“Well met, warrior of man,” said the tallest of the three, a giant with pure white wings which stretched out three times the length of his arms. His hair was a brilliant gold and his features looked like they were chiseled from stone; a perfect man made flesh. “My name is Ahaesarus, commander of Ashhur’s angels. To my left is Judarius, my finest soldier and military leader. To my right is Azariah, my wise and faithful high priest.”
The two bowed. Judarius wore elaborate armor that looped around his body, with interwoven pieces that adjusted to his every movement as if it were cloth. Strapped to his back was an enormous mace with a shaft the length of a normal man and its head solid steel wrapped in leather. Azariah wore little armor, just white robes, a golden sash and a pendant of the mountain hanging from his neck. The two appeared brothers, with identical gold-green eyes and short brown hair.
“We are honored,” Antonil said, bowing in return.
“Where is the half-orc?” asked Azariah. His voice seemed to float over them, soft and ethereal. Harruq stepped forward. He stood perfectly straight, determined not to be afraid. Still, he kept his left arm back, his hand clutching Aurelia’s.
“Here,” he said. “I am the half-orc.”
Azariah approached, the feathers in his wings ruffling. He placed his hands on Harruq’s shoulders, knelt down, and kissed his forehead.
“People will exalt your name for centuries to come,” Azariah said. “Be free from your guilt. Ashhur’s grace will conquer this land, with you as the shining example.”
Harruq shifted, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “If you say so,” he muttered.
“For Ashhur!” the angels shouted in unison, startling the mere mortals amid them. Their voice was a perfect chorus, full of force and determination. They shouted again, the sound washing away the pain and death of the bloodied field.
“For Ashhur!”
The angels marched back to Mordeina, all the while singing songs of praise. Soldiers and citizens alike flooded the outer walls, desperate to get a glimpse. Many others climbed atop houses and stared, while others ran to the castle, and from atop the hill watched the approach of the golden army. The gates to the city flung open, and a great shout came from the people within.
Lost in their cheers was Haern, who still cried out in pain atop Sonowin’s back. Tarlak watched his approach, and used his magic to float himself down from the wall to the ground below. Gently he took Sonowin’s reins, all the while stroking her neck.
“I saw what you did,” he told the beautiful creature. “We’ll honor you forever.”
He led her back to the gate. At first no one moved to let him pass. The soldiers couldn’t hold back the torrent of people. Someone shouted an order, and then the guards gave way. People flooded out of the city, waving and shouting to the approaching angels. Tarlak tapped his foot and glared. When he realized the outpouring would never cease he waved a hand. The earth before him rose up in a giant spike. Slowly he pushed it forward, using it as a wedge to funnel people to either side. He made it through the gate and into the gap between the walls, where he finally had enough space to draw breath.
“Tarlak!” he heard a voice shout. The voice shouted again, and he realized who it was. He turned and waved to the top of the wall, where Mira smiled back.
“Wait for me there!” he shouted to her. Mira nodded and then spun about, giddy from watching the angels.
He pushed through to the Neldar camps, and it was there he found Bernard gathered with his priests. Many prayed, while others talked amongst themselves. Bernard smiled at the sight of them, but that smile vanished when he saw the severity of Haern’s injuries and the damage done to Sonowin’s wing.
“Your wing will have to wait,” he said to Sonowin as he hooked his arms around Haern’s chest and gently pulled him to the ground. Haern screamed, tears pouring down his face. His skin was pale, and cold sweat covered his body.
“I’d say he’s endured worse before,” Tarlak said. “But I’m not sure that’s true.”
Bernard gently applied pressure with his hands on Haern’s wrist, watching for a reaction. From there he moved down to his chest and then his legs. He prayed as he did so, but even his prayers halted at the breaks he found all throughout his body.
“Nothing fatal,” Bernard said when he finished. “But so many broken bones and bruises, his pain must be unbearable.”
Haern moaned, his head tilting side to side. Tarlak looked away, his gut wrenching at the sight of his friend suffering.
“Can you heal him?” Tarlak asked.
“I will try,” Bernard said. “It will take many days, and I fear he may never fully recover.”
A fresh shout of cheers flooded the city as the angels neared.
“Speaking of miracles,” Tarlak said, chuckling.
“Indeed,” Bernard said. The mage frowned, confused by the priest’s subdued reaction.
“Something wrong?” he asked. Bernard did not answer, instead praying to Ashhur while he laid his hands on Haern’s waist. Inside his body the bones snapped and shifted. Haern shrieked and then, thankfully, passed out.
“Nothing is wrong,” Bernard said, letting out a deep sigh. “The angels you see approaching are what we all pray and hope to be after our deaths, but they are not meant for this world.”
Bernard put his hands on the bruises covering Haern’s neck and closed his eyes. More healing magic flowed, the bruises fading from deep black to a barely visible blue.
“Our world is changing, though,” Bernard said. “Perhaps this last sign will be enough.”
The angels entered the city like glorious conquerors returning home from a distant campaign. People raised their hands and cheered, while soldiers saluted with their swords and maces. The Eschaton walked amid them while Antonil’s men rode behind.
“What’s wrong?” Aurelia asked as they marched through the city toward the castle.
“It just seems all so… silly,” Harruq said as he gestured to the crowds.
“Just enjoy it,” Aurelia said, jabbing him in the side. “For once we’re loved and not hated.”
“This isn’t love,” Harruq said. “I’m not sure what it is, but it isn’t love.”
Queen Annabelle waited for them at the doors to her castle. Guards flanked her sides, all of them kneeling to the coming angels. The queen curtseyed at their arrival.
“Welcome,” she said, knowing her words would be repeated throughout the city. “You are the light from the west, the glory of the sun, Ashhur’s warrior angels sent to save us from Karak’s vile hand. All that I have is yours. All that you ask, I will do. Again, I cry to you, welcome!”
The crowd cheered. Ahaesarus bowed low.
“Well met, Queen,” he said. “For all my troops, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Will you stay in my castle?” she asked. “I have many questions.”
“I will answer your questions,” he said. “But no, we will not stay in your castle. Ashhur has already granted us a home.”
At this he pointed to the western sky. It still shimmered gold, glowing from the angels’ arrival. As if on command the sky rumbled, and all throughout the city people marveled or cowered in fear. Harruq squinted with a hand over his eyes, trying to see. Again the west tore. It was as if the sky were cloth covering a window, and with the blue gone they could see a land stretching forever, golden and beautiful. From within that tear a city floated through, hovering on rock and stone that seemed impervious to the pull of gravity.
“Another miracle,” Lathaar said, his jaw dropping.
“Today seems to be a day for them,” Jerico said, laughing.
“Ashhur has given us a piece of the golden eternity to call our home,” Azariah explained as they looked upon the golden city floating high above. “It is there we will live and plan our war against those that would crush all life from this realm.”
As the rest of the crowd cheered, Bernard sadly shook his head from his perch beside Tarlak and Mira atop a stone h
ouse.
“Faith and choice,” he said. “Farewell.”
17
Antonil walked through the hallways of the castle, feeling as if he walked on clouds. What had been a final, desperate defense had turned into a dominating victory. Instead of funeral songs there were victory chants. It was as if no one realized that the leaders of Karak’s army survived, and that deep inside Veldaren the portal still remained open, pouring out demons.
He turned right at the painting of a large, leafless tree, per the servant’s orders. He had been asleep in his tent among the Neldaren refugees when a young man had approached, giving him directions through the castle and telling him the queen waited. Sure enough, as the hallway suddenly ended, there she was. They were in a walled garden, with a few trees and several rows of flowers. The queen sat on one of the benches, gazing up at the stars.
“It is too early for most of the flowers to be in bloom,” she said at his arrival. “But I still find peace here.”
“The time is late,” Antonil said as he shifted his eyes upward. He realized it wasn’t the stars she looked at, but the twinkling city that floated like some golden land of a child’s fable. Avlimar, Ahaesarus had called it. Their home on Dezrel.
“I know,” said the queen. “But this matter is urgent. The angels want to give chase before the demons can escape back to Neldar. My soldiers are eager to join them.”
“You’ve already pulled in stores of food,” Antonil said. “You could have your army marching within a day. What is the problem?”
“The problem,” Annabelle said, finally lowering her gaze. “The problem is I am too old to go with them. I must remain here, and I must rule. I need someone to command my troops, someone they will respect and admire.”
Antonil blushed. “I am still a foreigner. Many will resent my authority.”
“I know,” the queen said. “That is why I propose a marriage. We will unite the two kingdoms that have split our great land.”
Antonil’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, as if trying to stir up some sense inside his skull.
“I have only met you twice,” he finally said.
Annabelle laughed. “Perhaps Neldar is different, but marriage here is more often political than anything involving love. You would have total authority to lead my soldiers back to Veldaren and reclaim your city. Your country has been decimated. It will take many resources to restore Neldar’s glory, resources you would suddenly have available to you. And don’t worry, Antonil, I am old. My time will not be long, and you can choose a new bride if you desire.”
It made sense to him, but still, the idea seemed so strange. He was still struggling to realize he himself was a king, and the idea of marrying the Queen of Mordan, and taking all its power and wealth into his own hand, well…
“I need to think this over,” he said.
Annabelle plucked a small flower, its petals only beginning to unfurl. She smiled as she put it in his hand and wrapped his fingers about it.
“Time is short. The ceremony will take time, and my soldiers must prepare for their campaign. Please, let me know as soon as you can.”
“I will, your majesty,” Antonil said, bowing. He hurried away, eager to return to his camp. Annabelle watched him go, another young flower twirling in her fingers.
Jerico wandered through the bodies, a torch in hand. Lathaar followed, dragging a dead Neldaren soldier. With Jerico’s help, Lathaar tossed it onto a growing pile of dead, a soon-to-be pyre to burn away the enormous amount of corpses. Spread across the field were several other groups of soldiers, all building similar pyres. It would take the whole night, but neither paladin minded much. They wanted time alone to talk, and in the dark field after a battle, they felt isolated and secure.
“Remember the angel I said Ashhur sent to help me kill Darakken?” Lathaar asked as he tilted his head to one side and popped his neck. “That was Judarius. I even had a chance to thank him.”
“Crazy world,” Jerico said, hoisting another rotten body onto the pyre. “And I’d say it just got crazier.”
“The world can only be better by their arrival,” Lathaar said. “Finally, a balancing force for Ashhur. After the fall of the citadel and Veldaren’s destruction, we could use the hope.”
Jerico shifted his torch to his left hand and grabbed the wrist of what looked to be a dead, rotted orc. He grunted when the bone snapped and he stumbled back holding a clump of fingers. He frowned and tossed them onto the pyre.
“Yeah, it looked bleak,” Jerico said. “But you were there among the refugees. You remember their prayers. They were desperate for salvation, hungry for it for the first time in their lives. Now, even those that never prayed, never humbled, cheer as if they won some great victory.”
“Didn’t we?” Lathaar asked.
Before Jerico could answer, they heard shouts from a group further south. The two paladins hurried over, and as they neared they saw bodies of dozens of horses lying twisted and bleeding on the ground. The dead riders were a tangled mass of dark paladins and soldiers of Neldar.
“This is where they met,” Jerico said as they approached.
“What is the matter?” Lathaar asked two men who stood over a body with torches raised high. They were soaked with sweat.
“He’s alive,” one of them said, pointing.
Lathaar drew his swords, and in their light he saw the face of the one they spoke of.
“Leave us,” Lathaar said. “Now.”
The two did as they were told. Lathaar walked closer, and Jerico felt his skin crawl at the soft, maniacal laugh that emanated forth.
“I was hoping it’d be any other than you,” the dark paladin said, choking as he laughed. “Looks like Karak has truly forsaken me.”
Krieger lay on his back, his arms spread wide. His horse lay atop his legs, its weight having crushed his armor inward so everything below his waist was a bloody, broken mess. One of his scimitars lay trapped beneath the horse, the other, just out of reach.
“You’ve always been forsaken,” Lathaar said, his face darkening in the blue-light of his swords. “You just never knew it.”
“I was the stronger,” Krieger said. “I die knowing that.”
“No,” Jerico said, interrupting the two. “You’ll die knowing you lost. You’ll die knowing we lived.”
Before either could react, Jerico shoved Lathaar, tumbling him to the ground away from the trapped dark paladin. As Krieger spat, Jerico grabbed his mace, took a step forward, and swung. He crushed the side of Krieger’s face, broke his neck, and splattered blood about the grass. Jerico shook a bit of the gore off his weapon before clipping it to his belt.
“He was mine to kill!” Lathaar shouted as he stood. “You knew that!”
“Your feud is over,” Jerico said, his voice quiet and firm. “A feud that dragged itself far below the ideals that started it. You wanted to prove yourself, not Ashhur. It’s over.”
Lathaar lowered his weapons, staring at Krieger’s mutilated face and praying for his rage to cease. He almost felt cheated. Three times they had faced off, but never once reaching the finality each of them sought.
“Forgive me,” Lathaar said, sheathing his swords and shaking his head. “Guess that’s why you’re the wiser of us.”
“Just get over here and help me free his body,” Jerico said, tugging on Krieger’s arms. “He’s in here good.”
“Remove his armor,” Lathaar said. “Might be able to slip him out if he weighs less.”
Jerico knelt to one knee, propping Krieger’s body on his shoulder. He winced as blood trickled onto him.
“Got the buckles,” he said, yanking several free. With a shudder he stepped back and let the body hit the ground. Lathaar yanked off Krieger’s breastplate, grunting at how much it weighed. He dropped it aside, where it hit the ground with a thud. As Lathaar caught his breath, he tilted his head and pointed.
“What the Abyss is that?” he asked.
Jerico reached down and yanked on the c
hain wrapped around Krieger’s neck. Attached was a large pendant. It was charred and scratched, but both had just seen one remarkably similar. Through the damage they saw the faint image of a lion roaring atop a mountain.
“Azariah’s pendant,” Lathaar said.
He reached out and touched it with his bare hand. He screamed. His hand blackened. He fell to his knees, and three times he vomited blood.
“Lathaar!” Jerico shouted, but Lathaar was already fading away, his vision a swirling image of blood, shadow, and chaos.
“Lathaar!”
Lathaar opened his eyes, feeling drugged and sleepy.
“What?” he muttered. He tried to roll over, but his body refused to obey.
“Praise Ashhur,” he heard Jerico say. Lathaar ignored him. He was tired, too tired, and from what little his eyes saw he knew it was night. Didn’t Jerico know he needed sleep?
“My chest hurts,” Lathaar said. “Wait until morning.”
“Not a chance,” Jerico said. Lathaar felt hands wrap around his body, and he heard a scream as his weight shifted into Jerico’s arms. He realized moments later the scream was his own. He thought he was on Jerico’s shoulder, and perhaps his feet were dragging, but what was so important?
“Stay with me,” he heard Jerico say as he faded away.
He dreamt of shadows that stretched for miles, filled with teeth and claws that tore into his flesh and broke his bones and bathed in his blood.
“Open your eyes, paladin.”
Lathaar groaned and refused. Why couldn’t people let him sleep? He listened to what appeared to be a conversation, but it was a strange one, because all the voices sounded the same to him.
“We didn’t know what it was.”
“Nor could you have.”
“Will he survive?”
“The evil within it is strong. Karak held it in his own hands and blessed it.”
“The pendant… it’s the same as yours, isn’t it?”
“The mark of the most high priest, just before the gods’ war. I was Ashhur’s. This pendant here could only belong to one other.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 118
