Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  He shrugged and continued walking. “You will see, and then you can pass your own judgment.”

  I huffed. This whole enlightened master-of-mystery shtick was becoming quite tiring. I would have greatly appreciated a straightforward answer, from time to time. I realized, with dismay, that we were going to reach this legendary Orobas, and he would undoubtedly speak in riddles or some such.

  The universe certainly couldn’t let anything be too obvious, could it? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  Silence descended once more upon the group. Arcturus curled up, irritatingly, on Kalyndriel’s spaulders. She might as well adopt the Imp. The tubby little bastard was tempting fate, however, as he slept on the rim of a volcano. All it would take would be one furious explosion, as we had so nearly experienced before, and he would be vaporized.

  The Angel was no enigma to me; she was easy to read. Her betrayal and subsequent banishment had left a weeping scar on her soul, and she positively radiated a thirst for annihilation. She was aware of this, and she fought admirably against the darkness overtaking her, but it was only a matter of time.

  The inevitability of her fall from grace was clear. I merely hoped I was not in the deadly crosshairs of the gamma ray burst of Angelic wrath she would release when she truly lost herself. Her power was a horrible thing.

  It was not all bad, though, at least for me. I had spoken true when I said she had quite the promising future in Hell. The sky was the limit down here, so to speak, for Kalyndriel. I could easily see her seizing a Directorate for herself in a brutal coup, reigning over it as a queen. It would pay to be her acquaintance, then, and that just might bode well for me.

  We continued onward in the wasteland, and even the stoic Angel seemed to grow impatient. “If I may ask, Lord Paimon,” she began politely. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Oh, nowhere in particular,” Paimon replied easily. “I’m waiting for something.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  Then, I saw what Paimon had been waiting for. Ahead of us, on the barren flatlands, a shimmering battalion of forms swam into existence, coalescing like a mirage given shape. Row upon row of Minotaurs marched in formation, the feeble light of the 4th Circle reflecting off their golden battle armor. It looked to be an entire legion of the brutes, and a delicate skeletal form rode on a horse of bones at the head of the infernal army. It was Eligor, Director Beelzebub’s servant.

  “That,” I indicated, yawning.

  There was the expected double-cross. I was slightly disappointed; I had hoped for something more devious and creative from a Demon as ancient as Director Beelzebub. I supposed, though, that there was a reason that the generic double-cross was so popular. Although blunt and inelegant, it was generally effective.

  Speaking of blunt and inelegant, I noticed that Kalyndriel looked dangerously displeased. Beelzebub was playing a perilous game, and I didn’t think he realized precisely what he had committed his forces against. Kalyndriel was a freight train, and there was no telling what might hid within the unassuming Fallen Archangel.

  I felt comfortable with our odds against a bunch of Minotaurs and a skeleton.

  Eligor clattered forward on his skeletal steed. Kalyndriel began to step forward, but Paimon held up a soft, worn hand. “Allow me to handle this, Kalyndriel,” he told her gently. “There is enough blood on your hands already, and there will be much more to follow.”

  She nodded grimly, slightly disappointed, and stepped back. Paimon walked forward to meet with Eligor.

  “Hail, Lord Paimon,” the Majordomo rasped. “We have come to retrieve the soul of Walter Grey, as agreed upon by the soul’s owner.” His hollow sockets turned to me.

  I shrugged noncommittally. “I never shook Beelzebub’s … hand, leg? What do you call those things, anyway? And please, Eligor, don’t act like you don’t have orders to execute us.”

  Frustration sparked in the hollows of Eligor’s skull. “You are overmatched, sirs,” he replied, and waved a fragile hand at the Director’s arrayed Honor Guard. The Minotaurs snorted and pawed the ground, eager for battle. There were scores of them.

  “Give me the soul, and your end will be quick and painless.”

  Paimon took another step forward, staring up at the cadaverous Demon. “Overmatched, you say?” he asked imperiously. “Your master must not value your service, if he sent you to threaten me.” Paimon’s voice rang across the plains, the sound of an ancient beast that was slow to anger.

  It seemed, now, there was alarm in Eligor’s bones. Doing battle with Paimon had never been the plan, but he had no choice. He turned his steed and galloped hastily back to the army of Minotaurs, leaving Paimon fuming behind him.

  “Kill them all, and take the soul!” the Majordomo called out to the waiting brutes.

  The legion of Minotaurs roared and charged, the ground shaking violently with their weight. They surged forward like a golden tidal wave of horns, converging upon us. Walter looked nervous. Kalyndriel appeared tense and eager for battle. Arcturus was clearly terrified. Paimon smiled slightly.

  I was excited to see what awful power Paimon would unleash, and I was not disappointed.

  The Fallen Archangel’s simple, black robe burst and unraveled from his chest, arraying itself from his shoulders as billowing wings of shadow. Shimmering iridescent scales of every hue in creation, all dancing with beautiful light, covered his unveiled form. He rose into the sky, radiating prismatic color and heinous power.

  He was the Serpent of Old, the fallen Titan Prometheus, and Beelzebub had badly underestimated him.

  Paimon’s mouth opened, and awful words poured from his lips. They spilled out in a font of blasphemous knowledge, their echoes reverberating through Hell with magnificent force. I knew, instinctively, they were words that had never before been spoken. They were never meant to be spoken.

  They were the words that lived between the layers of reality.

  The fallen Raziel, through countless millennia of delving through the endless knowledge of existence, had uncovered the language that bound together the material and the spiritual. Words to bind, words to tear, words to shred. Irresistible words. It was not the language of God, but it was terrifyingly close.

  At Paimon’s cadence, the charging army seemed to tear apart. Jagged lines of colorless light warped the angles of reality, impossibly bright. The Minotaurs howled in anguish as Paimon’s sermon vivisected them. Their essences swirled from them as though before a monstrous gale, dancing away in the wind. They disintegrated before my eyes, leaving behind nothing more than trampled sand and echoing howls.

  Eligor’s steed kicked as the blinding ether devoured it, throwing Eligor from its back. The Majordomo crawled and dragged himself along the ground, his soul evaporating beneath shining words. The rings on his fingers disappeared, followed by the digits that wore them. He screeched as his extremities vanished.

  The howl of the madly grinning skull, all that remained of the Majordomo, rang through the Circle … and then stopped. All was silence.

  Paimon sighed. His robes covered his prismatic form once more, the unassuming taskmaster of the Tower of Knowledge. He looked exhausted.

  “Nice,” I said earnestly.

  He angrily turned. “There was nothing nice about that, Demon!” he berated me. “And we shall speak no more of what happened here. I have done what I came to do, and now it is in your hands.”

  Walter looked dismayed. “Paimon … can you not come with us?”

  I agreed with that sentiment, at least. Despite his wise-man act, Paimon’s power was undeniable. With the Serpent and Kalyndriel together, I doubted anything could stop us. Perhaps he could even help keep the Angel from blowing her top.

  Paimon shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not, old friend. You have your task, and I have mine.”

  Paimon approached Walter, and they embraced as brothers. Tears ran down Walter’s face as he clung to his friend. After a time, they released each other wordlessly. Paimon then turned
to Kalyndriel.

  The Angel smiled shyly, and offered an awkward salute to her former Archangel. Paimon smiled warmly, ignored her salute, and embraced her as well. She was momentarily shocked, so unused to contact that did not consist of physical blows. She gave a shuddering sigh, closed her eyes, and returned his embrace fiercely. Paimon whispered something to her, and Kalyndriel nodded.

  Paimon then turned to me. I dutifully spread my arms wide to accept my hug. He merely shook his head and looked dourly at me, hands crossed over his chest.

  I frowned, snubbed.

  “Listen to me closely, Barnabas,” he began.

  “I have cleared the way for you as best I can. Now, you must make your way through the Malebolge and enter Limbo. Kalyndriel can find the entrance and see you safely there, but I am depending on the three of you to keep her from losing herself. That is of the utmost importance. Find Orobas, learn what you can, and then return here.”

  I nodded and tried to look dutiful. “What should we ask Orobas?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Remember; there is no deceit in him, but you have to ask the right questions.”

  What an asshole.

  Paimon gestured, and the 4th Circle of Hell dissolved around us.

  Chapter 24

  The Head of a Pin

  “Why have you forsaken us?” Archangel Raphael asked forlornly. He stared up at the Stairs that led to the Throne of God. It was perfectly sealed, impenetrable to even the mightiest of Angels, and the way to the Maker was closed. They were on their own.

  “As always, He tests us,” Archangel Gabriele answered. Her voice was the emotionless breath of winter wind.

  Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriele gathered at the pinnacle of Heaven. At that holy height, the light was overpowering, far too great for any but an Archangel to bear. The endless canopy of existence fanned out beneath them, vibrating under the strain of lost souls.

  The Archangels numbered three, now, with Archangel Michael sealed within the Throne. Raphael, the Healing of God, patron of Love and Protection. Gabriele, the Strength of God, patron of Mercy and Truth. Uriel, the Fire of God, patron of Justice and Judgment. They were the mightiest of spirits, but they lacked the wisdom and guidance of their leader, Michael.

  Raphael bowed his head, acknowledging the likely truth in Gabriele’s statement. He could still feel his God, watching eternally from the Throne, but instead of His voice, Raphael heard nothing but echoing silence. This was not unlike Him, but Raphael was greatly unsettled. Terrible forces were at work in the world below.

  Raphael was always the gentlest and most compassionate of the Archangels. He was warmer than the chilling mercy of Gabriele, kinder than the burning judgment of Uriel, and more understanding than the unyielding Michael. His radiant heart encompassed the whole of creation, even the Demons they fought. He was towering, mighty and fierce, but his heroic visage knew the temperance of love.

  “The End of Days is obviously upon us. Armageddon is nigh,” Uriel rumbled. His monstrous, incendiary form towered over his siblings. The flames wreathing his armor and mask danced incessantly, always whispering, never stilling.

  Raphael shook his head. “No, I do not believe that. This matches no sign or prophecy in any iteration,” he said forcefully. “And do you really think He intends us to face Armageddon without Michael?”

  Gabriele laughed softly, the song of a freezing waterfall. “You know better than to presume to know His mind, Raphael,” she replied. “And you know that prophecy is worth less than the parchment it is written on.”

  Next to Uriel, she seemed so tiny, so delicate; a crystalline doll clad in ornate plate. That smooth face never exhibited the slightest emotion, the least hesitation. She was an ice sculpture carved without weakness. Her delicacy belied the heinous power that dwelt within.

  “Perhaps,” Raphael acknowledged grudgingly. “But the Morning Star is sealed at the Throne as well. Could Armageddon happen without Lucifer?”

  “I do not know. But I do know that soon there will be no way for souls to get into Heaven or Hell. Earth threatens to tear itself to pieces beneath us. If this is not Armageddon, it may as well be.”

  “And we must proceed as though it is,” Uriel added. “Anything else would be folly.”

  Raphael gazed down at the Earth. The Nexus system was in shambles, and he felt the increasing strain of the trapped souls pressing against the edges of reality. He sensed their flow into Limbo, something that should never happen. They still had no idea what was happening to the Nexuses, and every Angel they had sent to investigate had disappeared without a trace.

  Raphael felt lost.

  Why was there no answer from the Throne? Raphael felt the truth of Gabriele’s statement; they were being tested, but to what end? He knew within his heart that this was not Armageddon; this was not what God intended, but he knew not what to do. Perhaps his siblings were correct, but he still struggled to believe it.

  “If we act precipitously, and bring about judgment before He is ready, the consequences would be unthinkable,” Raphael finally answered.

  “As would the consequences of inaction, brother,” Uriel reminded him with words of fire.

  Raphael realized with surprise that Gabriele and Uriel, constantly at odds with one another, were of one mind in this matter. Raphael was the sole voice of hesitation.

  “You must blow your Trumpet, Raphael,” Gabriele urged him. “You must call the Angels home. We must strike.”

  A massive firestorm whirled about Uriel, a cloak of burning embers. “This world’s time is at an end, Raphael. You know what you must do.”

  Raphael shook his head sadly. Perhaps they were correct. “I will wait one more day, to see if things present themselves more clearly,” he finally conceded, his voice heavy with regret. “If not, then I shall blow the Trumpet. We will do what we must.”

  The other two Archangels nodded grimly, satisfied.

  ~

  “In one day, Raphael will blow his Horn,” Uriel told Samael. They stood on the roof of the Bastion, gazing upon on the shifting peaks of the 5th Choir. They were alone save the eternal sunrise and incessant melody, which now seemed to feature an underlying discord in its harmony.

  “How close we are, then,” Samael mused. He turned away, head lowered in thought. Six wings dragged against the marble floor, his beautiful face twisted.

  “Too close for hesitation, Samael. You know the stakes. We have come too far, and our path has been chosen.”

  Samael laughed bitterly, a hopeless mirth. “You think I don’t know that, Uriel? Permit me my self-pity, at the very least.”

  The Archangel did not respond. It was self-pity that had brought them this far, after all. Self-pity, exhaustion, and despair. The weight of the eons had grown too great, the futility of the ages too much to bear, and there was but one hope for release. Uriel understood all too well.

  “We are fortunate, at the very least, that Michael and Lucifer will not stand against us,” Samael added. “What do you make of that, Archangel?”

  Uriel was silent for a time, his roiling fire dimming in contemplation.

  “I do not know …” the Archangel finally answered. “But I was recently reminded that we shouldn’t presume to know His mind. The die has been cast, and our fate is sealed; either we shall be free, or we shall be lost forever. I find either fate acceptable.”

  Samael nodded somberly. “True enough. Do you think we will succeed?”

  “No, I do not. But we shall try. Are you ready to sing, Samael?”

  The Angel of Death bowed his head. He was. He was ready to sing as he had never sung before; he was ready to let his voice echo with the desolation of creation. He was prepared to sing the death knell of the world, to scream a eulogy for existence.

  Chapter 25

  Malebolge

  Kalyndriel, Barnabas, Arcturus, and Walter rematerialized in the outskirts of the Malebolge with a disconcerting lurch. The 8th Circle of Hell
swam into resolution with terrible focus, but it was much different from the desolate landscape of the 4th; it was a plane of fire and shadow, of precipices and endless falls, of hungry predators. The Malebolge gave even Demons nightmares.

  Paimon’s parting words rang in Kalyndriel’s ears with resounding force. “You must let go. The fate of existence depends upon your capacity for forgiveness,” he had said, his voice urgent. It was a simple request, but Kalyndriel feared she could not honor it.

  She did not think she could forgive her betrayers. Her wrath burned so fiercely it was everything she could do to manage to hold it in feeble restraint: an avalanche that could not be denied, only delayed. It would overcome her. Time was running out.

  Kalyndriel was not built to forgive. She was built to judge, and to punish: a heavenly weapon. She was a hammer that cared nothing for the nail, a scythe that reaped the unclean. The same furious passion that made her an Avenging Angel now threatened to drag her into damnation, and she knew of no other way to exist.

  She was Sisyphus, warring against irresistible gravity. Her wrath was an undeniable pressure struggling to equalize, and she could not fight it indefinitely. She would lose.

  How could she forgive such wickedness? Why forgive when she could annihilate; was that not true justice?

  With great effort, Kaly pushed the troubling thoughts away and focused on their current situation. She had her mission, and that was enough, for now. She would guide them to Limbo and see what the rigged deck held next. She could offer Paimon and the world that much, if nothing more.

  The treacherous lands of the Malebolge stretched to the blackened horizon. The Devil Ditches, one of the most brutal realms in all of Hell, beckoned to the party. It was a shattered land of plunging trenches filled with balefire, unspeakable horrors writhing within their depths. They must navigate the narrow and slippery causeways that wound through the maze of burning ditches, a labyrinth of twisting ledges.