Fall From Grace Page 22

  “Is there a means for me to speak with Gabriel?” Michael asked Metatron.

  “Not in your own voice, but the Watcher can forgo control of his body to you. Release hold of your consciousness, and I will direct it into him. Concentrate, this will be unsettling.”

  Michael’s body numbed as Metatron maneuvered him across the ether in an odd, disjointed sensation like when the Creator first revealed Mankind. He felt weaker and realized that he was experiencing the impediments of another angel far less powerful than a Seraph. He flew towards Gabriel, flapping the Watcher’s two wings with stiff inefficiency.

  “Brother,” he whispered in an unfamiliar voice. “I speak to you as Michael.”

  “Michael? Keep your voice down.” Gabriel excused himself from the farmers for privacy. “I’ve been waiting for word. Satan, is he…?” he asked, daring to hope for glad tidings.

  “No. He will respond without restraint. Shehaqim’s manna supply is our most valuable asset and a likely target for his rage. If lost, Satanail could starve us into defeat.”

  “I’ll recall the local patrols and have our Angels amass more reinforcements. We’ll be ready for him,” Gabriel said and twirled his new scythes, testing their weight. “I’ll do what I must.”

  “I know you will. May the Creator bless you.”

  “And you.”

  Michael’s consciousness filtered back through the spiritual pores of reality and surged into a Watcher observing the Nest. The facility’s condition was dire. Cherubim were in short supply and not properly rotated, causing their bodies to break down on a cellular level. Cassiel had a meager amount of energy to wield, and the elemental nodules on his dais were damaged from the strain. Michael delivered the same warning.

  “We cannot maintain the tornadoes much longer. My control dais is weakened, and I do not have the skill to repair it. Only Satanail—Satan—does,” Cassiel said. “And my Cherubim are exhausted. They would give their lives if asked…but I cannot.”

  “Their efforts protect thousands, and they know it. Should your Cherubim wish to make the ultimate sacrifice as others have done in battle, then that is their decision to make, not yours. The defenses must hold.” Michael’s words were a death sentence, but the tornadoes were all that kept Satan’s legions out of Araboth. The city was not ready for an assault.

  “So they shall,” Cassiel replied. “Until the last of us.”

  A glimpse inward at Araboth City showed Uriel overseeing the forge and instructing angels in the ways of demonic combat. He had survived it first-hand and bore the scars as proof. The stumps of his wings were badges of courage that had a poignant effect others. Defeat did not claim Uriel’s spirit, and he was determined to make Satan regret sparing his life.

  “The demons are ferocious but have no discipline. They’re wild, erratic, each fighting for themselves. We fight in unison, of one mind and purpose. The angel to your left, to your right, is your best weapon and armor. Never forget that. Assume form one. Begin!”

  Under Uriel’s training, the angels refined their technique into a fatal but joyless force of nature. Was violence an intrinsic attribute of the Host, of all life? Had it always existed but been in hibernation like an instinctual beast awakened to defend its master? The demons were a grim warning of what any angel could become should they lose control of it—Michael included.

  Michael’s final destination brought his sights upon Raqia. Refugees were piled in overcrowded hostels, and the unending flow of wounded angels prevented any relief for the Thrones. The inanity of wartime triage appeared to have broken Raphael’s spirit. He only saw the grisly results of battles, not the bravery of his brothers fighting them. Raphael, the personification of hope, life, and love, had become weary of life. Dispassionate.

  “Show me where the wounded were struck down,” Michael said to Metatron.

  “Why? You cannot stop it.”

  “I still need to see it. You do not have to watch this alone, Metatron. Let me honor their deaths. Let me remember them.”

  “An unnatural death is never honorable. It is a tragedy,” Metatron said. “Remember that.”

  Michael was belted with images of butchery from Heaven’s remote settlements that had yet to be evacuated and were too far removed for aid. He chose the order of evacuations, so these deaths were his to endure. Time, or the demon called Mammon who was once Time, led a morbid annihilation of the outer lands. There was no strategic purpose for the attacks, no supplies to hoard, and no facilities to control. Everything was burnt to the ground. Dark, smoky clouds were overrun with demons marked by their black wings and war paint. They pillaged homes and rounded up defenseless angels, toying with them for their own amusement.

  Mammon brandished a whip made of tempered metal wire capable of slashing straight through angels. The end split off into jagged fingers that tore back flesh from bone. He even whipped his own demons to fuel their frenzy. Once he grew bored of the torture, he forced the angels onto their knees…and executed all of them.

  The images went dark with sadness like a noose tightening around Michael’s soul. His consciousness returned to the Library.

  “The Watcher has seen enough,” Metatron said, ending the astral journey.

  “Recall them all, and send out fresh eyes,” Michael ordered, but he spoke out of turn.

  Metatron could never look away. The sight of every Watcher was within him. None felt the toll of war as he did.

  “Rest cannot purge what I have seen, Michael. All of your training, your preparations, your stratagem—what has any of it accomplished? When will it end? When can I close my eyes?”

  “When Satan is dead…or I am.”

  Michael wanted to assume the initiative and lead a full-scale invasion of Limbo. He wanted to level the city, expunge the war from Heaven, and grind the memory of it into the powder of Satan’s bones, but he could not. Amassing an army large enough to bring down Limbo would require all of their troops, leaving the rest of Heaven vulnerable. The Nest, the Tree of Life, even the Wildlife Reserve—it would all burn.

  I have tried to be just, Father. I have tried to shield all of my brothers from harm, Michael prayed. When I act with patience and caution, the innocent suffer. But if I press the attack now, even more angels will be lost.

  If I try to prevent anyone from dying, then everyone dies.

  I cannot save them all.

  CHAPTER 21

  Vengeance

  Raphael’s mental and spiritual paralysis posed a critical danger for the Host’s morale. If his malaise spread amongst the other Seraphim and the Host saw its leaders abandon hope, the brittle threads that bound them would disintegrate. Michael had to remind Raphael that, in prosperity or tragedy, it was a Seraph’s obligation to remain a steadfast specimen of Angelkind.

  Raqia’s placid synthesis of angel and nature had become a congested tenement. Refugees were crammed in tents crowding the forest floor and stacked up trees like garish growths. It was supposed to be a temporary solution, but the shadow of war would not recede. Angels were thin and sluggish from dwindling provisions. There was no community, recreation, or joy—only the drudging existence of survival. Even Michael’s visit could not lift their sagging eyes. This is not life, he thought. This is not Heaven.

  Michael entered the Monastery grounds and searched for Raphael among the emergency facilities. The lake swirled as if its waters were flinching from the moans. Angels were wrapped in bloody bandages like braided effigies, some fighting to recover and others praying for their suffering to end. It was the smell, however, that hit Michael hardest. Death and decay hung in the air so thick that the Thrones had to wrap their faces in cloth sodden with crushed lavender.

  “Where is Raphael?” Michael asked a passing Throne, but he shrugged and hurried to his next wailing patient.

  A feeble hand touched Michael’s foot. An angel was bleeding through the bandages on his chest. A red string tied around his wrist signified that he was beyond healing. The Thrones were so inundated that
they could not ease the passage of the dying and treat those able to survive.

  Michael knelt and took the angel’s hand. “I am with you.”

  “Why? Why me?” he asked, searching for any meaning in the absurdity of death. His voice was garbled with liquid from his pierced lung.

  “We cannot choose how our mortal life ends, only accept when it has.” Michael noticed bruises from armor on the angel’s skin. “You fought bravely. You fought for the Host, for Father, and He waits for you.”

  “Michael…? I can’t see.”

  “Do not be afraid. Let go, Brother. The light will guide you to Him. Let go.”

  The angel exhaled and released his hold on life. Michael thought he saw the beginnings of a smile, of peace…or so he chose to believe. That nothing existed in death, that the soul expired, was a theological improbability he would not accept.

  Michael continued to Raphael’s home, but the tree knot was vacant. His few belongings were smashed and his staff broken in three pieces. Behind the tree, a dirt trail led into the overgrown woods. Michael followed the path to a clearing with one of Heaven’s rare floating streams. Raphael was lying underneath the suspended currents, catching fish as they swum out of the water. His glowing hands sedated their gasps until the scaled bodies stopped flopping.

  “Why not return them to the water?” Michael asked.

  “The fish know what is coming and would rather die now than live through it. This is their choice,” Raphael replied with no attempt to mute his disdain.

  “Is that your choice? Death?”

  “It is no more my choice than that of the scores who are dying as we speak. You and Satan took the choice of life from us when you started this war, a thing you cannot hope to control or conclude.”

  Michael drifted over the stream and stared down at Raphael through the water. “If you are so critical of my decisions, cease this selfish depression and give counsel.”

  Raphael stood, his upper body emerging through the stream to face Michael. “I cannot advise you in the ways of death. I know nothing of it.”

  “But you know of life and how to save it.”

  “I cannot save anyone,” Raphael exclaimed. “All of us have become sinners, and this war is Father’s punishment. He has deemed us beyond saving.”

  “Is that why you have stopped healing?”

  “I stopped because it extends their torment. Those I save will only be wounded again. Better to suffer but once and pass on from this misery.”

  A more persuasive, forceful approach was needed to scrub the disease from Raphael’s soul. Michael entangled him and flew forward within the stream, pelting the Seraph with water. He dipped below the current and shoved Raphael onto the grass, hoping to jolt his constitution.

  “You are a Seraph! Act like one. Lead the Thrones. Find your nerve or feign it, but act.”

  Raphael shrunk away like a bulb closing in shame. “So many will die.”

  “Then help whomever you can, however you can,” Michael replied. “It is all any of us can do.”

  “There is no ‘us’ anymore, only you and Satan,” Raphael said, confessing a grudge that he harbored since Amitiel’s death. “You need to understand that this should never have happened.”

  “How can I not? I see my failures everywhere I turn, but I live with it. I learn from it. So you can continue to cower in spite and abdicate your Seraphic duties, or you can find the courage to forgive and lend the Host whatever strength you have left.”

  “…You will never have my forgiveness, Michael.”

  The ground began to vibrate as if Raqia shared his hostility. It became louder, coursing up their legs and rattling their bones. It felt like countless feet were trampling the earth in unison.

  “What is that?” Michael asked.

  “Stampede.”

  The creatures of Raqia burst from the trees: small mammals, flocks of birds, gentle herbivores, and carnivorous beasts all fled together. It was a mass exodus. Michael saw the communal terror in the animals’ eyes and knew the cause of their retreat.

  “Raphael—”

  An explosion cracked the air. The tree line bent as if bowing to the seismic ripple, and a blazing wave ignited the canopy.

  Black wings filled the skies above Raqia as demonic legions heaved bundles of incendiary powder onto the rainforest.

  “Why would they attack? What have you done, Michael?”

  The attempt on Satan’s life, and the lack of honor therein, brought this upon Raqia. Detonations flared along its borders, encircling the refugees in an inferno that burned inward.

  “Return to the Monastery and move all those able into the lake,” Michael said. “Stay under the smoke. I will bring the others to you.”

  Michael wove between the trees at a breakneck pace, racing behind the flames burning towards the heart of the rainforest. Smoke obscured his vision, and one feather, one muscle, aimed in the wrong direction would propel him into a trunk. Feeling the heat intensify, he flattened his wings and barreled through a wall of fire into the refugee camp.

  It was a massacre.

  The invasion targeted Thrones, snagging the healers with propelled nets then scooping them from the battle. All other angels were killed. Demons above bombed the area while those on the ground hacked down trees. The toppled trunks crushed whole areas of refugee tents. Wooden Raqian homes intertwined with the branches splintered upon impact, strengthening the fire. Rope bridges snapped and slashed across the hysterical mob.

  The oldest trees awoke to fight back against Satan’s legions. Pronged branches slapped the demons down to the detritus, and tangles of roots dragged them underground.

  “It’s Michael!” A refugee called out from the mob.

  The refugees had no weapons or means of defense. With the canopy ablaze, they fled on foot but trampled over each other in a mad dash for safety. The forest floor was a craggy terrain of broken bodies.

  A demon heard the refugee and hurled a spear at his chest. Michael was too far away to intercept it…but Raphael emerged from behind the fiery blockade and caught the spear. He led a force of Thrones into the battle, each drenched in lake water to ward off the heat.

  “Get back!” Michael shouted. “They want the Thrones.”

  “We will not cower.” The hearth of Raphael’s spirit had been reignited. He lifted a tree limb pinning a trio of angels and slung them over his shoulders. “Thrones, secure the injured. Leave no one behind!”

  The Thrones began a systematic evacuation of the wounded that allowed Michael to focus on the healthy refugees. Through the smoke, he spotted a thin section of trees not yet burning.

  “Angels, stay behind me and move west to the forest’s edge! Link hands and flap your wings to part the flames. Do not stop!”

  Michael’s clear instructions quelled the panic. He positioned himself between the refugees and the main force of demons. The selfish marauders could not resist such a precious trophy, and luring them to him would give the refugees a chance to escape.

  “Murderers! Release your prisoners and flee…or forfeit your lives to the Creator’s wrath.” Michael shed any restraint, mercy, or empathy.

  “Lord Satan is our only Creator,” a demon replied. “And his wrath isn’t aimed at us.”

  “Is it not my life you desire?”

  Michael spread his arms and wings, the muscles sweating from flames licking down the remaining upright trees. He valued every soul, but the demons responsible for Raqia’s downfall gave up their chance for redemption with the slaughter of helpless innocents.

  “COME AND CLAIM IT!”

  Thousands of demons converged upon Michael, fighting through each other in a demented competition to spill his blood. With only fists and courage, he met them head-on in a display of heroism that would become an everlasting measure of valor in the annals of Creation.

  Time slowed to a fluid crawl for Michael as his power, skill, and passion to protect the innocent sustained him in the typhoon of violence. A storm of b
lades carved into him from all sides, but he stood his ground in the eye of the hurricane.

  Every neuron in Michael’s brain activated, firing synapses that made it seem as if the demons were moving through liquid. His punches connected unhindered and sent ripples through their skin. Streams of blood floated in the air like ribbons. His heartbeat was a gradual bell of thunder that tolled for each fallen foe, but he did not fight with Satan’s egomaniacal rage. Michael fought for others using the serenity of his blessed union with the Creator. He fought for the refugees, for the Host, for Heaven, and for the very future of goodness. He fought to restore the balance of Creation.

  When the normal flow of time resumed in Michael’s mind, demons were piled fifty-deep around him in a corpse circle as broad as a small village. He was doused head-to-toe, glistening in the flames like a ruby champion of the Creator. The air still festered with demons, but they kept at a distance. Their courage (what passed for it) was tamed.

  “IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE?”

  “They have me.” Azazel descended from the canopy, daggers dripping with angel blood.

  “Azazel.” Michael had given the miscreant enough chances for absolution. Now, he would make a public example of Satan’s apprentice.

  “It’s Lucifer now,” he said but seemed to loathe the name.

  “I cannot let you live, not after this.”

  “You’ve no reason to give charity, nor am I deserving of it.” Lucifer was endorsing the fight, but he had to know it would mean his death. “Don’t hold back, Logos.”

  Michael and Lucifer collided with a force that ruffled the crackling blaze consuming the rainforest.

  Demons and angels alike held their breath, as if the victor would predict the war’s outcome. Though Lucifer was woefully outmatched, his twin daggers swung in sloppy arcs that seemed to miss on purpose. Michael’s fists turned Lucifer’s face into a crimson mesh of lacerated swelling until he dropped the daggers.