Chapter 3

Cae knew the secret many angels and mortals who wrote the annals of military history did not: The true decisions that won and lost battles were not made in the heat of the moment, with the furious swinging of swords, the clattering of shields, and the sundering of spears by mighty blows. They were not split second orders bellowed at men and women soaking in sweat and slipping in the blood of their enemies. They weren’t even cunning strategies, dreamed up in the gathering heat of the early dawn while watching enemy formations unfold in the muttered words of dusty scouts, fresh off the field.

No, they were duller, simpler, more complex things – decisions made about which weapons to bring, how to train what men and women, and how those men and women were moved across the landscape, or the Realms themselves. They were logistic decisions, not the decisions of sergeants. An ancient mortal conqueror had said that men’s stomachs were also their feet, and he was far from wrong. Even without the constraints of mortal armies, Heaven had needed to consider the logistical issues more carefully if they were going to succeed in their campaigns against Hell.

Cae remembered that.

She also remembered the horrible feeling of being pulled down by creeping vines when she had tried to implement this obvious fact with the other Generals and her army. She could still remember the blank looks from her fellow commanders, the boistrious assurance that she was thinking too much like a mortal. They were the angelic Hosts of Heaven, with sinews of gold and fire, they didn’t need to trifle with making sure they had enough people in the right place, at the right time, with the right equipment.

Cae remembered that horrible feeling right now, looking at the paperwork that she had asked for. The three Barons of Ruin all looked at her with a mixed expression – Ruti looked somewhat chagrined, and Degi didn’t want to meet her eyes. Citri was looking like he was flickering between apologetic and annoyed at being judged. Cae slowly sat her golden rump down on a large mahogany chair in the office that she had been given, and picked up the old, crumpled pieces of parchment. Scrawling lists of demonic names, jotted in a hurry, a few invoices that appeared to list out soul transfers, and a letter or two to something called a ‘demonhost’, signed by one ‘Purthi’, were all that she could see. She picked one such letter up, then sighed, letting it fall between her fingers as her wings mantled and rubbed against the back of the chair.

“Who is Purthi?” She asked, frowning.

“The Baron of Pillage,” Degi said, his voice serious. “He was ... sundered from us by Destruction and now serves as their general.”

Cae frowned and slouched and for a moment considered simply giving up this whole idea as impossible. She closed her eyes and did as she had whenever a problem had seemed insurmountable – as many problems did when you stood at their foot. She counted back to ten, and began with the beginning. All stories had too.

“All right,” she said. “How are your forces normally organized.”

“Well, normally, we would ask Purry to do it,” Citri said.

“Citri,” Degi said, his voice warning. Citri sighed and slid his hands into the pockets of his red leggings, as he was wont to do.

“Demons, uh ... hurm. In Hell, in the Hell Realms that is, Demons aren’t quite the same as they are in the mortal Realms. Demons are ... are ... defiance.” Citri said, cocking his head to the side as he tried to explain what was clearly second nature to him. “Heaven has rules. We don’t. But when you have no rules to follow, defying means very little – we’re... reduced. It is only when we’re in the mortal realms that we multiply and are Legion. So, uh, usually Purry would begin by rousting up a few hundred, maybe a thousand from our outlying fiefdoms, organize them under a banner-”

Cae jerked her head up. “What?” she asked, her voice flat.

“A few thousand,” Citri said, scowling. “They’re still demons.”

“I’ve obliterated millions of demons,” Cae said, standing and planting her palms on the desk. “And you tell me that if I had just reached the Hell realms, that your numbers would have been cut by a factor of...” She did some hasty math. “A thousand!?”

“No, no, no, no,” Citri said, shaking his head.

“Why not?” Cae asked.

“Because then there’d be rules to break,” Degi said, sighing.

“So, if I impose some sense of order on, on, on ... on this?” Cae snatched up some of the papers and waved them around – the crumpling parchment feeling not nearly as satisfying as wringing some demonic necks at this moment might have. “Then we’ll get a million demons overnight?”

“No,” Citri said.

“Yes,” Degi said.

“M-Ma ... ma ... maybe!” Ruti said.

Cae frowned. “We’re in truly uncharted waters then,” she said, rubbing her temple and then sitting back down in the chair with a creak. She tapped her fingers. “I guess we’ll need to begin by doing the wingwork ourselves.” She frowned. “This will give Destruction time to fortify the regions captured – I am assuming, of course, that they function much as neighborhoods in Heaven. Souls that fit the criteria are raptured to them and there, they are tended to by some animated spirit who ensures their health and happiness and, thus, allowing their energies to flow into the center of the Realm?”

“Yes,” Citri said.

“No,” Degi said.

“K-Ki ... Kin ... Kind ... kind ... kind...” Ruti stammered, blushing as he got caught on the last syllable.

Cae frowned. “As advisors go, you three are doing better as a comedy troupe,” she said, her voice short and harsh. To her irritation, Citri returned a playful smile, as if she had been joking – and his eyes sparkled so delightfully that it became almost a joke in her mind. She shook her head and focused. “Explain the differences.”

“Souls in Hell do as they will,” Degi said, firmly. “They don’t need shepherding by some kind of maidservant – instead, we allow them to fulfill themselves against the perils of the new world they find themselves in.”

“The Heaven’s Keepers aren’t maidservants,” Cae said, scowling. “They simply use a fraction of Heaven’s energy to produce ephemeral seemings of whatever is wished, so the souls are happy.”

“Oh I’m sure that’s very entertaining,” Degi said, rolling his eyes – an impressive trick for someone with the faceted eyes of an insect. “For the first several days. After that, it would become quite dull.”

Cae opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’ve ... never asked.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I ... now realize I should have. I’ve read so many books and tomes, many written by mortal generals, but we had several of the finest generals raptured to heaven. And I never considered just speaking to them.” She blushed. That was a lie. Half a lie. But the truth made her feel even more low: She had considered, she had dreamed of it, and she had thought of her mentors, of the Proctors, of the rules of law, and she had thought of the whippings and the chains. But now her mind was riven with the dream she had had – the sending she almost wished it was – and of the change that perspective could make. It could turn humiliating punishment into the sweetest reward. She frowned. That thought felt weighty. Like there was heft to it.

She put it aside, for later.

“How many of these soul villages do we have in the Realm of Ruin?” she asked.

“Twelve,” Citri said.

“Eleven,” Degi said.

“E-Eleven and a half,” Ruti added. “Remember, one of them s-split recently. So, it’s not quite a full village.”

Cae nodded slowly. “Each one contains how many souls?”

“A ... enough,” Citri said, frowning at her. “You can’t just measure a soul and know exactly how much energy it provides!”

“Of course you can!” Cae exploded. “That’s the basic function of Heaven – to measure! To weigh! To find souls wanting or in excess of their need. That’s how this works, this is how we can win. We need to know what we can do, when we can do it, and how often.” She slapped her palms onto the desk, making an inkwell jump. “And we shall determine that first by touring not the armies, but your soul villages. I can’t even begin to working on your military without knowing what logistics we’re working with.” She sighed, her breath fogging in the air in irritation. “Which of you wishes to escort me?”

“Send Ruti,” Citri said, immediately. “The mortal souls like him.”

“They...” Cae stopped herself before saying the unreasonably rude first thing that came to mind: They do? Ruti smiled, shyly. He was actually dressed somewhat more than he had in their first meeting: A tunic that hung wide over his grayhound thin belly, leggings that plumped up his narrow hips. Now, the clothing did appear to be slightly mildewing, but he was still more put together than he had been before. Ruti’s smile grew a little playful – a spark in his eyes she was more accustomed to seeing in Citri’s eyes appearing there.

“T-They ... l ... li ... like mushrooms,” he said, looking down at his feet. He was trying to hide his pride, she realized – pride in what he cultivated in his domain of rot and putrescence. Cae was herself not sure how anyone could like a mushroom – even the most palatable had always struck her as being something like biting into a piece of decayed, rubbery snot. She did not let such thought cross her mind for more than a moment as she stepped around the table, her wings flaring wide.

“Can you fly?” she asked.

“N-No,” he said, shaking his head.

Cae nodded, then swung one arm underneath his legs. Hefting him was as easy as picking up a mortal – he was so slight and slender. His body blazed with the heat of decay and he cried out in surprise as she cradled him against her chest. His head nearly rested against her breast before he jerked his chin away, despite the fact that thick, runecarved golden armor separated cheek and flesh. His black skin fared red and when Cae turned to the window, she saw that Degi was shaking his head and smiling ever so slightly. Citri, though, was grinning broadly. His voice was amused as he swung the window open.

“You two have fun,” he said.

“We’re going on a logistics information gathering mission, not a play date,” Cae said, her voice full of as much dignity as she could make it. Despite that, she admitted to herself, deep within her breast, that she was quivering with the excitement at the idea of getting to stretch her wings. She had not flown in only a few days and it already felt like an eternity. Merely not being allowed made it seem as if she had her wings cut off, not merely restrained and pinned. She stepped onto the sill, crouching down low and folding herself around the Baron of Rot. Then she leaped and her wings flared wide and she beat them once, soaring up into the air with a whistle of wind around herself. She corkscrewed around and around, clinging Ruti to herself as he cried out in what might have been shock, fear, or the same raw, burning joy she felt. Her wings spread and caught the air, holding her in place with a pale blue glow. She took in the Realm of Ruin, her smile fading slightly.

“You know, I always expected it to be more ... unusual,” she said, quietly.

“W-Wel ... e ... we ... uh ... it is?” Ruti stammered.

“It is?” Cae asked. “It looks like a mortal manorhouse – other than the color, that is grass, trees...”

“T-Th ... th ... tha ... that is unusual for H ... He ... Hell...” Ruti forced the words out. His cheeks heated. He turned his head aside. “S-Sorry.”

Cae smiled slightly. “It’s quite all right. Not everyone has the same ability – or means – of speaking. Everyone has a place in the Creator’s plans.” Her wings spread and she allowed herself to glide at a gentle pace, not wanting to wick away Ruti’s words in the screaming wind. He had his eyes screwed shut, afraid to look down, and his body cuddled against her with yet more terror. Cae smiled gently, adjusting her grip to hold him more securely. This subtle adjustment still produced from him a short, stifled cry of terror. Cae sighed. “I will not drop you, Baron Ruti. You have my word, as an angel.”

He nodded, then tried through slow, aching steps, to begin to relax. As he did so, she took advantage of the fact his eyes were closed to once more look into his features. In the dim, rain streaked light of her first meeting, the main thing she had noticed was how very thin he was – and that thinness remained pronounced on razor sharp cheeks, narrow lips. Even his eyes had a narrowness to them, screwed shut as they were. But still, his bedraggled hair and his glossy black skin lent to his skeletal thinness a softer edge than she would have expected, rounding off what might have been cuttingly, imposingly beautiful into something more approachable and tender. And that soft voice of his – he had a kind of sweetness in him, she could sense it. But he was a Baron. A Demon. A lord of rot and putrescence.

She had no idea what to make of him.

“Have you ever sought teachers, to help your stutter?” she asked.

“N-No,” he said, quietly. And ... a curious thing happened. While he did still stutter, while his words remained hesitant and sometimes, took many tries to bring forth, Cae found herself hearing only his voice. It was as if her mind had grown used to his way of speaking, and she could simply be patient and wait. It wasn’t as if she was in a particular hurry for each sentence, as a mortal might be. “The stutter isn’t because of me. It’s not ... I’m not ... it is hard to explain.” He chuckled and smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Demons seem to find it hard to explain many things,” Cae said, quietly. “We angels can tell you how each of us work, to the tiniest detail.”

He nodded, mutely.

Cae pursed her lips, then shaped her wings to a falcon’s stoop. She dropped towards the buildings she saw – and as she came close, she saw she had not been mistaken. The soul village was, like many mortal homes, built from local materials and shaped by hands that would age and die. But here, the local materials were fungal growths, hollowed out mushrooms the size of large boulders, and the shells of some vast insects. As slowly and subtly as a desert turning to prairie to grassland to forest to the deepest jungle, the ruin beneath her had shifted from brownish forests and grasses to a kind of moribund bog. When she landed in the heart of the village, she drew cries of shock and alarm from the mortal souls that had been taken by corruption. Several screamed and ran for cover. Others rushed not to their homes but to a large mushroom that her sharp eyes spotted was the armory – for the door was open and crude crossbows made of shaped wood and carapace had been racked within.

“Be not afraid,” Cae said, setting Ruti down.

“Oh, it’s old Rue!” One of the mortals said. Walking forward, Cae had to take a blink and a second look – for this mortal was so corrupted that she seemed almost more demonic than Laeushale. Her skin was purple and spotted with black dots, while her eyes were black on purple, slitted like a goat. Her feet were cloven hooves, and her head was horned. She was taller, too, than any mortal should be, looming above Cae with the spindle-build of some sallow flower growing in the deep marsh. She also had a wickedly sharp carving knife hanging from the sarong that was her only article of clothing – her breasts were bared, dark purple nipples prominent by their silver piercings. Cae’s eyes widened at that, but she focused instead upon her face as the mortal frowned at her.

“Did you steal Rue?” she asked, angrily. “Snatch him from the Manor?”

“No!” Cae exclaimed. “I’m Caelael Silverhawk – General of ... of the House of Ruin.” She squared her shoulders. “For the time, at the very least.”

The mortal looked from Cae to Ruti. “Is this the truth, Baron Ruti?” she asked.

Ruti nodded and stammered out: “Yes. We rescued her from Destruction – she’s working with us.”

Once he was finished, the mortal sighed quietly. “Well, that’s something. We’ve heard Destruction has attacked Tickburrow and Tailrot on the northern edge of these swamps. We don’t want it to be true, but...” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Such is the way of things in Hell.”

“I am here to see how our logistics are doing,” Cae said, sighing. “Your community, it provides soul energy from Lord Arral, you understand this yes?” The mortal snorted, rolled those exotic, strange eyes of hers, and nodded. Cae pursed her lips but continued without rising to the bait. “We need to know how much and how often.”

“How would we even figure that out?” The mortal snapped.

“By ... I ... do you have a...” Cae caught herself. No, they wouldn’t have aetherscope, or any of the other devices that Heaven had fashioned over ten thousand years to aid in efficiency. She rubbed her chin, then snapped her fingers. “I wish you to strike me as hard as you can.”

The mortal blinked, slowly. The other villagers who had gathered all exchanged glances.

“In your armor? With your sword?” the mortal asked, slowly. “So you can split me in half?”

Cae sighed. Her hand gestured to her golden armor, to the curve of her chest-piece, to the runes that carved over her gilded armor. “This armor is warded. I am no arcane smith, but I do know a little something about registering the amount of energy released by a blow. The light flash will at least give me some measurement – even imprecise, it is better than nothing!” She nodded. “Now, strike me.”

The mortal squared her shoulders. She clenched one purple hand, then drew her fist back. She glowered at Cae, as if she was trying to find within her breast a roaring flame of anger and hate. Once she had found it and balled it up into her fist, she threw her blow. It was a good blow, suited to a tavern brawler. Cae had to do everything in her power to keep herself from twisting so the blow would glance, or to avoid counter-attacking by instinctive reflex. The impact rang her like a bell, causing her to skid back an inch or two, but when she rocked back into place, she chuckled quietly. “Nice hit!” she said, rubbing the armor plating. “I almost felt it – most of the blow is redirected around me by the armor, not to my flesh.” She frowned. “I’d rate that as five, six motes worth. Not bad.”

“ ... thanks?” the mortal sounded as if she was not sure if she had been insulted. She frowned down at Cae. “Is that not bad for a mortal, or not bad for a corrupted, sinful bitch like me?”

“Not bad for a mortal,” Cae said, blushing ever so slightly, silver flickering along her bright golden cheeks. “It’s long been determined in Heaven that ... well, Corruption and Glory are themselves not, ahem, too different. It’s merely a polarity of how the power is flowing – upwards, or downwards.”

The woman snorted. Loudly. “Likely tell. For me? Purity, glory, meant not laying with my woman, of making babies for some fat fuck king. Corruption? It was the only way I could truly live, and I was burned for it.” Her voice was heated. A few angry glowers came from around Cae, who felt an unsettled tremble in her belly. She lifted her gauntlets, shaking her head firmly.

“T-That’s not ... purity is not so simple!” she exclaimed, her voice showing an edge as she felt their ire weighing upon her. “Such kings, such cruelties, are not what Heavens wishes. We do not Rapture communities that hew to such practices – but many mortals do not know Heaven’s light by anything more than faint memories, or mad prophets that touch and do not understand. We have an entire division of Angels, the Cherubs, who are messengers and travel to such Realms, to try and teach the lessons of true purity, of true goodness, to those madmen and despots ... but...” She sighed, quietly. “Sadly, many a man given power by fervent hatred finds that power suits them better than honesty...”

The mortal woman who had been burned for laying with her fellow women frowned at her. “Oh, so that makes it all better?”

“Of course not,” Cae said, her eyes flashing. “The Hosts of Heaven ... do you think we are not free of guilt? That we do not feel the weight of our failure, every day?” She scowled and took a step forward. “I am here because I failed – because I...” She cut herself off, then looked aside. “I am not here to apologize to you – nor are you here to accept it. I will protect you whether you heap hatred upon my name or not. I have learned enough, Ruti, are you ready to go?”

Ruti, his stammer even fiercer than normal, did not manage to even say ‘yes’ before Cae snatched him up and took to her wing, fleeing from the villagers and their glares. She soared, and felt no joy of it. Ruti clung to her, and his voice came to her ears, despite her speed.

“They were wrong, to blame you for what mortals do to one another.”

“No, they weren’t,” Cae said, quietly. “Heaven ... we cannot claim to have a plan, to have a place, for everyone and everything and then hate the people we seek to help when our plan doesn’t move fast enough or far enough or wide enough.” She shook her head, her wings beating once more, then spreading wide to catch the air, to soar. “Angels are meant to be one way – to follow the strictures of the Creator, to lead mortals to purity. To hate them for our failure? For our weakness? That would truly make my wings blacken...” She shook her head again.

Ruti was silent for a time. Then, softer still. “You know I, um, I can travel without needing you to carry me. I may not be able to fly, but I can still do so.”

Cae chuckled. “Yes, but-”

She tensed. A shadow had fallen on her. She shifted her grip, holding Ruti with one arm, her other hand dropping to her hip. She spun and slashed at the same moment, her flaming sword blazing to life in a single moment of brilliant fury. The spear that fell towards her sundered in half with an explosion of sparks, splinters of wood, and a puffing hiss of molten metal as the sharpened tip met her sword and was found to be utterly, utterly lacking. She glowered up and saw her opposite number – a flying demon with the red skin of destruction and the blazing golden eyes of his hatred. He held a shield in one hand, and was drawing an arming sword with the other.

“Drop me!” Ruti exclaimed.

“No, I-” Cae started.

But no, he was no mere mortal, no shrinking violet. Cae still dove, dove towards the bog. She spread her wings, preparing to slow – and in that moment of deceleration, that hanging second, the flying demon dropped down and struck. His blade flashed out and she twisted, her massive shoulder pauldron spraying out sparks as his red arming sword glanced off it with a hissing tang of hellfire. The demon rebounded, flipped, landed in the bog, spreading his legs wide. He was a bestial thing, horned, with the head of an aurochs and the body of a muscular barbarian. He had an armored pauldron on his shoulder, hooked leather harnesses wrapped around his chest, and a plated skirt that flared wide around muscular hips. His nose snorted, disturbing the golden ring piercing his nostrils.