David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

They rode for a while in silence. Antonil felt better seeing Tarlak’s spirits rise. Perhaps if they could not cross the river, they could still send out hunters, maybe spear some fish as a way of sustaining things until the Tarlak was well enough to create a way to cross the river on his own. When the towers were only two hundred yards away, Antonil raised his hand and ordered his army to slow.

“I don’t want them to think we come with threats,” he said. “Do you think you’d have more luck requesting passage across the river than me?”

“Pretty as I am?” Tarlak asked, gesturing to his bandage. “No, I don’t. They’ve tried to kill me twice, Antonil. Like I said, they guard magic pretty closely.”

“So you’re saying I should keep you hidden in the back?”

“I’m saying they will either let us pass, or they won’t. There’s no way of telling, not with them. They’re recluses for a reason, and the Gods’ War didn’t help matters any.”

Antonil muttered a curse against all spellcasters under his breath, then ordered his army to halt. Despite the worry in his gut, he rode ahead, determined to show the Council he was neither afraid, nor attempting to intimidate them. All they wanted was to cross a bridge so they could return home. Why did it have to be so bloody complicated?

“Just speak,” Tarlak shouted from behind. “They’ll hear you, I promise.”

Antonil swallowed, chose his words carefully, then shouted up to the red tower that rose so high above him.

“Wizards of the Council, I am King Antonil Copernus of Mordan. My army has suffered many casualties, and our stores of food dwindle. I ask that we may cross the Rigon by way of your bridge, and receive any supplies you’d be willing to give us. I promise all kindness will be repaid, and any price within reason will be met twice over.”

With that, he waited. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him, as if smelling the approach of a distant storm. Patting her neck, Antonil once more called out to the towers.

“What say you?”

Strangely, it seemed his horse’s instincts were correct. The sky above, which had been white with clouds, suddenly darkened. Antonil kept his horse still as he heard worried cries from his army behind him. It was just intimidation, he told himself. The mages wanted to show they were in control. To confirm this, he glanced back at Tarlak. When their eyes met, he saw the wizard’s concern, and rocks twisted in his gut.

All along the face of both towers various stones shifted, opening to create dozens of windows. Antonil felt his heart jump. At last he would receive his answer.

And he did, in the barrage of a dozen balls of fire, each larger than the size of a house.

His jaw fell open, panic freezing him in place. No, he thought. It couldn’t be. Why? What had they done? Looking back, he saw the fire slamming into his troops, detonating in great explosions that sent bodies flying. Lightning struck from the sky, its thunder rolling over them like mocking laughter. Soldiers fled in all directions, and following them came the fire and lightning, now coupled with lances of ice and massive boulders, all from those open windows.

So far untouched, Antonil broke free of his terror and kicked the sides of his horse. Turning about, he raced toward the dying remnants of his army, seeking one man in particular. Tarlak Eschaton stood on the ground, having abandoned his horse. Silver light shone around his hands as he tried to summon his magic.

“Can you protect us?” Antonil shouted.

“I can’t,” Tarlak screamed. “Damn it, Antonil, I can’t stop them all!”

Several of the incoming spells shattered, but they were too few. Antonil watched, his throat constricting as he listened to the screams.

“Stop it!” the king screamed to the towers. “Stop it, are you mad?”

Lightning struck. Blinded, Antonil was thrown from his mount. He landed hard on his head. Gasping for air, his vision swirling with color, he saw faint images of his men, those he had promised to lead to victory, to safety, and watched them die amid a horrible mixture of fire, lightning, and ice. Their bodies burned, their bodies bled. So horrible, so futile, and why? What had he done?

The barrage lessened, nearly all of his army broken. Antonil staggered to his feet, found Tarlak on his knees still trying to cast a spell.

“I can protect us,” the wizard was mumbling. “I fought gods. I can protect us, I can protect…”

From the windows of the tower shot three balls of flame, their centers a deep blue, their outer ring a brilliant orange. All three were aimed their way. Tarlak grabbed Antonil’s hand, and accompanying a scream of pain a translucent shield formed before the two. The first fireball exploded. The heat washed over them, rolling about as if they were in the center of furnace, yet they were not yet burned. The second hit, Tarlak screamed, and the fire passed.

Before the third reached them, Antonil pulled his shield off his back. Despite the burns on his face, despite the blood dripping from his mouth and nose, Tarlak was still trying to protect them. Knowing it hopeless, Antonil shoved him to the grass, dove atop him, and raised his shield. Tarlak continued to mumble, and strangely he heard Aurelia’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Antonil whispered, thinking of his kingdom, his wife, his child. All of it lost, all of it in peril.

“Protect them, Harruq.”

The fire washed over him, burning away flesh and melting his armor, consuming the life that was his and ending his short, bittersweet reign.

From high atop the Master’s Tower, the Lord of the Council watched as the last of the army was buried in a wave of magical attacks. Satisfied, he turned to the lady at his right.

“Inform the capitol,” he said to her before descending the stairs that led up to the roof. “If Kevin wants the throne, it’s his to take.”

“Of course,” said the silver-haired lady. From the pocket of her dress she pulled out a scrap of paper. With a soft breath she blew across it. The paper folded in on itself, over and over, until it had taken the shape of a dove. Its wings flapped with the speed of a hummingbird, and then into the sky it shot, racing north at speeds only angels could hope to match.

Kevin stepped into Susan’s room, and she spun about, ready to berate him.

“Are the guards outside daft?” she asked. “You might have caught me in a state of undress.”

She meant it as playful banter, but the seriousness of his look stopped her. He held a piece of paper out to her as he approached.

“Your guards are dead,” he said.

Susan’s mouth fell open, and she took a step back toward her bed.

“What?’ she asked.

In answer he gave her the paper. She took it, unfolding the delicate material to reveal a simple message.

Antonil is dead.

She looked up, saw the hope in her brother’s eyes.

“What is this?” she asked. “What does this mean?”

“It means my men have already cleared the city walls, and they’ll be here in moments. Where is the half-orc?”

Susan’s mouth suddenly felt dry. This was it. This was everything she’d feared of her brother, reaching fruition at last. She’d always told herself it’d never come this far. Apparently, she’d told herself a lie.

“He’s with Aurelia, in their room,” she said, still in a daze. “Will you kill them?”

Kevin put his hands on her shoulders, his hard gaze staring down at her. It made her feel small. It always did.

“Harruq was named steward by your husband. If I do nothing, that brute will rule, not you, not your child. By the time Gregory comes of age, do you think he’ll even have a throne to inherit? Harruq is the angels’ puppet. You know this. You’ve seen it.”