The Prison of Angels h-6 Read online

  “I’d have words with you,” the half-orc said, falling to one knee.

  “Of course,” Azariah said. “All are welcome here. If we might have time alone, my dear Loen. My guest and I will require privacy for him to speak his troubled heart, but do not go far. He will need you to return home.”

  Qurrah held back a chuckle. So his troubled heart would be the excuse to hide his lessons at magic? Oh well. Whatever worked.

  When Loen was gone, Azariah gestured for Qurrah to step inside. As the door shut, Qurrah’s eyes needed a moment to adjust. Azariah’s spire was bright even by Avlimar’s standards. Light shone not from torches but instead various gems, crystals, chandeliers, even candles carved of marble with no visible wick. It all spoke of magic. Amused, Qurrah wondered if Azariah had lost his clerical abilities because he wasted them on something a simple torch and wax candle could accomplish.

  “You should have requested my presence,” Azariah said, gesturing for Qurrah to take a seat. The chair was large, the cushions overstuffed with feathers. There was an ornate fireplace before it, and in the hearth burned a fire that gave off heat yet appeared to have no effect on the log within. The carpet was thick, a deep crimson that was easy on the eyes, a welcome respite after all the shining metals. Kicking off his sandals, Qurrah slumped in the chair (which was, of course, far too big for him) and let his bare feet sink into the carpet.

  “If I’d known teaching you magic would have such comforts, I’d have agreed far more readily,” he said, closing his eyes as the heat from the fire washed over him.

  “Such tutelage will no longer be necessary,” Azariah said.

  Qurrah’s eyes snapped open, and he peered around the chair. The angel remained standing beside the stairs leading higher up into the spire. All around him were paintings of forests, of which Qurrah had no doubt Azariah had both been to, and painted himself.

  “Is that so?” he said, trying to hide his surprise. “You seemed rather insistent when we last met.”

  “I’m sure I did.”

  Qurrah frowned, and he pushed himself out of the chair.

  “I came to Mordeina at your request,” he said. “And maybe it is just me, but it’s a bit rude to request someone’s help, then turn them down when they arrive to offer it. Now, I wouldn’t claim myself as brilliant in the ways of Ashhur as you, so perhaps you can answer the question for me…is rudeness a sin?”

  “Your wit and sarcasm are both unnecessary and unappreciated,” Azariah said, crossing his arms.

  “Then care to tell me why you changed your mind?”

  The angel looked to the side, and he seemed confused, almost frustrated.

  “My decision should not reflect poorly on you or Tessanna,” he said at last. “My coming to you…that was not wise. If my power from Ashhur is waning, then I should accept that as reality, and not try to hide it. Unfortunately I came to you in pride, seeking to remain the most powerful of angels. I’m sorry to waste your time, Qurrah.”

  It didn’t make sense, no matter how many times Qurrah ran the words through his mind.

  “You said you came to me in humility,” the half-orc insisted. “Now you say it is pride?”

  “I wanted secret training to avoid the mockery of mortal men,” Azariah said. “That is pride. I wanted power to replace the power I lost. That is pride. I cannot do this for such a reason. I cannot let my pride control my actions. I thank you for coming, Qurrah, but perhaps humility is what I need to learn now.”

  “So you’re accepting the loss of your clerical magic?”

  Azariah sighed.

  “Accepting it? Yes. I will not lie and say I am pleased. I will not pretend I do not miss it, nor act like I do not wish it returned. But I won’t have you as a teacher, Qurrah, nor your lover. This is a decision I made on my flight home, one I cannot fully explain. I hope you understand.”

  Qurrah didn’t, but then again, he was trying to understand an angel. It seemed that, while on the outside they seemed simple and predictable, the truth of them was anything but.

  “Very well,” he said. “We will remain here for a time longer, at least until I’m certain of my brother’s safety. If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “I assure you, Qurrah,” Azariah said. “I won’t.”

  Something about his tone of voice was strikingly cold. Azariah opened the door, and when Qurrah stepped out, he called for Loen. The angel landed moments later, having spent the time hovering above the spire in a lazy circle.

  “Return my friend to the castle,” Azariah said. “I have much studying to do in preparation for the convening council, and cannot afford the time.”

  “I would be happy to,” Loen said, turning to Qurrah. “Are you ready?”

  Qurrah nodded.

  “The night is late. Yes, please take me home.”

  Once more they walked through the city to the very edge before Loen wrapped his arms around him and beat his wings.

  “I must warn you,” Loen said. “The trip down is far more intense than the trip up.”

  At first Qurrah thought it an exaggeration, but as they plummeted off the edge in free fall he changed his mind. Perhaps there were a few things left that might frighten him. Several times he glanced at the angel’s outstretched wings, having to remind himself that yes, they could indeed support their weight. As the city neared, Loen banked upward, stealing much of their speed so that during a second descent they came in much slower toward the castle. With surprising gentleness Loen pulled up at the last moment, setting Qurrah’s feet on the ground without the slightest difficulty.

  “Many thanks for being my guide,” Qurrah said, turning to face the angel.

  “Perhaps when you are not so tired, and the hour not so late, I can better show you the artwork and structures.”

  “I would very much like the chance.”

  Loen saluted. Before taking flight, he placed a hand on Qurrah’s shoulder.

  “I once doubted your worth, even after the trial,” he said. “But I heard of your stand on Ashhur’s Bridge. And when you killed Karak’s prophet, a great evil left this land. It was like a thorn pulled from all our minds. You have done great things, and I would thank you before I leave.”

  The admiration left him stunned. He’d gotten used to his accomplishments being overlooked, or remaining completely unknown.

  “What little good I’ve done, I did not do alone,” Qurrah said, feeling his neck flush. “But I accept your thanks nonetheless.”

  Loen took to the air, slowly fading away into the clouds as he soared toward Avlimar. His heart troubled, Qurrah stared at the glowing city, like a great star in the night, and wondered.

  15

  Kinamn looked a desolate wreck, but Tarlak knew looks could be deceiving. After all, why else would he prance around in his yellow robes?

  “Are you sure you want to attack?” the wizard asked. Beside him, Antonil nodded.

  “This city represents my greatest failure,” the king said. “We can’t ignore it, and we can’t leave so many orcs gathered at our flank. We take it back, or we return now to Mordeina. Those are our choices.”

  Tarlak shrugged.

  “I’m all for going home, but roasting orcs is fun, too. Give the word, my king, and I’ll begin the bonfire.”

  Behind them, thirty thousand men prepared for battle. They were far out of range of any catapult, just in case the orcs there still had them functioning. Dozens of smoke trails lifted lazily into the sky, proving the city occupied.

  “It’s been several years, don’t forget,” Tarlak said. “There may have only been five thousand last time, but it wouldn’t surprise me if thousands more flocked out of the unguarded Wedge and into the place.”

  “I assure you, Tarlak, treating the situation lightly is the one thing I will absolutely not do this time,” Antonil said. “We go in with eyes open, and more importantly, your magic at the ready. The orcs might have ballista and catapults, but we have an Eschaton, who is worth a hundred catapults.
”

  “And costs more, too, I might add.”

  Antonil laughed.

  “No need to mention it,” the king said. “You only remind me daily.”

  “I know. And one sweet day you’ll finally listen, and pay me.”

  Again they laughed, but for Tarlak the jovialness was forced. He didn’t like this assault one bit, but he wasn’t the one in charge. So what if they hadn’t encountered a single orc raid on their travel east? So what if their supplies had gone untouched, their passage completely unimpeded into enemy territory? Antonil’s generals assured them that their numbers were so great the pitiably few orcs remaining would only flee.

  But Tarlak’s gut said differently, and staring at the broken walls of Kinamn, he knew that something was amiss. He just couldn’t decide what.

  “The men are ready to move out,” said Sergan, coming up to join the three. Sergan was an old, battle-hardened veteran from Antonil’s days as Guard Captain for the city of Veldaren. His face was scarred, his beard long, but he wielded his ax with a spryness many of the younger men struggled to match after days of marching.

  “Remember, I want the archers spread as far apart as possible,” Antonil said. “If they do have war engines, I want their effect minimized.”

  “And the city gates?” Sergan asked. “You sure you want to cram all twenty-five thousand of our fighting men into such a narrow space? One well-placed boulder from a catapult and we’ll have hundreds turned to jelly.”

  The king gestured to Tarlak, who tipped his hat.

  “Consider me the anti-boulder guy,” he said. “And trust me, the city gates won’t be that narrow after I’m done with them.”

  Sergan shook his head.

  “Putting our faith in wizards,” he said. “It’s going to get us killed one day.”

  “Love you too, Sergan,” Tarlak said, shooting him a wink. “Now go tell the men to move their asses. We’re not getting any younger, and we have orcs to kill.”

  Horns began to sound throughout the massive camp. They left much of their supplies behind, along with the wagons. With the city a mere quarter-mile away, there seemed little point in lugging it all with them. Tarlak watched it all, thinking of them like an incredibly dangerous nest of ants. Toward the city they swarmed, and Tarlak rode beside Antonil and Sergan. The rest of the generals filtered throughout the army, to command their individual forces.

  Tarlak saw the smoke trails within the city extinguish, one by one. For some reason, that frightened him more than anything. A foe awaited him behind those walls, moving, strategizing. Yes, they were orcs. Yes, they were stupid. But they still had the blood of elves in them. When it came to killing, they seemed a bit more willing to use their brains instead of muscle. But no matter how clever they might be, Antonil commanded thirty thousand men. Even if they’d doubled their number since the previous assault, they were still outnumbered three to one.

  Five to one, really, once they counted in Tarlak’s advantage.

  As they neared the city walls, the first of the orcs finally appeared atop the ramparts. There were several hundred of them, all wielding long spears.

  “Take them out!” Antonil shouted, and Sergan quickly relayed the order. The archers lifted their bows, and five thousand men sent a barrage of arrows toward the walls. The fighters on the front lines raised their shields, and those behind kept their heads down and followed after. Spears rained down upon the soldiers, scoring kills. The archers took down many, and even more spears broke against the shields. Tarlak nodded, liking the sight. He remained at Antonil’s side, watching the fight, waiting for the right time.

  “They’re almost to the gates,” Antonil said.

  “I know.”

  “They’re not carrying even a battering ram.”

  “I know.”

  Tarlak cracked his knuckles, mentally counting down. Three…two…one…

  He slammed his wrists together, shouting out the words of a spell. From his palms shot a fireball that grew larger and larger the farther through the air it flew. It arced upward, as if shot from a catapult, then slowly began to descend. Tarlak watched, his eyes tracing its downward fall.

  “Come on,” he said. “Come on, drop, drop, drop…”

  With perfect aim the fireball slammed into the gates when Antonil’s men were only dozens of feet away, exploding with enough force that the shieldmen in the front had to brace against it. Metal and wood twisted and fragmented. More impressive, the stone walls cracked and rumbled, and leather-armored orcs screamed and as the towers atop the portcullis crumpled and fell. Suddenly the entrance to the city was triple what it’d been only moments before. Antonil’s men let out a cheer, and with renewed vigor they rushed ahead, to where the orcish defenders stood at the ready.

  “Something’s wrong,” Tarlak said. “Antonil, what in blazes is going on?”

  There were only a mere thousand to stand against them. They shouted and waved their weapons, crude blades and axes, but against the swarm of men they would be buried in minutes. Antonil frowned, and he clearly had the same worry.

  “It’s been years,” he said. “Perhaps the orcs abandoned the place? Or there was infighting among the tribes?”

  Tarlak didn’t buy it. He readied his magic, his gut still screaming trap.

  And then the catapults fired from either side of the far street. The giant rocks sailed into the air, four at a time. They surely couldn’t see the combat from behind all the buildings, Tarlak knew, which meant someone coordinating the attack. With no time to think on it, he acted fast, his hands dancing. In his mind he gripped the broken rubble of the gateway he’d just shattered, clutching it with invisible hands stronger than a giant’s. Into the air he flung them, slamming them against the incoming boulders. The hits halted their momentum, showering thick sledges of heavy stone all across the city-which was fine with Tarlak, so long as they weren’t landing on their own men, crushing them into jelly as Sergan had so eloquently stated.

  More catapults fired, and this time Tarlak was better prepared. Instead of relying on crude rocks, he used the force of magic itself, slamming into them with invisible barriers that shoved the projectiles back before they could even complete their upward arc. A third volley lifted, and Tarlak defeated it just as easy.

  “Not even breaking a sweat here,” Tarlak told the king. “Perhaps I should have been with you last time.”

  “Perhaps,” Antonil said, clearly distracted. The catapults ceased firing, and Tarlak lowered his arms and took a deep breath. When he brought his attention to the fight, he realized there wasn’t one at all. The orcs had been slaughtered in a single wave. Tarlak guessed they’d taken maybe a hundred casualties at maximum, the fight had gone so well. And that really, really worried Tarlak.

  “It’s not supposed to be this easy,” he murmured.

  Antonil clapped him on the shoulder.

  “If there’s bad days, then there’s allowed to be good days,” he said.

  “If you insist.”

  The archers had begun to join the rest of the men still flowing into the city, and Antonil went with them. Tarlak remained on the outside, watching. Something felt wrong in his gut. The orcs wouldn’t have abandoned the city, and he doubted their numbers would decrease so dramatically. More troubling, the city showed too many signs of orcish occupation. All along the walls were crude paintings, signifying allegiance to their tribal lord. From various wooden poles hung flags made of tanned hide. Their distance was too great for him to see, but he knew such decorations meant the orcs considered this land to be theirs to keep and defend.

  So why such a pitiful defense?

  His feelings of being cornered, of being trapped, led him to glance behind him, and it was there he saw it.

  “Oh shit,” said Tarlak.

  Smoke rose in great plumes from the south. Their camp.

  Tarlak slammed his hands together, ripping open a portal to take him to the camp’s outer edge. Leaping through, he prepared his magic for a fight.
But when he stepped out, there was nothing for him to kill. Only wreckage remained. Their tents had been smashed and ripped, the tent poles snapped. The cattle they’d brought for slaughter were in pieces, intestines ripped open and left for the swarms of flies that had already begun their feast. Worst were the wagons, and feeling himself in a dream Tarlak slowly approached. Every one of them was aflame. Corpses lay about them, throats cut, limbs broke and bodies savaged. Perhaps a hundred had remained behind, tending the animals, preparing the food. They hadn’t stood a chance against whatever force descended upon them.

  The wizard shook his head, the pit in his stomach growing.

  “I hate being right,” he said to himself. “Damn it, Tarlak, you know you’re allowed to be wrong for once. At least once.”

  But not this time.

  In the ruins of Kinamn the three gathered to discuss their options while the rest of the soldiers scavenged the city for anything useful.

  “We’re fucked,” Tarlak said. “Righteously, magnificently, pants-rippingly fucked.”

  “So eloquently stated,” Antonil said, sitting opposite him, a small fire between them. The sun had begun to set, but without tents, the army would have to make do with sleeping under open air or bunking in one of the many filthy homes that remained standing within the city walls.

  “Truthfully stated as well,” Sergan agreed. “Whoever set this trap showed more cunning than I’d ever give an orc credit for. I looked over the bodies of the thousand left behind, and they were all runties, weak by orcish standards. They were just there to provide distraction so the catapults could get their shots in. Brutal, but efficient. Without Tarlak’s help, we’d have lost hundreds of men.”

  The three fell silent, thinking over what they’d seen. Antonil in particular looked ashen in the face, taking the ambush far worse than the others.

  “What do we know of their commander?” he asked. “What orc outsmarted us so easily?”

  “Far as I know, Trummug still rules the bulk of the orcs, and has since Veldaren fell,” Tarlak said. “But our news from the east is pretty sparse. If Dieredon were around I’d ask him, but he’s never mentioned any major upheaval, at least not to me.”