second, the sword is being held up to an azure sky.
The fist that’s holding it is Raffe’s. And the sky is not my sky.
He hovers at the head of an army of angels who stand below him in formation. His glorious wings, white and whole, frame his body, making it look like a statue of a Greek warrior god.
R AFFE RAISES his sword into the air. The legion of angels lift their swords in response. A war cry goes up as row after row of winged men take flight.
It’s a breathtaking sight to see so many angels lift in formation. The legion flies to battle, led by Raffe.
There’s a whisper of a concept in my head.
Glory.
Then, as quick as a heartbeat, the blue sky and winged men disappear.
We’re in a field at night.
A horde of scary-as-all-hell, bat-faced demons rush at me like an avalanche, screeching a hellish cry. Raffe steps ahead and starts swinging his sword with perfect precision, just like in my dreams.
Fighting beside him and protecting his back are angel warriors, some of whom I’ve seen before at the old aerie. They’re joking and egging each other on as they fight and defend each other from the monsters of the night.
Another concept echoes in my head.
Victory.
The scene changes again and we’re in the sky, only this time it’s in the middle of a lightning storm. Thunder rumbles throughthe dark clouds and lightning lights up the scene in stark contrasts. Raffe and a small group of warriors hover in the rain, watching another group of angels get dragged away in chains.
The prisoners fly with spiked shackles around their wrists, ankles, neck and head. The spikes are on the inside so they’re driven into their flesh. Blood washes away with the rain in jagged rivulets down their faces, hands, and feet.
A squat, bat-faced demon with bat wings rides on the shoulders of each prisoner. The demons hold the chains to the collar, using it as a bridle. They jerk the chains one direction, then another, cruelly driving the spikes in and making them fly like drunks. More hellions hang off some of the ankle and wrist shackles that bind the prisoners to each other.
Some of these angels had fought beside Raffe in the field. They had laughed with him and protected his back. Now, they watch him with excruciating pain in their eyes as they’re driven like tortured cattle.
The other angels watch with immense sadness, some with their heads bowed. But Raffe is the only one who flies out of the group, brushing hands with a few of the prisoners on his way down toward earth.
As the scene fades, another word takes shape in my head.
Honor.
And then, I’m standing under the trees again in Stanford’s grove.
My stomach lurches as I finish my swing and smash the blade into the ground where the squirrel stood a second ago. My hands are clenched so tightly around the hilt that my knuckles feel like they might split.
The squirrel has scampered into a tree and is watching me. It looks puny and insignificant after the things I’ve just seen.
I let go of the sword and land on my butt.
I don’t know how long I sit there panting, but I suspect it’s a long time. There’s nothing but the blue October sky, the smell ofgrass, and the unusual quiet that’s been everywhere since people abandoned cars.
Could the sword be communicating with me? Sending me the message that it was made for epic battles and glory, not for chasing squirrels and being dressed up as a cutesy stuffed animal?
Of course, that’s crazy talk.
But no crazier than what I just saw.
I want to bury my train of thought. Anything that smells remotely insane is a scent I don’t want to follow. But I let myself do it just this once.
Raffe said the sword was sort of sentient. If by some truly bizarre chance that’s true, then maybe it has feelings. Maybe it has memories that it can share with me.
On the night those men attacked me, did it get frustrated that I had no idea how to use it during the fight? Is it embarrassing for a sword to be wielded by someone
The fist that’s holding it is Raffe’s. And the sky is not my sky.
He hovers at the head of an army of angels who stand below him in formation. His glorious wings, white and whole, frame his body, making it look like a statue of a Greek warrior god.
R AFFE RAISES his sword into the air. The legion of angels lift their swords in response. A war cry goes up as row after row of winged men take flight.
It’s a breathtaking sight to see so many angels lift in formation. The legion flies to battle, led by Raffe.
There’s a whisper of a concept in my head.
Glory.
Then, as quick as a heartbeat, the blue sky and winged men disappear.
We’re in a field at night.
A horde of scary-as-all-hell, bat-faced demons rush at me like an avalanche, screeching a hellish cry. Raffe steps ahead and starts swinging his sword with perfect precision, just like in my dreams.
Fighting beside him and protecting his back are angel warriors, some of whom I’ve seen before at the old aerie. They’re joking and egging each other on as they fight and defend each other from the monsters of the night.
Another concept echoes in my head.
Victory.
The scene changes again and we’re in the sky, only this time it’s in the middle of a lightning storm. Thunder rumbles throughthe dark clouds and lightning lights up the scene in stark contrasts. Raffe and a small group of warriors hover in the rain, watching another group of angels get dragged away in chains.
The prisoners fly with spiked shackles around their wrists, ankles, neck and head. The spikes are on the inside so they’re driven into their flesh. Blood washes away with the rain in jagged rivulets down their faces, hands, and feet.
A squat, bat-faced demon with bat wings rides on the shoulders of each prisoner. The demons hold the chains to the collar, using it as a bridle. They jerk the chains one direction, then another, cruelly driving the spikes in and making them fly like drunks. More hellions hang off some of the ankle and wrist shackles that bind the prisoners to each other.
Some of these angels had fought beside Raffe in the field. They had laughed with him and protected his back. Now, they watch him with excruciating pain in their eyes as they’re driven like tortured cattle.
The other angels watch with immense sadness, some with their heads bowed. But Raffe is the only one who flies out of the group, brushing hands with a few of the prisoners on his way down toward earth.
As the scene fades, another word takes shape in my head.
Honor.
And then, I’m standing under the trees again in Stanford’s grove.
My stomach lurches as I finish my swing and smash the blade into the ground where the squirrel stood a second ago. My hands are clenched so tightly around the hilt that my knuckles feel like they might split.
The squirrel has scampered into a tree and is watching me. It looks puny and insignificant after the things I’ve just seen.
I let go of the sword and land on my butt.
I don’t know how long I sit there panting, but I suspect it’s a long time. There’s nothing but the blue October sky, the smell ofgrass, and the unusual quiet that’s been everywhere since people abandoned cars.
Could the sword be communicating with me? Sending me the message that it was made for epic battles and glory, not for chasing squirrels and being dressed up as a cutesy stuffed animal?
Of course, that’s crazy talk.
But no crazier than what I just saw.
I want to bury my train of thought. Anything that smells remotely insane is a scent I don’t want to follow. But I let myself do it just this once.
Raffe said the sword was sort of sentient. If by some truly bizarre chance that’s true, then maybe it has feelings. Maybe it has memories that it can share with me.
On the night those men attacked me, did it get frustrated that I had no idea how to use it during the fight? Is it embarrassing for a sword to be wielded by someone
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