David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“Where are our two guests?” he asked.

“I’ll lead you to them.”

Deep within their camp, the half-orc and his sorceress had been surrounded by his soldiers. So far none of his men had drawn blades or made any threatening motion. Bram understood their confusion. The spell they’d cast had countered an order given by their king, but Bram had also held private conversations with the two prior to Antonil’s arrival. Ian called for them to make way, and realizing their king had arrived, they quickly parted.

“Your archers have terrible aim,” Qurrah said before Bram could open his mouth. “I dare say you frightened them far more than you intended.”

The half-orc was giving him an out, and Bram gladly took it.

“The fault is mine for not giving proper orders, but your magic will frighten them more than my arrows. Move freely through my lands, half-orc, and know you will always be considered a close ally and friend.”

Bram meant it, too. Qurrah had read the circumstances and events correctly and then acted to prevent a war Bram himself had admitted he didn’t want. Such a powerful ally, he thought. If only he could somehow convince the half-orc and his strange bride to stay at his side, to use their intelligence and power for something greater than themselves.

“Your kindness is overwhelming,” Tessanna said. Her hands were wrapped around Qurrah’s arm, hugging him tightly. Bram sensed sarcasm in her words. There was no way for him to know their reasons for protecting the angels, not fully, so he let the matter drop. Instead he tilted his head the tiniest amount to show his respect, then marched away.

“What now?” Ian asked him.

“Now we plan,” he said, heading for his tent. “Word of what just happened will spread through Mordan quickly enough, and whatever the aftermath, we must be ready.”

He glanced to the sky, where the angels were but distant specks.

“Their brashness grows. War is coming, Ian, whether we want it or not. One god has fallen from this land, and the other hungers to possess the rest. How long until they deem our entire nation full of sinners needing repentance by sword?”

“They won’t go that far,” Ian quietly insisted. “I spoke with many angels during the war. We fought alongside them, and they were selfless allies. They cherish life. They embrace peace, and seek only to protect the innocent.”

“That was when we warred against demons,” Bram said, shaking his head. “That was when they knew their purpose. Five years is a long time, Ian. Long enough to forget the past. Long enough to become all too human.”

Bram looked once more to the sky, shook his head and turned away.

It was the happiest day of Jessilynn’s life, broken only by momentary terror every time Sonowin banked one way or another, forcing her to hold Dieredon tighter lest she fall. Given how they flew high enough to pierce the clouds, it would be a very, very long fall.

“You’d catch me, right?” she asked Dieredon, needing to shout directly into his ear to be heard over the wind that ripped at their hair and clothes. She sat bareback atop the winged horse, with nothing to hold onto but the elf’s waist, which she kept in a deathlock.

“If you fell?” Dieredon asked, glancing back at her.

She nodded.

“Most likely,” he said. He stared at her, then gently tugged on the reins. Sonowin’s great wings shifted angle, and they dipped lower with a stomach-churning lurch. When they leveled out, the clouds were far above them.

“Is it easier to breathe now?” he asked.

Meekly, Jessilynn nodded.

“I didn’t want to complain,” she said, and she meant it. Her excitement was great, and she hated to spoil it just because her head felt strangely light, or because her stomach seemed ready to empty the little remnants of her breakfast across miles and miles of faded grass.

The land rolled along as they flew north. Jessilynn spent a moment with her eyes closed, her forehead resting against Dieredon’s back. Slowly her stomach calmed, the world seeming to spin a little bit less. Rejuvenated, she looked out over the land and felt her spirit soar. Nothing compared to flying like a bird, seeing the shifting of the rivers and the entire limits of vast forests. Carefully she leaned a little to the right, to better see past Sonowin’s bobbing head.

“Is that it?” she shouted, almost pointing before thinking better of it.

“If you mean the gorge, then yes. We’re almost to the Bone Ditch.”

It was surreal seeing it from such height, a place that had been nothing more than a story to her while growing up. It was said that when Celestia created the orcs, she split the land, starting at where the Rigon flowed out of the northern mountains. It was a massive chasm now, the rock a faded red, the cliff faces sheer. At the very bottom the Rigon flowed along, steady as ever. The great span and deadly fall had been one of the most significant protections the eastern land of Neldar had against the creatures that had been trapped there. But during the Gods’ War the orcs within had been loosed, the prophet using his dark magic to aid their crossing.

“What do we do when we arrive?” Jessilynn asked, thinking of the bridges the orcs had supposedly constructed over the past few years.

Dieredon gave her a strange look.

“Land.”

Sonowin banked lower, and the growing proximity to the ground increased her sense of speed. The great chasm wound below them like a giant snake, until what had been a speck in the distance grew and grew, and she realized it was the orc bridge crossing the Bone Ditch. There was only one, constructed of weather-worn wood and thick ropes bound together with crude knots. Just thinking about crossing it made Jessilynn sick to her stomach. Sonowin looped around once, and then a hundred yards out from the western side they landed on the dull yellow grass of the Wedge.

Jessilynn leapt off the winged horse, her knees wobbling. Falling down, she clutched the grass as vomit climbed her throat.

“Focus on breathing,” Dieredon said, standing beside her. “Even elves sometimes feel discomfort from the speed and heights we climb.”

It made Jessilynn feel a little better as she puked onto the grass. Just a little.

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing herself to a stand. She pulled her bow off her back and scanned the bridge, looking for any threats. She saw none, and in her mind she heard no subtle warning of Ashhur alerting her to danger, either.

“Where are they?” she asked.

Dieredon frowned.

“Follow me,” he said. “Stay silent, and stay alert. Do not look ahead, but behind and to the sides. Trust my eyes for the front.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Dieredon started to walk, then stopped.

“‘Sir’ is a human title,” he said.

She immediately blushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to show respect. What should I call you?”

Dieredon cocked his head to the side.

“My name?”

The way he said it made it sound so simple, and she felt her blush growing, much as she hated it. She was not some immature girl. Her monthlies had begun years before, and by all rights she was a woman grown, but something about Dieredon made her feel so stupid, so unsure and unskilled. A simple berating by him shouldn’t embarrass her, especially when it wasn’t much of a berating at all.

Begging Ashhur to clear her head and nerves, she rapidly nodded.

“Of course,” she said. “Lead on.”

“Good. Keep your bow at ready, and follow behind me at ten paces.”

With a near fanatical obsession she followed his orders, and together they made their way to the ramshackle bridge. Every few moments she glanced behind them, where the yellow grass of the Wedge stretched on and on for miles. No matter how often she looked, she saw no signs of life. Up ahead was just as still, and when they reached the first plank of the bridge, Dieredon beckoned her over.