Mysterious Ways

         She stepped out of a globe of absolute light, emerging into a hellish realm of blazing firestorms and toxic fumes.  Soriel, Angel of Dawn, stretched out her radiant wings and scowled as the miserable denizens of Nezren stirred from their tortures.  In this tainted, evil place, her light, a light of unequaled purity, called to their demonic desires, rousing the fiends with malicious delight.  Sinister shapes began to shift in an endless sea of flame.  But this was not unexpected.  She knew they would be here, and she came with purpose.

         Ignoring the danger inherent to her presence in such a foul dimension, she channeled a small trickle of celestial energy into a location spell while focusing on the name of the imp she sought.  Suddenly his devilish form flared with golden light as the incantation tugged at her divine senses.  He was very close.  While all about her demons approached with thoughts of harvesting her spirit, this one scampered away as fast as his tiny legs would take him, as ignorant of her divine power as he was impotent against it.  Still, she would have to work quickly, or be torn to shreds by the growing audience.

         Unwilling to share the spoils of her flesh, a bison-headed monstrosity charged ahead of the encircling horde.  He nearly doubled her height with a body so massive the ground shook with the weight of his steps.  Unflinching, Soriel unleashed her Lightblade, a weapon that was not a blade at all, but an extension of her essence.  A long shaft of golden light extended downward from her right hand.  She lowered her stance a moment before he would have crushed her, dipping under his charge, and spun to the left while sliding her Lightblade across his abdomen.  The demon howled in agony while black fluid poured from his wound.  He managed a few clumsy steps before collapsing with a thunderous tremor.

         Soriel completed the spin, crouching lower.  With a powerful thrust of her legs aided by a single flap of her magnificent wings, she sprung from the ground.  Some of the fiends could fly, not nearly as fast as she, but it did not matter.  Her mark would not have gone very far, and they would all pursue her.

         The imp, as it were, had taken refuge up a small incline covered in scorched, broken rocks, certain that he was well hidden behind a series of large boulders.  He foolishly stretched his head around the stone at his back.  His metallic red eyes widened in horror when Soriel rounded the corner and landed right before him.  Celestial energy writhed about her body with a low crackling hum.  He cowered from her approach, timid and terrified.  He mistook the stern look of her brow for wrath, and thought this surely to be the end of pitiful Gretch.  But, as Gretch would slowly learn, he misunderstood many, many things.

         “Suicidal Angel!” he squeaked at her in the demon tongue.

         “By the Hand of Light, His Will be done!”  Her voice echoed with imbued magic.  She reached out with a single hand and grabbed him by his bald head with a smack!  Divine energy poured into him, exploded in his mind and shattered all that he was as it spread throughout his body.  Pain buckled his knees, and he would have fallen to them had the Angel not kept her grip on his head.  He hung there, as unconsciousness closed in, unaware of the small, glowing object in Soriel’s other hand, or that she gently dropped it into the pouch hanging at his waist.

         The moment she released him, Gretch crumbled to the ground, sagging into oblivion.  With growing alarm, she gawked at the broken imp, questioning not for the first time the motive that sent her here.  Such a strange feeling to the angel.  Her will was His, her existence merely the personification of His thought.  Yet, she questioned.  She found the sensation bewildering, and even unnerving, when considering the implication.  Was Dominus himself questioning His own ethics?  His morality?  Nevertheless, a pack of demons in blood-rage were coming.  She had to lead them away from this worm.

         So much trouble over a rodent, she thought.

         Solemn with confidence, she kicked him hard enough to plant his back against the boulder, and then stepped out into the open.  Sure that her pursuers had caught sight of her, she turned and flew fast away.  It was time to leave these demons to their fiery prison.

         Using a sense unknown to mortals, she opened her mind to the Dimensional Matrix, a system of energy connecting all places.  Spherical light burst into existence in several locations scattered throughout the region, pulsing in her awakened awareness.  Doorways to mortal worlds, they rested unseen and unusable to the imprisoned demons.  Windows to worlds untainted, they were; beacons of life so contrasted to the resonated evil of Nezren that they crystallized the sickening, suffocating, pasty sensation lying subtly on the edge of her perception.  She gave little thought to which world she would escape to, only that she would be free of this filthy reality.  Soriel flew toward the nearest sphere, leaving her assailants far behind.

         But passage through the Netherworlds often takes a heavy toll, and many restless fiends had taken note of her flight, joining in the chase.

         The shining light of the portal already bright in her eyes, a thick, whip-like tendril snapped around her neck.  She instinctively willed her Lightblade into existence and spun around, slicing through the appendage but realizing her mistake at once.  Of the many demons come to see her off, one had sent its weapon soaring through the air.  In the same instant she freed herself, a spear, its head trailing wispy blackness, landed right above her abdomen.  Soriel watched in horror as the spearhead sunk into her lower chest.  She stumbled backward into the portal, her last view of Nezren a sea of wings and tails and horns and hooves, convulsing with contemptuous spite.

         The cold prickly feeling of dimensional transport erupted across her flesh, and then she was in a field of green pasture.  Soriel lay there, basking in the warmth of a beautiful morning sun, feeling the taint of the weapon seeping into her.  The tendril fell away from her neck as she pulled the spear through her back, shredding her midsection as it slid through her body.  Try as she might, the light and love of the sun would not heal these wounds.  With a shuddering sob, she labored to stand only to find her legs would no longer work.  Lost and dying in a foreign world, there could be only one path left to her, and very little time to find it.

         “Guide me, Lord,” she begged, and began dragging her body toward the only visible homestead.



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         Fire raged in waves across charred and broken plains of red stone.  Billowing smoke bloomed in wake of living flame, blanketing the region of Nezren known as the Shattered Valley.  At its center, vague through a toxic haze, the many gnarled and twisted spires of the Tower of Xaos stretched high into a burning sky.  But not so high that one could not look down upon it from a cliff.  Gretch, miserable, misfortunate imp, observed the scene from a ledge such as that, his gaze focused on the Tower.

         His doom.

         Small, leathery wings flapped ever so slightly.  Cloven hooves shifted uncomfortably in the red dirt beneath him.  His bald head twitched as he ran a finger up the smooth black surface of one of his horns, tapping a claw nervously upon its apex.  Centuries of exposure to the fires of hell had burnt his red skin until it blackened, causing it to gradate between the two colors as he pondered the wisdom of his course and turned away from the cliff.

         His thoughts swirled, searching his memory of recent events for the slightest hint of another solution.  He found none.  He knew he could not escape this fate, for the Demon Lord, Xaos, hunted him.  An ancient evil so vile and foul it gave courage to the most craven of demons.  His instincts tugged at him, a cowardly imp heritage that beckoned him to turn tail and run.  He knew that to be a foolish course, however.  Yet the imp found it hard to foresee anything but his own death in the Tower of Xaos, or perhaps worse.  Still, to stay on the run assured his demise, for if the minions of Xaos found him, he would be slain without question.  He had only one chance at survival, and that meant facing the Demon Lord personally.

         Light shimmered off the surface of his metallic red eyes as he lowered his gaze to a small pouch hanging at his waist.  The item contained within was his only hope.  Why that deranged Angel had passed it to him, he could not comprehend.  But perhaps the Demon Lord would be pleased with it as an offering, pleased enough to spare Gretch. 

         He shook his head in disbelief, amazed and apprehensive at once at his own resolve as he turned to face the Tower once more.  With a weak flap of his wings he hopped off the edge, sailing more than halfway to the bottom before landing with unnatural strength and balance, sliding the remaining distance down the slope on his hooves.

         The journey went quick.  The realm seemed abandoned, in fact.  No roving bands of hell spawned evil to harass him, only far reaching plains of cracked and broken stone stretching to the horizon, and the Tower, itself disturbingly calm.  He felt fear mounting in his approach.  The Tower was magnificent yet terrifying to behold, bringing many intangible consequences entertained in his thoughts to a very real, very visible culmination.  A singular construct, yet it could not rightfully be described so, boasting more spires, wicked spiked stones and rook-tops than many small cities he had seen.  Far too soon for his own comfort, Gretch ascended polished obsidian steps onto a smooth platform gleaming red with reflected firelight.

         There was only one gate into the Tower, made of black steel scorched blacker still by a constant barrage of fire and smoke.  Oddly, its hinges were gleaming, flawless silver, untouched by the fires of Nezren.  Perfectly sinister, he appreciated.  The gate held no visible seam to speak of, just a massive metal barrier having no handle or lock.  Near its top a plaque had been mounted, its only adornment, engraved with a short phrase etched in demigargon.

         Ecte Il Izzul Eternus.

         The Demon shall reign forever.

         Despite its apparent consistency, the door creaked open of its own accord upon his approach.  After a sigh of resignation, he plodded through the entrance, looking back to gaze across the burning landscape of the Shattered Valley one last time.  It was raining fire again, and just as he thought he might prefer to be nearly anywhere but in the entry hall to Xaos’ personal palace, the gateway swung shut, again with no catalyst.  There was nothing left for him now but to begin this ending.

         There was nothing in the hallway either, just the echo of his steps as he lollopped along.  The surface was the same throughout, perfectly polished obsidian.  Its clean emptiness unsettled Gretch.  Darkness swallowed his vision far down the hall.  Silence swelled in his ears; there was not the scuffling of rat feet or the forging of steel.  Desperate hope grew in him as he pondered the question.  Was the Tower of Xaos deserted?  Empty?  Had Xaos perished?  The possibility spun in his mind, only to be squashed.

         Ching!

         Ever so faintly did waves of sound roll down the hall, echoing as it passed him.  The ring of metal falling on metal drained him of hope.  The Doomsmiths were hard at work.  Fear thumped in his chest with each ring.

         Ching!

         Again it sounded, louder this time.  His steps slowed, but carried him far enough to make out a great doorway at the end of the tunnel, free of any visible guards.  He sighed and grunted, annoyed with his own resignation to death.  A chorus of soft chatter drifted through the passage, coming from the other side of the door.  With every step, the symphony of voices grew in volume and apparent ire.  Another chime sang through the corridor, this time followed by a faint yet very distinct wail of pain.  And another, repeated much faster than previously, accompanied by an agonizing scream, full of torturous sorrow.  As he approached the doorway, he found the tumult of conversation behind it rising with each chime and scream.  He had to admit, Xaos knew how to stimulate his constituents.

         Gretch moved one foot toward the door in a fear-filled step and kicked a bone.  He peered at it cautiously, just over a foot in length.  Realizing there had been no bones lying about until now, he scanned the area outside the door.  Blood was smeared on the left and right walls and splattered on the floor and ceiling above.  Something living had been ripped to pieces here and was left to fester and rot.

         The ring of the Doomsmith’s hammer called once more, and a piercing scream echoed off the walls around him, subdued finally by a garbled cough.  He tip-clawed his way past the splattered remains and reached out with his hand, meekly grasping the ivory doorknob to test the state of its lock.  It rotated completely, unlocked.  Of course it’s unlocked, he thought derisively, and shook his head with disdain.  He closed his eyes, nearly paralyzed by fear, and a great white light shone there, his only possession present even in his thoughts, pulsing with hope and reason.  Gretch opened his eyes, told himself one final time this had to end, and opened the door.

         The aged door made little noise as he opened it, but he doubted the gathering would have paid much attention if it had.  All manner of demons were assembled in Xaos’ court for what appeared to be some sort of social party.  Goat heads, bull heads, even the human-looking heads of succubus’ all clamored amongst each other, sipping glasses of mortal blood and sharing tales of malevolence.  Imps hurried all about the room, refilling glasses and serving varieties of flesh to their demon masters.  Likely the majority of the assembly thought him another servant imp.  Their perception was irrelevant, for Gretch’s attention had already drifted to the back of the room, where upon a throne of obsidian and bone sat the embodiment of his fear, the Demon Lord, Xaos.

         Silent and partly shrouded in darkness, Xaos’ appearance belied his eons of existence.  Red-skinned, sinewy flesh bulged wherever his spiked, broken armor failed to provide coverage, and though he sat, his twenty foot tall form still managed to dwarf the assembly.  A crown of small white horns sprouted around the rim of his bald head, and his black eyes sparkled with specks of light like a star filled sky.  His chin rested upon his fisted right hand, below that his elbow planted on the arm of his throne.  Xaos looked bored.  Perhaps he was showing his age after all.  The thought was unsettling to Gretch, to say the least.  Boredom for a demon often meant the suffering of those around them, all too often satiated with the torture and death of some worthless imp.  Boredom for a Demon Lord was much worse.  They tended to spend centuries brooding and festering with it.

          Gretch realized the gathering of demons seemed to neither notice nor care for their master’s detachment, and suddenly everything felt overwhelmingly wrong.  By all appearances, Xaos hated this existence and everything in it, and would certainly prolong Gretch’s punishment as long as possible, likely until something else managed to attract his attention.  Terror filled the imp, causing his little black heart to pound excessively, and the Demon Lord lifted his head off his fist.  Gretch did not notice, though, for he had decided once and for all against this ridiculous notion of addressing his predicament with the Demon Lord, and was attempting to slip back through the doorway from which he had come.

         “Gretch.”  The Demon Lord’s voice dripped with baleful anticipation, a grating growl of bloodlust and malice.  As he spoke, all chatter ceased, and the crowd of demons spread away from the imp, clearing a direct path between Xaos and Gretch.  Aside from a few snickers and mock sympathies, the two might as well have been alone in the room.  Knowing that it was far too late for anything else, Gretch stepped forward, knees wobbling.

         “Silly imp.  Have you concocted some complex explanation for your failure to amuse Xaos and his court?”  More snickering erupted behind him.  It was clear in Xaos’ voice nothing would save Gretch at that point, and the imp’s knees finally failed him.

         “No, master,” he whined.  “I have brought a gift.”

         The room erupted with insidious laughter.  All around him, the aristocrats of Nezren exploded with anticipation for his death.  They mocked his hope, eager to witness the Demon Lord’s wrath.  But Xaos was not laughing.  In fact, Xaos had just a moment of patience to hear the imp’s words, too bored to simply slay him.  The host of demons was another matter, and in seeing the delay in expected carnage, set themselves into a frenzy of shouts and roars, mostly for Gretch’s immediate death.

         Fearing they would take matters into their own hands, Gretch quickly fumbled for the pouch at his waist and retrieved the item within.  The raucous crowd quieted to a whispery hum as he lifted his treasure into the air for all to see.

         “Angel feather,” he gasped.

         For but a brief moment the room fell silent.  Everyone stood wide eyed in disbelief, staring at the feather’s thick white strands, fully captivated by its radiance.  The magnificence of the object betrayed the truth of the imp’s claim.  They did not doubt it’s authenticity in the slightest.

         Moments crept passed as tension rose to a palpable state, until finally the audience broke from their stupor and launched themselves at him, claws reared and jaws set to kill.  Gretch never felt so close to death in all his life.  He realized too late that the hope inspired by the feather did not amount to much as darkness fell upon him.  His death should have been quick, but it never came.

         An eerie silence opened his eyes.  Amazed, he was, to see the lot of them suspended in air, frozen in their lunging screams!  Sparkles of multicolored light glowed like an enveloping blanket about them.  The feeling of inevitable death lingered, however; they were one step from finishing him, their faces covered in haunted wicked glares coveting the feather.

         The Demon Lord stood and descended from the dais his throne rested upon.  He walked through his guests as if they were archways.  Gretch was too petrified and awestruck to do anything but stand there holding the angel feather before him.  Xaos slowed upon approach and bent over to speak to the imp.

         “However did you manage to get that?”

         He did not wait for an answer and Gretch never offered one.  Xaos reached toward the imp, holding his hand sideways.  The imp sighed and handed the item to him without hesitation.





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         Something had spooked the pigs.  Somehow, they escaped their pen, and scattered into Ganders Field.  Dianice had offered to retrieve them, but Maikle insisted he do it.  Nonsensical, in her opinion, but men were full of nonsense much of the time.  There were dozens of stacks of wood to be chopped, and she simply did not have the strength for it.  Of course, Maikle often insisted he perform the labors of their livelihood, expressing mock appreciation for the delicacy of her touch.  And she often feigned offense at such things, but truth be told, she thoroughly enjoyed her husbands consideration.  She wondered how long it would last.

         The couple had moved to the Loredale Plains only a year before, and married just a bit longer than that.  Soon, she was certain, the fires of their passion would fade and she would find herself knee deep in pig feces and mud; many of the settlers wives had informed her of her fate.  They assured Dianice his considerations would dissipate not long after her first child took its first steps, as had been the case with their own husbands.  It was a trade she was willing to make, though.  Naturally, conception would need to take place first, and so far it had not, but it was something they both wanted, and both assumed would happen naturally with time.  So it was with slight resignation that Dianice confined herself to the house Maikle had built with the aid of their friend and neighbor Jack, and his company of former Serthian soldiers.  All that had been asked in return were the pick of a few choice slabs of pork come Summer Festival.  A friend indeed, for the value of a home far away from the trappings of the Wizard Lords, a home where they could raise the family they both so desired in peace, was priceless.

         Midday had not yet passed, and the dishes from breakfast were clean, yesterdays clothes hung to dry, and the dust of another uneventful day wiped from all their homely decorations.  A sigh of tedium escaped her.  She would clean them again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…  She sighed again.  A nap would satiate her restlessness, or at the least, temporarily pacify it, she hoped.  She retrieved a small tin cup from a cupboard and filled it with water from a pitcher resting on the kitchen table, then headed to their bedroom.

         She opened the door and froze.  Dumbfounded, the cup fell from her hands, bouncing off the wooden floor with a clatter and splashing water about her feet.  The only window in their bedroom was open when she clearly remembered having closed it, but that was not what startled her.  It was the blood; all around the opening, across her dresser and splotched here and there at the edge of her bed.  At first she feared some wounded animal had found its way in, but quickly dismissed that, for the window did not easily open, and would require the dexterity of a hand.  No, something, or somebody, rather, was inside her home.

         Surely I should scream, she thought, and a strange thought it seemed to her, for it was.  But something held her voice, something more than a peculiarity in the scene that lay before her.  A few moments passed as she let her gaze settle on the bloodied area.  Something moved.  White feathers!  Nearly camouflaged to perfection with blood, they were easy to miss, blending so naturally with the cream white spread that covered her bed.  Had a bird managed to open the window?  It seemed ridiculous to her.  Nevertheless, Dianice determined to help it back out, or, considering all the blood, put the animal out of its misery.  But rounding the bed, she saw no bird, only a woman sprouting angelic wings from her back and lying in a pool of blood.  With this Dianice did scream, leapt back and slammed into Maikles hutch, sending many of his wooden carvings off their shelf and onto the floor. The winged woman looked as if her innards had been ripped right out of her belly.  Dianice turned to run, fully intending to scream as loud as she could muster through the bulge of fear strangling her throat.  But something stopped her yet again, a pleading desperation in the angels sorrow filled orbs, glimmering with fears of unfathomable loss.  She could no more turn from this creature than she could a wounded child.

         “Please!” the Angel whispered, for she had but few words left.  Soriel meekly stretched one hand toward the woman.          

         With little perception of her own movements, Dianice suddenly found herself kneeling, taking the Angels hand and bringing it to her heart.  She shook her head slowly, searching for words of comfort but had only a tear to offer. 

         “Weep not, child.  All things must end.”  A knowing smile spread across Soriel’s face, full of compassion and love.  She moved her hand to Dianice’s diaphragm.  “Through you shall this Light be reborn.” 

         As the angel spoke, golden streams of light flowed into Dianices body.  An explosion of life erupted in the core of her torso.  Her back arched, her breath came in gasps.  Her thoughts spiraled in ways she did not think possible, and for brief moments there was only life, sweet, blooming life full of promise flooding through her body.  Love, beauty and spirit magnified at once.  Soriel’s life force, an eternal light, the light of the dawn of all creation, passed to her.

         Time became ineffectual for those moments to Dianice.  She had no recollection of how long she sat there, lingering in limitless elation with her eyes shut until hands grabbed hold of her.  She opened her eyes to find Maikle beside her, holding her by the arms, asking if she was alright, though his voice sounded distant.

         The Angel was gone.





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         “The Angel of Dawn has died.  A Child of Light shall be born in her place.”  Xaos held the angel feather by the quill, lifting it out of his divination pool.  In moments the image of the human pair faded from its liquid surface.  He slowly twirled the feather against his lips, considering the possibilities.

         Moments filled with uncertain fear passed for Gretch.  He was fortunate to be alive, he knew.  But within that safety, the unknown nagged at his thoughts.  What sinister plans did Xaos have for him?  His master had the feather, and for all his thoughts the imp could not imagine of what use he could be.

         “I will need a soul tracker,” the Demon Lord stated, finally recovering from his contemplation.

         “But…master, will it not take…”

         “Do not fret, precious Gretch.  I have sent my minions to many worlds.”