The War in Heaven (2 page)

A moment later, Rathspith noticed one of the small creatures fly swiftly past, only a few feet to his right. Then one passed him on the left, then overhead.

“By the lights of Sheol!” he cursed, swinging about and drawing his sword. There were no insects in this region of Hell, so what were these
things? He had a bad feeling. These creatures, whatever they were, possessed a troubling aura.

Then he felt the sharp pain on his back. It was like the sting of a scorpion, only worse. Then another and another.

Rathspith screamed and swung wildly about, thrashing his shimmering sword in the air, but that was all it encountered—air. These tiny beasts were too swift, too agile to kill with a sword. Within seconds he was engulfed in a stinging, biting cloud of tiny creatures. As the battle raged, the creatures were causing buzzard feathers, body parts, and blood to rain down from the sky, even as Rathspith flapped his mighty wings wildly generating a powerful whirlwind that he hoped would sweep his tormentors away. Yet this too was a futile effort, for now over a hundred of them were gnawing ferociously at him.

He raced forward, tumbling over an empty altar and crashed to the ground, all the while flailing about frantically. He had to take to the air and get help, yet his leathery wings were already in tatters and he was being weighed down by ever increasing numbers of the six-legged creatures. For more than a minute he screamed in a shrill, unearthly voice before falling silent.

Across the plains other voices cried out as the creatures lit into victims upon the altars, yet their assaults were selective. Some of the victims were swarmed by hundreds of the creatures, while others were left in peace.

Within minutes, Rathspith had been reduced to little more than a collection of bones, shredded muscles, and indigestible organs. Yet, like the desecrated humans around him, he could not die. He gazed out at the creatures that had now ended their vicious assault and had gathered in a circle around him, observing him intently. They were furry, tan to brown in color, with six legs and a long, sharp scorpion-like stinger on their tails. Their wings, translucent as gossamer, vibrated in unison. Their heads were large and their faces had an almost human-like quality. They had long flowing hair on their
heads, yet their mouths held a set of razor-sharp teeth. Never had Rathspith seen such creatures in Hell, or anywhere else. His mouth moved, but no sound came out—his vocal cords had been ripped from his throat.

About a dozen feet away, a strange apparition appeared in midair. It was like a glistening field of stars and at its very core a growing glow. From its heart stepped three angels clothed wholly in black. They had the faces of men and great black wings, like those of a gigantic crow. They approached the demonic sentry. The dark angel in the center dropped to one knee before the prone minion of Satan. The small creatures moved out of the way to make room for him.

“How far you have fallen, my dear Rathspith,” he said, not a trace of emotion in his voice. He looked at his compatriot on the right. “Find him. I want us in and out of here as quickly as possible.”

“I shall,” he confirmed, making his way out among the city of black altars in the company of the second angel.

Rathspith was regenerating, like all beings of his kind, though it was a slow and excruciatingly painful process. For the first time in his existence, he was gaining an appreciation for the suffering of his human victims. “Who are you?”

The dark angel looked into Rathspith’s one remaining eye. “Someone you probably wish you had never met. I am the voice of change, of reason. That is all that you need to know.” The dark angel gazed about at the myriad of tiny creatures that still surrounded Rathspith. “I would not make any sudden moves if I were you. You wouldn’t want to make my friends nervous.”

The dark angel turned away from his prone adversary, gazing at the sky. The vultures, what few were left, had scattered in all directions, and the skies overhead were, for the first time in centuries, free of their terrible presence. Then he looked across the fields of agony. Most of his legion of small creatures
were on the ground, apparently resting. Only a few circled overhead. The dark angel seemed anxious, nervous, as he again scanned the skies.

“We have found the one you sought,” said one of the dark angels, returning from his brief quest. “He was exactly where you said he would be.”

“Then fortune is with us,” said the first. “Take me to him.”

Dr. Tom Carson was still in a daze. He gazed at the blazing red sun behind him—the tight chain looped around his throat pulled his head back so he could look at little else. The movement of his arms and legs was accompanied by a metallic dragging sound, followed by a sudden arrest of their motion. No, he was still here. Yet the cycle of the regeneration and desecration of his body had been somehow broken. It now felt unnatural to be without pain.

His body was whole once more, of that much he was certain. The terrible itching and random sharp pains associated with the rapid regeneration of his flesh had ended some time ago. Yet the scavengers had not resumed their feast. These precious minutes without pain were a blessing. Even the screaming and wailing of those around him had nearly gone silent, reduced to a soft whimpering. In the absence of pain, he lingered in a state near sleep.

Had the end of eternity finally arrived? That was when Satan had told him that his torments would end. His time on this terrible altar had seemed like it was dragging on into eternity. It had been many months, perhaps years, but not eternity, unless Satan’s definition of the term was different from his, unless time here was somehow different from on Earth.

Nevertheless, these past months had been nightmarish. This was the punishment for his greed, his lack of charity. At least that was what Satan had claimed. This precious moment gave him the time and clearness of
mind to review his earthly existence. Yes he had been something less than generous when it came to his money; he openly admitted it. But more importantly, he had rejected the love of Christ and the salvation He had freely offered him.

No, he hadn’t lived a perfect life, but did these flaws in his character warrant such extreme measures as these? If only he had it all to do over again. If only he had known. “Jesus, help me,” he whispered, realizing that prayers were probably pointless in Hell.

There was a sudden darkness. Dr. Carson sensed the presence of someone or something standing over him.

“I am not Jesus, Dr. Carson, but perhaps I am in a position to help you.”

Carson opened his eyes to see three dark angels standing over him. “Who are you?”

“Someone in need of your services,” was the reply.

“My services? You need my services?” His voice quivering, almost weeping—what could he do for anyone?

“That is correct,” replied the dark angel, his voice deep and impassionate. “You are an expert in the field of particle and plasma physics. Is this not true?”

Particle and plasma physics? That was an eternity ago. Right now the principles of physics were the furthest thing from his mind. Were they even still there, or had so much pain driven them away? This had to be a dream, a delusion. “Yes,” was all that he could manage to say. He hoped that it was the right answer. He felt a gentle hand upon his bare shoulder.

“I know that this is difficult for you,” said the dark angel. “I don’t expect you to be at your best right now, not under these conditions. But answer me this, would you be willing to serve me and provide me with the information I seek?”

Carson did his best to sort out the words of the angel, to make sense of what he had just heard. He was certain that he had discerned a trace of concern, perhaps even compassion, in this strange being’s voice. “I’ll serve you. I promise.”

“That is what I wanted to hear,” said the dark angel.

Carson felt pressure on his arms like something was walking across them. He struggled to lift his head, pushing against the thick chain around his throat to see about a dozen tiny brown creatures attacking the shackles around his wrists. He watched as they dug into the heavy metal with their powerful teeth, sheering off small shards with each bite.

He could feel powerful vibrations being transmitted even through the chain around his throat. In seconds, the tight chain slipped off, severed at its base.

The shackles around his wrists and ankles grew uncomfortably hot as sparks and metal fragments were scattering. His right wrist shackle was severed first. He withdrew his brutally desecrated wrist from its barbed interior with the assistance of one of the dark angels. The left wrist shackle was next followed by his ankle shackles. As he was assisted to a sitting position upon the altar, he had never imagined rising from his slab of agony.

For a moment, he looked down at one of the tiny creatures that had freed him; it returned his gaze. “Thank you,” said Carson.

He was surprised when it smiled at him. Did this strange being actually comprehend his words?

“We must move quickly,” warned one of the dark angels, assisting Carson in swinging his legs over the side of the altar, and bringing him to a standing position.

The world around him grew dark. For a moment Carson was certain that he would pass out. Yet his senses quickly returned to him as he walked with assistance across the rough, rocky terrain.

“Take him back to Refuge,” said the dark angelic leader. “See that he is made comfortable. He will no doubt need some rest.”

“Wait,” said Carson. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

For the first time the angelic leader smiled, though slightly. “I am your benefactor; my name is Abaddon. You shall assist me in bringing about a new order in this place, an order of justice. Welcome to the revolution.”

Carson nodded weakly as a sparkling sphere of stars and mist appeared before him. He was gently assisted by one of the dark angels into the mist. A fraction of a second later, they both dematerialized from the plains.

Their mission completed, the tiny minions of Abaddon scattered, taking flight eastward. Only those few guarding the demon Rathspith remained.

Abaddon scanned the plains one more time. Other humans had taken note of what had transpired and now begged for mercy, begged to be released from their torments. Abaddon shook his head sadly, turning to his lieutenant. “Would that we could have taken more of them with us. I regret having to leave so many deserving of our aid behind.”

“We have not the time,” warned his compatriot looking nervously about, “Our risk increases even now. Surely we should tarry no longer.”

Abaddon hesitated. “Of this I am aware, Lenar. Nonetheless, we have one more task to accomplish before we depart. To me it is a matter of some importance, a personal matter.”

Lenar looked at his leader incredulously, yet said nothing.

Abaddon returned to deal with the last loose end in this whole operation—Rathspith. By this time Rathspith had regenerated almost completely. Still, the process was apparently causing him much discomfort. Abaddon gazed at his nemesis with impassionate eyes. “My time is short, but I am obligated by conscience to deal with you as true justice would demand.”

“Justice?” sneered Rathspith. “What know thee of justice? Look about ya, dark angel. This is justice, the master’s justice. They are all well-deserving of the calamity which has befallen them. Not one of these is innocent.”

“Yes, I know,” confirmed Abaddon.

“And yet you’ve released one of ’em,” replied Rathspith. “Don’t imagine that this fact has escaped me. What gives ya the right to do this thing?”

“Compassion mostly,” said Abaddon, unwilling to speak of any ulterior motives he might have had.

“But he’s guilty,” objected Rathspith. “Of this, you know.”

“And are we innocent?” asked Abaddon. “What gives us the right to do this? Who are we to judge them? Is there no compassion or forgiveness remaining in your black heart, Rathspith?”

“None,” replied Rathspith, “and I assure you that you’ll come to regret this act of defiance against the master.”

“Perhaps,” said Abaddon, “but not today. No, today I have the duty of sentencing you for your crimes, crimes against the Father and humanity.”

“And what gives ya that right?” hissed Rathspith. “You and yer kind were condemned to this place as surely as we were. You’re not so different from us.”

“I am nothing like you,” objected Abaddon, his anger growing. “I have never been a party to the likes of this.”

“Have a care, sir,” urged Abaddon’s compatriot. “We can linger here no longer.”

There were a few seconds of hesitation. Abaddon wanted to give Rathspith a moment to consider his predicament, even as he savored this moment. But Lenar was right; they didn’t have time. “Rathspith, I sentence you to the great Sea of Fire. You shall suffer like Serena suffered. I shall show you the type of justice that you have so long shown others.”

“Serena!” gasped Rathspith.

“Yes,” confirmed Abaddon. “Let that name sink into that pathetic mind of yours while it still can, before the agony of the Sea of Fire obliterates all other thoughts but escape.”

In that moment, Abaddon swung Rathspith around, face down. He said not a word, yet his tiny minions understood only too well. They renewed their attack, yet their target was most selective. They focused their assault on the point where Rathspith’s wings met his back. Rathspith struggled, cursed, and screamed, but to no avail. It took scarcely half a minute to complete the task. Amid a momentary eruption of dark red blood, the wings were sheered from his body at their roots.