The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  Satan pointed his sword at Tigre and at First In Front trying to remove the arrow from her haunch as Otto was pierced again, this time in his shoulder.

  I ran to them.

  First In Front waved me off. “They will get all of us. Attack him!”

  Burt tumbled out of the sky, landed beside me, arrow in his breast. He turned one old, wise eye to me, then looked skyward. The last of the crows fell, and arrows descended like black rain. An arc of them fell towards me and without thinking, I threw the shield up and several pierced the front.

  “Aaaahhhh!” Jolene screamed.

  Satan smiled. “Now you can hear, shaman. Make your choice. Use that Sword or lay it down and run away. I’ll let you live, and you can take your little mad woman with you. These others . . . they stay.”

  “Aaaahhh! Marius, oh Marius, please no . . .” Jolene screamed.

  I could not bear to look.

  Satan smiled at me. Lifted his sword of flame. Pointed it at me. Fire lashed out, set Tigre’s fur aflame, knocked First In Front back. Otto held up both his wounded arms to shield himself from the fire.

  “Volley!” Satan shouted once more.

  Another dark cloud of arrows rose into the air and descended down on us, pinning Tigre and piercing Otto and First In Front.

  Satan laughed. “Always the coward, Marius. Always the coward.”

  The rage took me. I lifted the Sword. Blue flame crackled its length, sparked off it. I pointed it at Satan and a line of pulsing blue flame lashed out at him.

  Casually, he lifted his sword and red flame blocked the blue.

  “You are not the Archangel, mortal. You’re a porter. You carry his bags. You do not have the power in this place. And your rage?” Satan laughed. “As mewling as everything else you do. Die screaming with your woman, shaman. But not till I’m done with your . . . allies.”

  He pointed his sword and Tigre burst into flames.

  Her back arched and she screamed, a sound I’d never heard before, a sound I’d never imagined. Unlike anything I’d ever heard in this life or all those that came before.

  “STOP! NO!” I screamed.

  Arrows descended. Otto screamed in pain. First In Front shouted his defiance; “HEYA, HEYA, HEY—”

  He choked, and I saw the arrow protruding from his throat.

  For the first time, I felt the Sword go limp in my hand—I did not know what to do. Arrows thudded around me. Jolene screamed from within my shield, an endless litany of “Marius, help me, Marius, help me, Marius, help me . . .” Tigre twisted in the flames, blackening, her eyes beseeching me; Otto was on his knees plucking arrows out of himself; and First In Front was singing his death song and drawing out the arrow from his throat, flinging it down and preparing to charge Satan himself . . .

  The rage took me.

  I lifted the Sword, blue lightning descended, and a blast wave rippled out from me, incinerating arrows in flight, and the wave of light crashed into the ranks of Satan’s army, who huddled behind their shields; Satan himself just raised his sword and a shield wall of red flame protected him.

  Like the wave, so long ago—I’d saved all that I could, more than expected, but there were still others there, and I turned back and the Faithful who went with me, we ran towards the wave, the wave rising up over the Island of the Faithful, the wave breaking the Tower of Healing, the Hearth of the Great Crystal, the Halls of the One, breaking the buildings that had stood for so long, crushing beneath those green waters so many who were loved: fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, elders, children . . . and I had run so hard, and I saw them, there in the Tower, the Priestesses holding the Space, holding it back against all odds, against all hope, and we tried and we tried, but it was too late, and even as the wave washed down, crushed me in a dizzy swirl of green with the weight of the raging waters, my rage rose, shattered my Spirit, and I returned again and again, as my dying thought was, Save all that you can . . .

  So many times I descended into the flesh, to save all that I could . . . time and again . . . but always the rage betrayed me, the anger, the fierce fire with which I had tried to turn back the icy waters that descended on me, and the lesson, over and over again, was that the rage was powerful, the rage could turn it back, for at least a time, but that was a mortal thing, the power of Satan and his master, Belial, was the power of rage, of wrath . . .

  . . . and the other side of it was patience, was compassion, and even now I raged against that, where was that on the battlefield where all that I loved lay dying, wounded, burning, screaming in pain for me to help them, and I alone against the armies of Belial . . .

  And that voice came through to me . . . guided, protected, and never alone . . .

  And I remembered that sequence in the Bhagavad Gita, when Krishna explains to Arjuna, to strike without hatred, to strike with love, to be the instrument in the hand of Creator God, not to be the fuel of the fight, but to be the Vessel for the Transformation, and I remembered that which sustained me on so many battlefields through so many lives, all the way back to the first battle . . .

  And I whispered to myself, through a mouthful of my own blood, “Not me, God, but You, through me . . .” and I felt myself raise the Sword and turn the Shield, and the Shield grew to cover us all, and I held the Sword high and shouted the battle cry that carried us on that first battlefield . . .

  “MIIII-KAI-ELLLL!”

  Clarity fell over me, a strange calmness, as though I were removed from my body and yet not; the brilliant blue light of the Sword became like that of the sun, and from my chest a brilliant white light emanated, the white light at the heart of the sun, the Divine White Light of Creator God. Satan’s ranks quailed, and even Satan was shaken behind his shield of flame.

  Arrows burst into flame or lodged in the Shield, grown large and curved over our heads, big enough for all of us.

  I waved the Sword from side to side, and the ranks of Satan’s army flew backwards, tumbling. I pointed the Sword directly at him, and said, “Not my Will, but Yours, Creator God. Let me be the Sword in Your Hand.”

  As though the light of a thousand suns was unleashed, a beam of White Light shattered the shield of red fire around Satan, staggering him back. His army was in disarray behind him.

  “Go!” First In Front shouted. “Go!” Otto pressed at the blood gushing out of himself, but dragged himself close to Tigre and threw the shredded bloody remains of his shirt to First In Front who swatted at the smoldering fire covering Tigre. Burt was bloodied and still, one eye gazing upward.

  I held the Shield and the Sword and advanced on Satan.

  He was staggered. Injured, even, his eyes fading in and out of the constant kaleidoscope that was his face. But he raised his sword and ran to meet me.

  His first blow fell on the Shield, and I heard Jolene scream. I turned that sound down in my head, tuned it out, let the Light of Michael shine through me, and it was his hand on the Sword, moving in a brilliant mosaic of light, cutting, slashing, piercing, burning all over Satan, blocking his sword in an array of sparks, throwing blue lightning on him, hammering on his big sword again and again, forcing him back. The litany of screams and beseeching cries from within the Shield grew louder, but I let the pain of that wash over me, focused on filling myself with Light as I feinted high with the Sword and then came in under his counter, cutting at the Archdemon’s knee, catching him on the hinge of his armor, the Sword of Michael parting his Hell Armor like a Spyderco on a thread. But he back cut at me. The Shield, screaming in pain, saved me once more (Jolene . . .) as his Hellblade slammed into it, and then I saw the line of attack, the angle, and I thrust, a straight thrust, hard. The point went in between his helm and gorget, at an angle, the blade following. A sudden explosion of blue light emanated from every joint and angle from inside his black and red armor, a sudden stagger, and then Satan dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and I withdrew the Sword and brought it down in a vicious cut at the neck, and then a whirling explosion of black and red and blue and
white . . .

  Stillness.

  Satan’s armor lay disjointed in front of me, smoking and red with heat, his sword as well. His army fled in disarray or lay in smoking heaps on the battlefield.

  The armor was empty, his sword abandoned.

  I raised the Sword of Michael. A blue column of light emerged from above, illuminated and surrounded me, spread out like a blast wave from the sword . . . all the way to the Gates in the distance.

  The field was ours.

  Broken weeping from the Shield. I turned its battered surface towards me. Oh, my beauty, my Jolene . . . she was bloody and burnt and pierced with arrows, on the floor in a heap, her white hair strewn like ancient straw, weeping, weeping . . .

  The rage, the rage had gone.

  There was only what needed to be done.

  I ran back.

  Tigre twisted in pain, her fur burnt away and the skin blackened, broken in great red rents. Otto was unconscious, bleeding out from multiple arrow wounds in his neck and shoulders, his hands and face burnt and pocked with shrapnel from his exploded machine pistol. Burt was huddled and still, pierced through with an arrow.

  First In Front was on his knees, his hands held high as he prayed. Blood ran from his head, from his hands, and he prayed in Lakota and the words were burned into me: “Take me to your breast, Creator, for today I have stood with my brothers and my sisters, I have stood in the face of great Evil, and I have stood not because of me, Creator, but because You are strong in me, and I am grateful for the opportunity to serve you, Creator God, and I ask that you make my place ready there, among my ancestors, and tell them that I did not dishonor them on this day . . .”

  “Not yet, my friends. Not this day . . .” I raised the Sword. “I call on you, Creator God, and I call on Jesus the Christ, and Mother Mary, Queen of the Angels, and the Mighty Archangels of the Presence, and I call on you, Michael, and I ask for your presence here, at the Gates of Hell, to Light our way, and if it is in accordance with your plan, to bring healing and relief to those who have stood here this day, I plead for this, Creator God . . .”

  And White Light descended and filled all of us . . .

  CHAPTER 30

  I opened my eyes. I was sprawled facedown on the ground, the Sword in my right hand and the Shield in my left. I tested my body for injury. Nothing that I could feel, just a great feeling of lassitude. I rolled to my side, pressed myself up to my knees, then my feet.

  First In Front was on his knees, hands held out in prayer. Uninjured, at least to my eyes.

  Burt stretched his wings, flexed them in. A nasty scar, but it didn’t seem to hamper his wing function.

  Otto was on his feet, stripped to his pants. For an old guy, he was in awesome shape. He’d picked up a couple of doozies for his scar collection; a pockmarking of black, healed, burn spots and multiple arrow entries.

  Tigre . . . ah, Tigre, my beautiful tiger. She was singed and stiff with tight new flesh, and her fur was spotty and matted, but she was on her feet and apparently with no pain.

  I turned the Shield to look into the front.

  Jolene.

  Her hair was white, her face still furrowed with lines. But there was some of her old calmness and serenity returned to her. She too was scarred by the arrows and the flame and the sword of Satan. But she bore those scars with dignity.

  “Jolene?” I said.

  “Yes, my love,” she said. “Yes.”

  I could not speak.

  “Thank you, Marius,” Tigre said. “For all of us. And thanks to Creator God for the healing that you channeled for us all, for our work here is not yet done.”

  “I am ready,” First In Front said. “We must go.”

  “We have Jolene,” I said.

  “No,” Tigre said. “We do not. We have a soul fragment, a soul piece. Her soul is there.” She pointed one paw at the Gate in the distance. “We must have all of her before we return. This soul retrieval is only through when we confront the final Guardian, and we take Jolene intact out of here.”

  I looked once more at Jolene in the Shield. She nodded, once. I took a deep breath, exhaled.

  “Then we go,” I said. “We go straight to Hell.”

  Burt laughed. “Oh, how many times have I heard that.”

  We laughed. Weak laughter, then growing.

  We were back.

  Otto went past me. Stood over the shattered armor of Satan. Bent and picked up Satan’s sword.

  “I’m surprised I can handle it,” he said.

  I was too.

  “Be careful, Otto,” Tigre said. “Perhaps you should leave that as it is.”

  “It is the best weapon out here,” Otto said reasonably. “And I am poor with a bow.”

  He swung it experimentally several times, thrust with it. “I may not be able to throw lightning or call the fire, but I think I can swing this Hellblade.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “Time for us to go. We have promises to keep . . .”

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

  We trudged towards the Gates of Hell.

  CHAPTER 31

  We were a battered company, limping our way across the plain to the Gate that grew in our sight. We all walked, as we could not bear to ask Tigre to carry us on her scarred and matted back. Otto held the sword of Satan on his shoulder like a rifle. Burt would fly ahead, then land to rest and wait for us to catch up. First In Front marched proudly ahead. I carried the Shield slung across my back, the Sword ready in my hand.

  The plain was flat stone. Nothing grew here. There was a path of sorts, and we crossed onto it. The path was laid with flat stones. Each stone was the face of the soul traps we’d seen on our descent, except these were all laid flat and flush together, carefully fitted so there was barely a crack between them. Faces pawing up against the surface, as though trying to reach through and grasp our feet, mouths moving in pleadings that were silent, for once, and I was grateful for that.

  I don’t know where the light in Hell comes from. It was just . . . illumination. Maybe from the stones, because the cavern vanished away above us, the distance we had descended invisible to our eyes. Or maybe it just was, like the feeblest glowing of a poor lamp in a dingy basement.

  For once, we were all silent, alone with our thoughts.

  Nothing like death and resurrection to somber you right up.

  I said nothing to the Jolene soul fragment in the Shield on my back. From time to time, I heard soft sounds coming from there: weeping, choking, murmured prayer.

  They’d driven her insane, and yet she was healed, this part of her.

  I didn’t want to think about what might be before us.

  * * *

  The Gates of Hell: The path ends before two massive metal doors, taller than even your run-of-the-mill Archdemon. The metal is black. There are no locks or gaps in the doors; no window, no portals.

  Just the end of the road and double doors that open into the darkest Pit of the Underworld.

  We assembled there, well clear of the door swing. Stood. Breathed. Prayed.

  “Should we do something?” Otto said.

  “Reasonable question,” I said. “I don’t know. In journey, I just passed through. Here, in the flesh? I don’t know. Tigre?”

  “We wait,” she said. “The one we’re waiting for knows we are here. When he’s ready, the doors will open.”

  “Marius, you know how to play pinochle?” Burt said.

  “No.”

  “Too bad. You could do some of that instant manifestation stuff and rustle us up a table and some cards. We could kill some time that way,” Burt said.

  “I saw a velvet painting in a pawn shop that looked like that,” I said. “So there’s this crow, a tiger, an Indian, a German and a practitioner sitting at the table, playing cards . . .”

  “That sounds like the beginning of a poor joke,” First In Front said.

  “What is a velvet painting?” Otto asked.

&nb
sp; “You know how you have all those kitschy pictures of men in lederhosen and girls in dirndl dresses in all the cheapest bars in Germany?” I said.

  “Yes. I dislike them,” Otto said.

  “Velvet paintings are like that.”

  “Oh.”

  Otto swung Satan’s sword and tested it with a few obviously expert thrusts, parries and cuts.

  “You were a fencer, right?” I said. “That’s how you got your first facial scar.”

  “Yes,” Otto said. “Renommierschmiss. It is considered honorable to duel with an edged weapon and collect such scars. Or it was when I was young.”

  First In Front nodded. “Among my people, we look to the warrior with all his scars on the front. Like this one,” he said, inclining his head towards me.

  “Yes,” Otto said. “All of his scars come from facing his enemy.”

  I turned away. I didn’t want to think about the final enemy we were to face.

  The sound of tortured metal. The high-toned squealing of massive metal moving against stone. The gap between the two doors grew as they slowly swung open, foot by foot, in a slow ponderous swing.

  We all fell silent and watched the doors open.

  It took some time.

  Finally the doors splayed open. Darkness.

  Have you ever been way out in the country, maybe in the mountains, far from any city, on the darkest night, maybe the dark of the moon, driving a car, and turned off the headlights? The transition from brightly lit to absolute darkness is a physical blow against the eyes, an assault on the vision—this is what looking into the Darkness behind Hell’s Gate is like.

  So black it sucked light into it, an absolute blackness, the heart of darkness, darkness that seemed past even the possibility of light, of even the faintest illumination.

  Hell Gate.

  “Marius?” Tigre said. “I cannot see what is beyond that threshold. I do not know what will happen if we cross into it.”

  “Ditto,” Burt said.

  I looked at First In Front, who stared back, the implacable warrior gaze of a Lakota war chief and a sacred medicine man.

  “I do not fear the Dark,” First In Front said, “for I am of the Light.”