David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

A fresh shout of cheers flooded the city as the angels neared.

“Speaking of miracles,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

“Indeed,” Bernard said. The mage frowned, confused by the priest’s subdued reaction.

“Something wrong?” he asked. Bernard did not answer, instead praying to Ashhur while he laid his hands on Haern’s waist. Inside his body the bones snapped and shifted. Haern shrieked and then, thankfully, passed out.

“Nothing is wrong,” Bernard said, letting out a deep sigh. “The angels you see approaching are what we all pray and hope to be after our deaths, but they are not meant for this world.”

Bernard put his hands on the bruises covering Haern’s neck and closed his eyes. More healing magic flowed, the bruises fading from deep black to a barely visible blue.

“Our world is changing, though,” Bernard said. “Perhaps this last sign will be enough.”

T he angels entered the city like glorious conquerors returning home from a distant campaign. People raised their hands and cheered, while soldiers saluted with their swords and maces. The Eschaton walked amid them while Antonil’s men rode behind.

“What’s wrong?” Aurelia asked as they marched through the city toward the castle.

“It just seems all so… silly,” Harruq said as he gestured to the crowds.

“Just enjoy it,” Aurelia said, jabbing him in the side. “For once we’re loved and not hated.”

“This isn’t love,” Harruq said. “I’m not sure what it is, but it isn’t love.”

Queen Annabelle waited for them at the doors to her castle. Guards flanked her sides, all of them kneeling to the coming angels. The queen curtseyed at their arrival.

“Welcome,” she said, knowing her words would be repeated throughout the city. “You are the light from the west, the glory of the sun, Ashhur’s warrior angels sent to save us from Karak’s vile hand. All that I have is yours. All that you ask, I will do. Again, I cry to you, welcome!”

The crowd cheered. Ahaesarus bowed low.

“Well met, Queen,” he said. “For all my troops, I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Will you stay in my castle?” she asked. “I have many questions.”

“I will answer your questions,” he said. “But no, we will not stay in your castle. Ashhur has already granted us a home.”

At this he pointed to the western sky. It still shimmered gold, glowing from the angels’ arrival. As if on command the sky rumbled, and all throughout the city people marveled or cowered in fear. Harruq squinted with a hand over his eyes, trying to see. Again the west tore. It was as if the sky were cloth covering a window, and with the blue gone they could see a land stretching forever, golden and beautiful. From within that tear a city floated through, hovering on rock and stone that seemed impervious to the pull of gravity.

“Another miracle,” Lathaar said, his jaw dropping.

“Today seems to be a day for them,” Jerico said, laughing.

“Ashhur has given us a piece of the golden eternity to call our home,” Azariah explained as they looked upon the golden city floating high above. “It is there we will live and plan our war against those that would crush all life from this realm.”

As the rest of the crowd cheered, Bernard sadly shook his head from his perch beside Tarlak and Mira atop a stone house.

“Faith and choice,” he said. “Farewell.”

A ntonil walked through the hallways of the castle, feeling as if he walked on clouds. What had been a final, desperate defense had turned into a dominating victory. Instead of funeral songs there were victory chants. It was as if no one realized that the leaders of Karak’s army survived, and that deep inside Veldaren the portal still remained open, pouring out demons.

He turned right at the painting of a large, leafless tree, per the servant’s orders. He had been asleep in his tent among the Neldaren refugees when a young man had approached, giving him directions through the castle and telling him the queen waited. Sure enough, as the hallway suddenly ended, there she was. They were in a walled garden, with a few trees and several rows of flowers. The queen sat on one of the benches, gazing up at the stars.

“It is too early for most of the flowers to be in bloom,” she said at his arrival. “But I still find peace here.”

“The time is late,” Antonil said as he shifted his eyes upward. He realized it wasn’t the stars she looked at, but the twinkling city that floated like some golden land of a child’s fable. Avlimar, Ahaesarus had called it. Their home on Dezrel.

“I know,” said the queen. “But this matter is urgent. The angels want to give chase before the demons can escape back to Neldar. My soldiers are eager to join them.”

“You’ve already pulled in stores of food,” Antonil said. “You could have your army marching within a day. What is the problem?”

“The problem,” Annabelle said, finally lowering her gaze. “The problem is I am too old to go with them. I must remain here, and I must rule. I need someone to command my troops, someone they will respect and admire.”

Antonil blushed. “I am still a foreigner. Many will resent my authority.”

“I know,” the queen said. “That is why I propose a marriage. We will unite the two kingdoms that have split our great land.”

Antonil’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, as if trying to stir up some sense inside his skull.

“I have only met you twice,” he finally said.

Annabelle laughed. “Perhaps Neldar is different, but marriage here is more often political than anything involving love. You would have total authority to lead my soldiers back to Veldaren and reclaim your city. Your country has been decimated. It will take many resources to restore Neldar’s glory, resources you would suddenly have available to you. And don’t worry, Antonil, I am old. My time will not be long, and you can choose a new bride if you desire.”

It made sense to him, but still, the idea seemed so strange. He was still struggling to realize he himself was a king, and the idea of marrying the Queen of Mordan, and taking all its power and wealth into his own hand, well…

“I need to think this over,” he said.

Annabelle plucked a small flower, its petals only beginning to unfurl. She smiled as she put it in his hand and wrapped his fingers about it.

“Time is short. The ceremony will take time, and my soldiers must prepare for their campaign. Please, let me know as soon as you can.”

“I will, your majesty,” Antonil said, bowing. He hurried away, eager to return to his camp. Annabelle watched him go, another young flower twirling in her fingers.

J erico wandered through the bodies, a torch in hand. Lathaar followed, dragging a dead Neldaren soldier. With Jerico’s help, Lathaar tossed it onto a growing pile of dead, a soon-to-be pyre to burn away the enormous amount of corpses. Spread across the field were several other groups of soldiers, all building similar pyres. It would take the whole night, but neither paladin minded much. They wanted time alone to talk, and in the dark field after a battle, they felt isolated and secure.

“Remember the angel I said Ashhur sent to help me kill Darakken?” Lathaar asked as he tilted his head to one side and popped his neck. “That was Judarius. I even had a chance to thank him.”

“Crazy world,” Jerico said, hoisting another rotten body onto the pyre. “And I’d say it just got crazier.”

“The world can only be better by their arrival,” Lathaar said. “Finally, a balancing force for Ashhur. After the fall of the citadel and Veldaren’s destruction, we could use the hope.”

Jerico shifted his torch to his left hand and grabbed the wrist of what looked to be a dead, rotted orc. He grunted when the bone snapped and he stumbled back holding a clump of fingers. He frowned and tossed them onto the pyre.