David Dalglish: The Prison of Angels

Lathaar let out a sigh. It’d been something he’d discussed repeatedly with Jerico, and over the years they’d not come to any sort of satisfactory answer.

“We try,” he said, figuring if there was anyone who might help them in this, it was Azariah. “We teach them the prayers, the lessons, beat into their heads the ferocious need for prayer. But this world we live in…it’s not the same, is it? How do I teach them matters of faith when Ashhur’s angels soar through the clouds? How do I teach them to remain on guard against enemies when Karak has been defeated and his followers scattered to the wind? How do I convince them they are beacons of light amid the darkness when there is no darkness?”

“But there is darkness,” Azariah assured him. “The world has not ended. It still moves on, filled with sickness, death, and despair.”

“I tell them,” Lathaar said, shaking his head. “I tell them, and I don’t think they believe me. Their faith is hollow, Azariah. I know it. I feel it in my gut. So few of them carry any true love for Ashhur. When they hold their weapons, only the slightest hint of blue shines. And if they were to be tested, truly tested? Ashhur save us if someone like Velixar should get their hands on them. When Jerico and I were in the Citadel, we were outnumbered. We were seen as a dying order, soon to be overwhelmed by Karak’s forces. In every prayer, every day of training, we knew deep down in our hearts that we were the last hope for a troubled world, the last stand against an encroaching evil. But we aren’t anymore.”

He looked to Azariah.

“You are.”

This took the angel back, and he paused.

“You give us a role we cannot have,” Azariah said after a moment of watching the students train. “Your paladins are what men must aspire to be. They are to be the light of our god manifested in mortal men, to show humanity’s full potential by embracing Ashhur’s commands. We angels cannot be that. We are not men, and mankind will never believe us, never understand us, until they themselves enter the Golden Eternity. A sickness runs through this land, and it must be cured. Convince them, Lathaar. Convince them their need is not yet over.”

Lathaar nodded, and he felt a little better hearing those words. Perhaps he’d been looking at things the wrong way. Rebuilding the Citadel had been a mark of honor for him and Jerico. They’d begged for every scrap of coin. With their close relationship to Harruq, the king’s advisor Tarlak, and the angels, it should have been easy getting aid. But all of Mordan had been devastated, and the first year in particular had been one of frantic rebuilding and political upheaval. Through it all they’d fought, determined to have their home rebuilt in defiance to Karak’s past evil.

But they’d rebuilt the Citadel simply to rebuild it, and now pressed with the functions, the responsibility, he and Jerico were struggling. Had their own aimlessness poisoned their students?

“You’ve given me much to think over,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I am glad I could be of some help. And do not be too difficult on yourself. I sense the faith of those here, and there are many who are stronger than you believe. To help ease your mind, I will show you.”

Azariah stepped into the training arena and lifted his hands. Immediately all eyes were upon him. Lathaar watched, arms crossed, curious as to what the angel planned. His robe shimmered white, and from his mouth issued words of a prayer too soft for Lathaar to hear.

“Come to me, children,” Azariah said afterward. “Come to me, faithful. I would see your hearts naked before the eyes of your god.”

From the tips of his fingers flared a sudden brightness, coalescing into a shining ball of white, like a miniature sun hovering above his palms. It pulsed, and with each pulse a wave of light washed over the paladins and students. The force of it knocked them to their knees. Even Jerico fell to one knee, and Lathaar did the same. In his mind he felt a sudden closeness to Ashhur, a presence he’d not known since the last days of the Gods’ War. Before it he felt naked and afraid. The light grew brighter, and he opened his mouth to speak, to cry out. All around the world had vanished, so that he saw only darkness where the grass and the rivers should have been. Piercing that darkness was Azariah, a being so unearthly that it filled Lathaar with awe.

Before a cry escaped his lips he saw a light burning from within his chest, where his heart should be. The bluish-white glow was strong, and as he knelt it continued to grow so that it nearly enveloped him. A thought struck him. He reached for his sword, and as he drew it the glow from his chest swirled down his arm and into the blade, manifesting itself again. Looking around, he saw his students, all kneeling, and from their chests emerged similar glows. Just as Azariah said, many were strong, bright, filled with life and devotion. Jerico in particular was nearly blinding to look upon. But also he saw dimness in many, emptiness. It hurt him seeing it, and he could not help but feel responsible.

The darkness broke, and the light vanished. It happened so suddenly Lathaar let out a gasp. How long had it been? He didn’t know. What had felt like minutes may have only been seconds, so strangely that vision had distorted time. Colors rushed back into his eyes, the green of the surrounding hills, the gentle blue of the Rigon River rolling beside the Citadel. The students rose to their feet one by one, some muttering to themselves, others praying. Jerico shot him a look, but what it meant he couldn’t decipher. And then he saw Azariah.

The angel knelt on his hands and knees, gasping for air. His wings shivered, and feathers fell like leaves in an autumn wind. Lathaar reached down for him, but his offered hand went ignored. With a loud groan Azariah pushed himself to stand. His bearing was unsteady, but with each passing moment the color returned to his face and the firmness returned to his voice.

“I hope you gained what you needed,” Azariah said, turning to go.

“Wait,” Lathaar said, hurrying after him. “Is something wrong? You look-”

“I am fine,” Azariah said, interrupting him. “I…no, Lathaar, you do not deserve such harshness. Ashhur’s power is fading from me, fading from all of us. When did you last talk to one of your priests?”

Lathaar frowned.

“High Priest Keziel stayed here a few months before returning to the Sanctuary, but that was not long after we first rebuilt the Citadel. A few have traveled here from time to time, but not recently, no.”

“They suffer, same as I. The world of Dezrel is fading, paladin, and the celestial magic I once possessed fades with it. Forgive me, but I came here to see if your kind felt it as well, but it appears the glow of your blades remains strong.”

“Praise Ashhur for that,” Lathaar said.

The angel fell silent, deep in thought. Lathaar stood there, giving him time. Shifting his weight side to side, he glanced up at the sky, then chuckled.

“It seems you’re not our only winged visitor today,” he said.

They both looked upward, to where an elf in dark green camouflage rode atop the back of a beautiful winged horse, her white wings the only thing that could match the splendor of the angels. The elf circled twice, then dove low, landing just before the two. With inhuman grace he leapt from the horse’s back, and in unison the creature and master bowed. The elf’s hair was long and brown, carefully tied so it would not interfere with his vision or movements. From his back hung a wicked looking bow, attached to leather straps that wrapped about his chest and shoulders.

“Greetings,” said Dieredon, Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves. “I come as requested, though forgive me for the delay. The Vile Wedge has gotten far wilder in the past few years.”