Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Montagin couldn’t believe his eyes.

Not only had some foul abomination from the depths emerged from the conjured passage of shadow, but it had now claimed the corpse of his master as its own.

“No!” Montagin roared, shucking his human shape to assume the form of the angelic warrior that had fought alongside the brave general during the Great War against the legions of the Morningstar.

“Let it go!” Squire was screaming. “It’s more trouble than it’s fucking worth.”

“I will do no such thing!” Montagin extended his arm, imagining his weapon, and suddenly it was there, traversing the planes of reality to find its way into his waiting hand.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the grip of a Heaven-forged weapon in his hand.

Aszrus’ feet had reached the edge of the shadow patch, and he was about to be drawn over the edge, when Montagin attacked. Wings spread to their fullest, he leapt into the air, sword of crackling fire raised to strike.

The blade came down upon the mouth-covered flesh, severing a thick limb just above the point where it entwined the general’s ankles. From the darkness of the patch, a wail from a thousand mouths resounded throughout the room, and the warrior angel reveled in the cries of his enemy.

The sword disappeared as Montagin knelt to pull the general’s body away from the edge with both hands, but the attack suddenly intensified. Multiple tentacles of different sizes, shapes, and widths squeezed their way up through the opening, splintering the floor, and bending back pieces of the floorboards as they eagerly sought their prize, and more.

“I fucking told you to let it go!” Squire screamed from behind the couch.

One of the limbs lashed out, slapping Montagin and sending him sprawling across the apartment.

“Keep away from the TV!” he heard Squire yell, and seriously considered killing the hobgoblin before dealing with the tentacles that hungered for his master.

Three of the damnable limbs had wrapped themselves around Aszrus’ waist, and were already dragging his body back toward the passage, while another larger, thicker limb—this one adorned with a shiny, black claw—was slithering across the floor toward Montagin.

The angel scrambled to his feet as the tentacle reared up, the claw already beginning its descent. He was fairly certain that the foul appendage could slice through his battle armor from stem to stern, and disembowel him. He spun around, saw the television, and tore it from the wall, using it as a shield. The tentacle descended and the claw slashed through the monitor, cutting it nearly in two.

He could hear Squire screaming, and took a certain amount of pleasure from his pain, as he launched himself atop the writhing appendage, staying clear of the slashing claw. Holding on to the bucking limb, Montagin again called forth a weapon from the armory of Heaven. A burning dagger appeared in his grip, already beginning its descent down into the muscular, orifice-covered surface.

The angel stabbed the limb again and again, the divine fire leaking from the blade finding its way beneath the accursed flesh. The tentacle flailed all the wilder now as it burned.

Montagin leapt from the dying arm, looking toward the body of his general, saw that Squire and Heath were doing their part to keep it from being taken into the darkness. Each had hold of one of the general’s arms, Aszrus the prize in a bizarre game of tug-of-war.

“Can you close the passage?” Montagin asked, rushing toward them as even more tentacles began to force their way up from the holes in the floor.

Squire looked suddenly confused.

“Make up your goddamned mind!” he screeched. “Do you want the passage open or closed?”

The angel took hold of his master’s arm, pushing the hobgoblin out of the way. “Close it. Now!” he roared.

“Fucking angels,” Squire muttered, crawling on all fours toward the edge of the shadow passage, trying desperately to avoid the thrashing tentacles.

The hobgoblin reached out a finger toward the edge and the tendrils reacted, attempting to wrap themselves around it. Squire recoiled with a yelp.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Do it!” Montagin shouted again, not sure how much longer he and the sorcerer could hold on to the general’s body.

Again Squire made a move, his chubby hand reaching, but the tentacles were there, and he had to fight to keep from being dragged into the opening himself.

The tugging on Aszrus also grew more vicious.

“I’m losing it,” Heath cried out, trying to maintain his footing, as he slid to the floor.

It was as if the tendrils entwined around the great angel general’s body could sense that they were winning, and intensified their hold. Montagin heard the sounds of breaking bones as the tentacles constricted even more tightly about Aszrus’ waist.

“You will not have him!” the angel bellowed, summoning all the strength that he still had remaining, and pulled.

There was a terrible ripping sound, and suddenly Montagin and the sorcerer were tumbling backward. Montagin was horrified to see that they still held the general’s torso, internal workings trailing away as the tentacles claimed what they could, dragging his legs toward the shadow.

Squire saw his opportunity, and leapt beneath the writhing tendrils, plunging a finger into the shadow pool. He used his innate control over shadows to will the passage closed, returning it to a normal patch of darkness.

One moment it was a doorway, the next it wasn’t, and the many-mouthed tentacles that had not withdrawn into the dark dimension were quickly severed, writhing on the floor as they began to decompose in an environment of light.

Montagin stared in horror at his master’s body. Was it not bad enough that he’d been murdered, his heart taken? But now this.

Squire rose from where he’d been lying, kicking aside some of the tendrils that still thrashed upon the floor. “Happy?” he asked sarcastically.

Still upon his knees, Montagin pulled the upper half of Aszrus closer, cradling the remains in his arms.

“Goblin, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Francis allowed himself to be yanked through the haphazard cut that had been made in reality on the second floor of his brownstone.

He had no idea what he would find on the other side, but he did have the idea that it would probably be the last of the invaders.

“I seem to have caught a rat,” said the angel, as he hauled Francis through the crackling rip.

Francis was ready, spinning around to face his attacker, drawing back a fist to deliver a decisive blow that would render the angel numb, and easy to dispatch.

At least that was the plan.

Their eyes locked and Francis knew at once that he was in trouble. He knew this angel; even after all the time that had passed, the gaze of the one who had felled him during the Great War was not something easily forgotten.

“You,” Dardariel said, the angel’s grip upon him firm.

Francis’ first instinct was to kill the fucker, before . . .

Dardariel reacted, hoisting Francis up and slamming him to the floor with all the force he could muster. The floorboards shattered on impact, sending clouds of dust billowing upward.

“I should have known you would be involved in this, Fraciel,” Dardariel growled.

Francis lay stunned on the floor, remembering the last time he had seen this angel.

The war was reaching its inevitable end.

How many had he killed? How many of his own brothers had he violently brought down, believing in the message of the Morningstar? Francis— Fraciel —did not want to think of such things, still holding on to the hope that the one he served would be victorious, and that the Lord God would be forced to see the error of His ways.