The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  Me, I was running a battle belt Dillon had left at the house. Glock 19 with a Dawson +5 in place, three of them on my belt, and two pouches for Magpuls for my M4, a dump pouch behind, though I doubted I’d worry too much about reloading magazines; I ran a Paul Howe–designed Universal Chest Rig with eight magazines in pouches, four extra pistol magazines, also +5s, and my trusty Smith & Wesson 627 loaded with sacred hand loads. I had every extra pouch and the dump pouch on the chest rig stuffed with moon clips, and a small Maxpedition dump pouch attached on the off side carrying even more. And of course the obligatory Super Soaker full of holy water strapped across my back. Tucked into my belt was the wand I had cut from the tree . . . and that was that.

  Did I say light?

  Maybe it just felt that way because I was sitting down.

  “Yes,” First In Front said. He was in his war gear: simple breeches, stripped to the waist with all his scars highlighted in paint, long lines of paint drawn down his face, hair dangling free and a single war feather tucked into a knotted braid, his coup stick in one hand and a war knife in the other. “This is good, riding to war. I like this chariot of the sky.”

  Tigre stretched luxuriantly, rolled on her side, heaved and sighed, then winked at me.

  Burt said, “Beats the hell out of driving. I get tired keeping up. This guy’s got class.”

  Otto laughed, as though he could hear.

  Burt tilted his head, fixed one wise and gleaming eye on me. “More than meets the eye, Marius . . . be cautious in all things.”

  My three guides exchanged looks.

  What is it I’m missing? I asked telepathically.

  “This is the Test,” Tigre said. “Be aware of all things, all interactions, all choices . . . every action you take tonight will have resonance far beyond what you can see with mortal eyes . . .”

  “Let him have his Test,” First In Front said. “We are here to guide and protect . . .”

  “. . . and to make sure he’s never alone,” Burt added.

  Laughter in the Other Realms . . .

  . . . and in the distance, with shamanic vision, I saw the dark pulsing over the entire city, which seemed to have grown like a scab, and off south, the vortex of Darkness there, where the portal was, where we’d descended after Sabrina . . .

  “We will descend shortly,” Otto said. “I will anchor the ship above the portal. We’ll descend with the transporter.”

  I had to laugh. “Away party, standing by for transport.”

  Otto laughed too. “An excellent series. Remind me, when we are through, to tell you about Gene Roddenberry. I worked with him as a creative consultant, uncredited of course.”

  I was flabbergasted. “Otto, you are a man of many hidden talents.”

  He nodded, intent on steering the saucer in on the final approach. “Much is hidden in all of us, my friend. You as well, Marius.”

  There was some sort of illumination that made the seeing through the windshield canopy almost as clear as day, albeit with a purplish tint and overtone. The wreckage of the farmhouse was still scattered about; someone had been out there and strung plastic fencing all around it. There were no vehicles, but plenty of tire tracks. No signs of any thermal signatures: human, animal or Cabal clone.

  Otto hovered the craft, touched the panel and all of the controls disappeared seamlessly into the, well, dashboard I guess I’d call it. He stood up and we both went into the transporter booth, which looked a heck of a lot like a ’40s-era elevator in an opulent hotel.

  He looked at me, nodded that sharp Teutonic bob, and pressed his palm against the control plate.

  We descended in a cone of light.

  Slowly.

  Like Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman in the casino scene from Rain Man, or Zach Galifianakis and Bradley Cooper in The Hangover.

  The cone of light disappeared, and we were standing amidst the rubble. Otto pulled a small flashlight with a red lens cover out of his pocket and lit the way. We pulled some of the rubble away and exposed the entrance to the stairwell.

  “Let us go then, you and I?” Otto said.

  “Like The Hollow Men,” I said. “I’m a T.S. Eliot fan as well.”

  Like the evening spread out against the sky, we went down.

  The stairwell was littered with rubble, pocked with bullet marks and shrapnel, blood trails and what looked like blood . . . but no bodies. Char marks seemed as though the Cabal clones and the Dark Forces soldiers were all equipped with a self-destruct mechanism, which made it Mission Impossible-like to recover their bodies and, apparently, their gear. Total deniability.

  Too bad, because I was hoping to scrounge some of that Mayflower nylon, since I was a statistically average-sized male and maybe one of those goat harnesses, with a little bit of tweaking, would fit me.

  That gear’s expensive.

  Otto was on point, which was fine with me. All of the ammo and the gear I carried seemed even heavier as we descended flight after flight of stairs, steadily down. The big man moved like a ghost, light and sure-footed, our way illuminated by the deathly glow of the pulsing walls and the red beam of his flashlight. From time to time I turned and checked our back trail—nothing but the whisper of our passing, and above us the tunnel twisting upwards into darkness, punctuated by empty stairs.

  “I was expecting a reception committee,” I said.

  Otto paused and waited for me to step up beside him. “Yes. One would think so.”

  I adjusted my chest rig slightly. Listened. Nothing. Only the pounding of my heart in my ears. Otto’s eyes seemed to gleam in the dark as he too listened.

  Nothing.

  “How much further?” he asked.

  “Three more levels.”

  We descended.

  At the final turn before the chamber where we had rescued Sabrina, there was a dim glow that came from around the corner. We both paused, weapons at the ready.

  “Caution, Beloved . . .” Tigre whispered.

  We came around the corner, pied out like the most tactical of the tacti-cool.

  Dillon would have been proud.

  The chamber was empty. The dais was still littered with a tangle of cordage, and our casings from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The space on the wall that had pulsed with malevolent force before was smooth and still. Like a mirror, except of stone.

  We entered, made our way to that space.

  “This is where we enter,” Otto said. He laid the flat of his hand against the stone. “This is the entrance.”

  “Not permeable right now,” I said. “Any ideas?”

  “I was hoping you would have those answers,” Otto said. “That is what I’ve been shown.”

  I was stumped, but then, that was irrelevant . . . for you will be guided, protected, and never alone . . .

  Yep.

  “Wait,” Tigre said. She paced back and forth before the portal. “The answer is summoned, and will come . . .”

  . . . First In Front stood, arms crossed, holding coup stick and knife. Silent. Grim.

  . . . Burt rested on First In Front’s shoulder. He wouldn’t alight on the dais. “You know, Marius, you take us to the finest establishments . . .”

  Laughter . . .

  Otto laughed and so did I.

  “You can see them?” I said.

  “Not as well as you, Marius. But yes.”

  “And yours?”

  He shrugged. “So. What is your guidance?”

  In the Other Realms, all three of my guides stood ready. Tigre said, “You carry the Sword, Marius . . .”

  I drew the wand, which seemed heavier than it should, closed my eyes . . .

  And in the Other Realms, I held the Sword . . . I turned and touched it to the wall . . .

  Which shattered, right here, right now, in this, the Middle World . . .

  . . . which it isn’t anymore, Marius . . .

  “Truly,” said Tigre, a beautiful white tiger standing beside me.

  Otto’s eyes widen
ed, if a man of his experience could be surprised. “Astonishing.”

  She arched her back. “Yes. I am.”

  “Oh here we go,” Burt said. Oversized crow, hopping forward, and a distinct Brooklynese to his voice.

  “Hey hey, heya, heya . . .” came a soft baritone.

  “First In Front?” I said in wonder.

  He came forward, in the flesh. Tucked his coup stick beneath one arm, reached out and grasped my upper arm and bicep in his strong and calloused hand. Squeezed.

  Real.

  In the flesh.

  He grinned. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

  “You won’t hit me if I ask you to call me kemosabe, will you?”

  Laughter.

  Otto shook his head. “This is something I have never seen before.”

  “That’s saying something,” Burt said. “Given your history.”

  “Yes,” Tigre said. “So say we all. Shall we go?”

  “You know the way?” I said.

  She looked at me. Green eyes, tinged with yellow. Loving eyes.

  “Yes, Marius,” she said. “I know the way. I have been to Hell before. With you.”

  “So many stories,” Otto said. “Please, Lady. Lead us.”

  She padded ahead, looked back over her shoulder fetchingly, and said, “Follow me.”

  Did I mention that she sounds like a young Lauren Bacall?

  You do know who Lauren Bacall was, right?

  Led by a tiger with the voice of Lauren Bacall, a crow from Brooklyn, a Lakota war chief with a deep Welsh baritone, and protected by Hitler’s personal bodyguard and hit man, I crossed the portal threshold into the Gates of Hell.

  I love my life.

  CHAPTER 25

  “So,” Otto said. “Just how does this all work?”

  “The Sword,” Tigre said. Beyond the portal, there was more of the same, except that the tunnel widened out and then became a path carved into the sides of an increasingly wider cavern; the path growing broader as well, with room for Otto and me to walk abreast following Tigre, while Burt and First In Front padded behind, because for some reason Burt was walking instead of flying, which worried me considering the amount of room he had.

  “The Sword? What Sword?” Otto said.

  “Marius carries the Sword. His wand, or rather, his Sword . . .” she went on.

  Because once we’d crossed the threshold into Hell, not only had my spirit guides assumed what certainly felt, appeared and sounded like the flesh, but my wand had become a metal sword, with a handle wrapped in rawhide leather, that I carried at the ready. I wish I could say I felt and looked like Conan with his sword, but it was more like the young Bilbo with Sting in the cave where he first met Gollum.

  “. . . is a Sword, or rather, the Sword of Michael.”

  “The Archangel’s Sword?” Otto said.

  “Yes. One of many. Or rather, one of the many facets of the Sword itself. Each fragment contains the whole of the original. That Sword he carries is a channel for all the power of the Archangel Michael—as is each of the other Swords in the World, as is the Original Sword of Michael, which he carries always.”

  “One is all, and all is one?” Otto said.

  “Absolutely,” Tigre said. Her voice would render most men to throbbing helplessness, were it not for the fact it issued over awe-inspiring fangs propelled by massive paws heavily clawed. “Quantum physics. String theory. Or whatever flavor of the cutting-edge science you want to call on. That Sword can open the Gates of Hell and transport all of us, in the flesh, into this portion of the Other Realms. It carries all the power of the Sword that Michael used to strike down the Adversary, the same Power that binds him and his.”

  Otto eyed me. “Astonishing. He is most blessed.”

  “Yes,” Tigre said. “He is. There are few that are Chosen, and all are heavily tested. And it can be taken back. It can only be used with Right Discernment.”

  “That’s comforting,” I said.

  “Ha,” Burt said. “That’s why you’ve got us along, friend.”

  “Why aren’t you flying ahead?” I said.

  “Because there’s strength in numbers, and there’s things flying in here I don’t want to run into without you big boys backing my play, you know what I’m sayin’?” Burt said. “And you didn’t ask me.”

  “What, exactly, can we, um, do here, Tigre?” I said.

  “Anything you can imagine or manifest, if you stay connected to the Light of the Creator through the Sword.”

  “Can we be hurt?” I asked.

  She stopped and regarded me with her loving feral eyes. “We can all be killed or bound here, Marius. As we are in the flesh. As can you and Otto. We can be injured, we can be maimed. But then, so will anything we encounter, including the demonic all the way up through the demi-demons up to the big one himself . . . we are on, as you say, a level playing ground.”

  “As to tactics,” Otto said, as a good commando would, “do all the weapons work?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And magic or energy casting as well. And the holy water, which is even more potent here than elsewhere. Be sparing with it.”

  Great. At least we were heavily armed with the right stuff to be walking down the driveway to Hell.

  My white tiger continued to lead the way.

  Impressions of Hell: surprisingly banal. No Guardians or other denizens, which surprised me . . .

  “All of us,” First In Front added.

  . . . and the entry was a widening cavern, with the staircase gradually morphing into a wide, broad path, paved with carefully fitted stone. There was no visible source of light, but somehow the cavern was lit enough so we could see our way as we descended.

  Ahead of us, as the path wound round, we saw glimmering lights that grew as we came closer.

  “Hey, Otto,” I said.

  “Yes, Marius?”

  “You like to read?”

  “Very much so. It is one of my great pleasures.”

  “Like science fiction, fantasy, that kind of thing?”

  Otto found that amusing. “Only the best. As you can see, it’s hard to compete with real life.”

  “True, that,” I said. “Ever read Roger Zelazny?”

  “Oh, yes. Brilliant author. He was very much attuned to the Other Realms. Did you read the Amber series?”

  “Absolutely. Rocks socks. Did you ever read Lord of Light?”

  “Yes. Of course. I believe that was his first novel to win the Hugo?”

  “Actually, that was This Immortal. But in Lord of Light, do you remember the sequence when the Great-Souled Sam descends into the Hellmouth to free the Rakshasha?”

  “Vaguely . . . wait, yes, of course.”

  “Take a look around. Remind you of anything?”

  There was an alcove in the wall ahead, where a dim grave light gleamed. We were almost abreast of it.

  “He’s descending on the path into Hell when he comes up next to one of these glowing alcoves and . . .”

  The trapped spirit within the alcove threw itself against the gleaming light that enclosed and bound it.

  “Free me, master, and I will lay the world at your feet!” it shrieked.

  We stopped and looked at it. Mostly human, though the face was twisted in a constantly shifting display of extreme emotions: anger, puzzlement, pure rage, disdain . . . over and over again, like a neon sign blinking through its predetermined sequence.

  “Life as a sci-fi novel,” I said.

  “It goes through the same sequence,” Otto said.

  “Yes,” Tigre said. “The dominant emotions in its previous life. Played over and over again until it somehow masters them and breaks the cycle.”

  “I guess that’s a good working definition of life in Hell,” I said.

  “It isn’t life,” Burt said. “It’s Hell.”

  Otto stared. The light from the binding gleamed on his face.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “There
but for fortune go you and I, my friend.”

  “There but for God,” I said. “And the White Light of the Creator.”

  He was silent, regarded the bound spirit, who stared at him beseechingly. “Why does it ask us to free it?”

  First In Front answered that. “The Sword binds. What it binds, it can unbind.”

  Otto looked at the gleaming length of metal in my hands, looked into my eyes.

  “A dangerous power,” he observed.

  “The most dangerous,” Tigre said. “The power to slay . . . the power to heal. The power to bind . . . the power to free. Dangerous to the wielder, dangerous to the foe. Not for anyone. And not forever . . . at least in mortal life.”

  “Uh, I wish you guys wouldn’t talk as though I’m not here,” I said.

  Tigre laughed. “Follow me, boys.”

  And led the way.

  Otto lingered, staring at the bound spirit, then followed behind us.

  As we descended, a light began to glow in the Sword. A pale blue glow at first, that began at the edge and the point and then began to deepen in color, becoming almost cobalt, brilliant enough to light the way, almost enough to dazzle my eyes. Tigre looked back over her shoulder (OMG, what a . . . feminine . . . power . . .) and smiled, if the baring of massive fangs and crinkling eyes meant the same thing in a tiger as in a human female.

  “The power grows,” she said.

  “Does this mean . . . orcs?” I said.

  “We will meet something very similar, soon,” Tigre said. “The power grows as we descend. The Power of the Light grows from two poles: complete Light and complete Dark. We’re descending into the Dark, and as we approach that pole, the Light of the Creator grows to match it. You’re a Light Bearer, a Path Finder, a Sword of Michael, Marius. This is your destiny.”

  I held the blade up above my head, just like Luke in Star Wars. My guides and allies all paused for a moment. Otto stared up at the sword, at me, then bowed his head in respect.

  “If you’re done channeling your boyhood fantasies,” First In Front said, “we have a friend to rescue.”

  “Yes,” Tigre said. “We must hasten.”

  She lowered her head . . . and then she grew . . . to the size of a midsize Mack truck. Now I’d seen this before in the Other Realms . . . but to see it with physical eyes, smell it, touch it . . . that was a whole ’nother thing. She flattened out on her belly, tilted her head and whispered, “Mount me.”