“You fool,” hisses Michael, arrogant and bold through his own pain. “You little harlequin, capering around, an imitation of God. A string of self-serving lies from a Greek harlot who should have been in the ground a thousand years ago, and you are convinced you can best the angel of the Lord. Look at you. Prince of Fools, in your prideful raiment. How do you see me? Do I appear to you as the church sees me? Can you see my shield, do you see me cloaked in fire? The Mohammedans see my wings green like a gemstone, each feather covered with saffron hair, each hair bearing a million faces. This is what you face! My terrible resplendence! You probably see nothing at all, for you were not raised in any faith. You are not Muslim nor Christian nor Jew. Do you know that? Did the virgin whore tell you that, or is it a secret she held in her pocket while she danced you on a stick? You are nothing. A pastiche. Not a man at all but a collage. You don’t even know what you are; how can you know what I am?”
The Crusader rolls to one side, off the shallowly breathing form of Artemis. Through his crippling pain, past his throbbing, gristly wound, he slowly rises: he will not die without fighting.
The archangel Michael raises his terrible swift sword. “You have been ill used, Crusader,” he says, his voice edged with soft pain and a vile pity. “The Greek has told you a tale that serves herself alone. She said she would show you the truth about your past and all she has done is bind you to hers. You are no more to her than an arrow in her quiver. It is too bad you chose to put your faith in her; I could have taught you much. Your first lesson will now be your last: that it is less than a fool who challenges Michael. It is a corpse. I am eternal death, and I am invincible.”
Michael spreads his wounded wings; the left one makes an almost human bleating sound as it slowly, agonizingly, with painful effort, rips free from the arrow that has pinned it to his arm. The sacred ground of the long-dead Nordic gods is spattered with blood, the blood of gods and giants everywhere, making an action painting that Michael now intends to sign. “I have killed a hundred million,” he says dreamily. “Can you imagine that, little hero? A hundred million. Entire nations have fallen by this sword. Enough corpses to choke a sea. In Assyria, millennia ago, I killed 185,000 men in a single day. “
Behind his head, with a terrible effort of will, Michael raises his wounded sword hand and poises it to strike. The Crusader tenses, ready to move when the blow comes, to counter with all the strength that is left in him. “This is what you would fight, Crusader. I have killed more men than you have ever even seen, and you came here to steal from me. Your death will mean less than nothing.”
no subject
“You fool,” hisses Michael, arrogant and bold through his own pain. “You little harlequin, capering around, an imitation of God. A string of self-serving lies from a Greek harlot who should have been in the ground a thousand years ago, and you are convinced you can best the angel of the Lord. Look at you. Prince of Fools, in your prideful raiment. How do you see me? Do I appear to you as the church sees me? Can you see my shield, do you see me cloaked in fire? The Mohammedans see my wings green like a gemstone, each feather covered with saffron hair, each hair bearing a million faces. This is what you face! My terrible resplendence! You probably see nothing at all, for you were not raised in any faith. You are not Muslim nor Christian nor Jew. Do you know that? Did the virgin whore tell you that, or is it a secret she held in her pocket while she danced you on a stick? You are nothing. A pastiche. Not a man at all but a collage. You don’t even know what you are; how can you know what I am?”
The Crusader rolls to one side, off the shallowly breathing form of Artemis. Through his crippling pain, past his throbbing, gristly wound, he slowly rises: he will not die without fighting.
The archangel Michael raises his terrible swift sword. “You have been ill used, Crusader,” he says, his voice edged with soft pain and a vile pity. “The Greek has told you a tale that serves herself alone. She said she would show you the truth about your past and all she has done is bind you to hers. You are no more to her than an arrow in her quiver. It is too bad you chose to put your faith in her; I could have taught you much. Your first lesson will now be your last: that it is less than a fool who challenges Michael. It is a corpse. I am eternal death, and I am invincible.”
Michael spreads his wounded wings; the left one makes an almost human bleating sound as it slowly, agonizingly, with painful effort, rips free from the arrow that has pinned it to his arm. The sacred ground of the long-dead Nordic gods is spattered with blood, the blood of gods and giants everywhere, making an action painting that Michael now intends to sign. “I have killed a hundred million,” he says dreamily. “Can you imagine that, little hero? A hundred million. Entire nations have fallen by this sword. Enough corpses to choke a sea. In Assyria, millennia ago, I killed 185,000 men in a single day. “
Behind his head, with a terrible effort of will, Michael raises his wounded sword hand and poises it to strike. The Crusader tenses, ready to move when the blow comes, to counter with all the strength that is left in him. “This is what you would fight, Crusader. I have killed more men than you have ever even seen, and you came here to steal from me. Your death will mean less than nothing.”