and faster, the petals rotated and expanded outward forming a spiral and, in one sudden burst of radiance, each petal transformed into a magnificent being of radiant light. They took shape and finally rested into what the travelers thought would be their final form. Each angel stood on a stair on each side of a long radiant staircase made of glass and pure light. The brilliance of the staircase shone upon Virgil and his friend.
The screeches heard throughout the cavern were piercing to the soul.
The three-headed, dog-beast Cerberus howled in agony of the painful light as the harpies flew in rings of angst and screeched. The Malebranche demons, with their hooks and claws, scratched the walls in anger against the defilement of their domain. In a feeble attempt to ease its pain, Geryon the three-bodied shade, with reptilian scales and a scorpion’s tail, buried its face in rock and mire in desperation. The very walls of the cavern boiled in the light.
The robed man stood motionless as the sparkling light of the doorway glossed his face.
“Reach for it,” Virgil commanded. “For by its unlock shall we find our freedom!”
The robed man lifted his hand as if hypnotized by the light. He began to lean towards it and waited for the final aperture to form so they could escape this dreadful place. As he leaned towards the vortex of petals . . .
. . . nothing happened. The aperture would not open.
They were trapped.
“What manner of trickery is this?” cried the robed man.
Virgil paused and thought for a moment. “Of course! We need the Rod of Moshe! Make haste! Pull the rod from your satchel and hold it high that we may be delivered!”
The robed man reached into his satchel and pulled out what they had stolen from the Lake of Coctycus. The Rod of Moshe . . . the staff of Moses. While in this dreadful place of anguish and torment, the rod had become covered in ash and had shriveled to an arm’s length. The inscriptions could barely be seen through the soot which covered it. But as the robed man pulled it out, the rod reacted and began to grow.
It was as if the rod somehow knew his bloodline. Since they did not come to find the rod, it seemed that the rod did indeed find them, and in finding them, found its freedom.
Suddenly, the robed man felt a cold, strong hand grab his shoulder.
“No,” said the voice from behind, as its owner pulled the robed man’s shoulder towards him.
The robed man tried to pull away and proceed towards the glass stairs.
“I said, no!” The hand reached over the robed man’s shoulder and in one swift move knocked the rod from his hand and lifted him from his feet. The assailant threw him clear across the cavern, slamming him against the jagged walls, his head taking the brunt of the blow. The handle of his own sword then delivered another blow to his head. Once removed from his hand, the rod ceased its growth.
After falling to the ground he quickly tried to shake it off and get up on his feet, but the sounds of hoofs running towards him distracted him. The hoofed beast cast its shadow over the fallen poet, who slowly gazed up at his attacker. The towering satyr stood before the robed man with arms opened wide and grunted and snorted. His bright yellow eyes pierced the darkness with the deepest of evils. The robed man reached behind him to draw his sword.
“You stand no chance, human filth,” the satyr said as he reached for him. The Malebranche, Cerberus and the harpies squealed and howled in agreement.
“Silence!” ordered the satyr. “Take no action! His sword shall be mine as well, and I will deliver his soul to my master as a gift.”
Pulling the human to his feet, the satyr picked him up again and threw him over his shoulder and, to his surprise, the robed man, this poet, landed on his feet with his Guisarme sword drawn. The satyr stopped in puzzlement. “You have done battle before.”
The robed man stood defiantly. “Many of the enemies of the Guelph have fallen to this sword and, as you are no ally, you shall fall as well.”
“Not likely,” said the mighty beast.
The robed man had read the myth and lore and had come to think of the satyr as a creature smaller in stature. This beast was an abomination. The monstrous satyr stood tall and mighty with outstretched arms and reached behind his back.
Taking two steps back the beast pulled a sword with three blades on it from behind and brought it to a defensive position. He held it in poor fashion much as a child holds a hammer too heavy for his strength.
“Clearly you are not the master of your weapon, beast,” declared the robed man.
From across the cavern, Virgil could see the markings on the staff begin to glow and, recognizing them, shouted, “These are the markings of the ineffable name on the rod of the deliverer! This is the very rod carried by the one who lead his people out of bondage. See how it glows with proximity to The White Rose in the presence of holiness! Tell me, beast, how your master lost the battle over the body of Moses to the archangel and travelled to Mount Nebo in the land of Moab only to meet humiliation.”
The satyr turned to face Virgil. “My master may have lost the battle for the body of Moses against the archangel, but his staff remains with us as a consolation prize. The raid on the temple of Judea by the Babylonians proved a worthwhile one as was this find. You’ve stolen it from my master and to him it shall return!”
“The only prize your master claims is the title of the Forever Thief!” yelled the robed man from behind. “He has stolen the staff and much more! My life . . . my love, stolen from me by traditions that your kind may have indeed planted as seeds in humankind, which have no merit! Your kind comes in whatever form necessary to achieve its gain but there shall be no more gain upon my wounded soul this very night.” And with those words the robed man lifted his sword to strike the satyr. “And while your master is known by all of mankind, it is you I do not know! Who are you? What is your name, ugly beast?”
The satyr stepped closer to the robed man and glared at him with his bright yellow eyes. “I am Hedonis of the Second of The Nine Circles and soon to be your slayer! Tell me, I command you, under whose name do you make war with The Nine Circles?”
The robed man ignored the question and instead struck the satyr with his sword and was met with the might of the beastly sword. Each blow was met with a harder consequence for the robed man. The otherworldly strength of the satyr was beyond the match of mere mankind.
Virgil quickly ran to the fallen scepter and held it firm. “Deliver us, mighty rod of Moshe,” he whispered. No effect. “Can it be that the wielder of the staff must be one who is chosen?” he mumbled to himself. “Forgive us our trespasses . . . .” Still nothing. Virgil closed his eyes and whispered, “You have spoken in subtle voice of spirit sound and this humble master will obey.”
He put the staff down and reached behind his back with one hand and into a satchel of his own with another. He pulled out a vial from the satchel and a rod with a holy water sprinkler tethered to it with the other. After filling the sprinkler from the vial, he tapped on its outer shell, testing the thickness to make sure it would shatter at the appointed time and not before. As the warriors’ clash raged on, Virgil rose to his feet and began to swing the rod around his head. As the speed of the glass sprinkler increased, the wise master took a defensive posture. Just before he released the rod, he screamed, “Take heed, my friend!”
The robed man took his last swing at the beast, but instead of clashing with the monster’s sword, he ducked and rolled into a position behind the abomination. The sprinkler shattered upon the shoulder of the beast, the holy water burning it and causing him to drop his sword. While the monster seethed in agony, the robed man sprang towards the staff and lifted it high above his head. The staff began to grow back to its original form. The angelic writing of the ineffable name began to burn away the ash and cinder that had accumulated over the centuries.
As he stood tall, yet humble, the robed man turned towards the satyr, still reeling in pain. “Witness now our deliverance from this place of torment and forever remember that it was a mere human named Dante Alighieri who escaped the chains of Hell unscathed!”
As Dante turned towards the circling petals of The White Rose, the aperture grew wider and opened the door to the stairwell ahead. Hedonis lay on the ground holding his charred shoulder, drowning in a sea of rage.
Virgil placed his hands on the shoulders of his friend and staring at him with determination, said, “Though tossed and scorned you have mastered more than your blade. You have taken the first step to master your humanity. May I serve your purpose forever as a brother and friend.” Dante Alighieri and his faithful companion, Virgil, walked through the doorway and up the stairs where a crimson-haired angel awaited their arrival with open arms.
This was the day that all had changed for The Nine Circles of Hell. This was the day that, in the bedlam that is Hades, the first agreement between the circles was reached. The Nine Circles would band together to combat the infestation that is man and bring about every imaginable evil upon the surface world until the humans would be no more. As with all goals, the leaders of each circle would delegate their plans to their underlings and the inevitable power struggle and internal strife would follow. This Uncivil War lasted 40 years and culminated in the appointments of lords for each of The Nine Circles of Hades.
The leaders came to be known as: Lord Limbus of the First Circle (lord of those in limbo), who transports human captives to the abyss); Lord Hedonis of the Second Circle (lord of those led by lust, whose very name wreaks of all things depraved; Lord Voratum of the Third Circle (lord of the gluttonous, whose insatiable hunger can only be quenched by the fears and dread of souls); Lord Hordran of the Fourth Circle (leading the hoarders and whose hunger for the torment of minds knows no bounds); Lord Vengus of the Fifth Circle (lord of the wrathful, who thrives on the defeat of all things good); Lord Retic of the Sixth Circle (who leads the heretics and whose aim is the distortion of the truth and the and the corruption of the hearts of good men); Lord Ravage of the Seventh Circle (who leads the violent), Lord Lock of the Eighth Circle, (leader of the sorcerers) and Lord Traiton of the Ninth Circle, (whom traitors follow).
Upon consensus, The Nine Circles named themselves as they are seen in their own nefarious eyes.
The Aristocracy.
They were to blame for every evil known since the time that a man walked through their realm and left with his pure soul unmarred. Through the years, evil increased upon the surface world and it became necessary for all that is good to intervene. At the appointed time, a stranger among men only known as “The Witness” made direct contact with the family line that had stood bold and strong in the face of pure evil, the Dantes.
In this encounter, The Witness charged the first of the line to stand against the Aristocracy’s plans for the surface world, but upon his failure, and the passage of many years, another rose in his place. His name was Benjamin Esteban Dante, who sought amnesty in the New World from England and fought bravely on the side of what was to become the nation of freedom known as the United States of America. He would later be succeeded by Kristen Cameron Dante who, being fluent in German, was sent to Germany as an intelligence officer. Kristen worked as an archivist for the Nazi Party during World War II.
Under this guise, she used underground tunnels to free prisoners of the Nazis; with the help of her friend David, whom she later married. Together they returned to the United States.
Amado Ayende Dante worked as a liaison officer in the United States Embassy in what was once the Soviet Union. After living there for 10 years, he returned to the United States once the Berlin Wall crumbled. Rebecca Mariana Dante was seventeen and full of life. Regrettably, she was lost in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Each was chosen for their time in accordance to the goals of the Aristocracy in that era and given tools in accordance to their needs and strengths, be it enhanced cunning, superior intelligence, or super-human strength.
Only one was given the task according to her weaknesses.
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