David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

Qurrah rolled onto his back, laughing. Blood filled his mouth, staining his teeth.

“You truly believe this, don’t you?” he asked. “You actually think you’re doing his will?”

Judarius lifted his mace.

“I pray you know peace,” he said.

Before he could slam it down, Qurrah hooked his fingers into twisting shapes, enacting a spell. He became shadow, but instead of having the weapon pass through him, he passed through the very ground. Below him was the sprawling dungeon, and with a cry he landed hard onto the floor of a cell. For a moment he felt afraid to look, for if he’d rematerialized in the wrong place, such as between two walls, there’d be nothing he could do. But he felt no pain, and it seemed a bit of luck was with him. When he’d cast the spell, he’d fully expected to end up with prison bars piercing parts of his body.

Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet. He was in the empty section near the entrance, though when he tried the door he found it locked. Taking out the key Ian had given him, he tested it on the lock. Sure enough it opened, the skeleton key usable on all cells within that section.

“What now?” Qurrah wondered aloud. He looked to the entrance of the dungeon, curious how long it’d take Judarius to figure out where he was. It turned out not long at all. The hinges twisted, the center of the iron door bowing inward. Two more hits and it blasted open. Judarius stood in the jagged breach, mace held in both hands. He looked annoyed.

“You would be a coward?” Judarius asked, folding his wings inward so he might descend the stairs into the underground dungeon. “The life you have, the very breath you take, was a gift from Ashhur through Azariah’s hands. For even one of your crimes you should have been hanged, yet we showed mercy. But the world is not ready for this mercy, Qurrah. The world doesn’t know how to live without abusing everything, even things most pure. Your death is only a small step toward a greater peace on Dezrel. Can you not accept this, and accept the returning of your gift?”

“Seems to belittle the gift if you ask me,” Qurrah said.

Judarius sighed as he passed by the cells, the sides of his wings brushing against the bars.

“If only Azariah were here. He would make you understand. He would know how to explain it for one as wise as you. But me, well, I command armies. I crush my enemies. This is your last chance, Qurrah, your last chance to do something good.”

Qurrah knew there was nowhere else to go, so he stood firm, preparing one last desperate gamble. Because of the bars, Judarius could not dodge or maneuver. Hands together, Qurrah pulled at the well of his energy, sapping every last bit of it. It had been so long since he’d fought and he felt himself tiring prematurely, failing to live up to what he knew he could be. He prayed that what he did next would be enough. It had to be. A beam of pure darkness shot from his palms, the very center of it swirling with stars and moons and things for which Qurrah had no name.

Judarius saw the attack and braced, the thick head to his mace in the way. The two connected, and the angel let out a cry. The muscles in his legs tightened, and he pushed forward step by agonizing step. The magic hit the mace and splintered, unable to continue on against the eternity-forged weapon. Still Qurrah poured his power outward, continuing the spell, challenging Judarius to withstand. Step after step, each one a trial.

But withstand he did. His mace slammed into Qurrah’s gut. He let out a whimper, collapsing onto his back. Judarius put a foot atop his chest, holding him in place with such weight that he struggled to breathe. The mace lifted in the air.

“So selfish,” said the angel. “That’s all you’ve ever been.”

“ Judarius! ”

The angel flinched, and Qurrah twisted so he might see what was happening. There in the entrance of the dungeon stood Ahaesarus, his sword in hand.

“Let him go,” he said. “There’s been enough death this night.”

“The council-”

“Will convene again,” Ahaesarus said, taking another step. “Release him.”

Slowly the mace lowered, and Judarius cast a look to Qurrah that he could not interpret.

“If you insist,” Judarius said. He removed his foot, and the half-orc gasped in air. Ahaesarus stepped into the cell Qurrah had opened so Judarius might pass, then approached. Qurrah slumped on his knees, still struggling to recover.

“Qurrah,” the angel started to say.

“Get out,” Qurrah said, his voice raspy. “I don’t want to hear a word.”

Ahaesarus stared at him with genuine sadness in his eyes.

“I will honor your request,” he said. And then he turned, exiting the dungeon. Qurrah rubbed his raw throat with a shivering hand and wondered. What madness was going on in Avlimar?

Slowly he made his way to the dungeon entrance, stumbled up the stairs, and exited through the broken door. Before him, the courtyard was a horrific sight. Over a hundred men lay dead, their bodies pierced by spears and cut open by frighteningly sharp swords. Scattered among them were the corpses of angels, a third of those that had come to claim him. Ian’s soldiers gathered at the gates of the castle, where King Bram had emerged after the battle halted. So far it seemed no one spoke to the other, the two sides just remaining in place.

“King of Ker!” Ahaesarus shouted, flying to join his fellow angels. “What was done here was our own fault, not of Mordan and her rulers. I ask that you forgive the rashness that led to such deaths, and know that we will do all we can to make this right.”

“My men are dead,” Bram shouted back. “Attacked in the night so you could capture a man under my protection. How do you make that right?”

Ahaesarus paused.

“I do not know,” he said. “But we will find a way. Let there be no need for war. No army will march your way, and no angel will disrespect your borders again.”

Bram hardly looked convinced, but he said nothing. Without any fanfare, the angels turned and rose into the air, their wings sending them far into the distance within moments. Qurrah let out a sigh, and he leaned against the door frame of the dungeon. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pounding behind his eyes to cease. But it seemed silence would not be his. All around he heard shouting, men hustling about. Bram spoke to him not long after, having walked his way.

“I knew they would come for you eventually,” he said. “Don’t worry. Our army is already prepared to march. Should Mordan’s army declare war…”

“My brother would never do such a thing,” he said. In the distance, he caught sight of Tessanna through the chaos, and it made him strangely nervous.

“Leave us,” he said, not caring that he gave an order to a king. Bram took a step back, seeming surprised by the anger in his voice.

“Careful, half-orc,” Bram said, but he turned to the rest of his men and shouted the order. “To the barracks! I want us ready to march by sunrise if need be! Grieve now, prepare now. We’ll bury the dead come the morning light.”

The king glanced his way, but Qurrah ignored him. Instead he weaved through the bloody fallout of the battle, stepping over the dead so he might reach his lover. Tessanna sat on her knees, the body of an angel straddled across her lap. Her fingers stroked his face as if he were her own child. Long black hair cascaded down her shoulders, settling over his body like a shroud. The ache in her eyes was almost painful for Qurrah to witness. For a long while he said nothing, just watched the soldiers hurry to and fro, until at last the courtyard was empty but for them and the dead.

“Tess?” he said, breaking the silence.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, trembling fingers brushing the angel’s cheek. “So beautiful.”