Natalie Yacobson
Translator Natalia Lilienthal
© Natalie Yacobson, 2022
© Natalia Lilienthal, translation, 2022
ISBN 978-5-0056-9027-2 (т. 3)
ISBN 978-5-0056-8618-3
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Lucifer’s Host
Dark Spit is a fitting name for a mountain range that stands out as a black stripe against a plague-stricken land. In fact, it wasn’t even a plague, but a disease spread by the fallen. They themselves only suffered from their own festering burns, and the suffering lasted as long as the world stood, but for those who caught the epidemic, it was death. It was horribly painful death. He had nothing to fear, neither disease nor death, and, of course, having wings, he should not have set foot on contaminated soil at all, but he was not worried about himself. A mortal girl came to mind…
Would he be able to pick her up and carry her to his tower without the risk of her becoming infected and dying? What if the miasmas of an unnatural witch’s disease caught up with her even in the heights? How strong could the fumes emanate from the ground, on which his living festering brethren crawled in immense agony?
Madael easily reached the top of his tower. From the outside it looked as if it were going to the very heavens. But once upon a time his path had been higher. Now a black cloud always hid the embossed parapet of the roof. Why, though? People can’t see this tower anyway. The way here is through the Black Spit on one side and through Dead Valley on the other. No mortal could survive to set foot on this land. And he was in no hurry to show everyone his place of seclusion. Still, disguise became an obligation to him. He did not encourage the game of hide-and-seek, unlike his former comrades-in-arms. He needed no hiding places or disguises. But duty is duty. After a defeat, it must be done.
The first defeat was his only defeat, but it had taken almost everything. Or so it seemed. Madael remembered the golden creature sleeping in his tent. To think he might never have seen it. Even that thought alone was somehow excruciating. He imagined that this girl would be gone, that he would take a handful of golden hair in his hand and with one swift stroke of his sword cut off her head from her body. That was what he was supposed to do, but even thinking about it was unbearable. He had experienced something similar only when the heavenly fire touched his body, or rather the ethereal substance that had once been his body and soul at the same time. All that had changed now, but the fire that had once burned him continued to corrode his body with poison to this day. Of course, the visible burns were gone, but the memory of them lived on. Many thought it irregular. The commander of the terrifying army retained his pristine angelic countenance. But the price for that was also high.
“Leave me a sword so that I may punish sinners, and leave me my face so that all may know from whom the punishment comes,” was his only plea, but even that was not completely fulfilled. The favor of the Almighty is mere words, he may have removed the wormy scars from his beloved’s face, but he has not cleansed the wounds from his soul. From the wounds he himself told him to inflict. Now Madael felt a black abyss opening up inside him, even more scorched and pus-ridden than the bodies of his brothers in arms. Outwardly he remained bright, inwardly he was rotting alive. And the sense of a sucking black emptiness inside him only increased from age to age.
“Leave me a sword to punish sinners…”
This request the god fulfilled to the fullest. Now every battlefield awaited him. No battle was ever fought without his participation and his judgment. And not just any battle. He executed his judgment on behalf of the god not only on the battlefield, and he himself did not know why he was doing so. It was like a dream. He performed his duty with obedience, though the old fear of being burned again in case of disobedience had long since passed. The sounds of battle reached his ears wherever he was, and he immediately rushed to where the fighting was taking place. The clang of swords became a call to him. In battle he would enter into the excitement. Did he enjoy killing? Perhaps he couldn’t say exactly why he thrust his sword over the heads of his opponents again and again when victory was already decided. Maybe it was only on the battlefield that he felt confident, because it was as if the echo of that first heavenly battle was all around him again. Sometimes he would close his eyes and see it all again, and then his sword would become truly merciless. It was strange, throwing him into battle all over again, to feel again the echo of that first war and first defeat. He never tired of feeling it and reliving it over and over again. Each battle was a reflection of that one. The only difference was that beneath his feet was now solid ground, not the fragile edge of the clouds. He could not fall any lower than he already was. Perhaps that was why he was always the victor here. First among the fallen…
Madael circled around his tower before crouching on the edge of the parapet. The building had no entrances or exits, no doors, casements, or embrasures, just a single arched window at an inaccessible height for stairs. That’s all he needed. This location was convenient for those who possessed wings.
The tent he had spread out each time near the battlefield was comfortable, but again and again it was here that he flew in. This place beckoned to him like home. In fact, it was to be his home now. The interior of the tower conveyed all that was in his heart. It was purple and black. Only at first the place might seem luxurious, but a closer look would reveal charred bodies crawling over polished parquet, sharp claws clinging to the golden railings of endless dark staircases, and black silhouettes hiding behind purple draperies. There were the pitiful remnants of his cohort commanders. Now they brightened their time by waiting here for him. Sometimes he’d come to interrupt their terrible feast of corpses and golden utensils, and sometimes he’d just watch them and try to remember how beautiful and dignified they’d once been. Now it was hard even to imagine their former faces against the surrounding blackness. All of them, molecules of his host, had become as black as his soul. He was the only one who remained light, and so he seemed some kind of alien particle among them. The black things flinched when he approached them and crawled back into the shadows. They were afraid of him, even though he was the only one here with the outward appearance of innocence and vulnerability. Well, appearances can be deceiving, and the wisp of slimy bodies beneath his feet now only disgusted Madael. He stepped over the slimy bodies and walked on. He could barely tell them apart now. His favorites, his associates, those he respected and counted on, all merged into one horrifying and stinking black lump, barely outlined by the movements of the disfigured bodies. They were so beautiful once, so seductive, though they had no bodies then. Not only did the fire burn them, it continued to hurt them to this day. Its former chosen ones wriggled and squirmed in agony on the mucus-filled marble floor. Their very bodies were now secreting this disgusting stinking liquid. Burned to ashes, they continued to ooze pus. Beneath the black crust there were no more faces, only ghastly glistening eyes. And these were his former angels, the most beautiful in heaven… Madael caught himself that now he was no longer trying to imagine their former faces, for he had recently seen something that was far more beautiful.
“You found her, didn’t you? And you took her?” The black creature that crawled out from behind the drapery always remained lonely. That angel had long since ceased to be himself. And Madael had already ceased to feel disgust at the slippery trail on the floor that left the oblong torso, elongated like the ridge of the Dark Spit itself. Violet eyes gleamed at him from the dark mess that had once been his face. Sometimes their former color returned to them. Madael stepped aside a little, he could see that the others were studiously avoiding his former confidant and seemed ready to follow suit himself.
“Yes, I have,” he answered. “I no longer require your services. You no longer have to kidnap blond girls to find one chosen one. I’ll cut her throat myself if I have to. It is my privilege to judge mortals.”
“But…” The creature under his feet lunged backward, arching as if to take the form of a black dragon again. Madael forestalled his attempt with a forbidding gesture with his hands.
“No disobedience,” he hissed, his tone calm but firm, even more affecting than his anger. “I am still your master. And no one dares disobey