FOR THE TEMPLES OF HIS GODS

NEVER AN END TO WAR THE GARDEN OF FORKING PATHS

FOR THE TEMPLES OF HIS GODS

Is this the Last Stand of the Spartan 300?

FOR THE TEMPLES OF HIS GODS

“Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the Gate:

"To every man upon thisearth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his Gods.”

- Thomas Babington Macaulay

“Aw, hell, no!” snapped Patton asI wrapped an arm about his shoulders. “Not again!”

I said, “War doesn’t care. Tocare, you have to feel, and fire does not feel. It only burns until there isnothing left.”

Closing my eyes, I pictured theseared cobblestones where last I saw Helen.

This last teleporting hurt worst ofall. I cried out along with Patton.

When I opened my eyes, I had tofight to keep from crying out again. Patton did cry out. I did not blame him.

Flaring fingers of fire reachedout for us from every direction.

My Spartans were yelling andshooting in all directions. They ducked behind broken fragments of walls asbullets sent chunks of stone flying.

Flames boiled out of wideningcracks in the blackened concrete at our feet.

I could actually feel the groundbeneath my boots tremble as if the earth itself was about to give birth todemons.

André was smiling wide as herolled, spun, and took picture after picture of the fighting. I froze. Theboyish blonde woman beside him, squealing in pleasure, took her own pictures.

She was Gerda Taro.

Gerda died on the 27th of July1937 when a republican tank collided into a car she was traveling in.

LIFE Magazine described her asbeing 'Probably the first woman photographer ever killed in action'.

Taro was buried in Pere Lachaisecemetery in Paris on August 1st, 1937.

The tombstone features the falconHorus, and the epitaph: "So nobody will forget your unconditionalstruggle for a better world."

Why a falcon?

I think I know.

To me the falcondescribed in "The Second Coming" is symbolic of the human race in modern times,as it has become disconnected from its roots.

When Yeats writes,

"Thefalcon can't hear the falconer” –

I believe he meant humanity has losttouch with its heart, its soul, its connection to its Creator.

But you decide for yourself.

It’s your life.

Still, here was Gerda Tarolaughing and photographing beside the man she had loved.

Maybe in the end, we are allreunited with who or what we loved while living.

Maybe.

All of us will find out forourselves one day. And, for me, this might just be that day.

One thing was for sure: my lifenever seemed to run out of strangeness.

To my right, a Tiger tank wasruptured with sharp fingers of metal flaring out as if burst open from theinside by a tremendous explosion.

A foul-smelling column of smokespiraled from the blazing Tiger tank to my left.

With no consideration of beingshot, a half dozen SS soldiers charged straight at us. Their writhing lips wereflecked with froth as if they were rabid.

Patton drew his Colt and fired,dropping two of them.

Slacked jaw, I saw thatimpossible shapes were running at their heels. Nazi soldiers I couldunderstand.

But not the madness I sawsnapping at the SS troops heels.

Not this.

In my head, Sentient snapped, ‘Whatyou do not understand can still kill you! Do not just stand there gaped mouth.It is a dance of death. Dance!’

An icy prickliness moved under myscalp from the base of my skull up over my head to flare down towards mytemples.

This sensation had only happenedto me once before: when I had first received my draft notice …

when Sentienthad fully synced with my mind due to the jolt of fear that had hit me.

But instead of my mind goingblack as when Sentient took control of my body, the world seemed to crystalizeall about me.

‘Finally!’breathed Sentient.

‘The essences of those two O.S.S.killers and that of the murderous Captain with his wrestling ability have beenfully funneled into your being.’

‘What? I don’t want to be likethem!’

‘Which is why it has taken solong for your unconscious to weed out the chaff of them and incorporate therest.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Their skills, their reflexes,their muscle memories … all yours to utilize. So do so! Now!’

Without knowing how they gotthere, a Fairbairn-Sykes dagger and a strange sword were in my hands. There wasa blurring of attackers, and I saw they had changed faces and forms.

Mr. Morton had stepped in again.I smiled wide. He was cheating.

Elohim would step in to even theodds.

Maybe.

And maybe He already had with mynew access to borrowed abilities.

As they rushed in on me, I swayedbackwards so low my body was parallel to the steaming ground, just inches offthe stones.

I kept the momentum of mybackward movement and tumbled in a ball. I supported myself on my knuckles, lashing out with my outstretchedlegs, spinning in a wide arc.

Men, women, and thingswere knocked sprawling into a tumble of arms, legs, and claws.

I snapped to my feet, spittinginto the face of a white-wigged judge trying to smash in my head with hisgavel.

With a flick of the dagger, I slashedacross both eyes. “Didn’t you know? Justice is blind.”

He clutched his bleeding face andfell upon the sword of the foppish Pharaoh behind him.

I sent the mewing boy to inquirehow his soul fared against the weight of a feather.

My sword and knife were livingfire, weaving, flashing, seemingly everywhere at once. I darted in and among my yelling enemies.

“Damn him!” screamed a satyr.

“He’s not human,” snarled ajackal-headed woman in what struck me as almost funny.

“He’s never in one spot,” growleda confederate soldier, blood-stained whip on his hip.

Mr. Morton must have dipped intoHell for reinforcements.

It was a nightmare hurricane ofslashing swords and blooded claws.

If hurricane this indeed was, itwas a storm at night, illuminated with but brief flashes of lightning, fastglimpses of dying faces, snarling fangs, tumbling bodies.

It was chaos come to life: a truecreation of the living lie that was Mr. Morton.

They came in waves.

I thrust, feinted, swayed to theside, rolling over the mailed back of an on-rushing crusader, lashing out with thedagger again.

Two Swiss guards clutched theirtorn-out throats.

I snapped to my feet, weaving anelaborate figure eight of death with my sword and knife.

The knocked-down crusader wascrushed to death under the stampede of attackers. A howling seemed to explode all around me.

I staggered back from the push ofan invisible cloud of power.

The surviving Hell’s rejectsevaporated into clouds of writhing fog before my stunned eyes.

I looked at the figure to my leftwho had dispersed them.

Darael.

Gently he took back both thedagger and sword from my unfeeling fingers. “You fight well … for a mortal.”

Smiling, he whispered low.

“I knew from your days at St.Marok’s that you fight best with blades.”

Sister Ameal was behind and to myleft, wielding a sword that looked too long for her. Behind her were threecrosses holding three writhing SS troopers impaled upon them.

Have I ever told you to not angerSister Ameal? Consider yourself told.

Patton rushed to my side,reloading his Colt. “That was madness! What the hell were they?”

Amos, panting and bloodied, said,“You answered your own question, General.”

Theo grunted, “Darael, why didn’tyou ‘disappear’ them earlier?”

He shook his tawny head.

“I could not. Not until they hadserved their purpose. The Adversary sent them to panic Helen Mayfair intocalling Blaine back from terrorizing his Nephilim with that weapon from thefuture.”

In her flaming angel form, shelanded beside me lightly. “I do not panic.”

Dickens warily walked up, keeping a keen eye on the sizzling tongues of lapping fire so close to him.

“What Icannot ascertain is the reason behind the dearth of the Nephilim.”

Darael shook his head at the nottoo wary to be verbose Spartan.

“Not too puzzling, Dickens. Bravewhen they thought themselves invulnerable, not so much once they saw that notonly could they be injured, but they could also be killed.”

He shrugged, “They chose to beelsewhere.”

Darael looked grim. “Which is whyThe Adversary dipped into the shallow end of his Domain to buy time.”

Amos frowned, “To buy time forwhat?”

“To coerce a more formidable Other to enter thefray … at its own peril of course. But then, the welfare of his pawns has nevermattered overmuch with that one.”

Eric, his uniform stained withblood but untorn, yelled out, “Great! The third Tiger!”

Reese, his face smeared with dirtand blood, cried out, “Franklin, turn around. I need to dig into your packagain and get out another thermite missile.”

Dee Stevens hurried to our sidewith Sam Wilson alongside him.

“I already got the corporal here to load meup. I expected those Jerries to try us again.”

He raised the Stinger missile tohis right shoulder. “Why should you get all the fun?”

As the Stinger roared,Cloverfield screamed over the sound.

“Incoming!”

Darael groaned, “Great Cthulhu!”

I looked up … and up … and up.

Darael was not cursing … he wasidentifying … our approaching death.