by Josh Raymer
“The angels have already been to the armory,” Bron confirms. “Right now, God’s personal cache of weapons is in the hands of angels, both friend and foe. The firepower they now control is hard to put into words. The road to stopping this war just got a lot steeper.”
My laugh is a hollow chuckle, the likes of which I’d usually follow with a four-letter expletive.
“At this point,” I tell the group, “I’d say we’re trying to ice skate uphill.”
Chapter 5
5. Staff Meeting
Bron doesn’t understand my reference, and we don’t have time for me to explain that it comes from a comic book movie about a vampire slayer who uses a sword and swears a lot. We have bigger issues to deal with, starting with the fact that Puriel is now standing and examining his armor.
There has to be a way for us to use this angel to our advantage. He’s already tipped us off to the fact that the angels have ransacked the armory. If we press him, we might be able to learn about the strategies or tactics being employed by both sides. With the deck stacked so decisively against us, some solid intelligence could be the starting point we need to formulate an actual plan.
I find myself again wondering what Colin would do in this situation, and I’m struck by the image of my friends pinned down in a bunker trying to formulate their own plan. That’s all the motivation I need to do something that can advance our cause. The clock is ticking up here and down there. Both groups are counting on me, which means I have to work fast.
“We need your help,” I say to Puriel, who looks up and stares quizzically at me.
“Excuse me?” he scoffs.
“We’re trying to stop this conflict before it turns Heaven into a smoldering crater. Thanks to you, we know the angels have access to the armory weapons, and that’s a good start. But we need more information. We need you to tell us anything that might help us end this war.”
Now Puriel looks angry. What I’ve said must have offended him.
“End this war?” he cries. “On whose authority? We obey the commands of God almighty, our heavenly father. Are you to tell me that you know better than God what should be done?”
“I don’t pretend to be God. But I know your conflict is going to destroy Heaven, especially now that both sides have armory weapons. Doesn’t that seem a little counterproductive to your mission of protecting Heaven? What happens if the fighting reaches the throne room?”
“How dare you question our ability to defend our home.”
Puriel steps forward and points his finger in my face. His eyes are blazing, and the muscles in his neck are bulging. Augustus and Bron move toward me, but I hold up my hand to stop their advance. I’m not scared of this angel. I have to make him see what’s right in front of his face.
“So you’re certain you can defeat the traitors before Heaven is permanently damaged by your fighting? You know beyond any doubt that you’ll claim victory before reaching the throne?”
There it is—that split second of hesitation.
“Of course we will!” the angel bellows, but his eyes betray him. There’s doubt buried deep within him. He knows what we’re saying is the truth, but he won’t let himself admit it. I have to draw it out of him using the universal language that all angels speak.
“Hold that thought,” I say to Puriel. I step around the angel and gesture at Augustus, whose half-smile is all too revealing. “Augustus, with the weapons from the armory at their disposal, what is the likely strategy going to be for both sides moving forward?”
“They’ll be moving fast,” he answers. “Even with the armory weapons in tow, angels don’t linger long during battle. They hit hard, and they hit fast. And with the armory weapons in play, that hit will be a helluva lot bigger.”
“You know nothing of the strategies we angels use in combat,” Puriel snarls. “This is empty talk from a fool who is trying to prove a point. Nothing more.”
I worry this comment might send Augustus into a rage. I know I’d be pissed if Puriel insulted me like that. Instead, Augustus merely shrugs. I admire his restraint. We don’t need this moment to erupt into violence when Puriel is close to validating our argument. I saw my opening in that brief moment when he paused. The door is cracked. We simply need to kick it open.
“Actually, his words are not the ramblings of a fool,” Bron says slowly. His clear, sparkling eyes bore into Puriel with a quiet determination. “You and I both know Augustus speaks the truth. We know because we’ve seen it before. Don’t stand on this sacred ground and speak lies, Puriel.”
“I have no idea of that which you speak, Bronze Man,” Puriel says. Despite the defiant tone, I can hear the deceit in his voice. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying. This is all an act.
“Shame on you, Puriel. You were quite the decorated war hero when Lucifer and his followers were cast out of Heaven. The battle moved slowly at first, don’t you remember?”
Puriel maintains his stony silence. Bron continues anyway, lost in the story.
“God’s angels possessed the armory weapons and waited for the opportune time to strike. Lucifer and his followers were encamped inside the bastille. I remember it all so vividly. The tension on either side simmered like a newborn star. It was as if all of Heaven held its breath in anticipation of that first blow. But neither side wanted to make the first move.”
“They were scared. Lucifer knew he was fighting a losing battle.”
This comment comes not from Bron but Puriel. His tough-guy facade has finally cracked, and a smile flits across his face. Bron’s story did the trick; now the door is standing ajar. We’re close to breaking through to the other side. Now we need to guide Puriel to the finish line. He’ll resist if the idea comes from us. But if he arrives at our conclusion on his own, he won’t put up a fight.
“Exactly,” Bron exclaims. “Some might argue that Lucifer’s plan all along was to lose the fight and paint himself as a sympathetic figure. Either way, his forces were merely biding their time inside the bastille. Once they chose to attack, the fight would be over just as quickly.”
“In the end, it was the foolhardy confidence that doomed the traitor,” Puriel tells us. “He stirred his followers into a furious rage inside the bastille and then offered them as lambs to the slaughter. With the weapons of God at our disposal, our victory was swift and absolute.”
“You came face to face with him, didn’t you?” Bron asks.
“I looked the traitor in the eyes and saw nothing but terror and cowardice. I raised my sword to strike him down, but God intervened. He cast Lucifer and the remaining angels out of Heaven.”
“You saw him? Lucifer?” I ask quietly.
This question isn’t part of my Jedi mind trick. I’m simply stunned at the thought of standing before an angel who was there when Lucifer staged his rebellion against God. An angel who fought in that battle and raised his sword to take on the Devil himself. Puriel’s cold demeanor makes it easy to dislike him, but there’s no denying his bravery. He stared down Beelzebub and didn’t even blink.
I would have fainted and pissed my pants in that situation. At the same time, most likely.
This angel can be a powerful ally. Show him the respect he so desperately wants.
I nod ever so slightly at Augustus to let him know I got his message.
“He stood no farther from me than you are right now,” Puriel answers. “What you must understand about Lucifer is that he is a deceiver, not a warrior. His tongue has always been forked. He convinces his allies to die on his behalf and tricks his enemies into laying down their weapons. Had God not dealt with that snake, I would have been honored to strike him down.”
“That’s incredibly brave,” I confess. “Had Malphas not kidnapped my brother, I never would have summoned the courage to face him. Where do you get your strength, Puriel?”
The angel stands up a little straig
hter.
“From the Lord, who equips all of us with the tools we need to carry out our mission. When you serve on the side of righteousness, Mr. Ford, you need not fear evil. The wicked never triumph because the righteous never falter in their convictions. Agents of evil are, without fail, cowards.”
The angel strides toward me, causing my muscles to tense. He merely places a hand on my shoulder and looks down at me. Up close, I can feel his well-built frame radiating power.
“Now excuse me while I rejoin my brethren in our fight against this new group of cowards,” he says.
His hand leaves my shoulder, and he steps around me. This is my last opportunity. If I don’t convince him now, he’ll be in the wind, and we’ll be back to square one. I don’t have time for that.
With tendrils of panic creeping up my throat, I call after him.
“Your enemies might be cowards, but they’ll die in battle if that’s what it takes.”
Puriel freezes in his tracks and cocks an ear my way. I continue.
“You can see in their eyes how desperate they are now that they’ve committed to this path. You are equally committed to yours. Your ideologies are two freight trains barreling down the tracks toward each other. When that collision happens, it’s going to decimate Heaven.”
My final sentence hangs in the air. I look at Augustus and motion for him to jump in. His expression reminds me of a groomsman unexpectedly asked to speak at a wedding, but he recovers.
“We want to help you defeat the traitors and keep our home intact,” he implores with gusto. “Take us to the archangels, and let us make our case. They’ll make the final call. That’s all we ask.”
Puriel turns his head and stares at his feet. I eye my companions with hopeful anticipation, and they return similar looks. My heart races like I’m awaiting a big verdict in court. When the angel lifts his face to us, his softened expression gives me hope. He opens his mouth to speak.
“I will take you to the place where fighting has resumed. I cannot guarantee an audience with the archangels, and I do not support your calls for a ceasefire. But I am not so blind as to miss the damage our battles are causing. I agree—the end result could be…cataclysmic.”
“Thank you,” I reply, my hands clasped in front of me. “You are doing the right thing.”
The angel pauses, and I can see a wave of skepticism wash over him.
“We shall see,” he answers. “Gather round and grab my arm.”
The angel extends his right arm, and I move to take hold of it right above his spiked gauntlet. The hairless forearm is tight like coiled steel and cold to the touch. Augustus sidles in next to me and places a hand by mine. His other arm makes a subtle movement on the other side of his body. I quickly realize he’s got his fingers wrapped around that blade on his hip.
This causes a momentary geyser of panic to erupt in my stomach. Augustus knows these angels far better than I do. If he’s nervous, I’ve got reason to worry. I shoot him a fleeting glance that I hope conveys the sudden unease his action has stirred inside me. He shakes his head imperceptibly.
The geyser in my stomach slows from an eruption to a mild bubbling.
On the other side of Puriel’s arm, Bron has to squat down to grab hold. Rather than wrapping his massive hand around Puriel’s arm, Bron simply touches it with a footlong bronze finger. Now that we’re all assembled, Puriel closes his eyes and moves his head ever so slightly from one side to the other. If his eyes weren’t closed, you’d swear he was speed reading. In the silence that accompanies this bizarre trance, I can hear Augustus tighten the grip on his blade.
Stop that. You’re going to give me an ulcer.
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.
I smile and shake my head at Augustus’s response. Nothing makes you sound like an old man faster than quoting Benjamin Franklin. Colin wouldn’t even go that far.
Try to keep the lines clear, gentlemen. Our friend is scanning angel radio to determine our destination. We do not want to make his job more difficult by clouding the airwaves at this moment.
Then I guess you better put a lid on it, Bron.
I fight back laughter and stare at the ground. If I see Bron’s reaction to that burn, I’ll lose it.
Augustus Shaw, I never thought you of all people would…
“Found it,” Puriel barks. His clear voice cutting through the silence makes me jump. He eyes me suspiciously, and I mumble an apology. The sound of Augustus laughing is unmistakable in my head. Puriel finishes, “Hold tight. This transference will be over shortly.”
Teleportation is old hat at this point. The wormhole is a brilliant white light that surrounds the four of us. With my eyes closed, I can picture my comrades as they fly along beside me. Augustus will maintain that rock-star cool he perfected over the course of 137 years. Bron will try to appear regal and fail miserably. He’s too damn awkward to ever look any way but goofy.
Me? I simply hope I don’t look as nervous as I feel. Because I have serious doubts that my plan can succeed. Augustus entertained my idea despite his misgivings, but that’s likely thanks to his trepidation at ejecting every angel from Heaven and our burgeoning familial relationship. I want to reward his faith in me with a step in the right direction. We don’t have to resolve this entire conflict right now. Merely establishing an open line of communication with the archangels would be a huge victory. They can reject our line of thinking. I just hope they’ll hear us out.
***
The newest arena of battle is starkly different than the bastille. Gone are the swaying, knee-high grasses and the foreboding structure reminiscent of an impenetrable fortress. We’re surrounded on all sides by towering, jagged rocks stained crimson, dark purple, and black. This twisted landscape is a cross between Bron’s home in the canyon and the streets of a big city. It’s hard not to feel claustrophobic with such sharp and dangerous rock formations looming over your head.
I make this assessment seconds after the wormhole deposits us on craggy ground and the warmth of its white light disappears. The next thing my brain registers is Puriel cocking his head to one side like a dog who’s just heard a disconcerting noise. Our hands fall away from his chiseled forearm as he moves toward the noise he heard, his head still cocked in that direction.
That’s when I notice the noise for myself. For a second, I’m reminded of the cacophony that consumed the lumberyard in Sherwood during our battle against Malphas and his demons. That noise was like firecrackers going off inside an old metal barrel. The sound that I’m hearing now—and that I assume Puriel hears—is less staccato and more sonorous. It’s the kind of sound I’d imagine two skyscrapers would make as they fell into each other or that two cruise ships would produce as one sideswiped the other. Whatever it resembles, the noise signifies one thing.
The battle raging here is ferocious, and our path to the archangels will be filled with peril. We have to keep Puriel focused on getting us through the battle to see his commanders. Even with Augustus at our side, I don’t like our chances of navigating angelic warfare without a guide.
That’s when Puriel flies away, his dark, spectral wings pinned back behind him. He zooms straight ahead, banks up and over a snarl of razor-sharp rocks, and disappears from view. The hand I had used to grip his arm stretches sadly out before me. I didn’t even have time to raise it and beckon him back before he vanished from sight. He was there one moment and gone the next.
Like a ghost, his sudden absence makes me wonder if he was ever there at all.
Am I even here right now? Or is this all a bad dream?
If I tap my heels three times, will I end up back in my bed the night before my twenty-fifth birthday?
I close my eyes and rub my face. Behind my eyes, tears are welling up and threatening to seep out. I can’t articulate why this turn of events has cued up the waterworks. I was holding it together so wel
l in spite of everything that’s happened. I had a plan and a purpose to get us closer to our goal of ending this war and getting me back to Sherwood. I was moving forward with my eyes fixed straight ahead. Now I feel fragile enough to disintegrate and be swept away in the wind.
“Everything is so hard,” I whisper in a trembling voice. “Damn it.”
“Come here, kid.”
I don’t hear Augustus as he approaches me and wraps me up in a hug. My face finds his shoulder and spills tears on his dark green duster jacket. His scent is aftershave and cigarette smoke, and while his hugs aren’t as rib-cracking as Colin’s, I’m still reminded of my grandfather and the unwavering emotional support he provided while Peter was held captive.
Colin will never know how much I appreciated having a shoulder to cry on during that ordeal. I doubt Augustus knows how much this means to me now, when it feels like the whole world is falling apart. Or maybe he knows exactly what his gesture means. Perhaps good hugs run in the family.
I pull away and gulp down a ragged breath. Our eyes meet, and I nod, so Augustus smiles and nods back. I see in his expression the concern a parent would have for a child and wonder for a moment what Augustus was like as a father. I don’t have time to ponder this mystery, however, as the feeling of a massive hand touching my shoulder causes me to jump.
Bron has knelt down beside me and looks concerned.
“Are you alright, Silas Ford? You seem upset.”
I actually find myself laughing at Bron’s adorably awkward attempt to console me. He’s just too big and too goofy and too…bronze to try something like that and not elicit bemused laughter.
My reaction transforms Bron’s expression to one of confusion, so I tell him, “I’m fine now. Puriel abandoning us was one gut punch too many, I guess. Thanks for asking, Bron.”
Bron’s programming for human interaction appears to have run out. His half-smile and sparkling eyes betray the panic he feels at not knowing what to say next. He clasps his hands together and slowly rises to full height. The entire time, his eyes never leave me.
