David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“Bram hasn’t always struck me as the most rational of men.”

“Nonsense,” Antonil said. “He’s the most rational man I know. That’s why he’s so frustrating to the rest of us.”

Tarlak shrugged.

“However you want to explain it, it still worries me. Is he playing with us, or does he really think a war is best for anyone? Games or madness, neither one I’d want to be involved with.”

“Could you form a crossing for us if he refuses, perhaps farther north?”

Tarlak rubbed his chin as he stared at the river.

“Damming it wouldn’t do much,” he said. “River’s too large, too deep. Levitating thirty thousand men over the water isn’t going to happen, either. Best I could do is try to freeze the top, forming a bridge while letting the river continue to pass beneath. It’d take a lot of concentration, though, and I’d prefer we just walk across the stone bridge the idiot king is guarding.”

“Duly noted. Bring me my generals. Until we see reason otherwise, we’ll pretend Bram has every intention of letting us cross. I don’t want to show up brimming for a fight.”

“There’s thirty thousand of us wearing armor and carrying swords, not counting the angels accompanying us,” Tarlak said. “Unless we approach naked, we’ll look prepared for a fight. But yes, keeping everyone calm is probably best.”

Tarlak turned his horse about, found the nearest general, and relayed Antonil’s request for a meeting. That done, he returned to the front, putting himself at the far corner of the vanguard so he could not see or hear the discussion. So far the generals had shown significant mistrust of him and his yellow robes. Given the absolute destruction various spellcasters had rent upon the land during the Gods’ War, he didn’t blame them. Much.

As Antonil talked, Tarlak scanned King Bram’s army. Ten thousand approximately, all appearing well-armed and well-trained. They ran about like ants upon seeing their approach, but Tarlak sensed they weren’t there for war. The bridge had no defenses placed upon it, no barricades or spear walls. The same went for the men on the far side. They had built no ballista or catapults, weapons that could have devastated Antonil’s army while they struggled to cross the bridge. No, either they planned an ambush, or a show of force. If it was a show of force, it was a hollow one. Antonil hadn’t the slightest desire to invade Ker, not with his homeland still occupied by orcs. If it was an ambush…

He snapped his fingers, and fire sparked from his fingertips. If it was an ambush, they’d get to see just how much destruction a spellcaster could wreak.

“The king requests your presence,” one of the fatter generals said, disturbing Tarlak and his thoughts.

“Very well,” Tarlak said, nodding his head and then tugging on the reins of his horse. The Bloodbrick was less than a quarter mile away, and despite Antonil’s assurances, Tarlak felt unease spreading through the men. He felt unease as well, but for a different reason. Something about the distant army felt vaguely…familiar, like a thorn in his mind.

“I want you at my side when we request passage,” Antonil said as Tarlak rejoined him.

“I was thinking I presented greater tactical value elsewhere.”

“And where’s that?”

Tarlak gestured behind him.

“All the way in the back. If there’s to be a fight, I’d prefer thirty thousand men be between me and it.”

The laughter helped ease their tensions. Closer and closer loomed the bridge, until at last Tarlak and Antonil rode together toward Bram’s army, a token guard on either side of them. Riding out to meet them was Lord Bram and his own personal squad of knights. Banners for either side flying high, Tarlak held his breath as his liege spoke.

“Greetings, King Bram,” Antonil said. “My friend. My ally. Once again I march to my homeland, to retake what the orcs have desecrated with their presence. Have you raised an army to join me in this quest?”

Bram shook his head, laughing.

“After how your last crusade went? No, Antonil, I prefer my soldiers alive, not dead.”

Tarlak noticed neither made mention of crossing the bridge. No doubt Antonil wanted Bram to offer it freely, and Bram wanted Antonil to ask no matter the answer he planned to give. The wizard let out a sigh. Politics. He hated it.

“Forgive me for my abruptness, but my time is short, and I have need of your bridge,” Antonil said. “Would you grant my men and I permission to cross?”

“No. I will not.”

Bram answered so smoothly, so quickly, that Tarlak could hardly believe it. He grabbed the side of Antonil’s cloak and tugged as the simple answer echoed throughout the camps.

“He’s lying,” Tarlak said softly, so no one else would hear.

“How do you know?”

Behind them, Antonil’s army was stirring, all of them expecting war, or at least some sort of skirmish for such blatant disrespect. Tarlak’s mind whirled.

“He’s too pleased with himself,” Tarlak insisted. “He’s testing you. He wants to know how you’ll respond.”

“How I’ll respond? So be it.” Antonil drew his sword, and he called out to Bram. “We are crossing, Bram. You have no stake in this, no right to deny me passage. I ride with thirty thousand, and if I must I can call forth a legion of angels. Do you still refuse?”

“I have the right of a sovereign lord to protect my borders,” shouted Bram. “But I see even after all this time you will never consider me as such. Move quickly through my lands, Antonil. Do not consider me friend or ally. You war against the orcs on your own.”

Bram turned about and barked a command. His army shifted so that the road between was clear. Without another word, the king rode over the bridge and vanished into the thick crowd of soldiers.

“Not very diplomatic of you,” Tarlak muttered as the generals readied their army to march.

“I’m sick of this,” Antonil said. “Here, back home, everywhere posturing and politics and betrayal. If he would refuse me, then fight me. If not, then don’t waste my time. I will not play his game.”

Man after my own heart , thought Tarlak.

As they rode across the Bloodbrick, Tarlak didn’t bother to tell his king that he had played along, whether he’d wanted to or not. Bram had his answer, knew exactly how Antonil viewed his army and his borders. And of course, he just had to mention the angels.

Stepping off the bridge and into Ker, Tarlak felt the tingling in his mind grow stronger. He glanced about, unsure of what exactly he was searching for but convinced he’d know it if he saw it. And then, to his left, he spotted the large dark eyes that belonged to only one woman in all of Dezrel. He stiffened atop his horse, their eyes met, and Tarlak felt a shiver run through him as Tessanna offered him the slightest of smiles. A distant part of his mind realized Qurrah stood behind her, face downcast, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Why are they here? Tarlak wondered. Have they turned against the angels after all?

Sadly he knew he would get no answer. So onward he rode, the hour passing as Antonil’s army slowly crossed into the land of Ker.

Bram returned to his tent, furious at the series of events, though his pride dictated he hide it. Antonil had done his best to humiliate him, prove him the weaker. The only way to save face was to pretend the challenge beneath him, and showing frustration would only reveal it for the lie it was. Stepping inside his tent, he let out a sigh, set down his sword.

“I swear, Loreina, things were simpler when we fought armies of demons,” he said. “And men were smarter, too.”

Rising from the cot, her brown hair braided down to her waist, was his wife. She put her hands around his neck, kissed his lips, then smiled. It dimpled her face, making her look as young as she was when he first married her. The intelligence in her eyes, the fiery ambition, was there now as it had always been. With the encroachment of the angels it had only gotten brighter, so much she demanded to come with him instead of remaining behind in Angkar where it was safer.