Malith put the problem aside for another day. He would ask his lord and perhaps the King of Hell, with his power and knowledge, would have an explanation.
Next to Birch was Daevis, a Red paladin Malith recognized from his old training days as well. Daevis was a member of the Prismatic Council, but Malith hadn’t heard that his former brother had lost an arm. During the war in Nocka, I suppose, Malith mused idly.
After Daevis was a young, dead denarae wearing a Green paladin’s cloak. A denarae paladin? What’s next, women? he thought maliciously. Next to him stood a trio of young Violet, Yellow, and Orange paladins Malith finally recognized from his briefings on Shadow Company. The Blue paladin with them – at the end of the half-circle – was from Shadow Company as well, but he was also Birch’s nephew. A study of the youth’s features showed no overt family resemblance, but a few similarities existed.
Of course, wild reports from the so-called Barrier War hinted this young man might be so much more than just a paladin. Demons that had infiltrated Nocka swore he was an angel of some sort, but Malith scoffed at most of their wild theories. However strong a paladin he might be, this young de’Valderat was a mortal like any other, and he would die like every other. And yet… Malith remembered an angelic presence that had rescued Birch from Malith’s own clutches. Could it be?
On the other side of the semicircle, Malith recognized Mikal and Uriel, Seraphim who were second in power only to Maya, the ruler of Heaven. Malith was surprised to see both of them present at such a minor point of battle. Was there some strategic importance he’d overlooked that would bring two of the most powerful entities in Heaven to this place at this time?
Next to the two angels was a wiry elf who radiated death and an aura of determination Malith had never before encountered. That would be Siran, then, captain of the Elan’Vital. Malith had received reports of the elf’s prowess in battle, and some even claimed he was a match for childris demons. Looking at him now, Malith could almost believe some of the more far-fetched reports about this lethal elf.
Towering over the elf were two of the largest men Malith had ever seen. One he recognized all too well, and the other he deduced from family resemblance. The elder was Garet jo’Meerkit, and the younger…
Malith tensed as Garnet jo’Garet locked eyes with him. Slowly, deliberately, Garnet winked at Malith.
Blood that no longer flowed with life seethed through Malith’s body as he stared at the face of the man – the boy! – who had defeated him.
“Well, what have we here?” Malith taunted, forcing himself to look away from Garnet. He sneered at the assembled mortals and angels. “Heaven’s finest, culled from the purest the mortal realm has to offer, led by a pair of limp-winged Seraphim and a dead failure. Were there no children or beggars to join your ranks, that you must be represented by this?”
“Better this company than a platoon of traitors led by a man strong enough to die in the moment of his triumph,” the young Violet paladin said.
Malith graced him with a look of mocking amusement.
“Ah, the wit of youth,” he said condescendingly. “I don’t think you’ve sharpened this one’s blade enough yet, Gerard. Tell me, however did they manage without you around to breastfeed them their brains and what passed for skill?”
Gerard stared at him for a moment, still stone-faced, then suddenly his expression relaxed a fraction and he actually smiled at Malith.
“Oh, my protégé Garnet took over the company,” Gerard said, gesturing to the mountainous youth. “I believe you’re familiar with his handiwork.”
Malith shifted his attention to Birch, who was idly rubbing at one of his teeth with the flesh of his left thumb.
“Birch, my old second-rate comrade,” Malith said with a malicious grin, “how’s the chest feel? Doesn’t ache in the cold, I hope.”
“It’s fine, Malith,” Birch replied calmly. The Gray paladin deliberately jerked his thumb and looked down at a cut in his finger. He twisted his hand about and Malith saw fresh, living blood welling on the surface of the cut. Birch looked back up and for the briefest of seconds locked eyes with Malith. “How’s the neck?”
Malith glared at Birch and bit back a sharp retort.
“You know, Malith,” Gerard said in a wicked tone, “I don’t think they ever buried your body. I think they just threw you in a cesspool and let you rot. Did you want us to make a tombstone for you? Here lies Malith, black of heart, weak of will, and short of head.”
Uriel stepped forward and spread his six violet wings out behind him the way a man might throw out his arms for silence.
“Enough,” the Seraph commanded in a hard voice. “We aren’t here to listen to you mortals pick at each other, no matter how petty or pitiful this black-cloaked fool might be.”
“Indeed,” Malith said, ignoring the angel’s comment. He assumed an arrogant expression once more and pointedly did not look at Gerard.
“Why are we here then, O damned one?” Mikal asked. As he stepped forward, Uriel fell back into the semicircle, his wings once more furled about his body. Two wings stretched down to wrap around his ankles, while two more curled about and settled across his armored shoulders and chest like a mantle of feathery cloth. The largest pair settled carefully behind him with a minimum of rustling.
“I was curious about this battle,” Malith replied simply. “My forces have been pounding this stronghold for days while the little Cherubs and Powers and lesser-Choir angels all cowered within. Every day brought us closer to the utter annihilation of this tiny corner of Heaven, until suddenly today the angels grew a backbone and put up a stiff front. I was so used to them folding over and taking it like women, I’d almost forgotten there were men in the Heavenly Hosts.”
Malith chuckled and shook his head.
“The stronghold will fall, if not today, then the next, or the day after that,” he said with malicious joy. “I wanted to see why the sudden change, and I can spare one day to satisfy my curiosity. Know your enemy, Gerard; isn’t that what that dusty old Red used to tell us during training?”
“That dusty old Red was your grandfather, Malith,” Gerard said with a hard face, “in case you’ve forgotten, and one of the best paladins I ever knew.”
Malith shrugged.
“He was a fool, just like the rest of you.” Malith paused and stared deliberately down the line of Shadow Company officers, pausing briefly on each of the six colors and sneering at the virtues they represented.
“Look at you all, extolling virtues you barely understand, all because some angels who claimed they were from God told men thousands of years ago what they thought was good and evil,” Malith said, his voice laden with contempt. “Temperance, they said, tempers your emotions and helps maintain self-control. Never mind that it dulls your mind and stills your passions! Passions that give you strength, passions that make you alive.
“Justice, the true equalizer among men. Bah! It leaves the strong prey to the same rules as the weak and unworthy, shackling the great men of our world and destroying their strength of vision and will. Where has justice been in Heaven of late?” he mocked them.
“Knowledge, but only the proper amount and only gained in the proper way, and always to be shared for the benefit of others.” Malith snorted. “If knowledge is power, what good is sharing it with others? Why not hold it close and wield it as you would any other weapon? Two men can’t wield a sword at the same time.
“Piety, perhaps the weakest of all virtues, telling us to trust and have faith. Faith in what? A God who won’t even step in to stop the annihilation of His beloved angels and blessed mortals? I followed that God for years, and where did it get me? Compelled into Hell and tortured until I finally saw the truth, that our world has been crippled by the very virtues and beliefs we think are saving us.
“Love? Such a backwards virtue with its manifestation as healing. It’s as weak as piety. Love your neighbors, love the little children, love the trees, love your pets, but never love yours
elf more. Even as a mortal, I never bought that touchy-feely tripe.” Malith barked a laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t heal so much as a splinter cut.”
Malith chuckled silently to himself for a moment until someone’s voice cut into his moment of gloating.
“And courage, Malith?” Birch asked. “What of courage? You were a Red paladin once. You used to know what courage meant. I remember, even back then, you were one of the most courageous men I knew. What has a Black paladin to say of the virtue he betrayed most?”
Malith stared with hard eyes at Birch, and for a long moment their eyes met and neither man flinched away. The Black paladin was not immune to the effects of Birch’s eyes, he merely refused to show weakness. Flames and pain-filled memories of torture and demonic cruelty flashed through Malith’s thoughts and left his soul trembling as though he had just relived the worst of his own tortures in Hell. Still, he betrayed no outward sign of the sensation, and he even managed to slowly look away instead of recoiling as most men did.
I was chosen for this! he reminded himself firmly.
“Courage, Birch?” Malith said. “I wasn’t courageous, I was idealistic and foolish. I believed in prudence and bravery, honor and righteous zeal. To face your foe and neither charge forward recklessly nor shy away in cowardice, ah yes, I remember those days. Then I learned the true rule of courage. Crush your foes and make them fear you. Let your foes worry about cowardice and let them try to stand courageously before your might. Courage is for fools, Birch. I am beyond such a petty virtue,” he sneered the word, “and have entered a place of such power that there is no courage, only strength.
“Power is the ultimate virtue, Birch. Let them put that on my tombstone.”
- 2 -
In a secret chamber deep within the city of Medina, a lone figure sat motionless in a high-backed chair. Six pink wings wrapped around her shoulders, breasts, and lower torso, the only covering on her otherwise naked flesh.
“Is it truly flesh?” Maya said softly aloud, contemplating her own appearance. “Mortal creatures have flesh. Eons ago, I remember a time when we immortals had no form or substance. We had no weapons, for we had no need of them. Likewise, we had no bodies, no emotions, and no concerns besides our own immortal existence. No need for language, we communicated by pure thought. We were perfect.
“How did this change?” she wondered. “When did this change? Long before the mortals appeared. Yes, it was before then when we all suddenly felt that urge. The Will of God, it must have been, instructing us to take shapes of perfection so we could one day inspire the mortals to emulate us. Look like them, show them what they can be – pure and perfect – and they will look to us as the paradigm for all they should aspire to be.
“That perfection can only have been by divine design, and our perfection comes because we are wholly good, untainted by the possibility of evil,” Maya said firmly. “Angels are incapable of evil, therefore anything we do must be toward some good, even a greater good that must be served by whatever means. These means, then, are to be considered good. My means are to be considered good. I am Metatron. It can be no other way.”
Maya’s eyes shone brilliantly with an inner fire of angelic ferocity. Her wings slipped from her body as she stood and spread her arms and wings wide behind her.
“I am Metatron!” she proclaimed loudly for no one to hear. “I am the Voice of God. If these others were truly faithful to Him, they would willingly submit to me. They do not, and they consort with a demon, therefore they must be beholden to the powers of darkness and Hell.”
Reveling in her confirmed righteousness, Maya was nevertheless aware of a presence just outside the door to her sanctuary. There was no knocking – a lowly mortal habit, used because they were inferior and incapable of sensing another being’s approach – merely a sense of patience as the other waited calmly for her to admit him.
Maya seated herself carefully on her chair, which she had personally crafted as a smaller approximation of the true Throne. She allowed her wings to rest on either side of the throne, leaving her naked body exposed.
For those such as I, nakedness means nothing, she thought idly. What is modesty to the Voice of God?
“Come, Camael,” Maya said aloud.
The angel who entered was a Power, and his humanoid shape appeared to be made of brilliant yellow smoke with blue, feathery wings on his back.
“Assume solid form, Camael,” Maya ordered with mild irritation. If this was truly the form of perfection, then it should behoove all angels to maintain corporeal, mortal-like forms.
“As Metatron commands,” Camael said smoothly, and his gaseous form coalesced into a fair-skinned angel. His wings were furled neatly behind him, and his appearance was both impeccable and formidable, as befitted a Power. His skin retained a yellowish tint to it, but without his wings he could easily pass for a human mortal.
“Your continued devotion and obedience are to be commended, Camael,” Maya said. “You alone, among all the Powers of Heaven, still maintain a strong allegiance.”
“I serve Metatron as I serve God,” Camael intoned reverently, bowing low.
“Yes, I know you do,” Maya practically purred with pleasure, “and that is why I have chosen you for a critical task that requires the utmost skill and devotion.”
Camael straightened and clapped his right fist on his chest.
“Command me.”
Without the power of the Throne to augment her skills, Maya had felt her control over the Heavenly Hosts quickly slip away. It had taken all of her remaining will and attention to retain her hold over Camael, who was not only a strong Power in his own right, but was second-in-command of the Archangels. A less prominent, less willful angel would have proven much easier to control, but another angel would never have the same opportunities Camael would have.
Maya studied the other angel carefully and was quite pleased with what she saw. No angel in Heaven could truly hide his thoughts and nature from her, and she saw nothing but absolute devotion in this one. He was perfectly suited to her needs, and with his success, others would return to their proper place and rightful obedience.
“You are aware that the demon Kaelus has come to Heaven, are you not? And that his presence here has had a tremendous disruption on the proper flowing of power in Heaven?”
Camael nodded. “It is because of his Hellish presence that so many of the angels doubt your proper authority, Metatron, and thus chaos has filled our ranks. I do not see how we can stand thus divided against the hordes of Hell.”
“Indeed. Were you also aware that Kaelus has assumed command of the Heavenly Host itself?”
The Power stared at her in shock.
“Oh, Mikal and Uriel maintain appearances and pretend to command in their own right, but Kaelus is stronger than they, and he has trapped them by twisting the traditions of shaishisii,” Maya said. “He sows division and discord everywhere he goes, commanding through deceit and slowly corrupting all those around him. He must be removed, and yet I cannot leave here for fear of his coming after me to finish what he started in the Hall of the Throne.”
Camael stared at her silently, awaiting the orders he knew were coming.
“I need you to seek out the demon and destroy him, loyal Camael,” Maya said. “Bide your time and wait for an opportunity, for he is powerful and cannot be felled by a mere Power through direct confrontation. The demon Kaelus must be destroyed and his hold over our forces broken. Only then will we stand a chance against his brethren from Hell.”
“I will seek him out and remove him as you command, Metatron,” Camael declared. He bowed and made as if to leave, but Maya held up a hand to stay him.
“He will be protected,” Maya cautioned, “perhaps even by our own forces who may have been swayed by his corruption. You serve under Uriel, the Seraph, correct?”
“I am an Archangel. I am his aide and lieutenant, yes,” Camael said guardedly. “I have served under him since the Great Schism.”
“
You follow him, respect him.”
Camael nodded.
“And if Uriel himself comes to the defense of this demon?” Maya pressed him. “If Uriel tries to defend Kaelus, will you face your commander and strike him down if need be?”
Camael hesitated then, seeing Maya’s frown, he nodded.
“It will be done.”
Maya extended a hand, and Camael stepped forward and knelt before her. He pressed his forehead against the back of her hand and trembled at her touch.
“Go now,” she said, “and serve me as the Voice of God. I am Metatron. To break faith with me is to break faith with Him.”
“I obey, Metatron,” Camael said without looking up. He stood and backed away, then left the room. His steps never wavered, and his gaze never faltered as he left to carry out her will.
- 3 -
Kala peeked into Trames’s tent and saw him sitting calmly, his legs folded beneath him and his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were closed, and he looked for all the world like he’d fallen asleep sitting upright.
She started to let the flap drop, but his voice stopped her.
“I’m not asleep, Kala,” Trames said without opening his eyes. The tent had an extra blanket thrown over the top to block most of the ever-present light, something many of the living warriors had taken to doing when they needed to sleep. Those who didn’t usually slept with blindfolds on, or else simply learned to sleep with the extra light.
“Do you need anything?” Kala asked, staring at him in curiosity.
“No, I have everything I need, which is everything I want,” Trames replied.
Kala hesitated. “What are you doing, Trames? All the times I’ve seen you sitting like this, I’ve wondered.”
“One cannot learn if one does not ask,” Trames said, “and yet one cannot learn if one does not remain silent to listen. An interesting combination, and it’s odd how often the latter precedes the former.”
Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3) Page 32
