The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  He waved his hand, and one of the monitors on his sideboard swung around to face us, blew up large as a movie theatre screen.

  Jolene appeared on it, her eyes wild, her hands pressed as though against the inside of the monitor, tears streaming down her face . . . “Marius! Marius! Help me, oh help . . .”

  The image disappeared as I stepped forward, the Sword rising in my hand.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” Mammon said, swinging the monitor back into place. “Mind that Sword, Marius. I don’t think He Whose Name We Do Not Mention would approve of you swinging it about in such . . . rage. Would he?”

  I stopped.

  “Marius,” Burt said softly. “Measure twice. Cut once.”

  Mammon laughed. “Be silent, Old Crow. I know you of old. Notice how quiet they are, Marius? They know it’s your—how do you Christians say it—cross to bear? This is not the Middle World. This is not the Upper World. You are in Hell, my friend. And here, in Hell, there is One who rules and those of us who administer his rule. I administer. So. What shall it be? Will you strike a bargain with me? You don’t like what I’m asking, counteroffer. That’s the nature of the game.”

  “It’s the game they want you to play, Marius,” Otto said. “It is the buying and the selling. He’s turning it to his . . .”

  “Shut up, Nazi,” Mammon said. “You’ve made plenty of bargains yourself. To save your pathetic skin, and your family, and your precious little soul. Commando . . .” he sneered. “Plucky little engineer with your dueling scar. Take care not to interrupt your betters again or I’ll sear a scar down into your soul to look at for all eternity.”

  Otto remained silent, but I could feel his fighting anger heating behind me. First In Front strained without moving, like an attack dog on alert.

  Mammon was amused by his silence. “Nothing to say, War Chief? You sent me many a soul in your time. So much anger . . . it amuses me to see you reappear as a spiritual counselor. That’s what you do, right? Spiritual counsel? Perhaps from time to time you whack some hapless being with that coup stick or shove that knife into them.”

  Mammon turned his attention back to me. “Interesting company you keep, Marius. Interesting choices. We are defined by our relationships, are we not? Who we choose to associate with. You could associate with a different class of people.” He shrugged. “But this grows tiresome. So. You reject what I want and you offer nothing up. So, what does that leave us? A dispute. A dispute you don’t want to negotiate out of. You may have noticed that you are significantly outnumbered. Not to dismiss the power of that Sword you carry . . . but perhaps its owner told you it can be taken from you? Were you aware of that? And here, of course, you and your . . . spirit guides . . . can die. In the flesh.”

  He smiled. “In your tasty, tasty flesh. Or perhaps I could have Jolene fetched and you could watch her die first. In the most horrible way you can imagine . . . I’d say that I could imagine, but that would be, oh, overkill.” He laughed. He leaned forward. “What say you, Marius?”

  “You watch much TV?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “TV. You watch it much?”

  “No. I own the souls of most producers and have an interest in all the networks, but I don’t have time to watch.”

  “Figures. Ever watch Firefly?”

  Mammon laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. A tired little band of misfit thieves, puttering around the universe in a broken down spaceship? Is that how you see yourself? Which one are you? The romantic captain? The secretive preacher? Or the whore? You amuse me, Marius. Perhaps I should just keep you and take your Sword. You could be my jester, keep me laughing each day. I could make a rug out of your tiger, and boil your crow, skin your Injun and gas your Nazi, you think?”

  I grinned. “I collect one-liners, Mammon. And, as you may have noticed, I am blessed with many gifts. You know which one I have to admit to a certain amount of pride in?”

  Mammon leaned forward, rested his elbow on his knee and cupped his chin in one hand, a complete parody of rapt attention. “Do tell, shaman. I am so fascinated . . .”

  “I’ve been told I have a great gift for pissing bad people off.”

  Mammon roared with laughter, echoing within the cavern. His ranks of execu-clones laughed too, toadies following the lead.

  “That’s rich, too rich,” Mammon said. “And? The one-liner?”

  I looked around at my allies. Winked at Otto. Patted Tigre on the neck. “I aim to misbehave.”

  “What?”

  I was still, calm, slightly amused and not the least little bit pissed. Kind of the perfect mental state to channel the power of the Archangel. So I lifted the Sword and just blasted Mammon, Lord of Greed, dead center in his face.

  He flew backwards as though sucker-punched, tumbling end over end backwards, leaving his fancy Aeron chair smoking and spinning.

  Wow.

  Game on.

  The ranks of execu-clones attacked in an orderly fashion and were decimated in a disorderly fashion. Tigre batted them aside, scattering them; First In Front slid down to fight on foot, spinning and whirling, striking with his coup stick and slashing with his knife; both weapons glowed brilliant with the Light and each stroke sent dozens of greedy corporate minions tumbling away ablaze; Burt circled and struck with precision, joined by dozens of his spirit clones, and Otto abandoned his usual precision and emptied magazine after magazine into the ranks of the Greedos.

  I held the Sword up and a brilliant ball of Light surrounded all of us, expanded out like the blast wave of an atomic device; scattering the ranks of the corporate possessed far and wide, leaving them in smoking, huddled heaps all across the cavern floor.

  “Let’s do like the cowboys and Indians . . .” I started.

  “Not so fast, Marius. He’s not done . . .” Tigre said.

  I turned and saw Mammon. He’d returned. The human mask of his square head was burned away, and what was below was the true face of a servant of the Dark Forces. Skin the color of burnt meat, and black eyes with a pinpoint of red flame at the center over a mouth permanently twisted into a mocking sneer. He held a long lance in his hand, that looked like a Mont Blanc pen on steroids with a razor-sharp point. Probably signed up plenty of lost souls with that one.

  What was left of his legions of minions circled round us, careful to keep their distance. The Sword flamed its entire length, seemed longer somehow.

  Mammon pointed his lance and red flame lashed out at us, crackled on the blue light of the shield wall the Sword held around us. I extended the Sword, pointed directly at Mammon’s eyes like a good fencer, and whispered to myself, “Not my will, but yours through me, Creator . . .”

  A pulsing stream of brilliant light ran from the tip against the red energy shield that appeared around Mammon, like a fire hose of light, beat at the shield . . . Mammon raised his lance and launched red lightning bolts at us, which dribbled down the shield of Light held around us, the container we traveled in, and meanwhile the steady pulse-pulse-pulse of the blue light hammered on his shield . . . irresistible . . . and his shield exploded in red fragments that rained down like shrapnel, and wherever pieces of it struck, it singed the stone and burned, and there was a screech of torture and torment, and Mammon was struck directly by the brilliant blue light, and for an instant, superimposed on the image was another image, an ancient image, of Mammon and a mighty Archangel on the battlefield, Mammon struck down by one stroke of the Sword, and then Mammon fell, collapsing in a heap burning with blue light . . .

  The Light in the Sword pulsed.

  “Hurry,” Tigre said.

  We mounted and she bounded around the smoldering heap of the Lord of Greed, and left his level shattered and covered with the wreckage of his dealings.

  CHAPTER 27

  We hurried down the winding pathway. The trapped souls were reduced to silence by the vigor of our encounter with Mammon. Or maybe they were just stunned that we’d made it this far.

  I was.

  “Some resonanc
e there, yes?” Tigre said.

  “I guess so.”

  “What do you mean?” Otto asked.

  “Resonance. Something in Mammon resonated with Marius. Or did. Perhaps not now,” Tigre said.

  “He’s not done,” Burt said.

  “He was struck down,” First In Front said.

  Tigre was the one to clarify it. “Yes. He was struck down by the Sword. But in this Realm, only one being can completely undo Mammon. And that is his master. If the Archangel himself were here, yes, Mammon would be undone forever. But Marius is here as his emissary. He is undone for now. But he may return. And those beings never forget. And they never forgive.”

  “Lovely,” I said. “Who’s up next?”

  “Is there any way we can bypass any of this?” Otto said. “Tigre, can you perhaps just . . . fly? Fly us straight down to where Jolene is held? Burt?”

  Tigre bounded, the ride as smooth as a classic Caddy on a clear stretch of well-maintained highway. I felt like I should have a fedora and a Hawaiian shirt on, puffing an Arturo Fuente with Son House on the sound system, tooling through the desert somewhere, maybe on my way to Vegas.

  Wow. Maybe I took a hit to the head.

  Tigre laughed long and hard. “Oh, Marius. Maybe ‘Willie the Wimp’ instead, some classic Stevie Ray?”

  “I don’t want to think about any Cadillac coffins, Goddess.”

  “I like the style,” she said. “I’d take that ride any day.”

  “What are you speaking of?” Otto said.

  “Classic Stevie Ray,” I said. “You like?”

  “Who is Stevie Ray?” Otto said.

  “Stevie Ray Vaughn,” First In Front said. “Electric rock guitar. Very good. Only white man who could play as well as Jimi Hendrix.”

  “That’s racist,” I observed. “Eric Clapton is pretty good.”

  “I’m Native American,” First In Front said. “I’m the original oppressed minority here, and as that representative I restate my case—no white man played as well as Jimi Hendrix.”

  “This is a musician?” Otto said.

  Burt laughed. “Not much of one for electric rock are you, Otto? Please don’t tell me you’re a Wagner fan!”

  “I am indeed a fan of Wagner,” Otto said. “And yes, I enjoyed that scene in Apocalypse Now.”

  We all laughed at that.

  “We need theme music,” I said. “I wish I had a boom box.”

  One materialized.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Tigre observed.

  It was an epic boom box. I mean, better than anything I’d ever seen. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t figure out how to . . .

  “Just wish it,” Tigre said. “Instantaneous manifestation. In this realm. So please . . . be careful with what you wish for.”

  “I wish for . . . ‘Bad Company.’ By . . . Bad Company.”

  Presto, zoomo, whammo—just like that.

  “I was born . . . six-gun in my hand . . . behind a gun . . . I’ll make my final stand . . .” I sang.

  “Please,” Burt said. “Don’t ruin it.”

  So we descended further into Hell, accompanied by a boom box booming out the long, live version of “Bad Company” by, yes, Bad Company.

  Made me wish I had a beer . . . a Negra Modelo.

  “No,” First In Front said. He knocked the bottle away just as it appeared in front of my face. “No firewater till we’re done, Marius. Too early to be celebrating.”

  “This is interesting music,” Otto said. “Would this be considered rock and roll?”

  “Dude, when we get a break, you’re going to have to tell me how you’ve lived through the sixties and not heard this stuff,” I said.

  “I enjoy Elvis Presley,” Otto said. “I am not familiar with these musicians. Elvis, he is rock and roll, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He is most definitely rock and roll. Dead, though. Great loss.”

  “Oh, he’s not dead,” Otto said. “Just in retirement.”

  “Ah . . .” I said.

  “Head in the game,” First In Front said. “We are approaching another landing . . .”

  “Otto, if you know where Elvis is, we may have to take that saucer of yours and make a visit . . .”

  “Certainly. It would be my pleasure,” Otto said. “He is an interesting conversationalist. Very sharp, for someone of his age.”

  I just shook my head in disbelief. Could this journey become any more bizarre?

  We turned onto the landing.

  “Marius?” Tigre said.

  This was . . . interesting. Instead of the usual lines of troops, we had assorted demon types lolling about, mostly supine with their heads propped up on their hands, quite a few dice games going on, some sleeping and napping. No one seemed too excited about our approach. And no one appeared to be in charge.

  “Think we can just pass through here?” I said hopefully.

  “We can try,” Tigre said thoughtfully.

  Ever see a tiger try to be discreet? No? No wonder. It’s not in their nature. Apex predators can certainly blend in, lie in wait. But discreet? Uh, not. Her idea of “just passing through” was to stride right through the huddled masses yearning to be, well, maybe free, but huddled nonetheless. Hey diddle diddle right up the middle, as a good infantryman would say—I thought of Dillon for a moment, and said a brief prayer that he be safe and sound with Sabrina. The slothful demons barely slouched out of the way.

  “Who’s the Lord of Sloth? Next in line in the Seven Deadly Sins?” I said.

  “Belphegor,” Burt said. “Lazy bastard.”

  “Kind of the point, isn’t it?” First In Front said.

  “Which one is he?” I said. “Hard to pick out anyone in particular here.”

  Tigre passed through them all. Nothing barring our way.

  “Well,” I said. “That was—”

  Not exactly nothing barring our way, but lying in front at the passage down was a huge demon, slack-faced, slack-bellied, on his side in a position of classic repose, his head held in his hand.

  Belphegor the Slothful.

  “Whaddup, dude?” Belphegor said. He sounded like a teenage Malibu skater with a head full of dope.

  “Nothing, bro,” I said. “Just passing through. You mind?”

  He took his time answering. I could almost hear the bong bubbling.

  “Mind? Uh, like care? No, I don’t care, bro. I might could have to do something, though, y’know. And that’s just, like, fucked up, y’know? I’m all mellow and you’re coming through and I gotta do, like, something . . . if I could remember what that was . . . uh . . .” Belphegor sounded like he’d really gotten into the primo.

  I looked around at all his troops, such as they were. Not much interest if they were actually supposed to be guarding this pass. Downright slothful. Belphegor pushed himself slowly into a slouched sitting position, legs crossed, like a ’60s-era Deadhead in midday buzz. I was waiting for Jerry Garcia to show up.

  “We’ll just get on our way, bro. Thanks for being cool, see you later, right?” I said.

  Tigre started around him, giving him a wide berth. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed directly in front of us, like a bad case of demonic narcolepsy. She gave him a wider berth and his eyes popped open and he rolled on his side. It seemed as though his head had grown larger, if that was possible, and his eyes were the size of a couple of ’60s-era VW Bugs.

  “Ah, dude?” Belphegor said. “I don’t think you’re gonna wanna go this way, like, I’m not supposed to, like, let you, y’know? So you need to go another way. Like away. Far away.”

  “Definitely, dude,” I said. “We’re working it. We can’t go back that way, so we’re just gonna go up here and cut back, y’know? Through the tunnels? Don’t mean to harsh your mellow or mess with your day, y’know? We totally gonna go far away. Just right over there.” I pointed past him, where he’d actually have to turn over and look.

  “Ah, cool, bro, thanks. I mean, y’know, make
s it easier, and I’m pretty tired, kinda crashed out, you know what I’m saying?” Belphegor muttered. He laid his head down and went to sleep.

  We slipped by quietly, then picked up speed and continued on our way.

  “Not bad,” Otto said.

  “It does not seem possible for it to be so easy,” First In Front said.

  Burt circled us. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “No resonance,” Tigre observed. “You are anything but slothful, Marius. Nothing to engage, perhaps.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I hefted the Sword. “The Sword works in mysterious ways.”

  The Sword gleamed blue, as though in answer.

  We descended.

  CHAPTER 28

  “What do we have left?” I asked.

  “Wrath, Envy . . . Pride,” Otto said.

  “Lovely,” I said.

  Tigre was silent. We passed in a blur the stacked lights of trapped souls. We were remarkably unscathed. Tigre wounded, but healed; the rest of us unhurt from our encounters with the Guardians of Hell. I wouldn’t let myself think of Jolene or what she might be enduring; that would only feed my anger and rage and that was the trap I needed to avoid. All of this could be seen as a snare for me, a snare designed and built specifically for me—but I saw now it wasn’t me . . . it was the Sword.

  A dangerous gift to have, to carry, to wield.

  Tigre picked up speed. All the better for me. I don’t do well with waiting. I wanted to pass all of this and go directly to the confrontation I knew was waiting for us, down at the bottom, at the Gate itself.

  Ahead a landing. A significant gathering of soldiers, in a V-shaped formation, the point of the V facing us. Tigre slowed so we could assess them. Rank after rank, human faces, garbed in armor much like angelic armor, but darker, cheaper looking somehow. We drew close and came to a stop. Human faces. Eyes blackened holes, staring at us, sucking at us, pulling at our energy. Staring at us, and more than a few staring at the Sword that gleamed bright blue in my hand.