Fall From Grace Page 30

  “This day, the darkness fears us!”

  Michael soared into position at the head of his angels and thrust Excalibur at Satan, his voice amplified across the plains. He would accept nothing less than absolute decimation of the demonic threat.

  “This day…EVIL FALLS!”

  The angelic army split into three ascending fronts. Uriel and Metatron led an infantry of brute powerhouses protected by the heaviest armor to tromp over demons on foot. Michael flew above them with his sky battalions, shields and spears strapped to their backs. They blocked the direct aerial route into the city and were capable of attacking ground or air targets. Gabriel and the most athletic angels flew higher into the storm, relying on instinct and reaction to counter any assaults concealed in the overcast clouds. Lastly, the remaining refugees in Araboth rose up over the city and banded together in a solid roof of bodies as a final defensive line.

  Satan mirrored the Host’s formations. Beelzebub led the demonic infantry while Mammon’s legions disappeared into the storm to follow Gabriel. Satan flew up and hovered across from Michael, keeping him in sight at all times.

  The pieces were assembled, the board was set, and every player knew their role. There was only one rule: winner claims all. Michael and Satan were about to alter the course of Creation.

  “INFANTRY…ATTACK!”

  Uriel’s angels charged like a stampede of spine and steel, but Beelzebub’s demons stood stationary. Smug. What was Satan planning?

  Above them, Michael isolated each distinct sound in the air. The flapping of innumerable wings swished the wind current. Frantic heartbeats thumped within tight chests. Short breaths pumped from flaring nostrils. Armor clanged and shifted over muscle. But there was one tone in the raucous concert that he could not place: a whizzing that came from Mammon’s legions hidden in the clouds, like a shrill rotation of blades.

  “SHIELDS!”

  Thousands of metallic discs ripped down from the clouds, each coated in black liquid. The razor-edged weapons arced through the air, spattering the sludge onto angels while cleaving any limbs or wings in their path.

  A disc lodged through Michael’s shield, his reactionary blink flicking his eyelashes against it. Flammable tar dripped off the metal, but before he could warn the angels—

  Satan’s demons launched a wave of flaming arrows that sunk into them, igniting the tar. Angels were burned alive and plummeted on top of Uriel’s advancing infantry like fiery debris.

  The civility and control Michael thought he could maintain was jettisoned into primal chaos.

  Demons ambushed the angels trying to regroup their sky front. Satan wished he could suspend time and paint a portrait of Michael’s face to hang above his mantel in Araboth. The panic, the stupefaction—he never wanted to forget it. Did Michael actually think that they would meet head-on and clash like beasts ramming their horns together? A battle of this scale was played with a series of deliberate moves to secure the constantly shifting momentum.

  “Spears,” Michael announced.

  The angels removed sharpened poles from their backs and hurled the myriad of spears downward. They showered on top of Beelzebub’s infantry, missing their apparent targets. The demons scoffed at the sticks lodged in the ground, snapping them.

  “Fools, protect yourselves!” Satan shouted. The failed attack had to be a diversion.

  Beelzebub kicked a spear and noticed a pouch tied near the tip. A mixture of fizzing chemicals within set off an explosion that flung him back through the ranks. Beelzebub clawed at the enzymes charring his face while the other spears detonated throughout the demonic infantry. Though not fatal, a noxious fog irritated the demons’ eyes and disorientated them, giving Michael’s angels time to recuperate.

  Satan’s initial advantage was nullified. Combat confusion with confusion, he applauded. Well played. With both of their opening volleys deployed, he signaled for all three formations to attack.

  The slaughter began.

  Uriel bounded across the plains and smashed into the dazed demonic infantry. Each swing of his new, two-handed hammer crushed them within the concaved caskets of their own armor. Others were scorched by his incendiary coals and ran amok like berserk fireflies. The metal wings shielded his back while cutting a path through assailants with each rotation of his shoulders. Emboldened by Uriel’s example, his angels began to drive back the enemy advance.

  “Forward! They’re losing ground. Smother them!” Uriel had never felt so divine in service to the Creator or experienced such a connection to his brothers. They were one, welded in purpose.

  Only Beelzebub matched Uriel’s fervor, his face a sizzling fright as the spiked ball of his morning star swept over the battle. The sight of his former apprentice enraged Uriel, dunking his sanity into the pit of impulsive psychosis that every angel fought to repress. Bastard took my wings! I’ll mash the marrow from his bones.

  Uriel’s hammer would remind Beelzebub exactly why he was Heaven’s premiere blacksmith.

  Metatron fought alongside Uriel and the infantry, rotating in rapid circles while slashing his sextet of blades to gut demons in a whirlwind of efficient momentum. He moved onto his next victim before the previous dismembered body hit the ground. The demons could not break through his defensive and offensive fusion, for the Scribe had analyzed every form of combat utilized in every previous battle that his Powers had recorded.

  “Press on,” Metatron roared and slashed all six swords at the same demon, carving him into segments that dropped like a wet, dissembled puzzle. “Give no ground!”

  The battle, while horrific in a way Metatron could not absorb in the moment, was also the defining experience of his life. He savored all of the senses that he had relinquished during his seclusion as Scribe. He was there, seeing with his own eyes, hearing with his own ears. He felt the blood splash across his face, tasted the coppery droplets on his lips, and smelled the demons burning from Uriel’s flames. Even the pain—no, especially the pain—was a welcome sensation.

  I am alive.

  Though the Host appeared to be winning the battle, Raphael saw only a pandemonium of perverse entropy. Above him, the corpses—or pieces of them—rained down like bloody tears amidst the flares of departing souls. Below, angels and demons pounded into each other in a tangled knot of grinding meat.

  Father, how can this paroxysm of death decide the fate of Heaven?

  Raphael raked over the plains, steering his Thrones to extract wounded angels, but what did it mean when thousands more died for every life saved? His expiring brothers cried out for the Seraphim, for Michael, and for their Father. It was the innocent hymn of those clinging to their mortal coil, too injured to live but too scared to die.

  An angel missing a wing fell near Raphael, unable to break from the rapid descent. He caught the angel and immediately cupped a soothing hand over the wound.

  “Thank you. By the Creator, thank you.”

  “It is you whom is owed a debt.”

  Raphael flew towards the city gates where more Thrones were waiting to receive the injured—

  A stray arrow lodged into the angel’s skull.

  Why? His duty was complete. He thought you saved him, Father!

  He thought I…

  But there were more angels that needed Raphael’s help, more than he and every Throne in Heaven could possibly manage. Raphael released the body and flew back into the madness.

  What else could he do?

  The battle in the sky was anarchy—three hundred and sixty degrees of violence. Angels and demons swiveled their bodies to attack and respond from every angle with unreal maneuverability. Their feathers peppered the air, black and colored wings beating together as if even the quills were dueling. It was savage, close quarters combat…and Michael was a master at it.

  Michael maintained constant forward drive, Excalibur cutting back every cocky heretic that sought the glory of felling him. Satan tore up angels with the pleasure of a casual contest as Wormwood sucked apart victim aft
er victim into gaping shells. The brothers were staring down a grisly tunnel at each other, at destiny, and neither would deviate.

  Angels careened through Michael’s vision in a strobe of bloody screams. How were the infantry and cloud fronts faring?

  Trust the Seraphim. Your fight lies ahead. Your fight is with—

  “Satanail!” Michael screamed. He closed the gap between them, impaling one…two…three demons on the length of Excalibur. “I am coming for you.”

  Satan batted away any errant angels that managed to breach their way to him without breaking his line of sight on Michael. So focused, so sure of himself…and so damn dimwitted.

  “RELEASE THE WAR MACHINES!”

  At the rear of Satan’s infantry, the tents pulled back to reveal hundreds of armored war machines like miniature Behemoths. The grotesque creations had a hide of metal plates that shielded a squad of demons within and were armed atop with a pair of catapults like horns. The wheels were embedded with rotating spikes to dice any who drew near. Ravishing, Satan marveled. The war machines were everything he had imagined.

  “The skies shall split and rain brimstone down upon our enemies,” Satan recited as if quoting from a prophecy he was writing in the moment. “FIRE!”

  Chunks of stone the size of small cottages and glazed in fiery oils hurled through the air, vaulted over Satan, and splattered Michael’s angels like insects. The rocky avalanche dumped down onto the battleground, crushing the angelic infantry.

  Glory, glory, Hallelujah.

  I am the Almighty.

  Uriel’s vendetta with Beelzebub was put on pause as the war machines drudged forward and macerated his infantry into grooves of flattened gore. Demons reloaded the catapults while cowards hiding within the vehicles sniped fleeing angels with poison-tipped arrows. Another salvo further scattered Uriel’s troops into disarray. If the war machines continued unhindered, the walls of Araboth City would soon be susceptible.

  “Regroup! Target the war machines! Don’t let them get in range of the city.”

  Uriel had to prove that the machines were vulnerable or the infantry’s morale would be squashed along with their lives. He fumed his coals into an intense, blue heat…rammed through the demons like a mobile firestorm…slid under the spinning blades on the wheels…and swung at a war machine with all his storied might—

  The hammer deflected off the exterior plating. Not even a dent. Uriel couldn’t dismantle the war machines by sheer force, but he could still immobilize them.

  Uriel shoved his hammer under the wooden belly of the war machine, ignoring the arrows lodging through his coal armor. His body tried to ward off the poison, oozing it back out of the punctures, but it was sapping his strength. With the hammer as leverage, Uriel used every muscle in his broad frame to hoist the machine up and topple it over. The base caught on fire, sending the snipers scurrying out of the broiled plating and into his hammer.

  Uriel climbed on top of the capsized machine and swung his hammer overhead. “Take them down,” he bellowed from within the bonfire then leapt to the next machine, spinning to sever its dual catapults with his wings.

  The revitalized infantry rushed the war machines in groups, wrecking dozens, but the overall advance towards Araboth City couldn’t be stopped. There were too many of them. Though Uriel wouldn’t consciously admit it, the Host was losing.

  Gabriel fought within the surreal vapor of storm clouds, his scythes diluting the damp particles with demonic blood. Every angle was his to exploit as he reaped concealed foes like the crop fields of Shehaqim. His angels darted in and out of sight like weightless apparitions. It was a melee of intuition, of sensing an opponent’s approach as if blindfolded. Shifts in air pressure, changes in wind flow—those minute details were the difference between life and death.

  The influx of demons began to dwindle, which meant they were retreating or had converged elsewhere. Surrounded by haze, the battle’s progress was a mystery to Gabriel. What of the other fronts? What of Michael and the Seraphim? Under the many concerns arresting his thoughts, one raw question unnerved Gabriel’s soul: why am I so proficient at killing? Each effortless swing of his scythes brought a shameful sense of gratification.

  Mammon’s whip penetrated a cloud, carving a diagonal gash across Gabriel’s forehead and cheek.

  The demon general appeared, licking Gabriel’s blood from his weapon. Six angels formed a ring around Mammon.

  “No, stay back,” Gabriel warned. “He’s mine!”

  The spiral slashes of Mammon’s wire whip were so fast, so slick, that the angels never saw it. They hovered, stunned, as red slits traced along their bodies and peeled apart. Gravity separated the angels into loose wedges of sinew and viscera.

  “Mammon—!”

  The whip coiled around Gabriel’s throat, cinching the skin.

  “You are a beautiful angel,” Mammon said and tightened the wire. “Though my mark does imbue your juvenile face with some much-needed grit. I think I shall have your head mounted.”

  Mammon yanked his whip back for a decapitation…but Gabriel flew forward with its momentum to keep the wire loose. He slammed into Mammon and entwined their wings, sending the two tumbling down to the main battle in an intimate dance of antipathy.

  The skill of Michael’s angels on the sky front had degraded along with their confidence. They overcame grueling hand-to-hand fights only to be plastered in the next catapult volley. More dead angels than demons plummeted from the thunderclouds. Uriel’s infantry was being pushed towards the city walls. The Host needed a critical victory. They needed Satan’s life.

  Michael smoothed his body into an aerodynamic bolt and speared towards Satan. He dodged the repeating bombardments, folding or expanding his wings to make precise adjustments.

  The chaos of battle slowed to a drip. Each extended tick of time made the angels and demons seem like still models. But across the sky, one other moved at Michael’s speed…

  Satan snagged a stalled boulder from the air and hurled it into his flight path. Michael slashed Excalibur ahead, cleaving the slab into two chunks. He flew between them but scraped his wings and was thrust back into the natural flow of time.

  From the blurry corner of his eye, Michael saw Gabriel and Mammon descending, intertwined, but he could not divert from the opportunity at hand. He had an open path to Satan.

  The war’s end was within reach.

  May you find peace, Satanail.

  Before Excalibur could connect with Satan’s neck—

  A net launched through the sky and expanded to swallow Michael. He jerked sideways, veering past Satan to dodge the webbing, but two more nets wrapped around him. The weighted barbs cut into Michael, tightening and digging deeper while he struggled. His wings were bound against his back and unable to flap. He tried to slice loose, but additional nets were layered on. Demons diffused the angels protecting Michael and brought him to Satan like a bounty.

  Satan pressed Wormwood against Michael’s throat, its blade colder than the deep of Machonon’s oceans.

  “Your life is mine. If you beg, if you testify to my supremacy, I may be kind enough to end it now. Who knows, maybe the other angels would be spared. Maybe.”

  “You are a defect of Creation. Father should have killed you,” Michael said, weakening, but the Host would hear his final words defy Satan. “Make me a martyr, and I will live forever.”

  Michael would be a more influential figure in death than he ever was in life.

  Immortal.

  Satan hesitated to kill Michael not from logic or mercy but from pride. He had imagined a grand duel between them straight out of myth, and this was not it.

  Behind Satan, Gabriel untangled from Mammon. He silenced the general’s warning with a punch to the throat. Michael smiled, his flawless teeth smeared with red saliva.

  “Your life’s over,” Satan said. “What’s there to smile about?”

  “Me.”

  Gabriel kicked Mammon into Satan’s wings.

&n
bsp; Wormwood lifted off Michael’s neck, and he dropped away from Satan. Gabriel caught him and sliced the nets, but the barbs stuck in his body were laced with a potent serpent’s poison.

  Michael felt himself slipping from consciousness.

  “I’ll get you back to the city. Just hold onto me—”

  The shrapnel tail of Mammon’s whip dug into Gabriel’s shoulder and flayed the skin from his clavicle, breaking his grip.

  Michael blacked out and plunged down to the battlefield.

  Metatron rebounded between war machines and chopped down their exposed catapults before they could launch. Flaming boulders dropped onto the demons inside…but other salvos had reached the city. Hurled bedrock rolled into its walls, fracturing the stone foundations.

  “Retreat to the walls,” he heard Uriel order, but something else drew his focus—

  Michael was in a nose-dive, his listless body eagerly awaited by Beelzebub’s infantry.

  “Retreat with Uriel,” Metatron commanded the surrounding angels. “I will follow.”

  Michael had convinced Metatron to step out of his Library and raised him from soulful lethargy. It was a debt that had to be repaid. Metatron knew he was not the Seraph to win this war. Any value his life held was nothing compared to Michael’s, so he charged headfirst into the black, demonic ocean. His unexpected assault chiseled a tunnel through the mob. He jumped above the weapons aimed at Michael’s descent…and caught the Logos with his top pair of arms.

  The demons converged on Metatron. Blades pierced through his defense, etching lacerations across his body like signatures. Shallow slashes behind the knees dropped him, but he continued to strike out with a barrage of swords while using the piling bodies to shield Michael.

  “Stay strong, Brother. It is not your time to return to the Creator.”

  “Metatron, above you!”

  Gabriel blasted down, his scythes cleaving through airborne demons like bolts of lightning. The window for them to escape was closing. Michael’s safety had to be their priority.