The Prison of Angels h-6

by David Dalglish

  Which, now that he thought of it, was strange. It was the outlying villages that were growing the angriest with the angel’s justice, those on Ker’s border the most willing to succumb to violence. Yet as Ahaesarus landed beside him, there was only joy on the faces of children that came running to gather at their feet.

  “Did you bring us something?” they asked. “Did you?”

  Ahaesarus pulled a large bag off his back and opened it. From within he drew two sweet cakes. They were already crumbling from the flight, and he broke them further into pieces. The children scrambled for them until they were gone. Harruq watched, hiding his smile. He still felt uneasy, and that he was confused helped matters none.

  “Follow me,” Ahaesarus said.

  Not far from where they landed was a house larger than the others, attached to a shed almost as large. One of the children beat them to its door, and a moment later a women in her forties stepped out.

  “You are late,” she said.

  “I was burdened,” Ahaesarus said, handing over the sack.

  “Such excuses,” the woman said. She nodded at Harruq. “Do we get to cook him, too?”

  Harruq blinked.

  “Uh, no?”

  “Shame. You’re a beefy one.” She gave him a wink, then hauled the sack into her house while calling out several names to come help her. Ahaesarus watched her go, then turned to Harruq, who had finally lost patience.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked. “Why do they all love you here? Bribing them with gold?”

  “Not gold. Flour.”

  Ahaesarus beckoned for him to follow again, and as they walked to the forest the angel explained.

  “We haven’t located all of the demons,” he said. “Though Dieredon and his Ekreissar killed many, a few escaped and fled here, to this forest. This village used to live on the meat of their hunts, but the demons killed recklessly, far more than they could have eaten. It is as if their rage against the very world made them lose control. The people here were afraid to hunt, for many died trying. Even the animals eventually fled their wrath.”

  “Are the demons still here?” Harruq asked, his hands reaching for the hilts of his swords. Was that why the angel had brought him, to help hunt down and kill the last of Thulos’s kind?

  “No,” Ahaesarus said as they exited the village. “They left several months ago, to where I do not know. But by then the people here, they were hungry, their forest stripped clean…they were starving when I found them. Such a small village, they did not have a scepter to summon us, and it was only by chance I flew overhead.”

  Before them was the forest, and Ahaesarus crossed his arms and stared within.

  “The last of their hunters are in there,” he said. “They are proud, and in vain they search for deer, squirrel, even a game bird. In time such prey will return, now that the demons have fled. But not soon enough.”

  “The flour,” Harruq said, remembering the sack. “You fly all this way just to bring them flour?”

  “I do,” he said. “Every day for the past month I’ve made this flight back and forth from Avlimar. In doing so I have learned something, Harruq, something I would pass on to you. You are to be the steward of Mordan for years to come, and I believe this wisdom may benefit you as well as it has me. Even more so, I want you to learn it before it is too late.”

  The angel folded his wings against his back and sat in the grass. Realizing they weren’t going anywhere for a while, Harruq sat opposite him, shifting his swords so their sheaths did not poke into the ground.

  “Well?” he asked. He tried to be flippant about it. He’d always felt uncomfortable with these moments, when someone was trying to give him personal advice. But the solemnness in Ahaesarus made his tone feel childish. Crossing his arms, he looked to the side, berating himself so he would listen.

  “Ashhur’s land fades from my mind with every passing day,” Ahaesarus said. He lifted an open hand and stared at it. “I once touched the garment of my god, yet now I cannot remember his face. Held in these fingers, held…yet now I hold a sword. With every breath I take, I become more like the man I was. Being here, in this land, among this pain and despair, it tears at me, tears at every one of my kind. We came from the sky with swords, with spears, our armor shining brighter than the sun itself. But we’ve erred, Harruq. We’ve erred, and I fear it runs too deep for us to heal.”

  The silence lingered.

  “How?” the half-orc dared ask.

  “Every day, I bring this village food,” Ahaesarus said. “And every day, I remember the lives I am to protect. We were never meant to rule, Harruq. Never meant to be law and executioner. We’re trying to change the world, but we’ll never succeed, not like this. Through law we tried to conform man to Ashhur’s grace. What fools we were. We can’t make forgiveness law. We can’t enforce grace with a sword. This food I bring has done far more good than I have ever brought about with my blade. We weren’t meant to be masters of this world. We were meant to be servants. It is from the hearts of men, not their courts, that we shall spread our light. Jerico once told me how, before the Citadel fell, he worked the fields with the men in the village he was to preach to. Yet we angels fly above mankind, separate, watchful. I’m afraid, Harruq. I’m so afraid they feel a judging gaze, not a loving one.”

  “What does that mean?” Harruq asked, trying to wrap his mind around it all. “Will you put aside your sword?”

  Ahaesarus shook his head.

  “No. Sometimes a servant must protect his master. But things must change, and it will not be easy. In this, I fear I am a minority among my own kind. Who are we, angels of Ashhur, to bow down and wash the feet of sinners? To bleed and sweat beside them? But they have forgotten. We are men, same as you, and each day we must decide to obey our lord lest we fall. Our wings have not freed us of that need.”

  Harruq stood and put a hand on the Ahaesarus’s enormous shoulder.

  “We don’t deserve a guardian like you,” he said.

  “Yet he has sent me anyway.”

  “Which I think was the point. Could you find a greater pair of sinners than my brother and I? Yet side by side you fought with us, many of your kind even dying for us. No wound runs too deep, not for this. We just have some work to do is all.”

  Ahaesarus smiled at him and he rose to his feet.

  “Mordan is blessed to have you as its steward,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. These aren’t happy times, and the days ahead don’t look too sunny, either. Now grab my arms and let’s go. I have a little brat’s coronation to prepare for.”

  It was another parade, this one far more somber. The whole affair seemed almost sickening to Harruq as he checked over his armor. There’d be no more chants for the Missing King, at least. No young lasses vying for his attention. The celebration was a sham, a forced event.

  “Are you certain of Antonil’s death?” Ahaesarus asked, standing with him in the castle hallway.

  “Little late to change our minds now,” Harruq said. “But yeah, I’m certain. Aurelia knew before anyone because of Tarlak’s message, and Kevin all but confirmed it with his attack.”

  The half-orc let out a sigh, staring off into nowhere as he fought back a wave of sadness. Ahaesarus sensed it easily enough and put a large hand on his shoulder.

  “Tarlak was a great man,” he said. “And even in death he saved lives. I assure you, his entry into Ashhur’s golden land was met with much rejoicing.”

  Harruq forced himself to chuckle.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Tarlak would have appreciated a lot of fanfare.”

  Ahaesarus smiled for a time before it faded. It seemed he could not keep his mind on happier matters.

  “We must discover how Antonil’s army was defeated,” the angel said. “That Kevin acted so quickly…it implies he had a hand in what transpired, and knew the same moment Aurelia did. Just as troubling is the magic set in place to interfere with your wife’s spellcasting. We’ve removed the runes, bu
t that still leaves us to discover who made them. There is also the matter of the reports we’ve received about the North, of a supposed invasion…”

  “I know,” Harruq said, interrupting him. “But right now, one thing at a time.”

  A side door opened and Aurelia stepped out. She smiled at them, then moved aside so Gregory could follow. Harruq grunted, surprised at how much taller he looked, somehow regal in his deep reds and silvers, despite his age.

  “I’ve cast a glammer upon him,” Aurelia said, looking him over. “It should make him seem a little taller and a little older. Nothing too obvious, of course, but I think it’ll help.”

  Gregory looked terrified, but he stood straight enough. Aurelia took his hand, and he squeezed it tight.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “The city needs to see its steward.”

  “Enjoy your walk,” Ahaesarus said. “I will meet you at the platform.”

  Guards opened the door, and the three of them stepped out. Immediately those nearby bowed in respect to the little prince Gregory. Harruq watched, trying to decide if it was forced or genuine. In the end, he didn’t know. Glancing down, he saw Gregory still holding onto Aurelia’s hand.

  “Let go,” he said, leaning down and whispering to the boy. “You’re to be a king. I’m sorry, but no choice here.”

  Gregory wasn’t happy about it, but he let go nonetheless. Through the streets they walked, flanked on either side by soldiers. It felt like forever, but at last they reached the platform at the bottom. Harruq’s heart ached, knowing Tarlak would not be waiting there with Antonil and Susan. So many lost. So many. He didn’t know if he could endure it anymore. The war was over. The deaths were supposed to stop. That was how it worked, wasn’t it?

  When they reached the platform, Harruq saw how tall the steps were. There’d be no way for Gregory to climb them with any sort of dignity, so he picked up the child and hefted him straight up onto the platform. After that he followed, taking Aurelia’s hand in his. All around were soldiers, and they knelt in respect.

  Gregory stood in the center, and as they’d told him repeatedly, he looked to the sky. With that as the signal, the angels flocked down, taking up positions all throughout the city. Their white wings decorated the rooftops, lined the walls, and filled the streets. The entire host of Avlimar was present, there to pay respects to the boy king. Ahaesarus was the only one to actually come and greet Gregory. He landed with a heavy gust of wind, then dipped his head.

  “Gregory Copernus, consider me honored to be given such a privilege,” he said. In his hands he held the crown Harruq had worn. The half-orc would remain steward until Gregory came of age, but still, they needed the ceremony to reinforce Gregory’s eventual right to rule to all of Mordan. Harruq watched as Gregory dipped his head, and Ahaesarus set the crown on his head. It was laughably oversized. Ahaesarus lifted it off immediately after, setting it beside Gregory on his seat.

  “Thank you,” Gregory said. He looked ready to cry, and Harruq couldn’t blame him.

  “The honor is ours,” said the angel.

  Harruq was supposed to then address the crowd, but before he could a great rumbling shook the land. Scattered cries marked its continuing, and Harruq felt Aurelia grab his hand in fear. Mouth open, Harruq looked to the sky, and he was not alone. The shock overwhelmed him as the sound rolled over the crowd, a massive explosion nearly deafening to hear.

  “Ashhur help us,” whispered Ahaesarus.

  From the sky the city of Avlimar fell, crumbling to pieces, the gold and silver shattering across the fields beyond Mordeina’s walls. Its spires broke, its streets crashing down upon green earth as whatever magic holding the city aloft ceased to be. Panicked angels took flight, soaring toward the ruins as all around men and women watched in awe.

  Aurelia squeezed Harruq’s hand tight.

  “What does it mean?” she asked as Gregory began to cry.

  “I don’t know,” Harruq said while a third rumble, like that of thunder, marked the last of the eternal city’s fall.

  Epilogue

  The land before the Apprentice Tower was a blackened heap, with nary a blade of grass still green. Through the ash walked Cecil, just one of many sent out into the mess. Carefully he made his way through the melted armor, wincing at the stains the bodies left on his red apprentice’s robe. The destruction had been most impressive, with each of the apprentices competing for the most efficient kill. Cecil had smashed four with a boulder he’d flung from the sky, the massive hunk of rock crushing over a dozen more as it rolled along before coming to a halt. Despite what Esmere claimed, he was sure he’d gotten the most of any.

  “Please, no,” he heard someone say to his left. He glanced over, saw one of the younger apprentices killing a survivor, a soldier tough enough to live despite the burns covering his body. Cecil barely knew the apprentice, and that he had to use a dagger instead of his own magic to enforce the kill showed how new he was to the art.

  Cecil found a collection of bodies, and he knelt down beside the more intact ones, listening. Two were silent, but a third still held breath. With careful movements of his fingers he summoned a thin lance of frost, forming it before him from thin air. It shimmered, then pierced the man’s throat. Blood flowed, the lance melted instantly, and then the breathing halted. On and on Cecil went, killing whatever survivors he found. There were so many, though, that soon sweat covered his brow. They were but thirty apprentices scouring the corpses of thousands. Even with none able to provide a fight, it was still heavy work.

  After half an hour, and with hardly a word spoken between the apprentices, Cecil began making his way back toward the front of the killing field, careful to make sure there were none he missed. If even one man survived, there would be consequences. Despite his many years at the towers, Cecil still felt a shudder run up his spine at the thought. He shoved fire down the throats of a few more bodies just to be sure, even when he heard no breathing.

  Finally deciding he was done, he hurried back toward the tower, and it was then he heard a cough. Stunned, Cecil looked down and to the left. Barely a foot away was the charred corpse of a soldier. His armor was melted, but in it were flecks of gold. The king, Cecil realized. He wondered if there would be any sort of reward for being the one to find the body. But that was for later. There was no way the king had survived, but the way he was laying…

  Shoving the corpse off, he found another man hidden beneath. His face and hands were terribly burned, his yellow robes spotted with black from where the fabric had been consumed by fire. Cecil’s brow furrowed. The burn marks looked strange, though he couldn’t put his finger on why they appeared that way. Was it how uneven they were, perhaps?

  Shrugging his shoulders, he opened the palm of his hand. Amazing as it was that the man lived, he was clearly in terrible pain. His breathing came in wheezes, and though he glared at Cecil with bloodshot eyes, he couldn’t speak a word. Cecil was clearly doing him a favor. In the palm of his hand appeared a small ball of fire.

  Before he could throw it, the burned man lifted his hand, and from his own palm sparked a thin tendril of lightning. It struck Cecil in the arm, igniting his nerves. His fingers twitched, breaking the spell. Temper flaring, he kicked the stupid bastard in the side.

  “Some fight left after all?” he asked. The burned man had nothing to say. His body settled back, as if resigned to death. The fire grew in Cecil’s palm.

  “Wait.”

  Cecil recognized that voice, and immediately he dismissed his spell, spun around, and fell to his knees. Roand the Flame, Lord of the Council, stood before him with his arms crossed, his gaze locked on the badly burned man. For a long moment his master thought in silence, and Cecil felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Had he somehow made a mistake? The seconds dragged on, until at last Roand spoke.

  “Bring him inside.”

  Without hesitation Cecil rushed to grab the burned man’s arm. Three more apprentices quickly joined in, and together the four carried him across
the field, through the doors, and into the tower, where behind them the doors eased shut with nary a sound.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-1eb623-4967-3247-aea8-663b-bf31-f6294a

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 16.01.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.13, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  David Dalglish

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