Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Remy was about to argue, but his eyes were drawn to the powerful form of the Archangel Michael as he approached the priest.

The warrior angel was clad in his armaments of war, a fiery spear clutched in one hand as he came to tower before the ancient priest.

“I stand for Heaven,” the Archangel announced.

The priest bowed, then looked toward the other angelic crowd.

“And who shall stand for Hell?” he asked.

There was silence among their numbers, and Remy watched for a sign of the one who would take on the mantle.

There was a sudden commotion at the far back of the gathering, and a figure began moving through the ominous-looking shapes clad in the heavy armor of war. The angels of Hell moved aside as their delegate stepped forward.

Remy felt his knees give out as the figure left the crowd to stand before the priest.

“I guess I am,” Francis said, his gaze briefly landing upon Remy before quickly fixing on the priest.

“I suppose I’m representing Hell.”

Castle Hallow

1349

The angel Remiel’s rage was matched in size only by the level of the Pope’s betrayal.

Tyranus had used sorceries ancient and powerful, imbued within a ring of silver, to bend the angel to his commands. Only by clutching its sister ring to his armored breast had Remiel seen the truth of the situation.

“How dare you?” the Seraphim roared.

“Now, now,” the Pope fretted. “Remember it is God’s work that I do here upon this world and—”

“Blasphemer!” Remiel shouted. “This ring has shown me your true colors!” The angel shook his divine fist.

Pope Tyranus did not back away, fixing Remiel in an icy stare.

“You will do as I have commanded,” he stated. “You will hand over the ring at once.”

The magick of the Pope’s ring pulled at the angel, ancient magicks once bestowed upon Solomon by powers greater than any here on Earth, moving to influence him. Though the sister ring helped him to see things more clearly, it did not completely block the ring’s influence over creatures of the divine.

Remiel struggled against the Holy Father’s command, waves of excruciating pain traveling through his form as he fought to hold on to control.

But the ring was too strong.

Remiel watched as his arm seemed to lift of its own accord, his hand extending toward the Pontiff.

“That’s right,” the Pope hissed. “For the sake of the world, the power over the demonic and the divine shall be controlled by one.”

Just the idea of such strength being given to one person—this vile person before him—filled the Seraphim with a blinding rage, and he resumed his fight for control over his actions.

“You will not have it!” Remiel proclaimed, igniting his fist so it glowed like the molten core of Earth, forcing Tyranus and his soldiers to step back.

“It is only a matter of time, soldier of Heaven,” the Pope said calmly. “Only a matter of time before you succumb to a power greater than you.”

Remiel knew that the holy man was right, but it did not prevent him from trying.

From the corner of his eye, peering out from the darkness of the castle’s many passages, he saw the eyes of the demonic, twinkling there—watching his struggle.

The angel thought of them, thought of their number, and how they had served the necromancer and felt the ring writhe within his clutches. Without realizing what he had done, the demons came forth, called by the angel’s silent command.

It was the most excruciating thing he had ever experienced, the very essence of his being touched by the coldest fingers of purest darkness.

But the demons responded to his fury.

Pope Tyranus seemed taken aback. “How fascinating,” the holy man said, playing with the ring upon his finger. “You’re actually fighting my commands.”

Remiel was bent over in agony.

The demons encircled him, chattering, spitting, and hissing, and he saw in their multitude of eyes an intelligence—an awareness that told him they were as repulsed by his control of their actions as he was of being in control.

The Pope drew nearer, only to leap back as the demons lunged.

“Give it to me,” he commanded once more.

Remiel squeezed the ring all the firmer as the demons tightened their circle, as if protecting him.

“You would die to defy me?” Pope Tyranus asked.

Remiel lifted his head to fix the holy man in his gaze. “I defy you, and all that you stand for,” he proclaimed. “Power such as this does not belong in the hands of one.”

“You are wrong,” the Pope declared. “Only I am strong enough to prevent the world from plunging into chaos.”

Tyranus stepped closer, hiking up his priestly robes to squat before Remiel. He held out his hand.

“The ring,” he demanded.

Remiel could feel himself dying, the darkness of possessing the second of Solomon’s rings surging through his body like a poison. Eyes affixed to the ground, he watched in horror as feathers dropped from his wings like leaves from a dying tree. His flesh was turning gray, and the heat of the fire at his breast was dwindling; all this because of the ring he held in his fist.

The demons drew closer, like a freezing person drawn to the heat of a fire.

He didn’t want to look, but his eyes were pulled upward as if attached to invisible strings. He stared at the Pope’s beckoning hand—compelling him to surrender what he believed to be rightfully his.

But even though he was dying, Remiel could not do it.

“It won’t be long now,” the Pope cajoled. “Your flesh will wither. The divine spark will be extinguished, leaving behind the remains of a once-holy creation determined to keep something of great power from its predetermined owner.”

Remy lifted his face toward Pope Tyranus. The demons were snuggled even closer now, as if stealing away his life force.

“Last chance,” the Pope said, bringing his beckoning hand all the closer.

It took almost all the strength that Remiel had remaining not to do as the Pope instructed him, but the sight of something—someone—moving from the darkness behind the holy man was more than enough of a distraction to hold on.

The Pope did not see that Hallow’s servant, the young man who swore to see Heaven in ruins someday, was coming up behind the unsuspecting Pontiff.

Remiel lifted his shriveled hand. He could see genuine excitement in the Pope’s eyes, believing he was about to receive what he most desired in all the world.

“Here, give it to me,” the servant demanded.

Tyranus turned toward the voice, a feral snarl more demonic than divine escaping his lips as Remiel did the unthinkable.

Summoning all that he had left to give, he lifted his arm, opening his creaking fingers to release the ring.

It was as if time had become transformed by alchemy into some form of viscous liquid, the ring of Solomon slowly tumbling through the air toward its new owner.

The necromancer’s servant lunged, fingers splayed, before closing upon the prize. Pope Tyranus leapt as well, colliding with the man and sending them both sprawling to the floor of the castle.

Remiel lay upon the stone floor, still surrounded by the demonic creatures. He was dying, and all he could contribute was to lay there as the spectacle unfolded before his failing sight.

The Pope and Hallow’s servant desperately struggled for the ring. There was a sudden cry of elation and the servant raised his scuffed and bloody hand—adorned with the silver sigil ring of Solomon.

The one that controlled the demonic.

Remiel’s eyes fell heavily shut, but he could still hear the servant’s commands to the demonic hordes assembled there.

“Take him, and be sure that he suffers.”