The Wrath of Angels (Eternal Warriors Book 3) Page 11

  “Robin G-Goodfellow,” he stammered. “P-P-Puck if you p-prefer.”

  “So, you are telling the truth. And yet, there is something more there, I see.”

  WHO ARE YOU? WHY DID YOU FREE HIM? WHERE IS OBERON? WHERE IS OBERON? YOU WILL TELL ME ALL!

  The overwhelming force of the mindream felt rather like what he imagined a bullet exploding in the midst of a mortal brain must be like. The shards of his mind seemed to be flying everywhere, and yet, the very dissipation somehow protected his thoughts against the violation. He could see a great black wolf in the very center of his mind, leaping and snapping futilely at the hundreds of white butterflies that dipped and swooped and somehow evaded those slavering jaws. He laughed, until the beast gave up its futile game and turned to regard him with a pair of merciless grey eyes.

  The stones that smashed against his face seemed to come from nowhere, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was still in the Mad One’s fossilephilic throne room, if indeed he had ever left. He stifled a hysterical chuckle; this was certainly the most arduous court visitation he’d ever known. For what seemed like the seventieth times seventh time, he picked himself up off the ground, or floor, whatever it was supposed to be. This is getting very old, he told himself.

  “So, is it my turn now?” It felt as if someone had been pounding at his skull with hammers, but from the inside. It was unfair, he felt, for a transubstantial being such as himself to be affected by something so mortal and vulgar as physical pain, even if it was probably psychosomatic. “I don’t suppose you have any Advil handy?”

  “You find this amusing? When I can crush you without exerting myself in the slightest?”

  Robin took in the floor-to-ceiling bones, the harsh lines of the room, and the elevated dais that left him staring at the Mad One’s knees.

  “I do, actually. But only in a very sad, very unimaginative way. Did they have some sort of sale on the Dark Lord Number Three bedroom set at Ikea?” He paused, but to his surprise, he was permitted to stay on his feet for once. He’d sort of assumed that the touchy bastard would flatten him again, and the fact that he hadn’t threw him for a loop for a moment. “Um, while you were busy breaking my mind into pieces, I couldn’t help noticing something about yours. You’re a fake. You’re not insane at all.”

  “What is madness? I contain multitudes.”

  “I’m not even sure that you’re an angel at all.”

  “I might well say the same about you, Puck. It’s a strange sort of common trickster who, after five hundred years of absence, suddenly reappears and intrudes upon the affairs of princes.”

  “I’m a late bloomer.”

  “Lateness can easily be arranged.”

  “If you say. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I quite prefer these delicate threats to the crude use of force. It’s a little more ominous and elegant, less vulgar, really. And speaking of vulgar, what happened to our friendly spectators?”

  “Why, they’re right here. I wished merely to speak with you alone. You see, there is something very odd about you, Puck. Inside that homely Aspect you wear, hidden under all the jokes and the jibes, is a secret. You are protecting something and you are somehow able to hide that from me, even when I enter your mind. That, trickster, makes you a very rare and interesting spirit indeed.”

  “Don’t forget the breaking of your seal,” Robin wagged a finger at him. “I’m very proud of that. I can’t believe you haven’t asked me about that!”

  That drew a ghost of a wintry smile. “There was no need. I know very well how you managed that. My compliments on a most innovative approach.”

  “Thank you very much. Now, what do you want?”

  “I want your secret. And I want my predecessor, so that I can see him interned in a more useful and permanent manner.”

  The Mad One smiled as Robin couldn’t refrain from glancing at the hideous throne. Was it his imagination, or had the bones taken on a faintly pinkish hue?

  “I imagine that the one will soon lead to the other, so unless you wish me to engage in a more comprehensive investigation of your mind, I suggest that you tell me now. Or was my demonstration of the uses to which one can usefully put a retired queen of Faerie insufficient to exhibit my resolve?”

  “No, I very much took your point. I have no doubt that you’d pillage my mind like Vikings torching a monastery… if you could. But you see, you have nothing but brute strength at your disposal, and my little lockbox here,” he tapped his head, “well, that requires subtlety. Of which, Mr. Dark Lord Number What-have-you, you are sorely lacking!”

  “You think to anger me, I suppose,” the Mad One responded slowly. “You hope that I will destroy you in a rage, and in doing so will buy the safety of your liege with silence. How very noble.”

  Robin bowed low. “Thank you. I thought it up all by myself—and on the spot, too, I might add.”

  “Then I fear I shall have to deny you the satisfaction of your sacrifice. But, in order that you not be completely disappointed, I shall allow your erstwhile companion to offer herself in your stead.” His cruel smile was as palpable as a right cross to the jaw. Robin had seen this coming, he knew there was no way to save either Lahalissa or Gloriana without betraying Oberon, but even so, the hungry maliciousness of the Mad One shocked Robin into silence. He mentally withdrew his previous assertion of the other’s sanity.

  A moment later, Lahalissa appeared behind him, slung over the shoulder of a demon nearly twice her size. She wriggled desperately, but to little avail. The guard bore the assault of her fists with stoic indifference as he marched before his demonic king. Filled with terror, her eyes fell upon Robin, pleading silently.

  There’s nothing I can do! Don’t you see? But her eyes seemed to condemn him.

  There was nothing he could do for her, and yet, that wordless appeal was not one he could ignore. Not if he intended to live with himself. Seeing Maomoondagh’s eyes were on her, he took advantage of the momentary distraction to transform himself into a reasonable facsimile of a battle demon, with long, curving horns and long arms that ended in razor-tipped claws. Without a sound, he launched himself at the knees of Lahalissa’s captor, hoping to take him by surprise.

  There was a crunching sound as he struck, and as pain exploded in his shoulder, he realized that the thing being crunched was him and his foe’s knee was about as vulnerable as a marble column. It was about as hard, too. Clutching at his broken shoulder, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the bemused face of the bull demon. It grinned, then kicked him off to the side; the force of it was such that he skidded across the floor until he came to a rest against something sharp and bony that prodded the small of his back. For a moment, all he saw was red as the pain washed over him like a fiery wave.

  Taking no notice of Robin’s feeble protest, Maomoondagh rose from his ivory throne, revealing a strange red cushion that covered the seat and ran up the back. It was the same shade of red as the toadstool cap, but it pulsed with an ominous life of its own, as if keeping time with an impossible heart located somewhere within. As he stepped away from it, the cushion parted, and from its scarlet depths came forth that obscene tongue once more. As prehensile as it was deadly, the atrocity curled and wiggled lasciviously at Lahalissa, whose eyes were wide with terror.

  As she cowered before the grotesque thing, another demonic guard stepped forward and seized her right arm, kicking out her right leg so she was splayed, spread-eagled like an ancient offering to the old Nordic demons, in front of that wicked throne. Gripping her hair in his taloned fist, the demon pulled back her head and exposed the carmel curve of her graceful throat to his master.

  The Mad One approached slowly, towering over her like a washed-out version of the Grim Reaper. “I will give you a choice,” he said. “You will tell me all you know, or I will ream your mind as I drain you dry. I could not read Gloriana, but you, little one, pose no such difficulty.”

  He reached out and ran a delicate finger over her exposed throat. She
shivered, and a thin line of purple flames sprang up from where his razor-sharp nail had touched her. Then, holding the back of her head in his skeletal hand, he licked at the violet fire and a dreamy look of satisfaction passed over his face.

  “How sweet you are. And how frightened!”

  WHERE IS HE! WHERE IS OBERON!

  The force of his unexpected mental assault was such that even Robin, sprawled out on the other side of the room and benumbed by pain, could hear him clearly.

  Lahalissa only stared. Fear, it seemed, had struck her dumb. The flames flickered enticingly from the wound at her throat, and perhaps it was the anticipatory look on the Mad One’s face that helped her find her voice, for a moment later, she lowered her eyes and whispered her acquiescence. Robin couldn’t blame her; he was only glad that she knew even less than he did. Even so, it might be enough to track Oberon down. And as for the fate of the Sussex Weald and its lord… he could only shake his head.

  “I do not know, Great Lord. But I will tell you everything I do know.”

  Albion’s usurper locked eyes with Lahalissa, pinning her in place with his mind. Robin, still attuned, could feel the echoes of his efforts. *rending—ripping—stripping* DO YOU SPEAK TRUTH? *disgruntled satisfaction*

  She staggered back as he released her with a bitter sigh.

  “Of course you will. One way or another. But to volunteer the information freely is easier for you, even if I deny myself the indulgence of draining you to the dregs.” Maomoondagh passed his hand over her throat, and the small wound was healed. “Free her.”

  The two giant guards released her, but no sooner had they done so when she leaped at Albion’s evil ruler. Or so it seemed at first. For the Mad One was not her object, she flashed past him, her wings furled, and past the startled, flailing tongue to plunge into the still-parted lips of the cushion like an arrow striking the center of a target. There was a brief, muffled shriek, and her feet twitched horribly for a second until they disappeared entirely, followed seconds later by the throne’s tongue, which managed to convey an air of pleased, if somewhat befuddled, content.

  A content not shared by the Mad One. He emitted a disturbingly high-pitched shriek followed by a deeply thunderous oath that made the guards quail and loosed several bones from the ceiling. They plunged down to splinter on the floor around Maomoondagh, who was too busy cursing in various male and female voices to notice the shower of bone shards. For a moment, it looked as if he might try to leap into his sorcerous throne himself and drag Lahalissa out of there.

  “How very unfortunate!” Robin said, flashing his teeth defiantly.

  For the fallen angel had already been doomed, and Robin took solace from knowing her sacrifice was not in vain. Even the merest mention of the Twice-Fallen would be enough to cause Maomoondagh to turn over every rock and rotting log in his kingdom, and there was no way that Oberon or those who hid him could survive such a targeted search. Now, the secret was his alone, and there was no sustenance that Maomoondagh could derive from Lahalissa that would make up for the knowledge he had just lost. One had to take one’s victories where one found them, meager though they might be.

  “Hardly a victory,” the Mad One said coldly, back under control although still visibly angered. “And if you are correct and I cannot break you through sheer will that does not mean I cannot avail myself of other methods. In the meantime, Puck, recall that nothing has changed. I still hold the Isles in the palm of my hand; I have lost nothing. You, on the other hand, have lost your only allies. If this game is not over, it approaches the end game. How long can a pawn protect a king?”

  “Longer than you might think,” Robin answered. “Whereas you might do well to consider how long a king may hold his square, once the hand that guides him decides he must leave it.”

  “No hand guides me!” The Mad One snarled in rage. And hearing the furiously feminine sound of the little queen’s voice from the Dark Lord’s visage betrayed the extent to which he was losing control. Robin smiled.

  His smile vanished when Maomoondagh snapped his finger and pointed to one of the two guards. The guard jumped, startled, as his sword drew itself from his scabbard and its purple flames hissed evilly into life. For a moment, it hung there in the air before the big demon, as if held by an invisible hand. There was a sudden whoosh and a blur of violet violence, and the body of the guard crumpled to the ground, headless, before being sucked down into the vampirish floor of bones.

  Robin forced himself to stand his ground as the flaming blade levitated over to him and hung immediately before him. The hilt was about waist level, but he did not dare to move so much as a whisker. He met the Mad One’s red eyes, which were full of cruel contempt.

  “Take it,” the demonic king ordered. “You have seen what it can do. Now take it up!”

  Fearing the consequences, Robin reached out and grasped the hilt in his hand. It was cool, as if no one had touched it.

  “Now wield it, little one. Are you bold enough to raise your hand against me twice? Do you fear to strike me down?”

  “I fear nothing!” Robin shouted and in one mighty leap, he reached the Mad One and drove the blade deep into the royal monster’s chest. He felt it burn its way in through the black armor, through the spirit’s shell and into the vital, vulnerable heart of fire. “To the Pit with you!”

  But the Mad One did not cry out or collapse, indeed, he did not so much as blink despite being pinned to his throne. Quite the contrary; he smiled, then closed his eyes with a distinct look of pleasure as he tilted his head back. The flames around his chest sputtered and weakened, and faded to a washed out lavender before dying out altogether. What was this? Robin was horrified. He had never seen the like. Not even Oberon, not even the greatest Princes of Hell, could endure such a wound with indifference. No, not indifference, downright relish!

  The Mad One opened his eyes. They were bright and alert, and his alabaster face was flushed, almost rosy. He placed his fingers around the hilt of the demonsword, and carefully pushed it out of his chest, revealing the blackened, shrunken remnants of a blade. He held it up to Robin in a mock salute, then flicked it with his finger. Reduced to little more than charcoal, the blade disintegrated and fell to the bony floor in a shower of black flakes.

  “What are you,” whispered Robin, awestruck for one of the first times in his long existence.

  Maomoondagh rose from his throne and tossed the hilt to the side. “Now, perhaps, you begin to understand why I would not fear Diavelina if she came prancing over the water on the arm of her damned father himself, with six hundred and sixty six legions marching in lockstep behind her! Now, speak, wretched angel. Where is my cursed predecessor?”

  “I am most impressed, my lord. I misspoke earlier. Your power is great indeed, but it is truly your madness that knows no bounds.”

  Blood, or some facsimile therein suffused the Mad One’s face. He did not speak, but his eyes glowed hotly red and there was fury embedded in every particle of the thought-scream that smashed into Robin’s mind. And the shrieking that hurled him helplessly into the blissful black peace of unconsciousness had the unmistakable sound of a vengeful fairy queen scorned.

  THIS IS MY KINGDOM! MY CROWN! MY THRONE! MOLOCH’S BITCH PRINCESS WILL NOT HAVE THEM! OBERON WILL NOT HAVE THEM! NO ONE WILL HAVE THEM! THE ISLES ARE MINE!

  Chapter 12

  The Weight of Hours

  The hours weighed like centuries on his heart. Memories rose up from different periods of his life, crowding the foreground of his mind, contending for attention. They had no shape, no order, but they were vivid and exhausting—at once silky and prickly as thistles.

  —Lawrence Durrell, Livia

  I have built an empire, thought John David Collins, as he leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and took in the tasteful mahogany décor of his oversized office. Images flickered and transformed silently on the four large flat screen televisions on the far wall, each one tuned to one of the four broadcasting channels that made u
p a large part of that empire. Books lined the hand-carved wooden bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, sorted according to his notoriously eclectic tastes. On one shelf, a three-volume compendium on the history of chess was placed strategically between books on Biblical archeology and Christian apologetics.

  Below them, filling two shelves, were various editions of books bearing his own name. The Tongue Untamed, A Blameless Walk, and Beginnings of Knowledge were but a few of the eighteen books he had written or co-authored. Two of them had cracked the New York Times bestseller’s list, and, much to his surprise, Joy: The Prospect of the Righteous, won last year’s Dove award for best non-fiction, beating out Jim Dobson’s latest book. It was a respectable legacy for any man, but John David found little satisfaction in what, at the end of the day, were simply material accomplishments.

  For what was an empire, but the flicker of a candle when compared to the great light of eternity? Even Alexander, that golden warlike youth who strode across the ancient world like an Olympian colossus, would have been swallowed by the mists of history were it not for the scribblings of a gentleman scholar writing four hundred years after the young Macedonian’s empire had collapsed into dust. It was all dust, all chaff, all nonsense, except for that which was of lasting value. But how could he, a mere mortal, hope to know what would survive the divine fire?

  He stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the unpowered computer screen. His hair, long and pushed back behind his ears, had been grey for years, and now that grey was mostly white. He had been lucky, he thought ironically, as he ran his hand through what despite his age was still a thick, healthy thatch. Height and good hair were important, for the corporate executive as well as the television evangelist. How much more so, then, for someone like himself, who was both.

  Threescore years and ten are the days of our years. Surely the Psalmist knew whereof he wrote, a man after God’s own heart. And yet even a king such as he had seen them filled by labor and sorrow, sorrow for that which had been done, and regret for that which had not. John David found that the psalm spoke to him now in a way that he never could have imagined in his youth. How much longer would it be, then, before his own days would be cut off, and, as it was written, the time would come for him to fly away? Not too terribly long now, he suspected. He was in good health, but it was not beyond the realm of possibility that this last Easter, celebrated so joyfully over the past weekend, would be his last.