Of course Jessilynn had heard stories of the Godslayer. Everyone had. He had accepted a sword through his own chest so he might slay the war god Thulos. When pressed, Lathaar would also share tales of Aurelia Tun’s magic, of the overwhelming power she commanded, and he was always quick to credit her for saving thousands of lives after Veldaren’s fall. Legendary figures, fateful heroes whom the entire world of Dezrel shifted and tilted by their actions.
All those stories, all those daydreams while listening beside a fire, paled in comparison to witnessing firsthand the fury of the husband and wife when fully unleashed.
Harruq and the fallen Judarius slammed into one another like two boulders crashing together during a tumble down a mountainside. Their weapons were blurs weaving through the air, occasionally marked by the sparks of their contact. Judarius attempted multiple times to slide past the Godslayer to strike Aurelia, but the half-orc never gave him an inch. Harruq’s feet were always moving, his stance shifting so that Salvation and Condemnation could strike at the angel with maximum power with every swing.
And he needed to protect Aurelia, for she was the shield saving him from the words of magic flowing unceasingly from Azariah’s lips. The self-proclaimed king hovered above the battle in the tower room’s high ceiling. Fire and lightning flew from his hands, and if he feared harming Judarius, he showed no sign of it. Aurelia countered each and every attack. White shields pulsed from her staff to absorb the lightning. Stone boulders ripped from the tower walls to smash aside spears of ice hurtled from the fallen angel’s palms. How Azariah could even keep aloft stunned her, for wind howled within the chamber, the very air crackling with immeasurable magical energy.
And yet, despite it all, Jessilynn saw that the half-orc was laughing. That image, of Harruq parrying aside Judarius’s enormous mace while sporting a dire grin on his face, was all Jessilynn needed to know who would achieve victory.
A flutter of wings sounded behind her, accompanied by the rattle of armor. At last, the visitor she awaited had arrived.
“Do not be afraid, Jessilynn,” Ahaesarus said as she slowly turned to face him. “I come to end what fight yet rages within.”
She looked to the commander of Ashhur’s faithful, truly looked at him for the first time since he had arrived too late at the carnage of the Castle of the Yellow Rose. His skin had lost its golden luster. His wings were pale, and much of them covered with blood. Most damning of all was the sword he held in his hand. Darius’s sword. The weapon of a man who would now denounce him. The weapon Ahaesarus had once claimed himself unworthy to wield.
“The fallen are routed,” the angel continued. “Victory is ours. All that matters now is putting an end to the traitor hiding within this tower. I will make an example of Azariah. Of that, I assure you.”
It was exactly what she was afraid of, and the worst possible assurance he could have given.
“Harruq and Aurelia will defeat him,” Jessilynn said, and she stood before the door, blocking his way. “Do not interfere.”
Ahaesarus’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he towered over her.
“I would prove Ashhur the true god of Dezrel,” he said. “Not the heresy Azariah preached of Karak and Paradise. Why do you deny me, Jessilynn?”
“Because Dezrel never belonged to us! This was Celestia’s land, to which our gods came as refugees.” She tilted her head toward the door she guarded. “A land of elves, or even orcs. Her beloved, and her cursed. That’s who is in there now, Ahaesarus. I hold faith in them. Don’t you?”
Ahaesarus stood to his full height and spread out his wings so that he seemed ever grander. “Azariah is everything I am sworn to break. He betrayed our kind, and he brought our home crashing down to this wretched earth. I will not have my vengeance denied, not even by one of Ashhur’s most faithful. Step aside, Jessilynn. I shall not ask again.”
She could hardly believe her own actions, but she kept Darius’s words close to her heart. Remind him, the paladin had demanded, and so she would. Slowly she lifted her bow, pulled an arrow from her quiver, and closed her fingers about the well-worn string.
“I hold faith,” she said, drawing the bowstring taut. “And I will not move.”
Ahaesarus’s eyes bulged with fury. “You would threaten me?”
“If I must to end this dance.”
The angel slammed Darius’s sword into the steps so it remained upright and then crossed his arms over his chest.
“Then do it, child. One arrow. One meager bit of iron and wood, and without the light of Ashhur’s blessing. Tell me more of your faith, Jessilynn, even as my god reveals its hollowness.”
Her arm began to shake from the strength needed to hold back the bowstring. She met the angel’s gaze, saw both bloodlust and desperation within them. Did he even understand his own part to play in this? Or was slaying Azariah all that mattered to him? But this refusal, this act, this sacred time...in all the stories she listened to while growing up, stories forever etched upon her heart, it was moments like these that decided Dezrel’s fate.
Jessilynn slowly lowered her bow, the tension of her bowstring easing. She cast aside her arrow. Ahaesarus let out a sigh of relief and pulled Darius’s sword free of the stone.
“A wise decision,” he said.
“I know,” Jessilynn said. She lifted the bow, this time empty handed. Her fingers closed about the drawstring. There was no doubt left within her. Remind him. Remind him. She had thought Darius meant Ahaesarus, but now she understood. Ashhur’s eyes were upon this city, upon this tower, upon her. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. Before this towering presence of the divine, she once more readied her bow.
“I hold faith,” she said, and pulled back the string. A shimmering blue-white arrow materialized, its light intense and blinding. “And I will not move.”
Ahaesarus saw that light, saw that holy glow, and he knew not what to say. Anger replaced argument. Panic replaced words. He lunged toward her, his free hand closing about the upper half of her bow even as she released the string. The arrow punched through his shoulder, his fanciful armor be damned. It blasted out his back, taking cloth and feathers with it. The angel screamed and staggered backward. His hand closed on reflex, cracking the bow with his inhuman strength. Still Jessilynn did not release her hold.
At last his hand went limp, and he collapsed to one knee while clutching his wound. Shock overwhelmed his anger. His mouth opened and closed, unable or unwilling to muster any argument. Though her bow was broken, Jessilynn drew back the string. Another arrow appeared, and she aimed it straight for his forehead.
“This war was not fought for your vengeance and pride, angel. Dezrel has suffered enough. Let Celestia’s children end it as they must.”
Ahaesarus’s wings flared wide, and he more fell than flew off the side of the stairs. He settled into a glide, his blood dripping like rain across the far distant steps below as he circled downward. Jessilynn watched him go, then looked to the skies. With neither Azariah nor Judarius to lead them, the surviving fallen had fled the city. To Devlimar, no doubt, to make it their last holdout. From what Jessilynn could tell, the angels did not give chase, perhaps because their own leaders were occupied.
Setting aside her broken bow, she looked to the tower door and the raging battle within. Harruq and Aurelia Tun, once more fighting with the fate of worlds on their shoulders. Dieredon’s words echoed in her mind, and finally allowed herself to grieve his loss while whispering them. The emotions she had held at bay came roaring to the surface, and only now did she let them overwhelm her.
“Cut them down, and leave them bloody,” she said, tears starting to flow. “Dezrel needs its heroes.”
She sobbed, for despite her every attempt, her every prayer, Dezrel had lost one such hero upon the steps of the castle below.
31
Harruq dared not focus on the magic unleashed by the king of the fallen. Judarius was his foe, his only foe. The gigant
ic warrior and his mace were all that mattered. Aurelia would keep him safe. In that, he held faith.
“Come now, try harder!” the half-orc bellowed, slamming Salvation and Condemnation into Judarius’s warped mace. “I thought you were angry. I thought you wanted revenge!”
“I want your sinful, wretched people wiped from the face of Dezrel,” the warrior angel roared back. “I am done with your failures. I am sick of your excuses.”
Once, twice, the mace pounded down at Harruq as if it were a hammer and he the nail. He quickly disabused the angel of that notion. Nothing would break him, not here, not now, at the very end of a long, horrid road. The people of Dezrel would be free. The rule of the angels, the rule of the fallen, it ended here. It ended now. Spells exploded about him, lightning meeting lightning, pure beams of magic striking shields that enveloped the dueling pair like a dome.
“Do you ever shut up?” Harruq said as he batted aside another blow from Judarius’s mace. “Asking for a friend.”
He met the angel strength for strength and showed him whose rage was greater. Every swing, he remembered the fields of the dead. The slaughter of the Night of Black Wings. The chaos and devastation of Hemman Field. The warm embrace of battle enveloped him. This was where he belonged, where he would always belong, and no longer did Harruq fear or reject it. His swords, his skill, it was everything Dezrel needed. A gift of peace, granted to a beleaguered people. Let the fallen angel make his bitter proclamations. Death stalked him in the form of black steel with a crimson glow.
“Bugs beneath our heels,” Judarius said, as if speaking these words would give him strength, would make it true. “Mortal creatures, propped up by your betters. You are worthless, half-orc. You are a wretch elevated by Ashhur. Blessed by Velixar. You are nothing on your own, and I shall prove it!”
Down came the mace with the strength to break boulders. Harruq crossed his swords into an ‘x’ and intercepted the hit. A groan slipped through his clenched teeth at the impact. Gods above and below, the angel was strong! He tried shoving both weapons to his right, but Judarius resisted. Their weapons only interlocked further. Harruq braced his left leg and shifted his body while suddenly pulling away his right sword. The mace pushed through at the sudden drop in resistance. A guiding shove kept its path from angling inward, so instead of taking out Harruq’s leg, it smashed into the stone floor.
Judarius, sensing his vulnerability, released his mace with one hand to slam a fist into Harruq’s face. The pain rattled his vision, and he feared he would lose a tooth, but he need not see to react. He swung his closest sword, hitting the long handle of the mace. Another blow to his jaw. Harruq abandoned subtlety. Their bodies rammed together. His forehead struck Judarius’s nose; blood splattered from his nostrils. Weapons entangled, they struck with elbows, fists, whatever was available.
It was the angel who retreated, panicked and bloody. Harruq twirled his swords, eager to give chase.
A spell sneaked through Aurelia’s protection, a jagged lance of ice meant to further separate the combatants. Harruq dodged back half a step as it smashed between them, its upper half remaining embedded within the groove Judarius’s mace had gouged into the floor. Harruq never hesitated. Coiled legs exploded him into movement. Instead of preventing an attack, he would use it to his advantage. His foot kicked off the ice. His body twisted as he vaulted higher, spinning to give Salvation and Condemnation speed when his hands linked together for a dual slash. Judarius’s panicked swing passed beneath him, hitting only air. A single, ludicrous thought entered Harruq’s head as his massive, muscular form spun like an acrobat.
Haern would be so damn proud.
The twin swords smashed down upon Judarius’s left shoulder and collarbone. Their magic made a mockery of his armor. The black blades separated bone. They tore apart ribs. They cut, and cut, until bursting out near the fallen angel’s hip. Harruq landed with a loud thud, his body tense, his weapons out in yet another stance. His head ached and blood dribbled down his chin, but nothing stopped his smile.
“Fucking angels.”
Judarius split in half, two piles of gore dropping lifeless to the tower floor. Aurelia halted her attacks on Azariah for a split second to hit the body with a ball of flame for good measure, burning away the flesh so that only broken bones remained.
“Come play,” the elf said, wisps of flame dancing about her eyes. Frost wafted from her fingertips. “We’ll have such fun now that my husband is no longer distracted.”
Harruq watched the hovering angel lock in place for a single heartbeat. Azariah’s magic was great, but Aurelia had years of experience and study over him. With his brother slain, he couldn’t hope to endure her assault as well as his swords. The fallen angel’s wings spread wide, and he flew toward the shattered windows of the ceiling, attempting to use the same entrance Judarius made as an exit.
Aurelia gave him no reprieve. Her fingers hooked. Ice slid along the floor to either side of her, curling like vines growing at unreal speed. The ice clawed up the walls to meet over the broken windows, jagged edges slamming into each other to seal the barrier. Azariah spun about, and Harruq saw the confusion lock him in place. The fallen angel clutched Velixar’s spellbook to his chest as if it might give him some sort of comfort or guidance. He could stay and fight, or he could attempt to flee.
He chose flee. Fire bathed his free hand, and he poured it into the ice to burn himself a path. It was exactly as Aurelia anticipated. High above the tower, the sky darkened. A bolt of lightning dropped from the heavens, streaking through the opening Azariah had created. It tore him asunder. His wings shriveled. His body went rigid. Stunned and helpless, he fell to the tower floor, where Harruq waited to catch him with his swords.
Salvation pierced his chest, tearing into his left lung. Condemnation punched right through his gut. Azariah’s body collapsed into Harruq’s arms, as if for one final embrace. Warm black blood flowed across them both with both swords buried all the way to the hilt in pallid flesh. Harruq wanted to say something, anything, but what words were there even to offer?
“Qurrah deserved a better death than what you gave him,” he said. He twisted the hilts of his swords. “But he is free now, saved by the grace you rejected.”
Harruq jerked his arms forward, tearing his weapons free and dropping Azariah to his knees. Blood and gore sprayed. The spellbook fell from Azariah’s limp fingers and tumbled in front of him before resting half-open. Harruq clenched his jaw tightly and he told himself to feel nothing. To weep for no loss. No death.
The fallen angel gasped, clutching at his spilled innards as he collapsed onto his stomach. Words scraped out of his throat in a voice rapidly losing strength. Harruq stood over him, watching, listening, as his blood cooled and his swords shook within his grasp from the withdrawal of battle.
“So we suffer,” Azariah groaned, his voice wet and weak. He crawled bleeding across the floor. “So we die for your sins.”
“This was on you,” Harruq said. He pointed Condemnation’s gore-coated tip in his direction. “No one made you declare yourself king. Ashhur may have given you a crown of bone, but you put a gold one on first. The Night of Black Wings? That slaughter? That sickness? That was your failure. Those were your sins.”
“Didn’t...want this,” Azariah gasped. Blood pooled beneath him as he dragged himself another inch. Several times he coughed for air that would not properly fill his damaged lungs. “Your prayer...brought us here. Your fault. This is...your fault.”
Harruq lowered his swords. On one quiet morning, at the insistence of both Celestia and Ashhur, he had sneaked outside the city of Mordeina. He had crossed the empty grasslands and knelt before an approaching army of war demons and undead. His failures had brought that war upon them. His personal struggle with Qurrah had led to hundreds of thousands of lives lost. In that moment, he had bowed his head and trusted the gods to save Dezrel from total destruction. He had offered himself, for what more could he give? At worst
, he thought Qurrah might see and be moved. He had hoped to show his brother the lengths he would go to make amends.
And then the sky had split, and a piece of eternity had come forth, along with Ashhur’s Wardens, now blessed with wings, having become angels to fight the forces of Thulos’s war demons. His friends had raced to his aid. Jerico had protected him with a divine shield as large as the battlefield itself. Harruq had never felt more loved, nor more certain that Ashhur would do everything in his power to protect his home and his people. It was a feeling the subsequent years had slowly cut out of him.
Azariah’s fingers curled about the yellowed pages of Velixar’s spellbook.
“We were home,” the fallen angel said. “Safe. In peace. You took us out. Brought us here, among the sin. Made us see.”
Harruq stared at the bleeding, dying king with a crown of bone. Now he knew the lengths to which all the gods would go. Thulos was slain, but others remained, still plotting, still warring, still treating mortal lives like pieces of a game instead of cherished, beloved children. None seemed immune, and he feared the same rot would claim Ahaesarus if given time.
“You never should have stayed,” Harruq said softly. “You never should have been left to rule. Perfection cannot last, not in this world, yet it was expected of you. It broke you. I don’t know what god shall take you when your eyes close, Azariah, but I pray they show you mercy.”
“Mercy?” Azariah gasped. He slid another bloody foot along the floor. He turned a single page, his fingers leaving bloody smears upon the parchment. “I don’t want...mercy. Don’t want justice. Emptiness, Harruq. Give me emptiness.”
Words of magic passed through bloody lips. The dying angel should have lacked the energy for a meager cantrip, let alone a spell, but his proximity to death was exactly the power he needed. Harruq’s eyes widened, and he realized too late his foolishness.
The King of the Fallen Page 31