David Dalglish: The Prison of Angels

Harruq grinned at the yellow-robed wizard. His red hair and beard were neatly trimmed, but age lines had started to show across his cheeks and beneath his eyes. Still, his smile was youthful, and his hat pointy as ever.

“You got roped into this as well?” Harruq asked.

“Roped? Nonsense, you brute. I volunteered to spare the queen the indignity of begging for my presence.”

“Come now,” Susan said. “I love you both equally, though I fear I do not love you as much as the commoners do.”

“A shame you had to land the killing blow on the war god,” Antonil said to Harruq, having heard them. He reached out his hand, and his wife stood to accept it. “My life would be much easier had it been me.”

“You slew a dragon,” Harruq said.

“What’s a dragon compared to a god?”

“Enough,” Susan said, kissing Antonil’s cheek. “Do not belittle your accomplishments.”

“I’m not the one belittling them,” Antonil said, and the king’s words were tinged with frustration. Despite it, he turned to the crowd, lifted his arms, and smiled his best smile. The crowd cheered, but not long. The procession was not quite complete. Directly above the wooden platform, high amid the clouds, floated the golden city of Avlimar. From its tall arches, its silver buildings, and its thin, lengthy bridges descended hundreds of angels, their white wings filling the sky. They flung petals of flowers as they crisscrossed about, which fell upon the crowds like rain. As the pinks and violets landed atop his hair and shoulders, Harruq held out a hand.

“Little much, isn’t it?” he asked as petals gathered in his palm.

Aurelia leaned close.

“Antonil’s not the only one trying to win people over,” she whispered.

All along the walls of the city the angels landed, keeping their wings stretched to their fullest extent. Their skin was of all colors, their hair shining, the whiteness of their robes matched only by the feathers of their wings. A low moan came from their throats, a deep chant that reverberated throughout the city. Louder and louder it grew, and as one they drew their swords and shouted the name of their god.

“Ashhur!”

The force it nearly knocked Harruq off his feet. He shook his head as many others hurried back to standing.

“That’s one way to make an entrance,” he muttered.

The leader of the angels landed before them, just beyond the platform. He did not need its height to stare at them eye to eye, for he was a giant of an angel, his golden armor gleaming. His name was Ahaesarus, and it was at his side that Harruq and Aurelia had fought to slay the war god Thulos, preventing him from conquering the world of Dezrel. Beside Ahaesarus landed his war general, Judarius, and his high priest, Azariah. The two were eerily similar, with green eyes tinged with gold and their brown hair cut short around their necks. But where Judarius wore armor and carried an enormous mace upon his back, Azariah had only his robes and his soft hands, skilled at clerical magic. Together the three bowed to Antonil, who stood and bowed in return. Harruq dipped his head in respect.

“Heroes of mankind, King and Queen of Mordan, I greet you,” said Ahaesarus. His voice was deep, befitting one so giant. “This day you march against blasphemous beings. Know that Ashhur gives you his blessing, and with loving eyes he will watch over your homeland in your absence. You will always have a safe home to return to, King Antonil Copernus, and the arms of friends ready to embrace you.”

Ahaesarus drew his sword, a masterful construction of steel, gold, and diamond that was as tall as Harruq. He held it with both hands above his head, and he cried out, his words repeated by the rest of the angels.

“Ashhur bless the King!” they cried. “Ashhur bless the King!”

That was it, the last of the ceremony so far as Harruq knew. He let out a sigh, glad he hadn’t screwed anything up. But Antonil stood, and he looked far from relaxed. Ahaesarus bowed to him, then stepped away so the crowd might see their king. Harruq shot Aurelia a glance, but his wife only shrugged.

“Tomorrow we march,” Antonil said. At first it was hard to hear him, but a quick twitch of Tarlak’s fingers and his voice strengthened, magically carrying throughout the city. “With me march your sons, your husbands, your lovers and protectors. I swear to protect them, honor them, and let not a single life lost be in vain. In my absence my beautiful wife rules…at least, she would if circumstances were different.”

Susan smiled, and that smile filled Harruq with terror. He knew that smile, that glow. Not good, he thought. Antonil you bastard, you better not be doing what I think you’re about to…

“My wife carries my second child,” Antonil told the crowd. Scattered applause accompanied his words. “And I would not burden her further during such a time. So now, before you all, I appoint my steward. He is a man well known to you, whose bravery is unquestioned and whose strength none would dare challenge. He will guard my throne in my absence, administering the king’s justice.”

Harruq felt ready to explode.

“The Godslayer, Harruq Tun,” Antonil announced over the roar of the crowd. “Harruq, come stand before me.”

He felt Aurelia squeeze his hand, and he fought to remain calm. The eyes of the kingdom were upon him. The thought of messing up terrified him, as did ruling as a steward, but to reject Antonil publicly would be an insult the king’s fragile reputation could not endure. So he stepped before Antonil, doing his best to hide his glare from hundreds of onlookers.

“Kneel,” Antonil said, and Harruq did. “Harruq Tun, I declare you Steward of Mordan and protector of the realm. Rise, and rule in my absence.”

Harruq stood, and he leaned forward so he could speak just to the king.

“I’m going to murder you,” he said.

“You have no need to repay me,” Antonil responded, “for there is no debt to repay. Just rule well, as I know you will.”

At first Harruq was confused by his words, but the spell was still on Antonil, and the king’s voice carried throughout the city. The half-orc shook his head. Sly devil. He’d murder Antonil twice now for this.

“A fine choice,” Azariah said, putting a hand on Harruq’s shoulder. “If there is anything you need, any question, my knowledge is open to you.”

“Thanks,” Harruq said, glancing around with wide eyes. He felt like a trapped deer with a crown placed upon his head by a pack of wolves. Unsure what else to do, he waved to the crowd. They cheered back, and he prayed he might live up to their jubilation. Did they really think he’d do any better than Antonil?

That was it, then, the last of the procession. The soldiers were dismissed to spend the night with their loved ones or get drunk one last time with friends. They scattered among the people, who hurried to one of dozens of carnivals set up as part of the celebration. The angels took wing, with only the ruling three remaining behind.

“I hope authority doesn’t make you grow fat and lazy,” Judarius said, smiling at him. “You still owe me a sparring match or three.”

“I have bigger fears than that,” Harruq said, spinning on Antonil. “Have you lost your damn mind? Me, steward? Why not place a donkey in charge for all the good I’ll do?”

“He makes a good point,” Tarlak said. “Either way we’d have an ass sitting on the throne.”

“Don’t panic,” Susan said, leaving her seat so she might kiss Harruq on the cheek. “I’ll be here the whole time. You won’t be left to hang.”

Harruq rubbed his neck. A hanging sounded more preferable than sitting on Antonil’s throne and listening to hours and hours of complaints, pleadings, and accusations.