“Attack?” the same man asked, ignoring his demand. “By who?”
Lathaar pointed to the sky. “The angels.”
As if drawn by their glowing weapons, another black-winged angel dropped to the ground in the center of the commons, this one wielding a sword and shield. While they’d once been gold, the hilt and edges of the shield looked made of bone, making them that much more frightening.
“Hide!” Lathaar shouted at the villagers, who’d frozen at the angel’s arrival. “Bar your doors and hide! The Abyss comes to your home this night!”
Finally they fled as the angel stalked closer. Lathaar met his approach, wanting to put himself between the angel and the injured Jerico.
“Heal your wound,” he said, knowing that with a moment’s prayer Jerico could seal the cut to prevent further blood loss.
The angel charged, shrieking in mindless rage. Lathaar blocked the clumsy chop with his short sword, wincing at the pain from the jarring force that traveled up his elbow to his shoulder. By Ashhur, the angels were strong. Lathaar swung with his long sword, hitting the shield. He then pressed closer, parrying away another thrust and beating into the shield with both weapons.
Jerico could endure a mountain falling on him so long as his shield stayed in the way. Could the angel say the same?
The blow of the two blades rocked the angel on his feet, allowed him no time to counter. Lathaar beat against it twice more, all his strength pouring into his holy blades. A crack ran up the middle of the shield, and the angel tried to steal the offensive with a wide swing that would have cut Lathaar in half if not for Jerico thrusting himself in the way. The angel’s attack hit Jerico’s shield, accomplishing nothing. Lathaar slammed his swords into the bone shield one more time, shattering it. His swords continued on, cutting off several fingers before slicing through the angel’s lower jaw, down his throat, and into his chest.
Lathaar ripped his swords free, kicking the fallen angel’s corpse for good measure.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Glad you trusted me to jump in at the right time,” Jerico said, clipping his mace to his belt.
Lathaar chuckled grimly. “Let’s go with that instead of me fouling up. Sounds better.”
More voices called to them in the sudden quiet after the battle. The paladins turned to see an older man wearing a leather hauberk rushing over, two armed men with him.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Kenneth, Waitsfield’s mayor. Give the order, and we’ll get what fighters we can to help you.”
“Keep your fighters in their homes,” Jerico told the mayor. “They’re no help in this fight.”
“Maybe not in fighting,” Lathaar said. “But we can’t be everywhere at once. Start bringing people toward us in the commons. Get them packed into the nearest homes, then lock the doors and hang tight until daybreak. Think you can get the people to do that?”
The mayor nodded. Despite how terrified he must’ve been, the man seemed remarkably together.
“I know I can,” he said. “So long as you’ll keep us safe.”
The mayor bowed, and the men with him clumsily mirrored him. Lathaar watched them go until Jerico smacked his side.
“Got another,” he said.
A fallen angel swooping down with sword ready. Lathaar drew his blades and joined Jerico in cutting him down the moment he landed.
The hours of the night past with a steady, bloody crawl. Jerico and Lathaar kept together, patrolling the commons with their glowing weapons always at ready. The blue-white light seemed to draw the angels toward them, inciting rage greater than any barb Jerico might throw with his words. The two paladins would cut them down, each one a challenge given their size and strength. Every bone in Lathaar’s body ached, and despite healing their wounds after a moment’s prayer, the toll wore on them.
In the gaps between attacks, Lathaar begged Ashhur to keep him going despite the long night, despite the exhaustion that clawed at his eyes.
“Is it dawn yet?” Jerico asked as he slumped against the wide trunk of one of the few oaks growing in the commons.
“Not quite,” Lathaar said, grunting as he stretched his arms. He pointed skyward, to where an angel hovered in the air. “Another incoming.”
Instead of attacking, the angel remained there, wings steadily flapping. He wielded no weapon, and based on his lack of armor, Lathaar knew him to be one of Azariah’s priests. All priests, both angel and human, had lost most of their magical power in the years following the second Gods’ War, but the ball of flame this angel flung toward Lathaar seemed to contradict that basic understanding. Lathaar had little defense against magic, so he did the intelligent thing and ran for his life.
The ball struck the ground and exploded, billowing fire in all directions. The second Lathaar heard the sound of its detonation he dove into a roll, tucking his arms and legs tightly against his body. He felt a momentary surge of heat as the flames licked his back, but then he was safely out of reach. Coming out of his roll, he leapt onto a porch and staggered farther away from the angel. Another ball of flame exploded, and Lathaar turned to see Jerico fleeing a similar attack. His friend kept his shield up as he looped around to the front of the home, momentarily blocking sight between him and the angel.
“What in blazes was that?” Jerico shouted as they huddled underneath porch awnings on either side of the street.
“What did it look like? A damn fireball.”
“Yes, but why is he throwing one?”
Lathaar wished he had a better answer than the one he gave.
“Because he’s trying to kill us.”
The angel priest soared overhead, two more balls of flame leaping from his dancing fingers. Jerico sensed the attack before it ever arrived, Ashhur screaming a warning in his ears. The paladin crossed the road as the home he’d taken shelter behind exploded, fire easily setting its thatched roof alight. Jerico raced past Lathaar, who sprinted after.
“That’s not fair,” Jerico said as he glanced over his shoulder at the chasing angel. “You know that’s not fair, right?”
Lathaar grimaced as another ball of fire erupted ahead of them in the street, forcing both to veer aside at the last moment.
“No,” Lathaar said. “It’s not.”
Magic from the sky, and neither paladin had a way of attacking. Fair didn’t even come close. Thankfully, either the angel’s training hadn’t been very extensive or he simply lacked imagination, since his attacks so far remained limited to fire. Plus he wasn’t very accurate. So long as Jerico and Lathaar kept to their feet, they could avoid the somewhat slow projectiles...but the town burned around them, and any additional angels flying in would go unchallenged.
Lathaar glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes widened.
“Duck!” He grabbed Jerico by the shoulder and pulled him down. A ball soared over their heads, slamming into the front of a home and bathing it in flame. Lathaar heard a scream from within, and a window along the side smashed open as a man started letting his children out one by one. Whatever relief Lathaar felt at seeing them escape died the moment another angel swooped above and immediately banked around for a dive.
“Damn it!” Jerico screamed, turning about and lifting his shield. “That’s enough. No more running.”
He stepped toward the priest, arms out wide.
“Here I am,” he shouted. “Send me your best shot, you black-winged bastard!”
Lathaar trusted him to know what he was doing, for he couldn’t stay to help. The other angel was diving toward the children, and against such a foe the little ones had no chance to escape. Legs pumping, Lathaar clutched the hilts of his swords and begged Ashhur for speed.
“Look out!” he screamed at the children. Two dropped to their knees and covered their heads, but the third, a little boy with curly brown hair, tumbled as he fell from his father’s arms out the window. The diving angel aimed his sword like a spear, slamming into the child and skewering him through the chest. Lathaar lost control. He
didn’t care that the angel continued on toward him at dangerous speeds. He didn’t worry about any harm to himself. This sick, ugly caricature of Ashhur’s servant would die.
Roaring mindlessly, he swung both his swords in an overhead chop while leaping into the air to meet his foe. His blades flared white, accompanied by a loud ringing sound. The angel twisted his blade to block, wings still flapping. His momentum should have blasted Lathaar over, but a shockwave unleashed upon contact with Lathaar’s swords. The angel screamed as he smashed against an invisible wall, limbs twisting, bones shattering. Lathaar’s feet touched ground and he swung again, the shimmering white steel slicing the angel in half.
Spinning about, Lathaar ignored the heart-wrenching cries of the father, who’d climbed out the window and collapsed over the body of his dead son. He couldn’t dwell on that yet, had to let the rage carry him.
Across from him, Jerico faced off against the priest, blue-white mist lifting off his shield as blasts of fire slammed against it. Each explosion rolled across the sides, licking Jerico’s arms. So far the paladin endured, but each hit caused his shield to flicker. How long might he last? Sheathing his long sword, Lathaar shifted the short sword over to his right hand.
“Elholad,” Lathaar whispered. The blade vanished completely, becoming pure light that swirled and shimmered like mist. He took three steps to gain momentum, then flung the blade end over end with all his strength.
“Come down here, you gods-damned monster!”
It never should have worked, but it did. The blade twirled through the air so quickly it seemed less a sword and more a whirling circle of light. It cut through the priest’s left arm, severing it at the shoulder, then continued on, ripping through the bones of his left wing. The angel cried out as he dropped, and Jerico allowed him no reprieve upon landing. Thrusting his shield, Jerico cried out Ashhur’s name. A glowing image of his shield grew outward, smacking the priest across the face and chest.
Jerico readied his mace as he approached the wounded priest, but he was given no chance to finish him off. Down from the sky dove another fallen angel, greatsword swinging. Lathaar never saw the angel himself, and only with Ashhur’s warning did Jerico get his shield up in time. The two collided, a rolling mess of robes, wings, and platemail. Jerico was first to his feet, swinging his mace at the angel, who blocked.
“I got him,” Jerico shouted. “Get the priest!”
Lathaar sprinted after the priest, who had pushed to his feet and staggered away. A trail of blood marked his passing. It seemed his destination was the commons in the heart of town, and he flapped his lone healthy wing to gain what little extra speed he could. Lathaar pumped his legs, teeth clenched as he drew his longsword out of its sheath. He wouldn’t let this creature escape. If people were dying all across Mordan, the least he could do is make the monsters that attacked this village pay.
Lathaar burst past the homes and onto the soft grass of the commons, the angelic priest mere feet ahead of him. He reared back with his longsword. The priest suddenly spun about, his hand a blur. Fire burst from his palm, painfully bright in the starlight. Lathaar panicked, abandoning his swing and diving to the side. Fire washed across his shoulder, heating his armor, and he choked down a pained cry. He rolled, avoiding a follow-up burst. Once on his knees, he lifted his sword, knowing it was meager protection but praying Ashhur’s power within it might matter somehow. The priest grinned, appearing a crazed beast, blood dripping from his wings, shoulder, and teeth. Beneath the angel, shadows swelled like a pool.
“Ashhur should have left us with his power, not you,” the angel said. Fire swarmed his hand. Lathaar opened his mouth to offer one last retort, but snapped it shut when tendrils shot up from the shadow pool beneath the angel, latching onto his extended limb and yanking it low. More tendrils wrapped about the priest’s legs and waist, with a particularly long and thin one looping a dozen times around his neck. The angel strained, eyes bulging, scream trapped in his choked throat. The shadows quivered, convulsed, and then ripped the angel apart.
“I was never fond of their kind,” said a voice. Qurrah Tun emerged from behind the dead priest, grinning despite the gore that covered him. Lathaar sheathed his sword and breathed out a sigh. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was thrilled to see the half-orc. He rose to his feet and offered his best tired smile.
“You certainly know how to...”
Lathaar’s voice trailed off as Elrath, Mal, and Samar rushed past Qurrah. There they were, all three young paladins, bruised and tired but alive. They flung themselves against Lathaar, and he held them, unabashedly weeping. Was this real? He never thought he’d see them again, yet here they were, safe and free. It filled him with overwhelming relief.
“Forgive me,” Lathaar said. “I should have given myself over for you. I should have...”
“We’re fine,” Samar said. “And we’d have never forgiven you if you did.”
“All three of you are a sight for tired eyes,” Lathaar said, pulling them tighter to him, grinning when he finally let them go.
Tessanna joined her husband’s side, having arrived along with the young paladins. She tossed Lathaar’s short sword at his feet.
“I’m glad you can watch over them now,” the black-eyed woman said. “I swear, their constant optimism grates on the nerves.”
Jerico came around the side of smoking rubble that had once been a home, mace hooked to his belt. “I think that might be the last of them,” he said, then suddenly froze where he stood. “You...you’re all right?”
Now it was Jerico’s turn to rush the three young paladins. He strapped his shield onto his back and wrapped them in his arms, one after the other. Lathaar wiped at his face, trying his best to compose himself. The battle had dimmed, but that didn’t mean the threat for the night was over.
“How did you escape?” Jerico asked.
“Tessanna and I broke them free of their chains during the battle with Mordan’s forces,” Qurrah explained. “Samar there even helped me kill a mage of the Council who attempted to halt our escape.”
Jerico punched the red-haired kid in the shoulder. “Way to do us red-heads proud,” he said, grinning.
Qurrah glanced to the gory remains of what had been the angel priest, his distaste clear as starlight.
“Lord Aerling wanted to hide in a forest when the first angel attacked our camp,” the half-orc said. “Such cowardice would not do, not with my brother potentially in danger at the capital, so we left and began traveling through shadows northward. Lucky for you, Tessanna sensed your presence once we neared Mordeina.”
People had begun emerging from their homes, rushing to find loved ones or attempt to put out fires. Lathaar watched them, a rock forming in his gut. He heard a steadily growing number of calls and shouts from the village gate, the commotion too far away for him to decipher.
“What now?” he asked. He turned to the young paladins. “You three, stay here where it’s safe.”
“Wait,” Qurrah shouted, but Lathaar ignored him. He forced his tired legs to move. It didn’t matter how exhausted he felt. He’d still fight on. Jerico kept pace despite his multiple wounds and dented armor. Only his shield remained in immaculate condition.
“Well,” Jerico said. “That was a fun surprise.”
Lathaar shook his head and forced himself to prepare for whatever new challenge awaiting them at the village gate. He saw no more angels marring the sky with their black wings, so what now? Traitorous soldiers? War demons? Perhaps hundreds of undead? He’d sworn to give his life to the people of Waitsfield to protect them, and his drained body was dangerously close to letting that happen. If only the sun would rise. He felt if he could just see the sun, and know that this awful night was over, then the nightmare would finally end. Yet despite how many angels they killed, and how many prayers he whispered, dawn felt so far away.
The closer they got, the more Lathaar heard. Shouting. Crying. People frightened, or in pain. Had a new battle joined their
s? Amid it all, he heard the rattle of armor, and sparing a glance at Jerico, he saw him readying his mace and shield for another fight. Picking up the pace, the two rushed past the final row of homes, only to skid to a stop at the open gate.
Lathaar saw soldiers, but none loyal to the fallen angels. Hundreds approached the village, and they were not undead, nor were they war demons, but instead tired, haggard people carrying little more than the clothes on their backs. At their head walked Harruq and Aurelia Tun, Gregory carried in his arms, Aubrienna in hers.
“I told you they were here,” Harruq said to Aurelia, grinning despite the deep circles underneath his eyes and the dried blood across his face and armor. “Who else would be dumb enough to wield weapons so bright they’d attract attention from miles around?”
“Only this fool,” Lathaar said. He smiled and embraced his friends.
Suddenly, the dawn didn’t seem so very far away.
27
In the young morning, Azariah led his followers southward through the skies. To his left flew his brother, Judarius, his enormous mace safely strapped to his back. He’d spoken only a single sentence in Azariah’s presence since the Fall, and that was to inform him of the half-orc’s escape with his elven wife and the child king. To Azariah’s right flew Ezekai, newly promoted in rank behind only Azariah and Judarius. A worthy reward for an angel that had remained loyal throughout all his doubts and struggles. Of all the Fallen, Azariah knew that Ezekai understood him best.
The rolling hills leading to Mordeina steadily passed beneath them. The light reflecting off the dew should have made the grass sparkle in the early sun, but Azariah saw only a dull gray with the faintest hints of green. Ashhur’s betrayal not only robbed them of their beauty and grace but also the ability to enjoy beauty itself. What food Azariah had eaten tasted of ash. The world around him was a mess of interlocking grays and blacks, with what little color remained faint and diluted, as if he viewed it through a wall of smoke. The wind blowing against his skin used to fill him with peace, but now it itched like poorly weaved wool. His head ached from the unnatural bones growing from his skull to form his crown. To speak was a frustration. His broken teeth cut his tongue and lips. Azariah couldn’t even close his mouth properly, for the teeth were broken in such odd angles that they would not rest upon each other but instead jab into his gums. At all times he tasted blood, and it was a cruel joke of Ashhur’s that it was the only substance whose taste wasn’t dulled.
The King of the Vile Page 32
