The Prison of Angels

Epilogue

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.