The fire faded. The storm abated. Tessanna fell, her body limp, her magic spent.
Anger and disbelief swarmed through the survivors of both forces, whose numbers marked perhaps a tenth of what they had begun their battle with. Soldiers below unleashed what few arrows they still possessed. The leaders of both sides flew toward her, Ahaesarus with his sword, Azariah with his magic.
Tessanna smiled as she plummeted, her long hair whipping across her face and neck. With their numbers so thoroughly decimated, they would hold humanity hostage no longer. Perhaps not immediately, not while humanity licked its wounds, but this was the first pangs of birth, the bloody, brutal labor of the world it would one day deliver. She would not see it. This fact did not sadden her. She had fulfilled whatever purpose had been destined to her. Only one person mattered now, and as her battered body fell, she spoke words that somehow pierced the chaos and the screams.
But a moment, her lover had said. He was so very right.
“I’m coming, Qurrah.”
She glanced away from the sky long enough to see fire leap from Azariah’s hands. Multiple arrows pierced her flesh. But it was the trio of Council mages that struck the killing blow, pooling their rage into a bolt of lightning from the sky that pierced straight through her forehead and into her heart. Ending the life of the final Daughter of Balance.
And sending her home.
24
Azariah paced before the dying fire. If given the choice, he’d have flown all the way back to Mordeina instead of resting for the night, but the earthbound humans and undead did not allow for that option. So they camped, and he brooded, the solitude of the open fields thoroughly unwelcome. He wanted to be in his tower, with his books and spells. He wanted to read Velixar’s journal and prepare magical runes.
He wanted to escape this damn, wretched world of Dezrel once and for all.
Judarius landed before him. “The representatives of the Council wish to speak with you,” the mighty angel said, crossing his arms and frowning. “I pray you have not separated yourself from our forces so you may sulk in private.”
“Sulk? No, brother, I do not sulk. I rage. What should have been our triumph was instead turned into a farce.”
“The goddess interfered,” Judarius said. He seemed to be taking the defeat surprisingly well. “As she has always interfered. At some point we should stop being surprised by the interventions and instead anticipate them.”
Azariah had not been able to banish the image of Tessanna Tun’s power completely unleashed from his mind. To pretend they could have anticipated that was asinine, though he did not bother to argue so with his brother. The Daughter of Balance had unleashed the fury of the entire Weave upon that battlefield. The only glimmer of hope was that she had directed her ire upon both sides.
“Ahaesarus’s forces were equally devastated,” Azariah said. “They will not be able to give chase unless they wish to leave a trail of dead behind. While they lick their wounds, we will regroup. Victory is not lost.”
“Don’t tell that to me,” Judarius said. “Tell that to them.”
He gestured behind him, to the three approaching representatives of the Council of Mages. They walked proudly, but their faces were sunken, the tell-tale signs of exhaustion heavy on their mortal faces. Azariah crossed his arms and waited. What now?
The mage Anora stood front and center. Dark circles surrounded her, and her skin bore an unhealthy paleness that signified the tremendous effort she had exerted in the day’s battle. One of her long, dangling silver earrings had melted and now hung from her earlobe in a misshapen blob. Tessanna’s tremendous assault, perhaps? Azariah wondered if Anora had even noticed. Under different circumstances, they might have celebrated felling a daughter of balance, but tonight they looked beaten and cowed. Of the three members of the Council present, Anora was the highest-ranking, and it seemed she would be the one to do the talking.
“Greetings, King of the Fallen,” said Anora. “I thank you for accepting a meeting at such a late hour.”
He’d not exactly been given a choice, but Azariah didn’t bother to argue that point. “Worry not about the time. Speak your mind, and without games or running round in circles. I am in no mood for pleasantries and hidden motives.”
“Then I shall speak plainly,” Anora said. “In my capacity as representative for the Council, I deem it no longer viable to continue supporting your kingdom in this war. My fellow mages and I shall return to our tower.”
“You would betray me?”
“It is not a betrayal if one party in an agreement withdraws due to the other side no longer being able to fulfill its obligation. If it soothes your pride, we will not be siding with Ahaesarus, or bringing our magic to bear against you. We are simply withdrawing back to our towers.”
This foul day was only getting fouler. Azariah tried to think through matters rationally, to conjure an appeal that would work on the notoriously fickle and reclusive mages, but he found himself grasping at air.
“Your leaders made a promise,” he argued, and it sounded pitiful even to his own ears.
“And your promise, may I remind you, was that the nation of Ker would be handed over into our control once you overthrew the Henley family and conquered Angkar,” Anora told him. “Pray tell me, angel, when do you believe your fallen will have the numbers to lay siege to Angkar? This year? This decade? This century?”
Azariah took a threatening step toward her. “You shall address me as king, not angel. You already insult me as you renege on promises made. Do not insult me further.”
Anora’s face remained passive as glass, yet he could sense the disdain bubbling just beneath her skin.
“Forgive me, your highness,” she said. “I cannot in good conscience send more of my fellow Council members to their deaths for a promise I no longer believe you capable of fulfilling.”
“That is preposterous,” Azariah said. “You think there is nothing to gain by maintaining an alliance? That my fallen present no threat to your towers? Things are not so dire as you would paint them. Ahaesarus’s forces suffered just as greatly under Tessanna’s explosion of magic. I still have ears, and receive word from the south. Ker’s forces are devastated, and by a priest of Ashhur no less. The beast-men who would fight for Ahaesarus are gone, presumably to a land they now believe their own. Victory remains before us, and grows with each day I perfect my magic. Reconsider, Anora. Do not give in to reactionary fear. Roand knew better. You would be wise to remember his decisions, and the logic behind them.”
The argument crashed off her like water off a duck’s back. “Roand the Flame made a deal with you to bring Avlimar crashing to the ground because he feared humanity would no longer have a voice in our own rule. It was never altruistic, for the daydreams of a hypothetical kingdom run by our Council have always lingered in our towers. Ruling Ker may no longer be an outcome available to us, but Roand’s hope has already been realized. The daughter of balance forced it upon us with her fury. Karak? Ashhur? Neither of you possess the numbers and influence to conquer the world. And unless the sky splits open and the brother gods send another wave of angels and demons, humanity shall slowly retake control over our fates.”
The rage Azariah felt must have been made plain on his face, for the woman took a careful step backward and narrowed her gaze.
“We would remain neutral in this fight, as we often do in political matters,” she continued, smiling oh-so-pleasantly. “Unless you attempt to murder me here and now during a peaceful, diplomatic meeting. Your reign hangs by a thread, Azariah. How likely do you think you can hold on with the Council of Mages as your enemy?”
“Be gone,” Azariah said, and spat a blob of bloody saliva at her feet. “Never sully my presence again. We walk a hard road, and we shall do it alone if we must to ensure Dezrel becomes the Paradise it was always envisioned to be.”
The proud mage at least had the decency to bow before she turned, opened a swirling blue
portal, and stepped through with her fellows. The portal swirled shut with a loud hiss of air, followed by stillness. Azariah glared at the empty space, his tired mind already scrambling to mitigate the disaster.
“As always, when we put our faith in human hands, we suffer,” Judarius said. He’d watched the entire exchange in silence, and by his mild, bemused tone, it seemed he had been aware of the mages’ intentions to withdraw beforehand. Azariah took in a long, deep breath. If his brother could be calm, then so could he.
“You expected this?” he asked.
“Expected?” the larger angel said. “Yes, though not by any understanding of their politics or inner squabbles. They’re cowards at heart, Azariah. What the daughter of balance did, it shocked them to their core. They witnessed magic beyond any they’ve imagined. They thought themselves the pinnacle of spellcasting, and Tessanna revealed to them that they are little more than babes compared to the goddess and her chosen. Of course they’ve tucked their tails and fled.”
Maddening as it was, could Azariah truly blame them? Memories of the explosion still echoed in his mind. It was as if the Weave itself had ripped into the material world. The elements had raged with such power it made a mockery of the swords and arrows of the mortal combatants. For one brief moment, when Tessanna’s voice had thundered across the battlefield, Azariah had believed Celestia herself had arrived to condemn them all. He’d almost welcomed it. There would have been something honorable about the goddess abandoning her lying claims of neutrality and balance and instead outright admitted to take Ashhur’s side, as she always had since the earliest days of Dezrel. At the very least, she could have stridden the battlefield herself instead of relying on her precious, long-suffering daughters.
“And so the cowards leave, and we must soldier on to make amends,” Azariah said. He smirked at his brother. “You seem remarkably calm about all of this.”
Judarius laughed, without mirth, without joy. “Never did I think this would be easy. We labor to succeed where gods and a goddess have failed. Do not all heroes stumble and encounter difficult times? I expect no differently for us, and we face a greater challenge than any who walked before. These stubborn children will bow before us, brother. We will succeed. It’s just going to take more sweat, and more blood.”
“And more killing.”
“If that’s what it takes,” Judarius said, shrugging.
Azariah crossed his arms and overlooked the encampment of his survivors. After such a defeat, retreat to Mordeina was the only option. Ahaesarus would give chase, which meant another battle relatively soon. As the defender, he could decide the choice of battlefield.
“They won’t lay siege to us,” he said, thinking aloud. “They know we will not surrender, nor with our magic and wings can we be starved into submission. Devlimar was never built with war in mind. We should withdraw all our forces to the inner castle of Mordeina. My undead can guard the outer walls. We’ll keep our wings close, and our human soldiers where they can best force our foes into choke points.”
“I agree,” said Judarius. He put a hand on Azariah’s shoulder. “Let the humans and undead clash. It is wing against wing that will decide this war. Do not fret. Our numbers are still greater. This war will yet be ours.”
Azariah wished he could share his brother’s optimism. He pointed to the distant campfires, not of his own army, but the far specks of those belonging to Ahaesarus. A thought came to him, unwelcome but undeniable. To make his final stand at Mordeina…at the place of his visions…
“What if we do not retreat at all?” he asked. “What if we make a stand here?”
“And forfeit fortified defenses, walls, and ambush points of the city?” Judarius asked withdrew his hand. “Why would we do this voluntarily? And what of your fallback plan with the dragon?”
“Our ground forces may be weaker, but we could still control the skies,” Azariah insisted. “There is some merit. We need not rely on the dark dragon.”
His brother crossed his arms. What color remained in his ashen gray eyes smoldered in the moonlight.
“This is about the Godslayer, isn’t it?”
Azariah almost denied it out of pride, but he would not stain himself with a lie.
“I saw a thousand fates,” he said softly. “In all of them, I died at the hands of the half-orc. In all them, I died in the human city of Mordeina.”
“So you’d throw our troops away, all because you never saw yourself dying on a grassy field?” Judarius asked. “You surprise me, brother. I thought you braver than that. I thought you one to spit in the eye of fate and create your own. Celestia deceives. She lies. Yet you would abandon all hope? Shall I order our brethren to surrender to execution, give up the hope of Paradise? I will not have us die for a future you yourself refuse to believe is possible. Fly high and fly proud, or I will not fly with you at all.”
Yet again, Azariah felt the signs of a potential coup. Judarius commanded the loyalty and respect of all the fallen. Would they still honor Azariah if it came to blows between them? The warriors among their numbers, certainly, but what of the priest caste Azariah had begun training in magic?
No, it was foolish to think on such things. The moment they turned on themselves, the hope of Paradise died. Victory was already a terrible struggle, and they would never achieve it should they betray one another. Azariah smiled, and his hatred of Ashhur grew. He did not feel the joy he should feel. The curse upon him denied him the sensations of happiness and warmth that came with knowing he was trusted so greatly by his brother. This wasn’t a threat of a coup. It was Judarius proclaiming to him he’d die believing in Azariah’s dreams rather than submit to the cursed death Ashhur demanded of them.
“Even now, you believe in me?” he asked. A lone tear trickled down his face, and when he wiped it away, he saw it was red with blood. “Even now, you would join me in challenging a fate declared by the goddess?”
Judarius removed his mace from his back and held it before him while dropping to one knee. It was an act of honor, of servitude, and made Azariah’s bloody tears fall all the faster.
“Hold faith,” the fallen angel said. “Hold faith in us, faith in our cause, and for once, hold faith in me. The Godslayer’s bones will break under my mace. Celestia believes the half-orc will take your life? Then let us prove her yet again a liar when I smash his skull flat upon the castle steps. Damn her fate, and damn her lies. This war is ours, my brother. No matter how many lives it takes, we shall bring peace to Paradise.”
25
“It seems every day we suffer through another funeral,” Aurelia said. She knelt before the freshly dug grave in which Tessanna’s body had been buried, or at least what was left of it after she fell from the sky. Harruq had chosen the location, at the base of a tree growing atop a hill, positioned so that sunlight would shine directly on her tombstone only during sunset. If there was ever a time of day Tessanna associated with, it was most certainly twilight. Harruq knelt beside her, his right hand clutching her left, while Tarlak quietly leaned against the tree.
“She should have been buried with Qurrah,” her husband said. “But Azariah left us no body to bury.”
Aurelia leaned her head on his shoulder. Harruq had been uncharacteristically dour lately, not that she blamed him. Losing Qurrah had left a scar that would never heal. Tessanna, though? She was a far more complicated presence throughout their life. Even now, Aurelia struggled with how to feel. Not joy, certainly not joy. Pity? Sorrow? Dare she admit it, relief?
“For so long, she lived in isolation,” Aurelia said. She pressed her free hand into the dirt. This would be the closest to a prayer she might offer the woman. Though human, Tessanna was most certainly a creation of the elven goddess...but Aurelia’s connection to Celestia wasn’t exactly on the greatest of terms, either. “Her mind broken. The world a constant betrayal. She lived with a burden knowing her divine mother sought her to destroy and break in a futile attempt to maintain a balance rapid
ly spiraling out of control. I pray...I pray Celestia now gives her the peace she was long denied.”
“Peace,” Tarlak said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “None of us get to have any peace. I almost envy her.”
“It is a sad soul that envies the dead,” Aurelia said, finding his mood in poor taste.
“Perhaps. Remind me to ask Delysia about that the next time I see her.”
Harruq released Aurelia’s hand as he stood. “I expect better of you,” he snapped at the wizard. “Be respectful, or fuck off.”
Tarlak looked away, his face flushed red. Odd as it sounded, the sight made Aurelia feel better. Even the brash, egotistical wizard knew his behavior was inappropriate. Tarlak muttered something to himself and then pushed off from the tree. He touched the gravestone, which to his credit he had carved with his magic, forming the stone into a pair of black wings bearing the name Tessanna Delone Tun in their center.
“Respectful,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I have it in me to be respectful. I’m tired. We’re all tired. We...my Eschaton, we had a tradition for a while. If we lost a member, we burned something valuable of our own as a way to remind ourselves that whatever meager possession we lost, it was nothing compared to the loss of our friend. The loss of family. When Aullienna died I broke my staff and set it upon the pyre. A fine tradition, or so I thought. It helped keep me strong as I delivered the speech no one else had the strength to give.”
Tarlak took a moment to gather himself. Aurelia trembled at her own remembrance of that solemn day.
“Could we even keep that tradition?” he asked when he continued. “We’ve been chased out of house and home so many times now. What possessions have we left? What objects have we to cling to that give us comfort? And what would I offer on a pyre for the terrifying, incredible woman that was Tessanna? She with magic that could shape the entire world?”
The King of the Fallen Page 25