Dancing On the Head of a Pin rc-2

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  There was no sign of Madach, and not having the luxury to worry, Remy began his dangerous journey down the side of the ice prison, bloodstained hands searching for any crack, edge, or divot that could be used to assist his descent.

  The filthy sky above his head trembled, and he chanced a look upward to see Karnighan’s passage begin to falter. The nexus began to sputter and pulse, the magicks used to hold it open beginning to fail. Remy quickened his descent, the sharpness of the icy surface cutting into his fragile flesh, the blood from the cuts making the frigid exterior slicker than it already was.

  There was suddenly a roar like thunder, followed by a powerful expulsion of air that tore him from his perch upon Tartarus’ surface and tossed him into oblivion.

  Remy tumbled down, the fetid air of the place rushing to fill his lungs with its corrosive stench. The ground flew up to meet him with alarming speed, the essence of the divine imprisoned inside the cage of humanity shrieking to be loosed. But he waited too long, dreading the release of the Seraphim.

  Remy struck another outcropping of ice on the way down, and the world went temporarily dark. Struggling to regain some semblance of consciousness, he found himself continuing to fall, the punch line to an old joke echoing inside his head as he waited for the inevitable.

  It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stops.

  He landed atop something that partially cushioned his fall. It wasn’t as if he’d landed on a big pile of pillows, or even bags of trash, for that matter. It was like landing on a sack full of doorknobs: a little bit of give-and-take as he connected, and then he found himself bouncing off, only to sail through the air again, eventually landing on a cold, rocky surface.

  Remy’s head swam with pain, a steady throb of agony that pulsed with every rapid-fire beat of his heart.

  But he’d survived, not that he really had much of an option.

  The atmosphere of Hell was working its magick, trying to convince him to curl up into a ball and give up, but he knew that wasn’t going to work for him. He’d landed on his back, and eventually forced his eyes open, focusing on the looming image of the icy prison before him. He had a rough idea as to where Karnighan’s doorway had dropped him off, and was disturbed to see the distance he had fallen.

  Remy started to sit up, the sensation of bone rubbing against jagged bone causing blossoms of color to appear before his eyes. He lay back down on the ground, willing the agony pulsing through his damaged body to subside.

  Counting to three, he managed to force himself up into a sitting position, focusing on the locations of his extreme discomfort. One of his legs appeared to be broken, lying twisted and useless upon the inhospitable earth at the base of Tartarus.

  “Shit,” he hissed, pushing himself backward toward the formation of ice that jutted up from the ground. Again he saw a universe of stars, the grinding of his bones apparently caused by some broken ribs.

  He leaned back against the ice, breathing through his nose, waiting for the pain to subside. A rust-colored mist hung thick, like smoke, making visibility difficult until a powerful belch of fetid air—likely from the heat-blasted landscape located in the deep valleys and ravines below the prison of ice—helped to improve the visibility momentarily.

  He wished it hadn’t.

  As far as he could see, the frosty ground was strewn with the dead. Broken corpses of fallen angels, Hellions, armored Sentries, and even some of the cloaked Nomads littered the ground. This was what had broken his fall.

  He recalled the fields of Heaven during the war, the corpses of those slain in the conflict that pitted angel against angel. Remy had hoped to never see anything like it again.

  The sight sickened him, reminding him of why he had abandoned the celestial for the earthly comforts of humanity.

  The thick, sulfurous mist was stirred by a shifting breeze, temporarily obscuring his view of the dead, and he was grateful. He lay back against the foundation of Tartarus and thought about what he had to do, although in his current condition, his choices were limited.

  Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move. Hoping that it was a merely a trick of the mist, Remy squinted, watching the toxic fog for any sign of life. He saw it again, followed by other shapes moving stealthily about, trying not to be seen, and knew immediately what had found him.

  Hellions. A small pack of the Hell-born animals had found his scent, preferring living prey over the dead.

  Great, Remy thought, the day just keeps on getting better and better.

  He could hear their claws clicking on the rocky surface, the low rumbling growls of anticipation as they zeroed in on his scent.

  Bracing himself, Remy pushed back against the ice, forcing himself up onto his good leg. The pain was worse than before, and he knew then that he must prepare for the inevitable. Hell was a cruel and vicious place, and not at all accommodating to the frailty of human flesh.

  He knew he was going to have to give in, to shed his guise of humanity, and to once again resume his true form. The pain made it difficult to concentrate, the wildness of the angelic nature fighting him, as if trying to make him pay for its imprisonment.

  Through pain-hazed eyes he saw at least three of the Hellions converging. Remy let go of his humanity, opening the mental gates that held the nature of Heaven at bay, allowing the Seraphim its freedom.

  But it didn’t come fast enough.

  The Hellions pounced, their hungry jaws clamping down on one of his wrists, another sinking its fangs into his injured leg. Remy cried out, falling forward to the ground. He could feel the Seraphim rising to the surface, but it seemed to be taking its time.

  At last his flesh began to heat, to bubble and steam, as the radiance of God’s power began to emerge. The Hellions seemed excited by the physical transformation, as if somehow aroused by the taste of his change.

  They climbed up on him, fangs snapping at his flailing hands as he tried to keep them from his throat. His covering of flesh was melting away to expose his angelic form, but the Hellion attack was savage, relentless, their ferocity more than he could handle at the moment.

  He actually began to consider the fact that he might die, when his thoughts were interrupted by a blast of gunfire, followed by the yelp of an animal’s pain. Remy took note of one of the beasts, its head flipping back sharply to one side as it dropped heavily to the ground.

  The remaining two Hellions ceased their attack, their bony heads suddenly moving in the air as they searched for signs of the threat.

  Again there came a clap of artificial thunder, another of the Hell-hounds shrieking wildly, turning tail, trying to slink away dragging a now useless leg behind it.

  Another shot finished the fleeing beast, leaving only one of the attacking Hellions alive.

  Remy tossed his head back in an awful mixture of sadness and euphoria, crying out as the last of his humanity was excised, and the Seraphim completely emerged.

  Now healed, he climbed to his feet, golden wings unfurling from his back to beat the sulfurous air. His angelic form was still adorned in the armor of war, the armor that he had worn when he had killed his brothers in Heaven.

  Through angelic eyes he watched the last of Hellions as it tensed, the exposed muscle and sinew of its body bunching together, readying to pounce upon Remy’s savior as he emerged from the shifting haze.

  Remy leapt, dropping down into the Hellion’s path. The monster roared, but before it could strike, Remy lashed out with one of his wings, the strength contained within the feathered appendage swatting the Hell-hound against the side of an unyielding Tartarus.

  The animal roared its anger, thrashing upon the ground before returning to its feet.

  He was about to go at the Hellion again, but another shot rang out, catching the beast in the eye and dropping it onto its side, dead.

  “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Remy said, relaxing his wings, assuming that it was the fallen angel Madach who had come to his aid.

 
And then he gasped, watching the man stumble as he emerged from the thick, shifting fog, the gray three-piece suit hanging on his form in tatters.

  “Francis,” Remy said, springing into the air, his newly birthed wings carrying him the short distance to catch his friend before he could fall to the ground.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Remy said, never even considering Francis’ condition. His friend had to be all right.

  He didn’t want to consider the alternative.

  “Nomads,” Francis gasped, in between gulping breaths. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”

  His friend’s body shivered and Remy held him just a bit tighter.

  Francis was hurt badly, the extent of the wounds that Remy glimpsed, casually checking out his friend’s condition, grave: gaping cuts, bullet holes, and sixth-degree magick burns.

  It was a wonder that he was functioning at all.

  “Could have kicked all their asses… and then some, but…”

  The former Guardian stopped, the expression on his face telling Remy that he was experiencing a great deal of pain.

  “Don’t talk,” Remy told him. “Lie here; rest. I have something that I have to do, and if things don’t turn to absolute shit I’ll be back to bring you home, and we can see about—”

  Francis’ eyes opened wide, a bloody hand reaching out to grab hold of Remy’s shoulder. “They have the Pitiless, Rem,” he croaked.

  Remy nodded. “I know that; it’s part of the reason I’m here. They’re going to try and use the weapons to set him free… the Morningstar.”

  Francis swallowed hard, closing his eyes. “Fucking thought so,” he hissed, slowly shaking his head. “Idiots.”

  He shifted his weight, slowly bringing up his other hand—still holding the gun. “Managed to drop one of the hoodies with this,” Francis said, poking fun at the Nomads’ attire.

  Remy looked at the weapon, knowing at once what it was. The Pitiless pistol shone seductively in the muted light of Hell.

  “Nice gun,” Francis croaked. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for this.”

  They were both looking at the old-fashioned Colt Peacemaker, mesmerized by the stories that it whispered, the many lives it had taken. When it had left Heaven, it was nothing more than a shapeless blob of Heavenly matter, falling through the universe to Earth, where it nestled—resting—until it was mined from the earth and processed, found by a master craftsman and shaped into something with the mastery over death.

  The last times the Pitiless Colt was fired flashed within their minds. Remy saw it all play out, Francis, his clothing torn, covered in the gore of his enemies, attacking the Nomad who wielded the weapon—disarming him bloodily—and using the pistol to shoot out both the angel’s eyes. Energized by the weapon in his possession, he continued to kill, the Peacemaker shaped from the power of the Morningstar giving him the strength to vanquish foe after foe.

  “It wears you out after a while,” Francis said, interrupting the violent scenes playing inside Remy’s mind. “Inspires you to kill until you just don’t have the strength anymore.”

  Francis laughed, pushing the weapon toward him.

  “It wants to go to you now.”

  “Hold on to it,” Remy told him. “Defend yourself until I get back.”

  The Guardian shook his head. “No,” he stated flatly. “I’m done.”

  “Don’t talk like that. Keep the gun, use it if necessary, and I’ll be back to take you out of here just as soon as—”

  “I said I’m done,” Francis said, silencing him with an icy stare. “And you don’t have a chance of doing anything against the Nomads if you don’t have something of equal strength.”

  He took Remy’s hand and forced the pistol into it. “You need this if you’re going to do what you have to do.”

  Remy’s mind was immediately flooded with the images of those slain by bullets spat from the gun throughout the years as his hand wrapped around the sandalwood grip.

  “That’s it,” Francis said with a sigh, his body growing limp. “Time to go.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Remy barked angrily, his aggression stimulated by the weapon in his hand.

  “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” the Guardian asked, and started to laugh, which turned into a nasty, wet-sounding cough.

  “You’ve survived worse; you’re going to be fine,” Remy stated. He found himself distracted by the gun in his hand, the urge to kill stronger than he’d ever experienced before.

  “I did it, you know,” Francis stated.

  Remy looked away from the gun, not sure what his friend was talking about. “You did what?”

  “I revealed myself,” he said, a limp hand rising to his mouth to wipe some blood away.

  Remy couldn’t resist. “And did the grown-ups at the play-ground call the police?”

  Francis laughed again, wincing in pain. “Asshole,” he managed, in between coughing spasms. “I showed myself to Linda… the waitress at the Piazza.”

  Remy found himself smiling. “Wow, what moment of weakness inspired that?”

  Francis closed his eyes. “Something in the air, I guess,” he said. The Guardian’s voice seemed to be getting weaker. “There came a moment when I knew I should do it… or I’d never get the chance.”

  “Something to hold on for,” Remy said to him.

  “No, something to do before it was over.”

  “I told you not to talk like that.”

  “And when did I ever listen to you?” Francis asked. “You should really think about getting in there.” He motioned limply with his bloody hand toward Tartarus behind them. “Not sure what it’s going to take to set the asshole free.”

  Remy was torn; he knew his friend was right, but he didn’t want to leave him, especially like this.

  Francis must have suspected how he was feeling.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he snarled. “I don’t need an audience for what’s coming.” He started to push Remy away from him. “Go on, get inside and blow their asses away. Show them the consequences of picking the wrong side.”

  The Guardian pulled away, curling into a tight ball upon the ground.

  “Francis, I—” he began, but he wasn’t given a chance to finish.

  “You were a good friend that I didn’t deserve. Thank you.”

  Remy slowly stood, staring at the body of his friend lying upon the cold, frost-covered ground in front of Tartarus. “You were a good friend too,” he said, straining to suppress his anger—to hold back the rage he was feeling toward those who had hurt his friend. “And besides, I felt sorry for you.”

  Francis remained very still and quiet upon the ground, unresponsive to the verbal jab.

  A steady, reverberating, pounding noise began to flow out from the melted opening in the front of the prison, capturing Remy’s attention. He could only begin to imagine the source of the sound.

  He chanced one more look at his friend, and realizing that there was nothing more that could be done for him, turned toward the entrance. The pounding thrum intensified, sending vibrations through the ground beneath his feet.

  Starting toward the prison, Remy stopped short as he heard the sound of his friend’s weakened voice.

  “What was that, Francis?” Remy asked, turning back.

  “Just talking out loud,” the fallen Guardian angel said. “Was wondering when it comes time for me… was wondering if I’ll get back to Heaven.”

  Remy didn’t know what to say.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Francis said, his final words trailing off to a whisper.

  Remy left his friend.

  The Seraphim nature was glad to leave the fallen one behind. It was eager to fight, to destroy the unclean as it had done so very long ago.

  It missed the violence. The killing.

  Remy held the Pitiless pistol in a grip as tight as the one he had on his fleeting humanity. He didn’t want to lose it completely, but now that the nature of the ange
l had taken control, it would be so very easy to let it go.

  To release the hurt along with the memories, to let it all evaporate away to where it would mean nothing.

  But he would not allow that; Madeline would not allow that.

  Remy entered Tartarus, passing beneath jagged stalactite teeth that had formed when the opening was made. If he’d thought the feelings of desperation and misery were bad outside, within Tartarus it was a different story entirely.

  Protected within the breast of the Seraphim, his humanity shied beneath the heavy atmosphere of oppression. If he hadn’t yet shed his human guise, it would have instantly withered upon entering this place of penance.

  It’s even larger on the inside, Remy thought, his golden-flecked eyes looking about the cavernous chamber as he walked deeper inside. There was death everywhere he looked, both fallen and angel Sentry alike. There was no separation here and now, the sinners’ blood mixing freely with that of their jailers.

  At the end of the body-strewn circular corridor that appeared to have been bored through solid ice, Remy found the room.

  For a moment, it was like being back in Paradise.

  He imagined that it was a kind of testament—a monument—to why a place such as Tartarus existed. At one time, before the stink of death had infected it, this place would have been special, a tiny pocket of Heaven floating within the depths of the inferno.

  The huge concave walls, now spattered with the blood of conflict, showed another such struggle; they showed the story of the Morningstar and those who had followed him, moving moments captured from long ago depicting how they had waged war against the All-Father.

  Leading to their fall.

  These disturbing moments of betrayal and carnage would be the first things the prisoners of Tartarus would have seen upon their arrival, as well as the last when it came time for their release. A grisly reminder of the wrong they had done.