The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  They did not move.

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

  The ground shook.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Wait.”

  The ranks parted. An Archdemon came forth.

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

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

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

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

  “No,” I said.

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

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

  “Good luck with that,” I said.

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

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

  His sneer was epic.

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

  We crossed swords.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That felt strange,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He was silent.

  We descended.

  CHAPTER 29

  Burt circled around and landed on Tigre’s shoulder as she trotted along, tireless.

  “Not just a landing ahead,” he said. “Almost like a plain. Drops down to the bottom of this cavern. There’s an army there waiting for us, where the path opens up onto the plain.”

  “What’s on the other side of the army?” I said.

  “More army,” he said. “And in the distance, the Gates.”

  The Gates to Hell.

  “Well, then” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Tigre said, “Yes.”

  We went.

  Around the turn and arrayed where the path became a broad plain, there was an army. Behind the army in the distance I saw the red glow of the Gates of Hell, surrounded by black walls.

  Red and black.

  The colors of the army facing us.

  The colors of Belial.

  Drawn up in broad ranks, opened in the middle, facing one another, an army clad in black armor with a red trident on their chests, a red flag with a black trident flying above them. Standing facing us, between the two broad ranks and blocking our passage down between them, an Archdemon.

  Tigre slowed, stopped at a distance from him.

  The Archdemon tilted up his visor in salute.

  “Hello, Marius,” he said.

  “Hello, Satan,” I said.

  Satan. Or as he is sometimes known in this realm, Amon, Lord of Wrath. His face, what could be seen through the raised visor, shifted constantly: my face, the face of countless anonymous humans, a leering visage with eyes of red, a single glowing red eye, a cat’s face twisted in hatred, the cruel beak of a bird of prey, constantly shifting, human, animal, human, animal, the one constant an eye or eyes, gleaming red, and the sense of heat radiating off him, like a blast furnace carefully banked, ready to consume all that passed or entered it.

  Satan-Amon, Lord of Wrath.

  “Enjoying this trip?” Satan asked. “Not the same as journeying, is it?”

  “Different trip, same territory,” I said. “And some of the same players.”

&
nbsp; “Yes. What was it last time? You fetched back the soul of that drunken Irishman, father to your friend. He’d wandered here and was ensnared. What did you leave me, that time? A stone?”

  “I don’t recall at this time,” I said. “Perhaps. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But then, none of these are.”

  “No. All of mine are supposed to be here. I’m aware of your need to rescue, Marius. One of the many flaws in your eightfold armor. They all made choices, they all have consequences. I am a consequence, enriched by their choices.”

  “Helped along the way by you, of course.”

  “Of course. For every mewling one you rescue, ten thousand you pass over. You’re like a child who takes satisfaction in plucking one grain of sand from the sea while countless others drown. Remember that, Marius? Remember how many you left behind beneath the waves?”

  The curling huge green wave, breaking over the crystalline towers, the screams of those running hopelessly before the waves rushing towards them, and I was running towards—

  “We do what we can, Satan,” I said. “Not our plan.”

  “That’s your little litany, what keeps you more or less sane, isn’t it?” Satan said. “‘Not my plan, but yours, Creator?’” He laughed. “The same Creator created me, Marius. Ever think about that? Maybe this is just the vanity of a mortal gifted with things beyond his grasp or comprehension. Worse than throwing pearls to swine is throwing Divine Power to a mortal. Especially to you, little shaman, hustling back and forth, retrieving souls, guiding those who wandered my way courtesy of their misguided beliefs and self-judgment, seeking healing.”

  He sneered the last word.

  “Healer. Hah. You’re just like me, Marius. You take their souls, just in a different way. They are all so grateful to you, so thankful as they drop their pennies into your empty little jar, and you turn away, so humble, and inside you’re counting the days till your rent is due, or where you can buy the cheapest cuts of meat.

  “You don’t seek it out for healing, little shaman, little Marius. You seek it out, you seek me out, because you’re so angry. Angry about how it ended, angry about what you did, and what you didn’t do. Angry about being a coward, Marius, angry about leaving some behind because you were afraid, angry because you want to strike out but you do not, because your puling guidance says not to strike in wrath, not to be angry . . . that’s why you’re weak and a coward, Marius, you won’t use what you have to do it right, so they all died screaming your name, and you never came, did you, Marius? . . . Did you?”

  He drew his long great sword, put it point down in front of him, crossed his hands on the hilt and leaned forward.

  “You never came, Marius. Not then. You failed. As you’ve already failed now. Here. For your little Jolene—and all of your friends there behind you, those who stand silent right now, they’ll get to witness your failure once more. This is where your Lie gets exposed, Marius—where the Lie of you and what you are, what you proclaim yourself to be—that Lie is opened up.”

  “You’re not the Father of Lies, Satan,” I said. “You’re the bastard stepchild of Lies.”

  Heat began to radiate even more from his armor, which took on a reddish-black tinge as it heated. As did his blade. Tiny flames began to pop along the edge and point, and small tendrils of steam and smoke appeared to emanate from the blade itself. His eyes narrowed and I felt the blast furnace of his gaze.

  “You already failed, Marius,” Satan said, “in your quest for your little Jolene. You know why you failed? She gave herself for you. She was shown what was going to happen, and she said, ‘Take me.’ She gave herself willingly, because she knew you were weak. That you couldn’t take what was coming your way.”

  “No,” I said. “Lies from the poor relation of Lies. Stand aside and let us pass, Satan. You are nothing and less than nothing before the Sword of Michael.”

  The ranks of Satan shivered, like a reflection in a body of water as a wind passes over it, at the name of the Mighty Archangel.

  “Each time you utter that name, Marius, your bitch screams in pain,” Satan said matter-of-factly. “Each and every time. Try it. I’ll let you hear her.”

  Can you remember when you last were enraged, if you ever have been? I’m not talking about pissed, irritated, or even angry.

  I’m talking about rage.

  The kind that leaves you red-faced, eyes and veins bursting, screaming at the top of your lungs, the kind that leads to you leaping on someone and sinking your teeth into their neck, beating your fists against them till they are pulp beneath you, the kind of rage that beats like an oversized drum right behind your eyes, a drum pounded by an insane drummer as hard and fast as he can . . .

  That kind of rage.

  Take that and double it.

  Then double it again.

  And then double it again.

  That’s what I felt.

  The Sword throbbed and pulsed. The blue light was so bright it hurt my eyes, but Satan leered at me, seemingly unaffected by the light. I raised it, my hands trembling . . .

  And held back.

  Fought it down.

  The answer to wrath . . . is patience.

  “Step aside, Satan,” I said. “Or do something with that sword besides lean on it.”

  “You’re something of a swordsman, I understand,” Satan said. “The One We Do Not Name didn’t give you the full-sized model, I see. More of a dagger on steroids. Commensurate with your rank, probably. You need a shield, shaman. I think I have just what you need.”

  He raised one hand, and two of his minions came running, bearing a round shield between them, a black and red cloth covering the front of it.

  “I want you well equipped for the fight, shaman. I will not have it said that I did not give you every chance. So here’s a shield my Master had made, just for you. I think you’ll like it. You will find it necessary.”

  “I want nothing you have. I want nothing from your Master,” I said.

  “Oh, but you do, don’t you? You want your little Jolene back. Well, you can have her, shaman. But you probably won’t want her.”

  “Marius . . .” Tigre began.

  “Silence, Tiger!” Satan bellowed. The cavern shook and echoed with his fury. “You have no say in his decision.”

  “I want no . . .” I said.

  Satan gestured, and his mailed minions pulled back the black cloth and exposed the face of the shield. It was like a window looking into a chamber, round and mounted on a backing like a shield. But you could see into it with depth, like a chamber, and she pressed her hands and her face against that window, screaming silently at me.

  Jolene.

  Her eyes were mad, and her hair had turned white. Long furrowed lines of pain and sorrow etched her face.

  Jolene.

  Satan grabbed the shield by its edge in one clawed hand, held it to his face. She screamed silently, her arms crossed against her face as though against a blow. Satan extended his long forked tongue and slowly licked the front of the shield.

  He tossed it to me.

  “Protect yourself, shaman,” he said. “She said she’d take it all for you. Every arrow, every sword stroke, every blow, she said she’d take it for you. She’s already taken so much . . . and if you don’t let her take it, you’ll die. As will all your other friends. And then I’ll take your Sword. So much for Marius Winter, little shaman of the central plains, and his little Fellowship of the Carved Twig.”

  “No!” Otto shouted. “I will fight you!”

  He strode forward, his machine pistol ready in his hand.

  Satan laughed. “Be silent, worm. Your work is ahead of you, if you live that long.” Satan waved his sword and the MP5K burst into a hot splatter of metal and exploding rounds. Otto shouted in pain, clutched his burned hands to his chest, metal and burns pocking his face.

  “No!” I said.

  I held the shield, turned it towards me, looked into its depths.

  Jolene.

  She mouthed m
y name over and over, screaming silently, pounding her hands flat against the inside of the shield, pounding her hands against her head . . .

  Mad. Driven insane.

  “Tigre? Is it . . .” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is. Part of her soul. Not all of it. But some. It’s her.”

  Jolene.

  Satan raised his hand. “Archers!” he shouted.

  A rank of bowmen swung in behind him, one from each opposite rank. They drew back black double recurve bows with cruel arrows glinting.

  “No!” I screamed.

  They launched the arrows. Not just at me. But a volley at my allies as well. I held the shield to my chest, facing inwards, raised the Sword and cast a veil of Light over all of us.

  While some of the arrows burst into flames on contact with the Light, there were so many that some slipped through.

  They found targets.

  One lodged in Tigre’s haunch, and she reared in pain; Otto took one in his hand; First In Front dodged the first volley, as did Burt.

  But more arrows came right at me.

  I swiped with the Sword, and one arrow notched my ear, another parted my hair and left bits shaven free dropping onto my shirt.

  “Volley!” Satan shouted.

  An arc of arrows climbed high and plummeted towards us. Burt rose into the sky, split into a huge cloud of crows that met the cloud of arrows.

  One crow, one arrow, all of them raining down to land with heavy thuds around us.

  Burt turned his face to me, fallen, a bolt through his wing.

  “Do what you can, Marius,” he whispered, in pain. “We will rise to help as long as we can.”

  He twisted his beak, yanked out the arrow. Real blood leaked from the torn bone and wing, matted his feathers.

  “To me, brothers,” the crow called, and those that were left rose into the sky, Burt wobbling in flight but he rose—

  “Volley!” Satan shouted.

  And another cloud of arrows rose to meet the crows, each arrow finding a crow, their thin line crumbling, tumbling from the sky, thudding again and again into the ground, a piece of the essence of crow cut down . . .