The God of Battles

by David Menefee

  The day was cool, the way she liked it, with gray clouds rolling in from the ocean and a stiff breeze kicking up. She scooped a bunch of snap peas from a produce box, dropped them in a plastic bag, and deposited it in a cloth sack slung over her arm. As befitting her recent decision to blend in with her fellow shoppers, she was dressed in what she called her “unscary” clothes.

  Reaching for a fat artichoke perched atop a pile across the table, she knocked an asparagus bunch onto the asphalt in front of a fellow shopper.

  “Oops, sorry.” She smiled apologetically, bent, and picked up the bunch. She examined it then dropped it in her bag. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of Simon’s intriguing problem, alternating with worries about how to smooth things over with Angela.

  Her cell phone chirped the ringtone for Angela, but Cassandra decided to ignore it. She would call back after she thought of a way to make her girlfriend understand what was going on.

  She moved to the next table in the stall, searching and choosing.

  —Cassie!—

  Cassandra’s hand jerked, and the entire pile of artichokes tumbled over onto the ground. She took a breath, rapidly gathered them, and put them back on the table with a muttered apology. She set her cloth bag down on the ground under the table and sidled out of the stall to walk a few feet away into the sunlight.

  Her surroundings blurred, and then she was there. The speeding car. The soldiers. The shouting. Her stomach twisted.

  —Simon!— Her telepathic voice echoed in that dream space. She reached out to touch his mind, but it was blank with panic, and he was unable to respond.

  She shouted again. —Simon! It’s Cassie! Open up to me.—

  A huge man, standing near Simon, turned and stared at Cassandra as Simon fired on the car. She froze, a shock of terror washing through her that made her legs weak. Iron Star. She gasped, and the contact with Simon vanished.

  The first thing she noticed was the sound of shouting men. At first it seemed like a continuation of the vision. Then she regained her sense of the physical world, and she turned to see that a fistfight had broken out at the next stall. Two men were holding a third, who struggled and kicked.

  “Asshole! He tried to steal my money!” shouted the stall keeper.

  Cassandra backed away. A passerby jostled her as he muscled his way through the crowd to help restrain the thief. She realized that she had narrowly avoided being swept into the scuffle. At that moment, several security patrolmen came forward and cuffed the miscreant.

  “What a jerk, huh?”

  Cassandra turned her head. The woman standing next to her glared at the thief. Her eyes were fierce, and she breathed heavily as if she had been fighting as well. Violence rumbled in the back of her mind—violence and a hunger for vengeance. Cassandra shuddered, paid for her produce, and left as quickly as she could.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  War in Heaven: Diamond Angel

  Iron Star’s Chamber, Bald Eagle

  Iron Star stood at attention on a dais in his audience chamber, a vast red-and-orange hall with colonnades marching along either wall. Between the pillars hung swords, spears, nets, and axes, as well as pellet-throwing guns and beam weapons. Before him, one end of a large, horizontal, tornado-like vortex flashed with fitful lightning. The vortex was flanked by two pillars, each carved with the symbols of Bald Eagle’s might: a pyramid topped with an eye, the S sign of the Great Dollar, and most prominently, an eagle clutching arrows in one claw and an olive branch in the other. There was a faint image of an eagle’s head visible in the vortex. The General noted that the visage of his master was noticeably dimmer, no doubt because of the recent power losses. It was a sign of troubled times that Bald Eagle could not send an avatar to meet him but instead needed the gateway to commune.

  “The Root Hexagon continues to provide our forces with both power and intelligence,” Iron Star said. “However, there have been a number of fluctuations lately, and they have attracted a nuisance element. One of these is a flux that I call Diamond Angel. I believe this flux has opened a path for Serpent Lion and, by extension, Dark Eyes. Both factions have attacked and damaged the artifact.”

  There was silence, then Bald Eagle’s rumbling voice filled the air. “Diamond Angel may be a simple flux to your eyes, but I see a form of ancient power intruding from the lower worlds. It may have alliances with both of our enemies and perhaps with Shaken Fist, as well.”

  “Then I must choose between tending to the Root Hexagon myself and investigating Diamond Angel.”

  “Such a choice is guided by the context in which it is made.” Bald eagle paused. “The war with Silver Scimitar has escalated. An entire army of angels was born, resulting from his attack on Golden Star, and Silver Scimitar is ready to turn that force against us.”

  This was unwelcome news. The threat of the new army could tip the scales against Bald Eagle and overrun much of his territory.

  Bald Eagle continued. “The war between Red and Blue Eagles, fought against my will, has recently escalated as a result of Shaken Fist’s subversion. Our survival depends on the extra power that the Root Hexagon provides to me. This Diamond Angel that threatens our artifact draws strength from ancient sources and is a greater danger than it appears. Concentrate your energies to defeat that one, and both Dark Eyes and Serpent Lion will fail. Do not, however, abandon your post as War Leader.”

  Iron Star raised a hand then closed it in a fist. “I shall dispatch my most trusted lieutenant to act on my behalf while I fulfill your orders. He will monitor my image within the Root Hexagon and take whatever action is needed to ensure against power loss.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Will’s Way

  It was impossible to be depressed when greeted by the Bay Area’s mild June weather. Angela parked her Prius across the street from her clinic, got out, and set the car alarm. Before crossing the street, she studied the front entrance. Her clinic.

  When she was a rising young psychiatrist, fast-tracked for the position of chief administrator at Franklin Psychiatric Hospital in San Francisco, she had been ambitious. Her dreams had usually centered on the large office occupied by Dr. Josef Lindquist. She would imagine that it was her office, instead, with her feet planted under that desk and her plans governing the operations of the aging facility. She’d had plans, indeed, to make Franklin a household name for high-quality mental health care on the west coast.

  That all had changed last year. Now her dreams centered on the building before her. Its brick facade, a faux-modern abomination designed in the seventies, featured large, curtained windows whose brown, peeling frames begged for someone—anyone—to repaint them. The windows in the currently unused upstairs rooms were blank. Someday, those rooms would house the majority of the treatment facility, providing cutting-edge care to underprivileged patients in the East Bay Area. For now, she was content to use the ground floor for her and Eric’s few clients.

  Starting across the deserted four-lane cracked-asphalt street, she dodged a plastic sack swept by the wind then walked up to the entrance and touched the frosted glass panel with the name Brooklyn Basin Mental Health Clinic etched into it. That had been one of the first things she had done to the place, even before the interior remodeling work.

  By this time, Eric should have already opened the clinic. She pushed the door open, shoving hard against the sticky spot, then stopped partway through the doorway. Someone was already seated in the waiting room. The man was brown-haired and lean, and his skin was pocked as if he had suffered severe acne. He was dressed reasonably well, though his clothes were a bit shabby. She practiced her smile and came the rest of the way in, tugging the door shut behind her.

  The newcomer rose from his seat as she approached and held out his hand. He had stunning halitosis whose odor had permeated the room, forcing her to breathe shallowly.

  She shook his hand. “Good morning. Are you Mr. Longsmith?”

  “Yes. Call me Will. Sorry I’m early. The bus was ahead of s
chedule. Dr. Weiser told me I could wait here.”

  “No problem.” She went to the admission counter, picked up a form and a pen, and handed them to him. “Do you mind filling this out while I set my things down?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  She went behind the admission counter and logged herself into the system. When she’d finished, she looked up. “Will? Why don’t you come on in?”

  Longsmith came through the inner door. Angela took his form, dropping it on the desk, then led him to one of the treatment rooms. His records indicated that he suffered from PTSD as a result of wartime trauma during a tour in Iraq. He was one of the first spillover patients from the local VA facility to be referred to her clinic.

  After she led him to one of the treatment rooms, Angela washed her hands and retrieved her tablet from her office before returning to begin the session.

  “Thank you for waiting.” She took a seat to one side of the desk and set the tablet down. Longsmith sat on the edge of the couch, his body stiff as if he were ready to bolt, but his face remained placid and detached. His eyes were steady albeit unfocused.

  “Okay. What I’m going to do is start by asking a few simple questions.” She paused and tapped the screen. “First, for the record, are you currently using any mind-altering substances?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thank you. And are you currently in treatment with another therapist?”

  “I was seeing Dr. Jacobs at the VA hospital till two weeks ago. Then he got sick. Liver cancer.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. Very sad.”

  “Yeah, it sucks.” Longsmith fidgeted. “Look, can we cut to the chase?”

  Angela nodded and tapped again on the screen, scrolling ahead to the free-form notepad. “Of course. Go ahead. You’re in charge of your treatment here.”

  He clenched his hands and looked down at them. “Doc, I was using meth.” He glanced at her then back down at his hands. “I went to rehab about three months ago, and I’ve been clean and sober for two weeks.”

  Angela took some notes. Methamphetamine addiction, already a challenge, was especially difficult for patients like Bill to kick because the drug was often used to self-medicate for the emotional numbness that accompanied PTSD. “Go on.”

  “Doc, I’m afraid I’m gonna hurt someone. Sometimes I feel like I’m back there in Iraq.” He paused, breathing heavily, tapping his heels on the floor. Angela waited, placing her hands flat on the desk in front of her.

  Longsmith got to his feet. “I don’t want anyone else to die. I don’t wanna hurt anyone. But the government’s sending boys to die, and I wanna stop them.”

  He started pacing. Angela remained seated behind her desk and watched him closely. Obviously, he had bottled up a lot of anguish, and her role was simply to be a pair of sympathetic ears. However, her instincts told her that his outburst hid deeper issues, and she wanted to draw those out.

  He continued. “I wanna clear my head, Doc. Take another shot of meth.” He turned, his face sagging. “But I know it’s gonna kill me. I don’t know what to do. You gotta help me.” He collapsed on the couch and buried his face in his hands. He groaned and started sobbing.

  Soon his shoulders were quaking, and he howled his agony, doubled over and beating his fists on the front of the couch. He stopped suddenly and turned his red, bloated, tear-streaked face to her.

  “It’s okay, Will,” Angela said. “Let it out. We’ll get you through this.”

  He put his face in his hands, dissolving into tears. Angela placed a box of tissues on the corner of the desk near where he was sitting.

  Something flickered in the room. Her first thought was that a mouse had gotten in, but then she realized that the light in the room was changing subtly. New, starker shadows were being cast from a source of light above as if daylight shone through the ceiling. Angela suppressed a gasp. The Otherworld was intruding.

  The ceiling became translucent, revealing a brilliant blue sky above. It was preternaturally vivid, with gigantic, dramatic clouds, tinged oddly red as if by a second—setting—sun. And far up, above the clouds, there were great, shining beings, dressed in baroque armor and other costumes. They fought a fierce, silent battle. Angela had never in all of her experiences of the Otherworld seen anything like this. The vision persisted for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute, and then earthly reality abruptly reasserted itself. Her ears popped.

  Longsmith continued sobbing quietly. There was a faint burning odor in the air, and as if from far away, the cries of soldiers in battle swelled in volume. Then the odor and the faint sounds vanished.

  He blew his nose on a tissue and wiped his face then looked at Angela, his shoulders hunched. “I don’t know what came over me. I never cried like that before. I’m sorry.” He blew his nose again.

  Angela spent the next half hour listening to Longsmith’s story, elicited between sobbing jags. He had lost his best friend while on patrol, ambushed by Iraqi insurgents. The emotional scars left behind had driven him to drug use and then petty crime to support his habit. After serving a brief sentence for burglarizing a health-food store, he had decided to clean up his act. So far, his PTSD had been resistant to treatment, but Angela hoped that she could use dream-walking to make a difference for him.

  “Look, Doc, I gotta run. I know I’ve got some more time coming, but…” He peered at her, his mouth downturned at the corners. “God, I’m so tired of crying.”

  “It’s okay. It often happens to people when they’ve been traumatized.” Angela reached into a desk drawer and pulled out her scrip pad. “Let me write you a prescription.” She scribbled on it and tore one off. “This’ll help you sleep. Let’s put together a plan, okay? I’d like to see you again next Tuesday. Same time?”

  “Sure, Doc.” He took the scrip and stood.

  Angela rose to her feet. “The pharmacy down the street will fill the prescription for you.”

  “Okay. Look, I’m sorry about that…”

  She raised her hand. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure we can get through this together. Go get some rest, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They shook hands, and he left. Angela jotted down a few more notes then set the tablet down. The Otherworld intrusion during Will’s outburst had shaken her. The vision of those gigantic beings battling had made her feel as if she were an ant beneath the heel of uncaring titans. She believed that there were no coincidences when it came to the Otherworld, so there had to be a reason for what she’d seen.

  Her mind returned to the fight she’d had with Cassandra the previous evening. She had not slept well afterward, so it was possible that she was especially vulnerable to events in the Otherworld. Maybe Longsmith’s inner turmoil had dragged her into his mind, where she saw things relevant to her own personal quest. That was as good a theory as any.

  The thought of Cassandra brought a lump to her throat. Angela needed to clear the air between them, preferably face-to-face. Opening the mail program on her tablet, she composed a message.

  Hey, Cassie. I hope you’re having a great day. I’m sorry I blew up at you yesterday. If you’re up to it, I’d love to talk about it. Love you, Angela.

  Angela had two more appointments that afternoon. One was a VA patient who needed to be evaluated for a return to active duty, and the other was a client on her third of five scheduled office visits who had presented with an eating disorder.

  After writing up the last of her reports and waiting another hour, Angela decided that Cassandra was not going to reply to the text message. The odd Otherworld intrusion during Will’s session was eating at Angela. It represented a potential threat to her control of her talent. She needed guidance from George.

  Angela informed Eric that she was going home, not wanting to stay at the clinic during a solo excursion to the Otherworld. Once she arrived home, Angela went below. She doffed her backpack and retired to the master cabin to lie down. Reaching to pull the curtains, her hand halted as her gaze rested on
the painting hanging above the headboard. It was the Roger Charles piece that the artist himself had given her the previous year, depicting a strange, six-fingered woman standing on a hill overlooking a bountiful valley. It was breathtaking, an image of her own past life somehow captured by an artist’s feverish mind. She shivered at the chill of memories intruding from that long-ago time.

  She was preparing to seek advice from an oversoul as she’d done in that other lifetime. She lay down on the bed, touching her forehead and then her clavicle, and she launched herself into the Otherworld.

  Her meadow was peaceful and sunlit, and she breathed in great lungfuls of air fragrant with the perfume of blooming lilacs and wild roses. Beneath the brilliant blue sky, artfully decorated with ideally fluffy white clouds, the kelly-green wild grasses gave off their own rich aroma. Black oak and big-leaf maples surrounded her on all sides, their leaves applauding the wind with a gentle susurration.

  Invigorated by her surroundings, Angela went to her cabin with a jaunty strut to retrieve her walking staff. After hefting it and surveying the meadow once more, she started for the edge of the forest to search for a path, as they had a tendency to move around. She found one quickly, as her years of self-work had cleared the underbrush of repressed emotion.

  Humming to herself, she strolled along the path, feeling her lingering tension melt away. Despite the potential for supernatural danger here, she still trusted the Otherworld more than physical reality.

  Realizing that time was of the essence, Angela told herself she had done enough sightseeing. Time to find her grandfather. She muttered under her breath in a singsong voice, “Granddad. George. Hello.”

  She poked her staff into the humus as she walked and kicked aside a pile of leaves. A movement caught her attention high up. Shading her eyes, she peered into the tangle of tree branches. A huge Nuttall’s woodpecker rested on one of the limbs above the trail ahead. The bird looked calmly back down at her. Then someone, somewhere, laughed warmly. Recognizing George’s voice, her heart skipped a beat.