Chapter 2
They may as well have been in another universe, and perhaps they were. The sky was dim, low with a roiling cloud cover that seemed to suck the air from them.
The wind blew over the vast broken plain, soughing through the rock, carrying a fetid stench to their noses, and the wailing of the damned to their ears. Castiel looked up at the towering black walls before them. They gleamed disturbingly in the pallid light, and seemed to writhe and twist, as if alive.
Michael drew his sword, holding it aloft as from hilt to blade tip, white flame erupted along its long length.
"To me, angels of Heaven." His voice, deep and rich and powerful, reached across the Host to every angel. Gabriel lifted his horn again, this time the music held a warning and a threat; the notes throbbed through the thick air and swirled around them. "This day we will bring Light to the darkness."
"In the name of our Father!" Michael called, and the Host surged forward.
Castiel led his company forward as the obsidian gates were shattered, following the serried ranks of seraphim ahead. The air was rent with the shrieking of the soldier demons, and the crack and snap of their wings as they poured over the Host through the gaping crevices in the walls of Hell. They were gargoyles come to life, misshapen skulls, deformed bones, huge eyes gleaming red and black in the gloom, wide mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth.
The countenance of the hellspawn reflected the souls from which they were formed, evil refined over hundreds of years to a single emotion, a single purpose, hatred and the desire to kill, he knew, swinging his sword, its edge brilliant against their darkness. He looked up and saw a dark figure high on the wall, the black raiment concealing all but the skeletal hand that directed the demon army.
"Musriel!" Castiel turned back to the archer; he pointed to the figure and the angel nodded, drawing an arrow from the silver quiver that hung against his side and nocking it onto the string. His aim was true, but the arrow burst into flame feet from its target, and the figure turned its head slowly to look for the bowman. Castiel shuddered, knowing that he was looking at an archdemon, one of the Fallen who had been cast into Perdition when Lucifer was defeated.
He raised his sword, and stood between the demon prince and his archer, staring into the empty blackness of the creature's hooded cloak. He could feel the demon's regard, a chill settling into his limbs, leeching into his body, robbing him of his will, his strength.
Michael's voice cut through the draining sensation as the archangel climbed the wall toward the Fallen, his sword coruscating with fire, shedding light around him, over the angels below, driving the demons back as it grew brighter.
The archdemon broke the stare and looked down, the bony hand drawing a blade from beneath the shredded and torn folds of its cloak. The metal was dark, dripping with black ichor, as he raised it.
Castiel drew a deep breath, knowing that Michael's intervention had not been for him. He had a job to do. He had to get on with it.
They fought their way through the seething horde, passing through the deep ravines and gorges of the outer Circle, littered with razor-sharp volcanic rock, pools of sulphuric acid, the bones of those who had finally journeyed beyond Hell's torture.
Castiel knew that every soul saw its own Hell, to each it was a vision of their worst fears, their most profound self-loathing. The angels saw Hell as it was, however, for it had been created by an angel. The damned had laboured for millennia to build the perverse and towering replica of the structures of Heaven, their blood and sweat, remembered by the soul, and their tortured pain raising the columns of obsidian and onyx, paving the outer Court with great slabs of polished basalt.
Gabriel's horn blew again and the horde retreated as a heavenly light brightened around them. Oriphiel's battalion had succeeded in flanking the main body of the army, and the mass of the demons were milling, caught in the pincer of the two angelic forces. The Inner Gates, massive barriers of black quartzite, exploded outward under the onslaught and the Host pushed through, driving the denizens of Hell before them. Company after company spread through the first level of the Inner Circles, their constructs glowing with light, their swords swinging, cutting, thrusting, driving forward as they pressed back the darkness.
The second set of Gates, leading to the next level, stood before them. And Castiel called to his company as he noted that the demons were rallying, reforming the lines, their chaotic retreat dissipating as they gathered under the command of another of the Fallen. Baal was the ruler of the Second Level, and the archdemon was taller, broader than the first level's leader, blackness filling the swirling cloak.
Michael looked to Gabriel. He nodded, drawing his troops together, lifting the horn to his lips. On the other side of the monstrous cavern, Oriphiel marshalled his own battalions, the seraphim forming tight ranks as they advanced on the entrance. Michael strode down between them, his sword flaming, and Baal stepped forward, a shadow within a shadow, his long-handled battle mace swinging up.
The Fallen had suffered for their loyalty to the Morningstar, Castiel realised, staring at the creature. They'd had to endure a thousand years of Lucifer's impotent rage before he'd turned to the human souls for his entertainment. Their angelic forms were gone, stripped down to the bone by the centuries of torture and torment. They were now as wraiths, fleshless, yet not spirit for angels had no spirit, no soul or spark of Divine love. Their existence was pain, the creation and the devouring of it. And in that, they had no equals. Nine there had been, who had followed Lucifer into the Pit. Eight remained.
The angels could feel the cold hunger radiating from the archdemon; it sucked at them, drawing on their life-filled constructs, devouring their hope, spewing into their minds images of evil and depravity, shutting off their connection to Heaven.
Michael lifted his sword and waited, knowing the effect of the demon on the army, refusing to acknowledge it in himself. He prayed and felt the strength of Heaven flowing into him, the flames burning brighter along the sword, his wings stretching out to either side, as the Prince of Hell swung the heavy mace.
After, Castiel could only remember parts of the surreal battle that he'd watched. Light and darkness intertwined on the shining blackness of the cavern's floor. Michael's sword, whistling through the thick air, striking the archdemon with a sound like thunder, the demon's speed and strength as the mace boomed into the floor, the reverberations trembling the cavern's walls, sending spears of light from the shaking crystalline columns. Only an angel's sword could kill an angel.
The explosion, dark and bright, when the flaming sword had pierced the demon's armour, driving through what remained of its chest, had knocked all in the cavern to their backs, angel and demon alike. Something evil had gone out of the world and the outward blast lifted the miasma of shadow from the cavern. The second Gates were gone. The demon horde fled before them, shrieking and wailing, claws and teeth and fury disappearing into the black well of the Second level.
The level was a maze. Company by company the angels split off, fighting sorties against the demons in the darkness, the noise and chaos echoing and resounding through the tunnels and passages, until it was impossible to discern where the battles were being fought or which side was winning or losing.
"We can hold them here, on this level," Michael said to Castiel quietly as they stopped in the lowest caverns, the companies resting briefly. "From here, you are on your own. There are four more levels to the Lake of Fire. Dean Winchester is on the Seventh Level."
Castiel nodded and lifted his arm. His warriors turned and followed him, forming lines as they marched into the passage that led downward. At first, it seemed as if they were marching in circles, the floor rising and falling as the tunnel wound endlessly into the depths. But gradually the noise of battle receded and the souls of Hell scurried away ahead of them, fearful of the brilliance of the light they emitted and cast before them.
"You know, this is a suicide run, don't you, Cas?" Balthazar fell into step beside Castiel.
Castiel turned to look at his friend curiously. "What's your point?"
"I heard from a little bird, that the First Seal has already been broken. Weeks ago." Balthazar said, his gaze watching the way ahead.
Castiel felt his hope waver, his doubts returning more strongly. "That can't be true."
"It is, though." Balthazar turned to look at him, the glint of mischief that was almost permanently a part of his expression, gone. "My sources are certain, and they're impeccable."
Castiel bowed his head. He couldn't think of anything else to say. The dread he'd felt in Heaven rose again. The First Seal was the hardest, should have been impossible. The rest – there were too many possible seals, too many demons who could break them. Was he going to be witness to the end of days?
"I'm just wondering why we're still heading down there," Balthazar gestured ahead of them. "When the deed has been done."
Castiel shook his head. "Call a halt."
The angels waited. Castiel walked away from them, as far as he could within the confines of the tunnel.
Michael. He called to the archangel. The First Seal has already been broken.
I know. The response sounded in his mind. But the human must be saved still. The prophecy …
Castiel waited, feeling Michael's concentration switch to defence and attack, on the other side of the level.
… the Prophecy of the First Seal. The righteous man who broke the seal is the only one who can end it. He must be saved, Castiel. Do not doubt.
"Company, in line, march on." Castiel's deep voice echoed along the tunnel. "Now."
Balthazar looked at him quizzically. Castiel shook his head. He would answer his friend's questions later. Right now, they had to rescue the soul, and there were another five levels to get through first.