His foe rewarded his efforts with a flaming boot to the face. Deathmask’s nose crunched in, his already blurred vision now swimming in wild circles. He rolled away from the fallen, a feat easily accomplished given how the kick had lifted half his body off the ground. His addled mind ran through ideas, each one quickly dismissed. He didn’t have time, and the fallen showed no sign of slowing from the pain and blood loss.
An admirable trait, really. One he’d admire if they weren’t trying to kill him.
“I could use some help, Vel!” he screamed as he pulled up to his feet and put his back against the door to a quiet home. He glared at the approaching fallen, black light swelling in the center of his palms.
“I’m busy,” Veliana shouted back at him. She vaulted over the head of her own foe, his black wings flaring upward, barely missing her flesh. Her violet-glowing daggers dug into those wings as she twirled with her arms extended. The daggers cleanly sliced through brittle feathers and thin, hollow bones alike. The angel let loose with a horrific scream when the upper third of his wings crumbled.
“Doing better than I am,” Deathmask muttered. He felt his energy draining, yet still kept a spell prepared for an attack. His foe hunkered down, wings curled around his body, his right arm clutched awkwardly to his chest. The fire on his legs had died out, exposing charred flesh and hints of bone across his shins and his now-bootless feet. Deathmask hoped he’d charge recklessly, but instead the angel backed up a few steps and picked up his sword with his good hand.
“Your evil knows no bounds,” the fallen said. His neck twitched and flinched, blood flowing from the wicked gash across his throat. “I fear to send you to the Abyss. Karak might praise you instead of torturing you as you deserve.”
“How about you go visit him instead, and I stay alive to torment your deranged king?” Deathmask asked, trying to keep his bravado up while keeping watch on Veliana from the corner of his eye. Her attacks were relentless, her shimmering daggers hammering against her opponent’s spear. If only Deathmask could survive until she took him down…
A gust of wind was all that warned him that his opponent had lunged suddenly. The sword came screaming in for his chest from the angel’s fully extended arm. Deathmask dropped to his knees, his head tilting against his left shoulder. The sword cut a gash across his right cheek before driving deep into the wood of the door behind him.
The fallen attempted to yank the weapon free, and that was all the time Deathmask needed. His hands pushed forward, the shimmering magic in his palms releasing several thick bolts of shadow, their tails flickering white with stars. One slammed the fallen’s chest, the other his stomach. They hit with the force of sledgehammers; the sound of snapping ribs filled the night air. The fallen let out a gasp. His stomach retched and his upper body heaved. Deathmask slid out from under the sword, balancing on unsteady legs. He grabbed the beaten angel around the throat.
“Tell whichever god takes you that I said hello,” he growled. “Hemorrhage.”
The flesh beneath his hand ruptured, warm blood blasting across his already soaked clothes. The fallen’s body went limp, and when Deathmask released his grip on his throat, he dropped to the street with a dull thud and rustle of feathers.
Deathmask turned back to Veliana. In the time it had taken him to dispatch his opponent, his longtime companion had lost her advantage. Veliana was now on the defensive, dodging and weaving as the fallen’s spear pierced the air mere inches from her flesh. Deathmask didn’t know what had turned the tide, but the blood pooling across her left arm seemed a likely reason.
“We’ve got no time for this.” Deathmask spared a glance to the sky, saw distant outlines of black wings approaching. They’d barely handled two of the bastards. A squad of any size would be their end. He conjured slithering shadows in his hands while Veliana continued to dodge, awaiting the right moment. The angel always followed, keeping close, refusing to allow her a moment to breathe…
Veliana dropped to the ground, the butt of the spear whirling above her head. There. The opening he needed. A bolt of shadow crossed the street, striking the fallen square in the face. His forehead caved in from the force, instantly dropping him to his knees. Veliana hopped back to her feet and stared at the kneeling angel, her shoulders rising and falling with rapid breaths.
“And I thought you’d be the one saving me,” Deathmask said, striding toward her. His pale humor vanished upon seeing just how deep the cut went into her shoulder. “Shit. Vel, are you…”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted. “More coming. Move.”
Veliana started moving, dexterously wrapping her cloak around and across her shoulder and arm into a makeshift sling while she ran. Deathmask followed, expecting her to head down one of the alleys, but instead she advanced on the home she’d initially approached before spotting the undead watcher lurking in the window. There seemed nothing unique about the squat little building, other than perhaps how dilapidated its walls were compared to its neighbors. And also the fact it was only a hundred feet away from a pair of angel corpses. Veliana kicked the door open and barged in.
“Won’t they search this place when they find their dead brethren?” Deathmask asked, trailing her through the empty living room. By the copious amounts of dust and cobwebs, he assumed no one had lived here for several years.
“For starters, we’re not hiding here. Second, you’re not the only one who knows a bit of magic.”
They exited at the rear of the home, entering the cramped space between it and the building’s neighbor. Veliana leaned over a barren stretch of wall and snapped her fingers. The wall blurred, the illusion fading to reveal a set of wooden slats. She pulled the slats aside to uncover stone steps leading down into a cellar.
“Get in there,” she said.
The small room was cramped, and nearly pitch-black after Veliana resealed the entrance, but Deathmask could at least solve one of those problems. He snapped his fingers, forming a little purple fire at the end of his forefinger. It hovered a moment, then settled down to the floor between himself and Veliana. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Veliana slumped against the wall and removed her mask. Without having to watch for fallen in the sky and undead watchers along the streets, she seemed to relax. He tried to smile despite the ache of the gash across his cheek.
“Your face,” she said, her eyes widening.
He touched the cut, realizing his face was bare without the cloth.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’ll scar, but what’s one scar among many?”
“No,” she said. “The…the burns. Did they do that to you at the Council towers?”
Deathmask closed his eyes in thought. Reliving any of his time there was an unwelcome proposition, but Vel deserved that effort.
“Roand the Flame considered himself an artist when it came to torturing people with fire spells,” he said. “My face was his canvas while I was imprisoned there. If it makes you feel any better, we killed him with his own magic instruments before we left.”
“It doesn’t.”
He quietly laughed through his pain. “Well, it made me feel better.” He let his head thud against the wall. “What was it like, Vel? When the angels fell?”
Her turn to fall silent for a moment.
“Azariah had called thousands of people to Devlimar for a proclamation,” she finally said. “He dressed it up with flowery words, but in essence, he declared himself king while dissolving all courts, nobility, and law. Ashhur’s law, that was all that’d matter, and execution awaited all who broke it.” She shook her head. “But only after you repented, of course. Azariah wanted to make sure you had a nice clean soul before he cut off your fucking head.”
“I’m not really surprised. It sounds like the inevitable result of Azariah’s constant struggle to keep humans from acting like humans. I take it this proclamation didn’t go over well?”
“You could say that.” Veliana bit at her lip. “But while we were
all murmuring to each other this man stepped out from the crowd. Looked a bit like a farmer, or maybe a well-off beggar. I don’t know who he was. I’m not sure if anyone did. But he started shouting at Azariah and his angels, calling them out for their hypocrisy. And then he commanded they fall.”
She laughed, painfully bitter even for her.
“And so they did. You’ve seen the results. It hit them all at once, and by their screaming, I’d say the transformation hurt like the Abyss. They went mad afterwards. If you weren’t one of them, you were a target for their swords and spears. It was awful, Death. I’ve seen my share of slaughter, but this… People call it the Night of Black Wings. That’s that kindest way to describe the butchery. Our guild dissolved that night. Surprise, surprise, no one wants to steal or trade in pilfered goods for a few extra coins when the fallen king has undead eyes on every corner and the punishment for the smallest of crimes is execution. I’ve been hiding out ever since, trying to survive while I waited for you to return.”
“What if I hadn’t returned?”
Veliana stared into the little purple fire dancing between them.
“Truth be told? I’d have fled this walled off Paradise of Azariah’s and gone south to Ker. It won’t be long before the black wings conquer its skies, too, but at least I might have a few years of peace before all of Dezrel turns to shit.”
Deathmask wasn’t much for comforting gestures, but he sensed the enormous strain she had been carrying on her shoulders since his capture. He put a hand on her ankle and squeezed it tightly, to her non-reaction.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you for a heartbeat,” he said. “But I’m here now, and if you’re with me, I have a far better idea.”
She brushed his hand away. “Oh please, do tell.”
He wiggled his fingers at the flame. It spread in size, brightening as its shape twisted, changing into the fallen king’s face, hovering between them like a haunted mask.
“That shit-weasel Azariah handed me over as a present to the Council,” he said. “In return, I’m going to rip his head off his thrice-damned shoulders. How’s that for a plan?”
“I’m in,” she said. “But only on one condition.”
“Name it.”
Veliana scattered his fire with a wave of her hand, plunging them back into darkness.
“When he’s dead, I get to be the one to toss his head off the wall for all his insane angels to see.”
Deathmask laughed, yet again reminded of how much he’d missed his precious second-in-command.
“Deal.”
4
Jessilynn awoke to an aching back and throbbing pain in her fingers. Her eyes fluttered open, the morning light adding an unwelcome edge to the headache pounding the back of her skull. No, not morning light, she thought as she pushed herself up. Late afternoon. I slept too long.
The young paladin rose to her feet and grabbed an edge of the wall to balance herself. She’d slept on the outer ramparts of the Castle of the Yellow Rose, preferring the rough, flat stone and cold wind to any room or clearing within the castle proper. Too many had died in there. The carpets, the furniture, the beds: they all stank of blood.
Not that it was much better outside. Jessilynn glanced over the broken walls and was surprised to see the many vile creatures still digging at the dirt. Ahaesarus had arrived with his angels the night before, and after slaying their leader, Manfeaster, he’d ordered the creatures to bury the bodies of all they’d killed. It’d been a slow and thoroughly unpleasant process. While being up high helped alleviate the reek of decay, it did little to diminish the constant sounds that assaulted her ears. All the scratching, snarling, and howling that accompanied the beast-men doing their work.
Jessilynn looked for Dieredon but saw no sign of him, nor did she catch glimpse of his white-winged horse, Sonowin. The elf would be around eventually, and likely upset with her for sleeping so ridiculously late. Best to worry about that when he appeared. For now, she wished to speak with Ahaesarus. Given her troubles, he seemed the perfect person to offer a solution.
“Assuming he’ll even talk to me,” she muttered. Pieces of the previous night flashed through her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. The angels had arrived too late to save anyone from the beast-man army that ravaged the castle and killed Arthur Hemman, its Lord. When Ahaesarus had landed she’d struck his chest and demanded answers for their abandonment. It was hardly the respect a centuries-old angel of Ashhur deserved. Now that he’d declared himself King of the Vile, he might have even less time to worry about the crumbling faith of a young paladin.
Still, better to try than to mope atop the ramparts avoiding bad smells. Jessilynn strapped on pieces of her leather armor, then ran her hands through her hair in a vain attempt to wrangle it into the approximate shape of ‘down’ instead of ‘out and everywhere’. Done, she slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder and turned for the stairs.
Jessilynn paused, realizing she’d not offered a prayer to Ashhur upon waking. It used to be second nature to her, even if only a single sentence or two with her eyes closed. That she had forgotten, and even worse, held little desire to do so upon remembering, was a worrisome scrape across her mind.
“I’m sorry, Ashhur,” she whispered. Her hand brushed her bowstring, her swollen fingers still raw from the night before. “Just…give me some time, all right?”
Ahaesarus had positioned himself and his angels around the main castle entrance, forcing Jessilynn to trot through the scattered armies of the vile. The nearest was a tribe of the bird-men, and they glared at her as their sharp claws raked the earth. A dozen fresh graves were beside them, and nearby, a pile of seven bodies waited their turn. One of the bird-men whistled at her, an unpleasantly coarse noise. She flinched despite herself. Part of her wanted to apologize, the other part of her aghast at the very notion. Of course they’d hate her, for how many of their kin had died to her glowing arrows? But they’d also slaughtered thousands of innocents. The few she killed were nothing by comparison.
“Focus on your work,” she said. “Those you murdered deserve their proper resting place.”
“Waste of good food,” one of the bird-men grumbled. His feathers were black from head to toe, and he had dark eyes to match. The human language was awkward on his tongue.
“Angels says they innocent,” remarked another. “Guilty. Not guilty. Their blood tastes the same.”
“Don’t you dare,” Jessilynn said. She reached for her bow, immediately earning contrition from the beasts. They thought she still possessed her god-blessed arrows. For a moment, she’d thought so as well, and the remembrance hurt deeply.
“We only speak truth,” the black-feathered one said. “Girl wouldn’t harm us for speaking truth?”
“The wolves are the ones eating,” said another. “They eat before burying, like dogs, they are. Just want to bury the bones.”
“Right,” said black-feather. “You punish us for speaking of what others do? Punish them! Punish the rotten wolves.”
Jessilynn released her bow.
“Just…get back to work.” She shook her head and hurried away. The smell was already getting to her. The stench of blood was thick in the air, coupled with a sour tinge of rot. Jessilynn weaved through the camps, giving them each a wide berth. When she passed a cluster of twenty wolf-men, their bodies so tightly packed together she could not see the graves they dug, she fought down an urge to confirm the bird-men’s accusation.
Even the interior of the castle was not free of the smell. Reaching it meant ascending a small hill, and the grass was bathed in the blood of hundreds both man and beast, many cut down by her arrows. More had died inside the castle itself, and though the angels had cleared out the bodies, the sourness of death would linger for years to come.
Jessilynn pushed the memories away. She’d spent the previous night reliving each and every moment, from the brutal kills, to the dying soldiers, to the screams of the dying as the vile creatures des
cended upon them like prey. Only when the sun had cracked the horizon had she finally slipped into a restless sleep.
Two angels stood halfway up the hill, and they asked Jessilynn to wait.
“I wish to speak with Ahaesarus,” she said, feeling strangely timid. “Is that all right?”
“Of course it is, child,” said the golden-haired one on the left. “But our leader currently speaks with another.”
Jessilynn tried not to be upset with them calling her a child. They’d dwelt in the Golden Eternity since Karak and Ashhur left the mortal realm. Of course she’d be a child to them.
“Then do you know where Dieredon went? I haven’t seen him since I awoke.”
The pair looked oddly amused.
“That is who Ahaesarus speaks with. They are discussing a great many things.”
“All the more reason I should be present.” She stepped between them, hesitating to see if they would try to stop her. They did not. “So I’m free to enter?”
“You are a Paladin of Ashhur,” said the golden-haired angel. “One of the last of the faithful. We will bar you from nowhere, and no one.”
“Good.”
Jessilynn stormed through the broken front gates of the castle and hurried down the halls. She did her best to ignore the claw marks across the carpet and paintings, to pretend the splashes of blood were not there. Less than a day ago she’d assured Lord Arthur Hemman in his meeting chamber he could trust Ashhur to save them from the beasts’ wrath. Now he was a corpse in an unmarked grave, if not in one of the awful creature’s bellies. Jessilynn guessed, correctly, that Ahaesarus and Dieredon would be in that same chamber.
“Why would the Dezren elves refuse to give us aid?” Ahaesarus said as she stepped into the room. The angel towered over the grand, detailed map of northern Mordan, his wings curling around the wooden edges. His golden hair flowed down past his neck. His jaw was square, his face handsome, his muscles bulging. He looked less like a human and more a being carved from stone. A statue of physical perfection. A much smaller but no less imposing Dieredon stood opposite him, his arms crossed over his chest and his wicked-looking bow slung across his back.
The King of the Fallen Page 5