Sentinel of Heaven (36 page)

Moira wiped
her nose on the back of her wrist and straightened her spine.  “What do I call
you now?”

“My title is
'Lord Commander'; while in the field it is appropriate.”

Remember,
Moira’s little voice told her.  He's still in there – but now you're dealing
with the side of him that is the general as well.  Oceans of blood and eons of
war.

Remember that
you love him, no matter what happens.

“How may I be
of service, Lord Commander?” she asked softly.

He made no
answer but took her head between his massive hands once more.

All
considerations of taboo completely gone, he impressed the picture on her mind –
a valley cradled in a circle of high sharp mountains.

“I've seen
that place in my dreams,” she said.

“Yes.  It
appears you have a clairvoyant streak which we should explore further, should
we survive.  Here is how Gabriel described the trap.”

The grassy
plain of the valley had been churned into ravaged muddy earth.  Four trenches
had been dug by men and machines in constant shifts – concentric circles, the
smallest of which was around seventy-five feet in diameter.  Thousands of
soldiers crouched in them now, black-clad scum armed to the teeth.  Some of
them held strange thick-barreled rifles.

In the
clearing at the center of the circle was an iron box, a modified rail-yard
shipping crate surrounded by flat rectangular metal pieces on the ground.  A
door was cut in its top and laid open to the air; Moira could see that it was
spring loaded to slam closed in an instant.

“This is the
nature of the trap,” explained the seraph who had been Leo.  “The Taken Ones
are in that box... and going into it is a one-way trip.  Weight added to or
removed from the floor will spring the door closed.  It is lined with a
material that can prevent an angel from accessing phase-space while enclosed in
it.

“This alone
would not be enough to contain me; since I am at full power and unmaimed I
could blast my way out.  However, the second phase of the trap is a lead-lined
shield that will set itself up over the box by a mechanical system when the
trigger is flipped.  That shield can withstand the power of any force that I
could safely generate in that small of a space.  The enemy is aware we derive
our strength from the sun's light.  If they can hold me in utter darkness for
three days I will go catatonic and they can bind and maim me to add to their
hellish collection.”

He released
her head.

“Are you my
warrior?” he asked her.

Moira answered
without hesitation.  “I am.”

“Then I will
take you to that valley, to a high vantage point.  By using my feather you will
go into the trap and spring it.  You will save the angels that I cannot.”

She gazed up
at him a moment. 
The queen has the motive power; she must protect the king
at all costs.

“How does
milord Commander intend that I do so?”

“With this,”
he said, reaching into his wing.  Solemnly he handed her something like a long
dagger or a short sword with no crosspiece or guard; a wide sharp blade that
narrowed to a wicked point.  An opening on the pommel was threaded on the
inside where the weapon could be mounted to a spear shaft.

“I made this
Blade during the Great War, to the exact specifications given me by the High Provenance. 
This is the most dangerous edge ever forged in Provenance and it is the only
one that will do what I ask of you.

“You must go
into the trap alone, and with this knife kill the eight maimed angels you find
there.”

Moira stared
at him, lost for speech.

“Angels cannot
die, not as humans do; but angels with their wings cut off cannot return to
Provenance whatsoever, not even carried by another celestial.  The Taken Ones,
my lost brothers, are trapped in their corporeal forms – some of them rotting
shells of once-proud beings, kept alive only by the strength of their ethereal
souls.

“This Blade is
the only thing that can overcome that limitation; it can separate the seraphic
spirit from its tormented body and return it directly to the High Provenance's
hands... and if their cause is just, they
may
return in their full
power.

“Nothing else
can do this... and in the meanwhile my brothers are in agony unspeakable.”

“In time to
bring them mercy,” Moira whispered to herself, careful to keep the Blade
pointed down at the earth.

“It
is
mercy you will bring them, Moira,” and the Lord Commander laid his hands on her
head again.  She moaned aloud at the images he showed her.

“It will be
worse when you are there; steel yourself now,” he cautioned.  “Not simply the
sight of them and their deplorable state... but Gabriel says that the odor of
decay and filth is overwhelming.”

Eight naked
creatures, denied even the dignity of rags... wrapped in chains, laying on an
unornamented raw wooden floor in the center of the metal crate.

Where to
begin, when describing such abomination?

Each one bore
on his back nothing more than the ragged rotting stumps of their wings, where
the limbs had been cut away and the wounds seared to char the remaining body
feathers.

Every man had
been blinded, eyes deliberately put out.  Each wore leaded helms that hooked
fully around their shaved scalps and locked there, with spikes into their empty
eye-sockets to keep them in place.

Some of them
were missing hands or feet or both; two had been emasculated.  All were
disgustingly dirty, splattered with excrement and gore, covered in bruises and
cuts and suppurating sores.

“When the trap
closes on you, you will be alone in the darkness with them,” the angel before
her continued quietly.  “Disregard the sounds outside; your mission is more
important.  You must go to each one and take him by the shoulder – I can hope
that they will be sane enough to register your touch and heed your words.  You
must say to each one: 'In the name of Ithuriel, I have been sent to grant you
mercy.'  Then you must put the point of the blade here, between his ribs,” he
indicated the space on his own chest, “and drive it home into his heart.”

She covered
her mouth with her free hand, tears leaping into her eyes.

“Repeat your
orders back to me,” he commanded inexorably.

She coughed to
clear her throat.  “Go to each one and touch their shoulder,” she managed
slowly, “and say 'In the name... of Ithuriel, I have been sent to grant you
mercy,' and then put the point against their skin like you showed me and push. 
Aim towards the heart.”

“If you
succeed in this, you will have the eternal gratitude of the Host.”

“And yours?”

He smiled,
looking something like his old self.  Like her Leo.

“You have that
already, Moira – know it.  When you go into the trap I will be strafing the
enemy outside it and drawing their attention.”

“And their
fire.”

“Yes.  There
is a high possibility I may be wounded, even grievously, so you must work fast –
the Taken Ones are our only hope of help.  No other angels may return to this
mortal dimension, on pain of punishment.  That is the edict that I myself broke
to save you that night.  I cannot rescind it and endanger any others, until we
are sure none else will fall prey to the Collectors ever again.”

“Once it is
done... what should I do?”

“Stay where
you are, stay low to the floor and wait – I will come to free you when the
battle is over.  Above all else keep the Blade safe; if anything seeks to come
into the crate that is
not
a celestial being, cut your arm and spread
your blood on the Blade and it will disintegrate.  The Blade
must not
fall into enemy hands.”

“But if you
don't come for me?” she persisted.

“I will,
Moira.”

“Lord
Commander,” she answered formally, “as the only warrior attending you on this
mission, I think you owe me an honest answer.  The Collectors are angel-takers;
their pawns are murderers, torturers, and rapists... and I am about to walk
into their clutches to do your bidding.  What happens to me if you can't
return?”

The angel
gazed at her evenly.

“You know your
death is possible, if you attempt this – even likely.”

“I have little
fear of
death
,” Moira specified, “if it can be swift and clean.”

“Then I swear
to you:  if I am taken down… with my last free breath I will command one of my
warriors out of the safety of the air, to bring you Ithuriel's mercy.”

She nodded
numbly; she knew on the night of the meteor shower two weeks ago that bringing
that huge wounded being into her house might result in her dying, as untamed
and potentially dangerous as he appeared.

There would
have been no way for her to know that it’d be half a world away, after the destruction
of all she'd ever known, and after falling truly in love for the first time in
her life.

She remembered
the sight of him there on her kitchen floor, terribly damaged but still so
incredibly trusting...

~ From before
the first moment I finally saw you with my eyes, when I lay at your feet
bloodied and broken, I had already loved you more than anyone or anything I'd
known in eons of existence. ~

Her lips of
their own will shaped the name she loved:  Leo...

He took her
face in his hands one final time, infinite tenderness in his touch.  “Do not
think for an instant,” he said, his words chosen with care, “that my demeanor
towards you at this time negates even one iota of what you or I have felt in
the last fortnight.  What was true yesterday is true today.”

“I know,” she
said, biting back tears.  “We can't let ourselves be weak now.”

“You are never
my weakness,” Leo promised.  “By sending you into that trap I free myself to
respond to these animals, these atrocious Collectors, with a savagery the modern
world has never seen and will never behold again.  The Gates of Hell themselves
could not stand before my wrath, if they ever sought to separate you and I.

“I love you,
Moira,” he breathed, drawing her into a deep gentle kiss that steeled her heart
with its bittersweet despair.

“I love you,
Leo,” she answered when he released her.  “And this that I do... is for you.”

He nodded in
acceptance.

“Take my cane
back – I won't be walking far enough to need it.  Get me some fresh water and
some of my pain pills to carry.  And a flashlight.”

He gave her
the requested items; she took two pills and shoved the full bottle he handed
her into the pocket of her pants, pulling on her socks and boots unassisted. 
The water bottle had a lanyard; she clipped it to her belt.  Warriors from the
safety of the air or no – if she knew Leo taken and herself lost to Molon
Labe's loving attentions Moira planned to swallow all the pills she could get
down and slice open both arms with the Blade.

Flashlight in
one hand and vicious knife in the other, she stepped into the circle of his
arms.  “I'm ready, Lord Commander,” she said.

The ocean
morning began to fade, intermixed with the phase-space she could dimly see but
never enter fully.  “I am transporting us out to the ocean near these mountains
where the shock of our arrival will not be detected, and flying us the rest of
the way there.  We shall be under a glamour, invisible to both mechanical and
mortal eyes until I move to engage the enemy.”

“Yes, milord.”

Moira spent
most of the flight trying not to look down, painfully aware that nothing held
her thousands of feet in the air but the angel's silent wings – and nothing
separated her from the ground besides his arms.  It was an actual relief to
land high in those sharp mountains, on a little cliff's edge barely big enough
for a parking space.  Summer-warm here, and early evening; must be Southern
hemisphere still.  South America, somewhere?

I don't think
I want to go down and ask the locals...

He set her on
her feet and both of them glanced into the valley; all was as it had been
transmitted.  “Once battle is joined in earnest,” the Lord Commander said in a
strident whisper, “take out my feather and wish as hard as you can to be down
in that metal crate.  Let nothing distract you and no other consideration move
you – the journey will be hard but swift and you
must
make sure your
destination is clear and total or consequences could be as dire as you
suggested.

“Now will I
change and you need watch, so that if you see me on the field of battle in this
form you will not flee me.”

He stepped
back a pace and began to grow even taller, his wings reaching wider.  His skin
took on a strange silver sheen and she gripped the Blade reflexively, taking
comfort in its weight.

No wonder the
artists of hundreds of years ago depicted angels as they had; they saw them but
did not understand what they beheld...

Leo towered
over her, closer to ten feet tall if anything.  His skin was the same steely
gray his hair had been and as reflective as a highly polished breastplate. 
Each feather of his fifty-foot wing span had become silver and razor-edged. 
His legs – formerly clad in the black sweatpants – were now bare and tendrils
of ebon thunderclouds drifted around his waist and thighs, almost like a Roman
centurion's peplum kilt.  Over his left forearm was a great plate shield of
light made solid – the rays that radiated out of its center could appear to
form a cross shape.  His right arm ended at the wrist; what had been his hand
had elongated and sharpened into a broadsword blade.

All this alone
was monstrous enough to strike terror on the battlefield.

But his
face... it was a kabuki demon mask, twisted into a ferocious scowl.  The locks
of his hair had become living dagger blades, shifting and slithering endlessly
like Medusa's snakes.  He was haloed in the eldritch light that radiated from
their keen edges.

Before her now
stood the last dread sentinel of Heaven, vengeance given form and righteous
rage itself set into shape.

Only his eyes
were the same, and in that he was still her Leo: clear blue eyes that looked on
her in great sorrow and knew that anything tonight – of all that he had said,
done, asked, or become – could be the thing that shattered the love for him in
her mortal heart and drove her away from him forever.