He saw two more little men hauling, with equal effort, the pole he was tied to and he felt his backside dragging against the dark, powdery earth. As they trudged forward, a nightmare menagerie of strange, deformed creatures surrounded them, seeming to watch their passage, and occasionally emitting mocking howls of glee. There were other things, too: fluttering black birds, snarling mangy dogs, and a few dirty, ragged children with pointy teeth that looked as if they’d been filed sharp. There were even a few slowly moving figures that seemed to be animated skeletons.
Beyond the figures he saw arched entryways on a series of decrepit, creepy old buildings, some made of cracking adobe, others of ancient black stone or dark, tarry-looking lumber. Most had sagging roofs of slate or reddish thatch.
He also saw shops and a wheeled vending cart where a fat-faced boy with batlike wings was selling what looked like a kebob of roasted monkey heads. Nearby a couple of tall, filthy buskers with long, greasy hair were playing music. One had a flute that looked like it was made of a cow’s horn, and the percussionist beat out a rhythm on what looked a bit like an ivory xylophone. As they drew closer he could see that it was really the bleached bones of a human ribcage. A man with a lizard’s face stood beneath a leather tent selling all sorts of twisted, wicked-looking metal weapons, and a hideous old woman with a face like a rotten tomato sat on a stool next to three wooden barrels with taps on their sides. Above her a sign read, simply, BLOOD. Beyond all these sights ran a line of one-hundred-foot-high flames that quivered and flickered against the strange, otherworldly sky. The city, it seemed, was surrounded by a great wall of fire.
As bizarre as all this was, none of it disturbed him as much as the fact that he could not remember his own name. He was sure he had one and he thought that it started with a B.
Barney? Blake? Brad? Brice?
He didn’t have a clue—and he was fairly certain that wasn’t normal. People didn’t forget their names. But then, he realized, he didn’t remember a lot of things. Where did he live? Who were his parents? And, more importantly, how had he become the prisoner of these foul-smelling little guys?
He wanted to choke one of them until they told him, and he struggled against his bonds. He soon found that the more he struggled, the more they cut into his wrists, so he stopped, deciding instead to let his body go limp until the men reached wherever they were going. Judging from their grunting and groaning, he didn’t think they’d make it much further and when they let him down, he’d get free and demand some answers. Until then, he would try to remember his name.
Bill? Brady? Bart?
He must have blacked out again, because the next thing he knew he was sprawled on a cold stone floor with the heavy pole lying on top of him, his head and shoulders aching. A large man with a strange, expressionless face stooped over him and loosed his bonds and then, with one impossibly large, strong hand, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him to his feet.
The other prisoner, the monster, was also being lifted to his feet—by a stone statue. There was no other way to describe it. All of it—its muscular limbs, flowing robes, perfectly masculine face, dead eyes, broad sword, and oval shield—were all the color and texture of gray sandstone. When it had the beast standing, it stepped back and froze in place, motionless like the statue it seemed to be. He looked at the guard that had helped him up. It also stood at attention, frozen like a statue.
He rubbed his wrists and glanced around. The room was a huge round hall with a gigantic dome for a ceiling. The dome was painted midnight blue and lit only by pinprick lights that looked like constellations. It was almost like he was outdoors, camping under the stars. The room was bounded with columns and arches, and the floor was made of obsidian-like stone, so shiny it seemed he was standing on the black liquid of a frozen midnight sea. In the center of the floor was a round firepit bounded with a ring of stone, and in it a blue fire burned, casting the room in an eerie and tenuous light. Despite the almost unbearable heat, the lighting gave the room a feeling of cold emptiness.
Ahead, the three little men were kneeling before a throne, facedown on the ground, prostrate before the creature sitting there.
The being was huge. Its skin was Crayola black, perfectly smooth, and hairless, like a shark’s. Black feathered wings arched grandly out of its back, and it wore a glittering black chainmail body suit beneath a cloak of royal purple. One huge, perfectly formed hand drummed on the stone armrest of the throne with long, black, talon-like fingernails.
It was an angel—but not the good kind and he knew, instinctively, that it was evil.
The young man who couldn’t remember his name also knew he should be skeptical at the sight of such a creature. He knew he shouldn’t believe it could really exist. However, he found upon reflection that he was not surprised at all. Suddenly, one horrifying memory sprang to his mind. Such scary winged men had often populated his childhood dreams—especially the ones he forgot by the time he awakened.
“Rise and explain!” the dark angel bellowed, and the little short guys got quickly to their feet.
“We caught them on the edge of the Territory, my lord,” one of them said. “Asking for Uphir.”
The winged giant stood, rising to its full height—which had to be nine or ten feet. Slowly, it descended the steps of its throne and approached Bryan or Bob or whoever he was and his malformed companion, looking from one to the other with soulful, brown eyes that were strangely, almost heartbreakingly human.
“Who are you?” it asked, and though it spoke in a low murmur, a shock went through the young man’s body, like when a fighter jet passed overhead during an air show. He wondered if he’d ever seen an air show.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he replied.
The angel’s eyes narrowed. “Steel,” it said with an air of subdued irritation. “Did you bid them drink of the Lethe?”
A look of contrite terror spread over the short man’s face. “No! Oh—no, your glorious, beautiful lordship! He had but a drop, Azaziel—just one small drop, that’s all!”
Azaziel moved with incredible speed, reaching out and grabbing the man by the neck. In a few long strides, he was standing above the fire, holding the squirming, squealing man over it.
“What information can I gain from them if you’ve wiped their minds clean?” he asked calmly.
“We didn’t! We didn’t—I swear! That one tried to drink but his demon companion prevented him. Only one drop touched his lips, merciful lord. Only one!” Acrid smoke began to rise from the squirming man’s feet. “Mercy, mercy my lord, my master! Please!” he shrieked.
Azaziel seemed to consider his request for a moment, then sighed and cast him away. He thudded to the ground and skidded across the floor, finally slamming into one of the columns and coming to rest against it with a groan of pain or relief—or both.
Now, Azaziel turned his attention to the demon. “You stopped him from drinking. Perhaps you have wisdom as well as beauty.” He reached out to place one hand on the demon’s hideous head, but it shied away. “Do not be afraid—I’ll not hurt you. Do you know your name, or have these fools erased your mind?”
“I’m Rick,” the demon said. “That’s Bran. And I’m pissed!”
Bran fell to his knees, trembling. Bran! Yes, that was it! His name was Bran!
“I have no doubt you’re angry,” Azaziel replied to Rick. “But that is not the information I seek.” He reached out again to touch Rick’s head.
“Whoa, there,” Rick said. “Who the hell are you?” He backed away a little. “Before I give you any information, how about you give me some?”
“Rick,” Azaziel said. “You’re right to be careful. I can access your mind with but one touch. But,” he added distastefully, “it is such a polluted tangle of thoughts, I doubt it can give me the information I seek. Let us try the other.”
As the angel appr
oached, Bran fought the urge to cry out or run. It smelled like sour wine and incense, and upon its head there was something that looked like a crown—or a halo—made of swirling, writhing black smoke with tiny, flying creatures swarming inside. They looked like black hornets with eyes that glowed red, like embers. Azaziel seemed even larger and more terrifying up close.
The angel reached for him and Bran closed his eyes. The palm of Azaziel’s hand was strangely cool against his skin, and then a sudden, unbearable heat pierced his brain. In that instant all his memories came back, falling in on him all at once, like the crashing debris of a building undergoing demolition.
He grew up in Alabama, lived in Middleburg now. His name was Bran, he was a student, and he played football. And the demon—Rick—was his best friend. They had gone down into Maggie Anderson’s basement and somehow ended up here. And it was all because of Orias.
Azaziel’s eyes narrowed with shrewd understanding.
“Orias—that filthy half-breed bastard of Oberon,” Azaziel sneered. “I might have known.” He reached into one of Rick’s pockets, pulled out the black leather scroll, and unrolled it. His eyes scanned the page impatiently and then he cast it violently to the ground.
“UPHIR!” he bellowed furiously, his voice so loud that Bran winced and covered his ears.
Instantly, the bluish bonfire sputtered, and a thick swirl of black smoke rose from it. As they all watched, the smoke drifted to the ground and coalesced into the human shape of a stoop-shouldered man with a thin moustache and a pair of goat horns on his forehead. Even when he was fully formed, he looked more like the hologram of a person than a person in the flesh. Bran guessed that this was Uphir, who looked around for a moment, confused—but as soon as he saw Azaziel glaring at him, he fell to the ground as the other men had done.
“Your gloriousness!” Uphir’s voice was sickly sweet and his tone fawning. “To what do I owe the honor of this privileged audience?”
“Get up and look at me,” Azaziel commanded, and Uphir quickly got to his feet. He stood before the dark angel with his head bowed and his eyes averted.
“Tell me, good doctor,” Azaziel said slowly. “I have not seen Orias in eons. Do you have news of him? When last did you see him?”
Uphir blinked and a shudder seemed to run down his spine. “Me? What makes you think I’d have anything to do with Orias?” he asked with mild indignation. “A Nephilim?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Azaziel said. “There have been rumblings that Oberon took his abomination back to his bosom. Have you reason to believe that this is true?”
Dr. Uphir hesitated, wringing his hands for a moment. “Sire . . . there are always rumblings,” he said.
“Don’t think for a moment, doctor, that just because you lack a body I cannot punish you,” Azaziel told him. “As Lord Regent of Dark Territory, I have authority to disperse you into oblivion—or worse, to banish you for a thousand years in the Pit, without consulting the tribunal. Do not lie to me again.”
The little men who had brought Rick and Bran to Azaziel tittered wickedly, and Uphir glared at them. He finally looked at Azaziel and cleared his throat, yet he still lacked the courage to speak.
“Let me press you further, Uphir,” Azaziel said. “You know I sent Oberon, my finest soldier, on a mission to locate the crystal ring. You know also that he has not lived among us for quite some time and that he did not attend the last two meetings of the council. I am aware that he has been seduced by the human way of life, but this is unlike him. A peculiar coincidence was that his disappearance happened at the same time his Nephilim git returned to him. Now, I ask you again—what do you know about it?”
Uphir shook his head. “Nothing, my lord! I swear!”
“Indeed,” Azaziel said darkly. “My patience wears thin.” He held out one huge clawed hand, and the scroll he’d thrown aside now flew out of the shadows to settle in it. He opened it and read aloud:
Uphir,
You remember the affair you helped me with last time you were in Middleburg. I need your help again. My prisoner is restless and you know as well as I what it will mean for both of us if he escapes. We must put this matter to rest soon, and for good. I know if anyone knows how to do that, it will be you. I implore you, come with all haste, for which I will pay you one hundred times your normal fee.
Orias
Azaziel lowered the scroll and calmly gazed at Uphir. “Last chance,” he said.
“All right!” Uphir shrieked. “I was going to tell you. I was on my way here to do exactly that when you summoned me. Orias has imprisoned his father with a spell of his own creation. And now . . . it sounds like he intends to kill him! But I had nothing to do with his terrible plot, my lord—I swear!”
The mighty angel paced, agitated. “Then how did you come by this knowledge?” he demanded.
“Well, I . . . it was . . . that house call I made. You remember, sire. Oberon was injured and he needed me to tend him—and you told me to remind him about the council meeting. I had no idea what his Nephilim abomination was up to, until it was done.”
“And you chose not to tell me?” Azaziel asked coldly and held up the scroll. “It sounds like you were in on it. Did it not occur to you that with Oberon trapped, I would get no news of the crystal? You know how long I have wanted to possess it. With its power I can open the Wheel and my army can cross into the Light and vanquish the Exalted Ones at last—then we can wipe out the humans, and the earth will be ours. The last communiqué I had from Oberon informed me that he had located it. And you helped a Nephilim imprison him?”
“No—no! But I can help you,” Uphir argued with a weak smile. “The boy—the mongrel—he trusts me. I can help you get Oberon back.”
“No,” Azaziel said. “You are not to be trusted.” He reached out one hand, wrapped his shiny black talons around the wispy smoke-neck of the doctor, and lifted him up. Uphir wriggled violently, trying to get free.
“No! Lord! Almighty one! Azaziel, NO!” he screamed, but the angel’s countenance, terrible its beauty, was as immobile as those of his stone guards as he crossed the room with the spectral doctor in his grasp. To the left of the throne, a set of massive steel doors swung slowly open. Instantly, the room was filled with a gush of strong wind and searing heat.
“Behold!” Azaziel commanded. “Few are those who look upon the Pit and forget the sight!” He released Uphir, who drifted out over the edge of the balcony, suspended as if by an invisible hand.
The three bounty hunters scrambled along behind Azaziel. Rick and Bran exchanged a glance and followed, too. To Bran’s surprise a series of angelic figures emerged from the shadows around them. They were clothed in black robes and had black wings but their skin, not as dark as Azaziel’s, was a pale, silvery gray. Some had long raven hair and perfect features, like terrifying china dolls. Others looked like mannequins come to life, their exquisitely chiseled faces expressionless. The shortest of them was over six feet tall. Bran and Rick were swept up in the crowd as the fallen angels filed out onto a broad balcony.
At first Bran thought it looked out over a massive canyon, but on second glance, he decided it was an ocean. The shuffling crowd pushed him closer to the stone railing that bounded the balcony, and Bran understood that it was neither a canyon nor an ocean.
It was more like a black hole.
Below them was a pit that seemed to be miles wide and edged not with earth and stone but with the roiling black wind of a funnel cloud. It was as if someone had dug a huge crater and a tornado had fallen into it. At the center of the swirling hole, so far below that he could hardly make it out, there was a single spot of red, and Bran imagined that it might be the earth’s molten core. From the pit there rose an endless wind that bore with it almost impossible heat.
The dark angels crowded around him and Rick, making their way to the edge of the
railing, all of them gazing placidly at Dr. Uphir, who hovered above the swirling black pit, struggling harder against whatever invisible hand was holding him.
“Uphir!” Azaziel roared. “You are a betrayer, a purveyor of deceit. Even among the cursed inhabitants of the Dark Territory, you are a cancer that must be cut out. What say you?”
“P-p-please!” Uphir sobbed.
Bran looked at Azaziel’s face; it was horrible in its serenity.
“Justice is inescapable,” Azaziel pronounced. “Your disobedience will be burned away in the Pit, Uphir. And when you have climbed up that long, long staircase, you will once again be worthy to serve me. If you make it back to the top.”
Bran looked over the edge of the balcony. There was indeed a staircase that wound downward in a great spiral, along the edge of the Pit. He wondered how far it was from that tiny red point back up to the top. A hundred miles? A thousand?
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Uphir shrieked.
“Yes,” Azaziel said quietly, and he lowered his hand.
Uphir plummeted downward into the Pit. After a few moments, his scream was lost in the sound of the wind and his flailing body vanished in the haze and the black, swirling clouds. Wordlessly, the angel congregation turned and went back inside. Bran now saw that there were stone bleachers along the edge of the room, and there the angels seated themselves. Azaziel took his throne and the ugly little bounty hunters arrayed themselves near the foot of it and knelt. The huge, steel doors swung shut again with a deep clunk, and Azaziel turned his gaze on Rick and Bran.
Shadow Train Page 22
