David Dalglish: The Prison of Angels

“I will not ask of your guilt, for the blood on you is free for all to see,” Ezekai said. “Before I execute you, tell me, Colton, do you repent your crime? Will you kneel and ask for Ashhur’s mercy and grace?”

A bitter smile tugged at Colton’s lips as he struggled against the men holding him.

“Repent?” he asked. “No. Not now, not ever.”

He heard Lily cry out, but his heart was pumping too fast, his mind lost in a whirl of exhilaration and terror too deep to feel regret. Locke deserved to die. It was the one thing he knew, the one thing he firmly believed with every shred of his soul. Looking upon the angel, he would not lie, would not disgrace himself with such pathetic sniveling.

“You speak your truth,” Ezekai said as he drew his sword. “And it saddens me greatly. You were a good man, Colton. Let there be no doubt.”

The gathered crowd, which had fallen deathly silent, let out a sudden roar. Colton’s smile grew as he heard it. In his mind he heard the chant multiplying, felt the anger spreading across Mordan like a wave. Righteous men and women, fists to the air, crying out against their prison of angels. He would be the spark, he thought, the flame that set the land ablaze.

“Stand away!” Ezekai cried, and his golden blade circled over his head. Colton saw the people step back, obeying despite their anger. Just a dream of change, thought Colton, but he clung to it anyway. He couldn’t think of Lily, couldn’t think of Krista growing up without him. What he’d done was right, was best…

Up came the blade.

“You’re killing the wrong man,” Colton said, his voice rising. “The wrong man, you hear me? The wrong man! The-”

Down came the blade, and though it ended his cry, it still echoed on and on through villages miles beyond.

“Are you sure we have to do this?” Harruq asked as Aurelia looked over his armor for what felt like the hundredth time. Her fingers brushed away dust noticeable only by the sharpest of elven eyes.

“It’d look bad,” his wife said, frowning as she adjusted the long red cloak that had been tailored just for the occasion.

“I don’t mind looking bad. I think I prefer it.”

“For Antonil.”

Harruq grabbed Aurelia’s hands, and when she glared up at him he smiled. Slowly she relaxed, leaning her head against his dark leather armor.

“You mean something to them,” she said as he held her close. “To all of them, and right now Antonil needs every bit of love from the crowds he can get.”

Harruq let out a defeated sigh.

“I know,” he said. “So do I pass inspection?”

“Close enough for human eyes. What of me?”

She twirled in her beautiful, elven-styled dress laced with gold. Her hair was looped into an intricate design, the braids across her forehead looking like a circlet. Seven emeralds hung from silver thread curled into the braids on either side of her face, and each time she twirled they sparkled with magic.

“Why’d you marry me again?” he asked.

“Stupidity. Now let’s go. We can’t keep them waiting forever.”

He extended his arm, she took it, and together they stepped out from behind the curtain, then hooked left down the crimson carpet. Standing about were dozens of guards in glimmering armor. Between them stood King Antonil Copernus.

“Large smiles,” Antonil said, and the amusement in his eyes made Harruq want to smack him, royalty or not.

“You owe me,” Harruq muttered. The way Antonil laughed made the half-orc worry greatly.

“That I do,” the king said. “You’ll find out how much soon enough.”

Before Harruq could enquire further, Aurelia pulled him along, across the last of the crimson carpet, over white marble stones, and emerged into the roar of the gathered crowds beyond the doors of the great castle of Mordeina. Thousands of people lined either side of the road that led down to the twin walls of the city. Harruq felt his throat constrict, and he forced himself to breathe. So many people…

“Walk,” Aurelia whispered into his ear, hiding the command with a pleased smile. Harruq forced one foot forward, then the other, and at last the spell brought on by the crowd broke. He grinned, feeling like a goof. With his free hand he waved to the people, guessing it the proper thing to do. Aurelia kept both her hands on his arm as they walked, looking as elegant as a princess. Down the steps they traveled, people hailing him a hero, cheering for the mighty Godslayer. The children in particular pushed hardest to the front, crawling if need be to see through the line of soldiers that held back the masses. They gawked at his armor, and he saw several making motions with their hands. Knowing what they wanted, he chuckled, drew Condemnation from its sheath, and held the black blade above his head to even greater cheers.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” Aurelia said, still smiling.

“I don’t,” Harruq said. “But I might as well enjoy it.”

“If you must,” Aurelia said. “But control your eyes. Some of the younger girls seem to have problems keeping their blouses on.”

To this Harruq sheathed his sword, kissed Aurelia on the mouth, and then hurried on. A second roar began, and he glanced back to see King Antonil exiting the castle, flanked by his handpicked guard. At first he felt pride knowing his cheer had been louder, but worry quickly washed away that feeling. It hadn’t been just a little louder…the cheer for Antonil was weak and fading fast.

“You weren’t kidding,” Harruq muttered. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The farther from the castle they went, the rowdier the crowd became, and the people’s shouts weren’t always so joyful. Catcalls mixed with the cheers, and as Antonil neared, Harruq heard them grow stronger.

“Traitor!” someone shouted.

“Coward! Murderer!”

“Foreigner!”

The worst, though, the one that echoed throughout the crowd, was the title that had haunted Antonil’s reign since his second year.

“All hail the Missing King!”

At the very bottom of the hill, where the road met the first wall, Mordan’s army gathered. Thirty thousand men, all enlisted to retake the east from the horde of orcs that had gone unchecked since the end of the Gods’ War. The parade was for their departure, the launching of Antonil’s second campaign to retake his homeland. Much of the celebration was bittersweet, but still the underlying anger surprised him. Was it because of how terrible Antonil’s first attempt at freeing the east from the orcs had gone? Or was there something more?

When Harruq and Aurelia arrived, the soldiers drew their swords and raised them high. He passed below them, a roof of steel above. At Antonil’s arrival the blades lifted higher, and they let out their cry.

“Long live the King!”

Echoed by the voices of thirty thousand, the words gave Harruq chills. He felt Aurelia squeeze his arm, showing she felt it too.

In the center of the soldiers, a wooden platform had been hastily constructed. On it were two seats. One was empty, waiting for Antonil to take his place. In the other sat Susan Copernus, his wife of five years. She was young and slender, her milky skin powdered into an almost ghostly white. Her brown hair was looped similarly to Aurelia’s, only with less intricacy and more jewels. Up the stairs of the platform they stepped, the two taking their designated spot beside the queen.

“Were you lonely waiting for us?” Harruq asked her as Antonil climbed the steps.

“I daily count the hours until you grace my presence,” she said. Her voice was deathly serious, but he could see the laugh shimmering in her eyes.

“It’s all right,” said Tarlak Eschaton, standing on the other side of the thrones. “I kept her entertained until your arrival.”