Aerie

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Swords of fire came together with a deafening sound that reminded Camael of the birth cries of Creation. Slivers of heavenly flame leaped from the blades, burning shrapnel that eerily illuminated their twisted faces as he and Verchiel clashed.

Camael gazed sorrowfully at the scarred features of the creature before him, a once beatific being that had served the will of God, but had somewhere lost his way. He too bore scars, but his were deep inside, still-bleeding wounds of sacrifice for his chosen mission—for a path traveled alone. But this was not the time for philosophical musings, and Camael quickly returned his attention to the task at hand, the total a

“Surrender, Camael, and I shall see that you are treated fairly,” Verchiel snarled over their locked blades. “It is the least I can do for one I once called friend.”

Camael thrust his opponent away and propelled himself backward with the aid of his golden wings. “Friend, Verchiel?” he asked, landing in a crouch five feet away. “If this is how you treat your friends, I shudder to think of what you do to your enemies.”

Thick black smoke from the burning bodies of Powers’ soldiers billowed about the room, triggering the fire alarms and sprinkler systems.

“Humor?” Verchiel asked above the tolling bell as he took to the air with a powerful flap of his wings. “You have been amongst the monkeys too long,” he observed coldly. “In matters of God and Heaven, there is no place for humor.”

Camael propelled himself toward his adversary. “Aaron has often said that I lack a sense of humor,” he said, pressing his attack. “I do so like to prove him wrong.”

Verchiel parried a thrust from Camael’s sword and carried through with a furious strike of his own, cutting a burning gash through Camael’s shoulder.

“Listen to you,” he said. “Proving yourself to the animals? You disgust me.”

Driven by anger and pain, Camael attacked, a snarl of ferocity upon his lips, the swordplay driving Verchiel back through the rising smoke.

“Do you not remember what it was like?” Verchiel asked, his movements a blur as he blocked Camael’s relentless rain of blows. “Side by side, meting out the word of God. Nothing could oppose us. We were Order incarnate, and Chaos bent to our every whim.”

Camael leaned back as a swipe of Verchiel’s sword narrowly missed his throat. “Until we became what we professed to fight.” He stopped his attack, hoping that Verchiel would hear his words. “Bringers of destruction and fear. Chaos incarnate.”

Verchiel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you so blinded by your insane beliefs that you ca

A whip took shape in his hand, and he lashed out with its tail of flame. The burning cord wrapped itself tightly around Camael’s neck and instantly began to sear its way through his flesh. The pain was all-consuming as Camael felt himself pulled toward his enemy with a mighty yank.

“It was that accursed prophecy that brought pandemonium to the world,” Verchiel said as he fought to pull Camael closer. “This belief in the Nephilim’s redemptive powers has created bedlam; I only seek to stem the flow of madness.”

The stench of his own burning sickened Camael. His wings frantically beat the air to maintain his distance from his adversary as he brought his sword up and severed the whip’s embrace. “Why can you not face the reality of the prophecy?” he rasped. “The harder you try to stop it, the more it seems to fight to become true.”

Camael dove backward, down into the densest smoke. He could no longer hear the clang of the fire alarm, but the water raining down from the sprinklers felt comforting upon his wounded throat. He touched down upon the wooden floor and willed himself to heal faster. There was so little time. The human authorities were certainly on their way; the battle would need to be brought promptly to a close, for Verchiel would think nothing of ending i

Searching the wafting smoke above him for signs of his adversary, Camael thought of Aaron, of Aerie, of all he had saved from Verchiel’s murderous throngs. Has it been enough? The unspeakable acts he had once perpetrated in the name of God as leader of the Powers filled him with self-loathing, and he wondered if he could ever forgive himself. Will killing Verchiel and allowing the prophecy to be fulfilled finally be enough? He stepped over bodies of angels burned black by his ferocity, continuing to scan the smoke-choked room for signs of movement.

“Have I told you my plan for this world, Camael?” asked Verchiel from somewhere nearby.

Camael tensed, sword ready. He tried to attune his senses to the environment, but the fire alarm and the fall of the sprinkler’s artificial rain interfered with their acuity.

“I see a world of obedience.” Verchiel’s voice seemed to be shifting positions within the smoke. “A world where my word is law.”

Camael’s eyes sca

The smoke to his right suddenly parted to reveal the formidable sight of his former second in command, a spear of orange fire in his grasp. “You heard me right the first time,” Verchiel said, and let the weapon fly.

Camael reared back and brought his sword of fire to bear. He blocked the spear with the burning blade, but as it disintegrated in a flash of light, he felt another presence behind him. Still moving, he tossed his sword from right hand to left, spi

Camael’s blade struck armor the color of a blood-soaked battlefield and shattered. Magick, he thought, momentarily taken aback. He was about to formulate another weapon when he was struck from behind. A sword entered his body through his back; the white-hot blade exiting just below his ribcage in a geyser of steaming blood before being brutally pulled back.

Camael turned, a ferocious roar born of pain and rage escaping his lips. How could I have been so reckless as to forget the hunter? he thought, bringing his new sword of flame up to bite back at the coward who had struck from behind.

Verchiel blocked his swipe with the sword he had pulled from the angel’s back.

“Do you know what I think, Camael?” Verchiel asked in a voice that dripped with madness.

Camael gasped as another blade, this one made of iron, was plunged into his back, and he felt himself grow suddenly weaker, the magicks infused within the knife sapping away his strength. He heard the armored warrior breathe heavily behind him, as if aroused by this craven act of savagery.

“I believe that the Creator has lost His mind,” Verchiel said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Driven mad by the infectious disease of this virulent prophecy.”

He stepped closer as Camael fell to his knees. The bleeding angel tried to stand, to carry on with the fight, but the metal blade had made that impossible.

“It has touched His mind in such a way that He actually believes what is happening here is right. How else can you explain it?” the demented angel asked. “God has become infected, as you were infected, and so many other pathetic beings that we so mercifully dispatched over the centuries.”

Camael could taste his own blood and suspected that his time was at an end. He had always known that it would come to this; that his final battle would be against the one that had so twisted the will of God. “Will you attempt to mercifully dispatch the Creator as well?” he asked, disturbed by how weak his voice sounded.

The Powers’ leader seemed horrified by this query. “You speak blasphemy,” he proclaimed. “When my job is done, I will return to Heaven and see to the affairs of both Heaven and Earth until our Lord and Master is well enough to see to the ministrations of the universe on His own.”