ANGELS DON'T CRY by Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan Smashwords Edition Copyright©2012 MetaFic, Inc. All rights reserved. It's strange, God created only two luminaries, the Sun and the Moon - I know, I was there to throw the light switch on - but here I find myself awash in the light of a third. Times Square is perhaps the brightest place on earth. I glance at my crossword puzzle. What's a seven letter word for a city dedicated to materialism and sensual pleasure? With my pencil I fill in "BABYLON." Or were they looking for New York? Oh well, the Y is in the same place anyway. I love it here. The stock quotes run on a digital ticker tape, proper red letters and numbers - the EKG of the economy. Fifty-foot women on billboards offer people products they don't need. Cute, memorable logos on Jumbotrons substitute brand for quality. This place is where vulgarity and tackiness battle creativity. The fluorescent lights of the city pulsate and flare, drilling, drilling deeper and deeper into minds. Photoorgasmic delights for the eye. It's warm here tonight though the time is approaching 3 A.M. Car-headlights stream by like tracer bullets, adding yellow streaks to the blue and white and orange that live in this place. There's a strong scent of garbage and exhaust; I suck in as much of it as I can. Screens that say "Sony" under them advertise a new reality series. "What happens when you put four prostitutes in a convent?" the caption asks, followed by a scene where an ethnically diverse quartet of scantly clad ladies bang on heavy gates set in a gothic looking wall. "House of God, Home of Sin." The first part is all shining in immaculate white while the second half is engulfed in flames. Very cute. "Watch the drama unfold next Monday on Fox." You bet your sweet corporate stocks I will. Last time I saw blasphemy like this was Rome under Nero. God is gonna have a fit when he hears about this. I love Times Square, I'm drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It's the lack of genitalia. It forces a divine being to seek more intellectual stimulants. That's why I have three hobbies in my eternal life: crossword puzzles, music, and people. The first two are accommodated easily enough. I have a rolled-up magazine of crossword puzzles in one hand and a pencil in the other. I also have an iPod in my back pocket holding close to ten thousand tracks, all set on 'shuffle.' Since angels are omnilingual, I have music from all over the world on it. Russian bards are followed by French chanson, 2Pac's urban lyrics by the angelic chants of Buddhist monks, Bach and pop and rock and doo wop, Metallica and Romanian gypsies and evangelical and chamber music. A cornucopia of emotion condensed into electronic bits. We angels love music. Humans are highly inarticulate beings. Their inner worlds remain hidden because they don't know how to express themselves properly. But music can be charged with feeling. For me it's a map of human emotional evolution, a glance into the holy of holies – the human heart. My third hobby is a little harder to accommodate. The Bible is right when it says that angels didn't want God to create humans. Well, obviously we were afraid that he'd get preoccupied with them and forget all about us. Obviously we were jealous of the twinkle in his eyes when he set out his plans for Adam and Eve. But here's a little inside information that's not in any of the holy books. As it turns out, God was disappointed pretty quickly by his new creations, while we fell in love. It's a 'good girls like bad boys' type of thing. We're angels, we're all pristine and unblemished. By definition we can't be bad. But humans - - hell, they can do whatever they want. Their imperfections drove us wild. We got hooked on the unpredictability of free will. Vicarious choice. Vicarious love. Vicarious evil. That's why I come here. For me, this place is the navel of the world, the arena of human complexities. I myself try to be as inconspicuous as possible. I've got this metrosexual vibe going. A vibrant silk shirt tucked into extremely tight leather pants (I use a roll of quarters to compensate for my inherent physiological limitations). I've got these shiny black shoes with a slight heel and a pair of Gucci wraparound sunglasses. I feel so cool. The wind ruffles my hair and disperses the smoke from my cigarette. The dim, gray cloud rises above me as it dances with the gust, diffusing the bright rays of the screens and monitors and light bulbs. My ears are filled with Queen's Princes of the Universe. The cherry of my cig flares as I tug on it. My mouth fills with the soothing, bitter smoke. I just wish I had a pair of lungs to actually gulp it down. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture bullies through Freddi Mercury's dulcet voice. I pull an earpiece out and look at my cell phone. Michael's calling me. We angels usually eschew each other's company - more interested in mingling with people. I silence the ringtone and push the bud of the headphones back into my ear. Nothing can drag me away from here now. I do wonder what he wants, though. A young girl separates herself from the shadows and offers me her provocative services. I glance at the crossword puzzle. Five letters for a woman who engages in sexual acts for money? That's easy. "WHORE." Then I turn and give her my best photogenic smile. She's stricken; she offers to do me for free. Yeah, I have that effect on people, angelic beauty and all. I wish I could, sweetie. But we angels are androgynous, and there's no way around it. Hell, look at Lucifer, he's been trying to grow a penis for two millennia now, and nothing. But if I can't have her physically, maybe I can spiritually. I look at her; I mean, really look at her. Beyond the hoop earrings and fake eyelashes, beyond the knee-high boots and the track marks on her arms, through the blush she uses to cover up the beatings her pimp gives her. My gaze slices right into her soul. And then -- seven letters for overwhelming manifestation of ecstasy? "RAPTURE." I did not expect to find what I did in a New York hooker. Lisa fell in love, and I mean real love, with some guy. That guy's her pimp now. He just used her affection to get her to turn tricks. Her brother is in a wheelchair, paralyzed in a gang shootout. But the most unexpected feature is her unadulterated faith in God and her unvarnished spirituality. Every time some horny customer huffs and puffs over her, dripping sweat and cum in unison, she closes her eyes and chokes away the tears, and the only relief from the guilt is the thought of redemption. Mary Magdalene was a whore too once, Lisa consoles herself. How utterly delicious, how adorably human. I take her soul. Well, not really. I just kinda take a spiritual photograph of it. Boy, will the others be impressed with this one. See, that's what we do, we collect and trade images of souls. They're our trading cards and this one's a collectable. Lisa's soul is perhaps my best find of the last decade. I might even be able to trade her for one of Raphael's 'Early Martyrs of Christendom' that he always flaunts in front of us. The cell rings again, vibrating and flashing, and urgently grumbling 1812. It's Mike again. I don't have a good feeling about this. I don't pick up. Tonight has already brought so much joy and I'm not going to spoil it by getting sucked into some years-long divine managerial dispute. Satisfied, grinning as if I just helped Moses up the Mountain of Sinai, I continue my trek. The huge center Jumbotron is advertising some new television event, and this one's a little more serious than hookers and nuns. In two days time there will be the televised launch of the first interstellar manned ship. Eight people have volunteered to be cryogenically frozen and shot to Alpha Centauri, a trip that is estimated to take no fewer than three hundred years. I am less than optimistic about the success of the mission. Wayward asteroids, poor stellar cartography, and computer malfunctions all but guarantee the ship becoming a flotsam tomb in the middle of cosmos, somewhere on the crossroads of nothing. The ringing of my cell interrupts my further contemplations. I sigh. Yeah, Mike again. Goddamn it. Third time – this must be important. I press the flashing "talk" button that fits in so well with the rest of the multicolored craziness of the City. "'Sup, Mike?" I answer, forcing down irritation. "Yeah, Gabe, you better get up here." His voice is demure, kinda like it was for a century after Sodom and Gomorrah. Man, what a place that was to hang out. Sometimes we think God destroyed the cities just to punish us for enjoying them too much. "What's going on?" "He's pissed." "Golden Calf pissed or 'I-can't-believe-they-ate-the-apple!' pissed?" I ask, already sprouting wings and taking flight. "What?" His voice is distracted, like he's reading something. "Oh. No. It's worse. He's - - look, just get over here." "Be right there." I sigh, reluctantly leaving behind the lights and noises of New York. And this night promised so much. I enter the boardroom dressed in a nice toned-down gray suit with a white shirt. The top button's open and I'm not wearing a tie. God doesn't like to be upstaged, and today does not sound like a day to test his patience. Most of the others are already in attendance. I push through the crowds of cherubim and lesser angels and head straight for the big boys' table where the archangels are gathering. The main table is this heavy thing of mahogany with gilded legs in the shape of lion paws. Eight matching throne-like chairs are carefully arranged around it, one for Him and seven for us. The rest of the heavenly host gets to stand. I haven't been here since the last board meeting, way back in 1933, but nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes here. The boardroom is pretty cozy, if one likes painted vaulted ceilings à la Sistine Chapel and a daunting, oppressive echo. To the right of the table, on redwood paneled walls, we have the Ten Commandments written out in every Earthly language, even Esperanto and Klingon. Across from the Commandments, God has hung up his favorite pictures. Him creating the world (before and after photos). He's actually grinning in them; He was so optimistic back then. There's a picture of Him and us engaged in a mudball fight during the sculpting of Adam. Him and Abraham. Him and Jacob. Him and Reagan. Him cutting the ribbon at the opening ceremony of the First Temple in Jerusalem. Cutting the ribbon at the Second Temple. God fishing with Jonah. Us in war paint and combat fatigues right before the Tower of Babel mission. All in all, this place would not have a bad ambience if God never showed up. But He does. He rolls in as dark as storm clouds. As He enters, my iPod reshuffles and starts Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. God's in his cosmocrat mode, all serious and preoccupied. I look to my crossword. Seven letters for God's mood right now? With the tip of my No. 2 pencil I etch in "FURIOUS." The previous couple of millennia have left serious marks on him. He's haggard and irritated. Hell, I don't even remember when I saw him smile last. It's funny, people always read these eulogies at funerals that say the dearly departed is in a better place now, with God. Well, I'm with Him now, but I'd rather be with the dearly departed. God is just too depressing. I glance around the room and notice that all my brethren are immediately on edge as well. The younger ones start fidgeting when His depthless eyes pass over them. He sits at the head of the table and places his folded hands on top. He's dressed in this immaculate white suit with no collar. Black pips of onyx stand in for buttons. With his white hair and beard and the monocle he looks a little like Sigmund Freud, only bigger, maybe like what Freud would have looked like on steroids. "I call this meeting to order," I say, trying to keep irritation out of my voice. God is a stickler for protocol. I'm charged with keeping the minutes because I'm the highest-ranking angel here. "It's over," He says immediately. We all look to each other, confused. I vaguely remember hearing these words somewhere before. The Flood? Was that it? "I'm tired of getting a wet shoulder from them!" He means a cold shoulder. He slams his fist into the table and the pillars of creation shake. "I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore! We're ending this now!" The eyes of my friends all designate me as their voice and I ask halfheartedly, "Ending what?" After a well rehearsed theatrical pause, He gives us one of his famous 'vengeful-God-of-the-Israelites' smiles. "The World." "Uh huh," my words carry the same relieved sound that I hear from the other angels. "Sure, the World." I grin, winking at him and wondering what this is really about. "I'm warning you, Gabriel, don't patronize me!" God puts the fear of God into these words. Don't patronize Him? The others are just as stunned as I am. Faces grow somber, their chuckles and smiles vanish as the last vestiges of joviality slowly fade. "You're serious?" "Damn straight!" He says. "Making eggs, breaking omelets." These words are uttered with a violent spasmodic twitch of His neck. I truly don't know why He said that or even what that means, but He's been all neurotic lately, ever since the Crusades. I guess it's hard to be infinite. "But... why?" Michael asks, voice shaking. "'Cause I'm tired of playing dog and cat with them! 'Cause ever since their creation they've been the most dimwitted, egoistical, pigheaded bunch I could ever envision." He rubs His forehead, gnawing on a lip. Then He looks up. "Did you see their latest television programming? Nuns and hookers? Nothing's sacred." He mutters, shaking His head in bewilderment. "Fine," I retort, trying to buy time, trying to imagine some way we could avert this. "Mike, start cracking on a Messiah. Raphael, take as many cherubim as you'll need and start implementing the first phase of the Apocalypse. Uriel, you'll..." "No, no, no! Uh-uh, no way," God interrupts my energetic, desperate orders. "None of this Biblical nonsense." An eight-letter Norse word for the end of all things? "RAGNAROK" appears in the neat, little squares in the wake of my pencil. "No survivors?" Sariel, another one of my fellow archangels, asks timidly. "Not even cockroaches," He says with sweet anticipation. The glass of the monocle glints like a sniper rifle's scope. The iPod's now playing Metallica's Creeping Death. The kick drums start beating ominously and the tempo goes double-time. "What about the righteous?" "I said no one." "But the Bible promises Rapture, Apocalypse, Armageddon, the Final Judgment, End of Days." Michael sounds especially offended, probably because he was the one who had to dictate the whole Book of Revelations to John. It took him fifteen years. "You can't just..." "Of course I can. I'm God." We just stare at him. Angels don't cry, that's the way He made us, but we're pretty close to it now. He sighs. "Look, it's just not working out. I tried. You guys know I did," He says dejectedly. "How many epiphanies, theophanies, visitations and appearances do they need? Zarathustra, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Buddha, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Nostradamus, Bob - how many prophets is it going to take? They just don't get it! An apocalypse won't change anything!" In a way I start feeling bad for Him, the frustration and utter defeat in His voice is too sincere to dismiss. "I mean, it got so bad that I even gave them detailed instructions and still nothing! They covet and steal and worship idols and kill..." the list just keeps growing, accusations targeted against the whole of the human race. He's naming all the things my kind has come to love them for. I just sit back in the chair. It's His own fault. We told Him not to give them the Ten Commandments. Hell, Adam couldn't follow just one in Eden, and here He expected lesser men to follow ten? What was He thinking? "It's time to turn over a new tree." Yeah, with a memory for proverbs God did not grace himself. "I just can't do it anymore. I'm tired, okay?" He looks around the boardroom, all hopeful that his fiery little PowerPoint presentation won us over. No such luck. All my brethren are glowering at Him, their crystal eyes throwing silent rebukes at the Creator. In my crossword puzzle I jot in "IRONY" for five letters for an event marked by incongruity. I mean, people's faith in God and His goodness is unshakable, while His faith in people is nonexistent. Omnibenevolent my pristine, virgin ass. I want to show Him Lisa's soul. I want to scream into His face about the beauty, the intricacy, the wonder that I see every second I'm on Earth. But I don't. It would all be useless. It wouldn't work. It didn't work before the Flood either. Heartless bastard. I just stare down at the crossword. Huh, what's an eleven letter word for God's attitude towards humanity? Ah! Diligently I write in "MISANTHROPE" in big, block letters. Finally, when we realize that He's deadly serious and there's no way to reason with Him, we react. Half of my divine kin start breaking out harps and trumpets. They form choirs and start singing Him praise. That usually pacifies Him. God knows He loves angelic choirs, music of the spheres and other such junk. The other half gather behind the worn, suffering Lucifer, threatening to rebel. Poor Lucifer looks like he would have had a heart attack if he actually had a heart. The whole Satan/Fallen Angel legend was just a PR spin. He didn't really fall and neither is he the embodiment of evil. (God's got that angle covered well enough. I mean, God's infinite. Good and bad and the whole smut in between.) Truthfully, Lucifer loves people even more than the rest of us. He's been helping them develop since day six. All he dreams of is becoming human. Well, the legend did get one thing right; he is God's ultimate adversary, at least at this exact moment. "Silence!" God screams and breaks off both, the threats and the hymns. "I put this to a vote," He says. "All in favor of destroying Earth?" He's the only one with his hand up. "All opposed?" The rest of the board of directors raise their hands - that's me and the other six archangels. "Duly noted. We'll leave this to the shareholders," He says darkly. I knew He'd say that. That's it, Earth is doomed. My iPod clicks for a moment and then I hear REM's Losing My Religion. Even though, on His whim, we restructured our celestial hierarchy to resemble a corporation, He's the only shareholder, controlling one hundred percent of the stock. All this form is just a flimsy democratic veil to hide his vile dictatorship. Why we have to go through this ridiculous charade, I don't even know. "You know what, God? Sometimes you can be a real..." I trail off as He stares me down. Under His gaze I sit back in the cushy chair and look into my crossword puzzle. A five letter word for a shallow mark made by a pointed instrument? "PRICK." I float above the world in a polar orbit - well, in orbit that was polar but a short time ago. Solar winds caress me, and radiation from far-off nebulas cascades over me with familiar warmth. The iPod's earpieces are quietly growling What a Wonderful World in Louis Armstrong's unforgettable, mellifluous voice. Up here, with the Sun a hand's reach away, with everything glowing and spinning, I realize how much I'm going to miss Times Square with all its cute little gimmicks, lights, twinkles, smells, garbage -- I sigh. In God's defense, He really didn't go out of his way to destroy Earth, He just kind of took a step back and tweaked gravity. The moon started falling into the Earth and all hell broke loose, pardon the pun. It took exactly six days for the world to be destroyed. A cosmic symmetry, that. Now there's no more green or blue left. From my vantage point all I see chunks of the tiny planet I so loved once. Four letters signifying what a lonely archangel feels? "LOSS" I etch in and the tip breaks. The iPod loses its charge. The image of Lisa's soul keeps pushing itself back into my mind. I don't know why this is the one to surface. Maybe because it was the last one I ever photographed. She lived her life as it was presented to her, never truly happy, believing that God was there to keep her from stumbling, believing He was there by her side every step of the way. Him and His eternal, infinite patience. Then I turn around and glance towards the inky cosmos. I can barely see it, but I know it's there. A tiny spaceship, the first interstellar manned flight. It truly had no chance of survival - well, at least before God allowed for the destruction of the world. Now me and my kin will ward off derelict asteroids and monitor computer glitches. We will guide the shuttle well and true to Alpha Centauri. And then we'll tell God. He'll have three or so centuries to cool off, and I'm confident we'll be able to convince Him to try again. On board the ship are the eight volunteers, shot off one day before the moon became God's wreaking ball. On board there are also refrigeration units filled with genetic samples of every known living thing found on Earth. Of course God will be furious with us, but in the end He'll surrender, put on His best face, and appear to the astronauts. Naturally, He'll take all the credit, just as He did with Noah. We don't mind. Let Him be worshiped, that's His thing. All we care about are people. I turn back to Earth. Something appears on my cheek, something wet and salty. But it can't be a tear, probably just some melting ice from a comet's tail. It can't be a tear. Angels don't cry. An Excerpt from ASHES OF HEROES Book One of the War of Regret Series By Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan Available Now Wherever E-Books are Sold "I once heard it said that a storyteller has but the briefest moment to snare the mind of his listeners and make them follow his story to the end. I once heard it said that one must start off the story with a grand mystery or a bloody war--something exciting." Renz's voice was satin-soft. He and Vira sat under the moonlight on a mossy boulder in a deserted corner of the fort that had seen too many bar fights and not enough tenderness. "Will you tell me of your swordsmanship, then?" Vira asked in a hush. Renz felt her shift closer to him in the way a faithful hound reaches out for her owner's fingers. "No, not swordsmanship," Renz said, adjusting his battle-ax to avoid poking her in the ribs. "You must forgive me, my sweet, but I have no such tales. The truth is, the really talented storyteller--the one who always smells of campfires and whose voice has wrought fantasies in the minds of children and noblemen alike--will describe the background before ever beginning the story of an epic battle or doomed love. Such men, the truly talented, know how to create the proper setting. They start at the beginning. A noble prince dying in the woods, handing off his infant son to--" "Was your father a prince?" Vira asked, her voice subdued with the anticipation of a girl half expecting to hear half-lies. "Had he only been one, I would be a match for you." She shifted even closer, and he heard a soft sigh surging from a place deep within her where fantasies still lived. On the wall above, the sentries exchanged smoldering torches together with their shifts. As Renz inhaled the scent of his nearing prize, he remembered his "noble" lineage. His father, like his father, his father, and his father before him, went straight from their mother's tit to an ale jug, though it much humbler in dimensions. Whenever he surfaced from that bottleneck, he had only strength enough to bed his wife and ride a patrol. One or the other was bound to be his downfall. But the man's heart was strong, so Renz's father survived the bouts with Renz's mother. His neck, however, snapped like a twig when he drunkenly fell off his horse during a patrol in the Ashes. No one was sure whether it was the fall that killed him or the leagues that his trusty steed dragged him through while evading the hot pursuit of other Silver Bear warriors who tried to save their comrade. "Well, you are no noble; you have no scars of epic battles and no Silver Claw on your shoulder. What will you capture my attention with, except those pretty eyes?" she asked in the coquettish way of a girl whose attention was captured and fettered with chains strong enough for a giant. Renz had long ago realized that his quick smile, the silver-colored hair, and the varnished silver glint of his eyes were the perfect combination to seduce common girls. More than that, what really won him favor with women was his approach--life owed him much, and he was collecting. If only the prize were greater. "If I were walking the halls of the Borian lords or even inspecting the plump granaries of the Kitaran wheat barons...surely I would have entangled the heart of a proper maiden, one of nobler blood and sultrier appearance!" Renz thought as his palm softly lowered to Vira's thigh. It was soft and smooth. How depressing it was, he thought as his fingers gently squeezed that thigh, that, alas, his talents were being wasted here at the edge of the world. Not that he was certain this was the edge of the world. Vague legends, half-baked rumors, and holy priests (all equally untrustworthy, in Renz's opinion), spoke of vast lands beyond the border. They said that the Ashes stretched into sunset and then beyond. Unfortunately, Asenthia lacked not only maidens worthy of Renz's arrogant attention but also competent cartographers who could render accurate maps. Besides, no one had the courage to truly brave the Ashes, so Renz was stuck here at the border, at the edge of the world, with Vira. Vira! He remembered and turned back to her, realizing that his mind could also use a good mapping to avoid meandering down the various side paths. "It is so because I have nothing--no lineage, no shiny coin, no rank, no great victories. Not even any future but to serve quietly in this fort for the rest of my life. Anyone else to whom you might gift your love will not cherish or remember it the way I will..." His voice faded to nary a whisper so that she had to lean closer and closer toward his lips. "You're mad!" she excitedly whispered. "I am to wed your general with the sunrise! My father will see you hanged if he finds out!" "I will chance all of that for one night, just one night--" Their lips met and interrupted the moonlight. They were out of step with each other; their lovemaking was akin to a battle. It lacked the fluidity of an old couple dancing the same dance at the annual village fall festival. She brushed her lips against his. He tried to bite them. She caressed his cheek with her fingers. He twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled. She tried to shush him to a slower pace. He snorted like a bull plowing a field. She kissed his neck. He choked hers. The cot groaned under them, its wooden frame threatening to break. Their ardor shook the nearby table, wobbling the half-full goblet of wine--the red liquid swooshing in pace with their thrusts until it overturned. A crimson river was birthed, with most of the tributaries seeping into the wood and only the heartiest taking a path of exploration: winding under the crook of a still-smoking pipe, around hills of melted wax, and by a mountain of cleanly-picked chicken bones. Eventually the stream became a waterfall, and Renz heard those drops of wine drumming off his ax belt as they fell from the table. The wine stopped dripping. Renz tensed and jerked out. His seed rushed forth onto her thighs, slowly oozing down to her knee and onto his tabard--mandatorily hand-washed for her upcoming wedding. Dragon seed! Renz thought. He rolled off her naked, sweated-sparkling body. She rolled onto him, eager to share pleasure's aftertaste. He rolled her off, using his pipe as an excuse. They were doing their awkward dance again. The surge of pleasure slowly ebbed. With it left the insatiable, insane lust he had felt just moments before. In its stead came the realization that he had just plowed the future wife of the Master of the Order. Dragon seed! He swallowed loudly, imagining what a noose would feel like crushing his throat. They would not even chop his head off. That mercy they saved for traitors, murderers, and rapists. No, his death would be far slower and more painful. He deeply inhaled the smoke of his pipe along with the smell of his room. Surely underneath discarded tunics, cloaks, and breeches was a dead rat. There was also the stale, sour reek of spilled wine and regretful sex, the latter being more distinct and accusing. A gaze around his room--anything not to look at her. Two dull daggers, thrown out of boredom, stuck out of a wall a good foot away from the crudely drawn target. In the corner was a bucket filled with water the color of sword rust. A chamber pot covered by some dirty rags completed his furnishings. The panting, glistening Vira was oblivious to these unromantic details and was kissing his shoulder as she murmured some soft words of affection into his skin in a futile attempt to add significance to an act that had none. He shrugged her off. "You should hurry, Vira; it's dawning," Renz said. "You'll be late for your wedding." Renz skirted the perimeter of the crowd like a vagabond looking for a drink. The morning was bright, illuminating everything--both virtue and sin. Renz had too few of the former and too many of the latter to push through to the wedding arc. He kept away from the places where the bride and groom could see him in his seed-covered tabard. The aroma of freshly baked bread circled the fort's courtyard, summoning saliva from mouths too familiar with stale crackers. Soldiers, moving about their errands, so accustomed to the typical layout of their fort, stumbled on newly erected spits, canopies, and tables. And those spits held wonders: pierced from tail to mouth, large hogs and muscled elk twirled over fire. Farther away, whole families of hares took boiling baths in cauldrons filled with onions, carrots, and parsley. The tang of cinnamon and thyme ruled the air, vanquishing even the stench of so many sweating bodies pressing together. In his six years serving in the Order of the Silver Bears, Renz had never seen the fort so festive. Mundane chores had marched the love of life out of these seasoned soldiers. Guarding against the Ash Lands had a way of dousing good humor. That is not to say that these men did not have a joke or two; they had enough to fill half-a-night's watch, in fact. But most of those jokes were bawdy, and the laughter they evoked mostly cynical. That is understandable, however, because most mornings found the warriors grumpily stumping around and going about insipid tasks. Sharpen the ax, chop the wood, sharpen the ax, practice decapitating an enemy in the yard, sharpen the ax, chop the wood... But this day was truly different. Men walked around grinning, stopping every few moments to partake of the unfamiliar aromas. Some went so far as to put flowers on their scabbards and wreaths on their hair. The Silver Bears even tried to don new colors--black was replaced by gray, and brown by dun. After cajoling a flask of ale from the kitchen stewards by alternating promises of friendship with those of hounding and pain--anything in place of coin--Renz set out to find a resting place. This was not an easy task. For one, he needed a map to find the places where young recruits emptied piss pots and chamber pots; the lazy ones did not make it to the walls as was protocol. Once again, Renz wished for a good cartographer. Finally, a grassy spot of earth, comfortably cooled by the shade of the smithy and not reeking of night soil, provided a tempting resting place. Renz stretched out and glanced toward the bustling crowd by the temple. Above everyone's heads was a crook of the wedding arc. Supposedly, when the priest gave his benedictions and allowed the betrothed to step through the arc, they were married. Renz was slowly sipping the ale and watching the crowd when a column of horses obstructed his view. They seemed out of place now. Dust fled the stamping hooves and clung to Renz. The clanking of weapons and the neighing of horses obliterated the cheerful music of magdanas and flutes that accompanied the newlyweds to the arc. Chain was thrown over patched jerkins. Barbed, bearded axes and spiked, heavy maces hung off leather cords. The hunting hounds barked to the point of rasping as they weaved their way between hooves. For these men, there was no wedding this day, no festival of any sort. Today was like yesterday, like all the yesterdays put together. The Ash Lands required managing, and the owners of these bearded, sour faces were the unlucky ones to ride the patrol this festive day. The dust took a long time to settle. When it finally did, Renz lit up his pipe and deeply sucked in the thick fumes. He didn't force the smoke out; he simply parted his mouth and let wisps flee as they might. A gray cloud lazily crossed by his eyes and momentarily clung to the tips of his hair. When the mist cleared, Drean stood above him. It took his friend but a single moment of staring at Renz to determine that his warnings had gone unheeded. "Gander at him! Can there be doubt?" Drean exclaimed. "You went and took your bear to her cave, didn't you?" Drean asked as he settled down next to Renz, back against the smithy, knees bent. Renz just grunted in response and tilted his head back to let ale spill down his throat. "General Erthan's bethro--" Drean started but was interrupted when the crowd around the arc erupted with cheers, whistles, and clapping. "General Erthan's wife! Did not expect it even from you, Renz. Even from you." Drean reached over and took the flask. "Should Erthan or Master Filoran hear of this--" Drean said after a long gulp, but then he waved a hand, as if Renz wouldn't understand anyway. He took another long swill and then shook the empty flask with a frown. Renz stood up. He was tired of it all. He'd thought he had found a quiet resting spot here by the smithy, but fate appeared determined to not let him rest. "Friend, do you know what is more pathetic than a painter without a canvas or a tavern without ale?" Renz asked. "It is a soldier without a war. A flaccid cock at the village dance has more purpose than that. "Look at us! Our greatest enemy is boredom, and we are losing one day at a time. Every day I bruise my balls in the saddle riding another useless patrol through the Ash Lands, coming back with nothing but dry vomit and a headache. Every night, I stare in a stupor from the wall, waiting--praying--for the Ash Lands to unleash--" Renz didn't finish; it was his turn to wave a hand in frustration. The feast had moved away from the temple. The long line of well-wishers shouted blessings and wound to Bear's Claw tavern. On long benches, men drank mead and ale. Wooden tables were laden with dishes Renz had not seen for months. Everyone looked happy--even the groom, who was usually as emotional as a dead man. Drean shrugged; they'd had this conversation many times before. Instead of replying, he slung his magdana from around his shoulder and began strumming his single, eternal tune. Ding-ding-dong. Renz left his friend and walked toward the temple. His dirty boots crushed flower petals left behind from the procession. The brown, squat temple loomed closer and closer----as inevitable as death. Renz passed under the ceremonial arc, which suddenly seemed very lonely. An hour ago it was the center of attention, but now it was abandoned, sacrificed as the wind's plaything. In everyone's haste to attend the feast, they'd left the temple's bronze gates flung open. Inside was darkness interrupted only by a few flickering tallow candles. The whole place stank of old leather and ancient vellum. Uncertainty stopped Renz at the temple's gate. But having stepped through the wedding arc, Renz felt obligated to carry that uncertainty over the threshold. It was not that he'd never been to the temple. He had. Just never of his own accord. He came to this place once a week, as was mandated by the Order. He and the other men sat on thoroughly uncomfortable, low stone benches, purposely made thus so it would be harder to fall asleep. Here Renz and the others listened to long, boring sermons deliver by an equally dull Jindar-Ul. These weekly visits were torture sessions, and more than once Renz found himself listening to the end of the lecture in some position that revealed he couldn't have been awake. Before today, he had never gone inside actually seeking something. Renz did not like this feeling of emptiness that had recently been assailing him. Considered from all angles, it seemed that Renz had everything. A bed every night, two meals every day. Occasionally, even some maiden's warmth. He had friends and ale and dice. He didn't have war--probably a good thing. And yet, something was amiss. Perhaps it is here, hidden in these windowless walls. The temple looked eerie now, with no sour faces of the fellow warriors who accompanied him weekly, with no arrogant priests in white robes. But the statues were still here. Renz looked at the biggest one, the bronze figure of Panthos towering over the granite altar. The god was poised in mid-lunge, attacking...whoever it was that the legends said he attacked. The divine face was twisted with rage. Renz spun at the sound behind his back. The gates had slammed shut. The wind, Renz reassured himself, even though the gates were bronze and required two stout priests to close them. Renz squinted at the sudden gloom. It was as though he were still a child, still scared by darkness. When he wasn't looking, things moved. He was certain of it. The corner of his eyes perceived shapes slinking in shadows and under benches, but they stopped moving whenever he focused on them. The silence, the sculpture of the outraged god, and the three slowly dying candles all told him to go away. And that was precisely why he was determined to stay. Renz walked to a heavy table of oak that held one of the candles and sat down by a closed volume. The book was unnecessarily thick, with many extravagant carvings on its wooden cover. Renz opened it to a random page and peered inside. The furthest candle from him--the one on the pulpit--died. The temple sank deeper into darkness. The text was surprisingly elaborate. The letters had decorative crowns and curls and flourishes with which a normal scribe does not bother and for which a barely literate Renz had little appreciation. The language was a little outdated, which Renz supposed added genuineness to the message. As the prince lay dying, he left his infant child under the care of The armies of our God were led across the Zahir'Sad by For mighty was said unto the warriors of Asenthia. "For is with you!" "What would a man's soul be worth if of darkness "Forg death the Gods left This part of the narrative was probably unfinished; all Renz saw were fragments. Some words seemed erased by time and usage. Renz respectfully closed the volume and gently pushed it away. His fingers pulled closer a thinner book, and he squinted to read the faded title. It was some chronicles of somebody Renz could not make out. When he opened the book, whole lines were missing, even paragraphs at times. Whatever was left didn't make any sense. This book he did not bother closing; he just shoved it away. The second candle went out. Renz took the last candle and hurried to the monolithic bookcase that stretched floor to ceiling. The first book that he opened was empty. It felt to the floor. The next had pages just as naked and was flung at the statue of Panthos. Icy pincers of fear squeezed Renz's stomach. With an open palm, Renz emptied a whole shelf to the floor. Some books opened their wings in flight; others fell on their faces. But all the pages that Renz could see were empty. He rushed back to the table and opened the first book he'd perused, the one that had held fragments he could read. Nothing stared back at him. Just faded, yellow pages devoid of ink. Sizzling, the last candle died.