"Thomas E. Sniegoski - Aerie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sniegoski Thomas E)

"You find me amusing, slave of the Powershost?" Alastor asked, attempting to block out thethrobbing
pain in his burned hand. "We'll seehow comical I am when my ax takes your headfrom your shoulders."

Again the armored warrior laughed, reminding Alastor of some demented child. They continued to stare
at each other across the cellarspace, the fires of Heaven still burning in thefallen angel's fragile grasp. The
pale, doughyskin of his arm had begun to bubble and smolder. The pain was excruciating, but it helped
himto focus.

"You gave it all up for this?" the red-armoredhorror asked, looking around at the clutter of thebasement
before turning his gaze back to Alastor.

The eyes within the helmet were intense, boring into his own like daggers of ice. The servant to the
Powers shook his head slowly in disgust.

This act of condescension only served to inflameAlastor's rage all the more.How dare this lowly
servant look down upon me? Does he not realize thecourage and fortitude my sacrifice has required?

From deep within, Alastor dredged up thefinal remnants of what remained of his longinactive angelic
traits. The fallen angel bellowedhis disdain and threw his massive bulk acrossthe cellar floor, scattering his
accumulated belongings in his wake. He hefted the battle-ax of fire above his head, ready to cleave his
enemyin twain. The flaming ax descended, passingthrough the coats and sports jackets that hungfrom the
ceiling pipes, and continuing itsdestructive course into a musty, cardboard boxfilled with pots and pans.

The fallen angel spun himself around, theburning ax handle still clutched in his blackenedgrasp. The
flaming weapon decimated a box ofletters and tax records, sending burning piecesof paper up into the
air, then drifting down uponhim like burning snow. But despite the savageryof his assault, the weapon had
yet to find itsmark.

Through the burning refuse Alastor scannedthe cellar in search of his adversary, weaponready to strike
yet again. He found the armoredman standing before the worktable, his scarlet glove resting atop the box
that contained theprecious wings.

"How much did it hurt, Alastor?" the invader asked. "How great was the pain to murderwhat you were?"

Alastor relived the shrieking agony as he hacked his beautiful wings from his back; how he had blacked
out after cutting away the first,only to return to consciousness and do awaywith the other. The pain had
been excruciating,and was second only to his betrayal of theCreator.

The sight of the armored creature near hiswings stoked the fires of his fury to maddeningheights. Barely
able to contain his rage, Alastorpropelled himself at the figure, a cry like that ofa hungry hawk erupting
from his open mouth ashe moved with a speed contrary to his bulk. He lifted the flaming ax above his
head, but unexpectedly the intruder surged forward to meet his attack. The warrior struck quickly,
fiercely, and just as fast leaped out of the fallen angel's path.

Alastor crashed into the long, wooden work-table, practically ripping it from the granite wall.The box
fell, and he watched it open, spilling its precious contents as he slowly turned to face hisattacker. The
armored intruder stood perfectlystill, his cold, predator's gaze watching him.

A terrible numbness had begun to spreadfrom his chest, traveling to all his extremities.Alastor gazed
down at his body gone to seedwith the sweet indulgences of humanity, andsaw the pommel of an ornate