A mystic wormhole, identical to the one at the Cloister of Scourging.
Like a child at play, Grislington appeared content to let the stream of glory flow along his arms and down onto the floor, where it rapidly pooled to form a puddle.
I observed closely, noting something about the grotto I’d initially missed. Unlike the rest of the room, roughly circular in shape, the fountain had been positioned at the exact point where the cavern ballooned outward into an alcove. Why, I didn’t know, as this made the aesthetics of the hall appear warped in some way. However, I spotted a clue in the behavior of the frosted crystals:
After they had shattered and their timbre had faded, each flake created a wisp of vapor. Those wisps became strands which flowed like silk across the edge of the pool and onto the flagstones, where they congealed into chilling haar. However, the mists failed to dissipate. Instead, they built up into a thickening brume that was coating Grislington from head to foot in a glazed rind that must be bitterly cold. Yet he continued to swirl the water as if neither temperature nor discomfort mattered.
He glanced at me again and raised one glistening finger from the fountain. The air distorted. A third arched entrance appeared, several yards behind him, within the recess.
He did it again. Hang on, is that where I came in?
I was shocked.
This portal was devoid of color. It reminded me of Grislington’s robes in that its unknown texture shimmered like a glacier. One moment I couldn’t make out a single tone I recognized, then its surface would flutter, and the slightest tinge of blue would appear. Then aquamarine. And then topaz. I even saw a hint of gold.
So mesmerizing was the play of light across the gate’s surface, I was slow to register something else that had been positioned within the alcove. Something that had been driven more than half its length into an embedded granite plinth. Something that was the stuff of myth and legend, only discussed in whispers, but seen with alarming regularity in my dreams.
A Vidium Sword!
I froze.
What in the blazes is that doing here?
Its jeweled hilt shone like a full moon on a cloudless night, and the resonance of its song called me. My head dropped toward my chin, and continued to fall as if my body had become as insubstantial as smoke. Then the world expanded and my senses realigned to a new melody.
The weight of the cosmos arched away in all directions. A resolution had now been passed to respond to the greatest slander of all time. He Who Causes To Become framed a thought, and the heavens condensed into a single point.
A quorum gathered. Shrouded in nebulas and dark matter, they met to discuss a strategy. Debate raged until The Word issued a decree and passed judgment. From on high, He Who Causes To Become watched. Approval radiated throughout the gathered assembly, and a prodigious circular table made of purest jasper appeared. Upon it, a rainbow of prismatic brilliance glittered within an unquenchable fire. Each color represented an aspect of mastery, encompassed within the jeweled hilt of a sword of majestic power and purpose.
One by one, the host was called forward and the Chosen selected. They took their stand, drawn to the character of the weapon most suited to their nature. The celestial vault flared as each champion arose, flaming blade held on high.
A new hope was born, for this challenge could now be answered. They sallied forth, and dark clashed with light. Storms raged for an age of days throughout the firmament and quakes within the fundament. Outrage was answered by justice, terror by determination. A great dragon was hurled downward to the abyss, and a third of the stars were cast down with him. The heavens stood cleansed, and chaos was prevented.
But victory came at a price, for some were lost . . .
A measure of substance and sensibility returned to me. My eyes snapped open and recognition struck me like a thunderbolt. I scrutinized the layout of the chamber again. Then my gaze fell upon the totem in front of me, or, as it was known in heaven, the Sword of Celestial Arches: a weapon that could not only destroy fallen angels, but this particular blade could create a portal to anywhere and anywhen.
Now I understand!
As a demonstration of his supremacy, His Infernal Majesty had corrupted Grislington’s constitution, so that the full nuance of his prisoner’s former weapon was denied him. Then, in the ultimate act of cruelty, Satan paraded the means of his captive’s salvation before him yet kept it out of reach, together with a doorway capable of transporting him home.
Oh, nice one, Boss!
From the way Grislington studied me, I could tell he knew what I had just surmised.
“A rather . . . felicitous manner of rubbing salt in the wound, don’t you think? Not content with stripping me of my wings and binding me to hell, he sought to flaunt my very last hope for return.” His eyes abruptly came into focus. “Still, I always have yo– Oh, look! Your friends appear to have tired of the novelty of our presence.”
What the hell is he talking about? I glanced over my shoulder. Oh, I see.
Behind me, Cream and Chopin had obviously gotten over their shock at seeing an angel and the Reaper together for the first time, and resumed their quarreling.
“. . . got it, you swine,” Chopin cried, “at last!”
The diminutive composer stood above his opponent, brandishing a small bracelet in one hand. He backed away to the right, toward Tesla, victory contorting his face.
“What?” Cream gasped. He wiped away the blood from his nose and scrambled to his feet. “You’ve got the Reaper standing just across the room from you, and you’re more concerned about wrestling my lover’s knot from me? Are you insane, man?”
Grislington chuckled. “No, but I am.”
Hey, Cream’s got a point.
“You’re too narrow-minded to see the larger picture, you fool,” Chopin countered. “These bands we carry are more than —”
I blanked out the distraction of their wheedling voices and zoomed in on the angel’s wristlet. From what I could discern, the cuff appeared to be made of thick braids of hair looped through various links of silver and agate-of-hell. It also employed an unknown gem on the clasp. That crystal was emitting a very subtle subharmonic field that called out to those worn by Chopin and Tesla.
The character of this crystal’s presence reminded me of a very real danger, so I cast Nimrod a telepathic warning: Heads up. There’s unseen power at play here, despite the wards. Start making your way toward Cream, but stay on your toes. They all have artifacts that might neutralize us.
Nimrod’s hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. Without relaxing his guard, he maintained his scrutiny of the room while backing slowly toward the nearest stalagmite. Once there. he used it as cover and began edging around the side of the chamber.
I noticed that Strawberry hadn’t moved a muscle since we’d arrived and wondered what she was doing.
Strawberry? Are you okay? Don’t worry, I’m here now; you’re safe.
She didn’t give any outward sign that she’d heard. But Grislington did, for he started to shuffle toward the center of the room. His eyes began to burn, as if fueled by an insatiable craving.
The argument suddenly got louder:
“. . . why I was aware of your every move, fool?” Chopin was in mid retort. “Did you really think I cared about your self-aggrandizement? I needed to ensure this bracelet’s return for the next stage of my plan, the retrieval of George’s essence. With it, I will bind her soul to mine.”
Chopin spun on his heel and nodded toward Tesla, who dropped to one knee and removed a large ornate goblet from the haversack by his feet. Made from some kind of burnished, rainbow-colored material, the goblet’s substance glowed like a candle in the dark.
I knew it! The Cup of Tartarus, I presume?
Tesla took a tiny gem from his top pocket. It sparkled like captured sunlight, and its tincture immediately made me think of Grislington.
Seraphinite? Unholy shit! Is he going to try to control the angel? Or kill it?
“Idiot,” Cre
am shouted, “you’ll only make yourself a target. And your beloved George along with you.”
He tore open his jacket to brandish a long, tapered dagger.
Oh great! I should have known. I was on the verge of panic. But then concern gave way to caution: Hang on! Cream’s got his own agenda. Will he try to use the Sword of Damocles to counter Chopin and —
A sword of Damocles, Grislington’s condescending mental voice interrupted. He seemed amused by my apparent faux pas, and I could sense his hunger increasing by the second. His eyes smoldered brighter, and his chest heaved beneath his shimmery gown.
The angel gestured toward Cream’s weapon, then resorted to verbal speech to educate me:
“Only a hundred and forty-four thousand of those blades were ever made, one for each attendant who formed the echelons squiring the Chosen in battle. Such treasures reveal a heritage, both hinted and richly evoked. For they disclose a hidden purpose that He Who Causes To Become would have preferred remain secret.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate on everything at once. Grislington’s words carried a profound weight of truth I found hard to ignore. I snapped a mental order toward Nimrod. Watch what those clowns are doing! Then I interposed myself between Grislington and his entertainment:”What the fuck are you dithering on about, angel?”
“My apologies,” Grislington replied, his attention now fully upon me. “Although at times I might act without convention, you must remember, I have been disassociated from reality far too long. I am speaking of the true purpose of the Damocles daggers, and what Satan has striven to do with them ever since.”
“True purpose?”
“Cousin, He Who Causes To Become couldn’t have his holy angels and Vidium Swords falling into the wrong hands without something to counter them, could he? He was at war, after all, and a bloody war at that. He had to ensure an appropriate countermeasure was on hand to take away their edge, so to speak — you know, the danger they represented. Of course, bright Lucifer saw potential in that provision, and set out to vitiate his creator’s intent from the word go.”
As he spoke, Grislington crept ever closer. The intensity of his eyes bored into me, and he smiled like a serpent with a bear trap in its mouth. My sixth sense alerted me to a hidden danger. A static charge built in the air and sparks began dancing back and forth between us. Before I knew it, Grislington had used the diversion to close the gap considerably. He was almost within an arm’s length of me.
Sneaky fucker! He’s up to something, and it involves . . .
I circled to my right to put some distance between us and managed to position him with his back toward Strawberry. As a precaution, I also removed my scythe and held it ready. Just grasping it in my hands brought instant relief.
By now, Tesla had completed his manipulations on the portion of seraphinite within the cup. He held up the goblet, mumbled something under his breath, and then brought it to his lips.
Opposite him, Cream hastily cut one of his own fingers with the dagger and smeared his blood across the gem adorning its hilt. Pointing the blade toward Tesla, he started to chant.
I did my best to ignore the distraction their maneuvering created.
Strawberry! I called on her intimate mode. Quickly, I need to remove obstacles. I then projected an image of Cream and Chopin directly toward her. Draw their attention, and I’ll take them both down. You recover the artif– Strawberry?
She didn’t seem to have heard a word I thought.
What is it with her? Has she been hurt? I can’t see any injury that might cause . . . I scanned her more closely. In fact, I can’t sense anything. Strawberry?
Grislington didn’t appear to have cottoned-on to my strategy, so I did the next best thing, striving to keep him occupied while Nimrod got into position: “So, angel, what do these Swords of Damocles represent, exactly?”
“Why, grand gestures and missed opportunities that the Tempter seized upon and expounded. They and all tools like them are the very contrivance by which Lucifer seeks to strengthen his position. He uses guile to mislead and —”
“Speak plainly,” I cut in. “Are you saying Satan managed to corrupt them in some way?”
“No, you’re not listening . . .” Grislington’s voice trailed off as he regarded the weapon before him with reverence. “Don’t forget, when those Damocles blades now in Lucifer’s possession were taken from their rightful wielders, that diabolical task was undertaken by creatures recently ousted from their true dwelling place. They were all of heavenly origin. The Resister simply adapted the Zion-forged glaives to better suit the darkened nature of his fallen angels. Thus did Lucifer, ever fearful of rivalry, jealously insulate his own position.” He stole even closer. “Don’t you see? In their lust for greater power and influence, the devil’s supporters lost themselves. Lucifer secretly added a most insidious spell, ubiquitous in scope; for in granting the wielder of a Damocles Sword what they most craved — the power to vanquish — he ensured they would surrender their own free will. Priceless, eh? But such is the way with all the Tempter’s gifts.” His gaze fell to my scythe. “They come with hidden costs. Do not be a pawn, Reaper. You are much more than you appear.”
Me? “I am no pawn,” I spluttered indignantly.
“And yet you reposition yourself on a game-board not of your choosing, the gallant dark knight, ready to sacrifice everything to protect his king.”
“You border on heresy, accusing our lord in such a way.”
“Lord? Pah! He is a weakling, a shortsighted fool who promises much and delivers little. Once cast down, he couldn’t imagine a better kingdom to call his own, so he based his just proscription upon the foundations laid Above.”
“Beware, angel. Prisoner or not, I bridle at your accusations. You condemn yourself by speaking out against him.”
The Phage beckoned. Before I could call upon its power, Grislington pressed his advantage:
“Then look inside yourself, Reaper, and see if I am deserving of your judgment. After all, you have been granted the capacity to read hearts. How many have you adjudged to be deserving of condemnation over the centuries? Millions? Billions? As you well know, each soul is tried by being drawn out and enticed through its own dark desires. That desire, when fertilized, gives birth to sin. Sin, in turn, brings forth Satan’s Reaper and an untimely death.
“Do not be misled, brother. Sin overreached your so-called dark lord eons ago. His procrastinations are prosaic, to say the least, but don’t hide the fact that what we see around us, the discord, the malcontentedness, is naught but the inevitable result of a grand failure from a small idea.”
Bugger!
The bait he dangled in front of me proved too thought-provoking to ignore. Something within me, buried deep down, responded, for in his words resounded a ring of truth I couldn’t disregard.
His argument is sound. But why . . . ? how . . . ?
I glanced away to give myself a break and tried to make sense of what this creature alleged. Only then did I notice that Tesla and Cream were yet cancelling each other out. No matter what trick or tactic they employed, the purity of the arcane devices in their hands countered each soul’s strategy.
Enchantments clashed and the atmosphere bristled.
The angel lingered, as if waiting for something.
Nimrod rounded the base of the final stalagmite, and I could see he would soon be in range of his prey.
Thank the stars someone’s making progress.
Before Nimrod could reach Cream, Chopin joined the fray. The composer ran to Tesla’s side and smeared blood from his fist onto the chalice’s lip. Then he held up a long blonde hair between his thumb and forefinger. This too he lowered into the device.
“Swiftly, man!” he shouted. “The Cup of Tartarus won’t be foiled easily. It remains at your service till your will has been done or you choose to withdraw. Change target.”
Isn’t that Cream’s blood and Strawberry’s hair? Clever idea.
Cream also hear
d the exchange and guessed Chopin’s intent. He looked horrified for a moment. Then a crafty smile bent his face into a sneer. He pushed the Sword of Damocles at Strawberry, pointed at his erstwhile associates and snarled, “Kill them!”
No, Strawberry. I tried to compel her with all my might. Kill him. Kill Cream instead. Strawberry, for fuck’s sake, just kill him.
Once again, my thoughts were absorbed without impact. It felt as if Strawberry’s consciousness were absent, leaving nothing behind upon which my coercion could gain purchase. Nevertheless, a few moments after Cream uttered his command, an overwhelming surge of hostility leaked from Strawberry’s mind.
Where did that come from?
Grislington noticed my concern and pressed his line of reasoning.
“Choose, Reaper. Are you a mere puppet or more than you appear to be?”
Those words struck a chord.
I’ve heard that before. Somewhere recently . . . The Knights Tempter!
Recollections of an ethereal voice within the miasma of the Knights Bridge came flooding back:
“You are more than you appear to be . . .”
Then why do I feel so emasculated?
“So much more. Do you not realize who you are?”
Who I am?
“What you are?”
I am alone. Stripped, barren, and darkened.
“Then why tolerate it? It is unnatural.”
I deserve it.
“But you are a god!”
Don’t be ridiculous, I am nothing. Debased, corrupted, and tarnished.
“A Titan to rival the likes of Lucifer himself.”
That is preposterous. Outrageous. You shouldn’t talk like that.
“Why? You are a colossus amongst insects. Why shouldn’t you release the potential so artfully obscured and claim what could be yours?”
What are you saying?
“Overthrow the pretender, Satan. Why do you think Erra and his personified weapons were dispatched? The Deceiver is insufficient for the task.”
Blasphemy!
“Take the throne . . .”
Treason!
“Assume your rightful place as lord of the underworld. Have you not personally consigned billions to such a fate? Who better to rule...?”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 38
