David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“We’ll know the answer by the time this campaign ends.”

Tarlak took off his hat, reached inside, and pulled out a long-necked bottle. Popping the cork with his thumb, he took a drink of the wine within.

“So morose today,” he said when finished. “What’s eating my glorious king?”

“Nothing. I wished to be alone is all, something a certain wizard appears incapable of understanding.”

“Have you ordered me to leave yet?”

“No.”

Tarlak lifted the bottle in a toast.

“Then I’m staying, your highness. Have a drink if it’ll help loosen your tongue. You’re too strong to be eaten by nothing, so how about you share what is bothering you?”

Antonil reluctantly accepted the bottle. He took a sip, then frowned at it.

“Is there any alcohol in this?” he asked.

“Somewhere in there. That’s the fruitier blend. I’m saving the hard stuff for after our first battle.”

Antonil chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re something else,” he said.

“Well aware. Now talk.”

After a deep drink, Antonil handed it over, wiped his face on his sleeve.

“I’ve been thinking of the first campaign to retake Neldar from the orcs,” he said.

“Aaah,” Tarlak said. “Dwelling on old losses. That’s not the best for morale, your highness. In my professional opinion, stop it.”

“Duly noted, and ignored. Did I ever tell you how it happened?”

Tarlak scratched at his goatee, trying to remember. Would have been three years ago, so he’d have been…

“No,” he said. “I was helping Jerico and Lathaar rebuild their Citadel. The priesthood helped too, but you’d be surprised how much funding I had to beg, steal, and borrow to get that place up and running. I heard about your return. Was all anyone could talk about for a few months, not that anyone really cared about how it had happened, just that you failed.”

“I sometimes wonder if the people wanted me to fail,” Antonil said, eyes staring off into nowhere. Snapping out of it, he reached over and yanked the bottle from Tarlak’s hand.

“Careful with that,” Tarlak grumbled. “Drink the whole thing and you might get tipsy.”

“Compared to Sergan’s special brew this is just water,” Antonil said. “I can handle water. What I can’t handle is watching men who trust me, who expect me to protect them, die by the thousands.”

He fell silent, and Tarlak frowned. When it seemed he wouldn’t continue, he forced the story along, figuring it better to get Antonil talking about it instead of just brooding.

“So what did happen to your last glorious campaign?” he asked.

“I was too confident,” Antonil said. “After all, I was Antonil the Dragonslayer, defeater of demons, friend of angels. For eternity’s sake, we’d even retaken a city from a god. What could a couple hundred orcs do against us? I had Harruq with me, too, while his wife was away showing their daughter to her distant family in Quellassar. The two of us together, along with eight thousand men strong. What could defeat me? At least, that’s what I thought. Nearly every night was a celebration. That army wasn’t like this one. A lot of them were from Neldar, had fought with me since our days of fleeing Veldaren when Karak’s forces captured its walls. We were coming home. We were going to take our swords and shove them down those orcs’ throats, and piece by piece reclaim what was ours.”

He shook his head.

“So foolish. So arrogant. We didn’t clear out any outlying villages. We didn’t check with Angelport, or send scouts to ask the elves for information when we were near their forests. No, we marched straight toward Veldaren. I don’t know why. I guess I felt once we retook that city, then everything else would fall into place. Perhaps I thought it’d wash away all the blood and death that had happened since I fled, abandoning it for Karak’s prophet. Like an arrow we shot toward the city, but we never made it. Not even close.”

Tarlak thought on what he did know about Antonil’s first campaign. It’d been cut drastically short, his return to Mordan coming months earlier than expected. There had been only a single battle, but from what everyone said it had been a crushing defeat.

“Where did the orcs finally attack?” he asked.

“Harruq told me they’d been developing siege weapons,” Antonil said, seemingly ignoring his question. “I didn’t listen. Of course I didn’t. The orcs were brutes, stupid, leaderless, or so I thought. When we were three day’s ride out from Kinamn we encountered the first of the raiding parties. They were small, quick, and knew exactly how to hit us. They never let us sleep, and they targeted our supplies whenever they could. Thinking they were based out of Kinamn, I steered us toward the city with hopes of crushing the bastards where they couldn’t flee.

“Still the raiders hit us, always at night. They slipped in wherever fires flickered out, cutting the throats of my men while they slept. Reached a point where many refused to sleep, and I had to keep huge portions of my army on constant patrol. When the walls of Kinamn came in sight, they were so welcome. The city appeared in ruins, its walls vacant, but every one of my advisors insisted the orcs hid within. The gates were torn open, so we thought we’d have no issues entering. We should have…”

Tarlak took the bottle of wine from Antonil, then gulped down the rest of it.

“How many orcs were inside the city?” he asked.

“At least five thousand,” Antonil said, not looking up. “They had archers hiding along the walls, and all at once they stood and fired. Hundreds of men crammed into the doorway, dying instantly. Worse were the catapults. They’d been aimed at the pathway leading into the city, and before the call to retreat had even left my lips they were let loose. Dozens of boulders landed amid us, rolling, breaking our lines like we were playthings. We expected unprepared cowards, hiding from us as we burned out their nest. I couldn’t have been more disastrously wrong.

“We retreated, of course. We outnumbered them, but with the catapults, the archers on the walls…what could we do? Several thousand rushed after, swarming us as we retreated. I tried keeping order, to set up a line of defense, but the only reason any of us lived was because of Harruq. Gods, what a sight he was. While everyone else was busy running away, he was screaming and hollering for the orcs to come get him. Even the catapults didn’t scare him. When Harruq met the first wave, those around him stood their ground lest they be overwhelmed as well. Even in the chaos we could see those blood-red swords swinging. By the time I halted our retreat and sent men to aid him he’d taken down at least thirty on his own. It was around him my men rallied, and we sent the orcs running back to their city and the safety of their walls.”

Antonil shook his head.

“After that, we limped back to Mordeina. Of my eight thousand men, only three thousand returned. We never even stepped foot on Neldar soil. And when I returned to my castle, to my wife and child, I discovered I had a new name. The Missing King, they called me. The joke is on them, of course. I’d have preferred to be gone far longer than I was. No, I’d have even stayed in the ruins of Veldaren, never to return, if I had my way.”

“You can’t talk like that,” Tarlak insisted. “These are Mordan soldiers. If they hear you wishing you could abandon your throne…”

“They’ll what?” Antonil asked. “Turn on me? They already have. The whole kingdom is watching me, waiting for me to fail. I first came with eight thousand, and now I come with thirty. I will free my home, taken by the sword, and in the rubble raise my child, my family.”