by M. D. Grimm
Roland grimaced. In general angels weren’t accustomed to change or modifying set plans. Heirs were heavily guarded because of this, to make sure the correct chosen ones ruled when their time came. If all the heirs were to suddenly disappear? What wouldn’t the angels do, what wouldn’t they sacrifice, to get their heirs back?
The dragon could win their surrender simply by shaking their firmly held foundations. He was fighting smarter, not harder. But how had he known these angels were heirs?
Roland looked over his shoulder and noticed the only other angel, Sabrael, a few paces away, sitting broodily, his knees pulled to his chest. He was blond, his hair reaching his waist, and his eyes were fiery gold, his white robe slightly stained and torn. The golden gaze flickered to him, and though his mouth was set in a thin line, he nodded once in acknowledgment. Then he turned away to brood some more.
“What happened?” he asked Anpiel. “How were you caught?”
She scowled. “I wasn’t going to fly away like a coward. I rammed into a couple of those demons even as I saw you courting death by bolting to that damn dragon. At least I had some satisfaction knowing that you hurt the bastard. It was obvious by the way he roared. My heart stopped when you slammed into his tail and disappeared into that black abyss.”
The tail. That’s what had damaged his wing.
“Then the demons grabbed me, and I just couldn’t break loose.” It wasn’t easy for her to say that. He could tell. He dropped his gaze to her arms, and through the tears on her robes, he saw the bruises, shaped as finger marks.
Fury lashed through him to see her injuries.
“The dragon dove after you.”
He snapped his eyes to her. “What?”
“Don’t ask me why, but he went after you. The darkness receded around the Middle Realm, and then I saw you in his claws. I thought you were dead.”
Roland shook his head, not understanding. “I hurt him. He should have killed me.”
Anpiel cupped his face between her hands, gazing into his eyes. “I don’t think we can assume anything with this dragon.”
A large gust of wind toppled them over, and Roland instinctually curled his body over Anpiel’s, turning his attention to the source. The faint light in the cave allowed him to see the entrance, though the darkness confirmed they were deep in the cave, not near the opening. He suspected there were many twists and turns and other tunnels that would get him lost if he somehow managed to overcome the guards. Fantastical thinking, really.
Anpiel pushed him off her even as heavy steps thudded up the passageway. Knowing who it was had Roland cringing against the wall and wrapping Anpiel in his arms. She clung to him just as tightly. The other angel, Sabrael, scooted over to them, eyes wide and terrified.
The black dragon with onyx scales appeared, ducking his horned head low, his wings folded tightly against his back. The demons backed away, giving him all the room they could. If Roland wasn’t mistaken, he would have sworn the dragon had shrunk since their first encounter. Though he was still monstrous, no way would his former size fit in the cavern even considering the height of the ceiling and width of the walls. His inner heat filled the chamber, causing sweat to slip down Roland’s body.
The dragon swept his blue gaze over the demons, then to the angels. Their gazes met, and Roland trembled, curling into himself, wishing he were smaller. The dragon tilted his head slightly before stretching out his neck, nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath.
It was a struggle for Roland to keep his bowels from betraying him.
“You are still alive,” he said, deep voice rumbling through the close confines. Once again he spoke Middle Enochian.
Anpiel glared at the dragon, covering Roland with her body. “Stay away from him, monster!”
That rumbling laugh escaped him again, and he pulled back. Roland couldn’t stop staring, fascinated and in awe even as terror twisted his guts. His robes were soon soaked with sweat, and his hair was plastered to his face. The dragon’s heat was a living force, just as the abyss had been.
He gripped Anpiel’s arm and spoke softly to her. “Easy. We don’t want to anger him. I’d rather not be eaten, thanks.”
Anpiel flinched before pulling back, though her glare stayed, eyes sharp as she watched the dragon’s every move.
“I have no reason to harm or eat you,” the dragon said, obviously hearing Roland’s words. “Not yet, anyway. Your fate rests in the hands of your leaders.”
Roland gulped down air, and despite his racing heart, he managed to stand, putting himself as a shield between the dragon and the two heirs. Though his legs felt like liquid, he stood tall and ignored the protest in his shoulder.
“What should we call you, my lord?” he asked, his voice wavering somewhat. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he pushed his hair out of his face. He shored up whatever courage and stupidity he had and met the dragon’s gaze head-on. Maybe if he kept the dragon’s attention on him, whatever wrath he might hold would be directed at Roland. He could literally feel Anpiel’s anger behind him, and he knew part of her glare was now for him.
The dragon slanted his head the other way, considering him. It was then Roland noticed the three sets of horns that dominated his face. The smallest set jutted up from his cheeks, then the next struck out from behind his jaw, and the last and largest set rose up from just above his eyes and curled backward, protecting the back of his head should another dragon try to seize him. Roland could only assume their purpose, anyway. In fact, his artist’s mind started to take note of the power and strength in those thick limbs, the long, broad muzzle. He could only imagine the serrated teeth, currently hidden. Even when the dragon spoke, he kept his teeth covered, and though growls heavily colored his words, Roland understood every one of them.
His claws were gleaming, sharp onyx, made to rip and rend. Spikes ran down his back, becoming smaller once they reached his tail, which was twisted out of view, beyond the cavern and down the passageway. Each exhalation of the beast ruffled Roland’s robe and a few strands of his hair.
The stark black of his scales made the bright blue of his eyes and the fire that every now and then showed between his scales when he moved glow starkly in the confined space.
He was a work of living, breathing art.
“I am called Asagoroth.”
Roland jerked back to the present, astonished he’d managed to forget himself for a moment despite being pinned by the dragon’s gaze. Asagoroth’s gaze. Light, his suspicions proved true. This was the dragon Gabryl had mentioned. Light save them.
Roland swallowed hard. “My name is Roland. May I ask, um, what you plan to do with us?”
Asagoroth stretched his neck again, and Roland froze. Stopping within a hair’s breadth of touching Roland, Asagoroth took a deep breath before snorting. The force of it staggered Roland, and his weak legs gave out. He landed hard on his ass and barely resisted scrambling backward. Fleeing would only give this predator more reason to pursue. Asagoroth didn’t move when Roland flinched and fell, nor did he laugh. He just stared.
Roland stared back as Asagoroth’s pupils dilated slightly, becoming rounder and less slitted. Fascinating. What was going on in that big, fierce mind? What was he thinking about?
“I have plans for all the realms,” he answered after a long pause that had grown awkward. At least it had to Roland’s mind.
“Wh-what plans?” he asked, his voice higher pitched than normal.
Asagoroth considered him for another significant pause. “Wait and see.”
He turned his head and spoke to the demons, the syllables hard and guttural. The demonic language of Dimoori was one Roland only knew a few words of. He said something about patrols and watching the angels closely. The demons bowed their heads in obedience.
Asagoroth walked in a large circle before turning to face the passageway and leave, the tip of his tail the last thing to flick away from sight. The thud of his steps slowly faded, and then nothing.
Roland collapsed
onto the stony ground, gasping for breath, trembling uncontrollably.
“Ro!” Anpiel scrambled to him, touching his face, his chest, his arms, worry creasing her brow.
“I’m fine. I’m okay. Just. Wow.”
“Why were you talking to it?” Sabrael said in disgust. “Why were you so bloody polite?”
Roland turned his head to look at the other angel. “You think angering him is such a great plan? You want to get eaten? Because by the Light, I don’t! We’ll learn more if we’re subservient to him and act like docile captives.”
He spoke in High Enochian since he doubted the demons understood the more regal dialect. He’d learned the language from Gabryl since only knowledge keepers and chancellors used it for official business. Middle and Low Enochian were easier to learn, hence why Asagoroth spoke one of them. Roland wouldn’t be surprised if these demons knew them, just as he utilized a little of Low and Middle Dimoori. Once again, it was all thanks to Gabryl.
“Subservient,” Sabrael spat, “to that monster?”
“If you hadn’t noticed, he could eat us without worrying we’d get stuck in his teeth.”
Sabrael looked away, scowling and curling tighter into himself. Roland looked back at Anpiel, surprised by her silence. She was staring at him with a strange expression.
“Aren’t I right?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose. I see your point. But to bow before such a creature is distasteful.”
“Arrogance and ego will only get us killed, no matter what his plans are for us.”
She nodded again before helping him over against the wall. She leaned against his chest despite their sweaty bodies and clothes, gaining comfort from the embrace. Roland’s gaze fell on his blue supply bag. His eyes widened. How did that get here? When was the last time he’d held it?
Movement from the demons had him looking over. There were ten of them, just as Anpiel said, and they were whispering to each other and glancing at him. A few stared far too intently at his sister, while two he suspected were females openly appraised Sabrael. Interesting. Did the demons enjoy the look of angels? Roland was taught that demons hated angels. He was beginning to suspect much of his education was filled with fallacies.
“Ro,” Anpiel whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I saw your face.”
He frowned down at her. “What? My face?”
She held him tighter and lifted her head, face strained. “I know your expressions, brother. I know when something has captured your attention. I know when you want to create art, to try to duplicate or expand upon what you see.”
He swallowed hard and glanced away.
“You looked upon that beast like….” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Shame welled up inside him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help my nature. I’m still terrified of him. Believe that.”
“He’s not a piece of art or a harmless creature to cuddle and pet.” Her voice turned hard, authoritative. Commanding. “You will see him only as the enemy. Do you understand?”
He flinched at her tone and became chilled despite Asagoroth’s heat, which still clung to the stony walls of the cavern.
“Yes, I understand.”
MOVEMENT AND noise near the passageway had Roland opening his eyes, squinting in the dark. He lay on his side, using his bag as a pillow. Anpiel was pressed against his back, her arm lying limply over his waist. Sabrael was behind them, his back pressed to Anpiel’s, facing the wall. Roland stayed still as three demons pushed another angel into the cavern. The woman was crying wretchedly, her robe torn and frayed, her fair hair in knots. Her eyes were wild, looking for escape like a frightened animal.
He squeezed Anpiel’s hand, and she jerked against him when she awakened.
“Company,” he whispered.
She shifted against him and peered over his shoulder. Her body tensed, and her breath caught.
One of the demons shoved the new angel, and she stumbled to her knees, letting out a cry of pain as the hard ground scraped her skin. A few of the other demons growled at the shoving demon and spat a few words Roland couldn’t decipher. The one who’d shoved the angel merely shrugged in arrogance and strode away, deeper into shadows. Another demon guardedly approached, a small fire blazing in his palm, reminding Roland of the demons’ ability to harness fire. But the angel flinched, sobbing harder. The demon frowned and backed away, appearing worried for her.
“Stay here,” Roland said and cautiously stood.
“Ro!” she said through clenched teeth.
“Trust me.” He hesitantly approached the crying angel, his hands visible so the demons didn’t see him as a threat. They watched him out of dark eyes that glinted with predatory wildness. He suppressed a shudder even as the one with the fire slightly inclined his head in surprising encouragement and took a few more steps back. Roland focused on the angel who was little more than a girl. He knelt beside her and touched her shoulder.
She flinched again and screamed.
He winced. “Easy! Easy, I’m an angel. See? My name is Roland. Are you—”
With a squeal, she flung her arms around him and clutched him as if he could save her from a storm. She nearly knocked the breath out of him. He held her gently and rocked her as she wept. The demons moved away from them, some with irritated looks while others simply shook their heads in apparent pity.
“You need to be strong now,” he said tenderly as her sobs finally lightened. “You need to be strong and brave. You’re not alone. Can you do that for me?”
She shook her head. Then a moment later, she nodded, shivering.
He stood, drawing her up with him. He guided her back to Anpiel and Sabrael, who held out their hands. She sat between them, and they rubbed her back and arms.
“Wh-what is going on?” she said, whimpering.
“What is your name?” Sabrael asked with a gentleness Roland hadn’t expected from him. Sabrael had seemed to dislike him on sight.
“Zarall,” she said.
Anpiel raised her eyebrows. “Heir to the chancellor of Heaveth?”
Zarall’s eyes widened, and she gaped. “How did you know?”
Anpiel sighed and introduced herself, and then Sabrael revealed his own position. Zarall looked like she wanted to wail but, instead, covered her mouth with her hands.
“He really is gathering all the heirs,” Roland whispered.
“We’re hostages,” Sabrael said, mouth twisted in revulsion. “Evil, filth-dwelling abomination.”
He hadn’t lowered his voice, and he spoke in Middle Enochian. Roland felt tension behind him as the demons stirred, obviously not too thrilled with the angels insulting their commander.
Roland shot him a glare at the same time Anpiel did.
“Watch your words!” she said.
Chastised by someone of higher ranking, Sabrael hunched his shoulders and looked away, sulking.
“Relax, my dear,” Anpiel said soothingly to Zarall. “Lie down and try to get some sleep.” She drew the girl into her arms, and Roland stayed sitting as his sister fell back asleep. Sabrael followed not too long after, a little bit of distance between them now. Roland mentally rolled his eyes at the childishness Sabrael hadn’t worked out yet.
Too restless to sleep, Roland scooted until his back hit the wall, and then he took out his supplies. He took charcoal and paper and finally gave in to one of the desires that had grabbed him by the throat the moment the demon horde descended upon them. Sketching and painting always calmed his mind, and since he couldn’t do anything about their situation, he didn’t see the harm in keeping himself from cracking under the pressure of their dangerous predicament and unknown future.
He chose one demon at random and started drawing. This demon was tall and broad, built for war. He was dressed in tight breeches that showed off muscled legs, and he was barefoot, his feet clawed. His hair was dark and spiky, his skin almost as black as Asagorot
h’s. He had several piercings in his nose and tall ears, and thick arms covered in gold and silver arm rings that emphasized his bulging biceps. His eyes glittered like shards of emerald, and when he smiled, it was wicked and amused. He carried two swords at his waist, and Roland had no doubt he knew how to use them.
Roland proceeded to capture the strength and arrogance wrapped around him like a cloak. Yet there was also a strange, jovial nature to him when he laughed at something another demon said. It was a laugh of pleasure, not cruelty or condescension.
Roland soon became lost in the moment, filling page after page with the demon soldiers, letting each be in the spotlight, highlighting their best traits, showing them as the proud warriors they were, not simply mindless, ugly brutes many of the angelic texts insisted they were. Now Roland knew the truth. They might be fickle and bloodthirsty at times, but they weren’t stupid or oafish, and nor were they ugly.
Their forms were harsher and broader than angels, and they seemed far more dangerous and bestial, but they were beautiful and intelligent in their own right. They were still aesthetically pleasing, if one changed their opinion on what was attractive.
Roland found himself smiling at their mannerisms and attitude toward each other. He began to guess which ones were friends and perhaps which were lovers since there were women among the men, their breasts barely covered for decency’s sake. Yet when two of the women kissed in a friendly, intimate fashion, he blushed and looked away.
One demon abruptly started a rhythmic, guttural groaning that several of the others took up. Roland looked up to see them all standing, clustered together, creating a brooding, brutish melody. Lyrics soon joined the drone, the language harsh, the beat unforgiving, but it was unmistakably a song they all knew.
The other angels jerked awake as Roland stared in joy, disappointed he had no way to capture the wild sound that threatened to burst out of control at any second. It was edgy and violent, their voices deep and rough. They could make music—not the trilling, gentle, ruthlessly controlled melodies and songs of the angels, but something far more primal and fiery. It was unyielding emotion and passion, and it whipped through Roland, clutched his heart, and refused to let go.