David Dalglish: The Prison of Angels

“I’ve cast a glammer upon him,” Aurelia said, looking him over. “It should make him seem a little taller and a little older. Nothing too obvious, of course, but I think it’ll help.”

Gregory looked terrified, but he stood straight enough. Aurelia took his hand, and he squeezed it tight.

“Let’s go,” she said. “The city needs to see its steward.”

“Enjoy your walk,” Ahaesarus said. “I will meet you at the platform.”

Guards opened the door, and the three of them stepped out. Immediately those nearby bowed in respect to the little prince Gregory. Harruq watched, trying to decide if it was forced or genuine. In the end, he didn’t know. Glancing down, he saw Gregory still holding onto Aurelia’s hand.

“Let go,” he said, leaning down and whispering to the boy. “You’re to be a king. I’m sorry, but no choice here.”

Gregory wasn’t happy about it, but he let go nonetheless. Through the streets they walked, flanked on either side by soldiers. It felt like forever, but at last they reached the platform at the bottom. Harruq’s heart ached, knowing Tarlak would not be waiting there with Antonil and Susan. So many lost. So many. He didn’t know if he could endure it anymore. The war was over. The deaths were supposed to stop. That was how it worked, wasn’t it?

When they reached the platform, Harruq saw how tall the steps were. There’d be no way for Gregory to climb them with any sort of dignity, so he picked up the child and hefted him straight up onto the platform. After that he followed, taking Aurelia’s hand in his. All around were soldiers, and they knelt in respect.

Gregory stood in the center, and as they’d told him repeatedly, he looked to the sky. With that as the signal, the angels flocked down, taking up positions all throughout the city. Their white wings decorated the rooftops, lined the walls, and filled the streets. The entire host of Avlimar was present, there to pay respects to the boy king. Ahaesarus was the only one to actually come and greet Gregory. He landed with a heavy gust of wind, then dipped his head.

“Gregory Copernus, consider me honored to be given such a privilege,” he said. In his hands he held the crown Harruq had worn. The half-orc would remain steward until Gregory came of age, but still, they needed the ceremony to reinforce Gregory’s eventual right to rule to all of Mordan. Harruq watched as Gregory dipped his head, and Ahaesarus set the crown on his head. It was laughably oversized. Ahaesarus lifted it off immediately after, setting it beside Gregory on his seat.

“Thank you,” Gregory said. He looked ready to cry, and Harruq couldn’t blame him.

“The honor is ours,” said the angel.

Harruq was supposed to then address the crowd, but before he could a great rumbling shook the land. Scattered cries marked its continuing, and Harruq felt Aurelia grab his hand in fear. Mouth open, Harruq looked to the sky, and he was not alone. The shock overwhelmed him as the sound rolled over the crowd, a massive explosion nearly deafening to hear.

“Ashhur help us,” whispered Ahaesarus.

From the sky the city of Avlimar fell, crumbling to pieces, the gold and silver shattering across the fields beyond Mordeina’s walls. Its spires broke, its streets crashing down upon green earth as whatever magic holding the city aloft ceased to be. Panicked angels took flight, soaring toward the ruins as all around men and women watched in awe.

Aurelia squeezed Harruq’s hand tight.

“What does it mean?” she asked as Gregory began to cry.

“I don’t know,” Harruq said while a third rumble, like that of thunder, marked the last of the eternal city’s fall.

The land before the Apprentice Tower was a blackened heap, with nary a blade of grass still green. Through the ash walked Cecil, just one of many sent out into the mess. Carefully he made his way through the melted armor, wincing at the stains the bodies left on his red apprentice’s robe. The destruction had been most impressive, with each of the apprentices competing for the most efficient kill. Cecil had smashed four with a boulder he’d flung from the sky, the massive hunk of rock crushing over a dozen more as it rolled along before coming to a halt. Despite what Esmere claimed, he was sure he’d gotten the most of any.

“Please, no,” he heard someone say to his left. He glanced over, saw one of the younger apprentices killing a survivor, a soldier tough enough to live despite the burns covering his body. Cecil barely knew the apprentice, and that he had to use a dagger instead of his own magic to enforce the kill showed how new he was to the art.

Cecil found a collection of bodies, and he knelt down beside the more intact ones, listening. Two were silent, but a third still held breath. With careful movements of his fingers he summoned a thin lance of frost, forming it before him from thin air. It shimmered, then pierced the man’s throat. Blood flowed, the lance melted instantly, and then the breathing halted. On and on Cecil went, killing whatever survivors he found. There were so many, though, that soon sweat covered his brow. They were but thirty apprentices scouring the corpses of thousands. Even with none able to provide a fight, it was still heavy work.

After half an hour, and with hardly a word spoken between the apprentices, Cecil began making his way back toward the front of the killing field, careful to make sure there were none he missed. If even one man survived, there would be consequences. Despite his many years at the towers, Cecil still felt a shudder run up his spine at the thought. He shoved fire down the throats of a few more bodies just to be sure, even when he heard no breathing.

Finally deciding he was done, he hurried back toward the tower, and it was then he heard a cough. Stunned, Cecil looked down and to the left. Barely a foot away was the charred corpse of a soldier. His armor was melted, but in it were flecks of gold. The king, Cecil realized. He wondered if there would be any sort of reward for being the one to find the body. But that was for later. There was no way the king had survived, but the way he was laying…

Shoving the corpse off, he found another man hidden beneath. His face and hands were terribly burned, his yellow robes spotted with black from where the fabric had been consumed by fire. Cecil’s brow furrowed. The burn marks looked strange, though he couldn’t put his finger on why they appeared that way. Was it how uneven they were, perhaps?

Shrugging his shoulders, he opened the palm of his hand. Amazing as it was that the man lived, he was clearly in terrible pain. His breathing came in wheezes, and though he glared at Cecil with bloodshot eyes, he couldn’t speak a word. Cecil was clearly doing him a favor. In the palm of his hand appeared a small ball of fire.

Before he could throw it, the burned man lifted his hand, and from his own palm sparked a thin tendril of lightning. It struck Cecil in the arm, igniting his nerves. His fingers twitched, breaking the spell. Temper flaring, he kicked the stupid bastard in the side.

“Some fight left after all?” he asked. The burned man had nothing to say. His body settled back, as if resigned to death. The fire grew in Cecil’s palm.

“Wait.”

Cecil recognized that voice, and immediately he dismissed his spell, spun around, and fell to his knees. Roand the Flame, Lord of the Council, stood before him with his arms crossed, his gaze locked on the badly burned man. For a long moment his master thought in silence, and Cecil felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Had he somehow made a mistake? The seconds dragged on, until at last Roand spoke.

“Bring him inside.”

Without hesitation Cecil rushed to grab the burned man’s arm. Three more apprentices quickly joined in, and together the four carried him across the field, through the doors, and into the tower, where behind them the doors eased shut with nary a sound.