David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“Never alone,” he said. “Never in need. Never allowed to go beyond the castle without guards. Our kings are prisoners, Judarius. No wonder so many turn mad and bitter.”

The angel set the mace down, then sat opposite Harruq, his wings folding behind his back.

“Do not feel you are alone in this,” Judarius said. He frowned, looked away as if embarrassed. “I once led armies, commanding angel legions into battle against the demons of our kind. I even faced the mad god, testing my might against him. Yet now what am I? Who do I command, and what enemies do I fight against? All I know is war. All I have been taught is strategy and conquest. And now, here in this peace, I am lost. I am without purpose.”

“You protect mankind.”

“From themselves,” the angel said, shaking his head. “Our enemies are our friends, our friends our enemies. There are no battle lines. There are no sides. If this is a war, it is one I fear I am losing. I have told Ahaesarus that this cannot go on, but he insists.”

Harruq was surprised to hear that the angels shared such similar concerns. For some reason he’d thought their opinions would be unanimous, but that showed a mindset so many others had, that the angels were all one and the same. But Judarius and Azariah, both brothers, were about as far apart as Harruq was to Qurrah. His mind drifted, thinking of what the arguments must be like up in Avlimar when the entire angel host gathered…

“Milord?”

Harruq turned, then pushed himself to his feet as he realized the queen stood at the entrance to the garden. She wore a soft yellow dress, and the sunlight shone off her thin crown.

“I’m not your lord,” he told her. “You’re the one in charge here, and you of all people should know that.”

A smile tugged at her lips, but it vanished far too quickly.

“I…” she stopped, glancing at Judarius. “I fear I bring troubling news.”

“What?” Harruq asked.

“It’s only a rumor, but I believe there is truth in it. Harruq…some villagers were attacked by an angel.”

Harruq’s mouth dropped open. He looked to Judarius, dreading the angel’s reaction, but so far he remained calm, his eyes locked on Susan.

“Go on,” Judarius said.

“I’ve yet to hear a consensus as to where, but it was a village in the south, near the border to Ker. There was a disagreement over the punishment of a criminal, though I can’t say the exact nature of it. The angel drew his blade against them. Most say none were hurt, but a few are claiming otherwise.”

Harruq sheathed his swords, keeping his hands on the hilts, wishing he could feel the same release of tension as when he first stepped out into the yard. If an angel attacked innocent villagers, for any reason, then the protests would spread. Susan’s brother would leap on it immediately, spreading word of the tyranny from the heavens. And as things spiraled worse and worse, both sides would look to him, expecting him to fix it. Expecting him to have the answers.

He turned to Judarius, but before he could speak the angel interrupted him.

“I will discover what I can,” he said. “We must not let the kingdom be divided over rumors and lies. Be patient for the truth, Harruq. When everything is known, we will decide the fates of all involved.”

Judarius dipped his head toward the queen, then soared off into the sky, heading straight for the distant glimmer that was Avlimar. Harruq watched him go, feeling panic creep around the corners of his mind.

Susan took his hand, and he flinched as if shocked.

“You’ll be fine,” she told him, her eyes on Avlimar. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here.”

She kissed his cheek before retreating back into the castle.

“I can’t do this,” Harruq whispered. He looked ever higher. “You hear me, Ashhur? I can’t do this. You’ve got to help me out here. Because…”

He swallowed, felt a chill spreading through his veins.

“Because this will all crumble if you don’t.”

Small squads of Bram’s soldiers had followed them at all times, saying nothing, only ensuring that as the week passed Antonil’s army never tarried on their way to the eastern side. Sticking to the roads limited what they could see of Ker, which disappointed Tarlak. Through their rapid travel he saw a healthy land, with not a hint of the wreckage that had waylaid Mordan, brought forth by both demons and rebellion.

The Rigon River formed the eastern border of Ker. Twice as wide as the Corinth, its only crossing was via the two fabled Gods’ Bridges that connected the Rigon Delta, Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine, Karak’s Bridge over the eastern. But as Tarlak approached Ashhur’s Bridge alongside Antonil, it resembled little of what he once remembered. In between the arches, where there’d been worn statues of winged knights, there were now rows of barricades. The stone floor, which had once been rare white marble, was now hidden beneath wooden walls and planks. It seemed spears poked out in all directions, as if the bridge were the back of a porcupine. Killing lanes, walls, trenches, all built with one purpose in mind: protecting Ker from the orcs beyond.

A single soldier rode out to meet them as they approached the bridge.

“Greetings King of Mordan,” said the soldier. “My name is Yoric, and I control Ashhur’s Bridge. I’ve been informed that your army will pass through without incident. My men have stood down, and we request you make haste to the other side.”

“We will do our best,” Antonil said.

“Thank you,” said Yoric. “So you know, the orcs haven’t touched us in months, but I think that’s because they figured out we’ve no intentions of traveling beyond the river. Be careful in there, your highness. It’s a different world, even compared to when you last came.”

The reminder of his failed first campaign made Antonil’s face twitch.

“Your warning is appreciated,” he said dryly.

In tightly packed rows his army marched through the winding pathways built upon the bridge, coming out the other side into lands of the delta. Another few hours and they would cross the second bridge, which would dump them out into an area that had once belonged to the nation of Omn. Now only orcs remained, with the exception of the distant city of Angelport, whose walls had helped protect it from the invaders and whose ships kept its people from starving. Being fairly close to the elven lands didn’t hurt much, either.

When the last of the soldiers and wagons were across, Tarlak finally crossed the bridge himself.

“Keep the way back open for us,” he said, tossing Yoric a wink. “Just in case we come screaming for our lives, a horde of orcs on our tail.”

“No orc will cross this bridge,” Yoric said. “I assure you, come your return, victorious or otherwise, we’ll be here waiting.”

“My heroes,” Tarlak said, offering an exaggerated bow before snapping his fingers, summoning a gust of wind to blow him into the air and back toward the front of the army, where Antonil marched.

After crossing into Omn, Tarlak oversaw the setting up of the camp, positioning wagons and yelling at men dumb enough to pitch their tents beyond his preset lines. It gave the wizard a headache, but at least he got to take it out on the rest of the men. When he’d circled the enormous camp twice and yelled himself hoarse, he finally joined Antonil. To his surprise, he found the king sitting alone before his tent, a fire burning not far from his feet.

“Shouldn’t you be surrounded by generals, advisors, and various bootlickers?” Tarlak asked.

“I sent them away,” Antonil said.

“Proof you’re a good king, or a terrible one,” Tarlak said, grabbing one of many empty chairs from the tent and propping it opposite Antonil. “Sadly, I’m not sure which.”