by Liam Jackson
"Why are you asking me?" yelled Michael. "Do something, anything! Sam!" Step, shuffle... ten yards. Reach, Sam!
Sam was thoroughly confused now. "That's all I have to do? There's gotta be more to it than that!"
Step, shuffle... five steps...
Why are you always so hardheaded? Just do it!
"Sam? I gotta do this, Sam!" Michael's finger tightened on the trigger.
"Drammach, hold!" yelled Sam.
The Fury froze in his tracks. Sam watched in amazement as the creature struggled to move forward, straining against invisible bonds. Drammach screeched and snapped viciously at the air.
Now standing face-to-face with the age-old Enemy of his lineage, fear, rage, hatred... all the primal emotions of a thousand lifetimes poured into Sam. Memories, his own and those of his celestial ancestors, flowed into Sam. Mental snapshots of entire worlds decimated by Drammach or his kin, Legion, the minions of Sitra Akhra. All one and the same. Memories of unspeakable cruelty inflicted upon men, women, and children. Oh, dear God, what they've done to the children! Staggering beneath the weight of this horrific knowledge, Sam walked forward until he stood within inches of the demon.
"Yeah, I remember you," Sam repeated softly. "I remember you from a week ago, a month ago, from a thousand years ago. You would destroy the innocents of an entire world, of every world. By God, I... will... not... have... it!" Sam lightly touched the tips of his right index and middle fingers to his lips. He then pointed at Drammach and spoke.
"Burn."
The simple word carried with it all the authority and power of Sam's divine ancestry. In less time than it took to speak the command, Drammach and the bodies of both soldiers were engulfed in pure, white "living" flame. It was over in seconds.
One with the Blood...
All that remained of the demons were small piles of glowing embers amid gray ash. Sam sagged to the ground exhausted and dumbfounded by the sudden and improbable chain of events. When he breathed, he felt the wet, raspy gurgle in his chest and knew he was badly injured. Blood, sweat, or a combination of the two, trickled into his eyes and he wiped a dirty sleeve across his face. He winced again. Sam glanced across the tunnel at Michael. The man was sitting on the rocky cavern floor holding the gun in a two-fisted grip, staring back at him with an unreadable expression.
Sam looked back at the piles of ash. In a small, hollow voice he said, "Why didn't you tell me, Joriel? Why?"
I'm sorry, Sam, but I couldn't. The gifts are your birthright, but you had to reach this point, this place, in order to claim your legacy. The same holds true for the other Offspring. You each come into your inheritance by a combination of fate and trial. The gifts emerge as they will, though not until the recipient is ready to make use of them. Think of it as being tempered by fire. You may not claim the full measure of your inheritance until you have proven you can manage the great responsibility for those gifts. The trials are different for each of you. Many fail, while others never even make the attempt.
"Offspring," Sam repeated the word aloud.
You and Michael must hurry. I—I'm not sure you'll be able to do anything, but you must try. You must!
Before Sam could answer, Michael was pulling him to his feet. He winced as pain lanced through the center of his chest, but managed to stand.
"Sam... I... you..."
"Let it go, Mike. I'm not even sure what happened. We can discuss it later, but right now we have to move."
Sam noticed the concerned expression on Mike's face. "Do I look that bad?"
Michael nodded. "You'd have to be dead to feel worse than you look."
"Thanks. Right back atcha. It's not much farther." Sam grimaced as pain lanced through his chest. "Mike, maybe you should take the lead again."
Michael nodded and moved forward, giving the piles of glowing ash a wide berth. Twice he looked over his shoulder to make sure Sam was following, and each time Sam gave him a thumbs-up and waved him on. As they rounded the curve, Sam saw the Veil looming ahead.
Sam dropped to his knees and stared at the dancing, formless iridescence that filled the far end of the tunnel.
"The Eye of God."
Translucent layers of time and space, spanning infinite planes of existence. Emotion poured from the Veil and struck Sam with the impact of concrete blocks thrown from a highway overpass. He knew that he was witnessing the berth of planets, the death of stars, somewhere, anywhere... everywhere. He was seeing living Truth through the Eye of God. And something was very, very wrong.
Sam could sense the malignancy, the diseased blight, as it festered and seethed within the Veil. It was searching for a means of escape from its own dismal, forsaken plane. It sought an entrance into the plane of Man.
Something huge... it's here and it's not...
"Michael?"
"Right here, Sam," replied Michael.
Sam swallowed hard, then said, "Do you feel it?"
Michael laid his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Yeah, Sam. I can almost taste it and it makes me wanna puke up my guts."
A deep, rich baritone called out from behind Michael, "Well-met, bastards! I've looked forward to this meeting."
Startled, Sam struggled to his feet and trained his flashlight on the pathway. Michael was way ahead of him. Both his gun and flashlight were already trained on a man standing some dozen or so yards away.
"I'm impressed," said the newcomer. "Never for a moment did I believe you would make it past Drammach. Furies are notoriously ill-tempered. Had we more time, I would be interested in hearing of your adventures." The man strode forward, portraying a sense of arrogance, but Sam sensed something else. Fear. He's not the Enemy, but no friend, either. Powerful, nearly invincible... but he's afraid! Afraid of what?
"That's close enough," warned Michael. "Who are you?"
Axthiel smirked and continued forward. Despite the overwhelming air of confidence, Sam could see flashes of pain on the too-perfect face. Sam stepped back. Michael held his ground. "I won't tell you again. Stop."
Axthiel made a slight gesture with his hand and Michael was propelled through the air, striking the wall of the tunnel with a heavy thud. He fell to the floor of the cavern in a broken, disheveled heap. Sam's heart skipped a beat.
Axthiel tsked and shook his head in mock pity. "What is it with your kind that you simply can't keep your mouths shut?"
Sam, now standing only a few paces from the Veil, cowered. It wasn't the man that Sam feared. The blight was coming through the Veil.
Axthiel stopped. Beads of perspiration lined his forehead. "Proximity to the Veil can't save you, bastard. My True name is Axthiel. Know that I can kill you just as easily from here."
Axthiel paused, as if allowing for dramatic effect. Sam thought the man was enjoying this entirely too much. Sam also knew the man spoke the truth.
Axthiel continued, "You reached a moment ago. Who answered? Nathaniel, perhaps?"
When Sam refused to answer, Axthiel smirked and said, "You mean next to nothing to me, except that I owe my associates a small favor, for one in return. I can grant you a quick and merciful death or I can drag it out for an eternity. It all depends on your answer. Now, where is Nathaniel?"
His associates. The Enemy! Then it came to him that he knew this man. "Must be my day for reunions. You're the guy that chased us into that factory back in Knoxville. You were with Drammach."
Axthiel arched an eyebrow then nodded. "So you were in the building after all. Tell me, how did you manage to escape? Did you have help? Was it Nathaniel?"
Sam shook his head and said, "First, I don't know anyone by that name, and second, you're wrong. You don't have an eternity. None of us do."
Axthiel laughed harshly, then said, "Boy, I'll not wax philosophical with you. I have already lived that long and longer."
"Yeah, well, that's all about to come to an abrupt end, smart-ass. How can you stand in this place and not feel it? Something is coming through the Veil and when it does, you're gonna be a minor footnote in
some cosmic history book."
For the first time, Sam noticed a hint of uncertainty in the man's demeanor. It was obvious that his discomfort level was rising by the second. Sam needed to stall until he could figure out a way to close the Veil.
Joriel, what do I do? Joriel? Nothing.
"Look, give me five minutes. If I can't shut down this thing in that time, it won't matter anyway and you can do whatever you want."
Axthiel arched an eyebrow. "Even were that possible why would I allow you to close the Veil? My associates would be very cross with me were that to happen." Not to mention the Runner, he thought silently.
"You don't get it, do you? You, me, everything is going to hell in a goddamned wheelbarrow if I don't stop that thing from coming through!" The pressure from the blight was building and Sam grew desperate.
How can I make him understand? Sam realized that despite the man's obvious command of the gifts, he couldn't sense the full magnitude of the danger. Show, don't tell. Sam closed his eyes, and reached. The effect wasn't immediate and for a moment, Sam thought he had failed.
Suddenly, a raging balefire of understanding ignited in the man's eyes. In a moment of supreme clarity, Axthiel knew Truth.
"That mad, treacherous bastard!" The Runner lied to us from the beginning! He never meant to restrict travel through the Veil to Legion's minor minions. Instead, he has created a path for a Prince of the Nine! He seeks to destroy a universe, and the Brethren along with it!
Through Sam, Axthiel saw everything. The Veil wasn't simply altered. It was corrupt, a reflection of the insanity that had reshaped its parameters. If the deterioration continued, Legion would be free to traverse the planes of the Multiverse at will.
Axthiel realized the Brethren were doomed. With their numbers already seriously depleted by the eternal war with Heaven, Lucifer's Brethren would be extinguished like some tiny, insignificant candle. No grand and epic battle, no glory of the contest. The Nine Princes of Sitra Akhra would simply unravel the cloth of reality that held this world intact. Unmade.
Could I but live long enough to track down that lying son of a—wait! The bastard-child... the blood of both Divinity and Divine Creation runs true in the boy. If he has come fully into his inheritance...
Peering intently at Sam, Axthiel said, "Do not lie to me, boy. Can you truly close this Veil?"
Sam shook his head and said, "I... I don't know. I was told it can be done, but not how.... It already may be too late. That thing is pushing through, dissolving the layers. I need more time."
Time? Axthiel examined his rapidly diminishing options. In the end, there was only one notion worthy of consideration.
Glory of the contest...
A conflict of such celebrated proportion had taken place only once before in all of Creation. The original Michael was revered across the Multiverse for his victory in that legendary battle. Axthiel now had an opportunity to ascend that same pinnacle of acclaim.
"By my own blood, I will purchase time for you, but you will do something for me, in return. Should you be successful and live beyond today, you will tell the Host of my deed. You will neither embellish nor subtract from what I do this day. Do you understand?"
Sam didn't understand. In fact, he decided that more he heard, the less he understood anything. However, at the mention of the Host, a mental image of Horace formed in his overtired mind.
"Agreed."
Axthiel studied the frail Offspring on the ground at his feet, then nodded, satisfied that the boy would carry out his end of the bargain.
"Move away from the Veil, bastard. I'm not sure what to expect once I enter, but I would not risk having my herald killed in the very moment of my triumph."
Sam glared at Axthiel, then spat. "Screw you. I'll hold up my end, but don't think I'm your messenger boy. And by the way, why is it I have to be a sackful of 'bastards' to you? I'm getting real tired of you calling me names."
Without waiting for a reply, Sam limped past Axthiel and continued several yards along the path until he came to what he hoped would be a safe distance. He leaned against the wall and waited.
Axthiel chuckled and said, "Your kind really doesn't know when to shut up."
Turning back to the Veil, Axthiel raised his hands above his head and whispered a Word of Power. Instantly, his hands burst into yellow spears of light. The aura spread along his arms, slowly at first, then gained momentum. Within seconds, Axthiel's entire body was encased in shimmering scaled armor. A closed helm crested by a flume of wavering fire covered his head and face. The tiny scales were molded perfectly to Axthiel's lean, muscular body and Sam thought it looked as if the man had been dipped in molten gold. Then again, Sam was certain that whatever else Axthiel might be, he was no man.
The Domination glanced over his shoulder only once, making sure that Sam was still watching, still bearing witness. He raised his fore and middle fingers to his lips, then turned his palm outward.
"Luck to thee, bastard-child." Axthiel turned and stepped into the Veil.
"There's that word again," Sam growled, giving Axthiel the finger. He made the gesture halfheartedly. Sam secretly doubted that Axthiel could do anything to stall the encroaching evil, but he wished the Fallen luck, all the same.
A strong tremor rocked the shaft, dropping large chunks of stone from the ceiling. Sam drew his coat over his head and slid along the wall toward the Veil. The colors had lost some of their iridescence and were now swirling angrily in hues of brown and green. Embedded in the layers of reality, gargantuan shadows flittered about, moving closer to the surface, closer to the plane of Man. Twice, Sam stumbled, nearly crushed by the waves of elemental energy that spilled from the living entrance.
Axthiel is losing and I still don't have any clue of how to close the Veil!
Desperate, Sam pleaded, "Joriel, what do I do? Help me!"
In response to his plea, a simple yet powerful broken sentence formed in his mind as his lifelong companion shouted out, Only one with the Blood, Sam... the Blood!
Sam repeated the sentence as a mental image formed in his mind. "So it's that simple, huh?" Sam. whispered. He suddenly understood that the answer literally coursed through his veins. He took a step toward the Veil.
"Sa—Sam."
Startled, Sam turned, and then stared in openmouthed amazement at the sight of Michael Collier, on hands and knees and struggling to stand. Another tremor rocked the cavern and Michael clung tenaciously to the wall for support.
His face was covered in crimson gore and only one side of his mouth moved as he spoke. His eyes were dull and expressionless, as if he were under the influence of some heavy narcotic.
"Hear... mos' of it.... Kee' fadin' in an out.... B— busted up... bad... on th' inside."
"Can you walk?" Sam asked.
Michael nodded gingerly, then winced and held a trembling hand to the side of his head. That's when Sam noticed the softball-size indention above Michael's left ear.
"Yeah. Is a g—good thing ... don't have far... t' go."
Dear God, what keeps him on his feet?
A faraway Voice whispered, Duty. Nothing more.
Nearly blinded by his tears, Sam pressed the flashlight into Michael's hand.
"You can make it, Mike. Head for the stairs. I'll be right behind you," Sam lied.
Michael smiled crookedly, and patted Sam on the arm. "You ... bad liar, Sam. I'm goin'... other direction," Michael stammered, pointing a shaky finger at the Veil. "One wi' th' Blood ... besides, I... already d—dead."
Sam shook his head vigorously. "No! I can't let you do this! I saw that, that thing on the other side. You gotta make it back to Horace! He can ... he can ..." Sam's voice trailed away as another violent quake dislodged a large section of the cavern ceiling.
"Did yer job, Sam.... Now my turn. Jus' have to ... trus' me. Sound fa—miliar?"
The calm resignation in Michael's voice nearly broke Sam's heart. Muddy tears streamed down his bruised and swollen cheeks. He tried to speak, bu
t the words refused to come and he could only nod.
Michael turned toward the Veil and tried to square his shoulders.
"Sam, tell... tell wife ... Pam ..." His voice faltered and with a palsied finger, he simply tapped his chest just over his heart. Sam nodded that he understood. Michael took a lumbering step forward, paused, then pitched headlong into the Veil. The result was like dropping a city bus into a pond. Colors of every shade and hue gushed from the Veil, carrying with them fractured pieces of Time and Space.
Shock wave after shock wave slammed into Sam with tornadic force, crushing him against the rock wall. Huge sections of the cavern ceiling gave way, narrowly missing him, while broken shards of rock and grains of dirt peppered his skin, until Sam was sure he'd be flayed alive. The tunnel was filled with the horrific sounds of Creation in agony. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, the symphony of grotesque, tortured sound ceased. The iridescent brilliance of the Veil was gone, replaced by a subdued paisley of dull, muted colors. Sam pitched forward onto his knees and remained there, head down, for several moments. Then, from somewhere in the infinite expanse of the Multiverse, he sensed a reach, and the message was unmistakable. Victory!
"Axthiel! The son of a bitch is still alive!"
Sam still had some sensory contact with the blight, but it felt distant and isolated, and outraged beyond belief. Sam shuddered, then closed his eyes and reached for Michael. There was no trace of the man. It was as if he had never existed.
CHAPTER 45
Lexington, Kentucky
Five days since the closing of the Veil. Five days since the battle with Drammach. Five days since the death of Michael.
Coughing blood and dragging a useless leg, Sam had somehow made his way back to the surface and the rained station wagon. Mark, though very much alive, was also equally battered and Horace was nowhere in sight. However, the old man, if he really was a man, had left another gift; his truck. Three days ago, Sam and Mark arrived unannounced at Janet's Lexington apartment. The woman wept openly, though Sam couldn't tell if she cried from happiness or the sorry condition of her two companions.
Sam eased down onto the sofa, juggling a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a bowl of ultra-buttered popcorn in the other. Despite the plush cushions, it took him a moment to find a bearable position. His chest and numerous other injuries were healing slowly, though he wouldn't complain. By all accounts, he should have been lying cold and dead beneath the grounds of the Cannaugh Sanatorium. Though he couldn't be certain, he suspected his life was a parting gift from Horace. Sitting the mug aside, he picked up the remote and took aim at the television. He slowly scanned the channels, looking for something, anything that might help pass away the long hours of pre-dawn.
