The Sword of Michael - eARC (23 page)

Mammon roared with laughter, echoing within the cavern. His ranks of execu-clones laughed too, toadies following the lead.

“That’s rich, too rich,” Mammon said. “And? The one-liner?”

I looked around at my allies. Winked at Otto. Patted Tigre on the neck. “I aim to misbehave.”

“What?”

I was still, calm, slightly amused and not the least little bit pissed. Kind of the perfect mental state to channel the power of the Archangel. So I lifted the Sword and just blasted Mammon, Lord of Greed, dead center in his face.

He *flew* backwards as though sucker punched, tumbling end over end backwards, leaving his fancy Aeron chair smoking and spinning.

Wow.

Game on.

The ranks of execu-clones attacked in an orderly fashion and were decimated in a disorderly fashion. Tigre batted them aside, scattering them; First In Front slid down to fight on foot, spinning and whirling, striking with his coup stick and slashing with his knife; both weapons glowed brilliant with the Light and each stroke sent dozens of greedy corporate minions tumbling away ablaze; Burt circled and struck with precision, joined by dozens of his spirit-clones, and Otto abandoned his usual precision and emptied magazine after magazine into the ranks of the Greedos.

I held the Sword up and a brilliant ball of Light surrounded all of us, expanded out like the blast wave of an atomic device; scattering the ranks of the corporate possessed far and wide, leaving them in smoking, huddled heaps all across the cavern floor.

“Let’s do like the cowboys and Indians…” I started.

“Not so fast, Marius. He’s not done.…” Tigre said.

I turned and saw Mammon. He’d returned. The human mask of his square head was burned away, and what was below was the true face of a servant of the Dark Forces. Skin the color of burnt meat, and black eyes with a pinpoint of red flame at the center over a mouth permanently twisted into a mocking sneer. He held a long lance in his hand, that looked like a Mont Blanc pen on steroids with a razor sharp point. Probably signed plenty of lost souls up with that one.

What was left of his legions of minions circled round us, careful to keep their distance. The Sword flamed it’s entire length, seemed longer somehow.

Mammon pointed his lance and red flame lashed out at us, crackled on the blue light of the shield wall the Sword held around us. I extended the Sword, point directly at Mammon’s eyes like a good fencer’s, and whispered to myself, “Not my will, but yours through me, Creator…”

A pulsing stream of brilliant light ran from the tip against the red energy shield that appeared around Mammon, like a fire hose of light, beat at the shield…Mammon raised his lance and launched red lightning bolts at us, which dribbled down the shield of Light held around us, the Container we traveled in, and meanwhile the steady pulse pulse pulse of the blue light hammered on his shield…irresistible…and his shield exploded in red fragments that rained down like shrapnel, and wherever pieces of it struck it singed the stone and burned, and there was a screech of torture and torment, and Mammon was struck directly by the brilliant blue light, and for an instant, superimposed on the image was another image, an ancient image, of Mammon and a mighty Archangel on the battlefield, Mammon struck down by one stroke of the Sword, and then Mammon fell, collapsing in a heap burning with blue light…

The Light in the Sword pulsed.

“Hurry,” Tigre said.

We mounted and she bounded around the smoldering heap of the Lord of Greed, and left his level shattered and covered with the wreckage of his dealings.

Chapter 27

We bounded down the winding pathway. The trapped souls were reduced to silence by the vigor of our encounter with Mammon. Or maybe they were just stunned that we’d made it this far.

I was.

“Some resonance there, yes?” Tigre said.

“I guess so.”

“What do you mean?” Otto asked.

“Resonance. Something in Mammon resonated with Marius. Or did. Perhaps not now,” Tigre said.

“He’s not done,” Burt said.

“He was struck down,” First in Front said.

Tigre was the one to clarify it. “Yes. He was struck down by the Sword. But in this Realm, only one Being can completely undo Mammon. And that is his Master. If the Archangel himself were here, yes, Mammon would be undone forever. But Marius is here as his Emissary. He is undone for now. But he may return. And those beings never forget. And they never forgive.”

“Lovely,” I said. “Who’s up next?”

“Is there any way we can bypass any of this?” Otto said. “Tigre, can you perhaps just…fly? Fly us straight down to where Jolene is held? Burt?”

Tigre bounded, the ride as smooth as a classic Caddy on a clear stretch of well maintained highway. I felt like I should have a fedora and a Hawaiian shirt on, puffing an Arturo Fuente with Son House on the sound system, tooling through the desert somewhere, maybe on my way to Vegas.

Wow. Maybe I took a hit to the head.

Tigre laughed long and hard. “Oh, Marius. Maybe “Willie the Wimp” instead, some classic Stevie Ray?”

“I don’t want to think about any Cadillac coffins, Goddess.”

“I like the style,” she said. “I’d take that ride any day.”

“What are you speaking of?” Otto said.

“Classic Stevie Ray,” I said. “You like?”

“Who is Stevie Ray?” Otto said.

“Stevie Ray Vaughn,” First In Front. “Electric rock guitar. Very good. Only white man who could play as well as Jimi Hendrix.”

“That’s racist,” I observed. “Eric Clapton is pretty good.”

“I’m Native American” First In Front said. “I’m the original oppressed minority here, and as that representative I restate my case—no white man played as well as Jimi Hendrix.”

“This is a musician?” Otto said.

Burt laughed. “Not much of one for electric rock are you, Otto? Please don’t tell me you’re a Wagner fan!”

“I am indeed a fan of Wagner,” Otto said. “And yes, I enjoyed that scene in
Apocalypse Now
.”

We all laughed at that.

“We need theme music,” I said. “I wish I had a boom box.”

One materialized.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Tigre observed.

It was an
epic
boom box. I mean, better than anything I’d ever seen. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t figure out how to…

“Just wish it,” Tigre said. “Instantaneous manifestation. In this realm. So please…be careful with what you wish for.”

“I wish for…“Bad Company.” By…Bad Company.”

Presto, zoomo, whammo—just like that.

“I was born…six gun in my hand…behind a gun…I’ll make my final stand.…” I sang.

“Please,” Burt said. “Don’t ruin it.”

So we descended further into Hell, accompanied by a boom box booming out the long live version of “Bad Company” by, yes, Bad Company.

Made me wish I had a beer.

Negra Modelo.

“No,” First In Front said. He knocked the bottle away just as it appeared in front of my face. “No firewater till we’re done, Marius. Too early to be celebrating.”

“This is interesting music,” Otto said. “Would this be considered rock and roll?”

“Dude, when we get a break, you’re going to have to tell me how you’ve lived through the sixties and not heard this stuff,” I said.

“I enjoy Elvis Presley,” Otto said. “I am not familiar with these musicians. Elvis, he is rock and roll, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “He is most definitely rock and roll. Dead, though. Great loss.”

“Oh, he’s not dead,” Otto said. “Just in retirement.”

“Ah…” I said.

“Head in the game,” First In Front said. “We are approaching another landing…”

“Otto, we may have to take that saucer of yours if you know where Elvis is, and make a visit…”

“Certainly. It would be my pleasure,” Otto said. “He is an interesting conversationalist. Very sharp, for someone of his age.”

“I…” I said.

We turned onto the landing.

“Marius?” Tigre said.

This was…interesting. Instead of the usual lines of troops, we had assorted demon-types lolling about, mostly supine with their heads propped up on their hands, quite a few dice games going on, some sleeping and napping. No one seemed too excited about our approach. And no one appeared to be in charge.

“Think we can just pass through here?” I said hopefully.

“We can try,” Tigre said thoughtfully.

Ever see a tiger try to be discreet? No? No wonder. It’s not in their nature. Apex predators can certainly blend in, but discreet? Uh, not. Her idea of “just passing through” was to stride right through the huddled masses yearning to be, well maybe free, but huddled nonetheless, hey diddle diddle right up the middle, as a good infantryman would say (and I thought of Dillon for a moment, and said a brief prayer that he be safe and sound with Sabrina…), and like Moses parting the Red Sea (wait a minute, I think I said that already, must be tired if I’m repeating metaphors) the slothful demons slouched out of the way.

Slothful.

Ah.

Now it made sense.

“Who’s the Lord of Sloth? Next in line in the Seven Deadly Sins?” I said.

“Belphegor,” Burt said. “Lazy bastard.”

“Kind of the point, isn’t it?” First In Front said.

“Which one is he?” I said. “Hard to pick out anyone in particular here.”

Tigre passed through them all. Nothing barring our way.

“Well,” I said. “That was—”

Not exactly nothing barring our way. A huge demon, slack faced, slack bellied, on his side in a position of classic repose, his head held in his hand.

Belphegor the Slothful.

“Whad up, dude?” Belphegor said. He sounded like a teenage Malibu skater with a head full of dope.

“Nothing, bro,” I said. “Just passing through. You mind?”

He took his time answering. I could almost hear the bong bubbling.

“Mind? Uh, like care? No, I don’t care, bro. I might could have to *do* something, though, you know. And that’s just, like, fucked up, you know? I’m all mellow and you’re coming through and I gotta do, like, something…if I could remember what that was…uh.…” Belphegor sounded like he’d really gotten into the primo.

I looked around at all his troops, such as they were. Not much interest if they were actually supposed to be guarding this pass. Downright slothful. Belphegor pushed himself slowly into a slouched sitting position, legs crossed, like a ’60s-era Deadhead in midday buzz. I was waiting for Jerry Garcia to show up.

“We’ll just get on our way, bro. Thanks for being cool, see you later, right?” I said.

Tigre started around him, giving him a wide berth. His eyes rolled up in his head and collapsed directly in front of us, like a bad case of demonic narcolepsy. She gave him a wider berth and his eyes popped open and he rolled on his side. It seemed as though his head had grown larger, if that was possible, and his eyes were the size of Volkswagen Beetles, the ’60s-era Bug.

“Ah, dude?” Belphegor said. “I don’t think you’re gonna wanna go this way, like, I’m not supposed to, like, let you, you know? So you need to go another way. Like away. Far away.”

“Definitely, dude,” I said. “We’re working it. We can’t go back that way, so we’re just gonna go up here and cut back, you know? Through the tunnels? Don’t mean to harsh your mellow or mess with your day, you know? We totally gonna go far away. Just right over there.” I pointed past him, where he’d actually have to turn over and look.

“Ah, cool, bro, thanks. I mean, you know, makes it easier, and I’m pretty tired, kinda crashed out, you know what I’m saying?” Belphegor muttered. He laid his head down and went to sleep.

We slipped by. Silent. Picked up speed and continued on our way.

“Not bad,” Otto said.

“It does not seem possible for it to be so easy,” First In Front said.

Burt circled us. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“No resonance,” Tigre observed. “You are anything but slothful, Marius. Nothing to engage, perhaps.”

“Maybe,” I said. I hefted the Sword. “The Sword works in mysterious ways.”

The Sword gleamed blue, as though in answer.

We descended.

Chapter 28

“What do we have left?” I asked.

“Wrath, Envy…Pride,” Otto said.

“Lovely,” I said.

Tigre was silent. We passed in a blur the stacked lights of trapped souls. We were remarkably unscathed. Tigre wounded, but healed; the rest of us unhurt from our encounters with the Guardians of Hell. I wouldn’t let myself think of Jolene or what she might be enduring; that would only feed my anger and rage and that was the trap I needed to avoid. All of this could be seen as a snare for me, a snare designed and built specifically for me—but I saw now it wasn’t me…it was the Sword.

A dangerous gift to have, to carry, to wield.

Tigre picked up speed. All the better for me. I don’t do well with waiting. I wanted to pass all of this and go directly to the confrontation I knew was waiting for us, down at the bottom, at the Gate itself.

Ahead a landing. A significant gathering of soldiers, in a V-shaped formation, the point of the V facing us. Tigre slowed so we could assess them. Rank after rank, human faces, garbed in armor much like angelic armor, but darker, cheaper looking somehow. We drew close and came to a stop. Human faces. Eyes blackened holes, staring at us, sucking at us, almost, pulling at our energy. Staring at us, and more than a few staring at the Sword that gleamed bright blue in my hand.

They did not move.

Tigre whispered, “Hang on, I think I’ll…”

The ground shook.

“Hold on,” I said. “Wait.”

The ranks parted. A Demi-Demon came forth.

Long narrow face and squinty eyes, covetous eyes that roved over us, lingered on the Sword. Tall, like all of them, clad in a semblance of angelic armor. Armed with a sword of his own, though surrounded by soldiers with spears. I wondered if any of the deeper layers actually bothered with firearms at all.

“I am Leviathan,” the Demi-Demon said. “And you are the Sword Bearer Marius. And your little company.”

“Yes,” I said. Didn’t seem any point in denying it.

He drew his sword. “Give me your Sword.”

“No,” I said.

If it was possible, his face twisted even tighter, as though a series of internal cords drew tauter.

“I have been ordered to ask you to give it to me first. If you do not, I will take it from you,” Leviathan said.

“Good luck with that,” I said.

He raised his sword. It looked like a poor copy of mine, but much much bigger.

“You have much,” Leviathan said. “And I will take it all from you. And cast you down and grind you beneath my heel. You don’t deserve any of it, much less that Sword. Your sole purpose is to bring it here, to me, to my Master. And he won’t be bothered with the likes of you and yours, Marius Winter. No matter what you have done, or think you have done.”

His sneer was epic.

I raised the Sword and Leviathan raised his. I slid from Tigre’s back and I stepped forward I grew—much as I did in journey, each step growing—till I looked Envy in the eye.

We crossed swords.

The Sword was, in proportion, much the same dimension and size of the classic Roman gladius. The gladius wasn’t designed for fencing; it was a purpose built killing tool designed to be utilized with a shield and within a formation, designed to cut legs out from beneath an opponent while tying up his blade with the shield, and then stabbing him while he lay hamstrung on the ground. A long term study by a military historian shows that most of the opponents of the Roman legions bore two distinctive wounds: one to the outside of the leg, cutting the knee and the ligaments that supported the leg as well as the great vessels; then a coup de grace administered to the head or else a thrust through the neck.

A fencing match, bare sword on bare sword, was better suited to a long great sword or the supple fast blades of classic fencing. This called more for the technique of the Bowie knife, the fourteen- to eighteen-inch blade of the American West, which I had some familiarity with courtesy of Dillon and some long afternoons in the sun playing with wooden Bowie knives and fencing masks.

I circled to the outside, the Ring of Steel as it’s called, weaving the point of the Sword in a figure eight to catch the eye of my opponent. My allies stood and watched me, silent. I feinted to the low line, then entered with the blade flipping up in an extended back cut, the razor edge of the Sword hooking like the claws of a raptor across Leviathan’s brow, drawing a burning sear that dripped yellow-ochre blood.

“Ahhhh!” he screamed, and slashed wildly at me as I backpedaled out of his reach.

The Sword gleamed even more brightly. Lightning flashed out of it, was met by bolts of red from the sword that Leviathan swung wildly as I ducked back and away. A blast of red grazed my side, singed my clothing, burned me. I hissed in pain, leaped forward and brought the Sword down in a long chop; Leviathan ducked his head to one side like a boxer slipping a punch and I took his ear.

Leviathan slapped one clawed hand to his ear. The glare from his eyes was a blow; I held the Sword up to shield me from the envy and hatred that burned from those eyes.

“All eternity you shall twist for that, shaman,” he said.

His sword arced through a hissing figure eight as he encroached on me, I backed off at an angle, conscious of my footing, and I saw my chance—I leaped high, as though to chop over his guard, and then dropped low as he entered, hoping to catch me on my feet, but I continued to drop—and cut hard at his knee. The Sword didn’t slow as it cut through demon meat and bone, searing as it went; the sound of it was like the sizzle of fresh meat dropped into a hot pan.

Leviathan’s leg collapsed in two pieces, and like a great tower crumbling down, he fell to the wounded side, flailing with his sword. I sprang over him, literally, and he spun on his back slashing at me. While I had him engaged, I moved towards his head and all his attention was focused upwards; Tigre and the rest mounted upon her back sprung over his sprawled and ruined legs past him. I hacked at his sword, reached his claws and saw two fall free, just like Sauron’s under Isildur’s sword—and I sprang away. Otto waved for me to catch up and he caught my arm as Tigre bounded past, swung me into place just like a SEAL on a Zodiac pick-up; I twisted in the air, sudden aerial grace courtesy of the Sword, and dropped into place on Tigre’s neck, just like the Fedaykin atop a worm in
Dune
.

Tigre bounded away, leaving Envy crippled behind us, screaming in rage, flailing with his blade.

“That felt strange,” I said.

“Single combat,” Tigre said. “The Test is evolving. That was Envy. Little resonance for you there. You have Wrath and Pride ahead. We will do what we can to support you, Marius—but it may be our task is to bear witness and hold space for you.”

“I will fight beside you,” Otto said. “No matter.”

“Hey nah hey, nah hey, heya…” First In Front began to sing a war and death song I’d heard before.

“We will all fight if we must,” Tigre said. “But we may not be allowed…or able to. This is for Marius. And the Sword.”

“Not our plan,” I said. “But Creator God’s. His will, not ours.”

“Yes,” Tigre said. “Otto? You understand?”

He was silent.

We descended.