The Prison of Angels h-6 Page 8

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she took it. “It’s so quiet here.”

  “This castle belonged to Lord Sully. He was never a friend of elvenkind, but he did aid us in keeping the orcs at bay. When last I left here, his men were patrolling the Bone Ditch to prevent the construction of any more bridges.” He gestured about the empty courtyard. “It shouldn’t be quiet. There should be servants, soldiers, children…”

  He pulled off his bow, then hurried toward the castle. Jessilynn tugged free her own bow and ran after him. Her plodding footsteps seemed so loud compared to the elf’s silent passage. They crossed through the courtyard, stopping at the large castle doors. They were shut, with no visible sign of attack. Dieredon’s frown deepened. The elf briefly investigated the castle doors, tugged once to confirm they were still locked, then peered up the castle walls.

  “Check the outer grounds for any signs of life,” he said, hopping atop of Sonowin. “I’ll investigate the castle, see if I can discover where they’ve fled. If you find yourself in trouble, whistle as loud as you can.”

  “I will,” Jessilynn said. She clutched her bow and tried not to let her nervousness show. Being alone in the great courtyard made her uneasy. Something had gone terribly wrong, and they both knew it. Dieredon flew higher and higher until he was even with one of the upper windows of a tower, then leapt off Sonowin’s back. He vanished into the stone edifice. Wanting to be useful, Jessilynn started scanning the area, trying to decide what she was even looking for.

  Aimlessly, she began walking through the courtyard, slowly making her way around to the western side. The hairs on the back of her neck began to stand as more and more things looked askew. She found overturned barrels, broken shafts of wood that might have been spears, bits of shredded clothing. Against one wall of the tower she saw a stain, and stepping closer, she saw the stone was chipped. The stain was, without a doubt, a great smear of blood.

  When her fingers brushed against it she heard a distant sound, one she could hardly believe.

  Laughter?

  Closing her eyes, she did her best to listen, and sure enough she heard it again. From somewhere in the building, she decided, but where? With how large the tower was, it’d take time for Dieredon to find them if he also heard. Jogging alongside the stone, Jessilynn looked for an alternate entrance beyond the locked gates. Rounding the southwest corner, she found a small jut built out from the wall, just narrow enough for a single man to pass through. It was blocked by a single gate. A way to flank attackers at the front gate if the situation demanded it, she guessed. Beyond the iron gate was a second wooden door. From beyond that, she heard another round of muffled laughter.

  “Dieredon?” she called out, but so pathetic was her cry that she doubted anyone could have heard her. She swallowed, told herself to be brave. She was a paladin of Ashhur. She was supposed to be a champion of mankind, not a girl quaking in fear at a stranger’s laughter.

  She touched the gate. With a grinding squeak it pushed inward. It took a moment for her to overcome her surprise. She’d been convinced it would be locked like the front gates had been. Of course, there was still the wooden doors just beyond. Stepping into the dark passageway, she grabbed the handle and pulled.

  It opened with a dull thud, revealing a long, unlit hallway. Offering a prayer to Ashhur for safety, she pulled an arrow out of her quiver and pressed it against the string of her bow. The arrowhead lit up with a soft blue-white glow, and with its light guiding her, she stepped into the hallway. The echoes of her footfalls made her wince, and again she thought of Dieredon’s silent passing. Jessilynn wore lighter armor than the other paladins, a special suit requested by Jerico himself from a traveling smith. It was heavy leather, studded, with her chest and shoulders reinforced with a variety of plate and chain. She could move far easier than the others in their platemail, but it was still heavy, and worse, noisy. Each step she took sounded like thunder. Her fear made the light of her arrow falter until she could barely see five feet before her.

  Again she heard laughter, this time of two different men. Their voices were deep, boisterous, yet muffled too much for her to make out the words they occasionally spoke.

  “Hello?” she called out, traveling deeper into the Green Castle. “Is someone there?”

  At the sound of her voice the laughter stopped. Jessilynn’s heart caught in her throat as she heard movement and the rattle of weaponry. She took a step back, stumbling as her foot landed atop a heavy stone. She flung her elbow to the side to brace herself against the wall, except the wall wasn’t there. She landed on hard dirt. The arrow and bow fell from her hands, clattered to the ground in the darkness.

  Stay calm, Jessilynn told herself. Stay calm, and don’t panic. Feel along the ground.

  The bow was easy enough to find given its size. For another moment she felt for the arrow, then realized she had a dozen more in the quiver on her back. Drawing another, she notched it on the string. The metal arrowhead brightened, surrounded by the glow of her faith, and finally able to see, she looked about.

  She was in a large tunnel that stretched sharply into the earth for a distance far beyond the reach of her light. Spinning around, she found the broken bricks of the castle wall, the gap the size of a large man. The panic she’d fought against assaulted her at double strength. The castle hadn’t been taken from outside. It’d been tunneled into and taken from within.

  She stepped out, pointed her arrow down the hall. She heard a door open, and yellow eyes glinted a mere fifty feet away. Jessilynn let fly her arrow, and as it streaked down the hall she was finally able to see. Orcs, two of them, each wearing crude armor and carrying swords. The arrow struck the first in the chest, blasting him off his feet. The other let out a yell, screaming in alarm. Jessilynn flung her bow across her back and ran. The exit looked so small, yet so bright. Her heart pounded in her ears as she heard more voices clamoring behind her. It sounded like an entire army awakening.

  “Dieredon!” she screamed, fear giving strength to her legs. She blasted through the door and out into the painful daylight. “Dieredon!”

  Without slowing she raced into the courtyard, wanting to put as much distance between her and the castle as possible. Her lungs burned, and when she reached where they had first landed she spun in circles, looking for Sonowin’s great wings. She didn’t see them, or the horse they were attached to, anywhere.

  From the side entrance orcs burst out, rounding the corner with weapons drawn. At first there were only a few, and they squinted against the light. Grabbing her bow, Jessilynn let fly an arrow at the closest. It sailed wide, bouncing twice off the dirt. Her eyes widened as the orc closed the distance, rusty sword lifted high to strike. Before she could nock another, an arrow flew in from the sky, piercing the orc’s throat. The shaft remained halfway embedded, and dark blood poured around it.

  “Your hand!” she heard Dieredon shout from high above. Flinging her bow back over her shoulder, she turned around and lifted her arms. Sonowin dove toward her, Dieredon on her back releasing arrow after arrow. They sailed over her head, and she heard pained cries from behind each time one found purchase. The elf put aside his bow, reached down, and yanked her onto Sonowin’s back as the winged horse momentarily halted in place. Then they were moving skyward, and the feel of the wind was enough to bring Jessilynn to tears.

  She clutched the elf tightly, then looked down to the castle. In the courtyard swarmed hundreds of orcs.

  “They tunneled in,” she shouted, struggling to regain her composure.

  “Then all is lost in the Hillock. The orcs have emptied out of the Wedge, every last one of them. Thousands upon thousands, greater than any army of man.”

  Sonowin’s wings steadied, and Jessilynn loosened her grip on Dieredon’s waist, chastising herself for being so afraid. What was the point of all those years of training under Lathaar and Jerico if she would panic against the very first enemy she ever faced? Still, she couldn’t chase away the image of the orc falling backward, her arrow cru
shing his chest as if she’d struck him with a maul. The way the blood had splattered against the walls, colored purple by the blue hue of her arrow…

  “Where do we go now?” she asked, trying to think about anything else.

  “The east is theirs, and so the west we must protect,” he said. “Over the past five years I’ve never received word of any other of the races traveling into Neldar.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “The door to their cage is open in the east, yet they remain behind,” Dieredon shouted, shaking his head. “The question is…why?”

  She could not imagine a reason. The wildlands were the elf’s expertise, not hers. She glanced behind her, offering a prayer for anyone that might still remain lost or hidden in the great nation of Neldar. Celestia’s cursed children had taken them as their own, and from the laughter she heard deep within the castle, the orcs were more than comfortable in their new home.

  “I’m sorry,” she shouted.

  “For what?”

  “For panicking.”

  Dieredon lessened his grip on the reins so he might turn about to look at her.

  “Are you alive?” he asked her.

  “Yes?”

  “And did you act when confronted by your enemy, or did you do nothing?”

  “I killed one,” she admitted. “And then I ran for you.”

  “Then you have nothing to apologize for. Even for a human you are young, so do not judge yourself so harshly. Remember, you are with me to learn, not to prove you have no need of learning.”

  He put his back to her, fell silent.

  “However,” he said, turning back around. A smile was on his face, but it quickly vanished. “You still missed your mark during my descent. Sonowin, take us down somewhere quiet. I think Jessilynn needs an hour of practice to remind her not to rush her aim.”

  Sonowin let out a snort, and then down they went.

  8

  Ezekai circled the town of Norstrom, debating whether he should land. Ever since the execution of the farmer, Colton, he’d felt uneasy with his duties. A strong part of him wished to speak with Azariah, but the high priest was always so busy that Ezekai continued to postpone doing so. He knew he had been well within the law: Colton had brutally murdered a man in front of the entire town, in front of his own child. But he’d also been a good man, an honest, hardworking man. What madness could have driven him into an act so vile? Was his desire for torment, for retribution, so much greater than his desire for the salvation of others?

  Of course it was, Ezekai thought. That was the failing of man. But he wouldn’t let it be his failing. They just needed to be shown the way. And as much as Ezekai had been troubled by the events, the town continued on as it always had, as it perhaps always would. He saw the farmers in the fields, the shopkeepers selling their wares, plain men and women wandering the streets, perhaps to work, perhaps to shop, perhaps to play. They had not called for him with their scepter, but he landed anyway, folding his wings behind him as he glanced up and down the road.

  Children stared at him in awe, as did many of the adults. A few were wary, and one older woman continued on down the street as if she never saw him. It tugged at Ezekai’s heart. Always awe, always fear and doubt. Would they ever look upon his arrival with love? Was their trust so terrible a thing for him to yearn for?

  “May I help you?” an older gentlemen asked, having rushed out of his rocking chair at the front of the tavern to greet the angel. He walked with a cane, his limp painful to watch as he approached. Ezekai reached out his hand and touched the man’s knee.

  “Be well,” he said, and he felt the magic flowing out of him. It took more than he’d expected to banish the swelling, but then again, everything seemed to take more effort lately. Every angel knew of the priests’ magic fading away. So far Ezekai had thought himself unaffected, but now he wondered if that assumption was erroneous.

  “Thank you,” the old man said, flexing the leg while smiling. “Truly a blessing to have you come this day. We did not think to use the scepter for just the boy, but perhaps Ashhur’s wisdom has decided otherwise.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ezekai. “So there is need of me?”

  “Indeed,” the man said, beckoning.

  Ezekai was taken to a small home, one like thousands of others he had visited before. The smell of sickness was strong the moment the door opened. Ezekai bowed his head to the woman who greeted them. Her face was pale, haggard, with her hair pulled back from her face in a knot.

  “May I enter?” Ezekai asked.

  “Ashhur bless you, of course,” the woman said. “My name’s Maria.”

  “Ashhur’s peace be with you, Maria.”

  Wings folded behind him, Ezekai stepped inside, then dismissed the older man. The angel had to keep his head hunched, his height beyond that of normal humans. Just before him was a fireplace, and lying beside it was a young boy, about four years of age from what he guessed.

  “That’s my son, Kaisen,” Maria said, quickly kneeling at the boy’s side. “He’s been running a fever for four days now, and each night his cough’s gotten worse and worse. I told them to use the scepter, to call for someone, but they wouldn’t. They said he’d be fine, that he’d…but that cough, he can’t even breathe when it hits him.”

  She looked near tears. Ezekai smiled at her, wishing to do all he could to comfort her. No doubt she’d been sleeping little, each night worrying more and more for her precious child. Sitting down on his knees beside Kaisen, the angel reached out a hand and touched his forehead. The heat was immediately apparent, the fever burning deep within him.

  “I’ve done what I can to make him drink,” Maria said. “Wormroot also worked on the fever for a day or two, but then stopped…”

  “You’ve done well,” Ezekai said, still focused on the child. The sickness radiated out from his lungs, and in Ezekai’s mind it shone like a red spot amid a field of white. Frowning, he placed both his hands on Kaisen’s chest and closed his eyes.

  “Help me, Ashhur,” he prayed. “I know this is beyond me, but nothing is beyond you.”

  The power flowed from him with a strength that took his breath away. His arms shook, his head pounded, and still he wondered if it would be enough. So weak, he felt so weak when it came to matters of healing and faith. Kaisen coughed, first wildly, then less so. Maria watched for a moment, then was unable to keep herself away. She clutched her child, her hair coming loose from its knot and falling across the angel’s hands as Ezekai continued to pray. Smaller and smaller shrank the red sickness until it was gone, the fever in the boy’s flesh beginning to subside.

  Ezekai took in a deep breath, then slowly stood.

  “I doubt he would have lasted the night,” he said, surprised by how much his voice shook. “Four days, you say? Why was I not summoned sooner?”

  Maria was crying as she held her child.

  “I told them to,” she said, not looking at him. “I told them to, but they wouldn’t listen. They said…they said it wasn’t necessary. That he’d get better.”

  Ezekai’s mouth dropped open, hardly able to believe it. Maria was lying to him. He sensed it in his gut with the properties Ashhur had bestowed upon all his angels. Lying…but why?

  “Maria,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “I know you hide something from me. Why was the scepter not used? In your heart you knew Kaisen needed my aid. Someone else denied you. Tell me why.”

  Maria sniffed, still refusing to look at him.

  “They’ll be mad at me,” she said.

  It was no lie.

  “Who are they?”

  She gestured to the door and the village beyond.

  “They,” she said.

  “You are under my protection, as are all of the people here. Please…”

  She looked up at him with red eyes.

  “They didn’t want you to see what they did to Saul.”

  The words, the meaning, the mystery; it all sent a chill down his spin
e. He didn’t even know he could feel anger and fear simultaneously like that. He’d thought it a lost human emotion. Apparently not.

  “Where?” he whispered.

  She told him. He knelt down, kissed her forehead, then her son’s.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  Exiting the home, he let his wings stretch wide. It felt good, but it was the only pleasurable thing he felt. With several heavy beats he took to the air, then circled around to the northern end of the town. There, hanging from a pole, he found the body of the man who had been Saul Reid. His skin was dry from exposure to the sun, with rips in it showing rot. The crows had been at the corpse as well, further deteriorating it. The worst, though, was where the man’s crotch had been. All that remained of his genitals was a brutal collection of gore and pus.

  Ezekai landed, his hand reaching for his sword.

  “What has been done here?” he roared to the village. “All of you, come to me and answer for this!”

  Slowly they gathered, men and women lurking at the edges of homes and beyond, not daring to near the pole. None spoke. Again Ezekai demanded answers, his voice carrying. Some went running out to the fields. With each passing second of silence, Ezekai felt his anger grow.

  “You,” he said, pointing at a brown-haired woman leaning against a nearby home. “Who has done this?”

  “Not my place to say,” she said. “Ask the men. They’re coming.”

  Another he asked, this a boy of twelve.

  “My pa said not to say, not even to you,” the child insisted, and it was the truth.

  Ezekai turned about and looked to the fields. A group of thirty men was approaching, instruments of their trade slung over their shoulders. He sensed no anger in them, no danger, just…caution. Next to Ezekai, the rotting body continued to slowly swing.

  When the group arrived, they crossed their arms and kicked their feet into the dirt, as if waiting for something. Ezekai had no patience for any of it.

  “I demand an explanation,” he said.

  “He was just like Locke,” said one of the men. He was a thin fellow, and the dirt on his face looked like it belonged there. From the way the others looked to him he appeared to be the one in charge of the most recent events. “They did stuff together, the two of them. He admitted as much when we caught him peeping in through my little girl’s window.”