by Richard Ford
‘Behold,’ said Zaphiel, that sonorous voice filling Thaddeus with heart-stopping dread. ‘The Thrones are here!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘You’re insane,’ Blaklok raged, anger overcoming his terror. ‘Do you think your gaffer’s going to approve of this?’
Zaphiel laughed. ‘My ‘gaffer’, as you so eloquently put it, has no sway here. He is a paper tiger, a gale force wind on an empty plain. The Thrones will be the new power now. We will hold sway over this rock and all will venerate us as the gods we are.’
‘I can’t allow that,’ said Blaklok taking another step forward. He wished his resolve was as rock steady on the inside as it seemed on the out, but he had little choice. This seraph had to be stopped.
‘What will you do, little man? I am immortal, I have seen the start of things and I will see their end. You are as an insect before me. An insignificant mishap on my journey to becoming.’
‘You reckon, do you?’ said Blaklok, already choosing his invocation.
It was time to play his final hand.
The cultists of Legion who had been imbued with the power of the demonic were twisted, foul things – puppets of powers they knew little about. Their bodies were tainted for a cause beyond their ken, though they saw it as a gift of the most beneficent kind. But for this task, Blaklok knew he would have to emulate their sacrifice – it was the only way.
He was a tool, he knew that, a weapon much like the misguided cultists, only there was a difference. Blaklok knew what awaited him on the other side, he knew the price for such power, and he was more than willing to pay it.
As he began the invocations, feeling the demonic power of the Nine Hells running through his bones, he could taste what waited for him in the deep dark.
His flesh hardened, a molten line of magma appearing along the needle thin tattoos that were etched on his arms, legs and torso. His bones began to grind and twist, the pain almost unbearable, but Blaklok made no sound. His eyes – reddening with a baleful glow – were locked on Zaphiel, the focus of his animus.
A flicker of doubt crossed the seraph’s indefectible features, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by a lopsided smile of disdain.
‘Call upon whatever foul magicks you wish, Thaddeus Blaklok. You know not the power you face.’
‘Do you reckon? Let’s fucking find out, shall we?’ Blaklok replied, his voice a deep and monstrous growl.
With that he leapt forward and Zaphiel met his charge head on, sweeping forth on those powerful wings.
With twin roars of defiance, the titans clashed.
Who are you? she had asked.
Hope you never find out.
Well, she was looking now, and the answer to her question was terrifying indeed.
Blaklok had transformed. He was no longer a man, no longer mortal. Where before he had been a hulking brute, hard and resilient in every way, now he seemed to be a literal embodiment of his own tenacity and fortitude, pushed to the extreme. He seemed almost as remarkable as the thing he faced – the angel, the seraph they had called it. At first, Amelia had thought this simply a name Blaklok put on the one they pursued, but no, it seemed this creature, this being that filled her with such awe, was indeed one of the heavenly host. And Blaklok – now transformed into a savage beast, his muscles bulging, his flesh hardened, his bones thickened and protruding from his extremities like weapons – was about to face it in mortal combat.
She needed a weapon if she was going to make any contribution to these events. Looking to her right she could see that a portal had appeared between two colonnades – a portal towards which a host of these divine creatures was fast approaching. Whatever these things were they were about to spew forth into the Manufactory.
All she knew was they had to be stopped.
‘Weapon!’ she cried, turning to Hodge. He simply shrugged, holding his hands up to reveal he had lost his carbine in the airship crash.
She turned back to the wreck of the ship, scrambling over the debris and bodies, desperately searching for anything she could use as a weapon.
The inside of the airship was thick with dust and it was difficult to see through the haze. Then her foot stubbed against something hard, and she forced back a cry of pain as she looked down. What she saw there, lying discarded and forgotten by some insane cultist, brought a smile to her lips.
Zaphiel hit Blaklok hard, the seraph’s huge granite fist smashing into his jaw. Blood spewed from his mouth and he fell sideways, momentarily dazed. The inside of his mouth was cut, his cheek lacerated by the sharpened teeth that had sprouted from his hardened gums. Had he not taken on the transformation, had he not manifested his powers before this fight began, it was likely that Zaphiel’s blow would have taken his head clean off. Instead, the solid punch merely served to clarify things: the seraph was about to give no quarter, so none should be offered.
Thaddeus shook his huge head, hearing the vast thews in his neck crack and creak in response. Then he bowled forward, his arms held ready to block the seraph’s strike while his head did all the work. His stone-hard forehead connected with Zaphiel’s porcelain nose and rocked the seraph’s head violently back, but the delicate features were misleading. It felt like head-butting a wall.
Nevertheless, the seraph staggered, the delicate features flattening under the blow, but he did not bleed or bruise.
With the buffeting of those huge wings, Zaphiel halted his fall, sweeping up into the air before his opponent. A smile crept across his perfect lips.
‘Do you think you can defeat me? Even in your fell guise?’
‘I’m willing to have a go,’ replied Blaklok, using the brief hiatus to regain his strength. ‘Do you think you can change the world with a bunch of angels?’ he countered, gesturing to the Thrones, who were now almost at the portal.
‘Of course. Our reign will be a magnificent one, in which the stain of defilement will be washed from these turgid streets. Why stand in our way? Surely we both have the same aim, else you would not fight your demons so vehemently.’
‘You’re just as bad as the demons – no, worse! At least with demons you know what you’re getting, but you lot… you’re all demons in disguise. You want the same thing, to control, to rule, but you’ll take everything and won’t stop until everyone is under your heel.’
‘And what makes us different from the demons?’
‘Because with a demon you can compromise. With demons you can bargain and on occasion you can control them. But you, you’re relentless. No compromise, no dealing, no release. And above all, you don’t have the right. Anyone controlled by a demon does so under a covenant of his own making, but you’re willing to take without giving anyone a choice. That’s why you have to be stopped.’
‘So you would exchange your celestial masters for the demonic?’
‘I don’t have a fucking master!’ Blaklok bellowed, his muscles tensing, sinew and veins standing proud on his arms. ‘I kneel before no fucker. Here, let me show you.’
And they were at it again, powerful blows raining on one another, blows that would have smashed any normal man to bits, gnashing teeth and rending grasps and all.
Again the seraph managed to wrest himself from Blaklok’s grip, this time holding his arm aloft, the arm that firmly held the Key of Lunos.
‘You cannot stop me now,’ he sang, ‘you cannot hold back the inevitable.’
Thaddeus glanced over his shoulder, seeing the Thrones, the heavenly host, ready to soar through onto his own plane.
They would be unstoppable, unrelenting, things would never be the same, and for a second Blaklok wondered if that would be a bad thing. Then he shook his head against the doubt – of course it would. An eternity in thrall to the divine power of seraphs was every bit as nightmarish as servitude to arse-fucking demons.
But what could he do to stop it?
There was a sudden growl, a feral cry of rage, and a red streak leapt at Zaphiel from the dirt and bricks. Blaklok caught a gli
mpse of razor fangs as they clamped around the seraph’s wrist, could see those teeth break as they bit down on the solid appendage, but they did their job. As the demonic acolyte of Legion attacked, Zaphiel dropped the Key.
Enraged, the seraph grasped the demon cultist and Blaklok could see who it was… Castor Cage. But before Cage could even cry out, Zaphiel tore him in two, pulling hard and spilling guts and organs to the floor.
Blaklok eyed the ground as Zaphiel discarded the torn body. All he could see was the Key of Lunos, all he could see was a way to stop all this, and instinctively he threw himself forward.
Instantly, Zaphiel was on him, pulling him back, beating his wings and dragging him from the Key, up and up towards the decrepit roof of the Basilica.
Thaddeus cried out in frustration, unable to reach the only thing that would stop the celestial onslaught, and he could only watch in defeat as the Thrones reached the portal and began to step through.
Amelia struggled with her burden, lugging it as best she could while stepping through the detritus that littered the floor. The dust-filled air had all but cleared now, revealing the full extent of the carnage. Blaklok was high up in the lofty confines of the Basilica’s roof, rending and tearing at his foe, who in turn beat his wings desperately, holding Blaklok aloft. And, as she scanned the rest of the Basilica, Amelia saw that the Thrones had finally reached the gate, their cherubic faces wracked with glee, their flawless bodies now stepping out from the utopian scene beyond the portal to the carnage of the Basilica.
This was not right. Despite their smiling faces, their perfect demeanours, despite everything her heart told her about these divine beings, her head cried out that this was wrong. Blaklok had told the truth; these things had no right to be here, no right to walk among the men and women of the Manufactory.
She hefted the weapon that rested on her hip, the Clarke & Wooster Super Heavy Carbine, Devastator Class. It was almost too heavy to carry, the bandolier of ammunition weighing as much as the weapon itself, but she could just about manage it. Besides, it would get light enough as soon as she started firing.
Amelia’s thumb pressed down hard on the trigger and she was shocked by the deluge that was unleashed. It was as though a horde of drummers were beating a thousand metal dustbins all at once, using hatchets for drumsticks, right next to her head. The weapon bucked, showering hot rounds all across the Basilica, but she soon managed to wrestle control, directing the relentless stream of fire towards the portal.
A burning shower of shells screamed into the Thrones, smashing into their bodies and blasting chunks of bloodless flesh from their extremities. They howled in pain and fury, sounding like the distant peeling of a hundred church bells as they were pushed back beyond the limits of the portal.
‘No!’ bellowed Zaphiel, flinging Blaklok aside in fury, where he landed in a pile of collapsed stone. ‘You will pay with your soul, hell-whore!’
With that he swooped towards her, displacing air and dust in his wake.
Amelia tried to remain calm, swinging the Devastator to bear on the charging seraph. Her finger pressed down on the trigger once more, but this time there was only a dull click. She glanced down, cold panic beginning to creep up her spine, and noticed that the overheating rod had slipped into place, stopping the bandolier feed from distributing any more shells lest they explode in the white hot breach.
She glanced up, seeing Zaphiel looming over her, the fury in his eyes more terrifying than any demon could have borne.
‘Yyyeeesss!!!’ came a scream that filled the Basilica all the way up to its collapsing roof.
Amelia glanced to the side, and even Zaphiel was momentarily distracted from his murderous advance.
Julius stood amongst the wreckage, his arm held aloft, the Key of Lunos within his slender grasp, triumph writ large across his battered and bleeding face.
‘I have it,’ he blurted, his face gleeful and maddened all at once. ‘You cannot stop me now, seraph. Not you or your Thrones. We are here. We are one. We are Legion!’
With that, blackness swirled between the two pillars opposite the portal from whence the Thrones had come. Zaphiel reached out a hand, his mouth opening to command the maddened priest of Legion to stop, but he was too late.
From within the blackness of the new portal a taloned hand emerged, followed by another, and another.
‘Behold,’ said Julius, victorious at last. ‘The Legion is come!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
For aeons the Host and the Horde had been at war, fighting their battles in the open, knee-deep in the primordial ooze, right up until apes learned to walk and began to dominate the earth. They had carried on their war for millions of years, casualties on both sides uncountable, the heroics and horrors of that conflict lost in the annals of time. On and on they had fought until the reasons for their conflict were long forgotten and the only motivation they needed to go to battle was their congenital hatred of one another.
With the eventual appearance of man, new recruits to their eternal war could be enlisted, and with the hearts and minds of mankind ripe for the plucking came another battlefield on which the immortals could ply their wits against one another, and their perpetual struggle for dominance took on a new guise. Now they could work insidiously, bringing mankind to their cause, working in secret through their minions and stretching out the never-ending hostilities for all eternity. The demons started their coteries and cults, working underground, whispering their promises and levying their honorarium when and where they could. More overt were the celestials, building their cathedrals and raising their fanes so that all could see and hear and flock to their cause.
Now, in the ancient Basilica, on a blasted patch of wasted earth, a conflict of eons was about to come to a head. As the Legion came forth, and the Thrones renewed their efforts to spring from their divine plane, this titanic battle of the ages was played out on a tiny stage. But the size of the battle was no reflection of the ferocity borne by each side. In all the battles fought between these two sides, neither had ever faced a foe with such utter hatred, such quintessential adversity… such rage.
Demons roared from twin mouths lined with razor fangs, spikes and talons standing erect on their backs, tails lashing with hooked appendages. Unflawed faces creased in hatred, spears held aloft, wings buffeting, thrashing in an onslaught of divine retribution.
The two sides met in the centre of the Basilica and shook the holy ground to its very foundations. Arms were torn from bodies, spilling hot, sizzling blood to the desecrated ground. Faces of utter perfection were bitten off, leaving skinless skulls to scream in pain and fury. Spears impaled armoured demon chests, unable to halt the fiendish assault, and such was the determination of the Host and the Horde to destroy one another that they would still rend and tear beyond the limits of their immortal lives.
The noise that filled the tall building was deafening as the velvet voices of the Thrones and the foul bleating of the demonic wave met in a dirge of relentless discord. Gurgling, spitting faces bellowed into the pure and untarnished visages of the Host, their contrasting sounds not countering one another, but only serving to make the din that much more terrifying.
Thaddeus Blaklok lifted his head from the pile of rubble where he lay, and listened for a second to the sound of Hell on Earth. His body was no longer imbued with the strength of the demonic – that cantation had passed – and now he would have to rely on his own innate strength and his wits to finish this. Well, he’d done a bang up job so far!
He rose, still crouching on the pile of smashed brick, keeping his head low and trying to avoid the attentions of the battling immortals. That wouldn’t be too difficult, the Host and Horde were so preoccupied with rending each other asunder they would have little time for a single mortal.
Thaddeus scanned the carnage and soon spotted his prey. Lord Julius was standing to one side of the fray, gripping the Key of Lunos. His eyes were wide as he surveyed the devastation he had contributed to causing.
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br /> Picking his moment, Blaklok sprinted across the floor of the Basilica, dodging fallen bodies and smashed rubble. He ducked as one of the Thrones soared overhead, intent on its foe. The screaming angel piled into a mass of seething scaled bodies, sweeping its massive spear left and right, severing arms and heads and legs. But there seemed an endless array of demonic flesh that battled back, tearing at the flawless flesh of the divine with equal fierceness.
As Blaklok neared his prey, Julius saw him and his eyes widened, looking as though they would pop right out of his head. He glanced left and right looking for an escape route but there was none; he was surrounded by ripping, tearing beasts, and would surely be caught in the skirmish if he tried to move – Julius had backed himself in a corner and there was nowhere for him to run.
Blaklok allowed himself a smile as he ran forward. He was almost upon Julius, anticipating the thrill of inflicting pain on the conceited, foolish prig, when something smashed into him. Pain jarred him as he hit the ground hard, sharp rubble splitting his flesh, and he looked up in time to stare into the foul maw of a demon of Legion, its serpentine head dipping to attack with lightning speed. Blaklok instinctively raised his arms to fend off the blow, though he knew it would be useless, when a silver tipped spear lanced forward, transfixing the loathsome creature where it stood.
There was no time to wait and watch the repugnant spectacle as a seraph tore the demon apart. Leaping to his feet, Blaklok made to cover the last few feet to his prey, but Julius had found his escape route; a miniscule gap in the vicious battle. There was daylight peaking through a tear in the Basilica’s wall and the leader of the Cult of Legion was headed straight for it.