The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  “No,” she said. “It is not.”

  “Our first meeting.”

  “It is.”

  “The White Tiger,” it said. “Quite famous, in some circles.”

  “We require you to make way,” I said. I raised the Sword.

  Beelzebub appeared unimpressed. “Oh, yes. That.”

  He raised his club and all his minions raised their weaopns.

  The Sword rained blue lightning on the ranks of Gluttony’s soldiers. The smell of seared meat rose above them. More appeared, excreted as though from Beelzebub’s very pores like grains of meat or pus from a wound. The lightning rained all around Beelzebub, but his meaty club seemed to draw the lightning, smoked it down to ashy bone, but still the club was like a lightning rod . . .

  . . . instead of bounding into the fight, Tigre bounded over the minions, landing lightly after sailing over the milling ranks, without us firing as much as a shot. She landed and faked right, went left, then leapt over the club of Beelzebub that came whizzing past us, then under us, and we sprang for the path beyond when suddenly Beelzebub appeared as though transported from where he’d been, right in front of us and we ran right into the belly and bounced backwards, all of us tumbling even though Tigre turned in midair and landed on her feet, then reared up onto her hind legs and swiped at the impossibly fast form of the Lord of Gluttony, who was almost dainty in his blinding speed, like the dancing hippo from that Disney movie.

  Otto tumbled end over end, but with skill, judo or jiu-jitsu type training, and came up with his MP5K aimed at the milling herd of Gluttonous minions who just now were realizing we were behind them, significantly so, and engaging their boss—

  —but it told me something that First In Front sprang in front of me, pushed me back just as Beelzebub swiped with that impossibly fast club, and Tigre was lunging and swiping at him, that just maybe this fat gourmand of human flesh and soul was more than he seemed—

  “You think?” Burt said as he swarmed past with his fellow crows, swirling around Beelzebub’s eyes to rob him of his vision—

  I thought of Jolene.

  Yes, I hungered for her, but not of flesh alone. I was here as more than a man in search of his woman; I was no Orpheus in search of his Eurydice, I was here as . . . a Sword of Michael.

  I raised the Sword. “MIIII-KAI-ELLLL!”

  A blast of blue light from the Sword rained across the shield that Beelzebub had raised, but as the blue light ran down like rain on a windowpane, it cut and scored the earth away around the Archdemon’s feet, till the very earth gave way beneath its feet, toppling it to its side, though it snatched at the sides of the sudden sinkhole that had appeared with its impossible speed—

  —and Tigre struck at one of its hands, while it flailed its club with the other; First In Front, fluid, the knife flashing in his hand, cut at the demon flesh, the blade leaving sears of bright red fire that ran like blood down the Archdemon’s arm; Otto placed single shots, precise, dead center of the ugly teeth-rimmed flower that passed for a maw with each of the minions, conserving his ammo because I sensed that he also saw this as a very, very long night’s work. . . .

  —and I raised the Sword once more, and a series of pulsed blue lightning bolts struck the Archdemon in his huge belly, creating smoldering holes that forced it further down, and then it tumbled free, lightning raining down on it, like the Balrog tumbling down off the broken bridge, and its club flailing, catching Tigre hard on one forearm. The snap of shattered bone was loud in my ear as was the roar of pain and sudden rage, something I’d never heard before, and she was limping away from the crumbling edge of the sinkhole, and I realized that we were all on the wrong side of the hole; the same side that held a huge horde of hungry mouths, and I looked up at Burt, who nodded as he dived toward me. He grew suddenly huge, like the Eagles in Lord of the Rings or the Ravens of Randall Flagg in The Stand, and he and his murder of crows swooped down, plucking us up and carrying us across the widening hole, with several of them swooping up my beloved tiger, wounded now, and depositing us on the other side. We ran, but Tigre could not. So Burt and several of his fellows picked her up and flew her right ahead of us, like a squadron of Black Hawks transporting a tiger, and we ran further down the stone path, leaving the gape-mouthed horde of Gluttony falling into the widening hole behind us—

  “Going to be difficult getting back across that,” Otto said, breathing evenly and smoothly as his long legs ate up the distance.

  “We’ll have to consider an alternate route,” I said. “Or alternate transportation.”

  We stopped to regroup. Tigre sat on her haunch, her maimed right front paw broken with the bone protruding halfway between the paw and the first major joint.

  “This doesn’t look good,” I said.

  Her face was genuinely twisted in pain, and her sides heaved as she panted. I’d never experienced this before; in journey, my guides and allies were, well, indestructible, and regularly encounter and defeat enemies—though Archdemons were not a common occurrence, and two in a row pretty well unprecedented.

  “When we are in the flesh, in this realm, we are as vulnerable as you are,” First In Front said.

  I knelt beside Tigre, examined her leg. Her eyes gleamed into mine.

  “Anything I can visualize or imagine, as long as I am aligned with the Sword and right intent . . . right?” I said to her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  I’d never heard pain in her voice before.

  It shook me.

  I felt a tide of rage rising up in me.

  Test.

  That’s what it was.

  Wasn’t it?

  I took a deep breath, settled myself. From the walls and the very roof above us gleamed millions of trapped souls, cycling through the emotions that bound them, a reminder of what it took to be free, to be unbound. Connect to the Light . . . with healing intent.

  The Sword grew even brighter; redoubled again, then again . . . brilliant blue light, cobalt in its density, so bright that everyone else stepped back.

  I touched the flat of the blade against Tigre’s wounded leg.

  Blue light pulsed into her leg, illuminated each individual hair of her fur, like an X-ray we could see right into her bone and muscle structure, blue light pulsing through it, down to the cellular level, each cell illuminated in brilliant blue light . . .

  I felt the Presence of the Archangel himself, flowing through that Light into Tigre’s leg, and then the Presence I most loved, She who always appears in blue and white, Queen of the Angels, First Among Healers, Mother of Us All, Beloved Mother Mary, and her healing Light channeled through the Sword, through me, combined with my intention, cleared of the anger and rage that had fueled me, for once a clear channel here in the antechambers of Hell . . .

  Tigre convulsed once, then relaxed. Before our eyes the leg straightened, lengthened, smoothed out, even her fur curled into place . . .

  And the Light was banked.

  For now.

  “How are you?” I said.

  Tigre extended her paw like a woman admiring her expensive manicure. “Better than new,” she said. “So this is what it’s like for those mortals so blessed.” She regarded me, then Otto. “That is one of the great gifts of being in the flesh. You mortals are blessed beyond your knowledge. This is the only time in my entire existence I’ve experienced; and it may be the only time. Appreciate your gifts. Now I understand . . .”

  Otto said, “This night is full of revelations.”

  “The night is young, to paraphrase a mortal of my acquaintance,” Burt said.

  “We have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep,” First In Front said.

  “And miles to go before we sleep,” I said.

  “Stay Frosty,” Tigre said. “Mount up, boys.”

  “I don’t know that one,” I said.

  “John Wayne,” Tigre said.

  “I’ve heard of him,” I said.

  “You bet, pilgrim,” she said. “And Mar
ius?”

  “Yes, Goddess?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me . . .”

  “Yes,” she said, serious. “There is.”

  We mounted up, and descended further into Hell.

  CHAPTER 26

  I’m fond of random digression, even when engaged in epic quests, and I reckon that a frontal assault on the Gates of Hell would qualify as epic. When I was in college, one of my required classes was an advanced literature class in which we read John Ciardi’s translation of The Divine Comedy. I’m sure you had the same class, so I won’t recapitulate the plot, but what I remember most was the debate over the geography of Hell. What I liked about the Ciardi translation as published by Penguin was that they had the good sense to include a map of Hell, which even then, long before my Call, I committed to memory. The overall configuration was that of an ice cream cone, wide at the top and steadily narrowing down, to the deepest chamber where Satan himself was bound in chains by Michael the Archangel.

  Thus far, it was pretty much like Dante Alighieri called it. This was something that I’d be shown in journey and vision; authors, popular culture and mass media often portrayed truth, even dangerous truths, in ways that the mass of people could assimilate them. Dante was like the Stephen King of his time and he certainly helped shape perception, in the same way science fiction, fantasy, and film helped shape perception of what was going on in our world and time—sometimes years in advance.

  Makes me a little nervous about the recent fascination with zombies and extraterrestrials.

  There were more tunnels branching off the main path of descent, tunnels that led deeper into the darkness illuminated by the corpse light of trapped souls; the main path was broad and plain to the eye. What struck me most was the absence of traffic; I suppose at some level I imagined Hell to be busy with demons and devils going to and fro on the Dark Force’s business. But in my previous journeys, I’d found it to be much the same, though in the way of shamanic travel I’d gone directly to where I needed to go and done what I needed to do. Traveling in the flesh, literally, accompanied by my spirit guides and protectors who were also in the flesh—something completely different.

  I looked at the Sword in my hand.

  The instrument of my transformation, and that of my companions.

  I wouldn’t let myself think of what might come after. There were other Guardians to get through, by deception or force, and then the final contest, whatever that might be, that would lead to the rescue of Jolene . . . and then there was the healing she would need, and then there’s the whole part about coming back.

  But one thing at a time. One crisis, one obstacle to be dealt with.

  And another one coming up.

  Hell, like I said, was an ice cream cone. We descended, the winding of the tunnel became narrower; each of the Guardians we’d encountered held a post on what was like a mezzanine. One of those loomed close and I could see the ranks of gleaming soldiers lined up—waiting for us.

  “Ah,” Otto said. “These look interesting.”

  Ranks of soldiers in gleaming black armor, highly polished, with a white V and a black slash down the middle. Looked just like a business suit as we got closer. Humans, or human-looking enough, a variety of faces, all different but with one common characteristic—the overfed taut-skinned face of the completely possessed, the self-satisfied look of the banker, the lawyer, the stockbroker, successful and untouchable.

  Maybe not.

  Ranks upon ranks, and behind them, sitting on a raised dais on an opulent throne covered by a canopy, another Archdemon. Too far to see him well.

  As we approached, the ranks opened and made a passageway directly to the throne.

  Tigre continued forward.

  “Is this wise?” I said.

  “We cannot go around,” she said, “so we must go through.”

  Otto said, “This reminds me of a great deal.”

  “I imagine so,” I said.

  Tigre slowed her stride, a steady and majestic parade of powerful and sacred flesh through the ranks of soldiers. The ranks closed up behind us, but the way remained open. Burt had called his fellow crows back into himself, and perched on my shoulder. I found the grip of his claws comforting. First In Front was uncharacteristically silent.

  “What are you thinking?” I said to him. It seemed strange to have to ask.

  “This one,” he said. “This one cost the Native Peoples dearly. I know him of old. Be careful with him, Marius.”

  “Who are we up against?” I said.

  “Mammon,” First In Front said. “Lord of Greed. He is powerful here and in the Middle World.”

  We approached the throne. The ranks closed up behind us. The throne was before us. It looked like a customized Aeron executive chair, with an enormous number of adjustable points, a control panel sprouting monitors off to one side and an incongruous mug holder which steamed. I smelled coffee. Good coffee.

  “Jamaican Blue Mountain,” Mammon said. “Your favorite, right? May I offer you a cup?”

  Mammon looked like a very tall human dressed in an extremely expensive black business suit, white shirt, open collar, no tie, like Richard Branson on a dress-up day. Huge coiffed mane of black hair swept back with a double streak of white on both sides, clean shaven, perfect teeth. Eyes as black and deep and merciless as those of a great white shark.

  His head was very square.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Are you sure? I get the best of each crop. Brought in special. I know it’s your favorite . . . and Jolene’s. That’s her name, right? The little redhead? Jolene?” Mammon said, sipping his coffee from an exquisitely crafted porcelain cup.

  “Yes,” I said. “Her name is Jolene.”

  “Mmm,” he said, savoring the coffee. “Tasty.” He paused. “The coffee, I mean. Not your . . . Jolene. I wouldn’t know. At least, not yet.”

  He regarded me, sipping his coffee, then leaned back and crossed his legs.

  “You know, Marius,” Mammon said. “We all work for someone, right? I work for someone, you work for someone . . .” He inclined his head at the Sword. “A powerful someone. So at the risk of offending you, I’ll just say that we have something in common. We both work for beings who might be at odds with one another. And at this point in time, we’re placed in conflict with each other.”

  Another sip of coffee, and then a long moment with his eyes closed, savoring the coffee or something else. “Doesn’t have to be that way, Marius. We can make a deal and you can get what you want, and we can both tell our respective employers that we’ve done our job, and everybody leaves happy . . . and unharmed. No disrespect to you, what you bear, and who you travel with, but the prospect of significant harm grows with every step you take on this path. So a reasonable person might consider an offer and make the best out of the situation, instead of perhaps forcing it to the place where certain irrevocable actions would need to be taken. Perhaps you see my point?”

  My allies and my guides were silent.

  I turned and looked back at Otto, who had shifted sideways to watch behind us and still hear the discussion. He was grave and impassionate. I turned back to Mammon. My call.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “What do you want, Marius?” Mammon said.

  Tigre growled deep inside her, a vibration beneath us. Mammon looked at her with amusement.

  “It is his call, tiger,” Mammon said. “You do not control him. From what I’ve heard, he’s not easily controlled. Marius, what is it that you want?”

  So simple a question, and yet not.

  “Jolene. Returned, unharmed. And passage back to the Middle World. For all of us, unharmed.”

  “Not difficult,” Mammon said. “For me. What are you willing to exchange for that?”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Ah, so much,” Mammon said. “That’s the point of being me. I want it all—every single drop. So, more to the point, what do I
want from you?” He considered this for a moment.

  “I could ask for your life, but then, I could take that. I could ask for your soul, but I doubt you’d do that. You could give it, but then you’d find a way to take it back since you’re probably not going to be satisfied with that simple swap. Even a romantic such as yourself. Forgive me for that, by the way. No insult intended.” He smirked.

  “So what does that leave me? Life, no; soul, unlikely. From where I sit, I see two possible options: the Sword, and your Service. Am I missing something?”

  “Sorry. Nonstarters on both,” I said.

  Mammon stared at me. I felt as though I were staring into the twin barrels of a double-barreled shotgun in a dimly lit room. “Excuse me?”

  “The Sword doesn’t enter into any of it. Nor will I serve you or any other Dark Force. At all. So this whole discussion is a nonstarter.”

  “Nonstarter? Interesting phrase. I thought we had started a discussion.”

  “You did. I’m ending it.”

  Mammon laughed. A rich and decidedly cruel laugh. “Oh, Marius. Your childhood love of cowboy movies is showing. Do you remember, as a child, how you sat glued to the floor, staring at that lovely flickering screen, watching The Lone Ranger, Rawhide, Bonanza . . . all those grand old cowboy movies? And the cowboy, valiant to the end, a man of his word . . . and of his gun . . . ‘Well, podner, you started it, but I’m a-gonna end it—’

  “And then you had to go and make it worse with your addiction to samurai movies. Remember the first time you watched Seven Samurai? You cried. Really, Marius. How embarrassing. The valiant samurai, giving it all in service to his lord; or dying heroically for his comrades. Your love of those antiheroes has colored your response to the world. What was it that your . . . teacher Betsy said to you? ‘You have to give up the drama to mature as a practitioner . . .’ Have you done that yet, Marius? You love the drama, you love the high risk . . . Who do the other . . . shamans,” he laughed at the word. “Who do they send their high-risk possessions to? You, of course. And you never turn them away. You are cut and shot and cursed and slimed, for peanuts and whatever tips they deign to throw into your empty jar . . . and right now, Marius, you refuse to bargain for what you claim you love most in the entire world . . . your little redheaded Wiccan. Shall I show her to you, Marius? To remind you of what you are bargaining for? Here . . .”