David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“I heard Antonil’s words with my own ears,” she said. “He would deny your basic right to control your borders. He would deny your sovereignty. Do you believe me now?”

Bram swore, flung off his pauldrons so they fell in a clattering display. Loreina stepped back, gave him his space to brood.

“They won’t invade,” he said, shaking his head. “Stubborn and foolish as Antonil is, his eyes are only for his former kingdom. He is no threat, not if we stay out of the way of his hopeless crusades.”

“It’s not Antonil I fear,” Loreina said. “It’s his replacement.”

It was true, of course. The whispering winds of politics blew south, and they whispered with greater certainty Antonil’s fate. His grip on Mordan was slipping away with each passing month. Whether through death in battle, betrayal in court, or a full blown uprising of nobles, his time as king approached its end.

“What more can we do?” Bram asked. “His army is the greater, doubly so if you include his angels. Open warfare against Mordan would destroy us all, and that cannot happen. If we fall, then the last hope of there being a free nation in all of Dezrel, at least one not ruled by monsters, falls with us.”

Loreina slipped closer, put her hands around his waist.

“Patience,” she said. “It is not the same as doing nothing. We keep our eyes open. There will come a time when Antonil is weak, when the angels no longer fly above him. It is in that moment we will refuse to bow our knee. It is in that moment we will show the world we will not be mocked or ignored. We are a sovereign nation, not a footstool.”

She was on her knees now, her hands drifting down to his belt.

“And remember,” she said to him. “You must remain calm around your men. Don’t worry. I’ll help you with that.”

Bram swallowed, close his eyes, and then mentally swore a hundred times when he heard someone call his name from outside the tent. He recognized the voice, too. It was Sir Ian Millar, his most trusted knight and commander of his armies. The man’s service had been invaluable during the Gods’ War.

“Yes?” Bram asked through the fabric of the tent.

“Milord, I would seek your advice.”

“Can it wait?”

“I fear it cannot.”

Bram let out a sigh, pushed back his wife.

“Later,” he told her.

“I have duties I must attend,” she said, rising from her knees.

“Then much later.”

His mood now even worse, Bram stormed out of his tent, still tightening his belt.

“What is it?” he asked Ian. The knight saluted, and the worry in his eyes dispelled Bram’s immature mood.

“If you would, please follow me while I explain,” the knight said, spinning on his heels and marching toward the bridge.

“Has there been trouble with Antonil’s men during the crossing?” Bram asked.

“Nothing beyond the ordinary. It isn’t Antonil’s men I’m unsure of how to deal with. Watch your step, and then look to the sky.”

Bram’s stomach tightened, and he knew what he’d see before he ever looked skyward. Flying in v-formations were several dozen angels. Golden-hued armor glinted in the sunlight, and in their hands were the unmistakable shapes of swords, shields, and spears.

“Do they accompany Antonil’s men, or are they merely seeing them off?” Bram asked, lifting a hand to shade his eyes as he looked.

“So far they have not crossed the border,” Ian said. “They’re merely circling their current position. I’ve ordered our archers ready just in case.”

“In case what? You would spark war while Antonil’s army marches through the very center of our camp?”

Beside him, Ian stiffened.

“Their kind has been banned from Ker,” he said. “Forgive me if I erred in preparing to enforce your laws.”

“We gave Antonil’s army freedom to pass,” Bram said. “One might consider the angels part of that army.”

“Then they should have stated as much. I do not care what any one person might say. What do you say, milord?”

Bram stared at the angels, his stomach continuing to twist. It felt like there were stones grinding within him. Just the sight of the creatures was enough to make him feel a flutter of fear. Their size, their speed, their ability to circumvent any standard defensive formation or benefit of terrain…they were so clearly not of Dezrel. The hairs on his neck lifted.

“If they try to fly over, let loose our arrows,” Bram said.

“If they remain as high as they are, we won’t hit them.”

“I’m counting on it. Send them a message, and make it as clear as the message Antonil sent me.”

Together they watched as the remainder of Antonil’s army slowly crossed over the bridge, through the camp, and into the heart of Ker, a great train of wagons marking the last of their passing. It took the greater part of an hour, and all the while the angels circled.

“Do they ever get tired?” Ian asked, still on edge.

“Apparently not.”

So far the angels showed no inclination of following Antonil into Ker. As much as Bram wanted a chance to save face, he felt himself beginning to relax.

“Even if they don’t pass now, they might wait until dark, or perhaps fly farther north beforehand,” Ian suggested while rubbing his neck, which was no doubt sore from spending so much time staring up at the sky. “Bridges mean nothing to their kind.”

“No,” Bram said. “I know them too well. To cross in secret would mean admitting they know what they do is wrong, or should be hidden. If they’re to spit in the face of my laws, they’ll do it here, now.”

Bram’s words caught in his throat. As if they could hear him, one of the angel formations suddenly dipped lower, curling around to fly directly over the bridge. Ian saw it, immediately began running about shouting orders. Bram watched their approach, did his best to calculate the angle. Despite his fury for their insolence, he felt a sudden spike of panic. They were coming in far too low, and would fly within the reach of his archers.

“Belay that order!” Bram shouted, but it was too late. The angels were streaking in at inhuman speeds, and for the past hour the archers had been given a single, specific command: if the angels flew over, let loose with all they had.

Up into the air sailed hundreds of arrows, rising together like an inverse rain. The group of angels, seven in all, flared their wings and tried to rise. It didn’t matter. Bram saw the arrows climb, saw war ready to spill forth before him. News of a dead angel, let alone seven, would be all it’d take for those watching his nation with hungry eyes to put their plans in motion.

And then a shadow tore open in the air, spreading wide like a shield. Within it were a legion of six-fingered hands, their skin shining a translucent purple. They batted at the arrows, snapping them with a mere touch, as above the seven angels beat their wings and lifted higher into the air. The other formations circled close, and Bram could almost taste the tension spreading. When the last of the arrows was a cloud of splinters falling back to Dezrel, the dark collection of hands vanished as if they had never been.

“What in Karak’s name was that?” Ian asked, rejoining his king’s side.

“An undeserved gift,” Bram said. He nodded to the angels. “What do they wait for?”

“They’re discussing,” Ian said, having watched them closely.

“Prepare the archers just in case. I was a fool, but not this time. If they swoop in again, they’ll be coming for blood. If we’re lucky we’ll have them dead before Antonil’s men find out and try to return the favor.”

Before Ian could carry out the order, the angels gathered together into one large formation, turned north, and flew away. Bram closed his eyes, let out a sigh of relief. His army’s presence at the Bloodbrick was meant as a message, a warning. The last thing he truly wanted was war.