Flaming Dove

by Daniel Arenson

  The sight of her cloak, like a body upon the trees, sent a cold jab through Michael. Would he find Laila's body below? Eyes narrowed, Michael descended toward the trees, lifted the cloak from the canopy, and examined it. Blood covered the cloth. Michael dropped through the canopy toward the ground and there, upon a carpet of pine needles, he found Laila.

  The girl lay on her back, limbs sprawled to her sides, black hair spread around her. Her skin was pale, blood trickled from her nose and lip, and claw marks ran down her arms. Her eyes were shut. Fingers of light fell through the trees upon her, mottling her with patches of light. Damn you, if you died on me, Laila....

  Michael knelt by her and placed his ear near her mouth. She breathed, and when he checked her pulse, it seemed strong. Michael blew out his breath in frustration. Laila was bashed up, bruised, and bloody, but aside from a swollen lip, a headache, and perhaps some stitches, she'd be fine.

  You scared me, stupid girl.

  He bound her wounds with strips from her cloak. She mumbled, shifting, blinking, struggling to wake up, still half-asleep. "Volkfair," she mumbled. "Is that you, Volkfair?"

  Michael sighed. Pea-brained, wretched little devil. He couldn't decide what he felt more toward her: pity or anger. He nudged her with his foot.

  "Get up," he said, not bothering to mask his disgust.

  Laila opened her eyes, blinked, and winced. "Ouch. I have a headache."

  Michael grunted. "You're lucky to have a head period. Get up."

  Wincing, Laila stood up. Her knees wobbled and she rubbed her temples. She tested her wings, flapping one at a time, and winced again. "My whole body hurts. Owie."

  "That's what happens when you attack the Queen of Hell by yourself with no backup. You should know better."

  Laila struggled to focus her gaze on him, blinking, rubbing her eyes. "I could have taken her if you hadn't interfered."

  "Like hell," Michael said. His own wounds still hurt, and he wanted nothing more than a long bath and a good sleep, but he was not done with Laila. Somebody needed to beat some sense into her; if Zarel's blows hadn't done that, perhaps his words could. "You faced Zarel once before, and she nearly killed you. You should have known better than to face her alone. She is the Queen of Hell, a thousand years old. You're twenty-seven and stupid to boot."

  Laila's halo of fire ignited, and her eyes blazed, some of their strength returning. Her cheeks flushed. When you were Laila, a legend in Heaven and Hell, you weren't used to people calling you stupid. "To hell with this." Laila spat and turned to leave, cursing. "Damn it, if I'm so pathetic and weak, why the hell did you pursue me all my life? Since I was a girl, you and your brother have been chasing me, trying to get me to join you, telling tall tales of how I'm some super warrior. And now you tell me I'm weak?"

  "I didn't say weak," Michael said. "I said young. And stupid. And inexperienced."

  "Gee, thanks, mister." She started to walk away, pine needles crunching under her boots. "I quit, jerk. I'm out of here. Goodbye."

  He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into her. "Where will you go, Laila?" he said, holding her fast as she twisted. "Back to living in the forest like a stray dog? Wandering the desert like a hermit? Moaning and weeping until Heaven or Hell takes over Earth and fills it with godlight or hellfire, either one of which would kill you? What happened to your plan of taking over Hell and extinguishing the hellfire?"

  "I've changed my mind."

  "Zarel gave you a few bumps on the head, and you decide to give up and run away? You abandon all your plans, leave Zarel to rule in Hell, leave your sister imprisoned?"

  She tugged her arm, but could not free herself from his grasp, and her eyes blazed. "Back off, man. You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through, okay?" Bloody tears ran down her cheeks.

  He still would not let her go, refusing to pity her; pity did no good to Laila of the night. "Do you still want to kill Zarel?" he said. "Do you still want a home in Hell?"

  "I thought I was too stupid and inexperienced to kill Zarel. You said so just a minute ago."

  He stared at her. A tear of blood flowed along her lip and entered her mouth. "Too inexperienced now, yes. But I'll train you."

  She glowered. "I don't need training. I know how to fight."

  "By firing an Uzi? Please. Any common human infantryman learned how to fire a gun at his first week in basic training. Did your bullets do Zarel any harm? Did your grenades so much as dent her scales? We're talking about the Queen of Hell here, and you're using weapons designed for killing humans. And when you do scratch your claws, you're slow, and clumsy, slashing like you're trying to carve up meat rather than harm an archdemon."

  She snickered. "And you, the mighty warrior Michael, will teach me?"

  "I, the mighty warrior Michael, the archangel, the Lord of God's Hosts, will teach you to fight. Not with guns, not with grenades, but with heavenly blades of light, and with speed, and with cunning. You're strong, Laila. You have the strength of a great archangel or archdemon. You are stronger than Zarel, than me, maybe even stronger than Beelzebub. But you lack training. I will train you." He tightened his grip on her arm, leaning forward. "And after I train you, Laila... then, the next time you meet Zarel, she will fear you."

  She yanked herself free at last and glared up at him. "I did defeat Angor, you know."

  "And nearly died in the doing, if I recall correctly. And Zarel is more powerful than Angor tenfold, and Beelzebub is stronger than Zarel. And you hope to usurp them?"

  She gave him her best glare, eyes like lanterns. "And you think you can teach me new tricks." Her voice was half dismissive, but Michael heard the undertone of interest.

  "I've been a soldier for thousands of years, Laila. You learned how to fight by hunting boars in the hills."

  "I'm not using a sword."

  Michael turned and started walking away, the pine needles crunching under his feet.

  "Fine, fine!" she called after him. "Sheesh. But at least don't give me a sword with swan wings etched into it or something. I want a black blade, with a skull on the pommel, or maybe devil horns. Please just not some heavenly weapon."

  Michael suppressed the small smile that curled his lips, then turned back and stared at her. "Get your rest tonight, Laila. Meet me at Caesarea at dawn, at the amphitheatre. We start your training then."

  Chapter Twelve

  Laila arrived late at the amphitheatre. Dawn was several hours past when she fluttered down into the ancient Roman structure and found Michael standing there, arms crossed over his breastplate. Her wounds from dueling Zarel ached, and she still felt weak and battered.

  She landed in the amphitheatre, feet raising dust. Michael glared at her.

  "Be late again, and the deal's off," he said.

  "Oh yes sir." She gave him a mocking salute. I don't even want to be here. Everything still hurt, and she wanted nothing more than to escape to a pub or cave and drink the pain away. I don't care about Michael. I don't care if Bat El is imprisoned. All I ever wanted was to drink, to hunt with Volkfair, to be left alone. "I'm only here because I'm curious to see if you really can teach me any tricks, but to be honest, I'm doubtful. If you were such a mighty warrior, you would have faced Angor yourself, not dragged me from my pub to fight him."

  Michael shot her his best glare, and Laila smirked. Did he really think he could treat her like some angel recruit new to Earth? She was Laila, of fire and shadows, not some lowly soldier. Michael had to learn that.

  Michael spat and turned to leave. "Forget it. You're done. Go to hell, Laila. You don't want to train here? Then leave. We'll take over this world without you. Good luck with the whole usurpation of Hell thing."

  Laila rolled her eyes. "You going to pull that whole walking away in disgust routine again? All right! God. I'm sorry, okay? I got beat up pretty bad yesterday, so I overslept. Sue me."

  He turned back with a sigh, stepped toward her, and handed her a sword, hilt first. At first Laila didn't realize it was a sword;
it looked more like rusty scrap metal. She stared at the weapon with its chipped, rusted blade and wooden handle, then stared at Michael.

  "No thank you," she said.

  "You agreed to train with a sword. Well, here's your sword."

  "That's not a sword, that's a tetanus colony."

  Michael shrugged. "You didn't want a heavenly sword. All the others are carved with David Stars, or crosses, or halos and angel wings, filigreed with gold."

  Laila took the sword in disgust. Cobwebs clung to the blade. "This sword would break if you cut butter with it," she said.

  "Learn to use it, and we'll forge you a better one."

  Fine. He wanted her to use a sword? She'd prove she could use one and be done with. Maybe then he'll teach her some real things, not games with rusty blades. Feigning disinterest, she suddenly leapt toward him, lashing the rusty blade. I'll give him a scratch across the cheek, and we'll see how tough he acts then.

  So fast she barely saw him move, Michael blocked her blow, kicked her legs from underneath her, and she slammed against the ground. She found herself lying, his boot upon her neck.

  "Nice try," he said.

  Laila stared at him, hissing, fangs bared. She hadn't thought the old angel had it in him. "For a dour, reflective son of a bitch, you can move fast," she said.

  He reached down and helped her up. "You'll be just as fast, soon."

  The day turned out to be one of Laila's longest. Michael trained her with swords all day, whacking her all over with his blunt training blade. Laila cursed every moment, her curses echoing in the amphitheatre, and with every whack of Michael's sword, she growled.

  "Damn these stupid weapons," she snarled, her muscles cramped. "Who needs swords? They're ancient weapons. Give me bullets and bombs."

  Michael thrust his blade at her, forcing her to parry. All these moves—endless types of parrying, thrusting, slicing—made Laila's head ache. "My brain hurts," she complained when evening finally fell. "Enough for today."

  Michael sheathed his sword, and Laila tossed her sword aside with such disgust, that it flew out of the ancient amphitheatre and disappeared into the ruins of Caesarea. She hoped she never saw it again.

  "You're bringing back that sword tomorrow," Michael said.

  "Fine, fine, whatever. I'm off. I'm going to find Volkfair, and then I'm going to sleep for two days."

  "We're not done."

  "I am."

  "That's what you think. You're not done with today's training yet." He tossed her a piece of bread and a bottle of water. "Take ten minutes. Eat and drink. Then we continue." With that, he flapped his wings and flew to the highest seat of the amphitheatre.

  Laila sat down, wincing, and stared at the dried bread. It looked a week old, but Laila was famished and bolted it down.

  "You know, I'm not one of your recruits!" she called up to him. "I am Lucifer's daughter. Don't treat me like a private."

  "You're new to Heaven's army, so you're a private," he called down from above. "Now on your feet."

  "That was never ten minutes," she called back. "And I'm not part of Heaven's army."

  A heavy brick landed beside her, shattering. Michael stared down at her from above, lifting another brick. "The next one hits your head," he said. "Stand up."

  He tossed the second brick, and Laila rolled aside, glaring at him. A human tossing a brick wouldn't faze her; it would bounce off her harmlessly. But Michael was strong, and his stones shattered against the ground, faster than the speed of sound. Here were missiles that could break her bones.

  "What the hell?" she yelled up at him.

  "You're too slow. The stones are going to get faster. So are you."

  He tossed stones at her until nightfall, and raced her through the alleys like a rat in a maze, and sent her to the bottom of the ocean after pebbles he tossed, and sent her into the sky to catch dust in the wind. The sun had been gone for hours when he finally nodded.

  "It was a good day. Now go get some sleep."

  Laila rubbed her neck. "Sleep. I missed that. I'm going to sleep for at least twenty-four hours."

  He shook his head. "I meet you back here an hour before dawn. That's four hours away."

  She yawned, stretching out her arms. "Four hours my demon backside. You're crazy."

  "Bricks start flying again in four hours. If you're not awake, they'll crush your skull." He turned to walk away, then paused and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, and Laila? That sword you tossed away? Find it and bring it back by the time we meet tomorrow. Goodnight."

  With that, he left her among the ruins of the ancient city.

  * * * * *

  For weeks he trained her. If she wouldn't wake up on time, he woke her with a kick to the stomach, and if she was still slow to rise, he gave her one hour less sleep the following night. All day he trained her with the blade, and for speed, and strength, and endurance. He'd toss a pebble into rocky fields and demand she fetch the same pebble within a breath. He tossed spears and knives at her, and chastised her for every rent in her clothes. He asked the impossible—that she stay dry underwater, grab stars, stop the moon—all so he could chastise her for failure. Throughout every day, Laila cursed endlessly, curses that wilted plants. She growled, hissed, spat... and yet she kept at it.

  "You want to leave?" Michael asked whenever she ranted. "Fine, leave. But remember this: As harsh as I am to you, Zarel will be a thousand times harsher. As tough as this training is, facing Beelzebub will be a thousand times tougher."

  Whenever he spoke these words, Laila would grumble, glare, and keep evading stones, or parrying his blade, or lifting boulders, or outracing the wind, or performing whatever feat he imagined for that day. She stayed because day after day, despite the bruises and hunger and weariness, she was getting stronger. She could parry more of his blows, even land some of her own. She could lift and toss larger boulders. She could run faster, fly higher.

  At nights, she collapsed exhausted and hungry and battered, Volkfair at her side, cuddled against her. Before she fell asleep for those blessed three or four hours a night Michael granted her, she'd whisper, "Soon, Beelzebub. Soon I'll take your throne."

  Seven weeks after she began her training, Michael met her before dawn in the amphitheatre, and he carried a new blade.

  "Throw away your old rusty sword," he said.

  Laila—gaunt, weary, and sunken-eyed after weeks of heavenly boot camp—tossed her blade aside. It hit one of the amphitheatre's tiers and shattered into bits of rust. "Good riddance," she said.

  Michael handed her the new sword he carried. His small smile was more evident in his eyes than on his lips.

  "For you."

  Laila took the sword and unsheathed it. Three feet long, forged of dark steel, the blade glimmered a deep red. When Laila gave it a few swings, it raised tongues of flame.

  "I like the fire," she said. "Nice touch."

  "It suits you," Michael said. His own sword was bright and glowing, a weapon of Heaven; hers was dark and fiery, half beautiful, half monstrous. The pommel was carved as a black wolf's head—it looked like Volkfair—and the word "Haloflame" was engraved into the grip.

  "Thanks," Laila said. She gave the blade a few more swings, imagining herself swiping at Zarel. Bullets and grenades, made to kill humans, shattered against the Demon Queen's scales. This blade, Laila knew, a blade forged in Heaven, would slice Zarel in half.

  "You've earned it," Michael said. "Now let's see how well you use it."

  The new blade took getting used to. It was lighter than her old one, and balanced differently. By the end of the day, however, Haloflame felt like a part of her. Michael let her sleep for ten hours that night—"Because you've been such a good girl," he said—and Laila slept with her new sword cuddled against her chest, dreaming of Hell.

  * * * * *

  Under the cloudy night sky, Michael walked the cobbled streets of Caesarea's ruins. The walls crowded around him, weedy and crumbly, winking with arrow slits. Columns that had stoo
d for millennia had fallen the day Laila defeated Angor; they now lay shattered across the streets. Bats flew through the night, and the sea whispered, hidden behind the ruins.

  Weariness covered Michael like a cloak, but he could not sleep. Training Laila had placed cramps in his muscles, fatigue in his bones, and doubt like sour milk in his stomach. Laila might hate me for treating her like a recruit, but I bet she's been getting more sleep than me. Michael sighed. He was never one for much sleep anyway, preferring the night for contemplation. An owl called somewhere in the distance, and two fireflies hovered over a broken piece of aqueduct, then vanished. A demon hoof stuck out from a pile or rubble, a last vestige of the battle.

  Two corporals on patrol came walking around a corner, swords drawn, helmets and breastplates polished. Michael nodded at the angels, whose faces paled at the sight of the archangel. They saluted him, stiff and dumbfounded, and Michael smiled once he had walked by them. Now if only I could inspire such awe in Laila too. As the thought of the girl lingered in his mind, his smile soured.

  Laila. The girl he had sought all these years. The legendary creature who fled from Heaven and Hell all her life. I have you now, Laila. After so long, I have you where I want you, and now I fear the outcome of this war more than ever.

  Around a pile of rubble, two smashed columns, a weedy wall, and more angel troops, Michael found the tent he sought. It was a simple tent, just white canvas pulled over wooden beams, a soldier's tent. Typical, Michael thought. Raphael, though a great archangel of equal rank to Michael and Gabriel, had always sought the austere life, wearing but homespun robes, carrying a coarse olive-wood staff, living in a simple home even up in Heaven.

  "Raphael," he said softly when he reached the tent. "It's me. Michael. Are you awake?"

  Raphael's voice, gentle and sad as ever, came from inside the tent. "I am. Come in, Michael."

  Folding his wings against him, Michael entered the tent and found his youngest brother sitting cross-legged on the ground, both his prayer book and flask open in his hands. Michael smiled despite himself. Though austere as a monk, Raphael indulged himself when it came to his cups. His flask was unadorned hide, but always contained only the finest spirits. It was tough growing up with two older brothers like Beelzebub and me, Michael thought. Who wouldn't resort to drinking?