Fall From Grace Page 21

  The Observatory’s collapse and Time’s defection had all but eradicated the Choir of Virtues. The remnants were scattered across other Choirs until they could return their focus to the stars. As natural leaders with a penchant for organization, the Dominions were placed in key settlements across Heaven to manage any confusion and provide coordinated direction. The Princedoms turned their artistic talents towards the design of war tools. Lastly, the Angels continued as liaisons and couriers, but their messages were now coded should they be intercepted.

  Michael, as sovereign of Heaven, dispatched orders from the Council Room. He detested the growing, execrable organism of war. It was a child of his and Satan’s with an insatiable appetite that was suckling the teat of Heaven dry. When war finally had its fill of death, what would remain? The thought was interrupted as Uriel stumbled through the doors and collapsed across the table, smearing blood on the map.

  “Bring healers, now!” Michael shouted to guards stationed outside the room.

  “Satan…”

  Uriel strained to convey his urgent message. His back was a hash of wing bone and cartilage. The bleeding was only a trickle but not because the wounds had clotted. There was hardly any blood left in his body. His skin was pale and cool to the touch.

  “Save your strength. Healers are near.”

  “The Forge. He has…the Forge.” Uriel’s eyes closed as four Thrones rushed inside.

  “Step aside, Logos.”

  Three of the Thrones concentrated on the wing stumps while the other placed his hands on Uriel’s chest and circulated heat through his body. The regenerative glow coursed in his veins but dissipated out of the wounds.

  “He is not responding.”

  Michael heard the faint thumping of Uriel’s heart become weaker…slower…and then halt.

  “His heart has stopped.”

  The Thrones were at a loss. None of them had experience with this degree of injury. They required Raphael’s skill, but Raqia was too far. Uriel would not survive the flight. They had few precious moments before the lack of blood would shut down his brain and return his soul to the Creator. Michael could not stand there and watch Uriel die. His heart needed to be restarted.

  Michael slammed a fist onto Uriel’s chest to compress the heart muscle…

  Nothing happened.

  “Awaken!” He drove his fist down harder, convulsing Uriel’s entire body.

  Still nothing.

  “Do you hear me, Uriel? AWAKEN!”

  Michael intertwined his fingers and brought down a blow that cracked Uriel’s ribs—

  Thump.

  Was that…? Michael pressed his ear to Uriel’s chest.

  Thump…thump. Thump…thump. A heartbeat, weak but steady.

  “His soul lingers.” It was a miracle as divine as any Michael had witnessed in his lifetime. The Thrones were stunned by the revival. “Fly him to Raphael.”

  The Thrones took Uriel and flew out of the archway for Raqia. Uriel was strong, virile. He was a Seraph. That still meant something. It had to.

  Michael’s nerves settled, but he saw another distressing truth reflected in Uriel’s blood: as in most things, Satan was better than him at war. He had avoided the Watchers, taken the Forge under Michael’s nose, and nearly killed one of the Host’s most beloved leaders. Michael had no doubt that if Satan wanted Uriel dead, he would have never made it to Araboth alive. Satan used Uriel to deliver a message into his hands, one written in the blood of a Seraph.

  The war had only begun, and Michael was losing.

  Michael soon learned that Satan was utilizing the Forge to create instruments for his cacophonous symphony of warfare. His “weapons” were perversions of farming equipment and artisan tools remodeled to cause injury, pain, and death. Michael had no choice but to respond in kind. The Host required the means to defend itself, but with the mines under Satan’s control, only one other source contained enough ore to arm them. Araboth City had the largest collection of statuary and metalwork in Heaven, pieces of art as old as their civilization. Michael ordered it all torn down and melted for raw materials.

  Uriel quickly recovered and oversaw the construction of a secondary forge within the city. The sole space that could house the project was the Coliseum ruins. Araboth’s public disposition became even more solemn as the citizens lugged its famous artwork—the city’s flesh and blood—to the forge and saw them rendered into wicked devices.

  The Princedoms swam in their own creative darkness to sketch designs of cruelty, bringing themselves to the margins of sanity. Tools became weapons. Clothing became armor. Art became industry. There was no fulfillment in devising ways to take the lives of their brothers, and they resented Michael for it.

  Araboth City, the thriving masterpiece of Heaven’s culture and politics, had been transformed into a base of operations.

  A war factory.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Demonstration

  Satan secluded himself within his tent in Limbo to meditate on combat scenarios. The sport of war was teeming with strategic possibilities, and a single misstep could upset everything. Each of his victories had been calculated to minimize risk, but more hazardous methods were dangling equally tempting rewards.

  Satan swept away a layer of dirt on the ground to uncover a hatch. He unlocked it and examined a deep, incomplete hole dug with his own hands, unknown even to his generals. Whether it was his most courageous or senseless plot, other pieces still had to fall into place before the dicey undertaking.

  One move at a time, Satan reminded himself. Be mindful of the past, present, and future.

  The diligence of Satan’s sons resonated outside. His demons excelled in the labors of battle, their spirits kindled by conquest and spoils while Michael’s resources spread thinner. Instead of retaliating, a neurotic fear of failure made him evacuate measly villages and hoard refugees of no import. Michael believed he could save everyone, but losses were mandatory in war. Satan’s chief advantage was that he valued nothing—and no one—more than victory. Every demon under his command was expendable, even the generals that had earned his affections.

  Among Satan’s trinity of generals, Mammon demonstrated the most deviant thirst for blood due to his restricted life as Time in the Observatory. The death of an angel was insignificant to him when compared to the death of a star system. That scientific detachment made Mammon a remorseless killer, so Satan had assigned him legions to “cleanse” random settlements. The flashy carnage kept Michael guessing and drew the eyes of his Watchers away from more important affairs. Puppets. All of them.

  “Lord Satan,” Lucifer called from outside the tent.

  “Enter.”

  Satan was keeping a close watch on his apprentice. He didn’t doubt Lucifer’s belief in the rebellion but, unlike Mammon, the general floundered with its…messier necessities. Death made him squeamish, an instinct he had to control or suppress. The demons fell into two camps to do so: they either recast their revulsion into pleasure or became desensitized to the blood, burying all remorse in the recesses of their subconscious. Lucifer had done neither.

  “The demonstration is prepared,” Lucifer reported.

  “Excellent. Join me.”

  “I’m scheduled to assess the latest recruits.”

  “That was an order, not a request, General,” Satan clarified.

  “Yes, my Lord.” Lucifer lowered his head and saw a spread of diagrams, unable to repress a shudder. “I’ve not seen these renderings in the Forge. What are they?”

  “A necessary evil.” Though incomplete, the intricate designs bore Satan’s proud, signature genius. When assembled, his war machines would be a masterwork of mass casualties.

  “The d-d-destruction these will cause—”

  “Will ensure my victory.” Satan ran a hand through Lucifer’s black wings. “Isn’t that why you spoke in my favor before any other in the Host? Why your wings don my color? This is still what you desire, my son?”

  “Yes, Father. V
ictory or death.”

  “Or death.” Satan tapped Lucifer’s cheek and opened the tent flap. “Observe.”

  Outside, the legions trained with remarkable ferocity, taking initiative to master their new weaponry. Wielding precise blades called swords or extended staffs with sharp tips called spears, they improvised merciless ways to dissect opponents without precedent. Satan’s sons were inventing the techniques of combat with flair and imagination.

  “Unlike the angels, we want this war and recognize the art that lies therein.”

  “Must it be considered so?” Lucifer asked.

  “Beyond proficiency, beyond expertise, is the realm of art. We were created to be virtuosos in all things. Farming, architecture, culture—war is no different. No action, no trade, no skill lies outside of our mastery.”

  Satan and Lucifer passed through an armory that amassed the stock delivered from Zebul. The Forge’s productivity had increased tenfold under Beelzebub’s persuasive supervision. Caravans arrived daily with offensive and defensive armaments. Chestplates and helmets guarded their vital organs while lighter bracers for limbs allowed a balance of protection and mobility. The bevy of weaponry, however, was far more alluring.

  “Which weapon speaks to your sensibilities, Lucifer?”

  “I’ve n-n-not had an opportunity to explore the options,” he replied. More hesitation.

  “As a craftsman, you worked with precise materials to guarantee quality. Now, you’re in the trade of taking life, but the need for quality results remains. Choose.” Satan also had yet to select a weapon, but his had to be a symbol of greatness. Iconic. The proper choice would reveal itself in due time.

  Lucifer examined various weapons until he found a pair of small blades no longer than his foot. The edges were serrated so that every stab would inflict mortal injury. His fingers wrapped around the obsidian handles as if carved especially for their grip.

  “Twin daggers meant for close quarters vivisection. Your work was known for fine detail, and so it shall be again.”

  “In your name, Father.” Lucifer’s latent need to bring about change, to be someone important, was still there. Satan wasn’t ready to give up on him.

  They continued to the testing grounds where Satan’s various prototypes were demonstrated, such as the propulsion of sharp projectiles from a tense string—a combination dubbed the bow and arrow. However, the current demonstration was special and required a participant. One of Michael’s angels, captured trying to infiltrate Limbo, was chained in a cage. Demons dragged their blades across the bars, heckling him.

  “Simmer down and we’ll begin,” Satan grinned. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Lucifer displayed a hollow cylinder with a taut spring inside attached to an exterior crank. Satan rolled up a silk net lined with weighted barbs and secured it within the cylinder. He rotated the crank, coiling the spring and compacting the net.

  “Release Michael’s scout.”

  Lucifer opened the cage and removed the chains. The angel stumbled forward, defiant.

  “You waste your time. I won’t say anything.”

  “I didn’t ask. You’re free, well, as much as you can be under Michael. Fly away,” Satan said, but the angel didn’t move. “Go on, fly. No one will stop you.”

  The angel took off. Good fortune or ploy, he had to attempt escape. Satan hauled the device onto his shoulder and aimed its open end at the flapping wings. Testing each invention provided the unique thrill of seeing a concept brought to completion.

  “Fire!” Satan shouted and pulled a release lever on the crank.

  The net propelled out of the cylinder…

  Expanded in mid-air…

  Then wrapped around the angel, digging the barbs into his feathers. The weights dragged him down to the ground, his legs breaking on impact. He writhed under the net like a fly stuck in a spider web.

  “Perfect,” Satan said to Lucifer. “Have Beelzebub begin their production. I want a thousand units by next shipment.”

  “And the angel?”

  “Dispose of it.”

  With Satan’s permission, the crowd descended on the angel and tore him apart like a pack vying for the killing blow, but a panicked shout from the skies diverted their attention.

  “Lord Satan!” A demon landed, out of breath. “We’ve been attacked…the caravan…!”

  “Show me.”

  Satan and Lucifer followed the demon along the flight path of Zebul’s shipments to a grounded caravan where a squad of angels was finishing off its escort. Michael had found an alternate means to forge weapons, but his angels lacked the distinguished brutality brought to Satan’s inventions. Theirs was the work of reluctant amateurs ashamed of their own products.

  “This is Michael’s response? Attacking a single shipment of weaponry?” Satan snorted. It was nonsensical.

  More shipments would arrive. Michael couldn’t halt them all. There was, however, an opportunity to groom Lucifer. Only six angels remained to guard the caravan, awaiting reinforcements to transport its cargo.

  “Lucifer, lead the assault to reclaim my shipment.”

  “But they are six and we’re only three.”

  “Two. You’ll fight without me. You’re a general. Lead…and leave no survivors.”

  When challenged, Lucifer had always excelled—this blitz was no exception. Supported by the sloppy but enthusiastic demon, Lucifer engaged the enemy in close proximity and wove a bloody tapestry around the caravan. He dashed from victim to victim with impeccable timing, his twin daggers slashing throats and piercing between slats of armor to puncture organs. The final angel keeled over and tried to hold in his mutilated guts before succumbing to his wounds. For someone so reluctant to shed blood, Lucifer employed messy, intimate methods to do so.

  “You were sublime, General Lucifer,” Satan praised. He turned to the other demon and wiped the blood from his face. “As were you, my son. Your warning saved our supplies.”

  Satan approached a carriage used to transport the largest chests of equipment. He pulled open the flap but found barrels of oil stacked within. One of Michael’s angels bled among them, close to death but laughing. He slapped a clasp onto Satan’s wrist that bound them together.

  “Michael sends his regards,” the angel said then struck his sword against a chest, sparking a fuse.

  “Lord Satan, get down!”

  The loyal demon flew between Satan and the angel, his wings acting as a buffer just before the fuse reached the oil barrels—

  A flash of light blinded Satan as the explosion hurled him out of the carriage, incinerating his protector. The heat burned Satan’s skin and charred his feathers, but he was alive. He broke the clasp off his wrist, the angel’s crisped hand still connected to the other end. Shards of destroyed weaponry and armor rained around him.

  “Father!” Lucifer cried, but Satan’s rage muted his concern.

  “COWARD! NEBBISH WORM!”

  Satan never thought that Michael would resort to such an underhanded, gutless attempt on his life. Their fate was to meet face-to-face and determine unequivocally who was superior. He felt stabbed in the back from the shadows. It was an affront that demanded swift, severe retribution. Michael had treaded on the surface of Satan’s malice, but now he’d drown in it.

  When Satan’s vision returned, he saw movement in the sky. A Watcher. “Seize him!”

  Lucifer shot up and caught the renegade. He returned with the Watcher in tow, blades on either side of the angel’s throat. Michael wanted to witness Satan burst into chunks of flaming meat and revel in his death, but Satan had a different outcome to transmit back. He pressed his forehead against the Watcher’s, a demented grimace boring through the angel to Michael.

  “Watch this.”

  Satan dug his thumbs into the eyes of the Watcher.

  Michael sat in the Library of Scribes, his hands linked with Metatron’s to access his connection with the Watchers. It was like sifting through a jungle of tangled senses traversab
le only by the Scribe. Focused on the supply caravan mission, they saw Satan glaring at them and felt the Watcher’s fear of impending death when Satan’s thumbs thrust forward. Michael’s eyes throbbed in their sockets until the connection was snuffed out with the Watcher’s life.

  Metatron punched his six arms through a row of shelves, scattering parchments and scrolls. He was against luring Satan into a trap, yet Michael still authorized the mission. Despite the reprehensible method, ending Satan’s life could have saved so many others that were willing to die for his madness. But the mission failed, and others would suffer for Michael’s hubris.

  A reprisal was imminent.

  “Metatron, show me the Seraphim,” Michael said.

  “Allow us a moment to mourn,” Metatron snarled back. The Recorders gathered around him and bowed their heads. “A brother’s death does not fade so easily from our minds.”

  “Nor mine, but more brothers remain at risk. I must know that they are safe.” Respectful but firm.

  “…Fine. But I do this for them, not you.”

  Metatron took hold of Michael and projected the communal experiences of the Watchers, thrusting his consciousness into a honeycomb of synesthesia. He was not gentle. Metatron guided Michael through the network of blurred connections, honing in on his Watchers stationed near each of the Seraphim.

  In Shehaqim, Gabriel was teaching the farmers to modify their tools into weaponry. Production at the Araboth forge was insufficient, so the Host had to improvise. Pitchforks, shovels, axes—all could be turned against foes in battle. Gabriel held up his prized scythe that had tilled the earth for ages and snapped the staff in two, creating a pair of hand-held crescent blades.

  “Look at what you hold with altered vision. If it has a sharp edge or can be swung with blunt force, it can become a weapon. Aim for these vulnerable targets: face, throat, heart, and wings,” he instructed while gesturing with the scythes to those areas.

  The farmers’ devotion to Gabriel was cultivated from friendship and familiarity. In him, they saw a colleague elevated into command, not a Seraph above reach. By working and socializing among them, Gabriel had fostered a brand of leadership that Michael had mistaken for immaturity.