Excerpt: No Man's Land

Of all the wars in all the worlds, the first war was the worst. No war since has ever equaled the sheer force of the first, the sheer ferocity, the death and the pain and the anguish. This is not to discount the wars that were to follow, but this war, the first in which brother fought against brother. Immortals killing each other, destroying forever the essence of existence, their gift from their God, annihilated in the swipe of a claw, the swing of a blade, made corporeal in the fervency of their struggle. The ground beneath their feet created for one purpose, to serve as a barrier, to keep the armies at bay.

Yet they fought, for a hundred of human years, in the beat of a wing, for a millennia, in the blink of God's eye. Time had no meaning and so they never stopped, they never parlayed, they never made a truce. There was no armistice, there could be no accord. The bright one had rebelled against his creator, ripping the perfect fabric of creation in two. The perfect eternal light marred by shadows of sin and pride.

They fought, bright wings torn by hands transformed into sharp ripping claws. The swords of God's legions wreaking havoc on the twisted forms of those who rebelled. But for all those who fell, twelve more came in their place, an endless swarm of darkness, rising up to challenge the very gates of Heaven.

So they came and so they fell. The luminous armor of the soldiers grew charred and bloodied with the blood of their brothers, the claws and teeth of those who rebelled stained dark with the same. One by one they tore the glowing soldiers down, weakening their numbers, growing closer to the heavenly citadel.

The fallen looked upon their new forms and rejoiced, seeing something that, for once, was not perfect, that was not brilliant with the essence of their creator God. They stretched their great leathery wings and shrieked their defiance to the skies, rattling the stones of the city and darkening the skies with their legion.

Yet they fought, their numbers steadily dwindling, dark matched for light. Some of the defenders started to have the beginnings of doubt, wondering why God did nothing to stop the carnage. Their prayers for peace, for respite, like those of the countless warriors who would follow them through the millennia, went unanswered. But these few, these very few kept their thoughts to themselves, knowing they must fight or become fallen themselves.

So they fought and steeled themselves against the sight of blood and the twisted remains of angel and fallen alike. No one had ever killed before, and every new cut, every slice of the blade was as if it was the first.

They told themselves that they were doing God's will. They were saving their home, their city, from dark... things who sought to demolish everything perfect, everything serene that their God had created. If they failed, if they faltered, then everything would be in vain, and the swarming hordes beyond would overrun everything they held dear. They told themselves they had no choice.

They had no word, yet, for evil.