The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  “There,” said Ezekai, the white-haired angel swinging closer and shouting to be heard. His outstretched arm pointed to the west. Azariah turned his head, scanning the distance. A gentle wood grew for a few miles along a minor creek. The leaves had already fallen for the coming winter. Through their gaps he saw intermittent tents.

  “No campfires,” Azariah said. “Do they hide from us?”

  It was possible. Given the carnage of the night before, a few of his angels might have plunged recklessly into the army. Rational thought had meant nothing in those early hours of rage, nor the fear of death. It doesn’t matter. Even if the humans had warning, it would not help them. Nor would the cover of trees. The people would either bow or suffer complete destruction. Azariah was tired of politics. He was tired of votes, and debates, and questions of morality. These miserable excuses of life could barely keep from killing each other, yet they still deluded themselves into thinking they grasped the concepts of eternity better than the angels themselves. It was like listening to a babe still at the breast telling their mother they were the wiser.

  Azariah dove, those with him following. With all their wings spread wide, they were like a cloud, and their shadow crossed over the forest. Before Azariah’s foot ever touched ground, the soldiers were scrambling for their weapons. It seemed the humans had encountered one of the fallen during the night. Azariah wondered which of his timeless brethren had died. The angels had scattered in all directions after the Fall, some flying for dozens of miles just to find a place untouched by bloodshed they might release their rage upon. They had trickled back into Devlimar throughout the morning, making it impossible to know who might have perished.

  “Bring me your lord!” Azariah shouted, unafraid of their spears and swords. He kept his wings spread wide so all might see his black feathers. That was one benefit of Ashhur casting them aside: his current form inspired terror far more than his previous ever could. Given how they’d tried, and failed, to rule through grace and mercy, perhaps a frightening visage was more appropriate for the new world.

  The men shouted as they formed lines, men with shields on the front, spears and archers in the back. Azariah shook his head, patience wearing thin, not that he’d had much to begin with.

  “Your lord!” he roared. “Bring him to me!”

  The very sound of his voice made the soldiers shake. Good. Perhaps they could conclude this meeting without bloodshed. He and his fellow Fallen had drunk their fill the previous night as they shattered the rotten foundation of the old, but now was a time for rebuilding. A new kingdom. A new Paradise.

  Murmurs reached his ears, faint and distant. Always faint and distant. Even if Azariah had stood beside them the sound of their voices would have come from a distance. What point was there in such cruelty, Azariah wondered as the soldiers fetched their lord. Why did Ashhur not strike them deaf and dumb instead? Why rob them of their beauty? Why sap them of their ability to enjoy the pleasures of the world? He felt his god seeking to teach him a lesson, but it was far too late. Ashhur had turned his back to them. Ashhur’s light had been replaced with emptiness and disgust. There would be no learning from such a teacher.

  And besides, Azariah had far grander plans.

  At last a chubby man stumbled to the front. Azariah recognized him as Lord Richard Aerling, master of the lands between Stonewood Forest and the Bloodbrick. His black hair was in disarray, his long mustache frayed and uneven. Just being in his presence was unpleasant. To Azariah’s eyes, he was as disgusting as his own new form, yet had Ashhur cursed Lord Richard? Of course not. He was fat because he was a glutton, unpleasant because he was cowardly and covetous. Weakness led to his ugliness. What weakness had the angels shown, other than a desire for Ashhur’s subjects to live by Ashhur’s rules?

  “I am in charge of the soldiers here,” Richard said, puffing out his gut and trying to look intimidating. He failed miserably. “Three of your kind attacked my camp last night, and I demand to know the reason.”

  Azariah stepped toward the lord. The line of soldiers rattled with the sound of raising shields and drawing swords.

  “You demand?” Azariah asked. “Who are you to make demands of me, cur?”

  Richard’s face turned a deep red.

  “The man who has a hundred spears ready to throw into your gut, that’s who,” Richard said. “We have been attacked, and I will have justice. Once the crown hears of this...”

  “I am the crown,” Azariah said. Speaking the words made the bones of his skull ache. “We have cast down humanity’s rulers. You have no stewards, no princes, no king. You lords will bow to Ashhur’s law, or you will bow in anticipation of the executioner’s blade. There is no other choice.”

  “That’s preposterous!”

  Azariah flashed the man a smile full of broken, blood-covered teeth.

  “This world is preposterous,” he said. “It is a land of insanity, wretchedness, and sin. I will fix it, Richard Aerling, with or without your help. You have no one to appeal to, no courts or leaders to cry to for mercy. Only me, right here before you, telling you to kneel. Now will you kneel, or must I have Ezekai remove your head from your shoulders?”

  For the slightest moment, Richard seemed ready to accept. Then his pride overruled his cowardice. A poor choice.

  “No!” he shouted. “We will not accept your rule over our nation.”

  “We?” Azariah asked, and he raised his voice so that it would carry throughout the forest. “You don’t seem to understand, Richard, but you do not speak for these people anymore. I have stripped you of your authority. Every man beside you bears the same power, and they bear the same choice. Will you die, or will you kneel? My angels are ready, and your numbers few. Die if you must, but know you die in vain.”

  Richard was shaking now. He took a single step back, then pointed straight at Azariah.

  “They’re blustering,” he cried. “Demons, evil creatures, all of them. Attack, attack now!”

  No one moved.

  Richard spun around, the red of his face draining out, replaced with a deathly white. “Do you not hear me?” His voice had already lost much of its gusto.

  Instead of answering, one after another the soldiers dropped to one knee and dipped their heads. Just a few at first, a shield-bearer near the front, a few archers in the back, but each man or woman who kneeled convinced two more to do the same. When the entire army knelt in respect, Azariah clapped his hands, pleased.

  “They will not die for you,” he told the lord. “They will only watch you die. Ezekai, reward Richard for his pride.”

  Richard fled, but he barely made it past the first rank of soldiers before the angel grabbed him by his collar and flung him to the dirt. The lord sobbed hysterically, all while hurling curses at his former soldiers. Ezekai drew his sword and cut him in half, putting a thankful end to the blubbering. Azariah pointed to Ezekai, though the act was hardly necessary. All eyes were already on the angel who’d slain their lord.

  “The angel before you is Ezekai, a trusted servant of Ashhur,” he said. “He will now command your forces. Mordeina is still a nest of filth, and we will need your help to flush out the rats.”

  Ezekai bowed to Azariah in appreciation, then ordered the humans to begin dismantling their camp. Pleased by the day’s progress, Azariah turned to Judarius.

  “Come,” he said. “We have a second army to find.”

  Azariah had kept constant surveillance on the armies from Mordan and Ker, and he knew their clash had resulted in a stalemate that cost both sides dearly. Azariah expected King Bram Henley to flee to safety after such losses, but he’d had only a few days to gain ground on foot. Compared to their wings, it’d be a matter of hours.

  They returned to the well-worn trade road and followed it south. Azariah used the time to dwell on the past five years, viewing things through newly opened eyes. The laws and practices of men had failed. Releasing the guilty regardless of their sin, so long as they repented, allowed a weak faith to bloss
om. Feelings of guilt didn’t last, Azariah realized. It only prevented the appropriate punishment. Scars, death, those could never be undone. They’d let grow beneath their feet an unruly, ungracious nation where guilty sinners repeated their sins, spitting in the face of those who granted them mercy.

  When Ashhur cast them into his shadow, Azariah had been on the verge of building a new kingdom that would have fixed this. It would have conveyed the serious nature of sin to the weak believers. It would have removed the thorns that grew among the flowers. He’d seen the flaws in the current system years ago, and begun planning accordingly. He’d learned magic from Roand the Flame, and made deals with the Council to procure their help. Mankind would never accept the rule of angels while they floated above them in Avlimar, nor would his fellow angels understand how great a divide existed between them and the mortals until forced to live among their kind. Crashing Avlimar to the ground, casting blame onto Deathmask, having Judarius execute Thomas, it all had been leading up to the eventually taking of power away from humans and placing it into the hands of far better, wiser rulers: themselves.

  And then Ashhur betrayed them.

  Azariah felt his rage blossom anew. They declared mankind not fit to rule themselves, and demanded they follow Ashhur’s laws instead of their own. That was worth abandonment? That was what their god believed? Most angels were Wardens, and had been since the beginning. They were meant to guide mankind, to lead them...and then they were cast low for doing what they were made to do.

  Azariah felt a shiver run through him as the land passed beneath in a gray blur. Both Karak and Ashhur were imperfect pieces of the whole god they once were. Perhaps once split, and lacking the balance and concepts of the other pieces, they could not fully understand the puzzle that was mankind. Such thoughts were beyond blasphemous, but it explained so much. It explained why Ashhur could not reconcile the wisdom of Azariah’s path. It explained why Karak would sacrifice life itself to reach true order. Imperfect pieces, needing to be united...

  Judarius flew closer, drawing him from his thoughts. The angel didn’t need to say anything, for Azariah quickly spotted the army of Mordan marching upon the wide road like a winding snake. Banking upward to slow his speed, he spread his wings and took in the scene. By his estimate, King Bram had less than half of his original seven thousand soldiers he’d marched over the Bloodbrick with. A pitiful amount. Even at full strength, did the king truly think he could have assaulted the walls of Mordeina? Or perhaps he thought the people would rejoice and throw open the doors, eager for the man who had disavowed all gods to save them from Ashhur’s control?

  Sickness squirming in his stomach, Azariah felt that a likely possibility. Better to be ruled by a man desiring only obedience than a god that demanded improvement and self-sacrifice. Perhaps that was humanity’s greatest flaw. They would willingly shackle themselves so long as the jailor told them their sins were not sins at all.

  “Be ready,” Azariah shouted to Judarius. “I will extend the same offer as before, but I do not expect the people of Ker to kneel, nor abandon their king.”

  “Will we kill them all if they refuse?” Judarius asked. “The Council will not be pleased.”

  Azariah frowned. He’d promised the Council of Mages they’d have a land of their own. When first working with Roand, he’d believed that achieving salvation for the people of Mordan was worth the loss of controlling Ker. Saving the entire world was impossible, so why not cede the loss to achieve some measure of good? That was just one of many compromises that had steadily eroded their dedication. The land of Ker needed to be subjugated just as much as Mordan. This meant her army, and her king, needed to pledge loyalty or be destroyed. The wizards would be dangerous foes, but they needn’t know of their expendability yet. If asked, Azariah would say the destruction of Bram’s army opened the way for the Council’s takeover of the nation. There would be no lie in that.

  “The Council is still one of humans,” Azariah said. “And we are done fearing what humans say or do.”

  Azariah dove, slamming down on the road with a heavy thud. Judarius took position beside him. Soldiers rushed about, readying for battle, as the other fallen angels hovered around them in a circle.

  “Fetch me your king, for I would have words with him!” Azariah cried.

  The soldiers continued forming up shoulder-to-shoulder so they might not be ambushed from any side. Azariah expected the king and queen to be hiding among their numbers, and he wondered if Bram would have the courage to face him. The human soldiers whispered to one another, yet as a minute dragged on, it seemed Azariah was no closer to receiving an audience.

  “Your king!” he shouted again. “Bram Henley, master of Angkar, come forth so we might discuss terms.”

  “I have terms for you,” a soldier shouted from behind the front lines. Men shifted aside so an older man in shining platemail and sporting a gray beard pushed to the front. He held a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. By the markings on his chestplate, Azariah guessed him to be one of Bram’s generals.

  “And what might those be?” Azariah asked, annoyed.

  “Just what my king has ordered me to tell you,” he said.

  “And what might that be?”

  “In his words?” The older man grinned. “Fuck yourselves and die.”

  The man hoisted his spear and then threw it in a single, smooth motion. Azariah fell back a step, caught off guard and unable to defend himself. The spear sailed true, its aim for Azariah’s heart, but it did not pierce his flesh. Judarius’s mace swung with perfect timing, smacking the spear upward so that it careened wildly away. The nearby soldiers roared as they charged, but both Judarius and Azariah soared skyward, out of their reach. Arrows followed, ripping through the air on either side. Azariah’s heart pounded as he flew faster, faster, ignoring how close the wild shots came. One even struck Judarius’s armor, but it could not punch through the enchanted plate.

  Without an order to attack, the other angels surrounding the army fled as well. Azariah spun about once out of reach of the arrows and glared at the bodies of several of his brethren lying bloodied in the grass. The soldiers cheered and struck their weapons and shields together, mocking them for their cowardice.

  “How have you not yet learned?” Judarius asked him. “Humanity is never, ever to be trusted.”

  Azariah glared down at the cheering soldiers. “Destroy them all.”

  “They deserve no less,” Judarius replied, smacking the head of his mace against his palm.

  The angel reared back, sucked in air, and then bellowed his command to the entirety of the Fallen.

  “Dive!”

  The angels soared together, black wings and gleaming swords streaming toward the soldiers like rampaging floodwaters. They could have crashed through the outer lines of shields, but they had no need to. They were no normal army. Battle lines meant nothing. The angels flashed overhead, enduring another barrage of arrows, and then rammed into the archers. Man’s blood flowed like a river. The footmen tried to turn their attention inward, but Judarius led a segment of two hundred angels from the inner ranks and back around to the outer. His mace smashed through armored men like they were naked children.

  The sounds of death and battle echoed in Azariah’s ears. Before, it’d been a sound that made his chest tighten and his head light. Now it was strangely muted and distant. Pleasant, Azariah dared admit, like chimes. Hands curling into formations, Azariah decided to join in the fight. Ashhur’s priestly magic might have left him, but the arcane powers Roand the Flame had taught him remained.

  A ball of fire leapt from Azariah’s hands and slammed into a formation of soldiers rushing from the east flank in hopes of aiding against Judarius’s push through the center. The men screamed as flames bathed them. Azariah felt satisfaction at the size of the explosion, and he sent a second toward different portion of the battle, careful to avoid injuring his own kind. After fire came stone; he ripped up boulders from the ground beneath soldier
s so they fell into the holes, only to then have the stones settle back atop them, sealing them into airless tombs.

  It all came so easily to Azariah, and always had, even back when the world was young and he called the Eveningstar his friend. He wished he’d studied more back then. He’d taken Ashhur’s grace for granted, but now that it was gone, he finally realized the biggest difference between priestly spellcasting and the arcane. To cast such spells before, Azariah had to whisper words of prayers to Ashhur. He came as a beggar before his god, hands outstretched, hoping to have power given to him so he might destroy his foes or heal the flesh of his allies. But with the arcane, he wasn’t a beggar, but a king. By his strength, he took the power he envisioned. Even the words and hand formations were not necessary. They only aided in the demand, for it was the strength of soul that mattered. Much of it was an art, and while the mages painted in rudimentary colors, Azariah had glimpsed the entire spectrum over centuries in eternal glory.

  Rivulets of flame raced through the battle lines, guided by Azariah’s weaving fingers. Cracks burst open in the ground, hands of molten rock grasped men and dragged them to their deaths. Besieged from all sides, some of Ker’s soldiers tried to flee, but they could not run faster than the angels could fly. Some fell to their knees, begging for mercy or swearing fealty, but they could not take back their initial rebellion. Azariah swooped overhead, shards of ice flying from his palms like a hailstorm. He felt like Ashhur in the earliest days of Dezrel, when mankind was but dust in jars of clay.