The Prison of Angels

26

“I still don’t like it,” Tarlak said as the towers loomed ever closer. His head was heavily bandaged, and he looked unsteady atop his horse.

“We’re far past doing things we don’t like,” Antonil said, riding beside the wizard as the remnants of his army made their way north along the river. “Twice now I must return to Mordeina with my head hung low and my tail between my legs. And what will any say if I try for a third campaign? If thirty thousand is not enough, then what?”

“Perhaps we should give the land up for lost?” Tarlak suggested after a moment’s hesitation. He winced as if expecting an outburst, and Antonil understood why. The words stung, but there was too much wisdom, too much truth in the simple statement.

“I’d prefer it if you were wrong more often, wizard,” he said.

“Me too, honestly.”

They turned their attention to the towers. There were two of them, each standing on opposite sides of the Rigon River. The one on the western side had its bricks painted a sheer black, making it seem as if it were built out of obsidian. The eastern side was built like the other, tall and cylindrical, except with its stones colored a deep red that invoked a sense of blood and danger. Spanning the river, held up by what Antonil assumed to be magic, was a lengthy stone bridge connecting the tops of the two towers, its bricks a mixture of red and black.

“Is there any significance to the color?” Antonil asked, hoping that learning more would put his mind at ease about the strange structures. The more unknown something was, the easier to fear it.

“The black is the Master’s Tower,” Tarlak said. He closed his eyes and held the side of his face for a moment, grimacing as if against a wave of pain. “These are the men and women who rule the roost. Their numbers vary, but it’s never more than twenty. As for the red, that’s where the apprentices go to learn. Anyone can apply, if they’re insane enough. Few are accepted, and even fewer actually survive the process.”

“Is learning magic that dangerous?”

Tarlak chuckled.

“To graduate, you have to beat one of the mages on the Council in a duel. If there is an available seat on the Council, the duel is merely one of skill, not to the death. If the Council’s full, well…” The wizard shrugged. “There’s really only one way to open up a seat.”

A shadow had passed over Tarlak’s face as he spoke, and Antonil sensed there was far more the man was hiding. He felt bad to be so inquisitive, what with Tarlak in such poor shape, but his curiosity was stronger.

“Were you ever an apprentice there?” he asked.

“I was supposed to be,” Tarlak said. His speech was slow, as if he were deeply tired. “My father paid a lot of coin to have a man named Madral prepare me, teach me some rudimentary spells to help ensure my success as an apprentice. But Madral…there was a reason he was considered a renegade among the Council. He worshipped Karak in secret, and helped topple the Citadel back in the day. Given how my father was a priest of Ashhur, you can imagine how well we got along once I discovered that fact. I was barely sixteen when I confronted him. The way he looked at me, as if I were less than a flea in his eyes…I don’t know how, but I killed him. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more frightened.”

Antonil gave him a moment of silence, instead staring at the nearing towers as he thought. Well, that explained the moment of darkness in Tarlak’s routinely cheery attitude.

“You could have joined the Council, couldn’t you?” he said. “Isn’t that how the rules worked?”

Tarlak nodded.

“Yes, I could have, but I refused. The Council guards magic so jealously, and my time with Madral did much to scar my opinion on such matters. That, and I’d have faced waves of challenges from the apprentices, some twice my age. I couldn’t do it. So I took what money I had left and worked to create my little band of mercenaries. The rest, you could say, is infamy.”

Antonil elbowed the wizard in the side, doing his best to smile.

“I’d say it turned out all right,” he said. “Sure, there’s been some tough times, but you’re friends with a king now. And some claim you helped save the world. That must count for something.”

For a moment he got nothing, but then Tarlak laughed.

“Don’t think for a second you’re getting out of your debt with a few sunny words,” he said. “And I’m running up interest, too. Saving the world doesn’t come cheap, and neither will healing this head wound.”

They rode for a while in silence. Antonil felt better seeing Tarlak’s spirits rise. Perhaps if they could not cross the river, they could still send out hunters, maybe spear some fish as a way of sustaining things until the Tarlak was well enough to create a way to cross the river on his own. When the towers were only two hundred yards away, Antonil raised his hand and ordered his army to slow.

“I don’t want them to think we come with threats,” he said. “Do you think you’d have more luck requesting passage across the river than me?”

“Pretty as I am?” Tarlak asked, gesturing to his bandage. “No, I don’t. They’ve tried to kill me twice, Antonil. Like I said, they guard magic pretty closely.”

“So you’re saying I should keep you hidden in the back?”

“I’m saying they will either let us pass, or they won’t. There’s no way of telling, not with them. They’re recluses for a reason, and the Gods’ War didn’t help matters any.”

Antonil muttered a curse against all spellcasters under his breath, then ordered his army to halt. Despite the worry in his gut, he rode ahead, determined to show the Council he was neither afraid, nor attempting to intimidate them. All they wanted was to cross a bridge so they could return home. Why did it have to be so bloody complicated?

“Just speak,” Tarlak shouted from behind. “They’ll hear you, I promise.”

Antonil swallowed, chose his words carefully, then shouted up to the red tower that rose so high above him.

“Wizards of the Council, I am King Antonil Copernus of Mordan. My army has suffered many casualties, and our stores of food dwindle. I ask that we may cross the Rigon by way of your bridge, and receive any supplies you’d be willing to give us. I promise all kindness will be repaid, and any price within reason will be met twice over.”

With that, he waited. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him, as if smelling the approach of a distant storm. Patting her neck, Antonil once more called out to the towers.

“What say you?”

Strangely, it seemed his horse’s instincts were correct. The sky above, which had been white with clouds, suddenly darkened. Antonil kept his horse still as he heard worried cries from his army behind him. It was just intimidation, he told himself. The mages wanted to show they were in control. To confirm this, he glanced back at Tarlak. When their eyes met, he saw the wizard’s concern, and rocks twisted in his gut.

All along the face of both towers various stones shifted, opening to create dozens of windows. Antonil felt his heart jump. At last he would receive his answer.

And he did, in the barrage of a dozen balls of fire, each larger than the size of a house.

His jaw fell open, panic freezing him in place. No, he thought. It couldn’t be. Why? What had they done? Looking back, he saw the fire slamming into his troops, detonating in great explosions that sent bodies flying. Lightning struck from the sky, its thunder rolling over them like mocking laughter. Soldiers fled in all directions, and following them came the fire and lightning, now coupled with lances of ice and massive boulders, all from those open windows.

So far untouched, Antonil broke free of his terror and kicked the sides of his horse. Turning about, he raced toward the dying remnants of his army, seeking one man in particular. Tarlak Eschaton stood on the ground, having abandoned his horse. Silver light shone around his hands as he tried to summon his magic.

“Can you protect us?” Antonil shouted.

“I can’t,” Tarlak screamed. “Damn it, Antonil, I can’t stop them all!”

Several of the incoming spells shattered, but they were too few. Antonil watched, his throat constricting as he listened to the screams.

“Stop it!” the king screamed to the towers. “Stop it, are you mad?”

Lightning struck. Blinded, Antonil was thrown from his mount. He landed hard on his head. Gasping for air, his vision swirling with color, he saw faint images of his men, those he had promised to lead to victory, to safety, and watched them die amid a horrible mixture of fire, lightning, and ice. Their bodies burned, their bodies bled. So horrible, so futile, and why? What had he done?

The barrage lessened, nearly all of his army broken. Antonil staggered to his feet, found Tarlak on his knees still trying to cast a spell.

“I can protect us,” the wizard was mumbling. “I fought gods. I can protect us, I can protect…”

From the windows of the tower shot three balls of flame, their centers a deep blue, their outer ring a brilliant orange. All three were aimed their way. Tarlak grabbed Antonil’s hand, and accompanying a scream of pain a translucent shield formed before the two. The first fireball exploded. The heat washed over them, rolling about as if they were in the center of furnace, yet they were not yet burned. The second hit, Tarlak screamed, and the fire passed.

Before the third reached them, Antonil pulled his shield off his back. Despite the burns on his face, despite the blood dripping from his mouth and nose, Tarlak was still trying to protect them. Knowing it hopeless, Antonil shoved him to the grass, dove atop him, and raised his shield. Tarlak continued to mumble, and strangely he heard Aurelia’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Antonil whispered, thinking of his kingdom, his wife, his child. All of it lost, all of it in peril.

“Protect them, Harruq.”

The fire washed over him, burning away flesh and melting his armor, consuming the life that was his and ending his short, bittersweet reign.

From high atop the Master’s Tower, the Lord of the Council watched as the last of the army was buried in a wave of magical attacks. Satisfied, he turned to the lady at his right.

“Inform the capitol,” he said to her before descending the stairs that led up to the roof. “If Kevin wants the throne, it’s his to take.”

“Of course,” said the silver-haired lady. From the pocket of her dress she pulled out a scrap of paper. With a soft breath she blew across it. The paper folded in on itself, over and over, until it had taken the shape of a dove. Its wings flapped with the speed of a hummingbird, and then into the sky it shot, racing north at speeds only angels could hope to match.

Kevin stepped into Susan’s room, and she spun about, ready to berate him.

“Are the guards outside daft?” she asked. “You might have caught me in a state of undress.”

She meant it as playful banter, but the seriousness of his look stopped her. He held a piece of paper out to her as he approached.

“Your guards are dead,” he said.

Susan’s mouth fell open, and she took a step back toward her bed.

“What?’ she asked.

In answer he gave her the paper. She took it, unfolding the delicate material to reveal a simple message.

Antonil is dead.

She looked up, saw the hope in her brother’s eyes.

“What is this?” she asked. “What does this mean?”

“It means my men have already cleared the city walls, and they’ll be here in moments. Where is the half-orc?”

Susan’s mouth suddenly felt dry. This was it. This was everything she’d feared of her brother, reaching fruition at last. She’d always told herself it’d never come this far. Apparently, she’d told herself a lie.

“He’s with Aurelia, in their room,” she said, still in a daze. “Will you kill them?”

Kevin put his hands on her shoulders, his hard gaze staring down at her. It made her feel small. It always did.

“Harruq was named steward by your husband. If I do nothing, that brute will rule, not you, not your child. By the time Gregory comes of age, do you think he’ll even have a throne to inherit? Harruq is the angels’ puppet. You know this. You’ve seen it.”

“Don’t do this,” Susan whispered. “Please, you don’t need to do this. At least let their little girl live.”

Kevin swallowed.

“This is an ugly business,” he said. “I’m not sure if she can be spared. No one must know what takes place here. We can still save our land, my dear sister. It will just take a little sacrifice. Can you do that for me? Can you be strong like I need you to be?”

Susan tried to push him away, but he held onto her, his grip on her arms tightening.

“You bastard,” she said. “You’ll kill us all, won’t you? My baby boy, even him, you sick-”

He slapped her across the face, silencing her. A hard shove knocked her to the ground. Shaking his head, he pulled out a small length of rope that had been looped about his belt.

“I do what must be done,” he said. “Something you’d never understand.”

She wanted to laugh at him. What must be done? She’d married a stranger so their household could prosper in the chaos following the war. Just a man of common blood, a man who loved his lost homeland more than her. She’d sat in the shadow of a half-blood hero, named steward because she was seen as too vulnerable to be declared ruler herself. For family, for friends, she understood enduring such things. But this wasn’t for family. It wasn’t for country. She saw greed in her brother’s eyes, a lust for power she should have quashed years ago.

“You won’t kill them,” she said, giving him her hardest glare. “Harruq’s stronger than any man you have, and the elf’s magic is unstoppable. They’ll escape, and when they do they’ll tell the whole world of your betrayal.”

Kevin smiled that confident smile of his as he forced her to her knees, wrapping his rope around her wrists.

“My dear sister, trust me,” he said as men in strange clothes and gray masks entered the room behind him. “I’ve taken care of that.”