The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  Panicking, Tarlak brought his focus back to the ground and enacted his prepared lightning spell. It struck the pale angel in the center of his bone chestplate with enough force to slow, but not halt, his momentum. Bleeding and screaming, the angel slammed into Tarlak with his shoulder. Tarlak hit the ground, head striking stone hard enough to make his vision swim. The angel towered over him, sword raised to swing.

  Shadows swarmed up from the ground, taking the shape of six-fingered hands. They did no harm, only grabbed at the angel’s legs and arms, holding him in place. Tarlak dared not waste his opportunity. He closed his eyes and prayed he said the right syllables. Fire leapt off his hands in a great torrent. When he opened his eyes, he saw the angel had slumped to his side, his pale skin burned and bubbling, his arms bleeding from the open wounds Deathmask had given him. Shadow hands clutched his wrists and ankles, preventing him from rising.

  “Make it quick,” Deathmask said. He knelt beside the angel, bracing himself with one hand while the other was outstretched and shimmering purple. “I can’t hold him long.”

  Tarlak looked at the twisted angel, who writhed and screamed in pain. The image was so surreal, it felt like something from a dream. No. Not a dream. One of Karak’s nightmares. Wishing to hear no more, he flung a shard of ice at the angel’s head. It punched through his temple, immediately ceasing all movement. His arms went slack, his final death rattle rumbled through drooping lips.

  Deathmask let out a gasp as he released his spell and banished the shadows. Tarlak saw that the men who’d been stacking the bodies had long fled. Knowing they needed to get out of sight before they were spotted, Tarlak grabbed Deathmask by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “What in Karak’s maggot-infested armpit is going on here?” Tarlak wondered aloud as they ducked into a slender alley.

  “Is it not obvious?” Deathmask said, slumping against a wall. “Ashhur has turned his back on his former servants. Whatever we fight isn’t angels, but the bitter, angry remnants of what they once were.”

  “Pleasant,” Tarlak said, scanning the skies for more. “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know what you’ll do,” Deathmask said, “but I know my path. Veliana was here in Mordeina when all this transpired. I need to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Deathmask shook his head. “She’s protected against scrying, which means I must find her the old-fashioned way. We had a few safe havens set up for emergencies, and I daresay this counts.”

  “Are you sure she’s even alive?” Tarlak asked.

  “I am,” Deathmask said. “She survived this purge, I am sure of it. Sad as it is, we’ve endured worse.”

  Tarlak wished he could argue otherwise, but both men had suffered the flight from Veldaren. He offered his hand to Deathmask, who after a moment’s reluctance, accepted it and shook.

  “Are you sure you want to stay?” he asked.

  “I will not abandon Veliana to this shit-hole,” Deathmask said. “Besides, Azariah’s pissed me off. He’s about to discover I have a long history of being thorns in people’s sides, and never before have I been quite so...motivated.”

  The way he said it gave Tarlak a chill. “Good luck then,” he said, pulling back his hand. “I have my own friends to find.”

  Deathmask saluted with two fingers, then staggered down the alley on unsteady legs. Tarlak turned his back so he didn’t have to watch him go. He had a bad feeling in his gut. Even though the leader of the Ash Guild had endured a thousand trials, Tarlak feared that in a broken city filled with broken angels, he might find his end.

  Putting such somber thoughts out of his head, Tarlak focused on his scrying spell. It disappointed him a little bit how easily he located Harruq, somewhere fifteen miles to the south of Mordeina. Aurelia should have cast spells of protection against such a simple spell. Granted, she likely didn’t realize the Council was allied with the angels. That, or she’d not survived the night...

  Recasting the scrying spell for Aurelia, he quickly found her mere feet away from Harruq, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Need to stop doing that to myself,” he muttered, then cast a teleportation spell, all too eager to put the city of Mordeina behind him.

  When he reappeared, he found himself at the edge of a small village. Several hundred people gathered in tight groups throughout, a few still asleep. Their faces were haggard, their eyes red from crying. Directly before Tarlak was a burning campfire. All around it, sitting on cut logs or tall stones, were his Eschaton.

  Harruq sat beside Aurelia, little Gregory bouncing on his knee. His twin swords leaned against the log he sat on, both sheathed. Aurelia’s beautiful green dress was stained with blood, but she herself seemed unharmed. Jerico and Lathaar sat opposite them, wearing only their leather under armor, their plate lying on a blanket behind them. Qurrah sat on the grass beside his brother, head resting on his chin, burning whip dormant as it curled around his left arm. Next to him was Tessanna, little Aubrienna cuddling in her lap as the black-eyed woman softly sang to her. Tears swelled in Tarlak’s eyes. All alive. All together. How long had it been since they gathered in such a way?

  Of course, appearing out of nowhere behind them with a teleportation spell while looking like Cecil Towerborn didn’t garner him the welcome he might have normally received. Harruq spotted him first, and he leapt off his log while grabbing one of his swords and ripping it out of its sheath. Poor Gregory rolled and fell onto his stomach from Harruq’s frenzied reaction, and he began to cry.

  “Who the abyss are you?” Harruq asked. He shoved the tip of his sword at Tarlak’s neck.

  “It’s me, Tarlak,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender.

  “Tarlak?” Harruq asked, looking baffled. “Tarlak’s dead, so if you’re claiming to be him, you better have a damn good way to prove it.”

  “No one else is crazy enough to wear yellow robes like this,” Tarlak said, and he pointed past the half-orc’s shoulder. “And Jerico and Lathaar over there can tell you immediately that I’m not lying about being Tarlak, nor the whole ‘wearing yellow’ part, either.”

  Harruq spared a glance over his shoulder, and he visibly relaxed at the sight of the two paladins laughing.

  “Praise Ashhur,” Jerico said. “It’s our crazy wizard, back from the grave.”

  Quick as he’d grabbed his sword, Harruq dropped it and wrapped Tarlak in an enormous hug that nearly strangled the air from his lungs.

  “Don’t you ever, ever do that again,” Harruq said when he finally released him. Tarlak staggered a bit as he recovered his balance, and he grinned at the half-orc.

  “I have no plans on it,” he said.

  Aurelia was next, gently wrapping her slender arms around his neck as Harruq scooped Gregory up and began calming him down.

  “I assume you have a story to tell us?” she said.

  “I’m sure you have one for me as well, but both can wait for now,” Tarlak said as he kneeled down before Aubrienna. The girl pressed herself harder against Tessanna’s breast and frowned at him from the corner of her eye. Realizing words would not convince someone so young as Aubby, he cast a quick illusion spell.

  “I’ll work on making this real later,” he said as his voice changed. Aubrienna’s eyes stopped seeing Cecil but instead saw Tarlak’s old face and hair. “But until then, this should do. Recognize me now, Aubby?”

  “Uncle Tar!” the girl shouted, flinging herself at him. Tarlak laughed as she buried herself in his arms, laughed even as he cried.

  “Why were you wearing such a funny face?” she asked him.

  “Uncle Tar was trying to be silly,” Tarlak said, struggling not to sniffle. “He won’t do it again, I promise.”

  He accepted another hug, kissed her forehead, and then let her go back to Tessanna. After embraces from both of the paladins, Tarlak slumped beside the campfire, cracked his knuckles, and addressed the group as if nothing had changed since their times
together in his old stone tower outside Veldaren.

  “So,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

  “That’s just what we were discussing,” Qurrah said. “Before your...interruption.”

  “I do what I can. Made any decisions yet?”

  Lathaar cleared his throat.

  “Forming a resistance against the fallen angels shouldn’t be difficult, not after the travesty they committed last night. Still, given Ker’s invasion and the petty rivalries between lords, there’s a risk it will devolve into a mad scramble to acquire power, splitting Mordan completely instead of unifying it into a single army.”

  “Which means little Gregory here may be incredibly important,” Jerico added. “Gregory is still king, no matter what pompous statement Azariah makes. So long as he lives, we can focus everyone’s energy on a single cause: the return of the rightful king to his throne. That’s something we can rally people behind. It may even sway lords who have pledge allegiance to Azariah out of fear for their safety.”

  “It sounds sensible enough,” Qurrah said. He wrapped an arm around Tessanna as she leaned against him. “It’ll take time to discover everyone’s loyalties, so we’ll need to act quickly to learn who is friend and who is foe. My question is how do we protect Gregory? The angels will be hunting for him, and when assassins can come from the sky, I fear nowhere will be safe. Even those we consider friends may betray his location to the angels for potential reward.”

  “I know of one place,” Lathaar said. “We bring him to the Citadel.”

  The moment he made the suggestion, Tarlak knew it’d come to pass. Hiding Gregory in the bastion of Ashhur’s power, a thick-walled tower where the angels’ wings would mean nothing and no one within would betray or kill him? As close to perfect as they’d find in the insanity that was Mordan.

  “I’ve got no objections there,” Harruq said. “What do we do about the army of the vile that’s crossed the Gihon and into the northern lands?”

  “Ahaesarus flew out to fight them,” Aurelia said. “Perhaps he and the angels with him avoided the punishment that befell the others.”

  “Wait,” Tarlak said. “Army of the vile? Care to fill me in?”

  The half-orc shook his head. “Another time, Tarlak. You still have your own story to tell.”

  “Fine,” Tarlak said, and he clucked his tongue. “Be that way.”

  The two paladins rose to their feet, once more clapping Tarlak on the back and shoulder.

  “We need to see to the wounded,” Lathaar said. “We’ll also do what we can to keep spirits high. Any rebellion against the angels is going to be bloody. We can’t afford to lose a single soul to despair.”

  Tarlak waved at them, then turned his attention to Harruq.

  “This won’t be as simple as a fight against the angels,” he said, lowering his voice. “The Council of Mages has been working with Azariah for some time now, teaching him magic in return for the promise that he would hand them Ker. I have zero doubt that they’ll interfere with this war, finding some way to turn it to their advantage. At the very least, they’ll take over Ker’s government while King Bram is away.”

  Harruq rubbed at his eyes.

  “We have enemies in the north, enemies in the capital, and now mages working with an army marching from the south. I’m not sure this could get worse.”

  “Sure it could,” Tarlak said, grinning. “I could still be dead. That sounds way worse.”

  He plopped down beside Harruq and draped an arm over his broad shoulders.

  “Think of it this way,” he said. “We’ve killed prophets, gods, demons, and dragons. What chance do a few measly fallen angels have? We’ll kick Azariah’s ass, defeat whoever the abyss is in the north, and then stomp any mage dumb enough to challenge the trio of Qurrah, Tarlak, and Tess to a magical fight. War over. Crack open some wine barrels, it’s time to celebrate.”

  Harruq smiled. He seemed to appreciate the attempt at cheering him up. Setting Gregory down, Harruq took the boy’s hand in one and Aurelia’s in the other.

  “Come on, Aubby,” he said. “Let’s go grab something to eat now that everyone else has had a chance.”

  Aubrienna accepted a hug from Tessanna, then leapt to her feet and ran to Aurelia’s side, taking her waiting hand. Tarlak watched the couple head into town, and he let out a sigh.

  “Things are far more dire than you let on,” Qurrah said once they were gone.

  “Always the observant one, aren’t you?” Tarlak muttered. “Any one of the masters at the Council is a dangerous foe. If they focus their collective attention on any one thing?” He shook his head. “Let’s just say if that happens, I’ll be glad to have a daughter of balance on our side.”

  Something about the way Qurrah looked at him worried Tarlak that his confidence in Tessanna might not be so valid.

  “Perhaps,” Qurrah said. He turned to his wife, who stared north, toward the distant speck that was the capital city of Mordeina. Her lips quivered, and her hands trembled in her lap. Tarlak frowned, confused, but it seemed Qurrah understood.

  “You hear it, don’t you?” Qurrah asked.

  Tessanna slowly nodded her head.

  “Hear what?” Tarlak asked.

  The half-orc lovingly brushed Tessanna’s face with his fingers, then brought his attention back to Tarlak.

  “Not what,” he said. “But who. Ashhur’s entire creation has fallen. His attempts at peace have broken into warfare. His loving servants have slaughtered innocents in a night of black wings. Any priest or follower who speaks of Ashhur’s love will have fields of corpses as evidence to deny that love.”

  Tarlak reached for the pendant of Ashhur he wore around his neck out of instinct, but it was gone, missing ever since he’d been nearly killed during the ambush at the towers.

  “Ashhur,” he said softly. “You hear him weeping.”

  Tessanna stood, dark hair falling about her like a shroud. She turned her deep black eyes Tarlak’s way, and he felt naked before them, as he always had since she first set foot in his tower.

  “No,” she said. “Not Ashhur. I don’t hear Ashhur. I doubt I ever will.”

  She stepped closer, brushing her hand through the illusion to touch the face that had once been Cecil Towerborn’s.

  “Hear for yourself,” Tessanna whispered. Her magic flowed into him, and he saw the land turn to shadow, felt his ears open to a realm not of physical matter, nor of magic, but of gods. And in this echo of that world, Tarlak heard. The sound filled his heart with hatred and ignited his blood with a passion to prove every damn syllable wrong. To prove what they’d done had meant something. That it wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t a failure.

  Karak, down in his Abyss, laughing.

  Laughing.

  Epilogue

  Azariah soared over the quiet streets of Mordeina on his way to the castle, his mood remarkably improved since he last left it. The remaining army of Mordan had pledged allegiance, the capital city was solidly in their control, and a weakened Ker now lacked a king, and therefore any realistic chance of challenging them during the tumultuous early years of establishing Ashhur’s rule. Even Karak’s paladins seemed willing to work with him to cull chaos from the land. Such a momentous day, how could he not smile?

  But Azariah didn’t smile. Smiling stretched his lips across his jagged teeth and made them bleed. Still, it was a good reminder not to take joy in his accomplishments, not when so much remained to be done. Today alone still carried one last difficult task he must perform...

  “May we talk?” Judarius asked, flying beside him.

  “Of course,” Azariah said. “Follow me inside.”

  He dove to the castle steps and lightly landed on his feet. Blood still covered the steps, but the corpses of both men and angels were gone. Judarius landed beside him, and he cast a disdainful look at the quiet stone structure.

  “Why come here?” he asked. “Let us rule from Devlimar and make petitioners come to us.”

  “Mankind n
eeds their symbols,” Azariah said. “This castle has been the seat of power in Mordan since we were mere Wardens. I shall meet the public here, as well as release commandments and appoint advisors. This will ease the transition.” The angel smirked. “Besides, I will not have mankind walking through the streets of glorious Devlimar. They are not worthy.”

  Azariah stepped through the grand doors, which were shattered from battle. Inside the castle was surprisingly peaceful. Azariah walked across the soft carpet, taking in the grandeur of the high columns, lengthy curtains, and open spaces. He’d thought coming here each day to manage the kingdom would wear on him, but now the prospect didn’t seem so terrible. It wasn’t that the architecture was impressive, not compared to the infinite spirals of silver and gold that decorated Devlimar. It was that the castle was his. Just knowing the structure belonged to him made it seem that much more welcoming.

  “We will need to appoint many advisors to handle the coming challenges,” Azariah said as he strolled toward the throne. On a normal day, there’d be lines of petitioners, a dozen guards, and several advisors, but now their muted footsteps were the only sounds he heard. “We’ll also need to divide Mordan into districts and choose its guardians, but that all may wait. What did you wish to speak with me about?”

  “Ahaesarus,” Judarius said. “And his eventual return.”

  Azariah halted before the throne and turned around.

  “His numbers are half ours,” he said. “And how many more might he lose battling the beasts from the Vile Wedge? We also have an army of soldiers he does not, and allies in the dark paladins and the Council. What does he have? Why should we fear his return?”

  Judarius crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

  “Because he won’t be alone,” he said. “The Godslayer and his wife escaped, along with the boy king.”