The Prison of Angels

8

Ezekai circled the town of Norstrom, debating whether he should land. Ever since the execution of the farmer, Colton, he’d felt uneasy with his duties. A strong part of him wished to speak with Azariah, but the high priest was always so busy that Ezekai continued to postpone doing so. He knew he had been well within the law: Colton had brutally murdered a man in front of the entire town, in front of his own child. But he’d also been a good man, an honest, hardworking man. What madness could have driven him into an act so vile? Was his desire for torment, for retribution, so much greater than his desire for the salvation of others?

Of course it was, Ezekai thought. That was the failing of man. But he wouldn’t let it be his failing. They just needed to be shown the way. And as much as Ezekai had been troubled by the events, the town continued on as it always had, as it perhaps always would. He saw the farmers in the fields, the shopkeepers selling their wares, plain men and women wandering the streets, perhaps to work, perhaps to shop, perhaps to play. They had not called for him with their scepter, but he landed anyway, folding his wings behind him as he glanced up and down the road.

Children stared at him in awe, as did many of the adults. A few were wary, and one older woman continued on down the street as if she never saw him. It tugged at Ezekai’s heart. Always awe, always fear and doubt. Would they ever look upon his arrival with love? Was their trust so terrible a thing for him to yearn for?

“May I help you?” an older gentlemen asked, having rushed out of his rocking chair at the front of the tavern to greet the angel. He walked with a cane, his limp painful to watch as he approached. Ezekai reached out his hand and touched the man’s knee.

“Be well,” he said, and he felt the magic flowing out of him. It took more than he’d expected to banish the swelling, but then again, everything seemed to take more effort lately. Every angel knew of the priests’ magic fading away. So far Ezekai had thought himself unaffected, but now he wondered if that assumption was erroneous.

“Thank you,” the old man said, flexing the leg while smiling. “Truly a blessing to have you come this day. We did not think to use the scepter for just the boy, but perhaps Ashhur’s wisdom has decided otherwise.”

“Perhaps,” said Ezekai. “So there is need of me?”

“Indeed,” the man said, beckoning.

Ezekai was taken to a small home, one like thousands of others he had visited before. The smell of sickness was strong the moment the door opened. Ezekai bowed his head to the woman who greeted them. Her face was pale, haggard, with her hair pulled back from her face in a knot.

“May I enter?” Ezekai asked.

“Ashhur bless you, of course,” the woman said. “My name’s Maria.”

“Ashhur’s peace be with you, Maria.”

Wings folded behind him, Ezekai stepped inside, then dismissed the older man. The angel had to keep his head hunched, his height beyond that of normal humans. Just before him was a fireplace, and lying beside it was a young boy, about four years of age from what he guessed.

“That’s my son, Kaisen,” Maria said, quickly kneeling at the boy’s side. “He’s been running a fever for four days now, and each night his cough’s gotten worse and worse. I told them to use the scepter, to call for someone, but they wouldn’t. They said he’d be fine, that he’d…but that cough, he can’t even breathe when it hits him.”

She looked near tears. Ezekai smiled at her, wishing to do all he could to comfort her. No doubt she’d been sleeping little, each night worrying more and more for her precious child. Sitting down on his knees beside Kaisen, the angel reached out a hand and touched his forehead. The heat was immediately apparent, the fever burning deep within him.

“I’ve done what I can to make him drink,” Maria said. “Wormroot also worked on the fever for a day or two, but then stopped…”

“You’ve done well,” Ezekai said, still focused on the child. The sickness radiated out from his lungs, and in Ezekai’s mind it shone like a red spot amid a field of white. Frowning, he placed both his hands on Kaisen’s chest and closed his eyes.

“Help me, Ashhur,” he prayed. “I know this is beyond me, but nothing is beyond you.”

The power flowed from him with a strength that took his breath away. His arms shook, his head pounded, and still he wondered if it would be enough. So weak, he felt so weak when it came to matters of healing and faith. Kaisen coughed, first wildly, then less so. Maria watched for a moment, then was unable to keep herself away. She clutched her child, her hair coming loose from its knot and falling across the angel’s hands as Ezekai continued to pray. Smaller and smaller shrank the red sickness until it was gone, the fever in the boy’s flesh beginning to subside.

Ezekai took in a deep breath, then slowly stood.

“I doubt he would have lasted the night,” he said, surprised by how much his voice shook. “Four days, you say? Why was I not summoned sooner?”

Maria was crying as she held her child.

“I told them to,” she said, not looking at him. “I told them to, but they wouldn’t listen. They said…they said it wasn’t necessary. That he’d get better.”

Ezekai’s mouth dropped open, hardly able to believe it. Maria was lying to him. He sensed it in his gut with the properties Ashhur had bestowed upon all his angels. Lying…but why?

“Maria,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “I know you hide something from me. Why was the scepter not used? In your heart you knew Kaisen needed my aid. Someone else denied you. Tell me why.”

Maria sniffed, still refusing to look at him.

“They’ll be mad at me,” she said.

It was no lie.

“Who are they?”

She gestured to the door and the village beyond.

“They,” she said.

“You are under my protection, as are all of the people here. Please…”

She looked up at him with red eyes.

“They didn’t want you to see what they did to Saul.”

The words, the meaning, the mystery; it all sent a chill down his spine. He didn’t even know he could feel anger and fear simultaneously like that. He’d thought it a lost human emotion. Apparently not.

“Where?” he whispered.

She told him. He knelt down, kissed her forehead, then her son’s.

“Stay here,” he said.

Exiting the home, he let his wings stretch wide. It felt good, but it was the only pleasurable thing he felt. With several heavy beats he took to the air, then circled around to the northern end of the town. There, hanging from a pole, he found the body of the man who had been Saul Reid. His skin was dry from exposure to the sun, with rips in it showing rot. The crows had been at the corpse as well, further deteriorating it. The worst, though, was where the man’s crotch had been. All that remained of his genitals was a brutal collection of gore and pus.

Ezekai landed, his hand reaching for his sword.

“What has been done here?” he roared to the village. “All of you, come to me and answer for this!”

Slowly they gathered, men and women lurking at the edges of homes and beyond, not daring to near the pole. None spoke. Again Ezekai demanded answers, his voice carrying. Some went running out to the fields. With each passing second of silence, Ezekai felt his anger grow.

“You,” he said, pointing at a brown-haired woman leaning against a nearby home. “Who has done this?”

“Not my place to say,” she said. “Ask the men. They’re coming.”

Another he asked, this a boy of twelve.

“My pa said not to say, not even to you,” the child insisted, and it was the truth.

Ezekai turned about and looked to the fields. A group of thirty men was approaching, instruments of their trade slung over their shoulders. He sensed no anger in them, no danger, just…caution. Next to Ezekai, the rotting body continued to slowly swing.

When the group arrived, they crossed their arms and kicked their feet into the dirt, as if waiting for something. Ezekai had no patience for any of it.

“I demand an explanation,” he said.

“He was just like Locke,” said one of the men. He was a thin fellow, and the dirt on his face looked like it belonged there. From the way the others looked to him he appeared to be the one in charge of the most recent events. “They did stuff together, the two of them. He admitted as much when we caught him peeping in through my little girl’s window.”

“You tortured this knowledge out of him?”

The men glanced to one another.

“We made him talk,” another admitted.

Ezekai closed his eyes, meaning to pray for calm, but the stench of the corpse was too near. They had killed the man, mutilated him, and then hung him up for all to see. Because of this they nearly let an innocent child die, all so they might hide their deed. When Ezekai opened his eyes, he felt fury burning in his blood.

“You tortured, mutilated, and then murdered a man,” he said to them. “Without law. Without justice. Without proof.”

“We heard it from his mouth,” someone shouted.

“He confessed!” shouted another.

“Under torture!” Ezekai insisted. “How do you know he spoke truth?”

“What of you?” asked the thin fellow with the dirty face. They were closer now, starting to surround him. “How do we know you spoke truth when you forgave Locke? If he fell on his knees and begged, would you have let that monster remain in our village?”

There was no way for Ezekai to know, and no way to explain. When Locke had cast himself to the dirt, the guilt and sorrow overwhelmed every strand of his soul, his yearning for salvation beyond anything Ezekai could describe. The man hated himself, hated his life. Ezekai had shown him a ray of light, had hoped to cure him of the vile desires, and then in that light Locke had asked for forgiveness from a man he’d wronged. That man, Colton, had murdered him in cold blood. Yet now, when faced with another similar situation, the townspeople chose not to embrace the forgiveness, but instead the murderer? It was more than Ezekai could understand. He didn’t want to understand it. He didn’t want to believe it. He cherished these people. He protected them. He loved them, even the poor, sick Saul that hung from a rope.

Ezekai lifted his sword.

“This cannot happen,” he told them. “It will not happen, not again. Not ever.”

He turned to cut free the body only to find a wall blocking him. The men were gathering together, holding their rakes, shovels, and scythes as weapons against him.

“He hangs,” said the man in charge. “We called no angel, and we’re a hundred miles from Mordeina. What Saul did deserved death by every law known to us, even yours, and we administered that law. Don’t you dare cut him down.”

“The law called for you to shred his loins? The law said your fear of being caught allows a child to die of sickness? Move aside, now.”

They did not. He saw their fear, sensed it, but they wouldn’t move. Not on their own. But Ezekai would make them. He flung himself forward, his blade whirling. Most of the men turned to flee, but a few tried to fight. Their instruments shattered against his shining blade, their worn iron nothing compared to steel forged in the smiths of eternity. Ezekai shifted, pushed, doing everything possible to harm not a single man. When he cleared the other side, he flapped his wings, rose into the air, and then sliced through the rope.

Saul’s body crumpled to the ground. Ezekai landed before it and met the eyes of those who stood against him.

“Bury him,” he commanded.

“Bury him yourself,” said the dirty-faced man. “What are you going to do if we don’t? Kill us?”

Ezekai’s jaw trembled.

“You tread on dangerous ground,” he said softly. “You aren’t above mercy. You aren’t wiser than the heavens.”

He grabbed the rope and flew, flew until he found a spot far away from the town. Landing on the soft grass, he jammed his sword into the dirt, twisted it to the side, and then tore into the ground. With his bare hands he dug free the rest. His skin was tough, but so was the ground, and it wasn’t long before drops of his scarlet blood mixed with the earth. Deeper and deeper he dug the grave, moving with greater urgency. Without a word he pushed the corpse into the hole, then started filling it. At last it was finished, and with solemn silence he sat on his knees. With his wings he patted down the dirt atop the grave, and with his tears he marked the headstone.

Ezekai looked to his sword, its shining blade now covered with dirt, and remembered the impulse he’d felt as the humans challenged him. The desire to prove them wrong. The desire to end their anger, pride, and hatred. The desire to kill.

“Help us, Ashhur,” Ezekai said, curling his body together, crumpling his bleeding hands into the loose earth of the grave beneath his chest. “Heavens help us, what are we becoming?”

Harruq stepped out into the private courtyard, still adjusting the straps of his armor. His swords swung wildly at his hips, the buckle not tightened correctly. Not that it mattered. He didn’t march into battle, just a spar, one he desperately, desperately needed.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” Judarius said. An easy smile was on the angel’s face, his enormous mace resting across one shoulder. His eyes, a mixture of green and gold, sparkled.

“I’m killing Antonil the moment he gets back,” Harruq said, giving his belt a savage tug to tighten it. “Thought it might be best to confess that now, get it all out of the way.”

“Pressures of running a kingdom?”

“Pressures of running it badly. Careful with your swings, by the way. I’ve been told these flower pots are rather old.”

Judarius looked at the flowers, growing in vases of white marble, and then shrugged.

“I will do my best,” he said. “But if I must, I will replace them with vases of pearl and gold from Avlimar. Are you ready, half-orc?”

Harruq drew his swords, immediately feeling the tension in his muscles beginning to ease. Standing there with his blades in his hands made him think to his days training with Haern the Watcher. Back then he’d relied on strength alone, his fighting style the equivalent of a bull running someone over. He liked to think he was better now, and as Judarius raised his mace, Harruq wondered if Haern would be proud of him. It was a strange thought, a bitter remembrance, and it nearly cost him his first hit. Judarius’s mace swung in, almost lazy compared to what the mighty warrior was capable of. Harruq crossed his swords and blocked, letting out a grunt as he did.

“What’s that?” Judarius asked, stepping back and slamming the hilt of the mace toward Harruq’s gut. “Have you gotten fat already?”

Harruq shoved the wood aside, twirled Salvation in his left hand, and then thrust. The angel’s mace was already turning, easily shoving the blade high. Two more hits he tried, his swords thudding against the enchanted wood that made up the mace’s handle. More and more, as sweat ran down his face and neck, Harruq felt his stress ease. This was what he knew. Parry, dodge, thrust, counter. Weapon colliding against weapon, strength meeting strength. What madness had made Antonil think he could handle constant requests for money he did not have, justice he did not understand, and soldiers he could not give?

“You’ve slowed,” Judarius said, feigning an attack but then assaulting anyway. The mace came slamming in, and it took all of Harruq’s strength to stand against it.

“I’m getting old. Happens to the best of us.”

“You? Old?” Condemnation swung through the air inches from the angel’s chestpiece. “You have elf blood in your veins. I think you have a good fifty years more before you can consider yourself worthy of a few gray hairs.”

It was something Aurelia had mentioned long before, and it still struck Harruq as odd. It also made him annoyed. So he was just out of practice, then, too lazy and stressed to perform the exercises Haern had taught him. He thought back to when he’d fought the demon god, Thulos, standing against him even when the angels could not. He was pretty sure that old Harruq would wallop the current one, and the aggravation sent him on the offensive, a constant assault that Judarius still blocked with ease.

“You won last we fought,” Judarius said. “What happened?”

He finally leapt into the air, his great wings flapping to launch him several feet backward. He landed beside the wall of the courtyard, his wings knocking over two different flower vases. They hit with dull thuds but did not break. Harruq winced anyway.

“I think they’d make me pay for that,” he said.

Judarius gave him an incredulous look.

“We spar, yet all you can think about are flowers? Perhaps you should have stayed on your throne.”

Harruq settled into a stance, his swords crossed before him as he struggled to regain his breath.

“You haven’t scored a hit yet,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check.

“I haven’t tried.”

“If you won’t try, then you’re right, I should have stayed on the throne. After all, I’d hate to waste my time.”

A bit of disappointment flashed in Judarius’s eyes. His chiseled body tensed, and he readied his mace.

“Careful,” he said. “It isn’t wise to taunt an angel.”

Harruq smirked.

“Nor a half-orc.”

Judarius used his wings to add to his momentum, hurtling across the courtyard with his mace in full swing. For a brief moment Harruq felt afraid, but his pride pushed it away. Legs tensed, mouth pulled into a snarl, he flung both his blades in the way of the mighty weapon.

The shock of the hit stole his breath away, and he flew several feet back, colliding with a marble pillar built near the outer ring of the garden. Harruq slumped against it, leaning his head back and laughing.

“Lost my edge in fighting, too,” he said. “Good to know I’m now worthless everywhere.”

Judarius approached, his mace flung over his shoulder. There was no joy in his eyes despite his victory.

“You’re more troubled than I thought,” he said. “Is it really so terrible?”

Harruq let out a sigh as he closed his eyes.

“I was prepared for it to be tough,” he said. “But this is still so much worse than I ever could have believed. Everyone looks to me as if I wield so much power, yet in truth I’ve never felt more helpless in all my life.”

He waved his hands about, gesturing to where servants were watching, ready to come to him at a moment’s notice.

“Never alone,” he said. “Never in need. Never allowed to go beyond the castle without guards. Our kings are prisoners, Judarius. No wonder so many turn mad and bitter.”

The angel set the mace down, then sat opposite Harruq, his wings folding behind his back.

“Do not feel you are alone in this,” Judarius said. He frowned, looked away as if embarrassed. “I once led armies, commanding angel legions into battle against the demons of our kind. I even faced the mad god, testing my might against him. Yet now what am I? Who do I command, and what enemies do I fight against? All I know is war. All I have been taught is strategy and conquest. And now, here in this peace, I am lost. I am without purpose.”

“You protect mankind.”

“From themselves,” the angel said, shaking his head. “Our enemies are our friends, our friends our enemies. There are no battle lines. There are no sides. If this is a war, it is one I fear I am losing. I have told Ahaesarus that this cannot go on, but he insists.”

Harruq was surprised to hear that the angels shared such similar concerns. For some reason he’d thought their opinions would be unanimous, but that showed a mindset so many others had, that the angels were all one and the same. But Judarius and Azariah, both brothers, were about as far apart as Harruq was to Qurrah. His mind drifted, thinking of what the arguments must be like up in Avlimar when the entire angel host gathered…

“Milord?”

Harruq turned, then pushed himself to his feet as he realized the queen stood at the entrance to the garden. She wore a soft yellow dress, and the sunlight shone off her thin crown.

“I’m not your lord,” he told her. “You’re the one in charge here, and you of all people should know that.”

A smile tugged at her lips, but it vanished far too quickly.

“I…” she stopped, glancing at Judarius. “I fear I bring troubling news.”

“What?” Harruq asked.

“It’s only a rumor, but I believe there is truth in it. Harruq…some villagers were attacked by an angel.”

Harruq’s mouth dropped open. He looked to Judarius, dreading the angel’s reaction, but so far he remained calm, his eyes locked on Susan.

“Go on,” Judarius said.

“I’ve yet to hear a consensus as to where, but it was a village in the south, near the border to Ker. There was a disagreement over the punishment of a criminal, though I can’t say the exact nature of it. The angel drew his blade against them. Most say none were hurt, but a few are claiming otherwise.”

Harruq sheathed his swords, keeping his hands on the hilts, wishing he could feel the same release of tension as when he first stepped out into the yard. If an angel attacked innocent villagers, for any reason, then the protests would spread. Susan’s brother would leap on it immediately, spreading word of the tyranny from the heavens. And as things spiraled worse and worse, both sides would look to him, expecting him to fix it. Expecting him to have the answers.

He turned to Judarius, but before he could speak the angel interrupted him.

“I will discover what I can,” he said. “We must not let the kingdom be divided over rumors and lies. Be patient for the truth, Harruq. When everything is known, we will decide the fates of all involved.”

Judarius dipped his head toward the queen, then soared off into the sky, heading straight for the distant glimmer that was Avlimar. Harruq watched him go, feeling panic creep around the corners of his mind.

Susan took his hand, and he flinched as if shocked.

“You’ll be fine,” she told him, her eyes on Avlimar. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here.”

She kissed his cheek before retreating back into the castle.

“I can’t do this,” Harruq whispered. He looked ever higher. “You hear me, Ashhur? I can’t do this. You’ve got to help me out here. Because…”

He swallowed, felt a chill spreading through his veins.

“Because this will all crumble if you don’t.”