Once Laila took flight, Angor swam to the bottom of the lake, the water heavy above him. It was dark here. Angor liked the darkness. He liked to dig too, and his claws had been idle for too long.
He sent those claws into the moist, mossy floor and began tossing aside the dirt. It swirled around him, blinding him, filling his nostrils. Digging. It had been too long. Soon he had dug himself into a tunnel, the water heavy above him. His claws kept scratching, tearing out chunks of rock and soil.
The half-breed was crazy, he thought. Did she truly think she could win Hell? Did she truly think this plan would work, that this water could extinguish hellfire? It had been two thousand years since Christ had walked upon this lake; by now, the water was barely holy enough to sting Angor. Crazy. Stupid. And yet... and yet the girl had made it into his chamber under Caesarea. She had beaten him in battle. She had survived the tunnel collapsing. If Laila was truly Lucifer's daughter, she had the power to make her claim. And if Laila succeeded, she would remember who helped her.
His claws dug like spinning knives, and he moved deeper and deeper underground, snaking miles under the surface, the water gushing behind him. The earth and rock got hotter and hotter as he dug. For a day he clawed at rock and soil, maybe longer, moving toward Hell, a torrent behind him.
Laila might be strong with claw and fang, he thought. But nobody can dig like me.
As he dug in the wet blackness, he thought of Beelzebub. What would the fallen angel do if he learned of this? Beelzebub was not one to tolerate betrayal. Angor snorted. Let him be mad. Let him try to come after me. I served Lucifer. I owe nothing to Beelzebub.
It was Lucifer, the great fallen angel, leader of the rebellion against God, who forged Angor in the pits of hellfire. For a thousand years, Angor raised Zarel to be a bride to Lucifer, to become the greatest archdemon in Hell, a worthy queen. And then Beelzebub had killed the devil, stole his throne, stole Zarel. So no, I will not weep for you, Beelzebub.
Soon the earth became so hot, the water gushing down the tunnel he dug steamed and whistled. The tunnel walls trembled around Angor, smoke seeped through cracks, and lava dripped. The water screamed and roiled, raising steam, enraged. Angor kept digging, snarling, the holy water and hellfire burning against him. With a roar, he slashed his claws, tearing aside chunks of rock, until finally the tunnel opened into a fiery world.
Limbo lay below.
Boulders tumbled. Roaring, the water burst into Limbo, tossing Angor down into the flaming blackness. He tumbled through the hellfire, flapped his wings, and flew aside. Smoke flurried and fire roared, almost loud enough to deafen him. Demons fluttered and screamed. Angor flattened himself against the ceiling of Limbo, the stream of water crashing by him through his tunnel.
Angor could see almost nothing but steam, smoke, and flame, hear nothing but their roar. Here and there, he glimpsed shades fluttering by, panicking. The tips of Limbo's towers peeked through the deluge, jagged and black. The flames, water, and swirling steam hid everything else.
Limbo. A great cavern, thirty miles long and wide, the entrance to Hell. Moloch's domain. As Angor watched, the holy water drenched this world, dousing the ancient hellfire, flooding the first circle of Hell.
* * * * *
When Laila saw the maelstrom form in the lake, the water draining, she knew that Angor was digging. For a moment as she flew over the water, doubt sent cold fingers down her back. The plan was so preposterous, it would take a miracle to work, she thought. She clenched her teeth. I'm just going to have to be a miracle worker. Hell is my home, my birthright. I'll make it my own.
She flew south from the lake, past burned fields, to the valley where her troops mustered. Flying a mile above, Laila gazed down into the valley. Demontears Division already bivouacked there, fifteen thousand angels, their campfires raising smoke, their tents lining the valley. Their banners flapped, bearing their sigil: a bloodred teardrop against a field of black. Barbwire and sandbags surrounded their camp, and hundreds of angels fluttered over the tents below Laila, a constant patrol of the skies. For years now had Demontears guarded these northern hills, battling demons who emerged from underground tunnels and their strongholds in the snowy Hermon Mountain above.
When Laila gazed south, she saw more angels snaking along the roads toward them, not ten miles away. These angels wore white robes, and their banners displayed golden talons against fields of blue. Here was Talon Division, which had fought with Laila for Caesarea. They would now fight with her for Hell.
Cedar Division was traveling south toward the camp from Lebanon; Laila could see their distant green banners and, when the wind was right, hear hints of their marching songs. For years, Cedar fought in the northern hills, hunkered down outside the Holy Land, slamming against demons on its borders.
From the east came marching the fabled Brimstone Brigade, five thousand desert-hardened angels clad in tan cloaks, swords in hands. They were among Heaven's meanest angels of retribution and wrath. Many in Brimstone boasted that they were among the destroyers of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Finally, along the western roads marched Thorn Division, ten thousand troops, leaving the Mediterranean ports to delve with Laila underground. They beat drums as they marched, and their banners showed bloodied thorns against silver fields.
In all directions, Heaven's wrath spread below.
Watching the armies gather, Laila glided over the winds, caressing her blade. Impressive as the hosts of Heaven might be, Laila had to bite her lip to curb her fear. She had been to Hell once, seeking to learn of her father. She knew what waited in Limbo. Moloch the fallen angel lurked there, eternally besmeared with the blood of sacrificed children. Humans had once worshipped this demon, burning their children to his idols of bronze. His strength and malice were great, Laila knew, his armies vast. She drew her sword and gazed at it. The sun glinted red in its blade like beads of blood. Just remember your training, she told herself. You're strong. You can face him.
She descended toward the camp and landed between the tents. Angels saluted as she walked by, her bat wings folded against her back, her boots rustling the rubble. Some gave her suspicious looks, less than pleased that a half-demon should lead them, but Michael had trained them well. They would follow her. She walked among the troops, gazing at them, letting them gaze at her. The faces were stern and ageless, but many were decades, centuries, even millennia old. Laila felt young among them, inexperienced. She missed Volkfair. She missed her sister. She even missed Michael... a little. Nice, Laila. Even among fifty thousand souls, you feel alone.
As she stepped around a mess tent, she finally saw a familiar face. Nathaniel, the wingless angel who fought with her for Jerusalem, stood ahead, polishing a sword. When he saw her, he nodded and grunted.
"You know," she said to him, unable to stifle a grin, "I am your commanding officer now. You should really salute."
He spat into the dust, but his good eye sparkled with just a hint of good humor. "Girl, I'm too old, aching, and tired to salute some half-demon pup. I lost my wings battling Hell when you were still sucking at your mom's bosom."
She showed him her fangs and tapped one with her finger. "See these things? I was born with them. I sucked no milk. I was raised on raw flesh and blood." She slapped his shoulder. "What are you doing here? I thought you were back with The Wrecking Balls in Jerusalem."
"Not much left of The Wrecking Balls, girl." He stared into the sky, scratching the stubble on his chin. "I lost many good angels there. Didn't make much sense to stay with my platoon gone. I asked for a transfer. Heard some crazy rumor you want to invade Hell. Sounded like fun."
"Oh, it will be."
He slammed his sword into its scabbard. "We leaving soon?"
Laila nodded. "Lake will be empty soon. We won't have long before Moloch rekindles the fires. It'll be a quick invasion, that's for sure."
Nathaniel nodded. "Wham bam thank you ma'am, just the way I like it." He slapped Laila's shoulder, so strong she nearly fell over. "You be careful down the
re, girl, and don't worry. I'll be watching your back."
As the armies gathered and the lake drained, Laila found the tent they had prepared for her, tall and black. She found a cot inside, curled up, and tried to sleep. I could use some sleep before going to Hell, at least an hour or two. Yet sleep evaded her, and she kept seeing Moloch in her mind, his face wreathed in flame. She had met this fallen angel once, and the memories would not leave her.
She had been fifteen, a wildling of the forests and deserts. She had just reached her full height, her full malice, her wings wide, her fangs sharp. "I will find my father," she swore in the wilderness. She would travel to Hell. She would find her demon family.
"I need a family," she would sob in the nights, when nobody could see her weakness.
So Laila the half-demon, fifteen years old, slung a knife through her belt, stuffed a handgun into her boot, and set off. She carried no backpack, no pots or pans, no sleeping bag. Wild in the forests, she owned little. She wandered across the Holy Land for days until she reached a demon camp. Silent in the sunlight when demons slept, she crept in, killing any demons who stumbled across her way. She found their tunnels. She crawled down into Limbo, ten miles under the surface of the world, into a land of hellfire and sin.
At once, the heat made her cry out, and her very blood seemed to catch fire. All the holiness within her sizzled. "Angel blood enters Hell!" came hisses from below, and demons grabbed her feet. Laila kicked but could not free herself, and her hair caught flame. On Earth, no shades could face her and live, but here, crippled by the hellfire that boiled her angel blood, she could not struggle. The demons stuffed her into a sack, and she screamed.
They carried her through Limbo. In the darkness of the sack, she screamed and kicked, her skin red, her fingers blistering. The columns of hellfire roared around her. She wanted to die. She pawed for her handgun, to kill herself, but could not find it; perhaps the demons had taken it from her. When the demons finally untied the sack, she could hardly move, her eyelids fluttering. They spilled her onto a hard floor, hellfire roaring outside the windows.
She raised her burning eyes and saw, blurry, a figure before her. He stood in scaled armor, bat wings outstretched, eyes blazing, hair black and long. His fangs glinted.
"A half-angel enters our realm, my lord Moloch," hissed a shade, jabbing Laila with his hoof.
Moloch gazed down upon her. "This is Laila you bring me, the daughter of night and sunlight," he said, voice deep and soft. "Why have you come, girl? Do you spy for Michael?"
Laila tried to speak, but could not. She could not even raise herself from the floor, and she felt the tips of her singed hair crackling again, about to catch flame. Her lips bled.
"Take her outside," Moloch said to the demons. "She's nearly dead. Nail her to the gates of my fort, so that she might burn away there, for all to see what happens to angels who enter this realm."
She could barely hear his voice beyond her boiling blood, and she prayed for death. "Please, God," she whispered through bleeding lips. "Please, God, if I am truly half-angel, if I am truly of Heaven, grant me death." Yet God would not hear her prayer; as she was banished from Hell, so was Laila the half-demon banished from Heaven and God's grace.
"Wait," came a voice as the demons began to drag her outside. "She does not come here as a spy. My brother would know better than to send a half-angel into Hell. The girl just came to find her father. There's no need to kill her."
Laila tried to raise her head, to see who spoke, but could not. She saw only red.
Moloch seemed to snort. "Beelzebub, your mercy is angelic; your brothers would be proud. Her father doesn't care for her."
"May be," said the first voice, "but we might still find use for her, if she lives. A princess of Hell she is, and powerful on Earth. I'll take her back. She might still live."
Somebody lifted her then. It did not feel like a shade; the arms had no scales, and when she squinted, Laila thought she could see the face of another fallen angel, one she did not know. She passed out then, thought she had died. When she woke up, she found herself in an abandoned house in Jerusalem, lying on a mattress, a basin of water beside her. Her wounds were bandaged, her burned hair cut short. There were no signs of demons.
As she lay now in her tent, a dozen years later, she still could not forget the face of Moloch, pale and scornful, almost amused, of long fangs, framed in long black hair. She could still hear his voice in her mind. Lying curled up on her cot, Laila reached out and touched the hilt of Haloflame, the sword Michael had given her.
"Twelve years ago, you wanted to kill me, Moloch," she whispered. "I've grown since then. I'm stronger now, and this time, I will kill you."
She reached into her pocket and caressed her vial of holy water. Michael had blessed this water for her, infusing it with all his godlight and piousness. If the Sea of Galilee was just holy enough to tingle demons, this vial would burn them like bubbling oil on humans. Laila hated carrying this vial; the very thought of the stuff made her shiver. Yet Michael had insisted she take it. Just in case, he said.
She shut her eyes and tried to imagine that she lay in a peaceful place. She pretended that she was back in the forests, a hunter, sleeping on dried leaves, animal blood beneath her fingernails. When she lived in the forest as a predator, she had no duties, no worries. If she had ever tasted something close to happiness, it must have been then, to be wild amid the trees, her wolf at her side. Imagining the trees and sap, Laila finally slept.
Three hours later, she woke up. The armies had gathered and were ready. She stepped outside her tent to find the seraphs, generals of these divisions, waiting for her. They stood like statues of gold, so bright they hurt her eyes. She forced herself to stare at them.
"Gentlemen," she said, "let's go to Hell."
* * * * *
The wail of Beelzebub's horn still hung in the air when all hell broke loose. In the night, the demon army descended upon Jerusalem, banners flapping, fangs bared. Great archdemons, towering and scaled, led rolling battalions of shades, crashing into the city, destroying all in their path.
Angels emerged from trenches, charging with blazing swords, sending blasts of godlight to tear down demon hordes. More angels shot godlight from guard towers, from ancient walls, from homes and makeshift barricades. The blasts lit the night.
Surrounded by the Thirteen, his personal guard of archdemons, Beelzebub spread his wings and hovered into the air, overseeing the battle from above. Twenty thousand angels at least fired upon his demons. A formidable force it was, but smaller than Beelzebub had expected.
Where is Talon Division? Beelzebub could not see their blue and gold banners. Where were the other forces Michael had been moving across the Holy Land? Brimstone Brigade had left the eastern dunes, and Thorn had abandoned the ports, yet Beelzebub could not see those forces here, unless they hid in the city, or were still on the way. Dear brother, are you planning an attack somewhere else?
"We must take this city quickly and secure it," he told his archdemons. "Michael is up to something. So is Laila."
He blew his horn again, three short blows. The demons below heard and rolled out the artillery, human weapons they had plundered and maintained. Soon shells were falling upon Jerusalem, tearing down ruins that had stood for millennia. Beelzebub watched as hundreds of rockets destroyed the ancient city.
Not to be undone, red flags soon waved in the angel camp, and as Beelzebub watched, hundreds of rockets flew from Jerusalem onto the invading demons. The blasts tore into the ranks of shades, strewing demon limbs about.
The shelling continued all night. Beelzebub flew between his units, sending forces forward and back, claiming more and more of the city. By dawn they were deep in Jerusalem, leaving hills of bodies in their wake. With the sunlight, the angels gained courage. Three seraphs they sent forward, beings of woven gold and light that burned demon eyes. The seraphs tossed aside shades like rag dolls, ravaging the demon ranks.
With a grunt, Beel
zebub flew down to the battlefield, the Thirteen around him. They landed upon cobblestones and circled the three seraphs, squinting against the burning godlight.
"This city is God's domain," spoke one of the seraphs, his voice like an echo. It was impossible to discern the seraph's face; he seemed made of liquid light, his voice floating from within his core. "Leave this place, the demon Beelzebub, and return to your banishment."
Beelzebub shook his head. "You speak with old terms, seraph. Banishment? Those days are over. It has been thousands of years since your tyrant banished Lucifer and his followers. We rule Hell now, a great kingdom, hardly what you'd call banishment. We come to claim Earth too." He raised his sword. "I am tempted to emulate your magnanimity and offer you a chance to flee too, but I think I will not. I prefer to kill you now."
The Thirteen moved in, closing around the three seraphs. The light pulsated from the beings of God, tearing down walls and rows of shades, and the hum of their wings sent rippling waves of bass that ached in Beelzebub's chest. His archdemons swung their blades, and the seraphs blocked the blows with swords of their own, raising showers of sparks. The Thirteen kept hacking, and soon they were twelve, then ten. Demon and angel blood covered the ground.
Beelzebub swung his blade at one seraph, knocking its sword aside, then lunged forward with claws. Closing his eyes against the light, he ripped out the seraph's throat. Ichor sizzled against him, and Beelzebub screamed and cursed. It hurts like hell.
He kept hacking at the other two seraphs, his archdemons with him, until the great angels lay dead, their light extinguished. Beelzebub stood above them, panting, his arms still burning where the seraph blood had touched them. His face felt burned too, his eyebrows and hair singed.
"Bastards," he said and spat. "I hate seraphs."
Their light extinguished, they looked like pale men, their skin white, their features ageless, their wings made of golden wire. Beelzebub kicked one just for fun.
"Let's go find Michael," he said to his remaining archdemons. Only eight had survived.
Flaming Dove: A Dark Fantasy Novel Page 18
