David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“Please,” he said, his voice softer. “Bram, don’t do this. Don’t punish my men like this. They’ll starve.”

Bram crossed his arms and looked away.

“I am not without mercy,” he said. “I’ll send across some wagons containing food, and there is plenty of water to boil from the river. It will tide you over for a time, perhaps long enough for you to think on your many errors. Oh, and Antonil, don’t try to have anyone swim across. I assure you, we’ll be watching.”

Bram turned, cloak flailing behind him as he crossed the bridge. Antonil heard the first of many fearful cries filter through his army, yet there was nothing he could do. He clutched his sword tighter, teeth clenched, and cursed Bram in every way possible.

“So what are our options?” Sergan asked as they settled down for the night around a small campfire. The two were separate from the rest of the army, the other generals scattered throughout to ensure order. Antonil wanted to be alone with his friend, to speak his mind without fear of panic or scorn.

“I’m not sure what other choice we have,” he said. “It seems Bram is determined to humiliate us, but I don’t think it extends beyond that.”

“You don’t know that,” Sergan said. “What was that nonsense about the angels?”

Antonil shook his head.

“Supposedly some of them attacked Bram’s castle. I don’t know any more than that. If it is true, then I don’t blame Bram for his fury. Such an action breaks every promise I’ve ever made him since the Gods’ War.”

“Anger or not, the man’s still acting like a bastard,” Sergan said. “We can’t just sit here, can we? The food he gave us will tide us over for a week, but no longer than that. If we don’t do anything we’ll be at his mercy, holding out our hands like lowly beggars.”

“Which is what he wants,” Antonil said, poking his fire with a stick. “He wants his power over us acknowledged. No one in Mordan will expect our return so early. He’ll keep us here, helpless, frustrated, and then make some sort of outrageous demand I’ll have no choice but to agree to.”

“We still might have a shot at crossing farther upstream,” Sergan said. “You have friends at the Citadel, and I know they have their boats.”

“We don’t have the food to travel that far north. Besides, the Citadel houses thirty people, maybe forty. They won’t have enough supplies to feed five thousand.”

Sergan grunted, accepting the rejection.

“Well, what about the wizard? Perhaps he can do something, get a few of us across the river with an ice bridge or something.”

“Tarlak’s too weak for that,” Antonil said, shaking his head. Still, something about what he’d said sparked an idea in his mind, and he looked around, feeling a sudden surge of excitement.

“A map,” he said. “Where is my map?”

“What for?”

Antonil ignored him, instead hurrying into his tent and throwing open his strongbox. He came back out, unrolling the paper and laying it out on the seat he’d been sitting in.

“Wizards,” Antonil said. “I completely forgot about the wizards.”

Sergan leaned over to look at what Antonil pointed to. There, halfway between Ashhur’s Bridge and the Citadel, were the twin towers of the Council of Mages. Sergan saw it and immediately paled.

“Forgive me, my liege, but you’re insane.”

“Why? With that many wizards, surely they would know a way to supply us, and they have a bridge spanning both sides.”

“But…but they’re wizards. And more importantly, they’re reclusive, unpredictable wizards that hate being bothered by anyone, kings or not.”

Antonil stared at the two little towers, one marked with red chalk, the other coal.

“That’s where we’re going,” he said. “I know it’s a risk, but we can’t stay here. I refuse to let Bram lord over us in such a way.”

“We’ll be traveling through his lands without permission if we cross this way,” Sergan said.

“At this point, I don’t care. Most of that land is full of farms and wilderness. We’ll beat him to the Bloodbrick before he finds out, and whatever token force he might have there won’t be able to stop us.”

Sergan scratched at his chin, and finally he let out a sigh.

“If you think it’ll work, then that’s what we’ll do,” he said. “Though let me say now that I don’t like it. Never trust a wizard. That’s wisdom to live by.”

“Do you think Tarlak would agree?” Antonil asked.

Sergan let out a sharp laugh.

“You kidding me, your highness? He’s the one I heard it from first.”

Antonil smiled, finally feeling his mood lifting. He had a plan, a course of action. Regardless of the risk, at least he wouldn’t be helpless before Bram’s army.

“Get some sleep,” he said, rolling up his map. “We have a long march. We’ll head southeast, make Bram think we’re hoping one of the fishing villages along the coast of the delta survived, and then curl north and cross Karak’s Bridge once we’re out of sight.”

“So let’s say this works,” Sergan said. “We sneak across the river through the help of our mysterious wizardy pals, race through the wilderness, and then cross the Bloodbrick back into Mordan. What then?”

Antonil paused before the entrance to his tent. He didn’t want to lie to his dear friend, and so he didn’t.

“Then we return to Mordeina,” he said. “And once we’ve gathered another army, we’ll see just how well Bram is capable of defending the borders he’s so proud to protect. The man spat in the faces of our men this day. I have watched nations fall, angels appear, and gods die. Did he think this would be what broke me? No. Bram should have known better. Much better.”

He entered his tent, put aside his sword, and slept.

The army of wolf-men slept not far from the Gihon River, waiting for the right moment to strike. The night before, Moonslayer and Manfeaster had bid farewell to the other various races, sending them either farther north or south, depending on where he wanted them strike. Jessilynn had listened as they gave them their orders, chilled by their cold, brutal efficiency.

“Let no boat pass you by,” Moonslayer had shouted. “Leave the towers blinded and alone. One by one, they will fall. On the night of the full moon, make your attack. Let none survive. Eat well, my fellow creatures of the Wedge. Feast, and enjoy your freedom!”

The towers were the only line of defense against the Wedge, their boat patrols designed to keep any of the beasts from crossing. But Jessilynn knew they were few and undermanned. Could they handle an army consisting of even one of the races, let alone their combined might? Of course not , thought Jessilynn as Silver-Ear dragged her to where she would sleep for the night. The towers would fall, and beyond them were miles upon miles of farmland and simple villages. How many would die before anyone even knew the severity of the threat?

Yes, she thought. Moonslayer was right. The beasts would feast well.

“I have no chain to tie you,” Silver-Ear said. “But if you move from my side, you will suffer whatever fate you earn.”

They walked to the center of the camp, surrounded by several thousand of the beasts. Jessilynn felt their eyes upon her, their noses sniffing the scents she left behind. She nodded at Silver-Ear to show she understood. Not long after, the camp settled down to sleep. Wide-eyed and awake, Jessilynn lay upon the grass and watched the sun rise.

When Sonowin appeared, flying in from the west, she dared hope. Lying perfectly still, she watched as the winged horse circled above. She wished she could somehow communicate with Dieredon, but there was no way. In the very heart of the camp, the slightest noise would be detected by the wolf-men’s sharp ears.