To Reign in Hell: A Novel (33 page)

The Thrones, unlike any other of the orders, had taken the time to practice with their weapons. The twenty of them swept through the line easily, and before anyone was aware of it they were back among the engines now regularly heaving gouts of destruction out into the lines.

Asmodai saw them and stepped forward to meet Zaphkiel, rope swinging in his left hand, sword raised in his right. The next in line among the Thrones leapt at the nearest machine—and cried out. Leviathan’s head came crashing down on him. His chest crushed, he fell from the machine and dissipated.

The angels who tended the catapults continued frantically loading and firing them as Thrones smashed at them and fell to Leviathan.

Zaphkiel stepped back, made a quick judgment of Leviathan’s speed and how many Thrones there were and how long it would take to disable the machines. “Work quickly,” he said. Then he stepped back up to meet Asmodai.

“Good afternoon, Lord Satan. Your four-legged companion doesn’t seem to be around.”

“He’s busy, Lord Michael.”

“Ah! Then it’s just the two of us.”

“As much as it can be, in this mayhem. If you don’t mind, let’s get on with it. I have things to do here, and I’m sure you do also.”

“All right, try this, then!”

“Not bad. I see you’ve learned to aim so that you won’t hit the— eek—ground if you miss.”

“You can’t keep retreating forever, you know.”

“I suppose not. Tell me, Michael, will your—eh—will your sword save you from my emerald?”

“Find out, if you dare!”

“I will, if you’ll give me a moment to—uh—here we go, then. There. Ah. I see your sword helped a bit, anyway, or you wouldn’t still be alive. I’ll be going, now.”

“I’ll . . . get . . . you.”

“No doubt, Michael, no doubt.”

Zaphkiel realized immediately that he couldn’t get past Asmodai’s guard, for each time his blade crossed the path of the rope a burning sensation went up his arm and the blade lost a finger-joint’s length of point. Therefore, he contented himself with keeping Asmodai busy and protecting himself.

When the catapults were destroyed, he pulled back and yelled for the others to do so. Their retreat was as fast as their advance, so the rebels had no time to stop them before they were safely away. Zaphkiel noticed with some satisfaction that there were still twelve Thrones left.

He looked around and saw where Yeshuah lay wounded with Gabriel fighting over his body. He directed the Thrones that way, stepping over the wounded as they went.

Camael’s sword didn’t have the characteristics of Michael’s, but Ca-mael did everything he could to make up for the lack. When he wasn’t laying about him at everything in sight, he was screaming at the Powers to follow, to hack, to rend, to destroy.

With zeal and with the fire of belief, Camael led the angels against the strongest points he could find, which soon became the weakest.

His rage and his joy blended, he cried aloud as he led the angels in the wounding of the healthy and the killing of the wounded.

He saw Lucifer, who was dealing death to any who came near him, and charged, crying, “You’re mine!”

Lucifer turned to him. “You’re nuts,” he said, and calmly destroyed him.

Nisroc was a loyal servant of the Lord, but he didn’t let it blind him. He had closely watched each of the preceding battles and he had learned from them. It was for this reason that Zaphkiel had recommended him for Chief of the Order of Principalities.

Nisroc had responded by assigning subranks, each with a Chief, with the implication that they should do likewise as needed. And he had worked out careful plans for how he would communicate with these Chiefs during the battle, with the implication that they should do likewise as needed. It was for these reasons that the Principalities were efficient in battle.

“Nanael! Daniel!”

They approached him. “Yes, Lord?”

“Attack the center, near Yeshuah. Tell Vehuel and Cerviel to guard your flanks.”

“Yes, Lord.” They rushed off to order their divisions.

Presently, a messenger stood before him. “Lord, Daniel says that Lucifer has arrived and is creating much havoc.”

Nisroc nodded. “Tell him to pull back to reserve.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Nisroc found another messenger nearby. “Have Vehuel move in to replace him.” The messenger ran off.

Nisroc turned.

“Imamiah!”

Nothing happened. “Zuriel! Where is Imamiah?”

“I don’t know, Lord.”

“Very well. Take over for Vehuel’s division, and guard his flank.”

“Yes, Lord.

Nisroc continued watching. Soon, another messenger approached.

“Lord, Nanael says their lines are wavering.”

Nisroc nodded. “Good. Press the attack.”

Lilith was beginning to wear down. She broke off her battle with Gabriel, who was standing over Yeshuah, and backed up hoping to rest for a moment.

Suddenly, with no idea of how it had happened, she was cut off. Twelve of the enemy were before her. The foremost was Zaphkiel, who was studying her cagily.

“There is something about her spear,” he told those around him. “Go slowly, and be sure.”

She backed up. The Thrones followed her until, with a few quick movements, they were all around her. She turned in a slow circle. The Thrones began to close in.

Zaphkiel looked around, then, “Take your time,” he directed. “There’s no one near.”

They slowly came toward her. She tasted sour vomit, and held her spear steady.

His eyesight was keen, but he didn’t need it. He could feel the source of his fear and could have found it with his eyes closed.

But he didn’t want to. He was flying toward it, but he would rather have been flying away. He knew, as well as he knew anything, that once it started it couldn’t be escaped. As he came closer, the desire for flight grew, as did the need to attack the cacoastrum. But—what could he do?

Then he noticed something strange in the air. It looked greyish black, and the smell was—smoke!

Grateful for the excuse to come no closer to the source of his fears, he went to investigate.

He flew in great circles over what he saw, trying to understand. He had seen something like it once, recently, but hadn’t understood it then, either. He began inspecting details and quickly found someone he recognized—a new friend with a gentle voice and firm, warm hands.

He looked closer, trying to understand what was happening; he didn’t want to make a mistake. He studied the matter closely and realized that, if he was right, he couldn’t waste any time.

Glad for the chance to help a friend without coming any closer to
that,
he moved.

It was mesmerizing, in a way. They had circled closer and closer until now they were well within spear range, and she had done nothing to them.

She became aware of it and decided that she would attack and hope to get one or two of them, at least. Or, she decided, perhaps she would throw the spear at Zaphkiel.

No, she might miss, and then she’d have nothing for her trouble. She took a deep breath and—

The three of them directly in front of her vanished in a burst of flame from above. Her reflexes acted for her, and she dived forward, rolling, just missing a stroke from a Throne who was behind her.

She looked up and saw Belial turn for another sweep.

“Scatter,” said Zaphkiel with complete coolness. “Reform forty paces to the right of Yeshuah.” He turned and ran, the others doing the same, but none of them coming near her.

Belial landed carefully behind her. Lilith quickly looked around and saw the line beginning to bend under the assault led by Nisroc.

She approached Belial and climbed onto his neck. “Thank you, true friend; I can’t say how grateful I am. But if you’d do more for me, take us up and I’ll show you where to burn.”

“Belial . . . help,” was the reply, and they were airborne.

“I wanted to talk to you about Ariel. Do you have a few minutes?”

Abdiel didn’t answer. He looked around, as if hoping to see some kind of weapon in the pit with him. Mephistopheles waited, then stepped forward and landed in the pit, his knees bending. Abdiel could see him working to hold himself together against the flux that issued from the weakened floor beneath their feet.

“If now isn’t convenient,” Mephistopheles continued, “I can wait. It isn’t urgent. I’ve been waiting a long time anyway. I can wait more.”

As he spoke, he moved closer to Abdiel, and his hands began to reach out for Abdiel’s throat.

“Just let me know what a good time to talk is, Abdiel. We’ll set up an appointment. We can—”

“It was an accident!”

“Yes, I know. You were going for Beelzebub, weren’t you?”

“I only wanted to hurt him to make him chase me. I wasn’t trying to kill him!”

“I understand that. That is why I’m not angry with you. Really. Trust me, Abdiel. As Yaweh and Gabriel trusted you. As the messenger to Michael trusted you. Trust me—”

“Please!”

The dark angel’s hands found Abdiel’s throat, and cut off anything else Abdiel had to say.

Abdiel, who always had a plan, always had a scheme, always knew how to do or say the thing that would make everything work for him, felt empty as the fingers closed.

Helplessness, frustration, and bitterness—and then a growing veil of blackness that came down from above as if to cover all traces of what he was. There was a final, searing burst of pain from his chest, and then the blackness was complete.

Mephistopheles watched as Abdiel’s body dissolved. Then he climbed out of the pit, dusted himself off, and walked back toward the shore to see if matters were completed there, as well.

Harut opened his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. He looked at the blue above him, and at the ground beside him. He looked at his hands, and his arms, and—

“Raphael!”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Over there!”

“I don’t—oh. Harut, I must—”

“I understand, Raphael. I’ll stay here and look at things.”

“Fare well, Harut.”

“So long, Raphael.”

Yaweh looked into the empty pit and felt the emanations from it. So
that
was what Abdiel had been doing! Yaweh decided that he had no quarrel with Mephistopheles for taking the execution on himself— Abdiel had had to be stopped.

He checked the damage carefully and decided that, bad as it was, it could wait until after the war was resolved. He concentrated briefly on the battle, and the scene unfolded itself before him.

Yeshuah, wounded, was being helped by Gabriel and a Seraph, both of whom were also wounded, as they backed away from the conflict.
Michael, also wounded, was crawling as best he could. Nisroc was keeping control of the retreat, trying to make it orderly.

Lucifer stood stock still, dealing out death as casually as he had discoursed on light sources and plant growth. Satan was moving all across the lines, directing the advance and shouting encouragement.

Belial had cut off their retreat; whether by chance or design could not be determined. His burnings, however, had also blasted the sides of the other path, widening it, and the retreating hosts were taking that. That would bring them. . . .

He looked up and saw, with ordinary eyesight, angels begin to run toward him. He waited patiently. When they began to get close, he held his sceptre aloft and sent a thunderclap into the air.

The angels, who were now within a league, saw the lone figure, then saw the gold cloak on his shoulders. They began running toward him.

As they came, he motioned them to stand behind him, well clear of the pit, so he could watch the developing battle.

The last of them emerged, the healthy helping to bear the wounded. And behind them came another figure wearing the gold of the Firstborn. They took up lines a full league away near the mouth of what had been a path through a small gorge and was now a valley strewn with rubble.

Yaweh identified Satan, with Beelzebub next to him. Lucifer stood to the side. Overhead, Belial turned in great circles. The angels behind Satan stood tall and grim.

Yaweh looked behind him. Michael lay on the ground moaning. Yeshuah still clutched his side. Raphael was nowhere to be seen. The eyes of the angels reflected only fear, hopelessness, and exhaustion.

Yaweh swallowed hard. After all of this, he had lost. Completely. Finally.

What to do now? Go to him and surrender? It wouldn’t be easy, but it would save lives. Could he lead a counterattack? No, too late. What else? Nothing.

After all the murder, destruction, and hatred, there wasn’t going to be anything to show for it. The cacoastrum would still come past in Waves and take the lives of thousands of angels. Their safe, secure
haven from the flux would be a place of war and death, from within and without. It would—

“No!” he shouted to the skies.
“I won’t allow it to be! It will not happen that way! It will not!”

Then he looked down into the pit and suddenly knew what he must do. He remembered telling them, ages ago, it seemed, that when he ended, Heaven would end. Now he would prove it. As he had started it, so, now that it was hopelessly marred, he would end it. With a feeling of sorrow, perhaps not unmingled with pride and a sense of ultimate triumph, Yaweh stepped forward into the pit to complete Abdiel’s work.