The Aspect War

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The Aspect War (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on January 8, 2013

Posted in: Serial, Short Story, The Aspect War. Tagged: Congo, Death, ebonstorm, Horus-ka, invader, Kemet, Lumumba Kisimba, Mani Kunjufu, modern urban fantasy, politics, Ptah, short story, star, Thaddeus Howze, The Aspect War, The Reckoner, War. Leave a comment

Giving Death His Due

War laughed.

The sound was discordant with the scene of blood and eviscerated corpses all around him. The god of War stood over a battlefield and enjoyed the early morning smell of charred flesh and destruction. The bitter stench of brimstone and gunpowder wafted on the morning breeze, tingling his nostrils and reminding him of battles in other places and other times, each as memorable, in their own way, their signature of violence, unique in that moment. He surveyed the landscape with a practiced eye and was pleased with what he saw. The conflict, while relatively small, was satisfying for all of its human suffering.

War was not like the other, younger gods. War was not unnerved by the loss of human life. The Others felt that the younger gods should strive for harmony with mankind, harvest their worshipful energies, teach them how best to serve, and glut themselves on that spiritual effluvia.

War had no such compunction. If anything, he had no interest in the direct worship of man. Instead, man was his plaything, his action figures; he felt humans were built for war; petty, selfish, mean, childish, hateful. They had so many handles that could be manipulated. It was only natural for them. This did not mean he did not respect them. No, War had a healthy respect for the destructive nature of man, the same way a dog trainer was cautious with a breed of dog known for biting, he trained men to bite everyone but him, and then sent them to attack other men when they got the idea to attack War instead. They were so predictable, it was almost no fun.

Through the fog of the early dawn, the landscape promised to be arid, dry and hot. There was not much left to see but the rising smoke from the fires, dirty soldiers making their way back to their field commands, and occasionally stopping to put a man out of his misery. They did not shoot those men. Bullets were expensive, so the work was very personal. War was pleased. He began walking toward his tents, where his retinue were packing up and preparing to move on to the next campaign area. His troops were mostly child warriors from nearby Darfur, with a smattering of older and more experience soldiers, really bullies mostly, leading these groups. There were about a dozen mercenary groups hidden away at a nearby base awaiting instructions. They would arrive by helicopter only if the expendable troops were not able to get the job done.

War was dressed in the body of Mani Kunjufu, an African warlord, about two meters tall, strongly built, well fed, with a harsh countenance that his troops found unnerving if he stared too long in their direction. He had a terrible scar on his face, running down his right cheek from a knife wound. It had healed badly and had a puckered, unhealthy appearance. War was sure to show that scar to anyone who would question his authority.

The tale associated with it was told around the camp whenever he was not around. One of the bully guards was beating a child soldier at the end of an encounter. The boy had failed to hold his ground and ran from the fight. As the bully was disciplining the boy, he made the mistake of impugning Kunjufu’s desire to engage in combat; something about him being weak, dirty and unable to fight like a man, hiding behind his soldiers. Before War claimed him, Mani Kunjufu might have been all of those things. War did not choose him because he was a good soldier. He chose him because he could do what was needed. It was clear that he did not know about War’s possession, having only recently been hired and like most bullies believed his own bravado and toughness could not be matched by some new warlord come to town.

Unfortunate for him, War was nearby and keenly aware of the discourse. When the bully guard was finished beating the boy, he retired to his tent and waited for one of the camp whores to show up. War visited his tent, instead. When War was seen leaving the tent, he was covered in gore, and there was a deep cut on War’s face, oozing black blood. Each drop of War’s blood hit the ground and burrowed sinuously into the sand. The man was found in his tent, from the neck down, flayed to the bone, blood and organs everywhere. His throat had not been cut and yet he did not make a sound. A knife handle was found in his hand, but the blade was nowhere to be found. The next day, his tent was gone, viscera and all. No one knew what happened to it; everyone was too afraid to go near it. Rumor was that giant black worms rose from the ground and consumed it, body and all, in the night. No one contested those rumors. There was no more dissent.

War, a consummate professional, his uniform was a set of local khakis, dun in color and baggy. He only carried a relatively small 9mm on his hip. Finishing another cigarette, he looked around and noted if he needed a firearm, there was a surplus of them all around him. And if he was really pressed… well let’s just say, he had been killing men for several hundred years now, and knew of dozens of ways to get the job done with and without using Essence.

As he was leaving the battlefield, his sharp senses heard the snap of a twig two or three hundred feet behind him. Turning, his senses already targeting the unknown movement, he could already tell several things about his target. Tall, physically massive approximately 125 kilos, deliberate movement, not making any attempt to hide, moving in his direction, confidently but haphazardly, as if he were lost or drunk; first this way, then that. War found that strange but waited patiently while nearby carrion birds screeched their pleasure at the excellent feast before them.

The man approaching him seemed to be out of place, his brow furrowed in the morning light. Clean-shaved, also wearing a set of khakis, but it was not apparent what was wrong with the look of him. Then War realized what it was. The man was crisp, tidy even. No blood, no dirt, no offal, no debris, as a matter of fact, there was not even dust from the road on him. He appeared cool, even in this blistering Congo morning and he carried a small clipboard as he stepped officiously through the carnage. He was making marks on the clipboard with some regularity, and occasionally would stop to roll a body over before moving on.

“A lapdog here to do his master’s bidding I see,” War’s sarcastic tone was unconcealed.

“We have a mutually beneficial relationship, and I am simply doing company business. I am sure you understand,” was the polite reply, punctuated with the grunt of a body being turned over and a notation being made on a clipboard.

“If your master were doing his own work, he would not need me to fill the graves and your tallies, Reckoner.”

“My Master appreciates your work and knows that you are simply fulfilling your destiny. It has always been in his best interest to work with you, despite your alarming propensity for grandiose displays of destruction–would you mind stepping over here, I need to see that man’s face.”

“What is the point? All of these men are dead, why even bother to mark their passing?” War steps aside while the Reckoner continues his task.

“Their deaths mean nothing to your office, you are the god of War. Their dying needlessly and aimlessly is your specialty,” a tone of bitterness tinged the Reckoner’s remark, but he continued his work, attempting to maintain his objectivity. “I on the other hand, must reckon with the dead, their lives, their families, and their spiritual continuance, of which you know nothing, care nothing and discount as empty mummery, not even worthy of your respect. I am merely a servant of an Aspect. You would do well to remember that.” The Reckoner stops his work and turns to the god of War.

“Ah, some backbone after all.” War smiles and lights a local cigarette. “Want one?”

The Reckoner looked at him, shook his head and replied, “no thanks, those things will kill you.”

“You know,” War began after a deep drag on the cheaply made cigarette “your Master will not always be here to protect you and yours. Rumor has it your agency will be experiencing a change in management. If I were you, I would make a point of deciding where you stand when that happens.”

“We hear the same rumor, every sixty years or so. Not much ever comes of it. But thanks for the warning,” was the chilly response. “Here he is.” The Reckoner pulls a number of bodies off of a young teenager. “Lumumba Kisimba, age 16, survivor of the Shaba massacre.” The Reckoner pulls the boy to his feet, turns him about and inspects him. “No lasting injuries, just a couple of scratches. Are you well, boy?” the Reckoner’s voice is quiet and non-threatening.

“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply. The boy is looking at War and moves behind the Reckoner.

“There are no survivors of the Shaba massacre, Reckoner,” War’s voice was low and threatening. “He will not be leaving here, these people are dying to make a point, resistance is futile. If he survives, he threatens that.”

“Be that as it may, I was sent to recover the boy. Are you saying your reputation might be stained if one boy survives? Surely you can bear it.” the Reckoner’s voice sounds almost jocular in its pronouncement.

War flexes his muscles and grabs a hunting knife from his belt with one hand and pulls his nine millimeter with the other. “Give him to me, I will not be denied. Nor will I ask you again.”

The Reckoner, turns his back on War, putting his arm around the boy and begins walking away. “You would not violate the Compact to try and kill me, War. I claim the boy as a Hero-in-training. He cannot be touched by you or anyone else until he is done or dies in training. His name is Lumumba Kisimba, War. Remember it, I am certain he will remember you.”

“He will not be remembering anyone. He is not a Hero yet.” War’s combat knife began to glow with ethereal Essence. His 9mm begins to shimmer as well with a darker flame. “Give him to me, Reckoner. I have no quarrel with you or your Master. But this deed must be done completely; no survivors.”

“No,” the Reckoner turned toward the boy and the air began to shimmer like the desert on a summer day. Sand began to swirl at his feet, a subtle power began to build.

“Damn the Compact, there is more at stake!” War’s weapons, both glittering with Essence, let fly. The knife is thrown with deadly precision. The Reckoner, turns and using his clipboard as a shield, catches the knife, its blade clearly penetrating the surface, but stopping short of cutting through the board. As their two powers meet, there is a displacement, partially physical, partially spiritual, akin to an exploding shell and the boy is blown backward to the ground. The gun’s staccato voice resounds in the morning air, a killing sound, literally; the carrion birds and anything else within a quarter mile, drops dead. Meanwhile its projectiles appear to streak in slow motion toward the boy.

Lumumba Kisimba, Hero-in-training, sees his death and is resigned to it. He sees War as he truly is, a monstrous being of dark energy, barely contained within the shell of the evil warlord, Mani Kunjufu. He sees War extending his tendrils of force toward him, but those energies are moving slower and slower, as if he were watching a film that had stopped. Then he looks at the Reckoner, and sees him for what he is, a man powered by a more powerful and more ominous force. As powerful and fear-inducing as War is, when he looks at the Reckoner, it takes his breath away, this overwhelming spiritual pressure. Which makes the next sentence he hears even more strange and impossible sounding.

“Listen carefully to me, child, for in a moment, I will be dead.”

Traverse the Nexus to The Aspect War (2)

The Aspect War – Prologue (0)

Posted by Ebonstorm on December 2, 2012

Posted in: Chapter, Short Story, The Aspect War. Tagged: angel, Babylon, Death, Hell, Malik, religion, Sigil, spirituality, sword, The Aspect War, The Director, Tiamat, War. Leave a comment

Slumber

She slept.

If you can call this thing of nightmare a her; dragon scales rippled with a watery sheen and the ever-so slight rise and fall of her breath. Each scale shone as if it were comprised both of darkness and the tiniest slivers of light. It was once said that, to stare at them was to be lost in their shimmer, and for a moment witness destruction spanning thousands of years in a single second. Seeing her was to court madness.

She dreamed. She once roamed the Earth, free and the world trembled. She inspired legends of terrible djinn, fiends from worlds beyond, all were tales of her or her many, many children. She incited madness, lust for power, and ultimately the destruction of all she and her children touched. Sodom and Gomorrah were both victims of her wrath. Mad prophets would later claim it was some other god. Soon after, she consumed said prophets; mangy, stringy things, which stuck in her teeth and gave her a bout of indigestion, but could never find all of the books that took the credit away from her and were later published.

Thinking of those mad prophets made her think of dusty Babylon. Brilliant Babylon knew how to treat a being of her stature, they worshiped her, revered her and gave her the proper homage until they too betrayed her. Cast her into darkness, silenced her destruction. As a parting gift she destroyed their Hanging Gardens and left a seed that would ensure their ultimate destruction.

They could not kill her, she was a god. But they could imprison her and cast her into a darkness that lasted for millennia. A cooling soothing darkness, one which softened her rage, quieted her powers and hid her from the view of man. The darkness was connected to the Void and the Void was everywhere and nowhere. And for a time, she was forgotten. Many of her children were destroyed by heroes of various ages, eventually forced into hiding or exile, lest they too be destroyed. And they too were forgotten.

The darkness hid her terrible bulk, shuttered away beyond the light from the early morning. The green canopy overhead blocked all but the most determined of misty light and kept much of her from view. The monolithic temple hid the rest of her. She was not a thing most humans would want to see. In fact, no human had seen her this way for over a thousand years. Those that had, inspired new religions, talk of serpent gods and the destruction of the world.

She slept easily during those times. They made sacrifice to her and she grew strong again. But she could not attract attention. So during the night, one night a thousand years ago, she drew her new people to her into the Void and they waited, serving her, making new things, and waiting. No human had seen her since. And she preferred to keep it that way, until the prophecy spoken of two thousand years ago came to pass.

This dragon, this monstrosity of scales, this frightening creature of myth and legend, this mother of monsters, eater of men, ravager of worlds, slept deeply and dreamed of mad prophets who said she would return to the world. She had a special penchant for those mad prophets, who even today, preached the revelation of her return, free from constraint, free from morality, free to sow and reap humans like the wheat of dusty Babylon. Such dreams gave this living monstrosity a fearsome shudder and the humans nearby for a thousand miles, in every direction experienced an earthquake.

These quakes were becoming more common for them, more powerful, some causing nightmares. Dreams of more terrible quakes to come, some that spoke of a time, where monsters would rise up and slay men and bathe in their blood. No one ever spoke of such nightmares. Even to acknowledge them seem to drive men to madness. So most kept doing what they always did, living lives of quiet desperation.

Even in her sleep, their fear and terror fed her, pleased her, and for a moment excited her. Then she returned to sleep, a deeper sleep, and in that sleep, she dreamed again. And often those dreams were the stuff of human nightmare, capsizing ships, destroying buildings, releasing volcanoes. Today she dreamed a dream of modern life, putting on a business suit, dark blue, carrying a slim and stylish briefcase and going to work; an insurance firm in New York City, specializing in insuring the rare, the expensive and things so valuable they were irreplaceable. She would not work there very long. Just long enough to ensure that some of those things would cease to exist, through unfortunate accidents, hostile takeovers, theft, extortion or murder; a woman simply has to have hobbies between attempts to destroy the world.

dragon_eye_by_maroc68-d401vj5

* * *

He woke.

The first thing he noticed was the chill. It was a pervasive thing, it felt as if it froze the very marrow of his bones. Not normally affected by weather, he found the sensation unpleasant, but not unbearable. Standing up, he began to take in his surroundings. There was no light — no that is not right, there was no normal source of light. No lantern, no torch, no lamp, no light bulb; yet the room gave off a subtle luminescence, centered on where he sat. Driving his vision further past the illumination, he noticed that there was a radius to the field of unlight and the area he was sitting in was larger than he was able to initially perceive.

“Curious.” The sound of his voice, flew free. Encoded with his desire, it fled into the darkness and did not return. The very nature of its failure told him everything he needed to know. This subtle use of his power told him he was not in the world as he knew it. He realized he must be in a nearby Shard or worse, lost in the Void. As he considered this, his apprehension began to take shape.

Almost casually, he inspected himself and found everything seemed to be normal. He was still wearing the grey and black suit and vest common to his attire and the last thing he remembered wearing to work. His shirt was still the silken, Italian blouse he favored for formal meetings. He was wearing his favorite leather shoes, with an added non-slip surface beneath them. Not that he ever feared slipping, but it was a habit from a bygone era when one’s footing might cost one’s life. And until now, He had been very careful.

He looked down at his hands. They were still the strong hands of a Roman soldier, a bit more weathered, a bit less callused, but still capable of relieving a man of his life with a variety of tools. But the thing he was looking for was gone. His ring was missing. The sigil of his power was missing. This did not mean he was powerless, it meant that for his duty to continue, the ring moved to his successor. That meant he could not leave this prison. And that his power was in the hand of a mortal, for the first time in two millennia. A mortal He truly loved but had poorly prepared for this day.

He could only hope that his impressions all those decades ago were right.

* * *

The Director tried to wake from a dream that seemed overwhelming real and quite visceral. It was not his normal condition to dream, having not done so for many years since coming to work at Death, Incorporated. Having not dreamed in decades, left him open to the strange, surreal nature of this dream. He was standing in the middle of a field surrounded by monstrous creatures of all shapes and sizes, wielding a sword of ice and shield comprised of a field of force laying waste to everything around him.

In the distance, he could see demons and angels flashing swords of flame and lightning, illuminating the battlefield. This seemed to last days and nights and then with a final flash of lighting, the battle ended. He was the only thing standing unscathed on the field. Taking in the horrible vista, he wept, openly.

Time passed.

Sensing moving in the corner of his eye, he turned and dropped his terrible, ice-sword, which froze the very air near it and the blade shattered as it struck the ground. It was an Angel still moving slowly, feebly trying to remove the corpse of some horror draped across it. The Director found himself striding toward the Angel with a strange ambivalence in his core. Grabbing the nearest limb of the giant white gorilla, he flung it from the Angel, who sat up.

“Did we win?” the Angel croaked, his voice dry and likely burned from angrily flung cocoastrum during the battle. “I can’t see you, please come closer.”

“No, I do not think your side won,” the Director intoned gravely, “we are the last things alive here, so I can safely assume, my side did not win either. Do you have a name?”

“I was once called Malik, the Guardian, and I guarded the doors to Hell,” the Angel glowed visibly upon the recitation of his former station and for a moment seemed more majestic than his current condition, covered in the blood and offal of other creatures would allow.

“You may call me, Aurelius,” the Director said. “I think I was once the general of this army but now I am not so sure.”

“Well met, former general of a once mighty army. You must have been formidable to have defeated this mighty Host…” Malik began. “I cannot remember why we were fighting, though General. Do you have any memory of the conflict?” The Director seemed surprised by the Angel’s confession and had to think deeply himself.

“To be honest, I have no memory of why or how this battle took place. I am willing to forswear any further conflict if you are, Malik of the Angelic Host.” The Director’s feeling in this regard seemed sincere, even as this very real dream transpired.

“General Aurelius, as much as I appreciate you taking the time to free me from confinement, I am not able to forswear violence toward your person. There is still the matter of the Heavenly Host who even now, tell me to rend thee, limb from limb.” Malik seemed pained to admit this and sat back on his haunches and spread his wings. While he was sitting, he appeared to slowly get cleaner and his injuries began to shimmer and heal themselves. “Perhaps we could simply sit a bit longer and see if we can untangle this since there is no one here but you and I. Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

General Aurelius – the Director took in the scene and for a moment was surprised by the carnage – there seemed to be a variety of warriors from a variety of ages, lost in time and space, vast incredible armies with amazing technologies all lay about the battlefield. The General’s senses transcended the five and with his extended awareness could see ripples in time and space where these armies were snatched and conscripted. He could also sense the ruptures that the enemy used to reach this battlefield between Time and Space. Until he used those senses, his awareness was limited to this place, this space, this time, suddenly he was aware of a thousand times, a thousand places, where He reigned and suddenly realized where and who He was.

“Malik, Angel of the Host, I declare this conflict completed. And as an act of Mercy, I shall allow you, the final survivor, to return to your Host. Remind them, this is our final conflict. The next time we meet, I shall destroy you and your utterly. Know this and never return,” the pronouncement was clearly delivered and chilled the very air around the both of them. There was a weaving of force, of malice, of murderous intent in those words. The General was sure his words were relayed to the Host, even as he said them.

Malik, clearly shaken by the tone, and the message, stood and suddenly his twelve foot stature, seemed to overshadow the tiny General before him. “General, looking around the battlefield, it is clear that you and I are at the locus of something terrible, but I do not believe that you are in any position to make demands, or to cast threats. From where I stand, it is you, who should be looking at surrender. I am Malik, the Guardian, the warder to Hell, the hand of God and Sealer of Doors. You are in no position to make demands.” Malik suddenly burst into white flames and a blue flaming sword appeared in each of his hands.

The General looked at the Angel and was momentarily in awe. “Beautiful.” With a momentary pause, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” The General raised his hand and suddenly the Angel appeared to be in a fearful wind, his flames flickered and were blown backward, wisps blasted back as the wind increased. Malik roared and leapt forward, blades flashing forward, blue fire glowing like the sun. The General Aurelius, the Director, watched in horror as his outstretched fist clenched and some unknown force exploded forward and simply erased the Angel Malik, Guardian and Warder to Hell, Hand of God and Sealer of Doors, from existence.

The Director screamed, a long wail that caused fear in all who heard it, and then he woke, his right hand burning. On his hand was the ring from his dream, bearing the Aspect Skull of Death backed with a nuclear plume, the symbol of the destroyer of Worlds.

The Aspect War (6)

Posted by Ebonstorm on November 21, 2012

Posted in: Chapter, Short Story, The Aspect War. Tagged: animals, Aspect, Bastet, beauty, Bronx, cats, magic, nature, Sabra, The Aspect War, transformation. 1 Comment

Sabra’s Cats

Sabra smiled.

She brought her cat in from the outside.

She was an older woman who had lived in the tenement in the Bronx for as many years as she could remember. She had a number of cats inside the house already. But no one could say it was too many cats, because if you did not see them, you might not know they were there. Each was a shadow or a whisper seen just out of the corner of your eye and would sometimes disappear when you turned to see them. Each was a picture of perfection when they deigned to come over to you, fur shining, teeth glittering in the candlelight. Sometimes you could pick one up and marvel at its lithe and muscular nature, the ever gentle scent of mint that rose from their fur.

Sabra was different than other old cat ladies in a number of ways. She did not appear to be as crazy as most. Yes, she wore the typical old lady clothes, stuff from a century earlier than this one. You never quite recognized any of it, but you knew it wasn’t fashionable any time recently. It did not stop it from being somehow appropriate for her and she wore it with a type comfort unseen with today’s plastic, polyester, over the top clothing which may be perfect for the time but no one would remember it a year or two from now and no one would ever admit to ever having worn it.

No, her clothing was timelessly beautiful, just like she was. Her face appeared to be that of an old woman with warm lines whenever she smiled a you, laughing lines around her eyes and while her cheeks had narrowed, they were once full and soft, and had a curve that enticed you to approach her neck and just sit there, near her perfect ears and long, dark hair, now white, but still long and strangely luxurious. And while she appeared to be a woman in her late sixties or early seventies, her stride was only occasionally one of a woman whose body was in it golden years. Most of the time, you might see the shadow of another, younger, more vibrant woman and wonder what she might have been like in her youth.

Sabra was certainly a mystery to everyone who saw her, because you could only seem to see her as a collective. If you focused on any single thing, the way we just did, you might notice more than you were supposed to and that might be bad for you. Sabra’s neighbors had learned to ignore the peculiar old woman who might talk to herself as she trundled up the stairs with cans of cat food and vegetables. She would let the young men in the rough neighborhood carry her bags upstairs but none were ever rough or rude to her. There was something about her that let you know she would not tolerate poor manners. Very few people could remember a time when she did not live here, but no one could tell you when she moved into the neighborhood.

It was a strange thing among a number of strange things that did not make sense, but everyone accepted. Bad men, drug dealers, killers, and pedophiles would wander into this part of the Bronx, because it was a nexus of social activity, and peddle their wares, but this was not done often after Sabra became a member of the neighborhood. These men would disappear after they met her a few times returning from her errands.

The neighbors noticed this but said nothing. These men were not of the family, or of the people or of our people. They were other and Sabra warned them. She always did. If they did not take the warning and leave, the locals would shake their heads, mutter under their breaths about the diminished quality of the neighborhood and wait for the Song.

At first, people wondered where Sabra collected her cats because there were never any strays on the streets in this part of the city. At night, you would see a few of them, but you always knew they were her cats, clean, quiet, well mannered like her. People tolerated them and in return, there were no mice in shops or apartments, and no rats would dare to grace a trashcan for blocks in any direction of Sabra’s apartment. Stores she frequented also enjoyed that blessing. After a few years, her cats, became invisible to the locals, a part of the landscape, welcomed and yet ignored.

There was never a time this collection of cats was ever a menace to the neighborhood, nor did they stay up late at night singing and disturbing the neighbors. They might be out, and they might be singing, but their song was a different one. One that soothed, one that protected, one that said, don’t notice us, there is nothing to see here. If you are hearing us, you are happy, you are one of us, you love our song, and if you are not, you don’t want to be here. People who didn’t belong here who heard that song and were on the wrong side of it, were never found again.

Sabra would pick up her new cat in the morning, instinct brought it to her, confused, it would run toward the beacon it could see in the night. Clamber in through the broken window in the basement, climb the three flights of stairs in the old building, and wait at her door. She never recognized these new cats, but could feel its confusion about its new, simpler, life.

She would bring it in, give it food, get it adjusted to its new home and its new brethren and she would go out to make sure her neighborhood was the way she left it when she went to bed. The warm sun would always bring a smile to her face and make her think of a place far away, lost both in time and space. Then that memory would fade and she would tuck her scarf into her jacket and mutter incoherently.

From the fire escape, one black cat would watch for her, prowling rooftops keeping her in his sight and safe for another day. He had done that job for decades and took it very seriously. She cannot remember who she is. Not yet. The time is not right.

The Aspect War (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on July 11, 2012

Posted in: Chapter, Hayward's Reach. Tagged: Anansi, Cairo, eagle, ebonstorm, Egypt, Hayward's Reach, horror, Horus-ka, invader, Kemet, modern urban fantasy, Ptah, short story, star, Thaddeus Howze, The Aspect War. 2 Comments

Hail the Spirit Army

Ptah laughed.

The sun rose over what looked like the city of Cairo. The early morning light cleared the horizon and was bright and sharp, stinging the eyes with its searing, illuminating essence. The duskiness of night, suddenly evaporated in a single moment, stark and striking. The land had an alien presence as if it were someplace else, far removed from humanity, and in its way, it was. This was not Egypt of Earth, though it resembled it very closely. The markets slowly rising, people going about their tasks, farmers working the land, fishermen gathering their nets, weavers gathering their reeds, bureaucrats readying their papyrus, pharaohs discussing the affairs of this place, this Kemet, the perfect Egypt. This was the land of legend, of the thousand and one Arabian Nights, a place of mystery, populated by the spirits of men, lead by the god-born and protected by the remnants of the once-great gods of this place. And in this place, Ptah, grandfather to the gods of Kemet, saluted the morning Sun, his brother-son, Ra as his laughter trailed off into the morning.

His laugh was punctuated with the rhythmic stride of running alongside a well formed young man of twenty five or so, it was so hard to remember, it seemed as soon as you got to know them they died, but he liked this young man, full of questions, heresy and rage, eager to take on a world that had done nothing good for him. He had grown strong during his training with Ptah, his body and spirit forged by his time in the Desert Outside of Time. This place was in the boy, filling him with its essence, becoming a part of him, the silence, the vastness, the stillness of the desert, hiding its secrets from all but the most knowledgeable. I brought him out here one last time to reveal the last great Secret to him. He deserves to know where his Fate will lead him.

“What do you mean the gods did not create the universe?” Lumumba gasped in the warming desert air. His incredulity pasted on his face along with the sweat and windswept sand of the early morning air. “Everything I was ever taught, no matter the religion, indicated that the gods, or God or whatever we worshiped created the universe and everything we know in it.”

Ptah ran effortlessly alongside Lumumba, his bare feet barely touching the hot sand, his short and powerful frame clothed in little more than a pair of biking shorts. His night black skin, shown with a shimmer of sweat and a mild musky scent rose from him, otherworldly and intoxicating. “I, or someone like me, I forget which, was said to have created the universe, and populated it with my sister-wives and brothers who, then, in some manner created the world, then the animals, populating it finally with people who, of course, look like us, and ultimately worship us and we share our wisdom with our children and we all live happily ever after, or something like that. What’s missing is the detail. And the truth of the matter is that no god, old or modern has any interest in humanity knowing the truth of our origins.” Ptah, smiling Ptah, was for the first time since Lumumba met him, was not smiling. “Rest a moment.”

“Thank you, I needed to stop. You say I don’t need to breath or eat or sleep here, but I always feel just as tired as if I did.” Lumumba sat down on a nearby rock and caught his breath, sipping from an old canteen he wore on his belt.

“And you will, as long as you believe you need to. You have come here for almost fifteen years and still do not understand the nature of this place.” Ptah’s smile returned to his face as he turned toward the morning sun.

“And how would I ever learn it’s true nature, oh mysterious one, when you do everything in your power to make sure I never truly understand this place?”

“The question is the answer.”

“That is exactly what I am talking about Ptah, you never tell me anything useful. Just print that stuff on some fortune cookies and we are in business.” The tone is light and bantering, as this was a conversation that had been chewed on before same as the rough unleavened bread they shared.

“Perhaps the idea is to convince you to think for yourself. There may come a time, when such free lunches will be not forthcoming. It will be time for you to leave us soon. We only have one more teacher for you to see.” Ptah was ever-smiling but his face seemed to have another, more subtle, cast this early morning as perhaps a secret burden weighed heavy upon him.

“Another teacher? We had been spending so much time together lately, I assumed there was no other teaching left for me, your august company excluded.” Lumumba’s mind cast back to his early days in the Desert. Lumumba stared at Ptah and considered just how long he had been coming to the Desert with its silver sands, strange oases, and perfect palms. The Desert also hid a collection of eclectic folk who wander its sand sea dunes, hidden from the rest of the afterworld.

These were wonderful people who trained him in everything from any kind of survival to dining etiquette, combat both open handed and with a wide array of weaponry, ancient or modern, a variety of languages, he could speak nearly two dozen now, without an appreciable accent. He had met people from nearly every culture and every part of the world. They all seemed to be part of the Desert no matter where they were from originally. Everywhere he went, and he was beginning to think, every-when he went, Ptah knew everyone and everyone knew him. There were several times his trainers appeared to be from a range of times, from the Visigoths to Vietnam. It hurt his head to think about it so he just learned to accept it just like everything else he did when he was with Ptah. It was Ptah, and Ptah told him when he met him, to expect the improbable, prepare for the impossible and accept that just about anything could be true, somewhere.

Ptah would take him across the Desert, running, they never rode a vehicle unless their teacher used or needed one. Ptah kept telling him that he wanted the essence of the Desert to sink into him. Since he never really explained it, Lumumba let it go as the random nattering of a senile deity nearly eight thousand years old. Once they reached their teacher, Ptah would leave and promise to return. Eventually he would and the lesson would be over. The teacher was never surprised, but Lumumba was never aware of how they would know. Lumumba was never able to tell what time it was and since his watch refused to keep accurate time in the Desert, he eventually stopped wearing it.

This had been their ritual with the occasional trip to the City, as Ptah called it. But as usual, nothing done with Ptah was simple, easy or made any sense at all. Every trip to the City, started with a trip to a clothing store where they were both fitted for what amounted to period costuming. There were several different shops but they all seem to do the same thing for Ptah, create stylish clothing that was better than the biking shorts or worse, that skirt thing that Ptah tended to favor. Once he put on a suit, he appeared to be quite substantial and deadly serious. Leaving the clothier, Ptah would head into the city proper and find a particular building, and upon opening the door and passing through it, Lumumba and Ptah would find themselves transported to where ever or whenever, their costumes dictated.

Trips to the City, and by proxy, where ever the doors lead were almost always trips that revolved around learning some obscure lesson that could have been delivered by Ptah in the Desert, but it appeared that Ptah enjoyed his jaunts as much as Lumumba secretly did.

“Yes, you have a final teacher, but he cannot be trusted, and rightfully so,” Ptah said. “Today is your graduation day and I bear gifts for this day.” Reaching into his backpack he pulled out five rods about the length of a man’s forearm. On the end of one of them was the head of an eagle. The other rods were ornately festooned with cartouches that Lumumba recognized as the Battle of Horus against Set. “Put it together, using your Ka, like I have shown you.”

Lumumba focused his will and his Ka leapt to his command, surging forward and was visible in his fingertips as he held each section of the staff together and smoothed over the separation point until the entire staff was a single piece with the Eagles’ head on the top end. The staff was weighted, but perfectly so, and Lumumba’s spinning of the staff, appeared effortless. He began a staff ritual weaving the staff in a complex series of movements, that while they appeared random slowly began to form a barrier in the area painted by the staff. After a few more seconds, the sands near the barrier began to rise about knee level and stayed there wavering as if under the effects of anti-gravity.
Ptah walked up to the barrier and studied the work, allowing his divine senses to study his protégé’s work. It was perfect, the young man’s mastery of his Ka showed a marked improvement even since the last time they did this type of Work. “Explain the basis for our sorcery.”

“Sorcery using the Ka harnesses the pure spirit of the caster and is best used for creating constructs and barriers that protect the body and the mind. This is the purest of the spirit forms of magic. It is also the fastest cast, and has the shortest span. It also works well between realms and suffers the least degradation in the realms of Men. Creative use of Ka can often mean the difference between life and death.

“Good, good, go on.” Ptah was secretly pleased that his lessons had been received so well. The manifestations Lumumba was creating were without flaw.

“Mastery of the Ba, or blood magic allows for powerful offensive magic. But since you cannot harm without harm, Ba requires a sacrifice of blood or bone, yours or someone else’s. Down the dark path is Mastery of Ba, since many of the necromantic arts can be found there.” Lumumba manifested the Claws of Ra and cut into his palm allowing a tiny flow of blood. Wiping his blooded hand across his new staff, the head of the staff suddenly sprouted a short two foot spear tip comprised of blood red light. Swirling the weapon, he sliced into the face of a nearby rock, cleaving through it. “The problem with Mastery of Ba is its continued requirement of sacrifice to maintain it. To use this blade, for instance, would require a constant application of blood and in a long battle, that could be dangerous to one’s health.”

“Very good, what is next?”

“Sheut Mastery is the control of the shadow side of all things. By interacting with the shadow of an object or a person, it is the same as interacting with that object. With Sheut, I can temporarily control the will of a man or destroy or move a physical object that does not possess a living will simply by interacting with its sheut. Mastery of the Sheut is one of the most difficult of magics because, subverting a living will is forbidden due to its karmic costs. However, Sheut is a powerful force if one is attempting to destroy unliving objects since they cannot object to their Sheut being disrupted by a sorcerer of sufficient strength. This is also a magic that works well in the world of Men because it does not violate the Compact and reveal the existence of magic. Sheut is a very flexible form and there are sorcerers who practice nothing but Sheut because of its wide range of applications from destruction of matter to animation of objects.”

“Two remain.”

“Ren Mysticism, or the Mastery of the Name. Bequeathed by Brother Thoth and Sister Isis, Ren Mystics seek the secret names of all things. The secret name of a person or object allows complete mastery of that object, weaving the threats of reality and control to the mystic using it. This is why we keep our secret names to ourselves and only reveal them to those who love us best. To know the Name of a thing or person allows the greatest power over an individual, mastery of their very soul forces and life essence. A powerful Ren Mystic can slay the living and raise the dead. This power barely works in the world of the Living due to the disruption it causes in the Compact, but in Spirit World, it is one of the greatest powers possessed by the learned. You have taught me to guard my Name and the power that could be had if someone knew it. I have never told another soul. I have woven the threads that might reveal my Name tightly within my essence to make them proof against mortal divination. I have learned to read the threads of all things in order to find their secrets as well.”

“And the last?”

“The Forbidden Power of Akh. Practitioners of this power create imperfect resurrections of formerly living beings. There is no rule that says these creatures could not be beneficent servants but the power seems generally sought to return men to life with a form of immortality placing them beyond the reach of Death. It is forbidden because almost all who seek this power become corrupted while under its influence. Life is for living and when one’s allotted time is due, one graciously leaves the world and returns to the Cycle here in the Desert Outside of Time, awaiting a return to life in the future. Using the Forbidden Power disrupts the cycle and imbalances the Spirit World. With sufficient imbalance, the two worlds fall from balance and can both be destroyed. Hence the prohibition of this very dark art. All who use it, with only the tiniest of exceptions are slain and their creations destroyed. I have learned it, as you have taught it, to return the dead to the Cycle and to disrupt the creations that utilize that art. I am never to pervert the dead to create Akh-life, except in the defense of a greater good.”

“And as far as I am concerned, there is no greater good that would warrant such a creation, but to not teach it to you would make you vulnerable to anyone who knew it.” Ptah was pleased that this, his greatest gift, had been received well and it would be used wisely.

The two had been walking and talking for some time away from Memphis and Ptah had been manipulating their path until they had come to what appeared to be a great forest along the edge of the Desert. “That is the Great Forest. A manifestation of all of the World’s greatest forested regions, jungles, rainforests, and other planted regions. We are expected there. As they approached the Great Forest, the smell of immense age wafted from the Forest. The air of the Desert was dry, crisp with a light metallic taste, the forest’s scent was cooler, mustier, like an old closet filled with woolen sweaters, still but not unpleasant.

As they grew closer, the size of the immense trees became more apparent, from a distance they appeared to be the size of a strong man, but when they were closer, it was clear they were much, much larger. It would take twenty men, arm to arm to encircle even the smallest of these trees. The trees vanished into the sky and covered the sun allowing only the tiniest spots of light to reach the ground. Great eagles were also seen flying in the canopy, each, incredibly large, some the size of a small airplane.

As they left the Desert behind and moved deeper into the forest, the sense of age only increased and they walked until they had come to an area that seemed older, the trees more bent, great spider webs were woven through the canopy, whispering their secrets, waving in an unfelt breeze.

“Welcome, weary travelers to my land,” said a great voice from apparently nowhere. Lumumba looked around but could see no one speaking, and the voice seemed to come from everywhere.

“Look up, my son,” Ptah had already found an immense stump to sit on and was pointing skyward.

Lumumba looked up and was surprised to see the largest spider he had ever seen dangling just a few feet from his head. It was the size of truck and its eight eyes, burned with intelligence. Lumumba could feel its will pressing down upon him, a physical presence, making the air thick and his movement slow. He wanted to move his hand to invoke his Ka, but he simply could not move his fingers at all.

“So this is the savior, the protector of mankind, the one we have been waiting for nearly a thousand years? He certainly does not look like much to me. As a matter of fact, I think he is an arachnophobe to boot.” The great spider moved with an alarming agility for something so large, and swung itself down to land in front of Lumumba. Its eight eyes never lost their intensity, as the spider made its way around him, viewing him from all sides. “I thought he would be taller.”

“You say that about all the heroes, Anansi. I am a respectable four feet tall and it has not held me back any,” Ptah responds with a jocular tint to his tone. This eases Lumumba’s fear of the giant spider plucking his clothing and his new staff with its glistening razor sharp pedipalps.

“Yes, boy, that glistening substance is venom; enough in each bite to slay a thousand men. A single touch from me and you would be dead before you knew it. No, I am not a spider. I resemble one, but a spider my size could not exist where you come from. Consider me the iconic representation of what all spiders imagine themselves to be, awe-inspiring, powerful, killing machines. And no, I am not reading your mind, your face says everything.”

“And let’s not forget humble and full of grace.”

“You scare the boy in your way and I scare him in mine, Ptah.”
“Did your master tell you about me, Horus-ka?” hissed Anansi as it waved its forelegs around Lumumba.

It was hard for Lumumba to listen to Anansi’s voice, it caused him to want to run away and never stop, so filled with menace, its very presence confounded his concentration. Lumumba watched as he began to sense the weaving of the threads of magic. “Yes, sir, he did mention you in passing when he talked about well known deities of the African continent. He said, you were a known liar and scoundrel. And that if I were to meet you in person, to not trust a single thing you said to me unless you swore on your ancestors first.”

“He said what?” roared Anansi, his huge forelegs waving faster around Lumumba, his body tense and hair all over his form stood erect and crackled with what appeared to be electrical energy. “A liar, and a scoundrel, not to be trusted, eh? Did he tell you that I stole the moon and the stars for man, did he tell you that I liberated all of the stories of the world for humanity, so that you would have something to do around your fires for the last fifteen thousand years? Did he tell you that without me, you would not have fire, since the gods wanted to keep it for themselves?”

The air in the clearing was still as Lumumba considered his answer. Lying to deities was almost always the wrong thing to do, since most could tell when you were. But Ptah did mention that diplomacy when discussing them was always the best choice since gods were known to be a bit thin-skinned, sensitive about their exploits and capricious in the response to how they are seen by humans. Lumumba decided to go with candor. He hoped Ptah would step in before anything bad happened.

“Yes, sir, he did tell me some of those things. He said that you stole the stars but spilled them on your way out of heaven so they scattered throughout the sky. He mentioned that you borrowed the sun because you lost your way coming out of the underworld and forgot to put it back when you were done. He also mentioned that you did liberate all of the stories of the world, but you did it so that you would have people pay you to hear them. On your way to the market, it was said that the stories fell into the river from the calabash you carried them in and were lost, found by beggars and fishwives who used them to get money from people. On the matter of fire, he mentioned that you did steal fire for us, but only because you took pity on us one day when we were freezing and you did not have a warm place to stay having been kicked out of Heaven again and so you gave us fire, so you could be warm.” Lumumba had begun to regret his decision as he felt the energy of Anansi building in front of him, its claws waving closer and closer to his body. He dared not move since the claws were sweeping all around him front to back, faster and faster.

Ptah snickered and turned away from Anansi, taking a sip of water to hide his laughter.

“So he did, did he? Anansi whispered. A deep breath followed with Anansi sounding just a little bit contrite. “Well, so that the truth be known, he has not lied. Not once. All of those things are as you say. I am a selfish deity who happens to benefit others while I am trying to benefit myself. As I have done now. He is ready, Ptah.” Anansi stopped waving his claws over Lumumba and backed away.

“I call you Horus-Ka, the spirit of Horus. Your next answer will determine the fate of men and gods. When confronted by evil, do you use the force of arms or the strength of will to resolve the problem?”

Horus-Ka looked to Ptah but his face was stony and unresponsive. “Sir, –”

“I am Anansi, The Weaver of Fate, Teller of Tales, Trickster of the Gods, Defender of Man, I am no man. Call me as I am, Kwaku Anansi,” interrupted Anansi with enough force to nearly knock Horus-Ka from his feet.

“Forgive me Kwaku Anasi, Ptah, Father to the Gods, I have been taught when confronting evil that force of arms is almost never the only solution to a problem, and that truly winning the battle relies on a keen eye, a strong mind, a full heart, a ready wit and a forceful will. I will only use force of weapons when no other avenue presents itself. This I pledge to you, my masters.” As Horus-Ka completed his statement, two circles of fire formed with a bridge of flame connecting them.

The circle around Horus-Ka was filled and surrounded with a variety of cartouches each flickering in multi-colored flame, the second circle about ten meters away was much larger and opened to a vista similar to the Great Forest Horus-Ka had seen earlier in the day with one vital difference. A giant creature seeming to be comprised of earth tore through the Forest and approached the barriers that kept the Forest and the Real World separate. If the scale were to be believed, this creature stood over a thousand feet tall, towering over the redwoods of the Great Forest. Giant Eagles and tiny men sitting on those eagles seemed to be engaging the creature unsuccessfully. One tower had already fallen and when three of them were toppled, the creature would be able to cross into the world of Men.

“That is your first great task, Horus-Ka. You must protect the world of Men. It is too close to the boundary for any of us to be of any help to you. Your gifts and your training will need to be enough. Know that the people you see there are denizens of the Spirit World, when they die, they fall from the cycle of life, never to return. They need you to stop this creature. If it pierces the boundary, it will cause a massive earthquake wiping out the Atlantic coast of Africa, South America and parts of the North American continent.”

“Who could have done this, how is this even possible? Ptah, you said that the Compact prevented magic like this from even working in the world of Men?

“These creatures do not obey the Compact and have begun their assault on our world. They have begun a battle which will pit all of the Spirit Realms and the World of Men against each other, and when the White Host, the Cold Gods and Demon of Babylon have exhausted themselves, they will destroy the victors. This opening volley will liberate the Demon and you cannot allow that. If she is freed too soon, things will not be in place. Ptah, what of your brothers and sisters?”

“They are hidden in the world of Men with no memory of who they are, it is their only chance of survival and the only chance there will be some gods left when this Scourge is done. We are the last, and Horus-Ka, son of man and gods, you must be our weapon. Otherwise we have none. As a man, you may go places even gods fear to tread. Now go, we shall buy your freedom with our lives, if it comes to that.”

The clearing was suddenly lit from the distance as beams of cold white light streaked through the trees and illuminated the webbing of the clearing. Screams of agony and rage are heard in the distance.

“I do not think they like the decorating I left for them. It is so hard to find venom laced webbing these days.” Anansi turned to Ptah. Make ready my brother, my traps will not hold them long.” Anansi leapt into the trees, and skittered across a web work hidden in the canopy. “Horus-Ka, the weavings of fate upon you are strong, I wove them myself. But you were given a thread of Fate before I met you. That fate I could not change. Be strong and in your darkest hour know that Fate is your ally, even if you cannot believe it at the time. Farewell, son and spirit of Horus.”

Ptah turned to Horus-Ka and took a necklace from his bag. It held an icon of a disk with the Eye of Ra upon it. “When I am gone, you will be unable to return here without this talisman. Only Ra will remain behind to protect the Spirit World because he is safe within his chariot of fire. All of the souls here will depend on you once we are gone. Now go. Make us proud.

“Is that it? No ideas, no clues how to defeat the thousand foot tall colossus? ”

“If heroism were easy, everyone would do it.” Ptah’s armored hand snatches a spiny arrow from the air, mere inches from Horus-Ka’s face. “I am confident you will do what is necessary. Go.” And with that Ptah pushes Horus-Ka into the second circle of flame and into his destiny.

“And now I go to mine. Anansi save some for me.”

“There are plenty to go around, my brother. You know I could not undo what Fate had given him.”

“I know, but you gave him a chance to save the world first.”

The number of lights in the forest increased and the number of eyes those lights came from doubled. And doubled again; and again. Soon the forest was lit and there was no darkness. Ptah and Anansi held the portal open until Horus-Ka arrived. Then the portal closed and was sealed, unable to be opened again. After that moment, no one without the Eye of Ra would be able to enter or leave the spirit realm. This would not help Ptah, who armored with a mighty staff whose head of Anubis, slew any that it touched instantly, a magnificent flaming helm which shot forth beams of the light of Ra, incinerating all it shown upon, whose thews allowed him to strike each hexapedal creature and slay them with a single blow and mighty Anansi, whose webs, fangs, claws, and venom destroyed dozens of these creatures a second, and it was still not enough. Both of these beings were soon overwhelmed and the number of their enemy soon exceeded their ability to slay them, formidable though they both were.

But they were not trying to win. They simply needed to buy some time. This was not the real battle. The real battle was being fought in the heart of a boy they rescued twenty years ago against a monstrosity of stone and magic. Anansi projected a blast of venom and hurled a star from the sky upon a cluster of the enemy. His venom seared their stony flesh and the star destroyed then by the dozens. But after a day and a night, he had begun to tire. Standing upon a mound of the dead, he and Ptah were surrounded and exhausted.

The six legged creatures fell back for the first time in two days. A man-like creature strode forward, lit by the light of glowing sigils. He had two winged serpents flying over his shoulders. His body was gnarled and bent, but glowed with boundless power. He wore an elaborate headdress and metallic bracers on his arms and feet. His face was covered but the area of the headdress where his face might be was illuminated with a pale light which showed the face in shadow, a long aquiline nose and a cruel sharp jawline. His voice was liquid menace and if a human were listening he would have heard a language thought dead, the tongue of the Mayan Olmecs. “Never send a dog to do a man’s job.” The two serpents turned toward Ptah and Anansi and opened their mouths. A sound like the rattling of a thousand bones of the dead being ground to dust, slowly, agonizingly streamed toward the two gods.

Anansi, reached heavenward again and pulled another star from the firmament. The star streaked toward the forest. Exhausted by this final effort, Anansi fell still holding the star only with his will alone.

Ptah’s helm shown again with Ra’s Light but it weakened and guttered. Ptah moved the last few steps toward Anansi and he could hear the star’s imminent arrival. The Great Forest was lit from above as the star grew in the night sky. The remaining hexapeds turned their eyes skyward and the Olmec directed his will upon Ptah and Anansi. And then, Ptah’s light went out and a star incinerated the Forest.

Horus-Ka arrived about two kilometers from the edge of the forest where the second barrier to the world of Men shimmered in the early morning light. There were many defenders already in place whose variety of weapons were made ready. Some were familiar to Horus-Ka, many were not. The defenders were sitting still preparing their Ka for this final confrontation. Many were invoking sigils that would no matter what happened meant their ultimate dissolution as entities on the Wheel of Life. Horus-Ka did not stop them. Each man had to make his own decision. As he walked toward the forward line, many of the men and women stopped as he passed and whispered. The monstrosity drew closer and nothing being done seemed to have any effect on it. Beams of light and mighty songs rang out, each filled with spiritual puissance. The drummers at this second line began to beat their rhythm and sing. As they sang, the swords and spears of their brothers began to glow and smolder. The creature despite its terrifying appearance was not alone. It had a vanguard of smaller creatures that attacked and destroyed any siege weaponry that might have a chance against the beast. Several mortars were already set up and ranging to the creature was being taken. Several mortar teams had already begun fire and as soon as they did, the creatures turned as a unit and bore down on those mortar squads. The defenders opened up with a variety of rifles and other ranged weapons, including bows, crossbows and atlatls. As long as the drummers played and sang, their weaponry struck the hexapeds blasting hunks of their armor away, blowing off their heads or limbs. But there seemed to be an unstoppable wave of the creatures so the defenders whittled away and slowed the wave of creatures but could not stop it.

As the creatures closed, eventually it came down to hand to hand to protect the mortar squads. Grenades were used as the creatures closed, but hand to hand was simply not enough to protect the mortar teams. As each group were eventually overrun, the creatures seemed momentarily confused before they oriented on their next target.

The mortars had some level of effectiveness as the creature was being blown apart by the explosive rounds. But the creature’s incredible mass prevented the mortars from striking a killing blow. Horus watched the battle and for a moment, just a moment, lost all hope of stopping the monstrosity. These people were throwing away their immortal lives against a threat that could not have ever been conceived of.

Then he remembered his training. Ptah had taken him to a hill one day and asked him why the enemy always sought the high ground. Looking around, he realized that when you have the high ground, you have visibility and can see all of your enemy. Ptah told him if you cannot deny your enemy the high ground, deny him the advantage of high ground. He watched the giant and realized the smaller horde moved where the giant was looking. So the great creature was providing vision to the smaller groups. Deny it vision and we might have a chance.

Looking around, he saw a small contingent of what appeared to be military leaders conferring. “Commanders, I was sent by Ptah to help. Do you have any smoke grenades or systems to deliver smoke to the creature. Ideally, smoky mortars would be ideal until I can get close enough to the creature to blind it.”

One grizzled veteran smiled and said “Aye, I think we can arrange for some cover and smoke, but if you want to take the battle to its eyes, you will need more than a spear or a staff. We were planning on saving them until the creature grew closer, but if you are willing to get closer, they might work better. We only have a few tanks and they are at the third barrier. I have twelve RPGs and six young men just crazy enough to try and use them.”

“We will have to split into two groups, one for each eye. Lay down the smoke around its head which should slow the horde and allow us to do more damage to it reducing its size as well. Concentrate your groups and keep your drummers and spell-singers back. The two groups will approach from eagle-back and make a single pass on each eye at the same time using the cover of smoke. Blinded, the horde should be much less effective. If we are successful, I want you to use your tanks immediately to lay down as much fire as possible, using exploding rounds if you can, but wait until the creature is truly blinded and the horde is pinned down as much as possible. Otherwise, the creatures will make a straight line for those tanks and they will simply not stand a chance if that happens.”

The old colonel called to his RPG teams and got four eagles ready. “I have included one spell singer on each eagle. They cannot use the RPGs but if they are singing once you fire, the RPG will be that much more effective. They understand the risk. As do I. I will be on the second eagle.”

Looking out over the battlefield, the next mortar squad was readying its weapons and the smoke rounds were being prepared. Two large rotary machine guns were placed in front of the mortar teams and some metallic constructions were also being placed down in front of this squad to give it the longest survival time possible. The command group was being ushered back to the third line, except for the old colonel. The eagle pilots had the eagles ready and the teams were boarding. Horus prepared to get on to his eagle when the old colonel spoke. “Begging your pardon, Horus-Ka, but I do not think you should be going with us. If this goes south, we need you to find a solution, already we are using the ideas you have given us and would be loathe to lose you. Ptah would never forgive us.”

Colonel, I don’t plan on telling Ptah, do you?” Horus-Ka laughed and climbed aboard the eagle. The four eagles took off and the smoke mortar drops began.

Two other mortar teams also began fire explosive rounds, this time in front of the approaching horde. The smoke spread quickly and began to obscure its vision. As the smoke grew thicker, the horde slowed its approach. The remaining forces, concentrated their fire, from everywhere, tearing into the hexaped armor. Spell singers, rallied, drummers played their hearts out, their fingers bled and they did not stop. The Horde slowed and for a moment, the firepower of the Spirit Army held the creatures at bay.

The smoke was thick and the eagles split off to fly behind the creature to set up their approach. They flew high above the smoke and aligned themselves, with a final wave, all four began their approach. The pilot, spell singer and one commando were on the front half of the eagle, and two commandos were on the back end of the eagle. The smoke was incredibly thick but as they approached the surface of the creature they could see through the smoke and began to set themselves up for the shot.

On the ground, the last of the smoke mortars had been fired and the mortars were packed up as the defenders held the line still using their guns and ranged weapons. The Horde was slowed but not stopped but now it was a retreating battle that constantly poured on the firepower. Machine guns mounted on the tanks began to fire into the horde providing cover for the retreating defenders who ran out of ammunition. As the Horde recovered, they surged forward but their sudden charge was broken by a group of warriors riding large cattle with long spears whose tips flamed red and whose shields deflected the leaping creatures, the warriors garbed in red robes, moved as one, their spears flashing and protecting the retreating spirit army members. Their fury was so great the Horde fell back as the warriors sang and stomped the ground in their approach. The cattle whose great horns were armored gored the creatures and flung them about. The spirit army rallied and began to support the great warriors and broke the rush of the Horde. For the first time today, the Horde retreated.

The eagles made the final dive, the wind roared in Horus-Ka’s ears and the pilot raised his hand to indicate the time to fire. The spell-singer began her song, clear and crisp despite the wind, her song to the men, focused their attention, hardened their will and they for a moment forgot they were a thousand feet in the air, terrified of a creature from their most terrible nightmare and were less than one hundred meters from that creature; what a song, literally pure magic.

The eagle banked and the eye loomed into sight. The pilot dropped his hand and everyone fired. The eagle banked again and pulled away as the explosions sounded behind it. The creature screamed a primal sound, a thousand trumpets blaring and Horus-Ka and his team were directly in the blast.

The second team while also successful in the strike were set upon by leaping hexapeds that had climbed up the side of the creature when it saw them approaching it. Their eagle was covered with the hexapeds and the last thing Horus-Ka saw of them was the old colonel firing his hand gun and the spell singer using her magic as a weapon against the horrors and then they faded into the smoke.

Seconds after Horus’s eagle was driven from the air by the scream of the creature, tank fire rocked the air and the face of the creature suddenly had craters forming in it as the tank rounds tore through the surface of its stony skin. The smoke was driven away as the mortars and tank fire began to tear into the creatures structure.

The creature’s forward approach had been arrested at the third and final barrier and every artillery weapon fired ceaselessly. Blinded, the creature could no longer direct the horde and the Spirit Army while taking heavy losses were destroying the Horde. Drummers who were close to the horde directed their music as a weapon toward the creatures and destroyed them with the vibrations of their drumming. Many drummers died, but none left their drums, destroying creatures with spell, sword and song until the very end.

Once the creature was blinded, the concerted effort of spell-singers, blessed artillery, and the concentrated fire of the Spirit Army ground the creature back to the dust from which it was formed. The horde was decimated and hunted until the last creature could be found and slain.

Horus woke aching and bloody from his crash. “You plan on lying there all day, do you, lad,” the old colonel said as he offered Horus his hand. “The beast is dead. Your plan while completely daft, worked. Unfortunately, no one else survived but the three of us.” Horus said a quick prayer for those souls lost.

“The spell-singer says the center of this magic is nearby and thinks we should investigate. She is already looking at something, so let’s get you up and at it,” the colonel gruff tone seemed to focus Horus-Ka’s attention.

Horus looked around and saw that both eagles, and their pilots had died in the crash. The creature had fallen over and its open mouth was less than one hundred meters away. As they moved closer, the spell-singer had already climbed up into the mouth of the creature and illuminated the interior of the creature’s mouth. “Lord Horus, here is the source of this foul magic.” She pointed to a large disk shaped object about a meter in diameter. It seemed to be forged of a strange clay or rock and the patterns etched in it were painstakingly drawn and etched. “This appears to be the magical equivalent of a computer. The program is written along the outer edge and the inner structures seem to direct the magical energy allowing this creature to draw upon the energy of the land for its sinister purpose. It was meant to wander through our world and steal energy to release in the world of the living. Like all magic, it can be traced back to its source if you are willing.”

“Now what kind of hero would I be, if I weren’t? I have been waiting all my life for this. Colonel, get back to your people and contain this artifact. Learn all you can so if this thing makes another appearance, you won’t have the problem we had this time. Let’s move this thing and see what we can learn about our enemy.”

Traverse the Nexus to The Aspect War (3)

The Aspect War (4)

Posted by Ebonstorm on June 23, 2012

Posted in: Chapter, Hayward's Reach, Short Story. Tagged: diner, ebonstorm, greasy spoon, Hayward's Reach, horror, Mammon, Max and Momma's, modern urban fantasy, short story, Sidhe, Thaddeus Howze, The Aspect War, travel, Tyche, Unseelie Court. 3 Comments

Only Here for the Food

Mammon ate.

It did not really matter what he was eating, only that he did. Mammon was always eating. No, that’s not right. Mammon was always hungry. No amount of eating ever seem to fill him up. He was always engaged in some sort of feasting. And when he was not eating, he was drinking to excess. It didn’t matter what he drank, it did not satisfy him. No matter how much money he had, it did not stop him from wanting more.

The greasy spoon, Max and Momma’s, was poorly lit with widely spaced bulbs hanging from wires on the ceiling. Each was shrouded with a greasy hood that directed light down onto a hardwood counter top that stretched nearly the length of the restaurant. The table spoke volumes with its well-worn rings where glasses sat, year after year, consolidating moisture on their sides and depositing it on the wood, to sink in, leeching color but adding character.

The floor, barely visible, was a linoleum tiled affair, whose placement was less than perfect, allowing sand and dirt from the men and occasionally women who walked through those doors to accumulate between them, slowly abrading them, smoothing them, establishing permanent tracks through them near the tables bolted to the floor; no amount of mopping ever made them look clean. It was as if the tiles prided themselves on being as dirty as the patrons who frequented this place.

Speaking of the hard men and women who worked at the docks and shipyards nearby, they filled this place wearing their denim jumpsuits or their rubberized suits with their rough hands and rougher manners. They stank of fish, or cargo boxes, or the sweat needed to move that cargo, clean those ships, or weld those seams. This was their place, their watering hole, and had been so for seventy years; it had weathered two depressions, three recessions, five wars, twelve presidents, and had the pictures on the wall to prove it. There were pictures on the wall of Momma and Max through the years, showing up with some of the more colorful visitors, mobsters, mayors, and occasionally, during a voting season, a senator or two. Max and Momma’s was an institution, a place venerated by time, outside of time, hence Mammon’s visit.

He wore a suit. A simple, but expensive cut, it hung poorly on his lanky frame. His Rolex glimmered sickly in the poor light, as if its quality were diminished by the company he was keeping. That company felt the same way. Most of the dockworkers and the mobsters eating in the back did not appreciate his intrusion into their humble world with his suit-and-tie effete nature. Nowadays, Mammon barely weighed eighty kilos, no matter what he ate. He had to have his clothes tailored for his spare frame, but his recent success in the stock market had provided for all of his needs. This last decade had been very, very good to Mammon.

The owner, Max, was of another mindset completely. He was always happy to see Mammon, who always ate a large meal with a bunch of sides, tipped well, and always came back. Max remembered him when he Mammon was a lot larger, too, needed his own table, and nothing he wore fit very well. In the last ten years after his last heart attack, he had lost weight consistently and was now all skin and bones. Momma thought he had cancer or something. But it certainly did not affect his appetite or his eatin’ manners. Lord, that man was a slob while he ate.

Mammon consumed his burger with gusto, its drippings pouring out from between his fingers and staining the sleeves of his very white shirt and expensive jacket. He favored this place over the fast food places in the city proper because so much more flavor oozed from each bite. Lawrence Simmons, the current spiritual residence of Mammon, consumed everything in excess.

Lawrence had always been a glutton, and when Mammon found him, he was the picture of unhealthy living. Greasy food was his preference, and his two heart attacks and triple-bypasses ten years ago showed his dedication to his poor diet. His weight was a massive 250 kilos, just small enough to keep making it out to his favorite fast food restaurants using a heavy cane and a steady gait. Mammon ate at a lot of fast food restaurants in the city proper, and he was well known at all of these places. He noted between bites that almost all of these places had a staff with eating problems. The more he visited those places, the fatter their staff became. It was a slow, but steady process.

In his favorite place only a few blocks from his home, the owner had a massive coronary and had to close the place down. Unfortunate. Hence his trip to Max and Momma’s. Mammon tried not to eat here too often because he was, in his own detached way, fond of Momma and Max.

When she came in the door, his mouth was full of food, but the silence that fell over the place was complete. Women stared at her, wondering what she did to keep her figure; men stared, trying to imagine themselves next to that figure. She was wearing a close-fitting motorcycle suit that resembled body armor, and was carrying her helmet under her arm. The armor plates on the suit were painted a dark red and the fabric of the suit was a dark gray. As tightly as her suit clung to her, her hair, night black, glistening, hiding secrets, waved freely about her head and shoulders, smelling of night jasmine and honeysuckle. She strode across the room, her pace unhurried, and several men, who thought they had a chance to woo her, immediately rose and tried to approach. Mammon did not notice her.

The first, a rakishly handsome fellow, slid from his seat with some grace, but as he took his first step, his foot was caught on the edge of one of legs of a chair, and he fell flat on his face. His friends, properly sympathetic and sufficiently lubricated, exploded in gales of laughter, and the rake stood up and redirected himself toward the restroom, with the same aplomb as a cat falling off the sofa asleep and immediately pulling itself together as if nothing happened. He was less than successful.

The second gentleman, seeing the catastrophe of the first, decided he would wait until she was close enough to him that he could simply stand up and make his presence known. Unbeknown to him, there was a life preserver ring on the ceiling as part of the nautical motif of the place. That ring, which had been mounted forty years ago as a part of a boat that was lost during a storm and was the only thing recovered, slipped from its very secure housing and fell onto his plate, splattering him with its contents. She never noticed him.

She continued toward her goal as the tenor of the place returned to normal. Max rushed out to help clean off the poor fellow now covered in his dinner. “Hello, husband.” Her voice was a strong yet sultry contralto, the purr of motorcycle with the throttle barely let out.

“Hello, Ty. That’s ex-husband. Didn’t you get the paperwork?” was Mammon’s choked out reply from around his second monster-sized, avocado-bacon burger with grilled onions, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, with a fiery, custom horseradish spread; this was one of Momma’s finest works, worth every penny. “You getting the checks okay?”

“Yes. Can I sit down?” She did not need his money, but she never sent it back. She knew he said it just to be a bastard.

“Oh, sure. Take a load off. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Mammon noticed she held back what she was really feeling.

“Spare me, you barely know I am here; there is a burger in your hand. Your universe is just that small at the moment.”

Ouch. “You know me too well. That’s why I married you.” Mammon’s smile was evident as he remembered the good times they did have all those years ago.

“Funny. I was thinking that was why I divorced you,” her tone seemingly playful, suddenly changed and became very low and serious. “I hate to interrupt your recent fascination with food, but I need your help.”

Mammon looked at her incredulously while he finished the last of the gastrointestinal delight that was the Belly Buster. He wiped his hands on his napkin, which looked at this point like the victim of a slasher flick, and asked “What kind of trouble could you be in that a convenient accident could not get you out of?”

Mammon remembered how he met her all those years ago in a casino in Vegas, partying, smoking, gambling and winning. She was beautiful then, terribly beautiful, and she used it like a weapon. Men were nothing to her but playthings. Her only real interest was their money. She never gambled with her own money back then.

She was lucky, most of the time. She was also careful with her winning, never too much, never too fast, never too often at the same casino, just enough to stay under the radar, but he was fascinated by her string of “luck” and followed her to three different casinos, before he made his move. Their relationship evolved just like both of their lifestyles, extremely fast, too much partying, too much drinking, and the sex–the sex was outstanding. He wore the skin of a wealthy young aristocrat with time, strength, and virility on his side.

They were married at the El Rancho Vegas in Las Vegas in 1960. The owner of the hotel, suspected of being a mobster and a killer, took a liking to her. He cornered her somewhere and told her it was in her best interest, since he owned El Rancho Vegas, to consider dumping that zero and getting with a hero. She never took threats well. Two hours after they were married, the place accidentally burned to the ground. He was never found. The cause of the fire was never discovered.

It took Mammon another ten years to learn that accidents like that happened to anyone Tyche didn’t take a liking to.

At a séance in the seventies Mammon discovered that they were both descended from mythic beings and were lesser powers themselves, hence their attraction to each other, the synergy in their lifestyles, and the effectiveness of their occupational abilities. His psychic abilities were great and he warned them of a coming conflict. They did not take him seriously. He was killed mysteriously before they could learn of their true identities. They forgot about his warning.

The seventies were even more wild than the sixties. Swinging and cocaine were big then, and what they did not spend on sex and coke, they spent on crazy fashion, big hair and bigger sunglasses, crazy bell-bottoms, and the eventual fall of Nehru jackets.

Then the eighties came, and there was so much money to be made, Mammon worked all the time, and as Mammon progressed, so did society and its need for greed. He learned that his power affected humanity at a global level, and the more he wanted, the more they wanted. He simply did not have time for Tyche, and she drowned her sorrows in other men and new designer drugs. They fell out, moved out, cried on the phone, made up, had great sex, got back together, then rinse and repeat. This went on all through the eighties until The War.

They were drafted. Their side lost and Mammon was killed. Until then, they lived their lives in relative unawareness of their true powers and abilities. With his resurrection, his powers and memory returned fully and so did hers. Whatever had bound him, had bound her to him and only a happenstance of fate kept them together all those years.

He could only assume he had been rescued and resurrected by another Power. He was never clear who saved him without absorbing his aspects. While he did not fear death, dissolution, the loss of self was another thing entirely.

He had hoped to lay low after his rebirth but Tyche’s renewed taste for the finest things in life brought her to the attention of Gluttony, a lesser Aspect who wanted to claim Mammon’s powers. He was forced to battle Gluttony, who was hoping to expand his dominion into the realm of money. Gluttony lost the conflict, and Mammon was forced to consume him and take his power instead.

Growing more powerful, but was now in dominion over another realm, he became a Glutton as well. He was drawn toward food in ways he had never been before. As Mammon, he was in dominion over Man’s obsession with money, now he was in dominion over personal greed and gluttony. It changed him. In his nature, Mammon ate well, the finest foods, no matter their cost; now the Glutton in him would eat anything, anywhere, even out of a garbage can. During the early years of this new power, he simply could not stop eating everything in sight. He burned through body after body, until he got the power under some level of control.

Tyche also left him. Obsessed with the new understanding of her powers, she became a hedonist and a sensationalist, always seeking the next thrill. They fell apart during his eating-from-garbage-cans phase, and when he resurfaced in this body, some ten years ago, she was sickened by him, fat, smelly, and completely disgusting. Tyche had also changed during those years. She learned that while she had amazing abilities and no human could match her in any physical, mental, or emotional contest, she was simply at the lowest level of power among her kind. She chose to return to her life on Earth. In her mind, it was better to slum as a power than to live among gods as a weakling.

“It is the Selig Court,” was her whispered reply.

“I can’t help you; you know that. Nobody can.” The Selig Court was a power in its own right. They were not related to the Aspects, who were their family, or the modern gods, who were offshoots of other godlike beings or demigods. Instead they seemed to descend from the terrible Old Gods, once beings of immense power, until they were thrown down by the angelic White Host in the twelfth century.

The Old Gods were savage and brutal. No one missed them except the Selig Court, a group of humans or near human hybrids blessed with the power of their gods, the magic of their gods, and the tempers of their gods. They were romanticized in much of modern literature as tricksters and incompetents, but they were far more dangerous than that. Any writer who claimed otherwise probably had not met one in the flesh. If he had, he would have learned that the best thing they could do for you was to kill you. Everything else was far worse.

It was probably no accident the White Host nearly destroyed them during the Great Pogrom. Their fall from grace seemed to reduce their power significantly, and they retreated from the world into nearby Shard Realms, harassing humans in the following centuries, bringing plague and the like until the early nineteenth century. They were rarely heard from these days, and in the case of most modern gods, thought to be a myth to frighten children with. Mammon was old enough to remember them and what they were like. He wanted nothing to do with them.

A blind man came through the door with a large service animal and made his way into the restaurant. His service animal, a dog breed of an unknown pedigree, but a bit larger than normal, led him through the restaurant to the back to a table near Mammon and Tyche. He was conservatively dressed, nothing flashy, but nothing that you would remember, either. His look was one to make you forget you ever saw him. Damn.

“They’re here,” he whispered to Tyche and looked toward the blind man.

He sat.

The blind man ordered his meal and Mammon noticed his smooth and fluid movements, not too conservative, but with no overt flourish. He seemed to use just enough of all types of movement to relay information and expectation, without being too forward or too reticent. His waitress flushed while she took his order, and rushed away without knowing why. Her breath was ragged and she was excited to be serving him. When his food returned, his plate was perfect, and she took great pleasure in describing his food’s location on the plate.

Mammon looked at the service dog and noticed how it eyed the waitress hungrily, as if she were an appetizer he could not wait to consume. A slow lavish lick of his tongue across his snout indicated his anticipation. While the dog was licking his lips, his master had slid his hand behind the waitress and was skillfully and discreetly massaging her buttocks. She blushed more, but did not ask him to stop. Tyche looked a bit annoyed. Mammon knew why.

“A one-time friend, perhaps? Jealous much?” he whispered to Tyche.

“Go fuck yourself, Mammon,” was her angry reply. But the heavy sighing that followed revealed what she would not say.

After the waitress left, smiling and blushing, the man turned to his meal. Mammon noted that he had not removed his shades, but they did not detract from his appearance. Even in the wan light, he could tell the man was incredibly handsome, with a strong chin, a sharp nose, and slightly pointed ears. His hair was fair, a whitish blond that hung past his neckline in a jagged cut. It did not make him appear foppish; instead, it gave a savage look to his appearance. When you looked at him and his dog, you noticed the similarities to both their hairstyles. Mammon remembered a People magazine article saying that people tended to look like their dogs.

He was widely shouldered, but his clothing belied his bulk, making him appear smaller and less well defined. It was hard to know if it was the clothing or a glamour that aided in that illusion. “Sir, could you be so kind to pass the horseradish? I love a bit of spice on my burger. I can tell that you do, as well. It is easy to recognize a connoisseur like yourself.”

Mammon grabbed the cup of horseradish and moved toward the next table. “Here you go, fella. You see pretty well for a blind man.”

“Sight obscures, the heart reveals. Take a seat, Great One; eat with me.”

“Are you invoking hospitality?”

“For this meal, yes, you and your wife-sister are safe from me and mine,” the blind man’s voice was like a choir, melodious with choral overtones. He sounded as if he spoke with more than one voice.

No matter what he thought of it, Mammon knew what had to be done; etiquette demanded that he be as polite as his host. “Brother to the Fey, how may I be of service unto thee and thine? My wife and I are at your service,” the words fell like ashes from his mouth, dry and bitter. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing? What appellation is used to designate your august person?”

“You may call me the Fire Hound of House Caleban,” was the quiet reply.

“A noble house, to be sure.” House Caleban! What has she done? That is the Royal House Caleban, the current leader of the Selig Court, led by the insane king Fagan, also known as the Firelord, and his equally insane queen Edana.

“Great One, I am loath to bring such an unseemly matter to your attention.”

No, you are not.

Be quiet, Dog.

Do I look like a dog to you?

As a matter of fact, yes. Now silence.

Yes, my dark master. I hunger.

Soon, my pet; you will eat soon.

“There is a debt owed to my house by your wife, the Lady Tyche.” The seemingly blind man reached down to his hamburger, slathered it with horseradish, and put it under the table. His hand came back empty in a matter of seconds. Mammon never saw the animal move.

Oh, Tyche, what did you do? Did you break this man’s heart? Did you steal from him? What would you have done to owe the Selig anything? What can I do? Mammon began to sweat, not from eating, but from the fear of a conflict with the Selig. “Can I ask what offense she has given?” Propriety indicated that he should not ask, that he should offer restitution, but he wanted to know what happened, and he could not ask her now.

The man leaned forward and turned his face toward Mammon. “She wagered in a Selig Court and tried to cheat a member of the royal family.” The venom was unmistakable. “The Old Ones demand recompense in blood and souls.” For the first time since he arrived, he appeared menacing, a creature of the Fey, hunters of Men.

“What price would you ask?” Mammon knew this was a risk. Allowing them to name the recompense meant they could ask for anything they deemed reasonable. “I know the games of the Selig Court, and they are often filled with mischief and chicanery.”

“Well said, Great One.”

Indeed, I think he is calling your bluff, oh master.

Silence, Dog. He will meet my price.

How do you know?

He values little in the world, but we know that this woman still means something to him. He will pay.

Why him, master?

Of all the Great Ones, he has the most to lose and the least retinue protecting him. He is practically human. Using him, we will kill them all!

“When she came to the Court, she claimed to understand our relationship. She became my Consort, and she said that she would abide by our rules. She used her power in my house and would alter our games of chance. I lost valued retainers, their lives forfeit by her manipulations. I invoke blood and souls.” His calm façade had begun to crack. His mellifluous voice trembled with intensity.

Inwardly Mammon laughed. Tyche had that effect on Men, no matter who or where they were. “As you know, Brother to the Fey, I have no kingdom to speak of, nor retainers to give unto to thee for service. You have no use of filthy lucre, for which I am known best, so I would ask how you would expect payment?”

“In souls, of course.” His voice was low and threatening, and it pissed Mammon off. “And we expect them now.”

Tyche was aghast. “What are you expecting him to do, make souls for you?”

“His method of payment matters not, only that he pay now. We will accept Essence as an alternative if payment in souls cannot be done.”

Mammon was enraged. Their game was clear now. This was flat out extortion. Much of the magic made by the Fey in our world was illusion. Illusion normally cannot hurt you, but if you are unable to see through that illusion, it could be fatal. With the addition of Essence, they were able to make permanent and real magic, events that affect the real world, no matter where they were, no matter what the laws of physics say. Tyche would not know this; it was before her time and beyond her power. She could not give Essence, only use it. Essence was the true currency of the Aspects and the Gods. With enough of it, you could bend the world to your whim.

He balks.

He knows the laws, he will pay. There is still the incentive…

As Mammon seethed, the rest of the room grew more focused on their food. Conversation stopped, concentration increased, each mouthful a tiny bit of worship. They consumed their food with a gusto reserved for the starving, and they ordered more. Mammon did not speak, and the Fey did not rush him. Food was being prepared faster and faster, and the patrons ate more and more. The kitchen ran out of food thirty minutes later. They did not stop when the food ran out. They licked their plates and clamored for more. They ordered coffee and desserts, since they were already prepared on the counter as a variety of cakes and pies. Pies wedges flew around the room like tiny shuttlecraft, docking with any mouth in sight. Mammon closed his eyes, his rage increasing.

Tyche looked away from both of them, ashamed. I will find a way to make you pay for this; I don’t care who you are the son of, or what land you are the prince of. No one owns me and no one saves me. This is the last debt of mine my husband will ever have to pay.

When the cakes and pies were done and the coffee and tea were gone, the patrons started in on each other. There were no screams. Each consumed his neighbor with the same gusto he had the pie a moment before. There was ripping and tearing of flesh. Blood flowed. Each customer seemed rapt within an ecstasy of consumption. Madness glittered in every eye, but no one stopped. Entrails were rent from bellies. They filled themselves until they were completely gorged. In fifteen minutes, there was no movement in the restaurant.

The dog watched and whimpered.

“I do not know you, Brother, and I do not like you. I do not care that you come from the mightiest family amongst your kind. Your payment is complete. Never darken my doorway again.” Mammon held out a coin, apparently made of a dark metal. “Take it and go.” He slammed the coin on the table, and when he did, the bodies in the room writhed one last time, released a gasp, a sound so fell, so saddening, that for a moment, even the Fey was moved; his hound turned over on its side as if it had been struck by a club. Then the bodies fell onto the floor and died. A soundless echo swept through the room and centered on the silver coin. It burned with a black light.

‘Ware milord, that is bloodmetal!

“Great One, you realize that coin is iron.” The prince raised an eyebrow but remained otherwise motionless.

“How you get it home is your business. You have been paid. Our conversation is at an end.” Mammon stood up and looked around. His power pulsed within him. He was looking at the wall of photographs of different patrons through the years. Striding to the far wall, he pulled the picture of Lawrence Simmons, Max, and Momma from the wall. He stared down at the picture, lost in that moment of time. The smell of gas began to permeate the restaurant.

Tyche touched his hand, and when she did, she felt the Hunger, the unrelenting hunger that crashed through his being every moment of the day, a hunger so powerful you would eat out of a garbage can, you would eat filth off the street, you would chew off your own arm to make it stop. She gasped, but held on. “We have to go, Mammon. Now.”

A fire started in the kitchen as the blind man, now wearing black gloves, picked up his walking stick, grabbed the coin, and kicked his dog.

What was that for?

Because I can. It burns me. I will make him pay.

“Great One, before you leave, my mother the Queen said that you would take this from her, that she owed you a favor she was prepared to repay. But to do so, you would have to travel to Avalon. Take this favor, so that you will know no obstacles on your road to Caer Caleban.”

“Tell your queen to go fuck herself.”

“She said you might say that. She said to tell you that the High Queen of Babylon, Tiamat is awake. She said that would make you come to her.”

“Tell your Highness that the Queen of Babylon is long banished and long dead; she died when Babylon died. I know. I was there. And good riddance to her.”

The Prince of Caleban threw the favor at Mammon who had turned his back and begun walking toward the door as the fire spread. At the last second, it was Tyche who snatched the favor from the air, inches from Mammon’s head. They were standing in the doorway. When he touched it, the magic was released.

The restaurant exploded. Mammon awoke in the street with Tyche unconscious near him. The restaurant was in flames and completely unrecognizable. The prince was also gone.

He had not felt the touch of that magic in five thousand years. Such a tiny drop, too, smaller than the head of a pin, but its destructive power was unforgettable. The daughter of the Aspect of Destruction, creator of earthquakes, the summoner of volcanoes, the master of fires and the destroyer of cities, mother to monsters, and killer of gods. The signature was fading but unmistakable and impossible: Tiamat lived.

Mammon got up, picked up his photo, knocked the broken glass out of the frame, picked up a half eaten donut from the curb, threw Tyche over his shoulder, and began to contemplate a visit to the Queen while he pondered the unthinkable.

Traverse the Nexus to The Aspect War (5)

The Aspect War (5)

Posted by Ebonstorm on June 11, 2012

Posted in: Chapter, Short Story, The Aspect War. Tagged: angel, Archangel, ebonstorm, fantasy, Heaven, Lucifer, Thaddeus Howze, The Aspect War. 2 Comments

Fallen Angel

Lightning flashed.

The Archangel Michael waited. He heard the warning claxons, not heard since the Great War and extended his senses to the Guardians at the Four Gates. Each had turned its attention skyward. They all locked onto a streaking meteor blazing brilliantly over the horizon heading toward the Celestial City. He moved toward the center of the city and rose skyward, his two wings slowly carrying him into the storm of Heaven. Rain covered him once he was beyond the radiance and he welcomed its cooling embrace. He felt too little these days, filled with the administrivia of managing Heaven. The unknowns of battle were his meat and drink, figuratively speaking, since he rarely ate or drank. This new threat was what he was made for.

The fireball moved fast, fast enough to be nothing but a threat. The outer defenses did nothing, as he had asked. He sensed they would not be enough as it approached them. He saw them cringing as it flew overhead, with a heat terrible enough to burn an angel. Heaven made ready below him and Gabriel stood by beneath him should he not be enough. There had never been a threat that ever took more than two Seraphim to deal with except for Him. And this, this clumsy thing was not his way.

Michael summoned his power and his two wings became four and his two eyes became four. Flame began to rise from him and his four wings became six and his four eyes became six and flame began to come from them. He increased in stature and his glow cast a light onto the Celestial City. He opened his mouth and began to sing in the tongue of Enoch, the language of Angels and could hear the Litanies of Heaven being sung below him, and the city harmonized with him.

He moved away from the city and flew out over the wall, gaining speed, preparing to stop the fireball before it even reached the city. The Four Guardians activated their Enochian patterns and the City’s radiance hardened, a great shield protecting the walls of Heaven and its attendant suburbs. Michael streaked away from the Celestial City, a brilliant star, as tiny as the fireball was huge. He could feel the heat. He could smell the smoke as it passed through the air, miles away, he could feel life. It was alive… He could hear it screaming. Seconds away, he prepared himself for the impact.

Jehoel watched awestruck as Michael streaked away.

The skies above Heaven were momentarily lit with the light of a thousand suns. Multiple streaks of lightning covered the dark sky. These flashes were arrhythmic but constant, and the rumble of thunder cascaded ceaselessly. There were clouds but their movement would be strange to an onlooker. If one were to watch one would see this was a never-ending storm, moving constantly. It always rained here. Sometimes less, often more, but it never stopped, and had not for at least six and half centuries. Moving through the cloud cover and dodging the lightning were tiny flying figures, some human in appearance, others not so much, heading to and from a magnificent city of immense size in the distance. Its magnificent spires and minarets, towers and cathedrals, skyscrapers and monoliths all glowed with a pure radiance that soothed the weary flyers, or walkers who approached the city and came within its glow.

This city provided the only other light visible in this place. A steady source of golden light similar in tone and warmth to a gently rising sun. The only difference was the light did not illuminate the darkness past a few hundred miles from the city proper. Beyond that region was darkness, only punctuated with the never ending flashing of lightning in this permanent darkness. There had not been a sunrise in Heaven for almost seven hundred years.

A flying cloud of winged eyes dipped down from the sky and approached the Easter Gate. The breathtaking speed of its approach was noted by the sentries and by the city itself. The cloud of eyes began to slow as it came down to the Eastern Highway and merged with the oncoming traffic. The Celestial City proper is a huge structure, a perfect cube, but there were the Celestial suburbs as well and these stretched on for hundreds of miles outside of the City walls. To imagine the City properly one would have to image a cube on one of its points, half above the ground, half below. There are dwellings in both halves of the city and all types of entities lived there.

Jehoel Softspeaker was returning to the city and hated the traffic that had been growing worse in the recent decades. She was an Angel of Mediation and returned from a negotiation with nearby Paradise Realms discussing terms of merger with the Celestial Host. She had been unsuccessful in convincing these other paradises to join with the Host in the coming War. Elysium wanted nothing to do with the war. They would not commit any of their divine resources, energy or heavenly servants to the cause. The Celestial Host was not trying to coerce anyone into serving, at least not yet. There were many angels negotiating on the behalf of Heaven, each going to realms they were familiar with and welcomed.

Jehoel was told to return to the city and report the results of her trip. Waiting in traffic would take several days before she would be able to enter the city, and while she waited, she Sang. This close to the Celestial City, everyone sang while they waited to be admitted. The walls of the city comprised of precious stones, resonated, reflected and refracted the songs of the approaching visitors or residents. Each stone of diamond and with flecks chalcedony returned the exalted songs of Heaven to its visitors in a way that soothed their souls, warmed their bodies, calmed their spirits and ensured everyone, no matter how long they waited, no matter how cold or tired they might be, were in a perfect state of bliss when they entered the shelter of the city.

The songs, each different, each unique to the singer created a greater harmony as they were woven together in a magnificent chorus lead by the wall’s sentry angels. Clockwork mechanisms were seen patrolling the walls of the city. Great machines that resembled a variety of natural creatures, great lions with greater roars to match, capable of melting steel, bears with huge paws with stone rending claws, and clockwork eagles flapped their mechanical wings in the rain, circling the city in every rising spirals, each wing the length of a football field and capable of shaving the edge of a diamond. Heaven was known for its automatons of clockwork, each a veritable work of art from an Angel of craftsmanship and their attendant servants. Each piece was completely unique, and possessed of a singular nature that allowed each to come to life and fulfill a task assigned by the Angel upon their completion.

This song was heard throughout the realm as an echo in the soul of every person who came to Heaven. It was the Celestial Beacon and often when humans were in the act of dying, they could hear and see the Beacon as a tunnel of light they were drawn inexplicably toward. When you arrived here, you had to walk, down one of the cardinal roads which approached the city on one of its four points where each gate directed you into the Celestial City where you began your new life as a servant of Heaven. The Celestial Beacon was nearly irresistible to anyone who arrived in Heaven but if you chose to resist it, you were able to reach the only other destination here, Sheol, the City of the Archangel Lucifer Light-bringer. This other city has a variety of names, Dis, the City of Brass but it was most commonly known by its residents as Hell.

There are other Paradise Realms for the non-believers and with those the Celestial Host were in good relations with, had portals to those Heavens were accessible from here. As the primary religion remaining after the Compact on Earth, nearly all souls passed this way before they went to their personal Reward. Unaffiliated souls were able to be directed to whatever Afterlife they believed in but they were processed at the halfway point between Heaven and Sheol. Nothing is known of those souls that are processed there and the Angels there do not speak of it. Traffic between Heaven and Hell was always a constant as souls that had been released from hell were slowly migrated toward Heaven and newly arrived souls that needed the cleansing fires of Hell were directed there. All in all, an efficient arrangement.

In the central processing center of Heaven, where the spirit energy of prayer was processed and stored for later conversion into illiaster, cocoastrum and aether, there was a problem. This problem had presented itself in fits and starts for the last decade, but recently, it had grown to new proportions. Enough of a problem, that it needed someone to look into it, preferably by someone who would not make the problem worse, be seen by Humans and thus cause a religious event. Once upon a time, such a schism might not be such a bad idea, but now schisms divided resources that should be spent best on the Celestial Host, not on any rival gods or god-lings, trying to make a comeback against the Holy Church.

She fell.

A shooting star in a place that has not seen stars for the dark clouds that perpetually cover it. Unconscious and unaware of her peril, as she fell, she burned. She burned, not from the fall but from that which made her fall. A machine unlike anything she had ever seen. She had existed as long as the Celestial City and had never seen anything like this thing. It was more fearsome than the Malakim, warrior angels to heaven, whose wrath and ferocity have few equals, more horrific than the great Iron Golems, with their hidden hearts, that protected the Gates to Heaven and whose gaze, when released, destroyed all things, mundane or celestial. But the greatest wounds she suffered were caused by the devastation of a place that had never truly know war, until now. The destruction of the Lands of the Great Spirit tore her heart as she plummeted to the ground in her own rain-soaked Heaven. Her mission to the Lands of the Great Spirit were more than a failure…

She arrived in The Happy Hunting Grounds expecting what she always experienced there. Blue skies, except when it was needed to rain, warm days, and the sun shining overhead. It was a place so beautiful that if she did not know this was Heaven, a particular heaven, she would think she was back on Earth. The great plain below her was always covered with buffalo migrating from west to east covering the ground from horizon to horizon. This was her memory of the place, beautiful, grass-covered plains with verdant wildlife, and spiritual beings enjoying their ease in this paradise.

It was not what she saw when she crossed The Veil Between Worlds.

There was a pyramid, immense and coal black, standing in the Great Plain where all visitors to the Realm first appeared. Jagged bolts of black lightning leaped from it and struck the ground around it. Where it struck, creatures made of stone and glass, six legged, vaguely horse-like rose from the Earth. Ferocious, these creatures immediately joined the fray. Their screams chilled her blood, and their speed, grace and lethality became immediately apparent as the creatures engaged anything living within range. The black pyramid had doorways open upon it sides and creatures streamed forth like black locusts or black ants, and anything touched by these clouds was stripped to the bone in seconds.

The ground rumbled constantly as if it were experiencing an earthquake. Distant mountains already aflame with fire and smoke erupting. This was a paradise realm, volcanoes were simply impossible here. The air was choked with sulfurous smoke. The fields of grass were blackened with burns and the buffalo lay as charred skeletons across the plains from horizon to horizon. There were no spirits in repose, they were in battle against a variety of foes, whose eyes burned with a bright light akin to searchlights. And the things those lights touched, burned. She hovered in the sky above a battle, her hundred eyes taking in everything, the wind, the smoke, the flames, the battles both on the land and in the air.

She heard the howl of Coyote and saw the flash of lightning from the Thunderbird. They were surrounded, standing guard over the bodies of the Great Bear and the Rattlesnake. Each in their iconic forms, they were twenty to thirty feet tall. Each of them glowing the power of the Great Spirit of this place, each a guardian of their people’s spirits. Those spirits were fighting for their very existence against enemies whose skin was like stone, dark and heavy and deflected the lightning from the Thunderbird’s flapping wings. Coyote howled again and the creatures stopped their advance, shook and exploded into shrapnel fragments destroying their brethren who were proof against his howl. The Thunderbird’s flapping wings created a great wind driving the shrapnel away from the gods’ defensive position.

The Great Bear rose to his feet, having taken one of the black pyramids strikes directly to his chest. Towering over his enemies, bleeding profusely, he released a mighty roar and waded into his enemies again. The spirits of Men were here along with these godlike icons of this realm. They wielded magic and weaponry, ancient and modern with great effect but the enemy was numerous and powerful.

Medicine men summoned lightning from the burning sky, striking the ground with great explosions, casting defensive spells from their tribal staves against the burning light of the hexapeds. Tribal women wielded clouds of feathers from their headdresses as flying razors slicing into the armored hides of the enemy. The women conjured and the Earth opened and swallowed their giant enemies.
Horse thundered into the fray, his shining and sharp hooves flashed and dispatched enemies in a single strike. And yet with Coyote, Snake, Bear, Boar, Horse, Crow, Eagle and Thunderbird, all iconic gods of this realm, they were unable to stem the tide of the battle. The best they could do was to hold their own and refuse to give ground.

This battle raged for days. Nonstop. More Men appeared, more weapons appeared. No quarter was asked for and no was given. The horrors were supplemented by the hunched forms of man-like creatures each with huge hands, misshapen heads, each with the strength of ten men. There were monsters that flew and breathed a liquid fire all over the battlefield. Others bled acid, some had flaming vision. One by one the gods fell.

Bear fell first, surrounded by Men he led into the fray, they held their ground protecting him. Bear had engaged several of the enemy’s larger ogre constructs and slew them all. He began to move toward the center of the enemy line, confident he would be able to disrupt it. His bear men, wearing an armor of bearskin, channeled his ferocity and his power, each of them filled with the strength of a great bear. He lent them courage and ferocity and they took the vanguard toward the structure the invaders arrived in. The men fought with great axes headed with razor sharp obsidian. They were once legendary warriors in life and in spirit they were even greater.

The tower targeted Bear again and black bolts flew like arrows toward him. His men leapt to his defense and time and time again blocked the blast, each giving his life for a few more yards. Bear drew closer to the center of the battle. The tower redoubled its efforts, and soon Bear was forced to take those strikes himself. He never stopped moving and mere feet from the largest of the ogre-like giants leading the battle, he was struck with six black spears of lightning. So fierce was the strike, for a moment, the entire area was hidden in darkness. When vision returned. Bear was dead. His men fought on but without the ferocity of Bear they were soon overrun and trod into the mud.

Snake crushed creatures and spit venom across the battlefield but he was the next to fall. Large winged dragons dropped down from the sky and savaged him and all were unable to reach him so embattled they were, all they could do was watch. Snake wrapped his coils around the aggressors and bite one of them who died as the venom burned through it. The remaining dragons released their liquid fire and Snake burned and died. In his death throes, he squeezed the life from the remaining three dragons. The dragons and Snake thrashed about and when the smoke cleared the dragons and Snake were still.

She watched, her hundred eyes remembering every detail, every creature, every structure, every shadow, every movement, spell, construct, machine and every sound that took place on the battlefield. But she took no other action. It was not her way, nor her duty. She had already predicted the outcome of this battle. Her actions would not change that outcome, only delay it. This information had to be returned to the Celestial City, so she watched and waited.

Raven and Coyote fought side by side, while the Thunderbird and Horse had been split apart from them. Boar lead a group of humans and buffalo against the enemy and they managed to reach the foot of the pyramid. A cloud of darkness exploded from one of the open doors and the darkness covered them. When the cloud disappeared, only bones remained. Boar was unaffected and proceeded to climb the pyramid. Lightning struck him as soon as he touched the pyramid, but his rage was all consuming, so he kept climbing, even as the lightning carved holes in his flesh, he kept climbing. His screams were heard all across the battlefield and were so horrifying everyone stopped and turned to watch. As he reached the main door on the pyramid, a man stepped out. A tiny man compared to the giant form of Boar. He had two flying snakes over his shoulder, each with scales of iridescent black and huge feathered wings. The snakes open their mouths and a terrible light surrounds Boar. His movement slows and his tusk stops mere inches from the strange man in the red cloak. The two snakes scream again and Boar is blasted into chunks of stone that land at the foot of the pyramid.

There was nothing she could do but return to the Host armed with this information. She could feel the Raven and Coyote sealing the realm and any passages to other nearby heavens. She knew that if she planned to leave, she would need to leave now. The Thunderbird bought them time by intercepting the lightning strikes directed at them and reflecting them back into the enemies legions. Instinctively she knew this was nothing more than a test. These creatures could have won this battle days ago, they were simply testing their capabilities against this relatively weak Paradise. They would be seeking stronger test subject soon.

As she turned to go, She could feel the will of the Enemy directed upon her. She made ready her magic and could feel Heaven on her mind as she tried to Transit. Her computations indicated she would not make it. In those seconds, she compacted all of her observations, conjectures, calculations, her dreams, her love and her life and sent them before her, a sigil streaked away into Transition; being without mass, it could transition instantly. The black pyramid extended a great cannon from the point and swiveled it in her direction.

She flew faster turned her eyes toward the sky. It was only then did she realize hundreds of other pyramids were descending on the Happy Hunting Grounds. Only one had devastated nearly every major deity in residence. They would not know this. She had to make it home. The Great Cannon fired and she was enveloped in flame.

She transitioned into Heaven, taking the flames with her.

Michael became aware of a waveform approaching him and stopped. He was far enough from the suburbs of the Celestial City for the confrontation. As the waveform reached him, he realized what it was: the Resonance of an Angel. The last will and testament as it were; all they knew, all they dreamed, all of their life was encoded in the Resonance. It was hers.

He braced himself and flew directly at the fireball, he would have to time this just right. At the moment of impact he separated becoming Guardian Michael and Warrior Michael. Guardian grabbed her from within the fireball and slowly descended to the ground, she was covered with burns, and all of her eyes were closed. Her wings were burned off. Her flesh crackled and sizzle with the energy of her life-force oozing out of the cracks. He covered her in his Light and she was soothed. But Michael was not very good with Light so he could do little for her but ease her pain, and protect her from his Warrior.

Warrior extended its four wings and blocked the path of the fireball and the sky lit up with its pallid sickly green color. Warrior thought he could control the explosion, his powers were strained to their limit. Moving through time, he summoned other versions of his temporal self and they combined their powers increasing his ability tenfold, but even that was not enough.

The sphere seemed to only grow stronger the longer he delayed it. Warrior extended his awareness into the flame and saw this weapon only grew stronger the longer it was delayed in reaching its target. The weapon only grew more powerful the more energy he put into trying to stop it. Whoever this was, they knew the defenses of Heaven too well. The Guardians at the Gates would have tried to annihilate this only increasing its power. They counted on someone trying to delay or attack it with energy weaponry. He knew he had only seconds to decide how to deal with it. Since he had already summoned his temporal selves he knew instinctively that time was the element needed. He directed his power and his temporal selves into moving the object through time but not space and his temporal selves surrounded the object until it would have reached the Celestial City. In those seconds, the Guardian erected a shield over himself and her. Nothing would penetrate it. He only hoped the Warrior would not need it more.

The bomb detonated lighting the skies of heaven in every direction, and a fierce shockwave swept from Warrior Michael’s position. Gabriel ran from the gates of the city and moved as if time had no meaning. He streaked through the bomb blast debris as if it was not moving. The Gate Guardians directed their vision toward any debris that moved through the clouds and destroyed it before it could reach the outskirts of the suburbs. Gabriel took five seconds to reach the Warrior as he fell from the sky. Warrior Michael had lost an arm during the explosion and was blackened and burned. His wings were shriveled and mere wisps of their former greatness.

Guardian Michael was also unconscious. His left arm was also gone and he was covered with burns, but he protected his charge from any further harm. Gabriel angry that Michael had insisted on doing this alone was incredulous as his Light began to heal the catastrophic injuries Michael had suffered. Michael was an Archangel, what could do this to him?

Jehoel Softspeaker, along with everyone else standing outside of the Celestial city cowered as the super-hot winds blew through the streets, miles from the bomb blast seen in the distance. She had not been the only agent to return unsuccessfully. It would appear our enemy has decided to let the Host know of their intentions.

Heaven was at war.

He fell.

He plummeted from Heaven, with only two of his six wings still with him. He left his other four with his other selves protecting Her. Gabriel would be furious. Guardian Michael was still aflame from the unknown soul-fire weapon. Sensing the threat, he carried it away from Heaven aware of a hidden payload as yet undelivered. He could feel the frustration roiling inside the weapon, trying to combine itself, attempting to decide what to do, being foiled from its target. He could sense its consternation, feel it building toward a quiet rage, the further from heaven he took it.

In his translation from the Eternal City, he fell through Time and Space, the weapon trying to escape him had unanchored them from both. He would not be shaken off and could tell he was no longer connected to anything he knew. He had shrunken his previous sense of the universe and had become aware of only this particular moment, aware only of his need to disperse this weapon.

The weapon tried to free itself of him. Changing it shape it became a dodecahedron whose sides were as sharp as razors. He held on. It became viscous acid, burning him, he held on. It became a deadly gas, whose touch would sear the flesh from anything living, its toxicity burned him, seared his cocoastrum-laden flesh, tearing from him, his magic, his gifts, stealing from him all that was of the White Host. He held on.

Heaven fell away and he could no longer hear the Great Storm and its perpetual lighting and thunder and the light of Heaven receded as he reeled into the Darkness of the Void. The Eternal City was safe. Nothing this weapon could do now, could harm it. A pang of regret as a moment of foreknowledge revealed to him, the loss of Heaven and never returning to it. All that mattered was to take this weapon as far from the Eternal City as possible.

He struggled to hold on to what he was, but the weapon was more powerful. His choice to leave part of himself behind and sacrifice this guardian aspect was the right one. He could sense the Great Divide and piercing it he could feel the Earth and the World of Men far below him.

The cold of space meant nothing to him once. Now he was aware of it, a brief respite from the weapon tearing at his essence. He tried to steer the weapon toward the ocean but his strength flagged and Eurasia spiraled into view as he plunged into the atmosphere, thick, heavy, phlegmatically slowing his descent. It would not be enough. If he could not destroy this before it touched the Earth, Eurasia would no longer exist.

He sensed the flow of Time around him again, and his perfect awareness of himself in relationship to the All returned. Two minutes. He had two minutes at this speed before he reached the ground.

He reached inside and realized he would need to give everything for this. The fireball was glowing brighter after it touched the air and lit the sky for thousands of miles. A change had begun inside the weapon. It had begun to alter itself for its final form. A long tail of fire followed it as he reached inside of the weapon and tried to wrest control of the core of the weapon from reaching its final state. He grabbed it. He realized he could not control it, nor could he Send it anywhere, his strength was gone.

He placed it within himself.

He gathered the vestiges of his strength and connected himself to Heaven to channel the power of the Host one final time. The weapon’s sentience realized what he was doing and tried to prevent that connection, stabbing him with fire thorough out his body. It did not matter. He did not let go of the flaming sphere. His wings pressed against it, surrounding it, enveloping it. He held its igniting weapon inside of his ethereal form, protected from its arming core. The weapon raged, thrashed, screamed in a booming voice heard in every direction for five thousand miles, and he did not relent. His mind began to shatter as the weapon tore him to pieces, his ethereal body surrendering its manlike shape for its more divine countenance of energy.

His energy surrounded the weapon, bound it, controlled it, shaped it and seconds before it plunged into the great forest of Tungunska, he forced it to release its bound energy, and the explosion flattened the forest. Not a tree was left standing for over two hundred miles. At the center of the explosion, the trees were literally vaporized for almost fifteen miles.

There was a vortex of swirling energy that glowed there and wrestled there for ten days. He held that unholy fire in abeyance as his mind failed him. All he had left was spirit. His spirit was unrelenting and in the end, it was enough. The few men, wayward vagrants who managed to cast their gaze upon this battle were driven blind if they stared for more than a few seconds. Most could not help themselves. Only the most pious realized and turned away.

Later, when scientists arrived at the center of the explosion, they expected a crater. They found none. They expected radiation. They found none. They expected to find a reason for this event. They found none.

All they found was a man, who lay near death at the center of the explosion. He was naked, scarred beyond recognition, without clothing in a Russian winter. No one knew who he was and he was expected to die before sunrise of the following day. He did not.

He did not speak, nor know his name, he was blind and deaf to the world. The old woman who saw to his care and would come to love him in the following years would name him Mikhail.

Traverse the Nexus to Chapter 6