Tartarus: Kingdom Wars II (28 page)

Sheol rocked with angelic cheers.

“That which the Father gave so arbitrarily, we have taken away!”

The pillar beneath me shook with the noise of the celebration as the assembled rebel angels rejoiced at the expense of my foolishness. Never before had I felt so low and ashamed.

Semyaza drank it all in. His moment of triumph. My humiliation. What angered me most was the ease with which he’d bested me. Within a matter of weeks after I received the Father’s protective mark, he’d conned me into surrendering it.

The demons celebrated in their own way, anxious for the command that would loose them. How long would Semyaza let them feed on me before he turned me into one of them? Weeks? Months? Years? A sheen of perspiration coated my skin as I remembered the last time I’d been possessed by demons.

The flash of a black blade caught my attention. Semyaza drew near, his sword leveled at me. “Did you really think this would end any other way?”

He punctuated the comment with the tip of his blade. It sliced my arm with ease.

“Hey!” I cried, grabbing the wound.

My hand felt wet. I lifted it in disbelief.

At the sight of blood the crowd hushed. Semyaza and Belial shared the crowd’s muted astonishment as they gawked at the sword’s red tip. The weapon that had been created to wound the spirit had wounded the flesh.

Semyaza grinned. He jabbed my other arm.

“Ow, that hurts!” I howled, backing away. The thirty-foot drop behind me limited my retreat.

“There’s never been a living human in Sheol,” Belial mused, equally thrilled.

“An interesting development, wouldn’t you say?” Semyaza added.

With a sweeping swish of his blade he sliced my chest. A superficial wound, but it had a stinging bite.

The spectators roared with delight.

Licking his lips, Belial drew his sword, eager to give his blade a taste of blood. He and Semyaza began circling me like a couple of jackals.

I moved to the center of my space, turning with them, trying to keep both of them in front of me. My own sword, pitiful as it was, appeared in my hands. With weary and bleeding arms I raised it defensively, biting back the pain.

I swung at them wildly, my blade finding nothing but air. I was a writer, not a swordsman. What did I know of dueling? But I knew not to lunge too far. While the physics of Sheol might be different from earth in some respects, gravity was a constant.

They toyed with me. When I faced one of them, the other would feign attack. They seemed to be content to wear me down. The tactic was working. My arms and legs grew increasingly heavy. The atmosphere and strength-sapping rock were taking a toll. My breathing was labored, and I was getting dizzy from circling.

Time was on their side. I had to take the offensive. Were angels vulnerable to the sword in Sheol? Could I give as good as I got? I was about to find out.

I lunged at Belial. Then, pivoting suddenly, anticipating Semyaza’s attack from behind, I swung with all my might. It worked. I caught Semyaza by surprise. The expression on his face was priceless as he realized his error. But it was too late. My blade caught him at the waist.

And passed right through him without harm.

Now the surprise was mine. Expecting resistance and finding none, the momentum of my swing spun me around and I nearly toppled from the tower. I stared at my sword in disbelief. It had betrayed me.

The crowd erupted with laughter.

“Imbecile.” Semyaza laughed. “As an opponent, you have always been a disappointment. A disposable pawn. A hack who fancied himself a bestselling writer. And now a warrior with an imaginary sword.” He played to the crowd. “Behold! The student of a human cripple and a pompous archangel!”

The quip about Abdiel went over big with the crowd. As Semyaza reveled in the applause, I tested my blade against my own leg. I had a ghost sword. It passed right through me.

The physics of Sheol made no sense.

Belial attacked. I reacted instinctively, positioning my sword to block. But instead of a clanging of swords, Belial’s sword passed through my blade and made a sickening thud against my leg just above my knee.

With a howl, I collapsed into the dust.

The crowd cheered. Belial raised his sword in triumph.

With my chest heaving, tears blurring my vision, and the cut on my leg feeling as though I’d been burned with a fireplace poker, I fought a trio of rebel allies that rose up from within me—pain, nausea, and panic.

Clearly, I had to find a different weapon. A ghost sword was worse than no sword at all. But what else was there? Alone atop a thirty-foot tower, the sword was the only weapon available. If I was going to keep myself from being filleted, somehow, I had to figure out a way to make it solid like theirs.

I began by assembling every fact I knew about spiritual swords. I knew that it had taken me a long time to learn how to see them. That was no longer a problem. Not only could I see them, I could feel them.

What else?

“Stand and fight, Grant Austin,” Semyaza said. “Your wounds are not that grievous.”

I ignored him. I was busy.

What else did I know about spiritual swords?

I knew they reflected a person’s spiritual strength and that their appearance varied as the person’s strength of spirit varied.

I had mistaken Sue’s thin sword for elegant when in reality it was fragile. But there was no mistaking my current spiritual state. My sword was functioning well in that regard. It was a pitiful, dull gray and the blade was chipped. Just like me. Dull and definitely chipped.

What else? There had to be something I was missing.

The crowd took up a chant for me to stand.

What about faith? Did the sword’s consistency vary according to a person’s faith? But that didn’t make sense, did it? Rebel angels had long ago abandoned the faith, yet their swords were in fine shape.

“I’ll not tell you again, Grant Austin,” Semyaza said. “Stand and fight. If you do not, I’ll loose a legion of demons upon you.”

Favoring my good leg, I struggled to get up. I had to delay the demons for as long as possible. It’s difficult to reason with a thousand demons screaming inside your head. I’d have to buy time by dodging sword thrusts.

I faced my attackers, my arms hanging heavy at my sides. They felt like stone. What difference did it make anyway? Even if I could wield my sword, it couldn’t protect me.

My mind was racing.
Swords. Swords. Spiritual swords.
What else did I know about them?

The circling began again with Semyaza and Belial eager to resume the spectacle. I tried to counter their moves, but every time I placed weight on my wounded leg, it felt as though another sword thrust had found its mark.

Belial lunged. I dodged. Semyaza swung. I ducked. The crowd didn’t care that I was defenseless. They weren’t looking for a good fight. My pain was their entertainment. My death would be the climax.

My only hope was that there was something in my training that could save me. A piece of information…the significance of which I didn’t comprehend at the time.

I remembered a training session in the professor’s living room when he quoted a Scripture passage to me about swords. Something about doing battle with the sword of the spirit, which was the Word of God. And there was another passage. Something about that Word being sharper than a two-edged sword.

Looking at my own blade, I agreed that sharper was good, but what I really needed right now was solid.

Just then Semyaza and Belial lunged at the same time. I pulled back at the last second, and their swords clanged inches in front of me. I thrust my sword upward to break them apart. It passed effortlessly through their blades.

Frustration welled up inside of me. I gave it voice.

Think. Think! Double-edged sword…what else? Piercing to the dividing of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow.

Piercing! Yes!
Piercing was good. What I wouldn’t give to do a little piercing of my own right now.

Another swing by Semyaza swished under my chin.

Belial’s sword caught my shirt just under my arm and cut a nice flap.

Joints and marrow. Joints and marrow. What else? Think, Grant. Think!
There was some kind of link between a person’s words and a person’s sword. The passage said something about thoughts and intents. God’s Word, the sword of his spirit, was…was…was what?

I dodged another thrust. Semyaza was aiming for my good leg.

What was the final phrase of the Scripture passage? God’s Word was what in relation to thoughts and intents?

I had it—God’s Word was able to discern a person’s thoughts and intentions because it suited his purpose. A spiritual weapon for a spiritual task. A judge needed a discerning sword. But here in Sheol, the separation between spiritual and physical didn’t seem to be as great as it was on earth.

Put it together, Grant. Put it together!

There was a link between a person’s words, his thoughts, his intentions, and his sword. Here in Sheol that link became physical reality. Semyaza and Belial had brought me here, intent on killing me. Their swords had taken on a form that could accomplish that task. On the other hand, since my arrival, my intention had been to flee, to find a way out of here. What if I
chose
to stay and fight? What if I
chose
to do injury to angel flesh?

I looked at Semyaza.

Not a problem.

Gripping my sword with new hope and determination, I abandoned all thoughts of escape. I resolved to do battle.

My sword shimmered in my hand.

Semyaza swung at my midsection. I made no attempt to back away. Instead, with a two-handed grip I swung with all my might. Our swords clashed with force. Sparks flew at the point of impact.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Belial react in surprise. He’d become careless. He was dangerously close.

Do angels bleed? I intended to find out.

Whirling around, I slashed at Belial, knocking his sword aside. He pulled back, but not fast enough. The tip of my sword caught his cheek. His hand flew to the cut. His eyes registered astonishment, then rage. There was no blood, but I’d hurt him.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. I hadn’t felt this good since arriving in Sheol.

The blade of my sword had become razor sharp. It was also a darker shade of gray.

I hurled myself at Semyaza, hoping to catch him off guard. He blocked my blow inches from his face.

Seething with fury at the turn of events, Semyaza and Belial backed away. The crowd grew quiet.

“Cowards!” I taunted. “Things are different now that I have a fighting chance, aren’t they?”

I flailed wildly at them, desperately wanting to land at least one solid blow for the professor. With each swing my sword grew darker and darker.

“Come on!” I taunted. “I’m just getting started.”

If anyone ever tells you that devils fight fair, don’t believe them.

Semyaza spat a curse at me. It took form in the shape of a fiery dart and hit me in the chest with a stinging blow. He spat again and stung my hand.

The crowd was back in it.

Staying well outside my reach Semyaza and Belial took turns spitting fiery darts at me. With each hit the initial sting was sharp, then the pain lingered and burned. I took a hit in the cheek, and my left eye began to swell shut.

Using my sword like a baseball bat, I swung at the darts, hitting some of them aside. But for every one I knocked aside, three struck me. They were coming too fast.

I dropped to one knee, jerking from the sting of each hit. I prayed that they would have the guts to finish me with their swords and that I would have the strength for one last blow so that I could at least take one of them with me.

“Maybe you should try a nursery rhyme, Grant,” Semyaza taunted me. That was how I’d defied him in our battle atop the Emerald Plaza tower.

I was on all fours now. My sword lay on the ground beneath me. The blade was as black as Semyaza’s sword.

I hung my head in shame. Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be? I had become just like them. I hated them as much as they hated me. I wanted to hurt them. Kill them. I wasn’t fighting evil, I was becoming evil. My sword was proof of it.

Sweat dropped from my face, splatting in the red dust.

Sue Ling’s voice sounded in my mind.
I love that you’re noble, Grant.

I was glad she wasn’t here to see me now. I was glad none of them were here. Sue Ling. Jana. Christina. The professor—oh, the professor, how disappointed in me he would be. And Abdiel. He’d scoff and say he wasn’t surprised that I’d failed to learn the truth about the spiritual world.

I love that you’re noble.

Noble men don’t have black swords.

Think on these things, Grant.

Abdiel’s last words to me. Why would I think of them now?