n a wave of searing flame, Edgerrin died.

He died screaming, with the face of his enemy staring down at him. He died in pain, and in shame, and in the knowledge that he had lost. He died knowing that the world would go on without him, whether he wanted it to or not.

And then, in a roar of sound like a million waterfalls, Edgerrin lived.

“Again?” he asked.

“Again.” The voice was brittle, as always, and tinged with regret, as always. Hands moved quietly over his battered frame. They were hard and thin, like the voice.

“I don’t remember much.” Edgerrin shook his head and tried to sit up, but the flesh on his chest and stomach was burned black, and he bellowed at the agony. One of the small hands pushed him gently down, the pain seeming to flee from the touch.

“You never do. Just that you failed again, and died.”

“I know,” he said. A face materialized out of the gloom to smile ghoulishly down on him. “I know, mother.”

The sun shone weakly through the ragged clouds. Its rays carried no warmth, but Edgerrin didn’t feel the cold. He sat in the grand courtyard of the Thanatorium and sharpened his axe.

Skrit, skrit. Skrit, skrit. The stone was ancient, the oil clear and warm. It had collected in great pungent pools in the palace cellars, having soaked from the foundation stones themselves. No one knew why it did this, or where it came from. Oh, someone surely knew, of course, but Edgerrin didn’t know, and neither did his mother. If the servants knew, they didn’t tell.

The servants never spoke. They couldn’t anymore.

His chamberlain approached him now, its desiccated, mute lips sewn together to hold the disconnected jaw in place. Tiny motes of dust circled in the sockets of its eyes as it tamped its staff twice on the ground. Swinging an arm jerkily, it motioned in the peculiar sign language the servants had developed.

“Mistress. Summon. Eat.”

Edgerrin frowned and inspected his blade before answering. There was still a chip near the upper point, but that would take hours to work out. “Very well, Langstone. Tell her I’ll be there in a moment.”

Langstone turned stiffly and walked as quickly as he could back to the safety of the interior. Even this pitiful sunlight beat unmercifully on the undead. Setting his axe aside, Edgerrin poured the remaining oil onto the cobbles, where it soaked in, beginning its long snaking journey back to the cellar pool.

“The time is soon, my son.”

The Mistress of the Thanatorium was tall and thin, her skin nearly the same grey as her hair. She bore herself regally, but it was a worn regality; she was a Queen of Dust and Bones, and her court was seldom visited. She demanded reverence from her subjects, who were incapable of such an emotion. She despaired for her son.

Edgerrin the Warrior came through the door as if unable to decide between a skulk and a swagger. His stitches were itching, and he paused to rip a strand out before responding to his mother. “It is always soon, my queen.” His tone was almost sarcastic.

The Mistress scowled, her brittle face growing harder. “That tone ill befits a prince of your standing. Your disrespect is unseemly. A god has no cause to jest, when his victory is at --“

“Ah, yes, a god,” said Edgerrin, his voice a languid, ironic drawl. He sat and grabbed a loaf of bread. “Behold my glorious kingdom!”

“Silence!” His mother’s voice split the air between them. “You are the son of a god, and a god you are. We reside here because it is your portion, your inheritance from your father’s kingdom. He is the god of death, and you are the seed of his dark spirit. That is why you will succeed against the light. That is why you must succeed. You are not his only son.”

“We are paupers, mother. We rule a dead castle full of dead servants.”

“We would not be, if you would defeat the angel. You would be the Prince, and I the Queen Mother.”

The armor of Edgerrin was black and scarred. He refused to polish or repaint it, repairing only the worst damage. He believed its battle-worn appearance would strike fear into his enemies’ hearts. He was wrong; he had only one enemy, and the enemy did not fear Edgerrin.

The enemy stood at the gate, as always, its flaming sword at the ready. The angel wore no armor, and carried no shield, but Edgerrin had never been able to hurt it. The thing looked at him coldly as he approached. It was an ever-shifting mass of wings and eyes.

“Edgerrin. God’s blessings upon you.”

It always greeted him that way, its perfect face completely impassive. Edgerrin always responded in the same way. “Death take you, Jasrael.”

Edgerrin’s axe was a mystic weapon, forged by a demon and quenched in a witch’s blood. Jasrael’s sword was a pure and holy flame that sprang from the cherub itself. As always, it cut quickly through the miasma of corruption that surrounded Edgerrin. This time, the warrior was surprised to find himself almost relieved.

He disengaged from the angel and lowered his axe. Jasrael, ever the guardian, merely resumed his position in front of the gates.

“What must I do to pass?” Edgerrin asked, alarmed at how weary he already was.

“None may pass.” A thousand eyes opened and shut, and a thousand wings fluttered.

“I must.”

Jesrael’s sword flared. “That is untrue. You wish to pass because you seek power.”

“I seek life.”

“Life is power. Since the Fall of Man I have stood watch over this gate, and thousands have come, seeking the same thing. The fruit of the Tree of Life is not given to mortal men.”

“Damn you.” Edgerrin rushed at it again, and was again repulsed. His wounds smoked, the flesh burned black around trickles of blood. His breathing was ragged and shallow. “I must enter the Garden.”

“There is another way.”

Jesrael’s voice was, as ever, impassive. Its eyes and wings were in constant motion, though the cherub itself did not move. Edgerrin’s breath rasped in his lungs, and his eyes never left the angel as he stalked nervously before the gate.

The warrior vaguely remembered Jasrael mentioning this before, but he had assumed it to be lying. Now, though, he realized he had little choice but to listen. He had lost count of the number of times he had stormed the gate to Eden, but he knew that every battle was shorter. He had been killed more times than he could number.

“Tell me.”

“The road to eternal life has already been opened, but it is narrow and straight. You must leave your mother’s service and enter my Lord’s.”

Edgerrin spat. “Your Lord. The Lord of cruelty, to keep life from those who need it.”

“No, Edgerrin. The Lord of justice, to give life only to those who will receive it.”

“Nothing is free, cherub. Everyone pays.”

Jesrael’s many eyes closed, one by one, until only two were left open to stare at the beaten warrior. “The price has been paid. You’re fighting for those who enslave you, against He who would free you. This, to me, is foolish.”

“My father is a god of death. I am not his only son. I must have the fruit to take my place at his table, or one of a million brothers will kill me, much more thoroughly than you have.” The axe was leaning, almost forgotten, against his scarred greaves. Edgerrin’s voice was pleading and childlike.

“Edgerrin, listen. Your father was once my brother, in the service of the Almighty. The words of the Serpent were sweet to his heart, and he chose to rebel with that deceiver. He fell, for ages and eons, with the Father of Lies, and falls with him still. Your father will never bless you, Edgerrin, for he has no blessing to give. He is himself cursed, now and forever.”

Tears welled in the warrior’s eyes. “My mother --“

“She too may be freed, though I doubt she will accept such charity. She is as dry as the bones over which she rules, and as dead within, though even the dry bones may rise and walk before the prophet.”

Jesrael’s voice became softer. “Edgerrin, it is far too long that you have waged war on the servants of my Lord. Will you not lay down your axe and rest?”

A long moment passed, in which the eyes of the angel opened to gaze full on the face of Edgerrin. With each silent heartbeat, it had reason to hope for the man’s soul.