Michael: Last Angel of Earth

"What did you say?" asked Margret. Barjon said nothing to the others, but they could hear his heavy breathing. Barjon was furious, if not beyond that.

"IT'S NOT HERE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice echoed throughout the tomb. Everyone then began to whisper. Margret and the others went to consult their friend. Fiona placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Barjon, what do you mean it is not here? The map said-" Barjon cut her off mid-sentence.

"I know what the map said, but the armor was not his. It was mere human armor, nothing more," he replied. In the background, he could hear everyone talk behind his back, questioning his judgment and whether he was deluded in his thinking. Their remarks made his blood boil. However, he could not allow himself to snap at them, which would only worsen it. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed the sides of his head and began to think. It was here that Vandilr came up with a possible solution.

"Well, maybe this armor was fake for a reason," she said to everyone. This grabbed the company's attention.

"How so?" inquired Judonius. Vanhildr explained her reason.

"If this armor is as powerful as Barjon says, it makes no sense to leave it out in the open. Anyone who found the key could acquire it easily."

"That makes sense, but what is your point, Valkyrie?" exclaimed Hours.

"When I was still in Asgard, one of my earliest duties was guarding the weapons room. It housed powerful items such as Thor's hammer, Odin's spear, Heimdall's sword, and more. However, neither of these weapons was ever in clear view. Asgard's gods always placed a magic spell or rune around the weapons aura so they would always find it and no one else."

"So you are saying..."

"Azrael's armor and sword are here in this room but probably hidden by some powerful magic. And I guess only another angel can find them." She then looked directly at Barjon.

"But I am not a full angel. My wings were ripped from me. I'm mortal," he protested.

"I'm not entirely sure of that," said Margret. Barjon turned around.

"What are you saying?" he questioned.

"Well, I never really thought about it, but if you are mortal like us, how can you wield that sword? If memory serves me right and based upon your story, that is Uriel's Flame sword of heaven. A holy weapon."

"Margret's right, Barjon," said Fiona. "That is a holy weapon, and you wield it with ease. Are you truly mortal?" Barjon was unsure. He knew that he had lost his archangel status when he had his wings removed all those years ago. But he did not ask, nor did the council infer, if he was mortal in the sense that he was human. This was all new to him.

"Going back to my original point, I think you are still an angel, but you lost all your powers, and that sword you wield may be our clue as to locating the pieces of Azrael's armor and weapons. Tell me, how would an Angel locate their weapon if it was lost?" Barjon had to think about that. In his early archangel training, he remembered that one of his instructors told him and his friends the phrase angels must learn should they lose their weapons.

"For the light," said Barjon. As soon as he uttered the words, Hellfire began to glow and white hue. The suddenness grabbed everyone's attention as their eyes were fixated on the shining sword. Barjon then could feel the blade humming as it guided him across the room. Listening to the sword, he noticed the stronger the humming grew, the closer he was to finding one of the Azrael's gear. Stopping in front of a tomb, the humming grew loud, almost mimicking the low rumble of a motorcycle. One of the pieces was here. He handed the sword to Vanhildr and asked Ruzla and Horus to help him push the top off. With heavy grunts and peaks of sweat, they managed to move three-quarters of the opening off, but it was still enough to reach inside. Feeling his hand grabbing something, he pulled it out from the tomb and held it up. What he possessed in his hand took his breath away.

"Is this it?" asked the gargoyle. Barjon nodded his head. Firmly gripped in the former angel's hand was Azrael's famous shield. This reinforced pointed heater shield, made from sacred iron, offered a mighty bulwark, especially against smaller ballistics and crushing attacks. Perfected throughout the ages, the shield's edges were augmented with double rows of metal studs and decorated with intricate paintings. Its center was embellished with symbols of Azrael's accomplishments and zealous texts. It was clear this shield never failed its master. Dents and scratches made by who knows what left echoes of both glory and death, but one thing was for sure: this shield was not done serving just yet.

Barjon could feel the power radiating from the shield. He almost thought he was undeserving of holding such a holy relic. It was more than just a weapon, a relic of the past, a literal piece of Angelic history.

"Looks like a regular shield," Vanhildr remarked. Barjon smirked.

"This shield has saved countless lives of Angels. When paired with the sword of death, they are unstoppable."

"Can you wield its power?" asked the Pope.

"Perhaps to a degree. We need to find the armor and sword to access its power. Let's continue looking," he said. Everyone soon spread out and went looking throughout the room. Some looked in the necropolises. Others looked at the walls to see if there were any hidden compartments. Running her hand across a wall, Margret noticed some etchings made onto the side.

"Barjon, I think I found something," she said. Barjon raced over with the sword to her. Repeating the phrase once more, the sword hummed again in the face of the wall. Shedding light onto the surface, Barjon noticed the etchings as well. Upon further inspection, he recognized the words or rather Mantra. On the wall were rows of sentences, each in three different languages.

"I know these words," he said to her.

"What do you mean?" Margret asked. Barjon explained that before they left Germany, Henebul showed him a symbol of a secret military order of Angels dubbed the White Wings. Azrael was said to be their leader. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the Orders flag and searched around the wall to find the same symbol. Sure enough, the same symbol was at the very bottom of the last phrase, accompanied by a new word he did not recognize. It was in a much older tongue.

"Can you read it?" she asked him.

"I'm not sure." Before attempting to decipher the sentence, the sounds of running footsteps coming from behind filled the room. Everyone in the room turned around and saw another member of the swiss guard panting heavily.

"Your Holiness..." gasped the soldier.

"Breathe, my child. What is it?" questioned the Pope.

"All of you ... the Vatican gates ... now," he managed to blurt out. Everyone was confused by the soldier's puzzling statement, but seeing his expression meant something serious had occurred. Leaving the catacombs, everyone raced back up to the surface, except for Barjon. He took one last glance at the wall before joining the others. He studied the inscription as best he could but to no avail. Meeting up with everyone on the surface, Barjon raced to meet them at the Vatican Gate. As he left St. Peter's Pascilia, he noticed a large crowd near the city entrance. Gently moving his way through, he met up with the others and saw the situation. Nuns and nurses were bandaging wood elves and taking them to the infirmary. Barjon turned his head and saw a familiar face.

"Henebul," he shouted. Jogging over, he saw that the fellow Nephilim was covered in burns and sores. His polished wood armor was scorch black and smelled of fire. The wood elf king lifted his head and locked eyes with Barjon.

"Hello, brother," he coughed. Barjon knelt and tended to his friend's wounds.

"What happened? Who did this?" exclaimed Barjon. Henebul straightened up as best he could.

"Day after you left, they came. Zarakoth and Xathaniel, both of them. They brought an army, a mixture of demons, hellspawn, and other sinister warriors brought over by their allies. They attacked us without warning or provocation. My archers held them off as best we could, but it was not enough..." He coughed heavily before continuing. "My head huntress told me we had to leave. We gathered up as many of our people as we could, along with supplies, and fled. We have been on the road since, at least now." A nun then handed Henebul a cup of water to quench his thirst. He took a sip, handed it back to the young woman, and thanked her.

"This army that attacked you, how many?" inquired Barjon.

"Ten thousand. Maybe more," replied Henebul. Ten thousand repeated in Barjon's head.

"How long do we have until they arrive?" asked Barjon. Henebul was unsure. They could arrive later or earlier. They could even be outside the city walls right now. It was challenging to say. Helping Henebul to his feet, Barjon gathered his allies and told everyone to meet inside the council chambers. They needed to prepare for an attack.

Without hesitation, everyone met inside the chamber room. Barjon, Margret, Fiona and Colum, Horus, Vanhildr, Ruzla, the Pope, the Roman gods and goddesses, Henbul and his archers, The Teutonics, the Hospitalers, the Swiss guards, and even Naldak the Varg were all present. Time was against them, so they needed to agree on the best action.

"We have to assume that the army is on its way here. We need to plan the best course of action to defeat them," said Barjon.

"Barjon, you don't have all of Azrael's gear. Not to mention that you can die by either Zarakoth or Xathaniel," exclaimed Margret.

"I understand your concern, but we will have to do with the shield for now," he replied.

"I think I can help with the armor situation," said Henebul.

"Me too," replied Jupiter. Barjon nodded his head. Pulling up a map of Vatican City, the allies look over all possible ways the army could break through. They first looked towards the field in front of the walls. Two choices were on the table. Traps or Potion bombs."

"We could set up traps laced with explosives in the field to help dwindle their numbers," advised Horus.

"There are not enough explosives to make such an impact. I advise we use potion bombs," advised Vanhildr.

"I second that idea. My archer and I can create a variety of potion bombs and elixirs for the defenders," said Henebul. Barjon then turned to a council vote.

"All in favor of the traps, say aye," said Barjon.

"Aye!" exclaimed Horus and a few others.

"All in favor of the potions, say aye," he said again.

"Aye!" said the majority. Potion plan it was. Now came the second, the city itself.

"In the case of the walls being overtaken or destroyed, we need to station men at specific locations. Based on the map, there are six ways to enter the Vatican: two from the north, two in the west, one in the south, and the final in the east from St Peter's Basilica. How many men do we have to divide among the defenses?

"Maybe six hundred, at most," said the Pope. Barjon clasped his hands and closed his eyes. Now comes the tricky part two of this question—the placement of the soldiers.

"Where are the weakest walls of the city?′ he asked. The Pope showed him on the map. St Peter's Basilica and the southern Rail station wall partially opened and exposed to the elements.

"Do you have any masons to help patch up the wall?" inquired Horus. The Pope responded that most of their masons were old and could no longer lift the heavy stones, yet their stockpile was still kept within their institute. Barjon nodded his head and turned to Margret.

"We need to get those walls patched up quickly, or else the battle will be over quickly."

"My thoughts exactly," she replied. With everything settled, Barjon issued orders to everyone. Henebul sent some of his elves and a few Roman gods to the local greenhouse to acquire local plants to help make their potions. The rest of the crew went to fortify the defenses as best they could, leaving Barjon alone in the council room. As he stared at the glossy table, he saw his reflection. It was distorted, messy, and imperfect. Barjon then felt angry and slammed his fist onto the table, cracking a portion.

"Well, that seemed to have worked," said a voice. Barjon looked up and saw Henebul standing outside the entrance, his back leaning against the inside frame. Barjon let out a sigh and moved away from the table.

"I thought you went with your elves?" he asked.

"You need help right now. They can wait." The half-angel approached the former angel and placed a hand on his shoulder. He then noticed the shield on Barjon's back.

"You found it," said Henebul

"But not all of it. The sword and armor still elude me. And without the complete set, I don't know if we can last against Xathaniel."

"Don't think about it. Fear is for the enemy. Right now, we need you here. We all do," replied Henebul. He then did a few hand signs and summoned a crate on the table. Barjon looked puzzled at the half-angel, who told him to open the box. Following along, Barjon opened the lid, and inside was a set of armor, but this armor was different. It seemed older yet familiar.

"Recognize it?" inquired Henebul.

"It's your father, isn't it," said Barjon. Henebul nodded his head. Barjon slowly lifted the armor out of the wooden crate. Also inside, he saw a pair of boots, trousers, and gloves.

"You kept it all this time?" Barjon asked.

"In the beginning, it was for remembrance. But it will serve you now." Barjon could not find the words. The armor in the crate, belonging to Henebul's father, was still in the same condition as during that fateful battle. The armor consisted of a hardy quilted gambeson, heavy mail extending to the knees, plate armor spaulders to protect the shoulders, and more. What it sacrificed in speed, it made up for in defense. Putting the armor on, Barjon felt at first uneasy. It was not unheard of for angels to wear the armor of other angels, but those that betrayed heaven? That was a different story. However, Barjon could not afford to be picky, especially not now on the eve of what might be their destruction. Giving the shoulder plates one last tug, he thanked his brother for the gift and told him to meet with the others. As Henebul left the room, Barjon grabbed his sword and shield and walked to the walls. As he made his approach, all around, he saw the people making preparation. Some assisted others to the shelters and catacombs underneath St Peters, while others were arming themselves and preparing to make the ultimate sacrifice with the Swiss Guards.

Looking at the sky, he noticed the once clear blue sky had shifted and was now a dull gray and cloudy. Almost poetic, he thought. Arriving at the stairs, he calmly walked up to the city walls, which overlooked the plateau they came from. Looking outwards, he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps. Looking to his right, he saw his friends, armed and ready for battle.

"Have the necessary preparations been made?" he asked calmly.

"Henebul and his archers were able to make as many potions as possible," said Ruzla.

"The Roman pantheon has been stationed all across the city. The Swiss will defend the city streets if need be. The Hospitallers and Teutonics will help handle the walls with us. As of now, we are as ready as we might ever be," stated Vanhildr. Barjon nodded his head slightly.

"Do you hear that?" asked Fiona

"Hear what?" replied Barjon.

"Nothing. No birds. No sound of the wind. Absolutely nothing. Nothing except silence," she stated. The others shared her analysis. There was no sound at all. Barjon knew that this was a sign of the army approaching. Then, after a few minutes, Barjon heard a faint noise. It almost resembled a train.

"Can you see them, Horus?" asked Barjon.

"Oh yes. I can see them. Lucifer spared no expense with this force." Thanks to his blessed eyes, Horus could pinpoint the army's exact location. Horus estimated that the military would arrive before nightfall based on their current speed. When Barjon asked how many men, Horus replied ten thousand. Barjon grimace. He expected the army to be massive, but ten thousand was unheard of.

"What else do your eyes see?" inquired Vanhildr.

"Their army is mixed. I see soldiers from Egypt, bearing my uncle's banner, demons, dragons, undead soldiers, orcs, ogres, mutants, the works," said Horus.

"Do you see a giant wolf or snake?" asked Barjon. Hours was puzzled by the question and replied that there was neither.

"You met Loki's children?" asked Vanhildr. Barjon stated that during the fall of the Watchers Outpost, a giant wolf and serpent breached the walls and allowed the army of darkness to consume them. That day marked the end of humanity and freedom on earth, and now it seemed history was repeating itself. Just then, Henebul, accompanied by his elves, Lawrenz and his Hospitalers, Cathrin and her Teutonics, Matteo and a few swiss guards, and even Naldak, who still wore his bandages from the infirmary. As they awaited the coming dusk, Barjon looked over the beautiful field. He smiled softly at the lush green he saw before him, only for it to disappear, knowing what would come in a few hours.

"You're unusually quiet?" said Margret. Barjon turned his head and saw the young woman standing next to him. She wore the same armor as Fiona and Colum.

"I feel like I dragged everyone to their deaths," he told her.

"We all knew what we were signing up for," she replied.

"No them, though." he was referring to the humans within the city walls. They did not know what was coming. Margret placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We are with you till the end of the line," she said to him. Her words brought comfort to him. Then the noise from before, the train, came again. This time louder and much closer. Then, Horus shouted to his friends to look ahead of them over the horizon. Turning their gaze to the field, they witnessed a wave of colors approach them. A mixture of red, gold, black, and emerald blanket the lush area, followed by massive winged creatures covering the skies. To make matters worse, thunder echoed around them, and then droplets of rain poured until a shower of rain poured on top of them.

As the army of darkness approached, one of the generals let out a blood-curdling roar, signaling the military to halt. They were but a few hundred yards away. Barjon could sense the tension in the air. It was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Just then, Horus called out to his angel friend.

"We have two hostiles approaching the city walls," he said. Barjon looked ahead and saw two figures indeed. Both he knew very well. The figure on the left was Zarakoth, the dragon king. The massive dragon extended his wings in full glory and rested his sword across his shoulder, but he was not the one that made Barjon's blood boil. Standing next to the dragon king was none other than Xathaniel. The fallen black-winged angel was clad in his own armor set, which Barjon rather odd. Xathaniel wore little armor consisting of metal pauldrons, a bronze helmet, and bronze greaves. His torso was covered by a subiculum loincloth, while a manica protected his right arm. Very unusual for an angel to wear, even a fallen angel. In truth, he resembled a gladiator. As for his weapon, Barjon was taken aback by what he saw. It made his blood run cold. The weapon Xathaniel possessed was the Holy Lance. Known as the Spear of Longinus, it was on par with other holy weapons like Hellfire and Azrael's sword. The spear was thought to have been lost, yet now it seemed one of the world's most feared and dangerous angels had made it his preferred weapon.

"So you finally arrived," said Barjon.

"Expecting us?" inquired Xathaniel.

"You could say that," he replied. Nathaniel looked at the city defenders and let out a chuckle.

"Is this it, Barjon, the Pope's new army, a few crusty bastards, and a handful of rag tags?"

"Now, Xathaniel, this is a battle between warriors, not a bunch of wet babes, so warriors is what I brought." The fallen let out a small smirk slip through his lips. Then Xathaniel spoke at the top of his lungs.

"At my challenge, by the ancient laws of combat, we are met at this chosen ground to settle for good and all! Who holds sway over the five points." He fixed his gaze upon Barjon and his friends before continuing. "Us demons, born rightwise to this fine land, or the foreign hordes of a bygone age defiling it." The army behind Xathaniel erupted into cheers. Their morale was high, and their blood was boiling.

"By the ancient laws of combat, I accept the challenge of the army of darkness. You have ravaged this world and plagued its people at every turn, but from this day out, you shall plague no more. For let it be known that the hand that tries to strike us from this land shall be swiftly cut down."

"Then may my lord Lucifer guide my hand against your Angelic prophecy!" snarled Xathaniel.

"Prepare to receive the true Lord!" Barjon yelled back. With words said, the Battle of the Vatican had begun.