Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

But the more he fought, the more death that he dispersed, and Fraciel was beginning to see— to think —that maybe the Morningstar was wrong. And that was when he encountered the angel, Dardariel.

The look on Dardariel’s face now was so bloody familiar.

The angel ignited the fires of Heaven in his hand, and he leaned toward Francis’ face. Francis dug his fingers into the flooring, pulling away a jagged piece of pine with a snap, and stabbing it through Dardariel’s fiery hand of doom.

Dardariel pulled back in pain, allowing Francis to scramble away.

The former Guardian withdrew his gun from his coat and took aim at his opponent, but Dardariel didn’t miss a beat—still the deadly son of a bitch he’d been during the siege of the Golden City. The angel lashed out with an extended wing, swatting the pistol from Francis’ hand. It felt as though some of his fingers might have been broken in the process, but Francis kept moving.

“Where are you off to, Fraciel?” Dardariel asked. “You have about as much chance of escaping me now, as you did during the war.”

Francis wanted to put some distance between them, to lead him away from Squire’s apartment, and Azrus’ body. He dove for the stairs, almost believing that he’d made it, when he felt himself yanked violently back by the collar of his shirt.

Francis squirmed in his grasp, but Dardariel held him aloft as his powerful wings fanned the air, and a dagger of fire formed in his free hand.

The sudden sounds of struggle coming from Squire’s place momentarily distracted the angel, providing Francis with a much-needed opportunity. Francis lunged, throwing his weight toward the burning knife clutched in Dardariel’s hand. Dardariel tried to pull the blade back, but Francis gave it his all, twisting the angel’s wrist toward his foe’s midsection, and using every bit of strength he had remaining to drive the blade into Dardariel’s side.

The angelic soldier screamed his rage, casting Francis aside like a rag doll.

Francis bounced off a nearby wall, landing on all fours.

His plan was to make a break for his apartment, where he had plenty of weapons hidden, and to finally put an end to . . .

Dardariel was on him like a horsefly on fresh shit, dropping out of the air before Francis even had a chance to move.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” the angel taunted, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing.

Francis imagined his eyes exploding from his head like something out of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon as the grip intensified. There was only one thing left he could do and he knew he would regret it. He fumbled inside his suit coat again, found the dagger, and used it.

The blade was thin and sharp, and it sank into the flesh of Dardariel’s throat with very little resistance.

The look on the angel’s face was priceless, and Francis felt the grip upon his neck begin to loosen . . .

Before it grew viselike again.

Dardariel threw him away, his body rocketing down the corridor and smashing through the door to Squire’s apartment.

He wouldn’t have any luck at all if it weren’t for bad luck.

Francis struck the arm of the filthy couch, sliding across the floor, and ending up against the wall. “I’m okay,” he lied as he realized all eyes were upon him.

He struggled to stand, and then saw Aszrus, or what was left of him, cradled in Montagin’s arms.

This is gonna be so much worse than I figured.

Dardariel made his entrance then, flying through the doorway, blazing sword in hand. He touched down in a crouch, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

Francis winced as the angel’s eyes touched upon the remains of his beloved general. He opened his mouth to warn the others, just as Dardariel seemed to explode, a searing flash of divine radiance accompanied by a mournful cry that turned into a shriek of berserker fury.

Jumping to his feet, Francis tried to get across the room, but the angel Dardariel was already on the move.

Heath was the first to fall, a magickal spell roiling in the palm of his hand as the angel delivered a blow that sent him sprawling, the magick in his hand gone harmlessly awry.

Montagin didn’t even try to escape, bowing his head in submission as Dardariel lashed out, slapping Aszrus’ assistant to the floor.

“This way!” Francis heard Squire cry out, and turned to see the hobgoblin holding open a cabinet door beneath the sink.

Francis was about to head in that very direction, when the room was filled with the deafening roar of flapping wings. He knew what had to be done.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he ordered Squire, then turned to face the horde of Heavenly anger that now descended upon him.

“Hey, fellas,” Francis said with a devilish smirk as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Long time, no see.”

The castle trembled violently.

Simeon squinted through the dust and bits of rock that rained down from the ceiling, looking to Hallow for guidance.

“It appears that our first lines of defense have been breached,” the necromancer said, suddenly looking much older.

“What should I do?” Simeon asked, ready to fight.

Hallow listened to the sounds from outside, head cocked ever so slightly. “If you stay here with me you will most certainly die,” the necromancer said. He turned his wizened gaze to the forever man. “I could order you to leave, but something tells me that command would fall upon deaf ears.”

Simeon stumbled to one side as the castle again quaked.

“The spell that prevents their access will not stand up to much more of this assault,” Hallow said. He was making his way toward the stairs, beginning his climb.

“Where are you going?” Simeon demanded.

“I’m going to meet our guests,” the magick user told him.

“No.” Simeon rushed up behind the old man, grabbing at the back of his robes.

Hallow lost his balance and fell backward into Simeon’s arms.

“I won’t let you kill yourself,” Simeon told him.

“Is it that obvious?” Hallow asked. “Not even about to give me a fighting chance.” He chuckled sadly.

“You’re still a great necromancer,” Simeon said, helping to steady the old man. “Show it.”

Normally for such impertinence he would have been beaten, or worse—killed, and maybe killed again—but this time was different.

“I’m tired, Simeon,” Hallow said. “My brother and I have been fighting this war for far too long.” He paused, catching his breath.

“It’s time for it to end.”

Simeon reached out, gripping the necromancer’s arm. He was shocked at how bony it felt through the heavy cloth of Hallow’s robes.

“Everything that I have has been put into the castle’s defense,” he said, “but still he advances.”

“You must continue to fight,” Simeon told him.

The old man nodded. “And fight I will,” he said. “Until I cannot fight anymore.”

“You yourself said that Tyranus cannot be allowed to win.”

“No truer words were ever spoken,” the necromancer said. He started to climb the stone steps again. “Of that, I have no intention.”

Hallow reached the doorway.

“In days past it was all about the battles, who would win, and who would lose,” he said. “But now, in my waning years I’ve come to understand that the answer I sought—that my brother and I both sought—masked a lie.”

The structure trembled again, the iron chandeliers that hung above the grand room swaying in the rubble that crumbled down from above.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Simeon said. He had his hands atop his head to protect himself. “What lie?”