The Prison of Angels

9

Small squads of Bram’s soldiers had followed them at all times, saying nothing, only ensuring that as the week passed Antonil’s army never tarried on their way to the eastern side. Sticking to the roads limited what they could see of Ker, which disappointed Tarlak. Through their rapid travel he saw a healthy land, with not a hint of the wreckage that had waylaid Mordan, brought forth by both demons and rebellion.

The Rigon River formed the eastern border of Ker. Twice as wide as the Corinth, its only crossing was via the two fabled Gods’ Bridges that connected the Rigon Delta, Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine, Karak’s Bridge over the eastern. But as Tarlak approached Ashhur’s Bridge alongside Antonil, it resembled little of what he once remembered. In between the arches, where there’d been worn statues of winged knights, there were now rows of barricades. The stone floor, which had once been rare white marble, was now hidden beneath wooden walls and planks. It seemed spears poked out in all directions, as if the bridge were the back of a porcupine. Killing lanes, walls, trenches, all built with one purpose in mind: protecting Ker from the orcs beyond.

A single soldier rode out to meet them as they approached the bridge.

“Greetings King of Mordan,” said the soldier. “My name is Yoric, and I control Ashhur’s Bridge. I’ve been informed that your army will pass through without incident. My men have stood down, and we request you make haste to the other side.”

“We will do our best,” Antonil said.

“Thank you,” said Yoric. “So you know, the orcs haven’t touched us in months, but I think that’s because they figured out we’ve no intentions of traveling beyond the river. Be careful in there, your highness. It’s a different world, even compared to when you last came.”

The reminder of his failed first campaign made Antonil’s face twitch.

“Your warning is appreciated,” he said dryly.

In tightly packed rows his army marched through the winding pathways built upon the bridge, coming out the other side into lands of the delta. Another few hours and they would cross the second bridge, which would dump them out into an area that had once belonged to the nation of Omn. Now only orcs remained, with the exception of the distant city of Angelport, whose walls had helped protect it from the invaders and whose ships kept its people from starving. Being fairly close to the elven lands didn’t hurt much, either.

When the last of the soldiers and wagons were across, Tarlak finally crossed the bridge himself.

“Keep the way back open for us,” he said, tossing Yoric a wink. “Just in case we come screaming for our lives, a horde of orcs on our tail.”

“No orc will cross this bridge,” Yoric said. “I assure you, come your return, victorious or otherwise, we’ll be here waiting.”

“My heroes,” Tarlak said, offering an exaggerated bow before snapping his fingers, summoning a gust of wind to blow him into the air and back toward the front of the army, where Antonil marched.

After crossing into Omn, Tarlak oversaw the setting up of the camp, positioning wagons and yelling at men dumb enough to pitch their tents beyond his preset lines. It gave the wizard a headache, but at least he got to take it out on the rest of the men. When he’d circled the enormous camp twice and yelled himself hoarse, he finally joined Antonil. To his surprise, he found the king sitting alone before his tent, a fire burning not far from his feet.

“Shouldn’t you be surrounded by generals, advisors, and various bootlickers?” Tarlak asked.

“I sent them away,” Antonil said.

“Proof you’re a good king, or a terrible one,” Tarlak said, grabbing one of many empty chairs from the tent and propping it opposite Antonil. “Sadly, I’m not sure which.”

“We’ll know the answer by the time this campaign ends.”

Tarlak took off his hat, reached inside, and pulled out a long-necked bottle. Popping the cork with his thumb, he took a drink of the wine within.

“So morose today,” he said when finished. “What’s eating my glorious king?”

“Nothing. I wished to be alone is all, something a certain wizard appears incapable of understanding.”

“Have you ordered me to leave yet?”

“No.”

Tarlak lifted the bottle in a toast.

“Then I’m staying, your highness. Have a drink if it’ll help loosen your tongue. You’re too strong to be eaten by nothing, so how about you share what is bothering you?”

Antonil reluctantly accepted the bottle. He took a sip, then frowned at it.

“Is there any alcohol in this?” he asked.

“Somewhere in there. That’s the fruitier blend. I’m saving the hard stuff for after our first battle.”

Antonil chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re something else,” he said.

“Well aware. Now talk.”

After a deep drink, Antonil handed it over, wiped his face on his sleeve.

“I’ve been thinking of the first campaign to retake Neldar from the orcs,” he said.

“Aaah,” Tarlak said. “Dwelling on old losses. That’s not the best for morale, your highness. In my professional opinion, stop it.”

“Duly noted, and ignored. Did I ever tell you how it happened?”

Tarlak scratched at his goatee, trying to remember. Would have been three years ago, so he’d have been…

“No,” he said. “I was helping Jerico and Lathaar rebuild their Citadel. The priesthood helped too, but you’d be surprised how much funding I had to beg, steal, and borrow to get that place up and running. I heard about your return. Was all anyone could talk about for a few months, not that anyone really cared about how it had happened, just that you failed.”

“I sometimes wonder if the people wanted me to fail,” Antonil said, eyes staring off into nowhere. Snapping out of it, he reached over and yanked the bottle from Tarlak’s hand.

“Careful with that,” Tarlak grumbled. “Drink the whole thing and you might get tipsy.”

“Compared to Sergan’s special brew this is just water,” Antonil said. “I can handle water. What I can’t handle is watching men who trust me, who expect me to protect them, die by the thousands.”

He fell silent, and Tarlak frowned. When it seemed he wouldn’t continue, he forced the story along, figuring it better to get Antonil talking about it instead of just brooding.

“So what did happen to your last glorious campaign?” he asked.

“I was too confident,” Antonil said. “After all, I was Antonil the Dragonslayer, defeater of demons, friend of angels. For eternity’s sake, we’d even retaken a city from a god. What could a couple hundred orcs do against us? I had Harruq with me, too, while his wife was away showing their daughter to her distant family in Quellassar. The two of us together, along with eight thousand men strong. What could defeat me? At least, that’s what I thought. Nearly every night was a celebration. That army wasn’t like this one. A lot of them were from Neldar, had fought with me since our days of fleeing Veldaren when Karak’s forces captured its walls. We were coming home. We were going to take our swords and shove them down those orcs’ throats, and piece by piece reclaim what was ours.”

He shook his head.

“So foolish. So arrogant. We didn’t clear out any outlying villages. We didn’t check with Angelport, or send scouts to ask the elves for information when we were near their forests. No, we marched straight toward Veldaren. I don’t know why. I guess I felt once we retook that city, then everything else would fall into place. Perhaps I thought it’d wash away all the blood and death that had happened since I fled, abandoning it for Karak’s prophet. Like an arrow we shot toward the city, but we never made it. Not even close.”

Tarlak thought on what he did know about Antonil’s first campaign. It’d been cut drastically short, his return to Mordan coming months earlier than expected. There had been only a single battle, but from what everyone said it had been a crushing defeat.

“Where did the orcs finally attack?” he asked.

“Harruq told me they’d been developing siege weapons,” Antonil said, seemingly ignoring his question. “I didn’t listen. Of course I didn’t. The orcs were brutes, stupid, leaderless, or so I thought. When we were three day’s ride out from Kinamn we encountered the first of the raiding parties. They were small, quick, and knew exactly how to hit us. They never let us sleep, and they targeted our supplies whenever they could. Thinking they were based out of Kinamn, I steered us toward the city with hopes of crushing the bastards where they couldn’t flee.

“Still the raiders hit us, always at night. They slipped in wherever fires flickered out, cutting the throats of my men while they slept. Reached a point where many refused to sleep, and I had to keep huge portions of my army on constant patrol. When the walls of Kinamn came in sight, they were so welcome. The city appeared in ruins, its walls vacant, but every one of my advisors insisted the orcs hid within. The gates were torn open, so we thought we’d have no issues entering. We should have…”

Tarlak took the bottle of wine from Antonil, then gulped down the rest of it.

“How many orcs were inside the city?” he asked.

“At least five thousand,” Antonil said, not looking up. “They had archers hiding along the walls, and all at once they stood and fired. Hundreds of men crammed into the doorway, dying instantly. Worse were the catapults. They’d been aimed at the pathway leading into the city, and before the call to retreat had even left my lips they were let loose. Dozens of boulders landed amid us, rolling, breaking our lines like we were playthings. We expected unprepared cowards, hiding from us as we burned out their nest. I couldn’t have been more disastrously wrong.

“We retreated, of course. We outnumbered them, but with the catapults, the archers on the walls…what could we do? Several thousand rushed after, swarming us as we retreated. I tried keeping order, to set up a line of defense, but the only reason any of us lived was because of Harruq. Gods, what a sight he was. While everyone else was busy running away, he was screaming and hollering for the orcs to come get him. Even the catapults didn’t scare him. When Harruq met the first wave, those around him stood their ground lest they be overwhelmed as well. Even in the chaos we could see those blood-red swords swinging. By the time I halted our retreat and sent men to aid him he’d taken down at least thirty on his own. It was around him my men rallied, and we sent the orcs running back to their city and the safety of their walls.”

Antonil shook his head.

“After that, we limped back to Mordeina. Of my eight thousand men, only three thousand returned. We never even stepped foot on Neldar soil. And when I returned to my castle, to my wife and child, I discovered I had a new name. The Missing King, they called me. The joke is on them, of course. I’d have preferred to be gone far longer than I was. No, I’d have even stayed in the ruins of Veldaren, never to return, if I had my way.”

“You can’t talk like that,” Tarlak insisted. “These are Mordan soldiers. If they hear you wishing you could abandon your throne…”

“They’ll what?” Antonil asked. “Turn on me? They already have. The whole kingdom is watching me, waiting for me to fail. I first came with eight thousand, and now I come with thirty. I will free my home, taken by the sword, and in the rubble raise my child, my family.”

“And what of Mordan?”

The king waved dismissively.

“The angels can have it for all I care. They already rule it, anyway.”

Tarlak stood from his chair and bowed low to his friend.

“This campaign will be different,” he said. “You have me, to start with. But you are a king, and you rule lands loyal to you. If you do this to expand your kingdom, to retake what is yours, then I will be here every step of the way. But if you think this is your chance to escape everything that is happening in Mordan, a way to sidestep your responsibilities…then I fear I have far more relaxing ways to waste my time.”

Antonil swallowed, rubbed his eyes with his hands.

“Forgive me, Tar,” he said. “I don’t mean it. I do want to escape, but I could never do it. I’ve never fled my responsibilities, and I never will. That’s why I’m here. I was to protect the people of Neldar. They trusted me, and followed me across Dezrel and back again because of that trust. I will repay it. I will free their homes, their farmland, their cities and forests. I may be the Missing King, but I am still king, and will be until my last breath.”

Tarlak reached across the fire and smacked Antonil’s shoulder.

“Now that’s the man I know,” he said, grinning. “Let those orcs try to raid us again. Let them be all sneaky at night. They’ve got a nasty surprise waiting for them. No one out-tricks a mage. And when we reach Kinamn, we’ll see how well those catapults work once I’ve set them aflame.”

“You’re a good man, Tarlak,” Antonil said. “Perhaps I should have brought you with me instead of Harruq on that first campaign.”

Tarlak laughed.

“You kidding? I’d have teleported myself back to Mordeina the second those orc archers popped up on the walls. Good night, Antonil.”

He raised his empty bottle, attempted a drink from it anyway, and then left the man to his thoughts.