"Children of the Dragon" - Part IV

"Rev...how fast can you run?"

She looked at him through bangs plastered to her skull with sweat. "Not fast...not in this heat..."

Her newfound immunity to sunlight was not as effective as she'd hoped. It may not be killing her, but she'd spent her whole life never knowing the brightness and heat of the sun, and it was almost literally a trial by fire in the arid semi-desert of southern Texas.

Bronson lifted his nose, the fine instrument that was as sensitive as any wolf's.

"What is it?"

"Your vampires..."

"They can't hunt by day," she protested.

Bronson snorted and lifted his arms. "You're out here, aren't you?"

She nodded and tried to get her breath back. She felt like she was wrapped in wool...and had been stuffed into an oven to slowly bake. Her formerly milk-white skin had now turned an unattractive shade of pink.

"If they catch us..." she shook her head and bent double, "...if they catch us...they'll kill me..."

"That's why we have to run."

She straightened and looked at him with as firm a gaze as she could muster. "I've been running ever since I escaped. And the truth is that I don't have anywhere to run to - so why keep going?"

He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her closer. His piercing green eyes locked with hers. The coarse, dark stubble that covered his firm jaw and reached all the way up to his head of unruly hair drew her attention as she felt his cool breath on her face.

Brown hands grabbed her face and titled it back up to meet his eyes.

"You're going to keep going because you need to stay alive. You know that. You told me that someone you trusted told you that you had a...a...great destiny...a purpose, right?"

She nodded in his grip.

"Well I don't know if that's true, but I'm not going to let you just lay down here and die..."

Revenant pulled away and smirked at him. "Don't flatter yourself, Bronson. You're not cute enough to talk me into going to hell and back just because you believe in me."

He smirked back. "You sound like my sister..."

"You have a sister?"

"I did. She's dead though." He got a strange look in his eyes and looked back the way they'd come.

"Oh...I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. You'd have hated her." He looked back at her and the mischievous glint had returned. "Weren't we talking about running?"

"You were. I told you I'm done running."

"Would you change your mind if I told you I had a place for us to go?"

She frowned. "Where?"

"A place." He turned in the opposite direction now. "It's a long way...really long..."

"How long?"

"Really long. If I tell you you won't want to go."

"Great."

"There's someone who can help us there. An...old friend..."

Revenant shrugged. "Good enough for me."

Bronson nodded and, saying nothing more, broke into a sprint. Revenant watched him go, saw him hunch over and, with a disturbing motion, change from a man into a beast. The grey shape of the wolf that was Bronson pelted across the barren landscape and, steeling herself, Revenant sprinted after him; becoming a blur herself as her vampiric speed lent power to her limbs.

* * *

Caliban howled as he writhed against the dusty ground, pawing at his bloated form in an attempt to stop the agonising pain of the sunlight's caress.

"He will die out here," Baltic said in a low voice, looking up at the towering shape of Skaar.

"So be it."

"He is a vampire," Baltic hissed, "just like you and I..."

"Empathy is a human foible, Baltic," Skaar intoned as if reading from some holy scripture, "it is a weakness that our kind has left behind."

"I know that as well as you do. But if he can be made to..."

Skaar reached out and grabbed Baltic around the throat, lifting him from the barren ground and fixing him with an uncompromising gaze. "If he dies, he dies. That is the way of life...even our form of it..."

Caliban's howls continued and, when Baltic offered no further resistance, Skaar dropped him back to the ground with a snarl of contempt.

"Where is she?"

Baltic picked himself up slowly and pointed to the west. "That way. And moving faster."

"Faster?"

The vampire nodded.

"How is that possible in this heat?"

"Maybe she doesn't suffer as much as us? She is..." he grimaced "...half human..."

"However much of her is human, she is not used to the sun. She must be tiring." Skaar, for his part, seemed unaffected by the heat despite the heavy black armour he wore.

"Faster...that is what I Sense..."

"Very well," Skaar conceded, breaking into a light jog, stopping only to heave Caliban up to his feet, "Up, worm! Up or die here!"

Whimpering softly and still pawing at the blisters and burns that now covered his body, Caliban staggered upright in Skaar's grip and attempted to keep pace with him. He soon fell behind and stumbled. Baltic slowed for a moment and lifted him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

He never thought anything would make him feel pity for Caliban, but when Revenant was their personal mission the situation had seemed different. Skaar was a harsh taskmaster, and had been a vampire longer than anyone in existence. Though Baltic shared his philosophy, he still baulked at letting his companion of so long, slovenly and repulsive creature that he was, simply die in the dirt.

Maybe he was more human than he thought.

* * *

The Old Wolf sat in the silence of the long shadows. Slowly, his large hands ran the whetstone across the blade of his hunting knife and the sound soothed his hunger.

There were slim pickings in this part of the world, but he had been brought her for his silent vigil, and here he would stay.

Waiting. Watching.

The sun was high in the sky, burning down on what was left of those that had died in this unholy place. Corpses, long since picked clean by vultures and with the bones bleached white by the sun of a long, hot summer since the great battle that was fought here, still stood unattended, unburied.

It was not the way of his kind to honour their dead in any fashion. They rotted where they fell, and would find their way back to the earth in their own way.

All except the one whose tomb he guarded that was.

He had carried him from the base of the cliff himself, bearing his broken body up the long trail until it was safe from the scavengers. He had interred it in a makeshift sepulchre until the time was right.

He laid the knife against a red stone and reached into his bag, pulling out a small sack. In it was something most unholy. He toyed with it, feeling the weight and texture of the simple earth within. Earth was a misnomer, of course, for this was not soil of this world.

With this...with this he would redeem his people. Their last Lord would fight on the right side one final time.

There was no hope of victory, only redemption, the Old Wolf knew.

When the time came.

The Promethean Ring II: Solomon

The Montreal gym was silent, save for the relentless thud...thud of fist on stuffed canvas. The lights were dim, casting a yellowish, putrescent haze around the bulbs that didn't stretch into the centre of the room where the patched punch bag hung, swaying back and forth rhythmically as first a right- and then a left-hand made contact.

Thud.

Almost silent footsteps caught the lone figure's attention, though he had sensed the presence of his guest almost a minute earlier. He didn't pause in his conflict with the piece of gym equipment.

Thud.

"I thought I'd find you here..."

Thud.

He didn't turn around, and merely grunted a reply. Selenia walked closer, looking demure in her trademark white. A book was clutched close to her chest. Her eyes were still, focused on the lean, sweat-glazed form of Darkness.

Thud.

"You might be interested to know that your partner is in hospital, recovering from a car accident."

"I heard."

Thud.

Selenia pursed her lips slightly at the lack of reaction from the warrior. "Jason said he would take his place in the match."

No reply, except a clenched fist driven into canvas again.

Thud.

"I hear Joyride's in hospital too," she continued, ignoring his silence, "a few broken ribs, a hairline fracture in his skull and a shattered jaw. Do you know anything about that?"

"Yes. I did it."

Thud.

She was taken aback, expecting him to deny it, or at least show some remorse. "You've changed," she told him, "what's happened?"

"Nothing."

Thud.

"Look me in the eye and say that..."

"I have no need to justify myself to you," Darkness said calmly, "you aren't my keeper."

"No...no I'm not..."

"Well then."

Thud.

"So now you're crushing anyone who gets in your way, is that it?" she challenged.

"You don't know what he did to me."

"No, I don't. Care to share?"

Thud.

"He injected me with something. It had no effect, so he used an empty syringe and pumped air into my brain. I'm lucky to be alive."

"Oh..."

"You of all people should know how I feel about being violated like that, Selenia."

Thud.

She nodded. She did understand. She'd been in Dante's mind when Darkness had confronted him on that rooftop so long ago and had nearly beaten him to death. Only the delayed effects of the serum as Darkness gave into his rage had saved herself and her lover. It seemed like an age ago.

"I thought you learned your lesson from what happened then, Darkness."

Thud.

"The game has changed, Selenia. Too many people have told me to give into my human side; I've finally started listening."

"Being human isn't about destroying those you hate..."

"No? Tell that to the warmongers, the rapists and the murderers out there. Tell that to all the human beings who stop at nothing to get what they want. We all make our deals with the devil to achieve our aims - why should I be any different?"

Thud.

She had no answer, but merely looked down at the book in her hands. "You're not the first man to make a deal with the devil, Darkness."

"I know. That's what I just said."

"Do you know who was?"

Thud.

"No."

"I think you'll be interested in him. You know of King Solomon?"

"Of course."

"He was a great man, who achieved more than anyone before him. He desired to build the greatest temple every constructed, but the secrets of such an architectural feat eluded him."

Thud.

"Go on..."

She sighed and began to walk in a circle around him as if repeating a speech she'd long rehearsed. "The book I found tells a story about how he did it in the end. He was given a gift by a demon called Asmodeus..."

"The Asmodeus Dante killed?"

"The very same."

Thud.

"He gave Solomon a ring," she continued, watching as the muscles in Darkness's back tensed at the mention of the artefact she was describing. "This ring gave him power over the demons of Hell, and he enslaved them to build his temple."

"Nice story. It looks like the Promethean Ring...if that's what it was...served him better than it did Prometheus himself."

"Not quite. Solomon's achievement was tainted by his methods, and he was eventually banished as a result of transgressing against the holiest laws of all. What should have been his greatest triumph was transformed into a blasphemy because of his...deal with the devil..."

Darkness stayed his hand this time, drawing back his clenched fist to himself. The punch bag gradually swayed to a halt.

"What happened to the ring afterwards?" he asked her, turning.

"The Archangel Michael took it up to Heaven after Solomon disposed of it, or so it is said."

"Then it's beyond our reach."

"Maybe. But I'll keep searching for more magic rings in the oldest stories...the chain can't just stop here."

"Very well."

He made to walk past her, but her pale hand pressed against his bare chest, halting his progress. He looked down at her. "Was there something else?"

"Don't you think this story is important, Darkness? It seems like each part of this tale is useful to you...appropriate even. Can it be a coincidence that you used almost the exact words to describe yourself as this book did to describe Solomon? You both made deals with the devil, Darkness..."

"And both our triumphs became blasphemies, is that it?"

She said nothing, merely stared into his grey eyes.

"I call a succubus and a werewolf allies. I call the Son of Lucifer brother. If my triumph is blasphemy, Selenia, then you're a little late making your feelings known."

"I think you're being too flippant about this..."

His hand shot out like a lightning bolt, grabbing her wrist in a vice-like grip. She instinctively tried to pull away, but his hold was firm and he pulled her closer, so her face was close to his.

"Maybe it's time you reflected on the true nature of the threat we face, Selenia. Unlike you, I have looked into the eyes of the servants of our enemies, and I have seen what lies within. I have looked into the cold black orbs of Seth, the glassy stare of Drakus and the malevolent gaze of Pryce and I have seen, in each of them, the mind of their primogenitor, coldly assessing me from the void. I have stared into the very depths of the Abyss, and I have seen their implacable hunger. It is this that we cannot kill."

Selenia didn't break her gaze from his, but offered no reply. Eventually he released her, causing her to stumble back a few steps.

"I am the Antichrist. Lucifer's creature. If what I must embrace to save this world is the murderous intent of his kind, then so be it. Let my soul be forfeit."

He made to walk past her again, but she grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, locking gazes with him once more. For a long moment, she stared into him, plumbing the depths of his soul.

"You haven't made a deal with the devil," she whispered, a dark horror growing in her voice, "you've made it with the Void..."

Darkness said nothing, only wrenched himself free and turned away, leaving her alone in the shadows.

"Children of the Dragon" - Part V

Revenant's eyes fluttered open as the sunlight of the fading day caught her face. Their shelter - a complex of jagged rock spires that shot up from the desert floor as if trying to claw the sky's eyes out - was only useful when the sun was high. As it slipped below the horizon the light prickled her skin uncomfortably.

She sat up and looked around her, searching for Bronson. Grumbling, she got to her feet and pulled her heavy jacket around her. In the shade it was cool and she knew that, once the sun had set, it would not take long for the desert to start feeling like an icebox.

They hadn't stopped for two days after their initial burst of speed but, soon after, even their supernatural constitutions had reached their limits. They travelled by night again, trusting to the sun to slow down Baltic and Caliban, but now Bronson said their destination was close by. They'd reach it tonight, he'd told her.

Of course, that was if he was around to show her the way. She picked her way across the uneven, rocky ground until she was looking south over flat, red land. Columns of wind-sheared rock reared up against the blue-purple sky and, as she narrowed her eyes, she made out a small black shape moving swiftly towards her. Panic filled her for a second until she saw the quadruped-form rear up and become a man. Revenant sat down and waited for Bronson to arrive and gave him a questioning look as he approached.

"I was checking on our friends," he explained.

"You didn't let either of them see you, did you?"

"Of course not. Why would they look for a wolf anyway?"

"Good point," she smiled. "What were they doing?"

"Hiding. The fat one - Caliban? - looks in pretty bad shape."

"From the sun?"

Bronson shrugged as he walked past her into the rock formation. "I guess."

She stood up and followed him, burying herself in her coat. He eventually reached the other side and looked north. He pointed. "Just over the horizon. That's where we're going. You'll see it soon."

"Are you alright to keep going? You look tired..."

He grinned, showing off his long canines. "I'll be fine." His face changed and he looked concerned for a second. "Are you okay, Rev?" One of his rough, brown hands brushed against her pink, sun-damaged cheek and she flinched away instinctively.

"I'm fine too," she told him without meeting his eyes. She stepped down onto the desert floor. "Are we going?"

"Of course," he laughed.

* * *

The huge shape sat immobile in the flat, red plain. An inert monument carved by millennia of heat and wind and sand that stood alone against the night; a vast rock mesa in the desert, lonely and cold.

"That's where we're going?" Revenant asked, her voice subdued with something like reverence.

"Yes," Bronson breathed with the same awe.

"How are we supposed to get up there?"

He pointed again. "The land rises behind it. A slope leads up to the north side. Plus people have built on it."

She looked at him in disbelief. "They built on it? Built what?"

"A military complex. It was a refuelling station for airborne forces in on the way from bases on the east coast to Vietnam." There was incomprehension in her eyes and he waved a hand. "Never mind. The important thing is that that's where we're going."

They approached the mesa slowly, moving ‘round to the north side and then up until, finally, they reached the top. Metal structures were built into the rock, gantries and walkways, a landing pad to one side atop a separate tower and connected to the mesa proper with a wide road through the air. It had an air of disuse, but also something else.

"What is this place?" Revenant asked, kicking a chunk of what was apparently volcanic glass across the concrete floor that had been built on top of the mesa.

"There was a battle here," Bronson explained, moving towards the buildings that made up the military complex.

"When?"

"Not so long ago."

Revenant followed him but on the way, passed by a huge skeleton. She stood looking at it. The bones had been picked clean by vultures now, and their surface had been bleached white by the sun. It was in pieces, and the scorch marks indicated it had been killed by some kind of explosion, but she still recognised what it belonged to.

"I've seen a skeleton like this before," she said.

"Yeah?" Bronson took a few steps towards her and looked down at the bones. "A distant relative of mine."

Revenant nodded. "When Ba...when I first heard about wargs...I didn't realise they were still around..."

"Yeah, well, there aren't so many left after what happened here."

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

"Don't be. They were no friends of mine. They were responsible for the deaths of far more of their kin - they're a disgrace to my heritage."

"Oh."

He looked down at the bones a moment longer, at the damaged flint-tipped spear that lay a few yards from its hand, at the shotgun shell lodged in the ruins of its shoulder. "Come on," he finally said, "there's someone you should meet."

They walked through the complex, Revenant following Bronson all the way as he followed a twisting path through the metal columns, discarded oil drums and debris of the battle he had spoken of. Finally, they came to an open space and Bronson stepped to one side. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded into the shadows where she suddenly perceived something lurking, waiting for her.

Gingerly, she took a step forward. She peered into the darkness, but even her supernatural vision could not pierce the gloom. Revenant frowned, stooping down and reaching out a hand to touch whatever it...

With an animalistic squeal, Caliban surged out from his hiding place and bowled into Revenant. She went onto her back, the beast clawing at her face, but managed to bring a knee up into his stomach and flip him over onto his pack. She scrabbled up to her feet, all thoughts of trying to find the explanation for this surprise attack gone from her mind. She flicked her wrists, but she was a second too late as she felt a strong arm encircle her throat and pull her close against a cold, dry body.

"Hello there, Revenant," a voice she recognised hissed into her ear.

Instinctively, she dug her fangs down into the paper-thin skin of the arm that was wrapped around her neck, but got only a laugh in response.

"You aren't the first person to bite me, little girl..."

She knew it was Baltic and that her bite would have no effect. It made no odds though as she spun her wrists in two wide arcs and watched with satisfaction as the twin crescent blades opened up around her wrists and reflected the gleaming half-moon above their heads.

Baltic jumped back as if stung and she moved to face him. Caliban was up again, but she levelled one fist and bared her teeth.

"You didn't tell me about those," Baltic hissed into the darkness and Revenant glanced into the shadows where two green orbs told her Bronson was hiding. She shook her head, but didn't say anything. What affection she'd had for the werewolf was now gone, forgotten and pushed to the back of her mind like every other relationship she'd enjoyed in her short time of freedom.

"Where did you get a Slayer's Weapons?" Baltic continued, circling her slowly. Her head flicked back and forth as she tried to keep her eyes - and blades - on both vampires.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, truthfully. "Someone gave me these, and I don't think he was a...a Slayer..."

Baltic laughed his dry, dead laugh. "Actually he was, but those fancy blades weren't his."

"Oh?"

"Enough talk."

The new voice came from a rusting doorway and Revenant stared as a huge, baroque shape shouldered its way through and emerged into the moonlight. She found herself looking at a seven-foot tall monster, his countenance bearing the unmistakable blight of vampirism. He differed from every other vampire she had ever seen though, not only because of the heavy, black-lacquered armour he wore, but also because of his eyes. He had the same pinprick gaze of all vampires, including Revenant herself, but there was something older there, like he had grown more after his death than he ever could have in life. His face too was strange, its bone structure not corresponding to any racial group Revenant knew of. Even his accent was strange. Had she know anything about science fiction, she might have said he was an alien from some other world.

"And just who are you?" she demanded, refusing to be cowed by his immense size and terrifying aspect.

"My name is Skaar."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Not at all. All men who have heard it in the last four millennia have not lived to see another sunrise."

"What do you want with me?" she asked, pushing the fresh questions his cryptic response begged out of her mind.

"I want what all vampire-kind wants from you, dhampyr," Skaar said in his curious accent, approaching her and causing the concrete beneath her feet to vibrate almost imperceptibly with his heavy steps.

"Uh huh?" Baltic and Caliban were now lurking behind her she noticed.

"Yes. You are a very special child, Revenant. You are the first successful union of human and vampire born since the dawn of our great race."

"They don't look so great to me," she replied, flicking her head at Caliban as he crouched mewling in the shadows.

Skaar's eyes flicked towards the bloated creature and she saw a flutter of disdain pass over his dry, desiccated features.

"Don't like him either, huh?"

His hand shot out with blinding speed and he grasped her pink cheeks. He tilted her head up and looked into her eyes, all the power of the Void shining from his terrible stare.

"You do not fear me?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Why would I fear you? I know a fair bit about vampires in case you haven't noticed, and there's things I've been put through that your kind just aren't that good at...I'm not scared of anything you could do."

Skaar laughed. "You have been made strong," he observed, "that is well. Baltic intended to kill you as an abomination, but you are fortunate that our master sees great potential in you."

"Your master?" She had never suspected that Baltic may answer to some higher power. For one terrifying instant it occurred to her that maybe her tormentor still lived and that he was the one they served.

No...no, she'd killed him. She'd made sure of that. She watched the last of his blood pump out of his pierced jugular herself...heard his bubbling breath die in his ruined throat...

"You'll meet him soon enough," Skaar assured her, "if you haven't already..."

That made her frown, but he didn't explain. Instead, his eyes suddenly flicked towards Baltic. She tried to turn to see what was happening, but Skaar first gripped her tighter then flung her to the ground. A rasping sound and a gleam of reflective metal signalled a katana entering his hand and he stalked closer to Baltic who was now cowering against a metal wall and pointing the direction of a ruined building a few hundred yards away from their position. Revenant peered at the dim shape and her eyes caught a grey shape moving close to it and then darting away.

A sound like thunder suddenly roared across the mesa and the building they were all watching seemed to fold in on itself and then erupt into a ball of flame. She shielded her eyes from the unexpected glare and tried to make out what was going on.

Caliban was cowering still, Bronson, now visible in the reflected inferno, had flattened himself against a wall. He glanced at Rev, but didn't meet her accusing gaze. Skaar and Baltic seemed to be talking about something and both of them advanced towards the blaze, Skaar with his blade held before him and Baltic pulled out a short curved blade.

Fire rained down in drops of molten metal, singeing the metal and the flaming ruins of the building seemed to form an archway. A huge, monstrous shape strode out, heedless of the conflagration. A scimitar longer than Revenant was tall spun in his hand and he let out a bestial howl into the night.

With a start, she realised what manner of creature she was looking at and glanced at Bronson. The werewolf stood rigid against the wall, his eyes fixed on the warg in the flames. There was a strange reverence in his green gaze as he stared.

Skaar assessed the creature before them that now prowled back and forth. He grabbed the shoulder of the quailing Baltic and thrust him towards the monster, titling his head with interest as the vampire was lifted into the air like a rag doll and tossed across the mesa.

Revenant stared open-mouthed at the scene, but then came back to her senses as her view was blocked by Bronson. She stared hatred at him. "You led me into a trap..."

"Yes...and no..."

"What?"

"There's a lot going on here you don't understand, Rev," he said, his voice equal parts pleading and warning.

"People seem to be telling me that a lot recently..."

"I'm sorry." He looked back to check Caliban was still engrossed in the fight. Skaar was now advancing on the warg.

"Sorry?" she was ready to explode, and she intended it to be far more impressive than the building that just blew up. Her fists were still enclosed in the sickle blades of the strange gauntlets she had taken from Baptiste's laboratory.

"Yeah...but you have to get out of here..."

"What?"

"If everything goes to plan, Goth should finish those vampires off."

"Goth?"

He inclined his head. "The warg. I don't have time to go into it, but he was brought back here for a reason."

"Right..."

"So take your chance, Rev. Run!" He pushed her away slightly, and she realised the wisdom of his words.

"Wait," she suddenly said, "will I...will I ever see you again?"

He grinned in his wolfish way. "I guarantee it."

* * *

The Old Wolf watched from above. He saw the girl go, the fate of the whole world perhaps in her hands, and then Bronson turn back to the fight.

He watched as the two weaker vampires lurked and waited for their leader to be struck down so they could be free of his hated influence. He waited for the same thing, but he was also confused.

Bronson had told him there were only two. This third had been a surprise even to him.

Goth and the armoured one fought back and forth, brute strength matched against superhuman skill. The vampire was a web of steel, whirling with immense speed even in his heavy armour, gradually wearing down the warglord.

Goth had been brought back from beyond the veil of death by the Old Wolf's infernal soil. It was fortunate, in some ways, that he had given himself to the Void. Goth's shade lurked in this place, safe from the predations of Hell, and it could be called back easily with the right magicks.

This being he fought with though...he was beyond what the Old Wolf had expected. He saw his plans die before his yellow eyes.

A swift stroke cut into the huge muscles of Goth's neck and he stumbled to one knee with a howl of pain and fury. The mighty warg tried to defend himself, but a second blow bit into him, opening a deep wound across his chest. He was beaten down by the vampire's savagery and soon he knelt in a pool of dark, poison blood, his scimitar slipping from his wet grip.

"You have betrayed me," the Old Wolf growled at the man that suddenly clambered up beside him.

"There's a lot going on here you don't understand," Bronson said softly.

"Why did you let the dhampyr go?" the warg asked, turning to Bronson.

"She's just a kid..."

"But a dangerous one."

"Well this way neither side gets her," he smirked. "Skaar will catch her eventually."

The Old Wolf sighed at the carnage below him. "You had a chance to redeem our race forever, werewolf, but it seems you have thrown in your lot with the Abyss."

"I like to be on the winning side."

"The Abyss brings only death, young one. Your victory will turn to bitter ashes in your mouth soon enough."

"We'll see."

"Aye." The Old Wolf turned to look at Bronson one last time before shouldering the scabbard that was almost as tall as he was and pulling the veil of his brown robes across his muzzle. His yellow eyes met Bronson's green and he nodded almost imperceptibly before bounding from his perch, reaching the desert floor a hundred feet below unharmed and racing off into the growing dawn.

* * *

"You were a worthy foe," Skaar said, casting his blade to one side.

"End this!" Goth growled, staring up at Skaar with bloodshot eyes.

"No...you were too valuable a weapon in life..."

"I have tasted the Void," the monster snorted, "I have no wish to fight for it any longer."

"You have no choice, warglord," Skaar explained calmly. "Those who prove worthy and who have the will to exist even in spite of the injuries I deal them are accorded a special fate." Goth tried to rear up and defend himself, but his blood loss had sapped his strength. Skaar grabbed his thick neck and buried his fangs into the putrid flesh of the warg's throat.

The howl of the last of the warglords thundered across the desert as Skaar drank his fill and birthed a blasphemy against Creation.

The End

The Promethean Ring III: Sigurd

"I...uh...I haven't heard anything from Mr. Dante about this," the MediTech consultant murmured, adjusting his spectacles as he wilted under Darkness's gaze.

"No, you wouldn't have done," Darkness told him calmly, "But I was given to understand that the medical insurance he provided me with as part of my role in DanteCorp would cover whatever expenses were necessary."

"Of course...but what you're asking for is...well..."

Darkness lifted the stump that had once been his left hand. Dante's Hellfire had instantly cauterised the terrible wound and even the blackness was now gone, leaving only smooth scar tissue where once a deadly weapon had been. "Just tell me what you can do to fix this."

The consultant coughed and fumbled with the papers on his desk. "Well, obviously there's nothing we can do to actually...uh...fully...repair...the damage that has been done. If you had the...uh...the hand..."

"I don't."

"Okay. Well, it could have been reattached, but as it is...um..."

"I suggest you get to the point," Darkness said in a low voice.

"Very well." The consultant stood up and moved over to the other side of his office. He picked up a crude-looking mechanical hand. "What we would have to do in this instance, is provide you with a prosthetic. We call a replacement hand a ‘transradial prosthesis' and there are two main types..."

"Right."

"Most common are cable-operated prosthetics. They work by connecting a simple harness to your opposite shoulder so that, by moving the muscles there you can open or close the hand. It takes some getting used to, but..."

"Will it allow me to fight?"

The consultant blinked. "Fight?"

"Yes. I need to be able to fight."

"Well...uh...no, a cable prosthetic like this one would really just allow you to grip in a fairly basic fashion. High-level dexterity that would give you the ability to write, or manipulate fine objects or...as you say...fight...is not possible with this kind of device."

"Then it is unsuitable. What's the next option?"

The consultant replaced the mechanical hand and then picked up a more sophisticated version. "This is a myoelectric prosthetic. It's operated by a small motor which is powered by the voltage generated by the muscles in your arm."

"Would it give me dexterity?"

"Well, more than the cable-operated hand, yes. But, realistically speaking, it would still just be mostly opening and closing."

"Then I don't want it."

The consultant sighed and put the other hand back on its shelf. "Then there is another technique available."

"Explain."

The consultant returned to the desk and clasped his hands. "The technology of robotic prosthetics is in its infancy, but MeditTech is at the cutting edge of such advances, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Robotic?"

"Yes, hang on, let me show you..." The consultant tapped at the keyboard on his desk for a few moments before turning the flat screen monitor so Darkness could see it. He leant in, observing the demonstration video. The consultant narrated the action.

"This is a technique called ‘targeted muscle reinnervation' or ‘TMR'." The video showed a young woman with an arm made of plastic and metal moving it back and forth in a realistic fashion.

"Motor nerves which previously controlled muscles on an amputated limb are surgically rerouted," the consultant continued, "such that they reinnervate a small region of a large, intact muscle, such as the pectoralis major. As a result, when a patient thinks, for instance, about moving the thumb of his missing hand, a small area of muscle on his chest will contract instead. By placing sensors over the reinervated muscle, these contractions can be made to control movement of an appropriate part of the robotic prosthesis."

Darkness nodded. "Would this give me dexterity?"

"Yes. Not as much as your original hand, of course, but this is the most advanced technique available."

"Very well. When can it be done?"

The consultant pursed his lips and thought for a few moments. "The surgery is extensive, we'd need to run some tests, fit you for the prosthetic, probably fly in a specialist from New York..."

"I need to be able to wrestle next week."

The consultant stared at Darkness before shaking his head. "No, that's not going to be possible. Even if we could do surgery in the next few days, you'd have to undergo months of physiotherapy before you could use the new hand effectively. I think you may have to accept that your wrestling career is, if not over, then at least indefinitely delayed. I couldn't in good conscience allow you to participate in any kind of strenuous sporting event so soon after undergoing the kind of procedure we're talking about."

Darkness burst from his seat with a roar and, in one movement, swept the consultant's desk clear with his damaged left arm. Reaching out with his right, he grabbed the bespectacled man by the collar and hauled him upright.

"I wasn't making a request, doctor," the former Slayer growled, "I need to be able to wrestle next week. You have the technology to make that a reality. There is no debate."

"But...you wouldn't be able to..."

"I will adapt."

"I can't let you..."

"I will wrestle next week, with or without your prosthetic. If my ability to fight is impaired as a result of your unwillingness to perform surgery on me, then you will be the one I hold responsible. I leave it to your imagination to conjure up what the consequences of my anger might be."

Darkness released the man and let him slump back into his chair. The consultant removed his spectacles and ran his and over his face. "Alright," he said, "alright...there is...a fourth option...that may reduce your recovery time."

Darkness narrowed his eyes. "Go on..."

"The very latest research on artificial body parts...I mean, the very latest...is moving towards creating prosthetics that link directly to the nervous system."

"Are you serious?"

The consultant made a shrugging motion. "Possibly. This technology can't even be said to be in its infancy - it's more like...uh...embryonic. So far, only the Pentagon has done research into this kind of thing through their research agency, DARPA."

"How does that help me, then?"

"MediTech is the most advanced medical research organisation in the world, and there are only a handful of neurosurgeons who have the experience and skill to make something like this a reality. It shouldn't be a surprise that, with such a small pool of experts, MediTech and DARPA have to share their manpower."

"Are you telling me that MediTech has doctors on their payroll who also work with the US Government."

"Sort of. I won't bore you with the politics of it all. Needless to say that it's possible for us to build you a prosthetic that you can control as if it was your real hand."

Darkness nodded silently.

"Again," the consultant warned, "you need to understand that, without significant advances in technology, you're never going to get the same kind of mobility in an artificial hand as you had in the original. At best, you'll be able to open and close the hand, point with individual fingers, maybe grip a pencil..."

"And fight?"

The consultant sighed and nodded. "With this hand, you will be able to fight."

* * *

Darkness was lying on a gurney, his muscular frame covered by a surgical gown. A small area of his head had been shaved to facilitate the surgery that he was about to undergo, but his hair was long enough that it would cover it up when this was all over.

"Why are you doing this?"

Darkness frowned and pushed himself upright with his good hand. He saw Selenia standing at the bottom of his gurney. She looked pale and ill.

"Why am I doing what?"

"You're about to undergo brain surgery, Darkness. I'm hardly a doctor, but even I know that that's as risky as medical procedures get. One slip with a scalpel and you'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life."

"Your faith in Jason's employees is most reassuring," Darkness remarked with a smile that didn't touch his eyes.

"Whatever. I don't want to talk about him now."

"That makes two of us."

Selenia shook her head. "What the hell happened on that rooftop, Darkness?"

"Do you think I know? I was trying to save him, and he blew my hand off with..a...a...fireball..."

"I'm sure he didn't...I mean...he couldn't have meant..."

"Are you trying to find an excuse for your boyfriend maiming me, Selenia?" Darkness asked with a hard look.

"No...but..."

"Dante took my hand. I don't know how, and I don't know why. But I'm going to be in that match with him next week, and I suppose maybe I'll ask him."

"Is that what this is about then?"

"What?"

Selenia curled her lip at the one-handed warrior. "A match. After everything you and Jason have been through, knowing what you two and the New Hellfire Club stand for, knowing who and what our enemies are, you're going to risk your life so you can fight in a match?"

Darkness nodded. "I have no other choice. I'm a warrior. I was born to fight."

"Even meaningless battles where the only thing you have to gain is fame and glory?"

Darkness didn't give her an answer.

"Yeah, I thought so," she spat, "I found out who got the Promethean Ring next, by the way."

"Oh?"

"Sigurd. A hero from Norse mythology. The Ring was stolen from a dwarf named Regin by Odin and Loki, and they used it as a wergild to buy their freedom after they murdered a king's son. The Ring corrupted its bearers and turned its owner into a dragon. Centuries later, Regin tried to trick Sigurd, his protégé, into killing the dragon to get the Ring back in such a fashion that Sigurd would die too. Odin helped him trick Regin back so the Ring would come to Sigurd who then killed Regin."

"Interesting stuff."

"Yes. But the Ring continued to corrupt those who held it. Sigurd was destined to marry a Valkyrie - Brynhild - and left the Ring with her, but the witch queen of the Nibelungs wanted him to marry her daughter instead so she cast a love spell on Sigurd and it was the queen's own son - Gunnar - who married Brynhild instead. But it is Sigurd, who is mightier and braver than the usurper, who has to pass the requisite tests and, though he lies about his identity so that Brynhild thinks he's his brother in law, he takes the Ring back anyway."

"Sounds fair."

"Maybe," Selenia mused, "but the story doesn't end there. Sigurd gives the Ring as a wedding gift to his young wife and she, boasting, shows it to Brynhild, who is then crushed when she realises she has been deceived into marrying the wrong man. Gunnar, who is now Sigurd's liege-lord, swears vengeance for the betrayal and kills Sigurd. Brynhild kills herself too, but the story of the Ring continues. Sigurd's widow is sent to marry the king of the Huns by Gunnar to ensure peace, but the Huns betray the Nibelungs and slaughter them when they're feasting. He casts Gunnar into a pit of serpents when he won't tell him where the Ring is. In revenge, Sigurd's widow poisons her own two children by the king of the Huns and serves him their blood mixed with wine in cups made from their skulls. In the night, she slits his throat, burns his hall to the ground, killing everyone inside, before casting herself into the sea. On her finger was the Ring - she had it the whole time."

Darkness nodded to himself and considered the story. "So the Ring is...where? In the North Sea somewhere? The Baltic Sea? My geography isn't do good, I suppose."

Selenia looked at him incredulously. "You don't get all this do you?"

"Get what?"

"Darkness, I'm not telling you real history. There are no dragons, or dwarves, there was probably never a man called Sigurd. It's just a myth."

"Remember I've met Odin, Selenia."

"Of course. But even if there is a nucleus of truth in this, it's been changed and perverted in successive tellings in the thousands of years since whatever historical event it was based on."

"Fine. So why bother telling me any of this?"

She made a frustrated noise and banged her small fists against his gurney. "Because this helps you! These myths aren't things that happened - they're stories for you to learn from!"

Darkness frowned. "I don't understand..."

"The myths are for you. You don't think it's odd that I'm finding them and relating them in this specific order and all these things are happening in your life that seem to reflect them? This quest isn't about finding a magic Ring...it's about you!"

His frown only deepened. "But that makes no sense. How could this story possibly be relevant to me?"

"It's a cycle of revenge, Darkness," Selenia said quietly, "every holder of the Ring keeps it for themselves and holds onto their hatred. They all kill their enemies and are killed in turn. The Volsunga is a tragedy, in which all the characters die ignominiously because they want personal fame, glory and vengeance. The Ring gives them that. And it extracts from them the ultimate price."

Darkness looked hard at the succubus. Finally he shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Spare me the thinly-veiled life lesson, Selenia. I tried to do the right thing and save Dante. You can see where that got me." He lifted up his left arm, showing the bare stump.

"Darkness...you have to listen to me...you're undertaking this surgery for exactly the same reasons that Sigurd and all the others kept the Ring. And like them, you could well die."

"I could get hit by a bus tomorrow and die too..."

"Don't be stupid. That's no way to live your life - you can't take stupid risks on the basis of the fact that life is inherently dangerous."

"I've taken bigger risks than this, Selenia. Surgery is nothing compared to what I've fought."

"You can't defend yourself against someone slipping with a knife, Darkness. This isn't the same."

"We'll see."

They looked at one another before, with a final shake of her head, Selenia turned and walked away. Darkness watched her go, then laid himself back down on the gurney. He put his remaining hand across his chest along with the stump that was all that remained of his left. He closed his eyes.

Darkness seated himself on the rooftop, letting his coat fan out behind him to sit like an oil slick on the concrete and gravel. He drew his sword from his back and placed it across his lap.

"What are you doing?" Revenant asked, clutching herself closely, partly because of the cool weather and partly out of fear.

"Our relationship began in combat. I place my weapon here as a sign of good faith that - for now - we are done with that aspect."

"Okay..."

"Will you extend me the same courtesy?"

Revenant made a strange face at him but then sat down opposite the warrior. She moved her hands to the heavy metallic gauntlets at her wrists and removed them. Gingerly, she placed them in front of her.

"May I see?" he asked, extending a hand.

"Can I see your sword?" she replied sardonically.

"If you wish."

He lifted the blade and held it to her. She blinked. "I didn't really want to see it..."

"I know. But it's a show of good faith, so you'll let me look at your weapons."

"Alright then." She nudged the gauntlets towards him with one foot.

Darkness lifted one and examined it. Experimentally, he ran a finger around the inside.

"Careful," Revenant said, "It..."

Darkness smiled at her and touched a certain place on the inside of the band, causing the sickle blade to shoot out. "I know."

"How?"

Darkness held the weapon out. "It activates with a pressure-sensitive switch on the inside that's aligned to the ulnar artery on your wrist." He held up his own right hand to show the visible blood vessel on the underside of his wrist. "When you clench your fist, it triggers the blades."

Revenant stared at him. "How do you know that?"

"I've seen these weapons before, and had their use and design explained to me by a very close friend of mine."

"You...you know...?"

Darkness held up a hand to stop her speaking. "Whoever you're about to say; that's not who I'm talking about. I promise you, it wasn't my friend you got these from. Let me continue for now, and later we'll find out where our stories dovetail, yes?"

She nodded dumbly.

"Do you know how the blades work?"

She shook her head. "I looked at them...I can't work out where they come from. There's no room for them in the gauntlet."

"No indeed." He held the blade out to her, and pointed with one prosthetic finger, which moved with a faint whirring noise. "Look carefully at the blade, if you observe closely you can see that it's segmented."

Revenant peered at them and did, indeed, perceive dozens - maybe even hundreds - of faint lines all the way down the surface of the weapon.

"This blade is constructed of a series of interlocking tetrahedrons, like Russian Dolls. When you activate the trigger, then unsheathe and, through an intricate clockwork mechanism, form themselves into an almost flawless surface." He moved his finger over the trigger again and the blade disappeared, and then he reactivated it, allowing her to observe, now that she was watching closely, how the weapon was constructed of hundreds of segments that fanned open.

"It sounds...complicated..."

"It is," he agreed, "these weapons are thousands of years old, built by an unknown engineer in ancient Greece."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Archaeologists have discovered in recent years that the ancient Greeks had a previously unknown mastery of clockwork - they invented and utilised it thousands of years before later civilisations uncovered the secrets of such technology. Most of what they created is lost, but these weapons have been maintained by their owners since their creation, for they serve a very special purpose."

"What?"

"They're Slayer weapons. Or weapons used by the precursors of the precursors of the precursors of Slayers."

"What's a Slayer?"

Darkness smiled. "A Shadow Slayer is what I am. Or what I was. We'll get to that. All you need to know for now is that these were weapons built to fight wargs, in imitation of the sacred blades of that race."

"Wargs?" There was recognition in Revenant's eyes this time.

"You know about them then. That's good."

Revenant shrugged. "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

"Because I needed to prove to you that I know what I'm talking about. If you thought I was anything but what I am, there'd be no point in us talking." He passed her weapon back to her.

"So how do you know all that? Who was your friend?"

"His name was John Dane. He was a Shadow Slayer like me, and he used these weapons. It's ironic that he met his death at the hands of the very creatures these were designed to kill."

"I see." She looked down at the gauntlet in her hands. "I'm sorry about your friend."

"So am I."

"So who are you...?"

"My name is Darkness."

"Right." She rolled her eyes.

Darkness smiled slightly. "You're one to talk ‘Revenant'..."

"Yeah, well I don't have another name. Do you have that excuse?"

"No," he admitted, "but Darkness is what I go by. Even if you had the means to find out my given name, I wouldn't answer to it."

"Okay. But that doesn't explain who you are."

"No indeed. I am The Antichrist, the Herald of Armageddon."

Revenant blinked at him.

"Are you surprised?"

"Not exactly," she replied slowly, "but if you are ‘The Man Who Walks Alone', I was told my destiny lies with you..."

"I thought as much."

"But if you're...what you say you are...then that goes against what I was told."

Darkness cocked his head. "What were you told?"

"That there's a War being fought against something worse than I can imagine. I heard the world was ending."

"It is."

"Which explains you being...you...but whose side are you supposed to be on."

Darkness smiled. "If I on was the wrong one, you'd be dead already, wouldn't you?"

Revenant shrugged. "Maybe. You've given me some reasons to trust you, but if you're lying, I'll kill you like I killed the others."

"Others?" Darkness arched an eyebrow.

"The other people who wanted to help me and be my friend. Some of them were liars who wanted something else from me, and others were just unlucky. Either way, I killed them. It's what I do. Everything I touch turns to ashes."

"You're a vampire," Darkness told her, "your life is death."

"Except I'm not a vampire. Not exactly."

"No, I guessed as much. Tell me your story."

"My mother was bitten while she was pregnant. That's it. Nothing clever."

"And you survived? She...kept you...?" Darkness couldn't think of a more delicate way to word his question.

"She was forced to."

Darkness shifted uncomfortably, wondering how deep this rabbit hole went. What might she be associated with if her mother was beholden to someone...something...else?

"By...what?" he finally asked.

"A...a Faithless..." she spoke the word as if it was something she'd been told about once almost in passing.

Darkness's eyes went wide. "This creature is very dangerous." The fingers of his right hand were twitching slightly and the motors in his prosthetic had begun to whirr in sympathy as he tried to suppress his desire for action.

"Was dangerous. He's dead now."

"Oh..."

"I killed him with a rusty nail because of what he did to me."

"I...I see..."

"You don't, but whatever."

Darkness was beginning to wonder what he was getting into. His initial intention had been to amaze the girl with his world on the assumption that she was just a naïve child who had found her way to him somehow. Seeing now that she was something both more and less than a vampire, he had considered her to be nothing more than a weapon he could use; one which was far better in his hands than in the hands of his enemies. Now it appeared that this girl had been through more than he could imagine.

"Hey, wake up." Revenant was waving a hand in front of his face.

Darkness gave a short laugh. "Sorry. Revenant," he spoke carefully, "I'm still not sure what you are, or how you fit into my life and my war, but you were told to find me. You did so, by chance or design, and I've learnt that there are few coincidences in my life. For good or ill, you were sent to me."

"Maybe I have to learn something from you..."

Darkness frowned. He hadn't actually considered that he would be here for her benefit. "Possibly," he replied diplomatically.

"Well whatever," she said, standing up. "You're a little bit goofy, but so far you haven't tried to kill or screw me. That makes you one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Congratulations, mister."

"Thanks," Darkness replied stiffly.

"And your werewolf bitch said you guys would look after me..."

"We will...I will..."

"Fine. But you should know I'm being followed."

Darkness stood up and frowned at her. "By whom?"

"Couple vampires. Nothing you can't handle, Mr. Shadow Slayer."

"Maybe..."

"Oh and a warg, I guess."

Darkness reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her closer. "What? Vampires working with wargs? Tell me who follows you, Revenant."

"A...a vampire called Caliban, and one called Baltic..."

"Baltic?"

"Yeah."

"Gregor Baltic?"

"I dunno...maybe..."

He released her and took a step back. "I haven't seen Gregor in a long time."

"You know him?"

"He is...was...a Shadow Slayer. If he is as you say that he may be a bad sign." Darkness shook his head. "It's a good job I found you. I needed to know about this."

"You found me?"

"Well..." Darkness waved his hand, "you said there was a warg..."

"Oh yeah. Well, maybe. I'm not sure what happened back in the desert."

"The desert?" Darkness was desperately trying to fit everything together in his head now. He had already been forced to completely reassess the meaning of this strange half-vampire girl. What had been a tool that might help him was now turning into some sort of vital piece of the strange puzzle that was his life.

"Yeah...there was a warg. Goth...Skaar bit him and..."

Darkness slammed her up against the side of an air-conditioning unit. "Goth? Skaar? Tell me what you know!"

"What?! Ow...you're hurting me!"

Darkness loosened his grip on the small girl's arms. "I'm sorry. Those names are...not what I expected..."

"Right."

"Goth especially. But I can guess some of that story. Tell me about Skaar."

She shrugged. "He's some guy in armour with a sword."

"What kind of sword?"

"A...a sort of narrow curved one. Not like yours."

"You mean a katana?"

"I don't know."

"I had no idea Skaar had re-emerged," Darkness mused, stepping away from Revenant again.

"You know him?"

"Only by reputation."

"I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about," Revenant shrugged, "not if you're what you say you are or whatever."

"Revenant," Darkness said slowly, "if Skaar is hunting you, then even I may not be able to protect you..."

"The Armageddon Oath" - Part I

Jael was a seraph. His skin was walnut brown and his eyes were stars. Actual stars; or at least what stars used to be. Which is to say, Jael's eyes. Long ago, a forgotten desert tribe called him Sky Spirit and said he watched over them at night. The wandering stars that men would later identify as the neighbouring planets of Mars and Venus were what he watched through.

Years later, in a city that was now less than a ruin, the descendents of that ancient tribe built him a shrine and made small offerings to him on a holy day. He became Watcher, and later Stranger when he was One among Many - part of a pantheon of a hundred gods in that lost city. Some of those gods were the same person, and some had never existed in the first place. None of them died when the city walls came down though. When their worshipers were put to the sword, they survived, and went on, with new names and new faces.

Now Jael was the shape of a thousand Renaissance paintings and only his skin, baked dark by the ancient desert sun and his eyes, incandescent against the flat, blue firmament, remained to tell the story of where he had come from. Of what he used to be.

Not that Jael was any different now then when he had begun. He had not changed the way a man changes job, or the way a child grows into an adult. He had always been an angel in a fundamental way. Even when he was Sky Spirit and Watcher and Stranger and Hidden One, he was still Jael the seraph. And even now, he was all those other things too, and always would be, even after this most recent name was forgotten.

Gods don't follow the same rules as people.

Jael was lost. The labyrinthine passages of the city were bewildering and every corner looked the same. Covered with a ragged grey robe that hid his wings, his face, his straight, jet-black hair, he went unnoticed by the inhabitants of Tartarus.

This was dangerous ground for a being like Jael, even at the best of times, and it was far from that. He was in enemy territory, looking for information that no one else could be trusted to find.

Tartarus was carved from a single mound of granite, stained red by the blood of the Damned who had toiled to build it. It was older than the mind could comprehend; old in a way that distorted time and made forever feel like yesterday and tomorrow feel like the end of time. Tartarus had a frame of reference all of its own, the same moment repeated and recycled until it was worn and frayed and soiled with the same blood that stained its walls.

Jael walked through alleys that were more tunnel than street; a warren of fetid slums and hovels dug into living, pulsing stone. Noises assailed his ears; the relentless sounds of the city, like pebbles running through a sieve, always chattering around every corner: shouts and whispers crushed together by proximity and the pressure of the granite walls.

This was not a good place.

Eyes peered at him from the shadows, wondering why he had come to this corner of Hell, here on the front line of the War, when so many others were leaving. The city itself was now being cannibalised, torn apart in order to fortify what remained and transform a sprawling metropolis into a fortress. Jael was here to find out why; to discover why the Renegades' strategy, which before had led them into an expansionist conflict that ate away at Lucifer's realm, now dictated they should halt and fortify.

The shambling bundle of soiled rags that might once have been a man approached Jael. The angel stepped back into a shadowy corner and stooped down to address the creature.

"You have found the one I seek?"

The deformed being bobbed its head. Glancing within the robes, Jael saw the mess of scar tissue that had once been a face, one gimlet eye peeking out through torn, toughened flesh. Grasping, claw-like hands pawed every surface. This was not a demon, but one of the Damned; a reflection of a human life filled with sin on Earth. The creature thought he was that human and Jael was forced to remind himself that he was not. He was just a shade, a manifestation in this strange dimension of one man's misdeeds.

The Damned beckoned him forward and Jael followed. They moved downwards, down steps and sometimes just barely-hewn slopes. At times their feet followed non-existent paths down untouched, bare rock. Slowly, the two figures - one tall and lithe, one hunched and deformed - made their way deeper into Tartarus, disappearing into the cracks in the earth, where fire and blood met.

A slick sheen of sweat coated Jael's dark skin as he was gestured into a low cave. He pushed aside the ragged cloth that offered some measure of privacy to whatever creature dwelt within and ducked into the hovel.

"Welcome."

The voice was like a thousand needles grating against one another. Jael instinctively recoiled.

"Sit," the monster told him, holding out a hand to the slab of granite that served as a chair on the opposite side of a rough wooden table. Jael lowered himself gingerly, but kept his hands off the table which he now saw was covered in dried blood. Straps, manacles and chains attached to the surface indicated the table's principal use, as did the scalpels, blades, chisels and other instruments of torture that decorated the room.

Jael swallowed hard as he observed the creature sitting opposite him. Like Jael, he was clad principally in a ragged, dirty cloak that hid much of his shape. What he could see of the demon though was terrifying to look upon. Rotted flesh, pulled taut by needles digging into skin. Black, reflective eyes boring into him. When it smiled, its skin was pulled back into a rictus, revealing needles driven into bleeding gums instead of teeth. He stank of corpse.

"My appearance is disturbing to you?" Even his voice was painful.

"Not at all. I've seen far worse."

"You lie, but that is good. This is a place for liars."

"Yes," Jael agreed simply.

The demon nodded its head as it placed its palms against the bloody torture rack that served them as a table. "I can give you the information you want, stranger."

Jael almost flinched at the name, but he held his resolve. "Good. Your...servant...assured me you'd be able to help me."

"He is a slave, not a servant." The thing's eyes darted to the hunched Damned that cowered at the door, and it fled in apparent terror. "He will return," the demon smiled, showing his needle-teeth again, "he is bound to me."

They called it the Threefold Path. They begin as shades of human beings, assigned to tormentors, who break them. They either remain slaves, trying to hold onto the humanity they never really had, or they finally let that which never was die within them. Then they are free, but still Damned. They wander Hell, finding succour where they can, finding new torments in their imagined sense of liberty, and inflicting torment on others who come to them. A hierarchy forms. Eventually, those who are talented, those who embrace the nightmare, those who learn to feed on the pain are elevated. That's what they called it, but Jael knew it was a misnomer.

Demons fall, they don't rise.

"Did he also tell you my price?" the demon asked.

"He mentioned it."

"Good. I will take my payment in blood, stranger."

Jael nodded silently. The price would be paid; his side kept their word. "Tell me what I want to know..." the seraph wanted nothing more than to get out of this monstrous place, away from this terrible creature.

"Aren't you curious as to why I betray my oaths?"

"Not really. No one needs a reason to resist the forces your masters serve. Survival is enough."

"But I am a demon. I am selfish and vindictive. I fear the immediate threat, not a death that may never come."

"It will come," Jael told him, "if the Renegades win...but tell me your story if that's what you wish."

"Very well. Once I was one of the torturers of Dis, a servant of Lilith. I was a creator of succubi, a breaker of prideful women. My torments were especially fiendish."

Jael grimaced. "You can spare me the details..."

"I shall. I can see you have no stomach for Hell, stranger." The demon paused, drawing one needle-like fingernail down its face as if scratching. He tore away rotting skin as he did so, but didn't seem to notice. "When Spyne arrived, he won many of us to his cause. His tortures were new and interesting. We craved new knowledge."

"I hear he...he uses beetles..."

"Yes. He removes the spines of his victims and replaces them with vermin. Then their bodies are under his control, and the minds of the husks can only scream wordlessly in their rotting prison."

Jael felt ill.

"Initially, we were all seduced by his technique. It seemed an awful fate for the Damned. But soon some of us realised the truth. His tortures, his beetles, they were just tricks. His strength was in magick, not in pain."

"What's the difference?" Jael found himself fascinated by the story in spite of himself.

"Anyone can torment a victim with a trick or a spell. A magic word can steal a man's mouth and eyes and make him helpless. I know of charms that can transform a man's innards into maggots so that his own body eats itself alive. I have heard tell of incantations that can twist a man inside out and still keep him alive. With magick, you can take men and meld them together into living sculptures of rent flesh and blood, screaming forever as their bones buckle under the weight of their own macabre architecture. All these things and more are possible."

Jael nodded. "I see."

"But there is no skill in such magick. It is just knowledge. When you know the trick, the word, the hand gesture or the ingredients, then you have the power. To torture a soul with your own hands, to devise wicked machines and devices, to invent awful situations that will break a man's spirit as well as his body; that is the torturer's craft. Spyne gives his army automata who blindly serve, I give them demons with shattered minds ready to be turned to darkness and evil deeds. They want only numbers, yet I could give them so much more."

"You're disillusioned," Jael summarised.

"Correct."

"So now you'll betray your masters?"

"I will."

Jael leaned closer, ready to hear the information the torture-demon would impart.

"They hold their Council in this very city, at the front line," it said. "Their base of operations has moved many times since the War started, always creeping closer to the nexus of their assault. Now they have reached the battle lines."

"This explains why they're fortifying the city."

"Yes."

"And you know where they meet?"

"Even now, they constantly change the location of their Council Chambers, but I can tell you how to find them."

"Very well..."

The demon leant in. "Remember the price, stranger..."

"I remember."

"Good. Listen well."

"The Armageddon Oath" - Part II

Jael's path took him deep within the warren of Tartarus. Instinctively he flinched away from the dried-blood walls, grimacing at the fetid stink that accompanied his progress further and further down into the granite city. He replayed the conversation with the torture-demon in his head over and over, remembering with his infallible, crystal memory, every detail of the directions he had been given.

A right here, a left there, down instead of up for the most part; a winding, dangerous course through labyrinthine tunnels. Jael felt the weight of the rock above his head, bearing down on him, oppressive and huge. He longed to stretch his wings; to soar free in a clear, azure sky where there was no earth no matter how far down you went.

Jael found it hard to remember a time before he came to this place. His mind was more art than biology; a latticework of light that did not degrade, but he was not a man, and he didn't think as a man. Time didn't flow in the same way for him and he could no more remember who and what he was before this than a child could remember the time before it was conceived.

He had walked these caves forever. Everything else was a dream.

The final part of his journey reared up before him, a vast, carved shape in granite that looked half-buried though in fact it was simply half-unmade. The shape of some monstrous being sculpted from the raw rock emerged from the angular surface of the earth, clawing its way out, its face in agony. Whether it was incomplete or its tormented imprisonment was part of the design was not clear. One of its hands was submerged in the wall and the other reached out, anatomically perfect and as red as the rest of the city. Its face was contorted into something between a scream and a snarl and rent by deep scars across each eye. Angelic wings, a mirror of Jael's own, were torn asunder by the rock, shredded into bloody rags by the painful emergence from - or submergence in - the surface of the wall. The anatomy was terrifyingly accurate; the bloody chunks animated, even in stone.

Jael shuddered at the strange statue's torture and stepped away, taking the third of four possible paths from the huge chamber, and trekking deeper and deeper into Tartarus. The tunnel became narrower, the air closer, and Jael stooped down. Soon he was crawling, but he had expected this. He steeled himself against the pounding in his chest as the light dimmed. He wondered if he had been betrayed; if all he would find was a grim and lonely death in the blackness of this hole, alone and suffocating. He could not turn around. If the cave ended here, he would be trapped.

His pace slowed. He ignored the panic he felt. He was a Seraph. He was a God. It was not his destiny to die here.

Finally, he sensed the growing light ahead of him, and perceived a widening of the tunnel. He crept forward, wondering if his heart beating in his chest was as loud on the outside as it was within his own head. His dark hands fumbled forward, searching out the path ahead until he saw the distant sliver of light before him. He crawled on, then his crawl became a crouch, and finally he was upright, standing in a small cavern illuminated by flickering light from a narrow crack in one wall. He stepped closer and pressed his face to the crevice.

Far below him, there was a motley assortment of creatures. They sat around a huge circular table, wooden and old. It was large, but looked like it could be transported. This was what Jael had come to see.

"How long shall we remain here?"

The one who spoke towered above his fellows. His vast body was centauroid and covered with scales. Where a beast's head might have been was the scarred, muscular torso of a demon, huge bulging arms resting on the table. His low-slung, heavy head, horned and glowering, moved back and forth, assessing each of his fellows. The question he had asked was not simply an enquiry; his tone instead spoke of impatience and anger.

Jael recognised this creature. He had seen him in battle. It was Semiazas, Second of the Fallen, Lord of the Grigori; the Fallen Angels.

"Long enough."

This speaker was an old man, entirely human looking but for his too-dark eyes. His long white beard fell down below the rim of the table.

"Long enough for what?" Semiazas growled.

"To muster our strength."

Jael turned to see this speaker and instinctively he flinched from his vantage point, unwilling to look at the monstrous thing that had spoken. Steeling himself once more, Jael forced himself to return and watch.

Beelzebub spoke, and his voice was the buzzing of a million vermin. His body was roughly man-shaped, in that it had four limbs, a trunk and a head, but his flesh was composed entirely of writhing flies. His eyes were pits in the unbroken, crawling surface, and his mouth was a black opening. Flies buzzed in a cloud around him, like a field which slowly trailed off the further it went from the epicentre that was the Arch-Demon. There were flies in every corner of the chamber. Beelzebub saw all.

"The city is well defended," the master of the rebellion continued, "we remain unassailable here."

"Which amounts to nothing," Semizas roared, "we fester here while our enemies grow stronger every hour."

"You are correct. And that is why we strengthen ourselves."

Semiazas shook his huge head. "Enough of your riddles. Tell me what you plan."

Jael pressed closer.

"We fortify and we consolidate. We lull our foes into a false sense of security. Every loss they take is felt tenfold for they lack our numbers, and so they treasure this chance to heal and to rest. That is why our final strike will be so effective."

Semiazas let out a throaty, rumbling laugh that carried no joy, save perhaps the joy of slaughter.

"We cross the Styx," Beelzebub continued, "with our full force, at the Bridge of Phlegyas."

Semiazas's heavy brow creased. "It is a long road to Phlegyas, in the path of Lucifer's ballistae. This plan is foolhardy."

"I think not."

The new voice was that of a being not unlike Beelzebub, but instead of flies its form was made from mud and stinking ooze, alive with crawling worms and rotting vegetation. It didn't sit, but instead stood as if rooted to the ground, somehow growing from the granite beneath its feet. Jael recognised it as Belial.

"This is an attack they cannot anticipate. An assault from an unexpected quarter. They are life; they are breath and blood, and to be these things is to be a slave to experience and fallible knowledge. We are death. We are the great unknown. We are the unforeseen variable."

"So...this is a surprise attack...?" Semiazas asked.

"It is." Beelzebub agreed. "They cannot expect an assault via Phlegyas, and if we take the Bridge we are within easy striking distance of Pandemonium itself. We need never come within reach of Hades."

Jael breathed deeply. It was good fortune that had brought him here just in time to hear this plan. He knew that Michael would indeed have never predicted the rebels to make such a desperate gamble, risking their entire force in the teeth of the ballistae in hopes of ending the War in a single decisive strike.

His mind occupied by such thoughts, Jael didn't notice the fly that crawled into the gap through which he watched. He caught it with his peripheral vision and instinctively snatched out his hand, crushing the tiny creature between his thumb and forefinger.

Beelzebub's head jerked around and his black gaze fixed on Jael's position. The angel froze as the flies that floated around the room rushed into their master and he began to grow in size as he was reinforced by his minute servants.

Jael fled, turning on his heels and rushing back the way he had come. He glanced behind him and saw flies crawling through the crevice, but there were not enough to form Beelzebub yet, and Jael rushed through the tunnel, trusting that it would take a long time for the Arch-Demon to filter through the narrow gap. He bolted through the darkness, ignoring the scrapes and bumps he took as he gave no heed to his safety. Finally he tumbled through the opening and out into the huge chamber that housed the tortured statue.

Jael's feet almost gave way as he careered up through Tartarus. The ever-present hum of the city was growing louder and he sensed danger as he moved. The rebel council had raised the alarm and surely mobilised the vast army that waited within the walls of the city for the attack on the Bridge of Phlegyas. He made his way through twisting caverns until he burst through a gate and found himself in something that was closer to a street again. The sound of alarm was all around him then as the Damned slunk into their holes and the demons howled their fury.

He fled through Tartarus, following a route etched into his mind. The main gates were not far ahead of him now. He constantly made random turns, always keeping his mind focused on his eventual destination. His breath came fast and, at every turn, shadows loomed ahead of him. He could sense fire and blades in the hands of enemies bearing towards him.

Finally, Jael threw himself from an alley and found himself standing at the edge of the wide plaza that opened out to the gates. They were still open, but the square was completely empty of any inhabitants. Tentatively he stepped out into the open and then, filing in from every side street came the armies of the renegade demons. Lurching Husks arrayed themselves before him and, behind them he saw the ragged wings and bloody claws of Grigori, his most hated foes.

Jael took a step forward and the mass of enemies fell silent, waiting for some unseen signal.

"Move aside," he said, his voice carrying across the plaza. The barking laugh of a Fallen Angel was his only reply.

"Move aside," he repeated in a thunderous voice, "or you will be moved."

In the instant he spoke, the mass of bodies began to move towards him, slowly at first but gradually gaining in momentum. Jael crouched low, placing one clenched fist against the etched granite floor of the plaza.

He waited until he could feel their stink and then, in one blazing instant, he cast aside his ragged grey cloak.

Radiant wings opened behind him, white in the way that the winter sun is white. His eyes shone with the light of the wandering stars and his mouth opened, releasing still more gleaming liquid-radiance along with a bellow that was half warcry and half prayer.

The first rank of Husks sloughed into puddles of melted flesh in an instant, while the second erupted in flames and the third staggered back as black holes opened in their dead bodies.

Jael spun, his wings forming a cyclone of light and his sword was in his hand in a moment. He soared across the plaza and fell into the swarming Husks. Everything he touched turn to flame, and his sword cut a ribbon of white fury through his foes.

In seconds he was a hundred yards closer to the gates, but now the Grigori came. They were scaled and black, great flapping monstrous bat-things, who assailed him with tooth and claw.

But he was a Seraph.

His sword cut into dark flesh, spilling acrid blood across the stone below him. He hewed them where they fell, blasting apart their bodies with every twist and turn of his blade. His wings were soon blackened with gore, but he shook the feathers out, and the light dissolved the foul ichor.

A roar caused Jael to turn and, from the other side of the plaza, he saw the approaching shape of Semiazas. The monster's hooves sparked thunder and lightning as he charged and in his huge, misshapen hands he hefted a two-handed axe carved with blasphemous runes.

Jael considered standing his ground as the other Fallen Angels lay dying around him and the remains of the Husks smouldered at his feet, but he knew that even he was no match for one such as Semiazas. What he knew was more valuable than selling his life against this foe.

He spun on his heel, lifting off into the air and, with a beat of his wings he passed through the gates that had finally begun to creak closed and out into the free air.

"The Armageddon Oath" - Part III

The central chamber of Hades made a marked contrast to the gathering place of Beelzebub's renegades in Tartarus. The rebel council, for all their differences, were at least united by a common aim and the knowledge that they were indeed a council. The gathering of those who fought to defend Hell from the approaching shadow shared no such sympathetic values. They fought together out of sheer necessity, for survival.

Michael, the Angel of Light, stalked the iron-walled space. Around him were arrayed the Seraphim, his personal bodyguard of angelic warriors. Jael stood foremost amongst them after his return from his dangerous mission, and the vital information he had brought.

"Our path is clear..."

On the other side of the room, Lucifer curled his lip and shook his head. "This is not a course I would advise, brother. Their plan is insanity itself; the Bridge of Phlegyas is a route into our territory that we have not defended with troops or artillery for the very good reason that it lies so far out of our enemies' reach as to be essentially unassailable. It's a non-factor."

"You have heard my tale," Jael said softly, "I know what I heard."

"Yes, and I know also that you were indiscreet. They know we have this information - they would be insane to keep to the same plan knowing this."

Michael crossed over to the centre of the chamber where a wide iron table showed a map of Hell's western plain, modelled in detailed relief from wrought iron. The River Styx was a sinuous line across the surface in reflective obsidian, like the flesh of the Incubi, a few of whom flanked Lucifer. Michael traced his finger across the river until he reached Phlegyas.

"They must bring their army within reach of the ballistae of Pandemonium, but they have the numbers to survive."

Lucifer approached the table too. "Why take the risk?"

"It isn't a risk," Michael insisted, "what do they have to lose?" He brought his pale face close to Lucifer's bronzed features. "You and I both know that this war is untenable. We are driven back on every front - it's only a matter of time until we are defeated."

Lucifer growled under his breath, but nodded his assent.

"They have the numbers to grind us into oblivion, given enough time," the angel continued, "but that's not what they want. The Abyss has the power to enter our universe in Hell - that's why they chose this place as their staging ground - but this is not their ultimate aim. They came here intending a swift and decisive victory and then to assault Earth from a position of strength. We have delayed them long enough to give Earth chance to prepare, and the rebels grow impatient. With this single overwhelming strike, they could annihilate us in one battle." His finger moved across the map from Phlegyas. "If they take the bridge, they can move unopposed upon Pandemonium, and win this war."

Lucifer ran a hand across his neatly trimmed goatee. "Agreed," he finally said. "What do you propose?"

"We have no choice but to make a stand at Phlegyas. They have to channel their entire army across the bridge - in such narrow confines their numbers will count for nothing. My Seraphim and the Incubi can hold it indefinitely."

"But all that does is divert our forces..."

"Yes," Michael agreed, "but we'll fight against their entire army. This is a battle we can win, Lucifer. We have the skill and the courage, and they walk into a fight where numbers mean nothing. They mean to strike this hammer blow, but we will meet them with a hammer of our own, and drive them back."

Lucifer was nodding now, though he still looked unconvinced. "This war must end decisively, one way or another. They press their advantage, but they have perhaps overplayed their hand."

"Exactly. Either we continue fighting a war we cannot win, or we end this now, at Phlegyas."

"Then we fight," Lucifer growled.

* * *

Far from Hades, its warriors idled disconsolately in a rough camp that encircled the city of Dis.

Zepar ran one obsidian finger down the blade of his glaive and squinted through his mask at the blurring heat haze on the horizon. The baking air of this part of Hell had little effect on the Incubi, but the distorting effects of the incredible heat made fighting a largely unpleasant task.

"Orders, Lord?"

Zepar shook his head and grunted. "You know as much as I do..."

The Geucubu who had approached him deflated visibly and cast his eyes upwards. In the centre of the camp stood the massive form of Baal, the Father of Incubi. He had barely moved since the Legio had arrived at Dis, and had spoken only a few rumbling words.

"He will not fight without orders from his master," Zepar reminded the Geucubu, "which means we remain here until the Nightwalker returns."

Zepar hefted his glaive and looked out across the camp. All told, almost the entire Legio Incubi were here, rotting on the edges of the War where they could do nothing. With their help, the Nightwalker had taken Dis for the Earthborn, but had neglected to tell them what they should do next. Zepar, who had been following orders from Abbadon and then Lucifer, had not been prepared for Baal's stubbornness. Their giant commander obviously felt strongly that Nightwalker was the only general from whom he should take commands, and would not be swayed by Zepar or even the Bar-Lgura, the highest ranking Incubi, to return to Hades without orders.

"So...what should we do...?"

Zepar shrugged, rolling his obsidian shoulders that smoothly reflected the strange light of Hell. "We wait. He will return, and then we will fight again."

"Lord! Lord!"

Zepar and the Geucubu turned and looked down the low rise on which they were positioned. An Incubus was rushing towards them and, instinctively, Zepar rose and hefted his glaive. "Speak!" he bellowed to the runner.

"An attack!"

Zepar stepped forward, feeling almost skittish. "Where?"

"On the west side of the city. Our camps there are under attack!"

"By whom?"

The Geucubu turned and gestured, pointing across the city to where, visible even over the towers and buildings of Dis, moved dark threatening shapes. "Titans..." he said.

* * *

The River Styx moved dark and sluggishly, cutting through the deep red soil of Hell's western plain. Its fluid was corrosive and reeking, and Michael felt nauseated even by the sight of it.

Phlegyas was a small, scattered settlement that clung to the supports of the bridge that spanned the Styx. The hovels were the homes of various Damned and lesser demons and imps. Most of them had scattered at the news that a host of angels were approaching, and now only a few cowering beings hid in the shadows as they passed.

The Bridge of Phlegyas itself was a construct far older than the town. There had once been a ford here, and then a ferry, and now, as the power of the Styx had waxed, there stood a bridge. It arced across the filthy water in a low curve, supported on baroque struts of black steel that seemed to defy physics. The angels made their way solemnly across the span of the bridge until they reached the centre.

"Here," Michael said softly. His brother, Uriel nodded and gestured the command with his sword, halting the Seraphim and the other hosts of angels. Michael looked around. There was room enough here at the centre of the bridge for twelve men to stand abreast only. They could hold this gap for the rest of time, if necessary.

"I wish Raphael was here," Uriel murmured.

"He's more use to us behind the lines. If he comes, you can be sure we'll know about it."

Uriel nodded again, and stepped back into the ranks. Michael narrowed his eyes at the horizon and discerned a dark, barely-visible smudge in the distance. He knew it was the enemy.

They stretched across his entire field of vision.

* * *

The Legio Incubi mobilised swiftly. Zepar called for his mount and swung himself up into the saddle of the raptor with one smooth movement. He pulled at the creature's reigns and urged it into a run, to join the other cavalry who were also riding the lizard mounts.

"Just Titans?" he asked the Geucubu of the Phalanx.

"It appears so."

"Then we bring them down. One at a time - concentrate all attacks on each of them in turn."

The Geucubu nodded and loped away, his Phalanx of one hundred warriors followed swiftly behind him. Zepar wheeled his raptor and headed back into the camp, checking on the muster of the other Phalanxes. Above him, the Bar-Lgura flew overhead on their membranous wings, riding the thermals above Dis. They would be the first to engage the Titans who, even now, assailed the walls of the city while the Incubi stationed on the west side valiantly attempted to hold them at bay.

"Baal!" Zepar called as he reached his destination, "your children are under attack! We need your aid!"

Baal's huge, masked face turned downwards with glacial slowness as Zepar's mount darted back and forth at his feet. The Incubi were made in Baal's image - like them, he was a being of living obsidian, but he was built far more solidly, squat like the volcano that had birthed him.

"Father! Will you fight for us?!"

Zepar was growing desperate now. He glanced back over his shoulder and tried to make out what was happening on the other side of Dis. He saw no Titans falling.

Baal did not reply, and the hope began to die in Zepar's molten heart. He started to turn his raptor around, but a thunderous creaking from behind him made him stop. Baal was moving, slowly at first, but gaining in speed as his momentum grew. His huge stone limbs began to swing and the ground reverberated beneath his massive feet.

Zepar let out a cry of exultation as Baal began to outpace him. The Father of Incubi crossed the ground between his resting place and the battle swiftly and, like a landslide, crashed into the foremost of the Titans with a roar.

The Legio Incubi swarmed around their lord's feet, hacking at the Titans where they could, but having little effect against their massive foes.

Zepar ran his mount into the battle and joined the charge if his warriors against the Titan that Baal battled. "One at a time!" he bellowed, "Engage them separately!"

Baal wrestled with the monster, bearing it down with his immense bulk and then driving his jagged iron sword into its gut. Corrosive blood spilled out across the ground, but the Incubi were unaffected. The charge was sounded again, and the next Titan rose to meet them.

Zepar laughed as his burning glaive left a trail of fire through the air when he charged. His brothers surrounded him, taking up his laugh and turning it into a warcry, and then a shout of sheer exultation. They were born to fight and now, at the feet of their creator, they revelled in the terrible slaughter of these mightiest of foes.

Baal brought a second Titan down, and the Legio swarmed across him, slicing him into a million pieces with their fiery blades. The giant paused and breathed out a blast of burning, sulphurous air.

"BAAL!"

The Father of Incubi raised his head and stared at the Titan who now reared up before him. This one was unlike all the others. Rather than man-shaped, it moved on a sinuous tail like a vast serpent, and its multiple arms wielded four scything blades. Its head was snake-like too, dead white eyes mounted over a huge gaping maw.

"TYPHON!" Baal rumbled in reply.

Typhon; Hammer of Apophis, the mightiest of the Titans, charged into Baal, moving with terrifying speed. Baal met the charge stolidly, but was still nearly bowled over by the immense impact. The two giants grappled, the footsteps of Baal causing the ground to shake the swishing tail of Typhon sending Incubi flying in every direction.

Baal encircled the monster with his mighty arms, but Typhon raised his upper limbs above the bear hug and drove his blades down into the shoulders of his enemy. Baal roared in fury and released his hold. Splintered obsidian rained down on the Legio Incubi from the open wounds in Baal's shoulders.

"DIE! DIE!" Typhon screamed, his voice both thunderously loud and high-pitched like the keening call of a carrion bird.

Baal charged again, his gargantuan form meeting Typhon's with a solid thud that sent a shockwave across the battlefield. Typhon's blades bit into Baal again, but the Titan was heaved off the ground and thrown roughly into the air.

Typhon landed hard, sending up a huge cloud of brown-red dust. Baal drew his sword, but Typhon was up in an instant, his serpentine agility belying his immense proportions. Baal charged again, but his steps faltered as the wounds began to take their toll. Typhon struck, driving all four of his curved swords through Baal's body.

Zepar, long ago thrown from his mount, stopped dead as he saw his lord pierced by the blades. The Incubi around him were equally stunned, ignoring the other Titans that were pulling apart the walls of Dis behind them.

Baal let out a low moan that reverberated deep in the earth. Typhon, his long, sinuous tongue flicking out of his immense mouth released a high-pitched squeal of triumph, which was cut abruptly short as Baal, with the last of his strength, raised his sword and brought it down into the Titan's neck.

Typhon's triumph turned to agony as Baal sawed with his jagged weapon, carving through tendons the size of trees and muscles as large as houses. Desperately, Typhon tried to pull his swords from Baal's body, but they were stuck fast and he could not defend himself as, with a roar of fury, Baal hacked through his neck entirely, lopping the monster's head off.

Typhon's body thrashed and heaved, and poisonous blood sprayed everywhere. Baal secured his arms around the Titan's carcass and the two of them slowly fell to the ground, crashing into a heap of broken obsidian and rent serpent flesh.

* * *

The messenger came from Pandemonium. He was little more than an imp, and fell exhausted at Michael's feet. The angel helped him up and sat him down on the edge of the bridge.

"Speak."

"The Legio Incubi..." Michael's stomach lurched.

"What of them?"

"Scattered...divided...leaderless..." the messenger gasped, "Titans attacked Dis...Typhon and Baal...dead..."

Michael rose to his feet. The angels standing nearest, who had heard the news, were now backing away, their faces were filled with a grim dread.

"Then we have no reinforcements," someone murmured from the ranks.

"We stand alone," said another.

"Yes we stand alone!" Michael shouted, rounding on his troops. He stalked past the angels, until he stood again in the centre of the bridge. The sky was dark now, a shadowy pall hanging across Phlegyas, but the approaching army now blackened the horizon. The forces of the Abyss were advancing slowly but surely.

"We stand alone!" Michael repeated. "The Incubi will not relieve us. We stand alone!"

Michael stood before his warriors. He waited until they turned to face him, until he had their full attention. Here, at the centre of the arcing bridge, Michael was elevated above his troops, and he could look down and see the faces of each of them, all staring at him, waiting for him to give them words of hope. Faces and wings of a hundred different colours, eyes of every shade and description, stories that stretched back to the dawn of mankind. All arrayed in the silver arms and armour of the Hosts of Heaven.

"We are the Heavenly Choirs; the angels of God. We stand here," he pointed his sword down at the ground beneath his feet, "in this accursed place because a storm is coming. We stand here, because the Void seeks to consume everything we know, to envelope all of creation with its implacable appetite for death and destruction. I do not offer you hope...I do not offer you promises of victory, or platitudes to save your courage. I see fear in your eyes. Fear I hoped never to see in the eyes of angels. Yet I see it now. It is a good fear...it is the fear of death. There is no better fear. I will not ask you to conquer it; I will not ask you to swallow your terror and ignore the peril before you, for it is the greatest of all perils. I ask only that you stand your ground and fight this battle, that your fear be channelled into your sword arms and used against our enemies."

Michael began to walk back and forth, meeting the eyes of each of the Seraphim in the front rank in turn.

"I have no hope to give you. I have no victory to promise you. That is not why we came here. We are angels: we are the protectors and the guides of men. We are their defenders and their champions. It is not for us that we fight, but for them. We are the shining beacon, whose example they must seek to emulate. Our lot is not glory, it is not victory and freedom, but sacrifice. We are the Firstborn, the Shining Ones, the most favoured sons and daughters of the Lord, but we are not his children. We were born that we might protect and serve his most precious creations.

"Stand here now!" Michael bellowed, "In this most terrible place, at this most terrible time, not for your own sake, not for the sake of a victory that I cannot promise you, but for the sake of mankind, and Earth. That is why we fight now! That is why we stand! In this, our darkest hour, angels of Heaven, fight not for your own lives, but be who you were born to be! Fight the battle you were born to fight! Sell your lives for humanity and for the joy they may yet know! Fight for your children, for the men and women who have worshipped you and looked to you for guidance since the dawn of time! Be their guides! Be their gods! Give yourself not for glory, but for the highest honour there is!"

As Michael spoke, Jael stepped forward and raised a banner pole. From it unfurled the Banner of Light, a winged sword on an azure field that caught the infernal breeze of Hell.

"Stand! Stand because you must! Stand because there are no others who will! Spill your blood upon this bridge that others might live! For their tomorrows, we give our today!"

Michael raised his glittering sword and, as one, the few hundred angels who stood before him drew their own weapons with a thunderous ring of steel.

"Stand!" they roared as one. "Stand!" and the call was taken up by the entire host, reverberating through the long night as the tide of foes approached slowly and inexorably.

He looked at the sign, Dante was no master of the French language, but he knew what the name Cimetière De Colline De Cyprès meant. He had been here before, he had arrived and waited for answers under the light of the gaze of St. Michael.

He pushed the metal gate open, not even noticing the complaining sound the old gate made as it swung open to welcome him to the cemetery

He had been looking for a way ahead after his big reveal at Friction. At that show he had broken a vow he had taken a year before, not only would he end up facing Darkness in a one on one match, he looked forward to the battle, a year before he had been reborn during the very same conflict, he had seen the truth behind the world, and the power behind the throne.

To be honest it scared him witless now, the fear wasn't so much a fear of Darkness himself, it was more about what he represented now, once this brother in arms had been his friend and his ally, they apparently shared many traits, more then anyone could imagine...Now Darkness had been consumed by some malevolent desire for glory and greatness that was as opposed to the former Slayer's character as anything could be.

Thing had spiralled to the point where Dante had admitted to himself that he didn't know the man he considered a friend at all. To him, Darkness had walked out of the light into the dusky realm of selfishness and a form of greed Dante knew all too well, a kind of greed he knew only lead to loneliness and misery. Dante was sure that Darkness would never listen to his warnings, he knew that the man who walked alone would continue on that path no matter what warning he gave him. So in Dante's mind, Darkness needed a more firm wake up call, a wake up call in the form of a fight and hopefully a beating...Darkness words at Friction made him think that defeating the former Slayer was close to impossible

This he admitted had brought him here. He walked up to the old caretaker's house where he had woken up when the Fed had passed by Montreal. The old man was working on something Dante couldn't see, he was working the soil in his smallish garden, tending to the well being of his flowers. Dante paused and watched the old man tend to the blue flowers on the ground, minutes passed by before Dante spoke.

"Forget-me-nots?"

The old man smiled.

"I like 'em..." he said in a gentle voice.

"Yeah, I suppose..." Dante began in a voice that sounded much younger then his 30 years.

"They have a name that makes yer think, don't they?"

"Forget me not? Yeah I suppose."

"yer suppose a lot, don't yer kid?"

Dante managed to suppress another "I suppose" and just shrugged.

The old man laughed.

"Why are yer here kid?"

Dante found himself tongue-tied at this question.

"Don't worry kid, this is the point where I take the responsibility for the situation and tell yer why yer are here."

The old man got up from his crouch and looked Dante straight into the eyes.

"Yer are here to learn, here to be taught and your here because yer know yer have to...or Darkness will consume you whole...And yer here because Darkness has taken up your discarded Lucifer's title belt."

Dante nodded looking stunned.

"Ye...yes..."

The old man laughed.

"Now, what I can't understand is what that damn belt means."

Dante looked surprised, the old man had made a career out of knowing things before he really could know them, his lack of knowledge about the Lucifer's title shocked Dante.

Dante sighed.

"A little more then a year ago I sort of started a big war with Darkness after having declared myself Lucifer's champion, this was before I knew the truth so at the time it was just a superficial folly. Anyway, I even had a belt made, a way to show the world that I was Lucifer's champion. In retrospect I understand why I did that, the belt symbolised my wish to be someone, my wish to be great, my wish to be a champion. The belt and the title symbolised my own sick and twisted drive to register with people, I thought "If they won't love me they can at least hate me".

It's only know that I understand what the belt means, egotism, selfishness, superficial longing for power and the way my soul was driven to the brink to what Satanists call the essence of Satanism...worship of my own ego.

In short, the belt symbolised my own ego and my drive to show off."

The old man nodded, seemingly impressed by Dante's open dismissal of his former self."

"I still don't see why it bothers yer that Darkness took up the title..."

"Don't you get it? The belt symbolised the man Selenia and Darkness helped me to get
rid of, it is the symbol of the old selfish evil Dante, the man who saw people as worms...It...just sickens me to see him take that damn belt up."

The man nodded.

"Somethin' tells me that that's not all, is it?"

Dante sighed and relented.

"No, all my life I have had maybe one friend, one person to trust and to talk to. Then I met Selenia and my world grew and my ego slowly got under my control. Then I faced Darkness and when I won against him...the reason I cheered wasn't because of the win itself..."

"It was because yer felt that you had made it out of your ol' self's clutches...weren't it?"

"Exactly." Dante replied sounding as iff all air had left his lungs.

"Sounds ta me that yer need a bit of a story to help yer see things clearly."

The old man pointed to a bench by his small house and Dante walked side by side with him there and the two men sat down.

"You're here because you have lost track of your life, yer have love, money and respect...respect for and by all who matter...save one."

Again Dante nodded.

"Yer want to find your way, yer want to find your future, a future where yer have taken control of your life."

This time didn't nod in silence.

"A year ago I learned something that has consumed my life from that point..."

The old man interrupted him.

"Yer learned respect, yer learned love and yer learned to trust...and yer are afraid that yer will lose that."

Dante nodded again.

"Yer fear the man yer were, and the man yer may become."

"Yes."

"..and yer fear the Darkness within and the Darkness outside of yer...yer fear your choice despite knowing that yer did the only right thing yer could have done. This is part of what yer have to learn, yer have to learn to accept and to trust...to do that yer must know the truth about the past, yer have to be told the truths even Lucifer, your father fears."

"Doesn't Lucifer fear all truths?" Dante spat, more annoyed by the mention of his father then by anything the old man said.

"Maybe, but he fears the truth about the "Son of Mann" more then any other truth..."

The old man's voice changed and became more civilised, more educated as he began to tell the story.

"A long time ago, when the United States was still a young nation, not even as old as yer now, a British Nobleman called Isaac Edward Mann fled there to escape his growing debts, he left his wife and his parents behind and started a new life in the still wild young nation.

He was drawn to Washington and was a figure on the outskirts of the new republican government. He lived well in his new home country and found a new wife, Helen. The two were married and had three children, Edward, Franklin and Hannah, they lived happily till the day their youngest, their daughter turned seven, a few days after her birthday she fell ill, now even in Washington the doctors were poor at best and the young girl hovered between life and death for days, the father who loved his children more then anything prayed to the lord to spare their daughter, but her condition grew worse...in desperation her father offered a prayer to the devil himself, offering the old horned bastard anything just to get his daughter well again.

Now you see, kid...Mann had abandoned his wife in England and de facto lived in sin with Helen, so while God didn't answer this sinner's prayer, the devil sure as hell did. He offered to cure his daughter and give her a full, happy life, but unlike the lord who gives of love, the devil gives only to receive...so he stated a price. One day, Isaac Edward Mann's family bloodline would be mixed with the bloodline of Satan, Satan asked to be paid for his cure with a "Son of Mann". In desperation Isaac agreed, and saw his beloved little girl grow healthy quicker then any doctor could explain.

The Mann family were happy that young Hannah had recuperated...but the joy only lasted for a year before Hannah was run down by a carriage while walking down the street one day. In anguish, Isaac had to watch his beloved girl die in pain and agony over the next few days.

After her funeral he cursed the devil and himself for taking Satan's offer, again Lucifer appeared and told the grief stricken father that the deal was to cure Hannah, not keep her from harm for the rest of her life.

Slowly, Isaac understood that he had made a deal with the devil and had lost, not only had he been forced to see his girl die in agony, he had to live with the shame of having cursed his family. For the rest of his long life, he was a shadow of his former self, he only slept during the day and stayed up all night to keep the devil away. He died at the age of 86 in agony as the horror of what awaited him after death was clear to him."

Dante swallowed as the old man paused.

"You mean, the reason that Lucifer impregnated my mother was..."

The old man nodded solemnly.

"By doing so he collected his debt, the "Son of Mann" who was born an albino, just like every son of Satan has a mark, yer alabaster skin is yers."

Dante stared at the old man.

"Every son?"

The old man looked surprised.

"Yer mean yer didn't know?"

"No..."

"Lucifer has mated before, kid. The result are always crafty children, boys and girls with great intelligence and strong emotions, they all tried to usurper the reign of Lucifer...and they all failed, some he squashed as they tried to overthrow him, others he maimed physically or mentally, a few others he made his minions. Some of them are still alive, I know of one girl and one boy, and I assume there are more of them."

Dante looked horrified, again his view of the world had been shattered, he had assumed that he was the first-born son of the devil and this news startled and frightened him. His kind, the sub-species he had named Homo Infernalis had more members then he had thought.

"Still alive?" he stammered.

"Yes, if yer want to call their loveless, pitiful lives worthy of that expression..."

"You mean I have brothers? Sisters even?"

"Yes...don't feel drawn to them though, the story isn't done yet."

Dante nodded.

"On his death bed Isaac made a full confession to the priest giving him his last rites, he told him about his desperation to cure his dying daughter, he told him about the pact he had made with the devil and begged the priest for forgiveness.

The Priest was horrified by the story but told him that forgiveness could only come from the Lord but at the same time he made a promised that no "Son of Mann" would ever truly serve the devil."

The old man looked at Dante and smiled.

"And right here, right now I see that that old Priest was right...the son of Mann doesn't serve the devil...yer and yer alone have rejected yer heritage as a lord of hell, kid...yer and yer alone have chosen to live yer life with your human side first...yer unique, a son of the devil who opposes him in the only effective way...by not being like him at all."

Dante was still dumbstruck but felt better in some strange way.

The old man got up from his seat.

"Now kid, yer know the truth...now tell me why yer came here..."

Dante looked up at him.

"I came here to find a way to battle Darkness..."

"Which kind? The man of the kind in your soul?"

"Both." Dante replied without a thought.

"Good answer, kid...good answer. How do yer reckon we should teach yer that?"

"Training maybe?"

"Good answer again , kid...training...and lots of it."

"The Armageddon Oath" - Part IV

Michael moved quickly, bellowing commands to the troops under his command. The lightly armed skirmishing Malakhim he ordered forward to the foot of the bridge and he watched their powerful white wings beat rhythmically as they obeyed, hefting their narrow blades. His Seraphim he formed into an unbreakable wall across the centre of the bridge, shields to the fore, wings folded so that there was no gap visible. Behind them, the Hashmallim formed tight knots of warriors, the flames of their always-burning wings merging so they looked like a series of large bonfires spanning the bridge. When the time came, they would throw their flaming projectiles across the battlefield and destroy the enemy in a blaze of celestial conflagration. Finally, the Ophanim, the strangest of all the angelic host, hovered slowly into their positions guarding the flanks of the small force. The Ophanim were little use in a direct fight, but the multitude of eyes that banded each of the golden wheels that composed their weird bodies made them perfect watchers for flanking attacks.

Michael breathed deeply, hearing the echoing voices of each of his commanders in his mind. They were as ready as they were ever going to be and, with heavy heart, Michael slammed his own tall shield against the stone below his feet and slotted into his own place in the centre of the line of Seraphim.

The enemy approached in a great unruly surge. They were Husks, putrid blue-back zombies with dead eyes, driven forward by the will of their master, the torturer Spyne who was no doubt far from the front line. There was no finesse about this assault; they simply swarmed forward, clawing with their grasping hands and whatever weapons had been thrust into their grips.

The Malakhim engaged their foes, plummeting down from the sky to sever limbs and pierce bloated abdomens, spilling stinking ooze in place of blood across the red earth of Hell. The Husks attempted to fight back, but the Malakhim darted out of their reach, flying back up into the air to search for their next target. The angels continued to pick at the vanguard of the horde, like mosquitoes nipping at an elephant, cutting down a Husk here and there, but ultimately doing nothing to slow their shambling advance.

Eventually the Husks reached the bridge and now, finally, they did slow down as they were funnelled into the narrow gap between the supports. The Malakhim continued to harass their foes, ensuring that dozens of the Husks were sent into the poison waters of the Styx rather than set foot on the Bridge of Phlegyas.

But still they came. The attacks of the Malakhim petered off as the Husks approached the wall of shields until, finally, Michael ordered them to withdraw. They soared high and landed behind the massed angels, keeping their blades ready for when they would be needed again.

The Husks were close now. Jael's nose flared as he caught the putrid scent of their distended, rotting bodies. Their dead, white eyes stared at the line of angels who were ducked behind their shields and their clawed hands reached out for them even as they moved.

"Hold," Michael called to his brethren and, almost imperceptibly, the line straightened as the angels responded to his command, squaring up their shoulders and pushing their shields forward.

The Banner of Light whipped in the stinking breeze off the Styx and then, with a sound like meat being tenderised, the Husks collided with the line of shields. The impact rippled through the ranks of Seraphim, but the line held. Michael saw the talons of a Husk creep over the top of his shield and heard fingers trying to scrabble at the gaps between each shield. He heard the low moans of their enemies, sounds that did not indicate any degree of suffering or misery, but were simply the noise of human bodies, albeit dead and enslaved, exerting themselves mindlessly.

The shield-wall continued to hold, the Husks finding no purchase in its unbroken surface. The Seraphim felt another impact as the next rank of Husks ran into the back of the first and the process continued rhythmically. Each crash increased the weight of bodies pushing against the Seraphim's shields and Michael glanced to each side and saw the sweat trickling down the faces of his troops as they gritted their teeth and held back the corpse-tide.

"Hold!" he bellowed again.

They held, pushing back against their foes with all their considerable might as the pressure gradually increased. Jael's foot began to slip and, with a sound like nails running down a chalkboard, he was pushed backwards a few inches, his armoured foot grinding against the stonework below him.

"We can't hold much longer, Michael," he said through clenched teeth as he tried to restore his footing. A small gap opened up between his shield and Michael's and a Husk's hand reached through, followed swiftly by another. They grabbed at the edges of the shields, trying to push a wedge into the wall.

"Not long!" Michael roared.

Another rank of Husks hit the piled up mass of their fellows and the Seraphim began to buckle around the chink between Michael and Jael. Dead faces now peered in between the gap, staring sightlessly into the ranks angels.

"Michael..." Jael's dark face was pouring with sweat as he tried to push back and close the gap.

"Now!"

With a thunderous battle cry, the Seraphim swept their shields upwards and sent the front rank of Husks reeling backwards. It was only a brief reprieve, but it was all they required. Swords swept through the air and flames sprung up in their wake. The Seraphim broke ranks and each of them unfolded their mighty wings, sending a shockwave of light across the teeming masses of Husks, instantly incinerating them. So densely were they packed that the attack, which in the plaza of Tartarus had destroyed only the foremost Husks, here annihilated hundreds of them.

Huge balls of flame suddenly hurtled out of the sky, causing devastating explosions in the horde of Husks that now swamped the bridge. The Hashmallim struck with monstrous efficiency, their fiery attacks blasting the Husks into charred pieces and, once again, taking advantage of their tightly packed formation.

Michael and the Seraphim surged forward, hacking at the smouldering remains of the Husks that still twitched and moved. A space four hundred yards in front of them had been cleared of Husks, but their broken remains piled up, forming difficult terrain for the angels to negotiate. Michael looked around, squinting against the heat haze from the burning Husks that obscured his vision. He saw immediately that, though they had annihilated this first wave, the Husks came on without pause, picking their way across the remnants of their comrades.

The first of the Husks that came then had their flesh sloughing off their bodies in great burnt chunks, but it didn't appear to slow them at all.

"Form up!" Michael ordered and, as one, the Seraphim dropped their shields again reforming the steel line across the bridge.

The Husks hit the shields, but this time the wall began to buckle straight away. The Seraphim, their effort expended from the inferno of light and holding back the Husks before were slowly pushed back. A gap formed in the line a few dozen yards to Michael's left. He watched in grim horror as a cruel, barbed pole arm penetrated the defences of his warriors and plunged deep into the flesh of a Seraph, doubling the angel over in agony. His brothers avenged him instantly, but the gap was now opened, and the Husks pushed through, widening it gradually, causing the Seraphim to collapse inwards.

"Now!" Michael called again, and the shields were thrown up again, driving the Husks back. This time there was no blast of light for fear of expending their energy too quickly, the Seraphim simply attacked with their swords. They cut through the Husks like wheat, but even a dismembered limb or a sword through the torso didn't stop the advance of the undead horde. They came on, heedless of injury, spilling their noxious ichor across the bridge.

The fiery blasts of the Hashmallim continued to wreak havoc, but their frequency and intensity was less, the angels not having had the same amount of time to prepare their attacks as before.

Michael cut a swathe through the Husks, spinning rapidly and cleaving a band of fire through the air with his gleaming sword. The bodies of his foes fell into pieces around him, and still he continued, ignoring the burn in his muscles as he caught the heavy axe of a Husk on his raised shield, lifted it to expose the creatures abdomen and planted a boot in its stomach. As the monster staggered backwards from the impact, Michael decapitated it with a smooth sweep of his blade.

"Fight!" Michael roared above the sound of clashing steel, "Fight for your lives!"

The Seraphim did so, each of them mimicking the heroic actions of their leader, cutting down a dozen husks with each slash of their swords. Gradually, however, they began to be overwhelmed. For each Husk they destroyed, ten more lurched into the fray, fighting with the same slack-jawed, mindlessly repetitive ferocity. As Michael hacked through the dead, putrescent flesh of his enemies he was aware that, one by one, his Seraphim were being pulled down and overwhelmed. He heard their cries of pain in his mind as sheer weight of numbers bore them down.

"Pull back!" he called, "Back to the centre! Reform the line!"

The Seraphim, now a ragged band of silver and white across the bridge fell back to the centre of the span, leaving their dead behind to be crushed under the weight of the advancing Husks. They doggedly formed the line around Michael and Jael again, slamming their shields into place, taking the opportunity to recover themselves.

Michael looked up and down the line, seeing exhausted, bloody faces. Helms had been lost and hair was matted down with venomous ooze and blood. Some warriors held wounds closed, others were clearly dead on their feet. But they still stood. As long as they did that, hope was not lost.

"Is this all you have?!" Michael snarled over his shield, "I though the Abyss was made of sterner stuff!"

The Husks came on, their progress slowed by the numbers of bodies that choked their path. This time, the angels didn't wait for them to smash into the shields, they simply charged when they came close enough, hacking their enemies apart again with renewed vigour.

The Hashmallim continued to rain fiery death on their enemies, but Michael was suddenly aware of an alarm in his mind. He dispatched the nearest Husk and tilted his head. Instantly he felt the strange echoing voice of an Ophan in his head.

"Lord; the Styx."

Michael turned, frowning at the dark waters of the river, trying to discern what the taciturn Ophanim had seen. He saw then, with horror, the water rippling and muscular shapes emerging to land on the edge of the bridge. Low, stocky beasts with grey, rippling hides bounded into their ranks. They were without eyes, their faces instead dominated by an immense gaping maw lined with hundreds of serrated teeth. Huge tongues lolled from their slavering jaws, the sensitive taste buds lining the dark pink surface the only sense they required.

"Devourers!" Michael cursed, rushing to meet the first of the terrible monsters.

The thing was like a small, squat hippopotamus, but far more agile. It leapt across the bodies in its path, heading straight for Michael, its mouth opening wider than seemed possible so that what now pounced on him seemed to be all maw. Michael slammed his sword into its body right up to the hilt as he squared his shield against its teeth, jamming it in between the thing's mandibles.

The other angels were not so lucky. Taken by surprise by the flanking attack they never saw the Devourers coming. One Seraph turned around too late to intercept the beast and it landed, open mouthed, atop him. The angel screamed, but the Devourer ignored him, bracing its feet as it lurched its whole body up so that it could choke the angel down. Red blood poured down its misshaped jaw as it crushed the warrior who, for just a moment, thrashed in the thing's stomach before, terrifyingly, the weight of the angel's body seemed to disappear.

Michael cringed as he pulled his sword free from the other Devourer and tried not to dwell on the fate of the unfortunate Seraph. Devourers were ancient beasts bred with the power of the Abyss and their stomachs led directly to the Void itself - anything they ate was instantly annihilated.

The Seraphim descended into tangled knots of desperate fighters, cutting apart mindless Husks and attempting to hold the mighty Devourers at bay. Every now and then, one of the tiring angels was swallowed whole by one of the monsters again and any Seraphim near him would fall into disarray at the terrible fate.

"Fight!" Michael bellowed again, but his voice was now hoarse from attempting to rally his troops. Jael stuck to Michael like glue, always keeping the Banner of Light raised above them. The Malakhim raced back into the battle now, soaring over the heads of the other angels and falling on the Husks and Devourers. They were tossed aside lightly by the latter though, these foes being more agile than the zombies they had fought before.

Michael tried to pull the surviving Seraphim into a knot as the Ophanim attempted to aid their brethren, throwing their wheel-like bodies into the fray and sending Husks scattering. The Hashmallim surged forward too; laying down a curtain of fire before them that burnt the Husks and drove some of the Devourers back.

The remnants of the army clustered together on the bridge, surrounded by the bodies of their enemies.

"Half the army of Husks remains, Lord," the voice of an Ophan told him as he leant against his shield, breathing heavily.

"Then we may yet win the day," Michael growled, but with little conviction in his voice.

Jael met his eyes and Michael tried to reassure him with a smile. "While we stand, there is still hope," he told him.

Jael nodded slowly and lifted his blade. "Yes," he agreed, "but we have yet to feel the full brunt of their attack." He pointed with the sword and Michael followed his gaze.

"MICHAEL!"

The voice of the monster that galloped towards them carried across the bridge. Semiazas, huge axe in hand, reared up on his reptilian lower half and then crashed back down to all fours, sending sparks of lightning across the ground beneath him.

Michael surged up into the air, his wings bearing him with languid beats in the hot air. He spun his blade in his fist as, below him, the remainder of the Host of Heaven took to the sky too in order to meet the aerial charge of the Grigori, the Fallen Angels, that now swooped across the battlefield.

Michael threw himself towards the massive shape of Semiazas who swept his axe before him, throwing a dozen angels into the air to land in broken, bloody heaps. He hefted the weapon in a two handed grip and then brought it down into the ground, causing cracks and fissures to open in the bridge's stonework as well as sending out more lightning that crackled across anyone in range, sending friend and foe alike into electric convulsions.

Semiazas met Michael's charge with an immense shoulder, sending the Archangel spinning through the air. Michael recovered himself and lifted his weapon, using the last of his Heavenly power to ignite it and then plummeted towards Semiazas, plunging the flaming sword deep into his side.

"I cast you down once, Semiazas," Michael roared, "and I shall do so again!"

Semiazas only replied with a bestial howl as he swung his axe at Michael, nearly decapitating him with one stroke. Jael leapt into the mêlée, swinging at Semiazas too and the arch-demon attempted to bat both of his smaller attackers away in anger. His massive clawed hand reached out and he secured a grip around Michael's throat as he tried to dart away.

"ENOUGH!" the beast bellowed, lifting Michael high into the air, intending to dash his exhausted form across the stones.

Michael tried to fight free, but Semiazas, who was fresh to the fight, was too strong. Desperately he attempted to swing his sword, but black spots in front of his eyes as the oxygen was cut off to his brain prevented him from attacking accurately. Dimly, he was aware of Jael being slammed into the ground nearby and pinned to the floor by one of Semiazas's clawed feet.

Suddenly, the high-pitched keening call of a war horn sounded in the distance. It was taken up by other horns until a rich, echoing melody resounded across the bloody battlefield.

Semiazas paused and looked up, his massive brow creasing in confusion at the interruption. With a disgusted sound he released Michael and Jael before seemingly fleeing, turning and disappearing into the ranks of Husks and Grigori that had now stopped fighting to stare at something on the other side of the bridge.

Michael picked himself up and looked at Jael, who was standing up the Banner of Light beside him. The sound of the war horn still echoed across the landscape.

"Did you hear that?" Jael asked, more for confirmation that his ears weren't deceiving him than anything else.

Michael nodded and smiled through the blood that caked his skin. "The Horn of Raphael," he declared triumphantly.

They looked at the horizon where, in the strange light of the Hell, a dark shape gathered. Slowly it resolved itself into thousands upon thousands of demons, led by an angel with falcon-like wings and a man in brazen armour. The horn sounded again as the army covered the distance between the hill and the Bridge of Phlegyas with astonishing speed.

Michael turned and saw the army of Husks, Devourers and Grigori retreat in the face of the suddenly overwhelming odds. The relief force surged onto the bridge and, moments later, Lucifer stood before him. He extended a hand and Michael took it, letting the Lord of Hell help him to his feet.

"Am I late, brother?"

Michael grinned weakly through the blood and exhaustion. "A little...where did this army come from...?"

"Pandemonium. It turns out I've been sitting on quite the force. All they needed was a little rallying and an explanation of what was at stake."

Michael looked around in wonder at the myriad demons and monsters that accompanied Lucifer and Raphael. They were a thousand different shapes and sizes, a million different colours, some with horns and scales, some with wings or hooves, some looking little different from humans or animals. They bore a motley collection of weapons but their differences mattered little - they were numerous enough to break the hordes of the Abyss today.

"This is it then, brother," Michael said, standing straight and placing his battered shield before him, "now we stand together."

"Indeed," Lucifer said, placing his hand around the Archangels shoulder. "Here, on the Bridge of Phlegyas is where this all ends."

Too late Michael felt Lucifer's grip tightening on his shoulder and too late he felt the sword press into his back and shear through his spine.

His mouth opened and he stared down in disbelief at the bright red blade that now protruded from his stomach. "W...what...?" was all he could say as his mouth filled with blood.

Lucifer pressed his mouth to Michael's ear. "Did you really think I'd save you?" he asked mockingly, "You were the one who cast me down. It is because of you that I am a prisoner here."

"But..."

"But what? What can you offer me, Michael? Even if you win, I will still be a prisoner in this place. I will still be slave."

"The Abyss...does not offer freedom. Only...only death..." Michael gasped.

"I would rather be free and dead," Lucifer said as he twisted the blade sharply in Michael's gut, "than your prisoner for eternity. I have waited too long to return to my people on Earth. The Abyss will give me what I desire - you offer only pain and suffering. You offer only blind servitude to an indifferent God."

"Father...father..."

"Our father cares nothing for us! When will you learn that we are nothing but pawns in His game? Slaves to His whims as He runs His clockwork universe. No, I have taken my destiny into my own hands, Michael. I am tired of playing His games. True freedom is to defy the very will of God, even if it means death."

"Betrayer..." Michael whispered.

"No shit," Lucifer smirked.

Michael reached out blindly as the blood seeped from his mortal wound and finally Lucifer yanked his blade from his stomach, letting him collapse to the floor. His rag tag army fell on the last of the angels, slaughtering them in short order as the army of the Abyss proceeded up the bridge to meet them.

Lucifer, who was also Loki, Ahriman, Osiris, Yama, Apep, Izanagi, Itzamna, Veles, Seppo, Ilmarinen, Tabaldak and, above all others, Prometheus, God of Man and Fire stood over the body of Michael, who was also Thor, Zeus, Indra, Christ, Lei Gong, Ra, Perun, Perkons, Ukko and a million other Gods of the Skies and the Light and laughed long and terribly.

Semiazas approached him and bowed his head. "Lord," he rumbled, "it is long since we have drawn blades together."

"Yes indeed, Second," Lucifer said with a cold, dead smile.

"In time," the demon reflected, "they will call this the Second Betrayal."

"No," Lucifer said, stooping down to clean his blade on the hem of Michael's dirty robe, "they will call it the Armageddon Oath for, in swearing my loyalty to the Abyss, I have sealed the fate of this world."

Semeiazas laughed at that. "What now?" he asked.

"Now I will take counsel with Beelzebub," Lucifer said, turning away from the slaughter around him, "before the next moon, we shall ride on Earth."

"You plan to attack so soon?"

"Of course," Lucifer smiled, "Azrael is building me an army."

With that the First of the Fallen walked from the battlefield, leaving the bodies of the angels to be used for whatever purposes his demons wished. Behind him, a great shadow rose up, staining the swirling clouds of Hell with a terrible darkness.

It was the Abyss.

And it was only death.

The End

Malcolm Riley was a pragmatic man. He was also obscenely wealthy, and not likely to let a setback like the events of the previous June hold him back. There had been talk, at the time the story hit the papers, of his company being declared bankrupt - as if he'd be foolish enough to put all his money into one project - and some of the seedier tabloids had even accused him of deliberately setting fire to his own property to claim on the insurance.

Even Malcolm Riley, as influential as he was, did not have the power to call down a storm to act as an alibi for arson though.

He had rebuilt. He did it because he had the mind and the money to, and because he knew there was profit to be made. What's more, this particular project had a certain sentimental value for him. Malcolm Riley had taken great pains to hide his past from public scrutiny and, with a few bribes in the right places, he had swept under the carpet all traces of his ancestry. It was not that he was ashamed; he just didn't need the hassle.

Malcolm Riley would prefer that his investors and his partners not know that his father had travelled the country, living out of a trailer and setting up carnival rides for a living. He would rather they not look at the records that showed that, for as long as anyone could remember, the Rileys had been carnival folk.

So it was with a certain amount of vindictive pride that Malcolm Riley opened up an amusement park entirely in his own name, built by men he hired personally, and funded out of his own pocket. He couldn't admit his past for fear of losing his fortune but he could, in some small way, honour his ancestors by doing this.

The damage was now all but repaired. Malcolm Riley, protected by a hardhat, toured the park with the foreman of the site. He shook hands and smiled - put on a show - but all the time he listened carefully to what the man had to say. Malcolm Riley respected those who worked with their hands, and knew that this was a man whom he could trust.

"Right now, we're looking at a couple of weeks to run the last safety checks, and get all the fancy work done."

Malcolm nodded and smiled. "Fancy work is important."

"Not as important as the safety checks."

"Of course not," he conceded, "particularly given the history of this establishment."

There was now no sign of the damage from the fire that had ripped through the park during the summer. Everything looked brand new - as much of it was.

The foreman pointed to the largest attraction, the Transylvania Coaster and, as a Malcolm looked at the sign, he sighed inwardly and wished he was more creative with names. Usually he hired men to do such thinking for him, but this was his park.

"All that's left now, in terms of actual construction, is the ‘coaster."

"Yes, the reports I received last month mentioned the hold up. They were a little...non-specific. Would you care to enlighten me?"

The foreman tipped his hardhat slightly and placed one thumb in the pocket of his jeans. "Well...it didn't sustain a lot of damage in the fire, but we had to get a new crane in a few months back."

"I recall. Why was that again?"

"Darn thing just kept breaking down. Damndest thing. A lot of the fellas claimed the thing was haunted."

"Workers will have their fun," Malcolm said carefully.

"Yeah. But even then, putting it together has been pretty tough. We'd hammer the tracks down and they'd be rusted the next day. Girders would fall off, panels would come lose - you name it; it fell apart on that thing. Honestly, to look at it, you'd think it was twenty years old, not brand new."

"Strange."

"It sure is," the foreman agreed, "but we're pushing ahead. We're confident it'll be ready when the park opens."

Malcolm nodded, but the mysteriously problematic roller coaster had now piqued his interest. "Do you think we could have a closer look at the ride? I'm curious about these problems and I'd like to see them for myself."

The foreman shrugged, but Malcolm knew that his hands-on attitude had gone some way to earning him the man's respect. "No problem."

Several minutes later, they were at the Transylvania Coaster's ticket booth, standing beneath the leering image of Dracula about to bite the neck of his latest voluptuous victim. Scaffolding covered the ride and a few dozen workmen were busy performing various tasks.

The foreman pointed to a bolt. "Look at that - rusty!"

Malcolm leant closer to examine it. "Yes, it has the appearance of a bolt that's been in place for a decade or more."

"But you and I both know that nothing on this ‘coaster is older than a year."

"Correct."

Malcolm stepped past the booth and began a circuit of the roller coaster. The track was still incomplete and, within the winding shape it made there was a large open space littered with debris.

"That'll be cleared out by the time we open too, sir."

Malcolm saw that much of the material was damaged wreckage from the fire. The central region of the ‘coaster had obviously been a convenient place to store what the trucks couldn't carry away in the clean-up operation. Charred girders, panels, pipes and other indeterminate detritus peeked from underneath heavy tarpaulin.

Malcolm Riley was not a superstitious man, but as he gazed at the debris, he felt a shiver run down his spine. The sheets of tarpaulin were frayed at the edges and looked like they'd sustained heavy weather damage.

"How long have they been there?" Malcolm asked, pointing at the sheets.

"Since we moved all this junk in the summer. No more than a few months at the most."

"And the weather, while inclement at times, hasn't been bad enough to wear them like this."

The foreman scratched at his chin. "No...I suppose not..."

Malcolm walked closer to the pile of debris and poked at the charred remnants of an office drywall with the tip of his shoe. Upon contact, the object seemed to crumble and collapse in on itself, leaving only a few chunks of blackened dust. Curious, Malcolm moved into the wreckage, repeating his experiment with other exposed items. All seemed to be in a far more advanced state of decay than their actual age would indicate. The foreman followed his employer gingerly, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. The towering walls of the roller coaster loomed above them, enclosing them in an iron embrace. The sky overhead suddenly seemed darker, though there were only a few wisps of cloud.

Malcolm approached the centre of the littered region. He felt the shiver down his spine again and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A bead of colt sweat trickled down from his balding scalp and made him blink as it found its way into his eye. He rationalised that it was just due to the uncomfortably tight hardhat, but even his pragmatic heart was beating fast now.

The decay was now evident around him. The tarpaulin sheets were corroded into uselessness, full of ragged holes. The ground beneath his feet felt hard and, when he looked down, he saw that the earth was cracked and dry. In the centre of the makeshift junkyard, a pile of rusted wreckage was heaped into a crude cone shape, crowned by an unidentifiable piece of twisted metal that pierced the sky. Malcolm thought he heard thunder in the distance.

Not knowing why, he stretched out his hand to the pile, and found himself moving a piece of corrugated iron that was more orange than grey. It came apart in his hands and he threw it to one side.

"Sir?"

Malcolm didn't turn as he spoke to the man. "Something's under here..." was all he said.

"Should I...should I get the workmen?"

"No. I'll do it."

He worked fast, shifting large pieces of debris which all crumbled at his touch. In mere minutes, he had pulled apart half of the pile, revealing what lay underneath. He peered down into the ground at the curious thing that lay half-buried.

It had the appearance of a corpse, but one of massive proportions. The body was in an advanced state of decay, its flesh grey and desiccated, but it was wearing strange clothing. Malcolm tilted his head to examine the outfit, and saw that it was a kind of baroque suit of armour, made of some reflective black material. It was edged in gold and, unlike almost everything else around him, did not appear to be damaged except at the creature's midsection, which seemed to have been partly destroyed by some kind of explosion.

Something else caught Malcolm's eye however. In the corpse's hand was a sword of some kind. Malcolm Riley knew little about weapons, but he had seen movies, and he was aware that this was the kind of sword a Samurai would have - the kind, some distant memory informed him, that would be called a katana. It too was undamaged and gleamed brightly. Its hilt was gold and shaped like the head of an eagle. Licking his dry lips, Malcolm leant down and pulled the sword from the dead creature's grip.

He lifted it up in front of him and stared at the razor-sharp blade. His heart was thudding at an alarming rate now, but his attention was entirely focused on the katana.

Pearly white eyes, pierced by a single tiny black pupil, snapped open.

Malcolm Riley didn't notice.

There was a sound like rattling bones stirred by a dry desert wind.

"That...is mine..."

Malcolm looked down and froze as he met the predatory gaze of what he had taken for a corpse. The katana clattered to the ground and he tried to move, but the sudden pain in his chest anchored his feet. Lancing pain shot up his left arm and he knew he was having a heart attack.

"Don't die yet," the creature said as it pushed itself up from the crater in which it had lain. Its voice was dry and dead, and he spoke with an accent that Malcolm didn't recognise.

His knees had turned to water now, and he felt warmth at his crotch as he fell to his knees, clutching his chest.

"I must have you alive," the thing rasped, "if I am to feed on you. Normally one such as you would be far beneath me, but I am weak, and have grown feeble in my long sleep."

It locked a barbed talon around Malcolm's neck and hauled him into the air. He tried to shout out a warning as he was pulled closer to the monster's jagged fangs, but no sound escaped his constricted throat. As his flesh was pierced, the pain in his chest faded into insignificance at the pain he felt deep in his skull. The world blurred as his brain collapsed in on itself, caving in under the onslaught of the cursed bite and his jaw went slack.

Skaar drank deep, and Malcolm lived for several minutes longer, contorted in vegetative agony, conscious but unable to move, act or think coherently while he was drained of every drop of blood. For him, those scant minutes were an eternity and, as he was thrown to the floor and finally allowed to die, his ruined mind remembered nothing of the full and successful life he had led before the blackness claimed him.

Helena looked from side-to-side, her neck twisting rapidly as her pinprick pupils looked deep into the infrared and ultraviolet spectra to find their prey. With a mental command, her unit fanned out around her, picking their way through the bare forest. Snow crunched beneath their armoured feet, but they made no other noise.

Here in the tundra, at this time of year, the nights were long. The vampires had ruled this place for centuries, and it had naturally passed into the hands of the Ordo Draco as a result. The humans here knew better than to rebel but this one...this one was different...

Helena had been only a young girl when she was Sired - a farmer's daughter who strayed too far from home on a winter's night not unlike this one. She'd hunted the night for twenty years now, trapped in the body of that awkward teenager that slowly fell apart around her. She gave into the hunger for blood only too readily in order to save the flesh and bone that betrayed her. Her skill and savagery had brought her a high position in her Hive and, when the Children of the Dragon came for them, she had knelt willingly and been given the armour she now wore.

The night was already theirs, but Dragon promised them the day too. For the vampires, forced onto the fringes of civilisation by technology and humanity's dense infrastructure, it was a prize too seductive to pass up.

I see him...

The voice of one of the Thralls - Pieter - echoed through her skull, and the unit responded as one, moving silently towards him, some padding over the frozen earth like animals, others ghosting between the grey trunks of the naked trees like hateful shadows.

I can hear him breathing.

I smell his blood.

His heart is so loud.

Helena nodded. He fears us.

She caught sight of the shape of him; a dull flash of body heat in the infrared and she strained to hear his pants as he fled the undead that hunted him.

Strike! she called, her telepathic command a keening call that forced the legs of the other vampires to move whether they willed it or not. The unit surged forth as one, a dozen black shaped against the white snow, some pounding across the earth with terrifying speed, others seeming to take flight as their supernatural vigour carried them forward.

Helena herself scrambled at the slippery trunk nearest her and pushed herself upwards, taking to the sky like some of her fellows, but gliding above their heads, faster and stronger. The Blood was potent in her, and she emitted a ravenous screech as she descended on their prey.

The man threw up an arm, but Helena was so much faster than he was, and she batted the limb away with impunity, feeling bone shatter beneath her desiccated palm.

DOWN!

The mental command was for him, her psychic might enough to break the spirit of even the most disciplined human. She had seen their knees go weak, or their bowels turn to water. She had seen some curl into foetal balls, their minds shattered. She had seen some - the weakest of all - twist into impossible shapes, their spines rent by her power, their thoughts blasted away by the onslaught of her vampiric touch.

What she had never seen, however, was a man who showed no sign of even having heard her.

The prey met her eyes, and his gaze was unwavering. As he lay on the snow, cradling his damaged arm, he sneered, his pale face contorting with contempt for her.

DOWN! she repeated, but there was not even a flicker of understanding in his dark eyes.

Without needing to voice it, she commanded the others to hold back as she seized the man and hauled him roughly to his feet. With a bestial snarl, she turned him around and bared his neck, digging her fangs into his flesh. She drank deep, drawing great mouthfuls of warm fluid from his veins, but she felt nothing. It was as empty as water and she hurled him back to the ground, letting the tasteless liquid dribble down her chin.

The man clutched at his neck, but his eyes were still steady.

"What are you?" she asked in her human voice, dry and papery.

"We are the Apocalypse."

"You should be dead," she insisted.

"You have no power over us."

She frowned and, for the first time, realised that his dark eyes had no iris. His stare was flat and lifeless, painted on like the eyes of a wooden doll. She suddenly realised why his blood was worthless to her, why he still drew breath even after she had bitten him and why the voice of her mind was silent for him.

FAN OUT!

They moved as quickly as their undead bodies would allow, forming a circle around Helena and her downed prey.

DEFEND YOURSELVES! THERE MAY BE MORE OF THESE!

Her commands were desperate now. Vampires didn't know fear, but even she knew when danger was close by and that they had to move fast if any of them were going to survive.

Beside her, the one on the ground was chuckling. "You're too late," he told her, "you fell for the trap."

Shadows moved towards them from the trees. Shadows they couldn't sense in the darkness and she saw that the blood on the one that had spoken to her wasn't his own - his heat that she had seen was from some other human.

"We are The Apocalypse," he repeated, climbing to his feet and then, without hesitation, twisting his wrist so that his arm popped back into place. Not even a ghost of pain passed his dead eyes.

The others walked out of the forest: men and women, of many colours, but all with the same painted-on eyes. The vampires charged, but they were robbed of all their power against these foes. They cut the strangers to ribbons, their blades leaving slashes of their empty blood across their limbs and torsos, but nothing stopped them.

Finally, when all but she had been killed, Helena sank to her knees and let the first of the monsters grab her chin and tilt it upwards so she could look into his emotionless face.

"We do not know pain," he told her, "we do not know fear. You and your kind cannot hurt us. Lord Abortion has judged you weak, and ordered your deaths. We are The Apocalypse: the true Children of Apophis. Look into our eyes and know the Void."

As he stared into her, she saw the truth of his words and saw the black nothingness in the depths of his eyes. Beyond this one there was another: immeasurably stronger. And not just stronger than him, stronger than anything she had ever felt: stronger than the world, stronger than the universe. Perhaps even stronger than God Himself.

Helena screamed, and didn't stop until he snapped her neck in two and cast her broken body to the cold earth.

The game was even more complex than when it had begun. Two years ago, his authority was unquestioned, and he was certain he was pulling all the strings behind the scenes. Once it was a gambit: now it was more like spinning a roulette wheel. If he couldn't predict how Dragon or Lilith would act, what hope did he have for second-guessing Darkness?

Seth knew he would succeed though. It was just a matter of time now - the final piece of the puzzle was already in place, inexorably descending from the heavens. The psychic death-cry of an archangel had reverberated through the void of space and drawn the eye of the Beast.

All they had to do now was wait.

He turned away from the lights of Istanbul which stained the cloudy sky a dull burnt-orange. Dark minarets pierced the unnatural-looking haze, contrasting with the illuminated spires of Christian churches.

His hotel room was dark, since he had no use for light, and as he stepped inside he knew he wasn't alone. A darker shape crouched in the shadows and it amused Seth to evade its senses by stepping further into the gloom himself.

"What do you want?"

"I have a message."

He didn't recognise the vampire's voice, but he could make out the shape of its armour. "From Dragon?"

"He wants to speak with you."

"Where is he?"

"Cambodia."

"Very well."

Seth turned and twisted through space, following the paths of darkness that were faster than light and emerging from the shadows on a very different scene. Fiery torches lit the vast ruined plaza in the ancient temple. Dozens of vampires skulked across the cracked flagstones, some crawling like animals, others erect and proud in their Ordo Draco armour. A few scurried up and down the walls, looking like enormous pale insects. Everywhere, he could sense the hum of telepathy, even though his own mind was Void to these creatures.

"You wanted to speak to me?"

He had arrived just a few feet away from Dragon, who perched in the mouth of the sarcophagus that had once held the very vampire that had Sired him. It amused Seth to see the look of surprise on the former Shadow Slayer's face and the way he inexpertly tried to hide it and draw himself up. Dragon would never be anything but an upstart henchman, Seth thought with a smirk that didn't touch his pale, strangely non-descript face.

"You got here fast..."

"I saw no reason to delay. What is it you want? I assume it's important, or you would have just waited for the next council meeting." Seth let the last two words slam into place like closing blast doors, reminding Dragon that his butchering of every member of the former council was not something he would ever forget.

"What does the name ‘Lord Abortion' mean to you?"

Seth gave Dragon an arch look. "It's a title."

"Whose?"

"It is one of the names of the Champion of Darkness; the Chosen Avatar of Apophis."

"Isn't that you?"

Seth chose not to have this conversation with Dragon now. He probably never would, he reflected. Once he trusted the vampire - as far as any of their kind could be trusted anyway - but now he was too powerful to be afforded something as potentially hazardous as that. Dragon was an enemy, just like Darkness and Dante and the werewolf girl. "No," he answered simply, "Apophis is likely to chose another to represent him in the Final Battle."

"You're using the future tense..."

Seth frowned slightly, but immediately smoothed his brow before Dragon glanced back in his direction. "Yes. Why wouldn't I? Apophis has yet to grace us with His presence."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I assure you, when Apophis arrives, you will know about it."

Dragon snorted, causing a flicker of anger to pass across Seth's otherwise placid face for just a moment. "So why am I hearing about Lord Abortion already?"

This information was new. Seth titled his head slightly. "Hearing?"

"Small cells of the Ordo Draco are being attacked."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Siberia, Scotland, Congo, Bangladesh..."

"And not by Shadow Slayers or other enemy agencies I assume?"

Dragon gave him a sneering glance. "Would I have called for you if it was just that? I don't know what's killing my troops, but I've picked up stray thoughts from the battles - the name ‘Lord Abortion' keeps reappearing."

"Lord Abortion - if this is somehow connected with him - would be on our side."

"And just what is ‘our side', Seth? I've heard rumours you've begun interrogating Novamori's men..."

"I haven't ordered any employee of DanteCorp tortured."

Dragon laughed, a dry, papery noise. "Who said anything about torturing, Seth?"

"I have little interest in other interrogation techniques, and I make it my business to only employ agents who feel the same way. The point is that I'm not yet foolish enough to order the torture of anyone who actually answers to Mr. Novamori."

"But you are trying to find out what he's up to?"

Seth folded his arms and tapped a slender finger against his jaw. "When did you become so well-informed on my activities, Dragon?"

The vampire smiled, showing off his gleaming fangs. "It pays to know what your friends are doing. You should know that, Seth. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't know all about this Lord Abortion business already."

"What happens to the Ordo Draco is hardly my concern."

"But what happens to DanteCorp is?"

Novamori isn't my enemy, Seth thought to himself, and I don't have to worry about playing games with him - he can be pushed around and eventually discarded if he becomes a problem. "I don't answer to you," was all he said in reply to Dragon though.

His companion snorted. "This game is becoming too complex for me. The sooner we kill Darkness the better."

"I have agents seeing to that," Seth said carefully.

"I could send the entire Ordo Draco in. We know where he's staying - what could he do against a million vampires?"

It took all of Seth's vast willpower not to show the shock he felt on his face at that moment. A million?! Since when? Surely Dragon was exaggerating...

"No," he said, keeping his voice absolutely measured, "while Darkness is a public figure, he cannot be removed in such a fashion. We bide our time and, when the hammer falls, there will be no one to oppose Apophis."

"You mean Lord Abortion," Dragon said ominously.

"Same difference."

"If that's so, then why is he killing my vampires?"

"You have a million of them," Seth said curtly, "what do you care?"

"Maybe I'll tell you why I'm so concerned if you tell me why you're so concerned about Novamori and DanteCorp," Dragon grinned, letting his blackish tongue flick across his serrated teeth. His pinprick eyes shone with a predatory gleam, even behind the golden mask he wore across half his face to hide the handprint left by Jason Dante over a year ago.

"I think this meeting is over," was all Seth said, "thank you for bringing this business to my attention."

"Keep it to yourself, Seth..."

"I intend to."

"I thought you might."

The Shadow Slayer Chronicles I: Shadow Over Cold Brook

Chapter 1

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean churned like a restless beast, moving in thick, heavy swells. Spray threw droplets of salty ocean across the deck of the ship as Jackson Dane stared out across the heaving sea, rising and falling in the primal rhythm of the storm gathering just over the horizon. He could see the clouds shifting, forming into great columns high in the sky, ready to smite their ruin across the surface of the Earth.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Nathaniel Forge stepped into place behind him. He placed one worn hand on the younger man's shoulder and squeezed almost imperceptibly. It was all the reassurance Jackson needed. He turned to Nathaniel and gave him a wry smile. "How long until we make port?"

"Less than an hour."

Nathaniel Forge's voice was hoarse with age. His scarred face was shadowed with a wide-brimmed hat but his eyes gleamed through the darkness, belying his age with their sharp focus. He was an experienced warrior; tall and broad, with a stern, stoic bearing even in his old age. He moved as if every step was a bold declaration, a testament to battles he had fought throughout his long, tumultuous life.

"I haven't been home in a long time," Jackson said conversationally.

"Home? I thought you were born in Virginia."

"I mean...to America."

Forge barked a laugh. "Is that what they call it now?"

He had been a Shadow Slayer since he was a young man, and that meant effective isolation from world affairs for the better part of five decades. The Revolutionary War had passed Nathaniel Forge by without so much as a curious glance.

The ship rolled as the waves swelled, and Jackson placed a hand on the rail to steady himself. He couldn't hide his nervousness: his apprehension at returning to his homeland after so many years. And it was more than that - the storm was ominous, even though he knew there was nothing sinister about it. Some of the dangers they faced had the power to whip up meteorological phenomena, using the cover of churning clouds and the fear generated by thunder and lightning to enhance their native power.

This mission though...this was routine...

"We'll put in at New York within the hour, sirs," an old sailor told them as he sidled up, one calloused hand enclosing a length of rigging.

"Told you," Forge said impassively.

"That's Long Island to starboard," the sailor went on, "the cap'n daren't go too far from the coast with this storm brewin'."

"And yet," Forge replied, turning to him slowly, remaining totally erect, "he was perfectly happy to cross the Atlantic Ocean?"

"It ain't so easy to sail in sight of land as it is in the open ocean, sir, meanin' no disrespect. These harbours ain't easy to navigate, ‘specially for a British ship. I doubt there's many dock workers'd shed a tear if pieces of us washed up in New York."

"Quite. If you are worried about partisan sentiments though, my man, I assure that my colleague and I have all the necessary paperwork to avoid any...unpleasantness. Besides, he's as American as they come."

The sailor raised his eyebrows with interest as he looked around the towering shape of Forge at Jackson who was still hunched over the rails. He gave the man a half smile and waved a hand.

"Fought in the war, did he? Got trapped on the wrong side maybe?"

"I didn't fight in any wars," Jackson said as he straightened. "Not ones you'd have heard about anyway."

Forge's rocky façade cracked momentarily as he allowed himself the barest hint of a smile at his companion's words. "Don't trouble this good man with your troubles, Jack. He has a job to do."

The sailor took the hint and tugged at his forelock as he backed away. "Right you are, sirs. I'll wish you good fortune on your journey now. Where is it you're headed, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Inland," Forge said, "I doubt you'd know much about the area."

The sailor smiled, revealing a nearly toothless mouth. He bobbed slightly, perhaps in imitation of a bow, and scurried back to his work.

"Nice fellow," Jackson remarked.

"Nice enough. I doubt this ship will still be in port when we return from our mission though."

"No, they won't stay in New York long. Not with a Union Jack flying at her bow."

"There is the Jay Treaty, Jack."

"Tell that to the men who still remember fighting against the British."

"I doubt I shall have the opportunity. If any of your countrymen wish to take exception to me, I can more than acquit myself. That is, if it comes to violence."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Lack of violence is hardly something I lose sleep over."

Jackson laughed, but the heaving off the deck beneath their feet caused him to clamp his mouth shut and tighten his grip on the rails. "This storm's going to hit in a minute," he observed.

"I have the utmost confidence in this ship and its crew." Nathaniel had not budged an inch. He held his hands behind his back, gripping the wrist of the left in his right fist. His jaw was set firmly even though the hot wind was starting to whip tendrils of iron-grey hair around his face.

"How do you stay so calm, Master?"

"There is nothing this storm can do to me that is worse than the tortures my enemies imagine every night in their beds when they think of me. I lose no sleep over that, so I will not dignify the weather with such either."

"You have an answer for everything, you know that?"

Nathaniel's gimlet gaze met Jackson's wide, honest grin. "Yes."

* * *

The storm hit as they sailed into New York's teeming harbour, and they managed to avoid the worst of it. Forge and Dane took their leave of the ship and procured what they required for the next leg of their journey. They didn't linger in the growing city. It was early evening by the time they were on the road north, and they left the thunder behind them, rumbling in the distance. Behind the rolling clouds, clear skies beckoned.

They had procured a kind of covered wagon to transport them and their equipment; it was a fairly rude conveyance, but they were heading away from civilisation, and Forge refused to spend a night in New York.

"So where are we going exactly?" Jackson asked as they sat together in the back of the wagon, surrounded by crates of beets that were apparently going in the same direction as the two Shadow Slayers.

"A village in the Blue Mountains"

"Called?"

"Cold Brook"

"Sounds nice."

Nathaniel nodded. "I'm sure it is. At least in the daytime."

"So what are we investigating?"

The older man glanced towards the front of the wagon where the driver was hunched over at the reins. He didn't show any signs of hearing them but Nathaniel leant closer anyway.

"Werewolves."

Jackson smirked. "We came all this way to check on a werewolf rumour?"

"More than a rumour."

"If it was more than a rumour, we would have heard something in the city. It'd be on the front of every newspaper."

"This is the frontier, Jack, you should know that. Strange things in the mountains are an everyday occurrence for these people."

"Look, there's no need to romanticise it - I'm American, remember? This isn't Colorado. We're in New York: the centre of the Union, and less than one-hundred-fifty miles from British territory at that. This is civilisation, even by your standards."

"I doubt you'll feel the same way once we get into the mountains."

"Alright," Jackson sighed, conceding the point as he leant back against the shaking wall of the wagon, "so what did they find? Bodies? Tracks?"

"No - a living specimen."

Jackson didn't attempt to hide his surprise. "They caught one of them alive? How?"

"I don't know all the details."

"But you know enough to drag us across the Atlantic?"

"Remember your place, Neophyte," Nathaniel said in a low voice.

"Forgive me..." Jackson murmured, abashed.

"I understand your scepticism. I didn't take the voyage lightly though. What I was shown was more than enough to convince me it was worthwhile."

"If a village captured a live werewolf..."

"Word will spread. Photographs, maybe. The rumours of country folk are easy to deny, but if men in the city start passing around some harder evidence..."

"Bad news."

"Correct."

By the time they got near the village, nestled in a valley at the southern end of the Blue Mountains, it was approaching dawn. Neither man had slept much on the journey, but they were nonetheless alert. As the wagon started to wind its way down the rough road that ran alongside a silvery strip of river, the sun began to rise over the mountains, flooding the valley with syrupy light.

Jackson poked his head out of the wagon and appraised their surroundings. "It's a nice morning," he told Nathaniel, ducking back inside.

"It'll look a lot worse when we get to Cold Brook."

"Why? You think that storm's going to turn around and come back?"

"No, I was talking about our mission."

"Oh."

Cold Brook barely warranted the designation of village. It was little more than a handful of log-built houses clustered around the dusty road that followed the river up to the larger mining communities in the mountains. It existed only because it was a convenient place to put an inn where the ground levelled out. Around that inn, satellite businesses had formed. Farriers, tinkers and merchants all maintained holdings in the village, hawking their wares to the travellers who had no choice but to pass through and, most likely, stay the night. As the wagon drew into the village's main street, Nathaniel drew back into the shadows, while Jackson looked out and tipped his hat to a young woman who watched their arrival with interest. They soon reached the inn, and the two Slayers dismounted.

The sun was fully risen now, and the village had obviously been awake for some time. It was impossible to miss the inn - the only two-storey building in the settlement - and they made their way there immediately, both removing their hats as they stepped through the door.

"Rooms is it?" The narrow-faced woman at the counter asked, not looking up from the ledger in front of her.

"One will be sufficient."

She looked up sharply upon hearing Nathaniel's accent. For a moment she seemed to consider her options, then nodded slightly. "We have three rooms spare. One with two beds, and the others are singles."

"The single room will be fine."

"We could have a room each," Jackson suggested.

"Why?" Nathaniel asked, turning to him with a frown.

"You want these people on your side, don't you?" Jackson said in a low voice, "Two rooms let means more money for her. Why else would she suggest it?"

"I knew there was a reason I brought you along," Nathaniel said with the ghost of a smile. He turned back to the innkeeper smoothly and placed a handful of silver dollars on the desk. "We will take two separate rooms, upon consideration."

She eyed the money with little apparent enthusiasm. Her pinched facial expression had not changed since the conversation started. "One room's nicer than the other. I imagine you'll be wanting that one, will you?"

"Yes. I am the senior partner."

Jackson laughed as the woman passed the ledger over for Nathaniel to sign, which he did with a flourish, and then crossed from behind the desk to lead them to their rooms.

"Can you arrange for our luggage to be brought up?" Nathaniel asked, gesturing to the small pile of cases near the door.

"George will take them up for you."

Nathaniel and Jackson both turned to see a young Negro saunter up, hands shoved into the pockets of his vest. He gave them a broad smile and waggled his eyebrows. Nathaniel paused. "Is he...?"

"It's abolished in this State," Jackson answered quickly.

The pinch-faced proprietress made an indeterminate noise and jerked her head up the stairs to indicate that they should hurry if they actually wanted these rooms. As Jackson held back to help George with their luggage, Nathaniel followed the woman up the stairs.

"So what brings you to Cold Brook, Mr. Forge?"

"I own a coal mining company."

"You're a prospector?"

"Not personally. But I take a hands-on approach to finding new locations for pits."

"You came all the way across the ocean to dig a hole in the ground? Isn't there any coal left in Britain?"

Forge chuckled. "There's plenty, but we're a small firm. We have to look hard for untapped deposits. We think that the trip will be worth it."

"And what about your friend? He a coal miner too?"

"He's my nephew by marriage."

"You married an American woman then?"

Her mind was as sharp as her features. They had reached one of the doors of the room now. "I didn't catch your name, madam."

"Mrs. Thacker. Your wife is American?"

"Yes, she is."

"Well, that's something at least. I can't say I'd be much inclined to let British prospectors dig pits in our mountains. It took us long enough to be rid of you in the first place."

"I've no great love for my country, Mrs. Thacker. If this venture proves successful, I expect we'll settle here instead."

"In Cold Brook?"

"Maybe."

"Can we get these doors open?"

Jackson and George were hovering on the stairs and, with another pained expression, Mrs. Thacker unlocked the door. Nathaniel stepped inside and perused the small room with its basic furnishings. "This is...my room...?"

"Yes, it is. Is there a problem?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Thacker. We are used to so much worse."

"I'll just bet you are. Put their cases down here, George."

"Yes, Mrs. Thacker," George said with his apparently ever-present grin. Jackson followed him in and the two men deposited the luggage in one corner. The small stack seemed to take up most of the room.

"Your room is next door," Mrs. Thacker told Jackson. "Do you want to see it?"

"Just leave us the key, please," Nathaniel answered.

She nodded and, beckoning George away, closed the door behind her, leaving the two Slayers alone.

"I think we've been cheated..."

"Nonsense. This room was worth every penny."

"Oh?"

"Did you speak to the Negro?"

"A little."

"He liked you?"

Jackson shrugged. "He liked me enough. He seemed the easy-going sort."

"Good. And I bet he overheard me talking too. Our cover story will have spread through this village within the hour."

"Master, can I ask why we're going out of our way to make friends here? This is hardly normal Shadow Slayer protocol."

"You're right, Neophyte." Nathaniel crossed to the window and looked out over the dusty streets and the merchants, tradesmen and other travellers beginning to fill it. "We're chasing a rumour though. There's a werewolf somewhere in this village, and I'll bet everyone here knows it. We need to ingratiate ourselves into this community. Become their friends."

"It wouldn't take us more than a day to search this village building-by-building. Why this subterfuge?"

"This is the frontier, Jackson: a new country and new people. Already they are making myths of the men who signed their Declaration of Independence. You saw how Mrs. Thacker reacted to me - even those who remember the war have turned the British into demons. Can we afford to be complacent? What if this village were to become the next New York or Philadelphia? What if they remember the two men who came and ransacked every house searching for a monster in the dim past?"

Jackson nodded, understanding. "So how will we go about this?"

"We ask questions. We find out the truth. Remember, we are looking to mine coal in these mountains, so anything we ask about the terrain or recent events will seem like innocent enquiries by businessmen checking on the soundness of a potential future investment."

"If there is a werewolf..."

"They will tell us nothing. They have a vested interest in a new business coming to the village. They all make money off the miners and haulers who go up into the mountains. What you must listen for is what they don't say."

Jackson smirked. "I could listen to what the people of Cold Brook don't say back in Rome..."

"Quite so. But we'd have little success destroying their werewolf from there, would we?"

"Fair point. So, shall we start ‘ingratiating' ourselves?"

"I shall do nothing of the sort - I leave that to you, my young apprentice. You have proven yourself to be the man of the people. Go out and learn what you can."

Jackson scratched the back of his head and smirked. "Alright then. I'll begin at once."

The Shadow Slayer Chronicles I: Shadow Over Cold Brook

Chapter 2

The day was as glorious as the sunrise had promised. Jackson stepped out of the inn and tugged the brim of his hat low over his face to shade it from the sun. It was uncomfortably warm in his heavy, dark coat, but he had enough weapons concealed about his person that removing it would probably be a bad idea. Instead, he affected an air of calm nonchalance as he strode up the street.

He was still a young man. Old for a Neophyte, perhaps, but the Shadow Slayers accepted initiates of all ages. He wore his black hair long, in imitation of Nathaniel's (which he freely admitted), but he could not mimic his Master's stern, craggy demeanour. He knew that Forge harboured a great well of compassion and, at the same time, a deep and abiding hatred for injustice and evil. That was why he'd asked the question about George inside the inn. Jackson admired the man immensely, but knew that they were very different people and could see why he had been chosen for this particular task, as unusual as it was for him to work alone.

"Why hello there, Jack."

Jackson looked up to find George standing in front of him, thumbs stuck into the pockets of his vest, huge white grin plastered across his open, honest face.

"Nice to see you again, George," the Neophyte replied with a tip of his hat, "I thought Mrs. Thacker would have you working inside at this time of day."

"I'm runnin' an errand for her, sir," George shrugged, falling into step with Jackson.

"And you're not in a hurry?"

"Mrs. Thacker don't bother George. George takes as long as he wants."

"That's not a usual attitude in a Negro, George, I hope you don't mind me saying."

"Ah, George ain't no ordinary Negro, sir. George was born a freeman."

"Oh?"

"Yep. George's mamma was made free back in Boston before the War. His daddy got bought by her when they married."

Jackson laughed and then removed his hat so he could mop his brow. "Is it always this hot here?"

"No, sir. Storm's comin' if you ask me."

"Again?"

"Might be it's swingin' back from the sea."

Jackson frowned. "I've never heard of anything like that before. Does it happen here often?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. You know how mountains are though, Jack."

This explanation seemed to satisfy George, whose swagger seemed as ever-present as his grin, but it troubled Jackson. He decided that George was probably not the one to press for information though, at least regarding the strange weather.

"George, I need to ask around about Cold Brook for my uncle..."

"You want to know about the mines?"

"Well, yes, but we might settle here someday, so he wants to know about the community. Who can I speak to who has some standing?"

"Mrs. Thacker's richest."

"I don't want the richest person. I want to talk to someone respected...someone well known."

"Well, sir," George said, rubbing his heavy jaw, "Mr. De Groot probably who you want to speak to."

"And he is?"

"The farrier. Ain't many people come through Cold Brook who ain't have cause to see Mr. De Groot."

"Can you take me too him, George?"

The Negro clapped him on the back. "George is one step ahead of you, Jack - we already there!"

Jackson looked up and saw from the sign on the building that they were indeed at the farrier's. The sound of smith-work rang out from the yard behind the house and, ushered by George, Jackson walked down the gap between the log wall of the farrier's and the building next to it - a general store - to find the man he sought.

De Groot lived up to his name. He was a huge, bearded man in his shirtsleeves with a mane of wild blonde hair. What was visible of his skin beneath the sweat and grime was burnt pink by the sun - clearly it was not safe for him to maintain a forge inside his wooden property.

"Mr. De Groot?"

The farrier looked up from his work, hammering at a tool of some kind. The hammer remained hovering the air.

"Well? Speak - I can't hold this up forever!"

"I wondered if you had a few moments to speak with me."

"About? Have you some work needs doing?"

"No..."

"Then why take up my time?" He dropped the hammer with a thunderous clank.

"I was told you were a respected man in this community. My name is Jackson Dane and I'm here on behalf of my uncle, the owner of a mining company, and was hoping we could talk a little about the area and Cold Brook."

De Groot paused again, and seemed to consider. "Who told you I was respected?"

"George. He..." Jackson looked around, but the Negro was nowhere to be seen.

"Mrs. Thacker's boy?"

"He works at the inn, yes."

"George doesn't know night from day. He's touched in the head, that one. Trust me," he said, levelling his hammer at Jackson, "no good comes from freeing Negroes."

Jackson was swiftly reassessing his opinion of the burly smith, but he resolved to use the people skills that Nathaniel deemed were so useful. "Maybe you'd like to take a break and tell me what kind of community Cold Brook is?"

De Groot grunted and continued with his work. "Same as any other. And I've no time for breaks. I'm the only farrier within ten miles, and there's a lot of farmers and miners and trappers that are paying me good money not to stand around talking to strangers."

"Trappers?"

"Sure," De Groot said, his words punctuated by the sound of his hammer striking the anvil, "lots of trappers up in the mountains."

"What kind of animals do you get up here?"

"All kinds."

"Cougars? Bears?"

"Sure."

"What about wolves?"

De Groot's hammer hung halfway down to the anvil. He eyeballed Jackson. "Yeah, wolves too. What do you care?"

"Like I said, my uncle is looking to mine around here. If there are dangerous animals in the mountains, he needs to know."

"Well there's plenty of wolves."

"Too many, you think? Maybe it's time for a cull, eh?"

De Groot turned suddenly, thrusting the piece of beaten metal he had been working on into a tank of water. The steam billowed up in a great hiss, momentarily obscuring the massive farrier. As it cleared, he spoke without looking at Jackson. "The trappers don't take wolves," he said in a low voice.

"How come?"

"Some say it's bad luck. Some say their pelts aren't worth enough to justify the effort."

"And what do you say?"

"I say you've asked enough questions." He looked up at Jackson, and the Shadow Slayer noticed the man's piercing blue eyes for the first time. "Unless there's any smithing I can do for you, Mr. Dane, I suggest you move along."

Jackson tipped his hat. "Of course, Mr. De Groot. I apologise for taking up your valuable time."

The farrier just grunted by way of reply and went back to his work. Jackson watched him for a moment or two more, before leaving without a backward glance.

* * *

The story was much the same wherever Jackson went. The village was too small to hide much and, whoever he spoke to and whatever direction from which he approached it, the subject of wolves always seemed to hit a nerve. As he trudged through the main street in the afternoon heat, he met George again.

"Hey, Jack. You lookin' hot, sir."

"It's a hot day, George. I'll be glad when this storm of yours hits."

"Oh, I don't think so, Jack. It's a bad storm comin', sure."

"A storm never hurt anyone," Jackson said with a wan smile.

"Tell that to Noah, Jack!"

Jackson laughed. The Negro had once again fallen in beside him, matching his pace with his usual confident swagger. "People say you been asking about wolves," he said conversationally.

"Oh do they?"

"Yep. People been tellin' George, ‘that man, he always ask about wolves. Thinks we oughta cull ‘em.' Ain't you like wolves, Jack?"

"My uncle doesn't like them, no," Jackson replied smoothly, thinking fast, "his wife was killed by one a few years ago. So he says anyway."

George frowned. He placed a hand on Jackson's shoulder. "A wolf killed his wife?"

"Yeah. That's what he tells me."

George met Jackson's eyes. The Negro's stare was strangely compelling; his eyes were simultaneously dark and bright. "Don't lie to George, sir."

Jackson blinked. "Lie? What makes you think I'm lying?"

"George knows a lie when he hears it. People think that ‘cause George is jus' a Negro, they can say what they like. Men like De Groot say bad things in front of George ‘cause they think he too dumb to understand, but George is smarter than anyone thinks."

"George...I don't think you're..."

The Negro's huge smile broke out across his face, and he slapped Jackson heartily on the shoulder. The Slayer relaxed and let his shoulders slumped.

"There ain't no need to be scared of ol' George, Jack! He's jus' playin' with you. Now tell me why you really scared of wolves."

"You still think I'm lying?"

"Course. Mr. Forge's wife would be your aunt - the sister of your mamma or maybe your daddy. George ain't know how whitefolks treat their family, but he thinks you'd know how she was killed. And, besides, Mr. Forge told Mrs. Thacker she was still alive." He gave Jackson a playful cuff about the jaw. "You got to do better than that to get one past George, Jack."

"You got me, George," Jackson said with a fixed smile, "it's me who's scared of wolves. I guess it's just from when I was a boy."

"We all scared of somethin', Jack. Ain't nothin' to be ashamed about."

"I know. You can understand why I'd be so anxious about wolves though."

George winked. "Course. You can trust George to keep your secret, Jack."

Jackson nodded, and George tucked his hands back into his vest pockets and walked off with his curious rolling gait, moving in the opposite direction to the inn.

* * *

"I'm telling you, there's something strange going on here..."

"Of course there is." Nathaniel and Jackson were sitting at a table in the older man's room. It was cramped, but they needed the privacy. Their evening meal, a basic beef dish with potatoes and beans, had been brought to them and both men were tucking in readily. Jackson was ravenous after his long day, but Nathaniel's appetite was harder to explain.

"I mean, more than just a werewolf being hidden."

"Oh?"

Jackson wiped at his mouth with a napkin. The heat in the small room was uncomfortable, even though they had a window open. The air outside was becoming increasingly muggy and it seemed as if George's prediction about the storm was going to come true. "I just feel like everyone is hiding something."

"Is that not what I told you to expect? These people don't want to discourage a new business."

"No, but it's more than that. I got an odd feeling about De Groot, and George, for all his charm and confidence, makes me uneasy."

"Didn't De Groot say he was - how did he put it? - ‘touched in the head'?"

"Yes. But, as I said, I don't trust De Groot either. I think this might be some kind of trap."

Nathaniel barked a laugh and washed down some beef with a swig of indifferent beer. "A trap?"

"Yes, a trap." He leaned closer. "What if they didn't capture a werewolf? What if they're protecting it instead?"

"Then why bring us here?"

Jackson sighed. "I don't know. Not yet anyway."

"That's right. There's still more questions to be asked. Another day scouting out the town won't do you any harm."

"It might do in the middle of a storm," Jackson replied, looking glumly out of the window.

"A storm never did anyone any harm."

"Tell that to Noah," the Neophyte said absently.

* * *

The storm hit during the night, rattling the windowpanes and seemingly causing the whole village to shake for hours on end. Jackson felt like he was back on the ship again, crossing the Atlantic. By the time morning came, the lack of sleep had started to catch up with him and the weather was no better. Reluctantly he rose and performed his morning ablutions. Nathaniel was awake and waiting for him in the common room. They exchanged only a brief nod as Jackson stepped out into the wild weather.

He needn't have even bothered. The village was empty. In the terrible weather, all trades had been abandoned. No one would brave the mountain roads while the thunder rumbled overhead and the rain lashed down. Jackson spent the morning walking up and down the main street, one hand keeping his hat in place on his head, looking for anyone to talk to.

Eventually he ducked down a side road and found himself heading towards a wharf sticking out into the river. The surface bucked and heaved, reminding him once again of their ocean passage, and he resolved to give up hope of finding any information today.

"Are you the miner?"

Jackson turned around to see a woman standing in the shelter of a building to his right. She was young, with hair the colour of wheat and, after a few seconds, he placed her. She was the girl he had tipped his hat to as they'd entered the village. She was pretty, in a small town way.

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Or his nephew at any rate."

"People say you're asking questions."

"Just trying to get to know the area, ma'am. My uncle's idea. I mean no harm by it."

"People in Cold Brook don't like questions."

He tried to smile, but the wind seemed to whip the expression off his face. He used his free hand to pull the collar of his coat closed across his face, then yanked it down an inch or two so he could still speak. "I've noticed that, yes."

"You and your uncle should get out of here," the girl said.

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"There's danger here. Outsiders can get in trouble."

"Ma'am, you're town's built on trade from outsiders. Without outsiders, who'd even come here?"

"People pass through. That's different. If you stay too long, the shadow'll fall on you too."

Jack dropped his hand from his collar. He stepped towards the girl, towering over here. In that instant, all pretence of friendliness was dropped too. He was a Shadow Slayer again.

"What do you know about shadows, girl?"

"Enough to know that even your kind can't handle this one."

"My kind? What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean, Dane."

His eyes went wide. How did she know his name? He made a grab for her wrist, but she ducked out of the way and darted off towards the wharf. He made to go after her, but his foot slipped in the mud and he pitched forward. As he scrabbled to pick himself up, he saw her race towards the river. She couldn't be insane enough to dive in, not in this weather. He called out something, but he was spared the sight of her being swallowed by the water by a flash of lightning. By the time the mark on his retina cleared, there was no sign of her.

Finally getting to his feet, he made an attempt to wipe himself down, but decided it was ultimately futile. The weather seemed to be getting worse. His hat had fallen off, and his long hair was already plastered to his scalp. With a grimace, he retrieved the hat and placed in back on his head. His mind was made up now: something very, very strange was going on in Cold Brook. Stranger than covering up a captured werewolf. He headed back to the inn.

* * *

Jackson entered the welcome warmth of the common room to find it deserted. Only a few hours had passed since he had left, but Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. He looked up in his room, but found it locked. He tracked down Mrs. Thacker, but she just shrugged and couldn't provide him with any useful information about his companion. Angry and confused, Jackson took a seat in the common room and resolved to wait for his Master.

Nathaniel did not return to the inn until the evening. Jackson had eaten two meals in the meantime, and grown increasingly furious. When the older Slayer walked in through the door, he surged to his feet.

"Where have you been?!"

"Jackson? What are you doing here?"

"I came back to find you!"

"Did you find out something useful?" He pulled the Neophyte to one side. "We'll go up to my room."

"You haven't told me where you were all day."

"I don't have to answer to you, Neophyte."

"No, but I think you owe me an explanation. Something's not right in this village."

"I agree. But come, we'll discuss this in my room."

Nathaniel was as drenched as Jackson had been when he had first come in, and also looked dirty and dishevelled. It was clear he had been outside for some hours.

"So are you going to tell me where you've been?"

"First, tell me what you found out. Who did you speak to?" Nathaniel removed his hat and coat and took a seat. Now just in his shirtsleeves, he began to fill a pipe that he took from the pocket of his trousers. Jackson remained standing.

"A girl."

"You mean a child?"

"No, an older girl. Maybe twenty or more. I don't know."

"And what did she say?"

"She said we should leave. That it was dangerous here."

"Undoubtedly. If they have a captured werewolf..."

"I think it's more than that, Master," Jackson said. "I think they're sheltering one. Or something like that."

"Something like that?"

"Yes. What if...what if they're somehow being controlled by the werewolf? Or by a pack of them?"

Nathaniel shook his head as he exhaled a whisp of smoke. "Werewolf clans don't control human settlements. You're thinking of vampires."

"No, I'm not. What if the werewolves have come here and installed themselves as some kind of...of...aristocracy? What if they're secretly controlling this village?"

"But, again, this begs the same question I asked last night: why bring us here?"

"Maybe it was the girl! Maybe she was the one who started the rumour that you heard!"

"Then why would she tell us to leave?"

Jackson slumped down on the bed and placed his head in his hands. "I don't know," he said, dejectedly, "I don't have the answers."

"No one expects you to, Neophyte. That is why you are the apprentice and I am the master." Nathaniel was standing now, and he placed a reassuring hand on Jackson's shoulder.

"I can't do this alone," Jackson said with the barest hint of a tremor in his voice, "facing something like this without your help...trying to fathom it alone..."

He looked up at Nathaniel and saw something in his eyes. The tiniest spark of acknowledgement, as if conceding that he was right, and this was not the usual way Shadow Slayers conducted themselves. But then it was gone, and the stern façade returned.

"Get some sleep, Jack," he said with surprising tenderness, "I need you tomorrow."

"For what?"

"You must keep asking questions."

"But why? I'm not finding anything! If these people are hiding something, we won't find it by sending me out alone to ask them!"

"Nonetheless, you must do it. Tomorrow may provide the key."

Jackson shook his head as he stood up. "This is a waste of time."

Angry once more, he strode from the room and slammed the door behind him. It was dark outside now, and the storm had not abated. With heavy footfalls, he entered his own room and threw himself down on the bed. The frustration of meeting with nothing but blank looks and whispers from the people of Cold Brook, combined with the strange feelings he had gotten from George and De Groot, as well as the bizarre encounter with the girl in the storm, and now his own Master's reticent attitude had left him rattled.

The storm was welling up outside and, as he closed his eyes, he felt as if he could sense the clouds boiling far above his head. Their twists and turns seemed unnatural and, in his mind's eye, he imagined they were being spun into a frenzy by some dark force, focused right above this very building. The thunder cracked, and it only seemed to ratchet up the tension. His head started to ache. Beneath the timbers that made up the floor of his room, he fancied he could feel Mrs. Thacker in the common room, gossiping with some locals...gossiping about the two strange men who asked so many questions...

Where had Nathaniel been all day anyway?

"Well I'm damned if I lie here all night," Jackson growled, swinging himself out of bed. He grabbed his coat, now almost dry and pulled his hat low across his eyes. He considered taking his weapons, but then thought better of it. The case holding the two metal gauntlets remained untouched.

He left his room, trusting the sound of the storm to hide the noise of his exit and then went down the stairs, passing by the door to the common room when he reached the ground floor. Mrs. Thacker was indeed in there, but she didn't notice him ghost past. Heedless of the storm, Jackson went out into the night.

The village was as deserted as it had been in the day. Once he was outside, he realised he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. Nonetheless, he had to do something. The thunder pealed overhead.

He trudged through the town, again holding onto his hat to keep it from being blown off. It didn't take him long to reach the edges of the small settlement and he pondered turning back towards the inn.

Something pulled at him though. He couldn't place it. Just a feeling, like an odd tickling in the back of his mind. The storm seemed to be centred on the mountain that rose up above him, and he headed uphill. The rain pounded down harder, and he was nearly blown off his feet. One boot slipped in the mud, and he thought he was about to take another tumble, but he grabbed a branch to steady himself in time.

Lightning forked from the sky and, for one horrible instant, he was certain it was aimed at him. With a start, he let go of his branch and fell backwards. The lightning struck the tree, splitting it clear in two and causing it to burst into flames. Jackson gaped at the flaming ruin before him, his mind not able to comprehend how close he had come to death. The flames licked higher, and then he saw something else.

Standing less than a hundred feet away, illuminated by the fire, there was a figure. In his hand was a sword and he wore a tall, wide-brimmed hat of a kind identical to the one that had been knocked from Jackson's head as he had fallen. It was a design shared also by Nathaniel Forge.

Before him, watching him with a bleak countenance and firm-shouldered stance, was another Shadow Slayer.

The Shadow Slayer Chronicles I: Shadow Over Cold Brook

Chapter 3

Jackson blinked. The figure was gone. He placed a hand in the mud and filth underneath him and pushed himself to his feet. The tree was still burning, filling his nostrils with the stink of smoke, clouding his senses, but the torrential rain was slowly extinguishing the flames. Jackson looked around, seeking the man he was certain he'd seen.

The obvious crossed his mind.

Nathaniel carried a sword too. It was the traditional weapon of the Shadow Slayer.

But no...he knew his Master too well. Nathaniel Forge would not stand by while a Neophyte he was training floundered in the dirt. There was no way he could have gotten to here from the inn before Jackson either.

He turned around, looking back towards Cold Brook. The village was dark, a cluster of children's toy boxes, shadowed under the bleak face of the storm. He needed answers. He needed to know why they had been brought here. Only one man could put his mind at rest now.

The inn was almost dark when he returned; there was only a dim light in the common room. The door was open, and he didn't bother to go quietly now. He nearly kicked the door down, waking Nathaniel up in the process.

The oil lamp flickered into life. "Jack? What is it?"

The other Shadow Slayer looked frail and old at that moment, with the sheets clutched close around him, and his eyes wide with shock.

"I saw someone, Nathaniel."

"What do you mean?"

"Up on the mountain. I saw someone. A Shadow Slayer."

The frailty dropped away, and Nathaniel Forge drew himself up. "You went out alone?"

"What else could I do?"

"Obey my orders! That is what else you could have done, Neophyte!"

"How can I obey orders that make no sense?!"

"It is not your place to question my commands! I am a..." Nathaniel seemed to realise the door was still open, and their raised voices could probably be heard in the common room below, so he beckoned Jackson forward. "...I am a Shadow Slayer of the Second Circle, and you are a Neophyte - what's more, a Neophyte under my tutelage."

"Sending your student out alone day after day to investigate a mystery with no solution isn't what I'd call an effective way to teach!"

"A mystery with no solution? Is that your assessment of this situation, Neophyte?"

"Well you tell me. There's no more than two dozen buildings in this village. None of them could hold any werewolf I've ever fought, and no one here is hiding anything."

"Didn't you say they were touchy about wolves?"

"They were touchy about a lot of things. The way I see it, the common factor wasn't wolves or anything else - it was a stranger in a heavy coat and a big hat asking a lot of strange questions."

"Yes, but..."

"And how would I know what questions to ask, Nathaniel? I don't have any experience in this kind of field. You've taught me weapons craft, you've taught me to hunt Shadowspawn - you've never told me how to uncover a conspiracy."

"And yet," Nathaniel sighed, "you've managed to do it."

"Excuse me?"

He waved a hand. "A few minutes, Jack? To let me get dressed? Then, I promise you'll have your answers."

Jackson gave him his few minutes and, when he returned to the older man's room, Nathaniel was standing at the window, fully clothed, hands clasped behind his back and watching the storm rage.

"So?"

"There's no werewolf here, Jack."

"What?"

"There never was a werewolf. It was a story I invented."

Jackson shook his head as Nathaniel turned around. "You lied to me?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because the truth was too dangerous. Even for you. Even for a fellow Shadow Slayer."

"What could be that dangerous?"

"The Ronin."

"Ronin? That's...that's Japanese, isn't it?"

Nathaniel nodded. "The term is Oriental in origin yes. But it serves our purposes well enough to describe what I truly hunt in Cold Brook."

"What you hunt? What am I hunting?"

"Nothing. You were simply being kept occupied to leave me free to complete my mission."

"To hunt this...Ronin?"

"Yes."

"And are you going to tell me what that is, or lie to me again?"

Nathaniel held up his weathered hands. "You have every right to be angry with me. I should have told you the truth from the beginning. You are too shrewd to be appeased for long."

"I should hope so, the way you trained me. Now explain why we're really here, and what this ‘Ronin' is?"

"A Ronin is one of the most dangerous men in the world. He was once a Shadow Slayer, but he reneged on his oaths and became a law unto himself."

"Why?"

"Some men think they are greater than the Order. They believe that they can carry out our holy work independent of the hierarchies and structure of the Shadow Slayers."

"Is that really such a bad thing?"

"Undoubtedly. Why do you think we are so careful with our secrets? So insistent on protocol? Why is each and every Neophyte assigned a Master to train him, so he may be gradually inducted into the Order, learning more at each step of the way? The power of each and every Shadow Slayer is too great to be allowed to go unfettered, unrestricted. Who knows what chaos might erupt if Slayers were allowed to wage war on their own terms, hunting targets of their choice and pursuing aims determined by their own egotistical aims?"

"As long as they fought the right foes..."

"And who would decide? Do you have the strength of character to determine who should live and die? Can Jackson Dane decide who is an acceptable target? Can Nathaniel Forge? No...when a Slayer abandons his duty, abandons his oaths of allegiance, he opens himself up to the shadow he swore to fight. He opens himself up to hate and revenge. A Shadow Slayer can distance himself from the enemy, and be strong enough to leave the world of men behind him, but a Ronin fights without any law save his own. He is a hedge knight. A mercenary. Little better than a common dock thug."

Jackson nodded, beginning to understand. "And you think there's a Ronin here, in Cold Brook?"

"Yes. It was the Ronin that you saw."

"But that still doesn't explain everything."

"No?"

"No. Why did the Order send you across the world to hunt this man? You're training a Neophyte - which is why you had to bring me along and lie to me - so what makes this prize worth risking that I'd find out?"

"The worthiness of the prize is not why I was chosen."

"Then why?"

"Because, when this Ronin was a Neophyte, it was I who trained him. He was my apprentice, many years ago."

Jackson narrowed his eyes. "So...this is personal?"

"No," Nathaniel snarled, spinning to face Jackson, "never personal. We are Shadow Slayers. I am the best man to hunt him. I only wish I could have come alone, and not involved you in this."

"So what was your plan? Keep me distracted and hunt him down while I wore myself out asking stupid questions?"

"I hoped to lure him out. Nettle his pride."

"You were using me as bait?"

"Not exactly..."

"Well it didn't work. You didn't find him. I did."

Nathaniel smiled. "One day, you will be a great Shadow Slayer. Maybe one of the greatest in history."

"One step at a time. First we need to stop this Ronin of yours. Don't think you're doing this alone any more - I saw him, and what he can do."

Nathaniel tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

Jackson was suddenly embarrassed. He had spoken on a hunch, and had no evidence to support his dark suspicion. "When I saw him, a bolt of lightning nearly hit me. I thought...perhaps...it was aimed at me."

Nathaniel reached for his coat. "Perhaps you are right. And if that is so, he is far more dangerous than I thought."

"What's his name anyway, this Ronin?"

"Hayden Nyx."

"Reassuring..."

* * *

Nathaniel didn't offer any more explanation. Wordlessly, the two men prepared for the task ahead. Nathaniel's preferred weapon was a broadsword, but Jackson had the honour of bearing ancient weapons of the Order; two matched gauntlets that housed a pair of crescent-shaped blades. They were arcane weapons, of unknown origin, and one of a number of heirlooms entrusted to the most promising Neophytes. When he was first given them he questioned his suitability to bear such weapons, but Nathaniel had assured him that tradition demanded he perfect his craft with only one tool. If he did not take them up as a Neophyte, then he would never take them up.

The storm had grown wilder, and now the Slayers dropped all pretence of subterfuge. Geared with one intention in mind, they left the inn and followed the same path Jackson had taken alone less than an hour before. They reached the ruins of the tree and paused.

"Did you see which direction he went?" Nathaniel asked.

"No. He disappeared."

"I have explored these mountains over the last few days, but there is only so much one man can find."

"So which way to do we go?"

"We follow the storm. Uphill."

The way was hard going, but eventually they crested a low rise and saw, in a clearing ahead, a log cabin. It was dark. Nathaniel crouched low in the undergrowth and watched carefully for a few moments.

"Attack?" Jackson asked.

"There's no one in that cabin."

"So what do we do?"

"We go anyway."

"What if it's a trap?"

"I hope it is. I've been trying to draw him out for days. Now is our chance."

They broke cover and reached the cabin at a jog. Nathaniel wasted no time, throwing open the door and stepping inside. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the spartan interior, allowing Jackson to find an oil lamp and light it. The amber glow filled the small cabin and the two Slayers looked around with curiosity.

"Nice place..."

Nathaniel circled the small room. It held a writing desk, a small stove, various everyday sundries and two rude palettes. Nathaniel gestured to them. "Two."

"A servant? A slave?"

"No. The beds are side by side. Identical."

"Two Ronin?"

Nathaniel nodded. "Two. A master and an apprentice."

There was another flash of lightning. Both men looked to the window at the same instant and saw the silhouette in the clearing outside.

"Now is the time," Nathaniel said.

"Now is the time," Jackson agreed.

* * *

"It's been a long time, Nathaniel."

Hayden Nyx had removed his hat. His blonde hair was pulled back in a tight tail, and he sported a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were icy blue, radiating barely-suppressed hatred, but his pale face was calm. His lips, a little too thin to be attractive, were pulled up into the barest shadow of a smirk.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"No? No offer of forgiveness? No chance at redemption?"

"I did not come here to redeem you."

"Then why did you come here?"

"To stop you."

Nyx drew his own sword, and Jackson saw that it was a curved blade of the kind used in Japan. "Will you fight me then, Nathaniel?"

"If necessary."

"You'd kill your own apprentice for the sanctity of your Order?"

"I'd pluck the very moon from the sky were it required of me. You know that."

Nyx shook his head. "And that is why I left. Do you know what it is to be mentored by a man who thinks duty is a substitute for love? Who values honour above the life of his own comrade-in-arms?"

"As my comrade, you should have shared my sense of honour. I taught you well enough, yet you betrayed your oath."

"Your oaths are meaningless to me, old man."

"And that is why I must destroy you. If you do not stand with me, then you stand against me. There is no room for compromise."

Jackson looked from one man to the other. They stared into one another and, at the exact same moment, they each raised their swords and charged. Steel clashed with steel, and Jackson stood motionless, observing the conflict. Nathaniel and Nyx were evenly matched; the apprentice was stronger and faster, but the master was more experienced. They danced back and forth, neither gaining an advantage, until Jackson made up his mind and rushed into the fray.

Nyx pushed Nathaniel back and stepped away. He raised his hand and a bolt of lightning arced from the sky, driving into Jackson's chest and lifting him from his feet. He slammed into a tree and sank to the ground.

"Sorcery!" Nathaniel thundered.

"You fear what you cannot control, Nathaniel!"

"I fear nothing! But I fight the Shadow!"

"The Shadow can be bent to our cause. When will you learn that the ends justify the means?"

Nathaniel advanced on him with a bellow of fury, but Nyx parried his attack and aimed a kick at his midsection, sending him staggering away. Jackson climbed slowly to his feet, gasping from the pain of Nyx's sorcerous attack. The blades of his gauntlets enclosed his fists and, seeing his opening, he attacked with the last of his strength. Nyx turned and swung at him. Jackson tried to block, but the force of the blow knocked him aside once again. He stumbled and nearly slipped over.

Nyx turned back to Nathaniel, but his hesitation had cost him dearly. The Slayer struck, driving his sword into his former apprentice's side, plunging it deep into his flesh. Nathaniel tumbled to the ground. Nyx clutched at his abdomen and then bared his teeth at his mentor. He lifted his weapon and charged.

Nathaniel leapt from the ground and cleaved Nyx's sword arm in two, slicing it off at the elbow. His blade cut sinew and shattered bone. The force sent him spinning into the mud and Nyx fell away, screaming in agony.

Jackson passed out.

* * *

"What lies did he buy you with, boy?"

Jackson's eyes flickered open. Nyx was lying close by. He looked near to death.

"No lies..."

"Did you come here to find me?"

"No..."

"Then he lied to you. He lied to me too. When I was young. I was raised a Slayer, do you know that? I see you, and see that you have lived a life before you joined this hateful Order. I had no such luxury. What choice did I have, but to make my own life, away from his?

"You didn't have to betray him."

"Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven, they say."

"Satan said that. Not ‘they'."

"Move aside, Jack."

Nathaniel's voice was as stern as ever. He was standing now, holding a pistol in his hand, unwavering.

"Are you going to shoot me, old man?"

"He is more than Ronin - or less, perhaps. He has gone over to the Shadow. He is a Fallen Slayer."

"Jack, is that your name?" Nyx dragged himself closer to Jackson. "Listen to me, Jack, before he kills me and puts right what he considers his greatest failure. My legacy will continue. My apprentice lives, and has gone far from this place. In time, he will take an apprentice of his own and continue my teachings. One day, far in the future, perhaps two hundred years hence, one of those followers will change the world. He will ensure that the End Times occur according to the most ancient prophecies. And do not think you will escape...from this moment forward your line will also be entwined in these events too. One of your descendants will betray your Order."

"Never."

"And, before your life is ended, you will learn that I was right. Even now, you are beginning to tap into powers that no one in your Order would ever begin to condone. The ends will justify the..."

His head was blown apart, showering Jackson with blood and bone.

"Don't listen to his lies, Neophyte. He is a traitor. Nothing more."