Twixt Heaven And Hell (41 page)

The whirling aerial melee was broken when another titanic form fell from the Heavens. The huge, burning star took Belial from the sky and bore him to the ground beneath it. When they struck the earth, white fire and smoke alike roared forth in a bilious cloud. At its center the Archdemon hissed and spat. It struck with claw and dark wing alike at the Angel that held him down. As great in stature as Belial, it was clad in robes of shimmering blue that the darkness could find no hold upon – and on its head shone a segmented golden crown.

Makaelic had come.

One gloved hand gripped Belial's throat, and with his wings the Angel fended off the furious blows of his enemy. With his free hand, Makaelic drew his sword, the light it threw so bright it was painful to look upon. He drove the shining point straight into Belial's roaring mouth, burying it in the Demon's throat until the blade disappeared from view.

Belial screamed again, and those few warriors that watched spellbound from the ramparts collapsed in pain, bleeding from eyes and ears – save for those that died on their feet. Slowly the Demon's flames faded, the glow from the cracked bones dimmed. Makaelic withdrew his sword from the blackened, burned skeleton as the bones fell to ash.

Everywhere about Nebeth a mighty conflict raged, the savage howls of the Demons matched the song sung from the throats of a hundred Angels – but Makaelic did not join their song, nor did he join their battle. His hooded gaze turned upon the fortress itself, and looked deep within. With one beat of his wings he rose from the site of his victory, carving a shining arc through the night sky to land upon the walls. When he landed he was no longer massive, standing as tall as a man – but his splendor was undiminished.

Men and Demons fled before him as the greatest of Archangels strode into Nebeth.

***

The Enemy was making a reckless attack now, pouring down the hallways with little heed for their own lives. The Gryphons obliged them with death – their spears struck at the ones beyond the barricades and swords made quick work of those who managed to climb or crawl around them. As Pollis had predicted, the Enemy had to halt their charge every few minutes in order to pull the bodies of their own dead away – an act which cost them yet more lives.

At first Darius had fought with his men, but once he saw they did not need his help he lent his abilities to helping the wounded. He rose from one man who had taken a spear to his thigh – Darius had felt for and singed shut the gushing artery within, one of the most delicate things he had done in all his long days of wielding magic. His hands and armor were covered with the blood of a dozen men, and he was forced to wipe his hands on the walls as he rose to his feet.

No sooner was he up than his knees went weak and he nearly fell again. Pollis, who'd been shouting encouragement to the soldiers as they blunted yet another rush upon their defenses, saw the stumble and moved to help his Captain.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, looking his leader over – but any wound would have been impossible to find in Darius's state.

Darius nodded, though his eyes and mouth were wide in amazement. "The Aeonians!" he breathed. "They're here. They are fighting!"

Pollis looked confused. "Why have they come?"

"The spell," Darius pointed towards corridor, out from which the steady and unearthly song could be heard. Then he remembered – Pollis did not know. "The Demons... have come to stop us," he finished. Pollis need not know that the Choirs may have come to do the same.

Between the rising invocation and the gargantuan power of the Aeonians, Darius almost did not notice the attack – and even when he did, he was too slow to stop it. Gryphons were thrown from one of the corridors bodily as flame consumed the barricade, reducing it to crumbling ash in moments. Darius spun around and saw a tall, gaunt man with cunning eyes standing in the hall. He was clad in black and red robes and wore the golden circlet of a General of Pyre.

In the next instant, both the sorcerer and Darius struck out at each other. Darius was a strong wizard, and no sorcerer was raised to such a position without great power of his own – but the violence of their duel was lost in the storm of magic all around.

Slowly the sorcerer advanced, step by step, down the hall. His hands were held before him, palms forward as if presenting something to Darius. His mouth twisted somewhere between a contemptuous smile and a snarl, he flailed at Darius, spells coming at a pace so furious Darius had difficulty in keeping up attacks of his own.

"Could it be?" said the sorcerer, and the voice itself dripped with cruelty. "Is it the great Darius that I have before me?"

Darius matched him blow for blow, but it cost him dearly. He had to struggle to spare even enough concentration to answer.

"That is my name. Yours is not known to me," Darius said through clenched teeth.

The evil smile grew. "Do not worry. I shall whisper it in your ear as you die."

Here and there the sorcerer lashed out. He struck not at Darius, but at his soldiers – those who guarded the opposite corridor. Through a stone wall. With a sinking feeling, Darius realized that this man was his better at the art of violent magic. Behind the sorcerer more warriors were gathering in the hall, but none dared rush past their master. Behind him, unheard to Darius, Pollis was ordering reinforcements to take the place of the fallen at the remaining barricade – but none dared venture down the other corridor.

Darius's vision had begun to contract with the effort, going dark at the edges. Soon all he could see was his enemy's face, toothy and gloating, already savoring his victory over the
great
Darius...

From the corridor beyond the sorcerer came screams, and a ghostly light began to shine upon the stone. The next thing Darius knew, a gloved hand grasped his foe's neck from behind, pulling him back and interrupting his assault.

Makaelic lifted the sorcerer, and the Angel's glowing blade plunged into the his chest. The man's mouth snapped open, but no sound came forth. When the Archangel dropped the corpse, there was no wound at all – even the sorcerer's robes were unharmed.

The Seraph turned to Darius, but did not relax his pose – his wings were still spread high, filling the hall behind and before him with light. As he emerged from the corridor he spoke, and the power of his voice shook Darius's heart within his chest.

"Darius. You do this? What horrible treachery is this?" the amazement in his voice nearly overpowered the anger.

"Makaelic, wait," Darius tried to say as the Angel advanced on him, blade in hand. He was given no more chance to speak. Darius was thrown against the wall by the inexorable force of Makaelic's will. Reflexively, Darius tried to fight him with the little strength that remained to him – but his efforts were of even less use again Makaelic than they had been against the Demons he'd faced. There was no greater power in the mortal world than the chief of the Seraphim.

Makaelic moved closer, and as he did he removed the glove from his left hand, revealing the blinding light of his true self.

"I will know the reason for this betrayal!" Makaelic said, and raised his hand up to Darius's head. The memory of a madman flashed through Darius's head, and the manner of his death after this exact treatment by this very Angel. Soon his mind would be broken – or, if it were already broken, fixed, and either path may leave him dead.

"No, Makaelic! Stop!"

Makaelic paused with his hand barely off of Darius's skin. That close, the Angel's form burned, and though his eyes were tightly closed the light hurt his eyes. Slowly the wizard slid to the floor as the Archangel turned to find Aethel behind him, one hand outstretched in supplication.

"Aethel?" Makaelic's voice was now full of bewilderment. "You are a part of this?" He looked back to Darius who lay gasping upon the floor. "You gave them the ritual," Makaelic said aloud, and anger poured back into his voice. "How could a mortal corrupt
you
? How?"

"You do not understand - " began Aethel, but cut short as Makaelic spoke again.

"I will cut you from our ranks, treacherous one!"

Makaelic charged at Aethel, buffeting him with his wings. Aethel raised his arms against the blow, but was thrown from his feet, striking the wall and sinking to his knees.

"Makaelic, you do not under -" Aethel attempted again, but Makaelic did not listen. His ungloved hand thrust forwards towards Aethel, and the Angel cried in pain – a strange, hollow bellow that shook dust from the ceiling. The light from Makaelic pulsed steadily even as Aethel's was diminished, the Heavenly glow draining from his wings. His cry cut off abruptly – Aethel toppled forward, and was still.

Makaelic turned back to Darius, who was too stunned to do anything as the Archangel advanced once more. With two steps the Angel had crossed the room again, and thrust his uncovered hand upon Darius's forehead. The wizard's head snapped back, his mouth bursting open in a noiseless gasp.

The fire that poured through Darius's mind was akin to the warmth of Healing, amplified and intensified to painfulness. It was the fire of Makealic's being, which flooded into him even as his own flooded into the Archangel.

Darius saw – felt, rather – the Choirs of Heaven, and all their great host spread around him. He felt them as Makaelic did, comfortable and close at all times, knowing the place of each within the profound Whole. The Archangels, leaders and foremost warriors of Heaven. Beyond them were the Scepters, and then the Towers, and then the Flames. On and on went their ranks, and the numbers of each grew beyond counting – but to Darius it seemed that with each step in the hierarchy they became less distinct, fading from individuals like Makaelic and Aethel into a mass that had no names and no characters – only uses, tasks for which they were fit. The lower ranks of Angels were less an army to be commanded than a power to be wielded, as magic itself was to Darius.

Though strange to Darius, it could not detract from the beauty of the true and perfect harmony of the Choirs. Discord was unknown within their own ranks, conceivable only with observation of the Enemy, who fought each other as eagerly as they fought the Choirs.

Then there came a strange feeling – new realms had been discovered. In itself this was not unusual. The cosmos were infinite and there always lay strange dimensions just beyond the boundaries of the War. This time, though, it was different – the Angel who had crossed into the strange new place was
changed
with his discovery. A Flame of the Seraphim, the Angel Aethel grew, somehow. He attained a will on par with the Archangels. He learned self-direction, an awareness reserved for the greatest in Heaven.

Suddenly this one Angel, alone of all before or after, had the
choice
of whether to remain in tune with the Harmony, or no – and the Archangels were troubled. The Harmony of Heaven was the source of their strength. Unity was their greatest advantage over the Legions of Hell. Should it be broken, the Great War would forever turn against them...

But Aethel chose to remain in his place in the ageless order, spreading the fires of Heaven ever-further as was his task. The fear of the Archangels was allayed – and then they were delighted, for Aethel's new-found individuality led him to great feats and mighty triumphs – both amongst the mortals that he had discovered, and elsewhere. Finally, in an act that reverberated throughout the cosmos, Aethel pushed the fires of Heaven into Hell itself, and destroyed a mighty Archdemon utterly.

No longer could such a being remain a Flame. For the first time, an Angel would be raised through the ranks, and Aethel was made an Archangel, and placed second to Makaelic himself amongst the Seraphim. Now, with authority that matched his character, Aethel was free to choose his own place in the Great War – and he chose the mortal world he had discovered, to lead and to protect the inhabitants against the ire of the Enemy.

Makaelic, too, came to the world, for the Enemy was paying more and more attention to mortals and Heaven must match them. Through Darius's mind flashed every man and woman whom Makaelic had ever dealt with, and he saw how the Angels could see into the minds of men. For an Angel's form was a mere shroud over their true being, and likewise did they see mortals, as creatures of power shrouded in flesh. In the eyes of an Angel, the strongest thoughts and fears of a man rippled across the surface of his being, in plain view.

Then Darius saw himself through Makaelic's eyes, and then he was aware of Makaelic's will there with him, studying the wizard's mind even as his own was shared out. All the moments he had been near the Angel played out, every word, every emotion – much of it anger, but anger that was pure in its direction. His anger had always been born out of love.

Then they came to the present, and Darius saw himself cowering upon the floor as the Archangel reached deeper into his mind, searching for the root of his actions – the source of the betrayal.

Makaelic found it, then, deep within Darius's mind – the raw, open, bleeding wound of pain and loss, the despair that had nearly consumed him. As Darius had experienced Makaelic's mind, Makaelic was himself forced to share that pain.

With a cry, the Archangel released the wizard and moved away, nearly stumbling in haste. He sank to his knees before Darius, all his hostility vanished. There was a long pause in which Darius struggled to understand what had just happened. The visions that had flooded his mind had been beautiful and alien beyond compare.