The Prison of Angels h-6 Page 9

  “You tortured this knowledge out of him?”

  The men glanced to one another.

  “We made him talk,” another admitted.

  Ezekai closed his eyes, meaning to pray for calm, but the stench of the corpse was too near. They had killed the man, mutilated him, and then hung him up for all to see. Because of this they nearly let an innocent child die, all so they might hide their deed. When Ezekai opened his eyes, he felt fury burning in his blood.

  “You tortured, mutilated, and then murdered a man,” he said to them. “Without law. Without justice. Without proof.”

  “We heard it from his mouth,” someone shouted.

  “He confessed!” shouted another.

  “Under torture!” Ezekai insisted. “How do you know he spoke truth?”

  “What of you?” asked the thin fellow with the dirty face. They were closer now, starting to surround him. “How do we know you spoke truth when you forgave Locke? If he fell on his knees and begged, would you have let that monster remain in our village?”

  There was no way for Ezekai to know, and no way to explain. When Locke had cast himself to the dirt, the guilt and sorrow overwhelmed every strand of his soul, his yearning for salvation beyond anything Ezekai could describe. The man hated himself, hated his life. Ezekai had shown him a ray of light, had hoped to cure him of the vile desires, and then in that light Locke had asked for forgiveness from a man he’d wronged. That man, Colton, had murdered him in cold blood. Yet now, when faced with another similar situation, the townspeople chose not to embrace the forgiveness, but instead the murderer? It was more than Ezekai could understand. He didn’t want to understand it. He didn’t want to believe it. He cherished these people. He protected them. He loved them, even the poor, sick Saul that hung from a rope.

  Ezekai lifted his sword.

  “This cannot happen,” he told them. “It will not happen, not again. Not ever.”

  He turned to cut free the body only to find a wall blocking him. The men were gathering together, holding their rakes, shovels, and scythes as weapons against him.

  “He hangs,” said the man in charge. “We called no angel, and we’re a hundred miles from Mordeina. What Saul did deserved death by every law known to us, even yours, and we administered that law. Don’t you dare cut him down.”

  “The law called for you to shred his loins? The law said your fear of being caught allows a child to die of sickness? Move aside, now.”

  They did not. He saw their fear, sensed it, but they wouldn’t move. Not on their own. But Ezekai would make them. He flung himself forward, his blade whirling. Most of the men turned to flee, but a few tried to fight. Their instruments shattered against his shining blade, their worn iron nothing compared to steel forged in the smiths of eternity. Ezekai shifted, pushed, doing everything possible to harm not a single man. When he cleared the other side, he flapped his wings, rose into the air, and then sliced through the rope.

  Saul’s body crumpled to the ground. Ezekai landed before it and met the eyes of those who stood against him.

  “Bury him,” he commanded.

  “Bury him yourself,” said the dirty-faced man. “What are you going to do if we don’t? Kill us?”

  Ezekai’s jaw trembled.

  “You tread on dangerous ground,” he said softly. “You aren’t above mercy. You aren’t wiser than the heavens.”

  He grabbed the rope and flew, flew until he found a spot far away from the town. Landing on the soft grass, he jammed his sword into the dirt, twisted it to the side, and then tore into the ground. With his bare hands he dug free the rest. His skin was tough, but so was the ground, and it wasn’t long before drops of his scarlet blood mixed with the earth. Deeper and deeper he dug the grave, moving with greater urgency. Without a word he pushed the corpse into the hole, then started filling it. At last it was finished, and with solemn silence he sat on his knees. With his wings he patted down the dirt atop the grave, and with his tears he marked the headstone.

  Ezekai looked to his sword, its shining blade now covered with dirt, and remembered the impulse he’d felt as the humans challenged him. The desire to prove them wrong. The desire to end their anger, pride, and hatred. The desire to kill.

  “Help us, Ashhur,” Ezekai said, curling his body together, crumpling his bleeding hands into the loose earth of the grave beneath his chest. “Heavens help us, what are we becoming?”

  Harruq stepped out into the private courtyard, still adjusting the straps of his armor. His swords swung wildly at his hips, the buckle not tightened correctly. Not that it mattered. He didn’t march into battle, just a spar, one he desperately, desperately needed.

  “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” Judarius said. An easy smile was on the angel’s face, his enormous mace resting across one shoulder. His eyes, a mixture of green and gold, sparkled.

  “I’m killing Antonil the moment he gets back,” Harruq said, giving his belt a savage tug to tighten it. “Thought it might be best to confess that now, get it all out of the way.”

  “Pressures of running a kingdom?”

  “Pressures of running it badly. Careful with your swings, by the way. I’ve been told these flower pots are rather old.”

  Judarius looked at the flowers, growing in vases of white marble, and then shrugged.

  “I will do my best,” he said. “But if I must, I will replace them with vases of pearl and gold from Avlimar. Are you ready, half-orc?”

  Harruq drew his swords, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles beginning to ease. Standing there with his blades in his hands made him think to his days training with Haern the Watcher. Back then he’d relied on strength alone, his fighting style the equivalent of a bull running someone over. He liked to think he was better now, and as Judarius raised his mace, Harruq wondered if Haern would be proud of him. It was a strange thought, a bitter remembrance, and it nearly cost him his first hit. Judarius’s mace swung in, almost lazy compared to what the mighty warrior was capable of. Harruq crossed his swords and blocked, letting out a grunt as he did.

  “What’s that?” Judarius asked, stepping back and slamming the hilt of the mace toward Harruq’s gut. “Have you gotten fat already?”

  Harruq shoved the wood aside, twirled Salvation in his left hand, and then thrust. The angel’s mace was already turning, easily shoving the blade high. Two more hits he tried, his swords thudding against the enchanted wood that made up the mace’s handle. More and more, as sweat ran down his face and neck, Harruq felt his stress ease. This was what he knew. Parry, dodge, thrust, counter. Weapon colliding against weapon, strength meeting strength. What madness had made Antonil think he could handle constant requests for money he did not have, justice he did not understand, and soldiers he could not give?

  “You’ve slowed,” Judarius said, feigning an attack but then assaulting anyway. The mace came slamming in, and it took all of Harruq’s strength to stand against it.

  “I’m getting old. Happens to the best of us.”

  “You? Old?” Condemnation swung through the air inches from the angel’s chestpiece. “You have elf blood in your veins. I think you have a good fifty years more before you can consider yourself worthy of a few gray hairs.”

  It was something Aurelia had mentioned long before, and it still struck Harruq as odd. It also made him annoyed. So he was just out of practice, then, too lazy and stressed to perform the exercises Haern had taught him. He thought back to when he’d fought the demon god, Thulos, standing against him even when the angels could not. He was pretty sure that old Harruq would wallop the current one, and the aggravation sent him on the offensive, a constant assault that Judarius still blocked with ease.

  “You won last we fought,” Judarius said. “What happened?”

  He finally leapt into the air, his great wings flapping to launch him several feet backward. He landed beside the wall of the courtyard, his wings knocking over two different flower vases. They hit with dull thuds but did not br
eak. Harruq winced anyway.

  “I think they’d make me pay for that,” he said.

  Judarius gave him an incredulous look.

  “We spar, yet all you can think about are flowers? Perhaps you should have stayed on your throne.”

  Harruq settled into a stance, his swords crossed before him as he struggled to regain his breath.

  “You haven’t scored a hit yet,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check.

  “I haven’t tried.”

  “If you won’t try, then you’re right, I should have stayed on the throne. After all, I’d hate to waste my time.”

  A bit of disappointment flashed in Judarius’s eyes. His chiseled body tensed, and he readied his mace.

  “Careful,” he said. “It isn’t wise to taunt an angel.”

  Harruq smirked.

  “Nor a half-orc.”

  Judarius used his wings to add to his momentum, hurtling across the courtyard with his mace in full swing. For a brief moment Harruq felt afraid, but his pride pushed it away. Legs tensed, mouth pulled into a snarl, he flung both his blades in the way of the mighty weapon.

  The shock of the hit stole his breath away, and he flew several feet back, colliding with a marble pillar built near the outer ring of the garden. Harruq slumped against it, leaning his head back and laughing.

  “Lost my edge in fighting, too,” he said. “Good to know I’m now worthless everywhere.”

  Judarius approached, his mace flung over his shoulder. There was no joy in his eyes despite his victory.

  “You’re more troubled than I thought,” he said. “Is it really so terrible?”

  Harruq let out a sigh as he closed his eyes.

  “I was prepared for it to be tough,” he said. “But this is still so much worse than I ever could have believed. Everyone looks to me as if I wield so much power, yet in truth I’ve never felt more helpless in all my life.”

  He waved his hands about, gesturing to where servants were watching, ready to come to him at a moment’s notice.

  “Never alone,” he said. “Never in need. Never allowed to go beyond the castle without guards. Our kings are prisoners, Judarius. No wonder so many turn mad and bitter.”

  The angel set the mace down, then sat opposite Harruq, his wings folding behind his back.

  “Do not feel you are alone in this,” Judarius said. He frowned, looked away as if embarrassed. “I once led armies, commanding angel legions into battle against the demons of our kind. I even faced the mad god, testing my might against him. Yet now what am I? Who do I command, and what enemies do I fight against? All I know is war. All I have been taught is strategy and conquest. And now, here in this peace, I am lost. I am without purpose.”

  “You protect mankind.”

  “From themselves,” the angel said, shaking his head. “Our enemies are our friends, our friends our enemies. There are no battle lines. There are no sides. If this is a war, it is one I fear I am losing. I have told Ahaesarus that this cannot go on, but he insists.”

  Harruq was surprised to hear that the angels shared such similar concerns. For some reason he’d thought their opinions would be unanimous, but that showed a mindset so many others had, that the angels were all one and the same. But Judarius and Azariah, both brothers, were about as far apart as Harruq was to Qurrah. His mind drifted, thinking of what the arguments must be like up in Avlimar when the entire angel host gathered…

  “Milord?”

  Harruq turned, then pushed himself to his feet as he realized the queen stood at the entrance to the garden. She wore a soft yellow dress, and the sunlight shone off her thin crown.

  “I’m not your lord,” he told her. “You’re the one in charge here, and you of all people should know that.”

  A smile tugged at her lips, but it vanished far too quickly.

  “I…” she stopped, glancing at Judarius. “I fear I bring troubling news.”

  “What?” Harruq asked.

  “It’s only a rumor, but I believe there is truth in it. Harruq…some villagers were attacked by an angel.”

  Harruq’s mouth dropped open. He looked to Judarius, dreading the angel’s reaction, but so far he remained calm, his eyes locked on Susan.

  “Go on,” Judarius said.

  “I’ve yet to hear a consensus as to where, but it was a village in the south, near the border to Ker. There was a disagreement over the punishment of a criminal, though I can’t say the exact nature of it. The angel drew his blade against them. Most say none were hurt, but a few are claiming otherwise.”

  Harruq sheathed his swords, keeping his hands on the hilts, wishing he could feel the same release of tension as when he first stepped out into the yard. If an angel attacked innocent villagers, for any reason, then the protests would spread. Susan’s brother would leap on it immediately, spreading word of the tyranny from the heavens. And as things spiraled worse and worse, both sides would look to him, expecting him to fix it. Expecting him to have the answers.

  He turned to Judarius, but before he could speak the angel interrupted him.

  “I will discover what I can,” he said. “We must not let the kingdom be divided over rumors and lies. Be patient for the truth, Harruq. When everything is known, we will decide the fates of all involved.”

  Judarius dipped his head toward the queen, then soared off into the sky, heading straight for the distant glimmer that was Avlimar. Harruq watched him go, feeling panic creep around the corners of his mind.

  Susan took his hand, and he flinched as if shocked.

  “You’ll be fine,” she told him, her eyes on Avlimar. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here.”

  She kissed his cheek before retreating back into the castle.

  “I can’t do this,” Harruq whispered. He looked ever higher. “You hear me, Ashhur? I can’t do this. You’ve got to help me out here. Because…”

  He swallowed, felt a chill spreading through his veins.

  “Because this will all crumble if you don’t.”

  9

  Small squads of Bram’s soldiers had followed them at all times, saying nothing, only ensuring that as the week passed Antonil’s army never tarried on their way to the eastern side. Sticking to the roads limited what they could see of Ker, which disappointed Tarlak. Through their rapid travel he saw a healthy land, with not a hint of the wreckage that had waylaid Mordan, brought forth by both demons and rebellion.

  The Rigon River formed the eastern border of Ker. Twice as wide as the Corinth, its only crossing was via the two fabled Gods’ Bridges that connected the Rigon Delta, Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine, Karak’s Bridge over the eastern. But as Tarlak approached Ashhur’s Bridge alongside Antonil, it resembled little of what he once remembered. In between the arches, where there’d been worn statues of winged knights, there were now rows of barricades. The stone floor, which had once been rare white marble, was now hidden beneath wooden walls and planks. It seemed spears poked out in all directions, as if the bridge were the back of a porcupine. Killing lanes, walls, trenches, all built with one purpose in mind: protecting Ker from the orcs beyond.

  A single soldier rode out to meet them as they approached the bridge.

  “Greetings King of Mordan,” said the soldier. “My name is Yoric, and I control Ashhur’s Bridge. I’ve been informed that your army will pass through without incident. My men have stood down, and we request you make haste to the other side.”

  “We will do our best,” Antonil said.

  “Thank you,” said Yoric. “So you know, the orcs haven’t touched us in months, but I think that’s because they figured out we’ve no intentions of traveling beyond the river. Be careful in there, your highness. It’s a different world, even compared to when you last came.”

  The reminder of his failed first campaign made Antonil’s face twitch.

  “Your warning is appreciated,” he said dryly.

  In tightly packed rows his army marched through the winding pathways built upon the br
idge, coming out the other side into lands of the delta. Another few hours and they would cross the second bridge, which would dump them out into an area that had once belonged to the nation of Omn. Now only orcs remained, with the exception of the distant city of Angelport, whose walls had helped protect it from the invaders and whose ships kept its people from starving. Being fairly close to the elven lands didn’t hurt much, either.

  When the last of the soldiers and wagons were across, Tarlak finally crossed the bridge himself.

  “Keep the way back open for us,” he said, tossing Yoric a wink. “Just in case we come screaming for our lives, a horde of orcs on our tail.”

  “No orc will cross this bridge,” Yoric said. “I assure you, come your return, victorious or otherwise, we’ll be here waiting.”

  “My heroes,” Tarlak said, offering an exaggerated bow before snapping his fingers, summoning a gust of wind to blow him into the air and back toward the front of the army, where Antonil marched.

  After crossing into Omn, Tarlak oversaw the setting up of the camp, positioning wagons and yelling at men dumb enough to pitch their tents beyond his preset lines. It gave the wizard a headache, but at least he got to take it out on the rest of the men. When he’d circled the enormous camp twice and yelled himself hoarse, he finally joined Antonil. To his surprise, he found the king sitting alone before his tent, a fire burning not far from his feet.

  “Shouldn’t you be surrounded by generals, advisors, and various bootlickers?” Tarlak asked.

  “I sent them away,” Antonil said.

  “Proof you’re a good king, or a terrible one,” Tarlak said, grabbing one of many empty chairs from the tent and propping it opposite Antonil. “Sadly, I’m not sure which.”

  “We’ll know the answer by the time this campaign ends.”