The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  Jessilynn leaned over the side of the castle and vomited. The sounds, the sights, it was all too much. She prayed she never witnessed the horrors of the Abyss, but if she did, she felt it would look and sound similar to the disgusting display assaulting her senses. She vomited until her stomach was empty and her chest hurt, then slid back to a sit, entire body numb.

  Broken, hopeless, Jessilynn looked to the starry sky and saw the beating of white wings.

  It felt like a cruel joke. They would come now? They would fill the night sky with their wings now the battle was over and done, and thousands lay dead or dying? Jessilynn slowly rose to her feet as the angel army split into multiple streams, surrounding the wall and gathering in larger numbers were the gate was broken. She thought to grab her bow, then left it there. What point was there? She carried no regular arrows.

  A trio of angels split from the rest and landed on the turret. Jessilynn recognized one of them as their leader, Ahaesarus. She’d met him before, in her early days in the rebuilt Citadel. It’d been just once, a mere checking up on how Lathaar and Jerico were doing, but Jessilynn had never forgotten. Ahaesarus had looked so divine, his perfect face chiseled from marble, his hair spun gold, his wings softer and whiter than those of a swan. Now she only saw a weary face with long hair covering his eyes like a shroud.

  The angel said nothing, only stared at her. The sound of feasting seemed to have stunned him silent. But Jessilynn wouldn’t remain silent. Slowly she stepped toward the angel, her voice quivering, an inch from breaking completely.

  “Why weren’t you here?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Nothing? All he could offer her was guilty silence?

  “Why didn’t you come for us?” she asked, stepping closer, hands clenching tight. “Why’d you leave us to die?”

  Her fists struck his muscular form. Her face buried into his chest, slathering his armor with her tears. Over and over she hit him, flailing and sobbing uncontrollably. She screamed the word at him, the only word she had left. She didn’t know if it were a question or a condemnation, and truth be told, she didn’t care.

  “Why? Why? Why?”

  “I’m sorry,” the angel whispered. His heavy arms wrapped about her. “The blame is mine, and I will bear this guilt unto eternity. We failed you, Jessilynn. We failed you all.”

  She ceased her flailing and weakly leaned against him as she sniffled. She had nothing left, nothing at all. “What happens now?”

  Before Ahaesarus could answer, Jessilynn felt the angel shudder as if he’d been stabbed. She opened her mouth to ask, but a sudden terror slammed her chest harder than a hammer. Panic flooded her body as if she were still within the thick of battle. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. Even in Ahaesarus’s arms, she did not feel safe.

  A voice spoke in her mind, each word an indictment.

  There will be death. There will be bloodshed. But it is not in my name.

  Jessilynn struggled to remain standing. She’d already cried her tears, yet fresh sorrow washed over her dulled mind. Vainly trying to gather herself, she wiped her face and stepped away from Ahaesarus. The angel had appeared heartbroken upon his arrival, but now he stared south with abject horror. When she glanced to the other hovering angels, she saw that they looked equally terrified.

  “Azariah,” Ahaesarus whispered. “What have you done?”

  The words chilled Jessilynn to the bone. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Where is their leader?” the angel asked, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  “Leader?”

  “Of the creatures. Their ruler, their king.”

  Jessilynn pointed past him to where Manfeaster lurked amid a group of his most powerful wolf-men. He was one of the few not joining in the gluttonous feast the bulk of his forces partook in, with only those near the edges of the walls fleeing to the inner fields from the line of angels brandishing weapons forged in the smiths of eternity.

  “There,” Jessilynn said. “The one wielding Darius’s old blade.”

  The angel saw, and kissed her forehead.

  “Forgive me, Jessilynn,” he whispered. “But we must have an army for what is to come.”

  With a mighty flap of his wings, he lifted into the air. More and more of the creatures looked up from their feasting to see the angels, and fearful murmurs spread throughout their army. Jessilynn walked to the edge of the castle tower. Ahaesarus flew straight at Manfeaster, landing with his enormous weapon drawn. Manfeaster cowered, Darius’s sword held clumsily before him. The rest of his wolf-men backed away, frightened by the angel’s presence.

  “Are you Manfeaster?” Ahaesarus asked, his voice thundering across the field. “Are you their king?”

  “I am,” Manfeaster growled.

  Ahaesarus sprang forward, batting aside Darius’s sword as if the huge wolf-man was but a child. A single swing and Manfeaster’s body split in half, blood and innards spilling across the already gore-soaked grass. Frightened howls shook the army, and many turned to flee, only to cower again as more and more angels landed, sealing them in. Jessilynn wondered if the angels would slaughter them all. Such death should have made her sick, but she was so broken, so tired, a large part of her wanted to see the vile beasts banished from Dezrel for all time.

  Ahaesarus stabbed his golden blade into the dirt. Bending down beside Manfeaster’s remains, he grabbed the hilt of Darius’s sword. At his touch, the blade shimmered a soft white.

  “I am unworthy of wielding the blade given to me by Ashhur’s hands,” he said, rising once more. His voice echoed in the night, and Jessilynn held no doubt that every last one of the beasts heard. “But this...this sword I will carry. This burden, I will bear. The sword of a man who sought redemption, and then found it. The sword of a man who died so others might live.”

  Ahaesarus’s wings spread wide, and he lifted off the ground.

  “I was there!” he cried. “I was there when your kind was given mind and form, elevating you beyond your beastly nature. I was there as you warred for the brother gods. Since the day you walked on two legs, you were meant to serve in battle. You bled and died, nothing more than a weapon we wielded without guilt or conscience. And then for your reward, we banished you from our world. We imprisoned you in the blasted remains of Kal’Droth between the rivers to starve. To prey upon one another, regressing, returning to your savage beginnings.”

  He spun, sword pointing down at them all.

  “You wish for a kingdom of your own. You fight for a land with plentiful game and grass that does not wither and die at the lightest heat or softest frost. Your sins are many! The death I cast before your feet is great, and will be atoned only at a mighty cost. The bones between your teeth, the blood you taste on your tongue, condemn your generation. But to your children, I will give a kingdom! I will grant them a land where they may grow to adulthood feeling not hunger, not fear, but hope. All you must do is serve. All you must offer is your lives to protect those you once butchered.”

  Every last one of them was enraptured by his words, Jessilynn included. She couldn’t fathom what she was hearing. She didn’t understand it. Ahaesarus flung his sword to the dirt, and the impact seemed to make the ground quake for miles in all directions.

  “Bow before me, you vile creatures!” Ahaesarus shouted. “For I am now your king!”

  They fell by the thousands to their knees, burying their faces to the dirt and crying out their allegiance.

  Jessilynn dropped to her knees as well, not out obedience, not out of respect, but from pure shock. Dieredon took her hand, quietly offering whatever comfort he could as they watched the display.

  “Ahaesarus?” Jessilynn whispered. Fresh tears ran down her face. “What have you become?”

  24

  Alric Perry approached Mordeina’s walls with a chill in his heart. The past few days he’d convinced himself he neared the end of his delusions. He would come upon the capital city and see only
empty sky where Avlimar once hovered, and there’d be nothing left to believe. How could he set foot in a city that did not exist? His dreams would be proven as lies and he could return home, assuming he had a home left to return to. Rosemary might have already moved on, and if she had, he prayed it was with someone better than himself. Ivan Buckhart had always lingered about Rose a bit too closely when the ale flowed freely during the harvest festivals. A good man, Ivan, and from a far better family. It hurt thinking of his wife moving on from their five years of marriage so easily, but better that than her waiting for him to return home when he knew he never would.

  For to the west of Mordeina was a glittering city of gold and silver. Alric knew right then that his dreams were true, realized that place would be his grave.

  A merchant wagon rolled down the road away from the capital. The driver, a chubby man with a goatee, cheerfully greeted Alric as he passed.

  “I thought Avlimar fell?” Alric asked him as he turned around to keep pace with the wagon.

  “It did,” the merchant said. “They rebuilt it. Devlimar, the glorious home of uptight angels eager to get their wings into a twist about every little damn thing.” He spat over the side of the wagon. “They’re preparing themselves an announcement, and like the smart person I pretend to be, I’m getting out while there’s still a chance. Whatever they’ve got to say, it won’t be anything good, I promise you that.”

  Pieces of Alric’s dreams hovered before his vision, and he had to agree.

  The merchant slowed his wagon a bit, and he leaned down, beady eyes squinting. “You’ve any business in Mordeina? I’d not mind a bit of company on the ride south, and I’m telling you, stranger, right now the city’s not a wise place to be.”

  Alric badly wanted to take him up on the offer. What good would he accomplish in Devlimar? What would he say? His dreams always ended before he spoke. The idea that words spoken by a lowly farmer from a foreign nation would carry any weight in a city whose very streets were paved with gold was ludicrous. He could go. He could climb aboard that wagon, turn his back to Devlimar, and forget the whole business.

  Except when he returned home to Rosemary, it wouldn’t be as a fool who believed too much in his dreams. It’d be as a coward too frightened to chase them. Alric could endure having his faith lead him to embarrassment, but he couldn’t abide to betray it and never know the reason Ashhur brought him all these hundreds of miles to the home of his angels. Despite every bone in his body wishing otherwise, he shook his head and waved goodbye to the merchant.

  “Perhaps I’ll see you on my way home,” he said, not believing a word of it. “But for now, I’m needed in Devlimar.”

  “Needed?” the merchant asked, guffawing. “The only thing needed in that shogging city is a good kick in the pants. Hope you’re not trying to peddle anything, stranger, because whatever you’re selling, I assure you, the angels aren’t buying.”

  No, he had nothing to peddle, only words to speak. He turned away from the wagon and continued on the road toward Mordeina. The hours passed, and when he reached the crossroads, he found the way toward the city of angels increasingly crowded. People of all ages trundled down the road, a climate of fear hanging over them, their words tinged with dread. Alric listened in on conversations when he could, and all of the speculation focused on a single topic: what announcement would the angels make?

  Alric heard dozens of guesses, from Ashhur’s return, the angels’ departure, and war with Ker, to more troubling ideas such as stricter laws and executions, an overthrowing of King Gregory, and the formation of a new ruling class bearing white wings. Alric joined the flood of humanity steadily flowing toward the city of silver and gold, gloriously invisible, an unnoticed speck among his race, and he tried to take comfort in that. One of thousands, that’s all he was. Insignificant. Unimportant. He told himself he could remain silent as the angels made whatever announcement they wished to make. He never had to open his mouth. He never had to say a word. After all, in his dreams he never had.

  That thought was cowardice, of course, no different from fleeing with the merchant. To continue on toward Devlimar required a little courage, and to stand before a host of angels and declare the supposed word of Ashhur would take a whole lot more.

  The closer to Devlimar he got, the more Alric wondered if he’d even have the chance to speak. Crowds surrounded the city, thousands of people cramming together in an attempt to enter an amphitheater designed to hold several hundred. Alric couldn’t even enter the city itself, let alone the amphitheater. The sun slowly set, the first of many stars starting to wink into existence, and what should have given him peace only showed him how little time he had left.

  Wonderful, thought Alric. Am I really going to travel hundreds of miles only to be stopped a few hundred feet away?

  A rising commotion surrounded a squad of soldiers bearing torches. The soldiers escorted a couple through the waiting throng. The lady was an elf, her long, beautiful dress green and gold. Beside her, was a gray-skinned man who looked incredibly familiar. The traitor’s brother, Alric realized, and his eyes widened with realization. Harruq and Aurelia Tun, come to attend the proclamation. If anyone could get him inside...

  Alric shoved and elbowed his way toward the group. Plenty of people were shouting, asking questions of the man who ruled in King Gregory’s stead while the boy grew, which meant Alric had to shout even louder to be heard.

  “I met your brother!” he cried to Harruq. “I met Qurrah, do you hear me? I bring word from your brother!”

  He shouted it over and over until Harruq’s eyes flicked toward him. Alric pushed aside a man to stand before the halted soldiers. Harruq pointed him out, beckoned him closer. The guards parted a step so Alric could approach.

  “What about my brother?” Harruq asked, nearly shouting to be heard.

  “I met him on my travels here,” Alric said. “He gave me a message to tell you should we meet.”

  Neither the half-orc nor his wife seemed too confident, and Alric could hardly blame them.

  “Well, let’s hear it,” Harruq said.

  “Not here. Inside.”

  Harruq shrugged.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go. You’re coming with us.”

  Alric joined the couple within their circle of platemail and swords, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Attention had turned to him, onlookers curious why he was given such an honor. He kept his head down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other instead of looking at the tall buildings of crystal and glass, buildings hauntingly familiar to those from his dream.

  They slowly made their way to the amphitheater. Neither Harruq nor Aurelia said anything to him, only held each other’s hands. The simple act left him feeling even more a trespasser. He begged Ashhur to give him a sliver of confidence. Seeing Harruq’s towering form so close, arms big as his head, ancient blades swinging from his belt, left him feeling pathetic and small. Why could Ashhur not deliver such a message from Harruq’s lips? Surely people would listen. Harruq was a hero, he was no one.

  The amphitheater was crowded with angels and humans alike. The soldiers remained near the entrance as an angel guided the three of them to seats waiting on the very front row. Harruq sat on the marble bench, wrapped an arm around Aurelia’s shoulders, and then glanced at Alric from the corner of his eye.

  “Well, we’re inside,” Harruq said. “Care to share my brother’s message?”

  Alric cleared his throat. Murmurs washed over him. It made him antsy having so many people nearby. He felt like a bull trapped in too small a pen.

  “It’s...it’s not much,” Alric said. “I met Qurrah and his wife, Tessanna, as they were traveling with King Bram’s army.”

  A frown tugged on the corners of Harruq’s mouth.

  “That so?” he said. “I’d heard rumors he was with him. Never wanted to believe it. So what was his message?”

  Alric coughed. His throat felt dry, his face flushed.

  “H
e said to tell you he wasn’t your enemy, and that no matter what you hear, he will always be there for you.”

  Harruq grunted. “He marches toward the capital I protect with the army who would besiege it, then tells me he is not my enemy? That make sense to you, uh...what was your name again?”

  “Alric,” he said. “Alric Perry, from Ker.”

  “You’ve come a long way, Alric. Care to tell me why?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Alric muttered, but a commotion swept through the crowd, drowning him out. Four angels descended from the sky, each holding a long steel chain connected to the foot of a throne. Its base was made of interlocking gold and silver weaves, and red cushions bearing the symbol of the Golden Mountain were its padding. The throne settled into the center of the amphitheater atop a waiting red dais. The sight made Alric want to vomit. A throne, just like the one in his dreams.

  The four angels took positions beside the throne. Two bore long blades, a third had an enormous mace strapped to his back between his wings. The fourth held a small gold chest tucked underneath his arm. One of the four, an angel with white hair and bronze eyes, stepped forward and addressed the crowd with a booming voice.

  “People of Dezrel,” he shouted. “I present you Azariah, high priest of Ashhur.”

  Azariah flew over the high walls of the amphitheater. The angel bore white robes so clean and pure they seemed to reflect the light of the torches that lined the walls. His brown hair was cut short about his neck and interspersed with silver and gold lace. He smiled at the gathered crowd, a smile that was surely meant to be benevolent but to Alric seemed arrogant. The angel moved his fingers in a few quick motions, and then he spoke. His words carried despite him showing no effort to project his voice, and Alric wondered if some sort of magic was involved.