The Angel and the Wizard [Story Time]

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David Johansen

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The highest chamber in the tower was neatly organized. Carefully indexed folios of files lined organized shelves. A woman in a warm robe worked at a table lined with neat stacks of reports and ledgers. The angel paced as the rattling sound of footfalls and armour rose from the stairs that circled up around the tower. The brass bound double doors opened with a clash and bestial sub-humans spilled into the chamber dragging a pitiful figure. The angel cast a glance at its assistant but she hardly looked up. While she was more efficient and better organized, the girl lacked the vicious enthusiasm of her predecessor.

The old man was somewhat the worse for wear. His capture had not been peaceable and his captors might be forgiven for their roughness. Thrown to his knees, he coughed for a moment before looking up, his face illuminated by his foe. The angel knelt, it’s loose robe throwing faintly blue radiance in contrast to the golden aura of its skin. “This vessel is remarkable,” it said as it offered its hand to the old man, who batted it away with a scowl as he struggled to his feet. “You have even contrived rheumatic swelling in the joints. I can appreciate such attention to detail. Suffering for your art.”

“The mortals find a grand fatherly figure more relatable and less threatening than a more vigorous form,” said the thing in the shape of an old man, “they believe that wisdom comes with age and take my instruction more willingly if I am bent and stumble. I prefer that they believe they are acting on their own intent rather than serving mine.”

“Yes, yes,” the angel said waving away the very notion, “you’ve been very clever, of course, as you move your pawns across the board, always keeping your hands clean but from here in my tower I can see the whole board, while you focus too closely on individual pieces. None the less, you have stumbled into my clutches at last and your meddling is at an end.”

The old man straightened and ran his fingers through his unkempt beard, “Is it hard to believe that I wanted to see you again before things escalate beyond all hope of peace. We are of a kind if not of an accord. There are few enough of us left now, that were here in the beginning. Surely there is a better way.”

The angel sniffed, “Given your history it is far easier to believe you were caught out at last by fate and your own arrogance on some mission or scheme to spy out or undermine my power. You are here because this is where you are supposed to be. Do you still cling to the notion that you have free will? That your every action is not predetermined by that from whence we come? Nonsense of course, though we cannot see very far down the path ahead, it is laid before us. Still, you are here and I expect you will have your say.”

The old man gathered himself and after a deep breath began a speech long prepared, “Your armies are massing on the borders of the free lands and the ravens are gathering. It has been many long lifetimes of men since you marched forth to war. Can you not be content with what you have, to leave well enough alone? The mortals have progressed much since you last unleashed war, they may well surprise you and you might lose all that you have gained.”

“I find it hard to tell whether you are trying to give good council or threaten me,” the angel sneered, “the beard must make it hard to read your wrinkled face.”

“I’m trying to convince you of a better path,” the old man sighed in his very best weary but compassionate tone.

“You always had a gift for theatrics,” the angel chided, “don’t waste my time with your false emotions and sentiments. If you have something to offer, some other path which might serve my need better, then have out with it.”

The old man straightened and the raggedness and dishevelment fell away from him as a mist, his eyes gleamed and his skin fairly glowed. The assistant glanced up from her work then shrugged and drew another report from the bottom of the pile. “Very well then, as one emanation of the divine will to another. I suggest you withdraw your forces and reduce their numbers or they will be met in battle and destroyed by the forces I have been gathering. My great work is very nearly complete and I will not be hindered and distracted by your games.”

The angel looked at the other, “Perhaps my war will unite them as you have never been able or perhaps you fear you will lose vital playing pieces so vulnerable to cruel chance, as you call it, your fragile webs may fall apart and the world may shape itself to my vision or do you come out of fear that I will move too soon while your plans are incomplete and your pieces are not yet in place. No, I do not fear your alliances and gathered forces, I will act in my own time as I see best and to wrest charge of the mortal world and drive the remaining immortals out of it and set it in order as it should always have been.”

“I had little enough hope that you could see reason,” the other said his voice rough with anger, “but I had to try, this time I will crush you for once and for all.”

The angel nodded to the subhumans, “You may show the good wizard out. If we keep him he may find some way escape and do some harm and if we kill him he will just reform somewhere else in a few weeks and be saved a long and painful walk.“

As the door closed once more the angel’s assistant cleared her throat, “did you want me to have your six-thirty sent up, my lord? It’s the lost and orphaned prince of Enyvere. They found him crossing the plains of despair with half a dozen starving urchins and the Sword of Eldrich Might.”

“In a moment,” the angel muttered, leaning far out over into the window casement, “I want to watch him leave, he’s a tricky bastard and I half expect he’ll befuddle the guards with an illusion and try to rescue the prince or some such nonsense.”
 
A while back I posted the story that precedes this in an Against The Dark Master thread. For anyone who missed it I'll post it here, maybe I should have posted it first :grin:

The Angel In The Black Tower

The new administrative assistant was wearing black leather. She was beautiful in her way, tough, hard, and soft. Thinking they understood the way things worked, someone down the chain of command had chosen her, the angel thought sadly. The problem of being at the apex of a structure, command or physical was the ever increasing distance to the bottom. “You needn’t attire yourself so,” it said in a voice that resonated, beautiful and terrible in the material and immaterial world.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “they said it would be what you wanted.”

“No, it is what your predecessor wanted, and I allowed it because she pleased me.”

“Well, how can I please you then?” she asked in a voice that offered nothing that the Angel desired.

“You can start by sorting and filing the reports from the outposts. It’s detail work, you’ll need to pay attention to the spies they capture, some will be sent here. Some will be men and women seeking to prove their worth, others, misled children who think they’re achieving something nobody else could possibly understand or undertake. Occasionally, other angels or fae, agents of the great powers that wrest the world will turn up though they’re most likely to work through agents or dupes. For the most part we feed the children and try to find a role for them to grow into. We can’t really send them back to people who’d use them to strike against us, it would be irresponsible. We tend to put the heroes in the dungeons, question them, occasionally integrate them into the command structure in some peripheral role like commanding an outpost. Most of them have to be killed, they keep trying to escape and only manage to hurt themselves or someone else. If they’re escaping to, well, escape, we let them at it, they’re no good to us, of course but usually they’re escaping to steal something or kill someone, usually me, of course, so it doesn’t really pay to keep them and the land here is very arid, so feeding them means somebody else eats less, you see. Your predecessor had a fondness for them, I assure you her taste in clothing had nothing to do with me.

“I’m sorry,” the new girl said quietly, “I thought this job was, well, something else.”

“Well, you’re here now and you’ll have to do. There’s a lot of work to be caught up on.” The angel frowned and looked around the chamber. The great glass eye of seeing stood on a plinth in the middle of it high enough to sweep about all the lands about but beneath its gaze were racks of scrolls and leather bound books and piles of reports. There were candles on tables and lanterns on chains, braziers full of charcoal to be lit on cold nights. The angel needed none of them, of course but the mortals who served it did. Sometimes focussing on their needs helped with the pain. At other times it could only send them away and close out the light with the thick black curtains and suffer alone. But if things were left un-managed for too long, the work piled up and the problems compounded on themselves and things got out of hand. “Leave things alone for a century and you’ll find yourself at war on three fronts for no good reason” the angel thought sadly.

The new girl was looking through the stacks of reports, she could read, that was good, sometimes it seemed like the subordinates had no idea what went on up here. It didn’t help that the previous assistant had liked to keep it that way. “Keep them off balance and keep them guessing,” had been her policy. It had worked well, assassination attempts and rebellions were unheard of during her tenure. She had been very good at her job, but like all mortals she wore out so quickly. Other immortals, angelic or fae, were always too ambitious or too patient. You just needed mortals to deal with mortals, it must be something in the timing.

“You’ll need to start at the bottom of the stack,” the angel observed, “the reports are in order, but the oldest ones are at the bottom and the newest ones are at the top.”

“But what if there is something urgent?”

“If a matter was urgent there would be a messenger. Really, I leave a lot of discretion to my commanders. There are rules and orders and procedures, of course, but in the end if a commander can’t handle most problems on their own, it’s just as well that I find out as soon as possible and if the circumstances overthrow them it’s just one less problem for us to deal with up here.

“So, how should I dress for the job,” the new girl asked.

“How should I know,” the angel replied, somewhat frustrated with the bother of training new staff, “I don’t pay any attention to the fashions of the world. You want people to respect you and you want them to know you aren’t to be trifled with. You’re predecessor liked to whip people, maybe a little too much. Maybe she just didn’t know when to stop or maybe she did but she lost more than half of them, you know. It got a bit noisy for my tastes but nobody questioned her authority and nobody ever thought they could get away with anything. I believe there is a closet with various black robes and head dresses others have used, one floor down. As silly as that leather, I suppose, but a good deal warmer. She always thought it was too hot in here, even in the dead of winter. Nobody else ever did. Something imbalanced in the humours I imagine.”

The assistant pointed to a parchment in her hand. “This one says a dozen children were taken, trying to sneak through the Crevasse of Serpents. Seven days ago. The drudges dragged them back to the Writhing Pits. One of them claims to be ‘the chosen one’ and had an ancient enchanted blade.”

Nodding the angel mused, “how many more of those things are still out there, unaccounted for? No accountability, that’s the problem. Everyone’s so worried about winning this war or that war right at the moment and nobody ever thinks to make sure all the dangerous magical weapons are tidied up. Inevitably there’s one in a hole somewhere and some child finds it and thinks it means they can right all the wrongs in the world with a few swift swings. Occasionally they find a fire spell or an unmaking hex that never went off and they lose an arm or a leg or a village. And it’s always my fault, of course, that’s the way things are. All the evils of the world are mine and all the kittens and pretty girls and sunsets are someone else’s. At any rate, we’ll leave the blade to the commander and see if it makes or breaks him. Given a little time the children might grow up a bit while they’re in the pits. Start going through the reports from the bottom of the stack as I asked. I believe there was a hero captured in the Gorge of Thorns Like Spears a while back, that might provide some amusement, if you’re interested in such things.”

“Are you?” The angel could tell she regretted the question even as it passed her lips.

“Not particularly. I’m interested in information. I can nearly track my enemies thoughts and movements by their spies and schemes. The old game still holds my interest. They say I am cruel and capricious but really I’m just practical and focussed on keeping what I’ve built here, in spite of the best efforts of others. Do you want to understand me? It is simply this: I am an emanation of the thought of the creator. I am bound to fate. My appetite is only for knowledge and the furtherance of the great work. I am wounded by my betrayers. I am neither male nor female. I am not sexual nor have I the capacity to reproduce. Others fail to see the necessity of my role but I am no more culpable than a boulder rolling down the side of a hill into a nursery. One ought to ask who set the boulder to rolling or who built a nursery beneath it rather than asking why the boulder is cruel. I only do what I was made to do. I cannot do otherwise. Free will is the gift of mortals. If some angels have descended to a mortal state, have loved or hated, borne children or slain them, all I can say is that their course was set before the making of the world and has not been altered any more than my own. I have not fallen or lost my path, whatever those who have might say to the contrary.”

“It says here, The third legion is low on supplies and on the verge of mutiny.”

“Take a memo to the quartermaster, send the third legion’s supplies to the seventh and send the fifth to suppress the third.”

“Why not send the supplies to the third legion?” she asked, feeling more confident in her position and safety.

“To them that have been given much shall more be given and from those who have not shall even the last be taken. It’s a principle of sound management. If you feed the weak they will remain weak but if you feed the strong they will grow stronger. We shall need strength, not weakness, when my enemies strike. If I read their thought in their messengers rightly the blow will come soon and we must be ready.”
 
The Subhumans and the Angel

The page hauled the day’s stack of reports up the winding stair of the black tower. He was short for one of the Angel’s subhuman legionaries but he had strong legs and a strong back built by bearing the endless streams of reports and orders up and down the stairs. The position of tower page was one of authority and shame. Not fit for the legions but still a worthy beast of burden.
Ratskinner shouldered past the angel’s assistant causing her to stumble and drop a folio of reports. The papers scattered on the floor. She gave an exasperated groan as he took the day’s folios full of orders from the shelf and loped down the stairs. The human female always smelled like something tasty and looked soft enough to go down easy, he liked that in a victim.

As his footfalls fell away the assistant said, “They don’t respect me,” shaking a little with rage.

“They don’t respect anyone,” the angel replied with a shrug, “not even me. They have to fear you. They simply aren’t the kind of people who respect others. I should know, I made them that way.”

“At first, I was fascinated by the idea of selective breeding. Getting a cow to bear all ring straked or solid calves and such. What the mortals won’t dream up! Many of the monsters that plague the world today were a direct result of my early dabbling in the art. But I thought to myself, ‘why not breed a better mortal? Stronger, tougher, more apt to take direction. If their free will be inviolable, might it not be adjusted so they will chose what I want them to chose?” The physical aspects proved relatively simple and I am forever dabbling and discovering new combinations and surprises but the mind and spirit proved more difficult and in the end, less related to parentage and traits. Do you know what it really takes to make one of my subhumans? You have to treat them like they are less than human, it’s really as simple as that.”

“The schools are key of course. You’ve seen the budget items and you know my creatures need to be able to read orders and file reports. It’s so much easier for them to drop a note to condemn their fellows than it is to speak out in public. Not to mention developing discipline and narrowness of vision. They need to know what happens to weaklings and fools. To achieve that I need teachers that can be strict and cruel at need to maintain order, of course, and so, these are drawn from the weaklings and failures, small and bitter they are of little use to the legions but are so apt to take their revenge on the whelps in the class room. I see to it that the males and females receive their education. It’s all very coeducation and progressive, the mating impulse helps to keep things competitive and directed away from dangerous notions and philosophies. Most of the females wind up in the breeding chambers where their fickle affections can be used to keep the males hostile and frustrated, but there have always been a few with the vicious streak needed for command in the legions.”

The assistant nodded, “I learned my letters at home, from a tutor. A lady must needs be able to write letters, of course, and all the books of protocol and etiquette won’t read themselves, you know? All the rules and expectations, how to be a proper lady and obtain a good marriage and rear children. But it wasn’t so different from your schools, the ladies watching the young gallants bashing each other in the courtyard to impress us. I was so glad when father’s chancellor abducted me. I finally got out of the castle and once I had bashed his brains out with a brick I wandered the world in bad company for a while and finally wound up here.

The angel, who was gazing out the window into the distance looked back suddenly when the assistant stopped, “wait, what was that, did I miss something important? I think I am quite done with the reports today, thank you. Sometimes the minutia defeats even me. You may go.”

The next morning Ratskinner was found face down in the sump with the back of his head bashed in with a brick. The new tower page was much more deferential to the angel’s assistant and the incident was forgotten quickly enough as is only right and proper.
 
The Angel and the Demon
The vast chasms beneath the black tower could not help but be dimly lit though around the conference table the soft glow of the Angel and the dark flame of the Demon were sufficiently illuminating. Conference meetings were, of a necessity, decades in the making. The ancient tunnels beneath the world were prone to collapse and often needed clearing and shoring up if the various principles were to attend unmolested by the forces of the surface world. These were not so much meetings of old friends, the forces of darkness are known for their ability to nurse old wounds and open new ones. But vassals and allies must needs be brought to heel before they can be brought to bear and hierarchy can become unclear over the centuries. So, as ever, the Angel and the Demon, being the two most individually powerful principles, had their own little conference before the others arrived.

“The old wizard came to see me a while ago,” the angel’s voice was like a chorus singing praises. There was always some doubt about their position in things and it wouldn’t do to seem reserved or subservient.

“So?” the demon grunted, a little annoyed by the angel’s preening. If he wanted to crush it like a bug, he would have. If he wanted to be in charge he would be. You’d think a little respect and self confidence might grow over the millennia.

“He offered me a path back to the light,” the angel scoffed at the notion that it was outside the light in the first place.

“That was kind of him,” the demon scratched an obscene rune on the newly finished table with his claw. The chamber was large enough for him to stretch his wings and he did so, the instant of fear that he saw in the angel’s eyes was pleasing.

“I expect he was just trying to sniff around and spy things out a bit. The lost prince of Enyvere was found within my realm not long ago, dragging the sword of eldritch might and a pack of urchins around, that sounds like the wizard’s workmanship, perhaps he was trying to lend a hand. I have the prince and the sword well in hand now.” The angel was rewarded with a flicker of fear in the demon’s eyes, the sword was one of the few things remaining in the world that could seriously harm him.

“Poor kid’s an orphan. The king was murdered and the queen poisoned. That sounds like your work,” the demon chuckled, knowing the angel was ever too proper and well mannered to put such an open name on the matter.

“My enemies do seem to come to a sad end, don’t they?” the angel sighed then smiled, “but no, I really don’t try to remove oafs and fools from thrones where they serve me quite well, and knives in the dark and poison lack artistry. The boy’s uncle who lit himself on fire and leapt from the highest tower, well, he was the kind of leader I’d have had to deal with sooner or later.”

“Down in the pits, I don’t have to worry about such things. Oh the maggot folk are always digging new tunnels in search of gold and jewels, of course. I mostly let ‘em at it, the skirmishes keep my minions in training. Nothing new there, critters aren’t smart enough to realize the stuff’s worthless beyond any value they give to it themselves. Of course they do make decent enough weapons and armour, and we’re happy to take any of it we can. A right and proper symbiotic relationship like they have in the merry woods of the overworld.” the demon laughed, he found the endless cycle of suffering and death endlessly amusing.

“You’ll notice we have an eighth seat at the table,” the angel said pointing to a chair on his side of the slab.

“Last time we were down a sultan and up a robber prince,” the demon snorted, “you like to keep it at seven. Even when the butt in the seat isn’t all that impressive.”

“I think you would find the amount of disruption and chaos that ‘robber prince’ sowed very to your liking,” the angel sniffed, “ his grandson, the caliph of the north west wind, will be joining us in his stead. Our new seat is for a northern barbarian warlord who’s keeping things hot for our foes of late.”

“Bloody mortals are too short lived. I can’t ever keep their names and titles straight.” The demon roared in disgust, “you can’t argue with the value of numbers but I’d be happier if we could get some more consistent leadership out of our allies. It’s the mortals that always fail us in the end. Death makes for sentimental critters, always on about the value of truth and love and loyalty and crap. We should rule over them. We should always have ruled over them. Herded them like cattle for our own good and be damned theirs.” His braceletted arm crashed down on the table sending cracks half way across the surface.

“It must be hard for you to be bound beneath the earth,” the angel smiled looking at the shining golden bands about the demon’s wrists, “well, the conflict is heating up once more and maybe this time we can do something about that. The great powers are mostly quit of the world of mortals now, who knows what we might be able to achieve while their eyes are on the burning in the north.”

“That’s nothing you haven’t offered before. Bound as I am, retreating beyond the world isn’t even open to me,” the demon sighed, “as if they would welcome me with open arms and wouldn’t just cast me back down here. That’s the war I’m waiting for. That’s the thing that keeps me going on with this interminable dragging ‘time’ that is imposed upon us. When we assault the shores of eternity and cast down the gods themselves. When they scream in horror and beg for mercy and we show them none. That’s why I tolerate your webs and games, if nothing else, you too long for that day.”

The angel looked at its hands a while, then spoke in a low voice, “It’s the day when they admit I was right all along that I wait for. I have no illusions that it will take anything less.
 
The Angel and the Word

The winds of the north were blowing fiercely outside the tower and the casements were drafty. The angel’s assistant was wearing a soft and fuzzy pink sweater and a matching knitted cap but her fingers were getting a bit numb and the ink was getting thick in the inkwell. Her employer, wearing only a light, white robe, was gazing morosely out of the frost rimmed glass as if stuck for eternity in a moment of melancholy. Grey skies, she supposed, were ideal for introspection but less good for reading reports by. Flipping the next stack of reports over and lifting another from the top, she read it over once, then again and finally spoke, “This report from the seventh legion is pretty unclear. It reads, ‘There nine got done and went back so no good’. I can’t make anything of it.”

The angel gave a theatrical sigh and said, “you know back before the beginning,” the assistant rolled her eyes with equal theatre,” we didn’t have written or spoken language, we just shared our thoughts spontaneously. If we had an idea we just shared it directly from one celestial mind to another. I don’t know if you can say we got a lot done or things moved faster as there were no things and there was no faster. It’s all a bit of a blur for those of us sojourning in creation. As if water were in our eyes and our vision of the not-past-not present- not future is blurred by it. But the point is, language wasn’t really our idea, it’s something you mortals came up with, linking symbols and sounds to objects to expand the capacity of your limited minds. Once we realized it had happened, it was all the rage for a while. It’s my belief that that’s where the trouble started. Once people said things, and could write them down it wasn’t a matter of distant and fuzzy recollection anymore. There were records to show what someone had said but you could still apply new meaning to those written words. I did try to create a language, something more precise and inflexible without all the ambiguity, it didn’t really catch on because the mortals were always coming up with new things and ideas and my language couldn’t keep up with them. Did you know that languages are living things? They evolve and grow and even mate when two come into contact with both sharing and taking aspects from the other over time? It’s frightening really, these living things that don’t really exist outside of mutual convention. An apple exists independent of the word but the word also exists independent of the apple. It is not really composed of matter, it has no spiritual existence but it grows, evolves, and is insidiously useful. Language conquered the world before we saw it coming. We were all infected and diseased with it and we didn’t stand a chance. Some mortal scholars believe that language is the power by which the creator made the world but it surely is not: we never conceived of it. But once you’re hooked you can never get off of it. We are surrounded by horrors un-imagined by the gods.”

The assistant hefted a stack of reports, “It makes it easier to keep track of everything. Even your celestial mind can’t hold it all at once or see everything that passes on the earth. It gives power but it also takes effort. And education, I still have no idea what ‘There nine got done and went back so no good’ means.”

“Nor I,” said the angel a little sadly, “the Seventh Legion is lead by Maxillium Chardazz, a mortal we, ah...recruited shall we say? Before you got sent up here to keep my reports sorted out.”

“That’s right,” she said after glancing at a list pinned to the beam by her desk.

“And that’s the problem,” the angel sniffed, “the human commanders don’t generally have the benefits of our education system and are quite resistant to new learning. It’s an odd thing you know? Children learn language more easily than adults. They may even have been its original creators. We never paid much attention to them. The mortals were always so excited about making them that we didn’t imagine there’d ever be shortages. Mortals are an unlimited, renewable resource. Each kind creating its own in its own way is the way of things. You wouldn’t expect a seedling to sprout eagles or something. It’s all really quite frightening when you think about it. Did children create words? Did we through our creation of children? Did words create us and our memories are only fuzzy images in our minds because the words created them? Think about that if you will, ‘in the beginning was the word.’ Can we really refute that or know what came first before time was?”

The assistant was lost looking through various notes, sometimes the Angel’s metaphysical musings lost her but she was like a dog on a scent for statistics, “I’ve got it! The seventh was to send a hundred to raid Throndar and see if they could capture a certain prophetic chicken that’s been all too accurate in its predictions for too long. Only nine came back, without the chicken, I assume.”

“That’s a shame,” said the angel, “even the chickens are having trouble keeping the future and present straight these days.”

The assistant laughed at this, but the angel only tightened its grip on the window sill and gazed out silently into the newly falling snow.
 
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The Assistant and the Commander
The commander of the XII legion came up the stairs at a full charge, her long braids lashing about like serpents. Even before her lord and master there was nothing of submission or weakness in her posture. “I have come my lord,” she roared through jagged teeth.

“Ah, yes, excellent,” the angel turned from the eye of seeing, its eyes burning with crimson fire, “I would like to hear your full report on the incident.”

The commander looked over at the angel’s assistant, where she sat, surrounded with stacks of reports, “she should have it there. I sent it a week ago.”

The assistant expertly bisected a stack on her desk and drew forth a thick stack of paper. “I’ve got it right here. While it’s quite thorough, the master had some questions and thought you would appreciate a chance to explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” the commander sneered, “the weakling questioned my authority and I adjusted his anatomy into a more suitably pleasing form.”

“And that’s how the fighting started,” the angel asked softly.

“Well, no,” the commander showed a little uncertainty, “the fighting started because his men disparaged me and my men wouldn’t have it. You know that these human commanders never quite figure out how we do things here. Sure they are brave and handsome and well spoken enough but they never respect our ways and they always think they are smarter and better qualified.”

“We’ve never had any complaints from the other commanders he’s served with,” the assistant noted.

“What are you implying, worm,” the commander snarled, the last thing she needed was another human speaking out of turn.

“We have some reports of untoward comments about your suitability for command, mothering the troops, various crude suggestions,” the assistant said, helpfully.

“None of my men would dare report such comments.”

“Perhaps they were trying to help the situation, we can’t have the legions brawling in the streets, it shows a lack of discipline don’t you think?”

Snarling, the commander took a step towards the assistant.

The angel nodded, light from its eyes bathing the floor in crimson tongues, “I think, perhaps, I understand the problem. Your troops feel the need to protect your honor and the troops of the other legions offer inadequate respect because you are a woman.”

“I am the commander of the twelfth legion!” she roared, “my record is written in the blood of my fallen enemies. I have trod my foes and rivals beneath my feet and you say I am not respected because I am a woman?”

The Angel flared with annoyance and turned towards the commander, “I do,” it said sharply, “and I believe you are a bit over sensitive about it.” Their eyes met but the commander soon flinched and looked away and began backing for the stairs. Looking over at the assistant the commander snarled, “you’re safe while you’re up here but I’ll have my revenge.” The assistant glared back, “I’ve crawled up my own pile of bodies on the way up here, thanks.” As she spoke, her foot tipped a flask by the door and liquid ran out of it, down a crack in the floor.

The commander turned and stepping on the newly greased step, spun and fell with a roar of expletives.

The angel and the assistant looked down the stairs after her, “what fun,” the angel said, actually smiling. “She tumbled right past the landing. No look, she’s coming back up.”

The assistant produced a brick and smiled, “I’ve got this.” She hurled the bit of masonry fair and true but the commander had been warned about the dangers of bricks and caught it out of mid air as she charged upwards, bent over like an ape as she bounded over the greasy step, only to get kicked in the teeth. Which caused her to pause in mid career and thus halted, she slipped once more on the top step and tumbled down again.

The assistant, noticing her employer’s cool regard, smiled and said, “a girl’s got to be able to look after herself in these parts, you know?”
 
The Angel and the One True King (no really!)

The map on the wall was drawn in charcoal on white plaster in respect for the lack of space and need for constant updates. The angel was looking over the map and shaking their head. “It all used to be so much cleaner in the beginning when we were the pure and true thought of the creator. Beautiful geometry, straight lines, simple relationships. All that ended when some bright candle thought up fractals. A way of visually representing complex mathematical equations you see? They were all the rage when the coast lines were redrawn and the mountain ranges got all roughed up, trees got really complicated. They said, “nature is beautiful,” and I replied, “nature is really hard to draft out.”

Almost hidden by the piles of reports on her desk, the assistant was doodling flowers and kittens on the back of a detailed account of the massacre of a village on the frontiers of the Bleak Realm. She was tired and the unleashed armies of darkness had unleashed an equally innumerable pile of reports. The eye of seeing blinked a baleful green on its plinth casting a sinister shadow on the walls of the highest chamber or the black tower. She rose and walked to the plinth in the middle of the chamber to look appraisingly into the orb. “It’s for you,” she said after looking into its depths for a moment. The angel turned from the map to study the orb. The eye, while useful for scanning and gazing across the distances of space and time was, unfortunately, part of a matched set and could be contacted by the holder of any of the other remaining orbs. The angel preferred to keep it on the stand in the middle of the tower to avoid any unwanted late night calls.

“Wait, there was a woman, bring her back,” said a voice, deep and noble though somewhat reedy and thin owing to the great distance. “Oh, it is you,” the voice stammered then hardened, “I am not afraid of you.”

“Ah said the Angel,” nodding, “You’ll have to speak up. I expect the great distance between the orbs lends you some sense of security but it weakens the connection. Be that as it may, I have been known to break the minds of fools who troubled me needlessly. The connection between the stones is still strong enough for something as minor as that.”

“Do you not know me?” the voice demanded.

“Not that I can recall. If you’ve been the victim of an atrocity conducted in my name I can put you in touch with the complaints department or the ministry of propaganda and re-education. I’m afraid one can’t conduct an apocalyptic war without inconveniencing or upsetting someone. I must confess there are times when I wonder why I still bother.”

“Do not mock me! I am the true and rightful king of Dead Telaire, of the line of the true kings of men and you should know and fear me.”

“Oh, really? You don’t have to be, you know? They might tell you it’s destiny or duty or divine right but you can sneak out the back any time you like. If you can manage to get yourself here, I might even be able to find you some honest work in the mines or the kitchen even I’m told kitchens are warmer than throne rooms, though it’s really too small of a difference for me to notice.”

There was a moment’s pause before the voice spoke resoundingly, you will never break our will. Your kingdom will fall, and all your works and worshipers will perish for I bear the Amulet of Yendor (sic) and its irresistible power is mine to command.”

“Didn’t your friend, the old wizard guy, warn you of the price of such power?” The angel shook its head sadly, “can’t you see how he’s using you? He probably told you such an heirloom of power would only work for the heir of the true king or some such nonsense. Have you asked why he won’t use it himself? Some nonsense about purity and corruption and destiny I expect but in truth the price is greater than he dares pay.”

The angel set their hands on the orb and it seemed all the light in the room was drawn into its eyes and then the orb ceased glowing and the chamber suddenly seemed dark and cold despite the lanterns and candles. “That is only a small taste of what can pass through the link you have opened. If you contact me again you will spend the rest of your life drooling in a pool of your own excrement. Do you understand me?” The greenish light vanished from the orb in an instant and it looked like nothing more than a cheap glass bauble when the angel replaced it on the pedestal.

“If it weren’t so useful I’d just smash the stupid thing,” the angel scowled darkly. The problem, of course, is that they haven’t studied genealogy in any detail. Heritage spreads more and more broadly across the generations and last king of Telaire had more bastards and by blows than a rat. Half the humans on the continent could trace their roots to him.”

The angel stopped speaking and looked at its assistant as if awaiting some response but she was digging through the stacks of reports looking for something. “There it is,” she said, “I thought Telaire sounded familiar, it’s the southern wastelands now, nothing grows there anymore. Your legions burned and despoiled it hundreds of years ago. I suppose there must have been survivors and refugees. What happened there?”

“My enemies, the old wizard and his allies, made Telaire a strong place, pure and vital. It became a threat to my power, so I had it destroyed. I try not to leave too many survivors, it’s untidy and creates problems later on like that annoying, would be king fellow. I expect they’ve got big plans for that one. I should have him killed, perhaps I can use the orb to locate him,” the Angel placed a hand on the sphere, “ah, but no, it seems the connection is lost. He must have dropped and broken it when I wracked his mind. No matter, just one more loose end tied off.

The assistant slid back into her chair and smiled, “he’s handsome enough though and his voice is lovely if the princes they wanted to marry me off to were half so lovely I might be a queen right now.”

“I didn’t think you cared about such things.” the angel said

“Oh it’s fine, I guess, passion I mean. It’s all the other stuff I can’t abide: the little arguments and sacrifices, the lies and the growing emptiness when the passion fades. They call it ‘true love’ but it’s all just chores and chains in the end. Then there’s the endless stream of ravenous little parasites that are produced , they’re lucky nobody’s thinking about them while they’re being made.”

“So you’ve never loved,” the angel asked almost wistfully.

“I’ve rutted a decent bit, it’s like a madness that takes you in your youth, there’s this unfulfilled hunger in your loins, and hey, maybe this guy can fill it, or maybe a girl would be better, but it always ends in pain and regret if you’ve got any self respect. I got over it, mostly, though it sounds like my predecessor never really did. I suppose people hurt her and she felt the need to hurt them back or something. There were some pretty interesting gadgets in her closet. Still, if that king fellow comes looking for some work in the kitchen, I’d probably ride him around a bit for fun. Opportunities like that don’t come around every day,” she wriggled a bit in her heavy, fuzzy sweater and smiled as if recalling pleasant memories.

“I had no idea you were so worldly and cynical when I took you on,” the Angel said.

“I never took you for a romantic,” she said drawing little hearts over a kitten’s head in read ink.

“All rebels are romantics,” the Angel said after thinking for a moment, “I must confess I have never loved, but the idea of it, that there’s something more than the mechanical act of procreation. That there is something noble and worthy lying behind the actual horrors of human existence. Well, that’s something worth destroying the world for, you know? Something bigger than hate and spite and rage that gives one’s work a noble worth. That love may indeed conquer All. That there is a weapon powerful enough to overcome the creator. It’s just so inspiring.”
 
The Lost Prince and the Assistant’s Stockings

The clicking of knitting needles was comforting, The Angel stood, gazing into the orb of the world on its stand as their assistant knitted colourful wool into thick, heavy stockings. “Your new system works admirably,” the angel said, ” Quite efficient.”
No longer did loose stacks of paper loom high on every horizontal surface. A neat set of shelves each held loose reports with a shelf for each legion’s incoming reports and a matching set of deep drawers contained bound folios. “I had a good opportunity to study the library at Tajorm,” the assistant replied without looking up from the tube almost magically materializing from her flashing needles.
“I have always understood that the librarians and their library were strictly masculine institutions,” the angel mused, “however did you get in?”
The assistant had long since noticed the angel’s love of repeating conversations, perhaps owing to a certain lack of imagination. She smiled darkly, “men, most men, are stupid in pretty much the same ways. The librarians all but fetishize the place, I just had to find one who had the right fetish.”
“And then BANG with the brick,” the angel said gleefully.
“Actually, no, it took quite a while to get everything I needed and the young librarian was sweetly naive. I did have to silence one of his more observant colleagues with a sharp knitting needle between the ribs though.”
“The war is going very well,” the angel observed, suddenly changing the topic. “The legions are almost in control of Telaire and Zaharia.”
“Our supply lines are stretched pretty thin and winter is coming in the north,” the assistant replied, “we should probably entrench and consolidate our positions soon.”
“Defying these mortal concerns breeds fear in the heart of our foes. I believe we should escalate our assaults on their fortresses. Are they not well provisioned for long sieges?” The angel was never very patient with practical limitations.
“The ones we have been besieging are eating the rats at this point,” the assistant countered, “we’d need to make a thrust deeper into enemy territory to take fresh fortresses and that would leave the legions cut off from their supply lines in the spring.”
“Assaulting the walls will thin out our legions a bit and make the provisions last longer once they’re inside. If we move the seventh and ninth legions out of reserve and assault the castles at Brandok and Loorn, we can withdraw our forward legions for the winter and resupply them for the spring offensive. Whatever ground we lose will be easier to retake with strongholds in the enemy’s heartlands,” the angel pronounced their plan with the kind of certainty that came before great falls, and the assistance knew it.
“Well, have it your way, the seventh and the ninth are protecting us from a counter stroke, but our foes would have to be mad or desperate to attempt one in the face of winter. At any rate, I’m getting tired and if there’s nothing else, I’d like to call it a day.”
“I suppose so,” said the angel, “you do get rather cranky when you get too little sleep.”
The assistant stuffed the knit tube and roll of multi-coloured wool into her bag and rose, giving a slight bow to the angel, who never seemed to take notice of such niceties but grew cold and cranky when denied them.
The stairs spiralling around the inside of the tower soon took her to her chambers. She noted, that the pebble she kept by the corner of the door had been swept out onto the landing. Reaching into her bag, she withdrew the impractically thick and heavy stocking she had been knitting. It wasn’t quite long enough yet but it would have to do. She drew out a broken shard of brick from the bag and dropped it into the toe of the stocking, then opened the door. The lantern was out, but the torch light from the stairwell lit the room well enough. She stepped forward as if to get a reed and light it in the coals on the hearth. If someone was lurking in the room they were probably behind the door. She spun at the slightest scuffing, the sock spinning in a wide arc, striking the handsome young man who wielded an impracticably garish blade square in the side of the head. He dropped like the proverbial rock.
“Well,” said the sword, “that could have gone better.”
“He’s hardly the first dumb kid you’ve gotten killed,” the assistant noted.
“But he’s truly a direct descendant of the kings of Vandair,” the sword lamented.
“If you’d ever studied animal husbandry, you’d know that’s just nonsense,” the assistant scolded, “even good kings are seldom the master of their natural proclivities and even then the line broadens rapidly as one traces it back.”
“Besides, he’s still breathing,” said the sword, “He can still rise to triumph over evil.”
“If he had any brains to begin with they may have been knocked right out of him,” she laughed.
“My head hurts,” muttered the lost prince, “I told you we should just stab her.”
“No noble born hero would ever stab a lady fair from ambush, in cold blood. You should know better than to tempt fate like that.”
“Have you heard what they say about her in this place? The sub-humans are all scared of her, even the giants. They say she could strangle a baby while smiling ever so kindly.”
The assistant hefted her brick in a sock, “did,” she said coldly, “repeatedly.”
The prince dove for the sword and got kicked in the face for his valiant effort, “I don’t think so she said. “We have here an angel pretending to be a sword with no fashion sense, that has long opposed my employer’s goals and has in fact sought to take their life and a prince from a line prophesied to stand in opposition to their work until their final defeat.”
“Spare us! Help us and I will make you my queen. I will give you the world,” the prince said in his best husky voice.
“I’m going to have the world anyhow,” the assistant replied, “but maybe you can be the queen, you’re pretty enough I suppose. You’re just lucky the boss wants you alive. Keeping you and that thing in the same tower is just asking for trouble,” then she shouted, “Hey Skunkhard, get up here, I’ve got an escaped prisoner for you.”
She had to admit she could see how this kind of thing had appealed to her predecessor. She kicked the prince again and it felt good. After Skunkhard the guard came and rescued him, she wrapped her hand in the stocking and lifted the sword, carefully as not to allow it to touch her flesh, and locked it at the back of the closet behind all the leather clothing and oddments that had been left to her. It was sobbing a little but said nothing and that too felt good.
 
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