Walking In the Midst of Fire

body back toward the passage, while another larger, thicker limb—this one adorned with a shiny, black claw—was slithering across the floor toward Montagin.

The angel scrambled to his feet as the tentacle reared up, the claw already beginning its descent. He was fairly certain that the foul appendage could slice through his battle armor from stem to stern, and disembowel him. He spun around, saw the television, and tore it from the wall, using it as a shield. The tentacle descended and the claw slashed through the monitor, cutting it nearly in two.

He could hear Squire screaming, and took a certain amount of pleasure from his pain, as he launched himself atop the writhing appendage, staying clear of the slashing claw. Holding on to the bucking limb, Montagin again called forth a weapon from the armory of Heaven. A burning dagger appeared in his grip, already beginning its descent down into the muscular, orifice-covered surface.

The angel stabbed the limb again and again, the divine fire leaking from the blade finding its way beneath the accursed flesh. The tentacle flailed all the wilder now as it burned.

Montagin leapt from the dying arm, looking toward the body of his general, saw that Squire and Heath were doing their part to keep it from being taken into the darkness. Each had hold of one of the general’s arms, Aszrus the prize in a bizarre game of tug-of-war.

“Can you close the passage?” Montagin asked, rushing toward them as even more tentacles began to force their way up from the holes in the floor.

Squire looked suddenly confused.

“Make up your goddamned mind!” he screeched. “Do you want the passage open or closed?”

The angel took hold of his master’s arm, pushing the hobgoblin out of the way. “Close it. Now!” he roared.

“Fucking angels,” Squire muttered, crawling on all fours toward the edge of the shadow passage, trying desperately to avoid the thrashing tentacles.

The hobgoblin reached out a finger toward the edge and the tendrils reacted, attempting to wrap themselves around it. Squire recoiled with a yelp.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Do it!” Montagin shouted again, not sure how much longer he and the sorcerer could hold on to the general’s body.

Again Squire made a move, his chubby hand reaching, but the tentacles were there, and he had to fight to keep from being dragged into the opening himself.

The tugging on Aszrus also grew more vicious.

“I’m losing it,” Heath cried out, trying to maintain his footing, as he slid to the floor.

It was as if the tendrils entwined around the great angel general’s body could sense that they were winning, and intensified their hold. Montagin heard the sounds of breaking bones as the tentacles constricted even more tightly about Aszrus’ waist.

“You will not have him!” the angel bellowed, summoning all the strength that he still had remaining, and pulled.

There was a terrible ripping sound, and suddenly Montagin and the sorcerer were tumbling backward. Montagin was horrified to see that they still held the general’s torso, internal workings trailing away as the tentacles claimed what they could, dragging his legs toward the shadow.

Squire saw his opportunity, and leapt beneath the writhing tendrils, plunging a finger into the shadow pool. He used his innate control over shadows to will the passage closed, returning it to a normal patch of darkness.

One moment it was a doorway, the next it wasn’t, and the many-mouthed tentacles that had not withdrawn into the dark dimension were quickly severed, writhing on the floor as they began to decompose in an environment of light.

Montagin stared in horror at his master’s body. Was it not bad enough that he’d been murdered, his heart taken? But now this.

Squire rose from where he’d been lying, kicking aside some of the tendrils that still thrashed upon the floor. “Happy?” he asked sarcastically.

Still upon his knees, Montagin pulled the upper half of Aszrus closer, cradling the remains in his arms.

“Goblin, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

* * *

Francis allowed himself to be yanked through the haphazard cut that had been made in reality on the second floor of his brownstone.

He had no idea what he would find on the other side, but he did have the idea that it would probably be the last of the invaders.

“I seem to have caught a rat,” said the angel, as he hauled Francis through the crackling rip.

Francis was ready, spinning around to face his attacker, drawing back a fist to deliver a decisive blow that would render the angel numb, and easy to dispatch.

At least that was the plan.

Their eyes locked and Francis knew at once that he was in trouble. He knew this angel; even after all the time that had passed, the gaze of the one who had felled him during the Great War was not something easily forgotten.

“You,” Dardariel said, the angel’s grip upon him firm.

Francis’ first instinct was to kill the fucker, before . . .

Dardariel reacted, hoisting Francis up and slamming him to the floor with all the force he could muster. The floorboards shattered on impact, sending clouds of dust billowing upward.

“I should have known you would be involved in this, Fraciel,” Dardariel growled.

Francis lay stunned on the floor, remembering the last time he had seen this angel.

The war was reaching its inevitable end.

How many had he killed? How many of his own brothers had he violently brought down, believing in the message of the Morningstar? Francis—Fraciel—did not want to think of such things, still holding on to the hope that the one he served would be victorious, and that the Lord God would be forced to see the error of His ways.

But the more he fought, the more death that he dispersed, and Fraciel was beginning to see— to think—that maybe the Morningstar was wrong. And that was when he encountered the angel, Dardariel.

The look on Dardariel’s face now was so bloody familiar.

The angel ignited the fires of Heaven in his hand, and he leaned toward Francis’ face. Francis dug his fingers into the flooring, pulling away a jagged piece of pine with a snap, and stabbing it through Dardariel’s fiery hand of doom.

Dardariel pulled back in pain, allowing Francis to scramble away.

The former Guardian withdrew his gun from his coat and took aim at his opponent, but Dardariel didn’t miss a beat—still the deadly son of a bitch he’d been during the siege of the Golden City. The angel lashed out with an extended wing, swatting the pistol from Francis’ hand. It felt as though some of his fingers might have been broken in the process, but Francis kept moving.

“Where are you off to, Fraciel?” Dardariel asked. “You have about as much chance of escaping me now, as you did during the war.”

Francis wanted to put some distance between them, to lead him away from Squire’s apartment, and Azrus’ body. He dove for the stairs, almost believing that he’d made it, when he felt himself yanked violently back by the collar of his shirt.

Francis squirmed in his grasp, but Dardariel held him aloft as his powerful wings fanned the air, and a dagger of fire formed in his free hand.

The sudden sounds of struggle coming from Squire’s place momentarily distracted the angel, providing Francis with a much-needed opportunity. Francis lunged, throwing his weight toward the burning knife clutched in Dardariel’s hand. Dardariel tried to pull the blade back, but Francis gave it his all, twisting the angel’s wrist toward his foe’s midsection, and using every bit of strength he had remaining to drive the blade into Dardariel’s side.

The angelic soldier screamed his rage, casting Francis aside like a rag doll.