by Drew Foote
She was thing of darkness, a creature detested by her God.
Makariel laughed merrily, moving inexorably forward. He flung her essence from the tips of his swords. “The Avenging Angel, the Lance of Justice, bleeds black. How could you ever have hoped to withstand Uriel’s cleansing fire? You cannot master your own spark.”
The Angel staggered unsteadily on her feet, shadowy gore weeping from grievous wounds. Makariel fell upon her once more, blows raining down on her harried defenses like anvil blows. She fought with desperation now, instead of grace, struggling to deny an onslaught that came from everywhere at once.
She would not survive much longer.
Walter moved to rush to her aid, but Barnabas restrained him. Barnabas desired nothing more than to do the same, to help her in some small way, but he knew there was nothing to be done. As long as Walter survived there might be some small hope, but if they interfered Makariel would surely kill them all. Arcturus covered his eyes in fear, shivering uncontrollably. The burning trees surrounding them gasped and laughed with fiery delight.
Again and again, Makariel’s terrible blows fell upon the ebony lance with resounding impact. “Petulant child!” he bellowed.
Crack.
“You fail yourself!”
Crack.
“You fail those you love!”
Crack.
“You fail the world!”
Crack.
Another massive blow, a terrible impact that would shatter a mountain, and Kalyndriel collapsed to the dirt. Her chest heaved, her eyes rolled back in her head, and her lance tumbled from a nerveless grip. She waited for her death.
Makariel looked down at the vanquished Angel. He was the undisputed lord of fury, the master of his domain. She could never have hoped to stand against his implacable fire. Twin heads shook with disappointment. He raised his four swords into the air.
“Now, it ends, firefly,” he whispered softly. The blades plunged toward Kalyndriel.
Time stood still as the edge of oblivion fell.
Her mind raced in the last moments of her life: fleeting whispers and colors, shades of regret. The Demon spoke the truth. She had failed, and all her fury and power had been for nothing. Her endless rage had been little more than smoke in the face of true power. The world, and her friends, had needed more from her than Wrath. They needed nobility, they needed purity.
They needed good.
She had let them down.
Kalyndriel thought of Walter, a paragon of human compassion and bravery. Despite his damnation, he embodied everything the Angels should seek. During his life, he had foolishly doubted his own worth and bartered away the only thing he ever truly had. Finally, he started to realize the power that graced him. He shone brighter than any being of Heaven could, and she was sorry that her failure would keep him from realizing his destiny.
Walter had rekindled her faith in humanity. Kalyndriel prayed for his strength and salvation.
The Angel’s mind then touched upon Barnabas. He was a wicked creature, true, but weren’t they all? There was more to him, hiding within his blasted heart. True to his nature, he was swollen with pride, but that pride could drive him to surprising nobility. He had remained true to their hopeless cause, demonstrating a dedication to rival that of any Archangel’s. There was value within his darkness.
Barnabas had taught her that all of God’s creations had worth. Kalyndriel prayed for him to know peace.
Kalyndriel considered Arcturus; perhaps, ironically, the most enlightened of them all. He was at peace with his lot and his nature, curmudgeonly though it might be. He was not a being of power, he could not stand against the forces arrayed against them, but he had faith in her. He had believed that she could rise above her darkness. She was sorry she had disappointed him.
Arcturus had shown her trust. Kalyndriel prayed for his safety.
Finally, the Avenging Angel thought of Uriel and Samael, those who had betrayed both her and the entirety of creation. She had burned with wrath, withering beneath the cruel lash of spite, but now she felt nothing but sadness. Their actions were inexcusable, but she finally had a glimpse of understanding.
How they must have suffered.
She could see how the futility of existence, now such a deep pain within herself, could swell to monstrous proportions over the course of the infinite ages. Kalyndriel could taste the ashes of their exhaustion in her mouth, whispering to her of the righteousness of their cause.
It begged her to surrender to the darkness of despair before she died.
She rejected the temptation in the final moments of her life. She felt pity for the traitors, lost children with no hope of finding their way home. They were damned, in truth, and despite what they told themselves; there was no righteousness within them. They knew nothing but weakness, and Kalyndriel would not carry such frailty with her onto the gallows.
She would be free.
The Avenging Angel prayed for her betrayers to know peace and, at the moment of her death, she forgave them.
Kalyndriel would greet oblivion with an unchained heart, absolved from the darkness that plagued her. Her face was smooth and beautiful as Makariel’s swords descended upon her. Walter and Arcturus moaned in disbelief, and Barnabas closed his eyes.
Kalyndriel let go, and she smiled when her doom screamed toward her with blades of blackened steel. She sighed as she felt her soul soar into the infinite reaches of the cosmos.
Free.
A corona of dazzling, white energy blossomed from her in a blinding explosion of radiance. Makariel and the others were blown backwards by its shockwave, tumbling like rag dolls. The burning trees extinguished in a gasp of smoke.
Kalyndriel rose like the sun.
Barnabas, Walter, and Art stared in amazement. The Angel burned once more, but she sang with pure white light. She was a searing apparition of purity, a fire that was both clean and true. Her wings crackled with blinding plasma and her face was beatific. Glowing armor of smooth alabaster covered her mended wound. Kalyndriel’s lance, previously a screeching instrument of darkness, now hummed with noble intent.
She was magnificent.
Makariel rose slowly. He appraised her with narrowed eyes, considering such a shift in fate. His faces erupted into pleased smiles.
“Good, firefly,” he whispered hungrily. “Now, let me see.”
He howled and dashed toward her at the blistering speed of light. His swords fell upon her once more, assaulting her with horrifying fury, but she did not falter. Kalyndriel’s radiant visage was unworried as she deflected him with perfect surety. Her blinding lance thwarted his swords with cascades of searing sparks, dancing to a song that would have made Heaven weep.
Makariel’s four arms moved faster than was possible, but each time she met his strike with a resounding parry. They were evenly matched. Barnabas’ jaw dropped in astonished delight. She made it look easy.
She seemed peaceful as she struck a terrible blow, her lance driving toward one of Makariel’s faces. The radiant edge bore closer and closer, inching toward his growling maw with frightening inevitability. His eyes widened as he saw the point bearing toward him with unearthly speed.
The universe held its breath as the searing tip of the lance slid toward Makariel. Each instant was an eon, each heartbeat an eternity. As the lance touched the grizzled jackal’s muzzle, he slid his head to the side. The weapon scored a shining, bleeding groove in Makariel’s face.
Makariel wept sizzling black ichor.
The Bloody Wind took a step backward, grinning with pleasure. A long tongue flashed from one of his fanged mouths, tracing the bloody line of Kalyndriel’s strike.
“Now that is a light that’s impressive, Angel,” he acknowledged in a rasping growl. “Perhaps, now, you can survive Uriel’s fire. I greet you as warrior, Kalyndriel.”
The Bloody Wind bowed slightly and sheathed his four swords.
Kalyndriel nodded serenely, acknowledging the conclusion of their battle. Her la
nce disappeared, absorbed once more into her soul. Barnabas, Walter, and Arcturus let out shuddering, relieved breaths. They were filled with hope; the Angel had found herself once more. She had, at last, cast off the darkness shrouding her heart.
“I thank you for your intervention, Makariel,” Kaly calmly replied.
Makariel grinned wickedly. “Don’t thank me, firefly. Thank your friend, Paimon. This was his idea.”
He laughed as shock dawned on their faces at the news of Paimon’s survival. Walter struggled for words, his mouth working silently.
“And don’t think I wouldn’t have killed you, child. Perhaps I still will, once this is all over. I’m sure you taste divine.” He winked.
“Paimon’s alive?” Walter blurted.
The Bloody Wind turned to him, and sighed. “Yes.”
Walter gasped in relief.
Barnabas stepped forward. “Can … I ask you a question?” he asked carefully.
Makariel shrugged in grudging assent.
“So,” Barnabas began. “Did Paimon actually have any ideas on what we’re supposed to do, now?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. He and Apollyon are going to kill Samael before he exterminates humanity,” Makariel replied. “And the five of us are going to Limbo.”
“Five?”
“Yes. There are five of us, aren’t there?”
Chapter 35
The Graveyard of Ages
On the morning of the seventh day since the Empty One first walked the world, two terrible armies faced each other across a desolate field. The bones of death were the only seeds that lay within its fallow embrace. The dry earth thirsted for vengeance, and it would drink deep on that final Sabbath. Although it was but one of many battles fought upon the hungry plains of Megiddo, it was likely the last.
The bright morning sun fell upon Demon and Angel alike. Its light reflected off the radiant white raiment of the Heavenly Host, arrayed in perfect formation surrounding the hill of Tel Megiddo. A sea of wings and swords, shields and lances, banners and war hammers. The vault of Heaven had opened wide to disgorge its mighty children, and they were as numerous as shining grains of sand.
They would kill for their God.
The sun also touched upon the dread majesty of Hell, the Fist of the Inferno. The blasted black skin of Demonic warriors beyond count absorbed the morning’s gentle light. The ravenous multitude thronged the plain in a heaving swarm of spines and wings, terrible visages and dread weapons. Their damned souls hungered, but they were silent, waiting.
They would kill for themselves.
Two mighty generals stared at one another across the desolate space between armies, a no-man’s land that waited eagerly. Apollyon the Destroyer, the Reaper of the World, towered high into the clear sky. Archangel Gabriele, the Strength of God, was a tiny, radiant star that had fallen to Earth. Their two hearts, so perfectly opposed, were both tranquil.
They would kill for the sake of killing.
The time for diplomacy and maneuvering was over; it was time for judgment. It was the moment where nothing mattered save the brutal strength they brought against their foe, the pure vindication of overwhelming force. It was the instant in which might made right. Strength would settle this affair, just as it had since the birth of time.
That was why God created them.
~
Archangel Gabriele turned to face the Host. Silky black hair fell over the spaulders of her ornate white battle plate. Her shining halo, burning cold like a glacial crown, reflected the rays of morning light in a glowing prism. She held Malleus Dei in a grip powerful enough to collapse the world.
Her calm stare appraised the waiting army. Her Host was strong, and it was loyal. Their hearts sang with the promise of victory, the opportunity to stand strong against Evil. They would follow her unswervingly down the path she had chosen. It would not be what they expected, but such was the tragedy of life.
Their deaths, now eternal, would serve a greater purpose.
Gabriele was a creature of mercy, but she was also a creature of logic. Her chilling calculations saw life in equations and absolutes, untainted by uncertainty. Her mercy was emotionless and devoid of empathy. Gabriele’s peace was the icy silence of absolute zero.
It was pure.
The Archangel saw pain and suffering, the by-blows of creation, but she experienced those things from a distance. They troubled her only as an intellectual endeavor. They were the pangs of inferior beings, disconnected from her glory, but she viewed the pursuit of mercy with great gravity. It was her purpose, and she would see her purpose fulfilled.
Today, she would deliver perfect mercy to all of God’s children. She would end their suffering.
Gabriele rose in the morning sun on magnificent wings of blinding ice. She hovered in the still air before the Heavenly Host, holding the Hammer of God upraised.
“Host of Heaven!” she roared with a mighty shout, her thunderous voice ringing strident across the dead lands of humanity. Her army held its breath in anticipation.
“On this morning, you fight for your God!” she continued, her words the rumble of a violent storm. “You fight to drive the unclean back into the Inferno, for all eternity! You fight for Heaven, and for humanity! The Creator guides your victory, and He has spoken! We must protect Samael so that he might work God’s will!”
Overwhelming light poured from Gabriele in ephemeral waves of power. The sky sang of her beauty and puissance. Might flowed from her like an inexhaustible river. It washed over the Host, filling them with vigor and determination. She was the Strength of God, the perfect warrior.
“Will you fight?” Her voice was the thunderclap that heralded the deluge.
As one, the Angels of the Heavenly Host roared their assent.
~
Apollyon the Destroyer gazed upon the concentrated might of the Inferno, the unbridled aggression that coursed through the veins of the world. They bared their teeth, their muscles burning with promised release. They would rend and destroy; that was the symphony of creation, both its prelude and eulogy. They were the messengers of the Father’s perfect truth.
Apollyon loomed over the battlefield, a terrible avatar of impending apocalypse. Monstrous horns arched above eyes that were both wicked and wise, shadowy portals of damnation. He was the end of all things but, also, the genesis of beginnings. His midnight wings were the ravens that heralded rebirth, the harbingers of regrowth.
They bore the burden of hope in the depths of obliteration.
Paimon stood to the side, his head bowed in sorrow. The hour of judgment was upon them. Dread washed over his radiant skin, hidden beneath a cowl of whispering shadow. They called him the betrayer, the tempter, the architect of humanity’s damnation. He was the ancient enemy of man.
Why, then, did his heart ache for them? Why did he consign himself to the same fate they chose for themselves, so that they might learn and grow? Their sins were Paimon’s, as well, and he bore them proudly.
They were his children.
Paimon loved humanity more than his own grace. They were simple creatures, little more than ash and dreams given shape, but they held depths that astonished even him. They loved with a passion unmatched in Heaven, and they hated with a fury unrivaled in Hell. The Apple of Knowledge, the only gift Paimon had ever possessed, was the legacy he would leave them.
Even if they cursed him for it.
Neither Paimon, nor any being within existence, knew the Creator’s purpose in crafting such a wonderful and awful world. God was a foreign being, an enigma even to the Archangels. His ways were incomprehensible, even to the mightiest of His children. The wise had learned, long ago, to stop attempting to understand Him.
The wizened old Demon still had faith, though. Not that God loved His children, no, but that there was meaning in His divine madness. There must be a reason for the magnificent spark of humanity, in all its hideous glory. Paimon did not trust in God, but he trusted in the unlikely beauty of His creation.
>
Paimon was willing to sacrifice everything for humanity. He feared his friend, Walter, would have to do the same. He might be the only hope that humanity had.
Apollyon raised Terminus into the cloudless sky. It reared like a black monolith, an edge as long as a battleship’s mast. Apollyon the Destroyer looked down upon the Fist of the Inferno. The Edge that Ends vibrated with satisfaction as it felt the heavenly bodies move into alignment, the hour approaching.
Conjunction.
“Demons,” he bellowed with the sound of a heaving earthquake. “End this!”
The army of Hell roared their fury from a million wicked throats in a cry that shook the foundations of existence. The Destroyer turned to face the Host. He growled and spread his monstrous wings wide.
The chains binding Apollyon stretched beneath his horrific might … and finally snapped with a metallic scream.
Every living human in the world collapsed into seizures as the chains gave way. The Reaper of the World was unbound. He seemed to grow even larger, an impossible vision of walking annihilation, and his ebony skin ignited in black flames.
Armageddon was born. He was death.
Nearby creatures, Angels and Demons both, perished as he approached. The Destroyer stormed toward the Host, and Hell followed.
~
The forces of light and darkness surged toward each other with terrible purpose. The divine balance of the world, two opposing polarities, sought to stabilize in an instant of perfect equilibrium. They existed to destroy each other, and the world in the process. The terrible hymn of Samael filled the air, a soundtrack to the carnage.
As the armies closed, the empty plains between them began to tremble violently. The earth bulged, disgorging boulders and vents of steam. Both armies slowed, uncertainly, as the ground before them rose higher and higher, as though pregnant with a wicked child. Apollyon halted, and smiled.
