The Prison of Angels h-6 Read online

  Bram stared at him, and the lingering silence made Antonil unconsciously reach for his sword. What was it that the man so clearly debated?

  “No,” he said, his sudden words slicing through the silence. “You will not be entering my lands.”

  Antonil stood frozen, with only years of training keeping his voice calm despite his inner furor.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “When you last came here, you mocked my right to enforce my borders,” he said, shaking his head. “In doing so you mocked the right of my sovereignty. You scorned the power of my crown. The nation of Ker is not your servant, nor your slave, nor your child. If you would return to your home, then go another way.”

  “Another way?” Antonil said. “There is no other way. Please, Bram, let me make up for my pride, but do not punish these men.”

  “This has nothing to do with your pride. Your angels flew into my lands under cover of night. They killed my guards, all so they might capture a man under my protection.”

  The words hit Antonil like a sledge.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Ask them, should they come for you,” Bram said. “But I was promised freedom from your angels’ tyranny, and I was not given it. I warned you, yet you would not listen. Already your angels kill my men, and now you would have me feed an army allied with such beasts. No, Antonil, I will not let you through. If this is the only way for you to understand the dangers you court with Avlimar, then do this I must.”

  Briefly Antonil pondered an attack, but he was outnumbered, and when previously crossing the bridge he’d seen firsthand the extensive defenses they’d built into it. There would be no forcing his way across, not in the state his men were in.

  “Please,” he said, his voice softer. “Bram, don’t do this. Don’t punish my men like this. They’ll starve.”

  Bram crossed his arms and looked away.

  “I am not without mercy,” he said. “I’ll send across some wagons containing food, and there is plenty of water to boil from the river. It will tide you over for a time, perhaps long enough for you to think on your many errors. Oh, and Antonil, don’t try to have anyone swim across. I assure you, we’ll be watching.”

  Bram turned, cloak flailing behind him as he crossed the bridge. Antonil heard the first of many fearful cries filter through his army, yet there was nothing he could do. He clutched his sword tighter, teeth clenched, and cursed Bram in every way possible.

  “So what are our options?” Sergan asked as they settled down for the night around a small campfire. The two were separate from the rest of the army, the other generals scattered throughout to ensure order. Antonil wanted to be alone with his friend, to speak his mind without fear of panic or scorn.

  “I’m not sure what other choice we have,” he said. “It seems Bram is determined to humiliate us, but I don’t think it extends beyond that.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sergan said. “What was that nonsense about the angels?”

  Antonil shook his head.

  “Supposedly some of them attacked Bram’s castle. I don’t know any more than that. If it is true, then I don’t blame Bram for his fury. Such an action breaks every promise I’ve ever made him since the Gods’ War.”

  “Anger or not, the man’s still acting like a bastard,” Sergan said. “We can’t just sit here, can we? The food he gave us will tide us over for a week, but no longer than that. If we don’t do anything we’ll be at his mercy, holding out our hands like lowly beggars.”

  “Which is what he wants,” Antonil said, poking his fire with a stick. “He wants his power over us acknowledged. No one in Mordan will expect our return so early. He’ll keep us here, helpless, frustrated, and then make some sort of outrageous demand I’ll have no choice but to agree to.”

  “We still might have a shot at crossing farther upstream,” Sergan said. “You have friends at the Citadel, and I know they have their boats.”

  “We don’t have the food to travel that far north. Besides, the Citadel houses thirty people, maybe forty. They won’t have enough supplies to feed five thousand.”

  Sergan grunted, accepting the rejection.

  “Well, what about the wizard? Perhaps he can do something, get a few of us across the river with an ice bridge or something.”

  “Tarlak’s too weak for that,” Antonil said, shaking his head. Still, something about what he’d said sparked an idea in his mind, and he looked around, feeling a sudden surge of excitement.

  “A map,” he said. “Where is my map?”

  “What for?”

  Antonil ignored him, instead hurrying into his tent and throwing open his strongbox. He came back out, unrolling the paper and laying it out on the seat he’d been sitting in.

  “Wizards,” Antonil said. “I completely forgot about the wizards.”

  Sergan leaned over to look at what Antonil pointed to. There, halfway between Ashhur’s Bridge and the Citadel, were the twin towers of the Council of Mages. Sergan saw it and immediately paled.

  “Forgive me, my liege, but you’re insane.”

  “Why? With that many wizards, surely they would know a way to supply us, and they have a bridge spanning both sides.”

  “But…but they’re wizards. And more importantly, they’re reclusive, unpredictable wizards that hate being bothered by anyone, kings or not.”

  Antonil stared at the two little towers, one marked with red chalk, the other coal.

  “That’s where we’re going,” he said. “I know it’s a risk, but we can’t stay here. I refuse to let Bram lord over us in such a way.”

  “We’ll be traveling through his lands without permission if we cross this way,” Sergan said.

  “At this point, I don’t care. Most of that land is full of farms and wilderness. We’ll beat him to the Bloodbrick before he finds out, and whatever token force he might have there won’t be able to stop us.”

  Sergan scratched at his chin, and finally he let out a sigh.

  “If you think it’ll work, then that’s what we’ll do,” he said. “Though let me say now that I don’t like it. Never trust a wizard. That’s wisdom to live by.”

  “Do you think Tarlak would agree?” Antonil asked.

  Sergan let out a sharp laugh.

  “You kidding me, your highness? He’s the one I heard it from first.”

  Antonil smiled, finally feeling his mood lifting. He had a plan, a course of action. Regardless of the risk, at least he wouldn’t be helpless before Bram’s army.

  “Get some sleep,” he said, rolling up his map. “We have a long march. We’ll head southeast, make Bram think we’re hoping one of the fishing villages along the coast of the delta survived, and then curl north and cross Karak’s Bridge once we’re out of sight.”

  “So let’s say this works,” Sergan said. “We sneak across the river through the help of our mysterious wizardy pals, race through the wilderness, and then cross the Bloodbrick back into Mordan. What then?”

  Antonil paused before the entrance to his tent. He didn’t want to lie to his dear friend, and so he didn’t.

  “Then we return to Mordeina,” he said. “And once we’ve gathered another army, we’ll see just how well Bram is capable of defending the borders he’s so proud to protect. The man spat in the faces of our men this day. I have watched nations fall, angels appear, and gods die. Did he think this would be what broke me? No. Bram should have known better. Much better.”

  He entered his tent, put aside his sword, and slept.

  25

  The army of wolf-men slept not far from the Gihon River, waiting for the right moment to strike. The night before, Moonslayer and Manfeaster had bid farewell to the other various races, sending them either farther north or south, depending on where he wanted them strike. Jessilynn had listened as they gave them their orders, chilled by their cold, brutal efficiency.

  “Let no boat pass you by,” Moonslayer had shouted. “Leave the towers blinded and
alone. One by one, they will fall. On the night of the full moon, make your attack. Let none survive. Eat well, my fellow creatures of the Wedge. Feast, and enjoy your freedom!”

  The towers were the only line of defense against the Wedge, their boat patrols designed to keep any of the beasts from crossing. But Jessilynn knew they were few and undermanned. Could they handle an army consisting of even one of the races, let alone their combined might? Of course not, thought Jessilynn as Silver-Ear dragged her to where she would sleep for the night. The towers would fall, and beyond them were miles upon miles of farmland and simple villages. How many would die before anyone even knew the severity of the threat?

  Yes, she thought. Moonslayer was right. The beasts would feast well.

  “I have no chain to tie you,” Silver-Ear said. “But if you move from my side, you will suffer whatever fate you earn.”

  They walked to the center of the camp, surrounded by several thousand of the beasts. Jessilynn felt their eyes upon her, their noses sniffing the scents she left behind. She nodded at Silver-Ear to show she understood. Not long after, the camp settled down to sleep. Wide-eyed and awake, Jessilynn lay upon the grass and watched the sun rise.

  When Sonowin appeared, flying in from the west, she dared hope. Lying perfectly still, she watched as the winged horse circled above. She wished she could somehow communicate with Dieredon, but there was no way. In the very heart of the camp, the slightest noise would be detected by the wolf-men’s sharp ears.

  Dieredon had Sonowin fly far to the east, then south, and then finally loop around north. Jessilynn was confused at first by what he was doing, but she eventually put it together. The rest of the creatures, the goat-men, the bird-men…they were all gone. He had to realize what it meant. She watched the sky, waiting, wondering what he would do. He had to have seen her there in her armor, like a strange metal flea among the sea of fur.

  The elf flew lower, dipped around, and then flew even lower. Jessilynn slowly reached up a hand, trying to wave at him, to let him know she was willing for him to make any attempt to save her, no matter how desperate. Even that small movement made the chain of her armor rattle. Not loudly, and she could barely hear it herself, but Silver-Ear’s hand lashed out, old claws curling around her arm. The female leered at her with milky eyes.

  “On your knees,” she said. “Push your face to the dirt.”

  Jessilynn did as she was told, folding herself into the demeaning position. Silver-Ear stood above her, and her claws traced along the flesh of her neck. She shivered, wondering if this would be the end.

  “I see him,” the shaman said. “Your friend is skilled, but is he wise? Let us see how brave he is, and how much your life might mean to him.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Silver-Ear leaned in close, her nose bumping against her cheek.

  “I want your face in the dirt until the sun sets,” she said. “Should I see your eyes on the sky for even a moment, I will rip out your throat myself. I am old. Do not think I require the sleep of a young pup.”

  Jessilynn closed her eyes, shifting her shoulders in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Within moments her back started aching, and she thought of the long day ahead. Steeling herself, she shifted again, trying to slow her breathing, trying to remain calm. She heard Silver-Ear rustle beside her, settling in. Jessilynn dared not look to see if she remained awake.

  Time passed, slow and dreadful. Her back tightened, and she moved her legs as often as she could. At last, sheer exhaustion won over, and she slept.

  “Wake, girl,” said a rough voice, punctuated by an upward blow to her stomach. Jessilynn let out a scream and rolled onto her back. Looking up, she found several wolf-men standing over her, Moonslayer among them. He grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.

  “The night is young,” he said to her. “Why do you sleep?”

  It was mockery, and he flung her onto her rear. Her stomach twisted, and she yearned for something to eat or drink. She curled her knees beneath her, wondering what it was they wanted now.

  “Stand,” Moonslayer said. “Stand, or die where you sit.”

  She obeyed, trying to interpret the look he gave her. There was something in his eyes, something frightening. As she crossed her arms before her, one of the wolf-men tossed her bow at her feet, along with her quiver of arrows. She made no move for them.

  “My army attacks,” Moonslayer said. “The weaker creatures are committed. I have no need of you anymore, human.”

  “It is a waste of time,” Manfeaster said, joining them from beyond the camp. All around the wolf-men were in a stir, wrestling with one another, preparing for the upcoming battle. “I say we eat her now, let the blood of a paladin mark our victory.”

  “We will,” Moonslayer said to his brother. His eyes turned back to her. “But first we have a hunt.”

  He gestured to the bow.

  “Take it,” he said. “Run. Flee west, or north, or wherever you think you might hide. My wolves are anxious for the battle, but the moon has not yet risen. You will entertain us until then.”

  “You risk lives needlessly,” Manfeaster said.

  “And any who would die at her hand would die anyway. Besides, her teacher defeated our father. Her kind has stopped us for centuries before. Let our pack tear her apart and prove we will be beaten no longer.”

  Jessilynn watched the brothers stare at each other. It was Manfeaster who relented, flattening his ears and turning away.

  “Enjoy the hunt,” he said to the others.

  Moonslayer gestured to the bow.

  “Take it,” he said. “Run.”

  She scooped the quiver up, slung it over her shoulder, and then did the same with her bow. She looked at the wolves, hardly believing it came to this. All along she’d desired escape, but now they would let her go freely?

  No, not freely, she thought as she saw the hunger in the eyes of the wolf-men around her.

  “You should have listened to your brother,” she said to Moonslayer as she took a step backward.

  The enormous wolf-man bared his teeth.

  “We shall see.”

  His howl pierced the night as she turned to run toward the river. Behind her she heard Moonslayer howling, his deep voice slowly growing fainter by the minute.

  “A hunt!” he cried. “A hunt, a hunt, gather for a hunt! The heart of a paladin is our prey!”

  They would find her, she knew. As she ran she looked to the sky, daring to hope. She scanned the stars, the miniscule clouds. She stared so long she stumbled from not watching where she ran. As she hit the ground she banged her knee on a rock, sending a spike of pain shooting up her leg. Struggling to a stand, she bit down her cry. With her hope turning to dread, she looked to the sky again.

  Dieredon was nowhere in sight.

  On and on she ran, cramps tightening her sides. She’d been starved, and given little water to drink. Already her head grew light from the exertion, but there was nothing she could do but press on. On a whim she changed the angle of her path though she knew it wouldn’t matter. The wolf-men were excellent trackers, and out there in the wild her scent would stand out like a fire in the darkness. As the land passed her by, she wondered how much time they would give her.

  A few minutes later she heard her answer in the communal cry of dozens of wolf-men. The sound was her death knell, yet on she ran. When she saw the Gihon floating softly before her, she let out a cry of her own. Her armor…she couldn’t swim with her armor on! Frantically she yanked off the heavier parts weighted down with chain, flinging them to the ground. When she was down to just her leather under padding she slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder and then rushed into the water. The cold was shocking. Much as she dreaded it, she plunged her head beneath the surface and began to swim.

  Upon reaching the other side, Jessilynn pulled herself from the river, gasping for air. Tears ran down her face as she tried and failed to crawl beyond the shoreline. Her feet remained in the water, her hair a wet rop
e looped around her neck. It wasn’t far enough. It’d never be far enough. The wolf-men hunted her, and their noses would not be fooled by something as simple as a river. Within the hour, perhaps even the minute, they would find her. And this time they would not let her live. Moonslayer had made that quite clear.

  “Please Ashhur,” she begged. “Please, I can’t do this. I can’t, I’m not like them. Help me, god. Help me!”

  She shrieked it out until she lost breath, her mouth locked open from her crying. She’d seen what the wolf-men did to their prey, the way they tore into flesh with their claws and ripped muscle from bone with their teeth. Would she die quickly, or would they torment her? Panic twisted in her gut, stabbing her like a rusted knife. It seemed so cruel. Dieredon no doubt flew overhead, still looking to rescue her as she assumed he had been trying to do all along. Yet now she was free and unable to signal him in the night. If only he’d been watching when they released her. If only Sonowin could stay aloft longer. If only she’d never agreed to go with the elf in the first place.

  The frustration gave her the strength to stand, and with eyes wide she ran, her back to the river. Hardly ten feet out her bare foot struck something hard, and down she went. The sudden jolt made her bite her tongue. Warm blood filled her mouth, and it took all her composure to keep from breaking down a second time. Turning to spit, she saw what had tripped her. It took a moment for her mind to register what it was, for it made no sense.

  There, in the middle of some random forest beside the Gihon, was a greatsword nearly as tall as her. The hilt was black, finely carved, and when her fingers touched the metal it was surprisingly warm.

  “I see you found my sword.”

  Jessilynn started, spinning around on her rear and bracing herself with her arms. Before her stood an imposing man, his blonde hair long, his eyes a startling shade of blue. His armor, though, she recognized his armor. It matched what they wore at the Citadel. From the metal a faint hue pulsed with his movements. Too tired to understand, too tired to flee, Jessilynn dared feel a glimmer of hope.