The Chronicles of Heaven's War: Burning Phoenix (31 page)

He was shocked, dumbstruck, nearly stepping
back in surprise. Asotos saw in the man an evil darkness greater
than he saw in the hearts of the Stasis, a heart filled with more
malice and hatred than ever before he had witnessed in any of
Erithia’s children. He could feel the man’s restraint, holding back
his desire to gather up his weapons and bring to a finish, now, the
object of his hatred. Fear? The man showed no sign of fear, only a
hungry longing to dispose of the source of his immense hatred - the
person he was staring at.

Shaken, Asotos broke off this silent
engagement, leaving the field of battle to this strange fellow.
‘Another time… Another time…’ he muttered. Giving himself the
excuse that the hour did not permit such trivial games. He took up
a search of other faces in the crowd.

Another unfamiliar face, a big fellow
following to the side and behind Planetee - didn’t recognize him
either. He had heard rumors of children from the Lower Worlds being
brought into this one, all the way back to the days of the Great
War. Even Legion had told him so, saying that Aphrodite was raised
up to these worlds. Asotos did not believe it then, and he
certainly did not believe it now! That was a religion held out to
the mindless fool! When one was dead, they were dead forever. That
was how it was.

Still… Erithia was up to something. What it
was, Asotos did not know. ‘Look sharp, or she’ll best you.’ He
laughed at the very thought of that possibility.

Something was up, though. Asotos watched
Planetee’s body language. She was nearly stalking the woman walking
beside Michael. Planetee - how he hated the woman. “Her demise will
also come very slowly. She will not go unpunished for all the
treasonous evil she has committed against me! Ruined so many of my
plans by her deceit...”

“
Damn
the music!” Asotos almost
shouted, holding his tongue at the last second.

Legion turned, asking if something was
wrong. Asotos waved him off, stating it was nothing, all the while
fuming at the constant tinkling hammering his senses.

‘Concentrate! Concentrate! Do not allow the
evil of that
necromancer
to cause you any distraction.’
Asotos thought in warning. He focused all his attention now on
Michael and her troubling escort while attempting to push the
ever-intrusive music from his mind.

The consternation on Michael’s face betrayed
the woman’s inner turmoil. Asotos smiled. ‘She must be near the
breaking point, her nerves undoubtedly stretched to the limit.
Today… today her cunning will not give its allegiance and she will
stumble completely in word and deed.’ Erithia would dare not assist
her little bitch-girl this day, could not. Asotos was no stranger
to the wiles of the harmonics. He would know if the woman was being
assisted by the magic of the Palace. Michael stood alone, with her
bent and twisted mind her only ally.

Suddenly, the creature walking beside
Michael fell into her as if being pushed. Michael instantly flew
into a quiet rage, spewing whispered curses as her face reddened
and fists clenched. They were close enough now that a keen eye
could read some of the words coming from the woman’s lips. Asotos
lifted his head in surprise. This creature walking beside Michael
was no friend, at least not at the moment. What was this all about?
Asotos focused his attention upon the creature.

Strange, so strange, Asotos could identify
no harmonic coming from this woman that stirred any memory
what-so-ever, except…as if sniffing the breeze, the man lifted his
head to gather in the woman’s scent. No, the scent of the little
brattling who invaded his bed to be with Sirion could not be found.
He would remember it. But the woman did carry a scent that was
confusing and troubling, a smell similar to his own, as if he had
shared her bed...queer, so queer...

As he puzzled over this revelation, the man
examined the woman’s appearance. True, she stood proud, but
unobtrusive, and her heart burned with a blackness similar to that
of the fellow off to his right. But it was her garb that caught his
eye. The creature was out of place, too ornately dressed to be a
bodyguard or common officer. Asotos raised an eyebrow as he
examined the person.

The creature’s armored breastplate and
helmet shone golden with the greenish sheen of a very rare mineral
found only in a distant star system far away in the Outer Ranges.
The armor covered a coat of silvery mail that appeared to be made
of derker blade steel, blue-green energy dancing across the chain
links. The mail covered a long-sleeved, emerald-green tunic that
appeared to be made of the same material in the woman’s long,
flowing cape. Asotos also puzzled at the feathery, white horse’s
plume trailing down from the helmet’s top. It had been many
centuries since such distinctive ornamentation crowned a commanding
officer’s helm. What was this creature’s position in Michael’s
military?

A sudden rogue gust of wind caught the
creature’s cape, whipping it high into the excited tempest,
exposing the left side of her uniform. There, upon the breastplate
and pauldron were bejeweled crests signifying the person’s rank.
Asotos stared in disbelief, glancing at Michael before fixing his
eyes again on the person.

Field marshal?!
Field marshal?!
There
was no doubt the significance of this discovery. Asotos could not
believe what he was seeing. For two thousand years, Michael had
been marshal enforce, field marshal, dictator absolute, over all
the military forces of the Children’s Empire. Although fearless and
charismatic, the woman was predictable, the reason for the Treaty
of Memphis. If this creature was field marshal, what position did
Michael have? Had she taken pseudo-command, being the hidden power
behind the military in the same manner as Gabrielle, and was her
little
puppet
acting insubordinately, attempting a coup?

Asotos looked over at Michael, chuckling,
that is until he examined her uniform. Blood drained from his face
as his heart erupted with jealous rage upon seeing the royal crest
engraved on the woman’s helm. In the center was a blazing star-like
diamond, with twelve fingers radiating outward and up, each finger
ending at a different glowing gemstone. On each side of the helm
was the head of a roaring, maned young lion with the words engraved
underneath each head, ‘Who is the First Born.’

“
Miserable...little... usurping
...bitch!”
Asotos cried, his words slipping out loud enough to
catch the attention of those standing near.

Legion turned to Asotos, puzzled. “Is my
brother troubled over something?”

Gathering his wits quickly, Asotos shook his
head, saying it was nothing, fearing that his men might realize
something was amiss. Holding his temper in check, he glared at the
person trusted to deliver any important information to him before
this prisoner exchange.
‘I will skin that traitor alive along
with all the others who have failed me. They will beg to die, but
life will not flee them… forever!’

Turning his attention back to Michael,
Asotos hissed under his breath, “This time you have gone too far.
You will not live to the end of this day! I shall rip your beating
heart from your chest and carry your worthless head away as a
trophy to hang upon my wall!”

Looking off toward his left, he watched
Erithia sitting her mount. ‘Patience now… Be patient. Mustn’t give
her reason to interfere... The bitch-woman is near her breaking
point. My little surprise will push her far beyond, and then I…
well, I have the right to defend myself.’

He chuckled, thinking about the torment he
was going to deliver upon his most hated foe. Erithia’s tears would
flow in rivers and she would be unable to do a thing except watch
the destruction of her hopes and dreams.

Sucking in a breath of the dry desert air,
Asotos grinned. Turning to Legion, he sighed with satisfaction, “It
feels so good to be alive.”

* * *

Sirion had no strength to cry out in agony
as Godenn dug his fingernails into her face while slamming her head
into the metal wall of the tiny cell. Flashing a garish grin,
watching blood trickle from torn flesh, his cheerful voice filled
the chamber with carefree melody. “My, my, such a pleasant day for
a party. I do hope your friends will enjoy the way their little
girl has been all made up for it.”

Sirion did not move, could not. Even though
the pain in her bowel was excruciating, the woman’s every breath
sending blinding spasms up her spine and into her head, there was
no energy left within her broken body to even allow a whimper to
escape her lips. Though unable to focus her sight upon the face of
the man torturing her, she could smell the stench of his rotten
breath, reeking of drugs and strong drink. She did not hear
Godenn’s
sweet rhapsody
, her mind only seeking the peaceful
quiet of Death’s repose. Yet Death dare not tread her road this
day.

Disappointed at seeing no response, Godenn
cooed again, this time in such a motherly, chastising way. “Now,
now, my dear little one, I am so surprised. I would have though to
see some excitement from you at hearing of your family’s arrival.
They’ve come for you, you know, all the way, just for their little
darling.”

He released his grip and walked across the
cell to a tiny window. Peering out, he exclaimed so cheerfully,
“They’re almost here, dressed up like in celebration. Why, in a
little bit, you and me will walk arm in arm out to greet them.
They’ll be so surprised to see you.”

He turned back and pulled up a stool in
front of Sirion, frowning. “We’ll miss you, you know. Have gotten
quite fond of you... Never had you to share a bed with ‘til …” He
grinned. “I’m sure you remember the night… Well, anyway, I expect
you’ll recall your little visit all right, with real fondness...”
He laughed.

When Sirion did not respond to Godenn’s
comments, he reached into a shoulder bag to retrieve a small
medical kit. Removing a syringe, he jabbed the needle into an
artery just below the girl’s ear. She winced in pain as the drug
raced to her brain. With a cry, the woman sucked in a deep breath,
her body and mind coming alive with anxious energy.

Godenn grinned. “There! There! That’s a good
one. Need you wide awake for the show... Now let’s get on with
it.”

After removing the neck brace that held
Sirion’s head upright and forced her upper body back against the
wall, Godenn pulled from his bag a strange-looking, spiked collar.
Snapping it tight around her neck with a large circular clasp,
through which he fastened a heavy leash, Godenn lowered the girl’s
cuffed hands and chained them up short to the collar so that the
weight of limp arms hung heavy upon Sirion’s neck. He yanked hard
on the leash. Sirion howled, the sharpened inner studs biting deep
through bruised skin and torn muscle.

Godenn laughed, sinister, “Now, now, little
darling, you be a good girl and I won’t push this button, least not
now. I’d hate to see that pretty little head of yours pop off its
shoulders. That’s true…at least not yet.” He laughed again.

Getting up, he walked back over to the
window. It would be a while before the prisoners were to be
released. There was little more for him to do but wait and keep the
girl alive and able to walk. He had to keep her alive, at least for
a little while longer. It was for his own wellbeing.

Slowly tilting his head from side to side,
Godenn studied the broken, tortured creature across the cell.
Finally he grinned, toothy, wide, snapping his fingers. “You know,
I think you need just a little more dressin’ up.” With that, he
stepped forward, drawing his fist back, and smashed Sirion square
in the face.

‘
Thud!’
Sirion’s head slammed into
the wall as blood spattered all over. Godenn stepped back, smiling.
The girl’s nose was smashed flat, crushed to pulp. “There!” the man
cooed. “I think you’re ready for the show.”

* * *

(“
The destiny of worlds may at times
hinge upon the least notable and insignificant of events that
scholars discard into the dustbin of forgotten history. The pen
finds the majesty of great battles won through sacrifice and
horrific loss of life to be more notable, thus more worthy of
consuming the written page than a quiet beginning where the
choosing of a road taken may change forever the worlds of men. The
taming of the Silk is a much more exciting read than the building
of the caves of the PrasiaOdous, or the tale of the Charge of the
Glitter Brigade a more titillating account than the that of a
choice made by a postal driver, yet the former are little more than
mile markers upon a long and perilous road. The latter, which are
of far lesser account, changed the universe forever. For, without
the caves, there would have been no battle for the Silk, and absent
a pivotal choice made, there would have been no brigade of brave
knights to charge to the rescue of a defeated army.

Fate! Fate is what the heart and mind make
of it. Fate cares not the outcome or the ending. The laws
controlling Fate are but mindless and fickle. No, it is the mind
and heart that creates the direction Fate chooses and the whimsical
footfall of decisions made that build that fated road. Should a man
step from the fated road, no one will know because the new path
shall quickly be declared Fate’s intended journey. And yet it is
the path, often decided by the ignorant and foolish, that either
ends in glory or humiliation, which we choose to call ‘Fate’ as if
a far greater intelligence is somehow leading us toward a grand
fulfillment.

Should that really be the case, that a god
of Fate rules our destiny, then all the more are we to be pitied.
What hope exists should that be the case? Where is the mastery of
our own hearts and minds if all is directed by a distant power
called ‘Fate’? Yet, if Fate were to rule the day, it would draw
into question the final direction of history if the Maker of all
things should also fall under its authority. For how can the Maker
of all things not also be the progenitor of Fate, a machine build
to satisfy the whims of a wanton heart? And should the progenitor
of Fate… the Maker of all things… submit to what is made, then will
not Fate itself be lifted above God and become greater than its
Maker? Should the God over all heaven and earth, all that is
elemental and ethereal, also be subjected to Fate? It makes no
sense to a logical mind. Yet here, at a forgotten time in space,
the most Holy of Holy is found casting the future to the Fates. In
what way?