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Please forgive me for taking so long to get this out! Universal Warrior can now be found in its entirety at;

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Chapter Sixteen: Final Night, along with a host of new features, is available at the new site. Thanks for following along, enjoy!

Sincerely,
Avery K. Tingle,
Author
Universal Warrior: Uprising

Chapter Fifteen: The Secret of Beal City

(Start at the Beginning)

I should’ve just continued on to Asgard…
That single thought, tinged with annoyance as he chastised himself, was the only thing to go through Azrael’s head as the ground-level explosion sent him soaring haplessly through the night sky.

The thick, unnatural jungle seemed to tighten as if the gaping hole in the surface caused it pain. Upside-down and airborne, Azrael tucked his head to his chest and made out a snake-like branch crossing ahead of him as a ceiling was formed. As he shot beneath it, he reached above his head, grasping the limb. It was covered in some sort of slime, a thick with slippery residue that nearly caused Azrael to lose his grip. He dug in, and the momentum sent flipping, flying over the branch before he landed atop it solidly. A jolt of pain fired through his wrist as the joint was hyper-extended. He clutched his wrist and shook out his hand to dull the pain; he would have to deal with his injury later.

Azrael heard a terrified scream; someone else was flying helplessly through the sky. Keeping his eyes on the scene below, Azrael reached out to his left, snatched Anders out of the air by his shirt, and set the boy down beside him on the branch.

“Thank you…” Anders was panting, his body so shaky that the entire branch was vibrating, “What’s going on?”

“SHH!” Azrael hissed.

A deep, bellowing noise came from the hole; something large had just arrived. The entire jungle shook with the force of the demonic scream. Azrael felt Anders shift beside him. He imagined the boy was covering his ears. The scream hit with the force of a hurricane, and Azrael had to hold himself to the branch to keep from being blown away. He had dealt with worse.

Azrael almost cursed the Black Night, but wondered if the attack had been timed this way purposefully. He was only ten feet from the ground, but he might as well have been staring into a void; he could make out nothing, not even the mammoth beast that had just emerged.

The stench! It struck all at once, and even as Azrael threw his forearm in front of his face, he heard Anders wretch and vomit. The boy had never been this close to sulfuric brimstone before. Azrael had encountered it frequently in Olymparus, but he had never been this close. They were indeed directly over Hell. Azrael reached to his left, grasping Anders shoulder to steady the poor boy.

John. Where was John? Azrael realized for the first time that he couldn’t even sense the boy. Azrael grit his teeth in cold recognition. John was clearly able to take care of himself, but if he was dead, there wasn’t anything to be done now…Wait, he thought.

His Thanatonian powers had faded to near nothingness, but Azrael could still sense death in the immediate area. He didn’t sense John; the teen must still be alive.

Azrael’s vision sharpened as he tried not to panic. If he’d thought Yang or Yin would be listening, he would’ve prayed that he was wrong, that he couldn’t have been seeing what was pouring upwards out of the hole, but he wasn’t naïve. Azrael knew neither of them heard prayer anymore; they were both too consumed with this pointless conflict.

They were black, faceless glass enveloped by dark fire. Their forms were barely humanoid; they had no appendages, only mere stumps at the end of misshapen arms and legs. Their heads bore no faces, no characteristics of any sort, and yet they groaned hungrily all the same.
There were hundreds –maybe thousands – of them. Their groans rose sharply as they came together, forming an even larger monstrosity. The monsters separated just as quickly; they seemed indifferent to the change. As they rose endlessly from the bowels of Hell, this process repeated itself over and over again.

It had been a long time since Azrael had felt true fear, but he had seen these things before. They were Yin’s answer to the Thanatonian Legion; she had been searching for a method to match the soul-wielding power Gabriel had developed after retiring. This was her result: creatures that could not be killed because they were already dead, wielding the power to kill both body and soul.

Olymparus had weathered attacks over the years, both by bored Sefiroth who had nothing better to do and by Rodentia and other armies of Hell looking to ‘punish’ fallen angels hoping for redemption. But the skirmishes were minor and fatalities were rare.

Then Yin had sent these things.
At the time, Azrael had just lost a brutal sparring match to his brother, who had intended to offer his services to Hell. As strict as his father was, he recognized Azrael’s shaken confidence and advised him to volunteer for the Thanatonians. Doing so would ensure that Azrael would never participate in the war, merely clean up the aftermath. Azrael was skilled, but he hated fighting, and his father knew that.
In hindsight, Azrael wondered if his father had sent them away because he knew Yin was planning their annihilation. Olymparus was the largest of many cities that welcomed fallen angels and demons seeking amnesty. Olymparus was also producing the most crosslings, the results of unholy unions. These hybrid creatures were welcomed by neither side and had the power to control both Holy and Hellish magic.

Yin decided they were too much of a threat to be allowed to go on living. It had been the only time these…these things had been released. Olymparus had no answer for them. They didn’t kill, they absorbed. Any living thing they came into contact with became assimilated into them, and it was not a painless process.
Victims appeared to melt before merging with their killers.

It was the only time there was Valkryie intervention in a city not recognized by Heaven. The Valkryies, as always, had found a way to destroy them.
Azrael, a new inductee in the Thanatonian Legion, had to be physically restrained as he observed through glass as his people were slaughtered. His father had been among the survivors, and the town had been rebuilt. Azrael had hoped to never see those things again.

But here they were.
And they were heading away from the Great Wind Gate, which meant…
“We have to go,” Azrael whispered, the fear evident in his voice. He tapped Anders twice on the shoulder before turning around and looking for another perch. “We need to return to your city, now.”

Anders stood, and as the branch heaved, Azrael realized that the boy was about to jump. Azrael whirled quickly and nearly snatched the boy out of mid-air, holding him by the collar of his shirt. “What?” Anders snapped, irritated as Azrael hoisted him back up. “Let’s get the drop on them!”

Azrael pointed his finger inches from Anders’ face. “If you touch those things,” he seethed, “you’ll be voided, do you understand me?”

Anders didn’t answer, and in the dark, Azrael couldn’t clearly see his face. If the boy wanted to commit suicide beyond his warning, so be it. The point was moot. Anders nodded.
“Stay off the ground.” Azrael instructed as the Eternal Damned passed beneath them. “Stick to the branches. Understand?”

“Yes…” Anders replied, and Azrael was reassured by the boy’s tone of voice; he was scared. Good. Maybe he’ll think clearly now.

The Eternally Damned were moving at an incredible pace, making a beeline for Beal City. Beneath their plodding, the intense heat of their fire melted the sand beneath them, and those that brought up the rear slid on new glass. Death begetting death, Azrael thought as he took three steps before leaping in the air, reaching for a curved limb ahead of him as he flew. He caught the limb effortlessly, keeping his feet away from the creatures now five feet beneath him. Using the momentum of his swing, he flew forward onto a waiting limb outstretched before him. He raced along that limb, Anders keeping pace, lowering into a glide as the limb rose to an incline. Azrael flew from the edge of the limb, grabbing a nearby vine and swinging up to a branch that hung horizontally above him. Azrael flipped from that branch to one higher before finally alighting on a large leaf nearly forty feet from the ground. Azrael was impressed when Anders landed beside him seconds later. The emotion switched to horror as Azrael looked down, seeing how quickly the Eternal Damned were leaving them behind. Anders spoke what they were both thinking. “Azrael,” he said softly, “We’ll never keep pace like this.”

Azrael looked to Anders, unsure of what to say. The boy was right.
The jungle moved and again became alive. Above them, the ceiling opened, as thick, muscular branches lowered and intertwined quickly, as though the entire thing was going through some monstrous transformation. Yet, as the world changed around them, the leaf Azrael and Anders stood on didn’t sway.
Above them, something glowed, causing Azrael and Anders to look up. A single star had illuminated in the sky above. Something audibly snapped as though broken, and liquid could be heard gushing. It struck a large leaf above them, which was forced downward by the impact. The liquid caused the leaf to be reflective. The starlight bounced from the leaf, creating a pinprick reflection ahead of the Azrael and Anders.

What they saw was amazing.

The branches had joined together. Although it curved and corkscrewed in some places, it went on for miles. It never dropped lower than a few feet above the Eternal Damned, and Azrael somehow knew in the pit of his soul it would take them all the way back to the city.

“We’ll keep pace now,” Azrael whispered, daring to be hopeful.

Anders was already ahead of him, taking a few steps and lowering into a glide before shooting off down the makeshift road. Azrael quickly followed, lowering his chest as close as possible to the ground in an attempt to boost his speed.

There were battle sounds behind them. The beast screamed. Then John screamed.
Azrael fought his own instinct to turn back even as he felt Anders’ thoughts. “Don’t!” Azrael reached, and ahead of him, Anders kept moving ahead, curving and winding along the branches. “John is doing what he must, we have to save your people. What is in Beal City?”

“What?” Anders responded telepathically, flipping upside down as the branch corkscrewed. Azrael, just behind, stole a quick glance up and saw that they were pulling ahead of the Eternal Damned. Still, he clenched his fists, willing a quick burst of speed. “Nothing,” Anders replied in Azrael’s mind. “It’s a shantytown. I helped build it when I was a kid.”

“Anders, Yin would not have sent these creatures for a mere shantytown,” Azrael reached impatiently as the branch lowered, and the two were gliding normally again. “These creatures are not sent for anything less than total destruction. What in your city warrants that?”

“I don’t know!” Anders insisted. Wind whipped past them as they pulled ahead of the Eternal Damned at the edge of the jungle. The branch lowered to the sand as they entered the clearing, and within moments, Anders and Azrael were gliding along the sand. They both boosted their speed and rocketed off, leaving identical, rising sand wakes in their midst. Behind them, the strange groaning of their hunters was ever-present. They didn’t have much time.

Azrael considered reaching into Anders’ mind and forcing the answers, but didn’t want to wreck the little imp’s mind in the process. But the boy was clearly lying and they didn’t have time for that. “Anders, damn you!” Azrael growled telepathically. “Every single person you know and love is about to meet the worst kind of ending. I’m not trying to misappropriate your secret; if we remove what they’re after, then we eliminate their reason for being there. WHAT IS IN BEAL CITY!?”

“How do you know they’re not here for you!?” Anders shot back, angrily, as the shadows of Beal City rose on the horizon not five miles ahead. “You’re the one who’s supposed to go to Asgard and get all that power! How do you know they’re not here for you and Michael?!”

“Michael?” Azrael asked, momentarily confused. He felt Anders’ mind freeze up. The boy had let something valuable slip. “You mean John?”

Anders said nothing as they approached the edge of Beal City, which was silent as everyone slept. They entered the town from its rear, and what remained of the church stood as a jagged set of shadows piercing the night. Anders righted himself, and Azrael pulled up beside him. “How did you know about Asgard?” Azrael said as he caught his breath. “Michael…as in Michael St. Ambrose? The one who’s father–?”

“Yes,” Anders replied, looking as serious as Azrael had ever seen him. “He doesn’t know that we know. He has to get to Asgard, Azrael. So do you and the other two.”

Azrael’s mouth fell open in surprise. “How do you know all this?”

Anders shook his head as they silently made their way into town. “It’s just who we are, Azrael. It’s who we’ve always been.”

Anders stopped as the groaning could now be heard approaching in the distance. They had a few minutes, maybe less. Azrael, riveted, was unable to take his eyes from this young boy who had grown up suddenly, right in front of him.

When Anders looked at Azrael, his blue eyes glowed so intensely that Azrael could see them clearly in the night. “Listen, Azrael,” Anders spoke sharply. “I know you’re afraid of what’s coming, but we have a way to deal with them. Michael will be along shortly, and with his help we can drive them back. If you help us with this, I can show you how to get to Asgard swiftly.”

Azrael was in complete shock. It was now Anders who was giving instruction. “We don’t have warriors anymore, Azrael!” Anders barked. “This is why I drew Michael here, and this is why your brother burned down our church! If you don’t fight for us, we’ll be wiped out. Please.”

Azrael let the information sink in. He didn’t think Angels—true Angels—existed anymore. But here they were, hiding in plain sight, living peaceful lives in secret. And the war had found them.

Azrael had seen what the Eternal Damned were capable of. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly repel them, outside of anything Asgardian. “Alright,” He agreed, and Anders visibly relaxed a bit. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me,” Anders beckoned, jogging away. “I want to show you something.”

Anders ran off into the darkness. Azrael glanced behind him. Something dark, blacker than the night, was present on the horizon, becoming larger as it drew closer.

Maybe he should’ve continued to Asgard, but for now, he had to live by his decision.

Or die by it…

With Anders moving further away and the Eternal Damned closing in, Azrael raced into the darkness after the boy.

Chapter Fourteen: Black Night

“No moon out tonight.” Sira whispered.

Uriel was so engrossed in monitoring the Seraphim inside that he hadn’t noticed the sun set. “What?”

Sira looked at him and gave a sly smile. “No moon.” She repeated. “It’s a good omen.”

Uriel looked up to the night sky. Not one star was present, and the sky was an eerie, black canvas. Uriel looked back at Sira and realized he could barely make her out, save for her predatory green eyes, eager for what was coming. Uriel remembered his days in the Holy Sefiroth; soldiers often referred to nights like this one as “Black Nights”.

Black Nights were somber events, during which the Sefiroth predicted that skirmishes would be particularly bloody, and that an unusually large number of lives would be lost. It was a prediction reinforced by fact; soldiers who went out on Black Night didn’t often come home.

Valkryies, most of whom had been Sefiroth before Odin chose them, saw Black Night differently. They saw the starless night as a chance to fight an epic battle; a chance to affect history. This was why Sira had been chosen; it was never the victory she enjoyed, it was the battle and the chance to make a difference.

Uriel remembered thinking that the first was an admirable trait, but the other would probably get her killed. Instead, she had become a Valkryie. Looking at Sira’s penetrating emerald eyes, Uriel spoke in a low growl. “I guess the things we do should never see the light, should they?”

He couldn’t be sure in Black Night, but he imagined that Sira grinned.
“Have you got my back?” She asked, peering inside to the seven Seraphim and captive family.

Uriel cracked his knuckles, looked at her, and nodded his head. “I’m ready…Go.”
Sira pivoted and became more than a black specter in the night as she stepped into the cabin; the candlelight danced across her black armor. The loose metal that protected her feet clanked as she stepped onto the hardwood floor. Uriel peered in to watch the event unfold.

The Seraphim and the family – a man, woman, girl and boy – became aware of her. The Seraphim rose and faced her, their shock turning to aggression. A flash of fear shot through Uriel. Valkryie or not, seven Seraphim is a lot to ask of anyone…
For a moment, Uriel thought about rushing in, but his military training kicked in: he would not deviate from the plan.

The Seraphim reached—for their hips?! As though trapped in slow motion, Sira reached her right hand towards the captive, bewildered family. “LOOK AWAY!!!” She shouted.

It was a gamble; the Seraphim could have taken the hint not meant for them. Uriel knew what was coming. He could only cross his fingers as he threw himself away from the door, moving into a squat position and covering his lowered head with his hands.

The sound of thunder being drawn across the sky joined with the pained, terrified screams of the Seraphim. The light was so bright that Uriel could feel it pressing into the back of his head. He closed in on himself, pressing his head to his knees and clenching his eyes shut. The light encompassed him along with the entire cabin. For moments, the Black Night was overtaken by Sira’s Light Nova.

Uriel forced his eyes open. He had missed the worst of it. Although he still couldn’t see clearly through the white haze, he knew his vision would be better than the incapacitated Seraphim. Scrambling to his feet, Uriel turned back to the door and rushed into the cabin.

He first noted Sira, laying unconscious on the floor to his left. The Seraphim were still standing, but they were completely incapacitated. They were writhing on their feet, their hands pressed to their eyes as they rocked back and forth in complete blindness, begging for mercy.

“MY EYES! MY EYES! MY–” Uriel flew towards the first Seraphim and connected a solid right hook with the boy’s jaw. The boy spun once before swaying like a buoy on the sea, then collapsed to the ground. Uriel turned, driving his elbow into the back of another Seraphim’s neck; that one instantly fell to the ground. He took the third Seraphim and grabbed him by the robe to hoist him up. The Seraphim was in such agony already that he either didn’t feel Uriel, or didn’t care that he was being lifted. Uriel bashed his own head into the nose of the Seraphim, and let the officer drop to the floor. Uriel grabbed the fourth officer by his arm and removed his left hand from his eye. It appeared that the boy’s pupils had been obliterated. Uriel struck the boy with a chopping blow where the neck met the shoulder. The boy immediately became silent and fell. The fifth Seraphim nearly fell into Uriel’s arms in blind panic. Uriel crouched so the boy’s midsection was at eye level and struck him so fiercely that his fist nearly went through the officer’s stomach. As the air ripped from his lungs, the boy clasped his stomach, unable to scream as he fell to his knees. He collapsed onto the floor. The sixth of the Seraphim was a pretty young blond who cried as she screamed, completely lost in terror as she heard her comrades being struck down. Uriel took hold of her, wrapping his arm around her neck and placing his hand at the back of her head. He pressed her head against his forearm and tightened, giving her head a slight jerk to the left. Because her brain had been so suddenly deprived of oxygen, she would wake with a migraine, but at least she’d wake up.

Something stabbed Uriel in the left of his abdomen and just below his shoulder, and his body jerked with the impact as he grunted. He would’ve thought himself shot by arrows, but he had been hit with arrows before; these were smaller and their impact was more forceful. He looked down to see his injuries, which had begun bleeding. There was no twang to indicate a bow had been fired. Whatever had shot him had gone straight through.

Uriel looked up. The last of the Seraphim—their leader, he guessed, due to the extra red stripes along the shoulders and arms of his robe, used one arm to cover his eyes. With his free hand, he was pointing something at Uriel, a black ivory object Uriel had never seen before.

Something tore through his upper right shoulder, and Uriel realized as blood gushed through the new wound that the weapon was soundless.

Uriel forced himself to stay silent. The Seraphim was firing blindly; that was Uriel’s only advantage. Uriel took a hard step to the left. The leader bought the bluff and trained his weapon towards Uriel’s feint. With the weapon off of him, Uriel quickly took a wide, silent step to the right and dashed in a curving pattern toward the boy.

Uriel grabbed the arm that held the weapon by the wrist. Locking the arm out straight, Uriel threw his forearm into the back of the leader’s elbow. The boy screamed as the weapon fell from his grasp. Uriel took him by his robe, spun around once, and then with everything he had, hurled the leader upward. The impact of the boy hitting the ceiling was enough to shake the cabin. As the leader of the Seraphim fell, he groaned, and Uriel caught him, turned, pivoting, and hurled the boy into the cabin floor. The boy landed with such force that his legs flew into the air, but when they fell, he became silent.

With the Seraphim out of the way, Uriel staggered, reeling from blood loss as he clutched his worst injury at the top of his shoulder. Seven Seraphim. Not bad for an old man…

Uriel exaggerated and he knew it: he wasn’t old, just worn out…but he needed to hang in for just a little longer. Just long enough to make them answer for Eden…he made his way to the weapon that had struck him three times and stooped to pick it up. The family was still huddled in the far right corner of the room, and Uriel could hear the little girl whimpering. She was whimpering, doing her best to stay silent. Uriel wanted to say something reassuring, but words failed him. Dealing with these people was better left to the Thanatonians or Valkryies anyway.

Uriel examined the weapon curiously. It was mostly white with black splashes, and almost weightless in his hand. The weapon was almost an L shape, but the shorter end—the end the Seraphim had been holding—was bent at a slight angle away from the longer end, which was about two hundred centimeters long. The weapon had moving parts, both of which were metal; there was a curved, steel insert on the underside of the long end, and when Uriel gripped the handle, he saw that his index finger fit comfortably around this curve. What is this thing?!

“Uriel…” Sira spoke weakly as she regained consciousness. She was looking up at Uriel fearfully. “Uriel…you need to give me that.”

Uriel looked at her, unsure of what to think. Still holding the handle of the weapon, he pointed it at her for her to take, but Sira immediately cowered, holding her hands up protectively. “Not like that!” She said hurriedly. “Take…the long end…and give it to me by the end you are holding.” She said it as if their lives depended on it. Uriel was suddenly aware of his injuries again.

He did as she told him. Sira took it cautiously, getting to her feet as she slid the weapon into the rear of her armor.

“What is that?” Uriel inquired.

Sira looked at him uncertainly, but he persisted. “Sira, you need to tell me what that is.”

“I can’t.” Sira finally replied, regretfully. “It’s–”

“If you say ‘private’ I swear by Yang I will knock you out.” Uriel growled. Sira looked up at Uriel, who took a step toward her. “That thing just shot me. So whatever it is, I want to know about it, and I want to know right now, or you and I will have a very serious problem.”

For a moment, Sira seemed to question whether or not she could deal with Uriel as an adversary. Reason won out, and she exhaled. “We call it … gunnery.” She explained as though being broken after a long interrogation. “We—the Valkryies—started developing them after what happened in Eden.”

Uriel raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Think about it, Uriel – a weapon where all you have to do is point and pull. The days of drawing back, straining yourself to hit your target? They’re done. And the miniature arrows we use for projectiles travel almost fifty times faster—and farther—than anything thrown.”

Uriel nodded. “I see. But that doesn’t explain how the Seraphim got them.”

“I know.” Sira spat, frustrated. “Gunnery is still a very private project, Uriel. Only a few of us in the order know. Not even Lord Odin knows.”

Uriel looked away, fear creeping up in the pit of his stomach. “Have many of these have you produced?”

“One hundred and seventy-four.”

Uriel’s fear rose as he whipped back to look at Sira, who returned the look with knowing regret.

“Uriel…” Sira said slowly, “This one? The one you gave me?” She shook her head. “We didn’t produce this model. All of our gunnery is white.”

Uriel cursed under his breath. Secret weapons, powerful enough to injure Yang himself, in the hands of these damn children…

“Then where did they get these?” Uriel asked.

“We made them.”

Both Uriel and Sira turned to face the man who had answered their question, the head of the family. Flanked by his family, they had come out of the corner and now stood in the center of the room. The daughter, youngest, held her mother tightly, her arms wrapped around her waist. Everyone else looked as though they were trying to be brave.

Uriel stepped forward as it to accuse, but Sira held up a hand to stop him. “Who are you?” She asked gently.

“My name is Jeremiah.” The man introduced himself, “This is my wife, Alia, and my children, Matthew and Kala. We made that thing—and many more like it—at the request of those people.”

Sira nodded. “How did you come to be here?”

The woman, Alia, shook her head. “We were traveling…the barbarians ambushed us. Our men went to fight them off, but during the battle, there was an avalanche…when we woke up, we were here.”

Uriel exhaled, remembering his own violent passing from Earth to Heaven. This family had passed easier than he had. “And these people,” Sira continued, “They were waiting for you?”

Jeremiah nodded quickly, eager for his story to be told. “We woke up here, in the desert, and they picked us up. They asked my name. When I told them, they demanded I build these…these things for them.”

“And you were able to?” Sira asked.

“Yes.” Jeremiah nodded.

Sira and Uriel exchanged concerned looks. “Jeremiah, tell me.” Sira inquired pleasantly, “What was your occupation before you—back home?”

“I was a blacksmith.” Jeremiah hesitated. “…You’re a Valkryie, aren’t you?”

Sira was surprised. She nodded. The entire family seemed to grow eager. “Are you here to take us to Heaven?”

Both Sira and Uriel were speechless. “We worship lord Yang, ma’am.” Alia said solemnly, “That’s why we agreed to do this; they told us that it was Yang’s order. We knew they were lying when they began to hurt our children.”

Uriel clenched his fists. “The Thanatonians need to be notified,” Uriel Reached to Sira. Her thoughts came back immediately, just as angry.

“No,” She mentally spoke to Uriel. “I’ll take them myself.”

Uriel sorted through the new information in his mind, trying to make sense of it all. The Seraphim had found a way to intervene in the passing cycle, and recover the dead before the Thanatonians were aware of them. To compound matters, the Seraphim seemed to have an intimate knowledge of the happenings in the mortal world, as they were able to select those that were suited to help them achieve their goals.

To make things worse, someone had leaked the methods of gunnery manufacturing to them. They were planning something big.

Uriel looked at Sira and realized that she was drawing the same conclusions. She quickly shook her head; this was not to be discussed in front of strangers. The fact that an Asgardian—maybe even one of the Valkryie—was in league with the Seraphim…it was an almost unstoppable combination.

“Who is Rahab?” The little girl asked suddenly.

Uriel snapped to attention, looking at the girl. “What?” He asked quickly, before Sira could stop him.

“The bad people,” She said softly, “They said Rahab was angry. They said he was going to kill everyone unless he got what they promised him.”

Uriel lost his temper. “I KNEW IT!” He bellowed, stomping away. He hoisted one of the unconscious off of the ground, screaming into his face. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE?! WHAT YOU’VE SET INTO MOTION?! YOU LET THAT THING RUN LOOSE?! YOU MADE ME—”

Uriel shook the boy, who gave no response. He punched the boy once across the face. “YOU RUINED MY LIFE! DAMN YOU! YOU MADE ME KILL ALL OF THOSE CHILDREN! YOU MADE ME KILL THOSE CHILDREN!”

He struck the boy, over and over again, until his face was reduced to a bloody mess. Finally, Sira body-tackled him, knocking him away from the boy’s body. As she sat up, she saw that Uriel was sobbing uncontrollably beneath her.

“They made me do it,” He said, over and over again. “They made me kill them, they made me do it. I didn’t want to, I swear I didn’t, but they made me…”

Sira gulped away pangs of sympathy for Uriel. “What did they do to you?”

When Uriel next opened his eyes, they were crimson. Rage had taken over. He nearly threw Sira off of him as he rose. “The gunnery,” He seethed. “Give it to me.”

Sira stared up at him. Uriel looked at her as if he’d kill her to get it.

“Give it to me, NOW.”

Fearful of what he would do if she didn’t comply, Sira reached to the small of her back, pulling forth the weapon so she could hand it to Uriel properly. For a moment, he stared at her accusingly, and then made his way to the other Seraphim. Without hesitation, he rifled through the robes of the fallen officers and collected seven more weapons. That’s why they went for their hips, they were going for these damn things.

Sliding them into his waistline, he glowered at Sira.

“You take them to Asgard,” Uriel ordered. “They’ve earned it.”

“What’re you going to do?” She inquired worriedly.

“There’s got to be a mirror not far from here.” He replied. “I’m going to find Rahab, and he’s going to confess to me what he did.”

Sira was about to ask if Uriel knew what he was about to do, but she remembered that he was now Heaven’s most wanted fugitive, and he was being hunted by the very people that put him in this position. He had no way out.

She nodded. “Good luck,” she managed.

Uriel didn’t reply. He quickly stepped outside, and the sound of a sandstorm was heard as Uriel lowered into a glide and disappeared from view.

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Chapter Thirteen: First of the Last

(Start at the Beginning)

Day One: Night

Michael and Azrael had been walking for hours, attempting to get closer to the thundering walk. At first, it had been in front of them, but now they felt surrounded by the noise.

In silence, they had exited Beal City through its rear, moving past the charred rubble of the church. A congested forest made up of dark green and purple foliage crept into the outskirts of Beal City as though beginning a natural invasion.

Michael and Azrael cautiously navigated through the thick of this forest, clearing through vines that felt more like snakes: thick, muscular, and slimy to the touch. Gigantic leaves the size of bodies extended from the branches, and the ground beneath the young men’s feet had changed from coarse sand to something damp and shallow, as though they were in the shallowest of swamps. A sour odor emanated from the leaves, affecting Michael’s ability to track.

The sun had descended on their journey, and the branches were so tightly wound together that moonlight could only shoot pinpricks down through the canopy of the forest. In some places, the forest came alive, tightening itself to seal holes and block the light as if rejecting it.
All the while, the calamitous footsteps seemed to engulf them, as though it was the forest itself somehow barreling down upon the hapless residents of Beal City. There was no pinning down the rhythmic origin; it was everywhere at once.

More than once, Michael was almost overcome by a sense of dread accompanied by the thought: we should not be here. Ahead of Azrael by a few paces, Michael wondered how the crossling managed to stay so calm. The chilling atmosphere of the forest didn’t seem to affect him. Growing up in Olymparus, who knows what he’s had to endure…

As Michael used his left forearm to move a shield-sized leaf out of his way, another booming footstep echoed for miles. He came to the sudden, chilling realization that he hadn’t heard a cricket, owl, or any other nocturnal life since the sun set. He and Azrael were the only living beings in the forest.

“We should abandon this.” Azrael said, as if coming to the same realization. Michael turned back to look at Azrael, his arm still keeping the leaf at bay. Azrael met Michael’s stare. “Do you hear that?” Azrael asked as another footstep shook the realm. “Whatever is coming, we may not be able to stand against it–.”

The two angels heard splash behind them, as if something had fallen to the ground. Michael and Azrael immediately grew silent as they vainly looked behind them. We’re being tracked, Azrael Reached for Michael. Michael nodded. I know. Mental silence. They may be using it to track us.

Michael looked at Azrael and nodded over the crossling’s shoulder. Azrael nodded and turned around, soundlessly leaping into the density of the forest and vanishing. Michael glanced up, trying to find a suitable perch—and found it, approximately ten feet away and to the left. Bracing himself, he bound for the outstretched limb and landed silently atop it. The branch wasn’t solid and seemed to buckle under the sudden weight. Michael fought back, maintaining his balance and then squatting.

Within minutes, a shadowed figure passed beneath them slowly and hauntingly. It stopped directly beneath Michael, who gripped his perch as another thunderous step shook the area. It was as though as spirit had been pursuing them, its outer edges blurred and appearing footless.

Spirits don’t fall down.
It was that thought that Michael kept in his mind as he threw himself from the perch and landed atop the solid black spectre. The ‘ghost’ screamed in surprise and pain as Michael brought his foot down on his quarry’s shoulder.

Michael quickly reached down, jerking the stalker to its feet. He wrapped his right forearm under its chin and then locked it into place by placing his right fist inside his left elbow, and simultaneously began to twist and squeeze. Whatever it was, it wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

“J-J-John…” It managed.

Michael recognized the voice and was almost immediately angry. He considered finishing the job…and then released his grip, letting the boy collapse to the ground, where he began coughing as air was forced back into his lungs.

Irritated, Michael looked up at Azrael as he emerged from hiding. Michael looked back down to the boy, who began to pick himself up. “Anders…” Michael said through grit teeth, “One of these days, your stalking is going to get you killed.”

Anders dusted himself off. He had changed clothes since leaving the infirmary. “Eh, I could’ve gotten out of it.” He smirked as he looked at Michael.

“Really?” Michael replied, raising his eyebrows. He reached both hands for Anders, who swayed. “Let me put you back in it, and we’ll see.”

Anders stumbled backwards, and Azrael put his arm between Michael and Anders. “We don’t have time for this.” He said simply. He turned to Anders. “What are you doing here?”

“I was following you.” Anders replied, as though the answer was obvious. “No one ever comes out here.”

“I see why,” Michael grumbled. “You shouldn’t be out here, especially in your condition.”

Anders shook his head, dismissing the notion of danger. “Ah, there’s nothing out here to hurt you, John. Although this forest stinks and it’s creepy. I was hoping you and the Pale One here were going to take it down.”

“Pale one?” Azrael scoffed, offended. “Learn some respect, boy.”

“I’m just kidding.” Anders offered apologetically. “But why else would you be out here? I know you’re warning the Great Wind Gate.“

“The what?” Michael and Azrael spoke simultaneously. Michael pointed to the ground as he spoke.

“Wait a moment. One of the Great Wind Gates is here?”

Anders nodded. He seemed surprised that neither Azrael nor Michael knew this. “Yes, just beyond this forest, not one mile from here. It’s why the city was set up here, to protect it. I’ve never seen it. I was hoping to follow you guys to…”

Michael and Azrael looked to each other in horrific acknowledgement. They both realized at the same time; the footsteps had ceased.

“You mean that’s not why you guys are out here?”

A terrible rumbling coursed through the ground, originating from the path they had not yet traveled. Within seconds, it reached the ground beneath their feet and its intensity doubled.

The crash of a hundred glasses shattering accompanied the sudden stabbing pain that struck Michael’s right foot between his big and middle toes. Before Michael could scream, something sent him flying thirty feet into the air.

The last thing he heard was the agonizing bellow of a creature that was both enraged and in eternal pain. The dark scream literally shook the forest, and Michael, already airborne, was sent flying several feet back towards Beal City. The angry, tortured scream could be heard across the Kingdom, and Michael instinctively covered his ears to save his hearing.

Michael was then caught in the wake of a thousand needles grazing his body, or so it seemed, as shooting pain tore up his legs, torso, and arms. Fresh cuts opened, and Michael felt his strength begin to ebb as his blood was spilled.

How much time had passed?
He felt like he had been flying forever, and now the overpowering stench of methane and sulfur suddenly robbed him of his ability to breathe. He could still hear, although his hands muffled much of it, and the thunderous footsteps he and Azrael had been tracking were dangerously close now. The gargantuan creature was taking its first steps into the Kingdom. Azrael. Where was Azrael? Where was Anders? Had they made it?

Michael was dizzy and nauseous. He tried to center himself; it was glass that had sliced him up…which meant that there was a mirror underground. Was that possible? Michael had heard of the technology, but until now, he hadn’t seen it in action. He no longer doubted its effectiveness.

Some wounds were deeper than others. Removing a hand from his ear, Michael held his chest just under his left breast in a vain attempt to control the bleeding. A dull pain began to set in at the rear of his head. His heart roared inside of him and its chaotic rhythm flooded his entire body. Even his toes throbbed with every pulse. He wouldn’t –couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t open his mouth. He tried to open his eyes; they refused. Panic set in as Michael realized he was losing consciousness.

Still yourself. His father’s words, spoken often when Michael was younger, entered his head. Control your body.

The creature took another step into his Kingdom. It let out another dark shriek, as if celebrating its release from the lake of fire.

Michael forced his eyes open. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could make out the desert floor. The sand was thirty feet below and coming up fast. He wasn’t flying, he was falling.

Michael exhaled first to brace himself. This was still his land, which meant the sulfuric stench would be filtered out. Indeed, the oxygen was beating the sulfur back into hell, and the air was relatively fresh. He inhaled deeply and felt his heart rate return to normal.

The forest was thrashing violently, its thick branches flailing as though it had been injured by the creature’s arrival. As the leaves thrashed they raced through a myriad of colors from the deepest purple to the brightest crimson. Out of his peripheral vision, beneath him, a branch/limb was swinging towards him. Michael performed a semi-flip, diving headfirst towards the branch, and palmed it on his way down. His fingers dug into something wet and soft, and he grunted, nearly snapping his shoulder out of the socket as his grip kept him from falling to the ground.

Michael kept his legs together, propelling himself first backwards, and then forwards. His feet went out ahead of him as he flipped, landing tenuously on the branch. It seemed to respond to his intentions and became still beneath his footing.

At last, Michael could see everything.

Not twenty feet from him was a gaping hole where sand fell over shattered glass, pouring into a bottomless abyss below. Michael knew where that went.

Glowing, orange aqueous fluids ran from the immense, sick-legged creature that plodded slowly away from Beal City. It was surrounded by a host of various humanoid creatures fresh from the lake of fire. Smoke rolled off of rotting flesh, some of which fell lifelessly to the ground, revealing singed bone beneath. Hellfire burned brightest in those spots, grotesquely replacing lost flesh and limbs. A lifeless din could be heard from their combined groaning, and if it could be construed as anything, it may have been relief. These were the ones who received the worst of Yin’s punishment: eternity in the Lake of Fire. These were the Damned. They were being led by the demon Michael had contended with earlier.

A cursory glance didn’t turn up Anders or Azrael, and Michael couldn’t risk Reaching lest the demon key his location. Michael had to trust in Azrael’s resourcefulness.

As the lake melted away from the mammoth creature, Michael could make out smooth, bone-white skin. It had two heads shaped as deformed ovals; the right head seemed nonchalant, content to examine the ground as it passed, taking in the surface with the black eyes of a hammerhead shark. It’s left head seemed more alert. As quickly as its dense neck could manage, its head swung from side to side, surveying the whole of the land. It swung too close to its primal head, and the two crashed. The result was an angry cry from the primal head, quickly returned by a dominating bellow by the intelligent one. The primal head seemed to cower under the shriek of its intelligent counterpart.

A curved horn, two feet high and about an inch thick, completed the look. The intelligent head’s horn reached into the sky, while the primal horn was positioned directly in front of it. It would skewer anything it ran into.

The demon ordered something to the Damned placed at the rear of the beast, and as one, grumbling, they turned, and began to march back towards Beal City. Although Michael couldn’t understand Hellspeak, he knew why the Damned was heading in that direction.
As his injuries healed, Michael hoped that beast’s horns were as brittle as they looked. As if to accommodate him, the branch Michael stood on extended itself and joined with another tree a few feet away.
Michael took one deep breath. The damned would pay him no mind, and the demon…well, the demon would have to wait.

Michael began sprinting along the conjoined branch. Reaching the second branch placed him at the back of the large demon. When he landed, he would have only seconds.

Without missing a step, Michael dropped seven feet from the branch to the coarse scales of the ivory demon. The intelligent head immediately bucked upwards, releasing a questioning growl. It was an effort for Michael not to hold his breath as he continued to sprint along the back of the demon. With its head raised, it’s horn was perfectly placed.
Michael took three steps along the demon’s neck, and the inquiring grumble became an angry snarl. Using the momentum of his run, Michael took a flying leap, chambering his right leg almost to his chest. At the last second, he fired his foot at the base of the intelligent head’s horn. A flash of anguish shot through Michael’s leg—he had put everything he had into that kick—but the result was worth it. The horn cracked, and as Michael passed, he reached out behind him, grabbing the horn with his left hand. With every bit of strength he had, he yanked downward, and the demon hollered in shock and surprise. The horn snapped clean off.

It was instinct from there.

Michael immediately turned to the bewildered demon leader, and in the second their eyes met, Michael saw the flash of recognition pass through its eyes. Michael didn’t allow him a word, slashing wide with the horn and opening a gash in the demon an inch deep. Viscous green fluid exploded outward, and the black demon shrieked as it fell to the ground.

A shadow loomed over Michael. He immediately dodged to the right, barely avoiding something that crashed to the ground where he once was. The head of intelligence had just tried to consume him. Fear quickly shot through Michael as he clasped the horn with both hands. He was now between both heads.

Without thought, Michael turned to the primal head and saw the apex of its horn coming for him. Michael leapt and deftly landed atop the horn. Before the demon could react, Michael sprinted to the top of its head and slashed from right to left, cutting through flesh to brain matter. He brought the horn back, deepening the wound. He then raised the horn above his head and stabbed downward, impaling the demon’s brain. He continued to push inward–

“AAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Michael shrieked involuntarily as a pair of teeth closed around his midsection and left arm, and suddenly he was torn away from the primal head and again, he was moving quickly through the air. This time, it wasn’t freely. Michael clenched his eyes, grit his teeth, and fought to keep his sense of orientation. The pain was almost unbearable. He realized that the intelligent head had gotten the drop on him, and he was now between its jaws. Two rows of shark-like teeth now held him firmly, and Michael was nearly immobile. He managed to open his eyes, catching the irate gaze of the demon. It wanted to make him suffer.

Through the impossible pain and unyielding terror of being eaten alive, Michael remembered; the horn was in his right hand. And he was not dead yet.

Michael inverted his grip on the horn. He raised his hand and began to violently stab at the beast’s face, striking anywhere he could. It became a battle of wills. Michael felt his strength again begin to fade, the pain of knives stabbing his entire body intensified as the demon began to clench its teeth around Michael’s body. Michael stabbed at the creature’s nose and open mouth. It began to bleed, but the damage wasn’t nearly enough to be mortal.

With the last of his energy, and in a bout of sheer determination, Michael brought his hand back one last time and plunged the horn into the demon’s eye. It immediately burst, orange fluid raining down. It screamed in pain, and as it opened its mouth, Michael tumbled out and landed in a heap on the ground.

His mother’s robe tie instantly went to work. Michael, clutching the horn, lay on his stomach, trying to find the energy to rise. He could still hear the demon shrieking above him. Get up, get up…GET UP!!!!

Michael pushed himself to his feet and sprinted towards the demon, whose head was raised as it tried to dull the pain of being blinded. Its primal head lay limp and lifeless at the side.

Michael climbed atop the primal head, sprinted along its head, and then leapt towards the neck of the intelligent heat. As he passed, he slashed downwards. The neck gave no resistance as the horn passed through it, and the demon’s head landed before Michael touched down.

Michael caught his breath without looking back. Holding the horn as his injuries healed themselves, Michael looked to the shocked demon leader, who was trying to hide its surprise.

There was a final, thunderous boom behind him, this one harmless. With no accompanying roar of intimidation and its threat passed, the creature fell to the Kingdom dead, and Michael began his advance towards the demon that had brought it here.

del.icio.us Tags: Universal Warrior,Chapter Thirteen,Book One: Uprising,Michael,Azrael,Anders

Chapter Twelve: Battle Plans

(Start at the Beginning)

Day One: Midday

Raphael had followed Odin to the Banquet Hall following their conversation in front of Thor’s memorial. Every Asgardian had gathered and a few distinguished members of the Holy Sefiroth, including First Lieutenant Khamiel, had been invited. Metatron, the Preeminence of the Holy Sefiroth, was notably absent.

The regal Banquet Hall was long, composed of polished white marble with black splashes throughout its design. Among the largest buildings in the land, three domes comprised its roof. Its center dome stood higher than the others on each side, and the Asgardian flag blew proudly in a calm breeze. The twin marble doors had been left open in light of the day’s event.

A few Angels and Asgardians were conversing outside. By the time Raphael arrived, Odin was mingling with the populace, and as always, he was smiling. Raphael had been all but ignored as he had arrived; it was something he’d grown used to. Even before the senseless deaths of over three thousand children, the effectiveness of the Holy Sefiroth had been called into question for allowing this war to go on for so long. Since the slaughter, questions had become accusations. After four hundred years, everyone was ready for some type of resolution. Raphael understood that.

The king-chefs of the Asgardian Banquet Hall had put their best efforts into the day’s meal, and Raphael was immediately greeted by the aroma of freshly baked bagels, pancakes, and newly cooked, sizzling pork. The king-chefs were hard at work on the left side of the room, and Raphael smiled as he observed them. With the precision skilled masters, they quickly diced ingredients and prepared dishes made to order. Everyone in Asgard was some type of fighting genius, and only Odin could handle a knife like the king-chefs.

Conversations were going on throughout the hall, creating a low cacophony of voices throughout the room. Raphael moved through the room as a protective agent, surveying everything, ensuring that he knew where the exits were, and sizing people up to determine who might panic or try to be a hero in case of a crisis. Raphael had been a soldier for a very long time; such instincts were second nature to him.

At the head of the room, seated at a rectangular table draped with the decorative cloth, was Yang. He leaned forward, hands folded beneath his chin. He appeared to have something on his mind. The table Yang was sitting at had room for four others, and Raphael did a quick mental check to account for the others traditionally seated for an occasion such as this; Yang, Odin, Metatron, Dominion…who is missing?

As if he’d heard Raphael’s thoughts, Yang raised his eyes to meet Raphael’s. Without changing positions, Yang merely gestured, nodding his head towards the chair at his immediate right—the one reserved for Odin. Raphael scowled, not understanding. When Yang’s gaze didn’t falter, an uncertain Raphael moved towards the table. Yang lowered his eyes as Raphael reached the opposing side. Raphael stole a quick glance towards the crowd, and no one seemed to mind, much less notice, what he was doing. He almost felt as though he was getting away with something as he came around the table and took a seat at Yang’s right hand.

Odin had entered shortly thereafter. He quickly saw the seating arrangement and made eye contact with Raphael, who silently apologized. Across the room, Odin appeared to laugh. Yang showed no reaction. Raphael felt like the punch line in a joke. Raphael also noticed, for the first time, that he could hear the otherworldly sounds of an epic battle going on behind him. Fierce screams emanated as metal clashed against itself, followed by the sound of something hurting or dying—yet again. It would be healed or reborn momentarily. As a youth, Raphael found it odd that Odin had chosen to seat a house of celebration behind a house of the dead. As he became more seasoned, Raphael understood without ever getting an explanation. Never forget, not even more a moment, that we are at war.

If Raphael had one concern about his one-time mentor, it was wondering what Odin would do when the war came to an end.

Odin quickly emceed the ceremonies after coming to the podium behind the table. Three hundred women had participated in the most recent training seminar, and a record four of them were being graduated as Valkryies. The women arrived at the ceremony dressed in black Valkryie armor, save for the helm. The graduation saw each woman take a knee and lower her head before Odin, who would complete her armor by placing the helm upon her head. They knelt as women, but they would rise as Valkryies.

As the ceremony drew to a close, Raphael had silently excused himself, heading for the front door and the library a few miles away. Yang had appeared at his right. “Raphael,” he began, keeping his voice low so the departing crowd would not overhear, “The cabinet is meeting.” He looked directly into Raphael’s eyes. “Join us.”

With that, Yang walked away. Raphael stared after him, mouth agape. Just like that, he had been appointed to a council that oversaw the affairs of Heaven, Earth, and all worlds in between.

Raphael remembered, before he retired, that he was the Third Lieutenant in the Holy Sefiroth. Now, flying with Odin and Yang towards the Assembly room off of Odin’s land, he felt like a child among giants.

Raphael landed behind Odin and Yang at the raised marble platform that led to the Assembly room. The structure was comprised of archways on its left side that allowed those passing through a scenic view of Elysium. Formerly a resting place for ranking deities who did not wish to go to Valhalla wound up here, an airborne grassy knoll off the eastern coast of Asgard. Since the massacre at Eden, the young survivors had been taken in by Kronos and Zeus, who now held sway over the land.

Odin often teased Zeus, his younger, brother about his natural paternalism, which contrasted to his savage battle reputation. The Assembly room was made of the same material as Valhalla, and as such, it was fairly dark inside. There was one small window on each wall of the room, allowing for minimal beams of sunlight to pass into the room at a downward angle. The room appeared poured, molded, and then allowed to cool into its final shape. Three onyx torch holders lined each wall above each window. A square table rose out of the floor, although there were no chairs. This was not a room in which one sat. This was a room where fate was decided.

Three other invited members were present, standing on opposite ends of the table, lost in their own thoughts. Yang entered first, flanked by Odin, to his right, and Raphael, on the left. Raphael immediately recognized Khamiel, who still bore injuries from that fateful battle at Eden. Archas, who represented the Earth-born Pangaean nation, was also present, although he seemed troubled. The other Angel was unfamiliar; young, confident, untested, and dressed in a derivative of the Seraphim garb. He bore a smaller version of the Holy Sefiroth flag on both shoulders, something which marked him as–

Raphael took a deep breath, immediately apprehensive. This is the Seraphim Leader.

As the three turned to bow, Yang immediately waved them off, proceeding to his place at the head of the table. “We don’t need to bother with that,” he spoke quickly. “We have business at hand.” As Odin passed Khamiel, the two acknowledged each other with a smile and nod. The Seraphim Leader—the boy—only received a nod.

Raphael took the spot opposite Yang at the end of the table. With his good hand, he touched the table for the first time. Cold, like the rest of the room…

“Archas,” Yang began, addressing the green-garbed, middle-aged Angel, “What of Earth?” Archas leaned against the table, bracing himself on his hands as though a weight lifted from his shoulders. Raphael wondered what could’ve been so urgent.
“My Lord,” Archas spoke gravely, “The civilized people of the Pangaean nation are being persecuted by the savages of the land, and they cry out for help. I would like to give it to them.”

“If it’s a human conflict,” Yang replied, “Then the humans need to resolve it. We cannot interfere directly.”

“I’m not suggesting we do, my Lord. But their civilization is being decimated simply for worshipping us. We gave our word to shepherd them. I’m simply requesting that we keep our promise.”

Raphael was moved by Archas’ devotion to his charges. Archas knew the names of every last sentient being on the planet, including those who had perished. He took each life as his personal responsibility.

“We don’t interfere.” Yang reiterated firmly. “Doing so would violate the treaty both myself and Yin agreed too. I will not go back on my word.”

“You’ll be going back on your word, no matter which path you take,” Odin said, “If a promise must be broken here, we should break the promise that may save lives.”

“What would you have us do?” Yang inquired in a challenging manner. “Provide the civilized transients with our weapons? They’d accelerate their own self-annihilation. Would you send the Valkryie order to fight their battle? What would keep them from calling for the Valkryies every time they encountered a crisis? What would they do when the Valkryies did not appear?”

“Don’t employ sarcasm with me.” Odin said darkly. “I’m not suggesting we eliminate a campfire with a monsoon. But you lived and died a ‘transient’ life, Yang.” Odin replied coldly. “You know what they face. They’re being hunted to extinction because you taught them to worship us. Pray, and it shall be delivered unto you, isn’t that how it works?”

Yang said nothing. Odin leaned in towards Yang, his eyes blazing. “They’re praying, Yang. We must deliver.” Yang held Odin’s stare for a moment, and then turned back to Archas. “What are the Pangaeans praying for?”

“An end to their war, swift healing to their injuries, their missing returned…a common prayer seems to be a wish that they reach the Northern lands. They’ll be provided shelter by those who have learned to use the frozen tundra to their advantage. The natives have constructed a fortress from the ice and manufactured large weapons, meant to hold off large-scale attacks. The savages won’t come within one hundred feet. ” Archas paused, as his proposal appeared to be given consideration. “It’s a long journey,” he continued, “And there is a mountain range to be traversed. Their children may not survive the journey.”

“Then we give them aid at the mountains.” Raphael spoke, having heard all he needed to hear to formulate a strategy.

“How so?” Yang inquired, “We cannot destroy an entire mountain range.”

“No,” Raphael immediately replied, “But we can shake the fabric of the earth enough to open a small path through the mountains that will open at the North. We can lead the believers to this passage.”

“How?” Yang persisted. Raphael noticed Odin smiling approvingly at him and continued. “Buffalo herds still run wild throughout Pangaea,” Raphael concluded. “Move the buffalo along the route they need to take. They’ll be given food for the long journey and the clothes will shelter them from the cold.” This was Raphael’s first submission as a member of the cabinet, and he was pleased to see that it was being approved.

Yang nodded, a smile forming across his face. “So be it.” He looked at Archas. “Go. Make it so.” Archas nodded, bowing gratefully. “Thank you, my Lord.” As he prepared to exit, he quickly glanced to Raphael.

“And thank you, sir.” Raphael smiled slightly, bowing his head. He looked back up to catch Odin, who was proudly looking at him. “Ever the battle commander, eh?”
“I am as you made me, Odin.” Raphael acknowledged.

“If I may, my Lord,” The Seraphim Leader addressed Yang with a confidence that sickened Raphael. Forget participating in a battle; had this boy even heard of one?

“Yes, yes, Cutler, I know. Is this the usual business concerning Uriel?” Yang replied, irritated. At the mention of Uriel’s name, Raphael snapped to attention.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Cutler continued, the confidence gone from his tone. “But the…Angel has begun killing my soldiers. If you lift your immunity, I can marshal a garrison after him and bring this savage to justice.”

Raphael frowned. Uriel is killing Seraphim? Good for him. Why?

Yang shook his head. “Cutler, I understand your frustration, and I understand you are trying to do the job your order was created for…but I can’t do that. I oversaw Uriel as a mortal, long before he became a commanding officer in the Seraphim. He has always maintained a code of honor. If he’s killing your soldiers, there’s a reason. I will not lift the immunity. I want Uriel brought here, alive, to answer directly to me for what he’s done.”

For the briefest of moments, Cutler seemed enraged. It passed quickly. Cutler nodded, his voice tense as he spoke. “As you wish, my Lord. But as long as my hands are tied in the pursuit of this fugitive, he continues to be a threat against the Kingdom.”

“Sounds like he’s more of a threat against you.” Raphael interjected. He then turned to Yang. “Why is Uriel wanted?”

Yang shook his head. “I can’t go into that right now.” Yang re-addressed Cutler. “But my order stands. Your men are not to go out of their way to arrest Uriel. If you see him in the commission of a crime, do what you must, otherwise, leave him be.”

“Yes, Lord. But my people must be free to defend themselves.”

Yang shrugged. “It’s their lives. I advise you to commit your efforts elsewhere.” Cutler nodded, shooting Raphael a dark look. Raphael nearly reached for the sword at his hip.

“Khamiel,” Yang said, addressing the patient, wounded Angel, “Where is Metatron?”

“With due respect, Lord Yang,” Khamiel replied, his voice deep and thick with the accent of one native of the scorched hunting lands to the East. “Metatron has asked that I deliver this information to you before I speak on that.”

This was perplexing, but Yang nodded, gesturing with his hand. “Speak.” He invited. This was the first check-in from the Holy Sefiroth since the Slaughter of the Innocents; nothing could be taken for granted. If Metatron couldn’t be here, there was a good reason for it.

Before Raphael’s eyes, the top of the table began to shimmer as though light was attempting to break through. The light flattened on the surface of the table and came together to form a transparent map of all Heaven. Raphael, awestruck, reached down to touch the map, and his hand passed through the light harmlessly. As he surveyed the landscape, he saw that the map was almost current. The destruction of Heaven’s biggest cities, and the attack on the Capitol earlier that day were represented. An unwelcome flash of familiarity passed through Raphael as he remembered the dying Valkryie.

“Sir,” Khamiel said to Yang as Odin stepped in to look over the map. “We should move the Holy Sefiroth out of the main cities. Yin’s focus no longer appears to be on Yethra or Yevah…” Khamiel touched the map as he spoke the names of the two cities, and the blue flag of the Holy Sefiroth appeared in each location to signify their presence there. Each of Khamiel’s touches appeared to be drops of water, rippling throughout the map.

“The attacks have been reduced?” Yang inquired. “No,” Khamiel quickly replied, “They’ve stopped altogether. We haven’t seen so much as an imp in nearly a year.” All present were stymied by this new information. “It makes sense,” Khamiel spoke easily, as though addressing groups of people came naturally to him. He gestured with his free arm. “The combined population of Yethra and Yevah once exceeded seven million. There are now less than two hundred Angels between both cities. Yethra and Yevah are ghost towns. Everyone else has been driven inward, towards the safety of the capitol city.”

“That safety has been compromised.” Raphael sharply interjected. He pointed towards the Capitol, but didn’t touch the map. “The Capitol building was attacked earlier today.”

“We know.” Khamiel returned. “Had we been here, we may have been able to drive them off.” “What if…” Raphael spoke the words as they came to him, “…what if this was Yin’s entire plan in the first place? The Holy Sefiroth is spread thin all across the Kingdom, our major cities lie in ruin, everyone is gathered in one place…why kill an ant when you can crush the hill?”

Odin and Yang reeled. “We need to recall the Sefiroth. Immediately.” Yang seethed.
“I’ll send a Valkryie unit in the meantime.” Odin assured Yang, his voice grave. “What about the Seraphim?” Raphael asked, challenging Cutler, who immediately looked at him, “It’ll take the Holy Sefiroth at least a day to return here, double that for the fastest Valkryie, but the Seraphim can appear anywhere they wish simply by envisioning that location.”

Cutler nodded, looking to Yang. “I agree.” The answer surprised both Odin and Raphael. “We could hold off almost anything Yin could send our way.” Yang shook his head, placing on arm on Cutler’s shoulders. “I appreciate your willingness, but your charge must take precedence.”

Yang turned Raphael. “We should be able to hold off for one day.” “So long as Yin doesn’t send all of Hell our way, we should.” Raphael grumbled. Yang ignored him, turning back to Khamiel. “Now, about Metatron?”

Khamiel took a deep breath as he braced himself for what was coming. “He’s missing, my lord.”

“WHAT?!” The response was involuntary from Raphael, but everyone present had the same reaction. “He has not been seen since the Slaughter of the Innocents.” Khamiel finished. “We believe he may have been captured.”

Raphael began to pace. Metatron was one of Heaven’s most powerful, and knowledgeable Angels. He had led the Holy Sefiroth for almost two centuries. He had been wounded more than a dozen times in battle and hadn’t missed an encounter since the day he enlisted. He could even withstand exposure to Hell for limited periods of time. He’d done so in the past. He was as tough as they came.

There was no way Metatron would ever crack under pressure, but Yin had horrible ways of keeping someone alive—and everyone had their breaking point. Still, Metatron had such a powerful life force that everyone in Heaven would feel it when he died. Raphael was certain; Metatron was still alive.

“How certain are you that he’s been captured?” Raphael asked.

“The information I passed along was given to me in a Reach, although he seemed under duress,” Khamiel responded. Raphael exhaled.

“Then I’m going to go get him.”

Yang exhaled, nodding. “I figured that you would say that. Bring him back to us, Raphael, but remember, you have a duty to fulfill here in two days.” Raphael nodded.

“Yes, my Lord.” Raphael had no faith in the Nexus Stone plan, nor did he have any illusions about what he was about to do. He had never been to Hell, and Metatron was the only one who had made the journey and come back. Getting Heaven’s greatest commanding officer away from the enemy took priority over any half-baked plan Yang might have come up with to end this conflict.

Raphael shot a last look at Odin, who nodded respectfully at him. Before Raphael could depart, Khamiel called for him. “Raphael,” He said simply, “I am going with you.”

Raphael opened his mouth, and Khamiel opened his hand to hold him off. “I don’t want to hear about my injuries. If I wasn’t a capable soldier, I wouldn’t have been promoted to your rank after you retired. Metatron is my commanding officer as well. I owe him this.” After a moment, Raphael nodded. “Alright.”

Side by side, Raphael and Khamiel exited the Assembly Hall. From there, they would descend into the bowels of Asgard – into Nifleheim, where the bodies of Odin’s family lay in icy repose. They would pass into Tartarus, Hell’s first circle, and then into the fiery mainland itself. Raphael planned to rescue Metatron no matter what it took. He did not expect to return home.

Chapter Eleven: Allegiance

Chapter One: Michael

Day One: Mid-Day

Standing one foot apart, facing each other and awash in their own energies, their fists struck the ground in unison. Azrael was grateful that his fading Thanatonian powers had not left him completely.

There was a rumble accompanied by slight shaking beneath the ground as the desert floor opened, and sand disappeared into the void.

Then the water came. It erupted with such force that Azrael and his former opponent were knocked backwards as the energized geyser tore a hole in the ground that was nearly four feet wide. Azrael watched, almost in awe, as the water flew high in the air and angled left before descending upon the burning church.

Azrael got to his feet, followed closely by the young man who had attacked him. As he watched the water attack the church, something strange happened. Moments before the fire touched down on the burning roof of the church, the fire appeared to scatter; it opened in a circular pattern from the water’s ground zero, revealing badly charred, blackened wood beneath. When the water struck the roof, there was a piercing, otherworldly growl. Something had been hurt.

Azrael realized what they were dealing with. He fought hopelessness as he realized the water would not be enough. But it bought time, and maybe that was all they needed.

Azrael stole a quick glance as the young man beside him suddenly raced for the church. Apparently, they were thinking alike.

The two were drizzled by the water that battled the fire, holding it in a stalemate. The fire flared purple methane to fuel itself: it was fighting back. In some places on the church, the water could hold it off, and in others, the water was evaporated. Steam began to rise from the base of the smoldering building. Not much time.

As Azrael and his partner arrived at the rear wall, it was completely enflamed. Azrael observed for a moment as the young man beside him raised his right leg and immediately fired two side-style kicks into the wall fearlessly. He was able to fire two more before lowering his leg to the ground, but he had been able to kick a small hole in the wall, clear through to the interior.

Azrael was momentarily intrigued; the ability to use ones legs while fighting originated with the Ambrose clan. The clan had fallen out of favor in the Kingdom after…after an incident no one spoke of. He had heard that the clan had been wiped out after being exiled, and their fighting style had died with them. Either this boy was trained before the Ambrose’s were killed, or he was a survivor.

The answers would have to wait. The purple flame began to roll over itself, trying to seal the hole the boy had just made.

Azrael unwittingly pushed the young man aside, removing the top half of his robe. Azrael tore it in half down the middle and quickly made circular motions with his hands, wrapping the halves into protective gear around his fists. When they were solid, Azrael began to pound away at the wood near where the young man had made the hole. Beside him, the young man began shooting his foot into the opposing side of the hole. Seconds later, the geyser still raining down on them and holding the fire at bay, they fired in unison, each putting all of their strength into a single reverse punch that opened the hole to a gaping four feet.

Azrael stepped over the jagged wood, crouching beneath the top half of the hole to enter the church. The children, bound and gagged to the two support beams in the center, began to squirm in their bindings, wriggling as best they could to face Azrael. Some of them had been crying for hours, and their gags had loosened from the panicked tears and sweat that soaked their innocent faces.

Azrael noted that the water was beginning to beat back the fire. Purple flames, accompanied by the repugnant smell of sulfur and methane, began to appear within the walls, as if eager for the children within. The flames bellowed, and its screams bounced against the walls of the church interior, creating a haunting echo.

Behind him, as the young man climbed through the hole, the wood splintered under his footing, and the young man lost his balance. Azrael quickly took hold of him as he fell forward, jerking him inside just as the rear wall came crashing down with a thunderous roar. Azrael and his partner both gasped as they watched the wood collapse. “Thanks.” The young man offered.

Azrael didn’t reply. He quickly got to his feet, turning to the first support beam. The children screamed through their gags, eyes wide in raw horror as they begged Azrael to set them free. The young man moved behind him to the support beam closest to the front door, crouching, and going to work. Azrael could hear the young man speaking softly, trying to reassure the kids that everything would be alright.

With the ties loosened, the children sprung to their feet, instinctively racing for the open-ended rear of the church. At the top of his peripheral vision, Azrael caught purple fire snaking into the underside of the roof. Slowly, it began to rain down solid, foul-smelling material. One of the children shrieked in sudden agony as superheated molten rock landed on her bare foot. Azrael grabbed her, pulling her backwards as the fire completed itself, forming a continuous wall that completely blocked their exit. To compound matters, with natural air cut off, Azrael was almost immediately dizzy as the combined stench of sulfur and methane flooded the room.

“ANDERS!! Give me a hand!!”

The voice originated behind Azrael, who held a hand to his mouth in an attempt to filter the horrid odor. The children were coughing violently as some fell to their knees, fingers digging into their chest as they fought for air.

Azrael turned to the sealed front door of the church, where he could hear the residents clamoring at the door, frantically trying to get to their children. The young man held a limp figure in his arms, and was alternating legs as he kicked at the wall beside the door. Holding the boy was hindering his movement, and the frustration was evident in his voice. Outside, Azrael could hear someone pounding relentlessly on the wall.

Azrael removed his hand, but as he went to speak, he inhaled needles of sulfur and was sent into a coughing fit. He gestured to the children as best he could, motioning for them to go to the front of the church, away from the hellfire wall. Its flames had begun to snake inward, creating molten tracks as it moved with a will of its own along the inside of the church roof. What happened to the water?!

With a final cry, the young man was able to blast a hole clear through to the outside, where hands immediately reached in, almost in a frenzy trying to reach their children. The young man, worn from inhaling so much sulfur, fell to his knees and clutched his stomach, doubled-over. Each attempt to draw in fresh air became a savage coughing fit.

Azrael’s lungs felt like overinflated balloons inside his chest. He raced across the church to its front, and cleared a path between all of the children trying to escape the fire and return to the safety of their parents. “Get back—“He forced, his voice muffled by his inability to breathe, “GET BACK FROM THE WALL!” It was as much to the children as it was to their parents, and the children were quicker to comply. The hellfire was now more than a third of the way into the church. Azrael noted that the young man behind him had stopped coughing. Stopped moving.

His fists mirrored each other as he readied a double-punch and then fired it into the wall. In a single shot, nearly a third of the wall exploded outward, and the children ran freely into the fresh air.
There was a tremendous angry bellow behind him, followed by the rapid crunching of many bones breaking. Azrael chanced a look back and saw that the fire was literally eating the church, immolating its walls and reducing them to charred splinters. It was happening at the rear and was rapidly drawing nearer, coming for them.

Azrael quickly bent down and scooped up the young man, draping one arm over his shoulder. With no air and no time left, Azrael took two steps towards freedom and threw himself forward. The church exploded outward immediately afterwards in a final bid to claim them. Azrael and the young man rolled freely along the sand. As children were tightly embraced by grateful families, Azrael drew in fresh air and got to his feet. Beside him, the young man slowly regained consciousness. He rolled onto his stomach and looked at the church.

The water was indeed gone. The fire, engulfing the entire church, rumbled menacingly. It began to tornado, swirling into a vortex as the rumble began a raging shriek. The tornado rose into the sky as though it might reach Purgatory, and then dove down back onto itself. It completely obliterated the church, sending sharpened wood fragments throughout the city. Azrael, and everyone else there, dove for cover.
When they rose, the fire and the church were gone. Only a black spot and the receding smell of sulfur, like newly rotted eggs, remained. Azrael understood the hellfire’s rage. For all of its efforts, it had not claimed a single life.

Thirty minutes later, the entire town was gathered in its city hall. It had been converted to a hospital, and those that knew how were tending to the wounded. Azrael had only suffered mild sulfur inhalation. He refused medical attention; he’d dealt with worse.
He was uncomfortable making his way through the mammoth building. All around him, joyful mothers and fathers clutched their grateful children as though they would never again let go. They cried, they gave thanks, and when they saw Azrael pass by, they looked at him with their eyes brimming with tears of gratitude that couldn’t be articulated.

When he had first entered the town hall, he was nearly bowled over by a child than ran into him full-tilt, wrapping her arms around his legs and embracing him tightly. “Thank you, sir.” She had whispered, meaning every word. Azrael hadn’t known how to react. He didn’t touch the little girl; he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t seem to notice, only looking up to him with bright brown eyes and smiling. Azrael noted she was young; she didn’t have all of her adult teeth yet. Luckily, her mother called her, and she turned and skipped away. Azrael watched her go, unable to process these new emotions. Now, he just wanted to get out of there.

Azrael’s mind went back to his childhood in Olymparus, growing up in badlands between Heaven and Hell. The product of a fallen angel and the woman who tried to redeem him, he had been raised with more toughness than love. It wasn’t something he had a problem with; crossling children weren’t welcomed by either side and his father’s harshness had made him strong. His mother’s gentle hand had taught him right from wrong, but his father ensured that neither he nor his twin brother would ever be victims.

So faced with a joyous situation such as this, Azrael wasn’t quite sure how to behave. It wasn’t for him; he had done his duty, and it was time for him to be on his way.

Before he reached the front entrance, Azrael caught a spectacle off to his right. The young man was surrounded by the town’s girls, but his attention was focused on a boy who was being treated for what appeared to be whip injuries. The young man looked up, locking eye contact with Azrael, who immediately turned away. Damn.
Azrael increased his pace and exited through the front door. He took a quick glance back to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, and then began to lower himself into a glide–

“HEY!!”

Azrael grit his teeth, cursing under his breath as he righted himself. Ready for a confrontation, Azrael slowly turned, half-facing the young man as he jogged from the entrance to city hall, approaching Azrael.

“Thank you,” The young man said gratefully, nodding, “For saving my life back there.”

Azrael was relieved, but showed no body language. “You’re welcome.” He replied. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“That fighting style you use,” The young man persisted, “You’re from Olymparus, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” Azrael inquired neutrally.

“The rapid hand movements.” The young man answered quickly, knowing what he was talking about. “It’s a derivative of a style based on animal movements. I read some of the fallen angels started it.”
Azrael said nothing. The young man hesitated. “Are you…are you one of the fallen angel?”

Azrael was silent. The young man exhaled. “Look,” He said gently, “I’m sorry that I attacked you. I was in the wrong. You saved those children in there. Your heart is obviously in the right place—“

“Then what does it matter if I’m a fallen angel or not? My allegiance is to the Kingdom. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” Azrael retorted. The fact that he had taken offense was evident in his voice. The young man said nothing. Azrael turned to face him fully. “Your fighting style.” Azrael said accusingly, “The ability to fight with one’s legs originated with the Ambrose clan. I had heard that they were all killed. So are you a student…or a survivor?”

The young man blinked twice, looking away. He nodded, understanding what Azrael was saying. “Some questions are better left unanswered, aren’t they?” Azrael finished. He extended his hand as a friendly gesture. “My name is Azrael. What’s yours?”

The young man accepted the gesture, shaking his wrist. “John.” He answered. Azrael had to stifle a chuckle; the man was clearly lying, but one’s business was their own. ‘John’ must’ve read Azrael’s eyes, because he followed up with, “The head of the Ambrose clan; he trained me alongside his son as a favor.”

Of course he did.

“Well, John.” Azrael said, taking his hand back, “It’s been a pleasure, but if you’ll excuse me, I have business to see to.”
Azrael turned around. “What kind of business?” John inquired.
“My business.”
“The kind of business that takes you to Asgard, right?”
Azrael was stunned. How does he…?

As Azrael turned to face John again, John had pulled a familiar-looking parchment bearing Yang’s seal from the inside of his flannel. “My allegiance,” John spoke genuinely, “is also to the Kingdom.”

“Then you know why I have to go.” Azrael said quietly. “Asgard is at least a thousand miles from here. We have two days to get there.”
“I don’t care if you’re an Olympic-level glider.” John quickly returned. “You’ll never cover that kind of distance in two days. There has to be another way. You ever think we’re here for a reason?”

“What reason would that be?” Azrael asked flippantly. He was in no mood for signs, coincidences, or a lesson in either.

“How’d you know about that fire?” John asked. Azrael said nothing.
“Okay, fine, pull the stoic act.” John said quickly. “But the point is; you knew people were in trouble and you came to help. Maybe that’s why Yang chose you.”

Yang didn’t choose me…this was what Azrael wanted to say. “You’re right, I did. But now that I’ve done that, I have my duties to attend to.”

“Azrael,” John pushed, “Can’t you see there’s something happening here? These people are being oppressed in their own homes by demons. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“John, we are at war!” Azrael spat, his tone at its loudest. “The innocent are oppressed and killed on a daily basis. For now, this is the way of things. If we are accepted at Asgard, then maybe we can make a difference. But we have to think of the greater good. Do we save one village at the expense of losing a war?”

“When we’re made aware of the village’s suffering, then YES, WE DO!!!” John roared back. “If we’re in a position to save one life, then we should do it!”

It was times like this when Azrael forced himself to remember that not everyone was from the Legion, and not everyone had provided escort for hundreds of recently deceased. “You have your convictions,” Azrael said, composing himself. “And I have mine. I hope to see you again in two days.”

“Have it your way.” John growled. He pointed at Azrael. “But you’re leaving people to die, Azrael. Live with that.”

As John angrily turned back to city hall, there was an immense booming noise in the distance, as though someone had dropped ten tons outside of town, behind what remained of the church. The ground shook with such violence that both Azrael and John lost their balance and fell.

The residents came rushed out of city hall, fearful that the building would collapse on top of them.

For a moment, all was eerily silent. Azrael and John, looking into the distance, got to their feet.

A colossal booming noise. The ground shook. Silence.
Then another.
Then another.

Something howled a deep, piercing cry that could be heard for miles. It lasted for five seconds, and then silence.

“Everyone.” John said quietly, fiercely, “Get inside.”

The residents quickly shuffled back into city hall as the booms resumed. The ground shook with a little more force and the booms became louder. Fear shot through Azrael.

Whatever it is, it’s a behemoth, and it’s on its way here.

A dark revelation crept into Azrael’s mind as he realized what must be done.

These people will be slaughtered because we chose to interfere.

His mother had instilled in him the necessity to take responsibility for one’s own actions. They had started this fight, and now they had to finish it.

“John,” Azrael said silently. “For now…I am with you. We need to keep that monster away from this city.”

John shot Azrael a look of surprise. There was another boom as the creature took a slow, plodding step. “Whatever it takes,” Azrael said sincerely.

John nodded, extending his hand. “Whatever it takes,” he echoed.
Azrael took hold of John’s wrist, and shook firmly. No matter their fate, they would see this through to the end.

Without another word, they released each other’s hands. They turned back towards where the church had stood only hours earlier. Slowly, they began to walk towards whatever was coming, and whatever battle awaited them.

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Chapter Ten: The Regent Returns

Chapter One: Michael

Chapter Nine: Inferno

Day One: Mid-Day

Tired and sweating, with his hands wrapped in cloth torn from his robe, Uriel knelt before the mirror, which now lay frameless and flat on the ground. As he lowered himself, he fired his right fist into the mirror’s center. The glass immediately fractured, spiderwebbing into many fragments and revealing the sand floor.

It had taken nearly four hours to complete the task. Uriel rose and allowed himself a deep breath and the satisfaction of a job well done.
The destruction of a mirror was a painstaking process. Uriel’s experience had taught him that if it was done wrong, the consequences were disastrous. Everyone present at the destruction of the first mirror had learned the first and most important rule; never shatter the glass first.

Had the frame been smaller, Uriel could’ve done the job bare-handedly. Since this mirror was exponentially larger than any he had seen before it, he had been forced to scour Rendam for tools. Upon finding some, he had torn apart the frame piece by piece, cutting up his hands in the process.

It appeared that the old man slain by the Seraphim was the last resident of Rendam. There was an invisible, but almost tangible, sense of anger that permeated Uriel’s being as he journeyed throughout the town in search of equipment, but not another living soul. Uriel remembered that after the mountain’s first eruption, the few survivors had refused to abandon their city. Instead, they became the first line of defense should the mountain explode again. It was a duty they took seriously, all the way to their graves.

What the mountain had begun with the town’s populace, the Seraphim had finished. Uriel took a little comfort in knowing that he had at least avenged the senseless death of the man who had been kind to him.
He was surprised that the Seraphim hadn’t sent anyone to check on their comrade. Uriel knew he had been lucky before, catching the one off-guard. He wasn’t about to take his chances with a unit, especially if they were ready for him. If they were coming, he needed to be somewhere else. There was nothing left for him in Rendam, anyway—or anywhere else. Between the Holy Sefiroth and the Seraphim, it was just a matter of time until he was caught.

If he chose to run.

Standing in the center of a ghost town, Uriel made a fateful decision.
The Nexus Stone plan was a joke; if Yang succeeded, he’d be creating something far more powerful, and likely far worse, than the Seraphim. Uriel wouldn’t be party to that. He was just a soldier; he cleaned up the mess without contributing to it.

Fugitive or not, he had come into extremely privileged information; the Seraphim, touted as the finest Heaven had to offer, were importing demons and killing them. It may have seemed like a good idea in theory, but there had to be more to it than that. Yin wouldn’t willingly sacrifice so many of her own, not unless…

Unless she was testing the Seraphim.

Pushing back demonic incursions was outside of the Seraphim duties. They just policed the angels. Still, they were more powerful than any four members of the Holy Sefiroth. Yin could rightfully construe them as a threat, and if she did, when she learned what they were capable of…

She’d send something through no one could deal with.

The pieces began to fall into place even as Uriel picked up two pieces of ruined bronze, summoning energy from within his being and superheating his hands. Within seconds, the bronze lit up with the same orange hue as the sun.

Uriel dropped to his knees as his mind continued to work. There was more to it than that. Yin should never have been made aware that the Seraphim existed. Now that she did, who was to say the inexperienced Seraphim had killed every demon they imported?

Horror shot through Uriel with the force of an arrow through the gut. He remembered seeing the Seraphim working with the imps in the construction of the mirror he had just taken down. Those imps had gotten away. Who knew where they were now…

He silently cursed himself for allowing their escape. Angrily, he struck the heated bronze together, and their tips exploded in an array of brightly-colored orange sparks before erupting into flames. Holding the bronze together, Uriel lowered the pieces to the sand, which caught fire and roared.

As the supernatural fire came to life before him, a haunting question resonated through Uriel’s mind.

What if Yin knew about the Nexus Stone plan?

She might throw all of Hell their way to keep the stone intact, and with the Holy Sefiroth depleted and reeling from the slaughter at Eden, it wouldn’t be much of a fight.

Uriel looked to the fire. “Fire,” he spoke mentally, “I must confer with you.”
Aside from the quieted crackling, and the gentle swaying of the flames in the wind, there was no response. Uriel frowned. Fire was eternally angry, unmerciful, and destructive. Sometimes, it needed to be coaxed.
“FIRE.” Uriel roared telepathically, “YOUR MASTER SUMMONS YOU.”

“Hmph” came a darkly-voiced, subdued reply as the fire seemed to die off a bit, “My master. You presume much, Uriel.”

“I am your Regent.” Uriel shot back. “You are mine to do with as I see fit, as governed by Lord Yang our god. Away with your resistance, before I throw a well onto you.”

To fire, the threat of water was the equivalent of throwing salt on a snail. There were much less painful ways to die. Most fire just preferred suffocation when the end came.

“What do you want?” The fire demanded, beaten.

“My injuries.” Uriel replied. “Heal them, and then I have another task for you.”

The fire did not respond, but Uriel felt the effects almost immediately. The heat, just enough to be uncomfortable, focused on his stab wound first. Uriel grit his teeth as he felt the wound cauterize, sealing up at last.

The cloths on his hands slowly grew flames as small fires slowly drew from the outside of his palms inward, working along the cuts he had sustained. Within seconds, his hands were like new, and the ashes of the cloth Uriel had ripped from his robe dropped to the ground.

“What else can I do for you, my Regent?” Fire spoke the last words with the disdain that came from being controlled by a cruel master. Uriel had to remind himself that fire was always this testy.
“Extend your presence,” Uriel commanded, “So I may Reach without detection.”

Again, there was no response in his mind, but the fire suddenly shot into the air, swirling and roaring angrily. If any Angel or Demon attempted to use their inherent telepathic link, Uriel’s presence would be cloaked by the fire. This also allowed him to see all of Heaven without being keyed by the Seraphim, who were surely looking for him.

Uriel closed his eyes. His subconscious was instantly swept over the length and breadth of Heaven, and as usual, Uriel had to fight not to be overcome by sadness. Racing over the surface with the speed of sound, Uriel was reminded that not all of Heaven was barren wasteland. Once, lush greenery bearing every fruit and vegetable imaginable weaved its way through the many cities of Heaven, which sprawled out so greatly that they were nearly connected.

Most of these cities were now as silent as the grave, and just as lifeless. Over three million lives had been lost since the start of the war. Most of the cities now stood empty, dilapidated, and crumbling, huge towers falling over each other. Of the three major cities—Yethra, Yevah, and Yevon—only the Kingdom Capitol still stood. Angels had begun moving closer to the Kingdom, hoping that being nearer the Holy Sefiroth would ensure their safety. Uriel had heard rumors that the Capitol building had recently been attacked–

There.

Roughly two hundred miles southeast…not too far from Beal City, Uriel keyed to the presence of nine (ten?) extraordinarily powerful, but young energies. These were energies that felt as if, when combined, they could tear Heaven in two. They could only be the Seraphim.
They surrounded four subdued energy pulses that Uriel couldn’t categorize. It was almost as though the energy was dormant—unaware of its own power. This was usually found in a newborn, but the anger and confusion that accompanied these energies made them mature. Uriel scowled. Not angelic, nor demonic, which only left…

Uriel’s eyes snapped open in terror. BY YANG!!! WHAT WERE THE SERAPHIM DOING?!!

At the last moment, Uriel looked in the direction where had felt the curious energy. A resoundingly powerful single energy, on par with the Seraphim, had just arrived not far from where Uriel was reaching. This energy, powerful, focused, and very much in control, was unmistakable; Valkryie.

Uriel believed that he knew exactly why she was there. She’d have her hands full with ten Seraphim.

Uriel turned back to the fire and spoke rapidly. “Where I was Reaching…take me there!”

Uriel stepped into the swirling column and closed his eyes. He felt the flames close around him harmlessly, and then all was black.

Uriel opened his eyes not far from the rear of a small wooden cabin as the heat quickly receded from his body. The cabin was plain, but to the immediate right hung a vertical flag bearing the cross and lion insignia of the Seraphim. He had reached an outpost.

Offhand, Uriel could see no one, but he knew from Reaching that the post was very much occupied. He moved silently along the sand until he reached the rear of the cabin. He pressed his back against the cool wood and quietly crept along to its left side, where peering around the corner revealed a young man aimlessly rounding the corner and coming towards him–

Uriel quickly ducked back behind the wall. Again, he cursed. That was careless. He may have been lucky; the boy hadn’t increased his pace or called out for help. Uriel hadn’t been seen. He exhaled, relieved, as he heard the footsteps in the sand grow distant.

A figure landed directly in front of him, barely making a sound. Startled, Uriel instinctively reached for the figure, prepared to do whatever he had to in order to keep his presence a secret.

The figure he nearly attacked was dressed in the polished back armor of the Valkryie order, minus the headdress. As with all the Valkryies, she was strikingly beautiful, neck-length brown hair, sun-tanned skin and penetrating green eyes. She looked to Uriel and gave the slightest of smiles.

“Uriel.” She whispered, completely unconcerned. “It’s good to see you.”
Uriel extended his hand, and she grasped his wrist, greeting him formally. “Sira.” He said softly. “Odin must be serious if he sent you.”

“Indeed,” She said, taking a position on the wall beside him, “But I’m curious; why did he send me here instead of Purgatory, where the dead usually go first?”

“The Seraphim interrupted the cycle.” Uriel growled. “They must’ve gotten them before Gabriel knew that they had died. It’s probable that they don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Ah.” Sira replied. “Is that why you’re here? Or is it about your…recent troubles?”
“Little bit of both.”
Uriel looked back to her. “You worry about your dead. I’ll worry about the Seraphim.”

“Ever the maverick.” Sira chuckled. “There are seven of them, big boy, not ten. Fire doesn’t do as good a job of covering your Reach as you’d like it to. You might want to train that a bit more.”

Uriel shook his head but stayed silent. She would be insufferable if she weren’t right. That was probably why, after centuries of service in the Holy Sefiroth, Odin chose her for the Valkryie Order. Uriel had been sorry to see her go.

“We have two patrolling the grounds, five inside watching the dead. None of them know we’re here.” Sira explained quietly. “You take out the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right, and we’ll meet at the door. I’ll lead in with a Blind attack, but you’ll have to disable them while I recover.”

Uriel nodded. “Alright.”

He was moving away, preparing to round the corner when Sira called out to him one more time. Uriel turned back to her.
“It really is good to see you again.”

Uriel nodded, but didn’t smile. He didn’t want to lose his mindset.

Peering around the corner yet again revealed that the Seraphim had chosen to take a break, whistling aimlessly and leaning against the wall, his back to Uriel. Uriel, hunched, silently approached the boy, who couldn’t have been more oblivious. Uriel reached up behind the boy’s left side and grabbed him by the face, wrapping his entire hand over the boy’s eyes and mouth. As the boy attempted a muffled scream, Uriel yanked him backwards, jerking his head to the side to reveal his neck and shoulder. Uriel delivered a swift chop to the area where the neck met the shoulder, and the boy immediately went limp beneath Uriel’s grip. Uriel gently lowered him to the ground. The boy would be sore when he woke up, but at least he would wake up.

As Uriel crept around the corner, he could hear voices from inside the open cabin. Some of the voices pleaded; what sounded like children, asking if they could ‘go home’. This seemed to annoy the Seraphim, who were trying to enjoy a game. They would be allowed to leave when ‘the work was done’.

Sira came around the corner opposite of the door and nodded to Uriel, who returned it. They had both done their jobs.

Inside the cabin, a girl cried. A Seraphim bellowed at her to be silent. There was a slapping sound.

An angry man seemed to turn into a bear, roaring presumably at the Seraphim. Four blows landed, then silence. The Seraphim promised no more pain if they were patient. The boy spoke as if he did not enjoy what he was going, but Uriel recognized the sadistic undertone in his voice. He enjoyed causing pain.

The rage in Sira’s emerald eyes mirrored Uriel’s own. They moved to stand on opposite sides of the door. Uriel, as quietly as he could, released a deep breath. There were five of the most powerful soldiers Heaven had ever produced inside, they were enjoying the power, and they wanted Uriel dead. This would not be easy by any means.

Suddenly Uriel snickered, remembering the many instances he had been here before. Chances were that either he or Sira would be dead within the next few minutes.

Uriel was through running. If he was going to die, he would die as a soldier.

“Ready?” Sira was locked onto him, speaking telepathically. Uriel nodded, smiling, shaking out his hands. “Yeah.”

He braced himself against the wall.

“After you.”

del.icio.us Tags: Uriel,Book One: Uprising,Chapter Ten,Regent Returns

Chapter Nine: Inferno

Chapter Eight: Raphael and Odin

Chapter One: Michael

Day One: Mid-Day

Michael had to admit it: when Anders didn’t want to be found, inexperienced trackers were not going to find him. It was one thing to disappear when the surrounding area was diverse, but it was another thing entirely when one could disappear into emptiness.

Four times over as many hours, Michael had made his way over a dune to find endless desert before him. The sun had risen to its highest point during his journey, but now the temperature was mild and bearable. For Michael, it was a reminder that Heaven’s current condition was a result of war and not of nature.

Michael had spent many summers learning the finer aspects of hunting and tracking with his father. The training was paying off now; prey always revealed itself, somehow. Nothing was flawless, even the chameleonic nature of some of Heaven’s craftier animals. Leaves don’t breathe visibly—the prey behind them does. Or it blinks. Or eventually, it caves to fear and tries to escape.

Sand didn’t sneeze; someone hiding beneath it might.

When Michael saw the sand dune erupt, he simply hid and waited. Anders was good, but impatient; the second he believed Michael had given up, he burst forth from the sand and continued onward.
It had dawned on Michael that traveling this far out of the way jeopardized his chance at arriving in Asgard on time and seeing his father. If he missed this opportunity, he might never see his father again – unless Yin won, and he and his father were reunited, not as father and son, but as master and slave.

Michael wanted to see his father when he could get some answers. He needed to know why his father had chosen the other side, even though it destroyed their family in the process.

Anders was clearly in trouble. He had been willing to threaten life simply for something to eat, and he was going out of his way to ensure that he wasn’t followed. If Michael was in a position to save someone’s life, he couldn’t turn his back on that, not even for his own agenda. Michael’s mother had not raised him to abandon anyone who needed help.

After Michael had been following the boy for forty-five minutes, the trail had gone cold and stayed that way. Michael had actually revealed himself after waiting for Anders to do the same, but it was as though the boy had taken to burrowing underground. It was possible, but by no means easy. Michael wondered if he had underestimated the boy.

The sun suddenly flared high above him, roiling as if about to go nova. The light was so bright and sudden that Michael screamed, shielded his face with his forearm, and threw his body to the ground. For a split second, it was as though the corona had been fired directly into his eyes, but the pain came and went in an instant. By the time Michael hit the ground, it was gone.

Michael slowly raised his head and looked dead ahead of him. What he saw was nothing short of divine intervention.

A wide beam of the sun rained down directly ahead of him, casting a bright yellow glow on a small city. It was about ten miles ahead, and just right of its center, there was a small wisp of smoke rising. It was the only indication of life in the area. Transfixed by the display, Michael slowly got to his feet. The city appeared, from his vantage point, to be a jagged row of structures that rose on each side to form a peak in its center. It appeared to be an angel-made mountain, short and wide, and part of it seemed to be on fire.

The beam sealed itself, closing on both ends. The mountain vanished.
With the image of what he had just seen firmly burned into his mind, Michael took three running steps down the dune and fell forward, his body halting a foot from the ground. Keeping his hands at his sides to cut wind resistance, his toes scant centimeters from the ground to maintain his angelic footing, Michael glided off toward the vision.

Ten minutes of high-speed gliding eliminated the need for the sun’s illumination, and the city rose into view. Five minutes later, he rocketed under the wooden awning that welcomed him to Beal City.

Michael righted himself and looked around. The city was small but diffuse; shoddily-constructed adobe houses were stretched out as far as he could see. They looked misshapen, like the concrete had been poorly stacked upon itself. Dried glue seeped out and ran down the walls of some of the buildings, while plywood lay in rows in others. Huge support beams held up poorly-constructed wooden awnings that extended past what Michael guessed were homes, and as he walked, one of the beams creaked, as if its collapse was at hand.

It was as though the city had been destroyed and then rebuilt by amateurs. It was sad and hopeful at the same time, as though the victims here had refused to give up.

If there were any victims left…the thought crept into Michael’s head as he made his way through the ghost town of Beal City. There wasn’t a soul around. Maybe the dilapidation was a result of everyone heading for greener pastures, as though there were any around…

The unmistakable crack of a whip snapped Michael’s attention off to the east—where the smoke, ever-widening and becoming black, twisted as it rose into the air.

Without thinking twice, Michael ran the few blocks up the main road, past a butcher’s shop filled with rotting meat, and rounded the corner. He found the town’s populace, and the source of the fire.

Michael’s jaw fell open in horror. A church, the largest edifice in the city, was in danger of becoming engulfed, fire spreading from the roof downward, flames tasting the walls. Beal City’s angels, roughly two hundred of them were standing helplessly before it. Michael could hear crying.

The whip cracked again, but no one screamed. The angels stood with their backs to Michael, unaware of his presence, blocking his view.
Michael quickly looked around and ran to the right, between two homes. Taking slow, deliberate steps into the giving sand to mask his arrival, Michael moved left around the corner of the home to arrive behind it. Another whip crack, and from here, Michael could hear the impact against skin. Still, no screaming. Whoever was on the receiving end was resilient.

Michael rounded the outside corner of the home’s rear wall. From there, he saw everything.

Two angels—one male, one female, were holding up the whip’s victim. Both of them looked as though the act was killing them, and the angel being beaten was a boy, no older than–
Rage swelled at the pit of Michael’s stomach. That’s Anders!

The boy had taken a terrible beating, and a ring of blood droplets encircled him on the ground. Still, the boy was hanging tough, and although Michael couldn’t hear the conversation from almost forty feet away, he could clearly read defiance.

It was clearly a demon who was in command. Tall, jet-black, with the bulbous head and eyes of a common fly, its jaws were horizontal mandibles. It had four elongated, bony arms with two claws at the end. Its legs were hairy and extremely well-defined, as was its upper torso. It was as though all the muscle had been proportioned to its legs and body, leaving the arms frail. Off of its shoulders, running down its back were two large half-shell pieces. If they came together, they looked as though they provided adequate protection for his body. Pulled back, they allowed free movement of his arms, which was something Michael wanted to take away as soon as possible…

The church’s entire top half was now engulfed in flames. Hellish black plumes of smoke twisted and raced into the sky. Michael was certain the smoke could now be seen for miles.

The woman holding Anders suddenly buckled, dropping and turning away as she vomited. She fell to her knees, clutching her stomach and retching horribly, as though unable to stop. The demon stopped his torment of Anders and raised the skinny whip slowly, menacingly, towards her. As he spoke, there was a rapid chittering behind his words. Truly an insect given unholy life. Why would anyone choose this?
“On your feet, bitch.” The demon spoke, “Or I turn the whip on your husband as well.”

The woman quickly shook her head, coughing as she rose. The effort of raising Anders’ arm seemed to take everything out of her, but Anders looked at her with a smile.
I’ve seen enough.

The sand would hamper his movement somewhat, but he would still get enough speed to pull this off. Leaving the wall behind, Michael lowered his body and sprinted towards the demon. The beast raised his whip again, and Michael was close enough to hear its words this time. “Let this be a lesson,” It seethed, “to any of you who think of running away again.”

“I have a lesson for you.” Michael said quickly. The demon was completely unaware of his presence until it was too late, and by then, Michael was in the air. As the demon snapped, quickly looking over its left shoulder, Michael shot out his right leg and caught the demon clean in its mandible, snapping it clean off.

The demon was knocked backwards, screaming in fear, surprise, and pain as it clutched what was left of its mouth, and as Michael landed, he was glad the demon hadn’t fallen down. Michael lunged into him, connecting a solid right hook to its poorly-protected face, followed by an equally solid left. As the demon reeled, struggling to regain an advantage, Michael pressed his own; spinning, raising his right leg, he chambered for all he was worth and thrust his foot cleanly into the beasts’ midsection. There was the satisfying crunch of ribs snapping beneath his foot as the creature was sent flying backwards, rolling helplessly in the sand, its whip knocked free.

Michael sprinted for the creature, stooping momentarily to pick up the fallen whip. In the second Michael went for the whip, the creature scrambled to its feet, kicking a cloud of sand in its wake that forced Michael to pause, shielding his eyes momentarily. “Coward.” He growled.

The sand settled and Michael began to pursue the demon again. Two steps into his chase, he was knocked off-balance when the top half of the roof, eaten away by fire, slid away. Wood grated against itself, consumed by fire, giving a horrid, mournful cry as it came crashing to the ground. As it fell hard into the sand, Michael had rushed out of the way as the debris listed, and then fell where he had been standing. If the quarter-roof had landed on him, he would’ve been crushed.
Michael exhaled to keep his focus and raced around the edge of the blazing church. The demon was hobbling, running for dear life as it passed a pale-skinned man with hair darker than the demon’s skin. The man, about Michael’s age, seemed dumbstruck as he watched the demon hurriedly step past him and disappear into the makeshift corridors between the adobe homes.

You worthless son of a–

Michael kept pace but changed targets; he was now aiming for the man who had simply let the beast go. The angel—if he even was an angel—was about five feet six with skin so pale that Michael wondered if he might be sick. Short, black hair meant Michael didn’t have enough to grab, and the angel appeared to be well-built beneath the white robes. He might know how to handle himself…

“Hey, you!” Michael challenged. The angel turned as Michael came within striking distance. “Why did you let him go?!” With the last word, Michael struck the angel with such a hard right hook that he was sent spinning once, falling to the ground. He rebound quickly, landing on his hands and rolling to his feet. Wiping new blood on the sleeve of his shirt, he held up a hand. “Just a moment—“ He tried, but Michael wasn’t in the mood to listen…

Michael grabbed the arm with his left hand and attempted to strike the angel with a right straight. In a fluent motion, the angel snatched his hand free, dodging Michael’s blow to the right. Snatching the arm threw Michael off balance, forcing him to stumble forward—where the arm came back, smacking him cleanly in the face. Michael staggered backwards and recovered quickly. He came back, throwing a jab-reverse combination. The angel swayed, avoiding the jab, and slapped the reverse downwards. The punches came so fast that Michael had no time to adjust. He was caught first in the chest, then in the face. As he reeled, a sharp, pointed blow caught him at the top of the spine, snapping his head back. Was that his elbow? When did he get behind me?!

He was dizzy, his spine felt as though it had been jammed between his shoulders, but Michael quickly turned, raising his hands and bracing for a fight. He was surprised—and a little grateful—that the angel as not advancing.

“I. Don’t want. To fight you.” The angel said definitively. “I came to put out this fire. If you want to challenge me afterwards, I’ll accommodate you.”

The angel didn’t wait for Michael to respond. Gliding to a faded-beige well fifteen feet away, the angel quickly righted himself, dropping the wooden bucket hanging from its awning into the water below and bringing it back up hand-over-hand. Every so often, he glanced back to the church urgently, without looking to Michael.

His attention was called back to the well when the worn rope snapped under the water’s weight. Wind whistled and there was the forceful echo of something heavy hitting the water. Michael could read the sudden desperation in the angel’s face as he braced himself against the well, looking down hopelessly.

Michael took a few unsure steps towards the well. He seems genuine…but it’s just an empty building…

When the angel suddenly bolted upright, there was no mistaking the look in his eyes; he was genuinely afraid. “Help me!!”

“It’s too far gone!” Michael countered. “It’s empty! We should see to the people!”

The angel grit his teeth, and for a moment, Michael could believe that the angel was about to tear him apart in sheer frustration. “Reach!” The angel spat angrily.

The angel was referring to their inherent ability to sense each other through their life force. Michael turned back to the church and closed his eyes….By Yang!!!

There were two support beams in the church, positioned between two rows of well-worn pews. Tied to each of these beams, bound and gagged, were eight children. Michael could see in his mind…he could feel how utterly terrified the sixteen children were, staring at the gaping hole in the roof as the flames moved as though alive, crawling along the interior of the walls, coming for them.

Michael suddenly realized that he had not seen a single child in the throng while Anders was beaten.
As Michael stretched the limits of his Reach, he could see the panicked townspeople of Beal City, some of them throwing caution to the wind, beating on the doors with their bare hands and desperate to get their children out.

It took Michael seconds to race through his options. He looked back to the angel. “We need more water than few buckets are going to provide.” He rattled off between breaths. Even as he spoke, an impossible idea came to mind. The angel clearly knew the Arts, so maybe…

“What do you suggest, then?” The angel replied, not taking his eyes from the church.

“We trigger the spring.”

The angel looked at Michael uncertainly.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Michael said quickly. “We use our energy, and we trigger the spring.”

“We would have to use enough energy to not just pierce the ground, but summon a geyser. Can you do that?”

“I can if you can.”

The angel nodded. “So be it.”

Michael closed his eyes and took a step back. He wished he could see how another angel summoned their own life force, but this would require all of his concentration.

Michael kept his right hand open and level with his chest as if in prayer. His left hand shot above him, lined up with his right. He tried to force thoughts of the fire out of his head as he began his prayer, raising his energy from the pit of his stomach until he could feel electricity dancing on his skin. When his hands were inches apart, he opened his eyes, slamming his right fist into his left palm in the weapon/shield form. His body awash with blue energy, he looked across to the angel and saw him bathed in the black, nebulous glow, as though the angel was a member of…Gabriel’s legion?!

Focus.
He met eye contact with the angel, who mirrored his expression. Ready.

Moving his left palm to the top side of his right fist, Michael pivoted, twisting his body, aiming his fist for the ground. His right arm slid down his palm as though sheathing a sword and the other angel mirrored him. The last thought Michael had before their energies collided with the ground was that he had no idea what to do if this didn’t work…

del.icio.us Tags: Book One: Uprising,Beal City,Michael,Chapter Nine,Inferno

Chapter Eight: Raphael and Odin

Chapter One: Michael

Day One: Dawn

After completing his prayers, Raphael rose before the statue. The statue was a gray marble replication of Thor, and the artist had done an exceptional job of capturing his likeness. Thor was in his prime, in battle regalia with his helmet held close to his body. In his right hand, he bore Moljnor. Holding the famous hammer by its elongated staff, and the sharply-clawed eye rested on the ground before him. His dreads hung to his shoulders.

There was a bronze plaque prominently displayed in front of the statue, which read:

In Monumentum
Thor Valkryie

Approaching footsteps echoed throughout the residential corridor. Raphael glanced and saw Odin, who was casually dressed in thin, light-tan wool pants and an open silk shirt, coming towards him. In his right hand, Odin carried a rapier sheathed in polished black wood.

Raphael involuntarily drew in a short breath. He always felt like an unwelcome child when Odin found him paying respects to his children. Odin never seemed to mind, but no one was better at masking their emotions than he was.

As Odin came within striking distance, he extended the rapier. Still smiling, he said, “Welcome back, little brother.”

Raphael looked down at the sword he had surrendered upon retirement with hesitation. Odin sensed the apprehension. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Raphael?” Odin asked. Accepting the sword meant Raphael would, once again, hold the highest rank in the Holy Sefiroth, Heaven’s greatest army.

With his good hand, Raphael reached out and clasped the blade by its sheath. It was cool to the touch, and Raphael felt empowered when he held it. Odin seemed proud that Raphael had taken it. Raphael lowered his hand to his side, and looking back to Odin, he nodded his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

“No, thank you,” Odin quickly returned. “If you hadn’t accepted, Michael would have been the next choice.”

The comment was beyond absurd. Raphael chuckled. Odin grinned, pleased that he could still get the veteran to laugh. “Tell me” Odin began, turning to the statue of his son, “what do you think Thor would say if he knew what Yang was planning?”

Raphael joined him in observing the statue. “Same thing we all are, I imagine,” Raphael replied, “that this is madness.”

Odin raised his eyebrows, looking back to Odin as if he expected the answer. “Madness, you say…” He mused, more to himself than to Raphael. “Yes,” Raphael pressed, “not just breaking the nexus stone, these…children…with all this power…”

Odin quickly turned to Raphael. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were black, creating an eerie visage. “Do you speak of the Valkryie, Raphael?”

“No,” Raphael replied, mindful of his tone, “The Seraphim.”

Odin seemed to relax. Raphael hoped that Odin knew that no one—least of all, him—would speak out against the Valkryie. “The Seraphim…” Odin spoke, again, as if to himself, “Infants who have never seen blood suddenly awarded power beyond the greatest of the Sefiroth….” Odin turned back to Raphael. “How are they so different from the Valkryie, Raphael?”

Raphael inhaled. The question was a challenge. “The Valkryie,” Raphael countered, “are made to earn their power. The seraphim merely swear an oath.”

“But they all work towards the same goal; the end of this madness.” Odin spoke the last word forcefully, and while the smile was gone, the black eyes remained as he fully turned to Raphael. “Yin—our sister—set her forces upon our children while they slept, Raphael.”

Odin pushed his index finger into Raphael’s chest. “That is madness.”
Odin lowered his hand and let it rest on his hip. “Should the Seraphim turn, then they will be dealt with, as problems are. But for the time being, we use every asset at our disposal to bring an end to this war—so no more children are lost.” He spoke the final words desperately, with the anguish of one who had lost all of his children to war. “So put aside your feelings for the Seraphim, Michael, Uriel—put aside any old animosities and do your job, alumno.”

Humbled, Raphael remembered the days as Odin’s student and smiled slightly. “You haven’t called me that…for a long time.”
Odin returned the smile, his eyes softening and returning to their natural brown. “You haven’t been in need of schooling for a long time.”
He gestured to the open end of the hallway, which opened high above Asgard. “Shall we?”

Raphael, still holding the sword, stepped to the edge of the precipice and looked down. They were hundreds of feet above the majestic city, and even with all that was raging in the world below, the city was still a beautiful place.

Asgard was an extensive metropolis of rounded ivory and marble constructions which were joined together. The buildings, which spanned as far as the eye could see, were mostly off-white with splashes of black, completed by gold trim. Many of these structures, especially those meant for worship or training, were capped off by glorious spires that reached high above the city to where Raphael and Odin currently stood. It would’ve been easy for Raphael to leap from the mouth of the hallway to the nearest one, some twenty feet away. He had done it often as a child.

The only solid black structure was inconspicuously located where the city began, off to the northwest from Raphael’s vantage. It was a large, black rectangle surrounded by domed buildings, with a large, beautiful courtyard. The courtyard was the only available walking space in Asgard, designed with multi-colored lava rocks neatly aligned beside a long white cloth, bordered by red trim: the colors of Asgard. Elongated, rectangular flags bearing the insignia of twins in battle lined the walkway, which opened into a scenic courtyard that was currently occupied by hundreds of women engaging in mock battle. New Valkryies were being trained.

The black structure was where the archangels would be trained, if they arrived on time. It was also the final test of the Valkryie, to see if they could emerge on the other side with their lives. The black structure contained the greatest warriors ever to die in service to Heaven. This structure was Valhalla.

Asgard was almost claustrophobic in its conglomeration; the city had no roads. Instead, there were only openings at the front and rear of each building to allow entrance.

Odin moved to stand before Raphael. “Yang and the others are behind Valhalla,” He said, the smile still present. “We should meet them there.”

With that, Odin extended his hands out to the side and drifted backwards, falling into the sky, plummeting towards the city without a care in the world.

As Raphael leaned forward, he realized he wasn’t breathing. Odin, in mid-fall, raised his head and smiled at Raphael. He turned towards Valhalla and suddenly, leaving a sonic boom in his wake, rocketed off towards Valhalla. His hands were at his side, and he flew as though he controlled the wind itself.

Raphael shook his head. He never got used to that. How Odin had managed to hold onto his nonchalance all this time was a mystery…and a blessing.

Raphael gently leapt from the opening, giving himself to the sky. The wind whistled past him for a moment as he dropped, the city growing larger as it drew nearer. Raphael tucked his knees to his chest and rolled, completing a full flip before extending his body towards Valhalla, and then willing himself towards the Great Hall. The next second, he was a projectile hurtling through the sky.

del.icio.us Tags: Universal Warrior,Raphael,Odin,Asgard,Thor,Valhalla

Chapter Seven: Between Worlds

Chapter One: Michael

Previous Chapter: Uriel’s Reckoning

Day One: Dawn

Azrael flew through the endless, starry space high above Purgatory. He flew towards one light in particular, this one a radiant blue amid a sea of yellow dots.

Azrael had to force himself to move onwards, fighting his instinct to turn tail and head back to Purgatory—where it was safe.

Tensing his arms at his sides and bracing himself for the inevitable as he rocketed forward, Azrael closed his eyes. He did not want to see what was coming. Feeling it would be enough.

A chilling breeze emanated from the light. It was unpleasant; Azrael felt as though arctic wind was blowing over his body. Even through closed eyes, the light became invasive, as though the blue would burn the corneas from his eyes, robbing him of his sight.

As he entered the light, its energy attached to him, sharply crackling as though lightning was overtaking him.

Azrael grimaced as his entire body was suddenly electrified. He felt like the lightning had attached itself to his body and was racing up and down his arms, legs, and torso. It was like passing through a bed of needles.

Although he was still flying, Azrael’s body was buffeted by the energy; he was tossed around relentlessly. He quickly lost his sense of direction and would’ve been overcome by nausea—if he could have opened his mouth.

Gradually, the electricity receded, leaving his arms first, then his torso, exiting through his legs.

Intense, searing blue light gave way to a more gentle orange, and the sound of wind passing by flooded his ears. Azrael suddenly realized that he had no control over his body.

He was falling.

He recalled one another time where he felt so overwhelmingly uncomfortable; the first time he has passed between worlds.

With a deafening thud that echoed through the immediate area, Azrael slammed face-first into the desert sands. He felt his body slide a little; he had landed on a dune.

He raised his head. Still unable to open his eyes, he coughed twice, expelling sand before attempting to breathe.

Azrael rolled onto his back, arms outstretched, and every muscle in his body seemed to tense all at once. He opened his mouth but found he was unable to speak. His body was still acclimating itself to its new surroundings. He wondered if this was what infancy was like, moments after birth.

”Take it easy, Azrael.” A familiar voice came from above him, “It will take a moment for your body to adjust.”

Azrael forced his eyes open, but was greeted only by the orange blur of the morning sky. He blinked quickly, and he could make out clouds passing to the east. Hurry.

He looked at his right fist, wiggling his fingers quickly, trying to restore feeling. As he felt the sand leave his hand, Azrael swiftly formed a fist. Moments later, he had full control over his left hand, and hurriedly rolled to his stomach, where he could raise his head and see who had spoken to him. It was a figure Azrael had hoped he would not see again, especially not so soon.

The man looked exactly the same as the day Azrael had last seen him, save for his hair. It was still black, but he had allowed it to grow slightly and it covered the black of his neck. It was still short at the top, and what was there stuck straight up. The man was dressed in a white, two-piece suit that masked a well-maintained physique. His pale skin tone and narrow brown eyes matched Azrael’s.

The man smiled. “Relax, Azrael,” The man said gently, “I’m not here to fight you.”

The statement did nothing to relax Azrael. “Then why are you here?”

The man raised his eyebrows, taking a few steps towards Azrael’s right, hands clasped behind his back. “We’re brothers, Azrael. I haven’t seen you since you, ahem…” He seemed to search for the proper word, “…relocated yourself to purgatory.”

Azrael struggled briefly as he got to his feet. He immediately stumbled back and planted his right foot behind him to maintain his balance. He would not take his eyes off of his brother, who smiled as though he was genuinely happy to see him. “Our father has been worried about you, Azrael.”

“Has he?” Azrael scoffed.

His brother nodded. “Things have changed since you’ve been gone, Azrael. Dad wants you to come home.”

Azrael dreaded the answer, but asked anyway; “Are you here to take me, Anileif…?”

Anileif shook his head. “Not if you’re unwilling, Azrael.”

For a moment, the two remained silent. The wind blew as Azrael looked up to the brother who was older than him by less than ten minutes. When Anileif spoke next, his voice was grave. “This…trip you’re making to Asgard. Even if you succeed, do you think it will make a difference?”

Azrael said nothing.

”They’ll never accept you, Azrael.” Anileif continued, “You could singlehandedly end this conflict and you’ll still be nothing more than another crossling.”

Anileif spoke the words with the same hatred that had become a way of childhood life for Azrael.

”They’re so disgusted by what we are,” Anileif growled, having endured the same humiliation himself, “that they would not even name us.”

Azrael raised his eyes to meet his brother’s.

”At least, in our father’s realm,” Anileif finished, his tone lightening, “we are somewhat accepted. Do you remember what our mother’s own people did to her?”

Azrael shuddered. Of course he remembered; he had been present. Azrael knew he would never be able to make himself forget his mother’s screams.

“It’s foolish to fight for people who would not have you.” Anileif’s tone was sincere. “Come home.”

Azrael felt torn. Anileif, always in sync with his brother, nodded. “All is forgiven, Azrael. Come home.”

Azrael finally shook his head. “I can’t, Anileif.”

A dark look descended into Anileif’s face. “Why?” He demanded.

“Because…the one you fight for seeks annihilation. What will she do when there is nothing left to kill?”

“You dare to speak as though Yang’s intentions are altruistic? What do you think he’s fighting for?”

“Peace.”

Looking down on his brother, Anileif shook his head. “You always were naive.”

“You were always so shortsighted, Anileif.”

“Well then,” Anileif said, finality in his tone, “one day we will see who is right. But for now…I cannot allow you to proceed to Asgard.”

Azrael tensed. He wasn’t ready to face his brother yet. Anileif quickly raised a hand to ward off his brother. “Relax, Azrael. I’m not fighting you today.”

Azrael scowled. Then what…

In the moment he relaxed, and his senses expanded, he felt it. Off to the east, the cold, repressive feeling of…

A swirling column of fire bellowed off to the east, firing straight into the sky.

Azrael, caught off-balance, quickly turned. Analeif smiled.

“Yes.” Anileif grinned savagely. “You begin to understand, don’t you?”

“What have you done?!” Azrael demanded.

“They can still be saved, Azrael.” Anileif hissed. “That’s the nature of fire; it does its work slowly.” Anileif bared his teeth as he grinned. “Of course, you could always ignore them, and continue on to Asgard…”

Azrael stole a quick glance to the east before looking back to his brother.

“Damn you.” Azrael spat, breaking a cardinal rule.

“We are both already damned, Azrael. Why are you so unwilling to see that?” Anileif quickly returned. “I’ll see you again someday.” Anileif turned to leave. He looked over his shoulder, back to Azrael.

“Someday soon.”

With that, Anileif calmly walked away and disappeared over the dune.

Soon…

The final word stayed with Azrael as he turned to the east. He stumbled, nearly losing his balance and falling forward before righting himself. He lowered his body until it hovered almost two feet above the ground, his toes nearly touching. In the traditional position of a Glide, Azrael shot off into the distance, unsure if he would be able to save Gabriel and the legion an unnecessary journey…

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