The Gift

by Gerard A Whitfield

  Not today, thought Geriond, they were about to face an enemy who cared little for their name nor tradition and would blindly keep fighting no matter what the Angels threw at it.

  Perhaps he would get one more chance, thought the young Leftenant, waving feebly at the waiting Guardsmen. They half-bundled him into an air car and so his wild ride began.

  *

  Lucifer crowed with delight as he fired the heavy, pintle-mounted auto cannon; he never missed. With this he could start to show his enemies their mistake long before he entered into hand-to-hand combat. He raised his fist skyward, pumping it vigorously as two shuttles roared overhead. They would drop their charges behind the enemy front lines, an honour for those chosen and a proud tradition. They blooded their younger warriors that way; it was where they learned their invulnerability.

  The vehicle swerved under him suddenly and he hammered his fist down on the cabin roof. A grunt of apology was forthcoming, it did not do to show their foes that they were fallible.

  Without warning a round pinged off his armour, from behind! Turning, he saw the crazed visage of the General’s Aide, waving a puny pistol in the air. Lucifer grunted as he saw the soldier by the Leftenant’s side raise his rifle, a strange bulbous contraption underneath it.

  Swinging the cannon round, he squeezed off two rapid shots, one smashing into the cabin and the other ripping the side of the vehicle away, causing it to tumble end-over-end. The rag-doll figure of the Leftenant flopped within its harness and Lucifer smiled smugly to himself, just as the cloured flare fired by the soldier burst open.

  Shrugging, Lucifer faced forward once more, whoever would use a signal rocket to fire on an Immortal. Still shaking his head at the vagaries of the lower orders, he banged on the cabin once more urging his driver on.

  *

  Leftenant Geriond was not dead, he was not particularly in a state of rude health, but his harness had saved him. Incredulously, he watched as the Immortals sped ever onwards, oblivious to the screams and shouts from the troops they passed. They took those cries as their proud due, lesser mortals honouring and glorifying them.

  The General had insisted that Geriond receive some sort of formal reply, some acceptance of his orders. Well, thought the Leftenant, he had received a sort of response, perhaps not one the General would be happy with, but a hard one to ignore.

  Geriond hung there in his straps, swaying gently and wondering whether he had the energy to unbuckle himself, as Lucifer and his men burst free of the last line of defence held by Church Troops and raced on to yet more valorous deeds. His laugh started slowly as a chuckle in his throat, the containment of it causing him to wince with pain. The more he thought about Lucifer, the harder it became to hold it in, eventually he let go, a rip-roaring belly-laugh echoing all around him.

  *

  Captain Lucifer and his men rode with their heads held high; this was what they were made for. They would smite the enemy, they would annihilate all resistence, and once again they would be lauded by their peers, for their unswerving loyalty and dedication. His chest swelled with the anticipation of it all, and he gleefully looked for more targets.

  The strange thing was that the enemy were not firing back, in fact they had not moved, they seemed uncaring of his Angels’ advance. Instead all they did was wave encouragingly, or so it seemed, their calls and jeers egging the Immortals on. Lucifer was not going to disappoint them and gave the order for more speed, and it was then that the bottom fell out of his world, literally.

  All along the line of racing vehicles, clouds of dirt and debris billowed upwards, as the earth heaved and shuddered. Great gaping holes appeared, into which the Immortals and their vehicles plummeted, engines still roaring. They crunched hard against the bottom of the man-made pits, throwing men in all directions, their armour saving all but their pride.

  Lucifer spat a mixture of blood and dirt from his mouth and glared around, daring anyone to speak. There were, however, no others but Immortals in the ditches, the sides of the excavations too high to peer over. They could hear the laughter from both sides peeling out and Lucifer unbuckled himself and drew his pistol. Someone would pay for this, whoever had caused this debacle would die, he swore it. He was to keep his word, but not in the manner he expected.

  *

  The initial shock wave had been sufficient to ensure that the ditches worked perfectly as designed, they had caught their prey. Unfortunately, not the game they were looking for. Geriond was still chuckling, as he remembered the smashed data sheet, laughing as he recalled the boot to his stomach, guffawing at the cannon rounds striking his vehicle …and crying as the first explosions cracked across the still air.

  He had been there for a reason; the General had mined the north approach to Church lines. His engineers digging out an intricate series of trenches, something they had been working on in secret and which was finally ready. The required acknowledgement of the orders was to ensure that no-one made a fatal mistake…not even the prideful Lucifer and his fallen Angels.

  Luxuria

  The infernal hurricane that never rests,

  Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine

  Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.

  - The Divine Comedy, Dante

  The ground was stained with the excrement of battle; bodies lay, each and every one of them with their own particular label, where frightened soldiers had pinned their names and last letters to their loved ones. Broken and shattered weapons, rifled haversacks and half naked bodies clearly indicated that mens’ rampaging greed had overwhelmed them, before they too were swept away by the tide of war.

  Captain Meaker staggered forward, tripping here on a half-rotten corpse, falling there due to blast-riddled earth. He looked for proof of any survivors, but each gasping step confirmed what he feared the most; all were gone, they were no more.

  Tendrils of mist slowly rose, gathering first in wispy strands and then congealing into strings of sickly-yellow smoke. They covered the battlefield, masking the horrors and before he knew it Meaker was lost, his vision cut to a mere hands-breadth in front of his face. An animal terror settled upon him, as his nervous feet shuffled their way through what was left of his comrades; his imagination did not need to work overtime, he knew what he crushed beneath his unsteady footsteps, the squelching noise and erupting gases only confirming the fact.

  At last he could take no more and his mouth opened in a silent scream, his face distended, his eyes staring and lost.

  It was the smell that broke the spell, the deep, punguent, musk-laden smell which hooked its delicious fingers under his nose and teased him forward, neck craning and mouth drooling uncontrolably in a purely Pavlovian response.

  *

  Asmodai sat on his stage, his bulk resting within the curiously-wheeled construct, which ensured his immense body stayed up off the waxen floor. The circular devices were twice his actual size and his avian-like legs, pattered quickly across the floor as he waltzed from side to side, the many-spoked wheels spinning brilliantly as they gave him an undeserving grace.

  Behind him danced his vaguely human-shaped familiars, the incubi and succubi, their leering faces and suggestive bodies, hidden behind strange masks and flowing robes. Now and again one of them would perform almost impossible acrobatic feats, their clothing opening and closing on tantalisingly smooth limbs as they gyrated wildly.

  None of this stirred Asmodai, his appetites were legend, yet today he merely stared forward, his three heads for once in concert as they peered out of the tented opening that was his home. His visage reflected that which he was; one was bull-like, with powerfully spreading horns, the second human, from whose mouth issued wisps of smoke and bursts of flame, the last that of a goat, its eery eyes and masticating mouth speaking silently of a concentrated evil.

  Although his upper chest was man-like, his torso sported stick-thin legs and a serpentine tail, which lashed from side-to-side, spinning his strange chariot as he moved.

 
; Tiers of seats were set around the stage, their perfectly circular shape cut by the twin sets of stairs leading up to the marquee’s opening. The singing started, the music powerful, the words non-sensical yet conveying a desperate need and subtle and silky promise all at once. They did not fail, men and women, the survivors from the battlefield, stepped zombie-like through the entrance and took their seats. Other tantalising smells issued from the lit braziers to either side of the stage and they too drew in their prey. A final person tripped and fell through the opening, the sides of the tent sliding together behind him and the show began.

  *

  Meaker felt the wind, it roared deep within his mind, blowing his weakened senses from side to side mercilessly. It was strong, twisting his emotions and lifting them to new heights, with each gyration of the capering performers on the stage. A tantalising glimpse of flesh, a curious curve or hidden shape, stirred him further. He knew that he was not alone, his fellow unfortunates suffered by his side, their ecstacy a pain almost unbearably strong, and still the wind blew.

  The Captain half-lay in his seat, his arms and legs spread wide, as if in prayer or waiting for some divine gift; yet it did not come.The slinking, shivering familiars moved closer, infiltrating his nerve-endings with their implied pleasures. The succubi stealing his life-force, passing it langorously to their male counterparts through lazy and playful kisses. Slowly, desiring more of their deadly touches, Meaker faded into oblivion.

  *

  Geriond had felt the call, his bashed and broken body still strapped to the now twisted frame. He had struggled to respond to the siren song, yet there had been nothing he could do. Trooper after trooper had stolidly and unknowingly marched forward, towards the strange marquee that appeared from amongst the leprous mist. The Leftenant had instinctively known that the overwhelming lust, the passions aroused by the invitation had been unfulfillable. It had not mattered, every fibre of his being had strained to respond to the emotional magnet, and his despair and loss had been crushing, especially when the entrance flaps closed.

  Now he stared, tears of shame running down his bloodied cheeks and cried out for help. There was the roar of a descending craft and he felt rough hands pull him free from his prison. He crashed unceremoniously to the floor, the pain of recirculating blood tremendous, causing him to block out the shouted questions. It was only the cold, hard and amazingly focussing muzzle of the pistol, which brought him back to his senses.

  Looking up, he saw the metallic armour, which blocked out what little light that remained. His eyes fixed on the stylised angel, spread across the Immortal’s chest, and for a moment he thought that Lucifer had returned, but a quick glance upwards showed him an open and almost beatific face.

  “Who are you?” he coughed, whooping in great breaths of sticky mist.

  “I am Raphael, of the Angels,” replied the man simply, “I am here to repair a little the damage caused by my brothers.”

  Geriond stared at him suspiciously, the Angels had already proven themselves prideful and headstrong, this man looked nothing like them. Although his armour mirrored that of the other Immortals, there was a bulkiness to it, that was disconcerting and a strange, sulphurous smell hung around him. Looking more closely, the Leftenant saw the now holstered pistol and a strange tubed arrangement which clung to Raphael’s arm and ended near to his closed hand. Wisps of bue flame snaked around his fingers and finally Geriond recognised the smell of liquid fire.

  A smile played across Raphael’s face and he nodded briefly, congratulating the Leftenant’s recognition of his weapon.

  “This is the hand that smites the unworthy. It is the red-hot iron of purification, casting down the heretical and purifying their souls.”

  Unbidden, Geriond’s mouth dropped open, the sheer certainty of delivery and the righteous gleam in the Immortal’s eyes, had overwhelmed him. This one was worse than Lucifer, the other had been prideful, flawed in some way, Raphael was purity and belief itself, and Geriond knew that this could only end badly.

  “Come!” commanded Raphael, grasping the Leftenant’s uniform collar and ignoring his whimpers of pain, “It is time to take the cleansing fire to the heathens!”

  *

  Flames ripped through the marquee’s entrance, sending gouts of burning cloth high into the tent’s billowing roof, where the sparks stuck and propogated. Asmodai bellowed his anger, the wheels on his carriage spinning uselessly as he skittered across his stage. His familiars, leapt away from their hapless victims; high they flew, their robes floating alluringly behind them as they glided sinuously towards their master.

  “They are mine,” roared Raphael, pointing at the stage, “and this is yours,”he said, pulling a thin metal rod from his belt. It terminated in the shape of a letter P, which the Immortal now held in the spurt of flame which jetted between his fingers.

  Geriond saw the letter turn red-hot and watched incredulously, as a cheerful Raphael slapped it against the forehead of the nearest trooper. There was a sizzling sound, the stench of burning flesh and a plaintive cry, as the already near-dead soldier was tormented just a little more.

  “Mark them for me!” demanded the Angel, “I will then pass them through the Holy Fire!”

  With that, he strode forward, his loud voice calling out the Prelate’s name, as the roar of ignited fuel signalled that his work had begun.

  The Leftenant started to throw away the iron, which still glowed hotly, but instead became transfixed. Its colour changed ever so slightly as its temperature dropped and child-like he revelled in the simplicity of this act. He knew that he was postponing his decision, whether to follow the obviously demented Immortal’s order or to ignore it and accept the no doubt fatal consequences.

  Whilst he dithered, creatures burned, their screams of terror mingled with something that almost sounded like pleasure.

  *

  Raphael stood in front of the stage, his hand held forth, fingers splayed wide, as he poured holy fire onto the corrupt and unworthy. He chanted prayers, but these became more and more disjointed as his religious ecstacy overpowered him. A manaical gleam sparkled in his eyes as he watched succubi roast before him, their bodies revealed by the all-consuming fire. Limbs twisted and flesh melted as the purifying heat reduced them to a fraction of their previous size.

  All through this his laughter threatened to break free, but it was only when he took his purging fire to Asmodai that he gave it its head. A lustful laugh escaped its restraints and he sent small bursts of flame towards the now helpless thing. Its wheels spun, its tail lashed, but he did not care. First he torched its legs so it could not move, then watched it roar from each of its heads in pain, before finally opening the full force of the flamer onto what remained of Asmodai.

  The Immortal’s skin was flushed not just from the heat but also the excitement of the experience. Finally, he drew himself clear and saw the Leftenant, standing exactly where he had left him. Angrily he stamped towards him, tearing the now cold iron from Geriond’s hand. He placed it in the flame, waiting until it was white-hot and then thrust it back into the shocked man’s hand.

  “Do it!” he screamed in righteous rage, and he smiled in satisfaction as the weakling’s hand began to move.

  *

  Geriond was truly lost, he had been beaten, shot and abused and his mind was hanging to reality by the thinnest of threads. This crazed maniac had demonstrated that he was as bad, if not worse than the demon-like creature that had called these troopers to their deaths.

  When the hot metal rod was slammed into his awaiting palm, he could not have made any voluntary decision and it was the Immortal’s shouted command which galvanised him into action. Not only that, it snapped his last vestiges of sanity and it was, with a grin matching that of Raphael’s, that Geriond raised the shimmering metal.

  “Repent!” he giggled, spearing the incandescent letter into the unexpecting man’s forehead and cackling as it stuck there. He let go, taking advantage of the surprised Raphael’s pain
to pull free the holstered pistol.

  “Cleansing fire!” he crowed, as he pulled the trigger, emptying the pistol into the Angel’s body. The exploding rounds twisting Raphael away from him and impacting onto the flamer’s tank.

  With a whoosh the tank exploded, igniting the tent, purifying the unholy creatures within and burning clear the last vestiges of mist.

  END

  Englishman, traveller, who was captivated by Spain and stayed. Proud husband and father. Work took me around the globe, taught me a new language and opened my eyes.

  Other Works:

  Sudden Dearth

  A Guiding Light (Sudden Dearth Book Two)

  A Leap Of Faith (Sudden Dearth Book Three)

  Urion’s Belt

  A Cold Dish

  Euthan Palace

  26-S

  SALIGIA

  The Wildwose

  Find out more by visiting www.sudderndearth.blogspot.com