David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“The law called for you to shred his loins? The law said your fear of being caught allows a child to die of sickness? Move aside, now.”

They did not. He saw their fear, sensed it, but they wouldn’t move. Not on their own. But Ezekai would make them. He flung himself forward, his blade whirling. Most of the men turned to flee, but a few tried to fight. Their instruments shattered against his shining blade, their worn iron nothing compared to steel forged in the smiths of eternity. Ezekai shifted, pushed, doing everything possible to harm not a single man. When he cleared the other side, he flapped his wings, rose into the air, and then sliced through the rope.

Saul’s body crumpled to the ground. Ezekai landed before it and met the eyes of those who stood against him.

“Bury him,” he commanded.

“Bury him yourself,” said the dirty-faced man. “What are you going to do if we don’t? Kill us?”

Ezekai’s jaw trembled.

“You tread on dangerous ground,” he said softly. “You aren’t above mercy. You aren’t wiser than the heavens.”

He grabbed the rope and flew, flew until he found a spot far away from the town. Landing on the soft grass, he jammed his sword into the dirt, twisted it to the side, and then tore into the ground. With his bare hands he dug free the rest. His skin was tough, but so was the ground, and it wasn’t long before drops of his scarlet blood mixed with the earth. Deeper and deeper he dug the grave, moving with greater urgency. Without a word he pushed the corpse into the hole, then started filling it. At last it was finished, and with solemn silence he sat on his knees. With his wings he patted down the dirt atop the grave, and with his tears he marked the headstone.

Ezekai looked to his sword, its shining blade now covered with dirt, and remembered the impulse he’d felt as the humans challenged him. The desire to prove them wrong. The desire to end their anger, pride, and hatred. The desire to kill.

“Help us, Ashhur,” Ezekai said, curling his body together, crumpling his bleeding hands into the loose earth of the grave beneath his chest. “Heavens help us, what are we becoming?”

Harruq stepped out into the private courtyard, still adjusting the straps of his armor. His swords swung wildly at his hips, the buckle not tightened correctly. Not that it mattered. He didn’t march into battle, just a spar, one he desperately, desperately needed.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” Judarius said. An easy smile was on the angel’s face, his enormous mace resting across one shoulder. His eyes, a mixture of green and gold, sparkled.

“I’m killing Antonil the moment he gets back,” Harruq said, giving his belt a savage tug to tighten it. “Thought it might be best to confess that now, get it all out of the way.”

“Pressures of running a kingdom?”

“Pressures of running it badly. Careful with your swings, by the way. I’ve been told these flower pots are rather old.”

Judarius looked at the flowers, growing in vases of white marble, and then shrugged.

“I will do my best,” he said. “But if I must, I will replace them with vases of pearl and gold from Avlimar. Are you ready, half-orc?”

Harruq drew his swords, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles beginning to ease. Standing there with his blades in his hands made him think to his days training with Haern the Watcher. Back then he’d relied on strength alone, his fighting style the equivalent of a bull running someone over. He liked to think he was better now, and as Judarius raised his mace, Harruq wondered if Haern would be proud of him. It was a strange thought, a bitter remembrance, and it nearly cost him his first hit. Judarius’s mace swung in, almost lazy compared to what the mighty warrior was capable of. Harruq crossed his swords and blocked, letting out a grunt as he did.

“What’s that?” Judarius asked, stepping back and slamming the hilt of the mace toward Harruq’s gut. “Have you gotten fat already?”

Harruq shoved the wood aside, twirled Salvation in his left hand, and then thrust. The angel’s mace was already turning, easily shoving the blade high. Two more hits he tried, his swords thudding against the enchanted wood that made up the mace’s handle. More and more, as sweat ran down his face and neck, Harruq felt his stress ease. This was what he knew. Parry, dodge, thrust, counter. Weapon colliding against weapon, strength meeting strength. What madness had made Antonil think he could handle constant requests for money he did not have, justice he did not understand, and soldiers he could not give?

“You’ve slowed,” Judarius said, feigning an attack but then assaulting anyway. The mace came slamming in, and it took all of Harruq’s strength to stand against it.

“I’m getting old. Happens to the best of us.”

“You? Old?” Condemnation swung through the air inches from the angel’s chestpiece. “You have elf blood in your veins. I think you have a good fifty years more before you can consider yourself worthy of a few gray hairs.”

It was something Aurelia had mentioned long before, and it still struck Harruq as odd. It also made him annoyed. So he was just out of practice, then, too lazy and stressed to perform the exercises Haern had taught him. He thought back to when he’d fought the demon god, Thulos, standing against him even when the angels could not. He was pretty sure that old Harruq would wallop the current one, and the aggravation sent him on the offensive, a constant assault that Judarius still blocked with ease.

“You won last we fought,” Judarius said. “What happened?”

He finally leapt into the air, his great wings flapping to launch him several feet backward. He landed beside the wall of the courtyard, his wings knocking over two different flower vases. They hit with dull thuds but did not break. Harruq winced anyway.

“I think they’d make me pay for that,” he said.

Judarius gave him an incredulous look.

“We spar, yet all you can think about are flowers? Perhaps you should have stayed on your throne.”

Harruq settled into a stance, his swords crossed before him as he struggled to regain his breath.

“You haven’t scored a hit yet,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check.

“I haven’t tried.”

“If you won’t try, then you’re right, I should have stayed on the throne. After all, I’d hate to waste my time.”

A bit of disappointment flashed in Judarius’s eyes. His chiseled body tensed, and he readied his mace.

“Careful,” he said. “It isn’t wise to taunt an angel.”

Harruq smirked.

“Nor a half-orc.”

Judarius used his wings to add to his momentum, hurtling across the courtyard with his mace in full swing. For a brief moment Harruq felt afraid, but his pride pushed it away. Legs tensed, mouth pulled into a snarl, he flung both his blades in the way of the mighty weapon.

The shock of the hit stole his breath away, and he flew several feet back, colliding with a marble pillar built near the outer ring of the garden. Harruq slumped against it, leaning his head back and laughing.

“Lost my edge in fighting, too,” he said. “Good to know I’m now worthless everywhere.”

Judarius approached, his mace flung over his shoulder. There was no joy in his eyes despite his victory.

“You’re more troubled than I thought,” he said. “Is it really so terrible?”

Harruq let out a sigh as he closed his eyes.

“I was prepared for it to be tough,” he said. “But this is still so much worse than I ever could have believed. Everyone looks to me as if I wield so much power, yet in truth I’ve never felt more helpless in all my life.”

He waved his hands about, gesturing to where servants were watching, ready to come to him at a moment’s notice.