The Keys of Solomon (24 page)

“How ironic is that, Kiel? A human loses some petty job, turns an ankle, or experiences some other trifling misfortune and curses God for the inconvenience. Yet, in the twinkling of an eye, that man may be forgiven by uttering a simple prayer and demonstrating an ounce of faith. We, however, are dismissed from His sight and forgotten, without any hope of redemption.”

“No man ever stormed the throne room of God with a sword in his hand,” said Nathan. “As to the matter of redemption, how would you know? Has any Fallen ever dropped to his knees, confessed his transgressions, and begged forgiveness? Have you? No need to confirm or deny. It was a rhetorical question and I already know the answer. You've never once expressed remorse for your actions, so don't talk to me of an existence without any possibility of redemption, Orus. Until you crawl before the Throne of God and beg forgiveness, you don't have that right.”

Orus looked at Nathan for a long moment. “If I thought … You know, not all of the Brethren sought power. Most of us only wanted His favor, to be loved above man. All we ever wanted…” His voice trailed off as he walked toward the common area and the front door.

For a moment, Kiel had thought Orus might actually fall upon the cobbled floor, prostrate himself and cry out to the Creator for mercy and forgiveness. The moment came and went, quickly. In the end, Orus's remorse retreated in the face of pride, fear of rejection, or some other equally damning barrier.

Perhaps another day, Orus. I'll pray for you.

Kiel and Nathan followed Orus into the common room. At the door, Orus turned and extended his hand toward the pair, palm turned out, thumb, index, and middle fingers extended. The sign of peace and the Holy Trinity; the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It wasn't a sign Kiel ever expected to see from a Brethren.

“I'll try to learn the name of the traitor and get back to you as soon as I can. Meanwhile, I suggest you closely guard the contents of this conversation. We don't want the traitor knowing we're closing in on his or her identity. Suspicions run high these days and I can't risk
reaching
for you, so I'll need to return here with any new information. Is that acceptable?”

“Provided you come alone, you'll be fine. But remember this, Orus. I don't like you, nor do I trust you. If you give me reason to suspect a betrayal, you won't have to worry about the Brethren any longer.”

“Understood.”

As Orus stepped outside, Kiel called out. “Wait a moment. Earlier you said you may have a question for us.”

Orus paused, thought for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, yeah. Well, it's nothing really, but it's puzzled me for a long time. One of those nagging things that keeps nipping at your ass, know what I mean?”

“Get to the point, Orus,” said Nathan. “What would you like to know?”

“Very well. Bear in mind, I mean no offense, but … Why? Why do you throw away your lives for the humans? We were there in the beginning. We sacrificed and endured for His sake and He elevates these hairless monkeys above us. Above you! What has mankind ever done except work in concert to destroy paradise on earth? So why? Why do you fight … and die for them?”

Kiel didn't have to ponder the question. The answer was engraved in his heart. He saw that Nathan was smiling. Apparently at some point during the discussion with Orus, he had remembered why they fought and died for a species that was so much less—and so much more—than the Choruses of Heaven.

“Orus,” said Kiel, “I mean no disrespect when I say there's no answer I can give that you could accept or understand. Perhaps that's always been our problem: our limited capacity for understanding, and our inability to believe in things unseen. Once, it was enough that we served the will of the Creator. Such servitude requires only obedience. Man has the benefit of faith.

“Humanity is a living monument to the Creator. Name any virtue and it may be found within the human race. Honor, courage, faith, charity, hope—all are evident in abundance despite man's weaknesses and imperfections. Most of all, I sincerely admire man's ability to seek and find God. That's no small thing when you consider many of us lived beneath His roof and still managed to lose sight of Him.”

Orus looked at Kiel for a long, solemn moment before nodding. “Maybe you're right. I don't know much of anything these days. Recovering the Keys won't cleanse me of my transgressions, but perhaps it will make some small amends. On the other hand, should you not recover the Keys before the Seventy-two are released, well, I'll join you all in the Void.”

Turning, Orus stepped through the doorway. Over his shoulder, he called back, “I was just curious. No harm in asking, right? You know, this is the first time I've talked to either of you outside of a friggin' dogfight. And speaking of dogfights, watch your backs. Both of you are well marked by the Brethren. I'll be in touch soon.”

Kiel watched as Orus walked across the yard to the edge of the clearing. Ordinarily, angels move across great distances at the speed of thought by assuming ethereal form. However, the monastery was consecrated ground, and in such places, the rules were vastly different.

Orus reached the southern edge of the clearing, and the boundary of sanctuary. He turned and raised a hand into the air, bidding Kiel and Nathan safe journeys in the customary manner of the Host.

Nathan frowned at the farewell salute and walked back into the monastery. He had no intention of parting company with the fallen angel on amiable terms. Kiel hesitated, then returned the gesture.
Another historic moment,
he thought. His hand was still raised when he felt the tell-tale electrical charge course through his body, a sure and familiar sign that an enemy was near.

Orus was still smiling when the first jagged finger of brilliant green fire sizzled through the air and exploded in his face.

Istanbul, Turkey

Such an easy matter to destroy one feeble old man. The temptation held such sweet allure. Killing the living symbol of the Church would be delicious, fostering additional chaos and confusion in a world already rife with turmoil. In another age, killing a Pope would have set the human race on a path toward a regional, or with luck, world war. Global conflicts had been started over far more trivial matters. The Runner knew this fact all too well. He had been present for every one of them. Oh, those were the days! But that was then, and this was now, and new triumphs awaited. The Runner strolled casually along the broad walk like any other tourist. This could well be the last time he would pass this way. Who knew?

He took the pedestrian route that ran past the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit. The sidewalks were teeming with camera-wielding tourists and local faithful, all hoping for a glimpse of Pope Benedict as he exited the church. While the Ecumenical patriarch, Bartholomew I, was officially the head of the Orthodox movement, and though Istanbul was his official seat of power, Benedict's position as head of the Catholic Church in Rome established him as a religious icon of unparalleled status. His influence rivaled that of many and exceeded that of most.

Once more, as it had done many times over the course of history, the office of Pope had flexed its considerable muscle, coming to Istanbul to treat with the head of the Orthodox sect. Recent, unprecedented violence throughout the world had created a state of panic among the people. Turkey and other Mediterranean nations, because of their geographical proximity to Rome, and because of Rome's long and storied history with the region, were targeted early on for assistance from the Vatican. The Catholic Church was reaching out to help stabilize an already volatile region, an ironic departure, thought some, from the Church's position in the third and fourth centuries. As was the case throughout history, there were those who viewed any Vatican overture with suspicion. The Runner took great pride in his many contributions in furthering that suspicion, though there were times when he thought he'd not done enough. Of course, that was all about to change. And what better place to correct that oversight? And what better target?

Istanbul's Catholic community was small by European and Western standards, but Benedict had not traveled to Turkey especially for their benefit. He had presided over the Eucharistic liturgy in the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, with Bartholomew I and the Armenian Patriarch, Mesrob II, at his side. During Mass, Benedict told the tiny congregation, and more important, Bartholomew and Mesrob, that “the Church wishes to impose nothing on anyone, and merely asks to live in freedom, in order to reveal the One whom she cannot hide: Christ Jesus.” The message seemed well received. Benedict, long considered a Catholic hardliner, was fast demonstrating an unexpected ability to bridge gaps between denominations and ideologies.

Already, more than one billion Catholics and millions of Protestants considered the man beneath the papal tiara the ultimate symbol of grace, obedience, and “faith made manifest.” Additionally, the position, if not the man, held the power to galvanize much of humanity in the face of overwhelming adversity. That was reason enough to kill the man, but there were other more compelling reasons.

Killing Benedict would temporarily expose the Runner's whereabouts to an angry mob of Brethren and the ever persistent Host of Heaven, unwilling allies in the hunt for the Runner's head. The notion was almost laughable. The very thought of fallen angels and God's stalwart servants working toward a common cause was just to the left of ridiculous. Yes, both sides would descend on Istanbul with all the fury of the just and unjust. The diversion would provide Legion with the opportunity to strike unopposed at the real target in Jerusalem, the Temple Mount, without opposition. The Seventy-two would be released upon a world already seething in turmoil. It would be the beginning of the end.
The End of Days.

The Runner made his way through the throng of sightseers and pilgrims to a nearby bench, taking great care to stay well away from the cathedral proper. He pulled a small bag of caramel popcorn from his jacket pocket and opened it.

I won't miss many things about this pitiful swirling ball of hydrogen, but I think I'll miss popcorn. And the sickly-sweet stench of war … cold ocean spray on my face … and beer. Yes, I'll miss beer.

A husband and wife passed by the bench, oblivious to the Runner's scrutiny. The woman hung tenaciously to the collar of a rambunctious youngster of perhaps five or six. The Runner smiled.

Ah! The children. I'll miss them most of all. I do so love to educate the young in the ways of the world and nature! But I would gladly give my life today just to see His face when it's all gone, and by my hand!

The Runner munched another handful of popcorn as he watched other wide-eyed people walk slowly through the square in front of the cathedral. Once, he'd dreamed of ruling over these cattle, thus taking his revenge on the Creator. Centuries of thwarted plans and machinations had brought him to the stunning conclusion that it was simply not to be. It had been a bitter pill, but swallowed nonetheless. Thus, he had settled on the best available alternative. A much better alternative, in retrospect. He would, with the aid of Legion, erase mankind from Creation. His first attempt had nearly succeeded.

By altering one of the Veils that connected the finite planes of existence, he had allowed the demon horde of Legion to cross over from the far distant plane of Sitra Akhra. Had the Veil remained open only a few minutes longer, the world of man would have been invaded by the lords of all demons, the Nine Princes. The fabric that held together the reality of this world would have crumbled beneath the presence of those demigods, and the plane of man would have imploded. Creation obliterated. Of course, the destruction would have claimed the lives of every creature on this miserable planet including his Brethren, the fallen angels who'd been cast out of paradise on his heels. A pity, perhaps, but a small price for the ultimate revenge. Oh, what he would have given to see the expression on God's face when mankind was snuffed from existence like some insignificant candle flame!

Now, he was hunted by the Host of Heaven, as well as many of his former followers. Some of the Brethren still clung doggedly to the belief that the Runner never meant to sacrifice them in his bid for revenge against the Creator.

Loyal but misguided fools that they are! I may even miss them. A little.

His supporters argued that the Runner surely harbored some great secret that would allow him to flood the earth with demonic allies, enabling the Brethren to finally slay the remnants of the earthbound Host. Afterward, the Runner would establish his dominion over all of humanity, and then force Legion into a subservient role.

What a circus that would be! Hairless monkeys under my left foot, and the demons of Sitra Akhra under my right.

Only, the meddling of a handful of bastard children from a long-dead age had salvaged the day in the eleventh hour.

How could I have underestimated them so badly? Regrettable, but little more than a delay of the inevitable. In a few days, I'll possess the instrument to seal my bargain with Legion. They will do for me what I cannot do for myself. And Heaven and Earth will be damned!

But this was a new day and a different game. An unknown benefactor, possibly another defector from the Host, had presented him with the means to ultimate victory. The Lesser Keys of Solomon, the rituals that bound the Seventy-two demon lords beneath the Temple Mount, now in the hands of Legion! Once the Seventy-two were freed, the Veils would fall, and all of Sitra Akhra would cross the barrier and lay waste to the plane of man.

I do wonder what the Creator must be thinking today. I wonder if He regrets casting me down to this miserable prison. If not, He soon will.

Finishing the popcorn, he stood up from the bench and looked about for a trash can. The nearest one stood across the walk, at the other end of the cathedral. The Runner considered making his way back through the milling pilgrims, then changed his mind. He had no desire to pass that close to consecrated ground. Instead, he held the bag at eye level and blew out a single puff of air. A woman passing by in that instant screamed as the popcorn bag burst into brilliant green flame. The Runner gave the startled woman an appraising glance and a quick wink as he dropped the burning debris to the sidewalk.