by Vox Day
The War in Heaven
Eternal Warriors Book One
by Vox Day
Published by Castalia House
Kouvola, Finland
www.castaliahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
This book was originally published in mass market paperback by Pocket Books in 2000.
Copyright © 2000, 2016 by Theodore Beale
All rights reserved
Cover Image: Rowena
Cover Design: JartStar
Version 004
Table of Contents
Cover
Prologue
Chapter 1. A Rat in Shadow
Chapter 2. Losing Paradise
Chapter 3. Daughter of Devils, Mother of Kings
Chapter 4. The Courts of Light
Chapter 5. The Darkness Rising
Chapter 6. The Gates of Heaven
Chapter 7. Evil Council
Chapter 8. Breath of the Cherub
Chapter 9. That Which Is Done
Chapter 10. Circle of Fire
Chapter 11. People of the Dawn
Chapter 12. Jaws Of the Wicked
Chapter 13. The King of Chaos
Chapter 14. Lady of the Tower
Chapter 15. The Green Rider
Chapter 16. Shattered Crystal, Broken Glass
Chapter 17. Sons of Pride
Chapter 18. False Gods
Chapter 19. Last Days of the Faithful
Chapter 20. A Moment of Truth
Chapter 21. River of Fire
Chapter 22. The King Comes Back
Chapter 23. Silence in Darkness
Chapter 24. The Light of Truth
Chapter 25. Citadel of the King
Chapter 26. Ruins of Righteousness
Chapter 27. The Shame of Chemosh
Chapter 28. A Lion Roars
Chapter 29. I’ll Be Watching You
A THRONE OF BONES
MUTINY IN SPACE
Castalia House
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Prologue
Christopher Lewis increased his pace when he saw the crosswalk light start blinking. He was too far away, though, and the red hand appeared before he even reached the curbside. The overhead light changed, as cars and sport-utility vehicles began to roar past the ice-covered concrete of the sidewalk upon which he waited, shivering.
It was cold and the large banks of grey snow piled up beside the sidewalks gave sooty testimony to the harshness of this December’s winter. Even though his head was bare, Christopher barely noticed the chill, as he muttered angrily to himself about how unfair it was that he was walking home instead of driving. Sixteen is plenty old to drive, he thought, even the law says so. And he’d scored a ninety-two on his driver’s test, while two weeks ago, Jordie Maakstad got a seventy-three and ever since had been parking his stupid new Cherokee at the far end of the school lot. Jordie said he only parked out there so no one would ding the doors, but Christopher knew Jordie just wanted to show off.
Jami and Holli always tried to talk him into riding the bus home with them, but they didn’t understand that what was good enough for them just didn’t work for him. His sisters were just ninth graders but he was in tenth grade now, a sophomore with a driver’s license, and sitting on that creaky yellow bus made him look like a complete loser. No, he wasn’t about to get on that stupid bus. He would walk, and if his cheeks were red and his ears were frozen, well, tough on them. It would serve his parents right if he got frostbite, and his ears fell off, and they were stuck with an ugly, earless son. Maybe then they would be sorry they didn’t let him drive Mom’s Explorer.
Had it been just another day, he might have been okay with the bus. But one humiliation was enough for one day, and he couldn’t stand the thought of the teasing he’d get from those who’d seen Kent Petersen and Jim Schumacher picking on him at lunchtime. His ears burned with shame as he relived again the horror of the whitewash, the hands pushing at the back of his head, the two seniors rubbing his face into the snow. The worst part wasn’t his messed-up hair, his chilled, reddened face, or the cold snow plugging his nose, no, the worst part was looking up and seeing dozens of his classmates laughing at him. Unthinkingly, his hands clenched into fists.
The red hand at the crosswalk finally changed to green, and he stalked angrily across the pavement, kicking at a frozen chunk of ice that had dropped from the wheel well of a passing car. Son of an… ouch! He made the painful discovery that the ice was harder than his Nike-clad foot, and his now-stubbed toes forced him to limp awkwardly to the far sidewalk. Great, he thought, just great. His ears were frozen, his nose was running, and his toes felt as if they’d all been broken into pieces. He could just hear Jami laughing at him when she saw his Rudolph-red nose. Now there was something to look forward to, he thought glumly. She was never one to miss the chance to make a joke at his expense. At least Holli might make him some soup or something.
Just past the corner, an old man huddled in an abandoned doorway, taking shelter from the winter wind. Christopher couldn’t tell if the old man was short or just hunched over, but the man’s bald head, ineffectively protected by a few sparse wisps of grey-white hair, came only to his chest. The old, wrinkled face was nondescript, but the blue eyes set deeply within it were uncommonly piercing and alert. They sparked with sudden life as Christopher approached.
“Young man, take this,” he said in a voice cracked with age. “I think you need it.”
“I need… what?” Christopher stared at him, surprised.
He looked down and saw that the old man was proffering a little pamphlet of some sort. It was printed on cheap red paper, with the words ‘Eternal Life and How To Have It’ outlined in white. Some kind of religious junk, he realized, and his gloomy mood turned hostile. Who did this guy think he was? The bum didn’t even look like he knew how to take a shower, so what were the chances he knew anything about the secrets of the universe? About a zillion-to-one against, Christopher figured.
“Forget it,” he snorted disdainfully. “I don’t need this. I don’t need God, and I don’t need you bugging me either!”
The old man only smiled, exposing an eroded set of teeth yellowed by tobacco.
“I will pray for you, young man, for you are one upon whom God has laid his hand. But your soul is in peril, for Satan and his angels seek to prey upon those whom God would claim. I see the potential for great good in you, but for great evil also, and there is a dark cloud circling the skies even as we speak.”
“Yeah, well, that dark cloud is called a snowstorm coming. Now, leave me alone!”
“Take this, at least,”
The old one grabbed Christopher’s arm before he could escape and pressed the red pamphlet into his glove. Christopher snarled and stepped back, but not before the man had forced Christopher’s fingers to close around the paper. Furious that the smelly old bum had dared to touch him, Christopher pulled violently free of the other’s grasp and stalked away without looking back.
“Read the truth,” he heard the man call over the rising wind. “You will need it!”
Christopher ignored him, though, and as soon as he reached the next block and turned the corner, he squeezed his fist and
crumpled the shabby paper into a wad. As he passed a nearby trashcan, he tossed the wad into its gaping steel mouth.
“For two!” he called optimistically, but the make-believe basketball struck the broad rim of the can and bounced off, falling to the sidewalk where it came to an unnoticed rest between a green newspaper coin-op and a mailbox belonging to the U.S. Postal Service. The wadded paper unfolded just a little, with a crinkling sound that went unheard amidst the noisy rush of the afternoon traffic.
But Christopher could not care less about where the religious pamphlet had fallen and his thoughts soon turned from the crazy old man to his plans for the upcoming weekend. Craig had loaned him a video of an X-files he hadn’t seen before; he decided to see what Mulder and Scully were up to first, then finish reading his new Rosenberg book, the one with all the cool Norse gods in it. The thought of swordplay reminded him of Saturday’s upcoming battle, and he wondered if he should break out an Empire army against Don’s Greenskinz, or stick with the High Elves. Either way, he’d need to save some time for the English paper that was due on Monday.
Behind him, a single flake of snow lighted softly upon a crumpled piece of red paper.
Chapter 1
A Rat in Shadow
whereby they lie in wait to deceive;
—Ephesians 4:12
Mariel was an angel. She did not, however, fit many of the ideas that are now popular about angels in these latter days, for she was not an alien or a celestial messenger, nor had she had ever ridden on a UFO. It is true that her robes were white, but despite a large pair of white-feathered wings sprouting from her shoulders, Mariel did not, for the most part, fit the happy New-Age notion of a harp-playing solace-giver from some hazy Beyond. In the place of a harp, Mariel wore a sharp-edged sword at her belt, for she was nothing less than a warrior. A warrior of God.
She was a beautiful warrior, an angelic Joan of Arc without armor, and the perfection of her divine form was sublime. Her long, flowing hair was like an autumn cascade, falling down between her alabaster wings in an unruly deluge of crimson and gold. Only her intent green eyes betrayed her sober purpose, constantly searching this way and that, always scanning for the perfidious darkness that never ceased to threaten the immortal soul of her charge.
Mariel could not feel the darkness now, but always she knew it was nearby, lurking, waiting. Sometimes it took the form of an enemy she knew well, the cunning Temptress who haunted Christopher’s fevered dreams, taunting the poor child with desires he barely knew he had. At other times, times like these, the darkness faded into the background, as if to lull her by its seeming absence into easing her watchful eye. “I don’t think so,” she whispered savagely at the deepening night outside the window. “I know you’re out there!”
Her lovely face was stern as she turned away from the window, but it softened as she caught sight of Christopher. At last, the boy had finally set to work on his school paper, though only after a long afternoon of procrastination. It amazed Mariel how easily humans could be distracted, especially the young ones.
She sighed as he pushed away from his computer and started to rise to his feet.
“No, you don’t need to go to the bathroom again,” she told him firmly. “You just went ten minutes ago.”
Though he couldn’t consciously hear her, Christopher hesitated. He didn’t really have to go now, he realized. But he could use some sort of break. A game break would be all right. Maybe if he just played one quarter of NCAA Football….
“You’ve already played two games today. You told your teacher you would turn in your paper tomorrow, and you must keep your word to her. If you have time when you are finished, you may play a game then.”
Christopher scratched his head and frowned. If he got cracking now, he’d probably have time to fit in a game before Mom and Dad got home. Maybe even two. That could be his reward to himself for finishing, two games played guilt-free.
Mariel smiled as she watched the boy return to his computer and begin hesitantly typing again. The paper was more than half-finished, so she felt this particular battle was well in hand. Another thirty minutes and his duty done, Christopher would be free to run downstairs to the PlayStation and play his new football game. Thank God she’d been able to convince Mrs. Lewis that Bloody Fist of Death was really not an appropriate game for a teenager. Or anyone, for that matter.
It grieved her deeply to know Christopher was an ardent disbeliever, but she found it hard to judge the boy too harshly. His mother’s faith was weak, and she no longer even tried to speak to the boy about spiritual matters or encourage him to attend church. Mister Lewis was a skeptical man who had rejected God’s mercy many years ago, and it was natural for a son to follow his father’s example. When Marial thought about the tremendous amount of evil influences that surrounded her charge—on the television, in his games, at his school, and in his home—she felt glad that his heart had not completely hardened towards God. At least, not yet. As long as life remained, there was always hope, she reminded herself.
But as Mariel, pleased with Christopher’s victory over the allure of the video game, started to relax, an aura of wrongness like a foul smell seized her attention, and she found her eyes turning back towards the window on the west side of the room. She felt as if an icy shadow was falling over the house, though it was over an hour since the sun had descended below the horizon. “You just keep working, now,” she shook her finger at her rapidly-typing charge, then she ran out of the room, looking for the two other Guardians of the Lewis family that she knew were present in the home.
“Paulus, Aliel, there’s something outside,” she exclaimed as she burst into the family room where Christopher’s sisters were watching the television. “I think… I think perhaps it’s watching Christopher!”
Paulus, the big Guardian who watched over Jami, the older of the twins, was already returning to its scabbard the long blade he’d drawn upon hearing Mariel running down the stairs. But when he heard her words, he stopped as an expression of concern filled his handsome, Romanesque face.
“Outside, you say?”
“I didn’t feel anything,” Aliel, Holli’s slender Guardian, said. She was more delicate than Mariel, and usually more sensitive too.
The three angels fell silent and listened, but even their supernatural senses could detect no obvious danger. Mariel felt the usual petty spirits wandering about, but they were nothing out of the ordinary. When she admitted that she could not feel the cold eye of darkness now, Aliel was inclined to tease her, but Paulus raised an inquisitive eyebrow as he listened to her describe the uneasy sensation, and urged her to go outside and look around. He and Aliel would watch the house, he assured her solemnly, while she sought for signs of lurking evil.
The evening sky was clouded, white and soft with the blanketing of quietly falling snow. It was not so much a snowstorm as it was a gentle enshrouding of the earth, with large fluffy snowflakes that settled gently on the winter-bare tree branches. Mariel curled her wings about herself; although the cold of the physical world could not affect her, the eerie silence of this winter night made her shiver all the same. It reminded her, somehow, of the cruel bitterness of the grave that had claimed so many of her charges. She was glad that Borael Magnus, that dark King of the North, refrained from loosing his icy breath, and the soft white mounds outside the warmly-lighted windows of the Lewis house grew silently higher.
Mariel frowned as she surveyed the suburban neighborhood, still on guard though she saw no apparent signs of danger in the thick December clouds. The nearby forest was still, quiet as only a Minnesota forest in winter can be quiet, and she saw no peril lurking in the shadows of the evergreens. She dared a quick look back through the walls of the house, and was pleased to see that Christopher was still hard at work.
“Heavenly Father, show me what I’m looking for,” she prayed with her eyes open. “And give me the strength to face it, Lord.”
A motion caught the corner of her eye and Mariel wheeled a
round, dropping one hand to the hilt of the sword belted at her side. Then she laughed, a sound like the delicate ringing of bells, because she could not believe that the little intruder that stood before her might be the shadowy watcher whose ominous presence had called her out into the night.
“Harm me not, beautiful Guardian,” the imp said, bowing so low that his ugly face nearly scraped against the snow. “I mean you no harm.”
“Nor would it mean anything if you did, little wretch. Neither you nor your masters would dare to lift a hand against me. I am here by right.”
“And far be it from me to question it, Lady.”
Mariel relaxed somewhat and crossed her arms. She wrinkled her nose as an odor of rotten eggs wafted towards her, and a look of distaste flashed across her pretty face. The cursed spirit smelled even worse than he looked.
“Name yourself. And tell me, why are you here?”
“I am the Shadowrat,” the long-nosed imp replied obediently. “I was just out and about, looking for something to spice up a boring winter’s eve.”
Mariel shook her head. She assumed the little imp was lying, on sheer principle if nothing else, but it was remotely possible that it spoke the truth. There were thousands of its kind scattered about the city and its surrounding suburbs, nasty, troublesome little spirits without responsibilities or any serious capacity for evil. They often spent their nights wandering aimlessly, looking to stir up any kind of trouble that might entertain their loathsome minds.
“Well, Shadowrat, I don’t want you here. Get thee hence.”
The imp’s face could never have been pleasant to look at, but the wide leer that appeared upon it in defiant response to her command was unexpected, and Mariel was momentarily unsettled. How dare it look at her so! Angered, and not wishing to suffer the ugly thing’s presence one moment longer than she must, she drew her sword and took a threatening step towards the imp. Her weapon, a marvelous instrument of righteous retribution, burst into flames as soon as it was drawn from its scabbard.