by Kildare
The leader dismounted as the other three watched. He removed his rifle from its scabbard and approached, spurs clinking as he walked. He circled around and stopped over Cillian. Behind him the last glimmer of the red sun was sinking over the horizon, followed closely by the black cloud.
The man removed his aviator sunglasses, revealing radiant blue eyes, and smiled. “Life is beautiful. I think that’s why I enjoy ending it so much.” He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a long trail of smoke. “It’s a good day to die.” He raised the gun and pointed the barrel between Cillian’s eyes. “At lease you won’t witness the coming horror.” The smile vanished.
X
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30
Cillian shut his eyes. He flinched when the gun fired. After a moment he realized he hadn’t been hit. Did the man in black miss? He risked a look. The man in black staggered back, clutching his shoulder. He had been shot. Another figure had appeared, shining white as bleached clouds, a dazzling halo of light. The figure approached, if it was a figure, and not another hallucination. Or perhaps Cillian was already dead. That seemed the mostly likely explanation. Still, he had to shield his eyes from the blinding glare. The man in black had pulled his sunglasses back down. The sun’s descent stalled, tinting them all in an orange wash.
“It has been a long time, Abaddon,” the man in white said to the leader of the men in black. The aura diminished, revealing a white duster.
“Not long enough, Michael,” Abaddon answered. “How about you go back to heaven and leave this wretch to me?”
“I am afraid I cannot do that. This man has become important to both of us. I have been commanded to protect him. You will not harm him.”
Abaddon laughed, a rueful sound. “You poor slave who must do the bidding of his master. Do you not weary of submission?”
“A slave? Your will was to revolt and for it you were cast into the darkness. My will is to serve the light and bask in the glory of the Creator. We have both made our choices.”
Abaddon shrugged. “None of it matters now. This clod has released Loki from his prison. The doom of us all approaches.”
“That may be. Yet I will carry out my duty until the end.”
“You’re outnumbered. Or can you not count? Very well, there are four of us against your one. Do you consider these good odds?”
“They are fair. Your numbers have given you a false sense of confidence.”
The other three men had all dismounted and now stood abreast of Abaddon. They also wore aviators.
Abaddon spit onto the desert floor. “These human vessels are truly vile.” He looked down at Cillian with scorn. “I can free you from your loathsome prison.”
Michael tossed his pistol aside, opened his duster, and withdrew what looked like a katana from its sheath. No ordinary sword, the blade glowed with a white flame. “Guns are too impersonal, don’t you think? I have always preferred a good sword fight. What do you say, Abaddon?”
Abaddon smiled behind his shades and produced his own katana. The other three followed suit. Tongues of orange flame licked their bites. Michael walked ten paces, jabbed his sword into the ground, and took a moment of silence before withdrawing the sword and waving the other four forward. They complied, fanning out in a circle to surround him. Michael raised his sword to shoulder height, held it parallel to the ground, and waited. The men in black had stopped, spaced at equal distances. No one moved, the suspense growing. So still had they become they almost looked like statues.
For a moment, Cillian forgot he had been shot twice.
Abaddon rushed first, with a burst of speed Cillian hadn’t expected. More a blur of shadow than a solid figure. As if that had been a signal, the other three attacked as well. Michael met Abaddon’s sword’s blow, spun to counter another, ducked beneath the slice of a third, and met the fourth with a ringing clash. Blow after blow rained down on Michael with a speed turning the strikes of steel into a blur. Always Michael seemed a step faster.
He rolled out of the ringed confines of his attackers and went on the offensive. The men moved with such shocking quickness Cillian struggled to tell exactly what was happening. They were all a swirling blur of motion, and the clash of one katana had barely subsided when the clash of the next rang out. Once again the four ringed Michael and once again he slipped out from beneath the fury of their attack. They redoubled their efforts and still Michael stayed a step ahead. The ground on which they fought was sprinkled with blood, the swords finding their marks even if he wasn’t seeing it.
Michael landed a blow on one of the unnamed men, slipped behind him, hamstrung him, and kicked him to the ground, spun, and deflected a blow from Abaddon. The three remaining men backed off, circling around Michael and looking for an opening to attack. The wounded man rose and hobbled back into the fray. This time Michael didn’t wait for the attack, but charged another of the unnamed men. Before the others could assist, Michael had landed a blow, swept that man off his feet, and plunged his scimitar into the fallen man’s chest. The others tried to strike Michael as he landed the deathblow, but he was faster. He slipped free of their assault and counterattacked. If the men were tiring, they had yet to show any fatigue.
To Cillian’s shock, the defeated man rose. So they could be wounded, but not killed. Abaddon had claimed they had been sent by Satan. Were the four men demons?
Michael singled the men out one-by-one and went after them in turn. He deflected the others’ blows even as he maintained his attacks on only one of the men. A head-butt, elbow to the throat, block of another strike, and a thrust knocked one of the men in black to the ground. He crumpled to the floor, hat rolling off and settling in the dirt. A series of lighting-fast moves by Michael and a second and third man were also knocked to the ground.
Only Abaddon remained standing. The sable clay was soaked crimson all around the pair, their ring resembling a Pollock painting.
Michael now deferred to patience. His sword hung at his side, able to rise and join battle almost faster than Cillian could blink. Abaddon was wary, seemed unsure of himself now that his companions had all been taken out. He stood alone, his duster tattered in many places from the white sword’s bite. If Michael bore any marks, Cillian couldn’t tell. The light was too bright.
Abaddon attacked first. Michael joined. The katanas flashed with such flurry and fury it looked like arcs of light danced around the fighters. The two seemed equally matched and Cillian was unsure of the outcome. Abaddon found a glimmer of weakness and pounced, knocked Michael back, slashed him across the chest, and bowled him over. Abaddon went in for a knockout blow and was countered. Michael rose slowly. They clashed again and Michael appeared to have lost some of his speed. Again he was flattened to the ground and again he deflected a knockout blow. After the third time Michael went down, Cillian doubted he could win. Abaddon brought down a crushing blow, was blocked, came under a flurry of attacks, and was himself knocked down. Michael bent down, picked up Abaddon’s pistol by the barrel, and whipped him on the side of his head with the gun’s handle.
Just like that, the fight was over.
“Go back to the pit you crawled out of,” Michael commanded. “Take your minions with you.”
Abaddon rose back to his feet. “You have not won yet. Your fall will come soon enough, and I shall be there when it happens.”
The four men climbed back onto their mounts. Abaddon gave Michael and Cillian one last look before spurring his horse away. The other three followed. None looked back.
“Stand, Cillian.”
Beneath Michael’s white robe, blood dripped onto the sable earth.
“Who were they?” Cillian asked.
“Members of the fallen angels who were cast into Hell for their rebellion. They have all escaped.”
“What does that mean?”
“War.” A sadness filled Michael’s blinding blue eyes. “War everywhere.”
END OF BOOK ONE
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Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Dorrie O’Brien for her editing services and Studio Bukovero for the cover design.