The Prison of Angels h-6

by David Dalglish

  “I heard Antonil’s words with my own ears,” she said. “He would deny your basic right to control your borders. He would deny your sovereignty. Do you believe me now?”

  Bram swore, flung off his pauldrons so they fell in a clattering display. Loreina stepped back, gave him his space to brood.

  “They won’t invade,” he said, shaking his head. “Stubborn and foolish as Antonil is, his eyes are only for his former kingdom. He is no threat, not if we stay out of the way of his hopeless crusades.”

  “It’s not Antonil I fear,” Loreina said. “It’s his replacement.”

  It was true, of course. The whispering winds of politics blew south, and they whispered with greater certainty Antonil’s fate. His grip on Mordan was slipping away with each passing month. Whether through death in battle, betrayal in court, or a full blown uprising of nobles, his time as king approached its end.

  “What more can we do?” Bram asked. “His army is the greater, doubly so if you include his angels. Open warfare against Mordan would destroy us all, and that cannot happen. If we fall, then the last hope of there being a free nation in all of Dezrel, at least one not ruled by monsters, falls with us.”

  Loreina slipped closer, put her hands around his waist.

  “Patience,” she said. “It is not the same as doing nothing. We keep our eyes open. There will come a time when Antonil is weak, when the angels no longer fly above him. It is in that moment we will refuse to bow our knee. It is in that moment we will show the world we will not be mocked or ignored. We are a sovereign nation, not a footstool.”

  She was on her knees now, her hands drifting down to his belt.

  “And remember,” she said to him. “You must remain calm around your men. Don’t worry. I’ll help you with that.”

  Bram swallowed, close his eyes, and then mentally swore a hundred times when he heard someone call his name from outside the tent. He recognized the voice, too. It was Sir Ian Millar, his most trusted knight and commander of his armies. The man’s service had been invaluable during the Gods’ War.

  “Yes?” Bram asked through the fabric of the tent.

  “Milord, I would seek your advice.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “I fear it cannot.”

  Bram let out a sigh, pushed back his wife.

  “Later,” he told her.

  “I have duties I must attend,” she said, rising from her knees.

  “Then much later.”

  His mood now even worse, Bram stormed out of his tent, still tightening his belt.

  “What is it?” he asked Ian. The knight saluted, and the worry in his eyes dispelled Bram’s immature mood.

  “If you would, please follow me while I explain,” the knight said, spinning on his heels and marching toward the bridge.

  “Has there been trouble with Antonil’s men during the crossing?” Bram asked.

  “Nothing beyond the ordinary. It isn’t Antonil’s men I’m unsure of how to deal with. Watch your step, and then look to the sky.”

  Bram’s stomach tightened, and he knew what he’d see before he ever looked skyward. Flying in v-formations were several dozen angels. Golden-hued armor glinted in the sunlight, and in their hands were the unmistakable shapes of swords, shields, and spears.

  “Do they accompany Antonil’s men, or are they merely seeing them off?” Bram asked, lifting a hand to shade his eyes as he looked.

  “So far they have not crossed the border,” Ian said. “They’re merely circling their current position. I’ve ordered our archers ready just in case.”

  “In case what? You would spark war while Antonil’s army marches through the very center of our camp?”

  Beside him, Ian stiffened.

  “Their kind has been banned from Ker,” he said. “Forgive me if I erred in preparing to enforce your laws.”

  “We gave Antonil’s army freedom to pass,” Bram said. “One might consider the angels part of that army.”

  “Then they should have stated as much. I do not care what any one person might say. What do you say, milord?”

  Bram stared at the angels, his stomach continuing to twist. It felt like there were stones grinding within him. Just the sight of the creatures was enough to make him feel a flutter of fear. Their size, their speed, their ability to circumvent any standard defensive formation or benefit of terrain…they were so clearly not of Dezrel. The hairs on his neck lifted.

  “If they try to fly over, let loose our arrows,” Bram said.

  “If they remain as high as they are, we won’t hit them.”

  “I’m counting on it. Send them a message, and make it as clear as the message Antonil sent me.”

  Together they watched as the remainder of Antonil’s army slowly crossed over the bridge, through the camp, and into the heart of Ker, a great train of wagons marking the last of their passing. It took the greater part of an hour, and all the while the angels circled.

  “Do they ever get tired?” Ian asked, still on edge.

  “Apparently not.”

  So far the angels showed no inclination of following Antonil into Ker. As much as Bram wanted a chance to save face, he felt himself beginning to relax.

  “Even if they don’t pass now, they might wait until dark, or perhaps fly farther north beforehand,” Ian suggested while rubbing his neck, which was no doubt sore from spending so much time staring up at the sky. “Bridges mean nothing to their kind.”

  “No,” Bram said. “I know them too well. To cross in secret would mean admitting they know what they do is wrong, or should be hidden. If they’re to spit in the face of my laws, they’ll do it here, now.”

  Bram’s words caught in his throat. As if they could hear him, one of the angel formations suddenly dipped lower, curling around to fly directly over the bridge. Ian saw it, immediately began running about shouting orders. Bram watched their approach, did his best to calculate the angle. Despite his fury for their insolence, he felt a sudden spike of panic. They were coming in far too low, and would fly within the reach of his archers.

  “Belay that order!” Bram shouted, but it was too late. The angels were streaking in at inhuman speeds, and for the past hour the archers had been given a single, specific command: if the angels flew over, let loose with all they had.

  Up into the air sailed hundreds of arrows, rising together like an inverse rain. The group of angels, seven in all, flared their wings and tried to rise. It didn’t matter. Bram saw the arrows climb, saw war ready to spill forth before him. News of a dead angel, let alone seven, would be all it’d take for those watching his nation with hungry eyes to put their plans in motion.

  And then a shadow tore open in the air, spreading wide like a shield. Within it were a legion of six-fingered hands, their skin shining a translucent purple. They batted at the arrows, snapping them with a mere touch, as above the seven angels beat their wings and lifted higher into the air. The other formations circled close, and Bram could almost taste the tension spreading. When the last of the arrows was a cloud of splinters falling back to Dezrel, the dark collection of hands vanished as if they had never been.

  “What in Karak’s name was that?” Ian asked, rejoining his king’s side.

  “An undeserved gift,” Bram said. He nodded to the angels. “What do they wait for?”

  “They’re discussing,” Ian said, having watched them closely.

  “Prepare the archers just in case. I was a fool, but not this time. If they swoop in again, they’ll be coming for blood. If we’re lucky we’ll have them dead before Antonil’s men find out and try to return the favor.”

  Before Ian could carry out the order, the angels gathered together into one large formation, turned north, and flew away. Bram closed his eyes, let out a sigh of relief. His army’s presence at the Bloodbrick was meant as a message, a warning. The last thing he truly wanted was war.

  “Where are our two guests?” he asked.

  “I’ll lead you to them.”

  Deep with
in their camp, the half-orc and his sorceress had been surrounded by his soldiers. So far none of his men had drawn blades or made any threatening motion. Bram understood their confusion. The spell they’d cast had countered an order given by their king, but Bram had also held private conversations with the two prior to Antonil’s arrival. Ian called for them to make way, and realizing their king had arrived, they quickly parted.

  “Your archers have terrible aim,” Qurrah said before Bram could open his mouth. “I dare say you frightened them far more than you intended.”

  The half-orc was giving him an out, and Bram gladly took it.

  “The fault is mine for not giving proper orders, but your magic will frighten them more than my arrows. Move freely through my lands, half-orc, and know you will always be considered a close ally and friend.”

  Bram meant it, too. Qurrah had read the circumstances and events correctly and then acted to prevent a war Bram himself had admitted he didn’t want. Such a powerful ally, he thought. If only he could somehow convince the half-orc and his strange bride to stay at his side, to use their intelligence and power for something greater than themselves.

  “Your kindness is overwhelming,” Tessanna said. Her hands were wrapped around Qurrah’s arm, hugging him tightly. Bram sensed sarcasm in her words. There was no way for him to know their reasons for protecting the angels, not fully, so he let the matter drop. Instead he tilted his head the tiniest amount to show his respect, then marched away.

  “What now?” Ian asked him.

  “Now we plan,” he said, heading for his tent. “Word of what just happened will spread through Mordan quickly enough, and whatever the aftermath, we must be ready.”

  He glanced to the sky, where the angels were but distant specks.

  “Their brashness grows. War is coming, Ian, whether we want it or not. One god has fallen from this land, and the other hungers to possess the rest. How long until they deem our entire nation full of sinners needing repentance by sword?”

  “They won’t go that far,” Ian quietly insisted. “I spoke with many angels during the war. We fought alongside them, and they were selfless allies. They cherish life. They embrace peace, and seek only to protect the innocent.”

  “That was when we warred against demons,” Bram said, shaking his head. “That was when they knew their purpose. Five years is a long time, Ian. Long enough to forget the past. Long enough to become all too human.”

  Bram looked once more to the sky, shook his head and turned away.

  7

  It was the happiest day of Jessilynn’s life, broken only by momentary terror every time Sonowin banked one way or another, forcing her to hold Dieredon tighter lest she fall. Given how they flew high enough to pierce the clouds, it would be a very, very long fall.

  “You’d catch me, right?” she asked Dieredon, needing to shout directly into his ear to be heard over the wind that ripped at their hair and clothes. She sat bareback atop the winged horse, with nothing to hold onto but the elf’s waist, which she kept in a deathlock.

  “If you fell?” Dieredon asked, glancing back at her.

  She nodded.

  “Most likely,” he said. He stared at her, then gently tugged on the reins. Sonowin’s great wings shifted angle, and they dipped lower with a stomach-churning lurch. When they leveled out, the clouds were far above them.

  “Is it easier to breathe now?” he asked.

  Meekly, Jessilynn nodded.

  “I didn’t want to complain,” she said, and she meant it. Her excitement was great, and she hated to spoil it just because her head felt strangely light, or because her stomach seemed ready to empty the little remnants of her breakfast across miles and miles of faded grass.

  The land rolled along as they flew north. Jessilynn spent a moment with her eyes closed, her forehead resting against Dieredon’s back. Slowly her stomach calmed, the world seeming to spin a little bit less. Rejuvenated, she looked out over the land and felt her spirit soar. Nothing compared to flying like a bird, seeing the shifting of the rivers and the entire limits of vast forests. Carefully she leaned a little to the right, to better see past Sonowin’s bobbing head.

  “Is that it?” she shouted, almost pointing before thinking better of it.

  “If you mean the gorge, then yes. We’re almost to the Bone Ditch.”

  It was surreal seeing it from such height, a place that had been nothing more than a story to her while growing up. It was said that when Celestia created the orcs, she split the land, starting at where the Rigon flowed out of the northern mountains. It was a massive chasm now, the rock a faded red, the cliff faces sheer. At the very bottom the Rigon flowed along, steady as ever. The great span and deadly fall had been one of the most significant protections the eastern land of Neldar had against the creatures that had been trapped there. But during the Gods’ War the orcs within had been loosed, the prophet using his dark magic to aid their crossing.

  “What do we do when we arrive?” Jessilynn asked, thinking of the bridges the orcs had supposedly constructed over the past few years.

  Dieredon gave her a strange look.

  “Land.”

  Sonowin banked lower, and the growing proximity to the ground increased her sense of speed. The great chasm wound below them like a giant snake, until what had been a speck in the distance grew and grew, and she realized it was the orc bridge crossing the Bone Ditch. There was only one, constructed of weather-worn wood and thick ropes bound together with crude knots. Just thinking about crossing it made Jessilynn sick to her stomach. Sonowin looped around once, and then a hundred yards out from the western side they landed on the dull yellow grass of the Wedge.

  Jessilynn leapt off the winged horse, her knees wobbling. Falling down, she clutched the grass as vomit climbed her throat.

  “Focus on breathing,” Dieredon said, standing beside her. “Even elves sometimes feel discomfort from the speed and heights we climb.”

  It made Jessilynn feel a little better as she puked onto the grass. Just a little.

  “I’m fine,” she said, forcing herself to a stand. She pulled her bow off her back and scanned the bridge, looking for any threats. She saw none, and in her mind she heard no subtle warning of Ashhur alerting her to danger, either.

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  Dieredon frowned.

  “Follow me,” he said. “Stay silent, and stay alert. Do not look ahead, but behind and to the sides. Trust my eyes for the front.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Dieredon started to walk, then stopped.

  “‘Sir’ is a human title,” he said.

  She immediately blushed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to show respect. What should I call you?”

  Dieredon cocked his head to the side.

  “My name?”

  The way he said it made it sound so simple, and she felt her blush growing, much as she hated it. She was not some immature girl. Her monthlies had begun years before, and by all rights she was a woman grown, but something about Dieredon made her feel so stupid, so unsure and unskilled. A simple berating by him shouldn’t embarrass her, especially when it wasn’t much of a berating at all.

  Begging Ashhur to clear her head and nerves, she rapidly nodded.

  “Of course,” she said. “Lead on.”

  “Good. Keep your bow at ready, and follow behind me at ten paces.”

  With a near fanatical obsession she followed his orders, and together they made their way to the ramshackle bridge. Every few moments she glanced behind them, where the yellow grass of the Wedge stretched on and on for miles. No matter how often she looked, she saw no signs of life. Up ahead was just as still, and when they reached the first plank of the bridge, Dieredon beckoned her over.

  “Look here,” he said, pointing to a faded smear of dirt upon of wood. Jessilynn looked, but whatever he saw, she did not.

  “It’s been at least three months since anyone crossed this bridge,” he expl
ained.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked. From what she understood, having orcs escape their prison was about as bad as it got.

  Dieredon glanced across the bridge to the east.

  “Not if there are no orcs left to cross,” he said. “Sonowin, come!”

  His sudden worry made Jessilynn nervous as she climbed atop the winged horse. Without any of his usual attempts for steadiness, Dieredon tugged on the reins, sending them flying over the Bone Ditch and into the greener lands beyond.

  “Where are we going?” she shouted.

  “The Green Castle.”

  She dared not ask why. She felt intrusive enough as it was. For three days they’d camped north of the Citadel, and he’d spent hours fixing her stance, showing her the proper way to grip her bow and draw an arrow. By the third day she could tell he’d grown restless, and come the fourth they’d begun their flight northeast. Hearing the worry in his voice put a seed of guilt in her stomach. What if they arrived somewhere too late, and it was all because of her training? Could she even stay with him in good conscience if that were the case?

  They remained low to the ground, passing over hilly lands that seemed to go on forever. The grass was lush, showing the healthy luster of spring. Slowly the hills evened out, and then in the far distance she saw a faint hint of stone that rapidly took the shape of a circular wall built atop a hill. Jessilynn almost asked Dieredon if that was the Green Castle, then realized the stupidity of the question. Beyond the outer circular walls was a slender tower, every facing covered with what she guessed to be vines. Nearer and nearer they flew. The castle took on a more vivid green, and even from her distance she could see the large clusters of flowers that speckled the castle.

  Dieredon circled twice, his eyes scanning the ground. His frown deepened, but still he ordered Sonowin to land. Just inside the inner walls the winged horse touched ground. Dieredon leapt off before the beast was still, and he offered her a hand.