Armageddon (41 page)

With spectacular results.

The stone began to hum with sudden and unbridled power, and its surface began to glow.

Aaron gasped, rising upon trembling, armored legs.

The Darkstar turned ever so slightly, a twisted grin upon his features, as he gloated over his accomplishment. But his happiness was short-lived, for as the blood of the Metatron cooled, so did the activity from the slab.

Satan turned abruptly, his wings of darkness fanned out behind him.

“I think we need to try that again.”

The Darkstar flew through the temple and crashed into the Metatron’s armored body. The pair connected with fists flying and wings beating, their struggle carrying them down the temple steps to the floor of the crater, where the Unforgiven and the armies of the Darkstar still battled.

Aaron managed to get his knee firmly against Satan’s stomach and thrust him away. He quickly examined his wound and saw that the bleeding had stopped, but he could feel that the blade was slowly poisoning him from within.

But he could not think of such things.

This was Armageddon, the ultimate battle of good versus evil.

The Metatron had to defeat the darkness before it could reach Heaven.

Satan hurtled toward him with a scream unlike anything Aaron had ever heard, as if it were dredged up from some heinous nightmare. The Darkstar’s sword was raised over one shoulder, poised to strike.

Aaron could sense that there was something different about this blade, the way it crackled and hummed, and knew that it was calling on the dark energies of those fighting nearby, using them to increase its power.

But there was still good in the world, and if evil could forge such a fearsome weapon, so would good.

Using the power of God, Aaron reached out to all the goodness, love, and innocence that still remained, and formed a massive weapon of divine fire and righteousness.

The Metatron and Satan collided, swords connecting with such force that the resultant explosion sheared away the walls of the crater, exposing even more of the ancient city of Megiddo.

Aaron was thrown a good distance away and rose with great difficulty, the pain in his lower body growing even more intense as it radiated from his belly. He forced himself to rally, hefting the mighty blade for the next assault.

The Darkstar landed in a crouch before him, then sprang up with a roar, lunging at the Metatron. As the black sword sliced through the air, Aaron could have sworn that he heard the cries of souls in torment.

The sword appeared to be growing larger, absorbing more evil from the desert battlefield. Aaron used his mighty wings to jump from the path of the sword, fearing that his own mighty blade was weakening against the seemingly endless evil.

Pain was beginning to hamper his speed, and Aaron knew that it was only a matter of time before his luck would run out. He managed to evade the black blade until he saw an opportunity, swinging his own sword across the Darkstar’s midsection.

Satan didn’t even pause. The black metal was torn and ragged, but it swiftly repaired itself.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Satan said, preparing to cleave the Metatron in half.

Aaron stumbled on the uneven ground. The evil blade descended with a predator’s scream, but Aaron twisted his body enough to raise his own sword. He managed to deflect the Darkstar’s blow, forcing the ebony blade to bury itself deeply in the bleached desert ground.

With perilous results.

The very earth shuddered, as if repulsed.

Satan withdrew his black blade with a hysterical laugh, as the earthquake’s damage unfolded before them.

A sharp, whiplike cracking sound filled the air as the desert sands shifted violently beneath their feet, and a giant chasm, miles long, opened like a yawning mouth in the desert surface.

*   *   *

Vilma stumbled at the awful tremor, watching in growing horror as the ground opened and the enormous crack appeared, zigzagging across the desert floor like a lightning bolt.

While she was distracted by the sight, a goblin warrior was suddenly in front of her, its thick arm pulled back to deliver the killing blow.

She was about to lift her sword of flame to block the thrust when there came a high-pitched whine, followed by a roaring blast, as the goblin’s head evaporated in a cloud of red mist.

Vilma turned, sword in hand, to see Taylor Corbet lowering her weapon.

“One needs to pay attention on the battlefield, Ms. Santiago,” the woman, whose clothes were torn and covered with dust and blood, said, then took aim and fired her high-tech weapon at yet another foul beast.

They were surrounded by them: foul creatures of every conceivable size and shape. They were like a tidal wave of pure ugliness and evil, but there was no way that Vilma was going to allow them to swallow her.

“So true, Ms. Corbet,” Vilma called out, flying at a group of trolls that were beating one of the Unforgiven with clubs. There were four of them and only one of him. It was unfair.

Vilma hated unfair.

She landed in a run, charging the four trolls. Her sword of fire took the hand of one, and the face of another, before the trolls realized how much trouble they were in. The essence of
the Nephilim inside her purred with excitement, like the engine of some really fast sports car. It loved when things were like this, feeding its nature for battle. This was what it existed for.

Another troll lost its head, its large body providing her with a kind of springboard as she leaped up on its back, springing into the air, her wings spread wide like a fan, and delivered killing blows to the remaining beasts.

The Unforgiven soldier silently rose to his feet, retrieved his rifle, and returned to the fight.

“Don’t mention it,” Vilma said, ready for the next confrontation.

The forces of the Unforgiven were more than overwhelmed, but it did not stop them from continuing to fight. The voice of God still echoed in their minds, rousing them to action.

The sound of a fighter jet caused her to look skyward, the Israeli plane firing its missiles and obliterating a dragon from the sky. It gave her hope to see that some of humanity had answered God’s call—warriors and civilians emerging from their places of safety to fight for earth, Heaven, and God.

There were human foot soldiers upon the desert battlefield as well. Vilma did not know what nation they had originally sworn their allegiance to, only that they now fought as one against a common threat.

Vilma took to the air above the carnage, looking for where her skills would most have an effect. An explosion came from above, and she darted down to the desert, shielding herself as
jagged pieces of jet fighter rained down, the shrapnel taking out some of the demonic fighters, aiding their cause, despite their loss.

Searching for a sign of what had taken out the fighter, Vilma saw a most unusual sight.

There was a large section of sky that seemed to pulse and expand, fiery explosions blossoming in the air above the battleground.

Drawn to the bizarreness of it all, Vilma clutched her sword of fire and flew up toward the strange disturbance, wanting to assess the situation.

Something had begun to appear, and it was huge, temporarily taking her breath away.

Some sort of craft appeared out of the ether. To her, it resembled an enormous seashell—a seashell the size of a football field—but a seashell nonetheless. The craft’s smooth surface was marred by explosions, fiery clouds and black smoke blowing from it.

The enormous ship was losing altitude.

Flapping her wings fiercely, Vilma flew to warn the Unforgiven before—

There was an even louder explosion from the seashell-shaped craft, as debris fell from the ship. From the desert below she saw a flash of yellow and Gabriel locked in battle with multiple armored foes.

“Heads up!” she cried, helping out the dog by slicing the
head from one of his assailants, while he dispatched another by ripping out its throat with his powerful jaws.

The dog looked toward the sky, his body starting to shimmer and spark as he left for cover.

The Unforgiven were all fleeing the scene. She quickly scanned the battleground to be certain that everyone had heeded her warning when she saw Taylor Corbet.

Aaron’s mother was fighting for her life against something that resembled an awful combination of scorpion and lion. The horrible beast snatched the woman’s rifle from her hands, its pincers snapping the weapon in two. Undeterred, Taylor pulled a handgun from the waist of her pants and continued to fire at the abomination.

The strange craft was falling now. There wasn’t a second to waste.

Moving as quickly as possible, Vilma flew toward Taylor, grabbing hold of the woman beneath her arms and hauling her into the air, away from her monstrous attacker.

“What the hell are you doing—,” Taylor began, but then fell silent as the burning craft rushed by them on its collision course with the desert.

“Dear God, what is it?” Vilma heard Taylor ask, and remained silent, for she did not have the answer.

The craft decimated everyone still on the ground as it hit. And the resounding boom was just as Vilma imagined the end of the world would sound.

*   *   *

Something had fallen from the sky.

Satan Darkstar saw the strange craft as it plummeted to the blighted land below, trailing fire and smoke as it crashed upon the battlefield, snuffing out many a loyal soldier beneath its enormous mass.

But their sacrifice would not be in vain, for it was exactly the type of distraction he needed.

The Metatron fought tirelessly, but Satan could sense the armored giant’s inner struggle.

The Nephilim boy—the son of the Morningstar—had taken on the power of God, assuming the guise of the Metatron, and it was proving a far more daunting task than he had thought.

The power of God, now a whole entity again, no longer divided and weakened between the three Sisters of Umbra, was a force to be reckoned with, and did not care to be controlled.

The Darkstar would be overjoyed to release it from its shackles and put it to use restoring the earthly passage to Heaven, but in order to do that—

The Metatron was momentarily distracted from the battle at hand as it stared into the billowing cloud of dust and sand rolling across the desert toward them from the crash of the enormous craft.

Satan took full advantage of the opportunity, throwing himself at the Metatron.

They fought, blinded by the dust, sand, and smoke, but the Darkstar knew what he was searching for. It was like a beacon, calling out from within the Metatron’s mighty form.

“Succumb to me, boy,” Satan said. “Surrender what’s inside you and be free of its burdensome turmoil.”

He created a knife from the darkness inside him, with a hooked blade designed specifically to peel the armor from a godly being, as easily as one would peel the skin from a piece of fruit.

The Lord of Shadows lashed out. The point of the knife dug deeply into the divine metal of the Metatron’s chest plate, just below where the human heart would beat.

Satan could barely contain his excitement, leaning all his weight on the knife to open the armor and bring him that much closer to his prize.

But the Metatron did not see the futility of his actions, using one of its mighty wings to swat the Darkstar away.

Satan rose from where he had fallen and felt the ground beneath his armored heel give, and turned to see that he was standing precariously close to the edge of the crack in the earth that their struggle had caused. The fissure descended for miles, most likely into the fiery core of the planet itself.

And all from one little sword strike,
Satan Darkstar thought, amused.
I don’t know my own strength.

The Metatron stood at the ready, but Satan could see that the damage had been done. There was a large, gaping wound
in the godly being’s chest, leaking divine power out into the air.

Such a waste.

“You’ll give it up to me or I will cut it from your chest,” the Darkstar growled. “Either way would be sufficient, though the cutting would certainly be more”—he smiled at his adversary—“fun.”

The Metatron placed a trembling hand over his chest in an attempt to seal the wound.

But Satan would have no such thing.

Satan attacked again.

He landed upon his foe, covering him like the darkest of shadows, driving him back to the ground. The hooked knife was at the ready, poised to peel away the armor forged of divinity.

The air swirled with the blood of God, and Satan Darkstar could feel its corrosive power upon him. The power ate the darkness, but this did not deter the Lord of Shadows. He needed the power to activate the Ladder. It would be his.

The Metatron thrashed, but could not drive the Darkstar back. He was far too close to victory.

The Metatron encased his hands in the stuff of Heaven, his each and every grappling punch searing the Darkstar’s body.

But Satan would do anything to bring about Heaven’s fall.

“You could have made this easy,” Satan Darkstar said. “But I’m overjoyed that you didn’t.”

Strength surging, the Lord of Shadows drove the Metatron
backward, one tumbling over the other until the Metatron lay at the edge of the abyss.

Straddling his foe, Satan called upon the dark reserve coiled at the center of the form he now called his own, and felt it respond to his request.

Hell always willing to oblige.

Satan pulled back his arm, all the infernal power that roiled about inside him focused for this one, final act.

Darkness thicker than the black of oblivion swirled about his arm and blade, and Satan Darkstar brought his weapon down on the Metatron.

In a killing blow.

*   *   *

It was time.

Hell churned angrily about Lucifer, ready to explode out into the world.

But Lucifer would not stand for it.

This was his burden. Hell’s pain and misery belonged to no one else but him.

It was his responsibility, as it had been his responsibility for these many millennia. He was not about to see it unleashed upon his son, never mind a world already besieged by nightmare.