David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

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 crushing 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.

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.