Angels that were assigned to duty in Hell had usually done something to annoy their glorified peers, or even to irritate the higher authorities of the Four Realms. Angels that requested a posting in Hell were usually fantastically capable, relentless, and wilful to the point of God being relieved to see the back of them for a few millennia.
Only one Archangel had ever requested the station, and had become the de facto ruler of Hell on a more or less indefinite and undisputed basis thereafter. Lucifer was technically Chief Administrator of the Infernal Assembly and Overseer of the Pinian Church Throughout Hell and the Diabolic Territories, but that amounted to the same thing. Lucifer was an Archangel of singular resolve.
So it was that, when the Great Cathedral of the Sainted Madman succumbed to the burning winds and sloughed sideways across the ravaged bedrock, the Angels of Hell were all swept away with it barely minutes later. They were tossed like leaves out of the sanctified quarter of the City of the Burning Fweig, and succumbed to the slumber that overcame Angels caught outside of holy ground by daybreak despite the fact that daylight on the surface of Venus was a murky affair at best. Their bodies, if they were not simply eroded or corroded over time, were never found.
And Lucifer, black wings folded tight and robes shredded, knelt upon the blasted stone and dug a hand deep into a crack there. Eyes slitted and teeth bared, the Archangel stared a wordless challenge into the insensible fury of the storm.
A day passed in this titanic and terrible battle of wills between the two Morning and Evening Stars. And then, when Lucifer refused to yield, a week passed.
Then two thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight years.
Sometimes, as with Bharriom crystals, you have to look long and hard before you find one of Limbo’s jokes.
MORNING STAR
The sun was just peeping over the rooftops of east Vanning when the ground began to shake. Kozura, who had been beginning to regret his dramatic insistence on waiting on the edge of town without at least a thermos of green tea and his pocket bard, planted his feet and looked around in alarm.
This part of the Sacred City was fairly quiet, consisting mainly of an old storage facility for shadecloth that the community hadn’t needed since the unFlutter, and some dilapidated blocks of apartments that hadn’t been inhabited in almost as long. The nearest people were the Blessed Mygon of the Waters pilgrims who lived in a modest barracks at the far end of the street where it met a perpendicular roadway. The pilgrims were unlikely to be awake at dawn, since most of the ‘water’ they used for their rituals had a very high alcohol content. After the barracks, the street continued on into the east Vanning industrial complex, and the cross-street extended through a series of warehouses and abandoned tourist attractions.
East of where Kozura stood, the cracked bitumen of the road etched away into the red dirt, seemingly forever.
The ground shook again, and the road split open in front of him. He stepped back a little more, his wings practically itching as he felt himself nearing the edge of the sanctified area. He wondered if he would even realise it as he stepped over the threshold, or if he would just drop and never wake up.
Earth, horrifying wasteland of unhallowed ground, was a minefield of forever sleep that gave him the creeping horrors. The main reason he came here, a secret he would never share with Gabriel, was to challenge himself. Confront that fear.
With a hissing, spitting geyser of burning air, the ground opened like a molten mouth and vomited up a strong, solid humanoid shape. The figure straightened, deep blue robes formed themselves around her powerful body, and deep grey-black wings spread behind her like a memory of the night just ended. She stepped away from the burning hole and waved a hand at it lazily. The mouth closed, molten sand and stone and tar sealing over and cooling, leaving behind a dark spot among a patchwork of similar melted spots on the road, wrought by the ferocious Old Meganesian sun.
“Kozura,” the Archangel, her face square and purposeful and indefinably compelling, stepped up to him and extended a hand. “I was hoping my little entrance wouldn’t go to waste, but I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”
She spoke Latin, not Xidh or any of the living Earthly languages, and Kozura hastily adjusted, knowing that none of his alternatives would salvage dignity, let alone the upper hand in the exchange to come. He stepped forward, inclined his head, and moved to shake the Archangel’s hand. She seized his forearm instead, gripping firmly and fixing his gaze with her own. She smelled of burned rock and ozone and tobacco.
“Lucifer,” he said. She didn’t let him go, obliging him to keep hold of her forearm through the conversation. Her arm was like the limb of an iron statue. “An honour.”
“I’ve been meaning to visit the Sacred City for a while now,” she said. “I assume you’re here for the same reason I am?”
“The Archangel Gabriel told me he had your support,” Kozura said. “I pledged my loyalty if that was the case.”
“Ah. Conditional loyalty,” Lucifer said, not sounding as if she necessarily disapproved of the concept. It was unconditional loyalty, after all, that was irrational. “And loyalty in what, exactly?” she asked. Her eyes, dark and brilliant under her heavy brows, were inquisitive. Her skin was a deep reddish-brown and her short-cropped hair was black, the glossy cap coming to a little point in the middle of her forehead and effortlessly playing into her diabolic public persona. Kozura felt as though the heat of the fires were still radiating from her, through her hand and into his arm. “Hell calling Kozura.”
Kozura blinked and snapped out of it, berating himself futilely for staring. “I think a certain amount has been kept from me on the subject of the plan, Archangel,” he managed to say, “which is why I have been hesitant to pledge my support. I understand there is a move underway to ameliorate the environmental threat posed by the guns, and also to ensure lasting peace on Earth while simultaneously disarming.”
“Ah,” Lucifer smiled. “Peace on Earth. I wonder if anyone will recognise that when they see it,” her smile widened into a grin. “I’ve been sold the same pretty story, my friend. The guns destroyed, the poison sucked from the wound, the fears of humans set aside in favour of a lasting peace. And you may be sure that if we have been told this much, there is a great deal the wily old ape isn’t telling us, yes?”
“Y – yes,” Kozura stammered.
“Yes,” Lucifer gave him a final hearty squeeze, and released him. He fought the temptation to rub his arm. “Why don’t we go and ask him, then?”
She started along the street at a purposeful walk, forcing Kozura to trot a few steps to catch up.
“That was an impressive feat with the … the road,” he said.
“What, that?” Lucifer chuckled. “Live in the fire, you learn a few tricks. The difficult part is digging fast and flying slow – both at the same time,” she reached into her robe and pulled out a pair of enormous black cigars. She put one between her teeth, passed the second to Kozura, then clawed her thick fingers around the end of her own. Fire glowed in her palm, and she puffed thick blueish smoke into the early-morning air. Kozura ran his own cigar under his nose, enjoying the wild and ancient smell of it, then became aware of the Archangel watching him sidelong.
“Portus Volupti,” he identified it more by guess than knowledge.
Lucifer nodded. “God’s own cigar,” she declared, “before…” she gave an elegant shrug of her wings, and cupped her hand in front of his face. He managed not to flinch as heat and light bloomed, and the cigar lit up even as he poked the other end into his mouth. He didn’t manage not to cough, though. Lucifer laughed and clapped him on the wing. “The real trick is getting the vent to close up and cool behind you,” she said. “While flying through stone, I mean.”
“How … ?”
“Come down for a tour sometime,” she said, “and I’ll teach you myself,” she waved her cigar swiftly, drawing a thick arc of smoke in the air before marching through it, then stuck the tobacco back between her teeth
and puffed. “I had the idea to make some more tunnels, or at least burn out and collapse a few tunnels around the area where the Burning Knight … found … the Dragon hiding,” she said. “I’ve been keeping my hand in making decoy trails extending in different directions and turning attention away from Sprawling Adelbairn’s alien quarter. And, ideally, Vanning as well … although Vanning is always going to be a place of interest, since it is the site of the old Bahere homestead.”
“Nest hunters have failed to find Bahere’s trove for decades,” Kozura said.
“True,” she drew on the cigar again. “The humans don’t actually seem to be looking, in any case.”
“There was no point,” Kozura said. “They had what they thought was the trove – the first and only Dragon nest found in the area since the war – and she was the last of her kind.”
“Where there was one, why not another?” Lucifer asked. “And even then, what about after her escape?”
“Mercy has called off the searches and killed the enquiries,” Kozura admitted, and cursed silently to himself as he was forced to puff several times on his cigar to keep it alight, making his statement seem ludicrously comedic. “We are not sure why.”
“Ah,” Lucifer nodded. “The Demon. Are you sure you don’t know why? You’re on the taskforce,” she looked at him sidelong again. “For example, perhaps it’s because he has performed experiments that he doesn’t want gathering too much attention among his little minion-corporations – at least not yet – so he is conducting a very quiet hunt for the missing Dragon, so he can destroy her himself?”
“That seems like the most likely explanation,” Kozura conceded.
“You haven’t considered joining Gabriel’s hopeless Peace on Earth crusade for the opportunity to use the Dragon as bait to draw out the Demon?”
“No,” Kozura said sharply – perhaps a little too sharply, for an Angel addressing a superior. But the suggestion offended him.
Lucifer slowed, looking at him more directly through the curls of smoke. She really did lay the infernal majesty on thick, he reflected … and yet it didn’t seem pretentious. It seemed as natural as her wings.
“Good answer,” she said.
She led the way unerringly through the warehouse district, and after a time – far too much time – Kozura also recognised the presence of Angels. Their glory was tamped down heavily, but there were several distinct signatures.
“I knew he was collecting followers,” he said quietly. “This is a coup.”
“One person’s coup is another’s cleaning house,” Lucifer grinned around her half-finished cigar.
They approached a rather plain-looking warehouse – TrollCage Storage, which Kozura recognised as a several-degrees removed province of Mercy’s empire, even as he saw the in the belly of the beast slogan and rolled his eyes internally – and the door rumbled open before they could reach it. Also before Kozura could hide the Portus Volupti still sticking out of his mouth.
“Well well, it’s the Fucklebury Kid and Mistress Dangerlips,” Gabriel’s unmistakable silhouette drawled in thickly-accented Old Meg. “Pull up a spitoon and let’s talk rustlin’ and revolution, li’l pardners.”
“I didn’t understand a word of that,” Lucifer admitted, “but I’m going to guess you’re being a smarmy old goat.”
“Educated guess,” Gabriel switched to Latin, and Kozura was relieved to hear it was even rustier than his. “Just had to ignite cigars as soon as you joined the side of the winners, yes? Rather than wait until the day of victory?”
“It seemed rude to refuse,” Kozura said. “Portus Volupti.”
“I hope you brought a suitable quantity to satisfy the entire school,” Gabriel said, and swept his wings to one side to usher them in. “Let me make the introductions.”
Gabriel was as good as his word, introducing Lucifer and Kozura to the other four Angels, and the three humans who apparently lived in the warehouse. The Ogres, Gabriel explained, were sleeping downstairs and would probably do so for another couple of hours because he’d brought them a cask of some sort of noxious Ogre liquor from somewhere down the Eden Road.
“We need to talk about the big picture,” Gabriel told them, “and it might get the Ogres a bit worked up – even in Latin – so it’s better if we do it without them for now.”
“I’ve never worked with Ogres,” Lucifer said. “Not fans of my native climate. But they have a reputation.”
Gabriel, the other Angels, and the humans sat down in a hastily-prepared meeting area near the ends of the warehouse aisles, and bit by bit they outlined their plan. Gabriel did most of the talking, translating for the others who had apparently let their Latin slip – for several generations, in the case of the humans.
“So ultimately we can’t be sure what we’re facing,” Gabriel concluded, “but it’s most likely of Damorak origin and involves Karl the Bloody-Handed. We intend to eradicate the guns, and move the Earth to a safe location where it can continue to exist in isolation if that’s what the humans want. And kill Karl the Bloody-Handed while we’re at it.”
At this point, one of the humans managed to stammer, “People called Damorakén they go the house.”
“Indeed,” Lucifer said with a hint of approval in her voice. The human, a round young female who had been staring at the newly-arrived Archangel in awe since her appearance with Kozura, beamed in delight. “And to make this possible, the Butcher of Darling’s Day is designing a new series of devices to scatter across the world,” Lucifer summarised, “and Sir Greyblade of the Ladyhawk is on a mission Beyond the Walls to bring back Rosedian’s lost fleet.”
“That’s about it,” Gabriel agreed dryly.
“All the greatest monsters of Pinian history united in battle,” Lucifer said. “Hardly seems much left for seven Angels, four Ogres and two broken human seers to do.”
“Maybe not,” Gabriel said, “but that’s why you’re here. To think of all the shit I’ve missed.”
Lucifer sat for a few seconds.
“The first thing you need to do is start evacuating the Eden Road,” she said. “You need to figure out how the Godfangs are going to compensate for Earth’s disappearance and the severing of the Eden Road to hold Heaven and Hell apart. You need a plan in place for crippling the Interdict suppressors, and another to convert the Amazônia Capital power buffers into a relative field generator. And while you’re at it, you’ll need a way to get these new gadgets of Gazmouth’s to the right places at a moment’s notice. I might have a solution for you there…”
The others sat and watched, with expressions varying from blank incomprehension to dawning amazement, as the Morning Star laid it all out for them.
Lucifer listed all the shit that Gabriel had missed. And then, together, they began to make the ridiculous plan a reality.
And 2617 AD rolled on by, inexorable as a runaway mag-shuttle.
ON THE BATTLEFIELD OF WYRM
“Çrom?” Greyblade endeavoured to keep his voice steady.
“Yes?”
“What happened here?”
“I suppose … there’s always a bigger monster,” Çrom said weakly. “No matter how much you enhance yourself, no matter how much you train, there will always be someone better than you.”
“Not if you’re the best,” Greyblade said. “That’s what the word means.”
“There is no best,” Çrom said roughly. “Not for finite beings. And sometimes not even for Infinite ones.”
“But all of them…” Greyblade protested, then paused. “Çrom,” he said again. Çrom hunched lower at his console. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” Çrom said. “Well, okay, sort of. I mean … I’d seen this, and I knew where it was. I guess I was hoping … you know, knowing what you do now, about Naskiraqad … I hoped maybe we’d get here before it happened?”
Greyblade shook his head. It was clear, from the weird Beyond the Walls equivalent of erosion, that this battle had ended a long time ago. Maybe Çrom h
ad seen the battlefield when he’d walked past it a half-dozen Ages from now, barely remembered in that broken mind of his, and had somehow intuited that it was possible it hadn’t occurred yet, so far back had he been undone. But it evidently had – and probably not long after the Godfangs had come out here in the first place. It simply didn’t add up.
At the same time, though, Greyblade also felt that they’d passed the point where Çrom needed, or even wanted to hide things from him. “Did the I-Spy see this?” he asked.
“No,” Çrom shook his head. “Not this. They – the I-Spy network, the things they show … no,” he said decisively, “it definitely showed the Godfangs intact. It just – it didn’t show what had happened to them.”
“Did you see intact Godfangs at some point?”
Çrom looked pained. “I think I did,” he said. “You know I can’t do better than that. This is the place, though,” he went on. “I recognise the sky, the star things, the big glowing crystal spikes, I know I do,” he waved a hand at the light-scattered vault. “I saw the Godfangs, and I saw this, and – I can’t tell you more than that.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to go back to Naskiraqad and ride it back to the Godfangs’ arrival,” Greyblade said, “then–” Çrom was staring at him, aghast. “I know, I know,” he conceded, frustrated, “but you were just suggesting that we might intercept them intact because of your interaction with–”
“Only because if they were here intact, then all I’d have to go on would have been my own memory of the battlefield telling me they were ever destroyed,” Çrom said with a pained look. “But now – now it’s nailed down, in a version of reality that isn’t a fantasy ballad.”
“Alright,” Greyblade said. “Besides, even if we rode Naskiraqad back to just after the Worm Cult’s first invasion and the platforms’ departure from the Corporation, there’d be no way to get from that time back to now, except the long way around. Causing who-knows how much damage to the timelines. And the Shedders, nice as they were, might not be so understanding again.”
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