To Reign in Hell: A Novel

by Steven Brust

The emerald around Satan’s neck spat in all directions as he forced his way forward through the flux. He came at last upon a line of angels working to create a new wall to Heaven, and forced his way through.

  Then he was upon the ground again. Behind was an abyss with cacoastrum howling and angels fighting against it. He looked around, but ignored those behind him.

  He strode forward to where a group of angels were receiving instructions from Yaweh. As he came near, one of them saw him and moved to interpose himself.

  “Who are you?” asked Satan.

  “I’m called Kyriel.”

  “Then move, Kyriel. I’m here to destroy him who you think of as God. If you get in my way, I’ll destroy you, too.”

  Kyriel shook his head. “My best friend has already been destroyed by serving you. You may as well take me, too.”

  By this time several of the others were moving forward. Satan noticed this and nodded.

  “Very well, then,” he said. There was a flash from his breast, and Kyriel was no more. Satan took another step and found his way blocked, this time by an angel with a massive golden-hued sword, who wore the gold cloak of the Firstborn.

  “A rematch, Michael? All right.”

  But before he could act, something hit him from behind and he fell. He saw Michael’s sword overhead, and then Michael fell back as a four-legged shape crashed into his chest. “Milord,” called Beelzebub, “get thee behind me.” Teeth flashed, and Michael cried out as his right arm was ravaged.

  “Beelzebub!” cried Satan. “Get away!”

  But Beelzebub was taken by Zaphkiel, who came from behind and pinned him. Beelzebub looked up at Michael, who was holding his arm and moaning.

  “Thou dost see,” he said, “that thy sword is not faster than my teeth.”

  Gabriel appeared, holding a sword over Beelzebub’s breast. But he was stopped by a form in black that struck him from behind and sent him sprawling.

  Mephistopheles, without stopping, picked up the fallen sword and held it at Michael’s breast.

  All was still then, for a moment. Mephistopheles coughed. “I’d really hate to have to hurt the poor fellow,” he said.

  Yaweh nodded. “Take them past the lines and cast them into the void. Let them fend for themselves.” He spoke then to Mephistopheles. “Will that do?”

  “Quite,” said the other.

  Satan and Beelzebub were raised up and brought to the brink of the line of angels.

  Satan twisted around and looked at Yaweh. “I think you’ll be hearing from me again,” he said.

  Yaweh nodded, but didn’t speak.

  They threw Satan over, and Beelzebub after him. Then Mephistopheles forced Michael to his feet and the two of them went to the brink together.

  “If you plan to take me with you,” said Michael in as strong a voice as he could manage, “I don’t think you’ll like the results.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Mephistopheles. “Wherever we’re going, I wouldn’t pollute the place with you.”

  He looked directly at Yaweh. “It’s been swell,” he remarked.

  Then he threw Michael to the ground, saluted them with his blade, and leapt into the abyss.

  EPILOGUE

  Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme. . . .

  —Milton, Paradise Lost, l:248

  “We cannot stay here,” says the one.

  “You are correct,” says another. “The walls we have built are flimsy things.”

  “Do you think we should try to regain Heaven?” asks a third.

  The fourth one snorts, but makes no other answer.

  “Well then,” says the third, “what about this place they are build-ing?”

  “What about it?” asks the first.

  “It will be filled with angels created durng its building, will it not? Why couldn’t we hide there?”

  “This would work, “ says the second, “until we are discovered. But there are still more of them than there are of us. They would destroy us.”

  “Let us think about it,” says the third.

  “They seem secure there, Lord Yaweh.”

  “Who?”

  “Satan and his angels. They have built themselves a Heaven of their own.”

  “Oh. Does this bother you, Michael?” “Some.”

  “Don’t let it. We will be leaving here soon, anyway. Leave them to their Waves, their agonies.”

  “They won’t be content, Yaweh. They’ll want what we’ve built. I know it.”

  “If only Yeshuah were here. . . .”

  “Yaweh . . . ?

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . . we could, I don’t know if you’re going to like this, but, well, we could create him again.”

  “I know.”

  “Well?”

  “I couldn’t take it, Michael. Seeing him again, I—I don’t know. He wouldn’t really be the same. Maybe someday.”

  In six days, the Earth was formed. And the stars, and the planets, and the peoples who dwelt on them.

  Millions of angels were created during the building. Some were ruined, and took the form of lower beings. The others were the weakest yet among the angels, and few, if any, could control their illiaster.

  Yet, in that world, there was little need for it.

  “What is that?” said one.

  “Beats me,” said another.

  Yet another said, “Runs pretty well.”

  “Yeah,” another added. “There sure are lots of ‘em.”

  “The angels who live there will be able to ride them, I think,” the first remarked.

  “No! Really?”

  “Why not? They’d get around faster, that way.”

  The third one put in, “But they won’t be able to live everywhere—just in a few places.”

  “Why is that?” asked the fourth.

  “Because what they eat won’t grow everywhere.”

  “For instance, where?” said the first, who was becoming fond of the things.

  “Well, that place with all the sand and no water.”

  “I bet I could build something like it that would work there.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll make it able to eat things that grow there.”

  The third snorted. “Sure. But what about water? They need water too, idiot.”

  “And,” the fourth put in, “their feet aren’t really designed for running over sand anyway.”

  “Well,” said the second, “why don’t we work on it?”

  For Satan, life was “if only.”

  He remembered deciding not to visit Yaweh. If only. And how Lucifer and Lilith and Asmodai and Michael had urged him to oppose the Plan openly, if he was going to oppose it. If only. And of the first battle, where he had refused to prepare the hosts for a fight. If only.

  And so on, and on.

  Well, he decided, that wouldn’t happen again. He was probably going to be leader of the angels who had fallen from Heaven, whether he wanted to or not. This time he would be a leader, for good or for ill.

  He looked at the newly formed globe and nodded. Yes, his people would be safe there. But, of course, they had been right: Yaweh would not allow them peaceful access to that place.

  So, by that reasoning, why should Satan allow them peaceful access to it either? The new angels who lived there wouldn’t know Satan from Yaweh. They would just as soon harbor one as the other. Yaweh, of course, would want them to reject Satan—why shouldn’t Satan be equally polite?

  He nodded to himself. Another war, that’s what it would be. This time, the battlefield would be the minds of the weak, new angels.

  Yaweh, of course, would lie, and his minions would scheme— Satan would rely on the truth. Yaweh would want to be worshiped. Satan would be content with being accepted.

  He knew that, sooner or later, it would become a physical match once more, and they would line themselves up and settle things for good. It might not be soon, but it would happen.

  He looked out at the
blue-green battlefield and felt pity for the angels over whom they would fight. This time, however, he would not let that stop him. Yaweh had been a good teacher, Heaven a good school. Satan had learned.

  Angels and mortals

  Sometimes have to pay. . . .

  —MARK HENLEY,

  “NOVEMBER SONG”