“Halt, stranger!” called out the sentinel from the wooden watchtower.

Azazel raised his hands and spread his wings. “Peace, mortal, I have come to offer my aid.” The angel continued his trek toward the war camp, the rising sun glaring in his eyes.

A barricade of wooden spikes surrounded the camp, and inside the soldiers sat before their tents with bowls of soup in hand. Most of them grimaced every time they brought spoonfuls to their mouths. But one, too young to shave, wolfed down the rations with a grin on his face, and when his bowl was empty immediately went back to the pot over the campfire.

Beyond the war camp stood a great castle of stone. A long, winding staircase led up to the main gate, and the land fell away into a deep chasm on either side. Along the outer walls of the castle, where the bricks met the dry riverbed, hung four wooden watermill wheels. Several spires stretched up into the sky above the castle, the tallest of which jutted up from the keep in the center.

An arrow struck the ground in front of Azazel, drawing his attention back to the sentinel. “Not another step!” the watchman called out and nocked another arrow to his bowstring.

Azazel glared up at him. “You dare? You dare threaten an angel of the gods?”

“Begging your pardon,” said the sentinel, his tone far from apologetic, “but I don’t yet know for sure you truly are an angel. Some damn demons deceive us, make themselves look like angels just long enough to…” The sentinel bit his lower lip. Azazel was sure he saw the makings of tears in this soldier’s eyes. “Well… in any event, you’re not getting in until Neji says so. Hey! Neji!”

Soldiers within the camp scurried aside as a dark figure approached. The instant Azazel saw her, a feeling somewhere between dread and desire swelled within him. Neji was a woman with onyx skin and long hair in many braids. Her jaw was strong, her lips full, and her arms thick with muscle. She wore a quilted doublet with shoulder pauldrons made of black feathers. When Azazel looked upon them, he realized they were too large and coarse to come from any bird he knew of, but were more likely demon feathers. She carried in her hand a long-sword covered in magical runes, which glowed with the silver light of adonium.

Her emerald eyes passed between the sentinel and Azazel. She pointed a finger at the young angel and said in a voice which was both overly formal and slightly arrogant, “Stay exactly where you are, dahling. If you dare to move I’m afraid I’ll be forced to become beastly with you.”

Her walk was graceful on her approach, her movements as fluid as a waterfall. Each step was so light she barely left an imprint in the soil.

Azazel held both his arms at his sides and straightened out his back. The woman drew her face near his, and the breath from her nostrils tickled his lips. His heart raced as he took in her scent, and then she took in his. She sniffed him many times, her nose touching his cheek.

Neji backed away from Azazel and said, “Nothing to worry about, my dear. He’s no demon.” She sheathed her sword and strolled back into camp.

The sentinel bowed his head, “Then the gods have finally sent their aid! My apologies, our heavenly guest! By all means, please, enter!” He turned his head back to the woman, “Neji!” he shouted. “Go get Sir Ulric!”

Neji glanced back over her shoulder and nodded.

Azazel said to the sentinel, “So… she’s a demon slayer, then?”

The sentinel chuckled. “Aye. I suppose having her smell your face for any hint of demon blood gave it away?”

Azazel snickered too, then meandered into the camp. All around him the soldiers turned their attention away from their games of dice, bowls of soup, or letters from home to watch the heavenly messenger in their midst.

On the far end of the camp, Azazel saw a collection of cannons and disassembled trebuchets. A blast of steam, and Azazel’s gaze fell to short metal figures vaguely resembling men. The little automatons scurried about, making their repairs to the siege weaponry.

Behind them stood a girl just a head taller than Azazel’s waist. She wore a cap on her head with goggles propped up above the bill. Long, dirty blonde hair fell in a pony-tail down her back. She wore coveralls and held a wrench in her glove-covered hands. Her pale skin made the patches of soot and grime stand out like islands in the sea. When she turned her head, Azazel noticed a leather patch covering where one eye used to be. She withdrew her tobacco pipe from her mouth and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Sparky!” the girl called out in a surprisingly gruff voice for one so young.

One of the automatons, who looked like a rusty ball with many spindly arms and two stubby legs, stopped in his tracks and stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am?”

The girl walked past him to the cannon on which he’d been working. She ran her gloved fingers along a groove on the weapon’s barrel. “See that scratch, Sparky?”

“I do, ma’am,” said the automaton.

The girl folded her arms behind her back and chewed on the end of her pipe. “How did I tell you to handle the guns?”

“Like kittens, ma’am,” said Sparky.

The girl nodded. “Do you remember what I said I’d do if you hurt one of my kittens?”

“Kick my ass, ma’am.”

The girl pointed her wrench at the automaton. “Damn straight, Sparky! This is the only warning you get. Eff it up again and you’ll face the consequences.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A brief pause.

The girl exhaled smoke at the rusty ball. “What are you waiting for? A smooch? Get back to work!”

“Yes, ma’am!” He returned to his repairs, now working just a little gentler.

Azazel approached the young girl. “You must be the camp’s mechanic.”

The girl’s good eye widened as the angel approached her, and the pipe fell from her mouth. “Oh!” she bowed her head. “Forgive me for not rushing to greet you, master! I was so focused on…”

“Fixing the siege weapons. I understand.” Azazel gestured for her to raise her head, and she obeyed. “How did they break?”

“Damn saboteurs!” the girl shouted and stamped her foot. “In the middle of the night, they sent a spy into our camp. We caught and killed the bastard, but not before he’d broken my toys!”

Azazel knelt in front of her, which caused the girl to tremble and squirm in panic for a moment, before the angel returned to his feet with her pipe in hand. “You know, smoking’s bad for you.”

The girl rolled her eye. “Thanks, Dad.”

Azazel fluttered his wings to remind her they were there. “Are you talking back to a malakhim, young lady?”

Her eye widened again, and she stood straight with her shoulders back. “No, master. I mean… yes, I was, master. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Azazel pocketed the pipe. “You’ll get this back when I decide it’s ok.”

“Yes, master,” said the girl.

“What’s your name?”

“Ember, master.”

“Amber?”

“No, Ember.”

“Ember.”Azazel nodded. “I am called Azazel, but you may refer to me as Ozz.”

“Ozz…” Ember curtsied the best she could with the fabric of her coveralls around her thighs, where the pant-legs grew baggy. “A pleasure to meet you, Master Ozz.”

All the automatons fixing the siege weaponry stopped their tasks, turned, and bowed to Azazel.

The angel chuckled at the greeting, then turned to see if he could find the person in charge.

From the largest tent in the camp came a man wearing black armor, which seemed all the darker with his long, white beard and hair draped over it. On his back he had strapped a claymore and a battle axe. His eyes pierced Azazel, and the young angel felt a sudden surge of self-consciousness about his every move and flaw.

When the old warrior drew close, he bowed his head. “I am Sir Ulric--” his voice had the quality of suede which had been torn and sewn back together over and over, “--commander of this army. What brings you to our camp, master?”

Azazel gestured for Sir Ulric to lift his head again, and the old knight did so. “I have come to help you take back this castle,” Azazel pointed to the fortress at the top of the long, winding staircase, “from the demons who infest it.”

Sir Ulric ran his fingers through his long, cotton beard. “We’ve been at it for weeks… but with even just one angel on our side…”

Azazel folded his wings and hands behind his back. “Sir Ulric, take me to your war table. I need to know our situation.”

Sir Ulric turned from Azazel and motioned for him to follow. Past the younger soldiers hard at sparring, and the older knights taking a moment to read or pray, they came to Sir Ulric’s tent. Men in dark gray armor pounded their fists to their chest-plates in salute as the two of them entered.

In the middle of the tent stood a table flat across the tops of four barrels and spread out upon it was the layout of a castle. Beside the layout, the title read, “Brook Hold.”

Sir Ulric pointed to one of the walls. “This wall is the weakest, so it would make the most sense to blast here with cannons and catapults, aye?”

“Umm…” Azazel blinked twice. “Yes.”

Sir Ulric raised his index finger. “The problem is…” he pointed to the castle keep. “These unholy fu…uh…--” Sir Ulric’s eyes met Azazel’s, “--…fiends… they took hostages when they invaded: Lord and Lady Brook, and their daughter, Calimei.” Sir Ulric bit his lip, opened his mouth to say more, then closed it again.

Azazel leaned in closer and saw a glassy white reflection in this old knight’s eyes. “Sir Ulric…--” he placed a hand on the old knight’s shoulder. “--however painful the next part is, I need to know. Just take your time and tell me.”

Sir Ulric bit his lip harder and his body began to tremble. A sob burst past his teeth, and the glass fell in drops from his eyes. “They killed them…” He covered his mouth with his palm. “Oh, gods… they killed my lord and lady! The people I swore to protect! I saw their bodies fall into the dry creek.” Sir Ulric sniffed and wiped his eyes on his glove. “Then the demons launched their heads at us from a catapult! Oh, gods…”

Sir Ulric cried out in fury and shook his fist at the sky. “Damn them all! Seth, judge them guilty!” He pounded that fist on the table. “Rakos, send them to the pits of Hell!”

“One thing at a time, Sir Ulric.” Azazel rested his hand on the old knight’s chest-plate to calm him. “Do they still have hostages? Do you know if the Brooks’ daughter is still alive?”

Sir Ulric sniffed. “Yes. They showed us. Calimei lives.”

“You can still save your lord and lady’s daughter,” said Azazel. He gently shook the old knight by both shoulders. “We’ll do it together.” The angel reached into his coin purse and produced a single seleni coin. He showed Sir Ulric Liita’s face on the front. “I know a miracle that could be helpful here. I just need a little more information.”